 | "Only the Master Shall Praise." |  |
Oskison, John M. "'Only the Master Shall Praise.'" Century
Magazine 59 (Jan. 1900): 327-335.
THE PRIZE STORY IN "THE CENTURY'S" COMPETITION
FOR COLLEGE GRADUATES OF 1898.
BY JOHN M. OSKISON, B. A.,
Leland Stanford Junior University.
ON the cattle ranges of the Indian Territory ten years ago he was known as "the Runt," because he was several inches shorter than the average puncher. His other title of "Hanner" had been fastened upon him by a ludicrous incident in his youth. "Hanner the Runt" was a half-breed Cherokee cow-boy, who combined with the stoicism of the Indian something of the physical energy and mental weakness of his white father. One of his shoulders was knocked down a quarter of a foot lower than the other, two ribs had been "caved in" on his left side, and a scar high up on his cheek-bone indicated a stormy life. It was a matter of speculation in the cow-camps as to the number of times Hanner had been thrown from horses and discharged by his employers; he would have been called the foot-ball of fate had these cow-boys been modern and college-bred.
No trick that was ever perpetrated upon him, no service that another imposed upon him, no jeer flung straight in his face, could destroy the innocent trust he felt in humanity. Bill Seymour had caused him to break his ribs by falling from a wild pony, and had then thrashed the puncher who laughed at the fall. In this way Hanner had become the slave of Seymour.
The two, Seymour and Hanner, now rode for Colonel Clarke, and were generally together. It was convenient for Seymour to have his "vallet" to do his work, and it was the chief joy of Hanner's uncolored existence to do something for the man who had fought for him. The grotesque little figure never stopped to ask whether his friend were worthy of his devotion. Bill Seymour was a short, athletic fellow, and good to look upon, but he bore in his nature a too large share of the devil to be dependable. Silent, gruff, and capable when sober, he became a laughing, steel-hearted fury when drunk, and he got drunk as often as he could reach liquor. More than Hanner had felt the sting of his quirt as Bill reeled laughing and jesting on the streets, and had feared to show the anger that rose in their hearts. He made enemies when drunk, and gravely apologized to them in his sober days. One man, a traveling cattle-buyer, braver than most, and not knowing his man, had drawn a small pistol and shot the puncher in the
"Now dance for me, you impident son of a mosquito! Dance till you drop! Tryin' to plug me with a toy like that — a cursed little thirty-two!" He flung the pistol noisily into the street, caught the man by one ear, and slapped his face.
There is one time in the year when the cow-puncher feels that he must get away from his work and indulge in a "good time." He does not know the significance of the Fourth of July except in a hazy way, but he does know that on that day he may have abundant whisky for the buying, even though its sale be prohibited by law. He knows, too, that he will find at the big celebrations in the Territory all his friends and enemies worth meeting and fighting; and this meeting of friends and fighting of enemies gives the spice of variety to his life.
As the two companions rode to the largest town in the Territory on the morning of the Fourth, one could see that their outfits were typical of themselves. Bill Seymour rode the best and fastest horse on the ranch; his saddle was new and modern in make, his spurs rare and shanked long — only a leader of cow-boy fashions had dared to wear them; his hat was a Stetson, and hardly discolored by the weather. Hanner might have fitted himself up from the ranch dump-heap. Two old, unmated spurs dangled from a pair of "run-over" boot-heels, the patched corduroy trousers he wore had been traded to him long ago by his champion, and between the bottom of a dirty waistcoat and the top of his trousers there showed a greasy cartridge-belt, with scattering cartridges stuck in it. A "floppy" black hat, which almost concealed his dark, pinched features, completed the queer figure. The pony he rode was called "Pignuts," and was knotty and scrubby and tough enough to deserve the title.
"Bill, ye ain't a-goin' to git drunk to-day, are ye? They say they's goin' to be a lot of extra marshals 'at ain't lettin' any drunk walk the streets to-day. I wish ye wouldn't drink too much, Bill!" Remembering other celebrations, Hanner wished to get through the day with as little trouble on Bill's account as possible.
"Oh, go to the devil, you old woman! Who said I was goin' to get drunk? Somethin' I never do. Come on; let's ride up," Bill replied shortly; and the two galloped into town through a cloud of dust raised by many incoming wagons.
