“Hair-Trigger,” says I, “give me back that pocketbook yuh got up at my
camp.”
He opens his eyes slow-like, busts into uh wide yawn, and produces the
article referred to from inside his shirt.
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” he yawns. “Gosh, I wish yuh hadn’t woke me up. I
was dreaming, and I sure love uh good dream. Was that your wallet?”
“Whose did yuh think it was?” I snaps. “You got it on top uh my roll uh
blankets, didn’t yuh?”
“Uh-huh. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! That ain’t no sign it belongs to you. Nothing
much in it anyway. I just took it so it wouldn’t be lonesome. If that’s
all the money you got we better rob uh bank right away. Do you believe
in dreams, Comanche?”
“What kind uh dreams?” I asks.
“Aw, just dreams. When you woke me up I was dreaming that I wasn’t uh
bit sleepy.”
“I don’t believe in ’em,” says I. “Your stomach is out of order. Maybe
it’s your liver. Anyway, you needs medical attention.”
We journeyed to Blue Nose, me and Hair-Trigger and Eveline Ann. The
last-mentioned is my burro. Eveline is of the male gender, but it seems
sort uh home-like to hear uh woman’s name around camp, so I misnames the
brute.
The two ends of him ain’t mates in disposition. If yuh approaches him
from the front he’ll try his dangdest to kiss yuh, but if yuh gets near
his rear end yuh better hang on to your hat. Eveline can kick the soda
out of uh biscuit and never crack the crust.
Hair-Trigger makes the mistake of trying to lean his tired carcass on
that jack’s rump, with the result that Eveline kicks him so hard in the
belt-buckle that the suspender buttons snaps off the back of his pants.
“I could love that animile,” states Hair-Trigger, while he rustles
enough baling-wire to hold up his pants. “Some day I’ll buy him from
yuh, Comanche. He woke me up just as uh Injun was going to annex my
scalp.”
“Why not buy an alarm-clock?” I asks, but he shakes his head.
“I’ve tried ’em all. They don’t do nothing but make me sort uh restless
when they explodes.”
“You ever bothered with insomnia?” I asks.
“I don’t know,” says he. “While I was on my pilgrimage over into this
country I slept in an old cabin, and I got something. I hung my shirt on
uh ant-hill for uh spell, and then boiled the thing. I ain’t felt
nothing there since. What you noticed me scratching was uh wood-tick
bite. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be the altitude.”
I don’t reckon yuh ever heard uh Blue Nose. It ain’t on no map. It is
one uh them places that’s partial to spittin’-tobacco and justifiable
homicide. The nearest railroad is sixty miles away, from whence uh stage
runs time and again to Blue Nose. It carries the mail, when there is any
to carry, which ain’t often. Nobody in Blue Nose has any friends to
write to. If they had they wouldn’t be in Blue Nose.
To all appearances the city is dormant when we arrive, and when
Hair-Trigger sees that one dusty, deserted street, he smiles like he had
found his heart’s desire.
“I been looking for uh place like this for years,” he states, as we
pilgrims toward uh hitching-post.
“Not me,” says I. “I ain’t like uh wounded animal thataway. I don’t
hanker to sneak into some secluded place to cash in my chips. I hope I
never has to point with pain to the fact that I died in uh place like
Blue Nose. What do yuh suppose Saint Pete would say to uh corpse from
here?”
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger. “I don’t know Peter, but if he
said anything he’d either be loco, drunk or prodigal with his talk. I
saw enough in your pocketbook to ask yuh to set ’em up, Comanche.”
We snubs Eveline to the rack, and enters that grog-shop. She sure is one
busy-looking place uh business.
There’s uh feller reclining half in uh chair and half on uh card-table,
with his head resting on his arms, and he’s snoring plentiful.
Hair-Trigger looks him over with envious eyes, and yawns.
The bartender is humped over in uh chair at the rear, busy as uh bee at
something. Hair-Trigger sniffs, and I sniffs, and then Hair-Trigger
grins.
“Bananas!” he whoops. “Doggone! I never expected to find one in this
part of the world.”
“Does smell thataway,” agrees the hooch-handler, uh fat hombre, of about
forty Summers and sundry whiskers. “Smells like ’em but it ain’t.
