The Friar stood with his hands clasped in front of him, and his eyes fixed sort o’ dreamy-like on the distance. It was a perfect day, one o’ those days ’at can’t happen anywhere except in our mountains in the fall o’ the year, and my mind drifted off to some lines the Friar was fond of rehearsin’, “Where every prospect pleases, an’ only man is vile.” Then I saw a change come to the Friar’s face, and he began to chant the one which begins: “Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days.”
He chanted slow, and the words didn’t mean much to us; but the solemn voice of him dragged across our hearts like a chain. One line of it has haunted me ever since. It seems to suggest a hundred thoughts which I can’t quite lay my hand on, and every time I get sad or discouraged, it begins to boom inside me until I see ’at my lot ain’t so much different from the rest; and I buck up and get back in the game again: “For I am a stranger with Thee and a sojourner as all my fathers were.”
The Friar didn’t preach us a long talk, and most of it circled about his favorite text, that a man’s real children were those who inherited his character, rather than those who inherited his blood. Once he raised his finger and pointed it at us and sez: “You were fond o’ this boy; but did you love him for his good, or did you love him for your own selfishness? I knew him not save through the dark glass of reputation; yet after looking into his dead features, to-day, I think I know him well. Death tells, sometimes, what Life has hid away. I did not see in his face the hard, deep lines of stealthy sin; I saw the open face of a child, tired out after a day wasted in thoughtless and impulsive play; but comin’ home at nightfall to have his small cares rubbed away by a lovin’ hand—and then, to fall asleep.”
O’ course, the Friar landed on us good and plenty; but this was the part of his talk which stuck to us after the scoldin’ part was all forgotten. When he was through he said a short prayer, and sang in a low tone the one beginnin’, “One sweetly solemn thought.” His eyes were glistenin’ through a mist when he finished this, and he climbed down from the ledge, hurried over to his pinto, and rode off without sayin’ another word.
We all sat silent for quite a spell, and then Spider and I got up and nodded good day to ’em. The Cross-branders also got up and shook ’emselves, and started down with us—all except Olaf. He sat there on a stone with his fingers run into his hair, and his face hid in his hands. Olaf had had regular religion when he was a child; and it had come back to him up there on the ledge. They say it’s worse ’n a relapse o’ the typhoid fever when it hits ya that way. I know this much, Olaf was doubled up worse ’n if he’d had the colic; and from that time on, the Ty Jones outfit looked mighty worldly to him.
Even Spider Kelley was savin’ of his nonsense until we got in sight of the Diamond Dot again.
We had a visitor once, which was a business man. One of his chief diversities was to compare sedentary occupations with what he called the joyous, carefree outdoor life. He said ’at sedentary came from sedan-chair, and meant to sit down at your work. I rode the range next spring until I felt more sedentary ’n an engineer; and sometimes at night it used to strain my intellect to split the difference between myself an’ my saddle.
I got out o’ humor an’ depressed and downright gloomy. Fact is, I was on the point o’ rollin’ up my spare socks and givin’ Jabez a chance to save my board money, when I heard a sound ’at jerked me up through the scum and gave me a glimpse o’ the sky again. I was ridin’ in about dusk, and I had hung back o’ the dust the other fellers had kicked up, so I could be alone and enjoy my misery, when I heard this inspirin’ noise.
Ol’ Tank Williams once tried to learn to play on a split clarinet a feller had give him, and at first I thought he had found where we had buried it, and had resumed his musical studies; but this outrage came from an instrument a feller has to be mighty cautious about buryin’. It was a human voice, and these were the words it was screechin’:
“Fair Hera caught her wayward spouseWith a mortal maid one dawn.Zeus charmed the maid into a cow,To save himself a jaw’n’.This seemed to me a liber-teeTo take with poor I-oh;But now I find that he was kind,—’T was I who did not know.For girls use slang and girls chew gum,And drape their forms in silk;While cows behave with de-co-rum,And furnish us with milk.”
“Fair Hera caught her wayward spouseWith a mortal maid one dawn.Zeus charmed the maid into a cow,To save himself a jaw’n’.This seemed to me a liber-teeTo take with poor I-oh;But now I find that he was kind,—’T was I who did not know.For girls use slang and girls chew gum,And drape their forms in silk;While cows behave with de-co-rum,And furnish us with milk.”
“Fair Hera caught her wayward spouseWith a mortal maid one dawn.Zeus charmed the maid into a cow,To save himself a jaw’n’.
“Fair Hera caught her wayward spouse
With a mortal maid one dawn.
Zeus charmed the maid into a cow,
To save himself a jaw’n’.
This seemed to me a liber-teeTo take with poor I-oh;But now I find that he was kind,—’T was I who did not know.
This seemed to me a liber-tee
To take with poor I-oh;
But now I find that he was kind,—
’T was I who did not know.
For girls use slang and girls chew gum,And drape their forms in silk;While cows behave with de-co-rum,And furnish us with milk.”
For girls use slang and girls chew gum,
And drape their forms in silk;
While cows behave with de-co-rum,
And furnish us with milk.”
Well, I gave a whoop and threw the spurs into my pony. This was the seventy-ninth verse of Horace’s song, and it was his favorite, because it was founded on the Greek religion. I found him perched up behind a rock, and he kept on slammin’ chunks of his song up again’ the welkin until I shot some dirt loose above his head; and then he climbed down and reunioned with me.
He was lookin’ fine, except that some of his waist products had come back, and we talked into each other until the air got too thin to breathe. Then we suppered up and began talkin’ again. He had tried all sorts of gymnastical games back East, from playin’ golf to ridin’ hossback in a park, but it didn’t have the right tang. Folks thought he’d gone insane an’ lost his mind, the air didn’t taste right, he got particular about how his vittles were cooked; until finally, his endurance melted and began to run down the back of his neck. This decided him ’at he’d had full as much East as was good for him; so he loaded up a box with firearms, tossed some clothin’ into a handbag, and he said his grin had been gettin’ wider all the way out until it had hooked holes through the window lights on both sides o’ the train.
We were all glad to see him, an’ he dove into ranch life like a bullfrog into a cream jar; and he got toughened to a hard saddle in a mighty short time for a feller who had got used to upholstery back East. He said ’at the only thing ’at had kept life in him had been to sing his song constant; but he denied ’at this was his main excuse for fleein’ from his own range.
He didn’t seem to bear a mite o’ malice for the joke I had put up on him; but still, I have to own up ’at he half pestered the life out of me with his song. He had what he called a tenor voice; but it was the dolefullest thing I ever heard, and the more he sang, the more his notes stuck to him until I coveted to hear a love-sick hound serenadin’ the moon. When he saw it was riskin’ his life to drag out any more o’ the song, he would pause temptingly, and then begin a lecture on the Greek religion. He got me all mussed up in religion.
Of course, I knew ’at the Injuns had a lot o’ sinful religious idees, and I was prepared to give the other heathens plenty o’ room to swing in; but not even an Injun would ’a’ stood for as immoral a lot as the Greek gods an’ goddusses—especially the top one, which Horace called Zeus an’ Jove an’ Jupiter.
This one didn’t have as much decency as a male goat, and yet he had unlimited power. He was allus enticin’ some weak-minded human woman into a scrape; and when his wife, who was called Hera and Juno, would get onto his tricks, Zeus would snap his fingers, say “Flip!” and charm the human woman into some sort of an animal. It was a handy scheme for him, true enough; and he didn’t care a scene how embarrassin’ it was for the human women.
He turned one of ’em into a bear, and, like most other women, she was feared o’ bears an’ wolves an’ snakes, an’ the rest o’ the company she was forced to associate with. She led a perfectly rotten existence until her own son went bear huntin’, and was just on the point of jabbin’ a spear into her, when even Zeus himself admitted ’at this would be carryin’ the joke a leetle too far; so he grabs ’em up and sticks ’em into the sky as a group o’ stars.
Horace tried to argue ’at this proved Zeus to be merciful; but as far as I can see it’s as idiotic as havin’ the law hang a man for murder. Supposin’ some feller had murdered me—would I feel any happier because this feller who couldn’t put up with me in this world, is sent over to pester me in the next? Course I wouldn’t; but if one o’ my friends was murdered, and I had a chance to slay the feller ’at did it, this would give me a lot o’ satisfaction an’ joy an’ pleasure—though I don’t say it would be just.
Puttin’ the woman an’ her son up in the sky didn’t square things in Horace’s religion, neither; ’cause he said ’at Hera got jealous of Zeus for elevatin’ the woman and she went to her foster parents who had charge of the ocean, and made ’em bar this woman and her son from ever goin’ into it, the same as the other stars did, and he could prove it any clear night. I told him that he might get away with such a tale as that back East among the indoor people; but that he couldn’t fool a day-old child with it out our way.
We started this discussion the day after the fall round-up was over, Horace had toughened up before it began, and he had rode with me all through it, and takin’ it all in all he was more help than bother, except that he shot too much. When he had come out before, he had been so blame harmless he couldn’t have shot an innocent bystander; but this trip, he was blazin’ away at every livin’ thing ’at didn’t have a dollar mark on it, and when these wasn’t offered, he’d waste ammunition on a mark.
I had some details to tend to after the round-up, so we didn’t get a chance to settle the bet for several days. It was only a dollar bet; but when the time came, I picked out a couple o’ good hosses, bein’ minded to look at the stars from the top o’ Cat Head.
We reached it about dark, made some coffee, an’ fried some bacon. Then we smoked an’ talked until it was entirely dark before we ever looked up at the stars. “Now, bluffer,” sez I, “show me your woman-bear.”
He looked up at the sky, an’ then moved on out o’ the firelight, an’ continued to look at the stars without speakin’. “Don’t seem to see ’em, do you?” I taunted.
He turned to me an’ spoke in a hushed voice: “Man,” he said, “this is wonderful. Why, the way those stars seem to be hangin’ down from that velvet dome is simply awe-inspirin’. I’ve looked through three good telescopes, but to-night, I seem to be viewin’ the heavens for the first time.”
“I thought you wasn’t much familiar with ’em, or you wouldn’t have put out that nonsense about a bear-woman,” I sez.
“That,” sez he, pointin’ to the best known group o’ stars in the sky, “is Ursa Major.”
“That,” sez I, “is the Big Dipper, an’ you needn’t try to fool me by givin’ it one o’ your Greek names.”
He didn’t argue with me; but came back to the fire an’ fixed some stones in the shape of the Big Dipper stars, then drew lines with a stick, an’ sez ’at this made up the Great Bear. I looked him between the eyes, but he held his face, so I knew he was in earnest. “All right,” I sez. “I’ll take you huntin’ some o’ these days, an’ if we chance to come across a silver-tip—a real grizzly, understand, and not a pet varmint backed up again’ the risin’ sun—you’ll change your mind about what a bear looks like. If that was all your fool Greeks knew about wild animals, I wouldn’t waste my time to hear what they had to say about gods an’ goddusses. I’m goin’ to start back, an’ you can come or not, just as you please.” This was the first time I had hinted about the woodchuck; but I was disgusted at his nonsense. He took it all right, though, which proves he was game.
I rode some comin’ back, an’ he kept tryin’ to square himself; but I didn’t heed him. Just before we reached the foothills, we saw a fire, an’ when we reached it, the Friar was just finishin’ his supper. He an’ Horace bowed stiffly to each other, an’ I was just put out enough by Horace’s star-nonsense to feel like roastin’ some one; so I decided to roast ’em both.
I sat on my hoss an’ looked scornful from one to the other. “Here is two religious folks,” I said, impersonal to the pony, but loud enough for all to hear. “Here is two genuwine religious folks! One of ’em is workin’ for universal brotherhood, an’ the other is peddlin’ Greek religion which he claims to be founded on beauty an’ love an’ harmony. They meet in the mountains, an’ bow as cordial as a snow-slide. I think if ever I pick out a religion for myself, I’ll choose the Injun’s.”
I couldn’t have asked for any two people to look more foolish ’n they did. Neither one of ’em seemed to have anything to say; so I said to my pony: “Don’t you worry none, Muggins, I got a match o’ my own, an’ if we want to set by a fire, why, we can ride on to some place where wood is free, an’ build us one.”
“Will you not dismount an’ rest a while at my fire?” sez the Friar, in a tone meant as a slap at me.
“No, thank you,” sez Horace, “we must be goin’.”
“Yes, Friar,” I sez hearty. “Me an’ Horace has a bet up, an’ you can decide it. Also, you owe him somethin’ on his own hook. You drove him out o’ your religion an’ into the Greek religion; an’ if that don’t give him a direct call on you, why then you don’t realize what a pest the Greek religion is.”
They were so embarrassed they were awkward an’ spluttery; but I was sure ’at this was good for ’em, so I got off, threw the reins on the ground, an’ warmed my hands at the fire; while Horace apologized for me not knowin’ any better, an’ the Friar assured him coldly that everything was all right, an’ he was rejoiced to have a little company.
Well, for as much as ten minutes, we sat around enjoyin’ what I once heard a feller call frapayed convivuality, an’ then I took pity on ’em an’ loosened things up by tellin’ the Friar about the trip me an’ Tank an’ Horace had took into the mountains to pacify our nerves, just before he had stumbled on Horace that other time. O’ course I didn’t tell it all, as I didn’t want Horace to know any more about it than he knew already; but I told what a seedy little windfall Horace had been when we started out, an’ how he had come back crackin’ jokes an’ singin’ the infernalest song ’at ever was made up. I finally got Horace to sing ten or fifteen minutes o’ this song, an’ he droned it out so unusual doleful that he fetched a chuckle out o’ the Friar, an’ then we were feelin’ easy an’ comfortable, like outdoor men again.
Then I told the Friar what our bet was, expectin’ o’ course that he’d back me up; but what did he do but say ’at Horace was right as far as the stars was concerned. This tickled Horace a lot, an’ he began to crow over me until I concluded to test the Friar; so I sez to Horace that his religion havin’ been endorsed by the Friar himself, I’d become a Greek the first chance I had.
Horace didn’t take any trouble to hide his satisfaction, an’ he began to expound upon the beauty, an’ the art, an’ the freedom of the Greek religion at a great rate.
“They certainly was free,” I sez, “an’ easy too, an’ I don’t deny ’at they might ’a’ been some weight in art an’ beauty; but, confound ’em, they didn’t know as much about bears as I know about e-lectricity. I’d just like to see Zeus himself go up into the Tetons in the early spring, to hunt for Big Dippers. I’ll bet the first hungry grizzly he’d come across would set him right on the bear question.”
This was a good opener, an’ in about two shakes, the Friar an’ Horace had locked horns. Horace was a crafty, sarcastic, cold-blooded little argufier; while the Friar was warm an’ eager an’ open as the day. It was one o’ the best gabbin’ matches I have ever started.
They dealt mostly in names I had never heard of before, although once in a while they’d turn up one a little familiar on account of Horace havin’ told me some tale of it. The Friar knew as much about these things as Horace did; but he called ’em myths, an’ said while they didn’t mean anything when took literal, they had great historical value when regarded merely as symbols. He said that I-oh—the human maid which Zeus had turned into a cow—was nothin’ but the moon, an’ that Argus of the hundred eyes was simply the sky full o’ stars; and that the old god which ate up his children was nothin’ but time.
I didn’t really understand much of what they said; but I did enjoy watchin’ ’em bandy those big words about. We all use a lot o’ words we don’t understand; but as long as they sound well an’ fill out a gap it don’t much matter. These two, though, seemed to understand all the words they used, an’ I was highly edified.
As they talked, an’ I kept watchin’ the Friar’s face, I learned somethin’: the Friar had been mighty lonesome with only us rough fellers to talk with, an’ had been hungerin’ for just such a confab as this to loosen up his subsoil a little.
Every now an’ again, I’d cast an eye up to the stars; an’ while I didn’t know the religious names of ’em, I knew how to tell time by ’em; an’ I knew ’at those two would have a turn when they remembered to look at their watches. It was full one o’clock when the conversation came to its first rest, an’ then the Friar recalled what I had said when I had dismounted; so he up an’ asked Horace point-blank what he had had to do with makin’ Horace quit the church.
Horace was minded to sidestep this at first by intimatin’ that I was not responsible for what I said; but he finally came across and told the Friar that he had give up that church for about the same reason that the Friar himself had. This set the Friar back purty well on his haunches, an’ put him on the defensive. He had hammered Horace freely before, but now when he conscientiously tried to defend the gang he had left, and also excuse himself for leavin’, he had some job on his hands.
I thought Horace had him when he compared the Golden Age of Greece an’ Plato’s Republic with the Dark Ages, which was a stretch of years when the Christian religion about had its own way; but the Friar admitted that what he called economical interests had put a smirch on the church durin’ the Dark Ages, an’ then he sailed into the Golden Age of Greece, showin’ that slavery was the lot of most o’ the decent people durin’ that period. When I fell asleep, they were shakin’ their fists friendly at one another, about Plato’s Republic, which I found out afterwards was only a made-up story.
Bein’ edicated is a good deal like bein’ a good shot in a quiet community—once in a long while it’s mighty comfortin’, but for the most part it’s nothin’ but shootin’ at a target.
It was broad day when I woke up—that is, the sun was beginnin’ to rise—an’ the fire had dwindled to coals, the breeze had begun to stir itself, an’ I was consid’able chilly. I saw the Friar’s nose stickin’ out o’ one side of his tarp an’ Horace’s nose stickin’ out the other, an’ I grinned purty contentedly.
My experience is, that quarrelsome people usually get along well together an’ make good company; but sad, serious, silent, polite folks is about the wearin’est sort of an affliction a body can have about.
I once heard a missionary preach about what a noble thing it was to control the temper. He must have been a good man, ’cause he was unusual solemn an’ wore his hair long an’ oily; but he only looked at one side o’ the question. I’ve known fellers who had such good control o’ their tempers that after they’d once been put out o’ humor over some little thing, they could keep from bein’ good tempered again for a year. And then again, when a feller keeps too tight a holt on his temper, his hands get numb, an’ his temper’s liable to shy at some silly thing an’ get clear away from him.
What I liked about both the Friar an’ Horace was, ’at they hadn’t froze up all their feelin’s. It was possible to get ’em stirred up about things, an’ this allus struck me as bein’ human; so I was glad to see Horace warmin’ his feet in the small o’ the Friar’s back, an’ I whistled a jig under my breath while gettin’ breakfast.
They grumbled consid’able when I rousted ’em out; but by the time they had soused their heads in the crick, they were in good humor again; an’ hungry! Say! Ever since I’d give him his treatment, Horace had had an appetite like a stray dog; while the Friar allus was a full hand at clearin’ tables, except on his one off-day a week. I gave the Friar a wink just as Horace splashed into his third cup o’ coffee, an’ sez: “Friar, you should have seen this creature when he first came out here. His muscles had all turned to fat, so that he could hardly wobble from one place to another, an’ he was so soft that when he’d lie down at night, his nerves would stick into him an’ keep him awake. Now, if it wasn’t for that fringy thing he wears on his face, he’d look almost exactly like a small-sized human.”
The only come-back Horace made was to start to sing with his mouth full o’ cornbread an’ bacon. This was more ’n any one could stand, so I tipped him over backward, an’ asked the Friar which way he was headin’.
The Friar’s face went grave at once; and then he began to post me up on Olaf the Swede. I had heard some rumors that summer, but hadn’t paid much heed to ’em. It now turned out that the Friar and Olaf had struck up friendly affiliations; so he was able to give me all the details.
Badger-face had a disposition like a bilious wolf, and when he was denied the satisfaction o’ jerkin’ Olaf out o’ this world, he had turned to with earnest patience to make Olaf regret it as much as he did. Olaf could stand more ’n the youngest son in a large family o’ mules, but he had his limitations, the same as the rest of us; so when he saw that Badger was engaged in makin’ the earth no fit place for him to habitate, he began to feel resentful.
When a boss is mean, he is still the boss and he don’t irritate beyond endurance; but a foreman is nothin’ but a fellow worker, after all; so when he gets mean, he’s small and spidery in his meanness; and I reckon ’at Olaf was justified in tryin’ to unjoint Badger-face, thorough and complete.
O’ course, Ty had to back up Badger for the sake o’ discipline; but he didn’t wreak any vengeance on Olaf when he tendered in his resignation, which proves ’at Ty still was full o’ respect for Olaf. Badger was groanin’ on his back when Olaf left; but he called out that he intended to get square, if he had to wear all the curves off his own body to do it.
Olaf had the gift o’ sensin’ men, all right; but his judgment wasn’t such as to make a yearlin’ bull willin’ to swap, and what he did was to take the Pearl Crick Spread as a homestead. It was only about fifteen miles from the Cross brand ranch house, and it was one o’ the choicest bits in the whole country. This act was on a par with an infant baby sneakin’ into a wolf den to steal meat. The Friar put the finishin’ touch by sayin’ that Olaf had bought the old, run-down T brand, and then I lost patience.
“Does Olaf sleep with a lightnin’ rod connected to the back of his neck?” I asked as sober as a boil.
“What do ya mean?” asked the Friar, who was innocent about some things.
“Well, that looks like another good way to attract trouble,” sez I.
“Olaf does not want any trouble,” sez the Friar with dignity. “All he wants is an opportunity to work his claim in peace. He has more self-control ’n airy other man I’ve ever known.”
“It’s a handy thing to have, too,” sez I, “providin’ a feller knows how to use it. Why, ya could change a T brand to a Cross quicker ’n a one-armed Mexican could roll a cigarette. Ty Jones’ll get more o’ that brand ’n ever Olaf will. How is Kit Murray gettin’ along?”
“She is a fine girl,” sez the Friar, his face lightin’. “She has cut out all her wild ways, and Mother Shipley sez her daughter thinks as much of her as if they was sisters. I got word last week ’at her husband died in a hospital; and I hope she’ll marry Olaf some day.”
“Well, I’ll bet the liquor again’ the bottle ’at she never does it,” sez I. “In the first place, she’s got too much style, and in the second, she’s got too much sense. Ty’s already got more stuff ’n he can take care of through a dry summer, and the next one we have, he is goin’ to need Pearl Crick Spread. A grizzly traffics along without bein’ disturbed, until he gets the idee that he owns consid’able property, and has legal rights. Then one day the’ don’t seem to be anything else demandin’ attention, so out go a parcel o’ men and harvest the grizzly. That’s the way it’ll be with Olaf.”
