CHAPTER XIII
THE RESCUE OF CIMARRON BILL
Opinion has been ever divided as to the true reason of Ogallala'sobjection to Cimarron Bill. Some there were who said it was born ofOgallala's jealousy of Dodge, the latter metropolis being as all menknow the home of Cimarron. Others held it to be offspring of thechildish petulance of Ogallala, which resented the unseemly luck ofCimarron who had played at cards with its citizens. The latter wouldappear the better solution; for when the committee, which consisted ofMr. Jenkins of the Sheaf of Wheat Saloon, Mr. Sopris and Mr. Smart,notified Cimarron to depart, the ostracism was expressly based upon thegood fortune which throughout four nights of draw-poker had waited uponthe obnoxious one.
The committee, in a spirit of fairness that did it credit, explained howOgallala did not intend by its action to accuse Cimarron of havingpracticed any fraud. Had such been the case, Ogallala would have hangedhim instead of bidding him depart in peace. What was meant came to be nomore than this: Ogallala was new and small, and per consequence poor,and could not afford the luxury of Cimarron's presence. Under thecircumstance the committee urged him to have avail of the first trainthat passed through. Leaving with him a time table and the suggestionthat he study it, the committee withdrew.
Cimarron Bill was possessed of many of the more earnest characteristicsof a bald hornet. Also, he held that the position assumed towards him byOgallala was in violation of his rights under a scheme of governmentwhich guaranteed him life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Thelast franchise in particular he construed as covering in his favour theprivilege of remaining what space he pleased in Ogallala, and divertinghimself with cards at the expense of those members of the body politicwilling to play with him. Thinking on these lines, he resolved to defythe sentiment of Ogallala, and stay where he was.
In preparation for what might happen, Cimarron Bill repaired to theMidland Hotel and got his six-shooter, which weapon, in compliment toOgallala, he had theretofore avoided wearing. Being girt for hisdefence, he wended to the Arcade, a place of refreshment next neighbourto Mr. Jenkins' Sheaf of Wheat, and seating himself at a table calledcalmly for a drink. Word of these manoeuvres was conveyed to Mr.Jenkins, who as chairman of the notification committee felt compelled tovindicate the dignity of Ogallala.
It was an hour later and, being in the hot middle of an Augustafternoon, the Sheaf of Wheat was deserted. Likewise was the Arcade,save for the presence of Cimarron Bill. Mr. Jenkins made sure of this byglancing through the window of the Arcade when returning from a briefinvented trip to the post-office.
Believing that the time to move had come, Mr. Jenkins arranged a shotgunon the shelf below the level of the Sheaf of Wheat bar. There was acharge of buckshot in each barrel, and Mr. Jenkins entertained hopes ofwhat might be accomplished therewith. When fully organised, Mr. Jenkinstook a six-shooter and blazed away at the floor. He relied on thecuriosity of Cimarron, certain in this fashion to be aroused, to bringhim within range.
Mr. Jenkins was so far correct as to the inquisitive nature of CimarronBill that the smoke was still a-curl about the low ceiling of the Sheafof Wheat when the latter came rushing through the door. But the door ofCimarron's advent was the rear and not the front door, as had beenconfidently anticipated by Mr. Jenkins. He had dropped the six-shooterand caught up the Greener with a purpose of potting Cimarron the momenthe appeared. This reversal of doors, however, was so disconcerting thatin the hurry of wheeling, and because of the nearness of Cimarron, hemissed that lively gentleman altogether.
Cimarron Bill replied to Mr. Jenkins with his Colt's-45, and the bulletglancing on the fore-end of the Greener cut away the second, third andlittle fingers of Mr. Jenkins' left hand. The blow to his nervous systemsent Mr. Jenkins to the floor, where, being a prince for prudence and nomean strategist, he remained a-sprawl, feigning death. This pretenseimposed upon Cimarron who, after helping himself to a drink at theexpense, as he supposed, of Mr. Jenkins' estate, shot a hole through thebar mirror in registration of his contempt, and sauntered into thestreet.
Mr. Jenkins, following the going of Cimarron Bill, scrambled to hisfeet, thrust a fresh cartridge into the empty barrel of the Greener, andhastened to the door. Having advantage of the back of Cimarron, thatpersonage being distant forty yards, he poured a charge from the Greenerinto him. As Cimarron went down, Mr. Jenkins--who was no one to slighthis work--unslewed the second barrel. It went wild, and did no scathebeyond sending one buckshot through the Ogallala _Harbinger_, which Mr.Sopris, chair tilted against the front of the Cowboy's Rest, wasreading, while the balance of the load shattered the front window ofthat justly popular resort. Mr. Jenkins, believing that the honor ofOgallala had been retrieved, sought the local doctor, while severalunengaged members of the public gathered about the prostrate Cimarron.
The luck which had attended upon Cimarron Bill during his stay inOgallala did not abandon him in his off-and-on duel with Mr. Jenkins.Sundry of those cartridges which were as the provender of the Greenerhad been filled with bird not buckshot, being designed for thedestruction of prairie hens. Mr. Jenkins, in the hurry of reloading thatright barrel, had selected a prairie-hen cartridge. So far fromresembling one of those diminutive fowls, Cimarron was a gentleman ofvitality and powers of recuperation. The birdshot peppered but did notkill. Even as they gazed, those who surrounded Cimarron observed signsof returning life.
This revival of the stricken one bred sorrow in the Ogallala heart; notbecause of an innate inhumanity, but, as events had adjusted themselves,it would have been better had Mr. Jenkins extinguished Cimarron. Thereis that unwritten jurisprudence of the gun; and the politer, not to saymore honourable, technicalities were peculiarly on the side of Cimarron.If the story were sent abroad it would serve for the discredit ofOgallala; and a western town is as nervously concerned for its good fameas any woman. Hence the popular sadness over Cimarron's restoration.
Acting for the best under circumstances so discouraging, the public,first caring for Cimarron's pistol in order to preserve a future'squiet, formally placed him under arrest. Then, since Ogallala had nojail and because he lay wounded to helplessness, he was conveyed to theMidland, and Mr. Smart detailed to hold him prisoner. In these steps itis believed that Ogallala planned nothing beyond a version of the affairthat should bear upon its own repute as lightly as it might. Beyondsaving its skirts from criticism, it would restore Cimarron to apristine health, and finish by devising ways and means, honourable ofcourse to Ogallala, for letting him go free.
When the doctor had tied up the three finger-stumps of Mr. Jenkins, herepaired to the Midland and picked the shot--number eight, they were--outof Cimarron. Following these improvements, the latter called for adrink; then, addressing himself to Mr. Smart, he exhausted invectiveupon Ogallala and her manner towards sojourners within her limits.
Cimarron Bill was still in bed and still reviling Ogallala when Mr.Masterson was given a recount of his troubles. Aside from their severalyears of friendship, it chanced in times gone by that during adance-hall rumpus at Tascosa, Cimarron Bill had stood over Mr.Masterson, on the floor with a bullet-shattered knee, and withsix-shooters spitting fire held the crowded foe at bay. This, accordingto the religion of Mr. Masterson, made a claim upon his gratitude whichwould last while Cimarron lived. Wherefore, and because a Westerngratitude is never passive, Mr. Masterson no sooner heard of Cimarron'splight than he started to his relief.
Since he must go by roundabout trails, it was precisely one week fromthe day of Cimarron's battle with Mr. Jenkins before Mr. Masterson drewinto Ogallala, and wrote "William Brown, Hays City," in the account bookwhich the Midland employed in lieu of a more formal register. Also, Mr.Masterson developed an unusual fastidiousness, and asked to be shown therooms before one was assigned him. The request being complied with, Mr.Masterson in his ramble located Cimarron's room by locating Mr. Smart,who stood or rather sat on guard at the door--for Mr. Smart had broughtout a chair to comfort his watch and ward--and chose the room next to it.
&
nbsp; "Thar's a prisoner in thar," doubtfully observed the proprietor of theMidland, who was acting as guide to Mr. Masterson's investigations, "an'as he mostly cusses all night, he may disturb you."
"Disturb me?" repeated the bogus Mr. Brown. "Never! I know of nothingmore soothing to the slumbers of an honest man than the howls of thewicked under punishment."
Being installed, Mr. Masterson's earliest care was to provide himselfwith a demijohn of Midland whiskey; for he had noted an encarmined noseas a facial property of Mr. Smart, and that florid feature inspired aplan. There would be a train from the West at three o'clock A. M.; itwas now two o'clock P. M. This would give Mr. Masterson thirteen hourswherein to ripen his device; and thirteen is a fortunate number!
When Mr. Masterson passed Mr. Smart in the hall, bearing--as the Greeksbore gifts--that engaging demijohn, he spake casually yet pleasantly withMr. Smart; and next, after a fashion perfect in the West, he invited Mr.Smart to sample those wares which the demijohn contained. Mr. Smarttasted, and said it was the Midland's best. Upon this promisingdiscovery Mr. Masterson proposed a second libation, which courtesy Mr.Smart embraced.
Mr. Masterson apologized to Mr. Smart for a thoughtlessness that hadasked him to drink with a total stranger. He made himself known to Mr.Smart as "Mr. Brown of Hays." Mr. Masterson remarked that he would goabroad in Ogallala about the transaction of what mythical business hadbrought him to its shores. Meanwhile, the demijohn was just inside hisdoor. Would Mr. Smart do him the honour to cheer his vigils with suchreferences to the demijohn as it might please him to make?
Mr. Masterson was about to depart when a volley of bad words was heardto issue from Cimarron's room. The voice was strong and full, andfraught of a fine resolution; this delighted Mr. Masterson as showingCimarron to be in no sort near the door of death. A second volleyclimbed the transom to reverberate along the hall, and Mr. Masterson,jerking the thumb of inquiry, asked:
"Any gent with him?"
"No," responded Mr. Smart, leering amiably, albeit indefinitely, "no;he's plumb alone. He's jes' swearin' at a mark."
When Mr. Masterson returned he found Mr. Smart blurred and incoherent.It was no part of Mr. Masterson's policy to reduce Mr. Smart to acondition which should alarm the caution of Ogallala, and cause it torelieve his guard. Mr. Smart was the man for the place; to preserve himtherein, Mr. Masterson withdrew the demijohn from circulation.
Mr. Smart, even through the happy mists which enveloped him, spoke wellof this step. After supper, the demijohn could be recalled. Thefriendship which Mr. Smart and Mr. Masterson had conceived for oneanother might then be expanded, and its foundation deepened and secured.Thus sufficiently if not distinctly spake Mr. Smart; and Mr. Mastersoncoincided with him at every angle of his argument.
It was nine o'clock, and supper had been over two hours when Mr.Masterson again sought Mr. Smart at that gentleman's post in the hall.Mr. Masterson had much to talk about. The more he had seen of Ogallalathe better he liked it. As for Mr. Smart, he was among Ogallala's bestfeatures. It had become Mr. Masterson's purpose to go into business inOgallala. Possessing boundless capital, he would engage in every schemeof commerce from a general outfitting store to a corral. Mr. Smartshould be with him in these enterprises. While Mr. Masterson dilated,Mr. Smart drank, and the pleasant character of the evening was concededby both.
At one A. M. Mr. Masterson supported Mr. Smart to his cot in Cimarron'sroom. The invalid roused himself to say more bad words of both Mr. Smartand Mr. Masterson; for the room being unlighted, he assailed Mr.Masterson ignorantly and in the dark. Mr. Smart no sooner felt the cotbeneath him than he fell into deep sleep, and his snorings shook thecasements like a strong wind.
At half after two Mr. Masterson stepped confidently into Cimarron'sroom. He found Mr. Smart as soundly asleep as a corpse. Mr. Mastersonshook Cimarron gently by the shoulder:
"Steady!" he whispered.
"Is that you, Bat?" Cimarron asked, coming at once to an understandingof things.
"How hard are you hit?" asked Mr. Masterson. "Can you walk?"
"I'm too stiff and sore for that."
"Then it's a case of carry."
It was within five minutes of the train. Mr. Masterson wrapped thewounded Cimarron in the bed-clothes; thus disguised he resembled a longroll of gray army blankets.
Being a powerful man, Mr. Masterson tossed Cimarron over his shoulder,and started down the stair. The injured one ground his teeth with theanguish of it, but was as mute as a fox. There was still a drunken voiceor two in the barroom of the Midland, but Mr. Masterson--who had lookedover the route in the afternoon--eliminated whatever risk existed ofmeeting anyone by making for a side door.
Once in the dark street, by circuitous paths, Mr. Masterson sought thestation. He did not go to the depot proper, but found a place a littledistance up the track, where the smoking-car would stop. Also, he tookthe side opposite to that on which passengers got on and off the train.There he waited in the deep shadow of a line of freight cars, supportingthe drooping Cimarron against the nearest car. The two were in time; Mr.Masterson could see the headlight, and hear the scream of the engine.
The express swept in and stopped; by the best of best fortunes theforward platform of the smoking-car paused squarely in front of Mr.Masterson and Cimarron. Cautiously Mr. Masterson picked up his chargeand placed him upon the topmost step. Then he swung himself aboard andmade ready to drag Cimarron inside. The latter met the situation in amanner excessively limp and compliant; for all his iron nerve, he hadfainted.
As Mr. Masterson bent over Cimarron, some unauthorized person came fromout the darkness.
"Whom have you got there?"
As the one in search of knowledge hove in reach, Mr. Masterson smote himupon the head with his heavy eight-inch pistol. The inquiring one wentover backward, and Mr. Masterson was pleased to see that he fell free ofthe wheels. Yes, it was right; the unknown had sinned the sin of anuntimely curiosity.
The engine whistled, the train moved, and Mr. Masterson packed theunconscious Cimarron into the car and placed him in the nearest seat.There were half a dozen passengers scattered about; all were soundlyslumbering. Mr. Masterson drew a breath of relief, and wiped his face;for the night was an August night and the work had been hot. Then herearranged Cimarron's blankets, and threw a cupful of water in his faceby way of restorative. That, and the breeze through the lifted window,caused Cimarron to open his eyes.
"Give me some whiskey."
Mr. Masterson looked conscience-stricken.
"I forgot the whiskey!"
"Forgot the whiskey!" repeated Cimarron, in feeble scorn. "What kind ofa rescue party do you call this? I'd sooner have stayed where I was!Besides, I had it laid out how I'd finish shootin' up that Jenkins partythe moment I could totter over to the Sheaf of Wheat."
Mr. Masterson, to whom the petulance of the sick was as nothing,vouchsafed no return, and Cimarron sank back exhausted.
When the conductor appeared, the wary Mr. Masterson met that functionaryin the car door.
"Got any children?" asked Mr. Masterson.
"Five," said the conductor, whom it is superfluous to say was a marriedman; "five; an' another in the shops."
"The reason I ask," observed Mr. Masterson, "is that my brother overthere has measles, and I wouldn't want you to go packing it back to yourbabies. I have to wrap him up to keep him from catching cold. The doctorsaid that if he ever caught cold once we'd have some fun."
While Mr. Masterson was exploring Ogallala and perfecting his scheme ofrescue, he had purchased tickets to Grand Island. He bought tickets toGrand Island because he intended to get off at North Platte; theticket-buying was a ruse and meant to break the trail. The conductor, ashe received Mr. Masterson's tickets, thanked him for his forethought indefending his children from the afflicted brother.
"I'm a father myself," said Mr. Masterson, who in amplification of anystrategy was ever ready to round off one mendacity with another.
The dawn was showing when the trai
n drew in at North Platte. Shoulderingthe helpless Cimarron, Mr. Masterson stepped onto the deserted stationplatform. Cimarron gave a querulous groan.
"Where be you p'intin' out for now?" he demanded. "I'm gettin' a heaptired of this rescue. It's too long, an' besides it's too toomultuous."
"Tired or no," responded Mr. Masterson, steadily, "you're going to berescued just the same."
The Cochino Colorow was a gentleman whose true name was Mr. Cooper. Hehad been rebaptised as the "Cochino Colorow," which means the "Red Hog,"by the Mexicans and the Apaches when he was a scout for General Crook,and about the time the latter gained from the same sources his own titleof the "Gray Fox."
Mr. Cooper was not heralded as the Cochino Colorow because of anyaggressive gluttonies; but he was round and with a deal of jowl, andsuffered from a nose that, colour and contour, looked like the ace ofhearts. Besides, Mr. Cooper had red hair. These considerations inducedthe Mexicans and Apaches to arise as one man and call him the CochinoColorow; and the name stuck.
Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow had been fellow scouts under thewise Ben Clark when the latter guided the Black Kettle wanderings ofGeneral Custer. Since then the Cochino Colorow had adopted more peacefulpursuits as proprietor of the Bank Exchange in North Platte, and on themorning when Mr. Masterson, with Cimarron over his shoulder like a sackof oats, came seeking him, he was a familiar as well as a foremostfigure of that commonwealth.
The Bank Exchange was almost empty of customers when Mr. Masterson andhis burden arrived; a few all-night souls were still sleepily about afaro table, and the Cochino Colorow himself was behind the box. "Hello,Bat!" exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, manifestly surprised, and turningthe box on its side to show a recess in the deal. "Where in the name ofSanta Ana do you come from? What's that you're totin'?"
"I'm totin' a friend," replied Mr. Masterson.
The Cochino Colorow hastily assigned a talented person who was keepingthe case, to deal the interrupted game, while he in person waited uponthe wants of the fugitives. Mr. Masterson told the story of theiradventures to the Cochino Colorow.
"And for all my walking in the water about those tickets," concluded Mr.Masterson, "I'm afraid the Ogallala outfit will cross up with us beforeever I can freight Cimarron into Dodge. The moment that drunkard Smartcomes to, or the rest of 'em find they're shy Cimarron, they'll justabout take to lashing and back-lashing the situation with the telegraph,and I figure they'll cut our trail."
"Which if they should," confidently returned the Cochino Colorow, "we'llstand 'em off all right. Between us, I'm the whole check-rack in NorthPlatte."
Mr. Masterson's fears were justified. As early as the afternoon of thesame day, Mr. Sopris and a companion, whom Mr. Masterson, because of thehandkerchief which bound his brows, suspected to be the inquisitive one,walked into the Bank Exchange. Mr. Masterson and the Cochino Colorow hadremarked their approach from a window while they were yet two blocksaway.
"Is either of 'em that Jenkins crim'nal?" asked the Cochino Colorow.
"No," said Mr. Masterson.
"I'm shore sorry," replied the Cochino Colorow. "If one of 'em now wasthat Jenkins crim'nal, we'd nacherally prop pore Cimarron up by thisyere window, an' let him have a crack at him with my Winchester."
The Cochino Colorow suggested that Mr. Masterson retire to the roomwhere lay the invalid Cimarron. He said that he could best treat withthe visitors alone.
Cimarron was tossing to and fro on a couch in a cubby-hole of anapartment immediately to the rear of the Bank Exchange bar. Since theintervening partition was of pine boards, an inch for thickness, whatpassed between the Cochino Colorow and the invaders fell plainly uponthe listening ears of Mr. Masterson and Cimarron.
The visitors laid bare their mission. They set forth the escape ofCimarron; and while they would not pretend that Ogallala hungered todestroy that individual, they did urge a loss to the Ogallala honour ifhe were permitted to walk off in a manner of open, careless insolence.
"It ain't what this Cimarron does," explained Mr. Sopris; "it ain't thathe's done more'n shoot away three of Jenks' fingirs, an' as they was onthe left hand, they may well be spared. What Ogallala objects to is themanner of this person's escape. It not only puts Mr. Smart in the hole,speshul, but it reflects on Ogallala for hoss sense."
"Well, gents," returned the Cochino Colorow with cool nonchalance, "youcan't expect me to bother myse'f to death about what comes off inOgallala. Which, speakin' general, I'm that numbed by my ownmisfortunes, I don't care much what happens, so it don't happen to me."
"It wasn't," retorted Mr. Sopris, "that we allowed you'd feel a heapconcerned, but we got a p'inter that you're harborin' these yere felonspersonal."
"Is that so?" observed the Cochino Colorow, assuming airs of chilldignity. "Gents, since you impugns my integrity, my only word is, 'Makeyour next move.'"
"Our next move," observed Mr. Sopris, "will be to go squanderin' aboutinto the uttermost corners of this yere deadfall, an' search out ourgame."
"Shore!" exclaimed the Cochino Colorow, picking up a rifle that stood inthe corner. "An' bein' plumb timid that a-way, of course I'll neitherbat an eye nor wag a year ag'in the outrage."
The Cochino Colorow cocked the Winchester. Mr. Sopris shook his head, asmight one whose good nature had been abused.
"That's plenty!" said Mr. Sopris. "Since sech is your attitoode ofvoylence, we jest won't search this joint."
"No, I don't reckon none you will," retorted the Cochino Colorow,fingering the Winchester. "You two delegates from Ogallala had betterhit the trail for home. An' don't you never come pirootin' into NorthPlatte searchin' for things no more."
Mr. Masterson and Cimarron overheard this conversation, and the dialogueso affected the latter that Mr. Masterson had his work cut out to keephim in his blankets. As the colloquy ended and the retreating footfallstold the departure of the committee from Ogallala, Cimarron, sore, sickand exhausted, turned his face to the wall with a sigh of shame.
"Bat," he said, pleadingly, "would you mind leavin' the room a momentwhile I blush?" Then he continued while his tears flowed: "We're a finepair of centipedes to lie bunched up in yere while the Red Hog plays ourhands!"
"They were only four-flushing," said Mr. Masterson, soothingly, by wayof consolation.
In the corral to the rear of the Bank Exchange stood a ramshacklephaeton, which was one of the sights that North Platte showed totourists. This conveyance belonged to the mother-in-law of the CochinoColorow. The lady in question, who was of a precise, inveterate temper,was in the East visiting relatives, and the Cochino Colorow, aftersundry drinks to convey his courage to the needed height, endowed Mr.Masterson and Cimarron with the phaeton to assist them in across-country break for Dodge. After this generous act the CochinoColorow was troubled in spirit.
"I'll fight Injuns for fun," explained the Cochino Colorow, defensivelyto Mr. Masterson, "but whether you deems me weak or not, I simplyshudders when I think of my said mother-in-law an' what she'll say aboutthat buggy. But what could we-all do? Cimarron has got to _vamos_. ThemOgallala sharps will most likely be showin' up to-morry with a warrantan' a comp'ny of milishy, an' that vehicle is the one avenoo of escape.While her language will be mighty intemperate, still, in the cause offriendship, a gent must even face his mother-in-law."
"What do you reckon she'll do?" asked Mr. Masterson, who was not alittle disturbed by the evident peril of the good Cochino Colorow."Mebby Cimarron had better give himself up."
"No," replied the desperate one. "It shall never be said that anything,not even a well-grounded fear of that esteemable lady whom I honoursonder the endearin' name of mother-in-law, could keep me from rushin'with her phaeton to the rescue of a friend beset."
The Cochino Colorow roped and brought up a mud-hued, ewe-necked,hammer-headed beast of burden, and said its name was Julius Caesar. Thisanimal, which had a genius for bolting one moment and backing up thenext, he hooked to the phaeton. Cimarron, whose helplessness was not ofthe hands, could hol
d the reins and guide Julius Caesar. Mr. Mastersonwould ride a pinto pony furnished by the generous partisanship of theCochino Colorow. It would take a week to make Dodge, and a week'sprovisions, solid and liquid, were loaded into the phaeton.
The faithful Cochino Colorow rode with them on a favourite sorrel as faras Antelope Springs. Arriving at that water, he bade the travellersfarewell.
"Good luck to you," cried the Cochino Colorow, waving a fraternal hand."Give my regyards to Wright an' Kell an' Short."
"I hope you won't have trouble with that outfit from Ogallala," returnedMr. Masterson.
The Cochino Colorow snapped his fingers.
"Since my mind's took to runnin' on my mother-in-law," he said, "I'vedone quit worryin' about sech jim-crow propositions."
And thus they parted.
It was a week later when Mr. Masterson and the rescued one made Dodge.When he had seen the suffering Cimarron safely in bed at the WrightHouse, Mr. Masterson began looking after his own welfare at the LongBranch.
"You cert'nly had a strenuous time, Bat," observed Mr. Short,sympathetically.
"Strenuous!" repeated Mr. Masterson. "I should say as much! Cimarron wasas ugly as a sore-head dog, and wanted everything he could think of froma sandwich to a six-shooter. I was never so worn to a frazzle. It wascertainly," concluded Mr. Masterson, replenishing his glass, "the mostarduous rescue in which I ever took a hand; and we'd have never pulledit off if it hadn't been for the Cochino Colorow. Here's hoping he cansquare himself with that relative he robbed. She's as sour as pig-nuts,and I don't feel altogether easy about the Cochino Colorow. However, ifthe lady puts up too rough a deal, I told him he'd find a ready-madeasylum here."