Part 29 (1/2)
The breaking out of evil pa.s.sions between the cowboys and the Grave City citizens opened my eye to the fact that this city was getting a whole lot obsolete since the mines began to peter out. Its population of twelve thousand a.s.sorted criminals had shrunken away to mere survivals living to save the expense of funeral pomps. Counting in tramps, tourists, and quite a few dogs, expected visitors and the dear departed, these ruins claimed a population of one thousand persons, mostly escaped from penitentiary. It made me feel lonesome to think of such a tribe with its mean ways, distorted intellects, and narrow views about me.
On the other hand, there was Bisley, a sure live mining town in the Mule Pa.s.s, where the people were youthful, happy, and sympathetic. After that melancholy victory of mine at La Morita I came b.u.t.ting along to Bisley, where I reckoned I could have a gla.s.s of lager beer without being shot to any great extent. Besides that, United States Marshal Hawkins lives there, who's always been a white man and a good friend to me. I found his house away up the gulch, above Bisley City, and he being to home, just whirled right in, telling him how sick my heart was, and how my fur was all bristles.
He said he was disgusted with me for getting mixed up with local politics and robbers.
Naturally I explained how I'd only been acting as second in a duel between Balshannon and that Ryan.
He agreed I was modest in the way I put my case, and that I ought to be hanged some in the public interest.
”How about the robbers?” says he.
”Is there robbers about?” says I. ”Is thar really now?”
He snapped out news of the La Morita raid that very morning, and I own up I was shocked all to pieces when he told me what had happened to those fragile guards.
”Why, man,” says he, ”it's all your doing, and I had to wire for the dog-gone cavalry.”
”Cavalry?” says I. ”Pore things; d'you reckon they'll get sore feet?”
”I opine,” says the Marshal, ”that you'll get a sore neck soon and sudden, you double-dealing, cattle-stealing, hoss thief. Whar do you think you'll go to when you're lynched?”
So he went on denouncing around until it was time to eat, then asked me to dinner. After that Mrs. Hawkins was plenty abusive, too, close-herding me until supper, when the Marshal came home. Hawkins, thoughtful to keep me out of mischief, made me bed down for the night in his barn; and I made no howl because here at Bisley, close to the boundary, I would get the first news of Jim and Curly. It made me sick to think how helpless I was to find them. In the morning a squadron of cavalry arrived by rail, had coffee in town, and trailed off in their harmless way to patrol the boundary for fear of somebody stealing Mexico. I lay low, but mended a sewing machine which had got the fan-tods, according to Mrs. Hawkins. I treated the poor thing for inflammation of the squeam until it got so dead I couldn't put it together any more. My mind was all set on my lost kids out yonder in the desert, but Mrs. Hawkins grieved for the dead machine, and chased me out of the house.
Just then came the Marshal swift back from Bisley town on a bicycle.
”Say, Chalkeye,” he yelled, ”I want you to saddle my mare, and get mounted yourself! _p.r.o.nto!_”
When I came out with the horses I found him fondling his shot-gun, so I buckled on my guns, and inquired for the name of my enemy.
”You know c.o.c.ky Brown?” he asked, as we rode down street.
”I know he makes a first-rate stranger,” says I.
”His dog-gone son is here in Bisley drunk, and lets out that old c.o.c.ky is getting rent for La Soledad.”
”Who is the locoed tenant--some poor tourist?”
”It's that dog-gone McCalmont and his robbers!”
”And yet, Mr. Hawkins, you laid the blame on me for raiding La Morita!
It makes me sick!”
”For raiding La Morita? Why, of course--McCalmont's robbers--the same gang which shot up the 'Sepulchre' crowd at Grave City. That explains everything! Wall, I'm sure sorry, old friend, that I laid the blame on you.”
”Mr. Hawkins,” says I, ”hadn't you better tell the pony-soldiers that they're barking up the wrong tree?”
”I will, and get their help in surprising that dog-gone McCalmont at La Soledad. A good idea.”
That was his idea, not mine, and I disown it. Suppose that Jim and Curly were hid up there at La Soledad?