Cheyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not regarded in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single street in a voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled with an exhibition of pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and passÉ beer bottles perform as targets, has hitherto excited no more baleful sentiment in the Wolfville bosom than disgust.
“Shootin' up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has passed unchallenged.
But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville is experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously from those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the Wolfville breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale party of Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel; persons whom the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits with meditating an investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But whatever the reason, Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the public mind which makes it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill.
The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville. The public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily. Those games which generally engross public thought are drowsy enough; but the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with his peers in absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is fairly sloppy from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat this need not sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly homoeopathic. “Similia similibus curantur,” says Wolfville; and when it is blazing hot, drinks whiskey.
But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance committee, and is about to be tried for his life.
What was Cheyenne Bill's immediate crime? Certainly not a grave one. Ten days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But now in its spasm of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the erratic courses of Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken possession of that volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a Chinaman. Here is the story:
“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,” says Dave Tutt.
Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which lattice he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of injury disclosed in Dave Tutt's tone, born of the awakened virtue of Wolfville.
“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks Cherokee Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser'ble Cheyenne comes chargin' up to queer it.”
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As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great change in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing gladsome and ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his forefinger like a thing of light. One of the tourists stands in the door of the hotel smoking a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and reviews the amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and abruptly halts. Gazing for a disgruntled moment on the man from the East, he takes the pipe from its owner's amazed mouth and places it in his own “smokin' of pipes,” he vouchsafes in condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an' degradin'; an' don't you do it no more in my presence. I'm mighty sensitive that a-way about pipes, an' I don't aim to tolerate 'em none whatever.”
This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill. He sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands dumbly staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still between his lips.
What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt acts cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne suddenly receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed, emerges from the New York store, whither he has been drawn by dint of soap.
“Whatever is this Mongol doin' in camp, I'd like for to know?” inquires Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I'm yere last, for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn't mind it, but with strangers visitin' Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to death.”
“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I'm the only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I'm simply a pore, lonely white, but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a sudsmonger to let 'em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.”
Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff of smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be short one Asiatic.
In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers a Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and Cheyenne Bill, realizing fate, at once accedes.
“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes the committee in the Red Light bar; “I don't say this Cheyenne is held for beefin' the Chinaman sole an' alone. The fact is, he's been havin' a mighty sight too gay a time of late, an' so I thinks it's a good, safe play, bein' as it's a hot day an' we has the time, to sorter call the committee together an' ask its views, whether we better hang this yere Cheyenne yet or not?”
“Mr. Pres'dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I'm in order, an' to get the feelin' of the meetin' to flowin' smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne an' proceeds with his immolation. I ain't basin' it on nothin' in partic'lar, but lettin' her slide as fulfillin' a long-felt want.”
“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt's very excellent motion as the census of this meetin', an' it's hang she is.”
“Not intendin' of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I wants to say this: I'm a quiet gent my-se'f, an' nacheral aims to keep Wolfville a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-hangin' of Cheyenne. He's given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I don't make no p'int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy. But this Cheyenne is allers a-ridin', an' a-yellin', an' a-shootin' up this camp till I'm plumb tired out. So I says let's hang him, an' su'gests as a eligible, as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the dance hall.”
“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply upholstered for sech plays; an' as delays is aggravatin', the committee might as well go wanderin' over now, an' get this yere ceremony off its mind.”
“See yere, Mr. Pres'dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”
“You can gamble this is a squar' game,” replies Enright confidently. “You're entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out what kyards you needs, an' we deals to you in a minute.”
“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, that's all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.
“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I'm with you on this hangin'. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It'll impress 'em that Wolfville means business, an' it's a good, safe, quiet place. They'll carry reports East as will do us credit, an' thar you be. As to the propriety of stringin' Cheyenne, little need be said. If the Chinaman ain't enough, if assaultin' of an innocent tenderfoot ain't enough, you can bet he's done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He wouldn't deny it himse'f if you asks him.”
There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer.
“I reckons it's your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.'”
“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin's is ornery an' makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin'; an' all for a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin' a mighty sight too stylish for me. It's growin' that per-dad-binged-'tic'lar it can't take its reg'lar drinks, an'——”
“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with his six-shooter; “don't you cuss the chair none, 'cause the chair won't have it. It's parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he's out of order, same as it's law that all chips on the floor goes to the house. When a gent's out of order once, that settles it. He can't talk no more that meetin'. Seein' we're aimin' to eliminate you, we won't claim nothin' on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin' 'round ag'in, an' don't fret us! Sabe? Don't you-all go an' fret us none!”
“I ain't allowin' to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don't have to fret you. What I says is this: I s'pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an' The Dalis, an' I never does know a party who's roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An' I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain't law to hang people on account of downin' no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an' so I tells you what I'll do. I'm a plain gent an' thar's no filigree work on me. If it's all congenial to the boys yere assembled—not puttin' it on the grounds of no miser'ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment half way—I'll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?”
Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds in its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, therefore, that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on a turn at faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees to it; even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object.
“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don't have to take this chance, an' it's a-makin' of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us yereafter; but Wolfville goes you this time, an' may Heaven have mercy on your soul. Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.”
“Turn squar', Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of interest. “You wouldn't go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a clatter, ag'in perishin' flesh an' blood?”
“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn't turn queer for money, an' you can gamble! I don't do it none when the epeesode comes more onder the head of reelaxation.”
“Which the same bein' satisfact'ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your game. I'm eager for action; also, I plays it open.”
“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin; “I'm thinkin' I'd a-coppered;—that's whatever!”
The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that interesting sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in succession.
“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we goin' to do now, I'd like to know?” There is a pause.
“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere creates a doubt; an' all doubts goes to the pris'ner, same as a maverick goes to the first rider as ties it down, an' runs his brand onto it. This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an' blow though it be, this yere Cheyenne Bill, temp'rarily at least, goes free. However, he should remember this yere graze an' restrain his methods yereafter. Some of them ways of his is onhealthful, an' if he's wise he'll shorely alter his system from now on.”
“Which the camp really lose! an' this person Bill goes free!” says Jack Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag'in faro as a game. Where we-all misses it egreegious, is we don't play him freeze-out.”
“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn softly to that personage of the deal box, “I don't like killin's none! I'd sooner Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!”
At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a delicate accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval.
