When I reached the Dot, Horace came forth to meet me; and he was so glad to see me ’at I purt’ nigh gave up the scheme; but I had gone too far to back out now, so I acted cool, and cut him short with my answers.
After supper I got Tank started on bear. He saw I had something up my sleeve, so he talked bear until Horace’s mouth began to water. “I’d give a hundred dollars, just to get a shot at a bear,” sez Horace.
“This ain’t the time o’ the year to hunt bear,” sez I. “Food’s so common at this season that a bear spends most of his time loafin’; and it’s hard to get sight o’ one. Course, if you was to go to a professional hunter, he’d know where bears were spendin’ their vacation; but it might take a month for one of us to root one out.”
“Do you know of any professional hunters?” sez he.
I didn’t say nothin’, and Tank told of some he knew several hundred miles off. After Tank had talked himself out, I mentioned careless like that old Pierre La Blanc was livin’ less ’n twenty miles away; but that I doubted if he’d take a bear-huntin’ job. I went on to state that he had money saved up, and it would take a sight o’ coin to tempt him.
“I’d give five hundred dollars for a shot at a real grizzly,” sez Horace.
“Did you ever use a rifle?” sez I.
“Ask Tank,” sez Horace.
Tank told about Horace havin’ borrowed ol’ Cast Steel’s forty-five-seventy, and that he had learned to hit a mark with it in able shape. Before we turned in that night, I had let Horace tease me into takin’ him over to Pierre’s next day.
We reached the old cabin next afternoon, and found it lookin’ purty comfortable. Eugene had soiled his hands and what part of his face showed; and he certainly did look outlandish. He could act some, I’ll say that for him; and he pertended so natural that it took Tank a half hour to tell who he was. He didn’t talk much, but when he did he used broken French, and he made a contract with Horace to get the five hundred as soon as he had showed him the bear, Tank to hold the check.
Eugene couldn’t get food through his whiskers; so he said most of his teeth were gone, and et his supper in private. After supper, I stole down the gulch and found Spider waitin’. He promised to be on hand the next mornin’ and we turned in early.
Next mornin’ we started at three, and took up our place at the mark I had made across from Sholte’s Knoll. Horace thought it perfectly wonderful that the old trapper would know exactly where a grizzly bear would be at sun-up; and he chattered constant in a hushed voice. We told him it was a full quarter across to the knoll, and he had a regular ecstasy about how deceivin’ the atmosphere was—which was rank libel, the atmosphere bein’ about the least deceivin’ member o’ that party.
Presently, I caught the smell o’ dawn, and I told Horace to keep his eyes glued on Chimney Peak, a little over twenty miles to the west. He did so, and in about five minutes, a gob o’ rich crimson splashed on it, rippled down the sides, and poured along the foothills at the bottom. Horace gave a gasp. You don’t see such a dawn as that with your eyes alone; you see it with somethin’ inside your bosom; and when I saw the gleam in Horace’s eyes, it made me feel ashamed of what I was up to; but I couldn’t stop just for this; so I nudged Eugene, and that hoary old trapper growled out to Horace to watch the knoll, or he’d miss his chance.
Horace was surprised to see the east still in a black shadow. He started to speak words about it, but just then the sun, lookin’ like an acre of red fire, jumped up from behind Sholte’s Knoll like a sacred jack-rabbit.
The knoll was consid’able higher than us, and just as the sun was half-circle behind it, a gigantic form started to walk across it from south to north. I knew, positive, that this was Columbus the woodchuck; but it was just all I could do to believe it, myself, and Horace thought it was the biggest silver-tip in creation. I didn’t think the woodchuck ran much risk of gettin’ shot; but Horace didn’t lose his nerve a particle. He banged away, Columbus gave a lurch, took a snap at his side, and rolled out o’ sight behind the knoll, as natural as a fried egg.
Horace jumped up and down, hugged himself, slapped us on the back, and almost knocked the aged trapper’s fur off; but if he had, I doubt if he would have noticed it, he was so eager to get to his first bear.
We wound down the path, and he complained about it bein’ so much farther ’n he had expected; but I spoke a few words about the atmosphere, and he was soothed. When we struck Rock River, he was surprised to see how much wider it was than it looked from where he’d shot; but he didn’t falter none about goin’ in; while I purt’ nigh had to twist off the seasoned trapper’s arm before he’d get his feet wet. The water was purty high, and Tank and I had our hands full gettin’ ’em across.
We climbed the trail on the other side to Ivan’s Knoll. This was about a mile south o’ Sholte’s Knoll, and naturally I didn’t expect to find any game on the other side of it; so you can judge my feelin’s when we got around to the other side, and saw that woodchuck’s carcass, lyin’ flat on its back with its front feet folded across a piece o’ paper.
Horace saw it, too; but he wasn’t interested at first, and dove all about, lookin’ for his bear. He was plumb wild; but finally he picked up the piece o’ paper, and read what was wrote on it in scrawly letters, which I knew to be the work o’ Spider Kelley: “Before I was shot I was a grizzly bar but it made me feel so small to get shot by a tender-foot that I have shrank to what you see befor you.”
That confounded Kelley hadn’t been able to resist workin’ the joke back on me; so he had toted Columbus down from Sholte’s Knoll, and then skipped. I knew I wouldn’t see him for some time—but I also knew I wouldn’t forget what was comin’ to him when I did.
Horace read the note through in silence, then he looked at the remains of the woodchuck, then he read the note again, and his face got like a sunset. He read the note once more, and then he leaped through the air for that veteran trapper, and grabbed him by the beard. The beard and wig came off in his hands, and Eugene started to flee, with Horace a close second, kickin’ the seat o’ that squaw dress at every jump. Horace was in able shape, and Eugene was flimsy; so when he tripped and rolled over, Horace got him by the ears, and proceeded to beat his head on a stone, the way Tank had told about doin’ to the unobligin’ old miner.
I pulled Horace off to save Eugene’s life, and then Horace pulled out a gun and tried to take my life. It took us two solid hours to cool Horace down below the boilin’ point; and then he started off alone with his lips set and his eyebrows pulled down to the bridge of his nose. I liked him better ’n ever. He was as game as they made ’em, and had even forgot the check ’at ol’ Tank Williams was still holdin’; but I was honestly worried about Eugene.
Part of it may have been due to havin’ his head beat mellow on a stone; but still he allus did lack sand when he was losin’, and now he sat tuggin’ at his real hair an’ swearin’ he was ruined, and would take his own life the first chance he had. It was partly my fault; so I made Tank help me tote back Eugene’s needin’s from the deserted cabin to his shop, Eugene goin’ along in a stupor and repeatin’ to us constant that he intended to drink his own heart’s blood.
I sent Tank back to the Dot to see what he could do toward pacifyin’ Horace, and then I returned the squaw dress to Ike Spargle. He broke into a side-split when I stepped into his place, and fairly deluged me with liquor; but I wasn’t in no mood for it. Ike told me ’at Spider had gone out to the Dot to notify that he had quit temporary; and then he was goin’ out to hunt down Red Erickson for the bounty. Ike was equally willin’ to talk about bears or Red Erickson; but I wasn’t conversational, so I went back to Eugene’s.
He had his door locked, and at first refused me admittance; but finally he let me in, and I told him I would let him have his outfit on time. He wouldn’t scarcely listen to me; so the best I could do was to get his promise that he wouldn’t slay himself inside the house, as the boys were superstitious again’ it, and would burn it down. As it was again’ my credit at ol’ man Dort’s, I felt more agreeable toward payin’ for a standin’ house, than for just the ashes of one.
