Friar Tuck Part 5

The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he recognized me at first glance, an'

his face lit up as though we had been out on some prank together an'

was the best pals in the world ever since. He wanted to know all I knew about the crowd that had started to string him up; and when I had finished paintin' 'em as black as I could, what did he do but say that he was goin' up their way to have a talk with 'em.

I told him right out that it was simply wastin' time; but he was set in his ways, so I decided to ride part way with him. He had two hosses along this trip, with his bed an' grub tied on the spare one; and on the second day we reached a little park just as the sun was setting.

It was one o' the most beautiful spots I ever saw, high enough to get a grand view off to the west, but all the rest shut in like a little room. He jumped from his hoss, had his saddle off as soon as I did, and also helped me with the pack. Then he looked about the place.

"What a grand cathedral this is, Happy!" he sez after a minute.

I didn't sense what he meant right at first, and went on makin' camp, until I happened to notice his expression. He was lookin' off to the west with the level rays of the sun as it sank down behind a distant range full in his face. The twilight had already fallen over the low land and all the hazy blues an' purples an' lavenders seemed to be floatin' in a misty sea, with here an' there the black shadows of peaks stickin' out like islands. It really was gorgeous when you stopped to give time to it.

It had been gruelin' hot all day, an' was just beginnin' to get cool an' restful, and I was feelin' the jerk of my appet.i.te; but when I noticed his face I forgot all about it. I stood a bit back of him, half watchin' him, an' half watchin' the landscape. Just as the sun sank, he raised his hands and chanted, with his great, soft voice booming out over the hills: "The Lord is in His holy temple-let all the earth keep silence before Him."

He bent his head, an' I bent mine-I'd have done it if the'd been a knife-point stickin' again' my chin. I tell you, it was solemn! It grew dark in a few moments an' the evening star came out in all her glory. It was a still, clear night without a speck in the air, and she was the only star in sight; but she made up for it, all right, by throwing out spikes a yard long.

He looked up at it for a moment, and then sang a simple little hymn beginnin', "Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh; shadows of the evening steal across the sky." It didn't have the ring to it of most of his songs; it was just close an' friendly, and filled a feller with peace. It spoke o' the little children, and those watchin' in pain, and the sailors tossin' on the deep blue sea, and those who planned evil-rounded 'em all up and bespoke a soothin' night for 'em; and I venture to say that it did a heap o' good.

Then he pitched in an' helped me get supper. This was his way; he didn't wear a long face and talk doleful; he was full o' life an'

boilin' over with it every minute, and he'd turn his hand to whatever came up an' joke an' be the best company in the world; but he never got far from the Lord; and when he'd stop to worship, why, the whole world seemed to stop and worship with him.

We had a merry meal and had started to wash up the dishes when he happened to glance up again. He had just been tellin' me a droll story about the first camp he'd ever made, and how he had tied on his pack so 'at the hoss couldn't comfortably use his hind legs and had bucked all his stuff into a crick, an' I was still laughin'; but when he looked up, my gaze followed his. It was plumb dark by now, an' that evening star was fair bustin' herself, and the light of it turned the peaks a glisteny, shadowy silver. He raised his hands again and chanted one beginning: "Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy name."

The' was a part in this one which called upon all the works o' the Lord to praise Him, and I glanced about to see what was happenin'. A faint breeze had sprung up and the spruce trees were bowin' over reverently, the ponies had raised their heads and their eyes were shinin' soft and bright in the firelight as they looked curiously at the singer; and as I stood there with a greasy skillet in my hand, something inside of me seemed to get down on its knees, to worship with the other works o' the Lord.

It was one o' those wonderful moments which seem to brand themselves on a feller's memory, and I can see it all now, and hear the Friar's voice as it floated away into the hills until it seemed to be caught up by other voices rather than to die away.

Well, we sat up about the fire a long time that night. He didn't fuss with me about my soul, or gettin' saved, or such things. I told him the things I didn't understand, and he told me the things he didn't understand; and I told him about some o' my sc.r.a.pes, and he told me about some o' his, and-well, I can't see where it was so different from a lot of other nights; but I suppose I'd be sitting there yet if he hadn't finally said it was bedtime.

He stood up and looked at the star again, and chanted the one which begins: "Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace"; after which he pulled off some of his clothes and crawled into the tarp. I crawled in beside him about two minutes later; but he was already asleep, while I lay there thinkin' for the best part of an hour.

