The Project Gutenberg eBook of Stubborn people

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: Stubborn people

Author: Ernest Haycox

Release date: September 27, 2025 [eBook #76938]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Street & Smith Corporation, 1924

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76938

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUBBORN PEOPLE ***

Stubborn People

By Ernest Haycox

Author of “A Burnt Creek Yuletide,” etc.

Old man Bud sat on the porch of his Burnt Creek store, watching the shimmering heat waves that rose out of the jack-pine forest and trailed across the small sand-floored clearing. A lazy drone pervaded the air, broken by the snapping of myriad insects and the impalpable, shutterlike beat of the blazing atmosphere.

He had a habit of reflecting on life. Every act in a man’s life, he reflected now, was affected by every other act. There was no beginning and no end. Just an everlasting onward march. Take Jim Hunter for example.

Bud’s impassive face lightened. “Think of the devil an’ he’s sure to pop up.” From the north leg of the Bend Klamath Highway rode Jim Hunter, a tall and supple fellow who, even in the saddle, seemed unable to bend his shoulders.

“Stubborn as a mule,” reflected Bud in admiration. He waited until Hunter had reached the porch and led the horse into an ineffectual patch of shade before vouchsafing welcome. “You’d save a lot of energy, young fella, if you’d just slouch in the saddle when you’re ridin’. That’s advice from a broken-down cow-puncher. This ain’t no parade.”

Hunter stepped up on the porch. The effect of his stature was heightened by the way he carried himself and the seasoned leanness of his body. The struggle on homestead land had definitely left its impression. With some men the abrasion of weather and work affects only a general hardening of features. In Jim Hunter it brought out the original tenacity of his nature and left decisive lines on the berry-colored face. A flash of humor widened his eyes.

“There’s no use trying to save me trouble, Bud. Takes fire to burn a fool. I need some coffee and beans.”

“Huh.” The storekeeper hoisted himself from the chair and ambled into the dark building. “There’s a letter. Mebbe you’ll want it afore the beans.”

Hunter took it with unrestrained eagerness. The gravity dropped from him like a mantle. It seemed he could not tear away the envelope quick enough. Bud, sharply watching, saw the young man’s eyes race down the written page with actual avidity. But, as quickly did the face turn expressionless again and presently he crumpled the page in his fist, scowling—so bitter and unforgiving a scowl that the storekeeper clucked his tongue and dumped the provisions on the counter softly.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“No! There wasn’t anything else,” muttered Hunter. “There never is.” He stared out of the door upon the sun-scorched clearing. His mind was far from Burnt Creek.

“I mean in the line o’ grub,” added Bud dryly.

That brought the young man back. “You old goat, quit reading my mind.”

“I been called a lot of things in my time, but I pause at the term goat,” grumbled the storekeeper. “I figger some day I’m agoin’ to quit tendin’ store fer a bunch of sassy homesteaders. Take your grub and git.”

Hunter stalked to the porch, dumped the grub in his saddlebags, and climbed to the saddle.

“If a man was in his right mind, he’d never come to this God-forsaken land.”

“Road’s plumb open. You ain’t tied to that land. If you don’t admire it, why’n’t you just sashay out?”

“Same reason you’ve stuck to this dump for fifteen years,” retorted Hunter.

The two traded sober glances. Bud nodded. “Guess you’re right, son. We’re sort of spellbound. Gets in the blood, I reckon.”

Hunter turned his horse to the road. In a moment he had disappeared through the jack pines. Bud settled in his chair after securing a fresh cigar and reverted to his original lines of thought. Jim Hunter now had been a homesteader three years and wore the same hard-bitten look that they all carried. It was partly the result of fighting the land. But that wasn’t wholly so. Jim had come from Portland with the same tight lips and the same stubborn carriage of body. Three years had done a great deal in seasoning and tempering the body and wearing away all softness. The essentials remained untouched. Regularly he came to Burnt Creek for supplies and mail. Regularly he received a letter in the same feminine handwriting, which he opened always with a brightening of face and crumpled later with a scowl which seemed to cover hurt pride and forlorn hope. Those letters, evidently, demanded something he would not give, for he never sent an answer through Bud’s little post office.

