Red Saunders
Phillips, Henry Wallace, 1869-1930
English
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Below is a summary of Red Saunders
RED SAUNDERS
His Adventures West & East
By
Henry Wallace Phillips
1901
CONTENTS
A CHANCE SHOT
A RED-HAIRED CUPID
THE GOLDEN FORD
WHEN THE CHINOOK STRUCK FAIRFIELD
A Chance Shot
Reddy and I were alone at the Lake beds. He sat outside the cabin,
braiding a leather hat-band--eight strands, and the "repeat"
figure--an art that I never could master.
I sat inside, with a one-pound package of smoking tobacco beside
me, and newspapers within reach, rolling the day's supply of
cigarettes.
Reddy stopped his story long enough to say: "Don't use the
'Princess' Slipper,' Kid--that paper burns my tongue--take the
'Granger'; there's plenty of it."
Well, as I was saying, I'd met a lot of the boys up in town this
day, and they threw as many as two drinks into me; I know that for
certain, because when we took the parting dose, I had a glass of
whisky in both my right hands, and had just twice as many friends
as when I started.
When I pulled out for home, I felt mighty good for myself--not
exactly looking for trouble, but not a-going to dodge it any,
either. I was warbling "Idaho" for all I was worth--you know how
pretty I can sing? Cock-eyed Peterson used to say it made him
forget all his troubles. "Because," says he, "you don't notice
trifles when a man bats you over the head with a two-by-four."
Well, I was enjoying everything in sight, even a little drizzle of
rain that was driving by in rags of wetness, when a flat-faced
swatty at Fort Johnson halted me.
Now it's a dreadful thing to be butted to death by a nanny-goat,
but for a full-sized cowpuncher to be held up by a soldier is worse
yet.
To say that I was hot under the collar don't give you the right
idea of the way I felt.
"Why, you cross between the Last Rose of Summer and a bobtailed
flush!" says I, "what d'yer mean? What's got into you? Get out of
my daylight, you dog-robber, or I'll walk the little horse around
your neck like a three-ringed circus. Come, pull your freight!"
It seems that this swatty had been chucked out of the third story
of Frenchy's dance emporium by Bronc. Thompson, which threw a great
respect for our profesh into him. Consequently he wasn't fresh
like most soldiers, but answers me as polite as a tin-horn gambler
on pay-day.
Says he: "I just wanted to tell you that old Frosthead and forty
braves are some'ers between here and your outfit, with their war
paint on and blood in their eyes, cayoodling and whoopin' fit to
beat hell with the blower on, and if you get tangled up with them,
I reckon they'll give you a hair-cut and shampoo, to say nothing of
other trimmings. They say they're after the Crows, but it's a
ten-dollar bill against a last year's bird's-nest that they'll take
on any kind of trouble that comes along. Their hearts is mighty
bad, they state, and when an Injun's heart gets spoiled, the
disease is d--d catching. You'd better stop awhile."
"Now, cuss old Frosthead, and you too!" says I. "If he comes
crow-hopping on my reservation; I'll kick his pantalettes on top of
his scalp-lock."
"All right, pardner!" says he. "It's your own funeral. My orders
was to halt every one going through; but I ain't a whole company,
so you can have it your own way. Only, if your friends have to
take you home in a coal-scuttle, don't blame me. Pass, friend!"
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