“When I’m gone, Happy,” sez Eugene, “I want you to send my watch back to Sommersville, Connecticut. That’s all I ask of ya. You’ve been as near a friend to me as any one in this ungodly community has, and I don’t bear ya no ill will. If I could just have paid off that mortgage—”
I shook hands with him and went outside, where I settled myself comfortable and made ready to keep watch on him until he started to drink. I felt sure that if he’d once get to elevatin’ a bottle, it would take his mind off suicide; but he paced up and down inside his room until I was purt’ nigh out o’ my own head.
It must have been nine in the evenin’ when he stole out his side door with a forty-five under his coat; and started up the ravine which opens west o’ town, and I follered like a coyote.
He went up it about a mile, an’ then he stopped an’ I flattened out an’ crept closer an’ closer. I knew he would make a few remarks first, even though he was alone, an’ I judged I could wriggle up close enough to grab him in the act.
He fished out his gun, an’ I see that he didn’t savvy the use of it, which put a little uncertainty into my end o’ the game.
“Farewell, cruel world,” he muttered mournfully, usin’ his gun to gesture with. “Farewell, sweet dreams of childhood; farewell ambition an’ love an’ dear tyranic duty; farewell moon an’ stars an’ gentle breezes, farewell—”
Eugene would probably have gone on sayin’ farewell to each particular thing in the world until he talked himself to sleep, but just then a pebble slipped from the side o’ the ravine and rolled to his feet, and he stopped with a jerk an’ listened. Then he straightened himself an’ sez in a determined tone: “Nobody can’t prevent me. I shall end it now.”
Before I could move, he placed the muzzle to his forehead an’ fired, rollin’ over on his back. I heard a sort of cough, like when a man hits his best with an ax, an’ somethin’ came plumpin’ down the ravine like an avalanche.
I rushed up, lit a match, an’ there on his back was Eugene, a small red welt on his forehead, but looking calm and satisfied, while almost on top of him lay a man in a heap. I straightened him out, lit another match, an’ looked at the stranger. His hair was flamin’ red an’ you could have tied his red mustaches around the back of his neck. He was shot through the forehead an’ plumb dead.
I saw how it was in a flash: Eugene had almost missed himself, but had shot Red Erickson, who had been hidin’ up the side of the ravine behind him. I slipped Red’s empty gun into his hand, emptied Eugene’s gun; an’ then I tore for town, gathered up the boys an’ told ’em that Eugene had gone up the ravine bent on mischief. We got a lantern and hurried up the ravine where Eugene was just comin’ back to genuwine consciousness again.
He sat there with his head in his hands tryin’ to cheer himself with some o’ the mournfullest moanin’ ever I heard. I held the lantern to Red’s face a moment an’ bawled out: “Boys, this is Red Erickson! Him an’ Eugene has been duelin’, an’ they have killed each other.”
This gave Eugene his cue—an’ a cue was all Eugene ever needed. He pulled himself together, took plenty o’ time to get the lay o’ the land; an’ then he gave us a tale o’ that fight which laid over anything I ever heard in that line.
We carried ’em back to town, an’ Eugene was a hero for true. He got the reward all right, paid off his debts, an’ kept addin’ details to that fight until it was enough to keep a feller awake nights. His reputation picked up right along until even ol’ man Dort had to admit the’ was more to Eugene than he had allowed.
Next day when I got back to the Diamond Dot, I found Horace all packed up for leavin’; and it made me feel mournful to the bones o’ my soul. I didn’t know how much I thought of him until he started to pull out; and I felt so ashamed at what I had done, that I offered to let him kick me all about the place if he’d just forget about it and stick along.
But Horace had a stiff neck, all right, and he wouldn’t give in. Tank had had all he could do to get Horace to take the check back; and now, try as I would, I couldn’t get him to stay. I drove over to the station with him, and we had a long talk together. He was in a good humor when he left, and I could see he was wishful to stay; but havin’ made up his mind, he stuck to it. He said he had had more fun while with us than durin’ all the procedure of his life; and that if we had just kept the joke among us Dotters, he wouldn’t have felt so cut up about it. I told him he had acted just right and that I had acted dead wrong, although it was him takin’ Tank’s word above mine which had first made me sore.
This was new light to him, and he softened up immediate. Fact was, we got purt’ nigh girlish before the train pulled out with him wavin’ his handkerchief from the back porch.
I still feel some shame about this episode; and if any o’ you fellers ask any more questions to lead me into tellin’ of my own silly pranks, why, I’ll drive you off the place, and then get my lips sewed shut.
Horace had left, I felt purty lonely for a while. It’s hard for me to look back and keep things in regular order; because the different lines cross each other and get mixed up. Always, little Barbie’s affairs came first with me; but I reckon most of you have heard her story, so I’m keepin’ shy of it this time. First of all there was my innermost life, which would have been mostly mine no matter where I’d gone; then there was the part of my life which touched Barbie’s, and this was the best and the highest part of it; and then there was the part which touched Friar Tuck an’ a lot of others, each one of which helped to make me what I am; but back of it all was my work; so it’s not strange if I find it hard to stick to the trail of a story.
Anyway, it was while I was feelin’ lonesome about Horace leavin’ that the Friar first began to use me as a trump card, and called on me for whatever he happened to want done. I was mighty fond o’ bein’ with the Friar; so I lent myself to him whenever I could, and we got mighty well acquainted. He loved fun of a quiet kind; but the’ was allus a sadness in his eyes which toned down my natural devilment and softened me. The’ was lots o’ things I used to enjoy doin’, which I just couldn’t do after havin’ been with the Friar a spell, until I had give myself a good shakin’, like a dog comin’ up out o’ water.
For several quiet years about this time, I used to act as scout for him, now and again, goin’ ahead to round up a bunch when he had time to give ’em a preachin’; or goin’ after him when some one who couldn’t afford a doctor was took sick. We talked about purt’ nigh everything, except that some way, we didn’t talk much about women; so I was never able to pump his own story out of him, though he knew exactly how I felt toward Barbie, long before I did myself.
Durin’ these years, the Friar tried his best to get on terms with the Ty Jones crowd; but they refused to get friendly, and the more he did to make things better in the territory, the more they hated him.
It was right after the spring round-up that I first heard the Friar’s name mixed up with a woman. This allus makes me madder ’n about anything else. When a man and a woman sin, why, it’s bad enough, and I’m not upholdin’ it; but still in a way it’s natural, the same as a wolf killin’ a calf. It’s the cow-puncher’s business to kill the wolf if he can, and he ought to do it as prompt as possible. This is all right; but gossip and scandal is never all right.
Gossip and scandal is like supposin’ the wolf had only wounded the calf a little, and a posse would gather and tie the two of ’em together, the wolf and the wounded calf; and take ’em into the center square of a town and keep ’em tied there for all to see until they had starved to death; and then to keep on stirrin’ up the carrion day after day as long as a shred of it remained.
The Friar was allus a great one to be talkin’ about the power of habits. He said that if folks would just get into the habit of lookin’ for sunshiny days, an’ smilin’ faces an’ noble deeds, and such like, that first thing they knew they’d think the whole world had changed for the better; but instead o’ this they got into the habit of lookin’ for evil, and as that was what they were on the watch for, o’ course they found it. He said it was like a cat watchin’ for a mouse. The cat would plant herself in front of the mouse hole and not do anything else but just watch for the mouse. While she would be on guard, a king might be assassinated, a city might fall in an earthquake, and a ship-load o’ people go down at sea; but if the mouse came out and the cat got it, she would amuse herself with it a while, eat it and then curl up before the fire and purr about what a fine day it had been, all because she had got what she had been lookin’ for; and the’s a lot in this.
