Kitabı oku: «Sandburrs and Others», sayfa 8
CHEYENNE BILL
(Wolfville)
Cheyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not regarded in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single street in a voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled with an exhibition of pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and passé beer bottles perform as targets, has hitherto excited no more baleful sentiment in the Wolfville bosom than disgust.
“Shootin’ up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has passed unchallenged.
But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville is experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously from those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the Wolfville breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale party of Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel; persons whom the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits with meditating an investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But whatever the reason, Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the public mind which makes it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill.
The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville. The public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily. Those games which generally engross public thought are drowsy enough; but the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with his peers in absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is fairly sloppy from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat this need not sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly homoeopathic. “Similia similibus curantur,” says Wolfville; and when it is blazing hot, drinks whiskey.
But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance committee, and is about to be tried for his life.
What was Cheyenne Bill’s immediate crime? Certainly not a grave one. Ten days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But now in its spasm of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the erratic courses of Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken possession of that volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a Chinaman. Here is the story:
“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,” says Dave Tutt.
Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which lattice he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of injury disclosed in Dave Tutt’s tone, born of the awakened virtue of Wolfville.
“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks Cherokee Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser’ble Cheyenne comes chargin’ up to queer it.”
As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great change in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing gladsome and ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his forefinger like a thing of light. One of the tourists stands in the door of the hotel smoking a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and reviews the amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and abruptly halts. Gazing for a disgruntled moment on the man from the East, he takes the pipe from its owner’s amazed mouth and places it in his own “smokin’ of pipes,” he vouchsafes in condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an’ degradin’; an’ don’t you do it no more in my presence. I’m mighty sensitive that a-way about pipes, an’ I don’t aim to tolerate ‘em none whatever.”
This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill. He sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands dumbly staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still between his lips.
What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt acts cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne suddenly receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed, emerges from the New York store, whither he has been drawn by dint of soap.
“Whatever is this Mongol doin’ in camp, I’d like for to know?” inquires Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I’m yere last, for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn’t mind it, but with strangers visitin’ Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to death.”
“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I’m the only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I’m simply a pore, lonely white, but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a sudsmonger to let ‘em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.”
Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff of smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be short one Asiatic.
In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers a Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and Cheyenne Bill, realizing fate, at once accedes.
“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes the committee in the Red Light bar; “I don’t say this Cheyenne is held for beefin’ the Chinaman sole an’ alone. The fact is, he’s been havin’ a mighty sight too gay a time of late, an’ so I thinks it’s a good, safe play, bein’ as it’s a hot day an’ we has the time, to sorter call the committee together an’ ask its views, whether we better hang this yere Cheyenne yet or not?”
“Mr. Pres’dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I’m in order, an’ to get the feelin’ of the meetin’ to flowin’ smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne an’ proceeds with his immolation. I ain’t basin’ it on nothin’ in partic’lar, but lettin’ her slide as fulfillin’ a long-felt want.”
“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt’s very excellent motion as the census of this meetin’, an’ it’s hang she is.”
“Not intendin’ of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I wants to say this: I’m a quiet gent my-se’f, an’ nacheral aims to keep Wolfville a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-hangin’ of Cheyenne. He’s given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I don’t make no p’int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy. But this Cheyenne is allers a-ridin’, an’ a-yellin’, an’ a-shootin’ up this camp till I’m plumb tired out. So I says let’s hang him, an’ su’gests as a eligible, as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the dance hall.”
“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply upholstered for sech plays; an’ as delays is aggravatin’, the committee might as well go wanderin’ over now, an’ get this yere ceremony off its mind.”
“See yere, Mr. Pres’dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”
“You can gamble this is a squar’ game,” replies Enright confidently. “You’re entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out what kyards you needs, an’ we deals to you in a minute.”
“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, that’s all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.
“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I’m with you on this hangin’. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It’ll impress ‘em that Wolfville means business, an’ it’s a good, safe, quiet place. They’ll carry reports East as will do us credit, an’ thar you be. As to the propriety of stringin’ Cheyenne, little need be said. If the Chinaman ain’t enough, if assaultin’ of an innocent tenderfoot ain’t enough, you can bet he’s done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He wouldn’t deny it himse’f if you asks him.”
There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer.
“I reckons it’s your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.’”
“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin’s is ornery an’ makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin’; an’ all for a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin’ a mighty sight too stylish for me. It’s growin’ that per-dad-binged-’tic’lar it can’t take its reg’lar drinks, an’ – ”
“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with his six-shooter; “don’t you cuss the chair none, ’cause the chair won’t have it. It’s parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he’s out of order, same as it’s law that all chips on the floor goes to the house. When a gent’s out of order once, that settles it. He can’t talk no more that meetin’. Seein’ we’re aimin’ to eliminate you, we won’t claim nothin’ on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin’ ‘round ag’in, an’ don’t fret us! Sabe? Don’t you-all go an’ fret us none!”
“I ain’t allowin’ to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don’t have to fret you. What I says is this: I s’pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an’ The Dalis, an’ I never does know a party who’s roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An’ I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain’t law to hang people on account of downin’ no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an’ so I tells you what I’ll do. I’m a plain gent an’ thar’s no filigree work on me. If it’s all congenial to the boys yere assembled – not puttin’ it on the grounds of no miser’ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment half way – I’ll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?”
Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds in its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, therefore, that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on a turn at faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees to it; even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object.
“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don’t have to take this chance, an’ it’s a-makin’ of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us yereafter; but Wolfville goes you this time, an’ may Heaven have mercy on your soul. Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.”
“Turn squar’, Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of interest. “You wouldn’t go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a clatter, ag’in perishin’ flesh an’ blood?”
“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn’t turn queer for money, an’ you can gamble! I don’t do it none when the epeesode comes more onder the head of reelaxation.”
“Which the same bein’ satisfact’ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your game. I’m eager for action; also, I plays it open.”
“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin; “I’m thinkin’ I’d a-coppered; – that’s whatever!”
The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that interesting sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in succession.
“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we goin’ to do now, I’d like to know?” There is a pause.
“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere creates a doubt; an’ all doubts goes to the pris’ner, same as a maverick goes to the first rider as ties it down, an’ runs his brand onto it. This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an’ blow though it be, this yere Cheyenne Bill, temp’rarily at least, goes free. However, he should remember this yere graze an’ restrain his methods yereafter. Some of them ways of his is onhealthful, an’ if he’s wise he’ll shorely alter his system from now on.”
“Which the camp really lose! an’ this person Bill goes free!” says Jack Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag’in faro as a game. Where we-all misses it egreegious, is we don’t play him freeze-out.”
“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn softly to that personage of the deal box, “I don’t like killin’s none! I’d sooner Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!”
At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a delicate accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval.
BLIGHTED
(By the Office Boy)
Is it hauteur, or is it a maiden’s coyness which causes you to turn away your head, love?”
George D’Orsey stood with his arm about the willowy form of Imogene O’Sullivan. The scene was the ancestral halls of the O’Sullivans in the fashionable north-west quarter of Harlem. George D’Orsey had asked Imogene O’Sullivan to be his bride. That was prior to the remark which opened our story. And the dear girl softly promised. The lovers stood there in the gloaming, drinking that sweet intoxication which never comes but once.
“It isn’t hauteur, George,” replied Imogene O’Sullivan, in tones like far-off church bells. “But, George! – don’t spurn me – I have eaten of the common onion of commerce, and my breath, it is so freighted with that trenchant vegetable, it would take the nap from your collar like a lawn mower. It is to spare the man she loves, George, which causes your Imogene to hold her head aloof.”
“Look up, darling!” and George D’Orsey’s tones held a glad note of sympathy, “I, too, have battened upon onions.”
The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple.
“But we’ll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he’ll step high and lively when he hears of this!”
The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene was taking a look ahead.
“Doesn’t your father love me, pet?”
“I don’t think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He said he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused. From that I infer his opposition to our union.”
“We’ll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D’Orsey hissed the words through his set teeth.
“And my brother?”
“As for him,” said George D’Orsey (and at this he began pacing the room like a lion), “as for your brother! If he so much as looks slant-eyed at our happiness, he goes into the soup! From your father I would bear much; but when the balance of the family gets in on the game, they will pay for their chips in advance.”
“Can we not leave them, George; leave them, and fly together?”
“Your father is rich, Imogene; that is a sufficient answer.” There was a touch of sternness in George D’Orsey’s tones, and the subject of flying was dropped.
George D’Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He returned to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene O’Sullivan. Benton O’Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to him. At last he gave his sullen consent.
“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said.
Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came to a panting pause in its slip. George D’Orsey picked his way through the crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night. He wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that moment he beheld her dear form walking just ahead.
“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George D’Orsey tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm.
The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have defied the best efforts of a steam siren.
It was not Imogene O’Sullivan!
The police bore away George D’Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to his explanations.
“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom George D’Orsey told his tale.
The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it turned. George D’Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore against him was: “Insulting women on the street.”
When George D’Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as if his heart would break. At last he was calm.
“Oh, woman, in our hour of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
But, seen too oft, familiar with her face;
We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”
The Chateau O’Sullivan was a flare and a glare of lights. The rooms were jungles of palms and tropical plants. Flowers were everywhere, while the air tottered and fainted under the burden of their perfume. Imogene O’Sullivan never looked more beautiful.
But George D’Orsey did not come.
Hour followed hour into the past. The guests moved uneasily from room to room. The preacher notified Benton O’Sullivan that he was ready.
And still George D’Orsey came not.
“The villain has laid down on us, me child!” whispered Benton O’Sullivan to the weeping Imogene; “but may me hopes of heaven die of heart failure if I have not me revenge! No man shall insult the proud house of. O’Sullivan and get away with it; not without blood!”
The guests cheerfully dispersed, talking the most scandalous things in whispers.
Imogene O’Sullivan’s dream was over.
