Wild Western Tales 2: 101 Classic Western Stories Vol. 2 (Civitas Library Classics)

by Various

  "'Does it go as it lays?' asks Dead Shot, it bein' double the limit.

  "'It goes,' says Cherokee, never movin' a muscle.

  "One turn, an' the kyards falls 'trey-queen.' Nell shoves four hundred across to match up with Dead Shot's four hundred.

  "'An' now?' Dead Shot asks.

  "'I'll turn for it,' Cherokee responds.

  "It's yere that Dead Shot's luck goes back on him. The turn comes 'queen-jack,' an' Nell rakes down the eight hundred.

  "Dead Shot's hand goes to the butt of his gun.

  "'I've been robbed,' he growls; 'thar's fifty-three kyards in that deck.'

  "Cherokee's on his feet, his eyes like two steel p'ints, gun half drawed. But Nell's as quick. Her hand's on Cherokee's, an' she keeps his gun whar it belongs.

  "'Steady!' she says; 'can't you see he's only coaxin' you to bump him off?' Then, with her face full on Dead Shot, she continyoos: 'It won't do, Dead Shot; it won't do none! You-all can't get it handed to you yere! You're in the wrong shop; you-all ought to try next door!' An' Nell p'ints with her little thumb through the wall to the post office.

  "Dead Shot stands thar the color of seegyar ashes, while Cherokee settles ca'mly back in his cha'r. Cherokee's face is as bar' of expression as a blank piece of paper, as he runs his eye along the lay-out, makin' ready for the next turn. Thar's mebby a dozen of us playin', but not a word is spoke. Everyone is onto Dead Shot's little game, the moment Nell begins to talk.

  "Matters seems to hang on centers, ontil Nell stretches across an' lays her baby hand on Dead Shot's:

  "'Thar ain't a soul in sight,' she says, mighty soft an' good, 'but what's your friend, Dead Shot.'

  "Dead Shot, pale as a candle, wheels toward the door.

  "'Pore Dead Shot!' murmurs Nell, the tears in her eyes, to that extent she has to ask Boggs to take her place as lookout.

  "Four hours goes by, an' thar's the poundin' of a pony's hoofs, an' the creak of saddle-leathers, out in front. It's the Red Dog chief, who's come lookin' for Enright.

  "They confabs a minute or two at a table to the r'ar, an' then Enright calls Peets over.

  "'Dead Shot's gone an' got himse'f downed,' he says.

  "'It's on the squar' gents,' explains the Red Dog chief; 'Dead Shot'll say so himself. He jest nacherally comes huntin' it.'

  "It looks like Dead Shot, after that failure with Cherokee in the Red Light, p'ints across for Red Dog. He searches out a party who's called the Lightnin' Bug, on account of the spontaneous character of his six-shooter. Dead Shot finds the Lightnin' Bug talkin' with two fellow gents. He listens awhile, an' then takes charge of the conversation.

  "'Bug,' he says, raisin' his voice like it's a challenge--'Bug, only I'm afraid folks'll string you up a whole lot, I'd say it's you who stood up the stage last week in Apache Canyon. Also'--an' yere Dead Shot takes to gropin' about in his jeans, same as if he's feelin' for a knife--'it's mighty customary with me, on occasions sech as this, to cut off the y'ears of----'

  "Dead Shot stops short, by reason of a bullet from the Bug's pistol which lodges in his lungs.

  "When Peets an' Enright finds him, he's spread out on the Red Dog chief's blankets, coughin' blood, with the sorrow-stricken Bug proppin' him up one moment to drink water, an' sheddin' tears over him the next, alternate.

  "The Red Dog chief leads out the weepin' Bug, who's lamentin' mighty grievous, an' leaves Enright an' Peets with Dead Shot.

  "'It's all right, gents,' whispers Dead Shot; 'I comes lookin' for it, an' I gets it. Likewise, she ain't to blame; it's me. I oughtn't to have married her that time--she only a girl, an' me a full-growed man who should 'av had sense for both.'

  "'That's no lie,' says Peets, an' Dead Shot gives him a grateful look.

  "'No,' he goes on, 'she's too fine, too high--I wasn't her breed. An' I ought to have seen it.' Yere he has a tussle to hang on.

  "Peets pours him out some whiskey.

  "'It's licker, ain't it?' Dead Shot gasps, sniffin' the glass. 'I'm for water, Doc, licker makin' me that ornery.'

  "'Down with it,' urges Peets. 'Which, if I'm a jedge, you'll pack in long before you're due to start anything extra serious, even if you drinkt a gallon.'

