Books: Happy Hawkins
R >>
Robert Alexander Wason >> Happy Hawkins
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22 |
23
"What'll the night riders do?" I asked.
"Oh, they'll raise Cain as usual, but that's all the good it'll do
'em."
"That ain't all they'll do," sez I. "Chances are they'll take it out
on the cattle, an' they may--they may even go so far as to get the
cattle to cut up until the day shift has to turn out an' help quiet
'em."
"Is that the reason?" he asked, his face lightin' up.
"I don't know for sure, but that's my first guess," sez I.
He looked down at his feet an' I looked him over. He was a nice
lookin', well built boy, but he was up against it for about the
first time, an' I saw his finish. "I would take the job o' foreman,"
I sez.
"I hire you--ten a month advance over regular wages, an' you to
begin to-morrow."
"No," sez I, "me to begin to-night--with supper."
"All right," sez he, laughin', "help yourself."
I walked over to the cook wagon, as I hit the shadow I loosened my
guns, an' the very minute they slipped in their holsters my lone-
sickness rolled off like a cloud an' the hurtin' melted out o' my
inwards. They was somethin' rolled up in a Navajo under the cook
wagon an' I sized it up. It appeared to be seven feet long, but I
kicked it in the ribs. Things began to happen at once. A huge
creature of a man slid out on the opposite side of the cook wagon,
an' when he came around the tail of it he was holdin' a bear gun so
it would explode without much ceremony. He was usin' some language
an' his speed was a thing to covet; but I just stood with my back to
the fire, waitin' until I could get a chance to introduce myself. He
was in the light, an' he was enough to make a man reform. Nigger,
Greaser, Injun--oh, he was the hardest lookin' specimen I had ever
seen, an' the think that occurred to me was that some time a woman
had rocked him to sleep an'--kissed him. That's the queer thing
about me. My face don't change, but I never got into a mess in my
life without some outlandish, foreign idea poppin' into my head an'
tryin' to hog my attention.
My attention wasn't much required just at that moment anyhow. He
held the bear gun loose in his hand an' swore on like the roar of a
mountain torrent. Once I glanced over my shoulder an' saw a pained
look on the fair-hair's face, while the ante-up bunch was grinning
wickedly an' waitin' for my finish. Me lookin' younger an' easier at
that time than I really was, proved a big thing in my favor. Well,
as soon as the mongrel cook had cussed himself clean an' dry, he
yells at me, "Who in the hell are you an' what in the hell do you
want?"
"I'm the new foreman," sez I in a school-girl voice, "an' I want my
supper."
He wasn't prepared for it an' dropped his gun to his side while he
began to narrate false an' profane eulogies about my breedin' an'
past history. He took a few steps toward me so as I wouldn't lose
none of his remarks, an' all of a sudden I swung half around an'
kicked him in the jaw with my heel, which was a trick I had learned
from a French sailor. It took me forty-five minutes to come to,
after I received my first an' only lesson, an' I wasted a full year
huntin' for that sailor. Any time durin' the first six months I'd
have ventilated him completely, but after that I wanted to thank
him, 'cause I had learned an' tried the trick by that time, an' it
was worth all it cost.
But this cook was no wax figger, an' he only lay quiet a moment
before he began to roll around an' groan. I picked up a neck yoke
what was handy, an' I went for him. I hit him in the butt o' the ear
an' on the back o' the neck an' in the center o' the forehead--I
tried him out in all the most stylish places, until finally he dozed
off.
"Bring me a lantern--you man with the whiskers," I called out.
He riz to his feet like a machine. "It ain't filled," he said.
"I don't know much about fillin' LANTERNS," I remarked to him
kindly, "but I have had some experience in fillin' other things.
Bring me the lantern, filled an' lighted--and don't keep me
waitin'."
I then noticed two fellers a hoss back. "Do you belong to this
outfit?" sez I.
"Yes, we're the night riders," answered one o' 'em stickin' up his
hands, which plan seemed good to the other one also.
"What are you doin' here this time o' the evenin'?" I asked 'em.