Next mornin' he awakened me by singin', "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning"; and after that we got breakfast, and he started on to Ty Jones's while I turned back to the Diamond Dot. I didn't think he'd be able to do much with that gang; but after the talk I'd had with him the night before, I saw 'at they couldn't do much to him, either. I had got sort of a hint at his scheme of life; and there isn't much you can do to a man who doesn't value his flesh more 'n the Friar did his.

CHAPTER FOUR

TY JONES

Ty stood in his door as the Friar rode up, and he recognized him from the description Badger-face had turned in. Badger-face had been purty freely tongue-handled for not havin' lynched the Friar, and Ty Jones was disposed to tilt his welcome even farther back than usual; so he set his pack on the Friar. He had six dogs at this time, mastiffs with a wolf-cross in 'em which about filled out his notion o' what a dog ought to be.

The Friar had noticed the dogs, but he didn't have an idee that any man would set such creatures on another man; so he had dismounted to get a drink o' water from the crick, it havin' been a hot ride. The pack came surgin' down on him while he was lyin' flat an' drinkin' out o' the crick. His ponies were grazin' close by, and as soon as he saw 'at the dogs meant business, he vaulted into the saddle just in time to escape 'em.

They leaped at him as fast as they came up, and he hit 'em with the loaded end of his quirt as thorough as was possible. He was ridin' a line buckskin with a nervous disposition, and the pony kicked one or two on his own hook; but as the Friar leaned over in puttin' down the fifth, the sixth jumped from the opposite side, got a holt on his arm just at the shoulder, an' upset him out of the saddle. In the fall the dog's grip was broke an' he and the Friar faced each other for a moment, the Friar squattin' on one knee with his fists close to his throat, the dog crouchin' an' snarlin'.

As the dog sprang, the Friar upper-cut him in the throat with his left hand and when he straightened up, hit him over the heart with his right. He says that a dog's heart is poorly protected. Anything 'at didn't have steel over it was poorly protected when the Friar struck with his right in earnest. The dog was killed. One o' the dogs the pony had kicked was also killed, but the other four was able to get up and crawl away.

The Friar shook himself and went on to where Ty Jones and a few of his men were standin'. "That's a nice lively bunch o' dogs you have," sez he, smilin' as pleasant as usual; "but they need trainin'."

"They suit me all right," growls Ty, "except that they're too blame clumsy."

The Friar looked at him a minute, and then said drily, "Yes, that's what I said; they need trainin'."

Ty Jones scowled: "They don't get practice enough," sez he. "It's most generally known that I ain't a-hankerin' for company; so folks don't usually come here, unless they're sure of a welcome."

"I can well believe you," said the Friar, laughin', "and I hope the next time I come I'll be sure of a welcome."

"It's not likely," sez Ty shortly.

The Friar just stood and looked at him curiously. He didn't believe that Ty could really mean it. The' wasn't a streak of anything in his own make-up to throw light on a human actin' the way 'at Ty Jones acted; so he just stood and examined him. Ty stared back with a sneer on his face, and I'm sorry I couldn't have been there to see 'em eyein' each other.

"Do you really mean," sez the Friar at last, "that you hate your fellow humans so, that you'd drive a perfect stranger away from your door?"

"I haven't any use for hoss-thieves," sez Ty.

The Friars face lighted. "Oh, that's all right," sez he in a relieved tone. "As long as you have a special grievance again' me, why, it's perfectly natural for you to act up to it. It wouldn't be natural for most men to act up to it in just this way, but still it's normal; while for a man to set his dogs on a total stranger would be monstrous. I'm glad to know 'at you had some excuse; but as far as hoss-stealin' goes, that roan is back with your band again. I saw him as I came along."

Ty was somewhat flabbergasted. He wasn't used to havin' folks try out his conduct and comment on it right to his face; and especially was he shocked to have his morals praised by a preacher. He knew 'at such a reception as had just been handed to the Friar would have taken the starch out o' most men an' filled 'em with a desire for revenge ever after; but he could see that the Friar was not thinkin' of what had been handed to him, he was actually interested in himself, Ty Jones, and was honestly tryin' to see how it was possible for such a condition to exist; and this set Ty Jones back on his haunches for true.

"For all time to come," he sez slow and raspy, "I want you to leave my stuff alone. If you ever catch up and ride one of my hosses again, I'll get your hide; and I don't even want you on my land."

Then the Friar stiffened up; any one in the world, or any thing, had the right to impose upon the Friar as a man; but when they tried to interfere with what he spoke of as his callin', why, he swelled up noticeable. The Friar's humility was genuine, all right; but it was about four times stiffer an' spikier than any pride I've ever met up with yet.

"I shall not ride your hosses," sez he, scornful, "nor shall I tread upon your land, nor shall I breathe your air, nor drink your water; but in the future, as in the past, I shall use for the Lord only those things which belong to the Lord. The things which are the Lord's were His from the beginning, the things which you call yours are merely entrusted to your care for a day or an hour or a moment. I do not covet your paltry treasures, I covet your soul and I intend to fight you for it from this day forward."

The Friar spoke in a low, earnest tone; and Ty Jones stared at him. Ya know how earnest an insane man gets? Well, the' was something o' this in the Friar when he was talkin' business. You felt that he believed that what he was sayin' was the truth, and you felt that if it was the truth, it was mighty well worth heedin', and you also felt that in spite of its bein' so everlastin' different from the usual view o'

things, it might actually be the truth after all and a risky thing to pa.s.s up careless.

After waitin' a minute without gettin' a reply, the Friar turned on his heel to walk away, stumbled, and slipped to the ground, and then they noticed a pool of blood which had dripped from him as he stood.

He had forgotten that the dog had torn him, an' the men had looked into his eyes, as men always did when he talked, and they had forgot it, too. Now, when he fell, Olaf the Swede stepped forward to help him up.

Olaf was the best man 'at Ty Jones had, from Ty's own standpoint. Ty had happened to be over at Skelty's one night when Skelty was givin' a dance. Skelty had six girls at this time, an' he used to give a dance about once a week. Along about midnight, they got to be purty lively affairs. This night Skelty had bragged what a fine shot he was, an'

the boys were kiddin' him about it, because Skelty wasn't no shot at all as a rule. It was a moonlight night, and while they was sheepin'

Skelty about his shootin', two strangers rode up, tied their hosses to the corral, an' started up the path toward the door.

Skelty looked at 'em an' sez, "Why, if I had a mind to, I could pick one o' those fellers off with this gun as easy as I could scratch my nose." He pulled his gun and held it over his shoulder.

All the boys fair hooted, an' Skelty dropped his gun an' shot one o'

the strangers dead in his tracks. The other came along on the run with Skelty shootin' at him as fast as he could pop; but he only shot him once, through the leg, and he limped in an' made for Skelty with his bare hands. Skelty hit him in the forehead, knocked him down an'

jumped on him. He kept on beatin' him over the head until the stranger managed to get a grip on his wrists. He held one hand still, an'

puttin' the other into his mouth, bit off the thumb.

The's somethin' about bein' bit on the thumb which melts a man's nerve; and in about five minutes, the stranger had Skelty's head between his knees, and was makin' him eat his own gun. It must have been a hideous sight! Some say that he actually did make Skelty eat it, and some say that he only tore through the throat; but anyway, Skelty didn't quite survive it, and Ty Jones hired the stranger, which was Olaf the Swede.

Olaf was one o' those Swedes which seem a mite too big for their skins. The bones in his head stuck out, his jaws stuck out prodigious, his shoulders stuck out, his hands stuck out-he fair loomed up and seemed to crowd the landscape, and he was stouter 'n a bull. When he let himself go he allus broke somethin'; but he had a soft streak in him for animals, an' Ty never could break him from bein' gentle with hosses, nor keep him from pettin' the dogs once in a while. Olaf hadn't no more morals 'n a snake at this time, an' when it came to dealin' with humans, he suited Ty to the minute; but he just simply wouldn't torture an animal, and that was the end of it. Olaf wasn't a talkin' man; he never used a word where a grunt would do, and he was miserly about them; but he certainly was set in his ways.

The Friar hadn't fainted, he had just gone dizzy; so when Olaf gave him a lift he got to his feet and walked to his horse. He allus carried some liniment an' such in his saddle bags, an' he pulled off his shirt and cleaned out the wound and tied it up, with Olaf standin'

by and tryin' to help. Now, it made something of a murmur, when the Friar took off his shirt. In the first place, the dog had give him an awful tear, and for the rest, the Friar was a wonderful sight to behold. He was as strong as Olaf without bein' bulgey, and his skin was as white and smooth as ivory. He was all curves and tapers with medium small hands and feet, and a throat clean cut and shapely like the throat of a high-bred mare. Olaf looked at him, and nodded his head solemnly. Badger-face hated Olaf, because Olaf had a curious way of estimatin' things and havin' 'em turn out to be so, which made Ty Jones put faith in what Olaf said, over and above what any one else said.