Arizona Nights

by Stewart Edward White

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE HONK-HONK BREED

  It was Sunday at the ranch. For a wonder the weather had beenfavourable; the windmills were all working, the bogs had dried up, thebeef had lasted over, the remuda had not strayed--in short, there wasnothing to do. Sang had given us a baked bread-pudding with raisins init. We filled it--in a wash basin full of it--on top of a fewincidental pounds of chile con, baked beans, soda biscuits, "airtights," and other delicacies. Then we adjourned with our pipes to theshady side of the blacksmith's shop where we could watch the ravens ontop the adobe wall of the corral. Somebody told a story about ravens.This led to road-runners. This suggested rattlesnakes. They startedWindy Bill.

  "Speakin' of snakes," said Windy, "I mind when they catched thegreat-granddaddy of all the bullsnakes up at Lead in the Black Hills.I was only a kid then. This wasn't no such tur'ble long a snake, buthe was more'n a foot thick. Looked just like a sahuaro stalk. Manname of Terwilliger Smith catched it. He named this yere bullsnakeClarence, and got it so plumb gentle it followed him everywhere. Oneday old P. T. Barnum come along and wanted to buy this Clarencesnake--offered Terwilliger a thousand cold--but Smith wouldn't partwith the snake nohow. So finally they fixed up a deal so Smith couldgo along with the show. They shoved Clarence in a box in the baggagecar, but after a while Mr. Snake gets so lonesome he gnaws out andstarts to crawl back to find his master. Just as he is half-waybetween the baggage car and the smoker, the couplin' give way--right onthat heavy grade between Custer and Rocky Point. Well, sir, Clarencewound his head 'round one brake wheel and his tail around the other,and held that train together to the bottom of the grade. But itstretched him twenty-eight feet and they had to advertise him as aboa-constrictor."

  Windy Bill's story of the faithful bullsnake aroused to reminiscencethe grizzled stranger, who thereupon held forth as follows:

  Wall, I've see things and I've heerd things, some of them ornery, andsome you'd love to believe, they was that gorgeous and improbable.Nat'ral history was always my hobby and sportin' events my specialpleasure and this yarn of Windy's reminds me of the only chanst I everhad to ring in business and pleasure and hobby all in one grandmerry-go-round of joy. It come about like this:

  One day, a few year back, I was sittin' on the beach at Santa Barbarawatchin' the sky stay up, and wonderin' what to do with my year'swages, when a little squinch-eye round-face with big bow spectaclescame and plumped down beside me.

  "Did you ever stop to think," says he, shovin' back his hat, "that ifthe horsepower delivered by them waves on this beach in one single hourcould be concentrated behind washin' machines, it would be enough towash all the shirts for a city of four hundred and fifty-one thousandone hundred and thirty-six people?"

  "Can't say I ever did," says I, squintin' at him sideways.

  "Fact," says he, "and did it ever occur to you that if all the food aman eats in the course of a natural life could be gathered together atone time, it would fill a wagon-train twelve miles long?"

  "You make me hungry," says I.

  "And ain't it interestin' to reflect," he goes on, "that if all thefinger-nail parin's of the human race for one year was to be collectedand subjected to hydraulic pressure it would equal in size the pyramidof Cheops?"

  "Look yere," says I, sittin' up, "did YOU ever pause to excogitate thatif all the hot air you is dispensin' was to be collected together itwould fill a balloon big enough to waft you and me over that Bullyvardof Palms to yonder gin mill on the corner?"

  He didn't say nothin' to that--just yanked me to my feet, faced metowards the gin mill above mentioned, and exerted considerable pressureon my arm in urgin' of me forward.

  "You ain't so much of a dreamer, after all," thinks I. "In importantmatters you are plumb decisive."

  We sat down at little tables, and my friend ordered a beer and achicken sandwich.

  "Chickens," says he, gazin' at the sandwich, "is a dollar apiece inthis country, and plumb scarce. Did you ever pause to ponder over thereturns chickens would give on a small investment? Say you start withten hens. Each hatches out thirteen aigs, of which allow a loss of saysix for childish accidents. At the end of the year you has eightychickens. At the end of two years that flock has increased to sixhundred and twenty. At the end of the third year--"

  He had the medicine tongue! Ten days later him and me wasoccupyin' of an old ranch fifty mile from anywhere. When they runstage-coaches this joint used to be a roadhouse. The outlook was onabout a thousand little brown foothills. A road two miles four rodstwo foot eleven inches in sight run by in front of us. It come overone foothill and disappeared over another. I know just how long itwas, for later in the game I measured it.