  "'Shore!' agrees Dead Shot, as though the idee brings him relief. 'For a moment it slips my mind about me bein' plugged. But as I'm sayin', gents, don't blame her. An' don't blame him. I has my chance, an' has it all framed up, too, when I crosses up with 'em recent over in Tucson, to kill 'em both. But I can't do it, gents. The six-shooter at sech a time's played out. That's straight; it don't fill the bill; it ain't adequate, that a-way. So all I can do is feel sorry for 'em, an' never let 'em know I knows. For, after all, it ain't their fault, it's mine. You sports see that, don't you? She's never meant for me, bein' too fine; an', me a man, I ought to have knowed.'

  "Dead Shot ceases talkin', an' Enright glances at Peets. Peets shakes his head plenty sorrowful.

  "'Go on,' he says to Dead Shot; 'you-all wants us to do--what?'

  "'Thar you be!' an' at the sound of Peets' voice Dead Shot's mind comes creepin' back to camp. 'She'll be happy with him--they havin' so much in common--an' him an' her bein' eddicated that a-way--an' him havin' traveled a whole lot! An' this yere's what I wants, gents. I wants you-all, as a kindness to me an' in a friendly way--seein' I can't stay none to look-out the play myse'f--to promise to sort o' supervise round an' put them nuptials over right. I takes time by the forelock an' sends to Tucson for a sky-pilot back two days ago. Bar accidents, he'll be in camp by to-morry. He can work in at the funeral, too, an' make it a whipsaw.'

  "Dead Shot turns his eyes on Enright. It's always so about our old chief; every party who's in trouble heads for him like a coyote for a camp fire.

  "'You'll shore see that he marries her?--Promise!'

  "Thar's a quaver in Dead Shot's voice, Peets tells me, that's like a pra'r.

  "'Thar's my hand, Dead Shot,' says Enright, who's chokin' a little. 'So far as the letter man's concerned, it'll be the altar or the windmill, Jack Moore an' a lariat or that preacher party you refers to.'

  "Dead Shot's gettin' mighty weak. After Enright promises he leans back like he's takin' a rest. He's so still they're beginnin' to figger he's done cashed in; but all at once he starts up like he's overlooked some bet, an' has turned back from eternity to tend to it.

  "'About Cherokee an' his box,' he whispers; 'that's a lyin' bluff I makes. Tell him I don't mean nothin'; I'm only out to draw his fire.'

  "After this Dead Shot only rouses once. His voice ain't more'n a sigh.

  "'I forgets to tell you,' he says, 'to give her my love. An' you say, too, that I'm bumped off like snuffin' out a candle--too plumb quick for her to get yere. An' don't blame her, gents; it's not her fault, it's mine.'

  "It's the week after the fooneral. The postmaster's still in town, partly by nacheral preference, partly because Enright notifies Jack Moore to ride herd on him, an' fill him as full of lead as a bag of bullets in event he ondertakes to go stampedin' off.

  "In the Red Light the seventh evenin' Enright rounds up Peets.

  "'Doc,' he says, 'a month would be more respect'ble, but this yere's beginnin' to tell on me.'

  "'Besides,' Peets chips in, by way of he'pin' Enright out, 'that preacher sharp corraled over to Missis Rucker's is gettin' restless. Onless we side-lines or puts hobbles on that divine we-all can't expect to go holdin' him much longer.'

  "Enright leads the way to the r'ar wareroom of the Noo York store, which bein' whar the stranglers holds their meetin's is Wolfville's hall of jestice. After licker is brought Enright sends Jack Moore for the postmaster, who comes in lookin' plenty white. Missis Rucker brings over the divine; an' next Dead Shot's widow--she's plumb lovely in black--appears on the arm of Peets, who goes in person.

  "Thar's a question in the widow's eye, like she don't onderstand.

  "'Roll your game,' says Enright to the preacher sharp.

  "It's yere an' now Dead Shot's widow fully b'ars out that ph
ilos'pher who announces so plumb cold, that a-way, that women's the sublimation of the onexpected. Jack Moore's jest beginnin' to manoover that recreant public servant into p'sition on the widow's left hand, so's he can be married to the best advantage, an' the preacher sharp's gettin' out an' openin' his book of rooles, when the widow draws back.

  "P'intin' at the bridegroom postmaster, same as if he's a stingin' lizard, she addresses Enright.

  "'Whatever's the meanin' of this?'

  "'Merely the croode preelim'naries, Ma'am,' Enright explains, 'to what we-all trusts will prove a fa'rly deesir'ble weddin'.'

  "'Me marry him?' an' the onmitigated scorn that relict exhibits, to say nothin' of her tone of voice, shore makes the postmaster bridegroom feel chagrined.

