This yere can’t be called a story; which it can’t even be described
none as a sketch. Accordin’ to the critics, who, bein’ plumb onable
to write one themse’fs, nacherally knows what a story ought to be, no
story’s a story onless she’s built up like one of these one-sided hills.
Reelation must climb painfully from base to peak, on the slope side,
with interest on a up-grade, say, of one foot in ten; an’ then when
you-all arrives safely at the summit, the same bein’ the climax, you’re
to pitch headlong over the precipice on the sheer an’ other side, an’
in the space of not more’n a brace of sentences, land, bing! bang!
smash!--all broke up at the bottom. That, by what you-all might call
“Our best literary lights,” would be a story, an’ since what I’m about
to onfold don’t own no sech brands nor y’ear-marks, it can’t come onder
that head.
This partic’lar o’casion is when little Enright Peets Tutt--said blessed
infant, as I sets forth former, bein’ the conj’int production of Dave
Tutt an’ his esteemable wife, Tucson Jennie--is comin’ eight years old
next spring round-up. Little Enright Peets is growin’ strong an’ husky
now, an’ is the pride of the Wolfville heart. He’s shed his milk teeth
an’ is sproutin’ a second mouthful, white an’ clean as a coyote’s. Also,
his cur’osity is deeveloped powerful an’ he’s in the habit of pervadin’
about from the Red Light to the New York Store, askin’ questions; an’ he
is as familiar in the local landscape as either the Tucson stage or Old
Monte, the drunkard who drives it.
One afternoon, about first drink time, little Enright Peets comes
waddlin’ up to Old Man Enright on them short reedic’lous black-b’ar
laigs of his, an’ says:
“Say, gran’dad Enright, don’t you-all cim-marons never have no Christmas
in this camp? Which if you does, all I got to say is I don’t notice no
Christmas none since I’ve been yere, an’ that’s whatever!”
[Illustration: 0091]
“Will you-all listen to this preecocious child!” observes Enright to
Doc Peets, with whom he’s in talk. “Wherever now do you reckon, Doc, he
hears tell of Christmas?”
“How about it, Uncle Doc?” asks little Enright Peets, turnin’ his eyes
up to Peets when he notices Enright don’t reply.
At this Enright an’ Peets makes a disparin’ gesture an’ wheels into the
Red Light for a drink, leavin’ pore little Enright Peets standin’ in the
street.
“That baby puts us to shame, Doc,” says Enright, as he signs up to Black
Jack, the barkeep, for the Valley Tan; “he shows us in one word how
we neglects his eddication. The idee of that child never havin’ had
no Christmas! It’s more of a stain on this commoonity than not hangin’
Navajo Joe that time.”
“That’s whatever!” assents Peets, reachin’ for the nose-paint in his
turn. “‘Out of the mouths of babes an’ sucklin’s,’ as the good book
says.” This infantile bluff of little Enright Peets goes a long way
to stir up the sensibilities of the public. As for Enright, he don’t
scroople to take Dave Tutt to task.
“The thought that you, Dave,” says Enright, “you, a gent I yeretofore
regyards as distinguished for every paternal virchoo, would go romancin’
along, lettin’ that boy grow up in darkness of Christmas, an’ it one of
the first festivals of the Christian world! As a play, I says freely,
that sech neglect is plumb too many for me!”
“She’s shore a shame,” adds Dan Boggs, who’s also shocked a heap, and
stands in with Enright to crawl Dave’s hump, “she’s shore a shame, never
to provide no Christmas for that offspring of yours, an’ leave him to go
knockin’ about in his ignorance like a blind dog in a meat shop. That’s
what I states; she’s a shame!”
“Now gents,” reemonstrates Dave, “don’t press the limit in these yere
reecrim’nations, don’t crowd me too hard. I asks you, whatever could I
do? If you-all enthoosiasts will look this yere Christmas proposition
ca’mly in the face, you’ll begin to notice that sech cel’brations ain’t
feasible in Arizona. Christmas in its very beginnin’ is based on snow.
Who’s the reg’lar round-up boss for Christmas? Ain’t he a disrepootable
Dutchman named Santa Claus? Don’t he show up wrapped in furs, an’ with
reindeer an’ sleigh an’ hock deep in a snowstorm? Answer me that? Also
show me where’s your snow an’ where’s your sleigh an’ where’s your
reindeer an’ where’s your Dutchman in Wolfville? You-all better go
about Jixin’ up your camp an’ your climate so as to make one of these
Christmases possible before ever you come buttin’ in, cavilin’ an’
criticisin’ ag’in me as a parent.”
“Which jest the same, Dave,” contends Dan, who takes the eepisode mighty
sour, “it looks like you-all could have made some sort o’ play.”
About this time, as addin’ itse’f to the gen’ral jolt given the
Wolfville nerve by them Christmas questions put aforesaid by little
Enright Peets, news comes floatin’ over from Red Dog of a awful
spree that low-flung outfit enjoys. It’s a Six Shooter Weddin’; so
deenominated because Pete Bland, the outlaw for whom the party is made,
an’ his wife, The Duchess, has been married six years an’ ain’t
done nothin’ but fight. Wherefore, on the sixth anniversary of their
nuptials, Red Dog resolves on a Six Shooter Weddin’; an’ tharupon
descends on those two wedded warriors, Pete an’ The Duchess, in a body,
packin’ fiddles, nose-paint, an’ the complete regalia of a frantic
shindig. An’ you hear me, gents, them Red Dog tarrapins shore throws
themse’fs loose! You-all could hear their happy howls in Wolfville.
As a reason for the outburst, an’ one consistent with its name, the
guests endows Pete an’ The Duchess each with belts an’ a brace of guns.
“To the end,” says the Red Dog cha’rman when he makes the presentation
speech, “that, as between Pete an’ The Duchess, we as a commoonity
promotes a even break, and clothes both parties in interest with equal
powers to preserve the peace.”
As I observes, it’s the story of these proud doin’s on the locoed part
of our rival, that ondoubted goes some distance to decide us Wolves of
Wolfville on pullin’ off a Christmas warjig for little Enright Peets. We
ain’t goin’ to be outdone none in this business of being fervid.
It’s mebby a month prior to Christmas when we resolves on this yere
racket, an’ so we has ample time to prepare. Almost every afternoon an’
evenin’ over our Valley Tan, we discusses an’ does our wisest to
evolve a programme. It’s then we begins to grasp the wisdom of Dave’s
observations touchin’ how onfeasible it is to go talkin’ of Christmas in
southern Arizona.
“Nacherally,” remarks Enright, as we sits about the Red Light, turnin’
the game in our minds, “nacherally, we ups an’ gives little Enright
Peets presents. Which brings us within ropin’ distance of the inquiry,
‘Whatever will we give him?’”
“We-all can’t give him fish-lines, an’ sech,” says Doc Peets, takin’ up
Enright’s argument, “for thar ain’t no fish. Skates is likewise barred,
thar bein’ no ice; an’ sleds an’ mittens an’ worsted comforters an’ fur
caps fails us for causes sim’lar. Little Enright Peets is too young to
smoke; Tucson Jennie won’t let him drink licker; thar, with one word, is
them two important sources closed ag’in us. Gents, Pm inclined to string
my bets with Dave; I offers two for one as we sets yere, that this
framin’ up a Christmas play in Arizona as a problem ain’t no slouch.”
“Thar’s picture books,” says Faro Nell.
“Shore!” assents Cherokee Hall, where he’s planted back of his faro box.
“An’ painted blocks!”
“Good!” says Cherokee.
“An’ candy!”
“Nell’s right!” an’ Cherokee coincides plumb through, “Books, blocks,
an’ candy, is what I calls startin’ on velvet.”
“Whatever’s the matter,” says Dan Boggs, who’s been rackin’ his
intellects a heap, “of givin’ little Enright Peets a faro layout,
or mebby now, a roolette wheel? Some of them wheels is mighty gaudy
furniture!”
“Dan,” says Enright, an’ his tones is severe; “Dan, be you-all aimin’ to
corrupt this child?” Dan subsides a whole lot after this yere reproof.
“I don’t reckon now,” observes Jack Moore, an’ his manner is as one
ropin’ for information; “I don’t reckon now a nice, wholesome Colt’s-44,
ivory butt, stamped leather belts, an’ all that, would be a proper thing
to put in play. Of course, a 8-inch gun is some heavy as a plaything for
a infant only seven; but he’d grow to it, gents, he’d grow to it.”
“Don’t alloode to sech a thing, Jack,” says Dan, with a shudder; “don’t
alloode to it. Little Enright Peets would up an’ blow his yoothful light
out; an’ then Tucson Jennie would camp on our trails forevermore as the
deestroyers of her child. The mere idee gives me the fantods!” An’ Dan,
who’s a nervous party, shudders ag’in.
“Gents,” says Texas Thompson, “I ain’t cut in on this talk for two
reasons: one is I ain’t had nothin’ to say; an’ ag’in, it was Christmas
Day when my Laredo wife--who I once or twice adverts to as gettin’ a
divorce--ups an’ quits me for good. For which causes it has been my
habit to pass up all mention an’ mem’ry of this sacred season in a
sperit of silent pra’r. But time has so far modified my feelin’s that,
considerin’ the present purposes of the camp, I’m willin’ to be heard.
Thar’s nothin’ that should be looked to more jealously than this ye re
givin’ of presents. It’s grown so that as a roole the business of makin’
presents degen’rates to this: Some sport who can’t afford to, gives some
sport something he don’t need. Thar’s no fear of the first, since we
gents can afford anything we likes. As to the second prop’sition, we
should skin our kyards some sharp. We-all ought to lavish on little
Enright Peets a present which, while safegyardin’ his life an’ his
morals, is calc’lated to teach him some useful accomplishments. Books,
blocks, an sweetmeats, as proposed by our fac’natin’ townswoman, Miss
Faro Nell”--Nell tosses Texas a kiss--“is in admir’ble p’int as
coverin’ a question of amooze-ments. For the rest, an’ as makin’ for the
deevel-opment of what will be best in the character of little Enright
Peets, I moves you we-all turns in an’ buys that baby the best
bronco--saddle, bridle, rope an’ spurs, complete--that the southwest
affords.”
Texas, who’s done stood up to make this yere oration, camps down ag’in
in the midst of a storm of applause. The su’gestion has immediate
adoption.
We-all gives a cold thousand for the little boss. We gets him of the
sharp who--it bein’ in the old day before railroads--is slammin’ through
the mails from Chihuahua to El Paso, three hundred miles in three
nights. This bronco--he’s a deep bay, shadin’ off into black like one
of them overripe violins, an’ with nostrils like red expandin’
hollyhocks--can go a hundred miles between dark an’ dark, an’ do it
three days in a week. Which lie’s shore a wonder, is that little hoss;
an’ the saddle an’ upholstery that goes with him, Spanish leather an’
gold, is fit for his company.
As Dan leads him up in front of the Red Light Christmas Eve for us to
look at, he says:
“Gents, if he ain’t a swallow-bird on four legs, then I never sees no
sech fowl; an’ the only drawback is that, considerin’ the season, we
can’t hang him on no tree.”
An’ y ere, now, is where we-all gets scared up. It spoils the symmetry
of this story to chunk it in this a-way; but I can’t he’p myse’f, for
this story, like that tale of James of the Beads, is troo.
Jest as we-all is about to prounce down with our gifts on Dave’s
wickeyup like a mink on a settin’ hen--Dan bein’ all framed an’ frazzled
up in cow-tails an’ buffalo horns like a Injun medicine man, thinkin’ to
make the deal as Santa Claus--Tucson Jennie comes surgin’ up, wild an’
frantic, an’ allows little Enright Peets is lost. Dave, she says, is
chargin’ about, tryin’ to round him up.
“Which I knows he’s done been chewed up by wolves,” says Tucson Jennie,
wringin’ her hands an’ throwin’ her apron over her head. “He’d shore
showed up for supper if he’s alive.”
