The Defiance of Gene Watkins.
"Be I religious that a-way?" More to embark him on some current of conversation than from any gnawing eagerness to discover his creed, I had aimed the question at my Old Cattleman.
"No," he continued, declining a proffered cigar, "I'll smoke my old pipe to-night.Be I religious? says you.Well, I ain't shorely livin' in what you'd call 'grace,' still I has my beliefs.Back in Tennessee my folks is Methodis', held to sprinklin' an' sech;however, for myse'f, I never banks none on them technicalities.It's deeds that counts with Omnipotence, same as with a vig'lance committee; an', whether a gent is sprinkled or dipped or is as averse to water as Huggins or Old Monte, won't settle whether he wins out a harp or a hot pitchfork in the eternal beyond.
"No, I ain't a believer in that enthoosiastic sense that fights its way to the mourner's bench an' manifests itse'f with groans that daunts hoot-owls into silence.Thar don't appear many preachers out West in my day.Now an' then one of these yere divines, who's got strayed or drifted from his proper range, comes buttin' his way into Wolfville an' puts us up a sermon, or a talkee-talkee.In sech events we allers listens respcetful, an' when the contreebution box shows down, we stakes 'em on their windin' way; but it's all as much for the name of the camp as any belief in them ministrations doin'
local good.Shore! these yere sky-scouts is all right at that.But Wolfville's a hard, practical outfit, what you might call a heap obdurate, an' it's goin' to take more than them fitful an'
o'casional sermons I alloodes to, a hour long an' more'n three months apart on a av'rage, to reach the roots of its soul.When Ilooks back on Peets an' Enright, an' Boggs an' Tutt, an' Texas Thompson an' Moore, an' Cherokee, to say nothin' of Colonel Sterett, an' recalls their nacheral obstinacy, an' the cheerful conceit wherewith they adheres to their systems of existence, I realizes that them ordinary, every-day pulpit utterances of the sort that saves an' satisfies the East, would have about as much ser'ous effect on them cimmaron pards of mine as throwin' water on a drowned rat.Which they lives irreg'lar, an' they're doo to die irreg'lar, an' if they can't be admitted to the promised land irreg'lar, they're shore destined to pitch camp outside.An' inasmuch as Ionderstands them aforetime comrades of mine, an' saveys an' esteems their ways, why, I reckons I'll string my game with theirs a whole lot, an' get in or get barred with Wolfville.
"No; I've no notion at all ag'inst a gospel spreader.When Short Creek Dave gets religion over in Tucson, an' descends on us as a exhorter, although I only knows Short Creek thartofore as the coldest poker sharp that ever catches a gent Muffin' on a 4-flush, Ihesitates not, but encourages an' caps his game.But I can't say that the sight of a preacher-gent affords me peace.A preacher frets me; not for himse'f exactly, but you never sees preachers without seein' p'lice folks--preachers an' p'lice go hand in hand, like prairie dogs an' rattlesnakes--an' born as I be in Tennessee, where we has our feuds an' where law is a interference an' never a protection, I'm nacherally loathin' constables complete.
"But if I ain't religious," he rambled on while he puffed at his Bull Durham vigorously."you can resk a small stack that neither Iain't sooperstitious.Take Boggs an' Cherokee, you-all recalls how long ago I tells you how sooperstitious them two is.Speakin' of Boggs, who's as good a gent an' as troo a friend as ever touches your glass; he's sooperstitious from his wrought-steel spurs to his bullion hatband.Boggs has more signs an' omens than some folks has money; everything is a tip or a hunch to Boggs; an' he lives surrounded by inflooences.
"Thar's a peaked old sport named Ryder pervades Wolfville for a while.He's surly an' gnurlly an' omeny, Ryder is; an' has one of them awful lookin' faces where the feachers is all c'llected in the middle of his visage, an' bunched up like they's afraid of Injuns or somethin' else that threatenin' an' hostile--them sort of countenances you notes carved on the far ends of fiddles.We-all is averse to Ryder.An' this yere Ryder himsc'f is that contentious an'
contradictory he won't agree to nothin'.Jest to show you about Ryder: I has in mind once when a passel of us is lookin' at a paper that's come floatin' in from the States.Thar's the picture of a cow-puncher into it who's a dead ringer for Dave Tutt.From y'ears to hocks that picture is Tutt; an' thar we-all be admirin' the likeness an' takin' our licker conjunctive.While thus spec'latin'
on then resemblances, this yere sour old maverick, Ryder, shows up at the bar for nourishment.
"'Don't tell Ryder about how this yere deelineation looks like Tutt,' Says Doc Peets; 'I'll saw it off on him raw for his views, and ask him whatever does he think himse'f.
"'See yere, Ryder,' says Peets, shovin' the paper onder the old t'rant'ler's nose as he sets down his glass, 'whoever does this picture put you in mind of? Does it look like any sport you knows?'
"'No,' says Ryder, takin' the paper an' puttin' on his specks, an'
at the same time as thankless after his nose-paint as if he'd been refoosed the beverage; 'no, it don't put me in mind of nothin' nor nobody.One thing shore, an' you-all hold-ups can rope onto that for a fact, it don't remind me none of Dave Tutt.'
"Which Boggs, who, as I says, is allers herdin' ghosts, is sooperstitious about old Ryder.That's straight; Boggs won't put down a bet while this Ryder person's in sight.I've beheld Boggs, jest as he's got his chips placed, look up an' c'llect a glimpse of them fiddle-feachers of Ryder.
"'Whoop!' says Boggs to Cherokee, who would be behind the box, an'
spreadin' his hands in reemonstrance; 'nothin' goes!' An' then Boggs would glare at this Ryder party ontil he'd fade from the room.
