Nacherally, I admits, thar has been a modicum4 of blood shed west an’ some slight share tharof can be charged to Arizona. No, I can’t say I deplores5 these killin’s none. Every gent has got to die. For one, I’m mighty glad the game’s been rigged that a-way. I’d shore hesitate a lot to be born onless I was shore I’d up an’ some day cash in. Live forever? No, don’t confer on me no sech gloomy outlook. If a angel was to appear in our midst an’ saw off on me the news that I was to go on an’ on as I be now, livin’ forever like that Wanderin’ Jew, the information would stop my clock right thar. I’d drop dead in my moccasins.
It don’t make much difference, when you gives yourse’f to a ca’m consid’ration of the question as to when you dies or how you dies. The important thing is to die as becomes a gent of sperit who has nothin’ to regret. Every one soon or late comes to his trail’s end. Life is like a faro game. One gent has ten dollars, another a hundred, another a thousand, and still others has rolls big enough to choke a cow. But whether a gent is weak or strong, poor or rich, it’s written in advance that he’s doomed6 to go broke final. He’s doomed to die. Tharfore, when that’s settled, of what moment is it whether he goes broke in an hour, or pikes along for a week—dies to-day or postpones7 his funeral for years an’ mebby decades?
Holdin’ to these yere views, you can see without my tellin’ that a killin’, once it be over, ain’t likely to harass8 me much. Like the rest of you-all, I’ve been trailin’ out after my grave ever since I was foaled—on a hunt for my sepulcher9, you may say—an’ it ought not to shock me to a showdown jest because some pard tracks up ag’inst his last restin’ place, spreads his blankets an’ goes into final camp before it come my own turn.
But, speakin’ of killin’s, the most onusual I ever hears of is when Wild Bill Hickox cleans up the Jake McCandlas gang. This Bill I knows intimate; he’s not so locoed as his name might lead a gent to concloode. The truth is, he’s a mighty crafty10, careful form of sport; an’ he never pulled a gun ontil he knew what for an’ never onhooked it ontil he knew what at.
An’ speakin’ of the latter—the onhookin’ part—that Wild Bill never missed. That’s his one gift; he’s born to make a center shot whenever his six-shooter expresses itse’f.
This McCandlas time is doorin’ them border troubles between Missouri an’ Kansas. Jest prior tharunto, Bill gets the ill-will of the Missouri outfit11 by some gun play he makes at Independence, then the eastern end of the old Santa Fe trail. What Bill accomplishes at Independence is a heap effectual an’ does him proud. But it don’t endear him none to the Missouri heart. Moreover, it starts a passel of resentful zealots to lookin’ for him a heap f’rocious, an’ so he pulls his freight.
It’s mebby six months later when Bill is holdin’ down a stage station some’eres over in Kansas—it’s about a day’s ride at a road-gait from Independence—for Ben Holiday’s overland line. Thar’s the widow of a compadre of Bill who has a wickeyup about a mile away, an’ one day Bill gets on his hoss, Black Nell, an’ goes romancin’ over to see how the widow’s gettin’ on. This Black Nell hoss of Bill’s is some cel’brated. Black Nell is tame as a kitten an’ saveys more’n a hired man. She’d climb a pa’r of steps an’ come sa’n-terin’ into a dance hall or a hurdy gurdy if Bill calls to her, an’ I makes no doubt she’d a-took off her own saddle an’ bridle12 an’ gone to bed with a pa’r of blankets, same as folks, if Bill said it was the proper antic for a pony13.
It’s afternoon when Bill rides up to pow-wow with this relict of his pard. As he comes into the one room—for said wickeyup ain’t palatial14, an’ consists of one big room, that a-way, an’ a jim-crow leanto—Bill says:
“Howdy, Jule?” like that.
“Howdy, Bill?” says the widow. “’Light an’ rest your hat, while I roam ’round an’ rustle15 some chuck.” This widow has the right idee.