The storekeeper reluctantly left the chair and wandered back to his kitchen. The sun blazed up in the sky, intolerably scorching. Bud viewed an empty pitcher and set to work at making a supply of lemonade against the greater heat of the long afternoon. A few beans, some hard bread, and a dish of canned peaches served for dinner. Then, with a fresh cigar and the lemonade at hand, he settled himself in the sultry shade. All things, in Bud’s philosophy, came to those who waited—provided the waiting was mixed with a little judicious helping.

But the afternoon was not to be lonely. He had just started on the lemonade when the sputter of the Bend Klamath stage motor reached him. The vehicle swayed out of the forest, climbed the ruts of the road, skidded perilously amid a shower of sand, and brought a boiling radiator nose and nose with the porch. The driver had a passenger this trip. A woman it was, veiled against the dirt and sun. Teddy Hanson climbed away from his wheel and helped her to the porch.

“Aw,” he said, “now what’s the good of stoppin’ at a horrible hole like this, ma’am? Gosh, think how lonely I’ll be all the way to Klamath.”

“Flattery,” said the girl. She drew back the veil and Bud, greatly puzzled by this visit, found himself looking at an extremely pretty mouth and a pair of hazel eyes that could, when they pleased, be very friendly. Some shade of dark hair strayed pleasantly down a white temple. “Is this Mr. Bud?” she asked.

“That’s him,” growled out the driver. “There’s a lot of circum-feerance, you see. He gets it sittin’ on the porch of this so-called store.”

“I wouldn’t listen to such slander,” replied Bud. “It’s the heat makes him that way. But I mistrust you’ve got to the wrong place. Ain’t hardly anything here you could stop off for. It must be Klamath you mean.” He could not help noting that it was not the friendly eyes nor the pretty mouth which most attracted him as it was a firm little chin with the dab of a freckle on it, and an Irish nose. “She’ll be wantin’ her own way,” he silently prophesied.

“No,” she answered. “It’s Burnt Creek.”

Teddy Hanson boosted the girl’s trunk on the porch, obviously disinclined to go. She settled the matter by paying him. “Thank you.” The inflection was as much as a dismissal. Teddy shot a glance of envy toward Bud, and climbed into his seat.

“It’s a wonder you wouldn’t fix the road in front of your shack,” he shouted above the clatter of the engine.

“That sand flea c’n burrow where it won’t climb,” retorted Bud. A cloud of sand shot from the wheels; when the dust settled, the stage was gone.

“I dunno how that thing sticks together,” he said. “It drinks sand an’ runs on grasshoppers. They’s a hundred dollars’ worth of bailin’ wire in it.” He saw that she had lost spirit and was staring wistfully at the road. “What’d you say you were after, ma’am?”

“They told me in Bend that you’d help me. I—I’m looking for a homestead here.”

“A homestead, ma’am?”

“Never mind how I look!” she cried. “And don’t try to argue me out of it! I’ve argued all the way from Portland, and it’s settled. If you won’t help me, I’ll have to get some one else. I want a homestead near Burnt Creek.”

“Why near Burnt Creek, ma’am?”

“For—for reasons.”

There was metal in her. She wore clothes that stamped her as a refined city woman, and her hands and clear skin were plain enough witnesses that she had never trafficked much with spade and bucket. Still, Bud did not make the mistake of arguing. He saw her determined little chin with the dab of a freckle on it. She was another of those stubborn people—such kind as made good in this country. They never knew when they were licked.

“Why, sure, I’ll help you, ma’am,” he agreed affably. “Most everybody comes to me sooner or later, around here, leastwise. But it’s powerful hot here. Come in an’ have some lemonade.”

It was a great deal later, when the courtesies were dispensed with and the subject of land well talked over, that Bud thought of the Hazen place. “I been thinkin’,” said he, spoiling a new cigar, “that you’ll be all by yourself. It’s a hard life any way you take it, an’ if you c’d get near other folks it’d be a great boost. I’ve located durn near every other family in these parts, an’ it strikes me there’s a nice section about an hour’s ride from here, adjoinin’ Jim Hunter’s place.”

