Kitabı oku: «Sandburrs and Others», sayfa 15

THE FATAL KEY

Young Jenkins prided himself on sharp eyes. He said he could “give a hawk cards and spades.” He could find four-leaf clovers where no one else could see them. He took in the smallest detail of the scenery all about him.

As a result, young Jenkins was a great finder of small trifles, and that he might miss nothing, lost, strayed or stolen, he went about during the little journeys of the day, with his eyes searching the ground. And he picked up many trinkets of a personal sort that other men had lost. Nothing of much value, perhaps, but it served to please young Jenkins, and it gave him a chance to boast of the sharp, devouring character of his eyes.

Even as a child, young Jenkins was prone to find things. He told how once his talents as a retriever made him the subject of parental suspicion. He was ten years old when he picked up a four-blade Barlow knife.

“Where did you get it?” queried old Jenkins, as young Jenkins displayed his treasure trove.

“Found it,” was the reply.

“Oh, you found it!” snorted old Jenkins. “Well, take it straight back, and put it where you found it, and don’t ‘find’ any more. If you do, I’ll lick you out of your knickerbockers!”

In spite of such discouragement, young Jenkins kept on finding all sorts of bric-à-brac. He does even to this day.

One evening young Jenkins had a disagreeable adventure, as the fruit of his talent, which for an hour or so made him wish he had weaker vision.

It was on Great Jones Street, and young Jenkins, hurrying along, noticed in the half moonlight a big store key, where the owner had dropped it just after locking up for the night. The hour was full midnight.

Young Jenkins possessed himself of the key. He looked at it as he held it in his hand, and wondered how the careless shopman would open up in the morning without it.

From where it lay it wasn’t hard to infer the store to which the key belonged. Yet to make sure on that point it occurred to young Jenkins that he might better try the lock with it.

Young Jenkins had just fitted the big key to the lock when some one seized him by the wrist. It startled him so that he dropped the key and allowed it to go rattling along the sidewalk. As young Jenkins looked up he saw that the party who had got him was a member of the police.

“I was trying to unlock the door!” stammered young Jenkins.

“I saw what you were about,” said the officer with suspicious severity. “What were you monkeying with the door for? You aren’t the owner of this store?”

“No, sir,” said young Jenkins, much impressed. “No, sir; I – ”

“Nor one of the clerks?”

“No, sir,” replied young Jenkins again, “I have nothing to do with the store. I found the key, and thought I’d see if it opened this door.”

“What did you want to see if it would open the door for? Don’t you think it is a little late for a joke of that sort?”

“It wasn’t a joke,” said young Jenkins, beginning to perspire rather copiously; “it was an experiment. I found the key on the sidewalk, and wanted to see – ”

“Yes!” interrupted the blue coat with a fine scorn; “you wanted to see if you could get into the store and rob it bare. That is what you wanted to see. You’re a box-worker, if ever I met one, and if I hadn’t come along you would have had this bin cracked and cleaned out in another ten minutes.”

“I told you I found the key,” protested young Jenkins.

“That’s all right about your finding the key!” said the policeman in supreme contempt. “You found the key and I found you, and we’ll both keep what we’ve found. That’s square, ain’t it?”

And in spite of all young Jenkins could say at that late hour of the twenty-four, the faithful officer dragged him to the station, where a faithful sergeant faithfully registered him, and a faithful turnkey locked him faithfully up.

As young Jenkins sat unhappy in his cell, while vermin sparred with him for an opening, he registered a vow that never again would he find anything.

Young Jenkins wouldn’t pick up a twenty-dollar gold piece were he to meet one to-day in the street.

AN OCEAN ERROR

No; neither my name nor the name of my vessel can I give. Our navy has a way of courtmartialing its officers who wax garrulous.”

It was just as the Lieutenant called for the creme de menthe, that may properly succeed a dinner well ordered and well stowed.

“But you are welcome to the raw facts,” continued the Lieutenant. “It was during those anxious days that went before the penning in of Cervera at Santiago. We had been ordered on a ticklish service. Schley was over south of the island on a prowl for the Spanish fleet. Sampson was, or should have been, off the Windward Passage similarly employed. Cervera was last heard of two weeks before at Barbadoes. Then he disappeared like a ghost; no one knew where his smoke would be sighted next. The one sure thing, of which all were aware, was that with Sampson anywhere between the Mole and Cape Mazie, and Schley searching the wide seas south of Cuba, Cervera might easily with little luck and less seamanship dodge either and appear off Havana. There the cardboard fleet left on blockade wouldn’t, with such heavy odds, last as long as a drink of whiskey.