  "'You'll pardon us, Ma'am,' returns Enright, soft an' depreecatory, tryin' to get her feelin's bedded down, 'which you'll shore pardon us if in our dullness we misreads your sentiments. You see, the notion gets somehow proned into us that you wants this party. Which if we makes a mistake, by way of repa'rin' that error, let me say that if thar's any one else in sight whom you preefers, an' who's s'fficiently single an' yoothful to render him el'gible for wedlock,'--yere Enright takes in Boggs an' Texas with his gaze, wharat Texas grows as green-eyed as a cornered bobcat--'he's yours, Ma'am, on your p'intin' him out.'

  "'Which I don't want to marry no one,' cries the widow, commencin' to sob. 'An' as for marryin' him speshul'--yere she glances at the bridegroom postmaster in sech a hot an' drastic way he's left shrivellin' in his own shame--'I'd sooner live an' die the widow of Dead Shot Abner Baker than be the wife of a cornfield full of sech.'

  "Everybody stares, an' Enright takes a modicum of Old Jordan.

  "'You don't deeserve this none,' he says at last, turnin' to the postmaster bridegroom. 'Onder the circumstances, however, thar's nothin' left for me to do as cha'rman but deeclar' this yere weddin' a misdeal.'

  "Texas is plumb disgusted.

  "'Don't some folks have nigger luck, Dan?' he says.

  "Later, after thinkin' things up an' down in his mind, Texas takes ombrage at Enright's invitin' Dead Shot's widow to look him an' Boggs over that a-way, an' take her pick.

  "'Which sech plays don't stand ace-high with me, Sam,' Texas says--'you tryin' to auction me off like you does. Even a stranger, with a half-way hooman heart, after hearin' my story would say that I already suffers enough. An' yet you, who calls yourse'f my friend, does all that lays in your callous power to thrust me back into torment.'

  "'Texas,' replies Enright, like he's bore about all he can, 'you shorely worries me with your conceit. If you-all won't take my word, then go take a good hard look at yourse'f in the glass. Thar's never the slightest risk, as everybody but you yourse'f sees plainly, of that lady or any other lady takin' you.'

  "'You thinks not?' asks Texas, plenty incensed.

  "'Which I knows not. No lady's lot ain't quite that desp'rate.'

  "'Well,' returns Texas, after a pause, his face expressin' his soreness, 'I'm yere to say, Sam, I don't agree with you, none whatever. You forgets that I've already been took in wedlock bonds by one lady. An' while that Laredo wife of mine is hard an' crooel, all Texas knows she's plumb partic'lar. Also, no one ever yet comes pirootin' up the trail who doubts her taste.'

  "It's the evenin' before the preacher sharp goes back to Tucson, when Enright edges him off into a corner of the O. K. dinin' room.

  "'Parson,' says Enright, lookin' like he's a heap bothered about somethin'--'parson, in addition to your little game as a preacher that a-way, you don't happen to be up none on table-tippin' or sperit rappin', same as them mediums, do you?'

  "'Which I shore don't,' replies the preacher sharp, archin' his neck, indignant. 'Likewise, I regyards them cer'monials you alloodes to as satantic in their or'gin.'

  "'Doubtless, parson,' returns Enright, some disapp'inted, 'doubtless. Still, if you-all but counts the rings on my horns, as givin' some impression of the years I've lived an' what troubles I've probably gone through, you'll onderstand that I ain't takin' Satan no more serious than a empty six-shooter. But the mere trooth is, parson, I'm pestered by them promises I makes deeceased. Which I'd give a yellow stack to get put next to Dead Shot's sperit long enough to explain concernin' them nuptials, an' make cl'ar jest how me an' the Doc falls down.'"

  Contents

  HOW THE MOCKING BIRD WAS WON

  By Alfred Henry Lewis

  "Myst'ries?

  "We lives surrounded by 'em. Look whar you will, nacher has a ace buried. Take dogs, now: Why is it when one of 'em, daylight or dark, cuts the trail of a anamile, he never makes the fool mistake of back-trackin' it, but is shore to run his game the way it's movin'? There must be some kind of head-an'-tail to the scent, that a-way, to give the dog the hunch. Myst'ry!--all myst'ry! The more a gent goes messin' 'round for s'lootions, the more he's taught hoomility an' that he ain't knee-high to toads.

  "An' yet when it comes to things myster'ous everything else is bound to go to the diskyard compared to a lady's heart. Of course, I speaks only in a sperit of philos'phy, an' not as one who's suffered. I never myse'f am able pers'nal to approach closter to a lady's heart than across the street. Peets once reemarks that all trails leads to Rome. In that business of trails a lady's heart has got Rome left standin' sideways. Not only does every trail lead tharunto, but thar's sech a thing as goin' cross-lots. Take gettin' in love; thar's as many ways as cookin' eggs. While you'll see gents who goes skallyhootin' into that dulcet condition as straight as a arrer, thar's others who sidles in, an' still others who backs in. I even knows a boy who shoots his way in.