Nothing but just paint. Uh feller was going through here, painting
signs, and he left this bottle here. I been putting some on this here
picture-frame. Don’t look so danged bad at that, does it?”
Hair-Trigger looks it over and yawns, so we moves over to the bar and
samples the elixir.
“Right lively little city yuh got here,” I opines.
“You darn well know it,” agrees the bartender. “Blue Nose is about the
best place west uh Boston. She’s uh little quiet right now, but some day
she’ll hit her stride.”
“Anything in sight?” asks Hair-Trigger, accepting the bartender’s
solicitations to sluice again.
“Well, not exactly what you’d call visible. Some day there’ll be uh
strike around here, and then she’ll be uh hi-yu place again. Sabe?”
Hair-Trigger looks over at the sleeping figure at the table, and yawns
wide.
“Plenty uh room if yuh wants to sleep, stranger,” offers the bartender,
but Hair-Trigger shakes his head.
“I ain’t—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! I ain’t sleepy. It always makes me yawn to
see uh man sleeping thataway. You spoke of uh strike; do you mean
placer?”
“You darn well know it. There’s uh wide pay-streak around here. Yuh see,
the town was named after me. I’m ‘Blue Nose’ Blucher, discoverer of the
Fare Thee Well.”
“Think she’s ripe for uh stampede, eh?” questions Hair-Trigger.
“Mister,” pronounces Blucher, “Blue Nose pines for uh strike like uh
calf for its maw. You fellers prospecting?”
“You said it,” states Hair-Trigger. “I’m Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh—me.
This person with me is Comanche Cal. Ever hear of him? Him and me is
side-kicks, and when we can’t find gold she ain’t no place, eh,
Comanche?”
“She ain’t no place, Hair-Trigger,” says I, with conviction, and
Hair-Trigger busts his yawn with uh grin.
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!”
* * * * *
The sleeper over at the table stretches convulsively and opens uh mouth
yuh could put uh tin can into and never touch ivory. Hair-Trigger takes
one look and imitates him to uh gnat’s eyebrow.
“You—you—you—” stutters the figure at the table, and Hair-Trigger nods.
“Yes, yes—me. Go on, go on.”
“You—you—you—you going—going—going—going to pup—pup—pup—prospect
huh—huh—huh—here?”
Hair-Trigger nods and yawns and the other nods and yawns with him.
“Let—let—let—let me sus—sus—sus—sell yuh—yuh—yuh—you sus—sus—sus—some
cla—cla—cla—claims.”
Hair-Trigger looks the feller over, and then leans against the bar.
“Mister,” says he, “you sound like you had gas on your stummick. Let me
do the talking and you just nod or shake. Sabe? You got some claims?”
“Sh—sh—sh—sure. I—I—I—I gug—gug—gug—gug——”
“Nod or shake!” advises Hair-Trigger. “Placer ground?”
The person nods some industrious.
“How far from here?”
“Uh—uh—uh—uh—uh——”
“Wait!” snaps Hair-Trigger. “My mistake, old-timer,” and then he turns
to the bartender. “You know anything about his claims?”
“He owns uh claim on Fool Hen Crick, about three miles from here. He
works just like he talks, and sleeps when he ain’t working, so I don’t
reckon he ever got near bed-rock. I don’t reckon there’s anything there
worth digging for, anyway.”
“I—I—I—I—I—gug—gug—gug——”
“Nod or shake!” yelps Hair-Trigger. “You don’t need to go into details.
If this here Blue Nose person opines wrong about your personal affairs,
you just shake. Sabe? Did yuh ever find any color?”
He nods.
“I—I—I——”
“Amounts don’t count!” howls Hair-Trigger. “Can’t yuh keep from talking?
Cripes! If talking was as hard for me—ho, hum-m-m-m! Must be the
atmosphere. Now, you nod or shake. How much yuh want for the claim?”
“Uh—uh—uh—uh——”
“Ex-cuse me!” whoops Hair-Trigger. “Dog my cats! You’re sure one hard
person for to converse with. Some day you’ll choke to death. Tell yuh
what we’ll do; you turn the claim over to me and Comanche, we’ll open
her up, and we’ll share alike. What do yuh say?”
“You—you—you——”
“Shake or nod! Doggone yuh, shake or nod!”