"Hello, Lem! How's the Convict? Keepin' healthy now, Smear? What's the show and the price?" Bill greeted the punchers from the ranches in all parts of the country with a familiarity possible only to one who knows and does and dares as much as the best of them.
"Got the dangdest mule fer buckin' down here they's goin' to have rode to-day ye ever seen. Five dollars in it fer the man that rides it. Why don't ye try, Hanner?" The Convict winked at Bill, and insinuatingly confronted the Runt with the question.
"I don't hardly think this here saddle of mine 'u'd stand it," the Runt returned, after glancing at Seymour. "Think I'd better try it, Bill?"
"Get your bloomin' neck broke if you do, but I expect it 'u'd be good for you. Yes, go ahead and ride it, and I'll lend you this saddle."
Bill's words were spoken in jest, but Hanner meditated upon them seriously during the day, and when the vicious mule was led out for its first trial, Seymour noted with some anxiety that his own saddle was buckled upon it. He was careless with drink now, and grinned in anticipation of the sorry figure the Runt would present astride the mule. He made a foolish drunken wager that "Hanner'll stay with that there mule till its tongue sticks out and it can't hump its back any more."
The bucking mule was the closing scene in the day's spectacle. The high-heeled, stiff-muscled cow-boys had chased a greased pig over a fifty-acre field, and been sadly beaten by the street boys of the town; they had pitched rings at the heads of canes over the handles of cheap penknives, and wasted their efforts trying for a gilded watch pegged down with a large-handled awl; they had ridden in the tourney, flying past rings hung in the air, and picking them off with wooden spears, causing strangers to gaze with open-eyed wonder at their dash and recklessness; they had bucked the scores of games which gamblers had devised to part the fool and his money, and were gathered now to watch a game they could understand and appreciate.
Out of a knot of excited men Hanner went straight to the waiting, restless mule. With a mock air of bravado he struck the excited mule across the flank with his sombrero, after roughly seizing the reins. No one who has not learned by experience how to mount a
When the mule found itself free to act there was a momentary pause. Then began the short, nasty jumps straight into the air, with the animal's back bowed, its legs stiff, and its head lowered. It was the first powerful effort of the angered beast, made with devilish confidence. Hanner was scarcely shaken by these first straight jumps, but then began the twisting series, which is the second expedient of a bucking animal. A jump high into the air, with a seemingly impossible twist to the side, landed the mule with its head turned almost half round. Before the rider caught his breath another jump and another half-turn were made. These are the motions that make a bronco-buster's life shorter. Hanner was bleeding at the nose in half a minute. The twisting jumps were continued until the strength of the mule was almost exhausted, and as yet only the hat of the puncher had been dislodged. A short pause followed, during which the mule changed its tactics, and Hanner thwacked its sweaty neck with his open hand. The next motion was a sudden rearing by the mule. As it rose on its hind legs the rider yanked fiercely on the reins, and, slipping to the ground on one side, allowed the brute to fall on its back. The saddle-horn buried itself in the earth, and the mule's hoofs beat the air a moment before it scrambled to its feet.
Hanner was cooler than the mule now, and swung himself back into the saddle with the first long leap of the desperate animal. This was the easy part of the trial for the rider, and the spectacular part for the world.
The punchers cheered Hanner with the heartiness of men who can appreciate the feat.
"Hanner, you're all right. I knowed you could do it." Bill's praise fell sweetly upon the Runt's ears. "Where's that wooley I made the bet with? Hanner, we'll drink; yes, sir, we'll liquor up now and have a good time. I won the bet and you won the five for ridin' the mule. We'll drink, Hanner." Seymour slapped Hanner's shoulder in a cruelly hearty fashion.
"No, Bill; let's not drink any more to-day," Hanner protested, though he had not drunk anything.
"Hanner, I don't understand you; blast me if I do." Bill was argumentative. "Here you are, just rode the buckinest mule in the Territory, and you won't take a drink with your best friend! Now, if anybody else 'u'd refuse to drink with Bill Seymour I think they'd have trouble. But you, Hanner, I reckon I'll just have to pour it down you." The drunken puncher tried to carry out his plan, but changed his mind at Hanner's appeal.
"Don't, Bill; fer God's sake, Bill, I'm too sick to drink! Let's go home, Bill. I'm shore sick. Won't ye come on home with me?"
"I believe the darn little skunk is sick," muttered Bill to himself. Then aloud: "If you want to go home with me you'll have to come along pretty quick. I'm tired of this show, and, anyway, I've got to get over to the round-up on Big Creek to-morrow. Get your horse and wait for me here; I'm goin' to see Smear before I go home."
Hanner knew that his companion went for another bottle of whisky, but knew also the futility of protesting.
They rode out of the tired, dirty, and heated crowd, where the dance-platforms were beginning to fill up, and where the owner of the two-headed calf, the five-legged mule, and the biggest steer in the world, was beseeching everybody to come and view his collection. Bill rode at a gallop, with his companion spurring at his heels, until they passed quite out of sight of the revelers. Then he turned with an air of real concern to the Runt, and asked:
"You shore 'nough sick, Hanner? That mule shore put up a stiff article."
Hanner was not diplomatic, and spoke out truthfully: "Sick? No, I ain't sick. What 'u'd I want to see ye get drunk an' run in for? They'd 'a' run ye in to-night, Bill, I know. Did ye ever notice the color of the sky this time a day, Bill? Seems to me it ain't so darn purty as some people think." The sun was setting in a dull, coppery sky, the air was sultry, and the dust rose in thick clouds.
For a minute Bill did not reply, but looked at his companion with a half-puzzled expression. Then he broke out:
"Well, you're a nice one, ain't you? Do you know what I'm a mind to do to you for this dirty trick? You think I'm a darn kid to sneak like this to keep from gettin' run in? Oh, you baby! For a cent I'd make you walk all the way home, and lay this quirt over your shoulders every step of the way."
"Oh, no, Bill; ye wouldn't think o' doin' that. D' ye want to go back? I didn't know ye cared to stay so bad."
"Go back? You think I'm crazy? What 'u'd the punchers say? No, curse you; you've robbed me of my fun. That mule ought to 'a' killed you!"
Hanner had learned long before the value of silence, and rode beside his morose companion with now and then an anxious glance at him. Bill was meditative, and quite forgot the rider at his side. The pale light of a young moon deepened the shadows and illuminated the heavy, sluggish dust-clouds that rose in the wake of the riders. Hungry calves, neglected at the ranches since early morning by the celebrating ranchmen, bawled in useless appeal; scurrying, skulking coyotes answered with their threatening cries the challenge of the ranch-dogs. A mile away, and coming toward them with rhythmic hoof-beat and noisy rattle of hub
"Who do ye reckon kin be goin' into town this time o' night, Bill?" asked Hanner.
"Hold on here, Hanner; we'll stop." Bill meditated a moment, then went on: "You know what that team is? It's the mail-stage from Coffeyville to Vinita. Darn old rattle-trap; it's a disgrace to the country. Ought to have a railroad through this God-forsaken land. That driver's a fool, and you know what I'm goin' to do? Darn your skin, Hanner, you made me miss the fun at Vinita; now I'm goin' to have some fun of my own. We'll rob the stage! Ever hear about the road-agents, the James boys and the Younger gang? Well, they robbed overland stages and trains for swag; but we won't get anything here, only some fun, and scare the fool driver. Stage-robbers always jump out and grab the horses' heads and poke a gun in the driver's face. We'll tie our horses over there in the gully, and hide in the grass here by the road. You jump out and get the horses, and I'll fix the driver. See? Come on; tie up over here!"
"Ye don't mean that, do ye, Bill? Oh, come on and let's go home." Hanner detected a determined ring in the puncher's voice, and he dared not protest more.
"You don't have to get in on this unless you want to. I can do it myself." Bill considered the plan a good joke, being drunk enough to forget that robbing the mails is a very serious crime in the eyes of the law, and the most serious in the eyes of citizen posses, who sometimes take the law into their hands. He galloped down the rain-washed gully and tied his horse out of sight of travelers on the road. Hanner, expecting an end of the joke, rode with him; but when Bill turned to go back to the road on foot, the little puncher announced his intention of having nothing to do with it.
"Then give me that floppy old hat. I got to wear some kind of a mask. Let me have that old red handkerchief round your neck, too. Now I look like a shore-'nough stage-robber — or like you, and that's worse. Well, ride out of the way if you ain't goin' to help." The amateur highwayman half stumbled, chuckling at the prospect of fun, to a place in the long grass at the roadside.
