Some of the shooting didn’t seem quite as if it was needed; but it was allowed afterwards––even if there hadn’t been no free bar––there was excuse for it: seeing the town was all strung up and had to work itself off. Santa Fé, of course, had more excuse than anybody, being most strung-upest. Bluffing his way through that kindergarten game, he said, was the biggest strain he’d ever had. But he didn’t mind what trouble he’d took, he said, seeing he’d got Hart out of his hole by taking it; and he looked real pleased when Hill spoke up––just about voicing what all the rest of us was thinking––saying he was ready, after the way he’d played his kindergarten hand, to put his pile on Santa 126 Fé Charley to make iced drinks in hell!
Of course Hill oughtn’t to have spoke like that. But allowances was to be made for Hill––owing to the ways he’d got into driving mules.
V
BOSTON’S LION-HUNT
As I’ve said, folks in Palomitas mostly got for names what happened to come handiest and fitted. Likely that dude’s cuffs was marked with something he was knowed by; but as most of us wasn’t particular what his cuffs was marked, or him either, we just called him Boston––after the town he made out he belonged to––and let it go at that. Big game was what he said he was looking for: and Santa Fé Charley, with Shorty Smith and others helping, saw to it he got all he wanted and some over––but I reckon the exercises would a-been less spirited if the Sage-Brush Hen hadn’t chipped in and played a full hand.
He was one of the sporting kind, Boston 128 was, that turned up frequent in the Territory in them days. Most of ’em was friends of officers at some of the posts, with a sprinkling throwed in of sons and nephews of directors of the road. Big game was what they all made out they come for; and they was apt to have about as much use for big game––when they happened to find any––as a cat has for two tails. But they seemed to enjoy letting off ca’tridges––and used to buy what skins was in the market to take home.
Boston turned out to be a nephew––nephews was apt to be worse’n sons for stuck-upness––and he come in one morning in a private car hitched onto the Denver train. He had a colored man along to cook and clean his guns for him––he had more things to shoot with, and of more shapes and sizes, than you ever seen in one place outside of a gun-store––and he was dressed that nice in green corduroys, with new-fangled knives and hunting fixings hanging all over him like he was a Christmas-tree, he might have hired out for a show. He wasn’t a bad set-up 129 young feller; but with them green clothes on, and being clean shaved and wearing eye-glasses, he did look just about what he truly was.
Wood had a wire a director’s nephew was coming––he was the agent, Wood was––and orders to side-track his car and see he was took care of; and of course Wood passed the word along to the rest of us what sort of a game was on. But he begged so hard, Wood did, the town would hold itself in––saying if rigs was put up on a director’s nephew he was dead sure to lose his job––we all allowed we’d give the young feller a day or two to turn round in, anyway; and we promised Wood––who was liked––we’d let the critter get through his hunting picnic without putting up no rigs on him if he made any sort of a show of knowing how to behave. Howsomedever, he didn’t––and things started up, and nobody but Boston himself to blame for it, that very first night over in the bar-room at the Forest Queen.