me and the cow-punch. "Answer by mail. We have, and I'll tell you
right now. The maimed and the halt are walking. The seller of maps is
now beginning to get church funds in his hands; the one-time paralytic
is the gaiest birdie that flies, and worse'n that, he's making a bold
play for Jack Hunter's girl, as her Pah-pah wears gold in his clothes
to keep out the moths.
"He's making a strong push, so the head-waiter-lady tells me, and she
thinks it's a shame, because he has a shifty eye, for all his religious
talk, and Lorna's such a nice girl. 'Twas the kind friend who has the
cellar on the corner, where anti-prohibition folks may indulge their
religion unmolested, that told me of the work. He spotted him for a
crook first peep. Also he seemed to grasp the fact that these almost
orthodox whiskers of mine had been cut in other ways. So we talked
confidential. The barkeep liked Cactus and prohibition, and said he
didn't want the people done dirt by a putty-faced ex-potato-bug.
'These boys,' says he, 'put away more good stuff than the drinkers.
They want the cussed rum disposed of forever. I make as high as thirty
a day in this little joint, and the other part of the town is strictly
on the level. Couldn't you give our friend, Mr. Paris, a gentle push?'"
"My God!" says I, "that bucko will be Helen the Fair and the rest of
Homer if he ain't roped! He's making too free with old-time
literature. He used to be Troy," I says to the barkeep, and then I
come here.
"Well, durn his tintype!" says we, "how did you get a look at him?"
"Introduced," says Ag, "he more'n half remembered me, but the strange
place, the new cut in the whiskers, the hearty handshake, and the fact
that I'd just come from N' York did the trick."
"Well, ain't you kind of got it in for him yet?" says the cow-punch.
Ag looked at him. "No," says he, "I revere him. But when he comes to
ringin' in ancient history, he'll find that I'm a wooden horse that can
gallop--that I'm only called Agamemnon for fun. That, really, I used
to spank our former friend, Achilles, to develop his nervous system.
Oh, no!" says Ag, "Troy to me is only a system of measurements, a myth,
or the damnedest hole in the U. S. However, we shall be at the
Christmas tree. And Mr. Troy--Paris will be there, also, as little as
he dreams it."
We spent the next few days in a state of restlessness, because Aggy
said he'd explain when the news would do us good. One thing made the
cow-punch ready for gun practice right off, Mr. Troy was a slippery
cuss, and he had rather ki-boshed Jack Hunter's girl. He hung around
her, fetched and carried, nailed up greens for her and all that, till
you could see he was leaving himself two trails--either skip with the
funds or marry the girl. He had one day left to choose. Having locoed
the townsfolk into giving him the management of the festivities, he
stood well, and he wasn't a bad looker neither. He had an easy,
slippery tongue for a young girl: not like Ag's methods--in any
gatherin' Ag could make George Washington or General Grant look like
visitors--but smooth and languishin'.
I had to calm the cow-punch by telling him we was in a law and order
community, and that shootin' was rude, also that Aggy could be counted
on to do everything necessary. That morning Ag gave me strict orders,
according to which I loped out to a little canyon where a spring
bubbled, and there, sure enough, was Troy, talkin' honey to Jack's
girl. I slid close enough to hear him. He made out a good case, but
when it come to the last card the girl wasn't so interested in the
story. She had sense after all; girls can't be blamed for being a
little foolish. Well, Troy, he argued and urged, till at last up gits
little Lorna and says it's impossible, and that there's another man in
the question, and so Troy stands there mournful till she's out of
sight, and then hikes for the railroad, with a two-hundred dollar cash
present for the minister in his pocket, and probably another
seventy-five or a hundred in odds and ends.
And after him went Hy Smith, also. He flagged a train about a mile out
of town and hopped aboard. I come out of the bush and took the last
car, telling the brakie a much-needed man had got on forward. Also, I
took the Con. into my confidence. So just when we pulled into the next
town I steps behind Mr. Troy, puts a gun against the back of his neck,
and read the paper Ag had prepared for me.
"Now, Mr. Troy, alias Paris, alias Goat, etc., come with me, or go
forward in the icebox. Don't make a fuss or we'll alarm the
ladies--I've read you the warrant!"
He walked ahead as meek as Moses. By a cross-cut across the hills it
weren't more than four mile to Cactus, and Troy stepped it like a
four-year-old.
We come in behind the church. "That you, Hy?" says Ag. "Bring our
friend, Mr. Troy, through the rear. If you don't know the way, he'll
sell you a map for ten dollars."
