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I
"Where were you at twelve o`clock, noon, on the 9th of June, 1875?" -- Question on intelligent cross-examination.
"EXCUSE me," said Ben Roddle with graphic gestures to a group of citizens in Nantucket`s store. "Excuse me. When them fellers in leather pants an` six-shooters ride in, I go home an` set in th` cellar. That`s what I do. When you see me pirooting through the streets at th` same time an` occasion as them punchers, you kin put me down fer bein` crazy. Excuse me."
"Why, Ben," drawled old Nantucket, "you ain`t never really seen `em turned loose. Why, I kin remember -- in th` old days -- when -- "
"Oh, damn yer old days!" retorted Roddle. Fixing Nantucket with the eye of scorn and contempt, he said: "I suppose you`ll be sayin` in a minute that in th` old days you used to kill Injuns, won`t you?"
There was some laughter, and Roddle was left free to expand his ideas on the periodic visits of cowboys to the town. "Mason Rickets, he had ten big punkins a-sittin` in front of his store, an` them fellers from the Upside-down-F ranch shot `em up -- shot `em all up -- an` Rickets lyin` on his belly in th` store a-callin` fer `em to quit it. An` what did they do! Why, they laughed at `im! -- just laughed at `im! That don`t do a town no good. Now, how would an eastern capiterlist" -- (it was the town`s humour to be always gassing of phantom investors who were likely to come any moment and pay a thousand prices for everything) -- "how would an eastern capiterlist like that? Why, you couldn`t see `im fer th` dust on his trail. Then he`d tell all his friends that `their town may be all right, but ther`s too much loose-handed shootin` fer my money.` An` he`d be right, too. Them rich fellers, they don`t make no bad breaks with their money. They watch it all th` time b`cause they know blame well there ain`t hardly room fer their feet fer th` pikers an` tin-horns an` thimble-riggers what are layin` fer `em. I tell you, one puncher racin` his cow-pony hell-bent-fer-election down Main Street an` yellin` an` shootin` an` nothin` at all done about it, would scare away a whole herd of capiterlists. An` it ain`t right. It oughter be stopped."
A pessimistic voice asked: "How you goin` to stop it, Ben?"
"Organise," replied Roddle pompously. "Organise: that`s the only way to make these fellers lay down. I -- "
From the street sounded a quick scudding of pony hoofs, and a party of cowboys swept past the door. One man, however, was seen to draw rein and dismount. He came clanking into the store. "Mornin`, gentlemen," he said, civilly.
"Mornin`," they answered in subdued voices.
He stepped to the counter and said, "Give me a paper of fine cut, please." The group of citizens contemplated him in silence. He certainly did not look threatening. He appeared to be a young man of twenty-five years, with a tan from wind and sun, with a remarkably clear eye from perhaps a period of enforced temperance, a quiet young man who wanted to buy some tobacco. A six-shooter swung low on his hip, but at the moment it looked more decorative than warlike; it seemed merely a part of his odd gala dress -- his sombrero with its band of rattlesnake skin, his great flaming neckerchief, his belt of embroidered Mexican leather, his high-heeled boots, his huge spurs. And, above all, his hair had been watered and brushed until it lay as close to his head as the fur lays to a wet cat. Paying for his tobacco, he withdrew.
Ben Roddle resumed his harangue. "Well, there you are! Looks like a calm man now, but in less`n half an hour he`ll be as drunk as three bucks an` a squaw, an` then . . . . excuse me!"
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