Whenever the’s anything on my mind I sleep purty light; an’ the whole Cross brand outfit was on my mind that night; so it’s not surprisin’ that I woke up after a bit. The moon had climbed consid’able, an’ the stars told me it was about two. I had been sleepin’ alone; Horace havin’ decided to crawl in with the Friar so they could quarrel at short range.
The Friar’s tarp was next to mine, an’ I raised myself on my elbow an’ looked at it. I could hear him breathin’ natural, an’ the bulk of him was so large that Horace wouldn’t have made much of a mound anyway; so at first I couldn’t tell whether he was there or not. I crept out till I could sit up an’ get a clear view; but Horace wasn’t there, so I put on my boots as quick as ever.
I sneaked over to the Friar’s tarp; but Horace’s hat was gone, so I knew he was up to some mischief, an’ started for the corral to see if he had taken a hoss. What I feared was, that he had got to thinkin’ about what a super-wonderful flame he had, and had decided to give it a fair work-out by sneakin’ down to Ty Jones’s on his own hook. I was worried about this because I knew they’d do for him in a minute, if they’d catch him where they could hide all traces.
Olaf had built a large square corral an’ a smaller round one, to do his ropin’ in; and when I reached the near side o’ the square one, I heard a slight noise near the gate of the round one. I peered through the poles of the corral, but the dividin’ fence got in the road so ’at I couldn’t see, an’ I started to prowl around. All of a sudden, Horace’s squeaky tenor piped out: “Halt”; an’ I flattened out on the ground, thinkin’ he had spotted me; but just then the’ was a smothered curse from the round corral, an’ when I started to get up I saw Badger-face vault over the fence in the direction of Horace’s voice.
Then I saw Horace standin’ behind a clump with his gun on Badger-face. “Put up your hands,” sez Horace.
Badger was runnin’ straight for him; but he put up his hands at this order, and came to a slow stop about five feet from Horace. The square corral was still between me an’ them, an’ I drew my right gun an’ started around, keepin’ my eye on ’em as much as I could through the poles.
“I reckon I got ya this time,” sez Horace, just as I reached the corner.
“I reckon you have,” sez Badger in a give-up voice; but at the same moment he took a step forward, threw his body back, an’ kicked the gun out of Horace’s hand. Then he lunged forward an’ got Horace by the throat, flung him on his back an’ straddled him—an’ I broke for ’em on the run. Just before I reached ’em, the’ came a heavy, muffled report, an’ Badger-face fell on his side an’ rolled over on his back, clutchin’ at his breast.
Horace rose to his feet, holdin’ a toy pistol, put his hands on his hips, looked down at Badger-face, an’ sez: “If you’d ’a’ just asked Olaf what kind of a light I give out, you’d ’a’ stayed at home an’ saved your life.” That’s how nervous Horace was.
“Don’t stand an’ talk to a shot man,” I sez. “Allus get his gun first.”
Horace gave a jump at the sound o’ my voice, an’ covered me with his pop-gun. “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he sez. “Well, then, you get his gun; but I don’t much think he can use it.”
By the time I had lifted Badger’s gun, the other boys were arrivin’, an’ when they found that Horace had gone out alone an’ shot a hole through Badger-face, they certainly was some surprised. Purty soon Kit Murray came out with Olaf, an’ then Horace told about not feelin’ sleepy an’ bein’ so disgusted at the way we were snorin’ that he had got up to take a little stroll. He said he just went toward the corral ’cause that was the least uninterestin’ place he could think of, and that Badger had sneaked down an’ started to cut the stirrups off the saddles right before his eyes.
“I gave him all the time he wanted,” sez Horace, “so ’at there wouldn’t be any doubt as to his intentions. I reckon ’at cuttin’ up saddles in another man’s corral is goin’ about far enough, ain’t it?”
Just then the Friar finished his examination of Badger, an’ went after his saddle bags for a bandage. “Went clear through his lung,” was all he said as he passed us on the run.
It was purty chilly at that time o’ night; and as the cold began to eat in, it suddenly came over Horace that no matter how much justified he was, he had shot an’ most likely killed a feller human, an’ he began to shake. He went over to Badger-face an’ put his coat over him, an’ sez: “Great heavens! are ya goin’ to let this man lie out here in the cold till he dies? Ain’t the’ some place we can put him? This is horrible.”
“Bring him in the house,” sez Kit. “He don’t deserve it; but we can’t let him lie out here—can we, Olaf?”
“No,” sez Olaf. “If you say bring him in, in he comes.”
“That’s right, that’s fine. I don’t bear him any malice,” sez Horace. “I hope he gets over it an’ lives to repent.”
We packed him into the house an’ Kit made a fire an’ heated some water. As soon as the water was hot, the Friar cleaned out the wound with it an’ some foamy stuff out of a bottle. Then he dissolved a drab tablet in some water an’ tied up both openings. Horace sat in a corner durin’ this operation, with his head in his hands, shiverin’. The reaction had set in; an’ all of us knew what it was, though I don’t suppose any of us had had the chance to give way to it as free as Horace did.
Badger-face was all cut an’ scarred when we stripped him; but he looked as tough an’ gnarly as an oak tree, an’ the Friar said he had one chance in a hundred to pull through. He didn’t speak to us until after the Friar had finished with him. Then he said in a low, snarly voice: “I don’t much expect to get over this; but before I slip off, I wish you’d tell me who the little cuss who got me really is, an’ what’s his game.”
We didn’t hardly know what to say; but finally Tank sez: “We don’t feel free to tell you who he is, Badger-face; but I’ll say this much, he ain’t no officer of the law.”
I thought it would be the quickest way to straighten Horace up, so I told him ’at Badger-face wanted to talk to him. Sure enough, Horace took a deep breath an’ stiffened his upper lip. Then he walked over to the bed. “How do ya feel, Badger-face?” sez he.
“Oh, I been shot before,” sez Badger; “but it burns worse ’n usual this time, an’ I reckon you’ve got me. It grinds me all up to think ’at a little runt like you did it, an’ it would soothe me to know ’at you had some sort of a record.”
Horace looked thoughtful: he wanted to comfort the man he was responsible for havin’ put out o’ the game; but he could see that the whole truth wouldn’t in no wise do, so he put on a foxy look an’ sez: “I never worked around these parts none; but if you’ve ever heard o’ Dinky Bradford, why, that’s me. I know just how you feel. You feel as much put out at bein’ bested by a small-like man, as I would at havin’ a big feller get ahead o’ me; but you needn’t fret yourself. There’s fellers right in this room who have seen me go four days without food an’ then do a stunt which beat anything they’d ever seen. Don’t you worry none. Now that you’re down an’ out, we all wish ya the best o’ luck.”
Me an’ Spider an’ Tank had to grin at this; but it was just what Badger needed to quiet him, an’ his face lit up when he asked Horace how he had managed to shoot him.
