Friar Tuck Part 4

dignified as was possible-considerin' the fact that the crook was dancin' about like a spider on a hot skillet, and rubbin' the part which had got most intimate with the club.

Eugene had seen it all through his window, and when it was over, he came out and shook the Parson's hand, and said he was just the kind needed in such an unG.o.dly community, and that he reminded him for all the world of Friar Tuck in Robin Hood. Now, we hadn't none of us heard of Friar Tuck up to that time; but it was a name well fitted to the tongue, and from the way Eugene said it, we elected it was a compliment; so we gave it to the Singin' Parson on the spot, and it soaked into his bones, and he hasn't needed any other since.

This little incident kept us all in a good humor until three o'clock, which was the fatal hour for the squirrel-contest.

Then ol' man Dort marched to the center o' the street, carryin' his cage as though it was full o' diamonds; an' Ben Butler sat up an'

chattered as if he was darin' the whole race o' squirrels to bring forth his equal.

"I don't reckon a squirrel could get three times as big as him without explodin'," sez Spider Kelley, who also had his money on Eugene's squirrel.

"Here comes Eugene with Columbus," sez I, not carin' to waste breath on an opinion I had backed up with good money.

Eugene came down the street carryin' one end of a box, with Doc Forbes carryin' the other. The box was covered with a clean ap.r.o.n, an' Eugene wasn't lookin' down in the mouth or discouraged.

"From the size o' that box, we're goin' to have a run for our money,"

sez Spider. "If Columbus just looks good enough to make 'em settle by the scales, I haven't any kick comin'."

Well, as Eugene drew closer, that crowd fell into a silence until all a body could hear was Ben Butler braggin' about all the nuts he had et, an' what a prodigious big squirrel he was; but Eugene never faltered. He walked up an' set his box down careful, motioned Doc over to the side lines, made a graceful motion to ol' man Dort, an' sez: "As yours is the local champion you introduce him first, an' make your claim."

Ol' man Dort removed his tobacco, wiped his forehead, an' sez: "Feller citizens, I make the claim that Ben Butler is the biggest full-blooded squirrel ever sent to enlighten the solitude of lonely humanity. This is him."

The ol' man looked lovin'ly down at his squirrel, an' we every one of us gave a rousin' cheer. It was all the family the ol' man had, an' it meant more to him 'n a body who hadn't never tried standin' his own company months at a time could realize. Ol' man Dort thrust some new tobacco into his face, bit his lips, winked his eyes rapid, an' bowed to us, almost overcome.

Then Eugene stepped a s.p.a.ce to the front, bowed to the crowd in several directions, an' sez: "Gentlemen, an' feller citizens-From Iceland's icy mountains to India's coral strands an' Afric's sunny fountains, every nation an' every clime has produced some peculiar product o' nature which lifts it above an' sets it apart from all the other localities of the globe. When you speak of the succulent banana, the golden orange, or the p.r.i.c.kly pineapple, Nova Scotia remains silent; but when you speak of varmints, she rears up on her hind legs and with a glad shout of triumph, she hands forth the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel, an' sez, 'Give me the blue ribbons, the gold medals, an' the laurel crowns of victory.' I have the rare pleasure an' the distinctive honor of presenting to your notice Columbus, the hugest squirrel ever exhibited within the confines of captivity."

We was so took by Eugene's eloquence that we hardly noticed him slip the ap.r.o.n from in front of his cage; but when we did look, we could hardly get our breath. I was standin' close to the Friar; and at first he looked puzzled, and then his face lit up with a regular boy's grin; but he didn't say a word.

Columbus was certainly a giant; he stood full two feet tall as he sat up an' scrutinized around with a bossy sort of grin. He was dappled fawn color on the sides with a curly black streak down the back an'

sort o' chestnut-red below, with a short tail an' teeth like chisels.

He won so blame easy that even us what had bet on him didn't cheer.

Ol' man Dort give a grin, thinkin' Ben Butler must have won, an' then he stepped around an' looked into Eugene's cage. He looked first at Columbus, an' then at Ben Butler, then he looked again. "That d.a.m.ned thing ain't alive," he sez. "It's made up out o' wool yarn. Poke it up an' let me see it move."

"Poke it yourself," sez Eugene. He was one o' these cold-blooded gamblers who ain't got one speck o' decent sentimentality; an' he was mad 'cause we hadn't cheered.

Ol' man Dort took a stick an' poked Columbus, an' Columbus give a threatenin' grin, chattered savage, an' bit the stick in two. "Give him the money, Ike," sez ol' man Dort. "I own up I never was in Nova Scotia, an' I never supposed that such squirrels as this grew on the face o' the whole earth. What'll you take for him?" he sez to Eugene.

"It ain't your fault that you didn't know about him," sez Eugene, thawin' a little humanity into himself. "I don't want to rub it in on n.o.body; and I'll give you this here squirrel free gratis, 'cause I admit that you know more about squirrels 'n anybody else what ever I met; an' you have the biggest red squirrel the' is in the world."

Then we did give Eugene a cheer, an' everything loosened up, an' we all crowded into Ike Spargle's so that them what won could spend a little money on them what lost.

After a time, ol' man Dort got up on a chair, an' sez: "I want you fellers to know that Columbus won't never be my pet. Ben Butler has been the squarest squirrel ever was, an' he continues to remain my pet; but I'll study feedin' this condemned foreign squirrel, an' give him a fair show; so that if any outsiders come around makin' brags, we will have a home squirrel to enter again' 'em an' get their money."

Eugene led the cheerin' this time, which made Eugene solider than ever with the boys, an' when Spider an' me got ready to ride home, he an'

ol' man Dort had their arms around each other tryin' to sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Spider talked about Columbus most o' the way home, but I was still.

The' was somethin' peculiar about the Friar's grin when he first sighted Columbus, and the' was somethin' familiar about that squirrel, an' I was tryin' to adjust myself. Just as we swung to the west on the last turn, I sez to Spider: "Spider, I don't know what I ought to do about this?"

"About what?" sez Spider.

"About this bet?"

"Well, it was a fair bet, wasn't it? Columbus is full four times as big as Ben Butler."

"Yes," sez I, "but he ain't no squirrel."

Spider pulled up to a stop. "Ain't no squirrel?" he sez. "What do you take me for, didn't I see him myself? What is he then?"

"He's a woodchuck, that's what he is," sez I. "He's a genuwine ground hog with his hair cut stylish and died accordin' to Eugene's idy of high art. I remember now that I used to see 'em when I was a little shaver back on my dad's farm in Indiana."

Spider give a whoop, an' then he laughed, an' then he sobered up, an'

sez: "Well, you can't do nothin' now, anyway. The judges have decided it, ol' man Dort has give it up, it ain't your game nohow, an' if you was to try to equal back those bets after they have been paid an'

mostly spent, you'd start a heap o' blood-spillin'; an' furthermore, as far as I'm concerned, I ain't right sure but what a woodchuck, as you call it, ain't some kind of a squirrel. We'll just let this go an'

wait for a chance to put something over on Eugene."

So that's what we made up to do; but this gives you an idy of how fine a line the Friar drew on questions o' sport. He knew 'at we weren't full fledged angels, and that we had to have our little diversities; but when any professional hold-up men tried to ring in a brace game on us, he couldn't see any joke in it, and he upset the money-changers'

tables, the same as they was upset that time, long ago, in the temple.

CHAPTER THREE

ABOVE THE DUST

I'm only about twice as old as I feel; but I've certainly seen a lot o' changes take place out this way. I can look back to the time when what most of us called a town was nothin' but a log shack with a barrel of cheap whiskey and a mail-bag wanderin' in once a month or so, from goodness-knows-where. I've seen the cattle kings when they set their own bounds, made their own laws, and cared as little for government-t.i.tle as they did for an Injun's. Then, I've seen the sheep men creep in an inch at a time until they ate the range away from the cattle and began to jump claims an' tyrannize as free and joyous as the cattle men had. Next came the dry farmer, and he was as comical as a b.u.m lamb when he first hove into sight; but I reckon that sooner or later he'll be the one to write the final laws for this section.

