"'On this sad o'casion when Jack Rainey gets killed, this yoreexcellent custom he invents is in full swing. Thar's notices printedplenty big, an' posted up in every drink-shop from the dance hall tothe Sunflower saloon; which they reads as follows RUIN! RUIN! RUIN!CUT LOOSE!JACK RAINEY MAKES GOODALL DRINKSFORONE WEEK. NAME YOUR POISON!"'At this yere time, it's about half through Jack Rainey's week,an' the pop'lace of Lido, in consequence, is plumb happy an'content. They're holdin' co't at the time; the same bein' the firstjestice, legal, which is dealt out in Lido.'
"'An' do you—all know,' puts in Dan Boggs, who's listenin' to Tutt, 'I'm mighty distrustful of co'ts. You go to holdin' of 'em, an' it looks like everybody gets wrought up to frenzy ontil life where them forums is held ain't safe for a second. I shall shorely deplore the day when a co't goes to openin' its game in Wolfville. It's "adios" to liberty an' peace an' safety from that time.'
"'You can go a yellow stack,' remarks Texas Thompson, who sets than plumb loquacious an' locoed to get in a speech, 'that Boggs sizes up right about them triboonals. They'rc a disturbin' element in any commoonity. I knowed a town in Texas which is that peaceful it's pastoral—that's what it is, it's like a sheep-fold, it's so mcck an' easy—ontil one day they ups an' plays a co't an' jedge an' jury on that camp; rings in a herd of law sharps, an' a passel of rangers with Winchesters to back the deal. The town's that fretted tharat it gets full of nose-paint to the brim, an' then hops into the street for gen'ral practice with its guns. In the mornin' the round-up shows two dead an' five wounded, an' all for openin' co't on an outfit which is too frail to stand the strain of so much justice to stand onexpected.' "'As I'm engaged in remarkin',' says Tutt, after Boggs an' Texas is redooced to quiet ag'in—Tutt bein' married most likely is used to interruptions, an' is shore patient that a-way— 'as I states, they're holdin' co't, an' this day they emancipates from prison a party named Caribou Sam. They tries to prove this Caribou Sam is a hoss-thief, but couldn't fill on the draw, an' so Caribou works free of 'em an' is what they calls "'quitted."
"'As soon as ever the marshal takes the hobbles off this Caribou Sam—he's been held a captif off some'ers an' is packed into Lido onder gyard to be tried a lot—this yore malefactor comes bulgin' into the Sunflower an' declar's for fire-water. The barkeep deals to him, an' Caribou Sam is assuaged.
"'When he goes to pay, a gent who's standin' near shoves back his dust, an' says: "This is Jack Rainey's week—it's the great annyooal festival of Jack Rainey, an' your money's no good."
"'"But I aims to drink some more poco tiempo," says this Caribou Sam, who is new to Lido, an' never yet hears of Jack Rainey an' his little game, "an' before I permits a gent to subsidize my thirst, an' go stackin' in for my base appetites, you can gamble I want to meet him an' make his acquaintance. Where is this yere sport Jack Rainey, an' whatever is he doin' this on?"
"'The party who shoves Caribou's dinero off the bar, tells him he can't pay, an' explains the play, an' exhorts him to drink free an' frequent an' keep his chips in his war-bags.
"'"As I tells you," says this party to Caribou, "my friend Jack Rainey has treed the camp, an' no money goes yere but his till his further commands is known. Fill your hide, but don't flourish no funds, or go enlargin' on any weakness you has for buyin' your own licker. As for seein' Jack Rainey, it's plumb impossible. He's got too full to visit folks or be visited by 'em; but he's upsta'rs on some blankets, an' if his reason is restored by tomorry, you sends up your kyard an' pays him your regyards—pendin' of which social function, take another drink. Barkeep, pump another dose into this stranger, an' charge the same to Jack."
"'"This yere sounds good," says Caribou Sam, "but it don't win over me. Ontil I sees this person Rainey, I shall shorely decline all bottles which is presented in his name. I've had a close call about a bronco I stole to-day, an' when the jury makes a verdict that they're sorry to say the evidence ain't enough to convict, the jedge warns me to be a heap careful of the company I maintains. He exhorts me to live down my past, or failin' which he'll hang me yet. With this bluff from the bench ringin' in my years, I shall refoose drinks with all onknown sots, ontil I sees for myse'f they's proper characters for me to be sociable with. Tharfore, barkeep, I renoo my determination to pay for them drinks; at the same tune, I orders another round. Do you turn for me or no?" "'"Not none you don't," says the friend of Jack Rainey. "You can drink, but you can't pay— leastwise, you-all can't pay without gettin' all sort o' action on your money. This Rainey you're worried about is as good a gent as me, an' not at all likely to shake the standin' of a common hoss- thief by merely buyin' his nose-paint."
"'"Mine is shorely a difficult p'sition," says Caribou Sam. "What you imparts is scarce encouragin.' If this yere Rainey ain't no improvement onto you, I absolootely weakens on him an' turns aside from all relations of his proposin'. I'm in mighty bad report as the game stands, an' I tharfore insists ag'in on payin' for my own war medicine, as bein' a move necessary to protect my attitoodes before the public."
With thesc yere observations, Caribou Sam makes a bluff at the barkeep with a handful of money. In remonstratin', Jack Rainey's pard nacherally pulls a gun, as likewise does Caribou Sam. Thar's the customary quantity of shootin', an' while neither Caribou nor his foe gets drilled, a bullet goes through the ceilin' an' sort o' sa'nters in a careless, indifferent way into pore Jack Rainey, where he's bedded down an' snorin' up above.
"'Shore, he's dead, Rainey is,' concloodes Dave, 'an' his ontimely takin' off makes Lido quit loser for three days of licker free as air. He's a splendid, gen'rous soul, Jack Rainey is; an' as I says at the beginnin', he falls a sacrifice to his love for others, an' in tryin' at his own expense to promote the happiness an' lift them burdens of his fellow-men.'
"'This yere miscreant, Caribou,' says Texas Thompson, 'is a mighty sight too punctilious about them drinks; which thar's no doubt of it. Do they lynch him?'
"'No,' says Tutt; 'from the calibre of the gun which fires the lead that snatches Rainey from us, it is cl'ar that it's the gent who's contendin' with Caribou who does it, Still public opinion is some sour over losin' them three days, an' so Caribou goes lopin' out of Lido surreptitious that same evenin', an' don't wait none on Rainey's obsequies. Caribou merely sends regrets by the barkeep of the Sunflower, reiterates the right to pay for them drink, an' Lido sees him no more.'"
"Be I religious that a-way?" More to embark him on some current of conversation than from any gnawing eagerness to discover his creed, I had aimed the question at my Old Cattleman.
"No," he continued, declining a proffered cigar, "I'll smoke my old pipe to-night. Be I religious? says you. Well, I ain't shorely livin' in what you'd call 'grace,' still I has my beliefs. Back in Tennessee my folks is Methodis', held to sprinklin' an' sech; however, for myse'f, I never banks none on them technicalities. It's deeds that counts with Omnipotence, same as with a vig'lance committee; an', whether a gent is sprinkled or dipped or is as averse to water as Huggins or Old Monte, won't settle whether he wins out a harp or a hot pitchfork in the eternal beyond.
