The Friar came back about ten o’clock. He came into our shack as quiet as he could; but Horace was sittin’ before the fire waitin’ for him. It was a warm night; but we had built the fire to make it a little more cheerful, and had left the door wide open. Horace saw the Friar the minute he reached the doorway, and he got up and went outside with him.
They were gone nearly an hour, and then Horace sneaked in, and wakened me up. I follered him outside; and he said that the Friar intended to ride down to see Ty Jones as soon as it was day, and that he insisted on ridin’ alone. The Friar was walkin’ up and down in the moonlight, his face was all twisted up, through his tryin’ to hold it calm, when I took my turn at reasonin’ with him; but it wasn’t any use.
“Well, you’ll not go alone,” I said at last; “and you can make up your mind to that now. We don’t know how much Ty already knows about our puttin’ the Greasers out o’ the game, and we don’t know how much of it he’ll lay to you; but we do know that he hates you, and would wipe your name off the list the first good chance he had. I’m goin’ along.”
The Friar was hot; we stood there in the moonlight facin’ each other and takin’ each other’s measures. He was a shade taller and some heavier ’n I was; and ya could see ’at he’d have given right smart to have felt free to mix it with me. “Do you think I’m a baby?” he burst out. “Do you think ’at I’m not fit to be trusted out o’ your sight? You take entirely too much on yourself, Happy Hawkins!”
I didn’t want to taunt him to hurt him—I’d rather been kicked by a hoss than to do this—but I did want to arouse him to a sense o’ the truth. “You have adjusted yourself to this locality purty well, Friar,” sez I; “but the’s still a lot you don’t quite savvy. Some cases must be settled by a man himself, but some must be left to the law. If this woman is the wife o’ Ty Jones, he has the law on his side.”
He turned from me and stamped off into the night with his hands clenched. He disappeared in the cottonwoods, and I was just beginnin’ to wonder if I hadn’t better foller him, when he came back again. “Oh, I’ve been a fool, I’ve been a fool!” he cried. “All my life I have tried not to judge others, but all my life I have judged them. I have tried to put myself in their place, but allus I judged and condemned them for giving way to temptations which I felt that I, in their place, could have resisted. I have been a fool, and I still am a fool. I admit that you are right, and I am wrong—but, I am going to Ty Jones’s at dawn, and I’m goin’ alone.”
Well, that settled it—me an’ the Friar had to buck each other again. He continued to stalk up an’ down through moonlight and shadow; while I tried to plan a way to head him off. I was dead sleepy, but I went around and wakened up all the other fellers, and told ’em not to get up in the mornin’ until called; next I got Tank to help me, and we waited until the Friar had walked in the opposite direction, and then we took the ponies out o’ the corral and headed ’em toward the hills. The farther we got, the rougher with ’em we got, and then we turned our own mounts loose, and sent ’em after the bunch. It was a big job to pack our saddles back on our heads, but we did it, and tore down the fences to pertend ’at the ponies had vamoosed on their own hook. Horace was walkin’ with the Friar now, arguin’ the benefit of a little sleep, so ’at he’d be at his best. After a time the Friar did go to bed in Horace’s tarp in the corner.
I didn’t wake up till after seven, myself, and all the fellers were pertendin’ to sleep as though it wasn’t more ’n three. The Friar didn’t wake up till eight. He was beside himself when he found the ponies gone; but he ate breakfast as calm as he could, and then set out with us to wrangle in some hosses on foot.
Goin’ after hosses on foot is sufficiently irritatin’ to a ridin’ outfit to make it easy enough to believe ’at this was all an accident, and we didn’t come up with the ponies till nearly noon. When we cornered ’em up, I never in my life saw as much poor ropin’, nor as much good actin’; but we finally got enough gentle ones to ride bareback, so we could wrangle in the rest; and after a quick lunch, the Friar started to make his hoss ready.
We all started along with him. He stopped and faced on us, givin’ us a long, cold look-over. You can say all you want to again’ swearin’, but the’s times when it springs out of its own accord in a man, as natural and beautiful and satisfyin’ as the flowers blossom forth on the cactus plants; and I haven’t a shred of doubt that if the Friar had handed us some o’ the remarks that came ready-framed to his tongue just then, they’d have been well worth storin’ up for future needs; but all he did was to fold his arms, and say: “Your methods are not my methods. I am not goin’ there to start trouble, and I do not even wish to give them the slightest excuse to start it of their own vo-lition. If you are my friends, you will respect my wishes.”