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Title: The domestication of Dobie

Author: W. C. Tuttle


        
Release date: July 21, 2026 [eBook #79149]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Ridgway Company, 1918

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79149

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DOMESTICATION OF DOBIE ***


                       THE DOMESTICATION OF DOBIE

                            by W. C. Tuttle
    Author of “Making Good for Muley,” “Tied Up for Tombstone,” etc.


Mesquite City, June 10.

DEAR HANK:

I ain’t much of a hand to express myself on paper, but I promised to
drop you a line, so when you receive this you will know that I am still
keeping my word.

Me and Emmeline are O. K. and I hope these few lines will find you the
same also. Hank, I want to ask you a question if you know who it was
that threw that boot at me and Emmeline when we was getting on the train
that night?

I ain’t so mad now as I was then, ’cause I’m mostly all heeled up but
I’d like to know who throwed that boot, ’cause there was a spur on it. I
got spurred along the ear and bled like a stuck hog. I know it’s the
custom to throw old shoes, etc., at a wedding but no man is a gentleman
and a skolar what won’t take his spurs off first. Suppose it had hit Em
instead of me?

I think it was “Windy” Wilson, and I think it so hard that I don’t mind
telling you confidential that he’s a horse-stealing coyote. He ain’t got
no principle, Hank, and if he ever washed his feet his own dog couldn’t
trail him.

I know you won’t tell him I said so, Hank, but if it happens to leak out
I’ll back you up for every word. Me and Emmeline get along fine so far.
But I don’t mind telling you that no man ought to marry any girl before
he knows more about her. Me and Em didn’t know each other only a few
months, and I’m sorry we didn’t find out some things, Hank. I ain’t
knocking Emmeline, you understand. She’s a good girl with no bad habits,
but me and her relatives ain’t exactly sleeping under the same blanket.

You know, Hank, that I had a good job there on the Lazy Y, but Em didn’t
want to live around there and she told me that if I would leave there
she’d see that I got a good job from her uncle. I ain’t no jibber, Hank,
as you know, and my motter is to live and let live and right don’t wrong
no man, but when I finds out that her uncle owns a lot of sheep I talks
right out loud in church.

I didn’t say nothing against a sheep, ’cause a sheep ain’t no more to
blame for being a sheep than Windy is to blame for not having any
brains, but it makes me mad to think that he offers me forty a month to
herd same.

Her uncle’s name is Gabriel Galesburg, and he’s built like a hay-rack.
Honest his whiskers are almost a pink color, Hank, and he seems to think
more of them than he does of his wife. I asked him if he didn’t get them
from sleeping out in the rain with a red blanket wrapped around his
face, and he changed the subject by saying—

“It often strikes me that the world is full of chances to be funny
without being personal.”

He never did tell me if I was right, Hank. There is folks you can’t
never pin right down to a answer. Me and Em are living with them but I
don’t know for how long. Uncle asked me the other day if we expected to
make our home with them or just be boarders and roomers at their house,
but I ain’t answered him yet. We only been here three weeks, and I ain’t
done much since I got married.

I met Bob Pelkey here the other day. You remember Bob, don’t you? He
used to rustle cows up around the border, and afterward he sort of got
religion and quit his erring ways. He’s dealing a stud poker game here
in Mesquite and wearing diamonds. Me and him proceeds to talk over old
times. We drapes over the Palace bar long enough to toast both sides of
the country to a nice brown color.

I tells him about Emmeline and he wants to meet her so bad that I takes
him up to supper with me. Emmeline got sore like a fool and gets me out
alone on the porch.

“Ain’t you got no sense?” she says to me. “This ain’t your house and
what right you got bringing drunk tin-horns up here to supper to insult
me and Aunt Phoebe? That critter is asleep in there on the sofy.”

“I’m going in and congratulate him,” says I. “Anybody what can get drunk
enough to sleep on that infernal sofy has my utmost respect. It ain’t
nothing but a lot of busted springs and hay, and anybody what can ride
it without a bucking-strap ought to have a job with Buffalo Bill’s
circus. And what is more if he’s drunk enough to try and sleep there
he’s too drunk to insult anybody.”

You know how I can talk back to anybody, Hank.

“You go right in there and throw him out,” says she.

Now ain’t that just like a woman, Hank? Drink up a man’s money, take him
home to supper and then have your wife want him throwed out ’cause he
goes to sleep on the sofy. Why, I wouldn’t do that to Windy, and what I
wouldn’t do to Windy would be awful to think about. I promised to obey
Emmeline when the preacher asked me to, Hank, but there wasn’t nothing
said about me acting as household bouncer. She keeps on getting so mad
that I feels sorry for her, Hank.

“You wimmen folks keep away,” says I, “and I’ll do the throwing.”

Her and her aunt shuts themselves up in the kitchen, and I went in where
Bob is snoring on the sofy, and sets down beside him. He’s got a bottle
in his coat pocket, and I was afraid it would get busted when I throwed
him out, so I drank part of it and cached the rest behind the clock.

I don’t think yet that I throwed him out, but I can’t seem to remember
much about it. I remember hearing somebody say something about hogs, and
then somebody throwed me outdoors and I skinned my face on a rock. It
made me so darned mad that I crawled out from under Bob and went
down-town. That was the first time I ever got throwed out of my own
house and it makes me awful sore, Hank. Of course some will argue that
it wasn’t my house, but I considered it as such.

A little later I meets uncle down-town and he stops me.

“Young feller,” says he, “you better keep away from that house until you
can act decent. You can’t sponge on me and disgrace my fambly any more.
I don’t mind feeding the appetite of a horse, but when said horse brings
that ass of a Pelkey along to be fed, too, I won’t stand for it. Also if
you get drunk again Emmeline is through with you.”

Then I says to him, Hank, and I was sore:

“Mister Galesburg, there’s two sides to the argument. I suppose my wife
told you about it, and a woman always exaggerates things. I suppose she
told you that me and Bob was drunk, didn’t she? I think so. Just because
Bob was all tired out and went to sleep on the sofy she took it for
granted that he was drunk as a boiled owl. He wasn’t no more drunk than
I was. Sabe?”

“Well,” says he, “maybe you’re right, but I don’t think so, ’cause he
laid there for twenty minutes after you left for down-town. I throwed
you both out, so I ought to know.”

That’s the kind of a uncle she’s got, Hank. Can you blame me when I say
that a feller ought to know more about a girl’s folks before he takes
her for keeps? You know me, Hank, and you know I’m a pretty decent sort
of a person. There ain’t nothing vishous about me and I’m full of the
milk of human kindness but there are some things that I can’t stand for.

I had thirty-two dollars left but Emmeline has got that, and I owe Sam
Fletcher two dollars for bed right now. I don’t know what I’ll decide to
do for a living, Hank. Bob says he can get me a shift on the Faro layout
here if I can put up a cash bond of a thousand dollars, but if I had a
thousand dollars I’d hire a good lawyer and then take a shot at Uncle
Gabriel for offering me forty a month to herd sheep, and I might have
enough to plead not guilty if I happens to meet Windy face to face.

I ain’t asking for no loan, Hank, but if you can put yourself in my
place you’ll see how I’m hooked up. I’m so mad at Emmeline and her
fambly that I won’t ask them for a thing. Hoping these few lines will
find you flush and good-hearted I beg to remane, very truly y’rs,

Dobie Dalton, care of Palace Hotel.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite City, June 18

DEAR HANK:

Didn’t you get my letter? If not I can say that I ain’t no better off
than I was before I wrote you. I’m glad I didn’t write to Windy or
“Hondo” Huddleson, ’cause I know they wouldn’t loan me two-bits if I was
to give them a handful of twenty-dollar gold pieces for security.

Honest, Hank, if air cost half a cent for a billion cubik miles them two
fellers would smother to death inside of twenty seconds. I hates to
think that I know anybody what is so tight.

I ain’t living at home yet, Hank, but I expect to soon. If a man’s place
ain’t at his wife’s side where is it? A feller what herds sheep for
Uncle Gabe is staying up at the house now and he’s a simp, Hank. His
name is “Stony” Wells. I seen him and Emmeline, my wife, down at the
store and he bought her some candy hearts. Any man is a simp what will
buy candy hearts for a married woman, ain’t he, Hank?

It made me sore, Hank, for her to act like her husband didn’t have
enough money and principal to buy candy for her, so I goes up to the
house to chide her about it. Uncle Gabe comes to the door and sort of
looks me over. Hank, that feller has got a eye like a mean bronc what
ain’t been showed the error of his ways. While I ain’t saying a word
against Emmeline, you understand, I wish I had knowed more about her
folks before the marriage.

“Can I do something for you?” he asks, like I was carrying a bunch of
stuff to sell him at so much down and the rest in a minute.

“I come to see my wife, Mister Galesburg,” says I. “You don’t need to
call her ’cause I’m coming inside.”

“Somebody must have give you the wrong steer, if you think so,” says he.
“Did somebody tell you that you could bust into my house without a
invite?”

Ain’t he a queer pelican, Hank? Just as though I has to ask somebody for
a invitation to see my wife.

“Well,” says I, “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I wasn’t raised
a pet, and I does some things no matter what the consequences. I’m free,
white and twenty-one, and I’d admire to see you step to one side.”

He did, Hank. Emmeline has got sort of a loving disposition, and Aunt
Phoebe ain’t no danged Nero, but when there’s so much sweetness in a
fambly there has to be a little gall to balance things. Uncle Gabe steps
to one side, as I orders him to, Hank, and when I starts to go past him
he hits me so hard that I goes out near the front gate and stands on my
head in a currant bush.

When I got up he’s standing there filling his pipe, and when he sees me
go to my hip he grins like a over-grown pup. Honest, when he grins I
think of a Airedale dog.

“You might imitate Aladdin,” says he. “Rub your shining lamp and wish
for a gun. Badman from Bitter Crick soaked his gun for hooch, eh?”

I’m just about to give him the laugh, ’cause I didn’t soak my gun for
booze at all, Hank, I let Sam Fletcher have it for room rent, when here
comes Emmeline and Aunt Phoebe around the corner of the house.

“Dobie Dalton, you been fighting again!” says Emmeline, sort of
mad-like, and I has to laugh, even if I am mad, ’cause the joke’s on her
this time.

“Dear Emmeline,” says I, “you’re all wrong, ’cause I didn’t do a bit of
it. I came up here to take you away with me, and that dog-faced relative
of yours by marriage hit me without warning. I don’t want my sweet
little wife to live in the same atmosphere with a sheep-herding cross
between Jesse James and a timber-wolf.”

“Just where do you intend to take her?” asks Uncle Gabe, just as though
it was any of his business and believe me, Hank, I told him where to
head in at.

“Go get your hat on, Emmeline,” says I, “I’m going to take you with me
like a married man ought to.”

“Go ahead with him, Em,” says he.

“The walk will do you good, and we’ll have supper ready at five.” Then
he turned to me: “Where you going to put her—in a public corral? You
ain’t got the price of a room.”

“Yes,” says Emmeline, “I would like to know where you are going to take
me, Dobie.”

“Wife,” says I, just like that, Hank, “wife, I’m going to take you with
me down to the post-office and maybe over to the depot, and then I’ll
take you to the best hotel in the city.”

You see, Hank, I figured that as soon as you got my letter you would
either send me a letter with some money in it or maybe telegraft some to
me. You know I didn’t come right out and ask you for money, Hank, but I
tried to hint strong enough for you to understand. I figured on it
strong, but I must have figured wrong. Emmeline went over to the
post-office with me and then over to the depot, but there wasn’t a
thing, Hank. If you sent me anything it’s lost.

“Now,” says Emmeline, “let’s go up to the hotel, Dobie, I’m all tired
out.”

Now, Hank, you see how trusting a friend can put you up against it. I
makes a bluff and gets called, and I ain’t even got a face card to lay
down on the table.

“Emmeline, my dear,” says I, “have you got any of that thirty-two
dollars left?”

“I never had it, Dobie,” says she. “Didn’t you spend it?”

Dear Hank, this is the last sheet of paper I got, so I’ll have to tell
you the rest later. Don’t let that thirty-two dollars scare you from
sending me a little if you got it, ’cause I ain’t got that thirty-two
dollars. Six-bits would look like a pirut’s hoard to me right now. If
Windy or Hondo asks about me, Hank, you tell them I’m lousy with coin
and doing well. If I have to sleep much longer at Sam Fletcher’s I’ll be
lousy but not with wealth. Do you know what I’d do if I knowed you was
facing starvation or sheep-herding, Hank? I am waiting to hear from you
anxiously. Y’rs very truly,

Dobie Dalton, care of gen. del.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite City, June 25

DEAR HANK:

I reckon I can find time to write you a few lines to let you know how I
am getting along, as I am not doing much running around and have lots of
loose time.

Hank, are you sore at me? Sometimes I think I ain’t got no dependable
friends left a-tall. I don’t claim that Windy or Hondo are friends of
mine, but at that I don’t think they’d leave a feller in the lurch.

Remember in my last letter where I asks Emmeline where that thirty-two
dollars is, Hank? And then she says just like this—

“Didn’t you spend it, Dobie?”

Well, sir, it hits me all of a sudden like a ton of bricks, and I
remembers where that money is, Hank. It’s up at Uncle Gabriel’s house,
hanging on the wall in my vest. I changed vests when I came here, ’cause
I didn’t want to wear my Sunday suit all the time. I takes Em up to the
hotel, and I asks her to set down in the parlor, while I asks the prop.
for a sweet of rooms. Then I ducks out the back door and lopes off up to
uncle’s place. I hammers on the door and Uncle Gabe opens up. He squints
at me for quite a while, like I was somebody he can’t quite place, and
then he sort of grins and says:

“Oh! I didn’t know you at first. You’ve changed a lot except in one eye.
Did you come up to have them both made alike?”

“Peace be with you,” says I.

Hank, you know me and you know I ain’t no brawler nor hoodlum. I never
can understand why a man as big as Uncle Gabe wants to range sheep.

“I came for a vest,” says I.

“The nights are getting a little cold for this time of year,” says he.
“I’m about half out of vests, but I can let you have a saddle-blanket if
you promise not to sell it for rum.”

“I ain’t asking for no darned charity,” says I. “I bought and paid for
that vest, and just ’cause it happens to be hanging in your bungaloo
ain’t no sign she’s your property. It ain’t the vest’s fault ’cause I’ll
bet if it could walk it wouldn’t wait for me to come up here after it.”

“What kind of a looking garment was it?” he asks.

“Well,” says I, “I expected to have to describe it, ’cause good clothes
are strange to a sheep-herder. It’s red and yellow checks, got buttons
down the front on one side, four pockets and a place for each arm.”

“Oh!” says he, “So that’s what it was. I heard a lot of noise in that
room, but I thought it was a flock of pack-rats. It will be a pleasure
to get it out of the house. I’ll chase it out to you.”

He shuts the door in my face, Hank. Pretty soon he comes back, with a
sad look on his face, and shakes his head:

“I’m sorry,” says he. “Sorry for Stony Wells. He left here this morning,
and Aunt Phoebe says he took a fancy to that garment. She thought it was
an old one and she gave it to him. He’ll stampede all my sheep.”

“Somebody owes me thirty-two dollars,” says I, after a while.

“That’s nice,” says he. “You won’t miss one vest so much then,” and he
shuts the door in my face, Hank.

What could I do, Hank? Thirty-two dollars all shot to thunder. I sure
wanted to bust that door open and clean out that fambly, but under the
circumstances how could I? Even if he is a villain, Hank, he is still my
wife’s relative by marriage, and I hates scenes, arguments and brawls.

When I has to fight, Hank, I’m a true sportsman, and I don’t want to
lower myself to the level of fighting with shepherds. You know me,
old-timer, and you know that my motter is let well enough alone. I’d
rather starve than to do anybody a injury, so I tries to saunter away
like the loss of that vest didn’t mean nothing to me, and I ain’t
sauntered far when I meets Emmeline.

“Does the owner of the hotel live up here?” she asks, sarcastic-like.

“Or did you forget where you left me?”

“Wife,” says I, “wife, please pardon me, but I was coming right back.”

“Yes, and left me there to be insulted!” she snaps. “Mister Fletcher
came in the room just after you left, and I asked him if Mister Dalton
had got a sweet of rooms here yet. He didn’t know me, and he said:
‘Madam, I hope not. If Dobie Dalton ever gets a sweet of rooms here he’s
got Raffles beat sixteen ways from the jack.’ He said that if you ever
got hold of a two-bit piece you’d think it was so big that you’d hire a
dray to haul it around in.”

What’s the use of arguing with a woman, Hank? Take the advice of a
married man and don’t never do it. I said to her:

“Honey, it’s too late now to listen to things against your husband. If
you live a while longer you’ll find lots of scandal-mongers who will try
and knock your husband, but the best thing to do is to turn a deef ear
to their voices. You go on up to Uncle Gabe’s and stay inside out of the
noise, ’cause your legitimate protector is going right down-town and
make somebody eat their words.”

“Don’t you never think of nothing but fight?” she asks. “If you’d use
some of your energy in work we’d be better off. Either do that or join
the army.”

“Well, Emmeline,” says I, “if that’s the way you feel about it I won’t
go down and beat their heads off. I was just going to do it on your
acc’t, but if you don’t wish me to I won’t.”

I didn’t, Hank. A promise is a promise with me, and when I tell you I
ain’t going to lick nobody you can bank on my word. Remember that gold
watch I won at Pendleton, when I rode Outlaw? It’s been bucked out of my
pocket so often that it don’t keep no more time than a rabbit, but just
the same I’m sleeping on it, Hank. Sam Fletcher gave me three nights’
room rent free for it, and I still got one night coming. Don’t know when
I’ll collect, but it’s nice to have something coming to you. I felt the
same about your letters, Hank, but I never got any.

Now I’m going to tell you a secret, Hank. Don’t tell Hondo or Windy, and
when you get in the same fix I’ll keep my mouth shut. I never told my
right name, but I reckon they’ll find it out, ’cause they say there’s a
detective on the case.

That day after Emmeline, my wife, goes back to Uncle Gabriel’s I goes
down to the Palace saloon. I ain’t got a cent, Hank, but once in a while
a feller comes along what don’t like to drink alone. Two of them came
this time. They’re punchers from over in the Blue Joint country. One is
named “Blazer” and the other “Sleepy.”

I has quite a few drinks with them and then they sets up the supper to
me. I told them how I’m fixed, Hank. I told them about the suffering I
been undergoing, and they’re sympathetic you bet. We’re up in their room
when I tells them about it, and one of them shed tears.

“If my folks treated me thataway I’d get desperate,” states Blazer. “I
wouldn’t care how I got money just so I got it.”

“You’re darn right,” agrees Sleepy. “I’d show up that bunch if I had to
rob a bank to get the money.”

“I ain’t got no gun,” I reminds them. “You can’t do no bank robbery if
you ain’t got no gun.”

Well, Hank, what do you think? Blazer hauls out a gun and hands it to
me. “Here,” says he. “I got another one.”

I sure took it, Hank. She’s a .45, single-action Colt, and hangs just
like my old one. We sets there on the bed and has a few more drinks out
of a bottle.

“Good banks are scarce,” states Sleepy, “mostly always they ain’t worth
your time, but when you does hit a good one you’re fixed to be lazy
quite a while. What kind of a bank they got here?”

I tells them that I don’t know, but in a thriving community there ought
to be some money. Blazer peeks out in the hall to see if anybody is
listening, and then he says to me:

“Dobie,” just like he knowed me as long as you have, Hank, “Dobie, let
us solve your problem. We’re friends in need. Sabe? We’ll keep under
cover and let you do the scout work. Tomorrow you go into the bank, sort
of casual-like, and look it over for us. See how she frames for doors,
windows, safes and so forth. A man of your perceptions and standing in
the community ought to be able to stroll in there and see it all at a
glance. If you wasn’t an intelligent looking person, and packing a lot
of brains I’d never let you do it, but you got a lot of sabe, old-timer,
and you seems to know human nature to the core. How does she suit you?”

“Money is the prime objection to me right now,” says I. “I ain’t got no
place to sleep and nothing to eat upon.”

Hank, them fellers were perfect gentlemen. They immediate and soon hands
me a five-spot, and don’t even want a mortgage on my life in security. I
wish that Windy and Hondo could see how them fellers acted, ’cause it
would be a lesson to them in generosity.

The next day I wanders into the bank, and I plays my part so well that I
even talks with the man what handles the money. I looks that place over
fine, and when I tells Sleepy and Blazer what I seen they are tickled
stiff.

“Tomorrow night,” states Sleepy. “From now on until then you keep away
from us, Dobie, so nobody can say that you was in with us if we get
caught. We’ll all meet here tomorrow night at 9 o’clock, and then inside
half an hour you can buy some sheep of your own. Sabe?”

I has to laugh after I left them, Hank, ’cause the joke’s on them if
they think I’m going to buy sheep. Of course I knowed he was joking but
if he wasn’t, Hank, I’d make him hard to catch.

I seen them in the High Light saloon that night, playing pool, but they
don’t act like they ever seen me before, which was the proper wrinkle. I
look at them like I don’t know them from Adam’s off ox, and they both
nods, like I done the right thing. That night I oils up that old gun and
prepares for tomorrow night.

But, Hank, I has a dream that night that sure changed things. I dreamed
that I was wearing a striped suit, and was breaking rocks. And Uncle
Gabriel is watching over me with a Winchester, and when I don’t break
them fast enough he prods me in the wishbone with the gun barrel. I
wakes up in a cold sweat and my whole future is changed, while I lays
there and thinks things over.

Suppose I get caught, Hank? What will become of Emmeline? Without no
strong arm upon which to lean what’s she going to do? If the law grabs
away the protector what’s to become of the women and children? You know
me, Hank, and you know I always thinks of the right thing at the right
time. Thinks I like this: if I sneak over to the bank early, Blazer and
Sleepy won’t see me, and I can tip the whole thing off to the banker. A
thousand dollars or two rewards in the hand is worth a lot of money in a
safe. Hank, I don’t like no squealer. I ain’t the kind what fattens on
nobody’s misery, but I figure that right don’t wrong nobody.

The next morning early I sneaks out the back way and goes down to the
bank. I walks right inside, and there ain’t nobody there but the man
what runs the place. He looks me over, chilly-like, and says—

“The bank ain’t open for business yet.”

“It is for my business,” says I, grinning at him. “You can thank your
luck that a honest man is facing you, and any other rewards you may
mention will be accepted, for what I’m going to tell you. Tomorrow night
me and two other fellers are going to rob this bank.”

“Wait a minute,” says he, and then he leads me into a separate room.

“Now,” says he, “go ahead where you left off.”

I told him all about our plans and specifications and he seems real
interested. I tells him how slick I was in getting the plans of the
place, and when I gets through he says to me:

“You set right here for a little while. I’m going to get another party
what will be interested in your story.”

Well, Hank, he’s gone about the length of two cigarets, and then he
comes back with the sheriff.

“You planned this robbery, did you?” asks the sheriff.

“You bet I did,” says I.

“I’ll just take you along with me,” says he, taking me by the arm.

“You’re too wise to be loose on an unsuspecting community.”

“Wait a minute, Mister Man,” says I, “you’re too hasty. I’m the honest
one of the bunch, and I don’t go to jail. I’m turned honest. Sabe?”

“Yes,” says he, “you may be honest, young feller, but you didn’t turn
honest soon enough. The bank was robbed last night.”

Now, wouldn’t that frost you, Hank? Them fellers must have got their
days mixed, ’cause they sure picked the wrong night. They got three
thousand dollars in paper money and about a thousand in gold.

Well, Hank, I don’t know of any news to write, so will close. I ain’t
got much of anything to do, so I’ll write you again maybe. Don’t tell
Windy or Hondo. Write to me in care of gen. del., sheriff’s office,
courthouse.

y’rs very truly

Patrick Antonio Schmidt.

P. S. This is the name I gave.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite City, July 8

DEAR HANK:

Well, Hank, I am out of jail again, the same of which will likely please
you. My trial was a farce, as it should have been, and I was vindicated
of wrong-doing as I expected. Right will always come out on top.

Have you seen Windy or Hondo lately, Hank? I sure got the deadwood on
them Jaspers. The lawyers sent up there for some character witnesses,
and I’ll be darned if they didn’t get Windy and Hondo. Hank, for a
minute I could feel the rope under my left ear, when them two walks into
the jail to see the sheriff. He was out but I was in, so they comes over
to my room.

“Ain’t he the desperate thing, Hondo?” asks Windy, meaning me, and Windy
says—

“I’d hate to meet him if I wasn’t heeled.”

So I says:

“What you two doing down here? Ain’t you tempting Providence pretty
strong, getting inside of a jail this way?”

“We was supeenied as witnesses to your character, Dobie,” says Hondo.

“The law pays the freight all the way down here for us to answer whether
we considers you a safe person to let loose.”

Hank, I feels as weak as sage tea for a minute, and I decides to talk as
pleasant as possible to them, so I says—

“How is things around the home range now?”

“We don’t know,” says Windy, rolling a cigaret one-handed. “Me and Hondo
just got in from a hunting trip over in Flathead country.”

“Never killed a darn thing either,” states Hondo. “No game.”

“See anybody you know over there?” I asks, and they shakes their heads.

“Nope,” says Windy, “never seen a darn soul, and we was gone three
weeks.”

“That’s good,” says I. “Now, you two lying, currycomb artists better not
hand me any the worst of it in court or I’ll swear that you was the two
what robbed that bank. What about my character now?”

They thinks it over for a while, and then Windy cusses low-like:

“You sure are lily white and all wool, Dobie,” states Windy. “Ain’t he
the upright person, Hondo?”

“Not here,” I reminds them. “Tell it to the judge.”

“Uh-huh,” agrees Hondo. “We’ll sure lie to beat ——, but as soon as you
get loose, Dobie, what we said in court don’t go.”

Well, Hank, them fellers sure done what I told them to. The lawyer says
to Windy—

“What do you know about the defendant’s character?”

Windy says:

“If Dobie Dalton told me that he planned the robbery of that bank I’d
know in a minute that he lied. He likely heard about it, tried to get in
on the reward and also get a little notoriety. He’s weak-minded but
harmless.”

The lawyer asks Hondo’s opinion, and he answers like this:

“I’ve knowed Dobie a long time, and nobody can ever convince me that
he’s got the nerve to rob a magpie’s nest. He likely got too much hooch
aboard and dreamed this thing. He’s only wicked in his mind.”

You see, Hank, I has them fellers complete under my control, and they
has to say things they don’t want to. Nobody can say a word about my
character, but with such liars as them it’s best to have a cinch on
their testimony.

All my fambly are in the court-room, and Uncle Gabe acts like he was
enjoying it a lot. The judge got me up there and asks me a lot of
questions. He asks me how it was that I suffers change of heart before
the time for the robbery. I didn’t dare to tell about that dream, on
acc’t of Uncle Gabe being back there, so I tells him that I got to
thinking about my poor little wife. Uncle Gabe roars right out in court,
like this:

“Haw! Haw! Haw!”

That makes the judge sore. He could see where it ain’t nothing to laugh
at, and so could I. Well, Hank, they decides that there ain’t no
evidence that I partook of the robbery, so they turns me loose.

Well, Hank, there ain’t no news to write, so I’ll close. It’s hard to
write propped up in bed like this, when all your knuckles are skinned,
and you got two black eyes and some almost busted ribs and several teeth
missing. I happens to meet Windy and Hondo after the trial. If I don’t
find that shepherd with my vest on I don’t know how the doctor is ever
going to get paid. Write a little oftener, Hank. Do you still get paid
on the first. Y’rs respectfully,

DOBIE DALTON.

care of gen. del.

P. S. I asked the postmaster if I could cash a money-order from you if I
got one, and he said I likely could.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite City, July 15

DEAR HANK:

There ain’t no news to write, but as I ain’t got nothing else to do I
will drop you a few lines so you will know I am alive. Have you got
cramps in your fingers or are you too lazy to write? I thought that
Windy and Hondo was the stingiest folks I ever knowed but maybe I’m
wrong at that. Things are pretty fair with me, but I ain’t bought out no
railroads nor nothing yet.

When I was laid up, Hank, I soaked that six-shooter to Sam Fletcher for
some more night’s rest. He didn’t want to take it on acc’t of him having
too many guns now, but so long as I ain’t got nothing else he accepts
same. That doctor orates that I owe him twenty-five dollars for treating
me. Hank, you know me, and you know that I never have nor never will try
to sneak out of a debt. My word is as good as gold, and folks what know
me good don’t ask nothing better than my promise, but when a strange
doctor hounds you for a measly little am’t like that it makes you mad.
He comes up to my room, and he says to me like this, Hank—

“You owe me twenty-five dollars, and I want it.”

Says I to him:

“There ain’t nothing unreasonable about that. You wait down-stairs until
I dress and I’ll come down and pay you.”

Hank, I couldn’t buy a grave for a microbe, so I lets myself down out of
the window, and tries to drop on to the roof of a shed. I hit the roof
O. K. but it was one of them slanting roofs, and I skidded off and hit
terry ferma.

When I opened my eyes, Hank, who do you think I seen? I was looking at
Sleepy and Blazer. Honest, Hank, I was. They’re setting there on a box,
looking at me, and I says to myself—

“Dobie, you thought you lived on the second floor, but you must have
been mistaken, ’cause just falling two stories wouldn’t make you see
things like these.”

“You’re a fine pal, you are,” says Blazer, sad-like. “Where’s our
share?”

“Your share of what?” I asks.

“Of the money you got from the bank that night,” says Sleepy. “You must
have got in a hurry to get rich. You can’t double-cross us, old-timer.
Come across.”

“Ain’t it a sad state of affairs, Sleepy?” says Blazer. “Loan a man a
gun to help you with a job, and never even get the gun back. You got to
give him credit for being clever, though.”

He was right, Hank. You sure got to hand it to me for that. Maybe I
don’t show a lot of brains in my face, but I sure got a lot of them
under my hair. Them two fellers ain’t common ordinary bluffers like
Windy and Hondo, so I got to think fast.

“I suppose you think I got the money here in my pocket, and all I got to
do is spit on my thumb and count out your share,” says I,
sarcastic-like.

“Now you’ve commenced to say something, Dobie,” says Sleepy. “Where do
you wish us to go, and how long will it take you to hand us one
thousand, three hundred and thirty-three dollars and thirty-three and a
third cents per each?”

“You wouldn’t go where I’d tell you to,” says I, “and at forty a month
you can figure how long it will be before you collect.”

Hank, them fellers ain’t got no sense of humor, and their sense of fair
play is nothing to look at. I can say this much though: what Windy and
Hondo forgot to do them fellers done to the queen’s taste. I hate to go
back to that doctor again, so I suffers in silence and alone.

Maybe you don’t know how it is, Hank, never having been married, but
when a married man is sorely wounded he hankers for the light touch of a
woman’s gentle hand and so forth. I gets out of the hen-house, wherein I
had been cast, and picks my way up to Uncle Gabriel’s.

Emmeline and Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Gabriel are out on the porch when I
show up, and they all stand up when I get there.

“Well!” says Uncle Gabriel, “you must have handed an oncore to Windy and
Hondo. We thought you was all heeled up again.”

“I was,” says I. “This was done by two other strong men.”

“That explains it then,” says he, setting down again. “’cause I wondered
how in thunder one man could do all that. Nothing small about you,
Dobie—picking them two at a time.”

“No,” says I, “I ain’t no piker, and I never picks on a man what is
smaller than I am.”

I said this for his benefit, Hank. You know I can always think of
something funny to say at the right time, but at that, Hank, there ain’t
no fun in springing a good joke on a shepherd, ’cause all he said was:

“I had a dog like that once. He spent all his short life hunting for two
dogs that he could whip at the same time. He never got a reputation as a
fighter at that—everybody considered him loco.”

“I didn’t come up here to talk about dogs,” says I. “I came up here to
plead for succor.”

“I’m glad you called yourself that, Dobie,” says he, “’cause it shows
you’ve commenced to get a glimmering of sense. When you going to take
that job herding sheep and support your wife?”

“You really ought to do something now, Dobie,” says Aunt Phoebe.

“I’m handicapped,” says I, “I ain’t got no gun and my stummick is so
sore I can’t stoop over and pick up a rock. Wait until I gets normal and
I’ll sure openly resent that offer, Mister Galesburg. If that is all the
consolation you folks got to offer to a man in my condition I bids you
all good-by.”

Hank, I turns around, feeble-like, and limps away. I ain’t quite to the
gate when I hears Emmeline yell—

“Dobie, please for my sake, don’t get into no more fights.”

Emmeline ain’t no bad scout, Hank, and she still has some consideration
for her husband’s feelings. I sneaks into the back door of the hotel,
and goes up to my room but finds the door is locked.

Hank, that makes me mad. I ain’t no roughneck, and my motter is a place
for everything and everything in its place, and it seems to me that it’s
sort of out of place for them to lock my room up. I goes right
down-stairs to give Sam Fletcher a piece of my mind, and in the office I
runs into that blamed doctor. He’s been drinking, and when he sees me he
waltzes right up and says—

“Mister Dalton, it took you a long time to—my——!”

He shoves his hat back on his head, and goes out of the door, talking to
himself.

I sets down there on a chair and in a minute Sam Fletcher comes in and
sets down at his desk behind the counter. He don’t pay no attention to
me, and it makes me sore, Hank, ’cause I believe in service. So I walks
right over and leans on the counter and says—

“Mister Fletcher, I’ll take my key.”

He turns and looks at me, Hank. I reckon he can see that I’m in earnest,
’cause he reaches right over, takes the key off the nail, and hands it
to me without taking his eyes off my face.

“My ——!” says he, with his mouth open, like a trout out of water, “Doc
Wylie must have practised on you with the reverse English!”

I went up to my room and takes a look at my face in the glass. I sure am
something to look at in the face, and when I tell you that a Hamburger
steak is a pleasant-looking mess beside my features I ain’t telling all
I can see.

But there’s something to look forward to, Hank. I ain’t been down to the
post-office for several days and I’m betting there’s a letter from you
with some money in it. I’ll close now so I can post this when I go down.
If Windy or Hondo tell you anything about me, you tell them that you
heard they hopped me together and never gave me a chance. Them two can
never be friends with me. Thanking you in advance for what I think I’m
going to get, I beg to remain,

Very truly yours as ever,

Dobie Dalton, gen. del.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite City, July 20

MR. HENRY HAWKINS,

Dear Sir:

It is useless for me to tell you that there wasn’t no letters or money
at the post-office for me, but I write to give you the satisfaction of
knowing that I don’t care no more. You know as well as I do that it is a
surprise to me to have my best friend turn me down like this. If it was
Windy or Hondo I’d expect it. There ain’t no news so I won’t waste
valuable paper on you. I got disgusted with this town, Hank. Since I
came here I ain’t had nothing but vissitudes and grief, and when the
feller, what runs the Antelope stage, asks me if I want to ride over
with him I jumps at the chance.

Who do you think I runs into the first crack out of the box? Uncle
Gabriel. He grins at me and asks me if I can’t find nobody left in
Mesquite to fight with. I told him that I was looking for a place where
men knowed enough about fair play to come one at a time. That left him
dumfounded, Hank, so I went up to a saloon, and got dumfounded myself,
when I runs into Windy and Hondo. There’s another feller with them and
they’re all stewed, and having a hy-iu time.

Windy looks me over, in a serious way, and then says:

“Dobie, your blood must be in bad condition, ’cause you ain’t heeled up
none since we hit you the first time. Go eat a dog-biscuit.”

Hank, I just happens to think what Emmeline told me not to do, so I
turns the joke on them like this:

“Windy, what you and Hondo done to me never hurt me no more than a kid
with the measles. It just made me sore, so I went out and had a real
fight.”

“Yes,” says Hondo, “you look it. Let’s all have a drink.”

There’s one good thing about them fellers—they don’t hold a grudge. They
sure treated me fine, and that other feller was a prince, too. We hit
the high spots as long as we can keep going, and we sure showed that
town a real visit.

When we can’t find nothing more to do that extra feller loads us all
into a livery rig, and we sings songs all the way back to Mesquite City.
I went to sleep singing “The Holy City” and woke up in a manger in a
livery stable the next morning. Hank, I sure was one sick person. I
manages to get out and soak my head in a watering trough, and anything
on earth looks better than I feel.

I goes out and sets down on the sidewalk, and along comes Uncle Gabe in
a buggy.

“Get in, young feller,” says he, and Hank, I was too sick to say no.

He takes me up to his house and puts me to bed. I’m writing this letter
in Uncle Gabriel’s house now, and Emmeline is making me a lemonade
drink. Uncle Gabe says that if I keep on I’ll be domesticated, whatever
that is, Hank.

Well, Hank, there ain’t no more news to write so will close. That extra
feller what was with us at Antelope was the detective on the case.
They’ve got Windy and Hondo in jail for robbing that bank, and you won’t
see them for some time. They confessed today.

I beg to remain yours truly,

Dobie Dalton.

P. S. If you’ve got anything to say, Hank, send it to Antelope, Mont.,
care of Galesburg’s sheep camp on Cinnamon Creek.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Mesquite, Mont., August 5

DEAR HANK:

Got your letter yesterday, and it is useless for me to tell you that it
is the first one I ever got from you. A Mexican, by the name of Colorado
Claro Maduro Sanchez brought the mail out to me, and I polished him on
the head with a rock for opening it. If there was any money in it for
me, Hank, you can kiss it good-by. I searched that greaser but he didn’t
have nothing on him but a onion, and he kept saying—

“_Kin sabe, kin sabe!_”

Maybe he can’t now, Hank, but I’ll bet he kin next time. Maybe that
ain’t up to my standard as a joke, but when you herd sheep for a few
days your humor gets full of ticks.

I took this job to please Emmeline, my wife, and I hope she’s pleased.
If she tried to kiss me now, she’d have to operate on my face with a
mower and then antiseptic me with sheep dip. You know me, Hank, and you
know I’m naturally a clean person phisikally, taking baths sometimes
when same is superfluous, but, Hank, I’m off it for a while.

We got a little spring, where we get our drinking water, et cettry,
after straining wool and so forth from same. Well, I dug this here
spring a little deeper and better, and decides to take a bath. There
ain’t nobody around that country but me, so I goes to my bath entirely
nood.

Not to change the subject, Hank, but a feller ought to know more about
the habits of sheep before he herds them, just like he ought to know
more about his wife’s relations before he marries her. Hank, a ram sheep
is a he animal with curved horns like a corkscrew, and a blood lust. Me
and you have always thought that shepherds goes crazy from hearing sheep
blatting, but it ain’t true. They go crazy from shock. I know what I’m
telling you, Hank. I got a scientifik mind, and I don’t have to get hit
with a brick house to find out if I’m right or wrong.

Well, I dived around in that pool until I gets a lot cleaner than I was
previous, and then I crawls out. The sun is hot, so I stoops over to
grab up my shirt, and something hits me so hard that I gets my ears full
of sand in the bottom of the spring. When I comes back to the top again,
Hank, I’m looking in the face of a he-ram sheep. A ram sheep ain’t so
much to look into the face of, but it’s the evil intentions you can read
thereon.

“Mister Sheep,” says I, “I’m going to come right out there to you and
ride you to a frazzle.”

You know I’m a good rider, Hank, and you know I can ride anything what
wears hair and runs on four legs, and no horse can throw me. I grabs
that ram sheep by one curly horn, yanks him half-way into the spring,
and then hops on his back.

He was a big sheep, Hank, and I guess I was suffering from shock, ’cause
I got on him backward. I don’t mind telling you that no matter how good
a rider a man is he’s handicapped when he gets all them natural bucks
reversed. It ain’t hard to stick on a horse when he rears up, but when
anything rears up in front of you, Hank, and sunfishes behind you at the
same time, and when you ain’t got nothing on but your birthday suit, and
that animol’s wool is wet, nobody can blame you if you don’t linger
around long.

I got dumped on my head and shoulders, Hank, and I feels like I had fell
a mile. It sure knocked all the wind out of me. Hank, I know how a bad
horse feels after he’s been throwed and knocked silly, and then comes to
and sees a lot of punchers standing around, all ready to throw him
again.

I lays there and looks up at that congregation of ram sheep standing in
a circle around me, and says to myself—

“When Emmeline finds my mangled corpse she’ll be sorry she hounded me
into herding sheep.”

But at that, Hank, a ram ain’t no sheep. It’s a cross between a vishous
pile-driver and a grizzly in sheep’s clothing. Being used to greasers,
what don’t never take a bath, they don’t know what to make of a fine
specimen of American manhood in the rough.

I wish I knowed some way to get up on my feet without bending myself no
place, Hank, but it can’t be done, so I just yells: “Woof!” just like
that, to scare them away, and then hops to my feet. Well, there must
have been a sheep behind me, which was hard of hearing, ’cause I got
shocked again, and when I quit going I sprawls out across a big ram
sheep. I grabs him by the horn, and away we go off up a washout, with my
two feet dragging and picking up every cactus in reach.

The feller what said that sheep will foller a leader said something,
’cause this herd is running a close second to us. Hank, you’ve heard the
story about Lady Something-or-other, who rode a horse down the main
street of a town, without enough clothes on to flag a handcar? She never
had nothing on Mr. Dalton’s son Dobie.

About four hundred yards above my camp is a big grove of cottonwood
trees, and here we go up there: me in the lead, forking that
scared-to-death ram, while strung out behind me in the dust comes the
rest of the procession, blatting their fool heads off. I can’t stop that
fool sheep, and I can’t afford to get off, so we parades right into that
clump of trees, and I gets another shock.

There’s a camp there, Hank, and that fool sheep takes me right between
two ladies setting there on a log and two more setting on a grub-box.
Like a fool I grabs that ram by the horns and tries to turn him like you
would a bicycle, but instead of turning the blame thing stopped.

I suppose if I knowed more about sheep I’d a knowed how to start it
going again, but I don’t, so there ain’t no argument. Hank, when them
women gets a good look they all screeches like a flock of cougars with
green-apple cramps, the same of which causes that he-sheep to jump right
out from under me, and I lands on my head, with my feet across the
tongue of a wagon.

When I gets up, Hank, I got a horse collar around my neck, but I don’t
stop to take it off. I ain’t no thief, Hank, and it don’t run in our
fambly to take things what don’t concern them, but what can a feller do
in a case like that?

Say, Hank, did you hear about Windy and Hondo? They escaped from the
jail. The sheriff didn’t tell me how they got away. He just said that
they busted some bars off a window.

Well, as I said before, I don’t lose no time. I ducks down on my hands
and knees and tries to hide behind a tree what ain’t bigger than a
fish-pole. I feels fairly safe, ’cause a hysterical woman don’t never
see nothing noway. She’s like a runaway horse.

“My ——, Annie!” I hears one yelp. “Did you see that?”

Annie answers by running the scale with her voice, and then somebody
squeaks—

“It must be a wild man!”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Just then I shifts a little, Hank, and gets one knee in a cactus, and
that woman ain’t so far wrong at that. They do guess right at times. I
rolls over to get a little further away, and just then I hears one of
them screeching females yelp:

“Thank heaven! Help is at hand!”

“One letter too much in the word ‘help,’” says I to myself, when I peeks
out and sees Blazer and Sleepy ride into the clearing.

“The police are here!” exclaims a woman, and Hank, I has to grin to
myself until I gets a look at the stars on the bosom of them hombres.

“Ma’am,” says Sleepy, “what seems to be the matter? We comes to offer
succor.”

That was some conversation, Hank. Every one of them scared females tells
him her life history from the cradle to the grave, and all at the same
time. Taking out a few words that showed up plain between the volleys,
I’m informed that the menfolks are all away hunting for sage hens, and
that a wild something that was part sheep and part man had come into
camp and attacked them. They finally beats it off.

“We’re deputy sheriffs, ma’am,” states Blazer. “We’re part of a posse,
and we’re sure a pair of grand little protectors. Which way did it go?”

None of them seemed to know, Hank, which shows that they runs true to
the species. Them fellers dismounts, and sort of mills around, looking
for signs, while I hugs the ground, and wishes that I hadn’t ate nothing
for a week so I could lay flatter.

Blazer remarks something about sanitation around camps, and then he
picks up a bucket of dirty water, and throws same all over me. Of
course, he don’t know I’m there, but that don’t help none. Them cactus
spines begins to itch, and I suffers a lot.

Pretty soon Blazer picks up a empty tomato can, and hits me right on the
head with it, and then him and Sleepy states that while they ain’t got
much to do they’ll clean up camp. Hank, them fellers sure did bombard me
with all the refuse around that camp. With all the other directions to
throw at, Hank, of course they has to pitch it all right at me, just
because I happens to be laying behind a fringe of brush. It’s human
nature to throw rubbish out of sight.

“We’re looking for a pair of escaped criminals, ma’am,” states Sleepy,
“they was bosom friends of a crazy shepherd out here, and we thought
maybe they came out here to hive up with him.”

“Desper-ah-does?” asks a female, and Hank, I has to laugh when Blazer
says: “Of the most malignant type, ma’am. The shepherd is likely the
worst one of the three, but there ain’t no use arresting him ’cause the
lunatic asylum is too crowded now.”

The idea of calling Windy and Hondo desperate men, Hank. Well, just then
I hears voices, and into camp comes them four sage hen hunters. It sort
of attracts everybody’s attention, and the way I had of getting out from
them tin cans, et cettry, and leaving there wasn’t no trouble at all.

Hank, you know how fast I can run, and that I can just about beat
anybody on earth, but you can cut my time half in two and get some idea
of the speed I can show, when I ain’t got nothing on to impede my
progress, and when I got some place to go to quick.

I sails down a washout, which runs past my camp, and when I gets in
behind my tent I takes a look but there ain’t nobody coming, so I climbs
out. I yawns and then walks, bold-like, around to the front of my tent,
and Hank, I got another shock. Right there at the door of my tent,
setting on a box, is Aunt Phoebe.

Down in the bottom stands Uncle Gabe’s camp-supply wagon, and I can hear
voices talking some place. Aunt Phoebe is hard of eyesight, and the
first thing she does is to go after her specs.

Hank, you know me, and you know that I think quick, so when she tries to
draw her specs on me I uses my brains like lightning. There’s a hole
about two feet square in my tent, about half-way up to the top, and I
takes one long, handsome hop, and drops into that hole like a
prairie-dog going home. My one aim in life is to get hold of a blanket.

Hank, this life of ours is full of mistakes, and a lot of them are
things we can’t help, like getting married before you find out all about
her folks and so forth. I goes out of sight in that tent, about up to my
waist, and lights with my legs around something what sure wasn’t in that
tent when I left it, and then one of the most blood-curdling yelps you
ever heard comes forth.

I reaches outside and grabs the ridge-pole of that tent, and then I sees
Emmeline go galloping off across the hills like a scared deer. Every
time she hits the ground she lets out a whoop, and right behind her goes
Aunt Phoebe. Auntie ain’t built for speed, Hank, but she does well at
that. She runs heavy like a draft horse.

I’m glad I wasn’t riding for a prize, Hank, ’cause that thing what I’m
setting on rises right up and gives a sudden heave, and stands me on my
head outside. I’m getting so used to shocks that it don’t faze me. You
know I think awful quick, Hank, and my feet hadn’t hit the dirt yet when
I has my whole plan of operation layed out. Think I to myself—

“Whoever that was will come around to the hole side of the tent, so I’ll
go the other.”

Wasn’t that quick work, Hank? It sure takes brains to figure all that
out so quick. The only trouble with it was the fact that I was figuring
on what a normal man would do. It takes so many kinds of folks to make a
world, Hank, that no matter how much brains you got you can’t get your
shot inside the black spot all the time.

Well, I hops up and lopes around the tent, and meets Uncle Gabe. He’s
loping, too, and he’s got a ax in his hand, and all that ever saved my
life was a guy-rope that tripped me, and I rammed my head into his
stummick so hard that I has to take two steps back to get my hair out of
his ribs. He was loping with his head turned around, so he never knew
what hit him.

As I said before, Hank, a man ought to know more about his wife’s
relatives before he marries her. If I knowed how her uncle would behave
under the circumstances I might stay there, but as it is I don’t dare. I
could have got his gun and stood him off, Hank, but he’s just crazy
enough to cause a scene, and make me kill him, and that would cause a
fambly scandal and a row.

I ducks into that tent, grabs a red blanket and a rope, and away I goes
again. I ain’t got no place to go to, Hank, but this ain’t no time to
plan things out. I tell you again like I did before, it ain’t the
blatting what makes them go crazy—it’s the shocks. If I hadn’t been a
brainy, well-balanced person I’d have likely gone crazy like a coyote
and hunted for a moon to howl at. I went off up that gulch, with that
red blanket tied around me like a apron, and Hank, I’m almost to the
point where I talk to myself.

Hank, you say in your letter that you didn’t understand what I meant
about needing money. You must have skipped a lot of reading matter. I
hope to be back there some fine day, and if you’ve still got them
letters I’ll set down with you and explain the points what you need
cleared up for you. Maybe I used too big words for you, Hank.

Well, I went on up that gulch for miles, and after a while I sees a
little cabin in a clump of trees. I’ve been wearing that blanket so long
that I sort of takes up the habits of a Indian. There ain’t a sign of
anybody around there, so I pushes the door open and goes inside. There’s
a few things in there, Hank, and somebody has cooked a onion in there
lately, ’cause I can smell same. I picks out a few of my choice cactus
and then sets down to try on a pair of old boots, which are on the
floor. I gets them on, Hank, but my feet swells right away. I hobbles
around there hunting for something more to wear, when I hears voices
outside.

                   *       *       *       *       *

I don’t know who it is, so I ducks down and crawls under a low bunk.
Pretty soon the door opens, and in comes Windy and Hondo first and
behind them comes Blazer and Sleepy. I can see that Windy and Hondo
ain’t got no guns, and they seem sort of anxious to please. Sleepy comes
over and lays a couple of rifles on the bunk over my head, and they all
sets down.

“You fellers ain’t got no howl coming,” states Blazer. “If it was some
of them other officers they’d prod you all the way to jail, and then
you’d spend about fifteen years breaking up rocks.”

“You sure can paint a glowing future,” agrees Windy. “It sure don’t
appeal to me none, but I reckon it’s the best we can do, eh, Hondo?”

“You gets plumb away,” says Sleepy, “we splits the money four ways and
reports that you ain’t in this country. Leave that to me and Blazer, and
rejoice that we ain’t man-hunting for love or glory.”

Hank, them feet of mine are killing me by this time.

“Show us the cache, and we’ll settle this up now,” says Blazer.

“Sure,” says Windy. “She’s under that left-hand bunk. You won’t need a
ax, ’cause the floor is all loose, anyway.”

Hank, I’m under that left bunk. Know what I done? All to once I rolls
out from under there and right among them, and grabs a rifle before
anybody can say a word, and covers the bunch.

Hank, they acts like they’d seen a ghost. Blazer is leaning against the
table, and his hand slips off and he falls flat on his face. Windy sets
down on the floor from his chair, and jars the whole cabin. Hondo seems
to be the only one to control his feelings, and he says:

“My ——! Darwin was wrong—it’s the other way around!”

Hank, I sure had that bunch buffaloed. They just gasps at me and don’t
argue when I takes their guns. Windy is about my size, so I requests the
loan of his clothes, and there ain’t no argument. I lays five
six-shooters on the table beside me, and them rifles on the floor, and
them four pelicans sets there on a bunk while I dress. I can wear all of
Windy’s clothes except his boots, and maybe they’ll fit but I can’t get
mine off.

Then I makes them all lay down on the floor, while I ties their feet
together with a rope. Then I ties one end of the rope to the post of a
bunk, and the other end to a log on the corner of the cabin. I searches
them for knives, and then leaves them tied up tight. I digs up the
money, as I figures to take it to Antelope, and notify the sheriff where
he can get the outlaws. I don’t figure that Blazer and Sleepy are a bit
better than Windy and Hondo, and I sure wants that sheriff to see what
he hired.

I gets on one horse and tries to lead the other three, but two of them
gets away and I decides to just take the two. I’m all dressed up with
cartridge belts et cettery, and I got that money in the saddle-bags.
Also, Hank, I got misery in my feet. Them boots seems to shrink a inch
at a time, and each and every boot has nails that seem to stick me plumb
to the ankle bone.

I goes along across country, peaceful-like, and I feels uplifted in
spite of my misery. Dobie Dalton is going to be a hero and show up
Emmeline’s fambly to a fare-thee-well. I tops a ridge, and my hat flips
off. Sudden-like, she strikes me that there ain’t no wind, and then I
hears the spat of a rifle, and I sees some men cutting across in front
of me.

Another shot seems to sort of aggravate my lead horse, and causes him to
sort of ball things up. Another bullet sticks into the dirt in front of
me, and fills my horse’s eyes with sand.

You know I am awful strong in the arms, Hank, and no horse can get his
head when I’m riding same, but you can’t do nothing, when you got a punk
headstall, and she busts the first time you pull hard, and the bridle
all comes off.

Hank, that horse would win a prize most any place as a bucker, and the
other one seems to get the habit, too, and we sure done a double sunfish
off into the Mesquite, with me riding without no spurs to help out with
and numb feet to brace with. If I’d ’a’ had some spurs to take the buck
out of that son-of-a-gun’s head I might a done some good for myself, but
as it was, Hank, I reaches for the horn and got my hands full of grass,
and then I don’t know nothing.

When I comes to I’m setting with my back against a tree, and a rope
around my neck, and a lot of folks are discussing my past.

“Them is my two horses what was stole,” says somebody. “We got the
deadwood on this Jasper, and I argues that we better let human nature
take its course.”

“Might so well,” agrees somebody. “He’s plumb guilty, and also he’s
carrying that stolen money from Mesquite. He sure was heeled to resist
arrest.”

“Must be circumstantial,” states a voice, and I recognizes Uncle
Gabriel’s voice. “This feller is my nephew by marriage, and while I
ain’t defending him for that reason, I don’t think he’s clever enough to
do all this, and besides he’s herding sheep for me, when these horses
was stole. I moves that we wait until he wakes up so he can say
something, or until the sheriff——”

“What about the sheriff?” asks a voice, and there sets the sheriff on
his horse, and he’s got them four fellers with him, linked together with
a rope.

The crowd sort of loses interest in me, and goes over to the later
attraction. There sure is some talk going on. Pretty soon I hears the
sheriff say:

“Caught them making a sneak out of that old cabin up here a ways. Reckon
they was taking a snooze, ’cause one of them had his boots in his hand.”

I stands up and looks them over. Windy has got on some old clothes and
when he sees me he puts his thumb to his nose at me. I says to the
sheriff—

“You got two of your own posse, sheriff.”

He looks at me and grins:

“Them two? Posse ——! There’s a thousand dollars reward per each for them
hombres. They’re wanted down in Plains County. Stars ain’t hard to get.”

The feller what claimed I stole his animols turns to me and says—

“Where did you find that stolen money, young man?”

“You might ask them,” says I, pointing at them four bad men.

“Crazy from sheep,” says Windy. “None of us have seen him for a week.”

“Sheep does strange things to folks,” says the sheriff, and Hank, I
don’t care to argue with them. It ain’t the sheep, it’s shocks.

“You might as well take that rope off his neck,” says the sheriff, and I
says—

“If you’re going to pass your generosity around in big gobs that way,
you might take these boots off first—the rope don’t hurt me none.”

Well, Hank, I hobbles away with Uncle Gabe to where the supply wagon is,
and climbs on the seat beside of Emmeline. I sure am a weary person,
Hank.

“Dobie,” says Emmeline, “you simply can’t keep out of trouble, can you?”

Hank there ain’t no use arguing with a woman, so I ignores her, and
pretty soon she says:

“Anyway, Dobie, I’m glad you’re going out with us, ’cause I’d worry
about you now. There’s a crazy man or something around that camp. It
jumped right in the tent, and chased auntie and me away over the hills.
And then it knocked uncle down and hung a horse collar around his neck.”

Uncle Gabe looks at me, kind of queer-like, Hank, and I wouldn’t swear
to it, but it looked like a wink, so I said—

“Better turn around and take me back to the sheep camp.”

“No,” says he, “I made this trip out here to take you back. I’ve sold
out all my sheep.”

Well, Hank, I ain’t got no more job than a jackrabbit, so I’m writing to
you, not for money, ’cause you can’t understand that kind of talk, but I
want you to go to the old man and say to him—

“Dobie Dalton is a danged good puncher and a upright honorable sort of a
person, and he’d come back to the Lazy Y in a minute.”

You know how to say it, Hank. Also you might say to him like this—

“Dobie is domesticated now.”

Just tell it to him, offhand like, Hank. That ain’t no lie—I am. I looks
it up in a dictionary, and she says like this: Domesticate, to tame.
That’s me, Hank.

Well, there wasn’t no news to write, Hank, but I just wanted you to know
I’d come back there if they want me to. I got enough to take me and
Emmeline back there if you don’t waste too much time.

Yours very truly and sincerely,

DOBIE DALTON.

P. S. Hank, there wasn’t no reward for the return of that money, but
that blasted sheriff got three thousand for them four, and I could ’a’
had it all if I hadn’t made one little mistake. When you rope a man by
the feet, Hank, you better take his boots off first.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
October 3, 1918. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]



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