It was the next night. George D’Orsey stood on the O’Sullivan porch, ringing the bell. His eye and his pocket and his stomach were alike wildly vacant.
“Sic him, Bull! Sic him!” said Benton O’Sullivan, bitterly.
Bull tore several specimens from the quivering frame of George D’Orsey, who vanished in the darkness with a hoarse cry.
Years afterward George D’Orsey and Imogene O’Sullivan met, but they gave each other a cold, meaningless stare.
THE SURETHING
(By the Office Boy)
John Sparrowhawk was a sporting man of the tribe of “Surethings.” He was fond of what has Cherry Hill description as a “cinch.” He never let any lame, slow trick get away. John Sparrowhawk’s specialty was racing; and he always referred to this diversion with horses as his “long suit.” He kept several rather abrupt animals himself, and whenever he found a man whose horse wasn’t as sudden as some horse he owned, John Sparrowhawk would lay plots for that man, and ultimately race equines with him, and become master of such sums as the man would bet. John Sparrowhawk wandered through life in his “surething” way and amassed wealth. He was rich, and was wont to boast to very intimate friends:
“I never spent a dollar which I honestly earned.” This gave John Sparrowhawk a vast deal of vogue, and he was looked up to and revered by a circle which is always impressed by the genius of one who can rob his fellow-worms, and do it according to law.
It befell one day that the Brooklyn Jockey Club offered a purse for a running race, but demanded five entries. In no time at all, three horses were entered. Their names and capacities were well known to the sagacious John Sparrowhawk. He had a horse that could beat them all.
“He would run by them like they was tied to a post!” remarked John Sparrowhawk, in a chant of ungrammatical exultation.
It burst upon him that the time was ripe to pillage somebody. His latest larceny was ten days old, and John Sparrowhawk oft quoted the Bowery poet where he said:
“Count that day lost whose low, descending sun
Sees at thy hands no worthy sucker done.”
And John Sparrowhawk did business that way. If he might only get another horse entered, and then complete the quintet with his own, John Sparrowhawk would possess “a snap.” Which last may be defined as a condition of affairs much famed for its excellence.
At this juncture John Sparrowhawk had the idea of his career. The idea made “a great hit” with him. He had a friend who had a horse, which, while not so swiftly elusive as “Tenbroeck” and “Spokane” in their palmy days, could defeat such things as district messenger boys, Fifth avenue stages, and many other enterprises which do not attain meteoric speed. John Sparrowhawk’s horse could beat it, he was sure. He would explain the situation to his friend, and cause his snail of a horse to be entered. This would fill the race, and then John Sparrowhawk’s horse would win “hands down,” and thereby empty everybody’s pockets in favour of John Sparrowhawk’s, which was a very glutton of a pocket, and never got enough.
John Sparrowhawk’s friend was lying ill at the Hoffman. John Sparrowhawk went into that hostelry and climbed the stairs, softly humming that optimistic ballad, which begins: “There’s a farmer born every second!”
The sick friend took little interest in the deadfall proposed by John Sparrowhawk. He was suffering from a mass-meeting on the part of divers boils, which had selected a trysting place on his person, where their influence would be felt.
Locked, as it were, in conflict with his afflictions, John Sparrowhawk’s friend was indifferent to his horse. He cared not what traps were set with him.
John Sparrowhawk entered the friend’s horse and paid the entrance money – $150. Then he lavished $15 on a “jock” to ride him. The field was full, the conditions of the purse complied with, and the race a “go.” Of course, John Sparrowhawk’s horse would win; and, acting on it as the chance of his life, John Sparrowhawk went craftily about wagering his dollars, even unto his bottom coin; and all to the end that he deplete the “jays” about him and become exceeding rich.
“I’m out for the stuff!” observed John Sparrow-hawk, and acted accordingly.
When the race started John Sparrowhawk had everything up but his eyes, his ears, and other bric-à-brac of a personal sort, which would mean inconvenience to be without a moment.
There could be no purpose other than a cruel one, so far as John Sparrowhawk is concerned, to dwell on the details of this race. Suffice it that they started and they finished, and the horse of the sick friend made a fool of the horse of John Sparrowhawk. He beat him like rocking a baby, so said the sports, and thereby dumped the unscrupulous yet sapient John Sparrow-hawk for every splinter he possessed. It shook every particle of dust out of John Sparrowhawk. He called to relate his woe to his sick friend. That suffering person’s malady had temporarily taken a recess from its labours, and for the nonce he was resting easy.
“I know’d it, and had four thousand placed that way, John,” observed the invalid. “I win almost thirteen thousand on the trick. My horse could do that skate of yours on three legs. I tumbled to it the moment you came in the other day.”
“Why didn’t you put me on?” remonstrated John Sparrowhawk, almost in tears, as he thought of the dray-load of money he had lost.
“Put you on!” repeated the Job of the Hoffman, scornfully; “not none! I wanted to see how it would seem to let a ‘surething’ sharp like you open a game on a harmless sufferer and ‘go broke’ on it. No, John; it will do you good. You won’t have so much money as the result of this, but you will be a heap more erudite.”