While Bill is camped down on a stool waitin’ for the promised carne an’ flap-jacks, or whatever may be the grub his hostess is aimin’ to on-loose, he casts a glance outen the window. He’s interested at once. Off across the plains he discerns the killer16, McCandlas an’ his band p’intin’ straight for the widow’s. They’re from Missouri; thar’s ’leven of ’em, corral count, an’ all “bad.” As they can see his mare17, Black Nell, standin’ in front of the widow’s, Bill argues jestly that the McCandlas outfit knows he’s thar; an’ from the speed they’re makin’ in their approach, he likewise dedooces that they’re a heap eager for his company.
Bill don’t have to study none to tell that thar’s somebody goin’ to get action. It’s likely to be mighty onequal, but thar’s no he’p; an’ so Bill pulls his gun-belt tighter, an’ organizes to go as far as he can. He has with him only one six-shooter; that’s a severe setback18. Now, if he was packin’ two the approaching war jig19 would have carried feachers of comfort. But he’s got a nine-inch bowie, which is some relief. When his six-shooter’s empty, he can fall back on the knife, die hard, an’ leave his mark.
As Bill rolls the cylinder20 of his gun to see if she’s workin’ free, an’ loosens the bowie to avoid delays, his eye falls on a rifle hangin’ above the door.
“Is it loaded, Jule?” asks Bill.
“Loaded to the gyards,” says the widow.
“An’ that ain’t no fool of a piece of news, neither,” says Bill, as he reaches down the rifle. “Now, Jule, you-all better stampede into the cellar a whole lot ontil further orders. Thar’s goin’ to be heated times ’round yere an’ you’d run the resk of gettin’ scorched21.”
“I’d sooner stay an’ see, Bill,” says the widow. “You-all knows how eager an’ full of cur’osity a lady is,” an’ here the widow beams on Bill an’ simpers coaxin’ly.
“An’ I’d shore say stay, Jule,” says Bill, “if you could turn a trick. But you sees yourse’f, you couldn’t. An’ you’d be in the way.”
Thar’s a big burrow22 out in the yard; what Kansas people deenominates as a cyclone23 cellar. It’s like a cave; every se’f-respectin’ Kansas fam’ly has one. They may not own no bank account; they may not own no good repoote; but you can gamble, they’ve got a cyclone cave.
Shore, it ain’t for ornament24, nor yet for ostentation25. Thar’s allers a breeze blowin’ plenty stiff across the plains. Commonly, it’s strenyous enough to pick up a empty bar’l an’ hold it ag’inst the side of a buildin’ for a week. Sech is the usual zephyr26. Folks don’t heed27 them none. But now an’ then one of these yere cyclones28 jumps a gent’s camp, an’ then it’s time to make for cover. Thar’s nothin’ to be said back to a cyclone. It’ll take the water outen a well, or the money outen your pocket, or the ha’r off your head; it’ll get away with everything about you incloodin’ your address. Your one chance is a cyclone cellar; an’ even that refooge ain’t no shore-thing, for I knowed a cyclone once that simply feels down an’ pulls a badger30 outen his hole. Still, sech as the last, is onfrequent.
The widow accepts Bill’s advice an’ makes for the storm cave. This leaves Bill happy an’ easy in his mind, for it gives him plenty of room an’ nothin’ to think of but himse’f. An’ Bill shore admires a good fight.
He don’t have long to wait after the widow stampedes. Bill hears the sweep of the ’leven McCandlas hosses as they come chargin’ up. No, he can’t see; he ain’t quite that weak-minded as to be lookin’ out the window.
As the band halts, Bill hears McCandlas say:
“Shore, gents; that’s Wild Bill’s hoss. We’ve got him treed an’ out on a limb; to-morry evenin’ we’ll put that long-ha’red skelp of his in a showcase in Independence.” Then McCandlas gives a whoop31, an’ bluffs32 Bill to come out. “Come out yere, Bill; we needs you to decide a bet,” yells McCandlas. “Come out; thar’s no good skulkin’.”
“Say, Jake,” retorts Bill; “I’ll gamble that you an’ your hoss thieves ain’t got the sand to come after me. Come at once if you comes; I despises delays, an’ besides I’ve got to be through with you-all an’ back to the stage station by dark.”
“I’ll put you where thar ain’t no stage lines, Bill, long before dark,” says McCandlas. An’ with that he comes caperin’ through the window, sash, glass, an’ the entire lay-out, as blithe33 as May an’ a gun in each hand.
Bill cuts loose the Hawkins as he’s anxious to get the big gun off his mind. It stops McCandlas, “squar’ in the door,” as they says in monte; only it’s the window. McCandlas falls dead outside.
“An’ I’m sorry for that, too,” says Bill to him-se’f. “I’m preemature some about that shot. I oughter let Jake come in. Then I could have got his guns.”
When McCandlas goes down, the ten others charges with a whoop. They comes roarin’ through every window; they breaks in the door; they descends34 on Bill’s fortress35 like a ’possum on a partridge nest!
An’ then ensoos the busiest season which any gent ever cuts in upon. The air is heavy with bullets an’ thick with smoke. The walls of the room later looks like a colander36.
It’s a mighty fav’rable fight, an’ Bill don’t suffer none in his repoote that Kansas afternoon. Faster than you can count, his gun barks; an’ each time thar’s a warrior37 less. One, two, three, four, five, six; they p’ints out after McCandlas an’ not a half second between ’em as they starts. It was good luck an’ good shootin’ in combination.
It’s the limit; six dead to a single Colt’s! No gent ever approaches it but once; an’ that’s a locoed sharp named Metzger in Raton. He starts in with Moulton who’s the alcade, an’ beefs five an’ creases38 another; an’ all to the same one gun. The public, before he can reload, hangs Metzger to the sign in front of the First National Bank, so he don’t have much time to enjoy himse’f reviewin’ said feats39.
Rifle an’ six-shooter empty; seven dead an’ done, an’ four to take his knife an’ talk it over with! That’s the situation when Bill pulls his bowie an’ starts to finish up.
It shore ain’t boy’s play; the quintette who’s still prancin’ about the field is as bitter a combination as you’d meet in a long day’s ride. Their guns is empty, too; an’ they, like Bill, down to the steel. An’ thar’s reason to believe that the fight from this p’int on is even more interestin’ than the part that’s gone before. Thar’s no haltin’ or hangin’ back; thar ain’t a bashful gent in the herd40. They goes to the center like one man.
Bill, who’s as quick an’ strong as a mountain lion, with forty times the heart an’ fire, grips one McCandlas party by the wrist. Thar’s a twist an’ a wrench41 an’ Bill onj’ints his arm.
That’s the last of the battle Bill remembers. All is whirl an’ smoke an’ curse an’ stagger an’ cut an’ stab after that, with tables crashin’ an’ the wreck42 an’ jangle of glass.
But the end comes. Whether the struggle from the moment when it’s got down to the bowies lasts two minutes or twenty, Bill never can say. When it’s over, Bill finds himse’f still on his feet, an’ he’s pushin’ the last gent off his blade. Split through the heart, this yere last sport falls to the floor in a dead heap, an’ Bill’s alone, blood to both shoulders.
Is Bill hurt? Gents, it ain’t much likely he’s put ’leven fightin’ men into the misty43 beyond, the final four with a knife, an’ him plumb scatheless44! No, Bill’s slashed45 so he wouldn’t hold hay; an’ thar’s more bullets in his frame than thar’s pease in a pod. The Doc who is called in, an’ who prospects46 Bill, allers allowed that it’s the mistake of his life he don’t locate Bill an’ work him for a lead mine.
When the battle is over an’ peace resoomes its sway, Bill begins to stagger. An’ he’s preyed47 on by thirst. Bill steadies himse’f along the wall; an’ weak an’ half blind from the fogs of fightin’, he feels his way out o’ doors.
Thar’s a tub of rain-water onder the eaves; it’s the only thing Bill’s thinkin’ of at the last. He bends down to drink; an’ with that, faints an’ falls with his head in the tub.
It’s the widow who rescoos Bill; she emerges outen her cyclone cellar an’ saves Bill from drownin’. An’ he lives, too; lives to be downed years afterward48 when up at Deadwood a timid party who don’t dare come ’round in front, drills Bill from the r’ar. But what can you look for? Folks who lives by the sword will perish by the sword as the scripters sets forth49, an’ I reckons now them warnin’s likewise covers guns.
“And did that really happen?” asked the Red Nosed Gentleman, drawing a deep breath.
“It’s as troo as that burgundy you’re absorbin’,” replied the Old Cattleman.
“I can well believe it,” observed the Sour Gentleman; “a strong hour makes a strong man. Did this Wild Bill Hickox wed29 the widow who pulled him out of the tub?”
“Which I don’t think so,” returned the Old Cattleman. “If he does, Bill keeps them nuptials50 a secret. But it’s a cinch he don’t. As I says at the jump, Bill is a mighty wary51 citizen an’ not likely to go walkin’ into no sech ambuscade as a widow.”
“You do not think, then,” observed the Red Nosed Gentleman, “that a wife would be a blessing52?”
“She wouldn’t be to Wild Bill Hickox,” said the Old Cattleman. “Thar is gents who ought never to wed, an’ Bill’s one. He was bound to be killed final; the game law was out on Bill for years. Now when a gent is shore to cash in that a-way, why should he go roundin’ up a wife? Thar oughter be a act of congress ag’in it, an’ I onderstand that some sech measure is to be introdooced.”
“Passing laws,” remarked the Jolly Doctor, “is no such easy matter, now, as passing the bottle.” Here the Jolly Doctor looked meaningly at the Red Nosed Gentleman, who thereupon shoved the burgundy into the Jolly Doctor’s hand with all conceivable alacrity53. Like every good drinker, the Red Nosed Gentleman loved a cup companion. “There was a western person,” went on the Jolly Doctor, “named Jim Britt, who came east to have a certain law passed; he didn’t find it flowers to his feet.”
“What now was the deetails?” said the Old Cattleman. “The doin’s an’ plottin’s an’ doubleplays of them law-makin’ mavericks54 in congress is allers a heap thrillin’ to me.”
“Very well,” responded the Jolly Doctor; “let each light a fresh cigar, for it’s rather a long story, and when all are comfortable, I’ll give you the history of ‘How Jim Britt Passed His Bill.’”
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1
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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plumb
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| adv.精确地，完全地；v.了解意义，测水深 | |
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3
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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deplores
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的第三人称单数 ) | |
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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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postpones
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的第三人称单数 ) | |
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8
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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sepulcher
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| n.坟墓 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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13
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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palatial
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| adj.宫殿般的，宏伟的 | |
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15
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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16
killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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17
mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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18
setback
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| n.退步，挫折，挫败 | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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cylinder
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| n.圆筒，柱(面)，汽缸 | |
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21
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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cyclone
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| n.旋风，龙卷风 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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zephyr
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| n.和风，微风 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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cyclones
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| n.气旋( cyclone的名词复数 )；旋风；飓风；暴风 | |
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29
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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31
whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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blithe
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| adj.快乐的，无忧无虑的 | |
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descends
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| v.下来( descend的第三人称单数 )；下去；下降；下斜 | |
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35
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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colander
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| n.滤器，漏勺 | |
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37
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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38
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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feats
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| 功绩，伟业，技艺( feat的名词复数 ) | |
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herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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41
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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42
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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43
misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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scatheless
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| adj.无损伤的，平安的 | |
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45
slashed
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| v.挥砍( slash的过去式和过去分词 )；鞭打；割破；削减 | |
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46
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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47
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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48
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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49
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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50
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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51
wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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52
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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53
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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54
mavericks
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| 未烙印的牲畜( maverick的名词复数 )； 标新立异的人，不合常规的人 | |
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