Faro Nell and Her Friends Part 24

No, my stilted, stiff-laigged sheep of the mountain, we ain't got no ice.'

"Mike, feelin' some buffaloed by the barkeep's manner, don't say no more. In silence he drinks his licker, an' then sets down at a table.

"The barkeep, with the tail of his eye, continyoos to look him over.

"'Whatever do you make of that crazy maverick,' he asks of a freighter, who's jest rolled in from Lordsburg. 'The idee of him askin' for ice in August!'

"'Mebby he's the ha'r-brained party they sends word about from Wolfville,' the freighter replies--'him who's out to crawl the Bug's hump a whole lot?'

"'That's the identical persimmon!' exclaims the barkeep, slammin' his hand on the counter. 'Which I ought to have knowed it without bein'

told. I wonder if Peets, or some of them other Wolfville sports, puts him up to come bully-raggin' round yere about ice to insult us?'

"The freighter allows he'll edge into a pow-wow with Mike, an' feel him out.

"Planted at the same table, the freighter an' Mike is soon as thick as thieves. They're gettin' along like two pups in a basket, when in comes a disturbin' element in the shape of one of them half-hoss half-alligator felons, whose distinguis.h.i.+n' characteristic is that they're allers grouchy an' hostile. That's the drawback to Red Dog. It certainly is the home camp of some of the most ornery reptiles, that a-way!

"The grouchy sorehead party, from the jump, gets dissatisfied about Mike's ha'r, which he w'ars a foot long same as all artists. Which a gent can't be no painter onless he's got ha'r like a cow pony. The sorehead party marches up an' down by the table whar Mike an' the freighter is swappin' lies, schemin' as to how he's goin' to make a warlike hook-up with Mike. After a spell he thinks he sees his way through, an' rounds to an' growls.

"'What's that? Does one of your onparalleled tarrapins say something deerog'tory about George Was.h.i.+n'ton?'

"Both the freighter an' Mike looks up some amazed, but pleads not guilty. They ain't, they says, even thinkin' of Was.h.i.+n'ton.

"'Which I begs your parding,' returns Sorehead, snortin' mighty haughty an' elab'rate; 'I fancies I hears some one make some onbecomin' remark about Was.h.i.+n'ton. Mighty likely it's that licker I drinkt last night.'

"Two minutes later he halts ag'in.

"'It ain't possible I'm mistook this time. An' at that I don't precisely ketch what you offensive ground-owls is observin' about Thomas Jefferson?'

"Mike an' the Lordsburg freighter insists vehement that thar's been no alloosion to Jefferson, none whatever.

"'Parding!' Sorehead snorts; 'ag'in I asks parding! As former, I finds I'm barkin' at a bunch of leaves. My y'ear deeceives me into thinkin'

that you two fool ground-owls is indulgin' in reecrim'nations ag'inst Thomas Jefferson.'

"It's the third time, an' Sorehead's back, neck bowed an' fingers workin'.

"'Now thar's no error! Which one of you cheap prairie dogs makes that low-flung statement about old Andy Jackson? Let him speak up, an' I'll give him a hundred dollars before devourin' his heart.'

"'No one mentions Jackson,' says Mike, who's becomin' frightened an'

fretted; 'whatever's the idee of any one talkin' about Jackson, anyhow?'

"'Oh, ho! Perhaps, my bold galoot, you think old Andy ain't worth talkin' about!'

"Sayin' which, that sorehead malcontent reaches for Mike, an' the two go sailin' 'round the room permiscus. Sorehead picks Mike up, an'

sweeps a cord or two of gla.s.swar' off the bar with him. Then he employs him in bringin' down a picture from the wall. After which he nacherally tosses him hither an' yon in the most irrel'vant way.

"Sorehead has jest reached up with Mike, an' smashed a chandelier carryin' fourteen coal-oil lamps, when in t'ars the Lightnin' Bug, white an' frothin'. The Bug don't waste no time lookin' for holds, but casyooally, yet no less s'fficiently, snags onto Sorehead. Fixin' his ten claws in him, the Bug fo'thwith embarks upon sech feats in the way of ground an' lofty tumblin' with that gladiator, as to make what happens to Mike seem pooerile.

"'Don't you-all know,' shouts the Bug, as, havin' done broke a cha'r with Sorehead, he proceeds to deevote what's left of him to smas.h.i.+n' a table--'don't you-all know, you abandoned profligate, that this yere artist you've been maltreatin' is a pers'nal friend of mine, yere present in Red Dog to confab with me on important affairs? An' is it for a houseless sot like you to take to minglin' with him malignant?

Yereafter don't you-all so much as presoome to breathe without first gettin' my permission so to do in writin'!'

"As closin' the incident the Bug sends Sorehead hurtlin' through a window, sash an' all. After which he dusts off his hands an' says:

"'Gents, let's licker.'

"The barkeep's that gratified he declar's the drinks is on the Tub.

"'Also, the gla.s.s an' sash, Bug,' he adds.

"Bein' refreshed, the Bug tenderly collects Mike, who's in a frayed an' fragmentary condition, an' gently freights him over to us on a buckboard. It's a week before Peets allows he's ag'in ready for the show ring, an' he uses up enough co't plaster on him to kyarpet the Red Light. Little Joolie? We let's on to her that Mike meets up with a she grizzly an' her cubs, an' while he cleans up that fam'ly he nacherally gets chewed.

"'Mike's sh.o.r.ely some abrated, ma'am,' explains Peets; 'but he's mendin' fast. When I first lays eyes on him, after he encounters that bevy of b'ars, it's a question if his skin'll hold his principles. But don't take on, Ma'am; now I've got him headed right he'll be as good as new in a week. Don't forget, too, that he sh.o.r.e does land that band of grizzlies in the sc.r.a.p-heap.'

"Mike emerges from the hands of Peets filled with a pecooliar furrin'

form of wrath, an' talkin' about his honor. It's Sorehead he's after now. As a n.o.ble Pole, he says, he has been most contoomeliously used, an' insists upon a dooel. Not with the Bug, who's withdrew them orig'nal jedgments concernin' old Monte's portrait, an' subst.i.tooted tharfor the view that said picture's bound to become the artistic pride an' joy of Arizona. Mike wants to fight the onreegen'rate Sorehead.

"In the flush of their new friends.h.i.+p Mike asks the Bug to heel an'

handle him. Also, it's warmin' to your better nacher to note the enthoosiasm wharwith the Bug takes up his dooties.

"'It'll be six-shooters at ten paces,' he explains to Mike; 'an' if you only shoots like you paints, we'll send that tramp whar the wicked cease from troublin' an' the weary are at rest.'

"The Red Dog chief gives his word to Enright that Mike ain't in no danger.

"'Comin' down to cases,' says the Red Dog chief; 'it's even money that this yere Sorehead crawfishes. If he don't we've got it all set up to hand him the Bug, instead of that Red Mike artist of yours. So you see thar's lit'rally nothin' for you-all wolves to worry over at all.'

"'We-all wolves ain't in the habit of worryin' to any astoundin'

extent,' returns Enright, some rigid; 'none the less, I allows I'll take a look through the sights myse'f, merely by way of makin' sh.o.r.e which way the gun is p'inted. Thar's reasons, one of 'em a lovin'

little blind girl, why we're not so plumb partic'lar about havin' this yere alleged artist party put over the jump.'

"The fight's a week away, an' by advice of the Bug, Mike decides to put a polish on his shootin'. This yere's reckoned a bright idee, the more since as near as we-all can jedge Mike never does pull a trigger once since when his mother rocks his cradle an' warms his milk.

"'Only,' warns Enright, as Mike goes makin' prep'rations, 'don't you-all go aimin' towards town none. We don't want no neeophytes bombardin' the village, which y'ar in an' y'ar out sees bullets enough in the nacheral onfoldment of eevents.'

"Mike, not havin' no gun, borrys a .45 of Moore. Thus equipped, he secoores some cartridges at the Noo York store, an' la'nches forth. No one goes with him, since he allows he'll shoot better if he's by himse'f.

"Thar's a powder house, belongin' to the Copper Queen Mine, about a mile outside of town. It stands off by itse'f an' nothin' near it, no one honin' much to live neighbor to a ton or two of powder. It's about fifth drink time the mornin' Mike seelects for his practice shootin'

when, like a bolt from the bloo, that Copper Queen powder house goes up with a most emphatic whang! What Peets calls the 'concussion'

breaks windows in the Wells-Fargo office, an' shakes up the Red Light to that extent it brings down Monte's picture an' busts it to forty flinders on the bottles.

"'Which for a moment,' says Black Jack, commentin' on the gen'ral mess it makes, 'I thinks it's one of Colonel Sterett's _Coyote_ editorials on the licker question.'

"That powder blow-up marks the onforchoonate last of Mike. Since he never does show up no more, an' a Mexican tendin' goats in the vicin'ty informs us he sees him pinnin' a target on the r'ar elevation of the powder house jest prior to the explosion, it's the common feelin' that the blow-up's caused by one of Mike's bullets, an' that Mike an' the powder reepos'tory takes flight simooltaneous. Only, as already set fo'th, Peets claims that Mike knows what's comin'. Mebby Peets is right, an' mebby Mike that a-way commits sooicide. Whichever it is, sooicide or accident, it's a mighty complete success; for the only trace we're able to find of either Mike or the powder house is a most elab'rate hole in the ground.

"'The same bein', as I holds, a most excellent feachure,' says Boggs, who loathes foonerals. 'This yere powder house way of cas.h.i.+n' in meets with my approval. It sh.o.r.e don't leave no reemains!'"

X