Friar Tuck / Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A.

Many there are who respond to the commonplace, monotonous call of Duty, and year after year uncomplainingly spend their lives on the treadmill of Routine; but who still feel in their hearts the call of the open road, the music of the stars, the wine of the western wind, and the thrilling abandon of a mad gallop out beyond speed limits and grass signs to where life has ceased to be a series of cogs and—a man is still a man.

To the members of this fraternity, whose emblem, hidden behind deep and steadfast eyes, is often missed by man, but always recognized by dogs and horses, I dedicate this book, in the hope that for an hour or two it may lift the pressure a little.

R. A. W.

JUST BETWEEN YOU AND ME

Reviews are not infrequently colored by a temporary elevation of the critic’s mind (or a temporary depression of the critic’s liver), advertisements are not invariably free from bias; so, perhaps, a few words of friendly warning will not be considered impertinent.

Whosoever is squeamishly sensitive as to the formal technique of literary construction will save himself positive irritation by avoiding this book. It is a told, rather than a written story; and this is a compromise which defies Art and frankly turns to the more elastic methods of Nature.

It is supposed to be told by an outdoor man in those delightful moments of relaxation when the restraint of self-consciousness is dropped, and the spirit flows forth with a freedom difficult to find, outside the egoism of childhood. This general suggestion is easily tossed out; but the reader must supply the details—the night camps with the pipes sending up incense about the tiny fires, the winter evenings when the still cold lurks at the threshold or the blizzard howls around the log corners; or those still more elusive moments when the riding man shifts his weight to a single thigh, and tells the inner story which has been rising from his open heart to his closed lips for many a long mile.

Nor will these details suffice to complete the atmosphere in which, bit by bit, the story is told. The greatest charm in the told story comes direct from the teller; and, toil as we will over printed pages, they obstinately refuse to reproduce the twinkle of bright, deep-set eyes, the whimsical twist which gives character to a commonplace word, the subtile modulations of a mellow voice, the discriminating accent which makes a sentence fire when spoken, and only ashes when written; or, hardest of all, those eloquent pauses and illuminating gestures which convey a climax neither tongue nor pen dare attempt.

Happy Hawkins is complex, but the basic foundation of his character is simplicity. His audience is usually a mixed one, men of the range and an Easterner or two, fortunate enough to find the way into his confidence. Occasionally he amuses himself by talking to the one group over the heads of the other; but even then, his own simplicity is but thinly veiled. The phases of life which he holds lightly are exploited with riotous recklessness; but whoever would visit his private shrines must tread with reverent step.

His exaggerations are not to deceive, but to magnify—an adjunct to expression invariably found among primitive people. A brass monkey is really not sensitive to variations of temperature; and yet, even among the civilized, a peculiarly vivid impression is conveyed by stating that a particular cold snap has had a disintegrating effect upon the integrity of a brass monkey. There is a philosophy of exaggeration which is no kin to falsehood.

Happy has an eager, hungry, active mind, a mind worthy of careful cultivation; but forced by circumstances to gather its nourishment along lines similar to those adopted by the meek and lowly sponge. A sponge is earnest, patient, and industrious; but, fixed to a submerged stone as it is, it is hampered by limitations which no amount of personal ambition is quite able to overcome. As Happy himself was fond of saying: “The thing ’at sets most strangers again each other, is the fact that each insists on judgin’ everything from his own standpoint. A cow-puncher gets the idee that because an Eastener can’t sit comfortable on a bronco when it’s sunfishin’ or twistin’ ends, he jes nachely ain’t fit to clutter up the surface o’ the earth; while the Eastener is inclined to estimate the puncher an’ his pony as bein’ on the same intellectual level. If they’d just open up an’ examine each other impartial, they’d mighty soon see ’at the difference in ’em came from what they did, instead o’ the choice o’ their lines o’ business dependin’ on their natural make-up. I once had a no-account pinto which refused to squat back on the rope, and I rejoiced exceeding when I got seventy-five bucks for him; but the feller I took advantage of clipped his mane, docked his tail, introduced him into swell-society, and got three hundred for him as a polo pony; which all goes to show—” (The finish of this is an expansive wave of the hand, a tilt of the head to the right, and an indescribably droll expression.)

The above is a fair sample of the leisurely way in which Happy Hawkins tells a story. This is not the proper way to tell a story. A story should travel an air-line and not stop at the smaller stations, while Happy prefers to take his bed along on a spare horse and camp out wherever the mood strikes him. The reader who delights in a story which speeds along like a limited, will probably be disappointed in this book; while, on the other hand, the reader who enjoys the intimate association which is lighted with the evening camp fire, runs a risk of finding some relaxation in taking another little trip with Happy Hawkins.

R. A. W.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE—THE MEETING
CHAPTER TWO—THE BETTIN’ BARBER O’ BOGGS
CHAPTER THREE—ABOVE THE DUST
CHAPTER FOUR—TY JONES
CHAPTER FIVE—THE HOLD-UP
CHAPTER SIX—A REMINISCENCE
CHAPTER SEVEN—HORACE WALPOLE BRADFORD
CHAPTER EIGHT—A CASE OF NERVES
CHAPTER NINE—TREATING THE CASE
CHAPTER TEN—INJUNS!
CHAPTER ELEVEN—BENEFITS OF FASTING
CHAPTER TWELVE—A COMPLETE CURE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN—AN UNEXPECTED CACHE
CHAPTER FOURTEEN—HAPPY’S NEW AMBITION
CHAPTER FIFTEEN—TENDER FEELINGS
CHAPTER SIXTEEN—THEMIS IN THE ROCKIES
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN—KIT MURRAY
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN—TESTING THE FRIAR’S NERVE
CHAPTER NINETEEN—OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS
CHAPTER TWENTY—QUARRELING FOR PEACE
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—PEACE TO START A QUARREL
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—A PROGRESSIVE HUNT
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—A LITTLE GUN-PLAY
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR—NIGHT-PROWLERS
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE—THE TRADE-RAT’S CHRISTMAS-GIFT
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX—A CONTESTED LIFE-TITLE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN—A STRANGE ALLIANCE
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT—THE HEART OF HAPPY HAWKINS
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE—THE LITTLE TOWN OF BOSCO
CHAPTER THIRTY—TY JONES GETS A WOMAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE—JUSTICE UNDELAYED
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO—THE FRIAR GOES ALONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE—THE FRIAR GIVEN TWO WEEKS
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR—A CROSS FOR EVERY MAN
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE—THE FRIAR A COMPLICATION
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX—A SIDE-TRIP TO SKELTY’S
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN—PROMOTHEUS IN THE TOILS
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT—OLAF RUNS THE BLOCKADE
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE—SKIRMISHES
CHAPTER FORTY—AN IRRITATING GRIN
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE—THE NIGHT-ATTACK
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO—HAND TO HAND
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE—THE GIFT OF THE DAWN
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR—TY JONES NODS HIS HEAD
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE—THE LITTLE GUST O’ WIND
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX—THE FINAL MOVES

ILLUSTRATIONS

He shot his hand across an’ pulled his gun quick as a flash; but Horace didn’t move, he just sat still, with a friendly smile on his face

Frontispiece

We found the singer on foot with a noose about his neck an’ nine rather tough-lookin’ citizens holdin’ a parley with him

The cow had forgot all about havin’ had her hoofs pared, an’ she took after him like a hungry coyote

106

“I intend to kill you,” said Olaf, as calm as though talkin’ about a sick sheep.

“It would be a foolish waste of time,” replied the Friar, as if he was advisin’ a ten-year-old boy not to fish when the Blue Bull was high and muddy. “It wouldn’t do any good, and I shall not allow it.”

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