(In the adventure Bastardy Proved a Spur, Pecos unci I declare our love for one another and agree to marry at a future date, provided we escape the yak skin in which Xan’s cat’s-paw, the Pasha of Three Tails, has stitched us.—Reno)
I received a cordial welcome from Pecos’s blonde companion who introduced herself as Peggy. It occurred to me immediately who she must be, for I had read of her in so many of the popular magazines. She and Buckaroo had set a fall wedding date in New York, and no event in recent memory had so stirred the public imagination. While more than pleasing to the eye, it was not her beauty that impressed me most. More than her feminine charms or even her keen intellect, it was her extraordinary gift of life (a trite expression, I’m well aware) that had drawn Buckaroo to her. Her carefree gaiety could bring sunshine to even the darkest of days. Her warm smile during our first meeting went a long way toward allaying my silly jitters.
“Do you ride?” she asked.
I had no wish to be considered a milksop, and so I nodded. “Oh, yes, indeed,” I blurted out. “I come from some of the best riding stock in Virginia.”
Pecos howled to the point of collapse, while Buckaroo and Peggy, controlling their own laughter, gave her scolding looks. I think my eyeballs filled with blood, for I saw only the color red until Rawhide pulled up in the car.
“Did I say something untoward?” I asked Buckaroo.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, patting my shoulder. “I haven’t seen Pecos laugh since Sluggo died. She likes you.”
She had an odd way of showing it, I thought, and it was not until we were halfway to my house that I realized with the force of a revelation what I had said. The whole incident suddenly struck me as uproariously funny, and I could not suppress a chuckle of my own. Pecos, her own amusement now piqued farther, could but look at me questioningly.
“I’m glad you liked my little joke,” I said, joining in the fun, “even if it was at my own expense.”
It dawned on her that perhaps I did know a thing or two, and she begrudged as much. “Then you’re a very funny man,” she said.
“Only when I’m nervous,” I said.
“Why should you be nervous among friends?”
She smiled, this time with a genuineness that was touching. Strange to say, I did feel surprisingly at ease with these four worthies at whose exploits I had long marveled. Buckaroo, like most true geniuses, was utterly without arrogance, a simple man in the best sense of the word. Decency toward others was not something he had to work at; with him it was as involuntary as breathing. On the other hand, I have seen him an hour after killing a man and found him to be perfectly composed. To the Occidental mind this may seem a contradiction; but to the soul of the Mongol, that atavistic side of B. Banzai whose blood flows in a straight line from the Khans, mortal combat is the prime rule of nature. We in the West have largely forgotten this. The Mongol has not.
I have not mentioned the hands of Buckaroo Banzai, the same hands that wield both scalpel and sword with equally dazzling skill. I have seen him make a samurai sword whistle a tune as it cut through the air, just as I have seen him swing the same blade close enough to my cheek to snip my whiskers. I have no doubt that had he not chosen to be a surgeon and a scientist, he could have easily turned his swordsmanship into a fortune on the variety stages of the world, just as he has done with his music.
Upon reaching my house, I pulled out my saxophone; and with Buckaroo on guitar, Rawhide on piano, and Pecos on harmonica, we played syncopated music until late in the evening. Peggy seated herself in the front row of our little concert and passed to us biscuits of toasted barley flour and a thermos filled with an odd pungent liqueur, which after I had imbibed it, made me feel as though I had devoured a more than ample meal. A strange sense of euphoria swept over
I received a cordial welcome from Pecos’s blonde companion who introduced herself as Peggy. It occurred to me immediately who she must be, for I had read of her in so many of the popular magazines. She and Buckaroo had set a fall wedding date in New York, and no event in recent memory had so stirred the public imagination. While more than pleasing to the eye, it was not her beauty that impressed me most. More than her feminine charms or even her keen intellect, it was her extraordinary gift of life (a trite expression, I’m well aware) that had drawn Buckaroo to her. Her carefree gaiety could bring sunshine to even the darkest of days. Her warm smile during our first meeting went a long way toward allaying my silly jitters.
“Do you ride?” she asked.
I had no wish to be considered a milksop, and so I nodded. “Oh, yes, indeed,” I blurted out. “I come from some of the best riding stock in Virginia.”
Pecos howled to the point of collapse, while Buckaroo and Peggy, controlling their own laughter, gave her scolding looks. I think my eyeballs filled with blood, for I saw only the color red until Rawhide pulled up in the car.
“Did I say something untoward?” I asked Buckaroo.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, patting my shoulder. “I haven’t seen Pecos laugh since Sluggo died. She likes you.”
She had an odd way of showing it, I thought, and it was not until we were halfway to my house that I realized with the force of a revelation what I had said. The whole incident suddenly struck me as uproariously funny, and I could not suppress a chuckle of my own. Pecos, her own amusement now piqued farther, could but look at me questioningly.
“I’m glad you liked my little joke,” I said, joining in the fun, “even if it was at my own expense.”
It dawned on her that perhaps I did know a thing or two, and she begrudged as much. “Then you’re a very funny man,” she said.
“Only when I’m nervous,” I said.
“Why should you be nervous among friends?”
She smiled, this time with a genuineness that was touching. Strange to say, I did feel surprisingly at ease with these four worthies at whose exploits I had long marveled. Buckaroo, like most true geniuses, was utterly without arrogance, a simple man in the best sense of the word. Decency toward others was not something he had to work at; with him it was as involuntary as breathing. On the other hand, I have seen him an hour after killing a man and found him to be perfectly composed. To the Occidental mind this may seem a contradiction; but to the soul of the Mongol, that atavistic side of B. Banzai whose blood flows in a straight line from the Khans, mortal combat is the prime rule of nature. We in the West have largely forgotten this. The Mongol has not.
I have not mentioned the hands of Buckaroo Banzai, the same hands that wield both scalpel and sword with equally dazzling skill. I have seen him make a samurai sword whistle a tune as it cut through the air, just as I have seen him swing the same blade close enough to my cheek to snip my whiskers. I have no doubt that had he not chosen to be a surgeon and a scientist, he could have easily turned his swordsmanship into a fortune on the variety stages of the world, just as he has done with his music.
Upon reaching my house, I pulled out my saxophone; and with Buckaroo on guitar, Rawhide on piano, and Pecos on harmonica, we played syncopated music until late in the evening. Peggy seated herself in the front row of our little concert and passed to us biscuits of toasted barley flour and a thermos filled with an odd pungent liqueur, which after I had imbibed it, made me feel as though I had devoured a more than ample meal. A strange sense of euphoria swept over
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