"He ain't exactly a favorite," muttered Dawson. "He 's a--a--an event;
that's what he is!"
Carter nodded. "Yep; that's what he is, 'though you just can't help
likin' th' cub, he 's that cheerful in his devilment."
Charley Logan stretched and yawned. "Didn't hear nothin' about no
Injuns, did you? A feller rid through here yesterday an' said they was
out again."
Bill nodded. "Yes; I did. An' there 's a lot of rumors goin' around.
They 've been over in th' Crazy Butte country an' I heard they raided
through th' Little Mountain Valley last week. Anyhow, th' Seventh is out
after 'em, in four sections."
"Th' Seventh is _a_ regiment," asserted George Bruce. "Leastawise it
was when I was in it. It is th' best in th' Service."
Dad snorted. "Listen to him! It was when he was in it! Lordy, Lordy,
Lordy!" he chuckled.
"There hain't no cavalry slick enough to ketch Apaches," declared Hank,
dogmatically. "Troops has too many fixin's an' sech. You gotta travel
light an' live without eatin' an' drinkin' to ketch them Injuns; an'
then you never hardly sometimes see 'em, at that."
"Lemme tell you, Mosshead, th' Seventh can lick all th' Injuns ever
spawned!" asserted Bruce with heat. "It wiped out Black Kettle's camp,
in th' dead of winter, too!"
"That was Custer as did that," snorted Carter.
"Well, he was leadin' th' Seventh, same as he is now!"
Charley Logan shook his head. "We are talking about ketchin' 'em, not
fightin' 'em. An' no cavalry in th' hull country can ketch 'Paches in
_this_ country--it's too rough. 'Paches are only scared of punchers."
"Shore," asserted Carter. "Apaches laugh at troops, less 'n it's a
pitched battle, when they don't. Cavalry chases 'em so fur an' no
farther; punchers chase 'em inter h--l, out of it an' back again."
"They shore is 'lusive," cogitated Lefty Dawson, carefully deluging a
fly ten feet away and shifting his cud for another shot. "An' I, for
one, admits I ain't hankerin' for to chase 'em close."
"Wish we could get that cub Jimmy to chase some," exclaimed Carter.
"Afore he gits here," he explained, thoughtfully.
"Oh, he 's all right, Carter," spoke up Lefty. "We was all of us young
and playful onct."
"But we all war n't he-devils workin' day an' night tryin' to make our
betters miserable!"
"Oh, he 's a good kid," remarked Dad. "I sorta hates to miss him.
Anyhow, we got th' best of him, last time."
Bill finished rolling a cigarette, lit it and slowly addressed them.
"Well, all I got to say is that he suits me right plumb down to th'
ground. Now, just lemme tell you somethin' about Jimmy," and he gave
them the story of Jimmy's part in the happenings on Tortilla Range, to
the great delight of his audience.
"By Scott, it's just like him!" chuckled George Bruce.
"That's shore Jimmy, all right," laughed Lefty.
"What did _I_ tell you?" beamed Dad. "He 's a heller, he is. He 's all
right!"
"Then why don't you stay an' see him?" demanded Carter.
"I gotta go on, or I would. Yessir, I would!"
"Reckon them Injuns won't git so fur north as here," suggested Carter
hopefully, and harking back to the subject which lay heaviest on his
mind. "They 've only been here twict in ten years."
"Which was twice too often," asserted Lefty.
"Th' last time they was here," remarked Dad, reminiscently, "they didn't
stop long; though where they went to I dunno. We gave 'em more 'n they
could handle. That was th' time I just bought that new Sharps rifle,
an' what I done with that gun was turrible." He paused to gather the
facts in the right order before he told the story, and when he looked
around again he flushed and swore. The audience had silently faded away
to escape the moth-eaten story they knew by heart. The fact that Dad
usually improved it and his part in it, each time he told it, did not
lure them. "Cussed ingrates!" he swore, turning to Bill. "They 're
plumb jealous!"