Hanner rode far down the dry wash, and waited in anxious silence. He heard the scarcely understood command of Bill Seymour to the driver. The rattling of the wagon suddenly ceased. There was a brief moment of absolute silence, and a pistol cracked. Another shot from the same gun rang out. In a short moment an answering shot was heard. Hanner could have sworn that it was the bark of Bill's revolver. An angry shout from Bill was followed by a fusillade of shots. The rattling of harness indicated a struggle with the horses. Then a yell from the driver started the stage-team at a gallop. The firing ceased, and trembling with fright, Hanner heard the noisy wagon pass on toward Vinita.
Thoroughly sobered now, Bill ran to his horse, mounted, and rode to meet his companion. The two galloped on their way for five minutes before Seymour trusted his voice to explain. After breaking into a string of furious oaths, he said:
"What a fool I was! Softy Sam wasn't drivin' the blanked wagon at all. When I got holt of the horses they shot at me. I yelled to 'em to stop, that I was only jokin', but the fools kept on pluggin' away at me. I got behind the horses and yelled again. Then I had to shoot. One of 'em fell back off the seat, and then the other one whipped up the horses. I let 'em go quick. That unshot fool plugged at me till he got out of sight. No, I didn't get hurt, but your hat got a hole in it all right."
"Ye didn't kill one of 'em, did ye, Bill? Ye don't think ye did? That wouldn't do, ye know, at all."
"Kill one? Hit one, all right; maybe killed him. The fool! Oh, that's just my luck. Curse you, Hanner, it was your fault, you cur, takin' me away from the fair-grounds with your old-granny tale about bein' sick. Say, what we goin' to do about it now, eh? We got to get out of this, or we'll get strung up, shore — I will, I mean. We'll ride for the Verdigris River timber and hide there. Well, have you got anything better?"
"Bill, couldn't we explain, tell the marshals it was a mistake, and — "
"Get strung up to a limb before we got through tellin' that, you darn fool! But it ain't a question of 'we'; I'm the only one in this. You kept out of it, you cowardly skunk, and you're safe. You want to run away now, and keep your skin whole?" Bill grew incoherent, scarcely retaining sense enough to spur on toward his destination.
Meanwhile the stage had reached Vinita, with the wounded man at the point of dying, and the driver too much confused to do anything to help him. Quite by chance, a considerable sum of money had been sent through the mails that day, and the regular
Dick Brewer, the leader of the party, questioned minutely: "Would you know the hat if you saw it?"
"Yes," the driver answered; "Tom Forbes put a hole through it before he got shot. I saw it nearly fall off his head — a great, big, wide-brimmed, floppy thing, with what looked like a piece of rope for a band."
"Somethin' like the hat that Hanner the Runt wore to-day, wasn't it, Smear?" the Convict commented. Then he asked: "Where is Bill Seymour and Hanner, anyway? You seen 'em last, didn't you, Smear?"
"They started home an hour ago. Bill said he had to get over to the Big Creek round-up to-morrow, an' he got a bottle of my whisky before he went." Smear remembered the unusual incident of Bill's early departure; ordinarily, duty was not allowed to interfere with the puncher's pleasure.
To Smear, who made one of the pursuing party, the words "a big, floppy black hat and a dirty red handkerchief" kept repeating themselves in his mind. At each repetition he recalled with distinctness the appearance of the Runt as he had gone out to ride the wild mule. No other puncher in the country would wear that hat, and none would feel quite respectable with that dirty red rag about his neck at a Fourth of July celebration.
"But, shucks!" Smear muttered to himself, "it can't be him. But he's got nerve, the little devil, ridin' that mule the way he did! He ought to 'a' been with Bill Seymour, though; couldn't tear the cuss away from him. Well, we'll see."
Hanner and Bill rode at a steady gallop until, in the middle of the night, they plunged into the Verdigris River timber. No definite plan of action had been formed; they felt only a strong desire to get away out of sight. The horses must rest, and overcome by fatigue, Bill dropped asleep. The consciousness of a crime done did not disturb him; in his mind it was an accident, the unfortunate result of a joke. Hanner did not sleep. He stared up through the tree-tops into the starlit sky, and pondered the significance of the deed. The course he had suggested to Bill, that of confessing and explaining the matter, still seemed to be the wisest one to him. "Surely," he thought, "they would understand, for they all know Bill's nature. Didn't everybody know that he must indulge in a joke whenever he could?" A plan began to form in his mind.
"I kin sneak away before Bill wakes up, an' go explain to the marshals. They'll let Bill go, I know they will. I kin do this fer ye, Bill, an' ye'll be glad of it. I don't want to have ye scoutin' round the country; I want ye here, so we kin still ride together. I made ye come away from the fair, an' I got to git ye out of the trouble I got ye into." Hanner scarcely spoke his thoughts. He waited undecided for two or three hours. The dawn was just beginning to filter in to the hiding-place as he stole forth quietly to his horse and rode to find the posse.
More than one gang of outlaws had made the river-bottom their headquarters and been captured there. The pursuers of the lonely mail-robber inferred that he was one of a number, and that he was very likely to be heard of in the old haunts. So early morning found the posse scouring the country outside the timber, inquiring of ranchmen and the women of the houses for a trace of the man they sought. It would do little good to try to rout him out of the great forest of brush and swamp until some trace of his location had been found.
Dick Brewer and Smear were riding together near the road that plunges through the thickest of the timber when Hanner rode out. They stopped, attracted by his action. The little puncher looked anxiously about until he saw the waiting horsemen, then galloped toward them. Smear felt sick at heart on seeing the floppy hat and the dirty red handkerchief that he wore. Brewer saw them, too, and his hand flew to his revolver. He had not voiced his suspicions before, but now Smear exclaimed with excitement:
"If that there hat's got a hole in it, we've got the man!"
"It's the Runt!" Brewer had not heard the insinuations which were made before the posse started.
The appearance of the bullet-hole in the crown of the old hat sufficed to make Brewer and Smear bring Hanner to a halt before their pointed pistols. At sight of their stern faces and threatening weapons Hanner's power of speech was gone. He tried to say that he wanted to explain, and grew quite incoherent.
"Never mind; explain when you get up before all of us," the leader commanded.
Half an hour of scurrying about by Smear and vigorous blowing of signal-calls brought the party together. Everything was extremely orderly and businesslike. A man who robbed mails and killed drivers had no claim on their consideration; the only question was, to be sure of the man. When they were sure of him, no matter what his former standing, he must be hanged straightway. The effect of a lynching they felt to be good. Dick Brewer called upon the driver of the mail-wagon to step forth and declare truthfully whether or not he recognized the prisoner.
"Yes, sir; I can swear that that hat is the one the robber wore, and allowing for the difference between daylight and moonlight, I'd say that handkerchief was around the robber's face."
"Is he of the same size and build?" asked the leader.
"About the same; but I won't swear to anything but the hat. I know that."
It grew clear to the mind of the confused little puncher that if he told the story which he had planned to tell, Bill Seymour would be caught and hanged within the day. No excuse that he had perfected would stand for an instant against the plain fact that an attempt to rob the mails had been made and a man murdered. He saw, too, just as plainly, that if he did not tell the truth concerning Bill, he, as the owner of the hat, would suffer the penalty. He knew that very soon he would be asked to tell his story, to clear up the evidence against him. There was none of the great excitement present that nerves men to self-sacrifice. The day was young yet, and the air was chilling. The legs of the horses and the boots of the men were dew-splashed and dripping. It was not pleasant to die now, even though life had been hard and mean to him. He felt a shudder of repulsion when he thought of the mode of death.
On the other side he considered what he owed to Bill. Out of a host of cow-boys he had known, Bill was the only one who had ever recognized the fierce desire for comradeship that had consumed him, the only one who had not passed him by in open ridicule.
"Bill fought fer me when I was down," Hanner whispered to himself. "He knowed I was human. An' I brought this on to him. He come away yesterday because he thought I was sick. He'd 'a' got away, maybe, if I hadn't left him asleep to explain. If he had to go I wouldn't have nobody to ride with, an' if I take his place — if I go he'll know an' — " Hanner did not trust himself to go on, but turned to the leader and said:
"I reckon ye got the man all right."
Under the misshapen body and the half-foolish features there was a stoic in Hanner. To save the life of his friend, the man whom he worshiped and the other punchers respected, was the one great service he could render. He died there with a blind terror in his heart at the blackness of the unknown, and with the thought of Bill Seymour in his mind. The men who hanged him felt no exultation at having avenged a crime, but only a nameless pity for the poor fellow.
A day later Bill Seymour, while dodging about in the timber, learned from a chance-met friend of Hanner's fate. Looking this friend full in the face, he said:
"The poor little fool, to do a thing like that!"
| "Only the Master Shall Praise." | |