Sandburrs and Others

THE RAT

Be d’ cops at d’ Central office fly?” Chucky buried his face in his tankard in a polite effort to hide his contempt for the question. “Be dey fly! Say! make no mistake! d’ Central Office mugs is as soon a set of geezers as ever looked over d’ hill. Dey’re d’ swiftest ever. On d’ level! I t’ink t’ree out of every four of them gezebos could loin to play d’ pianny in one lesson.

“Just to put youse onto how quick dey be, an’ to give you some idee of their curves, let me tell you what dey does to Billy d’ Rat.

“Youse never chases up on d’ Rat? Nit! Well, Cully, you don’t miss much. Yes, d’ Rat’s a crook all right. He’s a nipper, but a dead queer one, see! He always woiks alone, an’ his lay is diamonds.

“‘I don’t want no pals or stalls in mine,” says d’ Rat. “I can toin all needful tricks be me lonesome. Stalls is a give-away, see! Let some sucker holler, an’ let one of your mob get pinched, an’ what then? Why, about d’ time he’s stood up an’ given d’ secont degree be Mc-Clusky, he coughs. That’s it! he squeals, an’ d’ nex’ dash out o’ d’ box youse don’t get a t’ing but d’ collar. Nine out o’ ten of d’ good people doin’ time to-day, was t’rown into soak be some pal knockin’. I passes all that up! I goes it alone! If I nips a rock it’s mine; I don’t split out no bits for no snoozer, see! I’m d’ entire woiks, an’ if I stumbles an’ falls be d’ wayside, it’s me’s to blame. Which last makes it easier to stan’ for.’

“That’s d’ way d’ Rat lays out d’ ground for me one day,” continued Chucky, “an’ he ain’t slingin’ no guff at that. It’s d’ way he always woiked.

“But to skin back to d’ Central Office cops an’ how flydey be: One of d’ Rat’s favourite stunts is dampin’ a diamond. What’s that? Youse’ll catch on as me tale unfolds, as d’ nov’lists puts it.

“Here’s how d’ Rat would graft. Foist he’d rub up his two lamps wit’ pepper till dey looks red an’, out of line. When he’d got t’rough doin’ d’ pepper act to ‘em, d’ Rat’s peeps, for fair! would do to understudy two fried eggs.

“Then d’ Rat would pull on a w’ite wig, like he’s some old stuff; an’ wit’ that an’ some black goggles over his peeps, his own Rag wouldn’t have known him. To t’row ‘em down for sure, d’ Rat would wear a cork-sole shoe, – one of these 6-inch soles, – like he’s got a game trilby. Then when he’s all made up in black togs, d’ Rat is ready.

“Bein’ organised, d’ Rat hobbles into a cab an’ drives to a diamond shop. D’ racket is this: Of course it takes a bit of dough, but that’s no drawback, for d’ Rat is always on velvet an’ dead strong. As I say, d’ play is this: D’ Rat being well dressed an’ fitted up wit’ his cork-soles, his goggles an’ his wig, comes hobblin’ into d’ diamond joint an’ gives d’ impression he’s some rich old mark who ain’t got a t’ing but money, an’ that he’s out to boin a small bundle be way of matchin’ a spark which he has wit’ him in his mit. D’ Rat fills d’ diamond man up wit’ a yarn, how he’s goin’ to saw a brace of ear-rings off on his daughter an’ needs d’ secont rock, see! Of course it’s a dead case of string. D’ Rat ain’t got no kid, an’ would be d’ last bloke to go festoonin’ her wit’ diamonds if he had.

“Naturally, d’ mut who owns d’ store is out an’ eager to do business. D’ Rat won’t let d’ diamond man do d’ matchin’; not on your life! he’s goin’ to mate them sparks himself. So he gives d’ stiff wit’ d’ store d’ tip to spread a handful of stones, say about d’ size of d’ one he’s holdin’ in his hooks – which mebby is a 2-carat – on some black velvet for him to pick from. D’ diamond party ain’t lookin’ for no t’row down from an old sore-eyed, cork-sole hobo like d’ Rat, so he lays out a sprinklin’ of stones. D’ Rat, who all this time is starring his bum lamps, an’ tellin’ how bad an’ weak dey be, an’ how he can hardly see, gets his map down dost to d’ lay-out of sparks, so as he can get onto em an’ make d’ match.

“It’s now d’ touch comes in. When d’ Rat’s got his smeller right among d’ diamonds, he sticks out his tongue, quick like a toad for a honey-bee, an’ nails a gem. That’s what dey calls ‘dampin’ a diamond.’ Yes, mebby if there’s so many of ‘em laid out, he t’inks d’ mark behint d’ show case will stan’ for it wit’out missin’ ‘em, d’ Rat gets two. Then d’ Rat goes on jollyin’ an’ chinnin’ wit’ d’ sparks in his face; an’ mebby for a finish an’ to put a cover on d’ play, he buys one an’ screws his nut.

“Wit’ his cab, as I says, d’ Rat is miles away, an’ has time to shed his wig an’ goggles an’ cork-sole before d’ guy wit’ d’ diamonds tumbles to it he’s been done. That’s how d’ Rat gets in his woik. Now I’ll tell youse how d’ Central Office people t’run d’ harpoon into him.

“One day d’ Rat makes a play an’ gets two butes. He tucks ‘em away in back of his teet’, an’ is just raisin’ his nut to say somethin’, when d’ store duck grabs him an’ raises a roar. Two or t’ree cloiks an’ a cop off d’ street comes sprintin’ up, an’ away goes d’ Rat to d’ coop.

“Wit ‘d’ foist yell of d’ sucker who makes d’ front for d’ store – naw, he ain’t d’ owner, he’s one of d’ cloiks – d’ Rat goes clean outside of d’ sparks at a gulp; swallows ‘em; that’s what he does. There bein’ no diamond toined up, an’ no one at headquarters bein’ onto him – for he’s always laid low an’ kept out of sight of d’ p’lice – d’ Rat makes sure dey’ll have to t’run him loose.

“But d’ boss cop is pretty cooney. He figgers it all out, how d’ Rat’s a crook, an’ how he’s eat d’ diamonds, just as I says. So he cons d’ Rat an’ t’rows a dream into him. He tells him there’ll be no trouble, but he’ll have to keep him for an hour or two until his ‘sooperior off’cer,’ as he calls him, gets there. He’s d’ main squeeze, this p’lice dub dey’re waitin’ for, an’ as soon as he shows up an’ goes over d’ play, d’ Rat can screw out.

“That’s d’ sort of song an’ dance d’ high cop gives d’ Rat; an’ say! I’m a lobster if d’ Rat don’t fall to it, at that. On d’ dead! this p’lice duck is so smooth an’ flossy d’ Rat believes him.

“Just for appearances d’ Rat registers a big kick; an’ then – for dey don’t lock him up at all – he plants himself in a easy chair to do a toin of wait. D’ Rat couldn’t have broke an’ run for it, even if he’d took d’ scare, for d’ cops is all over d’ place. But he ain’t lookin’ for d’ woist of it nohow. He t’inks it’s all as d’ boss cop has told him; he’ll wait there an hour or two for d’ main guy an’ then dey’ll cut him free.

“After a half hour d’ boss cop says: ‘It’s no use you bein’ hungry, me frien’, an’ as I’m goin’ to chew, come wit’ me an’ feed your face. D’ treat’s on me, anyhow, bein’ obliged to detain a respect’ble old mucker like you. So come along.’

“Wit’ that d’ Rat goes along wit ‘d’ boss cop, an’ all d’ time he’s t’inkin’ what a Stoughton bottle d’ cop is.

“It’s nex’ door, d’ chop-house is. D’ cop an ‘d’ Rat sets down an’ breasts up to d’ table. Dey gives d’ orders all right, all right. But say! d’ grub never gets to ‘em. D’ nex’ move after d’ orders, d’ Rat, who’s got a t’irst on from d’ worry of bein’ lagged, takes a drink out of a glass.

“‘I’m poisoned!’ yells d’ Rat as he slams down d’ tumbler; ‘somebody’s doped me!’ an’ wit’ that d’ Rat toins in, t’rows a fit, an’ is seasick to d’ limit.

“That’s what that boss cop does. He sends over an’ doctors a glass while d’ Rat is settin’ in his office waitin’, an’ then gives him a bluff about chewin’ an’ steers d’ Rat ag’inst it. Say! it was a dandy play. D’ dope or whatever it was, toins me poor friend d’ Rat inside out, like an old woman’s pocket.

“An’ them sparks is recovered.