"They act like it, anyhow," agreed Bill soberly. "I 'd like to hear it,
but I 'm too thirsty. Come in an' have one with me?" The story was
indefinitely postponed.
An accordion wheezed down the street and a mouth-organ tried desperately
to join in from the saloon next door, but, owing to a great difference
in memory, did not harmonize. A roar of laughter from Dawson's, and the
loud clink of glasses told where Dad's would-have-been audience then
was. Carter walked around his counter and seated himself in his
favorite place against the door jamb. Bill, having eluded Dad, sat on a
keg of edibles and smoked in silence and content, occasionally slapping
at the flies which buzzed persistently around his head. Knocking the
ashes from the cigarette he leaned back lazily and looked at Carter.
"Wonder where he is?" he muttered.
"Huh?" grunted the proprietor, glancing around. "Oh, you worryin' about
that yearlin'? Well, you needn't! Nothin' never sidetracks Jimmy."
A fusillade of shots made Bill stand up, and Carter leaped to his feet
and dashed toward the counter. But he paused and looked around
foolishly. "That's his yell," he explained. "Didn't I tell you? He's
arrove, same as usual."
The drumming of hoofs came rapidly nearer and heads popped out of
windows and doors, each head flanked by a rifle barrel. Above a
swirling cloud of dust glinted a spurting Colt and thrust through the
smudge was a hand waving a strange collection of articles.
"Hullo, Kid!" shouted Dawson. "What you got? See any Injuns?"
"It's a G-string an' a medicine-bag, by all that's holy!" cried Dad from
the harness shop. "Where 'd you git 'em, Jimmy?"
Jimmy drew rein and slid to a stand, pricking his nettlesome "Calico"
until it pranced to suit him. Waving the Apache breech-cloth, the
medicine-bag and a stocking-shaped moccasin in one hand, he proudly held
up an old, dirty, battered Winchester repeater in the other and whooped
a war-cry.
"Blame my hide!" shouted Dad, running out into the street. "It is a
G-string! He 's gone an' got one of 'em! He 's gone an' got a 'Pache!
Good boy, Kid! An' how 'd you do it?"
Carter plodded through the dust with Bill close behind. "_Where'd_ you
do it?" demanded the proprietor eagerly. To Carter location meant more
than method. He was plainly nervous. When he reached the crowd he, in
turn, examined the trophies. They were genuine, and on the G-string was
a splotch of crimson, muddy with dust.
"What's in the war-bag, Kid?" demanded Lefty, preparing to see for
himself. Jimmy snatched it from his hands. "You never mind what's in
it, Freckle-face!" he snapped. "That's my bag, _now_. Want to spoil my
luck?"
"How'd you do it?" demanded Dad breathlessly.
"_Where_ 'd you do it?" snapped Carter. He glanced hurriedly around the
horizon and repeated the question with vehemence. "Where 'd you get
him?"
"In th' groin, first. Then through th'--"
"I don't mean where, I mean _where_--near here?" interrupted Carter.
"Oh, fifteen mile east," answered Jimmy. "He was crawlin' down on a
bunch of cattle. He saw me just as I saw him. But he missed an' I did
n't," he gloated proudly. "I met a Pawnee scout just afterward an' he
near got shot before he signaled. He says hell's a-poppin'. Th'
'Paches are raidin' all over th' country, down--"
"I knowed it!" shouted Carter. "Yessir, I knowed it! I felt it all
along! Where you finds one you finds a bunch!"
"We'll give 'em blazes, like th' last time!" cried Dad, hurrying away to
the harness shop where he had left his rifle.
"I 've been needin' some excitement for a long time," laughed Dawson.
"I shore hope they come."
Carter paused long enough to retort over his shoulder: "An' I hopes you
drop dead! You never did have no sense! Not nohow!"
