When the joobilant Texans set down to kyarve out the destinies of that
empire they wrests from the feeble paws of the Mexicans an’ Santa Anna,
they decides on Austin for the Capitol an’ Old Houston to be President.
An’ I’ll say right yere, Old Houston, by all roomer an’ tradition, is
mighty likely the most presidential president that ever keeps a republic
guessin’ as to whatever is he goin’ to do next. Which he’s as full of
surprises as a night in Red Dog.
About the first dash outen the box, Old Houston gets himse’f into
trouble with two Lone Star leadin’ citizens whose names, respective, is
Colonel Morton an’ jedge Webb.
Old Houston himse’f on the hocks of them vict’ries he partic’pates in,
an’ bein’ selected president like I say, grows as full of vanity as
a prairie dog. Shore! he’s a hero; the drawback is that his notion of
demeanin’ himse’f as sech is to spread his tail feathers an’ strut.
Old Houston gets that puffed up, an’ his dignity is that egreegious, he
feels crowded if a gent tries to walk on the same street with him.
Colonel Morton an’ Jedge Webb themse’fs wades through that carnage from
soda to hock freein’ Texas, an’ they sort o’ figgers that these yere
services entitles them to be heard some. Old Houston, who’s born with a
notion that he’s doo’ to make what public uproar every o’casion demands,
don’t encourage them two patriots. He only listens now an’ then to
Morton; an’ as for Jedge Webb, he jest won’t let that jurist talk at
all.
“An’ for these yere followin’ reasons to wit,” explains Old Houston,
when some Austin sports puts it to him p’lite, but steadfast, that he’s
onjust to Webb. “I permits Morton to talk some, because it don’t make a
splinter of difference what Morton says. He can talk on any side of any
subject an’ no one’s ediot enough to pay the least attention to them
remarks. But this sityooation is changed when you-all gets to Webb. He’s
a disaster. Webb never opens his mouth without subtractin’ from the sum
total of hooman knowledge.”
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When Morton hears of them remarks he re-gyards himse’f as wronged.
“An’ if Old Houston,” observes Morton, who’s a knife fighter an’ has
sliced offensive gents from time to time; “an’ if Old Houston ain’t more
gyarded in his remarks, I’ll take to disapprovin’ of his conduct with a
bowie.”
As I intimates, Old Houston is that pride-blown that you-all couldn’t
stay on the same range where he is. An’ he’s worried to a standstill for
a openin’ to onload on the Texas public a speciment of his dignity. At
last, seein’ the chances comin’ some slow, he ups an’ constructs the
opportunity himse’f.
Old Houston’s home-camp, that a-way, is at a hamlet named Washin’ton
down on the Brazos. It’s thar he squanders the heft of his leesure when
not back of the game as President over to Austin. Thar’s a clause in
the constitootion which, while pitchin’ onto Austin as the public’s
home-ranche or capitol, permits the President in the event of perils
onforeseen or invasions or sech, to round up the archives an’ move the
capitol camp a whole lot. Old Houston, eager to be great, seizes onto
this yere tenet.
“I’ll jest sort o’ order the capitol to come down, yere where I live
at,” says Old Houston, “an’ tharby call the waverin’ attention of the
Lone Star public to who I be.”
As leadin’ up to this atrocity an’ to come within the constitootion,
Old Houston allows that Austin is menaced by Comanches. Shore, it
ain’t menaced none; Austin would esteem the cleanin’ out of that
entire Comanche tribe as the labors of a holiday. But it fills into Old
Houston’s hand to make this bluff as a excuse. An’ with that, he issues
the order to bring the whole gov’ment layout down to where he lives.
No, as I tells you-all before, Austin ain’t in no more danger of
Comanches than she is of j’inin’ the church. Troo, these yere rannikaboo
savages does show up in paint an’ feathers over across the Colorado once
or twice; but beyond a whoop or two an’ a little permiscus shootin’ into
town which nobody minds, them vis’tations don’t count.
To give you-all gents a idee how little is deemed of Comanches by them
Texas forefathers, let me say a word of Bill Spence who keeps a store
in Austin. Bill’s addin’ up Virg Horne’s accounts one afternoon in his
books.
“One pa’r of yaller-top, copper-toe boots for Virg, joonior, three
dollars; one red cal’co dress for Missis Virg, two dollars,” goes on
Bill.
