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Wolfville Days

A >> Alfred Henry Lewis >> Wolfville Days




"'"Which we shore was," I replies.

"'"Exactly," says Peg-laig, shakin' his head, "we was shorely
winners. An' I want to add, son, that if we-all could have kept on
winnin' for two hours more, we'd a-lost eight thousand dollars."

"'It's like this yere stage hold-up on Enright,' concloodes
Cherokee; 'it's a harassin' instance of where the more you wins, the
more you lose.'

"About this time, Enright an' Jack Moore comes in. Colonel Sterett
an' Dan Boggs j'ines us accidental, an' we-all six holds a pow wow
in low tones.

"'Which Jack,' observes Enright, like he's experimentin' an' ropin'
for our views, 'allows it's his beliefs that this yere guileless
tenderfoot, Davis, who says he's from Buffalo, an' who's been
prancin' about town for the last two days, is involved in them
felonies.'

"'It ain't none onlikely,' says Boggs; 'speshully since he's from
Buffalo. I never does know but one squar' gent who comes from
Buffalo; he's old Jenks. An' at that, old Jenks gets downed, final,
by the sheriff over on Sand Creek for stealin' a hoss.'

"'You-all wants to onderstand,' says Jack Moore, cuttin' in after
Boggs, 'I don't pretend none to no proofs. I jest reckons it's so.
It's a common scandal how dead innocent this yere shorthorn Davis
assoomes to be; how he wants Cherokee to explain faro-bank to him;
an' how he can't onderstand none why Black Jack an' the dance-hall
won't mix no drinks. Which I might, in the hurry of my dooties, have
passed by them childish bluffs onchallenged an' with nothin' more
than pityin' thoughts of the ignorance of this yere maverick, but
gents, this party overplays his hand. Last evenin' he asks me to let
him take my gun, says he's cur'ous to see one. That settles it with
me; this Davis has been a object of suspicion ever since. No, it
ain't that I allows he's out to queer my weepon none, but think of
sech a pretence of innocence! I leaves it to you-all, collectif an'
individooal, do you reckon now thar's anybody, however tender, who's
that guileless as to go askin' a perfect stranger that a-way to pass
him out his gun? I says no, this gent is overdoin' them roles. He
ain't so tender as he assoomes. An' from the moment I hears of this
last stand-up of the stage back in the canyon, I feels that this
yere party is somehow in the play. Thar's four in this band who's
been spreadin' woe among the stage companies lately, an' thar's only
two of 'em shows in this latest racket which they gives Old Monte,
an' that express gyard they shot up. Them other two sports who ain't
present is shore some'ers, an' I gives it as my opinions one of
'em's right yere in our onthinkin' center, actin' silly, askin'
egreegious questions, an' allowin' his name is Davis an' that he
hails from Buffalo.'

"While Jack is evolvin' this long talk, we-all is thinkin'; an',
son, somehow it strikes us that thar's mighty likely somethin' in
this notion of Jack's. We-all agrees, however, thar bein' nothin'
def'nite to go on, we can't do nothin' but wait. Still, pro an' con
like, we pushes forth in discussion of this person.

"'It does look like this Davis,' says Colonel Sterett, 'now Jack
brings it up, is shorely playin' a part; which he's over easy an'
ontaught, even for the East. This mornin', jest to give you-all a
sample, he comes sidlin' up to me. "Is thar any good fishin' about
yere?" he asks. "Which I shore yearns to fish some."

"'"Does this yere landscape," I says, wavin' my arm about the
hor'zon, "remind you much of fish? Stranger," I says, "fish an'
christians is partic'lar sparse in Arizona."

"'Then this person Davis la'nches out into tales deescriptif of how
he goes anglin' back in the States. "Which the eel is the gamest
fish," says this Davis. "When I'm visitin' in Virginny, I used to go
fishin'. I don't fish with a reel, an' one of them limber poles, an'
let a fish go swarmin' up an' down a stream, a-breedin' false hopes
in his bosom an' lettin' him think he's loose. Not me; I wouldn't so
deloode--wouldn't play it that low on a fish. I goes anglin' in a
formal, se'f-respectin' way. I uses a short line an' a pole which is
stiff an' strong. When I gets a bite, I yanks him out an' lets him
know his fate right thar."

"'"But eels ain't no game fish," I says. "Bass is game, but not
eels."

"'"Eels ain't game none, ain't they?" says this yere Davis, lettin'
on he's a heap interested. "You-all listen to me; let me tell you of
a eel I snags onto down by Culpepper. When he bites that time I
gives him both hands. That eel comes through the air jest whistlin'
an' w'irlin'. I slams him ag'inst the great state of Virginny.
Suppose one of them bass you boasts of takes sech a jolt. Whatever
would he have done? He'd lay thar pantin' an' rollin' his eyes;
mebby he curls his tail a little. That would be the utmost of them
resentments of his. What does my eel do? Stranger, he stands up on
his tail an' fights me. Game! that eel's game as scorpions! My dog
Fido's with me. Fido wades into the eel, an' the commotion is awful.
That eel whips Fido in two minutes, Washin'ton time. How much does
he weigh? Whatever do I know about it? When he's done put the gaffs
into Fido, he nacherally sa'nters back into the branch where he
lives at. I don't get him none; I deems I'm plumb lucky when he
don't get me. Still, if any gent talks of game fish that a-way, I
wants it onderstood, I strings my money on that Culpepper eel."'

"'Thar, it's jest as I tells you-all, gents!' says Jack Moore a heap
disgusted, when Colonel Sterett gets through. 'This yere Davis is a
imposter. Which thar's no mortal sport could know as little as he
lets on an' live to reach his age.'

"We sets thar an' lays plans. At last in pursooance of them devices,
it gets roomored about camp that the next day but one, both Enright
an' the New York Store aims to send over to Tucson a roll of money
the size of a wagon hub.

"'Thar's no danger of them hold-ups,' says Enright to this Davis,
lettin' on he's a heap confidenshul. 'They won't be lookin' for no
sech riches bein' freighted over slap on the heels of this yere
robbery. An' we don't aim to put up no gyards alongside of Old Monte
neither. Gyards is no good; they gets beefed the first volley, an'
their presence on a coach that a-way is notice that thar's plenty of
treasure aboard.'

"It's in this way Enright fills that Davis as full of misinformation
as a bottle of rum. Also, we deems it some signif'cant when said
shorthorn saddles his hoss over to the corral an' goes skally-
hootin' for Tucson about first drink time in the mornin'.

"'I've a engagement in the Oriental S'loon,' he says, biddin' us
good-bye plenty cheerful, 'but I'll be back among you-all sports in
a week. I likes your ways a whole lot, an' I wants to learn 'em
some.'

"'Which I offers four to one,' says Jack Moore, lookin' after him as
he rides away, 'you'll be back yere sooner than that, an' you-all
won't know it none, at that.'

"It's the next day when the stage starts; Old Monte is crackin' his
whip in a hardened way, carin' nothin' for road agents as long as
they don't interfere with the licker traffic. Thar's only one
passenger.

"Shore enough, jest as it's closin' in some dark in Apache Canyon,
an' the stage is groanin' an' creakin' along on a up grade, thar's a
trio of hold-ups shows on the trail, an' the procession comes to a
halt. Old Monte sets the brake, wrops the reins about it, locks his
hands over his head, an' turns in to cuss. The hold-ups takes no
notice. They yanks down the Wells-Fargo chest, pulls off the letter
bag, accepts a watch an' a pocket-book from the gent inside, who's
scared an' shiverin' an' scroogin' back in the darkest corner, he's
that terror-bit, an' then they applies a few epithets to Old Monte
an' commands him to pull his freight. An' Old Monte shorely obeys
them mandates, an' goes crashin' off up the canyon on the run.

"Them outlaws hauls the plunder to one side of the trail an' lays
for the mail-bag with a bowie. All three is as busy as prairy dogs
after a rain, rippin' open letters an' lookin' for checks an'
drafts. Later they aims at some op'rations on the express company's
box.

"But they never gets to the box. Thar's the lively tones of a
Winchester which starts the canyon's echoes to talkin'. That rifle
ain't forty foot away, an' it speaks three times before ever you-
all, son, could snap your fingers. An' that weepon don't make them
observations in vain. It ain't firin' no salootes. Quick as is the
work, the sights shifts to a new target every time. At the last, all
three hold-ups lays kickin' an' jumpin' like chickens that a-way,
two is dead an' the other is too hard hit to respond.

"Whoever does it? Jack Moore, he's that one shiverin' passenger that
time. He slides outen the stage as soon as ever it turns the angle
of the canyon, an' comes scoutin' an' crawlin' back on his prey. An'
I might add, it shore soothes Jack's vanity a lot, when the first
remainder shows down as that artless maverick, Davis. Jack lights a
pine splinter an' looks him over-pale an' dead an' done.

"'Which you-all is the victim of over-play,' says Jack to this yere
Davis, same as if he hears him, 'If you never asks to see my gun
that time, it's even money my suspicions concernin' you might be
sleepin' yet.'"

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