Ridgwell Cullum - The One-Way Trail - A story of the cattle country

Now, if there was one thing Barnriff bowed the knee to it was the man who could, and would, make a speech. It had all the masses’ love for oratory, and was as easily swayed by it as a crowd of ignorant political voters. Besides, Doc Crombie was a tried orator in Barnriff. He had addressed a meeting once before, and, speaking on behalf of a church mission, and asking for support of the cause, he had created a great impression by his stern denunciation of the ungodly life in Barnriff, and his flowery laudation of those who allowed themselves to respond to the call of “religion.”

On that occasion he said with all the dignity and consequence of his position at the moment–

“It ain’t your dogone dollars we want. It’s your souls. D’you git that? An’ when we’ve sure got ’em wot’ll we do with ’em, you ast? Wal, I don’t guess we’re doin’ a cannibal line o’ business. Nor ain’t we goin’ to stuff ’em an’ set ’em up as objec’s o’ ridicool to the ungodly hogs wot wallers in the swill o’ no adulteratin’ son-of-a-moose of a dealer in liver pizen. No, gents, that ain’t us. We’re goin’ to save ’em. An’ I personal guarantees that savin’ racket goes. Did I hear any mangy son-of-a-coyote guess he didn’t believe no such guarantee? No, an’ I guess he best not. I’m a man of peace, as all knows in this yer city, but I’d hate to try an’ shut out a blizzard in winter by stuffin’ that gopher’s perforated carkis under the doorjamb when I was thro’ with it. I say right here we’re out to save carkises–I mean souls. An’, say, fellers, jest think. Gettin’ your souls saved for a few measly cents. Ain’t that elegant? No argyment, no kickin’. Them souls is jest goin’ to be dipped, an’ they’ll come up white an’ shinin’ out of the waters of righteousness a sight cleaner than you ever got your faces at Christmas, washin’ in Silas Rocket’s hoss trough, even when his hoss soap was plenty. Think of it, fellers, and I speak speshul to you whiskey souses wot ain’t breathed pure air sence you was let loose on the same gent’s bowel picklin’ sperrit. You’ll get right to Meetin’ on Sundays with your boots greased elegant, an’ your pants darned reg’lar by your wimmin-folk wot’s proud of yer, an’ don’t kick when you blow into a natty game o’ ‘draw.’ You’ll have your kids lookin’ up at your fancy iled locks, an’ your bow-tie, an’ in their little minds they’ll wonder an’ wonder how it come your mouths ain’t drippin’ t’baccer juice, an’ how they ain’t got cow-hided ’fore the breakfast they mostly have to guess at, an’ how it come you’re leadin’ them, ’stead o’ them leadin’ you, an’ how their little bellies is blown out with grub like a litter o’ prize hogs. Think of it, fellers, an’ pass up your measly cents. It ain’t the coin, it’s the sperrit we want, an’ when I think of all these yer blessin’s I’m personal guaranteein’ to the flower o’ Barnriff’s manhood I almost feel as though I wus goin’ to turn on the hose pipe like a spanked kid.”

He talked till he had half of Barnriff’s “flower” blubbering, and he had emptied the last cent out of their pockets, and the mission was set on a sound financial basis. But as to his guarantee–well, the doctor was well understood by his fellow citizens, and no one was ever heard to question its fulfilment.

It was wonderful what a power of persuasion he had in Barnriff. But then he was an awe-inspiring figure, with his large luminous eyes and eagle cast of feature. And, too, words flowed from his lips like words from the pen of a yellow journal reporter, and his phraseology was almost as picturesque.

The boys were gathered waiting for him. There was anticipatory pleasure in their hang-dog faces. One of them almost laughed at a light sally from the cheery Gay, but luckily it was nipped in time by the interposition of the mean-minded Smallbones.

“I sez it right here, boys,” the latter observed, leaning with his back against the bar, and speaking with the air of having just arrived at a grave decision. “Old Sally Morby hadn’t no right to burry her man in oak. Now I ast you, Gay, as man to man, if you’d know’d we was goin’ to be ast to ante up fer her grub stake, wot could you ha’ done him handsome an’ moderate fer?”

Gay squared his fat shoulders. For the moment he was important. Moments of importance are always precious, even in places like Barnriff.

“Wal, I can’t rightly give it you down to cents without considerin’ Restless some,” he replied unctuously. “But we did Toby Randall slap-up in ash fer fifty odd dollars. Then ther’ was Sadie O’Brien. We did her elegant in soft pine for twenty-eight odd. It ’ud sure have been twenty-five on’y fer her weight. Y’see the planks under her had to be two inch or she’d ha’ fell through.”

He produced his note-book and rapidly glanced over the greasy pages.

“Y’see,” he observed, pausing at the entry he had been looking for, “Sally paid us a hundred an’ forty-seven dollars an’ seventy-five cents. I ’lows that’s handsome fer buryin’ a hop-headed skite like Charlie Morby was. But that wus her order, an’ bein’ a business man, an’ takin’ pride in my work, I sez to Restless, I sez, ‘It’s oak, boy, oak with silver plate trimmin’s, an’ a real elegant inscription to Charlie on it, tellin’ folks o’ virtues he didn’t never handle when he was livin’.’ He sure didn’t deserve nothin’ better than an apple bar’l, leavin’ the head open so he had a chance to dodge the devil when he come along. An’ I guess, knowin’ Charlie, he’d ’a’ given him an elegant run fer it.”

“That’s it,” exclaimed Smallbones, peevishly. “That’s it. She goes an’ blows in her wad on a buzzock what ought to bin drownded in yaller mud, an’ we’ve got to ante her grub stake. Psha! I ain’t givin’ a cent.”

Lean Wilkes, the baker, was watching the trust schemer with baleful eye, and now his slow tongue evolved a pretty retort.

“No one sed you was–nor thought it likely.”

“The duff puncher wakin’ up,” sneered Smallbones, angrily.

“Guess it’s your voice hurtin’ my ear drums,” replied Jake, ponderously.

At that moment Abe Horsley joined the group. He called for drinks before adding his bit to the talk. He had an axe to grind and wanted a sympathetic audience. While Rocket, observing his customers with shrewd unfriendly eyes, set out the glasses and the accompanying bottles–he never needed to inquire what these men would take; he knew the tipple of every soul in Barnriff by heart–Abe opened out. He was unctuous and careful of his diction. He was Barnriff’s lay-preacher, and felt that this attitude was “up to him.”

“I do sure agree with the generality of opinion in this yer city,” he said largely. “I consider that the largeness of heart for which our brothers in this important town–it has a great future, gentlemen, believe me; I mention this in parenthesis–are held in excellent esteem–” He broke off to nod to Jim Thorpe who entered the saloon at that moment–“should be–er fostered. I think, brethren–pardon me, ‘gentlemen’–that we should give, and give liberally to Sally Morby, but–but I do not see why Doc Crombie should make the occasion the opportunity for a speech. Any of us could do it quite as well. Perhaps, who knows, some of us even better–”

“Smallbones,” murmured the dissatisfied Wilkes, drinking his gin at a gulp.

“Yes, even Smallbones,” shrugged Abe, sipping his whiskey.

Angel Gay bolted his whiskey and laid a gentle hand firmly on Horsley’s shoulder.

“No,” he said, “not Smallbones; not even Doc Crombie, both deadgut fellers sure. But you are the man, Abe. For elegance o’ langwidge, an’ flow–mark you–you–you are a born speaker, sure. Say, I believe that rye of Rocket’s was in a gin bottle. It tasted like–like–”