The man who hated himself
Date: 2024-07-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Western stories; Robbery -- Fiction; Montana -- Fiction; Cowboys -- Fiction; Winter -- Fiction; Blizzards -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The man who hated himself

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The man who hated himself

Author: Walt Coburn

Illustrator: V. E. Pyles

Release date: July 4, 2024 [eBook #73960]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73960

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED HIMSELF ***

The Man Who Hated Himself

By Walt Coburn

A powerful story of the Montana cattle
trails and the Great Blizzard of ’86

Every stockman in the northwest recalls the hard winter of ’86-’87. It broke most of them. One cattleman, spending his winter in the South, wrote back to his ranch to inquire how his stuff was wintering. His line rider took a pencil and drew the picture of a starving cow hung up in the drifts. Under it he wrote:

Waiting for a chinook. The last of the five thousand.

The man who drew that picture was Charlie Russell, the daddy of them all when it came to putting the cow and the horse and the Indian and the cowpuncher on canvas or in clay. But in ’86 Charlie was a cowpuncher.

This is not a story about Charlie Russell. He is mentioned no more in the tale. I speak of him here because when a cowman of Montana recalls the winter of ’86 he invariably mentions that picture of Charlie Russell’s as an illustration for his tale of hardship. It tells better than any words the bitter curse of that hard winter.

The Circle C outfit made their last shipment of steers along about the first of November that fall. It was spitting snow when they finished loading. The cattle train pulled out for Chicago. The boys rode back to where the roundup wagon was camped on Main Alkali. They gulped down hot food and black coffee, caught out their town horses and headed for Malta.

As they jogged along the road with their ears tied up with silk handkerchiefs, heads bent against the raw wind, big Buck Bell rode up alongside the wagon boss.

“Winter’s done come, Horace,” grunted Buck, fashioning a cigaret with numbing fingers.

“Shore has,” returned Horace, humped across his saddle horn.

“Makes a man wonder what’s become of his summer’s wages,” Buck led up to his subject.

Horace nodded a trifle absently. He was wondering how he’d get his mess wagon loaded and started for the ranch before the cook got too drunk to handle his four lines.

“How’s chances fer a winter’s job ridin’ line, Horace?” Buck tried to keep the eager tremor out of his voice.

“We’re full handed fer the winter, Bell. You should ’a’ tackled me a month ago.”

“A month ago,” said Buck Bell with grim humor, “I was fatter’n a bear in berry season. Had a thousand dollars. Had a idee I was a top hand at draw poker; The nighthawk took me fer my roll.”

This story of tough luck was not a new one to the ears of the wagon boss. It is a tale as old as the oldest cow hand. Horace, still thinking of the cook, missed the flicker of disappointment in Buck Bell’s snow bitten eyes. He failed to see the beaten droop of the big boned shoulders inadequately clothed in a soiled flannel shirt and two undershirts. Buck didn’t own an overcoat. His boots were rusty and he kicked his toes against his stirrups as he rode, by way of restoring circulation.

“Looks like when a man begun gittin’ white headed,” said Horace as they dropped down the ridge toward town, “he’d have sense enough to save a winter stake.”

He did not mean to be unkind. There wasn’t a mean drop of blood in the cow boss’s veins. He was sorry for Buck Bell and hid his softer emotions under the words he now mumbled into the upturned collar of a threadbare coat. Truthfully speaking, Horace himself was prodigal as the rest of the cowpuncher clan.

Buck took a last pull at the bit of stub of cigaret and threw it away. Then he chuckled softly. They were riding down the lane that approached town. To the left of them was the Malta graveyard, the wooden slabs whitening with the first snow.

“What struck you as bein’ so comical, Buck?”

“Just thinkin’ how them boys planted in yonder boothill don’t need worry no more about winter jobs and coonskin coats they ain’t got the coin to buy. I kin name three-four that I bet is plenty warm where they went.”

They rode into town and put their horses in the feed barn. The stalls were filling with Circle C horses. There was an unwritten law of the outfit that a man must stable his horse before he got drunk.

Over at Dick Powell’s place the boys were paid off. Dick, saloon man and sheriff, voiced his friendly warning.

“The town’s your’n, boys, Take care of ’er.”

The hard earned money went into swift circulation. The tin horn gamblers opened up their games. Bartenders set up free drinks at proper intervals to the laughing, cussing, free handed men who lined the bar and swapped yarns and thawed out.

Boot heels clicked on the pine board floors. Spurs jingled along the streets.

“Can’t spend’er all in one place.”

They moved along to the next saloon. Crumpled banknotes lay along the bar. The men greeted old friends. Jovial bartenders, most of them old time cowpunchers, wiped right hands on soiled aprons and voiced profane welcome.

Fiddles squeaked above the voices loosened by the whisky. Tin pan pianos banged. Lights defied the coming dusk of early night. There would be no night guard to stand tonight. No long circle to ride in the early dawn. While their money lasted these cowboys owned the town.

Buck Bell found the nighthawk sitting in a monte game.

“Here’s that fifty dollars you still got comin’, Cotton Eye.”