Her head came up of a sudden and a sparkle of triumph set her blue eyes to shining. “That’s the place I want!” she cried.

It staggered Bud. “Why, ma’am, how do you know? Mebbe you wouldn’t like it at all. Better wait till you see it.”

“I do know! Is there a house on it?”

“Ordinarily the go’ment don’t furnish houses,” said Bud with the suggestion of dryness. “But it so happens ol’ man Hazen took this up an’ got plumb discouraged. He went to Bend. You c’n take up the rights fer next to nothin’. I’ll see about that. There’s a house, well, an’ barn on it.”

She sprang from the chair. “Mr. Bud, can’t we go right over and move in now? I want to get started.”

Her face was tinted with a pink excitement and her mouth, which Bud decided was about as kissable a one as he had ever seen, was puckered in determination. She was finding a great satisfaction in something. The puzzled storekeeper watched her. “Why, I reckon you could, but——”

“But!” she exclaimed. “That’s the only word I’ve heard lately! I don’t want to hear any more of it. I want you to help me file the necessary things and help me move. Whatever it’s worth I’ll pay you. But you’ve got to help. Can’t we start right now?”

The storekeeper found things moving too fast, and he promptly vetoed the suggestion.

“We ain’t goin’ no place at two o’clock in the afternoon. Why, ma’am, people don’t travel through them jack pines this time o’ day, unless it’s powerful necessary. Terrible hot. ’Bout four thirty we’ll start. Meanwhile, we’ll be collectin’ some grub an’ tools.”

She seemed to acquire more and more energy. The delay fretted her and she moved restlessly around the store, choosing what she needed from the shelves. There were sundry implements of which she knew nothing at all, and Bud explained them. She listened quite carefully, a wry expression now and then tempering the determination. Bud was compelled to admire the way in which she accepted his picture of homestead life. None too rosy did he paint that picture, either. He wanted recruits for the land, but he wanted them to be disillusioned before they started residence. Once she stopped him.

“You’re trying to discourage me,” she said.

“Huh. I been here in this country twenty-five years, an’ I’m tellin’ you as straight as I can. The land grows on them as can stand it. For the rest it kills or drives out.”

“It won’t scare me. What others do I can do.”

He silently applauded. “You can go out an’ live on the place without hindrance while I sort of fix up things with Hazen an’ the land office. You can go to Bend later.”

The sun blazed downward and after four o’clock. Bud ventured from the store, hitched his buggy, loaded on the trunk and duffle, and began the journey through the jack pines with his passenger. He watched her from his heavy-lidded eyes, waiting for some sign of weakness. For, in the dwarf forest the heat scorched them and the sand rose out of the road and cascaded from the branches. It was a dismal entrance to a hard land. However, if the girl felt any discouragement, she kept it well to herself, hands folded in her lap and sitting erect in the swaying seat. So Bud turned to casual topics, directing her attention in his kindly way to the things she must do and expect.

“Ma’am,” he said finally, “if I ain’t too personal, just what makes you do this?”

It struck tinder. He saw a spark flash. “Because I want to show him—people—that I’m no butterfly! That’s why! And I will do it!”

There was, then, a man involved. Bud, seeing partial light, moved from the subject. They drove in silence while the rutted highway wound slowly through the heart of the pines, passed sundry trails, and came at last to a vast open plain over which the sun shed a blood glow.

“Purty, ain’t it?” asked Bud, wistful pride in his voice. “See yonder house? That’ll be your nearest neighbor, Jim Hunter. A mighty fine boy. You’ll do well to know Jim.”

“H’m.”

“Yes, sir. Jim’s the stubborn kind. Hard as nails an’ never says much, but that’s the only breed who’ll survive this country. He’ll help you.”

The buggy turned off the road and went bumping over the flat land. They passed a corner fence and in time drew up at the door of Hunter’s house. Bud called out: “Hey, Jim.”

The girl seemed to become very still, and the storekeeper, turning, found a flutter of excitement again in her eyes. Jim walked from his place, stooping slightly to pass the upper sill.

“You’re goin’ to have a neighbor, Jim. I’m locatin’ her on the next place. You’ll kinda watch——”

But he got no further and found himself thrust completely out of the picture. Hunter strode toward the buggy, the soberness quite gone from his face.

“Why, Mary, what on earth——”

“Don’t make any mistake,” she broke in. “I’ve come for that apology.”

Bud raised a hand to a sorely puzzled head. The girl was sitting like a statue, her fingers interlaced in her lap, her chin held a little higher than usual, the delicate pink spreading slowly. The excitement was gone. Bud had the idea that it was suppressed only by an effort. Hunter stopped dead. “What?”

“I said I’ve come for that apology, Jim.”

“Now why,” he said angrily, “did you come all the way out in this hot and dusty place. Bud, you ought to have more sense.”

“I asked him to bring me.” She stamped a foot against the buggy floor. “Jim Hunter, don’t you boss me. The time’s past for that. I’m going to make you take back what you said that time if it takes me ten years! If writing letters won’t do it, then I’ll try farming. You might at least have answered my letters out of courtesy.”

“What’s all this foolishness about her living on the next place?” demanded Hunter, turning on Bud with a scowl. “Have you lost your mind? Great Scott, a woman can’t fight this desert, and you ought to know it, of all men!”

Bud made an ineffectual gesture with his hand. There had been no preliminary warning to all this. The girl’s mouth was puckered together, and she seemed on the point of crying from sheer anger.

“Oh, if I were a man I’d make you apologize right now! You can’t bully me, Jim Hunter! I’ll not stand for it, you hear? And I’ll show you if I’m a butterfly! Go on, Mr. Bud.”

The storekeeper was only too glad to escape. The end of the reins smartly thwacked the horse’s rump, and they bumped over the uneven ground toward the Hazen place, a quarter mile on. Bud threw a quick glance behind him and saw Jim Hunter rooted in the same spot, arms akimbo, face furrowed. If he knew anything about it, Bud reflected, there was a young man who would soon wish a strong interview.

But he discreetly held his peace and, when they reached the house, began the job of packing the trunk and the various tools and utensils inside. When he had finished he found the girl seated on the trunk, surveying the walls with a plain dismay. Truly, it was a sight to discourage mortal woman. A bachelor originally had lived here, a bachelor who had found the job of keeping up externals too great, let alone the niceties of housekeeping. The floor was littered with dirt, the walls and ceilings were bare and unpleasant. A stove stood half dismantled. A chair and table were overturned and partly broken. A bunk once stood against a wall, but now had parted company from itself.

“Well,” said the girl, taking off her jacket, “the first thing’s to sweep.”

The storekeeper was ready to shout. Spunk! She had more of it than a dozen men. Heretofore he had nourished misgivings, but now he moved solidly to her support. Those nice clothes and white hands didn’t mean anything.

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreed. “We need a new deal. You just take a bucket and go out back fer some water in the well. Meanwhile I’ll tackle the broom, it bein’ a dirty job.”

Broom and water, hammer and nails, elbow grease and much talk—by these means and two or three hours’ time Bud and the girl transformed the place into a passable shelter. There had been some wood left. Bud built a fire and cooked a meal while the girl added a touch here and there to the bare walls. It was after dark when Bud climbed into his buggy and started for home.

“Well, I reckon you’re dog tired. It’s easy to sleep out here. An’ that gun I give you will scare away most anything that walks or crawls. Ain’t nothin’ to be afeerd of, anyhow. In case anything should happen, you——”

“I’m not asking him for any favors!”

He suppressed a grin and continued as if there had been no interruption. “In a few days I’ll bring you a collie dog an’ a hoss. Then you’ll be fixed. Meanwhile you just set tight an’ git organized. I’ll see Hazen an’ the land office. G’night.”

He drove away, bent for the pines and Burnt Creek. But if he thought to avoid Jim Hunter, he was mistaken. The young man was camped outside the house and Bud saw him move through the dark toward the buggy. The storekeeper sighed a little and came to a halt.

“All right,” he acquiesced wearily. “Go on now an’ say what’s been burnin’ you.”

“Of all the old fools!” rasped out Jim Hunter. “You know very well she can’t stay out here! It’s impossible. What can a woman do? Here I work my head off and just break even. How do you expect her to get by? Just because she’s bent on——”

“What should I have done?” asked Bud gently.

“Told her to go home, of course. Discourage her from such a crazy idea.”

“Huh. No wonder you’n she quarreled. Don’t you s’pose I did some arguin’? Huh; it was like talkin’ to myself. If I hadn’t brought her she’d up an’ walked out on the darn desert by herself. Got to handle her another way. She’s as stubborn as you.”

Hunter groaned. “I know it. She’s always been like that. If she gets her mind set, nothing short of an act of God can change it. But she can’t stay!”

“I wouldn’t be so durned certain,” snapped out Bud. The late hour and the prior excitement had put him a little out of humor. “She seems plumb able to take care of herself. I’ve seen women get by on this desert. She can beat a man all hollow fer endurin’ things.”

“It’s not only that,” broke in Hunter. “It’s not safe. All sorts of queer ducks roam these places. A lone woman just invites trouble. There’s ‘Bottle-nose’ Henderson, for example. Great Scott——”

Bud scratched his stubbled chin. He, too, had thought of Bottle-nose. It was a prickling thought that remained in the rear of his head, vaguely disturbing. Yet here was Jim within a short distance of her. If she called for help, he’d be over in a jiffy. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. G’ap, Toby. You people fight it out atween you.”

“There’s not going to be any fight—or anything else!” bellowed Jim.

Bud had no answer for that. But a mile later, when the pines swallowed him, one small phrase came out of all the wonderment. “Son of a gun, just look what’s happened to us to-day!” The peace—and the monotony—which had enfolded him during the last hot summer month was gone. Life was just one dog-goned problem after another. That’s what made living endurable. “G’ap, Toby. We got to figger around this summow. There’s a couple plumb in love with each other an’ wantin’ to make up. But they’d die afore they’d admit it. Got to fix that.”

He found as the week went along that all ordinary conciliatory means had no effect. The quarrel had gone too far, endured too long. The battle had arrived at a stage of siege. It worried him, for the robust storekeeper was not a man to stand by and watch the tide carry “his people” downstream. Faith had made him the prophet and leader of the homesteaders. He loved them and fought for them, took an unreasoning interest in their small affairs, argued with them, cursed them, and, at the last word when it seemed they could no longer struggle against the eternal hardships, gave his own time and money to keep the small flame of courage in their hearts. They were all, Bud believed, in a common brotherhood, striving for a common happiness and every sorrow and discouragement they suffered was sure to find its way eventually to his own big heart.

He had no means of knowing the nature of the quarrel, but still he worked shrewdly to dispel it. The day after the girl had settled on the homestead, Bud saddled the gentlest horse of his lot and sent it over to her by “Slivers” Gilstrap, a passing cow hand.

“You tell her, Slivers, that I’ll be over after a while with the necessary filin’ doodads, an’ that she’d better ask Jim Hunter to fix that lock on the door.”

Late that night Slivers came back with blood in his eye. “Say, you ol’ galoot, what’d you go an’ tell me to tell her that for? Minute I says it she flies off’n the handle an’ says she ain’t askin’ Jim fer nuthin’. I thought mebbe he’d insulted her an’, bein’ a gentleman, offers to shoot him er hog tie him, er anything. Dog-goned if she didn’t larrup me, then.”

Thereupon Bud went to Bend and rode back to the girl’s place with filing papers, another sage move up his sleeve. But he had no chance to act upon it. Mary, dressed in some kind of old clothes and already freckled by the sun, met him with fire in her eyes.

