The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories(吉米约翰老板的故事)

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The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

The Jimmyjohn Boss and

Other Stories

By Owen Wister

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

The Jimmyjohn Boss

One day at Nampa, which is in Idaho, a ruddy old massive jovial man

stood by the Silver City stage, patting his beard with his left hand, and

with his right the shoulder of a boy who stood beside him. He had come

with the boy on the branch train from Boise, because he was a careful

German and liked to say everything twice--twice at least when it was a

matter of business. This was a matter of very particular business, and the

German had repeated himself for nineteen miles. Presently the east-bound

on the main line would arrive from Portland; then the Silver City stage

would take the boy south on his new mission, and the man would journey

by the branch train back to Boise. From Boise no one could say where he

might not go, west or east. He was a great and pervasive cattle man in

Oregon, California, and other places. Vogel and Lex--even to-day you may

hear the two ranch partners spoken of. So the veteran Vogel was now once

more going over his notions and commands to his youthful deputy during

the last precious minutes until the east-bound should arrive.

"Und if only you haf someding like dis," said the old man, as he

tapped his beard and patted the boy, "it would be five hoondert more

dollars salary in your liddle pants."

The boy winked up at his employer. He had a gray, humorous eye; he

was slim and alert, like a sparrow-hawk--the sort of boy his father openly

rejoices in and his mother is secretly in prayer over. Only, this boy had

neither father nor mother. Since the age of twelve he had looked out for

himself, never quite without bread, sometimes attaining champagne,

getting along in his American way variously, on horse or afoot, across

regions of wide plains and mountains, through towns where not a soul

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

knew his name. He closed one of his gray eyes at his employer, and

beyond this made no remark.

"Vat you mean by dat vink, anyhow?" demanded the elder.

"Say," said the boy, confidentially--"honest now. How about you and

me? Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've

got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many

dollars you gif me for dat bloom?" The sparrow-hawk sailed into a

freakish imitation of his master.

"You are a liddle rascal!" cried the master, shaking with entertainment.

"Und if der peoples vas to hear you sass old Max Vogel in dis style they

would say, 'Poor old Max, he lose his gr-rip.' But I don't lose it." His great

hand closed suddenly on the boy's shoulder, his voice cut clean and heavy

as an axe, and then no more joking about him. "Haf you understand that?"

he said.

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you, son?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"Oh my, that is offle young for the job I gif you. Some of dose man

you go to boss might be your father. Und how much do you weigh?"

"About a hundred and thirty."

"Too light, too light. Und I haf keep my eye on you in Boise. You are

not so goot a boy as you might be."

"Well, sir, I guess not."

"But you was not so bad a boy as you might be, neider. You don't lie

about it. Now it must be farewell to all that foolishness. Haf you

understand? You go to set an example where one is needed very bad. If

those men see you drink a liddle, they drink a big lot. You forbid them,

they laugh at you. You must not allow one drop of whiskey at the whole

place. Haf you well understand?"

"Yes, sir. Me and whiskey are not necessary to each other's happiness."

"It is not you, it is them. How are you mit your gun?"

Vogel took the boy's pistol from its holster and aimed at an empty

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

bottle which was sticking in the thin Deceiver snow. "Can you do this?" he

said, carelessly, and fired. The snow struck the bottle, but the unharming

bullet was buried half an inch to the left.

The boy took his pistol with solemnity." No," he said. "Guess I can't

do that." He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. "Told you I

couldn't miss as close as you did," said he.

"You are a darling," said Mr. Vogel. "Gif me dat lofely weapon."

A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white

snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them.

"May I ask if anything is the matter?" inquired a mild voice from the

stage.

"Stick that lily head in-doors," shouted Vogel; and the face and eye-

glasses withdrew again into the stage." The school-teacher he will be

beautifool virtuous company for you at Malheur Agency," continued Vogel,

shooting again; and presently the large old German destroyed a bottle with

a crashing smack. "Ah!" said he, in unison with the smack. "Ah-ha! No

von shall say der old Max lose his gr-rip. I shoot it efry time now, but the

train she whistle. I hear her."

The boy affected to listen earnestly.