We're gettin' a good many towns on our map nowadays, we're puttin' up a lot o' hay, we're drinkin' cow milk, and we're eatin' garden truck in the summer. The old West has dried up and blown away before our very eyes, and a few of us old timers are beginnin' to feel like the last o' the buffalo. The's more money nowadays in boardin' dudes 'n the' is in herdin' cattle, an' that's the short of a long, long story.

But still we hammered out this country from the rough, and no one can take that away from us. The flag follers trouble, an' business follers the flag, an' law follers business, an' trouble follers the law; but always the first trouble was kicked up by boys who had got so 'at they couldn't digest home cookin' any longer and just nachely had to get out an' tussle with nature an' the heathen.

They're a tough, careless lot, these young adventurers; an' they're always in a state of panic lest the earth get so crowded the' won't be room enough to roll over in bed without askin' permission; so they kill each other off as soon as possible, and thus make room for the patienter ones who follow after. From what I've heard tell of history, this has been about the way that the white race has managed from the very beginning.

As a general rule it has been purt' nigh a drawn fight between the dark-skins an' the wild animals; then the lads who had to have more elbow-room came along, and the dark-skins and the wild animals had to be put onto reservations to preserve a few specimens as curiosities, while the lads fussed among themselves, each one tryin' to settle down peaceable with his dooryard lappin' over the horizon in all directions. Room, room, room-that was their constant cry. As soon as one would get a neighbor within a day's ride, he'd begin to feel shut in an' smothered.

Tyrrel Jones was one o' the worst o' this breed. He came out at an early date, climbed the highest peak he could find, and claimed everything 'at his gaze could reach in every direction. Then he invented the Cross brand, put it on a few cows, and made ready to defend his rights. The Cross brand was a simple one, just one straight line crossin' another; and it could be put on in about one second with a ventin' iron, or anything else which happened to be handy. Tyrrel thought a heap o' this brand, an' he didn't lose any chances of puttin' it onto saleable property. His herd grew from the very beginning.

His home ranch was something over a hundred miles northwest o' the Diamond Dot; but I allus suspicioned that a lot of our doggies had the Cross branded on to 'em. Tyrrel was mighty particular in the kind o'

punchers he hired. He liked fellers who had got into trouble, an' the deeper they was in, the better he liked 'em. Character seeks its level, the same as water; so that Tyrrel had no trouble in gettin' as many o' the breed he wanted as he had place for. They did his devilment free and hearty, and when they had a little spare time, they used to devil on their own hook in a way to shame an Injun.

The sayin' was, that a Cross brand puncher could digest every sort o'

beef in the land except Cross brand beef. Tyrrel used to grin at this sayin' as though it was a sort of compliment; but some o' the little fellers got purty bitter about it. When a small outfit located on a nice piece o' water, it paid 'em to be well out o' Ty's neighborhood.

No one ever had any luck who got in his road; but his own luck boomed right along year after year. He allus kept more men than he needed; an' about once a month he'd knock in the head of a barrel o' whiskey, an' the tales they used to tell about these times was enough to raise the hair. Ty would work night an' day to get one of his men out of a sc.r.a.pe; but once a man played him false, he either had to move or get buried. He wasn't a bad lookin' man, except that he allus seemed keyed up an' ready to spring.

His men all had to be top-notch riders, because he hadn't any use for a gentle hoss; he didn't want his hosses trained, he wanted 'em busted, an' the cavey he'd send along for a round-up would be about as gentle and reliable as a band o' hungry wolves. If a man killed a hoss, why Ty seemed to think it a good joke, an' this was his gait all the way along-the rougher the men were, the better they suited him.

He kept a pack o' dogs, and the men were encouraged to kick an' abuse 'em; but if one of 'em petted a dog, he was fired that instant-or else lured into a quarrel. The' didn't seem to be one single soft spot left in the man, an' when they got to callin' him Tyrant Jones instead of Tyrrel, why, it suited him all over, an' he used it himself once in a while.