The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 13

to bring 'em up right. A friend o' mine sure once told me that meat, good meat, was the best feed fer prize dogs, an' he was a feller that won a heap o' prizes. He had one, Boston bull, I--"

"'ll I need to git dog-biscuit for them kiddies?" inquired Sunny sarcastically.

"Say, you make me sick," cried Sandy, flushing angrily.

"Guess that's how you'll make them kiddies," interposed Toby.

Sandy glanced viciously from one to the other. Then, a.s.suming a superiority that scarcely hid his chagrin, he ignored the interruptions.

"You best ast Minky fer some dandy canned truck," he said decisively, deliberately turning his back on Toby Jenks. "Mebbe a can o' lobster an' one o' them elegant tongues stewed in jelly stuff, an' set in a gla.s.s bowl. Y'see, they kids needs nourishin', an' that orter fix them 'bout right. I don't know 'bout them new sides o' sow-belly Minky's jest had in. Seems to me they'll likely need teeth eatin'

that. Seein' you ain't a heap at fixin' beans right, we best cut that line right out--though I 'lows there's elegant nourishin' stuff in 'em for bosses. Best get a can o' crackers an' some cheese. I don't guess they'll need onions, nor pickles. But a bit o' b.u.t.ter to grease the crackers with, an' some mola.s.ses an' fancy candy, an' a pound o' his best tea seems to me 'bout right. After that--"

"Some hoss physic," broke in Toby, recommencing the chewing of his forefinger.

But Wild Bill's fierce eyes were on Sandy, and the erstwhile married man felt their contempt boring into his very soul. He was held silent, in spite of his anger against the broad-shouldered Toby, and was possessed of a feeling that somehow his second effort had been no more successful than his first. And forthwith the impression received confirmation in a sudden explosion from Wild Bill.

"Jumpin' mackinaw!" he cried, with a force calculated to crush entirely the remnants of Sandy's conceit. "You'd sure shame a crazy sheep fer intellect." Then he added, with withering sarcasm, "Say, don't you never leave your mouth open more'n two seconds at a time, or you'll get the flies in it, an'--they'll start nestin'."

Then without pause he turned on Sunny and delivered his ultimatum.

"Get busy," he ordered in a tone there was no denying.

And somehow Sunny found himself stirring far more rapidly than suited his indolent disposition.

Having thoroughly disturbed the atmosphere to his liking, Bill left the veranda without another look in his companions' direction, and his way took him to the barn at the back of the store.

The gambler was a man of so many and diverse peculiarities that it would be an impossibility to catalogue them with any degree of satisfactoriness. But, with the exception of his wholesale piratical methods at cards--indeed, at any kind of gambling--perhaps his most striking feature was his almost idolatrous worship for his horses. He simply lived for their well-being, and their evident affection for himself was something that he treasured far beyond the gold he so loved to take from his opponents in a gamble.

He possessed six of these horses, each in its way a jewel in the equine crown. Wherever the vagaries of his gambler's life took him his horses bore him thither, harnessed to a light spring cart of the speediest type. Each animal had cost him a small fortune, as the price of horses goes, and for breed and capacity, both in harness and under saddle, it would have been difficult to find their match anywhere in the State of Montana. He had broken and trained them himself in everything, and, wherever he was, whatever other claims there might be upon him, morning, noon and evening he was at the service of his charges. He gloried in them. He reveled in their satin coats, their well-nourished, muscular bodies, in their affection for himself.

Now he sat on an oat-bin contemplating Gipsy's empty stall, with a regret that took in him the form of fierce anger. It was the first time since she had come into his possession that she had been turned over to another, the first time another leg than his own had been thrown across her; and he mutely upbraided himself for his folly, and hated Scipio for having accepted her services. Why, he asked himself again and again, had he been such an unearthly fool? Then through his mind flashed a string of blasphemous invective against James, and with its coming his regret at having lent Gipsy lessened.

He sat for a long time steadily chewing his tobacco. And somehow he lost all desire to continue his poker game in the store. His whole mind had become absorbed by thoughts of this James, and though he, personally, had never suffered through the stage-robber's depredations, he found himself resenting the man's very existence.

There were no ethical considerations in his mind. His inspiration was purely personal. And though he did not attempt to reduce his hatred to reason, nor to a.n.a.lyze it in any way, the truth of its existence lay in the fact of a deadly opposition to this sudden rise to notoriety of a man of strength, and force of character similar, in so many respects, to his own. Perhaps it was mere jealousy; perhaps, all unknown to himself, there was some deeper feeling underlying it. Whatever it was, he had a strong sympathy with Scipio, and an unconquerable desire to have a hand in the smoothing out of the little man's troubles.

He did not leave the barn, and scarcely even took his eyes off Gipsy's empty stall, until nearly sundown. Then, as he heard the voices of returning prospectors, he set to work on his evening task of grooming, feeding, watering and bedding down his children for the night.

CHAPTER VII

SUNNY OAK TRIES HIS HAND

In the meantime Sunny Oak was executing his orders with a care for detail quite remarkable in a man of his excessive indolence. It was a curious fact, and one that told a great deal of his own character, as well as that of the gambler. His implicit obedience to Wild Bill's orders was born of a deeper knowledge of that individual than was possessed by most of his comrades in Suffering Creek. Maybe Minky, who was Bill's most intimate friend, would have understood. But then Sunny Oak possessed no such privilege. He knew Bill through sheer observation, which had taught him to listen when the gambler spoke as he would listen to a man in high authority over him--or to a man who, without scruple, held him helpless under an irresistible threat. Which power it was inspired his obedience he did not pause to consider. He simply accepted the fact that when Bill ordered he preferred to obey--it was so much easier.

"Hoboe"--the local term for one suffering from his indolent malady--as he was, Sunny Oak was a man of some character. Originally this cloak of indolence in which he wrapped himself had been a.s.sumed for some subtle reason of his own. It was not the actual man. But so long had he worn it now that he had almost forgotten the real attributes enshrouded in its folds. As a matter of fact, he was very much a man, and a "live" man, too. He really possessed an extraordinary energy when he chose to exercise it. But it was generally his habit to push his interest aside for the easier course of indifference. However, his capacity was none the less there.

His other possessions, too, were excellent in their way, although he had encouraged the germ of rust in a deplorable degree. His good-nature would not be denied, and was obvious to all. But an extremely alert mind, an infinite resource of keen, well-trained thought, a profound love of the beautiful, a more commonplace physical courage supported by the rarer moral courage, he contrived to keep well hidden from the vulgar gaze.

These were some of the features so long concealed under the folds of his cloak of indolence that even he had almost forgotten their existence. Thus it was, in all seriousness, he cried out bitterly in protest when an attempt was made to lift the covering and lay bare the man beneath it. And his lamentations were perfectly genuine.

After leaving the store with a sack of provisions over his shoulder he grumbled his way across the dumps to Scipio's house. He cursed the weight he was forced to carry, and anathematized the man who had driven him to so bestir himself. He lamented over this waste of his precious energies, he consigned Scipio and his children to eternity, and metaphorically hurled Jessie headlong to the depths of the uttermost abyss of the nether-world. But he went on. In spite of his foulest language and vilest epithets, it was his full intention to do his best for the children.

What he found on entering Scipio's hut set his small eyes twinkling again. His unclean face creased up into a grin, and, softly tiptoeing to a far corner of the room, he deposited his sack with the greatest care. Then he stood up, and his eyes fixed themselves on a curious heap under the table. It was a tumbled pile of pale blue, dirty white, with a four-legged dash of yellow. And out of the heap he made the forms of two small sleeping children, each hugging in their arms an extremity of a yellow cur pup, also sound asleep, in the shaft of sunlight which flooded in through the open doorway.

Sunny rubbed his eyes and thought hard, nor did he find the process irksome. From the miserable camp pup he glanced at the grubby face of Jamie. Then his eyes pa.s.sed on to Vada's pretty but equally dirty features. And swift action at once followed his thought. He glanced at the dying fire in the cookstove, and saw the small clothes hanging on the chair in front of it. He felt them; they were quite dry. Then he tried the kettle on the stove; it still had water in it. Then he went to the fuel-box; yes, there was fuel.

Now with his fingers he replenished the fire, and noiselessly re-filled the kettle. Then he removed the clothes and put the chair aside. The children still slept on. He further investigated the resources of Scipio's _menage_. He found a wash-bowl and soap and a towel, three things he rarely sought for any purposes of his own.

Then, after looking into the cupboard, he shook his head. It was deplorably bare of all but uncleanliness. And it was the former that caused his headshake, not the latter. With some pride he re-stocked the shelves with the liberal purchases he had made at Bill's expense.

He had provided everything that a man's mind could conceive as being necessary for the interior of healthy childhood. True, he had made no provision for a yellow pup.

By this time the kettle was boiling, and it served him as a signal. In a harsh, untuneful voice he began to chant an old c.o.o.n-ditty. The effect of his music was instantaneous as regards the more sensitive ears of the pup. Its eyes opened, and it lifted its head alertly.

Then, with a quick wriggle, he sat up on his hind quarters, and, throwing his lean, half-grown muzzle in the air, set up such a howl of dismay that Sunny's melody became entirely lost in a jangle of discords. He caught up his empty sack and flung it at the wailing pup's head. It missed its aim, and in a moment the twins had joined in their yellow friend's lament.

Sunny never quite understood the real cause of that dismal protest--whether it was the sight of him, his doleful singing, or the flinging of the sack. All he knew was that it was very dreadful, and must be stopped as quickly as possible. So, to that end, he began to cajole the children, while he surrept.i.tiously let fly a kick at the pup.

"Say, you bonny kids, you ain't scairt o' poor Sunny Oak," he cried, while a streak of yellow flashed in the sunlight and vanished through the door, a departure which brought with it renewed efforts from the weeping children. "It's jest Sunny Oak wot n.o.body'll let rest," he went on coaxingly. "He's come along to feed you supper. Say," he cried, laboring hard for inspiration, "it's such a bully supper.

Ther's mola.s.ses, an' candy, an'--an' lob-ster!"

Whether it was the smacking of his lips as he dwelt on the last word, or whether it was merely the fact that their fright was pa.s.sing, matters little; anyhow, the cries of the twins died out as suddenly as they began, and their eyes, big and round, gazed wonderingly up at Sunny's unkempt face.

"Who's you, ugly man?" asked Vada at last, her brain working more quickly than her brother's.

"'Ess--ug'y man," added Jamie unmeaningly.

Sunny's hand went up to his face, and he scratched amongst his spa.r.s.e beard as though to test the accuracy of the accusation. Then he grinned sheepishly.

"Guess I'm jest an ugly fairy that wants to be kind to two lonesome kiddies," he beamed.

"O--oh! You'se a fairy?" said Vada doubtfully.

"'Ess," nodded Jamie, thrilling with wonderment, and eyeing him critically.

Elated with his success, Sunny went on warmly--

"Yep. Jest a fairy, an' I bro't a heap o' good grub fer you kiddies t'

eat."

But Vada's small brain was following out its own train of thought, and pa.s.sed the food question by.

"Awful ugly," she said, half to herself.

"'Ess," muttered Jamie abstractedly.

"Mebbe," said Sunny, with a laugh. "Wal, if you crawl right out o'

there an' git around, I got things fixed so we'll hev' a bully time."