Chapter 22
International Short Stories, Volume 1, American Stories. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sean Grobosky. International Short Stories, Volume 1, American Stories.
Edited by William Patton. Section 22, The Man from Red Dog, by Alfred Henry Lewis Let me try one of them there cigars. It was the pleasant after-dinner hour, and I was on the veranda for a quiet smoke. The old cattleman had just thrown down his paper, and the half-light of the waning sun was a bit too dim for his eyes of seventy years.
Whenever I behold a cigar, said the old fellow, as he puffed voluminously at the Principe I passed over, I thinks of what that witness says in the murder trial at Socorro. What was you doing in camp yourself? Asked the judge of this year's witness the day of the killing. Which, says the witness, uncrossing his legs, and letting on he ain't made bashful,
and uneasy by so much attention's being shown him, which I was eating of a few sardines, a drinking of a few drinks of whiskey, a smoking of a few cigars, and a romancing around. After this abrupt, not to say ambiguous reminiscence, the old cattleman puffed contentedly for a moment.
What murder trial was this you speak of, I asked. Who had been killed? Now, I don't reckon I ever does know who it is gets downed, he replied. This year murder trial itself is news to me complete. I was wagging along with it when I trails into Socorro at that time, and I merely sent us over to the court out of way to hear what's
going on. The judge is sort of getting in on the play while I'm listening. What was the last words of this yeah gent who's killed asked the judge of this witness as nearly as i keeps tabs judge says the witness the dying statement of this person is four aces to beat which if deceased had noed socorro like i does says the judge like he's commenting to himself he'd surely realize that such remarks is simply suicidal.
Again the old cattleman relapsed into silence in the smoke of the Principe. How did the trial come out? I queried. Was the accused found guilty? Which the trial itself, he replied,
don't come out. There's a parcel of the boys who's come into town to see that justice is done. Being the Roundup is going forward at the time, they naturally feels hurried and pressed for leisure.
They all thought to be back on the range with their cattle. So the fifth day when things is lorting along at the trial until it looks like the law has hobbles on. When the word goes around it's going to be about a week yet before the jury gets action on this miscreant who's being tried,
the boys become plum aggravated and wear it out. Right away, and kick in the door of the calaboose, they search us out the felon, swings him to a cottonwood not otherwise engaged, and the right prevails. Naturally, the trial bog's down right there. After another season of silence and smoke, the old cattleman struck in again.
Speaking of killings, well, I'm the last gent to go fostering ideas of bloodshed. I'm some discouraged just now by what I've been reading in that paper about a duel between some Italians. And it surely tries me the way them aliens plays boss. It's obvious the stars in a clarinet never meant fight just a little bit.
I abhor as duels. It cowers from the mere idea. But, after all, business is business. And when folks fighting, the objects of the meeting ought to be blood. But the way these year European shorthorns fixes it,
Gents surely runs a heap more risk of becoming an angel abrupt, tending of a Texas cakewalk in a purely social way. They ever fight duels in the West? Why, yes, some. My memory comes a-cantored up right now
to details of an encounter I once beholds in Wolfville. There ain't no much time thrown away with a duel in the Southwest. The people's mighty extemporaneous. Don't go browsing around none, sending challenges and writing. That sort of flapdoodle.
When a gent notices the signs of getting about right for him to go on the warpath, he picks out his meat, surges up, and declares himself. The victim, who is most likely a mighty serious and experienced person, don't copper the play by making vain remarks, but brings his gatling into play surprising.
Next it's bang, bang, bang, mixed up with flashes and wide smoke. The duel's over complete. The gent, who still adorns our myths, takes a drink on the house
while St. Peter unbars things a lot and arranges gate and seat checks with the others in the realms of light. That's all there is to it. The tide of life again flows onward
to the eternal sea, and there you're a ripple. Oh, this here Wolfville duel. Well, it's this way. The day is blazing hot.
Business, land prone and dead, just blistered to death. The parcel of us is sort of pervading around the dance hall. It being the biggest and coolest store in camp. A Monty game is struggling for breath in a feeble, fitful way in a corner. Some of us is watching in.
and some a sitting round loose, a thinking, but all keep him mumming still, cause it's so hot. Just then, some gent on the horse goes whooping up the street, yelling, whirling the loop of his rope, allowing his generally having a mighty good time.
Who's this year to mulchewish man on the horse? says Enright, a regarding of him in a displeased way from the door. I meets him up the street a minute back, says Dan Boggs. And he allows he's called the man from Red Dog.
