"An' who is Colonel William Greene Sterett, you asks?" repeated the Old Cattleman, with some indignant elevation of voice. "He's the founder of the Coyote, Wolfville's first newspaper; is as cultivated a gent that a-way as acquires his nose-paint at the Red Light's bar; an' comes of as good a Kaintucky fam'ly as ever distils its own whiskey or loses its money on a hoss. Son, I tells you this prior." This last reproachfully.
"No, Colonel Sterett ain't old none—not what you-all would call aged. When he comes weavin' into Wolfville that time, I reckons now Colonel Sterett is mighty likely about twenty-odd years younger than me, an' at that time I shows about fifty rings on my horns. As for eddication, he's shore a even break with Doc Peets, an' as I remarks frequent, I never calls the hand of that gent in Arizona who for a lib'ral enlightenment is bullsnakes to rattlesnakes with Peets.
"Speakin' about who Colonel Sterett is, he onfolds his pedigree in full one evenin' when we're all sort o' self-herded in the New York Store. Which his story is a proud one, an' I'm a jedge because comin as I do from Tennessee myse'f, nacherally I saveys all about Kaintucky. Thar's three grades of folks in Kaintucky, the same bein' contingent entire on whereabouts them folks is camped. Thar's the Bloo Grass deestrict, the Pennyr'yal deestrict, an' the Purchase. The Bloo Grass folks is the 'ristocrats, while them low-flung trash from the Purchase is a heap plebeian. The Pennyr'yal outfit is kind o' hesitatin' 'round between a balk an' a break-down in between the other two, an' is part 'ristocratic that a-way an' part mud. As for Colonel Sterett, he's pure strain Bloo Grass, an' he shows it. I'll say this for the Colonel, an' it shorely knits me to him from the first, he could take a bigger drink of whiskey without sugar or water than ever I sees a gent take in my life.
"That time I alloods to, when Colonel Sterett vouchsafes them recollections, we-all is in the r'ar wareroom of the New York Store where the whiskey bar'ls be, samplin' some Valley Tan that's jest been freighted in. As she's new goods, that Valley Tan, an' as our troo views touchin' its merits is important to the camp, we're testin' the beverage plenty free an' copious. No expert gent can give opinions worth a white chip concernin' nosepaint short o' six drinks, an' we wasn't out to make no errors in our findin's about that Valley Tan. So, as I relates, we're all mebby some five drinks to the good, an' at last the talk, which has strayed over into the high grass an' is gettin' a whole lot too learned an' profound for most of the herd to cut in on, settles down between Doc Peets an Colonel Sterett as bein' the only two sports able to protect their play tharin.
"An' you can go as far as you like on it,' says the Colonel to Peets, 'I'm plumb wise an' full concernin' the transmigration of souls. I gives it my hearty beliefs. I can count a gent up the moment I looks at him; also I knows exactly what he is before he's a hooman bein'.'
"'That "transmigration" that a-way,' whispers Dan Boggs to Cherokee Hall, 'ain't no fool of a word. I'll prance over an' pull it on Red Dog to-morry. Which it's shore doo to strike'em dumb.'
"'Now yere's Hoppin' Harry,' goes on the Colonel p'intin' to a thin, black little felon with long ha'r like a pony, who's strayed over from Tucson; 'I gives it out cold, meanin' tharby no offence to our Tucson friend—I gives it out cold that Hoppin' Harry used to be a t'rant'ler. First,' continyoos the Colonel, stackin' Harry up mighty scientific with his optic jest showin' over his glass, 'first I allows he's a toad. Not a horned toad, which is a valyooed beast an' has a mission; but one of these yere ornery forms of toads which infests the East. This last reptile is vulgar-sluggish, a anamile of few if any virchoos; while the horned toad, so called, come right down to cases, ain't no toad nohow. It's a false brand, an' he don't belong with the toad herd at all. The horned toad is a lizard—a broad kind o' lizard; an' as for bein' sluggish, you let him have something on his mind speshul, an' he'll shore go careerin' about plumb swift. Moreover, he don't hop, your horned toad don't, like them Eastern toads; he stands up on his toes an' paces—he's what we-all calls on the Ohio River back in my childhood's sunny hours, "a side-wheeler." Also, he's got a tail. An' as for sperit, let me tell you this:—I has a horned toad where I'm camped over by the Tres Hermanas, where I'm deer-huntin'. I wins that toad's love from the jump with hunks of bread an' salt hoss an' kindred del'cacies. He dotes on me. When time hangs heavy, I entertains myse'f with a dooel between Augustus—Augustus bein' the horned toad's name—, an' a empty sardine box for which he entertains resentments.
"'"Lay for him, Augustus!" I'd say, at the same instant battin' him in the nose with the box.
"'Of course, Augustus ain't got savey enough to realize I does it. He allows it's the box that a-way makin' malev'lent bluffs at him. An' say, pards, it would have made you proud of your country an' its starry flag to see Augustus arch himse'f for war on them o'casions.
"'Not that Augustus is malignant or evil disposed, nacheral. No, sir; I've yet to meet up with the toad who has his simple, even, gen'rous temper or lovin' heart; as trustful too, Augustus is, as the babe jest born. But like all noble nachers, Augustus is sensitive, an' he regyards them bats in the nose as insults. As I says, you-all should have seen him! He'd poise himse'f on his toes, erect the horn on his nose, same as one of these yere rhinoceroses of holy writ, an' then the way Augustus hooks an' harasses that offensive sardine box about the camp is a lesson to folks.'