"We heard the racket an' we--we thought something was wrong, an' we-
-we came in to see--"
"That's all right," sez I, "I'm the new foreman. You don't need to
put your hands up every time we meet, but I want you to understand
right now that I don't want those cows pestered any more. This
outfit is going to run smoother from this on, an' as soon as the
cook feels better he is going to cook my supper. I'll see that there
is plenty o' coffee for your midnight lunch, an' I want you to enjoy
yourselves--but I don't stand for no nonsense."
I made a motion with my eye an' they rode back to the herd, an' by
that time the lantern had arrived, an' I poked around in the cook's
belongings an' confiscated two shootin' irons an' a wicked Mexican
knife. Then I threw a bucket o' water in his face an' he came out of
it.
"How do you feel?" I asked him.
"Oh, hell," he moaned, an' he meant every word of it, an' more.
"Now see here, cook," sez I, in a mild voice, "I hate trouble, an' I
don't intend to be pestered with it. Do you know how to cook?"
"Yes," he muttered.
"Speak out free an' easy," I sez; "no blood at all is better than
bad blood, an' if you don't feel able to forgive me an' go about
your work in a friendly way, why I'll feel compelled to remove you
from our midst. You're not injured none, only bruised a bit, and I'm
famished for my supper. I'm always quick tempered when I'm hungry
an' I'm gettin' hungrier every minute. Are you ready to begin?"
He slowly got up to his feet an' looked at me. "Come over to the
fire an' have a good look," I said, as though we were old friends.
He followed me over to the fire an' he sure gave me a lookover.
"You're bigger'n I thought you was, an' you've been purty well
seasoned. I ain't never yet been licked without a gun an' I didn't
think it could be did. Will you fight me again--without weapons?"
"I'll never fight you again but once," sez I, an' my lips were
smiling, but all of a sudden a hatred of his cruel, evil eyes came
over me, an' my lips curled back over my teeth. "If you had known I
was your foreman an' had mixed with me I'd 'a' killed you a few
moments ago. The very next time you cross me I'll kill you. I sleep
light--when I do sleep. Are you goin' to cook my supper?"
"Yes, you blasted rattler," sez he, with a grin, "you're the killin'
kind an' you're the killin' age, but I know when the jig's up. I
know your name all right, but hanged if I can see through your game.
I ain't goin' to try, either. As long as you choose to play at bein'
foreman, I'll play at bein' cook, an' when you start on again, I'm
willin' to join ya. I'll get your supper in a jiffey, Kid."
I sauntered over to the fair-hair, tryin' to act as if this was an
every day occurrence. He had never changed his position all through
it, although his hands were tremblin'.
I sat down beside him an' he chuckled softly--I liked that chuckle.
It was boyish an' friendly, but most of all it showed a good
foundation. He was new to the game, but he was the kind that
learned.
"I suppose I'm purt nigh as old as you," he blurted out.
"In some things, mebbe--not in the cattle business," sez I.
"No," he grinned, "nor in the man-handlin' business, but I want to
tell you right now that I have enjoyed this evenin's performance, no
matter what happens from it. I ain't carryin' much cash with me," he
added after a moment's thought.
"I ain't carryin' any," sez I.
He looked into my face again an' gave his chuckle. A feller couldn't
help but echo when that fair-hair chuckled. "I heard the cook say he
knew you an' he called you Kid--I suppose you are the Pan Handle
Kid?" he asked.
"I didn't know the' was a Pan Handle Kid, but they're pretty common
an' they're all a good bit alike. Forced to begin killin' before
they're able to put the right value on life, an' once they begin, no
way to stop. Now I'll tell you confidential that I'm not the Pan
Handle, nor any other kind of a kid, although I once was the makin'
of one. Still, it will make matters easier if this bunch thinks I
am, so we'll just let it go at that. My name is Happy Hawkins; what
might I call you?"
"Happy?"--he opens his eyes like saucers an' then he laughs like a
boy. "Well, I watched you goin' after the cook with the neck yoke
an' I never in the world would have called you Happy."
