Heart of the West [Annotated]

The real work of their sinister night ride was over. Fritz and his mail bag and his mules came as gentle relaxation, grateful after the arduous duties of their profession. Twenty miles to the southeast stood a train with a killed engine, hysterical passengers and a looted express and mail car. That represented the serious occupation of Hondo Bill and his gang. With a fairly rich prize of currency and silver the robbers were making a wide detour to the west through the less populous country, intending to seek safety in Mexico by means of some fordable spot on the Rio Grande. The booty from the train had melted the desperate bushrangers to jovial and happy skylarkers.

Trembling with outraged dignity and no little personal apprehension, Fritz climbed out to the road after replacing his suddenly removed spectacles. The band had dismounted and were singing, capering, and whooping, thus expressing their satisfied delight in the life of a jolly outlaw. Rattlesnake Rogers, who stood at the heads of the mules, jerked a little too vigorously at the rein of the tender-mouthed Donder, who reared and emitted a loud, protesting snort of pain. Instantly Fritz, with a scream of anger, flew at the bulky Rogers and began to assiduously pummel that surprised freebooter with his fists.

"Villain!" shouted Fritz, "dog, bigstiff! Dot mule he has a soreness by his mouth. I vill knock off your shoulders mit your head—robbermans!"

"Yi-yi!" howled Rattlesnake, roaring with laughter and ducking his head, "somebody git this here sour-krout off'n me!"

One of the band yanked Fritz back by the coat-tail, and the woods rang with Rattlesnake's vociferous comments.

"The dog-goned little wienerwurst," he yelled, amiably. "He's not so much of a skunk, for a Dutchman. Took up for his animile plum quick, didn't he? I like to see a man like his hoss, even if it is a mule. The dad-blamed little Limburger he went for me, didn't he! Whoa, now, muley—I ain't a-goin' to hurt your mouth agin any more."

Perhaps the mail would not have been tampered with had not Ben Moody, the lieutenant, possessed certain wisdom that seemed to promise more spoils.

"Say, Cap," he said, addressing Hondo Bill, "there's likely to be good pickings in these mail sacks. I've done some hoss tradin' with these Dutchmen around Fredericksburg, and I know the style of the varmints. There's big money goes through the mails to that town. Them Dutch risk a thousand dollars sent wrapped in a piece of paper before they'd pay the banks to handle the money."

Hondo Bill, six feet two, gentle of voice and impulsive in action, was dragging the sacks from the rear of the wagon before Moody had finished his speech. A knife shone in his hand, and they heard the ripping sound as it bit through the tough canvas. The outlaws crowded around and began tearing open letters and packages, enlivening their labours by swearing affably at the writers, who seemed to have conspired to confute the prediction of Ben Moody. Not a dollar was found in the Fredericksburg mail.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Hondo Bill to the mail-carrier in solemn tones, "to be packing around such a lot of old, trashy paper as this. What d'you mean by it, anyhow? Where do you Dutchers keep your money at?"

The Ballinger mail sack opened like a cocoon under Hondo's knife. It contained but a handful of mail. Fritz had been fuming with terror and excitement until this sack was reached. He now remembered Lena's letter. He addressed the leader of the band, asking that that particular missive be spared.

"Much obliged, Dutch," he said to the disturbed carrier. "I guess that's the letter we want. Got spondulicks in it, ain't it? Here she is. Make a light, boys."

Hondo found and tore open the letter to Mrs. Hildesmuller. The others stood about, lighting twisted up letters one from another. Hondo gazed with mute disapproval at the single sheet of paper covered with the angular German script.

"Whatever is this you've humbugged us with, Dutchy? You call this here a valuable letter? That's a mighty low-down trick to play on your friends what come along to help you distribute your mail."

"That's Chiny writin'," said Sandy Grundy, peering over Hondo's shoulder.

"You're off your kazip," declared another of the gang, an effective youth, covered with silk handkerchiefs and nickel plating. "That's shorthand. I see 'em do it once in court."

"Ach, no, no, no—dot is German," said Fritz. "It is no more as a little girl writing a letter to her mamma. One poor little girl, sick and vorking hard avay from home. Ach! it is a shame. Good Mr. Robberman, you vill please let me have dot letter?"

"What the devil do you take us for, old Pretzels?" said Hondo with sudden and surprising severity. "You ain't presumin' to insinuate that we gents ain't possessed of sufficient politeness for to take an interest in the miss's health, are you? Now, you go on, and you read that scratchin' out loud and in plain United States language to this here company of educated society."

Hondo twirled his six-shooter by its trigger guard and stood towering above the little German, who at once began to read the letter, translating the simple words into English. The gang of rovers stood in absolute silence, listening intently.

"How old is that kid?" asked Hondo when the letter was done.

"Eleven," said Fritz.

"And where is she at?"

"At dose rock quarries—working. Ach, mein Gott—little Lena, she speak of drowning. I do not know if she vill do it, but if she shall I schwear I vill dot Peter Hildesmuller shoot mit a gun."

"You Dutchers," said Hondo Bill, his voice swelling with fine contempt, "make me plenty tired. Hirin' out your kids to work when they ought to be playin' dolls in the sand. You're a hell of a sect of people. I reckon we'll fix your clock for a while just to show what we think of your old cheesy nation. Here, boys!"

Hondo Bill parleyed aside briefly with his band, and then they seized Fritz and conveyed him off the road to one side. Here they bound him fast to a tree with a couple of lariats. His team they tied to another tree near by.

"We ain't going to hurt you bad," said Hondo reassuringly. "'Twon't hurt you to be tied up for a while. We will now pass you the time of day, as it is up to us to depart. Ausgespielt [111]—nixcumrous, Dutchy. Don't get any more impatience."

Fritz heard a great squeaking of saddles as the men mounted their horses. Then a loud yell and a great clatter of hoofs as they galloped pell-mell back along the Fredericksburg road.

For more than two hours Fritz sat against his tree, tightly but not painfully bound. Then from the reaction after his exciting adventure he sank into slumber. How long he slept he knew not, but he was at last awakened by a rough shake. Hands were untying his ropes. He was lifted to his feet, dazed, confused in mind, and weary of body. Rubbing his eyes, he looked and saw that he was again in the midst of the same band of terrible bandits. They shoved him up to the seat of his wagon and placed the lines in his hands.

"Hit it out for home, Dutch," said Hondo Bill's voice commandingly. "You've given us lots of trouble and we're pleased to see the back of your neck. Spiel! Zwei bier! [112] Vamoose!"

Hondo reached out and gave Blitzen a smart cut with his quirt.

The little mules sprang ahead, glad to be moving again. Fritz urged them along, himself dizzy and muddled over his fearful adventure.

According to schedule time, he should have reached Fredericksburg at daylight. As it was, he drove down the long street of the town at eleven o'clock A.M. He had to pass Peter Hildesmuller's house on his way to the post-office. He stopped his team at the gate and called. But Frau Hildesmuller was watching for him. Out rushed the whole family of Hildesmullers.

Frau Hildesmuller, fat and flushed, inquired if he had a letter from Lena, and then Fritz raised his voice and told the tale of his adventure. He told the contents of that letter that the robber had made him read, and then Frau Hildesmuller broke into wild weeping. Her little Lena drown herself! Why had they sent her from home? What could be done? Perhaps it would be too late by the time they could send for her now. Peter Hildesmuller dropped his meerschaum on the walk and it shivered into pieces.

"Woman!" he roared at his wife, "why did you let that child go away? It is your fault if she comes home to us no more."

Every one knew that it was Peter Hildesmuller's fault, so they paid no attention to his words.

A moment afterward a strange, faint voice was heard to call: "Mamma!" Frau Hildesmuller at first thought it was Lena's spirit calling, and then she rushed to the rear of Fritz's covered wagon, and, with a loud shriek of joy, caught up Lena herself, covering her pale little face with kisses and smothering her with hugs. Lena's eyes were heavy with the deep slumber of exhaustion, but she smiled and lay close to the one she had longed to see. There among the mail sacks, covered in a nest of strange blankets and comforters, she had lain asleep until wakened by the voices around her.

Fritz stared at her with eyes that bulged behind his spectacles.

"Gott in Himmel! [113]" he shouted. "How did you get in that wagon? Am I going crazy as well as to be murdered and hanged by robbers this day?"

"You brought her to us, Fritz," cried Frau Hildesmuller. "How can we ever thank you enough?"

"Tell mamma how you came in Fritz's wagon," said Frau Hildesmuller.

"I don't know," said Lena. "But I know how I got away from the hotel. The Prince brought me."

"By the Emperor's crown!" shouted Fritz, "we are all going crazy."

"I always knew he would come," said Lena, sitting down on her bundle of bedclothes on the sidewalk. "Last night he came with his armed knights and captured the ogre's castle. They broke the dishes and kicked down the doors. They pitched Mr. Maloney into a barrel of rain water and threw flour all over Mrs. Maloney. The workmen in the hotel jumped out of the windows and ran into the woods when the knights began firing their guns. They wakened me up and I peeped down the stair. And then the Prince came up and wrapped me in the bedclothes and carried me out. He was so tall and strong and fine. His face was as rough as a scrubbing brush, and he talked soft and kind and smelled of schnapps. He took me on his horse before him and we rode away among the knights. He held me close and I went to sleep that way, and didn't wake up till I got home."

"Rubbish!" cried Fritz Bergmann. "Fairy tales! How did you come from the quarries to my wagon?"

"The Prince brought me," said Lena, confidently.

And to this day the good people of Fredericksburg haven't been able to make her give any other explanation.

XIX

THE REFORMATION OF CALLIOPE

Calliope Catesby was in his humours again. Ennui was upon him. This goodly promontory, the earth—particularly that portion of it known as Quicksand—was to him no more than a pestilent congregation of vapours. Overtaken by the megrims [114], the philosopher may seek relief in soliloquy; my lady find solace in tears; the flaccid Easterner scold at the millinery bills of his women folk. Such recourse was insufficient to the denizens of Quicksand. Calliope, especially, was wont to express his ennui according to his lights.

Over night Calliope had hung out signals of approaching low spirits. He had kicked his own dog on the porch of the Occidental Hotel, and refused to apologise. He had become capricious and fault-finding in conversation. While strolling about he reached often for twigs of mesquite and chewed the leaves fiercely. That was always an ominous act. Another symptom alarming to those who were familiar with the different stages of his doldrums was his increasing politeness and a tendency to use formal phrases. A husky softness succeeded the usual penetrating drawl in his tones. A dangerous courtesy marked his manners. Later, his smile became crooked, the left side of his mouth slanting upward, and Quicksand got ready to stand from under.

At this stage Calliope generally began to drink. Finally, about midnight, he was seen going homeward, saluting those whom he met with exaggerated but inoffensive courtesy. Not yet was Calliope's melancholy at the danger point. He would seat himself at the window of the room he occupied over Silvester's tonsorial parlours and there chant lugubrious and tuneless ballads until morning, accompanying the noises by appropriate maltreatment of a jangling guitar. More magnanimous than Nero, he would thus give musical warning of the forthcoming municipal upheaval that Quicksand was scheduled to endure.

A quiet, amiable man was Calliope Catesby at other times—quiet to indolence, and amiable to worthlessness. At best he was a loafer and a nuisance; at worst he was the Terror of Quicksand. His ostensible occupation was something subordinate in the real estate line; he drove the beguiled Easterner in buckboards out to look over lots and ranch property. Originally he came from one of the Gulf States, his lank six feet, slurring rhythm of speech, and sectional idioms giving evidence of his birthplace.

And yet, after taking on Western adjustments, this languid pine-box whittler, cracker barrel hugger, shady corner lounger of the cotton fields and sumac hills of the South became famed as a bad man among men who had made a life-long study of the art of truculence.

At nine the next morning Calliope was fit. Inspired by his own barbarous melodies and the contents of his jug, he was ready primed to gather fresh laurels from the diffident brow of Quicksand. Encircled and criss-crossed with cartridge belts, abundantly garnished with revolvers, and copiously drunk, he poured forth into Quicksand's main street. Too chivalrous to surprise and capture a town by silent sortie, he paused at the nearest corner and emitted his slogan—that fearful, brassy yell, so reminiscent of the steam piano [115], that had gained for him the classic appellation that had superseded his own baptismal name. Following close upon his vociferation came three shots from his forty-five by way of limbering up the guns and testing his aim. A yellow dog, the personal property of Colonel Swazey, the proprietor of the Occidental, fell feet upward in the dust with one farewell yelp. A Mexican who was crossing the street from the Blue Front grocery carrying in his hand a bottle of kerosene, was stimulated to a sudden and admirable burst of speed, still grasping the neck of the shattered bottle. The new gilt weather-cock on Judge Riley's lemon and ultramarine two-story residence shivered, flapped, and hung by a splinter, the sport of the wanton breezes.

The artillery was in trim. Calliope's hand was steady. The high, calm ecstasy of habitual battle was upon him, though slightly embittered by the sadness of Alexander in that his conquests were limited to the small world of Quicksand.

Down the street went Calliope, shooting right and left. Glass fell like hail; dogs vamosed; chickens flew, squawking; feminine voices shrieked concernedly to youngsters at large. The din was perforated at intervals by the staccato of the Terror's guns, and was drowned periodically by the brazen screech that Quicksand knew so well. The occasions of Calliope's low spirits were legal holidays in Quicksand. All along the main street in advance of his coming clerks were putting up shutters and closing doors. Business would languish for a space. The right of way was Calliope's, and as he advanced, observing the dearth of opposition and the few opportunities for distraction, his ennui perceptibly increased.

But some four squares farther down lively preparations were being made to minister to Mr. Catesby's love for interchange of compliments and repartee. On the previous night numerous messengers had hastened to advise Buck Patterson, the city marshal, of Calliope's impending eruption. The patience of that official, often strained in extending leniency toward the disturber's misdeeds, had been overtaxed. In Quicksand some indulgence was accorded the natural ebullition of human nature. Providing that the lives of the more useful citizens were not recklessly squandered, or too much property needlessly laid waste, the community sentiment was against a too strict enforcement of the law. But Calliope had raised the limit. His outbursts had been too frequent and too violent to come within the classification of a normal and sanitary relaxation of spirit.

Buck Patterson had been expecting and awaiting in his little ten-by-twelve frame office that preliminary yell announcing that Calliope was feeling blue. When the signal came the city marshal rose to his feet and buckled on his guns. Two deputy sheriffs and three citizens who had proven the edible qualities of fire also stood up, ready to bandy with Calliope's leaden jocularities.

"Gather that fellow in," said Buck Patterson, setting forth the lines of the campaign. "Don't have no talk, but shoot as soon as you can get a show. Keep behind cover and bring him down. He's a nogood 'un. It's up to Calliope to turn up his toes this time, I reckon. Go to him all spraddled out, boys. And don't git too reckless, for what Calliope shoots at he hits."

Buck Patterson, tall, muscular, and solemn-faced, with his bright "City Marshal" badge shining on the breast of his blue flannel shirt, gave his posse directions for the onslaught upon Calliope. The plan was to accomplish the downfall of the Quicksand Terror without loss to the attacking party, if possible.

The splenetic Calliope, unconscious of retributive plots, was steaming down the channel, cannonading on either side, when he suddenly became aware of breakers ahead. The city marshal and one of the deputies rose up behind some dry-goods boxes half a square to the front and opened fire. At the same time the rest of the posse, divided, shelled him from two side streets up which they were cautiously manoeuvring from a well-executed detour.

The first volley broke the lock of one of Calliope's guns, cut a neat underbit in his right ear, and exploded a cartridge in his crossbelt, scorching his ribs as it burst. Feeling braced up by this unexpected tonic to his spiritual depression, Calliope executed a fortissimo note from his upper register, and returned the fire like an echo. The upholders of the law dodged at his flash, but a trifle too late to save one of the deputies a bullet just above the elbow, and the marshal a bleeding cheek from a splinter that a ball tore from the box he had ducked behind.

And now Calliope met the enemy's tactics in kind. Choosing with a rapid eye the street from which the weakest and least accurate fire had come, he invaded it at a double-quick, abandoning the unprotected middle of the street. With rare cunning the opposing force in that direction—one of the deputies and two of the valorous volunteers—waited, concealed by beer barrels, until Calliope had passed their retreat, and then peppered him from the rear. In another moment they were reinforced by the marshal and his other men, and then Calliope felt that in order to successfully prolong the delights of the controversy he must find some means of reducing the great odds against him. His eye fell upon a structure that seemed to hold out this promise, providing he could reach it.

Not far away was the little railroad station, its building a strong box house, ten by twenty feet, resting upon a platform four feet above ground. Windows were in each of its walls. Something like a fort it might become to a man thus sorely pressed by superior numbers.

Calliope made a bold and rapid spurt for it, the marshal's crowd "smoking" him as he ran. He reached the haven in safety, the station agent leaving the building by a window, like a flying squirrel, as the garrison entered the door.

Patterson and his supporters halted under protection of a pile of lumber and held consultations. In the station was an unterrified desperado who was an excellent shot and carried an abundance of ammunition. For thirty yards on either side of the besieged was a stretch of bare, open ground. It was a sure thing that the man who attempted to enter that unprotected area would be stopped by one of Calliope's bullets.

The city marshal was resolved. He had decided that Calliope Catesby should no more wake the echoes of Quicksand with his strident whoop. He had so announced. Officially and personally he felt imperatively bound to put the soft pedal on that instrument of discord. It played bad tunes.

Standing near was a hand truck used in the manipulation of small freight. It stood by a shed full of sacked wool, a consignment from one of the sheep ranches. On this truck the marshal and his men piled three heavy sacks of wool. Stooping low, Buck Patterson started for Calliope's fort, slowly pushing this loaded truck before him for protection. The posse, scattering broadly, stood ready to nip the besieged in case he should show himself in an effort to repel the juggernaut of justice that was creeping upon him. Only once did Calliope make demonstration. He fired from a window, and some tufts of wool spurted from the marshal's trustworthy bulwark. The return shots from the posse pattered against the window frame of the fort. No loss resulted on either side.

The marshal was too deeply engrossed in steering his protected battleship to be aware of the approach of the morning train until he was within a few feet of the platform. The train was coming up on the other side of it. It stopped only one minute at Quicksand. What an opportunity it would offer to Calliope! He had only to step out the other door, mount the train, and away.

Abandoning his breastwork, Buck, with his gun ready, dashed up the steps and into the room, driving upon the closed door with one heave of his weighty shoulder. The members of the posse heard one shot fired inside, and then there was silence.

At length the wounded man opened his eyes. After a blank space he again could see and hear and feel and think. Turning his eyes about, he found himself lying on a wooden bench. A tall man with a perplexed countenance, wearing a big badge with "City Marshal" engraved upon it, stood over him. A little old woman in black, with a wrinkled face and sparkling black eyes, was holding a wet handkerchief against one of his temples. He was trying to get these facts fixed in his mind and connected with past events, when the old woman began to talk.

"There now, great, big, strong man! That bullet never tetched ye! Jest skeeted along the side of your head and sort of paralysed ye for a spell. I've heerd of sech things afore; cun-cussion is what they names it. Abel Wadkins used to kill squirrels that way—barkin' 'em, Abe called it. You jest been barked, sir, and you'll be all right in a little bit. Feel lots better already, don't ye! You just lay still a while longer and let me bathe your head. You don't know me, I reckon, and 'tain't surprisin' that you shouldn't. I come in on that train from Alabama to see my son. Big son, ain't he? Lands! you wouldn't hardly think he'd ever been a baby, would ye? This is my son, sir."

Half turning, the old woman looked up at the standing man, her worn face lighting with a proud and wonderful smile. She reached out one veined and calloused hand and took one of her son's. Then smiling cheerily down at the prostrate man, she continued to dip the handkerchief in the waiting-room tin washbasin and gently apply it to his temple. She had the benevolent garrulity of old age.

"I ain't seen my son before," she continued, "in eight years. One of my nephews, Elkanah Price, he's a conductor on one of them railroads and he got me a pass to come out here. I can stay a whole week on it, and then it'll take me back again. Jest think, now, that little boy of mine has got to be a officer—a city marshal of a whole town! That's somethin' like a constable, ain't it? I never knowed he was a officer; he didn't say nothin' about it in his letters. I reckon he thought his old mother'd be skeered about the danger he was in. But, laws! I never was much of a hand to git skeered. 'Tain't no use. I heard them guns a-shootin' while I was gettin' off them cars, and I see smoke a-comin' out of the depot, but I jest walked right along. Then I see son's face lookin' out through the window. I knowed him at oncet. He met me at the door, and squeezes me 'most to death. And there you was, sir, a-lyin' there jest like you was dead, and I 'lowed we'd see what might be done to help sot you up."

"I think I'll sit up now," said the concussion patient. "I'm feeling pretty fair by this time."

He sat, somewhat weakly yet, leaning against the wall. He was a rugged man, big-boned and straight. His eyes, steady and keen, seemed to linger upon the face of the man standing so still above him. His look wandered often from the face he studied to the marshal's badge upon the other's breast.

"Yes, yes, you'll be all right," said the old woman, patting his arm, "if you don't get to cuttin' up agin, and havin' folks shooting at you. Son told me about you, sir, while you was layin' senseless on the floor. Don't you take it as meddlesome fer an old woman with a son as big as you to talk about it. And you mustn't hold no grudge ag'in' my son for havin' to shoot at ye. A officer has got to take up for the law—it's his duty—and them that acts bad and lives wrong has to suffer. Don't blame my son any, sir—'tain't his fault. He's always been a good boy—good when he was growin' up, and kind and 'bedient and well-behaved. Won't you let me advise you, sir, not to do so no more? Be a good man, and leave liquor alone and live peaceably and goodly. Keep away from bad company and work honest and sleep sweet."

The black-mitted hand of the old pleader gently touched the breast of the man she addressed. Very earnest and candid her old, worn face looked. In her rusty black dress and antique bonnet she sat, near the close of a long life, and epitomised the experience of the world. Still the man to whom she spoke gazed above her head, contemplating the silent son of the old mother.

"What does the marshal say?" he asked. "Does he believe the advice is good? Suppose the marshal speaks up and says if the talk's all right?"

The tall man moved uneasily. He fingered the badge on his breast for a moment, and then he put an arm around the old woman and drew her close to him. She smiled the unchanging mother smile of three-score years, and patted his big brown hand with her crooked, mittened fingers while her son spake.

"I says this," he said, looking squarely into the eyes of the other man, "that if I was in your place I'd follow it. If I was a drunken, desp'rate character, without shame or hope, I'd follow it. If I was in your place and you was in mine I'd say: 'Marshal, I'm willin' to swear if you'll give me the chance I'll 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 home-made 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."

Footnotes

Footnote 1:

Frio—The Rio Frio arises in mountainous country about 75 miles west of San Antonio and flows southeast to the Gulf of Mexico. Its upper stretches are spring-fed and often crystal-clear.
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Footnote 2:

lobos—(Spanish) wolves
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Footnote 3:

mayordomo—(Spanish) steward, head of the household staff; also a ranch foreman
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Footnote 4:

pear—prickly-pear cactus, the most common variety of large cactus in Texas, often growing in great clumps
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Footnote 5:

Henry Thomas Buckle (1821-1862) was a self-taught historian. He planned a series of books to explain the idea that history—especially the progress of nations and peoples—followed laws similar to those being described in the natural sciences. The first volume of his History of Civilization in England, published in 1857, was only an introduction to his theme, but it made Buckle a celebrity. The second volume appeared in 1861, but Buckle died the following year without completing his series. The two volumes were widely read during the decade or two after his death. O. Henry read voraciously as a child and would likely have been familiar with the work.
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Footnote 6:

Septimus Winner (1827-1902), a gifted composer (he wrote "Oh where, oh where has my little dog gone . . ."), teacher, and performer was the author of at least 200 books on how to play numerous musical instruments.
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Footnote 7:

The Lick Observatory, the first permanent mountain-top observatory, was built in the 1880's. Its 36-inch refracting telescope was the largest in the world until the Yerkes Observatory was opened in 1897.
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Footnote 8:

"Two Orphans"—probably a reference to a popular play, "Le Deux Orphelines," written in 1875 by Adolphe d'Ennery and Eugène Cormon
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Footnote 9:

opodeldoc—a camphorated liniment of soap mixed with alcohol
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Footnote 10:

animals . . . there—a reference to delirium tremens, in which hallucinatory visions of animals or insects is common. O. Henry was a heavy drinker in his later years (he probably died of complications of alcoholism) and might have experienced delirium tremens personally.
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Footnote 11:

Henry Rider Haggard (1856-1925) wrote novels set in exotic locations. His best known work is King Solomon's Mines (1885).
Lew Dockstader had one of the last major travelling minstrel companies and was its principal comedian.
Dr. Charles Henry Parkhurst (1842-1933), pastor of New York's Madison Square Presbyterian Church from 1880 to 1919, was noted for his denunciations of vice and governmental corruption. He was instrumental in the campaign against Tammany Hall.
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Footnote 12:

botts—a parasitic infestation of the intestines of animals, especially horses, by larvae of the botfly
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Footnote 13:

Homer K. . . . Ruby Ott—If the reader has not yet deciphered the references, he should consult Project Gutenberg's e-book #246 ( https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/246)
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Footnote 14:

"deep as first love, and wild with all regret"—Tennyson, The Princess, Part IV, Song:
       "Deep as remembered kisses after death,
       And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
       On lips that are for others; deep as love,
       Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
       O Death in Life, the days that are no more."
One must wonder whether O. Henry remembered these lines because of the untimely death of his young first wife Athol, whom he loved dearly.
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Footnote 15:

cañada—(Spanish) a sheep camp or ranch
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Footnote 16:

San Miguel Creek flows into the Frio south of San Antonio near the ranches where O. Henry lived in his youth.
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Footnote 17:

The Nueces River is one of the major rivers of West Texas, running roughly parallel to and west of the Frio.
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Footnote 18:

Palestine is a town in East Texas, but Jud mistakes it for the Holy Land.
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Footnote 19:

merino—a breed of sheep noted for fine wool
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Footnote 20:

O. Henry was an expert marksman with a pistol, a skill he picked up on the Texas ranches. Marksmanship plays an important role in another story in this book, "The Princess and the Puma."
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Footnote 21:

piedra—(Spanish) stone; a rocky place
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Footnote 22:

howdah—a seat, often with a canopy, for riding an elephant or camel
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Footnote 23:

The San Antonio & Aransas Pass Railroad, affectionately called the "SAAP" by two generations of Texans, was eventually incorporated into the International & Great Northern and later into the Missouri Pacific. As late as 1920 summer vacationers going to Central Texas resorts such as Comfort could take the S.A. & A.P. from San Antonio as far as Boerne (now on the northern edge of San Antonio) and then ride a stagecoach the rest of the way.
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Footnote 24:

Grease-us—a play on the name of Croesus
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Footnote 25:

Eighteenth Century mariners called the petrel (a large sea bird) "Mother Cary's chicken."
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Footnote 26:

crack-loo—a form of gambling in which coins are tossed high into the air with the object having one's coin land nearest a crack in the floor
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Footnote 27:

The Menger Hotel was (and still is) a San Antonio landmark. Built in 1859 near the Alamo, its guests have included Robert E. Lee, U. S. Grant, Theodore Roosevelt, and Sarah Bernhardt.
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Footnote 28:

suaderos—O. Henry uses this term in several stories. He probably meant "sudaderos," which are saddle blankets or pads. The term is also sometimes used to refer to pads that prevent the stirrup straps from rubbing the rider's leg. O. Henry undoubtedly picked up the word during his stay on South Texas ranches, but he probably never saw the word written, and "suaderos" was what he came up with many years later when writing. This annotator is grateful to Michael K. DeWitt of Oklahoma State University for explaining this reference.
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Footnote 29:

Cambon snack—This term eludes definitive explanation. It might refer to the brothers Paul and Jules Cambon. Paul was the French ambassador to Great Britain from 1898 to 1920; in 1904 he negotiated the Entente Cordiale between France and Britain that was the basis for their alliance in World War I. Jules was the French ambassador to the U.S. from 1897 to 1902 and was the French ambassador to Germany at the outbreak of World War I.
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Footnote 30:

Sir Thomas Henry Hall Caine (1853-1931) was a very popular British novelist and playwright in his day, but his works have now been largely forgotten. As of July, 2004, two of his books, The Christian and The Scapegoat, can be found in Project Gutenberg's library.
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Footnote 31:

cicerone—a sight-seeing guide
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Footnote 32:

suttee—the practice in India (now illegal) of a widow being burned to death (voluntarily or involuntarily) on her husband's funeral pyre
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Footnote 33:

In the late 1800's and early 1900's western air was thought to be efficacious in healing tuberculosis (no drug therapy was then available), and many patients were sent to San Antonio. This theme appears in other O. Henry stories. There was a history of tuberculosis in O. Henry's family, and while he never had overt signs of the disease, he was allowed to go (or sent) to Texas at age 20 partly for his health.
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Footnote 34:

Russell Sage (1815-1906) was a well-known wealthy New York businessman with financial interests in banking, western railroads, and Western Union.
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Footnote 35:

mutoscope—In 1894 Henry Norton Marvin and Herman Casler patented the mutoscope, a device for showing moving pictures. A sequence of photographs was attached to a rotating drum, so that the images were flipped rapidly from one to the next as the drum rotated, creating the illusion of motion.
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Footnote 36:

International—The International and Great Northern Railroad (I. & G. N.) plays a prominent role in many of O. Henry's stories. It was one of the great early railroads of Texas, beginning in the northeast corner of the state and gradually extending southwestward almost 600 miles, reaching Rockdale by 1873, Austin by 1876, then San Antonio, and eventually the Mexican border at Laredo in 1881. Later it became part of the Missouri Pacific system.
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Footnote 37:

There is a town named Rincón almost 200 miles south of San Antonio, but it is not on the route of the I. & G. N.   O. Henry often appropriated names of real places for his stories without worrying about geographical correctness. The description here is undoubtedly from O. Henry's memory of his journey from his home in North Carolina to a ranch in LaSalle County, Texas, when he was twenty. He would have gotten off the I. & G. N. at Cotulla, about 90 miles south of San Antonio, and ridden to the ranch as described in this paragraph. The description of this journey, with its vistas and aromas, is repeated in a number of O. Henry's stories.
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Footnote 38:

javeli—native wild pigs of the Sonoran desert, more often called javelinas, prized by hunters because of their ferocity. Their name comes from the Spanish word for javelin, "jabalina," because of their razor-sharp teeth.
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Footnote 39:

Drinking water was stored in clay containers in the shade. Water seeped through the clay to the surface, where it evaporated, and the evaporation cooled the jar and its contents.
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Footnote 40:

señorito—(Spanish) young man, little man
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Footnote 41:

Esta bueno?—(Spanish) Is that good? Is that all right?
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Footnote 42:

mil gracias—(Spanish) a thousand thanks
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Footnote 43:

kobold—in German folklore an elf or gnome who haunts underground places
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Footnote 44:

gehenna—(Biblical) a place of abomination; Hell
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Footnote 45:

The Guadalupe River arises in the Hill Country of Central Texas northwest of San Antonio and flows southeast to the Gulf of Mexico.
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Footnote 46:

Another of O. Henry's lapses from geographical accuracy. The Guadalupe is much farther than twenty miles to the north and east from the setting of this story.
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Footnote 47:

treinta, cuarenta—(Spanish) thirty, forty
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Footnote 48:

rangers—Texas Rangers, an elite law-enforcement organization which began in the 1830's, even before Texas became an independent republic. One of O. Henry's hosts during his stay on ranches in South Texas was Leigh Hall, a man from O. Henry's home town in North Carolina, who had been one of the most famous Texas Rangers. Hall had resigned from the Rangers and was managing a ranch when O. Henry was taken to Texas by Hall's parents. Hall probably served as a model for many of O. Henry's Ranger heroes.
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Footnote 49:

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Footnote 50:

Livy (History of Rome, Book II) tells the story of Horatius Cocles. Shortly after the Romans threw out Tarquin and the Etruscans (about 509 B.C.), Lars Porsenna, an Etruscan King, attacked the city. His army had to cross a narrow wooden bridge over the Tiber. Horatius and two companions blocked the way of the Etruscan army while their comrades dismantled the bridge behind them. Horatius' companions retreated to safety just before the bridge collapsed. When Horatius was certain the Etruscans could not cross the river, he prayed to the god of the Tiber, then jumped from the bridge into the river in full armor and swam to safety. For a more complete account, read the original in Project Gutenberg's library: https://www.gutenberg.org/etext/10828.
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Footnote 51:

Spurius Lartius was one of Horatius' two companions defending the Sublician Bridge.   O. Henry exaggerates the time devoted to study of the classics in the curriculum for Ranger training.
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Footnote 52:

Rio Bravo—Rio Grande. In Mexico the Rio Grande is often called the Rio Bravo or the Rio Bravo del Norte.
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Footnote 53:

jacal—(Spanish) a small house or shack built by driving vertical stakes into the ground and filling in walls between the stakes with adobe
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Footnote 54:

Diabla bonita—(Spanish) Pretty devil
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Footnote 55:

cañoncito—(Spanish) little canyon
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Footnote 56:

viva la reina!—(Spanish) long live the queen!
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Footnote 57:

kalsomining—applying a whitewash to ceiling or walls
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Footnote 58:

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Footnote 59:

Military Plaza—The Plaza de Armas was established about 1722 as the drill grounds for the Presidio San Antonio de Béxar. After the Civil War it was used as an open market. Today it is the site of governmental buildings.
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Footnote 60:

norther—a Texas "blue norther" is a cold front. Its arrival is heralded by a blue-black sky to the north, followed by rain and thunderstorms. The temperature can fall 20-40 degrees in a few hours.
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Footnote 61:

potrero—(Spanish) pasture, grassland
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Footnote 62:

El Amo!—(Spanish) The boss!
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Footnote 63:

Cléo de Mérode (1873-1966) was a beautiful Parisian ballerina whose hair style caused a sensation when she danced in a production at age 13.
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Footnote 64:

puerta—(Spanish) gate
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Footnote 65:

This annotator can find no record of a Lone Wolf Crossing on the Frio, but there are clues that O. Henry had an actual place in mind for the setting of this story. We are told four paragraphs below that this point on the Frio is about 20 miles from the Nueces River. Later we are told that the Arroyo Hondo is near the Lone Wolf Crossing. Hondo Creek enters the Frio in Frio County 5 miles from Pearsall (about 75 miles southwest of San Antonio). At that location the Frio and the Nueces are about 20 miles apart.
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Footnote 66:

mescal—a drug-containing liquor made by distilling fermented agave cactus
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Footnote 67:

quien sabe—(Spanish) who knows?
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Footnote 68:

gannet—a large sea bird
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Footnote 69:

gitanas—(Spanish) gypsies
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Footnote 70:

plait . . . stake-rope—O. Henry probably learned this skill or at least saw it practiced during the two years he spent on South Texas ranches.
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Footnote 71:

chivo—(Spanish) goat
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Footnote 72:

Quintana Creek is a tributary of the Nueces River in LaSalle County, where O. Henry spent two years on ranches.
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Footnote 73:

tienda—(Spanish) store
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Footnote 74:

lavendera—(Spanish) laundress, washerwoman
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Footnote 75:

El Chivato—(Spanish) literally translated as The Sneak or The Informer but more likely meaning The Villain or The Evil One. This was one of the nicknames of Billy the Kid.
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Footnote 76:

frijoles—(Spanish) beans, usually cooked a long time until very soft, with various seasonings added
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Footnote 77:

Que mal muchacho!—(Spanish) What a bad boy!
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Footnote 78:

alma—(Spanish) soul, spirit; in this sense a "soul-mate"
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Footnote 79:

chica—(Spanish) girl, little one
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Footnote 80:

caballo—(Spanish) horse
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Footnote 81:

muy caballero—(Spanish) very much a gentleman
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Footnote 82:

canciones de amor—(Spanish) love songs
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Footnote 83:

pantalones and camisa—(Spanish) trousers and shirt
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Footnote 84:

Pues—(Spanish) Well then
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Footnote 85:

Valgame Dios!—(Spanish) God help me!
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Footnote 86:

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Footnote 87:

spavined crowbait—a lame, emaciated horse (from spavin, an inflammation of the tarsal or ankle joint of a horse, causing lameness, and an appearance that causes carrion birds to think a meal is in the offing)
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Footnote 88:

apples of silver—Proverbs XXV: "A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver."
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Footnote 89:

apples of the Hesperides—the eleventh labor of Hercules was to retrieve the golden apples of Zeus, which were guarded by a hundred-headed dragon and by the Hesperides, daughters of Atlas
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Footnote 90:

Percival De Lacey—possibly derived from Maurice De Bracy in Sir Walter Scott's Ivanhoe
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Footnote 91:

blind-bridle—a bridle with flap-like extensions partly covering the horse's eyes to prevent him from looking to the side or turning his head to the side
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Footnote 92:

star wayno—probably a corruption of "esta bueno" ("that's good)
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Footnote 93:

orchestrion—a large mechanical instrument capable of imitating various musical instruments or even an entire orchestra. It usually included components of an organ, piano, and percussion instruments. Those made by the Seeburg Company were also called nickelodeons because they played when a coin was inserted into a slot. The Seeburg Company later made "juke boxes."
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Footnote 94:

Prison was good for O. Henry in one respect: it gave him the opportunity to write. At least a dozen of his stories were published (under various pen names) before his release in 1901, including "Georgia's Ruling," which, to this annotator, is one of his three best stories.
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Footnote 95:

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Footnote 96:

Colorado-claro—light brown (taken from the nomenclature of cigar wrappers)
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