"'Where's this yere Augustus now?' asks Dan Boggs, who's got all wropped up in the Colonel's narratifs.
"'Petered,' says the Colonel, an' thar's feelin's in his tones; 'pore Augustus cashes in. He's followin' me about one mornin' watchin' me hook up—we was gettin' ready to move camp—an' all inadvertent I backs the wagon onto Augustus. The hind wheel goes squar' over him an' flattens Augustus out complete. He dies with his eyes fixed on me, an' his looks says as plain as language, "Cheer up, Colonel! This yere contreetemps don't change my affections, for I knows it's a misdeal." You-all can gamble I don't do nothin' more that day but mourn.'
"'Which I should shorely say so!' says Dan Boggs, an' his voice is shakin'; 'a-losin' of a gifted horned toad like Augustus! I'd a- howled like a wolf.'
"'But as I'm sayin',' resoomes the Colonel, after comfortin' himse'f with about four fingers; 'speakin' of the transmigration of souls, I goes off wrong about Hoppin' Harry that time. I takes it, he used to be one of these yere Eastern toads on account of his gait. But I'm erroneous. Harry, who is little an' spry an' full of p'isen that a- way, used to be a t'rant'ler. Any gent who'll take the trouble to recall one of these hairy, hoppin' t'rant'ler spiders who jumps sideways at you, full of rage an' venom, is bound to be reminded partic'lar of Hoppin' Harry.'
"'What did you-all use to be yourse'f, Colonel?' asks Enright, who notices that Hoppin' Harry is beginnin' to bristle some, like he ain't pleased none with these yere revelations. 'What for a anamile was you before you're a hooman?'
"'I was a good-nachered hoss,' says the Colonel mighty confident an' prompt; 'I'm a good-nachered hoss in a country neighborhood, an' everybody rides me that wants to. However, I allows we better shift the subject some. If we-all talks about these yere insects an' reptiles a little longer, Huggins over thar—whose one weakness is he's too frank with an' puts too much confidence in his licker—will have another one of them attacks of second sight, which Peets cures him of that time, an' commence seein' a multitood of heinous visions.'
"'Of course,' says Enright, plumb p'lite, 'of course, Colonel, I can tell a whole lot about your fam'ly by jest lookin' at you; partic'lar where as at present you're about ten drinks ahead; still thar's nothin' gives me more pleasure than hearin' about the sire from the colt; an' if you won't receive it resentful, I'd ask you as to your folks back in Kaintuck.'
"'As you-all knows,' observes Colonel Sterett, 'I was foaled in Kaintucky; an' I must add, I never recalls that jestly cel'brated commonwealth with-out a sigh. Its glories, sech as they was before the war, is fast departin' away. In my yooth, thar is nothin' but a nobility in Kaintucky; leastwise in the Bloo Grass country, whereof I'm a emanation. We bred hosses an' cattle, an' made whiskey an' played kyards, an' the black folks does the work. We descends into nothin' so low as labor in them halcyon days. Our social existence is made up of weddin's, infares an' visitin' 'round; an' life in the Bloo Grass is a pleasant round of chicken fixin's an' flour doin's from one Christmas to another.'
"'Sech deescriptions,' remarks Enright with emotion an' drawin' the back of his hand across his eyes, 'brings back my yearlin' days in good old Tennessee. We-all is a heap like you Kaintucks, down our way. We was a roode, exyooberant outfit; but manly an' sincere. It's trooly a region where men is men, as that sport common to our neck of timber known as "the first eye out for a quart of whiskey" testifies to ample. Thar's my old dad! I can see him yet,' an' yere Enright closes his eyes some ecstatic. 'He was a shore man. He stood a hundred-foot without a knot or limb; could wrastle or run or jump, an' was good to cut a 4-bit piece at one hundred yards, offhand, with his old 8-squar' rifle. He never shoots squirrels, my father don't; he barks 'em. An' for to see the skin cracked, or so much as a drop of blood on one of 'em, when he picks it up, would have mortified the old gent to death.'
"'Kaintucky to a hair,' assented the Colonel, who listens to Enright plenty rapt that a-way. 'An' things is so Arcadian! If a gent has a hour off an 'feels friendly an' like minglin' with his kind, all he does is sa'nter over an' ring the town bell. Nacherally, the commoonity lets go its grip an' comes troopin' up all spraddled out. It don't know if it's a fire, it don't know if it's a fight, it don't know if it's a birth, it don't know if it's a hoss race, it don't know if it's a drink; an' it don't care. The commoonity keeps itse'f framed up perpetyooal to enjoy any one of the five, an' tharfore at the said summons comes troopin', as I say. "'My grandfather is the first Sterett who invades Kaintucky, an' my notion is that he conies curvin' in with Harrod, Kenton, Boone an' Simon Girty. No one knows wherever does he come from; an' no one's got the sand to ask, he's that dead haughty an' reserved. For myse'f, I'm not freighted to the gyards with details touchin' on my grandfather; he passes in his chips when mebby I'm ten years old, an' the only things about him I'm shore of as a child, is that he's the greatest man on earth an' owns all the land south of the Ohio river.
"'This yere grandfather I'm talkin' of,' continyoos the Colonel after ag'in refreshin' himse'f with some twenty drops, 'lives in a big house on a bluff over-lookin' the Ohio, an' calls his place "The Hill." Up across one of the big stone chimleys is carved "John Sterett," that a-way; which I mentions the same as goin' to show he ain't afeard none of bein' followed, an' that wherever he does come p'intin' out from, thar's no reward offered for his return.'
"'I ain't so shore neither,' interjects Texas Thompson. 'He might have shifted the cut an' changed his name. Sech feats is frequent down 'round Laredo where I hails from, an' no questions asked.'
"'Up on the roof of his ranch,' goes on the Colonel, for he's so immersed in them mem'ries he don't hear Texas where he rings in his theeries, 'up on the roof my grandfather has a big bell, an' the rope is brought down an' fetched through a auger hole in the side of the house, so he can lay in bed if he feels like it, an' ring this yere tocsin of his while so minded. An' you can bet he shorely rings her! Many a time an' oft as a child about my mother's knees, the sound of that ringin' comes floatin' to us where my father has his house four miles further down the river. On sech o'casions I'd up an' ask:
"'" Whatever is this yere ringin'?"
"'"Hesh, my child!" my mother would say, smotherin' my mouth with her hand, her voice sinkin' to a whisper, for as the head of the House of Sterett, every one of the tribe is plumb scared of my grandfather an' mentions him with awe. "Hesh, my child," says my mother like I relates, "that's your grandfather ringin' his bell."
"'An' from calf-time to beef-time, from the first kyard out of the box down to the turn, no one ever knows why my grandfather does ring it, for he's too onbendin' to tell of his own accord, an' as I states prior, no one on earth has got nerve an' force of character enough to ask him.
"'My own father, whose name is the same as mine, bein' Willyum Greene Sterett, is the oldest of my grandfather's chil'en. He's a stern, quiet gent, an' all us young-ones is wont to step high an' softly whenever he's pesterin' 'round. He respects nobody except my grandfather, fears nothin' but gettin' out of licker.
"'Like my grandfather up at "The Hill," my father devotes all his talents to raisin' runnin' hosses, an' the old faun would have been a heap lonesome if thar's fewer than three hundred head a nickerin' about the barns an' pastures. Shore! we has slaves too; we has niggers to a stand-still.
"'As I look r'arward to them days of my infancy, I brings to mind a staggerin' blow that neighborhood receives. A stern-wheeler sinks about two hundred yards off our landin' with one thousand bar'ls of whiskey on board. When the news of that whiskey comes flyin' inland, it ain't a case of individyooals nor neighborhoods, but whole counties comes stampedin' to the rescoo. It's no use; the boat bogs right down in the sand; in less than an hour her smoke stack is onder water. All we ever gets from the wrack is the bell, the same now adornin' a Presbyter'an church an' summonin' folks to them services. I tells you, gents, the thoughts of that Willow Run, an' we not able to save so much as a quart of it, puts a crimp in that commoonity they ain't yet outlived. It 'most drives 'em crazy; they walks them banks for months a-wringin' their hands an' wishin' the impossible.'
"'Is any one drowned?' asks Faro Nell, who comes in, a moment before, an' as usual plants herse'f clost to Cherokee Hall. 'Is thar any women or children aboard?'
"'Nell,' says the Colonel, 'I apol'gizes for my ignorance, but I'm bound to confess I don't know. Thar's no one knows. The awful fact of them one thousand bar'ls of Willow Run perishin' before our very eyes, swallows up all else, an' minor details gets lost in the shuffle an' stays lost for all time. It's a turrible jolt to the general sensibilities, an' any gent who'll go back thar yet an' look hard in the faces of them people, can see traces of that c'lamity.
"'As a child,' resoomes the Colonel, 'I'm romantic a whole lot. I'm carried away by music. My fav'rite airs is "Smith's March," an' "Cease Awhile Clarion; Clarion Wild an' Shrill." I either wants something with a sob in it 'like "Cease Awhile," or I desires War with all her horrors, same as a gent gets dished up to him in "Smith's March."
"'Also, I reads Scott's "Ivanhoe," ain longs to be a croosader, an' slay Paynims. I used to lie on the bank by the old Ohio, an' shet my eyes ag'in the brightness of the sky, an' figger on them setbacks we'd mete out to a Payaim if only we might tree one once in old Kaintucky. Which that Saracen would have shorely become the basis of some ceremonies!
"'Most like I was about thirteen years old when the Confederacy declar's herse'f a nation, elects Jeff Davis President, an' fronts up for trouble. For myse'f I concedes now, though I sort o' smothers my feelin's on that p'int at the time, seein' we-all could look right over into the state of Ohio, said state bein' heatedly inimical to rebellion an' pawin' for trouble an' rappin' its horns ag'in the trees at the mere idee; for myse'f, I say, I now concedes that I was heart an' soul with the South in them onhappy ruptures. I breathed an' lived with but one ambition, which is to tear this devoted country in two in the middle an' leave the fragments that a- way, in opposite fields. My father, stern, ca'm, c'llected, don't share the voylence of my sentiments. He took the middle ag'in the ends for his. The attitoode of our state is that of nootrality, an' my father declar'd for nootrality likewise. My grandfather is dead at the time, so his examples lost to us; but my father, sort o' projectin' 'round for p'sition, decides it would be onfair in him to throw the weight of his valor to either side, so he stands a pat hand on that embroglio, declines kyards, an' as I states is nootral. Which I know he's nootral by one thing:
"'"Willyum," he'd say that a-way when he'd notice me organizin' to go down to the village; "Willyum," he'd say. "if anybody asks you what you be, an' speshul if any of them Yankees asks you, you tell 'em that you're Union, but you remember you're secesh."
