Rawhide (1959–1965): Season 6, Episode 21 - Incident of the Wanderer - full transcript

All right, Les?

The herd's all right, Mr. Favor.

Can't say the same
for the weather.

Looks like we're
in for a little wet.

Yup.

What's that?

What is it?

Only one way to find
out, though. Let's go.

Nothing here. Lightning must
have been playing tricks on our eyes.

- Yeah, that must've been it.
- Let's go.

Quince, Scarlet,
get out to the herd.



Those nighthawks
are gonna need help.

Somebody lend a hand over here.

Boy, that sure come up sudden.

I've seen freak storms,
but nothing like this.

Look, Wish, I don't
know if it's dry enough,

but see if you can make up a
fire and build up some coffee.

We'll feel like it.

- What's the damage?
- Just wet, mostly.

Hey, what's your trouble?

Well, I have seen
something, Señor Favor.

A strange man
standing on the hill.

It could have been a man. One of
them disappeared right in front of us.

All right, that's enough
of that. Forget it.

What's this all about?



Oh, just seeing
things is bad enough.

We're really in trouble, they
start making it out to be a ghost.

Mr. Favor.

Good evening, gentlemen.

I wasn't sure, but I
thought I saw your fire.

Then in the confusion
of the storm...

Is something wrong?

Where did you come from?

Over there.

A place called Homeville.

That's 50 miles from here.

Correction, sir.

It's three days, a dozen mountains
and one pair of boots from here, heh.

You walked the ways?

Only since that great beady-eyed
monster I called good friend horse

decided to part company
with me and my wagon.

And that on the
open-air side of a cliff.

Whew.

Aside from my neck, this was
all that I managed to salvage.

Who are you, anyway?

Michob by name, sir. Michob.

Entrepreneur by profession, and
footloose and footsore by choice.

Where are you headed?

Before that four-legged
traitor and I parted company,

I was trying to get to a
town called Sloan's Crossing.

That's another 50
miles from here.

Yeah.

And me with a pair of feet
that just gave up walking.

Perhaps I could
ride along with you.

Yeah, well, sure. We can find
room in the supply wagon for you,

but only as far
as the next town.

Fair enough?

He who is hungry never
finds the bread hard.

Eminently fair enough, sir.

Why don't you get that fire started?
You got another customer for stew.

Yeah, well, have any of you jaspers
got any dry matches? Mine got all soaked.

Got some dry ones in the
supply wagon, ain't you?

They got all dumped
and wet on, Mr. Favor.

It's a fine thing.
Everything is soaked.

It's gonna take me
forever to build a fire.

Uh, possibly I can help.

Get some fine shavings, huh?

I had no idea it
would really work.

How did a man make the
kind of trip he said he made

in that kind of condition?

- Wish, get him under some blankets.
- Ah, he's just tuckered out.

Nothing a little hot
broth won't help.

Somebody come help carry
him over onto the wagon.

- I just thought of something.
- Yeah?

That rain we had soaked down
everything and everyone real good.

- Except him, he's bone dry.
- Hmm.

Yeah, I thought so too.

Wish, how long before
we can get packing?

Oh, it's gonna take till
noon for things to dry out.

And I'd like a chance to
brew up some cherry elixir.

Men are all gonna have
colds after that wetting they got.

Gotta have something for them.

And what about that fella?

What about him?

Kind of a strange
duck, isn't he?

Not strange, just different.

Michob. It sure is a queer name.

Not as queer as some
names I've come across.

For instance, George
Washington Wishbone.

- What's on your mind?
- Nothing.

Just that name keeps
teasing around in my mind

like I heard or seen it somewhere
before but can't just say when or how.

You said a couple of things.

Well, like how he come
into camp last night

bone dry in spite
of all that rain.

Just like it had fallen all
around him instead of on him.

- What are you getting at?
- Nothing.

Just saying there's something
mighty strange about a fella like that.

Not strange,
Wish, just different.

I heard of a man
like that one time.

Yeah, where?

Down in the nations
a couple of years ago.

Only he called himself, uh,

Cartaphilus.

Something like that.

He was nothing but sore trouble,
according to the story I heard.

What kind of trouble?

Bad trouble.

Seemed like after
this fella showed up,

nothing ever went right
and everything went wrong.

You fixing to boil up some of that
wild-cherry elixir, Mr. Wishbone?

- Cartaphilus.
- I beg your pardon?

What happened to those
books I picked up in Tascosa?

- Books?
- For reading, you idiot.

I had a whole box of them.

They're in the supply
wagon, Mr. Wishbone,

under that mule harness
and sack of beans.

Hope they didn't get wet.

"Among other names adopted
by the Wanderer are Buttadeus,

Ahasverus and Michob."

Michob the Wanderer.

Come on, let's hustle with that
canvas so we can get out of here.

Mushy, come on, give him a hand.

Yes, sir, Mr. Favor.

Good morning.

Ah. What a beautiful day.

A storm brings such
freshness to the world.

Hmm.

Don't you feel that
way, Mr. Favor?

It cost me half a day's travel
and I'm missing some stock.

It's hardly a blessing.

That which is to be must be.

Philosophy ain't gonna
get my cattle back.

You have to admit it eliminates
fear of the future, huh?

Depends on where a man's going.

If you take, um, Sloan's Crossing,
for instance, it's a trail town,

as wide open as a place can get.

Hardly a peddler's paradise.

Especially a peddler
with nothing to peddle.

With nothing to peddle.

It's true that I lost my stock.

But, you see, to a man of commerce,
adversity is wedded to dame fortune.

The turn of the
wheel, so to speak.

Today, disaster. Tomorrow,
the end of the rainbow.

Maybe in St. Louis
or even Homeville.

But not Sloan's Crossing.
That's an open grave.

You and I both know

the only commerce a
town like that understands

begins and ends
with a deck of cards

and a stock of six-bit
reservation firewater.

Still, I must go there.

Why?

A man with an itch instead
of a sense of security

ought to know a dead
end when he sees one.

Not an end, no, a beginning.

Not for me.

For a man whose
life is at stake.

What do you mean?

A man is going to be
hanged at Sloan's Crossing

for a murder which
he did not commit.

I can prove that he is innocent.

- The man is John Slade.
- Slade?

I know, I know. A
notorious criminal.

A half-breed, they tell me, damned
by the very savages that he led.

But still he's a man
unjustly accused.

Oh, come on. He's
not even human.

What he and his pack did
on the Pecos and the Red,

not even their
grave can cover up.

Afraid the only justice he's ever
gonna see is at the end of a rope.

For what he did before,
perhaps you are right,

but not in this case,
not for this crime.

On the very night they say that he
murdered a man in Sloan's Crossing,

he occupied the hotel room
next to mine at Homeville.

He could not have possibly
committed the murder.

Slade is gonna have to
balance up the books pretty soon.

What difference does it make
whether it's today or next week?

The law is the difference.

The law of the land that
protects saints and sinners alike.

That's up to you. I'm afraid
when we get to the next town,

you're gonna have to provide
your own transportation.

Sloan's Crossing is
30 miles out of our way.

I may be late.

That's your problem.

You'll ride in the supply
wagon with Mushy.

- You think I'm telling you untruths?
- Think it? I know it.

Why, the way you spread the
words and sneak up on a fella,

ever so easy and polite like,

I'd have believe every word
of it if you hadn't topped it off

with the biggest
whopper ever heard of.

Why, when you said this hakim
fella came from Africa 800 years ago

and he was educated, heh, you
just gave the whole show away.

Hey, look out!

Now what?

What in thunderation
are you trying to do?

Oh, perhaps this was my fault.

- You see, I was talking to him as...
- Wish, how did it happen?

Now, how do I know? - Mushy?

Well, Mr. Michob was
telling me some funny stories

about some folks he
knew 800 years ago.

Eight hundred years...?

- Wishbone, we'll noon here.
- Mr. Favor...

Keep your stories to
yourself after this, all right?

And try not to confuse him
any more than you have to, huh?

All right, Mushy.
Bring the wheel over.

Oh, you're eating. Sit down,
sit down, Mushy. I'll do it.

Oh, boy.

Whew.

I sent Quince ahead
to scout the river.

All right.

Then I figure when we get up there,
maybe we ought to lay over a few days.

Let the cattle get
some fat on them, huh?

Maybe.

Maybe? Well, what do you think?

Think about what?

About what I'm talking about.
Something the matter with you?

What do you mean, is
something the matter?

You're sitting there like a gravestone,
not listening to a thing I was saying.

Something bothering you?

It's curiosity. Question
marks always bother me.

Yeah, Mushy said
something about him

saying he knew some fella
who died 800 years ago.

- Mushy gets things all confused.
- Yeah, probably so.

Still, how'd he walk through
that rainstorm without getting wet?

It was a line squall,
came in from behind.

- Ain't no mystery about that.
- Yeah, maybe, maybe not.

You ever hear the
story of the Wanderer?

- The who?
- The Wanderer. It's a legend.

It seems when Jesus was
being taken to be crucified,

he stopped in front
of a shoemaker's shop

and asked could
he rest a little bit.

And the shoemaker said, "No,
tarry not before my house, but go on."

Then Jesus said, "It is you who
must go on while others know rest.

You shall travel forever."

What's that got to
do with the peddler?

Well, one of the shoemaker's
names was Michob.

Wishbone, Michob's a name
that's as old as the Old Testament.

Nothing legendary about it.

It isn't just the name, it's the
rest of it. Here, you read this.

There's some stories
about that legend in there

that say sometimes the
Wanderer brings good luck,

but the others say that
the Wanderer was nothing

but catastrophe married to disaster
and committing bigamy with ruin.

Well, we had nothing but
bad luck since he showed up.

Bad luck had nothing to do with that
storm or the wagon breaking down.

Two coincidences don't make a
legend any more than old wives' tales

and ghosts and
goblins come true.

Now, do you wanna get packed
or you want me to read you

a couple of rhymes
out of Mother Goose?

I've just had my say.

All right.

All right, now let's put her on.

No, never mind, you
stay here, it's all right.

Yup.

Eh!

On she goes.

It'll be good as new.

Mr. Michob, isn't there
anything you can't do?

Mr. Favor!

Turn the herd. Point them west.

Can't use the river
crossing, Mr. Favor.

- Country's full of that stuff.
- Prairie larkspur.

There's enough of it this side
of the river to kill half the herd.

Couldn't keep them out of it.

Speaking of bad luck.

And then there were two.

It seems that for us, the wind doesn't
blow and the cradle cannot rock.

You always whittle
yourself to sleep?

Only when the bough has
broken and the cradle needs repair.

Do you always read
yourself to sleep?

Oh.

Eh, not always. Depends on the
book. Take this one. Very interesting.

Hmm, Legends Old and New.

The Seven Cities of Cibola,
Jade Mines of Montezuma,

Lost City of Atlantis. Even
The Legend of The Wanderer.

Oh, the man of many faces,
Cartaphilus, Buttadeus, Ahasverus...

And Michob.

You don't think...?

By me, legends and myths are
exactly where they are belong,

between the covers of a book.

But I'm afraid some
of the men believe it.

If we have any more bad luck, the
responsibility is gonna fall on you.

That's what the people at Harts
Corner in New York said two years ago.

"An omen of death," they called
me. "Doomsday on the hoof."

I guess I've presented
you with quite a problem.

Are you gonna dump
me right here and now?

No, I wouldn't do that.

For no other reason that I'm
running this tribe, not superstition.

I'll do like I told you and take
you along to the next settlement.

Say, there, uh, is something
about The Legend of The Wanderer,

though, that piques my interest.

I understand from the book, he
was a man driven by a sense of guilt.

He was in torment trying to
make amends for an old injustice.

I can understand that man
walking a hundred miles

to save a renegade
like John Slade, but...

You question the integrity of
an itinerant man of commerce?

You sound like a cynic.

I understand a cynic is a man
who knows the price of everything,

and the value of nothing.

Unfortunately at the moment,
I happen to know both.

Now, good night, Michob.

Sleep well.

Mushy, are you gonna
let that water boil away?

- Now get it up here.
- Yes, sir.

My arms.

- My arms. MUSHY:
I didn't mean it.

- Let me through.
- I didn't mean it, Mr. Wishbone.

Better get some
bandages and plenty of lard.

I think we'll cut
those sleeves off.

Get him something to sit on.

I hope you know
what you're doing.

Wait, wait, let
me get that first.

Sit here, Mr. Wishbone.

How is it, Wish?

I'll be back cooking
in a couple of days.

I guess we can stand
Mushy's cooking for that long.

Mushy, you'll drive
the chuck wagon.

Only trouble is we'll have
to pull somebody off the herd

- for the supply wagon.
- Perhaps I can help, Mr. Favor.

What do you know
about driving a team?

I'm not an expert, but I
can follow the chuck wagon.

Well, we do need every
man we can on the herd.

- There's rough country ahead.
- All right, then.

Wish, you go in
the supply wagon.

How long do you figure it will be,
Michob, before he can use his arms?

- Oh, it'll be at least a week.
- A week?

- Why, you're out of your...
- A week of Mushy's cooking?

We'll have a
mutiny on our hands.

Uh, I can cook.

Is there anything he can't do?

One thing for sure, can't be
any worse than Mushy's cooking.

But, boss.

But, Mr. Favor.

Mr. Mushy, may I
have the thyme, please?

- What, Mr. Michob?
- Oh, never mind. I'll get it.

- Hey, what's going on here?
- Ah, take a smell of this.

Mm, mm, mm.

Uh-oh.

- Nice.
- Smells good.

How are you doing, Wish?

- I'm all right, I guess.
- Everything is ready.

Oh, uh, well, you know, of course,
that Michob is just filling in for you.

Sure, he is.

I hope you have good appetites.

You bet, yeah. - I'm first.

Us ramrods need our energy.

Okay.

Here we are.

Ah.

- I'll take a little of this stuff too.
- Okay.

Mm-hm.

Yeah.

- Mr. Michob?
- Yeah?

Here.

Out of the witch's
cauldron comes the magic

of son-of-a-gun
stew, Hebrew style.

- I'm not hungry.
- Come on, eat it.

Come on.

Like it or not, it's the only
way to keep up your strength.

Hmm?

Good?

Here, put your teeth in that.

- There you are.
- Mm.

Mm, mm.

This is my second plate. Better
grab some before it's too late.

I ain't hungry enough
to eat that Jonah's grub.

That peddler is a travelling
disaster. Just mark my word.

Mr. Favor, you know it's true.
You know that man's a jinx.

Well, there's your crossing.

Looks like we go to Sloan's
Crossing after all, huh?

Turn them back!

Taking your noon break a little
bit earlier today, ain't you, huh?

Just talking to the boys.

What's so important you have to
stop working the herd to talk it over?

Mr. Favor, that
peddler's a jinx.

First it was the rain. Then
the wagon broke down.

Then we run across
that prairie larkspur.

And now we can't get across the river
that break us because the river is up.

Mr. Favor, you
know as well as I do,

the river ain't usually
up this time of year.

Then there was Wishbone.

You sure can't blame Michob
for what happened to Wishbone.

I can.

What made Mushy stumble when he
was carrying that hot water was a doll.

A doll that the
peddler was carving on.

Oh. Anything else?

Yes, sir.

We want you to get
rid of him right now.

After thinking it over very
carefully, this is the way it stacks up.

I run this drive and
what I say goes.

And I say Michob can stay
with us until Sloan's Crossing.

Mr. Favor, you might find
yourself mighty long on cows

and mighty short on drovers
if anything else happens.

Oh, Mr. Mushy, is
there any more flour?

- Oh, yes, sir, Mr. Michob.
- Thank you.

Mr. Wishbone, it
ain't time to sleep yet.

When a man's tired, the clock
hasn't got anything to do with it.

- Mr. Wishbone, what's wrong?
- Nothing.

Then why are you
acting like this?

You wouldn't understand.

A man just isn't fit for nothing

if he don't think he can
do something real good.

- Right?
- I guess.

Even if it's just
one little old thing,

he's gotta believe he can do
that better than anybody else.

- That's right too.
- Guess so.

Well, I don't think
that anymore.

- What do you mean?
- My cooking.

What's the matter
with your cooking?

I used to think I was a pretty
fair hand with a pot and a skillet

and better than most
when it comes to doctoring.

Then Michob showed
me how wrong I was.

Well, you better start
looking for a new boss, Mushy.

Mr. Wishbone, that's
talking pretty foolish.

No, sir. I tasted his cooking.

I just couldn't face the men
again with that stew of mine.

But the men are always
grumbling about their food.

Well, the men got a right to
grumble on a long drive like this.

I never paid them any mind
because I knew I was good.

And I don't know that anymore.
I just don't know nothing.

You'll feel better when you get
those bandages off, Mr. Wishbone.

You'll see.

- Your flour, Mr. Michob.
- Oh, thank you, Mr. Mushy.

Thank you very much.

- Anything you want?
- No.

But there's
something I don't want.

You.

You're bad luck. You're
trouble and I've had my fill.

No man could run
away from trouble,

no more than he can cut
off his shadow and bury it.

I can, peddler.

All I gotta do is pack your
gear and start you running.

If you don't it,
I'll do it for you.

No, not this way and not now.

Maybe you don't hear so good.

I said, you're leaving
tonight, right now.

I'll leave when Mr. Favor
tells me to and not before.

Then maybe I can
change your mind.

Get up, peddler.

I got work to do.

I said, get out!

I said, get out!

Get out!

You had enough?

Fight back, Mr. Michob.

No.

You force me to fight
and I don't want to.

You tell me to run and I can't.
You call me jinx and Jonah.

And then you close your
mind to reason and truth.

Now look at me.

Look past superstition and fear

and old tales of incantation
and boiling pots, and see me.

I'm a man.

I bleed, I rage, I laugh, I cry,

I see, I feel, I even pray.

But I'm still a myth, a denizen of
the dark, a harbinger of disaster.

And why?

Because I have committed
the crime of being different.

Mountains are high and
they're crooked and they're flat,

but they're still mountains.

And water is green and blue
and white, and it's still water.

And I am still a
man, just like you.

I bring you no bad luck.

I bring no disaster.

And I certainly do
not bring a myth to life.

That, no man can do.

Now I will leave.

Michob.

Aren't you forgetting something?

Why, you let our stew cook too long
and you'll burn that pot midnight black.

Me, I'm gonna faint dead away,
I don't get something to eat.

Look, you walk out on us now

and we'll wind up eating
steers out of our own herd.

Come on and get it before
we throw it out to the coyotes.

- All right, Mushy, dish it up.
- Okay.

This is the best darn
stew I've ever eaten.

Good stuff. Tell you one thing.
I'd sure like to get seconds on this.

Guess that just about
wraps that up, huh?

- Except for one thing.
- Hmm?

Heh. Funny, ever since
Michob joined the drive,

one thing after another has been
pushing us toward Sloan's Crossing.

And now we're going that way.

Thirty miles out of our way,
but we're going that way.

Very good.

Mr. Favor, Mr. Favor.

What are you doing, Michob?

What comes naturally to a man
with an uncontrollable itch: moving.

But why? There's no need now.

- What happened with Hunt is...
- Did not have to happen, but it did.

And what is more,
I let it happen.

I let another man's fury
take the place of my reason,

and that is the
cardinal act of idiocy.

- So you're running away.
- Not running, walking.

Call it the better
part of wisdom.

Or perhaps insurance
against greater trouble.

You can't run from trouble any
more than you can run from a myth.

Mr. Favor!

It's Hunt. Horse started running
and Hunt tried to turn him.

His horse fell right in front of
him, just nothing we could do.

- Pretty bad, huh, Wish?
- Oh, not a thing.

This is as bad as it can get.

Hopeless.

There ought to be a
doctor at Sloan's Crossing.

There's nothing a doctor can do.
There's nothing anybody can do.

There's always something
someone can do, Mr. Wishbone.

Even if it's only a word,
there's always something.

What do you want?

To help, nothing more.

I'm gonna die, ain't I?

No, you're going to live.

What?

Thanks.

I want a word with you.

Now, what's the
idea, telling him that?

He hasn't got a chance.

I know he hasn't got a chance.

But he needs something to see
him through the difficult hours ahead.

Now, medicine won't help.
Science can't. Only faith.

That is all we can give him.

Peddler?

I've been dreaming,

like when I was a kid.

Feel like running forever,

racing all over the mountains.

I ain't felt that
way in a long time.

What's it mean?

Means that you're
getting better.

You wouldn't kid a
fellow, would you?

Now you get some rest.

You stick around, you hear?

Now you must rest. Shh.

I'll stick around.

He's still hanging on.

How long do you figure?

He has a very
strong will to live.

Well, I'll get some
horses ready.

We ought to be in Sloan's
Crossing in a couple of hours.

No, no, Mr. Favor. Not yet.

Not yet?

After the stink you made
about getting to this town

and traveling a hundred
miles to save a man's life,

and you say, "Not yet"?

It's Hunt. I can't leave
him until it's over.

The most he's got to live is a
couple of hours at the outside.

A man's last hours cannot
be measured by the clock.

- What about Slade?
- Peddler?

A dying man's wish is sacred.

I would be less than
a man if I let him down.

I can do only what I have
to do, when I must do it.

No man can bend
the hands of a clock

any more than he
can control his future.

Peddler.

I thought you left me.

About that fight,

I reckon I was scared of you.

I'm sorry.

It's a funny thing, ain't it?

Now you're a real
sight of comfort to me.

Well, I think we still ought to
make Sloan's Crossing by sunup.

Michob, if you ever wanna
hire on as a permanent Jonah,

well, you got yourself a job.

Thank you, Mr. Wishbone.

- Bye, Mr. Michob.
- Bye, Mr. Mushy.

Thank you very much.

What do you want?

Do you have a prisoner
named John Slade?

No, not anymore, I ain't.

Folks around here
got a little impatient,

busted in last night, took
him out and lynched him.

Me, well, I guess I didn't
put up much of an argument,

Slade being what he was and all.

You, uh, wouldn't be
friends of his, would you?

Oh, no, no. Uh,
we just know of him.

Thanks a lot.

Strange, isn't it?

I traveled all this distance
and it didn't matter.

It didn't matter at all.

Oh, I don't know, Michob,
it mattered to Hunt.

I think it did to a few cowhands who
got their fact and fantasy mixed up.

I know it did to me. Well,
where do you go from here?

Wherever that strange little
itch of mine takes me, I guess.

As a matter of fact,

this little metropolis looks like it
could do with a bit of civilization.

You're welcome back
on the drive if you want.

Mm-mm.

Entrepreneurs
and cattle don't mix.

My business is people.

Even if their business begins
and ends with a deck of cards

and a stock of
reservation firewater.

Who knows? Perhaps I may even
go into the saloon-keeping business.

As a sideline, of course.

- Good luck, Michob.
- And to you, Mr. Favor.

Head them up!

Move them out!