The Native Hue of Resolution
And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pith and moment with this regard their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action. ~ (William Shakespeare)
Things got a mite crowded in the Devil's Hole country that summer. After livin' free an' easy for so long, we wakes up one mornin' to find some folks has moved in a few miles eastward an' set up the fanciest excuse for a camp you ever did see.
After watchin' them cautious for a few days, Heyes decides to ride over an' pay a call, as befittin' the leader of the gang. It's the neighborly thing to do and besides, as he says, he needs to know if they's lost an' is anybody goin' to come lookin' for them, like mebbe the Army on account of they hails from foreign parts.
The Kid rides over to watch his back, as befittin' the Kid, an' a coupla the gang goes along. Not that we thinks the Kid needs help ag'in a bunch of aliens. Still, while Westerners is predictable, tourists is a new breed of cat to us an' we wants to see which way they jumps. If they's peacable, all right. But if they scares easy an' one of them gets ambitious to trot out some artillery an' make things all smoky an' loud, then we's goin' to be there to back the Kid's play.
As it happens, they's as mild as milk. Its two elderly specimens called Harcourt-ffrobisher, the sort of double-barreled names folks on t'other side of the pond is partial to. One of them has a moustache and the other don't, an' the one with the moustache has brung his daughter along, a quiet-lookin' heifer of unknown years.
Their layout was some lavish. The china alone would make a Frisco bawdy-house proud, an' as for the tents an' furnishin's – whooee! Still, we catches on pretty quick that apart from Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher none of them would assay out at more than ten ounces of sense to the ton. It don't seem to cross their minds that a bunch of armed men ridin' around with no ranch nor town nor nothin' for miles an' miles is any strange, an' they asks a lot of tomfool questions about the Hole.
"It's called the Devil's Hole but he don't live here - he jes' visits sometimes." Heyes says by way of light conversation.
"What int'trestin' place names you colonia…" The old sport with the soup strainer stops an' corrects hisself with a polite bow, "You Americans come up with, to be sure. Why, the territorial map shows villages called Saddlestring and Medicine Bow!"
"Where is it y'all are from?" Heyes asks.
"Frisby-on-the-Wreake."
We's too polite to say nothin'.
"It's in Leicestershire," Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher tells us, tryin' to be helpful.
Not that none of us knows what Leicestershire is, even after she writes it down, an' tryin' to hitch the spellin' up to the way she pronounces it gets Wheat all orry-eyed.
But they appears harmless so after that we leaves them be an' keeps a quiet eye on their doin's, jes' so's we could move sudden in case of a ruckus. All but Heyes, who rides over every other day or so, an' we is all curious why he keeps on visitin' them, even if the female party does lend him books. Said female party bein' no longer in the bloom of youth, an' wears cheaters an' is dressed like Methodist missionary, which ain't Heyes' usual line in womenfolks.
The Preacher joshes about Heyes' goin' courtin', an' promises to preside at the nuptials, but Heyes, he don't mind. "I like Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher," he allows. "She's a right smart lady an' no side to her at all."
We sees his point. Some folks is so clothed with dignity you can't get close enough to borry a plug of tobacco, but like Heyes says, Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher is good people an' not a bit uppish. That don't tempt none of us to ride shotgun when he goes callin' on her, though. When them two starts to palaver, the talk strays into the high grass an' gets a whole lot too learned an' profound for the rest of the herd to cut in on.
Heyes has even started readin' one of her books to us, which is bad enough. It's about a prince over in one of them Scandyhoovian places whose pa gets murdered an' comes back as a ghost an' tells him to seek vengeance. It would've made a jim-dandy dime novel but the language is a boggy ford for those of us as confuses easy. Such as Kyle. You know the front sights has been missin' from that boy's shootin' iron for years, an' usin' words like nymph an' orison around him is plain askin' for trouble. We finally asks Heyes to cease an' desist before he suffers perm'nent brain damage.
Other than that, things is goin' fine until we sees a bunch of Shoshone has showed up and camped down the valley from our guests. They's all serene and don't appear to be no more hostile that we is, but among 'em is a throwback from the old days, a mountain man name of McGoohan who is payin' a lot of attention to the tourists, so we calc'lates he bears watchin'.