Now, when I came to think it over, I hadn’t heard the Friar express himself very free on women. I had heard him say to allus treat ’em kind an’ square, the good ones and the bad; but when ya come to ponder over this, it wasn’t no-wise definite. Still I couldn’t believe ill of him; so I took a vacation an’ started to hunt him up.
The feller who had told me didn’t know much about it, but the feller who had told him knew it all. When I found this feller, he was in the same fix; and he sent me along to the one who had told him. They were all a lot alike in not knowin’ it all; but I finally found out who the girl was.
She was a girl named Kit Murray, and she allus had been a lively young thing with a purty face, an’ could ride an’ shoot like a man. She had took part in a couple o’ frontier-day exhibitions, and it had turned her head, and she had gone out with a show. When she had come back, she had put on more airs ’n ever, and naturally the boys were some wild about her—though I hadn’t seen her myself.
News o’ this kind travels fast, and I heard buzzin’ about it everywhere; but it was just like all other scandal. Most people, when they gossip, believe an’ tell the story which comes closest to what they’d ’a’ done if they’d had the same chance; and what I figured out to be true was, that Olaf the Swede and another Cross-brander by the name o’ Bud Fisher had scrapped about the girl, Olaf near killin’ the kid and the girl runnin’ off to the Friar. Now, all the good deeds ’at the Friar had done hadn’t caused much talk; but this news spread like wild-fire; and a lot o’ those he had helped the most turned again’ him and said they wished they could find out where he was hidin’.
I took it just the other way; I knew the Friar purty well, and what I feared most was, that he wasn’t hidin’ at all, and that Olaf would find him before I could give him warnin’. It was two weeks before I found the Friar; but once I came upon Olaf, face to face, and we eyed each other purty close. This was the first time I ever noticed his eyes. They were the queerest eyes I ever saw, a sort of blue; but a deeper blue, a bluer blue ’n anything I had ever seen outside a flower. The’s a flower on the benches in June just the color of his eyes, a soft, velvety flower; but Olaf’s eyes weren’t soft and velvety the day we met, and they gave me a queer, creepy feelin’. I hope I didn’t show it any; but I did feel relieved after I’d passed him.
Finally I found the Friar, just as I might have expected—by the sound of his voice. I had got clear over into the Basin and was crossin’ through Carter Pass when I heard his voice above me, singin’ one of his marchin’ songs. I was mightily rejoiced to find him; but I had that all out of my face by the time I had wound around up to him. He was totin’ a log on his shoulder, and struttin’ along as jaunty as though the whole earth was simply his backyard.
“Here,” I growls to him, indignant, “what do you mean by makin’ such a noise? Haven’t you got a grain o’ gumption!”
He looked up at me with the surprise stickin’ out from under his grin. “Well, well, well!” sez he. “Who are you—the special officer for the prevention of noise?”
“I ain’t no special officer of anything,” I answers; “but the’s people lookin’ for you, and you ought to have sense enough to keep quiet.”
“And I’m lookin’ for people,” sez he, grinnin’ like a boy; “and the best way to find ’em is by makin’ a noise. The’ ain’t any rules again’ walkin’ on the grass up here, is there?”
“Olaf the Swede is after you on account o’ the gal,” I blunted; “and he ain’t no bluffer. He intends to do away with you for good and all; and you’d better be makin’ your plans.”
“Goin’ to do away with me for good an’ all,” he repeats, smilin’. “Well, Olaf the Swede is a gross materialist. The worst he can do will be to tear off my wrapper and leave me free to find out a lot of things I’m deeply interested in. Why, Happy, you’re all worked up! You’ve lost your philosophy, you’ve become a frettish old woman. What you need is a right good scare to straighten you up again. This Olaf the Swede is part of Ty Jones’s outfit, isn’t he?”
“He is,” I replied, shakin’ my head in warnin’, “and the whole gang’ll back him up in this.”
“Good!” sez the Friar, smackin’ his hand. “I’ve wanted an openin’ wedge into that outfit ever since I came out here. Of a truth, the Lord doth move in a mysterious way, his wonders to perform.”
“Well, he certainly will have to perform some mysterious wonders to get you out of this scrape,” I said. I was put out at the way he took it.
“Don’t be irreverent, Happy,” sez he, the joy-lights dancin’ in his eyes. “We are all merely instruments, and why should an instrument take it upon itself to question the way it is used. Where is this Olaf?”
“I met him yesterday; and for all I know, he’s been followin’ me.”
“Fine, fine!” sez the Friar. “Now, you go on back to the Diamond Dot, and I’ll go back over your trail and save Olaf as much bother as possible.”
“I’m goin’ along with you,” I sez.
“No,” sez he.
“Yes,” sez I.
“It’ll make folks think ’at I’m afraid for my skin, and have you along for protection,” sez he, gettin’ earnest.
“If you had good judgment, you would be afraid for your skin,” sez I. “I tell you that Olaf is after your blood. He’s one o’ the worst; he kills with his bare hands when he gets the chance.”
“Fine, fine!” sez the Friar again, his eyes glowin’ joyous. “I’d have a right to defend myself with my hands, Happy. I would have a right to do this, for the sake of Olaf, you see—to prevent him from risking his own soul by committin’ murder. This is a great chance for me, Happy; now, please, please, go on back like a good fellow.”
I was secretly tickled at the argument the Friar had put up for a chance at physical warfare—and a barehand fight between him and Olaf would have been worth goin’ a long way to see—but I was as obstinate as either of ’em; so I just said ’at I was goin’ along.
“Well, you’re not goin’ with, me,” sez the Friar, as pouty as a schoolboy. “I’ll not speak to ya, and I’ll not have a thing to do with ya”; and he threw down his log and glared at me.
I took a certain amount o’ pride because the Friar lived up to his own standards; but I also found a certain deep-rooted amusement in havin’ him slip out from under ’em for a spell and display a human disposition which was purty much kindred to my own. “What do you purpose doin’ with that club, Friar?” I asked, pointin’ to the log he had flung down.
He pulled in his glare and looked to be a little discomposed. “Why I—I’m livin’ in a cave I got back there.”
“Are you dead set again’ havin’ a little company?” sez I, slow an’ insinuatin’, “or are ya livin’ alone?”
First off, he was inclined to be resentful, then he grinned, shouldered his log again, and said: “Come and see.”
I follered him back into the hills until we came to a little park in which his ponies were grazin’, and then I hobbled mine, cached my gear alongside his, and trailed after him again. His path turned a crag and then skirted along the edge of a cliff as straight up and down as the real truth. The path kept gettin’ narrower, until every time the Friar turned a corner ahead of me, I expected to see him walkin’ off in the air with the log still on his shoulder.
Presently I turned a corner around which he had disappeared, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. The ledge still led along the cliff; but it had got thinner than a lawyer’s excuse, and a worm couldn’t have walked along it without hangin’ on. While I stood there puzzlin’ about it, a hand reached out o’ the side of the cliff, and the Friar’s voice said mockingly: “Take my hand, little one; and then shut your eyes for fear you might get dizzy.”
Then I saw a jag of rock stickin’ out just above my head, I grabbed it with my left hand, and swung around into what was the mouth of a cave. It was nothin’ but a crack about eighteen inches wide, and the far side was sunk in enough to keep it hid from where I was standin’. The Friar was standin’ a few feet back in the entrance with his log leanin’ up again’ the side. “I know not what other animals may have sought shelter here,” he said, “but for the past three years this has been my castle, and, Happy Hawkins,”—here the Friar bowed low—“obstinate and unreasonable as you are, I offer you a hearty welcome.”