"Whenever you want to die, just holler," says I to Troy. It was a
quiet journey. When we got inside, there was Ag and the cow-punch,
smiling kindly. Ag was mixing paint in a pot.
"They used few colours in this edifice," says Ag, "otherwise I could
have produced something surprising. Blue for the hair," says he, "a
sign of purity." So he painted Troy's hair blue. And he painted a red
stripe down the nose and small queer rings all over his face, and with
a pair of lamp scissors he roached Troy's name like a mule--and, well,
he did make something uncommon out of Troy.
"Lovely _thing_!" says Ag, coquettish, and pokes him with his finger.
Troy, he didn't say nothing. In fact, when you come to think of it,
there wasn't many sparkling thoughts for him to put out.
"I got a few other traps we need," says Ag, pulling out a long coiled
wire spring (off a printing press, I reckon). "Come on," he says, "and
we'll fix something to entertain all the children." We put a belt on
Troy, run a line through it and hitched on the spring. The cow-punch,
he crawled up to the peak of the roof with a pulley, made it fast and
passed Mr. Troy's line through it. Then Ag took a brace and bit,
boring a one-inch hole in the floor, and give instructions to a pair of
Injuns in the cellar.
Then we yee-heed brother Troy to the top of the tree, running the
rope's end down the hole to the Injuns. Troy had a lighted candle tied
fast to each hand.
"Now, you Greek mythology," says Ag, "mind my words; you are to flap
your arms and squeak 'Mah-mah' as you merrily go up and down;
otherwise, my kyind assistants in the cellar are instructed to pull
down so hard that when they let go, you and that able-bodied spring
will fly right through the roof. Light the candles, boys." We lit the
candles, slipped the curtain, and the crowd filed in--face to face with
Brother Troy, blue-haired Troy; ringed, striped, and be-speckled;
flyin' through the air ten foot a trip, flappin' his arms and yelling
"Mah-mah."
I reckon no such thing had ever been behelded by anybody in that church
before, no matter how many Christmas trees they'd seen. They just
stood like they was charmed, and their heads and hands was keeping
motion with Troy.
Ag give two small knocks with his heel, and Troy went right up into the
darkness; the cow-punch grabbed him, cut his lines, and said: "Skin,
you sucker! Hike along the edge and jump out the belfry."
The folks thought it was a grand piece arranged for their benefit, and
they hollered and laughed and clapped their hands. But there was one
deacon who hadn't been nursed by the Dove of Peace all his life. In
fact, he reminded me of a man who used to deal stud-poker up Idaho way;
and he came around and cast a steady eye on Aggy.
"You people might have lost there," says Aggy, passing out the
minister's purse and the other truck. "Paris is gay and not orthodox."
The deacon, he nodded his head. "I had a pipe line run on that geeser
from the minute he blew in," says he. "Where's he now?"
"Runnin' fast," says Aggy; "just where I don't know."
"You gentlemen goin' to tarry with us?" says the deacon. "It's a fine
little town and I'm glad to be good, but crimp my hair if I don't feel
lonesome at times. I should like to exchange reminiscences
occasionally. I hope you'll stay."
"It's a pleasant man who keeps the corner cellar," says Ag, "but his
whiskey has the flavour of old rags. Now my throat----"
"Don't say a word," says the deacon, drawin' a small half-gallon flask
out of his clothes. "Do the snake-swallowin' act to your hearts'
content, gentlemen, and remember there's just simply barrels more where
that comes from. And now," says he, when the gurgling stopped, "let's
go in and see the fun. Them's awful innocent, good-hearted folk, boys.
I tell you straight, it works in through my leather to see 'em play."
We stepped where we could look at them; happy-faced mothers, giggling
and happy little kids, and pretty girls--lots of 'em. And it lit
through my hide, too.
"I s'pose you kin explain, Mr. Jones?" says the deacon, punchin' Ag in
the ribs.
"Explain?" says Ag, proud. "Appoint me custodian of the bottle, and I
hereby agree to explain anything: why brother Paris left us so
completely, what became of Charley Ross, who struck Billy Patterson,
where are the ships of Tyre, or any other problem the mind of man can
conjure, from twice two to the handwriting on the wall."
"Forrud, march," says the deacon simply, and we j'ined them kind and
gentle people under the Christmas tree.
