Late the next summer, I got a fine long letter from Horace—and blame if he didn’t succeed in surprisin’ me again. He wrote this letter from Africa, which is about the foreignest parts this world is able to exhibit, I reckon. He told about the East not findin’ favor with Promotheus, though he had done all he could for him, startin’ out with high society and endin’ up by takin’ him down one night to a sailor’s saloon and lettin’ him mix into a general fight; but that Promotheus just simply couldn’t stand the tameness, and so they had gone to Africa to hunt big game, and give the folks out our way a chance to forget there ever had been such a cuss as Badger-face.
He sent along some photographs, too, and they was as novel as a blue moon—Horace, Promotheus, and a lot o’ naked niggers totin’ packs on their heads. Horace was the funniest lookin’ mortal a body ever saw; but Promotheus had him beat a mile. They both wore bowls on their heads an’ colored glasses; but Promotheus with side-burns was sure enough to frighten a snake into convulsions! His gnawin’ teeth stuck out through a self-satisfied grin; and I was willin’ to bet that as soon as the heathen saw him, they’d give up bowin’ down to wood an’ stone.
The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he told me about receivin’ a letter from Horace who had gone to Berlin on his way to Africa, but hadn’t been able to learn anything satisfactory. The singer had been the big card at their concerts, an’ there had been some talk about her gettin’ drugged by an Austrian who belonged to the em-bassy; but she had disappeared complete, an’ nobody could be found who seemed to know anything about it. The Friar kept himself goin’ like a steam-engine these days; but while he became a little more tender if possible, he lacked something of his old-time spirits. Before this, he used to come sweepin’ along like a big cool breeze, an’ a feller’s spirits just got up an’ whirled along with him, like dry leaves dancin’ in the wind.
He said ’at since Promotheus had slipped out o’ the country, the Cross-branders hadn’t bothered Olaf any; but I called his attention to the fact that this was a wet spring, an’ told him ’at when we had a long dry spell, Ty Jones would just swallow Olaf like quicksand.
Things drifted along purty steady in our parts for several years. Once in a while, the Friar would tell me something about Olaf or something about Ty Jones; but for the most part, I was too much took up with other things to care much for even the Friar’s doin’s.
I was takin’ my own Moses-trip durin’ these years; and I say now, as I allus have said, that it wasn’t a square shake to show Moses the promised land, an’ then not let him into it for even one meal o’ milk an’ honey. I’ve handled a small bunch o’ men an’ trailed cattle with ’em for only three months at a stretch; but I don’t mind tellin’ you that the’ was times when I had to sit up till after midnight, sewin’ up the rips in my patience—an’ we didn’t have any women an’ children along either. Moses had forty years of it in the desert; with a whole blame tribe of Israelites; and yet, instead o’ praisin’ him for hangin’ on to his sanity with all the odds again’ him, he was handed a tantalizer, simply because he said he couldn’t see why somethin’ didn’t happen in a natural, orderly way, once in a while, without everlastingly ringin’ in some new kind of a miracle on him.
If I had to pilot a mob like that through a desert for forty years, follerin’ a cloud by day an’ a pillar o’ fire by night, havin’ dressed quail an’ breakfast-food tossed to me out o’ the sky, gettin’ my drinkin’ water by knockin’ it out of a rock, an’ tryin’ to satisfy the tourists that it wasn’t altogether my fault that we traveled so everlastin’ slow—I’d ’a’ been mad enough to bite all the enamel off my teeth, and yet as far as I could see, Moses didn’t do a single thing but show out a little peevish once in a while.
Still, we didn’t choose our natures nor the kind o’ life to range ’em over nor the sorts o’ temptations we’d prefer to wrastle with; an’ even our own experiences are more ’n we can understand—to say nothin’ o’ settin’ back an’ decidin’ upon the deeds of others. My own test wasn’t the one I’d ’a’ chosen; and yet, for all I know, it may ’a’ been the very best one, for me.
Little Barbie had finally grown up through childhood to the gates o’ womanhood—and as generally happens, she had found a man waitin’ for her there. Through all the years of her growin’, she had been sendin’ out tendrils which reached over an’ wound about my heart, and grew into it an’ through it, and became part of it. If it hadn’t ’a’ been for Friar Tuck, I might ’a’ married her, myself; for I could have done it, if all the men I’d had to fight had been other men—but the man I couldn’t overcome, was myself.
Through all the years I had known Friar Tuck an’ rode with him an’ worked with him an’ slept out under the stars with him, he had been quietly trainin’ me for the time when it would be my call to take my own love by the throat, for the sake of the woman I loved. It don’t weaken a man to do this; but it tears him—My God, how it does tear him!
I, my own self, brought back the man she loved to her, and gave her into his arms; and I’ve never regretted it for one single minute; but I doubt if I’ve ever forgot it for much longer ’n this either.
I did what it seemed to me I had to do—an’ the Friar thinks I did right, which counts a whole lot more with me ’n what others think. I went through my desert, I climbed my hill, for just one moment I saw into my promised land—and then I was jerked back, and not even given promotion into the next world, which Moses drew as his consolation prize. And yet, takin’ it all around, I can see where life has been mighty kind and generous to me after all, and I’m not kickin’ for a minute.
The great break in my life came in the fall, and it left ol’ Cast Steel a more changed man ’n it did me. I wanted to swing out wide—to ride and ride and ride until I forgot who I was and what had happened; but the ol’ man worked on my pity, an’ I agreed to stay on with him a spell. Durin’ the three years precedin’, I had got into the handlin’ of the ranch, more ’n he had, himself; so I spent the winter makin’ my plans, an’ goin’ over ’em with him. He came out toward spring and was more like himself; but when the first flowers blossomed on the benches, they seemed to be drawin’ their life blood out o’ my very heart. All day long I had a burnin’ in my eyes, everywhere I went I missed somethin’, until the empty hole in my breast seemed likely to drive me frantic; an’ one day I pertended to be mad about some little thing, an’ threw up my job for good and all.
The ol’ man was as decent as they ever get. He knew how I had been hit, an’ he didn’t try any foolishness. He gave me what money I wanted, told me to go and have it out with myself, an’ come back to him as soon as I could. I rode away without havin’ any aim or end in view, just rode an’ rode an’ rode with memories crowdin’ about me so thick, I couldn’t see the trail I was goin’.
Then one night I drew up along side o’ Friar Tuck’s fire, saw the steady light of his courage blazin’ out through his own sadness, the same as it had done all those years; an’ I flopped myself off my hoss, threw myself flat on the grass, an’ only God and the Friar know how many hours I lay there with his hand restin’ light on my shoulder, the little fire hummin’ curious, soothin’ words o’ comfort, and up above, the same ol’ stars shinin’ down clear and unchangin’ to point out, that no matter how the storms rage about the surface o’ the earth, it’s allus calm and right, if a feller only gets high enough.
I hadn’t done much eatin’ or sleepin’ on that trip, an’ I was plumb beat out; so after I fell asleep, the Friar put a soogan over me and left me by the fire. He awakened me next mornin’, gettin’ breakfast, and it didn’t take him very long to talk me into joinin’ on to him for company. I had been avoidin’ humans, for fear I might be tempted to start trouble and find the easy way out of it all; but his plan was just the opposite—to dive so deep into humanity that I could catch a glimpse o’ the scheme o’ things.
