There
were
two
men
in
the
company
who
caused
me
particular
discomfort.
One
was
a
little
Swede,
about
twenty-five
years
old,
who
knew
only
one
song,
and
he
was
forever
singing
it.
By
day
we
were
all
crowded
into
one
small,
stifling
bar-room,
and
so
there
was
no
escaping
this
person's music.
Through
all
the
profanity, whisky-guzzling, "old sledge"
and
quarreling,
his
monotonous
song
meandered
with
never
a
variation
in
its
tiresome sameness,
and
it
seemed
to
me,
at
last,
that
I
would
be
content
to
die,
in
order
to
be
rid
of
the
torture.
The
other
man
was
a
stalwart
ruffian
called
"Arkansas,"
who
carried
two
revolvers
in
his
belt
and
a bowie knife
projecting
from
his
boot,
and
who
was
always
drunk
and
always
suffering
for
a fight.
But
he
was
so
feared,
that
nobody
would
accommodate
him.
He
would
try
all
manner
of
little
wary
ruses
to
entrap
somebody
into
an
offensive remark,
and
his
face
would
light
up
now
and
then
when
he
fancied
he
was
fairly
on
the
scent
of
a fight,
but
invariably
his
victim
would
elude
his
toils
and
then
he
would
show
a disappointment
that
was
almost
pathetic.
The
landlord, Johnson,
was
a meek, well-meaning fellow,
and
Arkansas
fastened
on
him
early,
as
a promising subject,
and
gave
him
no
rest
day
or
night,
for
awhile.
On
the
fourth
morning,
Arkansas
got
drunk
and
sat
himself
down
to
wait
for
an
opportunity. Presently Johnson came in,
just
comfortably
sociable
with
whisky,
and
said: "I
reckon
the
Pennsylvania
'lection—"
Arkansas
raised
his
finger
impressively
and
Johnson stopped.
Arkansas
rose
unsteadily
and
confronted
him. Said he: "Wha-what
do
you
know
a—about Pennsylvania?
Answer
me
that. Wha—what
do
you
know
'bout Pennsylvania?" "I
was
only
goin'
to
say—" "You
was
only
goin'
to
say.
You
was!
You
was
only
goin'
to
say—what
was
you
goin'
to
say? That's it! That's
what
I
want
to
know. I
want
to
know
wha—what
you
('ic)
what
you
know
about
Pennsylvania,
since
you're makin' yourself
so
d—-d free.
Answer
me
that!" "Mr. Arkansas,
if
you'd
only
let
me—" "Who's a henderin' you? Don't
you
insinuate
nothing
agin me!—don't
you
do
it. Don't
you
come
in
here
bullyin' around,
and
cussin'
and
goin'
on
like
a lunatic—don't
you
do
it. 'Coz I won't
stand
it.
If
fight's
what
you
want,
out
with
it! I'm
your
man!
Out
with
it!" Said Johnson, backing
into
a corner,
Arkansas
following, menacingly: "Why, I
never
said nothing, Mr. Arkansas.
You
don't
give
a
man
no
chance. I
was
only
goin'
to
say
that
Pennsylvania
was
goin'
to
have
an
election
next
week—that
was
all—that
was
everything I
was
goin'
to
say—I
wish
I
may
never
stir
if
it
wasn't." "Well
then
why
d'n't
you
say
it?
What
did
you
come
swellin'
around
that
way
for,
and
tryin'
to
raise
trouble?" "Why I didn't
come
swellin' around, Mr. Arkansas—I just—" "I'm a
liar
am
I! Ger-reat Caesar's ghost—" "Oh, please, Mr. Arkansas, I
never
meant
such
a
thing
as
that, I
wish
I
may
die
if
I did.
All
the
boys
will
tell
you
that
I've
always
spoke
well
of
you,
and
respected
you
more'n
any
man
in
the
house.
Ask
Smith.
Ain't
it
so, Smith? Didn't I say,
no
longer
ago
than
last
night,
that
for
a
man
that
was
a gentleman
all
the
time
and
every
way
you
took
him,
give
me
Arkansas? I'll
leave
it
to
any
gentleman
here
if
them
warn't
the
very
words
I used. Come, now, Mr. Arkansas, le's
take
a drink—le's
shake
hands
and
take
a drink.
Come
up—everybody! It's my treat.
Come
up, Bill, Tom, Bob, Scotty—come up. I
want
you
all
to
take
a
drink
with
me
and
Arkansas—old Arkansas, I
call
him—bully
old
Arkansas. Gimme
your
hand
agin.
Look
at
him, boys—just
take
a
look
at
him.
Thar
stands
the
whitest
man
in
America!—and
the
man
that
denies
it
has got
to
fight
me, that's all. Gimme
that
old
flipper agin!"
They
embraced,
with
drunken
affection
on
the
landlord's
part
and
unresponsive
toleration
on
the
part
of
Arkansas, who,
bribed
by
a drink,
was
disappointed
of
his
prey
once
more.
But
the
foolish
landlord
was
so
happy
to
have
escaped
butchery,
that
he
went
on
talking
when
he
ought
to
have
marched
himself
out
of
danger.
The
consequence
was
that
Arkansas
shortly
began
to
glower
upon
him
dangerously,
and
presently said: "Lan'lord,
will
you
p-please
make
that
remark
over
agin
if
you
please?" "I
was
a-sayin'
to
Scotty
that
my father
was
up'ards
of
eighty
year
old
when
he
died." "Was
that
all
that
you
said?" "Yes,
that
was
all." "Didn't
say
nothing
but
that?" "No—nothing."
Then
an
uncomfortable silence.
Arkansas
played
with
his
glass a moment, lolling
on
his
elbows
on
the
counter.
Then
he
meditatively
scratched
his
left
shin
with
his
right
boot,
while
the
awkward silence continued.
But
presently
he
loafed
away
toward
the
stove,
looking
dissatisfied; roughly shouldered
two
or
three
men
out
of
a
comfortable
position; occupied
it
himself, gave a sleeping
dog
a
kick
that
sent
him
howling
under
a bench,
then
spread
his
long
legs
and
his
blanket-coat tails
apart
and
proceeded
to
warm
his
back.
In
a
little
while
he
fell
to
grumbling
to
himself,
and
soon
he
slouched
back
to
the
bar
and
said: "Lan'lord, what's
your
idea
for
rakin'
up
old
personalities
and
blowin'
about
your
father?
Ain't
this
company
agreeable
to
you?
Ain't
it?
If
this
company
ain't
agreeable
to
you, p'r'aps we'd
better
leave.
Is
that
your
idea?
Is
that
what
you're coming at?" "Why
bless
your
soul, Arkansas, I warn't
thinking
of
such
a thing. My father
and
my mother—" "Lan'lord, don't crowd a man! Don't
do
it.
If
nothing'll
do
you
but
a disturbance,
out
with
it
like
a
man
('ic)—but don't
rake
up
old
bygones
and
fling'em
in
the
teeth
of
a passel
of
people
that
wants
to
be
peaceable
if
they
could
git a chance. What's
the
matter
with
you
this
mornin', anyway? I
never
see
a
man
carry
on
so." "Arkansas, I reely didn't
mean
no
harm,
and
I won't
go
on
with
it
if
it's onpleasant
to
you. I
reckon
my licker's got
into
my head,
and
what
with
the
flood,
and
havin'
so
many
to
feed
and
look
out
for—" "So that's what's a-ranklin'
in
your
heart,
is
it?
You
want
us
to
leave
do
you? There's
too
many
on
us.
You
want
us
to
pack
up
and
swim.
Is
that
it? Come!" "Please
be
reasonable, Arkansas.
Now
you
know
that
I
ain't
the
man
to—" "Are
you
a threatenin' me?
Are
you?
By
George,
the
man
don't
live
that
can
skeer me! Don't
you
try
to
come
that
game, my chicken—'cuz I
can
stand
a
good
deal,
but
I won't
stand
that.
Come
out
from
behind
that
bar
till
I clean you!
You
want
to
drive
us
out,
do
you,
you
sneakin' underhanded hound!
Come
out
from
behind
that
bar! I'll
learn
you
to
bully
and
badger
and
browbeat a gentleman that's forever trying
to
befriend
you
and
keep
you
out
of
trouble!" "Please, Arkansas,
please
don't shoot!
If
there's got
to
be
bloodshed—" "Do
you
hear
that, gentlemen?
Do
you
hear
him
talk
about
bloodshed?
So
it's blood
you
want,
is
it,
you
ravin' desperado! You'd
made
up
your
mind
to
murder
somebody
this
mornin'—I
knowed
it
perfectly well. I'm
the
man,
am
I? It's
me
you're goin'
to
murder,
is
it?
But
you
can't
do
it
'thout I
get
one
chance
first,
you
thievin' black-hearted, white-
livered
son
of
a nigger!
Draw
your
weepon!"
With
that,
Arkansas
began
to
shoot,
and
the
landlord
to
clamber
over
benches, men
and
every
sort
of
obstacle
in
a
frantic
desire
to
escape.
In
the
midst
of
the
wild
hubbub
the
landlord crashed
through
a glass door,
and
as
Arkansas
charged
after
him
the
landlord's
wife
suddenly
appeared
in
the
doorway
and
confronted
the
desperado
with
a pair
of
scissors!
Her
fury
was
magnificent.
With
head
erect
and
flashing
eye
she
stood a
moment
and
then
advanced,
with
her
weapon
raised.
The
astonished
ruffian
hesitated,
and
then
fell
back
a step.
She
followed.
She
backed
him
step
by
step
into
the
middle
of
the
bar-room,
and
then,
while
the
wondering
crowd closed
up
and
gazed,
she
gave
him
such
another
tongue-lashing
as
never
a
cowed
and
shamefaced
braggart
got before, perhaps!
As
she
finished
and
retired victorious, a
roar
of
applause
shook
the
house,
and
every
man
ordered "drinks
for
the
crowd"
in
one
and
the
same
breath.
The
lesson
was
entirely sufficient.
The
reign
of
terror
was
over,
and
the
Arkansas
domination
broken
for
good.
During
the
rest
of
the
season
of
island
captivity,
there
was
one
man
who
sat
apart
in
a
state
of
permanent
humiliation,
never
mixing
in
any
quarrel
or
uttering
a boast,
and
never
resenting
the
insults
the
once
cringing
crew
now
constantly
leveled
at
him,
and
that
man
was
"Arkansas."
By
the
fifth
or
sixth
morning
the
waters
had
subsided
from
the
land,
but
the
stream
in
the
old
river
bed
was
still
high
and
swift
and
there
was
no
possibility
of
crossing it.
On
the
eighth
it
was
still
too
high
for
an
entirely
safe
passage,
but
life
in
the
inn
had
become
next
to
insupportable
by
reason
of
the
dirt, drunkenness, fighting, etc.,
and
so
we
made
an
effort
to
get
away.
In
the
midst
of
a heavy snow-storm
we
embarked
in
a canoe,
taking
our
saddles
aboard
and
towing
our
horses
after
us
by
their
halters.
The
Prussian, Ollendorff,
was
in
the
bow,
with
a paddle, Ballou paddled
in
the
middle,
and
I sat
in
the
stern holding
the
halters.
When
the
horses
lost
their
footing
and
began
to
swim, Ollendorff got frightened,
for
there
was
great
danger
that
the
horses
would
make
our
aim
uncertain,
and
it
was
plain
that
if
we
failed
to
land
at
a
certain
spot
the
current
would
throw
us
off
and
almost
surely cast
us
into
the
main
Carson,
which
was
a
boiling
torrent, now.
Such
a
catastrophe
would
be
death,
in
all
probability,
for
we
would
be
swept
to
sea
in
the
"Sink"
or
overturned
and
drowned.
We
warned
Ollendorff
to
keep
his
wits
about
him
and
handle
himself
carefully,
but
it
was
useless;
the
moment
the
bow
touched
the
bank,
he
made
a
spring
and
the
canoe
whirled
upside
down
in
ten-foot water. Ollendorff
seized
some
brush
and
dragged
himself
ashore,
but
Ballou
and
I had
to
swim
for
it,
encumbered
with
our
overcoats.
But
we
held
on
to
the
canoe,
and
although
we
were
washed
down
nearly
to
the
Carson,
we
managed
to
push
the
boat
ashore
and
make
a
safe
landing.
We
were
cold
and
water- soaked,
but
safe.
The
horses
made
a landing, too,
but
our
saddles
were
gone,
of
course.
We
tied
the
animals
in
the
sage-brush
and
there
they
had
to
stay
for
twenty-four hours.
We
baled
out
the
canoe
and
ferried
over
some
food
and
blankets
for
them,
but
we
slept
one
more
night
in
the
inn
before
making
another
venture
on
our
journey.
The
next
morning
it
was
still
snowing
furiously
when
we
got
away
with
our
new
stock
of
saddles
and
accoutrements.
We
mounted
and
started.
The
snow
lay
so
deep
on
the
ground
that
there
was
no
sign
of
a
road
perceptible,
and
the
snow-fall
was
so
thick
that
we
could
not
see
more
than
a
hundred
yards
ahead,
else
we
could
have
guided
our
course
by
the
mountain
ranges.
The
case
looked
dubious,
but
Ollendorff said
his
instinct
was
as
sensitive
as
any
compass,
and
that
he
could
"strike a bee-line"
for
Carson
city
and
never
diverge
from
it.
He
said
that
if
he
were
to
straggle
a single
point
out
of
the
true line
his
instinct
would
assail
him
like
an
outraged conscience.
Consequently
we
dropped
into
his
wake
happy
and
content.
For
half
an
hour
we
poked
along
warily enough,
but
at
the
end
of
that
time
we
came
upon
a
fresh
trail,
and
Ollendorff shouted proudly: "I
knew
I
was
as
dead
certain
as
a compass, boys!
Here
we
are,
right
in
somebody's
tracks
that
will
hunt
the
way
for
us
without
any
trouble. Let's hurry
up
and
join
company
with
the
party."
So
we
put
the
horses
into
as
much
of
a
trot
as
the
deep
snow
would
allow,
and
before
long
it
was
evident
that
we
were
gaining
on
our
predecessors,
for
the
tracks
grew
more
distinct.
We
hurried along,
and
at
the
end
of
an
hour
the
tracks
looked
still
newer
and
fresher—but
what
surprised
us
was,
that
the
number
of
travelers
in
advance
of
us
seemed
to
steadily increase.
We
wondered
how
so
large
a
party
came
to
be
traveling
at
such
a time
and
in
such
a solitude. Somebody
suggested
that
it
must
be
a
company
of
soldiers
from
the
fort,
and
so
we
accepted
that
solution
and
jogged
along
a
little
faster still,
for
they
could
not
be
far
off
now.
But
the
tracks
still
multiplied,
and
we
began
to
think
the
platoon
of
soldiers
was
miraculously
expanding
into
a regiment—Ballou said
they
had
already
increased
to
five
hundred! Presently
he
stopped
his
horse
and
said: "Boys,
these
are
our
own
tracks,
and
we've actually been
circussing
round
and
round
in
a circle
for
more
than
two
hours,
out
here
in
this
blind desert!
By
George
this
is
perfectly hydraulic!"
Then
the
old
man
waxed
wroth
and
abusive.
He
called
Ollendorff
all
manner
of
hard
names—said
he
never
saw
such
a
lurid
fool
as
he
was,
and
ended
with
the
peculiarly
venomous
opinion
that
he
"did
not
know
as
much
as
a logarythm!"
We
certainly had been
following
our
own
tracks. Ollendorff
and
his
"mental compass"
were
in
disgrace
from
that
moment.
After
all
our
hard
travel,
here
we
were
on
the
bank
of
the
stream
again,
with
the
inn
beyond
dimly
outlined
through
the
driving
snow-fall.
While
we
were
considering
what
to
do,
the
young
Swede
landed
from
the
canoe
and
took
his
pedestrian
way
Carson-wards,
singing
his
same
tiresome
song
about
his
"sister
and
his
brother"
and
"the
child
in
the
grave
with
its
mother,"
and
in
a
short
minute
faded
and
disappeared
in
the
white
oblivion.
He
was
never
heard
of
again.
He
no
doubt
got bewildered
and
lost,
and
Fatigue
delivered
him
over
to
Sleep
and
Sleep
betrayed
him
to
Death. Possibly
he
followed
our
treacherous
tracks
till
he
became exhausted
and
dropped. Presently
the
Overland
stage
forded
the
now
fast
receding
stream
and
started
toward
Carson
on
its
first
trip
since
the
flood came.
We
hesitated
no
longer, now,
but
took
up
our
march
in
its
wake,
and
trotted
merrily
along,
for
we
had
good
confidence
in
the
driver's bump
of
locality.
But
our
horses
were
no
match
for
the
fresh
stage
team.
We
were
soon
left
out
of
sight;
but
it
was
no
matter,
for
we
had
the
deep
ruts
the
wheels
made
for
a guide.
By
this
time
it
was
three
in
the
afternoon,
and
consequently
it
was
not
very
long
before
night
came—and
not
with
a
lingering
twilight,
but
with
a
sudden
shutting
down
like
a
cellar
door,
as
is
its
habit
in
that
country.
The
snowfall
was
still
as
thick
as
ever,
and
of
course
we
could
not
see
fifteen
steps
before
us;
but
all
about
us
the
white
glare
of
the
snow-bed enabled
us
to
discern
the
smooth
sugar-loaf mounds
made
by
the
covered sage-bushes,
and
just
in
front
of
us
the
two
faint grooves
which
we
knew
were
the
steadily filling
and
slowly
disappearing
wheel-tracks.
Now
those
sage-bushes
were
all
about
the
same
height—three
or
four
feet;
they
stood
just
about
seven
feet apart,
all
over
the
vast
desert;
each
of
them
was
a
mere
snow-mound, now;
in
any
direction
that
you
proceeded
(the
same
as
in
a
well
laid
out
orchard)
you
would
find yourself
moving
down
a distinctly
defined
avenue,
with
a
row
of
these
snow-mounds
an
either
side
of
it—an
avenue
the
customary
width
of
a road,
nice
and
level
in
its
breadth,
and
rising
at
the
sides
in
the
most
natural
way,
by
reason
of
the
mounds.
But
we
had
not
thought
of
this.
Then
imagine
the
chilly thrill
that
shot
through
us
when
it
finally
occurred
to
us,
far
in
the
night,
that
since
the
last
faint
trace
of
the
wheel-tracks had
long
ago
been buried
from
sight,
we
might
now
be
wandering
down
a
mere
sage-brush avenue,
miles
away
from
the
road
and
diverging
further
and
further
away
from
it
all
the
time.
Having
a
cake
of
ice
slipped
down
one's
back
is
placid
comfort
compared
to
it.
There
was
a
sudden
leap
and
stir
of
blood
that
had been
asleep
for
an
hour,
and
as
sudden
a
rousing
of
all
the
drowsing
activities
in
our
minds
and
bodies.
We
were
alive
and
awake
at
once—and shaking
and
quaking
with
consternation, too.
There
was
an
instant
halting
and
dismounting, a
bending
low
and
an
anxious
scanning
of
the
road-bed. Useless,
of
course;
for
if
a faint
depression
could
not
be
discerned
from
an
altitude
of
four
or
five
feet
above
it,
it
certainly
could
not
with
one's
nose
nearly against it.