The’s somethin’ about bein’ bit on the thumb which melts a man’s nerve; and in about five minutes, the stranger had Skelty’s head between his knees, and was makin’ him eat his own gun. It must have been a hideous sight! Some say that he actually did make Skelty eat it, and some say that he only tore through the throat; but anyway, Skelty didn’t quite survive it, and Ty Jones hired the stranger, which was Olaf the Swede.
Olaf was one o’ those Swedes which seem a mite too big for their skins. The bones in his head stuck out, his jaws stuck out prodigious, his shoulders stuck out, his hands stuck out—he fair loomed up and seemed to crowd the landscape, and he was stouter ’n a bull. When he let himself go he allus broke somethin’; but he had a soft streak in him for animals, an’ Ty never could break him from bein’ gentle with hosses, nor keep him from pettin’ the dogs once in a while. Olaf hadn’t no more morals ’n a snake at this time, an’ when it came to dealin’ with humans, he suited Ty to the minute; but he just simply wouldn’t torture an animal, and that was the end of it. Olaf wasn’t a talkin’ man; he never used a word where a grunt would do, and he was miserly about them; but he certainly was set in his ways.
The Friar hadn’t fainted, he had just gone dizzy; so when Olaf gave him a lift he got to his feet and walked to his horse. He allus carried some liniment an’ such in his saddle bags, an’ he pulled off his shirt and cleaned out the wound and tied it up, with Olaf standin’ by and tryin’ to help. Now, it made something of a murmur, when the Friar took off his shirt. In the first place, the dog had give him an awful tear, and for the rest, the Friar was a wonderful sight to behold. He was as strong as Olaf without bein’ bulgey, and his skin was as white and smooth as ivory. He was all curves and tapers with medium small hands and feet, and a throat clean cut and shapely like the throat of a high-bred mare. Olaf looked at him, and nodded his head solemnly. Badger-face hated Olaf, because Olaf had a curious way of estimatin’ things and havin’ ’em turn out to be so, which made Ty Jones put faith in what Olaf said, over and above what any one else said.
As soon as the Friar had finished tyin’ up the wound, he turned and walked up to Ty Jones. “Friend,” he said, “I don’t bear you a grain o’ malice, and nothing you can ever do to me will make me bear you a grain o’ malice. I know a lot about medicine, and perhaps I can help you that way sometime. I want to get a start with you some way; I want to be welcome here, and I wish ’at you’d give me a chance.”
“Oh, hell!” sneered Ty Jones. “Do you think you can soft-soap me as easy as you did the boys? You’re not welcome here now, and you never will be. I’ve heard all this religious chatter, and there’s nothin’ in it. The world was always held by the strong, by the men who hated their enemies and stamped them out as fast as they got a chance; and it always will be held by the strong. Your religion is only for weaklings and hypocrits.”
The Friar’s face lighted. “Will you discuss these things with me?” he asked. “I shall not eat until this scratch is healed, I have my own bed and will not bother you; won’t you just be decent enough to invite me to camp here, give me free use of water, and grass for my hosses, while you and I discuss these things fully?”
“I told you I didn’t want you about, and I don’t,” sez Ty. “The’s nothin’ on earth so useless as a preacher, and I can’t stand ’em.”
“Let me work for you,” persisted the Friar. “All I ask is a chance to show ’at I’m able to do a man’s work, and all the pay I ask is a chance to hold service here on Sundays. If I don’t do my work well, then you can make me the laughin’ stock o’ the country; but I tell you right now that if you turn me away without a show, it will do you a lot more harm than it will me.”
Ty thought ’at probably the Friar had got wind o’ some of his devilment, and was hintin’ that his own neck depended on his men keepin’ faith with him; so he stared at the Friar to see if it was a threat.
The Friar looked back into his eyes with hope beamin’ in his own; but after a time Ty Jones scowled down his brows an’ pointed the way ’at the Friar had come. “Go,” sez he, stiff as ever. “The’ ain’t any room for you on the Cross brand range; and if ya try anything underhanded, I’ll hunt ya down and put ya plumb out o’ the way.”