Clarence Edward Mulford

THE Limping Water, within a mile after it passed Ford’s Station, turned abruptly and flowed almost due west for thirty miles, where it again proceeded southward. At the second bend stood the ranch houses and corrals of the Star C, in a country rich in grass and water. Its cows numbered far into the thousands and its horses were the best for miles around, while the whole ranch had an air of opulence and plenty. Its ranch house was a curiosity, for even now there were lace curtains in some of the windows, badly torn and soiled, but still lace curtains; and on the floors of several rooms were thick carpets, now covered with dust and riding paraphernalia. Oddly shaped and badly scratched chairs were piled high with accumulated trash, and the few gilt-framed paintings which graced the walls were hanging awry and were torn and scratched. At one time an Eastern woman had tried to live there, but that was when the owner of the ranch and his wife had been enthusiasts. New York regained and kept its own, and they now would rather receive quarterly reports by mail than daily reports in person. The foreman and his wolf hounds reigned supreme, not at all bothered by the stiff furniture and lace curtains, because he would rather be comfortable than stylish, and so lived in two rooms which he had fitted up to his ideas. Carpets and two-inch spurs cause profanity and ravelings, and as for pictures, they have a most annoying way of tilting when one hangs a six-shooter on one corner of the frame, and they are so inviting that one is constantly forgetting. So the unstable pictures, the dress-parade chairs, bothersome curtains and clutching carpets were left under the dust.

The Star C, being in a part of the country little traversed and crossed by no trails, was removed from the zone of The Orphan’s activities and had no cause for animosity, save that induced by his reputation. Several of its punchers had seen him, and all were well versed in his exploits, for frequently Ford’s Station shared its hospitality with one or more of them; and in Ford’s Station at that time The Orphan was the chief topic of conversation and the bone of contention. But the foreman of the Star C would not know him if he should see him, unless by intuition.

Blake was a man much after the pattern of Shields in his ideas, and the two were warm friends and had roughed it together when Ford’s Station had only been an adobe hut. Their affection for each other was of the stern, silent kind, which seldom betrayed itself directly in words, and they could ride together for hours in an understanding silence and never weary of the companionship; and when need was, deeds spoke for them. The Cross Bar-8 would have had more than Ford’s Station to fight if it had declared war on the sheriff, which the Cross Bar-8 knew. The three cleverest manipulators of weapons in that section, in the order of their merit, were The Orphan, Shields and Blake, which also the Cross Bar-8 knew.

The foreman of the Star C rode at a walk toward a distant point of his dominions and cogitated as to whether he could ride over to Ford’s Station that night to see the sheriff. It was a matter of sixty miles for the round trip, but it might have been sixty blocks, so far as the distance troubled him. He had just decided to make the trip and to spend a pleasant hour with his friend, and drink some of the delicious coffee which Mrs. Shields always made for him and eat one of her prize pies, or some of her light ginger bread, when he descried a horseman coming toward him at a lope.

The Orphan gives Blake Shields’ note. (See page 213.)

The newcomer was a stranger to Blake and appeared to be a young man, which was of no consequence. But the thing which attracted more than a casual glance from the foreman was a certain jaunty, reckless air about the man which spoke well for the condition of his nerves and liver.

The stranger approached to within a rod of Blake before he spoke, and then he slowed down and nodded, but with wide-eyed alertness.

“Howdy,” he said. “Are you the foreman of the Star C?”

“Howdy. I am,” replied the foreman.

“Then I reckon this is yours,” said the stranger, holding out a bit of straw-colored paper.

The foreman took it and slowly read it. When he had finished reading he turned it over to see if there was anything on the back, and then stuck it in his pocket and looked up casually.“Are you The Orphan?” he asked, with no more interest than he would have displayed if he had asked about the weather.

“Yes,” replied The Orphan, nonchalantly rolling another cigarette.

“How is the sheriff?” Blake asked.

“Shore well enough, but a little mad about the Cross Bar-8,” answered the other as he inhaled deeply and with much satisfaction. “He said there was some good coffee waiting for you to-night if you wanted it,” he added.

“Did he?” asked Blake, grinning his delight.

“Yes, and some–apricot pie,” added The Orphan wistfully.

