Sundown Slim. Henry Herbert Knibbs

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СКАЧАТЬ is sufferin' full of guys tryin' to pull all the G strings out of a harp to onct—when they ought to be practicin' scales on a mouth-organ. And it's printed ag'in' 'em in the magazines, right along. I read lots of it. But speakin' of eats and thinkin' of eats, did you ever listen to 'Them Saddest Words,'—er—one of me own competitions?"

      "Not while I was awake. But come on over to 'The Last Chance' and lubricate your works. I don't mind a little po'try on a full stummick."

      "Well, I'm willin', pardner."

      The process of lubrication was brief; and "Have another?" queried the tramp. "I ain't all broke—only I ain't payin' dividen's, bein' hard times."

      "Keep your two-bits," said the puncher. "This is on me. You're goin' to furnish the chaser, Go to it and cinch up them there 'saddest.'"

      "Bein' just two-bits this side of bein' a socialist, I guess I'll keep me change. I ain't a drinkin' man—regular, but I never was scared of eatin'."

      Sundown gazed about the dingy room. Like most poets, he was not averse to an audience, and like most poets he was quite willing that such audience should help defray his incidental expenses—indirectly, of course. Prospects were pretty thin just then. Two Mexican herders loafed at the other end of the bar. They appeared anything but susceptible to the blandishments of Euterpe. Sundown gazed at the ceiling, which was fly-specked and uninspiring,

      "Turn her loose!" said the puncher, winking at the bartender.

      Sundown folded his long arms and tilted one lean shoulder as though defying the elements to blast him where he stood:—

      "Lives there a gent who has not heard,

       Before he died, the saddest word?

      "'What word is that?' the maiden cried;

       'I'd like to hear it before I died.'

      "'Then come with me,' her father said,

       As to the stockyards her he led;

      "Where layin' on the ground so low

       She seen a tired and weary Bo.

      "But when he seen her standin' 'round,

       He riz up from the cold, cold ground.

      "'Is this a hold-up game?' sez he.

       And then her pa laughed wickedly.

      "'This ain't no hold-up!' loud he cried,

       As he stood beside the fair maiden's side.

      "'But this here gal of mine ain't heard

       What you Boes call the saddest word.'

      "'The Bo, who onct had been a gent,

       Took off his lid and low he bent.

      "He saw the maiden was fed up good,

       So her father's wink he understood.

      "'The saddest word,' the Bo he spoke,

       'Is the dinner-bell, when you are broke.'"

      And Sundown paused, gazing ceilingward, that the moral might seep through.

      "You're ridin' right to home!" laughed the cow-boy. "You just light down and we'll trail over to Chola Charley's and prospect a tub of frijoles. The dinner-bell when you are broke is plumb correct. Got any more of that po'try broke to ride gentle?"

      "Uhuh. Say, how far is it to the next town?"

      "Comin' or goin'?"

      "Goin'."

      "'Bout seventy-three miles, but there's nothin' doin' there. Worse'n this."

      "Looks like me for a job, or the next rattler goin' west. Any chanct for a cook here?"

      "Nope. All Mexican cooks. But say, I reckon you might tie up over to the Concho. Hearn tell that Jack Corliss wants a cook. Seems his ole stand-by Hi Wingle's gone to Phoenix on law business. Jack's a good boss to tie to. Worked for him myself."

      "How far to his place?" queried Sundown.

      "Sixty miles, straight south."

      "Gee Gosh! Looks like the towns was scared of each other in this here country. Who'd you say raises them frijoles?"

      The cowboy laughed and slapped Sundown on the back. "Come on, Bud! You eat with me this trip."

      Western humor, accentuated by alcohol, is apt to broaden rapidly in proportion to the quantity of liquor consumed. After a given quantity has been consumed—varying with the individual—Western humor broadens without regard to proportion of any kind.

      The jovial puncher, having enjoyed Sundown's society to the extent of six-bits' worth of Mexican provender, suggested a return to "The Last Chance," where the tramp was solemnly introduced to a newly arrived coterie of thirsty riders of the mesas. Gaunt and exceedingly tall, he loomed above the heads of the group in the barroom "like a crane in a frog-waller," as one cowboy put it. "Which ain't insinooatin' that our hind legs is good to eat, either," remarked another. "He keeps right on smilin'," asserted the first speaker. "And takin' his smile," said the other. "Wonder what's his game? He sure is the lonesomest-lookin' cuss this side of that dead pine on Bald Butte, that I ever seen." But conviviality was the order of the evening, and the punchers grouped together and told and listened to jokes, old and new, talked sagebrush politics, and threw dice for the privilege of paying rather than winning. "Says he's scoutin' for a job cookin'," remarked a young cowboy to the main group of riders. "Heard him tell Johnny."

      Meanwhile, Sundown, forgetful of everything save the congeniality of the moment, was recounting, to an amused audience of three, his experiences as assistant cook in an Eastern hotel. The rest of the happy and irresponsible punchers gravitated to the far end of the bar and proposed that they "have a little fun with the tall guy." One of them drew his gun and stepped quietly behind the tramp. About to fire into the floor he hesitated, bolstered his gun and tiptoed clumsily back to his companions. "Got a better scheme," he whispered.

      Presently Sundown, in the midst of his recital, was startled by a roar of laughter. He turned quickly. The laughter ceased. The cowboy who had released him from the box-car stated that he must be going, and amid protests and several challenges to have as many "one-mores," swung out into the night to ride thirty miles to his ranch. Then it was, as has been said elsewhere and oft, "the plot thickened."

      A rider, leaning against the bar and puffing thoughtfully at a cigar of elephantine proportions, suddenly took his cigar from his lips, held it poised, examined it with the eye of a connoisseur—of cattle—and remarked slowly: "Now, why didn't I think of it? Wonder you fellas didn't think of it. They need a cook bad! Been without a cook for a year—and everybody fussin' 'round cookin' for himself."

      Sundown caught the word "cook" and turned to, face the speaker. "I was lookin' for a job, meself," he said, apologetically. "Did you know of one?"

      "You was!" exclaimed the cowboy. "Well, now, that's right queer. I know where a cook is needed bad. But say, can you honest-to-Gosh cook?"

      "I СКАЧАТЬ