Part 5 (1/2)

The next time I saw Friar Tuck, he recognized me at first glance, an'

his face lit up as though we had been out on some prank together an'

was the best pals in the world ever since. He wanted to know all I knew about the crowd that had started to string him up; and when I had finished paintin' 'em as black as I could, what did he do but say that he was goin' up their way to have a talk with 'em.

I told him right out that it was simply wastin' time; but he was set in his ways, so I decided to ride part way with him. He had two hosses along this trip, with his bed an' grub tied on the spare one; and on the second day we reached a little park just as the sun was setting.

It was one o' the most beautiful spots I ever saw, high enough to get a grand view off to the west, but all the rest shut in like a little room. He jumped from his hoss, had his saddle off as soon as I did, and also helped me with the pack. Then he looked about the place.

”What a grand cathedral this is, Happy!” he sez after a minute.

I didn't sense what he meant right at first, and went on makin' camp, until I happened to notice his expression. He was lookin' off to the west with the level rays of the sun as it sank down behind a distant range full in his face. The twilight had already fallen over the low land and all the hazy blues an' purples an' lavenders seemed to be floatin' in a misty sea, with here an' there the black shadows of peaks stickin' out like islands. It really was gorgeous when you stopped to give time to it.

It had been gruelin' hot all day, an' was just beginnin' to get cool an' restful, and I was feelin' the jerk of my appet.i.te; but when I noticed his face I forgot all about it. I stood a bit back of him, half watchin' him, an' half watchin' the landscape. Just as the sun sank, he raised his hands and chanted, with his great, soft voice booming out over the hills: ”The Lord is in His holy temple-let all the earth keep silence before Him.”

He bent his head, an' I bent mine-I'd have done it if the'd been a knife-point stickin' again' my chin. I tell you, it was solemn! It grew dark in a few moments an' the evening star came out in all her glory. It was a still, clear night without a speck in the air, and she was the only star in sight; but she made up for it, all right, by throwing out spikes a yard long.

He looked up at it for a moment, and then sang a simple little hymn beginnin', ”Now the day is over, night is drawing nigh; shadows of the evening steal across the sky.” It didn't have the ring to it of most of his songs; it was just close an' friendly, and filled a feller with peace. It spoke o' the little children, and those watchin' in pain, and the sailors tossin' on the deep blue sea, and those who planned evil-rounded 'em all up and bespoke a soothin' night for 'em; and I venture to say that it did a heap o' good.

Then he pitched in an' helped me get supper. This was his way; he didn't wear a long face and talk doleful; he was full o' life an'

boilin' over with it every minute, and he'd turn his hand to whatever came up an' joke an' be the best company in the world; but he never got far from the Lord; and when he'd stop to wors.h.i.+p, why, the whole world seemed to stop and wors.h.i.+p with him.

We had a merry meal and had started to wash up the dishes when he happened to glance up again. He had just been tellin' me a droll story about the first camp he'd ever made, and how he had tied on his pack so 'at the hoss couldn't comfortably use his hind legs and had bucked all his stuff into a crick, an' I was still laughin'; but when he looked up, my gaze followed his. It was plumb dark by now, an' that evening star was fair bustin' herself, and the light of it turned the peaks a glisteny, shadowy silver. He raised his hands again and chanted one beginning: ”Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, praise His holy name.”

The' was a part in this one which called upon all the works o' the Lord to praise Him, and I glanced about to see what was happenin'. A faint breeze had sprung up and the spruce trees were bowin' over reverently, the ponies had raised their heads and their eyes were s.h.i.+nin' soft and bright in the firelight as they looked curiously at the singer; and as I stood there with a greasy skillet in my hand, something inside of me seemed to get down on its knees, to wors.h.i.+p with the other works o' the Lord.

It was one o' those wonderful moments which seem to brand themselves on a feller's memory, and I can see it all now, and hear the Friar's voice as it floated away into the hills until it seemed to be caught up by other voices rather than to die away.

Well, we sat up about the fire a long time that night. He didn't fuss with me about my soul, or gettin' saved, or such things. I told him the things I didn't understand, and he told me the things he didn't understand; and I told him about some o' my sc.r.a.pes, and he told me about some o' his, and-well, I can't see where it was so different from a lot of other nights; but I suppose I'd be sitting there yet if he hadn't finally said it was bedtime.

He stood up and looked at the star again, and chanted the one which begins: ”Lord, now let thy servant depart in peace”; after which he pulled off some of his clothes and crawled into the tarp. I crawled in beside him about two minutes later; but he was already asleep, while I lay there thinkin' for the best part of an hour.

Next mornin' he awakened me by singin', ”Brightest and best of the sons of the morning”; and after that we got breakfast, and he started on to Ty Jones's while I turned back to the Diamond Dot. I didn't think he'd be able to do much with that gang; but after the talk I'd had with him the night before, I saw 'at they couldn't do much to him, either. I had got sort of a hint at his scheme of life; and there isn't much you can do to a man who doesn't value his flesh more 'n the Friar did his.

CHAPTER FOUR

TY JONES

Ty stood in his door as the Friar rode up, and he recognized him from the description Badger-face had turned in. Badger-face had been purty freely tongue-handled for not havin' lynched the Friar, and Ty Jones was disposed to tilt his welcome even farther back than usual; so he set his pack on the Friar. He had six dogs at this time, mastiffs with a wolf-cross in 'em which about filled out his notion o' what a dog ought to be.

The Friar had noticed the dogs, but he didn't have an idee that any man would set such creatures on another man; so he had dismounted to get a drink o' water from the crick, it havin' been a hot ride. The pack came surgin' down on him while he was lyin' flat an' drinkin' out o' the crick. His ponies were grazin' close by, and as soon as he saw 'at the dogs meant business, he vaulted into the saddle just in time to escape 'em.

They leaped at him as fast as they came up, and he hit 'em with the loaded end of his quirt as thorough as was possible. He was ridin' a line buckskin with a nervous disposition, and the pony kicked one or two on his own hook; but as the Friar leaned over in puttin' down the fifth, the sixth jumped from the opposite side, got a holt on his arm just at the shoulder, an' upset him out of the saddle. In the fall the dog's grip was broke an' he and the Friar faced each other for a moment, the Friar squattin' on one knee with his fists close to his throat, the dog crouchin' an' snarlin'.

As the dog sprang, the Friar upper-cut him in the throat with his left hand and when he straightened up, hit him over the heart with his right. He says that a dog's heart is poorly protected. Anything 'at didn't have steel over it was poorly protected when the Friar struck with his right in earnest. The dog was killed. One o' the dogs the pony had kicked was also killed, but the other four was able to get up and crawl away.

The Friar shook himself and went on to where Ty Jones and a few of his men were standin'. ”That's a nice lively bunch o' dogs you have,” sez he, smilin' as pleasant as usual; ”but they need trainin'.”

”They suit me all right,” growls Ty, ”except that they're too blame clumsy.”

The Friar looked at him a minute, and then said drily, ”Yes, that's what I said; they need trainin'.”

Ty Jones scowled: ”They don't get practice enough,” sez he. ”It's most generally known that I ain't a-hankerin' for company; so folks don't usually come here, unless they're sure of a welcome.”