Текст № 10 The pancakes
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                                        The pancakes

                                       (A cowboy’s story)

One night we returned to our camp at eleven o’clock, and all the boys, being very tired, went to bed immediately. But I was so hungry that I could not sleep. So I got up and went to look for Judd, who acted as cook in our camp. He was sitting by the fire.

“Judd,” said I, “I am hungry. Will you make some pancakes?”

Judd laid down his gun with which he was pounding an antelope steak and looked at me in silence. His pose was menacing and in his blue eyes there was a look of suspicion.

“Say, you,” he said at last. “Tell me straight, which of the boys told you the story?”

“What story?” I asked. “I did not mean anything. I am hungry. That is all. But tell me, Judd, was there a story about pancakes?”

“I shall give you some canned food,” Judd went on without paying attention to my words, “but I shall not make any pancakes for you. I hate pancakes. Sit down and listen, and I shall tell you why.”

“It was two years ago,” he began. “One day after a long ride I called at Uncle Emsley’s store which, as you know, is in a little village on the side of the river. There was nothing in the store but canned apricots, pears, peaches, and cherries. There was nothing to be done. I was very hungry and began to devour the fruit. I had eaten three cans and was beginning the fourth when I looked out of the window into the yard of Uncle Emsley’s house and saw a girl who was standing there and watching my style of encouraging the fruit canning industry.

“That’s my niece” said Uncle Emsley, “Mary is her name. Would you like to make her acquaintance?”

“Yes, certainly, Uncle Emsley, I should be awfully glad to.”

So Uncle Emsley took me out into the yard and introduced me to his niece. In a few minutes we were friends, and from that day on I rode over to see her once every week, and a month later doubled the number of my rides and saw her twice a week.

Then came the pancakes business and everything went to the dogs. I called at Uncle Emsley’s store late in the evening. I asked for canned peaches. I ate for a few minutes in silence and then said:

“Well, Uncle Emsley, how is Miss Mary?”

“She is gone riding with Jackson Bird, the sheep man from Mired Mule.”

I swallowed a peach stone and walked straight out into the night.

“She is gone riding,” I whispered in my horse’s ear, “with Jackson Birds. Do you understand me, horsie?”

With these words I went back and said to Uncle Emsley:

“Did you say Jackson Bird was a sheep man?”

“Yes, I said it,” said Uncle Emsley. “Everybody knows Jackson Bird. He has four thousand of the finest merino sheep.”

I went out, sat on down the ground in the darkness and waited. An hour later I heard them galloping. They stopped at Uncle Emsley’s gate. She went into the house. Jackson turned his horse and galloped away. In a moment I was on the horse back and galloping after him. I caught up with him in no time.

“Hallo!” said I. “May I introduce myself? I am Judd, commonly called Dead Certainty for my skill in shooting.”

“Ah,” said he calmly, “I am glad to know you. I am Jackson Bird from Mired Mule.”

“I’ve shot rabbits today,” I went on, “at two hundreds yards, I can assure you, without even taking my aim.”

“That is fine shooting,” said the sheep man calmly. “What do you think of the rain last week? Wasn’t it good for the young grass?”

“Willie,” said I, riding up to him. “Don’t talk of the rain. Let’s make the things clear. You have a bad habit of riding with young ladies. Don’t forget that my name id Dead Certainty.”

Jackson Bird was silent for a minute and then he laughed.

“You are wrong,” said he. “I have called on Miss Mary a few times but not for the purpose you imagine. My object is purely a gastronomical one.”

I reached for my gun.

“If you dare,” said he, “if you dare to dishonour… Wait a minute till I explain. You don’t know me. Eating – that’s all the pleasure I’ve got in life. Have you ever tasted the pancakes that Miss Mary makes?”

“I? No,” I replied. “I didn’t know that she was a good cook.”

“The pancakes she makes,” said he, “are golden sunshine. I am ready to give two years of my life to get the recipe for making those pancakes. That is why I went to see Miss Mary. But I haven’t been able to get it from her. It is an old recipe that has been in the family for seventy five years. They hand it down from one generation to another. But they don’t give it away to outsiders. If I could get that recipe and could make those pancakes for myself, I should be a happy man,” he concluded with a sigh.

“Are you sure,” said I, “that you like pancakes and not the hand that makes them?”

“Absolutely sure,” said Jackson, “Miss Mary is a very nice girl, but I can assure you that my intentions do not go further than the gastro -” but seeing my hand reaching for the gun he hastily finished – “than the desire to get the pancake recipe.”

“You are not such a bad little man,” said I, trying to be fair. “But anyhow, I advise you to stick to the pancakes, otherwise I’ll make orphans of your sheep.”

  “To convince you that I am sincere,” said the sheep man, “I’ll ask you to help me. Miss Mary and you are friends and, maybe, she will do for you what she will not do for me. If you get me that pancakes recipe, I give you my word that I’ll never call upon her again.”

“That is fair,” said I, “I’ll get it for you, if I can.”

Then we shook hands and each rode his way.

A few days later I called on Miss Mary. Miss Mary was sitting at the piano and playing a waltz. I listened for a few minutes and then went straight to the matter.

“If there is anything I like,” I said, “it’s the taste of a nice hot pancake.”

Miss Mary gave a little jump on the piano stool and looked at me in a curious way.

“Yes,” said she, “pancakes are very nice, but please don’t talk of pancakes.”

“And why not?” said I, with a wink, to show that I was in a family secret. “Come, Miss Mary, tell me how you make them. A pound of flour, eight dozen eggs, and so on. Tell me quick.”

“Excuse me for a moment,” she said and ran out of the room.

I had no time to follow her, for Uncle Emsley came in with a pitcher. As he turned round to put a glass on the table I saw a revolver in his hip pocket.

“That is funny,” said Uncle Emsley, handing me a glass of water. “You have ridden too far today, Judd, and you are overexcited. Try to think about something else.”

“Do you know how to make those pancakes, Uncle Emsley?” I asked.

“Don’t talk of pancakes,” said Uncle Emsley, handing me another glass full of water.

That was all the information I could get that night. I dropped the subject and talked with Uncle Emsley about sheep, calves and grass. And then Miss Mary came and said “Good night,” and I rode home.

About a week afterwards I met Jackson Bird.

“Have you got the recipe?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, “they don’t want other people to know it. Have you tried?’

“I have,” said I, “but I haven’t been able to get anything out of them.”

“I am ready to give it up,” said Jackson with a sigh.

“Keep on trying,” I said encouragingly, “and I’ll do the same. Good bye, Jacksie.”

I held me promise and kept on trying to get that recipe from Miss Mary. But every time I said “pancakes” she looked at me in a strange way and tried to change the subject. And if I insisted, Uncle Emsley came in with a pitcher of water and a hip-pocket revolver.

One day I galloped to Uncle Emsley’s store with a bunch of wild flowers with an eye shut and said:

“Haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?” I asked.

“Mary and Jackson Bird were married yesterday.”

I dropped the flowers and yelled:

“What, then, was all the nonsense he told me about pancakes? Tell me that.”

When I said “pancakes”, Uncle Emsley put his hand on his hip pocket and stepped back, but I jumped at him and seized him by his shirt collar.

“Tell me all of those damned pancakes,” I yelled, “or I’ll kill you. Does Miss Mary make pancakes?”

“She has never made one in her life,” said Uncle Emsley soothingly. “Calm down, Judd, calm down. You are excited. It’s all because of that wound in your head. Try not to think about pancakes.”

“Uncle Emsley,” said I, “I have never been wounded in the head, but Jackson Bird told me he was calling on Miss Mary for the purpose of finding out your famous pancake recipe.”

“Leave my shirt collar in peace,” said Uncle Emsley, “and I’ll tell you. Yes, it looks like Jackson Bird has played a trick on you. The day after he went riding with Mary he came back and told me and Mary to watch out for you whenever you began to talk about pancakes. He said you were in a camp once when the boys were cooking pancakes, and one of the fellows got angry with you and cut you over the head with a frying-pan. Jackson said whenever you were overhot or excited that wound hurt you and made you rave about pancakes. He told us we should immediately change the subject and give you some water to drink, and that on the whole you were not dangerous…”

“And that is why,” Judd concluded, “I shall never make those damned pancakes.”