GOOD MEN AND TRUE AND HIT THE LINE HARD

BY EUGENE MANLOVE RHODES

AUTHOR OF BRANSFORD OF RAINBOW RANGE, THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH, WEST IS WEST, Etc.

ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. T. DUNN

NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1910, by HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY

Copyright, 1920, by THE H. K. FLY COMPANY

Chapter I

SUN and wind of thirty-six out-of-door years had tanned Mr. Jeff Bransford’s cheek to a rosy-brown, contrasting sharply with the whiteness of the upper part of his forehead, when exposed—as now—by the pushing up of his sombrero. These same suns and winds had drawn at the corners of his eyes a network of fine lines: but the brown eyes were undimmed, and his face had a light, sure look of unquenchable boyishness; sure mark of the unattached, and therefore carefree and irresponsible man, who, as the saying[2] goes, “is at home wherever his hat is hung.”

The hat in question was a soft gray one, the crown deeply creased down the middle, the wide brim of it joyously atilt, merging insensibly from one wavy curve into another and on to yet a third, like Hogarth’s line of beauty.

Mr. Bransford’s step was alert and springy: perhaps it had even a slight, unconscious approach to a swagger, as of one not unsatisfied with himself. He turned at the corner of Temple Street, skipped lightsome up a stairway and opened an office door, bearing on its glass front the inscription:

SIMON HIBLER ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

“Is Mr. Hibler in?”

The only occupant of the room—a smooth-faced[3] and frank-eyed young man—rose from his desk and came forward.

“Mr. Hibler is not in town.”

“Dee-lightful! And when will he be back?” The rising inflection on the last word conveyed a resolute vivacity proof against small annoyances.

“To tell you the truth, I do not know. He is over in Arizona, near San Simon—for change and rest.”

“H’m!” The tip of the visitor’s nose twitched slightly, the brown eyes widened reflectively; the capable mouth under the brown mustache puckered as if to emit a gentle whistle. “He’ll bring back the change. I’ll take all bets on that. San Simon! H’m!” He shrugged his shoulders, one corner of his mouth pulled down in whimsical fashion, while the opposite eyebrow arched, so giving his face an appearance indescribably odd: the drooping side expressive of profound melancholy,[4] while the rest of his face retained its habitual look of invincible cheerfulness. “San Simon! Dear, oh dear! And I may just nicely contemplate my two thumbs till he gets back with the change—and maybeso the rest!” He elevated the thumbs and cast vigilant glances at each in turn: half-chanting, dreamily:

—Ran off, I should say.” His nose tweaked again.

The clerk was a newcomer in El Paso, hardly yet wonted to the freakish humor and high spirits that there flourish unrebuked—and indeed, unnoticed. But he entered into the spirit of the occasion. “Is there anything I can do?” he inquired. “I am Mr. Hibler’s chief—and only—clerk.”

“No-o,” said the visitor doubtfully, letting[5] his eyes wander from his thumbs to the view of white-walled Juarez beyond the river. “No-o—That is, not unless you can sell me his Rainbow ranch and brand for less than they’re worth. Such is my errand—on behalf of Pringle, Beebe, Ballinger and Bransford. I’m Bransford—me.”

“Jeff Bransford? Mr. Hibler’s foreman?” asked the young man eagerly.

“Mr. Jeff Bransford—foreman for Hibler—not of,” amended Bransford gently. His thumbs were still upreared. Becoming suddenly aware of this, he fixed them with a startled gaze.

“Say! Take supper with me!” The young man blurted out the words. “Mr. Hibler’s always talking about you and I want to get acquainted with you. Aughinbaugh’s my name.”

Bransford sat down heavily, thumbs still erect, elbows well out from his side, and[6] transferred his gaze, with marked respect, to the clerk’s boyish face, now very rosy indeed.

Jeff’s eyes grew big and round; his lips were slightly parted; the thumbs drooped, the fingers spread wide apart in mutual dismay. Holding Aughinbaugh’s eyes with his own, he pressed one outspread hand over his heart. Slowly, cautiously, the other hand fumbled in a vest pocket, produced notebook and pencil, spread the book stealthily on his knee and began to write. “‘A good name,’” he murmured, “‘is rather to be chosen than great riches.’”

But the owner of the good name was a lad of spirit, and had no mind to submit tamely to such hazing. “See here! What does a cowboy know about the Bible, anyway?” he demanded, glaring indignantly. “I believe you’re a sheep in wolves’ clothing! You don’t talk like a cowboy—or look like a cowboy.”

