I’ll bring you anything you want, but for Heaven’s sake, don’t give me away.’
“‘Is—is—is the four o’clock train the first out?’ inquired the new cousin.
“‘It is the first. I’ll see you through this. I’ll come up and see you every hour. Take things cool and easy now. I’m your friend, remember,’
was the comfort they parted on.
“There were over seven hundred votes cast, and only one against the bonds. How that one vote got in is yet a mystery. There were no hard drinkers among the boys, all easy drinkers, men that never refused to drink. Yet voting was a little new to them, and possibly that was how this mistake occurred. We got the returns early in the evening. The county had gone by a handsome majority for the bonds. The committee on entertainment had provided a ball for us in the basement of the Opera House, it being the largest room in town. When the good news began to circulate, the merchants began building bonfires. Fellows who didn’t have extra togs on for the ball got out their horses, and in squads of twenty to fifty rode through the town, painting her red. If there was one shot fired that night, there were ten thousand.
“I bought a white shirt and went to the ball. To show you how general the good feeling amongst everybody was, I squeezed the hand of an alfalfa widow during a waltz, who instantly reported the affront offered to her gallant. In her presence he took me to task for the offense. ‘Young man,’ said the doctor, with a quiet wink,’ this lady is under my protection. The fourteenth amendment don’t apply to you nor me. Six-shooters, however, make us equal. Are you armed?’
“‘I am, sir.’
“‘Unfortunately, I am not. Will you kindly excuse me, say ten minutes?’
“‘Certainly, sir, with pleasure.’
“‘There are ladies present,’ he observed. ‘Let us retire.’
“On my consenting, he turned to the offended dame, and in spite of her protests and appeals to drop matters, we left the ballroom, glaring daggers at each other. Once outside, he slapped me on the back, and said, ‘Say, we’ll just have time to run up to my office, where I have some choice old copper-distilled, sent me by a very dear friend in Kentucky.’
“The goods were all he claimed for them, and on our return he asked me as a personal favor to apologize to the lady, admitting that he was none too solid with her himself. My doing so, he argued, would fortify him with her and wipe out rivals. The doctor was a rattling good fellow, and I’d even taken off my new shirt for him, if he’d said the word. When I made the apology, I did it on the grounds that I could not afford to have any difference, especially with a gentleman who would willingly risk his life for a lady who claimed his protection.
“No, if you never heard of voting the bonds you certainly haven’t kept very close tab on affairs in this Strip. Two or three men whom I know refused to go in and vote. They ain’t working in this country now. It took some of the boys ten days to go and come, but there wasn’t a word said. Wages went on just the same. You ain’t asleep, are you, Don Guillermo?”
“Oh, no,” said Edwards, with a yawn, “I feel just like the nigger did when he eat his fill of possum, corn bread, and new molasses: pushed the platter away and said, ‘Go way, ‘lasses, you done los’ yo’
sweetness.’”
Bradshaw made several attempts to go, but each time some thought would enter his mind and he would return with questions about former acquaintances. Finally he inquired, “What ever became of that little fellow who was sick about your camp?”
Edwards meditated until Mouse said, “He’s thinking about little St.
John, the fiddler.”
“Oh, yes, Patsy St. John, the little glass-blower,” said Edwards, as he sat up on a roll of bedding. “He’s dead long ago. Died at our camp.
I did something for him that I’ve often wondered who would do the same for me—I closed his eyes when he died. You know he came to us with the mark on his brow. There was no escape; he had consumption. He wanted to live, and struggled hard to avoid going. Until three days before his death he was hopeful; always would tell us how much better he was getting, and every one could see that he was gradually going.
We always gave him gentle horses to ride, and he would go with us on trips that we were afraid would be his last. There wasn’t a man on the range who ever said ‘No’ to him. He was one of those little men you can’t help but like; small physically, but with a heart as big as an ox’s. He lived about three years on the range, was welcome wherever he went, and never made an enemy or lost a friend. He couldn’t; it wasn’t in him. I don’t remember now how he came to the range, but think he was advised by doctors to lead an outdoor life for a change.
“He was born in the South, and was a glass-blower by occupation. He would have died sooner, but for his pluck and confidence that he would get well. He changed his mind one morning, lost hope that he would ever get well, and died in three days. It was in the spring. We were going out one morning to put in a flood-gate on the river, which had washed away in a freshet. He was ready to go along. He hadn’t been on a horse in two weeks. No one ever pretended to notice that he was sick. He was sensitive if you offered any sympathy, so no one offered to assist, except to saddle his horse. The old horse stood like a kitten. Not a man pretended to notice, but we all saw him put his foot in the stirrup three different times and attempt to lift himself into the saddle. He simply lacked the strength. He asked one of the boys to unsaddle the horse, saying he wouldn’t go with us. Some of the boys suggested that it was a long ride, and it was best he didn’t go, that we would hardly get back until after dark. But we had no idea that he was so near his end. After we left, he went back to the shack and told the cook he had changed his mind,—that he was going to die. That night, when we came back, he was lying on his cot. We all tried to jolly him, but each got the same answer from him, ‘I’m going to die.’
The outfit to a man was broke up about it, but all kept up a good front. We tried to make him believe it was only one of his bad days, but he knew otherwise. He asked Joe Box and Ham Rhodes, the two biggest men in the outfit, six-footers and an inch each, to sit one on each side of his cot until he went to sleep. He knew better than any of us how near he was to crossing. But it seemed he felt safe between these two giants. We kept up a running conversation in jest with one another, though it was empty mockery. But he never pretended to notice. It was plain to us all that the fear was on him. We kept near the shack the next day, some of the boys always with him. The third evening he seemed to rally, talked with us all, and asked if some of the boys would not play the fiddle. He was a good player himself.
Several of the boys played old favorites of his, interspersed with stories and songs, until the evening was passing pleasantly. We were recovering from our despondency with this noticeable recovery on his part, when he whispered to his two big nurses to prop him up. They did so with pillows and parkers, and he actually smiled on us all. He whispered to Joe, who in turn asked the lad sitting on the foot of the cot to play Farewell, my Sunny Southern Home.’ Strange we had forgotten that old air,—for it was a general favorite with us,—and stranger now that he should ask for it. As that old familiar air was wafted out from the instrument, he raised his eyes, and seemed to wander in his mind as if trying to follow the refrain. Then something came over him, for he sat up rigid, pointing out his hand at the empty space, and muttered, ‘There
stands—mother—now—under—the—oleanders. Who is—that with—her? Yes, I had—a sister. Open—the— windows.
It—is—getting—dark—dark—dark.’
“Large hands laid him down tenderly, but a fit of coughing came on. He struggled in a hemorrhage for a moment, and then crossed over to the waiting figures among the oleanders. Of all the broke-up outfits, we were the most. Dead tough men bawled like babies. I had a good one myself. When we came around to our senses, we all admitted it was for the best. Since he could not get well, he was better off. We took him next day about ten miles and buried him with those freighters who were killed when the Pawnees raided this country. Some man will plant corn over their graves some day.”
As Edwards finished his story, his voice trembled and there were tears in his eyes. A strange silence had come over those gathered about the camp-fire. Mouse, to conceal his emotion, pretended to be asleep, while Bradshaw made an effort to clear his throat of something that would neither go up nor down, and failing in this, turned and walked away without a word. Silently we unrolled the beds, and with saddles for pillows and the dome of heaven for a roof, we fell asleep.
X
