"Where were you at twelve o'clock, noon, on the 9th of June, 1875?" --
Question on intelligent cross-examination.
"Excuse me," said Ben Roddle with graphic gestures to a group of citizens
in Nantucket's store. "Excuse me. When them fellers in leather pants an'
six-shooters ride in, I go home an' set in th' cellar. That's what I do.
When you see me pirooting through the streets at th' same time an' occasion
as them punchers, you kin put me down fer bein' crazy. Excuse
"Why, Ben," drawled old Nantucket, "you ain't never really seen 'em
turned loose. Why, I kin remember -- in th' old days -- when --
"Oh, damn yer old days!" retorted Roddle. Fixing Nantucket with the eye
of scorn and contempt, he said: "I suppose you'll be sayin' in a minute that
in th' old days you used to kill Injuns, won't you?"
There was some laughter, and Roddle was left free to expand his ideas on
the periodic visits of cowboys to the town. "Mason Rickets, he had ten big
punkins a-sittin' in front of his store, an' them fellers from the
Upside-down-F ranch shot 'em up -- shot 'em all up -- an' Rickets lyin' on
his belly in th' store a-callin' fer 'em to quit it. An' what did they do!
Why, they laughed at 'im! -- just laughed at 'im! That don't do a town no
good. Now, how would an eastern capiterlist" -- (it was the town's humour to
be always gassing of phantom investors who were likely to come any moment
and pay a thousand prices for everything) -- "how would an eastern
capiterlist like that? Why, you couldn't see 'im fer th' dust on his trail.
Then he'd tell all his friends that 'their town may be all right, but ther's
too much loose-handed shootin' fer my money.' An' he'd be right, too. Them
rich fellers, they don't make no bad breaks with their money. They watch it
all th' time b'cause they know blame well there ain't hardly room fer their
feet fer th' pikers an' tin-horns an' thimble-riggers what are layin' fer
'em. I tell you, one puncher racin' his cow-pony hell-bent-fer-election down
Main Street an' yellin' an' shootin' an' nothin' at all done about it, would
scare away a whole herd of capiterlists. An' it ain't right. It oughter be
A pessimistic voice asked: "How you goin' to stop it,
"Organise," replied Roddle pompously. "Organise: that's the only way to
make these fellers lay down. I -- "
From the street sounded a quick scudding of pony hoofs, and a party of
cowboys swept past the door. One man, however, was seen to draw rein and
dismount. He came clanking into the store. "Mornin', gentlemen," he said,
"Mornin'," they answered in subdued voices.
He stepped to the counter and said, "Give me a paper of fine cut,
please." The group of citizens contemplated him in silence. He certainly did
not look threatening. He appeared to be a young man of twenty-five years, with a tan
from wind and sun, with a remarkably clear eye from perhaps a period of
enforced temperance, a quiet young man who wanted to buy some tobacco. A
six-shooter swung low on his hip, but at the moment it looked more
decorative than warlike; it seemed merely a part of his odd gala dress --
his sombrero with its band of rattlesnake skin, his great flaming
neckerchief, his belt of embroidered Mexican leather, his high-heeled boots,
his huge spurs. And, above all, his hair had been watered and brushed until
it lay as close to his head as the fur lays to a wet cat. Paying for his
tobacco, he withdrew.
Ben Roddle resumed his harangue. "Well, there you are! Looks like a calm
man now, but in less'n half an hour he'll be as drunk as three bucks an' a
squaw, an' then . . . . excuse me!"
On this day the men of two outfits had come into town, but Ben Roddle's
ominous words were not justified at once. The punchers spent most of the
morning in an attack on whiskey which was too earnest to be noisy.
At five minutes of eleven, a tall, lank, brick-coloured cowboy strode
over to Placer's Hotel. Placer's Hotel was a notable place. It was the best
hotel within two hundred miles. Its office was filled with arm-chairs and
brown papier-mach* receptacles. At one end of the room was a wooden counter
painted a bright pink, and on this morning a man was behind the counter
writing in a ledger. He was the proprietor of the hotel, but his customary
humour was so sullen that all strangers immediately wondered why in life he
had chosen to play the part of mine host. Near his left hand, double doors
opened into the dining-room, which in warm weather was always kept darkened
in order to discourage the flies, which was not compassed at all.
Placer, writing in his ledger, did not look up when the tall cowboy
"Mornin', mister," said the latter. "I've come to see if you kin
grub-stake th' hull crowd of us fer dinner t'day."
Placer did not then raise his eyes, but with a certain churlishness, as
if it annoyed him that his hotel was patronised, he asked: "How
"Oh, about thirty," replied the cowboy. "An' we want th' best dinner you
kin raise an' scrape. Everything th' best. We don't care what it costs
s'long as we git a good square meal. We'll pay a dollar a head: by God, we
will! We won't kick on nothin' in the bill if you do it up fine. If you
ain't got it in th' house russle th' hull town fer it. That's our gait. So
you just tear loose, an' we'll -- "
At this moment the machinery of a cuckoo-clock on the wall began to
whirr, little doors flew open and a wooden bird appeared and cried,
"Cuckoo!" And this was repeated until eleven o'clock had been announced,
while the cowboy, stupefied, glassy-eyed, stood with his red throat gulping.
At the end he wheeled upon Placer and demanded: "What in
hell is that?"
Placer revealed by his manner that he had been asked this question too
many times. "It's a clock," he answered shortly.
"I know it's a clock," gasped the cowboy; "but
what kind of a clock?"
"A cuckoo-clock. Can't you see?"
The cowboy, recovering his self-possession by a violent effort, suddenly
went shouting into the street. "Boys! Say, boys! Come' 'ere
His comrades, comfortably inhabiting a near-by saloon, heard his
stentorian calls, but they merely said to one another: "What's th' matter
with Jake? -- he's off his nut again."
But Jake burst in upon them with violence. "Boys," he yelled, "come over
to th' hotel! They got a clock with a bird inside it, an' when it's eleven
o'clock or anything like that, th' bird comes out an' says, 'toot-toot,
toot-toot!' that way, as many times as whatever time of day it is. It's
immense! Come on over!"
The roars of laughter which greeted his proclamation were of two
qualities; some men laughing because they knew all about cuckoo-clocks, and
other men laughing because they had concluded that the eccentric Jake had
been victimised by some wise child of civilisation.
Old Man Crumford, a venerable ruffian who probably had been born in a
corral, was particularly offensive with his loud guffaws of contempt. "Bird
a-comin' out of a clock an' a-tellin' ye th' time! Haw-haw-haw!" He
swallowed his whiskey. "A bird! a-tellin' ye th' time! Haw-haw! Jake, you
ben up agin some new drink. You ben drinkin' lonely an' got up agin some
snake-medicine licker. A bird a-tellin' ye th' time! Haw-haw!"
The shrill voice of one of the younger cowboys piped from the background.
[illustration omitted] "Brace up, Jake. Don't let 'em laugh at ye. Bring 'em
that salt cod-fish of yourn what kin pick out th' ace."
"Oh, he's only kiddin' us. Don't pay no 'tention to 'im. He thinks he's
A cowboy whose mother had a cuckoo-clock in her house in Philadelphia
spoke with solemnity. "Jake's a liar. There's no such clock in the world.
What? a bird inside a clock to tell the time? Change your drink,
Jake was furious, but his fury took a very icy form. He bent a withering
glance upon the last speaker. "I don't mean a live bird," he said, with
terrible dignity. "It's a wooden bird, an' -- "
"A wooden bird!" shouted Old Man Crumford. "Wooden bird a-tellin' ye th'
But Jake still paid his frigid attention to the Philadelphian. "An' if
yer sober enough to walk, it ain't such a blame long ways from here to th'
hotel, an' I'll bet my pile agin yours if you only got two bits."
"I don't want your money, Jake," said the Philadelphian. "Somebody's been
stringin' you -- that's all. I wouldn't take your money." He cleverly
appeared to pity the other's innocence.
"You couldn't git my money," cried Jake, in sudden hot anger. "You
couldn't git it. Now -- since yer so fresh -- let's see how much you got."
He clattered some large gold pieces noisily upon the bar.
The Philadelphian shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Jake was
triumphant. "Any more bluffers 'round here?" he demanded. "Any more? Any
more bluffers? Where's all these here hot sports? Let 'em step up. Here's my
money -- come an' git it."
But they had ended by being afraid. To some of them his tale was absurd,
but still one must be circumspect when a man throws forty-five dollars in
gold upon the bar and bids the world come and win it. The general feeling
was expressed by Old Man Crumford, when with deference he asked: "Well, this
here bird, Jake -- what kinder lookin' bird is it?"
"It's a little brown thing," said Jake briefly. Apparently he almost
disdained to answer.
"Well -- how does it work?" asked the old man meekly.
"Why in blazes don't you go an' look at it?" yelled Jake. "Want me to
paint it in iles fer you? Go an' look!"
Placer was writing in his ledger. He heard a great trample of feet and
clink of spurs on the porch, and there entered quietly the band of cowboys,
some of them swaying a trifle, and these last being the most painfully
decorous of all. Jake was in advance. He waved his hand toward the clock.
"There she is," he said laconically. The cowboys drew up and stared. There
was some giggling, but a serious voice said half-audibly, "I don't see no
Jake politely addressed the landlord. "Mister, I've fetched these here
friends of mine in here to see yer clock -- "
Placer looked up suddenly. "Well, they can see it, can't they?" he asked
in sarcasm. Jake, abashed, retreated to his fellows.
There was a period of silence. From time to time the men shifted their
feet. Finally, Old Man Crumford leaned towards Jake, and in a penetrating
whisper demanded, "Where's th' bird?" Some frolicsome spirits on the
outskirts began to call "Bird! Bird!" as men at a political meeting call for
a particular speaker.
Jake removed his big hat and nervously mopped his brow.
The young cowboy with the shrill voice again spoke from the skirts of the
crowd. "Jake, is ther' sure-'nough a bird in that thing?"
"Yes. Didn't I tell you once?"
"Then," said the shrill-voiced man, in a tone of conviction, "it ain't a
clock at all. It's a bird-cage."
"I tell you it's a clock," cried the maddened Jake, but his retort could
hardly be heard above the howls of glee and derision which greeted the words
of him of the shrill voice.
Old Man Crumford was again rampant. "Wooden bird a-tellin' ye th' time!
Amid the confusion Jake went again to Placer. He spoke almost in
supplication. "Say, mister, what time does this here thing
go off again?"
Placer lifted his head, looked at the clock, and said: "Noon."
There was a stir near the door, and Big Watson of the Square-X outfit,
and at this time very drunk indeed, came shouldering his way through the
crowd and cursing everybody. The men gave him much room, for he was
notorious as a quarrelsome person when drunk. He paused in front of Jake,
and spoke as through a wet blanket. "What's all this -- monkeyin'
Jake was already wild at being made a butt for everybody, and he did not
give backward. "None a' your dam business, Watson."
"Huh?" growled Watson, with the surprise of a challenged
"I said," repeated Jake distinctly, "it's none
a' your dam business."
Watson whipped his revolver half out of its holster. "I'll make it m'
business, then, you -- "
But Jake had backed a step away, and was holding his left-hand palm
outward toward Watson, while in his right he held his six-shooter, its
muzzle pointing at the floor. He was shouting in a frenzy, -- "No -- don't
you try it, Watson! Don't you dare try it, or, by Gawd, I'll kill you, sure
He was aware of a torment of cries about him from fearful men; from men
who protested, from men who cried out because they cried out. But he kept
his eyes on Watson, and those two glared murder at each other, neither
seeming to breathe, fixed like statues.
A loud new voice suddenly rang out: "Hol' on a minute!" All spectators
who had not stampeded turned quickly, and saw Placer standing behind his
bright pink counter, with an aimed revolver in each hand.
"Cheese it!" he said. "I won't have no fightin' here. If you want to
fight, git out in the street."
Big Watson laughed, and, speeding up his six-shooter like a flash of blue
light, he shot Placer through the throat -- shot the man as he stood behind
his absurd pink counter with his two aimed revolvers in his incompetent
hands. With a yell of rage and despair, Jake smote Watson on the pate with
his heavy weapon, and knocked him sprawling and bloody. Somewhere a woman
shrieked like windy, midnight death. Placer fell behind the counter, and
down upon him came his ledger and his inkstand, so that one could not have
told blood from ink.
The cowboys did not seem to hear, see, or feel, until they saw numbers of
citizens with Winchesters running wildly upon them. Old Man Crumford threw
high a passionate hand. "Don't shoot! We'll not fight ye
Nevertheless two or three shots rang, and a cowboy who had been about to
gallop off suddenly slumped over on his pony's neck, where he held for a
moment like an old sack, and then slid to the ground, while his pony, with
flapping rein, fled to the prairie.
"In God's name, don't shoot!" trumpeted Old Man Crumford. "We'll not
fight ye fer 'im!"
"It's murder," bawled Ben Roddle.
In the chaotic street it seemed for a moment as if everybody would kill
everybody. "Where's the man what done it?" These hot cries seemed to declare
a war which would result in an absolute annihilation of one side. But the
cowboys were singing out against it. They would fight for nothing -- yes --
they often fought for nothing -- but they would not fight for this dark
At last, when a flimsy truce had been made between the inflamed men, all
parties went to the hotel. Placer, in some dying whim, had made his way out
from behind the pink counter, and, leaving a horrible trail, had travelled
to the centre of the room, where he had pitched headlong over the body of
The men lifted the corpse and laid it at the side.
"Who done it?" asked a white, stern man.
A cowboy pointed at Big Watson. "That's him," he
There was a curious grim silence, and then suddenly, in the
death-chamber, there [illustration omitted] sounded the loud whirring of the
clock's works, little doors flew open, a tiny wooden bird appeared and cried
"Cuckoo" -- twelve times.