“I advised him to move,” sez the Friar; “but he’s set in his ways.”
“Self-control,” sez I. “I was workin’ in a mine once with a mule and a Hungarian; and both of ’em had an unusual stock o’ self-control. One day right after a fuse had been lit, the mule decided to rest near the spot; an’ the Hun decided to make the mule proceed. We argued with ’em as long as it was safe; but the mule had his self-control an’ all four feet set, and the Hun was usin’hisself-control an’ a shovel. All we ever found was the mule’s right hind leg stickin’ through the Hungarian’s hat, and we buried these jus’ as they was.”
The Friar sighed, pursed up his lips, and sez: “I wish I could help him.”
“Help him all you can, Friar,” sez I; “but after the fuse is burnin’, you pull yourself out to safety. Ty Jones could easy spare you without goin’ into mournin’.”
The Friar rode on about his business, an’ me an’ Horace went back to the ranch, him pumpin’ me constant for further particulars about Olaf an’ Kit. “Horace,” sez I finally, “did you ever see these folks?”
“I never did,” sez he.
“Then,” sez I, “what you got again’ ’em ’at you want ’em to marry?”
“Marriage,” sez he with the recklessness common to old bachelors, “is the proper condition under which humans should live—and besides, I don’t like what you tell about Ty Jones.”
From that on, Horace began to talk hunt; and when Horace talked anything, he was as hard to forget as a split lip. He had brought out some rifles which the clerk had told him would kill grizzlies on sight, and Horace had an awful appetite to wipe out the memory o’ that woodchuck.
I admit that no one has any right to be surprised at anything some one else wants to do; but I never did get quite hardened to Horace Walpole Bradford. When ya looked at him, ya knew he was a middle-aged man with side-burn whiskers; but when ya listened to his talk, he sounded like a fourteen-year-old boy who had run away to slaughter Injuns in wholesale quantities.
All of his projecs were boyish; he purt’ nigh had his backbone bucked up through the peak of his head before he’d give in that ridin’ mean ones was a trade to itself; and the same with ropin’, and several other things. It ground him bitter because his body hadn’t slipped back as young as his mind, an’ he worked at it constant, tryin’ to make it so.
He wore black angora chaps, two guns, silver spurs, rattlesnake hat-band, Injun-work gauntlets, silk neckerchief through a silver slip, leather wristlets, an’ as tough an expression as he could work up; but the one thing of his old life he refused to discard was his side-burns. Sometimes he’d go without shavin’ for two weeks, an’ we’d all think he was raisin’ a beard; but one day he’d catch sight of himself in a lookin’-glass, an’ then he’d grub out the new growth an’ leave the hedge to blossom in all its glory.
We were long handed for the winter as usual, an’ the’ wasn’t any reason why we couldn’t take a hunt; so Tank an’ Spider egged him on, an’ I wasn’t much set again’ it myself. Horace agreed to pay us our wages while we were away, an’ offered Jabez pay for the hosses; but o’ course he wouldn’t listen to it; and for a few days he even talked some o’ goin’ with us, though he didn’t ever care much for huntin’.
Finally we started out with a big pack train an’ enough ammunition for an army. Besides me an’ Horace, the’ was Tank, Spider Kelley, Tillte Dutch, an’ Mexican Slim. Slim was to do the cookin’, an’ the rest of us were to divvy up on the other chores all alike, Horace not to be treated much different simply because he was payin’ us our wages; but he was to have the decidin’ vote on where we should go an’ how long we’d stay. It was fine weather most o’ the time, though now an’ again we’d get snowed up for a day or so in the high parts.
I had allus felt on friendly terms with the wild creatures; an’ I had told him before we started that I wouldn’t have no part in usin’ hosses for bear-bait, nor shootin’ bears in traps, nor killin’ a lot o’ stuff we had no use for; but Horace turned out to be as decent a hunter as I ever met up with, an’ after the second day out he did as little silly shootin’ as any of us. He wasn’t downright blood-thirsty, like a lot of ’em who get their first taste too late in life. He cared more for the fun o’ campin’ out an’ stalkin’ game than he did for killin’. We only got one silver-tip, most of ’em havin’ holed up; but we found all the other game we wanted. Horace killed the grizzly, which was a monster big one, and this wiped the woodchuck off his record, and inflated his self-respect until the safety valve on his conceit boiler was fizzin’ half the time.
We made a permanent camp not far from Olaf’s shack, an’ it didn’t take me long to see ’at the foxy Horace was more interested in Olaf an’ his war with Ty Jones than he was in huntin’. As soon as we had our camp arranged, he got me to take him over to Pearl Crick Spread to call on Olaf. I told him that Olaf wasn’t what you’d call sociable; but he insisted, so we went.
We found Olaf in an infernal temper, an’ some tempted to take it out on the first human he met; but this didn’t phaze Horace. He thought he could start Olaf by tellin’ him that Kit Murray was a widow; but the Friar had already told him and Olaf wouldn’t thaw worth a cent. He kept on askin’ questions, even when they wasn’t answered, until Olaf got hungry an’ asked us in to eat dinner with him. After we had eaten, we sat around the fire smokin’, an’ Horace looked as contented as a cat. He kept at his questionin’ until he got Olaf to talkin’ freer ’n I had supposed he could talk.
Horace tried him out on all sorts o’ things, an’ when Olaf snubbed him, why, he just overlooked it an’ tried somethin’ else. Finally he tried his hand at religion, an’ this was what loosened Olaf up. Now Olaf was actually religious, and called himself a Christian, but the’ was a heap o’ difference between his brand o’ it an’ the Friar’s.
Olaf’s God took more solid satisfaction in makin’ hell utterly infernal than a civilized community takes in a penitentiary; an’ Olaf was purty certain as to who was goin’ there. When he got to talkin’ religion in earnest, his face grew hard an’ his eyes bright, an’ he gloated over the souls in torment till he showed his teeth in a grin. The’ wasn’t any doubt in his mind that Ty Jones was goin’ to be among those present, an’ this led him into tellin’ what had put him so far out o’ humor before we’d come along.
He had found another one of his cows shot an’ only a couple o’ steaks cut off. He fair frothed at the mouth when he told us this, an’ he didn’t make any bones of givin’ Ty the credit for it. He cut loose an’ told us a string o’ things ’at he knew about Ty, an’ ya couldn’t blame him for feelin’ sore. He talked along in a rush after he got started, tellin’ o’ the way ’at Ty changed brands an’ butchered other fellers’ stock an’ wasn’t above takin’ human life when it stood in his way. “He made me as big a devil as he is,” sez Olaf; “an’ now he knows ’at I can’t get any backin’; so he is just persecutin’ me; but some o’ these days, I’ll get a chance at him.”
Horace had dropped into a silence while Olaf was talkin’; but now he raised a finger at me, an’ said: “I’ll tell you what we’ll do: instead of huntin’ ordinary wild beasts, we’ll just keep watch on Olaf’s stuff, an’ when any one bothers it, why, we’ll take ’em into some town with a jail.”
Olaf shook his head, an’ I told Horace that the’ wasn’t any law for big cattle men; but Horace was all worked up, an’ after we’d left Olaf an’ started for camp, he didn’t talk of anything else. He put it before the boys; but they were all again’ it, an’ told him a lot o’ tales about fellers who had tried to buck the big cattle men. Horace called us all cowards; but we only laughed at his ignorance an’ let him carry on as far as he liked. He sat up way into the night broodin’ over it, an’ from that on he did a lot o’ scoutin’ on his own hook. We used to keep an eye on him, though; so after all he had his own way about it, an’ Olaf’s stuff was watched purty close.
