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Softpanorama |
May the source be with you, but remember the KISS principle ;-)
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Released from prison in 1902, Porter went to New York City, his home and the setting of most of his fiction for the remainder of his life. He wrote, under the pen name O. Henry, at a prodigious rate - a story a week for a newspaper, plus still other stories for magazines. Books made up of his stories followed rapidly: The Four Million (1906); Heart of the West and The Trimmed Lamp (both 1907); The Gentle Grafter and The Voice of the City (both 1908); Options (1909); and Whirligigs and Strictly Business (both 1910).
O. Henry is a household name in Russia, as his books enjoyed excellent translations and some of his stories were made into popular movies, the best known being, probably, "The Ransom of Red Chief". The phrase "Bolivar cannot carry double" from "The Roads We Take" has become a Russian proverb, whose origin many Russians do not even recognize.
TWIENTY miles West of Tucson, the "Sunset Express" stopped at a tank to take on
water. Besides the aqueous, addition the engine of that famous flyer acquired some
other things that were not good for it.
While the fireman was lowering the feeding hose, Bob Tidball, "Shark" Dodson and
a quarter-bred Creek Indian called John Big Dog climbed on the engine and showed
the engineer three round orifices in pieces of ordnance that the carried. These
orifices so impressed the engineer with their possibilities that he raised both
hands in a gesture such as accompanies the ejaculation "Do tell!"
At the crisp command of Shark Dodson, who was leader of the attacking force the
engineer descended to the ground and uncoupled the engine and tender. Then John
Big Dog, perched upon the coal, sportively held two guns upon the engine driver
and the fireman, and suggested that they run the engine fifty yards away and there
await further orders.
Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, scorning to put such low-grade ore as the passengers
through the mill, struck out for the rich pocket of the express car. They found
the messenger serene in the belief that the "Sunset Express" was taking on nothing
more stimulating and dangerous than aqua pura. While Bob was knocking this idea
out of his head with the butt-end of his six-shooter Shark Dodson was already dosing
the express-car safe with dynamite.
The safe exploded to the tune of $30,000, all gold and currency. The passengers
thrust their heads casually out of the windows to look for the thunder-cloud. The
conductor jerked at the bell-rope, which sagged down loose and unresisting, at his
tug. Shark Dodson and Bob Tidball, with their booty in a stout canvas bag, tumbled
out of the express car and ran awkwardly in their high-heeled boots to the engine.
The engineer, sullenly angry but wise, ran the engine, according to orders, rapidly
away from the inert train. But before this was accomplished the express messenger,
recovered from Bob Tidball's persuader to neutrality, jumped out of his car with
a Winchester rifle and took a trick in the game. Mr. John Big Dog, sitting on the
coal tender, unwittingly made a wrong lead by giving an imitation of a target, and
the messenger trumped him. With a ball exactly between his shoulder blades the Creek
chevalier of industry rolled off to the ground, thus increasing the share of his
comrades in the loot by one-sixth each.
Two miles from the tank the engineer was ordered to stop.
The robbers waved a defiant adieu and plunged down the steep slope into the thick
woods that lined the track. Five minutes of crashing through a thicket of chapparal
brought them to open woods, where three horses were tied to low-hanging branches.
One was waiting for John Big Dog, who would never ride by night or day again. This
animal the robbers divested of saddle and bridle and set free. They mounted the
other two with the bag across one pommel, and rode fast and with discre- tion through
the forest and up a primeval, lonely gorge. Here the animal that bore Bob Tidball
slipped on a mossy boulder and broke a foreleg. They shot him through the head at
once and sat down to hold a council of flight. Made secure for the present by the
tortuous trail they- had travelled, the question of time was no longer so big. Many
miles and hours lay between them and the spryest posse that could follow. Shark
Dodson's horse, with trailing rope and dropped bridle, panted and cropped thankfully
of the grass along the stream in the gorge. Bob Tidball opened the sack, drew out
double handfuls of the neat packages of currency and the one sack of gold and chuckled
with the glee of a child.
"Say, you old double-decked pirate," he called joyfully to Dodson, "you said we
could do it -- you got a head for financing that knocks the horns off of anything
in Arizona."
"What are we going to do about a hoss for you, Bob? We ain't got long to wait here.
They'll be on our trail before daylight in the mornin'."
"Oh, I guess that cayuse of yourn'll carry double for a while," answered the sanguine
Bob. "We'll annex the first animal we come across. By jingoes, we made a haul, didn't
we? Accordin' to the marks on this money there's $30,000 -- $15,000 apiece!"
"It's short of what I expected," said Shark Dodson, kicking softly at the packages
with the toe of his boot and then he looked pensively at the wet sides of his tired
horse.
"Old Bolivar's mighty nigh played out," he said, slowly. "I wish that sorrel of
yours hadn't got hurt."
"So do I," said Bob, heartily, "but it can't be helped. Bolivar's got plenty of
bottom -- he'll get us both far enough to get fresh mounts. Dang it, Shark, I can't
belp thinkin' how funny it is that an Easterner like you can come out here and give
us Western fellows cards and spades in the desperado business. What part of the
East was you from, anyway?"
"New York State," said Shark Dodson, sitting down on a boulder and chewing a twig.
"I was born on a farm in Ulster County. I ran away from home when I was seventeen.
It was an accident my coming West. I was walkin' along the road with my clothes
in a bundle, makin' for New York City. I had an idea of goin' there and makin' lots
of money. I always felt like I could do it. I came to a place one evenin' where
the road forked and I didn't know which fork to take. I studied about it for half
an hour, and then I took the left- hand. That night I run into the camp of a Wild
West show that was travellin' among the little towns, and I went West with it. I've
often wondered if I wouldn't have turned out different if I'd took the other road."
"Oh, I reckon you'd have ended up about the same," said Bob Tidball, cheerfully
philosophical. "It ain't the roads we take; it's what's inside of us that makes
us turn out the way we do."
Shark Dodson got up and leaned against a tree.
"I'd a good deal rather that sorrel of yourn hadn't hurt himself, Bob," he said
again, almost pathetically.
"Same here," agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait. But Bolivar,
he'll pull us through all right. Reckon we'd better be movin' on, hadn't we, Shark?
I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hit the trail for higher timber."
Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it tightly with
a cord. When he looked up the most prominent object that he saw was the muzzle of
Shark Dodson's .45 held upon him without a waver.
"Stop your funnin'," said Bob, with a grin. "We got to be hittin' the breeze."
"Set still," said Shark. "You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob. I hate to tell
you, but there ain't any chance for but one of us. Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and
he can't carry double."
"We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year," Bob said quietly. "We've
risked our lives together time and again. I've always give you a square deal, and
I thought you was a man. I've heard some queer stories about you shootin' one or
two men in a peculiar way, but I never believed 'em. Now if you're just havin' a
little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivar and vamose.
If you mean to shoot -- shoot, you blackhearted son of a tarantula!"
Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look. "You don't know how bad I feel,"
he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob."
The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled
with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an
evil face in the window of a reputable house.
Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again. The deadly .45 of the false
friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the walls hurled back with
indignant echoes. And Bolivar, unconscious accomplice, swiftly bore away the last
of the holders-up of the "Sunset Express," not put to the stress of "carrying double."
But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his view; the
revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of a mahogany chair; his saddle
was strangely upholstered, and he opened his eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups,
but resting quietly on the edge of a quartered-oak desk.
I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker, Wall Street brokers,
opened his eyes. Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, hesitating
to speak. There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an
electric fan.
"Ahem! Peabody," said Dodson, blinking. "I must have fallen asleep. I had a most
remarkable dream. What is it, Peabody?"
"Mr. Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside. He has come to settle his deal
in X. Y. Z. The market caught him short, sir, if you remember."
"Yes, I remember. What is X. Y. Z. quoted at to-day, Peabody?"
"One eighty-five, sir."
"Then that's his price."
"Excuse me," said Peabody, rather nervously "for speaking of it, but I've been talking
to Williams. He's an old friend of yours, Mr. Dodson, and you practically have a
corner in X. Y. Z. I thought you might -- that is, I thought you might not remember
that he sold you the stock at 98. If he settles at the market price it will take
every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares."
The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled
with inexorable cupidity. The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an
evil face in the window of a reputable house.
"He will settle at one eighty-five," said Dodson. "Bolivar cannot carry double."
O. Henry - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Eric Shackle's eBook - Baghdad
Leonid Gaidai - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia