Heart's Desire Part 37

Curly sat and looked at him in silence for a few minutes, but at last a light seemed to dawn upon him. "Oh, I _see_," said he, smiling broadly. "You mean for us to get up a letter for him--write it out and send it, like he done it hisself."

Tom Osby nodded. "Of course--that's the only way. There wouldn't either of them write to the other one. That's the trouble with these here States girls, and them men from the States, too. You have to take care of 'em. You and me has got to be gardeens for these two folks.

If we don't, they're goin' to make all kinds of trouble for theirselves and each other."

"Kin you disguise your handwritin' any, Tom?" asked Curly. "I can't.

Mine's kind of sot."

"Curly," answered Tom, with scorn, "what you call your brains is only a oroide imitation of a dollar watch. Why, of course we can't write a letter and sign his name to it deliberate. That's forgery, and we'd get into the penitentiary for it. That ain't the way to do.

"Now look here. Dan Anderson may be lookin' right well for a dyin'

man, but he's on his death-bed just the same. That's needful for the purposes of dramatic construction. He's a-layin' there, pale and wore out. His right arm is busted permernent, and it's only a question of time when he cashes in--though he _might_ live a few days if he was plumb sh.o.r.e his own true love was a-hastenin' to his bedside."

"But it was his _left_ arm that got shot," argued Curly; "and it didn't amount to a whole lot at that."

"There's you go," jeered Tom, in answer, "with them imitation brain works of yours. It's his _right_ arm that's busted. Now, him a-layin' there plumb helpless, his thoughts turns to his bride that might 'a' been, but wasn't. With his last dyin' words he greets her.

If she would only hasten to his deathbed, he could die in peace.

That's what he writes to her. 'Dear Madam,' says he, 'Havin' loved you all my life, I fain would gaze on you onct more. In that case,' says he, 'the clouds certainly would roll away!'"

"That sh.o.r.ely would _fetch_ her," said Curly, admiringly, "but how you goin' to fix it?"

"Why, how? There ain't but one way. The dyin' man has his dear friend Curly, or Tom Osby, or some one, write his last words for him. That ain't counterfeitin'. That's only actin' as his literary amanyensis, and that's plumb legal."

"Things may be legal, and not _safe_," objected Curly. "Supposin' he finds out?"

"Why, then, we'll be far, far away. This letter has got to be wrote.

I can't write it myself, and you can't; but maybe several of us could."

"I ain't in on writin' the letter," Curly decided; "I'll carry it, but my writin' is too sot, and so's my thinker."

"Well, I ain't used my own thinker in this particular way for about twenty years," said Tom Osby, "although I did co'te two of my wives by perlite correspondence, something like this; and I couldn't see but what them wives lasted as good as any."

"It's too bad Dan Anderson ain't in on this play hisself," Curly resumed. "Now if it was us that was layin' dead, and him writin' the letter, he'd have us both alive, and have the girl here by two o'clock to-morrer, and everything 'd be lovely. But us! We don't know any more about this than a pair of candy frogs."

"The fewer there is in on a woman deal the better," said Tom Osby, "and yet it looks like we needed help right now!"

The two sat gazing gloomily down the long street of Heart's Desire, and so intent were they that they did not see the shambling figure of Willie the sheepherder coming up the street. Then Tom Osby's gaze focussed him.

"Now there's that d.a.m.ned sheepherder that broke us up in business,"

said he. "It was him that got us into this fix. If he hadn't lied like a infernal pirate, and got Dan Anderson to thinkin' that the girl and this lawyer feller Barkley was engaged to each other on the side, why Dan wouldn't have flared up and busted the railroad deal, and let the girl get away, and gone and got hisself shot."

"S'posin' I shoot Willie up just for luck," suggested Curly. "He's got it comin' to him, from the way that Gee-Whiz friend of his throwed lead into our fellers, time we was arguin' with them over them sheep. This country ain't got no use for sheep, nor sheepherders either, specially the kind that makes trouble with railroads, and girls."

"No, hold on a minute," interrupted Tom Osby. "You wait--I've got a idea."

"Well, what is it?"

"Wait a minute. How saith the psalmist? All men is liars; and sheepherders special, natural, eighteen-karat, hand-curled liars--which is just the sort we need right now in our business."

Curly slapped his thigh in sudden understanding. The two sat, still watching Willie as he came rambling aimlessly up the street, staring from side to side in his vacant fas.h.i.+on.

"A sheepherder, as you know, Curly," went on Tom, "has three stages in his game. For a while he's human. In a few years, settin' round on the hills in the sun, a-watchin' them d.a.m.ned woolly baa-baa's of his, he gets right nutty. He sees things. Him a-gettin' so lonesome, and a-readin' high-cla.s.s New York literature all the time, he gets to thinkin' of the Lady Eyemogene. You might think he's seein' cactus and sheep, but what is really floatin' before him is proud knights, and haughty barons, and royal monarchs, and Lady Eyemogenes.

"It ain't sinful for Willie to lie, like it is for us, because life is one continuous lie to him. He's seen a swimmin' picture of hand-painted palaces, and n.o.ble jukes, and stately dames out on the Nogal flats every day for eight years. That ain't lyin'--that's imagination.

"Now this feller's imagination is just about ripe. Usual, at the end of about seven years, a sheepherder goes plumb dotty, and we either have to shoot him, or send him to Leavenworth. Your Gee-Whiz man can maybe take to cow punchin' and prosper, but not Willie. His long suit is imaginin' things, from now on.

"Now, that feller is naturally pinin' to write this here particular letter we've got on our minds. You watch Willie compose."

"Here you, Willie, come over here!" Curly called out.

The herder started in fright. Timid at best, he was all the more so since the raid of the Carrizoso stock men. His legs trembled under him, but he slowly approached in obedience.

"Willie," said Tom Osby, sternly, "I'm some hardened as a sinner my own self, but the kind of way you do pains me. What made you tell that lie about seein' the lady and that lawyer feller makin' love to each other, on the back seat of the buckboard, behind the old man's back?"

"I _thought_ I seen 'em," pleaded Willie. "I--I _thought_ I heard 'em talkin'."

"Oh, sufferin' saints! Listen to that! You _thought_! Of course you did. You and that Gee-Whiz friend of yours ought to turn yourselves into a symposium and write for the papers. Now look here. Have you got a copy of the 'Proud Earl's Revenge,' in your pocket?"

Willie tremulously felt in his clothing, and did produce a dog-eared volume to somewhat that effect. Tom Osby turned over a few of the pages thoughtfully, and then sat up with a happy smile. "There ain't no trouble about that letter _now_!" said he.

"What--what--what do you want?" asked Willie. Then they told him.

Willie radiated happiness. He sat down beside them, his hands trembling with joy and eagerness--conspirator number three for the peace and dignity of Heart's Desire.

"Go get some paper, Curly," said Tom Osby, and Curly departed. Willie remained wrapped in thought, his mind confused at this sudden opportunity.

"It's all about Lancelot," said he.

"What brand did Lancelot ride under? Now, no foolin', Willie."

"Why--why--why," said Willie, "Lancelot, he's at a tournyment. Now, he loves a beautiful queen."

"Sh.o.r.e he does! That goes. What's the queen's name?"

"Her name--her name--her name's Guinevere," replied Willie. "And the proud king, he brooks it ill. The proud king's name is Arthur."

"Oh, no, it _ain't_!" said Tom Osby. "There ain't no man who's name is _Arthur_ that has no sc.r.a.p to him. It ain't _Arthur_ that goes on no war-path."

"Yes, he did," insisted Willie. "Lancelot gets herded out. He gets shot up some at the tournyment, so he leaves the beautiful queen, and he rides off for the range all alone by himself. He's like a sheepherder."

"Come on with the paper, Curly," called Tom Osby. "This feller's thinker is workin' fine. Go on, Willie."

"Now, Lancelot, he's layin' at the point of death, and he's thinkin'

all the time of Guinevere. I reckon he writes her a letter, and he says, says he, 'Dear Lady, I send thee my undyin' love,' says he. 'I kiss the picture which is a-layin' on my breast,' says he; 'and with my last breath,' says he, 'I sh.o.r.ely yearn for thee!'"

"Meanin' Guinevere?"

"Sh.o.r.e! Says Lancelot, 'Fair queen, thou didst me a injury onct; but couldst thou but come and stand at my bedside, I hadst new zeal in life,' says he."

"Meanin' he'd get well?" asked Curly. "That's the same as Dan Anderson! _This_ feller's a peach!"