“Mr. Bud, I wish you’d go over and tell Jim Hunter I forbid him coming on my land! He’s been here twice trying to browbeat me! You tell him I don’t want but one thing from him, and that’s an apology. Otherwise I’ll use this pistol. I will!”

She flourished the heavy weapon in her hand and the storekeeper, suppressing a chuckle, noted that she used both hands to raise it. It would have been disastrous to offer advice then.

“Mebbe,” he gravely offered, “I’d better notify the sher’ff to arrest him fer trespassin’.”

“No, oh no! I wouldn’t do that. But you tell him what I said, will you?”

So Bud, inwardly chuckling, went to Hunter’s place, only to be motioned away. “Get out of here, you old goat. I won’t listen to any more of your ideas. You’re the cause of all this.”

“The most ungrateful thing in the world,” opined the storekeeper, returning to Burnt Creek, “is mixin’ in family troubles. Men’ve been killed fer less. But if I’m to be hung I might as well be hung fer somethin’ good. Patch that up summow.”

Man and girl were crowded from his mind in the succeeding weeks. Events in the sparse Central Oregon country move with the same irregular frequency as elsewhere. Out of a serene sky broke seven kinds of trouble into which Bud was directly or indirectly drawn. For one thing, threshing season was on full blast, and every able-bodied man gave his services; this was communal law. Then the road commissioners in a frenzy of economy—just before election—decided to leave unimproved a more or less impassable stretch of the Bend Klamath Highway. The storekeeper, being apprised of it, rode to town in a fury and shocked those commissioners out of their economic resolutions. He fought for his people and his land ruthlessly, and, being a power in his own right, won. Hardly had this subsided when the shadow of Bottle-nose Henderson fell across the land.

Bottle-nose was one of those derelicts for whom society has no honored place. In a more highly organized community he would have been sent to an asylum. Cascade county tolerated him because he stuck to the open spaces and left people alone. But somewhere on his lone trail the last restraining fiber of reason snapped, and he reverted to the law of the jungle. He ran amuck, terrorized the edges of the county, and sent unprotected families into gusts of fear. No one seemed safe from his swift attack. The sheriff set out a posse, and they traced his course southward toward the Burnt Creek region by three pilfered houses and several frightened women. This trail was all the posse found. Bottle-nose had become illusive as well as a highly dangerous character.

It was from him that the storekeeper conceived what seemed to be a sound idea one late summer evening as he jogged homeward. Toby, plodding along in dignified weariness, was startled to feel his master shake as if from ague; something that passed as a chuckle issued from Bud’s barrellike chest.

“If I got caught I’d sure be hamstrung,” mused the storekeeper. “Would lose all my reputation if I got caught an’ mebbe git a dose of lead poisonin’. But it cert’nly oughta bring results.”

And results were all that Bud cared about. At any rate, the idea took possession of him. His chin fell forward and Toby, unchecked, picked a faster pace toward Burnt Creek, viewing, doubtless, the measure of oats in the stall. A wise horse was Toby, but this time sentenced to a grievous disappointment. On reaching the store, Bud went in and returned with his revolver.

“G’ap, Toby; we’ve got to hustle. Dog-gone it, quit your balkin’! I feed an’ pamper you too much, that’s what. Git now! Ain’t to be fooled with.”

After short argument the sad Toby walked into the jack pines, bound for the desert. Leaving his horse to find the way, Bud relapsed to that reverie which years of solitude had acquainted him. Nor did he raise his head until the last dwarf pine was passed, and he stood against the gloom of the open land.

It was near nine o’clock. The moon displayed a thin, lifeless rind in the sky; the countless stars blinked down without dispelling the shadows. Across the open ground winked two lights, one from Jim Hunter’s kitchen and the other from the girl’s house, both cheerfully beckoning. Bud clucked his tongue and struck across the open, passed Hunter’s place at a good distance, and, on arriving within a few hundred yards of the Hazen house, dismounted.

“Now, you goldurned animal,” he whispered, “stay put. When I come back it’ll be a-foggin’.”

