The Feud of Pickles.
"Thar's a big crowd in Wolfville that June day." The Old Cattleman tilted his chair back and challenged my interest with his eye."The corrals is full of pack mules an' bull teams an' wagon-trains; an'
white men, Mexicans, half-breeds an' Injuns is a-mixin' an'
meanderin' 'round, a-lyin' an' a-laughin' an' a-drinkin' of Red Light whiskey mighty profuse.Four or five mule skinners has their long limber sixteen-foot whips, which is loaded with dust-shot from butt to tip, an' is crackin' of 'em at a mark.I've seen one of these yere mule experts with the most easy, delicate, delib'rate twist of the wrist make his whip squirm in the air like a hurt snake; an' then he'll straighten it out with the crack of twenty rifles, an' the buckskin popper cuts a hole in a loose buffalo robe he's hung up; an' all without investin' two ounces of actooal strength.Several of us Wolfville gents is on the sidewalk in front of the O.K.Restauraw, applaudin' of the good shots, when Dave Tutt speaks up to Jack Moore, next to me, an' says:
"'Jack, you minds that old Navajo you downs over on the San Simon last Fall?'""'I minds him mighty cl'ar,' says Jack.'He's stealin' my Alizan hoss at the time, an' I can prove it by his skelp on my bridle now.'
"'Well,' says Dave, p'intin' to a ornery, saddle-colored half-breed who's makin' himse'f some frequent, 'that Injun they calls "Pickles"is his nephy, an' you wants to look out a whole lot.I hears him allow that the killin' of his relatif is mighty rank, an' that he don't like it nohow.'
"'That's all right,' says Jack; 'Pickles an' me has been keepin'
cases on each other an hour; an' I'll post you-all private, if he goes to play hoss a little bit, him an' his oncle will be able to talk things over before night.'
"Which it's mighty soon when Pickles comes along where we be.
"'Hello, Jack,' he says, an' his manner is insultin'; 'been makin'
it smoky down on the old San Simon lately?'
"'No; not since last fall,' says Jack, plenty light an' free; 'an'
now I thinks of it, I b'lieves I sees that Navajo hoss-thief of an oncle of yours when I'm down thar last.I ain't run up on him none lately, though.Where do you-all reckon he's done 'loped to?'
"'Can't say, myse'f,' says Pickles, with a kind o' wicked cheerfulness; 'our fam'ly has a round-up of itse'f over on B'ar Creek last spring, an' I don't count his nose among 'em none.Mebby he has an engagement, an' can't get thar.Mebby he's out squanderin'
'round in the high grass some'ers.Great man to go 'round permiscus, that Injun is.'
"'You see,' says Jack, 'I don't know but he might be dead.Which the time I speaks of, I'm settin' in camp one day.Something attracts me, an' I happens to look up, an' thar's my hoss, Alizan, with a perfect stranger on him, pitchin' an' buckin', an' it looks like he's goin' to cripple that stranger shore.Pickles, you knows me!
I'd lose two hosses rather than have a gent I don't know none get hurt.So I grabs my Winchester an' allows to kill Alizan.But it's a new gun; an' you know what new sights is--coarse as sandburrs; you could drag a dog through 'em--an' I holds too high.I fetches the stranger, "bang!" right back of his left y'ear, an' the bullet comes outen his right y'ear.You can bet the limit, I never am so displeased with my shootin'.The idee of me holdin' four foot too high in a hundred yards! I never is that embarrassed! I'm so plumb disgusted an' ashamed, I don't go near that equestrian stranger till after I finishes my grub.Alizan, he comes up all shiverin' an'
sweatin' an' stands thar; an' mebby in a hour or so I strolls out to the deceased.It shorely wearies me a whole lot when I sees him;he's nothin' but a common Digger buck.You can drink on it if Iain't relieved.Bein' a no-account Injun, of course, I don't paw him over much for brands; but do you know, Pickles, from the casooal glance I gives, it strikes me at the time it's mighty likely to be your oncle.This old bronco fancier's skelp is over on my bridle, if you thinks you'd know it.'
"'No,' says Pickles, mighty onconcerned, 'it can't be my oncle nohow.If he's one of my fam'ly, it would be your ha'r on his bridle.It must be some old shorthorn of a Mohave you downs.Let's all take a drink on it.'
"So we-all goes weavin' over to the Red Light, Jack an' Pickles surveyin' each other close an' interested, that a-way, an' the rest of us on the quee vee, to go swarmin' out of range if they takes to shootin'.
"'It's shore sad to part with friends,' says Pickles, as he secretes his nose-paint, 'but jest the same I must saddle an' stampede out of yere.I wants to see that old villyun, Tom Cooke, an' I don't reckon none I'll find him any this side of Prescott, neither.Be you thinkin' of leavin' camp yourse'f, Jack?'
