The Defiance Of Gene Watkins

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Title:     The Defiance Of Gene Watkins
Author: Alfred Henry Lewis [More Titles by Lewis]

"Be I religious that a-way?" More to embark him on some current of conversation than from any gnawing eagerness to discover his creed, I had aimed the question at my Old Cattleman.

"No," he continued, declining a proffered cigar, "I'll smoke my old pipe to-night. Be I religious? says you. Well, I ain't shorely livin' in what you'd call 'grace,' still I has my beliefs. Back in Tennessee my folks is Methodis', held to sprinklin' an' sech; however, for myse'f, I never banks none on them technicalities. It's deeds that counts with Omnipotence, same as with a vig'lance committee; an', whether a gent is sprinkled or dipped or is as averse to water as Huggins or Old Monte, won't settle whether he wins out a harp or a hot pitchfork in the eternal beyond.

"No, I ain't a believer in that enthoosiastic sense that fights its way to the mourner's bench an' manifests itse'f with groans that daunts hoot-owls into silence. Thar don't appear many preachers out West in my day. Now an' then one of these yere divines, who's got strayed or drifted from his proper range, comes buttin' his way into Wolfville an' puts us up a sermon, or a talkee-talkee. In sech events we allers listens respcetful, an' when the contreebution box shows down, we stakes 'em on their windin' way; but it's all as much for the name of the camp as any belief in them ministrations doin' local good. Shore! these yere sky-scouts is all right at that. But Wolfville's a hard, practical outfit, what you might call a heap obdurate, an' it's goin' to take more than them fitful an' o'casional sermons I alloodes to, a hour long an' more'n three months apart on a av'rage, to reach the roots of its soul. When I looks back on Peets an' Enright, an' Boggs an' Tutt, an' Texas Thompson an' Moore, an' Cherokee, to say nothin' of Colonel Sterett, an' recalls their nacheral obstinacy, an' the cheerful conceit wherewith they adheres to their systems of existence, I realizes that them ordinary, every-day pulpit utterances of the sort that saves an' satisfies the East, would have about as much ser'ous effect on them cimmaron pards of mine as throwin' water on a drowned rat. Which they lives irreg'lar, an' they're doo to die irreg'lar, an' if they can't be admitted to the promised land irreg'lar, they're shore destined to pitch camp outside. An' inasmuch as I onderstands them aforetime comrades of mine, an' saveys an' esteems their ways, why, I reckons I'll string my game with theirs a whole lot, an' get in or get barred with Wolfville.

"No; I've no notion at all ag'inst a gospel spreader. When Short Creek Dave gets religion over in Tucson, an' descends on us as a exhorter, although I only knows Short Creek thartofore as the coldest poker sharp that ever catches a gent Muffin' on a 4-flush, I hesitates not, but encourages an' caps his game. But I can't say that the sight of a preacher-gent affords me peace. A preacher frets me; not for himse'f exactly, but you never sees preachers without seein' p'lice folks--preachers an' p'lice go hand in hand, like prairie dogs an' rattlesnakes--an' born as I be in Tennessee, where we has our feuds an' where law is a interference an' never a protection, I'm nacherally loathin' constables complete.

"But if I ain't religious," he rambled on while he puffed at his Bull Durham vigorously. "you can resk a small stack that neither I ain't sooperstitious. Take Boggs an' Cherokee, you-all recalls how long ago I tells you how sooperstitious them two is. Speakin' of Boggs, who's as good a gent an' as troo a friend as ever touches your glass; he's sooperstitious from his wrought-steel spurs to his bullion hatband. Boggs has more signs an' omens than some folks has money; everything is a tip or a hunch to Boggs; an' he lives surrounded by inflooences.

