Jesse's Narrative

With creditors, women, robbers, and everything dangerous, you want to be chuck full of deportment, smooth as old Honeypott, and a whole lot tactful. Anything distractful or screeching disturbs one's peace of mind, and sends one's aplomb to blazes, just when a bear trap may happen at any moment. I traveled for all I was worth to put that widow behind me, and compose my mind.

Which her wolf howls was plumb deplorable. It wasn't her limb. Indeed, she wanted excuses for a new one ever since she seen that table limb in my barn. It was her husband, Whiskers, departing, desperate to get away from her. And I don't blame him. She was an irreverent detail anyhow, diminishing gradual into the night, for if I let them robbers once get out of hearing, they couldn't be tracked till morning. The worst of it was I'd no smell dog; my Mick being sick with a cold and hot fermentations, had his nose out of action. No, the only thing was to get clear of the widow's concert, and keep in hearing while the outlaws traveled. I was laying a trail of torn paper, mostly unpaid bills, so that the boys could find which way I'd gone.

Maybe I'd gone a mile before remorse gnawed Whiskers because he'd abandoned the widow. He paused, and as I came surging along, he lammed me over the head with a gun.

Yes, I was captured. They got my gun, too, and marched me along between them. Mr. Bull, he yapped like a coyote, full of glory's if he'd captured me himself. What with being clubbed, and not feeling good just then, I didn't seem to be much interested, although I put up a struggle wherever the ground was muddy, leaving plenty tracks down to the ferry, so that the boys would know which way I'd been dragged.

Old man Brown was away, but as I'd left the scow on the near bank, the robbers were able to cross, and put the Fraser between me and rescue. That ought to have cheered them up, since it gave them a start of several hours toward safety, but instead of skinning out of British Columbia, as I advised them with powerful strong talk, they'd got to stop for breakfast on old Brown's beans and sow-belly, cussing most plenteous because he wasn't there to cook hot biscuits.

After breakfast they wasted an hour dressing his paw for old Whiskers, and wondering whether they'd waste one of my cartridges on me, or keep them all for my friends. On that I divulged a lot of etiquette out of my book. I told these misbegotten offspring they'd been brung up all wrong, or they'd have enough deportment to make tracks. "Now," says I, "in the land of the free and the home of the brave you been appreciated, whereas if you linger here till sunup you'll be shot."

That made poor Whiskers still more suspicious, wondering what sort of bear traps guileful Smith was projecting. "Wants to get us up on the bench," says he, "that means ware traps. We'll stay right here, boys, for daylight, when we'll be able to see ourselves, how to save them cattle."

"We'd better kill the prisoner," Bull argues, and this reminds me of his ancient friendship.

"Shut your fool head," says Whiskers. "His friends would rather us go free than see him killed before their eyes. You've no more brains than a poached owl."

"You're dead right, Whiskers!" says I. "Hair on you!"

But he being fretful with his wound, orders his men to disable Brown's fiddle, and lash me up with catgut. Moreover, when I was trussed, this Bull seen fit to kick me on the off chance, a part which ain't referred to in polite society, especially with a boot.

"Brave man!" says I, and the rest of them robbers was so shamed they got me a gag.

"Sorry," says I, "pity I won't be able to guide you to Brown's cigars. He keeps a bottle, too."

"Where are they?" says Bull.

"Gag Brooke," said I, for Bull went by that name, "and I'll divulge the drinks."

"Gag Brooke," says Whiskers, cheering up a little, "pity he weren't born gagged."

So they gagged Mr. Brooke, and mounted him on sentry while they had Brown's bottle of whisky and cigars. I got some, too.

Of course these or'nary, no-account, range wolves reckoned my friends would wait for day before they attempted tracking. Whereas Dale got the lantern, found my paper trail, and guessed at the ferry. Before we entered the cabin, I'd seen the glint of that lantern behind the rim of the bench, and I knew our boys trusted me to keep the robbers somehow down at the ferry-house. Ginger and the greaser lay down for an hour's sleep, Mr. Brooke, gagged and not at all pleased, kep' guard at the door, Whiskers, since the liquor made his wound worse, lurched groaning around the shack. At the first glint of dawn, he ordered Bull to take out the gag and lie down, then went to the door himself.

It's a pity that Dale, our leader, a sure fine shot, has a slight cast in his near eye, which throws his lead a little to the right. That's why, when Whiskers went to the door, Dale's bullet only whipped off his left ear. Instead of being grateful, Whiskers skipped around holding the side of his face, with remarks which for a poor man was extravagant. The shot made Bull bolt courageous behind the stove, to look for a bandage, he said, while Ginger and the greaser sat up on their tails looking sort of depressed. Not one of the four was happy on finding that they'd bottled themselves in the cabin instead of taking my advice and clearing for the States.

"Prisoner," says, Whiskers, dolesome, holding his poor ear, "you can talk to your friends acrost the river?"

"Why, certainly, Captain."

"What way?"

"Signaling."

"Then tell your friends that if they don't throw all their guns into the river, you die at sunrise. Have you got religion?"

"I didn't mention," says I, sort of thoughtful, "that any of my friends can read the signals."

"Then," says he, in that suicide manner he had, "they won't get your last sad words. Get them weapons thrown in the river, or grab religion right away, for you'll need it."

"Cut the catgut, Colonel."

So Ginger cut me free.

"Show a white flag, General," said I.

So Ginger waved a paper on a stick, and Dale replied with a white scarf from his neck.

When I walked out, the boys acrost the river gave three cheers, but I was halted from behind before I'd got far sideways. "Now," says Whiskers, "signal, and pray that you won't be tempted to send erroneous messages."

"Remember," Bull shouts, "I can read Morse. No fooling."

"All right, Mr. Brooke," I called back, "then I'll use semaphore."

I heard Whiskers in tears directing his two youngsters to put Mr. Brooke's head in the meal sack, and sit hard on top. So I began to signal, explaining each word to Whiskers.

Swim. "That," says I, "means 'Dale.'"

Pool. "That's 'fool,'" says I, "because he don't give the answer."

Below. "That's 'Hello.'"

Rapids. "That's 'Hello' again."

"You lie," says Whiskers, miserable, through his teeth. "You made six letters."

"Sorry," says I, "it got spelt wrong first time."

Float. "That's 'skunk,'" says I, "because he's a polecat not to answer me."

Guns.

"What's that?" asked Whiskers, heaps suspicious because I couldn't think of another word of four letters. "Hell!" says I.

"Quite right," sighed Whiskers, "to think of your future home."

Dale signaled, Coming.

"Says he's ready for the Epistle and Gospel now. Spit it out, Whiskers."

"Tell him to throw his guns in the river, or I'll shoot prisoner. And what's more, young man, you don't want to call me Whiskers."

I wagged all that, word for word, as far as "Whiskers," and when the boys were through laughing, Dale asked if the robbers were serious.

I explained to the general that Dale wouldn't wet good guns to please a lot of—

"Lot of what?"

"Terms of endearment," says I, "which I blushes for Dale's morals."

Dale signaled, Keep your tail up.

"Well, General," says I, "without being able to read him exact, I guess Dale ain't drawing his men off along the bank with your outfit to shoot them like rabbits the moment they quit cover."

"Tell Dale," said Whiskers in his tired voice, "he needn't trouble to take his men along the bank to whar they can swim the river. Now if you had religion—"

I could have choked with grief.

"Tell Dale," says Whiskers, and his bereaved voice kind of jarred me now, "we're just goin' to keep a gun at your ear-hole while we march up the trail. If Dale's men fire, your wife will be a widow, Mr. Smith."

At that I wagged my arms and signaled. No call to get wet. Hold-ups marching to Georgia. Kill man with gun. If you miss, ware Widow Smith. You see if Dale squinted and missed, my widow was apt to reproach. So I added, Allow windage for squint.

Dale answered, You bet your life I will.

Then I swung round facing the cabin, and saw the barrel of my own revolver just peering round the door. By its height from the ground I judged that poor young Ginger was the artist. I wished it had been Bull, for I'd taken a fancy to Ginger.

"Well, gents," says I, "your umbrellas is in the hat rack. All aboard for Robbers' Roost, and don't forget the lunch."

Talking encourages me, and it seemed even betting whether me or Ginger was booked right through to glory. Yes, I talked to gain time for Ginger, and for me a little, even persuading the robbers to take no risks. I forgot how them sort of cattle drives by contraries. I only set their minds on coming, and heard their boss give orders.

He wanted me into the cabin, but I'd taken a dislike to catgut, so Ginger got orders to shoot me. At that I flared up. "Shoot," says I, "you skulking cowards, scared to show your noses at the door. Hold your off ear, Whiskers. Charge, you curs!"

The chief came first, straight at me, and seemed to climb over my foot on to his nose. Mr. Bull Brooke got hurt on the nose too, and I'd just time to hand the greaser a left hander behind the ear, before I went down on top of Whiskers, and the four of us rolled in a heap. I learned when I was a sailor how to argue.

Then I struggled, dragging my pile of robbers off sideways, so that to keep me covered with the gun, poor Ginger showed his red head in the doorway. It was his life or mine, yet when the shot rang out from across the river, and I saw the lad come crashing to the ground, I felt sort of sick. Of course that shot slacked the grip of the three robbers, so I wrenched loose, struck hard, and jumped high, gaining the north wall of the cabin. When I turned round, our boys across the river were pouring hot lead after the robbers as they dived through the door of the shack. Ginger sprawled dead on the door-step, and my gun, six paces off, lay in the dust. The robbers were disarmed, and I was free.

"Boys," I called out to them, "you done like men. You put up a good fight and it ain't no shame to surrender."

Mr. Bull Brooke's voice answered.

"Jesse, old friend!"

I heard a crash inside and guessed that Mr. Brooke had been discouraged.

"Whiskers," I called, "don't make a mess of that cabin with Mr. Brooke."

"All right, young fellow," said Whiskers, "we've only put him back in the flour sack."

He spoke quite cheerful.

"Say, Whiskers," I called, "I want to save your lives, you and the greaser. Come and throw up your hands before you're hurt."

There was no answer. Rocky Mountain outlaws may be mean and bad, but they fight like Americans, and they know how to die. I'd only one way left to force their surrender, and save their lives, so I hustled brushwood, cord-wood, coal-oil from the shed, piled up the fuel, and got a sulphur match from the bunch in my hind pocket.

"Boys," I called, "Old Brown sort of values this place. It's all the home he's got, and it ain't insured."

No answer.

The little flame lep' up and caught the brushwood, the crackling lifted to a roar, and the robbers must surely know that their time was come, for if they showed at the door they would be shot. I grabbed my gun from the ground and ran to the doorway to stop our boys from firing. Then I shouted above the noise of the flames, "Come out and throw up your hands!"

They came, poor fellows, and I made them prisoners, marching them down to the ferry.