The Project Gutenberg EBook of Red Saunders' Pets and Other Critters, by
Henry Wallace Phillips

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Title: Red Saunders' Pets and Other Critters

Author: Henry Wallace Phillips

Release Date: September 13, 2006 [EBook #19265]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RED SAUNDERS' PETS AND OTHER ***




Produced by Al Haines










[Frontispiece: He was a lovely pet (missing from book)]






Red Saunders' Pets

And Other Critters


By

Henry Wallace Phillips



Author of

Red Saunders and Mr. Scraggs



Illustrated



New York

McClure, Phillips & Co.

Mcmvi




Copyright, 1906, by

McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO.


Published, May, 1906


Second Impression



Copyright, 1902, 1903, 1904, 1905, by The S. S. McClure Company

Copyright, 1902, by The Success Company

Copyright, 1905, by P. F. Collier & Son




CONTENTS


THE PETS

OSCAR'S CHANCE, PER CHARLEY

BILLY THE BUCK

THE DEMON IN THE CANON

THE LITTLE BEAR WHO GREW

IN THE ABSENCE OF RULES

FOR SALE, THE GOLDEN QUEEN

WHERE THE HORSE IS FATE

AGAMEMNON AND THE FALL OF TROY

A TOUCH OF NATURE




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


HE WAS A LOVELY PET . . . . . . Frontispiece (missing from book)

WE NEAR LOST TWO PETS

"I WISHT SOMEBODY'D TELEGRAPH THAT SON-OF-A-GUN FOR ME"

BOB 'UD HOP HIM

HIS STYLE OF RIDING ATTRACTED ATTENTION

SEARCHING HIS SOUL FOR SOUNDS TO TELL HOW SCART HE WAS

GET OFF'N ME!

THE AFFAIR WAS AT PRESENT IN THE FORMAL STATE

"A WISE AND SUBTLE PIECE OF STRATEGY"

"AN ACCOUNT OF MY ADVENTURES"

"'HERE'S--YOUR--DEER--KID,' HE GASPED."

"JIMMY-HIT-THE-BOTTLE"

THE PUNCHERS TO THE RESCUE

"HY" SMITH

HE'D COME AROUND WITH HIS PLANS AND SPECIFICATIONS TWICE A DAY

MIGUEL COULD RUN WHEN HE PUT HIS MIND TO IT

"CLEAN WAS NO NAME FOR HIS PERSONAL APPEARANCE"

"UP GETS FOXY WITH A SHRIEK AND GALLOPS AROUND THE HOUSE"

"OLD WINDY USED TO TALK TO THE PIG AS THOUGH THEY'D
  BEEN RAISED TOGETHER"

"HE'D HUMP UP HIS BACK . . . AND RUB AGAINST YOUR LEGS"

"NO.  DIDN'T WANT FOOD.  HEART WAS BROKE"

"'HUNGH!' SAYS HE, AND BLINKED HIS EYES SHUT"

"THE DOCTOR GOES SAILING INTO THE DRINK"

"A HA HA! CUT IN TWO IN THE MIDDLE"

"THAT WOOLLY, BLAATIN' FOOL OF A SHEEP"

"CHASES HIMSELF OFF TO THE SKY-LINE FOR ANOTHER TRY"

"THE DURNED RAM WAS PRANCIN' AWAY"

"HE WAS KNOCKED GALLEY-WEST"

"THAT PIG LOOKED UP AND SMILED"

"AND HOLLER!  I WISHT YOU COULD HAVE HEARD THAT PIG"

"DONE.  EVERLASTINGLY DONE"

THROUGH THE GLASS I GOT A BETTER VIEW OF THE
  POOR DEVIL ABOUT TO BE STRUNG

WE CALLED TO HIM TO HALT, AND HE STOPPED,
  KIND OF GRINNED AT US AND SAYS: "HELLO!"

YES, SIR; THERE HE SAT, AND HE WAS KNITTIN' A PAIR OF SOCKS!

TWENTY-FIVE FOOT OF A DROP, CLEAR, TO ICE-WATER--WOW!

"WHOOP HER UP, COLIN!" I HOLLERS




Red Saunders' Pets And Other Critters


The Pets

"Of all the worlds I ever broke into, this one's the most curious,"
said Red.  "And one of the curiousest things in it is that I think it's
queer.  Why should I, now?  What put it into our heads that affairs
ought to go so and so and so, when they never do anything of the sort?
Take any book you read, or any story a man tells you: it runs along
about how Mr. Smith made up his mind to do this or that, and proceeded
to do it.  And that never happened.  What Mr. Smith calls making up his
mind is nothing more nor less than Mr. Smith's dodging to cover under
pressure of circumstances.  That's straight.  Old Lady Luck comes for
Mr. Smith's mind, swinging both hands; she gives it a stem-winder on
the ear; lams it for keeps on the smeller; chugs it one in the short
ribs, drives right and left into its stummick, and Mr. Smith's mind
breaks for cover; then Mr. Smith tells his wife that--he's made up his
mind--_He_, mind you.  Wouldn't that stun you?

"Some people would say, 'Mr. Sett and Mr. Burton made up their minds to
start the Big Bend Ranch.'  All right; perhaps they did, but let me
give you an inside view of the factory.

"First off, Billy Quinn, Wind-River Smith, and me were putting up hay
at the lake beds.  It was a God-forsaken, lonesome job, to say the best
of it, and we took to collecting pets, to make it seem a little more
like home.

"Billy shot a hawk, breaking its wing.  That was the first in the
collection.  He was a lovely pet.  When you gave him a piece of meat he
said 'Cree,' and clawed chunks out of you, but most of the time he sat
in the corner with his chin on his chest, like a broken-down lawyer.
We didn't get the affection we needed out of him.  Well, then
Wind-River found a bull-snake asleep and lugged him home, hanging over
his shoulder.  We sewed a flannel collar on the snake and picketed him
out until he got used to the place.  And around and around and around
squirmed that snake until we near got sick at our stummicks watching
him.  All day long, turning and turning and turning.

"'Darn it,' says I, 'I like more variety.'  So that day, when I was
cutting close to a timbered slew, out pops an old bob-cat and starts to
open my shirt to see if I am her long-lost brother.  By the time I got
her strangled I had parted with most of my complexion.  Served me right
for being without a gun.  The team run away as soon as I fell off the
seat and I was booked to walk home.  I heard a squeal from the bushes,
and here comes a funny little cuss.  I liked the look of him from the
jump-off, even if his mother did claw delirious delight out of me.  He
balanced himself on his stubby legs and looked me square in the eye,
and he spit and fought as though he weighed a ton when I picked him
up--never had any notion of running away.  Well, that was Robert--long
for Bob.

"The style that cat spread on in the matter of growing was simply
astonishing; he grew so's you could notice it overnight.  At the end of
two months he was that big he couldn't stand up under our sheet-iron
cook-stove, and this was about the beginning of our family troubles.
Tommy, the snake, was a good deal of a nuisance from the time he
settled down.  You'd have a horrible dream in the night--be way down
under something or other, gasping for wind, and, waking up, find Tommy
nicely coiled on your chest.  Then you'd slap Tommy on the floor like a
section of large rubber hose.  But he bore no malice.  Soon's you got
asleep he'd be right back again.  When the weather got cool he was
always under foot.  He'd roll beneath you and land you on your
scalp-lock, or you'd ketch your toe on him and get a dirty drop.  I
don't think I ever laughed more in my life than one day when Billy come
in with an armful of wood, tripped on Tommy, and come down with a
clatter right where Judge Jenkins, the hawk, could reach him.  The
Judge fastened one claw in Billy's hair and scratched his whiskers with
the other.  Gee!  The hair and feathers flew!  Bill had a hot temper
and he went for the hawk like it was a man.  The first thing he laid
his hand on was Tommy, so he used the poor snake for a club.
Wind-River and me were so weak from laughing that we near lost two pets
before we got strength to interfere."

[Illustration: We near lost two pets]

"But, as I was saying, the cold nights played Keno with our happy home.
Neither Tommy nor Bob dared monkey with the Judge--he was the only
thing on top of the earth the cat was afraid of.  Bob used to be very
anxious to sneak a hunk of meat from His Honour at times, yet, when the
Judge stood on one foot, cocked his head sideways, snapped his bill and
said 'Cree,' Robert reconsidered.  On the other hand, Tommy and Bob
were forever scrapping.  Lively set-tos, I want to tell you.  The snake
butted with his head like a young streak of lightning.  I've seen him
knock the cat ten foot.  And while a cat doesn't grow mouldy in the
process of making a move, yet the snake is there about one
seventeen-hundredth-millionth part of a second sooner.  And that's a
good deal where those parties are concerned.  Now, on cold nights, they
both liked to get under the stove, where it was warm, and there wasn't
room for more'n one.  Hence, trouble; serious trouble.  Bob hunted
coyotes on moonlight nights.  We threw scraps around the corner of the
house to bait 'em, and Bob would watch there hour on end until one got
within range.  It was a dead coyote in ten seconds by the watch, if the
jump landed.  If it didn't, Bob had learned there was no use wasting
his young strength trying to ketch him.  He used to sit still and gaze
after them flying streaks of hair and bones as though he was thinking
'I wisht somebody'd telegraph that son-of-a-gun for me.'"

[Illustration: "I wisht somebody'd telegraph that son-of-a-gun for me."]

"Well, then he'd be chilly and reckon he'd climb under the stove.  But
Thomas 'ud be there.

"'H-h-h-h-hhhh!' says Tom, in a whisper.

"'Er-raow-pht!" says Robert.  'Mmmmm-mm--errrrr--pht!'  And so on for
some time, the talk growing louder, then, with a yell that would stand
up every hair on your head, Bob 'ud hop him.  Over goes the cook-stove.
Away rolls the hot coals on the floor.  Down comes the stove-pipe and
the frying-pans and the rest of the truck, whilst the old Judge in the
corner hollered decisions, heart-broke because he was tied by the leg
and could not get a claw into the dispute.

[Illustration: Bob 'ud hop him.]

"By the time we had 'em separated--Bob headed up in his barrel and Tom
tied up in his sack--put the fire out, and fixed things generally,
there wasn't a great deal left of that night's rest.

"But children will be children.  We swore awful, still we wouldn't have
missed their company for a fair-sized farm.

"And now comes in the first little twist of the Big Bend Ranch,
proper--all these things I'm telling you were the eggs.  Here's where
the critter pipped.

"'Twas November, and such a November as you don't get outside of Old
Dakota, a regular mint-julep of a month, with a dash of summer, a sprig
of spring, a touch of fall, and a sniff or two of winter to liven you
up.  If you'd formed a committee to furnish weather for a month, and
they'd turned out a month like that, not even their best friends would
have kicked.  And here we'd been makin' hay, and makin' hay, the ranch
people thanking Providence that prairie grass cures on the stem, while
we cussed, for we were sick of the sight of hay.  I got so the rattle
of a mower give me hysterics.  We were picked because we were steady
and reliable, but one day we bunched the job.  Says I, 'Here; we've cut
grass for four solid months, includin' Sundays and legal holidays,
although the Lord knows where they come in, for I haven't the least
suspicion what day of the month it may be, but anyhow, let's knock off
one round.'

"So we did.  I sat outside in the afternoon, while the other two boys
and the rest of the family took a snooze.  Here comes a man across the
south flat a-horseback.

"I watched him, much interested: first place, he was the first strange
human animal we'd laid eye on for six weeks; next place, his style of
riding attracted attention.  I thought at the time he must have
invented it, him being the kind of man that hated horses, and wanted to
keep as far away from them as possible, yet forced by circumstances to
climb upon their backs."

[Illustration: His style of riding attracted attention.]

"His mount was a big American horse, full sixteen hand high, trotting
in twenty-foot jumps.  If I had anything against a person, just short
of killing, I'd tie him on the back of a horse trotting like that.
It's a great gait to sit out.  Howsomever, this man didn't sit it out;
what he wanted of a saddle beyond the stirrups was a mystery, for he
never touched it.  He stood up on his stirrups, bent forward like he
was going to bite the horse in the ear, soon's the strain got
unendurable.

"Well, here he come, straight for us.  I'd a mind to wake the other
boys up, to let 'em see something new in the way of mishandling a
horse, but they snored so peaceful.  I refrained.

"'How-de-do?' says he.

"I said I was worrying along, and sized him up, on the quiet.  He was a
queer pet.  Not a bad set-up man, and rather good looking in the face.
Light yellow hair, little yellow moustache, light blue eyes.  And
clean!  Say, I never saw anybody that looked so aggravating clean in
all my life.  It seemed kind of wrong for him to be outdoors; all the
prairie and the cabin and everything looked mussed up beside him.

"As soon as he opened up, I noticed he had a little habit of speaking
in streaks, that bothered me.  I missed the sense of his remarks.

"'Would you mind walking over that trail again?' I asked him.  'I do
most of my thinking at a foot-step and your ideas is over the hill and
far away before I can recognise the cut of their scalp-lock.'

"'Haw!' says he and stared at me.  I was just on the point of askin'
him if red hair was a new thing to him, when all of a sudden he begun
to laugh, 'Haw-haw-haw!' says he; 'not bad at all, ye know.'

"'Of course not,' says I.  'Why should it be?'

"This got him going.  I saw him figuring away to himself, and then I
had to smile so you could hear it.

"'Well,' says I, better humoured, 'tell us it again--I caught the word
sheep in the hurricane.'

"So he went over it, talking slow.  I listened with one ear, for he had
a white bulldog with him; a husky, bandy-legged brute with a black eye,
and he was sniffing, dog fashion, around the door, while I blocked him
out with my legs.  Doggy was in a frame of mind, puzzling out
bull-snake trail, and hawk trail, and bob-cat trail.  He foresaw much
that was entertaining the other side of the door, and wanted it,
powerful.

"'Here,' says I, 'call your dog.  I can't pay attention to both of you.'

"'He won't hurt anything, you know,' says the man.

"'Well, we've got a cat in there that'll hurt _him_,' I says.  'You'd
better whistle him off before old Bob wakes up and scatters him around
the front yard.'

"Gee!  That man sat up straight on his horse!  Cat hurt that dog?
Nonsense!  Of course, he wouldn't let the dog hurt the cat, and as long
as I was afraid----

"I looked into that peaceful cabin.  Billy was lying on his back, his
fine manly nose vibrating with melody; Wind-River was cooing in a
gentle, choked-to-death sort of fashion, on the second bunk; Tom was
coiled in the corner, the size of half a barrel; the Judge slept on his
perch; Robert reposed under the cook-stove with just a front paw
sticking out.  It was one of them restful scenes our friends the poets
sing about.  It did appear wicked to disturb it but----

"'Will you risk your dog?' I asked that man very softly and politely.

"'Certainly!' says he.

"Says I, 'His blood be on your shirtfront,' and I moved my leg.

"Well, sir, Billy landed on the grocery shelf.  Wind-River grabbed his
gun and sat up paralysed.  It really was a most surprising noise.  I've
had hard luck in my life, but all the things that ever happened to me
would seem like a recess to that bulldog.  Our domestic difficulties
was forgotten.  'United We Stand,' waved the motto of the lake-bed
cabin.  Jerusalem!  That dog was snake-bit, and
hawk-scratched-and-bit-and-clawed, and
bobcat-scratched-and-bit-and-clawed, till you could not see a cussed
thing in that cabin but blur.  And of all the hissing and squawking and
screeching and yelling and snapping and roaring and growling you or any
other man ever heard, that was the darndest.  I took a look at the
visitor.  He'd got off his horse and was standing in the doorway with
his hands spread out.  His face expressed nothing at all, very
forcible.  Meanwhile, things were boilin' for fair; cook-stove,
frying-pans, stools, boxes, saddles, tin cans, bull-snakes, hawks,
bob-cats, and bulldogs simply floated in the air.

"'I wish you'd tell me what has busted loose, Red Saunders!' howls old
Wind-River in an injured tone of voice; 'and whether I shell shoot or
sha'n't I?'

"There come a second's lull.  I see Judge Jenkins on the dog's back,
his talents sunk to the hock, whilst he had hold of an ear with his
bill, pullin' manfully.  Tommy had swallered the dog's stumpy tail, and
Bob was dragging hair out of the enemy like an Injun dressing hides.

"A bulldog is like an Irishman; he's brave because he don't know any
better, and you can't get any braver than that, but there's a limit,
even to lunk-headedness.  It bored through that dog's thick skull that
he had butted into a little bit the darndest hardest streak of
petrified luck that anything on legs could meet with.

"'By-by,' says he to himself.  'Out doors will do for me!'  And here he
come!  Neither the visitor nor me was expecting him.  He blocked the
feet out from under us and sat his master on top.  We got up in time to
see a winged bulldog, with a tail ten foot long, bounding merrily over
the turf, searching his soul for sounds to tell how scart he was,
whilst a desperate bob-cat, spitting fire and brimstone, threw dirt
fifty foot in the air trying to lay claws on him."

[Illustration: Searching soul for sounds to tell how scart he was]

"As they disappeared over the first rise I rolls me a cigarette and
lights it slowly.

"'Just by way of curiosity,' says I; 'how much will you take for your
dog?'

"'My Heavens!' says he, recovering the power of speech.  'What kind of
animal was that?'

"'Come in,' says I, 'and take a drink--you need it.'

"So we gathered up the ruins and tidied things some, while the new man
sipped his whiskey.

"'My!' says he, of a sudden.  'I must go after my poor dog.'

"I sort of warmed to him at that.  'Dog's all right,' says I.  'He'll
shake 'em loose and be home in no time.  Now you tell me about them
sheep.'

"'Sheep?' says he, putting his hand to his head.  'What was it about
sheep?'

"'Hello in the house!' sings out Billy.  'The children's comin' home!'

"We tumbled out.  Sure enough, the warriors was returning.  First come
the Judge, tougher than rawhide, half walking and half flying, his
wings spread out, 'cree-ing' to himself about bulldogs and their ways;
next come Bobby, still sputtering and swearing, and behind ambled
Thomas at a lively wriggle, a coy, large smile upon his face.

"'Ur-r-roup!  Roup!' sounds from the top of the rise.  The family
halted and turned around, expectin' more pleasure, for there on the top
of the hill stood the terrible scart but still faithful bulldog calling
for his master to come away from that place quick, before he got
killed.  But he had one eye open for safety, and when the family
stopped, he ducked down behind the hill surprisin'.

"'Well, I must be going,' says the visitor.  'My name's Sett--Algernon
Alfred Sett--and I shall be over next week to talk to you about those
sheep.'

"'Any time,' says I.  'We'll be here till we have to shovel snow to get
at the hay, from the look of things.'

"'Well, I'm very anxious to have a good long talk with you about
sheep,' says he.  'I've been informed that you had a long experience in
that line in--er--Nevverdah----'

"'Nevverdah?' says I.  'Oh!--Nevada.  I beg your pardon--I've got in
the habit of pronouncing in that way.  It wasn't Nevada, by the way--it
was Texas--but that's only a matter of a Europe or so.  Yes, I met a
sheep or two in that country, I'm sorry to say.'

"'I--er--think of engaging in the business, dontcher know,' says he,
relaxing into his first method of speech; 'and should like to consult
you professionally.'

"'All right, sir!' says I.  'I'm one of the easiest men to consult west
of any place east.  Can't you stay now and get the load off your mind?'

"'Well--_no_,' he says to me very confidentially.  'You see, that dog
is a great pet of my wife's, and I'm also afraid she will be a little
worried by my long absence, so----'

"'I see, sir--I see,' I answered him.  'Well, come around again and
we'll talk sheep.'

"'Thank you--thank you _so_ much,' says he, and pops up on his horse.
Then again, without any warning, he broke into a haw-haw-haw! as he
threw a glance at the family, who sat around eyeing him.  'You were
quite right about that _cat_, you know,' says he.  'Capital!  Capital!
But a _little_ rough on the dog.'  And off he goes, bobbity-bob,
bobbity-bob.

"'Where'd you tag that critter, Red?' says Wind-River.  'My mind's
wanderin'.'

"'He comes down the draw much the graceful way he's going up it,' says
I.  'From where, and why how, I dunno.  But I kind of like him against
my better instincts, Windy.'

"Windy spit thoughtfully at a fly fifteen foot away.  'I shouldn't have
time to hate him much myself,' says he.

"And there you are.  That's how I met Brother Sett, and the Big Bend
Ranch stuck her head out of the shell."




Oscar's Chance, per Charley

"Bhooooooorrr!  Bhooooooooooooooorrrrr!"  It was the hollow,
melancholy, wild beast-howl of a fog-horn.  We were drifting upon a
tragic coast, where the great waves slipped up the cliffs noiselessly,
to disappear upon the other side.  At the time, I was talking to a
person who had just been a sort of composite of several of my friends,
but was now a gaunt bay mule.  "Isn't it co-o-ld?" I said to him, and
shivered.  He looked me sternly in the eye.  "Get up!" said he.  The
vessel struck a rock and trembled violently.  "Get up!" repeated the
mule, and there was a menace in his voice now.  "Bhooooooooooorrrrr!"
moaned the fog-horn.  This was dreadful.  But worse followed.  The
waters gathered themselves and rose into a peak, the mule sliding
swiftly to the apex, still holding me with his uncanny eyes.  There
came a shock, and Oscar said, "For the Lord's sake, kid!  They've been
braying away on that breakfast horn for the last five minutes.  Hustle!"

I found myself upon my hands and knees; in a cabin, all right, but the
cabin was on the prairie.  I looked around, stupid with sleep.  The
familiar sights met my eye--Oscar tiptoeing about, bow-legged, arms
spread like wings, drawing his breath through his teeth, after the
fashion of half-frozen people.  Old Charley sat humped up in the
corner, sucking his cob pipe.  The stove was giving forth a smell of
hot iron, and no heat, as usual.  On it rested a wash-basin, wherein
some snow was melting for the morning ablutions.  A candle projected a
sort of palpable yellow gloom into the grey icy morning air.  I dressed
rapidly.  As I slept in overcoat and cap, this was no great matter.  A
pair of German socks and arctics completed my attire.  Evidently I had
been put upon the floor by the hand of Oscar.  For this, when Oscar
stretched his nether garment tight, in the act of washing his face, I
smote him upon the fulness thereof with a long plug of chewing tobacco.
"Aow!" he yelled, recurving like a bow and putting his hands to his
wound.  Promptly we clinched and fell upon old Charley.  To the floor
the three went, amid a shower of sparks from the cob pipe.  "You dam
pesky kids!" said the angry voice of Charles (the timbre of that voice,
after travelling through four inches of nose, is beyond imitation).
"Get off'n me!  Quit now!  Stop yer blame foolin'!"

[Illustration: Get off'n me!]

Oscar and I swallowed our giggles and rolled all over Charley.
"_Well_, by Jeeroosha!" came from the bottom of the heap in the tone of
one who has reached the breaking point of astonished fury.  "I'm goin'
to do some shootin' when this is over--yes, sir, I won't hold back no
more--ef you boys don't git off'n me this minit, so help me Bob!  I'll
bite yer!"

This was a real danger, and we skipped off him briskly.  "Why,
Charley," explained Oscar, "you see, we got so excited that we didn't
notice----"

"There's Steve now," interrupted Charley, pointing with a long crooked
forefinger to the doorway.  "Well, Steve!  I'm glad you come.  I just
want you to see the kind of goin's on there is here."  Charles cleared
his throat and stuck his thumb in his vest.  "F'r instance, this
mornin', I sittin' right there in that corner, not troublin' nobody,
when up gets that splay-footed, sprawlin', lumberin' bull-calf of an
Oscar, an' that mischievious, sawed-off little monkey of a Harry, and
they goes to pullin' and tusslin', and they jes' walks up and down on
me, same's if I was a flight of steps.  Now, you know, Steve, I'm a man
of sagassity an' _ex_periunce, an' I ain't goin' to stand fur no such
dograsslin'.  I felt like doin' them boys ser'us damage, but they're
young, and life spreads green and promisin' befo' 'em, like a banana
tree; consequently I prefer jus' to tell you my time is handed in."

Charley was proudly erect.  His arms stretched aloft.  His one yellow
tooth rested on his lower lip; his face, the thickness and texture of a
much-worn leather pocketbook, showed a tinge of colour as the words
went to his head like wine.

Steve looked at the floor.  "Too bad, Charley; too bad," he said in
grave sympathy.  "But probably we can fix it up.  Now, as we have
company, would you mind hitting the breakfast trail?"

"After I've made a few remarks," returned Charles haughtily.

Steve dropped on a stool.  "Sick your pup on," he said.  Charley leaped
at the opportunity.

"There _are_ some things I sh'd like to mention," said he.  We noted
with pleasure that he wore his sarcastic manner.  "F'r instance, you
doubtless behold them small piles of snow on the floo', which has come
in through certain an' sundry holes in the wall that orter been chinked
last fall.  Is it _my_ place to chink them holes?  The oldes' an' mose
_ex_periunced man in the hull cat-hop?  I reckon otherwise.  Then why
didn't they git chinked?  Why is it that the snows and winds of an
outraged and jus'ly indignant Providence is allowed to introdoose
theirselves into this company unrebuked?

"I have heard a' great deal, su', about the deadenin' effeck produced
upon man's vigger by a steady, reliable, so'thern climate.  As a
citizen of the State of Texas fo' twenty years I repel the expersion
with scorn and hoomiliation.  Nevertheless and notwithstanding,
'lowing' that to be the truth, did you encounter anything in this here
country to produce such an effeck?  For Gawd's sake, su', if there's
anything in variety, a man livin' here orter lay holt of the grass
roots, fur fear he'd git so durn strong he couldn't stay on the face of
the yearth.  Ef it ain't so sinful cold that yer ears'll drap off at a
touch, it's so hell-fire hot that a man's features melt all over his
face, and ef it ain't so solemn still that you're scart to death, the
wind'll blow the buttonholes outer yer clo's'.  I have seen it do a
hull yearful of stunts in twenty-four hours, encludin' hot an' cold
weather, thunderstorms, drought, high water, and a blizzard.  That
settles the climate question.  Then what is it that has let them holes
go unchinked?  I'll tell you, su'; it's nothin' more nor less than the
tinkerin', triflin', pettifoggin' dispersition of them two boys.
That's what makes it that there's mo' out-doors inside this bull-pen
than there is on the top of Chunkey Smith's butte; that's what makes it
I can't get up in the mornin' without having myself turned inter a
three-ringed circus.  But I ain't the man to complain.  Ef there's
anything that gums up the cards of life, it's a kicker; so jes' as one
man to another, I tells you what's wrong here and leaves you to figger
it out fer yerself."

He glanced around on three grave faces with obvious satisfaction.  His
wrath had dissipated in the vapour of words.  "Nor they ain't such bad
boys, _as_ boys, nuther," he concluded.

"I will examine this matter carefully, Charles," said Steve.

"I thank you, su'," responded Charley, with a courtly sweep of his hand.

"Not at all," insisted Steve, with a duplicate wave.  "I beg that you
won't mention it.  And now, if you would travel toward the house----"

"_Cer_tainly!"

And out we went into North Dakota's congealed envelope, with the smoke
from the main-house chimney rising three hundred feet into the air, a
snow-white column straight as a mast, Charley stalking majestically
ahead, while we three floundered weakly behind him.

"Ain't he the corker?" gasped Oscar.  "When he gets to jumping sideways
among those four-legged words he separates me from my good intentions."

"'With scorn and hoomiliation,'" quoted Steve, and stopped, overcome.

"'I tells you what's the matter and leaves you to figger it out for
yourself,'" I added.  Then Charley heard us.  He turned and approached,
an awful frown upon his brow.

"May I inquire what is the reason of this yere merriment?" he asked.
The manner was that of a man who proposed to find out.  It sat on
Charley with so ludicrous a parody that we were further undone.  Steve
raised his hands in deprecation, and spoke in a muffled voice that
broke at intervals.

"Can't I laugh in my own backyard, Charley?" he said.  "By the Lord
Harry, I _will_ laugh inside my stakes!  No man shall prevent me.  The
Constitution of the United States, the Declaration of Independence, and
the Continental Congress give me the right.  Now what have you got to
say?"

"I dunno but what you have me whipsawed there, Steve," replied Charley,
scratching his head.  "Ef it's your right by the Constitootion, o'
course I ain't goin' to object."

"Do either of you object?" demanded Steve of Oscar and me in his
deepest bass.  No, we didn't object; we fell down in the snow and
crowed like chanticleer.

"Hunh!" snorted Charley.  "Hunh!  Them boys hain't got brains in their
heads at all--nothin' but doodle-bugs!"

"Well, Charley," continued Steve, "as you don't object, and they don't
object, and I don't object, for God's sake let's have breakfast!"

"I'll go you, Steve," replied Charles seriously, and we entered the
house uproarious.