"Bah! I tell you I hear de whistle coming."

"Did you say there was a whistle?" ventured the occupant of the stage.

The snow shone white on his glasses as he peered out.

"Nobody whistle for you," returned the robust Vogel. "You listen to

me," he continued to the boy. "You are offle yoong. But I watch you plenty

this long time. I see you work mit my stock on the Owyhee and the

Malheur; I see you mit my oder men. My men they say always more and

more, 'Yoong Drake he is a goot one,' und I think you are a goot one mine

own self. I am the biggest cattle man on the Pacific slope, und I am also an

old devil. I have think a lot, und I like you."

"I'm obliged to you, sir."

"Shut oop. I like you, und therefore I make you my new

sooperintendent at my Malheur Agency r-ranch, mit a bigger salary as you

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

don't get before. If you are a sookcess, I r-raise you some more."

"I am satisfied now, sir."

"Bah! Never do you tell any goot business man you are satisfied mit

vat he gif you, for eider he don't believe you or else he think you are a fool.

Und eider ways you go down in his estimation. You make those men at

Malheur Agency behave themselves und I r-raise you. Only I do vish, I do

certainly vish you had some beard on that yoong chin."

The boy glanced at his pistol.

"No, no, no, my son," said the sharp old German. "I don't want

gunpowder in dis affair. You must act kviet und decisif und keep your

liddle shirt on. What you accomplish shootin'? You kill somebody, und

then, pop! somebody kills you. What goot is all that nonsense to me?"

"It would annoy me some, too," retorted the boy, eyeing the capitalist.

"Don't leave me out of the proposition."

"Broposition! Broposition! Now you get hot mit old Max for nothing."

"If you didn't contemplate trouble," pursued the boy, "what was your

point just now in sampling my marksmanship?" He kicked some snow in

the direction of the shattered bottle. "It's understood no whiskey comes on

that ranch. But if no gunpowder goes along with me, either, let's call the

deal off. Buy some other fool."

"You haf not understand, my boy. Und you get very hot because I

happen to make that liddle joke about somebody killing you. Was you

thinking maybe old Max not care what happen to you?"

A moment of silence passed before the answer came: "Suppose we talk

business?"

"Very well, very well. Only notice this thing. When oder peoples talk

oop to me like you haf done many times, it is not they who does the

getting hot. It is me--old Max. Und when old Max gets hot he slings them

out of his road anywheres. Some haf been very sorry they get so slung.

You invite me to buy some oder fool? Oh, my boy, I will buy no oder fool

except you, for that was just like me when I was yoong Max!" Again the

ruddy and grizzled magnate put his hand on the shoulder of the boy, who

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

stood looking away at the bottles, at the railroad track, at anything save his

employer.

The employer proceeded: "I was afraid of nobody und noding in those

days. You are afraid of nobody and noding. But those days was different.

No Pullman sleepers, no railroad at all. We come oop the Columbia in the

steamboat, we travel hoonderts of miles by team, we sleep, we eat

nowheres in particular mit many unexpected interooptions. There was

Indians, there was offle bad white men, und if you was not offle yourself

you vanished quickly. Therefore in those days was Max Vogel hell und

repeat."

The magnate smiled a broad fond smile over the past which he had

kicked, driven, shot, bled, and battled through to present power; and the

boy winked up at him again now.

"I don't propose to vanish, myself," said he.

"Ah-ha! you was no longer mad mit der old Max! Of coorse I care

what happens to you. I was alone in the world myself in those lofely

wicked days."

Reserve again made flinty the boy's face.

"Neider did I talk about my feelings," continued Max Vogel, "but I

nefer show them too quick. If I was injured I wait, and I strike to kill. We

all paddles our own dugout, eh? We ask no favors from nobody; we must

win our spurs! Not so? Now I talk business with you where you interroopt

me. If cow-boys was not so offle scarce in the country, I would long ago

haf bounce the lot of those drunken fellows. But they cannot be spared; we

must get along so. I cannot send Brock, he is needed at Harper's. The

dumb fellow at Alvord Lake is too dumb; he is not quickly courageous.

They would play high jinks mit him. Therefore I send you. Brock he say to

me you haf joodgement. I watch, and I say to myself also, this boy haf

goot joodgement. And when you look at your pistol so quick, I tell you

quick I don't send you to kill men when they are so scarce already! My

boy, it is ever the moral, the say-noding strength what gets there--mit

always the liddle pistol behind, in case--joost in case. Haf you understand?

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

I ask you to shoot. I see you know how, as Brock told me. I recommend

you to let them see that aggomplishment in a friendly way. Maybe a

shooting-match mit prizes--I pay for them--pretty soon after you come.

Und joodgement--und joodgement. Here comes that train. Haf you well

understand?"

Upon this the two shook hands, looking square friendship in each

other's eyes. The east-bound, long quiet and dark beneath its flowing clots

of smoke, slowed to a halt. A few valises and legs descended, ascended,

herding and hurrying; a few trunks were thrown resoundingly in and out of

the train; a woolly, crooked old man came with a box and a bandanna

bundle from the second-class car; the travellers of a thousand miles looked

torpidly at him through the dim, dusty windows of their Pullman, and

settled again for a thousand miles more. Then the east-bound, shooting

heavier clots of smoke laboriously into the air, drew its slow length out of

Nampa, and away.

"Where's that stage?" shrilled the woolly old man. "That's what I'm

after." "Why, hello!" shouted Vogel. "Hello, Uncle Pasco! I heard you

was dead."

Uncle Pasco blinked his small eyes to see who hailed him. "Oh!" said

he, in his light, crusty voice. "Dutchy Vogel. No, I ain't dead. You guessed

wrong. Not dead. Help me up, Dutchy."

A tolerant smile broadened Vogel's face. "It was ten years since I see

you," said he, carrying the old man's box.

"Shouldn't wonder. Maybe it'll be another ten till you see me next." He

stopped by the stage step, and wheeling nimbly, surveyed his old-time

acquaintance, noting the good hat, the prosperous watch-chain, the big,

well-blacked boots. "Not seen me for ten years. Hee-hee! No. Usen't to

have a cent more than me. Twins in poverty. That's how Dutchy and me

started. If we was buried to-morrow they'd mark him 'Pecunious' and me

'Impecunious.' That's what. Twins in poverty."

"I stick to von business at a time, Uncle," said good-natured,

successful Max.

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

A flicker of aberration lighted in the old man's eye. "H'm, yes," said he,

pondering. "Stuck to one business. So you did. H'm." Then, suddenly sly,

he chirped: "But I've struck it rich now." He tapped his box. "Jewelry," he

half-whispered. "Miners and cow-boys."

"Yes," said Vogel. "Those poor, deluded fellows, they buy such stuff."

And he laughed at the seedy visionary who had begun frontier life with

him on the bottom rung and would end it there. "Do you play that

concertina yet, Uncle?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes. I always play. It's in here with my tooth-brush and socks."

Uncle Pasco held up the bandanna. "Well, he's getting ready to start. I

guess I'll be climbing inside. Holy Gertrude!"

This shrill comment was at sight of the school-master, patient within

the stage. "What business are you in?" demanded Uncle Pasco.

"I am in the spelling business," replied the teacher, and smiled, faintly.

"Hell!" piped Uncle Pasco. "Take this."

He handed in his bandanna to the traveller, who received it politely.

Max Vogel lifted the box of cheap jewelry; and both he and the boy came

behind to boost the old man up on the stage step. But with a nettled look

he leaped up to evade them, tottered half-way, and then, light as a husk of

grain, got himself to his seat and scowled at the schoolmaster.

After a brief inspection of that pale, spectacled face, "Dutchy," he

called out of the door, "this country is not what it was."

But old Max Vogel was inattentive. He was speaking to the boy, Dean

Drake, and held a flask in his hand. He reached the flask to his new

superintendent. "Drink hearty," said he. "There, son! Don't be shy. Haf you

forgot it is forbidden fruit after now?"

"Kid sworn off?" inquired Uncle Pasco of the school-master.

"I understand," replied this person, "that Mr. Vogel will not allow his

cow-boys at the Malheur Agency to have any whiskey brought there.

Personally, I feel gratified." And Mr. Bolles, the new school-master, gave

his faint smile.

"Oh," muttered Uncle Pasco. "Forbidden to bring whiskey on the

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

ranch? H'm." His eyes wandered to the jewelry-box. "H'm," said he again;

and becoming thoughtful, he laid back his moth-eaten sly head, and spoke

no further with Mr. Bolles.

Dean Drake climbed into the stage and the vehicle started.

"Goot luck, goot luck, my son!" shouted the hearty Max, and opened

and waved both his big arms at the departing boy: He stood looking after

the stage. "I hope he come back," said he. "I think he come back. If he

come I r-raise him fifty dollars without any beard."

The stage had not trundled so far on its Silver City road but that a

whistle from Nampa station reached its three occupants. This was the

branch train starting back to Boise with Max Vogel aboard; and the boy

looked out at the locomotive with a sigh.

"Only five days of town," he murmured. "Six months more wilderness

now."

"My life has been too much town," said the new school-master. "I am

looking forward to a little wilderness for a change."

Old Uncle Pasco, leaning back, said nothing; he kept his eyes shut and

his ears open.

"Change is what I don't get," sighed Dean Drake. In a few miles,

however, before they had come to the ferry over Snake River, the recent

leave-taking and his employer's kind but dominating repression lifted from

the boy's spirit. His gray eye wakened keen again, and he began to whistle

light opera tunes, looking about him alertly, like the sparrow-hawk that he

was. "Ever see Jeannie Winston in 'Fatinitza'?" he inquired of Mr. Bolles.

The school-master, with a startled, thankful countenance, stated that he

had never.

"Ought to," said Drake.

"You a man? that can't be true! Men have never eyes like

you."

The Jimmyjohn Boss and Other Stories

That's what the girls in the harem sing in the second act. Golly whiz!"

The boy gleamed over the memory of that evening.

"You have a hard job before you," said the school-master, changing the

subject.

"Yep. Hard." The wary Drake shook his head warningly at Mr. Bolles

to keep off that subject, and he glanced in the direction of slumbering

Uncle Pasco. Uncle Pasco was quite aware of all this. "I wouldn't take

another lonesome job so soon," pursued Drake, "but I want the money. I've

been working eleven months along the Owyhee as a sort of junior boss,

and I'd earned my vacation. Just got it started hot in Portland, when biff!

old Vogel telegraphs me. Well, I'll be saving instead of squandering. But it

feels so good to squander!"

"I have never had anything to squander," said Bolles, rather sadly.

"You don't say! Well, old man, I hope you will. It gives a man a lot

he'll never get out of spelling-books. Are you cold? Here." And despite the

school-master's protest, Dean Drake tucked his buffalo coat round and

over him. "Some day, when I'm old," he went on, "I mean to live

respectable under my own cabin and vine. Wife and everything. But not,

anyway, till I'm thirty-five."

He dropped into his opera tunes for a while; but evidently it was not

"Fatinitza" and his vanished holiday over which he was chiefly meditating,

for presently he exclaimed: "I'll give them a shooting-match in the

morning. You shoot?"

Bolles hoped he was going to learn in this country, and exhibited a

Smith & Wesson revolver.

Drake grieved over it. "Wrap it up warm," said he. "I'll lend you a real

one when we get to the Malheur Agency. But you can eat, anyhow.

Christmas being next week, you see, my programme is, shoot all A.M. and

eat all P.M. I wish you could light on a notion what prizes to give my

buccaroos."

"Buccaroos?" said Bolles.

"Yep. Cow-punchers. Vaqueros. Buccaroos in Oregon. Bastard

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TheJimmyjohnBossandOtherStories1TheJimmyjohnBossandOtherStoriesByOwenWisterTheJimmyjohnBossandOtherStories2TheJimmyjohnBossIOnedayatNampa,whichisinIdaho,aruddyoldmassivejovialmanstoodbytheSilverCitystage,pattinghisbeardwithhislefthand,andwithhisrighttheshoulderofaboywhostoodbesidehim.Hehadcomewithth...

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