"Thar's a peaked old sport named Ryder pervades Wolfville for a while. He's surly an' gnurlly an' omeny, Ryder is; an' has one of them awful lookin' faces where the feachers is all c'llected in the middle of his visage, an' bunched up like they's afraid of Injuns or somethin' else that threatenin' an' hostile--them sort of countenances you notes carved on the far ends of fiddles. We-all is averse to Ryder. An' this yere Ryder himsc'f is that contentious an' contradictory he won't agree to nothin'. Jest to show you about Ryder: I has in mind once when a passel of us is lookin' at a paper that's come floatin' in from the States. Thar's the picture of a cow-puncher into it who's a dead ringer for Dave Tutt. From y'ears to hocks that picture is Tutt; an' thar we-all be admirin' the likeness an' takin' our licker conjunctive. While thus spec'latin' on then resemblances, this yere sour old maverick, Ryder, shows up at the bar for nourishment.

"'Don't tell Ryder about how this yere deelineation looks like Tutt,' Says Doc Peets; 'I'll saw it off on him raw for his views, and ask him whatever does he think himse'f.

"'See yere, Ryder,' says Peets, shovin' the paper onder the old t'rant'ler's nose as he sets down his glass, 'whoever does this picture put you in mind of? Does it look like any sport you knows?'

"'No,' says Ryder, takin' the paper an' puttin' on his specks, an' at the same time as thankless after his nose-paint as if he'd been refoosed the beverage; 'no, it don't put me in mind of nothin' nor nobody. One thing shore, an' you-all hold-ups can rope onto that for a fact, it don't remind me none of Dave Tutt.'

"Which Boggs, who, as I says, is allers herdin' ghosts, is sooperstitious about old Ryder. That's straight; Boggs won't put down a bet while this Ryder person's in sight. I've beheld Boggs, jest as he's got his chips placed, look up an' c'llect a glimpse of them fiddle-feachers of Ryder.

"'Whoop!' says Boggs to Cherokee, who would be behind the box, an' spreadin' his hands in reemonstrance; 'nothin' goes!' An' then Boggs would glare at this Ryder party ontil he'd fade from the room.

"He's timid of Boggs, too, this yere Ryder is; an' as much as ever it's this horror of Boggs which prevails on him to shift his blankets to Red Dog---the same bein' a low-down plaza inhabited by drunkards an' Mexicans, in proportions about a even break of each, an' which assoomes in its delirium treecnors way to be a rival of Wolfville.

"'Which I'm a public benefactor,' says Boggs, when he's informed that he's done froze this Ryder out of camp, 'an' if you sports a'preciates me at my troo valyoo, you-all would proffer me some sech memento inebby as a silver tea-set. Me makin' this Ryder vamos is the greatest public improvement Wolfville's experienced since the lynchin' of Far Creek Stanton. You-all ain't s'fficiently on the quee vee, as they says in French, to be aware of the m'lignant atmospheres of this yere Ryder. He'd hoodoo a hill, or a pine-tree, Ryder would, let alone anythin' as onstable as my methods of buckin' faro-bank. Gone to Red Dog, has he? Bueno! He leaves us an' attaches himse'f to our enemies. I'll bet a pinto hoss that somethin' happens to them Red Dog tarrapins inside of a week.'

"An', son, while said riotous prophecies of Boggs don't impress me a little bit, I'm bound to admit that the second night followin' the heegira of this yere Ryder, an' his advent that a-way into Red Dog, a outcast from the Floridas, who goes locoed as the frootes of a week of Red Dog gayety, sets fire to the sityooation while shootin' out the dance-hall lamps, an' burns up half Red Dog, with the dance hall an' the only two s'loons in the outfit; tharby incloodin' every drop of whiskey in the holycaust. It was awful! Which, of coarse, we comes to the rescoo. Red Dog's our foe; but thar be c'lamities, son, which leaves no room in the hooman heart for anythin' but pity. An' this is one. Wolfville rolls out the needed nose-paint for Red Dog, desolated as I says, an' holds the fraternal glass to the Red Dog lips till its freighters brings relief from Tucson. "All the same, while as I assures you thar's nothin' sooperstitious about me, I can't he'p, when Red Dog burns that a-way, but think of them bluffs of Boggs about this yere old Ryder party bein' a hoodoo. Shore! it confirms Boggs in them weaknesses. An' he even waxes puffed up an' puts on dog about it; an' if ever thar's a dispoote about one of his omens--an' thar's a lot from time to time, because Boggs is plumb reedic'lous as to 'em--he ups an' staggers the camp by demandin', 'Don't I call the turn that time when Ryder goes retreatin' over to Red Dog? If I don't, I'll turn Chink an' open a laundry.'

"Speakin' of omens, of course thar be some, as I tell you yeretofore in that Wolfville book you've done printed, so common an' practical every gent must yield to'em. Thar's places where mere sooper. stition gets up from the table, an' mule-sense takes its seat. If I meets a gent evolvin' outcries of glee, an' walkin' on both sides of the street, an' most likely emptyin' a Colt's pistol at the firmament, an' all without obv'ous cause, I dedooces the presence in that gent's interior of a lib'ral freight of nose-paint. If, as I'm proceedin' about my destinies, I hears the voice of a gun, I argues the existence of a weepon in my vicinity. If the lead tharfrom cuts my saddle-horn, or creases my pony, or plugs a double hole in my sombrero, or some sech little play, I dies to a theery that the knight errant who's back of the racket means me, onlimbers my field piece, an' enters into the sperit of the eepisode. Which I gives you this in almost them very words before. Still, signs an' omens in what Doc Peets would term their 'occultisms,' I passes up. I wouldn't live in them apprehensions that beleaguers Boggs for a full herd of three-year-olds. "Which I'll never forget them eloocidations beright onfolds on Boggs one evenin' about the mournin' an' the howlin' of some hound-dogs that's been sendin' thrills through Boggs. It's when some outfit of mountebanks is givin' a show called 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' over to Huggins' Bird Cage Op'ry House, an' these yere saddenin' canines--big, lop-y'eared hound-dogs, they be-- works in the piece.

"'Do you-all hear them hound-clogs a-mournin' an' a-bayin' last evenin'?' asked Boggs of Enright.

"'Shore! I hears 'em,' says Enright.

"Enright, that a-way, is allers combatin' of Boggs' sooperstitions. As he says, if somebody don't head Boggs off, them deloosions spreads, an' the first news you gets, Wolfville's holdin' table- tippin's an' is goin' all spraddled out on seances an' sim'lar imbecilities, same as them sperit-rappin' hold-ups one encounters in the East. In sech event, Red Dog's doo to deem us locoed, an' could treat us with jestified disdain. Enright don't aim to allow Wolfville's good repoote to bog down to any sech extent, none whatever; an' so stand's in to protect both the camp an' pore Boggs himse'f from Boggs' weird an' ranikaboo idees. So Enright says ag'in: 'Shore! I hears 'em. An' what of it? Can't you-all let a pore pup howl, when his heart is low an' his destinies most likely has got tangled in their rope?'

"'jest the same,' says Boggs, 'them outcries of theirs makes me feel a heap ambiguous. I'm drawin' kyards to a pa'r of fours that first howl they emits, an' I smells bad luck an' thinks to myse'f, "Here's where you get killed too dead to skin!" But as I takes in three aces, an' as the harvest tharof is crowdin' hard towards two hundred dollars, I concloodes, final, them dogs don't have me on their mind after all; an' so I'm appeased a whole lot. Still, I'm cur'ous to know whatever they're howlin' about anyhow.'

"'Which you're too conceited, Boggs,' says Tutt, cuttin' in on the powwow. 'You-all is allers thinkin' everythin' means you. Now, I hears them dogs howlin', an' havin' beheld the spectacle they performs in, I sort o' allows they're sorrowin' over their disgraceful employment--sort o' 'shamed of their game. An' well them dogs might be bowed in sperit! for a more mendacious an' lyin' meelodramy than said "Uncle Tom's Cabin," I never yet pays four white chips to see; an' I'm from Illinoy, an' was a Abe Lincoln man an' a rank black ab'litionist besides.'

