The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories. Owen Wister

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       Owen Wister

      The Jimmyjohn Boss, and Other Stories

      Published by Good Press, 2019

       [email protected]

      EAN 4057664615718

Table of Contents

       Preface

       The Jimmyjohn Boss

       A Kinsman of Red Cloud

       Sharon's Choice

       Napoleon Shave-Tail

       Twenty Minutes for Refreshments

       The Promised Land

       Hank's Woman

       Padre Ignazio

      To Messrs. Harper & Bothers and Henry Mills Alden whose friendliness and fair dealing I am glad of this chance to record

      Owen Wister

Preface

       Table of Contents

      It's very plain that if a thing's the fashion—

       Too much the fashion—if the people leap

       To do it, or to be it, in a passion

       Of haste and crowding, like a herd of sheep,

       Why then that thing becomes through imitation

       Vulgar, excessive, obvious, and cheap.

       No gentleman desires to be pursuing

       What every Tom and Dick and Harry's doing.

       Stranger, do you write books? I ask the question,

       Because I'm told that everybody writes

       That what with scribbling, eating, and digestion,

       And proper slumber, all our days and nights

       Are wholly filled. It seems an odd suggestion—

       But if you do write, stop it, leave the masses,

       Read me, and join the small selected classes.

The Jimmyjohn Boss

       Table of Contents

      I

      One day at Nampa, which is in Idaho, a ruddy old massive jovial man stood by the Silver City stage, patting his beard with his left hand, and with his right the shoulder of a boy who stood beside him. He had come with the boy on the branch train from Boise, because he was a careful German and liked to say everything twice—twice at least when it was a matter of business. This was a matter of very particular business, and the German had repeated himself for nineteen miles. Presently the east-bound on the main line would arrive from Portland; then the Silver City stage would take the boy south on his new mission, and the man would journey by the branch train back to Boise. From Boise no one could say where he might not go, west or east. He was a great and pervasive cattle man in Oregon, California, and other places. Vogel and Lex—even to-day you may hear the two ranch partners spoken of. So the veteran Vogel was now once more going over his notions and commands to his youthful deputy during the last precious minutes until the east-bound should arrive.

      “Und if only you haf someding like dis,” said the old man, as he tapped his beard and patted the boy, “it would be five hoondert more dollars salary in your liddle pants.”

      The boy winked up at his employer. He had a gray, humorous eye; he was slim and alert, like a sparrow-hawk—the sort of boy his father openly rejoices in and his mother is secretly in prayer over. Only, this boy had neither father nor mother. Since the age of twelve he had looked out for himself, never quite without bread, sometimes attaining champagne, getting along in his American way variously, on horse or afoot, across regions of wide plains and mountains, through towns where not a soul knew his name. He closed one of his gray eyes at his employer, and beyond this made no remark.

      “Vat you mean by dat vink, anyhow?” demanded the elder.

      “Say,” said the boy, confidentially—“honest now. How about you and me? Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many dollars you gif me for dat bloom?” The sparrow-hawk sailed into a freakish imitation of his master.

      “You are a liddle rascal!” cried the master, shaking with entertainment. “Und if der peoples vas to hear you sass old Max Vogel in dis style they would say, 'Poor old Max, he lose his gr-rip.' But I don't lose it.” His great hand closed suddenly on the boy's shoulder, his voice cut clean and heavy as an axe, and then no more joking about him. “Haf you understand that?” he said.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “How old are you, son?”

      “Nineteen, sir.”

      “Oh my, that is offle young for the job I gif you. Some of dose man you go to boss might be your father. Und how much do you weigh?”

      “About a hundred and thirty.”

      “Too light, too light. Und I haf keep my eye on you in Boise. You are not so goot a boy as you might be.”

      “Well, sir, I guess not.”

      “But you was not so bad a boy as you might be, neider. You don't lie about it. Now it must be farewell to all that foolishness. Haf you understand? You go to set an example where one is needed very bad. If those men see you drink a liddle, they drink a big lot. You forbid them, they laugh at you. You must not allow one drop of whiskey at the whole place. Haf you well understand?”

      “Yes, sir. Me and whiskey are not necessary to each other's happiness.”

      “It is not you, it is them. How are you mit your gun?”

      Vogel took the boy's pistol from its holster and aimed at an empty bottle which was sticking in the thin Deceiver snow. “Can you do this?” he said, carelessly, and fired. The snow struck the bottle, but the unharming bullet was buried half an inch to the left.

      The boy took his pistol with solemnity. “No,” he said. “Guess I can't do that.” He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. “Told you I couldn't miss as close as you did,” said he.

      “You are a darling,” said Mr. Vogel. “Gif me dat lofely weapon.”

      A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them.

      “May I ask if anything is the matter?” inquired a mild voice from the stage.

      “Stick