“Yes, d’ Rat does a stretch. As d’ judge sentences him, d’ Rat gives d’ cop who downs him his mit. ‘You’re a wonder,’ says d’ Rat to d’ cop; ‘there’s no flies baskin’ in d’ sun on you. When I reflects on d’ way you sneaks d’ chaser after them sparks, an’ lands ‘em, I’m bound to say d’ Central Office mugs are onto their job.’”

CHEYENNE BILL

Cheyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not regarded in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single street in a voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled with an exhibition of pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and passé beer bottles perform as targets, has hitherto excited no more baleful sentiment in the Wolfville bosom than disgust.

“Shootin’ up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has passed unchallenged.

But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville is experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously from those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the Wolfville breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale party of Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel; persons whom the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits with meditating an investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But whatever the reason, Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the public mind which makes it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill.

The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville. The public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily. Those games which generally engross public thought are drowsy enough; but the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with his peers in absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is fairly sloppy from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat this need not sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly homoeopathic. “Similia similibus curantur,” says Wolfville; and when it is blazing hot, drinks whiskey.

But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance committee, and is about to be tried for his life.

What was Cheyenne Bill’s immediate crime? Certainly not a grave one. Ten days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But now in its spasm of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the erratic courses of Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken possession of that volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a Chinaman. Here is the story:

“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,” says Dave Tutt.

Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which lattice he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of injury disclosed in Dave Tutt’s tone, born of the awakened virtue of Wolfville.

“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks Cherokee Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser’ble Cheyenne comes chargin’ up to queer it.”

As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great change in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing gladsome and ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his forefinger like a thing of light. One of the tourists stands in the door of the hotel smoking a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and reviews the amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and abruptly halts. Gazing for a disgruntled moment on the man from the East, he takes the pipe from its owner’s amazed mouth and places it in his own “smokin’ of pipes,” he vouchsafes in condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an’ degradin’; an’ don’t you do it no more in my presence. I’m mighty sensitive that a-way about pipes, an’ I don’t aim to tolerate ‘em none whatever.”

This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill. He sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands dumbly staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still between his lips.

What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt acts cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne suddenly receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed, emerges from the New York store, whither he has been drawn by dint of soap.

“Whatever is this Mongol doin’ in camp, I’d like for to know?” inquires Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I’m yere last, for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn’t mind it, but with strangers visitin’ Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to death.”

“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I’m the only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I’m simply a pore, lonely white, but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a sudsmonger to let ‘em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.”

Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff of smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be short one Asiatic.

In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers a Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and Cheyenne Bill, realizing fate, at once accedes.

“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes the committee in the Red Light bar; “I don’t say this Cheyenne is held for beefin’ the Chinaman sole an’ alone. The fact is, he’s been havin’ a mighty sight too gay a time of late, an’ so I thinks it’s a good, safe play, bein’ as it’s a hot day an’ we has the time, to sorter call the committee together an’ ask its views, whether we better hang this yere Cheyenne yet or not?”

“Mr. Pres’dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I’m in order, an’ to get the feelin’ of the meetin’ to flowin’ smooth, I moves we takes this Cheyenne an’ proceeds with his immolation. I ain’t basin’ it on nothin’ in partic’lar, but lettin’ her slide as fulfillin’ a long-felt want.”

“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt’s very excellent motion as the census of this meetin’, an’ it’s hang she is.”

“Not intendin’ of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I wants to say this: I’m a quiet gent my-se’f, an’ nacheral aims to keep Wolfville a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-hangin’ of Cheyenne. He’s given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I don’t make no p’int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy. But this Cheyenne is allers a-ridin’, an’ a-yellin’, an’ a-shootin’ up this camp till I’m plumb tired out. So I says let’s hang him, an’ su’gests as a eligible, as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the dance hall.”

“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed, amply upholstered for sech plays; an’ as delays is aggravatin’, the committee might as well go wanderin’ over now, an’ get this yere ceremony off its mind.”

“See yere, Mr. Pres’dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”

“You can gamble this is a squar’ game,” replies Enright confidently. “You’re entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure out what kyards you needs, an’ we deals to you in a minute.”

“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere play, that’s all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.

“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I’m with you on this hangin’. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It’ll impress ‘em that Wolfville means business, an’ it’s a good, safe, quiet place. They’ll carry reports East as will do us credit, an’ thar you be. As to the propriety of stringin’ Cheyenne, little need be said. If the Chinaman ain’t enough, if assaultin’ of an innocent tenderfoot ain’t enough, you can bet he’s done plenty besides as merits a lariat. He wouldn’t deny it himse’f if you asks him.”

There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to offer.

“I reckons it’s your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-runnin.’”

“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin’s is ornery an’ makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin’; an’ all for a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin’ a mighty sight too stylish for me. It’s growin’ that per-dad-binged-’tic’lar it can’t take its reg’lar drinks, an’ – ”

“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box with his six-shooter; “don’t you cuss the chair none, ’cause the chair won’t have it. It’s parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair he’s out of order, same as it’s law that all chips on the floor goes to the house. When a gent’s out of order once, that settles it. He can’t talk no more that meetin’. Seein’ we’re aimin’ to eliminate you, we won’t claim nothin’ on you this time. But be careful how you come trackin’ ‘round ag’in, an’ don’t fret us! Sabe? Don’t you-all go an’ fret us none!”

“I ain’t allowin’ to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don’t have to fret you. What I says is this: I s’pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an’ The Dalis, an’ I never does know a party who’s roped yet on account of no Chinaman. An’ I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain’t law to hang people on account of downin’ no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot on this, an’ so I tells you what I’ll do. I’m a plain gent an’ thar’s no filigree work on me. If it’s all congenial to the boys yere assembled – not puttin’ it on the grounds of no miser’ble hop slave, but jest to meet public sentiment half way – I’ll gamble my life, hang or no hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it go?”

Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds in its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, therefore, that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on a turn at faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees to it; even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object.

“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don’t have to take this chance, an’ it’s a-makin’ of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us yereafter; but Wolfville goes you this time, an’ may Heaven have mercy on your soul. Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.”

“Turn squar’, Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of interest. “You wouldn’t go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a clatter, ag’in perishin’ flesh an’ blood?”

“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn’t turn queer for money, an’ you can gamble! I don’t do it none when the epeesode comes more onder the head of reelaxation.”

“Which the same bein’ satisfact’ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your game. I’m eager for action; also, I plays it open.”

“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin; “I’m thinkin’ I’d a-coppered; – that’s whatever!”

The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that interesting sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in succession.

“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we goin’ to do now, I’d like to know?” There is a pause.

“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere creates a doubt; an’ all doubts goes to the pris’ner, same as a maverick goes to the first rider as ties it down, an’ runs his brand onto it. This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an’ blow though it be, this yere Cheyenne Bill, temp’rarily at least, goes free. However, he should remember this yere graze an’ restrain his methods yereafter. Some of them ways of his is onhealthful, an’ if he’s wise he’ll shorely alter his system from now on.”

“Which the camp really lose! an’ this person Bill goes free!” says Jack Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag’in faro as a game. Where we-all misses it egreegious, is we don’t play him freeze-out.”

“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn softly to that personage of the deal box, “I don’t like killin’s none! I’d sooner Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!”

At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a delicate accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval.

BLIGHTED

Is it hauteur, or is it a maiden’s coyness which causes you to turn away your head, love?”

George D’Orsey stood with his arm about the willowy form of Imogene O’Sullivan. The scene was the ancestral halls of the O’Sullivans in the fashionable north-west quarter of Harlem. George D’Orsey had asked Imogene O’Sullivan to be his bride. That was prior to the remark which opened our story. And the dear girl softly promised. The lovers stood there in the gloaming, drinking that sweet intoxication which never comes but once.

“It isn’t hauteur, George,” replied Imogene O’Sullivan, in tones like far-off church bells. “But, George! – don’t spurn me – I have eaten of the common onion of commerce, and my breath, it is so freighted with that trenchant vegetable, it would take the nap from your collar like a lawn mower. It is to spare the man she loves, George, which causes your Imogene to hold her head aloof.”

“Look up, darling!” and George D’Orsey’s tones held a glad note of sympathy, “I, too, have battened upon onions.”

The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple.

“But we’ll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he’ll step high and lively when he hears of this!”

The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene was taking a look ahead.

“Doesn’t your father love me, pet?”

“I don’t think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He said he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused. From that I infer his opposition to our union.”

“We’ll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D’Orsey hissed the words through his set teeth.