Jeff glanced down at his writing, and back[7] to his questioner. Then he made an alteration, closed the book and looked up again. He had a merry eye.

“Exactly how does a cowboy look? And how does it talk?” he asked mildly. He glanced with much interest over as much of his own person as he could see; turning and twisting to aid the process. “I don’t see anything wrong. Is my hair on straight?”

“Wrong!” echoed Aughinbaugh severely, shaking an accusing finger. “Why, you’re all wrong. What the public expects——”

Mr. Bransford’s interruption may be omitted. It was profane. Also, it was plagiarized from Commodore Vanderbilt.

“You a cowboy! Yah!” said Aughinbaugh in vigorous scorn. “With a silk necktie! Everybody knows that the typical cowboy wears a red cotton handkerchief.”

“How long since you left New York?”

“Me? I’m from Kansas City.”

[8]“Same thing,” said Bransford coldly. “I mean, how long since you came to El Paso? And have you been out of town since?”

“About eight months. And I confess that my duties—at first in the bank and afterwards here, have kept me pretty close, except for a trip or two to Juarez. But why?”

“Why enough!” returned Jeff. “Young man, young man! I see the finger of fate in this. It is no blind chance that brought me here while Hibler was away. It was predestined from the foundations of earth that I was to come here at this very now to explain to you about cowboys. I have the concentrated venom of about twenty-one years stored away to work off on somebody, and I feel it in my bones that you are the man. Come with me and I will do you good—as it says in mournful Numbers. You’ve been led astray. You shouldn’t believe all you read and only half what you see.

[9]“In the first place, take the typical cowboy. There positively ain’t no sich person! Maybe so half of ’em’s from Texas and the other half from anywhere and everywhere else. But they’re all alike in just one thing—and that is that every last one of them is entirely different from all the others. Each one talks as he pleases, acts as he pleases and—when not at work—dresses as he pleases. On the range though, they all dress pretty much alike.—Because, the things they wear there have been tried out and they’ve kept only the best of each kind—the best for that particular kind of work.”

“They ‘proved all things and held fast that which was good,’” suggested Aughinbaugh.

“Exactly. For instance, that handkerchief business. That isn’t meant as a substitute for a necktie. Ever see a drought? If you did, you probably remember that it was[10] some dusty. Well—there’s been a steady drought out here for two hundred and eight million years come August. And when you drive two, three thousand head of cattle, with four feet apiece, to the round-up ground and chouse ’em ’round half a day, cutting out steers, the dust is so thick a horse can’t fall down when he stumbles. Then mister cowboy folds his little hankie, like them other triangles that the ladies, God bless ’em, with their usual perversity, call ‘squares,’ ties the ends, puts the knot at the back of his neck, pulls the wide part over his mouth and up over the bridge of his nose, and breathes through it! Got that? By heavens, it’s a filter to keep the dust out of your lungs, and not an ornament! It’s usually silk—not because silk is booful but because it’s better to breathe through.”

“Really, I never dreamed——” began Aughinbaugh. But Jeff waved him down.

[11]“Don’t speak to the man at the wheel, my son. And everything a cowboy uses, at work, from hat to boots, from saddle to bed, has just as good a reason for being exactly what it is as that handkerchief. Take the high-heeled boots, now——”

“Dad,” said Aughinbaugh firmly. “I am faint. Break it to me easy. I was once an interior decorator of some promise, though not a professional. Let me lead you to a restaurant and show you a sample of my skill. Then come round to my rooms and tell me your troubles at leisure. Maybe you’ll feel better. But before you explain your wardrobe I want to know why you don’t say ‘You all’ and ‘that-a-way,’ ‘plumb’ and ‘done gone,’ and the rest of it.”

“I do, my dear, when I want to,” said Bransford affectionately. “Them’s all useful words, easy and comfortable, like old clothes[12] and old shoes. I like ’em. But they go with the old clothes. And now, as you see, I am—to use the metropolitan idiom—in my ‘glad rags’ and my speech naturally rises in dignity to meet the occasion. Besides, associating with Beebe—he’s one of them siss—boom—ah! boys—has mitigated me a heap. Then I read the signs, and the brands on the freight cars. And I’ll tell you one more thing, my son. A large proportion—I mean, of course, a right smart chance—of the cowboys are illiterate, and some of them are grand rascals, but they ain’t none of ’em plumb imbeciles. They couldn’t stay on the job. If their brains don’t naturally work pretty spry, things happen to ’em—the chuck-wagon bunts ’em or something. And they all have a chance at ‘the education of a gentleman’—‘to ride, to shoot and to speak the truth.’ They have to ride and shoot—and speakin’ the truth comes easier for them than for some[13]

folks, ’cause if speaking the aforesaid truth displeases any one they mostly don’t give a damn.”

“Stop! Spare me!” cried Aughinbaugh. He collapsed in his chair, sliding together in an attitude of extreme dejection. “My spirits are very low, but——” He rose, tottered feebly to his desk and took therefrom a small bottle, which, with a glass, he handed to Bransford.

“Thanks. But you—you’re a tee-totaler?” said Jeff.

“A—well—not exactly,” stammered Aughinbaugh. “But I have to be very careful. I—I only take one drink at a time!” He fumbled out another glass.

“I stumble, I stumble!” said Bransford gravely. He poured out a small drink and passed the bottle. “‘I fill this cup to one made up!’”—He held the glass up to the light.

[14]“Well?” said Aughinbaugh, expectantly. “Go on!”

“That description can’t be bettered,” said Bransford.

“Never will I drink such a toast as that,” cried Aughinbaugh, laughing. “Let me substitute, Here’s to our better acquaintance!”

Chapter II

AUGHINBAUGH closed the door behind him and paused, vastly diverted. His entrance had passed unnoted, muffled by the jerky click-click of the typewriter on which Jeff Bransford toiled with painful absorption. On Jeff’s forehead little beads of sweat stood out, glistening in the lamp-light. He scanned the last line, scowled ferociously, and snapped the platen back. His uncertain fingers twitched solicitously above the keys. Aughinbaugh chuckled offensively.

he declaimed.

Jeff whirled around. “Hello, here you[16] are! Any news from our employer?” He rose with a sigh of relief and mopped his brow. “Gee! I’ve got to work the Jim-fidgets out of my fingers.”

Ignoring the query, Aughinbaugh took a step forward, drew up his slender frame, inflated his chest, spread one hand upon it, and threw up his other hand with a flourish of limber fingers. “‘Now is the time,’” he spouted forth at Bransford, mouthing the well-known words, “‘for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’”

Jeff grinned sheepishly. “I’ll dream that cussed thing to-night. How long did it take you to learn to play a tune on this fool contraption, anyhow?”

“It took me three months—to play on it anyhow. But then I already knew how to spell. I’ve been at it two years since and am still improving. I should estimate that you would need about eight years. Better give[17] it up. Try a maul or a piledriver. More suited to your capabilities. Why, Jeff, a really good stenographer can do first-class work in the dark.”

“Eight years? George, you’re an optimist. I’ve worked two solid hours on this one ‘simple little sentence,’ as you call it, and I’ve never got it right once. Sometimes I’ve come within one letter of it. Once I made a mighty effort and got all the letters right, but I forgot to space and ran the words together. And say—that simple little sentence hasn’t got near all the letters in it. B, j, k, q, v, x and z are left out.”

“Here, then—here’s one that contains every letter: ‘A quick move by the enemy will jeopardize six fine gunboats.’”

Jeff pulled pad and pencil to him. “Give me that again and I’ll take it down.” Repeating the alphabet slowly, he canceled each letter as he went. “Right you are! Say, the[18] fellow that got that up was on the job, wasn’t he? Why didn’t you give me this one in the first place? Wonder if it’s possible to get ’em all in another sentence as short?”

“I think not,” said Aughinbaugh. “It’s been tried. But I don’t share your admiration for the last one. Besides reeking of militarism abhorrent to my peaceful disposition, it is stiff, labored, artificial and insincere. Compare it with the spontaneity, the beauty, the stately cadences, the sonorous fire, the sweep and swing of the simple, natural appeal: ‘Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’”

If it has ever been your privilege to observe a wise old she-bear watching her cubs at play and to note the expression of her face—half patience, tolerance, resignation; the remainder pride and approval—you will know exactly how Jeff looked. As for Aughinbaugh,[19] he bore himself grandly, chin up. His voice was vibrant, resonant, purposeful; his eyes glowed with serious and lofty enthusiasm: no muscle quivered to a smile.

“Why, there is philosophy in it! The one unvarying factor of the human mind,” he went on, “is the firm, unbiased conviction that I am right, and all opposition necessarily, consciously and wilfully wrong. This belief is the base and foundation of all human institutions, of sectionalism, caste, creeds, parties, states, of patriotism itself. It is the premise on which all wars are based. Mark, now, how human nature speaks from its elemental depths in the calm, complacent, but entirely sincere assumption that all good men and true will be unconditionally with the party!”

