Ladies and Gentlemen

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“I’m making a special inducement,” he said. “There’s a man’s hide goes with it.”

His mien changed then from the murderous to the resigned. “Lead me away from here,” he pleaded. “I don’t know which distresses me the most – the sight of so much suffering or the sound of it.”

We went by the scene of the unfinished crime and sat in the lee of the hotel veranda with the lake below us, blinking like a live turquoise in its rough matrix of gray mountains. The wind was in our favor there; to our ears reached only faint broken strains of that groaning and that bleating. But from other sources other interruptions ensued, all calculated to disturb the pious reflections of the elderly.

A domestic group, exercising rights of squatter sovereignty on the slope of the lawn in a tent, emerged therefrom and swarmed about us. Of parents there was but the customary pair, but of offspring there were seven or eight and although plainly of the same brood, a family resemblance marking each as brother or sister to the rest, these latter seemed miraculously all to be of substantially the same age or thereabouts. The father told a neighbor fifty yards away of their narrow escape; the mother joined in and was shrill in her lamentations for a threatened homestead over the hills across the water; the overalled little ones got underfoot and scuffled around and by their loud childish clamor still further interfered with our ruminations.

Then one of the big red busses hooted and drove up and disgorged upon us a locust plague of arriving tourists. The responsible strangers went within to claim reservations but the juveniles inundated the porches and the lawn, giving hearty indorsement to the scenery and taking snap-shots of it, and inquiring where souvenir postcards might be had and whether the fishing was any good here; and so on and so forth, according to their tribal habits. Hillocks of hand-baggage accumulated about us and trunks descended from a panting auto-truck in a thunderous cascade. A bobbed-haired camera bandit in search of picturesque local types came within easy shooting distance and aimed her weapon at us, asking no leave of her victims but shooting repeatedly at will; and she wore riding breeches and boots. Presumably she had been wearing them aboard the train. An oversized youth stumbled with his large undisciplined feet against an outlying suitcase and struck the wall and caromed off and almost upset us from our tilted chairs. Here plainly was an undergraduate – a perfect characteristic specimen. He was in the immature summer plumage.

“I always feel sorry for one of those college boys this season of the year in this climate,” said my friend as the gigantic fledgling lunged away toward the boat dock. “It’s too late for his coon-skin ulster and too early yet for him to tie a handkerchief around his scalp and go bareheaded.”

He arose, tagging me on the arm.

“Let’s ramble down the line a piece,” he suggested, “and maybe find us a hollow snag to hide in. After what I went through last night my nerves ain’t what they used to be, if they ever were.”

Below the creek we quit the paved highway and took the lower trail. Through the brush we could see where the vast blue eye of the lake had quit winking and was beginning to scowl. The wind must have changed quarters; it no longer brought us smells of ashes and char, but a fresher, sweeter smell as of rain gathering; and puffed clouds were forming over the range to the westward. The sunshine shut itself off with the quickness of a stage effect. Along the shore toward us limped a blackened smudge of a man, like a ranger turned chimney-sweep. For a fact, that precisely was what he was – Melber, assistant chief of the park forestry service. From tiredness he was crippled. He could shamble and that was about all.

“Well, we’ve got her whipped,” he told us, and leaned against a tree. He left smears like burnt cork on the bark where his shoulders rubbed. “This breeze hauling around ought to finish the job. She’ll burn herself out before dark, with or without showers. I’m on my way now to long-distance to notify the chief that we won’t need any reinforcements.”

“Much damage?”

“The colony is saved. By backfiring we held the flames on the upper edge of the road leading in from the station. But Ordman’s ranch is gone up in smoke, and the Colfax & Webster sawmill and eighteen thousand acres of the handsomest virgin pine on this side of the Divide. Man, you’d weep to see those raped woodlands – and all because some dam’-fool hiker didn’t have sense enough to put out his cigarette! Or hers, as the case may be!” He grinned through his mask and we were reminded of nigger minstrels.

“How close up did the burning get to my shebang?” inquired the Native Genius.

“Dog-gone close, Charley. But that wasn’t the big blaze – that was the other blaze which broke out soon after midnight. We got her – the second one, I mean – licked just over the rise behind your studio. My force fought till they dropped and even that bunch of I.W.W.’s that they rushed in on the special from Spokane did fairly well. I’ve revised some of my opinions about Wobblies. But there’s a million dead cinders in the grass around your cottage right now, Charley. And your back corral fence is all scorched.

