"That's sense," sez he. "Did you ever have any experience?"

"I was clerk in a restaurant once," sez I; "but I didn't like it, an' I don't reckon I'll go into the restaurant business."

Barbie rode a long way with me, but we didn't talk much.

I don't suppose the' ever was a time when we both had so much to say; but we couldn't seem to say it, an' when we came to part all she said was, "Oh, Happy, I hate to see you go, but I'm sure you'll come back in the fall."

"I'll come back as soon as I feel I can," sez I; "an' now don't worry none yourself, an' don't fret your Dad--an' don't forget old Happy." We shook hands long an' firm, an' her eyes seemed tryin' to hold me until I couldn't look into 'em--but I didn't kiss her this time. We both noticed it, an' we both knew 'at while I was partin' from her she was partin' from her childhood. Partin' from anything 'at you've been fond of is mighty sad business; and so I rode away again.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

I felt entirely different this time. I wasn't smartin' under anger an'

unjust treatment; I was goin' out of my own accord an' because I had left behind me the carelessness of boyhood, hood, an' was ready to plow an' plant an' wait for a crop. No more gaiety, no more frivolity, no more heedlessness. I was to scheme an' plan for the future an' not be led astray by every enticin' amus.e.m.e.nt that beckoned to me.

When I came in sight of Danders the second day, I didn't inquire how my thirst was feelin'--no more thirst emersions for mine. The' ain't any profit in that, sez I to myself; what I want to do is to ease this old skin of a pony along until I can get a piece of money for him; that's business.

I wasn't much acquainted over in Danders, an' I thought it would be easy slidin'; but the first feller I met was a useless sort of a cuss what had been punchin' cows at the Diamond Dot the time the Prophy Gang tried to clean it out, an' he has to tell 'em who I am, an' they had all heard about me an' Bill Andrews; so 'at it was purt' nigh impossible for me to hold out. I apologized for not drinkin', an' they let me off; but the old Diamond Dot hand said he was broke, an' wanted me to shove him a little stake.

Well, that was sure a bad opening: "Business," sez I, "don't let go one cent unless it's goin' to grab another an' fetch it back home;" an' I knew that all I gave this feller would keep in circulation for the balance of eternity. Then a brilliant thought struck me, an' I told him I'd give him one fourth of all he got for the pony over ten dollars. He looked at the pony an' sez, "Who gets the ten dollars?"

"I gets the ten dollars," sez I. "This is business: I own the pony, I pay you wages to sell him, the more you sell him for the more you get."

He looks at me a moment an' then he calls a gang around him an' sez to 'em: "Here's a rich one, fellers. You see this pony--well, he was too blame old to herd geese with when I was punchin' cows over at the Diamond Dot, ten year ago, an' now Happy wants me to sell him, me gettin' one fourth of all I rake in over ten dollars--an' HIM gettin'

the ten dollars. What do ya think o' that for nerve?"

Course they all laughed like a lot o' guinea-hens, but I knew that a business man has to overlook the inborn ignorance of his customers, or else it's twice as hard to land 'em; so I just smiled polite.

"What is your first offer, men?" sez my salesman. "Who'll give me a hundred dollars for this grand old relic; this veteran of a hundred wars; this venerable and honorable souvynier of bygone ages?" Well, that blame fool went on pilin' it up while the crowd egged him on by offerin' two bits, an' four bits, an' six bits an' a drink; an' so on until I was disgusted and turned it off as a joke, tellin' the blasted rascal to take the pony an' try to trade him for a night's lodgin'.

He takes my saddle an' bridle off an' puts 'em careful in the hotel, an' then he takes the pony across the street an' begins to rub him down. He rubs him a while an' combs out his stringy mane an' tail with his fingers. Every now an' again he backs off an' examines that pony as though he was actually worth stealin'. I couldn't make out what he was up to, so I stood in front of the hotel watchin' him. Purty soon up comes a tourist what has been lurkin' around in the distance.

"What is the' about that pony that everybody takes such an interest in him for?" sez he, glancin' over to where us fellers was gawkin'.

"Don't you know?" sez the feller, in surprise. I can't quite recall his name now, but I think it was Bill. Anyhow, most fellers' names is Bill, so we'll call him Bill. "Don't you know who this pony is?" sez Bill.

"Why no," sez the tourist. "I just arrived this mornin', an' I'm waitin' for my uncle to send in after me."

"Is that so?" sez Bill. "Well, I'll bet your uncle knows who this pony is. This pony is Captain. Who is your Uncle?"

"Why, my uncle is Charles W. Hampton," sez the tourist.

"You don't say!" sez Bill. "Well, Cholly knows who Captain is all right."

"Oh, do you know him?" sez the tourist.

"Why, everybody knows him around here," sez Bill.

"That's funny; they told me he lived over a hundred and forty miles from here," sez the tourist. "But what is the' about Captain that makes him so wonderful? He don't look like much of a pony to me."

Bill looks at the pony and then he looks at the tourist, then he looks at the pony again an' sez in a low voice: "It ain't on his looks, it's for what he's done that makes Captain famous."

"What's he done?" sez the tourist.

"Did you ever hear of Custer's ma.s.sacre?" sez Bill.

"Of course I have," sez the tourist, gettin' interested.

Bill, he walks up an' puts his hand on the pony's neck, an' then he turns an' sez proudly, "This here pony is the last survivin' remnant of that historical event."

"You don't say!" sez the tourist. "What are you goin' to do with him?"

"I don't want to say a word again the flag of my country," sez Bill, holdin' tip his hand, "but my country ain't got the grat.i.tude it ort to have when it comes to hosses. I don't blame 'em for condemnin' the common run o' hosses an' sellin' 'em to wear out their pore lives in--in toilsome labor, but when it comes to a hoss with a record like Captain--well, I kept him as long as I could afford it. Now I'm goin'

to give him a good groomin', spend my last penny in givin' him one more feed, an' then take him out on the broad free prairie of his native soil--an' shoot him. Of course I could sell him, but I won't do it. I'd rather give him a soldier's death than to have him hammered around in his old age, after all he's done for his country."

Well, the tourist, he gets all het up over it, an' then he comes over to where us fellers gathered. We're standin' in solemn awe, an' he sees the' ain't any of it put on; but he can't tell that it ain't respect for what the pony has done that makes us so solemn; he can't see 'at we 're off erin' up our tribute to Bill.

"Do any of you gentlemen know anything about that pony?" sez the tourist.

"Who, Captain!" sez a tall, lanky, sad-lookin' puncher. "Well, it ain't likely that you can find a man in the West who wouldn't recognize that pony by the description. That there pony was in the Custer Ma.s.sacre."

"The gentleman what owns him is goin' to shoot him," sez the tourist.

"Well, perhaps it's all for the best," sez the sad one. "I ain't no millionaire, but I offered him thirty-seven dollars for that pony. He doubted that I'd take good care of him, so he wouldn't sell him to me.

He said he didn't think I'd abuse the pony when I was sober, but I'll have to own up that when a friend--when a friend invites me to have a drink, I can't say no--an' I got a darn sight o' friends in this country."

The' ain't no use in draggin' this out. After that tourist had agreed to treat that pony like the saints of glory, Bill, he finally sold him to him for an even fifty dollars--an' it was me that bought the liquor for the crowd.

I'm good-natured enough to suit any one reasonable, but I own up I was sore. Here I'd started out with the best intentions in the world, with my mind all made up not to be led into temptation or turned from a set purpose, an' what was the first result? I had simply given my entire stock in trade away to a worthless loafer, an' had seen him sell it for fifty dollars after he had made all manner of fun of me for offerin'

one fourth of all he made over ten. Why, the pony was worth seven dollars, an' I could have sold him for that money myself if I hadn't let them laugh me into showin' of. Then to top off with, I'd blown in about a month's wages just to show the gang I was able to take a joke when it was measured out to me.

I was ready right at that minute to own tip that business didn't come natural to me; but I enjoyed myself plenty enough until along toward mornin', an' then the penjalum begun to swing back. I sat over in the corner kickin' myself purty freely, when a funny, twisted little man came over an' sat across from me. He had pink-like cheeks an' shiny little eyes, an' he was middlin' well crowded with part of the wet goods I had been payin' for. "It was one o' the smoothest business deals I ever saw put through--on a small scale," sez he.

"Oh, hang business," sez I.

"Well, it's a hangin' matter often enough," sez he. "Do you know the reason why the' 's so much devilment in this world?"

"It's 'cause the' 's so many people here," sez I; "that's easy enough."

"It's 'cause the preachers ain't got the nerve to explain what the commandments mean," sez he.

It was an awful curious little man, an' I kind o' straightened up an'

give him a searchin' look: "I've met a heap like you," sez I. "Some folks think that preachers is paid to make the world better, but they ain't. They're paid so that when a feller's conscience hurts him he can just lay all the sins of the whole world on the preachers."