For a moment Ty didn’t move, and then his lips tightened and he nodded his head. Promotheus gave a sigh and settled back. He stayed quiet for some time and then said in a weak voice: “Thank ya, Ty. I’m purty certain that at such a time as this, you wouldn’t deceive me. I’m sorry you are married to her—on the Friar’s account, understand—but I’m mightily obliged to you for tellin’ me the truth. The Friar is a square man, and he’s a strong man. He’ll be able to fight what he has to fight; but none of us can fight uncertainty, without losin’ our nerve in the end. I wish you would talk to me, Ty. I thought more o’ you than of airy other man I ever knew, except Horace and the Friar; and I wish, just for old time’s sake, you’d talk to me a little before I slip away. You can talk, can’t ya?”
“Yes, I can talk,” sez Ty Jones, facin’ The with a scowl; “but I haven’t any talk I want to waste on traitors. If I was to speak at all, it would be to ask ’em to separate me from your sloppy yappin’. You may think ’at you sound as saintly as a white female angel when you whine about duty and forgiveness and such-like rubbish; but the more oil you put on your voice, the more I know you to be a sneak, a hypocrite, and a traitor. I won’t ask ’em to move me; because I’m not in the habit of askin’ any man. When I had two legs to stand on, I gave orders. Now that I can’t give orders, I don’t speak at all; but every time you try to speak like a hen-missionary, you can know that I’m sayin’ to myself—sneak, hypocrite, traitor!”
One thing you’ll have to say about Ty Jones, an’ that is, that when he started north, he didn’t wobble off to the east or west much, let what would come in his path. The only reply The made was to sigh; but what I wanted to do, was to lull Promotheus into a deep sleep, and then to fasten Ty Jones’s neck to a green bronco, and let them two settle it out between ’em which was the tougher beast. What I did do, was to steal out and tell Horace what had been said, and I also told him not to separate Ty and Promotheus as I thought The would set him an example which might finally soften him a little and make him more fit to die, when the time came ’at some quick tempered individual lost patience and tried to knock a little decent conversation out of him with an ax.
Horace, though, thought only o’ The, and he hurried in and sat beside him. I also went in and took my seat by the fire again. Horace took The’s hand in one of his and patted it with the other. Horace didn’t have any upliftin’ words to match the Friar’s; but he had some chirky little ways which were mighty comfortin’ to The, and when Horace would be with him, all the sadness would leave his eyes, and he would talk as free as he thought—which, to my mind, is the final test of genuwine courage.
Mighty few of us can do it. I know I can’t. Time and again, I have had deep feelin’s for some one in trouble; but when I’d try to put ’em into words, the knees o’ my tongue would allus knock together, and I’d growl out somethin’ gruff, cough, blow my nose, and get into a corner as soon as possible. The Friar was the first man who ever showed me ’at a feller could speak out his softness without losin’ any of his strength, and I have honestly tried to do it myself; but I generally had to dilute it down over half, and even then, it allus sounded as though I had wrote it out and learned it by heart.
The asked Horace to either move him or Ty, said he didn’t feel quite comfortable beside Ty, and made out that it was his own wish; but Horace vetoed the motion, and pertended to scold The for not havin’ a more forgivin’ nature. The thought he had been as circumspect as a land agent, and when his request rebounded back on him, he found himself without any dry powder.
He lay quiet for some time, and then spoke in so low a tone I could hardly hear him. “I can understand the real Promotheus purty well, Horace,” sez he; “and I’ve tried to be as game as he was; but I can’t quite understand the One the Friar tells about. I have thought of Him a heap since I’ve been laid up this time; but I don’t believe I could bring myself to forgive them who had nailed me on a cross for doin’ nothin’ but good—I don’t believe I could do that.
“I can feel things clearer now ’n I ever could before; and when I picture my own self as hangin’ from nails drove through my hands and feet, it just about takes my breath away. I’ve been handled purty rough in my time, but allus when my blood was hot, and pain don’t count then; but to have nails drove—My God, Horace, that’s an awful thought! That’s an awful thought.
“Then, too, I don’t feel that any one has ill used me lately. The treatment I got in the army, and in the pen, was consid’able hellish; but I haven’t had much chance to try forgivin’ any one for the last few years. Horace, you can’t imagine all the joy the last part of my life has been to me. I didn’t know what life really was, until you and the Friar pointed it out to me. I’ve been so happy sometimes it has hurt me in the throat; and now that I’m goin’ on, I don’t want to cause any one any bother. I asked Ty to tell me if he was married to the woman, and he did tell me. I’m sorry to say ’at he is married to her, Horace; but I’m thankful to Ty for tellin’ me. He don’t feel easy near me; so I wish you’d move me back to the bunk-shack.”
It was some minutes before Horace could speak, and when he did, he had to put on pressure to keep his voice steady. “I don’t care one single damn what Ty Jones wants,” sez he. “Let him stay right where he is and learn the meanin’ of friendship from the best friend a man ever had.” After which Horace gave The’s hand a grip and hurried out of the room.