Now, no sooner does the Britishers behold them Indians than they has to go prospectin' around. They's all full of curiosity, an' thinks that ever'body they meet is jes' as gregarious an' amiable. So them blessed foreigners is over talkin' to them an' asking questions an' examinin' them like the whole passel is for sale. We never knows what it is Harcourt-ffrobisher the pa says to McGoohan, but damned if that cuss don't settle it that he's goin' to marry the daughter.
Next time Heyes trails over to the Britisher camp with the Kid an' Kyle, the first thing he lays eyes on makes him sit up an' start to fret. Tied to the wagons is eight ponies, which same used to be seen inhabitin' the Indian camp.
Heyes begins a polite inquiry, hopin' that the tourists has bought them. Harcourt-ffrobisher tells him that they was given to him by McGoohan, an' Heyes can tell he's mighty tickled by the gesture.
"He rode up this morning and picketed the horses right outside the camp for us," says he.
"Eight ponies? He must think a heap o' you, ma'am. That's an awful lot for a – ouch! " Kyle looks at the Kid, puzzled-like. "What'd you kick me for?"
Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher, who as we has mentioned already is the only one in the outfit with the brains God give a goose, is catchin' on that somethin' ain't accordin' to Hoyle.
"An' you jes' wandered over an' took possession?" asks Heyes, an' the old man allows as how that's so.
Whereupon Heyes breaks it to him gentle that, by acceptin' the horses, he's done married off his daughter to that mountain man. Sometime tomorrow, Heyes tells him, McGoohan will be back accomp'nied by friends an' family unto the fourth or fifth generation, an' he'll be expectin' the weddin' feast to be laid on an' the bride ready to ride away an' begin a life of connubial bliss. Which information is some distressin' to Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher, who ain't pinin' none to spend the rest of her days skinnin' b'ars an' chawin' rawhide in a teepee on the Yellowstone.
A number of suggestions is made, such as them offerin' McGoohan money instead, or lightin' a shuck for more settled parts. Heyes has took the measure of McGoohan an' tells Harcourt-ffrobisher that the man will help himself to the cash an' the lady both, an' shoot anybody impolite enough to object. As for makin' a run for it, Heyes knows they ain't no way three tourists, four wall tents, eight wagons, an' a portable bathtub is goin' to sneak off in the night without somebody in the Shoshone camp noticin'.
"There's one way out of this," Heyes says, "an' that's for us to tell McGoohan that Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher's already got herself a man. When he learns how the game stacks up he's goin' to offer to fight for her, an' my partner Mr. Curry, here, will accept."
"Heyes!" The Kid yips.
"You know it'll work, Kid – an' it's the only way."
Ordinary-wise there ain't much paw an' bellow to the Kid but he suspicions this plan of Heyes' is likely to get him hurt some, an' he's gearin' up to say so when the bride-to-be sticks her two cents in. The gist of her argument is that she's ag'in the idea an' she don't want the Kid to take on McGoohan, partic'larly when the whole sorry mess weren't none of his doin'.
"I won't have it," says Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher. "It's our fault this happened and Mr. Curry should not have to pay for my – for a foolish mistake on our part."
An' she gives her pa what, if she weren't English an' a lady, we would call the stink-eye. Heyes an' her daddy starts pointin' out the obvious disadvantages of matrimony with McGoohan, but she stands pat.
"There's too great a risk that Mr. Curry will be injured. It's simply unacceptable." Her face is 'bout the same color as her wagon-canvas, but her voice is firm, an' she looks like she means it.
Heyes is tryin' to argue with her when the Kid speaks up.
"Ma'am," says the Kid, "I'll be proud to fight for you."
Heyes sends Kyle over to McGoohan with the bad news, him bein' the most expendable, an' word comes back that the mountain man refuses to agree that the weddin' is off. He's goin' to do battle with the Kid next day for the hand of Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher, on the hearing of which we heads back to the hideout so the Kid can practice. If McGoohan sticks to six-guns, he ain't worried none. But if the mountain man shows up decorated with trifles like a hatchet or a Bowie knife, the Kid reckons he's a mite rusty.
Heyes is right there offerin' encouragement an' moral support by readin' to him outta Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher's book. It seems that there prince was always gettin' in a fix an' thinkin' about it out loud.
"An' thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought—"
"Heyes, if you don't shut up about that damn Swede, I'm liable to start honin' my fightin' skills right here an' now, on you."
"He's a Dane."
"I don't care if he's a Mescalero Apache! You keep yappin' about him an' I'm goin' to part your hair with this hand axe."
"But this is good stuff, Kid – listen! ...an' enterprises of great pith an' moment – "
"Great what?"
"Pith."
"Have you been drinkin'?"
Heyes ignores him. "– with this regard their currents turn awry an' lose the name of action."
"I sure hope you know what that means 'cos nobody else does."
"It means that we need to stick to 'er, Kid, no matter what. That's what resolution means, that we should keep chargin' for'ard an' not think too much about what's goin' to happen."
"You know me, Heyes – I take things as they come." The Kid throws the axe at the target an' misses, draws his hogleg an' doesn't. "Besides, you ain't the one that's got to fight McGoohan."
Next mornin' McGoohan's native hue ain't noways sickly nor pale, it's more like a cross between a cavalry saddle an' a Hereford steer. He stands six foot four in his moccasins an' would have dressed out at about two hundred an' twenty pounds, includin' hide, hoofs an' tallow. Accordin' to custom an' tradition he's painted for war, an' givin' off a pervadin' fragrance that would drop a mule at a hundred paces. If the contest for Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher's hand descends into wrasslin' or fisticuffs, we figger the Kid's goin' to last about as long as a pint of whisky at a six-hand poker game.
Some of the more disloyal elements in the gang begins wonderin' if it's too late to change the bets they placed on him.
If the Kid's worried, he ain't showin' it, he's jes' settin' there waitin' when the mountain man runs his pony out from his crowd. Now McGoohan havin' lived among the Shoshone so long, he's picked up their ways of fightin', so he starts circlin' around an' doin' his shootin' on the canter, usin' a Winchester an' yellin' fit to bust. He's still some two hundred yards off, an' while the Kid's as good as they come, the respective ranges of a carbine an' a Colt .45 gives McGoohan a mighty big edge an' the Kid knows this.
So he waits.
It's plumb nerve-wrackin', but after a while McGoohan gets tired of wastin' powder an' pushes his pony closer. He gets off three or four shots one after t'other an' we sees somethin' hit the Kid's side an' hears him sorter grunt an' bend over. A patch of red bubbles up an' starts leakin' down over his gunbelt.
We's afeard the Kid's about to receive notice to find his harp an' join in the eternal chorus, an' Hank's got his hardware half out of the holster. Heyes is cussin' under his breath.
"C'mon, Kid," he whispers.
Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher don't make a sound but she's got a death-grip on her pa's arm.
McGoohan sees the blood an' gives one big war-whoop an' charges in for the kill. When he gets about eighty yards away the Kid's hand flashes up an' the next thing we know, McGoohan's kickin' an' yelpin' in the dirt an' his pony is standin' there wonderin' what happened. The Shoshones is don't utter a peep an' after the Kid downs McGoohan, they picks him up an' lugs him off with no more notice of us, that bein' their way.
"The native hue of resolution, Kid!" says Heyes, helpin' him off his horse. "Didn't I tell you?"
It's clear to the most careless among us that the Kid would like to contradic' him but he can't fully speak his mind while there's a lady present.
Miss Harcourt-ffrobisher surprises us by doctorin' the Kid up real calm an' business-like an' then goin' off behind one of the wagons an' bawlin' her eyes out. We does our best to make her feel better – Heyes points out that she's got some fine stories to tell, when she gets back to her neck o' the woods.
"After all, ma'am – how many ladies in Frisby-on-the-Wreake can say they's worth eight ponies?"
Originally written as a challenge entry for the ASJ Fanfic Forum. Thanks to Ghislaine for the suggestion that got the bunny hopping; and thanks to Calico for acting as consultant on all things British.