There in the kitchen was Mrs. Steve and the "company," a pretty little
bright-eyed thing, whose colour went and came at a word--more
particularly if Oscar said the word.  The affair was at present in the
formal state--the dawn of realisation that two such wonderful and
magnificent creatures as Oscar and Sally existed.  But they were not
Oscar and Sally except in the dear privacy of their souls.  Yet how
much that is not obvious to the careless ear can be put into "Will you
have a buckwheat cake, Mr. Kendall?" or "May I give you a helping of
the syrup, Miss Brown?"  It took some preparation for each to get out
so simple a remark, and invariably the one addressed started guiltily,
and got crimson.  It was the most uncomfortable rapture I ever saw,
However, they received very little plaguing.  I can remember but one
hard hit.  Oscar was pouring syrup upon Sally's cakes, his eyes fixed
upon a dainty hand, that shook under his gaze like a leaf.  He forgot
his business.  Steve looked at the inverted, empty syrup-cup for some
moments in silence.  Then he said to his wife, "Emma, go and get Sally
a nice cupful of fresh air to put on her cakes; that that Oscar has in
the pitcher is stale by this time."

[Illustration: The affair was at present in the formal state]

Oh, those cakes!  And the ham!  And the fried eggs and potatoes.  We
lived like fighting cocks at Steve's, as happens on most of the small
ranches.  The extreme glory of the prairie was not ours.  We were
wood-choppers, hay-cutters, and farmers, as well as punchers; but what
we lost in romance, we made up in sustenance.  No one ever saw a
biscuit suffering from soda-jaundice on Steve's table.  And how, after
a night's sleep in a temperature of forty below zero, I would champ my
teeth on the path to breakfast!  Eating was not an appetite in those
days--it was a passion.

Charley and I went forth after breakfast, Oscar lingering a moment,
according to his use, to pass a painful five minutes in making excuses
for staying that time, where no one needed any explanation.

"I wish to gracious Sally and Oscar would just act like people," said
Mrs. Steve once in exasperation.  "They get me so nervous stammering at
each other that I drop everything I lay my hands on, and I feel as if
I'd robbed somebody for the rest of the day."

The interview over, Oscar came out, burning with his own embarrassment,
and made a sore mess of everything he did for the next hour.  A man
must have his mind about him on a ranch.

Once upon a time Steve came to Charley and me, literally prancing.  We
had heard oaths and yells and sounds of a battle royal previously, and
wondered what was going on.  When he neared us he moved slowly, his
hands working like machinery.  "I would like to know," he began, and
stopped to glare at us and grind his teeth.  "I should like to know,"
he continued, in a voice so weak with rage we could hardly hear it,
"who turned the red bull into number three corral."

Charley and I went right on cleaning out the shed.  We weren't going to
tell on Oscar.

"So it's him again, heh?" shrieked Steve.  "Well, now I propose to show
him something.  I'll show him everything!"  He was entirely beyond the
influence of reason and grammar.  Charley had an ill-advised notion to
play the paternal.

"Now, I'd cool down if I was you, Steve," he admonished.

"You would, would you!" foamed Steve.  "Well, who the devil cares what
you'd do, anyhow?  And if you tell me to cool down just once more, I'll
drive you into the ground like a tent-pin."

I jumped through the window, and then laughed, while Charley
administered his reproof with appropriate gestures.  His long arms flew
in the air as he delivered the inspired address, Steve looking at him,
a bit of shamefacedness and fun showing through his heat.

"An' mo' I tell you, Steven P. Hendricks!" rolled out Charley in
conclusion.  "That this citizen of Texas, jus'ly and rightjus'ly called
the Lone Star State, has never yet experienced the feeling of bein'
daunted by face of man.  No, su'!  By God, su'!"  He held the shovel
aloft like a sword.  "Let 'em come as they will, male and female after
their kind, from a ninety poun' Jew peddler to Sittin' Bull himself,
and from a pigeon-toed Digger-Injun squaw to a fo'-hundred-weight Dutch
lady, I turn my back on none!"

"You win, Charley," said Steve, and walked off.  All Oscar caught out
of it was the request that when he felt like reducing the stock on the
ranch he'd take a rifle.

Poor Oscar!  All noble and heroic sentiments struggling within him,
with no outlet but a hesitating advancing of the theory that "if we
didn't get rain before long, the country'd be awful dry."  Small wonder
that he burst out in the bull-pen one night with "I wish the Injuns
would jump this ranch!"

"You do?" said Charley.  "Well, durn your hide for that wish!  What's
got into you to make you wish that?"

"Aw!" said Oscar, twitching around on his stool, "I'm sick and tired of
not being able to say anything.  If the Sioux got up, I could do
something."

"Oh, that's it," retorted Charles.  "Well, Oscar, far's I can see, if
it's necessary to have a war-party of Injuns whoopin' an' yellin' an'
crow-hoppin' an' makin' fancywork out of people to give you the proper
start afore your gal, it'd be jes' as well for you to stay single the
res' of your days.  The results wouldn't justify the trouble."

Afterward Oscar told me in private that Charley was an old stiff, and
he didn't believe he'd make a chest at a grasshopper if the latter
spunked up any.  That wronged old Charley.  But Oscar must be
excused--he was a singularly unhappy man.

To come back to what happened.  Oscar that morning had the care of
Geronimo, a coal-black, man-eating stallion, a brute as utterly devoid
of fear as of docility.  A tiger kills to eat, and occasionally for the
fun of it; that horse killed out of ferocity, and hate of every living
thing.

A fearful beast is a bad horse.  One really has more chance against a
tiger.  Geronimo stood seventeen hands high, and weighed over sixteen
hundred pounds.  When he reared on his hind legs and came for you,
screaming, his teeth snapping like bear-traps, his black mane flying, a
man seemed a pigmy.  One blow from those front hoofs and your troubles
were over.  Once down, he'd trample, bite, and kick until your own
mother would hesitate to claim the pile of rags and jelly left.  He had
served two men so; nothing but his matchless beauty saved his life.

Nowhere could one find a better example of hell-beautiful than when he
tore around his corral in a tantrum, as lithe and graceful as a black
panther.  His mane stood on end; his eyes and nostrils were of a
colour; the muscles looked to be bursting through the silken gloom of
his coat.  His swiftness was something incredible.  He caught and most
horribly killed Jim Baxter's hound before the latter could get out of
the corral--and a bear-hound is a pretty agile animal.  We had to tie
Jim, or he'd made an end of Geronimo.  He left the ranch right after
that.  The loss of his dog broke him all up.

We fed and watered Geronimo with a pitchfork, and in terror then, for
his slyness and cunning were on a par with his other pleasant
peculiarities.  One of the poor devils he killed entered the stable all
unsuspecting.  Geronimo had broken his chains, and stood close against
the wall of his stall in the darkness, waiting.  The man came within
reach.  Suddenly a black mass of flesh flashed in the air above him,
coming down with all four hoofs--and that's enough of that story.

A nice pet was Geronimo.  An excellent decoration for a gentleman's
stable--stuffed.

Well, Oscar turned him out this morning, and then he, Steve, and I went
for hay.  As it was toward the last of winter, all the near stacks had
been used up, and we had to haul from Kennedy's bottom, eight miles
away.  When we started, the air was still and frozen, with a deep,
biting cold unusual to Dakota; the sort that searches you and steals
all the heat you own.  We were numb by the time we reached the stack,
and glad enough to have warm work to do.  We fell to it with a rush for
that reason, and because a dull grey blink upon the western skyline
seemed to promise a blizzard.  We were tying down the last load, when I
heard the hum of wind coming, and looked up, expecting to see a wall of
flying snow, and continued looking, seeing nothing of the kind.  There
I stood, in the air of an ice-house, when a gust of that wind struck
me.  A miracle!  In a snap of your fingers I was bathed in genial
warmth.  All about me rode the scent of spring and flowers!  It was as
if the doors of a giant conservatory were thrown open.

"Chinook, boys!  Chinook!" I called, casting down my fork.  They ran
from the lee of the stack, throwing their coats open, drinking it in
and laughing, for, man! we were weary of winter!  First it came in
puffs, at length settling down to a steady breeze, as of the sea.  The
sun, that in the early morning was no more than a pale effigy, poured
on us a heart-warming fire.  We hustled for home, knowing that the
Chinook would make short work of the snow.  In fact, we had not covered
more than half the distance before the prairie began to show brown here
and there, where it lay thin between mountainous drifts.  We sang and
howled all the way to the sheds, feeling fine.

Here Steve left us, to go to the house, while Oscar and I unloaded the
sleighs.

Suddenly I felt uncomfortable, for no reason in this world.  The land
about us was rejoicing with the booming of that kind, warm wind, yet a
sharp uneasiness stopped me and forced me to raise my head.  For
three-quarters of a circle nothing met my eyes but the vanishing
snow-drifts.  I reached the house; nothing wrong there.  Steve was
walking briskly out toward us, smoking his pipe.  Then the corrals--all
right, number one, two, three, four--Lord have mercy!

"Oscar!" I shrieked, and snatched him to his feet.  He rose, bewildered
and half angry, then looked to where I pointed.

Through the centre of number four corral tripped Sally, dear little
timid Sally, glad to be out in this lovely air, her eyes and mind on
Oscar doubtless, and in the same corral, shut off from her sight by a
projection of the sheds, stood Geronimo.  And he saw her, too, for as
she waved a hand to us, he bared his great teeth and clashed them
together.  The earth seemed to rock and sink from me.  Every soul on
the ranch was told to keep away from the corral with the two buffalo
skulls over the gates, a warning sufficiently big and gruesome to stop
anyone.  What fatal lapse of memory had struck the girl?

She was beyond help.  We were all of two hundred yards away, and Steve
still farther; she was not a quarter of that from the brute.  If we
shouted, if we moved, we might bring her end upon her--and such an end!
When I thought of that dainty, pretty little woman beneath those hoofs,
I felt a hideous sickness.  The man beside me said, "My God!  My
mistake!"  A corral opened on each side of the box stall in which
Geronimo was confined.  One of these was usually empty, a reserve.  It
was into this that Oscar had turned the horse.  The other was the
corral of the skulls.

Geronimo leaped out.  The girl halted, stark, open-mouthed, every sign
of life stricken from her at a blow.  Geronimo sprang high and snapped
at nothing, in evil play before the earnest.  It was horrible.  We
could do neither harm nor good now, so we ran for the spot.  It was
down hill from us to them.  I doubt that anything on two legs ever
covered distance as we did, for all the despair.  Geronimo reared and
stood upon his hind feet, as straight as a man.  He advanced, striking,
looming above his victim.  "All over," I thought, and tried to take my
eyes away.  I could not.

At that instant a white-hatted, gaunt, tall figure rushed from the
stable door, a shovel in its hand, straight between the girl and her
destruction.  There he stood, with his partly weapon raised,
unflinching.  An oath came to my lips and a hot spot to my throat at
the sight.  No eye ever saw a braver thing.

At this, a dip in the ground and the eight-foot fence of the corral
shut out all within.  God knows how we got over that fence.  I swear I
think we leaped it.  I have no memory of climbing, but I do recall
landing on the other side in a swoop.

Geronimo had old Charley in his teeth, shaking him like a rat.

"Steve!" I called, "Steve!"  And then Oscar and I charged at the wicked
brute with our pitchforks.  All that followed is a tangled, bad dream
of hurry, fear, yells, oaths, and myself stabbing, stabbing, stabbing
with the pitchfork.  Then a gun cracked somewhere, a black mass toppled
toward me that knocked me sprawling--and all was still.  I sat for a
moment, smiling foolishly and fumbling for my hat.  Steve raised me by
the arm.  He still had his revolver in his hand, and his glance on the
dead stallion.  He asked me if I was hurt, and I said yes.  He asked me
where, and I said that made no difference.  Then, as I came to a little
more, I said I guessed I wasn't hurt, and looked around.  Oscar had
Sally in his arms.  The tears were running down his cheeks, and he
moved his head from side to side, like a man in agony.  Her head was
buried in his breast, her hands locked around his neck.  It was well
with them, evidently.  But limp upon the ground, his forehead varnished
red, lay old Charley.

We turned him over tenderly, wiping the blood away.  Steve's lips
quivered as he put his hand on the old man's heart.  He kept it there a
long time.  Then he said huskily, "He's gone!"  At the words the sound
eye of the victim popped open with a suddenness that made my heart
throw a somersault.  It was as sane, calm, and undisturbed an optic as
ever regarded the world.

"G-a-w-n H--l!" said Charley.

We laughed and wiped our eyes with our coat sleeves, and got the old
boy to his feet.

"Same old Texas," said he, feeling of his head (the hoof had scraped,
instead of smashing), "slightly disfiggered, but still in the ring."

He caught sight of the lovers.  "Hello!" he said.  "Oscar's made his
ante good at last--bad hawse works as well as Injuns."  We started to
lead him by the pair.

"Naw, boys," he commanded.  "Take me 'round 't'uther way.  That gal
don't want to see me now, all bloody and mussed up like this."

It was useless to attempt making a hero of Charley.




Billy the Buck

I fancy I assume an impregnable position in saying that real poetry is
truth, presented in its most vivid and concise form.  If the statement
stands, I request that every line of English verse containing the words
"Timid deer," or referring in any way to a presumed gentle, trusting,
philanthropic disposition in the beast, be at once revised or
expurgated.  I shall not except the works of William Shakespeare.  When
the melancholy Jaques speaks of one of these ferocious animals, saying,
"The big round tears coursed one another down his innocent nose in
piteous chase," I believe Jaques lied; or, if he lied not, and the
phenomenon occurred as reported, that the tears were tears of rage
because the deer could not get at Jaques, and as an extension, if he
had gotten at Jaques, he would have given said Jaques some cold facts
to be contemplative about.  After my experience, if I should see any
misguided person making friendly advances to one of these horned
demons, I should cry, "Whoa!" as Cassandra did to the wood horse of the
Greeks, and probably with the same result.  They would not falter until
they had gathered bitter experience with their own hands.

Why?  This is why.  One day, when I was working on a Dakota ranch, the
boss, a person by the name of Steve, urged me to take an axe, go forth,
and chop a little wood, which I did.

The weather was ideal.  A Dakota fall.  Air vital with the mingled
pleasant touch of frost and sun, like ice-cream in hot coffee, and
still as silence itself.  I had a good breakfast, was in excellent
health and spirits; the boss could by no means approach within a mile
unperceived, and everything pointed to a pleasant day.  But, alas! as
the Copper-lined Killelu-bird of the Rockies sings, "Man's hopes rise
with the celerity and vigour of the hind leg of the mule, only to
descend with the velocity of a stout gentleman on a banana peel."

On reaching the grove of cottonwoods I sat down for a smoke and a
speculative view of things in general, having learned at my then early
age that philosophy is never of more value than when one should be
doing something else.

I heard a noise behind me, a peculiar noise, between a snort and a
violent bleat.  Turning, I saw a buck deer, and, from the cord and bell
around his neck, recognised him as one Billy, the property of Steve's
eldest boy.  He was spoken of as a pet.

This was the touch needed to complete my Arcadia; the injection of
what, at the time, I considered to be poetry into the excellent prose
of open air life.  Who could see that graceful, pretty creature, and
remain unmoved?  Not I, at all events.  I fancied myself as a knight of
old in the royal forest, which gave a touch of the archaic to my
speech.  "Come here, thou sweet-eyed forest child!" I cried, and here
he came!  At an estimate I should say that he was four axe-handles, or
about twelve feet high, as he upended himself, brandished his antlers,
and jumped me.  My axe was at a distance.  I moved.  I played knight to
king's bishop's eighth, in this case represented by a fork of the
nearest tree.  A wise and subtle piece of strategy, as it resulted in a
drawn game.

[Illustration: "A wise and subtle piece of strategy"]

My friend stood erect for a while, making warlike passes with his front
feet (which, by the way, are as formidable weapons as a man would care
to have opposed to him); then, seeing that there was no sporting blood
in me, he devoured my lunch and went away--a course I promptly imitated
as far as I could; I departed.

Hitherto, I had both liked and admired Steve.  His enormous strength,
coupled with an unexpected agility and an agreeable way he had of
treating you as if you were quite his own age, endeared him to me.
When I poured out my troubles to him, however, rebuking him for
allowing such a savage beast to be at large, he caused my feelings to
undergo a change.  For, instead of sympathising, he fell to uproarious
laughter, slapped his leg, and swore that it was the best thing he'd
ever heard of, and wished he'd been there to see it.

I concluded, judicially, that Steve had virtues, but that he was at the
last merely a very big man of coarse fibre.  Perhaps I had been a
little boastful previously concerning my behaviour under trying
circumstances.  If so, I was well paid out for it.  That night I had
the pleasure of listening to an account of my adventures, spiced with
facetious novelties of Steve's invention, such as that my cries for
help were audible to the house, and only the fact that he couldn't tell
from which direction they came prevented Steve from rushing to my
rescue, and that all the deer wanted was my lunch, anyhow.  I wished I
had kept the lunch episode to myself.

[Illustration: "An account of my adventures"]

There are probably no worse teases on earth than the big boys who chase
the cow on the Western prairies.  They had "a horse on the kid," and
the poor kid felt nightmare ridden indeed.  If I were out with them,
someone would assume an anxious look and carefully scout around a bunch
of grass in the distance, explaining to the rest that there might be a
deer concealed there, and one could not be too careful when there were
wild beasts like that around.  Then the giggling rascals would pass the
suspected spot with infinite caution, perhaps breaking into a gallop,
with frightened shrieks of "The deer!  The deer!" while I tried to look
as if I liked it, and strove manfully to keep the brine of
mortification from rolling down my cheeks.

I didn't let my emotions take the form of words, because I had wit
enough to know that I could not put a better barrier between myself and
a real danger than those husky lads of the leather breeches and white
hats.  For all that, I had a yearning to see one of them encounter the
deer at his worst.  I did not wish anyone hurt, and was so confident of
their physical ability that I did not think anyone would be; but I felt
that such an incident would strengthen their understanding.

This thing came to pass, and, of all people, on my arch-enemy, Steve.
If I had had the arrangement of details, I could not have planned it
better.  Because of my tender years, the light chores of the ranch fell
to my share.  One day everyone was off, leaving me to chink up the
"bull-pen," or men's quarters, with mud, against the cold of
approaching winter.  Steve had taken his eldest boy on a trip to pick
out some good wood.

Presently arrived the boy, hatless, running as fast as he could tear,
the breath whistling in his lungs.  "Come _quick_!" was the message.
It seems the deer had followed the couple, and when the boy fooled with
his old playmate, the deer knocked him down and would have hurt him
badly, but that his father instantly jumped into the fray and grabbed
the animal by the horns, with the intention of twisting his head off.
The head was fastened on more firmly than Steve supposed.  What he did
not take at all into account was that the buck was both larger and
stronger than he.  Though raised on a bottle, Billy was by long odds
the largest deer I ever saw.

Steve got the surprise of his life.  The battle was all against him.
The best he could hope to do was to hold his own until help arrived; so
he sent the boy off hotfoot.  Although his power for a short exertion
was great, Steve was in no kind of training, having allowed himself to
fatten up, and being an inordinate user of tobacco.  Per contra, the
deer felt freshened and invigorated by exertion.  That's the deuce of
it with an animal--_he_ doesn't tire.

I knew that Steve was in plenty trouble, or he wouldn't have sent for
help.  The boy's distress denied the joke I suspected; I grabbed a rope
and made for the grove, the boy trailing me.  I should have gotten a
gun, but I didn't think of it.

Those were the days when I could run; when it was exhilaration to sail
over the prairie.  The importance of my position as rescuer--which
anyone who has been a boy will understand--lent springs to my feet.

It was well for Steve that mine were speedy legs.  When I got there his
face was grey and mottled, like an old man's, and his mouth had a weak
droop, very unlike devil-may-care Steve.  The two had pawed up the
ground for rods around in the fight; the deer's horns, beneath where
the man gripped them, were wet with the blood of his torn palms.
Steve's knees, arms, and head were trembling as if in an ague fit.  He
was all in--physically; but the inner man arose strong above defeat.
"Here's--your--deer--Kid!" he gasped.  "I--kept--him--for you!"

[Illustration: "'Here's--your--deer--Kid,' he gasped"]

I yelled to him to hold hard for one second, took a running jump, and
landed on Mr. Buck's flank with both feet.  It was something of a
shock.  Over went deer, man, and boy.  I was on my pins in a jiffy,
snapped the noose over the deer's hind legs, tangled him up anyhow in
the rest of the riata, and snubbed him to the nearest tree.  Then Steve
got up and walked away to where he could be ill with comfort.  And he
was good and sick.

When he felt better, he arose and opened his knife, swearing that he
would slit that critter's throat from ear to ear; but Steve, junior,
plead so hard for the life of his pet that Big Steve relented, and Mr.
Billy Buck was saved for further mischief.

That afternoon two of us rode out and roped him, "spreading" him
between us as we dragged him home.  He fought every step of the way.
My companion, a hot-headed Montana boy, was for killing him a
half-dozen times.  However, feeling that the deer had vindicated me, I
had a pride in him, and kept him from a timely end.  We turned him
loose in a corral with a blooded bull-calf, some milch cows,
work-steers, and other tame animals.  "And I bet you he has 'em all
chewing the rag inside of twenty-four hours," said my companion.

That night Steve made ample amend for his former mirth.  Indeed, he
praised my fleetness and promptness of action so highly that I was
seized by an access of modesty as unexpected as it was disorganising.

The next day Steve stood on the roof of the shed at the end of Billy
Buck's corral.  Suddenly he straightened up and waved his hat.  "Deer
and bull fight!" he called.  "Come a-running everybody!"  We dropped
our labours and sprinted for the corral, there to sit upon the shed and
watch the combat.  Steve didn't know what began the trouble, but when I
got there the young bull was facing the deer, his head down, blowing
the dust in twin clouds before him, hooking the dirt over his back in
regular righting bull fashion, and anon saying, "Bh-ur-ur-ooor!" in an
adolescent basso-profundo, most ridiculously broken by streaks of
soprano.  When these shrill notes occurred the little bull rolled his
eyes around, as much as to say "Who did that?" and we, swinging our
legs on the shed roof, laughed gleefully and encouraged him to sail in.

His opponent watched this performance with a carriage of the head
which, for superciliousness, I never have seen equaled in man, woman,
or beast.  His war-cry was a tinny bleat: the cry of a soul bursting
with sardonic merriment.  It was like the Falstaffian laughter of the
duck, without its ring of honesty.

The bull, having gone through the preliminaries of his code, cocked his
tail straight in the air and charged.  The buck waited until he was
within three feet; then he shot sideways, and shot back again, his
antlers beating with a drum-stick sound on the bull's ribs.  "Baw-aw!"
said the bull.  Probably that hurt.  Again bull faced buck.  This time
the bovine eye wore a look of troubled wonderment, while one could mark
an evil grin beneath the twitching nose of his antagonist; and his
bleat had changed to a tone which recalled the pointing finger and
unwritable "H'nh-ha!" that greets misfortune in childhood.  "I told you
so!" it said.  The bull, however, is an animal not easily discouraged.
Once more he lowered his foolish head and braved forth like a
locomotive.

But it would take too long to tell all the things Billy Buck did to
that bull.  He simply walked all over him and jabbed and raked and
poked.  Away went the bull, his erstwhile proudly erect tail slewed
sideways, in token of struck colours--a sign of surrender disregarded
by his enemy, who thought the giving of signals to cease fighting a
prerogative of his office.  Away went the old cows and the work-steers
and the horses, in a thundering circuit of the corral, the horned stock
bawling in terror, and Billy Buck "boosting" every one of them
impartially.  We cheered him.

"Gad!  I'm glad I didn't slit his windpipe!" said Steve.  "He's a
corker!"

Billy drove his circus parade around about six times before his proud
soul was satisfied.  Then he took the centre of the ring, and bellowed
a chant of victory in a fuller voice than he had given before, while
the other brutes, gathered by the fence, looked at him in stupefaction.

Only once more did Billy Buck figure in history before he left us for a
larger field in town, and on this occasion, for the first and last time
in his career, he got the worst of it.

A lone Injun came to the ranch--a very tall, grave man, clad in
comic-picture clothes.  A battered high hat surmounted his block of
midnight hair, and a cutaway coat, built for a man much smaller around
the chest, held his torso in bondage.  As it was warm on the day he
arrived, he had discarded his trousers--a breech-clout was plenty
leg-gear, he thought.  He bore a letter of recommendation from a white
friend.

"Plenty good letter--_leela ouashtay ota_," said he, as he handed the
missive over.  I read it aloud for the benefit of the assembled ranch.
It ran:

"This is Jimmy-hit-the-bottle, the worst specimen of a bad tribe.  He
will steal anything he can lift.  If he knew there was such a thing as
a cemetery, he'd walk fifty miles to rob it.  Any citizen wishing to do
his country a service will kindly hit him on the head with an axe.

"JACK FORSYTHE."


"Plenty good letter--_ota_!" cried the Injun, his face beaming with
pride.

[Illustration: "Jimmy-hit-the-bottle"]

I coughed, and said it was indeed vigorous; Steve and the boys fled the
scene.  Now, we knew that Jimmy was a good Injun, or he wouldn't have
had any letter at all; that great, grave face, coupling the seriousness
of childhood and of philosophy, simply offered an irresistible
temptation to the writer of the letter.  There was something pathetic
in the way the gigantic savage folded up his treasure and replaced it
in his coat.  I think Forsythe would have weakened had he seen it.
Still, after we laughed, we felt all the better disposed toward Jimmy,
so I don't know but it was a good form of introduction after all.
Jimmy was looking for work, a subject of research not general to the
Injun, but by no means so rare as his detractors would make out.  He
got it.  The job was to clean out Billy Buck's corral.  Steve found
employment for the hands close to home for the day, that no one should
miss the result.  It is always business first on the ranch, and a
practical joke takes precedence over other labours.  Steve hung around
the corral, where he could peek through the chinks.  Hoarse whispers
inquiring "Anything up yet?" were for so long answered in the negative,
that it seemed the day had been in vain.  At last the welcome shout
rang out, "Injun and deer fight!  Everybody run!"  We flew, breathless
with anticipatory chuckles.  We landed on top of the shed, to witness
an inspiring scene--one long-legged, six-foot-and-a-half Injun,
suitably attired in a plug hat, cutaway coat, breech-clout, and
mocassins, grappling in mortal combat a large and very angry deer.  The
arena and the surrounding prairie were dreaming in a flood of mellow
autumn light.  It was a day on which the sun scarce cast a shadow, yet
everything sent back his rays clearly, softened and sweetened, like the
answer of an echo.  It was a day for great deeds, such as were enacted
before us; steel-strung frame pitted against steel-strung frame;
bottomless endurance against its equal.  And never were such jumpings,
such prancings, such wild wavings of legs beheld by human eyes before.
You cannot beat it into people's heads that the horned critters are the
lords of brute creation; yet it is the fact.  A bull chased a lion all
around the ring in the arena in Mexico, finally killing him with one
blow.  In Italy they shut a buck deer and a tiger in a cage.  There was
a brief skirmish, and the tiger slunk to the corner of the cage,
howling.

Splendid was the exhibition of strength and agility we looked upon,
but, alas! its poetry was ripped up the back by the cutaway coat, the
plug hat, and the unrelated effect of those long, bare red legs
twinkling beneath.

Indirectly it was the plug hat that ended the battle.  At first, if
Jimmy-hit-the-bottle felt any emotion, whether joy, resentment, terror,
or anything man can feel, his face did not show it.  One of the
strangest features of the show was that immaculately calm face suddenly
appearing through the dust-clouds, unconscious of storm and stress.  At
last, however, a yank of the deer's head--Jimmy had him by the
horns--caused the plug hat to snap off, and the next second the deer's
sharp foot went through it.  You will remember Achilles did not get
excited until his helmet touched the dust.  Well, from what the cold,
pale light of fact shows of the size and prowess of those ancient
swaggerers, Jimmy-hit-the-bottle could have picked Achilles up by his
vulnerable heel and bumped his brains out against a tree, and this
without strain; so when the pride of his life, his precious plug hat,
was thus maltreated, his rage was vast in proportion.  His eyes shot
streaks of black lightning; he twisted the deer's head sideways, and
with a leap landed on his back.  Once there, he seized an ear between
his strong teeth and shut down.  We rose to our feet and yelled.  It
was wonderful, but chaotic.  I would defy a moving-picture camera to
resolve that tornado into its elements of deer and Injun.  We were
conscious of curious illusions, such as a deer with a dozen heads
growing out of all parts of a body as spherical as this, our earth, and
an Injun with legs that vetoed all laws of gravitation and anatomy.

Poor Billy Buck!  He outdid the wildest of our pitching horses for a
half minute; but the two hundred and odd pounds he had on his back
told--he couldn't hold the gait.  Jimmy wrapped those long legs around
him--the deer's tail in one hand, the horn in the other, and the ear
between his teeth--and waited in grim determination.  "Me-ah-a-aaaa!"
said the deer, dropping to his knees.

Jimmy got off him.  Billy picked himself up and scampered to the other
end of the corral, shaking his head.

The Injun straightened himself up, making an effort to draw a veil of
modesty over the pride that shone in his eyes.

"H-nh!" he said.  "Fool deer tackle Tatonka Sutah!" ("Tatonka-Sutah,"
or Strong Bull, was the more poetic title of Jimmy-hit-the-bottle among
his own kind.)

He then gravely punched his plug hat into some kind of shape and
resumed his work.

We pitched in and bought Jimmy a shiny new plug hat which--which will
lead me far afield if I don't drop the subject.

Well, he was master of Mr. Billy Buck.  When he entered the corral, the
deer stepped rapidly up to the farther corner and stayed there.

Now came the broadening of Billy's career.  A certain man in our
nearest town kept a hotel near the railroad depot.  For the benefit of
the passengers who had to stop there a half-hour for meals and
recreation, this man had a sort of menagerie of the animals natural to
the country.  There was a bear, a mountain lion, several coyotes,
swifts, antelope, deer, and a big timber wolf, all in a wire
net-enclosed park.

It so happened that Steve met Mr. D----, the hotel proprietor, on one
of his trips to town, and told him what a splendid deer he had out at
the ranch.  Mr. D---- became instantly possessed of a desire to own the
marvel, and a bargain was concluded on the spot.  Billy by this time
had shed his horns, and was all that could be wished for in the way of
amiability.  We tied his legs together, and shipped him to town in a
waggon.

Steve did not trick Mr. D----.  He told him plainly that the deer was a
dangerous customer, and that to be careful was to retain a whole skin;
but the hotel proprietor, a little, fat, pompous man with a big bass
voice--the kind of a man who could have made the world in three days
and rested from the fourth to the seventh, inclusive, had it been
necessary--thought he knew something of the deer character.  "That
beautiful creature, with its mild eyes and humble mien, hurt anyone?
Nonsense!"  So he had a fine collar made for Billy, with his name on a
silver plate, and then led him around town at the end of a chain, being
a vain little man, who liked to attract attention by any available
means.  All worked well until the next fall.  Mr. D---- was lulled into
false security by the docility of his pet, and allowed him the freedom
of the city, regardless of protest.  Then came the spectacular end of
Billy's easy life.  It occurred on another warm autumn day.  The
passengers of the noon train from the East were assembled in the hotel
dining-room, putting away supplies as fast as possible, the train being
late.  The room was crowded; the darkey waiters rushing; Mr. D----
swelling with importance.  Billy entered the room unnoticed in the
general hurry.  A negro waiter passed him, holding two loaded trays.
Perhaps he brushed against Billy; perhaps Billy didn't even need a
provocation; at any rate, as the waiter started down the room, Billy
smote him from behind, and dinner was served!

When the two tray-loads of hot coffee, potatoes, soup, chicken, and the
rest of the bill of fare landed all over the nearest table of guests,
there was a commotion.  Men leaped to their feet with words that showed
they were no gentlemen, making frantic efforts to wipe away the
scalding liquids trickling over them.  The ladies shrieked and were
tearful over the ruin of their pretty gowns.  Mr. D----, on the spot
instantly, quieted his guests as best he could on the one hand, and
berated the waiter for a clumsy, club-footed baboon on the other.
Explanation was difficult, if not impossible.  Arms flew, hard words
flew; the male guests were not backward in adding their say.  Then,
even as I had been before, the coloured man was vindicated.  Suddenly
two women and a man sprang on top of the table and yelled for help.
Mr. D---- looked upon them open-mouthed.  The three on top of the table
clutched one another, and howled in unison.  Mr. D----'s eye fell on
Billy, crest up, war-like in demeanour, and also on a well-dressed man
backing rapidly under the table.

A flash of understanding illumined Mr. D----.  The deer, evidently,
felt a little playful; but it would never do, under the circumstances.
"Come here, sir!" he commanded.  Billy only lived to obey such a
command, as I have shown.  But this time Mr. D---- recognised a
difference, and went about like a crack yacht.  He had intentions of
reaching the door.  Billy cut off retreat.  Mr. D---- thought of the
well-dressed man, and dived under the table.  Those who had stood
uncertain, seeing this line of action taken by one who knew the customs
of the country, promptly imitated him.  The passengers of the Eastern
express were ensconced under the tables, with the exception of a
handful who had preferred getting on top of them.

Outside, three cow punchers, who chanced to be riding by, were
perfectly astonished by the noises that came from that hotel.  They
dismounted and investigated.  When they saw the feet projecting from
beneath the cloths, and the groups in statuesque poses above, they
concluded not to interfere, although strongly urged by the victims.
"You are cowards!" cried the man with the two women.  The punchers
joyfully acquiesced, and said, "Sick 'em, boy!" to the deer.

Meanwhile, the express and the United States mail were waiting.  The
conductor, watch in hand, strode up and down the platform.

"What do you suppose they're doing over there?" he asked his brakeman.

The brakeman shrugged his shoulders.  "Ask them punchers," he replied.

The conductor lifted his voice.  "What's the matter?" he called.

"Oh, come and see!  Come and see!" said the punchers.  "It's too good
to tell.'"

The conductor shut his watch with a snap.

"Five minutes late," he said.  "Pete, go and hustle them people over
here.  I start in three minutes by the watch."

"Sure," said Pete, and slouched across.  Pete was surprised at the
sight that met his gaze, but orders were orders.  He walked up and
kicked Billy, at the same time shouting "All aboard for the West!  Git
a wiggle on yer!"

The man owed his life to the fact that the deer could get no foothold
on the slippery hardwood floor.  As it was, Billy tried to push, and
his feet shot out; man and deer came to the floor together, the
brakeman holding hard.  The passengers boiled out of the hotel like a
mountain torrent.  The punchers, thinking the brakeman in danger,
sprang through the window and tied the deer.  Pete gasped his thanks
and hustled out.  No one was left but Billy, the punchers, the darkey
waiters, and Mr. D----.

[Illustration: The punchers to the rescue]

"This your deer?" inquired the punchers of the latter.

"It is," said Mr. D----.  "Take him out and hang him--don't shoot
him--hang him!"

"All right," replied the punchers.  They took Billy out and turned him
loose in the deer-pen.

"Reckon the old man'll feel better about it to-morrow," they said.

And it came to pass that the old man did feel better; so Billy was
spared.  Perhaps if you have travelled to the West you have seen him--a
noble representative of his kind.  Well, this is his private history
which his looks belie.




The Demon in the Canon


  "_I know not where the truth may be;
  I tell the tale as 'twas told to me._"
      (Probable misquotation of old couplet.)


There was once an earnest missionary who went to the trouble of
learning the Sioux language, in order to be of more use in his chosen
field.  He spoke it with a strong Boston accent.  One day he laboured
with a big Uncapapa brave long and eagerly.  The Injun listened to all
he had to say.  When at great length silence fell, the Redman spoke.

"Have you any tobacco?" said he.

"Why, no!" returned the missionary.

"Hungh!  So long!" said the Injun, and rode away on a trot.

Now, there may be those who will object that the plain, unvarnished
tale of my friend "Hy" Smith, which follows, is lacking in the robust
qualities that truth alone can bring; to them I recommend the attitude
of the Injun.  But I must add this: Heaven forbid that I should have to
stand good for any of Hy's stories!  Still, some of what I considered
his most outrageous lies afterward received strong and unexpected
confirmation.  For instance, the manner in which he earned his
sobriquet of "Hydraulic" Smith I thought was pure fable, but no less a
man than his former employer said that it was fact in every essential.
Smith got his front name while working in a big hydraulic camp in
Idaho.  He was nozzleman.  One day in an unusually merry mood he turned
the monitor loose on a crowd of Chinamen who were working over tailings.

[Illustration: "Hy" Smith]

"And if ever you saw felt shoes and pigtails flying in the air 'twas
then," said Hy.  "It looked for all the world like Old Faithful had
spouted in a poll-parrot cage.  I don't know why I done it, no more
than the man in the moon--it was one of them idees that takes hold of
you, and gets put through before you can more'n realise you're thinking
of it--but it was the greatest success of its kind I ever see.  We had
a two-hundred-foot head of water and a six-inch stream, and I might say
that there was a yaller haze of Chinamen in the atmosphere for the next
ten seconds.  I piped one Charley-boy right over the top of a
tool-shed.  Well, our boss was a mighty kind-hearted man, and when that
crowd of spitting, foaming, gargling, gobbling Chinamen went to him,
and begun to pour out their troubles like several packs of
fire-crackers going off to oncet, waving all the arms and legs I hadn't
knocked out of commission, he was het up considerable.  He never waited
to hear my side of the story, but just rolled up his pants and waded
into me up to the hocks; he read me my pedigree from Adam's wife's
sister down to now, and there wasn't a respectable person in it,
according to him.

"I didn't like it, and I made a swipe for him with a shovel, but he was
too soople for me, and of all the lickings I ever got, that is the one
I don't want to remember the most: he did a sort of double-shuffle
fandango on my back, while he brought my legs into the argument with a
sluice rake.

"When he asked me if I had had enough, I told him I thought it would do
for the present, because, as a matter of fact, if all I had more than
enough was money in the bank, I wouldn't have done no more work for the
rest of my days.

"So then he calls me up and gives me my time, and I must say he treated
me square when he said good-bye.

"'You're the best darn man on a monitor lever that I ever did see,'
says he, 'but anywheres else you're the foolest combine of small boy
and dare-devil, and some other queer thing that I don't seem to be able
to find a name for, that ever cumbered this earth.  Now, get the ----
out of this, and good luck to you.'

"I didn't feel a bit sorry for them Chinamen--they're only hairless
monkeys that don't even know enough to wear their tails in the right
place.  Their arithmetic proves that.  It's regular monkey figgering.
They haven't any numbers that look like numbers at all.  Suppose you
want to multipy twenty-five by thirty-six, Chinee system?  First you
put down a rooster's foot-track; that's twenty-five.  Underneath that
goes the ground-plan of a small house; that's thirty-six.  Then you
take an hour off, and work out the sum with a lot of little balls on
wires; then you put down the answer, and what do you think it is?  Why,
it's a map of Chicago after the fire!  Shucks!  And they call
themselves men.  I'd go old Job three boils to his one rather than have
any Chinks around me.

"Well, the boys labelled me Hydraulic Smith from that on, and I went
prospecting.  Took up with a feller named Agamemnon G. Jones.  Aggy was
a big, fine-looking man, with a chest like a dry-goods box, and a set
of whiskers that would start him in business anywhere.  They were the
upstandingest, noblest, straightforwardest outfit of whiskers I most
ever saw, and how they come to grow on Ag is a mystery; but they stood
him in many a dollar, now, I tell you that!

"He was a man of pretty considerable education, in some ways, and he
could make you believe that to-day was last Thursday a week ago, if you
weren't on to him.  At this time he was kind of under a cloud like
myself, and the way it come about was this:

"He started an assay office when he first struck the gulch, and he used
to bring in results according to the looks of the customer.  If the man
looked tender around the feet, Aggy'd knock it to him, and probably the
shave-tail would be so pleased that he would fork out an extra ten; but
if he was plainly vented as one of the boys, there would be just enough
pay in the return to encourage him.  Now, Jones did everything
shipshape and in style.  Here's the paper that made him trouble."

Hy fished a slip out of the bundle in his old pocket-book and handed it
to me.


  AGAMEMNON G. JONES, _Assayer_,
  Qualitative and Quantitative Analysis.

  _Sample left by Mr. Idaho Kid_            _No. 36,943_.

                                           Value per ton.
  Gold  ...................................... $362.13
  Silver  ....................................  186.90
  Platinum  ..................................   14.77
  Lead  ......................................    2.06
  Iridium  ...................................     .02
  Osmium  ....................................     .00003+
  Copper  ....................................   18.54

  10:36 A.M.  3/16/81

  Signed, AGAMEMNON G. JONES, _Assayer_.


"Now, that was the worst that Aggy had ever sprung on anybody, because
this Idaho Kid looked as if he hadn't been three weeks away from his
mother; instead of which he was a hootin', tootin' son-of-a-gun in
reality, and you might say he'd cut his teeth on a miner's candlestick.

"When the Kid saw that miraculous result, his eyes bunged out; then he
took a long breath and wrecked the place.  Aggy left at one that
morning for fear that worse might follow.  He fetched this paper with
him to remind him that 'genius has its limitations,' he said.  But he
didn't seem to learn anything by it.  Next he took up engineering.  He
hit a blame good job on Castle Creek.  The people wanted to turn the
creek through a tunnel, so that they could work the bed, and at this
point it was rather an easy business.  The stream made a 'U' about
three-quarters of a mile long, the bottom prong being at least a
hundred and fifty feet below the water-level on the top one--a smashing
good fall--so Aggy started in on the down side to bore the hole up.
Well, everything went lovely.  He'd come around with his plans and
specifications twice a day, and draw his hundred once a week regular
for his great labours.  At last, however, the shift-boss said they must
be getting pretty near water; he could hear it roar through the face of
the tunnel, he said.  But Aggy told him not to be alarmed; he had it
all worked out, and they weren't within forty foot of breaking through."

[Illustration: He'd come around with his plans and specifications twice
a day]

"So at it they went again, as cheerful as could be, and the next news
they got, down comes the face, and they were being piped through four
hundred foot of black-dark tunnel, trying to guess what was up, bumping
and banging against the walls, and the whole of Castle Creek on top of
them.  My, Chinamen weren't a circumstance.  Aggy said they boiled out
of the lower end of the tunnel where he was standing so fast he
couldn't recognise them, and, as a matter of fact, three or four of 'em
were washed a mile down creek before they could make land.  Aggy
gathered that it was time to move again, so he pulled back for Idaho.
There wasn't anybody really drowned, except old Tom Olley, a
cousin-Jack whose only amusement in life was to wear out his pants
laying low for cinches in the stud-poker game, and you couldn't rightly
say he was any loss to the community.  So Aggy used to regret sometimes
that he hadn't stayed to face the music.  They might have played horse
with him for a while, but 'twould soon have blown over--miners not
being revengeful by nature--and he was to have had an eighth interest,
besides his salary, if the thing was a success.

"But there was no good of crying over spilt milk, and us two went
prospecting.

"We located for a permanent stand down on Frenchman's Creek, near where
three of Cap' Ally's greaser sheep herders had their camp.  They did
our hunting for us, and as there was nobody but them around, and they
were the peacefullest people in the world, we didn't feel the need of
any gun except Ag's old six-shooter.  That was the cussedest machine
that ever got invented by man.  When you pulled her off she'd spit fire
in all directions, filling the crotch of your hand with powder burns,
and sometimes two or three of the loads would go off at once, when
she'd kick like a Texas steer.  There was much talk of bear around, and
we were always going to buy a real gun, some day, but we never got at
it.

"Well, we prospered pretty well, considering how little we worked.  A
large part of the time was taken up with playing monte with the
herders, and still more in arguing questions about religion and things
like that; but we had a decent cabin built--with the kind assistance of
the herders--and as we struck a rich little streak that run out ten
dollars per man a day with no trouble at all, we were in clover.

"At last our stock of grub ran low, and Jones slid up to Salmon City to
load up again.  It was quite a trip, and as I didn't think it was
square to work while Aggy was away, I took up with the herders.  They
were the decentest folks I ever struck.  Play a little music on the
guitar, sing songs that always wound up just where a white man's songs
would begin, and tell stories and smoke cigarettes--that was the layout
for them.  Old Cap' Allys was a Christian, and he wouldn't let a man
herd sheep all by himself--surest way to get crazy that ever was
invented--so he sent the boys out three in a bunch.

"Those fellers had the darndest lot of fairy tales I ever did hear.
And superstitious!  Great Jupiter!  Any little blame thing that
happened meant something: this thing was good luck; that meant bad, and
if you tried to josh them out of it, they'd shake their heads and look
at you as if they thought you weren't truly religious.  One of their
yarns was about El Diablo de Fuego, 'The Devil of Fire,' which Miguel
said ran in his family.  Seems that when anything wrong was about to
happen, this blazing, ripping monster showed up as a warning.  I told
Mee that I thought the monster was misfortune enough, without anything
else, but he was scandalised.

"'Psst!' says he.  'Do not spik sooch t'eeng as dthat!  Ay, di mi!
Je-Maria-mi Cristo!  Jesu, muy dolce y poquito!  Dhat mek heem
arrrrrrive dthat eenstant, eef djoo spik weez dees-rrreespeck!'

"'All right, Mee,' says I.  'We'll let her go at that--todo el mismo
por mi, sabe?  But how's the bear crop?'

"'Ay, cara!  Is plenty goddam ba-are!' says Pepe.  'Keel three--four
ship las' nigh'!  That mek that two mus' seet oop for watch, an' alll
ship mus' be in close-corrrrallll!  I speet on the soul of that ba-are!'

"Gad! that wasn't cheerful news a little bit.  If there's anything in
this world I more than don't like, it's a bear--he's so darn big and
strong and unreasonable, and unless you catch him sitting, you can pump
lead into him until you're black in the face, and it's all one to him.
Well, I thought I might as well camp with the herders until Aggy came
back.

"When he did show up he was rather under the influence of strong drink,
and from the looks of the waggon he'd brought with him, I should say
he'd bought about everything that was movable in Salmon City.  I ain't
easily astonished, but I must admit that some of the truck got the best
of me.  I kept asking, 'What in ---- is this, Ag?' and he always
answered, 'Ask the driver.'  Well, now, if there was any choice between
the two, the driver was drunker than Aggy, so you can imagine what a
lot of satisfaction I got.  There was one thing that I simply couldn't
make head nor tail of, and I stayed with him until I got an answer on
that.

"'Why, it's an alcohol cooking-stove,' said he, 'great medicine--no
trouble to cook now at all.  Just light her,' says he, waving his hand,
'and whoop! away she goes!  Where's that can of alcohol?  Here she is!
Have a drink, Hy?'

"I took a small swig of it in a little water to please him, but there
weren't stimmilants enough in the country to raise my spirits that
night.  I put all the plunder that I could lift up in the cock-loft,
and the rest I left sitting around.

"I don't exactly know where you fellers are going to sleep,' says I,
trying to be sourcastic.  'Pity you didn't order a folding-bed, Ag.'

"'I did,' says he.

"'A folding-bed?' I repeats, not believing my ears.

"'And a piano,' says he.  'What is home without a piano?  Answer: It's
a place that can't hold the forte--dam good joke--keno--go up to the
head, Jones.'

"'Well,' says I, after some other things, 'who's going to pay for all
this?'

"'God knows!' says he, waving his hand again.  'Good-night!' and with
that he fell down between a new bureau and a patent portable
blacksmith's forge, and putting his head on a concertina, went sound
asleep.

"I couldn't follow suit for some time; it's one thing to come home full
of budge and animal spirits yourself, and it's quite different to have
your pardner work it on you.  At last, however, I concluded it would be
all the same the next century, and turned in, but I was so rattled that
I forgot the bears, and didn't lock up with the usual care.

"It must have been about two in the morning when I woke all in a
tremble.  I had the feeling that things were away off, but I couldn't
place what was the matter, until I looked at the square of moonlight on
the floor that came through the window, and I was near to screech like
a tomcat, for there was a monstrous black shadow bobbing back and forth
in the patch of light.  I drew on my bank for all the sand I had and
raised my eyes.  My heart fairly knocked my ribs loose.  Nicely framed
in the window was the head of a grizzly, and I'll take my oath it
wasn't over a size smaller than a beer-barrel!

"'Now,' thinks I, 'if I can only get that gun before he sees me, and if
the cussed thing will only do the right thing by me this once!'

"So out I steps, and the first rattle out of the box I stumbled on a
few dozen of the purchases Ag had brought home, and down them and me
came like an earthquake.  It scart the bear so he drew back; no use
trying to work a sneak now.  I jumped for the holster, unlimbered, and
turned the gun loose for general results.  I guess every load went off,
from the noise, and she flew out of my hand and vanished behind me.
The place was full of smoke and the plunder that was scattered around;
you could neither see nor walk, and that bear was swatting the door in
a fashion that showed he was going to give us a call any old how, and I
was plumb distracted--for the life of me I didn't know what to do.

"'Don't make such a damn noise!' growls Aggy.

"'You'd better get out of that!' I yells.  'You'll get noise enough in
a minute!'  But he didn't pay the least attention.

"Just before the door went down I broke for the cock-loft; it was the
only spot that seemed to hold the teeniest bit of safety.  I clim up
the wall like a hopper-grass, but I had no more than made it when my
friend was in the house.  'Twas me he wanted to see, too, apparently;
for he never noted anything else, but headed straight for the loft.  I
had kind of hoped the other two would amuse him for a while, but it
wasn't to be.  With the door down, the moonlight streamed in so it was
'most as light as day.

"'Keep your big feet off me!' says Ag, very indignant, as the bear
walked on him.  It's a great thing not to know who you're talking to
sometimes.

"Well, brother bear upends himself, and reaches for the loft.  He could
just nicely hook his front toe-nails on the board, and when I saw that,
I would have sold myself out hide and hair and good-will of the
business extremely reasonable.  'Here's where my esteemed friend
Hydraulic Smith gets piped out,' I thought, and I tried to meet my
finish like a man, but there was something about winding up as filler
for a dirty, smelly bear wrapper that took all the poetry out of the
situation.

"I saw that Aggy had got on to the state of affairs at last; he was
crawling backward very cautious, and he had a look of pained surprise
on his face that beat anything I'd ever seen on the phiz of man or
beast before.  For all I was so scart that I was sweating icicles, I
couldn't help but snicker.  Howsomever, at that moment brother bear
threw his weight on the board, and she snapped like a toothpick, and my
merry smile took a walk.  I was in a desperate fix!  He had only to
keep on pulling down boards to the last one, and then, of course, I'd
come down with it.  Something had to be done.  I grabbed a sack of
flour and heaved it at him; the sack caught on a splinter and ripped,
so beyond covering him with powder it had no particular result.  He
_did_ stop and taste the flour; he had lots of time!  There wasn't any
good in that.  But as I reached around for another weapon my hand
struck the can of alcohol, and right then I had a genuine three-X
inspiration.  I pulled the plug from the can and poured the spirits
down.  The bear howled murder as the stuff ran into his eyes, and
plunking himself on his hunkies, he began to paw and scrape it out.
There was my chance!  I fumbled through all my pockets as fast as my
hand could travel--no matches!  Then cussing and praying like a
steam-engine, I tried it again; found a handful in the first pocket;
dropped most of 'em, being so nervous, but scratched what was left and
chucked 'em on Mr. Bear.

"Great Moses in the bulrushes!  Events began on that instant.  I've
seen a cyclone, and an earthquake, and a cloudburst, and an Injun
outbreak, and a Democratic convention, but roll 'em into one and that
bear would give 'em cards, spades, big and little casino, a stuffed
deck, and the tally-board too, and then beat 'em without looking at his
hand.

"I simply can't begin to tell you all the different kinds of pure,
unadulterated hell he raised with the stock of curiosities Aggy had
bought in town.  And the looks of him!  White with flour half-way,
spouting flames and smoke, and apparently three times as big as he was
when he started!  He was something before the people now, I tell you!
And the burning hair smelt scandalous, and the way he ripped and roared
made the ground tremble.

"When he finally broke through the door, I was so interested that I
forgot to be afraid, and hopped down to watch him go, and then I saw
the last act of the tragedy.

"Miguel heard the shot, and knowing we were in trouble, he started up
the trail on his old buckskin, fairly burning the earth.

"He rounded a little clump of trees, and came plump on my bear,
roaring, foaming, blazing, smoking, ripping, and flying!  Well, sir,
you can believe me or not, but I want to tell you that that cayuse of
Mee's jumped right out from under him, and was half-way up Wilkin's
Hill before the Mexican touched the ground.  He was headed due west,
and he must have reached the coast the next day, the gait he was
travelling.  Anyhow, he vanished from the sight of man forever, as far
as we know.

"Mee sat froze just as he had landed, scart so there wasn't no more
expression on his face, and the bear hopped right over the top of his
head.  Then I reckon Mee thought his family friend had come for him,
for he jumped ten foot in the air, and when he touched ground he was in
full motion.  It's only fair to say that Miguel could run when he put
his mind to it.  'El Infierno esta suelto!' he yells.  'Santiago!
Santiago!  Ten quidado conmigo!  Madre mia!  Salvame!  Salvame pronto!'
Lord, I can see him now, scuttling over the fair face of the Territory
of Idaho in the bright moonlight like a little bird--chest out; hands
up; head back; black hair snapping in the breeze; long legs waving like
the spokes of a flywheel, and yelling for Santiago to keep an eye on
him, and for his mother to save him quick, as long as he was in sight.
And when he passed, he passed out.  He took a different direction from
his horse, so it ain't likely they met, but neither one of 'em was seen
no more around our part of the country."

[Illustration: Miguel could run when he put his mind to it.]

"Still, by and by there floated back to us a story of how a greaser had
been chased by a horrible white devil that stood twenty foot high, with
teeth a foot long, horns, hoofs, claws, and a spiked tail; which
travelled at a rate of speed that made a streak of lightning seem like
a way-freight, scattering red fire and brimstone as it ran; which
chased said greaser forty mile over hill and dale and gulch and
mountain top and Bad-Land district, after polishing off his horse in
one bite, and finally sank into the ground with a report like a ton of
giant powder.

"And I've often wondered what really become of that bear."




The Little Bear who Grew

I was standing at the door of the office one afternoon in August.  The
office was on Main Street,--a thoroughfare fronting railroad tracks and
a long strip of fenced grass, dotted with newly planted trees, called
the "park,"--in a North Dakota town.  It was hot.  I mean, hot.  Down
that long thin street the shadows of false-fronted stores lay like blue
slag on molten iron.  Nothing moved: this particular metropolis-to-be
of the Northwest was given over to heat and silence.  Yet it wasn't
muggy, sea-coast heat that turns bone and muscle into jelly--it was a
passion of sun-power, light and heat together.

Just to be on a horse out in it over the prairie swells was to taste
the flavour of adventure.  But no such thing for me.  I had to take
care of the office.  A thermometer inside that office marked one
hundred and fourteen degrees.  Had it been inside of me it would have
marked three hundred and fourteen degrees.

I shall not tell the series of injustices that obliged me to stay in
that hencoop, while the rest of the force went gleefully up the line to
attend a ball game.  I didn't count for much, while the decision in
regard to the one who stayed rested in the hands of Fate.  It was the
manager's own pack of cards I cut.  I can recall the look of
sophisticated astonishment those rascals wore at my persistent bad
luck.  I found out afterwards that every mother's son of them had
bought his ticket the day before.  They had faith in that pack of
cards.  Most of the town had gone with them; this accounted for the
deserted village effect.  Several days before this I sat up all night
reading H. Rider Haggard's "She."  The desire to figure in remarkable
events had not yet worn off, but a more unlikely theatre of adventure
than that Main Street could not be conceived.  I looked up and down the
length of it.  Hark!  What sound is that?  'T is the rattle of wheels,
and the "plunkety-plunk" of a farm-horse's trot.  Around the corner
comes an ancient Studebaker waggon drawn by an old horse, and in it two
small boys are seated on a bushel basket--hardly a crisis.  I fell to
envying the small boys, for all that.  They could go and come as they
pleased; they were their own masters, free to do as they liked in the
world.

As if to show that this was, indeed, the fact, in the broadest meaning
of the words, the two urchins suddenly leaped high in the air, uttering
shrieks; they landed on the ground and scuttled across the park as fast
as legs could carry them.  Absolutely no reason for this performance
appeared to the eye.  The horse stopped, turning his mild gaze after
them, then swung his head until he saw me, at whom he gazed with that
expression of complete bewilderment always so comical in an equine
face.  "Account for that, if you can," he said, as plainly as the
printed words could do it.  Finding no solution in me, he shook his
head and blew his nose.  He was a kind old horse, always willing to
oblige, but to plan an independent campaign was beyond him, so he stood
just where he was, probably saying, "Great is Allah!" to himself in the
Houyhnhnm tongue, waiting for what was going to happen to get about it.
The plot increased in thickness, for the bushel basket began a
mysterious journey toward the back of the waggon, impelled by an unseen
power.  It was a curious thing to see in broad daylight.  I felt quite
a prickle down my spine as I watched it.  Arriving at the end, over it
went, disclosing the secret.  From out of that basket came a small
bear.  I swallowed an ejaculation and looked at him.  He, entirely
unabashed, returned my gaze--a funny little ruffian!  On the end of his
spinal column he teetered, all four feet in the air, the cock of his
head irresistibly suggesting the tilt of a gamin's cap.  His tongue
hung waggishly out of his mouth, and a sort of loose, dissipated,
tough, cynical humour pervaded his person, from the squint of his
little eyes to the absurd post of his hind legs.  There was less of the
immature bear about him than of the miniature bear.  I suppose a young
wild animal is like a street Arab, in that he receives his worldly
knowledge with his milk.

He had on a collar and chain, whereby I recognised he was someone's
property.  To clear this part of history, the two small boys had been
hired to take him to Mr. D----'s menagerie, when, after a struggle, he
had been ensconced beneath the bushel basket.  They were not the happy
youths I had taken them for, these boys,--how often we envy the lot of
others unwisely!--for they were obliged to sit on the basket in order
to retain their captive, dreading all the time what a moment's
carelessness brought to pass, an attack from beneath.  When one
incautious foot ventured too near the basket, Mr. Bear promptly clawed
and chewed it; hence the shrieks, and the flight.

Well, not wishing this piece of live stock to escape, I walked toward
him, affecting the unconcern necessary in approaching an animal.  He
did not retreat; he swayed on his spine and regarded me jeeringly.  I
grabbed the chain and pulled.  Instantly, he nailed me by the leg.  He
had nothing but milk teeth, or I should have been much the worse for
the encounter.  As it was, he pinched like a vise with his strong
little jaws, and I had all I wanted to pry him loose.  I tried to hold
him at arm's length, but he turned inside of his baggy overcoat and bit
and clawed until I gave that up.  I then whirled him at the end of the
chain.  He flew through the air with spread legs until the chain
snapped, when he landed many yards away.  He was up and off as soon as
he stopped rolling, and I after him.  The boy who was running the
clothing store several vacant lots from the office came to his door at
that moment, and, feeling that a bear hunt was more to his taste than
twiddling his thumbs in an empty store, he came along, too, and the
flour office and the clothing store were left in the hands of
Providence--fortunately there were no thieves in old-time Dakota.

In front was young Mr. Bear, boring a hole in the wind, and behind him
two boys, coming strong, but not in his class for speed.  Our quarry
gained one block in three.  We just rounded a barn in time to see him
jump into a wood shed behind a real estate office.

I knew a cat with kittens lived in that wood shed, and strained myself
to reach there before the fun was over.  However, there was ample time.
The code of the animal duel is as formal and long-winded as anything
the mind of man has devised.  Probably everyone has seen two young
cockerels, standing with their bills together, apparently lost in a
Buddhistic reverie, suddenly broken by violence.  They are only an
illustration.  All animals have their ceremonial of battle, when it is
for the fun of fighting, pure and simple, with the dinner question
eliminated.

The weird war song of Mrs. Cat, pealing out from the cracks of the wood
shed, assured us we would be repaid for our trouble, but the tone
indicated that the fell moment had not arrived.  We peered through a
chink.  The cat was in a corner, her family around her.  Her eyes
roamed all over the wood shed, merely taking the bear in _en passant_.
She seemed unconscious of the awful noise which ripped the air.

The bear, for his part, was unaware of the proximity of a yowling cat.
He never so much as glanced in her direction, having found a very
diverting chunk of coal, which he batted about the floor.  A singular
thing was that, when the coal moved it always moved nearer the cat.

The cat prepared for trouble, after the manner of her kind, and the
bear prepared to cause it, after the manner of his kind.  Occasionally,
when a blood-curdling screech from his antagonist rang upon his
eardrums, the cub would stop a moment and gaze pensively through and
beyond the end of the wood shed, as if, indeed, from far off, a certain
sound, made filmy and infinitesimal by distance, had reached him.  Then
he would smile deprecatingly to himself, as if to say, "How easily I am
deceived!"

Excellent as was the feigned indifference of Mr. Bear, it must be borne
in mind that he was opposed to an animal of parts.  Our friend, the
cat, was not a whit taken in by the comedy.  When the time came for her
to leap she was ready, to the last hair of her chimney-cleaner tail.
She had been making most elaborate preparations all the while,
stretching and retracting her claws, squirming her whalebone body
flatter and flatter, her tail assuming majestic proportions, while her
ears disappeared in inverse ratio.

Nearer and nearer came the chunk of coal and the slouching little bear,
a touch of caution in each pretended careless action.  Awful and more
awful grew Grimalkin's battle plaint--her eyes blazed demoniacally.

By some subtle assurance, we humans were made aware that, on the floor
of the wood shed, an imaginary deadline had been drawn by Mrs. Cat,
and, when Ursus Minor advanced so much as the length of a claw beyond
that in his orbit, an incident would mark his career.  You may believe
me or not, but the little bear understood not only this much, but he
also knew where that line lay.  Fully a minute he tantalised us by
coquetting with it.  He would advance recklessly, and we would say to
ourselves, "Now!" when, lo! he would turn at the fatal point, to lie on
his side and amuse himself by clawing at the chunk of coal.

Suddenly he boldly stepped across.  An instant of numbing silence fell.
A swish!  A cat on a small bear's back.  A scene impossible!  A hairy
tornado, rolling, twisting, flopping, yelling, screeching, roaring, and
howling, tore, bit, scratched, clawed, and walloped all over the place.
An epileptic nebula; a maelstrom that revolved in every way known to
man at the same instant; a prodigy of tooth and claw.  If that fight
were magnified a hundred times, a glimpse of it would kill; as it was,
myself and the clothing store boy clung weakly to the wall and wept.

The cat's tough hide easily turned the bear's claws, and his teeth were
too tiny to work mischief; while his thick, shaggy coat made pussy's
keener weapons ineffectual.  As a consequence, the storm raged with
unbridled ferocity, the motion of the foemen being so swift none could
tell who was getting the better of it.  There was energy in that small
action and a bitterness of sound altogether indescribable, the mews of
the astounded kittens quavering shrilly and loudly through the general
frenzy.

At length, in spite of his antagonist's agility, the bear managed to
get his "holt," and puss, wrapped in his strong arms, was practically
whipped; not without protest--she was a "last-ditch" warrior.  The bear
settled back as grim and stolid as General Grant might have done, while
the chivalry of the wood shed applied her hind claws to his waistcoat.
However, the bear could do a little in this line himself.  The effect
was that each tried unsuccessfully to walk up the other.

The "strangle hold" began to tell.  Never shall I forget the
desperation in that cat's face as it appeared between the squeezing
arms of the bear.  Their attitude had such a resemblance to the
"Huguenot Lovers" I have not been able since to look at that celebrated
picture with proper countenance.

At this point, my companion and I came to the rescue.  Finding all
attempts at separating them by hand resulted in the usual wages of the
peacemaker, we grabbed the chain and hauled the war to the pump.  The
pump was only a short distance way, yet it took us several minutes to
make the trip, as every time we turned and gazed at them, their rigid
adherence to their relative positions, no matter what condition as a
whole this mode of locomotion caused them to assume, and the leering,
bourgeois complacency of the victorious bear, contrasting with the
patrician despair of the vanquished, caused such a weakness to come
over us that we had to sit upon the ground for a while.

Water is the universal solvent.  About half a minute under the pump
formed the solution of this problem.  A wet and skinny-looking cat, her
elegance departed, streaked back to the wood shed and her offspring,
while a sober and bedraggled little bear trotted behind his captors to
Mr. D----'s menagerie.

This was my introduction to this bear.  We called him "Cat-thumper,"
after the Indian fashion of christening a child from some marked
exploit or incident in his career.  This became contracted to
"Thumper," an appropriate title, for, with the fat pickings of the
restaurant, his bearship grew with a rapidity that made it a puzzle how
his hide contained him.

Under these genial conditions Thumper developed humour.  It became
possible for one to romp with him, and in the play he was careful not
to use his strength.  So exemplary became his conduct that his owner, a
man who never could learn from experience, or even from Billy Buck,
decided to take him on Main Street.  Mr. D----'s novelties were a
standing menace to the security of the town and his own person as well.
The amount of vanity that fat little man possessed would have supplied
a theatrical company.  One of his first acts, on entering a town, was
to purchase the fiercest white hat, and the most aboriginal buck-skin
suit to be obtained, and then don them.  Almost the next act on the
part of his fellow-townsmen was to hire a large and ferocious looking
"cow-puncher" to recognise in Mr. D---- an ancient enemy, and make a
vicious attack upon him with blank cartridges and much pomp and
circumstance.  Still it had no permanent effect on Mr. D----.  Badinage
could not wither him nor cussing stale his infinite variety.  With all
his exasperating traits, he had an impassable child-like faith in his
doings and a soothing influence that made one smile when one wanted to
cry.

The passage up street was made with no happening worthy of note except,
of course, that other travellers gave him a wide berth (to Mr. D----'s
extreme gratification) until they came to the butcher shop.  Here
Thumper's first move was to steal a fine tenderloin from the block, and
swallow it whole.

"Ye're!" yelled the proprietor, an ex-Indian scout, "whatcher doin'
there?  Take that critter out of here!"

"I'm willing to pay for the meat," replied Mr. D----, with dignity.

"That's all right, too," retorted the proprietor, "but I promised it to
Mr. Smith, and it's the only one I've got.  How are you going to square
that?  What do you mean by toting a brute like that around, anyhow?" he
wound up with increasing choler.

"I cannot see but what I have a perfect right to take with me any
animal or animals I choose!" said Mr. D----.

"Not into this shop, by Jingo!" said the proprietor, reaching under the
counter.  "Now you sneak him out of here, quick, or I'll shoot him."

"Very well," said Mr. D----, bowing, but red, "very well.  Come,
Thumper!"

Thumper was in no mind to move.  He liked the situation.  Mr. D----
pulled on the chain, and Thumper overlooked it.  A small crowd gathered
in front of the door and encouraged Mr. D---- by calling, "Pull hard,
the man says!"  "Now, altogether, yee-hoooo!" and similar remarks.  I
have always felt that a bear enjoys a joke.  In this case I am sure of
it.  Showing no bad temper, he simply refused to budge, and, by this
time, when he had made up his mind, the decision was final, as far as
any one man was concerned.  Mr. D----'s temper went by the board; it
was an embarrassing situation.  "Come out of that!" he cried, with a
sharp jerk at the chain.

The look of irritation vanished from the proprietor's face.  "Why don't
some of you fellers help the gentleman out with his bear?" he asked.
Thereupon the spectators took a hand and Thumper was dragged into the
street.  Evidently he thought this one of the usual frolics to which we
boys had accustomed him; for, once upon the sidewalk, he began to
prance and gambol in the graceful fashion of his kind.  It so happened
that the nurse-girl of the mayor of the town, a huge Swede woman as
broad as she was long (which is almost hyperbole), came trundling her
charge up the board walk at the precise moment that Thumper bowled over
a gentleman in front and came plainly to her view.

One Norwegian war-whoop and away she galloped, the perambulator before
her, as it was not in the mind of the Vikingess to desert her duty.
Screeching, she tore up the walk, the carriage bouncing and rattling,
and the baby crowing with delight.  An Indian stepped out of a store
directly in front of her.  Him Telka rammed with such fury that he
landed on his neck in the road, with his feet in the air.  But, as he
regained his balance, resentment was drowned in unbounded amazement.
"Wakstashoneee!" he said, "wakstashoneeeee!" which is the limit in the
Sioux tongue.  Never had the Dakota warrior expected to see the day
when he would be made to bite the earth by a Swede woman and a baby
carriage.  Around the corner for home whirled Telka, making the turn
like a circus horse.  Arriving at the house, she placed one fairy foot
against the door with such spirit that the lock-socket hit the opposite
wall, picked up carriage and baby and went upstairs with them three
rises to a leap.  At the top she burst into a wild oratory of "tanks"
and "Eenyens" and "beejjeerens" and "yoomps," scaring her mistress into
the belief that the Sioux had attacked the town in force--an event she
had long anticipated.

Thumper was led back to his pole in the park, and fastened with an
ox-chain, this step being taken at the request of an informal committee
of citizens.  "Chained bear or dead bear" was their ultimatum, for,
while they enjoyed Telka's performance, they didn't propose to make it
a custom to obtain their fun from frightened women.  So Thumper's
freedom of the city lasted but a day.  To make amends for this, we boys
used to go in and tussle with him more often than before.  The play was
the bright spot in the life of the captive.  He would begin his double
shuffle of joy whenever a group of boys made their appearance.  At
first, this went well enough.  As I have said, the bear's nature
revealed its better side, under the benign influence of plenty to eat,
and I cannot remember that he once took advantage of his vast and
growing strength.  Mr. D---- encouraged the performances, as the
menagerie's purpose was to attract the attention of travellers who had
a half-hour's wait at the station, and thus to spread the fame of his
railroad eating-house.  But misfortune came, through the applause of
the passengers.  Several young men of the town embraced the opportunity
to show off.  One of these, a brawny young six-foot Irishman named Jim,
used to punch old Thumper pretty roughly, when he had a large audience.
Jim was neither a bad-hearted nor cruel fellow; he simply had a body
too large for his disposition.  In the phrase of the West, he was
"staggering with strength," and in Thumper he found a chance to work
off his superfluous nervous energy--also to occupy the centre of our
local stage for the brief time of train-stop.  If it is love that makes
the world go round, certainly vanity first put it into motion.  "All is
vanity," said the Preacher.  From the devoted astronomer's austere
lifework to the twinkle of a fairy's glittering tinsel; from the
glories of the first man up the battle-swept hill to the infamous
assassin, all is vanity.  Such a universal attribute must necessarily
be good, except in abnormal growth.  Jim showed his overdevelopment of
the faculty, while the abused Thumper modestly sat still and grew.  And
still he grew, and still he grew--with a quiet energy that made the
fact that he had passed from a large bear to a very large bear go by
unnoticed.

Several times, when Jim was showing more skill than Thumper, the memory
of a mauled cat came to my mind.  The ursine look shot at Jim now and
then recalled it.  I even went to the length of remonstrating, but it
was without effect.  It was on a Sunday morning that Nemesis attended
to Jim's case.  Circumstances were propitious.  An excursion train,
crowded with passengers, pulled up at the station.  Jim had a new suit
of black broadcloth, due to a temporary aberration of our local Solomon
who ran the clothing store.  Because of this victory, Jim was in an
extraordinarily expansive mood as he swaggered down the platform.

"I guess I'll try a fall out of the bear," he announced to his
companions, in a tone that informed all of his intention.  Gaily he
swung his long legs over the fence and advanced upon Thumper, who, by a
strange coincidence, was poised on the end of his spine, with his feet
in the air and his tongue lolling humorously out of his mouth, as when
I first made his acquaintance.  The bear noted the approach from the
corner of his eye, stretched out his paws, examined them critically,
seemed satisfied with the inspection, shook himself thoroughly, and
resigned affairs to Fate.

Jim, stimulated by the remarks of the passengers and their eager
interest in his doings, marched up to Thumper, struck a sparring
attitude, and shuffled around, making sundry little passes and jabs
which the bear ignored.

"Punch him!" cried a voice in the crowd.  Jim lunged; the bear ducked,
lazily, but effectually, and the crowd laughed.  Jim drove right and
left at his antagonist; the bear parried, ducked, and got away, until
the crowd shrieked with merriment and the Irishman was furious.  He
lived to punch that bear, and, at length, he succeeded--square on the
end of Thumper's snout.  The bear sneezed, dropped his head, and stared
fixedly at Jim.

"Run!" I yelled--alack! too late.  Up rose Thumper to a paralysing
height, higher still went his trusty paw, and down it came, with a
swinging, sidewise blow on the Irishman's neck.

I will maintain, by oath, affirmation, or combat, that Mr. Jim made six
complete revolutions, like a button on a barn door, before he struck
mother earth with the dullest of thuds.

Ten to one that the town was out one Irishman would have seemed a good
business proposition, and, to clinch the assurance, the bear began to
walk on Jim.  While the bear kneaded him like a batch of dough, some of
us woke and rushed to the scene of action.

I do not remember clearly how we got out of it.  Some pulled at the
bear's chain, and some grabbed Jim by whatever offered a hold.  At
length James was rescued, alive and weeping, though three-quarters of
the new suit, including the most useful portion of the nether garments,
remained in Bruin's paws as the spoils of victory.  The crowd on the
platform was charmed.  This was precisely the thing it had travelled
miles to see.

Poor Jim!  He was a spectacle.  Tears, scratches, and dust robbed his
face of all humanity; the scant remnants of the Sunday suit fluttered
in the breeze; his shaking knees barely supported him.  We gave him a
stimulant, a blanket, and some good advice.  Mr. D----, for once in his
life on the right side of the question, was especially forward in
furnishing the last necessity.  So passed Jim from the field of his
glories, and, barring some scratches, bruises, and a stiff neck (not to
mention the Sunday suit, as that loss really fell upon Solomon), he was
as well as ever inside of a few days.  The only lasting result of the
encounter for him was that, when the small boy of the town thirsted for
excitement, there would arise a cry of "Hey, Jim! bin down ter pet cher
bear?" and then . . .

When the train departed, and the crowd had disappeared, I went down and
looked at Thumper.  He seemed unchanged.  I offered him a cracker; he
stretched out the back of his paw, having learned that people shrank
from the sight of his five-inch claws, in acceptance.  This gobbled, he
eyed me, as he leaned back against his pole, like an absurd fat man.
Humour shone on the outside of him, but I fancied that, deep in his
eyes, I could see a dull red glow, Indian style.  "Now," said I to
myself, "from the pangs of Jim I shall extract a moral lesson.
Whenever I feel like showing off at somebody's expense, let me use
caution not to select a grizzly bear."

What Thumper thought no man can tell.




In the Absence of Rules

We had a pig when we was down on the little Chantay Seeche.  The Doctor
begged him off a rancher, to eat up the scraps around camp.  A neat
person was the Doctor and a durned good cook.

We called him the Doctor because he wore specs--that's as good a claim
as many has to the title.  His idee was that when the pig got fat he
would sell him for lots of money, but long before Foxey Bill (which was
piggy) had reached the market stage money couldn't buy him.  He was a
great pig.  My notion of hogs, previous to my acquaintance with him,
was that they were dirty, stupid critters, without any respectable
feelings.  Perhaps it's because animals get man-like, when you
associate with 'em a great deal, or perhaps Foxey Bill was an unusual
proposition; but, anyhow, he was the funniest, smartest brute I ever
see, and we thought a slew of him.

Clean was no name for his personal appearance.  Every Sunday the Doctor
took a scrub-brush and piggy down to the creek and combined 'em with
the kind assistance of a cake of soap.  Then Foxey just shone white as
ivory, and he'd trot around in front of us, gruntin' to attract our
attention, till everybody'd said, "What a beautiful, clean pig--ain't
he just right?"  Then he'd grunt his thanks to the company and retire
behind the shack for a nap.  We used to fair kill ourselves laughing at
that darned pig.  He had the most wheedlin' squeal, so soft and
pleadin'; and he'd look up at you with them skim-milk eyes of his so
pitiful, when he wanted a chunk of sugar, that you couldn't refuse him.

[Illustration: "Clean was no name for his personal appearance."]

And knowing!  Honest, he knew more'n some men.  One day old Wind River
was tellin' some things (that _might_ have happened to him) in his
usual way, bein' most careful to get the dates and all dead right, you
know--"Now, _was_ his name Peter, after all?  Comes to my mind it was
Willyam--Willyam Perkins--Well--But, anyhow, him and me, we saw that
Injun," and so forth.  This was a Sunday, and the gang of us sittin' in
a circle, fixing leathers and one thing and another and misstatin'
history faster than a horse could trot, with Foxey Bill in the middle,
cocking his head from one speaker to another, takin' it all in.

At last Wind River wound up the most startlin' and unlikely collections
of facts he'd favoured us with for some time.  Up gets Foxey with a
shriek and gallops around the house.  Any man with the rudiments of
intelligence would know he was hollerin': "Well, that's just too much
for me; ta-ra-rum!"

[Illustration: "Up gets Foxy with a shriek and gallops around the
house"]

Wind River looked scart.  "Say!" says he.  "Say!  Thet hawg knows I'm
er-lyin' jes' 's well 's I do!"  After that old Windy used to talk to
the pig as though they'd been raised together.

[Illustration: "Old Windy used to talk to the pig as though they'd been
raised together"]

Foxey Bill made one miscalculation.  He thought he was a small pet,
like a cat.  This didn't jibe with the five hundred pounds of meat he
toted.  And, like a cat, one of his principal amusements was to have
his back scratched.  If you didn't pay attention to him, when he
squealed so pretty for you to please curry him with a board, he'd hump
up his back, like a cat, and rub against your legs.  You instantly
landed on your scalp-lock and waved the aforesaid legs in the air.  Of
course, when the other fellers saw this comin', they didn't feel it
restin' on their conscience to call your attention to it--in fact, we
sometimes busied one another talkin' to give Foxey a fair field.  So
Foxey had things his own way around the diggin's for some time.

[Illustration: "He'd hump up his back . . . and rub against your legs"]

Then comes bow-legged Hastings, our boss, with a ram tied hard and fast
in the bottom of the waggon.  He explains to us that the ram is
valuable, but that he's butted merry Halifax out of everything down to
home, and he don't want to shut him up, so will we please take care of
him?  And we said No--Wanitchee heap--we guessed not--never.

Then Hastings got mad and talked to us, flyin' his hands.  Such a
disobligin', stubborn, sour outfit he never saw, he said.  What was the
use of his bein' boss, when we just laid awake nights thinkin' up
disagreeable things to do to him?  Was there ever a time that he'd
asked us to do this or that, that every man in reach didn't r'ar up and
jump down his throat?  He said he'd rather be a nigger rooster on a
condemned government steamboat than bear the title of boss of such a
rag-chewin' hide-bound set of mules; kick, kick, kick--nothin' but
kick, and life wasn't worth livin'.

So then he went behind the shack and pouted.  Well, we liked Hastings,
and this made us feel bad--that's the way he worked us.

The Doctor, he fried up a dish of all-sorts in his happiest manner and
took it around in a cheerful voice.  No.  Didn't want food.  Heart was
broke.  So then we all went and apologised and agreed to keep the ram.
Then Hastings recovered, and we had that cussed sheep on our hands and
feet and all over us.

[Illustration: "No.  Didn't want food.  Heart was broke."]

Well, it was like the devil enterin' a happy home.  As for Foxey, he
just took one long look at the brute, curlin' and uncurlin' his little
tail; then "Hungh!" says he, and blinked his eyes shut, walkin' away
from there.  I've seen times when I'd liked to been able to use the
English of that grunt, to thoroughly acquaint some gentleman of how
little I thought of him, but I ain't got the gift of speech.  It was an
awful call-down--but the sheep, he didn't care.  If there was such a
thing as a foolish Sheeny, that's what a sheep would remind me of.

[Illustration: "'Hungh!' says he, and blinked his eyes shut"]

But the rest of us run into practical and applied trouble in its
various branches.  There's one night, the Doctor starts for the cabin
with a mess of flap-jacks in his hands, and the sheep comes up and
pushes him in the pistol pocket so that the Doctor goes sailing into
the drink with a stack of brown checks hoverin' all around him.

[Illustration: "The Doctor goes sailing into the drink"]

Then Wind River shows his one tooth and rocks on his heels, hollerin'
and laughin', and the sheep rises up and smites him on the hip and
thigh so he flew after the Doctor like a grey-whiskered sky-rocket,
with a ha-ha! cut in two in the middle.  "Woosh!" says old Windy as he
comes up.  "Hi, there cooky!  I'll beat you ashore!"  He was a
handy-witted old Orahanna, that Windy, and you didn't put the kybosh on
him easy.  So it went with all of us.  That ram come out of
no-where-at-all another night and patted me on the stummick so I pretty
near fainted.  I tried to twist his cussed head off his shoulders, but
he'd knocked the wind out of me so it was like fightin' an army in a
nightmare.  I was glad when the boys come out and pried me loose.  Oh,
oh!  How we hated that woolly, blaatin' fool of a sheep!

[Illustration: "A ha ha! cut in two in the middle"]

"Well," says Windy, "I'm layin' fur th' day he snaggles himself up with
Foxey Bill.  You're goin' to see a nice quiet sheep after that happens."

[Illustration: "That woolly, blaatin' fool of a sheep"]

The rest of us had lots of faith in Billy, but we couldn't see where he
stood a show to win.

"Shucks!" says Steve.  "The sheep'll knock the bacon out of him.  The
Lord knows I don't want to see it, but that's what's got to happen.
Poor Bill ain't onto his style of fightin' at all.  You know how pigs
make war--standin' side by side, tryin' to hook each other in the
flank, gruntin' and circlin' around with little quick steps--how's that
goin' to apply to this son-of-a-gun that hits you a welt like a
domestic cannon and then chases himself off to the sky-line for another
try?"

[Illustration: "Chases himself off to the sky-line for another try"]

"Well," cuts in the Doctor.  "I ain't a-sayin' _how_--but Bill _does_
him, all the same--bet your life."

"You talk feeble minded," says Steve.  "Nobody'd more like to believe
you than me, but the points ain't on the cards.  It'll be just like
that Braddock's campaign agin the Injuns.  There goes the Britishers
(that's Bill) amblin' gaily through the woods, dressed up in red and
marchin' arm to arm, for fear some careless Injun would miss 'em, and
there's the Injuns (that's that durned ram) off in the woods jumpin' up
and down with pleasure and surprise.  'Oh, Jimmy!' hollers the Injun to
his little boy.  'Run get grandpa, Towser, mama, and the
baby--everybody's goin' to pick one of these and take it home--no Injun
so poor but what he's entitled to at least one Englishman.'"

"That's all right," says Windy.  "But where's your Injun now?"

"Well," says Steve, flabbergasted, "that's kind of true, too; he has
vanished some."

"I bet you money," says the Doctor, "that Bill does him."

"I hate to rob the poor in mind," says Steve.  "And yet I'd like to
lose that bet--make it a month's wages?"

"I'm for standin' by my friend," says the Doctor.  "I'll bet you up to
the first of January."

"Got you," says Steve.  "You know where you can borrow chewin', anyhow.
Any other gentleman want part of this?"

Steve had money he'd drew out of his poker game up-town, so the rest of
us stood not to live high until after January first, if Foxey Bill
didn't lick that sheep.  We didn't believe he would, but he carried our
money.

Well, sir, it was a tough time waitin' for the combat to come off.
Bill simply despised the sheep.  Couldn't stand near to him.  The only
time he'd stay by the house was when the sheep was off somewheres.
And, of course, it was strictly against the rules for any person to
aid, abet, or help either warrior, or interfere in any way, shape, or
manner.

I was two mile out from camp one day, when I heard "Ke-bang, ke-bang,
ke-bang-ety, bang-bang-bang-bang!"  The Doctor was losin' off all the
guns in the shack to once.  I hollered to Steve, him to Windy, and then
we flew for home, leavin' the calves to their own responsibilities for
a while.

The other boys was on hand when we arrived, their faces shinin' with
excitement, and yellin' to us for the love of Moses to shake a leg
before it was too late.

Poor Billy was pickin' himself up, after rollin' over three times, and
the durned ram was prancin' away, wigglin' his tail like little boys
does their fingers, with a thumb to the nose.

[Illustration: "The durned ram was prancin' away"]

The Doctor explained to us, whilst we was waitin' for the next jar.
"There's Bill," says he, "eatin' his meal out of his half-a-barrel as
quiet and decent a citizen as you'll find anywheres.  That's his grub
and he don't like grass.  Well, what must that quar'lsome hunk of horns
and mutton do, but try to shove him away from there.  Mind you, that
ram does like grass, and he's got several hundred thousand square mile
of it to lunch on--but no, sir!  What he must have is a hunk of bread
out of Billy's barrel.  Now, Billy's no hog--he lets him have the piece
of bread--then the ram wants the hull barrel; hoops, staves, and all.
That's too hootin' goldarn many for anybody to stand, by ninety-nine
per cent., so Bill slams him one.  The ram walks off and fetches him a
swat like hittin' a side of beef with a fourteen-foot board.  Poor old
Bill rolls three yards.  Then he takes after the brute, but the ram
runs away as usual.  Billy thinks the fight is over and goes on with
his eatin'.  You're just in time to see the end of the second round.
Bill's _goin'_ to lick him, but cuss me if I see _how_.  He can't get
_at_ that blaatin', skippin' mess of wickedness.  He don't understand
at all.  If the sheep would give him one fair hack, he'd show
him--Look!  Oh, Lordy!  There he goes again!  _Damn_ that sheep!"

It was an awful sight for Billy's friends to witness.  I'll never tell
you how many times he went rollin' down the hill, only to come back as
game and useless as a rooster fightin' his reflection in a lookin'
glass.  He'd chase after the sheep, gruntin' fierce, but pshaw! the
critter'd simply trot right away from him, wigglin' that insultin' tail
in his face.  Old Billy's tail was coiled as tight as a