Bill smiled at the sudden awakening and watched the scrambling for
weapons. "Why, there 's enough men here to wipe out a tribe. I reckon
we 'll stay an' see th' fun. Anyhow, it 'll be a whole lot safer here
than fightin' by ourselves out in th' open somewhere. What you say?"
"You could n't drag me away from this town right now with a cayuse,"
Jimmy replied, gravely hanging the medicine-bag around his neck and then
stuffing the gory G-string in the folds of the slicker he carried
strapped behind the cantle of the saddle. "We 'll see it out right
here. But I do wish that 'Pache owned a better gun than this thing.
It's most fallin' apart an' ain't worth nothin'."
Bill took it and examined the rifling and the breech-block. He laughed
as he handed it back. "You oughta be glad it was n't a better gun, Kid.
I don't reckon he could put two in the same place at two hundred paces
with this thing. I ain't even anxious to shoot it off on a bet."
Jimmy gasped suddenly and grinned until the safety of his ears was
threatened. "Would you look at Carter?" he chuckled, pointing. Bill
turned and saw the proprietor of Carter's Emporium carrying water into
his store, and with a speed that would lead one to infer that he was
doing it on a wager. Emerging again he saw the punchers looking at him
and, dropping the buckets, he wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his
head. "I 'm fillin' everything," he called. "I reckon we better stand
'em off from my store--th' walls are thicker."
Bill smiled at the excuse and looked down the street at the adobe
buildings. "What about th' 'dobes, Carter?" he asked. The walls of
some of them were more than two feet thick.
Carter scowled, scratched his head and made a gesture of impatience.
"They ain't big enough to hold us all," he replied, with triumph. "This
here store is th' best place. An', besides, it's all stocked with water
an' grub, an' everything."
Jimmy nodded. "Yo 're right, Carter; it's th' best place." To Bill he
said in an aside, "He 's plumb anxious to protect that shack, now ain't
he?"
Lefty Dawson came sauntering up. "Wonder if Carter 'll let us hold out
in his store?"
"He 'll pay you to," laughed Bill.
"It's loop-holed. Been so since th' last raid," explained Lefty. "An'
it's chock full of grub," he grinned.
They heard Dad's voice around the corner. "Just like last time," he was
saying. "We oughta put four men in Dick's 'dobe acrost th' street.
Then we'd have a strategy position. You see--oh, hullo," he said as he
rounded the corner ahead of George Bruce. "Who 's goin' on picket
duty?" he demanded.
Under the blazing sun a yellow dog wandered aimlessly down the deserted
street, his main interest in life centered on his skin, which he
frequently sat down to chew. During the brief respites he lounged in
the doors of deserted buildings, frequently exploring the quiet
interiors for food. Emerging from the "hotel" he looked across the
street at the Emporium and barked tentatively at the man sitting on its
flat roof. Wriggling apologetically, he slowly gained the middle of the
street and then sat down to investigate a sharp attack. A can sailed
out of the open door and a flurry of yellow streaked around the corner
of the "hotel" and vanished.
In the Emporium grave men played poker for nails, Bill Cassidy having
corralled all the available cash long before this, and conversed in low
tones. The walls, reinforced breast high by boxes, barrels and bags,
were divided into regular intervals by the open loopholes, each opening
further indicated by a leaning rifle or two and generous piles of
cartridges. Two tubs and half a dozen buckets filled with water stood
in the center of the room, carefully covered over with boards and
wrapping paper. Clouds of tobacco smoke lay in filmy stratums in the
heated air and drifted up the resin-streaked sides of the building. The
shimmering, gray sand stretched away in a glare of sunlight and seemed
to writhe under the heated air, while droning flies flitted lazily
through the windows and held caucuses on the sugar barrel. A slight,
grating sound overhead caused several of the more irritable or energetic
men to glance up lazily, grateful they were not in Hank's place. It was
hot enough under the roof, and they stretched ecstatically as they
thought of Hank. Three days' vigil and anxiety had become trying even
to the most stolid.
