Tim could talk high, wide, and handsome when he set out to.
The man started to say something; but I managed to herd him to one side.
“Let him alone,” I whispers. “When he talks that way, he’s mad; and when he’s mad, it’s better to leave nature to supply the lightnin’ rods.”
He seemed to sabe all right, so we built us a little fire and started some grub, while Gentleman Tim walked up and down very grand and fierce.
By and by he seemed to make up his mind. He went over and untied Texas Pete.
“Stand up, you hound,” says he. “Now listen to me. If you make a break to get away, or if you refuse to do just as I tell you, I won’t shoot you, but I’ll march you up country and see that Geronimo gets you.”
He sorted out a shovel and pick, made Texas Pete carry them right along the trail a quarter, and started him to diggin’ a hole.
Texas Pete started in hard enough, Tim sittin’ over him on his hoss, his six-shooter loose, and his rope free. The man and I stood by, not darin’ to say a word. After a minute or so Texas Pete began to work slower and slower. By and by he stopped.
“Look here,” says he, “is this here thing my grave?”
“I am goin’ to see that you give the gentleman’s hoss decent interment,” says Gentleman Tim very polite.
“Bury a hoss!” growls Texas Pete.
But he didn’t say any more. Tim cocked his six-shooter.
“Perhaps you’d better quit panting and sweat a little,” says he.
Texas Pete worked hard for a while, for Tim’s quietness was beginning to scare him up the worst way. By and by he had got down maybe four or five feet, and Tim got off his hoss.
“I think that will do,” says he.
“You may come out. Billy, my son, cover him. Now, Mr. Texas Pete,” he says, cold as steel, “there is the grave. We will place the hoss in it. Then I intend to shoot you and put you in with the hoss, and write you an epitaph that will be a comfort to such travellers of the Trail as are honest, and a warnin’ to such as are not. I’d as soon kill you now as an hour from now, so you may make a break for it if you feel like it.”
He stooped over to look into the hole. I thought he looked an extra long time, but when he raised his head his face had changed complete.
“March!” says he very brisk.
We all went back to the shack. From the corral Tim took Texas Pete’s best team and hitched her to the old schooner.
“There,” says he to the man. “Now you’d better hit the trail. Take that whisky keg there for water. Good-bye.”
We sat there without sayin’ a word for some time after the schooner had pulled out. Then Tim says, very abrupt:
“I’ve changed my mind.”
He got up.
“Come on, Billy,” says he to me. “We’ll just leave our friend tied up. I’ll be back tomorrow to turn you loose. In the meantime it won’t hurt you a bit to be a little uncomfortable, and hungry—and thirsty.”
We rode off just about sundown, leavin’ Texas Pete lashed tight.
Now all this knocked me hell-west and crooked, and I said so, but I couldn’t get a word out of Gentleman Tim. All the answer I could get was just little laughs.
We drawed into the ranch near midnight, but next mornin’ Tim had a long talk with the boss, and the result was that the whole outfit was instructed to arm up with a pick or a shovel apiece, and to get set for Texas Pete’s. We got there a little after noon, turned the old boy out—without firearms—and then began to dig at a place Tim told us to, near that grave of Texas Pete’s. In three hours we had the finest water-hole developed you ever want to see. Then the boss stuck up a sign that said:
PUBLIC WATER-HOLE. WATER, FREE.
“Now you old skin,” says he to Texas Pete, “charge all you want to on your own property. But if I ever hear of your layin’ claim to this other hole, I’ll shore make you hard to catch.”
Then we rode off home. You see, when Gentleman Tim inspected that grave, he noted indications of water; and it struck him that runnin’ the old renegade out of business was a neater way of gettin’ even than merely killin’ him.
Somebody threw a fresh mesquite on the fire. The flames leaped up again, showing a thin trickle of water running down the other side of the cave. The steady downpour again made itself prominent through the re-established silence.
“What did Texas Pete do after that?” asked the Cattleman.