Blake laughed: “Well, I reckon I’ve got some business over in town to-night, so you keep on going ’til you get to the bunk house. Tell Lee Lung to rustle the grub lively–I’ll be there right after you. Apricot pie!” he chuckled as he pushed on at a lope.

Jim Carter was washing for supper, being urged to show more speed by Bud Taylor, when the latter looked up and saw The Orphan dismount. His mouth opened a trifle, but he continued his urging without a break. He had seen The Orphan at Ace High the year before, when the outlaw had ridden in for a supply of cartridges, and he instantly recalled the face. But Bud was not only easy-going, but also very hungry at the time, and he didn’t care if the devil himself called as long as the devil respected the etiquette of the range. Besides, if there was to be trouble it would rest more comfortably on a full stomach.

“Give me a quit-claim to that pan, yu coyote,” he said pleasantly to Jim. “Yu ain’t taking no bath!”

“Blub–no I ain’t–blub blub–but you will be–blub–if yu don’t lemme alone,” came from the pan. “Hand me that towel!”

“Don’t wallow in it, yu!” admonished Bud as he refilled the basin. “Leave some dry spots for me, this time.”

Jim carefully hung the towel on a peg in the wall of the house and then noticed the stranger, who was removing his saddle.

“Howdy, stranger!” he said heartily. “Just in time to feed. Coax some of that water from Bud, but get holt of the towel first, for there won’t be none left soon.”

The Orphan laughed and dusted his chaps.“Where’ll I find Lee Lung?” he asked. “Blake wants him to rustle the grub lively.”

“He’s in the cook shack behind the house a-doing it and trying to sing,” replied Jim. “He’s always trying to sing; it goes something like this: Hop-lee, low-hop yum-see,” he hummed in a monotonous wail as he combed his hair before a broken bit of mirror stuck in a crack. “Hi-dee, hee-hee, chop-chop––”

“Gimme that comb, yu heathen Chinee,” cried Bud, “and don’t make that noise.”

“Anything else yu wants?” asked Jim, deliberately putting the comb away in the box.

“I want to be in Kansas City with a million dollars and a whopper of a thirst,” replied Bud as he filled the basin for the stranger. “It’s all yourn, stranger. Grub’s waiting for yu inside when yore ready.”

“Do yu know who that feller is?” Bud asked in a whisper as they made their way to the table, from which came much laughter. “That’s The Orphant,” he added.

“Th’ h–l it is!” said Jim. “Him? Him Th’ Orphant? Tell another! I’m more than six years old, even if yu ain’t.”“That’s straight, fellers!” said Bud to the assembled outfit in a low voice. “I ain’t kidding yu none, honest. I saw him up to Ace High last year. That’s him, all right. Wait ’til he comes in and see!”

“Well, I don’t care if he’s Jonah,” responded Jim. “Only I reckons you’re plumb loco, all the same. But I’m too hungry to care if Gabriel blows if I can fill up before these Oliver Twists eats it all up,” he said, revealing his last reading matter.

“He shore enough wears his gun plumb low–and the holster is tied to his chaps, too,” muttered Jim as he seated himself at the table. “So would I, too, if I was him. Pass them murphys, Humble,” he ordered.

“You has got to bust that piebald pet what you’ve been keeping around the house to-morrow, Humble,” exulted the man nearest to him. “And it’ll shore be a circus watching you do it, too!”

The blankets which divided the bunk house into two rooms were pushed aside and The Orphan entered, carrying his saddle and bridle, which he placed beside the others on the floor. Then he unbuckled his belts and hung them, Colts and all, over the pommel, which was etiquette and which gave assurance that the guest was not hunting anyone. Then he seated himself at the table in a chair which Humble pushed back for him. His entry in no degree caused a lull in the conversation.

“Well, you hasn’t got no kick coming, has you?” asked Humble. “Hey, Cookie!” he shouted into the dark gallery which led to the cook shack. “Rustle in some more fixings for another place, and bring in the slush!” Then he turned to his tormentor: “You has allus got something to say about my business, ain’t you, hey?”

“Sic ’em, Humble!” said Silent Allen. “Go for him!”

From the gallery came sounds of calamity and then a mongrel dog shot out and collided with the table, glancing off it and under the curtain in his haste to gain the outside world. A second later the cook, his face fiendish, grasping a huge knife, followed the dog out on the plain. Those eating sprang to their feet and streamed after the cook, yelling encouragement to their favorite.