"No, I ain't a believer in that enthoosiastic sense that fights its way to the mourner's bench an' manifests itse'f with groans that daunts hoot-owls into silence. Thar don't appear many preachers out West in my day. Now an' then one of these yere divines, who's got strayed or drifted from his proper range, comes buttin' his way into Wolfville an' puts us up a sermon, or a talkee-talkee. In sech events we allers listens respcetful, an' when the contreebution box shows down, we stakes 'em on their windin' way; but it's all as much for the name of the camp as any belief in them ministrations doin' local good. Shore! these yere sky-scouts is all right at that. But Wolfville's a hard, practical outfit, what you might call a heap obdurate, an' it's goin' to take more than them fitful an' o'casional sermons I alloodes to, a hour long an' more'n three months apart on a av'rage, to reach the roots of its soul. When I looks back on Peets an' Enright, an' Boggs an' Tutt, an' Texas Thompson an' Moore, an' Cherokee, to say nothin' of Colonel Sterett, an' recalls their nacheral obstinacy, an' the cheerful conceit wherewith they adheres to their systems of existence, I realizes that them ordinary, every-day pulpit utterances of the sort that saves an' satisfies the East, would have about as much ser'ous effect on them cimmaron pards of mine as throwin' water on a drowned rat. Which they lives irreg'lar, an' they're doo to die irreg'lar, an' if they can't be admitted to the promised land irreg'lar, they're shore destined to pitch camp outside. An' inasmuch as I onderstands them aforetime comrades of mine, an' saveys an' esteems their ways, why, I reckons I'll string my game with theirs a whole lot, an' get in or get barred with Wolfville.
"No; I've no notion at all ag'inst a gospel spreader. When Short Creek Dave gets religion over in Tucson, an' descends on us as a exhorter, although I only knows Short Creek thartofore as the coldest poker sharp that ever catches a gent Muffin' on a 4-flush, I hesitates not, but encourages an' caps his game. But I can't say that the sight of a preacher-gent affords me peace. A preacher frets me; not for himse'f exactly, but you never sees preachers without seein' p'lice folks—preachers an' p'lice go hand in hand, like prairie dogs an' rattlesnakes—an' born as I be in Tennessee, where we has our feuds an' where law is a interference an' never a protection, I'm nacherally loathin' constables complete.
"But if I ain't religious," he rambled on while he puffed at his Bull Durham vigorously. "you can resk a small stack that neither I ain't sooperstitious. Take Boggs an' Cherokee, you-all recalls how long ago I tells you how sooperstitious them two is. Speakin' of Boggs, who's as good a gent an' as troo a friend as ever touches your glass; he's sooperstitious from his wrought-steel spurs to his bullion hatband. Boggs has more signs an' omens than some folks has money; everything is a tip or a hunch to Boggs; an' he lives surrounded by inflooences.
"Thar's a peaked old sport named Ryder pervades Wolfville for a while. He's surly an' gnurlly an' omeny, Ryder is; an' has one of them awful lookin' faces where the feachers is all c'llected in the middle of his visage, an' bunched up like they's afraid of Injuns or somethin' else that threatenin' an' hostile—them sort of countenances you notes carved on the far ends of fiddles. We-all is averse to Ryder. An' this yere Ryder himsc'f is that contentious an' contradictory he won't agree to nothin'. Jest to show you about Ryder: I has in mind once when a passel of us is lookin' at a paper that's come floatin' in from the States. Thar's the picture of a cow-puncher into it who's a dead ringer for Dave Tutt. From y'ears to hocks that picture is Tutt; an' thar we-all be admirin' the likeness an' takin' our licker conjunctive. While thus spec'latin' on then resemblances, this yere sour old maverick, Ryder, shows up at the bar for nourishment.
"'Don't tell Ryder about how this yere deelineation looks like Tutt,' Says Doc Peets; 'I'll saw it off on him raw for his views, and ask him whatever does he think himse'f.
"'See yere, Ryder,' says Peets, shovin' the paper onder the old t'rant'ler's nose as he sets down his glass, 'whoever does this picture put you in mind of? Does it look like any sport you knows?'
"'No,' says Ryder, takin' the paper an' puttin' on his specks, an' at the same time as thankless after his nose-paint as if he'd been refoosed the beverage; 'no, it don't put me in mind of nothin' nor nobody. One thing shore, an' you-all hold-ups can rope onto that for a fact, it don't remind me none of Dave Tutt.'
"Which Boggs, who, as I says, is allers herdin' ghosts, is sooperstitious about old Ryder. That's straight; Boggs won't put down a bet while this Ryder person's in sight. I've beheld Boggs, jest as he's got his chips placed, look up an' c'llect a glimpse of them fiddle-feachers of Ryder.
"'Whoop!' says Boggs to Cherokee, who would be behind the box, an' spreadin' his hands in reemonstrance; 'nothin' goes!' An' then Boggs would glare at this Ryder party ontil he'd fade from the room.
"He's timid of Boggs, too, this yere Ryder is; an' as much as ever it's this horror of Boggs which prevails on him to shift his blankets to Red Dog—-the same bein' a low-down plaza inhabited by drunkards an' Mexicans, in proportions about a even break of each, an' which assoomes in its delirium treecnors way to be a rival of Wolfville.
"'Which I'm a public benefactor,' says Boggs, when he's informed that he's done froze this Ryder out of camp, 'an' if you sports a'preciates me at my troo valyoo, you-all would proffer me some sech memento inebby as a silver tea-set. Me makin' this Ryder vamos is the greatest public improvement Wolfville's experienced since the lynchin' of Far Creek Stanton. You-all ain't s'fficiently on the quee vee, as they says in French, to be aware of the m'lignant atmospheres of this yere Ryder. He'd hoodoo a hill, or a pine-tree, Ryder would, let alone anythin' as onstable as my methods of buckin' faro-bank. Gone to Red Dog, has he? Bueno! He leaves us an' attaches himse'f to our enemies. I'll bet a pinto hoss that somethin' happens to them Red Dog tarrapins inside of a week.'
"An', son, while said riotous prophecies of Boggs don't impress me a little bit, I'm bound to admit that the second night followin' the heegira of this yere Ryder, an' his advent that a-way into Red Dog, a outcast from the Floridas, who goes locoed as the frootes of a week of Red Dog gayety, sets fire to the sityooation while shootin' out the dance-hall lamps, an' burns up half Red Dog, with the dance hall an' the only two s'loons in the outfit; tharby incloodin' every drop of whiskey in the holycaust. It was awful! Which, of coarse, we comes to the rescoo. Red Dog's our foe; but thar be c'lamities, son, which leaves no room in the hooman heart for anythin' but pity. An' this is one. Wolfville rolls out the needed nose-paint for Red Dog, desolated as I says, an' holds the fraternal glass to the Red Dog lips till its freighters brings relief from Tucson. "All the same, while as I assures you thar's nothin' sooperstitious about me, I can't he'p, when Red Dog burns that a-way, but think of them bluffs of Boggs about this yere old Ryder party bein' a hoodoo. Shore! it confirms Boggs in them weaknesses. An' he even waxes puffed up an' puts on dog about it; an' if ever thar's a dispoote about one of his omens—an' thar's a lot from time to time, because Boggs is plumb reedic'lous as to 'em—he ups an' staggers the camp by demandin', 'Don't I call the turn that time when Ryder goes retreatin' over to Red Dog? If I don't, I'll turn Chink an' open a laundry.'
"Speakin' of omens, of course thar be some, as I tell you yeretofore in that Wolfville book you've done printed, so common an' practical every gent must yield to'em. Thar's places where mere sooper. stition gets up from the table, an' mule-sense takes its seat. If I meets a gent evolvin' outcries of glee, an' walkin' on both sides of the street, an' most likely emptyin' a Colt's pistol at the firmament, an' all without obv'ous cause, I dedooces the presence in that gent's interior of a lib'ral freight of nose-paint. If, as I'm proceedin' about my destinies, I hears the voice of a gun, I argues the existence of a weepon in my vicinity. If the lead tharfrom cuts my saddle-horn, or creases my pony, or plugs a double hole in my sombrero, or some sech little play, I dies to a theery that the knight errant who's back of the racket means me, onlimbers my field piece, an' enters into the sperit of the eepisode. Which I gives you this in almost them very words before. Still, signs an' omens in what Doc Peets would term their 'occultisms,' I passes up. I wouldn't live in them apprehensions that beleaguers Boggs for a full herd of three-year-olds. "Which I'll never forget them eloocidations beright onfolds on Boggs one evenin' about the mournin' an' the howlin' of some hound-dogs that's been sendin' thrills through Boggs. It's when some outfit of mountebanks is givin' a show called 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' over to Huggins' Bird Cage Op'ry House, an' these yere saddenin' canines—big, lop-y'eared hound-dogs, they be— works in the piece.
"'Do you-all hear them hound-clogs a-mournin' an' a-bayin' last evenin'?' asked Boggs of Enright.
"'Shore! I hears 'em,' says Enright.
"Enright, that a-way, is allers combatin' of Boggs' sooperstitions. As he says, if somebody don't head Boggs off, them deloosions spreads, an' the first news you gets, Wolfville's holdin' table- tippin's an' is goin' all spraddled out on seances an' sim'lar imbecilities, same as them sperit-rappin' hold-ups one encounters in the East. In sech event, Red Dog's doo to deem us locoed, an' could treat us with jestified disdain. Enright don't aim to allow Wolfville's good repoote to bog down to any sech extent, none whatever; an' so stand's in to protect both the camp an' pore Boggs himse'f from Boggs' weird an' ranikaboo idees. So Enright says ag'in: 'Shore! I hears 'em. An' what of it? Can't you-all let a pore pup howl, when his heart is low an' his destinies most likely has got tangled in their rope?'
"'jest the same,' says Boggs, 'them outcries of theirs makes me feel a heap ambiguous. I'm drawin' kyards to a pa'r of fours that first howl they emits, an' I smells bad luck an' thinks to myse'f, "Here's where you get killed too dead to skin!" But as I takes in three aces, an' as the harvest tharof is crowdin' hard towards two hundred dollars, I concloodes, final, them dogs don't have me on their mind after all; an' so I'm appeased a whole lot. Still, I'm cur'ous to know whatever they're howlin' about anyhow.'
"'Which you're too conceited, Boggs,' says Tutt, cuttin' in on the powwow. 'You-all is allers thinkin' everythin' means you. Now, I hears them dogs howlin', an' havin' beheld the spectacle they performs in, I sort o' allows they're sorrowin' over their disgraceful employment—sort o' 'shamed of their game. An' well them dogs might be bowed in sperit! for a more mendacious an' lyin' meelodramy than said "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I never yet pays four white chips to see; an' I'm from Illinoy, an' was a Abe Lincoln man an' a rank black ab'litionist besides.'
"'Seein' I once owns a couple of hundred Guineas,' says Enright, 'my feelin's ag'in slavery never mounts so high as Tutt's; but as for eloocidatin' them dog-songs that's set your nerves to millin', Boggs, it's easy. Whenever you-all hears a dog mournin' an' howlin' like them hound-pups does last night, that's because he smells somethin' he can't locate; an' nacherally he's agitated tharby. Now yereafter, never let your imagination pull its picket-pin that a- way, an' go to cavortin' 'round permiscus—don't go romancin' off on any of them ghost round-ups you're addicted to. Thar's the whole groosome myst'ry laid b'ar; them pups merely smells things they can't locate, an' it frets 'em.'
"'None the less,' remarks Cherokee Hall, 'while I reckons Enright gives us the c'rrect line on dogs that gets audible that a-way, an' onravels them howls in all their meanin's, I confesses I'm a heap like Boggs about signs. Mebby, as I says prior, it's because I'm a kyard sharp an' allers faces my footure over a faro layout. Anyhow, signs an' omens presses on me. For one thing, I'm sooperstitious about makin' of onyoosal arrangements to protect my play. I never yet tries to cinch a play, an' never notes anybody else try, but we- all quits loser. It ain't no use. Every gent, from his cradle to his coffin, has got to take a gambler's chance. Life is like stud-poker; an' Destiny's got an ace buried every time. It either out-lucks you or out-plays you whenever it's so inclined; an' it seems allers so inclined, Destiny does, jest as you're flatterin' yourse'f you've got a shore thing. A gent's bound to play fa'r with Destiny; he can put a bet down on that. You can't hold six kyards; you can't deal double; you can't play no cold hands; you can't bluff Destiny. All you-all can do is humbly an' meekly pick up the five kyards that belongs to you, an' in a sperit of thankfulness an' praise, an' frankly admittin' that you're lucky to be allowed to play at all, do your lowly best tharwith. Ain't I right, Doc?' An' Cherokee, lookin' warm an' earnest, turns to Peets.
"'As absolootely right as the sights of a Sharp's rifle,' says Peets; 'an', while I'm not yere to render you giddy with encomiums, Cherokee, you shore ought to expand them sentiments into a lecture.'
"'Jest to 'llustrate my meanin',' resooms Cherokee, 'let me onbosom myse'f as to what happens a party back in Posey County, Injeanny. I'm plumb callow at the time, bein' only about the size an' valyoo of a pa'r of fives. but I'm plenty impressed by them events I'm about to recount, an' the mem'ry is fresh enough for yesterday. But to come flutterin' from my perch. Thar's a sport who makes his home- camp in that hamlet which fosters my infancy; that is, he's thar about six months in the year. His long suit is playin' the ponies— he can beat the races; an' where he falls down is faro-bank, which never fails to freeze to all the coin he changes in. That's the palin' off his fence; faro-bank. He never does triumph at it onct. An' still the device has him locoed; he can't let it alone. Jest so shorely as he finds a faro-bank, jest so shorely he sets in ag'inst it, an' jest so shorely he ain't got a tail-feather left when he quits.
"'The races is over for the season. It's the first snow of winter on the ground, when our sport comes trailin' in to make his annyooal camp. He's about six thousand dollars strong; for, as I states, he picks bosses right. An' he's been thinkin', too; this yere sport I'm relatin' of. He's been roominatin' the baleful effects of faro-bank in his speshul case. He knows it's no use him sayin' he wont buck the game. This person's made them vows before. An' they holds him about like cobwebs holds a cow—lasts about as long as a drink of whiskey. He's bound, in the very irreg'larities of his nacher, an' the deadly idleness of a winter with nothin' to do but think, to go to transactin' faro-bank. An', as a high-steppin' patriot once says, "jedgin' of the footure by the past," our sport's goin' to be skinned alive—chewed up—compared to him a Digger Injun will loom up in the matter of finance like a Steve Girard. An' he knows it. Wherefore this yere crafty sharp starts in to cinch a play; starts in to defy fate, an' rope up an' brand the footure, for at least six months to come. An', jest as I argues, Destiny accepts the challenge of this vainglorious sharp; acccepts it with a grin. Yere's what he does, an' yere's what comes to pass. "'Our wise, forethoughtful sport seeks out the robber who keeps the tavern. "The ponies will be back in May," says he, "an' I'm perishin' of cur'osity to know how much money you demands to feed an' sleep me till then." The tavern man names the bundle, an' the thoughtful sport makes good. Then he stiffens the barkeep for about ten drinks a day ontil the advent of them ponies. Followin' which, he searches out a tailor shop an' accoomulates a libh'ral trousseau, an' has it packed down to the tavern an' filed away in his rooms. "Thar!" he says; "which I reckons now I'm strong enough to go the distance. Not even a brace game of faro-bank, nor yet any sim'lar dead-fall, prevails ag'inst me. I flatters myse'f; for onct in a way, I've organized my destinies so that, for six months at least, they've done got to run troo." "'It's after supper; our sport, who's been so busy all day treein' the chances an' runnin' of 'em out on a limb, is loafin' about the bar. O'casionally he congratulates himse'f on havin' a long head like a mule; then ag'in he oneasily reverts to the faro game that's tossin' an' heavin' with all sorts o' good an' bad luck jest across the street.
"'At first he's plumb inflex'ble that a-way, an' is goin' to deny himse'f to faro-bank. He waxes quite heroic about it, our sport does; a condition of sperits, by the way, I've allers noticed is prone to immejetly precede complete c'llapse.
"'These yere reform thoughts of our sport consoomes a hour. About that time, however, he engages himse'f with the fifth drink of nose- paint. Tharupon faro-bank takes on a different tint. His attitoode towards that amoosement becomes enlarged; at least he decides he'll prance over some an' take a fall out of it for, say, a hundred or so either way, merely to see if his luck's as black as former. An' over capers our sport.
"'It's the same old song by the same old mockin'-bird. At second drink time followin' midnight our sport is broke. As he gets up an' stretches 'round a whole lot in a half-disgusted way, he still can't he'p exultin' on how plumb cunnin' he's been. "I don't say this in any sperit of derision," he remarks to the dealer he's been settin' opp'site to for eight hours, an' who manoovers his fiscal over- throw, as aforesaid, "an' shorely with no intent to mortify a wolf like you-all, who's as remorseless as he's game, but I foresees this racket an' insures for its defeat. You figgers you've downed me. Mebby so. All the same, I've got my game staked out so that I eats, drinks, sleeps, an' wears clothes till the comin' of them ponies; an' you, an' the angels above, an' the demons down onder the sea, is powerless to put a crimp in them calc'lations. I've got the next six months pris'ner; I've turned the keys onto 'em same as if they're in a calaboose. An' no power can rescoo 'em none; an' they can't break jail."
"'An' jest to show you-all,' continyoos Cherokee, after pausin' to tip the bottle for a spoonful, as well as let the sityooation sort o' trickle into us in all its outlines—Cherokee is plenty graphic that a-way, an' knows how to frame up them recitals so they takes effect—'an' jest to show you, as I remarks former, that every gent is bound to take a gambler's chance an' that shore-things don't exist, let me ask you what happens? Our confident sport ain't hardly got that bluff humg up before—"Inglegojang! inglegojang!" goes the church bell in alarm; the tavern's took fire an' burns plumb to the ground; drinks, chuck, bed, raiment, the whole bunch of tricks; an' thar's our wise sport out in the snow an' nothin' but a black ruck of smokin' ruins to remind him of that cinch of his.
"'It's a lesson to him, though. As he stands thar meditatin' on the expectedness of the unexpected, he observes to himse'f, "Providence, if so minded, can beat a royal flush; an' any gent holdin' contrary views is a liar, amen!"'
"'Good, Cherokee!' says Texas Thompson, as Cherokee comes to a halt; 'I'm yere to observe you're a mighty excellent racontoor. Yere's lookin' at you!' an' Thompson raises his glass.
"'I catches your eye,' says Cherokee, a heap pleased, as he p'litely caroms his glass ag'in Thompson's.
"'But Cherokee,' whispers Faro Nell, from where she's clost by his side, 'if thar's somethin' I desires a whole lot, an' is doin' my level best to deserve an' keep it all my life, do you-all reckon now that Providence ups an' throws me down?'
"'Not you, Nell,' says Cherokee, as he smiles on Faro Nell, an' kind o' surreptitious pats her har; 'not you. Providence guides your game an' guarantees it. I'm only discussin' of men. It's one of the best things about both Providence an' woman, an' to the credit of all concerned, that they allers agrees—allers goes hand in hand.'
"'An' that last utterance is a fact,' observes Dave Tutt, who's been interested deep. 'When I first weds Tucson Jennie that time, I doubts them tenets. That's over a year ago, an' you bet I'm settin' yere to-day in possession of a new faith. It takes time to teach me, but I now sees that Tucson Jennie's the onfalterin' mouth-piece of eternal trooth; the full partner of Providence, a-holdin' down the post of lookout; an' that when she sets forth things, them things is decreed an' foreordained.'"
And now my friend lapsed into silence and began to reload his pipe. "I used to smoke Lone Jack out on the plains," he murmured, "or mebby Frootes an' Flowers; but I don't know! I figgers this yere Bull Durham's got more force of char'cter."
Then came more silence. But the night was young; I was disposed to hear further of Wolfville and its worthy citizens. My readiest method was to put forth a question.
"But how about yourself?" I asked. "Do you, like Hall and Boggs, believe that Heaven especially interferes with the plans of man; or that a challenge, direct or otherwise, to the Powers Above, is liable to earn reply?"
"I states ag'in," he retorted, puffing a calmative cloud the while, "I states ag'in: Thar's no sooperstition ridin' the ranges of my breast. Yet I sees enough in a long an' more or less eventful life— not to say an ill-employed life—to know that Providence packs a gun; an', as more than one scoffer finds out, she don't go heeled for fun. Thar's that Gene Watkins, who gets killed by lightnin' over by the Eagle Claw that time; downed for blasphemin', he is."
"Let me hear about this Watkins," I urged; "no one is more interested in the doings of Providence than I."
"Which from what little I notes of you," he observed, regarding me with a glance of dubious, sour suspicion, "you-all shore ought to be. An' I'll tell you one thing: If Providence ever gets wearied of the way you acts—an' it ain't none onlikely—you might as well set in your chips an' quit.
"But as to this yere Watkins: I don't know about the wisdom of burdenin' you with Watkins. It's gettin' plenty late, an' I'm some fatigued myse'f; I must be organizin' to bed myse'f down a lot for the night. I ain't so cap'ble of sleeplessness as I am 'way back yonder in the years when I'm workin' cattle along the old Jones an' Plummer trail. However, it won't take long, this Watkins killin'; an' seein' my moods is in the saddle that a-way, I may as well let you have it. This yere ain't a story exackly; it's more like a aneckdote; but it allers strikes me as sheddin' a ray on them speshul Providences.
"This Watkins is a mere yooth; he jumps into Wolfville from the Texas Panhandle, where, it's rumored, he's been over free with a gun. However, that don't bother us a bit. Arizona conducts herse'f on the principle of everybody ridin' his own sign-camps, an' she ain't roundin' up escaped felons for no commoonity but herse'f.
"The first time I sees this Watkins party is one evenin' when he sa'nters down the middle aisle of the Bird Cage Op'ry House, with his lariat in his hands, an' tosses the loop over a lady who's jest then renderin' that good old hymn:
"In the days of old, the days of gold,The days of forty-nine!
"It's mighty discouragin', this Watkins breakin' in on them melodies. It's more than discouragin', it's scand'lous. The loop is a bit big, an' falls cl'ar down an' fastens to this cantatrice by the fetlocks. An' then this locoed Watkins turns loose to pull her over the footlights. Which the worst is, havin' her by the heels, an' she settin' down that a-way, he pulls that lady over the footlights the wrong way.
"It's at this epock, Jack Moore, who in his capac'ty of marshal is domineerin' about down in front, whacks Watkins over the head with his six-shooter, an' the lady's saved.
"'What be you-all tryin' to do with this diva?' demands Moore of the Watkins party.
"'Which I'm enamored of her,' says this yere Watkins, 'an' thar's a heap of things I was aimin' to pour into her years. But now you've done pounded me on top with that gun, they all gets jolted out of my mind.'
"'Jest the same,' says Moore, 'if I was you, I'd take the saddle off my emotions, an' hobble 'em out to rest some. Meanwhile I'd think up a new system. You-all lacks reticence; also you're a heap too much disposed to keep yourse'f in the public eye. I don't know how it is in Texas, but yere in Arizona a gent who gets too cel'brated gets shot. Also, I might add in concloosion that your Panhandle notions of a good way to get confidenshul with a lady don't obtain none yere—they don't go. An' so I warns you, never express your feelin's with a lariat in this theayter no more. Wolfville yields leeniency to ign'rance once, but never ag'in.'
"But, as I'm sayin'; about this Watkins over on the Eagle Claw: Thar's a half-dozen of us—a floatin' outfit we be, ridin' the range, pickin' up what calves misses the spring brandin'—an' we're bringin' along mebby three hundred cows an' half-grown calves, an' headin' for the bar-B-eight—that's Enright's brand—corral to mark the calves. It's late in August, jest at the beginnin' of the rains. Thar's a storm, an' everybody's in the saddle, plumb down to the cook, tryin' to hold the bunch. It's flash on flash of lightnin'; an' thunder followin' on the heels of thunder-clap. As we-all is cirklin' the little herd, an' singin' to 'em to restore their reason with sounds they saveys, thar comes a most inord'nate flash of lightnin', an' a crash of thunder like a mountain fallin'; it sort o' stands us up on our hocks. It makes the pore cattle bat their eyes, an' almost knocks their horns off.
"Thar's a moment of silence followin'; an' then this yere ontamed Watkins, tossin' his hand at the sky, shouts out:
"'Blaze away! my gray-head creator! You-all has been shootin' at me for twenty years; you ain't hit me yet!'
"Watkins is close to Boggs when he cuts loose this yere defiance; an' it simply scares Boggs cold! He's afraid he'll get picked off along with Watkins. Boggs, in his frenzy, pulls his six-shooter, an' goes to dictatin' with it towards Watkins.
"'Pull your freight,' roars Boggs; 'don't you stay near me none. Get, or I'll give you every load in the gun.'
"This Watkins person spurs his cayouse away; at the same time he's laughin' at Boggs, deemin' his terrors that a-way as reedic'lous. As he does, a streak of white fire comes down, straight as a blazin' arrer, an' with it sech a whirl of thunder, which I thought the earth had split! An' it shorely runs the devil's brand on Watkins.
"When we recovers, thar he lies; dead—an' his pony dead with him. An' he must have got the limit; for, son, the very rowels of his spurs is melted. Right in the middle of his leather hat-band, where it covers his fore'ead, thar's burned a hole about the size of a 44- calibre bullet; that's where the bolt goes in. I remembers, as we gathers 'round, how Boggs picks up the hat. It's stopped rainin' of a sudden, an' the stars is showin' two or three, where the clouds is partin' away. Boggs stands thar lookin' first at the sky, an' then at the hat where the hole is. Then he shakes his head. 'She's a long shot, but a center one,' says Boggs."
It had been dark and overcast as to skies; the weather, however, was found serene and balmy enough. As I climbed the steps after my afternoon canter, I encountered the Old Cattleman. He was re- locating one of the big veranda chairs more to his comfort, and the better to enjoy his tobacco. He gave me a glance as I came up.
"Them's mighty puny spurs," he observed with an eye of half commiseration, half disdain; "them's shore reedic'lous. Which they'd destroy your standin' with a cow pony, utter. He'd fill up with contempt for you like a water-hole in April. Shore! it's the rowels; they oughter be about the size an' shape of a mornin' star, them rowels had. Then a gent might hope for action. An' whyever don't you-all wear leather chapps that a-way, instead of them jimcrow boots an' trousers? They're plumb amoosin', them garments be. No, I onderstands; you don't go chargin' about in the bresh an' don't need chapps, but still you oughter don 'em for the looks. Thar's a wrong an' a right way to do; an' chapps is right. Thar's Johnny Cook of the Turkey Track; he's like you; he contemns chapps. Johnny charges into a wire fence one midnight, sort o' sidles into said boundary full surge; after that Johnny wears chapps all right. Does it hurt him? Son, them wires t'ars enough hide off Johnny, from some'ers about the hock, to make a saddle cover, an' he loses blood sufficient to paint a house. He comes mighty near goin' shy a laig on the deal. It's a lesson on c'rrect costumes that Johnny don't soon forget.
"No, I never rides a hoss none now. These yere Eastern saddles ain't the right model. Which they's a heap too low in the cantle an' too low in the horn. An' them stirrup leathers is too short, an' two inches too far for'ard. I never does grade over-high for ridin' a hoss, even at my best. No, I don't get pitched off more'n is comin' to me; still, I ain't p'inted out to tenderfeet as no 'Centaur' as Doc Peets calls'em. I gets along without buckin' straps, an' my friends don't have to tie no roll of blankets across my saddle-horn, an' that's about the best I can report.
"Texas Thompson most likely is the chief equestr'an of Wolfville. One time Texas makes a wager of a gallon of licker with Jack Moore, an' son! yere's what Texas does. I sees him with these eyes. Texas takes his rope an' ties down a bronco; one the record whereof is that he's that toomultuous no one can ride him. Most gents would have ducked at the name of this yere steed, the same bein' 'Dynamite.' But Texas makes the bet I mentions, an' lays for this onrooly cayouse with all the confidence of virgin gold that a-way.
"Texas ropes an' ties him down an' cinches the saddle onto him while he's layin' thar; Tutt kneelin' on his locoed head doorin' the ceremony. Then Tutt throws him loose; an' when he gets up he nacherally rises with Texas Thompson on his back.
"First, that bronco stands in a daze, an' Texas takes advantage of his trance to lay two silver dollars on the saddle, one onder each of his laigs. An' final, you should shorely have beheld that bronco put his nose between his laigs an' arch himse'f an' buck! Reg'lar worm-fence buckin' it is; an' when he ain't hittin' the ground, he's shore abundant in that atmosphere a lot.
"In the midst of these yere flights, which the same is enough to stim'late the imagination of a Apache, Texas, as ca'm an' onmoved as the Spanish Peaks, rolls an' lights a cigarette. Then he picks up the bridle an' gives that roysterin' bronco jest enough of the Mexican bit to fill his mouth with blood an' his mind with doubts, an' stops him. When Texas swings to the ground, them two silver dollars comes jinglin' along; which he holds 'em to the saddle that a-way throughout them exercises. It's them dollars an' the cigarette that raises the licker issue between Jack an' Texas; an' of course, Texas quits winner for the nose-paint."
I had settled by this time into a chair convenient to my reminiscent companion, and relishing the restful ease after a twenty-mile run, decided to prolong the talk. Feeling for subjects, I became tentatively curious concerning politics.
"Cow people," said my friend, "never saveys pol'tics. I wouldn't give a Mexican sheep—which is the thing of lowest valyoo I knows of except Mexicans themse'fs—or the views of any cow-puncher on them questions of state. You can gamble an' make the roof the limit, them opinions, when you-all once gets 'em rounded up, would be shore loodicrous, not to say footile.
"Now, we-all wolves of Wolfville used to let Colonel Sterett do our polit'cal yelpin' for us; sort o' took his word for p'sition an' stood pat tharon. It's in the Red Light the very evenin' when Texas subdoos that bronco, an' lets the whey outen Jack Moore to the extent of said jug of Valley Tan, that Colonel Sterett goes off at a round road-gait on this yere very topic of pol'tics, an' winds up by tellin' us of his attitood, personal, doorin' the civil war, an' the debt he owes some Gen'ral named Wheeler for savin' of his life.
"'Pol'tics,' remarks Colonel Sterett on that o'casion, re-fillin' his glass for the severaleth time, 'jest nacherally oozes from a editor, as you-all who reads reg'larly the Coyote b'ars witness; he's saturated with pol'tics same as Huggins is with whiskey. As for myse'f, aside from my vocations of them tripods, pol'tics is inborn in me. I gets 'em from my grandfather, as tall a sport an' as high- rollin' a statesman as ever packs a bowie or wins the beef at a shootin' match in old Kaintucky. Yes, sir,' says the Colonel, an thar's a pensive look in his eyes like he's countin' up that ancestor's merits in his mem'ry; 'pol'tics with me that-away is shore congenital.'
"'Congenital!' says Dan Boggs, an' his tones is a heap satisfact'ry; 'an' thar's a word that's good enough for a dog. I reckons I'll tie it down an' brand it into my bunch right yere.'
"'My grandfather,' goes on the Colonel, 'is a Jackson man; from the top of the deck plumb down to the hock kyard, he's nothin' but Jackson. This yere attitood of my grandsire, an' him camped in the swarmin' midst of a Henry Clay country, is frootful of adventures an' calls for plenty nerve. But the old Spartan goes through.
"'Often as a child, that old gent has done took me on his knee an' told me how he meets up first with Gen'ral Jackson. He's goin' down the river in one of them little old steamboats of that day, an' the boat is shore crowded. My grandfather has to sleep on the floor, as any more in the bunks would mean a struggle for life an' death. Thar's plenty of bunkless gents, however, besides him, an' as he sinks into them sound an' dreamless slumbers which is the her'tage of folks whose consciences run trop, he hears 'em drinkin' an' talkin' an' barterin' mendacity, an' argyfyin' pol'tics on all sides.
"'My grandfather sleeps on for hours, an' is only aroused from them torpors, final, by some sport chunkin' him a thump in the back. The old lion is sleepin' on his face, that a-way, an' when he gets mauled like I relates, he wakes up an' goes to struggle to his feet.
"'"Bars an' buffaloes!" says my grandfather; "whatever's that?"
"'"Lay still, stranger," says the party who smites him; "I've only got two to go."
"'That's what it is. It's a couple of gents playin' seven-up; an' bein' crowded, they yootilizes my grandfather for a table. This sport is swingin' the ace for the opp'site party's jack, an' he boards his kyard with that enthoosiasm it comes mighty clost to dislocatin' my old gent's shoulder. But he's the last Kaintuckian to go interfcrin' with the reecreations of others, so he lays thar still an' prone till the hand's played out.
"'"High, jack, game!" says the stranger, countin' up; "that puts me out an' one over for lannyap."
"'This yere seven-up gent turns out to be Gen'ral Jackson, an' him an' my grandfather camps down in a corner, drinks up the quart of Cincinnati Rectified which is the stakes, an' becomes mootually acquainted. An', gents, I says it with pride, the hero of the Hoss- shoe, an' the walloper of them English at New Orleans takes to my grandfather like a honeysuckle to a front porch.
"'My grandfather comes plenty near forfeitin' then good opinions of the Gen'ral, though. It's the next day, an' that ancestor of mine an' the Gen'ral is recoverin' themse'fs from the conversation of the night before with a glass or two of tanzy bitters, when a lady, who descends on the boat at Madison, comes bulgin' into the gents' cabin. The captain an' two or three of the boat's folks tries to herd her into the women's cabin; but she withers 'em with a look, breshes 'em aside, an' stampedes along in among the men-people like I explains. About forty of 'em's smokin'; an' as tobacco is a fav'rite weakness of the tribe of Sterett, my grandfather is smokin' too.