“It stood thus when our orders came to my Captain to proceed to Bayou Hondu, some seventy miles west of Havana, and there stand off and on, like a policeman walking his beat, in what would be the path of Cervera should he work to the rear of Schley and to the north of Cuba by the way of St. Antonio.

“Our vessel was detailed on this duty because of her perfect order and speed of seventeen knots. Our heavy armament was eight 4-inch broadside guns, with a 6-inch rifle forward and another mounted aft. Our orders were: If Cervera came upon us to fight! – steam as slowly as might be for Havana and fight! – and to keep fighting until sunk or sure that the block-aders off Havana were warned, whether by our signals or our racket, of Cervera’s coming.

“It was a grinding task, this lonely patrol off Bayou Hondu. The rains had just begun, the weather was a dripping hash of fog and squall and rain. If Cervera didn’t come, it meant discomfort; and if he did, it meant death. Take it full and by, the outlook was depressing.

“At night no light burned and the ship was dark as a coffin. This, with the service, contributed to keep us all in a mood of alert nervousness. Cervera’s ships would also be dark. We didn’t care to be crept upon, and get our first notice of his advent from the broadside that sent us to the bottom like an anvil.

“We had been on this dreary duty some ten days. It was a dark, heavy night. I myself had the bridge, and the captain, whose anxiety kept him up, was seated in the starboard corner, dozing. His sea cloak was thrown over his head to keep out the weather. We were working to the eastward, with engines at quarter speed, and with a head sea running, were making perhaps three knots.

“The ship’s bells were not being struck for the hours, and I had just looked at my watch by the light of the binnacle. It was half-past two in the morning.

“‘How’s your head?’ I asked of the man at the wheel, as I put up my timepiece.

“‘East by south, half south,’ he replied.

“This was taking us too much inshore. ‘Starboard for a point!’ I said.

“As I turned from the wheel I saw that which sent a thrill over me and brought me up all standing. It was the murky loom of a great ship, black and dim and dark and silent as ourselves. She was off our port quarter and not five hundred yards away. It gave me a start, I confess. None of our ships should be that far to the west of Havana. It was a sword to a sheath knife she was one of Cervera’s advance.

“Instantly I reached for the electric button; and instantly the red and white lights, which stood for the letter of that night, burned in our semaphore. The stranger replied with a red over two white lights. It was the wrong letter.

“With my first motion, the captain was on his feet; his hand gripped the lever that worked the engine bells.

“‘Try her again!’ he said.

“Again I flashed the proper letter, and again came a queer reply.

“The next moment the captain jammed the lever ‘Full steam, ahead!’ and a general call to quarters went singing through the ship.

“‘Starboard!’ shouted the captain to the man at the wheel; ‘starboard! pull her over!’

“There was a vast churning from the propellers; the vessel leaped forward like a horse; the sailor climbed the wheel like a squirrel. We surged forward with a broad sheer to port. The next instant we opened on our dark visitor with every gun in the larboard battery. It wasn’t ten seconds after she gave us the wrong signal when she got our broadside.

“The result was amazing. With the first crash of our guns the stranger went from utter darkness to the extreme of light. She flashed out all over like a Fall River steamer. Knowing who we were – for they bore orders for us – and realizing that there had been some mixing of signals, the officer on her bridge had the wit to turn on every light in his ship. It was an inspiration and saved them from a second broadside.

“Who was she? One of our own vessels. Cervera was locked in Santiago and she had come up to tell us the news. Her officer blundered in giving out the wrong letter for the night, and thereby sowed the seed of our misunderstanding.

“No, beyond peppering her a bit, our fire did no harm. We were so close that most of our shot went over her. Still, I don’t believe that vessel will ever get her signals fouled again. And it’s just as well that way. If she had made the wrong talk to some one of our heavy-weights, the Oregon, for instance, she would have gone down like so much pig-iron.”

SKINNY MIKE’S UNWISDOM

(Annals of The Bend)

CHUCKY was posed in his usual corner. As I came in he nodded sullenly as one whom the Fates ill-use. I craved of Chucky to name his drink; it was the surest way to thaw him.

“Make it beer,” said Chucky.

Now beer stood as a symbol of gloom with Chucky, as he himself had told me.

