by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “A Tin Cup Trophy,” “The Wisdom of Cyclops,” etc.
Whenever uh man sets down to review his past life he sure must have uh
hardened conscience if he don’t shed uh few tears uh sympathy for
himself. I sure did. I always figured that my conscience was plated with
Harveyized steel, but just the same I weeps copious and fluent like.
I meditates on what uh fool uh man is who has just turned forty, ain’t
got nothing but two days’ grub, uh denatured jackass to pack it with, uh
strip uh cleaned bed-rock, fifteen feet below the grass roots, and not
uh color to show.
Hard work? Cripes! That fifteen-foot hole was nothing but uh succession
of lifts, heaves and grunts. Also, I owned uh rocker. It was built on
the spur of the moment and kicked to pieces in uh whole lot less time,
when I pans plumb across that strip uh corrugated rock and don’t find
nothing more exciting than some black sand. I rinses out my gold-pan,
meditates for uh minute, and then sails her off into the crick bottom
like uh blue-rock.
Just to show that I’m disappointed entirely I waits until she almost
stops sailing, and then punctures her with five or six .41 slugs. I
grins with Satanic glee at my handiwork, and then orates aloud to
nobody:
“There! I’m through! I don’t believe there ever was any gold.”
“Everybody is entitled to their beliefs,” states uh tired-sounding voice
behind me, and I turns sudden-like.
I figured that I was the only human being within twenty miles, and after
taking uh look at the owner of that voice, leaning against uh granite
outcropping, I don’t change my opinion.
He’d be uh handy thing to measure telegraph poles with, and yuh could
allow the length of his feet for the part of the pole what goes into the
ground. Also, he qualifies in circumference, and on top of that animated
flag-pole is the saddest face I ever saw. His eyebrows hangs down and
matches his mustache, which don’t show enough animation to harbor uh
dandruff germ.
The pouches under his tired-looking eyes looks like they had been
squeezed dry and then left to shrivel up in the sun like the shell of uh
walnut. The Adam’s apple in his lean neck is so active that I expects it
to knock his hat off at any time, and his speckled hands wobbles
limp-like around his bulgy knees. He yawns, slow and deliberate-like,
when I stares at him, and then yanks uh couple uh times on the rope he’s
holding, which appears to extend around the rock.
“What you doing with Eveline Ann?” I asks, and he yawns some more.
He hauls out uh plug of tobacco, looks it over careful-like, and puts it
back. I opines that he’s too tired to bite.
“This her?” he asks, pointing at my burro.
“Sure!” I replies.
He relaxes against the rock and scratches his left leg just above where
the boot leaves off.
“Your jack?”
“Yes, mine!” I snaps. “You’re leading my burro! Sabe?”
He looks the burro over in uh sad sort of uh way, and then nods sort uh
solemn-like.
“Don’t make no difference,” he states, taking lots uh time between each
word. “It’ll be all the same uh million years from now.”
“Well, mister,” says I, “you got more gall than any one I ever seen. Do
you intend to appropriate my mule right under my nose?”
“Might as well,” he drawls. “You opines that there ain’t no gold, and
unless yuh got faith enough to prospect yuh ain’t got no use for uh
burro. Yuh can’t wear it on your person, and—your gun is empty, anyway.
Sabe?”
“You’re uh philosopher are yuh?” I asks, but he shakes his head.
“No,” says he. “No, Texan. My maw’s folks were from Arkansaw. I was born
in—in—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. I forgot where I was born.
Don’t matter none.”
“No,” I agrees, “it don’t make no material difference. I reckon we can
come to an understanding without your birthplace. Were yuh born tired?”
“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I don’t know. All I know is that I’ve been tired
for—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Tired for uh long time. Maybe it’s the climate.”
“Stranger around here?” I asks, and he nods.
“I hope so. If I thought I wasn’t I’d be on my way. I’m wanted.”
“What for—exceeding the sleep limit?”
“Sleep limit? Huh! I wouldn’t put shells in that gun if I was you,
mister. One loaded gun around here is enough. I don’t know your
disposition so I plays safe. Sabe?”
“Sheriff at Blue Nose,” I states, offhand-like, but he just nods and
yawns.
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Just one?”
“We only have one to uh county in this State,” I informs him.
“Poor system,” he states. “One sheriff is enough to handle ordinary men,
but I ain’t ordinary.”
“No, you’re not,” I agrees.
“I’m ‘Hair-Trigger’ Hollibaugh.”
He yawns wide and unhandsome and pats the long Colt, which hangs near
his knee.
“Ever hear of the Hollibaugh tribe?” he asks. “The longer the family
runs the tougher they gets, and I’m the last survivor. They has all died
with their boots on.”
“Too sleepy to take ’em off?” I asks.
“Mister Man,” he puts one hand on my knee and stifles uh yawn over his
wide mouth with the other. “Mister Man, don’t chide me. The Hollibaughs
don’t let no man chide ’em. Who might you be?”
“I might be General Funston or Admiral Dewey,” says I, sort uh
peeved-like, “but I ain’t. Did yuh ever hear of ‘Comanche’ Cal?”
He looks at me, solemn-like for uh moment, and then hands me the
lead-rope of that burro.
“Lead your own stock, Comanche,” says he. “Also and moreover, yuh might
as well fill up your gun. Yuh never can tell what we’ll meet. If you’re
short uh ca’tridges yuh might fill out uh my belt, seeing as we both use
the same size.”
“Where do yuh figure we’re going?” I asks.
He yawns uh couple uh times, and tugs at his mustache.
“I don’t know, Comanche. Doggone me—ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Doggone me if I
know. I reckon we might as well go down and kill that sheriff. I believe
in taking folks by surprise. There ain’t no limit to what you and me can
do together. Comanche Cal, eh? Well, dog my cats! You sure are deceiving
to look at.”
“Yes,” says I, “and I’m also deceiving to talk to. You got any mode uh
locomotion except your feet?”
“I—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Nope. That’s your stuff on
the burro. I came past your camp, so I takes what I wants. I don’t
reckon I left much of anything. Yuh see,” he explains in his tired
voice, “I’m uh Hollibaugh. We takes what we want. My paw was lynched for
stealing uh cow, and my grandpaw was shot for coveting another man’s
hawgs. Grandpaw loved pork right up to the time he died.
* * * * *
“I been sojourning over in uh place called Maverick. Ho, hum-m-m! Must
be the climate. Got into uh poker-game over there. Inhabitants are
fish-eaters. Thought I was sucker enough to go to sleep in uh
poker-game. They rings in uh cold deck in uh jack-pot. They didn’t know
I was uh Hollibaugh. I got peeved and stuck up the whole bunch for what
they had. One feller, name uh Kelly, thought I meant table stakes, and
tried to hold out on me.
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Got uh posse after me pretty soon. Shot my hoss from
under me and then crippled my pack-animile. I went to sleep in the brush
and they missed me. No, sir, I ain’t got nothing left but my gun,
clothes, self-respect and the traditions of the Hollibaughs, and I been
on foot for so long that my pants hungers for the squeak of uh saddle.
Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m-m!”
I sets down and rolls uh smoke, and when I gets it to going good I looks
up at him but he don’t say nothing. He’s snoring like uh grizzly in the
Winter-time.