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Updated: June 28, 2025
But I tell you Zip's a man, an' a great big man to the marrer of his small backbone. His luck's rotten. Rotten every ways. He's stuck on his wife, an' she's gone off with a tough like James. He works so he comes nigh shamin' even me, who hates work, on a claim that couldn't show the color o' gold on it, if ther' wa'an't nothin' to the earth but gold. He's jest got two notions in his silly head.
You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin' things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can't stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth." "Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile.
I was kind o' sorry about him, an' his good-lookin' wife both city-raised folk an' I did as he ast. I said he could graze up to two hundred head. Git a line on that. Them rights was verbal between him an' me to help him out. Ther' wa'an't no sort o' deed, an' he knew it wa'an't no saleable proposition.
"I sure said ther' wa'an't no stages runnin', with James' gang around. I wa'an't goin' to give nuthin' away to strangers. Y'see, if I'd pretended we was sendin' out stages, we'd have that gang hangin' around waitin'. 'Tain't no use in gatherin' wasps around a m'lasses-pot." "No. You didn't tell him nuthin' else?" Bill inquired, eyeing him shrewdly. "I did that," said Sandy triumphantly.
"That wa'an't a ranch neither," contradicted Sandy promptly. "It was jest a barn." "Ark," said Toby. "Wal, ark then," admitted Sandy. He didn't mind Toby's interference. But the discussion was allowed to go no further. Bill's impatience manifested itself promptly. "Say, it don't matter a cuss whether it was an ark or a barn or a ranch. Sunny's yarn goes.
And a world of desolation was contained in the lad's half-tearful reply "Guess I ain't got none. Pop an' ma's dead. Our farm was burnt right out. Y' see there was a prairie fire. It was at night, an' we was abed. Pop got me out, an' went back for ma. I never see him agin. I never see ma. An' ther' wa'an't no farm left. Guess they're sure dead."
He fought the tears back manfully, in a way that set the Padre marveling at his courage. After a moment he continued his interrogation. "What's your name?" he asked. "Buck," came the frank response. "Buck what?" "Buck jest plain, mister." "But your father's name what was that?" "Pop." "Yes, yes. That's what you called him. What did the folks call him?" "Ther' wa'an't no folks.
An' when he thinks that way, why, I don't guess he figgers to find bad wher' he reckoned ther' was only good. Howsum, it kind o' seems to me human nature's as li'ble to set a feller cryin' as laffin' most times. This thing come over that Lightfoot gang. We got most of 'em, and those we got if they wa'an't pumped full of lead out of hand they was hanged. Sort o' queer, too, the way we got 'em.
Ju lit a cigar and hid nearly half of it in his capacious mouth. "I'd say," he went on, with a certain satisfaction, "ther's more mush-headed souses in this lay out to the square yard than I've ever heard tell of in any other city. Ef it wa'an't that way I couldn't see myself wastin' a valuable life lookin' at grass, hearin' talk of grass, smellin' grass, an' durned nigh eatin' grass.
"Now this yer is dandy truck, though I don't guess ther's a heap o' use fer it on Suffering Creek. It's fer softening alkali water. When the drummer told me that, I guessed to him ther wa'an't a heap o' water drunk in this camp. But he said it wa'an't fer drinkin' water; it was fer baths.
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