The nighthawk looked up, grinned and shook his head.

“To hell with you an’ your fifty, Buck. Pay me half when you die. The rest when you come back. I’m winnin’ off this gamblin’ man.”

Buck grunted an indistinct thanks and clumped up to the bar.

“A little red licker, Dick. Give the boys what they want. Wake up that sheepherder in the corner and tell the gentleman that ol’ Buck Bell is in town. I’m a red eyed wolf from Bitter Crick and it’s my night to howl.” Whereupon he howled long and loud with a quivering, high keyed sadness in his voice.

“See you later,” Buck said as he moved on out and along the street.

The wind moaned darkly down the lonesome lane between the rows of saloons and stores. He stood with bowed legs spread wide, thumbs hung in his sagging cartridge belt, leaning a little against the storm. His howl was blotted out in a flurry of snow that was ushering in the long winter. Buck felt sad in spite of the dozen drinks under his belt. Sad and lonesome and restless. He belonged down in Texas and he was a long way from home. He had aimed to go back home this winter, wearing store clothes and with coin in his pockets. But Cotton Eye had cleaned him. He crossed over to Long Henry’s and was promptly pulled up to the bar by several celebrants. Buck tossed out a ten dollar bill with the air of a man who scorns money. Somebody was singing “Sam Bass”.

“Sam Bass” is a ballad that extolls the deeds of that notorious Texas outlaw. The old time outlaw has always held a place in the hearts of the cowpunchers. His vices are buried, his virtues, real or imaginary, live on in cowland saga.

“Sam first came to Texas a cowboy for to be—
A kinder hearted feller you seldom ever see!”

Buck Bell twirled his whisky glass between thumb and forefinger. The singer had a good voice and his audience was mellow and prone to the sentiment that has to do with white haired mothers, golden haired sweethearts and generosity of dying outlaws.

“Sam met his fate at Round Rock, July the twenty-first;
They pierced poor Sam with rifle balls and emptied out his purse.

“Jim had borrowed Sam’s good gold and didn’t want to pay,
So the only shot he saw, was to give poor Sam away.
He sold out Sam . . .

Buck Bell nodded at his dim reflection in the mirror above the back bar.

“I usta work clost to Round Rock,” he told the man next to him.

He downed his drink at one gulp and reached for the bar bottle as it came down along the line. He became more quiet, more thoughtful, as the night wore on. That haunted restlessness drove him out to the deserted street. He drifted, alone and wrapped in brooding thought, into Cavanaugh’s.

The negro piano player knew the song of Sam Bass. He sang it through three times for Buck. Buck gave him ten dollars. Only ten more remained in his overalls pocket.

After many more drinks Buck Bell started for a place across the tracks. His last ten was spent. His heart was as empty as his pockets. The mournful shriek of a locomotive made him shiver as he halted in the lee of the station to light a cigaret. The train dispatcher stepped out of the lighted telegraph office, an eyeshade across his forehead, train orders in his hand. He did not see the tall form of Buck Bell leaning a little unsteadily in the darkness just to one side of the locomotive headlight.

No. 3 squealed to a halt to deposit two sleepy traveling drummers. The door of the express car opened. The armed messenger dropped a heavy iron box on the waiting truck alongside the car. The train dispatcher was now signing for the box. The drummers hurried for the Malta House.

“Payroll for the mines,” the express messenger, explained. “Wish I had that much. I’d quit riding these damn’ night runs. Blizzard comin’.”

The door of the express car slid shut. A yellow lantern circled in the night. The train pulled out slowly and the dispatcher wheeled away the truck with its steel box.

The wheels of the truck creaked its dismal passage. The form of Buck Bell moved in a blackness made more opaque by the departure of the train lights. The man was pushing the truck within arm’s reach of the tall cowboy.

Buck lifted his gun from its old scabbard. He balanced its weight in his hand, moved out of his tracks. Swung the long barrel in a swift arc. The man wheeling the truck slumped down gently, an indistinct lump on the deserted platform.

Buck Bell moved swiftly now. He picked the steel box up in his arms and ran down the tracks. He did not halt until he reached the stockyards, a mile or more from town. He hid the box under the loading chute, then started back.

The walk in the cold air had driven the whisky fog from his brain. Buck was sober now. The sadness, the brooding restlessness, had gone and in its place came swift regrets. He fought down those regrets as best he could. He’d been a fool to do it, but he was into it now. He’d hang and rattle. Play ’er out as the cards fell and ask no man for better than even odds. He wondered how hard he’d hit that depot feller. Can’t let a man lay out in the cold that way. Besides, there was the trains to attend to.

But, as he circled the depot, he saw the sheriff and the train dispatcher talking earnestly inside the lighted telegraph and ticket office. Buck moved away, across to Dick Powell’s place. Nobody took notice of his entrance as he slipped in the back door and dropped into a chair by the stove. Then somebody called the house up for a drink and Buck joined the crowd. He had not been missed.