A Touch of Nature
"These are odd United States," said Red. They certainly are. I'm
thinking of a person I knew down in the Bill Williams Mountains, in
Arizona. He was Scotch and his name was Colin Hiccup Grunt, as near as
I could hear it. I never saw anything in Arizona nor any other place
that resembled him in any particular.
We met by chance, the usual way, and the play come up like this: I'm
going cross country, per short-cut a friend tells me about--this was
when I was young; I could have got to where I was going in about four
hours' riding, say I moved quick, by the regular route, but now I'm ten
hours out of town, and all I know about where I am is that the heavens
are above me and any quantity of earth beneath me. For the last two
hours I've been losing bits of my disposition along the road, and now
I'm looking for a dog to kick. Here we come to a green gulch with a
chain of pools at the bottom of it.
I got off to take a drink. Soon's I lay down there's a snort and a
clatter, and my little horse Pepe is moving for distance, head up and
tail up, and I'm foot loose forty miles from nowhere. This was after
the time of Victorio, still there was a Tonto or two left in the
country, for all the government said that the Apaches were corralled in
Camp Grant, so I made a single-hearted scamper for a rock.
Then I looked around--nothin' in sight; I raised my eyes and my jaw
dropped. Right above me on the side-hill sits a man, six foot and a
half high and two foot and a half wide, dressed in a wool hat, short
skirts, and bare legs. His nose and ears looked like they'd been
borrowed from some large statue. His hair was red; so's mine, but mine
was the most lady-like kind of red compared to his--a gentle,
rock-me-to-sleep-mother tint, whilst his got up and cussed every other
colour in the rainbow. Yes, sir; there he sat, and he was knittin' a
pair of socks! For ten seconds I forgot how good an excuse I had to be
vexed, and just braced myself on my arms and looked at him and blinked.
"Well, no wonder, Pepe busted," thinks I, and with that my troubles
come back to me. "I don't know what in the name of Uncle Noah's pet
elephant you are," says I to myself. "Male and female he made 'em
after their kind, and your mate may do me up, but if I don't take a
hustle out of you there'll be no good reason for it." And feeling this
way, I moved to him.
[Illustration: Yes, sir; there he sat, and he was knittin' a pair of
socks!]
"Now," says I, "explain yourself."
"Heugh!" says he, just flittin' his little gray eyes on me and going on
with his knittin' as if he hadn't seen anything worth wasting eyesight
on.
I swallered hard. "Another break like that," I thinks, "and his family
have no complaint."
"One more question and you are done," says I. "Do you think it's fair
to sit on a hill and look like this? How would you feel if you come on
me unexpected, and I looked like you?"
By way of reply, he reached behind him--so did I. But it wasn't a gun
he brought forth; it was a sort of big toy balloon with three sticks to
it. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he proceeded to blow
on one stick and wiggle his fingers on the others. Instantly our good
Arizona air was tied in a knot. It was great in its way. You could
hear every stroke of the man filing the saw; the cow with the wolf in
her horn bawled as natural as could be, and as for the stuck pig, it
sounded so life-like I expected to see him round the corner. But at
the same time it was no kind of an answer to my question, and I kicked
the musical implement high in the air, sitting down on my shoulder
blades to watch it go, and also to acknowledge receipt of one bunch of
fives in the right eye, kindness of Grandma in the short skirts.
Beware of appearances! Nothin' takes so much from the fierce
appearance of a man as short skirts and sock-knitting, but up to this
date the hand of man hasn't pasted me such a welt as I got that day.
Then, sir, Grandma and I had a real good old-fashioned time. I grabbed
him and heaved him over the top of my head. "Heugh!" says he as he
flew. He'd no more than touched ground before he had me nailed by the
legs, and I threw a handspring over his head. From that on it was just
like a circus all the way down the hill to where we fell off the ledge
into the pool--twenty-five foot of a drop, clear, to ice-water--wow!
'J'ever see a dog try to walk on the water when he's been chucked in
unexpected? Well, that was me. I was nice and warm from rastlin' with
Grandma before I hit, and I went down, down, down into the deeps, until
my stummick retired from business altogether. I come up tryin' to
swaller air, but it was no use. I got to dry land. Behind me was the
old Harry of a foamin' in the drink--Grandma couldn't swim. Well, I
got him out, though I was in two minds to let him pass--the touch of
that water was something to remember.
[Illustration: Twenty-five foot of a drop, clear, to ice-water--wow!]
"Now, you old fool!" says I, when I slapped him ashore. "Look at you!
Just see what trouble you make! Scarin' people's horses to death and
fallin' in the creek and havin' to be hauled out! Why don't you wear
pants and act like a Christian? Ain't you ashamed to go around in
little girl's clothes at your age? What in the devil are you doing out
here, anyhow?"
With this he bust out cryin', wavin' his hands and roarin' and yellin',
with tears and ice-water runnin' down his face.
"Well!" says I; "I don't catch you, spot nor colour, any stage of the
deal. You'd have me countin' my fingers in no time. I'm goin' to sit
still and see what's next."
By-and-by he got the best of his emotions, come over to me and blew a
lot of words across my ears. From a familiar sound here and there, I
gathered he was trying to hold up the American language; but it must
have been the brand Columbus found on his first vacation, for I
couldn't squeeze any information out of it. I shook my head, and he
spread his teeth and jumped loose again.
"No use," says I. "I dare say you understand, but the only clue I have
to those sounds is that you've eat something that ain't agreed with
you. Habla V. Español?"
"Sí, señor!" says he. So then we got at it, although it wasn't smooth
skidding, either; for my Spanish was the good old Castilian I'd learned
in Panama, whilst his was a mixture of Greaser, sheepblat, and Apache,
flavoured with a Scotch brogue that would smoke the taste of whiskey at
a thousand yards.
He explained that while he wasn't fully acquainted with my reasons for
assault-and-batterin' him in the first place, he was deeply grateful
for my savin' his life in the second place.
"Yes," says I. "But why do you cry?"
Well, that was because his feelin's was moved. I'll admit that if I
sat on a rock in the Bill Williams Mountains, thinking myself the only
two-legged critter around, and somebody come and kicked my bagpipes in
the air and dog-rassled me down forty rod of hillside, afterwards
fishing me out of the drink, my feelin's would be moved too, but not in
that way. And at the time I'm telling you about, I was young--so young
it makes me tremble to think of it--and I knew a heap of things I don't
know now. For this I thought slightin' of Grandma, notwithstanding the
tall opposition he put up. Somehow I couldn't seem to cut loose from
the effect of his short skirts and fancy work. But I let on to be
satisfied. He amused me, did Grandma.
Next he invites me to come up to his shanty and have a drop of what he
frivolously called "fusky"--"_Uno poquito de
fuskey--aquardiente--senor_." Wisht you could have heard his
Spanish--all mixed up--like this: He says he's "greetin'"--meanin'
yellin', while it's "grito" in Spanish, and his pronunciation had
whiskers on it till you could hardly tell the features. But we got
along. When we struck the cabin the old lad done the honours noble.
I've met some stylish Spaniards and Frenchmen and Yanks and Johnny
Bulls in my time, yet I can't remember aryone who threw himself
better'n Colin Hiccup. There's no place where good manners shows to
better advantage than on a homely man; the constant surprise between
the way he looks and the way he acts keeps you interested.
"To you, señor," says Colin. "Let this dampen the fires of animosity."
"To you right back again," says I. "And let's pipe the aforesaid fires
clean down into the tailin's." So there we sat, thinking better of
each other and all creation. The fires of animosity went out with a
sputter and we talked large and fine. I don't care; I like to once in
a while. I don't travel on stilts much, yet it does a man good to play
pretty now and then; besides, you can say things in the Spanish that
are all right, but would sound simple-minded in English. English is
the tongue to yank a beef critter out of an alkali hole with, but give
me Spanish when I want to feel dressed up.
We passed compliments to each other and waved our hands, bowing and
smiling. In the evening we had music by the pipes. I can't say I'd
confine myself to that style of sweet sounds if I had a free choice;
still, Colin H. Grunt got something kind of wild and blood-stirrin' out
of that windbag that was perfectly astonishin', when you took thought
of how it really did sound. And--I sung. Well, there was only the two
of us, and if I stood for the bagpipes it was a cinch he could stand my
cayodlin'.
Three days I passed there in peace and quiet. I hadn't anything on
hand to do; the more I saw of my new pardner the better I liked his
style, and here was my gorgeous opportunity to make connections with
the art of knitting that might be useful any amount, once I come to
settle down.
It was a handsome little place. The cabin was built of rocks. She
perched on the hillside, with three gnarly trees shadin' it and a big
shute of red rock jumping up behind it. Colin had a flower garden
about a foot square in front, that he tended very careful, lugging
water from the creek to keep it growing. Climbing roses covered one
wall, and, honest, it cuddled there so cunnin' and comfortable, it
reminded me of home. Think of that bare-legged, pock-marked,
sock-knittin' disparagement of the human race havin' the good feelin'
to make him a house like this! It knocked me then, because, as I have
explained, I was young. I have since learned that the length of a
jack-rabbit's ears is no sure indication of how far he can jump.
