The Best of Robert E. Howard, Volume 2 Page 36

  Blaze was beginning to come to, so I hauled him out from under the table, and lugged him out onto the street with me. Some fellers on the other side of the street immejitly started shooting at me, so I drawed my pistols and shot back at ’em, and they broke and run every which a way. So I got Blaze onto my back and started up the street with him, and after I’d went a few hundred yards he could walk hisself, though he weaved considerable, and he taken the lead and led me to his cabin which was back of some stores and clost to the bank of the creek. They warn’t nobody in sight but a loafer setting under a tree on the bank fishing, with his slouch hat pulled down to shade his eyes. The door was shet, so Blaze hollered, still kind of dizzy: “It’s me, Branner; open up!”

  So another young feller opened the door and looked out cautious with a double-barreled shotgun, and Blaze says to me: “Wait here whilst I go in and git the gold.”

  So I did and after a while he come out lugging a good-sized buckskin poke which I jedged from the weight they must be several thousand dollars worth of nuggets in there.

  “I’ll never forget this,” I said warmly. “You go tell Hannah I cain’t come to see her tonight because I’m guardin’ her old man’s gold. I’ll see her tomorrer after the stage coach has left with it.”

  “I’ll tell her, pal,” says he with emotion, shaking my hand, so I headed for my cabin, feeling I had easily won the first battle in the campaign for Hannah Sprague’s hand. Imagine that pore sap Blaze throwing away a chance like that! I felt plumb sorry for him for being so addle-headed.

  The sun was down by the time I got back to my cabin, and oncet I thought somebody was follering me, and I looked around, but it warn’t nobody but the feller I’d seen fishing, trudging along about a hundred yards behind me with his pole onto his shoulder.

  Well, when I arriv’ at my cabin, I seen a furtive figger duck out the back way. It looked like old Polk, so I called to him, but he scooted off amongst the trees. I decided I must of been mistook, because likely old Polk was still off somewheres sulking on account of gitting shot in the britches. He was a onreasonable old cuss.

  I went in and throwed the buckskin poke on the table and lit a candle, and jest then I heard a noise at the winder and wheeled quick jest in time to see somebody jerk his face away from the winder. I run to the door, and seen somebody sprinting off through the trees, and was jest fixing to take a shot at him when I recognized that old slouch hat. I wondered what that fool fisherman had follered me and looked in at my winder for, and I wondered why he run off so fast, but I’d already found out that Blue Lizard was full of idjits, so I give the matter no more thought. I ain’t one of these here fellers which wastes their time trying to figger out why things is like they is, and why people does things like they does. I got better employment for my spare time, sech as sleeping.

  Satanta come up to the door and nickered, and I give him some oats, and then I built a fire in the fireplace and cooked some bacon and made some coffee, and I’d jest got through eating and cleaned up the pot and skillet when somebody hailed me outside.

  I quick blowed out the candle and stepped to the door with a gun in each hand. I could see a tall figger standing in the starlight, so I ast who the devil he was and what he wanted.

  “A friend of Old Man Sprague’s,” says he. “Huddleston is the name, my enormous young friend, Carius Z. Huddleston. Mister Sprague sent me over to help you guard his gold tonight.”

  That didn’t set well with me, because it looked like Old Man Sprague didn’t think I was capable of taking care of it by myself, and I said so right out.

  “Not at all,” says Mister Huddleston. “He’s so grateful to you for assumin’ the responsibility that he said he couldn’t endure it if you come to any harm on account of it, so he sent me to help you.”

  Well, that was all right. It looked like Old Man Sprague had took a fancy to me already, even before he’d saw me, and I felt that I was nigh as good as married to Hannah already. So I told Mr. Huddleston to come in, and I lit the candle and shet the door. He was a tall man with the biggest black mustache I ever seen, and he had on a frock tail coat and a broad-brim hat. I seen two ivory-handled six-shooters under his coattails. His eyes kind of bulged in the candlelight when he seen the big poke on the table and he ast me was that the gold and I said yes. So he hauled out a bottle of whiskey and said: “Well, my gigantic young friend, le’s drink to Old Man Sprague’s gold, may it arrive at its proper destination.”

  So we had a drink and I sot down on the bench and he sot on a rawhide bottomed chair, and he got to telling me stories, and he knowed more things about more people than I ever seen. He told me about a feller named Paul Revere which thrived during the Revolution when we licked the Britishers, and I got all het up hearing about him. He said the Britishers was going to sneak out of a town named Boston which I jedge must of been a right sizable cowtown or mining camp or something, and was going to fall on the people unawares and confiscate their stills and weppins and steers and things, but one of Paul’s friends signaled him what was going on by swinging a lantern, and Paul forked his cayuse and fogged it down the trail to warn the folks.

  When he was telling about Paul’s friend signaling him Mister Huddleston got so excited he grabbed the candle and went over to the west winder and waved the candle back and forth three times to show me how it was done. It was a grand story, Wash, and I got goose bumps on me jest listening to it.

  Well, it was gitting late by now, and Mister Huddleston ast me if I warn’t sleepy. I said no, and he said: “Go ahead and lay down and sleep. I’ll stand guard the rest of the night.”

  “Shucks,” I said. “I ain’t sleepy. You git some rest.”

  “We’ll throw dice to see who sleeps first,” says he, hauling out a pair, but I says: “No, sir! It’s my job. I’m settin’ up with the gold. You go on and lay down on that bunk over there if you wanta.”

  Well, for a minute Mister Huddleston got a most pecooliar expression onto his face, or it might of been the way the candlelight shined on it, because for a minute he looked jest like I’ve seen men look who was ready to pull out their pistol on me. Then he says: “All right. I believe I will take a snooze. You might as well kill the rest of that whisky. I got all I want.”

  So he went over to the bunk which was in a corner where the light didn’t shine into very good, and he sot down on it to take off his boots. But he’d no sooner sot than he give a arful yell and bounded convulsively out into the middle of the room, clutching at his rear, and I seen a b’ar trap hanging onto the seat of his britches! I instantly knowed old Polk had sot it in the bunk for me, the revengeful old polecat.

  From the way Mr. Huddleston was hollering I knowed it warn’t only pants which was nipped betwixt the jaws; they was quite a chunk of Mister Huddleston betwixt ’em too. He went prancing around the cabin like one of them whirling derfishes and his langwidge was plumb terrible.

  “Git it off, blast you!” he howled, but he was circling the room at sech speed I couldn’t ketch him, so I grabbed the chain which dangled from the trap and give a heave and tore it loose from him by main strength. The seat of his pants and several freckles come with it, and the howls he’d let out previous warn’t a circumstance to the one which he emitted now, also bounding about seven foot in the air besides.

  “You –!” screamed he, and I likewise give a beller of amazement because his mustash had come off and revealed a familiar face!

  “Witherington T. Jones!” I roared, dumfounded. “What the devil you doin’ here in disguise?”

  “Now!” says he, pulling a gun. “Hands up, curse you, or –”

  I knocked the gun out of his hand before he could pull the trigger, and I was so overcome with resentment that I taken him by the neck and shaken him till his spurs flew off.

  “Is this any way to treat a man as risked his repertation to rescue you from bloodhounds?” I inquired with passion. “Where’s my mule, you ornery polecat?”

  I had forgot about his other gun,
but he hadn’t. But I was shaking him so energetic that somehow he missed me even when he had the muzzle almost agen my belly. The bullet tore the hide over my ribs and the powder burnt me so severe that I lost my temper.

  “So you tries to murder me after obtainin’ my mule under false pretenses!” I bellered, taking the gun away from him and impulsively slinging him acrost the cabin. “You ain’t no friend of Old Man Sprague’s.”

  At this moment he got hold of a butcher knife I used to slice bacon with and come at me, yelling: “Slim! Mike! Arizona! Jackson! Where’n hell air you?”

  I taken the blade in my arm-muscles and then grabbed him and we was rassling all over the place when six men come storming through the door with guns in their hands. One of them yelled: “I thought you said you’d wait till he was asleep or drunk before you signaled us!”

  “He wouldn’t go to sleep!” howled Mister Jones, spitting out a piece of my ear he’d bit off. “Dammit, do somethin’! Don’t you see he’s klllin’ me?”

  But we was so tangled up they couldn’t shoot me without hitting him, so they clubbed their pistols and come for me, so I swung Mister Jones off his feet and throwed him at ’em. They was all in a bunch and he hit ’em broadside and knocked ’em all over and they crashed into the table and upsot it and the candle went out. The next minute they was a arful commotion going on as they started fighting each other in the dark, each one thinking it was me he had holt of.

  I was feeling for ’em when the back door busted open and I had a brief glimpse of a tall figger darting out, and it was carrying something on its shoulder. Then I remembered that the poke had been on that table. Mister Jones had got holt of the gold and was skedaddling with it!

  I run out of the back door after him jest as a mob of men come whooping and yelling up to the front door with torches and guns and ropes. I heard one of ’em yell: “Somebody’s fightin’ in there! Listen at ’em!”

  Somebody else yelled: “Maybe the whole gang’s in there with the hill-billy! Git ’em!” So they went smashing into the cabin jest as I run in amongst the trees after Mister Jones.

  And there I was stumped. I couldn’t see where he went and it was too dark to find his trail. Then all to oncet I heard Satanta squeal and a man yelled for help, and they come a crash like a man makes when a hoss bucks him off into a blackjack thicket. I run in the direction of the noise and by the starlight I seen Satanta grazing and a pair of human laigs sticking out of the bresh. Mister Jones had tried to git away on Satanta.

  “I told you he wouldn’t let nobody but me ride him,” I says as I hauled him out, but his langwidge ain’t fit to be repeated. The poke was lying clost by, busted open. When I picked it up, it didn’t look right. I struck a match and looked.

  That there poke was full of nothing but scrap iron!

  I was so stunned I didn’t hardly know what I was doing when I taken the poke in one hand and Mister Jones’ neck in the other’n, and lugged ’em back to the cabin. The mob had Mister Jones’s six men outside tied up, and was wiping the blood off ’em, and I seen Shorty and Black-Beard and Squint-Eye and the others, and about a hundred more.

  “They’re Stirling’s men all right,” says Warts. “But where’s Mustang, and that hill-billy? Anyway, le’s string these up right here.”

  “You ain’t,” says Black-Beard. “You all elected me sheriff before we come up here, and I aims to uphold the law … Who’s that?”

  “It’s Old Man Sprague,” says somebody, as a bald-headed old coot come prancing through the crowd waving a shotgun.

  “What you want?” says Black-Beard. “Don’t you see we’re busy?”

  “I demands jestice!” I howled Old Man Sprague. “I been abused!”

  At this moment I shouldered through the crowd with a heavy heart, and slang the poke of scrap iron down in front of him.

  “There it is,” I says, “and I’ll swear it ain’t been monkeyed with since Blaze Wellington gave it to me!”

  “Who’s that?’ howled Sprague.

  “The hill-billy!” howled the mob. “Grab him!”

  “No, you don’t!” I roared, drawing a gun. “I’ve took enough offa you Blue Lizard jackasses! I’m a honest man, and I’ve brung back Mister Jones to prove it.”

  I then flang him down in front of them, and Warts give a howl and pounced on him. “Jones, nothing!” he yelled. “That’s Mustang Stirling!”

  “I confesses,” says Mustang groggily. “Lock me up where I can be safe from that hill-billy! The critter ain’t human.”

  “Somebody listen to me!” howled Old Man Sprague, jumping up and down. “I demands to be heard!”

  “I done the best I could!” I roared, plumb out of patience. “When Blaze Wellington give me yore gold to guard –”

  “What the devil air you talkin’ about?” he squalled. “That wuthless scoundrel never had no gold of mine.”

  “What!” I hollered, going slightly crazy. Jest then I seen a feller in the crowd I recognized. I made a jump and grabbed him.

  “Branner!” I roared. “You was at Wellington’s shack when he give me that poke! You tell me quick what this is all about, or –”

  “Leggo!” he gasped. “It warn’t Sprague’s gold we hid. It was our’n. We couldn’t git it outa camp because we knowed Stirling’s spies was watchin’ us all the time. When you jumped Blaze in the Belle of New York, he seen a chance to git ’em off our necks. He filled that poke with scrap iron and give it to you where the spy could see it and hear what was said. The spy didn’t know whether it was our gold or Sprague’s, but we knowed if he thought you had it, Stirling would go after you and let us alone. He did, too, and that give Blaze a chance to sneak out early tonight with it.”

  “And that ain’t all!” bellered Old Man Sprague. “He taken Hannah with him! They’ve eloped!”

  My yell of mortal agony drownded out his demands for the sheriff to pursue ’em. Hannah! Eloped! It was too much for a critter to endure!

  “Aw, don’t you keer, partner,” says Shorty, slapping me on the back with the arm I hadn’t busted. “You been vindicated as a honest citizen! You’re the hero of the hour!”

  “Spare yore praise,” I says bitterly. “I’m the victim of female perfidy. I have lost my faith in my feller man and my honest heart is busted all to perdition! Leave me to my sorrer!”

  So they gathered up their prisoners and went away in awed silence. I am a rooint man. All I want to do is to become a hermit and forgit my aching heart in the untrodden wilderness.

  Your pore brother,

  PIKE

  P. S. – The Next Morning. I have jest learnt that after I withdrawed from the campaign and left Antioch, you come out for sheriff and got elected. So that’s why you persuaded me to come up here. I am heading for Antioch and when I git there I am going to whup you within a inch of yore wuthless life, I don’t care if you air sheriff of Antioch. I am going to kick the seat of yore britches up around yore neck and sweep the streets with you till you don’t know whether yo’re setting or standing. Hoping this finds you in good health and spirits, I am,

  Yore affectionate brother,

  P. BEARFIELD ESQUIRE.

  The Grim Land

  From Sonora to Del Rio is a hundred barren miles

  Where the sotol weave and shimmer in the sun –

  Like a horde of rearing serpents swaying down the bare defiles

  When the scarlet, silver webs of dawn are spun.

  There are little ’dobe ranchos brooding far along the sky,

  On the sullen dreary bosoms of the hills;

  Not a wolf to break the quiet, not a desert bird to fly

  Where the silence is so utter that it thrills.

  With an eery sense of vastness, with a curious sense of age,

  And the ghosts of eons gone uprear and glide

  Like a horde of drifting shadows gleaming through the wilted sage –

  They are riding where of old they used to ride.

  Muleteer and caballero, with their
plunder and their slaves –

  Oh, the clink of ghostly stirrups in the morn!

  Oh, the soundless flying clatter of the feathered, painted braves,

  Oh, the echo of the spur and hoof and horn.

  Maybe, in the heat of evening, comes a wind from Mexico

  Laden with the heat of seven Hells,

  And the rattlers in the yucca and the buzzard dark and slow

  Hear and understand the grisly tales it tells.

  Gaunt and stark and bare and mocking rise the everlasting cliffs

  Like a row of sullen giants hewn of stone,

  Till the traveler, mazed with silence, thinks to look on hieroglyphs,

  Thinks to see a carven Pharaoh on his throne.

  Once these sullen hills were beaches and they saw the ocean flee

  In the misty ages never known of men,

  And they wait in brooding silence till the everlasting sea

  Comes foaming forth to claim her own again.

  Pigeons from Hell

  I

  THE WHISTLER IN THE DARK

  Griswell awoke suddenly, every nerve tingling with a premonition of imminent peril. He stared about wildly, unable at first to remember where he was, or what he was doing there. Moonlight filtered in through the dusty windows, and the great empty room with its lofty ceiling and gaping black fireplace was spectral and unfamiliar. Then as he emerged from the clinging cobwebs of his recent sleep, he remembered where he was and how he came to be there. He twisted his head and stared at his companion, sleeping on the floor near him. John Branner was but a vaguely bulking shape in the darkness that the moon scarcely grayed.