At this epock Bill hears a yowl; glancin’ out of the winder, he counts a
couple of hundred Injuns who’s proselytin’ about over on t’other side of
the river. Bill don’t get up none; he jests looks annoyed on account of
that yellin’ puttin’ him out in his book-keepin’.
As a bullet from them savages comes singin’ in the r’ar door an’ buries
itse’f in a ham, Bill even gets incensed.
“Hiram,” he calls to his twelve-year old son, who’s down cellar drawin’
red-eye for a customer; “Hiram, you-all take pop’s rifle, raise the
hindsight for three hundred yards, an’ reprove them hostiles. Aim low,
Hiram, an’ if you fetches one, pop’ll give you a seegyar an’ let you
smoke it yourse’f.”
Bill goes back to Virg Horne’s account, an’ Hiram after slammin’ away
with Bill’s old Hawkins once or twice comes in an’ gets his seegyar.
No; Old Houston does wrong when he flings forth this yere ukase about
movin’ the capitol. Austin, even if a gent does have to dodge a arrer
or duck a bullet as he prosecootes his daily tasks, is as safe as a
camp-meetin’.
When Old Houston makes the order, one of his Brazos pards reemonstrates
with him.
“Which Austin will simply go into the air all spraddled out,” says this
pard.
“If Austin sails up in the air an’ stays thar,” says Old Houston, “still
you-all can gamble that this yere order goes.”
“You hears,” says another, “Elder Peters when he tells of how a Mexican
named Mohammed commands the mountain to come to him? But the mountain
calls his bluff; that promontory stands pat, an’ Mohammed has to go to
the mountain.”
“My name’s Sam Houston an’ it ain’t Mo-hommed,” retorts Old Houston.
“Moreover, Mohammed don’t have no written constitootion.”
Nacherally, when Austin gets notice of Old Houston’s plan, that
meetropolis r’ars back an’ screams. The faro-bank folks an’ the tavern
folks is speshul malignant, an’ it ain’t no time before they-all
convenes a meetin’ to express their views on Old Houston. Morton an’
Jedge Webb does the oratory. An’ you hear me! that assembly is shore
sultry. Which the epithets they applies to Old Houston kills the grass
for twenty rods about.
Austin won’t move.
Austin resolves to go to war first; a small army is organized with
Morton in command to gyard the State House an’ the State books that
a-way, an’ keep Old Houston from romancin’ over an’ packin’ ’em off a
heap.
Morton is talkin’ an’ Webb is presidin’ over this yere
convocation--which the said meetin’ is that large an’ enthoosiastic it
plumb chokes up the hall an’ overflows into the street--when all of a
sudden a party comes swingin’ through the open winder from the top of
a scrub-oak that grows alongside the buildin’, an’ drops light as a
cat onto the platform with Morton an’ Webb. At this yere interruption,
affairs comes to a halt, an’ the local sports turns in to consider an’
count up the invader.
This gent who swoops through the winder is dark, big, bony an’ tall; his
ha’r is lank an’ long as the mane of a hoss; his eyes is deep an’ black;
his face, tanned like a Injun’s, seems hard as iron. He’s dressed
in leather from foretop to fetlock, is shod with a pa’r of Comanche
moccasins, an’ besides a ’leven inch knife in his belt, packs a rifle
with a 48-inch bar’l. It will weigh twenty pounds, an’ yet this stranger
handles it like it’s a willow switch.
As this darksome gent lands in among Morton an’ Webb, he stands thar
without sayin’ a word. Webb, on his part, is amazed, while Morton
glowers.
“Whatever do you-all regyard as a market price for your skelp?’” says
Morton to the black interloper, at the same time loosenin’ his knife.
The black stranger makes no reply; his hand flashes to his bowie, while
his face still wears its iron look.
Webb, some hurried, pushes in between Morton an’ the black stranger.
Webb is more for peace an’ don’t believe in beginnin’ negotiations with
a knife.
Webb dictates a passel of p’lite queries to this yere black stranger.
Tharupon, the black stranger bows p’lite an’ formal, an’ goin’ over to
the table writes down in good English, “I’m deef an’ dumb.” Next, he
searches outen his war-bags a letter. It’s from Old Houston over on the
Brazos. Old Houston allows that onless Austin comes trailin’ in with
them records within three days, he’ll ride over a whole lot an’ make the
round-up himse’f. Old Houston declar’s that Austin by virchoo of them
Comanches is as on-safe as a Christian in Mississippi, an’ he don’t aim
to face no sech dangers while performin’ his dooties as President of the
Commonwealth.