John Carter fretfully damned solitaire and pushed the cards away to pick
up pencil and paper and figure thoughtfully. This seemed to furnish him
with even less amusement, for he scowled and turned to watch the poker
game. "Huh," he sniffed, "playin' poker for nails! An' you don't even
own th' nails," he grinned facetiously, and glanced around to see if his
point was taken. He suddenly stiffened when he noticed the man who sat
on his counter and labored patiently and zealously with a pocket knife.
"Hey, you!" he exclaimed excitedly, his wrath quickly aroused. "Ain't
you never had no bringin' up? If yo 're so plumb sot on whittlin', you
tackle that sugar barrel!"
Jimmy looked the barrel over critically and then regarded the peeved
proprietor, shaking his head sorrowfully. "This here is a better medjum
for the ex-position of my art," he replied gravely. "An' as for bringin'
up, lemme observe to these gents here assembled that you ain't never had
no artistic trainin'. Yore skimpy soul is dwarfed an' narrowed by false
weights and dented measures. You can look a sunset in th' face an' not
see it for countin' yore profits." Carter glanced instinctively at the
figures as Jimmy continued. "An' you can't see no beauty in a daisy's
grace--which last is from a book. I 'm here carvin' th' very image of
my cayuse an' givin' you a work of art, free an' gratis. I 'm timid an'
sensitive, I am; an' I 'll feel hurt if--"
"Stop that noise," snorted a man in the corner, turning over to try
again. "Sensitive an' timid? Yes; as a mule! Shut up an' lemme get a
little sleep."
"A-men," sighed a poker-player. "An' let him sleep--he 's a cussed
nuisance when he 's awake."
"Two mules," amended the dealer. "Which is worse than one," he added
thoughtfully.
"We oughta put four men in that 'dobe--" began Dad persistently.
"An' will you shut up about that 'dobe an' yore four men?" snapped
Lefty. "Can't you say nothin' less 'n it's about that mud hut?"
Jimmy smiled maddeningly at the irritated crowd. "As I was sayin'
before you all interrupted me, I 'll feel hurt--"
"You _will_; an' quick!" snapped Carter. "You quit gougin' that
counter!"
Bill craned his neck to examine the carving, and forthwith held out a
derisively pointing forefinger.
"Cayuse?" he inquired sarcastically. "Looks more like th' map of th'
United States, with some almost necessary parts missin'. Your geography
musta been different from mine."
The artist smiled brightly. "Here 's a man with imagination, th'
emancipator of thought. It's crude an' untrained, but it's there.
Imagination is a hopeful sign, for it is only given to human bein's.
From this we surmise an' must conclude that Bill is human."
"Will somebody be liar enough to say th' same of you?" politely inquired
the dealer.
"Will you fools shut up?" demanded the man who would sleep. He had been
on guard half the night.
"But you oughta label it, Jimmy," said Bill. "You 've got California
bulgin' too high up, an' Florida sticks out th' wrong way. Th' Great
Lakes is _all_ wrong--looks like a kidney slippin' off of Canada. An'
where's Texas?"
"Huh! It 'd have to be a cow to show Texas," grinned Dad Johnson, who,
it appeared, also had an imagination and wanted people to know it.
"You cuttin' in on this teet-a-teet?" demanded Jimmy, dodging the
compliments of the sleepy individual.
"As a map it is no good," decided Bill decisively.
"It is no map," retorted Jimmy. "I know where California bulges an' how
Florida sticks out. What you call California is th' south end of th'
cayuse, above which I 'm goin' to put th' tail--"
"Not if I'm man enough, you ain't!" interposed Carter, with no regard
for politeness.
"--where I 'm goin' to put th' tail," repeated Jimmy. "Florida is one
front laig raised off th' ground--"
"Trick cayuse, by Scott!" grunted George Bruce. "No wonder it looks
like a map."