He took the revolver from the holster and, under the impulse of an unusual kind of excitement, drew the hammer part way back and turned the cylinder with a thumb. Ten feet away Tony dissolved into an indistinguishable blur. Bud took a mental line from his horse to both lights.

“Got to place that dog-goned critter,” he murmured, advancing.

A heavy boot toe struck a projecting rock and he balanced wildly, failed to right himself, and fell to the ground. The impact seemed to shake him loose in a dozen vital spots. An immense grunt escaped him. Seemed as if it exploded in the air, but that was only imagination. He crawled painfully to his feet and went on until the light from the girl’s kitchen window was quite clear. He could see inside the small room, but failed to locate her.

“Gosh, I got to see where she is afore I shoot.”

He angled aside to get a better sweep of the room. It occurred to him then that he was more or less in the position of a Peeping Tom, and a rod of ice smote his back. “Fer a nickel I’d quit this fool stunt,” he said to himself. Then the light was eclipsed for a moment as the girl moved to the front of the room. “That’d be the corner the stove’s in. She’s safe.” He raised the revolver and aimed at the window.

It was not the best idea in the world. Bud began to suspect that earlier in the evening. But his self-defense was adequate enough. Both the girl and the man were too obstinate to listen to reason and summary methods had to be employed for their own good. They were just like two fighters who struggled long after the original injury had been dead and buried. Now the only thing a man could do with stubborn pride was blast it. What he meant to do was put a bullet through that window and shatter a pane of glass. That would give the girl a much-needed scare, sort of shake her confidence in her own strength. If, on hearing that shot, Jim Hunter didn’t rush over to her house he, Dave Bud, would be greatly mistaken in his man. And if that threat of danger, always a welding influence, didn’t change their relations, he’d be mighty disappointed. He brought the gun down on the bright window, taking care that the shot would break a pane and bury itself in the sill.

There was, of a sudden, a pad-pad of feet on the ground, an alarming rush of a body that went past him, wheeled like a football player, and bore down. Bud’s revolver arm fell; a low figure hurtled from the shadows, struck him amidships, closed about him, and knocked him over with the savageness of a hungry cinnamon bear. The storekeeper’s teeth rattled, he bit his chin and choked in the sand. A rock struck his head and nearly put him to sleep. Quite instinctively he put up both huge arms—he had dropped the gun—and pushed his assailant off; but before he could take advantage the man had thrown himself back again. A fist smacked against his temple and a familiar voice reached his half-buried ears.

“You sneaking coyote! Thought you’d raise the devil in another lonely house, eh? Thought you’d scare another woman half to death! I’ve been laying for you. Next time maybe you’ll cache your horse where a man won’t stumble across it. I’m just about going to kill you, you Bottle-nose skunk!”

It was Jim Hunter on the warpath! And mistaking him for Bottle-nose Henderson! Bud’s mind worked in circles, amid a confusion of blows, a ton of sand, and smarting eyes. He had to get out of here in a hurry, no mistake. It wouldn’t do for Jim to discover his identity. Jim wouldn’t consider him in any better light, wouldn’t understand. He had overlooked the fact that the young man would patrol the girl’s home after dark and in patrolling run across Toby. The thing now was to make an exit and call it a bad venture.

He stifled a groan of protest. It was a darned good thing Jim had never seen Bottle-nose and noted the man’s skinny shape. The storekeeper raised hands and feet, throwing Hunter back like a blanket, got up, and dashed toward Toby. By golly, but this was a mess. Look where he’d got himself in trying to do a good deed!

Hunter was on him like a wild cat and down to earth they went, rolling, clawing, fighting, with no words at all to waste. Bud flung the lighter man off, got up again, ran a yard, and was pulled down. Somehow Jim’s fists found their mark. Bud felt his nose ache with resentment. In turn he traded blows and heard them land solidly. There was a burly strength in the storekeeper’s shoulder, a power which once in the older days had made him top hand of the county. Right now he spared none of it to get clear. But it didn’t matter how many times he threw Hunter away, the man was back again, pinning him to earth like a clothes dummy; and each fall hurt the corpulent Bud more than he cared to admit.

