Part 6

“Boys,” he said, quiet, “I ain’t begging. If I’d ’a’ done what they said it would put you straight. I’m only sorry so many better men was killed over me. You are doin’ what you think is right. But that man yonder--that Brown--killed Mr. Tinnin. Him and them three men lied. Tinnin’s blood and my blood and all the other boys’ blood is on their souls. I wouldn’t swap with them. I wouldn’t want to live and be them. But you’ll find out some day I told the truth. That’s about all.”

“Any word to your folks?” asked Boucher. “Want to pray?”

“I ain’t got no folks--and no notion how to pray,” he answered, catching at the nearest man to keep from falling. Then he steadied himself and looked up and around as if searching among the reeling stars for the Heavenly Help of whom he’d heard so much.

It was as ghastly as those waxwork figure murders. I sweat plenty. It was worse than if we’d been in earnest, by the whole dum multiplication table.

I reckon Brown and the rest got worrying, too, for Brown forced his part. “Let me speak to him for a minute,” says he. Under pretense of talk he unlocked the handcuffs.

“I can’t stand this,” he whispered. “Horses is all over yonder, and guns mostly empty--cut. Quit the railroad and slide across the Jornada. If you make the bushes maybe you can break clean.”

People are curious. Harris had been braced to die, but the minute he saw a chance he flew. I think I’d acted in that curious way myself, maybe.

We took after him, yelling “Catch him!” and “Get your horses!” and firing scattering shots. We run him a half-mile, then we came back, laughing and screeching.

But when we got together--a houseful of us--and begun to talk about that poor cuss hiding and trembling in the dark, Neighbor Jones blew a smoke-ring in the air and stuck his finger through it. The ring disappeared. “Where’s _that_ joke gone?” says he. And we all looked cross-eyed at our drinks.

But there wasn’t a hobo on the Jornada the next morning.

A lot of us felt mean next day. But a good half was too young to have sense; the men that had been on guard hadn’t seen it, and a lot more were used to being part of a crowd; otherwise the first night of the Dundee comedy would have ended its run.

Probably it would have been that way, anyhow, if “Aforesaid” Smith hadn’t got too many aboard. For a week after our hanging-bee tramps passed Dundee--probably warned by their underground telegraph. Then hobos straggled in. The young--and therefore hard-hearted--wanted another court at once. Wiser counsel prevailed, however, until the tenth day.

The sidings were full of cars, the buyers had cut the herds, and a few train-loads had pulled out. All the “culls” were thrown together, to be cut again when shipping was done, and driven back to their respective ranches. And--all of the boys had been paid.

At this juncture “Aforesaid” fell by the wayside, and went to sleep under a spreading soapwood tree. That was an old chestnut of his.

Now, Will Borland, suffering from remorse, had protected and kindly entreated a new tramp at the 7 T X wagon. Will was afflicted with a nasty conscience that never got to working in time to keep him out of meanness, and then dealt him misery after it was everlastingly too late.

Well, this hobo of Borland’s came along and went right through “Aforesaid’s” clothes to the tune of ninety dollars. But Neighbor Jones saw him.

They rounded up the hobo when he got to town, found the money on him, woke “Aforesaid,” and compared profit and loss. So, after supper, they desired to give another reading of the “Kangaroo Court.” There was considerable opposition to this, and several stayed away, to their everlasting joy. But most of the remonstrants joined the majority, as this lad needed punishment.

The cast was different this trip, Kim Ki being sheriff and Hopewell judge. All went merry as a marriage bell--with a few variations--until just after the holler of “Lynch him!” smote the air. Then that frock-coated, weird and unknowable stranger, who had boarded at the hotel all this while, addressed the court with diffidence and timidity.

“Your Honor, may I have permission to say a few words?” he asked.

“Oh--I suppose so,” said his Honor. “Only be short.”

The stranger removed his eye-glasses and polished them while he looked over the crowd with a benignant smile.

“Pardon me, gentlemen, if I detain you a moment. Let us forget this bum and your monkey business. I have been much pained to overhear the comments of some of your number upon myself. You boys are so frank and fearless and free”--another oily smile--“and are careless, perhaps, of giving another pain.”