“Go it, Old Woman!” “’Ray for Cookie!” “Beat him out, Lightning!” and other expressions met Blake as he came up from the corral.“Cook got ’em again?” he asked, elbowing his way into the house. “I told you to keep liquor away from him.”

“’Tain’t liquor this time; it’s th’ kioodle,” replied Docile Thomas as he led the way back to the table. “Him an’ th’ dog don’t mix extra well.”

Blake swept aside the blanket and saw The Orphan standing by the window and laughing. Turning, he disappeared into the gallery and soon returned with a tin plate, a steel knife, a tin cup and the coffee pot.

“Sit down–good Lord, they would let a man starve,” he said, roughly clearing a place at the table for the new arrival. “I don’t know how you feel,” he continued, “but I’m so all-fired hungry that I don’t know whether it’s my back or stomach that hurts. Take some beef and throw those potatoes down this way. Here, have some slush,” filling The Orphan’s cup with coffee. “This ain’t like the coffee the sheriff drinks, but it is just a little bit better than nothing. You see, Cook’s all right, only he can’t cook, never could and never will. But he’s a whole lot better than a sailor I once suffered under.”

“What’s the matter between you and Lightning, Lee?” asked Bud as the cook passed by the table on his way to the shack.

“Wouldn’t he drink yore slush? I allus said some dogs was smart,” laughed Jack Lawson.

Lee’s smile was bland. “Scalpee th’ dlog,” he asserted as he disappeared. “No dlamn good!” wafted from the gallery.

“Say, Humble,” said Silent Allen in an aggrieved tone, “the beef will wag its tail some night if you don’t shoot that cur!”

“That’s right!” endorsed Jack. “I’ll shoot him for a dollar,” he added hopefully. “The boys will all chip in to make up the purse and it won’t cost you a cent, not even a cartridge.”

“Anybody that don’t like that setter can move,” responded Humble with decision. “He’s a O. K. dog, that’s what he is,” he added loyally.

“Well, he’s a setter, all right,” laughed Silent. “He ain’t good for nothing else but to set around all day in the shade and chew hisself up.”

“He ain’t, ain’t he?” cried Humble, delaying the morsel on his fork in mid-air. “You ought to see him a-chasing coyotes!”

“I did see him chasing coyotes, and that’s why I want you to have him killed,” replied Silent, grinning. “His feet are too big. Every time he shoves his hind feet between the front ones he throws hisself.”

“What did he ever catch except fleas and the mange?” asked Blake, winking at The Orphan, who was extremely busy burying his hunger.

“What did he ever catch!” indignantly cried Humble, dropping his fork. “You saw him catch that gray wolf over near the timber, and you can’t deny it, neither!”

“By George, he did!” exclaimed Blake seriously. “You’re right this time, Humble, he did. But he let go awful sudden. Besides, that gray wolf you’re talking about was a coyote, and he would have died of old age in another week if you hadn’t shot him to save the dog. And, what’s more, I never saw him chase anything since, not even rabbits.”

“He caught my boot one night,” remarked Charley Bailey, reflectively, “right plumb on his near eye. Oh, he’s a catcher, all right.”

“He’s so good he ought to be stuffed, then he could sit without having to move around catching boots and things,” said Jim. “Why don’t you have him stuffed, Humble?”“Oh, yore a whole lot smart, now ain’t you?” blazed the persecuted puncher, glaring at his tormentors.

“He can’t catch his tail, Silent,” offered Bud. “I once saw him trying to do it for ten minutes–he looked like a pinwheel what we used to have when we were kids. Missed it every time, and all he got was a cheap drunk.”

Humble said a few things which came out so fast that they jammed up, and he left the room to hunt for his dog.

“Any particular reason why you call him Lightning, or is it just irony?” asked The Orphan as he helped himself to the beef for the third time. “I never heard that name used before.”

“Oh, it ain’t irony at all!” hastily denied the foreman. “That’s a real good name, fits him all right,” he assured. Then he explained: “You see, lightning don’t hit twice in the same place, and neither can the dog when he scratches himself. And, besides, he can dodge awful quick. You have to figure which way he’ll jump when you want him to catch anything.”