"'"I wants you-all to make these yere miscreants stop smokin'," says the lady to the captain, who follows along thinkin' mebby he gets her headed right after she's had her run out an' tires down some. "You're the captain of this tub," says the lady, "an' I demands my rights. Make these barb'rous miscreants stop smokin', or I leaves the boat ag'in right yere."
"'The lady's plumb fierce, an' her face, which is stern an' heroic, carries a capac'ty for trouble lurkin' 'round in it, same as one of them bald hornet's nests on a beech limb. Nacherally my grandfather's gaze gets riveted on this lady a whole lot, his pipe hangin' forgetful from his lips. The lady's eyes all at once comes down on my grandfather, partic'lar an' personal, like a milk-crock from a high shelf.
"'"An' I means you speshul," says the lady, p'intin' the finger of scorn at my grandfather. "The idee of you standin' thar smokin' in my very face, an' me a totterin' invalid. It shorely shows you ain't nothin' but a brute. If I was your wife I'd give you p'isen."
"'"Which if you was my wife, I'd shore take it," says my grandfather; for them epithets spurs him on the raw, an' he forgets he's a gent, that a-way, an' lets fly this yere retort before he can give himse'f the curb.
"'The moment my grandfather makes them observations, the lady catches her face—which as I tells you is a cross between a gridiron an' a steel trap—with both her hands, shakes her ha'r down her back, an' cuts loose a scream which, like a b'ar in a hawg-pen, carries all before it. Then she falls into the captain's arms an' orders him to pack her out on deck where she can faint.
"'"Whatever be you-all insultin' this yere lady for?" says a passenger, turnin' on my grandfather like a crate of wildcats. "Which I'm the Roarin' Wolverine of Smoky Bottoms, an' I waits for a reply."
"'My grandfather is standin' thar some confoosed an' wrought up, an' as warm as a wolf, thinkin' how ornery he's been by gettin' acrid with that lady. The way he feels, this yere Roarin' Wolverine party comes for'ard as a boon. The old gent simply falls upon him, jaw an' claw, an' goes to smashin' furniture an' fixin's with him.
"'The Roarin' Wolverine allows after, when him an' my grandfather drinks a toddy an' compares notes, while a jack-laig doctor who's aboard sews the Roarin' Wolverine's y'ear back on, that he thinks at the time it's the boat blowin' up.
"'"She's shore the vividest skrimmage I ever partic'pates in," says the Roarin' Wolverine; "an' the busiest. I wouldn't have missed it for a small clay farm."
"'But Gen'ral Jackson when he comes back from offerin' condolences to the lady, looks dignified an' shakes his head a heap grave.
"'"Them contoomelious remarks to the lady," he says to my grandfather, "lowers you in my esteem a lot. An' while the way you breaks up that settee with the Roarin' Wolverine goes some towards reestablishin' you, still I shall not look on you as the gent I takes you for, ontil you seeks this yere injured female an' crawfishes on that p'isen-takin' bluff."
"'So my grandfather goes out on deck where the lady is still sobbin' an' hangin' on the captain's neck like the loop of a rope, an' apol'gizes. Then the lady takes a brace, accepts them contritions, an' puts it up for her part that she can see my grandfather's a shore-enough gent an' a son of chivalry; an' with that the riot winds up plumb pleasant all 'round.'
"'If I may come romancin' in yere,' says Doc Peets, sort o' breakin' into the play at this p'int, 'with a interruption, I wants to say that I regyards this as a very pretty narratif, an' requests the drinks onct to the Colonel's grandfather.' We drinks accordin', an' the Colonel resoomes.
"'My grandfather comes back from this yere expedition down the Ohio a most voylent Jackson man. An' he's troo to his faith as a adherent to Jackson through times when the Clay folks gets that intemp'rate they hunts 'em with dogs. The old gent was wont, as I su'gests, to regale my childish y'ears with the story of what he suffers, He tells how he goes pirootin' off among the farmers in the back counties; sleepin' on husk beds, till the bed-ropes cuts plumb through an' marks out a checker-board on his frame that would stay for months. Once he's sleepin' in a loft, an' all of a sudden about daybreak the old gent hears a squall that mighty near locoes him, it's so clost an' turrible. He boils out on the floor an' begins to claw on his duds, allowin', bein' he's only half awake that a-way, that it's a passel of them murderin' Clay Whigs who's come to crawl his hump for shore. But she's a false alarm. It's only a Dom'nick rooster who's been perched all night on my grandfather's wrist where his arm sticks outen bed, an' who's done crowed a whole lot, as is his habit when he glints the comin' day. It's them sort o' things that sends a shudder through you, an' shows what that old patriot suffers for his faith.
"'But my grandfather keeps on prevailin' along in them views ontil he jest conquers his county an' carries her for Jackson. Shore! he has trouble at the polls, an' trouble in the conventions. But he persists; an' he's that domineerin' an' dogmatic they at last not only gives him his way, but comes rackin' along with him. In the last convention, he nacherally herds things into a corner, an' thar's only forty votes ag'in him at the finish. My grandfather allers says when relatin' of it to me long afterwards:
"'"An' grandson Willyum, five gallons more of rum would have made that convention yoonanimous.
"'But what he'ps the old gent most towards the last, is a j'int debate he has with Spence Witherspoon, which begins with reecrim'nations an' winds up with the guns. Also, it leaves this yere aggravatin' Witherspoon less a whole lot.
"'"Wasn't you-all for nullification, an' ain't you now for Jackson an' the union?" asks this yere insultin' Witherspoon. "Didn't you make a Calhoun speech over on Mink Run two years ago, an' ain't you at this barbecue, to-day, consoomin' burgoo an' shoutin' for Old Hickory?"
"'"What you-all states is troo," says my grandfather. "But my party turns, an' I turns with it. You-all can't lose Jack Sterett. He can turn so quick the heels of his moccasins will be in front."
"'"Which them talents of yours for change," says Witherspoon, "reminds me a powerful lot of the story of how Jedge Chinn gives Bill Hatfield, the blacksmith, that Berkshire suckin' pig. '"An' whatever is that story?" asks my grandfather, beginnin' to loosen his bowie-knife in its sheath.
"'"Take your paws off that old butcher of your'n," returns this pesterin' Witherspoon, "an' I'll tell the story. But you've got to quit triflin' with that 'leven-inch knife ontil I'm plumb through, or I'll fool you up a lot an' jest won't tell it."
"'Tharupon my grandfather takes his hand offen the knife-haft, an' Witherspoon branches forth:
"'"When I recalls how this oncompromisin' outlaw," p'intin' to my grandfather, "talks for Calhoun an' nullification over on Mink Run, an' today is yere shoutin' in a rum-sodden way for the union an' Andy Jackson, as I observes yeretofore, it shore reminds me of the story of how Jedge Chinn give Bill Hatfield that Berkshire shoat. 'Send over one of your niggers with a basket an' let him get one, Bill,' says Jedge Chinn, who's been tellin' Hatfield about the pigs. Neyt day, Bill mounts his nigger boy, Dick, on a mule, with a basket on his arm, an' Dick lines out for Jedge Chinn's for to fetch away that little hawg. Dick puts him in the basket, climbs onto his mule, an' goes teeterin' out for home. On the way back, Dick stops at Hickman's tavern. While he's pourin' in a gill of corn jooce, a wag who's present subtracts the pig an' puts in one of old Hickman's black Noofoundland pups. When Dick gets home to Bill Hatfield's, Bill takes one look at the pup, breaks the big rasp on Dick's head, throws the forehammer at him, an' bids him go back to Jedge Chinn an' tell him that he, Bill, will sally over the first dull day an' p'isen his cattle an' burn his barns. Dick takes the basket full of dog on his arm, an' goes p'intin' for Jedge Chinn. Nacherally, Dick stops at Hickman's tavern so as to mollify his feelin's with that red-eye. This yere wag gets in ag'in on the play, subtracts the pup an' restores the little hawg a whole lot. When Dick gets to Jedge Chinn, he onfolds to the Jedge touchin' them transformations from pig to pup. 'Pshaw!' says the Jedge, who's one of them pos'tive sharps that no ghost tales is goin' to shake; 'pshaw! Bill Hatfield's gettin' to be a loonatic. I tells him the last time I has my hoss shod that if he keeps on pourin' down that Hickman whiskey, he'll shorely die, an' begin by dyin' at the top. These yere illoosions of his shows I drives the center.' Then the Jedge oncovers the basket an' turns out the little hawg. When nigger Dick sees him, he falls on his knees. 'I'm a chu'ch member, Marse Jedge,' says Dick, 'an' you-all believes what I says. That anamile's conjured, Jedge. I sees him yere an' I sees him thar; an', Jedge, he's either pig or pup, whichever way he likes.'
"'"An', ladies an' gents," concloodes this Witherspoon, makin' a incriminatin' gesture so's to incloode my grandfather that a-way; "when I reflects on this onblushin' turncoat, Jack Sterett, as I states prior, it makes me think of how Jedge Chinn lavishes that Berkshire shoat on blacksmith Bill Hatfield. Confessin' that aforetime he's a nullification pig on Mink Run, he sets yere at this barbecue an' without color of shame declar's himse'f a union pup. Mister Cha'rman, all I can say is, it shore beats squinch owls!"
"'As the story is finished, the trooce which binds my grandfather ends, an' he pulls his bowie-knife an' chases this Witherspoon from the rostrum. He'd had his detractor's skelp right thar, but the cha'rman an' other leadin' sperits interferes, an' insists on them resentments of my grandfather's findin' the usual channel in their expression. Witherspoon, who's got on a new blanket coat, allows he won't fight none with knives as they cuts an' sp'iles your clothes; he says he prefers rifles an' fifty paces for his. My grandfather, who's the easiest gent to get along with in matters of mere detail, is agree'ble; an' as neither him nor Witherspoon has brought their weepons, the two vice pres'dents, who's goin' to act as seconds—the pres'dent by mootual consent dealin' the game as referee—rummages about air' borrys a brace of Looeyville rifles from members of the Black B'ar Glee Club—they're the barytone an' tenor—an' my grandfather an' the scandal-mongerin' Witherspoon is stood up.
"'"Gents," says the pres'dent, "the words will be, 'Fire-one-two- three-stop.' It's incumbent on you-all to blaze away anywhere between the words 'Fire' an' 'Stop'. My partin' injunctions is, 'May heaven defend the right,' an' be shore an' see your hindsights as you onhooks your guns."
"'At the word, my grandfather an' Witherspoon responds prompt an' gay. Witherspoon overshoots, while my grandfather plants his lead in among Witherspoon's idees, an' that racontoor quits Kaintucky for the other world without a murmur.
"'"I regyards this event as a vict'ry for Jackson an' principle," says my grandfather, as he's called on to proceed with his oration, "an' I'd like to say in that connection, if Henry Clay will count his spoons when he next comes sneakin' home from Washin'ton, he'll find he's short Spence Witherspoon."'
"'Your grandfather's a troo humorist,' says Texas Thompson, as Colonel Sterett pauses in them recitals of his to reach the bottle; 'I looks on that last witticism of his as plumb apt.'
"'My grandfather,' resoomes Colonel Sterett, after bein' refreshed, 'is as full of fun as money-musk, an' when that audience gets onto the joke in its completeness, the merriment is wide an yooniversal. It's the hit of the barbecue; an' in this way, little by little, my grandfather wins his neighbors to his beliefs, ontil he's got the commoonity all stretched an' hawgtied, an' brands her triumphant for Gen'ral Jackson.'
"'An' does your own pap follow in the footprints of his old gent, as a convincin' an' determined statesman that a-way?' asks Doc Peets.
'No,' says Colonel Sterett, 'my own personal parent simmers down a whole lot compared to my grandfather. He don't take his pol'tics so much to heart; his democracy ain't so virulent an' don't strike in. His only firm stand on questions of state, as I relates the other day, is when he insists on bein' nootral doorin' the late war. I explains how he talks federal an' thinks reb, an' manages, that a- way, to promote a decent average.
"'His nootrality, however, don't incloode the fam'ly none. My brother Jeff—an' I never beholds a haughtier sperit-goes squanderin' off with Morgan at the first boogle call,' "'That raid of Morgan's,' says Enright, his eye brightenin', 'is plumb full of dash an' fire.' "'Shore,' says the Colonel, 'plumb full of dash an' fire. But Jeff tells me of it later, foot by foot, from the time they crosses the river into Injeanny, till they comes squatterin' across at Blennerhasset's Island into Kaintucky ag'in, all' I sadly, though frankly, admits it looks like it possesses some elements of a chicken-stealin' expedition also. Jeff says he never sees so many folks sincere, an' with their minds made up, as him all' Morgan an' the rest of the Bloo Grass chivalry encounters oil that croosade.
Thar's an uprisin' of the peasantry, Jeff says, whereever they goes; an' then clods pursoocs Jeff an' the others, from start to finish, with hoes an' rakes an' mattocks an' clothes-poles an' puddin'- sticks an' other barbarous an' obsolete arms, an' never lets up ontil Jeff an' Morgan all' their gallant comrades is ag'in safe in the arms of their Kaintucky brethren.
Their stay in any given spot is trooly brief.
That town of Cincinnati makes up a bundle of money big enough to choke a cow to give 'em as a ransom; but Jeff an' Morgan never do hear of it for years. They goes by so plumb swift they don't get notice; an' they fades away in the distance so fast they keeps ahead of the news. However, they gets back to Kaintucky safe an' covered with dust an' glory in even parts; an' as for Jeff speshul, as the harvest of his valor, he reports himse'f the owner of a one-sixth interest in a sleigh which him an' five of his indomitable companions has done drug across the river on their return. But they don't linger over this trophy; dooty calls 'em, so they stores the sleigh in a barn an' rides away to further honors.
"'We never do hear of Jeff none all through that war but once. After he's j'ined Stonewall Jackson, I recalls how he sends home six hundred dollars in confed'rate money with a letter to my father. It runs like this: