ENRIGHT'S PARD, JIM WILLIS.
"If my mem'ry's dealin' a squar' game," remarked the Old Cattleman, as he moved his chair a bit more into the shade, "it's some'ers over in the foot-hills of, the Floridas when Enright vouchsafes why he hates Mexicans."The morning was drowsy.Conversation between us had in a sleepy way ranged a wide field.As had grown to be our habit we at last settled on Wolfville and its volatile inhabitants.I asked to be enlightened as to the sage Enright, and was informed that, aside from his courage and love of strict justice, the prominent characteristic of our Wolfville Lycurgus was his wrath against Mexicans.
"Not that Enright loathes so much as he deplores 'em, "continued the old gentleman."However, I don't aim to be held as sayin' he indorses their existence a little bit; none whatever.
"Enright's tellin' of this tale arises outen a trivial incident which a Mexican is the marrow of.We're out on the spring round-up, an' combin' the draws an' dry ARROYAS over between the cow springs an' the Floridas, when one night a Mexican runs off a passel of our ponies.The hoss-hustler is asleep, I reckons, at the time this Mexican stacks in.He says himse'f he's lyin' along the back of his bronco gazin' at the stars when this robber jumps at the ponies an'
flaps a blanket or somethin', an' away patters every hoof in the band.
"This yere Mexican don't run off with only about a handful; I takes it he can't round up no more in the dark.When you-all stampedes a bunch of ponies that a-way they don't hold together like cattle, but plunges off diffusive.It's every bronco for himse'f, disdainful of all else, an' when it's sun-up you finds 'em spattered all over the scene an' not regardin' of each other much.
"But this yere Mexican, after he stampedes 'em, huddles what he can together--as I says mebby it's a dozen--an' p'ints off into the hills.
"Of course it ain't no time after the sun shows the tracks when Enright, Jack Moore, an' myse'f is on the trail.Tutt an' Dan Boggs wants in on the play, but we can't spar' so many from the round-up.
"It's one of the stolen ponies tips this Greaser's hand.It's the second day, an' we-alls loses the trail for mebby it's fifteen minutes.We're smellin' along a canyon to find it ag'in, when from over a p'int of rocks we hears a bronco nicker.He gets the scent of an acquaintance which Moore's ridin' on, an' says 'How!' pony-fashion.
"Thar's no need goin' into wearyin' details.Followin' the nicker we comes surgin' in on our prey, an' it's over in a minute.Thar's two Mexicans,--our criminal trackin' up with a pard that mornin'.But of course we-alls knows he's thar long hours back by the tracks, so it ain't no s'prise.
"This yere second Mexican is downed on the run-in.He shows a heap of interest in our comin', an' takes to shootin' us up mighty vivid with a Winchester at the time; an' so Enright, who's close in, jumps some lead into him an' stretches him.He don't manage to do no harm, nohow, more'n he creases my hoss a little.However, as this yere hoss is amazin' low-sperited, an' as bein' burnt that a-way with a bullet sorter livens him up a heap, I don't complain none.Still Enright's all-wise enough to copper the Greaser, for thar ain't no sayin' what luck the felon has with that little old gun of his if he keeps on shootin'.Which, as I observes, Enright downs him, an' his powder-burnin' an' hoss-rustlin' stops immediate.
"As for the other Mexican, which he's the party who jumps our ponies in the first place, he throws up his hands an' allows he cashes in his chips for whatever the bank says.
"We-alls ropes out our captive; sorter hog-ties him hand an' foot, wrist an' fetlock, an' then goes into camp all comfortable, where we runs up on our game.
"Jack Moore drops the loop of his lariat over the off moccasin of the deceased Mexican, an' canters his pony down the draw with him, so's we ain't offended none by the vision of him spraddled out that a-way dead.This yere's thoughtful of Jack, an' shows he's nacherally refined an' objects to remainders lyin' 'round loose.
"'No, it ain't so much I'm refined,' says Jack, when I compliments him that he exhibits his bringin' up, an' him bein' too modest that a-way to accept; 'it ain't that I'm refined none--which my nacher is shore coarse--I jest sorter protests in my bosom ag'in havin' a corpse idlin' 'round that a-way where I'm camped.Tharfore I takes my rope an' snatches deceased off where he ain't noticeable on the scenery.'
"Jack does it that gentle an' considerate, too, that when we passes the Mexican next day on our way in, except he's some raveled an'
frayed coastin' along where it's rocky, an' which can't be he'ped none, he's as excellent a corpse as when he comes off the shelf, warm as the rifle Enright throws him with.
"'Whatever be we goin' to do with this yere hoss-thief pris'ner of ours?' says Jack Moore to Enright the next day, when we're saddlin'
up an' organizin' to pull our freight.'He's shore due to bother us a lot.We're plumb sixty miles from Tutt an' the boys, an' ridin'
herd on this yere saddle-colored gent, a-keepin' of him from lopin'
off, is mighty likely to be a heap exhaustin'.I knows men,' Jack remarks at the close, lookin' wistful at Enright, 'as would beef him right yere an' leave him as a companion piece to that compadre of his you downs.'
"'Nachers as would execute a pris'ner in cold blood,' says Enright, 'is roode an' oncivilized.Which I don't mean they is low neither;but it's onconsiderate that a-way to go an' ca'mly kill a pris'ner, an' no co't nor committee authorizin' the same.I never knows of it bein' done but once.It's Mexicans who does it then; which is why they ain't none pop'lar with me since.'
"'It's shore what you calls a mighty indurated play,' says Jack, shakin' his head, 'to go shootin' some he'pless gent you've took;but, as I states, it's a cinch it'll be a heap fatiguin' keepin'
