"These yere two high-rollin' bucks I speaks of, who's strugglin' for the social soopremacy, is in the midst of them strifes while I'm visitin' Florer.It's some two moons prior when one of 'em, which we'll call him the 'Astor Injun,' takes a heavy fall out of the opp'sition by goin' over to Cherryvale an' buyin' a sooperannuated two-seat Rockaway buggy.To this he hooks up a span of ponies, loads in his squaws, an' p'rades 'round from Pawhusky to Greyhoss--the same bein' a couple of Osage camps--an' tharby redooces the enemy--what we'll name the 'Vanderbilt Injuns'--to desp'ration.The Astor savage shorely has the call with that Rockaway.
"But the Vanderbilt Osage is a heap hard to down.He takes one look at the Astor Injun's Rockaway with all its blindin' splendors, an'
then goes streakin' it for Cherryvale, like a drunkard to a barbecue.An' he sees the Rockaway an' goes it several better.What do you-all reckon now that savage equips himse'f with? He wins out a hearse, a good big black roomy hearse, with ploomes onto it an'
glass winders in the sides.
"As soon as ever this Vanderbilt Injun stiffens his hand with the hearse, he comes troopin' back to camp with it, himse'f on the box drivin', an' puttin' on enough of lordly dog to make a pack of hounds.Which he shorely squelches the Astors; they jest simply lay down an' wept at sech grandeur.Their Rockaway ain't one, two, three,--ain't in the money.
"An' every day the Vanderbilt Injun would load his squaws an'
papooses inside the hearse, an' thar, wropped in their blankets an'
squattin' on the floor of the hearse for seats, they would be lookin' out o' the winders at common savages who ain't in it an'
don't have no hearse.Meanwhiles, the buck Vanderbilt is drivin' the outfit all over an' 'round the cantonments, the entire bunch as sassy an' as flippant as a coop o' catbirds.It's all the Astors can do to keep from goin' plumb locoed.The Vanderbilts win.
"One mornin', when Florer an' me has jest run our brands onto the fourth drink, an old buck comes trailin' into the store.His blanket is pulled over his head, an' he's pantin' an' givin' it out he's powerful ill.
"'How is my father?' says Johnny in Osage.
"'Oh, my son,' says the Injun, placin' one hand on his stomach, an'
all mighty tender, 'your father is plenty sick.Your father gets up this mornin', an' his heart is very bad.You must give him medicine or your father will die.'
"Johnny passes the invalid a cinnamon stick an' exhorts him to chew on that, which he does prompt an' satisfactory, like cattle on their cud.This cinnamon keeps him steady for 'most five minutes.
"'Whatever is the matter with this savage?' I asks of Johnny.
"'Nothin' partic'lar,' says Johnny.'Last night he comes pushin' in yere an' buys a bottle of Worcestershire sauce; an' then he gets gaudy an' quaffs it all up on a theery she's a new-fangled fire water.He gets away with the entire bottle.It's now he realizes them errors, an' takes to groanin' an' allowin' it gives him a bad heart.Which I should shorely admit as much!'
"'Your father is worse,' says the Osage, as he comes cuttin' in on Johnny ag'in.'Must have stronger medicine.That medicine,' holdin'
up some of the cinnamon, 'that not bad enough.'
"At this, Johnny passes his 'father' over a double handful of black pepper before it's ground.
"'Let my father get away with that,' says Johnny, 'an' he'll feel like a bird.It will make him gay an' full of p'isen, like a rattlesnake in August.'
"Out to the r'ar of Johnny's store is piled up onder a shed more'n two thousand boxes of axle grease.It was sent into the nation consigned to Johnny by some ill-advised sports in New York, who figgers that because the Osages as a tribe abounds in wagons, thar must shorely be a market for axle grease.That's where them New York persons misses the ford a lot.Them savages has wagons, troo; but they no more thinks of greasin' them axles than paintin' the runnin'
