On A Donkey's Hurricane Deck Part 29

Gothenburg, the next town, was in a decline, the reaction of a boom. A traveler approaching it expects to find a business center.

Many stores and dwellings were of brick, but whole rows were vacant at the time. The soothing melody of the squalling infant was only a memory to the village druggist; the itinerant butcher and milkman had ceased their daily rounds; and all that was left to distinguish the half-deserted village from the desert was an occasional swallow that went down the parched mouth of a chimney.

There is another town characteristic of the plains. I had a letter to post at Paxton, but forgot it; some miles beyond, a ranchman whom we met said I would find a post-office at Korty, five miles further on. After traveling two hours, we could see no vestige of a village anywhere. Don ran ahead to the top of every sand hill and stood on his hind feet to have the first peep at the mysterious town. I came to the conclusion the ranchman had said twenty-five miles instead of five. Finally the trail approached the railroad.

"I see the town of Korty!" my valet exclaimed.

"Where?" I asked.

"There. Plain as day. Can't you see it?" he asked, pointing straight ahead.

"I must confess I can't," I replied. "Let me look over your finger." Then I saw it. It wasn't one hundred feet away. A single white-painted post stood beside the track, and on it was nailed a cross-bar, lettered in bold type, "Korty;" underneath was a letter-box. That was the town. There was no section house, no water tank, no break in the wire fence, and there being, of course, no general delivery window in the "post-office," I did not ask for my mail.

On the way to North Platte, we pa.s.sed the site of old Ft.

McPherson, where Buffalo Bill, the celebrated scout, once lived and won his fame and t.i.tle by providing buffalo meat for the Government, and also the site of a notorious p.a.w.nee village, now called p.a.w.nee Springs. We reached North Platte, situated at the confluence of the North and South Platte rivers, which form the great River Platte, Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and spent Sunday in a manner to meet the approval of the most pious.

That first evening I lectured from a large dry-goods box on a prominent corner.

Sunday afternoon an old friend and cla.s.smate drove me into the country to the famous "Scout's Rest Ranch," the estate of Mr. Cody (Buffalo Bill), where I saw a herd of buffalo and a cornfield of 500 acres.

"There is quite a contrast between your cornfield and mine," I said to the manager.

"How big a cornfield have you?"

"Just a small one," I replied. "One acher on each big toe."

"I see, only sufficient for your own use," came the response; "your 'stock in' trade, as it were." Then the ranchman purchased a photo, and we two grown-up school boys drove back to town, in time to escape a thunder shower.

The country between North Platte and Julesburg is a desolate and barren region. Occasionally we could see a ranch house, sometimes cattle grazing on I knew not what. There was plenty of alkali gra.s.s in the bottom lands of the Platte, and further back on the mesa, patches of the short and nutritious buffalo gra.s.s, half seared by the scorching sun. The railway stations, with one or two exceptions, consisted of water tanks and section houses, where water could be procured. At Ogalala we met a train-load of Christian Endeavorers, and had a chance to quench our thirst.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

BY MAC A'RONY.

What a thrice double a.s.s Was I, to take this drunkard for a G.o.d, And wors.h.i.+p this dull fool! --_Tempest._

Where and how to celebrate the Fourth of July greatly concerned Pye Pod. The third was spent in Julesburg, a town in Colorado, two miles west of the boundary line; as Sunday was the Fourth, we naturally expected a lively programme for Sat.u.r.day.

We were disappointed. Everybody had gone off on an excursion, and Julesburg was dead. So my master, realizing the long journey before us, inquired as to the possibility of obtaining an extra donkey, and was told of one, some six miles from town. He rode in a buggy to a ranch right after lunch and brought back the prettiest damsel I ever saw. Her name was Skates; Pod said he so named her because she ran all the way and beat his pride-broken, wind-broken horse into town. I gave Skates a loving smile, but she gave me a look, which said, "Keep your distance, young feller." So I did. But I lost my heart to that girl then and there.

Pod noticed my leaning toward Skates, and asked me my intentions.

I frankly told him. "But what nonsense for a youth of four years,"

he remarked. "Mac, be patient; wait until you are of age, at least."

Time was precious, and we could not tarry. That afternoon we set out for Sterling, sixty miles into the desert, where, it was said, there would be a big time on the fifth.

Monday dawned cloudy and threatening, as is usual with celebration days. The tent door was open, and Skates and I were looking in, I waiting for a chance to pull a bag of eatables out of the tent for her.

"What is your programme for to-day?" Pod asked his valet.

No answer. The question was repeated; still no response. Then my master turned drowsily on his pillow, and beheld c.o.o.nskin with bloodshot eyes and the only whiskey bottle clasped lovingly to his breast. The valet wanted to say something, but his lips refused to speak. It was evident that his celebration had begun the night before. Pod sat up and rubbed his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming, and then asked the fellow why he drank all the emergency whiskey.

"R-r-r-r-r-r-r-rat-schnake bite-bite-bited me--d--drank whisky t'shave life," stammered the youth. "H-h-h-hic-have shome, Prof."

Pod looked mad. He up and dressed, and mixed soda and water and lemon juice, and made c.o.o.nskin drink it. Soon the tipsy fellow tried to dress, but finally gave it up and went to sleep. Two hours later he awoke quite sober, and came out to where Pod was currying me for the celebration, and showed him his programme. I haven't s.p.a.ce to give it in full.

One feature was an obstacle race, the prize for the winner being a quart bottle of snake-bit (whiskey). c.o.o.nskin said, as his excuse for drinking the whiskey, that he was certain of winning the race, but afraid the bottle might be broken before the event. Pod thought that reasonable enough, and forgave him; but he told me confidentially that he didn't know what he should do if he were bitten by a rattlesnake without whiskey at hand. I suggested, in such event, he should point a revolver at c.o.o.nskin's garret, where his brains ought to have been, and make him suck out the poison.

The obstacle race began at eleven in the morning. The start was made from the tent door; the course and conditions were as follows:

Run to the fifth fence-post down the trail, alongside the railroad track; crawl through the barbed-wire fence four times between different posts on the way back to the tent, without tearing clothes; creep through the legs of the little portable table (purchased in Julesburg) without rolling off an egg resting on it; run a hundred yards and unpicket one of the donkeys and ride it round the tent three times with a spoon in hand, holding an egg; ride the donk back to his picket-pin and crawl between its hind legs without disturbing the animal's equilibrium; stand in the tent door and shoot some hair off one of the donkey's tails without touching the tail proper; then lead that donkey to the tent and hitch him to the turtle, Bill. Cheating, if detected, forfeited the prize.

Well, while there were two starters, there was only one finisher.

It seems that c.o.o.nskin shot a piece off Cheese's tail (improper, the donk said), and, in consequence, man and donk disappeared over the horizon, without leaving their future address or the date for their return.

c.o.o.nskin rode Cheese into camp after dark. Then he rubbed axle-grease on Cheese's sensitive part, and prepared the delayed dinner. Next came fire-works--Roman candles, firecrackers, and pin-wheels--after which both men retired, fancying they had the jolliest Fourth ever witnessed by man or donkey in the history of the Colorado desert.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

BY PYE POD.

Sancho Panza hastened to his master's help as fast as his a.s.s could go, and when he came up he found the knight unable to stir, such a shock had Rosinante given him in the fall.--_Don Quixote._

The casualty, which terminated our celebration on the fifth, seemed to portend bad luck. The metaphorical lightning first struck me. We struck camp, that hot July day, before the sun was an hour high, and a mile beyond trailed through a dog-town reservation. I had long been desirous of securing a prairie dog to have mounted; as a rule one can pick off these shy creatures only at long rifle range. This morning, stealing up behind a cornfield, I wounded a dog, then dropping my gun, ran to catch him before he could escape into his hole. Crawling through a barbed-wire fence without afterward appearing in dishabille is considered by a tenderfoot the feat of feats. Before I reached the hole half undressed the dog had tumbled into it. He must have made a mistake, however, for out the fellow came, and made for another hole. I grabbed him, but instantly dropped him, for he tried to bite me. Then, like a shot, he dived into the second hole, and I thrust my arm in to pull him out. But my hand came out quite as fast as it went in. It was bitten; and at the mouth of the hole I now detected for the first time the tail of a rattlesnake. That was an awful moment, What should I do? My whiskey was gone; I had no antidote for the poison. I rushed to where c.o.o.nskin was waiting with my outfit.

"Make for the house!" he exclaimed.

A ranch house stood some two miles away, but not a soul was in sight. Still, that seemed to be my only salvation; I realized a painful death was the only alternative. With a hundred other thoughts rus.h.i.+ng into my head, I ran toward the distant house.

c.o.o.nskin began picketing the donkeys, and promised to follow.

While racing madly through the cacti and sage, I thought of my past, from three months upward. Just when I had reached an episode, which almost ended my reckless career at the age of ten, I heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and, a moment later, a young woman reined her steed at my side, dismounted and gave me her horse.

"Into the saddle, quick, man!" she cried. "Mother has turpentine and whiskey. The horse will take the fence and ditch. Pull leather, stick to the saddle, never mind the stirrups!" and to the horse--"Git home, Topsy!--Run for your life, old girl!" Like a flash, the big mare sped forward with the velocity of the wind.

To pull leather, in the parlance of the cowboy, means to grip the saddle with the hands. For a cow-puncher to pull leather is deemed disgraceful; for Pod, it was excusable. Although the mare fairly flew, she did not travel half fast enough to suit me. With reins round the saddle-horn, I gripped the saddle with my left hand and sucked the bite on my right, but suddenly the mare took a hop-skip-and-jump over the fence and ditch; fell to her knees, and threw me over her head.

When I sat up, I saw a woman in the door of the house, yet a half mile away, no doubt, wondering how a maniac happened to be on her daughter's steed. The next moment, c.o.o.nskin arived all out of breath, and a.s.sisted me to the house. Before we could fully explain the situation, the good woman disappeared, soon to return with a bottle of turpentine, which she turned nozzle down over the snake bite, while my valet poured whiskey down my throat.

They say it takes a long time and much whiskey to affect one bitten by a rattler, but this case seemed to be an exception; in a few moments, my head was going round, and I prostrate on a couch.

My kind nurse looked curiously at the turpentine, and finally said it was queer it didn't turn green, as it should in the case of a rattle-snake bite.

A half hour pa.s.sed and still there was no change. Then when I repeated my story of how the thing happened, she grinned, and said she guessed it was the prairie dog and not the snake that bit me, after all. I was so dead drunk when the daughter came that she glanced at me and asked in a whisper, "Is he dead?"