“What’s she worth?” I asks, pointing at the coat.
“That coat?” asks Blue Nose. “Huh! It ain’t mine, but I don’t reckon the
owner is where he’ll need it. Yuh see, the feller what owned it was uh
sheriff from Horse Heaven. Not having studied geography fluently he
mistakes the boundaries of his own county and comes over here to arrest
one of our prominent citizens.
“Official jealousy arises in the breast of ‘Sassafras’ Simpson, our
sheriff, when he hears of the invasion, so we ships the Horse Heaven
sheriff home to his widow, and auctions off his horse. Some of our
right-minded citizens takes what money he’s got in his pockets, and buys
him uh nice shiny black suit to be shipped in. It was uh suit that Zeb
Holden has had in stock for years and, while it ain’t exactly suitable
for ordinary wear, it was good enough to put under ground. It helps Zeb
out that much, and it don’t hurt the sheriff’s looks none to speak of.
That coat was left over, and if yuh needs it you’re sure welcome to it.”
I looks the garment over, tucks it under my arm, and thanks everybody
concerned. Hair-Trigger is asleep against the rack, and acts peevish
when I wakes him up.
“Dang it all!” he yawns. “Seems like something always wakes me up when
I’m half way through uh pleasant dream. Well, I reckon we got to do some
digging if we’re going to start uh stampede.”
“What good is uh stampede going to do us?” I asks. “Where do me an you
profit?”
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Ain’t that old banker uh stingy old wood-rat? I’ll
bet he’s got uh lot uh money in that place uh his, Comanche.”
“Uh-huh.” I agrees. “Also, he’s got uh riot gun. You can’t do nothing
with riches when your hide is full uh doorknobs and nails,
Hair-Trigger.”
“I’m uh Hollibaugh,” he states. “No Hollibaugh ever passed out from the
effects of uh riot gun. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m! Must be something in this
air. Darn his old hide! I’ll bet that the sight uh nuggets would give
him apoplexy. Yes sir, I’ll bet—huh! You and me is going to wake up that
hamlet, Comanche Cal. Dog—my—cats, I’m glad I met yuh. Picture-painting
bartenders, stuttering Jones and stingy bankers. Whoo-e-e-e-e! Yes, sir,
we’ll cause ’em all to come and see. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!”
* * * * *
Me and Eveline Ann and Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh found Lafayette John Paul
Jones’s mine on Fool Hen Crick. The faded location-notice proclaims it
to be the Golden Gob Mining and Milling Company. We finds the cabin and
grub cache, which consists of uh few beans, some flour and uh hunk uh
bacon the size uh your fist.
“Two weeks, eh?” says I. “Stuttering Jones must be uh vegetarian.”
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m!” yawns Hair-Trigger, over that piece uh bacon.
“Mountain air always makes me sleepy. Whoo—e—e—e—e! This sure is one big
layout, Comanche. Dog—my—cats! Let’s me and you go and see how much work
he’s got done. Saw uh place down the crick where he’s been doing uh
little work.”
Little was the right word. He drifts in about twenty feet through loose
gravel, builds uh few feet uh flume, and then I reckon he must uh went
to sleep on the job or else somebody came along and he took the rest of
his time to tell ’em hello. I takes one look at the place and then
opines aloud that this ain’t no place to find gold.
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m!” groans Hair-Trigger, locking his boots around uh
boulder, and stretching until he’s plumb grotesque. “Gold is where yuh
find it, and stampedes are where yuh start ’em. That old man Swigert
ain’t no good citizen, is he, Comanche?”
“What’s that got to do with the Golden Gob?” I asks.
“Being uh white man covers the proverbial ounce of prevention, Comanche.
Did yuh ever notice what uh lot uh misery eventually comes to uh feller
what don’t treat his feller men white? I’m uh Hollibaugh—me. We go and
get things. Would you take what ain’t rightfully yours if yuh had uh
chance, Comanche?”
“I would not,” I states. “I complies with the law.”
“Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Everybody to their own ideas. Some folks just covet,
but the Hollibaughs take. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. Reckon
we might as well dig uh while to keep from going to sleep. You take the
shovel and clean out the flume while I goes up to the cabin and rustles
uh small feed. I’m hungry.”
I shovels for about an hour and then ambles up to the cabin to eat. I
finds some bread burning in the oven and burnt bacon on top uh the
stove, and Hair-Trigger asleep on the bunk.
“Here! You copper-riveted sleep-consumer!” I yelps. “You’re uh —— of uh
cook!”
He raises up and looks at me dumping things off the stove, and then
stretches himself plentiful.
“Enough for one meal and you incinerates it!” I yelps.
