The Diamond Dot, while it was about the idealest ranch in the West from most standpoints, was run a little loose. Jabez didn’t have any luxurious tastes, and he wasn’t miserly; so he didn’t strain things down to the last penny—not by a whole lot. All he asked was to have his own way and be comfortable; and so he allus kept more punchers ’n he had actual need of, and unless they got jubilant over imposin’ on him, he just shut his eyes and grinned about it.

Takin’ his location and outfit into account, and he just simply couldn’t help but make money; so we all had a fairly easy time of it and grew tender feelin’s, the same as spoiled children; which is why we sometimes quit, for we never had any other excuse for it.

Barbie was a notice-takin’ child, if ever the’ was one; and she stood out for company as a general and standin’ order. Company didn’t affect ol’ Cast Steel one way or the other; they were just the same to him as a couple o’ hundred head o’ ponies, more or less; and so the news got out that we allus had a lot of extra beds made up and any one was welcome to stretch out in ’em who wanted to. The result o’ this was, ’at we drew visitors as easy as molasses draws flies. I lived at the home house on account o’ bein’ Barbie’s pal, and so I got into the habit o’ bein’ a sort of permanent reception committee. Some o’ these visitors was a plague to me; but Jabez didn’t like to run any risk of havin’ ’em ruined beyond repair, so it was generally understood that I had to use ex-treme caution when I started in to file the clutch off their welcome.

This spring ’at I have in mind, we had as visitor one o’ the easternest dudes I was ever tangled up with. He came out for his health, which is the excuse most of ’em gives; but this one took more ways of avoidin’ health ’n airy other of ’em I ever saw. He smoked cigars all day long, big black ones, strong enough to run a sawmill, he ate fattenin’ food from mornin’ till night, and when he drove out in the buckboard to take his exercise, he suffered from what he called fatigue. He used to sit up as wide awake as an owl till along about ten every night; and half the time he didn’t crawl out until near seven in the mornin’. He certainly was a pest!

What he complained of most, was his nerves; and he’d sit for hours, talkin’ about ’em to anything ’at had ears. He said the worst of it was, he couldn’t sleep nights. I had, of course, heard o’ nerves before ever I saw him; but I had never heard of ’em turnin’ to and devilin’ a man, the way his did; so at first I was honestly interested, and asked him all I could think up about ’em; but after a day or so, I’d ’a’ been perfectly willin’ to put up the coin out o’ my own pocket to have him go to a dentist and have every last one of his nerves pulled.

I don’t begrudge sympathy to any afflicted individual; but the more I sympathized with this feller, the more affectionate toward me he got; and he used to trot about after me, warbilin’ out dirges about his nerves until I was tempted to tie a stone around his neck and lose him down the cistern.

He ran to language, too, this one did. His conversation was so full of it that a feller could scarcely understand what he was tryin’ to say. He was ferociously interested in the ancient Greeks; and if a man succeeded in wedgin’ him away from his nerves, he began immediate to discourse about these ancient Greeks. Now, I didn’t have a single thing again’ any o’ these ancient Greeks before this Dude struck us, none of ’em ever havin’ crossed my trail before; but they sure did have a rotten outfit o’ names, and they were the most infernal liars ’at ever existed. Three-headed dogs, and women with snakes for hair, were as common in their tales as thieves among the Sioux. Barbie didn’t have any use for this Eastener either; so I decided to fit him out with a deep-rooted desire for home influences.

I took ol’ Tank Williams into my confidence, he bein’ the most gruesome lookin’ creature we had in our parts. He was a big man of curious construction and he had one eye which ran wild. Tank never knew what this free eye was up to; and while he would be examinin’ the ground, the free eye would be gazin’ up at a tree as intent as though he had set it to watch for a crow. Durin’ his younger days, Tank had formed the habit of indulgin’ in gang fights as much as possible, and all of his features had been stampeded out o’ their natural orbits; but this free eye beat anything I ever see.

They had him down on his back one time, and he was gnawin’ away contentedly at some feller’s thumb, when the feller reached up his trigger finger and scooped out Tank’s eye. The shape and color weren’t hurt a bit; but some o’ the workin’ parts got disconnected, so that he couldn’t see with it; but it appeared to be full as good an eye as the one he looked with.

All the sleep Tank ever wanted was six hours out o’ the twenty-four, and he didn’t care how he got ’em—ten minutes at a time, or all in one lump. He could sleep sittin’ up straight, or ridin’, or stretched out in bed, or most any way. I think he could sleep while walkin,’ though I was never able to surprise him at it. He agreed to back me up, and Spider Kelley also said he was willin’ to do everything in his power to furnish our guest some pleasant recollections after he’d gone back to a groove which fitted him better.

