A WOLFVILLE FOUNDLING.
"Does Jack Moore have sand? Son, is this yere query meant for humor by you? Which for mere sand the Mohave desert is a fool to Jack."The Old Cattleman's face was full of an earnest, fine sincerity.It was plain, too, that my question nettled the old fellow a bit; as might a doubt cast at an idol.But the sharpness had passed from his tone when he resumed "Not only is Jack long on sand that a-way, but he's plumb loaded with what you-alls calls 'nitiative.Leastwise that's what one of these yere fernologists allows, who straggles into camp an' goes to thumbin' our bumps one day.
"'Which this young person,' says the bumpsharp, while his fingers is caperin' about on Jack's head, I is remarkable for his 'nitiative.
He's the sort of gent who builds his fire before he gets his wood;an' issues more invites to drink than he receives.Which his weakness, speakin' general, is he overplays.'
"Which this yere bump party might have gone wrong in his wagers a heap of times; but he shorely calls the turn on Jack when he says he's some strong on 'nitiative.
"An' it's this yere proneness for the prematoor, an' nacheral willin'ness to open any pot that a-way, that makes Jack sech a slam-up offishul.Bein' full of 'nitiative, like this fernologist states, Jack don't idle along ontil somethin's happened.Not much; he abates it in the bud.
"Once when most of the outfit's over in Tucson, an' Jack is sorter holdin' down the camp alone, a band of rustlers comes trackin' in, allowin' they'll run Wolfville some.Which, that's where Jack's 'nitiative shows up big.He goes after 'em readily, like they's antelope.Them hold-ups is a long majority over Jack, an' heeled;but that Jack stands thar--right up ag'in the iron--an' he tells 'em what he thinks an' why he thinks it for; makes his minority report onto 'em all free, like he outnumbers 'em two to one; an' winds up by backin' the game with his gun in a way that commands confidence.
"'You-alls hears my remarks,' he says at the close, briefly flashin'
his six-shooters on the outfit; 'thar ain't no band of bad men in Arizona can tree this town an' me informed.Now go slow, or I'll jest stretch a few of you for luck.It's sech consoomin' toil, a-diggin' of sepulchers in this yere rock-ribbed landscape, or I'd do it anyhow.'
"An' tharupon them rustlers, notin' Jack's got the drop on 'em, kicks up a dense cloud of dust an is seen no more.
"But bein' replete with sand an' 'nitiative, that a-way, don't state all thar is good of Jack.Let any pore, he'pless party cut Jack's trail, an' he's plumb tender.On sech times Jack's a dove; leastwise he's a dove a whole lot.
"One hot afternoon, Enright an' Doc Peets is away about some cattle I reckons.Which the rest of us is noomerous enough; an' we're sorter revolvin' 'round the post-office, a-waitin' for Old Monte an'
the stage.Yere she comes, final, a-rattlin' an' a-creakin'; that old drunkard Monte a-poppin' of his whip, the six hosses on the canter, an' the whole sheebang puttin' on more dog than a Mexican officer of revenoo.When the stage draws up, Old Monte throws off the mailbags an' the Wells-Fargo box, an' gets down an' opens the door.But nobody emerges out.
"'Well, I'm a coyote! ' says Monte, a heap disgusted, `wherever is the female?'
"Then we-alls peers into the stage an' thar's only a baby, with mebby a ten-months' start down this vale of tears, inside; an' no mother nor nothin' along.Jack Moore, jest as I says when I begins, reaches in an' gets him.The baby ain't sayin' nothin', an' sorter takes it out in smilin' on Jack; which last pleases him excessive.
"'He knows me for a hundred dollars!' says Jack.'I'm an Apache if he ain't allowin' he knows me! Wherever did you get him, Monte?'
"'Give me a drink,' says Monte, p'intin' along into the Red Light.
'This yere makes me sick.'
"After Old Monte gets about four fingers of carnation onder his belt, he turns in an' explains as how the mother starts along in the stage all right enough from Tucson.The last time he sees her, so he puts it up, is at the last station back some twenty miles in the hills; an' he s'poses all the time later, she's inside ridin' herd on her progeny, ontil now.
"'I don't reckon,' says Old Monte, lookin' gloomy-like at the infant, 'that lady is aimin' to saw this yore young-one onto the stage company none?'
"'Don't upset your whiskey frettin' about the company,' says Jack, a-plantin' of the infant on the bar, while we-alls crowds in for a look at him.`The camp'll play this hand; an' the company ain't goin' to be in it a little bit.'
"'I wish Enright an' Peets was yere,' says Cherokee Hall, 'to be heard hereon; which I shore deems this a grave occasion.Yere we-alls finds ourse'fs possessed of an onexpected child of tender years; an' the question nacheral enough is, whatever'll we do with it?'
"'Let's maverick it,' says Dan Boggs, who's a mighty good man, but onthinkful that a-way.
"'No,' says Cherokee; 'its mother'll come hoppin' along to-morrow, a-yellin'.This yere sot Monte has jest done drove off an' left her some'ers up the trail; she'll come romancin' along in time.'
"'Meanwhile,' says Jack, 'the infant's got to be took care of, to which dooty I volunteers.Thar's a tenderfoot a-sleepin' in the room back of the dance-hall, an' he's that 'feminate an' effeet, he's got a shore-'nough bed an' some goose-ha'r pillers; which the same I do yereby confiscate to public use to take care of this yearlin'.Is the sentiment pleasin'?'
"'Jack's scheme is right,' says Boggs; 'an' I'm present to announce he's allers right.Let the shorthorn go sleep onder a mesquite-bush;it'll do him good a whole lot.'
"'I'm some doobersome of this play,' says Cherokee.'Small infants is mighty myster'ous people, an' no livin' gent is ever onto their game an' able to foresee their needs.Do you-all reckon now you can take care of this yere young-one, Jack? Be you equal to it?'
