Huck Out West(46)

When we set Deadwood down on the floor, his eyes peeped open in their bruised sockets. Both of them was staring in panic at the mud cast on his broke nose. One of his eyes swiveled round to look up at me. He yelped horribly and passed out again. “He’s a-going to blame us for what happened to him,” I says.

Eeteh nodded, pointed to the old prospector’s head. “Many strange bumps,” he says, pointing.

“Must be where all his lies is lodged,” I says. “You think he’ll live?”

“No.”

“Me nuther. But Deadwood’s got one good advantage. He don’t worry none about it.” I set out Zeb’s rum flask for him and some corn-bread crumbles from my vest pocket, and me and Eeteh struck for the tepee and the horses down below. There was already light leaking into the sky, so we was heeling it as hard as we could put. We heard somebody beating a drum, and we unfurled our heels and run all the faster, trying not to make no noise.

Then I heard people shouting—“Help! It’s old Zeb!”—and my heart jumped up amongst my lungs. I turned and shot towards the shouting without thinking what I was doing. Only that Zeb was in trouble. Somebody hollered out my name, asking for help. Behind me, Eeteh called out: “Hahza! Stop!” Men was riding in on horseback. That chap in the goggles and black derby was slowly banging his army drum. One of the horses was carrying a limp body over its back. With white hair hanging down. His back was full of bullet holes. It most froze me. “It’s Zeb! He’s been murdered!” The man riding in front was Eyepatch, wearing his black headband and raggedy black shirt with a silvry star on it that looked cut out of a tin can. Riding longside him was his two pals and them two pock-faced robber varmints who’d crippled up Deadwood. Flashing his mouth of gold teeth, Eyepatch raised up a finger and pointed straight at me. I turned to run but there was a stampeed of human varmints all round me and they grabbed my beard and hair and throwed me to the mud and give me a most powerful thrashing and there warn’t nothing I could do.





CHAPTER XIX


ULCH HISTORY GOT made by ’lowing me the novelness of a trial, but they didn’t lose no time in their charging, convicting and condamning drills. After my licking, they hauled me up out a the mud and got right to it. Dawn warn’t even completely broke. They was dragging me straight to the tree where that country boy was a-dangling, but Eyepatch stopped them and says that warn’t sivilized, they had to give testimony and take a vote, and THEN hang me.

Eyepatch he was the persecuter, his pal Bill whose hand I shot was chairman of the jury, and his other pal Pegleg, who was earless and couldn’t read or write, was who they give me like a lawyer. Yaller Whiskers was the judge and the jury was all the scoundrels left over, mostly sick red-eyed emigrants just raising up from the mud or crawling out a their shackly wagons, not knowing what they was s’posed to be doing or even where in creation they was, but madder’n hell. To keep order in the court, Eyepatch hired on them two ugly pock-faced robbers who nearly done old Deadwood in, and they watched over the trial doings like turkey buzzards with clubs in their claws and their hat brims down over their beaks.

One a the robbers raised up his gold fob watch and says it’s time to get the blamed thing over with. Bill told his jury to ca’m down or he’d see personal to them being horsewhipped. There was some loud cussing in objection to his pronouncement, some declaring it was just as toothless as he was and stunk even worse, but Bill fired off some shots into the air with his good hand, and that settled the matter.

Eyepatch shoved a thumb in his waistband and raired back and declared that I was an arched crinimal who was on trial for the gashly Bear-Claw Murder. He held up my good-luck neckless and says they found it fastened like a noose round old Zeb’s throat, his both eyes popping their last pop, and all his traps and his packhorse stole, and he asks me if the neckless was mine. I says I give it to Zeb for good luck, and he says to shut up and answer his question: Was it mine? I says it was, but—and he cut me off again and says it didn’t bring nuther of us much luck, did it? And them loafers all had a good hoot.

I was in a tight place. Zeb’s killers was my accusers and judges, but if I raired a fuss and said so, Eyepatch’d just laugh and turn the others loose on me. They was only looking for an invite, feeling monstrous sick and unhappy. I couldn’t spy half a friend among them.

“And whar did this string a heathen julery come from, genlmen a the jury? Why, from them filthy iggorant Sooks who the killer has been pallin’ round with! You want to know whar your vegilanty rifles has got to? Ask them war-pathin’ redskins that give him this neckless in thanks for all he done for ’em! Finn ain’t only a cold-bloody murderer, genlmen, he’s a traiter to all white Christians everywheres! He’s a traiter to YOU’N ME!”

His rising voice had all them rapscallions roused up and it warn’t sure he could hold them back if they took after me. Already I was getting punched and kicked by the nearest ones. Worse, Eyepatch was right in parts, I couldn’t deny it. Helping Eeteh the way I done so’s we’d be free to leave together was a low-down thing. Ain’t never done a low-downer thing. But what was the low-downest of all was I warn’t sorry for it. I would hive them rifles for him all over again. I only wished I hain’t been such a fool as to go and get caught. That was the most low-downest thing I done: letting Eeteh down. I was feeling terrible worried and sorry about him, but at least they warn’t passing his head around like a trophy, so maybe he got away.