“But you don’t have to remember his name at all, Stranger,” interposed Silent, who was not at all silent. “Any handle will do, if you only yells. Every time anybody yells he makes a crow line for the plain and howls at every jump. He’s got a regular, shore enough trail worn where he makes his get-away.”

Silence descended over the table, and for a quarter of an hour only the click of eating utensils could be heard. At the end of that time Blake pushed back his chair and arose. He glanced around the table and then spoke very distinctly: “Well, Orphan, get acquainted with your outfit.” A head or two raised at the name, but that seemed to be all the effect of his words. “The boys will put you onto the game in the morning, and Bud will show you where to begin in case I don’t show up in time. Better take a fresh cayuse and let yours rest up some. Don’t hurt Humble’s ki-yi and he’ll be plumb nice to you; and if Silent wants to know how you likes his singing and banjo playing, lie and say it’s fine.”

The laugh went around and all was serene with the good fellowship which is so often found in good outfits.

“Joe, I’ll bring the mail out with me, so you needn’t go after it,” continued the foreman as he strode towards the door. “That’s what I’m going over for,” he laughed.

“Lord, I’d go, too, if pie and cake and good coffee was on the card,” laughed Silent.

“We’ll shore have to go over in a gang some night and raid that pantry,” remarked Bud. “It would be a circus, all right.”

“The sheriff would get some good target practice, that’s shore,” responded Blake. “But I’ve got something better than that, and since you brought the subject up I’ll tell you now, so you’ll be good.

“Mrs. Shields has promised to get up a fine feed for you fellows as soon as Jim’s sisters are on hand to help her, and as they are here now I wouldn’t be a whole lot surprised if I brought the invitation back with me. How’s that for a change, eh?” he asked.

“Glory be!” cried Silent. “Hurry up and get home!”

“Say, she’s all right, ain’t she!” shouted Jack, executing a jig to show how glad he was.

“Pinch me, Humble, pinch me!” begged Bud. “I may be asleep and dreaming–here! What the devil do you think I am, you wart-headed coyote!” he yelled, dancing in pain and rubbing his leg frantically. “You blamed doodle bug, yu!”

“Well, I pinched you, didn’t I?” indignantly cried Humble. “What’s eating you? Didn’t you ask me to, you chump?”

“Hurry up and get that mail, Tom,” cried Jim. “It might spoil–and say, if she leads at you with that invite, clinch!”

Blake laughed and went off toward the corral. As he found the horse he wished to ride he heard a riot in the bunk-house and he laughed silently. A Virginia reel was in full swing and the noise was terrible. Riding past the window, he saw Silent working like a madman at his banjo; and assiduously playing a harmonica was The Orphan, all smiles and puffed-out cheeks.

“Well, The Orphan is all right now,” the foreman muttered as he swung out on the trail to Ford’s Station. “I reckon he’s found himself.”

In the bunk-house there was much hilarity, and laughter roared continually at the grotesque gymnastics of the reel and at the sharp wit which cut right and left, respecting no one save the new member of the outfit, and eventually he came in for his share, which he repaid with interest. Suddenly Jim, catching his spurs in a bear-skin rug which lay near a bunk, threw out his arms to save himself and then went sprawling to the floor. The uproar increased suddenly, and as it died down Jim could be heard complaining.

“–– ––!” he cried as he nursed his knee. “I’ve had that pelt for nigh onto three years and regularly I go and get tangled up with it. It shore beats all how I plumb forget its habit of wrapping itself around them rowels, what are too big, anyhow. And it ain’t a big one at that, only about half as big as the one I got for a tenderfoot up in Montanny,” he deprecated in disgust.

The outfit scented a story and became suddenly quiet.

“Dod-blasted postage stamp of a pelt,” he grumbled as he threw it into his bunk.

“The other skin couldn’t ’a’ been much bigger than that one,” said Bud, leading him on. “How big was it, anyhow, Jim?”

“It couldn’t, hey? It came off a nine-foot grizzly, that’s how big it was,” retorted Jim, sitting down and filling his pipe. “Nine whole feet from stub of tail to snoot, plumb full of cussedness, too.”“How’d you get it–Sharps?” queried Charley.

“No, Colt,” responded Jim. “Luckiest shot I ever made, all right. I shore had visions of wearing wings when I pulled the trigger. Just one of them lucky shots a man will make sometimes.”

“Give us the story, Jim,” suggested Silent, settling himself easily in his bunk. “Then we’ll have another smoke and go right to bed. I’m some sleepy.”

“Well,” began Jim after his pipe was going well, “I was sort of second foreman for the Tadpole, up in Montanny, about six years ago. I had a good foreman, a good ranch and about a dozen white punchers to look after. And we had a real cook, no mistake about that, all right.

“The Old Man hibernated in New York during the winter and came out every spring right after the calf round-up was over to see how we was fixed and to eat some of the cook’s flapjacks. That cook wasn’t no yaller-skinned post for a hair clothes line, like this grinning monkey what we’ve got here. The Old Man was a fine old cuss–one of the boys, and a darn good one, too–and we was always plumb glad to see him. He minded his own business, didn’t tell us how we ought to punch cows and didn’t bother anybody what didn’t want to be bothered, which we most of us did like.

“Well, one day Jed Thompson, who rustled our mail for us twice a month, handed me a letter for the foreman, who was down South and wouldn’t be back for some time. His mother had died and he went back home for a spell. I saw that the letter was from the Old Man, and wondered what it would say. I sort of figured that it would tell us when to hitch up to the buckboard and go after him. Fearing that he might land before the foreman got back, I went and opened it up.

“It was from the Old Man, all right, but it was no go for him that spring. He was sick abed in New York, and said as how he was plumb sorry he couldn’t get out to see his boys, and so was we sorry. But he said as how he was sending us a friend of his’n who wanted to go hunting, and would we see that he didn’t shoot no cows. We said we would, and then I went on and found out when this hunter was due to land.

“When the unfortunate day rolled around I straddled the buckboard and lit out for Whisky Crossing, twenty miles to the east, it being the nearest burg on the stage line. And as I pulled in I saw Frank, who drove the stage, and he was grinning from ear to ear.

“‘I reckon that’s your’n,’ he said, pointing to a circus clown what had got loose and was sizing up the town.

“‘The drinks are on me when I sees you again, Frank,’ I said, for somehow I felt that he was right.

“Then I sized up my present, and blamed if he wasn’t all rigged out to kill Indians. While my mouth was closing he ambled up to me and stared at my gun, which must ’a’ been purty big to him.

“‘Are you Mr. Fisher’s hired man?’ he asked, giving me a real tolerating look.

“Frank followed his grin into the saloon, leaving the door open so he could hear everything. That made me plumb sore at Frank, him a-doing a thing like that, and I glared.

“‘I ain’t nobody’s hired man, and never was,’ I said, sort of riled. ‘We ain’t had no hired man since we lynched the last one, but I’m next door to the foreman. Won’t I do, or do you insist on talking to a hired man? If you do, he’s in the saloon.’“‘Oh, yes, you’ll do!’ he said, quick-like, and then he ups and climbs aboard and we pulled out for home, Frank waving his sombrero at me and laughing fit to kill.

“We hadn’t no more than got started when the hunter ups and grabs at the lines, which he shore missed by a foot. I was driving them cayuses, not him, and I told him so, too.

“‘But ain’t you going to take my luggage?’ he asked.

“‘Luggage! What luggage?’ I answers, surprised-like.

“Then he pointed behind him, and blamed if he didn’t have two trunks, a gripsack and three gun cases. I didn’t say a word, being too full of cuss words to let any of ’em loose, until Frank wobbled up and asked me if I’d forgot something. Then I shore said a few, after which I busted my back a-hoisting his freight cars aboard, and we started out again, Frank acting like a d––n fool.

“The cayuses raised their ears, wondering what we was taking the saloon for, and I reckoned we would make them twenty miles in about eight hours if nothing busted and we rustled real hard.

“Well, about every twenty minutes I had to get off and hoist some of his furniture aboard, it being jolted off, for the prairie wasn’t paved a whole lot, and us going cross-country. Considering my back, and the fact that he kept calling me ‘My man,’ and Frank’s grin, I wasn’t in no frame of mind to lead a religion round-up when I got home and dumped Davy Crockett’s war-duds overboard for Jed to rustle in. I was still sore at Jed for bringing that letter.

