Curly Part 20

"No," says I, "that would be impossible. I only congratulate you on the whole-hearted generous way you a.s.sisted a dest.i.tute judge, and them poor hungry witnesses."

"Easy, my friend," says the Marshal, "I'm 'most deaf, but if I hear any contempts of court----"

"If you're feeling any contempt of court, Mr. City Marshal, you shares my emotions. And you, gentlemen," I turned on the crowd, "if you feel any shame for the city and for any of the present company, I can only say I share that shame most bitter."

The air was getting sultry, with just a faint flicker of guns. "If any of you gentlemen," says I, "is feeling unwell for pills, just let him step outside with me, and I'll prescribe. If not, excuse me, for I smell something dead in this company, and I'm aiming to refresh my nose in the open." I paced back, step by step, through the door. "My address," says I, "if I live, will be Las Salinas, and there you'll find a man who cayn't see to tell the truth, but can see a whole lot to shoot.

Gentlemen, _adios_!"

So I got my horse, swung to the saddle, and walked him backwards until I was out of range, but n.o.body offered himself up to serve for my target.

I reckon that the funeral ceremonies in honour of the late Mr. Ryan and friends made an event in the annals of Grave City. The caskets and wreaths, the hea.r.s.es and carriages, the band and procession, made the people feel uplifted with solemn pride and haughty to strangers for a full month afterwards. As the Weekly Obituary pointed out in large type, the occasion was great, and a city which had flourished for twenty-two prosperous years was able to give points to mere mushroom towns like Bisley, Benson, and Lordsburgh. The newspapers in those three rival burghs made light of the affair in a way which displayed mean envy and a nasty, carping spirit.

As for me, I had got myself disliked a whole lot, so I felt it would be most decent not to attend the exercises. I had a feeling that if called upon to reply to any shooting, I might disturb the harmony which should always attend a scene of public grief. Besides that, it fell to me to arrange the burial of my old patrone, which it was difficult, the preachers, coffins, hea.r.s.es, carriages, and all the funeral fixtures being engaged that day, and likewise also the graveyard. I had to go without. Moreover, the cowboys were mostly away at work on the round-up, so I only caught eight of my tribe to help me. We laid our friend on a blanket, then four of us gripped the corners up to the horns of our saddles and rode slow, the other boys coming behind until we got to the place where we had dug the grave. There was only one man of us all well educated, and that was Monte, who had been raised for a preacher before he broke loose to punch cows. Monte was shot in the face, weak, and feverish, so I had to feed him whiskey before he felt proud enough for his job. He read the service, the rest of us standing round, and when he was through we fired a volley before we filled the grave and piled rocks to keep off wild animals. That was a proper stockman's funeral, away out on a hilltop in the desert, and I reckon the Great Father in heaven knew we had done our best in a brave man's honour.

CHAPTER XVI

ARRANGING FOR MORE TROUBLE

See what the geography-book says about Arizona--the same size as England? Shucks! There's homely ignorance from an office duck who dreams he can use a tape-measure to size up a desert. In England, if you wander round after dark, you're apt to fall off and get wet in the ocean. But you can sure stray off the edge of Arizona without the least chance of a wet, because the desert just rolls on more continuous than ever, till you're due to die of thirst. There's a practical difference in size, which your book theorist wouldn't be apt to survive.

Again, by the books we're a community of sixty thousand pink and white citizens, all purely yearning for right and justice. By the facts, we're really split up into two herds--the town men, who use the law, and the range men, who naturally prefer a six-gun.

I aim politely to say the best I can for the town men. You see, if a gentleman feels that he's just got to waltz in and rob the graves of his own parents, one may not understand his symptoms, but one has to try and think of him charitable. Our town men has mostly been found out acting self-indulgent, and been chased around by the police. That's why they flocked to Arizona, which is convenient at the Gates of Hades, with the Breath of Flame by way of excuse for a climate. There's a sort of comfortable, smell-your-future-home feeling about old Arizona which attracts such ducks. Anywhere else they would get their necks stretched, but in Arizona they can elect judges and police out of their own tribe.

Then if they happen to indulge in a little bigamy, or thieving, or shooting, the lawyers get them off. They love the law which proves them up innocent, so you may cla.s.s them all as law-abiding citizens.

Now as to us plainsmen. The bad side of us is plumb apparent to the naked eye, and if there's a good side it's known to our friends, not advertised to strangers. We ain't claiming to be law-abiding citizens when we know the judge for a sure-thing politician, the lawyers for runaway gaol-birds, and the jury all for sale at the rate of a dollar a thief. We're lawless, sure enough, until we see the law dealt out by honest men.

Are you fed up with one-eyed sermons from a cow-thief? Well, suppose we apply the facts.

Here was two boys of our tribe bogged down to their withers in trouble.

