THE WASHWOMAN'S WAR.
It was evening.The first dark foreshadowing of the coming night clothed all in half obscurity.But I knew the way; I could have travelled the little path at midnight.There he was, the Old Cattleman, under a favorite tree, the better to avoid the heavy dew.
He sat motionless and seemed to be soaking himself, as one might say, in the balmy weather of that hour.
My wisdom had ordered Jim, my black man, to attend my steps.The laconic, half-sad salutation of my old friend at once gave Black Jim a mission.He was dispatched in quest of stimulants.After certain exact and almost elaborate commands to Black Jim, and that useful African's departure, I gently probed my companion with a question.
"No, thar's nothin' the matter of me; sorter pensive, that's all,"was my return.
The Old Cattleman appeared silent and out of sorts.Following the coming of Black Jim, however, who brought a lusty toddy, he yielded to a better mood.
"It simply means I'm gettin' old; my settin' 'round balky this a-way.Thar's some seventy wrinkles on my horns; nothin' young or recent about that.Which now it often happens to me, like it does to old folks general, that jest when it begins to grow night, I gets moody an' bad.Looks like my thoughts has been out on some mental feed-ground all day, an' they comes stringin' in like cattle to get bedded down for the night.Nacheral, I s'pose they sorter mills an'
stands 'round oneasy like for a while before they lies down all comfortable.Old people partic'lar gets dissatisfied.If they's single-footers like me an' ain't wedded none; campin' 'round at taverns an' findin' of 'em mockeries; they wishes they has a wife a whole lot.If they be, they wish she'd go visit her folks.Gettin'
old that a-way an' lonely makes folks frequent mighty contrary.
"No, as I imparts to you yeretofore,--mebby it's a month,--I never marries nothin'.I reckons too, I'm in love one round-up an' another mighty near a dozen times.But somehow I allers lose the trail an'
never does run up with none of 'em once.
"Down in the Brazos country thar was a little blue-eyed girl,--back forty years it is,--an' the way I adores her plumb tires people.Ireckons I ropes at her more'n fifty times, but I never could fasten.
Thar comes a time when it looks powerful like I'm goin' to run my brand onto her; but she learns that Bill Jenks marks 150 calves the last spring round-up, an' me only forty, an' that settles it; she takes Jenks.
"It's astonishin' how little I deems of this yere maiden after Bill gets her.Two months before, I'd rode my pony to death to look once in her eyes.She's like sunshine in the woods to me, an' I dotes on every word she utters like it's a roast apple.But after she gets to be Bill's wife I cools complete.
"Not that lovin' Bill's wife, with his genius for shootin' a pistol, is goin' to prove a picnic,--an' him sorter peevish an' hostile nacheral.But lettin' that go in the discard, I shore don't care nothin' about her nohow when she's Bill's.
"I recalls that prior to them nuptials with Bill I gets that locoed lovin' this girl I goes bulgin' out to make some poetry over her.Icompiles one stanza; an' I'm yere to remark it's harder work than a June day in a brandin' pen.Ropin' an' flankin' calves an' standin'
off an old cow with one hand while you irons up her offspring with t'other, from sun-up till dark, is sedentary compared to makin'
stanzas.What was the on I makes? Well, you can bet a hoss I ain't forgot it none.
"'A beautiful woman is shorely a moon, The nights of your life to illoomine; She's all that is graceful, guileful an' soon, Is woman, lovely woman.'
"I'm plumb tangled up in my rope when I gets this far, an' I takes a lay-off.Before I gathers strength to tackle it ag'in, Jenks gets her; so bein' thar's no longer nothin' tharin I never makes a finish.I allers allowed it would have been a powerful good poem if I'd stampeded along cl'ar through.
"Yes, son; women that a-way is shorely rangy cattle an' allers on the move.Thar's a time once when two of 'em comes mighty near splittin' Wolfville wide open an' leavin' it on both sides of the trail.All that ever saves the day is the ca'm jedgement an'
promptitood of Old Man Enright.
"This is how Wolfville walks into this petticoat ambush.The camp is gettin' along all peaceful an' serene an' man-fashion.Thar's the post-office for our letters; thar's the Red Light for our bug-juice;thar's the O.K.Restauraw for our grub; an' thar's the stage an'
our ponies to pull our freight with when Wolfville life begins to pull on us as too pastoral, an' we thirsts for the meetropolitan gayety of Tucson.
"As I says we alls has all that heart can hunger for; that is hunger on the squar'.
"Among other things, thar's a Chink runnin' a laundry an' a-doin' of our washin'.This yere tub-trundler's name is Lung, which, however.
brands no cattle yere.
"It's one afternoon when Doc Peets gets a letter from a barkeep over in Tucson sayin': Dear Doc:
Thar's an esteemable lady due in Wolfville on to-morrer's stage.
She's p'intin' out to run a laundry.Please back her play.If thar's a Chinaman in town, run him out.
And obleege, yours, Dick.
"'Whatever do you think, Enright?' says Doc Peets after readin' us the letter.
"'That's all right,' says Enright, 'the Chink goes.It's onbecomin'
as a spectacle for a Caucasian woman of full blood to be contendin'
for foul shirts with a slothful Mongol.Wolfville permits no sech debasin' exhibitions, an' Lung must vamos.Jack,' he says, turnin'
to Jack Moore, 'take your gun an' sa'nter over an' stampede this yere opium-slave.Tell him if he's visible to the naked eye in the scenery yere-abouts to-morrow when this lady jumps into camp, he's shore asked the price of soap the last time he ever will in this vale of tears.'
"'What's the matter of lynchin' this yere Chink?' says Dan Boggs.
'The camp's deadly dull, an' it would cheer up things a whole lot, besides bein' compliments to this young female Old Monte's bringin'
in on the stage.'