"'The Sterett fam'ly, ondoubted, is the smartest fam'ly in the South. My brother Jeff, who is five years older than me, gives proofs of this, partic'lar. It's Jeff who invents that enterprise in fishin', which for idleness, profit an' pastime, ain't never been equalled since the flood, called "Juggin' for Cats." It's Jeff, too, once when he ups an' jines the church, an' is tharafter preyed on with the fact that the church owes two hundred dollars, and that it looks like nobody cares a two-bit piece about it except jest him, who hires a merry-go-round—one of these yere contraptions with wooden hosses, an' a hewgag playin' toones in the center—from Cincinnati, sets her up on the Green in front of the church, makes the ante ten cents, an' pays off the church debt in two months with the revenoos tharof.
"'As I sits yere, a relatin' of them exploits,' an' Colonel Sterett tips the canteen for another hooker, 'as I sits yere, gents, all free an' sociable with what's, bar none, the finest body of gents that ever yanks a cork or drains a bottle, I've seen the nobility of Kaintucky—the Bloo Grass Vere-de-Veres—ride up on a blood hoss, hitch the critter to the fence, an' throw away a fortune buckin' Jeff's merry-go-round with them wooden steeds. It's as I says: that sanctooary is plumb out of debt an' on velvet—has a bank roll big enough to stopper a 2-gallon jug with—in eight weeks from the time Jeff onfurls his lay-out an' opens up his game.'
"Thar's one thing," suddenly observed my aged companion, as he eyed me narrowly, pausing in the interesting Colonel Sterett's relation concerning his family, and becoming doubly impressive with an uplifted fore-finger, "thar's one thing I desires you to fully grasp. As I reels off this yere chronicle, you-all is not to consider me as repeatin' the Colonel's words exact. I ain't gifted like the Colonel, an' my English ain't a marker to his. The Colonel carries the language quiled up an' hangin' at the saddle horn of his intelligence, like a cow puncher does his lariat. An' when he's got ready to rope an' throw a fact or two, you should oughter see him take her down an' go to work. Horn or neck or any foot you says; it's all one to the Colonel. Big or little loop, in the bresh or in the open, it's a cinch the Colonel fastens every time he throws his verbal rope. The fact he's after that a-way, is shore the Colonel's. Doc Peets informs me private that Colonel Sterett is the greatest artist, oral, of which his'try records the brand, an' you can go broke on Peets's knowin'. An' thar's other test'mony.
"'I don't lay down my hand,' says Texas Thompson, one time when him an' me is alone, 'to any gent between the Rio Grande an' the Oregon, on sizin' up a conversation. An' I'll impart to you, holdin' nothin' back, that the Colonel is shorely the limit. Merely to listen, is an embarrassment of good things, like openin' a five-hand jack-pot on a ace-full. He can even out-talk my former wife, the Colonel can, an' that esteemable lady packs the record as a conversationist in Laredo for five years before I leaves. She's admittedly the shorest shot with her mouth on that range. Talkin' at a mark, or in action, all you has to do is give the lady the distance an' let her fix her sights once, an' she'll stand thar, without a rest, an' slam observation after observation into the bull's eye till you'll be abashed. An' yet, compared to the Colonel yere, that lady stutters!'
"But now to resoome," said my friend when he had sufficiently come to the rescue of Colonel Sterett and given him his proper place in my estimation; "we'll take up the thread of the Colonel's remarks where I leaves off.
"'My grandfather,' says the Colonel, 'is a gent of iron-bound habits. He has his rooles an' he never transgresses 'em. The first five days of the week, he limits himse'f to fifteen drinks per diem; Saturday he rides eight miles down to the village, casts aside restraints, an' goes the distance; Sunday he devotes to meditations.
"'Thar's times when I inclines to the notion that my grandfather possesses partic'lar aptitoodes for strong drink. This I'll say without no thoughts of boastin', he's the one lone gent whereof I has a knowledge, who can give a three-ring debauch onder one canvas in one evenin'. As I states, my grandfather, reg'lar every Saturday mornin', rides down to the Center, four miles below our house, an' begins to crook his elbow, keepin' no accounts an' permittin' no compunctions. This, if the old gent is feelin' fit an' likely, keeps up about six hours' at which epock, my grandfather is beginnin' to feel like his laigs is a burden an' walkin' a lost art. That's where the pop'lace gets action. The onlookers, when they notes how my ancestor's laigs that a-way is attemptin' to assoome the soopreme direction of affairs, sort o' c'llects him an' puts him in the saddle. Settin' thar on his hoss, my grandfather is all right. His center of grav'ty is shifted an' located more to his advantage. I esteems it one of them evidences of a sooperior design in the yooniverse, an' a plain proof that things don't come by chance, that long after a gent can't walk none, he's plumb able to ride.
"'Once my grandfather is safe in his saddle, as I relates, he's due- -him an' his hoss, this last bein' an onusual sagacious beast whic he calls his "Saturday hoss"—to linger about the streets, an' collab'rate with the public for mebby five more drinks; followin' which last libations, he goes rackin' off for "The Hill."
"'Up at our house on Saturdays, my father allers throws a skirmish line of niggers across the road, with orders to capture my grandfather as he comes romancin' along. An' them faithful servitors never fails. They swarms down on my grandfather, searches him out of the saddle an' packs him exultin'ly an' lovin'ly into camp.
"'Once my grandfather is planted in a cha'r, with a couple of minions on each side to steady the deal, the others begins to line out to fetch reestoratifs. I'm too little to take a trick myse'f, an' I can remember how on them impressif occasions, I would stand an' look at him. I'd think to myse'f—I was mebby eight at the time,—"He's ondoubted the greatest man on earth, but my! how blurred he is!"
"'Which as I states yeretofore, the Sterett system is the patriarchal system, an' one an' all we yields deference to my grandfather as the onchallenged chief of the tribe. To 'llustrate this: One day my father, who's been tryin' out a two-year-old on our little old quarter-mile track, starts for The Hill, takin' me an' a nigger jockey, an' a-leadin' of the said two-year-old racer along. Once we arrives at my grandfather's, my father leaves us all standin' in the yard and reepairs into the house. The next minute him an' my grandfather comes out. They don't say nothin', but my grandfather goes all over the two-year-old with eyes an' hand for mighty likely ten minutes. At last he straightens up an' turns on my father with a face loaded to the muzzle with rage.
"'"Willyum Greene Sterett," he says, conferrin' on my parent his full name, the same bein' a heap ominous; "Willyum Greene Sterett, you've brought that thing to The Hill to beat my Golddust."
"'"Yes," says my father, mighty steady, "an' I'll go right out on your track now, father, an' let that black boy ride him an' I'll gamble you all a thousand dollars that that two-year-old beats Golddust."
"'" Willyum Greene Sterett," says my grandfather, lookin' at my father an' beginnin' to bile, "I've put up with a heap from you. You was owdacious as a child, worthless as a yooth, an' a spend-thrift as a young man grown; an' a score of times I've paid your debts as was my dooty as the head of the House of Sterett. But you reserves it for your forty-ninth year, an' when I'm in my seventy-ninth year, to perform your crownin' outrage. You've brought that thing to The Hill to beat my Golddust. Now let me tell you somethin', an' it'll be water on your wheel a whole lot, to give heed to that I says. You get onto your hoss, an' you get your child Willyum onto his hoss, an' you get that nigger boy onto his hoss, an' you get off this Hill. An' as you go, let me give you this warnin'. If you-all ever makes a moccasin track in the mud of my premises ag'in, I'll fill you full of buckshot."
"'An' as I says, to show the veneration in which my grandfather is held, thar's not another yeep out o' any of us. With my father in the lead, we files out for home; an' tharafter the eepisode is never mentioned.
"'An' now,' says Colonel Sterctt, 'as we-all is about equipped to report joodiciously as to the merits of the speshul cask of Valley Tan we've been samplin', I'll bring my narratif to the closin' chapters in the life of this grand old man. Thar's this to be observed: The Sterett fam'ly is eminent for two things: it gets everything it needs; an' it never gets it till it needs it. Does it need a gun, or a hoss, or a drink, the Sterett fam'ly proceeds with the round-up. It befalls that when my grandfather passes his eightieth year, he decides that he needs religion.
"'" It's about time," he says, "for me to begin layin' up a treasure above. I'm goin' on eighty-one an' my luck can't last forever."
"'So my grandfather he sets up in bed an' he perooses them scriptures for four months. I tell you, gents, he shorely searches that holy book a whole lot. An' then he puts it up he'll be baptized. Also, that he'll enter down into the water an' rise up out of the water like it's blazoned in them texts.
"'Seein' she's Janyooary at the time, with two foot of snow on the ground, it looks like my grandfather will have to postpone them rites. But he couldn't be bluffed. My grandfather reaches out of bed an' he rings that bell I tells you-all of, an' proceeds to convene his niggers. He commands 'em to cut down a big whitewood tree that lives down in the bottoms, hollow out the butt log for a trough, an' haul her up alongside the r'ar veranda.
"'For a week thar's a incessant "chip! chop!" of the axes; an' then with six yoke of steers, the trough is brought into camp. It's long enough an' wide enough an' deep enough to swim a colt.
"'The day for the baptizin' is set, an' the Sterett fam'ly comes trackin' in. Thar's two hundred of 'em, corral count. The whole outfit stands 'round while the water is heatin' for to clip the old gent. My father, who is the dep'ty chief an' next in command, is tyrannizin' about an' assoomin' to deal the game. "Thar's a big fire at which they're heatin' the rocks wherewith to raise the temperatoor of the water. The fire is onder the personal charge of a faithful old nigger named Ben. When one of them stones is red hot, Ben takes two sticks for tongs an' drops it into the trough. Thar's a bile an' a buzz an' a geyser of steam, an' now an' then the rock explodes a lot an' sends the water spoutin' to the eaves. It's all plenty thrillin', you can bet! "My father, as I states, is pervadin' about, so clothed with dignity, bein' after my grandfather the next chicken on the roost, that you can't get near enough to him to borry a plug of tobacco. Once in a while he'd shasee up an' stick his hand in the water. It would be too hot, mebby. "'"Yere, you Ben!" he'd roar. "What be you aimin' at? Do you-all want to kill the old man Do you think you're scaldin' a hawg?" "Then this yere Ben; would get conscience-stricken an' pour in a bar'l or two of cold water. In a minute my father would test it ag'in an' say:
"'"Ben, you shorely are failin' in your intellects. Yere this is as cold as ice; you'll give the old man a chill." "Final, however, the water is declar'd right, an' then out comes a brace of niggers, packin' my grandfather in a blanket, with the preacher preevail. in over all as offishul floor-manager of the festiv'ties. That's how it ends: my grandfather is baptized an' gets religion in his eighty- first year, A. D.; an' two days later he sets in his chips, shoves his cha'r back an' goes shoutin' home.
"'"Be I certain of heaven?" he says to the preacher, when he's down to the turn. "Be I winner accordin' to your rooles an' tenets?" "'"Your place is provided," says the preacher, that a-way. "'"If it's as good a place as old Kaintucky, they shorely ain't goin' to have no fuss nor trouble with me, an' that's whatever!"'"
"Now, I don't reckon none," remarked the Old Cattleman with a confidential air, "this yere dumb man' incident ever arises to my mind ag'in, if it ain't for a gent whose trail I cuts while I'm projectin' 'round the post-office for letters.
"It's this mornin', an' I'm gettin' letters, as I states, when I catches this old party sort o' beamin' on me frank an' free, like he's shore a friendly Injun. At last he sa'nters over an' remarks, 'Whatever is your callin', pard?' or some sech bluff as that. "I sees he's good people fast enough; still I allows a small, brief jolt mebby does hire good.
"'Well,' I says, intendin' to let him know I'm alive an' wakeful that a-way; 'well, whatever my callin' is, at least it ain't been no part of my bringin' up to let mere strangers stroll into the corral an' cinch a saddle onto me for a conversational canter, jest because they're disp'sitioned that a-way. "'No offence meant,' says the old party, an' I observes he grows red an' ashamed plumb up to his white ha'r. "Excuse me, amigo," I says, handin' out my paw, which he seizes all radiant an' soon, "I ain't intendin' nothin' blunt, nor to slam no door on better acquaintance, but when you—all ropes at me about what you refers to as my "callin"' that time, I ain't jest lookin' for a stranger to take sech interest in me, an' I'm startled into bein' onp'lite. I tharfore tenders regrets, an', startin' all over, states without reserve that I'm a cow man. "An' now,' I retorts, further, "merely to play my hand out, an' not that I looks to take a trick at all, let me ask what pursoots do you p'int out on as a pretext for livin'?"
"'Me?' says the old party, stabbin' at his shirt bosom with his thumb; 'me? I'm a scientist.' "'Which the news is exhilaratin' an' interestin',' I says; 'shake ag'in! If thar's one thin-I regyards high, it's a scientist. Whatever partic'lar wagon-track do you-all follow off, may I ask?' "It's then this old gent an' I la'nches into a gen'ral discussion onder the head of mes'lancous business, I reckons, an' lie puts it up his long suit, as he calls it, is `moral epidemics.' He says he's wrote one book onto 'em, an' sw'ar:; he'll write another if nobody heads him off; the same bein' on-likely. As he sees how I'm interested, the old sport sets down an' lays it out to me how sentiments goes in herds an' droves, same as weather an' things like that. "'Oneday you rolls out in the mornin',' this old gent declar's, `an' thar you reads how everybody commits sooicide. Then some other day it's murder, then robbery, an' ag'in, the whole round-up goes to holdin' them church meetin's an' gettin' religion. Them's waves; moral epidemics,' he says.
"Which this don't look so egreegious none as a statement, neither, an' so after pow-wowin' a lot, all complacent an' genial, I tells the old gent he's got a good game, an' I thinks myse'f his system has p'ints. At this, he admits he's flattered; an' then, as we're gettin' to the ends of our lariats, we tips our sombreros to each other an' lets it go at that. To-morry he's goin' to confer on me his book; which I means to read it, an' then I'll savey more about his little play.
"But," continued my friend, warm with his new philosophy, "this yere is all preelim'nary, an' brings me back to what I remarks at the jump; that what that old gent urges recalls this dumb an' deef man incident; which it sort o' backs his play. It's a time when a passel of us gets overcome by waves of sentiment that a-way, an' not only turns a hoss-thief loose entire, after the felon's done been run down, but Boggs waxes that sloppy he lavishes a hoss an' saddle onto him; likewise sympathy, an' wishes him luck.
"The whole racket's that onnacheral I never does quit wonderin' about it; but now this old science sharp expounds his theory of 'moral epidemics,' it gets cl'ared up in my mind, an' I reckons, as he says, it's shorely one of them waves.
"Tell the story? Thar's nothin' much to said yarn, only the onpreecedented leeniency wherewith we winds it up. In the first place, I don't know what this hoss-thief's name is, for he's plum deef an' dumb, an' ain't sayin' a word. I sees him hoverin' 'round, but I don't say nothin' to him. I observes him once or twice write things to folks he has to talk with on a piece of paper, but it's too slow a racket for me, too much like conversin' by freight that a-way, an' I declines to stand in on it. I don't like to write well enough to go openin' a correspondence with strangers who's deef an' dumb.
"When he first dawns on the camp, he has money, moderate at least, an' he gets in on poker, an' stud, an' other devices which is open an' common; an' gents who's with him at the time says he has a level notion of hands, an' in the long run, mebby, amasses a little wealth.
"While I ain't payin' much heed to him, I do hear towards the last of his stay as how he goes broke ag'inst faro-bank. But as gents often goes broke ag'inst faro-bank, an' as, in trooth, I tastes sech reverses once or twice myse'f, the information don't excite me none at the time, nor later on.
"It's mighty likely some little space since this dumb person hits camp, an' thar's an outfit of us ramblin' 'round in the Red Light, which, so to speak, is the Wolfville Club, an' killin' time by talkin'. Dave Tutt an' Texas Thompson is holdin' forth at each other on the efficacy of pray'r, an' the balance of us is bein' edified.
"It looks like Texas has been tellin' of a Mexican he sees lynched at Laredo one time, an' how a tender gent rings in some orisons before ever they swings him off. Texas objects to them pray'rs an' brands 'em as hypocrisies. As happens frequent—for both is powerful debaters that a-way—Dave Tutt locks horns with Texas, an' they both prances 'round oratorical at each other mighty entertainin'.
"'Now you gents onderstand,' says Texas Thompson, 'I ain't sayin' a word about them pray'rs as mere supplications. I'm yere to state I regyards 'em as excellent, an' thar's gents at that time present who's experts in sech appeals an' who knows what prayin' is, who allows that for fervency, bottom an' speed, they shorely makes the record for what you might call off-hand pray'rs in Southern Texas. Thar ain't a preacher short of Waco or Dallas could have turned a smoother trick. But what I complains of is, it's onconsistent.'
"'However is prayin' that a-way onconsistent, I'd shorely like to know?' says Tutt, stackin' in ag'in Texas plenty scornful.
"'Why, this a-way,' says Texas. 'Yere's a gent who assembles with his peers to hang a Mexican. As a first flash outen the box, he puts up a strong pray'r talk to get this crim'nal by the heavenly gate. Now, whatever do you reckon a saint who knows his business is goin' to say to that? Yere stands this conceited Laredo party recommendin' for admission on high a Mexican he's he'pin' to lynch as not good enough for Texas. If them powers above ain't allowin' that prayin' party's got his nerve with him, they ain't givin' the case the study which is shore its doo.'
"'Which I don't know!' says Tutt. 'I don't accept them views nohow. Prayin' is like goin' blind in poker. All you do is hope a whole lot. If the angels takes stock in your applications, well an' good. If they don't, you can gamble your spurs they're plenty able to protect themse'fs. All you can do is file them supplications. The angels lets 'em go or turns 'em down accordin'. Now, I holds that this Laredo sport who prays that time does right. Thar's nothin' like a showdown; an' his play, since he volunteers to ride herd on the Greaser's soul, is to do all he knows, an' win out if he can.'
"'That's whatever!' says Dan Boggs, who's listenin' full of interest, an' who allows he'll butt in on the talk. 'I j'ines with Tutt in this. My notion is, when it comes a gent's turn to pray, let him pray, an' not go pesterin' himse'f with vain surmises as to how it's goin' to strike them hosts on high. You can wager you ain't goin' to ride 'round Omnipotence none. You can draw up to the layout of life, an' from the cradle to the grave, you'll not pick up no sleepers on Providence that a-way. Now, once, when I'm over across the Mogallon Plateau, I—'
"But we never does hear what happens to Boggs that time over across the Mogallon Plateau; for when he's that far along, one of the niggers from the corral comes scurryin' up an' asks Texas Thompson does he lend his pinto pony an hour back to the party who's deef an' dumb.
"'Which I shorely don't,' says Texas. 'You don't aim to tell me none he's done got away with my pinto hoss?'
"The nigger says he does. He announces that mebby an hour before, this party comes over to the corral, makes a motion or two with his hands, cinches the hull onto the pinto, an' lines out for the northeast on the Silver City trail. He's been plumb outen sight for more'n half an hour.
"'Which I likes that!' says Texas Thompson. 'For broad, open-air, noon-day hoss-stealin', I offers even money this dumb gent's enterprise is entitled to the red ticket.'
"Which we ain't standin' thar talkin' long. If thar's one reform to which the entire West devotes itse'f, it's breakin' people of this habit of hoss-stealin'. It ain't no time when four of us is off on the dumb party's trail, an' half of that is consoomed in takin' a drink.
"Whyever be gents in the West so sot ag'in hoss-thieves? Son, you abides in a region at once pop'lous an' fertile. But if you was to put in three months on a cactus desert, with water holes fifty miles apart, it would begin to glimmer on you as to what it means to find yourse'f afoot. It would come over you like a landslide that the party who steals your hoss would have improved your condition in life a heap if he'd played his hand out by shootin' a hole through your heart.
"No, I ain't in no sech hurry to hang people for standin' in on some killin'. Thar's two sides to a killin'; an' if deceased is framed up with a gun all reg'lar at the time, it goes a long way toward exculpatin' of the sport who outlives him. But thar ain't only one side to hoss-stealin', an' the sooner the party's strung up or plugged, the sooner thar's a vict'ry for the right.
"As I remarks, it ain't two minutes when thar's four of us gone swarmin' off after the dumb man who's got Texas Thompson's pinto pony. From the tracks, he ain't makin' no play to throw us off, for he maintains a straight-away run down the Silver City trail, an' never leaves it or doubles once.
"Runnin' of the dumb man down don't turn out no arduous task. It's doo mainly, however, because the pinto sticks a cactus thorn in its hoof an' goes lame in less time tharafter than it takes to turn a jack.
"'Hands up,' says Texas, gettin' the drop as we swings up on the deef an' dumb foogitive.
"But thar's no need of sech preecautions, as the dumb party ain't packin' no weepons—not so much as a knife.
"Thar's nothin' to say, no talk to make, when we takes him. Texas hefts him outen the saddle an' ropes his elbows behind with a lariat.
"'What do you-all su'gest, gents?' says Texas. 'I s'pose now the deecorous way is to go on with this yere aggressive an' energetic person to them pinon trees ahead, an' hang him some?'