He warmed to his subject; he strode back and forth; he smote open palm with clenched fist in vehement gesture. Jeff snickered.[20] George rebuked him with a stern and withering glance.

“I grant you that b, j, k, q, v, x and z are omitted. But what are b, j, k, q, v, x and z in comparison to the chaste perfection of this immortal line? Let them fitly typify the bad men and false who do not come to the aid of the party. Injustice is only what they deserve!”

Consigning b, j, k, q, v, x and z to outer darkness with scornful, snapping fingers, he poured a glass of water, sipped it slowly, with resolute suppression of his Adam’s apple, fixed Jeff with another severe glance, paused impressively, rose to his tiptoes with both hands outspread, and continued:

“Why, sir, this is the grandest line in literature! It should hang on every wall, a text worked on a sampler by tender, loving hands! It is a ready-made watchword, a rallying cry for any great cause! It might[21] be sung by marching thousands. When, in a great crisis, the mighty statesman, the intellectual giant between whose puny legs we petty men do creep and peer about, has proclaimed the Fla-ag in Danger; has led us to stand at the parting of the ways; has shown that the nation must make irrevocable choice of good or evil; when our hearts are thrilled with the consciousness of our own virtue——” he sprang to a chair and flaunted his handkerchief in rhythmical waves—“this, then, is his crashing peroration: ‘Now is the time for all good men and true to come to the aid of the party!’”

Bowing gracefully, he carefully parted imaginary coat-tails and seated himself, beaming.

Jeff lolled contentedly back in his chair, puffing out clouds of smoke. “That’s a fine line of talk you get out. You sure did a wise thing when you quit the bank and took[22] to studying law. You have all the qualifications for a successful lawyer—or a barker for a sideshow.” He tapped out his pipe and yawned lazily. “I infer from your slurring remarks about solemn, silly twaddle that you are not permanently tagged, classified, labeled and catalogued, politically?”

“I am a consistent and humble follower,” replied George, “of the wise Democritus, who, as I will explain for the benefit of your benighted ignorance, is known as the Laughing Philosopher. I laugh. Therefore I can truthfully say, to paraphrase the words of a famous leader, ‘I am a Democrit!’”

Jeff showed his teeth. “I guess I am, too—but I didn’t know what it was till you told me. Now I have a party, at last—and now is the time for all good men and true—and that reminds me, my young and exuberant friend, that you have not yet told me when[23] our esteemed and respected employer intends to return.”

“I do not quite like the tone you adopt in speaking of Mr. Simon Hibler,” said George icily. “It smacks of irreverence and presumption. Still less do I relish your persistent reference to him as ‘our’ employer. It amounts to an assumption of a certain equality in our respective positions that I cannot for an instant tolerate.” He strutted to the hearthrug and turned his back to the fire; he fiddled with his watch-chain; tone and manner were heavily pompous. “In a way, of course, Mr. Hibler might be said to employ us both. But I would have you realize that a vast gulf separates the social status of a lowly cow-servant, stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox, from that of an embryo Blackstone—like myself. I accept a position and receive a salary. You take a job and draw wages. Moreover, a lawyer’s clerk[24] marries the youngest daughter and is taken into the firm. By the way, Hibler has no daughter. I must remind him of this. ‘Hibler & Aughinbaugh, Counselors at Law.’ That’ll look good in silver letters on a sanded, dark-blue background, eh, Jefferson? But

soft! methinks my natural indignation has diverted me from your question. No, my good fellow, I do not know when Mr. Hibler is returning to El Paso. Are you already tired of urban delights, Mr. Bransford?”

“I was tired of urban delights,” remarked Mr. Bransford, “before you were out of short dresses. However, I’ve waited this long and I’ll stay right here in El Paso till he comes. I bore myself some, daytimes, but we have bully good times of nights. You’re as good as a show—better. Tune up your Julius Cæsar!”

“Your attitude—if you will overlook the involuntary rhyme,” said George, “is one of[25] base ingratitude. I endeavor to instruct and uplift you. You might be absorbing sweetness and light at every pore, acquiring a love for the true, the good and the beautiful—and you are merely amused! It is disheartening. As for this golden volume, this masterpiece of William Shakspere’s genius—‘which, pardon me, I do not mean to read’——”