“I used my auxilary armyment,” sez Horace, but that’s all the explanation he’d make. I found out afterward that he had a thing called a derringer, a two-barreled pistol, forty-one caliber, which he carried in his vest pocket. I told him ’at this sneaky sort of a weapon would give him a bad name if it was found out on him; but he said ’at he shot from necessity, not choice, and that when it came to gettin’ shot, he couldn’t see why the victim should be so blame particular what was used—which is sensible enough when you come to think it over, though I wouldn’t pack one o’ those guns, myself.
Badger-face was out of his head next day, and for two weeks followin’. The Friar an’ Kit an’ Horace took turns nursin’ him, an’ they did an able job of it. Water, plain water an’ wind, was about all the Friar used in treatin’ him. Kit wanted to give him soup an’ other sorts o’ funnel food; but the Friar said ’at a man could live for weeks on what was stored up in him; an’ Horace backed him up. Kit used to shake her head at this, an’ I know mighty well that down deep in her heart, she thought they would starve him to death before her very eyes.
We tore up the old shack on the hill, snaked the poles down with Olaf’s work team, an’ set it up in the Spread; so ’at we’d be handy in case we was needed. A couple o’ the Cross-branders drifted by, an’ we gave ’em the news about Badger-face an’ Dinky Bradford havin’ come together an’ Badger havin’ got some the worst of it; but they wouldn’t go in to see him, an’ they quit wanderin’ by; so ’at we didn’t hardly know what to expect.
We had hard work thawin’ out the clay for chinkin’, an’ we didn’t get the cabin as tight as we’d ’a’ liked; but we had plenty o’ wood, so it didn’t much matter as far as warmth was concerned; but we had the blamedest time with a pack-rat I ever did have.
I don’t know whether pack-rats an’ trade-rats is the same varmints or not; but neither one of ’em has a grain o’ sense, though some tries to stick up for the trade-rats on account o’ their tryin’ to be honest. A pack-rat is about three times as big as a barn rat, an’ fifteen times as energetic. His main delight is to move things. Horace said ’at he was convinced they were the souls o’ furniture-movers who had died without repentin’ of all the piano-lamps an’ chiny-ware they had broke. A pack-rat don’t care a peg whether he can use an article or not; all he asks is the privilege of totin’ it about somewhere.
We weren’t at all sure ’at we wouldn’t be routed out in the night; so when we went to sleep, we’d stack our boots an’ hats where we could find ’em easy. Sometimes the pack-rat would toil so industrious ’at he’d wake us up an’ we’d try to hive him; but most o’ the time he’d work sly, an’ then next mornin’ we’d find our boots all in a heap on the table, or in the corner under the bunk or somewhere clear outside the shack; until we was tempted to move the shack back where it was, there not bein’ any pack-rats up there.
Then either the pack-rat reformed into a trade-rat, or else he sold out his claim to a trade-rat. Anyway, four nights after we’d been settled, we began to get trades for our stuff.
Horace was sleepin’ this whole night with us, an’ next mornin’ he wakened before light an’ started to dress so as to relieve the Friar. He had put his boots on the floor under the head o’ his bunk, an’ when he reached down for ’em he found one potato an’ the hide of a rabbit. The rabbit hide had been tossed out two days before, an’ it had froze stiff an’ had a most ungainly feel at that hour o’ the mornin’. Horace scrooged back into bed an’ pulled all the covers off Tank whom he was sleepin’ with. When Tank awoke, he found Horace sittin’ up in the bunk with the covers wound around him, yellin’ for some one to strike a light.
We all struck matches an’ finally got a candle lit. When Horace saw what it was, he was hos-tile for true, thinkin’ it was a joke one o’ the boys had put up. We had had a hard time convincin’ him o’ the ways o’ pack-rats, an’ now when we sprung trade-rats on him, he thought we were liars without mercy; but when the Friar came out to learn what the riot was, an’ told Horace it was all so about trade-rats, he had to give in.
“Well, they’ve got a heap o’ nerve,” sez he, from the center o’ the beddin’ which was still wound around him, “to lug off a good pair o’ high-heeled ridin’ boots, an’ leave an old potato an’ the shuck of a rabbit in place of ’em!”
After this Horace took a tarp into Badger’s room an’ bedded himself down in a corner, which was all around the most handy thing he could do; but the rest of us had a regular pest of a time with that rat. We couldn’t find out where the deuce he got in; but he distributed our belongin’s constant, an’ generally brought us some of Olaf’s grub-stuff in exchange. We couldn’t trap him nor bluff him, an’ it generally took a good hour mornin’s, to round up our wearin’ apparel.
One night we kept the fire goin’ an’ changed watchers every two hours. Ol’ Tank was on guard from two to four, an’ he woke us up by takin’ a shot. We found him on his back in the middle o’ the floor, an’ he claimed he had been settin’ in a chair an’ had seen the rat walkin’ along the lower side o’ the ridgepole with one o’ Tillte Dutch’s boots in his mouth. Dutch had the spreadin’est feet in the outfit, an’ we couldn’t believe ’at a trade-rat could possibly tote it, hangin’ down from the ridgepole; but Tank showed us a lot o’ scratches along the ridgepole, an’ a bruise on his chin where the boot had hit him when the rat dropped it. The’ was also a hole in the boot where his bullet had gone, but this didn’t prove anything. Still, Tank stuck to his story, so we had to apologize for accusin’ him of lettin’ his good eye sleep while he kept watch with his free one.
We stuffed burlap into the hole about the ridgepole, an’ that night bein’ Christmas eve, we all gathered in and held festivities. We danced an’ told tales an’ sang until a late hour. None of us were instrument musicians; but we clapped our hands an’ patted with our feet, an’ Kit took turns dancin’ with us, till it was most like a regular party. Mexican Slim bet that he could do a Spanish dance as long as Horace could sing different verses of his song; but we suppressed it at the ninety-first verse. Tank wanted to let him finish, in the hope it might kill the trade-rat; but we couldn’t stand any more, ourselves.
Then the Friar taught us a song called, “We three Kings of Orient are”; an’ we disbursed for the night. It was a gorgeous night, an’ me an’ the Friar took a little walk under the stars. One of ’em rested just above the glisteny peak up back o’ the rim, an’ he sang soft an’ low, the “Star of beauty, star of night” part o’ this song. He allus lifted me off the earth when he sang this way. Then he sez to me: “After all, Happy, life pays big dividends, if we just live it hard enough”; an’ he gave a little sigh an’ went in to tend to Badger-face.
Trade-rats haven’t as much idee of real music as coyotes have. Ninety-one verses of that infernal cow-song, sung in Horace’s nose-tenor, was enough to drive bed-bugs out of a lumber-camp; but that night the trade-rat worked harder than ever. We had hid our stuff an’ fastened it down, an’ used every sort of legitimate means to circumvent the cuss; but he beat us to it every time, an’ switched our stuff around scandalous.