The Friar said this in fun, but the’ was an undertone to it which tightened the laces around my heart consid’able. Well, that cave was a sure enough surprise; he had three or four pelts and a couple of Injun blankets on the floor, he had a couple o’ barrels fixed to catch snow water, he had some cookin’ tools; and books! Say, he must have had as many as a hundred books, all of ’em hard-shells, and lookin’ so edicated an’ officious that I had to take off my hat before I had nerve enough to begin readin’ the titles.
After I’d taken everything in, I sat down in an easy chair he’d made out o’ saplin’s and rawhide, and looked all about; but I couldn’t see any signs of their bein’ any other rooms to this cave; and then I jumped square for the mark, and sez: “Friar, the’s a lot o’ talk about you havin’ run off with Kit Murray. Now I want the straight of it.”
His face went grave and a little hurt. “It’s strange,” he said after a time, “how hard it is for a man to believe in his own guilt, and how easy for him to believe in the guilt of his neighbor. Have you had any dinner?”
“Yes,” sez I. “I didn’t know just where I was headin’; so I et three different times this mornin’ to make sure of havin’ enough to run on in case of emergency.”
“It’s a fine thing to be an outdoor animal,” sez the Friar, smilin’. “Well then, I’ve made up my mind to take you to see Kit Murray.”
He didn’t waste any time askin’ me not to talk about what was other folks’ affairs; he just went to the door, grabbed the jag of rock, swung around to the ledge, and I follered after.
We saddled up, rode down a windin’ path ’at I’d never heard of before, and then rode up again until we came to a little clump o’ swamp shrubbery, backed up again’ the north face o’ Mount Mizner. We follered a twisty path through this and finally came out on an open space in which stood a fair-sized cabin. He whistled a five-note call, and the door was opened by an old woman who was a stranger to me. “Mother Shipley, this is Happy Hawkins,” sez he. “How’s Kit?”
The old woman gave me a gimlet look, and then her sharp features expanded to a smile, and she bobbed her head. “Kit’s gettin’ hard to manage,” sez she.
We went into the cabin, and found Kit with a bandage around her ankle, sittin’ in a rockin’ chair, and lookin’ patiently disgusted. She was a fine-lookin’ girl, with a fair streak of boy in her, and she had never had enough practice at bein’ an invalid to shine at it. Her face lit up at the Friar; but her gaze was mighty inquirin’ when she turned it at me.
“You know Happy Hawkins, don’t ya?” sez the Friar. She nodded her head, and he went on. “Well, he’s one o’ the fellers you can trust, if you trust him entire; but he’s got such a bump of curiosity that if you don’t tell it all to him in the first place, he can’t do no other work until he finds it out on his own hook. He’s my friend, and he’ll be your friend; so I want you to tell him just how things are, and then he’ll be under obligations to do whatever we want him to.”
So Kit cut loose and told me her story. Her father, ol’ Jim Murray, had got crippled up about ten years before, and since then had become a professional homesteader, nosin’ out good places, an’ then sellin’ out to the big cattle outfits. He also made it his business to find ways to drive off genuwine homesteaders; and in addition to this he was a home tyrant and hard to live with. He allus had plenty o’ money, but was generally dead broke when it came to pleasant words an’ smiles—which was why Kit had gone off with the show.
While she was away, she had married a low-grade cuss, who had misused her beyond endurance; so when he had skipped with another woman, she had come back to the old man. She didn’t want folks ’at knew her to find out how bad hit she’d been; so she had tried to bluff it out; but the young fellers kept fallin’ in love with her and wantin’ to marry her. She hadn’t meant no harm; but she had played one again’ the other, hopin’ they’d soon have their feelin’s hurt and let her alone. This was a fool notion, but she had been honest in it.
Bud Fisher, the Texas kid in the Ty Jones outfit, had got daffy about her; and then one night at a dance she had shot some smiles into the eyes of Olaf the Swede. She said he was such a glum-lookin’ cuss she had no idee he would take it serious; but he had stood lookin’ into her eyes with his queer blue ones, until she had felt sort o’ fainty; and from that on, he had declared war on all who glanced at her.
Bud Fisher thought it a fine joke for Olaf to fall in love, and he had teased him to the limit. This made a bad condition, and all through the spring round-up, each had done as much dirt as possible to the other; but Ty was mighty strict about his men fightin’ each other; so they hadn’t come to a clash.
Finally the kid brags that he is goin’ to elope with Kit; and then Olaf kicks off his hobbles an’ starts to stampede. The kid was wise enough to vamoose; so Olaf rides down to ol’ man Murray’s, and reads the riot act to him. Kit was hidin’ in the back room and heard it all. He told the old man that he would slaughter any one who eloped with Kit or who had a hand in it; and then he had gone back to hunt the kid again.
The ol’ man turned in and gave Kit a complete harrowin’ as soon as Olaf had left and she had told him pointedly that she’d eat dirt before she’d eat his food again; so she saddled her pony and started to ride without knowin’ where. Her pony had slipped on Carter Pass and she had sprained her ankle so bad she couldn’t stand. Just at this junction, the Friar had come along, and had put her up on his horse and held her on with one arm about her, because the pain in her ankle made her head light. On the way they came smack up again’ the kid, and he gave ’em a grin, and went out without askin’ questions.
He went straight to Olaf, and told him that Kit had eloped with the Friar. The Friar had brought her up to Shipley’s, they havin’ been friends of his in Colorado. They had a daughter livin’ up in Billings, Montana; and as soon as her ankle could stand it, Kit was goin’ up to live with the daughter, she havin’ three little children and a railroad husband who was away from home more ’n half the time.
This was the whole o’ the story; but you can easy see what a fine prospect it made for gossip, and also what a fine time a young imp like Bud Fisher could have with a sober feller like Olaf. Olaf wouldn’t have just grounds for makin’ away with Bud for doin’ nothin’ except grin, so long as the Friar remained alive with the girl in his keepin’. It was a neat little mess; and from what we found out afterwards, the kid was as irritatin’ as a half-swallered cockle-burr.
Big, silent fellers like Olaf are just like big, new boilers. A little leaky boiler fizzes away all the time, but when it comes to explode, it hasn’t anything on hand to explode with; while a big, tight boiler, when it does go off, generally musses up the landscape consid’able; and when Olaf started to stampede he made more noise in a week ’n Bud Fisher had in his whole life.
When Kit had finished tellin’ me the story, I shook hands with her, and said that while she hadn’t used the best judgment the’ was, she had probably used the best she had; and that it was more the men’s fault than hers, so she could count on me as far as I could travel. Then I went outside while the Friar and ol’ Mother Shipley fixed up her ankle.
They all seemed pleased about the way it was healin’, and after it was tied up, Kit stood on it and even took a few steps. It twisted her face a time or two at first; but after she’d gone across the room and back a few times, she said it felt better ’n it had for years. This made us all laugh, ’cause fact was, she hadn’t been housed in near up to the average of a sprained ankle. The Friar allowed ’at she’d be fit to travel day after the next; so it was planned to start in the evenin’, and for both of us to go with her. Then we had an early supper an’ started home.
On the way, I complained about the foolish way in which Kit had acted, for the sole purpose of drawin’ the Friar out and gettin’ his views on women. Nearly always when I got him started, I was able to pick up some little sayin’ which furnished me with more thought-food than his blocked-out sermons did.
