The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, February 4, 1906, Page 8

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. e Ll Passing of Keno, BIly Fling's Pet. more A them- seives in ‘blue hills, 1 one -had to squint the ‘more to was 1and -and ~ for n a mortal fm so lttle good. - As sith it s too exhaust- ean lylng quiet at r brown study wis une back to t he rral fence, where “ P w ¥ on.a pony, sang out Bolette essed simply rown face to us, s ntle lope. L pie, ex- medicine for cept d up with just is nat- with the beast—won't poison on account a handsome saturnine, no way dis- ting his kind, except He was pronouncedly more His mission with the Sk tfit was horsewrangler and He in a small horse nks of the Little Big fence lived me up to the ranch intervals to report for ple. One of strong on w weaknesses lay ed by the Coon s ef rarely stayed longer ne to tell Mr. Bo- E Legs” got cut up & w had been carried 2 E loppy Weath- . s recom- selling Magple” before strong against him, and re the ple. Billy srew smaller on the roilling grass Bole observed: “That puncher a ere often, and he don’t stay is sick now, and he ng t his dog x It beats all how that t Gog. He don’t ap- nything or anybody in I don’t believe that on anything but that these punchers and line- tle to some of the Poca~ the agency, rom but I never around Billy's camp. If they there they hunt brush when they ing the Maybe it's a for me. Most of these punch- got a bad case of the gypsies, dog seems to hold Billy level. e dog is sick. He is getting thin- thinner—won't eat, and I don't know what's the matter with him. Dogs d round up much in cow outfits. Do you know anytiing about a dog? Can you & dog’s pulse and figure out what is er are » going on under his belt?” admitted my helplessness in the mat- chaps, @nd iad’Zo straps—if that écg don’t get well horses can look after themselves, and 1f he dies, Billy will make the Big Red Medicine. way,” 1 lose any- and Mr. Bolette slid off the fence. we had bctter go over to Billy's pasture to-morrow, and shove some drugs into Keno. If §t don't do any gocd 1t may help bring things to a head— so that's what we'll do.” “1 reckon On the morrow, late in the afternoon, we took down the bars in frout of Billy's lonely tent on the banks of the Little Big Horn. On a bright Navajo blanket in the tent lay a big black Scotch staghound—the sick Keno—Bill;’s idol. He raised his eyelids at us, but closed them again wearlly. “Dom’t touch him,” sharply said Bo- lette. “I wouldn’t touch him with a shovel in his grave when Billy wasn't around. He's a holy terror. When one of these Injune about here wants to dine with Billy he gets off on that hill and sings bass at Blily, till Billy comes out in front and rides the peace sign; other- wise he wouldn't come into camp at all. An Injun would just as soon go against a ghost as this dog. Keno never did like anytbing about Injuns except the taste, and it's a good thing for a line-rider to have some safeguard on his mess box. These Injuns calculate that a cow punch- er is a pretty close relation, and Injuns don’t let little matters like grub stand between kinfolks. Then again there are white men who cut this range that need watching, and Keno never played favor- ites. He was always willing to hook on to anybody that showed up, and, say, when that dog was in good health you wouldn't went to mix up with him much.” v Over the hills from the south came a speck—a horseman—Billy himself, as the ranchman said. Slowly the figure drew on—now going out of sight in the wavy plains—moving steadily toward the tent by the river. He dismounted at the bars ‘With the stiff drop pecuuar to nis spectes, and coming in began to untackle his horse. . He never bowed to us, nor did be greet us. He never cast his eyes on us sitting ‘there so far from any other people in that _world of his. In the gulld of riders polite- ness {n any form {s not an essential—in- deed, ** is almost a sign of weakness to thelr minds, because {t must necessarily display emotion of a rather tender sort. 0ddsfish! Zounds! Away with it. It is not of us. Suffice it to Billy that he could see us for the last three miles sitting tger , and equally we were seeing him. What more? Untying two Arctic hares from his sad- dle, he straddled on his horseman’s legs to Keno's bed ancd patted him on the head. Ker~ looked up and licked his hand, and then his face, as he bent toward him. For'a little time they looked. at each other, while Bolette and I pared softly at two sticks with our jack knives. Then Billy got up, came out, and began to skin his rabbits. As he slit one down he said: « “I had to work for these two Jacks. when Keno was well he tuinned them out round here. Whenever he got after a rabbit it was all day with it. I'm going to make gome soup for him. He won’t stand for no tin grub,” sald Billy, as he skinned away. *Have you any idea what's the matter ‘with the dog?” was asked. “No, I don't savvy his misery. I'd give up good if there was a doctor within wagonshot of this place. I'd bring him out here if I had to steal him. I'm atraid the dog has got ‘to Chicago.”* He can't eat, and he's got to eat to live, I reckon. I've fixed up all kinds of hash for hum— ‘more kinds than Riley's Chinaman can make over to the station, and Keno won't even give it a smell. I lay out to shoot a little rabbit soup into him about once a day, but it's like fillin’ old ca’tridge shells. Been sort of hopin' he might take a no- —_—_ (*To dieJ “ I cav T Ear, AND IE'S GOI TOZEAT 70 LsvE |, L mECKON - o4 tlon to come again. Seen a man once that far gone that the boys built a box for him. And that man is a-ridin’ some- where in the world to-day.” Billy made his soup, and we put aconite and cowtownie whisky in it. The troubled puncher poured it down Keno's resisting throat with a teaspoon until the patient fell back on the blanket exhausted. After this the poor fellow went around to the far side of the tent and sitting down gazed vacantly into the woods across the Big Horn. A passing word from us met with no respopse. The man himself would not show his emotions, though the listless melancholy” was an emotion, but the puncher did not recognize it as such. The flerce and lonely mind was being chast- ened, but so long as we were on the other side of the canvas there could be no weakness; at least he would not have per- mitted that—not for an instant—had he known. kS s Night came op, afid with supper finished we turned into our blankets. My eyes were opened several times during the night by the flashes of a light, and I could distinguish that it was Billy with a can- dle looking over his dos. In thé morning Bolette and I rode the range in pursuit of his detalls of business management—fences and washouts, the new Texan two-year-olds and the sizing up of the beef steers fit for Chicago. and then back to Billy’s on the second day. As we jogged up the river we saw sev- eral Indians trailing about in the brush by the river—weird and highly colored figures—leading ponies and going slowly. They w looking for a lost ob- ject, a trail pocxy _“What are they doing?” I asked. “Don’t you put in your time worrying what Injuns are doing.” said Bolette. “When they are doing anything it's worse than when they ain’t doing anything. An Infun is all right when he is doing noth- ing. T lke him laying down Detter thas “Oh! T say, old ‘One Feather,” what Mv do, ‘hey?” shouted Boletts, and “One Feather,” thus addressed, cams slowly forward to us. “Ugh—Billy’s dog he cow-eek—he go dle ~got fi" dollar mabeso we find ump.” Boletts turned in his saddle to me and with & wide, opéen-éyed wonderment slow- “ly tc'd off the ‘words, “Billy’s—kettle—ls _full—of mud,” and I savvied. This time we approached the camp from down the river, through a brush trall, and Bolette pulled up his horse on the frings, pointing and saying in & whisper, “Look at Billy.” Bure enough, by the tent, on & dox, sat the bent-over form of the puncher wuw desplsed his own emotions. His head wis face downward In his' Hands. He was drawing on the reserve of his feelings, no doubt. We rode up, and Boletto sang out: “Hello, Billy; hear Keno's passed it up. Borry 'bout that, Billy. Had to go, though, I suppose. That's life, Billy. We'll all go that way. sooner or later. Don't see any use of worrying.” Blily got up quickly, saylng: “Sure thing. Didn’t see anything of the pup, did you?" His face was dry and drawn. “No. Why?" < “Oh, d—n him, he pulled out on me!™ and Billy started for his picksted horse In chorus we asked, “What do you mean —he pulled out on you?" Turning quic with the only arm gesture 1 ever saw him make, he said quickly: “He left me —he went away from me—hae pulled out —savvy? New what do you suppose ho wanted to'do that for? To mel” We explained that it was 3 babit of animals to take themselives off on the ap- proach of death—that they seem to want to die alone; but the idea took no grip on Billy’s mind, for he still stood facing us, saying: “But he shouldn’'t have gone away from me—I would never have de- serted him. If I was going to die for it 1 wouldn't have left him.” Saddling his horse, he took a pan of cooked food and started away down the river, returning after some hours with the empty tin. “I put out fresh grub every day so Keno can get something to eat if he finds it. I put little caches of corn beef every few rods along the river, enough to give him strength to get back to me. He may be weak, and he may be lost. It's no use to tell me that Keno wouldn't come back to me if he could get back. I don’t give a d—n what dogs do when they die. Keno wouldn’t do what any ordinary dog would."™ > We sat about under the shadow of the great trouble, knowing better than to offer weak words to one whose rugged rature would find nothing but insult In them, when an Indian trotted up and, leaning over his horse’s neck, said, “Billy, 1 find him dog—he in the river—drown— you follar me.” In due time we trotted in single file after the blanketed form of Know-Coose. For five miles down the Little Big Horn we wended our way, and the sun was down on the western hills when the In- dian turned abruptly iato some long sedge-grass and stopped his horse, point- ing. We dismounted and, sure enough, there lay Keno—not a lovely thing to look at after two days of water and bussards and sun. “He must have gone to the river and fallen in from weakness,” was ven- * tured. “No, thers was water in the " snapped the surly cowboy in response, for this implied a lack of attention om hiss part. As there was cléarly no use for human comfort in Billy's case we desisted. » The cow-puncher and the Indian went back on the dry ground, and with their gloved hands and knives dug a shallow grave. The puticher took a fine Navajo blanket from his saddie, and in it the carefully wrapped remains of Keno were deposited in the hele. A fitty-dollar blanket was all that Billy could render up to Keno now, except- ing the interment in due form and the rigld repression of all unseemly emo- tion. “1 wouldn’t have pulled out on him. I dou’t see what he wanted to go pull out on me for,” Billy said softly, as we again mounted and took up our backward mareh. When we reached camp there was no Billy. After supper he did net come, and for four hours there was mno Billy. and in the morning there was no Billy “I have got it put up,” soliloquized Bolette, “that Billy is making ‘medicine over in Riley's saloon at the stationy and I reckon I can get a new horse wrangler, because if I understand the curves of that puncher’s mental get-up, New Mexico or Arizona will see Wil- liam Fling about ten days from now, or some country as far from Keno as he can travel om what money Ril don't get.” So it was that Keno and Billy passed without tears from the knowledge o’ met.