The Friar held that we all had crosses comin’ to us any way. If we picked ’em up an’ put ’em on our own shoulders, we’d still be free, an’ the totin’ of our crosses would make us stronger; while if we tried to run away, we’d be roped an’ thrown, an’ the crosses chained on us. I’d a heap sooner be free than a slave; so I decided to carry mine, head up, an’ get right with myself as soon as possible.
The Friar didn’t work off any solemn stuff on me, nor he didn’t try to be funny; he just turned himself into a sun-glass, an’ focused enough sunshine on to me to warm me up without any risk of blisterin’. I got to know him even better those days than I had before. His hair was gettin’ a bit frosty at the temples; but aside from this, he hadn’t aged none since the first day I had seen him. He was like some big tree growin’ all by itself. Every year it seems a little ruggeder, every year it seems to offer a little roomier shade; but the wind and the rain and the hot sun don’t seem to make it grow old. They only seem to make it take a deeper root, and throw out a wider spread o’ boughs.
He told me o’ some o’ the scraps between the cattle men an’ the sheep men—the Diamond Dot was out o’ the way of sheep at that time. Then I began to take a little more interest in things, an’ after takin’ note for a day or so, I prophesied a dry summer; and this brought us around to Olaf.
The Friar warmed up at mention of him. He said ’at he had never seen a match turn out better ’n Olaf’s. He said Kit had just what Olaf lacked, an’ Olaf had just what Kit lacked, an’ their boy was just about the finest kid he knew of anywhere. We decided to head up their way an’ pay a visit.
As we rode along we took notice of the way things were changin’. We passed several sheep wagons, five or six irrigation ditches, an’ here and there, we found men who put more faith in alfalfa ’n they did in stock. The Friar had been well to the north when I happened upon him, and we traveled a sight o’ country before we reached our destination. Everywhere folks knew him, an’ he knew them; and when I saw their faces light up at sight of him, I had to admit that he had done the right thing in stickin’.
Mostly he sang the “Art thou weary,” one for his marchin’ song, now; and it got into my blood and did a lot to healthen me up again. I can’t rightly say ’at I ever got religion; but more ’n once religion has got me an’ lifted me up like the Crazy Water in flood, bearin’ me on over rocks an’ through whirlpools, an’ showin’ me what a weak, useless thing I was at the best. The’s somethin’ inside me ’at allus responded to the Friar’s music, an’ made me willin’ to sweep on over the edge o’ the world with him; but when he tried to reason out religion to me, I have to own up ’at the’ was a lot of it I couldn’t see into.
We passed Skelty’s old place on our way in, an’ found a red-eyed, black-headed man runnin’ it. His name was Maxwell, but they still called the place Skelty’s. We went in an’ had dinner, an’ found five or six Cross-branders there. They were doin’ plenty o’ drinkin’ an’ crackin’ idiotic jokes with the girls; but they nodded friendly enough to us, an’ we nodded back.
As soon as we finished, the Friar went outside for his smoke; but I leaned back right where I was for mine. One o’ the Cross-branders, a tall, gaunt, squinty cuss by the name o’ Dixon, was sittin’ near me, and presently he turned an’ sez: “You’re Happy Hawkins, ain’t ya?”
“That’s me,” sez I.
“Well, on the level,” sez he, “what became o’ Badger-face?”
“I’ve often wondered about that myself,” sez I.
“We supposed he got killed,” sez he; “but two fellers claimed they saw him goin’ south in the spring with your huntin’ party.”
“What made ya think he got killed?” sez I.
“’Cause he started over here one night, and never showed up again,” sez he.
“I don’t know what become of him,” sez I. “Dinky Bradford said he was goin’ to take him to Africa; but whether he did or not I can’t say. I never felt no call to pry into Dinky’s business. Looks to me as though we were goin’ to have an extra dry summer.”
“I say so too,” sez Dixon. “Who was this Dinky Bradford?”
“That’s bothered me a heap,” sez I. “He claimed to be a Greek hero, though what sort o’ business that is, I can’t say. Finished your round-up yet?”
“Just got through. Where is this Greek hero these days?” sez he.
“Can’t prove it by me,” sez I. “He’s one o’ these fellers no one seems to know anything about. I saw him go without eatin’ for four days once, an’ he came out of it in better shape ’n he went in. Badger-face was your foreman, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” sez he. “Ol’ Pepper Kendal is foreman now.”
“I should think a foreman would have some load on his shoulders with the boss gone all winter,” sez I.
“The boss brought a woman back with him this time,” sez Dixon.
“What!” sez I. “You don’t mean ta tell me ’at Ty Jones has got him a woman after all these years?”
“That’s what,” sez Dixon. “Somethin’ queer about her, too. Ty has had a new shack built for her up back o’ the old house. They don’t seem overly friendly for a bride an’ groom.”
“Ain’t nothin’ overly friendly with Ty, is the’?” sez I.
“Oh, I dunno,” sez he. “Ty ain’t as sticky as taffy, but he’s a mighty good man to work for.”
“What sort of a woman did he get?” sez I.
“She don’t show herself much,” sez he. “She’s tall an’ shapely, an’ right smart younger ’n Ty; but she spends most of her time in the new shack; and from all we can tell, she’s froze up tighter ’n Ty is.”
“Well, I guess we’ll have to jog on. Good luck,” sez I, and me an’ the Friar rode on. He was as much beat out over Ty Jones gettin’ a woman as I was; but first thing he thought of was, ’at this might have a softenin’ effect on Ty, an’ give him an openin’.
We reached Olaf’s in time for supper, and found Kit bustlin’ about as happy as a little brown hen. The Friar hadn’t sprung it none about the kid. He was a solid little chunk with a couple o’ dimples and all the signs o’ health. I looked careful into his eyes. They were full o’ devilment, an’ he scowled his brows down over ’em when I held him; but they were brown like Kit’s.
“Oh, he’s too dirty to touch,” sez Kit, beamin’ all over with pride. “I just can’t keep him clean, try as I will.”
“Be careful, Happy, and don’t soil your hands on that baby!” yells the Friar as though in a panic. “Let me have him. I was dirty once, myself.”
It was plain to see ’at the kid an’ the Friar were old cronies; and it was a pleasant sight to see ’em together. The Friar got down on the floor with him an’ played bear an’ horse an’ the kid entered into it an’ fair howled with merriment. Kit scolded ’em both an’ took so much interest in their antics she hardly knew what she was doin’ to the supper things.
Before long Olaf came in. He still took up all the space not otherwise occupied; but he had an altogether-satisfied expression which made ya forget how everlastin’ ugly he really was. He took us out an’ showed us the garden, an’ the new wire fencin’ an’ the baby’s swing, an’ all the rest of his treasures. Olaf didn’t want any more changes to take place in the world. If his vote could have made it, things would just continue as they were until the earth wore out. It made me feel a little lonely for a moment; but I entered in as hearty as I could.
Durin’ supper I sez to Kit: “Well, Ty Jones has a woman, now; and if it improves him as much as it has Olaf, he may blossom out into a good neighbor to you yet.”
“Ty Jones got a woman!” exclaimed Kit. “Well, I’d just like to lay my eyes on the woman ’at would take Ty Jones.”
“Oh, all women ain’t so set on havin’ a handsome man as you were,” sez I.
“Well, I wouldn’t have any other kind,” sez Kit, an’ she gave her head a toss while Olaf grinned like a full moon.