"Th' Great Lakes is th' saddle, an' Maine is where th' mane
goes--_Ouch_!"
"Mangy pun," grinned Bill.
"Kentucky ought to be under th' saddle," laughed Dad, smacking his lips.
"Pass th' bottle, John."
"You take too much an' we'll all be Ill-o'-noise," said Charley Logan
alertly.
"Them Injuns can't come too soon to suit _me_," growled Fred Thomas.
"Who started this, anyhow?"
The sleepy man arose on one elbow, his eyes glinting. "After th' fight,
you ask _me_ th' same thing! Th' answer will be ME!" he snapped. "I 'm
goin' to clean house in about two minutes, an' fire you all out in th'
street!"
Jimmy smiled down at him. "Well, you needn't be so sweepin' an'
extensive in yore cleanin' operations," he retorted. "All you gotta do
is go outside an' roll in th' dust like a chicken."
The crowd roared its appreciation and the sleepy individual turned over
again, growling sweeping opinions.
"But if them Injuns are comin' I shore wish they 'd hurry up an' do it,"
asserted Dad. "I ought to 'a' been home three days ago."
"Wish to G--d you was!" came from the floor.
Bill tossed away his half-smoked cigarette, Carter promptly plunging
into the sugar barrel after it. "They ain't comin'," Bill asserted.
"Every time some drunk Injun gets in a fight or beats his squaw th'
rumor starts. An' by th' time it gets to us it says that all th'
Apaches are out follerin' old Geronimo on th' war trail. He can be more
places at once than anybody _I_ ever heard of. I 'm ridin' on tomorrow
morning, 'Paches or no 'Paches."
"Good!" exclaimed Jimmy, glancing at Carter. "I 'll have this here
carving all done by then."
There was a sudden scrambling and thumping overhead and hot exclamations
zephyred down to them. Carter dashed to the door, while the others
reached for rifles and began to take up positions.
"See 'em, Hank?" cried Carter anxiously.
"See what?" came a growl from above.
"Injuns, of course, you d--d fool!"
"Naw," snorted Hank. "There ain't no Injuns out at all, not after Jimmy
got that one."
"Then what's th' matter?"
"My dawg's lickin' yore dawg. _Sic_ him, Pete! Hi, there! Don't you
run!"
"My dawg still gettin' licked?" grinned Carter.
"I 'll swap you," offered Hank promptly. "Mine can lick yourn, anyhow."
"In a race, mebby."
"H--l!" growled Hank, cautiously separating himself from a patch of hot
resin that had exuded generously from a pine knot. "I 'm purty nigh
cooked an' I 'm comin' down, Injuns or no Injuns. If they was comin'
this way they'd 'a' been here long afore this."
"But that Pawnee told Price they was out," objected Carter. "Cassidy
heard th' same thing, too. An' didn't Jimmy get one!" he finished
triumphantly.
"Th' Pawnee was drunk!" retorted Hank, collecting splinters as he
slipped a little down the roof. "Great Mavericks! This here is awful!"
He grabbed a protruding nail and checked himself. "Price might 'a' shot
a 'Pache, or he might not. I don't take him serious no more. An' that
feller Cassidy can't help what scared folks tells him. Sufferin'
_toads_, what a roof!"
Carter turned and looked back in the store. "Jimmy, you shore they are
out? An' _will_ you quit cuttin' that counter!"
Jimmy slid off the counter and closed the knife. "That's what th'
Pawnee said. When I told you fellers about it, you was so plumb anxious
to fight, an' eager to interrupt an' ask fool questions that I shore
hated to spoil it all. What that scout says was that th' 'Paches was out
raidin' down Colby way, an' was headin' south when last re--"
"_Colby_!" yelled Lefty Dawson, as the others stared foolishly.