After the black stranger flings the letter on the table, he’s organizin’
to go out through the winder ag’in. But Morton sort o’ detains him.
Morton writes on the paper that now the black stranger is through his
dooties as a postman, he will, if he’s a dead game sport, stay over a
day, an’ him an’ Morton will entertain themse’fs by pullin’ off a war of
their own. The idee strikes the black stranger as plenty good, an’
while his face still wears its ca’m, hard look, he writes onder Morton’s
bluff:
“Rifles; no’th bank of the Colorado; sun-down, this evenin’.”
The next moment he leaps from the platform to the winder an’ from thar
to the ground, an’ is gone.
“But Colonel Morton,” reemonstrates Webb, who’s some scand’lized at
Morton hookin’ up for blood with this yere black stranger; “you-all
shorely don’t aim to fight this party? He’s deef an’ dumb, which is next
to bein’ locoed outright. Moreover, a gent of your standin’ can’t afford
to go ramblin’ about, lockin’ horns with every on-known miscreant who
comes buttin’ in with a missif from President Houston, an’ then goes
stampedin’ through a winder by way of exit.”
“Onknown!” retorts Morton. “That letterpackin’ person is as well known
as the Rio Grande. That’s Deef Smith.”
“Colonel Morton,” observes Webb, some horrified when he learns the name
of the black stranger, “this yere Deef Smith is a shore shot. They
say he can empty a Comanche saddle four times in five at three hundred
yards.”
“That may be as it may,” returns Morton. “If I downs him, so much the
more credit; if he gets me, at the worst I dies by a famous hand.”
The sun is restin’ on the sky-line over to the west. Austin has done
crossed the Colorado an’ lined up to witness this yere dooel. Deef Smith
comes ridin’ in from some’ers to the no’th, slides outen the saddle,
pats his hoss on the neck, an’ leaves him organized an’ ready fifty
yards to one side. Then Deef Smith steps to the center an’ touches his
hat, mil’tary fashion, to Morton an’ Webb.
These yere cavaliers is to shoot it out at one hundred yards. As they
takes their places, Morton says:
“Jedge Webb, if this Deef Smith party gets me, as most like he will,
send my watch to my mother in Looeyville.”
Then they fronts each other; one in brown leather, the other in cloth
as good as gold can buy. No one thinks of any difference between ’em,
however, in a day when courage is the test of aristocracy.
Since one gent can’t hear, Webb is to give the word with a handkerchief.
At the first flourish the rifles fall to a hor’zontal as still
an’ steady as a rock. Thar’s a brief pause; then Webb drops his
handkerchief.
Thar is a crack like one gun; Deef Smith’s hat half turns on his head
as the bullet cuts it, while Morton stands a moment an’ then, without
a sound, falls dead on his face. The lead from Deef Smith’s big rifle
drills him through the heart. Also, since it perforates that gold
repeater, an’ as the blood sort o’ clogs the works, the Austin folks
decides it’s no use to send it on to Looeyville, but retains it that
a-way as a keepsake.
With the bark of the guns an’ while the white smoke’s still hangin’ to
mark the spot where he stands, Deef Smith’s hoss runs to him like a
dog. The next instant Deef Smith is in the saddle an’ away. It’s jest
as well. Morton’s plenty pop’lar with the Austin folks an’ mebby some
sharp, in the first hysteria of a great loss, overlooks what’s doo to
honor an’ ups an’ plugs this yere Deef Smith.
*****
The Old Cattleman made a long halt as indicative that his story was at
an end. There was a moment of silence, and then the Jolly Doctor spoke
up.
“But how about the books and papers?” asked the Jolly Doctor.
“Oh, nothin’ partic’lar,” said the Old Cattleman. “It turns out like Old
Houston prophesies. Three days later, vain an’ soopercilious, he rides
in, corrals them archives, an’ totes ’em haughtily off to the Brazos.”
Following the Old Cattleman’s leaf from Lone Star annals, the Sour
Gentleman prepared himself to give us his farewell page from the
unwritten records of the Customs.
“On this, our last evening,” observed the Sour Gentleman, “it seems the
excellent thing to tell you what was practically my final act of service
or, if you will, disservice with the Customs. We may call the story ‘How
the Filibusterer Sailed.’”