The town men howled for their blood, young Ryan offered plenty wealth for their raw scalps, the law claimed them for meat--and every plainsman on the range got right up on his hind legs for war. To our way of thinking robbery and killing are bad medicine, but innocent, holy joys compared with Arizona law. So naturally by twos and threes the punchers quit work on the round-up to come and smell at old Grave City and find out why she'd got a swollen head. They hung around saloons, projecting to see if something had gone wrong with the local breed of whisky; they gathered and made war-talk in the street; they came around me, wanting to know whether or not to break out and eat that town.

"Boys," says I, "if you-all stalks round with mean eyes and dangerous smiles, these here citizens is going to hole up in their cyclone cellars and send for the army. We don't want the army messing around our game.

Just you whirl in now and play signs of peace, and make good medicine.

Lay low, give yo' ponies a strong feed--and wait for the night."

"Chalkeye," says one of them, "is this to be war?"

"If it was war," I told him, "I'd first send you home to yo' mother. No, kid, this is going to be smooth peace, but we're going to knock Grave City cold with astonishment. Get plenty ammunition, feed yo' horse, and wait my gathering howl for a signal."

It was high noon when Captain McCalmont came straying down into Main Street on a "painted" horse. At Ryan's livery stable he allowed he was an unworthy minister, wanting water and feed for the piebald pony. At the Delmonico pie foundry he let out that he craved for sausages, mashed potatoes, and green tea. Then he had a basin of bread-and-milk, while he told the dish-slinger a few solemn truths. Apple-pie, says he, was a delusion; eating tobacco was a snare; intoxicating drink was only vanity on the lips, but raging wild-cats to the inward parts. The proper doctrine, says he, is to eschew all evil, but the wicked man leaves out that saving syllable _es_, and chews evil all the time.

Then he allowed that a toothpick would do him no harm, paid for his meal, and strayed out across the street to where I stood dealing peace among the cowboys.

"Little sinners," says he, "I perceive that you have fallen into evil company. This Chalkeye man is a pernicious influence, which would corrupt the morals of a grizzly bear. Flee from this Chalkeye person."

They wanted to take him into the nearest saloon and enjoy him for the rest of the day.

"Kin you dance?" says one of the boys, aiming a gun at his toes. "Whirl right in and dance!"

McCalmont walked right at him, eye to eye, and that same cowboy went as white as death.

"Shall I abate you," says the preacher, "in the midst of yo' sins? You done wrong--you done ate tobacco and chocolate candy mixed, then poured on hot cawfee, rye whisky, and an ice-cream soda; and now yo're white as a corpse with mixed sins. Go take a pill, my son, and repent before yo're sick."

The boys watched that preacher smiling, and went tame as kittens. The tone of his voice just froze them up, his smile sc.r.a.ped their young bones, his eyes looked death.

"Come, Chalkeye," says he, and led me off into the "Spur" saloon. There he threw a glance to Cranky Joe, the bar-keep, and put his finger on Mutiny Robertson, a smuggler who sat playing poker. Cranky put someone in charge of the bar, Mutiny pa.s.sed his game to a friend of his, and both of them followed meek as sheep, while the preacher led on into the backyard. From there we worked round the back street to Ryan's stable, McCalmont keeping up his baby-talk for the sake of pa.s.sing strangers.

"Ah," says he, "my young friends, these deleterious pleasures change peaceful stomachs into seats of war; but the sausage soothes, the milk a.s.suages, the pie persuades, and b'ar sign is sure good to fill up corners. Beware of vanities, and when we get to the stable-yard let Mutiny here stand guard in case I'm attacked, while I expound the blessedness of simple things. Well, here we are--you Mutiny, fall back, you lop-eared mongrel; I'm dying for a chew of 'baccy, and I'd give my off lung for a c.o.c.ktail."

Mutiny stood guard, Cranky hustled off to get liquor.

"I got a line of retreat from here," says Captain McCalmont, "and a saddled hawss within reach. No, not that painted plug, but a sure crackerjack, which can burn the trail if I'm chased. How's things, you Chalkeye?"

"Clouding for storm," says I; "the air's a-crackling."

"Why for?"

I told him about his son, holed up in gaol with Jim at La Morita.

"I been projecting around thar last night"--the Captain was eating my plug tobacco like bread. "Was it you sent that doctor to Curly's wound?"

"Sure thing, sir. Why?"

He grabbed my paw. "You're white all through," says he; "that kid is all I care for in this world."

"Can they escape?"

"I dropped a crowbar through the window-hole."

"The guards will be full curious when they hear the crowbar thumping."

"That's what's the matter. I sent some Holy Crawss greasers to feed them liquor, games, and music--'specially music."

"Will the Frontier Guards miss the big blood money for the sake of a flirt at skin games?"

"I reckon they'll watch, and the crowbar's going to be heard. So I made a run to see you. Here comes Cranky Joe."

"You trust him?"

"The sight of him makes my fur crawl."

"Here, Captain," says Cranky, offering the c.o.c.ktail; but the outlaw bored him through with a cool eye.

"My name," says he, "is the Reverend Perkins, and don't you forget. Now you'll send Mutiny here, and you'll stand on guard yourself. If I get captured, a friend of mine is to send your present name and address to the penitentiary, where you're wanted most--so here's to your freedom."