“It ain’t your fault that you didn’t know about him,” sez Eugene, thawin’ a little humanity into himself. “I don’t want to rub it in on nobody; and I’ll give you this here squirrel free gratis, ’cause I admit that you know more about squirrels ’n anybody else what ever I met; an’ you have the biggest red squirrel the’ is in the world.”
Then we did give Eugene a cheer, an’ everything loosened up, an’ we all crowded into Ike Spargle’s so that them what won could spend a little money on them what lost.
After a time, ol’ man Dort got up on a chair, an’ sez: “I want you fellers to know that Columbus won’t never be my pet. Ben Butler has been the squarest squirrel ever was, an’ he continues to remain my pet; but I’ll study feedin’ this condemned foreign squirrel, an’ give him a fair show; so that if any outsiders come around makin’ brags, we will have a home squirrel to enter again’ ’em an’ get their money.”
Eugene led the cheerin’ this time, which made Eugene solider than ever with the boys, an’ when Spider an’ me got ready to ride home, he an’ ol’ man Dort had their arms around each other tryin’ to sing the Star Spangled Banner.
Spider talked about Columbus most o’ the way home, but I was still. The’ was somethin’ peculiar about the Friar’s grin when he first sighted Columbus, and the’ was somethin’ familiar about that squirrel, an’ I was tryin’ to adjust myself. Just as we swung to the west on the last turn, I sez to Spider: “Spider, I don’t know what I ought to do about this?”
“About what?” sez Spider.
“About this bet?”
“Well, it was a fair bet, wasn’t it? Columbus is full four times as big as Ben Butler.”
“Yes,” sez I, “but he ain’t no squirrel.”
Spider pulled up to a stop. “Ain’t no squirrel?” he sez. “What do you take me for, didn’t I see him myself? What is he then?”
“He’s a woodchuck, that’s what he is,” sez I. “He’s a genuwine ground hog with his hair cut stylish and died accordin’ to Eugene’s idy of high art. I remember now that I used to see ’em when I was a little shaver back on my dad’s farm in Indiana.”
Spider give a whoop, an’ then he laughed, an’ then he sobered up, an’ sez: “Well, you can’t do nothin’ now, anyway. The judges have decided it, ol’ man Dort has give it up, it ain’t your game nohow, an’ if you was to try to equal back those bets after they have been paid an’ mostly spent, you’d start a heap o’ blood-spillin’; an’ furthermore, as far as I’m concerned, I ain’t right sure but what a woodchuck, as you call it, ain’t some kind of a squirrel. We’ll just let this go an’ wait for a chance to put something over on Eugene.”
So that’s what we made up to do; but this gives you an idy of how fine a line the Friar drew on questions o’ sport. He knew ’at we weren’t full fledged angels, and that we had to have our little diversities; but when any professional hold-up men tried to ring in a brace game on us, he couldn’t see any joke in it, and he upset the money-changers’ tables, the same as they was upset that time, long ago, in the temple.
I’m only about twice as old as I feel; but I’ve certainly seen a lot o’ changes take place out this way. I can look back to the time when what most of us called a town was nothin’ but a log shack with a barrel of cheap whiskey and a mail-bag wanderin’ in once a month or so, from goodness-knows-where. I’ve seen the cattle kings when they set their own bounds, made their own laws, and cared as little for government-title as they did for an Injun’s. Then, I’ve seen the sheep men creep in an inch at a time until they ate the range away from the cattle and began to jump claims an’ tyrannize as free and joyous as the cattle men had. Next came the dry farmer, and he was as comical as a bum lamb when he first hove into sight; but I reckon that sooner or later he’ll be the one to write the final laws for this section.
We’re gettin’ a good many towns on our map nowadays, we’re puttin’ up a lot o’ hay, we’re drinkin’ cow milk, and we’re eatin’ garden truck in the summer. The old West has dried up and blown away before our very eyes, and a few of us old timers are beginnin’ to feel like the last o’ the buffalo. The’s more money nowadays in boardin’ dudes ’n the’ is in herdin’ cattle, an’ that’s the short of a long, long story.
But still we hammered out this country from the rough, and no one can take that away from us. The flag follers trouble, an’ business follers the flag, an’ law follers business, an’ trouble follers the law; but always the first trouble was kicked up by boys who had got so ’at they couldn’t digest home cookin’ any longer and just nachely had to get out an’ tussle with nature an’ the heathen.
They’re a tough, careless lot, these young adventurers; an’ they’re always in a state of panic lest the earth get so crowded the’ won’t be room enough to roll over in bed without askin’ permission; so they kill each other off as soon as possible, and thus make room for the patienter ones who follow after. From what I’ve heard tell of history, this has been about the way that the white race has managed from the very beginning.
As a general rule it has been purt’ nigh a drawn fight between the dark-skins an’ the wild animals; then the lads who had to have more elbow-room came along, and the dark-skins and the wild animals had to be put onto reservations to preserve a few specimens as curiosities, while the lads fussed among themselves, each one tryin’ to settle down peaceable with his dooryard lappin’ over the horizon in all directions. Room, room, room—that was their constant cry. As soon as one would get a neighbor within a day’s ride, he’d begin to feel shut in an’ smothered.
Tyrrel Jones was one o’ the worst o’ this breed. He came out at an early date, climbed the highest peak he could find, and claimed everything ’at his gaze could reach in every direction. Then he invented the Cross brand, put it on a few cows, and made ready to defend his rights. The Cross brand was a simple one, just one straight line crossin’ another; and it could be put on in about one second with a ventin’ iron, or anything else which happened to be handy. Tyrrel thought a heap o’ this brand, an’ he didn’t lose any chances of puttin’ it onto saleable property. His herd grew from the very beginning.