“Of course Kit was foolish,” he admitted; “but what show has she ever had? Her father never was fit to bring her up; and he didn’t even do the best he could. A woman has more vital strength than a man, because the future of the race depends on her; but she also has more emotions, so ’at the wear an’ tear is greater. Man, on the other hand, has more muscle ’n woman, and more brutality. Foolin’ man has been the best way a woman had to fight for a good many centuries; and this was the way poor Kit tried to fight. The plain, simple truth generally works best; but it takes wisdom to see this, and wisdom is seldom anything more than the dregs o’ folly. The’ was no one to teach Kit wisdom; so she has had to strain off her own folly; but she is a fine, brave girl, and I think she will profit by experience.”
Now this was a new thought to me, about wisdom bein’ nothin’ but the dregs o’ folly; but it’s a good tough thought, and I’ve had a heap o’ chewin’ on it since then; so I feel repaid in havin’ took sides again’ Kit and lurin’ the Friar into heavin’ it at me.
It was dark when we reached his twistin’ path along the ledge, and I stepped as cautious as a glow-worm in a powder-mill; but as soon as we had our pipes an’ the fire goin’, I wouldn’t have swapped seats with the fattest king in the universe.
As soon as we had eaten breakfast next mornin’, the Friar sez: “You, bein’ one o’ the earth animals, have never had much chance to see a view. Yesterday your curiosity was itchin’ so ’at I doubt if you could have told a mountain peak from a Mexican hat; but now that you have temporarily suppressed your thirst for gossip, had a good sleep, and a better breakfast, drag yourself out to the front porch and take a bird’s-eye view of the world.”
Well, it was worth it, it certainly was worth it! What he called the front porch, was the ledge after it had flipped itself around the jutting; and when a feller stood on it, he felt plenty enough like a bird to make it interestin’. The Big Horns ran across the top o’ the picture about a hundred an’ forty miles to the north, and gettin’ all blended in with the clouds. On the other two sides were different members of the Shoshone family, most o’ which I knew by sight from any angle; and down below was miles an’ miles of country spread out like a map, but more highly colored.
“Friar,” I sez, “you’re a wealthy man.”
This tickled him a lot, ’cause he was as proud o’ that view as if he’d painted it. “I am, Happy,” he said, “and I have yielded to a wealthy man’s temptations. Any one who comes here will be welcome; but I own up, I have kept this place a secret to have it all to myself.”
“A man like you needs some quiet place to consider in,” sez I.
“Get thee behind me, Satan, get thee behind me,” cried the Friar. “I have been on far too friendly terms with that excuse for many a long month. But I do enjoy this place; so I am going to let you help me lay in my winter’s supply of wood, and then make you a joint member in full standing.”
We packed wood along that spider thread of a path all morning; and finally I got so it didn’t phaze me any more ’n it did him. He sang at his work most of the time, and I joined in with him whenever I felt so moved, though it did strike me ’at this was a funny way to keep a place secret; and my idee is that he sang to ease his conscience by showin’ it that he wasn’t sneakin’ about his treasure.
I remember him mighty plain as he walked before me on the ledge, totin’ a big log on his shoulder, and singin’ the one ’at begins, “Hark, my soul! It is the Lord!” This was one he fair used to raise himself in, and it seemed as if we two were climbin’ right up on the air, plumb into the sky. When he’d let himself out this way, he’d fill me so full of a holy kind of devilment, that it would ’a’ given me joy to have leaped off the cliff with him, and take chances on goin’ up or down.
We had about filled his wood place, and were goin’ back after the last load when just as he swung around a corner, I saw his hand go up as though warnin’ me to stop; and I froze in my tracks. He hadn’t been singin’ this trip, for a wonder; but the next moment I heard a sound which purt nigh jarred me off. It was a low, deep growl which I instantly recognized as belongin’ to Olaf the Swede. Olaf didn’t talk with much brogue, though when he got excited he had his own fashion for hitchin’ words together.
“Where is the girl?” he asked with quiet fierceness, and for a space I was sorry my parents hadn’t been eagles. There wasn’t room to fight out on that ledge, the Friar didn’t have a gun on, I couldn’t possibly shoot around him; and Olaf was seven parts demon when he laid back his ears and started to kick.
“Where she cannot be bothered,” sez the Friar, full as quiet but without any fierceness. The’ was a little bush about eight feet up, and I felt sure it would hide me, so I stuck my fingers in the side o’ the cliff and climbed up; but the’ was no way for me to get out to the bush, and I had to drop back to the ledge and stand there with the sweat tricklin’ down between my shoulders until I felt like yellin’.
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.
“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.
“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”
I got out my gun, and made ready to do whatever the angels suggested; but for some time the’ was silence, and durin’ this time I was keyed up so tight my muscles began to ache. I knew they were lookin’ into each other’s eyes, and I’d have given a finger off each hand to see how the Friar’s steady gray eyes handled those queer blue ones of Olaf.
“Is she all right?” asked Olaf, and all the threat had left his voice, and it had just a glint o’ pleadin’ in it. I wouldn’t have been one bit more surprised to have seen a prairie-dog come flyin’ up the gorge, blowin’ a cornet with his nose.
“She has sprained her ankle; but aside from this has no physical ill,” sez the Friar. “You men have caused her a lot of worry, and her soul is sick; but her body is well.”
After another silence, Olaf said slowly: “Yes, yes; I can tell by the light that you speak true. What do you intend to do with her?”
“I intend to cure her,” sez the Friar. “I intend to help and strengthen her; and I want you to help her, too. Olaf, she has had a lot of trouble, and her wild gaiety is only a veil to hide the wounds in her heart. I want you to help her.”
“I know, I know she is honest,” said Olaf, and blamed if his voice didn’t sound like a new boy talkin’ to the boss; “but she made me love her. Yes, I do love her. I must marry her. Yes, this is so.”
“She cannot marry you, or any one else, now,” sez the Friar, kindly. “This is why she has gone from one man to another—to disgust them all and make them leave her alone.”
“That is a damn devil of a way,” cried Olaf in anger. “Why should she go to dances, and out ridin’, and so on, if she wants men to leave her alone?”
“She was foolish, she knows that now; but her father is not the right sort of a man, and her home was not pleasant,” said the Friar.
“I told him I kill him, if she marry any one but me,” said Olaf. “I know he is not honest; but he is afraid of me, and he will not bother her now. I go to see him again purty soon, and tell him some more. Won’t you tell me where she is?”
“I want to be your friend, Olaf,” said the Friar gently. “I tell you honest that she cannot marry now. When I see her again, I shall tell her of meetin’ you, and what you have said. I have no desire except to do the best for all of you, and if you love her truly, all you will want will be to do that which is best for her.”
The Friar paused, and I pulled my ear clear to the edge o’ the rock, so as not to miss a word. “Olaf,” he went on in a low, sorrowful voice, “the love of a man for a woman is a wonderful thing, a terrible thing, a soul-testing thing. Don’t let your love become common for men to talk over. In believing what men have told you of me you have insulted her, by admitting that such a thing is possible. Go back to your work, kill no man for what he says of her; but keep her pure in your own heart, and this will be the best way to keep her pure before the world. Silence the gossips by living above them; and if it becomes necessary for you to take your own love by the throat, then do it, and do it for love of her. I shall do all I can to make her worthy of you.”
You should have heard the Friar’s voice when he was sayin’ this. I stood on the little ledge, just breathin’ enough to keep my lungs ventilated, and lookin’ out across the landscape—mountains on all sides of me, and down below the broken ground and the benches, with the green strips along the cricks lookin’ like lazy snakes in the hot sunshine. I couldn’t see a livin’ creature, I felt like the last man on earth; and that deep, musical voice seemed comin’ to me from somewhere out beyond the limits of life. I didn’t have any more fear now: the’ wasn’t anything in the shape of a human who could have done violence to the Friar after hearin’ him say the words I’d just heard; so I put up my gun, and listened again.