He lowered his voice confidentially. “Now this pained me more, as you hit very close to fact. I _was_ once an abandoned and ungodly man--but I have been shown the error of my ways, and now it is my firm intention to become a missionary.” He put the glasses in his breast-pocket, slow, thrust the handkerchief under his coat-tails, slow--and produced two cannon too quick for eye-sight--nothing but a flash.

“Don’t be rash,” he said in kindly tones. “His Honor will tell you my colleague is standing at the back door. Is it not so, Judge?”

“Yes-es!” stammered the judge.

There was a silence thick as custard.

“I will not insist on the formality of putting up your hands, gentlemen; as the poet hath it:

“‘If the red slayer think he slays Or the slain think he is slain, They little know my subtle ways.’...”

“Now, _I_ know _your_ subtle ways, being aware your guns are loaded with blanks. I offer in evidence that no one should try to reload. My colleague will proceed to testify. Doc,” he called across us, “try the clock hanging over my head--hold its little hands as they lay!”

“Ker-bang--two shots.” A bullet-hole appeared neatly in the center of the III and another just inside and over the IX. The time was 9:15.

“Fair--fair!” said the missionary, gently chiding. “My brother’s left hand can’t do just what his right doeth. Still, I’m satisfied with my pupil.”

His voice was rich and unctuous, and one eye rolled upward sanctimoniously--the other kept strictly to business.

We listened, fascinated--some one snickered.

Our friend cleared his throat and continued:

“We realize we could rake a tidy sum out of this bunch if we were grasping. But if we get exacting there’s three possible bad results. First, it would entail considerable hardships on you, and on all those to whom you are indebted. Secondly, it would arouse evil passions in your hearts.

“Lastly, and most important to us, you would probably make us try high jumping over the hills and far away.

“So we make you a proposition which will strike you as being eminently reasonable. You are a playful crowd, fond of your little joke--Ah! speaking of jokes, pardon me one moment. Prisoner, you are discharged. Let this be a lesson to you, my dear brother, to be honest and upright in all your dealings in the future. Do you know, if I were you, I would not stay here? Going? _Good_-by! God bless you!--To resume: We could take your money, your guns and all your saddled cattle, and quite probably break away safely. But we would be sorry to cause you more than a temporary inconvenience, and we freely admit that you would give us the chase of the century. If we should be unfortunate enough to be captured you might prove vindictive.

“In view of these considerations, we would like to have the matter go off like a little pack of firecrackers among gentlemen; especially as we do not think you will take strenuous measures to pursue us--our capture would put the monumental kibosh on you for ever.

“You could hang us, but the way we stuck you up would be told for years to come. If you see fit to keep the matter private, we will not mention it.

“This is our moderate proposition: Let each of the foremen throw one hundred plunks in the plate, and each of the range-riders fifty. The owners shall contribute one dollar a head on each of their steers. That is less than the biblical tithe, as they have sold for fourteen dollars a head.

“We regret that two owners were unable to see the humor of your festivities, and that three foremen and some twenty of the boys thought your fun too one-sided. Still, over seven thousand head of cattle are represented here, besides five foremen, and fifty of the boys at fifty dollars each, making, say, ten thousand dollars altogether. Come up! The center table looks lonesome.

“Voluntarily donate so much to the good cause, and pledge your words to give us an hour’s start before Uncle Tomming us. Sixty minutes you hold your dogs.” He stopped and set himself. Says he, through a thin and tight mouth: “Otherwise we take all and risk all. Let her come quick.”

Dana Mossman spoke up: “Your proposition is all right with me, Parson. I am much interested in mission work myself. But I want to call your attention to Frank Dodds here. He wasn’t in on our little witticism the other day, and only came along to keep us from going too far to-night. He swore he’d tell the hobo we was only fooling before we got the rope around his neck.”

“The point is well taken,” said the Parson pleasantly. “Your attitude is sportsmanlike to a degree, and does you great credit. Mr. Dodds may pass. Now, has any other gentleman any suggestion to make?”

“A nice point arises in my mind as to what would happen if we resisted,” said Tinnin. “You couldn’t kill all of us, you know--and when we did get hold of you you would find it a matter for subsequent regret.”

“Very true--ve-ry true,” said the Parson musingly. “Yet not one of you knows but _he_ might be the one to have bad luck. We count on that--and you must count that, expecting no mercy, we should show none.”

“Yes--that’s so, too. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Leave out the horse-wranglers--they’re just boys and don’t know no better than to follow us--and I’m with you.”

“Well, I don’t know about the horse-wranglers. It might be a valuable lesson in the future. They can not learn too early to avoid pleasure which gives others pain. What do you say, Doc?” This to the silent one.

“Boys free,” said that vigilant person. “Cut it short! You talk too damn much!” And that was his only remark that evening.

“All right. We had set our hearts on clearing up an even ten thousand, though. I see some steer buyers of a facetious turn here. Perhaps they will be good enough to make up the deficiency.”

The Colonel spoke up deprecatingly: “Now I do not for a moment desire any bloodshed. But as to taking all our money, remember that ninety per cent. of it is in checks. You couldn’t use them, you know. And I certainly do not carry a thousand dollars with me in cash. I’m willing to give you what money I have--but I can’t pay you one dollar a head.”

“Vent slips,” said the Parson. “Your quota is twelve hundred head, Colonel. Don’t try to fudge. It would be difficult to realize on all of it--as you justly observe. Still, much can be done by two resolute men. We might take a few of you out in the brush and shoot you some if the checks were not paid. I fancy you would see that they were. ‘Skin for skin, yea, all that a man hath will he give for his life.’ Really, you tempt me. One hundred thousand dollars is a big stake, worthy of a bold throw. But let us not be covetous, my brothers.

“As to the other matter, I happen to know that Mr. Gale had ten thousand dollars sent down to cash checks with. You owners either give him your checks for your contribution, to cash, pledging your words as gentlemen and cow-men to redeem them, or we will clean out the crowd, safe and all, and take you check-men out to herd, till we have a friend negotiate the paper.

“If Mr. Gale will cash the checks for you we will let him go free. I am sure he will--for if he don’t I’ll draw a check for it all, and I know he’ll cash that! Speak up. All or part! The time has passed pleasantly, but I must go. You have indulged in Terpsichorean recreation and you are now under obligation to remunerate the violinist.”

Neighbor gasped. “How was that again? I only speak English and Spanish.”

“Ante up!” quoth the Parson.

“Oh!”

“Copper your jaw and take what you want,” said Slaughter. “None of us is looking for getting killed. And _I’m_ not going to push a foot after you, for one. It serves us right. Come on, boys. Hurry up--I want to go to bed.”

So said we all of us. Kim Ki and Neighbor passed the hat. The cow-men drew checks. Gale cashed them. The Parson counted up. It was a little over nine thousand six hundred dollars, and they made the buyers draw checks then to make up the even ten thousand.

“Far be it from me to doubt your integrity,” says he with the hand-on-the-chest act. “But, as a precaution against carelessness, the Colonel, Mr. Tinnin, his Honor and Mr. Mossman will accompany us for an hour or so. Good night, and pleasant dreams! Try and control your humorous propensities. Charmed to have met you, I’m sure--and I hope to meet you Hereafter (with a capital H)--boys--not before! Good night!”

And they went out the door with their hostages.

VIII

CAMP CUNNINGHAM

THE STORY OF A DAKOTA STORM

The population of Dakota in the early days was miscellaneous, to say the least of it. Men from every part of the world, from every station in life, and for many reasons, hobnobbed together in terms of free and equal intercourse. All social rules were turned topsy-turvy--or rather, ceased to exist. You could get a German baron to plow your garden for you, if you wanted style, and were not particular about the aim and scope of the furrows, and perhaps while the baron was plugging away, desperately struggling to keep the plow from emulating the exasperated worm of the old story, Jimmy O’Brien would come sailing by behind his team of 2:30 trotters on his way to deposit the money obtained by wise government contracts, and sing out a jovial greeting of “Stick to ’um, Bar’n, old man rocks! Thot’s th’ road t’ wealth--but ye’ll be a toird man when you land there!” And the baron would wave his hand in acknowledgment of the greeting, and smile grimly to himself in acknowledgment of the statement.