  "Which the lady in this case is the Mockin' Bird. That Mockin' Bird maiden has wooers by onbounded scores, but holds herse'f as shy an' as much aloof as if she's a mountain sheep. Not one can get near enough to her to give her a ripe peach. Along comes the eboolient Turkey Track, bulges headlong into her dest'nies, takes to menacin' at her with a gun an', final, to bombardin' her outright, an'--love an' heart an' hand--she comes a-runnin'.

  "Wolfville's without that last evidence of advancement, a callaboose. It bein' inconvenient to shoot up or lynch everybody who infringes our rooles, Jack Moore invents a convincin' but innocuous punishment for minor offenders. Endorsed by Enright, he established a water trough--it's big enough to swim a dog--over by the windmill; an' when some perfervid cow-puncher, sufferin' from a overdose of nosepaint, takes to aggravatin' 'round Moore swashes him about in the trough some profoose, ontil he gives his word to live a happier an' a better life.

  "It's like magic the way that water trough works. No matter how gala some pronghorn of a cowboy may feel, it shore lets the whey out of him. Given the most voylent, it's only a matter of minutes before he's soaked into quietood. Enright himse'f says Moore's entitled to a monyooment for the idee.

  "Turkey Track's name is Ford, Tom Ford, but workin' that a-way for the Turkey Track outfit he nacherally gets renamed for the brand. Turkey Track an' two boon companions has been goin' to an' fro from the Red Light to the Dance Hall, ontil by virchoo of a over-accumyoolation of licker they're beginnin' to step some high. Also, they takes to upliftin' their tired souls with yells, an' blazin' away at froote cans with their six-shooters.

  "It gets so that Enright tells Moore to give 'em a call-down.

  "'What them boys does,' says Enright, 'is done harmless an' light-hearted to be shore, an' nothin' radic'lly wrong is either aimed at or meant; but all the same, Jack, it's no more'n proodence to go knock their horns off. It ain't what them yooths is doin', but what they may be led to do, which makes the danger. It's like old Deacon Sopris at the Cumberland Methodist class meetin' says of kyard-playin'. "It ain't," explains the deacon, "that thar's any harm in the children playin' seven-up around the kitchen table of a winter's evenin' for grains of corn, but seven-up persisted in is shore to lead to dancin'." An' so with these young merry-makers. They'll keep on slamin' away at empty bottles an' former tomatter cans that a-way, ontil the more seedate element ob
jects, an' somebody gets downed. Don't you agree with me, Doc?'

  "'Nothin' shorer!' says Peets.

  "Moore corrals Turkey Track an' his fellow revellers, an' tosses off a few fiats.

  "'Quit that whoopin' an' shootin', boys,' says Moore. 'Likewise, keep your hardware in your belts, as more deecorous. So shore as I finds a gun in any of your hands ag'in, I'll shoot it out.'

  "Turkey Track an' his compadres don't say nothin' back. They savvys about the water trough, an' ain't hungerin' none to have their ardor dampened in no sech fashion. So they blinks an' winks like a passel of squinch owls, but never onbuckles in no argyooment. All the same, it irks 'em a whole lot, an' after Moore reetires they begins mod'rate to arch their necks an' expand 'round a little.

  "They allows--talkin' among themselves in a quer'lous way--that they ain't hurtin' no one, an' for Moore to come shovin' 'round an' lecturin' on etiquette is a conceited exhibition of authority as offensive as it is onjest. Thar's doubts, too, about it's bein' constitootional.

  "'Whatever does that jim-crow sp'ile-sport of a marshal mean?' says Turkey Track. 'It looks like he's not only deefyin' the organic law of this country, but puttin' on a heap of dog. Does he reckon this yere camp's a church?'

  "'I moves we treats them mandates,' says one of the boys, who's a rider for the G-bar ranch, 'with merited contempt.'

  "'As how?' asks the third, who belongs with the Four-J brand. 'You ain't so locoed as to s'ggest we-all t'ars person'ly into this Jack Moore marshal none I hopes?'

  "'Which you fills me with disgust!' says the other, nettled at the idee of pawin' the onprofit'ble grass 'round Moore; 'but whatever's the matter with goin' up to the far end of the street, an' w'irl an' come squanderin' back jest a shootin'?'

  "'Great!' says Turkey Track, applaudin' the scheme. 'Which we-all nacherally shoots up their old prairie dog town, same as if it's a Mexican plaza, an' then jogs on to our ranches, all triumphant an' comfortable.'