Horace looked worried. “Tank,” sez I soothin’ly, “we don’t really need any one else along. You just help us to load, an’ then go back, like a good feller.”
Tank stood up on the seat, an’ held the whip ready. “My life depends on me takin’ this trip!” he yelled. “My life depends on it; it depends on it, I tell you. My life depends on me takin’ this trip!”
He went on repeatin’ about his life dependin’ on his takin’ that trip, until I made a sign to Horace, and said ’at we’d better let him go along. Horace wasn’t ambitious to be trampled; so he concluded to concur, an’ climbed into the seat beside Tank. Any one else would ’a’ noticed that it was Tank’s saddle on the hoss I was leadin’; but Horace never noticed anything which wasn’t directly connected with his own body. He didn’t even have any idee that the sun had set habits in the matter o’ risin’ an’ settin’—which was another fact I had took into account.
We were drivin’ four broncs to the buckboard, an’ they was new to the game and in high spirits. Tank was also in high spirits, an’ we went at a clip which was inspirin’, even to sound nerves. We did our level best to give Horace somethin’ real to worry about, an’ from the very start his nerves was so busy handin’ in idees an’ sensations that his mind was took up with these instead of with the nerves themselves as was usual.
Well, we sure had a delightful ride that afternoon: every time ’at Horace would beseech Tank to be more careful in swingin’ around down-hill curves, Tank would seize him by the arm with his full squeezin’ grip, an’ moan: “It’s my nerves, my pore nerves. This is one o’ the times when I’m restive, I got to have action; my very life depends on it! Whoop, hit ’em up—Whee!” an’ he’d crack his mule-skinner about the ears o’ the ponies, an’ we’d have another runaway for a spell.
Horace hadn’t the mite of an idee in which direction he was travelin’; all he did was to hang on and hope. The confounded buckboard was tougher ’n we had figured on, and it didn’t bust until near dark. As they went up the slope, I could see the left hind wheel weavin’ purty rapid, an’ as they tore down the grade to Cottonwood Crick, things began to creak an’ rattle most threatenin’. We had decided to camp on the crick, an’ Tank swung up his team with a flourish. The hind wheel couldn’t stand the strain, an’ when it crumbled, Horace, an’ the rest o’ the baggage, whip-crackered off like a pinwheel. Of course when one wheel went, the others dished in company, an’ the whole thing was a wreck.
The ponies were comfortable weary, an’ after I had roped one an’ the rest had fallen over him, we soothed ’em down without much trouble, an’ started to make camp. Horace was all in, an’ was minded to sit on his shoulder blades an’ rest; but this wasn’t part o’ the plan, an’ we made him hustle like a new camp-boy. As soon as supper was over, he lit a cigar, an’ prepared to take a rest. We had decided that those big, black cigars wasn’t best for his nerves, so we had smuggled out the box, an’ had worked a little sulphur into all but the top row. He lit his cigar and gave us one apiece, but he was so sleepy he couldn’t keep his on fire; and it was comical to watch him.
Every time he’d nod off, Tank would utter an exclamation, an’ walk up an’ down, rubbin’ his hands an’ cussin’ about his nerves. Horace was dead tired from bein’ jounced about on the buckboard all day; but he was worried about Tank, an’ this would wake him effectual.
About ten o’clock I sez: “Tank, what happened that night when you got nervous up in the Spider Water country?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, don’t ask me,” sez Tank, gittin’ up an’ walkin’ off into the darkness.