I took Horace into my most thoughtful moods as soon as I found out that he was as sound as a nut at heart, an’ that it wasn’t altogether his fault that he had been a pest to me at first. The human mind is like new land, some of it’s rich an’ some poor. Facts is like manure, idees is like seed, an’ education is like spadin’ up an’ hoein’ an’ rakin’. Rich soil is bound to raise somethin’, even if it’s nothin’ but weeds; but poor soil needs special care, or it won’t even raise weeds. Now, manure can be put on so thick it will turn ground sour, an’ seeds can be sowed so thick they will choke each other, an’ a green hand will sometimes hoe up the vegetables an’ cultivate the weeds; but the soil ain’t to blame for this.
Poor Horace’s mind had been bungled to an infernal degree; an’ it kept me busy rootin’ up sprouts o’ Greek religion. I’d have stood this better if the Greek gods an’ godduses had had Christian names; ’cause I own up ’at some o’ his tales of ’em was interestin’; but I couldn’t keep track of ’em, an’ so I made him discard ’em in his conversations with me; an’ the way he flattered me was, to reform himself accordin’ to what I demanded.
I was teachin’ him how to shoot, an’ he was enjoyin’ it a lot. He had plenty o’ money, and took pleasure in spendin’ it. This was good, ’cause it costs a lot o’ money to become a good shot. I’m glad I don’t know what it cost me to learn how to shoot a man through both ears after doin’ the double reverse roll. I never had but one fit chance to use this, an’ then I shot Frenchy through his ears without rememberin’ to use the roll. I allus felt bad about this, ’cause I had a good audience, an’ nothin’ saves a man from the necessity o’ shootin’ his fellows, so much as havin’ it well advertised that he is thoroughly qualified to do it in proper style. I kept up my own practicin’ while teachin’ Horace, an’ we had right sociable times.
He could throw up a tin can with his left hand, pull his gun and, about once out o’ ten shots, hit the can before it fell; which is purty fair shootin’; but he was beginnin’ to suspect that he was a regular gun-man; which is a dangerous idee for any one to get into his head. I tried to weight down his head a little to keep him sensible, but instead o’ thankin’ me he went off with Tank, who shot up a lot of his cartridges at target practice; and in return, puffed up the top-heavy opinion Horace already had of himself.
He took Horace down to a warm cañon where the’ was a lot o’ rattlesnakes, claimin’ it was necessary to test him out an’ see if he had nerve on a livin’ creature. He shot off the heads o’ three snakes, hand-runnin’, an’ it nearly broke his hatband.
When he told me about it, I let him know ’at Tank was only workin’ him. “A rattlesnake will strike at a flash, Horace,” sez I; “an’ it was the snake’s eyes which were accurate, not yours.” This cut him up an’ made him a little offish with me for a few days, until he found I had told him the truth. Ol’ Tank Williams wasn’t no fancy shot; but I’d rather have tackled Horace with a gun, cocked in his hand, than ol’ Tank, with his gun asleep in its holster.
After Horace had made the test of shootin’ at dead snakes an’ had found that he couldn’t pop off three heads hand-runnin’, he simmered down a little an’ paid more heed to what I told him; but after I had proved that I told him straighter stuff ’n Tank did, I decided it would be necessary to punish him a little. I didn’t get downright cold with him, because I didn’t want to exaggerate his vanity any more ’n it already was; but I made it a point to do my loafin’ with Spider Kelley. Horace was crazy to go bear-huntin’; but I didn’t seem interested, an’ I recommended ol’ Tank Williams as bein’ some the best bear-hunter the’ was in existence. I wasn’t jealous of Horace goin’ off shootin’ with Tank; but still if a feller chooses to dispense with my company, I allus like to show him ’at I can stand it as long as he can.
Quite a string o’ years had slipped away since the bettin’ barber o’ Boggs had strung ol’ man Dort; so I reminded Spider ’at we had agreed to help even that up sometime; and Spider, he said he was ready to do his part, whatever it happened to be; so we planned idees out among ourselves, while Horace hung around lookin’ wishful.
We had never given it away about the woodchuck not bein’ a regular squirrel; so the boys still used to congregate together purty often at ol’ man Dort’s to marvel at the way Columbus had filled out an’ took on flesh. He had got rough an’ blotchy soon after he had won the contest from Ben Butler, the red squirrel, an’ it was plain to all that Eugene had done some high-toned barberin’ on him before the day o’ the show.
Ol’ man Dort didn’t have no affection for Columbus—fact is, he sort o’ hated him for bein’ bigger ’n Ben Butler; but he kept him fat an’ fit so as to be ready to enter in a contest the minute any feller came along with a squirrel he thought was big enough to back up with a bet. The trouble was, that mighty few fellers out that way owned any squirrels, an’ as the years dragged by without him gettin’ any pastime out o’ Columbus, ol’ man Dort’s affection for him grew thinner an’ thinner. Some o’ the boys discovered him to be a woodchuck; but no one told of it for fear the old man would slaughter Eugene.