His home ranch was something over a hundred miles northwest o’ the Diamond Dot; but I allus suspicioned that a lot of our doggies had the Cross branded on to ’em. Tyrrel was mighty particular in the kind o’ punchers he hired. He liked fellers who had got into trouble, an’ the deeper they was in, the better he liked ’em. Character seeks its level, the same as water; so that Tyrrel had no trouble in gettin’ as many o’ the breed he wanted as he had place for. They did his devilment free and hearty, and when they had a little spare time, they used to devil on their own hook in a way to shame an Injun.
The sayin’ was, that a Cross brand puncher could digest every sort o’ beef in the land except Cross brand beef. Tyrrel used to grin at this sayin’ as though it was a sort of compliment; but some o’ the little fellers got purty bitter about it. When a small outfit located on a nice piece o’ water, it paid ’em to be well out o’ Ty’s neighborhood. No one ever had any luck who got in his road; but his own luck boomed right along year after year. He allus kept more men than he needed; an’ about once a month he’d knock in the head of a barrel o’ whiskey, an’ the tales they used to tell about these times was enough to raise the hair. Ty would work night an’ day to get one of his men out of a scrape; but once a man played him false, he either had to move or get buried. He wasn’t a bad lookin’ man, except that he allus seemed keyed up an’ ready to spring.
His men all had to be top-notch riders, because he hadn’t any use for a gentle hoss; he didn’t want his hosses trained, he wanted ’em busted, an’ the cavey he’d send along for a round-up would be about as gentle and reliable as a band o’ hungry wolves. If a man killed a hoss, why Ty seemed to think it a good joke, an’ this was his gait all the way along—the rougher the men were, the better they suited him. He kept a pack o’ dogs, and the men were encouraged to kick an’ abuse ’em; but if one of ’em petted a dog, he was fired that instant—or else lured into a quarrel. The’ didn’t seem to be one single soft spot left in the man, an’ when they got to callin’ him Tyrant Jones instead of Tyrrel, why, it suited him all over, an’ he used it himself once in a while.
The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he recognized me at first glance, an’ his face lit up as though we had been out on some prank together an’ was the best pals in the world ever since. He wanted to know all I knew about the crowd that had started to string him up; and when I had finished paintin’ ’em as black as I could, what did he do but say that he was goin’ up their way to have a talk with ’em.
I told him right out that it was simply wastin’ time; but he was set in his ways, so I decided to ride part way with him. He had two hosses along this trip, with his bed an’ grub tied on the spare one; and on the second day we reached a little park just as the sun was setting. It was one o’ the most beautiful spots I ever saw, high enough to get a grand view off to the west, but all the rest shut in like a little room. He jumped from his hoss, had his saddle off as soon as I did, and also helped me with the pack. Then he looked about the place.
“What a grand cathedral this is, Happy!” he sez after a minute.
I didn’t sense what he meant right at first, and went on makin’ camp, until I happened to notice his expression. He was lookin’ off to the west with the level rays of the sun as it sank down behind a distant range full in his face. The twilight had already fallen over the low land and all the hazy blues an’ purples an’ lavenders seemed to be floatin’ in a misty sea, with here an’ there the black shadows of peaks stickin’ out like islands. It really was gorgeous when you stopped to give time to it.
It had been gruelin’ hot all day, an’ was just beginnin’ to get cool an’ restful, and I was feelin’ the jerk of my appetite; but when I noticed his face I forgot all about it. I stood a bit back of him, half watchin’ him, an’ half watchin’ the landscape. Just as the sun sank, he raised his hands and chanted, with his great, soft voice booming out over the hills: “The Lord is in His holy temple—let all the earth keep silence before Him.”
He bent his head, an’ I bent mine—I’d have done it if the’d been a knife-point stickin’ again’ my chin. I tell you, it was solemn! It grew dark in a few moments an’ the evening star came out in all her glory. It was a still, clear night without a speck in the air, and she was the only star in sight; but she made up for it, all right, by throwing out spikes a yard long.
He looked up at it for a moment, and then sang a simple little hymn beginnin’, “Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh; shadows of the evening steal across the sky.” It didn’t have the ring to it of most of his songs; it was just close an’ friendly, and filled a feller with peace. It spoke o’ the little children, and those watchin’ in pain, and the sailors tossin’ on the deep blue sea, and those who planned evil—rounded ’em all up and bespoke a soothin’ night for ’em; and I venture to say that it did a heap o’ good.
Then he pitched in an’ helped me get supper. This was his way; he didn’t wear a long face and talk doleful; he was full o’ life an’ boilin’ over with it every minute, and he’d turn his hand to whatever came up an’ joke an’ be the best company in the world; but he never got far from the Lord; and when he’d stop to worship, why, the whole world seemed to stop and worship with him.
We had a merry meal and had started to wash up the dishes when he happened to glance up again. He had just been tellin’ me a droll story about the first camp he’d ever made, and how he had tied on his pack so ’at the hoss couldn’t comfortably use his hind legs and had bucked all his stuff into a crick, an’ I was still laughin’; but when he looked up, my gaze followed his. It was plumb dark by now, an’ that evening star was fair bustin’ herself, and the light of it turned the peaks a glisteny, shadowy silver. He raised his hands again and chanted one beginning: “Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy name.”
The’ was a part in this one which called upon all the works o’ the Lord to praise Him, and I glanced about to see what was happenin’. A faint breeze had sprung up and the spruce trees were bowin’ over reverently, the ponies had raised their heads and their eyes were shinin’ soft and bright in the firelight as they looked curiously at the singer; and as I stood there with a greasy skillet in my hand, something inside of me seemed to get down on its knees, to worship with the other works o’ the Lord.
It was one o’ those wonderful moments which seem to brand themselves on a feller’s memory, and I can see it all now, and hear the Friar’s voice as it floated away into the hills until it seemed to be caught up by other voices rather than to die away.
Well, we sat up about the fire a long time that night. He didn’t fuss with me about my soul, or gettin’ saved, or such things. I told him the things I didn’t understand, and he told me the things he didn’t understand; and I told him about some o’ my scrapes, and he told me about some o’ his, and—well, I can’t see where it was so different from a lot of other nights; but I suppose I’d be sitting there yet if he hadn’t finally said it was bedtime.
He stood up and looked at the star again, and chanted the one which begins: “Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace”; after which he pulled off some of his clothes and crawled into the tarp. I crawled in beside him about two minutes later; but he was already asleep, while I lay there thinkin’ for the best part of an hour.
Next mornin’ he awakened me by singin’, “Brightest and best of the sons of the morning”; and after that we got breakfast, and he started on to Ty Jones’s while I turned back to the Diamond Dot. I didn’t think he’d be able to do much with that gang; but after the talk I’d had with him the night before, I saw ’at they couldn’t do much to him, either. I had got sort of a hint at his scheme of life; and there isn’t much you can do to a man who doesn’t value his flesh more ’n the Friar did his.
Ty stood in his door as the Friar rode up, and he recognized him from the description Badger-face had turned in. Badger-face had been purty freely tongue-handled for not havin’ lynched the Friar, and Ty Jones was disposed to tilt his welcome even farther back than usual; so he set his pack on the Friar. He had six dogs at this time, mastiffs with a wolf-cross in ’em which about filled out his notion o’ what a dog ought to be.
The Friar had noticed the dogs, but he didn’t have an idee that any man would set such creatures on another man; so he had dismounted to get a drink o’ water from the crick, it havin’ been a hot ride. The pack came surgin’ down on him while he was lyin’ flat an’ drinkin’ out o’ the crick. His ponies were grazin’ close by, and as soon as he saw ’at the dogs meant business, he vaulted into the saddle just in time to escape ’em.
They leaped at him as fast as they came up, and he hit ’em with the loaded end of his quirt as thorough as was possible. He was ridin’ a line buckskin with a nervous disposition, and the pony kicked one or two on his own hook; but as the Friar leaned over in puttin’ down the fifth, the sixth jumped from the opposite side, got a holt on his arm just at the shoulder, an’ upset him out of the saddle. In the fall the dog’s grip was broke an’ he and the Friar faced each other for a moment, the Friar squattin’ on one knee with his fists close to his throat, the dog crouchin’ an’ snarlin’.
As the dog sprang, the Friar upper-cut him in the throat with his left hand and when he straightened up, hit him over the heart with his right. He says that a dog’s heart is poorly protected. Anything ’at didn’t have steel over it was poorly protected when the Friar struck with his right in earnest. The dog was killed. One o’ the dogs the pony had kicked was also killed, but the other four was able to get up and crawl away.
The Friar shook himself and went on to where Ty Jones and a few of his men were standin’. “That’s a nice lively bunch o’ dogs you have,” sez he, smilin’ as pleasant as usual; “but they need trainin’.”
“They suit me all right,” growls Ty, “except that they’re too blame clumsy.”
The Friar looked at him a minute, and then said drily, “Yes, that’s what I said; they need trainin’.”
Ty Jones scowled: “They don’t get practice enough,” sez he. “It’s most generally known that I ain’t a-hankerin’ for company; so folks don’t usually come here, unless they’re sure of a welcome.”
“I can well believe you,” said the Friar, laughin’, “and I hope the next time I come I’ll be sure of a welcome.”
“It’s not likely,” sez Ty shortly.
The Friar just stood and looked at him curiously. He didn’t believe that Ty could really mean it. The’ wasn’t a streak of anything in his own make-up to throw light on a human actin’ the way ’at Ty Jones acted; so he just stood and examined him. Ty stared back with a sneer on his face, and I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there to see ’em eyein’ each other.
“Do you really mean,” sez the Friar at last, “that you hate your fellow humans so, that you’d drive a perfect stranger away from your door?”
“I haven’t any use for hoss-thieves,” sez Ty.
The Friars face lighted. “Oh, that’s all right,” sez he in a relieved tone. “As long as you have a special grievance again’ me, why, it’s perfectly natural for you to act up to it. It wouldn’t be natural for most men to act up to it in just this way, but still it’s normal; while for a man to set his dogs on a total stranger would be monstrous. I’m glad to know ’at you had some excuse; but as far as hoss-stealin’ goes, that roan is back with your band again. I saw him as I came along.”
Ty was somewhat flabbergasted. He wasn’t used to havin’ folks try out his conduct and comment on it right to his face; and especially was he shocked to have his morals praised by a preacher. He knew ’at such a reception as had just been handed to the Friar would have taken the starch out o’ most men an’ filled ’em with a desire for revenge ever after; but he could see that the Friar was not thinkin’ of what had been handed to him, he was actually interested in himself, Ty Jones, and was honestly tryin’ to see how it was possible for such a condition to exist; and this set Ty Jones back on his haunches for true.
“For all time to come,” he sez slow and raspy, “I want you to leave my stuff alone. If you ever catch up and ride one of my hosses again, I’ll get your hide; and I don’t even want you on my land.”
Then the Friar stiffened up; any one in the world, or any thing, had the right to impose upon the Friar as a man; but when they tried to interfere with what he spoke of as his callin’, why, he swelled up noticeable. The Friar’s humility was genuine, all right; but it was about four times stiffer an’ spikier than any pride I’ve ever met up with yet.
“I shall not ride your hosses,” sez he, scornful, “nor shall I tread upon your land, nor shall I breathe your air, nor drink your water; but in the future, as in the past, I shall use for the Lord only those things which belong to the Lord. The things which are the Lord’s were His from the beginning, the things which you call yours are merely entrusted to your care for a day or an hour or a moment. I do not covet your paltry treasures, I covet your soul and I intend to fight you for it from this day forward.”
The Friar spoke in a low, earnest tone; and Ty Jones stared at him. Ya know how earnest an insane man gets? Well, the’ was something o’ this in the Friar when he was talkin’ business. You felt that he believed that what he was sayin’ was the truth, and you felt that if it was the truth, it was mighty well worth heedin’, and you also felt that in spite of its bein’ so everlastin’ different from the usual view o’ things, it might actually be the truth after all and a risky thing to pass up careless.
After waitin’ a minute without gettin’ a reply, the Friar turned on his heel to walk away, stumbled, and slipped to the ground, and then they noticed a pool of blood which had dripped from him as he stood. He had forgotten that the dog had torn him, an’ the men had looked into his eyes, as men always did when he talked, and they had forgot it, too. Now, when he fell, Olaf the Swede stepped forward to help him up.
Olaf was the best man ’at Ty Jones had, from Ty’s own standpoint. Ty had happened to be over at Skelty’s one night when Skelty was givin’ a dance. Skelty had six girls at this time, an’ he used to give a dance about once a week. Along about midnight, they got to be purty lively affairs. This night Skelty had bragged what a fine shot he was, an’ the boys were kiddin’ him about it, because Skelty wasn’t no shot at all as a rule. It was a moonlight night, and while they was sheepin’ Skelty about his shootin’, two strangers rode up, tied their hosses to the corral, an’ started up the path toward the door.
Skelty looked at ’em an’ sez, “Why, if I had a mind to, I could pick one o’ those fellers off with this gun as easy as I could scratch my nose.” He pulled his gun and held it over his shoulder.
All the boys fair hooted, an’ Skelty dropped his gun an’ shot one o’ the strangers dead in his tracks. The other came along on the run with Skelty shootin’ at him as fast as he could pop; but he only shot him once, through the leg, and he limped in an’ made for Skelty with his bare hands. Skelty hit him in the forehead, knocked him down an’ jumped on him. He kept on beatin’ him over the head until the stranger managed to get a grip on his wrists. He held one hand still, an’ puttin’ the other into his mouth, bit off the thumb.
The’s somethin’ about bein’ bit on the thumb which melts a man’s nerve; and in about five minutes, the stranger had Skelty’s head between his knees, and was makin’ him eat his own gun. It must have been a hideous sight! Some say that he actually did make Skelty eat it, and some say that he only tore through the throat; but anyway, Skelty didn’t quite survive it, and Ty Jones hired the stranger, which was Olaf the Swede.
Olaf was one o’ those Swedes which seem a mite too big for their skins. The bones in his head stuck out, his jaws stuck out prodigious, his shoulders stuck out, his hands stuck out—he fair loomed up and seemed to crowd the landscape, and he was stouter ’n a bull. When he let himself go he allus broke somethin’; but he had a soft streak in him for animals, an’ Ty never could break him from bein’ gentle with hosses, nor keep him from pettin’ the dogs once in a while. Olaf hadn’t no more morals ’n a snake at this time, an’ when it came to dealin’ with humans, he suited Ty to the minute; but he just simply wouldn’t torture an animal, and that was the end of it. Olaf wasn’t a talkin’ man; he never used a word where a grunt would do, and he was miserly about them; but he certainly was set in his ways.
The Friar hadn’t fainted, he had just gone dizzy; so when Olaf gave him a lift he got to his feet and walked to his horse. He allus carried some liniment an’ such in his saddle bags, an’ he pulled off his shirt and cleaned out the wound and tied it up, with Olaf standin’ by and tryin’ to help. Now, it made something of a murmur, when the Friar took off his shirt. In the first place, the dog had give him an awful tear, and for the rest, the Friar was a wonderful sight to behold. He was as strong as Olaf without bein’ bulgey, and his skin was as white and smooth as ivory. He was all curves and tapers with medium small hands and feet, and a throat clean cut and shapely like the throat of a high-bred mare. Olaf looked at him, and nodded his head solemnly. Badger-face hated Olaf, because Olaf had a curious way of estimatin’ things and havin’ ’em turn out to be so, which made Ty Jones put faith in what Olaf said, over and above what any one else said.
As soon as the Friar had finished tyin’ up the wound, he turned and walked up to Ty Jones. “Friend,” he said, “I don’t bear you a grain o’ malice, and nothing you can ever do to me will make me bear you a grain o’ malice. I know a lot about medicine, and perhaps I can help you that way sometime. I want to get a start with you some way; I want to be welcome here, and I wish ’at you’d give me a chance.”
“Oh, hell!” sneered Ty Jones. “Do you think you can soft-soap me as easy as you did the boys? You’re not welcome here now, and you never will be. I’ve heard all this religious chatter, and there’s nothin’ in it. The world was always held by the strong, by the men who hated their enemies and stamped them out as fast as they got a chance; and it always will be held by the strong. Your religion is only for weaklings and hypocrits.”
The Friar’s face lighted. “Will you discuss these things with me?” he asked. “I shall not eat until this scratch is healed, I have my own bed and will not bother you; won’t you just be decent enough to invite me to camp here, give me free use of water, and grass for my hosses, while you and I discuss these things fully?”
“I told you I didn’t want you about, and I don’t,” sez Ty. “The’s nothin’ on earth so useless as a preacher, and I can’t stand ’em.”
“Let me work for you,” persisted the Friar. “All I ask is a chance to show ’at I’m able to do a man’s work, and all the pay I ask is a chance to hold service here on Sundays. If I don’t do my work well, then you can make me the laughin’ stock o’ the country; but I tell you right now that if you turn me away without a show, it will do you a lot more harm than it will me.”
Ty thought ’at probably the Friar had got wind o’ some of his devilment, and was hintin’ that his own neck depended on his men keepin’ faith with him; so he stared at the Friar to see if it was a threat.
The Friar looked back into his eyes with hope beamin’ in his own; but after a time Ty Jones scowled down his brows an’ pointed the way ’at the Friar had come. “Go,” sez he, stiff as ever. “The’ ain’t any room for you on the Cross brand range; and if ya try anything underhanded, I’ll hunt ya down and put ya plumb out o’ the way.”
So the Friar he caught his ponies and hit the back trail; but still it had been purty much of a drawn battle, for Ty Jones’s men had used their eyes and their ears, and they had to give in to themselves ’at the preacher had measured big any way ya looked at him; while their own boss had dogged it in the manger to a higher degree ’n even they could take glory in.
As the Friar rode away, he sagged in his saddle with his head bent over; and they thought him faint from his wound; but the truth was, that he was only a little sad to think ’at he had lost. He was human, the Friar was; he used to chide himself for presumptin’ to be impatient; but at the same time he used to fidget like a nervous hoss when things seemed to stick in the sand; and he didn’t sing a note as long as he was on the Cross brand range—which same was an uncommon state for the Friar to be in, him generally marchin’ to music.
This was the way the Friar started out with us; and year after year, this was the way he kept up. He was friendly with every one, and most every one was friendly with him. Some o’ the boys got the idea that he packed his guns along as a bluff; so they put up a joke on him.
They lay in wait for him one night as he was comin’ up the goose neck. I, myself, didn’t rightly savvy just how he did stand with regard to the takin’ of human life in self-defence; but I knew mighty well ’at he wasn’t no bluffer, so I didn’t join in with the boys, nor I didn’t warn him; I just scouted along on the watch and got up the hill out o’ range to see what would happen.
He came up the hill in the twilight, singin’ one of his favorite marchin’ songs. I’ve heard it hundreds of times since then, and I’ve often found myself singin’ it softly to myself when I had a long, lonely ride to make. That was a curious thing about the Friar: he didn’t seem to be tampin’ any of his idees into a feller, but first thing the feller knew, he had picked up some o’ the Friar’s ways; and, as the Friar confided to me once, a good habit is as easy learned as a bad, and twice as comfortin’.
Well, he came up the pass shufflin’ along at a steady Spanish trot as was usual with him when not overly rushed, and singin’:
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!Pilgrim through this barren land;I am weak, but Thou art mighty;Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!Pilgrim through this barren land;I am weak, but Thou art mighty;Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!Pilgrim through this barren land;I am weak, but Thou art mighty;Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”
“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah!
Pilgrim through this barren land;
I am weak, but Thou art mighty;
Hold me with Thy powerful hand.”
He came up out of the pass with his head thrown back, and his boy’s face shinin’ with that radiatin’ joy I haven’t ever seen in another face, exceptin’ it first caught the reflection from the Friar’s; and the notion about died out o’ the boys’ minds. They were all friends of his and wouldn’t have hurt his feelin’s for a lot; but they had itched about his weapons for such a spell that they finally had to have it out; so when he rounded a point o’ rock, they stepped out and told him to put his hands up.
They were masked and had him covered, and his hands shot up with a jerk; but he didn’t stop his singin’, and his voice didn’t take on a single waver. Fact was, it seemed if possible a shade more jubilant. He had reached the verse which sez:
“Feed me with the heavenly mannaIn this barren wilderness;Be my sword and shield and banner,Be the Lord my Righteousness”;
“Feed me with the heavenly mannaIn this barren wilderness;Be my sword and shield and banner,Be the Lord my Righteousness”;
“Feed me with the heavenly mannaIn this barren wilderness;Be my sword and shield and banner,Be the Lord my Righteousness”;
“Feed me with the heavenly manna
In this barren wilderness;
Be my sword and shield and banner,
Be the Lord my Righteousness”;
and as he sang with his hands held high above his head, he waved ’em back and forth, playin’ notes in the air with his fingers, the way he did frequent; and it was one o’ the most divertin’ sights I ever saw.
Those blame scamps had all they could do to keep from hummin’ time to his song; for I swear to you in earnest that the Friar could play on a man’s heart the same as if it was a fiddle. He kept on an’ finished the last verse while I crouched above ’em behind a big rock, and fairly hugged myself with the joy of it. Ol’ Tank Williams was a big man and had been chosen out to be the leader an’ do the talkin’, but he hadn’t the heart to jab into the Friar’s singin’; so he waited until it was all over. Then he cleared his throat as though settin’ off a blast of dynamite, and growls out: “Here, you, give us your money.”
Ten six-shooters were pointin’ at the Friar, but I reckon if he had known it would of exploded all of ’em, he’d have had to laugh. He threw back his head and his big free laugh rolled out into the hills, until I had to gnaw at a corner o’ the stone to keep from joinin’ in. “My money!” sez he as soon as he could catch his breath. “Well, boys, boys, whatever put such a notion as that into your heads. Take it, take it, you’re welcome to it; and if you are able to find more than two bits, why, I congratulate you most hearty; because two bits was all I could find this morning, and that will only be a nickle apiece, and five cents is small pay for robbin’ a volunteer missionary.”
Ol’ Tank Williams was a serious-minded old relic, and he was feelin’ so sheepish just then that it seemed to him as though the Friar had imposed on him by lurin’ him into such a fix; so he roars out in earnest: “If you ain’t got no money, why the deuce do ya tote those guns about with ya all the time?”
“Would you just as soon tie me to a tree, or take some other measures of defence?” asked the Friar politely. “My arms are gettin’ weary and I could talk more comfortable with ’em hanging’ down.”
“Aw put ’em down, and talk on,” sez George Hendricks.
“Thank you,” sez the Friar. “Well, now, boys, the man who doesn’t take the time to put a value on his own life, isn’t likely to make that life very much worth while. He mustn’t overvalue it to such an extent that he becomes a coward, nor he mustn’t undervalue it to such an extent that he becomes reckless—he must take full time to estimate himself as near as he is able.
“I don’t know that I can allus keep from judgin’ my fellow men; but I am sure that I would not judge one to the extent of sayin’ that my life was worth more than his, so I should never use a gun merely to save my own life by takin’ away the life of another man—much less would I use a gun in defence of money; but I am a purty good shot, and sometimes I can get a man interested by shootin’ at a mark with him. This is why I carry firearms. Do you want the two bits?”
“Aw, go on,” yells ol’ Tank, madder at himself ’n ever. “We didn’t intend to rob ya. All we wanted was to hear ya sing and preach a bit”; and he pulled off his mask and shook the Friar’s hand. All the rest o’ the boys did the same; and I clumb up on my rock, flapped my wings, and crowed like a rooster.
Well, we sat on the ground, and he sang for us; and then he sobered and began to talk about cussin’. It used to hurt the Friar to hear some o’ the double-jointed swear words we used when excited. He tried not to show it, because he didn’t want anything to shut us away from him at any time; but whiles his face would wrinkle into lines of actual pain.
“Now, boys,” he began, “I know, ’at you don’t mean what you say in a profane way. You call each other terrible names, and condemn each other to eternal punishment; and if a man said these things in earnest, his life would be forfeit; but you take it merely as a joke. Now, I do not know just how wicked this is. I know that it is forbidden to take the name o’ the Lord thy God in vain; so it is a dangerous thing to be profane even in thoughtlessness; but I have heard the Lord’s name used by the perfectly respectable in a way which must have hurt his tender nature more.
“Once in the crowded slum district of a large eastern city, I saw a freight car back down on a child and kill it. The mother was frantic; she was a foreigner and extra emotional, and she screamed, and cursed the railroad. A man had come to comfort her, and he put his hand on her arm and said, ‘My dear woman, you must not carry on this way. We must always bow our heads in submission to the Lord’s will.’
“For years the poor people o’ that neighborhood had begged protection for their children; and I cannot believe that it was the Lord’s will that even one o’ the least of ’em should have been slain in order to drive the lesson a little deeper home; so, as I said before, I am not going to talk to you of the wickedness of swearing—but I am goin’ to talk about its foolishness, its vulgarity, and its brutality.”
He went on showin’ that swearin’ was foolish because it wasn’t givin’ a man’s thought on things in a man’s way; but merely howlin’ it out the way wolves and wild-cats had to, on account o’ their not havin’ a civilized language with which to express the devilment which was in ’em. He showed how it made a feller lazy; because instead of tryin’ to sort out words which would tell exactly what he meant, he made a lot of noises which had no more real meanin’ than a bunch o’ fire-crackers.
Then his voice got low and serious, and he said ’at the worst thing about cussin’ was, that it led a feller into speakin’ lightly about the sacred things of life. “When you speak the word ‘son,’” he said, “you are bound to also call up the thought of ‘mother’; and I want to say to you right now that any one who can be coarse and nasty in thinkin’ or speakin’ about maternity, is not a man at all—or even a decent brute—but has some sort of soul-sickness which is more horrible than insanity. Always be square with women—all women, good and bad. I know your temptations, and I know theirs. Woman has a heavy cross to carry, and the least we can do, is to play fair.”
Then he sprang some of his curious theories on us: told us how the body was full of poisons and remedies; and it depended on our plan of livin’, whether we used the one or the other. He said he allus cut out food and tobacco on Fridays, and if he didn’t feel bright and clear and bubblin’ over with vitality, he fasted until he felt able to eat a rubber boot, and then he knew he had cleaned all the waste products out of him, and could live at top speed again. He finished up by tellin’ of a cross old doctor he once knew, who used to say ’at cattle and kings didn’t have to control themselves; but all ordinary men had to use self-denial, even in matters of pleasure.
It was more the way the Friar said things than what he said; his voice and his eyes helped a lot; but the thing ’at counted for most was the fact ’at you knew it wasn’t none of it put on. He loved to joke when it was a jokin’ matter; but he was stiff as stone with what he called the foundations of life. A man, you know, as a rule, is mighty timid about the things which lie close to his heart, no matter how bold and free he’ll talk about other things; but the Friar was like a little child, an’ he’d speak out as bold and frank as one, about the things he loved and hated, until he finally put a few drops o’ this queer brand o’ courage into our own hearts.
Of course we didn’t get to be troubled with wing-growth or anything like that; but a short time after this fake hold-up, ol’ Tank Williams went in to fill up with picklin’-fluid, and he started in on Monday and kept fightin’ it all that week until Friday. Then he said that he wouldn’t neither eat, drink, nor smoke on that day; and they couldn’t make him do it. He started in on Saturday to continue what had started out to be one o’ the best benders he had ever took; but the first quart made him sick as a dog, and he came out to the ranch and said ’at the Friar had made him a temperate man, and for the rest of his life he intended to set aside one day a week in the Friar’s favor.
After the boys had started for the ranch, the Friar invited me to spend the night with him; so we unpacked his bed from the lead-hoss and we built a little fire and had a right sociable time of it. Me and him was good pals by this time. He had said to me once: “Happy, you do more general thinkin’ than some varsity men I’ve known.”
“I reckon,” sez I, modest as I could, “that a man who has bossed a dozen men and ten thousand cattle through a three days’ blizzard, has to be able to think some like a general.”
Then he explained to me that general thinkin’ meant to think about stars an’ flowers an’ the human race an’ the past an’ the future, an’ such things, and not to be all the time lookin’ at life just from the way it touched a feller himself. This was another thing I liked about him. Most Easteners is so polite that they haven’t the heart to set a feller right when he has the wrong notion; but the Friar would divvy up on his knowledge as free as he would on his bacon or tobacco; so I opened myself up to him until he knew as much about me as I did myself.
He didn’t have much use for the shut-eye this night, nor he wasn’t as talky as common; so we sat smokin’ and lookin’ into the fire for a long time. Once in a while he’d speak a verse about some big deed a man had done years ago, or else one describin’ the mountains or something like that; until finally I asked him how it came that a man who loved adventure an’ fightin’ an’ feats of skill, the way he did, had selected to be a preacher.
“We don’t select our lives, Happy,” sez he. “You’re surely philosopher enough to see that. As far as we can see, it is like that gamblin’ game; we roll down through a lot o’ little pegs bobbin’ off from one to another until finally we pop into a little hole at the bottom; but we didn’t pick out that hole. No, we didn’t pick out that hole.”
So I up and asked him to tell me somethin’ about his start.
I pity the man who has never slept out doors in the Rocky Mountains. Swingin’ around with the earth, away up there in the starlight, he fills himself full o’ new life with every breath; and no matter how tough the day has been, he is bound to wake up the next mornin’ plumb rested, and with strength and energy fair dancin’ through his veins. For it to be perfect, a feller has to have a pipe, a fire, and some one close and chummy to chat with. This night me an’ the Friar both went down to the crick and washed our feet. We sat on a log side by side and made noises like a flock of bewildered geese when we first stuck our feet into the icy water; but by the time we had raced back and crawled into his bed, we were glowin’ all over.
We didn’t cover up right away, because the Friar just simply couldn’t seem to get sleepy that night; and after a minute he put some more wood on the fire, filled his pipe again, and said: “So you want me to tell you about my story, huh? Well, I believe I will tell you about my boyhood.”
So I filled my pipe, and we lay half under the tarp with our heads on our hands and our elbows on our boots, which were waitin’ to be pillows, and he told me about the early days, talkin’ more to himself than to me.
“My mother died when I was six years old, my father divided his time between cleanin’ out saloons, beatin’ me, an’ livin’ in the work-house,” began the Friar, and it give me kind of a shock. I’d had a notion that such-like kids wasn’t likely to grow up into preachers; and I’d allus supposed ’at the Friar had had a soft, gentle youth. “I was a tough, sturdy urchin,” he went on, “but I allus had a soft heart for animals. I used to fight several times a day; but mostly because the other kids used to stone cats and tie tin cans on dogs’ tails. I used to shine shoes, pass papers, run errands, and do any other odd job for a few pennies, and at night I slept wherever I could. I had a big dry-goods-box all to myself for several months, once, and I still look back to it as being a fine, comfortable bedroom.
“One morning I was down at the Union Depot when a farmer drove up a big Norman hoss hitched to a surrey. Some o’ the other kids joshed him, called the hoss an elephant and asked where the rest o’ the show was. The man was big, well fed, and comfortable lookin’, same as the hoss, and he didn’t pay any heed to the kids except to call one of ’em up to hold the hoss while he went into the depot. The kid wanted to know first what he was goin’ to be paid, and he haggled so long ’at the farmer beckoned to me to come up. ‘Will you hold my hoss for me a few minutes?’ he asked.
“That big gray hoss with the dark, gentle eyes seemed to me one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and I was mighty anxious to have charge of him, even for a few minutes; so I sez, ‘You bet I will.’
“The other kids roasted me and made all manner o’ sport; but they knew I would fight ’em if they got too superfluous, so after a bit they went on about their business. The’s somethin’ about man’s love for a hoss that’s a little hard to understand. I had never had no intimate dealin’s with one before, yet somethin’ inside me reached out and entwined itself all about this big, gray, velvet-nosed beauty left in my charge. I reckon it must be in a man’s blood; that’s the only explanation I can find. All the way back along the trail o’ history we find the bones of men and hosses bleachin’ together in the same heap; and about every worthwhile spot on the face o’ nature has been fought over on hossback, so it’s small wonder if the feel of a hoss has got to be part of man’s nature.
“The farmer had had a woman and a little girl in his care, to see off on the train, and he was gone some time. I had a few pennies in my pocket, and I bought an apple an’ fed it to the hoss, gettin’ more enjoyment out of it than out of airy other apple I’d ever owned. I can feel right now the strange movin’s inside my breast as his moist nose sniffed at my fingers and his delicate lips picked up the bits of apple, as careful an’ gentle as though my rough, dirty little hand had been made o’ crystal.
“I was so interested in the hoss that I gave a start of surprise when the farmer’s voice behind me sez: ‘You seem to like hosses, son.’
“‘I hadn’t no idee ’at a great big one like this could be so smooth an’ gentle,’ I said, with my hand rubbin’ along the hoss’s throat. ‘I think he’s a wonder.’
“‘Do you like other animals?’ asked the farmer.
“‘I reckon I must be an animal myself,’ sez I, ‘because I allus get along well with them, while I have to fight a lot with humans.’
“‘What do you want for tendin’ to this hoss?’ he asked me.
“‘I don’t want nothin’,’ sez I. ‘We’ve got to be friends, an’ I don’t charge nothin’ for doin’ favors for a friend. Besides, he’s got so much sense, I doubt if he needs much watchin’.’
“The farmer grinned, looked into my eyes a long time, and gave me a dollar. ‘Now tell me how you’ll spend your dollar,’ sez he.
“Well, I was purty well floored. I had never owned a dollar before in my whole life, my father havin’ taken away every cent he had ever found on me; and I stood lookin’ at the coin, and hardly knowin’ what to do. The farmer stood lookin’ down at me with his eyes twinklin’, and after a minute, I handed the dollar back to him. ‘This is too much,’ I sez. ‘A dime would be plenty for the job, even if I didn’t like the hoss; but if my old man would find a dollar on me, he’d give me a beatin’ for hidin’ it from him, take it away, get drunk, and then give me another beatin’ for not havin’ another dollar.’
“So he asked me all about my father; and I told about him and about my mother bein’ dead, and the twinkle left his eyes and they grew moist, so ’at he had to wink mighty fast.
“He told me that his own boy was dead and his girl married, and that the’ wasn’t any children out at the big farm, and asked me if I wouldn’t like to come and live with him. He told me about all the hosses an’ the cows an’ the pigs, an’ that I could have a clean little room to sleep in, an’ plenty o’ food and clothes, and could go to school. It sounded like a fairy tale to me, and I sez, ‘Aw go on, you’re just joshin’ me’; but he meant it; so I got on the seat beside him, and as soon as we got out o’ town he let me drive the big gray hoss—and I entered into a real world more wonderful than any fairy tale ever was.