They were both purty well beat out to think o’ Ty Jones havin’ a woman, an’ we all talked it over durin’ the rest o’ the meal. After supper, Olaf took the kid on his lap and sat by the fire tellin’ us his plans, while Kit cleared up the dishes an’ stuck in a word of her own now and again. It was plain to see ’at she did full as much o’ the plannin’ as he did, an’ this was probably what made her so satisfied. The kid regarded Olaf’s mustache as some sort of an exercisin’ machine, an’ Olaf had to fight him all the time he was talkin’, but he certainly did set a heap o’ store by that boy.
He told us he had about sixty cows and a fair run o’ two an’ three year olds with a high average of calves; but that he intended to sell the whole run to the Double V outfit up on the Rawhide, and get a small band of sheep. This flattened me out complete; but he had a lot of arguments on his side. He was also experimentin’ with grain seed which he had got from Canada, an’ he already had a patch of alfalfa which was doin’ fine. He was one o’ those fellers who can’t tire ’emselves out, an’ so just keep on workin’ as long as the law allows ’em to use daylight. He had a young Swede workin’ for him, but just at that time, he was off lookin’ for the work hosses which had voted ’emselves a vacation, an’ had gone up into the hills.
The Friar wanted to go up into the Basin country next day, so we bedded down purty early. I lay awake a long time thinkin’ over what a fright Olaf had once been, and how he had straightened out of it.
Next mornin’ we started soon after sun-up. The Friar had a couple o’ women runnin’ a Sunday School at Bosco, and he wanted to see how they were gettin’ along. They had belonged to his brand of church clear back in England, and he set a lot of store by ’em; but owned up that they had their work cut out for ’em at Bosco; it bein’ one o’ the most ungodly little towns in the whole country.
We nooned on Carter, slipped over Boulder Creek Pass, and reached Bosco at sun-down. It allus surprised me to see how much travel the Friar could chalk up, takin’ his weight into account; but he was less irritatin’ to a hoss ’n airy other man I ever met up with. The more of a hurry he was in, the more time he took on the bad hills; and he never robbed a hoss by sleepin’ an hour late in the mornin’, an’ makin’ the hoss even up by travelin’ beyond his gait.
The husband of one o’ these women ran a saloon, the husband of the other—the women were sisters—was the undertaker and also ran a meat market. I thought this about the queerest business arrangement I had ever been confronted against; but the man himself was full as peculiar as his business.
I have a game I have played with myself all my life. I call it “why,” an’ I suppose it has furnished me more fun ’n anything else has. I take any proposition I come across an’ say all the whys about it I can think up an’ then try to answer ’em. Why did anything ever happen just as it did happen just when it did happen? This is the joke o’ life to me. I have played it on myself times without end; but only once in a while even with myself can I follow the line back to common sense.
Bosco was a regular town with twenty or thirty houses, a post office, two general stores, three saloons, an’ all such things; and right on a good stage road runnin’ north an’ south. We stopped with the meat-market undertaker, ’cause they didn’t think it quite respectable for the Friar to live off the profits of the liquor traffic; though the Friar allus said ’at he had a heap more respect for a square saloon-keeper ’n for a sneaky drygoods merchant.
Shindy Smith was the saloon-keeper, an’ Bill Duff was the undertaker. Duff was the absent-mindedest man I ever got intimate with, an’ about drove his wife to distraction, she bein’ one o’ these hustlers who never make a false move. He had the idee that bein’ an undertaker took away his license to laugh, so he allus walked on his toes an’ disported as solemn a face as nature would allow; but nature had intended him for a butcher, an’ had made his face round and jowly. Whenever he didn’t have anything else to do, he used to sit down an’ practice lookin’ solemn. He’d fix his eyes on the ceilin’, clasp his hands across his stomach, pull up his eyebrows, droop his mouth, an’ look for all the world like a man dyin’ o’ the colic.
He was so absent-minded that he’d raise his cup to take a drink of coffee, forget what he had started to do, an’ like as not pour it over his flapjacks for syrup. He started to engineer a funeral once with his butcher’s apron on, and they told all sorts of stories about him which was shockin’ to an extent; though his wife kept such a sharp eye on him, that I don’t believe more ’n half of ’em. Still it wasn’t any sort o’ business for an absent-minded man to be in.
It was an uncertain business. Of course all lines o’ trade in a thinly settled country go by fits an’ starts; but his was worst of all. Sometimes he’d have as many as three funerals a month, and at others it would take him six weeks to sell out a beef carcass. A feller who had a spite again’ him started the story ’at he soaked his meat in embalmin’ fluid, an’ then if they came an extra special rush in both lines of his business at the same time, he’d—but then his wife kept such a skeptical eye on him, ’at I don’t believe a word of these stories, an’ I’m not goin’ to repeat ’em. The worst I had again’ him was that he was so everlastin’ careless. I lay awake frettin’ about his carelessness till I couldn’t stand it a second longer; and then I rolled up half the beddin’ an’ started to sleep on the side porch.
“Where you goin’?” sez the Friar.
“This here Bill Duff is too absent-minded an’ forgetful for me,” sez I.
“What do ya mean?” sez the Friar.
“Well,” sez I, “I don’t want to make light o’ sacred things, nor nothin’ like that; but Bill Duff’s got somethin’ stored up in this room which should ’a’ been a funeral three weeks ago, and I intend to sleep outside.”
The Friar chuckled to himself until he shook the whole house; but it wasn’t no joke to me; so I shunted the beddin’ out on the roof o’ the porch, which was flat, and prepared to take my rest where the air was thin enough to flow into my nostrils without scrapin’ the lid off o’ what Horace called his ol’ factory nerve.
As soon as the Friar could recover his breath, he staggered to the window, an’ sez: “That’s nothin’ but cheese, you blame tenderfoot. Limburger cheese is the food Bill Duff is fondest of, and he has four boxes of it stored in this room.”
“Then,” sez I, comin’ in with the beddin’, “I’ll sleep in the bed, an’ the cheese can sleep on the porch; but hanged if I’ll occupy the same apartment with it.” I set the cheese out on the porch—it was the ripest cheese in the world, I reckon—and it drew all the dogs in town before mornin’. After they found it was above their reach, I’m convinced they put up the best fight I ever listened to.
It took a long time for the memory o’ that cheese to find its way out the window; and I lay thinkin’ o’ the Friar’s work, long after he had drifted off himself. He wasn’t squeamish about small things, the Friar wasn’t, and this was one of his main holts. When we had got ready to eat that night, Mrs. Duff had tipped Bill a wink to ask the Friar to say blessin’. Bill was in one of his vacant spells, as usual, so he looked solemn at the Friar, and sez: “It’s your deal, Parson.” Now, a lot o’ preachers would ’a’ gone blue an’ sour at that; but the Friar never blinked a winker.
Then after supper, all the young folks o’ that locality had swooped in to play with him. This winnin’ o’ young folks was a gift with the Friar, and it used to warm me up to watch him in the midst of a flock of ’em. He showed ’em all kinds o’ tricks with matches an’ arithmetic numbers, an’ taught ’em some new games, and then he put up a joke on ’em. He allus put up one joke on ’em each visit.
This time he puts a glass of water under his hat, looks solemn, and sez ’at he can drink the water without raisin’ the hat. They all bet he can’t, and finally he goes into a corner, makes motions with his throat, and sez he is now ready to prove it. Half a dozen rush forward and lift the hat, and he drinks the water, and thanks ’em for liftin’ the hat for him so he could drink the water an’ make his word good.
Some folks used to kick again’ him and say he was worldly; but his methods worked, an’ that’s a good enough test for me. He took out the shyness an’ the meanness an’ the stupidity, and gave the good parts a chance to grow; which I take it is no more again’ religion than the public school is. Why, he even taught ’em card tricks.
He could take a deck of cards and turn it into a complete calendar, leap year and all; and then he could turn it into a bible, showin’ easy ways to learn things, until a feller really could believe ’at cards was invented by the early Christians who had to live in caves, as some claim. All the time he was playin’ with ’em, he was smugglin’ in wise sayin’s with his fun, pointin’ out what made the difference between deceivin’ for profit, and deceivin’ for a little joke, tellin’ ’em how to enjoy life without abusin’ it—Why, he even went so far as to say that if a feller couldn’t be religious in a brandin’ pen he couldn’t be religious in a cathedral—which is a two-gun church with fancy trimmin’s.
By the time he had expanded the young folks and made ’em easy and at home, the older ones had arrived; and then he held a preachin’. The whole outfit joined in with the singin’, and when he began to talk to ’em every eye in the room was glistenin’. You see, he knew them and their life; and they knew him and his. He had nursed ’em through sickness, he had tended their babies, he had helped to build their cabins an’ turn ’em into homes; so the words flowed out of his heart and into theirs without any break between. This was the Friar and this was his work—but I can’t put it into a story.
The’ was a no-account cuss by the name o’ Jim Stubbs who lived—if ya could call it livin’—at Boggs; and the Friar induced him to go along on one of his trips. When Jim came back he was a made-over man, and every one asked him if he had religion. “Hell, no,” sez Jim, tryin’ to be independent, “I ain’t got religion; but a feller catches somethin’ from the Friar the same as if he had the measles; and I don’t covet to be a bum no more.”
This gives ya the best idy of the Friar that I can think of; and I finally fell asleep there at Bill Duff’s, with my mind made up to bury my own heartache, keep the grave of it green, but live out my life as hard as the Friar was livin’ his.
We had intended to projec about in the Basin next day to rustle up some new trade in the Friar’s line; but my pony turned up lame, so we held over to get him shod. When the stage pulled in that evenin’, me an’ the Friar went down to see it. A little feller sat on the seat with the driver. His hat was covered with dust an’ pulled down over his eyes, an’ what ya could see of him was the color o’ coffee; but the moment I lay eyes on his side-burns, I grabbed the Friar’s arm an’ whispered, “Horace!” and by dad, that’s who it was. Promotheus was in the back seat, an’ he looked for all the world like an enlarged copy, except that his side-burns were red an’ gray, while Horace’s were mostly brown. But they were cut exactly the same, startin’ from his ears, runnin’ across his cheeks an’ lips, an’ then curvin’ down to the crook of his jaw, close cropped an’ bristly.
Horace an’ Promotheus hit the ground as soon as the stage stopped, an’ me an’ the Friar dropped back out o’ sight inside the hotel. Horace gave orders about his two boxes an’ started into the hotel. Just as he came through the door, I stepped out an’ gave him a shove. “You can’t come in here,” I growled.
He stepped back as fierce as a rattler. “I can’t, huh?” he piped. “Well, we’ll see if I can’t.”
Then he recognized me, an’ we began to pump hands. He said ’at he and Promotheus had only reached home three weeks before; but they couldn’t stand it, an’ so had made a streak for the West. He said they had been in Africa an’ India, until they had become plumb disgusted with tropical heat, an’ so had come out the northern route, expectin’ to outfit at Bosco an’ ride down to the Diamond Dot.
We suppered with ’em an’ next day they bought a string o’ hosses, packed their stuff on ’em, an’ said they were ready for some amusement. Horace had got a little snappier in his talk an’ his movements; but that was about the only change. As soon as we told ’em about Ty Jones havin’ a woman, that settled it. Horace insisted upon seein’ the woman, an’ Promotheus echoed anything ’at Horace said, though his face clouded a bit at the idee of foolin’ around the Cross brand ranch. The Friar didn’t feel any call to go along with us; but it was more to my mind just then ’n his line was, so I jumped at the chance.
Horace was also mighty glad to add me to his outfit. He had been used to havin’ a lot o’ Zulus an’ Hindus waitin’ on him, and hadn’t adjusted himself to a small outfit yet. He said he had sent a lot o’ hides an’ heads an’ horns and other plunder from London, England, to the Diamond Dot; but had been too busy to write durin’ the past few years. He and the Friar had quite a talk together before we left; but I could tell from their faces ’at Horace didn’t have any news for him.
We had high jinks when we reached Olaf’s; but Horace didn’t make any hit with the kid. The kid had a jack-in-the-box toy ’at looked consid’able like Horace, an’ the kid couldn’t square things in his own mind, to see a big size one, out an’ walkin’ about like a regular human; but when he also got to studyin’ Promotheus, he was all undone. Olaf tried to have him make up to Horace, but he wouldn’t stand for it. He’d sit on Olaf’s knee and look first at his jack-in-the-box, then at Horace, and wind up with a long look at Promotheus. Promotheus would try to smile kind an’ invitin’, and then the kid would twist around and bury his face in Olaf’s vest. Horace nor Promotheus didn’t mind it any; but as far as that goes, the kid was only actin’ honest an’ natural, accordin’ to his lights, an’ the jack-in-the-box had as much of a kick comin’ as anybody.
Ty had been down there just the day after we had left, an’ had wanted to buy Olaf’s place; but only offered half what it was worth. He had done this half a dozen times, an’ allus insulted Olaf as much as he could about it. Olaf had wanted to sell out at first; but Kit had been able to see ’at they had a homestead fit for any thing, and she had allus insisted that they get full price or hang on. Now, it was improved way beyond common, an’ they were both fond of it; so they had decided to stick it out.
“This is goin’ to be a dry summer,” sez I.
Olaf’s face clouded up but he only shut his lips tighter. We told ’em we were on our way up to try an’ have a look at Ty Jones’s woman, and Olaf said he’d go along if he didn’t have to trail his cattle up to the Raw Hide, this bein’ part o’ the deal he had made. He said it would take him about ten days probably, an’ wanted us to camp in the Spread, an’ keep an eye on his stuff. Olaf clipped the first joint off o’ Promotheus’s name, an’ I was glad of it.
We chucked our stuff into the barn next mornin’ an’ started to stalk the Cross brand neighborhood. Horace had a small field glass which was a wonder, and we worked as careful as we could. It was only fifteen miles across from Olaf’s; but all we were able to do the first day was to find a little sheltered spot up back o’ the ranch buildin’s where we could get a good view of ’em through the field glass.
Next day Olaf an’ Oscar started with the bunch o’ cattle, an’ we rode along part way with ’em to give ’em a good start; but Olaf had handled his stuff so gentle that it was no trouble, an’ we turned back an’ took up our watch again. We watched for a week without seein’ a thing, ridin’ in each night to sleep back of Olaf’s shack. Me an’ Theus—I had seen Olaf’s ante an’ had raised him one—were gettin’ purty weary o’ this sort o’ work; but Horace was as patient as a spider. Finally though, we got a little more risky, and leavin’ our hosses up in our sheltered spot, we follered down a ravine to get nearer to the new cabin.
We had caught several glimpses of a woman to prove to us ’at the’ was one there; but that was about all, an’ so we went down this ravine, tryin’ to figure out what excuse we’d give if we came across any of Ty Jones’s men. Neither me nor The—Promotheus had said ’at we couldn’t be no politer ’n he could, so he had lopped off the last joint, and now had as neat a workin’ name as any one, although Horace still insisted on usin’ the whole outfit when he had occasion to address him. Well, neither me nor The felt just easy in our minds at snoopin’ about Ty’s when we hadn’t any business to, especially The; but Horace was as selfcomposed as though he was herdin’ lions out o’ tall grass, which it seems had been his favorite pastime durin’ the last few years.
The knew the ravine well; he said it ran full o’ water in the spring, but after that was dry all the year. We got about half-way down it, an’ then we came to a path ’at was plain enough to see. The stopped an’ wagged his head. “No one ever used to use this,” sez he.
“Well, some one uses it purty constant, now,” sez I.
“The woman is the one who uses it,” sez Horace. “She’s lonely, that’s plain enough. The path climbs the opposite bank—let’s cross an’ go up.”
Me an’ The bucked at this for some time; but Horace hung out; so we went along with him. We finally came to a little glen with a spring in it, an’ grass, and in a little clump o’ small trees, we came across a book lyin’ face down on a Navajo blanket.
“That’s gettin’ close,” sez Horace.
“Yes!” sez we, in low tones.
We scouted all around; but no one was there, an’ then we took a line on the hill back of us, picked out a likely spot, and returned the way we had come, this bein’ the only direct way. We didn’t meet a soul—at least none wearin’ bodies, though from the creepy feelin’ I had part of the time, I won’t ever be certain we didn’t meet any souls.
Next day, we circled the peak and got up to the spot we had picked out. We could see the clump o’ trees plain enough; and along about three in the afternoon, we saw the woman come up the path, walkin’ slow an’ actin’ weary. She had two big dogs with her, and whenever she’d stop to rest a bit, she’d pet ’em. “Well,” sez The, “things has changed a heap when ol’ Ty Jones stands for havin’ his dogs patted.”
We couldn’t get a good view of her face from where we were, but we could get a fine view o’ the ranch buildin’s. The’ didn’t seem to be much work on hand, and we saw eight or ten men foolin’ around an’ pretendin’ to do chores. The recognized the two Greasers he had been ridin’ with the day he had pulled on Horace, and one or two others; but most of ’em was strangers to him. He said the Greasers were about the most devilish speciments he had ever herded with—an’ Ty’s whole outfit was made up o’ fellers who had qualified to wear hemp.
Horace was keen to go on down to her an’ get a good look; but me an’ The took the bits in our teeth at this. We knew what those dogs were like, an’ refused pointblank to go a peg unless he could think up a good enough excuse for us to give to Ty Jones—and we wouldn’t let Horace go down alone.
“The best plan I can see,” sez I, pointin’ to a cluster o’ big rocks down the slope to the left, “is to circle back to those rocks. We can see her face plain from there when she comes back the path.”
After examinin’ this plan we decided it was the best; but when we went after our hosses, Horace’s had broke his reins an’ gone back through the hills. By the time me an’ The had rounded him up, it was too late, so we had to wait till next day.
Next day I left the other two at our first look-out and rode on to the new one. As soon as she came in sight, I waved my hat to ’em and they sneaked down to the bunch o’ rocks. I rode back an’ left my hoss with theirs, an’ then joined ’em.
She didn’t come into view till after five o’clock. When she reached the edge of the ravine an’ started down, she paused an’ looked off into the valley with her face in plain view. Horace looked at it through his glasses, gave a start, and then handed the glasses to The. “Have you ever seen any one who looked like her?” sez he.
The looked and broke out into a regular expression. “That’s the original of the photograph I had,” sez he.
“That’s the Friar’s girl, sure as the sky’s above us,” sez Horace.
I grabbed the glass and took a look. She did look like the picture, but older and more careworn. Some way I had allus thought o’ the Friar’s girl as bein’ young and full of high spirits, with her head thrown back an’ her eyes dancin’; but just as I looked through the glasses, she pressed her hands to her head, and her face was wrinkled with pain. She was better lookin’ than common, but most unhappy.
“That devil, Ty Jones, is mean to her!” I growled between my teeth.
“Dogs or no dogs, I’m goin’ down to have a talk with her,” sez Horace.
He started to get up, but I pulled him back to the ground. I had kept my eyes on her, and had seen the two dogs turn their heads down the ravine, and her own head turn with a jerk, as though some one had called to her. Horace looked through the glasses again, and said he could see her lips move as though talkin’ to some one, and then she went down into the ravine. We couldn’t see the bottom of the ravine from where we were, nor we couldn’t see the ranch buildin’s; so we hustled back through some washes to our look-out, and reached it just as she and Ty came out at the bottom.
They were walkin’ side by side, but Horace, who was lookin’ through the glasses, said they seemed to be quarrelin’. “It’s moonlight to-night,” sez Horace, “and I’m goin’ to sneak down and try to see her.”
We argued again’ it all we could, but he stood firm; so all we could do was to sit there and wait for the lights to go out in the bunk-house. As she was a reader, we figured ’at she’d be the last one to turn in; normal habits an’ appetites not havin’ much effect on book-readers.
Human emotions are like clocks: some of ’em will run longer ’n others; but they’ll all run down unless they’re wound up again every so often. Even fear will only run so long, as several late-lamented bullies have been forced to learn just before they passed over the Great Divide. After you’ve scared a feller as bad as he can get, it is well enough to let him alone. If you keep on addin’ horror onto horror, his fear is likely to run down; and the chances are ’at he’ll get irritated, and slaughter ya.
I don’t know whether or not patience can rightly be called an emotion; but anyway, mine runs down a little easier ’n airy other o’ my faculties, and sittin’ up in the chill an’ waitin’ for a lot o’ festive fools to go to bed, allus was just the sort o’ thing to disgust me. Those Cross-branders didn’t seem to have any more use for shut-eye that night than a convention o’ owls. Some of ’em rode off at dusk, but more of ’em arrived, and they held some sort of high jinks in the bunk-house, till I began to talk back at myself loud enough for all to hear. It was full moon an’ we could see dogs loafin’ an’ fightin’ down at the ranch, the light in the new cabin was the first to go out, an’ for the life of me, I couldn’t see where we had a single pair to stay on; but Horace seemed to accumulate obstinacy with every breath he drew. The sided with me, but criticizin’ Horace went again’ his religion, so he didn’t make any more uproar than a gnat fight.
Finally I calmed down until I could stretch each word out a full breath an’ sez in my doviest voice: “Horace, will you kindly tell me what in hell you intend to do?”
He studied the situation careful, and took all the time he needed to do it. “I’m goin’ back to camp,” sez he. “To-morrow night they’ll be sleepy, and we’ll have the whole place to ourselves.”
“Hurrah for hot weather! Greece has finally melted!” I yelled, an’ we hustled for our ponies.
I have a buck-skin riggin’ I put on the bridle of a hoss who gets into the evil way of steppin’ on his reins; and I had fixed one on Horace’s hoss to bring him back to his senses should he attempt to play the same trick he had worked on us the day before. When a hoss wearin’ one o’ these contrivances steps on his reins it pinches his ears, down close to his head where they’re tender, and generally works a reformation in short order.
We forgot all about this, and when Horace jumped into his saddle, he gave a jerk on the reins—and got bucked into a clump o’ cactus. The hoss didn’t try any runnin’, though, which proves he had learned a proper respect for trailin’ reins. Still, Horace wasn’t quite in the mood to see the beauty o’ my method, so he insisted upon my swappin’ hosses with him. It was a good two-hours’ ride to Olaf’s, and by the time we had changed saddles, and I had convinced the pony that his idees of buckin’ were childish an’ fu-tile, and his show of temper had only given him a hundred an’ ninety pounds to carry instead of a hundred an’ twenty, it was after nine o’clock.
We were hungry enough to call for speed; but still it was eleven by the time we reached the Spread. We thought we had seen a horseman go into it from the other direction; but the moon had ducked under a cloud and we couldn’t be certain.
We didn’t intend to waken Kit if we could help it; so we started to put the hosses into the corral as quiet as possible. Just as we had thrown our saddles over the top bar, we heard a commotion from the cabin, and started for it on the run.
There wasn’t any light in the cabin; but we heard Kit screamin’, and before we arrived, we saw a man rush around the corner just as the door was flung open, and two other men jumped towards him from the inside. These two had knives in their hands; and the man outside took a step back. They rushed him, but he hit one with his right fist, and the other with his left, and curled ’em both up again’ the side o’ the house in a way to make a feller’s heart dance for joy. Then we saw it was the Friar himself, and we gave a whoop.
Kit had banged the door shut, put up the bar, got a rifle and made ready for what was to come next; but when she heard our whoop, she put on her wrapper and opened the door. The two men ’at the Friar had crumpled up were those same two Greasers ’at The had told us were the meanest pair he had ever herded with.
We took ’em by the heels an’ straightened ’em out, while Kit indulged in a few little hystericals. The Friar had allus been a great hand to expound upon moral force an’ spiritual force, and such items, and now when the two Greasers refused to come back an’ claim their own bodies, he got a little fidgetty.
“Friar,” I sez, “I give in to you. Your quiet way o’ lettin’ the right work out its own salvation is the surest way I know; and in an emergency like this, it does full as well as violence.”
The Friar wasn’t in no mood for hilarity, though; so after gettin’ their weapons an’ tyin’ ’em up, we soused the Greasers with water, and brought ’em back to give an account o’ themselves, Kit all the time tellin’ us what had happened.
It seems ’at Kit had been hoein’ in her beloved garden that day an’ had been purty tired at night; so after waitin’ for us until she got exasperated, she had eaten her own supper, put ours on the table, an’ turned in. Olaf had put up another cabin the same size as his first. He had put ’em side by side with a porch joinin’ at their eaves. In one cabin was the dinin’ room an’ kitchen, all in one, and in the other was the bedroom an’ settin’ room.
Kit had heard a noise in the settin’ room and had opened the door before she was full awake, thinkin’ it was the dog or cat. The minute she had opened the door they had grabbed her, and she had begun to scream. They shut off her wind a little; but they wasn’t rough with her—quite the contrary. They leered into her eyes, and patted her on the shoulders, and made queer, gurglin’ noises in their dirty brown throats; but they didn’t speak to her, not one word.
Kit was strong, an’ she had fought ’em to a standstill for what she thinks was twenty minutes, at least; but she was beginnin’ to weaken. One of ’em kept his arm about her neck, and whenever she tried to scream, shut off her wind. She had heard the Friar’s hoss nicker when he opened the first pole gate, and this provided her with enough moral courage to sink her teeth into the wrist of the arm about her neck. The feller had give a yell, and struck her; but at the same time, she had opened up a scream of her own which loosened things all over the neighborhood.
The Friar had first put for the settin’ room door; but they had locked this door on the inside, intendin’ to go out the side door. He savvied this so he dove into the porch-way between the two cabins, and made a rattlin’ on this door. They had paused at this; but he had to rattle several times before they took down the front bar. We had been fordin’ the crick about this time.
The Greasers had tried to get out the window once; but Kit had called out what they were up to; so they had turned on her an’ choked and beat her scandalous.
This was Kit’s side, and by the time she had finished tellin’ it, the Greasers had begun to moan an’ toss. The Friar gave a sigh of relief, as soon as they came to enough to begin grittin’ their teeth. I sat ’em up with their backs again’ the side of the cabin, and intimated that we were ready to receive their last words.
We had to encourage ’em a bit, one way or another; but we finally got out of ’em that they had poisoned the dog, and then cut a crack in the door till they could raise the bar. They said ’at Ty Jones hadn’t had no hand in plannin’ their trip; but had offered ’em a hundred apiece if they could put Olaf in the mood of wishin’ he had sold out peaceable.
“Well,” sez I, as soon as they were through, “shall we finish with ’em to-night, or give ’em till to-morrow to repent?”
“We shall of course deliver them to the proper officials to be tried by due process of law,” sez the Friar.
“What for?” sez I. “Ya never can tell how a trial will turn out; but we know ’at they have forfeited the right to live; so we’ll just give ’em what they’ve earned and save all fuss.”
“No good ever comes of men taking the law into their own hands,” sez the Friar firmly.
“How come, then, that you didn’t run an’ tell some justice o’ the peace, ’at these two snakes was actin’ disrespectful—instead of knockin’ ’em up again’ the logs?” sez I.
“I should have done so if I had had time,” sez the Friar with dignity.
“Well, you’re better trained ’n we are,” sez I; “but it still takes a little time for you to make your hands mind your self-control, after you’ve been het up. You can do it in ten minutes, say; but it takes us about a week, and by that time the’ won’t be any need for the law.”
“No,” sez the Friar, “I insist that we rely upon the law. We count ourselves as of the better element; and the most vicious conditions arise when the better element takes the law into its own hands. When a vicious man does illegal violence, it does not establish a precedent; but when the decent man does the same thing, it tears away forms of civilization which have taken centuries to construct.”
“That sounds like sense,” sez I; “and after this is all over, I don’t mind arguin’ it out with you; but right now, it would seem to me that if we went to law about this, it would be because we wanted to shoulder onto the law the responsibility of doin’ what we feel ought to be done, but which we haven’t the nerve to do ourselves.”
“If you attempt to lynch these men, I shall ride at once and give the alarm,” sez the Friar.
“And when you came back, you would find ’em swingin’ from a limb,” sez I. “I’m with you in most things, Friar, and if the’ was a shred o’ doubt, I’d be with you in this; but it’s too plain a case. I’m willin’ to hold these two in secret until we can collect a posse o’ twelve to give ’em a jury trial; but this is the most I’ll do. Ty Jones has got others of his gang away from the law, but he don’t get these two—not if I can help it.”
Horace sided with me, and so did The, though he didn’t have much to say. He was thinkin’ of his own trip to pester Olaf, and it came back to him purty strong. The Friar finally had to agree not to notify the law until I’d had time to gather up a posse. I made Horace promise not to tell the Friar about our seein’ the woman back at Ty’s, saw that the Greasers were planted safe in Olaf’s log barn, and set out at once for the Diamond Dot on a fresh hoss. I never want to eat none before startin’ a ride like this.
I rode all that night through the moonlight; swingin’ up over the passes, fordin’ the rivers, and reachin’ the Diamond Dot at noon the next day. I didn’t let on to Jabez ’at I was there at all; but I got Spider Kelley, ol’ Tank Williams, Tillte Dutch, and Mexican Slim to take a vacation and come on back with me. This gave five for the jury, as I didn’t intend to have Horace or The sit on it, not knowin’ how far their prejudice might prevent ’em from executin’ my idee of justice. We set out to return, about five o’clock, and rode into the Spread at seven the next mornin’ with eight other fellers we had brought along for good measure.
Old Jimmy Simpson and his four grown sons were in this bunch, and I was purty well acquainted with ’em. I knew ’at they had been amply pestered by Ty Jones’s outfit, and wouldn’t be too particular about what book-law might have to say on the subject, though ol’ man Simpson was up on book-law. The other three were fellers they knew and were willin’ to guarantee. We were all a little sleepy, so we decided to hold the trial after dinner.
The Friar had spent as much time with the Greasers as they’d stand for; but he hadn’t made much impression on ’em. I knew ’at he was heart-whole in his attitude, an’ I hated to cross him; but this was a case o’ principle with me, so when we got ready for the trial, I tried to get him to take a long walk, but he refused.
We held the trial in front o’ the barn, and it was as legal as any trial ever was, and as solemn, too. We untied the prisoners, and called Kit for the first witness. She told it just as she had told it to us, but her bruised face would have been all that was necessary. Then we called the Friar and he told his part, and we let him make a speech in favor o’ law and order; and cheered him hearty, too, when he got through.
I had just begun to give my part, when Olaf and Oscar rode up. Olaf sat on his hoss and looked at us a moment, at Kit with her bruised face, holdin’ the boy in her arms, at the prisoners and us; and then he asked the Friar what it all meant. The Friar was sunonomous with truth, as far as Olaf was concerned.
Olaf listened quietly, the dark red risin’ in his cheeks bein’ about the only change in him. When the Friar finished, Olaf got off his hoss. “The’ won’t be need of any more trial,” sez he. “Kit, you go to the house.”
Kit started for the house, and the Friar asked Olaf what he intended to do.
“Kill ’em,” sez Olaf, “with my two hands.”
He unbuckled his belt and threw it on the ground, then kicked off his chaps, and stepped through the ring we had formed. “Stop,” said the Friar. “Olaf, I forbid this.”
“You had better go to the house, Friar,” said Olaf with pleadin’ in his voice. “Go in—please go in—an’ comfort Kit.”
The Friar made a rush, but we fended him off. The Greasers also tried to make a get-away; and between the three of ’em we were some busy; but it didn’t last long. When the Greasers saw they couldn’t break our ring, they turned on Olaf like cornered rats. They struck him and they choked him; but not once did he speak, and whenever his grip closed on their flesh, he ruined that part forever. It was a horrid sight; but I couldn’t have turned my eyes away if I’d wanted to. In the end he broke their necks, one after the other, and then he stood up straight and wiped his forehead. “I take the blame,” said he. “I take all the blame, here and hereafter”; which certainly was a square thing to do, though we hadn’t counted on it, any.
The Friar had been in earnest tryin’ to get to Olaf; so ’at the four Simpson boys had finally been forced to throw, an’ sit on him. As soon as it was over, they got up and apologized, offerin’ to let him take out any spite on ’em he saw fit, and promisin’ not to feel any ill-will; but the Friar wasn’t angry. He was hurt and sad to think ’at we’d do such a thing; but he had no resentment towards us.
“I know most of you men well,” said he; “and I know you have done this because you felt it was right. I don’t put you on one side and myself on the other. I take my full share o’ the blame. It merely proves that my influence with you during the many years we have been together has not been for the best, and I am very sorry to learn how poor my work has been.”
He turned and went up to the house; and we all felt nearly as bad about the way he had taken it as though the confounded Greasers had got away altogether. We talked it over and finally loaded their bodies into Olaf’s wagon, and hauled ’em up on the rim, where we buried ’em and heaped a lot o’ stones over ’em. We began to feel better after this, and shook hands all around, and the Simpsons and their three friends rode away.
Then we told the others about havin’ seen the Friar’s girl at Ty Jones’s and held a council as to how we should tell him. We finally delegated Horace to do it, though he wasn’t ambitious for the job. The Friar had told Kit that it was all over, and had left to take a walk without eatin’ any supper. We still felt purty low-spirited, and we didn’t eat much ourselves; though we felt certain he wouldn’t bother his head much about a couple o’ Greasers, as soon as he found out his own girl was Ty Jones’s woman.
The boys had come light from the Diamond Dot, but Horace had outfitted way beyond his needs, intendin’ to do consid’able campin’ around, and Olaf also had a couple of extra tarps and plenty o’ beddin’; so we fixed up our old bunk-shack which had been left standin’, and settled down as though the interval between our previous visit hadn’t been more ’n ten days.
The Friar came back about ten o’clock. He came into our shack as quiet as he could; but Horace was sittin’ before the fire waitin’ for him. It was a warm night; but we had built the fire to make it a little more cheerful, and had left the door wide open. Horace saw the Friar the minute he reached the doorway, and he got up and went outside with him.
They were gone nearly an hour, and then Horace sneaked in, and wakened me up. I follered him outside; and he said that the Friar intended to ride down to see Ty Jones as soon as it was day, and that he insisted on ridin’ alone. The Friar was walkin’ up and down in the moonlight, his face was all twisted up, through his tryin’ to hold it calm, when I took my turn at reasonin’ with him; but it wasn’t any use.
“Well, you’ll not go alone,” I said at last; “and you can make up your mind to that now. We don’t know how much Ty already knows about our puttin’ the Greasers out o’ the game, and we don’t know how much of it he’ll lay to you; but we do know that he hates you, and would wipe your name off the list the first good chance he had. I’m goin’ along.”
The Friar was hot; we stood there in the moonlight facin’ each other and takin’ each other’s measures. He was a shade taller and some heavier ’n I was; and ya could see ’at he’d have given right smart to have felt free to mix it with me. “Do you think I’m a baby?” he burst out. “Do you think ’at I’m not fit to be trusted out o’ your sight? You take entirely too much on yourself, Happy Hawkins!”
I didn’t want to taunt him to hurt him—I’d rather been kicked by a hoss than to do this—but I did want to arouse him to a sense o’ the truth. “You have adjusted yourself to this locality purty well, Friar,” sez I; “but the’s still a lot you don’t quite savvy. Some cases must be settled by a man himself, but some must be left to the law. If this woman is the wife o’ Ty Jones, he has the law on his side.”
He turned from me and stamped off into the night with his hands clenched. He disappeared in the cottonwoods, and I was just beginnin’ to wonder if I hadn’t better foller him, when he came back again. “Oh, I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool!” he cried. “All my life I have tried not to judge others, but all my life I have judged them. I have tried to put myself in their place, but allus I judged and condemned them for giving way to temptations which I felt that I, in their place, could have resisted. I have been a fool, and I still am a fool. I admit that you are right, and I am wrong—but, I am going to Ty Jones’s at dawn, and I’m goin’ alone.”
Well, that settled it—me an’ the Friar had to buck each other again. He continued to stalk up an’ down through moonlight and shadow; while I tried to plan a way to head him off. I was dead sleepy, but I went around and wakened up all the other fellers, and told ’em not to get up in the mornin’ until called; next I got Tank to help me, and we waited until the Friar had walked in the opposite direction, and then we took the ponies out o’ the corral and headed ’em toward the hills. The farther we got, the rougher with ’em we got, and then we turned our own mounts loose, and sent ’em after the bunch. It was a big job to pack our saddles back on our heads, but we did it, and tore down the fences to pertend ’at the ponies had vamoosed on their own hook. Horace was walkin’ with the Friar now, arguin’ the benefit of a little sleep, so ’at he’d be at his best. After a time the Friar did go to bed in Horace’s tarp in the corner.
I didn’t wake up till after seven, myself, and all the fellers were pertendin’ to sleep as though it wasn’t more ’n three. The Friar didn’t wake up till eight. He was beside himself when he found the ponies gone; but he ate breakfast as calm as he could, and then set out with us to wrangle in some hosses on foot.
Goin’ after hosses on foot is sufficiently irritatin’ to a ridin’ outfit to make it easy enough to believe ’at this was all an accident, and we didn’t come up with the ponies till nearly noon. When we cornered ’em up, I never in my life saw as much poor ropin’, nor as much good actin’; but we finally got enough gentle ones to ride bareback, so we could wrangle in the rest; and after a quick lunch, the Friar started to make his hoss ready.
We all started along with him. He stopped and faced on us, givin’ us a long, cold look-over. You can say all you want to again’ swearin’, but the’s times when it springs out of its own accord in a man, as natural and beautiful and satisfyin’ as the flowers blossom forth on the cactus plants; and I haven’t a shred of doubt that if the Friar had handed us some o’ the remarks that came ready-framed to his tongue just then, they’d have been well worth storin’ up for future needs; but all he did was to fold his arms, and say: “Your methods are not my methods. I am not goin’ there to start trouble, and I do not even wish to give them the slightest excuse to start it of their own vo-lition. If you are my friends, you will respect my wishes.”
“Well, but you’ll take at least one of us along, won’t ya, Friar?” sez ol’ Tank. “Likely as not we wouldn’t take it up, nohow; but still if they made away with ya, we’d sort o’ like to know about it as early as possible, in order not to feel suspensed any longer ’n was necessary.”
“I should like to take one man along as a guide, as I am not entirely familiar with the trail from here,” sez the Friar, still talkin’ to us as though we were a lot of evil-lookin’ strangers. “If one of you were to go along until we came within sight o’ the ranch buildin’s—No, they might see him and get the idee that he had gone back to join a reserve body, and I do not wish them to have the slightest grounds for resorting to force on their side. I shall have to go alone.”
“I can see what you’ve been drivin’ at, now,” sez Tank, whose face was so muddled up that no one ever tried to read his thoughts in his features, and so he could lie with impunity. “Yes, I can see what you mean, now, and I got to own up ’at you’re right about it. Still, you know, Friar, we’re bound to worry about ya. How long do you want us to wait before we start to projectin’ around to get some news of ya?”
A look of relief came to the Friar’s face: “Why, if I don’t come back within a week,” sez he, “I haven’t any objections to your notifyin’ the legal authorities that you fear something has happened to me—but don’t make much fuss, for it doesn’t really matter.”
We all kicked about waitin’ a week, but finally compromised on five days as bein’ about the right interval to allow before notifyin’ the legal authorities. Then we advised the Friar to go down by the ravine as it would take him to the ranch by the back way where he wouldn’t be so likely to attract attention, especially from the dogs.
He asked Horace to ride with him until he could get a landmark; so Horace flung his saddle on a hoss an’ started along, while the rest of us made ready to go trout-fishin’, or take a snooze, or shake the cards, accordin’ to the way we generally amused ourselves when loafin’. The Friar turned back once on the pretense that he wanted to get a good drink o’ water before startin’; but he found us scattered out peaceful an’ resigned, so he headed away at good speed.
Horace took him the open road, while we went mostly through cuts, the way we had allus gone to our look-out. Our way was some the longer; but we pushed our hosses a little more, and made the look-out just as the Friar reached the point where the path went down into the ravine. Horace had agreed to do all he could to get the Friar to go up to the clump of bushes where the woman spent her afternoons, though he said he doubted if the Friar would do it.
I had the field glasses with me, and kept ’em on the Friar’s face when he paused to examine the spot and make sure he was right. He couldn’t see the ranch buildin’s from where he was, nor the path leadin’ to the clump of trees. I could see his face plain through the glasses, and he had taken the guy ropes off and let it sag into just the way he felt. It was filled with pain an’ sufferin’.
As soon as Horace came, he and I sneaked down to the bunch o’ big rocks from which we could see the path as it dipped from the opposite edge of the ravine, leavin’ the rest of the boys to watch the ranch buildin’s. We could see them from where we were, and they could see us, and we had a signal for us to come back, or them to come to us; and another that the Friar was gettin’ it bad down below, and to make a rush for him. We hadn’t seen any one about the buildin’s, except the Chinese cook. Our plan was to not rush the buildin’s right away, unless we saw the Friar gettin’ manhandled beyond his endurance. Horace said ’at the Friar had refused to go to the clump o’ trees to see the woman, as it might give the impression that she had sent word to him to meet her there, and he wouldn’t cast the slightest suspicion upon her name.
“Horace,” I said, as an awful fear struck me, “supposin’ after all, it ain’t the right woman!”
Horace’s eyes stuck out like the tail lights on a freight caboose. “Oh, I’m sure it’s the same woman,” sez he. “Course she’s changed some; but we couldn’t all three be mistaken.”
“I still think it’s the same woman,” sez I; “but as far as all three not bein’ mistaken, the’s nothin’ to that. Half o’ the fellers who make bets are mistaken, and most of us make bets. Still I think she’s the same woman.”
In spite of this doubt, I was feelin’ purty comfortable. The other time we had been there, I hadn’t been able to think up any excuse as to why; but this time I felt I was in right and it left me free to enjoy the prospects of a little excitement. I allus try to be honest with myself; and when I’m elated up over anything, I generally aim to trail back my feelin’s to their exact cause. I’m bound to admit that when I’m certain that any trouble likely to arise will be thrust upon me in spite of my own moral conduct, I allus take a pleasant satisfaction in waitin’ for it.
The Friar slid his hoss down the bank o’ the ravine, and disappeared just a few moments before we saw the woman comin’ along the path from the clump of trees. We kept glancin’ up at the look-out now and again, but mostly we glued our eyes on the woman. Horace hogged the field glasses most o’ the time, but my eyes were a blame sight better ’n his, so I didn’t kick about it much.
When she reached the edge o’ the ravine, she paused and gave a little start. “Does she know him, Horace?” I sez.
“She don’t seem to,” sez Horace. “She’s speakin’ down at him; but her face looks as though she didn’t know him.”
“If it’s the wrong woman,” sez I, “I’m goin’ to start to the North Pole to locate the fool-killer.”
While I spoke, she started down the path slow and matter o’ fact; and me an’ Horace scuttled back to the look-out to be in time to see ’em come out at the bottom—providin’ the Friar went on with her.
We didn’t get there more ’n two minutes before they came out at the bottom; but it seemed a week. When they finally came into sight, the Friar was walkin’ an’ leadin’ his hoss, and she was walkin’ at his side about four feet from him with a big dog on each side of her. Just then we saw six Cross-branders ride in toward the corral.
“It looks calm an’ quiet,” drawled ol’ Tank, his free eye bouncin’ about like a rubber ball; “but I’ll bet two cookies again’ the hole in a doughnut that we have a tol’able fair sized storm before mornin’.”