Part 15 (1/2)

The rest surrendered.

”Kate,” said I, sort of quiet, and she came to me.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STAMPEDE

_Jesse's Narrative_

Being married to a lady, and full of dumb yearnings for reform, I axed Dale when he was down to Vancouver to d.i.c.ker for a book on etiquette.

_Deportment for Gents_ being threw at a policeman and soiled, Dale only paid six bits; but I tossed him double or quits, and come out all right.

As to the book, it's wrote mighty high and severe by Professor Aaron E.

Honeypott, but when I tried some on my wife she laughed so she rolled on the floor. I know now that when I sweats at a dance I'm not to hang my collar on the chandileer, or press bottled beer on my partner. If ever I get to a town I'm to take the outside of the sidewalk, wipe my gums on the mat, and wash before I use them roller towels. But it doesn't say when I'm to wear my boots inside my pants, or how old Honeypott chews without having to spit, or what to say when Jones kicks me in the morning, or in deadfall timber, or when a bear dislikes me, or any unusual accident in this vale of tears; and there ain't one word about robbers.

Which these robbers we got in the cave is a disappointment. This old man what leads them with a plume on his face, ought to have more deportment, for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a gun in Kate's ear ain't no sort of manners. Even after I'd shot his hand to chips, he grabbed Ransome's gun with his left and tried to make me lie down. There's some folks jest don't know when you give them a hint.

And Bull, with the sad eyes, ought to comport himself around like a Honeypott, seeing the way he was raised, and how he claims on me his ancient friends.h.i.+p. While we lashed his thumbs behind him, he told us he'd been educated at Oxford and Cambridge.

”What!” Kate flashed out, ”after leaving Eton and Harrow?”

”Yes, and I've enough education to guess this ain't no way to treat American citizens. You'll hear of this,” he shouted, ”from Uncle Sam!”

”Thar,” says Dale, ”I knew there'd be rewards for you, dead or alive.

How much? Two thousand dollars a head?”

Then old Whiskers ordered this Bull to shut his head. He's a curious, slow, mournful voice, like a cat with the toothache.

”I demand--”

”Shut up.”

So Bull shut up while we lashed him, likewise young Ginger and the greaser. Seeing the fellow I'd killed might want an inquest, we laid him straight in the ruined shack, and then marched our prisoners off to South Cave, where they'll wait until we get our constable to arrest them.

II

Now on the second day after we captures these ladrones, along toward supper, the depositions of the various parties is as follows, viz.:

Up to the ruined shack two mile north of my home, lies the remains of one robber expecting an inquest. Two miles south, right where the upper cliff cuts off the end of our pasture, there's our cave full of captured bandits, to wit; Whiskers, Bull Durham, Ginger, and the dago. Down on the bench in front of the cave is our guard-camp with Iron Dale in command, and Kate with the boys having supper. Right home at the ranch house is me finis.h.i.+ng my ch.o.r.es, and the widow spoiling hash for my supper, because she hates me worse nor snakes for being a Protestant.

Away off beyond the horizon is old man Brown cussing blue streaks 'cause he can't find much constable.

Such being the combinations at supper-time, along comes the widow's orphan, young Billy O'Flynn, who handles my pack contract with the Sky-line. He's supposed to be on duty at the guard-camp, and his riding back to the home ranch completely disarranges the landscape. I'm busy, hungry, and expected to take charge of the night guard at the cave, but somehow this Billy attracts my attention by acting a whole lot suspicious. Instead of bringing me some message from Dale, he rides straight to the lean-to kitchen, steps off his pony, and whispers for his mother. I sneaks through the house to the kitchen in time to see this widow with a slip of paper, brown paper what we used to wrap up the prisoners' lunch. At sight of me she gets modest, shoving it into the stove, but I becomes prominent, and grabs it ”Shure,” she explains, ”an'

it's only a schlip av paper!”

Seems to be scratches on the smooth side of this paper, sort of reminding me that Bull has a fountainpen sticking out of his vest pocket. If he's been writing with milk, I'd warm the paper--but no, we use canned milk, and haven't got any either. I've heard faintly somewheres of things wrote in spittle, so I pours on a bottle of ink, and rinses the paper in the water-b.u.t.t. Yes, there's the message plain as print.

”Gun to hand, but cartridges wrong size, no good. Get .45. Billy to wait with ponies under nearest pine N. of cave, when plough above N. Star. Send more gum for chief's wound.--Bull.”