“I got to quit smokin’,” he said to himself. “Wind ain’t no good.”

Toby, nearby, snorted. They rolled beneath his very feet and he moved uneasily. Bud dragged himself and Hunter upward toward the saddle. “No you don’t!” panted Jim. “Come back here.” Bud, falling, had his face turned toward the girl’s house, and he saw a shaft of light spring out of the opening doorway. Somebody stood on the threshold. He wondered if this was actually so or whether the little skyrockets in his head caused the illusion. He was soon enough put to rest about it; for a shrill, terrified scream shattered the air. Hunter’s aggressiveness instantly ebbed, and a gasp broke from his hard-pressed lungs.

“What’s that?”

Bud’s mind attained an unprecedented nimbleness. Somebody had come across the desert from an opposite direction and gone into the house while they were fighting the silent battle. Bottle-nose Henderson, then! The man was somewhere in the Burnt Creek region.

“Huh,” he grunted. “I thought you were tryin’ to put somethin’ over on me. Thought you was Bottle-nose. Been trailin’ him all day. Leggo, you darned scorpion! This dog-goned darkness! I thought I had him pinned down.”

Together they ran across the prairie and reached the open door. Hunter was the faster, and he made a single stride to the far corner where the girl, back to the wall, faced a thin, nondescript creature whose crimson, bulbous nose and slack mouth gave him a particularly vicious expression.

Hunter flung himself upon the man and threw him against the wall so hard as to make the small place shake from rafter to floor. Bud, near done up, was content to watch them fight. Hunter was a veritable wild cat. He beat down the invader’s defense and, like a boy who has found pleasure in throwing things, swept his man across the room and slammed him against another wall, overturning a chair and table on the way.

It was soon over. Bottle-nose collapsed with a sigh of defeat, slid to the floor, and whined for mercy. Jim Hunter strode over to the girl, looking as one just emerged from a mob attack. His shirt hung in ribbons about his gangling arms. There were sundry cuts over his face, and his hair was ground with sand. But nothing could conceal the flare in his eyes.

“Honey!” he cried. “I’ll kill that skunk if he’s hurt you!”

“Jimmy, what has happened?”

Bud turned his broad back and wryly moved his nose. There was more or less incoherent explanation and questioning from both and out of it, unexpectedly:

“Jimmy—I won’t ask that apology if you don’t want to give it.”

“I’m a bum. I give it, Mary. I’m just a stubborn bum.”

“You give it! Jimmy! I’ll never ask another. And I take back everything.”

A great and ponderous silence ensued, broken by the impatient Bud.

“Here I trail this fella all day long and then you dog-gone wild cat—look what you done to me.”

It was not a very strong story, but Jim Hunter was too preoccupied to pick flaws.

“I’ll take Bottle-nose back with me,” continued Bud. “Say, just what was this quarrel about, anyway? Seein’s I got so durned involved in it, might as well tell me.”

“He called me a useless butterfly, and I had to show him I wasn’t.”

“Which was after she told me I couldn’t do anything worth while.”

“For gosh sake,” stuttered the storekeeper. “Was that all?” It was certainly queer what small things set people at a tangent. Stubborn people, chiefly. But what great fighters they made. Just the kind to populate this sturdy, harsh land. He fell gloomily to another thought. “Suppose now you’ll make up an’ go back to town.”

“Not on your life,” declared Jim. “It’s the only place I’m worth anything. Why, I’m happy here!”

“So’m I,” added the girl. “That settles it.”

Bud was forced to a rare smile and looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary.

“Well, I’m sure sorry my little peace efforts didn’t work. Took Bottle-nose to turn the trick. So long, folks.”

It was later, entering the dark forest with his prisoner, that he lifted his face to the dim, star-scattered sky and gave thanks. Some day this country would blossom under the hands of these vigorous and clean-chosen people. Some day!

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the December 27, 1924 issue of Western Story Magazine.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK STUBBORN PEOPLE ***

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

Stubborn People

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE