Red Saunders' Pets and Other Critters Part 17

[Ill.u.s.tration: Twenty-five foot of a drop, clear, to ice-water--wow!]

"Now, you old fool!" says I, when I slapped him ash.o.r.e. "Look at you!

Just see what trouble you make! Scarin' people's horses to death and fallin' in the creek and havin' to be hauled out! Why don't you wear pants and act like a Christian? Ain't you ashamed to go around in little girl's clothes at your age? What in the devil are you doing out here, anyhow?"

With this he bust out cryin', wavin' his hands and roarin' and yellin', with tears and ice-water runnin' down his face.

"Well!" says I; "I don't catch you, spot nor colour, any stage of the deal. You'd have me countin' my fingers in no time. I'm goin' to sit still and see what's next."

By-and-by he got the best of his emotions, come over to me and blew a lot of words across my ears. From a familiar sound here and there, I gathered he was trying to hold up the American language; but it must have been the brand Columbus found on his first vacation, for I couldn't squeeze any information out of it. I shook my head, and he spread his teeth and jumped loose again.

"No use," says I. "I dare say you understand, but the only clue I have to those sounds is that you've eat something that ain't agreed with you. Habla V. Espanol?"

"Si, senor!" says he. So then we got at it, although it wasn't smooth skidding, either; for my Spanish was the good old Castilian I'd learned in Panama, whilst his was a mixture of Greaser, sheepblat, and Apache, flavoured with a Scotch brogue that would smoke the taste of whiskey at a thousand yards.

He explained that while he wasn't fully acquainted with my reasons for a.s.sault-and-batterin' him in the first place, he was deeply grateful for my savin' his life in the second place.

"Yes," says I. "But why do you cry?"

Well, that was because his feelin's was moved. I'll admit that if I sat on a rock in the Bill Williams Mountains, thinking myself the only two-legged critter around, and somebody come and kicked my bagpipes in the air and dog-ra.s.sled me down forty rod of hillside, afterwards fishing me out of the drink, my feelin's would be moved too, but not in that way. And at the time I'm telling you about, I was young--so young it makes me tremble to think of it--and I knew a heap of things I don't know now. For this I thought slightin' of Grandma, notwithstanding the tall opposition he put up. Somehow I couldn't seem to cut loose from the effect of his short skirts and fancy work. But I let on to be satisfied. He amused me, did Grandma.

Next he invites me to come up to his shanty and have a drop of what he frivolously called "fusky"--"_Uno poquito de fuskey--aquardiente--senor_." Wisht you could have heard his Spanish--all mixed up--like this: He says he's "greetin'"--meanin'

yellin', while it's "grito" in Spanish, and his p.r.o.nunciation had whiskers on it till you could hardly tell the features. But we got along. When we struck the cabin the old lad done the honours n.o.ble.

I've met some stylish Spaniards and Frenchmen and Yanks and Johnny Bulls in my time, yet I can't remember aryone who threw himself better'n Colin Hiccup. There's no place where good manners shows to better advantage than on a homely man; the constant surprise between the way he looks and the way he acts keeps you interested.

"To you, senor," says Colin. "Let this dampen the fires of animosity."

"To you right back again," says I. "And let's pipe the aforesaid fires clean down into the tailin's." So there we sat, thinking better of each other and all creation. The fires of animosity went out with a sputter and we talked large and fine. I don't care; I like to once in a while. I don't travel on stilts much, yet it does a man good to play pretty now and then; besides, you can say things in the Spanish that are all right, but would sound simple-minded in English. English is the tongue to yank a beef critter out of an alkali hole with, but give me Spanish when I want to feel dressed up.

We pa.s.sed compliments to each other and waved our hands, bowing and smiling. In the evening we had music by the pipes. I can't say I'd confine myself to that style of sweet sounds if I had a free choice; still, Colin H. Grunt got something kind of wild and blood-stirrin' out of that windbag that was perfectly astonishin', when you took thought of how it really did sound. And--I sung. Well, there was only the two of us, and if I stood for the bagpipes it was a cinch he could stand my cayodlin'.

Three days I pa.s.sed there in peace and quiet. I hadn't anything on hand to do; the more I saw of my new pardner the better I liked his style, and here was my gorgeous opportunity to make connections with the art of knitting that might be useful any amount, once I come to settle down.

It was a handsome little place. The cabin was built of rocks. She perched on the hillside, with three gnarly trees shadin' it and a big shute of red rock jumping up behind it. Colin had a flower garden about a foot square in front, that he tended very careful, lugging water from the creek to keep it growing. Climbing roses covered one wall, and, honest, it cuddled there so cunnin' and comfortable, it reminded me of home. Think of that bare-legged, pock-marked, sock-knittin' disparagement of the human race havin' the good feelin'

to make him a house like this! It knocked me then, because, as I have explained, I was young. I have since learned that the length of a jack-rabbit's ears is no sure indication of how far he can jump.

We spent three days in this pleasant life, knocking around the country in the daytime, chinnin' and smokin' under some rock and discussin'

things in general, and at night we made music, played checkers, and talked some more.

During this time his history come out. Naturally, I was anxious to know how such a proposition landed in the Bill Williams Mountains. It happened like this:

Colin came from an island in Scotland where, I judged, the folks never heard of George Washington.

His chief had the travel habit, and Colin went along to bagpipe.

He'd followed his chief to France and then to Mexico, where the band of Scotties tried to help Maximilian help himself to Uncle Porfirio Diaz's empire. There was a row, and the son and heir of the house of Grunts was killed, old Colin Hiccup fightin' over his body like a red-headed lion in short skirts.

It was at night he told me about it, and at this point he got excited.

He pulled his old sword down from the wall and showed me how everything occurred. It was as close a call as I can recollect. I'd rather meet an ordinary man bilious with trouble than have a friend like Colin tell me exciting stories with a sword. There were times when you couldn't have got a cigarette paper between me and that four-foot weapon. I was playing the villains, you understand.

Well, the Maximilian game was up, and when Colin got well (some lad with no sporting blood had shot him in the head) he slid over to the United States and resumed sheep herding, knitting, and bagpiping allee samee old country. I suspect the boss of the ranch hired Mr. Grunt more because he liked the old boy than for any other reason, inasmuch as he didn't have more'n a hundred sheep in the bunch; besides, what with getting shot in the head and grieving for his chief and one thing and another, Colin was a _little_ damaged in the cupola--not but what he was as sensible as I could understand most of the time--but--well, kind of sideways about things; like not learning English and keeping on dressing in knee skirts and such.

What troubled him the most was that no such thing as a clan could be found. I explained to him as best I could that as us Americans represented Europe, Asia, and Africa in varyin' proportions, it was a little difficult to get up a stout clan feeling--local issues would come in.

Yes, he said he understood that, but it was a great pity, and on the fourth night I was there he got so horrible melancholy over it that it was dreadful to see. I didn't know how to cheer him up exactly, until we'd had two--perhaps three--drops together. Then an inspiration hit me in the top of the head.

"Come along outside with the nightcracker," says I. "I'll take the sword and we'll have one of those dances you've told me about."

He brightened up at that, and after a few more drops consented. I felt right merry by this time, and it wasn't long before old Colin limbered considerable. There it was, nice bright moonlight, n.o.body around to pa.s.s remarks; nothing to trouble. So bime-by we pasted her hide, wide and fantastic, with the bagpipes screechin' like a tom-cat fight in a cellar. I was tickled to death lookin' at our shadows flyin'

around--one of the times I was easily pleased; I must say I enjoyed the can-can.

And then, alas! All my joy departed and went away, for when my eye happened to slide behind me, it fell on a Tonto brave--a full-sized Tonto-Yuma brave, that ought to be seen at Camp Grant, dressed in a pocket handkerchief, a pair of moccasins, and a large rifle.

"By-by, my honey, I'm gone!" I sings to myself--never missin' a step, however, for to let that Injun know I was on to him would be a sign of bad luck. I wiggled around kind of careless to see if there was any more of him. There was. Nine more. Here was Saunders Colorado and Colin Hiccup Grunt, fortified by--say six, drops of Scotch whiskey, a Scotch sword and a Scotch bagpipe, up against ten Tontos armed with rifles. I would have traded my life interest in this world for an imitation dead yaller dog. "Oh, they won't do a thing to us, thing to us, thing to us!" sings I to myself, hoppin' around so gleefully, keepin' time to the bagpipes. "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers. "On with the dance, let joy be unconfined!" That was in my school reader, so it ought to be true. My joy was unconfined all right enough--she'd flew the coop long since.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Whoop her up, Colin!" I hollers]

At that Colin really turned himself loose. He'd warmed to the occasion and climbed into the spirit of the thing. His eyes was shut and he was leaping five foot in the air at a pa.s.s, wagglin' his head from side to side. And as for them bagpipes, he simply blew the mangled remains of all the sounds since the flood out of the big end--he took silence by her hind leg and flapped her into rags.

I pranced like a colt, wonderin' why we didn't get shot or something.

At last I couldn't stand feeling all them hard-coal eyes behind me, so I whirls around as if I'd simply waited my time, and capered down that line of Injuns, wavin' the sword over their heads, looking far away, and smilin' the easy grin of the gentleman who pets the tiger in the circus parade.

"Oh, Colin!" I chants, as if it was part of a war-song; "understand English for once in your life and keep that squealer yelpin' or these ham-coloured sons of Satan will play a tune on us--give it to 'em, Colin, my b-o-o-y--let the good work go ah-ah-ah-ah-on!"

I reckon he made me out, for, after one sharp blat (I suppose when he opened his eyes), the old bagpipes went on whining same as before.

I made two trips up and down the line, then flung the sword up in the air and yelled: "Bastante!"

Come silence, like a fainting fit--the thickest, muckiest silence I ever heard.

"Your house, amigos," I says. "In what way may we serve you?" I had an idea of what way they would serve _us_---fried, likely, with a dish of greens on the side--but I thought I'd get in my crack first.

It was weary waiting to see what kind of play the bucks was going to make. They had the immortal on us, and what they said went.

At last the oldest man in the party stepped out. I guess the Yankee got his love for Fourth of July gas-displays from the Injuns, for there's nothin' that those simple-hearted children of nature love better than chawing air.

"Amigos," says the old buck. "Mira. We are not Gilas; we are not Mescaleros; we are not Copper-miners; neither Jicarillas, Coyoteros, nor Llaneros." All this very slow and solemn. Very interesting, no doubt; but a _little_ long to a man waiting to see whether he's about to jump the game or not. "No," thinks I; "nor you ain't town-pumps nor snow-ploughs nor real-estate agents--hook yourself up, for Heaven's sake, and let go on your family history."

"No," says he, shaking his head. "Nada, I am Yuma--they are Yuma."

"I sincerely hope so," thinks I. "And I wish you'd let us in on the joke. I'm dyin' for lack of a laugh this minute."

"Si, senores," says he. "We are not Apaches; and we are not now for war. Before, yes. Now we are peaceful. But the white man has put us on reservation at Camp Grant, and there bad white men bother us. We are all braves; we do not wish to be bothered. So we shoot those white men for the sake of peace, and then we come away. We come here last moon. We see this man," pointing to Colin Hiccup. "At first my young men wish to shoot at him, to see him hop, but I say 'no'--we are peaceful; besides, he is a strange white man. I think he is a great chief and comes here to make medicine. Do you not see how small is the rebano and how large the man? And how he dresses like a woman? And there we hear the music he makes. Then I know he is great medicine.

It is beautiful music he makes to the Great Spirit. It makes our hearts good. We wait; see you come. See two big medicine men fight, then be friend again. Know, by the hair, both same medicine. To-night sounds the music more and more. We come and see dance. We have council. All say, when dance is over, we ask white man to be chief.

Just one chief--two chiefs, like calf with two heads, no good. You choose. We have no chief since Mangas Colorado. He make fight. Fight hard but no good. Now we are for peace. I say it."

He threw down his rifle and waited. The other braves dropped their guns, crash!

"We will talk," says I, drawing myself up tall.