Part 8 (2/2)

noticed that it was Tank's saddle on the hoss I was leadin'; but Horace never noticed anything which wasn't directly connected with his own body. He didn't even have any idee that the sun had set habits in the matter o' risin' an' settin'-which was another fact I had took into account.

We were drivin' four broncs to the buckboard, an' they was new to the game and in high spirits. Tank was also in high spirits, an' we went at a clip which was inspirin', even to sound nerves. We did our level best to give Horace somethin' real to worry about, an' from the very start his nerves was so busy handin' in idees an' sensations that his mind was took up with these instead of with the nerves themselves as was usual.

Well, we sure had a delightful ride that afternoon: every time 'at Horace would beseech Tank to be more careful in swingin' around down-hill curves, Tank would seize him by the arm with his full squeezin' grip, an' moan: ”It's my nerves, my pore nerves. This is one o' the times when I'm restive, I got to have action; my very life depends on it! Whoop, hit 'em up-Whee!” an' he'd crack his mule-skinner about the ears o' the ponies, an' we'd have another runaway for a spell.

Horace hadn't the mite of an idee in which direction he was travelin'; all he did was to hang on and hope. The confounded buckboard was tougher 'n we had figured on, and it didn't bust until near dark. As they went up the slope, I could see the left hind wheel weavin' purty rapid, an' as they tore down the grade to Cottonwood Crick, things began to creak an' rattle most threatenin'. We had decided to camp on the crick, an' Tank swung up his team with a flourish. The hind wheel couldn't stand the strain, an' when it crumbled, Horace, an' the rest o' the baggage, whip-crackered off like a pinwheel. Of course when one wheel went, the others dished in company, an' the whole thing was a wreck.

The ponies were comfortable weary, an' after I had roped one an' the rest had fallen over him, we soothed 'em down without much trouble, an' started to make camp. Horace was all in, an' was minded to sit on his shoulder blades an' rest; but this wasn't part o' the plan, an' we made him hustle like a new camp-boy. As soon as supper was over, he lit a cigar, an' prepared to take a rest. We had decided that those big, black cigars wasn't best for his nerves, so we had smuggled out the box, an' had worked a little sulphur into all but the top row. He lit his cigar and gave us one apiece, but he was so sleepy he couldn't keep his on fire; and it was comical to watch him.

Every time he'd nod off, Tank would utter an exclamation, an' walk up an' down, rubbin' his hands an' cussin' about his nerves. Horace was dead tired from bein' jounced about on the buckboard all day; but he was worried about Tank, an' this would wake him effectual.

About ten o'clock I sez: ”Tank, what happened that night when you got nervous up in the Spider Water country?”

”Oh, don't ask me, don't ask me,” sez Tank, gittin' up an' walkin' off into the darkness.

”I wish to glory he hadn't come along,” I sez to Horace. ”I fear we're goin' to have trouble; but chances are that a good night's rest'll quiet him, all right.”

Purty soon Tank came back, lit his pipe, an' sat facin' Horace with his lookin' eye, an' everything else in the landscape with his free one. ”You know how it is with nerves,” he sez to Horace. ”You perhaps, of all them I have ever met up with, know how strained and twisted nerves fill a man's heart with murder, set his teeth on edge and put the taste of blood in his throat; so I'm goin' to tell the whole o'

that horrid experience, which I have never yet confided to a livin'

soul before. Have you got a match?”

Tank's pipe allus went out at the most interestin' times; and he couldn't no wise talk without smokin'. We all knew this; so whenever Tank got headed away on a tale, we heaved questions at him, just to see how many matches we could make him burn. He'd light a match and hold it to his pipe; but he allus lit off an idee with the match, and when he'd speak out the idee, he'd blow out the match. Or else he'd be so took up by his own talkin', he'd hold the match until it burnt his fingers; then, without shuttin' off his discourse, he'd moisten the fingers on his other hand, take the burnt end of the match careful, and hold it until it was plumb burnt up, without ever puttin' it to his pipe. I didn't want to waste matches on this trip so I told Horace to hand Tank his cigar. Horace had already wasted two cigars, besides the ones he had given us; and I wanted him to get to the sulphur ones as soon as convenient.

Tank's mind was preoccupied with the tale we had made up; so he took Horace's fresh cigar, lit his pipe by it, threw the cigar into the fire, and said moodily: ”He was un.o.bligin'. Yes, that cross-grained old miner was un.o.bligin'. Of course, I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been nervous; but I say now, as I've allus thought, that he brought it on himself by bein' un.o.bligin'.”

Tank's gloomy tones had wakened Horace up complete; and as he started to light another cigar, I got ready for bed. ”You two have already got nerves,” I sez to 'em; ”but I don't want to catch 'em, so I'll sleep alone, and you can bunk together.” I unrolled my tarp close to the fire and crawled into it, intendin' to take my rest while I listened to Tank unfold his story.

It was a clean, fresh night, just right for sleepin'; and it almost seemed a shame to put that innocent little Eastener through his treatment; but it was for his own good so I stretched out with a sigh o' content, and looked at the other two by the fire.

Horace was short and fat around the middle with stringy arms and legs.

He wore some stuff he called side-burns on his face. They started up by his ears, curved along his jaws and were fastened to the ends of his stubby mustache. He kept 'em cropped short and, truth to tell, they were an evil-lookin' disfigurement, though he didn't seem to feel a mite o' shame at wearin' 'em. His face was full o' trouble, and yet he was so sleepy he had to hitch his eyebrows clear up to his hair to keep his eyes open. Tank's face never did have what could rightly be called expressions. His features used to fall into different kinds o'

convulsions; but they were so mussed up it was impossible to read 'em.

I looked at these two a minute, and then I had to pull my head under the tarp to keep from laughin'.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A CASE OF NERVES

”I was all alone,” sez Tank. ”I had been up in the Spider Water country lookin' for a favorite ridin' pony; but my hoss broke a leg, and I packed my saddle and stuff on my head until my nerves began to swell. Then I threw the stuff away and hunted for a human. I roamed for weeks without comin' across a white man, and my nerves got worse an' worse. You know how it is with nerves; how they set up that dull ache along the back o' your spinal cord until you get desperate, and long to bite and scratch and tear your feller-bein's to pieces-well, I had 'em worse this time 'n ever I had 'em before; and they loosened up my brain-cells until my self-control oozed out and I longed to fling myself over a cliff. Have you got a match?”

Horace pa.s.sed over his fresh cigar, and Tank lit his pipe and tossed this cigar into the fire also. Horace looked at it sadly for a moment; but he was game, and lit another.

”Finally,” sez Tank, ”I came upon a lonely cabin at the bottom of a gorge; and in it was a little man who was minin' for gold. He was about your build, except that toilin' with pick and shovel had distributed his meat around to a better advantage, and he wore his whiskers complete, without any patch sc.r.a.ped off the chin. It was just night when I reached the cabin, and he invited me in to eat; which I am free to say I did until I was stuffed up to my swaller, and then we prepared to sleep.

”Now, a feller would nachely think I'd 'a' gone right to sleep; but instead o' this, my nerves began to twist an' squirm an' gnaw at me until I was almost beside myself; and after fightin' it for several hours, I woke up the miner, and asked him as polite as a lady, if he wouldn't rub my brow for a few minutes. Seems like when I'm nervous, the' won't nothin' soothe me so quick as to have my brow rubbed; but this little coyote refused pointblank to do it.

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