“I leave it to you – wouldn’t you think with that first example before our eyes that everybody in both gangs would have sense enough not to be careless? But you never can tell, can you? When most of the crew knocked off late last night, seeing she was under control, one idiot builds a fire to heat himself up a pot of coffee. Would you believe it? – with the timber all just so much punk and tinder after this long dry spell, he kindles up a rousing big blaze right among the down-stuff and then drops off to sleep? I don’t much blame him for wanting to sleep – I’m dead on my own feet this minute – but to make a fire that size in such a place! He’s the kind that would call out the standing army to kill a cockroach! Well, when this poor half-wit wakes up, the fire is running through the tree-tops for a quarter of a mile south of him and we’ve got another battle on our hands that lasts until broad daybreak. It’s a God’s blessing we had the outfit and the emergency apparatus handy.”

“Who’s the guilty party?”

“Not one of my staff, you can gamble on that. And not one of the Spokane gang either. It was a green hand – fellow named Seymour working as a brakeman on the railroad and one of the few volunteers who refused to take any pay. And he was square enough to own up to what he’d done, too. Oh, I guess he had good intentions. But, thunderation, good intentions have ruined empires!

“Well, I’ve got to be getting along. I’m certainly going to put somebody’s nice clean bathroom on the bum as soon as I get through telephoning.”

Melber straightened himself and lurched off into the second-growth. He moved like a very old man, his blistered hands dangling.

“What he just now said about good intentions puts me in mind of Samson Goodhue,” said Charley. “There was one of the best paving contractors Hell ever had.” I knew what the expression on his face meant. It meant he was letting down a mental tentacle like a baited hook into the thronged private fish-pool of his early reminiscence. Scenting copy, I encouraged him.

“What about this Samson person?”

“I’m fixing to tell you,” he promised. “This looks to me like a good loafing place.”

We reposed side by side on a lichened log with our toes gouging the green moss, and he rolled a cigarette and proceeded:

Like I was just now telling you, his name was Samson Goodhue. So you can see how easy it was to twist that around into Good Samaritan and then to render that down for kitchen use into Good Sam. It was a regular trick name and highly suitable, seeing that he counted that day lost which, as the poet says, its low descending sun didn’t find him trying to help somebody out of a jam.

In fact, he really made a profession out of it. You might say he was an expert promoter. He wasn’t one of your meek and lowly ones, though.

They say the meek shall inherit the earth but I reckon not until everybody else is through with it.

Not Good Sam. He was just as pushing and determinated and persisting in his work as though he was taking orders for enlarging crayon portraits. And probably it wasn’t his fault that about every time he tackled a job of philanthropping the scheme seemed to go wrong. You had to give him credit for that. But after a while it got so that when the word spread that Good Sam was going around doing good, smart people ran for cover. They didn’t know but what it might be their turn next, and they figured they’d had enough hard luck already without calling in a specialist.

I remember like it was yesterday the first time I ever saw him operating – down in Triple Falls, this state. I hadn’t been there very long. Winter-time had driven a bunch of us beef-herders in off the range and we were encouraging the saloon industry – in fact, you might say we were practically supporting it. That was before I quit. I haven’t taken a drink for fifteen years now but, at that, I figure I’m even with the game. The day I quit I had enough to last me fifteen years.

Good Sam hadn’t been there much longer than we had. He blew in from somewhere back East and to look at him you’d have said offhand that here was just an average pilgrim, size sixteen-and-a-half collar, three-dollar pants, addicted to five-cent cigars and a drooping mustache; otherwise no distinguishing marks. He didn’t look a thing in the world like a genius. His gifts were hidden. But it didn’t take him long to begin showing them.

One bright cold morning Whiz Bollinger came in from his place proudly riding in a brand-new buckboard that had cost him thirty-two dollars, and right in front of Billy Grimm’s filling-station the cayuse he was driving balked on him. You understand I’m speaking of a filling-station in the old-fashioned sense. We’d read about automobiles and seen pictures of them but they hadn’t penetrated to our parts as yet. If a fellow was going somewhere by himself he generally rode a hoss and if he was moving his womenfolks he packed ’em in a prairie-schooner. Sometimes he’d let ’em live in one for a few years so they could have constant change of scene and air. I recall one day a bunch of old-timers were discussing the merits of different wagons – Old Hickory and South Bend and even Conestoga – and old Mar’m Whitaker spoke up and says: “Well, boys, I always have claimed and always will that the Murphey wagon is the best one they is for raisin’ a family in.”

So Billy Grimm’s sign was a pile of empty beer kegs racked up alongside the front door. Sometimes in mild weather he’d have another sign – some wayfarer that had been overtaken just as he got outside and was sleeping it off on the sidewalk. After the first of November all the flies in the state that didn’t have anywhere else to go went to Billy’s place and wintered there. He was Montana’s leading house-fly fancier. He was getting his share of my patronage and I happened to be on the spot when this Bollinger colt decided to stop right where he was and stay there until he froze solid.

You know how it is when a hoss goes balky. In less than no time at all the entire leisure class of Triple Falls were assembled, giving advice about how to get that hoss started again. They twisted his ear and they tried stoving in his ribs by kicking him in the side and they pushed against his hind quarters and dragged at the bit, and through it all that wall-eyed, Roman-nosed plug remained just as stationary as an Old Line Republican. Alongside of him, the Rock of Gibraltar would seem downright restless.

And then this Samson Goodhue comes bulging into the circle and takes charge. “Stand back, everybody, please,” he says, “while I show you how to unbalk a horse. Get me a few pieces of kindling wood, somebody,” he says, “and some paper or some straw or something.” Various persons hurry off in all directions, eager to obey. In every crowd there are plenty of suckers who’ll carry out any kind of orders if somebody who acts executive will give them. So when they’ve assembled his supplies for him he makes a little pile of ’em on the packed snow right under the cayuse’s belly and is preparing to scratch a match and telling Whiz Bollinger to climb back on his seat and take a strong grip on the reins, when Mrs. Oliver J. Doheny, who’s among the few ladies present, interferes with the proceedings.

Now this here Mrs. Oliver J. Doheny is at that remote period our principal reform element. She’s ’specially strong on cruelty to dumb beasts, being heartily against it. It’s only been a few weeks before this that a trapper trails down from across the international boundary with one of those big Canada bobcats that he’s caught in a trap and he’s got it on exhibition in a cage in Hyman Frieder’s Climax Clothing Store, when Mrs. Doheny happens along and sees how the thing sort of drags one foot where the trap pinched it and she begins tongue-lashing the Canuck for not having bound up its wounds.

When she’s slowed down for breath he says to her very politely: “Ma’am, in reply to same I would just state this: Ma’am, when my dear old mother was layin’ on her death-bed she called me to her side and she whispered to me, ‘My son, whatever else you do do, don’t you never try to nurse no sick lynxes.’ And, ma’am, I aim to keep that farewell promise to my dear dyin’ mother! But I ain’t no objections to your tryin’. Only, ma’am, I feels it my Christian duty to warn you right now that if you would get too close to this here unfortunate patient of mine he’s liable to turn you every way you can think of except loose.”

So on that occasion Mrs. Doheny thought better of her first impulse but now she is very harsh toward this stranger. “Do you mean to tell me,” she says, “that it is your deliberate intention to ignite a fire beneath this poor misguided animal’s – er – person?” Although a born reformer she was always very ladylike in her language.

“That, madam,” he says, “is the broad general idea.”

“How dare you!” she says. Then she says it again: “How dare you! Think of the poor brute’s agony!” she says.

“Madam,” he says right back at her, “you do me a grave injustice. Not for worlds would I inflict suffering upon any living creature. The point is, madam, that the instant this here chunk of obstinacy feels the heat singeing of him he will move. Observe, madam!” And before she can say anything more he has lighted the match and stuck it in the paper and the flames shoot up and, just as he’s predicted, Whiz Bollinger’s balked cayuse responds to the appeal to a dormant better nature.

You never saw a horse move forward more briskly or more willingly than that one did. There was just one drawback to the complete success of the plan and, as everybody agreed afterwards when the excitement had died down and there was time for sober reason, this Goodhue party as we called him then, or Good Sam as we took to calling him afterwards, couldn’t really be held responsible for that. The hoss moved forward but he stopped again when he’d gone just exactly far enough for the fire to get a good chance at Whiz’s shiny beautiful new buckboard, which it blazed up like a summer hotel, the paint being fresh and him having only that morning touched up the springs with coal-oil. A crate of celluloid hair combs burning up couldn’t have thrown off any prettier sparks or more of them. Before the volunteer fire department could put their uniforms on and get there that ill-fated buckboard was a total loss with no insurance.

This was Good Sam’s first appearance amongst us in, as you might say, a business capacity. It wasn’t long, though, before he was offering us more and more and still more evidences of his injurious good toward afflicted humanity. It was no trouble to show samples. With that misguided zealot it amounted to a positive passion.

For instance, one night in December little Al Wingate came into Billy Grimm’s where a gang of us were doing our Christmas shopping early and, as usual when he had a load aboard, he was leaking tears and lamentations with every faltering step he took. Talk about your crying jags, when this here Little Al got going he had riparian rights. It made you wonder where he kept his reservoirs hid at, him not weighing more than about ninety pounds and being short-waisted besides. Maybe he had hydraulic legs; I don’t know. Likewise always on such occasions, which they were frequent, he acted low and suicidal in his mind. He was our official melancholihic.

So he drifted in out of the starry night and leaned up against the bar, and between sobs he says to Billy Grimm, “Billy,” he says, “have you got any real deadly poison round here?”

“Only the regular staple brands,” says Billy. “What’ll it be – rye or Bourbon?”

“Billy,” he says, “don’t trifle with a man that’s already the same as dead. Licker has been my curse and downfall. It’s made me what I am tonight. Look at me – no good to myself or anybody else on this earth. Just a poor derelick without a true friend on this earth. But this is the finish with me. I’ve said that before but now I mean it. Before tomorrow morning I’m going to end everything. If one of you boys won’t kindly trust me with a pistol I’d be mighty much obliged to somebody for the loan of a piece of rope about six or seven or eight feet long. Just any little scrap of rope that you happen to have handy will do me,” he says.

I put in my oar. “Why, you poor little worthless sawed-off-and-hammered-down,” I says to him, “don’t try to hang yourself without you slip an anvil into the seat of your pants first.”

One of the other boys – Rawhide Rawlings, I think it was – speaks up also and says, “And don’t try jumping off a high roof, neither; you’d only go up!”

You see we were acquainted with Little Al’s peculiarities and we knew he didn’t mean a word he said, and so we were just aiming to cheer him up. But Good Sam, who’d joined our little group of intense drinkers only a few minutes before, he didn’t enter into the spirit of it at all. He motioned to us to come on down to the other end of the rail and he asks us haven’t we got any sympathy for a fellow being that’s sunk so deep in despondency he’s liable to drown himself in his own water-works plant any minute?

“You don’t want to be prodding him that-away,” he says; “what you want to do is humor him along. You want to lead him so close up to the Pearly Gates that he can hear the hinges creaking; that’ll make him see things different,” he says. “That’ll scare him out of this delusion of his that he wants to be a runt angel.”

“I suppose then you think you could cure him yourself?” asks one of the gang.

“In one easy lesson,” says Good Sam, speaking very confident. “All I ask from you gents is for one of you to let me borrow his six-gun off of him for a little while and then everybody agree to stand back and not interfere. If possible I’d like for it to be a big unhealthy-looking six-gun,” he says.

Well, that sounded plausible enough. So Rawhide passes over his belt, which it’s got an old-fashioned single-action Colt’s swinging in its holster, and Good Sam buckles this impressive chunk of hardware around him and meanders back to where Little Al is humped up with his shoulders heaving and his face in his hands and a little puddle forming on the bar from the salty tears oozing out of his system and running down his chin and falling off.

“My poor brother,” says Good Sam, in a very gentle way like a missionary speaking, “are you really in earnest about feeling a deep desire to quit this here vale of tears?”

“I sure am,” says Little Al; “it’s the one ambition I’ve got left.”

“And I don’t blame you none for it neither,” says Good Sam. “What’s life but a swindle anyhow – a brace game – that nobody ever has beaten yet? And look at the fix you’re in – too big for a midget in a side-show and too little for other laudable purposes. No sir, I don’t blame you a bit. And just to show you my heart’s in the right place I’m willing to accommodate you.”

“That’s all I’m craving,” says Little Al. “Just show me how – ars’nic or a gun or the noose or a good sharp butcher-knife, I ain’t particular. If it wasn’t for the river being frozen over solid I wouldn’t be worrying you for that much help,” he says.

“Now hold on, listen here,” says Good Sam, “you mustn’t do it that way – not with your own hands.”

“How else am I going to do it, then?” says Little Al, acting surprised.

“Why, I’m going to do it for you myself,” says Good Sam, “and don’t think I’m putting myself out on your account neither. Why, it won’t be any trouble – you might almost say it’ll be a pleasure to me. Because if you should go and commit suicide you’ll be committing a mortal sin that you won’t never get forgiveness for. But if I plug you, you ain’t responsible, are you? I’ve already had to kill seven or eight fellows in my time,” says this amiable liar of a Good Sam, “or maybe the correct count is nine; I forget sometimes. Anyhow, one more killin’ on my soul won’t make a particle of difference with me. And to bump off a party that’s actually aching to be done so, one that’ll thank me with his last expiring breath for the favor – why, brother,” he says, “it will be a pleasure! Just come on with me,” he says, “and we can get this little matter over and done with in no time at all.”

With that he leads the way to a little shack of a room that Billy Grimm’s got behind his saloon. Al follows along but I observe he’s quit weeping all of a sudden and likewise it looks to me like he’s lost or is losing considerable of his original enthusiasm. He’s beginning to sort of hang back and lag behind by the time they’ve got to the doorway, and he casts a sort of pitiful imploring look backwards over his shoulder; but Good Sam takes him by the arm and leads him on in and closes the door behind them. The rest of us wait a minute and then tiptoe up to the door and put our ears close to the crack and listen.

First we hear a match being struck. “Now then, that’s the ticket,” we hear Good Sam say very cheerfully; “we don’t want to take any chances on messing this job up by trying to do it in the dark.” So from that we know he’s lighted the coal-oil lamp that’s in there. Then he says: “Wait till I open this here back window, so’s to let the smoke out – these old black powder cartridges are a blamed nuisance, going off inside a house.” There’s a sound of a sash being raised. “Suppose you sit down here on this beer box and make yourself comfortable,” is what Good Sam says next. There’s a scuffling sound from Little Al’s feet dragging across the floor. “No, that won’t hardly do,” goes on Good Sam, “sitting down all caved in the way you are now, I’d only gut-shoot you and probably you’d linger and suffer and I’d have to plug you a second time. I’d hate to botch you all up, I would so.

“Tell you what, just stand up with your arms down at your sides… There, that’s better, brother. No, it ain’t neither! I couldn’t bear afterwards to think of that forlorn look out of your eyes. The way they looked out of their eyes is the only thing that ever bothers me in connection with several of the fellows I’ve had to shoot heretofore. Maybe you’ll think I’m morbid but things like that certainly do prey on a fellow’s mind afterward – if he’s kind-hearted which, without any flattery, I may say I’m built that way. So while I hate to keep pestering you with orders when you’re hovering on the very brink of eternity, won’t you please just turn around so you’ll have your back to me? Thank you kindly, that’ll do splendid. Now you stay perfectly still and I’ll count three, kind of slow, and when I get to ‘three’ I’ll let you have it slick as a whistle right between the shoulders… One!” And we can hear that old mule’s ear of a hammer on that six-gun go click, click. Then: “Two-o-o!… Steady, don’t wiggle or you’re liable to make me nervous… Thr —”

Somebody lets out the most gosh-awful yell you ever heard and we shove the door open just in time to see Little Al sailing out of that window, head first, like a bird on the wing; and then we heard a hard thump on the frozen ground ’way down below, followed by low moaning sounds. In his hurry Little Al must have plumb forgot that while Billy Grimm’s saloon was flush with the street in front, at the far end it was scaffolded up over a hollow fifteen or twenty feet deep.

So we swarmed down the back steps and picked him up and you never saw a soberer party in your life than what that ex-suicider was, or one that was gladder to see a rescue party arrive. Soon as he got his wind back he clung to us, pleading with us to protect him from that murdering scoundrel of a man-killer and demanding to know what kind of a fellow he was not to be able to take a joke, and stating that he’d had a close call which it certainly was going to be a lesson to him, and so on. Pretty soon after that he began to take note that he was hurting all over. You wouldn’t have believed that a man who wasn’t over five-feet-two could be bunged up and bruised up in so many different localities as Little Al was. Even his hair was sore to the touch.