  Out back was about a hundred little wire chicken corrals filled withchickens. We had two kinds. That was the doin's of Tuscarora. Mypardner called himself Tuscarora Maxillary. I asked him once if thatwas his real name.

  "It's the realest little old name you ever heerd tell of," says he. "Iknow, for I made it myself--liked the sound of her. Parents ain't gotno rights to name their children. Parents don't have to be called themnames."

  Well, these chickens, as I said, was of two kinds. The first was theselow-set, heavyweight propositions with feathers on their laigs, and notmuch laigs at that, called Cochin Chinys. The other was a tallridiculous outfit made up entire of bulgin' breast and gangle laigs.They stood about two foot and a half tall, and when they went to peckthe ground their tail feathers stuck straight up to the sky. Tuskycalled 'em Japanese Games.

  "Which the chief advantage of them chickens is," says he, "that inweight about ninety per cent of 'em is breast meat. Now my idee is,that if we can cross 'em with these Cochin Chiny fowls we'll have alow-hung, heavyweight chicken runnin' strong on breast meat. These JapGames is too small, but if we can bring 'em up in size and shortentheir laigs, we'll shore have a winner."

  That looked good to me, so we started in on that idee. The theery wasbully, but she didn't work out. The first broods we hatched growed upwith big husky Cochin Chiny bodies and little short necks, perched upon laigs three foot long. Them chickens couldn't reach ground nohow.We had to build a table for 'em to eat off, and when they went outrustlin' for themselves they had to confine themselves to sidehills orflyin' insects. Their breasts was all right, though--"And think ofthem drumsticks for the boardinghouse trade!" says Tusky.

  So far things wasn't so bad. We had a good grubstake. Tusky and meused to feed them chickens twict a day, and then used to set aroundwatchin' the playful critters chase grasshoppers up an' down the wirecorrals, while Tusky figgered out what'd happen if somebody was dumfoolenough to gather up somethin' and fix it in baskets or wagons or such.That was where we showed our ignorance of chickens.

  One day in the spring I hitched up, rustled a dozen of the youngstersinto coops, and druv over to the railroad to make our first sale. Icouldn't fold them chickens up into them coops at first, but then Istuck the coops up on aidge and they worked all right, though I willadmit they was a comical sight. At the railroad one of them toweristtrains had just slowed down to a halt as I come up, and the toweristwas paradin' up and down allowin' they was particular enjoyin' of thewarm Californy sunshine. One old terrapin, with grey chin whiskers,projected over, with his wife, and took a peek through the slats of mycoop. He straightened up like someone had touched him off with ared-hot poker.

  "Stranger," said he, in a scared kind of whisper, "what's them?"

  "Them's chickens," says I.

  He took another long look.

  "Marthy," says he to the old woman, "this will be about all! We comeout from Ioway to see the Wonders of Californy, but I can't go nothin'stronger than this. If these is chickens, I don't want to see no BigTrees."

  Well, I sold them chickens all right for a dollar and two bits, whichwas better than I expected, and got an order for more. About ten dayslater I got a letter from the commission house.

  "We are returnin' a sample of your Arts
and Crafts chickens with thelovin' marks of the teeth still onto him," says they. "Don't send anymore till they stops pursuin' of the nimble grasshopper. Dentist billwill foller."

  With the letter came the remains of one of the chickens. Tusky and I,very indignant, cooked her for supper. She was tough, all right. Wethought she might do better biled, so we put her in the pot over night.Nary bit. Well, then we got interested. Tusky kep' the fire goin' andI rustled greasewood. We cooked her three days and three nights. Atthe end of that time she was sort of pale and frazzled, but stillgivin' points to three-year-old jerky on cohesion and otheruncompromisin' forces of Nature. We buried her then, and went out backto recuperate.

  There we could gaze on the smilin' landscape, dotted by about fourhundred long-laigged chickens swoopin' here and there aftergrasshoppers.

  "We got to stop that," says I.

  "We can't," murmured Tusky, inspired. "We can't. It's born in 'em;it's a primal instinct, like the love of a mother for her young, and itcan't be eradicated! Them chickens is constructed by a divineprovidence for the express purpose of chasin' grasshoppers, jest as thebeaver is made for buildin' dams, and the cow-puncher is made forwhisky and faro-games. We can't keep 'em from it. If we was to shut'em in a dark cellar, they'd flop after imaginary grasshoppers in theirdreams, and die emaciated in the midst of plenty. Jimmy, we're up aginthe Cosmos, the oversoul--" Oh, he had the medicine tongue, Tusky had,and risin' on the wings of eloquence that way, he had me faded in tenminutes. In fifteen I was wedded solid to the notion that the bottomhad dropped out of the chicken business. I think now that if we'd shutthem hens up, we might have--still, I don't know; they was a good dealin what Tusky said.

  "Tuscarora Maxillary," says I, "did you ever stop to entertain thatbeautiful thought that if all the dumfoolishness possessed now by thehuman race could be gathered together, and lined up alongside of us,the first feller to come along would say to it 'Why, hello, Solomon!'"

  We quit the notion of chickens for profit right then and there, but wecouldn't quit the place. We hadn't much money, for one thing, and thenwe, kind of liked loafin' around and raisin' a little garden truck,and--oh, well, I might as well say so, we had a notion about placers inthe dry wash back of the house you know how it is. So we stayed on,and kept a-raisin' these long-laigs for the fun of it. I used to liketo watch 'em projectin' around, and I fed 'em twict a day about asusual.

  So Tusky and I lived alone there together, happy as ducks in Arizona.About onc't in a month somebody'd pike along the road. She wasn't muchof a road, generally more chuckholes than bumps, though sometimes itwas the other way around. Unless it happened to be a man horseback ormaybe a freighter without the fear of God in his soul, we didn't haveno words with them; they was too busy cussin' the highways andgenerally too mad for social discourses.

  One day early in the year, when the 'dobe mud made ruts to add to thebumps, one of these automobeels went past. It was the first Tusky andme had seen in them parts, so we run out to view her. Owin' to thehigh spots on the road, she looked like one of these movin' picters, asto blur and wobble; sounded like a cyclone mingled with cuss-words, andsmelt like hell on housecleanin' day.

  "Which them folks don't seem to be enjoyin' of the scenery," says I toTusky. "Do you reckon that there blue trail is smoke from the machineor remarks from the inhabitants thereof?"

  Tusky raised his head and sniffed long and inquirin'.

  "It's langwidge," says he. "Did you ever stop to think that all thewords in the dictionary stretched end to end would reach--"

  But at that minute I catched sight of somethin' brass lyin' in theroad. It proved to be a curled-up sort of horn with a rubber bulb onthe end. I squoze the bulb and jumped twenty foot over the remark shemade.

  "Jarred off the machine," says Tusky.

  "Oh, did it?" says I, my nerves still wrong. "I thought maybe it hadgrowed up from the soil like a toadstool."

  About this time we abolished the wire chicken corrals, because weneeded some of the wire. Them long-laigs thereupon scattered all overthe flat searchin' out their prey. When feed time come I had toscreech my lungs out gettin' of 'em in, and then sometimes they didn'tall hear. It was plumb discouragin', and I mighty nigh made up my mindto quit 'em, but they had come to be sort of pets, and I hated to turn'em down. It used to tickle Tusky almost to death to see me out therehollerin' away like an old bull-frog. He used to come out reg'lar,with his pipe lit, just to enjoy me. Finally I got mad and opened upon him.

  "Oh," he explains, "it just plumb amuses me to see the dumfool at hischildish work. Why don't you teach 'em to come to that brass horn, andsave your voice?"

  "Tusky," says I, with feelin', "sometimes you do seem to get a glimmerof real sense."

  Well, first off them chickens used to throw back-sommersets over thathorn. You have no idee how slow chickens is to learn things. I couldtell you things about chickens--say, this yere bluff about roostersbein' gallant is all wrong. I've watched 'em. When one finds a nicefeed he gobbles it so fast that the pieces foller down his throat likeyearlin's through a hole in the fence. It's only when he scratches upa measly one-grain quick-lunch that he calls up the hens and standsnoble and self-sacrificin' to one side. That ain't the point, whichis, that after two months I had them long-laigs so they'd dropeverythin' and come kitin' at the HONK-HONK of that horn. It was apurty sight to see 'em, sailin' in from all directions twenty foot at astride. I was proud of 'em, and named 'em the Honk-honk Breed. Wedidn't have no others, for by now the coyotes and bob-cats had nailedthe straight-breds. There wasn't no wild cat or coyote could catch oneof my Honk-honks, no, sir!

  We made a little on our placer--just enough to keep interested. Thenthe supervisors decided to fix our road, and what's more, THEY DONE IT!That's the only part in this yarn that's hard to believe, but, boys,you'll have to take it on faith. They ploughed her, and crowned her,and scraped her, and rolled her, and when they moved on we had thefanciest highway in the State of Californy.

