The rest surrendered.

"Kate," said I, sort of quiet, and she came to me.

CHAPTER VIII

THE STAMPEDE

_Jesse's Narrative_

Being married to a lady, and full of dumb yearnings for reform, I axed Dale when he was down to Vancouver to d.i.c.ker for a book on etiquette.

_Deportment for Gents_ being threw at a policeman and soiled, Dale only paid six bits; but I tossed him double or quits, and come out all right.

As to the book, it's wrote mighty high and severe by Professor Aaron E.

Honeypott, but when I tried some on my wife she laughed so she rolled on the floor. I know now that when I sweats at a dance I'm not to hang my collar on the chandileer, or press bottled beer on my partner. If ever I get to a town I'm to take the outside of the sidewalk, wipe my gums on the mat, and wash before I use them roller towels. But it doesn't say when I'm to wear my boots inside my pants, or how old Honeypott chews without having to spit, or what to say when Jones kicks me in the morning, or in deadfall timber, or when a bear dislikes me, or any unusual accident in this vale of tears; and there ain't one word about robbers.

Which these robbers we got in the cave is a disappointment. This old man what leads them with a plume on his face, ought to have more deportment, for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a gun in Kate's ear ain't no sort of manners. Even after I'd shot his hand to chips, he grabbed Ransome's gun with his left and tried to make me lie down. There's some folks jest don't know when you give them a hint.

And Bull, with the sad eyes, ought to comport himself around like a Honeypott, seeing the way he was raised, and how he claims on me his ancient friendship. While we lashed his thumbs behind him, he told us he'd been educated at Oxford and Cambridge.

"What!" Kate flashed out, "after leaving Eton and Harrow?"

"Yes, and I've enough education to guess this ain't no way to treat American citizens. You'll hear of this," he shouted, "from Uncle Sam!"

"Thar," says Dale, "I knew there'd be rewards for you, dead or alive.

How much? Two thousand dollars a head?"

Then old Whiskers ordered this Bull to shut his head. He's a curious, slow, mournful voice, like a cat with the toothache.

"I demand--"

"Shut up."

So Bull shut up while we lashed him, likewise young Ginger and the greaser. Seeing the fellow I'd killed might want an inquest, we laid him straight in the ruined shack, and then marched our prisoners off to South Cave, where they'll wait until we get our constable to arrest them.

II

Now on the second day after we captures these ladrones, along toward supper, the depositions of the various parties is as follows, viz.:

Up to the ruined shack two mile north of my home, lies the remains of one robber expecting an inquest. Two miles south, right where the upper cliff cuts off the end of our pasture, there's our cave full of captured bandits, to wit; Whiskers, Bull Durham, Ginger, and the dago. Down on the bench in front of the cave is our guard-camp with Iron Dale in command, and Kate with the boys having supper. Right home at the ranch house is me finishing my ch.o.r.es, and the widow spoiling hash for my supper, because she hates me worse nor snakes for being a Protestant.

Away off beyond the horizon is old man Brown cussing blue streaks 'cause he can't find much constable.

Such being the combinations at supper-time, along comes the widow's orphan, young Billy O'Flynn, who handles my pack contract with the Sky-line. He's supposed to be on duty at the guard-camp, and his riding back to the home ranch completely disarranges the landscape. I'm busy, hungry, and expected to take charge of the night guard at the cave, but somehow this Billy attracts my attention by acting a whole lot suspicious. Instead of bringing me some message from Dale, he rides straight to the lean-to kitchen, steps off his pony, and whispers for his mother. I sneaks through the house to the kitchen in time to see this widow with a slip of paper, brown paper what we used to wrap up the prisoners' lunch. At sight of me she gets modest, shoving it into the stove, but I becomes prominent, and grabs it "Shure," she explains, "an'

it's only a schlip av paper!"

Seems to be scratches on the smooth side of this paper, sort of reminding me that Bull has a fountainpen sticking out of his vest pocket. If he's been writing with milk, I'd warm the paper--but no, we use canned milk, and haven't got any either. I've heard faintly somewheres of things wrote in spittle, so I pours on a bottle of ink, and rinses the paper in the water-b.u.t.t. Yes, there's the message plain as print.

"Gun to hand, but cartridges wrong size, no good. Get .45. Billy to wait with ponies under nearest pine N. of cave, when plough above N. Star. Send more gum for chief's wound.--Bull."

Billy was mounting at the door to put out for solitude, but since he knows I can't miss under two hundred yards, he was persuaded to come into the cabin. There I read him some of the etiquette about keeping his temper, and not using coa.r.s.e language. Also I told him politely what I thought of him, and where he'll go when he dies. He waited, stroking the little fur on his muzzle, till I got through, looking so d.a.m.ned patient with me that I came near handing him one in the eye.

"You invited these robbers to my gra.s.s?"

He nodded.

"Thanks to you, my wife had a gun muzzle screwed round in her ear."

"Bet she squinted!" said Billy.

If I lose my temper, I can't shoot, and Billy knew that well. "She's up agin it good and hard," said he.

"Agin what?"

"Making a silk purse out of a sow's ear."

"You lop-eared, mangy, pig-faced, herring-gutted son of a ----"

"From the _Etiquette_?" asked Billy. "I don' think much of you, anyway.

Mother ain't got no use for you either, or any of the neighbors, you old cow thief!"

Now if Billy talked so big as all that, it must be to astonish his mother. So she must be at the key-hole, and sure enough I heard her grind her stump with the backache from stooping down. Happens Mrs. Smith has a garden squirt which it holds a gallon, so while I kep' young Billy interested with patches of etiquette, I took off the rose, filled the squirt, and let drive through the key-hole into the widow's ear. At that she lifted up her voice and wept.

Feeling better, I resumed the conversation. "Billy," sez I, smooth as cream, while I filled the squirt, "on the shelf there you'll find a little small bottle." In my dim way I aimed to get him excited, and talkative, divulging secrets with all his heart. Then afterward I'd like him asleep, out of mischief.

"Get your bottle yourself," says he, sort of defiant, so I let drive at him with the squirt.

"If you please," said I, and he got the bottle all right.

"If you don't mind," said I, "will you just draw the cork?"

"And if I won't?"

I took my squirt and watched him pull the cork.

"Thank you," sez I, seeing how beautiful is the uses of true politeness.

"Now may I trouble you to spill what's left in the bottle into that there goblet? Now be so kind."

"I refuse!"

The squirt won't scare any more Billy, so I exhibits my gun.

"I regrets to remark, Mr. O'Flynn, that this gun acts sort of sudden."

"Shoot, and you go to jail!"

"But first, my dear young friend, I've time to lop off a few fingers, one at a time--won't miss them all at once. May I request you to pour out the medicine? No--not on the floor, please, but into the goblet, while I observe that your right thumb seems tender after that cut, and ought to be treated. So, a little more. That's right. Now honor me by adding a little water from the pitcher. Thank you. Thumb feeling easier?