Sandburrs. Alfred Henry Lewis

pretty girl.

      The singing went on in a cooing, soft way that did not bring you the words; only the music.

      “What I says about my saddle a while back, goes as it lays!” said Jack Cook.

      The song had ceased.

      As Cook spoke he turned a dark look on Watkins.

      “See yere!” replied Watkins in an exasperated tone—he was as vicious as Cook—“if you're p'intin' out for a war-jig with me, don't go stampin' 'round none for reasons. Let her roll! Come a-runnin' an' don't pester none with ceremony.”

      “Which a gent don't have to have no reason for crawlin' you!” said Cook. “Anyone's licenced to chase you 'round jest for exercise!”

      “You can gamble,” said Watkins, confidently, “any party as chases me 'round much, will regyard it as a thrillin' pastime. Which it won't grow on him none as a habit.”

      “As you-all seem to feel that a-way,” said the darkly wrathful Cook, “I'll sorter step out an' shoot with you right now!”

      “An' I'll shorely go you!” said Watkins.

      They arose and walked to the door. It was gathering dark, but it was light enough to shoot by. The other cowboys followed in a kind of savage silence. Not one word was said in comment or objection. They were grave, but passive like Indians. It is not good form to interfere with other people's affairs in Arizona.

      Jess, the pretty girl, began singing again. The strains fell softly on the ears of the cowboys. Each, as he listened, whether onlooker or principal, felt a licking, pleased anticipation of the blood to be soon set flowing.

      Nothing was said of distance. Cook and Watkins separated to twenty paces and turned to face each other. Each wore his six-shooter, the loose pistol belt letting it rest low on his hip. Each threw down his big hat and stood at apparent ease, with his thumbs caught in his belt.

      “Shall you give the word, or me?” asked Cook.

      “You says when!” retorted Watkins. “It'll be a funny passage in American history if you-all gets your gun to the front any sooner than I do.”

      “Be you ready?” asked Cook.

      “Which I'm shorely ready!”

      “Then, go!”

      “Bang! Bang!! Bang!!!” went both pistols together.

      The reports came with a rapidity not to be counted. Cook got a crease in the face—a mere wound of the flesh. Watkins blundered forward with a bullet in his side.

      

      Rawlins ran out. His experience taught him all at a look. Hastily examining Cook, he discovered that his hurt was nothing serious. The others carried Watkins into the house.

      “Take my pony saddled at the fence, Jack,” said Rawlins, “an' pull your freight. This yere Watkins is goin' to die. You've planted him.”

      “Which I shorely hopes I has!” said Cook, with bitter cheerfulness. “I ain't got no use for cattle of his brand; none whatever!”

      Cook took Rawlins's pony. When he paused, the pony hung his head while his flanks steamed and quivered. And no marvel! That pony was one hundred miles from the last corn, as he cooled his nervous muzzle in the Rio San Simon.

      “Some deviltry about their saddles, Miss; that's all!” reported Rawlins to Jess, the pretty girl.

      “Isn't it horrible!” shuddered Jess, the pretty girl.

      The next morning Jess and the gnarled aunt paid the injured Watkins a visit. This civility affected the other three cowboys invidiously. They at once departed to a line of Cross-K camps in the Northwest. This on a pretence of working cattle over on the Cochise Mesa. They looked black enough as they galloped away.

      “Which it's shore a sin Jack Cook ain't no better pistol shot!” observed one, as the acrid picture of Jess, the pretty girl, sympathising above the wounded Watkins, arose before him.

      “That's whatever!” assented the others.

      Then, in moods of grim hatefulness, they bled their tired ponies with the spur by way of emphasis.

THE HUMMING BIRD

       Table of Contents

(Annals of The Bend)

       Table of Contents

      NIT; I'm in a hurry to chase meself to-night,” quoth Chucky, having first, however, taken his drink. “I'd like to stay an' chin wit' youse, but I can't. D' fact is I've got company over be me joint; he's a dead good fr'end of mine, see! Leastwise he has been; an' more'n onct, when I'm in d' hole, he's reached me his mit an' pulled me out. Now he's down on his luck I'm goin' to make good, an' for an even break on past favours, see if I can't straighten up his game.”

      “Who is your friend?” I asked. “Does he live here?”

      “Naw,” retorted Chucky; “he's a crook, an' don't live nowhere. His name's Mollie Matches, an 'd' day was when Mollie's d' flyest fine-woiker on Byrnes's books. An' say! that ain't no fake neither.”

      “What did he do?” I inquired.

      “Leathers, supers an' rocks,” replied Chucky. “Of course, d' supers has to be yellow; d' w'ite kind don't pay; an' d' rocks has to be d' real t'ing. In d' old day, Mollie was d' king of d' dips, for fair! Of all d' crooks he was d' nob, an' many's d' time I've seen him come into d' Gran' Central wit' his t'ree stalls an' a Sheeny kid to carry d' swag, an' all as swell a mob as ever does time.

      “But he's fell be d' wayside now, an' don't youse forget it! Not only is he broke for dough, but his healt' is busted, too.”

      “That's one of the strange things to me, Chucky,” I said, for I was disposed to detain him if I could, and hear a bit more of his devious friend; “one of the very strange things! Here's your friend Mollie, who has done nothing, so you say, but steal watches, diamonds and pocket-books all his life, and yet to-day he is without a dollar.”

      “Oh! as for that,” returned Chucky wisely, “a crook don't make so much. In d' foist place, if he's nippin' leathers, nine out of ten of 'em's bound to be readers—no long green in 'em at all; nothin' but poi-pers, see! An' if he's pinchin' tickers an' sparks, a fence won't pay more'n a fort' what dey's wort'—an' there you be, see! Then ag'in, it costs a hundred plunks a day to keep a mob on d' road; an' what wit' puttin' up to d' p'lice for protection, an' what wit' squarin' a con or brakey if youse are graftin' on a train, there ain't, after his stalls has their bits, much left for Mollie. Takin' it over all, Mollie's dead lucky to get a hundred out of a t'ousand plunks; an' yet he's d' mug who has to put his hooks on d' stuff every time; do d' woik an' take d' chances, see!

      “But I'll tip it off to youse,” continued Chucky, at the same time lowering his tone confidentially; “I'll put you on to what knocks Mollie's eye out just now. He's only a week ago toined out of one of de western pens, an' I reckon he was bad wit' 'em at d' finish—givin' 'em a racket. Anyhow, dey confers on Mollie d' Hummin' Boid, an dey overplays. Mollie's gettin' old, and can't stand for what he could onct; an', as I says, these prison marks gives him too much of 'd Hummin' Boid and it breaks his noive.

      “Sure! Mollie's now what youse call hyster'cal;