“It’s always d’ way wit’ me,” said Chucky on that far occasion when he explained “Beer”, “when I’m dead sore an’ been gettin’ it in d’ neck, to order beer. It’s d’ sorrowfulest kind of booze, beer is; there’s a sob in every bottle of it, see!”

Realising Chucky’s low spirits by virtue of present beer, I suavely made query of his unknown grief and tendered sympathy.

“I’ve been done for me dough,” replied Chucky, softening sulkily. “You minds d’ races at d’ Springs? That’s it; I gets t’run down be d’ horses. I get d’ gaff for fifty plunks. Now, fifty plunks ain’t all d’ money in d’ woild; but it was wit’ me. It was me fortune.”

Chucky ruminated bitterly.

“Oh, I’m a good t’ing!” he ejaculated, as he tilted his chair against the wall with an air of decision. “I’ll play d’ jumpers agin, nit!

“W’at’s d’ use? I can’t beat nothin’. Say! I couldn’t beat a drum! I’m a mut to ever t’ink of it! I ought to give meself up to d’ p’lice right now an’ ast ‘em to put me in Bloomin’dale or some other bug house. I’m nutty, that’s what I am; an’ that’s for fair! Now, I’d as lief tell you. It’s d’ boss hard luck story, an’ that ain’t no vision!

“In d’ foist place, I was a rank sucker to d’ point of deemin’ meself a wise guy about d’ horses. An’ it so follows, bein’ stuck on meself about horses, as I says, that when Skinny Mike blows in wit ‘d’ idee that he can pick d’ winner of d’ big event, I falls to d’ play, an easy mark.

“Mike is an oldtime tout; an’ wit’ me feelin’, as I says, dead fly, it ain’t a minute before I’m addin’ me ignorance to Mike’s, an’ we’re runnin’ over d’ dopes in d’ papers seein’ what d’ horses has done. To make a long story short, we settles it for a finish that War Song’s out to win. Which, after all, ain’t such a sucker t’eory.

“‘It’s a cinch!’ says Skinny Mike; ‘War Song’s got a pushover. Dey can’t beat him; never in a t’ousand years!’

“It looks a sure tip to me, too; so I digs for me last dollar an’ hocks me ticker besides, an’ makes up d’ fifty plunks I mentions. Mike sticks in fifty an’ then takes d’ whole roll an’ screws his nut for d’ Springs to get it up on War Song. Naw; I don’t go. Mike’s plenty to make d’ play; an’ besides I had me lamps on a sure t’ing for a tenner over on d’ Bowery.

“Of course, while Mike’s gone, I ain’t doin’ a t’ing but read d’ poipers all to pieces. War Song’s a 20-to-1 shot; I stan’s to make a killin’ – stan’s to win a t’ousand plunks, see!

“An’, say! War Song win! Mebby I don’t give d’ yell of d’ year when I sees it in d’ print.

“‘W’at’s eatin’ youse, Chucky?’ says me Rag, as I cuts loose me warwhoop.

“‘O, I ain’t got no nut!’ I says, givin’ meself d’ gran’ jolly. ‘No! not at all! I has to ast some mark to tell me me name, I don’t t’ink! I’m cooney enough to get onto War Song, all d’ same! Say! I’m d’ soonest galoot that ever comes down d’ pike!’

“That’s d’ way I feels an’ that’s d’ way I chins.

“At last I cools off me dampers an’ sets in to wait for Mike. Meanwhile I begins to figger how I’ll blow d’ stuff, see! an’ settle what I’ll buy. It’s a case of money to boin an’ I was gettin’ me matches ready before even Mike shows up.

“But Mike don’t come. ‘W’at th’ ‘ell!’ I t’inks; ‘Mike ain’t crookt it; he ain’t skipped wit’ d’ bundle?’ An’ say! you should a-seen me chew d’ rag at d’ idee.

“But I’m wrong on me lead. Mike hadn’t welched, an’ he hadn’t been sandbagged. He comes creepin’ along a day behint d’ play, an’ d’ secont I gets me lamps on his mug I’m dead on we lose. I don’t have to have me fortune told to tumble to that. Mike looks like five cents wort’ of lard in a paper bag. An* here’s d’ song he sings.

“Mike says he goes to d’ Springs all right, all right, an’ is organised to get War Song for d’ limit d’ nex’ day. It’s that night, out be d’ stables, when he chases up on a horsescraper – a sawed-off coon, he is – an ‘d’ horse-scraper breaks off a great yarn on Mike.

“‘I ain’t no tout, an’ dis ain’t no tip,’ Mike says d’ coon says; ‘it’s a rev’lation. On d’ dead! it’s a prophecy! It’s las’ night. I’m sleepin’ in d’ stall nex’ to a little horse named Dancer. All at onct I wakes up an’ listens. It’s that Dancer horse in d’ nex’ stall talkin’ to himself. Over an’ over agin he says: “I’m goin’ to win it! I’m goin’ to win it!” just like that.’

“Well,” continued Chucky, “you know Skinny Mike. There’s a ghost goes wit’ Mike, an’ he’s that sooperstitious, d’ nigger’s story has him on a string in a hully secont. He can’t shake it off. Away he wanders an’ dumps d’ entire wad on Dancer, an’ never puts a splinter on War Song at all.

“W’at do you t’ink of it? On d’ level! w’at d’ youse really t’ink of it? That Mike’s a woild-beater; that’s right; a woild-beater an’ a wonder to boot! I’d like to trade him for a yaller dawg, an’ do d’ dawg!”

“Did Dancer win?” I asked.

“Did Dancer win?” repeated Chucky; and his tones breathed guttural scorn; “d’ old skate never even finished. Naw; he gets ‘round on d’ back stretch, stops, bites d’ boy off his back, chases over be d’ fence an’ goes to eatin’ grass; that’s what Dancer does. He’s a dandy race horse, or I don’t want a cent! I’ll bet me mudder-in-law on that Dancer some day. I tells Mike to take a run an’ jump on himself. Naw,” concluded Chucky, with a great gulp, “Dancer don’t win; War Song win.”

MOLLIE PRESCOTT

(Wolfville)

The Cactus” was the name bestowed upon her in Wolfville. Her signature, if she had written it, would probably have been Mollie Prescott, at least such was the declaration of Cherokee Hall.

“I sees this yere lady a year ago in Tombstone,” asserted that veracious chronicler, “where she cooks at the stage station; an’ she gives it out she’s Prescott – Mollie Prescott – an’ most likely she knows her name, an’ knows it a year ago.”

As Cherokee was a historian of known firmness of statement, no one cared to challenge either his facts or his conclusions. The true name of “The Cactus” was accepted by the Wolfville public as Prescott.

“The Cactus” was personable, and her advent into Wolfville society caused something of a flutter. Her mission was to cook, and in the fulfilment of her destiny she presided over the range at the stage station.

Being publicly hailed as “The Cactus” seemed in no wise to depress her. It was even possible she took a secret glow over an epithet, meant by the critical taste awarding it, to illustrate those thorns in her nature which repelled and held in check the amorous male of Wolfville.

Women were not frequent in Wolfville, and on her coming, “The Cactus” had many admirers. Every man in camp loved her the moment she stepped from the Tucson stage; that is, every man save Cherokee Hall. That scientist, given wholly to faro as a philosophy, had no time – in a day before he met Faro Nell – for so dulcet an affair as love. Also Cherokee had scruples born of his business.

“Life behind a deal box is a mighty sight too fantastic,” observed the thoughtful Cherokee, “for a fam’ly. It does well enough for single-footers, which it don’t make much difference with when some gent they’ve mortified an’ hurt, pulls his six-shooter an’ sends them lopin’ home to heaven all spraddled out. But a lady ain’t got no business with a sport who turns kyards as a pursoot.”

As time unfurled, the train of lovers to sigh on the daily trail of “The Cactus” dwindled. There were those who grew dispirited.

“I’m clean-strain enough,” said Dan Boggs, in apologetic description of his failure to persevere, “but I knows when I’ve got through. I’ll play a game to a finish, but when it’s down to the turn an’ my last chip’s gone over to the dealer, why! I shoves my chair back an’ quits. An’ it’s about that a-way of an’ concernin’ my yearnin’s for this yere Cactus girl. I jest can’t get her none, an’ that settles it. I now drops out an’ gives up my seat complete.”

“That’s whatever!” said Texas Thompson, who was an interested listener to the defeated Boggs, “an’ you can gamble I’m with you on them views! Seein’ as how my wife in Laredo gets herse’f that divorce, I turns in an’ loves this Cactus person myse’f to a frightful degree. Thar’s times I simply goes about sobbin’ them sentiments publicly. But yere awhile back I comes wanderin’ ‘round her kitchen, an’ bing! arrives a skillet at my head. That lets me out! You bet! I don’t pursoo them explorations ‘round her no more. I has exper’ence with one, an’ I don’t aim to get any lariat onto a second female who is that callous as to go a-chunkin’ of kitchen bric-a-brac at a heart which is merely pinin’ for her smiles.”

There were two at the shrine of “The Cactus,” who were known to Wolfville, respectively, as Cottonwood Wasson and Cape Jinks. These were distinguished for the ardour wherewith they made siege to the affection of “The Cactus,” and the energy of their demands for her capitulation.

That virgin, however, paid neither heed to their court, nor took an interest in the comment of onlook-ing Wolfville. She pursued her path in life, even and unmoved. She set her tables, washed her dishes, and perfected her daily beefsteaks by the ingenious process, popular in the Southwest, of burning them on the griddles of the range, and all with a composure bordering hard on the stolid.

“All I’m afraid of,” said Old Man Enright, the head of the local vigilance committee, “is that some of these yere young bucks’ll take to pawin’ ‘round for trouble with each other. As the upshot of sech doin’s would most likely be the stringin’ of the survivors by the committee, nuptials, which now looks plenty feasible, would be plumb busted an’ alienated, an’ the camp get a setback it would be hard to rally from. I wishes this maiden would tip her hand to some discreet gent, so a play could be made in advance to get the wrong parties over to Tucson or some’ers. Whatever do you think yourse’f, Cherokee?”

“It’s a delicate deal,” replied that philosopher, “to go tamperin’ ‘round a lady for the secret of her soul. But I shorely deems the occasion a crisis, an* public interest demands somethin’ is done. I wish Doc Peets was yere; he knows these skirted cattle like I does an ace. But Peets won’t be back for a month; pendin’ of which, onless we-alls interferes, it’s my jedgment some of this yere amorousness ‘ll come off in the smoke.”

“Thar ought to be statoots,” observed Texas Thompson, with a fine air of wisdom, “ag’in love-makin’ in the far West. The East should be kept for sech purposes speshul; same as reservations for Injuns. The Western climate’s too exyooberant for love.”

“S’pose me an’ you an’ Thompson yere goes to this young person, an’ all p’lite an’ congenial like, we ups an’ asks her intentions?” remarked Enright. This was offered to Cherokee.

“Excuse me, pards!” said Texas Thompson with eagerness, “but I don’t reckon I wants kyards in this at all. ‘The Cactus’ is a mighty fine young bein’, but you-alls recalls as how I’ve been ha’ntin’ ‘round her somewhat in the past myse’f. For which reason, with others, she might take my comin’ on sech errants derisive, an’ bust me over the forehead with a dipper, or some sech objectionable play. I allows I better keep out of this embroglio a whole lot. I ain’t aiming to shirk nothin’, but it’ll be a heap more shore to win.”

“Thompson ain’t onlikely to be plenty right about this,” said Cherokee, “an’ I reckons, Enright, we-alls better take this trick ourse’ves.”

The mission was not a success. When the worthy pair of peace-preservers appeared in the presence of “The Cactus,” and made the inquiries noted, the scorn of that damsel was excited beyond the power of words to describe.

“What be you-alls doin’ in my kitchen?” she cried, her face a-flush with rage and noonday cookery. “Who sends you-alls curvin’ over to me, a-makin’ of them insultin’ bluffs? I demands to know!”

“An’ yere,” said Cherokee Hall, relating the exploit in the Red Light immediately thereafter, “she stamps her foot like a buck antelope, an’ lets fly a stovelifter at us; an’ all with a proud, high air, which reminds me a mighty sight of a goddess.”

At the time, it would seem, the duo attempted to show popular cause for their presence, and made an effort to point out to “The Cactus” the crying public need of some decision on her part.

“You-all don’t want the young male persons of this village to take to shootin’ of each other all up none, do you?” asked Enright.

“I wants you two beasts to get outen my kitchen!” replied “The Cactus” vigorously; “an’ I wants you to move some hurried, too. Don’t never let me find your moccasin tracks ‘round yere no more, or I’ll turn in an’ mark you up.”

“Yere, you!” she continued as the ambassadors were about to leave, something cast down by the conference; “you-alls can tell the folks of this town, that if they’re idiots enough to go makin’ a gun play over me, to make it. They has shore pestered me enough!”

“Which I don’t wonder none at Thompson bein’ reluctant an’ doobious about seein’ this Cactus lady,” said Enright, as the two walked away.

“She’s some fiery, an’ that’s a fact!” observed Cherokee in assent.

The result of the talk with “The Cactus” found its way about Wolfville, and in less than an hour bore its hateful fruit. The peaceful quiet of the Red Light, which, as a rule, was wounded by no harsher notes than the flutter of a stack of chips, was rudely broken.

“Gents who ain’t interested, better hunt a lower limb!”

It was the voice of Cottonwood Wasson. The trained instincts of Wolfville at once grasped the trouble, and proceeded to hide its many heads behind barrels, tables, counters, and anything which promised refuge from the bullets.

All but one; Cape Jinks. He knew it meant him the moment Cottonwood Wasson uttered the first syllable, and his pistol came bluntly to the fore without a word. His rival’s was already there, and the shooting set in like a hailstorm. As a result, Cottonwood Wasson received an injury that crippled his arm for days, while Cape Jinks was picked up with a hole in his side, which even the sanguine sentiment of Wolfville, inclined to a hardy optimism at all times, called dangerous.

“Well!” said Old Man Enright, drawing a deep, troubled breath, after the duellists were cared for at the O. K. House, “yere we be ag’in an’ nothin’ settled! Thar’s all this shootin’, an’ this blood-lettin’, an’ the camp gets all torn up; an’ thar’s as many of these people now as thar is before, an’ most likely the whole deal to go over ag’in.”

“I shore ‘bominates things a-splittin’ even that a-way!” said Cherokee.

The next day a new face was given the affair when “The Cactus” was observed, clothed in her best frock and with two violent red roses in her straw hat, to take the stage for Tucson. The stage company reported, in deference to the excited state of the Wolfville mind, that “The Cactus” would return in a week.

“Goin’ for her weddin’ trowsoo, most likely,” said Dan Boggs, as he gazed after the stage.

“Let’s drink to the hope she wins out a red dress!” remarked Texas Thompson. “Set up the bottles, bar-keep, an’ don’t let no gent pass up the play. Which red is my fav’rite colour!”

No one seemed to know the intentions of “The Cactus.” The shooting would appear to have in nowise disturbed her. That may have been her obdurate heart, or it may have come from a familiarity with the evanescent tenure of human life, born of her years on the border. Be that as one will, she expressed not the least concern touching her brace of wounded lovers, and took the stage without saying good-bye to any one.

“An’ some fools say women is talkers!” remarked Jack Moore, the Marshal, in high disgust.

Three days later Old Monte, the stage driver, came in with thrilling news. “The Cactus” had wedded a man in Tucson, and would bring him to Wolfville in a week.

“When I first hears of it,” went on Old Monte with a groan, “an’ when I thinks of them two pore boys a-layin’ in Wolfville, an’ their claims bein’ raffled off in that heartless way, I shore thinks I’ll take my Winchester an’ stop them marriage rites if I has to crease the preacher. But, pards, the Tucson marshal wouldn’t have it. He stan’s me off. So she nails him; an’ the barkeep at the Oriental Saloon tells me over thar, how she’s been organisin’ to wed this yere prairie dog before she ever hops into Wolfville at all. I sees him afterwards; an’, gents! for looks, he don’t break even with horned toads!”

“Thar you be!” said Enright, making a deprecatory gesture, “another case of woman, lovely woman! However, even if this Cactus lady has done rung in a cold hand onto us, we must still prance ‘round an’ show her a good time when she trails in with her prey. Where the honour of the camp is concerned, we whoops it up! Of course the Cactus don’t please us none with this deal; but most likely she pleases herse’f, which, after all, is the next best thing. Gents,” concluded Enright, after a pause, “the return of the new couple will be the signal of a general upheaval in their honour. It’s to be hoped our young friends, Cottonwood an’ Jinks, will by then be healthful enough to participate tharin. Barkeep! the liquor, please! Boys, the limit’s off; wherefore drink hearty!”

“Which I has preemonitions from the first, this yere Cactus female is a brace game,” remarked Texas Thompson, as he filled his glass; “that’s whatever!”

“Oh! I don’t know!” replied Cherokee Hall thoughtfully. “She has her right to place her bets to please herse’f, an’ win or lose, this camp should be proud to turn for her. Wolfville can’t always make a killin’ – can’t always be on velvet; but as long as the Cactus an’ her victim pitches camp yere, Wolfville can call herse’f ahead on the deal. I sees no room for cavil, an’ I yereby freights my glass to the Cactus an’ the shorthorn she’s tied down.”