All manner of younger sons inhabited the country, making nonsense of the occupations they took up under the disguise of earning an honest living, and for which, as a rule, they showed a superb incapacity.

One of these scions of a noble house was James Cecil R. DeG. Cunningham--often known as Slim Jim or Pelican Cunningham--sometimes as just plain Cunny. He had a tent on a homestead on the banks of the Chantay Seeche River. It was a very clean, white tent. All the empty tin cans were piled up outside, like cannon-balls in a fort, and every morning the estate was carefully “policed.” No scraps and odds and ends littered the courtyard of Camp Cunningham.

“Like master, like man,” says the saw, and in this case truly, for the man Cunningham was exactly like the master Cunningham-sur-le-Chantay Seeche. No matter what his work was, he always managed to look as if he had just come from the wash--not that he was beautiful, but he was so chalky clean. His hair was clean, a peculiar no-color-at-all-cleanliness; his teeth were clean, and almost the size of piano-keys, when disclosed by his wide, good-natured smile; his eyes were pure white and pale blue. They showed behind the powerful lenses that corrected their myopia, like specimens of old china in a cabinet. They also had something of the trustfulness and instant claim for sympathy in their short-sighted stare that one often sees in children’s eyes.

Cunningham was full six feet two in stature, bony and loosely put together. His legs were of such length that Billy Wykam’s remark, that, “if it wasn’t for his necktie, Cunny would be twins,” had more foundation in fact than most hyperbole. But his walking gait was the most remarkable thing about him physically. He took immense strides, swinging his arms to their full extent, in unison, while his head had a continuous pecking motion. Paul Falk, our intellectual giant, said that Cunningham in action looked like a demonstration of a transverse vibration, and at rest like Cunningham, and nothing else on this or any other planet. He was one mortally homely man, if ever there lived one, yet there was something high and striking in his long, big-nosed face, and a genial quality in his perfect manner that would win you to liking him at the first meeting and for ever after. His was the style of the true nobleman, and gained for him the respect of the hilarious crew among whom he lived, despite his oddities.

Many a quiet kindly turn, so carefully contrived that he never guessed it was a kindness, he received from his neighbors; and for his part no man could have been more willing or useless. With an ax in his hand he was the most dangerous companion imaginable. He nearly brained two of the boys before they could think of an excuse to part him and his weapon without hurting his feelings, and when he started to help in an undertaking, not the least of the troubles of the others was to render him harmless. On one occasion Billy Wykam had a matter of twenty or thirty calves he wished to brand. Cunningham was in the corral, armed with a rope, intensely serious and businesslike. He tripped up almost everybody with the ropes; he “shooed” the wrong “critters” out of the corral, so that somebody had to take horses and chase them for miles over the prairie until they could be secured again; he roped Antelope Pete by mistake when the latter was flying down the corral towed by a powerful yearling, and gave Pete a fall that it would take years to blot out of the spectator’s memory; then in his zeal he hauled away on the rope, dragging his victim quite a distance before he could be stopped.

It was as much as the rest of us could do, so weak were we from laughing, to prevent the angry plainsman from laying violent hands on Cunningham, who, of course, was ignorant of having given offense. In short, Cunningham was so persistently where he ought not to be, and so entirely in everybody’s way, that some of the boys were like to die of suppressed profanity. Billy asked Paul for mercy’s sake to set the man at something where he wouldn’t be playing the old Harry with things all the time. Paul elected him to the position of branding-iron tender, whose duties are to heat the irons, and hand them out when needed. Even here the Englishman distinguished himself, for, peering near-sightedly around with a hot iron in his hand, he touched Billy’s buckskin bronco on the flank with it. The ugly little beast promptly kicked Cunningham into the fire, and then tore around the corral, spreading disaster and confusion. Poor Cunny got several bad burns, for which the rest of us were not as sorry as we should be, inasmuch as they forced him to knock off for the day.

