Читать книгу The Indians' Last Fight; Or, The Dull Knife Raid - Dennis Collins - Страница 14

Table of Contents

Getting Acquainted With the West—The Character of the Cow-boy—A Cow-boy’s Love Affair, Etc.

Next day I began to breathe easier as I had not witnessed any shooting scrapes, nor funerals, so I felt rather safe in walking the streets, although I was rather suspicious of anybody I met wearing a six-shooter. Nevertheless, I kept on the move, endeavoring to find where I could locate a good homestead, as that country was nearly all open and unsettled. In my wanderings I happened into Cox’s feed yard where Broncho Jack kept his horses. I entered the camp house and found Jack and Slim Jim sitting on a bench and there was every evidence to show that they had been indulging too freely in “Kelly’s Sovereign Remedy for a Sour Disposition.” They seemed very confidential in their conversation, and I could not help overhearing it. It ran about as follows:

S. J.—Jack, do you know that old nester that settled on the flats out on Crooked Creek?

B. J.—No, I don’t know him, but I heard there was a fellow out there going into farming and raising fine stock.

S. J.—Well, he’s there all right, and has two of the prettiest daughters I ever saw.

B. J.—What has that to do with you?

S. J.—It has this to do with me. I am done ranching. I am going to drop off this old broncho and will step right in between the old man’s plow handles and there I’ll stay until removed by death, or the County Sheriff.

B. J.—Have you had any introduction to those young ladies, or what is the matter with you? Have you taken leave of your senses and gone wild?

S. J.—I never had an introduction to them, but I met them at the post-office and they had a nosebag full of letters and a wheel-barrow full of papers and books. Oh, I tell you they are educated, or what would they want with all that printed stuff. I am going farming, that is what I am going to do.

B. J.—Now I know you are daffy. Talk about farming, don’t you know it has not rained out there in the last eighteen months. I met a traveling evangelist the other day who told me that he almost had to forego the pleasure of immersing a class of six cow-punchers for want of sufficient water to perform the ceremony. He was afraid that if it did not soon rain he would lose them sure as he would not be able to get them again if they went back to the ranches before they received his ministrations.

S. J.—Oh, that is all right about the rain! The old man does not need rain. He has a wind-mill and a trough to water his stock, and I can tell you that his stock is first class. I saw some of them and the milch cows had bags on them the size of washtubs and the teats hung down like baseball bats. He is well fitted in every way. He has a top buggy with a high back and a low seat all for himself. He wears a white shirt just as some folks do in Texas when they are running for office. I met his boy on the train a day or so ago and he shows good raising. He had shoes and stockings on, and he is no more than fifteen years old. He also had on a collar and tie and did not swear once while I was talking to him. I asked him where his pa had got the big stock and he said that they came from Ohio, and that they were Poland China or something like that.

B. J.—Let me tell you, Slim, if that old man is from Chicago and is a Republican, he has no use for a cow-puncher or a Democrat, no more than a pig has for side pockets. He would not want you to picket your horse on the trail in front of his place, nor to holler in his rain barrel, much less going to call on one of his daughters. Why, they scare the children back there and compel them to be good by telling them that the nasty, old, long-haired cow-puncher will take them away to the ranch where there is nothing but wild cattle, cow-punchers, tarantulas and centipedes, and a lot of other reptiles.