“Davy Crockett dusted for the house and ordered Sammy Johns to oil his guns and put them together, after which he went off a-poking his nose into everything in sight, and mostly everything that wasn’t in sight. When he got back to the house from his tour of inspection he found his guns just like he’d left them, and that was in their cases. Then he ambled out to me and registered his howl.

“‘My man,’ he said, ‘My man, that hired man what I told to put my guns together ain’t done it!’

“‘Oh, he didn’t?’ I said, hanging on to my cuss words, for I was some surprised and couldn’t say a whole lot.

“‘No, he hasn’t, and so I’ve come out to report him,’ he said, looking mad.

“‘My man!’ said I, mad some myself, and looking him plumb in the eyes. ‘My man, if he had I’d shore think he was off his feed or loco. He ain’t no hired man, but he is a all-fired good cow-puncher, and I’m a heap scared about him not filling you full of holes, you asking him to do a thing like that! He must be real sick.’

“He didn’t have no come-back to that, but just looked sort of funny, and then he trotted off to put his guns together hisself. I hustled around and saw that some work was done right and then went in to supper. After it was over my present got up and handed me a gun, and I near fell over. It was a purty little Winchester, and I don’t blame him a whole lot for being tickled over it, for it shore was a beauty, but it oozed out a ball about the size of a pea, and the makers would ’a’ been some scared if they had known it was running around loose in a grizzly-bear country.

“‘I reckon that’ll stop him,’ he said, happy-like.

“‘Stop what?’ I asked him.

“‘Why, game–bears, of course,’ he said, shocked at my appalling ignorance.

“‘Yes,’ said I, slow-like, ‘I reckon Ephraim may turn around and scratch hisself, if you hits him.’“‘Why, won’t that stop a bear?’

“‘Yes, if it’s a stuffed bear,’ I said.

“‘Why, that’s a blamed good rifle!’

“‘It shore is; it’s as fine a gun as I ever laid my eyes on,’ I replied, ‘for prairie dogs and such.’

“Then I felt plumb sorry for him, he being so ignorant, and so when he hands me a peach of a shotgun to shoot coyotes with I laid it down and got my breach-loading Sharps, .50 caliber, which I handed to him.

“‘There,’ I said, ‘that’s the only gun in the room what any self-respecting bear will give a d––n for.’

“He looked at it, felt its heft, sized up the bunghole and then squinted along the sights.

“‘Why, this gun will kick like the very deuce!’ he said.

“‘Kick!’ said I. ’Kick! She’ll kick like a army mule if you holds her far enough from your shoulder. But I’d a whole lot ruther get kicked by a mule than hugged by a grizzly, and so’ll you when you sees him a-heading your way.’

“‘But what’ll you use?’ says he, ‘I don’t want to take your gun.’

“Well, when he said that I reckoned that he had some good stuff in him after all, and somehow I felt better. There he was, away from his mother and sisters, among a bunch of gamboling cow-punchers, and right in the middle of a good bear country. I sort of wondered if he was to blame, and managed to lay all the fault on his city bringing-up.

“‘That’s all right,’ says I, ‘I’ll take an old muzzle-loading Bridesburg what’s been laying around the house ever since I came here. It heaves enough lead at one crack to sink a man-of-war, being a .60 caliber.’

“Well, bright and early the next morning we started out for bear, and I knowed just where to look, too. You see, there was a thicket of berry bushes about three miles from the ranch house and I had seen plenty of tracks there, and there was a grizzly among them, too, and as big as a house, judging from the signs. The boys had wanted to ride out in a gang and rope him, but I said as how I was saving him for a dude hunter to practice on, so they left him alone.

“We footed it through the brush, and finally Davy Crockett, who simply would go ahead of me, yelled out that he had found tracks.“I rustled over, and sure enough he had, only they wasn’t made by no bear, and I said so.

“‘Then what are they?’ he asked, sort of disappointed.

“‘Cow tracks,’ said I. ‘When you see bear tracks you’ll know it right away,’ and we went on a-hunting.

“We had just got down in a little hollow, where the green flies were purty bad, when I saw tracks, and they was bear tracks this time, and whoppers. It had rained a little during the night and the ground was just soft enough to show them nice. I called Davy Crockett and he came up, and when he saw them tracks he was plumb tickled, and some scairt.

“‘Where is he?’ he asked, looking around sort of anxious.

“‘At the front end of these tracks, making more,’ said I.

“‘And what are we going to do now?’ he asked, cocking the Sharps.

“‘We’re going to trail him,’ said I, ‘and if we finds him and has any accidents, you wants to telegraph yourself up a tree, and be sure that it ain’t a big tree, too.’“’”Be sure it ain’t a big tree!“’ he repeated, looking at me like he thought I wanted him to get killed.

“‘Exactly,’ said I, and then I explained: ‘The bigger the tree, the sooner you’ll be a meal, for he climbs by hugging the trunk and pushing hisself up. A little tree’ll slide through his legs, and he can’t get a holt.’

“‘I hope I don’t forget that!’ he exclaimed, looking dubious.

“‘The less you forgets when bear hunting,’ said I, ‘the longer you’ll remember.’

“We took up the trail and purty soon we saw the bear, and he was so big he didn’t hardly know how to act. He was pawing berries into his mouth for breakfast, and he turned his head and slowly sized us up. He dropped on all fours and then got up again, and Davy Crockett, not listening to me telling him where to shoot, lets drive and busted an ear. Ephraim preferred all fours again and started coming straight at us, and Moses and all his bullrushers couldn’t have stopped him. He was due to arrive near Davy Crockett in about four and a half seconds, and that person dropped his gun and hot-footed it for a whopping big tree. I yelled at him and told him to take a little one, but he was too blamed busy hunting bear to listen to a no-account hired man like me, so he kept on a-going for the big tree.

“I figured, and figured blamed quick, that the bear would tag him just about the time he tagged the tree, and so, hoping to create a diversion, I whanged away at the bear’s tail, him running plumb away from me. I was real successful, for I created it all right. When he felt that carload of lead slide up under his skin he braced hisself, slid and wheeled, looking for the son-of-a-gun what done it, and he saw me pouring powder hell-bent down my gun. He must ’a’ knowed that I was the real business end of the partnership, and that he’d have trouble a-plenty if he let me finish my job, for he came at me like a bullet.

“‘Climb a little tree! Climb a little tree!’ yelled Davy Crockett from his perch in his two-foot-through oak.

“I wasn’t in no joyous frame of mind when a nine-foot grizzly was due in the next mail, but I just had to laugh at his advice when I sized up his layout. As I jumped to one side the bear slid past, trying awful hard to stop, and he was doing real well, too. As he turned I slipped on some of that green grass, and thought as how the Old Man would have to get another puncher.

“‘I ain’t never going to peter out with a tenderfoot looking on if I can help it!’ I said to myself, and I jerked loose my six-shooter, shooting offhand and some hasty. It was just a last hope, the kick of a dying man’s foot, but it fetched him, blamed if it didn’t! He went down in a heap and clawed about for a spell, but I put five more in him, and then sat down. Did you ever notice how long it takes a grizzly to die? I loaded my gun in a hurry, the sweat pouring down my face, for that was one of the times it ain’t no disgrace to be some scared, which I was.

“‘Is he dead?’ called Davy Crockett from his tree, hopeful-like and some anxious.

“‘He is,’ I said, ‘or, leastawise, he was.’

“Davy was a sight. He was all skinned up from his clinch with the tree, though how he used his face getting up is more than I can tell. And he was some white and unsteady. He had all the hunting he wanted, and he managed to say that he was glad he hadn’t come out alone, and that he reckoned I was right about his guns after all. So we took a last look at the bear and lit out for the ranch, where I told the boys to go out and drag our game home.”

Jim knocked the ashes from his pipe and began to fill it anew, acting as though the story was finished, but Bud knew him well, and he spoke up:

“Well, what then?” he asked.

“Oh, the hunter left for New York the very next day, and I skinned the bear and sent the pelt after him as a present. When I wrote out my quarterly report, the foreman not being back yet, I told the Old Man that if he had any more friends what wanted to go hunting to send them up to Frenchy McAllister on the Tin Cup. I was some sore at Frenchy for the way he had cleaned me out at poker.”

He threw the skin to the floor and began to undress.

“Come on, now, lights out,” he said. “I’m tired.”