Produced by Al Haines
His Adventures West & East
By
Henry Wallace Phillips
1901
A Chance Shot
Reddy and I were alone at the Lake beds. He sat outside the cabin,braiding a leather hat-band—eight strands, and the "repeat"figure—an art that I never could master.
I sat inside, with a one-pound package of smoking tobacco besideme, and newspapers within reach, rolling the day's supply ofcigarettes.
Reddy stopped his story long enough to say: "Don't use the
'Princess' Slipper,' Kid—that paper burns my tongue—take the
'Granger'; there's plenty of it."
Well, as I was saying, I'd met a lot of the boys up in town thisday, and they threw as many as two drinks into me; I know that forcertain, because when we took the parting dose, I had a glass ofwhisky in both my right hands, and had just twice as many friendsas when I started.
When I pulled out for home, I felt mighty good for myself—notexactly looking for trouble, but not a-going to dodge it any,either. I was warbling "Idaho" for all I was worth—you know howpretty I can sing? Cock-eyed Peterson used to say it made himforget all his troubles. "Because," says he, "you don't noticetrifles when a man bats you over the head with a two-by-four."
Well, I was enjoying everything in sight, even a little drizzle ofrain that was driving by in rags of wetness, when a flat-facedswatty at Fort Johnson halted me.
Now it's a dreadful thing to be butted to death by a nanny-goat,but for a full-sized cowpuncher to be held up by a soldier is worseyet.
To say that I was hot under the collar don't give you the rightidea of the way I felt.
"Why, you cross between the Last Rose of Summer and a bobtailedflush!" says I, "what d'yer mean? What's got into you? Get out ofmy daylight, you dog-robber, or I'll walk the little horse aroundyour neck like a three-ringed circus. Come, pull your freight!"
It seems that this swatty had been chucked out of the third storyof Frenchy's dance emporium by Bronc. Thompson, which threw a greatrespect for our profesh into him. Consequently he wasn't freshlike most soldiers, but answers me as polite as a tin-horn gambleron pay-day.
Says he: "I just wanted to tell you that old Frosthead and fortybraves are some'ers between here and your outfit, with their warpaint on and blood in their eyes, cayoodling and whoopin' fit tobeat hell with the blower on, and if you get tangled up with them,I reckon they'll give you a hair-cut and shampoo, to say nothing ofother trimmings. They say they're after the Crows, but it's aten-dollar bill against a last year's bird's-nest that they'll takeon any kind of trouble that comes along. Their hearts is mightybad, they state, and when an Injun's heart gets spoiled, thedisease is d—d catching. You'd better stop awhile."
"Now, cuss old Frosthead, and you too!" says I. "If he comescrow-hopping on my reservation; I'll kick his pantalettes on top ofhis scalp-lock."
"All right, pardner!" says he. "It's your own funeral. My orderswas to halt every one going through; but I ain't a whole company,so you can have it your own way. Only, if your friends have totake you home in a coal-sc