Wolfville Days Part 30

"Cherokee an' me, as might be expected, turns our powers of conversation loose with this new last eepisode of the trail.

"'An' I'm struck speshul,' says Cherokee, 'about what Enright observes at the finish, that it's a instance where the more he wins, the more he loses; an' how this, his best season, is goin' to be his worst. I has experiences sim'lar myse'f onct. Which the cases is plumb parallel!

"'This time when my own individooal game strikes somethin' an'

glances off, is 'way back. I gets off a boat on the upper river at a camp called Rock Island. You never is thar? I don't aim to encourage you-all ondooly, still your failure to see Rock Island needn't prey on you as the rooin of your c'reer. I goes ash.o.r.e as I relates, an'

the first gent I encounters is old Peg-laig Jones. This yere Peg- laig is a madman to spec'late at kyards, an' the instant he sees me, he pulls me one side, plenty breathless with a plan he's evolved.

"Son," says this yere Peg-lalg, "how much money has you?"

"'I tells him I ain't over strong; somethin' like two hundred dollars, mebby.

"'"That's enough," says Peg-lalg. "Son, give it to me. I'll put three hundred with it, an' that'll make a roll of five hundred dollars. With a careful man like me to deal, she sh.o.r.ely oughter be enough."

"'"Whatever does these yere fiscal bluffs of yours portend?" I asks.

"'"They portends as follows," says Peg-laig. "This yere Rock Island outfit is plumb locoed to play faro-bank. I've got a deck of kyards an' a deal box in my pocket. Son, we'll lay over a day a' break the village."

"'Thar's no use tryin' to head off old Peg-laid. He's the most invet'rate sport that a-way, an' faro bank is his leadin' weakness.

They even tells onct how this Peg-laig is in a small camp in Iowa an' is buckin' a crooked game. A pard sees him an' takes Peg-laig to task.

"'"Can't you-all see them sharps is skinnin' you?" says this friend, an' his tones is loaded with disgust. "Ain't you wise enough to know this game ain't on the squar', an' them outlaws has a end-squeeze box an' is dealin' two kyards at a clatter an' puttin' back right onder your ignorant nose? Which you conducts yourse'f like you was born last week!"

"'"Of course, I knows the game is crooked," says Peg-laig, plenty doleful, "an' I regrets it as much as you. But whatever can I do?"

"'"Do!" says his friend; "do! You-all can quit goin' ag'inst it, can't you?"

"'"But you don't onderstand," says Peg-laig, eager an' warm. "It's all plumb easy for you to stand thar an' say I don't have to go ag'inst it. It may change your notion a whole lot when I informs you that this yere is the only game in town," an' with that this reedic'lous Peg-laig hurries back to his seat.

"'As I a.s.serts former, it's no use me tryin' to make old Peg-laig stop when once he's started with them schemes of his, so I turns over my two hundred dollars, an' leans back to see whatever Peg- laig's goin' to a'complish next. As he says, he's got a box an' a deck to deal with. So he fakes a layout with a suite of jimcrow kyards he buys, local, an' a oil-cloth table-cover, an' thar he is organized to begin. For chips, he goes over to a store an' buys twenty stacks of big wooden b.u.t.ton molds, same as they sews the cloth onto for overcoat b.u.t.tons. When Peg-laig is ready, you should have beheld the enthoosiasm of them Rock Island folks. They goes ag'inst that brace of Peg-laig's like a avalanche.

"'Peg-laig deals for mighty likely it's an hour. Jest as he puts it up, he's a careful dealer, an' the result is we win all the big bets an' most all the little ones, an' I'm sort o' estimatin' in my mind that we're ahead about four hundred simoleons. Of a-sudden, Peg-laig stops dealin', up-ends his box and turns to me with a look which shows he's plumb dismayed. P'intin' at the check-rack, Peg-laig says:

"'"Son, look thar!"

"'Nacherally, I looks, an' I at once realizes the roots of that consternation of Peg-laig's. It's this: While thar's more of them b.u.t.ton molds in front of Peg-laig's right elbow than we embarks with orig'nal, thar's still twenty-two hundred dollars' worth in the hands of the Rock Island pop'lace waitin' to be cashed. However do they do it? They goes stampedin' over to this yere storekeep an'

purchases 'em for four bits a gross. They buys that vagrant out that a-way. They even buys new kinds on us, an' it's a party tryin' to bet a stack of pants b.u.t.tons on the high kyard that calls Peg-laig's attention to them frauds.

"'Thar's no he'p for it, however; them villagers is stony an'

adamantine, an' so far as we has money they sh.o.r.ely makes us pay. We walks out of Rock Island. About a mile free of the camp, Peg-laig stops an' surveys me a heap mournful.

"'" Son," he says, "we was winnin', wasn't we?

"'"Which we sh.o.r.e was," I replies.

"'"Exactly," says Peg-laig, shakin' his head, "we was sh.o.r.ely winners. An' I want to add, son, that if we-all could have kept on winnin' for two hours more, we'd a-lost eight thousand dollars."

"'It's like this yere stage hold-up on Enright,' concloodes Cherokee; 'it's a hara.s.sin' instance of where the more you wins, the more you lose.'

"About this time, Enright an' Jack Moore comes in. Colonel Sterett an' Dan Boggs j'ines us accidental, an' we-all six holds a pow wow in low tones.

"'Which Jack,' observes Enright, like he's experimentin' an' ropin'

for our views, 'allows it's his beliefs that this yere guileless tenderfoot, Davis, who says he's from Buffalo, an' who's been prancin' about town for the last two days, is involved in them felonies.'

"'It ain't none onlikely,' says Boggs; 'speshully since he's from Buffalo. I never does know but one squar' gent who comes from Buffalo; he's old Jenks. An' at that, old Jenks gets downed, final, by the sheriff over on Sand Creek for stealin' a hoss.'

"'You-all wants to onderstand,' says Jack Moore, cuttin' in after Boggs, 'I don't pretend none to no proofs. I jest reckons it's so.

It's a common scandal how dead innocent this yere shorthorn Davis a.s.soomes to be; how he wants Cherokee to explain faro-bank to him; an' how he can't onderstand none why Black Jack an' the dance-hall won't mix no drinks. Which I might, in the hurry of my dooties, have pa.s.sed by them childish bluffs onchallenged an' with nothin' more than pityin' thoughts of the ignorance of this yere maverick, but gents, this party overplays his hand. Last evenin' he asks me to let him take my gun, says he's cur'ous to see one. That settles it with me; this Davis has been a object of suspicion ever since. No, it ain't that I allows he's out to queer my weepon none, but think of sech a pretence of innocence! I leaves it to you-all, collectif an'

individooal, do you reckon now thar's anybody, however tender, who's that guileless as to go askin' a perfect stranger that a-way to pa.s.s him out his gun? I says no, this gent is overdoin' them roles. He ain't so tender as he a.s.soomes. An' from the moment I hears of this last stand-up of the stage back in the canyon, I feels that this yere party is somehow in the play. Thar's four in this band who's been spreadin' woe among the stage companies lately, an' thar's only two of 'em shows in this latest racket which they gives Old Monte, an' that express gyard they shot up. Them other two sports who ain't present is sh.o.r.e some'ers, an' I gives it as my opinions one of 'em's right yere in our onthinkin' center, actin' silly, askin'

egreegious questions, an' allowin' his name is Davis an' that he hails from Buffalo.'

"While Jack is evolvin' this long talk, we-all is thinkin'; an', son, somehow it strikes us that thar's mighty likely somethin' in this notion of Jack's. We-all agrees, however, thar bein' nothin'

def'nite to go on, we can't do nothin' but wait. Still, pro an' con like, we pushes forth in discussion of this person.

"'It does look like this Davis,' says Colonel Sterett, 'now Jack brings it up, is sh.o.r.ely playin' a part; which he's over easy an'

ontaught, even for the East. This mornin', jest to give you-all a sample, he comes sidlin' up to me. "Is thar any good fis.h.i.+n' about yere?" he asks. "Which I sh.o.r.e yearns to fish some."

"'"Does this yere landscape," I says, wavin' my arm about the hor'zon, "remind you much of fish? Stranger," I says, "fish an'

christians is partic'lar spa.r.s.e in Arizona."

"'Then this person Davis la'nches out into tales deescriptif of how he goes anglin' back in the States. "Which the eel is the gamest fish," says this Davis. "When I'm visitin' in Virginny, I used to go fis.h.i.+n'. I don't fish with a reel, an' one of them limber poles, an'

let a fish go swarmin' up an' down a stream, a-breedin' false hopes in his bosom an' lettin' him think he's loose. Not me; I wouldn't so deloode--wouldn't play it that low on a fish. I goes anglin' in a formal, se'f-respectin' way. I uses a short line an' a pole which is stiff an' strong. When I gets a bite, I yanks him out an' lets him know his fate right thar."

"'"But eels ain't no game fish," I says. "Ba.s.s is game, but not eels."

"'"Eels ain't game none, ain't they?" says this yere Davis, lettin'

on he's a heap interested. "You-all listen to me; let me tell you of a eel I snags onto down by Culpepper. When he bites that time I gives him both hands. That eel comes through the air jest whistlin'

an' w'irlin'. I slams him ag'inst the great state of Virginny.

Suppose one of them ba.s.s you boasts of takes sech a jolt. Whatever would he have done? He'd lay thar pantin' an' rollin' his eyes; mebby he curls his tail a little. That would be the utmost of them resentments of his. What does my eel do? Stranger, he stands up on his tail an' fights me. Game! that eel's game as scorpions! My dog Fido's with me. Fido wades into the eel, an' the commotion is awful.

That eel whips Fido in two minutes, Was.h.i.+n'ton time. How much does he weigh? Whatever do I know about it? When he's done put the gaffs into Fido, he nacherally sa'nters back into the branch where he lives at. I don't get him none; I deems I'm plumb lucky when he don't get me. Still, if any gent talks of game fish that a-way, I wants it onderstood, I strings my money on that Culpepper eel."'

"'Thar, it's jest as I tells you-all, gents!' says Jack Moore a heap disgusted, when Colonel Sterett gets through. 'This yere Davis is a imposter. Which thar's no mortal sport could know as little as he lets on an' live to reach his age.'

"We sets thar an' lays plans. At last in pursooance of them devices, it gets roomored about camp that the next day but one, both Enright an' the New York Store aims to send over to Tucson a roll of money the size of a wagon hub.

"'Thar's no danger of them hold-ups,' says Enright to this Davis, lettin' on he's a heap confidenshul. 'They won't be lookin' for no sech riches bein' freighted over slap on the heels of this yere robbery. An' we don't aim to put up no gyards alongside of Old Monte neither. Gyards is no good; they gets beefed the first volley, an'

their presence on a coach that a-way is notice that thar's plenty of treasure aboard.'

"It's in this way Enright fills that Davis as full of misinformation as a bottle of rum. Also, we deems it some signif'cant when said shorthorn saddles his hoss over to the corral an' goes skally- hootin' for Tucson about first drink time in the mornin'.

"'I've a engagement in the Oriental S'loon,' he says, biddin' us good-bye plenty cheerful, 'but I'll be back among you-all sports in a week. I likes your ways a whole lot, an' I wants to learn 'em some.'

"'Which I offers four to one,' says Jack Moore, lookin' after him as he rides away, 'you'll be back yere sooner than that, an' you-all won't know it none, at that.'

"It's the next day when the stage starts; Old Monte is crackin' his whip in a hardened way, carin' nothin' for road agents as long as they don't interfere with the licker traffic. Thar's only one pa.s.senger.

"Sh.o.r.e enough, jest as it's closin' in some dark in Apache Canyon, an' the stage is groanin' an' creakin' along on a up grade, thar's a trio of hold-ups shows on the trail, an' the procession comes to a halt. Old Monte sets the brake, wrops the reins about it, locks his hands over his head, an' turns in to cuss. The hold-ups takes no notice. They yanks down the Wells-Fargo chest, pulls off the letter bag, accepts a watch an' a pocket-book from the gent inside, who's scared an' s.h.i.+verin' an' scroogin' back in the darkest corner, he's that terror-bit, an' then they applies a few epithets to Old Monte an' commands him to pull his freight. An' Old Monte sh.o.r.ely obeys them mandates, an' goes cras.h.i.+n' off up the canyon on the run.

"Them outlaws hauls the plunder to one side of the trail an' lays for the mail-bag with a bowie. All three is as busy as prairy dogs after a rain, rippin' open letters an' lookin' for checks an'