It’s obvious that before that Christmas can proceed, we-all has got to
recover the beneficiary. Thar’s a gen’ral saddlin’ up, an’ in no time
Wolf-ville’s population is spraddlin’ about the surroundin’ scenery.
It comes right though, an’ it’s Dan who makes the turn. Dan discovers
little Enright Peets camped down in the lee of a mesquite bush, seven
miles out on his way to the Floridas mountains. He puts it up he’s goin’
over to the hills to have a big talk an’ make medicine with Moh-Kwa, the
wise medicine b’ar that Sioux Sam yere has been reelatin’ to him about.
No, that child ain’t scared none; he’s takin’ it cool an’ contented,
with twenty coyotes settin’ about, blinkin’ an’ silent on their tails,
an’ lookin’ like they’re sort o’ thinkin’ little Enright Peets over an’
tryin’ to figger out his system. Them little wolves don’t onderstand
what brings that infant out alone on the plains, that a-way; an’ they’re
cogitatin’ about it when Dan disperses ’em to the four winds.
That’s all thar is to the yarn. Little Enright Peets is packed into camp
an’ planted in the midst of them books an’ blocks an’ candies which Faro
Nell su’gests; also, he’s made happy with the little hoss. Dan, in his
medicine mask an’ paint, does a skelp dance, an’ is the soul of the
hour.
Little Enright Peets’ joy is as wide as the territory. Despite
reemonstrance, he insists on get-tin’ into that gold-embossed saddle an’
givin’ his little hoss a whirl ‘round the camp. Dan rides along to head
off stampedes.
On the return, little Enright Peets comes down the street like an arrow
an’ pulls up short. As Dave searches him out of the saddle, he says:
“Paw, that cayouse could beat four kings an’ a ace.”
That’s reward enough; Wolfville is never more pleased than the night
it opens up to little Enright Peets the beauties which lies hid in
Christmas. An’ the feelin’ that we-all has done this, sort o’ glorifies
an’ gilds the profound deebauch that en-soos. Tucson Jennie lays it down
that it’s shore the star Christmas, since it’s the one when her lost is
found an’ the Fates in the guise of Dan presents her with her boy ag’in.
I knows of myse’f, gents, that Jennie is shore moved, for she omits
utter to lay for Dave with reproaches when, givin’ way to a gen’rous
impulse, he issues forth with the rest of the band, an’ relaxes into a
picnic that savors of old days.
“My friends,” observed the Jolly Doctor, as we were taking our candles
preparatory for bed, the hour having turned towards the late, “I shall
think on this as an occasion of good company. And to-morrow evening--for
this storm will continue to hold us prisoners--you will find unless
better offer, I shall recognize my debt to you by attempting a Christmas
story myself. I cannot stir your interest as has our friend of camps and
trails with his Wolfville chapter, but I shall do what lies in me.”
“You will tell us of some Christmas,” hazarded the Sour Gentleman, “that
came beneath your notice as a professional man.”
“Oh, no; not that,” returned the Jolly Doctor. “This is rather a story
of health and robust strength than any sick-bed tale. It is of gloves
and fighting men who never saw a doctor. I shall call it ‘The Pitt
Street Stringency.’”
It was eight of the clock on the second evening when we gathered about
the fire-place. The snow was still falling and roads were reported
blocked beyond any thought of passage. We were snowbound; folk who
should know declared that if a road were broken for our getting out
within a week, it was the best we might look for.
No one seemed stricken of grief at this prison prospect. As we came
about the cheery blaze, every face was easy and content. The Jolly
Doctor joined the Red Nosed Gentleman in his burgundy, while the Sour
Gentleman and the Old Cattleman qualified for the occasion with
a copious account of whiskey, which the aged man of cows called
“Nose-paint.” Sioux Sam and I were the only “abstainers”--I had ceased
and he had never commenced--but as if to make up, we smoked a double
number of cigars.
The Jolly Doctor began with the explanation that the incidents he would
relate had fallen beneath his notice when as a student he walked the
New York hospitals; then, glass in hand, he told us the tale of The Pitt
Street Stringency.