“Merry Christmas!” yelled Spider Kelley, holdin’ up a rusty sardine can.
The trade-rat had remembered us all in some the same way, but we recalled what day it was an’ took it in good part; until, all of a sudden, ol’ Tank gave a whoop, an’ held up a brown buck-skin bag. We crowded around an’ wanted him to open it up an’ see what was inside; but he said it most probably belonged to Olaf or Kit or the Friar; so we toted it into the cabin an’ asked the one who could identify it to step out an’ claim his diamonds.
Then we had a surprise—not one o’ the bunch could identify the bag! We stood around an’ looked at the bag for as much as five minutes, tryin’ to figure out how the deuce even a trade-rat could spring stuff on us none of us had ever seen before.
“This is a real trade, sure enough,” sez Horace.
“I tell ya what this is,” sez I. “This is a Christmas-gift for the Friar. Go on an’ open it, Friar.”
The’ was some soft, Injun-tanned fawn-skin inside, wrappin’ up a couple o’ papers, an’ two photographs, and an old faded letter. “I don’t think we have the right to look at these,” sez the Friar.
“How’ll we ever find out who they belong to, then?” asked Horace. “Look at the letter anyway.”
It was in a blank envelope, an’ it began, “My dear son,” and ended, “Your lovin’ mother.” The letter was just the same as all mothers write to their sons, I reckon: full of heartache, an’ tenderness, an’ good advice, an’ scoldin’; but nothin’ to identify nobody by; so we said ’at the Friar should read the papers. One of ’em was an honorable discharge from the army; but all the names an’ dates an’ localities had been crossed out. It was what they call an “Excellent” discharge, which is the best they give, an’ you could tell by the thumb print ’at this part had been read the most by whoever had treasured it.
The other paper was simply a clippin’ from a newspaper. It was a column of items tellin’ about Dovey wishin’ to see Tan Shoes at the same place next Sunday, an’ such things. The Friar said ’at this was the personal column, an’ he sure labeled it; ’cause if a feller chose to guess any, some o’ those items was personal enough to make a bar-tender blush; but they didn’t convey any news to us as to where the trade-rat had procured the buck-skin bag.
The photographs were wrapped in tissue paper an’ then tied together with pink string, face to each. The Friar balked a little at openin’ ’em up; but we deviled him into it. The first he opened was a cheap, faded little one of an old lady. She had a sad, patient face, an’ white hair. Horace was standin’ on a chair, lookin’ over the Friar’s shoulder, an’ he piped out that the photograph had been took in New York, an’ asked if we knew any one who lived there, which most of us did; but not the subject of the photograph.
Then the Friar opened the other one. He took one look at it, an’ then his face turned gray. “This one was took in Rome,” sez Horace. “Does any one here have a list o’ friends livin’ in Rome, Italy?”
He hadn’t looked at the face on the photograph, nor at the Friar’s face; but when we didn’t answer, he looked up, saw that we had sobered in sympathy with the Friar, an’ then he looked at the face on the photograph an’ got down off the chair. The face was of a beautiful lady in a low-necked, short-sleeved dress. Not as low nor as short as some dresses I’ve seen in pictures, but still a purty generous outlook.
The Friar’s hands shook some; but he gradually got a grip on himself, an’ purty soon, he sez in a steady voice: “This is a picture of Signorina Morrissena. Does any one here know of her?”
Well, of course none of us had ever heard of her; so the Friar wrapped up the package again an’ put it back into the buck-skin bag. We had expected to have some high jinks that day, an’ Kit had baked a lot o’ vinegar pies for dinner, we had plenty o’ fresh deer-meat, an’ we had agreed to let the Friar hold a regular preachin’ first; but when we saw how the picture had shook him up we drifted back to our own shack an’ sat talkin’ about where the deuce that blame trade-rat could possibly have got a holt o’ the buck-skin bag. I was purty sure that it was a picture o’ the Friar’s girl, the extra trimmin’s on the name not bein’ much in the way of a disguise, an’ as soon as I got a chance to see Horace I questioned him, an’ he said it was the girl, all right; but that she had developed a lot.
The Friar had taken a hoss an’ gone up into the mountains, an’ had left word that he didn’t want any dinner. We were as full o’ sympathy with him as we could stand, but not in the mood to sidestep such a meal as Kit had framed up; so we ate till after three in the afternoon. We didn’t want to do anything to fret him a speck; so we hardly knew what to do. Generally it tickled him to have us ask him to preach to us; but we couldn’t tell how he’d feel about it now, and we were still discussin’ it about the fire when the Friar came back.
He looked mighty weary, an’ we knew he had been drivin’ himself purty hard, although it wasn’t just tiredness which showed in his face. Still, the’ was a sort of peace there, too; so after he’d warmed himself a while, ol’ Tank asked him if he wouldn’t like to preach to us a bit.
The Friar once said that back East some folks used good manners as clothin’ for their souls, but that out our way good-heartedness was the clothin’, an’ good manners nothin’ more than a silver band around the hat. “And some o’ the bands are mighty narrow, Friar,” I added to draw him out. “Yes,” sez he, “but the hats are mighty broad.”
You just couldn’t floor the Friar in a case like this. He knew ’at the politeness an’ the good-heartedness in Tank’s request was divided off about the same as the band an’ the hat; and that all we wanted was to ease off the Friar’s mind an’ let him feel contented; so he heaved a sigh and shook his head at Tank.
When a blacksmith goes out into company, folks don’t pester him with questions as to why tempered steel wasn’t stored up in handy caves, instead of havin’ nothin’ but rough ore hid away in the cellar of a mountain; and a carpenter is not held responsible because a sharp saw cuts better ’n a dull one; but it seems about next to impossible for a human bein’ to pass up a parson without insultin’ him a little about the ways o’ Providence, and askin’ him a lot o’ questions which would moult feathers out o’ the ruggedest angel in the bunch.
We could all see ’at the Friar had been havin’ a rough day of it; so Tank began by askin’ him questions simply to toll him away from himself; but soon he was shootin’ questions into the Friar as rough shod as though they was both strangers to each other.
“You say it was sheep-herders what saw the angels that night the Lord was born,” sez Tank. “How come the’ wasn’t any cow-punchers saw ’em?” Tank had about the deep-rootedest prejudice again’ sheep-herders I ever saw.
“The’ wasn’t any cow-punchers in that land,” sez the Friar. “It was a hilly land an’—”
“Well I’d like to know,” broke in ol’ Tank, “why the Lord picked out such a place as that, when he had the whole world to choose from.”
O’ course the Friar tried his best to smooth this out; but by the time he was through, Tank had got tangled up with another perdicament. “Then, there was ol’ Faro’s dream,” he said, “the one about the seven lean cows eatin’ the seven fat ones. I’ve punched cows all my life, and I saw ’em so thin once, when the snow got crusted an’ the chinook got switched off for a month, that the spikes on their backbones punched holes through their hides; but they’d as soon thought o’ flyin’ up an’ grazin’ on clouds, as to turn in an’ eat one another.”
By the time the Friar had got through explainin’ the difference between dreams and written history, Tank was ready with another query. “I heard tell once ’at the Bible sez, ‘If thy eye offends thee, pluck it out.’ Does the Bible say this?”
“Well, it does,” admitted the Friar; “but you see—”
“Well, my free eye offends me,” broke in Tank. “It never did offend me until Spike Groogan tried to pluck it out, and it don’t offend me now as much as it does other folks. Still, I got to own up ’at the blame thing does offend me whenever I meet up with strangers, ’cause it allus runs wilder in front of a stranger ’n at airy other time. Now, what I want to know is, why an’ when an’ how must I pluck out that eye—specially, when it sez in another place that if a man’s eye is single his whole body is full o’ light. My eye is single enough to suit any one. Fact is, it’s so blame single that some folks call it singular; but the’ ain’t no more light in my body ’n there is in airy other man’s.”
You couldn’t work off any spiritual interpretation stuff on Tank. He thought an allegory was the varmint which lives in the Florida swamps. Well, as far as that goes, I did, too, until the Friar pointed out that it was merely a falsehood used to explain the truth; but Tank, he didn’t join in with any new-fangled notions, an’ a feller had to talk to him as straight out as though talkin’ to a hoss. The’ was lots of times I didn’t envy the Friar his job.
But after he had satisfied Tank that it wasn’t required of him to discard either of his lamps, especially the free one, he drifted off into tellin’ us how he had spent the day—and then I envied him a little, for he certainly did have the gift o’ wranglin’ words.
He told about havin’ rode up the mountain as far as he could go, and then climbin’ as far as he could on foot. He showed how hard it was to tell either a man or a mountain by the lines in their faces, and he went on with this till he made a mountain almost human. Then he switched around and showed how much a mountain was like life, ambition bein’ like pickin’ out the mountain, the easy little foothills bein’ the start, the summit allus hid while a feller was climbin’, and each little plateau urgin’ him to give up there and rest. He compared life and a mountain, until it seemed that all a feller needed for a full edication, was just to have a mountain handy. Then he wound up by sayin’ that he hadn’t been able to reach the peak. He had sat in a sheltered nook for a time, gazin’ up at the face of a cliff with an overhangin’ bank o’ snow on top, the wind swirlin’ masses o’ snow down about him, and everything tryin’ to point out that he had been a failure, and might as well give up in disgust. He stopped here, and we were all silent, for, as was usual with him, he had led us along to where we could see life through his eyes for a space.
“After a time,” sez the Friar as soon as he saw we were in the right mood, “I caught my breath again and followed the narrow ledge I was on around to where I could see the highest peak stand out clear and solitary; and from my side of it, it wasn’t possible for any man to reach it. There was no wind here, the air was as sweet and pure as at the dawn o’ creation, and everywhere I looked I met glory heaped on glory. A gray cloud rested again’ the far side o’ the peak, and back o’ this was the sun. Ah, there was a silver and a golden linin’ both to this cloud; and all of a sudden I was comforted.
“I had done all I could do, and this was my highest peak. Whatever was the highest peak for others, this was the highest peak for me; and there was no more bitterness or envy or doubt or fear in my heart. I stood for a long time lookin’ up at the gray cloud with its dazzling edges, and some very beautiful lines crept into my memory—‘The paths which are trod, by only the evenin’ and mornin’, and the feet of the angels of God.’”
The Friar had let himself out a little at the end, and his eyes were shinin’ when he finished. “I guess I have given you a sermon, after all, boys,” he said, “and I hope you can use it to as good advantage as I did when it came to me up on the mountain. We all have thoughts we can’t put into words, and so I’ve failed to give you all ’at was given me; but it’s some comfort to know that, be they big or be they little, we don’t have to climb any mountains but our own, and whether we reach the top or whether we come to a blind wall first, the main thing is to climb with all our might and with a certain faith that those who have earned rest shall find it, after the sun has set.”
This was one of the days when the magic of the Friar’s voice did strange things to a feller’s insides. We knew ’at he was talkin’ in parables, an’ talkin’ mostly to himself; but each one of us knew our own little mountains, an’ it was darn comfortin’ to understand that the Friar could have as tough a time on his as we had on ours.
We all sat silent, each feller thinkin’ over his own problems; and after a time, the Friar sang the one beginnin’, “O little town of Bethlehem!” It was dark by this time, but the firelight fell on his face, an’ made it so soft-like an’ tender that ol’ Tank Williams sniffled audible once, an’ when the song was finished he piled a lot more wood on the fire, an’ pertended ’at he was catchin’ cold. When Kit called us in to supper, we all sat still for a full minute, before we could get back to our appetites again.
The bullet which had gone through Badger-face hadn’t touched a single bone. It had gone through his left lung purty high up, but somethin’ like the pneumonie set in, an’ he was a sorry lookin’ sight when the fever started to die out after havin’ hung on for two weeks. He had been drinkin’ consid’able beforehand, which made it bad for him, an’ the Friar said it was all a question of reserve. If Badger-face had enough of his constitution left to tide him over, he stood a good chance; but otherwise it was his turn.
He didn’t have much blood left in him at the end of two weeks on air and water, and he didn’t have enough fat to pillow his bones on. We all thought ’at he ought to have something in the way o’ feed; but the Friar wouldn’t stand for one single thing except water. He said ’at food had killed a heap more wounded men ’n bullets ever had; so we let him engineer it through in his own way.
When the fever started to leave, he got so weak ’at Horace thought he was goin’ to flicker out, an’ he felt purty bad about it. He didn’t regret havin’ done it, an’ said he would do just the same if he had it to do over; but it calls up some mighty serious thoughts when a fellow reflects that he is the one who has pushed another off into the dark. On the night when it seemed certain that Badger-face would lose his grip, we all went into his room an’ sat around waitin’ for the end, to sort o’ cheer him up a little. Life itself is a strange enough adventure, but death has it beat a mile.
Along about nine o’clock, Badger said in a low, trembly voice: “What’d you fellers do to me, if I got well?”
He didn’t even open his eyes; so we didn’t pay any heed to him. When he first got out of his head, he had rambled consid’able. Part o’ the time he seemed to be excusin’ himself for what he had done, an’ part o’ the time he seemed to be gloatin’ over his devilment; but the’ wasn’t any thread to his discourse so we didn’t set much store by it. After waitin’ a few minutes, he quavered out his question again, an’ the Friar told him not to worry about anything, but just to set his mind on gettin’ well.
Badger shook his head feebly from side to side an’ mumbled, “That don’t go, that don’t go with me.” He paused here for a rest, an’ then went on. “I’ve been in my right mind all day, an’ I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, an’ tryin’ some experiments. I can breathe in a certain way which makes me easier an’ stronger, an’ I can breathe in another way which shuts off my heart. I don’t intend to get well merely for the pleasure o’ gettin’ lynched; so if that’s your game, I intend to shut off my heart an’ quit before I get back the flavor o’ life. It don’t make two-bits difference with me either way. What d’ ya intend to do?”
He had been a long time sayin’ this, an’ we had exchanged glances purty promiscuous. We hadn’t give a thought as to what we would do with him, providin’ he responded to our efforts to save his life; but it was purty generally understood that Badger had fitted himself to be strung up, just the same as if he hadn’t been shot at all. Now, though, when we came to consider it, this hardly seemed a square deal. There wasn’t much common sense in chokin’ a man’s life down his throat for two weeks, only to jerk it out again at the end of a rope, an’ we found ourselves in somethin’ of a complication.
“What do ya think we ort to do to ya?” asked Tank.
“Lynch me,” sez Badger, without openin’ his eyes; “but I don’t intend to wait for it. I don’t blame ya none, fellers. I did ya all the dirt I could; but I don’t intend to furnish ya with no circus performance—I’m goin’ on.”
He began to breathe different, an’ his face began to get purplish an’ ghastly. “Can he kill himself that way?” I asked the Friar.
“I don’t know,” sez the Friar. “I think ’at when he loses consciousness, nature’ll take holt, an’ make him breathe the most comfortable way—but I don’t know.”
“Let Olaf take a look at his flame,” sez Horace; so Olaf looked at Badger a long time.
Olaf hadn’t wasted much of his time on Badger. He wasn’t long on forgiveness, Olaf wasn’t; an’ ever since the time ’at Badger had been so enthusiastic in tryin’ to have him lynched for killin’ Bud Fisher, Olaf had give it out as his opinion that Badger was doomed for hell, an’ he wasn’t disposed to take any hand in postponin’ his departure. Olaf was the matter-o’-factest feller I ever knew. The’ don’t seem to be much harm in most of our cussin’, but when Olaf indulged in profanity, he was solemn an’ earnest, the same as if he was sayin’ a prayer backwards.
“It don’t look like Badger’s flame,” sez he after a time. “It’s gettin’ mighty weak an’ blue, an’ the’s a thick spot over his heart which shows plainer ’n the one over his wound.”
“I move we give him a fresh start,” sez Horace.
“He’d ort to be lynched,” sez Tank. “I don’t see why we can’t try him out now, an’ if we find him guilty, why he can kill himself if he wants to, or else get well again an’ we’ll do it for him.”
Neither what Horace said nor what Tank said called out much response. We knew the’ wasn’t any one could say a good word for Badger-face an’ so he well deserved his stretchin’; but on the other hand, there he was turnin’ gray before our eyes, an’ it went again’ our nature to discard him, after havin’ hung on to him for two weeks. The Friar left the side of the bed an’ retired into a corner, leavin’ us free to express ourselves.
“I don’t see how we can let him go free,” sez Tank. “He sez himself ’at he ort to be lynched; an’ when a feller can’t speak a good word for himself, I don’t see who can.”
“Badger-face,” sez Horace, “you’re the darnedest bother of a man I ever saw. First you infest us until we have to shoot a hole through you, an’ then we have to nurse you for two weeks, an’ now you’re diggin’ your heels into our consciences. I give you my word we won’t lynch you if you get well. We’ll turn you over to the law.”
Badger’s thin lips fell back over his yellow teeth in the ghastliest grin a live man ever hung out. “The law,” sez he with bitter sarcasm, “the law! Have you ever been in a penitentiary?”
“No,” sez Horace, “I have not.”
“Well, I have,” sez Badger. “I was put in for another feller’s deed; an’ they gave me the solitary, the jacket, the bull-rings, the water-cure, and if you’ll roll me over after I’m dead, you can still see the scars of the whip on my back. I’ve tried the law, an’ I’ll see you all damned before I try it again.”
Badger-face was as game as they generally get. As soon as he stopped talkin’ he began to breathe against his heart again. Horace stood lookin’ at him for a full minute, an’ then he lost his temper.
“You’re a coward, that’s what you are!” sez Horace. “I said all along ’at you were a coward, an’ another feller said so too, an’ now you’re provin’ it. You can sneak an’ kill cows an’ cut saddles in the dark, but you haven’t the nerve to face things in the open. Now, you’re sneakin’ off into the darkness o’ death because you’re afraid to face the light of life.”
This was handin’ it to him purty undiluted, an’ Badger opened his eyes an’ looked at Horace. His eyes were heavy an’ dull, but they didn’t waver any. “Dinky,” sez Badger-face, “the only thing I got again’ you is your size. I’ve been called a lot o’ different things in my time; but you’re the first gazabo ’at ever called me a coward—an’ you’re about the only one who has a right to, ’cause you put me out fair an’ square. I wish you had traveled my path alongside o’ me, though. You ain’t no milksop, but after you’d been given a few o’ the deals I’ve had, you’d take to the dark too. You can call me a coward if you want to, or, after I’m gone, you can think of me as just bein’ dog tired an’ glad o’ the chance to crawl off into the dark to sleep. I don’t want to be on your conscience; that’s not my game. All I want is just to get shut o’ the whole blame business.”
He talked broken an’ quavery, an’ it took him a long time to finish; but when he did quit, he turned on his bad breathin’ again. Horace had flushed up some when Badger had mentioned milksop; but when he had finished, Horace took his wasted hand in a hearty grip, an’ sez: “I take it back, Badger. You ain’t no coward. I only wanted to taunt you into stickin’ for another round; but I think mighty well o’ ya. Will you agree to cut loose from the Ty Jones crowd an’ try to be a man, if we give you your freedom, a new outfit, and enough money to carry you out of the country?”
It was some time before Badger spoke, an’ then he said: “Nope, I can’t do it. Ty knows my record, an’ he’s treated me white; but if I quit him, he’ll get me when I least expect it. Now understand, Dinky, that I don’t hold a thing again’ you, you’re the squarest feller I’ve ever met up with; but I’m not comin’ back to life again. From where I am now, I can see it purty plain, an’ it ain’t worth the trouble.”
“You could write back to Ty that you made your escape from us,” sez Horace.
“That’s the best idee you’ve put over,” sez Badger, after he’d thought it out; “but I haven’t enough taste for life to make the experiment. Don’t fuss about me any more. I don’t suffer a mite. I feel just like a feller in the Injun country, goin’ to sleep on post after days in the saddle. He knows it’ll mean death, but he’s too tired out to care a white bean.”
“Have you ever been in the army?” asked the Friar from his place in the corner. We all gave a little start at the sound of his voice, for it came with a snap an’ unexpected.
Badger’s lips dropped back for another hideous grin. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve been in both the penitentiary and the army—and they’re a likely pair.”
“Did you have a buck-skin bag?” asked the Friar, comin’ up to the bed.
Badger-face tried to raise himself on his elbow, but he couldn’t quite make it. “Yes, I did,” sez he, droppin’ back again. “What became of it?”
“I am keepin’ it for ya,” sez the Friar. “Do you wish to leave any word in case you do not recover?”
“No,” sez Badger, “the’ ain’t no one to leave word to. That letter was from my mother, an’ that was her picture. She’s been dead a long string o’ years now.”
“There was another picture an’ a newspaper clippin’,” sez the Friar.
Badger-face didn’t give no heed; an’ after a time the Friar sez: “What shall I do with them?”
“Throw ’em away,” sez Badger-face. “They don’t concern me none. I was more took with that woman’s picture ’n airy other I ever saw. That was all.”
“Where did you get it?” asked the Friar.
“I got it from a young Dutchy,” sez Badger wearily. “He killed a feller over at Leadville an’ came out here an’ took on with Ty Jones. He said she was an opery singer, an’ got drugged at a hotel where he was workin’.”
Badger-face was gettin’ purty weak by now, an’ he stopped with a sort of sigh. The Friar took holt of his hand. “I am very much interested in this woman,” he said, lookin’ into Badger’s face as if tryin’ to give him life enough to go on with. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”
“Not much,” sez Badger-face. “She was singin’ at what he called the Winter Garden at Berlin, Germany. Some Austrian nobility got mashed on her an’ drugged her at the hotel. Dutchy was mashed on her, too, I reckon. They had advertised for him in a New York paper, an’ when he got shot, over at Little Monte’s dance hall, he asked me to write about it. His mother had died leavin’ property, an’ all they wanted was to round up the heirs. I reckon they were glad enough to have Dutchy scratched from the list. I don’t know why I did keep that clippin’.”
“Have you any idee how long ago it was ’at the woman was drugged?” asked the Friar.
“I haven’t any idee,” sez Badger-face weakly. “Carl was killed four years ago this Christmas eve; so it had to be before that.”
“Listen to me, Badger-face,” sez the Friar, grippin’ his hand tight. “I want you to get well. I know that all these men will stand by you and help you to start a new life.”
“How long is it since I’ve been laid up?” asked Badger.
“Two weeks,” sez the Friar. “This is two days after Christmas.”
“Who tended to me?” asked Badger.
“We all did,” sez the Friar, “and we all stand ready to help you make a new start.”
“I had a good enough start,” sez Badger; “but I fooled it away, an’ I’m too old now to make a new one.”
“Is there any word you want sent to your friends at Ty Jones’s?” asked the Friar.
Once more Badger skinned his face into the grin. “Friends?” sez he. “When you trap a wolf, does he send any word to his friends? I haven’t got no friends.”
“Swallow this milk,” sez Horace holdin’ some of it out to him in a big spoon. Kit had made Olaf start to milkin’ a cow, ’cause she wanted to use milk in cookin’, and intended to make butter when she had the cream saved up. Badger put the milk in his mouth, an’ then spit it out again.
“Don’t you put anything else in my mouth,” he sez. “I told you I was goin’ to die; an’ by blank, I am goin’ to die.”
“Fellers,” sez Horace, turnin’ to us, “do you think this man is goin’ to die?” We all nodded our heads. “Then, will you give his life to me, to do with as I will?” asked Horace; and we nodded our heads again.
Horace took off his coat, an’ rolled up his sleeves, an’ then he came over an’ shook Badger-face by the shoulder. “Listen to me,” he sez. “I fought ya once before, for your life, and I’m goin’ to fight you for it now. Do you hear what I say—I’m goin’ to fight you for your own life. I’m goin’ to make you swallow milk, if I have to tie you an’ pour it in through a funnel. You can’t hold your breath an’ fight, an’ I’m goin’ to fight you.”
Badger-face opened his eyes an’ looked up into Horace’s face. He looked a long time, an’ the ghost of a smile crept into his face. “Well, you’re the doggonedest little cuss I ever saw!” he exclaimed. He waited a long time, an’ then set his teeth. “You beat me once,” he muttered. “Now, see if you can beat me again.”
It was after midnight; so when Horace dropped the hint that he wouldn’t need any help except from me an’ the Friar, the rest o’ the boys dug out for the bunk shack. Then Horace took us over to the fireplace an’ asked us what was the best thing to do.
“I do believe ’at you have stumbled on the right plan to save him,” sez the Friar. “He has no fever, the wound is doin’ splendid, and he has a powerful constitution. The trouble is that he does not will to live. We must spur on his will, and if we can make him fight back, this’ll help. Also we must control him as much as possible through suggestion. Have you any plan o’ your own?”
“No,” sez Horace candidly. Horace didn’t need anything for any emergency except his own nerve. “I am determined that he must live, but I have no plan.”
“The first thing is to give him a little warm milk,” sez the Friar.
“All right,” sez Horace. “You tell me what to do—by signs, as much as possible—but let me give the orders to Badger-face. My size has made an impression on him, and we can’t afford to lose a single trick.” The Friar agreed to this an’ we went back to the bunk.
“Badger-face,” sez Horace, “I’d rather give you this milk peaceful; but I’m goin’ to give it to ya, an’ you can bet what ya like on that.”
Badger opened his eyes again, an’ they were dull an’ glazy. “This reminds me o’ the water-cure at the pen,” he said, an’ then set his teeth.
“Hold his hands, Happy,” sez Horace, as full o’ fight as a snow-plow. “Hold his head, Friar. Now then, swallow or drown.”
It looked purty inhuman, but Badger had to swallow after a bit, an’ when we had put as much milk into him as we wanted—only a couple o’ spoonfuls—we let him go, an’ he fell asleep, pantin’ a little. We woke him up in half an hour, an’ put some more milk into him. When he slept, his breathin’ was more like natural, an’ the fourth time, I didn’t have to hold his hands; so I went to sleep myself.
Well, Horace won this fight, too. In about four days, Badger-face began to have an appetite, an’ then it was all off with him. He couldn’t have died if we’d left him plumb alone; but he hadn’t give up yet. The Friar kept him down to a mighty infan-tile diet, sayin’ that a lung shot was a bad one, an’ the pure mountain air was all that had saved him; but even now fever was likely to come back on him.
It was close to the tenth o’ January when Horace came in from a ride one evenin’, an’ went in to see Badger-face, still wearin’ his gun. Quick as a wink, Badger grabbed the gun; but Horace threw himself on Badger’s arm, an’ yelled for help. The Friar an’ Olaf rushed in from the lean-to, an’ corraled the gun in short order.
“You blame little bob-cat, you!” sez Badger. “I didn’t intend to use the gun on you.”
“I know what you intended to do,” sez Horace; “but you don’t win this deal as easy as all that.”
After this we tied Badger-face in bed an’ kept watch of him. He kept on gettin’ stronger all the time, an’ a good percent of his meanness came back with his strength. Sometimes he’d spend hours tauntin’ Horace an’ the Friar; but they didn’t mind it any more ’n if Badger had been a caged beast. Then one night he concluded to try cussin’. He started in to devise somethin’ extra fancy in the way o’ high-colored profanity; but he hadn’t gone very far on this path, before Olaf came in as black as a thunder cloud.
“Do you want to be whipped with a whip?” he demanded.
“Naw, I don’t want to be whipped with a whip,” sez Badger-face.
“Then you stop swearin’,” sez Olaf. “We been to enough trouble about you, and I don’t intend to have my wife listen to any more o’ your swearin’. If you don’t stop it, I whip all your skin off. You say you want to die—I whip you to death before your very eyes.”
Badger heaved at his ropes a time or two, an’ then he realized his weakness, sank back on the bed, an’ the tears rolled down his cheeks. He fair sobbed. “You’re a set o’ cowards,” he yelled, “the whole pack o’ you! You wouldn’t let me die, and now you threaten to whip me to death. I dare any one of ya to shoot me—you yellow-hearted cowards!”
“I care not for what you say I am,” said Olaf. “You know if I am a coward, and you know if I keep my word. I say to you, slow an’ careful, that if you yell swear words again in my house, I whip your hide off.”
Well, this had a quietin’ influence on Badger’s conversation; but he fretted himself a good deal as to what we intended to do with him. Finally one day when he began to look a little more like a live man than a skeleton, Horace sez to him: “Badger, you said you didn’t have any friends, an’ it must be true, ’cause not one of your own outfit has ever been to see you, not even Ty Jones.”
“Ty Jones don’t stay out here through the winter,” sez Badger-face. “If he’d been here, he’d have squared things up for this, one way or another.”
“Where does he go?” asked Horace.
“I don’t know,” sez Badger-face.
Horace asked Olaf about it, and Olaf said ’at Ty Jones allus pulled out in December, an’ didn’t come back until March.
Then Horace came in and sat by Badger again. “I’ve got a proposition to make to you,” sez he, “and you think it over before you answer. I have plenty o’ money; but I’ve wasted most o’ my life, sittin’ down. If you are sick of livin’ like a wolf, I’ll pay your expenses and half again as much as Ty Jones is payin’ you, and all you’ll have to agree to is to go along as a sort of handy-man for me. I think we can get to be purty good friends, but that can wait. I intend to ramble around wherever my notions take me. If you’ll give your word to be as decent as you can, I’ll give my word to stand by you as far as I’m able. Your life is forfeit to me, an’ if you’ll do your part, I intend to make the balance of it worth while to ya. Now, don’t answer me; but think it over an’ ask all the questions you want to. I’ll answer true what I do answer; but I won’t answer any ’at I don’t want to.”
If Horace had crept in an’ cut off his two ears, Badger wouldn’t have been any more surprised. Well, none of us would, as far as that goes; though why we should let anything ’at Horace chose to do surprise us by this time is more ’n I know.
He an’ Badger talked it over complete for several days, Horace agreein’ that he wouldn’t ask Badger to go anywhere the army or the law was likely to get him an’ not to make him do any stunts ’at would make him look foolish. He told Horace ’at he had served one enlistment an’ got a top-notch discharge, an’ had then took on again; but a drunken officer had him tied on a spare artillery wheel because Badger had laughed when the officer had fallen off his horse into a mud puddle. He said they had laid the wheel on the ground and him across it, the small of his back restin’ on the hub o’ the wheel, an’ his arms an’ legs spread an’ tied to the rim, an’ had kept him there ten hours. He said that he had deserted the first chance he got; but he refused to tell what had happened to the officer afterward.
Finally Badger said he would take up Horace’s proposition; an’ Horace called Olaf in to see if Badger was speakin’ true. This was the first Badger had ever heard about Olaf’s eyes seein’ soul-flames; but he said ’at this explained a lot to him he hadn’t understood before. Olaf looked at him careful; an’ Badger held up his right hand an’ said that as long as Horace treated him square, he would be square with Horace, even to the point of givin’ up his life for him.
“He is speakin’ true,” sez Olaf; and from that very minute, Badger-face became a different man, an’ Horace took off the ropes.
“You do look some like a badger with that bum beard on,” sez Horace; “but I don’t like this name, and I want you to pick out a new one. Pick out some Christian name, your own or any other; but now that you are startin’ on a new life, it will help to have a new name.”
Badger-face studied over this a long time, but he couldn’t root up any name to suit him so he told Horace to pick out a name, and he’d agree to wear it.
“Well,” sez Horace, after he’d give it a good thinkin’ over, “I think I’ll call you Promotheus.”
Badger looked at him purty skeptical. “I don’t intend to take no Greaser name,” sez he. “Is that Mexican?”
“No,” sez Horace. “That’s Greek; an’ the original Promotheus was an all around top-notcher. He was a giant, so you couldn’t complain none on your size; he rebelled again’ the powers, so you couldn’t call him a dog-robber; but the thing ’at you two are closest together in, is your infernal stubbornness. They tried to break Promotheus down by chainin’ him to a rock while the vultures fed on his liver, but they couldn’t make him give in. ‘Pity the slaves who take the yoke,’ sez he; ‘but don’t pity me who still have my own self-respect.’”
Badger-face was so blame weak that his eyes filled up with tears at this; an’ the only way he could straighten himself up was to put a few florid curses on his own thumby left-handedness; but Olaf had gone after some wood, so it didn’t start anything. “I’ll take that name,” sez he, “an’ I’ll learn how to spell an’ pronounce it as soon as I can; but you’ve diluted down my blood so confounded thin with your doggone, sloppy milk diet that I’m a long way from havin’ that feller’s grit, right at this minute.”
Horace stood over Badger-face, an’ pointed his finger at him, fierce. “Listen to me,” sez he. “The next time you heave out an insult to milksops or milk diets, I’ll sing you my entire song—to the very last word.”
We set up a howl; but Badger-face didn’t realize all he was up against when he took on with Horace, so he only smiled in a sickly way, an’ looked puzzled.
“I’ll tell ya what I’m willin’ to do, Dinky,” said he, as soon as we stopped our noise; “now that I’ve took a new name, I don’t need to wear this sort of a beard any more, an’, if ya want me to, I’ll trim it up the same fool way ’at you wear yours; an’ I’ll wear glasses, too, if you say the word.”
“We’ll wait first to see how you look in a biled shirt,” sez Horace; “but in honor of your new name, I’m goin’ to let you have some deer-meat soup for your dinner, an’ a bone to gnaw on.”
We had a regular feast that day, and called Badger-face Promotheus every time we could think up an excuse; so as to have practice on the name. The Friar did his best to take part; but I knew every line in his face, and it hurt me to see him fightin’ at himself.
After dinner we took a walk together; but we didn’t talk none until we had climbed the rim, fought the wind for a couple of hours, an’ started back again. It was his plan to think of some big, common chunk of life when he was in trouble, so as to take his mind as much as possible off himself; and he started to talk about Horace an’ Promotheus. He even laughed a little at the combination which Promotheus Flannigan an’ Horace Walpole Bradford would make when they settled down on the East again.
“The more I think it over,” said the Friar, “the plainer I can see that most of our sorrow an’ pain and savageness comes from our custom of punishin’ the crops instead of the farmers. Look at the possibilities the’ was in Promotheus when he started out. He has a strong nature, and in spite of his life, he still has a lot o’ decent humanity in him. Who can tell what he might have been, if his good qualities had been cultivated instead o’ smothered?”
“That’s true enough,” sez I; “and look at Horace, too. They simply let him wither up for forty years, and yet all this time he had in him full as much devilment as Promotheus himself.”
“Oh, we waste, we waste, we waste!” exclaimed the Friar. “Instead o’ usin’ the strength and vigor of our manhood in a noble way, we let some of it rust and decay, and some of it we use for our own destruction. The outlaw would have been the hero with the same opportunity, and who can tell what powers lie hidden behind the mask of idleness!”
“Well, that’s just it,” sez I. “A human bein’ is like a keg o’ black stuff. For years it may sit around perfectly harmless; and only when the right spark pops into it can we tell whether it’s black sand or blastin’ powder. Even Horace, himself, thought he was black sand; but he turned out to be a mighty high grade o’ powder.”
We walked on a while without talkin’; but the Friar was wrastlin’ with his own thoughts, an’ finally he stopped an’ asked me as solemn as though I was the boss o’ that whole country: “If you had started a lot o’ work, and part of it promised to yield a rich harvest with the right care, and part of it looked as though it might sink back to worse than it had been in the beginnin’—is there anything in the world which could make you give it up?”
The Friar knew my life as well as I did; so I didn’t have to do any pertendin’ with him. “Yes,” I sez, “the right woman would.”
The Friar didn’t do any pertendin’ with me either. He stood, shakin’ his head slowly from side to side. “I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” he said.
We walked on again, an’ when we came in sight o’ the cabin, I sez to him, in order to give him a chance to free his mind if he saw fit: “Horace told me what he knew about it.”
“Yes, I know,” sez the Friar; “but no one knew very much. She was a splendid brave girl, Happy. I had known her when she was a little girl and I a farmer boy. I was much older than she was, but I was allus interested in her. There wasn’t one thing they could say against her—and yet they drove her out o’ my life. I thought she was dead, I heard that she was dead; so I buried her in my heart, and came out here where life was strong and young, because I could not work back there. I tried to work in the slums of the cities; but I could not conquer my own bitterness, with the rich wastin’ and the poor starvin’ all about me. I have found joy in my life out here; but she has come to life again with that picture, and once more I am at war with myself.”
“Well, I’ll bet my eyes, Friar,” sez I, “that you find the right answer; but I haven’t got nerve enough to advise ya—though I will say that if it was me, I’d pike out an’ look for the girl.”
“I wish I knew, I wish I knew,” was all the Friar said.
Promotheus didn’t have any set-backs after this. We talked over whether it would be better to have him go up to Ty’s an’ tell the boys some big tale about Dinky Bradford, or to just pull out an’ leave ’em guessin’; and we finally came to the conclusion ’at the last would be the best.
He was still purty weak by the first o’ February; but he was beginnin’ to fret at bein’ housed up any longer, so we began to get ready to hit the back-trail. By takin’ wide circles we could get through all right, at this season; but with Promotheus still purty wobbly, it wasn’t likely to be a pleasant trip, an’ we didn’t hurry none with our preparations. Horace insisted on payin’ Olaf two hundred dollars for his share o’ the bother, an’ I’m purty certain he slipped Kit another hundred. He wasn’t no wise scrimpy with money.
We started on the tenth of February, Promotheus ridin’ a quiet old hoss, an’ still lookin’ purty much like a bitter recollection. They were consid’able surprised when we arrived at the Diamond Dot; but we only told ’em as much of our huntin’ as we felt was necessary.
Horace intended to start for the East at once; but next day when he put on his dude clothes again, Promotheus purty nigh bucked on him. Most of Horace’s raiment was summer stuff, nachely; but he had a long checked coat ’at he wore with a double ended cap, which certainly did look comical. He had cut some fat off his middle, an’ had pushed out his chest an’ shoulders consid’able; so that his stuff wrinkled on him; and it took a full hour to harden Promotheus to the change.
“Do I have to look like that?” sez he.
“You conceited ape you!” sez Horace. “You couldn’t look like this if you went to a beauty doctor for the rest o’ time; but as soon as we get where they sell clothes for humans, I’m goin’ to provide you with somethin’ in the nature of a disguise.”
Disguise sounded mighty soothin’ to Promotheus, so he gritted his teeth, an’ said he wouldn’t go back on his word. The fact was, that it did give ya an awful shock to see Horace as he formerly was. We had got so used to seein’ him gettin’ about, able an’ free, that it almost seemed like a funeral to have him drop down to those clothes again.
The Friar went over to the station with us, and he an’ Horace had a confidential talk; and then Horace and Promotheus got on the train and scampered off East.
“I’m goin’ to stick right here, Happy,” sez the Friar. “I have let my work get way behind, in tendin’ to Promotheus; but from now on I’m goin’ to tie into it again. I’d like to do something to put the cattle men and the sheep men on better terms; but this seems like a hard problem.”
“Yes,” sez I, “that ain’t no job for a preacher, and I’d advise you to let it alone. The cattle men will put up the same sort of an argument for their range ’at the Injuns did; but between you and me, I doubt if they stand much more show in the long run.”
“I can’t see why there isn’t room for both,” sez the Friar. “It seems to me that the cattle men are too harsh.”
“Nope,” sez I, “there ain’t room for ’em both, an’ the’s somethin’ irritatin’ about sheep that makes ya want to be harsh with all who have dealin’s with ’em. Hosses can starve out cattle an’ sheep can starve out hosses; but after a sheep has grazed over a place, nothin’ bigger ’n an ant can find any forage left. Cattle are wild an’ tempestus, an’ they bellow an’ tear around an’ fight, and the men who tend ’em are a good bit like ’em; while sheep just meekly take whatever you’ve a mind to give ’em; but they hang on, just the same, an’ multiply a heap faster ’n cattle do. A sheep man is meek—like a Jew. If a Jew gets what he wants he’s satisfied, an’ he’s willin’ to pertend ’at he’s had the worst o’ the deal; but a cattle man is never satisfied unless he has grabbed what he wanted away from some one else, an’ then shot him up a little for kickin’ about it. It’ll probably be fifty or a hundred years yet, before the sheep men are strong enough to worry the cattle men; but they’ll sure do it some day.” That’s what I told the Friar that time at the station, an’ I guessed the outcome close enough, though I didn’t make much of a hit as to the time it was goin’ to take.
Well, the Friar, he rode away east to Laramie, and I went north to the Diamond Dot, and got things ready for the summer work.