The Red Book Magazine/Volume 8/Number 5/The Sweetening of Ezra Sankie's Pot

Cheyenne MacCallum, the “bad man” of Jackpine Creek, had invaded 'Teet Brule's smoke-hung bar-room in quest of an old cigar box. He carried with him, in the crook of his great arm, a young pup that shivered and whimpered against his moose-hide jacket. When its whimpering, every now and then, would rise and break into an open and mournful cry of pain, Cheyenne would blaspheme solemnly and movingly, and reiterate still again just what he would give to get his hands on the unsanctified son of misery who would break a young dog's leg that a-way.

As Cheyenne was known to be the freest-handed blackleg west of the Dirt Hills his challenge was accepted in silence, and the quiet care and solicitude with which he improvised a pair of splints, and bound up the wounded fore-leg, was watched with something that might be said to approach awe.

“Who'd ever think,” said Black Sauriol, as the door closed once more on the giant in moose-hide and his whimpering charge, “o' Cheyenne MacCallum a-goin' round wet-nursin'a six-week-old she-mongrel that a-way!”

Timber-Line Ike, drying his beaded mocassins [sic] in the box-stove glow, looked at Black Sauriol with heavy disdain.

“What I allus told you short-horns,” he said, slowly, leaning back and linking his stubby red fingers over his gorilla-like chest. “There's one fact I allus laid out, and I allow I allus will. And that fact is, there's no good wastin' time tryin' to divide this here corral o' humanity into the breed that's good and the breed that's bad. For somewhere you'll allus find enough good in the meanest speerited cuss that ever stole a blanket from a sick squaw, or mebbe enough bad in the neatest-prayin' sky-pilot that ever thought he was a-ropin' down the flesh and the devil and Jackpine Creek altogether, to show you that you 're calculatin' on something that's about as uncertain as a Chinook wind.”

“Which all is, mebbe, goin' to give the Almighty an uncommon shock, when it comes to a show-down for the good points concealin' themselves in a few citizens along this here crik-bed,” commented Black Sauriol, with placid disgust.

Timber-Line Ike twiddled his short red thumbs, ruminatively.

“Mebbe so; mebbe so!” he acquiesced, in his slow and deliberate wisdom. “But such bein' the Almighty's line o' snufflin', mebbe He'll git as much good out o' the black cards as the others, a-fore the end of the game. I've seen good men go bad, and now and agin I've seen bad men bein' good. Which same reminds me some forcible of a lesson what come home to me, 'bout the time I was cuttin' my eye-teeth, same as you, Sauriol!”

And this it was that prompted Timber-Line Ike to tell what he knew of Ezra Sankie and his pot.

“These here proceedin's took place some time after our old friend, Montana Bill, institooted them sun-parlors and mud-baths o' his up on Cone Peak—Bill called it a sannytarium. And I allow, after hittin' on them medicinal springs, and gittin' that sunny little shelf o' rock six thousand feet up, for lungers, and ropin' in a mild and trustin' tenderfoot for the cost o' puttin' up that palatial health-joint, I allow that Bill ought to have lived a fat and easy goin' life. But this sannytarium business is a heap more complicated than steer-herdin'. Leastaways, Bill saw that, when he got that health-joint goin' full swing and let his eye dwell on the specimens o' maverick that kept wandering up to take the cure. Bill tumbled to that fact, all right.

“The first patient what wanders up into Bill's seclooded little sun-parlors was a foot-hill card-sharp who'd got a bullet through his lung for playin' a five-ace deck, across the Line. He was a quiet and feeble enough cuss, payin' handsome for all extras, and puttin' in his first three weeks alone playin' 'Frisco solitaire with hisself.

“Then along ambles the second patient, a yellow-faced granger with only one ear, who said he was lookin' for solitood and rest. Which, I allow, was some true, seein' he was wanted for shooting a Arizona sheriff, and had been chased up across the frontier twenty-two hundred miles, by his unforgettin' Uncle Sam. This second patient o' Bill's went by the name o' Tune-Up Tidmarsh, and it weren't so long before him and Creepin' Kolker, the first-comer, were puttin' in twelve hours a day playin' cut-throat poker.

“That third patient o' Montana Bill's came along kind o' unexpected and sudden. He was a Eastern tenderfoot answerin' to the name o' Judge Wimble, and I allow he was the fattest thing our friend Bill ever squaw-cinched on to Cone Peak. He carried about three hundred o' beef aparejoed inside his saddle-girths, and Bill's side pardner headed him off from Banff with a mitful of Saskatoon talk about those Cone Peak mud baths. This here Judge Wimble, havin' soaked in about forty years o' extra high livin', was carryin' round with him a genteel combination o' king's-evil and gout. And on off days, when his leg was bad, he could hand out about as high-spiced and well-browned a line o' profanity as you ever tried to strike a match on! Not that this here old judge's cussin' was mean and vindictive—not for a minit. There was something round and mealy and ripe about that old man's swearin.' Cusses just seemed to fall out o' him, like big ripe apples out of a old apple tree. And seein' he was weighted down with ready dust, payin' his four bits twice a day for these here mud-baths o' Bill's, he was given all the rope he wanted, keepin' Creepin' Kolker and Tune-Up Tidmarsh some busy squarin' up their three-handed cut-throat account every night, with Bill sittin' up meek and patient to put out the lights.

“But that Cone Peak poker outfit never got into fair and open sailin' until Bill's next patient ambles along, in the shape of a Southern sport by the name o' Captain Jade. This here Captain Jade had seen about as much high-livin' as old Judge Wimble, I allow, but it took the captain different. With him it was a high-grade lode o' rheumatism, with out-croppin's o' treemers. He'd been shootin' mountain sheep back in the hills, and landed on Bill's health-joint with an extra equipment o' lumbago, through sleepin' in jackpine wind-breaks without lickerin' up sufficient. He was lean and wiry and fine-wrinkled about the corners o' the eyes and mouth, and as bald as a hard-head. When he told a yarn he allus laid back and cackled like a hen who'd just dropped a egg. But when it came to a show-down in the line o' cussin' he ran this here Judge Wimble a uncommon close second. Only the captain's cussin' was diff'rent: sour and sharp and cuttin' as alkali topped off with a flavorin' o' blue-stone.

“But Montana Bill wasn't doin' any kickin' those days. He just laid low and watched his wad gettin' fatter and fatter, givin' the best corner o' his sun-parlor over to these here unregenerate old growlers, a-watchin' the four of 'em make for that poker table first thing every mornin', and waitin' for the last hand to be dealt round at night, before puttin' out the lights. When they cussed over the grub, Bill swallowed it meek. When they smoked in bed and burnt holes in the sheets, Bill let it pass. When the old judge, bein' uncommon heavy, broke another chair, Bill just chalked it down agin his account and said nothin'. Bill was mighty glad these here four patients o' his were provin' so congenial, and gittin' so much fun out o' their poker, seein' there was nothin' to do at Cone Peak but sit and look at seven miles o' rock and jackpine, or walk round and bet on the weather.

“Then Bill's side-pardner sent in word that he was forwardin' another patient, a genooine, payin' spot cash for five weeks' treatment. But if Bill 'd been told they were sendin' a woman up to Cone Peak for five weeks he would n't have worried more 'n he did about the comin' o' that fifth patient o' his.

“For this here newcomer, Bill finds, was nothin' more nor less than first remove to a parson, bein' a young professor o' homiletics out of a down-East gospel joint. And Bill saw, first throw o' the rope, that his broken-down sky-pilot was a-goin' to be some uncongenial to that gang o' sulphur-eatin' poker-players. But seein' it was too late to renigg, Bill goes over to the card table, some solemn, and tips off his four patients as to what's comin'. He likewise lays out, some tearful and appealin', how he's hopin' old friends aint a-goin' to desert him in the hour o' trial.

'Judge Wimble, bein' asked by Tune-Up just what line o' graft a doctor o' homiletics dealt in, explained, some learned, that this partic'lar science dealt with the fundamental principles o' public discourse and vocal rope-throwin' in general.

“'Which means,' says Creepin' Kolker wearily, 'we 're goin' to be discoursed to continual!'

“'And which also means,' says Tune-Up Tidmarsh, 'that I ventilates with thirty-eight caliber orifices the cuss who opens fire on me about this here soul o' mine!'

“But when this here broken-down sky-pilot turns up at Cone Peak Bill lays off sittin' up nights apprehendin' that talk menace. For Bill and his four growlers sees, first cut o' the cards, that for a man whose trade had been the scientific teachin' of the art o' public discourse this here Professor Ezra Sankie was about as quiet and silent and all-round retirin' a cuss as ever wore shoe leather. There was six foot two o' him, but he was rolled out so uncommon thin that you could a-knotted him up into a hoss-hair cinch. He was kind o' pale and sallow and hungry-appearin' in the face, mighty solemn and sad-lookin', I allow. He had a queerish pale and plaintive eye, too, and a protroodin' Adam's-apple that worked up and down, some visible, when he was devourin' his grub. Which same always gave the four growlers the jim-jams, every meal time. But he was about as all-round' unoffendin' a sky-pilot as ever put on a collar backwards, and as that poker gang sized him up, in his long and shiny black coat, faded out into a kind o' gentle green, with the cloth gone off the buttons and the metal worn bright round the edges, why, I allow they were unanimous in decidin' they 'd allow no special dust bein' kicked up about their sportin' proclivities.

“Fact is, from the first day this here sky-pilot appears in Bill's sun-parlor they starts bullyin' him round, stickin' out for their rights.

“'This here crow-bait angel-buster,' says Tune-Up, the first mornin', as he shuffles the deck and deals round some ostentatious, 'reminds me of a snake-fence decked with moss!'

“'Kind o' reminds me of a lost hound, wanderin' round that a-way!' says Captain Jade.

“Reminds me of a codfish!' says Judge Wimble, cussin' round good and audible, just so 's to establish a workin' precedent.

Then they goes on with their game, 'special noisy and pr'fane, slingin' out their chips and rakin' in their dough, with the sky-pilot a-settin' in one corner o' the sun-parlor as quiet and unoffendin' as a lost cat, havin' his spells o' bad coughin' now and then, and takin' his temper'ture about every half hour.

“'Twas n't until well on in the afternoon that the old judge did any verbal quirtin' about this. But bein' peevish through losin' his pile to Tune-Up, on a jack-pot that was runnin' greenbacks over the table-edges, he lets out some sudden.

“'I wish you wouldn't smoke that darned thermom'ter round here all day in my face!' he yells out, with a bang on the table.

“Which same makes the sky-pilot jump a good six inches up in the air. Then he flushes up, kind o' red and hot, and apologizes meek and gentle, layin' out that he'd try not to offend 'em in the future.

“Fact is, this here sky-pilot's offendin' took an altogether different and unlooked-for trail. Which same was due to his prayin' aloud, when he turns in. And seein' as Montana Bill had n't expended any unnecessary labor and wealth in puttin' up that health-joint o' his, just kind o' blockin' off the bedrooms with quarter-inch green pine, allowin' plenty for ventilation, these here four old gamblers are some electrified that night by hearin' a long and eloquent prayer goin' up to the Almighty for their unregenerate souls. And mebbe it did n't leave those sulphur-eatin' side-win- ders kind o' weak and gaspin', lyin' there hearin' theirselves described to the Almighty so plain and explicit and unvarnished. Which same brings 'em down to the next day's game kind o' quiet and constrained, not sayin' anything about this here prayer they'd been overhearin,' quite accidental.

“But they 'd taken their stand, and they stuck to it. They allowed no interferin' with their gamin', and they kept on tyin' their all-round cussedness with a lariat o' well-braided swearin'. Which same the sky-pilot, sittin' meek and quiet in his corner, says nothin' about. But that night he prays ag'in, long and earnest and eloquent, for them four poor mortals whose souls is blackened with sin. And them four mortals overhears the same, breathin' hard, and writhin' down under the blankets and feelin' like a bunch o' greasers with a neck-girth on.

“And while sufferin' that a-way, all the rest o' the week, these here four old Piutes is studyin' out, silent and secretive, just how to side-flume that cataract o' chillin' solicitood'. But they spot no trail a-leadin' out o' this blind cañon until about the fifth day. Then I allow the sky-pilot can't stand the all-fired quiet and lonesomeness o' that corner o' his no longer. So he takes a look at the game over his lean old shoulder, waggin' his head from side to side, and frownin' his disapproval at what he sees is a sure enough past-time o' Satan. Then Creepin' Kolker opens up for a jackpot, and the game gets some warm, and the dust piles up in the center, and the sky-pilot stops waggin' his head, and watches, all eyes, wheelin' his chair round so 's to git a better view o' proceedin's. And they hear him give a little gasp as Captain Jade rakes in the pile. And they can see him strugglin' with hisself, and tryin' to keep away, but he keeps workin' up to em', foot by foot, only fallin' back, kind o' gun-shy, now and then, when Tune-Up or Captain Jade or the old judge lets out a cuss or two.

“Then he gets so he watches the game fair and open, and even allows there is something mysterious and fascinatin' in seein' the Goddess o' Chance handin' out destiny that a-way. And he spends a hour or two lookin' at the pictures on the face-cards; and just b'fore grub-time, seein' him cuttin' for an ace, absent-minded, Tune-Up Tidmarsh stops the game to go over and show him just how to lay out the cards for a quiet and gentle game o' 'Frisco solitaire. Which same, he says, aint in no way sinful, seein' as a man can't bet with hisself, and is a uncommon nice and soothin' past time if you aint a-keyed up for high-priced trouble. And the sky-pilot plays a game with hisself, kind o' frightened and solemn, and then gets on to the hang o' shufflin' and layin' out the cards, so that Bill has to give him the grub-call for the third time b'fore he sees it's fodder-hour.

“But when he gets up in his own room that night his spirit kind o' revolts, thinkin' things over, and he sure has a bad hour of it. Which same the four old growlers overhear, while he gits down on his knees, and, some hot and fierce, implores the Lord to keep his feet in the paths o' righteousness, seein' as He had set before him such examples o' what a man might fall to, when once he was a-followin' the wrong trail. And he prays for hisself ag'in, and for the four errin' ones whose souls and lives were bein' frittered away in the idle pursoots o' card-playin' and gamblin', and he ends up by recitin' to hisself a little pome about Vice bein' a monster o' such low-down Injun aspect that first round you hates him, and then you kind o' endoores him, and then first thing you know you 've given him the squaw-hitch and are stickin' to him like a flea to a Blackfoot Injun.

“But as I laid out to you some time ago, this here mountain health-joint o' Montana Bill's was an uncommon quiet and lonesome locality. Bill had a doctor ride up from Red-Tail Crossin' twice a week, to take temper'tures and stampede around about so much liquor-drinkin' and cigar smokin' among them one-lungers o' his. Then once a month the mail 'd come through, and kind o' brighten things up. But when the papers got so wore out you could n't read 'em, you had your choice o' doin' two things, a-sittin' and gazin' at seven miles o' rock and jackpine, or joinin' in them idle pursoots o' gamblin' and card-playin' ag'in which this here sky-pilot was prayin' every night, so loud and vigorous. And while he was a-prayin', them sun-baked old sinners said nothin', but just listened and waited, for they could tell by the tenor o' these here supplications o' his that he was sure weakenin', day by day, and gittin' a more and more consumin' hunger to join in that all-fired divertin' game o' theirs.

“Which same he does, when Creepin' Kolker finally lays the proposal out to him, the gang havin' agreed the time was ripe for the enticin' o' that sky-pilot. He starts in kind o' nervous and bashful, but he sticks her out, acknowledgin' it was sure wonderful how such a run o' luck as he was havin' seemed to contradict what he calls the law of averages—the same bein' due, o' course, to Creepin' Kolker and Tune-Up's kind and generous throwin' o' three aces and two kings into the sky-pilot's hand every other deal o' the cards. For they'd tamed her down to a one-bit ante, and explained to him the meanin' of a straight, and a full house, and a bob-tail flush, and how to count out the cards, and hold 'em so the rest o' the table could n't see 'em too easy, and not beam like a risin' sun every time he happened to hold three of a kind in his hand.

“But when Bill waits to put out the lamps that night, wtistlin' kind o' soft and gentle to hisself a' what he sees, the sky-pilot wakes up an' finds hisself three dollars and ninety cents in the hole, for all them four old reprobates can do to pump royal flushes into his hand. Which loss puts the gang onto the whole lay-out, that night, while the sky-pilot is a-prayin' to his Maker for strength, and rehearsin' his wickedness and his woes, as open as if he was singin' down some blind-cañon in the Barren Grounds. For this here angel-buster, as I said b'fore, was mendin'-up in the mountains out there on a four-hundred dollar grant from his little gospel-joint down East, and lays out he aint a-goin' to do any gamblin' with this college money, seein' he had n't even enough of his own left for a sleeper goin' home.

“And when the mail came through, next day, things looked even worse than ever for this here sky-pilot, for he goes to Bill kind o' white and treemerin', and says as how the home folks can't send him out the second remittance, and that he'll have to go down to Red-Tail Crossin' with the mail-carrier and start East that night. He don't indulge in no open bleatin', but Bill, a-standin' back and eyein' him as he goes out to take his mornin' breathin'-exercises, can see he's sure broken up about goin' back East without gittin' his cure.

“Which same he lays out to the poker-gang in the sun-parlor, while the old judge is blasphemin' his bad leg and Captain Jade is profanin' over his mornin' pint o' liquid misery from Bill's sulphur-springs.

'And the Doc was tellin' me he'd be as sound as a dollar ag'in, with another two months o' this altitood', and good-livin', says Bill, quite impartial. So they talks it over, man to man, and when the sky-pilot comes down, kind o' solemn and white round the gills, they all shakes hands with him, and lays out as they 're mighty sorry to lose him. Which same touches him some keen, and leaves him kind o' blinkin' his pale blue eyes, so's not to show no unmanly tears. Then the old judge up and says as they ought to have one hand round, just for the sake o' old times, and the sky-pilot shakes his head and says 'No,' and Captain Jade suggests just one little jackpot for the fun o' the thing. But still the sky-pilot hangs back, and then Tune-Up rubs him down a bit, and then Creepin' Kolker wheedles and lures him on a little more, and the final outcome is that Bill lends the angel-buster a ten-dollar bill, and he's sittin' at the table with the other four card-sharps, havin' what he sure allows is his last game o' poker on this terrestial globe. Which same it was.

“Creepin' Kolker is dealin', and when the sky-pilot gits his chips, they all antes quiet and solemn.

“'Can't you open?' inquires Creepin' Kolker.

“'I can!' says the Sky-pilot, beamin' and blinkin' over his cards.

“But the others keep uncommon quiet and solemn.

“'How many?' says Creepin' Kolker

“'Two cards,' says the sky-pilot.

“And he takes up the cards, and turns 'em over, and rubs his chin, and grins outright.

“But they all stay in, none the less, and at a kick under the table from Creepin' Kolker they all start waggin' and smilin' over their hands, all but Tune-Up.

“'I quit!' he says, throwin' down his hand.

“And he moves round to the sky-pilot, and looks at his hand over his shoulder, and gives a soft whistle, quite unprofessional-like, and whispers into the sky-pilot's ear off-hand, that he can draw on him as high as two hundred.

“The old judge leans back and laughs and raises him ten, which leaves the sky-pilot lookin' kind o' worried for a minit or two. Then Captain Jade raises 'em another ten, and Creepin' Kolker goes 'em ten better, and Tune-Up has to whisper for the sky-pilot to raise 'em all ag'in. Which same he does, while the old judge shoves his pile to the center, free and confident, sayin' he aint a quitter, with a hand like his. And Captain Jade does the same, chucklin' down in his lean old throat and makin' believe he'd a hand to sweep the board. Then Creepin' Kolker does the same, firm and belligerent.

“And the sky-pilot raises 'em agin. And they keep a-sweetenin' that pot until the sky-pilot's eyes begin to bulge ard his hands is tremblin' and Tune-Up remarks some casual that mebbe it 'd better be a show-down, now, seein' as his pile was all up in the center.

“'What y' got?' demands the old judge as he plumps down his pair o' two spots on the board.

“'Why, I beat you!' hollers Captain Jade. 'I beat you, with two threes!'

“Then Creepin' Kolker laughs kind o' free and easy, and pounds the table. 'I guess this here pile comes into my wickey-up,' he says, 'for I does you easy, with two sevens!'

“They all turns to the sky-pilot, who was a-grinnin' from ear to ear, as innocent and unknowin' and unobservin' as a yearlin' lamb.

“'Well,' they hollers, hot and impatient, 'what y' got?'

“The sky-pilot puts down his hand, one by one. Then he sits back and rubs his Adam's-apple, kind o' nervous, and beams round at 'em kind o' silly, and rubs his Adam's-apple ag'in.

“'Why, you've got four aces!' says Creepin' Kolker, lookin' up surprised, so bland and innercent that the sky-pilot chuckles out loud.

“'What!' gasps the old judge, blinkin' down at 'em. 'Well, I'll be demmed,' says he, 'if he aint!'

“'Why, he takes the pile, then!' says Captain Jade, kind o' weak and disgusted lookin'.

“'And I felt so sure o' this here pot!' says Creepin' Kolker, uncommon sad and dejected, watchin' Tune-Up countin' and sortin' up the money for the sky-pilot.

“But as they tucks it down in the pockets o' his faded old green vest with the shiny buttons, the sky-pilot stands back and makes 'em a little speech, kind o' falterin' and half-hearted, about not bein' able to take that money. And he lays that pile out on the table ag'in, slow and sorrowful, and the four old growlers is plum sloughed down, until Bill steps up and says he'll appropriate the wad, if all's willin' for three months o' good Cone Peak board and keep at reg'ler rates.

“'Only,' says Bill, as he picks out a fifty what he finds is left over and hands it back to the sky-pilot, 'you've got to gi' me your solemn word that you keeps out o' the game as long as you stays in this health-joint o' mine!'

“And the sky-pilot promises, some fervent, and begins thankin' 'em for nothin' at all, and is a-goin' to cry, apparent, when the old judge shuts him off, some sharp.

“'Look a-here, my young friend,' he says, a-poundin' the table, 'it aint you that's winnin' this money; it aint you or all your studyin' what roped in that pile! It was just the cards! It were these here four aces a-comin' into your hand won the trick. And if you 're repudiatin' the Lord for sendin' you a full house that a-way, why, I aint got much respect for you or your gratitood'!'

“And he pounds the table ag'in, and the sky-pilot allows, kind o' dazed, that mebbe he may be right.

“'Of course it were the cards!' says Creepin' Kolker, without a blink.

“Which same is sure bad poker, and aint mebbe good morality. But as I laid out to you short-horns at the first, there's nothin' gained tryin' to divide this here corral of mixed humanity into the breed that's all good, on the one side, and the breed that's all bad, on t'other!”