"'Seein' I once owns a couple of hundred Guineas,' says Enright, 'my feelin's ag'in slavery never mounts so high as Tutt's; but as for eloocidatin' them dog-songs that's set your nerves to millin', Boggs, it's easy. Whenever you-all hears a dog mournin' an' howlin' like them hound-pups does last night, that's because he smells somethin' he can't locate; an' nacherally he's agitated tharby. Now yereafter, never let your imagination pull its picket-pin that a- way, an' go to cavortin' 'round permiscus--don't go romancin' off on any of them ghost round-ups you're addicted to. Thar's the whole groosome myst'ry laid b'ar; them pups merely smells things they can't locate, an' it frets 'em.'

"'None the less,' remarks Cherokee Hall, 'while I reckons Enright gives us the c'rrect line on dogs that gets audible that a-way, an' onravels them howls in all their meanin's, I confesses I'm a heap like Boggs about signs. Mebby, as I says prior, it's because I'm a kyard sharp an' allers faces my footure over a faro layout. Anyhow, signs an' omens presses on me. For one thing, I'm sooperstitious about makin' of onyoosal arrangements to protect my play. I never yet tries to cinch a play, an' never notes anybody else try, but we- all quits loser. It ain't no use. Every gent, from his cradle to his coffin, has got to take a gambler's chance. Life is like stud-poker; an' Destiny's got an ace buried every time. It either out-lucks you or out-plays you whenever it's so inclined; an' it seems allers so inclined, Destiny does, jest as you're flatterin' yourse'f you've got a shore thing. A gent's bound to play fa'r with Destiny; he can put a bet down on that. You can't hold six kyards; you can't deal double; you can't play no cold hands; you can't bluff Destiny. All you-all can do is humbly an' meekly pick up the five kyards that belongs to you, an' in a sperit of thankfulness an' praise, an' frankly admittin' that you're lucky to be allowed to play at all, do your lowly best tharwith. Ain't I right, Doc?' An' Cherokee, lookin' warm an' earnest, turns to Peets.

"'As absolootely right as the sights of a Sharp's rifle,' says Peets; 'an', while I'm not yere to render you giddy with encomiums, Cherokee, you shore ought to expand them sentiments into a lecture.'

"'Jest to 'llustrate my meanin',' resooms Cherokee, 'let me onbosom myse'f as to what happens a party back in Posey County, Injeanny. I'm plumb callow at the time, bein' only about the size an' valyoo of a pa'r of fives. but I'm plenty impressed by them events I'm about to recount, an' the mem'ry is fresh enough for yesterday. But to come flutterin' from my perch. Thar's a sport who makes his home- camp in that hamlet which fosters my infancy; that is, he's thar about six months in the year. His long suit is playin' the ponies-- he can beat the races; an' where he falls down is faro-bank, which never fails to freeze to all the coin he changes in. That's the palin' off his fence; faro-bank. He never does triumph at it onct. An' still the device has him locoed; he can't let it alone. Jest so shorely as he finds a faro-bank, jest so shorely he sets in ag'inst it, an' jest so shorely he ain't got a tail-feather left when he quits.

"'The races is over for the season. It's the first snow of winter on the ground, when our sport comes trailin' in to make his annyooal camp. He's about six thousand dollars strong; for, as I states, he picks bosses right. An' he's been thinkin', too; this yere sport I'm relatin' of. He's been roominatin' the baleful effects of faro-bank in his speshul case. He knows it's no use him sayin' he wont buck the game. This person's made them vows before. An' they holds him about like cobwebs holds a cow--lasts about as long as a drink of whiskey. He's bound, in the very irreg'larities of his nacher, an' the deadly idleness of a winter with nothin' to do but think, to go to transactin' faro-bank. An', as a high-steppin' patriot once says, "jedgin' of the footure by the past," our sport's goin' to be skinned alive--chewed up--compared to him a Digger Injun will loom up in the matter of finance like a Steve Girard. An' he knows it. Wherefore this yere crafty sharp starts in to cinch a play; starts in to defy fate, an' rope up an' brand the footure, for at least six months to come. An', jest as I argues, Destiny accepts the challenge of this vainglorious sharp; acccepts it with a grin. Yere's what he does, an' yere's what comes to pass. "'Our wise, forethoughtful sport seeks out the robber who keeps the tavern. "The ponies will be back in May," says he, "an' I'm perishin' of cur'osity to know how much money you demands to feed an' sleep me till then." The tavern man names the bundle, an' the thoughtful sport makes good. Then he stiffens the barkeep for about ten drinks a day ontil the advent of them ponies. Followin' which, he searches out a tailor shop an' accoomulates a libh'ral trousseau, an' has it packed down to the tavern an' filed away in his rooms. "Thar!" he says; "which I reckons now I'm strong enough to go the distance. Not even a brace game of faro-bank, nor yet any sim'lar dead-fall, prevails ag'inst me. I flatters myse'f; for onct in a way, I've organized my destinies so that, for six months at least, they've done got to run troo." "'It's after supper; our sport, who's been so busy all day treein' the chances an' runnin' of 'em out on a limb, is loafin' about the bar. O'casionally he congratulates himse'f on havin' a long head like a mule; then ag'in he oneasily reverts to the faro game that's tossin' an' heavin' with all sorts o' good an' bad luck jest across the street.

"'At first he's plumb inflex'ble that a-way, an' is goin' to deny himse'f to faro-bank. He waxes quite heroic about it, our sport does; a condition of sperits, by the way, I've allers noticed is prone to immejetly precede complete c'llapse.

"'These yere reform thoughts of our sport consoomes a hour. About that time, however, he engages himse'f with the fifth drink of nose- paint. Tharupon faro-bank takes on a different tint. His attitoode towards that amoosement becomes enlarged; at least he decides he'll prance over some an' take a fall out of it for, say, a hundred or so either way, merely to see if his luck's as black as former. An' over capers our sport.

"'It's the same old song by the same old mockin'-bird. At second drink time followin' midnight our sport is broke. As he gets up an' stretches 'round a whole lot in a half-disgusted way, he still can't he'p exultin' on how plumb cunnin' he's been. "I don't say this in any sperit of derision," he remarks to the dealer he's been settin' opp'site to for eight hours, an' who manoovers his fiscal over- throw, as aforesaid, "an' shorely with no intent to mortify a wolf like you-all, who's as remorseless as he's game, but I foresees this racket an' insures for its defeat. You figgers you've downed me. Mebby so. All the same, I've got my game staked out so that I eats, drinks, sleeps, an' wears clothes till the comin' of them ponies; an' you, an' the angels above, an' the demons down onder the sea, is powerless to put a crimp in them calc'lations. I've got the next six months pris'ner; I've turned the keys onto 'em same as if they're in a calaboose. An' no power can rescoo 'em none; an' they can't break jail."

"'An' jest to show you-all,' continyoos Cherokee, after pausin' to tip the bottle for a spoonful, as well as let the sityooation sort o' trickle into us in all its outlines--Cherokee is plenty graphic that a-way, an' knows how to frame up them recitals so they takes effect--'an' jest to show you, as I remarks former, that every gent is bound to take a gambler's chance an' that shore-things don't exist, let me ask you what happens? Our confident sport ain't hardly got that bluff humg up before--"Inglegojang! inglegojang!" goes the church bell in alarm; the tavern's took fire an' burns plumb to the ground; drinks, chuck, bed, raiment, the whole bunch of tricks; an' thar's our wise sport out in the snow an' nothin' but a black ruck of smokin' ruins to remind him of that cinch of his.

"'It's a lesson to him, though. As he stands thar meditatin' on the expectedness of the unexpected, he observes to himse'f, "Providence, if so minded, can beat a royal flush; an' any gent holdin' contrary views is a liar, amen!"'

"'Good, Cherokee!' says Texas Thompson, as Cherokee comes to a halt; 'I'm yere to observe you're a mighty excellent racontoor. Yere's lookin' at you!' an' Thompson raises his glass.

"'I catches your eye,' says Cherokee, a heap pleased, as he p'litely caroms his glass ag'in Thompson's.

"'But Cherokee,' whispers Faro Nell, from where she's clost by his side, 'if thar's somethin' I desires a whole lot, an' is doin' my level best to deserve an' keep it all my life, do you-all reckon now that Providence ups an' throws me down?'

"'Not you, Nell,' says Cherokee, as he smiles on Faro Nell, an' kind o' surreptitious pats her har; 'not you. Providence guides your game an' guarantees it. I'm only discussin' of men. It's one of the best things about both Providence an' woman, an' to the credit of all concerned, that they allers agrees--allers goes hand in hand.'

"'An' that last utterance is a fact,' observes Dave Tutt, who's been interested deep. 'When I first weds Tucson Jennie that time, I doubts them tenets. That's over a year ago, an' you bet I'm settin' yere to-day in possession of a new faith. It takes time to teach me, but I now sees that Tucson Jennie's the onfalterin' mouth-piece of eternal trooth; the full partner of Providence, a-holdin' down the post of lookout; an' that when she sets forth things, them things is decreed an' foreordained.'"

And now my friend lapsed into silence and began to reload his pipe. "I used to smoke Lone Jack out on the plains," he murmured, "or mebby Frootes an' Flowers; but I don't know! I figgers this yere Bull Durham's got more force of char'cter."

Then came more silence. But the night was young; I was disposed to hear further of Wolfville and its worthy citizens. My readiest method was to put forth a question.

"But how about yourself?" I asked. "Do you, like Hall and Boggs, believe that Heaven especially interferes with the plans of man; or that a challenge, direct or otherwise, to the Powers Above, is liable to earn reply?"

"I states ag'in," he retorted, puffing a calmative cloud the while, "I states ag'in: Thar's no sooperstition ridin' the ranges of my breast. Yet I sees enough in a long an' more or less eventful life-- not to say an ill-employed life--to know that Providence packs a gun; an', as more than one scoffer finds out, she don't go heeled for fun. Thar's that Gene Watkins, who gets killed by lightnin' over by the Eagle Claw that time; downed for blasphemin', he is."

"Let me hear about this Watkins," I urged; "no one is more interested in the doings of Providence than I."

"Which from what little I notes of you," he observed, regarding me with a glance of dubious, sour suspicion, "you-all shore ought to be. An' I'll tell you one thing: If Providence ever gets wearied of the way you acts--an' it ain't none onlikely--you might as well set in your chips an' quit.

"But as to this yere Watkins: I don't know about the wisdom of burdenin' you with Watkins. It's gettin' plenty late, an' I'm some fatigued myse'f; I must be organizin' to bed myse'f down a lot for the night. I ain't so cap'ble of sleeplessness as I am 'way back yonder in the years when I'm workin' cattle along the old Jones an' Plummer trail. However, it won't take long, this Watkins killin'; an' seein' my moods is in the saddle that a-way, I may as well let you have it. This yere ain't a story exackly; it's more like a aneckdote; but it allers strikes me as sheddin' a ray on them speshul Providences.

"This Watkins is a mere yooth; he jumps into Wolfville from the Texas Panhandle, where, it's rumored, he's been over free with a gun. However, that don't bother us a bit. Arizona conducts herse'f on the principle of everybody ridin' his own sign-camps, an' she ain't roundin' up escaped felons for no commoonity but herse'f.

"The first time I sees this Watkins party is one evenin' when he sa'nters down the middle aisle of the Bird Cage Op'ry House, with his lariat in his hands, an' tosses the loop over a lady who's jest then renderin' that good old hymn:

"In the days of old, the days of gold,
The days of forty-nine!

"It's mighty discouragin', this Watkins breakin' in on them melodies. It's more than discouragin', it's scand'lous. The loop is a bit big, an' falls cl'ar down an' fastens to this cantatrice by the fetlocks. An' then this locoed Watkins turns loose to pull her over the footlights. Which the worst is, havin' her by the heels, an' she settin' down that a-way, he pulls that lady over the footlights the wrong way.

"It's at this epock, Jack Moore, who in his capac'ty of marshal is domineerin' about down in front, whacks Watkins over the head with his six-shooter, an' the lady's saved.

"'What be you-all tryin' to do with this diva?' demands Moore of the Watkins party.

"'Which I'm enamored of her,' says this yere Watkins, 'an' thar's a heap of things I was aimin' to pour into her years. But now you've done pounded me on top with that gun, they all gets jolted out of my mind.'

"'Jest the same,' says Moore, 'if I was you, I'd take the saddle off my emotions, an' hobble 'em out to rest some. Meanwhile I'd think up a new system. You-all lacks reticence; also you're a heap too much disposed to keep yourse'f in the public eye. I don't know how it is in Texas, but yere in Arizona a gent who gets too cel'brated gets shot. Also, I might add in concloosion that your Panhandle notions of a good way to get confidenshul with a lady don't obtain none yere--they don't go. An' so I warns you, never express your feelin's with a lariat in this theayter no more. Wolfville yields leeniency to ign'rance once, but never ag'in.'

"But, as I'm sayin'; about this Watkins over on the Eagle Claw: Thar's a half-dozen of us--a floatin' outfit we be, ridin' the range, pickin' up what calves misses the spring brandin'--an' we're bringin' along mebby three hundred cows an' half-grown calves, an' headin' for the bar-B-eight--that's Enright's brand--corral to mark the calves. It's late in August, jest at the beginnin' of the rains. Thar's a storm, an' everybody's in the saddle, plumb down to the cook, tryin' to hold the bunch. It's flash on flash of lightnin'; an' thunder followin' on the heels of thunder-clap. As we-all is cirklin' the little herd, an' singin' to 'em to restore their reason with sounds they saveys, thar comes a most inord'nate flash of lightnin', an' a crash of thunder like a mountain fallin'; it sort o' stands us up on our hocks. It makes the pore cattle bat their eyes, an' almost knocks their horns off.

"Thar's a moment of silence followin'; an' then this yere ontamed Watkins, tossin' his hand at the sky, shouts out:

"'Blaze away! my gray-head creator! You-all has been shootin' at me for twenty years; you ain't hit me yet!'

"Watkins is close to Boggs when he cuts loose this yere defiance; an' it simply scares Boggs cold! He's afraid he'll get picked off along with Watkins. Boggs, in his frenzy, pulls his six-shooter, an' goes to dictatin' with it towards Watkins.

"'Pull your freight,' roars Boggs; 'don't you stay near me none. Get, or I'll give you every load in the gun.'

"This Watkins person spurs his cayouse away; at the same time he's laughin' at Boggs, deemin' his terrors that a-way as reedic'lous. As he does, a streak of white fire comes down, straight as a blazin' arrer, an' with it sech a whirl of thunder, which I thought the earth had split! An' it shorely runs the devil's brand on Watkins.

"When we recovers, thar he lies; dead--an' his pony dead with him. An' he must have got the limit; for, son, the very rowels of his spurs is melted. Right in the middle of his leather hat-band, where it covers his fore'ead, thar's burned a hole about the size of a 44- calibre bullet; that's where the bolt goes in. I remembers, as we gathers 'round, how Boggs picks up the hat. It's stopped rainin' of a sudden, an' the stars is showin' two or three, where the clouds is partin' away. Boggs stands thar lookin' first at the sky, an' then at the hat where the hole is. Then he shakes his head. 'She's a long shot, but a center one,' says Boggs."

[The end]
Alfred Henry Lewis's short story: Defiance Of Gene Watkins

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