“How’s things stackin’ up, Buck?” It was old Horace who voiced the question. “Need a little money? I was talkin’ to the Old Gent and he said to let you have what you need. You kin come back and work it out in the spring. It ain’t every man I’d do that fer. But like I was tellin’ the Old Gent, you’re on the square and kin be depended on.”

Buck’s mouth opened, then closed without saying a word. He had been on the verge of telling the wagon boss the whole thing. Until now, Buck Bell had accepted the trust of his fellowmen as a matter of course. Now, well, now it was all over. He was beginning to pay already for his crime.

“I’ll just make ’er out fer a hundred dollars, Buck.”

Horace was misinterpreting the cowboy’s silence. Buck shook his head.

“I’d ruther not, Horace. I’ll make ’er somehow. It’s right white of you and the Old Gent. I won’t fergit it.”

The sheriff came in, an icy gust of wind and snow following him inside the lamplit, smoke hazed saloon.

Dick Powell was a blunt statured man, husky, reddish of hair, with keen gray eyes and a drooping mustache. A good natured sort of fellow who was rated as a crackerjack cow hand. The grin on Dick’s mouth held a grim twist as his eyes swept the crowd with slow deliberation.

“Belly up to the mahogany, Dick,” invited some one.

Dick Powell did not seem to hear. A hush fell over the gathering. The fiddle in the hands of a Cree breed squeaked thinly and went silent. The bartender, from force of habit, reached for the sawed off shotgun under the bar.

“Boys,” said the blocky sheriff, his voice heavy with sadness, rather than anger, “there’s a damn’ skunk amongst us tonight. When you boys rode in, I give you the run of the town. A man hates to think he has to watch boys that he’s worked with in the wet and cold and hot weather. I never thought a Circle C man would coyote on me.”

“What the hell you drivin’ at, Dick?” asked Horace, his mild eyes glinting a little.

“Some polecat knocked the depot man on the head and got off with five thousand dollars, that’s all.”

“Where did that key pounder ever git five thousand bucks?” asked some one.

“Payroll fer the Landusky mine. Five thousand in cash.”

“Well,” drawled Cotton Eye, the nighthawk, “I reckon them mine folks will keep on runnin’ things just the same. Have a drink and fergit it.”

“Whoever lifted that roll won’t have to worry none about forkin’ hay and openin’ water holes this winter,” chuckled another cowboy.

“Dad burn the luck,” complained a third, “why didn’t I think about glaumin’ that payroll? Now I gotta break out of a early mornin’ from now till spring, shovelin’ hay into a lot o’ bawlin’ dogies. Some gents gits all the luck.”

But for all their banter, they felt uneasy. Who among them had stolen that five thousand dollars? Oddly enough, no man blamed the thief. They rather admired his ingenuity. He had made a lucky haul.

“Well, Dick,” said Horace slowly, “whoever done it, must ’a’ been blind drunk. You know every man in the outfit. There ain’t one rotten egg in the bunch. Say, how do you know it wa’n’t some tramp er some stray miner that done it?”

“The depot man heard his spurs jingle, so he says,” growled the sheriff, “just before he got beefed. It was some cow hand. And outside of you boys there ain’t a cowboy in town. He heard them spurs.”

“Got ary idee who might ’a’ done it?” asked Horace.

“If I have, I’ll keep it to myself,” came the tart reply. “I look to you boys to lend me a hand and all I git is some horrawin’.”

“No need to git hot about it,” grinned the wagon boss, toying with his drink.

The sheriff ignored that remark and turned to his bartender.

“Was all of these men in the place at midnight when No. 3 come in?”

The bartender smoothed his bald head in grave thought. He had taken a goodly amount of drinks since the boys got in. Owl eyed, he tallied the crowd.

“Near as I kin recollect, Dick, not a man o’ them has left since I come back from supper at eleven.”

“Then that alibis this bunch of cow dodgers,” and the sheriff moved on out and down the street.

The robbery gave the cowpunchers a meaty topic for talk—talk and more drinks. They hit upon the idea of following Dick Powell in his sleuthing.

From one saloon to the next they waddled in the wake of the annoyed sheriff. The crowd had taken on numbers until by the time they reached the Bloody Heart the entire outfit was crowded into the saloon.

Various bartenders had furnished iron-clad alibis for every Circle C man. Powell gave up in disgust and slipped away from the throng, which was growing somewhat boisterous. Horace followed the sheriff out the back door. Twenty-five cowpunchers set about to make the most of the momentous occasion.

Months of hard work in the saddle and branding corrals without a holiday, long days from the crack of dawn until dark, with two hours night guard for good measure, had starved them for a little fun.

These men belonged to a breed that has no equal. For forty dollars a month and grub they ride mean horses, face death and hunger and thirst and cold and bitter discomforts. They ask no favors, whine out no complaint, taking the good along with the bad. It is all in a day’s work. Most of them were cowmen at twelve years of age. At sixty there would be much of the boy left in their big hearts. It is not for those who have not known their breed to censure their faults. They lived according to their lights.

John Law and his rules meant little in their lives. They had a way of settling personal affairs, those men who roamed the West in the Eighties when the country needed them.

