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Wolfville

A >> Alfred Henry Lewis >> Wolfville




"'Which I don't aim to do it no more,' says the squar'-built gent,
'but I still clings to my idee that notices ain't no set-back to
this camp.'

"'The same bein' a mere theery,' says Doc Peets, 'personal to
yourse'f, I holds it would be onp'lite to discuss it; so let's all
wheel onder cover for a drink.'

"At this we-alls lines up on the Red Light bar an' nacherally drinks
ends the talk, as they allers ought.

"Along towards sundown we-alls gets some cooler, an' by second-drink
time in the evenin' every one is movin' about, an', as it happens,
quite a band is in the Red Light; some drinkin' an' exchangin' of
views, an' some buckin' the various games which is goin' wide open
all 'round. Cherokee's settin' behind his box, an' Faro Nell is up
at his shoulder on the lookout stool. The game's goin' plenty lively
when along comes Old Gentry. Cherokee takes a glance at him an'
seems worried a little, reflectin', no doubt, of them 'hands the
dead man held,' but he goes on dealin' without a word.

"'Where's you-all done been all day?' says Nell to the old man. 'I
ain't seen you none whatever since yesterday.'

"'Why, I gets tired an' done up a lot, settin ag'inst Cherokee last
night,' says the old man, 'an' so I prowls down in my blankets an'
sleeps some till about an hour ago.'

"The old man buys a stack of blues an' sets 'em on the ten. It's
jest then in comes the squar'-built gent, who's been postin' of the
notice former, an' p'ints a six-shooter at Gentry an' says

"'Put your hands up! put 'em up quick or I'll drill you! Old as you
be, I don't take no chances.'

"'At the first word Nell comes off her stool like a small landslide,
while Cherokee brings a gun into play on the instant. The old man's
up even with the proceedin's, too; an' stands thar, his gun in his
hand, his eyes a-glitterin' an' his white beard a-curlin' like a
cat's. He's clean strain.

"'Let me get a word in, gents,' says Cherokee, plenty ca'm, 'an'
don't no one set in his stack on. less he's got a hand. I does
business yere my way, an' I'm due to down the first hold-up who
shoots across any layout of mine. Don't make no mistake, or the next
census'll be shy, shore.'

"'What be you-alls aimin' to cel'brate anyhow?' says Jack Moore,
gettin' the squar'-built gent's gun while Boggs corrals Gentry's. '
Who's Wolfville entertainin' yere, I'd like for to know?'

"'I'm a Wells-Fargo detective,' says the squar'-built gent, 'an'
this yere,' p'intin' to Old Gentry, 'is Jim Yates, the biggest hold-
up an' stage-robber between hell an' 'Frisco. That old tarrapin'll
stop a stage like a young-one would a clock, merely to see what's
into it. He's the party I'm pastin' up the notice for this mornin."

"'He's a liar!' says the old man, a-gettin' uglier every minute.
`Give us our six-shooters an throw us loose, an' if I don't lance
the roof of his lyin' mouth with the front sight of my gun, I'll
cash in for a hold-up or whatever else you-alls says.'

"'What do you say, Enright?' says Jack. 'Let's give 'em their
jewelry an' let 'em lope. I've got money as says the Wells-Fargo
bill-paster can't take this old' Cimmaron a little bit.'

"'Which I trails in,' says Boggs, 'with a few chips on the same
kyard.'

"'No,' says Enright, 'if this yere party's rustlin' the mails, we-
alls can't call his hand too quick. Wolfville's a straight camp an'
don't back no crim'nal plays; none whatever.'

"Enright tharupon calls a meetin' of the Stranglers, an' we-alls
lines out for the New York Store to talk it over. Before we done
pow-wows two minutes up comes Old Monte, with the stage, all dust
an' cuss-words, an' allows he's been stood up out by the cow springs
six hours before, an' is behind the mail-bag an' the Adams Company's
box on the deal. We-alls looks at Old Man Gentry, an' he shorely
seems to cripple down. "'Gentry,' says Peets, after Old Monte tells
his adventures, 'I hears you tell Nell you was sleepin' all day.
S'pose you takes this yere committee to your budwer an' exhibits to
us how it looks some.'

"'The turn's ag'in me,' says the old man, 'an' I lose. I'll cut it
short for you-alls. I holds up that stage this afternoon myse'f.'

"'This yere's straight goods, I takes it,' says Enright, 'an' our
dooty is plain. Go over to the corral an' get a lariat, Jack.'

"'Don't let Enright hang the old man, Cherokee,' says Nell,
beginnin' to weep a whole lot. 'Please don't let 'em hang him.'

"'This holdin' a gun on your friends ain't no picnic,' whispers
Cherokee to Nell, an' flushin' up an' then turnin' pale, 'but your
word goes with me, Nell.' Then Cherokee thinks a minute. 'Now, this
yere is the way we does,' he says at last. 'I'll make 'em a long
talk. You-all run over to the corral an' bring the best hoss you
sees saddled. I'll be talkin' when you comes back, an' you creep up
an' whisper to the old man to make a jump for the pony while I
covers the deal with my six-shooter. It's playin' it low on Enright
an' Doc Peets an' the rest, but I'll do it for you, Nell. It all
comes from them jacks up on eights.'

"With this, Cherokee tells Nell 'good-by,' an' squar's himse'f. He
begins to talk, an' Nell makes a quiet little break for the corral.

"But no hoss is ever needed. Cherokee don't talk a minute when Old
Gentry comes buckin' offen his chair in a 'pleptic fit. A 'pleptic
fit is permiscus an' tryin', an' when Old Gentry gets through an'
comes to himse'f, he's camped jest this side of the dead line. He
can only whisper.

"'Come yere,' says he, motionin' to Cherokee. 'Thar's a stack of
blues where I sets 'em on the ten open, which you ain't turned for
none yet: Take all I has besides an' put with it. If it lose, it's
yours; if it win, give it to the little girl.'

"This is all Old Gentry says, an' he cashes in the very next second
on the list.

"Enright goes through'em, an' thar's over two thousand dollars in
his war-bags; an', obeyin' them last behests, we-alls goes over to
the Red Light an' puts it on the ten along of the stack of blues.
It's over the limit, but Cherokee proceeds with the deal, an' when
it comes I'm blessed if the ten ain't loser an' Cherokee gets it
all.

"'But I won't win none ag'in a dead man; says Cherokee. An' he gives
it to Nell, who ain't sooperstitious.

"'Do you-alls b'ar in mind,' says Boggs, as we takes a drink later,
'how I foresees this yere racket the minute I hears Cherokee a-
tellin' about his "Jacks up on eights"--the "hand the dead man
holds?"'"




CHAPTER XIV.

THE RIVAL DANCE-HALLS.


It was sweet and cool after the rain, and the Old Cattleman and I,
moved by an admiration for the open air which was mutual, found
ourselves together on the porch.

As in part recompense for his reminiscences of the several days
before, I regaled my old friend with the history of a bank-failure,
the details as well as the causes of which were just then forcing
themselves upon me in the guise of business.

"The fact is," I said, as I came to the end of my story, "the fact
is, the true cause of this bank's downfall was a rivalry--what one
might call a business feud--which grew into being between it and a
similar institution which had opened as its neighbor. In the
competition which fell out they fairly cut each other's throat. They
both failed."

"An' I takes it," remarked the Old Cattleman in comment, "one of
these yere trade dooels that a-way goes on vindictive an'
remorseless, same as if it's a personal fight between cow-folks over
cattle."

"Quite right," I said. "Money is often more cruel than men; and a
business vendetta is frequently mere murder without the incident of
blood. I don't suppose the life of your Arizona town would show
these trade wars. It would take Eastern--that is, older--conditions,
to provoke and carry one on."

"No," replied the old gentleman, with an air of retrospection, "I
don't recall nothin' of the sort in Wolfville. We're too much in a
huddle, anyway; thar ain't room for no sech fracas, no how. Now the
nearest we-alls comes to anythin' of the kind is when the new dance-
hall starts that time.