We spent three days in this pleasant life, knocking around the country
in the daytime, chinnin' and smokin' under some rock and discussin'
things in general, and at night we made music, played checkers, and
talked some more.
During this time his history come out. Naturally, I was anxious to
know how such a proposition landed in the Bill Williams Mountains. It
happened like this:
Colin came from an island in Scotland where, I judged, the folks never
heard of George Washington.
His chief had the travel habit, and Colin went along to bagpipe.
He'd followed his chief to France and then to Mexico, where the band of
Scotties tried to help Maximilian help himself to Uncle Porfirio Diaz's
empire. There was a row, and the son and heir of the house of Grunts
was killed, old Colin Hiccup fightin' over his body like a red-headed
lion in short skirts.
It was at night he told me about it, and at this point he got excited.
He pulled his old sword down from the wall and showed me how everything
occurred. It was as close a call as I can recollect. I'd rather meet
an ordinary man bilious with trouble than have a friend like Colin tell
me exciting stories with a sword. There were times when you couldn't
have got a cigarette paper between me and that four-foot weapon. I was
playing the villains, you understand.
Well, the Maximilian game was up, and when Colin got well (some lad
with no sporting blood had shot him in the head) he slid over to the
United States and resumed sheep herding, knitting, and bagpiping allee
samee old country. I suspect the boss of the ranch hired Mr. Grunt
more because he liked the old boy than for any other reason, inasmuch
as he didn't have more'n a hundred sheep in the bunch; besides, what
with getting shot in the head and grieving for his chief and one thing
and another, Colin was a _little_ damaged in the cupola--not but what
he was as sensible as I could understand most of the time--but--well,
kind of sideways about things; like not learning English and keeping on
dressing in knee skirts and such.
What troubled him the most was that no such thing as a clan could be
found. I explained to him as best I could that as us Americans
represented Europe, Asia, and Africa in varyin' proportions, it was a
little difficult to get up a stout clan feeling--local issues would
come in.
Yes, he said he understood that, but it was a great pity, and on the
fourth night I was there he got so horrible melancholy over it that it
was dreadful to see. I didn't know how to cheer him up exactly, until
we'd had two--perhaps three--drops together. Then an inspiration hit
me in the top of the head.
"Come along outside with the nightcracker," says I. "I'll take the
sword and we'll have one of those dances you've told me about."
He brightened up at that, and after a few more drops consented. I felt
right merry by this time, and it wasn't long before old Colin limbered
considerable. There it was, nice bright moonlight, nobody around to
pass remarks; nothing to trouble. So bime-by we pasted her hide, wide
and fantastic, with the bagpipes screechin' like a tom-cat fight in a
cellar. I was tickled to death lookin' at our shadows flyin'
around--one of the times I was easily pleased; I must say I enjoyed the
can-can.
And then, alas! All my joy departed and went away, for when my eye
happened to slide behind me, it fell on a Tonto brave--a full-sized
Tonto-Yuma brave, that ought to be seen at Camp Grant, dressed in a
pocket handkerchief, a pair of moccasins, and a large rifle.
"By-by, my honey, I'm gone!" I sings to myself--never missin' a step,
however, for to let that Injun know I was on to him would be a sign of
bad luck. I wiggled around kind of careless to see if there was any
more of him. There was. Nine more. Here was Saunders Colorado and
Colin Hiccup Grunt, fortified by--say six, drops of Scotch whiskey, a
Scotch sword and a Scotch bagpipe, up against ten Tontos armed with
rifles. I would have traded my life interest in this world for an
imitation dead yaller dog. "Oh, they won't do a thing to us, thing to
us, thing to us!" sings I to myself, hoppin' around so gleefully,
keepin' time to the bagpipes. "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers. "On
with the dance, let joy be unconfined!" That was in my school reader,
so it ought to be true. My joy was unconfined all right enough--she'd
flew the coop long since.
[Illustration: "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers]
At that Colin really turned himself loose. He'd warmed to the occasion
and climbed into the spirit of the thing. His eyes was shut and he was
leaping five foot in the air at a pass, wagglin' his head from side to
side. And as for them bagpipes, he simply blew the mangled remains of
all the sounds since the flood out of the big end--he took silence by
her hind leg and flapped her into rags.