If anything could have added to the absurdity of Cunningham’s performance, it would be that he was the “perfect gentleman” all the while; explaining, apologizing, or hazarding an opinion, it was always with the little graces of the drawing-room. How ludicrous this manner is in a rushing, dusty, hot, swearing cattle-corral is a thing that has to be seen to be appreciated. We always tried to secure Cunningham’s services elsewhere when we had something on hand which we really wished to put through. The man had a modest pride in his tent that it would have been wicked to disturb, yet for his safety’s sake it became a friendly duty to drop him a word of warning. He had landed in the country in the spring, and hitherto the weather had been delightful, without an omen of the furious storms that were sure to come during the summer. It seemed to us that his tent wouldn’t amount to much in the grass of Dakota, but we didn’t like to tell him so. At last we appointed Neighbor Case our commissioner to acquaint Cunningham with some facts we thought he had overlooked. After praising the tent and its surroundings, Neighbor came to the heart of his message.

“It’s mighty nice--mighty nice, Lengthy, he said. “Yet, if you want my advice, I’ll tell you what I’d do; I’d take a half hitch around a boulder with them guy-ropes, if I was you. Even then, you wouldn’t have no sure thing. Wait till you see one of our little breezes come cantering over the prairies, son; you’ll wish you had a cast-iron tent, fastened to the bowels of the earth with bridge-bolts.”

“I’m sure I thank you awfully, old man, for your interest, you know,” replied Cunningham, “but,” inspecting his moorings carefully through his glasses, “I think she’ll stand it. The pressure of the wind on a normal surface is only two pounds to the square foot, for a velocity of twenty miles an hour, and, of course, on oblique surfaces--like the tent-walls--much less, much less. Why, even in the cases of exceptional storms, the pressure does not rise above eighty or ninety pounds, and as I was careful to get only the best of canvas and cordage, she should stand that, don’t you think?”

Neighbor Case was impressed, if not converted. “That’s a great head you have on you, Lengthy,” he said admiringly. “You seem to know old Mr. Wind’s ways as well as if you and he had played in the back yard together when you was boys; but I want to tell you something. He may act like that in books, and only press you for so many pounds as you tell me about when you’re normal and he’s hitting a certain gait, but you can’t tell what he’ll do when he gets you out here all alone on the prairies. He may forget the rules and press you just as hard as he darn pleases; or he may shift the cut and knock you into a cocked hat before you can get the books out to show what he ought to do. No, Lengthy, book-learning is good, and you won’t catch me saying nothing agin it; but if I was you, I’d let it slide on this occasion, and tie her up to a boulder.”

Cunningham, however, had a trait in common with many gentle-natured people--that of mild obstinacy--and he stuck to his tent just as it was.

We could not urge him further, so there the matter dropped--until the day of the storm, then several other things came to earth.

We woke one morning to find the country wrapped in a fury of red light--not the cheery glow of daybreak, but a baleful crimson, as though it were raining blood on a world of fire. In the west a massive heap of storm was rolling, against whose murky blackness the small buttes stood out ruddily. It was a boiling storm; the vapors curled and twisted in a way that meant wind and hail, and plenty of both.

“By the great Hohokus! We’re going to catch it this trip,” said Billy, and the three who composed the household of his ranch began scrambling about in nervous haste, gathering up the things that might be blown away by wind.

In the middle of it he called out to me, “Say, Hank, don’t you think we ought to give old Cunny a lift? Here’s where his shanty comes down, sure!”

This was more than kind of Billy, for about the only thing in the world he feared was thunder and lightning, and this filled him with a dread that neither his strong will nor good sense could in the least abate or control.

Of course, I could not refuse. We started on a run for Camp Cunningham, a mile or so down the river. Yet, though the distance was so small, we had reason to doubt that we could cover it. Half-way, a hailstone the size of a child’s fist went whistling over our heads, ricocheted along the sod in great bounds; then came another and another--the skirmish fire of the storm.

The suggestive “thwuck” of these missiles as they took the ground made me draw in my head as far as possible--like a turtle.

I was just wondering what effect one of them would have on the human body, when a big fellow smashed fairly against the side of Billy’s head--a sounding blow which knocked the sturdy little man staggering.

“We’ve got to get out of this,” he said, grinding his teeth in pain, “or we’ll be slaughtered!”