“Texas Pete?” chuckled Windy Bill. “Well, he put in a heap of his spare time lettin’ Tim alone.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE REMITTANCE MAN
After Windy Bill had finished his story we began to think it time to turn in. Uncle Jim and Charley slid and slipped down the chute-like passage leading from the cave and disappeared in the direction of the overhang beneath which they had spread their bed. After a moment we tore off long bundles of the nigger-head blades, lit the resinous ends at our fire, and with these torches started to make our way along the base of the cliff to the other cave.
Once without the influence of the fire our impromptu links cast an adequate light. The sheets of rain became suddenly visible as they entered the circle of illumination. By careful scrutiny of the footing I gained the entrance to our cave without mishap. I looked back. Here and there irregularly gleamed and spluttered my companions’ torches. Across each slanted the rain. All else was of inky blackness except where, between them and me, a faint red reflection shone on the wet rocks. Then I turned inside.
Now, to judge from the crumbling powder of the footing, that cave had been dry since Noah. In fact, its roof was nearly a thousand feet thick. But since we had spread our blankets, the persistent waters had soaked down and through. The thousand-foot roof had a sprung a leak. Three separate and distinct streams of water ran as from spigots. I lowered my torch. The canvas tarpaulin shone with wet, and in its exact centre glimmered a pool of water three inches deep and at least two feet in diameter.
“Well, I’ll be,” I began. Then I remembered those three wending their way along a wet and disagreeable trail, happy and peaceful in anticipation of warm blankets and a level floor. I chuckled and sat on my heels out of the drip.
First came Jed Parker, his head bent to protect the fire in his pipe. He gained the very centre of the cave before he looked up.
Then he cast one glance at each bed, and one at me. His grave, hawk-like features relaxed. A faint grin appeared under his long moustache. Without a word he squatted down beside me.
Next the Cattleman. He looked about him with a comical expression of dismay, and burst into a hearty laugh.
“I believe I said I was sorry for those other fellows,” he remarked.
Windy Bill was the last. He stooped his head to enter, straightened his lank figure, and took in the situation without expression.
“Well, this is handy,” said he; “I was gettin’ tur’ble dry, and was thinkin’ I would have to climb way down to the creek in all this rain.”
He stooped to the pool in the centre of the tarpaulin and drank.
But now our torches began to run low. A small dry bush grew near the entrance. We ignited it, and while it blazed we hastily sorted a blanket apiece and tumbled the rest out of the drip.
Our return without torches along the base of that butte was something to remember. The night was so thick you could feel the darkness pressing on you; the mountain dropped abruptly to the left, and was strewn with boulders and blocks of stone. Collisions and stumbles were frequent. Once I stepped off a little ledge five or six feet—nothing worse than a barked shin. And all the while the rain, pelting us unmercifully, searched out what poor little remnants of dryness we had been able to retain.
At last we opened out the gleam of fire in our cave, and a minute later were engaged in struggling desperately up the slant that brought us to our ledge and the slope on which our fire burned.
“My Lord!” panted Windy Bill, “a man had ought to have hooks on his eyebrows to climb up he
re!”
We renewed the fire—and blessed the back-load of mesquite we had packed up earlier in the evening. Our blankets we wrapped around our shoulders, our feet we hung over the ledge toward the blaze, our backs we leaned against the hollow slant of the cave’s wall. We were not uncomfortable. The beat of the rain sprang up in the darkness, growing louder and louder, like horsemen passing on a hard road. Gradually we dozed off.
For a time everything was pleasant. Dreams came fused with realities; the firelight faded from consciousness or returned fantastic to our half-awakening; a delicious numbness overspread our tired bodies. The shadows leaped, became solid, monstrous. We fell asleep.
After a time the fact obtruded itself dimly through our stupor that the constant pressure of the hard rock had impeded our circulation. We stirred uneasily, shifting to a better position.
