SLIM JIM'S SISTER.
"Which thar's folks in this caravansary I don't like none," remarked the Old Cattleman, as I joined him one afternoon on the lawn.His tone was as of one half sullen, half hurt, and as he jerked his thumb toward the hotel behind us, it was a gesture full of scorn.
"Thar's folks thar, takin' 'em up an' down, horns, hide, tallow, an'
beef, who ain't worth heatin' a runnin'-iron to brand.""What's the trouble?" I inquired, as I organized for comfort with my back against the elm-tree which shadowed us.
"No trouble at all," replied my old friend sourly, "leastwise nothin' poignant.It's that yoothful party in the black surtoot who comes pesterin' me a moment ago about the West bein', as he says, a roode an' irreligious outfit.""He's a young preacher," I explained."Possibly he was moved by an anxiety touching your soul's welfare.""Well, if he's out to save souls," retorted the old gentleman, "he oughter whirl a bigger loop.No, no, he won't do,"he continued, shaking his head with an air of mournful yet resentful decision, "this yere gent's too narrow; which his head is built too much the shape of a quail-trap.He may do to chase jack-rabbits an' sech, but he's a size too small for game like me.Save souls, says you! Why, if that onp'lite young person was to meet a soul like mine comin' up the trail, he'd shorely omit what to do entire; he'd be that stampeded.He'd be some hard to locate, I takes it, after he meets up with a soul like mine a whole lot."The Old Cattleman made this proclamation rather to himself than me, but I could detect an air of pride.Then he went on:
"'This yere West you emanates from,' says this young preacher-sharp to me that a-way, 'this yere West you hails from is roode, an' don't yield none to religious inflooences.'
"'Well,' I says back to him, fillin' my pipe at the same time, 'Ireckons you shorely can c'llect more with a gun than a contreebution box in the West, if that's what you-all is aimin' at.But if you figgers we don't make our own little religious breaks out in Arizona, stranger, you figgers a heap wrong.You oughter have heard Short Creek Dave that time when he turns 'vangelist an' prances into the warehouse back of the New York Store, an' shows Wolfville she's shore h'ar-hung an' breeze-shaken over hell that a-way.Short Creek has the camp all spraddled out before he turns his deal-box up an'
closes his game.'
"'But this yere Short Creek Dave,' he remonstrates to me, 'ain't no reg'lar licensed divine.He ain't workin' in conjunctions with no shore 'nough' sociation, I takes it.This Short Creek person is most likely one of them irrelevant exhortin' folks, an' that makes a difference.He don't belong to no reg'lar denom'nation.'
"'That's troo, too,' I says.'Short Creek ain't workin' with no reg'lar religious round-up; he's sorter runnin' a floatin' outfit, criss-crossin' the range, prowlin' for mavericks an' strays on his own game.But what of that? He's shorely tyin' 'em down an' brandin'
'em right along.'
"'Oh, I don't dispoote none the efficacy of your friend's work that a-way,' replies the young preacher-sharp, 'but it's irreg'lar; it's plumb out of line.Now what you-alls needs in the West is real churches, same as we-alls has in the East.'
"`I ain't none shore of that.' I says, 'an' I'm gettin' a little warm onder the collar some with them frills he puts on; 'I ain't none shore.The East needn't deem itse'f the only king in the deck;none whatever.The West can afford the usual rooles an' let all bets go as they lays, an' still get up winner on the deal.I takes it you-alls never notes the West sendin' East for he'p?'
"'But that ain't the idee,' he urges.'Churches that a-way is the right thing.They molds a commoonity, churches does.You b'ars witness yourse'f that where churches exists the commoonity is the most orderly an' fuller of quietood an' peace.'
"'Not necessarily I don't,' I replies back, for I'm goin' to play my hand out if it gets my last chip, 'not necessarily.What I b'ars witness to is that where the commoonity is the most orderly that a-way an' fuller of quietood an' peace, the churches exists.'
"'Which I'm shorely some afraid,' he says,--an' his looks shows he's gettin' a horror of me,--'you belongs to a perverse generation.You-all is vain of your own evil-doin'.Look at them murders that reddens the West, an' then sit yere an' tell me it don't need no inflooences.'
"'Them ain't murders,' I answers; them's killin's.An' as for inflooenccs, if you-all don't reckon the presence of a vig'lance committee in a camp don't cause a gent to pause an' ponder none before he pulls his gun, you dwells in ignorance.However, I'm yere to admit, I don't discern no sech sin-encrusted play in a killin'
when the parties breaks even at the start, an' both gents is workin'
to the same end unanimous.It does some folks a heap of good to kill 'em a lot.'
"It's at this p'int the young preacher-sharp pulls his freight, an'
I observes, by the way he stacks me up with his eyes that a-way, he allows mebby I'm locoed."The Old Cattleman said no more for a moment, but puffed at his cob pipe in thought and silence.I had no notion of involving myself in any combat of morals or theology, so I did not invade his mood.At last I suggested in a half-tone of inoffensive sympathy that the West was no doubt much misunderstood.
"Life there," I remarked, "amid new and rough conditions must be full of hardship and tragedy."This vague arrow in the air had the effect of sending the old fellow off at a tangent.His bent was evidently discursive, and all thoughts of his late religious controversy seemed to pass from his mind.