"Which I reckons," continued the Old Cattle. man, as he began
arranging a smoke, "which I now reckons this yere is the only
catyclism in trade Wolfville suffers; the only time it comes to what
you-all Eastern sports would call a showdown in commerce. Of course
thar's the laundry war, but that's between females an' don't count.
Females--while it's no sorter doubt they's the noblest an' most
exhilaratin' work of their Redeemer--is nervous that a-way, an' due
any time to let their ha'r down their backs, emit a screech, an'
claw an' lay for each other for luck. An', as I says, if you
confines the festivities to them females engaged, an' prevents the
men standin' in on the play, it's shore to wind up in sobs an'
forgiveness, an' tharfore it don't go.

"As I says, what I now relates is the only industrial trouble I
recalls in Wolfville. I allers remembers it, 'cause, bein' as how I
knows the party who's the aggravatin' cause tharof, it mortifies me
the way he jumps into camp an' carries on.

"When I sees him first is ages before, when I freights with eight
mules over the Old Fort Bascome trail from Vegas to the Panhandle.
This sharp--which he's a tenderfoot at the time, but plumb wolf by
nacher-trails up to me in the Early Rose Saloon in Vegas one day,
an' allows he'd like to make a deal an' go projectin' over into the
Panhandle country with me for a trip. "Freightin' that a-way three
weeks alone on the trail is some harrowin' to the sperits of a gent
who loves company like me, so I agrees, an' no delay to it.

"Which I'm yere to mention I regrets later I'm that easy I takes
this person along. Not that he turns hostile, but he's allers havin'
adventures, an' things keeps happenin' to him; an' final, I thinks
he's shorely dead an' gone complete--the same, as I afterward
learns, bein' error; an', takin' it up one trail an' down another,
that trip breaks me offen foolin' with shorthorns complete, an' I
don't go near 'em for years, more'n if they's stingin' lizards.

"Whatever does this yere maverick do to me? Well, nothin' much to me
personal; but he keeps a-breedin' of events which pesters me.

"We're out about four days when them mishaps begins. I camps over
one sun on the Concha to rest my mules. I'm loaded some heavy with
six thousand pounds in the lead, an' mebby four thousand pounds in
the trail wagon; an' I stops a day to give my stock a chance to roll
an' breathe an' brace up. My off-wheel mule--a reg'lar shave-tail--
is bad med'cine. Which he's not only eager to kick towerists an'
others he takes a notion ag'inst; but he's likewise what you-alls
calls a kleptomaniac, an' is out to steal an' sim'lar low-down
plays.

"I warns this yere tenderfoot--his name's Smith, but I pulls on him
when conversin' as 'Colonel'--I warns this shorthorn not to fuss
'round my Jerry mule, bein', as I states, a mule whose mood is
ornery.

"'Don't go near him, Colonel,' says I; 'an' partic'lar don't go
crowdin' 'round to get no r'ar views of him. You-all has no idee of
the radius of that mule; what you might call his sweep. You never
will till he's kicked you once or twice, an' the information ain't
worth no sech price. So I don't reckon I'd fool with him, none
whatever.

"'An' speshul, Colonel,' I goes on, for I shore aims to do my dooty
by him, 'don't lay nothin' 'round loose where this yere Jerry mule
can grab it off. I'm the last freighter on the Plains to go
slanderin' an' detractin' of a pore he'pless mule onless it's
straight; but if you-all takes to leavin' keepsakes an' mementoes
layin' about casooal an' careless that a-way, Jerry'll eat 'em; an'
the first you saveys your keepsakes is within Jerry's interior, an'
thar you be.

"'The fact is, stranger, this Jerry mule's a thief,' I says. 'If
he's a human, Jerry would be lynched. But otherwise he's a sincere,
earnest mule; an up hill or at a quicksand crossin' Jerry goes into
his collar like a lion; so I forgives him bein' a thief an' allows
it's a peccadillo."

"'Well, you bet!' says this tenderfoot Colonel, 'this yere Jerry
better not come no peccadillos on me.'

"'If you-all maintains about twenty feet,' I replies, 'between
Jerry's hind-Hocks an' you; an' if you keeps your bric-a-brac in
your war-bags, you an' Jerry'll get along like lambs. Now, I warns
you, an' that's got to do. If Jerry an' you gets tangled up
yereafter you-all ain't goin' to harbor no revenges ag'in him, nor
make no ranikaboo plays to get even.'

"As I states, I'm camped on the Concha, an` the Colonel, who's
allers out to try experiments an' new deals, puts it up he'll go
down to the river an' take a swim. Tharupon he lines out for the
water.

"Jerry's hangin' about camp--for he's sorter a pet mule--allowin'
mebby I submits a ham-rind or some sech delicacy to him to chew on;
an' he hears the Colonel su'gest he'll swim some. So when the
Colonel p'ints for the Concha, Jerry sa'nters along after,
figgerin', mighty likely, as how he'll pass the hour a-watchin' the
Colonel swim.

"I'm busy on flapjacks at the time--which flapjacks is shore good
food--an' I don't observe nothln' of Jerry nor the Colonel neither.
They's away half an hour when I overhears ejac'lations, though I
can't make out no words. I don't have to get caught in no landslide
to tumble to a game, an' I'm aware at once that Jerry an' the
Colonel has got their destinies mixed.

"Nacherally, I goes over to the held of strife, aimin' to save
Jerry, or save the Colonel, whichever has the other down. When I
bursts on the scene, the Colonel starts for me, splutterin' an'
makin' noises an' p'intin' at Jerry, who stands thar with an air of
innocence. The Colonel's upper lip hangs down queer, like an ant-
eater's, an' he can't talk. It's all mighty amazin'.

"'What's all this toomult about?' I says.

"The short of the riot is this: The Colonel goes in for a swim, an'
he lays out his false teeth that a-way on a stone. When he comes for
his teeth they's shorely gone, an' thar stands Jerry puttin' it on
he's asleep. Them teeth is filed away in Jerry.

"Which the Colonel raves 'round frightful, an' wants to kill Jerry
an' amputate him, an' scout for the teeth. But I won't have it. I'm
goin' to need Jerry down further on the quicksand fords of the
Canadian; an', as I explains, them teeth is a wreck by now, an' no
good if he get's 'em ag'in; Jerry munchin' of his food powerful.

"After a while I rounds up the Colonel an' herds him back to camp.
Jerry has shore sawed off a sore affliction on that tenderfoot when
he takes in them teeth; I can see that. His lip hangs like a
blacksmith's apron, an' he can't talk a little bit; jest makes signs
or motions, like he's Injun or deef.

"It's mebby two weeks later when Jerry gets another shot at the
Colonel. It's the evenin' after the night Jerry sneaks into camp,
soft-foot as a coyote, noses open the grub-box, an' eats five
bottles of whiskey; all we has. We've pitched camp, an' I've hobbled
this Jerry mule an' his mate--the other wheeler--an' throwed 'em
loose, an' is busy hobblin' my nigh-swing mule, when trouble begins
fomentin' between my tenderfoot an' Jerry.

"The fact is it's done fomented. This Colonel, bein' some heated
about that whiskey, an' plumb sore on Jerry on account of them
teeth, allows to himse'f he'll take a trace-chain an' warp Jerry
once for luck.

"If this yere tenderfoot had been free with me, an' invited me into
his confidence touchin' his designs, I'd took a lariat an' roped an'
throwed Jerry for him, an' tied the felon down, an' let the Colonel
wallop him an hour or so: but the Colonel's full of variety that a-
way, or mebby he thinks I'll side with Jerry. Anyhow, he selects a
trace-chain, an', without sayin' a word, dances all cautious towards
his prey. Which this is relaxation for Jerry.

[drawing of Jerry kicking the Colonel with caption: "That he'pless
shorthorn stops both heels.]

"While that Colonel tenderfoot is a rod away, Jerry turns his tail
some sudden in his direction, an' the next instant that he'pless
shorthorn stops both heels some'ers about the second button of his
shirt. That settles it; the Colonel's an invalid immediate. I
shorely has a time with him that night.

"The next day he can't walk, an' he can't ride in the wagon 'cause
of the jolts. It all touches my heart, an' at last I ups an' make a
hammock outen a Navajo blanket, which is good an' strong, an' swings
the Colonel to the reach of the trail wagon.

"It's mostly a good scheme. Where the ground's level the Colonel
comes on all right; but now an' then, when a wheel slumps into a
rut, the Colonel can't he'p none but smite the ground where he's the
lowest, an' it all draws groans an' laments from him a heap.

"One time, when the Colonel's agony makes him groan speshul strong,
I sees Jerry bat his eyes like he enjoys it; an' then Jerry mentions
somethin' to his mate over the chain. We're trottin' along the trail
at the time, an', bein' he's the nigh-wheeler--which is the saddle-
mule of a team--I'm ridin' Jerry's compadre, an' when I notes how
Jerry is that joyous about it I reaches across an' belts him some
abrupt between the y'ears with the butt of a shot-filled black-
snake. It rather lets the whey outen Jerry's glee, an' he don't get
so much bliss from that tenderfoot's misfortunes as he did.

"It goes along all right ontil I swings down to the crossin' of the
Canadian. It's about fourth-drink time in the afternoon, an' I'm
allowin' to ford the Canadian that evenin' an' camp on t'other side.
The river is high an' rapid from rain some'ers back on its head
waters, an' it's wide an' ugly. It ain't more'n four foot deep, but
the bottom is quicksand, an' that false, if I lets my wagons stop
ten seconds anywhere between bank an' bank, I'm goin' to be shy
wagons at the close. I'll be lucky if I win out the mules. It's
shore a hard, swift crossin'.

"I swings down, as I says, to the river's aige with my mind filled
up about the rush I've got to make. It's go through on the run or
bog down. First I settles in my saddle, gives the outfit the word,
an' then, pourin' the whip into the two leaders, I sends the whole
eight into the water on the jump. The river is runnin' like a scared
wolf, an' the little lead mules hardly touches bottom.

"As the trail wagon takes the water, an' the two leaders is plumb in
to the y'ears, a howl develops to the r'ar. It's my pore tenderfoot
in his hammock onder the trail wagon. He shrieks as the water gets
to him; an' it all hits me like a bullet, for I plumb overlooks him,
thinkin' of that quicksand crossin'.

"It's shore too late now; I'm in, an' I can't stop. To make things
more complex, as the water cuts off the tenderfoot's yell like
puffin' out a candle, a little old black mule, which is my off-
p'inter, loses his feet an' goes down. I pours the leather into the
team the harder, an' the others soars into their collars an' drug my
black p'inter with 'em; only he's onder water. Of course I allows
both the black p'inter an' the Colonel's shorely due to drown a
whole lot.

"We gets across, the seven other mules an' me; an' the second he's
skated out on the sand on his side, the drowned mule gets up an'
sings as triumphant as I ever hears. Swimmin' onder the river don't
wear on him a bit.

"Then I goes scoutin' for the Colonel, but he's vanished complete.
Nacherally, I takes him for a dead-an'-gone gent; an' figgers if
some eddy or counter-current don't get him, or he don't go aground
on no sand-bar, his fellow-men will fish him out some'ers between me
an' New Orleans, an' plant him an' hold services over him.

"Bein' as I can't be of no use where it's a clean-sweep play like
this, I dismisses the Colonel from my mind. After hobblin' an'
throwin' loose my team, I lugs out the grub-box all sorrowful an'
goes into camp.

"Which I should allers have played the Colonel for dead, if it ain't
that years later he one day comes wanderin' into Wolfville. He ain't
tender now; he's as hard as moss-agates, an' as worthless.

"I renews my acquaintance with him, an' he tells how he gets outen
the Canadian that day; but beyond that we consoomes a drink or two
together, I rather passes him up. Thar's a heap about him I don't
take to.

"The Colonel lays 'round Wolfville mebby it's a week, peerin' an'
spyin' about. He says he's lookin' for an openin'. An' I reckons he
is, for at the end of a week he slaps up a joint outen tent-cloth
an' fence-boards, an' opens a dance-hall squar' ag'inst Jim
Hamilton's which is already thar.

"This yere alone is likely to brood an' hatch trouble; but, as if
takin' a straight header into Hamilton's game ain't enough, this
Colonel of mine don't get no pianer; don't round-up no music of his
own; but stands pat an' pulls off reels, an' quadrilles, an' green-
corn dances to Hamilton's music goin' on next door.

"I'm through the Lincoln County war, an' has been romancin' about
the frontier for years; but I never tracks up on no sech outrage in
my life as this disgraceful Colonel openin' a hurdy-gurdy ag'in
Hamilton's, an' maverickin' his music that a-way, an' dancin'
tharunto.

"It's the second night, an' Hamilton concloods he'll see about it
some. He comes into the Colonel's joint, ca'm an' considerate, an'
gives it out thar's goin' to be trouble if the Colonel don't close
his game or play in his own fiddlers.

"'Which if you-all don't close your game or hunt out your own
music,' says Hamilton, 'I'm mighty likely to get my six-shooter an'
close it for you.'

"'See yere,' says my Colonel--which he's shore been learnin' since I
parts with him on the Canadian--'the first hold-up who comes foolin'
'round to break up a baile of mine, I'll shorely make him hard to
find. What business you got fillin' up my place with your melodies?
You rolls your tunes in yere like you owns the ranch; an' then you
comes curvin' over an' talks of a gun-play 'cause, instead of layin'
for you for that you disturbs my peace with them harmonies, I'm that
good-nachered I yields the p'int an' dances to 'em. You-all pull
your freight,' says the Colonel, 'or I'll fill you full of lead.'

"This argument of the Colonel's dazzles Hamilton to that degree he
don't know whether he's got the high hand or not. He thinks a
minute, an' then p'ints over to the Red Light for Enright an' Doc
Peets. As he leaves the rival dance-hall, the Colonel, who's callin'
off his dances, turns to the quadrille, which is pausin pendin' the
dispoote, an' shouts:

"'You bet I knows my business! Right hand to your partner; grand
right an' left!'

"When Hamilton turns away they's shore makin' things rock an'
tremble; an' all to the strains of 'The Arkansaw Traveller,' which
is bein' evolved next door at Hamilton's expense.

"Which somethin's goin' to pop; says Hamilton, mighty ugly to
Enright an' the rest of us, as he pours a drink into his neck. 'I
allows in the interests of peace that I canters over an' sees you-
alls first. I ain't out to shake up Wolfville, nor give Red Dog a
chance to criticise us none as a disorderly camp; but I asks you
gents, as citizens an' members of the vig'lance committee, whether
I'm to stand an' let this yere sharp round-up my music to hold his
revels by, an' put it all over me nightly?'

"'I don't see no difference,' says Dan Boggs, 'between this convict
a-stealin' of Hamilton's music, than if he goes an' stands up Old
Monte an' the stage.'

"'The same bein' my idee exact,' says Texas Thompson. 'Yere's
Hamilton caterin' to this camp with a dance-hall. It's a public good
thing. If a gent's morose, an' his whiskey's slow placin' itse'f, he
goes over to Hamilton's hurdy-gurdy an' finds relaxation an' relief.
Now yere comes this stranger--an' I makes it fifty dollars even he's
from Massachusetts--an' what does he do? Never antes nor sticks in a
white chip, but purloins Hamilton's strains, an' pulls off his
dances tharby. It's plumb wrong, an' what this party needs is
hangin'.'

"'Oh, I don't know,' says Cherokee Hall, who's in on the talk.
'Hamilton's all right, an' a squar' man. All he wants is jestice.
Now, while I deems the conduct of this stranger low an' ornery;
still, comin' down to the turn, he's on his trail all right. As this
sharp says: Who gives Hamilton any license to go fillin' his hurdy-
gurdy full of dance-music? S'pose this gent would come caperin' over
an' set in a stack ag'in Hamilton for overloadin' his joint with
pianer an' fiddle noises without his consent; an' puttin' it up he's
out to drag the camp if Hamilton don't cease? The only way Hamilton
gets 'round that kind of complaint is, he don't own them walses an'
quadrilles after they fetches loose from his fiddle; that they ain't
his quadrilles no more, an' he's not responsible after they
stampedes off into space.'

"'That's straight,' says Dave Tutt, 'you-alls can't run no brand on
melodies. A gent can't own no music after he cuts it loose that a-
way. The minute it leaves the bosoms of his fiddles, that's where he
lets go. After that it belongs to any gent to dance by, cry by, set
by, or fight by, as he deems meet an' pleasant at the time.'

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