That was the beginning of awakening. The new position did not suit. A slight shivering seized us, which the drawing closer of the blanket failed to end. Finally I threw aside my hat and looked out. Jed Parker, a vivid patch-work comforter wrapped about his shoulders, stood upright and silent by the fire. I kept still, fearing to awaken the others. In a short time I became aware that the others were doing identically the same thing. We laughed, threw off our blankets, stretched, and fed the fire.
A thick acrid smoke filled the air. The Cattleman, rising, left a trail of incandescent footprints. We investigated hastily, and discovered that the supposed earth on the slant of the cave was nothing more than bat guano, tons of it. The fire, eating its way beneath, had rendered untenable its immediate vicinity. We felt as though we were living over a volcano. How soon our ledge, of the same material, might be attacked, we had no means of knowing. Overcome with drowsiness, we again disposed our blankets, resolved to get as many naps as possible before even these constrained quarters were taken from us.
This happened sooner and in a manner otherwise than we had expected. Windy Bill brought us to consciousness by a wild yell.
Consciousness reported to us a strange, hurried sound like the long roll on a drum. Investigation showed us that this cave, too, had sprung a leak; not with any premonitory drip, but all at once, as though someone had turned on a faucet. In ten seconds a very competent streamlet six inches wide had eroded a course down through the guano, past the fire and to the outer slope. And by the irony of fate that one—and only one—leak in all the roof expanse of a big cave was directly over one end of our tiny ledge. The Cattleman laughed.
“Reminds me of the old farmer and his kind friend,” said he. “Kind friend hunts up the old farmer in the village.
“‘John,’ says he, ‘I’ve bad news for you. Your barn has burned up.’
“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.
“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your cow was burned, too.’
“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.
“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your horses were burned.’
“‘My Lord!’ says the farmer.
“‘But, that ain’t the worst. The barn set fire to the house, and it was burned—total loss.’
“‘My Lord!’ groans the farmer.
“‘But that ain’t the worst. Your wife and child were killed, too.’
“‘At that the farmer began to roar with laughter.
“‘Good heavens, man!’ cries his friend, astonished, ‘what in the world do you find to laugh at in that?’
“‘Don’t you see?’ answers the farmer. ‘Why, it’s so darn COMPLETE!’
“Well,” finished the Cattleman, “that’s what strikes me about our case; it’s so darn complete!”
“What time is it?” asked Windy Bill.
“Midnight,” I announced.
“Lord! Six hours to day!” groaned Windy Bill. “How’d you like to be doin’ a nice quiet job at gardenin’ in the East where you could belly up to the bar reg’lar every evenin’, and drink a pussy cafe and smoke tailor-made cigareets?”
“You wouldn’t like it a bit,” put in the Cattleman with decision; whereupon in proof he told us the following story:
Windy has mentioned Gentleman Tim, and that reminded me of the first time I ever saw him. He was an Irishman all right, but he had been educated in England, and except for his accent he was more an Englishman than anything else. A freight outfit brought him into Tucson from Santa Fe and dumped him down on the plaza, where at once every idler in town gathered to quiz him.
Certainly he was one of the greenest specimens I ever saw in this country. He had on a pair of balloon pants and a Norfolk jacket, and was surrounded by a half-dozen baby trunks. His face was red-cheeked and aggressively clean, and his eye limpid as a child’s. Most of those present thought that indicated childishness; but I could see that it was only utter self-unconsciousness.
It seemed that he was out for big game, and intended to go after silver-tips somewhere in these very mountains. Of course he was offered plenty of advice, and would probably have made engagements much to be regretted had I not taken a strong fancy to him.
“My friend,” said I, drawing him aside, “I don’t want to be inquisitive, but what might you do when you’re home?”
“I’m a younger son,” said he. I was green myself in those days, and knew nothing of primogeniture.
“That is a very interesting piece of family history,” said I, “but it does not answer my question.”
He smiled.
“Well now, I hadn’t thought of that,” said he, “but in a manner of speaking, it does. I do nothing.”
“Well,” said I, unabashed, “if you saw me trying to be a younger son and likely to forget myself and do something without meaning to, wouldn’t you be apt to warn me?”
“Well, ‘pon honour, you’re a queer chap. What do you mean?”
“I mean that if you hire any of those men to guide you in the mountains, you’ll be outrageously cheated, and will be lucky if you’re not gobbled by Apaches.”
“Do you do any guiding yourself, now?” he asked, most innocent of manner.
But I flared up.
“You damn ungrateful pup,” I said, “go to the devil in your own way,” and turned square on my heel.
But the young man was at my elbow, his hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, I say now, I’m sorry. I didn’t rightly understand. Do wait one moment until I dispose of these boxes of mine, and then I want the honour of your further acquaintance.”
He got some Greasers to take his trunks over to the hotel, then linked his arm in mine most engagingly.
“Now, my dear chap,” said he, “let’s go somewhere for a B & S, and find out about each other.”
We were both young and expansive. We exchanged views, names, and confidences, and before noon we had arranged to hunt together, I to collect the outfit.
The upshot of the matter was that the Honourable Timothy Clare and I had a most excellent month’s excursion, shot several good bear, and returned to Tucson the best of friends.
At Tucson was Schiefflein and his stories of a big strike down in the Apache country. Nothing would do but that we should both go to see for ourselves. We joined the second expedition; crept in the gullies, tied bushes about ourselves when monumenting corners, and so helped establish the town of Tombstone. We made nothing, nor attempted to. Neither of us knew anything of mining, but we were both thirsty for adventure, and took a schoolboy delight in playing the game of life or death with the Chiricahuas.
In fact, I never saw anybody take to the wild life as eagerly as the Honourable Timothy Clare. He wanted to attempt everything. With him it was no sooner see than try, and he had such an abundance of enthusiasm that he generally succeeded. The balloon pants soon went. In a month his outfit was irreproachable. He used to study us by the hour, taking in every detail of our equipment, from the smallest to the most important. Then he asked questions. For all his desire to be one of the country, he was never ashamed to acknowledge his ignorance.
“Now, don’t you chaps think it silly to wear su
ch high heels to your boots?” he would ask. “It seems to me a very useless sort of vanity.”
“No vanity about it, Tim,” I explained. “In the first place, it keeps your foot from slipping through the stirrup. In the second place, it is good to grip on the ground when you’re roping afoot.”
“By Jove, that’s true!” he cried.
So he’d get him a pair of boots. For a while it was enough to wear and own all these things. He seemed to delight in his six-shooter and his rope just as ornaments to himself and horse. But he soon got over that. Then he had to learn to use them.
For the time being, pistol practice, for instance, would absorb all his thoughts. He’d bang away at intervals all day, and figure out new theories all night.
“That bally scheme won’t work,” he would complain. “I believe if I extended my thumb along the cylinder it would help that side jump.”
He was always easing the trigger-pull, or filing the sights. In time he got to be a fairly accurate and very quick shot.
The same way with roping and hog-tying and all the rest.
“What’s the use?” I used to ask him. “If you were going to be a buckeroo, you couldn’t go into harder training.”
“I like it,” was always his answer.
He had only one real vice, that I could see. He would gamble. Stud poker was his favourite; and I never saw a Britisher yet who could play poker. I used to head him off, when I could, and he was always grateful, but the passion was strong.
After we got back from founding Tombstone I was busted and had to go to work.
“I’ve got plenty,” said Tim, “and it’s all yours.”
“I know, old fellow,” I told him, “but your money wouldn’t do for me.”
Buck Johnson was just seeing his chance then, and was preparing to take some breeding cattle over into the Soda Springs Valley. Everybody laughed at him—said it was right in the line of the Chiricahua raids, which was true. But Buck had been in there with Agency steers, and thought he knew. So he collected a trail crew, brought some Oregon cattle across, and built his home ranch of three-foot adobe walls with portholes. I joined the trail crew; and somehow or another the Honourable Timothy got permission to go along on his own hook.
Arizona Nights Page 3