The Last Stand of Silvertip Dave
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man as modest stillness and humility; but when the blast of war blows in our ears, then imitate the action of the tiger. ~ (William Shakespeare)
The new faro-dealer's name is Bowers – Silvertip Dave Bowers, they calls him. Whether that was on account of he'd been workin' the mining camps down Nevada way, or 'cos his eyes is the color of a bran'-new Bowie knife, nobody knows. We reckon it's for certain he ain't named for no silvertip grizzly, which is about the meanest, fiercest critter that ever walks off the Ark. Bowers on the other hand is a quiet jasper, small an' slim as a woman, an' the idea of him resemblin' anythin' close to a grizzly bear would've counted as a big joke with us.
Which just goes to show how wrong you can read a man's sign, sometimes.
There was talk that he invites himself into the fracas one afternoon when four punchers from the Lazy G goes after Jess Harper in the saloon, but there ain't no witnesses 'cept Jess, Bowers, and the Lazy G boys. Bowers never says nothin' an' the Lazy G riders keeps their mouths shut - but them as cares to notice sees that Jess counts Bowers as a friend from that day onwards.
Otherwise there ain't no reason to regard Bowers as anythin' more than your common or garden variety card-sharp, mindin' his own business when he's not runnin' an honest game, an' livin' peaceable amidst the livelier elements in town. So far as we can tell he don't even carry a hideout gun, relyin' on soft answers to turn away wrath, not to mention the barkeep's always havin' a bung-starter handy to discourage fatal attentions from the clientele. Shootin' faro-dealers is bad for business an' is frowned on by saloon-owners of a progressive bent.
Anyhow, one day Silvertip Dave is in Cheyenne on business o' his own, and whiles he's there he runs into Jess Harper what's been up in Helena, so him an' Jess come to be waitin' for the same stage back to Laramie. This is the same time the Pawnees is leadin' the Army on a scenic tour of Wyoming Territory, an' travelin' is consequently some chancy. But Buttermilk Brown is the driver that trip, a man known to be a lively reins-handler when he's sober an' even livelier when he's not. If anyone can push a four-up along, it's Buttermilk. And besides, things has been quiet for a spell.
Seein' as how the road's reckoned to be fairly safe right then, along o' Jess an' Silvertip Dave is a pretty, youngish woman, out from the East, ridin' herd on a little boy about five, an' also an older heifer as sort of range-boss o' the whole outfit. Buttermilk is mighty glad to see Jess, as there ain't no shotgun messenger an' Jess is more than common handy with a six-gun or a rifle. He don't know Bowers an' what he sees he don't cotton to, but calc'lates even a meek-lookin' gent like that can pull a trigger, if things start to hop.
"An' if he cain't, then he c'n still load for you, Jess," says Buttermilk.
"Don't sell him short, Buttermilk," says Jess. "There's a heap more to Bowers than meets the eye."
The ladies is standin' to one side, an' they ain't inclined to be sociable. In fact, the prospect of spending eight hours in a stagecoach with our two fellow-citizens don't seem to be fillin' them with joy unconfined. The young one's got a look on her face like somethin' smells bad, an' she keeps tryin' to drive her yearlin' to cover behind her bustle. The older one ain't no better.
Now Jess has perked up considerable when the ladies comes in view, him bein' a mere youth an' easily swayed by the presence of anythin' in petticoats. Once they's all loaded up he opens the ball with a civil word or two about the weather, an' it's some time before it dawns on him that his overtures is about as welcome as a longhorn steer at a quiltin' bee. That boy cleans up nice, but when he's in range clothes an' has a couple days' worth of trail dirt an' whiskers on him Jess is surely a sight to throw a scare into anybody, leave alone two genteel greenhorns of the female persuasion. Not to mention he's packin' his usual artillery, somethin' which tends to cause a flutter of distress amongst folks not used to our ways.
An' it seems Buttermilk has helpfully delivered unto his Eastern passengers a brief but tellin' sermon on the subject of Jess an' Silvertip Dave's respective careers, so the ladies is regardin' them both as brands to be plucked from the burnin' but pref'ably by somebody more qualified for the job.
Well, Jess is a tough young'un, an' his feelings ain't hurt, much. By now he's got his rope around the idea that the ladies don't want no part of him, hide, hoof, nor hocks, but compared to Jess, Silvertip Dave is a downright leper. Now it's true he's a gambler from his socks up, but not one o' them flashy tinhorn kind. He's a clean-livin', good-hearted cuss, an' he don't need advice on behavin' hisself any more'n a bighorn sheep needs a saddle-blanket. However, them women has decided that he's a pore lost soul, sinkin' in the mire of a sinful life an' surely bound for the abyss. They draws back the hems of their garments like they was in contact with the unclean, an' attempts at polite conversation falls on barren soil thereafter.
The stage rattles along for a few more miles with nothin' more bein' said. The road from Cheyenne runs through some mighty rough country, an' them ladies is getting' jounced around a bit, which don't sweeten their dispositions none. When Buttermilk takes the curve at the bottom of a grade at his usual pace, there's a crack from somewheres near the off hind wheel.
"Brake's goin' to snap if he ain't careful," Jess says to Bowers, but casual-like, not wantin' to worry the womenfolks.
"He might want to ease off," Bowers agrees. "The next hill's a tad sudden."
Whereupon the younger gal starts to squawk an' the older one favors her fellow passengers with a selection of choice adjectives that leaves them in no doubt of her opinion of Buttermilk, the stage line, and present company, all inclusive. It's about that time they strikes Little Creek Canyon, which is considered an unhealthy spot to linger. If any road agents ever get the notion to hold up the stage, they usually does it in this canyon, so Jess an' Buttermilk is regardin' it with some suspicion.
"Send 'em through lively, Buttermilk," advises Jess, stickin' his head out the window.
Buttermilk is happy to oblige. That four-up leans into their collars an' jumps out at a ten-mile gait, which shakes the women up some more an' the senior female is gettin' right angry, thinkin' it's been done a'purpose. She's ready to add some frills an' trimmin's to her earlier remarks, when from both sides an assortment of firearms begins to go off, along with yellin' that tells everybody within earshot that these ain't no owlhoots, it's a bunch o' Pawnees payin' a call. Jess hands Silvertip Dave his .45 an' picks up his Winchester, an' they begins respondin' in kind.
To her credit, when the bullets start flyin' the old lady pushes the boy down to the floor and plunks herself on top, leavin' t'other one shriekin' somethin' fierce. Buttermilk is encouragin' his cayuses in a manner both earnest an' profane, an' they're givin' him all they got. The Pawnees ain't crowdin' him none out of respect for Jess an' Silvertip Dave's marksmanship, but Jess knows the country an' he's worried.
"The ford's about two-three miles further on," he tells Silvertip Dave. "The way I figgers it, these Pawnees is goin' to run up on us there. They're bound to get lucky and drop a horse or Buttermilk and maybe both, an' when that happens the stage will stop an' that means a stand-up fight."
An' a stand-up fight is exactly what they don't want.
"There's a spot just up ahead with some good cover where the canyon narrows. A man with a Winchester could stand off a whole tribe from there, I reckon," says Jess.
"Or two men," says Silvertip Dave. Both hombres know it's about the only chance Buttermilk's got to get the women an' that kid out o' there in one piece. They grins at each other in harmonious accord, an' Jess hollers up to Buttermilk to let him know what they've got planned. When they gets to where the canyon walls start to close in, Buttermilk leans on the brake, haulin' the horses back on their haunches, an' the stage slews to halt.
The Pawnees is still throwin' lead around some promiscuous, an' all of a sudden Silvertip Dave grunts an' twitches sideways.
"You're hit, Dave," says Jess. "You stick with the women – I'm playin' this hand alone."
"The name of the game ain't solitaire," says Silvertip Dave. "I reckon my chips is as good as yours, Jess. Now let's up the ante - I'm feelin' lucky today."
With that, he kicks the stage door open. The younger female is still wailin' fit to bust, but the older one sticks out her paw.
"I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Bowers. Can you an' Mr. Harper forgive a foolish old woman?" she asks him.
"Don't mention it, ma'am ," said Silvertip Dave. They shakes hands an' then Jess an' him jumps out an' commences offensive operations, like they says in the military dispatches.
Buttermilk Brown lays into that team like the men he's leavin' behind owes him money, but it's still a good hour before the stage pulls into town. We considers it a matter of municipal pride in Laramie that in less than ten minutes, a dozen men on fast horses is headed back up the road, an' we gets to the canyon before sundown.
There we finds Jess layin' in a puddle of his own blood an' although he ain't collected his robe an' crown yet, he's sure 'nough within hailin' distance of the peace which passeth all understandin'. There's four-five Pawnees scattered out in the brush an' one on top of Silvertip Dave. Dave's got three bullets in him an' is sliced up pretty bad, but his hands is buried deep in that hostile's throat. Jess, who ain't a man to talk himself up, later allows as how he might've accounted for two of 'em before he gets plugged, but the rest is Dave's.
We gets our boy Jess to the doc in time, an' he's patched up an' back on his hind paws in four or five weeks. Silvertip Dave we plants in the best-attended funeral these parts has seen in a dog's age. That she-tenderfoot can't be there, her havin' gone on to Ogden in the meantime, but she leaves some money with us for his headstone. She gives us some strong hints on what she considers a desirable epitaph, an' while normally a lady's word is law with us, we don't much cotton to her choice of Scripture as being fully expressive of our feelin's. Still, in the spirit of compromise, we puts up the following.
SILVERTIP DAVE BOWERS
JOHN 15:13
WHEN THE CHIPS WERE DOWN
HE PLAYED TO WIN
Go thou and do likewise.