"_Colby_! Why, that's three hundred miles south of here! An' you let
us make fools of ourselves for _three_ days! I 'll bust you open!" and
he arose to carry out his threat. "Where 'd you git them trophies?"
shouted Dad angrily. "Them was genuine!" Jimmy slipped through the
door as Dawson leaped and he fled at top speed to the corral, mounted in
one bound and dashed off a short distance. "Why, I got them trophies in
a poker game from that same Pawnee scout, you Mosshead! He could n't
play th' game no better 'n you fellers. An' th' blood is snake's blood,
fresh put on. You _will_ drive me out of town, hey?" he jeered, and,
wheeling, forthwith rode for his life. Back in the store Bill knocked
aside the rifle barrel that Carter shoved through a loop hole. "A joke
's a joke, Carter," he said sternly. "You don't aim to hit him, but you
might," and Carter, surprised at the strength of the twist, grinned,
muttered something and went to the door without his rifle, which Bill
suddenly recognized. It was the weapon that had made up Jimmy's
"trophies"!
"Blame his hide!" spluttered Lefty, not knowing whether to shoot or
laugh. A queer noise behind him made him turn, a movement imitated by
the rest. They saw Bill rolling over and over on the floor in an agony
of mirth. One by one the enraged garrison caught the infection and one
by one lay down on the floor and wept. Lefty, propping himself against
the sugar barrel, swayed to and fro, senselessly gasping. "They _allus_
are raidin' down Colby way! Blame my hide, _oh_, blame my hide!
Ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha! They _allus_ are raidin' down _Colby_ way!"
"Three days, an' Hank _on_ th' roof!" gurgled George Bruce. "_Three_
days, by Scott!"
"Hank on th' roof," sobbed Carter, "settin' on splinters an hot rosim!
Whee-hee-hee! Three-hee-hee days hatchin' pine knots an' rosim!"
"Gimme a drink! Gimme a drink!" whispered Dad, doubled up in a corner.
"Gimme a ho-ho-ho!" he roared in a fresh paroxysm of mirth. "Lefty an'
George settin' up nights watchin' th' shadders! Ho-ho-ho!"
"An' Carter boardin' us _free_!" yelled Baldy; Martin. "Oh, my G--d!
He'll never get over it!"
"Yessir!" squeaked Dad. "_Free_; an' scared we 'd let 'em burn his
store. 'Better stand 'em off in my place,' he says. 'It's full of
grub,' he says. He-he-he!"
"An' did you see Hank squattin' on th' roof like a horned toad waitin'
for his dinner?" shouted Dickinson. "I'm goin' to die! I'm goin' to
die!" he sobbed.
"No sich luck!" snorted Hank belligerently. "I 'll skin him alive!
Yessir; _alive_!"
Carter paused in his calculations of his loss in food and tobacco.
"Better let him alone, Hank," he warned earnestly. "Anyhow, we pestered
him nigh to death las' time, an' he 's shore come back at us. Better
let him alone!"
Up the street Jimmy stood beside his horse and thumped and scratched the
yellow dog until its rolling eyes bespoke a bliss unutterable and its
tail could not wag because of sheer ecstasy.
"Purp," he said gravely, "never play jokes on a pore unfortunate an' git
careless. Don't never forget it. Last time I was here they abused me
shameful. Now that th' storm has busted an' this is gettin' calm-like,
you an' me 'll go back an' get a good look at th' asylum," he suggested,
vaulting into the saddle and starting toward the store. No invitation
was needed because the dog had adopted him on the spot. And the next
morning, when Jimmy and Bill, loaded with poker-gained wealth, rode out
of town and headed south, the dog trotted along in the shadow made by
Jimmy's horse and glanced up from time to time in hopeful expectancy and
great affection.
A distant, flat pistol shot made them turn around in the saddle and look
back. A group of the leading citizens of Sharpsville stood in front of
the Emporium and waved hats in one last, and glad farewell. Now that
Jimmy had left town, they altered their sudden plans and decided to
continue to populate the town of Sharpsville.
V