  That noon--the day they called her a job--Tusky and I sat smokin' ourpipes as per usual, when way over the foothills we seen a cloud of dustand faint to our ears was bore a whizzin' sound. The chickens wasgathered under the cottonwood for the heat of the day, but they didn'tpay no attention. Then faint, but clear, we heard another of thembrass horns:

  "Honk! honk!" says it, and every one of them chickens woke up, andstood at attention.

  "Honk! honk!" it hollered clearer and nearer.

  Then over the hill come an automobeel, blowin' vigorous at every jump.

  "My God!" I yells to Tusky, kickin' over my chair, as I springs to myfeet. "Stop 'em! Stop 'em!"

  But it was too late. Out the gate sprinted them poor devoted chickens,and up the road they trailed in vain pursuit. The last we seen of 'emwas a mingling of dust and dim figgers goin' thirty mile an hour aftera disappearin' automobeel.

  That was all we seen for the moment. About three o'clock the firststraggler came limpin' in, his wings hangin', his mouth open, his eyesglazed with the heat. By sundown fourteen had returned. All the resthad disappeared utter; we never seen 'em again. I reckon they justnaturally run themselves into a sunstroke and died on the road.

  It takes a long time to learn a chicken a thing, but a heap longer tounlearn him. After that two or three of these yere automobeels went byevery day, all a-blowin' of their horns, all kickin' up a hell of adust. And every time them fourteen Honk-honks of mine took along after'em, just as I'd taught 'em to do, layin' to get to their corn whenthey caught up. No more of 'em died, but that fourteen did get intoelegant trainin'. After a while they got plumb to enjoyin' it. Whenyou come right down to it, a chicken don't have many amusements andrelaxations in this life. Searchin' for worms, chasin' grasshoppers,and wallerin' in the dust is about the limits of joys for chickens.

  It was sure a fine sight to see 'em after they got well into the game.About nine o'clock every mornin' they would saunter down to the rise ofthe road wher
e they would wait patient until a machine came along. Thenit would warm your heart to see the enthusiasm of them. With, exultantcackles of joy they'd trail in, reachin' out like quarter-horses, theirwings half spread out, their eyes beamin' with delight. At the lowerturn they'd quit. Then, after talkin' it over excited-like for a fewminutes, they'd calm down and wait for another.

  After a few months of this sort of trainin' they got purty good at it.I had one two-year-old rooster that made fifty-four mile an hour behindone of those sixty-horsepower Panhandles. When cars didn't come alongoften enough, they'd all turn out and chase jack-rabbits. They wasn'tmuch fun at that. After a short, brief sprint the rabbit would crouchdown plumb terrified, while the Honk-honks pulled off triumphal dancesaround his shrinkin' form.

  Our ranch got to be purty well known them days among automobeelists.The strength of their cars was horse-power, of course, but the speed ofthem they got to ratin' by chicken-power. Some of them used to comeway up from Los Angeles just to try out a new car along our road withthe Honk-honks for pace-makers. We charged them a little somethin',and then, too, we opened up the road-house and the bar, so we did purtywell. It wasn't necessary to work any longer at that bogus placer.Evenin's we sat around outside and swapped yarns, and I bragged on mychickens. The chickens would gather round close to listen.

  They liked to hear their praises sung, all right. You bet they sabe!The only reason a chicken, or any other critter, isn't intelligent isbecause he hasn't no chance to expand.

  Why, we used to run races with 'em. Some of us would hold two or morechickens back of a chalk line, and the starter'd blow the horn from ahundred yards to a mile away, dependin' on whether it was a sprint orfor distance. We had pools on the results, gave odds, made books, andkept records. After the thing got knowed we made money hand over fist.

  The stranger broke off abruptly and began to roll a cigarette.

  "What did you quit it for, then?" ventured Charley, out of the hushedsilence.

  "Pride," replied the stranger solemnly. "Haughtiness of spirit."

  "How so?" urged Charley, after a pause.

  "Them chickens," continued the stranger, after a moment, "stood aroundlistenin' to me a-braggin' of what superior fowls they was until theygot all puffed up. They wouldn't have nothin' whatever to do with theordinary chickens we brought in for eatin' purposes, but stood aroundlookin' bored when there wasn't no sport doin'. They got to be justlike that Four Hundred you read about in the papers. It was onecontinual round of grasshopper balls, race meets, and afternoonhen-parties. They got idle and haughty, just like folks. Then comerace suicide. They got to feelin' so aristocratic the hens wouldn'thave no eggs."

  Nobody dared say a word.

  "Windy Bill's snake--" began the narrator genially.

  "Stranger," broke in Windy Bill, with great emphasis, "as to thatsnake, I want you to understand this: yereafter in my estimation thatsnake is nothin' but an ornery angleworm!"