As soon as I began to plan my trip, I started to rehearse curious secrets about Tank to the Eastener, whose name was Horace Walpole Bradford. I told Horace that Tank had a case o’ nerves which made his ’n seem like a bundle of old shoe-laces; and that if something wasn’t done for him soon, I feared he was goin’ to develop insanity. I said that even now, it wasn’t safe to contrary him none, and that I’d be a heap easier in my own mind if Tank was coralled up in a cell somewhere, with irons on.

I didn’t tell Tank what sort of a disposition I was supplyin’ him with for fear he’d overdo it. Tank didn’t know a nerve from an ingrowin’ hair; but when he and Horace paired off to tell each other their symptoms, I’ll have to own up that his tales of anguish an’ sufferin’ made Horace’s troubles sound like dance music.

I told Horace that a trip through the mountains would soothe and invigorate him, until he’d be able to sleep, hangin’ by his toes like a bat; but the trouble was to find something which interested him enough to lure him on the trip. There was a patent medicine almanac at the place, and I studied up its learnin’ until I had it at my tongue’s end, and I also used a lot o’ Friar Tuck’s health theories; so that I got Horace interested enough to talk my eardrums callous; but not enough to take the trip.

I didn’t know much about nerves; but I was as familiar with sleep as though I had graduated from eleven medical colleges, and I knew if he would just follow my directions, it would give him such an appetite for slumber that he’d drop into it without rememberin’ to close his eyelids. Ol’ Jabez happened to mention an Injun buryin’ ground with the members reposin’ on top o’ pole scaffolds, and this proved to be the bait. Horace wanted to see this, and it was a four days’ drive by buckboard; so I heaved a sigh o’ relief and prepared to do my duty.

When all was ready, we packed our stuff in the good buckboard, putting in an extra saddle for the accident we felt sure was goin’ to happen. Spider started as driver, while I rode behind, leadin’ a horse with Tank’s saddle on, though Horace thought it was Spider’s. We had told him that it made our backs ache to ride in a buckboard all day, so we would change off once in a while. Horace wanted to do the drivin’ himself; but we pointed out that he wasn’t used to our kind o’ roads, and consequently favored the little hills too much. He was inhumanly innocent, and it was almost like feedin’ a baby chalk and water.

We trotted along gentle, until the rear spring came loose goin’ down a little dip to a dry crick bed, about ten miles out. We talked it over and decided ’at the best plan would be for Spider to drive back and get the old buckboard; so after unloadin’ our stuff, I took the tap out o’ my pocket, fixed the spring, tied a rope about it to deceive Horace, and Spider drove back for the old buckboard which had been discarded years before, but which we had fixed up for this trip and painted until it looked almost safe to use.

Before long we saw the buckboard comin’ back; but much to our surprise, Tank Williams was drivin’ it, an’ givin’ what he thought was the imitation of a nervous man. He would stand up an’ yell, crack his mule-skinner, and send the ponies along on a dead run. He came up to us, and said that he had had an attack o’ nerves, hadn’t slept a wink the night before; and when Spider Kelley had refused to let him go in his place, he had torn him from the seat an’ had trampled him.

“I trampled him,” sez Tank solemnly, his free eye lookin’ straight into the sun. “I hope I didn’t destroy him; but in my frenzy I trampled him.”

Horace looked worried. “Tank,” sez I soothin’ly, “we don’t really need any one else along. You just help us to load, an’ then go back, like a good feller.”

Tank stood up on the seat, an’ held the whip ready. “My life depends on me takin’ this trip!” he yelled. “My life depends on it; it depends on it, I tell you. My life depends on me takin’ this trip!”

He went on repeatin’ about his life dependin’ on his takin’ that trip, until I made a sign to Horace, and said ’at we’d better let him go along. Horace wasn’t ambitious to be trampled; so he concluded to concur, an’ climbed into the seat beside Tank. Any one else would ’a’ noticed that it was Tank’s saddle on the hoss I was leadin’; but Horace never noticed anything which wasn’t directly connected with his own body. He didn’t even have any idee that the sun had set habits in the matter o’ risin’ an’ settin’—which was another fact I had took into account.

We were drivin’ four broncs to the buckboard, an’ they was new to the game and in high spirits. Tank was also in high spirits, an’ we went at a clip which was inspirin’, even to sound nerves. We did our level best to give Horace somethin’ real to worry about, an’ from the very start his nerves was so busy handin’ in idees an’ sensations that his mind was took up with these instead of with the nerves themselves as was usual.

Well, we sure had a delightful ride that afternoon: every time ’at Horace would beseech Tank to be more careful in swingin’ around down-hill curves, Tank would seize him by the arm with his full squeezin’ grip, an’ moan: “It’s my nerves, my pore nerves. This is one o’ the times when I’m restive, I got to have action; my very life depends on it! Whoop, hit ’em up—Whee!” an’ he’d crack his mule-skinner about the ears o’ the ponies, an’ we’d have another runaway for a spell.

Horace hadn’t the mite of an idee in which direction he was travelin’; all he did was to hang on and hope. The confounded buckboard was tougher ’n we had figured on, and it didn’t bust until near dark. As they went up the slope, I could see the left hind wheel weavin’ purty rapid, an’ as they tore down the grade to Cottonwood Crick, things began to creak an’ rattle most threatenin’. We had decided to camp on the crick, an’ Tank swung up his team with a flourish. The hind wheel couldn’t stand the strain, an’ when it crumbled, Horace, an’ the rest o’ the baggage, whip-crackered off like a pinwheel. Of course when one wheel went, the others dished in company, an’ the whole thing was a wreck.

The ponies were comfortable weary, an’ after I had roped one an’ the rest had fallen over him, we soothed ’em down without much trouble, an’ started to make camp. Horace was all in, an’ was minded to sit on his shoulder blades an’ rest; but this wasn’t part o’ the plan, an’ we made him hustle like a new camp-boy. As soon as supper was over, he lit a cigar, an’ prepared to take a rest. We had decided that those big, black cigars wasn’t best for his nerves, so we had smuggled out the box, an’ had worked a little sulphur into all but the top row. He lit his cigar and gave us one apiece, but he was so sleepy he couldn’t keep his on fire; and it was comical to watch him.

Every time he’d nod off, Tank would utter an exclamation, an’ walk up an’ down, rubbin’ his hands an’ cussin’ about his nerves. Horace was dead tired from bein’ jounced about on the buckboard all day; but he was worried about Tank, an’ this would wake him effectual.

About ten o’clock I sez: “Tank, what happened that night when you got nervous up in the Spider Water country?”

“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me,” sez Tank, gittin’ up an’ walkin’ off into the darkness.

“I wish to glory he hadn’t come along,” I sez to Horace. “I fear we’re goin’ to have trouble; but chances are that a good night’s rest’ll quiet him, all right.”

Purty soon Tank came back, lit his pipe, an’ sat facin’ Horace with his lookin’ eye, an’ everything else in the landscape with his free one. “You know how it is with nerves,” he sez to Horace. “You perhaps, of all them I have ever met up with, know how strained and twisted nerves fill a man’s heart with murder, set his teeth on edge and put the taste of blood in his throat; so I’m goin’ to tell the whole o’ that horrid experience, which I have never yet confided to a livin’ soul before. Have you got a match?”

Tank’s pipe allus went out at the most interestin’ times; and he couldn’t no wise talk without smokin’. We all knew this; so whenever Tank got headed away on a tale, we heaved questions at him, just to see how many matches we could make him burn. He’d light a match and hold it to his pipe; but he allus lit off an idee with the match, and when he’d speak out the idee, he’d blow out the match. Or else he’d be so took up by his own talkin’, he’d hold the match until it burnt his fingers; then, without shuttin’ off his discourse, he’d moisten the fingers on his other hand, take the burnt end of the match careful, and hold it until it was plumb burnt up, without ever puttin’ it to his pipe. I didn’t want to waste matches on this trip so I told Horace to hand Tank his cigar. Horace had already wasted two cigars, besides the ones he had given us; and I wanted him to get to the sulphur ones as soon as convenient.

Tank’s mind was preoccupied with the tale we had made up; so he took Horace’s fresh cigar, lit his pipe by it, threw the cigar into the fire, and said moodily: “He was unobligin’. Yes, that cross-grained old miner was unobligin’. Of course, I wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t been nervous; but I say now, as I’ve allus thought, that he brought it on himself by bein’ unobligin’.”

Tank’s gloomy tones had wakened Horace up complete; and as he started to light another cigar, I got ready for bed. “You two have already got nerves,” I sez to ’em; “but I don’t want to catch ’em, so I’ll sleep alone, and you can bunk together.” I unrolled my tarp close to the fire and crawled into it, intendin’ to take my rest while I listened to Tank unfold his story.

It was a clean, fresh night, just right for sleepin’; and it almost seemed a shame to put that innocent little Eastener through his treatment; but it was for his own good so I stretched out with a sigh o’ content, and looked at the other two by the fire.

Horace was short and fat around the middle with stringy arms and legs. He wore some stuff he called side-burns on his face. They started up by his ears, curved along his jaws and were fastened to the ends of his stubby mustache. He kept ’em cropped short and, truth to tell, they were an evil-lookin’ disfigurement, though he didn’t seem to feel a mite o’ shame at wearin’ ’em. His face was full o’ trouble, and yet he was so sleepy he had to hitch his eyebrows clear up to his hair to keep his eyes open. Tank’s face never did have what could rightly be called expressions. His features used to fall into different kinds o’ convulsions; but they were so mussed up it was impossible to read ’em. I looked at these two a minute, and then I had to pull my head under the tarp to keep from laughin’.