“When we drove up the shady lane and into the big barn lot, a little old lady with sad eyes came to the door, and sez: ‘Now, John, who is that with you?’ and my heart sank, for I thought she wasn’t goin’ to stand for me; but he took me by the hand and led me up to the door, put his arm about the little woman’s shoulder, and sez with a tremble in his voice: ‘This here is a little feller I’ve brought out to be company for ya, mother. He hasn’t any folks, and he is fond of animals, and, and—his name is John, too.’
“At first she shook her head and shut her lips tight; but all of a sudden the tears came to her eyes, and she put her arms about me—and I had found a real home.
“Those were wonderful years, Happy, wonderful; and I have the satisfaction o’ knowin’ that I did them about as much good as they did me. Their hearts had been wrapped up in the boy, and he must have been a fine feller; but just when he had been promoted out o’ the grammar grade at the head of his class, he had took the scarlet fever an’ died. I wasn’t used to kindness when I went there; so I never noticed ’at they kept me out o’ the inner circle o’ their hearts at first. I called the little woman Mrs. Carmichael for some time; but one day after I’d brought home a good report from school, I called her this, and she spoke to me sharp—I never knew any soft-hearted person in the world who got so much solid satisfaction out of actin’ cross as she did. Well, she spoke to me sharp, and sez: ‘John Carmichael, why don’t you call me Mother?’
“I looked into her face, and it didn’t look old any longer, and the sad look had left her eyes, and they were black and snappy an’ full o’ life; so I tried it; and we both broke into tears, but they were tears o’ joy; and then he insisted that I call him Dad, and we became a family; and about the happiest one in the world, I reckon.
“I rode the hosses bareback, shot hawks with my rifle, picked berries, did a lot o’ chores, and worked hard with my books. It was a full, round life with lots of love and happiness in it, and I grew, body and mind and spirit, as free and natural as the big oak trees in the woods pasture.
“Mr. Carmichael had looked up my blood father and had done what he could for him; but it was no use, and one winter’s morning he was found frozen in an alley. I didn’t learn of it until the next June when he took me down to the city cemetery where my father and mother lay side by side. I did feel downcast as we all do in the presence of death; but it wasn’t my real father and mother who were lyin’ there beneath the quiet mounds. Fatherhood and motherhood are somethin’ more than mere physical processes. The real fathers and mothers are those who put the best part o’ their lives into makin’ the big, gloomy world into a tender home forallthe little ones; and after my visit to the graveyard I felt drawn even closer to Dad and Mother than I had before.
“Children ought to have dogs and hosses and plenty of air and soil about ’em, Happy. We don’t learn from preachin’, we learn from example; and we can learn a heap from the animals. We talk about our sanitary systems; but we allus mean the sanitary systems outside our bodies. Now, the animals have sanitary systems, but they are inside their own skins, where they rightly belong. Look at the beautiful teeth of a dog—These come from eatin’ proper food at the proper time and in proper quantities. If a dog isn’t hungry, the dog won’t eat. If a child isn’t hungry, it is fed candy in a lot o’ cases, and this is downright wicked. Of course the animals find it hard to live, crowded up the way man allus fixes things; but as a rule animals are temperate and clean, patient and honest, wise and strong; and I wish we’d use ’em more as instructors for the young. Most mothers think a dog’s tongue is dirty—Why, a dog’s tongue is chemically clean, and healin’ in its action; while the human mouth is generally poisonous—ask a dentist.
“And a cow’s breath, after she has rolled in with sweetly solemn dignity from the clover field—Ah, that’s a pleasant memory! I’ll venture to say ’at mighty few monarchs have been as worthy o’ bein’ kissed before breakfast, as Nebukaneezer was while he was undergoin’ punishment for his sins. I had gone to that farm with my soul all stunted and gnarly; but it straightened out and shot its little stems up toward the blue, the same as the stalks o’ corn did.
“All I had as a start was a love of animals; and this is why I allus try to find the one soft spot in a man’s nature—Even if it’s a secret vice, it is something to work on. This is what makes such a problem of Tyrrel Jones. I can’t find out a single soft place in him; but I’m goin’ to get into the heart of him yet, if I can find the way.
“Well, Dad and Mother passed away within a week of each other a short time after I had been graduated. I had made up my mind to stay on the farm with ’em as long as they stayed; although all sorts of voices were callin’ to me from the big outer world; but their daughter lived in the city, and had been weaned away from the farm, so she sold it, and I started on my pilgrimage.
“They had left me an income of three hundred and fifty dollars a year; and I determined to go to college. When I thought of how rich and full my own life had been made, after its stunted beginning, I wanted to do all I could to make the whole earth like that farm had been, and it seemed to me that the best way was to become a priest of the Lord. I tried my best; but I have been consid’able of a failure, Happy. Now, I hardly know where I stand. I am sort of an outcast now, and just doing what seems best on my own hook.
“A lot of my ideals have been lost, a lot of my hopes have faded, a lot of my work has seemed like sweeping back the waves of the sea; but for all I have lost, new things have taken their place, and I have never lost my faith in the Lord. Now, I am weak in doctrine and a stranger to dogma; and the things for which I fight with all my soul and heart and strength, are kindliness and decency.
“As long as one bein’ in the world is cold or hungry or diseased, every other bein’ is liable to become hungry and cold and diseased. What I am fighting for is a world without poverty. Most o’ the ills of life spring from poverty, and poverty is the result of selfishness and greed. The earth is reeking with riches, but its bounty is not divided fairly.
“Happy, if I could only hold up the Lord, so that all men might see the beauty and fullness of Him, the glory and grandeur of His simple life and His majestic self-sacrifice, the fleeting cheapness of material things would sink to their real value, and we would all become one great family, workin’ together in peace and contentment. Now, go on to sleep.”
It was purty late by this time sure enough, and I fell asleep soon after this; but I awakened durin’ the night and found myself alone. It was cold when I stuck my nose out from under the tarp, but it was a wonderful night, clear and still, with the stars swingin’ big and bright just above my reach.
As I lay there, I heard Friar Tuck singin’ softly to himself out where the trail dipped down into the valley: