PAGE 5
The Saving Grace
by
He looked back. To his horror he discovered that Colorado Jim and the pards had disappeared, and that their places had been taken by a number of maniacs on jumping little ponies. The maniacs were yelling “Yip! Yip! Yip!” and shooting at him. He could not understand it in the least; but the bullets were mighty convincing. He used his quirt and spurs.
If Severne really wished to experience the feelings of a man pursued, he attained his desire. It is not pleasant to be shot at. Severne entertained sensations of varied coherence, but one and all of a vividness which was of the greatest literary value. Only he was not in a mood to appreciate literary values. He attended strictly to business, which was to lift the excellent animal on which he was mounted as rapidly as possible over the ground. In this he attained a moderate success. Venturing a backward glance, after a few moments, he noted with pleasure that the distance between himself and the maniacs had sensibly increased. Then one of those zipping bullets passed between his body and his arm, cut off three heavy locks of the horse’s mane, and entered the base of the poor animal’s skull. Severne suddenly found himself in the road. The maniacs swept up at speed, reining in suddenly at the distance of three feet, in such a manner as to scatter much gravel over him. Severne sat up.
The maniacs, with commendable promptness, jerked Severne to his feet. Several more bent over his horse.
“Jess’s I thought!” shouted one of these. “Jess’s I thought! He’s stole this cayuse. This is Hank Smith’s bronc. I’d know him any-whar!”
“That’s right! Bar O brand!” cried several.
Then men who held him yanked Severne here and there. “End of yore rope this trip! Steal hosses, will ye!” said they.
“I didn’t steal the horse!” cried poor Severne; “I hired him from Smith.”
A roar of laughter greeted this statement.
“Hired Colorado and the boys to chase you, too, didn’t ye!” suggested one, with heavy sarcasm.
“Yes, I did,” answered Severne, sincerely.
They laughed again. “Nerve!” said they.
Near the fallen horse several began discussing the affair. “I tell you I know I done it!” argued one. “I ketched him between the sights, jest’s fair as could be.”
“G’wan, he flummuxed jest’s I cut loose!”
“Well, boys,” called the leader, impatiently, “get along!”
A man came forward, and silently threw a loop about Severne’s neck. In Wyoming they hang horse-thieves. Severne realised this, and told them all about everything. They listened to him, and laughed delightedly. Never had they hanged such a funny horse-thief. They appreciated his efforts to amuse them, and assured him often that he was a peach. When he paused, they encouraged him to say some more. At every new disclosure they chuckled with admiration, as though at a tremendous but splendid lie. Severne was getting more realistic experience in ten minutes than he had had in all his previous life; but realistic experience does not do one much good at the end of a rope on top of a Wyoming mountain. Then, after a little, they deftly threw the coil of rope over the limb of a tree, and hung him up, and left him. They did not shoot him full of holes, as is the usual custom. He had been a funny horse-thief, so in return they were lenient. Severne kicked. “Dancin’ good,” they observed, as they turned the corner.
Around the corner they met the frantic James. They cut Severne down, and worked over him for some time. Then they carried him down to Placer Creek, and worked over him a lot more. The Triangle X boys were distinctly aggrieved. They had applauded those splendid lies, and now they turned out not to be lies at all, but merely an extremely crazy sort of truth. They relieved their feelings by getting very drunk and shooting out the lights.
It took Severne a week to get over it. Ten days after that he returned East. He had finished a masterpiece. The flight down the canon was pictured so vividly that you could almost hear the crack of the pistols, and the hero’s sentiments were so well described that in reading about them you became excited yourself. Severne read it three times, and he thought it as good the third time as the first. Then he copied it all out on the typewriter. This is the severest test a writer can give his work. The most sparkling tale loses its freshness when run through the machine, especially if the unfortunate author cannot make the thing go very fast. It seemed as good even after this ordeal.