#a man called hoss
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1938 - PAULINE JOHNSON and FELICE BOUDREAUX, sisters, were once slaves on the plantation of Dermat Martine, near Opelousas, Louisiana. As their owners were French, they are more inclined to use a Creole patois than English.
"Us was both slaves on de old plantation close to Opelousas," Pauline began. As the elder of the two sisters she carried most of the conversation, although often referring to Felice before making positive statements.
"I was 12 year old when freedom come and Felice was 'bout six. Us belonged to Massa Dermat Martine and the missy's name Mimi. They raise us both in the house and they love us so they spoil us. I never will forget that. The little white chillen was younger than me, 'bout Felice's age. They sho' had pretty li'l curly black hair.
"Us didn't have hard time. Never even knowed hard time. That old massa, he what you call a good man.
"Us daddy was Renee and he work in the field. The old massa give him a mud and log house and a plot of ground for he own. The rain sho' never get in that log house, it so tight. The furniture was homemake, but my daddy make it good and stout.
"Us daddy he work de ground he own on Sunday and sold the things to buy us shoes to put on us feet and clothes. The white folks didn't give us clothes but they let him have all the money he made in his own plot to get them.
"Us mama name Marguerite and she a field hand, too, so us chillen growed up in the white folks house mostly. 'Fore Felice get big enough to leave I stay in the big house and take care of her.
"One day us papa fall sick in the bed, just 'fore freedom, and he kep' callin' for the priest. Old massa call the priest and just 'fore us papa die the priest marry him and my mama. 'fore dat they just married by the massa's word.
"Felice and me, us have two brothers what was born and die in slavery, and one sister still livin' in Bolivar now. Us three uncles, Bruno and Pophrey and Zaphrey, they goes to the war. Them three dies too young. The Yankees stole them and make them boys fight for them.
"I never done much work but wash the dishes. They wasn't poor people and they uses good dishes. The missy real particular 'bout us shinin' them dishes nice, and the silver spoons and knives, too.
"Them white people was good Christian people and they christen us both in the old brick Catholic church in Opelousas. They done torn it down now. Missy give me pretty dress to get christen in. My godmother, she Mileen Nesaseau, but I call her 'Miran'. My godfather called 'Paran.'
"On Sunday mornin' us fix our dress and hair and go up to the missy's looking-glass to see if us pretty enough go to church. Us goes to Mass every Sunday mornin' and church holiday, and when the cullud folks sick massa send for the priest same's for the white folks.
"We wears them things on the strings round the neck for the good of the heart. They's nutmeg.
"The plantation was a big, grand place and they have lots of orange trees. The slaves pick them oranges and pack then down on the barrel with la mosse (Spanish moss) to keep them. They was plenty pecans and figs, too.
"In slavery time most everybody round Opelousas talk Creole. That make the words hard to come sometime. Us both talk that better way than English.
"Durin' the war, it were a sight. Every mornin' Capt. Jenerette Bank and he men go a hoss-back drillin' in the pasture and then have drill on foot. A white lady take all us chillen to the drill ground every mornin'. Us take the lunch food in the basket and stay till they done drill out.
"I can sing for you the song they used to sing:
"O, de Yankee come to put de nigger free,
Says I, says I, pas bonne;
In eighteen-sixty-three,
De Yankee get out they gun and say,
Hurrah! Let's put on the ball.
"When war over none the slaves wants leave the plantation. My mama and us chillen stays on till old massa and missy dies, and then goes live on the old Repridim place for a time.
"Both us get marry in that Catholic church in Opelousas. As for me, it most too long ago to talk about. His name Alfred Johnson and he dead 12 years. Our youngest boy, John, go to the World War. Two my nephews die in that war and one nephew can't walk now from that war.
"Felice marry Joseph Boudreaux and when he die she come here to stay with me. There's more hard time now than in the old day for us, but I hope things get better.
#african#afrakan#kemetic dreams#africans#brownskin#afrakans#brown skin#slaves#slave pic#alfred johnson#new orleans#catholic church#PAULINE JOHNSON#FELICE BOUDREAUX
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" Hoss, I want you to pray to your god.
I want you to pray that he comes and saves you.
I want lightning to come down and crash upon my fuckin' head! "
-> So you're a little devil, huh? Come to drag me and my kin to Hell? Well, not today, Satan!
Martha headcanon dump / Interest check. Drop a 🩸 in the replies if you have interest interacting with her, and if you're a multimuse yourself, let me know who you want me to toss her at.
Born in dark baptism of blood and raised in cannibalism & devil worship, Martha is deeply entrenched in damnation and has never desired any other sort of way of being. This is how she is, pure, brutal, raw, sadistic, and hungry for pain and torment. She is an evil soul looking to make the best of her life and live in hedonism, pure and simple.
Her particular worship involves Mammon, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, Lucifer, Satan, and a little bit of Lilith. These are the ones who have called to her as her prime sins are Greed, Lust, Gluttony, Pride, and Wrath. However, even if she does worship and offer tribute to them, there's not always someone on the other line - she does get left on read quite often by some of them.. namely Lucifer, who wants little to nothing to do with Sinners in the first place. Still, she calls, and gets aggravated when he doesn't answer. Later I would like to do a post for what she does in regards for her worship of these Infernals, but for now this is what I got. uvu
Martha is not exclusive in her selection of course, she is very open to work with many demons who catch her ear and tempt her with their call. Any who are willing to work with her, any who she might have caught the eye of have a very good chance of working with her. She is willing to do a great many hideous things, she has no restraint except for her family. Speaking of..
Martha is a serial black widower - or, well, she was. There's a long trail of dead vows hanging from her wedding band, tons of hearts of thirsty & lecherous wealthy men left 'pon on her altar to the delicious King Asmodeus ( 'the one true man who knows how to really please a woman.' ). The husband-killing stopped when Ralphie just would not fuckin' die! She tried everything; poisoning, concussions, hitting him with her car, drowning him after hitting him with a motorboat, and straight up electrocuting his ass in the bathtub.
She finally stopped trying when he caught her shotgun shells in his teeth. Man's hardy and is sickly, deeply, twistedly, and hopelessly in love with Martha, and she finally came to respect and admire that, even more so when she began introducing him to the darker aspects of her life such as cannibalism, human taxidermy, and ritualistic killings. She gained a partner-in-crime, true and honest. What she has for him isn't really true love as much as it is a very deep affection and attraction, and he doesn't mind, so long as they can keep on keeping on. They both popped out a couple of children, and the rest is history.
Excellent cook, excellent baker, excellent little house wife who serves up the image of a godly woman quite well. She saves face by going to church on Sundays just to spend her Sunday nights doing very special dark rituals. Duality of woman!
Very vivid in her sexuality. She has a taste for both men and women (bisexual).
While in Hell, she is veeeery curious who it is that got that hit put on her. There's a damn good many who would want her dead, so she doesn't right away suspect only Mayberry. She sees this as some business as deathright to wrap up. She has her ear out. That said, of course Martha is happy in Hell, this is where she wanted to be! She just wasn't ready yet. She wanted to live longer, so revenge is definitely on the mind.
Has a lovely two story cabin in Hell that she and Ralphie both slaughtered the previous owners of and claimed dominion over with their children. The owners, once resurrected, sure learned to stop coming back and left the property well alone.
She is a lovely neighbor of Cannibal Town. Enjoys the festivities a lot! Very active participant in the community even though she doesn't live within the city limits exactly, just somewhere outside of them. Seeks to make a nice relationship with Rosie. :)
The idea of becoming an Overlord is intriguing to her, and it's an idea she is definitely playing around with. For now, her soul belongs to no one.
Martha is still very much into the Kings and Queens she worshiped while she was alive and even has altars to them! Still pays tribute and still carries out rituals in their names. That part of her isn't going away.
I am playing with her from when she was alive and while she is in Hell. Both are going to be fun. :]
Drawing inspiration from .. Tiffany Valentine, Rob Zombie's music and bits of his movies ( "I am the Devil, and I am here to do the Devil's work." ) , and Texas Chainsaw.
Please note: This is devil worship done in the stereotypical Hellaverse & Horror Movies way with a little more knowledge of the actual demons - this is not an accurate depiction of the followings of these actual Infernal Divines.
#testing; martha.#(( idk what the interest gauge is for her but she SURE IS HERE ALIVE AND DEAD LOL. ))
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Sol's full name being "Sol Badguy" was like near the bottom of the list of Guilty Gear things I thought were funny when I was just getting into it because like 9 out of 10 be-leathered bikers I know in meatspace just go by names like that. Ass Man and Big Man are real, tangible, people I know. They call me Hoss. Daisuke was making a Freddie Mercury joke here with Bad Guy, obviously, but bikers are just like this. You get a motorcycle and a leather jacket and a funny vaguely descriptive nickname is included in the starter pack
#textpost#We were talking about this in the chat the other day and I still think it's funny so I'm sharing it here too#I don't own a motorcycle because I've got nowhere to store it 😔 but I've got a motorcycle in my heart#Big Man is a little shorter than me but he's like twice my mass. It's been a while since I saw him I hope he's doing alright...
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Hi Sir.
First, thank you for your years of service.
But thank you also for your intelligent, interesting, often funny, always thought provoking Tumblr!
(My own Tumblr is, um, less high minded.)
We may be very different men in some ways, but your ideas on government, self defense, outdoor recreation, food, nature, married life, and most other subjects are right on, Sir!
On marriage, I happen to have a husband, not a wife, but I think for both of us the experience is an amazing journey of discovery and adaptation.
On self defense, I was never in the military. Honestly I don't know what half the weapons you post are. I just try to do a little karate, and lately a little kobudo in my "old age." (59, the oldest I've ever been!) But I marvel at your evident skill and breadth of knowledge. The whole point of being able to fight, after all, is to attain peace.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts online, Sir!
Just when I’m sure the Human race is beyond recovery someone pops up and reminds me there are still good damned people on this blue sphere we call home.
@hoss-sc, First and foremost, thank you for your kind words, with that said I have been accused of a great many things, High Minded is not one of them, but I'll take what I can get.
Thank you, it is my honor to have served, I found more than I’ve lost and it changed my perspective on so much.
It is true we are different men but as I have found, people as individuals, devoid of the separations and segregation that are placed on us by society and governments see more eye to eye than we know. When you understand that the very people, organizations and governments that keep putting us in little boxes are the very one’s fanning the flames of hate and distrust. Reminds me of this scene from Men In Black.
youtube
I don't have much need of those little boxes, those categories that we are yoked with. I chose who I like, or dislike, based on who they are not who I'm told they are. As I have said many times on here I don't care where a person comes from, who they bend a knee to, who they sleep with or what color they are. My baseline qualifier is what kind of Human they are. I have never had one of those artificial sub-categories clarify a person for me, only time and actions can so that. The chaff will always separate from the Wheat given enough time to do so.
I am pleased you and I have much more in common than not. I think every Human has Rights that exist before the laws of men. I think life outside teaches more practical lessons than and room and 4 walls can. I think Governments should be small and people should be allowed to be free.
Hoss, I’m glad you have found your love and your happiness, damnit it is a rare thing in this age of instant gratifications and disposable relationships. With that said I have been married 3 times, the first one left me while I was deployed, the second one stabbed me and the one I spent all those years looking for, well, we’ve been together 17 years this July. I don’t care if one is in a same sex relationship or an opposite sex relationship, who people sleep with has very little to do with me or what I think of them. I’m sure you and I could have long conversations about the boxes society has created to keep people both locked up and hidden in.