The boys was proud of Horace, just as they’d have been proud of a fightin’ terrier; but they was worried about him, too, in just about the same way.
“I tell you, that little runt would shoot to kill if he got a chance,” sez Tank Williams, one night while Horace was away.
“Aw ya can’t tell,” sez Spider. “He thinks he would; but he’s never been up against it yet, an’ ya can’t tell.”
“Well, what if he did shoot,” sez Slim, “we wouldn’t have to mix in, would we?”
“You know blame well we’d mix in,” sez Tank, “an’ you can’t tell where it would end. If Horace had ’a’ come out here when he was a kid, he’d ’a’ turned out one o’ the bad men for true. It’s in his blood. Look at him! when he came here first, he didn’t have no more get-up ’n a sofy piller; but look what he’s gone through since. I saw him, myself, march along without food for four days, an’ when we came up with that cow, he was willin’ to help kill her with a rock or strangle her to death, an’ he didn’t make no more bones o’ calf-milkin’ her than a coyote would. He started out in life with more devilment in him ’n any of us, an’ what he’s achin’ for now is a mix-in with the Cross brand outfit. That’s my guess.”
“An’ that’s my guess,” I chimed in; but just then we heard two shots close together, then a pause an’ three more shots. We jammed on our hats an’ guns an’ rushed outside. It was a moonlight night, an’ we hustled in the direction o’ the shots. Before long we made out Horace an’ Tillte Dutch comin’ towards us, an’ Horace was struttin’ like Cupid the bulldog used to walk, after he’d flung a steer. It was the first time I’d ever noticed this, but I noticed it plain, out there in the moonlight.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“I reckon ’at somebody knows by now that Olaf’s stuff is havin’ a little interest took in it,” sez Horace.
We came back into the old log cabin where we was campin’, an’ Dutch told about how Horace had got him to walk with him, an’ had sat down on a rock where they could see Olaf’s little bunch o’ cattle grazin’. He said ’at Horace sat with his rifle across his lap and kept watch like an Injun scout.
After a time they saw two men creep out of a ravine not far from where they was sittin’ an’ sneak down on the bunch o’ cows. One of ’em had shot a cow, an’ Horace had shot him, bringin’ him down, but not killin’ him. The two had run for the ravine, an’ Horace had tried to cut ’em off, an’ he had gone along ’cause Horace had; but the two had got to their hosses first. Each o’ the two had taken one shot, an’ Horace had shot back but none o’ these last shots had hit anything, an’ the two had got away.
“I’ll bet they haven’t got so far away but what we’ll hear from ’em again,” sez Tank.
“The thing for us to do is to start back to the Diamond Dot,” sez I.
“We shall stay here, an’ see what happens,” sez Horace, lightin’ his pipe. His eyes were dancin’ an’ he was all puffed up. I didn’t say any more. I just looked at him. He was the same old Horace, side-burns an’ all; but still the’ was enough difference for me to begin to regret havin’ give him the treatment. I had cured his nerve so complete it seemed likely to boss the whole crowd of us into trouble.
The Friar sez it’s all rot about men bein’ better for havin’ sowed their wild oats when young. He sez ’at it’s utter foolishness to sow any crop ya don’t want to harvest; but I dunno. I don’t mind havin’ a colt try to turn himself inside out with me on its back; but I’m some prejudiced again’ an old hoss which is likely to pitch when I’ve got other business to attend to. When a young hoss is mean, why, ya can reason it out of him; but when an old hoss turns bad, you might just as well put the outlaw label on him an’ turn him adrift.
We couldn’t do a thing with Horace after he’d taken his shot at the feller who potted one of Olaf’s cows. Ol’ Tank Williams was huge in size an’ had a ponderous deep voice which rumbled around in him like a bulldog croakin’ in a barrel; an’ he decided that it was his duty to be firm with Horace, seein’ the way ’at he had bluffed him when we went on that trip for the nerves; so the follerin’ mornin’ he put a scowl on his face, grabbed Horace by the chest of his shirt, lifted him so ’at nothin’ but the tips of his toes touched, an’ sez: “Look here, you little whippersnapper, we agreed to go where you said an’ stay as long as you said; but we meant on a game-huntin’ trip. You haven’t any idee what you’re up again’ out here, an’ you got to give in an’ come back with us.”
Tank’s free eye rolled about in his head, runnin’ wilder ’n I’d ever seen it; but Horace wasn’t as much phazed as if a fly had bit him. He scowled down his eyebrows, an’ piped out in his squeaky tenor: “Take your hand off me, Tank—and take it off now.”
“I’ve a notion to raise it up an’ squash ya,” sez Tank.
“Yes,” sez Horace, without blinkin’ a winker, “you’ve got notions all right; but they lie so far to the interior of ya that they generally weaken before they find their way out. Take your hand off me.”
Well, Tank was beat. He gave Horace a shove, but Horace was light on his feet, an’ he never lost his balance. He just danced backward until he had his brakes set, an’ then he fetched up in front o’ the fire, put his fists on his hips, an’ stared up at Tank haughty.
“Ignorance,” sez he, “is the trouble with most people. The ignorant allus judge by appearances. If body-size was what really counted, why, we’d have an elephant for an emperor. Instead of which we use ’em to push logs around. Goliath did a lot o’ talkin’ about squashin’ David, but as soon as David got around to it, he fixed Goliath all ready for the coroner. Napoleon was of small size, an’ fat, an’ nervous, but he didn’t count it a fair day’s work unless he had presented one of his relatives with a full-sized kingdom. Where are the buffalos—where are they—the big clumsy brutes! They’re shut up out o’ harm’s way, that’s where they are; but where are the mosquitoes? Why the mosquitoes are takin’ life easy at all the fashionable summer resorts. If you feel like freightin’ your big, fat carcass back to where it don’t run any risk o’ bein’ bumped into, why go ahead; but I’m goin’ to stick around here an’ see what happens.”
Well, there we were: we didn’t none of us have the courage to own up ’at we were afraid of anything ’at Horace wasn’t afraid of; so we decided to stick with him, but that he had to take the blame. It was Tillte Dutch who said this, an’ Horace looked at him an’ grinned. “Take the blame?” sez he. “Why you big chump, it’s the small-sized men who allus take the blame. The big boobs rush about, makin’ a lot o’ noise; but they only do what the small-sized men tell ’em to. I’ll take the blame all right, an’ if you back me up, you’ll be right pleased to have a share in the kind o’ blame the’s goin’ to be. This Ty Jones outfit is nothin’ but a set o’ cowardly bullies who sneak around in the dark doin’ underhanded work; but I intend to let the daylight in.”
“I’ll bet the daylight will be let in, somewhere,” sez I; “but I’m just fool enough to stick with ya.”
Tank was still smartin’ from the way it had been handed to him. “Say,” sez he, “p’raps you don’t know it; but that David you was cacklin’ about a while ago wasn’t nothin’ but a sheep-herder.”
“That don’t change no brands,” sez Horace, who didn’t have any more use for a sheep-herder ’n we did. “He was a small-sized man, an’ he just drove sheep a while to help his father out. Sheep-herdin’ wasn’t his regular trade. Bossin’ men an’ fightin’ an’ bein’ a king was his natural line o’ business. It allus seems to me ’at big, overgrown men ought to be sheep-herders, so they could drive about in house-wagons, an’ not wear down so many good hosses.”
Ol’ Tank slammed about, makin’ a lot o’ noise; but he had lost this deal, an’ it was plain to see.
“I’m goin’ to ride over to Olaf’s, an’ tell him about what happened last night, an’ say ’at we’ll keep an eye on his stuff if so be he wants to take a little trip to Billings,” said Horace; and when he started I went along with him. At first Olaf was so white-hot about havin’ another cow killed that he couldn’t think; but finally he looked at Horace a long time, an’ said: “You have very brave flame, an’ you speak true. I shall go to Billings, an’ trust everything with you.”
I was flabbergasted clear out o’ line at this; but Olaf packed some stuff on one hoss, flung his saddle on another, an’ set off at once. Now, I knew Olaf to be slow an’ stubborn, an’ I couldn’t see through this.
After Olaf had rode out o’ sight to the north, Horace sez: “Has he allus been crazy?”
“He’s not crazy,” sez I.
“Then what did he mean by sayin’ I had a very brave flame an’ that I spoke true?” sez Horace. “Course he’s crazy. Didn’t you notice his eyes.”
“Yes,” I sez, “I’ve noticed his eyes a lot; but I don’t think he’s crazy—except in thinkin’ ’at Kit Murray’ll marry him. Why, she would as soon think o’ marryin’ a he-bear as Olaf.”
“Well, I think they have drove him crazy,” sez Horace; “but I’m goin’ to bestir myself in his favor.”
He took himself as serious as if he had been Napoleon an’ David both; an’ I could smell trouble plain. We decided to move our camp down to Olaf’s, an’ wrangle his herd into the Spread every night. Pearl Crick Spread was as fine a little valley as a body ever saw; filled with cottonwoods an’ snugglin’ down out o’ the wind behind high benches. The crick came in through a gorge, an’ went out through a gorge; an’ it was plain to me that the Spread was worth fightin’ for.
When we got back to the camp we found that a couple o’ Cross brand boys had happened along, by accident, of course, an’ were tryin’ to swap news o’ the weather for news o’ the neighbors. Our crowd hadn’t loosened up none; and as soon as we came back the Cross-branders left.
Horace looked pleased. “I bet I got one of ’em last night,” sez he, shakin’ his head.
Well, we all grinned, we couldn’t help it. “I bet you get another chance at ’em, too,” sez Slim. Our outfit had been peaceable for so long that the prospect of trouble actually made us feel nervous enough to show it.
We moved down to Olaf’s, and each night we fetched in his little bunch o’ cows, an’ allus kept up some hosses in the corral. The Cross-branders used to wander by our place purty frequent, but allus in the matter o’ business.
One day, after we’d been livin’ at Olaf’s about a week, Badger-face Flannigan, an’ a pair of as mean-lookin’ Greasers as ever I saw, came ridin’ along. Me an’ Horace had been up in the hills after some fresh meat, an’ we see them before they saw us. They were ridin’ slow an’ snoopin’ about to see what they could pick up, an’ when they saw us they looked a bit shifty for a moment.
Then Badger wrinkled up his face in what was meant for a friendly grin, an’ sez: “Hello, fellers. Have you-un’s bought Olaf out?”
“Nope,” sez I. “We’re just out here for a little huntin’; an’ Olaf got us to look after his stuff for a few days while he went visitin’.”
“Wasn’t the’ any huntin’ closer to home?” sez Badger-face, a little sarcastic.
“Not the kind o’ huntin’ we prefer,” sez Horace, sort o’ dreamy like.
Badger-face drilled a look into Horace, who had put on his most no-account expression. “What’s your favorite game,” sez he, “snow-shoe rabbits?”
“Oh, no,” drawled Horace as if he felt sleepy, “silver-tips an’ humans is our favorite game; but o’ course the spring is the best time—for silver-tips.”
“Where might you be from?” asked Badger-face.
“I might be from Arizona or Texas,” sez Horace; “but I ain’t. I’m a regular dude. Can’t you tell by my whiskers?”
Badger-face was so puzzled when Horace gave a little rat-laugh that I had to laugh too; and ya could see the blood come into Badger’s cheeks, but still, he couldn’t savvy this sort o’ game, so he couldn’t quite figure out how to start anything.
Horace had practiced what he called a muscle-lift, which he said he used to see the other kids do on parallel bars; and now he slipped to the ground an’ tightened his cinch an’ cussed about the way it had come loose, as natural as life. Then he put one hand on the horn an’ the other on the cantle an’ drew himself up slow. He kept on pushin’ himself after his breast had come above the saddle until he rested at arm’s length. Then he flipped his right leg over, an’ took his seat as though it was nothin’ at all. Any one could see it was a genuwine stunt, though it was of no earthly use to a ridin’ man.
Now, just because the’ was no sense to this antic, it made more of an impression on Badger-face than the fanciest sort o’ shootin’ or ropin’ would ’a’ done; an’ he puzzled over what sort of a speciment Horace might be, till it showed in his face.
“Come on down an’ have supper with us,” sez Horace. “You can see for yourself what the prospect for fresh meat is; so you can be sure of a welcome.”
“No, we can’t very well come this evenin’,” sez Badger-face.
“Why not?” sez Horace. “You look to me like a man who was gettin’ bilious for the want of a little sociability. Come on down an’ we’ll swap stories, an’ have a few drinks, an’ I’ll sing ya the best song you ever hearkened to.”
“No, we got to be goin’,” sez Badger-face; an’ he an’ the Greasers rode off while Horace chuckled under his breath as merry as a magpie.
“That’s what you call a bad man, is it?” sez he. “I tell you that feller’s a rank coward.”
“Would you have the nerve to pick up a horn-toad?” sez I.
“No,” sez he; “cause they’re poison.”
“They ain’t no more poison ’n a frog is,” I sez; “but most people thinks they are, an’ that is why strangers are afraid of ’em. Now, Badger-face ain’t no coward. He’s a shootin’ man; but he can’t make you out, an’ this is what makes him shy of ya.”
“Well,” sez Horace, “I’d rather be a free horn-toad than a mule in harness. Come on, let’s go eat.”
The next afternoon Horace went along to help bring in the bunch o’ cattle; an’ some one up on the hill took a shot at him. He couldn’t ride up the hill, so he hopped off the pony, an’ started up on foot. Mexican Slim was closest to him, an’ he started after; but the feller got away without leavin’ any trace. Horace was wonderful pleased about it, an’ strutted more than common.
“There now,” sez he after supper; “do you mean to tell me ’at that feller wasn’t a coward? Why the’ ain’t enough sand in their whole outfit to blind a flea!”
We just set an’ smoked in silence. When a feller as little as him once begins to crow, the’s nothin’ to do but wait till his spurs get clipped.
It’s curious how hard it is, sometimes, to get trouble started. We all knew ’at the Cross-branders was ready to clean us out, an’ itchin’ for the job; but the’s one curious little holdback in the make-up of every healthy animal in the world. Every sane animal the’ is wants self-defence as his excuse for takin’ life. I admit that now and again beasts an’ men both get a sort o’ crazy blood-lust, an’ just kill for the sake of it; but it’s the rare exception.
One of us allus made it a point to go along with Horace; an’ most times when we’d meet up with any o’ the Cross-branders, they’d never miss the chance to fling some polite smart talk at him; but the little cuss could sass back sharper ’n they could, an’ I reckon they was suspicious that he wouldn’t ’a’ been so cool if he hadn’t had bigger backin’ than was in sight. It was perfectly natural to think ’at he had been sent out as a lure by some big cattle outfit, or even the government; so they went cautious till they could nose out the game.
One day Badger-face an’ the two Greasers came along when Horace was out ridin’ with Tillte Dutch. Dutch was one o’ these innocent-lookin’ Germans—big, wide-open eyes, a half smile, an’ a sort of a leanin’ to fat. He never had but one come-back to anything—which was to splutter; but he was dependable in a pinch.
“Whatever made you so unspeakable little?” sez Badger-face to Horace.
Horace looked behind him, an’ all about, an’ then sez in surprise: “Who, me?”
“Yes, you,” sez Badger-face. “You seem to dry down a little smaller each day.”
“Well,” sez Horace, speakin’ in a low secret-tellin’ tone, “I’ll tell ya; but I don’t want ya to blab it to every one ya see. When I was a young chap, I used to go with a big, awkward, potato-brained slob, about your size. I could out-shoot him, out-ride him, run circles around him, an’ think seven times while he was squeezin’ the cells of his brain so they’d touch up again’ each other; but one day he made a bet that he could eat more hog-meat ’n I could; an’ he won the bet. When I found out that the’ was one single thing ’at this big, loose-jointed galoot could beat me at, I felt so blame small that I never got over it, an’ this is why I disguise myself in these whiskers.”
The two Greasers couldn’t help but grin, an’ the fool Dutchman sniggered. This was more ’n Badger-face could stand. He shot his hand across an’ pulled his gun quick as a flash; but Horace didn’t move, he just sat still, with a friendly smile on his face; an’ Badger-face sat there with his gun in his hand, scowlin’ jerk-lightnin’ at him.
Spider an’ Slim had gone after meat that day, an’ they came into view with the carcase of a doe, just as Badger drew his gun. Me an’ Tank was listed to wrangle in the bunch, an’ we came ridin’ along just after the other two came into view. The Greasers gave a little cough an’ Badger-face looked up an’ saw us. It looked like a put-up job, all right; an’ chariots of fire, but he was mad! Pullin’ a gun on a man is the same as shootin’ at him. Badger-face had been tricked into givin’ us just grounds to slaughter him, and he wasn’t quite sure what move to make next. Our outfit had been purty well advertized, through cleanin’ out the Brophy gang, me an’ Mexican Slim were both two-gun men an’ known to be quick an’ accurate, while Tank was ever-lastin’ly gettin’ into trouble, owin’ to his friendly feelin’s for liquor. As we drew closer we made our smoke-wagons ready, while his two Greasers kept their hands in plain view, and harmless.
Badger had a trapped look in his face; but he didn’t say anything, an’ he didn’t cover Horace with his gun; he just held it ready. We did the same with ours, an’ it was the foolest lookin’ group I was ever part of. Ol’ Tank was the one who finally started things. “Look here, Badger-face,” he bellowed, “if you so much as harm a hair o’ those blamed ol’ whiskers, why, we’ll have to put ya out o’ business.”
Horace turned an’ looked at Tank in surprise. “Aw, put up your gun,” he said. “Badger-face ain’t in earnest. We had an argument the other day: I said ’at a man lost time crossin’ his hand to pull his gun, an’ he said it could be done quicker that way ’n any other; so to-day he joked me about bein’ as small in the body as he is in the brain, an’ I came back at him, also jokin’ in a friendly way; an’ he took this excuse to pull his gun on me, without any ill intent; but only to prove how quick he could do it. It stuck in his holster, though; an’ if we’d been in earnest, I’d have had to kill him. I’ve had him covered all this time; but you can see for yourselves ’at his gun ain’t cocked. Now put up your guns, and next time, don’t be silly.”
I know ’at Horace didn’t have any gun in his hand when we came up; but when he stopped speakin’, he pulled his hand with a cocked gun in it out from under his hoss’s mane, an’ Badger-face was the most surprised of any of us.
“Come on down to supper, Badger-face, an’ I’ll sing ya my song,” sez Horace. “We allus seem to have fresh deer meat when you happen along.”
We all put up our guns along with Badger-face, an’ he mumbled some sort of an excuse an’ rode away with the Greasers. O’ course we’d ought to ’a’ killed him right then, ’cause he was more full o’ hate than a rattler; but the simple truth was, that Horace had gained control over us complete, an’ we let him have his way.
“When did you get that gun in your hand, Horace?” I sez to him after supper. “You didn’t have no gun when I rode up.”
“That’s what’s puzzlin’ Badger-face right this minute,” sez Horace. “I didn’t draw that gun until Tank made his talk; but at the same time I wasn’t as defenceless as I looked. I have told you all the time ’at that man didn’t have the nerve to harm me. He’s a coward.”
“I reckon you’ll be killed one o’ these days, still believin’ that,” sez ol’ Tank. “How much fightin’ experience have you ever had?”
“How much did Thesis ever have?” asked Horace.
“Never heard of him,” sez Tank. “Who was he?”
“He was a Greek hero,” sez Horace. “He never had had a fight till he started out to go to his father; but he cleaned out all the toughs along the way, an’ when he reached his father, who was king of Athens, he found ’em just ready to send out seven young men an’ seven maidens, which they offered up each year to the Minnietor, which was a beast with the body of a man, and the head of a bull, just like Badger-face. Thesis volunteered, an’ what he did was to kill the Minnietor an’ end all that nonsense.”
“Well, I never heard tell o’ that before, an’ I don’t more ’n half believe it now,” sez Tank; “but I’m willin’ to bet four dollars ’at the Minnietor didn’t know as much about gunfightin’ as what Badger-face does. He’ll get ya yet, you see if he don’t.”
“Tell ya what I’m game to do,” sez Horace. “I’m game to go right to Ty Jones’s ranch house alone. Do ya dare me?”
“No, you don’t do that,” sez I. “That’s a heap different proposition. Ty Jones wouldn’t pull his gun without shootin’; and besides, he’d most likely set his dogs on ya.”
“Well, I own up ’at I don’t want no dealin’s with dogs,” sez Horace, thoughtful. “Dogs haven’t enough imagination to work on. If they’re trained to bite, why, that’s what they do; but give a human half a chance, an’ he’ll imagine a lot o’ things which are not so. You couldn’t tell Badger-face a big enough tale about me to make him doubt it. I tell ya, I got him scared.”
We didn’t argue with him none; the’ was some doubt about him havin’ Badger-face fooled; but the’ wasn’t any doubt about him havin’ himself fooled—which is the main thing after all, I reckon. Anyway, we let Horace sit there the whole evenin’, tellin’ Greek-hero tales which must have blistered the imagination o’ the feller ’at first made ’em up.
Along about nine o’clock we began to stretch an’ yawn; but before we got to bed, Mexican Slim said ’at he heard a noise at the corral, an’ we all looked at one another, thinkin’ it was the Cross-branders; but Horace was the first one to get back into his boots an’ belt; an’ he also insisted on bein’ the first to open the door, which he did as soon as we blew out the candle. Then we all filed out an’ sneaked down toward the corral; but first thing we knew, a voice out o’ the dark whispered: “This is me—Olaf. Is everything all right?”
We told him it was, an’ he whistled three times. You could ’a’ knocked me down with a feather when Kit Murray an’ the Friar came ridin’ up; an’ then we turned the ponies loose an’ went into the house. It only had two rooms, countin’ the lean-to kitchen, an’ we made consid’able of a crowd; but we were all in good spirits, on account of Olaf gettin’ the girl an’ us bein’ able to hand him back his stuff with not one head missin’.
It had been some interval since I’d seen Kit Murray, an’ I was surprised to view the change in her. She didn’t look so much older, but all the recklessness had gone out of her face, an’ it had a sort of a quiet, holy look about it. “Kit,” I sez, “I wish ya all the joy the’ is; but I’d ’a’ been willin’ to have bet my eyes ’at you’d never take Olaf. I was glad to see him go up after ya, ’cause gettin’ knocked on the head is some better ’n bein’ kept hangin’ on a hook; but you sure got your nerve with ya. This homestead is purty likely to get in some other folks’ way.”
Kit had as snappy a pair o’ black eyes as was ever stuck in a face; and now they flashed out full power. “I know it’s goin’ to be hard to hold this place,” sez she, “but I reckon I can help a little. I can ride an’ shoot as well as a man, if I have to, and you know it. I don’t want anything but the quietest sort of a life the’ is; but I’m ready to stand for any sort o’ luck ’at comes along. As for Olaf, he’s the only man in the world for me. I saw something o’ the big cities back east, an’ Billings, an’ the boys on the range here, and out of ’em all, Olaf’s my man. The thing I hope more ’n anything else is, that we can die together.”
Her voice caused a hush to come to the room. I had meant to be jovial an’ hearty; but the’ was an undercurrent of earnestness in her voice which put a tingle into a feller. Kit Murray had changed a heap, but all for the better.
Olaf cleared his throat, an’ we all took a look at him. He had changed, too. He had lost the chained-bear look he generally wore, an’ the’ was a light o’ pride an’ satisfaction in his face which was good to look upon. “Boys,” he said, “I’ve been purty tough an’ unsociable, an’ I don’t see why you’ve took so much trouble for me; but I tell ya right here that I stand ready to square it in any way or at any time I can. Now, it seems mighty funny ’at Kit Murray should love me, an’ I can’t account for it any more ’n you can; but I knew right from the start that she did love me—I could tell by the light. If ever the time comes that she don’t love me any more, I get out of her way, that’s all about that; but I’m not goin’ to make her stay here any longer ’n I have to. I sell out when I get the first chance. Friar Tuck, he softened my heart, an’ he watched over her. He’s a man. That’s all I can say.”
Well, this was an all-around noble speech for a stone image like Olaf had been, an’ we cheered him to the echo; but Horace had sort o’ been jostled to the outside an’ forgot. Now, he come forward an’ shook Olaf by the hand an’ congratulated him, an’ sez: “The’s one thing I’d like mightily to know, an’ that is—what the deuce do you mean by this light you’re allus alludin’ to?”
Olaf was some embarrassed; but it never seemed to fuss Horace any when he had turned all the fur the’ was in sight the wrong way; so he just waited patiently while Olaf spluttered about it.
“I don’t know myself,” sez Olaf. “Always, since I was a little child, I have seen a floating light about people. I thought every one saw this light an’ I spoke of it when I was a child an’ asked my mother about it many times; but at first she thought I lie, an’ then she thought my head was wrong; so I stopped talkin’ about it; but always I see it an’ it changes with the feelings and with the health. All the colors and shades I cannot read, but some I know. I knew that Kit Murray loved me before she knew it, and I knew that the Friar was a true man when they told me tales of him. Animals, too, have this floatin’ light about ’em, an’ I can tell when they are frightened an’ when they are mean. This is why I handle hosses without trouble. Now I do not know why my eyes are this way; but I have told you because you have been good friends to me. I do not want you to tell of this because it makes people think I am crazy.”
“Course it does,” sez Horace. “It made me think you were crazy. I never heard of anything like this before. Tell me some more about it.”
“There is no more to tell,” sez Olaf. “When I see the flame I do not see the people. The flame wavers about them, and sometimes I have seen it at night, but not often. I do nothing to make myself see this way. Always my eyes did this even when I was only a baby.”
“Well, you have everything beat I ever saw yet,” sez Horace. “What do you think o’ this, Friar?”
“I never heard of such a case,” sez the Friar; “although it may have been that many have had this gift to some extent. I think it is due to the peculiar blue of Olaf’s eyes. I think that this blue detects colors or rays, not visible to ordinary eyes. I wish that some scientist would study them.”
“I’ll pay your way back East, Olaf,” sez Horace, “if you’ll have your eyes tested.”
“No, no,” sez Olaf, shakin’ his head. “I don’t want to be a freak. What is the use? I can not tell how I do it, so it cannot be learned; and I do not want things put into my eyes for experiments. No, I will not do it.”
“Tell me how Badger-face looks to you,” sez Horace.
“Oh, he is bad,” sez Olaf. “He has the hate color, he loves to kill; but he is like the wolf; he does not like the fight, he wants always to kill in secret.”
“I bet my eyes are a little like yours,” sez Horace, noddin’ his head. “I knew ’at Badger-face was this way as soon as I saw him.”
“Oh, here now,” sez the Friar. “You are puttin’ down a special gift to the level of shrewd character-readin’.”
“What sort of a flame does a dead person have, Olaf?” sez Horace.
A queer look came into Olaf’s face, a half-scared look. “A dead person has no flame,” sez he, with a little shudder. “It is a bad sight. I have watched; I have seen the soul leave. When a man is killed, the savage purple color fades into the yellow of fear, then comes the blue, it gets fainter and fainter around the body; but it gathers like a cloud above, and then it is silver gray, like moonshine. It is not in the shape of the body, it is just a cloud. It floats away. That is all.”
“Well, that’s enough,” sez Horace. “Can you see any flame about a sleeping person?”
“Yes,” sez Olaf, “just like about a waking person; and there is marks over a wound or a sick place.”
“Well, Mrs. Svenson,” sez Horace to Kit, “you’ll have to be mighty careful or your husband will find you out.”
“I am perfectly willin’,” sez Kit with a proud little smile. She was game, all right, Kit was.
“That is why I say it is all right,” sez Olaf. “She is young, she cannot know how she will change. If ever she no longer love me, I will not bother her. That would be a foolishness; but so long as she love me, no other man will bother her. That would be devilishness!”
“You certainly have a nice, simple scheme of life,” sez Horace. “If ever you change your mind, I’ll put up the money to take you back East, an’ pay you high wages.”
“No,” sez Olaf, “I hate circuses an’ shows, an’ such things. I not go.”
“You say you can tell sick places, an’ fear, an’ hate, an’ honesty,” sez Horace. “Now, when I came out here, I was just punk all over. You give me a look-over, an’ tell right out what you see.”
At first Olaf shook his head, but we finally coaxed him into it; an’ he opened his eyes wide an’ looked at Horace. As he looked the blue in his eyes got deeper an’ deeper, like the flowers on the benches in June, then when the pupil was plumb closed, the blue got lighter again, and he said: “You have not one sick point, you have good thoughts, you are very brave, you are too brave—you are reckless. You have very great vitality, an’ will live to be very old—unless you get killed. I knew an old Injun—over a hundred years old he was—he had a flame like yours. It is strange.”
You could actually see Horace swellin’ up with vanity at this; but it made ol’ Tank Williams hot to see such a fuss made about a small-caliber cuss; so he rumbles around in his throat a minute, an’ sez: “Well, you fellers can fool around all night havin’ your souls made light of, if ya want to; but as for me I’m goin’ to bed.”
Kit insisted that we sleep on the floor just as we had been, while she an’ Olaf bunked in the lean-to; but a warm chinook had been blowin’ all day, an’ it was soft an’ pleasant, so we took our beds out in the cottonwoods. Horace an’ the Friar got clinched into some kind of a discussion; but the rest of us dropped off about as soon as we stretched out. The moon was just risin’, an’ one sharp peak covered with glitterin’ snow stood up back o’ the rim. I remember thinkin’ it might be part o’ the old earth’s shiny soul.