ADVENTURES OF PECOS BILL“How old was Pecos Bill when he was lost on the Pecos River?” Lanky asked Joe on the next night when supper was finished and the four were sitting around the fire smoking.“I guess he must of been about four year old,” said Joe. “Some says he was jest a year old, but that can’t be right. The Ole Man made two or three crops down on the Trinity before the country got so thickly settled that he had to leave.”“What became of the family?” asked Lanky.“That would be hard to answer,” said Joe; “hard to answer. I don’t suppose there’s a soul that knows for certain. There’s been tales about ’em bein’ et up by wild beasts, but that ain’t likely; and there’s been tales about ’em bein’ killed by the Indians, but that ain’t likely neither. Why, them Red-Skins would run like scered jack-rabbits when they seen the Ole Man comin’, or the Ole Woman either. Then there’s tales about ’em dyin’ for water in the desert, which may be so; but more than likely they settled somewheres and lived a happy and peaceful life.”“The chances are,” said Red, “that they settled in the Lost Canyon, and their offspring may be livin’ there yet for all anybody knows.”“Where is the Lost Canyon?” asked Lanky.“That’s jist what nobody don’t know,” said Red; “but it’s out in the Big Bend Country somewheres, andit opens into the Río Grande. It gits wide, and there’s springs in it, and buffalo a-grazin’ on the grass, and it’s a fine country.”“How do you know about it?” asked Lanky. “Have you ever been there?”“Naw,” said Red, “but people has. But you never can find it when you’re lookin’ for it. Them that finds it, finds it accidentally, and then they can’t go back. That’s jist the place that would of suited Pecos Bill’s Ole Man, and the chances are that’s where he stopped. Some day I’m goin’ to happen on that canyon myself, and if I do, I’ll jist stake me out a ranch; that is unless it’s inhabited by Pecos Bill’s race. If it is, I reckon I’ll let ’em have it.”“And what became of Pecos Bill?” asked Lanky.“Why,” said Joe, “he jest growed up with the country. There wasn’t nothin’ else he could do. He got to runnin’ with a bunch of coyotes and took up with ’em. He learned their language and took up all their bad habits. He could set on the ground and howl with the best of ’em, and run down a jack-rabbit jest as quick, too. He used to run ahead of the pack and pull down a forty-eight point buck and bite a hole in his neck before the rest of the coyotes got there. But he always divided with the pack, and that’s probably the reason they throwed off on him like they did.”“Did he ever teach anybody else the coyote language?” asked Lanky.“Jest one old prospector that befriended him once. That was all. You see the old man couldn’t find no gold and he went to trappin’, and he used the languagethat Bill had taught him to call up the coyotes and git ’em in his traps. Bill said it was a dirty trick, and he wouldn’t teach nobody else how to speak coyote. Bill would of killed the old prospector if it hadn’t of been that the old man done him a favor once.”“What did he do?” asked Lanky.“Why, it was him that found Bill and brought him back to civilization and liquor, which Bill had jest about forgot the taste of.”“How old was Bill at that time?” asked Lanky.“Oh, I guess he was about ten years old,” said Joe. “One day this old prospector comes along and he hears the most terrible racket anybody ever heard of—rocks a-rollin’ down the canyon, brush a-poppin’, and the awfullest howlin’ and squallin’ you could imagine; and he looks up the canyon and sees what he first thinks is a cloud comin’ up, but purty soon he discovers it’s fur a-flyin’.“Well, he decides to walk up the canyon a piece and investigate, and purty soon he comes on Pecos Bill, who has a big grizzly bear under each arm jest mortally squeezin’ the stuffin’ out of ’em. And while the old prospector stands there a-watchin’, Bill tears off a hind leg and begins eatin’ on it.“‘A game scrap, son,’ says the old prospector, ‘and who be ye?’“‘Me?’ says Bill. ‘I’m a varmit.’“‘Naw, ye ain’t a varmit,’ says the old prospector; ‘you’re a human.’“‘Naw,’ says Bill, ‘I ain’t no human; I’m a varmit.’“‘How come?’ says the prospector.“‘Don’t I go naked?’ says Bill.“‘Shore ye do,’ says the old Prospector. ‘Shore ye’re naked. So is the Indians, and them critters is part human, anyway. That don’t spell nothin’.’“‘Don’t I have fleas?’ says Bill.“‘Shore ye do,’ says the old prospector, ‘but all Texians has fleas.’“‘Don’t I howl?’ says Bill.“‘Yeah, ye howl all right,’ says the old prospector, ‘but nearly all Texians is howlin’ most of the time. That don’t spell nothin’ neither.’