Well, Jim was younger than me, so there's some excuse for him. He was rough on Curly--hostile and contemptuous when the little partner acted feminine. He owned up afterwards he'd behaved like a brute to that poor wounded, helpless critter, loving him all the while, but acting coarse; that humbled Curly, who weakened under his tongue lash, cried at times, and lay for hours sucking the wound on his arm, dumb like a dying animal. Both youngsters were surely miserable on the second and third days they lay together in prison. It was on the second morning that I sent down a doctor from Bisley to fix up Curly's wound.
Late that evening, towards midnight, a crowbar dropped down through the window-gap in the wall, and Jim began to labour out a hole for their escape. He dug out bricks of 'dobe one by one, and while he worked he made poor Curly sing hour after hour, to hide up the sound of the crowbar. Shall I tell you one of the songs? It's a cowboy tune for smoothing the feelings of driven cattle while they bed themselves down for night.
"Soh, Bossie, soh! The water's handy neah, The grass is plenty heah, An' all the stars a-sparkle Bekase we drive no mo'-- We drive no mo'!
The long trail ends to-day, The long trail ends to-day, The punchers go to play, And all you weary cattle May sleep in peace for sure-- Sleep, sleep fo' sure.
The moon cayn't bite you heah, Nor punchers fright you heah, And you-all will be beef befo' We need you any mo'-- We need you mo'!"
When morning broke Jim piled hay on the burrow he'd made in the foot of the wall, and lay on top, dead weary to get some sleep. At ten o'clock the doctor from Bisley found Curly still singing, light-headed, talking nonsense. The patient said he was a bear, so the doctor gave sleep medicine, and sat beside him. At noon he fed the boys their dinner and went away, but they didn't wake again until supper-time, when the man on guard came in.
"_Tortillas_, _frijoles_, coffee--same as usual."
"Eat it," says Curly, "'cause I'm only a bear holed up for winter. We don't eat in winter anyways."
"Oh yes, of course," and Curly fed coffee to the winter bear. That cleared his head, and he sat up watching Jim at work on the little round dishes. The food was _frijoles_, the same being beans, and _tortillas_, which is a thin corn-cake, pretty much the same as brown fly-papers, warm and damp, but sort of uninteresting to taste. The coffee was in a brown earthen pot, fresh from the fire, and mighty encouraging. Those three things make the proper feed for Mexicans, the same being simple, uninstructed people, knowing no better. When they feast they make a stew of red pepper, and take a little meat with it; but that dish is a luxury, and hot enough to burn a hole through a brick.