Self-defense, Man this hits me to my core. EVERY HUMAN HAS THE RIGHT TO SELF-DEFENSE!! Self-defense is the cornerstone to living a life free from oppression either from thugs and criminals or oppressive governments. I think everyone should learn a form of unarmed self-defense and learn to use firearms because deferring your safety and the safety of those you love to someone less concerned about your survival just isn’t the greatest option. I taught unarmed self-defense for 10 years and I have taught armed defense for close to 30 years, each one is an important aspect in our personal responsibility to not live in victimhood. A few years back I started training in Filipino martial arts (kali, escrima, arnis) with a guy out at NAS Fallon, it is so different from the traditional Jiu Jitsu I started with in the 90’s and the Gracie style of Jiu Jitsu I did for many many years and the same style my kids do now. I trained at if for a little over a year before the guy got orders and I haven’t found an instructor since, small town blues.
I cannot accurately express how important I feel self-defense is.
But, as you know, as we get on in the years all the shit we did to our bodies in our younger more rambunctious years starts to slow us down. I’ll be 53 in June and all those “Oh shit, I survived that!” moments remind me that I am not quite a spry as I once was, but I’m also not dead. I will never be as fast or agile as I was at 20 or 30 or even 40 but I will never go down without a fight, it’s just not in my DNA.
Thank you again, I mean that from the deepest places in my soul.
“The ultimate aim of martial arts is not having to use them” ― Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings: The Classic Guide to Strategy
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For the drabbles: "Talk to me."
Thank you for the ask! This one took me a little time because I got stuck on what book Mac would be reading, lol. And then it got a little longer and a little longer.
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Mac couldn't sleep despite the late hour. He rubbed his eyes and then turned the page in the book he was reading. It was a dog-eared copy of Timeline and was usually an excellent distraction from his life. Tonight, it wasn't working. He hadn't heard from Jack in almost two weeks. A bad feeling was building in his gut as each hour went by without so much as a text or, hell, an email.
Putting the book aside, Mac stood and started to jog in place. Then, he did 50 push-ups, and then 50 sit-ups. He repeated the whole routine a few times until he was dripping with sweat and out of breath, but he wasn't tired.
A quick, hot shower also did nothing to make him sleepy. He was considering the benefits of warm milk or hot chocolate when Jack's ringtone startled him.
"Hello? Jack?"
"Hey, man." Jack's voice was warm and steady. Mac didn't realize how much he missed it until now.
"Haven't heard from you in a while." Mac flopped on his bed. "Everything okay?"
"Sorry about that," Jack grunted, and Mac imagined that he too was settling into a chair or maybe his own bed. "It's all good. We had to go radio silent, working a lead."
Mac bit his lip to keep from asking about it. Jack had been very clear that he would not discuss Kovacs under any circumstances. It was for Mac's, and the rest of the team's, safety.
"Talk to me, hoss. Are you okay?"
A lump jumped into Mac's throat, and he had to work to keep his emotions in check. "I was worried," he finally murmured.
He heard the rasp of Jack's hand rubbing his stubbled chin or cheek. It was familiar, something he'd heard over comms as far back as the sandbox. "I'm sorry. I'll try to get word out to you faster next time."
Mac's heart sank at the words 'next time'. "We, uh, we miss you around here."
"I'll be back as soon as I can." Jack sounded defeated, much different than when he'd first spoken on the call. Mac felt like shit for ruining his friend's mood. "That's all I can promise."
"I know. I didn't mean to... I'm glad you called."
Jack cleared his throat. "I miss you too, Mac. Every damn day." There was a pause and a soft curse. "Oh, hey, it's late there, isn't it?"
Mac rolled onto his side to look at the nightstand clock. "Almost 3:30."
"You should get some sleep."
"Tell me a story."
"Aren't you a little old for a bedtime story?" Jack teased.
Mac adopted his Jack-voice to say, "Never too old for that, hoss."
Jack laughed, a real guffaw that was probably going to get him in trouble with his other team. "Okay, okay, let's see. Have I told you about the time I took a header off my horse into my mama's sunflower patch? It all started with a bet..."
Mac's eyelids grew heavy as Jack told his tale. He vaguely heard Jack bid him good night before he dozed off.
(Note: Timeline by Michael Crichton is one of my favorite books, and I think that Mac would enjoy the science, the history, and the fiction aspects of it.)
#drabble dialogue prompts#macgyver 2016#nativestarwrites asks#mac and jack and a long distance friendship#very much not a drabble
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Not to give wwe more credit than I would like but I’m rewatching Miro vs Hobbs from All Out and it felt like Miro knew once the ‘meat’ chants started he called an audible (the rest hold spots) and said let’s have the hoss fight. Let’s lean into the chants. And they switched it up and had an incredibly hot match.
The isn’t to discredit Hobbs because he put in work into that match but it felt like the choice to have a sports entertaining big man match felt distinctly wwe
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Famous people that are Guardians fans:
Kid Cudi
Kid Cudi was born and raised and still living in Cleveland and he considers himself a superfan. Hosted a game at Progressive Field this past season. Has been seen wearing Guardians caps on many occasions including in the music video for "King Wizard". Pictured is Kid Cudi with Triston McKenzie, Xzavion Curry and Tanner Bibee; throwing a first pitch; and performing in a Guardians cap.
Stephanie Beatriz
Stephanie became a fan through her relationship with her husband Brad Hoss, who is from Ohio. Has supported and rooted for the team for years. Played for Cleveland at the 2019 celebrity allstar softball game. Pictured is Stephanie playing alongside baseball legend Kenny Lofton, and with her child at Progressive Field (picture quality is terrible on that one I'm sorry)
Vanessa Bayer
Vanessa grew up near Cleveland and has come back on occasion, including to throw the first pitch on father's day 2023. Pictured is Vanessa on that day, and her and her father meeting Tom Hamilton.
Drew Carey
Drew is a proud and loyal Clevelander and lifelong fan of all Cleveland sports. Has thrown several first pitches over the past three decades. Also played in the 2019 celebrity softball game. Had a sitcom called "The Drew Carey Show" which featured "Cleveland Rocks" as it's theme song (that song still plays at the end of every home game). Pictured is Drew and Mimi (a character on the show) fighting over a home run ball that she caught, Drew photobombing Mustard, and playing at the softball game.
Arsenio Hall
Arsenio (like almost everyone else on this list!) is from Cleveland and a longtime fan. Says many of his favorite childhood memories involved going to baseball games. Was featured in the documentary "Believeland" where he spoke about these memories. Pictured is Arsenio wearing a Guardians cap, and at the premiere of Believeland.
Michael Stanley
Michael lived his whole life in Cleveland and was one of the city's most beloved children. Wrote the song "My Town" which he performed at the unveiling of the new ballpark (then Jacobs Field - now Progressive Field). Spent a lot of time at that park and even bought a season ticket during the pandemic so his cardboard cutout could attend every game. Pictured is Michael performing at the Rock'n'Blast game 2007, and posing in the team dugout.
Travis Kelce
Travis is of course also from Cleveland and a big supporter of the team. Threw the (hilariously wild) first pitch at the 2023 home opener. I want to assume that his (also famous) brother Jason is a fan too but couldn't find any proof! Pictured is that aforementioned pitch, and Travis in the dugout with Terry Francona and Shane Bieber.
Tom Hanks
Tom was perhaps the only MAJOR celebrity to publicly root for us during the 2016 world series. Threw the first pitch at the 2022 home opener. Not from Cleveland but started his career here at Great Lakes Theater and attended many games during that time. Pictured is Tom with Larry Doby Jr., and in the recording booth with Rick Manning and Matt Underwood.
#long post#idk why i made this just been collecting these people 😌 probly still missed a couple. feel free to add on if i did#literally teared up looking at the pictures of michael stanley#god i miss him#anyway. go guards#baseball stuff#baseball#mlb#major league baseball#cleveland guardians#cleveland stuff#kid cudi#stephanie beatriz#vanessa bayer#drew carey#arsenio hall#michael stanley#michael stanley band#travis kelce#tom hanks#cleveland
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⚠️Warning this story has extreme graphic adult content, viewer discretion is advised! ⚠
Chapter 2 - Rose
The Sparrow landed on the fire escape outside his apartment and opened the window slipping in and shutting it behind him. Removing his mask and hood, he became the ordinary nobody, 22-year-old citizen, Eric Dror.
Eric's apartment was small, one bedroom, one bathroom. The size didn't matter to him, it was what he could barely afford, and he was almost never there anyways. Eric's nights consisted of cleaning up the city of its filth, his mornings consisted of trying to sleep for a few hours and typically failing, and afternoons were spent at a job working 7 Eleven for minimum wage table scraps.
“The sun is rising; you are hardly going to get any sleep.” Eric muttered to himself, he took off his backpack, and hoodie falling onto his bed shutting his eyes, not bothering to worry about it.
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6 silhouettes, a knife made of ebony, golden beams of light burst from his eyes and burst the skulls of screaming people open, blood and brains dripped onto the ground as innocent people died and the world cracked apart. It was overwhelming. He thrashed in his sleep and his eyes snapped open.
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“No!” He screamed and bolted up right in bed.
“Fuck,” he rubbed his forehead and fumbled for his phone to check the time, 5:30 a.m. Eric wiped his eyes, noticing he had slept with the black eye makeup on again and had gotten it on his sheets. He sighed and got up to go shower, if he couldn’t sleep, he would at least spend his time productively before he had to go into work.
The shower was warm, it drenched his dirty bruised and scarred skin in a clean reset that temporarily acted as pleasurable. The water ran down his head, over his face and trickled down his abs. Eric flipped his hair back and let the thoughts creep in. The cult died 3 years ago. Was she returning? Eric stepped out of the shower drying off, taking a look at the injuries he received from the night before.
Eric threw on a jacket and stored away The Sparrow's suit underneath his mattress. He then closed the door of his apartment and locked it behind him. He figured he would head for the café downtown. It was open 24/7 and nobody was likely to be around this early that cared enough to bother him.
------
“The Cult of the Dragon, antiwar assassination clan mass arrest made possible due to Midnight City vigilante known as "The Sparrow.” Eric thumbed over the news clip from three years ago. It did impress him how quickly the myth of The Sparrow spread over such a little amount of time. It was for sure better than the other name the news had called him.
“Ready to order?” A voice startled him out of his thoughts.
“Coffee,” he begrudgingly answered, not bothering to look up from his laptop.
"Coffee for the mysterious man in the corner booth, got it any cream or sugar honey?"
Eric turned to look at her catching his breath in his throat. She was beautiful. Blonde hair and oceanic blue eyes. He was speechless as she took the menu from him.
“Uh black please,” Eric stuttered.
“One black coffee coming up,” she winked, and his heart lurched in his chest. He shook his head focusing back in and tried to get back to research.
The television in the diner had a story on, a news report about a sinkhole that had formed in the arctic, the voice of the reporter provided good ambience for Eric as he clicked through his records.
“Officials are unsure what has caused the sinkhole, the expedition team sent down to investigate has not returned, and experts fear the worst is yet to come,” the reporter shifted around her papers and the headlines changed.
“In local news their have been numerous reports of gunshots at the abandoned Midnight City library, M.C.P.D. has yet to comment on whether or not an investigation is taking place,” the television changed to the chief of police Hoss Dogmann.
“Look if someone ends up dead they end up dead and we investigate until then we cant go in guns blazing on a mere chance!” Hoss grinned, his yellow stained teeth shining like the fraud him and his department are. Eric tried not to pay attention to him because it only angered him how awful and crooked The Dog was.
Eric thumbed through the old report he had done on the cult’s leader, Mckenna Moore. He thought back to the last time he had seen her, stopping the cult three years ago. Eric rubbed his forehead feeling a headache pulse against his skull.
“I don't understand,” Eric whispered under his breath.
“Understand what?” Rose interrupted his thoughts, coffee in hand.
“Oh uh nothing,” he took the coffee from her.
She glanced at his screen seeing the article.
“Are you a fan of The Sparrow?” She asked.
“A friend,” he lied.
“A friend hm?” She teased him probably suspecting that he was lying.
"How about tomorrow morning, I come over to your place and you tell me about your friend and you?" Rose’s eyes sparkled and Eric felt the feeling in his heart, a sickness and he longed for her.
“Rose, get to work!” The cook yelled from the kitchen interrupting the moment, not allowing time for him to respond or think at all. Rose blushed and rushed back to the kitchen.
Eric then realized something. How could someone like him love? He should at least humour her and let her down easily.
Something about her smile and those eyes, those perfect eyes moved something deep within him something he desired to explore. Eric closed the article and took a look at the receipt.
“Damn it.” He took a pen and scribbled his address onto the receipt leaving it with her tip money.
Written by Phoenix Rose
Characters and Story Created by Phoenix Rose
A Story Forge Production
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My sister and I watched some Ponderosa episodes a couple of years ago and it’s insane! Liberties are definitely take with the backstory (like the house not being even built yet when the show starts even though Joe was said to have been born in it in an episode of Bonanza for example.)
Between this and season one Ben has a hilarious character arc. In one of the Ponderosa episodes Adam wants to get a gun and Ben is firmly opposed, then in season one of Bonanza Ben is very gung-ho about violence, threatening to shoot trespassers multiple times, then for the rest of the series he’s a mostly reasonable community driven man. Ten outta ten guys, super consistent characterization.
Right??? Joe said himself in the OG show he was born in the house, and in the episode Marie, My love, it's descriped that Marie died in a horse accident in front of the house (when Joe was around 6 I believe, he also said he didn't remember anything about her) but in Ponderosa she dies IN AN EXPLOSION that was meant for Ben (?) AND this happens when Joe is 12.
Also how Hoss got his nickname Hoss, I think it's fun they actually make episodes about this to sorta "explain it" but I think I remember the reason they call him Hoss in the OG show is simply because he's so big (?) while in the Ponderosa show Hoss gets his nickname from being bitten in the butt by Joe's horse Paint/Cochise (In the show they name the horse Paint so idk if it's the same black and white paint that Joe has in the OG show)
That said though, I think it's a silly sweet show. I guess I view it as a "alternate universe" tihi
I believe the reason they changed things so drastically from season one is because Lorne Greene simply didn't like how they had written Ben. He wanted Ben to be more welcoming and kind, and I BELIEVE he said if they didn't change it, he would leave the show (don't credit me on that tho)
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Nina Hoss talked about working with Phil on A Most Wanted Man in a new episode of the Apple podcast/fitness program Time to Walk, released today. I transcribed everything she said about him but it’s pretty long so it’s below the cut:
“One of the big moments in my life was when I got to work on A Most Wanted Man from the director Anton Corbijn... Philip Seymour Hoffman, an incredibly brilliant actor, a most accomplished actor, and one I’d admired for a very long time. I mean, Philip Seymour Hoffman was in The Master, Boogie Nights, The Talented Mr. Ripley. I remember him in a film called Cold Mountain, where I was looking forward to seeing Nicole Kidman and didn’t know that Philip Seymour Hoffman was in it. And then he takes center stage. In the middle of the film he appears as a priest and it was so captivating and it was so surprising what he did with this part and so gut-wrenching that I thought, ‘Oh my God, what a phenomenal, phenomenal actor this is.’
“And so Anton told me I’d really love you to play this part [in AMWM] and there was no second to even think about it, I really wanted to do it and so I got to meet and work with Philip Seymour Hoffman. And it sadly was his last film that he got to shoot.
“But having had the chance to work with him was really life-changing. Because it was just, how do you say, mind-opening? It has to do with this incredible vulnerability that this man had. This really big sense of human, this struggle with himself, but always with a really warm heart. And then taking every risk, which is amazing, because you know how much that takes, to expose yourself so much. And to actually every time, again and again, go there, to that space that is also painful.
“I think it is more common in the States than in Europe that actors actually go and watch on the monitor what you’ve just done. And he did that after every scene. And every time when he went back into the scene, he did something where I went, ‘Yeah, of course, that’s how you gotta do it.’ I don’t always go and look behind the monitor, but every now and then—and for example, if any European director would say ‘No, you can’t,’ I would say, ‘No, I will go and watch myself! Philip Seymour Hoffman did it, so step back!’
[Jumping in to add how I much I love this anecdote, since 90% of the behind-the-scenes footage of PSH on the AMWM set is him watching those monitors and talking with Anton about his performance.]
“Watching someone like him gave me so much more for my work and how I want to approach things. I remember one moment where I just said the line in a completely different way to how I said it before. I remember him, this quick turn with his head, looking at me like, ‘Hey! What was that!’ and it was just lovely, because he worked with it. He was so happy if you could surprise him. He was very open and explorative and those are the greatest partners to have, that are very secure in what they’re looking for but at the same time, when you enter a scene, you just dance together. I’m drawn to people like Philip that are curious and open and don’t give the impression that they have it all sorted out. The world is constantly changing, people are constantly changing, what happens to you is changing. Lots of people think there will be a moment later in your life where you can live life to the fullest because you’ve done your work, you’ve done everything, everything comes together, everything falls into place—and that actually never happens.”
#I truly think few things would bring Phil greater happiness than knowing he is still inspiring people to talk back to their directors#THAT is a legacy#a most wanted man#philip seymour hoffman#psh#*#words#nina hoss#never in my life have I heard of apple fitness+ but now I have a free subscription just bc I needed to hear this#the things I do for this man.
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Livermush is very popular where I live in McDowell County, North Carolina. Have you heard of it? Here are a few facts about livermush:
•Livermush is a blend of ground scrap pork meat + liver, and spices bound with enough cooked cornmeal mush to make it sliceable.
•Food historians trace its origins to German immigrants who ate something called pon hoss, (pork scraps blended with buckwheat and spices) and then brought it to America during the 1700s. The food ultimately came south to the mountains and Piedmont, where it wound up on WNC farms.
•Scrapple is similar to livermush but NOT the same. It has less liver and different spices are used. It tastes different too.
•By law, Livermush is required at least 30 percent pig liver to be classified as Livermush.
•One could purchase a five-pound block of Livermush for around 10 cents a pound in the 1930s and '40s.
•Hunter's Livermush, which is made in Marion, is only found within 100 miles of Marion.
•Hunters sells over a million pounds of livermush a year.
•Some historians connect its popularity to the Germans’ penchant for liverwurst, a smoked sausage made with pork scraps. Livermush emerged as an alternative that didn’t require a smoker and could be cut with cornmeal to feed more people.
•The 5 commercial livermush producers — Corriher’s, Hunter’s, Jenkins, Mack’s, and Neese’s — are all based in North Carolina.
•One producer of Livermush stated that the closer they get to the mountains in North Carolina, their livermush begins to outsell sausage.
•Hunter's Livermush in Marion produces 20,000 pounds every week for customers of stores in five counties.
•Although the composition is similar to liver pudding (which you can find in the eastern part of the state) and scrapple (commonly found in Mid-Atlantic states like Pennsylvania and New Jersey), livermush differs from these two with its liver content + binding element.
•Scrapple tends to contain less liver, whereas livermush has a higher ratio of liver and liver pudding is made with flour, and therefore has a softer consistency.
•Early settlers made livermush in cast iron pots and stirred with wooden paddles, incorporating whatever bits of the hog had not been used previously. A regional food born of necessity and hard times, its popularity is thought to have grown during the Civil War because it was an affordable substitute for more expensive cuts of meat.
•Pork jowls, pork livers, Cornmeal, flour, salt, pepper, sage and water are the ingredients in livermush.
•Liver mush is often compared to breakfast sausage and is sometimes called the poor man's pâté.
•Hunters Livermush founders Roy and Gurthie Hunter started production in 1955 at their Marion facility.
•Livermush is certainly high in Vitamin A and Iron, but a 2 ounce slice contains 90 calories, 40 of them from fat. And if you’re one of those people who need to boost your cholesterol level, that 2 ounce slice will provide 17% of your daily cholesterol requirement.
•There are only five commercial livermush producers on the planet; Mack’s and Jenkins Livermush are located in Shelby in the southwestern part of the state, Hunters Livermush is in the mountain community of Marion, Neese’s is in the piedmont city of Greensboro and in tiny China Grove it’s Corriher’s.
•There are two livermush festivals held every year in North Carolina. Marion, North Carolina, has the Livermush Festival, and Shelby, North Carolina, hosts the Mutts, Music, and Mush Festival.
*Livermush is a natural relaxer, cures stress, cures anxiety, cures sadness and best of all is DELICIOUS. 😁
The name doesn’t do it any favors that’s for sure. Every culture has its prized foods that outsiders can’t stomach. People either LOVE it, won’t dare to even try it, or they hate it. For those of us who grew up on livermush, we love it and will gladly eat your share. 😊
Peace, Love, and Livermush. ❤️
-Written by Kimberly Wright, 2022
#appalachian#appalachian culture#appalachian mountains#north carolina#liver#southern food#mcdowellcounty#nc mountains
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bandit: now put that thing down, hoss.
me: oka- wait. hoss? Me?
bandit: *chuckles* ain’t no other man here!
me: I am the direct opposite of every meaning of the word hoss, bandit.
bandit: I know! that’s why it’s so fun to call you that *smiles*
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5, 21, and 39 for any/all (referring to the numbers ship post)
Righto!
5: Nicknames? Pet names? Any in-jokes?
Mundy is the king of nicknames—this is on behalf of being Australian. We fucking love nicknames. He calls Jesse everything under the sun with the common denominator being that they're all animal-themed—he'd called her rabbit for the longest time, but this one is never used as it drudges up bad memories. Instead he uses bun, which he deems more affectionate. Nicknames are also situational—he'll use bun and roo and love interchangeably, bilby when she's upset, and princess is strictly reserved for flirting or when he's in the mood. The only thing he doesn't call her that I personally hear a lot is possum, and that's because that was his dad's term for his mother and it hurts too much to use it. Jesse in the past has called Mundy Snipes and Red, but now she solely uses dingo or babe. Sometimes if she wants to tease him she'll affectionately use Mickey just to embarrass him. He loves it and loathes it at the same time. An inside joke between them is Jesse's inability to flip anything when it comes to cooking, be it eggs or pancakes, and Mundy's constant forgetfulness when it comes to where he leaves his cigarettes.
Suki doesn't have a nickname for Bruce—for her, using his actual first name is her version of a nickname, as she only uses the first names of people she's very close to (for example, Jesse has only ever heard Suki call her by her name one time, and that was when she was dying in Italy and Suki was trying to get her to calm down and focus). Bruce is the only person to call Suki her name to her face—everyone else either waits until she's out of the room, calls her doc or Okumura, or they call her Natsuki. Only Bruce has the privilege of walking up and calling her Suki and getting a smile in return. A running joke between them is Bruce saying subcutaneous at random intervals, since the first time he ever flirted with Suki he'd told her, "I like a woman who knows how to cut through subcutaneous tissue," and she'd responded, "I like a man who can say subcutaneous."
I'm adding Charles and Cindy in here because I want to. Cindy calls Charles Chuck, and Charles affectionately refers to Cindy as bluebell. This is because she was wearing a blue flower-print sundress the day he met her. Since Charles is Welsh his first expression of love toward Cindy was carving her a lovespoon, so now they regularly gift spoons to each other as an inside joke. When Charles finally returned to the Bronx with Jesse and saw Cindy after twenty years away, he offered her a silver spoon as an apology gift.
Ted would routinely call Liem cowboy and hoss. Liem called Ted kid and boy despite the fact that Liem was only three years older than him. Liem also affectionately used the name Teddy, and Ted was the only person allowed to call Liem by his first name, Sue. They had a thousand different inside jokes but the main one was gifting each other anything they deemed perfectly or near-perfectly spherical. Liem loves old ball grenades (he collects them!) and Ted loved baseball. The two idiots would routinely play baseball together, which mainly consisted of Liem pitching ball grenades and Ted whacking them into the firing range where they'd explode.
21: Do they share any interests or hobbies?
Jesse and Mundy have more in common than either of them think. They both love to read but in different aspects—Jesse loves comics and can't stand books, Mundy finds comics too visually distracting and prefers books. They both enjoy whittling in their free time, Mundy is a skilled artist when it comes to wildlife and especially birds whereas Jesse couldn't draw a bird to save her life. Half of the stuff they have in common are things Jesse saw Mundy doing, decided to give a try, and ended up enjoying.
Bruce enjoys watching Suki work, even if it's just filling out paperwork or looking over records. Suki loves to watch Bruce work out and sometimes he's able to convince her to sit on his back while he does push-ups. He finds this hilarious, she merely struggles to stay seated. Bruce is 100% keen on Suki experimenting on him (something that she consistently denies) and sometimes Bruce will take Suki fishing and let her gut what he catches because she's very good at it. Queen of deboning fish.
Cindy and Charles both share a penchant for current fashion, with Cindy being a hairdresser and Charles just... being Charles. Charles is suave and enjoys seducing Cindy (not that he really has to try) and Cindy eats it up. He'll take her out to fancy dinners, late-night drives in expensive cars, concerts at Carnegie Hall. Sometimes when they both have some time alone and aren't feeling up for anything exhausting Cindy will just style Charles' hair. She enjoys working with his curls and refuses to dye it no matter how often he asks because she likes the salt and pepper.
Liem and Ted both love baseball! Ted loved Liem's steady hands and would spend a few hours watching him work while he rigged explosives. Liem and Tamotu once built a batting cage for Ted (something that Jesse now uses) and Liem would waste an evening drinking beer and cheering on Ted from the sidelines until a baseball inevitably hit Ted in the face because he was distracted. Liem used to bring Ted to rodeos and show off to him in the ring.
39: Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first? When did they realize they were in love?
Not answering for Jesse and Mundy because spoilers.
Bruce punched a sentry to pieces during a match, didn't go through RESPAWN before it was shut off, and so Suki spent an hour repairing his knuckles and fixing a tendon he'd cut by accident. Somewhere between making the incision and her pulling on his tendon with her forceps and saying "Look at this" while she made his fingers curl, he decided she looked mighty attractive and he kissed her. They skirted around each other for a few weeks after that (which the team suffered for during matches) but eventually he went to go to see her to apologise and she pulled him into her clinic. One thing led to another and they've been together ever since. They probably realised they loved each other at some point during the Robot Crisis. Suki is rarely sent through RESPAWN as she's generally very self-sufficient and aware on the battlefield with a habit of looking out for herself. Her realisation was Bruce telling her that he needed her to follow him into the fray during a particularly bad robot assault and her agreeing to do it without a second of hesitation toward her own self-preservation. Bruce had likely known it far sooner, from the day Suki put the uber implant into his heart with his full trust in her to succeed.
Charles pursued Cindy heavily and was consistently the one to make the first move. That said, Cindy was the one who kissed Charles first, just a quick peck on the lips before he left one evening. It'd worked, and he kept coming back for more. Cindy was well aware that she loved Charles long before he acknowledged it, likely when she saw how he interacted with her four sons. Charles didn't realise how much he actually loved Cindy until they'd learnt that she was pregnant and he had to make the decision to stay or leave. He stayed, but only for eight months after Jesse was born. Leaving was the hardest decision he ever had to make.
Liem is the kind of bloke to flirt with someone as a show of friendliness, whereas Ted was definitely more reserved with affection. Despite that, Ted was the one who made the first move and kissed Liem during a quiet night they'd spent fishing alone. Love was never explicitly mentioned between either of them—Ted would've said something along the lines of "That's gay, man,"—but Liem didn't realise how much he loved Ted until the day he lost him. The fact he'd never been able to admit how much Ted meant to him still haunts him. The only thing that haunts him more is the fact he'll never know if Ted felt the same way.
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The Wooing of Miss Woppit
by Eugene Field
Second Book of Tales, published 1896
You can find the whole, public domain book here on Project Gutenberg.
This short story is 11,000 ish words long.
It was definitely written with transphobic intent, but, being public domain (meaning anyone and everyone has free reign to do with it whatever they want, including rewriting it into a full-length novel or a movie or literally anything), anyone who wants to could very easily fix that, considering it's just the very end that's transphobic.
Anyways this author died in 1895 and we should celebrate because he's a misogynist as well as a transphobe. The book this is from was actually published the year after he died lol.
____
The Wooing of Miss Woppit
At that time the camp was new. Most of what was called the valuable property was owned by an English syndicate, but there were many who had small claims scattered here and there on the mountainside, and Three-fingered Hoover and I were rightly reckoned among these others. The camp was new and rough to the degree of uncouthness, yet, upon the whole, the little population was well disposed and orderly. But along in the spring of '81, finding that we numbered eight hundred, with electric lights, telephones, a bank, a meeting-house, a race-track, and such-like modern improvements, we of Red Hoss Mountain became possessed of the notion to have a city government; so nothing else would do but to proceed at once and solemnly to the choice of a mayor, marshal, clerk, and other municipal officers. The spirit of party politics (as it is known and as it controls things elsewhere) did not enter into the short and active canvass; there were numerous candidates for each office, all were friends, and the most popular of the lot were to win. The campaign was fervent but good-natured.
I shall venture to say that Jim Woppit would never have been elected city marshal but for the potent circumstance that several of the most influential gentlemen in the camp were in love with Jim's sister; that was Jim's hold on these influences, and that was why he was elected.
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Yet Jim was what you 'd call a good fellow—not that he was fair to look upon, for he was not; he was swarthy and heavy-featured and hulking; but he was a fair-speaking man, and he was always ready to help out the boys when they went broke or were elsewise in trouble. Yes, take him all in all, Jim Woppit was properly fairly popular, although, as I shall always maintain, he would never have been elected city marshal over Buckskin and Red Drake and Salty Boardman if it had n't been (as I have intimated) for the backing he got from Hoover, Jake Dodsley, and Barber Sam. These three men last named were influences in the camp, enterprising and respected citizens, with plenty of sand in their craws and plenty of stuff in their pockets; they loved Miss Woppit, and they were in honor bound to stand by the interests of the brother of that fascinating young woman.
I was not surprised that they were smitten; she might have caught me, too, had it not been for the little woman and the three kids back in the states. As handsome and as gentle a lady was Miss Woppit as ever walked a white pine floor—so very different from White River Ann, and Red Drake's wife, and old man Edgar's daughter, for they were magpies who chattered continually and maliciously, hating Miss Woppit because she wisely chose to have nothing to do with them. She lived with her brother Jim on the side-hill, just off the main road, in the cabin that Smooth Ephe Hicks built before he was thrown off his broncho into the gulch. It was a pretty but lonesome place, about three-quarters of a mile from the camp, adjoining the claim which Jim Woppit worked in a lazy sort of way—Jim being fairly well fixed, having sold off a coal farm in Illinois just before he came west.
In this little cabin abode Miss Woppit during the period of her wooing, a period covering, as I now recall, six or, may be, eight months. She was so pretty, so modest, so diligent, so homekeeping, and so shy, what wonder that those lonely, heart-hungry men should fall in love with her? In all the population of the camp the number of women was fewer than two score, and of this number half were married, others were hopeless spinsters, and others were irretrievably bad, only excepting Miss Woppit, the prettiest, the tidiest, the gentlest of all. She was good, pure, and lovely in her womanliness; I shall not say that I envied—no, I respected Hoover and Dodsley and Barber Sam for being stuck on the girl; you 'd have respected 'em, too, if you 'd seen her and—and them. But I did take it to heart because Miss Woppit seemed disinclined to favor any suit for her fair hand—particularly because she was by no means partial to Three-fingered Hoover, as square a man as ever struck pay dirt—dear old pardner, your honest eyes will never read these lines, between which speaks my lasting love for you!
In the first place, Miss Woppit would never let the boys call on her of an evening unless her brother Jim was home; she had strict notions about that sort of thing which she would n't waive. I reckon she was right according to the way society looks at these things, but it was powerful hard on Three-fingered Hoover and Jake Dodsley and Barber Sam to be handicapped by etiquette when they had their bosoms chock full of love and were dying to tell the girl all about it.
Jake Dodsley came a heap nearer than the others to letting Miss Woppit know what his exact feelings were. He was a poet of no mean order. What he wrote was printed regularly in Cad Davis' Leadville paper under the head of "Pearls of Pegasus," and all us Red Hoss Mountain folks allowed that next to Willie Pabor of Denver our own Jake Dodsley had more of the afflatus in him than any other living human poet. Hoover appreciated Jake's genius, even though Jake was his rival. It was Jake's custom to write poems at Miss Woppit—poems breathing the most fervid sentiment, all about love and bleeding hearts and unrequited affection. The papers containing these effusions he would gather together with rare diligence, and would send them, marked duly with a blue or a red pencil, to Miss Woppit.
The poem which Hoover liked best was one entitled "True Love," and Hoover committed it to memory—yes, he went even further; he hired Professor De Blanc (Casey's piano player) to set it to music, and this office the professor discharged nobly, producing a simple but solemn-like melody which Hoover was wont to sing in feeling wise, poor, dear, misguided fellow that he was! Seems to me I can hear his big, honest, husky, voice lifted up even now in rendition of that expression of his passion:
Turrue love never dies—
Like a river flowin'
In its course it gathers force,
Broader, deeper growin';
Strength'nin' in the storms 'at come,
Triumphin' in sorrer,
Till To-day fades away
In the las' To-morrer.
Wot though Time flies?
Turrue love never dies!
Moreover, Three-fingered Hoover discoursed deftly upon the fiddle; at obligates and things he was not much, but at real music he could not be beat. Called his fiddle "Mother," because his own mother was dead, and being he loved her and had no other way of showing it, why, he named his fiddle after her. Three-fingered Hoover was full of just such queer conceits.
Barber Sam was another music genius; his skill as a performer upon the guitar was one of the marvels of the camp. Nor had he an indifferent voice—Prof. De Blanc allowed that if Barber Sam's voice had been cultured at the proper time—by which I suppose he meant in youth—Barber Sam would undoubtedly have become "one of the brightest constellations in the operatic firmament." Moreover, Barber Sam had a winsome presence; a dapper body was he, with a clear olive skin, soulful eyes, a noble mustache, and a splendid suit of black curly hair. His powers of conversation were remarkable—that fact, coupled with his playing the guitar and wearing plaid clothes, gave him the name of Barber Sam, for he was not really a barber; was only just like one.
In the face of all their wooing, Miss Woppit hardened her heart against these three gentlemen, any one of whom the highest lady in the land might have been proud to catch. The girl was not inclined to affairs of the heart; she cared for no man but her brother Jim. What seemed to suit her best was to tend to things about the cabin—it was called The Bower, the poet Jake Dodsley having given it that name—to till the little garden where the hollyhocks grew, and to stroll away by herself on the hillside or down through Magpie Glen, beside the gulch. A queer, moodful creature she was; unlike other girls, so far as we were able to judge. She just doted on Jim, and Jim only—how she loved that brother you shall know presently.
It was lucky that we organized a city government when we did. All communities have streaks of bad luck, and it was just after we had elected a mayor, a marshal, and a full quota of officers that Red Hoss Mountain had a spell of experiences that seemed likely at one time to break up the camp. There 's no telling where it all would have ended if we had n't happened to have a corps of vigilant and brave men in office, determined to maintain law and order at all personal hazards. With a camp, same as 'tis with dogs, it is mighty unhealthy to get a bad name.
The tidal wave of crime—if I may so term it—struck us three days after the election. I remember distinctly that all our crowd was in at Casey's, soon after nightfall, indulging in harmless pleasantries, such as eating, drinking, and stud poker. Casey was telling how he had turned several cute tricks on election day, and his recital recalled to others certain exciting experiences they had had in the states; so, in an atmosphere of tobacco, beer, onions, wine, and braggadocio, and with the further delectable stimulus of seven-year-old McBrayer, the evening opened up congenially and gave great promise. The boys were convivial, if not boisterous. But Jim Woppit, wearing the big silver star of his exalted office on his coat-front, was present in the interests of peace and order, and the severest respect was shown to the newly elected representative of municipal dignity and authority.
All of a sudden, sharp, exacting, and staccato-like, the telephone sounded; seemed like it said, "Quick—trouble—help!" By the merest chance—a lucky chance—Jim Woppit happened to be close by, and he reached for the telephone and answered the summons.
"Yes." "Where?" "You bet—right away!"
That was what Jim said; of course, we heard only one side of the talk. But we knew that something—something remarkable had happened. Jim was visibly excited; he let go the telephone, and, turning around, full over against us, he said, "By ——, boys! the stage hez been robbed!"
A robbery! The first in the Red Hoss Mountain country! Every man leapt to his feet and broke for the door, his right hand thrust instinctively back toward his hip pocket. There was blood in every eye.
Hank Eaves' broncho was tied in front of Casey's.
"Tell me where to go," says Hank, "and I 'll git thar in a minnit. I 'm fixed."
"No, Hank," says Jim Woppit, commanding like, "I 'll go. I 'm city marshal, an' it's my place to go—I 'm the repersentive of law an' order an' I 'll enforce 'em—damn me ef I don't!"
"That's bizness—Jim's head 's level!" cried Barber Sam.
"Let Jim have the broncho," the rest of us counselled, and Hank had to give in, though he hated to, for he was spoiling for trouble—cussedest fellow for fighting you ever saw! Jim threw himself astride the spunky little broncho and was off like a flash.
"Come on, boys," he called back to us; "come on, ez fast ez you kin to the glen!"
Of course we could n't anywhere near keep up with him; he was soon out of sight. But Magpie Glen was only a bit away—just a trifle up along the main road beyond the Woppit cabin. Encouraged by the excitement of the moment and by the whooping of Jake Dodsley, who opined (for being a poet he always opined) that some evil might have befallen his cherished Miss Woppit—incited by these influences we made all haste. But Miss Woppit was presumably safe, for as we hustled by The Bower we saw the front room lighted up and the shadow of Miss Woppit's slender figure flitting to and fro behind the white curtain. She was frightened almost to death, poor girl!
It appeared from the story of Steve Barclay, the stage-driver, that along about eight o'clock the stage reached the glen—a darkish, dismal spot, and the horses, tired and sweaty, toiled almost painfully up the short stretch of rising ground. There were seven people in the stage: Mr. Mills, superintendent of the Royal Victoria mine; a travelling man (or drummer) from Chicago, one Pryor, an invalid tenderfoot, and four miners returning from a round-up at Denver. Steve Barclay was the only person outside. As the stage reached the summit of the little hill the figure of a man stole suddenly from the thicket by the roadside, stood directly in front of the leading horses, and commanded a halt. The movement was so sudden as to terrify the horses, and the consequence was that, in shying, the brutes came near tipping the coach completely over. Barclay was powerless to act, for the assailant covered him with two murderous revolvers and bade him throw up his hands.
Then the men in the coach were ordered out and compelled to disgorge their valuables, the robber seeming to identify and to pay particular attention to Mr. Mills, the superintendent, who had brought with him from Denver a large sum of money. When the miners made a slight show of resistance the assailant called to his comrades in the bush to fire upon the first man who showed fight; this threat induced a wise resignation to the inevitable. Having possessed himself in an incredibly short time of his booty, the highwayman backed into the thicket and quickly made off. The procedure from first to last occupied hardly more than five minutes.
The victims of this outrage agreed that the narrative as I have given it was in the main correct. Barclay testified that he saw the barrels of rifles gleaming from the thicket when the outlaw called to his confederates. On the other hand, Mr. Mills, who was the principal loser by the affair, insisted that the outlaw did his work alone, and that his command to his alleged accomplices was merely a bluff. There was, too, a difference in the description given of the highwayman, some of the party describing him as a short, thick-set man, others asserting that he was tall and slender. Of his face no sight had been obtained, for he wore a half-mask and a large slouch hat pulled well down over his ears. But whatever dispute there may have been as to details, one thing was sure—robbery had been done, and the robber had fled with four gold watches and cash to the amount of, say, two thousand five hundred dollars.
Recovering betimes from their alarm and bethinking themselves of pursuit of the outlaws, the helpless victims proceeded to push into camp to arouse the miners. It was then that Barclay discovered that the tire of one of the front wheels had come off in the jolt and wrench caused by the frightened horses. As no time was to be lost, Barclay suggested that somebody run down the road to Woppit's cabin and telephone to camp. Mr. Mills and the Chicago drummer undertook this errand. After considerable parley—for Miss Woppit wisely insisted upon being convinced of her visitors' honorable intentions—these two men were admitted, and so the alarm was transmitted to Casey's, Miss Woppit meanwhile exhibiting violent alarm lest her brother Jim should come to harm in pursuing the fugitives.
As for Jim Woppit, he never once lost his head. When the rest of us came up to the scene of the robbery he had formed a plan of pursuit. It was safe, he said, to take for granted that there was a gang of the outlaws. They would undoubtedly strike for Eagle Pass, since there was no possible way of escape in the opposite direction, the gulch, deep and wide, following the main road close into camp. Ten of us should go with him—ten of the huskiest miners mounted upon the stanchest bronchoes the camp could supply. "We shall come up with the hellions before mornin'," said he, and then he gritted his teeth significantly. A brave man and a cool man, you 'll allow; good-hearted, too, for in the midst of all the excitement he thought of his sister, and he said, almost tenderly, to Three-fingered Hoover: "I can trust you, pardner, I know. Go up to the cabin and tell her it's all right—that I 'll be back to-morrow and that she must n't be skeered. And if she is skeered, why, you kind o' hang round there to-night and act like you knew everything was all O. K."
"But may be Hoover 'll be lonesome," suggested Barber Sam. He was a sly dog.
"Then you go 'long too," said Jim Woppit. "Tell her I said so."
Three-fingered Hoover would rather—a good deal rather—have gone alone. Yet, with all that pardonable selfishness, he recognized a certain impropriety in calling alone at night upon an unprotected female. So Hoover accepted, though not gayly, of Barber Sam's escort, and in a happy moment it occurred to the twain that it might be a pious idea to take their music instruments with them. Hardly, therefore, had Jim Woppit and his posse flourished out of camp when Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam, carrying Mother and the famous guitar, returned along the main road toward The Bower.
When the cabin came in view—the cabin on the side hill with hollyhocks standing guard round it—one of those subtle fancies in which Barber Sam's active brain abounded possessed Barber Sam. It was to convey to Miss Woppit's ear good tidings upon the wings of music. "Suppose we play 'All's Well'?" suggested Barber Sam. "That'll let her know that everything's O. K."
"Just the thing!" answered Three-fingered Hoover, and then he added, and he meant it: "Durned if you ain't jest about as slick as they make 'em, pardner!"
The combined efforts of the guitar and Mother failed, however, to produce any manifestation whatever, so far as Miss Woppit was concerned. The light in the front room of the cabin glowed steadily, but no shadow of the girl's slender form was to be seen upon the white muslin curtain. So the two men went up the gravelly walk and knocked firmly but respectfully at the door.
They had surmised that Miss Woppit might be asleep, but, oh, no, not she. She was not the kind of sister to be sleeping when her brother was in possible danger. The answer to the firm but respectful knocking was immediate.
"Who's there and what do you want?" asked Miss Woppit in tremulous tones, with her face close to the latch. There was no mistaking the poor thing's alarm.
"It's only us gents," answered Three-fingered Hoover, "me an' Barber Sam; did n't you hear us serenadin' you a minnit ago? We 've come to tell you that everything 's all right—Jim told us to come—he told us to tell you not to be skeered, and if you wuz skeered how we gents should kind of hang round here to-night; be you skeered, Miss Woppit? Your voice sounds sort o' like you wuz."
Having now unbolted and unlatched and opened the door, Miss Woppit confessed that she was indeed alarmed; the pallor of her face confirmed that confession. Where was Jim? Had they caught the robbers? Was there actually no possibility of Jim's getting shot or stabbed or hurt? These and similar questions did the girl put to the two men, who, true to their trust, assured the timorous creature in well-assumed tones of confidence that her brother could n't get hurt, no matter how hard he might try.
To make short of a long tale, I will say that the result of the long parley, in which Miss Woppit exhibited a most charming maidenly embarrassment, was that Three-fingered Hoover and Barber Sam were admitted to the cabin for the night. It was understood—nay, it was explicitly set forth, that they should have possession of the front room wherein they now stood, while Miss Woppit was to retire to her apartment beyond, which, according to popular fame and in very truth, served both as a kitchen and Miss Woppit's bedroom, there being only two rooms in the cabin.
This front room had in it a round table, a half-dozen chairs, a small sheet-iron stove, and a rude kind of settee that served Jim Woppit for a bed by night. There were some pictures hung about on the walls—neither better nor poorer than the pictures invariably found in the homes of miners. There was the inevitable portrait of John C. Fremont and the inevitable print of the pathfinder planting his flag on the summit of Pike's Peak; a map of Colorado had been ingeniously invested with an old looking-glass frame, and there were several cheap chromos of flowers and fruit, presumably Miss Woppit's contributions to the art stores of the household. Upon the centre table, which was covered with a square green cloth, stood a large oil lamp, whose redolence and constant spluttering testified pathetically to its neglect. There were two books on the table—viz., an old "Life of Kit Carson" and a bound file of the "Police News," abounding, as you will surmise, in atrocious delineations of criminal life. We can understand that a volume of police literature would not be out of place in the home of an executive of the law.
Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by the hearty protestations of Hoover and Barber Sam as to her brother's security, hoped that all would be well. With evident diffidence she bade her guests make themselves at home; there was plenty of wood in the box behind the stove and plenty of oil in the tell-tale lamp; she fetched a big platter of crackers, a mammoth cut of cheese, a can of cove oysters, and a noble supply of condiments. Did the gents reckon they would be comfortable? The gents smiled and bowed obsequiously, neither, however, indulging in conversation to any marked degree, for, as was quite natural, each felt in the presence of his rival a certain embarrassment which we can fancy Miss Woppit respected if she did not enjoy it.
Finally Miss Woppit retired to her own delectable bower in the kitchen with the parting remark that she would sleep in a sense of perfect security; this declaration flattered her protectors, albeit she had no sooner closed the door than she piled the kitchen woodbox and her own small trunk against it—a proceeding that touched Three-fingered Hoover deeply and evoked from him a tender expression as to the natural timidity of womankind, which sentiment the crafty Barber Sam instantly indorsed in a tone loud enough for the lady to hear.
It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that night. Following the moving of that woodbox and that small trunk there was no sound of betrayal if Miss Woppit did not sleep. Once the men in the front room were startled by the woman's voice crying out, "Jim—oh, Jim!" in tones of such terror as to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept and dreamed frightful dreams.
The men themselves were wakeful enough; they were there to protect a lady, and they were in no particular derelict to that trust. Sometimes they talked together in the hushed voices that beseem a sick-chamber; anon they took up their music apparata and thrummed and sawed therefrom such harmonies as would seem likely to lull to sweeter repose the object of their affection in the adjoining chamber beyond the woodbox and the small trunk; the circumstance of the robbery they discussed in discreet tones, both agreeing that the highwaymen were as good as dead by this time. We can fancy that the twain were distinctly annoyed upon discovering in one corner of the room, during their vigils, a number of Leadville and Denver newspapers containing sonnets, poems, odes, triolets, and such like, conspicuously marked with blue or red pencil tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, at Miss Woppit's virgin heart. This was the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley! This was his ingenious way of storming the citadel of the coy maiden's affections.
The discovery led Barber Sam to ventilate his opinion of the crafty Dodsley, an opinion designedly pitched in a high and stentorian key and expressive of everything but compliment. On the contrary, Three-fingered Hoover—a guileless man, if ever there was one—stood bravely up for Jake, imputing this artifice of his to a passion which knows no ethics so far as competition is concerned. It was true, as Hoover admitted, that poets seldom make good husbands, but, being an exceptionally good poet, Jake might prove also an exception in matrimony, providing he found a wife at his time of life. But as to the genius of the man there could be no question; not even the poet Pabor had in all his glory done a poem so fine as that favorite poem of Hoover's, which, direct from the burning types of the "Leadville Herald," Hoover had committed to the tablets of his memory and was wont to repeat or sing on all occasions to the aggrandizement of Jake Dodsley's fame. Gradually the trend of the discussion led to the suggestion that Hoover sing this favorite poem, and this he did in a soothing, soulful voice. Barber Sam accompanying him upon that wondrous guitar. What a picture that must have been! Even upon the mountain-sides of that far-off West human hearts respond tenderly to the touch of love.
—Wot though time flies?
Turrue love never dies!
That honest voice—oh, could I hear it now! That honest face—oh, could I see it again! And, oh, that once more I could feel the clasp of that brave hand and the cordial grace of that dear, noble presence!
It was in the fall of the year; the nights were long, yet this night sped quickly. Long before daybreak significant sounds in the back room betokened that Miss Woppit was up and moving around. Through the closed door and from behind the improvised rampart of wood-box and small trunk the young lady informed her chivalric protectors that they might go home, prefacing this permission, however, with a solicitous inquiry as to whether anything had been heard from Brother Jim and his posse.
Jim Woppit and his men must have had a hard ride of it. They did not show up in camp until eleven o'clock that day, and a tougher-looking outfit you never saw. They had scoured the surrounding country with the utmost diligence, yet no trace whatever had they discovered of the outlaws; the wretches had disappeared so quickly, so mysteriously, that it seemed hard to believe that they had indeed existed. The crime, so boldly and so successfully done, was of course the one theme of talk, of theory, and of speculation in all that region for the conventional period of nine days. And then it appeared to be forgotten, or, at least, men seldom spoke of it, and presently it came to be accepted as the popular belief that the robbery had been committed by a gang of desperate tramps, this theory being confirmed by a certain exploit subsequently in the San Juan country, an exploit wherein three desperate tramps assaulted the triweekly road-hack, and, making off with their booty, were ultimately taken and strung up to a convenient tree.
Still, the reward of one thousand dollars offered by the city government of Red Hoss Mountain for information leading to the arrest of the glen robbers was not withdrawn, and there were those in the camp who quietly persevered in the belief that the outrage had been done by parties as yet undiscovered, if not unsuspected. Mr. Mills, the superintendent of the Royal Victoria, had many a secret conference with Jim Woppit, and it finally leaked out that the cold, discriminating, and vigilant eye of eternal justice was riveted upon Steve Barclay, the stage-driver. Few of us suspected Steve; he was a good-natured, inoffensive fellow; it seemed the idlest folly to surmise that he could have been in collusion with the highwaymen. But Mr. Mills had his own ideas on the subject; he was a man of positive convictions, and, having pretty nearly always demonstrated that he was in the right, it boded ill for Steve Barclay when Mr. Mills made up his mind that Steve must have been concerned in one way or another in that Magpie Glen crime.
The wooing of Miss Woppit pursued the even tenor of its curious triple way. Wars and rumors of wars served merely to imbue it with certain heroic fervor. Jake Dodsley's contributions to the "Leadville Herald" and to Henry Feldwisch's Denver "Inter-Ocean," though still aimed at the virgin mistress of The Bower, were pitched in a more exalted key and breathed a spirit that defied all human dangers. What though death confronted the poet and the brutal malice of nocturnal marauders threatened the object of his adoration, what, short of superhuman intervention, should prevent the poet from baffling all hostile environments and placing the queen of his heart securely upon his throne beside him, etc., etc.? We all know how the poets go it when they once get started. The Magpie Glen affair gave Jake Dodsley a new impulse, and marked copies of his wonderful effusions found their way to the Woppit cabin in amazing plenty and with exceeding frequency. In a moment of vindictive bitterness was Barber Sam heard to intimate that the robbery was particularly to be regretted for having served to open the sluices of Jake Dodsley's poetic soul.
'T was the purest comedy, this wooing was; through it all the finger of fate traced a deep line of pathos. The poetic Dodsley, with his inexhaustible fund of rhyme, of optimism and of subtlety; Barber Sam, with his envy, his jealousy, and his garrulity; Three-fingered Hoover with his manly yearning, timorousness, tenderness, and awkwardness—these three in a seemingly vain quest of love reciprocated; the girl, fair, lonely, dutiful—filled with devotion to her brother and striving, amid it all, to preserve a proper womanly neutrality toward these other men; there was in this little comedy among those distant hills so much of real pathos.
As for Jim Woppit, he showed not the slightest partiality toward any one of the three suitors; with all he was upon terms of equal friendship. It seemed as if Jim had made up his mind in the beginning to let the best one win; it was a free, fair, square race, so far as Jim was concerned, and that was why Jim always had stanch backers in Jake Dodsley, Barber Sam, and Three-fingered Hoover.
My sympathies were all with Hoover; he and I were pardners. He loved the girl in his own beautiful, awkward way. He seldom spoke of her to me, for he was not the man to unfold what his heart treasured. He was not an envious man, yet sometimes he would tell how he regretted that early education had not fallen to his lot, for in that case he, too, might have been a poet. Mother—the old red fiddle—was his solace. Coming home to our cabin late of nights I'd hear him within scraping away at that tune De Blanc had written for him, and he believed what Mother sung to him in her squeaky voice of the deathlessness of true love. And many a time—I can tell it now—many a time in the dead of night I have known him to steal out of the cabin with Mother and go up the main road to the gateway of The Bower, where, in moonlight or in darkness (it mattered not to him), he would repeat over and over again that melancholy tune, hoping thereby to touch the sensibilities of the lady of his heart.
In the early part of February there was a second robbery. This time the stage was overhauled at Lone Pine, a ranch five miles beyond the camp. The details of this affair were similar to those of the previous business in the glen. A masked man sprang from the roadside, presented two revolvers at Steve Barclay's head, and called upon all within the stage to come out, holding up their hands. The outrage was successfully carried out, but the booty was inconsiderable, somewhat less than eight hundred dollars falling into the highwayman's hands. The robber and his pals fled as before; the time that elapsed before word could be got to camp facilitated the escape of the outlaws.
A two days' scouring of the surrounding country revealed absolutely no sign or trace of the fugitives. But it was pretty evident now that the two crimes had been committed by a gang intimately acquainted with, if not actually living in, the locality. Confirmation of this was had when five weeks later the stage was again stopped and robbed at Lone Pine under conditions exactly corresponding with the second robbery. The mystery baffled the wits of all. Intense excitement prevailed; a reward of five thousand dollars was advertised for the apprehension of the outlaws; the camp fairly seethed with rage, and the mining country for miles around was stirred by a determination to hunt out and kill the miscreants. Detectives came from Denver and snooped around. Everybody bought extra guns and laid in a further supply of ammunition. Yet the stage robbers—bless you! nobody could find hide or hair of 'em.
Miss Woppit stood her share of the excitement and alarm as long as she could, and then she spoke her mind to Jim. He told us about it. Miss Woppit owed a certain duty to Jim, she said; was it not enough for her to be worried almost to death with fears for his safety as marshal of the camp? Was it fair that in addition to this haunting terror she should be constantly harassed by a consciousness of her own personal danger? She was a woman and alone in a cabin some distance from any other habitation; one crime had been committed within a step of that isolated cabin; what further crime might not be attempted by the miscreants?
"The girl is skeered," said Jim Woppit, "and I don't know that I wonder at it. Women folks is nervous-like, anyhow, and these doings of late hev been enough to worrit the strongest of us men."
"Why, there ain't an hour in the day," testified Casey, "that Miss Woppit don't telephone down here to ask whether everything is all right, and whether Jim is O. K."
"I know it," said Jim. "The girl is skeered, and I 'd oughter thought of it before. I must bring her down into the camp to live. Jest ez soon ez I can git the lumber I 'll put up a cabin on the Bush lot next to the bank."
Jim owned the Bush lot, as it was called. He had talked about building a store there in the spring, but we all applauded this sudden determination to put up a cabin instead, a home for his sister. That was a determination that bespoke a thoughtfulness and a tenderness that ennobled Jim Woppit in our opinions. It was the square thing.
Barber Sam, ever fertile in suggestion, allowed that it might be a pious idea for Miss Woppit to move down to the Mears House and board there until the new cabin was built. Possibly the circumstance that Barber Sam himself boarded at the Mears House did not inspire this suggestion. At any rate, the suggestion seemed a good one, but Jim duly reported that his sister thought it better to stay in the old place till the new place was ready; she had stuck it out so far, and she would try to stick it out the little while longer yet required.
This ultimatum must have interrupted the serenity of Barber Sam's temper; he broke his E string that evening, and half an hour later somebody sat down on the guitar and cracked it irremediably.
And now again it was spring. Nothing can keep away the change in the season. In the mountain country the change comes swiftly, unheralded. One day it was bleak and cheerless; the next day brought with it the grace of sunshine and warmth; as if by magic, verdure began to deck the hillsides, and we heard again the cheerful murmur of waters in the gulch. The hollyhocks about The Bower shot up once more and put forth their honest, rugged leaves. In this divine springtime, who could think evil, who do it?
Sir Charles Lackington, president of the Royal Victoria mine, was now due at the camp. He represented the English syndicate that owned the large property. Ill health compelled him to live at Colorado Springs. Once a year he visited Red Hoss Mountain, and always in May. It was announced that he would come to the camp by Tuesday's stage. That stage was robbed by that mysterious outlaw and his gang. But Sir Charles happened not to be among the passengers.
This robbery (the fourth altogether) took place at a point midway between Lone Pine and the glen. The highwayman darted upon the leading horses as they were descending the hill and so misdirected their course that the coach was overturned in the brush at the roadside. In the fall Steve Barclay's right arm was broken. With consummate coolness the highwayman (now positively described as a thick-set man, with a beard) proceeded to relieve his victims of their valuables, but not until he had called, as was his wont, to his confederates in ambush to keep the passengers covered with their rifles. The outlaw inquired which of his victims was Sir Charles Lackington, and evinced rage when he learned that that gentleman was not among the passengers by coach.
It happened that Jake Dodsley was one of the victims of the highwayman's greed. He had been to Denver and was bringing home a pair of elaborate gold earrings which he intended for—for Miss Woppit, of course. Poets have deeper and stronger feelings than common folk. Jake Dodsley's poetic nature rebelled when he found himself deprived of those lovely baubles intended for the idol of his heart. So, no sooner had the outlaw retreated to the brush than Jake Dodsley whipped out his gun and took to the same brush, bent upon an encounter with his despoiler. Poor Jake never came from the brush alive. The rest heard the report of a rifle shot, and when, some time later, they found Jake, he was dead, with a rifle ball in his head.
The first murder done and the fourth robbery! Yet the mystery was as insoluble as ever. Of what avail was the rage of eight hundred miners, the sagacity of the indefatigable officers of the law, and the united efforts of the vengeance-breathing population throughout the country round about to hunt the murderers down? Why, it seemed as if the devil himself were holding justice up to ridicule and scorn.
We had the funeral next day. Sir Charles Lackington came by private wagon in the morning; his daughter was with him. Their escape from participation in the affair of the previous day naturally filled them with thanksgiving, yet did not abate their sympathy for the rest of us in our mourning over the dead poet. Sir Charles was the first to suggest a fund for a monument to poor Jake, and he headed the subscription list with one hundred dollars, cash down. A noble funeral it was; everybody cried; at the grave Three-fingered Hoover recited the poem about true love and Jim Woppit threw in a wreath of hollyhock leaves which his sister had sent—the poor thing was too sick to come herself. She must have cared more for Jake than she had ever let on, for she took to her bed when she heard that he was dead.
Amid the deepest excitement further schemes for the apprehension of the criminals who had so long baffled detection were set on foot and—but this is not a story of crime; it is the story of a wooing, and I must not suffer myself to be drawn away from the narrative of that wooing. With the death of the poet Dodsley one actor fell out of the little comedy. And yet another stepped in at once. You would hardly guess who it was—Mary Lackington. This seventeen-year-old girl favored her father in personal appearance and character; she was of the English type of blonde beauty—a light-hearted, good-hearted, sympathetic creature who recognized it as her paramount duty to minister to her invalid father. He had been her instructor in books, he had conducted her education, he had directed her amusements, he had been her associate—in short, father and daughter were companions, and from that sweet companionship both derived a solace and wisdom precious above all things else. Mary Lackington was, perhaps, in some particulars mature beyond her years; the sweetness, the simplicity, and the guilelessness of her character was the sweetness, the simplicity, and the guilelessness of childhood. Fair and innocent, this womanly maiden came into the comedy of that mountain wooing.
Three-fingered Hoover had never been regarded an artful man, but now, all at once, for the first time in his life, he practised a subtlety. He became acquainted with Mary Lackington; I am not sure that he did not meet Sir Charles at the firemen's muster in Pueblo some years before. Getting acquainted with Miss Mary was no hard thing; the girl flitted whithersoever she pleased, and she enjoyed chatting with the miners, whom she found charmingly fresh, original, and manly, and as for the miners, they simply adored Miss Mary. Sir Charles owed his popularity largely to his winsome daughter.
Mary was not long in discovering that Three-fingered Hoover had a little romance all of his own. Maybe some of the other boys told her about it. At any rate, Mary was charmed, and without hesitation she commanded Hoover to confess all. How the big, awkward fellow ever got through with it I for my part can't imagine, but tell her he did—yes, he fairly unbosomed his secret, and Mary was still more delighted and laughed and declared that it was the loveliest love story she had ever heard. Right here was where Hoover's first and only subtlety came in.
"And now, Miss Mary," says he, "you can do me a good turn, and I hope you will do it. Get acquainted with the lady and work it up with her for me. Tell her that you know—not that I told you, but that you happen to have found it out, that I like her—like her better 'n anybody else; that I 'm the pure stuff; that if anybody ties to me they can find me thar every time and can bet their last case on me! Don't lay it on too thick, but sort of let on I 'm O. K. You women understand such things—if you 'll help me locate this claim I 'm sure everything 'll pan out all right; will ye?"
The bare thought of promoting a love affair set Mary nearly wild with enthusiasm. She had read of experiences of this kind, but of course she had never participated in any. She accepted the commission gayly yet earnestly. She would seek Miss Woppit at once, and she would be so discreet in her tactics—yes, she would be as artful as the most skilled diplomat at the court of love.
Had she met Miss Woppit? Yes, and then again no. She had been rambling in the glen yesterday and, coming down the road, had stopped near the pathway leading to The Bower to pick a wild flower of exceeding brilliancy. About to resume her course to camp she became aware that another stood near her. A woman, having passed noiselessly from the cabin, stood in the gravelly pathway looking upon the girl with an expression wholly indefinable. The woman was young, perhaps twenty; she was tall and of symmetrical form, though rather stout; her face was comely, perchance a bit masculine in its strength of features, and the eyes were shy, but of swift and certain glance, as if instantaneously they read through and through the object upon which they rested.
"You frightened me," said Mary Lackington, and she had been startled, truly; "I did not hear you coming, and so I was frightened when I saw you standing there."
To this explanation the apparition made no answer, but continued to regard Mary steadfastly with the indefinable look—an expression partly of admiration, partly of distrust, partly of appeal, perhaps. Mary Lackington grew nervous; she did therefore the most sensible thing she could have done under the circumstances—she proceeded on her way homeward.
This, then, was Mary's first meeting with Miss Woppit. Not particularly encouraging to a renewal of the acquaintance; yet now that Mary had so delicate and so important a mission to execute she burned to know more of the lonely creature on that hill side, and she accepted with enthusiasm, as I have said, the charge committed to her by the enamored Hoover.
Sir Charles and his daughter remained at the camp about three weeks. In that time Mary became friendly with Miss Woppit, as intimate, in fact, as it was possible for anybody to become with her. Mary found herself drawn strangely and inexplicably toward the woman. The fascination which Miss Woppit exercised over her was altogether new to Mary; here was a woman of lowly birth and in lowly circumstances, illiterate, neglected, lonely, yet possessing a charm—an indefinable charm which was distinct and potent, yet not to be analyzed—yes, hardly recognizable by any process of cool mental dissection, but magically persuasive in the subtlety of its presence and influence. Mary had sought to locate, to diagnose that charm; did it lie in her sympathy with the woman's lonely lot, or was it the romance of the wooing, or was it the fascination of those restless, searching eyes that Mary so often looked up to find fixed upon her with an expression she could not forget and could not define?
I incline to the belief that all these things combined to constitute the charm whereof I speak. Miss Woppit had not the beauty that would be likely to attract one other own sex; she had none of the sprightliness and wit of womankind, and she seemed to be wholly unacquainted with the little arts, accomplishments and vanities in which women invariably find amusement. She was simply a strange, lonely creature who had accepted valorously her duty to minister to the comfort of her brother; the circumstances of her wooing invested her name and her lot with a certain pleasing romance; she was a woman, she was loyal to her sense of duty, and she was, to a greater degree than most women, a martyr—herein, perhaps, lay the secret to the fascination Miss Woppit had for Mary Lackington.
At any rate, Mary and Miss Woppit became, to all appearances, fast friends; the wooing of Miss Woppit progressed apace, and the mystery of those Red Hoss Mountain crimes became more and—but I have already declared myself upon that point and I shall say no more thereof except so far as bears directly upon my story, which is, I repeat, of a wooing, and not of crime.
Three-fingered Hoover had every confidence in the ultimate success of the scheme to which Miss Mary had become an enthusiastic party. In occasional pessimistic moods he found himself compelled to confess to himself that the reports made by Miss Mary were not altogether such as would inspire enthusiasm in the bosom of a man less optimistic than he—Hoover—was.
To tell the truth, Mary found the task of doing Hoover's courting for him much more difficult than she had ever fancied a task of that kind could be. In spite of her unacquaintance with the artifices of the world Miss Woppit exhibited the daintiest skill at turning the drift of the conversation whenever, by the most studied tact, Mary Lackington succeeded in bringing the conversation around to a point where the virtues of Three-fingered Hoover, as a candidate for Miss Woppit's esteem, could be expatiated upon. From what Miss Woppit implied rather than said, Mary took it that Miss Woppit esteemed Mr. Hoover highly as a gentleman and as a friend—that she perhaps valued his friendship more than she did that of any other man in the world, always excepting her brother Jim, of course.
Miss Mary reported all this to Hoover much more gracefully than I have put it, for, being a woman, her sympathies would naturally exhibit themselves with peculiar tenderness when conveying to a lover certain information touching his inamorata.
There were two subjects upon which Miss Woppit seemed to love to hear Mary talk. One was Mary herself and the other was Jim Woppit. Mary regarded this as being very natural. Why should n't this women in exile pine to hear of the gay, beautiful world outside her pent horizon? So Mary told her all about the sights she had seen, the places she had been to, the people she had met, the books she had read, the dresses she—but, no, Miss Woppit cared nothing for that kind of gossip—now you 'll agree that she was a remarkable woman, not to want to hear all about the lovely dresses Mary had seen and could describe so eloquently.
Then again, as to Jim, was n't it natural that Miss Woppit, fairly wrapped up in that brother, should be anxious to hear the good opinion that other folk had of him? Did the miners like Jim, she asked—what did they say, and what did Sir Charles say? Miss Woppit was fertile in questionings of this kind, and Mary made satisfactory answers, for she was sure that everybody liked Jim, and as for her father, why, he had taken Jim right into his confidence the day he came to the camp.
Sir Charles had indeed made a confidant of Jim. One day he called him into his room at the Mears House. "Mr. City Marshal," said Sir Charles, in atone that implied secrecy, "I have given it out that I shall leave the camp for home day after to-morrow."
"Yes, I had heerd talk," answered Jim Woppit. "You are going by the stage."
"Certainly, by the stage," said Sir Charles, "but not day after to-morrow; I go to-morrow."
"To-morrow, sir?"
"To-morrow," repeated Sir Charles. "The coach leaves here, as I am told, at eleven o' clock. At four we shall arrive at Wolcott Siding, there to catch the down express, barring delay. I say 'barring delay,' and it is with a view to evading the probability of delay that I have given out that I am to leave on a certain day, whereas, in fact, I shall leave a day earlier. You understand?"
"You bet I do," said Jim. "You are afraid of—of the robbers?"
"I shall have some money with me," answered Sir Charles, "but that alone does not make me desirous of eluding the highwaymen. My daughter—a fright of that kind might lead to the most disastrous results."
"Correct," said Jim.
"So I have planned this secret departure," continued Sir Charles. "No one in the camp now knows of it but you and me, and I have a favor—a distinct favor—to ask of you in pursuance of this plan. It is that you and a posse of the bravest men you can pick shall accompany the coach, or, what is perhaps better, precede the coach by a few minutes, so as to frighten away the outlaws in case they may happen to be lurking in ambush."
Jim signified his hearty approval of the proposition. He even expressed a fervent hope that a rencontre with the outlaws might transpire, and then he muttered a cordial "d—— 'em!"
"In order, however," suggested Sir Charles, "to avert suspicion here in camp it would be wise for your men to meet quietly at some obscure point and ride together, not along the main road, but around the mountain by the Tin Cup path, coming in on the main road this side of Lone Pine ranch. You should await our arrival, and then, everything being tranquil, your posse can precede us as an advance guard in accordance with my previous suggestion."
"It might be a pious idea," said Jim, "for me to give the boys a pointer. They 'll be on to it, anyhow, and I know 'em well enough to trust 'em."
"You know your men; do as you please about apprising them of their errand," said Sir Charles. "I have only to request that you assure each that he will be well rewarded for his services."
This makes a rude break in our wooing; but I am narrating actual happenings. Poor old Hoover's subtlety all for naught, Mary's friendly offices incompleted, the pleasant visits to the cabin among the hollyhocks suspended perhaps forever, Miss Woppit's lonely lot rendered still more lonely by the departure of her sweet girl friend—all this was threatened by the proposed flight—for flight it was—of Sir Charles and Mary Lackington.
That May morning was a glorious one. Summer seemed to have burst upon the camp and the noble mountain-sentinels about it.
"We are going to-day," said Sir Charles to his daughter. "Hush! not a word about it to anybody. I have reasons for wishing our departure to be secret."
"You have heard bad news?" asked Mary, quickly.
"Not at all," answered Sir Charles, smilingly. "There is absolutely no cause for alarm. We must go quietly; when we reach home I will tell you my reasons and then we will have a hearty laugh together."
Mary Lackington set about packing her effects, and all the time her thoughts were of her lonely friend in the hill-side cabin. In this hour of her departure she felt herself drawn even more strangely and tenderly toward that weird, incomprehensible creature; such a tugging at her heart the girl had never experienced till now. What would Miss Woppit say—what would she think? The thought of going away with never so much as a good-by struck Mary Lackington as being a wanton piece of heartlessness. But she would write to Miss Woppit as soon as ever she reached home—she would write a letter that would banish every suspicion of unfeelingness.
