quit the racket. I’ll drop the tanglefoot and the gun play, and won’t play hoss no more. I’ll be a good citizen and go to work and quit my foolishness. So help me God!’ That’s what I’d say to you if you was marshal and I was in your place.”
“Hear my son talkin’,” said the old woman softly. “Hear him, sir. You promise to be good and he won’t do you no harm. Forty-one year ago his heart first beat ag’in’ mine, and it’s beat true ever since.”
The other man rose to his feet, trying his limbs and stretching his muscles.
“Then,” said he, “if you was in my place and said that, and I was marshal, I’d say: ‘Go free, and do your best to keep your promise.’”
“Lawsy!” exclaimed the old woman, in a sudden flutter, “ef I didn’t clear forget that trunk of mine! I see a man settin’ it on the platform jest as I seen son’s face in the window, and it went plum out of my head. There’s eight jars of homemade quince jam in that trunk that I made myself. I wouldn’t have nothin’ happen to them jars for a red apple.”
Away to the door she trotted, spry and anxious, and then Calliope Catesby spoke out to Buck Patterson:
“I just couldn’t help it, Buck. I seen her through the window a-comin’ in. She never had heard a word ‘bout my tough ways. I didn’t have the nerve to let her know I was a worthless cuss bein’ hunted down by the community. There you was lyin’ where my shot laid you, like you was dead. The idea struck me sudden, and I just took your badge off and fastened it onto myself, and I fastened my reputation onto you. I told her I was the marshal and you was a holy terror. You can take your badge back now, Buck.”
With shaking fingers Calliope began to unfasten the disc of metal from his shirt.
“Easy there!” said Buck Patterson. “You keep that badge right where it is, Calliope Catesby. Don’t you dare to take it off till the day your mother leaves this town. You’ll be city marshal of Quicksand as long as she’s here to know it. After I stir around town a bit and put ’em on I’ll guarantee that nobody won’t give the thing away to her. And say, you leather-headed, rip-roarin’, low-down son of a locoed cyclone, you follow that advice she give me! I’m goin’ to take some of it myself, too.”
“Buck,” said Calliope feelingly, “ef I don’t I hope I may—”
“Shut up,” said Buck. “She’s a-comin’ back.”
My Tussle With The Devil by O. Henry’s Ghost
I. — The King
Fancies:
The Barrage Fire
I FEEL I cannot give O. Henry’s Ghost better ammunition with which to meet his critics than a bit of truth voiced by Joan in one of Algernon Blackwood’s wonderful books.
“The beloved dead step nearer when their bodies drop aside. They know where they are and what they are doing. It’s not for us to worry — in that way. And they are out of hours and minutes”
To meet the onslaught of you, Mr. Scoffer and Mr. Skeptic, who will say, “Impossible! They are not a bit like O. Henry’s stories! They lack all his virility, etc., etc.” I say at once, of course they are different! Where before his stories were written in the bold black and red of human passions, which belong to materiality, now, they must of necessity be pastel in hue and delicate gossamer things, for O. Henry’s Ghost is using finer material to mold his creations. The land where he dwells is subject to a different rate of vibration, and as the rhythm must be totally unlike, it is natural that the thoughts should flow and take form in the vehicle of poets.
But
