There were two men in the company who caused me particular discomfort. One was a little Swede, about twenty-five years old, who knew only one song, and he was forever singing it. By day we were all crowded into one small, stifling bar-room, and so there was no escaping this person’s music. Through all the profanity, whisky-guzzling, “old sledge” and quarreling, his monotonous song meandered with never a variation in its tiresome sameness, and it seemed to me, at last, that I would be content to die, in order to be rid of the torture. The other man was a stalwart ruffian called “Arkansas,” who carried two revolvers in his belt and a bowie knife projecting from his boot, and who was always drunk and always suffering for a fight. But he was so feared, that nobody would accommodate him. He would try all manner of little wary ruses to entrap somebody into an offensive remark, and his face would light up now and then when he fancied he was fairly on the scent of a fight, but invariably his victim would elude his toils and then he would show a disappointment that was almost pathetic. The landlord, Johnson, was a meek, well-meaning fellow, and Arkansas fastened on him early, as a promising subject, and gave him no rest day or night, for awhile. On the fourth morning, Arkansas got drunk and sat himself down to wait for an opportunity. Presently Johnson came in, just comfortably sociable with whisky, and said: “I reckon the Pennsylvania ’lection—”
Arkansas raised his finger impressively and Johnson stopped. Arkansas rose unsteadily and confronted him. Said he:
“Wha-what do you know a—about Pennsylvania? Answer me that. Wha—what do you know ’bout Pennsylvania?”
“I was only goin’ to say—”
“You was only goin’ to say. You was! You was only goin’ to say—what was you goin’ to say? That’s it! That’s what I want to know. I want to know wha—what you (’ic) what you know about Pennsylvania, since you’re makin’ yourself so d—-d free. Answer me that!”
“Mr. Arkansas, if you’d only let me—”
 
 
“Who’s a henderin’ you? Don’t you insinuate nothing agin me!—don’t you do it. Don’t you come in here bullyin’ around, and cussin’ and goin’ on like a lunatic—don’t you do it. ’Coz I won’t stand it. If fight’s what you want, out with it! I’m your man! Out with it!”
Said Johnson, backing into a corner, Arkansas following, menacingly:
“Why, I never said nothing, Mr. Arkansas. You don’t give a man no chance. I was only goin’ to say that Pennsylvania was goin’ to have an election next week—that was all—that was everything I was goin’ to say—I wish I may never stir if it wasn’t.”
“Well then why d’n’t you say it? What did you come swellin’ around that way for, and tryin’ to raise trouble?”
“Why I didn’t come swellin’ around, Mr. Arkansas—I just—”
“I’m a liar am I! Ger-reat Caesar’s ghost—”
“Oh, please, Mr. Arkansas, I never meant such a thing as that, I wish I may die if I did. All the boys will tell you that I’ve always spoke well of you, and respected you more’n any man in the house. Ask Smith. Ain’t it so, Smith? Didn’t I say, no longer ago than last night, that for a man that was a gentleman all the time and every way you took him, give me Arkansas? I’ll leave it to any gentleman here if them warn’t the very words I used. Come, now, Mr. Arkansas, le’s take a drink—le’s shake hands and take a drink. Come up—everybody! It’s my treat. Come up, Bill, Tom, Bob, Scotty—come up. I want you all to take a drink with me and Arkansas—old Arkansas, I call him—bully old Arkansas. Gimme your hand agin. Look at him, boys—just take a look at him. Thar stands the whitest man in America!—and the man that denies it has got to fight me, that’s all. Gimme that old flipper agin!”
They embraced, with drunken affection on the landlord’s part and unresponsive toleration on the part of Arkansas, who, bribed by a drink, was disappointed of his prey once more. But the foolish landlord was so happy to have escaped butchery, that he went on talking when he ought to have marched himself out of danger. The consequence was that Arkansas shortly began to glower upon him dangerously, and presently said:
“Lan’lord, will you p-please make that remark over agin if you please?”
“I was a-sayin’ to Scotty that my father was up’ards of eighty year old when he died.”
“Was that all that you said?”
“Yes, that was all.”
“Didn’t say nothing but that?”
“No—nothing.”
Then an uncomfortable silence.
Arkansas played with his glass a moment, lolling on his elbows on the counter. Then he meditatively scratched his left shin with his right boot, while the awkward silence continued. But presently he loafed away toward the stove, looking dissatisfied; roughly shouldered two or three men out of a comfortable position; occupied it himself, gave a sleeping dog a kick that sent him howling under a bench, then spread his long legs and his blanket-coat tails apart and proceeded to warm his back. In a little while he fell to grumbling to himself, and soon he slouched back to the bar and said:
“Lan’lord, what’s your idea for rakin’ up old personalities and blowin’ about your father? Ain’t this company agreeable to you? Ain’t it? If this company ain’t agreeable to you, p’r’aps we’d better leave. Is that your idea? Is that what you’re coming at?”
“Why bless your soul, Arkansas, I warn’t thinking of such a thing. My father and my mother—”
“Lan’lord, don’t crowd a man! Don’t do it. If nothing’ll do you but a disturbance, out with it like a man (’ic)—but don’t rake up old bygones and fling’em in the teeth of a passel of people that wants to be peaceable if they could git a chance. What’s the matter with you this mornin’, anyway? I never see a man carry on so.”
“Arkansas, I reely didn’t mean no harm, and I won’t go on with it if it’s onpleasant to you. I reckon my licker’s got into my head, and what with the flood, and havin’ so many to feed and look out for—”
“So that’s what’s a-ranklin’ in your heart, is it? You want us to leave do you? There’s too many on us. You want us to pack up and swim. Is that it? Come!”
“Please be reasonable, Arkansas. Now you know that I ain’t the man to—”
“Are you a threatenin’ me? Are you? By George, the man don’t live that can skeer me! Don’t you try to come that game, my chicken—’cuz I can stand a good deal, but I won’t stand that. Come out from behind that bar till I clean you! You want to drive us out, do you, you sneakin’ underhanded hound! Come out from behind that bar! I’ll learn you to bully and badger and browbeat a gentleman that’s forever trying to befriend you and keep you out of trouble!”
“Please, Arkansas, please don’t shoot! If there’s got to be bloodshed—”
“Do you hear that, gentlemen? Do you hear him talk about bloodshed? So it’s blood you want, is it, you ravin’ desperado! You’d made up your mind to murder somebody this mornin’—I knowed it perfectly well. I’m the man, am I? It’s me you’re goin’ to murder, is it? But you can’t do it ’thout I get one chance first, you thievin’ black-hearted, white- livered son of a nigger! Draw your weepon!”
With that, Arkansas began to shoot, and the landlord to clamber over benches, men and every sort of obstacle in a frantic desire to escape. In the midst of the wild hubbub the landlord crashed through a glass door, and as Arkansas charged after him the landlord’s wife suddenly appeared in the doorway and confronted the desperado with a pair of scissors! Her fury was magnificent. With head erect and flashing eye she stood a moment............