"Well, you'll see me trail in this bunch o' beef cattle, smooth an'
contented an' with every man jack rollin' fat an' dimpled to the
knuckles. They've had their last fuss. I'll feed 'em an' I'll work
'em from now on, an' you won't know 'em when we hit the market.
Where you headin' for, K.C.?
"Yes. My name is Mister Jamison--James Jamison."
"This is a warm climate," sez I.
"Yes," he sez sort o' surprised, "it is."
"It has an awful meltin' effect on names," I continued.
He chuckled again. "I'm mighty glad you arrived, Happy," sez he.
"What do you suppose'll happen to my name?"
"Well" I sez, "if you get yours before they learn to like you, it'll
probably be James Jamison on the headboard, but if you make good,
it'll be Jim Jimison on Sundays an' jest plain Jim for every day."
"That suits me," sez he. "I'm entered for the whole race, an' I'm
glad to get off as soon as possible."
"Supper's ready," called the cooks, an' when I gave a whoop an'
bolted for it he giggled like a big fat mammy. I had turned up the
side of his nature 'at would be most useful to our business. I took
a sip o' the coffee while he kept his eyes glued on me. "Come over
here, Jim," I called.
Jim came over lookin' a little anxious. "Taste that stuff," sez I.
He tasted it an' his face changed as though he had caught a vision
of the better world, but I kept my face like the face of an angry
bear. "What do you call this stuff?" I asked the cook, an' his face
grew dark as a thunder cloud.
"That's coffee!" he roared.
"When was the pot cleaned?" I asked, with my brows drawn down to the
bridge of my nose.
"Not more'n ten minutes ago," he yelled; and I got up an' holding my
cup in my hand I danced about twenty different dances, while that
cook like to split his sides laughin'. He was a cook, the' was no
gettin' around it, an' Jim, he turned in an' fed his face while
first his cheeks would dimple with the gladness o' the moment, an'
then his eyes would sadden as he thought of all the good eatin' he
had missed by not knowin' the proper kind o' diplomacy to use in
handlin' a cook. An' me!--say, I mowed away until my skin begun to
creak under the strain an' I couldn't roll my eyes more'n two
degrees. Then I got up an' I shook hands with the cook.
"Cook," I sez, "no matter how devilish wicked you've been in the
past, an' no matter how faithful you live up to your inner nature in
the future, you're sure of a number nine crown an' a spotless robe
jest fer this one meal"; an' the cook, he fairly glistened in the
firelight.
Well, this was about all they was to that expedition. We all got to
be so friendly with one another that by the time we had trailed that
bunch into the stock yards, we was like one big family of elder
brothers, an' Jim, he teased me into goin' back to the Pan Handle
with him.
Jim was an Englishman--a younger brother. Up to that time I had
allus supposed 'at bein' a younger brother was somewhat in the
nature of an accident, an' not a thing to be hurled in a feller's
teeth; but over in England it's looked upon as a heinius crime, an'
the only thing a younger brother can do to square himself is to get
out o' sight. That's how Tim happened to be in the Texas Pan Handle
with a tidy little fortune his aunt had left him, tucked away in a
good-sized, well-stocked ranch.
I took a good deal o' pains with him, 'cause he didn't have nothin'
but a book education, an' it wasn't altogether easy to get him to
see the true value o' things. He used to talk about Eton an' Oxford
purty solemn, until one night he helped me mill the herd durin' a
Norther', an' after that he took more kindly to the vital things o'
life, but he was a man, Jim was, an' he kept raisin' my wages right
along until I got that opulent feelin'. I never could stand
prosperity those days; just as soon as I had a weight o' money 'at I
could notice, I begun to grow restless, an' nothin' 'at Jim could do
or say had much effect.
If things hadn't run in oil, I'd a-stayed right along, I reckon; but
it got so 'at the' wasn't a hitch from week to week, an' I couldn't
stand it. I never had a better friend in the world'n that cook was
after he'd saved my life.
Jim had a kid sort o' chorin' around the place an' keepin' us from
gettin' old an' stupid. One nice bright winter's day the kid went
out for a ride; his pony came lopin' in just at sun down in the face
of a blizzard, an' I went out to look for the kid. I found him
trudgin' toward home an' cussin' his luck somethin' terrible. I put
him up behind me an' by that time the wind was shootin' needles o'
sleet into my face 'till I couldn't see a yard ahead. The kid
snuggled up to me an' went to sleep, an' I gave the pony his head
an' trusted to luck--no, come to think about it, that night I
trusted to somethin' higher than luck, 'cause it was a perfect demon
of a night.
The pony dropped from a lope to a walk an' then he put his nose to
the ground an' fairly shuffled along. I was wearin' sheepskin with
the wool on, but after a time the needles began to creep in an' I
grew numb as a stone, while my flesh seemed shook loose from my
bones, an' it hurt me to breathe. Oh, Lord, but it was cold! If it
hadn't 'a' been for the kid I'd have gotten down an' walked
alongside the pony, but as it was, he was out o' the wind an'
sleepin' peaceful, so I just sat an' took it.
At last I sort o' drowsed off myself. I didn't sleep, but I wasn't
awake; I seemed to be back at the Diamond Dot an' playin' in a
little sheltered dell with Barbie. She had made up a game called
Fairy Princess; sometimes she was the Fairy Princess an' sometimes I
was, an' it was a mighty amusin' sort of a game, but different from
most o' the games I was familiar with.
Well, that night out in the Texas blizzard I was playin' that game
with little Barbie, an' all of a sudden--smash! Before I knowed what
had happened we had been run into an' knocked down a ravine an' both
the kid an' the pony was lyin' on top o' me. The kid got up all'
begun to cuss as usual, but the pony never moved. I'd a heap sight
rather had the conditions reversed, 'cause the pony was on my right
leg an' my right leg was on a sharp stone.
"Shut up, kid," sez I, "this ain't no time for such talk. Here, you
curl up alongside the pony an' I'll spread part o' my coat over
you."
That kid was a home-maker all right; nothin' ever surprised him, an'
wherever he lit he made himself comfortable. In two minutes he was
asleep, while I began to puzzle it out. We were in a sheltered spot
an' the wind swept above us; but it was so dark that you couldn't
see ten inches. The wind was from the no'th, an' I went over every
bit o' landscape in the country until at last I figgered out the'
was only one place in Texas that filled the bill. A path swung
around a crag an' the' was a shelf of stone ten feet below it an'
eight feet wide, then it cut off sheer, fifty feet to the rocky bank
of a creek. I reached out with my hand an' felt the edge of it, an'
it give me an awful chill. I don't like to come quite so close.
After a time the wind veered around a little more to the east an'
then it sucked up through the cut an' I began to freeze. I didn't
care a great deal 'cause it stopped the horrid hurtin' in my leg;
but the dead pony began to cool, an' I knew it was only a question
o' minutes. Finally I awoke the kid. "Where is your gun, kid?" I
sez.
"I shot all my catridges tryin' to bring some one out on a pony,"
sez the kid, drowsily, an' then he dozes off again.
We were only a mile from the ranch house; it was again the wind an'
it wasn't much use to waste ammunition, but I finally got out my gun
an' begun to shoot at intervals.
"What the deuce you makin' that racket for?" grunted the kid at the
third shot. I boxed his ears and went on shootin' until at last the
cold went through sheepskin an' woolens an' hide an' flesh, an' I
grew warm an' contented; an' the next I knew, the cook was rubbin'
my wrists an' pourin' hot coffee into me. I was purty mad at bein'
dragged back to earth an' grumbled about it free an' hearty, but the
cook kept croonin' to me the same as if I'd been a baby: "Neveh
mind, honey, neveh mind; ol' Monody'll bring ya around all right.
Take another sip o' coffee, chile, that's right, that's right."
It took me quite a spell before I could tell whether I was alive or
not, 'cause while the cook had changed a heap since I'd first met up
with him, I'd never heard any such talk as this; but after a time I
came out of it an' the anguish I underwent gettin' back to life
wasn't nowise worth the experiment.
It had stopped blowin', but it was colder than ever, an' at last I
began to take enough interest in things to want 'em to get settled
one way or another. As soon as I was able to think along a straight
line, the cook would give a heave to the pony an' I would give
myself a jerk. The lantern shed a splash o' light on the shelf, but
the jump-off looked like the mouth o' the pit, an' I jerked purty
tol'able careful. At last I was out, an' if you'll believe it, my
leg was only broke in two places. I thought it was broken clear off.
I couldn't get back up the cliff to the trail any way we could
figger, so the cook said I should roll up in the Navajos he'd
brought an' he'd take the kid an' go back an' bring a couple o' the
boys an' pack me in.
The kid had found the blankets all right an' had rolled himself up,
an' we had to shake the stuffin' out of him to rouse him again. He
complained most bitter when he found he had to go back to the ranch
house; but at last they got started an' it wasn't long before they
had me there too, an' next day Phil McLaughlin rode over an' brought
out a doctor who lined up my bones as good as new, while Jim told me
about the cook.
Old Monody was like a salamander for heat, an' you couldn't drag him
away from the fire in the winter time; but when I didn't return he
began to worry: "If the' was a man left in this outfit I reckon he'd
go out an' get him," he'd say scornful. "Riders! you call yourselves
riders? You're loafers an' eaters, that's what you are! I'm a cook,
but if nobody else has the nerve to go an' git him, I'll go myself."
Jim started to go at last, but he wouldn't let him. "You got the
grit, Jim, but you ain't got the night sense yet. You stay where you
are or you'd be on our hands too." Well, he steamed up an' down
makin' new hot coffee an' drinkin' it by the bowl. All of a sudden
he give a scream: "Oh, oh! there he goes over the cliff! Get me a
pony--get me a pony, while I wrap up some coffee an' pick out some
blankets!" Well, the cook was so blame wild by this time 'at they
was glad to get shut of him; so they rigged him out an' he rode a
bee line right to me, an' what led him you can figger out for
yourselves. He was a queer cook, but after that night he was
different: he acted as though he had adopted me; he petted me an'
spoiled me an' you can talk all you want to about the flesh-pots of
Egypt--why, that cook could fix beans eleven different ways, an'
each one better'n the other.
But while I was lyin' there waitin' for my leg to knit up, I kept
thinkin' o' the little lass back at the Diamond Dot, an' when I got
about again, I knew I was signed for a trip No'th.
The cook was mighty good to me while I was backin' it; he used to
deal out fussy little fixin's 'at kept the appetite an' the fever
both down, an' when they wasn't no one around he used to pat out my
pillers an' oncet he smoothed back my hair. He cut out his cussin'
too, an' he used to line up the kid for it.
"You're from the South, ain't ya, Happy?" sez he to me one day.
"Not so you could notice," sez I. "I reckon this is the southest I
ever got before."
"Hu," sez the cook, "Texas ain't south. Texas is just the rubbish
heap o' this whole country. Where did you hook up to that word
'reckon'?"
"I dunno," sez I, thinkin' back. "A feller just catches words like
the mumps, I suppose; but my pap, he used to use it right often."
"Where did your folks come from?" sez the cook.
"Oh, they come from Kentucky, an' before that from Virginia an'
No'th Carolina, an' before that they came from Scotch Irish an'
English, an' go clear back to Adam an' you'll find us Hawkinses was
a ramblin' crew, I reckon; but what on earth you drivin' at, Monody,
an' where on earth did your line hail from?"
He sat there a moment with lights an' shades dartin' over his ugly
face, which somehow wasn't ugly to me any more, an' at last he said:
"I have the blood of an Injun chief an' an African king an' a
Spanish nobleman in my veins, an'--"
"Lord, man, you ought to let some of it out," I interrupted. "You'll
have an eruption in your in'ards some day 'at'll blow you into a
million pieces."
"No, I got 'em all whipped out now, Happy, an' I reckon 'at you did
it. You 're the only man I ever met 'at I ain't once felt like
killin'."
"It's pleasant to think o' what a good neighbor you've been all your
life, cook; but I'm glad you've turned over since I met up with you.
Anyhow, you've been a heap o' comfort to me, an' anything I got is
on your list too, don't you never forget it."
But just the same, as soon as I got up an' around again, I had a
terrible tuggin' from the no'th an' I couldn't resist it. I'd be
makin' plans for the summer an' then all of a sudden I'd find myself
sayin, "What in the world do you reckon 'at that child is doin' now.
She'll be eight years old shortly, an' I simply have to see her on
her next birthday, even if she don't see me." At last I couldn't
stand it no longer, so I told the boys I had to cut, an' it fell
like a stone on a lamp chimney; but the cook, he took it harder'n
any one else. I liked the boys an' I liked Jim an' I liked the job;
but there was that tuggin' allus at my heart, an' in the end I set a
day. Jim, he made me all kinds of offers, 'cause things were gettin'
easy with him; but when I made it clear to him, he saw how it was
an' he sez: "I know 'at you'll come back to me some day, Happy, an'
if you'll settle down, you can be a rich man. I've kept back five
hundred dollars for you 'at I haven't mentioned in your wages, an'
you can take your pick o' the colts an' just as soon as you've had
your little flier I want you back; we all want you back."
It's a comfortin' feelin' to know 'at you're goin' to be missed; but
I couldn't savvy that cook. He had one big tearin' time of it an'
sluiced himself out with gin an' dug up his old profanity, an' then
he simmered down an' just cooked himself into a new record. Gee! it
was hard to separate from that mess table; but I had set my day an'
the' was no goin' back.
Jim had a black Arabian stallion an' a couple o' high grade mares
an' he was showin' up something fancy in the hoss line. He raised
the colts just like range ponies, an' while they wasn't quite so
tough when it came to livin' on sage brush an' pleasant memories,
they could eat up the ground like a prairie fire, an' they was
gentle. I bought a silver trimmed bridle an' some Mexican didoes,
an' then I said good-bye to all of 'em except the cook--he wasn't
there.
I hunted for him an hour; but he had so many peculiar ways 'at I
just let it go at that an' finally gave him up; so I left him a
nifty present an' pulled out with about a thousand yellow ones in my
belt an' the best mount in the West.
I hadn't gone more than two miles before I turned a corner an' came
face to face with ol' Monody. He was settin' on a big bald-faced
roan, an' he had a serious look on his face. "Well, I wondered if
you was goin' to let me go away without sayin' good-bye," sez I,
tryin' to talk light an' easy.
"I'd be apt to," sez he. "Why, I've been peacefuller since you been
here'n ever I was in my life before, an' it ain't likely I'd let you
scoot out an' leave me. I'm goin' along."
Well, what do you think of that! Me startin' up to where I wasn't
sure of a welcome an' takin' such a tow as ol' Monody along with me.
I argued with him for an hour, an' then I got hot an' told him that
merely savin' my life didn't give him no mortgage on me an' that he
couldn't nowise keep up with me, an' by the time he reached the
Diamond Dot, the chances were 'at I'd be on my way back to the Lion
Head. He didn't waste no time in words, just sat sour an' moody, an'
every tine I'd stop he'd growl out, "I don't care where you go or
how fast you go or nothin' at all about it. I'm goin' along, an'
I'll catch up with you sometime."
I sure gave him a chase; I wanted the black hoss to show up well
when I landed, but I sent him along pretty steady an' took extra
care of him. Ol' Monody had picked out the toughest pony at the Lion
Head, an' he had good hands, but he never sighted me till the night
I reached the ranch and was busy wipin' Starlight's legs. "I got
some news for ya," sez ol' Monody, gettin' down slow from his leg-
weary roan. "I'll tell it to ya while you 're eatin supper,"--an' I
was sure glad to see him--an' glad to eat food again.
Pages:
1 | 2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18 |
19 |
20 |
21 |
22 |
23