"'Which thar's no doubts floatin' in anybody's mind on that subject,' says Dan Boggs, 'but I'd shore admire to know who this party is, an' where he's headin' to. I dislikes to stretch the neck of strangers that a-way; an' if thar's any gent, now, who can ask this yere person who he is, an' what he's got to say, I'd take it as a favor, personal, if he'd begin makin' of the needed motions.' "But thar ain't none of us can institoote them gestures; an' when the dumb man, on his side, puts up a few bluffs with his fingers, it's a heap too complicated for us as a means of makin' statements. "'I shore couldn't tell,' says Dave Tutt, as he sets watchin' the dumb man's play, 'whether he's callin' us names or askin' for whiskey.' "'Which if we'd thought to bring some stationery,' says Texas, after we-all goes through our war-bags in vain, 'we might open some successful negotiations with this person. As it is, however, we're plumb up ag'inst it, an' I reckon, Boggs, he'll have to hang without you an' him bein' formally introdooced.' "'Jest the same, I wishes,' says Dave Tutt, 'that Doc Peets or Enright was along. They'd shore dig somethin' outen this citizen.' "'Mebby he's got papers in his wamus,' says Boggs, 'which onfolds concernin' him. Go through him, Texas, anyhow: "All Texas can find on the dumb man is one letter; the postmark: when we comes to decipher the same, shows he only gets it that mornin'. Besides this yere single missif that a-way, thar ain't a scrap of nothin' else to him; nor yet no wealth.
"'Tell us what's in the letter,' says Texas, turnin' the document over to Boggs. 'Read her out, Dan; I'd play the hand, but I has to ride herd on the culprit.'
"'I can't read it,' says Boggs, handin' the note to Tutt; 'I can't read readin', let alone writin'. But I'm free to say, even without hearin' that document none, that I shorely hesitates to string this party up. Bein' tongueless, an' not hearin' a lick more'n adders, somehow he keeps appealin' to me like he's locoed.'
"'Which if you ever has the pleasure to play some poker with him,' says Tutt, as he onfolds the paper, 'like I do three nights ago, you wouldn't be annoyin' yourse'f about his bein' locoed. I finds him plenty deep an' wary, not to say plumb crafty. Another thing, it's plain he not only gets letters, but we-all sees him write about his drinks to Black Jack, the Red Light barkeep, an' sim'lar plays.'
"By this time, Tutt's got the letter open, an' is gettin' ready to read. The dumb man's been standin' thar all the time, with his arms roped behind him, an' lookin' like hope has died; an' also like he ain't carin' much about it neither. When Tutt turns open the letter, I notices the tears kind o' start in his eyes, same as if he's some affected sentimental.
"'Which this yere commoonication is plenty brief,' says Tutt, as he rums his eye over it. 'She's dated "Casa Grande," an' reads as follows, to wit:
"'Dear Ben: Myra is dyin'; come at once. A." "'Now, whoever do you reckon this yere Myra is?' asks Tutt, lookin' 'round. 'she's cashin' in, that's obvious; an' I'm puttin' it up she's mighty likely a wife or somethin' of this yere dumb party.' "'That's it,' says Boggs. 'He gets this word that Myra's goin' over the big divide, an' bein' he's gone broke entire on faro-bank, he plunges over to the corral an' rustles Thompson's hoss. Onder sech circumstances, I ain't none shore he's respons'ble. I take-it thar ain't much doubt but Myra's his wife that a-way, in which event my idee is he only borrys Thompson's pinto. Which nacherally, as I freely concedes, this last depends on Myra's bein' his wife.' "'Oh, not necessarily,' says Texas Thompson; 'thar's a heap of wives who don't jestify hosstealiil' a little bit. Now I plays it open, Myra's this dumb gent's mother, an' on sech a theery an' that alone, I removes the lariat from his arms an' throws him loose. But don't try to run no wife bluff on me; I've been through the wife question with a blazin' pine-knot in my hand, an' thar's nothin' worth while concealed tharin.' "'Which I adopts the ainendiricnt,' says Boggs, 'an' on second thought, I strings my chips with Texas, that this yere Myra's his mother. I've got the money that says so.' "'At any rate,' says Tutt, 'from all I sees, I reckons it's the general notion that we calls this thing a draw. We can't afford to go makin' a preecedent of hangin' a gent for hoss-stealin' who's only doin' his best to be present at this Myra's fooneral, whoever she may be. It's a heap disgustin', however, that we can't open up a talk with this party. Which I now notes by the address his name is McIntyre.' "An' so it turns out that in no time, from four gents who's dead set to hang this dumb man as a boss-thief, we turns into a sympathetic outfit which is diggin' holes for his escape. It all dovetails in with what my scientist says this mornin' about them moral epidemics,' an' things goin' that a-way in waves. For, after all, Myra or no Myra, this yere dumb man steals that pinto hoss. "However, whether it's right or wrong, we turns the dumb man free. Not only that, but Boggs gets out of the saddle an' gives him his pony to pursoo them rambles with. "'I gives it to him because it's the best pony in the outfit,' says Boggs, lookin' savage at us, as he puts the bridle in the dumb gent's hands. 'It can run like a antelope, that pony can; an' that's why I donates it to this dumb party. Once he's started, even if we- all changes our moods, he's shore an' safe away for good. Moreover, a gent whose mother's dyin', can't have too good a hoss. If he don't step on no more cactus, an' half rides, he's doo to go chargin' into Casa Grande before they loses Myra, easy.'"