CHAPTER VI
MY RANGE WHELPS WHIMPERING
Now that I have won through the dull beginning of this story, I've just got to stop and pat myself before going on any further. There were steep bits on the trail where I panted for words, rocks where I stumbled, holes where I bogged down to the hocks, cross-roads where I curved around lost. At the best I'd a poor eye, a lame tongue, and a heap big inclination to lie down and quit; so I've done sure fine to keep a-going. Ride me patient still, for I'm near the beginning of the troubles which picked up Jim, Curly, and me, to whirl us along like a hurricane afire. Soon we'll break gait from a limp to a trot, from trot to canter, then from lope to gallop.
I suppose I had better explain some about Grave City, and how it got to have such a cheerful name. That was away back in 1878, when two prospectors, Ed Schieffelin and his brother, pulled out to explore the desert down by the Mexican boundary. The boys allowed they'd better take their coffins along with them, because if they missed being scalped by Apaches, or wiped out by border ruffians, or starved to death, they would surely perish of thirst. "The only thing you boys will find is your grave."
Well, they called their discovery Grave City, but it was one of the richest silver-mines on earth, and a city grew up here in the desert. For the first few years it was most surely hot, full of artists painting the town red, and shooting each other up with a quick gun. That was the time of Mankiller Johnson, Curly Bill, Roosian George, Brazelton of Tucson, the robber, and a young gentleman aged twenty-two, called Billy the Kid, who wiped out twenty fellow-citizens and followed them rapid to a still warmer climate. When these gentlemen had shot each other for their country's good, and a great many more died a natural death by being lynched, the city got more peaceful. In the second year it was burnt, and entirely rebuilt in a fortnight. The first large gambling joint was called the "Sepulchre," the first weekly paper was the Weekly Obituary, and in the eighth year Mr. Ryan built his hotel—the "Mortuary." That was in 1886, the year of the Apache raids, when I went with the new patrone to Holy Cross. Twelve years I rode for Balshannon, then, Jim being in his eighteenth year, took charge as foreman and major-domo of that grand old ranche.
It was the 4th of July, 1900, before I saw that youngster again. We gathered at Grave City then to celebrate the birthday of our great republic, and it does me good every time to see our flag Old Glory waving above the cities of freedom. The Honourable Jim must needs run a mare of his at the races, the same, as I told him, being suitable meat to bait traps.
I made him an offer for that mare; ten cents for her tail as a fly switch, a dollar for her hide, and a five-cent rim-fire cigar if he would dispose of the other remains. He raced her, lost one thousand dollars, and came to me humble for the money to pay his debts. I told him to burn his own paws in his own fire, and be content with his own howls.
"They're debts of honour!" says he.
"Debts of dishonour, and you're the Dishonourable James du Idiot. There's your travelling pony been standing saddled all day in the blazing heat without a feed or a drink. You call yourself a horseman?"
Afterwards we smoothed our fur, and had our supper together. Jim promised to be good, go home, do his honest cowboy work, and look after the poor lone lady who was dying by inches at Holy Cross.