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Updated: May 11, 2025
"Who me? Death-bed? Why, he ain't on no death-bed. He's eatin' three squares a day and settin' up readin' novels. Death-bed nothin'!" "Oh, no," said Tom Osby, "that's where you're mistaken. Dan Anderson is on his death-bed; and he writes his dyin' confession, his message in such cases made and pervided. He sends his last words to his own true love.
They looked into each other's faces and Constance laughed. "The air is delightful isn't it a beautiful world?" she exclaimed joyously. "It shore is, ma'am," rejoined Tom Osby, "if you think so. It's all in the way you look at things." "I came out here for my health, you know," said she, carefully explanatory. "Yes, I know. You ain't any healthier than a three-year-old deer on good pasture.
"When two people is damn fools," commented Tom Osby, gravely, "it's all right for foreign powers to mediate a-plenty." "But what you goin' to do? She won't bat a eye at him, and he ain't goin' to send for her." "Oh, yes he is," corrected Tom Osby; and the forefinger, crowding tobacco into his pipe, worked vigorously. "He's got to send for her."
'Dear Madam, says he, 'Havin' loved you all my life, I fain would gaze on you onct more. In that case, says he, 'the clouds certainly would roll away!" "That shorely would fetch her," said Curly, admiringly, "but how you goin' to fix it?" "Why, how? There ain't but one way. The dyin' man has his dear friend Curly, or Tom Osby, or some one, write his last words for him.
And does it look any like Mac has studied bakery doin's out on the Carrizoso ranch? You know Tom Osby couldn't. As for me, if hard luck has ever driv me to cookin' in the past, I ain't referrin' to it now. I'm a straight-up cow puncher and nothin' else. That cake? Why, it come from the Kansas outfit. "Don't know which one of 'em done it, but it's a honey," he went on.
At this, Tom Osby stood upon one leg. "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said he, at length. "I didn't know anybody was in here. I just come in lookin' for somebody." She did not answer him, but turned upon him the full glance of a deep, dark eye, studying him curiously. "I don't live here, ma'am," resumed Tom. "I'm camped down the hill by the spring. I left my compadre there.
Didn't you never hear about that? Why, he ostypathed a horse!" "Did what?" asked Tom Osby sitting up; for hitherto there had seemed no need to listen attentively. "Yes, sir," he went on, "he ostypathed a horse for us. The boys they gambled about two thousand dollars on that horse over at Socorro. It was a cross-eyed horse, too." "What's that?" Doc Tomlinson objected.
"Times is changin'. That reminds me, I ordered a new suit of clothes by mail from Philadelphy, and they ought to be just about due when Tom Osby comes down; and that ought to be to-day." "That's so," assented Doc Tomlinson. "He's got a little bill of goods for me, too." "Oh, why, oh, why this profligacy, Doc?" said Dan Anderson. "Didn't you order two pounds of alum the last trip Tom made?
It was Tom Osby, who came and sat down by the fire, poking tobacco into his pipe with a crooked finger, and smoking on with no glance at the recumbent figure on the camper's bed. Yet the outdoor sense of Tom Osby told him that his companion was not asleep.
McKinney, and Tom Osby, and Dan Anderson, the other lawyer, and me, we're going to have Christmas dinner at Andersen's 'dobe in town to-morrer. You're in. You mayn't like it. Don't you mind. The directions says to take it, and you take it. It's goin' to be one of the largest events ever knowed in this here settlement.
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