“Can’t ya tell me why she can’t marry me?” asked Olaf, and the’ was a tremble in his voice, almost as though it flowed up from a sob.
“I think I can trust you to keep her secret,” sez the Friar. “She is married already. The man was a beast and deserted her; but he is still alive, and she cannot marry again.”
I heard Olaf make a queer, animal sound with his breath, and then he said: “Yes, you speak true—I can tell by the light; but she loves me—I can tell that also by the light. Will you tell me when she can marry?”
“I will,” sez the Friar, and his voice was a pledge. “There’s my hand on it.”
They brought their hands together with a smack I could hear, and then Olaf turned on the narrow ledge, with the Friar holdin’ him on, an’ started off. The Friar went along with him, and I sneaked after, keepin’ a turn between us. Olaf mounted his hoss and rode away without lookin’ back, which, as a matter o’ fact, was his way o’ doin’ things; and when he was out o’ sight, I joined the Friar.
The’ was still a look of sadness in the Friar’s face; but back of it, and shinin’ through it, was a quiet satisfaction. He was full o’ the scene he had just gone through; and presently he turned an’ said: “That was a glorious victory he gained over himself, Happy. That man has a good heart, and who knows but what he will yet be the means of bringin’ me an’ Tyrrel Jones together.”
“What do you reckon he meant by the light tellin’ him that you were an honest man?” I asked. This was the most curious part of the whole thing to me.
“How can I tell,” he sez. “Life is so crowded with wonders that I have quit wonderin’ about ’em; but I always feel a thrill when I see the stubborn spirit of a strong man melt and run into the mold the Master has prepared for it.”
“I’ll own it was about the weirdest thing I ever saw,” sez I; “but I’m willin’ to bet that whatever else Olaf’s spirit has molded itself into, it’s not a doormat with ‘welcome’ wrote on it; as the first feller ’at fools with that girl is likely to find out.”
“Never doubt the power of the Lord, Happy,” sez he. “The hand that piled up these hills can easy shape even so stubborn a thing as the human will.”
“Yes,” I agreed; “but it generally takes just about the same length of time to do it, and a man don’t usually last that long.”
“Time!” sez he; “what do you know about time? It may have taken ages to form these hills; and then again, it may have been done in the twinklin’ of an eye. From the way the streaks tilt up, I’m inclined to think it was done sudden.”
I looked at the lines along the faces o’ the hills, and I was inclined to believe it, too; so I dropped that subject, and we sat down close together and looked off down the trail where Olaf had vanished.
We sat in silence a long time, me thinkin’ o’ what sort of a light Olaf had seen to make him know ’at the Friar was honest; and of the way the Friar’s voice had gone through me when he had talked of love.
This was a new idee to me, and one o’ the biggest I had ever tried to grapple with. Before this, my notion o’ love was, for a man to get the girl any way he could; and it took me some time to see the grandness of a man takin’ his own love by the throat for love of a woman. I knew ’at the Friar had done this himself; but it never was clear to me until I heard the heartache moanin’ through his voice as he laid out this law for Olaf, and Olaf bowed his stiff neck and accepted it.
I’m purty sure that if I’d ’a’ known that day, that a few years later I would have to take my own love by the throat for the sake of little Barbie, I wouldn’t ’a’ had the nerve to go on playin’ the game—but this is life. We pick up a stone here, and another there, and build them into our wall until the flood comes; and then if the wall isn’t high enough to turn back the flood, all the sting and bitterness comes from knowin’ that we haven’t made use of all the stones which came rollin’ down to our feet.
That night we had an uncommon fine fire in the cave. I used to enjoy these evenin’ fires with the Friar, as much as a dog likes to have his ears pulled by the hand he loves best. He would tell me tales of all the ages ’at man has lived on the face of the whole earth, and I’d sit and smoke my pipe, and make up what I’d ’a’ done, myself, if I’d been one o’ these big fellers. These chummy little fire-talks used to broaden me out and make me feel related to the whole human race, and it was then ’at I came to know the Friar best—though the’ ain’t no way to put this into a story.
Along about nine o’clock the Friar began to lecture me again’ the use o’ violence, pointin’ out that war nor gunfightin’ nor any other sort o’ violence had ever done any good; and endin’ up with the way he had handled Olaf as illustratin’ how much better effects spiritual methods had.
“Humph,” sez I, “so you’re tryin’ to put that over as an ordinary case, are ya? Did you ever before see such eyes in a man’s head as what Olaf has?”
“Now that you mention it,” sez he, “I did notice they were peculiar.”
“I ruhly believe you’re right,” sez I, sarcastic. “When he said he saw light he wasn’t speakin’ in parables. He can see things ’at you nor I can’t see—though I doubt if he understands ’em himself.”
“Still, violence would have spoiled everything,” persisted the Friar, who was as human as a raw bronco when you tried to make him back up.
“Now, don’t forget anything,” sez I. “It wasn’t my face ’at lit up when I said ’at he did his killin’ with bare hands; nor it wasn’t me who gloated over this as furnishin’ an excuse to use my bare hands in defendin’ myself.”
“Oh, Happy, Happy,” sez he, with one o’ the bursts ’at made ya willin’ to go through fire and water for him. “I’m the entire human race: there isn’t a single sin or weakness which hasn’t betrayed me at one time or another, and yet the wicked pride of me persists in stickin’ up its head an’ crowin’ every time I take my eyes off it.”
“Well, I like your pride full as well as any other part o’ ya,” sez I; “and before you wrangle it into its corral again, I want to say ’at no other man in the world could ’a’ told Olaf what you told him this mornin’, and lived to talk it over around this fire to-night—unless, he had used the best and the quickest brand o’ violence the’ is, in the meantime.”
“Now, that you have succeeded in flatterin’ both of us, we’ll go to sleep,” sez the Friar, and the’ was a deep twinkle in his eyes which allus rejoiced me to call up.
Next night soon after dark, we started out with Kit Murray. She rode like a man and could tick out her fifty or sixty a day right along, without worryin’ her pony. As soon as she was safe located in Billings, I turned back to the Dot, while the Friar rounded up some stray sheep he had near the border, and as far as I can recall we didn’t meet again all that summer.
Olaf’s theories concernin’ violence didn’t harmonize complete with the Friar’s; but his method for discouragin’ scandal was thorough to a degree. He silenced the gossipers all right, though so far as I heard, most of ’em recovered; and the outcome was ’at the Friar stood higher after the scandal ’n he had before.
The Cross brand outfit was a good deal like a pack o’ dogs: they each sought Ty Jones’s favor, and they were all jealous of each other. Olaf stood high on account of his mysterious insight; so Badger-face, the foreman, backed up Bud Fisher to devil Olaf as far as possible without givin’ Olaf what Ty would judge a fit excuse for unscrewin’ the kid’s neck; and from the talk I heard, their outfit trotted along as smooth an’ friendly as seven he bears hitched to a freight wagon; but our trails didn’t cross frequent, so it was all hearsay.
The winter before had been so fierce ’at a lot o’ small outfits couldn’t winter through their stock. Towards spring, ol’ Cast Steel had bought in the Half Moon brand for a hundred an’ fifty dollars; and that summer me an’ Spider Kelley put in our spare time huntin’ strays. Spider had come back, flat broke and full o’ repentance; so after I’d stood him on his head in a buffalo-wallow full o’ mud, I forgave him free and frank, and this summer we rode together most o’ the time.
Ol’ Cast Steel was as lucky as a hump-back cat, and this summer the grass was fatter ’n ever I’d seen it. We rounded up over five hundred head o’ ponies, and over sixty cows, which was just like bein’ caught out in a gold storm without your slicker on; so we didn’t sympathize any with the old man, but prospected around for pleasure whenever we felt like it.
One afternoon after the fall round-up, me an’ Spider found ourselves in a mighty rough bit o’ country on the north slope o’ the Wind River range. We had been herdin’ six or eight Half Moon ponies before us for several days, devilin’ a parcel of Injuns into thinkin’ ’at we was out tradin’; but we had got weary o’ this, an’ were just foolin’ around and wishin’ ’at somethin’ would turn up to amuse us.
“Aw, let’s go on back home,” sez Spider, not knowin’ he was speakin’ wisdom. “I’d sooner work at work than work at huntin’ up somethin’ to amuse myself with.”
“Well,” I sez, “we’ll finish out this afternoon, an’ then if nothin’ turns up, we’ll go back, draw our pay an’ go into Boggs.”
We saw our ponies start around a butte ahead of us an’ stop to examine somethin’. We followed ’em around the butte, and there below us on a little level, was a bunch of men—seven of ’em. We drew up an’ gave ’em a look-over.
“What do you make out?” sez I.
“Olaf the Swede with a rope around his neck, an’ Badger-face Flannigan holdin’ the other end o’ the rope,” sez Spider. “What do you reckon they’re goin’ to do to him?”
“Comb his hair, or fit a new sun-bonnet on him,” sez I, sarcastic. “What else do they put a man’s neck in a noose for? Let’s go down an’ see what happens.”
“A feller’s not sure of a welcome at such times,” sez Spider.
“No,” I agreed; “but I want to see Olaf’s eyes again, and this may be my last chance.”
“It may be your last chance to see anything,” sez Spider. “The best thing we can do is just to back-track. We interrupted ’em once before; and I don’t want ’em to get the idee that we spend all our time doggin’ their footsteps for a chance to spoil their fun. This ain’t any of our business.”
“We won’t spoil their fun,” sez I. “If they get suspicious, we can take a hand in it, an’ that will fix it all right. Olaf ain’t nothin’ to us; and I don’t intend to risk my fat for him, just ’cause he’s got curious eyes.”
“No, I’m not goin’,” sez Spider.
I looked across at the group again, an’ there comin’ up the trail behind ’em was Friar Tuck, ridin’ a round little pinto, an’ leadin’ a big bay.
“Well, you just stay here, an’ be damned to you,” sez I to Spider. “I’m goin’ on down.” So me an’ Spider rode down together, an’ arrived at just the same time as the Friar did.
Badger-face looked first at us, an’ then at the Friar. “What the hell do you fellers want this time?” he sez to us in welcome.
“We just happened along,” sez I. “What’s goin’ on?”
“You’re goin’ on yourselves, first thing,” sez Badger-face. “That’s what’s goin’ on.”
“I guess ’at you ain’t got neither deeds nor lease to this land,” sez I. “We haven’t any intention of interferin’ with you; but we don’t intend to be sent where we don’t want to go. We’ve got business here, huntin’ up stray hosses, an’ I reckon we’ll just stick around.”
“You got business here, too, I suppose?” sez Badger-face, turnin’ to the Friar.
“Yes,” sez the Friar calmly. “I came here entirely by accident; but now it is my business to inquire into why you have a rope about this man’s neck. You recall havin’ put me into a similar perdicament, Mr. Flannigan.”
“Yes, an’ the only thing I regret is, that I was interrupted,” growls Badger-face. “But this time, the’ ain’t any chance to change the programme, so you might just as well poke on into some one else’s affairs.”
“What’s the matter, Olaf?” asked the Friar.
Before Olaf could reply, Badger-face gave a jerk on the rope. “You shut up,” sez he.
“Surely you will give the man a chance to speak,” cried the Friar, indignant.
“It won’t do him no good to speak,” sez Badger-face. “He’s committed a murder, but of course he denies it. Now, get out o’ here, all three of ya.”
“Listen,” sez the Friar, as steady an’ strong as the sweep of a deep river, “I care more for justice ’n I do for law. I know that hangin’ a man has never done any good; but it is usually regarded as a legal form of punishment, and the prejudice in its favor is still too strong for one man to overcome. If you convince me that this man would be hung by a court, why, I shall never say a word about it; but if you do not convince me, I shall stir up all the trouble I can. I have quite a number of friends, Mr. Flannigan.”
Badger-face studied over this a moment; and he saw it had sense. “All right,” sez he, “we’ll try him fair an’ square; and then you three will have to help string him, an’ I guess that’ll keep your mouths shut.”
“Tell your story, Olaf,” sez the Friar.
“Well,” sez Olaf, “we came up short on the round-up, an’ the old man raised Cain about it, an’ sent us out to hunt for strays. Badger-face split us into pairs, an’ made me an’ Bud Fisher work together. We saw some cows up on a ledge where we couldn’t ride to; so we left the hosses below, an’ climbed to see if they had our brand. If they had, we intended to ride around and get ’em. If not it would save half a day. Bud Fisher had a rifle along, hopin’ to get a mountain sheep, an’ he insisted on takin’ it with him. He climbed up on a ledge, an’ I passed up the rifle to him. It was a long stretch, an’ I passed it muzzle first. The hammer caught on a point of rock, an’ shot him through the stomach. I didn’t bear him any ill will any more—I ran down to the hosses, an’ brought up the saddle-blankets an’ the slickers, an’ made him as comfortable as I could. Then I hunted up Badger-face an’ told him. When we got back he was dead. This is the truth.”
“I think it is,” sez the Friar.
“Aw rot!” sez Badger-face. “Come on, now, an’ finish it. Every one knows how they hated each other; and it’s plain enough that when the Swede here got the chance, he just put Bud out o’ the way, an’ Bud was one o’ the finest boys the’ ever was in the world—always full o’ fun an’ frolic; while Olaf has allus been sour an’ gloomy.”
Most men are as sappy as green grain, an’ they bow whichever way the wind blows. The Cross brand punchers all looked extremely sad when Badger-face spoke o’ what a royal good feller Bud Fisher had been, an’ when he stopped, they all glared at Olaf as friendly as wolves, especially a skinny feller by the name of Dixon, who had the neck and disposition of a snake.
“If you thought ’at Olaf an’ Fisher hated each other, why did you make ’em work together?” asked the Friar; and the Cross brand punchers pricked up their ears an’ looked pointedly at Badger-face.
“I thought they had made it up,” sez Badger-face, surprised into takin’ the defensive.
“I have noticed that you are likely to jump hasty at conclusions,” sez the Friar, speakin’ with tantalizin’ slowness. He was a fisher of men, all right, the Friar was; and just then he was fishin’ for those Cross brand punchers. “Did Bud speak before he died, Olaf?” he asked impartially.
Olaf hung his head: “All he said was, that she hadn’t never cared for him, an’ that he didn’t know one thing again’ her,” said Olaf.
“Aw, what’s the use o’ stringin’ it out,” sez Badger-face. “Let’s hang him and have it over with.”
“Hanging a fellow-bein’ is a serious matter, Mr. Flannigan,” sez the Friar. “I am a party to this now, and shall have to assume my share of the responsibility. I shall never consent to swingin’ a man on such evidence as this. Let us go and examine the spot. The hammer may have left a scratch, or something. If you convince me that Olaf committed the murder, I pledge to assist in hangin’ him. That’s certainly fair, men,” he sez to the Cross-branders, an’ they nodded their heads that it was.
So we clumb up to the spot where Olaf claimed to have handed the gun; but the’ wasn’t any scratch on the rock. “Did he fall from the ledge when he was shot?” asked the Friar.
“No,” sez one o’ the punchers. “He fell on the edge an’ hung on.”
“Did the bullet go clean through him?” asked the Friar.
“Yes, it went clear through,” sez the feller.
“Point with your finger just where it went in, an’ just where it came out,” sez the Friar.
The feller pointed with one finger in front, an’ one behind. The Friar took a rope an’ had me hold it behind the feller at just the level of that finger an’ then he made Spider stretch the rope so that it passed on a line with the finger in front. The whole crowd was interested by this time. “Now, then,” sez the Friar, “where could Olaf have stood to shoot such a line as that. He could not have shot while he was climbin’ up, nor he couldn’t have reached high enough while standin’ below.”
“He could, too,” sez Badger-face, “for Bud would have been leanin’ over, reachin’ for the gun.”
“If he had been shot while he was reachin’ over, he would have fallen from the ledge,” flashed the Friar.
“Maybe he did,” snapped Badger-face, just as quick. “Olaf here is as strong as a horse, an’ maybe he put him back on the ledge. He had blood on his hands an’ you can still see it on his shirt. A man don’t bleed much when shot in the belly.”
Olaf’s queer blue eyes turned from one to the other, but his face didn’t change expression much. He had about give up hope in the first place, an’ his face had the look of a hoss, after he’s been throwed four or five times an’ just keels over on his side an’ sez to himself: “Well, they’ve put the kibosh on me, an’ I don’t intend to make a fool of myself any more by tryin’ to break loose.” The rest of us was more excited about it than Olaf was himself.
“Which one of us is the nearest size to Bud Fisher?” asked the Friar.
They all agreed that Spider Kelley was; so the Friar had him coon up on the ledge. Then he had Olaf take the empty rifle just as he had held it when he passed it up; but made him give it to Badger-face himself to pass up. Badger-face passed it up, Spider Kelley reached for it, took it, and started to straighten up—The hammer caught on the precise knob that Olaf had said it had, an’ snapped hard enough to set off a cartridge. “There,” sez the Friar, sweepin’ his hands wide. We could all see that the bullet would ’a’ gone through just where it did go.
“Hand back the rifle, an’ I’ll show ya how he passed it up,” said Badger-face. Spider passed it down, an’ we all watched intent. It had become like a real court o’ law; we had forgot what the case was about, we was so interested in seein’ the scrap the lawyers were puttin’ up.
Badger-face cocked the rifle so slick we didn’t see him, called out to Spider to catch it, an’ tossed it up to him. It came just short o’ Spider’s hand; and without thinkin’ o’ what he was doin’, Spider reached for the gun. This brought him squattin’ just the time the gun dropped back into Badger’s hands, and quick as a wink, he pulled the trigger—and hanged if that bullet wouldn’t have traveled through the same hole the first one had made.
I never saw circumstantial evidence give such a work-out before. If we had all been fair-minded, it would have puzzled us; but as it was, we sided accordin’ to our prejudices; an’ the Cross brand fellers chose Badger-face to Olaf, Badger-face bein’ foreman. The Friar saw he was stumped.
“Are there any marks up there?” he asked of Spider.
“There’s some blood streaks on a stone,” sez Spider.
“Did you notice ’em?” asked the Friar of Badger-face.
“Yes,” sez he; “but they don’t mean nothin’.”
“Let’s go up an’ look at ’em,” sez the Friar, so we all clumb up.
They pointed out just where Bud Fisher had laid when they found him; and close beside him was a smooth white stone with blood marks on it. The Friar examined the lay o’ the ledge; but it didn’t tell nothin’, so finally he got down on his knees an’ studied the blood-stained stone.
Presently he nodded his head and straightened up. “Examine that stone,” he said, pointin’ with his fingers. We all crowded about an’ studied it. The’ was finger an’ thumb prints all over it; but if you looked close, you could make out the rude image of a man pullin’ up a gun which had exploded on the edge of a ledge. It was a smudgey, shakey affair, but if ya looked just right you could make it out. Yet, even this didn’t floor Badger-face.
“The Swede there did that himself,” he growled; “and this makes him out sneakier ’n we thought him. Let’s hang him, and get rid o’ this foolishness.”
“Flannigan,” sez the Friar in cold, hard tones, “you have gone too far this time. If you had hung Olaf at first, you might have done it from a proverted sense o’ justice; but to do it now would be murder; and your own men wouldn’t help. Do any of you men chew tobacco?”
If he had asked for a can o’ face-paint, we wouldn’t ’a’ been more surprised; but to show the hold the Friar had gained over that crowd, every feller there but Badger-face held out his plug to him.
“Make some tobacco juice, Olaf,” he said.
Olaf bit off a hunk the size of a walnut from his own piece, an’ proceeded to make juice, as though his life depended upon the amount of it. “Wet your thumb and fingers with it, and make marks on the white stone,” commanded the Friar.
Olaf did so; and when we saw the difference in size and shape, we savvied the game.
“Olaf took Bud’s hand and made the marks with Bud’s own blood,” sez Badger-face.
“Did any one here ever try to handle a dead man’s hand?” asked the Friar; and that settled it. We all nodded our heads, except Badger-face, an’ he had sense enough to see ’at he had lost the deal, so he didn’t say nothin’.
“What I can’t see is, why he didn’t write,” sez the Friar.
“He couldn’t write,” chirps up two punchers at once, an’ then they took the rope off Olaf’s neck.
They talked it over and decided that the best thing to do was to bury Bud Fisher right there in the cañon. The’ was a little cave on the ledge back o’ where we were standin’ so two o’ the punchers went down where they had him laid out under the slickers, an’ brought him up. We had to hoist him on ropes, an’ the Friar looked a long time into his face.
It was just a lad’s face: not bad nor hardened; just the face of a mischievous boy, weary after a day’s sport. We all took a look, an’ then put him in the little cave an’ heaped clods over him an’ piled stones on until the door was blocked shut again’ varmints.
The Friar sat down on a big rock—he had worked as hard as any of us—and sat thinkin’ with his chin in his hand. The Cross brand fellers muttered among themselves for a moment, an’ then one of ’em took off his hat, an’ sez, “Don’t ya think ya’d ought to speak somethin’ over him, parson?”
“Do you want me to?” asked the Friar. And they all nodded their heads.
So the Friar, he took off his battered hat and stood up before us an’ spoke a sermon, while we took off our hats, an’ sat around on stones to listen.
I’m convinced ’at the Friar’s long suit lay in the fact ’at he allus preached at himself. Most preachers have already divided the sheep from the goats; and they allus herd off contented with the sheep on green pastures, and preach down at the goats on the barren rocks; but if the Friar made any division at all, he classed himself in with the goats.
You see, in agreein’ to help string Olaf should he be convicted, the Friar had bet his soul on the outcome; and this braced him up in that crowd as nothin’ else would; for they knew that if he had lost, he’d have pulled harder on the rope ’n any one else.
It’s child’s play to put out a funeral talk over some old lady who has helped the neighbors for seventy or eighty years; but to preach the need of repentance to the livin’, and then to smooth things out for ’em after they’ve died in their sins, in such a way as it will jolly up the survivors and give ’em nerve to carve cheerful tidings on the tombstone, is enough to make a discriminatin’ man sweat his hair out.