“Getting excited is bad for your system, Comanche,” he states. “Never
let yourself get above normal. Doggone. I dreamed of gold again. You
believe in dreams?”
“What kind uh dreams?”
“I dreamed that we made uh million out of the Golden Gob.”
“I don’t,” says I. “You need some paregoric.”
We heaves boulders for uh while, after we eats what is left, and then we
plans on our future operations. I outlines everything and Hair-Trigger
fails to disagree on uh single point, ’cause he sleeps all through the
meeting.
The next morning he scratches his back on the corner of the cabin, and
opines thusly:
“Comanche, we can’t work if we don’t eat, so I’m going to Blue Nose and
see about uh stake. Yes, sir, I’m going to take that community jackass
and either bring back uh load uh grub or Blue Nose will regret it.
Sabe?”
“Going to get it from old man Swigert?” I asks, sarcastic-like.
“Maybe. Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate.”
“You can’t get nothing in Blue Nose,” I argues, but Hair-Trigger pats
himself on the chest and tugs at his whiskers.
“I’m uh Hollibaugh, and the Hollibaughs gets what they go after. The
trouble with you, Comanche, is that you’re too honest. You’ll never get
no place. I thought that me and you was going to mix like mud and water,
but—ho, hum-m-m-m-m-m-m! Well I’ll go down and see how she looks.
“Ripe for uh stampede, eh? If yuh never see me again, Comanche, don’t
feel hard against me. The Hollibaughs inherits, and paw was lynched for
rustling cows, and grandpaw was killed with uh strange hawg in his arms.
Ho, hum-m-m-m-m! Must be the climate. So long.”
He weaves off down the trail with Eveline Ann, while I sets down and
reviews things. In the first place I ain’t Comanche Cal—whoever he is or
was. Hair-Trigger just took it for granted. I starts to feel sorry for
myself, but happens to realize that I ain’t no worse off than I was
before I met this here sleepy freak.
I don’t do uh tap uh work all day, and the next morning I starts in
right where I left off the day before. My breakfast was slim. In fact I
never had uh slimmer one in my life. I took uh drink out of the flume
and tightened up my belt.
“Fool Hen Crick,” says I, aloud, “I’m going to bid yuh adoo. I’m going
out and kill me some breakfast, cook it on that little rusty stove, and
then I’m going to foller in the footsteps uh one slumbering hombre named
Hair-Trigger Hollibaugh, the same uh which has annexed my burro under
false pretenses. He ain’t coming back, and it ain’t in my heart to chide
him for it.
“I’m going to seek fresh pastures. Milk and honey don’t thrive in the
land uh cactus, mesquite and lizards, so yours sincerely is on uh
pilgrimage to find greener vegetation.”
Fool Hen Crick don’t rise up and dispute my right to navigate, so I
pilgrims up the gulch. Pretty soon I busts into the domestic life of uh
couple uh sage-hens. The first one was going north, so I hits it in the
south end, which makes it unfit for anything except uh pillow. I cuts
the head off the other. It looks uh heap ancient, but even tough meat
keeps uh man from starvation, so I pilgrims back towards the little
cabin with joy in my soul.
Do I turn kitchen mechanic? I do not!
I don’t get quite to the cabin when uh bullet shaves my ear, and
proclaims that I’m excess baggage around there. I immediate and soon
drops into the brush and dusts the sight of my .41.
That bullet came from uh rifle, so I’m wise enough to keep down low. I
hears uh faint yell off to the left uh me, and then away off in the next
gulch I hears uh couple uh scattering shots. Pretty soon I sees two men
on hosses, racing up the ridge.
“Well,” says I, to myself, “things is looking up around Fool Hen.” I
sneaks low in the mesquite, and gets close to the cabin. I figures that
I’m some Injun when it comes to sneaking, but just as I cranes my neck
for uh peep at the shack, I hears uh twig snap. I turns sudden-like, and
finds myself looking down the muzzle of uh Winchester, and back uh that
gun is Lafayette John Paul Jones.
He recognizes me, too, and lowers the muzzle.
“You—you—you—you——” he begins, and I nods.
“Uh-huh—me. What’s going on around here?”
“Sus—sus—sus—strike,” he manages to splutter.
“Don’t jerk your hands thataway when yuh talk!” I yelps. “Ain’t yuh got
no sense? That gun is cocked. Did you say ‘strike’? Nod or shake.”
He nods.
“Where?” I asks.
“Huh—huh—huh—huh—huh——”
“Let down that hammer, you carbonated coyote!” I whoops. “You mean that
uh strike has been made in this district? Nod or shake.”