James Beardley Hendryx - Black John of Halfaday Creek

“What’s a saint?” asked Moosehide.

“Oh, he’s some fella that’s dead. It tells about ’em in the Good Book, er somewheres like that. Someone which he was stoned to death er biled in oil.”

“Stoned to death er biled in oil! How come?”

“Oh, it was jest one of them quaint old customs they had them days,” Bettles explained. “If someone didn’t believe like the rest of ’em, they’d either bile him up in a big kittle of oil, er tie him up to a hitchin’ post an’ throw rocks at him till he was dead, er mebbe they’d feed him to a lion. Then he become a saint. It’s a kind of title, like.”

“Huh,” grunted Swiftwater Bill. “It looks like the title was damn hard come by.”

“Yeah,” admitted Bettles. “But look what it done fer the rest of humanity. Folks don’t have to work that day.”

“They could keep on workin’ fer all of me. There ain’t never goin’ to be no Saint Swiftwater. Was all these here saints Mexicans?”

“Hell, no! Some of ’em was Dagos, an’ some French, an’ some English, an’ there might of be’n a couple of Dutchmens even, fer all I know. There was anyway one Irishman—Saint Patrick, his name was. His day comes along in the winter sometime. But the Mexicans seems to be about the only folks that’s got sense enough to take advantage of ’em. Drink up—I’m buyin’ one.”

“Seems to me,” said old Cush as he set out a fresh bottle, “that I rec’lect there was a Saint Valentine, an’ when his day come we use’ to send ornery pitchers to the schoolmarm an’ what girls we didn’t like. Them pitchers cost a cent apiece, an’ it would make the girls mad as hell when they got one.”

“Shore—I rec’lect that!” exclaimed Swiftwater. “An’ there was some of them pitchers fer what girls you liked—all made up fency with hearts an’ pigeons an’ paper lace. Them kind cost a nickel, an’ some of ’em even a dime where I come from.”

“Yeah,” said old Settles. “Seems if I kin rec’lect some sech doin’s, too. But this here Saint Valentine would be far too piddlin’ a saint to git drunk over at this late day. An’ besides his day comes in the winter, too.”

“Cripes!” exclaimed Moosehide. “It looks like they all come in the winter!”

Black John grinned. “Why shore—that’s reasonable! You kin see how it was, bein’ cooped up in the house in the winter, what with the long evenin’s an’ all—them folks would git riled up about politics an’ religion an’ sechlike. Take it in the summer when the fishin’ was good an’ there was horse races an’ ball games to go to, no one would give a damn what these here saints believed. But in winter—that’s different. They prob’ly didn’t have no decent saloon to go to, so they sort of killed time with a saint bilin’. It helped to pass away them long winter evenin’s.”

“How about this here Saint Vitus’s Dance?” queried Moosehide. “When does that come off at?”

“Hell, that’s a disease, an’ not no fiesta!” exclaimed Bettles.

“It’s too damn bad we ain’t got no local saints,” said Swiftwater. “I’m beginnin’ to feel in the mood to celebrate somethin’ er other. Even a small saint would answer the purpose, as far’s I’m concerned.” He appealed to Black John. “Accordin’ to the talk, you’ve dealt out a hell of a lot of jestice here on Halfaday. Didn’t none of these here events come off in June, so we could celebrate it?”

“W-e-e-l-l, yes. I rec’lect it was along in June, a year ago, that we hung One-Eyed John Smith, wasn’t it, Cush?”

“It was in the summer sometime. I disremember the exact date. I know the ground dug easy. Yeah—we could call it June. But, cripes, John—One Eyed wasn’t no saint, any way you look at him.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Of course we didn’t stone him to death nor bile him in oil nor neither we didn’t feed him to no lion. But in case of an emergency, like the present, he might be made to do. When a crisis arises, a man’s got to meet it. I hereby proclaim this tenth day of June to be Saint Smith’s day, an’ order an appropriate celebration to commemorate it.”

“Saint Smith, somehow, ain’t got the right kind of sound,” objected Bettles. “Seems like a saint ort to have a fancier name than Smith.”

“Well, Saint One Eye ain’t so damn fancy, neither,” opined Swiftwater.

“We can’t call him Saint John,” said Cush, “ ’cause there’s another Saint John. It would lead to confusion. I got a Bible. My last wife was religious. I read in it, now an’ then, when business is slack. It tells about him in there.”

“That’s so,” agreed Black John gravely. “An’ come to think about it, it ain’t the last name they hitch the title to, nohow. No matter if it don’t sound quite up to snuff, Saint One Eye it’s got to be. I hereby amend the proclaimation, an’ change the tenth day of June to Saint One Eye’s Day.”

“Hooray!” cried Swiftwater Bill. “I’ll buy the first drink in honor of Saint One Eye!”

“Saint One Eye,” grunted old Cush disparagingly as he filled his glass. “If you ask me, One-Eyed John would make a hell of a saint!”

“If One Eyed could only know about the honor we conferred on him,” grinned Black John, “he’d turn over in his grave. But it’s jest as well he don’t er he’d try to cash in on it somehow. A post-mortum honor is the only kind One-Eyed John could of got away with.”

“What did you hang him fer?” Bettles inquired. “If a man’s celebratin’ a saint, he’d kind of like to know what he was guilty of.”

“Damn if I rec’lect,” replied Black John. “It was ondoubtless some malfeasance er other. Do you remember, Cush?”

“No. But here comes One-Armed John. He might know.”

One-Armed John was duly presented to the sourdoughs from Dawson but he couldn’t remember the offense for which One-Eyed John had been hanged. He seemed surprised that the deceased had been elevated to sainthood.

“Beats hell how a man’s luck kin change,” he opined. “Why, One-Eyed John was the orneriest damn man on Halfaday!”

“Oh shore,” admitted Black John. “But when we need a saint right quick we’ve got to use the one that’s handy. These boys has be’n out in the hills fer the last three weeks; they want to celebrate, an’ One-Eyed John was the only saint we could think of, which we hung in June. Of course if a man was to pick his saint, he wouldn’t hardly select One-Eyed John. But this here constitutes an emergency. Drink up, boys—I’m buyin’ one.”

“We’d ort to have a big feed along with our celebration,” suggested Swiftwater Bill. “We killed a young moose a couple of miles back. If anyone’ll go with me, we could fetch in a lot of good fresh meat.”

“I’ll go!” offered Black John. “We’ll fetch a couple of packsacksful an’ Cush’s klooch kin bile us up a big stew. Come on, Swiftwater, so we kin git back quick. Hooray fer Saint One Eye! He’s done more good in the last fifteen minutes than he ever done in his whole life! It jest goes to show that all any man needs is a little encouragement.”

A half-hour later a man entered the door and advanced to the bar. “Come on up the crick!” he exclaimed. “There’s a sick man up there in his cabin. It’s Grover Harrison. I’m afraid he’s goin’ to die. It’s them damn musheroons he et.”

“Musheroons!” exclaimed Cush, untying the white apron from about his middle. “It’s more ’n likely they was toadstools! What in hell did he eat ’em for?”

“He claimed they was good to eat. He stopped in to my claim an’ offered me some, but I didn’t like the looks of ’em. That was last evenin’. This mornin’ I went over to his shack on the next claim to mine, ’cause I didn’t see him around his shaft, an’ found him layin’ in bed so damn sick I’m afraid he’ll die.”