Bring Me His Ears

The tall, lanky Missourian leaning against the corner of a ramshackle saloon on Locust Street, St. Louis, Missouri—the St. Louis of the early forties—turned his whiskey-marked face toward his companion, a short and slender Mexican trader, sullenly listening to the latter's torrent of words, which was accompanied by many and excitable gesticulations. The Missourian shook his head in reply to the accusations of his companion. "But he was on thee boat weeth us!" exclaimed the other. "An' you lose heem—lak theese!" the sharp snap of his fingers denoted magic. "Thar ain't no use o' gittin' riled," replied Schoolcraft. "How in tarnation kin a man keep th' trail o' a slippery critter like him in these yere crowds? I'll git sight o' him, right yere." "That ees w'at you say," rejoined the Mexican, shrugging his shoulders. "But w'at weel I say to le Gobernador? Theese hombre Tomaz Boyd—he know vera many t'eengs—too vera many t'eengs—an' he ensult le Gobernador. Madre de Dios—sooch ensult!" He shivered at the thought. "W'en I get thee message, I tr-remble! It say 'Br-ring heem to me—or breeng me his ears!' I am tol' to go to Señor Schoolcr-raft at Eendependence—he ees thee man. I go; an' then you lose heem! Bah! You do not know theese Manuel Armijo, le Gobernador de Santa Fe, my fren'—I tr-remble!" "You need a good swig, that's what you need," growled Schoolcraft. "An' if ye warn't a chuckle-head," he said with a flash of anger, "we wouldn't 'a' come yere at all; I told ye he's got th' prairie fever an' shore would come back to Independence, whar I got friends; but no—we had ter foller him!" He spat emphatically. "Thar warn't no sense to it, nohow!" The other waved his arms. "But w'y we stan' here, lak theese? W'y you do no'teeng?" "Now you look a-here, Pedro," growled the Missourian, his sullen gaze passing up and down the slender Mexican. "Ye don't want ter use no spurs on this critter. I ain't no greaser! If ye'll hold them arms still fer a minute I'll tell ye somethin'.