Friar Tuck Being the Chronicles of the Reverend John Carmichael, of Wyoming, U. S. A. — A Closer Reading

should deck His crown. Publish glad tidings; tidings of peace; Tidings of Jesus, redemption and release.”

“That feller can sing some,” sez Spider Kelley; but just then the ponies turned back on us an’ by the time we had started ’em on again, the singer had passed on up the trail, so I didn’t make any reply.

I was tryin’ to figure out whether it was the words or the tune or the voice, or what it was that had made my whole body vibrate like a fiddle string. As I said before, I see things in pictures an’ I also remember ’em in pictures: a sound generally calls up a picture to me an’ it ain’t allus a picture anyways connected with the sound itself. This song, for instance, had called to my mind a long procession of marchin’ men with banners wavin’ an’ set faces, shinin’ with a glad sort o’ recklessness. There ain’t no accountin’ for the human mind: I had never seen such a procession in real life, nor even in a picture; but that was what this song out there on the open range suggested to me, an’ I hurried out o’ the cottonwoods eager to measure the singer with my open eyes.

When we climbed up out of the woods, we saw him goin’ up the pass ahead of us with our ponies followin’ behind as though they was part of his outfit. We could just catch glimpses of him; enough to show that he was a big man on a big roan hoss, an’ that he was a ridin’ man in spite o’ the fact that he was wearin’ black clothes made up Eastern style. He was still singin’ his song, an’ I straightened up in my saddle, an’ beat time with my hand as though I held a genuwine sword in it; which is a tool I’ve never had much doin’s with.

We scrambled on up the trail, an’ when we reached the top we found a little park with the grass knee high an’ a fringe o’ spruce trees about it. The song had come to a sudden end, an’ we found the singer on foot with a noose about his neck an’ nine rather tough-lookin’ citizens holdin’ a parley with him. We came to the same sort of a stop the song had, an’ Spider Kelley sez in a low tone, “What do ya suppose this is?”

“I don’t know,” sez I, touchin’ my pony, “but I’m with the singer”; so me an’ Spider rode on down to ’em.

I purty well sensed what it was: the’ was a heap o’ rebrandin’ bein’ done at that time, an’ stringin’ a man up was supposed to be the only cure; but I was willin’ to bet my roll that this singer wasn’t a rustler. The feller in charge o’ the posse was an evil-lookin’ cuss, an’ if he’d ’a’ had the rope around his neck, it wouldn’t have looked so misplaced. He was ridin’ a Cross brand hoss; so I guessed him to belong to the Tyrrel Jones outfit. Most o’ the others in the posse was ridin’ the same brand o’ hosses an’ wearin’ the same brand of expressions. It was a tough-lookin’ bunch.

We came up to ’em an’ they looked our ponies an’ us over an’ nodded. We nodded back an’ I asked ’em what seemed to be the trouble.

“We’ve finally got the feller who has been doin’ the rustlin’ out this way,” sez the leader, whose name was Flannigan, Badger-face Flannigan.

“That’s good,” sez I; “but he don’t look the part.”

“He acts it all right,” growls Badger-face, showin’ his fangs in what was meant for a grin. “He’s ridin’ one of our hosses, an’ leadin’ a string o’ D lazy Ls.”

“Leadin’ ’em?” sez I.

“Yes, he’s got some sort of a charm in his voice. Whiskers, here, saw him go up on foot an’ rope this colt an’ lead him off the same as a plow hoss.”

“Did Whiskers, here, see him charm the loose string, too?” I asked.

“No, he came in an’ collected the posse, an’ we decided that this would be a good place to try him; so we cut up the other pass an’ waited for him. When he came up, this bunch o’ ponies was taggin’ after him.”

I looked at the man with the noose about his neck, an’ he was grinnin’ as easy an’ comfortable as I ever saw a man grin in my life. He was wearin’ a vest without buttons an’ a gray flannel shirt. He had a rifle on his saddle an’ a sixshooter on his right hip. He had big gray eyes set wide apart under heavy brows, an’ they were dancin’ with laughter. I grinned into ’em without intendin’ to, an’ sez: “Well, I don’t really think he charmed these loose ponies intentional. Me an’ Spider was takin’ ’em in to the Diamond Dot an’ we had a hard time makin’ ’em ford the crick. I’m some thankful to him for tollin’ ’em up the pass.”

Badger-face scowled. “Well, anyhow, he charmed the beast he’s ridin, all right; an’ he has to swing for it.”

“Are you all done with tryin’ him,” sez I.

“What’s the use of a trial?” snarled Badger-face. “Ain’t he ridin’ a Cross brand hoss, ain’t the brand unvented, don’t every one know that we never sell a hoss without ventin’ the brand, an’ can’t any one see ’at this hoss was never rode before?”

“Got anything to say for yourself, stranger?” I asked.

“Not much,” sez the prisoner. “I have an appointment to keep at Laramie; my hoss gave out; so I just caught a fresh one an’ started on.”

“What more do you want?” asked Badger-face of me.

“Well, now, the’ ain’t any particular hurry; an’ I’m kind o’ curious to learn a little more of his methods,” sez I impartial. “Don’t ya know ’at this is what they call hoss-stealin’ out this way?” I asked of the stranger.

“No, this is not stealin’,” he replied. “I turned another hoss loose that I had picked up a hundred miles or so farther back; and I should have turned this one adrift as soon as he had tired. They allus wander back to their own range.”

This wasn’t no unheard-of custom to practice out our way; but it was a new sort o’ defence for a man with a noose about his neck to put up, an’ I see that some o’ the others was gettin’ interested. The big man had a smile like a boy, an’ steady eyes, an’ a clear skin; an’ he didn’t look at all the kind of a man to really need stretchin’.

“What’s your plan for earnin’ a livin’?” I asked.

“I am a kind of apostle,” sez he, “an’ I live on the bounty of others.”

“Do you mean ’at you’re a preacher?” asked Badger-face.

“Yes,” the stranger replied with a smile.

“Well, I never see a preacher with as short hair as yours, nor one who carried so much artillery, nor one who made a practice o’ pickin’ up a fresh hoss whenever he felt like it. Where’d you learn to ride, an’ where’d you learn to rope?”

“Eastern Colorado. I lived there four years, an’ travelled on hossback,” sez the stranger.

“I’ll bet you left there mighty sudden,” sez Badger-face with an evil leer.

“Yes,” replied the stranger, with a grin, “an’ I also left on hossback.”

“Well, ya satisfied now?” grunted Badger-face to me.

Livin’ out doors the way I had, I naturally had a big respect for brands. It’s mighty comfortin’ to feel that ya can turn your stuff loose an’ know that it’s not likely to be bothered; so I was up something of a stump about this new doctrine. “Where’d you get your commission from to pick up a hoss whenever you feel like it?” sez I to the stranger.

He had a little leather sack hangin’ from his saddle horn, an’ he reached into it an’ fished out a small book with a soft leather cover. The feller ’at was holdin’ his hoss eyed him mighty close for fear it was some sort of a gun; but the stranger ran over the leaves with his fingers as ready as a man would step into the home corral an’ rope his favorite ridin’ pony.

“Here’s my commission,” sez he, as self-satisfied as though he was holdin’ a government document; an’ then he read aloud with that deep, mellow voice o’ his, the story of the time the Lord was minded to let himself out a little an’ came into Jerusalem in state. He read it all, an’ then he paused, looked about, holdin’ each man’s eyes with his own for a second, an’ then he read once more the part where the Lord had sent in a couple of his hands after the colt that no man had ever backed before—an’ then he closed the book, patted it gentle an’ shoved it back into the leather bag. I looked around on the posse, an’ most of ’em was rubbin’ their chins, an’ studyin’. I’ve noticed that while the earth is purty well cluttered up with pale-blooded an’ partially ossified Christians, the’s mighty few out an’ out atheists among ’em.

“That don’t go,” sez Badger-face, after he’d taken time to pump up his nerve a little.

No one said anything for a space, an’ then the stranger put a little edge on his voice, but spoke in a lower tone than before: “That does go,” he said. “No matter what else in life may be questioned, no matter how hard and fast a title may stick, it must crumble to dust when one comes and says, ‘The Lord hath need of this.’ It may be your life or it may be your property or it may be the one being you love most in all the world; but when the Lord hath need, your own needs must fall away.

“Now, boys, I love the West, I glory in the fact that I can lay something down and go on about my business an’ come back a month later and find it just where I left it; and if I was takin’ these hosses to sell or trade or use for my own selfish ends, why, I wouldn’t have a word to say again’ your stringin’ me up. I brought my own hoss into this country and when it gave out I didn’t have time to barter an’ trade for another one; so I just caught one, and when it grew weary, I turned it adrift. I don’t claim the hosses I ride; I don’t want to own them; I simply borrow them for a while because my Lord hath need of them. I treat them well, and when they weary, send ’em back to their own range with a pat, and pick up another. The next fellow who rides that hoss will find it a little less trouble than if I hadn’t used it, and there’s no harm done at all. I’m working with you, I’m going to make your own work easier out here by raisin’ the respect for brands, not by makin’ property rights any looser; and you are goin’ to work with me—whether you want to or not. Now then, how much longer are you goin’ to keep this fool noose about my neck?”

That posse wasn’t easy minded, not by a jugful. This stranger was speakin’ as though he had power an’ authority an’ public opinion all on his side, and they felt consid’able like the tenderfoot who’d roped the buffalo—they was willin’ to quit any time he was.

The Cross brand boys were purty sullen an’ moody; but four o’ the posse belonged to another outfit, an’ they couldn’t stand the strain. One of ’em, a grizzled old codger with one lamp missin’, lifted the noose from the prisoner’s neck, an’ sez most respectful: “Parson, I’m an old man. I ain’t heard a sermon for forty years, an’ I’d be right obliged to ya if you’d make us one.”

Badger-face, he snorted scornful; but the rest of the posse was scattered all the way from repentance to sheepishness, an’ the stranger he stepped to a little rise an’ he certainly did speak us a sermon. First off, he sang us St. Andrew’s hymn—I got to learn a good many of his songs after this, but o’ course at that time I was as shy on hymns as the rest o’ the crowd.

I tell you it was wonderful up in that little park, with the lush grass for a carpet, the spruce trees for panelin’, the bare peaks stickin’ out for rafter-beams, the blue sky above for ceiling, and that soft, deep voice fillin’ the whole place an’ yet stealin’ into a feller’s heart as easy an’ gentle as a woman’s whisper. He sort o’ beat time as though playin’ on an instrument, until before he was through we were all hummin’ in time with him—an’ then he preached.

He told us about the fisher folks an’ how they lived out doors under the stars the same as we did; and that this was probably why the Lord had chose ’em first to follow him. He said that city folks got to relyin’ on themselves so much ’at they was likely to forget that the whole earth was still held in the hollow of the hand which had created it; but that men who lived with nature, out under the sun and the stars, through the heat and the cold, the wind and the rain, the chinook and the blizzard, felt the forces and the mysteries all about them and this kept ’em in touch, even when they didn’t know it themselves, with the great central Intelligence back o’ these forces and mysteries. Then he told ’em how grand their lives might be if they would only give up their nasty little habits of thought, and learn to think broad and free and deep, the same as they breathed.

He told ’em ’at their minds could breathe the inspiration of God as easy as their lungs could breathe the pure air o’ the mountains, if they’d only form the habit. Then he talked to ’em friendly an’ confidential about their natural devilment. He didn’t talk like a saint speakin’ out through a crack in the gates o’ Paradise, like most preachers do. He called the turn on the actual way they cut up when they went to town, and just how it hurt ’em body an’ soul; and his face grew set and earnest, and his eyes blazed; and then he said a few words about mothers an’ children and such, and wound up with a short prayer.

Well two o’ those fellers owned up right out in public and said that from that on they was goin’ to lead a decent sort of life; and one other said ’at he didn’t have any faith in himself any longer; but he insisted on signin’ the pledge, and said if that worked, why, he’d go on an’ try the rest of it.

The preacher shook hands with ’em all around—he had a grip ’at wouldn’t be no disgrace for a silver-tip—an’ then he sez that if any of ’em has the notion that bein’ a Christian makes a weakling of a man, why, he’s willin’ to wrastle or box or run a race or shoot at a mark or do any other sort of a stunt to show ’at he’s in good order; but they size him up and take his word for it.

“Now, boys,” sez he, “I hope we’ll meet often. I’m your friend, and I want you to use me any time you get a chance. Any time or any place that I can serve one of you, just get me word and I’ll do the best I can. It don’t matter what sort o’ trouble you get into, get me word and I’ll help—if I can find a way. And I wish ’at you’d speak it around that I’m hard on hosses, so that the other fellows will understand when I pick one up, and not cause any delay. I’ll have to hurry along now. Good-bye; I’m sorry I’ve been a bother to ya.”

He swung up on the big roan, waved his hand and trotted out o’ the park; and just as he went down the pass on the other side, it seemed that he couldn’t hold it in any longer; so he opened up his voice in his marchin’ song again, an’ we all stayed silent as long as we could hear the sound of it.

“Well we are a lot of soft marks!” sez Badger-face at last.

“That there is a true man,” replied old Grizzly, shakin’ his head, “an’ I’ll bet my boots on it.”

This seemed to be the general verdict, an’ the Cross brand fellers went off discussin’ the parson, an’ me an’ Spider Kelley collected our ponies an’ went along to the ranch, also discussin’ him.

That was the first time I ever saw Friar Tuck; I made up my mind about him just from hearin’ his voice, an’ before I ever saw him; but I never had to make it up any different. New lead an’ new steel look consid’able alike; but the more ya wear on lead, the sooner it wears out, while the more you wear on steel, the brighter it gets. The Friar was steel, an’ mighty well tempered.

THE BETTIN’ BARBER O’ BOGGS

Yes, this was about the time I got interested in the bettin’ barber over at Boggs. He hasn’t anything to do with this story I’m about to tell ya, except that it was him ’at give the Friar his name; so I’ll just skim through this part as hasty as possible. When a feller is tellin’ me a story, I want him to stick to the trail of it; but it seems like when I try to tell one, myself, some feller is allus askin’ me a question ’at takes me clear out o’ range.

All barbers are more or less different, except in what might be called the gift o’ gab. This one came out to Boggs station, an’ started a shop. His name was Eugene, an’ he was a little man with two rollin’ curls to his front hair, which he wore short behind. A curious thing about little men is, that they don’t never find it out. A little man produces more opinions ’n airy other kind, an’ being small, they haven’t no place to store ’em up until they get time to ripen. A little man gives out his opinion an’ then looks savage—just as if he’d get a switch an’ make ya believe it, whether you wanted to or not.

Eugene had come from every city the’ is in the world, an’ he used to tell scandalous tales about the prominent people who lived in ’em whose hair he had cut. He was also familiar with the other things which had happened since they’ve begun to write history, an’ if any one would doubt one of his statements, he’d whirl about holding up his razor, an’ say: “I’ll bet ya a dollar I can prove it.”

All of us fellers used to go in as often as we got a chance to get our chins shaved an’ our hair shampooed—just to hear Eugene get indignant about things which wasn’t none of our business. We used to bet with him a lot, just for the fun o’ makin’ him prove up things; which he did by writin’ letters to somebody an’ gettin’ back the answers he wanted. We didn’t have any way to prove our side; so Eugene got the money an’ we had the fun.