Says he's took a day off to visit us and aims to lay waste the camp before he goes back. About then, the Red Dog man notes old Santa Rosa who keeps the Mexican Bailey Hall and his woman, Maria, fussing with each other in front of the New York store.
They's locked horns over a drink or something and is pow-wowing mighty unamitable. Whatever's this year Mexican family mean? Says the red dog man, surveying of them plenty scornful.
A dragon of their domestic brawls out here to offend a suffering public fur. Why ever don't they stay in their wiki up and fight and not they take to putting it all over the American race, which ain't in the play none and don't thirst there for?
However, I unites and reconciles this divided household easy. With this, the Red Dog Man drops the loop of his lariat around the two contestants and jumps his bronco up the street like it's come out in a gun. Of course, Santa Rosa and Marie goes along on their heads permissuous. They goes coasting along until they gets pulled into a mesquite bush.
The rope slips off in the saddle and there they be. Weeals goes over from the dance hall, extricating of them, and finally they rounds up mighty hapless and weak and can only walk. They surely lose enough hide to make a pair of leggings. Which I brings them together like twins, says the red dog man, riding back for his rope.
I offers two to one. No limit. They don't fight none whatever for a month. Which, as it surely looks like he's right, no one takes him. So the Red Dog Man leaves his bluff a-hanging and goes into the dance hall. Given of it out cold and clammy, he meditates, lie-baiting. Oh, promenade to the bar, yells the Red Dog Man as he goes in.
I'm a wolf. It's my night to howl. Don't rouse me, barkeep, with a sight of merely one bottle. Set them all up. I'm some fastidious about my fire water and likes a chance to select. Well, we all takes our inspiration. The Red Dog Man tucks his under his belt and turns round to Enright.
I takes it you're the old he-coon of this year outfit, says the Red Dog Man, super-silly-us-like. Which if I ain't, says Enright, it's plenty safe as a play to let your wisdom flow this away till the he-coon gets here. If there's anything, says the Red Dog Man, I turns from sick. It's violence and devastation.
But I hear such complaints constant this year, Campo Wolfville. I takes my first idle day right over and line things up. Now, you're a B, and while I regrets it, I find you all's is a lawless, unregenerate set and heaps out worse than rumor.
Now, I takes a notion, for I sees no other trail, that by next drink time, I climbs into the saddle, throws my rope round this den of sin, and removes it from the map. Naturally, says Enright, some sarcastic. And make them them schemes, you ain't looking for no trouble whatever, the band of tarpons like us.
None whatever, says the Red Dog man, mighty confident. In thirty minutes, I distributes this to your hamlet round the landscape, same as them greasers. Which feet become in history, then I canters back to Red Dog. Well, says Enright, it's plenty plight to let us know what's coming this-a-way. Oh, I ain't telling you none, says the Red Dog Man.
I simply let's fly this hen. So any of you all's has got a bric-a-brac-a-value special, he takes a warning something and packs it off all safe. It's about then when Cherokee Hall, who's looking on, shoulders in between Enright and the Red Dog Man, mighty positive.
Cherokee is a heap sought in his ideas. I see he's right off. He's took a notion again, the Red Dog Man. Ash, you've got a lot of work cut out, says Cherokee. I am the Red Dog Man, malignant.
Suppose we tips the canteen again. I surely goes you, says the Red Dog Man. I drinks with friend. I drink with foe. With a part of my bosom and a shuddering victim of my wrath all similar.
Cherokee turns out a big drink and stands a-holdin' of it in his hand. I want to say right here, this Cherokee's plenty guyful. You was namin', says Cherokee, some public improvements you plans to make. Such as moving this year Camp Brown some, I believes.
That's whatever, says the red dog man. And the holy cost I initiates is due to start in 15 minutes. I've been figuring on you, says Cherokee. That gives you the result in strict confidence without holding out a card. When you all talks of tearing up Wolfville, you're a liar and a harsh thief.
And you ain't gonna tear up nothing. What's this our ears? Yells a frenzied red dog man reaching for his gun. But he never gets it. For the same second Cherokee spills a glass of whiskey straight in his eyes.
The next he's anguished and blind as a mole. I'll fool this year human Simon up a lot. Says Cherokee, a hurling of the red dog man to the floor, face down, while his nine-inch boy shines in his hand like the sting of a wasp. I sure fixed him so he can't get a job clerking in the store.
Then, grabbing of the red dog man's hire, which is as long as a mane of a pony, he slashes it off close in one motion. There's a fringe for your leggings, Nell. Remarks Cherokee, turning the crop over to Pharaoh Nell. Now, Doc.
Cherokee goes on to Doc Peets. Take this here red dog stranger over to the red light. Fix his eyes all right, and then tell him if he thinks he needs blood in this, take his Winchester and go north to the middle of the street. In twenty minutes, by the watch I steps out in the dance hall door looking for him.
Pointing the door all fair and square. I don't aim to play nothing low on this year, gent. He gets a chance for his ante. Doc Peets sort of accumulates a red dog, man. who is cussing and carrying on scandalous
leads him over to the red light. In a minute, word comes to Cherokee as his eyes is rounding up all proper that he's making war medicine growing more hostile constant
and to heal himself. At that, Cherokee, might have come, sends out for Jack Moore's Winchester, which is an eight square, latest model. Oh, Cherokee, says Pharaoh Nell,
beginning to cry. Curling her arms around his neck. I'm afraid he's gonna down you. Ain't there no way to fix it? Can't Dan here settle this with Red Dog Man?
Sir, says Dan Boggs. And I makes the trip too gleeful. Just to spare Nell's feelings, Cherokee, and not to interfere with no gent's little game, I takes your hand and place it.
Not none, says Cherokee. This is my deal. Don't cry, Nellie, he adds, smoothing down her yaller hair. Folks in my business has to hold themselves ready to face any game on the word. And that never weakens or lays down.
And another thing, little girl, I gets this red dog's sharp shore. I'm in the middle of a rental look, and I holds for us twice last night. With a flush and a full hand out of ginom. Now at last, let's go at Cherokee's neck. And, being a female and timid that way, allows she'll go.
And won't stop to see the shooting none. We applaud the idea, thinking she might shake Cherokee some if she stays. And of course, a gen out shooting for his life needs his nerve. Well, twenty minutes is up. The Red Dog Man gets his rifle off on his saddle and goes down to the middle of the street.
Turning up his big sombrero, he squares around, cocks his gun and waits. Then Enright goes out with Cherokee and stands him in the street about a hundred yards from the Red Dog Man. After Cherokee's placed, he holds up his hand for attention and says, When all's ready, I stand to one side and drops my hat. You all's fire at will.
In-ride goes over to the side of the street, counts one, two, three, and drops his hat. And bangety-bang-bang goes with rifles like the roll of a drum. A Cherokee can work Winchester like one of these here Yankee alarm clocks. And that Red Dog holdup don't seem none behind.
About the fifth fire, the Red Dog man sort of steps forward and drops his gun. After standing on steady for a second, he starts to crippling down at his knees. At last, he comes ahead on his face like a landslide. There's two bullets plumbed through his lungs. And when we gets to him, the red froth is coming out in his mouth some plentious.
We packs him back into the red light and leaves him onto a monte table. By me by, he comes to a little, and Pete's asking whatever he thinks he wants. I want you all to take off my moccasins and pack me into the street, says the red dog man. I ain't allowing for my old mother in Missouri to be told as how I dies in no gym mill. She surely abominates of them.
And I don't die with no boots on, neither. We almost packs him back into the street again and pulls away his boots. About the time we gets him off, he sags back convulsive. And there he is, his date is Santa Anna. What sort of a game is this, anyhow?
now," says Dan Boggs, who, while he stands there, has been pawing over Red Dog Man's rifle. Looks like this vivacious party's plum loco. Here's his hind sights, wedged up for a thousand yards, and he's been a-shooting of cartridges with 120 grains of powder in them.
Right between the sights and the jump of the powder, he's been shooting plum over Cherokee and aiming straight at him. Billy, says Enright, looking remorseful at the girl whose color's up and begins to cry again. Did you cold deck this year, Red Dog's sport this-a-way? I'm a frog, sobs Nell.
He gets Cherokee, so I'd slide over when you all was waiting and fix his gun some. Which I should surely concede you did, says Enright. The way that red dog, Gent, manipulates his weeping shows he knows his game. Except for you setting things up on him, I'm powerful afraid he'd spoil Cherokee a whole lot. Well, gents, goes on Enright after thinking a while.
I reckon we all might as well drink on it. The history never shows a game yet, but a woman in it, which is on the square, and we meekly borrow some burdens with the rest.
