Part 27 (1/2)
”'Couldn't you-all have gone with Crook ag'in?' I says. 'Which you don't have to infest this yere stretch of country. Thar's no hobbles or sidelines on you; none whatever!'
”Bloojacket makes no reply, an' his copper face gets expressionless an'
inscrootable. I can see through, however; an' it's the hobbles of that Caldwell beauty's innocence that's holdin' him.
”Bloojacket walks over to where Hardrobe's layin' dead an' straightens him round--laigs an' arms--an' places his big white cow hat over his face. Thar's no more sign of feelin', whether love or hate, in the eyes of Bloojacket while he performs these ceremonies than if Hardrobe's a roll of blankets. But thar's no disrespects neither; jest a great steadiness. When he has composed him out straight, Bloojacket looks at the remainder for mebby a minute. Then he shakes his head.
”'He was a great man,' says Bloojacket, p'intin' at his dead father, with his good hand; 'thar's no more like him among the Osages.'
”Tharupon Bloojacket wheels on the half-breed who runs the deadfall an'
who's standin' still an' scared, an' says:
”'How much does he owe?' Then he pays Hardrobe's charges for antelope steaks an' what chuck goes with it, an' at the close of these fiscal op'rations, remarks to the half-breed--who ain't sayin' no more'n he can he'p,--'Don't touch belt nor buckle on him; you-all knows me!' An' I can see that half-breed restauraw party is out to obey Bloojacket's mandates.
”Bloojacket gives himse'f up to the Osages an' is thrown loose on p'role.
But Bloojacket never gets tried.
”A week rides by, an' he's standin' in front of the agency, sort o'
makin' up some views concernin' his destinies. He's all alone; though forty foot off four Osage bucks is settin' together onder a cottonwood playin' Injun poker--the table bein' a red blanket spread on the gra.s.s,--for two bits a corner. These yere sports in their blankets an'
feathers, an' rifflin' their greasy deck, ain't sayin' nothin to Bloojacket an' he ain't sayin' nothin' to them. Which jest the same these children of nacher don't like the idee of downin' your parent none, an' it's apparent Bloojacket's already half exiled.
”As he stands thar roominatin,' with the hot August sun beatin' down, thar's a atmosphere of sadness to go with Bloojacket. But you-all would have to guess at it; his countenance is as ca'm as on that murderin'
evenin' in the half-breed's restauraw.
”Bloojacket is still thar, an' the sports onder the cottonwood is still gruntin' joyously over their poker, when thar comes the patter of a bronco's hoofs. Thar's a small dust cloud, an' then up sweeps the Caldwell beauty. She comes to a pull-up in front of Bloojacket. That savage glances up with a inquirin' eye an' the glance is as steady as the hills about him. The Caldwell beauty--it seems she disdains mournin'--is robed like a rainbow; an' she an' Bloojacket, him standin', she on her bronco, looks each other over plenty intent.
”Which five minutes goes by if one goes by, an' thar the two stares into each other's eyes; an' never a word. The poker bucks keeps on with their gamble over onder the cottonwood, an' no one looks at the two or seems like they heeds their existence. The poker savages is onto every move; but they're troo to the Injun idee of p'liteness an' won't interfere with even so much as the treemor of a eyelash with other folks's plays.
”Bloojacket an' the Caldwell beauty is still gazin'. At last the Caldwell beauty's hand goes back, an' slow an' sh.o.r.e, brings to the front a eight-inch six-shooter. Bloojacket, with his eye still on her an'
never a flicker of feelin', don't speak or move.
”The Caldwell beauty smiles an' shows her white teeth. Then she lays the gun across her left arm, an' all as solid as a church. Her pony's gone to sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the Caldwell beauty settles herse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows is comin'. The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate as trees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.
”'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the Caldwell beauty, as she runs her eye along the sights. 'I must aim low or I'll sh.o.r.e make ragged work.'
”Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a stachoo. Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot. The Caldwell beauty keeps her saddle, an' with never a swerve or curve goes whirlin' away up the brown, burnt August trail, Bloojacket lays thar on his face; an'
thar's a bullet as squar' between the eyes as you-all could set your finger-tip. Which he's dead--dead without a motion, while the poker bucks plays ca'mly on.”
My venerable friend came to a full stop. After a respectful pause, I ventured an inquiry.
”And the Caldwell beauty?” I said.
”It ain't a week when she's ag'in the star of that Caldwell hurdygurdy where she ropes up Hardrobe first. Her laugh is as loud an' as' free, her beauty as profoundly dazzlin' as before; she swings through twenty quadrilles in a evenin' from 'Bow-to-your-partners' to 'All-take-a-drink-at-the-bar'; an' if she's preyed on by them Osage tragedies you sh.o.r.e can't tell it for whiskey, nor see if for powder an'
paint.”
CHAPTER XX.
Colonel Coyote Clubbs.
”Which as a roole,” said the Old Cattleman, ”I speaks with deference an' yields respects to whatever finds its source in nacher, but this yere weather simply makes sech att.i.toode reedic'lous, an' any encomiums pa.s.sed thar-on would sound sarkastic.” Here my friend waved a disgusted hand towards the rain-whipped panes and shook his head.
”Thar's but one way to meet an' cope successful with a day like this,”