“‘Well, jest the same I’m a coyote,’ says Bill.“‘Naw, ye ain’t a coyote,’ says the old prospector. ‘A coyote’s got a tail, ain’t he?’“‘Yeah,’ says Bill, ‘a coyote’s got a tail.’“‘But you ain’t got no tail,’ says the old prospector. ‘Jest feel and see if you have.’“Bill felt and shore nuff, he didn’t have no tail.“‘Well, I’ll be danged,’ he says. ‘I never did notice that before. I guess I ain’t a coyote, after all. Show me them humans, and if I like their looks, maybe I’ll throw in with ’em.’“Well, he showed Bill the way to an outfit, and it wasn’t long till he was the most famous and noted man in the whole cow country.”“It was him,” said Hank, “that invented ropin’. He had a rope that reached from the Río Grande to the Big Bow, and he shore did swing a mean loop. He used to amuse his self by throwin’ a littleJulian[2]up in thesky and fetchin’ down the buzzards and eagles that flew over. He roped everything he ever seen: bears and wolves and panthers, elk and buffalo. The first time he seen a train, he thought it was some kind of varmit, and damn me if he didn’t sling a loop over it and dang near wreck the thing.“One time his ropin’ shore did come in handy, for he saved the life of a very dear friend.”“How was that?” asked Lanky.“Well, Bill had a hoss that he thought the world of, and he had a good reason to, too, for he had raised him from a colt, feedin’ him on a special diet of nitroglycerin and barbed wire, which made him very tough and also very ornery when anybody tried to handle him but Bill. The hoss thought the world of Bill, but when anybody else come around, it was all off. He had more ways of pitchin’ than Carter had oats. Lots of men tried to ride him, but only one man besides Bill ever mounted that hoss and lived. That’s the reason Bill named him Widow-Maker.”“Who was that man?” asked Lanky.“That was Bill’s friend that I was goin’ to tell you about Bill savin’ his life,” said Hank. “You see this feller gits his heart set on ridin’ Widow-Maker. Bill tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he could ride anything that had hair. It had been his ambition from youth, he said, to find a critter that could make him pull leather. So Bill, seein’ the pore feller’s heart was about to break, finally told him to go ahead.tornado“A-settin’ on that tornado and a-spurrin’ it in the withers.”“He gits on Widow-Maker, and that hoss beginsto go through his gaits, doin’ the end-to-end, the sunfish, and the back-throw; and about that time the rider goes up in the sky. Bill watches him through a spyglass and sees him land on Pike’s Peak. No doubt he would of starved to death up there, but Bill roped him by the neck and drug him down, thus savin’ his life.”“Yeah,” said Red, “Widow-Maker was jist the sort of hoss that suited Bill exactly. For one thing, it saved him a lot of shootin’, because he didn’t have no trouble keepin’ other people off his mount; and as for Bill, he could ride anything that had hair and some things that didn’t have. Once, jist for fun, he throwed a surcingle on a streak of lightin’ and rode it over Pike’s Peak.“Another time he bet a Stetson hat he could ride a cyclone. He went up on the Kansas line and simply eared that tornado down and got on it. Down he come across Oklahoma and the Panhandle a-settin’ on that tornado, a-curlin’ his mustache and a-spurrin’ it in the withers. Seein’ it couldn’t throw him, it jist naturally rained out from under him, and that’s the way Bill got the only spill he ever had.“Yeah,” continued Red, “I reckon Bill was mighty hard to throw. A smart lad he was, and a playful sort of feller, too. In his spare time he used to amuse his self puttin’ thorns on things—bushes and cactuses and the like, and he even stuck horns on the toads so they’d match up with the rest of the country.”“I see he’s been at work in this country,” said Lanky. “Did he live all his life in Texas?”“Naw, he didn’t,” said Joe. “Bill was a good deallike his old man. When he had killed all the Indians and bad men, and the country got all peaceful and quiet, he jest couldn’t stand it any longer, and he saddled up his hoss and started west. Out on the New Mexico line he met an old trapper, and they got to talkin’, and Bill told him why he was leavin’, and said if the old man knowed where there was a tough outfit, he’d be much obliged if he would tell him how to git to it.“‘Ride up the draw about two hundred miles,’ says the oldtrapper, ‘and you’ll find a bunch of guys so tough that they bite nails in two jest for the fun of it.’“So Bill rides on in a hurry, gittin’ somewhat reckless on account of wantin’ to git to that outfit and git a look at the badhombresthat the old man has told him about. The first thing Bill knowed, his hoss stumps his toe on a mountain and breaks his fool neck rollin’ down the side, and so Bill finds his self afoot.“He takes off his saddle and goes walkin’ on, packin’ it, till all at once he comes to a big rattlesnake. He was twelve feet long and had fangs like the tushes of ajavelina; and he rears up and sings at Bill and sticks out his tongue like he was lookin’ for a scrap. There wasn’t nothin’ that Bill wouldn’t fight, and he always fought fair; and jest to be shore that rattlesnake had a fair show and couldn’t claim he took advantage of him, Bill let him have three bites before he begun. Then he jest naturally lit into that reptile and mortally flailed the stuffin’ out of him. Bill was always quick to forgive, though, and let by-gones be by-gones, and when the snake give up, Bill took himup and curled him around his neck, and picked up his saddle and outfit and went on his way.“As he was goin’ along through a canyon, all at once a big mountain lion jumped off of a cliff and spraddled out all over Bill. Bill never got excited. He jest took his time and laid down his saddle and his snake, and then he turned loose on that cougar. Well, sir, the hair flew so it rose up like a cloud and the jack-rabbits and road-runners thought it was sundown. It wasn’t long till that cougar had jest all he could stand, and he begun to lick Bill’s hand and cry like a kitten.“Well, Bill jest ears him down and slips his bridle on his head, throws on the saddle and cinches her tight, and mounts the beast. Well, that cat jest tears out across the mountains and canyons with Bill on his back a-spurrin’ him in the shoulders and quirtin’ him down the flank with the rattlesnake.“And that’s the way Bill rode into the camp of the outfit the old trapper had told him about. When he gits there, he reaches out and cheeks down the cougar and sets him on his haunches and gits down and looks at his saddle.“There was them toughhombresa-settin’ around the fire playin’monte. There was a pot of coffee and a bucket of beans a-boilin’ on the fire, and as Bill hadn’t had nothin’ to eat for several days, he was hungry; so he stuck his hand down in the bucket and grabbed a handful of beans and crammed ’em into his mouth. Then he grabbed the coffee pot and washed ’em down, and wiped his mouth on a prickly-pear. Then he turnedto the men and said, ‘Who in the hell is boss around here, anyway?’“‘I was,’ says a big stout feller about seven feet tall, ‘but you are now, stranger.’“And that was the beginning of Bill’s outfit.”“But it was only the beginnin’s,” said Red; “for it wasn’t long after that that he staked out New Mexico and fenced Arizona for a calf-pasture. He built a big ranch-house and had a big yard around it. It was so far from the yard gate to the front door, that he used to keep a string of saddle hosses at stations along the way, for the convenience of visitors. Bill always was a hospitable sort of chap, and when company come, he always tried to persuade them to stay as long as he could git ’em to. Deputy sheriffs and brand inspectors he never would let leave a-tall.“One time his outfit was so big that he would have his cooks jist dam up a draw to mix the biscuit dough in. They would dump in the flour and the salt and the bakin’-powder and mix it up with teams and fresnoes. You can still see places where the dough was left in the bottom of the draw when they moved on. Alkali lakes they call ’em. That’s the bakin’-powder that stayed in the ground.“One time when there was a big drought and water got scerce on Bill’s range, he lit in and dug the Río Grande and ditched water from the Gulf of Mexico. Old man Windy Williams was water boy on the job, and he said Bill shore drove his men hard for a few days till they got through, and it kept him busy carryin’ water.”“I guess it took about all of Bill’s time to manage a ranch like that,” said Lanky.“Not all, not all,” said Joe. “That was his main vocation and callin’, but he found time for a good many other things. He was always goin’ in for somethin’ else when the cattle business got slack.“When the S. P. come through, he got a contract furnishin’ ’em wood. Bill went down into Mexico and rounded up a bunch of greasers and put ’em to cuttin’ wood. He made a contract with ’em that they was to git half the wood they cut. When the time was up, they all had big stacks of cordwood, Mex’can cords, you understand, that they don’t know what to do with. So Bill talked it over with ’em and finally agreed to take it off their hands without chargin’ ’em a cent. Bill always was liberal.“He done some of the gradin’ on the S. P. too. This time he went out and rounded up ten thousand badgers and put ’em to diggin’. He said they was better laborers than Chinks, because he could learn ’em how to work sooner. Bill had some trouble, however, gittin’ ’em to go in a straight line, and that’s why the S. P. is so crooked in places.“He also got a contract fencin’ the right-of-way. The first thing that he done was to go out on the line of Texas and New Mexico and buy up all the dry holes old Bob Sanford had made out there tryin’ to git water. He pulled ’em up and sawed ’em up into two-foot lengths for post-holes.”“I’ve heard that Paul Bunyan did that with dry oil-wells,” said Lanky.“Paul Bunyan might of for all I know,” said Joe. “But if he did, he learned the trick from Pecos Bill, for this was before oil had been invented.“However, it cost so much to freight the holes down that Bill give up the plan long before he had used up all of Bob Sanford’s wells, and found a cheaper and better way of makin’ post-holes.”“What was his new method?” asked Lanky.“Why, he jest went out and rounded up a big bunch of prairie-dogs, and turned ’em loose where he wanted the fence, and of course every critter of ’em begun diggin’ a hole, for it’s jest a prairie-dog’s nature to dig holes. As soon as a prairie-dog would git down about two feet, Bill would yank him out and stick a post in the hole. Then the fool prairie-dog would go start another one, and Bill would git it. Bill said he found the prairie-dog labor very satisfactory. The only trouble was that sometimes durin’ off hours, the badgers that he had gradin’ would make a raid on the prairie-dogs, and Bill would have to git up and drive ’em back to their own camp.”“Did Bill have any other occupations?” asked Lanky.“Well,” said Joe, “he used to fight Indians jest for recreation, but he never did make a business of it like some did, huntin’ ’em for a dollar a scalp. In fact Bill was not bloodthirsty and cruel, and he never scalped an Indian in his life. He’d jest skin ’em and tan their hides.”“That reminds me,” said Hank, “of another business he used to carry on as a sort of side-line, and thatwas huntin’ buffalo. You see, it was the hides that was valuable, and Bill thought it was too much of a waste to kill a buffalo jest for the hide; so he’d jest hold the critters and skin ’em alive and then turn ’em aloose to grow a new hide. A profitable business he built up, too, but he jest made one mistake.”“What was that?” asked Lanky.“One spring he skinned too early, and a norther come up, and all the buffalo took cold and died. Mighty few of ’em left after that.”“Did Bill ever get married?” asked Lanky.“Oh, yes,” said Joe. “He married lots of women in his day, but he never had the real tender affection for any of the rest of ’em that he had for his first wife, Slue-Foot Sue.“Bill savvied courtin’ the ladies all right; yet he never took much stock in petticoats till he met Slue-Foot Sue; but when he saw that gal come ridin’ down the Río Grande on a catfish, it jest got next to him, and he married her right off.“I say right off—but she made him wait a few days till she could send to San Antonio for a suitable and proper outfit, the principal garment bein’ a big steel wire bustle, like all the women wore when they dressed up in them days.“Well, everything would have gone off fine, but on the very day of the weddin’ Sue took a fool notion into her head that she jest had to ride Widow-Maker. For a long time Bill wouldn’t hear to it, but finally she begun to cry, and said Bill didn’t love her any more.Bill jest couldn’t stand to see her cry; so he told her to go ahead but to be keerful.riding a catfish“That gal come ridin’ down the Río Grande on a catfish.”“Well, she got on that hoss, and he give about two jumps, and she left the saddle. He throwed her so high that she had to duck as she went up to keep from bumpin’ her head on the moon. Then she come down, landin’ right on that steel bustle, and that made her bounce up jest as high, nearly, as she had went before. Well, she jest kept on bouncin’ like that for ten days and nights, and finally Bill had to shoot her to keep her from starvin’ to death. It nearly broke his heart. That was the only time Bill had ever been known to shed tears, and he was so tore up that he wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with a woman for two weeks.”[2]A type of loop. Pronouncedhoolián.
“How old was Pecos Bill when he was lost on the Pecos River?” Lanky asked Joe on the next night when supper was finished and the four were sitting around the fire smoking.
“I guess he must of been about four year old,” said Joe. “Some says he was jest a year old, but that can’t be right. The Ole Man made two or three crops down on the Trinity before the country got so thickly settled that he had to leave.”
“What became of the family?” asked Lanky.
“That would be hard to answer,” said Joe; “hard to answer. I don’t suppose there’s a soul that knows for certain. There’s been tales about ’em bein’ et up by wild beasts, but that ain’t likely; and there’s been tales about ’em bein’ killed by the Indians, but that ain’t likely neither. Why, them Red-Skins would run like scered jack-rabbits when they seen the Ole Man comin’, or the Ole Woman either. Then there’s tales about ’em dyin’ for water in the desert, which may be so; but more than likely they settled somewheres and lived a happy and peaceful life.”
“The chances are,” said Red, “that they settled in the Lost Canyon, and their offspring may be livin’ there yet for all anybody knows.”
“Where is the Lost Canyon?” asked Lanky.
“That’s jist what nobody don’t know,” said Red; “but it’s out in the Big Bend Country somewheres, andit opens into the Río Grande. It gits wide, and there’s springs in it, and buffalo a-grazin’ on the grass, and it’s a fine country.”
“How do you know about it?” asked Lanky. “Have you ever been there?”
“Naw,” said Red, “but people has. But you never can find it when you’re lookin’ for it. Them that finds it, finds it accidentally, and then they can’t go back. That’s jist the place that would of suited Pecos Bill’s Ole Man, and the chances are that’s where he stopped. Some day I’m goin’ to happen on that canyon myself, and if I do, I’ll jist stake me out a ranch; that is unless it’s inhabited by Pecos Bill’s race. If it is, I reckon I’ll let ’em have it.”
“And what became of Pecos Bill?” asked Lanky.
“Why,” said Joe, “he jest growed up with the country. There wasn’t nothin’ else he could do. He got to runnin’ with a bunch of coyotes and took up with ’em. He learned their language and took up all their bad habits. He could set on the ground and howl with the best of ’em, and run down a jack-rabbit jest as quick, too. He used to run ahead of the pack and pull down a forty-eight point buck and bite a hole in his neck before the rest of the coyotes got there. But he always divided with the pack, and that’s probably the reason they throwed off on him like they did.”
“Did he ever teach anybody else the coyote language?” asked Lanky.
“Jest one old prospector that befriended him once. That was all. You see the old man couldn’t find no gold and he went to trappin’, and he used the languagethat Bill had taught him to call up the coyotes and git ’em in his traps. Bill said it was a dirty trick, and he wouldn’t teach nobody else how to speak coyote. Bill would of killed the old prospector if it hadn’t of been that the old man done him a favor once.”
“What did he do?” asked Lanky.
“Why, it was him that found Bill and brought him back to civilization and liquor, which Bill had jest about forgot the taste of.”
“How old was Bill at that time?” asked Lanky.
“Oh, I guess he was about ten years old,” said Joe. “One day this old prospector comes along and he hears the most terrible racket anybody ever heard of—rocks a-rollin’ down the canyon, brush a-poppin’, and the awfullest howlin’ and squallin’ you could imagine; and he looks up the canyon and sees what he first thinks is a cloud comin’ up, but purty soon he discovers it’s fur a-flyin’.
“Well, he decides to walk up the canyon a piece and investigate, and purty soon he comes on Pecos Bill, who has a big grizzly bear under each arm jest mortally squeezin’ the stuffin’ out of ’em. And while the old prospector stands there a-watchin’, Bill tears off a hind leg and begins eatin’ on it.
“‘A game scrap, son,’ says the old prospector, ‘and who be ye?’
“‘Me?’ says Bill. ‘I’m a varmit.’
“‘Naw, ye ain’t a varmit,’ says the old prospector; ‘you’re a human.’
“‘Naw,’ says Bill, ‘I ain’t no human; I’m a varmit.’
“‘How come?’ says the prospector.
“‘Don’t I go naked?’ says Bill.
“‘Shore ye do,’ says the old Prospector. ‘Shore ye’re naked. So is the Indians, and them critters is part human, anyway. That don’t spell nothin’.’
“‘Don’t I have fleas?’ says Bill.
“‘Shore ye do,’ says the old prospector, ‘but all Texians has fleas.’
“‘Don’t I howl?’ says Bill.
“‘Yeah, ye howl all right,’ says the old prospector, ‘but nearly all Texians is howlin’ most of the time. That don’t spell nothin’ neither.’
“‘Well, jest the same I’m a coyote,’ says Bill.
“‘Naw, ye ain’t a coyote,’ says the old prospector. ‘A coyote’s got a tail, ain’t he?’
“‘Yeah,’ says Bill, ‘a coyote’s got a tail.’
“‘But you ain’t got no tail,’ says the old prospector. ‘Jest feel and see if you have.’
“Bill felt and shore nuff, he didn’t have no tail.
“‘Well, I’ll be danged,’ he says. ‘I never did notice that before. I guess I ain’t a coyote, after all. Show me them humans, and if I like their looks, maybe I’ll throw in with ’em.’
“Well, he showed Bill the way to an outfit, and it wasn’t long till he was the most famous and noted man in the whole cow country.”
“It was him,” said Hank, “that invented ropin’. He had a rope that reached from the Río Grande to the Big Bow, and he shore did swing a mean loop. He used to amuse his self by throwin’ a littleJulian[2]up in thesky and fetchin’ down the buzzards and eagles that flew over. He roped everything he ever seen: bears and wolves and panthers, elk and buffalo. The first time he seen a train, he thought it was some kind of varmit, and damn me if he didn’t sling a loop over it and dang near wreck the thing.
“One time his ropin’ shore did come in handy, for he saved the life of a very dear friend.”
“How was that?” asked Lanky.
“Well, Bill had a hoss that he thought the world of, and he had a good reason to, too, for he had raised him from a colt, feedin’ him on a special diet of nitroglycerin and barbed wire, which made him very tough and also very ornery when anybody tried to handle him but Bill. The hoss thought the world of Bill, but when anybody else come around, it was all off. He had more ways of pitchin’ than Carter had oats. Lots of men tried to ride him, but only one man besides Bill ever mounted that hoss and lived. That’s the reason Bill named him Widow-Maker.”
“Who was that man?” asked Lanky.
“That was Bill’s friend that I was goin’ to tell you about Bill savin’ his life,” said Hank. “You see this feller gits his heart set on ridin’ Widow-Maker. Bill tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen. He said he could ride anything that had hair. It had been his ambition from youth, he said, to find a critter that could make him pull leather. So Bill, seein’ the pore feller’s heart was about to break, finally told him to go ahead.
tornado“A-settin’ on that tornado and a-spurrin’ it in the withers.”
“A-settin’ on that tornado and a-spurrin’ it in the withers.”
“He gits on Widow-Maker, and that hoss beginsto go through his gaits, doin’ the end-to-end, the sunfish, and the back-throw; and about that time the rider goes up in the sky. Bill watches him through a spyglass and sees him land on Pike’s Peak. No doubt he would of starved to death up there, but Bill roped him by the neck and drug him down, thus savin’ his life.”
“Yeah,” said Red, “Widow-Maker was jist the sort of hoss that suited Bill exactly. For one thing, it saved him a lot of shootin’, because he didn’t have no trouble keepin’ other people off his mount; and as for Bill, he could ride anything that had hair and some things that didn’t have. Once, jist for fun, he throwed a surcingle on a streak of lightin’ and rode it over Pike’s Peak.
“Another time he bet a Stetson hat he could ride a cyclone. He went up on the Kansas line and simply eared that tornado down and got on it. Down he come across Oklahoma and the Panhandle a-settin’ on that tornado, a-curlin’ his mustache and a-spurrin’ it in the withers. Seein’ it couldn’t throw him, it jist naturally rained out from under him, and that’s the way Bill got the only spill he ever had.
“Yeah,” continued Red, “I reckon Bill was mighty hard to throw. A smart lad he was, and a playful sort of feller, too. In his spare time he used to amuse his self puttin’ thorns on things—bushes and cactuses and the like, and he even stuck horns on the toads so they’d match up with the rest of the country.”
“I see he’s been at work in this country,” said Lanky. “Did he live all his life in Texas?”
“Naw, he didn’t,” said Joe. “Bill was a good deallike his old man. When he had killed all the Indians and bad men, and the country got all peaceful and quiet, he jest couldn’t stand it any longer, and he saddled up his hoss and started west. Out on the New Mexico line he met an old trapper, and they got to talkin’, and Bill told him why he was leavin’, and said if the old man knowed where there was a tough outfit, he’d be much obliged if he would tell him how to git to it.
“‘Ride up the draw about two hundred miles,’ says the oldtrapper, ‘and you’ll find a bunch of guys so tough that they bite nails in two jest for the fun of it.’
“So Bill rides on in a hurry, gittin’ somewhat reckless on account of wantin’ to git to that outfit and git a look at the badhombresthat the old man has told him about. The first thing Bill knowed, his hoss stumps his toe on a mountain and breaks his fool neck rollin’ down the side, and so Bill finds his self afoot.
“He takes off his saddle and goes walkin’ on, packin’ it, till all at once he comes to a big rattlesnake. He was twelve feet long and had fangs like the tushes of ajavelina; and he rears up and sings at Bill and sticks out his tongue like he was lookin’ for a scrap. There wasn’t nothin’ that Bill wouldn’t fight, and he always fought fair; and jest to be shore that rattlesnake had a fair show and couldn’t claim he took advantage of him, Bill let him have three bites before he begun. Then he jest naturally lit into that reptile and mortally flailed the stuffin’ out of him. Bill was always quick to forgive, though, and let by-gones be by-gones, and when the snake give up, Bill took himup and curled him around his neck, and picked up his saddle and outfit and went on his way.
“As he was goin’ along through a canyon, all at once a big mountain lion jumped off of a cliff and spraddled out all over Bill. Bill never got excited. He jest took his time and laid down his saddle and his snake, and then he turned loose on that cougar. Well, sir, the hair flew so it rose up like a cloud and the jack-rabbits and road-runners thought it was sundown. It wasn’t long till that cougar had jest all he could stand, and he begun to lick Bill’s hand and cry like a kitten.
“Well, Bill jest ears him down and slips his bridle on his head, throws on the saddle and cinches her tight, and mounts the beast. Well, that cat jest tears out across the mountains and canyons with Bill on his back a-spurrin’ him in the shoulders and quirtin’ him down the flank with the rattlesnake.
“And that’s the way Bill rode into the camp of the outfit the old trapper had told him about. When he gits there, he reaches out and cheeks down the cougar and sets him on his haunches and gits down and looks at his saddle.
“There was them toughhombresa-settin’ around the fire playin’monte. There was a pot of coffee and a bucket of beans a-boilin’ on the fire, and as Bill hadn’t had nothin’ to eat for several days, he was hungry; so he stuck his hand down in the bucket and grabbed a handful of beans and crammed ’em into his mouth. Then he grabbed the coffee pot and washed ’em down, and wiped his mouth on a prickly-pear. Then he turnedto the men and said, ‘Who in the hell is boss around here, anyway?’
“‘I was,’ says a big stout feller about seven feet tall, ‘but you are now, stranger.’
“And that was the beginning of Bill’s outfit.”
“But it was only the beginnin’s,” said Red; “for it wasn’t long after that that he staked out New Mexico and fenced Arizona for a calf-pasture. He built a big ranch-house and had a big yard around it. It was so far from the yard gate to the front door, that he used to keep a string of saddle hosses at stations along the way, for the convenience of visitors. Bill always was a hospitable sort of chap, and when company come, he always tried to persuade them to stay as long as he could git ’em to. Deputy sheriffs and brand inspectors he never would let leave a-tall.
“One time his outfit was so big that he would have his cooks jist dam up a draw to mix the biscuit dough in. They would dump in the flour and the salt and the bakin’-powder and mix it up with teams and fresnoes. You can still see places where the dough was left in the bottom of the draw when they moved on. Alkali lakes they call ’em. That’s the bakin’-powder that stayed in the ground.
“One time when there was a big drought and water got scerce on Bill’s range, he lit in and dug the Río Grande and ditched water from the Gulf of Mexico. Old man Windy Williams was water boy on the job, and he said Bill shore drove his men hard for a few days till they got through, and it kept him busy carryin’ water.”
“I guess it took about all of Bill’s time to manage a ranch like that,” said Lanky.
“Not all, not all,” said Joe. “That was his main vocation and callin’, but he found time for a good many other things. He was always goin’ in for somethin’ else when the cattle business got slack.
“When the S. P. come through, he got a contract furnishin’ ’em wood. Bill went down into Mexico and rounded up a bunch of greasers and put ’em to cuttin’ wood. He made a contract with ’em that they was to git half the wood they cut. When the time was up, they all had big stacks of cordwood, Mex’can cords, you understand, that they don’t know what to do with. So Bill talked it over with ’em and finally agreed to take it off their hands without chargin’ ’em a cent. Bill always was liberal.
“He done some of the gradin’ on the S. P. too. This time he went out and rounded up ten thousand badgers and put ’em to diggin’. He said they was better laborers than Chinks, because he could learn ’em how to work sooner. Bill had some trouble, however, gittin’ ’em to go in a straight line, and that’s why the S. P. is so crooked in places.
“He also got a contract fencin’ the right-of-way. The first thing that he done was to go out on the line of Texas and New Mexico and buy up all the dry holes old Bob Sanford had made out there tryin’ to git water. He pulled ’em up and sawed ’em up into two-foot lengths for post-holes.”
“I’ve heard that Paul Bunyan did that with dry oil-wells,” said Lanky.
“Paul Bunyan might of for all I know,” said Joe. “But if he did, he learned the trick from Pecos Bill, for this was before oil had been invented.
“However, it cost so much to freight the holes down that Bill give up the plan long before he had used up all of Bob Sanford’s wells, and found a cheaper and better way of makin’ post-holes.”
“What was his new method?” asked Lanky.
“Why, he jest went out and rounded up a big bunch of prairie-dogs, and turned ’em loose where he wanted the fence, and of course every critter of ’em begun diggin’ a hole, for it’s jest a prairie-dog’s nature to dig holes. As soon as a prairie-dog would git down about two feet, Bill would yank him out and stick a post in the hole. Then the fool prairie-dog would go start another one, and Bill would git it. Bill said he found the prairie-dog labor very satisfactory. The only trouble was that sometimes durin’ off hours, the badgers that he had gradin’ would make a raid on the prairie-dogs, and Bill would have to git up and drive ’em back to their own camp.”
“Did Bill have any other occupations?” asked Lanky.
“Well,” said Joe, “he used to fight Indians jest for recreation, but he never did make a business of it like some did, huntin’ ’em for a dollar a scalp. In fact Bill was not bloodthirsty and cruel, and he never scalped an Indian in his life. He’d jest skin ’em and tan their hides.”
“That reminds me,” said Hank, “of another business he used to carry on as a sort of side-line, and thatwas huntin’ buffalo. You see, it was the hides that was valuable, and Bill thought it was too much of a waste to kill a buffalo jest for the hide; so he’d jest hold the critters and skin ’em alive and then turn ’em aloose to grow a new hide. A profitable business he built up, too, but he jest made one mistake.”
“What was that?” asked Lanky.
“One spring he skinned too early, and a norther come up, and all the buffalo took cold and died. Mighty few of ’em left after that.”
“Did Bill ever get married?” asked Lanky.
“Oh, yes,” said Joe. “He married lots of women in his day, but he never had the real tender affection for any of the rest of ’em that he had for his first wife, Slue-Foot Sue.
“Bill savvied courtin’ the ladies all right; yet he never took much stock in petticoats till he met Slue-Foot Sue; but when he saw that gal come ridin’ down the Río Grande on a catfish, it jest got next to him, and he married her right off.
“I say right off—but she made him wait a few days till she could send to San Antonio for a suitable and proper outfit, the principal garment bein’ a big steel wire bustle, like all the women wore when they dressed up in them days.
“Well, everything would have gone off fine, but on the very day of the weddin’ Sue took a fool notion into her head that she jest had to ride Widow-Maker. For a long time Bill wouldn’t hear to it, but finally she begun to cry, and said Bill didn’t love her any more.Bill jest couldn’t stand to see her cry; so he told her to go ahead but to be keerful.
riding a catfish“That gal come ridin’ down the Río Grande on a catfish.”
“That gal come ridin’ down the Río Grande on a catfish.”
“Well, she got on that hoss, and he give about two jumps, and she left the saddle. He throwed her so high that she had to duck as she went up to keep from bumpin’ her head on the moon. Then she come down, landin’ right on that steel bustle, and that made her bounce up jest as high, nearly, as she had went before. Well, she jest kept on bouncin’ like that for ten days and nights, and finally Bill had to shoot her to keep her from starvin’ to death. It nearly broke his heart. That was the only time Bill had ever been known to shed tears, and he was so tore up that he wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with a woman for two weeks.”
[2]A type of loop. Pronouncedhoolián.