Then, too, Mary thought of Hoover; what would the big, honest fellow think, to find himself deserted in this emergency without a word of warning? Altogether it was very dreadful. But Mary Lackington was a daughter who did her father's bidding trustingly.
Three-fingered Hoover went with Jim Woppit that day. There were thirteen in the posse—fatal number—mounted on sturdy bronchos and armed to the teeth. They knew their business and they went gayly on their way. Around the mountain and over the Tin Cup path they galloped, a good seven miles, I 'll dare swear; and now at last they met up with the main road, and at Jim Woppit's command they drew in under the trees to await the approach of the party in the stage.
Meanwhile in camp the comedy was drawing to a close. Bill Merridew drove stage that day; he was Steve Barclay's pardner—pretty near the only man in camp that stood out for Steve when he was suspicioned of being in some sort of cahoots with the robbers. Steve Barclay's arm was still useless and Bill was reckoned the next best horseman in the world.
The stage drew up in front of the Mears House. Perhaps half a dozen passengers were in waiting and the usual bevy of idlers was there to watch the departure. Great was the astonishment when Sir Charles and Mary Lackington appeared and stepped into the coach. Everybody knew Sir Charles and his daughter, and, as I have told you, it had been given out that they were not to leave the camp until the morrow. Forthwith there passed around mysterious whisperings as to the cause of Sir Charles' sudden departure.
It must have been a whim on Barber Sam's part. At any rate, he issued just then from Casey's restaurant across the way, jaunty and chipper as ever. He saw Sir Charles in the stage and Bill Merridew on the box. He gave a low, significant whistle. Then he crossed the road.
"Bill," says he, quietly, "It 's a summerish day, and not feelin' just as pert as I oughter I reckon I 'll ride a right smart piece with you for my health!"
With these words Barber Sam climbed up and sat upon the box with Bill Merridew. A moment later the stage was on its course along the main road.
"Look a' here, Bill Merridew," says Barber Sam, fiercely, "there 's a lord inside and you outside, to-day—a mighty suspicious coincidence! No, you need n't let on you don't tumble to my meenin'! I 've had my eye on Steve Barclay an' you, and I 'm ready for a showdown. I 'm travelin' for my health to-day, and so are you, Bill Merridew! I 'm fixed from the ground up an' you know there ain't a man in the Red Hoss Mountain country that is handier with a gun than me. Now I mean bizness; if there is any onpleasantness to-day and if you try to come any funny bizness, why, d—— me, Bill Merridew, if I don't blow your head off!"
Pleasant words these for Bill to listen to. But Bill knew Barber Sam and he had presence of mind enough to couch his expostulatory reply in the most obsequious terms. He protested against Barber Sam's harsh imputations.
"I 've had my say," was Barber Sam's answer. "I ain't goin' to rub it in. You understand that I mean bizness this trip; so don't forget it. Now let's talk about the weather."
Mary Lackington had hoped that, as they passed The Bower, she would catch a glimpse of Miss Woppit—perhaps have sufficient opportunity to call out a hasty farewell to her. But Miss Woppit was nowhere to be seen. The little door of the cabin was open, so presumably the mistress was not far away. Mary was disappointed, vexed; she threw herself back and resigned herself to indignant reflections.
The stage had proceeded perhaps four miles on its way when its progress was arrested by the sudden appearance of a man, whose habit and gestures threatened evil. This stranger was of short and chunky build and he was clad in stout, dark garments that fitted him snugly. A slouch hat was pulled down over his head and a half-mask of brown muslin concealed the features of his face. He held out two murderous pistols and in a sharp voice cried "Halt!" Instantaneously Barber Sam recognized in this bold figure the mysterious outlaw who for so many months had been the terror of the district, and instinctively he reached for his pistol-pocket.
"Throw up your hands!" commanded the outlaw. He had the drop on them. Recalling poor Jake Dodsley's fate Barber Sam discreetly did as he was bidden. As for Bill Merridew, he was shaking like a wine-jelly. The horses had come to a stand, and the passengers in the coach were wondering why a stop had been made so soon. Wholly unaware of what had happened, Mary Lackington thrust her head from the door window of the coach and looked forward up the road, in the direction of the threatening outlaw. She comprehended the situation at once and with a scream fell back into her father's arms.
Presumably, the unexpected discovery of a woman among the number of his intended victims disconcerted the ruffian. At any rate, he stepped back a pace or two and for a moment lowered his weapons. That moment was fatal to him. Quick as lightning Barber Sam whipped out his unerring revolver and fired. The outlaw fell like a lump of dough in the road. At that instant Bill Merridew recovered his wits; gathering up the lines and laying on the whip mercilessly he urged his horses into a gallop. Over the body of the outlaw crunched the hoofs of the frightened brutes and rumbled the wheels of the heavy stage.
"We 've got him this time!" yelled Barber Sam, wildly. "Stop your horses, Bill—you 're all right, Bill, and I 'm sorry I ever did you dirt—stop your horses, and let 's finish the sneakin' critter!"
There was the greatest excitement. The passengers fairly fell out of the coach, and it seemed as if they had an arsenal with them. Mary Lackington was as self-possessed as any of the rest.
"Are you sure he is dead?" she asked. "Don't let us go nearer till we know that he is dead; he will surely kill us!"
The gamest man in the world would n't have stood the ghost of a show in the face of those murderous weapons now brought to bear on the fallen and crushed wretch.
"If he ain't dead already he 's so near it that there ain't no fun in it," said Bill Merridew.
In spite of this assurance, however, the party advanced cautiously toward the man. Convinced finally that there was no longer cause for alarm, Barber Sam strode boldly up to the body, bent over it, tore off the hat and pulled aside the muslin half-mask. One swift glance at the outlaw's face, and Barber Sam recoiled.
"Great God!" he cried, "Miss Woppit!"
It was, indeed, Miss Woppit—the fair-haired, shy-eyed boy who for months had masqueraded in the camp as a woman. Now, that masquerade disclosed and the dreadful mystery of the past revealed, the nameless boy, fair in spite of his crimes and his hideous wounds, lay dying in the dust and gravel of the road.
Jim Woppit and his posse, a mile away, had heard the pistol-shot. It seemed but a moment ere they swept down the road to the scene of the tragedy; they came with the swiftness of the wind. Jim Woppit galloped ahead, his swarthy face the picture of terror.
"Who is it—who 's killed—who 's hurt?" he asked.
Nobody made answer, and that meant everything to Jim. He leapt from his horse, crept to the dying boy's side and took the bruised head into his lap. The yellowish hair had fallen down about the shoulders; Jim stroked it and spoke to the white face, repeating "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again.
The presence and the voice of that evil brother, whom he had so bravely served, seemed to arrest the offices of Death. The boy came slowly to, opened his eyes and saw Jim Woppit there. There was pathos, not reproach, in the dying eyes.
"It 's all up, Jim," said the boy, faintly, "I did the best I could."
All that Jim Woppit could answer was "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again.
"This was to have been the last and we were going away to be decent folks," this was what the boy went on to say; "I wish it could have been so, for I have wanted to live ever since—ever since I knew her."
Mary Lackington gave a great moan. She stood a way off, but she heard these words and they revealed much—so very much to her—more, perhaps, than you and I can guess.
He did not speak her name. The boy seemed not to know that she was there. He said no other word, but with Jim Woppit bending over him and wailing that piteous "Willie, Willie, Willie," over and over again, the boy closed his eyes and was dead.
Then they all looked upon Jim Woppit, but no one spoke. If words were to be said, it was Jim Woppit's place to say them, and that dreadful silence seemed to cry: "Speak out, Jim Woppit, for your last hour has come!"
Jim Woppit was no coward. He stood erect before them all and plucked from his breast the star of his office and cast away from him the weapon he had worn. He was magnificent in that last, evil hour!
"Men," said he. "I speak for him an' not for myself. Ez God is my judge, that boy wuz not to blame. I made him do it all—the lyin', the robbery, the murder; he done it because I told him to, an' because havin' begun he tried to save me. Why, he wuz a kid ez innocent ez a leetle toddlin' child. He wanted to go away from here an' be different from wot he wuz, but I kep' at him an' made him do an' do agin wot has brought the end to-day. Las' night he cried when I told him he must do the stage this mornin; seemed like he wuz soft on the girl yonder. It wuz to have been the las' time—I promised him that, an' so—an' so it is. Men, you 'll find the money an' everything else in the cabin—under the floor of the cabin. Make it ez square all round ez you kin."
Then Jim Woppit backed a space away, and, before the rest could realize what he was about, he turned, darted through the narrow thicket, and hurled himself into the gulch, seven hundred feet down.
But the May sunlight was sweet and gracious, and there lay the dead boy, caressed of that charity of nature and smiling in its glory.
Bill was the first to speak—Bill Merridew, I mean. He was Steve Barclay's partner and both had been wronged most grievously.
"Now throw the other one over, too," cried Bill, savagely. "Let 'em both rot in the gulch!"
But a braver, kindlier man said "No!" It was Three-fingered Hoover, who came forward now and knelt beside the dead boy and held the white face between his hard, brown hands and smoothed the yellowish hair and looked with unspeakable tenderness upon the closed eyes.
"Leave her to me," said he, reverently. "It wuz ez near ez I ever come to lovin' a woman, and I reckon it's ez near ez I ever shell come. So let me do with her ez pleases me."
It was their will to let Three-fingered Hoover have his way. With exceeding tenderness he bore the body back to camp and he gave it into the hands of womenfolk to prepare it for burial, that no man's touch should profane that vestige of his love. You see he chose to think of her to the last as she had seemed to him in life.
And it was another conceit of his to put over the grave, among the hollyhocks on that mountain-side, a shaft of pure white marble bearing simply the words "Miss Woppit."
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Annie Oakley and the Broken Trigger, Part 5
Buzz didn’t know whether to be amused or horrified when he saw the bound, gagged and glum Gunnie lying in the back of the buggie as Annie drew it into the campsite. “How are you doin’, Buzz?” the girl called out to the other badman as she helped his miserable looking partner down. “I’m doin’ as well as can be expected, Miss Oakley,” replied the man with a shy smile, “I guess you outran Gunnie after all!” Gunnie’s face darkened. Annie had removed his gag so he was able to fume: “That darned nag you sold me just refused to move! Little miss sharpshooter here would never have caught me if that hoss wasn’t more mule than stallion!” Annie laughed as she sat the raging outlaw next to his friend and roped them both together. “That’s as maybe, Gunnie, but this little sharpshooter needs some vittles,” she smiled, “and those beans and potatoes of yours sure look tempting!” She grinned broadly.
Much to the fury of the two outlaws, the young woman then sat down at their campfire as the evening drew in and helped herself to a plateful of steaming plains food. She looked up between mouthfuls at her two prisoners, scarcely able to believe she had pulled this capture off. “I can’t say much for your honesty boys,” she giggled towards them, “but you sure are good cooks!” This just added insult to injury. Gunnie looked over at Annie, his stomach rumbling. “Oh, shaddap!” he snarled. Then he remembered who was tied up and who was toting four sixguns. “…please, ma’am!” he added hastily. Annie just smiled sweetly back at the two tied men, and then settled down on their sleeping blankets. She pulled one blanket up to cover her from the desert cool, but with one hand on her trusty revolver. “Just relax, boys,” she told them, “I’ll be sleepin’ with one eye open tonight.” Gunnie and Buzz simply glowered at her as she settled down.
Sources: Chuck Courtney as Dan Reid and Dwayne Hickman as Johnny Barton in The Lone Ranger episode Sunstroke Mesa (March 1955) and Gail Davis as Annie Oakley from the TV series of the same name.
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