So they held kangaroo court. The bartender at the Bloody Heart was found guilty and fined several rounds of drinks. Then they moved on to the next saloon and again held court. Another dispenser of redeye was found guilty. Guilty as hell, by ballot. The fine was duly paid in liquid form. And at daybreak they had routed the sheriff from his warm bed, stood him up on the bar, clad in a knee length nightshirt, boots, hat and a cold cigaret. Ballots were passed, signed and dropped in Dick’s hat. He read them, one by one.

“Guilty as hell.”

“Gash damn’ you bonehead, misfit, loco idiots!”

But he paid the fine, setting out the glasses and bottle with his own hand.

It was a large night. Guns popped jubilant greeting to a day that held no hard ride after stray cattle.

Most of them were flat broke. Cotton Eye, the bloated financier, had lost his money and hocked his spurs for a bottle to take along. Then he engaged the bartender in conversation while a confederate stole back the spurs.

Horace gathered his men one, by one, mounted them, and started them out of town. They bucked their horses down the street, emptying their guns at a leaden sky. Behind them was their night’s pleasure. Ahead lay the dread winter.

Buck Bell got his private horse from the barn. Because he owned no overcoat, he donned his slicker and wrapped his feet in strips of gunnysack. Alone, his hat pulled down across his eyes, his ungloved hands shoved down against the saddle cantle, he rode out of town.

As he neared the stockyards he glanced about. No living thing moved in the snow swept world that met his eye. He swung off his horse and dragged the steel box from under the loading chute. A heavy padlock fastened it. Buck drew his .45 and shot off the lock. His stiff fingers pried up the lid. There lay the banknotes in piles bound with wide rubber bands. He shoved the money into the deep pockets of his angora chaps. Then he buried the empty metal box in the débris under the chute.

Five minutes later he rode on again into the storm. He looked old and sadly troubled. The bitter cold was pinching the color from his face. He was a little sick from the liquor that he had drunk. Sick and lonesome.

Through the lane and past the graveyard, on to the wind swept benchland, headed south toward the badlands of the Missouri River, almost a hundred miles away. With the wind at his back, Buck Bell drifted. His heart was as heavy as the leaden sky. Ahead of him rolled a giant tumbleweed. On and on, across the bench, grotesque, almost alive, blown along by the north wind. Headed south.

In the pockets of his black chaps was stowed more money than he had ever seen or even dreamed of. There was not a chance of the theft being fastened to him. It had been easy, almost too easy to seem true. With five thousand dollars a man could buy a good bunch of cattle down in New Mexico or Arizona. Buck was cowman enough to make a herd pay. It would mean that he no longer need work for wages. For forty a month ... Forty into five thousand. Buck was a good hand at figures. One hundred and twenty-five months. Ten years and more, even if a man didn’t spend a dime for poker or redeye or smokin’—or clothes. Socks and such. He had sold his bed for twenty dollars. That twenty was in his vest pocket now. He had kept it separated from the other money—the money he had stolen.

“Sam Bass was born in Indiana; it was his native home....”

The song, high pitched, quavering, drifted along the wind from behind Buck, blurred a little in the flurry of hard snow that swirled across the ground like white sand. Buck halted as the singer came up out of the storm. It was Dick Powell, the sheriff.

Something hot scalded Buck Bell’s heart as the rider came alongside. Had the sheriff somehow found him out? Buck almost hoped so. But Powell grinned as easy greeting. He was warmly clad in chaps, overshoes and a buffalo coat. The stock of a carbine jutted from his saddle scabbard.

“You look fer all the world like a bull that’s been whipped outa the herd, Bell. Here, see what this’ll do to you.”

He passed over a quart of whisky. They drank together and rode on with the storm.

“Trailin’ that gent that done the robbery, Dick?”

The sheriff grunted into his fur collar.

“Trailin’ hell! Whoever done it didn’t leave a sign. But mark my words, Bell, he’ll give hisself away.”

“How?”

Buck Bell slapped his cold hands against the slicker to beat the blood into circulation.

“Here, take these.” The sheriff pulled a pair of yarn mitts from his pocket. “I brung along an extra pair. The missus knit ’em.”

Buck pulled on the red mittens, mumbling his gratitude.

“How?” The sheriff replied to his question. “Well, it’s thisaway, Bell. I know every man that was in town that night. I know where each man will be workin’ this winter. Horace gimme their names and what camps they’d be at. I wired fer the serial number of them stolen banknotes. When that money begins goin’ into circulation, I’ll nab my man. Er if ary man quits this range, I’ll be follerin’ him. I’ll have the other towns posted. He’s corralled.”

The sheriff consulted a little book.

“Here’s the list. Stuart and Contway at Big Warm. Howe and Smith at Little Warm. You and Cotton Eye at Rocky Point, down on the Missouri. And so on.”

He shoved the book back into his pocket. Buck’s head was lowered as he fumbled with clumsy hands at a witch’s knot in his horse’s mane. His brain was working swiftly. Why had Horace lied? Why had the wagon boss told the sheriff that he, Buck Bell, was going into a line camp at Rocky Point?

“I wouldn’t be tellin’ this to everybody, understand,” continued the sheriff. “I know I kin trust you, Bell.”

If the sheriff had taken a sharp knife and struck the cowpuncher in the back he could not have hurt Buck Bell more than he did when he spoke those words.

They rode on in silence. Buck was chilled to the bone by the wind; it bit through his inadequate clothing. Dick urged the bottle on him to warm his blood.

“I got some stuff that’ll be driftin’ with the storms this winter, Bell. I spoke to the Old Gent about it. He said it’d be all right if you boys kinda kept an eye on ’em and feed a few if need be.”

“Shore,” mumbled Buck. “Shore thing.”

Their trails parted a little farther on. The sheriff made Buck take his overshoes and the bottle.

“I’ll be back home in a couple o’ hours. Don’t be a damn’ fool, Bell. So long. Good luck, old-timer. See you next spring when the chinook melts you outa the bad lands.”

When they had parted Buck rode on, the ache in his heart more bitter than before. The words of the sheriff’s song came drifting back out of the storm—the song of Sam Bass.

“. . . Sam he is a corpse and six foot under clay.”

Buck stayed that night at a line camp, and pushed on the next morning. He kept wondering why Horace had lied. It hung like a sand burr in his thoughts all that day. He stopped late the next afternoon at a horse camp; and because they were short handed, Buck worked there a week. Then he drifted on once more, refusing a cent for his labors. It was the ethics of the grub line that forbade his accepting payment. They had given him and his horse food and shelter. He asked no more, though the work had been hard and he had eaten but two meals each day. Breakfast before they rode away; supper when they came in after dark. He had made the biscuits, helped with the dishes, and split wood, to boot. And he had given them what was left of the whisky.

Because Rocky Point lay along his route to somewhere south, he rode up there one evening at dusk.

A saddled horse was humped in the lee of the shed. Hollow eyed cattle bawled in the corral. No smoke came from the little log cabin. Filled with grave misgivings, Buck Bell stepped into the cabin. The moan of a man in pain came out of its dark interior. He found Cotton Eye lying fully clothed in bed, his leg broken between the ankle and knee. He had been like that since the day before, he told Buck through set teeth.

“Horse fell on me, comin’ up the river.”

Buck built the fire and made the crippled man as comfortable as possible. Then he took care of the horses and scattered hay for the gaunt cattle. When he came back to the cabin, he hid his fears under a careless banter.

“I’ll throw some soup into you, Cotton Eye. And coffee. Now roll over on your back and cuss me while I git this boot cut off. I’ll be as gentle as a cow with her first calf, pardner.”

Those men of the frontier were steady of hand and ingenious of brain. Broken bones and gunshot wounds were not uncommon. A man needed to know the rudiments of crude surgery in those days when doctors were few and far between.

There was no sleep for either man that night. Buck fashioned a sling to hold the suffering man while he pulled the fractured bone into place. The erstwhile nighthawk groaned. Buck swore softly as he labored. He splinted the leg with stout willow sticks and strips of tanned rawhide saddle strings. Beads of sweat covered the drawn face of Cotton Eye. He lay back, whimpering a little through clenched teeth, sick and faint, but game enough. Buck held a cup of black coffee to his mouth.

“She’s all over but the knittin’, pard. Here’s a cigaroot. She’ll hurt like hell fer a spell, but it’s a clean break and orter heal fast. I’ll run the show till you git well.”

“I’d ’a’ died if you hadn’t come along, Buck.”

“Mebbe.”

Buck built up the fire. His chaps with their precious store of money hung on a wooden peg with his bridle. Now and then he glanced that way, his lips smiling without humor.

“You saved my life, Buck. I ain’t fergittin’.”

“You better try to sleep, feller,” grunted Buck.

Cotton Eye lay there, a little flushed with fever, his eyes brighter than they should have been.

“I wonder, Buck, if you’d be doin’ this fer me if you knowed.”

“Knowed what, Cotton Eye?”

“That money I won off you. That deck was marked.”

“Shore thing,” nodded Buck Bell, “I knowed that. But a man’s gotta have some kinda excitement around a cow camp, even if it’s playin’ poker with a marked deck. I was ketchin’ on to the markin’s about the time I went broke.”

Cotton Eye was delirious by morning. Buck was forced to tie the man down while he fed and watered the cattle. Because there was only one bed, Buck had made out with the saddle blankets and the sick man’s overcoat.

During the days that followed Buck Bell did the work of five men. He chopped wood, cooked, and nursed Cotton Eye, whose fever went down slowly. He rode out each day, gathering poor cows that were too weak to rustle. He hooked up the work team and hauled hay, scattering it in a wide circle outside the corral. He opened the water hole twice a day. He puttered about the cabin, fixing it for the long winter, and forced a cheerfulness into the chatter that he flung at Cotton Eye. When he finally crawled into his improvised bed, fully clothed save for hat and boots, he was too weary to mind the cold much.

He killed a beef one evening. That night he brought in a square piece of the hide and worked on it with his pocket knife.

“Let’s have that good leg o’ your’n, pardner.” Buck wrapped the hide about the leg, nodded, marked it with his knife and took the hide back to his seat by the fire.

“Them splints kin come off in a day er so. I’m fixin’ a sorter casin’ to fit around that game laig. This hide’ll be plenty hard and we’ll lace it, savvy? Padded with the felt from a man’s hat, she’ll make a cast that’ll be useful and right ornamental, with the hair on the outside. I’m stretchin’ it around this willer pole to make ’er smooth.”

Buck tanned the rest of the hide and made himself moccasins and a coat that was ill fitting but warm enough. He killed a blacktail buck and they feasted on venison. Buck spent his evenings tanning the hide. The rawhide cast, smooth and hard and padded with felt from Buck’s hat, now replaced the willow splints. Buck wore a cap made out of a piece of Hudson’s Bay blanket. He refused the offer of Cotton Eye’s clothes.

With December came real winter—the hardest winter the cowmen in Montana have ever known. The hay was giving out. Buck worked on a snowplow. The cattle in the field grew in number each day. Gaunt flanked, hollow eyed, bawling as they trained at a stubborn walk with the storm.

Gray days. White days. Bitter days. The cattle drifting down into the badlands. Even the big native steers were finding it hard to paw to feed under the crusted snow.

Buck’s black chaps no longer banked his stolen money. He had buried the stuff in a corner of the cow shed, wrapped carefully in his slicker. His daylight labors brought peace of mind. But sometimes he lay awake, far into the night, haunted by thoughts of the buried wealth. The dream of a cow outfit of his own was replaced by the black nightmare of his theft. He was tempted a hundred times to share the burden of his guilt with Cotton Eye who was now hobbling about on crutches made of forked sticks wrapped and padded with deerskin.

“Wish I could git word out to the ranch,” said Buck, “This hay ain’t gonna last. The only shot, if this keeps up, is to drift south o’ the river where the shelter is better. Mebbe train out from there. They could buy hay at Lewistown and Gilt Edge. I had to kill three more calves today. Cows didn’t have milk to feed the li’l beggars. Hear the cows a-bawlin’? Hell, ain’t it?”

The haystacks were becoming fewer. Buck and his crippled partner found it hard to fill the long silences that fell over them. Cotton Eye hobbled about now, getting the meals and washing dishes. He scraped the thick frost from the window and would sit there, smoking and watching Buck Bell pitch hay sparingly to the starving cattle. When Buck saddled his horse and rode back into the breaks to bring in more stumbling, gaunt steers and cows, Cotton Eye would curse with futile fury at his aching leg.

“Brung in three more o’ Dick Powell’s steers today. Weak as hell. Three-four Circle Diamond cows, another Square steer, one er two Bear Paw Pool strays, and the Widder Brown’s Jersey milk cow. The widder sets a heap o’ store by that cow. It must be shore a-stormin’ up on the ridges, to drift that stuff into the breaks. If this keeps up, there won’t be a cow left in the country.”

“You was sayin’ something about gettin’ word to the ranch, Buck. I kin make out to ride now. I’d like to tackle it. Ain’t doin’ no good here.”

“If you’re plumb sure you kin make it, pardner?”

“Shore thing, I kin. I’ll pull out in the mornin’.”

Buck wrapped the injured leg in a blanket and Cotton Eye rode away in the gray dawn. Buck grinned a farewell. When Cotton Eye was gone, Buck tried to whistle away the gnawing loneliness. He worked feverishly, not even taking a few minutes off at noon for his usual coffee and beans and meat. Now and then, when his chores took him past the corner of the shed where the stolen money had been buried, he would quicken his pace, as a man afraid of ghosts might pass with haste by a grave.

“Why did Horace lie?” he asked himself a thousand and one times.

“Because Horace knowed who done the robbery!” came the still answer out of each night’s darkness.

Cotton Eye had left his bed and his warsack filled with a few clothes and knicknacks. Delving into the sack for a needle and thread one day, a week or so after Cotton Eye’s departure, Buck came upon a large envelope of heavy paper. He emptied its contents of saddle wax and thread and harness needles and awl. He sat there, smiling softly, the worried frown momentarily gone from his forehead.

“I’ll do it. I’ll use this envelope to hold the money. Else I’ll be plumb crazy before spring. I’ll send the money to Horace, first man that passes along.”

He spent an evening composing a laborious letter to the Circle C wagon boss. That night he slept without tossing and dreaming. And with the first streak of dawn he was out in the shed with pick and shovel, digging in the corner. With hands that shook with eagerness, he undid the slicker. A choking cry broke from his pulsing throat. The money was gone. All of it. The slicker held nothing but some scraps of old newspaper, rudely cut and bundled in imitation of the banknotes.

For a long time Buck squatted there on the ground, staring with dazed eyes at the slicker and its mocking contents. A racking, horrible laugh rattled from his dry lips. Then he went on back to the cabin, his brain aching dully with milling thoughts.

Cotton Eye had taken the money. Cotton Eye was a thief as well as a crooked card sharp. It was hard to take—after what he’d done fer Cotton Eye.

“Well, the damn’ stuff is gone. Gone fer keeps. Too late now to send it back with that confession ... Cotton Eye would be headed south by now ... south ... with five thousand dollars.”

Then a slow grin spread across the mouth of Buck Bell. He chuckled, then laughed until the coffee boiled over and on to the stove.

“That’s shore one on me. Frettin’ and stewin’ around about that money. Him playin’ possum with that leg. Diggin’ ’er up, when I rode off yesterday. But how’d he know I had it? How’d he know where it was buried? Well, I got all winter to figger ’er out.”

Days slipped into weeks. Weeks of white isolation. The hay was about gone. No word from the ranch. And that eternal gray sky overhead like a shroud.

Came that morning when Buck Bell looked out at the empty hay corral. This was the end of the trail. All about the cabin the gaunt eyed cattle walked aimlessly, bawling. Buck went back into the cabin and began packing. When his grub was sacked and his bed rolled he went out to the barn and hooked the team to his crude snow plow. He tied his saddle horse to the off horse and loaded his bed and grub on the snow plow. Then he scrawled a note and laid it on the rawhide covered table, weighting it with a can of frozen tomatoes.

Closing the door of the log cabin, he picked up the lines and seated himself on the snow plow. As the team got under way, he grinned back over his shoulder.

“So long, cabin. Here goes nothin’.”

Behind him, bawling hungrily, trailed the cattle. Their dumb faith was pinned to the man and his horses.

South into the breaks across the frozen river. The sun was a dim white ball in a dead sky. The air was still and sharp. The snow plow creaked and groaned.

“Come on, dogies!”

A gaunt scarecrow of a man, riding his crazy plow. A beard covered his face up to the frost blackened cheekbones. His clothes were a patchwork of blanket, cowhide, and buckskin with the hair on. His hair came to his shoulders. Under the deerhide covering, his hands and feet were swollen and stiff from frostbite.

“Sam Bass was born in Indiana; it was his native home.
And at the age of seventeen, young Sam begun to roam.”

The song blended crazily with the bawl of starving cattle, the creak of his covered plow runners and the click of hoofs.

South into the sheltering badlands where the snow was deep but soft. The plow cut through, clearing a ten foot path through the drifts. The cattle packed the trail, crowding and riding one another to get to the precious feed.

“Grass belly deep!” cried Buck, looking back. “Come on, you hungry dogies! Git the wrinkles outa your paunches. Mebbe so it’s come Christmas fer you.”

He unhooked the team at last and watered them at a hole cut in the ice. He camped at the edge of the cleared bottomland and his pitch fire sent its crimson shaft into the night. He had found feed for his cattle. There was more to be had for the plowing. He slept that night with a smile of tired happiness on his bearded, frost cracked lips.

In those days to come, Buck Bell found a measure of happiness and peace. He labored untiringly, a man of rawhide. A bearded, frost blackened scarecrow. And the haunting ache of that stolen money slipped into a forgetfulness, buried by the work he was doing.

He cleared huge patches of grass. He rode back across the river and trailed in more starving cattle to share his grass. Sometimes he came within a mile of the cabin at Rocky Point but always he was too busy to stop. Those short days were too brief to waste even a few minutes in idle pastime. The snow was too deep to tire his horse in breaking useless trail to the cabin to see whether any one had been there.

So he did not know that Horace had come and found that note on the table.

Hay’s played out. I’m pullin’ out. If I don’t die off before the chinook comes, I'll come in and give myself up. I taken that money that night in town. Then I lost it. So the law kin take it outa my hide.—BUCK BELL.

A frozen, wolf gnawed steer carcass lay near the cabin. Its ripped paunch held no grass. Only willow sticks, some of them almost the thickness of a man’s wrist.

This was the winter of ’86-’87, when the drift fences and cut coulees held the hide and bones of a hundred thousand steers. When the mercury hung below forty-five, and more than a few cowboys died for their outfits. When cowmen stared out across the blizzard swept hills, dry eyed, with aching lumps in their throats. Grim, silent, defeated.

The sun was a white ball inside its circle of gray, cold as the eye of a corpse. Sun dogs followed its passing, across a sky that knew no warmth. At night the patches of stars seemed frozen in a black agate sky.

And when the last of the hay was gone, the men sat about the bunkhouse stove. And the strings of staggering, bawling cattle drifted on down the wind to death.

At night the wolves and coyotes flung the death song toward the glittering stars.

That was the winter of ’86-’87. The winter that broke the back of the cow country.

South of the river, Buck Bell watched the last of the feed go. He had lost track of the days. He did not know what month it was. But he knew that the grass had played out and that the end of the trail lay just ahead. His grub was gone and he was living on meat and beans. Each day he felt of his teeth to test the coming symptoms of scurvy. His clothes were a mass of patches. His eyes were swollen almost shut, the lids scaled from frost, the eyeballs discolored by snow blindness. Only half a dozen matches remained in his pocket. He could not remember the taste of tobacco and coffee.

Half frozen, he lay in a knot under tarp and blankets, that night in early spring when a wind roared down out of the canons with a droning, rushing sound.

The scrub pines whispered; cattle got to their feet. Buck stirred a little under the tarp, hardly awake. Then the wind cut down the river and swept his forlorn camp. No man who has ever heard the voice of the chinook wind can ever forget its whimper. Buck threw back the tarp and the warm blast rushed down upon him.

A harsh, choking cry broke from his throat as he sat up in bed. His arms, ragged, aching, frost seared, flung out in a wide gesture. His face, bearded and scarred black, lifted. His eyes found the stars that seemed close overhead in a warm sky. Terrible sobs shook him. Tears streamed down from his aching eyes.

“God, oh, God!”

Over and over again.

“God!”

He could find no other word to fit into the prayer that sobbed and rattled and laughed in his throat.

The weary horses felt the blessing of that chinook wind. The cattle milled and bawled a restless chant. The melting snow in the tree branches dripped with increasing cadence. A golden moon rode across the sky toward the jagged skyline. The hard winter was over. The chinook had come. Its passage through the pines sang the requiem of cattle and horses and men that slept beneath the crusted drifts.

And when the coulees became rivers and the ridges lay bare, Buck Bell trailed his straggling herd up the ridge and on to the open prairie.

“Git along, little dogies, git along!”

He sang in a cracked voice as his horse patiently followed the drags.

And so they found him that day in the Spring of ’87. Horace and the little man with the white beard and puckered, sky blue eyes who owned the Circle C. Horace and the Old Gent.

They did not know him. Their eyes were dim with the miracle that lay before them. Cattle. Hundreds of cattle, grazing hungrily. And behind them a snow blind man who was all hair and rags, who sang in a crazy voice, the words of “Sam Bass.”

A phantom herd followed by a ghost. It was impossible to believe that so many cattle could have lived, while so many thousands of others had died. Buck’s herd filled the coulees and covered the ridges. The chain harness rattled on the work team that was hooked to a bull hide which held Buck’s bed and two young calves hog tied.

A dozen brands were represented in that gaunt herd. One of those calves belonged to the Widow Brown’s Jersey milk cow. Its father was the prize Circle Diamond bull that had strayed down from its Canadian range. Half of Dick Powell’s herd was there.

“Sam Bass was born in Indiana...”

Between them, the Old Gent and Horace got Buck Bell to the ranch. Somebody went for Doc Steele, fifty miles away. For Buck was blind and one foot so badly frozen that three toes had to come off.

“He’ll see again in ten days,” said the doctor. “Let him sleep. Give him warm food. Go slow on the whisky. He has a barb wire constitution and a rawhide carcass.” He was a little puzzled at Buck’s delirious babbling.

“He’s been worrying about something.”

Horace and the Old Gent exchanged glances. The owner of the Circle C thoughtfully stroked his whiskers and smiled down at the sleeping Buck Bell. Then he handed the doctor the note that Horace had found on the table at the deserted line camp at Rocky Point. Doc Steele knew cowboys. He understood. He handed back the note and blew his nose like a trumpet. The Old Gent fetched glasses and the bottle.

“Cotton Eye got here about New Year’s, Doc. He had five thousand dollars and said he’d stole it. Wanted to plead guilty and take his medicine. His story didn’t hold water. He’d been sitting in a poker game when the money was stolen at the depot. Horace knew Buck was the thief because the melting snow on Buck’s hat and clothes showed he’d been out in the storm about the time that depot man was robbed. Cotton Eye finally admitted he’d stolen the money from Buck. Buck had kept him awake nights, talking about the robbery in his sleep like a man gone loco. Buck saved Cotton Eye’s life and he wanted to return the favor.”

Doc Steele chuckled deep down in his muscular throat.

“Couple of sentimental old sage hens. It’s a damn’ shame, sir, that we haven’t more of such outlaws in this world.”

He lifted his glass.

“Here’s to ’em.”

“May their breed never die out.”

When they had set down their glasses, Doc Steele looked quizzically at the cowman.

“How is this thing going to be squared with the mining people?”

The sky blue eyes of the old cattleman twinkled. Doc Steele was somehow reminded of the sun shining through summer rain.

“I bought the damn’ mine, Doc. Last fall. I don’t think that anything more need be said about that fool holdup. Buck Bell saved what cattle I have left. God and Buck Bell alone know how he managed. You should have seen what I saw. The whole range spotted with dead critters. Like a boneyard a hundred miles square. We’d rode all day across a cow country graveyard. When I heard cattle bawling, I thought I was dreaming. That herd trailing up out of the breaks. A man too weak to walk, riding behind ’em, singing— It was something, Doc, that a man won’t ever forget.”

They filled their glasses and drank in silence. Then they tiptoed out and Buck Bell slept on, a smile of peace on his frost cracked lips.

Outside, the chinook wind whispered its promise to the cow country.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1928 issue of Adventure magazine.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN WHO HATED HIMSELF ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- The Man Who Hated Himself

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE