Part 21 (1/2)

”You can gamble a handful of reds,” remarked Cimarron Bill, disgustedly, ”he sees it in my face. Which it'll be a lesson to me to hide myse'f the next time one of them Las Animas terrors comes bulgin' into camp, ontil Bat's added him to the list. I sh.o.r.e won't sp'ile another sech a layout by bein' prematoorly inquisitive that a-way.”

”Well,” returned Mr. Masterson, with whom Mr. Short and Cimarron Bill were in talk, ”whether Clay was saved by spirits, or by just his own horse sense, I'm glad it ended as it did.”

The chances favour the a.s.sumption that, had Mr. Masterson been up and about, the trouble would have had no beginning. In that event he would have been more or less in the company of Mr. Allison. Such a spectacle, while it might not instruct the mean intelligence of the Ground Owl, would have at least advised his caution. He would have gained therefrom some glint of Mr. Allison's position in the world, and refrained from insults which, when the latter reviewed them by the light of liquor afterwards obtained, sent him on the wretched Ground Owl's trail.

Those differences between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl began at the Wright House breakfast table. They did not culminate, however, until late in the morning, and when, commonly, Mr. Masterson would have been abroad about his duty. But the night before had been a trying one for Mr. Masterson. He was employed until broad day in keeping Mr. McBride from slaying Bobby Gill, and never sought his blankets until an hour after dawn.

Mr. McBride had been a brother scout with Mr. Masterson in the Cheyenne wars. Later he came to Dodge, as he said, to ”quiet down.” In carrying out his plan of quieting down, Mr. McBride espoused and took to wife, one Bridget, who for years had been recognised as the official scold of Dodge.

In an elder day, Bridget would have graced a ducking-stool. Dodge, however, owned no such instrument of correction. Neither, save during the June rise, was there a sufficient depth of water in the Arkansas to make a ducking-stool effective. Mr. McBride following marriage lived in terror of Bridget's awful tongue, which served him right, so people said, for having been a fool.

At the end of their first wedded year, that is to say upon the third day prior to the trouble between Mr. Allison and the Ground Owl, Mr.

McBride, by some lucky thick-skull utterance as to what should be a government policy touching Cheyennes, incurred the contempt of Bridget.

The word ”lucky” is employed because the contempt induced was beyond power of words to express, and Bridget became so surcharged of views derogatory to Mr. McBride that she burst a blood-vessel and died. Mr.

McBride's release left him in a pleasant daze. Being, however, a slave to the conventional, he did not laugh, but lapsed into lamentations, wound his sombrero with black and, with woe-lengthened visage, made ready for the last rites.

On the day of the funeral, it being the immemorial custom of Dodge to attend such ceremonies in a body, the house of Mr. McBride was full. Mr.

McBride felt the tribute, and his heart swelled with excusable pride. He glanced out through his tears, and counted as present the best faces of the town.

The occasion would have been forever cherished among the proudest memories of Mr. McBride, had it not been for the untoward conduct of Bobby Gill. This latter ign.o.bility was the pet barbarian of Dodge, just as Bridget had been its pet virago. Also, there had existed feud between Bridget and Bobby; they had felt for one another the jealous hate of rivals. Bridget at the mere sight of Bobby Gill was wont to uncork the vitriol of her anger. She would sear him verbally, while he replied in kind, Dodge standing by to listen and admire.

Still, Bridget was never permitted a victory over Bobby. While she could say more than he could, his observations had a cutting force beyond her genius. As Mr. Kelly-who was deep in the lore of guns-observed:

”Bridget's like a Winchester, while old Bobby's like a Sharp's. She can shoot faster than he can; but thar's more powder behind what Bobby says.

Also, he's got more muzzle velocity. An' he carries further.”

”I entertains opinions similar,” said Cimarron Bill, who as Aunt Nettie Dawson's nephew was no mean judge of a tirade.

As Mr. McBride was feeding that pardonable vanity chronicled and flattering himself with a review of the mourning throng, Bobby Gill appeared at the door. Bobby toed in like an Indian or a pigeon, and because he walked on the ball of his foot as does the wolf, he possessed a lurking, spying manner.

Bobby came in, his wool hat held between his fingers, in a tight roll.

Being in he began peeping and peering, right and left, and craning over intervening shoulders as though to get a glimpse of the casket. Mr.

McBride crossed over to Bobby with a step serious and slow:

”Bobby,” said Mr. McBride, manner gloomly firm, ”you an' Bridget never agreed, an' you'll obleege me by hittin' the street.”

Bobby backed softly out. At the door, as though to vindicate the respectful innocence of his motives, he paused.

”Say, Mack,” he whispered, in mingled apology and reproach, ”I only jest wanted to see was she sh.o.r.e dead.”

It wasn't until late in the evening, when the sad responsibilities of the day had been lifted from his mind, that Mr. McBride became a burden upon the hands of Mr. Masterson. Mr. McBride said that he'd been insulted; the memory of Bridget he averred had met with disrespect.

Thereupon he buckled on his six-shooter-which had been laid aside in funeral deference to the day-and announced an intention to hunt down Bobby Gill.

”Come, Mack!” argued Mr. Masterson, soothingly, ”it isn't creditable to you-isn't creditable to Bridget.”

”But, Bat,” sobbed Mr. McBride, as he half-c.o.c.ked his Colt's-45, and sadly revolved the cylinder to make sure that all worked smoothly, ”I've put up with a heap from Bobby-me and Bridget has-an' now I'm goin' to nacherally discontinue him a lot.”

”You oughtn't to mind old Bobby,” Mr. Masterson insisted. ”Everybody knows he's locoed.”