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diff --git a/15573-0.txt b/15573-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..58968d3 --- /dev/null +++ b/15573-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9194 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Judith Of The Plains by Marie Manning + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Judith Of The Plains + +Author: Marie Manning + +Release Date: April 2005 [eBook #15573] +[Most recently updated: May 3, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: David Garcia, Josephine Paolucci, Joshua Hutchinson and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUDITH OF THE PLAINS *** + + + + +Judith Of The Plains + +by Marie Manning + +Harper & Brothers Publishers + +New York And London + +Copyright, 1903. By Harper & Brothers +Printed In The United States Of America + + +[Illustration: Peter’s Hand Sought Hers, And All Her Woman’s Fear Of +The Vague Terrors Of The Dreadful Night Spoke In Her Answering +Pressure.] + +Contents + + CHAPTER I. “Town” + CHAPTER II. The Encounter + CHAPTER III. Leander And His Lady + CHAPTER IV. Judith, The Postmistress + CHAPTER V. The Trail Of Sentiment + CHAPTER VI. A Daughter Of The Desert + CHAPTER VII. Chugg Takes The Ribbons + CHAPTER VIII. The Rodneys At Home + CHAPTER IX. Mrs. Yellett And Her “Gov’ment” + CHAPTER X. On Horse-thief Trail + CHAPTER XI. The Cabin In The Valley + CHAPTER XII. The Round-up + CHAPTER XIII. Mary’s First Day In Camp + CHAPTER XIV. Judith Adjusts The Situation + CHAPTER XV. The Wolf-hunt + CHAPTER XVI. In The Land Of The Red Silence + CHAPTER XVII. Mrs. Yellett Contends With A Cloudburst + CHAPTER XVIII. Foreshadowed + CHAPTER XIX. “Rocked By A Hempen String” + CHAPTER XX. The Ball + + + + +Judith Of The Plains + + + + +I. +“Town” + + +It was June, and a little past sunrise, but there was no hint of early +summer freshness in the noxious air of the sleeping-car as it toiled +like a snail over the infinity of prairie. From behind the +green-striped curtains of the berths, now the sound of restless turning +and now a long-drawn sigh signified the uneasy slumber due to stifling +air and discomfort. + +The only passenger stirring was a girl whose youth drooped under the +unfavorable influences of foul air, fatigue, and a strained anxiety to +come to the end of this fateful journey. She had been up while it was +yet dark, and her hand—luggage, locked, strapped, and as pitifully new +at the art of travelling as the girl herself, clustered about the hem +of her blue serge skirt like chicks about a hen. The engine shrieked, +but its voice sounded weak and far off in that still ocean of space; +the girl tightened her grasp on the largest of the satchels and looked +at the approaching porter tentatively. + +“We’re late twenty-fi’e minutes,” he reassured her, with the hopeless +patience of one who has lost heart in curbing travellers’ enthusiasms. + +She turned towards the window a pair of shoulders plainly significant +of the burdensome last straw. + +“Four days and nights in this train”—they were slower in those +days—“and now this extra twenty-five minutes!” + +Miss Carmichael’s famous dimple hid itself in disgust. The demure lines +of mouth and chin, that could always be relied upon for special +pleading when sentence was about to be passed on the dimple by those +who disapproved of dimples, drooped with disappointment. But the +light-brown hair continued to curl facetiously—it was the sort of hair +whose spontaneous rippling conveys to the seeing eye a sense of humor. + +The train plodded across the spacious vacancy that unrolled itself +farther and farther in quest of the fugitive horizon. The scrap of view +that came within a closer range of vision spun past the car windows +like a bit of stage mechanism, a gigantic panorama rotating to simulate +a race at breakneck speed. But Miss Carmichael looked with unseeing +eyes; the whirling prairie with its golden flecks of cactus bloom was +but part of the universal strangeness, and the dull ache of +homesickness was in it all. + +“My dear! my dear!”—a head in crimpers was thrust from between the +curtains of the section opposite—“I’ve been awake half the night. I was +so afraid I wouldn’t see you before you got off.” + +The head was followed, almost instinctively, by a hand travelling +furtively to the crimpers that gripped the lady’s brow like barnacles +clinging to a keel. + +Mary expressed a grieved appreciation at the loss of rest in behalf of +her early departure, and conspicuously forbore to glance in the +direction of the barnacles, that being a first principle as between +woman and woman. + +“And, oh, my dear, it gets worse and worse. I’ve looked at it this +morning, and it’s worse in Wyoming than it was in Colorado. What it ’ll +be before I reach California, I shudder to think.” + +“It’s bound to improve,” suggested Mary, with the easy optimism of one +who was leaving it. “It couldn’t be any worse than this, could it?” + +The neuter pronoun, it might be well to state, signified the prairie; +its melancholy personality having penetrated the very marrow of their +train existence, they had come to refer to it by the monosyllable, as +in certain nether circles the head of the house receives his +superlative distinction in “He.” + +Again the locomotive shrieked, again the girl mechanically clutched the +suit-case, as presenting the most difficult item in the problem of +transportation, and this time the shriek was not an idle formality. The +train slowed down; the uneasy sleepers behind the green-striped +curtains stirred restlessly with the lessening motion of their uncouth +cradle. The porter came to help her, with the chastened mien of one +whose hopes of largess are small, the lady with the barnacles called +after her redundant farewells, and a moment later Miss Carmichael was +standing on the station platform looking helplessly after the train +that toiled and puffed, yet seemed, in that crystalline atmosphere, +still within arm’s-reach. She watched it till its floating pennant of +smoke was nothing but a gray feather blowing farther and farther out of +sight on the flat prairie. + +The town—it would be unkind to mention its name—had made merry the +night before at the comprehensive invitation of a sheepman who had just +disposed of his wool-clip, and who said, by way of general summons, +“What’s the use of temptin’ the bank?” “Town,” therefore, when Mary +Carmichael first made its acquaintance, was still sleeping the sleep of +the unjust. Those among last night’s roisterers who had had to make an +early start for their camps were well into the foot-hills by this time, +and would remember with exhilaration the cracked tinkle of the +dance-hall piano as inspiring music when the lonesomeness of the desert +menaced and the young blood again clamored for its own. + +“Town”—it contained in all some two dozen buildings—was very unlovely +in slumber. It sprawled in the lap of the prairies, a grimy-faced +urchin, with the lines of dismal sophistication writ deep. Yet where in +all the “health resorts” of the East did air sweep from the clean +hill-country with such revivifying power? It seemed a glad world of +abiding youth. Surely “Town” was but a dreary illusion, a mirage that +hung in the unmapped spaces of this new world that God had made and +called good; an omen of the abominations that men would make when they +grew blind to the beauty of God’s world. + +Mary Carmichael, with much the feelings of a cat in a strange garret, +wandered about the sluggard town; and presently the blue-and-white sign +of a telegraph office, with the mythological figure of a hastening +messenger, suggested to her that a reassuring telegram was only Aunt +Adelaide’s due. Whereupon she began to rap on the door of the office, a +scared pianissimo which naturally had little effect on the operator, +who was at home and asleep some three blocks distant. But the West is +the place for woman if she would be waited upon. No seven-to-one ratio +of the sexes has tempered the chivalry of her sons of the saddle. A +loitering something in a sombrero saw rather than heard the rapping, +and, at the sight, went in quest of the dreaming operator without so +much as embarrassing Miss Carmichael with an offer of his services. And +presently the operator, whose official day did not begin for some two +hours yet, appeared, much dishevelled from running and the cursory +nature of his toilet, prepared to receive a message of life and death. + +The wire to Aunt Adelaide ran: + +“Practically at end of journey. Take stage to Lost Trail this morning. +Am well. Don’t worry about me. + + +“MARY.” + + +And the telegraph operator, dimly remembering that he had heard Lost +Trail was a “pizen mean country,” and that it was tucked some two +hundred miles back in the foot-hills, did not find it very hard to +forgive the girl, who was “practically at end of journey,” particularly +as the dimple had come out of hiding, and he had never been called upon +to telegraph the word “practically” before. He was a progressive man +and liked to extend his experiences. + +After sending the telegram, Miss Carmichael, quite herself by reason of +the hill air, felt that she was getting along famously as a traveller, +but that it was an expensive business, and she was glad to be +“practically” at the end of her journey. And, drawing from her pocket a +square envelope of heavy Irish linen, a little worn from much reading, +but primarily an envelope that bespoke elegance of taste on the part of +her correspondent, she read: + +“LOST TRAIL, WYOMING. + + +“My Dear Miss Carmichael,—Pray let me assure you of my gratification +that the preliminaries have been so satisfactorily arranged, and that +we are to have you with us by the end of June. The children are +profiting from the very anticipation of it, and it will be most +refreshing to all us isolated ones to be able to welcome an Eastern +girl as a member of our family. + “Although the long journey across the continent is trying, + particularly to one who has not made it before, I hope you may not + find it utterly fatiguing. Please remember that after leaving the + train, it will be necessary to take a stage to Lost Trail. If it is + possible, I shall meet you with the buckboard at one of the stage + stations; otherwise, keep to the stage route, being careful to + change at Dax’s Ranch. + “Unfortunately, the children vary so in their accomplishments that + I fear I can make no suggestions as to what you may need to bring + with you in the way of text-books. But I think you will find them + fairly well grounded. + “I had a charming letter from Mrs. Kirkland, who said the + pleasantest things possible of you. I am glad the wife of our + Senator was able conscientiously to commend us. + “With our most cordial good wishes for a safe journey, believe me, + dear Miss Carmichael, + + +“Sincerely yours, + “SARAH YELLETT.” + + +In the mean time, “Town” came yawning to breakfast. It was not so +prankish as it had been the night before, when it accepted the +sheepman’s broad-gauge hospitality and made merry till the sun winked +from behind the mountains. It made its way to the low, shedlike +eating-house with a pre-breakfast solemnity bordering on sulkiness. Not +a petticoat was in sight to offset the spurs and sombreros that filed +into breakfast from every point in the compass, prepared to eat +primitively, joke broadly, and quarrel speedily if that sensitive and +often inconsistent something they called honor should be brushed +however lightly. + +But the eternal feminine was within, and, discovering it, the temper of +“Town” was changed; it ate self-consciously, made jokes meet for the +ears of ladies, and was more interested in the girl in the sailor-hat +than it was in remembering old feuds or laying the foundations of new. + +In its interior aspect, the eating-house conveyed no subtle invitation +to eat, drink, and be merry. On the contrary, its mission seemed to be +that of confounding appetite at every turn. A long, shedlike room it +was, with walls of unpainted pine, still sweating from the axe. +Festoons of scalloped paper, in conflicting shades, hung from the +ceiling, a menace to the taller of the guests. On the rough walls some +one, either prompted by a latent spirit of æstheticism or with an idea +of abetting the town towards merrymaking—an encouragement it hardly +required—had tacked posters of shows, mainly representing the +tank-and-sawmill school of drama. + +Miss Carmichael sat at the extreme end of the long, oilcloth-covered +table, on which a straggling army of salt and pepper shakers, catsup +bottles, and divers commercial condiments seemed to pause in a +discouraged march. A plague of flies was on everything, and the food +was a threat to the hardiest appetite. One man summed up the steak +with, “You got to work your jaw so hard to eat it that it ain’t fair to +the next meal.” + +His neighbor heaved a sigh. “This here formation, whatever it be”—and +he turned the meat over for better inspection—“do shore remind me of an +indestructible doll that an old maid aunt of mine giv’ my sister when +we was kids. That doll sort of challenged me, settin’ round oncapable +o’ bein’ destroyed, and one day I ups an’ has a chaw at her. She war +ondestructible, all right; ’fore that I concluded my speriments I had +left a couple o’ teeth in her.” + +“Well, I discyards the steak and draw to a pair of aces,” and the first +man helped himself to a couple of biscuits. + +Miss Carmichael knew, by the continual scraping of chairs across the +gritty floor, that the places at the table must be nearly all taken; +and while she anticipated, with an utterly unreasonable terror, any +further invasion of her seclusion at the end of the table, still she +could not persuade herself to raise her eyes to detect the progress of +the enemy, even in the interest of the diary she had kept so +conscientiously for the past three days; which was something of a loss +to the diary, as those untamed, manly faces were well worth looking at. +Reckless they were in many instances, and sometimes the lines of +hardship were cruelly writ across young faces that had not yet lost the +down of adolescence, but there were humor and endurance and the courage +that knows how to make a crony of death and get right good sport from +the comradeship. Their faults were the faults of lusty, red-blooded +youth, and their virtues the open-handed generosity, the ready sympathy +of those uncertain tilters at life who ride or fall in the tourney of a +new country. + +At present, “the yearling,” drinking her execrable coffee in an agony +of embarrassment, weighed heavily on their minds. They would have liked +to rise as a man and ask if there was anything they could do for her. +But as a glance towards the end of the table seemed to increase her +discomfiture tenfold, they did the kindest and for them the most +difficult thing and looked in every direction but Miss Carmichael’s. +With a delicacy of perception that the casual observer might not have +given them credit for, they had refrained from taking seats directly +opposite her, or those immediately on her right, which, as she occupied +the last seat at the table, gave her at least a small degree of +seclusion. + +As one after another of them came filing in, bronzed, rugged, radiating +a beauty of youth and health that no sketchy exigence of apparel could +obscure, some one already seated at the table would put a foot on a +chair opposite him and send it spinning out into the middle of the +floor as a hint to the new-comer that that was his reserved seat. And +the cow-puncher, sheep-herder, prospector, or man about “Town,” as the +case might be, would take the hint and the chair, leaving the petticoat +separated from the sombreros by a table-land of oilcloth and a range of +four chairs. + +But now entered a man who failed to take the hint of the spinning +chair. In fact, he entered the eating-house with the air of one who has +dropped in casually to look for a friend and, incidentally, to eat his +breakfast. He stopped in the doorway, scanned the table with +deliberation, and started to make his way towards Mary Carmichael with +something of a swagger. Some one kicked a chair towards him at the head +of the table. Some one else nearly upset him with one before he reached +the middle, and the Texan remarked, quite audibly, as he passed: + +“The damned razor-back!” + +But the man made his way to the end of the table and drew out the chair +opposite Miss Carmichael with a degree of assurance that precipitated +the rest of the table into a pretty pother. + +Suppose she should countenance his audacity? The fair have been known +to succumb to the headlong force of a charge, when the persistence of a +long siege has failed signally. What figures they would cut if she +did!—and Simpson, of all men! A growing tension had crept into the +atmosphere of the eating-house; knives and forks played but +intermittently, and Mary, sitting at the end of the oilcloth-covered +table, felt intuitively that she was the centre of the brewing storm. +Oh, why hadn’t she been contented to stay at home and make over her +clothes and share the dwindling fortunes of her aunts, instead of +coming to this savage place? + +“From the look of the yearling’s chin, I think he’ll get all that’s +coming to him,” whispered the man who had nearly upset him with the +second chair. + +“You’re right, pard. If I’m any good at reading brands, she is as +self-protective as the McKinley bill.” + +The man Simpson was not a pleasant vis-à-vis. He wore the same +picturesque ruffianliness of apparel as his fellows, but the +resemblance stopped there. He lacked their dusky bloom, their clearness +of eye, the suppleness and easy flow of muscle that is the hall-mark of +these frontiersmen. He was fat and squat and had not the rich bronzing +of wind, sun, and rain. His small, black eyes twinkled from his puffy, +white face, like raisins in a dough-pudding. + +He was ogling Mary amiably when the woman who kept the eating-house +brought him his breakfast. Mrs. Clark was a potent antidote for the +prevailing spirit of romance, even in this woman-forsaken country. A +good creature, all limp calico, Roman nose, and sharp elbows, she +brought him his breakfast with an ill grace that she had not shown to +the others. The men about the table gave him scant greeting, but the +absence of enthusiasm didn’t embarrass Simpson. + +He lounged expansively on the table, regarding Miss Carmichael +attentively meanwhile; then favored her with the result of his +observations, “From the East, I take it.” And the dumpling face screwed +into a smile whose mission was pacific. + +Every knife and fork in the room suspended action in anxiety to know +how the “yearling” would take it. Would their chivalry, which strained +at a gnat, be compelled to swallow such a conspicuous camel as the +success of Simpson? With the attitude he had taken towards the girl, +there had crept into the company an imperceptible change; deep-buried +impulses sprang to the surface. If a scoundrel like Simpson was going +to try his luck, why shouldn’t they? They didn’t see a pretty girl once +in a blue moon. With the advent of the green-eyed monster at the board, +each man unconsciously became the rival of his neighbor. + +But Miss Carmichael merely continued her breakfast, and if she heard +the amiable deductions of Simpson regarding her, she gave no sign. But +a rebuff to him was in the nature of an appetizer, a fillip to press +the acquaintance. He encroached a bit farther on the narrow limits of +the table and continued, “Nice weather we’re having.” + +Miss Carmichael gave her undivided attention to her coffee. The spurs +and sombreros, that had not relaxed a muscle in their strained +observation of the little drama, breathed reflectively. Perhaps it was +just as well that they had not emulated Simpson in his brazen charge; +the “yearling” was not to be surprised into talking, that was certain. + +“He shore is showing hisself to be a friendly native,” commented the +man who had sacrificed milk-teeth investigating the indestructible +doll. + +“Seems to me that the system he’s playing lacks a heap of science. My +money’s on the yearling.” And the man who had “discarded the steak and +drawn to the biscuits” leaned a little forward that he might better +watch developments. + +Simpson by this time fully realized his error, but failure before all +these bantering youngsters was a contingency not to be accepted +lightly. As he phrased it to himself, it was worth “another throw.” +“Seems kind o’ lonesome not having any one to talk to while you’re +eatin’, don’t it?” + +Miss Carmichael’s air of perfect composure seemed a trifle out of tune +with her surroundings; the nice elevation of eyebrow, the slightly +questioning curl of the lip as she, for the first time apparently, +became aware of the man opposite, seemed to demand a prim drawing-room +rather than the atmosphere of the slouching eating-house. + +“Well, really, I’ve hardly had a chance of finding out.” And her eyes +were again on her coffee-cup. And there was joy among the men at table +that they had not rushed in after the manner of those who have a +greater courage than the angels. + +“No offence meant,” deprecated Simpson, with an uneasy glance towards +the other end of the table, where the men sat with necks craned forward +in an attitude uncomfortably suggestive of hounds straining at the +leash. Simpson felt rather than saw that something was afoot among the +sombreros. There was a crowding together in whispered colloquy, and in +a flash some half-dozen of them were on their feet as a man. Descending +upon Simpson, they lifted him, chair and all, to the other end of the +table, as far removed as possible from Miss Carmichael. + +The man who thought Simpson’s system lacked science rubbed his hands in +delight. “She took the trick all right; swept his hand clean off the +board!” + + + + +II. +The Encounter + + +Simpson, from the seat to which he had been so rapidly transplanted, +looked about him with blinking anxiety. It was more than probable that +the boys intended “to have fun with him,” though his talking, or rather +trying to talk, to a girl that sat opposite him at an eating-house +table was, according to his ethics, plainly none of their business. He +knew he wasn’t popular since he had done for Jim Rodney’s sheep, though +the crime had never been laid at his door, officially. He had his way +to make, the same as the next one; and, all said and done, the +cattle-men were glad to get Jim Rodney’s sheep off the range, even if +they treated him as a felon for the part he had played in their +extermination. + +Thus reasoned Simpson, while he marked with an uneasy eye that the +temper of the company had grown decidedly prankish with the exit of the +girl, who, after having caused all the trouble, had, with an irritating +quality peculiar to her sex, vanished through the kitchen door. + +Some three or four of the boys now ran to Simpson’s former seat at the +table and rushed towards him with his half-eaten breakfast, as if the +errand had been one of life and death. They showered him with mock +attentions, waiting on him with an exaggerated deference, and the pale, +fat man, remembering the hideousness of some of their manifestations of +a sense of humor, breathed hard and felt a falling-off of appetite. + +Costigan, the cattle-man, a strapping Irish giant, was clearing his +throat with ominous sounds that suggested the tuning-up of a bass +fiddle. + +“Sure, Simpson, me lad, if ye happen to have a matther av fifty +dollars, ’tis mesilf that can tell ye av an illegint invistmint.” + +Simpson looked up warily, but Costigan’s broad countenance did not +harbor the wraith of a smile. “What kin I git for fifty chips? ’Tain’t +much,” mused the pariah, with the prompt inclination to spend that +stamps the comparative stranger to ready money. + +“Ye can git a parrut, man—a grane parrut—to kape ye coompany while +ye’re aiting—” + +Simpson interrupted with an oath. + +“Don’t be hard on old Simmy; remember he’s studied for the ministry! +How did I savey that Simpson aimed to be a sharp on doctrine?” A +cow-puncher with a squint addressed the table in general. “I scents the +aroma of dogma about Simpson in the way he throwed his conversational +lariat at the yearling. He urbanes at her, and then comes his +‘firstly,’ it being a speculation as to her late grazing-ground, which +he concludes to be the East. His ‘secondly’ ain’t nothing startling, +words familiar to us all from our mother’s knee—‘nice weather’—the +congregation ain’t visibly moved. His ‘thirdly’ is insinuating. In it +he hints that it ain’t good for man to be alone at meals—” + +“’Twas the congregation that added the ‘foinelly,’ though, before +hastily leaving be the back door!” and Costigan slapped his thigh. + +“The gentleman in question don’t seem to be makin’ much use of his +present conversational opportunities. I’m feelin’ kinder turned down +myself”; and the Texan began to look over his six-shooter. + +The man with the squint looked up and down the board. + +“Gentlemen, I believe the foregoing expresses the sentiment of this +company, which, while it incloodes many foreign and frequent-warring +elements, is at present held together by the natchral tie of eating.” + +Thumping with knife and fork handles, stamping of feet, cries of “Hear! +hear!” with at least three cow-boy yells, argued well for a resumption +of last night’s festivities. Simpson glowered, but said nothing. + +“Seems to me you-all goin’ the wrong way ’bout drawin’ Mistu’ Simpson +out. He is shy an’ has to be played fo’ like a trout, an’ heah you-all +come at him like a cattle stampede.” The big Texan leaned towards +Simpson. “Now you-all watch my methods. Mistu’ Simpson, seh, what du +think of the prospects of rain?” + +There was a general recommendation from Simpson that the entire company +go to a locality below the rain-belt. + +A boy, plainly “from the East,” and looking as if the ink on his +graduating thesis had scarce had time to dry, was on his feet, +swaggering; he would not have swapped his newly acquired _camaraderie_ +with these bronzed Westerners for the Presidency. + +“Gentlemen, you have all heard Simpson say it is lonesome having no one +to talk to during meals. We sympathized with him and offered him a +choice of subjects. He greets our remarks by a conspicuous silence, +varied by profanity. This, gentlemen, reflects on us, and is a matter +demanding public satisfaction. All who feel that their powers as +conversationalists have been impugned by the silence of Simpson, please +say ‘Ay.’” + +“Ay” was howled, sung, and roared in every note of the gamut. + +“If me yoong frind here an me roight”—and Costigan jerked a shoulder +towards the boy—“will be afther closin’ that silf-feeding automatic +dictionary av his for a moment, I shud be glad to call the attintion av +the coomp’ny to somethin’ in the nature av an ixtinuatin’ +circoomsthance in the case av Simpson.” + +“Hear! hear!” they shouted. The broad countenance of Costigan beamed +with joy at what he was about to say. “Gintlemin, the silence av Mr. +Simpson is jew in all probabilitee to a certain ivint recalled by many +here prisint, an’ more that’s absent, an’ amicablee settled out av +coort—” + +Up to this time the unhappy Simpson had shown an almost superhuman +endurance. Now he bristled—and after looking up and down the board for +a sympathetic face, and not finding one, he declared, loudly and +generally, “’Tain’t so!” + +“Ye may have noticed that frind Simpson do be t’reatened wid lockjaw in +the societee av min, but in the prisince av a female ye can’t count on +him. Now, talk wid a female is an agreeable, if not a profitable, way +av passin’ the toime, but sure ye niver know where it will ind—as +witness Simpson. This lady I’m recallin’—’tis a matther av two years +ago—followed the ancient and honorable profission av biscuit shootin’ +not far from Caspar. Siz Simpson to the lady some such passin’ +civilitee as, ‘Good-marnin’; plisent weather we’re havin’.’ Whereupon +the lady filt a damage to her affictions an’ sued him for breach av +promise.” + +“’Twan’t that way, at all!” screamed Simpson. “’Sall a lie!” + +“Yu ought er said ‘Good-evenin’’ to the lady, Mistu Simpson; hit make a +diffunce,” drawled the man from Texas, pleasantly. + +“But ’twas ‘Good-marnin’’ Simpson made chyce av,” resumed Costigan. +“An’ the lady replied, ‘You’ve broke my heart.’ Whereupon Simpson, +havin’ a matther av t’ree thousand dollars to pay for his passin’ +civilitee, learned thot silince was goolden.” + +They all remembered the incident in question, and thundered applause at +the reappearance of an old favorite. Without warning, a shadow fell +across the sunlight-flooded room, and, as one after another of the men +glanced up from the table, they saw standing in the doorway a man of +such malignant aspect that his look fell across the company like a +menace. The swing of their banter slowed suddenly; it was as if the +cold of a new-turned grave had struck across the June sunshine checking +their roughshod fun. None of them had the hardihood to joke with a man +that stood in the shadow of death; and hate and murder looked from the +eyes of the man in the doorway and looked towards Simpson. One by one +they perceived the man of the shadow, all but Simpson, eating steak +drowned in Worcestershire. + +The man in the doorway was tall and lean, and the prison blench upon +his face was in unpleasant contrast to the ruddy tan of the faces about +the table. His sombrero was tipped back and the hair hung dank about +the pale, sweating forehead, suggestive of sickness. But weak health +did not imply weak purpose; every feature in that hawk-like face was +sharp with hatred, and in the narrowing eye was vengeance that is +sweet. + +He stood still; there was in his hatred a something hypnotic that grew +imperceptibly and imperceptibly communicated itself to the men at +table. He gloated over the eating fat man as if he had dwelt much in +imagination on the sight and was in no hurry to curtail his joy at the +reality. The men began to get restless, shuffle their feet, moisten +their lips; only the college boy spoke, and then from a wealth of +ignorance, knowing nothing of the rugged, give-and-take justice of the +plains—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and the law and the +courts go hang while a man’s got a right arm to pull a trigger. Not one +in all that company, even the cattle-men whose interests were opposed +to Rodney’s, but felt the justice of his errand. + +“When did they let him out?” whispered the college boy; and then, +“Oughtn’t we to do something?” + +“Yis, me son,” whispered Costigan. “We ought to sit still and learn a +thing or two.” + +The fat man cleaned his plate with a crust of bread stuck on the point +of a knife. There was nothing more to eat in the way of substantials, +and he debated pouring a little more of the sauce on his plate and +mopping it with a bit of bread still uneaten. Considering the pro and +con of this extra tid-bit, he glanced up and saw the gaunt man standing +in the doorway. + +Simpson dropped the knife from his shaking hand and started up with a +cry that died away in a gurgle, an inhuman, nightmare croak. He looked +about wildly, like a rat in a trap, then backed towards the wall. The +men about the table got up, then cleared away in a circle, leaving the +fat man. It was all like a dream to the college boy, who had never seen +a thing of the kind before and could not realize now that it was +happening. Rodney advanced, never once relaxing the look in which he +seemed to hold his enemy as in a vise. Simpson was like a man +bewitched. Once, twice, he made a grab for his revolver, but his right +hand seemed to have lost power to heed the bidding of his will. Rodney, +now well towards the centre of the room, waited, with a suggestion of +ceremony, for Simpson to get his six-shooter. + +It was one of those moments in which time seems to have become +petrified. The limp-clad proprietress of the eating-house, made curious +by the sudden silence, looked in from the kitchen. Simpson, his eyes +wandering like a trapped rat, saw, and called, through teeth that +chattered in an ague of fear, “Ree—memm—her thth—there’s la—dies +p—present! For Gawd’s sake, remember t—there’s ladies p—present!” + +The pale man looked towards the kitchen, and, seeing the woman, he gave +Simpson a look in which there was only contempt. “You’ve hid behind the +law once, and this time it’s petticoats. The open don’t seem to have no +charm for you. But—” He didn’t finish, there was no need to. Every one +knew and understood. He put up his revolver and walked into the street. + +The men broke into shouts of laughter, loud and ringing, then doubled +up and had it out all over again. And their noisy merriment was as +clear an indication of the suddenly lifted strain, at the averted +shooting, as it was of their enjoyment of the farce. Simpson, relieved +of the fear of sudden death, now sought to put a better face on his +cowardice. Now that his enemy was well out of sight, Simpson handled +his revolver with easy assurance. + +“Put ut up,” shouted Costigan, above the general uproar. “’Tis toime to +fear a revolver in the hands av Simpson whin he’s no intinsions av +shootin’.” + +Simpson still attempted to harangue the crowd, but his voice was lost +in the general thigh-slapping and the shouts and roars that showed no +signs of abating. But when he caught a man by the coat lapel in his +efforts to secure a hearing, that was another matter, and the man shook +him off as if his touch were contagion. Simpson, craving mercy on +account of petticoats, evading a meeting that was “up to him,” they +were willing to stand as a laughing-stock, but Simpson as an equal, +grasping the lapels of their coats, they would have none of. + +He slunk away from them to a corner of the eating-house, feeling the +stigma of their contempt, yet afraid to go out into the street where +his enemy might be waiting for him. Much of death and blood and +recklessness “Town” had seen and condoned, but cowardice was the +unforgivable sin. It balked the rude justice of these frontiersmen and +tampered with their code, and Simpson knew that the game had gone +against him. + +“What was it all about? Were they in earnest, or was it only their way +of amusing themselves?” inquired Mary Carmichael, who had slipped into +Mrs. Clark’s kitchen after the men at the table had taken things in +hand. + +“Jim Rodney was in earnest, an’ he had reason to be. That man Simpson +was paid by a cattle outfit—now, mind, I ain’t sayin’ which—to get Jim +Rodney’s sheep off the range. They had threatened him and cut the +throats of two hundred of his herd as a warning, but Jim went right on +grazin’ ’em, same as he had always been in the habit of doing. Well, +I’m told they up and makes Simpson an offer to get rid of the sheep. +Jim has over five thousand, an’ it’s just before lambing, and them pore +ewes, all heavy, is being druv’ down to Watson’s shearing-pens, that +Jim always shears at. Jim an’ two herders and a couple of dawgs—least, +this is the way I heard it—is drivin’ ’em easy, ’cause, as I said +before, it’s just before lambing. It does now seem awful cruel to me to +shear just before lambing, but that’s their way out here. + +“Well, nothing happens, and Jim ain’t more’n two hours from the pens +an’ he comes to that place on the road that branches out over the top +of a cañon, and there some one springs out of a clump of willows an’ +dashes into the herd and drives the wether that’s leading right over +the cliff. The leaders begin to follow that wether, and they go right +over the cliff like the pore fools they are. The herder fired and tried +to drive ’em back, they tell me, an’ he an’ the dawg were shot at from +the clump of willows by some one else who was there. Three hundred +sheep had gone over the cliff before Jim knew what was happening. He +rode like mad right through the herd to try and head ’em off; but you +know what sheep is like—they’re like lost souls headin’ for damnation. +Nothing can stop ’em when they’re once started. And Jim lost every +head—started for the shearing-pens a rich man—rich for Jim—an’ seen +everything he had swept away before his eyes, his wife an’ children +made paupers. My son he come by and found him. He said that Jim was +sittin’ huddled up in a heap, his knees drawed up under his chin, +starin’ straight up into the noonday sky, same as if he was askin’ God +how He could be so cruel. His dead dawg, that they had shot, was by the +side of him. The herder that was with Jim had taken the one that was +shot into Watson’s, so when my son found Jim he was alone, sittin’ on +the edge of the cliff with his dead dawg, an’ the sky about was black +with buzzards; an’ Jim he just sat an’ stared up at ’em, and when my +son spoke to him he never answered any more than a dead man. He shuck +him by the arm, but Jim just sat there, watchin’ the sun, the buzzards, +and the dead sheep.” + +“Was nothing done to this man Simpson?” + +“The cattle outfit that he done the dirty work for swore an alibi for +him. Jim has been in hard luck ever since. He’s been rustlin’ cattle +right along; but Lord, who can blame him? He got into some trouble down +to Rawlins—shot a man he thought was with Simpson, but who wasn’t—and +he’s been in jail ever since. Course now that he’s out Simpson’s bound +to get peppered. Glad it didn’t happen here, though. ’Twould be a kind +of unpleasant thing to have connected with a eating-house, don’t you +think so?” she inquired, with the grim philosophy of the country. + +The eating-house patrons had gone their several ways, and the quiet of +the dining-room was oppressive by contrast with its late +boisterousness. Mrs. Clark, her hands imprisoned in bread-dough, begged +Mary to look over the screen door and see if anything was happening. +“I’m always suspicious when it’s quiet. I know they’re in deviltry of +some sort.” + +Mary tiptoed to the door and peeped over, but the room was deserted, +save for Simpson, huddled in a corner, biting his finger-nails. “The +nasty thing!” exploded Mrs. Clark, when she had received the bulletin. +“I’d turn him out if it wasn’t for the notoriety he might bring my +place in gettin’ killed in front of it.” + +“I dare say I’d better go and see after my trunk; it’s still on the +station platform.” Mary wondered what her prim aunts would think of her +for sitting in Mrs. Clark’s kitchen, but it had seemed so much more of +a refuge than the sordid streets of the hideous little town, with its +droves of men and never a glimpse of a woman that she had been only too +glad to avail herself of the invitation of the proprietress to “make +herself at home till the stage left.” + +“Well, good luck to you,” said Mrs. Clark, wiping her hand only +partially free from dough and presenting it to Miss Carmichael. She had +not inquired where the girl was going, nor even hinted to discover +where she came from, but she gave her the godspeed that the West knows +how to give, and the girl felt better for it. + +At the station, where Mary shortly presented herself, in the interest +of that old man of the sea of all travellers, luggage, she learned that +the stage did not leave town for some three-quarters of an hour yet. A +young man, manipulating many sheets of flimsy, yellow paper covered +with large, flourishing handwriting, looked up in answer to her +inquiries about Lost Trail. This young man, whose accent, clothes, and +manner proclaimed him “from the East,” whither, in all probability, he +would shortly return if he did not mend his ways, disclaimed all +knowledge of the place as if it were an undesirable acquaintance. But +before he could deny it thrice, a man who had heard the cabalistic name +was making his way towards the desk, the pride of the traveller +radiating from every feature. + +The cosmopolite who knew Lost Trail was the type of man who is born to +be a Kentucky colonel, and perhaps may have achieved his destiny before +coming to this “No Man’s Land,” for reasons into which no one inquired, +and which were obviously no one’s business. They knew him here by the +name of “Lone Tooth Hank,” and he wore what had been, in the days of +his colonelcy—or its equivalent—a frock-coat, restrained by the lower +button, and thus establishing a waist-line long after nature had had +the last word to say on the subject. With this he wore the sombrero of +the country, and the combination carried a rakish effect that was +positively sinister. + +The scornful clerk introduced Mary as a young lady inquiring about some +place in the bad-lands. Off came the sombrero with a sweep, and Lone +Tooth smiled in a way that accented the dental solitaire to which he +owed his name. Miss Carmichael, concealing her terror of this casual +cavalier, inquired if he could tell her the distance to Lost Trail. + +“I sho’ly can, and with, consid’able pleasure.” The sombrero completed +a semicircular sweep and arrived in the neighborhood of Mr. Hank’s +heart in significance of his vassalage to the fair sex. He proceeded: + +“Lost Trail sutney is right lonesome. A friend of mine gets a little +too playful fo’ the evah-increasin’ meetropolitan spirit of this yere +camp, and tries a little tahget practice on the main bullyvard, an’ +finds the atmospheah onhealthful in consequence. Hearin’ that the quiet +solitude of Lost Trail is what he needs, he lit out with the following +circumstance thereof happenin’. One day something in his harness giv’ +way—and he recollects seein’ a boot sunnin’ itself back in the road +’bout a quartah of a mile. An’ he figgahs he’ll borry a strip of +leather off the boot to mend his harness. Back he goes and finds it has +a kind of loaded feelin’. So my friend investigates—and I be blanked if +there wasn’t a foot and leg inside of it.” + +Miss Carmichael had always exercised a super-feminine self-restraint in +the case of casual mice, and it served her in the present instance. +Instead of screaming, she said, after the suppression of a gasp or two: + +“Thank you so much, but I won’t detain you any longer. Your information +makes Lost Trail even more interesting than I had expected.” + +Besides, Miss Carmichael had a faint suspicion that this might be a +preconcerted plan to terrify the “lady tenderfoot,” and she prided +herself on being equal to the situation. The time at her disposal +before the stage would embark on that unknown sea of prairies she spent +in the delectable pastime of shopping. The financial and social +interests of the town seemed to converge in Hugous & Co.’s “trading +store,” where Miss Carmichael invested in an extra package of needles +for the mere excitement of being one of the shoppers, though her aunt +Adelaide had stocked the little plaid-silk work-bag to repletion with +every variety of needle known to woman. She pricked up her ears, +meanwhile, at some of the purchases made by the cow-boys for their +camp-larders—devilled ham, sardines, canned tomatoes heading the list +as prime favorites. Did these strapping border lads live by the fruit +of the tin alone? Apparently yes, with the sophisticated accompaniment +of soda biscuit, to judge by the quantity of baking-powder they +invested in—literally pounds of it. Men in any other condition of life +would have died of slow poisoning as the result of it. + +There were other customers at Hugous’ that morning besides the spurred +and booted cow-puncher and his despised compeer, the sheep-herder. That +restless emigrant class, whose origin, as a class, lay in the community +of its own uncertain schemes of fortune; the West, with her splendid, +lavish promises, called them from their thriftless farms in the South +and their gray cabins in New England. They began their journeying +towards the land of promise long before the Indians had ever seen the +shrieking “fire-wagon.” All day they would toil over the infinitude of +prairie, the sun that hid nightly behind that maddeningly elusive +vanishing-point, the horizon, their only guide. But the makeshifts of +the wagon life were not without charm. They began to wander in quest of +they knew not precisely what, and from these vague beginnings there had +sprung into existence that nomadic population that was once such a +feature of the far West, but is now going the way of the Indians and +the cow-boys. + +This breathing-space in the long journey had for them the stimulus of a +holiday-making. They bought their sides of bacon and their pounds of +coffee as merrily as if they were playing a game of forfeits, the women +fingering the calico they did not want for the joy of pricing and +making shoppers’ talk. + +The scene had a scriptural flavor that not even the blue overalls of +the men nor the calico gowns of the women could altogether eliminate. +Their wagons, bulging with household goods and trailing with kitchen +utensils secured by bits of rope, were drawn up in front of the +trading-store. From a pump, at some little distance, the pilgrims +filled their stone water-bottles, for the wise traveller does not trust +to the chance springs of the desert. Baskets of chickens were strapped +to many of the wagons, but whether the unhappy fowls were designed to +supply fresh eggs and an occasional fricassée, or were taken for the +pleasure of their company, there was no means of determining short of +impertinent cross-questioning. Sometimes a cow, and invariably a dog, +formed one of the family party, and an edifying _esprit de corps_ +seemed to dwell among them all. + +Lone Tooth Hank, in his capacity of man about town, stood on the steps +of Hugous’ watching the preparations; and, seeing Miss Carmichael, +approached with the air of an old and tried family friend. + +“Do I obsehve yu regyarding oweh ‘settleahs,’ called settleahs ’cause +they nevah settle?” Hank laughed gently, as one who has made a joke +meet for ladies. “I’ve known whole famblies to bohn an’ raise right in +one of them wagons; and tuhn out a mighty fine, endurin’ lot, too, this +hyeh prospectin’ round afteh somethin’ they wouldn’t reco’nize if they +met. Gits to be a habit same as drink. They couldn’t live in a house +same as humans, not if yu filled their gyarden with nuggets an’ their +well with apple-jack.” + +Miss Carmichael looked attentive but said nothing. In truth, she was +more afraid of Hank, his obvious gallantry, and his grewsome tales of +boots with legs in them than she was of the unknown terrors of Lost +Trail. + +“I believe that is my stage,” she said, as a red conveyance not unlike +a circus wagon halted at some little distance from the trading-store. +And as she spoke she saw four of her companions of the breakfast-table +heading towards the stage, each with a piece of her precious luggage. +Mary Carmichael was precipitated in a sudden panic; she had heard tales +of the pranks of these playful Western squires—a little gun-play to +induce the terrified tenderfoot to put a little more spirit into his +Highland fling, “by request.” She remembered their merrymaking with +Simpson at breakfast. What did they intend to do with her belongings? +And as she remembered the little plaid sewing-bag that Aunt Adelaide +had made for her—surreptitiously drying her tears in the mean time—when +she remembered that bag and the possibility of its being submitted to +ignominy, she could have cried or done murder, she wasn’t sure which. + +“Well, ’pon my wohd, heah ah the boys with yo’ baggage. How time du +fly!” + +“Oh!” she gasped, “what are they going to do with it?” + +“Place it on the stage, awaitin’ yo’ ohdahs.” And to her expression of +infinite relief—“Yo’ didn’t think any disrepec’ would be shown the +baggage of a lady honorin’ this hyeh metropolis with her presence?” + +She thanked the knights of the lariat the more warmly for her unjust +suspicions. They stowed away the luggage with the deft capacity of men +who have returned to the primitive art of using their hands. She +climbed beside the driver on the box of the stage. Lone Tooth Hank and +the cow-punchers chivalrously raised their sombreros with a +simultaneous spontaneity that suggested a flight of rockets. The driver +cracked his whip and turned the horses’ heads towards the billowing sea +of foot-hills, and the last cable that bound Mary Carmichael to +civilization was cut. + + + + +III. +Leander And His Lady + + +The only stage passenger besides Miss Carmichael was a fat lady, whose +entire luggage seemed to consist of luncheon—pasteboard boxes of +sandwiches, baskets of fruit, napkins of cake. These she began to +dispose of, before the stage had fairly started, with an industry +almost automatic, continuing faithful to her post as long as the +supplies lasted. Then she dozed, sleeping the sleep of the just and +those who keep their mouths open. From time to time the stage-driver +invoked his team in cabalistic words, and each time the horses toiled +forward with fresh energy; but progress became a mockery in that ocean +of space, their driving seemed as futile as the sport of children who +crack a whip and play at stage-coach with a couple of chairs; the +mountains still mocked in the distance. + +A flat, unbroken sweep of country, a tangle of straggling sage-brush, a +glimpse of foot-hills in the distance, was the outlook mile after mile. +The day grew pitilessly hot. Clouds of alkaline dust swept aimlessly +over the desert or whirled into spirals till lost in space. From +horizon to horizon the sky was one cloudless span of blue that paled as +it dipped earthward. Mary Carmichael dozed and wakened, but the +prospect was always the same—the red stage crawling over the +wilderness, making no evident progress, and always the sun, the +sage-brush, and the silence. + +It was all so overwhelmingly different from the peaceful atmosphere of +things at home. The mellow Virginia country, with its winding, red +roads, wealth of woodland, and its grave old houses that were the more +haughtily aloof for the poverty that gnawed at their vitals. This +wilderness was so gaunt, so parched; she closed her eyes and thought of +a bit of landscape at home. A young forest of silver beeches growing +straight and fine as the threads on a loom; and through the gray +perspective of their satin-smooth trunks you caught the white gleam of +a fairy cascade as it tumbled over the moss-grown stones to the brook +below. It was like a bit from a Japanese garden in its delicate +artificiality. + +And harder to leave than these cherished bits of landscape had been the +old house Runnymede, that always seemed dozing in the peaceful comatose +of senility. It was beyond the worry of debt; the succession of +mortgages that sapped its vitality and wrote anxious lines on the faces +of Aunt Adelaide and Aunt Martha was nothing to the old house. Had it +not sheltered Carmichaels for over a century?—it had faith in the name. +But Mary could never remember when the need of money to pay the +mortgage had not invaded the gentle routine of their home-life, robbing +the sangaree of its delicate flavor in the long, sleepy summer +afternoons, invading the very dining-room, an unwelcome guest at the +old mahogany table, prompting Aunt Adelaide to cast anxious glances at +the worn silver—would it go to pay that blood-sucking mortgage next? + +But hardest of all to leave had been Archie, best and most promising of +young brothers—Archie, who had come out ahead of his class in the +high-school, all ready to go to The University—the University of +Virginia is always “The University”; but who, it had seemed at a +certain dark season, must give up this long-cherished hope for lack of +the wherewithal. Mary, being four years older than her brother and +quite twenty, had long felt a maternal obligation to administer his +affairs. If he did not go to the university, like his father and +grandfather before him, it would be because she had failed in her duty. +At this particular phase of the domestic problem there had appeared, in +a certain churchly periodical, a carefully worded advertisement for a +governess, and the subsequent business of references, salary, and +information to be imparted and received proving eminently satisfactory, +Mary had finally received a tearful permission from her aunts to depart +for some place in Wyoming, the name of which was not even to be found +on the map. She was to consider herself quite one of the family, and +the compensation was to be fifty dollars a month. Archie would now be +able to go to “The University.” + +As the day wore on the sage-brush became scarcer and grayer, there were +fewer flowering cacti, and the great white patches of alkali grew more +and more frequent. In the distance there was a riot of rainbow +tints—violet, pink, and pale orange. It seemed inconceivable that such +barrenness could produce such wealth of color; nothing could have been +more beautiful—not even the changing colors on a pigeon’s neck—than the +coppery iridescence, shading to cobalt and blue on some of the buttes. + +Night had fallen before they made the first break in their journey. The +low, beetle-browed cabin that faced them in the wilderness carried in +its rude completeness a hint of the prestidigitateur’s art—a world of +desolation, and behold a log cabin with smoke issuing from the chimney +and curtains at the windows! The interior was unplastered, but this +shortcoming was surmounted by tacking cheesecloth neatly over the logs, +a device at once simple and strategic, as in the lamplight the effect +was that of plaster. Miss Carmichael, suddenly released from the actual +rumbling of the stage, felt its confused motion the more strongly in +imagination, and hardly knew whether she was eating canned tomatoes, +served uncooked directly from the tin, fried steak, black coffee, and +soda biscuit, in company with the fat lady, the stage-driver, and the +woman who kept the road ranch, or if it was all some Alice in +Wonderland delusion. + +The fat lady had brought her own bedding—an apoplectic roll of +bedquilts—and these she insisted on making a bed of, despite the +protests of the ranch-woman, who seemed to detect a covert insinuation +against her accommodations in the precedent. Miss Carmichael profited +by the controversy. The landlady, touched no doubt by the simple faith +of a traveller who trusted to the beds of a road-ranch, or because she +was young or a girl, led the way in triumph to her own bedroom, and +indicating an imposing affair with pillow-shams, she defied Miss +Carmichael to find a more comfortable bed “in the East.” + +In the unaccountable manner of these desert conveyances, that creak and +groan across the arid wastes with an apparently lumbering +inconsequence, the stage that brought the travellers to the Dax ranch +left at sunrise to pursue a seemingly erratic career along the North +Platte, while Miss Carmichael and the fat lady were to continue their +journey with one Lemuel Chugg, who drove a stage northward towards the +Red Desert, when he was sober enough to handle the ribbons. + +Breakfast was largely devoted to speculation regarding the approximate +condition of Mr. Chugg—would he be wholly or partially incapacitated +for his job? Mrs. Dax, flirting a feather-duster in the neighborhood of +Miss Carmichael in a futile effort to beguile her into giving a reason +for her solitary journey across the desert, took a gloomy view of the +situation. + +But Miss Carmichael kept her own counsel. Not so the fat lady. Falling +into the snare ingenuously set for another, she divulged her name, +place of residence, and the object of her travels, which was to visit a +son on Sweetwater. Furthermore, she stated the probable cause of every +death in her family for the past thirty-five years. Miss Carmichael +felt an especial interest in an Uncle Henry who “died of a Friday along +of eating clams.” He stood out with such refreshing vividness against a +background of neutralities who succumbed to consumption, bile colic, +and other more familiar ailments of the patent-medicine litany. But +loquacity, apparently, like virtue, is its own reward, for the landlady +scarce vouchsafed a comment on this dismal recitative, while Miss +Carmichael remained the object of her persistent attentions. + +But there seemed to be no topic of universal interest but Chugg’s +condition, Mrs. Dax finally asserting, “Before I’d trust my precious +neck to him, I’d get Mr. Dax to shoot me.” + +Meditating on this Spartan statement, Mary and the fat lady became +aware for the first time of a subtle, silent force in the domestic +economy. But so unobtrusive was this influence that one had to +scrutinize very closely, indeed, to detect the evanescent personality +of Mrs. Dax’s husband. Leander was his name, but it is safe to say that +he swam no Hellesponts for the masterful wife of his bosom. Otherwise +he was slender, willowy, bald; if he ever stood straight enough to get +the habitually apologetic crooks out of his knees, he would be tall; +but so in the habit was he of repressing himself in the marital +presence that Leander passed for middle height. He waited on the table +at breakfast with the dumb submissiveness of a trained dog that has +been taught to give pathetic imitations of human servility. But no +sooner had his lady left the room than Leander began quite brazenly to +call attention to himself as a man and an individual, coughing, +rattling his dishes, and clearing his throat. Mary and the fat lady, +out of very pity, responded to these crude signals with overtures +equally frank, and Leander ventured finally to inquire if they aimed to +spend the night at his brother’s ranch, it being the next mess-box +between here and nowhere. They admitted that his brother’s ranch was +their next stopping-place, and Leander went through perfect contortions +of apology and self-effacement before he could bring himself to ask +them to do him a favor. It would have taken a very stern order of +womankind to refuse anything so abject, and they blindly committed +themselves to the pledge. + +“Tell him I send my compliments,” he whispered, and, looking about him +furtively, he repeated the blood-curdling request. + +“Is that all?” sniffed the fat lady, at no pains to conceal her +disappointment. + +“It’s enough, if it was known, to raise a war-whoop and stampede this +yere family.” His glance at the door through which his wife had +disappeared was pregnant with meaning. + +“Family troubles?” asked the fat lady, as a gourmet might say +“Truffles.” + +“Looks like it,” said Leander, dismally. “Me and Johnnie don’t ask for +nothin’ better than to bask in each other’s company; but our wives +insists on keepin’ up the manœuvres of a war-dance the whole endoorin’ +time.” + +“So,” said the fat lady, as a gourmet might tell of a favorite way of +preparing truffles, “it’s a case of wives?” + +“Yes, marm, an’ teeth an’ nails an’ husbands thrown in, when they get a +sight of each other’s petticoats.” + +“I’ve known sisters-in-law not to agree,” helped on the fat lady, by +way of an encouraging parallel. + +“While I deplores usin’ such a comparison to the refinin’ and softenin’ +inflooance of wimmen, the meetin’ of the Dax ladies by chanst anywheres +has all the elements of danger and excitement that accompanies an Injun +uprisin’.” + +The travellers looked all manner of encouragement. + +“You see, my wife’s a great housekeeper; her talent lies”—and here +Leander winked knowingly—“in managin’ the help.” + +“Land’s sake!” interrupted the fat lady. “Why don’t you kick?” + +Leander sighed softly. “I tried to once. As an experiment it partook of +the trustfulness of a mule kickin’ against the stony walls of Badger +Cañon. But to resoom about the difficulties that split the Dax family. +Before Johnnie got mislaid in that matrimonial landslide o’ his, he +herds with us. Me an’ him does the work of this yere shack, and my wife +just roominates and gives her accomplishments as manager full play. She +never put her hand in dirty water any more than Mrs. Cleveland sittin’ +up in the White House parlor. Johnnie done the fancy cookin’; he could +make a pie like any one’s maw, and while you was lost to the world in +the delights of masticatin’ it, he’d have all his greasy dishes washed +up and put away—” + +“No wonder she hated to lose a man like that,” interrupted the fat +lady, feelingly. + +“But he took to pinin’ and proclaimin’ that he shore was a lone +maverick, and he just stampeded round lookin’ for trouble and bleatin’ +a song that went: + +“‘No one to love, +None to caress.’ + + +“Well, the lady that answers his signal of distress don’t bear none of +the brands of this yere range. She lives back East, and him and her +took up their claims in each other’s affections through a matrimonial +paper known as _The Heart and Hand_. So they takes their pens in hand +and gets through a hard spell of courtin’ on paper. Love plumb locoes +Johnnie. His spellin’ don’t suit him, his handwritin’ don’t suit him, +his natchral letters don’t suit him. So off he sends to Denver for all +the letter-writin’ books he can buy—_Handbook of Correspondence_, _The +Epistolary Guide_, _The Ready Letter-Writer_, and a stack more. There’s +no denyin’ it, Johnnie certainly did sweat hisself over them letters.” + +“Land’s sakes!” said the fat lady. + +“Yes, marm; he used to read ’em to me, beginnin’ how he had just seized +five minutes to write to her, when he’d worked the whole day like a +mule over it. She seemed to like the brand, an’ when he sent her the +money to come out here an’ get married, she come as straight as if she +had been mailed with a postage-stamp.” + +“The brazen thing!” said the fat lady. + +“They stopped here, goin’ home to their place. My Lord! warn’t she a +high-flyer! She done her hair like a tied-up horse-tail—my wife called +it a Sikey knot—and it stood out a foot from her head. Some of the +boys, kinder playful, wanted to throw a hat at it and see if it +wouldn’t hang, but they refrained, out of respect to the feelin’s of +the groom. + +“From the start,” continued Leander, “the two Mrs. Daxes just hankered +to get at each other; an’ while I, as a slave to the fair sex”—here he +bowed to the fat lady and to Miss Carmichael—“hesitates to use such +langwidge in their presence, the attitood of them two female wimmin +shorely reminds me of a couple of unfriendly dawgs just hankerin’ to +chaw each other. + +“At first, Johnnie waited on her hand an’ foot, and she just read +novels and played stylish all the time and danced. She was the hardest +dancer that ever struck this yere trail, and she could give lessons to +any old war-dancin’ chief up to the reservation. No dance she ever +heard of was too far for her to go to. She just went and danced till +broad daylight. Many a man would have took to dissipation, in his +circumstances, but Johnnie just lost heart and grew slatterly. Why, +he’d leave his dishes go from one day till the next—” + +“There’s more as would leave their dishes from one day till the next if +they wasn’t looked after.” And the wife of his bosom stood in the door +like a vengeful household goddess. Mr. Dax made a grab for the nearest +plates. + + + + +IV. +Judith, The Postmistress + + +The arrival of Chugg’s stage with the mail should have been coincident +with the departure of the stage that brought the travellers from +“Town,” but Chugg was late—a tardiness ascribed to indulgence in local +lethe waters, for Lemuel Chugg had survived a romance and drank to +forget that woman is a variable and a changeable thing. In consequence +of which the sober stage-driver departed without the mails, leaving +Mary Carmichael and the fat lady to scan the horizon for the delinquent +Chugg, and incidentally to hear a chapter of prairie romance. + +Some sort of revolution seemed to be in progress in the room in which +the travellers had breakfasted. Mrs. Dax had assumed the office of +dictator, with absolute sway. Leander, as aide-de-camp, courier, and +staff, executed marvellous feats of domestic engineering. The late +breakfast-table, swept and garnished with pigeon-holes, became a United +States post-office, prepared to transact postal business, and for the +time being to become the social centre of the surrounding country. + +Down the yellow road that climbed and dipped and climbed and dipped +again over foot-hills and sprawling space till it was lost in a world +without end, Mary Carmichael, standing in the doorway, watched an atom, +so small that it might have been a leaf blowing along in the wind, turn +into a horseman. + +There was inspiration for a hundred pictures in the way that horse was +ridden. No flashes of daylight between saddle and rider in the jolting, +Eastern fashion, but the long, easy sweep that covers ground +imperceptibly and is a delight to the eye. It needed but the solitary +figure to signify the infinitude of space in the background. In all +that great, wide world the only hint of life was the galloping +horseman, the only sound the rhythmical ring of the nearing hoofs. The +rider, now close enough for Miss Carmichael to distinguish the +features, was a thorough dandy of the saddle. No slouching garb of +exigence and comfort this, but a pretty display of doeskin gaiter, +varnished boot, and smart riding-breeches. The lad—he could not have +been, Miss Carmichael thought, more than twenty—was tanned a splendid +color not unlike the bloomy shading on a nasturtium. And when the +doughty horseman made out the girl standing in the doorway, he smiled +with a lack of formality not suggested by the town-cut of his +trappings. Throwing the reins over the neck of the horse with the real +Western fling, he slid from the saddle in a trice, and—Mary Carmichael +experienced something of the gasping horror of a shocked old lady as +she made out two splendid braids of thick, black hair. Her doughty +cavalier was no cavalier at all, but a surprisingly handsome young +woman. + +Miss Carmichael gasped a little even as she extended her hand, for the +masquerader had pulled off her gauntlet and held out hers as if she was +conferring the freedom of the wilderness. It was impossible for a +homesick girl not to respond to such heartiness, though it was with +difficulty at first that Mary kept her eyes on the girl’s face. +Curiosity, agreeably piqued, urged her to take another glimpse of the +riding clothes that this young woman wore with such supreme unconcern. + +Now, “in the East” Mary Carmichael had not been in the habit of meeting +black-haired goddesses who rode astride and whose assurance of the +pleasure of meeting her made her as self-conscious as on her first day +at dancing-school; and though she tried to prove her cosmopolitanism by +not betraying this, the attempt was rather a failure. + +“Are you surprised that I did not wait for an introduction?” the girl +in the riding clothes asked, noticing Mary’s evident uneasiness; “but +you don’t know how good it is to see a girl. I’m so tired of spurs and +sombreros and cattle and dust and distance, and there’s nothing else +here.” + +“Where I come from it’s just the other way—too many petticoats and +hat-pins.” + +The horseman who was no horseman dropped Miss Carmichael’s hand and +went into the house. Mary wondered if she ought to have been more +cordial. + +From the back door came Leander, with dishcloths, which he began to +hang on the line in a dumb, driven sort of way. + +“Who is she?” asked Mary. + +“Her?” he interrogated, jerking his head in the direction of the house. +“The postmistress, Judith Rodney; yes, that’s her name.” He dropped his +voice in the manner of one imparting momentous things. “She never wears +a skirt ridin’, any more than a man.” + +Mary felt that she was tempting Leander into the paths of gossip, +undoubtedly his besetting sin, but she could not resist the temptation +to linger. He had disposed of his last dish-cloth, and he withdrew the +remaining clothes-pin from his mouth in a way that was pathetically +feminine. + +“She keeps the post-office here, since Mrs. Dax lost the job, and +boards with us; p’r’aps it’s because she is my wife’s successor in +office, or p’a’ps it’s jest the natural grudge that wimmin seem to +harbor agin each other, I dunno, but they don’t sandwich none.” + +Leander having disposed of his last dish-towel, squinted at it through +his half-closed eyes, like an artist “sighting” a landscape, saw +apparently that it was in drawing, and next brought his vision to bear +on the back premises of his own dwelling, where he saw there was no +wifely figure in evidence. + +“Sh-sh-h!” he said, creeping towards Mary, his dull face transfigured +with the consciousness that he had news to tell. “Sh-sh—her brother’s a +rustler. If ’twan’t for her”—Leander went through the grewsome +pantomime of tying an imaginary rope round his neck and throwing it +over the limb of an imaginary tree. “They’re goin’ to get him for shore +this time, soon as he comes out of jail; but would you guess it from +her bluff?” + +There was no mistaking the fate of a rustler after Mr. Dax’s grisly +demonstration, but of the quality of his calling Mary was as ignorant +as before. + +“And why should they do that?” she inquired, with tenderfoot +simplicity. + +“Stealin’ cattle ain’t good for the health hereabouts,” said Leander, +as one who spoke with authority. “It’s apt to bring on throat trouble.” + +But Mary did not find Leander’s joke amusing. She had suddenly +remembered the pale, gaunt man who had walked into the eating-house the +previous morning and walked out again, his errand turned into +farce-comedy by the cowardice of an unworthy antagonist. The pale man’s +grievance had had to do with sheep and cattle. His name had been +Rodney, too. She understood now. He was Judith Rodney’s brother, and he +was in danger of being hanged. Mary Carmichael felt first the +admiration of a girl, then the pity of a woman, for the brave young +creature who so stoutly carried so unspeakable a burden. But she could +not speak of her new knowledge to Leander. + +She glanced towards this childlike person and saw from his stealthy +manner that he had more to impart. He walked towards the kitchen door, +saw no one, and came back to Mary. + +“There ain’t a man in this Gawd-forsaken country wouldn’t lope at the +chance to die for her—but the women!” Leander’s pantomimic indication +of absolute feminine antagonism was conclusive. + +“The wimmin treats her scabby—just scabby. Don’t you go to thinkin’ she +ain’t a good girl on that account”; and something like an attitude of +chivalrous protection straightened the apologetic crook in his craven +outline. + +“She’s good, just good, and when a woman’s that there’s no use in +sayin’ it any more fanciful. As I says to my wife, every time she give +me a chance, ‘If Judy wasn’t a good girl these boys about here would +just natchrally become extinct shootin’ each other upon account of +her.’ But she don’t favor none enough to cause trouble.” + +“Are the women jealous of her?” + +“It’s her independence that riles ’em. They take on awful about her +ridin’ in pants, an’ it certainly is a heap more modest than ridin’ +straddle in a hitched up caliker skirt, same as some of them do.” + +“And do all the women out here ride astride?” Mary gasped. + +“A good many does, when you ain’t watchin’; horses in these parts ain’t +broke for no such lopsided foolishness as side-saddles. But you see she +does it becomin’, and that’s where the grudge comes in. You can’t stir +about these foot-hills without coming across a woman, like as not, +holdin’ on to a posse of kids, and ridin’ clothes-pin fashion in a +looped-up skirt; when she sees you comin’ she’ll p’r’aps upset a kid or +two assoomin’ a decorous attitood. That’s feemi_nine_, and as such is +approved by the ladies, but”—and here Leander put his head on one side +and gave a grotesque impression of outraged decorum—“pants is +considered unwomanly.” + +“Leander! Leander!” came in accusing accents from the kitchen. + +“Run!” gasped Mrs. Dax’s handmaiden; “don’t let her catch us chinnin’.” + +Mary Carmichael ran round one side of the house as she was bidden, but, +like Lot’s wife, could not resist the temptation of looking back. +Leander, with incredible rapidity, grabbed two clothes-pins off the +line, clutched a dish-towel, shook it. “Comin’! comin’!” he called, as +he went through the farce of rehanging it. + +The lonesomeness of plain and foot-hill, the utter lack of the human +element that gives to this country its character of penetrating +desolation, had been changed while Mary Carmichael forgathered with +Leander by the clothes-line. From the four quarters of the compass, men +in sombreros, flannel shirts, and all manner of strange habiliments +came galloping over the roads as if their horses were as keen on +reaching Dax’s as their riders. They came towards the house at full +tilt, their horses stretching flat with ears laid back viciously, and +Mary, who was unused to the tricks of cow-ponies, expected to see them +ride through the front door, merely by way of demonstrating their sense +of humor. Not so; the little pintos, buckskins, bays, and chestnuts +dashed to the door and stopped short in a full gallop; as a bit of +staccato equestrianism it was superb. + +And then the wherefore of all this dashing horsemanship, this +curveting, prancing, galloping revival of knightly tourney effects was +apparent—Judith Rodney had opened post-office. She had changed her +riding clothes; or, rather, that portion of them to which the ladies +took exception was now concealed by a long, black skirt. Her wonderful +braids of black hair had been twisted high on her head. She was well +worth a trip across the alkali wastes to see. The room was packed with +men. One unconsciously got the impression that a fire, a fight, or some +crowd-collecting casualty had happened. Above the continual clinking of +spurs there arose every idiom and peculiarity of speech of which these +United States are capable. There is no Western dialect, properly +speaking. Men bring their modes of expression with them from Maine or +Minnesota, as the case may be, but their figures of speech, which give +an essential picturesqueness to their language, are almost entirely +local—the cattle and sheep industries, prospecting, the Indians, poker, +faro, the dance-halls, all contribute their printable or unprintable +embellishment. + +Judith managed them all—cow-punchers, sheep-herders, prospectors, +freighters—with an impersonal skill that suggested a little solitary +exercise in the bowling-alley. The ten-pins took their tumbles in good +part—no one could congratulate himself on escaping the levelling +ball—and where there’s a universal lack of luck, doubtless also there +will be found a sort of grim fellowship. + +That they were all more or less in love with her there could be no +doubt. As a matter of fact, Judith Rodney did not depend on the +scarcity of women in the desert for her pre-eminence in the interests +of this hot-headed group. Her personality—and through no conscious +effort of hers—would have been pre-eminent anywhere. As it was, in this +woman-forsaken wilderness she might have stirred up a modern edition of +the Trojan war at any moment. That she did not, despite the lurking +suggestion of temptation written all over her, brought back the words +of Leander: “If Judy wasn’t a good girl, these boys would just +nacherally become extinct shooting each other upon account of her.” + +And yet what a woman she was! It struck Miss Carmichael, as she watched +Judith hold these warring elements in the hollow of her hand, that her +interest might be due to a certain temperamental fusion; that there +might lie, at the essence of her being, a subtle combination of saint +and devil. One could fancy her leading an army on a crusade or +provoking a bar-room brawl. The challenging quality of her beauty, the +vividness of color, the suggestion of endurance and radiating health in +every line, were comparable to the great primeval forces about her. She +was cast to be the mother of men of brawn and muscle, who would make +this vast, unclaimed wilderness subject to them. + +At present neither pole of her character, as it had been hastily +estimated, was even remotely suggested. The atmosphere in the +post-office was, considering the potential violence of its visitors, +singularly calm. And Judith, feeding these wild border lads on scraps +of chaff and banter, and retaining their absolute loyalty, was a sight +worth seeing. She had the alertness of a lion-tamer locked in a cage +with the lords of the jungle; the rashly confident she humbled, the +meek she exalted, and all with such genuine good-fellowship, such an +absence of coquetry in the genial game of give and take, that one +ceased to wonder at even the devotion of Leander. And since they were +to her, on her own confession, but “spurs and sombreros,” one wondered +at the elaboration of the comedy, the endless wire-pulling in the +manipulation of these most picturesque marionettes—until one remembered +the outlaw brother and felt that what she did she did for him. + +“You right shore there ain’t a letter for me, Miss Judith. My creditors +are pretty faithful ’bout bearing me in mind.” It was the third time +that the big, shambling Texan who had been one of the company at Mrs. +Clark’s eating-house had inquired for mail, and seemed so embarrassed +by his own bulk that he moved cautiously, as if he might step on a +fellow-creature and maim him. Each time he had asked for a letter he +took his place at the end of the waiting-line and patiently bided his +time for the chance of an extra word with the postmistress. + +“They’ve begun to lose hope, Texas.” + +She shuffled the letters impartially, as a goddess dispensing fate, and +barely glanced at the man who had ridden a hundred and fifty miles +across sand and cactus to see her. + +“That’s the difference between them and me.” There was a grim finality +in his tone. + +“What, you’re going to take your place at the end of that line again! +I’ll try and find you a circular.” + +He tried to look at her angrily, but she smiled at him with such +good-fellowship that he went off singing significantly that universal +anthem of the cow-puncher the West over: + +“Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie, + In a narrow grave just six by three, + Where the wild coyotes will howl o’er me. +Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.” + + +“Ain’t there a love letter for me?” The young man who inquired seemed +to belong to a different race from these bronzed squires of the saddle. +He suggested over-crowded excursion boats on Sunday afternoons in +swarming Eastern cities. He buttonholed every one and explained his +presence in the West on the score of his health, as though leaving his +native asphalt were a thing that demanded apology. + +“Yes,” answered the postmistress, with a real motherly note, “here is +one from Hugous & Co.” + +A roar went up at this, and the blushing tenderfoot pocketed his third +bill for the most theatrical style of Mexican sombrero; it had a brass +snake coiled round the crown for a hat-band, and a cow-puncher in good +and regular standing would have preferred going bareheaded to wearing +it. + +“She seems to be pressing her suit, son; you better name the day,” one +of the loungers suggested. + +“The blamed thing ain’t worth twenty-five dollars,” the young man from +the East declared. A conspicuous silence followed. It seemed to +irritate the owner of the hat that no one would defend it. “It ain’t +worth it,” he repeated. + +“I think you allowed you was out here for your health?” the big Texan, +who had returned from the corral, inquired. + +“Betcher life,” swaggered the man with the hat, “N’York’s good enough +for me.” + +“But”—and the Texan smiled sweetly—“the man who sold you the hat ain’t +out here for his.” + +Judith hid her head and stamped letters. The boys were suspiciously +quiet, then some one began to chant: + +“The devil examined the desert well, +And made up his mind ’twas too dry for hell; +He put up the prices his pockets to swell, +And called it a—heal-th resort.” + + +The postmistress waited for the last note of the chorus to die away, +and read from a package she held in her hand—“‘Mrs. Henry Lee, Deer +Lodge, Wyoming.’ Well, Henry, here’s a wedding-present, I guess. And my +congratulations, though you’ve hardly treated us well in never saying a +word.” + +The unfortunate Henry, who hadn’t even a sweetheart, and who was noted +as the shyest man in the “Goose Creek Outfit,” had to submit to the +mock congratulations of every man in the room and promise to set up the +drinks later. + +“I never felt we’d keep you long, son; them golden curls seldom gets a +chance to ripen singly.” + +“Shoshone squaw, did you say she was, Henry? They ain’t much for looks, +but there’s a heep of wear to ’em.” + +“Oh, go on, now; you fellows know I ain’t married.” And the boy handled +the package with a sort of dumb wonder, as if the superscription were +indisputable evidence of a wife’s existence. + +“Open it, Henry; you shore don’t harbor sentiments of curiosity +regarding the post-office dealings of your lady.” + +“Now, old man, this here may be grounds for divorce.” + +“See what the other fellow’s sending your wife.” + +Henry, badgered, jostled, the target of many a homely witticism, +finally opened the package, which proved to be a sample bottle of baby +food. At sight of it they howled like Apaches, and Henry was again +forced to receive their congratulations. Judith, who had been an +interested on-looker without joining in the merriment, now detected in +the tenor of their humor a tendency towards breadth. In an instant her +manner was official; rapping the table with her mailing-stamp, she +announced: + +“Boys, this post-office closes in ten minutes, if you want to buy any +stamps.” + +The silence following this statement on the part of the postmistress +was instantaneous. Henry took his mirth-provoking package and went his +way; some of the more hilariously inclined followed him. The remainder +confined themselves absolutely to business, scrawling postal-cards or +reading their mail. The pounce of the official stamp on the letters, as +the postmistress checked them off for the mail-bag, was the only sound +in the hot stillness. + +A heavily built man, older than those who had been keeping the +post-office lively, now took advantage of the lull to approach Judith. +He had a twinkling face, all circles and pouches, but it grew graver as +he spoke to the postmistress. He was Major Atkins, formerly a famous +cavalry officer, but since his retirement a cattle-man whose herds +grazed to the pan-handle of Texas. As he took his mail, talking +meantime of politics, of the heat, of the lack of water, in the loud +voice for which he was famous, he managed, with clumsy diplomacy, to +interject a word or two for her own ear alone. + +“Jim’s out,” he conveyed to her, in a successfully muffled tone. “He’s +out, and they’re after him, hot. Get him out of the State, Judy—get him +out, quick. He tried to kill Simpson at Mrs. Clark’s, in town, +yesterday. The little Eastern girl that’s here will tell you.” Then the +major was gone before Judith could perfectly realize the significance +of what he had told her. + +She threw back her head and the pulse in her throat beat. Like a wild +forest thing, at the first warning sound, she considered: Was it time +for flight?—or was the warning but the crackling of a twig? Major +Atkins was a cattle-man: her brother hated all cattle-men. How +disinterested had been the major’s warning! He had always been her +friend. Mrs. Atkins had been one of the ladies at the post who had +helped to send her to school to the nuns at Santa Fé. She despised +herself for doubting; yet these were troublous times, and all was fair +between sheep and cattle-men. Major Atkins had spoken of the Eastern +girl; then that pretty, little, curly-haired creature, whom Judith had +found standing in the sunshine, had seen Jim—had heard him threaten to +kill. Should she ask her about it—consult her? Judith’s training was +not one to impel her to give her confidence to strangers, still she had +liked the little Eastern girl. + +These were the perplexities that beset her, sweeping her thoughts +hither and thither, as sea-weed is swept by the wash of the waves. She +strove to collect her faculties. How should she rid the house of her +cavaliers? She had regularly to refuse some half-dozen of them each day +that she kept post-office. + +In a few minutes more the group in the post-office began to disperse +under the skilful manipulation of the postmistress. To some she sold +stamps with an air of “God speed you,” and they were soon but dwindling +specks on the horizon. To others she implied such friendly farewells +that there was nothing to do but betake themselves to their saddles. +Others had compromised with the saloon opposite, and their roaring +mirth came in snatches of song and shouts of laughter. She fastened up +the little pile of letters that had remained uncalled for with what +seemed a deliberate slowness. Each time any one entered the room she +looked up—then the hope died hard in her face. Leander came in with +catlike tread and removed the pigeon-holes from the table. The +post-office was closed. Family life had been resumed at the Daxes’. + +Judith left the room and stood in the blinding sunlight, basking in it +as if she were cold. The mercury must have stood close to a hundred, +and she was hatless. There was no trace of her ebullient spirits of the +morning. Her head was sunk on her breast and she held her hands with +locked fingers behind her. It was hot, hot as the breaths of a thousand +belching furnaces. A white, burning glare had spread itself from +horizon to horizon, and the earth wrinkled and cracked beneath it. From +every corner of this parched wilderness came an ominous whirring, like +the last wheezing gasp of an alarm-clock before striking the hour. This +menacing orchestration was nothing more or less than millions of +grasshoppers rasping legs and wings together in hoarse appreciation of +the heat and glare; but it had a sound that boded evil. Again and again +she turned towards the yellow road as it dipped over the hills; but +there was never a glimpse of a horseman from that direction. + + + + +V. +The Trail Of Sentiment + + +Within the house the travellers had disposed themselves in a repressed +and melancholy circle that suggested the suspended animation of a +funeral gathering. The fat lady had turned back her skirt to save her +travelling dress. The stage was late, and there was no good and +sufficient reason for wearing it out. A similar consideration of +economy led her to flirt off flies with her second best +pocket-handkerchief. Mrs. Dax presided over the gathering with awful +severity. Every one truckled to her shamefully, receiving her lightest +remarks as if they were to be inscribed on tablets of bronze. Leander, +his eyes bright with excitement at being received in the family circle +on an equal footing, balanced perilously on the edge of his chair, +anticipating dismissal. + +“Chugg’s never ben so late as this,” said Mrs. Dax, rocking herself +furiously. She strongly resembled one of those mottled chargers of the +nursery whose flaunting nostrils seem forever on the point of sending +forth flame. Leander, the fat lady, and Miss Carmichael meekly murmured +assent and condemnation. + +“And there ain’t a sign of him,” said Mrs. Dax, returning to the house +after straining the landscape through her all-observant eye, and not +detecting him in any of the remote pin-pricks on the horizon, in which +these plainsfolk invariably decipher a herd of antelope, an elk or two, +or a horseman. + +“Bet he had a woman in the stage and upset it with her,” said Leander, +in the animated manner of a poor relation currying favor with a bit of +news. + +Mrs. Dax regarded him severely for a moment, then conspicuously +addressed her next remark to the ladies. “Bet he had a woman in the +stage, the old scoundrel!” + +“Wonder who she was?” said Leander, with the sparkling triumph of a +poor relation whose surmise had been accepted. But Mrs. Dax had +evidently decided that Leander had gone far enough. + +“Was you expectin’ any of your lady friends by Chugg’s stage that you +are so frettin’ anxious?” she inquired, and the poor relation collapsed +miserably. + +“You’ve heard about Chugg’s goin’ on since ‘Mountain Pink’ jilted him?” +inquired Mrs. Dax of the fat lady, as the only one of the party who +might have kept abreast with the social chronicles of the neighborhood. + +“My land, yes,” responded the fat lady, proud to be regarded as +socially cognizant. “M’ son says he’s plumb locoed about it—didn’t want +me to travel by his stage. But I said he dassent upset a woman of my +age—he just nacherally dassent!” + +Miss Carmichael, by dint of patient inquiry, finally got the story +which was popularly supposed to account for the misdemeanors of the +stage-driver, including his present delinquency that was delaying them +on their journey. + +It appeared that Lemuel Chugg, then writhing in the coils of perverse +romance, was among the last of those famous old stage-drivers whose +talents combined skill at handling the ribbons with the diplomacy +necessary to treat with a masked envoy on the road. His luck in these +encounters was proverbial, and many were the hair-breadth escapes due +to Chugg’s ready wit and quick aim; and, to quote Leander, “while he +had been shot as full of holes as a salt-shaker, there was a lot of +fight in the old man yet.” + +Chugg had had no loves, no hates, no virtues, no genial vices after the +manner of these frontiersmen. Avarice had warmed the cockles of his +heart, and the fetish he prayed to was an old gray woollen stocking, +stuffed so full of twenty-dollar gold pieces that it presented the +bulbous appearance of the “before treatment” view of a chiropodist’s +sign. This darling of his old age had been waxing fat since Chugg’s +earliest manhood. It had been his only love—till he met Mountain Pink. + +Mountain Pink’s husband kept a road-ranch somewhere on Chugg’s +stage-route. She was of a buxom type whose red-and-white complexion had +not yet surrendered to the winds, the biting dust, and the alkali +water. Furthermore, she could “bring about a dried-apple pie” to make a +man forget the cooking of his mother. Great was the havoc wrought by +Mountain Pink’s pies and complexion, but she followed the decorous +precedent of Cæsar’s wife, and, like her pastry, remained above +suspicion. + +Her husband, whose name was Jim Bosky, seemed, to the self-impanelled +jury that spent its time sitting on the case, singularly insensible to +his own advantages. Not only did he fail to take a proper pride in her +beauty, but there were dark hints abroad that he had never tasted one +of her pies. When delicately questioned on this point, at that stage of +liquid refreshment that makes these little personalities not +impossible, Bosky had grimly quoted the dearth of shoes among +shoe-makers’ children. + +Whatever were the facts of the case, Mountain Pink got the sympathy +that might have been expected in a section of the country where the +ratio of the sexes is fifty to one. Chugg, eating her pies regularly +once a week on his stage-route, said nothing, but he presented her with +a red plush photograph album with oxidized silver clasps, and by this +first reckless expenditure of money in the life of Chugg, Natrona, +Johnson, Converse, and Sweetwater counties knew that Cupid had at last +found a vulnerable spot in the tough and weather-tanned hide of the old +stage-driver. + +Nor did Cupid stop here with his pranks. Having inoculated the +stage-driver with the virus of romance, madness began to work in the +veins of Chugg. He presented Mountain Pink with the gray woollen +stocking—not extracting a single coin—and urged her to get a divorce +from the clodlike man who had never appreciated her and marry him. + +Mountain Pink coyly took the stocking so generously given for the +divorce and subsequent trousseau, and Chugg continued to drive his +stage with an Apollo-like abandon, whistling love-songs the while. + +Coincident with Mountain Pink’s disappearance Dakotaward, in the +interests of freedom, went also one Bob Catlin, a mule-wrangler. Bosky, +with conspicuous pessimism, hoped for the worst from the beginning, and +as time went on and nothing was heard of either of the wanderers, some +of Mountain Pink’s most loyal adherents confessed it looked “romancy.” +But crusty old Chugg remained true to his ideal. “She’ll write when she +gets good and ready,” and then concluded, loyally, “Maybe she can’t +write, nohow,” and nothing could shake his faith. + +When Mountain Pink and the mule-wrangler returned as bride and groom +and set up housekeeping on the remainder of Chugg’s stocking, and on +his stage-route, too, so that he had to drive right past the honeymoon +cottage every time he completed the circuit, they lost caste in Carbon +County. Chugg never spoke of the faithlessness of Mountain Pink. His +bitterness found vent in tipping over the stage when his passengers +were confined to members of the former Mrs. Bosky’s sex, and, as +Leander said, “the flask in his innerds held more.” And these were the +only traces of tragedy in the life of Lemuel Chugg, stage-driver. + +Judith had continued her unquiet pacing in the blinding glare while the +group within doors, somnolent from the heat and the incessant shrilling +of the locusts, droningly discussed the faithlessness of Mountain Pink, +dozed, and took up the thread of the romance. Each time she turned +Judith would stop and scan the yellow road, shading her eyes with her +hand, and each time she had turned away and resumed her walk. Mary, who +gave the postmistress no unstinted share of admiration for the courage +with which she faced her difficulties, and who had been seeking an +opportunity to signify her friendship, and now that she saw the last of +the gallants depart, inquired of Judith if she might join her. + +They walked without speaking for several minutes, enjoying a sense of +comradeship hardly in keeping with the brevity of their acquaintance; a +freedom from restraint spared them the necessity of exchanging +small-talk, that frequently irritating toll exacted as tribute to +possible friendship. + +The desert lay white and palpitating beneath the noonday glare, and +from the outermost rim of desolation came dancing “dust-devils” +whirling and gliding through the mazes of their eerie dance. “I think +sometimes,” said Judith, “that they are the ghosts of those who have +died of thirst in the desert.” + +Mary shuddered imperceptibly. “How do you stand it with never a glimpse +of the sea?” + +“You’ll love it, or hate it; the desert is too jealous for half +measures. As for the sea”—Judith shrugged her fine shoulders—“from all +I’ve heard of it, it must be very wet.” + +Each felt a reticence about broaching the subject uppermost in her +thoughts—Judith from the instinctive tendency towards secretiveness +that was part of the heritage of her Indian blood; Mary because the +subject so closely concerned this girl for whom she felt such genuine +admiration. + +Judith finally brought up the matter with an abruptness that scarce +concealed her anxiety. + +“You saw my brother yesterday at Mrs. Clark’s eating-house; will you be +good enough to tell me just what happened?” + +Mary related the incident in detail, Judith cross-examining her +minutely as to the temper of the men at table towards Jim. Did she know +if any cattle-men were present? Did she hear where her brother had +gone? + +Mary had heard nothing further after he had left the eating-house; the +only one she had talked to had been Mrs. Clark, whose sympathy had been +entirely with Jim. Judith thanked her, but in reality she knew no more +now than she had heard from Major Atkins. + +Judith now stopped in their walk and stood facing the road as it rolled +over the foot-hills—a skein of yellow silk glimmering in the sun. Then +Mary saw that the object spinning across it in the distance, hardly +bigger than a doll’s carriage, was the long-delayed stage. She spoke to +the postmistress, but apparently she did not hear—Judith was watching +the nearing stage as if it might bring some message of life and death. +She stood still, and the drooping lines of her figure straightened, +every fibre of her beauty kindled. She was like a flame, paling the +sunlight. + +And presently was heard the uncouth music of sixteen iron-shod hoofs +beating hard from the earth rhythmic notes which presently grew hollow +and sonorous as they came rattling over the wooden bridge that spanned +the creek. + +“Chugg!” exclaimed Leander, rushing to the door in a tumult. There was +something crucial in the arrival of the delayed stage-driver. His +delinquencies had deflected the course of the travellers, left them +stranded in a remote corner of the wilderness; but now they should +again resume the thread of things; Chugg’s coming was an event. + +“’Tain’t Chugg, by God!” said Leander, impelled to violent language by +the unexpected. + +“It’s Peter Hamilton!” exclaimed Mrs. Dax. + +“Land’s sakes, the New-Yorker!” said the fat lady. Only Judith said +nothing. + +Mr. Hamilton held the ribbons of that battered prairie-stage as if he +had been driving past the judges’ bench at the Horse Show. Furthermore, +he wore blue overalls, a flannel shirt, and a sombrero, which sartorial +inventory, while it highly became the slim young giant, added an extra +comedy touch to his rôle of whip. He was as dusty as a miller; +close-cropped, curly head, features, and clothes were covered with a +fine alkali powdering; but he carried his youth as a banner streaming +in the blue. And he swung from the stage with the easy flow of muscle +that is the reward of those who live in the saddle and make a fine art +of throwing the lariat. + +They greeted him heartily, all but Judith, who did not trust herself to +speak to him before the prying eyes of Mrs. Dax, and escaped to the +house. Chugg’s latest excursion into oblivion had resulted in a fall +from the box. He was not badly hurt, and recuperation was largely a +matter of “sleeping it off,” concluded Peter Hamilton’s bulletin of the +condition of the stage-driver. So the travellers were still marooned at +Dax’s, and the prospect of continuing their journey was as vague as +ever. + +“Last I heard of you,” said Mrs. Dax to Hamilton, with a sort of +stone-age playfulness, “you was punching cows over to the Bitter Root.” + +“That’s true, Mrs. Dax”—he gave her his most winning smile—“but I could +not stay away from you long.” + +Leander grimaced and rubbed his hands in an ecstasy of delight at +finding a man who had the temerity to bandy words with Mrs. Dax. + +“Hum-m-m-ph!” she whinnied, with equine coquetry. “Guess it was +rustlers brought you back as much as me.” + +Judith, who had entered the room in time to hear Mrs. Dax’s last +remark, greeted him casually, but her eyes, as they met his, were full +of questioning fear. Had he come from the Bitter Root range to hunt +down her brother? The thought was intolerable. Yet, when he had bade +her good-bye some three weeks ago, he had told her that he did not +expect to return much before the fall “round-up.” She had heard, a day +or two before, that he was again in the Wind River country, and her +morning vigil beneath the glare of the desert sun had been for him. + +Mrs. Dax regarded them with the mercilessness of a death-watch; she +remembered the time when Hamilton’s excuses for his frequent presence +at the post-office had been more voluble than logical. But now he no +longer came, and Judith, for all her deliberate flow of spirits, did +not quite convince the watchful eyes of Leander’s lady—the postmistress +was a trifle too cheerful. + +“Mrs. Dax,” pleaded Peter, boyishly, “I’m perishing for a cup of +coffee, and I’ve got to get back to my outfit before dark.” + +“Oh, go on with you,” whinnied the gorgon; but she left the room to +make the coffee. + +Judith’s eyes sought his. “Why don’t you and Leander form a coalition +for the overthrow of the enemy?” His voice had dropped a tone lower +than in his parley with Mrs. Dax; it might have implied special +devotion, or it might have implied but the passing tribute to a +beautiful woman in a country where women were few—the generic +admiration of all men for all women, ephemerally specialized by place +and circumstance. + +But Judith, harassed at every turn, heart-sick with anxiety, had +anticipated in Peter’s coming, if not a solution of her troubles, at +least some evidence of sustaining sympathy, and was in no mood for +resuscitating the perennial pleasantries anent Leander and his +masterful lady. + +The shrilling of the locusts emphasized their silence. She spoke to him +casually of his change of plan, but he turned the subject, and Judith +let the matter drop. She was too simple a woman to stoop to oblique +measures for the gaining of her own ends. If he was here to hunt down +her brother, if he was here to see the Eastern woman at the Wetmore +ranch—well, “life was life,” to be taken or left. Thus spoke the +fatalism that was the heritage of her Indian blood. + +The thought of Miss Colebrooke at Wetmore’s reminded her of a letter +for Peter that had been brought that morning by one of the Wetmore +cow-boys. + +“I forgot—there’s a letter for you.” She went to the pigeon-holes on +the wall that held the flotsam and jetsam of unclaimed mail, and +brought him a square, blue linen envelope—distinctly a lady’s letter. + +Peter took it with rather a forced air of magnanimity, as if in +neglecting to present it to him sooner she drew heavily on his reserve +of patience. Tearing open the envelope, he read it voraciously, read it +to the exclusion of his surroundings, the world at large, and—Judith. +He strode up and down the floor two or three times, and called to +Leander, who was passing: + +“Dax, I must have that gray mare of yours right away.” He went in the +direction of the stable, without a second glance at the postmistress, +and presently they saw him galloping off in the opposite direction from +which he had come. Mrs. Dax came in with a tray on which were a pot of +coffee and sundry substantial delicacies. + +“Where’s he gone?” she demanded, putting the tray down so hard that the +coffee slopped. + +“I dunno,” said Leander. “He said he’d got to have the gray mare, +saddled her hisself, and rode off like hell.” + +Mrs. Dax looked at them all savagely for the explanation that they +could not give. In sending her out to make coffee she felt that Peter, +whom she regarded in the light of a weakness, had taken advantage of +her affections to dupe her in regard to his plans. + +“Take them things back to the kitchen,” she commanded Leander. + +Mary Carmichael involuntarily glanced at Judith; the fall of the leaf +was in her cheek. + +Peter Hamilton, bowed in his saddle and flogging forward inhumanely, +bred rife speculation as to his destination among the group that +watched him from the Daxes’ front door. Mrs. Dax, who entertained so +profound a respect for her own omniscience that she disdained to arrive +at a conclusion by a logical process of deduction, was “plumb certain +that he had gone after ‘rustlers!’” Leander, who had held no opinions +since his marriage except that first and all-comprehensive tenet of his +creed—that his wife was a person to be loved, honored, and obeyed +instantly—agreed with his lady by a process of reflex action. The fat +lady, who had a commonplace for every occasion, didn’t “know what we +were all coming to.” Miss Carmichael, who was beginning to find her +capacity for amazement overstrained, alone accepted this last incident +with apathy. Mr. Hamilton might have gone in swift pursuit of cattle +thieves or he might be riding the mare to death for pure whimsy. Only +Judith Rodney, who said nothing, felt that he was spurring across the +wilderness at breakneck speed to see a girl at Wetmore’s. But her lack +of comment caused no ripple of surprise in the flow of loose-lipped +speculation that served, for the time being, to inject a casual +interest into the talk of these folk, bored to the verge of +demoralization by long waiting for Chugg. + +Judith preferred to confirm her apprehensions regarding Hamilton’s +ride, alone. She knew—had not all her woman’s intuitions risen in +clamorous warning—and yet she hoped, hoped despairingly, even though +the dread alternative to the girl at the Wetmore ranch threatened lynch +law for her brother. Her very gait changed as she withdrew from the +group about the door, covertly gaining her vantage-ground inch by inch. +The heels of her riding-boots made no sound as she stole across the +kitchen floor, toeing in like an Indian tracking an enemy through the +forest. The small window at the back of the kitchen commanded a view of +the road in all its sprawling circumlocution. Seen from this prospect, +it had no more design than the idle scrawlings of a child on a bit of +paper; but the choice of roads to Good and Evil was not fraught with +more momentous consequences than was each prong of that fork towards +which Hamilton was galloping. + +The right arm swung towards the Wetmore ranch, where at certain times +during the course of the year a hundred cow-punchers reported on the +stock that grazed in four States. At certain seasons, likewise, despite +the fact that the ranch was well into the foot-hill country, there +might be found a New York family playing at life primeval with the +co-operation of porcelain bath-tubs, a French _chef_, and electric +light. + +The left fork of the road had a meaner destiny. It dipped straight into +desolation, penetrating a naked wilderness where bad men skulked till +the evil they had done was forgotten in deeds that called afresh to +Heaven for vengeance. It was well away on this west fork of the road +that they lynched Kate Watson—“Cattle Kate”—for the crime of loyalty. +It was she, intrepid and reckless, who threatened the horde of masked +scoundrels when they came to lynch her man for the iniquity of raising +a few vegetables on a strip of ground that cut into their grazing +country. And when she, recognizing them, masked though they were, +threatened them with the vengeance of the law, they hanged her with her +man high as Haman. + +Judith watched Hamilton with narrowing eyes. And now she was all +Indian, the white woman in her dead. Only the Sioux watched, and, in +the patient, Indian style, bided its time. “Cattle thieves,” “the girl +at Wetmore’s”—the words sang themselves in her head like an +incantation. “Cattle thieves” meant her brother, their recognized +leader—her brother, who was dearer to her than the heart in her breast, +the eye in her head, the right hand that held together the shambling, +uncertain destiny of her people. Would he turn to the left, Justice, on +a pale horse, hunting her brother gallowsward? Would he turn towards +the right, the impetuous lover spurring his steed that he might come +swiftly to the woman. A pulse in her bosom rose slowly until her breath +was suspended, then fell again; she was still watching, without an +outward quiver, long after he had turned to the right—and the woman. + + + + +VI. +A Daughter Of The Desert + + +Judith knew that the name of the girl whose letter sent Peter Hamilton +vaulting to the saddle was Katherine Colebrooke. There had been a deal +of letter-writing between her and the young cow-puncher of late, of +which perforce, by a singular irony of fate, the postmistress had been +the involuntary instrument. The correspondence had followed a recent +hasty journey to New York, undertaken somewhat unwillingly by Hamilton +in the interest of certain affairs connected with the settlement of an +estate. + +The precipitancy of this latest turn of events bewildered Judith; but +yet a little while—a matter of weeks and days—and her friendship with +Hamilton had been of that pleasantly indefinite estate situated +somewhere on the borderland of romance, a kingdom where there is no law +but the mutual interest of the wayfarers. Judith and Peter had been +pitifully new at the game of life when the gods vouchsafed them the +equivocal blessing of propinquity. Judith was but lately come from the +convent at Santa Fé, and Hamilton from the university whose honors +availed him little in the trailing of cattle over the range or in the +sweat and tumult of the branding-pen. It was a strange election of +opportunity for a man who had been class poet and had rather +conspicuously avoided athletics during his entire college course. In +pursuing fortune westward Hamilton did not lack for chroniclers who +would not have missed a good story for the want of an authentic +dramatic interpretation of his plans. His uncle, said they, who had put +him through college, was disposed to let him sink or swim by his own +efforts; or, again, he had quarrelled with this same omnipotent uncle +and walked from his presence with no prospects but those within grasp +of his own hand. Again, he had taken the negative of a fair lady more +to heart than two-and-twenty is in the habit of taking negatives. Peter +made no confidences. He went West to punch cows for the Wetmore outfit; +he was a distant connection of the Wetmores through his mother’s side +of the family. + +In those days Peter wore his rue—whether for lady fair or for towering +prospects stricken down—with a tinge of wan melancholy not unbecoming +to a gentle aquilinity of profile, softened by the grace of +adolescence. His instinctive aristocracy of manners and taste would +have availed him little with his new associates had he been a whit less +manly. But as he shirked no part of the universal hardship, they left +him his reticence. He even came to enjoy a sort of remote popularity as +one who was conversant with the best—a nonchalant social +connoisseur—yet who realized the stern primitive beauties of the range +life. + +Judith’s convent upbringing had conferred on her the doubtful advantage +of a gentlewoman’s tastes and bearing, making of her, therefore, an +alien in her father’s house. When Mrs. Atkins, who was responsible for +her education, realized the equivocal good of these things, and saw +moreover that the girl had grown to be a beauty, she offered to adopt +her; but Judith, with the pitiful heroism of youth that understands +little of what it is renouncing, thought herself strong enough to hold +together a family, uncertain of purpose as quicksilver. + +In those tragic days of readjustment came Peter Hamilton, as strange to +the bald conditions of frontier life as the girl herself. From the +beginning there had been between them the barrier of circumstance. +Hamilton was poor, Judith the mainstay of a household whose +thriftlessness had become a proverb. He came of a family that numbered +a signer of the Declaration of Independence, a famous chief-justice, +and the dean of a great university; Judith was uncertain of her right +to the very name she bore. And yet they were young, he a man, she a +woman—eternal fountain of interest. A precocious sense of the fitness +of things was the compass that enabled Peter to steer through the deep +waters in the years that followed. But the girl paid the penalty of her +great heart; in that troublous sea of friendship, she was soon adrift +without rudder, sail, or compass. + +Judith was now eight-and-twenty, and a sculptor would have found a +hundred statues in her. Long of limb, deep-bosomed, youth and health +radiated from her as sparks fly upward. In sunlight, her black hair had +the bluish iridescence of a ripe plum. The eyes were deep and +questioning—the eyes of a young seraph whose wings had not yet brushed +the far distant heights of paradise. Again, in her pagan gladness of +living, she might have been a Valkyr come down from Valhalla on a +shooting-star. And yet, in this wilderness that was famishing for +woman’s love and tears and laughter, by a very perversity of fate she +walked alone. + +She was a true daughter of the desert, the child of stark, unlovely +circumstance. No well-bred romance of book and bells and churchly +benediction had ushered her into being. Her maternal grandfather had +been the famous Sioux chief, Flying Hawk; her grandmother, a white +woman, who knew no word of her people’s tongue, nor yet her name or +race. The Indians found the white baby sleeping by her dead mother +after the massacre of an emigrant train. They took her with them and +she grew up, in the Black Hill country, a white-skinned Sioux, marrying +a chief of the people that had slain her people. She accepted her +squaw’s portion uncomplainingly; slaved cheerfully at squaw’s work +while her brave made war on the whites, hunted, and smoked. She reared +her half-breed children in the legends of their father’s people, and +died, a withered crone, cursing the pale-faces who had robbed the Sioux +of the buffalo and their hunting-ground. + +Her daughter, Singing Stream, who knew no word of English, but who +could do better bead-work than any squaw in the tribe, went to live +with Warren Rodney when he finished his cabin on Elder Creek. That was +before the gold fever reached the Black Hills, and Rodney built the +cabin that he might fish and hunt and forget the East and why he left +it. There were reasons why he wanted to forget his identity as a white +man in his play at being an Indian. In the first flare of youth and the +joy of having come into her woman’s kingdom, the half-breed squaw was +pretty; she was proud, too, of her white man, the house he had built +her, and the girl pappoose with blue eyes. Furthermore, she had been +taught to serve man meekly, for he was the lord of creation. + +Rodney talked Sioux to her. He had all but forgotten he was a white +man. The girl pappoose ran about the cabin, brown and bare, but for the +bead jacket Singing Stream had made for her in the pride of her +maternity. Rodney called the little girl “Judith.” Her Indian mother +never guessed the significance of the strange name that she could not +say, but made at least ten soft singing syllables of, in the Indian +way. The little Judith greeted her father in strange lispings; Warren +Rodney was far from unhappy in playing at primitive man. This +recessional into conditions primeval endured for “seven snows,” as the +Indian tongue hath it. Then the squaw began to break, after the manner +of the women of her father’s people. She had begun her race with time a +decade after Warren Rodney, and she had outdistanced him by a decade. + +And then the Tumlins came from Tennessee to the Black Hills. They came +in an ox-cart, and the days of their journey were more than two years. +They had stopped in Ohio, and again in Illinois; and, behold! neither +was the promised land, the land that their excited imaginations had +painted from the large talk of returning travellers, and that was +further glorified through their own thriftless discontent with +conditions at home. They had travelled on and on across half a +continent in the wake of a vanishing sky-line. The vague westward +impulse was luring them to California, but they waited in Dakota that +their starved stock might fatten, and while they rested themselves from +the long journey, Warren Rodney made the acquaintance of Sally Tumlin, +who rallied him on being a “squaw man.” + +Warren Rodney had almost forgotten the sorceries of the women of his +people; he had lived so long with a brown woman, who spread no silken +snares. Sally’s blushes stirred a multitude of dead things—the wiles of +pale women, all strength in weakness, fragile flowers for tender +handling—the squaw had grown as withered as a raisin. + +Now, Sally Tumlin had no convictions about life but that the world owed +her “a home of her own.” Her mother had forged the bolt of this +particular maxim at an early date. And Sally saw from precocious +observation that the business of women was home-getting, to which end +they must be neat and sweet and sparing of speech. After the home was +forthcoming, then, indeed, might a woman take ease in slippers and +wrapper, and it is surely a wife’s privilege to speak her mind. Sally +knew that she hated travelling westward after the crawling oxen; each +day the sun pursued them, caught up with them, outdistanced them, and +at night left them stranded in the wilderness, and rose again and +mocked them on the morrow. Her father and oafish brother loved the +makeshifts of the wagon life, with its chance shots at fleeing +antelope, scurrying sage-hens, and bounding cotton-tails; a chance +parley with a stray Indian but added zest to the game of chance. But +Sally hated it all. The cabin on Elder Creek had a tight roof; Warren +Rodney had money in the bank. He had had uncommon luck at trapping. His +talk to Sally was largely of his prospects. + +Sally knew that the world owed her “a home of her own”; and why should +she let a squaw keep her from it? Sally’s mother giggled when +consulted. She plainly regarded the squaw as a rival of her daughter. +The ethics of the case, as far as Mrs. Tumlin was concerned, was merely +a question of white skin against brown, and which should carry the day. +Singing Stream knew not one word of the talk, much of which occurred in +her very presence, that threatened to pull her home about her ears, but +she knew that Sally was taking her man from her. The white-skinned +woman wore white ruffles about her neck and calico dresses that were +the color of the wild roses that grew among the willows at the creek. +Sally Tumlin’s pink calico gowns sowed a crop of nettles in the mind of +the squaw. It was the rainbow things, she felt, that were robbing her +of her man. All her barbaric craving for glowing colors asserted itself +as a means towards the one great end of keeping him. Singing Stream +began to scheme schemes. One day Rodney was splitting wood at the +Tumlin camp—though why he should split wood where there were two women +puzzled the squaw. But the ways of the pale-faces were beyond her ken. +She only knew that she must make herself beautiful in the eyes of +Warren Rodney, like this devil woman, and then perhaps the pappoose +that she expected with the first snowfall would be a man-child; and she +hoped great things of this happening. + +With such primitive reasoning did Singing Stream put the horses to the +light wagon, and, taking the little Judith with her, drove to Deadwood, +a matter of two hundred miles, to buy the bright calicoes that were to +make her like a white woman. It never occurred to the half-breed woman +to make known her plans to Warren Rodney. In circumventing Sally Tumlin +the man became the spoils of war, and it is not the Indian way to tell +plans on the war-trail. So the squaw left her kingdom in the hands of +the enemy, without a word. + +Sally Tumlin and Warren Rodney looked upon the disappearance of the +squaw in the light of a providential solution of the difficulties +attending their romance. They admitted it was square of her to “hit the +trail,” and they decided to lose no time in going to the army post, +where a chaplain, an Indian missionary, happened to be staying at the +time, and have a real wedding, with a ring and a fee to the parson. The +wedding party started for the post, old mother Tumlin fluttering about +the bride as complacently as if the ceremony had been the culmination +of the most decorous courtship. The oafish brother drove the bridal +party, making crude jests by-the-way, to the frank delight of the +prospective groom and the giggling protestations of the bride. The +chaplain at the post was disposed to ask few questions. Parsons made +queer marriages in those tumultuous days, and it was regarded as a +patent of worthy motives that the pair should call in the man of the +gospel at all. To the question whether or not he had been married +before, Rodney answered: + +“Well, parson, this is the first time I have ever stood up for a life +sentence.” And the ceremony proceeded. + +Some of the ladies at the post, hearing that there was to be a wedding, +dropped in and added their smiles and flutterings to the rather grim +party; among them, Mrs. Atkins, who had just come to the post as a +bride. They even added a trifle or two from their own store of pretty +things, as presents to Sally. And Miss Tumlin left the post Mrs. Warren +Rodney, with “a home of her own” to go to. + +Singing Stream did not hasten in her quest for bright fabrics with +which to stay the hand of fate. To the half-breed woman the journey to +town was not without a certain revivifying pleasure. The Indian in her +stirred to the call of the open country. The tight roof to the cabin on +Elder Creek had not the attractions for her that it had for Sally +Tumlin. She had chafed sometimes at a house with four walls. But now +the dead and gone braves rose in her as she followed the old trail +where they had so often crept to battle against their old enemies, the +Crows, before the white man’s army had scattered them. And as she drove +through the foot-hill country, she told the solemn-eyed little Judith +the story of the Sioux, and what a great fighting people they had been +before Rodney’s people drove them from their land. Judith was holding a +doll dressed exactly like herself, in soft buckskin shirt, little +trousers, and moccasins, all beautifully beaded. In her turn she told +the story to the doll. + +Singing Stream told her daughter of the making of the world, as the +Sioux believe the story of creation; of the “Four who Never +Die”—Sharper, or Bladder, Rabbit, Turtle, and Monster; likewise of the +coming of a mighty flood on which swam the Turtle and a water-fowl in +whose bill was the earth atom, from which presently the world began to +grow, Turtle supporting the bird on his great back, which was hard like +rock. The rest of the myth, that deals with the rising and setting of +the sun, Singing Stream could not tell her daughter, as the old Sioux +chiefs did not think it wise to let their women folk know too much +about matters of theology. Nor did they relate to squaws the sun myth, +with its account of much cutting-off of heads—thinking, perhaps, with +wisdom, that these good ladies saw enough of carnage in their every-day +life without introducing it into their catechism. + +But Singing Stream knew the story of “Sharper,” or “Bladder,” as he is +called by some of the people, because he is round and his grotesquely +fat figure resembles a bladder blown to bursting. Bladder’s province it +is to make a fool of himself, diving into water after plums he sees +reflected there from the branches of the trees. He dives again and +again in his pursuit of folly, even tying stones to his wrists and +ankles to keep himself down while he gathers the reflected fruit. After +his rescue, which he fights against valiantly, as he lies gasping on +the bank of the stream, he sees the fruit on the branches above his +head. It is this same Bladder who is one of the _dramatis personæ_ in +the moon myth, and that is told to women as safely without the limits +of that little learning that is a dangerous thing. Bladder met Rabbit +hunting; and Bladder kept throwing his eye up into the tree-tops to +look for game. The Rabbit watched him enviously, thinking what a saving +of effort it would be if he could do the same thing. Wherefore Bladder +promised to instruct him, telling him to change eyes after using one +four times, but Rabbit did not think that the first time counted, as +that was but a trial. So he lost his eye after throwing it up the fifth +time. And the eye of the rabbit is the moon, and the face seen in the +full moon is the reflection of the rabbit seen in his own eye as we see +ourselves reflected in the eye of a friend if we look closely. The +little girl was wonderfully impressed. She put her hand to her own +eyes, but they were in tight, too tight to throw up to the tree-tops. + +Singing Stream also told little Judith that the Great Mystery had shown +truths, hid to man, to the trees, the streams, the hills; and the +clouds that shaped themselves, drifting hither and yon, were the Great +Mystery’s passing thoughts. But he had deprived all these things of +speech, as he did not trust them fully, and they could only speak to +man in dreams, or in some passing mood, when they could communicate to +him the feeling of one of the Great Spirits, and warn man of what was +about to befall him. Judith was not quite four when she took this +memorable drive with her mother, but the impression of these things +abided through all her years. It was to the measureless spaces of +desert loneliness that she learned to bring her sorrows in the days of +her arid youth, and to feel a kinship with all its moods and to hear in +the voice of its silence a never-failing consolation. + +And when they had come within a mile of Warren Rodney’s cabin on Elder +Creek, Singing Stream halted and prepared for the great event of +reinstatement. First she made a splendid toilet of purple calico torn +into strips and tied about the waist to simulate the skirts of the +devil woman. Over these she wore a shirt of buckskin, broidered with +beads of many colors, and a necklace of elk teeth, wound twice about +the throat. On her feet she wore new moccasins of tanned elk-hide, and +these, too, were beaded in many colors. Her hair, now braided with +strips of scarlet flannel, hung below the waist. And she walked to +Rodney’s cabin, not as an outgrown mistress, but as the daughter of a +chief. The little Judith held up her head and clung tight to the doll. +She knew that something of moment was about to happen. + +The gala trio, Singing Stream, Judith, and Judith’s doll, presented +themselves at Rodney’s house, before which the bride was washing +clothes, the day being fine. Sally, as usual, wore one of the +rose-colored calicoes with the collar turned well in and the sleeves +rolled above the elbows. She washed vigorously, with a steady splashing +of suds. Sally enjoyed this home of her own and all the household +duties appertaining to it. She was singing, and a strand of pale-brown +hair, crinkly as sea-weed, had blown across the rose of her cheek, when +she felt rather than saw a shadow fall across her path, and, glancing +up, she saw facing her the woman whom she had supplanted, and the +solemn-eyed little girl holding tight to her doll. Now, neither woman +knew a word of the other’s speech, but Sally was proficient in the +language of femininity, and she was not at a loss to grasp the +significance of the purple calico, the beaded buckskin shirt, and the +necklace of elk teeth. The half-breed walked as a chief’s daughter to +the woman at the tub, and Sally grew sick and chill despite her white +skin and the gold ring that made Warren Rodney her man in the face of +the law. The dark woman held Judith proudly by the hand, as a sovereign +might carry a sceptre. Judith was her staff of office, her emblem of +authority in the house of Warren Rodney. + +Singing Stream held out her hands to Sally in a gesture of appeal—and +blundered. Of the chief’s daughter, walking proudly, Sally was afraid; +but a supplicating half-breed in strips of purple calico, not even +hemmed, was a matter for merriment. Sally put her hands on her hips, +arms akimbo, and laughed a dry cackle. The light in the brown woman’s +eyes, as she looked at the white, was like prairie-fires rolling +forward through darkness. There was no need of a common speech between +them. The whole destiny of woman was in the laugh and the look that +answered it. + +And the man they could have murdered for came from the house, an +unheroic figure with suspenders dangling and a corncob pipe in his +mouth, sullen, angry, and withal abjectly frightened, as mere man +inevitably is when he sniffs a woman’s battle in the air. The bride, at +sight of her husband, took to hysterics. She wept, she laughed, and +down tumbled her hair. She felt the situation demanded a scene. Rodney, +with a marital brevity hardly to be expected so soon, commanded Sally +to go into the house and to “shut up.” + +Then he faced Singing Stream and said to her in her own language: “You +must go away from here. The pale-faced woman is my wife by the white +man’s law—ring and Bible. No Indian marriage about this.” + +But the brown woman only pointed to Judith. She asked Rodney had she +not been a good squaw to him. + +And Rodney, who at best was but a poltroon, could only repeat: “You got +to keep away from here. It’s the white man’s law—one squaw for one +man.” + +From within came the sound of Sally’s lamentation as she called for her +father and brother to take her from the squaw and contamination. Warren +Rodney was a man of few words. It had become his unpleasant duty to +act, and to act quickly. He snatched Judith from her mother and took +her into the house, and he returned with his Winchester, which was not +loaded, to Singing Stream. + +“You got to go,” he said, and levelling the Winchester, he repeated the +command. Singing Stream looked at him with the dumb wonder of a forest +thing. “I was a good squaw to you,” she said; and did not even curse +him. And turning, she ran towards the foot-hills, with all the length +of purple calico trailing. + +Now Mrs. Rodney, _née_ Tumlin, was but human, and her cup of happiness +as the wife of a “squaw man” was not the brimming beaker she had +anticipated. The expulsion of her predecessor, at such a time, to make +room for her own home-coming, was, it seemed, open to criticism. “The +neighborhood”—it included perhaps five families living in a radius of +as many hundred miles—felt that the Tumlins had established a bad +precedent. A “squaw man” driving out a brown wife to make room for a +white is not a heroic figure. It had been done before, but it would not +hand down well in the traditions of the settling of this great country. +Trespass of law and order, with their swift, red-handed reckoning, were +but moves of the great game of colonization. But to shove out a brown +woman for a white was a mean move. Few stopped at the Rodneys’ ranch, +though it marked the first break in the journey from town to the +gold-mining country. Rodney had fallen from his estate as a pioneer; +his political opinions were unsought in the conclaves that sat and spat +at the stove, when business brought them to the joint saloon and +post-office. The women dealt with the question more openly, scorning +feminine subtlety at this pass as inadequate ammunition. When they met +Mrs. Rodney they pulled aside their skirts and glared. This outrage +against woman it was woman’s work to settle. + +Mrs. Rodney, who had no more moral sense than a rabbit, felt that she +was the victim of persecution. She knew she was a good woman. Hadn’t +she a husband? Had there ever been a word against her character? What +was the use of making all that fuss over a squaw? It was not as if she +was a white woman. The injustice of it preyed on the former Miss +Tumlin. She took to the consolations of snuff-dipping and fell from her +pink-and-white estate. + +The Tumlin family did not remain long enough in the Black Hill country +to witness Sally’s failure as the wife of a pioneer. The restlessness +of the “settler,” if the paradox be permissible, was in the marrow of +their bones. The makeshifts of the wagon, the adventures of the road, +were the only home they craved. The spring after Sally’s marriage they +set forth for California, the year following for New Mexico, and still +sighed for new worlds to visit. They were happier now that Sally, the +one element of discontent, had been removed from their perennial +journeying by the merciful dispensation of marriage. Old Tumlin, his +wife, and the son gave themselves up more than ever to the day-dreams +of the road, the freedom of the open country, and the spirit of +adventure. + +Rodney’s squaw wife was taken in by some neighbors, good folk who were +conversant with all phases of the romance. They stood by her in her +hour of trial, and afterwards continued to keep her as a servant. Her +son Jim grew up with their own children. When he was four years of age +his mother, Singing Stream, died, and Sally persuaded her husband to +take young Jim into their own home, partly as a sop to neighborly +criticism, partly as a salve to her own conscience. Sally had children +of her own, and looked at things differently now from the time when she +fought the squaw for Rodney’s favor. + +Jim’s foster-parents were, in truth, glad to part with him. From his +earliest babyhood he had been known as a “limb of Satan.” He was an +Ishmael by every instinct of his being. And Mrs. Warren Rodney, née +Tumlin, felt that in dealing with him, in her capacity of step-mother, +she daily expiated any offence that she might have done to his mother. + +Sally grew slatternly with increasing maternity. She spent her time in +a rocking-chair, dipping snuff—a consolation imported from her former +home—and lamenting the bad marriage she had made. Rodney ascribed his +ill-fortune to unjust neighborly criticism. He farmed a little, he +raised a little stock, and he drank a great deal of whiskey. Sally +hated the Black Hill country. She felt that it knew too much about her. +The neighborly inquisition had fallen like a blight on the family +fortunes. A vague migratory impulse was on her. She wanted to go +somewhere and begin all over again. By dint of persistent nagging she +persuaded her husband to move to Wyoming, then in the golden age of the +cattle industry. Those were days when steers, to speak in the cow +language, had “jumped to seventy-five.” The wilderness grew +light-headed with prosperity. Wonderful are the tales still told about +those fat years in cattle-land. It was in those halcyon days of the +Cheyenne Club that the members rode from the range, white with the dust +of the desert, to enjoy greater luxuries than those procurable at their +clubs in New York. + +Nor was it all feasting and merrymaking. A heroic band it was that +battled with the wilderness, riding the range with heat and cold, +starvation and death, and making small pin-pricks in that empty blotch +of the United States map that is marked “Great Alkali Desert” blossom +into settlements. When the last word has been said about the pioneers +of these United States, let the cow-boy be remembered in the universal +toast, that bronzed son of the saddle who lived his little day bravely +and merrily, and whose real heroism is too often forgotten in the +glamour of his own picturesqueness. + +Judith was ten years old when her father, his wife, and their children +moved from Dakota—they were not so particular about North and South +Dakota, in those days—to take up a claim on Sweetwater, Wyoming. Judith +gave scant promise of the beauty that in later life became at once her +dower and her misfortune, that which was as likely to bring +wretchedness as happiness. In Wyoming she was destined to find an old +friend, Mrs. Atkins, who, as the bride of the young lieutenant, had +been present at the marriage of Sally Tumlin and Warren Rodney, and who +had always felt a wholly unreasonable sense of guilt at witnessing the +ceremony and contributing a lace handkerchief to the bride. Her +husband, now Major Atkins, was stationed at Fort Washakie, Wyoming. +Mrs. Atkins happening again on the Rodney family, and her husband +having increased and multiplied his army pay many times over by a +successful venture in cattle, the scheme of Judith’s convent education +was put through by the major’s wife, who had kept her New England +conscience, the discomforts of frontier posts notwithstanding. + +So Judith went to the nuns to school, and stayed with them till she was +eighteen. Mrs. Atkins would have adopted her then; but Judith by this +time knew her family history in all its sordid ramifications, and felt +that duty called her to her brother, who had not improved his +unfortunate start in life, though his step-mother did not spoil him for +the staying of the rod. + + + + +VII. +Chugg Takes The Ribbons + + +Chugg, comforted with liquids and stayed with a head-plaster, presented +himself at the Dax ranch just twenty-four hours after he was due. His +mien combined vagueness with hostility, and he harnessed up the stage +that Peter Hamilton had driven over the day before, when his +prospective passengers were looking, with a graphic pantomimic +representation of “take it or leave it.” Under the circumstances, Miss +Carmichael and the fat lady consented to be passengers with much the +same feeling of finality that one might have on embarking for the +planet Mars in an air-ship. + +There was, furthermore, a suggestion of last rites in the farewells of +the Daxes, each according to their respective personalities, that was +far from reassuring. + +“Here’s some bread and meat and a bottle of cold coffee, if you live to +need it,” was Mrs. Dax’s grim prognostication of accident. Leander, +being of an emotional nature, could scarce restrain his tears—the +advent of the travellers had created a welcome variation in the +monotony of his dutiful routine—he felt all the agitation of parting +with life-long friends. Mary Carmichael and Judith promised to +write—they had found a great deal to say to each other the preceding +evening. + +Chugg cracked his whip ominously, the travellers got inside, not daring +to trust themselves to the box. + +The journey with the misanthrope was but a repetition of that first +day’s staging—the sage-brush was scarcer, the mountains seemed as far +off as ever, and the outlook was, if possible, more desolate. The entry +in Miss Carmichael’s diary, inscribed in malformed characters as the +stage jolted over ruts and gullies, reads: “I do not mind telling you, +in strictest confidence, ‘Dere Diary’—as the little boy called you—that +when I so lightly severed my connection with civilization, I had no +idea to what an extent I was going in for the prairie primeval. How on +earth does a woman who can write a letter like Mrs. Yellett stand it? +And where on the map of North America is Lost Trail?” + +“Land sakes!” regretted the fat lady, “but I do wish I had a piece of +that ‘boy’s favorite’ cake that I had for my lunch the day we left +town. I just ate and ate it ’cause I hadn’t another thing to do. If I +hadn’t been so greedy I could offer him a piece, just to show him that +some women folk have kind hearts, and that the whole sect ain’t like +that Pink.” + +“Boy’s favorite,” as adequate compensation for shattered ideals, a +broken heart, and the savings of a lifetime, seemed to Mary Carmichael +inadequate compensation, but she forbore to express her sentiments. + +The fat lady had never relaxed her gaze from Chugg’s back since the +stage had started. She peered at that broad expanse of flannel shirt +through the tiny round window, like a careful sailing-master sweeping +the horizon for possible storm-clouds. At every portion of the road +presenting a steep decline she would prod Chugg in the back with the +handle of her ample umbrella, and demand that he let her out, as she +preferred walking. The stage-driver at first complied with these +requests, but when he saw they threatened to become chronic, he would +send his team galloping down grade at a rate to justify her liveliest +fears. + +“Do you think you are a-picnicking, that you crave roominating round +these yere solitoodes?” And the misanthrope cracked his whip and +adjured his team with cabalistic imprecations. + +“Did you notice if Mrs. Dax giv’ him any cold coffee, same as she did +us?” anxiously inquired the fat lady from her lookout. + +Mary hadn’t noticed. + +“He’s drinking something out of a brown bottle—seems to relish it a +heep more’n he would cold coffee,” reported the watch. “Hi there! Hi! +Mr. Chugg!” The stage-driver, thinking it was merely a request to be +allowed to walk, continued to drive with one hand and hold the brown +bottle with the other. But even his too solid flesh was not proof +against the continued bombardment of the umbrella handle. + +“Um-m-m,” he grunted savagely, applying a watery eye to the round +window. + +“Nothing,” answered the fat lady, quite satisfied at having her worst +fears confirmed. + +Chugg returned to his driving, as one not above the weakness of seeing +and hearing things. + +“’Tain’t coffee.” + +“Could you smell it?” questioned Mary, anxiously. + +“You never can tell that way, when they are plumb pickled in it, like +him.” + +“Then how did you know it wasn’t coffee?” + +“His eyes had fresh watered.” + +Mary collapsed under this expert testimony. “What are we going to do +about it?” + +“Appeal to him as a gentleman,” said the fat lady, not without dramatic +intonation. + +“You appeal,” counselled Mary; “I saw him look at you admiringly when +you were walking down that steep grade.” + +“Is that so?” said the fat lady, with a conspicuous lack of +incredulity; and she put her hand involuntarily to her frizzes. + +This time she did not trust to the umbrella-handle as a medium of +communication between the stage-driver and herself. Putting her hand +through the port-hole she grasped Chugg’s arm—the bottle arm—with no +uncertain grip. + +“Why, Mr. Chugg, this yere place is getting to be a regular summer +resort; think of two ladies trusting themselves to your protection and +travelling out over this great lonesome desert.” + +Chugg’s mind, still submerged in local Lethe waters, grappled in +silence with the problem of the feminine invasion, and then he muttered +to himself rather than to the fat lady, “Nowhere’s safe from ’em; women +and house-flies is universally prevailing.” + +The fat lady dropped his arm as if it had been a brand. “He’s no +gentleman. As for Mountain Pink, she was drove to it.” + +All that day they toiled over sand and sage-brush; the sun hung like a +molten disk, paling the blue of the sky; the grasshoppers kept up their +shrill chirping—and the loneliness of that sun-scorched waste became a +tangible thing. + +Chugg sipped and sipped, and sometimes swore and sometimes muttered, +and as the day wore on his driving not only became a challenge to the +endurance of the horses, but to the laws of gravitation. He lashed them +up and down grade, he drove perilously close to shelving declivities, +and sometimes he sang, with maudlin mournfulness: + +“‘Oh, bury me not on the lone prairie.’ +The words came low and mournfully +From the cold, pale lips of a youth who lay +On his dying couch at the close of day.” + + +The fat lady reminded him that he was a gentleman and that he was +driving ladies; she threatened him with her son on Sweetwater, who +began, in the maternal chronicles, by being six feet in his stockings, +and who steadily grew, as the scale of threats increased, till he +reached the altitude of six feet four, growing hourly in height and +fierceness. + +But Chugg gave no heed, and once he sang the “Ballad of the +Mule-Skinner,” with what seemed to both terrified passengers an awful +warning of their overthrow: + +“As I was going down the road, +With a tired team and a heavy load, +I cracked my whip and the leaders sprung— +The fifth chain broke, and the wheelers hung, +The off-horse stepped on the wagon tongue—” + + +This harrowing ballad was repeated with accompanying Delsarte at +intervals during the afternoon, but as Mary and the fat lady managed to +escape without accident, they began to feel that they bore charmed +lives. + +At sundown they came to the road-ranch of Johnnie Dax, bearing +Leander’s compliments as a secret despatch. The outward aspect of the +place was certainly an awful warning to trustful bachelors who make +acquaintances through the columns of _The Heart_ and Hand. The house +stood solitary in that scourge of desolation. The windows and doors +gaped wide like the unclosed eyes of a dead man on a battle-field. +Chugg halloed, and an old white horse put his head out of the door, +shook it upward as if in assent, then trotted off. + +“That’s Jerry, and he’s the intelligentest animal I ever see,” remarked +the stage-driver, sobering up to Jerry’s good qualities, and presently +Johnnie Dax and the white horse appeared together from around the +corner of the house. + +This Mr. Dax was almost an exact replica of the other, even to the +apologetic crook in the knees and a certain furtive way of glancing +over the shoulder as if anticipating missiles. + +“Pshaw now, ladies! why didn’t you let me know that you was coming? and +I’d have tidied up the place and organized a few dried-apple pies.” + +“Good house-keepers don’t wait for company to come before they get to +their work,” rebukefully commented the fat lady. + +Mr. Dax, recognizing the voice of authority, seized a towel and began +to beat out flies, chickens, and dogs, who left the premises with the +ill grace of old residents. Two hogs, dormant, guarded either side of +the door-step and refused so absolutely to be disturbed by the flicking +of the towel that one was tempted to look twice to assure himself that +they were not the fruits of the sculptor’s chisel. + +“Where’s your wife?” sternly demanded the fat lady. + +“Oh, my Lord! I presume she’s dancin’ a whole lot over to Ervay. She +packed her ball-gown in a gripsack and lit out of here two days ago, +p’inting that way. A locomotive couldn’t stop her none if she got a +chance to go cycloning round a dance.” + +In the mean time, the two hogs having failed to grasp the fact that +they were _de trop_, continued to doze. + +“Come, girls, get up,” coaxed Johnnie, persuasively. “Maude, I don’t +know when I see you so lazy. Run on, honey—run on with Ethel.” For +Ethel, the piebald hog, finally did as she was bid. + +Mary Carmichael could not resist the temptation of asking how the hogs +happened to have such unusual names. + +“To tell the truth, I done it to aggravate my wife. When I finds myself +a discard in the matrimonial shuffle, I figgers on a new deal that’s +going to inclood one or two anxieties for my lady partner—to which +end—viz., namely, I calls one hawg Ethel and the other hawg Maude, +allowing to my wife that they’re named after lady friends in the East. +Them lady friends might be the daughters of Ananias and Sapphira, for +all they ever happened, but they answers the purpose of riling her same +as if they were eating their three squares daily. I have hopes, +everything else failing, that she may yet quit dancing and settle down +to the sanctity of the home out of pure jealousy of them two proxy +hawgs.” + +“I can just tell you this,” interrupted the fat lady: “I don’t enjoy +occupying premises after hawgs, no matter how fashionable you name ’em. +A hawg’s a hawg, with manners according, if it’s named after the +President of the United States or the King of England.” + +“That’s just what I used to think, marm, of all critters before I +enjoyed that degree of friendliness that I’m now proud to own. Take +Jerry now, that old white horse—why, me and him is just like brothers. +When I have to leave the kid to his lonesome infant reflections and go +off to chop wood, I just call Jerry in, and he assoomes the +responsibility of nurse like he was going to draw wages for it.” + +“I reckon there’s faults on both sides,” said the fat lady, +impartially. “No natural woman would leave her baby to a horse to mind +while she went off dancing. And no natural man would fill his house +full of critters, and them with highfalutin names. Take my advice, turn +’em out.” + +Mary did not wait to hear the continuation of the fat lady’s advice. +She went out on the desert to have one last look at the west. The sun +had taken his plunge for the night, leaving his royal raiment of +crimson and gold strewn above the mountain-tops. + +Her sunset reflections were presently interrupted by the fat lady, who +proposed that they should walk till Mr. Dax had tidied up his house, +observing, with logic, that it did not devolve on them to clean the +place, since they were paying for supper and lodging. They had gone but +a little way when sudden apprehension caused the fat lady to grasp +Mary’s arm. Miss Carmichael turned, expecting mountain-lions, +rattlesnakes, or stage-robbers, but none of these casualties had come +to pass. + +“Land sakes! Here we be parading round the prairie, and I never found +out how that man cooked his coffee.” + +“What difference does it make, if we can drink it?” + +“The ways of men cooks is a sealed book to you, I reckon, or you +wouldn’t be so unconcerned—’specially in the matter of coffee. All men +has got the notion that coffee must be b’iled in a bag, and if they +’ain’t got a regular bag real handy, they take what they can get. Oh, +I’ve caught ’em,” went on the fat lady, darkly, “b’iling coffee in +improvisations that’d turn your stomach.” + +“Yes, yes,” Mary hastily agreed, hoping against hope that she wasn’t +going to be more explicit. + +“And they are so cute about it, too; it’s next to impossible to catch +’em. You ask a man if he b’iles his coffee loose or tight, and he’ll +declare he b’iles it loose, knowing well how suspicious and prone to +investigate is the female mind. But you watch your chance and take a +look in the coffee-pot, and maybe you’ll find—” + +“Yes, yes, I’ve heard—” + +“I’ve seen—” + +“Let’s hurry,” implored Mary. + +“Have you made your coffee yet?” inquired the fat lady. + +“Yes, marm,” promptly responded Johnnie. + +“I hope you b’iled it in a bag—it clears it beautiful, a bag does.” + +Johnnie shifted uneasily. “No, marm, I b’iles it loose. You see, bags +ain’t always handy.” + +The fat lady plied her eye as a weapon. No Dax could stand up before an +accusing feminine eye. He quailed, made a grab for the coffee-pot, and +rushed with it out into the night. + +“What did I tell you?” she asked, with an air of triumph. + +Johnnie returned with the empty coffee-pot. “To tell the truth, marm, I +made a mistake. I ’ain’t made the coffee. I plumb forgot it. P’raps you +could be prevailed on to assist this yere outfit to coffee while I +organizes a few sody-biscuits.” + +After supper, when the fat lady was so busy talking “goo-goo” language +to the baby as to be oblivious of everything else, Mary Carmichael took +the opportunity to ask Johnnie if he knew anything about Lost Trail. +The name of her destination had come to sound unpleasantly ominous in +the ears of the tired young traveller, and she feared that her inquiry +did not sound as casual as she tried to have it. Nor was Johnnie’s +candid reply reassuring. + +“It’s a pizen-mean country, from all I ever heard tell. The citizens +tharof consists mainly of coyotes and mountain-lions, with a few +rattlers thrown in just to make things neighborly. This yere +place”—waving his hand towards the arid wastes which night was making +more desolate—“is a summer resort, with modern improvements, compared +to it.” + +Mary screwed her courage to a still more desperate point, and inquired +if Mr. Dax knew a family named Yellett living in Lost Trail. + +“Never heard of no family living there, excepting the bluff at family +life maintained by the wild beasts before referred to. See here, miss, +I ain’t makin’ no play to inquire into your affairs, but you ain’t +thinkin’ o’ visitin’ Lost Trail, be you?” + +“Perhaps,” said Mary, faintly; and then she, too, talked “goo-goo” to +the baby. + + + + +VIII. +The Rodneys At Home + + +All that long and never-to-be-forgotten night the stage lurched through +the darkness with Mary Carmichael the solitary passenger. The fat lady +had warned Johnnie Dax that he was on no account to replenish Chugg’s +flask, if he had the wherewithal for replenishment on the premises. +Moreover, she threatened Dax with the fury of her son should he fail in +this particular; and Johnnie, hurt to the quick by the unjust suspicion +that he could fail so signally in his duty to a lady, not only refused +to replenish the flask, but threatened Chugg with a conditional +vengeance in the event of accident befalling the stage. It was with a +partially sobered and much-threatened stage-driver, therefore, that +Mary continued her journey after the supper at Johnnie Dax’s, but the +knowledge of it brought scant reassurance, and it is doubtful if the +red stage ever harbored any one more wakeful than the pale, tired girl +who watched all the changes from dark to dawn at the stage window. + +Once or twice she caught a glimpse of distant camp-fires burning and +knew that some cattle outfit was camped there for the night; and once +they drove so close that she could hear the cow-boys’ voices, enriched +and mellowed by distance, borne to them on the cool, evening wind. It +gave a sense of security to know that these big-hearted, manly lads +were within call, and she watched the dwindling spark of their +camp-fires and strained her ears to catch the last note of their +singing, with something of the feeling of severed comradeship. Range +cattle, startled from sleep by the stage, scrambled to their feet and +bolted headlong in the blind impulse of panic, their horns and the +confused massing of their bodies showing in sharp silhouette against +the horizon for a moment, then all would settle into quiet again. There +was no moon that night, but the stars were sown broadcast—softly yellow +stars, lighting the darkness with a shaded luster, like lamps veiled in +pale-yellow gauze. The chill electric glitter of the stars, as we know +it from between the roofs of high houses, this world of far-flung +distance knows not. There the stars are big and still, like the eyes of +a contented woman. + +The hoofs of the horses beat the night away as regularly as the ticking +of a clock. It grew darker as the night wore on, and sometimes a coyote +would yelp from the fringe of willows that bordered a creek in a way +that made Mary recall tales of banshees. And once, when the first pale +streak of dawn trembled in the east and the mountains looked like +jagged rocks heaved against the sky and in danger of toppling, the +whole dread picture brought before her one of Vedder’s pictures that +hung in the shabby old library at home. + +They breakfasted somewhere, and Chugg put fresh horses to the stage. +She knew this from their difference of color; the horses that they had +left the second Dax ranch with had been white, and these that now +toiled over the sand and desolation were apparently brown. She could +not be certain that they were brown, or that they were toiling over the +sand and desolation, or that her name was Mary Carmichael, or indeed of +anything. Four days in the train, and what seemed like four centuries +in the stage, eliminated any certainty as to anything. She could only +sit huddled into a heap and wait for things to become adjusted by time. + +Chugg was behaving in a most exemplary manner. He drove rigidly as an +automaton, and apparently he looked no longer on the “lightning” when +it was bottled. Once or twice he had applied his eye to the pane that +separated him from his passenger, and asked questions relative to her +comfort, but Mary was too utterly dejected to reply in more than +monosyllables. As they crept along, the sun-dried timbers of the stage +creaked and groaned in seeming protest at wearing its life away in +endless journeyings over this desert waste, then settled down into one +of those maddeningly monotonous reiterations to which certain inanimate +things are given in seasons of nervous tension. This time it was: “All +the world’s—a stage—creak—screech—all—the world’s a +stage—creak—screech!” over and over till Mary found herself fast +succumbing to the hypnotic effect of the constant repetition, listening +for it, even, with the tyrannous eagerness of overwrought nerves, when +the stage-driver broke the spell with, “This here stage gets to naggin’ +me along about here. She’s hungry for her axle-grease—that’s what ails +her.” + +“I suppose,” Mary roused herself to say, “you have quite a feeling of +comradeship for the stage.” + +“Me and Clara”—the stage had this name painted on the side—“have been +travelling together nigh onto four year. And while there’s times that I +would prefer a greater degree of reciprocity, these yere silent +companions has their advantages. Why, compare Clara to them female +blizzards—the two Mrs. Daxes—and you see Clara’s good p’ints immejit. +Yes, miss, the thirst-quenchers are on me if either one of the Dax boys +wouldn’t be glad to swap, but I’d have to be a heap more locoed than I +am now to consent to the transaction.” + +At sunset the interminable monotony of the wilderness was broken by a +house of curious architecture, the like of which the tired young +traveller had never seen before, and whose singular candor of design +made her doubt the evidence of her own thoroughly exhausted faculties. +The house seemed to consist of a series of rooms thrown, or rather +blown, together by some force of nature rather than by formal design of +builder or carpenter. The original log-cabin of this composite dwelling +looked better built, more finished, neater of aspect than those they +had previously stopped at in crossing the Desert. Springing from the +main building, like claws from a crustacean, were a series of rooms +minus either side walls or flooring. Indeed, they might easily have +passed for porches of more than usually commodious size had it not been +for the beds, bureaus, chairs, stove with attendant pots, kettles, and +supper in the course of preparation. Seen from any vantage-point in the +surrounding country, the effect was that of an interior on the +stage—the background of some homely drama where pioneer life was being +realistically depicted. The _dramatis persona_ who occupied the centre +of the stage when Mary Carmichael drove up was an elderly woman in a +rocking-chair. She was dressed in a faded pink calico gown, limp and +bedraggled, whose color brought out the parchment-like hue and texture +of her skin in merciless contrast. Perhaps because she still harbored +illusions about the perishable quality of her complexion, which gave +every evidence of having borne the brunt of merciless desert suns, +snows, blizzards, and the ubiquitous alkali dust of all seasons, she +wore a pink sun-bonnet, though the hour was one past sundown, and +though she sat beneath her own roof-tree, even if lacking the +protection of four walls. From the corner of her mouth protruded a +snuff-brush, so constantly in this accustomed place that it had come to +be regarded by members of her family as part and parcel of her +attire—the first thing assumed in the morning, the last thing laid +aside at night. Mary Carmichael had little difficulty in recognizing +Judith Rodney’s step-mother, _née_ Tumlin—she who had been the heroine +of the romance lately recorded. + +Mrs. Rodney’s interest in the girl alighting from the stage was evinced +in the palsied motion of the chair as it quivered slightly back and +forth in place of the swinging seesaw with which she was wont to wear +the hours away. The snuff-brush was brought into more fiercely active +commission, but she said nothing till Mary Carmichael was within a few +inches of her. Then, shifting the snuff-brush to a position more +favorable to enunciation, she said: “Howdy? Ye be Miz Yellett’s +gov’ment, ain’t ye?” There was something threatening in her aspect, as +if the office of governess to the Yelletts carried some challenging +quality. + +“Government?” repeated Mary, vaguely, her head still rumbling with the +noise and motion of the stage; “I’m afraid I hardly understand.” + +“Ain’t you-uns goin’ to teach the Yellett outfit ther spellin’, +writin’, and about George Washington, an’ how the Yankees kem along +arter he was in his grave an’ fit us and broke up the kentry so we had +ter leave our home in Tennessee an’ kem to this yere outdacious place, +where nobody knows the diffunce between aig-bread an’ corn-dodger? I +war a Miss Tumlin from Tennessee.” + +The rocking-chair now began to recover its accustomed momentum. This +much-heralded educational expert was far from terrifying. Indeed, to +Mrs. Rodney’s hawklike gaze, that devoured every visible item of Mary’s +extremely modest travelling-dress, there was nothing so very wonderful +about “the gov’ment from the East.” With a deftness compatible only +with long practice, Mrs. Rodney now put a foot on the round of an +adjoining chair and shoved it towards Mary Carmichael in hospitable +pantomime, never once relaxing her continual rocking the meantime. Mary +took the chair, and Mrs. Rodney, after freshening up the snuff-brush +from a small, tin box in her lap, put spurs to her rocking-chair, so to +speak, and started off at a brisk canter. + +“I ’low it’s mighty queer you-uns don’t recognize the job you-uns kem +out yere to take, when I call it by name.” From the sheltering flap of +the pink sun-bonnet she turned a pair of black eyes full of +ill-concealed suspicion. “Miz Yellett givin’ herself as many airs ’bout +hirin’ a gov’ment ’s if she wuz goin’ to Congress. Queer you don’t know +whether you be one or not!” She withdrew into the sun-bonnet, muttering +to herself. She could not be more than fifty, Mary thought, but her +habit of muttering and exhibiting her depopulated gums while she was in +the act of revivifying the snuff-brush gave her a cronish aspect. + +A babel of voices came from the open-faced room on the opposite side of +the house corresponding to the one in which Mary and Mrs. Rodney were +sitting. Apparently supper was being prepared by some half-dozen young +people, each of whom thought he or she was being imposed upon by the +others. “Hand me that knife.” “Git it yourself.” “I’ll tell maw how you +air wolfing down the potatoes as fast as I can fry ’em.” “Go on, +tattle-tale.” This was the repartee, mingled with the hiss of frying +meat, the grinding of coffee, the thumping sound made by bread being +hastily mixed in a wooden bowl standing on a wooden table. The babel +grew in volume. Dogs added to it by yelping emotionally when the smell +of the newly fried meat tempted them too near the platter and some one +with a disengaged foot at his disposal would kick them out of doors. +Personalities were exchanged more freely by members of the family, and +the meat hissed harder as it was newly turned. “Laws-a-massy!” muttered +Mrs. Rodney; and then, shoving back the sun-bonnet, she lifted her +voice in a shrill, feminine shriek: + +“Eudory! Eu-dory! You-do-ry!” + +A Hebe-like creature, blond and pink-cheeked, in a blue-checked apron +besmeared with grease and flour, came sulkily into her mother’s +presence. Seeing Mary Carmichael, she grasped the skirt of the greasy +apron with the sleight of hand of a prestidigitateur and pleated it +into a single handful. Her manner, too, was no slower of +transformation. The family sulks were instantly replaced by a company +bridle, aided and abetted by a company simper. “I didn’t know the stage +was in yet, maw. I been talking to Iry.” + +“This here be Miz Yellett’s gov’ment. Maybe she’d like to pearten up +some before she eats.” She started the rocking-chair at a gallop, to +signify to her daughter that she washed her hands of further +responsibility. Being proficient in the sign language of Mrs. Rodney’s +second self, as indeed was every member of the family, Eudora led Mary +to a bench placed in one of the rooms enjoying the distinction of a +side wall, and indicated a family toilet service, which displayed every +indication of having lately seen active service. A roll-towel, more +frankly significant of the multitude of the Rodneys than had been the +babel of voices, a discouraged fragment of comb, a tin basin, a +slippery atom of soap, these Eudora proffered with an unction worthy of +better things. “I declare Mist’ Chugg have scarce left any soap, an’ I +don’t believe thar’s ’nother bit in the house.” Eudora’s accent was but +faintly reminiscent of her mother’s strong Smoky Mountain dialect, as a +crude feature is sometimes softened in the second generation. It was +not unpleasing on her full, rosy mouth. The girl had the seductiveness +of her half-sister, Judith, without a hint of Judith’s spiritual +quality. + +Mary told her not to mind about the soap, and went to fetch her +hand-bag, which, consistent with the democratic spirit of its +surroundings, was resting against a clump of sage-brush, whither it had +been lifted by Chugg. Miss Carmichael’s individual toilet service, +which was neither handsome nor elaborate, impressed Eudora far more +potently in ranking Mary as a personage than did her dignity of office +as “gov’ment.” + +“I reckon you-uns must have seen Sist’ Judy up to Miz Dax’s. I hope she +war lookin’ right well.” There was in the inquiry an unmistakable note +of pride. The connection was plainly one to be flaunted. Judith, with +her gentle bearing and her simple, convent accomplishments, was plainly +the _grande dame_ of the family. Eudora had now divested herself of the +greasy, flour-smeared apron, flinging it under the wash-bench with a +single all-sufficient movement, while Mary’s look was directed towards +her dressing-bag. In glancing up to make some remark about Judith, Mary +was confronted by a radiant apparition whose lilac calico skirts looked +fresh from the iron. + +At the side of the house languished a wretched, abortive garden, +running over with weeds and sage-brush, and here a man pottered with +the purposeless energy of old age, working with an ear cocked in the +direction of the house, as he turned a spade of earth again and again +in hopeless, pusillanimous industry. But when his strained attention +was presently rewarded by a shouted summons to supper, and he stood +erect but for the slouching droop of shoulders that was more a matter +of temperament than of age, one saw a tall man of massive build, whose +keen glance and slightly grizzled hair belied his groping, ineffectual +labor. The head, and face were finely modelled. Unless nature had +fashioned them in some vagrant, prankish mood, such elegance of line +betokened prior generations in which gentlemen and scholars had played +some part—the vagabond scion of a good family, perhaps. A multitude of +such had grafted on the pioneer stock of the West, under names that +carried no significance in the places whence they came. + +Weakness and self-indulgence there were, and those writ large and deep, +on the face of Warren Rodney; and, in default of an expression of +deeper significance, the wavering lines of instability produced a +curiously ambiguous effect of a fine head modelled by a ’prentice hand; +a lady’s copy of the Belvidere, attempted in the ardors of the first +lessons, might approximate it. + +A smoking kerosene lamp revealed a supper-table of almost institutional +proportions. There were four sons and two daughters of the Tumlin +union, strapping lads and lasses all of them, with more than a common +dower of lusty health and a beauty that was something deeper than the +perishable iridescence of youth. There was Frémont, named for the +explorer-soldier; there was Orlando, named from his mother’s vague, +idle musings over paper-backed literature at certain “unchancy” +seasons; there was Richards, named from pure policy, for a local great +man of whom Warren Rodney had anticipated a helping hand at the time; +there was Eudora, whose nominal origin was uncertain, unless it bore +affiliation to that of Orlando; there was Sadie, thus termed to avoid +the painful distinctions of “old Sally” and “young Sally”; and, lastly, +like a postscript, came Dan—with him, fancy, in the matter of names, +seemed to have failed. Dan was now six, a plump little caricature of a +man in blue overalls, which, as they had descended to him from Richards +in the nature of an heirloom, reached high under his armpits and +shortened the function of his suspenders to the vanishing point. + +Eudora was now sixteen, and the woman-famine in all the land had gifted +her with a surprising precocity. Eudora knew her value and meant to +make the most of it. Unlike her mother in the old Black Hill days, she +expected more than a “home of her own.” To-night four suitors sat at +table with Eudora, and she might have had forty had she desired it. Any +one of the four would have cheerfully murdered the remaining three had +opportunity presented itself. Supper was a mockery to them, a Barmecide +feast. Each watched his rivals—and Eudora. This was a matter of life +and death. There was no time for food. The girl revelled in the +situation to the full of her untaught, unthinking, primitive nature. +She gave the incident a tighter twist by languishing at them in turns. +She smiled, she sighed, she drove them mad by taking crescent bites out +of a slice of bread and exhibiting the havoc of her little, white teeth +with a delectably dainty gluttony. + +Her mother, mumbling her supper with toothless impotency, renewed her +youth vicariously, and, while she quarrelled with her daughter from the +rising of the sun to the setting of the same, she added the last straw +to the burden of the distracted suitors by announcing what a comfort +Eudora was to her and how handy she was about the house. + +Warren Rodney supported the air of an exile at his own table. Beyond a +preliminary greeting to his daughter’s guests, he said nothing. His +family, in their dealings with him, seemed to accord him the exemptions +of extreme age. He ate with the enthusiasm of a man to whom meals have +become the main business in life. + +“How’s your mine up to Bad Water comin’ along, Iry?” Orlando inquired, +not from any hospitable interest in Ira’s claim, but because he had +sundry romantic interests in that neighborhood and hoped to make use of +the young prospector’s interest in his sister by securing an invitation +to return with him. Ira regarded the inquiry in the light of a special +providence. Here was his chance to impress Eudora with the splendor of +his prospects and at the same time smite the claims of his rivals, and +behold! a brother of his lady had led the way. + +Ira cleared his throat. “They tell me she air like to yield a million +any day.” At this Eudora gave him the wealth of her eyes, and her +mother reached across two of the glowering suitors and dropped a hot +flapjack on his plate. + +“Who sez that she air likely to yield a million any day?” inquired Ben +Swift, openly flouting such prophecy. “Yes, who sez it?” inquired Hawks +and Taylor, joining forces for the overthrow of the common enemy. + +“‘They sez’ is easy talkin’, shore ’nuff,” mumbled Mrs. Rodney, as she +helped herself to butter with her own knife. + +“A sharp from the Smithsonian Institute at Washington, he said it, and +he has taken back speciments with him.” + +“Ye can’t keep lackings from freightin’ round speciments—naw, sir, ye +can’t, not till the fool-killer has finished his job.” Ben Swift +charged the table with the statement as the prosecution subtly appeals +to the high grade of intelligence on the part of the jury. The point +told. Eudora, wavering in her donation of hot flapjacks, gave them to +Ben Swift. + +Hawks now leaned across the table with a sinuous, beguiling motion, +and, extending his long neck towards the prospector, with the air of a +turkey-gobbler about to peck, he crooned, softly: “Ira, it’s a heap +risky puttin’ your faith in maverick sharps that trail around the +country, God-a’mightying it, renaming little, old rocks into precious +stones, seein’ gold mines in every gopher-hole they come to. They names +your backyard and the rocks appertainin’ thereunto a heap fashionable, +and like as not some sucker gives him good money to float the trash +back East.” + +Mrs. Rodney, whose partisanship in any discussion was analogous to the +position of a hen perching on a fence unable to decide on which side to +flutter, was visibly impressed by Hawks’s presentation of the case. +Looking towards her daughter from under the eaves of her sun-bonnet, +she “’lowed she had hearn that Bad Water was hard on the skin, an’ that +it warn’t much of a place arter all. Folks over thar war mostly +half-livers.” + +Ira, now losing all semblance of policy at being thus grievously put +down by his possible mother-in-law, “reckoned that herdin’ sheep over +to the Basin was a heap easier on the skin than livin’ in a comf’table +house over to Bad Water”—this as a fling at Hawks, who herded a small +bunch of sheep “over in the Basin.” + +“Ai-yi,” openly scoffed the former Miss Tumlin; “talk’s cheap before—” +She would have considered it indelicate to supply the word “marriage,” +but by breaking off her sentence before she came to the pith of it she +continued to maintain the proprieties, and at the same time conveyed to +her audience that she was too old and experienced to permit any +fledgling from her nest to be caught, for want of a warning, by such +obvious ante-matrimonial chaff as fair promises. + +“Laws a massy!” she continued, reminiscently, working her toothless jaw +to free it from an escaped splinter from the snuff-brush. “When me an’ +paw war keepin’ comp’ny, satin warn’t good enough for me. He lowed I +wuz to have half creation. Sence we wuz married he ’ain’t never found +time, endurin’ all these years, to build me a bird-house.” + +The unbuilt bird-house was the Banquo’s ghost at the Rodney board, Mrs. +Rodney hearkening back to it in and out of season. If the family made +merry over a chance windfall of game or fresh vegetables, a prospect of +possible employment for one of the boys, a donation of money from +Judith, Mrs. Rodney remembered the unbuilt bird-house and indulged +herself to the full of melancholy. It is not improbable that, if she +had been asked to name the chiefest disappointment of her wretched +married life, she would have mentioned the bird-house that was never +built. + +At mention of it Warren Rodney murmured broken, deprecatory excuses. +His dull eyes nervously travelled about the table for some one to make +excuses for him. The family broke into hearty peals of laughter; the +tragedy of the first generation had grown to be the unfailing source of +merriment for the second. + +“Maw,” began Orlando, “the reason you don’t get no bird-house built out +hyear is that they ain’t no birds. We have offered time and time again +to build you a house fo’ buzzuds, they bein’ the only birds +hyearabouts, but you ’low that you ain’t fav’ble to tamin’ ’em.” + +“I wuz raised in Tennessee, an’ we-uns had a house for martins made +out’n gourds, an’ it was pearty.” The pride with which she repeated +this particular claim to honor in an alien land never diminished with +repetition. As she advanced further through the dim perspective of +years, the little mountain town in Tennessee became more and more the +centre of cultivation and civic importance. The desolate cabin that she +had left for the interminable journey westward was recalled +flatteringly through the hallowing mists of time. The children, by +reason of these chronicles, had grown to regard their mother as a sort +of princess in exile. + +“Mrs. Rodney”—Swift leaned towards her and whispered something in her +ear. She regarded him tentatively, then grinned. At her time of life, +why should she put faith in the promises of men? “You fix it up, an’ +you get your bird-house,” was the conclusion of his sentence. + +While this discussion had been in progress the viands had not been +neglected except by such members of the company as had been bereft of +appetite by loftier emotions—in consequence of which the table appeared +to have sustained a visitation of seventeen-year locusts. Eudora, ever +economic in the value she placed not only upon herself but her +environment, proposed to her guests that they should wash the dishes, +an art in which they were by no means deficient, being no exception to +the majority of range bachelors in their skill in homely pursuits. And +thus it came to pass that Eudora’s suitors, swathed in aprons, meekly +washed dishes shoulder to shoulder, while their souls craved the +performance of valorous deeds. + +As this was the last stage station on the way to Lost Trail, Mary +Carmichael was perforce obliged to content herself till Mrs. Yellett +should call or send for her. After supper, Chugg, with fresh horses to +the stage, left Rodney’s, apparently for some port in that seemingly +pathless sea of foot-hills. That there should be trails and defined +routes over this vast, unvaried stretch of space seemed more wonderful +to Mary than the charted high-roads of the Atlantic. The foot-hills +seemed to have grown during the long journey till they were foot-hills +no longer; they had come to be the smaller peaks of the towering range +that had formed the spine of the desert. The air, that seemed to have +lost some of its crystalline quality on the flat stretches of the +plains, was again sparkling and heady in the clean hill country. It +stirred the pulses like some rare vintage, some subtle distillation of +sun-warmed fruit that had been mellowing for centuries. + +Very lonely seemed the Rodney home among the great company of +mountains. A brooding desolation had settled on it at close of day, and +all the laughter and light footsteps and gayly ringing voices of the +young folk could not dispel the feeling of being adrift in a tiny shell +on the black waters of some unknown sea; or thus it seemed to the +stranger within their gate. + +Mrs. Rodney retired within the flap of her sun-bonnet after the evening +meal, settling herself in the rocking-chair as if it were some sort of +conveyance. Her family, who might have told the hour of day or her +passing mood by the action of the chair, knew by her pacific gait that +she would lament the unbuilt bird-house no more that night. The +snuff-brush, newly replenished from the tin box, kept perfect time to +the motion of the chair. With the lady of the house it was one of the +brief seasons of passing content vouchsafed by an ample meal and a good +digestion. + +Warren Rodney took down a gun from the wall and began to clean it. His +hands had the fumbling, indefinite movements, the obscure action, +directed by a brain already begun to crumble. His industry with the gun +was of a part with the impotent dawdling in the garden. His eyes would +seek for the rag or the bottle of oil in a dull, glazed way, and, +having found them, he would forget the reason of his quest. Not once +that evening had they rested on his wife or any member of his family. +He had shown no interest in any of the small happenings of home, the +frank rivalry of Eudora’s suitors, the bickerings of the girls and boys +over the division of household labor. The one thing that had +momentarily aroused his somnolent intelligence was a revival of his +wife’s plaint anent the unbuilt bird-house. That, and a certain furtive +anxiety during supper lest his daughter Eudora should forget to keep +his plate piled high, were the only signs of a participation in the +life about him. + +From one of the rooms that opened to the world like a stage to the +audience, Mrs. Rodney kept her evening vigil. The last faint +amethystine haze on the mountains was deepening. They towered about the +valley where the house lay, with a challenging immensity, mocking the +pitiful grasp of these pygmies on the thousand hills. The snow on the +taller of the peaks still held the high lights. But all the valleys and +the spaces between the mountains were wrapped in sombre shadows; the +crazy house invading the great company of mountains, penetrating +brazenly to the very threshold of their silent councils, seemed but a +pitiful ant-hill at the mercy of some possible giant tread. The +ill-adjusted family, disputing every inch of ground with the +wilderness, became invested with a dignity quite out of keeping with +its achievements. Their very weaknesses and vanities, old Sally still +clinging to her sun-bonnet and her limp rose-colored skirts, an eternal +requiem for the dead and gone complexion, lost the picturesqueness of +the pioneer and ranked as universal qualities, admissible in the +austerest setting. Perhaps in some far distant council of the Daughters +of the Pioneers a prospective member of the house of Rodney would +unctuously announce: “My great-great-grandmother was a Miss Tumlin of +Tennessee; great-great-grandfather’s first wife had been a Sioux squaw. +Isn’t it interesting and romantic?” + +Eudora now came to her mother with great news. Hawks had taken the +first opportunity of being alone with her to tell her of Jim’s release +from jail and of his abortive encounter with Simpson in the +eating-house. He had not deferred the telling from any feeling of +reticence regarding the disclosure of family affairs before strangers. +News travels in the desert by some unknown agency. Twenty-four hours +after a thing happened it would be safe to assume that every cow and +sheep outfit in a radius of three hundred miles would be discussing it +over their camp-fires; and this long before there was an inch of +telegraph wire or a railroad tire in the country. Hawks had merely +reserved the news for Eudora’s private ear because he hoped thus to +gain an advantage over his three rivals. + +“Ai-yi!” said old Sally, sharply, and the chair came to an abrupt +stand-still. “In the name o’ Heaven, how kem they to let him out?” Mrs. +Rodney’s knowledge of the law was of the vaguest; and if incarceration +would keep a prisoner out of more grievous trouble, she could not +understand giving him his freedom. To her the case was analogous to +releasing a child from the duress of a corner and turning him loose to +play with matches. “How kem they to let him out?” she repeated, the +still rocking-chair conveying the impersonal dignity of the pulpit or +the justice-seat. “I ’ain’t hearn tell of so pearty a couple as the +jail an’ Jim in years.” + +The meaning that she put into her words belied their harsh face-value. +With Jim in jail, her mind was comparatively at rest about him. She +knew he had been branding other men’s cattle since the destruction of +his sheep, and she knew the fate of cattle-thieves, and that Jim would +be no exception to the rule. With her purely instinctive maternity, she +had been fond of Jim. He had been one more boy to mother. She harbored +no ill-feeling towards him that he was not her own. Moreover, she +wanted no gallows-tree intermingled with the annals of her family. It +suited her convenience at this particular time that Jim should stay in +jail. That he had been given his freedom loosed the phials of her +condemnation on the incompetents that released him. + +“I ’low they wuz grudgin’ him the mouthful they fed to him, that they +ack so outdaciously plumb locoed as to tu’n a man out to get hisself +hanged. An’ Jim never wuz a hearty eater. He never seemed to relish his +food, even when he wuz a growin’ kid.” + +A pale, twinkling point of light, faintly glimmering in the vast +solitudes above the billowing peaks, suddenly burst into a dazzling +constellation before the girl and her mother. “It’s a warning!” +shivered the old woman. “Some’um’s bound to happen.” She began to rock +herself slowly. The thing she dreaded had already come to pass in her +imagination. Jim a free man was Jim a dead man. He was so dead that +already his step-mother was going on with a full acceptance of the +idea. She reviewed her relationship to him. No, she had nothing to +blame herself for. He had been more troublesome than any of her own +children and for that reason she had been more liberal with the rod. +And yet—the face of the squaw rose before her, wraithlike, accusing! +“Ai-yi!” she said; but this time her favorite expletive was hardly more +than a sigh. + +“I mind Jim when he first kem to us,” she said, more to herself than to +Eudora, who sat at her feet. The impending tragedy in the family had +robbed her of all the joy in her suitors. They sat on a bench on the +opposite side of the house, divided by the very nature of their +interests yet companions in misery. + +“He wuz scarce four, an’ yet he had never been broke of the habit of +sucking his thumb. Ef he’d ben my child, I’d a lammed it out’n him +before he’d a seen two, but seem’ he was aged for an infant havin’ such +practices, I tried to shame him out’n it. But, Lord a massy, men folks +is hard to shame even at four. I hissed at him like a gyander every +time I seen him do it. Now I’d a knowed better—I’d a sewed it up in a +pepper rag.” + +“What’s suckin’ his thumb as an infant got to do with his gettin’ +lynched now?” demanded Eudora, with the scepticism of the second +generation. + +“Wait till you-uns has children of your own,” sniffed her mother, from +the assured position of maternal experience, “an’ see the infant that’s +allowed to suck its thumb has the makin’s in him of a felon or a +unfortunit.” She rocked a slow accompaniment to her dismal, prophecy. + +Eudora’s eyes, big with wonder, were fixed on the crouching flank of a +distant mountain. Her mother broke the silence. Not often did they +speak thus intimately. Old Sally belonged to that class of mothers who +feel a pride in their reticent dealings with their daughters, and who +consider the management of all affairs of the heart peculiarly the +province of youth and inexperience. + +But to-night she was prompted by a force beyond her ken to speak to the +girl. “Eudory, in pickin’ out one of them men,” she jerked her thumb +towards the opposite side of the house, “git one tha’s clar o’ the +trick o’ stampedin’ round other wimming. It’s bound to kem back to ye, +same as counterfeit money.” + +Eudora giggled. She was of an age when the fascinations of curiosity as +to the unknown male animal prompt lavish conjecture. “I ’lowed they all +stampeded.” + +“Yes,” leered the old woman—and she grinned the whole horrid length of +her empty gums—“the most of ’em does. But you must shet your eyes to +it. The moment they know you swallow it, they’s wuthless, like horses +that has run away once.” + +“Hark!” said Eudora. “Ain’t that wheels?” + +“It be,” answered her mother. “It be that old Ma’am Yellett after her +gov’ment.” + + + + +IX. +Mrs. Yellett And Her “Gov’ment” + + +The buckboard drew up to the back or open-faced entrance of the Rodney +house with a splendid sweep, terminating in a brilliantly staccato +halt, as if to convey to the residents the flattering implication that +their house was reached via a gravelled driveway, rather than across +lumpish inequalities of prairie overgrown with cactus stumps and clumps +of sage-brush. From the buckboard stepped a figure whose agility was +compatible with her driving. + +No sketchy outline can do justice to Mrs. Yellett or her costume. Like +the bee, the ant, and other wonders of the economy of nature, she was +not to be disposed of with a glance. And yet there was no attempt at +subtlety on her part; on the contrary, no one could have an appearance +of greater candor than the lady whose children Mary Carmichael had come +West to teach. Her costume was a thing apart, suggesting neither sex, +epoch, nor personal vanity, but what it lacked of these more usual +sartorial characteristics, it more than made up in a passionate +individualism; an excessively short skirt, so innocent of “fit” or +“hang” in its wavering, indeterminate outline as to suggest the +possible workmanship of teeth rather than of scissors; and riding-boots +coming well to the knee, displaying a well-shaped, ample foot, perched +aloft on the usual high heel that cow-punchers affect as the expression +of their chiefest vanity. But Mrs. Yellett was not wholly mannish in +her tastes, and to offset the boots she wore a bodice of the type that +a generation ago used to be known as a “basque.” It fitted her ample +form as a cover fits a pin-cushion, the row of jet buttons down the +front looking as if a deep breath might cause them to shoot into space +at any moment with the force of Mauser bullets. + +Such a garb was not, after all, incongruous with this original lady’s +weather-beaten face. Her skin was tanned to a fine russet, showing +tiny, radiating lines about the eyes when they twinkled with laughter, +which was often. No individual feature was especially striking, but the +general impression of her countenance was of animation and activity, +mingled with geniality and with native shrewdness. + +“Howdy, Miz Yellett,” called out old Sally, hitching her rocker +forward, in an excitement she could ill conceal. “You-uns’ gov’ment +come, an’ she ain’t much bigger’n a lettle green gourd. Don’t seem to +have drawed all the growth comin’ to her yit.” + +“In roundin’ up the p’ints of my gov’ment, Mis’ Rodney, you don’t want +to forget that green gourds and green grapes is mighty apt to belong to +the sour fambly, when they hangs beyant your reach.” + +“Ai-yi!” grimaced old Sally. “It’s tol’able far to send East for green +fruit. We can take our own pep’mint.” + +The prospective advent of a governess in the Yellett family, moreover, +one from that mysterious centre of culture, the East, had not only rent +the neighborhood with bitter factions, but had submitted the Yelletts +to the reproach of ostentation. In those days there were no schools in +that portion of the Wind River country where the Yelletts grazed their +flocks and herds. Parents anxious to obtain “educational +advantages”—that was the term, irrespective of the age of the student +or the school he attended—sent them, often, with parental blindness as +to the equivocal nature of the blessing thus conferred, to visit +friends in the neighboring towns while they “got their education.” Or +they went uneducated, or they picked up such crumbs of knowledge as +fell from the scant parental board. But never, up to the present +moment, had any one flown into the face of neighborly precedent except +sturdy Sarah Yellett. + +Old Sally, in her eagerness to convey that she was in no degree +impressed with the pedagogical importation, like many another +belligerent lost the first round of the battle through an excess of +personal feeling. But though down, Sally was by no means out, and after +a brief session with the snuff-brush she returned to the field prepared +to maintain that the Yellett children, for all their pampering in the +matter of having a governess imported for their benefit, were no better +off than her own brood, who had taken the learning the gods provided. + +“Too bad, Miz Yellett, that you-uns had to hire that gov’ment without +lookin’ over her p’ints. I’ve ben takin’ her in durin’ supper, and +she’ll never be able to thrash ’em past Clem. She mought be able to +thrash Clem if she got plumb mad, these yere slim wimmin is tarrible +wiry ’n’ active at such times, but she’ll never be able to thrash +beyant her.” And having injected the vitriolic drop in her neighbor’s +cup of happiness, Old Sally struck a gait on her chair which was the +equivalent of a gallop. + +But Mrs. Yellett was not the sort of antagonist to be left gaping on +the road, awed to silence by the action of a rocking-chair, no matter +how brilliant. + +“I reckon I can thrash my own children when it’s needed, without +gettin’ in help from the East, or hereabouts either, for that matter. +If other folks would only take out their public-spirited reformin’ +tendencies on their own famblies, there’d be a heap less lynchin’ +likely to happen round the country in the course of the next ten +years.” + +Old Sally let the home-thrust pass. “Who ever hearn tell of a good +teacher that wasn’t a fine thrasher in the bargain?” She swung the +chair about with a pivotal motion, as if she were addressing an +assemblage instead of a single listener, and then, bethinking herself +of a clinching illustration, she called aloud to her daughter to bear +witness. “Eudory! Eu-do-ry! You-do-ry!” + +“Ye-’s ma’am,” drawled the daughter, coming most unwillingly from the +open-faced room opposite, where she had been inciting all four of the +suitors to battle. + +“What was it they called that teacher down to Caspar that larruped the +hide off’n the boys?” + +“A fine dis-a-ply-narian, maw.” + +“Yes, that’s it—a dis-a-_ply_-narian. What kin a lettle green gourd +like her know ’bout dis-apply-in?” + +“Your remarks shore remind me of a sayin’ that ‘the discomfort of +havin’ to swallow other folks’ dust causes a heap of anxiety over their +reckless driving.’” + +Mrs. Yellett flicked her riding-boot with her whip. Her voice dropped a +couple of tones, her accent became one of honeyed sweetness. + +“Your consumin’ anxiety regardin’ my gov’ment and my children shore +reminds me of a narrative appertainin’ to two dawgs. Them dawgs was +neighbors, livin’ in adj’inin’ yards separated by a fence, and one day +one of them got a good meaty bone and settled hisself down to the +enj’yment thereof. And his intimate friend and neighbor on the other +side of the fence, who had no bone to engage his faculties, he began to +fret hisself ’bout the business of his friend. S’pose he was to choke +hisself over that bone. S’pose the meat disagreed with him. And he +begins to bark warnin’s, but the dawg with the bone he keeps right on. +But the other dawg he dashes hisself again the fence and he scratches +with his claws. He whines pitiful, he’s that anxious about his friend. +But the dawg with the bone he went right on till he gnawed it down to +the last morsel, and, goin’ to the hole in the fence whar his friend +had kep’ that anxious vigil, he says: ‘Friend, the only thing that +consoled me while having to endure the anguish of eatin’ that bone was +the thought of your watchful sympathy!’ Which bein’ the case, I’d thank +you to tell me whar I can find my gov’ment.” + +“Ai-yi!” said old Sally. “I ain’t seein’ no bone this deal. Just a +lettle green gourd ’s all I see with my strongest specs.” + +Mary Carmichael, in one of the inner rooms, was writing a home letter, +which was chiefly remarkable for what it failed to relate. It gave long +accounts of the scenery, it waxed didactic over the future of the +country; but the adventures of the trip, with her incidental +acquaintance with the Daxes and Chugg, were not recorded. Eudora +announced the arrival of Mrs. Yellett, and Mary, at the news, dropped +the contents of her portfolio and started up with much the feeling a +marooned sailor might have on hearing a sail has been sighted. At this +particular stage of her career Miss Carmichael had not developed the +philosophy that later in life was destined to become her most valuable +asset. Her sense of humor no longer responded to the vagaries of +pioneer life. The comedy element was coming a little too thick and +fast. She was getting a bit heart-sick for a glimpse of her own kind, a +word with some one who spoke her language. And here, at last, was the +woman who had written such a charming letter, who had so graciously +intimated that there was room for her at the hearth-stone. Mary was, +indeed, eager to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Yellett. + +To the end of her life she never forgot that first meeting—the perfect +confidence with which she followed Eudora to the open room, the ensuing +blank amazement, the utter inability to reconcile the Mrs. Yellett of +the letter with the Mrs. Yellett of fact. The lamp on the table, +burning feebly, seemed to burst into a thousand shooting-stars as the +girl struggled with her tears. Home was so far, and Mrs. Yellett was so +different from what she had expected! And yet, as she felt her fingers +crush in the grip of that hard but not unkindly hand, there was in the +woman’s rugged personality a sustaining quality; and, thinking again of +Archie’s prospects, Mary was not altogether sorry that she had come. + +“You be a right smart young maverick not to get lost none on this long +trail, and no one to p’int you right if you strayed,” commented Mary’s +patroness, affably. “But we won’t roominate here no longer than we can +help. It’s too hard on old Ma’am Rodney. She’s just ’bout the color of +withered cabbage now, ’long of me havin’ you.” + +While she talked, Mrs. Yellett picked up Mary’s trunk and bags and +stowed them in the back of the buckboard with the ease with which +another woman might handle pasteboard boxes. One or two of the male +Rodneys offered to help, but she waved them aside and lashed the +luggage to the buckboard, handling the ropes with the skill of an old +sailor. The entire Rodney family and the suitors of Eudora assembled to +witness the departure. “It’s a heap friendly of you to fret so,” was +the parting stab of Sarah Yellett to Sally Rodney; and she swung the +backboard about, cleared the cactus stumps in the Rodney door-yard, and +gained the mountain-road. + +“Ai-yi!” said old Sally. “What’s this country comin’ to?” + +“A few more women, thank God!” remarked Ira. Eudora had just snubbed +him, and he put a wealth of meaning into his look after the vanishing +buckboard. + +The night was magnificent. From horizon to horizon the sky was sown +with quivering points of light. Each straggling clump of sage-brush, +rocky ledge, and bowlder borrowed a beauty not its own from the yellow +radiance of the stars. + +They had gone a good two miles before Mary’s patroness broke the +silence with, “Nothing plumb stampedes my temper like that Rodney +outfit—old Sally buckin’ an’ pitchin’ in her rockin’-chair same as if +she was breakin’ a bronco, an’ that Eudory always corallin’, deceivin’, +and jiltin’ one outfit of men after another. If she was a daughter of +mine, I’d medjure her length across my knee, full growed and courted +though she is. The only one of the outfit that’s wuth while is Judith, +an’ she ain’t old woman Rodney’s girl, neither. You hyeard that +already, did you? Well, this yere country may be lackin’ in population, +but it’s handy as a sewin’-circle in distributin’ news.” + +Mary mentioned Leander. “Yes,” answered Mrs. Yellett, reflectively, +“Leander’s mouth do run about eight and a half octaves. Sometimes I +don’t blame his wife for bangin’ down the lid.” + +They talked of Jim Rodney’s troubles, and the growing hatred between +sheep and cattle men, because of range rights. + +“Now that pore Jim had a heap of good citizen in him, before that +pestiferous cattle outfit druv’ his sheep over the cliff. Relations +’twixt sheep and cattle men in this yere country is strained beyant the +goin’-back place, I can tell you. My pistol-eye ’ain’t had a wink of +sleep for nigh on eighteen months, an’ is broke to wakefulness same as +a teethin’ babe. + +“Jim was wild as a coyote ’fore he marries that girl. She come all the +way from Topeka, Kansas, thinking she was goin’ to find a respectable +home, and when she come out hyear and found the place was a dance-hall, +she cried all the time. She didn’t add none to the hilarity of the +place. An’ one day Jim he strolled in, an’ seem’ the girl a-cryin’ like +a freshet and wishin’ she was dead, he inquired the cause. She told him +how that old harpy wrote her, an’, bein’ an orphant, she come out +thinkin’ she was goin’ to a respectable place as waitress, an’ Jim he +’lowed it was a case for the law. He was a little shy of twenty at the +time, just a young cockerel ’bout br’ilin’ size. Some of the old +hangers-on ’bout the place they see a heap of fun in Jim’s takin’ on +’bout the girl, he bein’ that young that he had scarce growed a pair of +spurs yet. An’ one of ’em says to him,’ Sonny, if you’re afeerd that +this yere corral is onjurious to the young lady’s morals, we’ll call in +the gospel sharp, if you’ll stand for the brand.’ Now Jim hadn’t a +cent, nor no callin’, nor a prospect to his back, but he struts up to +the man that was doin’ the talkin’, game as a bantam, an’ he says, ‘The +lady ain’t rakin’ in anythin’ but a lettle white chip, in takin’ me, +but if she’s willin’, here’s my hand.’ + +“At which that pore young thing cried harder than ever. Well, Jim he up +an’ marries the girl an’ it turns out fine. He gets a job herdin’ sheep +on shares, an’ she stays with the Rodney outfit till he saves enough to +build a cabin. Things is goin’ with Jim like a prairie afire. In a few +years he acquires a herd of his own, a fine herd, not a scabby sheep in +the bunch. Alida she makes him the best kind of a wife, them kids is +the pride of his life, and then, them cursed cattle-men do for him. Of +course, he takes to rustlin’; I’d do more’n rustle if they’d touch +mine.” + +The pair of broncos that Mrs. Yellett was driving humped their backs +like cats as they climbed the steep mountain-road. With her, driving +was an exact science. It was a treat to see her handle the ribbons. +Mary asked some trifling question about the children and it elicited +the information that one of the girls was named Cacta. “Yes,” she said, +“I like new names for children, not old ones that is all frazzled out +and folks has suffered an’ died to. It seems to start ’em fair, like +playin’ cards with a new deck. Cacta’s my oldest daughter, and I named +her after the flowers that blooms all over the desert spite of +everything, heat, cold, an’ rain an’ alkali dust—the cactus blooms +right through it all. Even its own thorns don’t seem to fret it none. I +called her plain Cactus till she was three, and along came a sharp +studyin’ the flowers an’ weeds out here, and he ’lowed that Cactus was +a boy’s name an’ Cacta was for girls—called it a _fee_minin tarnation, +or somethin’ like that, so we changed it. My second daughter ’ain’t got +quite so much of a name. She’s called Clematis. That holds its own out +here pretty well, ’long by the willows on the creek. Paw ’lowed he was +terrible afraid that I’d name the youngest girl Sage-brush, so he spoke +to call her Lessie Viola, an’ I giv’ in. The boys is all plain named, +Ben, Jack, and Ned. Paw wouldn’t hear of a fancy brand bein’ run onto +’em.” + +The temperature fell perceptibly as they climbed the heights, and the +air had the heady quality of wine. It was awesome, this entering into +the great company of the mountains. Presently Mary caught the glimmer +of something white against the dark background of the hills. It gleamed +like a snow-bank, though they were far below the snow-line on the +mountain-side they were climbing. + +“Well, here be camp,” announced Mrs. Yellett. What Mary had taken for a +bank of snow was a huge, canvas-covered wagon. Several dogs ran down to +greet the buckboard, barking a welcome. In the background was a shadowy +group, huge of stature, making its way down the mountain-path. “And +here’s all the children come to meet teacher.” Mrs. Yellett’s tone was +tenderly maternal, as if it was something of a feat for the children to +walk down the mountain-path to meet their teacher. But Mary, straining +her eyes to catch a glimpse of her little pupils, could discover +nothing but a group of persons that seemed to be the sole survivors of +some titanic race. Not one among them but seemed to have reached the +high-water mark of six feet. Was it an optical illusion, a +hallucination born of the wonderful starlight? Or were they as huge as +they seemed? The young men looked giants, the girls as if they had +wandered out of the first chapters of Genesis. Their mother introduced +them. They all had huge, warm, perspiring hands, with grips like bears. +Mary looked about for a house into which she could escape to gather her +scattered faculties, but the starlight, yellow and luminous, revealed +none. There was the huge covered wagon that she had taken for a +snow-bank, there was a small tent, there were two light wagons, there +were dogs innumerable, but there was no sign of a house. + +“What do you think of it?” inquired Mrs. Yellett, smilingly, +anticipating a favorable answer. + +“It’s almost too beautiful to leave.” Mary innocently supposed that +Mrs. Yellett referred to the starlit landscape. “But I’m so tired, Mrs. +Yellett, and so glad to get to a real home at last, that I’m going to +ask if you will not show me the way to the house so that I may go to +bed right away.” + +This apparently reasonable request was greeted by a fine chorus of +titanic laughter from Mary’s pupils. Mrs. Yellett waved her hand over +the surrounding landscape in comprehensive gesture. + +“Ain’t all this large enough for you?” she asked, gayly. + +“You mean the mountains? They’re wonderful. But—I really think I’d like +to go in the house.” + +“I shore hope you ain’t figgerin’ on goin’ into no house, ’cause there +ain’t no house to go into.” She laughed merrily, as if the idea of such +an effete luxury as a house were amusing. “This yere family ’ain’t ever +had a house—it camps.” + +Mary gasped. The real meaning of words no longer had the power of +making an impression on her. If Mrs. Yellett had announced that they +were in the habit of sleeping in the moon, it would not have surprised +her. + +“If you are tired, an’ want to go to bed, you can shuck off and lie +down any time. Ben, Jack, Ned, go an’ set with paw in the tent while +the gov’ment gets ready for bed. Cacta and Clem, you help me with them +quilts.” + +Mary stood helpless in the wilderness while quilts and pillows were +fetched somewhere from the adjacent scenery, and Mrs. Yellett asked +her, with the gravity of a Pullman porter interrogating a passenger as +to the location of head and foot, if she liked to sleep “light or +dark.” She chose “dark” at random, hating to display her ignorance of +the alternatives, with the happy result that her bed was made up to +leeward of the great sheep-wagon, in a nice little corner of the State +of Wyoming. Mary was grateful that she had chosen dark. + +As she dozed off, she was reminded of a certain magazine illustration +that Archie had pinned over his bed after the aunts had given a +grudging consent to this westward journey. There was a line beneath the +pictorial decoy which read: “Ranch Life in the New West.” And there +were piazzas with fringed Mexican hammocks, wild-grass cushions, a +tea-table with a samovar, and, last, a lady in white muslin pouring +tea. The stern reality apparently consisted in scorching alkali plains, +with houses of the packing-box school of architecture at a distance of +seventy or eighty miles apart. No ladies in white muslin poured tea; +they garbed themselves in simple gunny-sacking, and their repartee had +an acrid, personal note. But Mary was glad to know that Archie had that +picture, and that he thought of her in such ideal surroundings. + + + + +X. +On Horse-thief Trail + + +Judith, on her black mare, Dolly, left the Dax ranch after the mid-day +meal to go in quest of her brother. He had left his comfortable cabin +on the Bear Creek, when he had turned rustler, and moved into the “bad +man’s country,” one of those remote mountain fastnesses that abound in +Wyoming and furnish a natural protection to the fugitive from justice. +Judith took the left fork of the road even as Peter Hamilton had chosen +the right, the day she had watched him gallop towards Kitty Colebrooke +with never a glance backward. Judith strove now to put him and the +memory of that day from her mind by turning towards the open country +without a glance in the direction he had taken. But her thoughts were +weary of journeying over that trail that she would not look towards; in +imagination she had travelled it with Peter a hundred times, saw each +dip and turn of the yellow road, each feature of the landscape as he +rode exultant to Kitty, to be turned, tried, taken or left as her mood +should prompt. But Judith was more woman than saint, and in her heart +there was a blending of joy and pain. For she knew—such skill has love +in inference from detail—that the mysterious far-away girl, who was so +powerful that she could have whatever she wanted, even to Peter, loved +her own ambitions better than she did Peter or Peter’s happiness, and +that she would not marry him except as a makeshift. For Miss Colebrooke +wrote verses; Peter had a white-and-gold volume of them that Judith +fancied he said his prayers to. + +As for Peter himself, he had never been able to explain the magic Kitty +had brewed for him. There was a heady quality in the very ring of her +name. His first glimpse of her, on Class Day, in a white gown and a hat +that to his manly indiscrimination looked as guileless as a sheaf of +poppies nodding above the pale-yellow hair that had the sheen of +corn-silk, had been a vision that stirred in him heroic promptings. He +had no difficulty in securing an introduction. She was a connection of +the Wetmores, as was he, though through opposite sides of the house. In +the few minutes’ talk that followed, he had the disconcerting sensation +of being “talked down to.” There was the indulgent tolerance of the +woman of the world to the “nice boy” about this amazing young woman, +who might have been eighteen. Hamilton had repudiated the very +suggestion of being a “nice boy.” But he felt himself blushing, groping +for words, saying stupid things, supplying every requisite of the “nice +boy” as if he were acting the part. Her chaperon bore her away +presently, and he was left with a radiant impression of corn-silk hair +and a complexion that justified Bouguereau’s mother-of-pearl flesh +tints. And when she had tilted the ruffled lace parasol over her +shoulder, so that it framed her head like a fleecy halo, he had seen +that her eyes were green as jade. Withal he had a sense of having +acquitted himself stupidly. + +Later, when he ran the gamut of some friends, they had chaffed him on +his hardihood. By Jove! He had nerve to look at her! Didn’t he know she +was “the” Miss Colebrooke? Now Hamilton was absolutely ignorant of Miss +Colebrooke’s right of way to the definite article, but it was +characteristic of him to make no inquiries. On the whole, he found the +situation meeting with a greater number of the artistic requirements +than such situations usually presented. He was still dallying with this +pleasant vagueness of sensation when he picked up a copy of a magazine, +and the name Katherine Colebrooke caught his eye and held it like the +flight of a comet. Her contribution was a sonnet entitled “The +Miracle.” As a naïve emotional confession, “The Miracle” interested +him; as a sonnet, he rent it unmercifully. + +Peter was to learn, however, that this sonnet was but a solitary flake +in a poetic fall of more or less magnitude. He rather conspicuously +avoided a reference to her poetry when they met again. To him it was +the very least of her gifts. Her hair, that had the tender yellow of +ripening corn, was worthy a cycle of sonnets, but pray leave the making +of them to some one else! By daylight the jade-colored eyes seemed to +shut out the world. The pupils shrank to pin-points. The green looked +deep—as many fathoms as the sea. She was all Diana by daylight, a +huntress, if you will, of the elusive epithet, but essentially a maiden +goddess, who would add no sprightly romance to the chronicles of +Olympus. By lamp-light she suggested quite another divinity. The +pin-points expanded; they burned black, like coals newly breaking into +flame. + +When Hamilton knew her better, he did not like to think that he had +thought her eighteen at their first meeting. It impugned his judgment +as a man of the world. Young ladies of eighteen could not possibly be +contributors of several years’ standing to the various magazines. +Disconcerting scraps of gossip floated to him. He heard of her as +bridesmaid at a famous wedding of six years back, when she had +deflected the admiration from the bride and remained the central figure +of the picture. Her portrait by Sargent had been the sensation of the +Salon when he had been a grubby-faced boy with his nose in a Latin +grammar. An unusual situation was abhorrent to him. That he should +marry an older woman, one, moreover, who had gained her public in a +field to which he had not gained admission, was doubly distasteful by +reason of his deference to the conventional. If she had flirted with +him, his midsummer madness would have evaporated into thin air; but she +kept him at arm’s-length, ostensibly took him seriously, and the boy +proposed. + +Her rejection of him was a matter of such consummate skill that +Hamilton did not realize the keenness of his disappointment till he was +swinging westward over the prairies. She had confided to him that her +work claimed her and that she must renounce those sweet +responsibilities that made the happiness of other women. It was with +the protective mien of one who sought to shield him from an adverse +destiny that she declined his suit. + +This had all happened seven years ago. In the mean time he had adjusted +his disappointment to the new life of the West. To say that he had +fallen in love with the situation would be to misrepresent him. But the +rôle of lonely cow-puncher loyally wedded to the thought of his first +love was not without charm to Peter. How long his constancy would have +survived the test of propinquity to a woman of Judith Rodney’s +compelling personality, other things being equal, it would be difficult +to hazard a guess. The coming of Judith from the convent increased the +perspective into which Kitty was retreating. With the vivid plainswoman +in the foreground, the pale-haired writer of verse dwindled almost to +reminiscence. But the reverence for the usual, that made up the +underlying motive for so much of Hamilton’s conduct, presented barriers +alongside of which his previous quandary regarding Miss Colebrooke’s +seniority shrank to insignificance. He might marry a woman older than +himself and swallow the grimace of it, but by no conceivable system of +argument could he persuade himself to marry into a family like that of +the Rodneys—the girl herself, for all her beauty and rare womanliness, +a quarter Indian, her father the synonyme for obloquy, her brother a +cattle thief. Hamilton preferred that other men should make the heroic +marriages of a new country. He was prepared to applaud their hardihood +of temperament, but in his own case such a thing was inconceivable. +Similar arguments have ensnared multitudes in the web of caution and +provided a rich feast for the arch-spider, convention, the shrivelled +flies dangling in the web conveying no significance, apparently, beyond +that of advertising the system. + +When Peter went East, he had expected to find Kitty worn by the pursuit +of epithets, haunted by the phantom of a career, resigned to the slings +and arrows of remorseful spinsterhood. An obvious regret, or, at least, +resignation tempered with remembrance, was the unguent he anticipated +at the hands of Kitty. But alas for sanctuaries built to refuge wounded +pride! He found Kitty the pivot of an adoring coterie, the magazines +flowing with the milk and honey of her verse and she looking younger, +if possible, than when he had first known her. Time, experience, even +the pangs of literary parturition had not writ a single character on +that alabaster brow. The very atrophy of the forces of time which she +had accomplished by unknown necromancy seemed to endow her with an +elfin youth, making her seem smaller, more childlike, more radiantly +elusive than when she had worn the poppy hat at Cambridge. + +The tan and hardship of the prairie had adjusted the blunder of their +ages. Stark conditions had overdrawn his account perhaps a decade; she +retained a surplus it would be rude to estimate. Her greeting of him +was radiant, her welcome panoplied in words that verged close to +inspiration. A woman would have scented warning instantly, deep feeling +and the curled and perfumed phrase being suspicious cronies and sure to +rouse those lightly slumbering watch-dogs, the feminine wits. But Peter +only turned the other cheek. More than once, in the days that followed, +he devoutly thanked his patron saint, caution, that his relations with +Judith had been governed by characteristic prudence. Kitty admitted him +to her coterie, but he had lost nothing of his attitude of grand Turk +towards her verses. The sin be upon the heads of whomever took such +things seriously! The irony of fate that compelled a class poet to +punch cows may have tinctured his judgment. + +A telegram recalled him to the ranch and prevented a final leave-taking +with Miss Colebrooke. He made his adieux by letter, and they were +frankly regretful. Miss Colebrooke’s reply mingled sorrow in parting +from her old friend with joy in having found him. Her letter, a +masterpiece of phrase-spinning, presented to Peter the one significant +fact that she would not be averse to the renewal of his suit. In +reading her letter he made no allowance for the fact that the lady had +made a fine art of saying things, and that her joy and regret at their +meeting and parting might have been reminiscent of the printed passion +that was so prominent a feature of magazinedom. Her letters—the like of +them he had never seen outside printed volumes of letters that had +achieved the distinction of classics—culminated in the one that Judith +had given him that morning, announcing that unexpectedly she had +decided to join the Wetmore girls and would be glad to see him at the +ranch. + +That he had flown at her bidding, Judith knew. What she would least +have suspected was that Miss Colebrooke had received her visitor as if +his breakneck ride across the desert had been in the nature of an +afternoon call. If Judith, knowing what she did of this long-drawn-out +romance, could have known likewise of her knight’s chagrin, would she +have pitied him? + +Ignorant of the recent anticlimax, and with a burden of many heavy +thoughts, Judith was penetrating a world of unleavened desolation. +Beneath the scourge of the noon-day sun the desert lay, stripped of +every illusion. Vegetation had almost ceased, nothing but sun-scorched, +dust-choked sage-brush could spring from such sterility. The fruit of +desolation, it gave back to desolation a quality more melancholy than +utter barrenness. Glittering in the sunlight, the beds of alkali +gleamed leper white; above them the agitated air was like the hot waves +that dance and quiver about iron at white heat. From horizon to horizon +the curse of God seemed to have fallen on the land; it was as if, +cursing it, He had forgotten it, and left it as the abomination of +desolation. Judith scarce heeded, her thoughts straying after first one +then another of the group that made up her little world—Peter Hamilton, +Kitty Colebrooke, Jim, his family—thoughts inconsequent as the dancing +dust-devils that whirled over that infinity of space, and, whirling, +disappeared and reappeared at some new corner of the compass. + +The trail that she must take to Jim’s camp in the mountain was known to +but few honest men. Fugitives from justice—the grave, impersonal +justice of the law, or the swift justice of the plains—found there an +asylum. And while they sometimes suffered, in death by thirst or +hunger, a sentence more dreadful than the law of the land or the law of +the rope would have given them, the desert, like the sea, seldom gave +up her own. It was more than probable that no woman except Alida Rodney +had ever taken that trail before, and reasonably certain that no woman +had ever taken it alone. Dolly, when she saw the beds of alkali grow +more frequent, and that the trails of the range cattle turned back, +sniffed the lack of water in the air, slackened her pace, and turned an +interrogatory ear towards her mistress. + +“It’s all right, old girl”; the gauntleted hand patted the satin neck. +“We’re in for”—Judith flung her head up and confronted the infinite +desolation yawning to the sky-line—“God knows what.” + +Dolly broke into a light canter; this evidently was not an occasion for +dawdling. There was a touch of business about the way the reins were +held that made the mare settle down to work. But her flying hoofs made +little apparent progress against the space and silence of the desert. +Five, ten, fifteen miles and the curving shoulder of the mountain, that +she must cross, still mocked in the distance. Only the sun moved in +that vast world of seemingly immutable forces. + +There was no stoic Sioux in Judith now. The girl that breasted the +crests of the foot-hills shrank in terror from the loneliness and the +suggestion of foes lurking in ambush. The sun dropped behind the +mountain, leaving a blood-red pool in his wake, like fugitive Cain. +Already night was sweeping over the earth from mountain shadows that +flowed imperceptibly together like blackened pools. To the girl +following the trail the silence was more dreadful than a chorus of +threatening voices. She listened till the stillness beat at her ears +like the stamping of ten thousand hoofs, then pulled up her horse, and +the desert was as still as the chamber of death. + +“Ah, Dolly, my dear, a house is the place for women folk when the night +comes—a house, the fire burning clear, the kettle singing, and—” Dolly +whinnied an affirmative without waiting for the picture to be +completed. The wilderness was being gradually swallowed by the shadows, +as deliberately as a snake swallows its victim. They were nearing the +mountains. The hot blasts of air from the desert blew more and more +intermittently. The breeze swept keen from the hills, towering higher +and higher, and Judith breathed deep of the piny fragrance and felt the +tension of things loosen a little. + +Whitening cattle bones gleamed from the darkness, tragic reminders of +hard winters and scant pasturage, and Judith, with the Indian +superstition that was in the marrow of her bones, read ghostly warnings +in the empty eye-sockets of the grinning skulls that stared up at her. +She dared not think of the dangers that the looming darkness might +conceal, or of what she might find at her journey’s end, or—“Whoa, +Dolly! softly, girl. Is it my foolish, white-blood nerves, or is some +one following?” + +The mare had been trained to respond to the slightest touch on her +mouth, and stopped instantly. Judith swayed slightly in the saddle with +the heaving of the sweating horse. The blood beat at her temples, +confusing what she actually heard with what her imagination pictured. +She was half-way up a towering spur of the Wind River when she slid +from the saddle, and putting her ear to the ground listened, Indian +fashion. Above the throbbing stillness of the desert night, that came +to her murmurously, like the imprisoned roar of the sea from a shell, +she could hear the regular beat of horse’s hoofs following up the steep +mountain grade. She scrambled up with the desperate nimbleness of a +hunted thing, but when she attempted to vault to the saddle her limbs +failed and she sank clinging to the pommel. Twice she tried and twice +the trembling of her limbs held her captive. With the loss of each +moment the beat of the hoofs on the trail below became more distinct. +The very desperation of her plight kept her clinging to the pommel, +incapable of thought, so that when she finally flung herself to the +saddle she was surprised to find herself there. To the left the trail +dropped sharply to a precipice, choked by the close crowding of many +scrub pines. To the right the snow-clad spires of the Wind River kept +their eternal vigil. If she should call aloud for help, these white, +still mountains would echo the anguish of her woman’s cry and give no +further heed to her plight. + +The trail had begun to widen. The horse behind her again stumbled, +loosening a stone that rolled with crashes and echoings down to the +precipice below. She took advantage of the widening of the trail to +urge Dolly forward. Her impulse was to put spurs to the mare and run, +to take chances with loose stones, a narrowing trail, and the +possibility of Dolly’s stumbling and breaking a leg; but discretion +prompted the showing of a brave front, the pleasantries of the road, +with flight as the last resource of desperation. + +Suddenly gaining what seemed to be a plateau, she wheeled and waited +the coming of this possible friend or foe. The thudding of hoofs +through the inferno of darkness stopped, as the rider below considered +the latest move of the horseman above. They were so near that Judith +could hear the labored breathing of the sweating horse. The blackness +of the night had become a tangible thing. The towering mountains were +one piece with the gaping precipice, the trail, the scrub pines, the +gauntlet on her hand. The horse below resumed its stumbling gait. +Judith crowded Dolly close to the rocky wall. If the chance comrade of +the wilderness should pass her by in the darkness—God speed him! + +“What the devil are you blocking the trail for?” sung out a voice from +the darkness. At sound of it Judith’s heart stopped beating. The voice +was Peter Hamilton’s. + + + + +XI. +The Cabin In The Valley + + +And Judith, taken unawares by the unexpected turn of things, comforted +as a lost child that is found, told all her feeling for him in the way +she called his name. The easy tenderness of the man awoke; his senses +swayed to the magic of her voice, the mystery of the night, the shadow +world in which they two, ’twixt earth and sky, were alone. They rode +without speaking. Peter’s hand sought hers, and all her woman’s terror +of the desolation, her fear of the vague terrors of the dreadful night, +spoke in her answering pressure. It was as if the desert had given them +to each other as they groped through the silent darkness. In the great +company of earth, sky, silence, and this great-hearted woman, Peter +grew conscious of a real thrill. There were depths to life—vast, still +depths; this woman’s unselfish love for him made him realize them. He +felt his soul sweeping out on the great tide of things. Farther and +farther it swept; his patron saint, caution, beckoning frantically from +the receding shore, was miles behind. “Judith!” he said, and he scarce +recognized his own voice. “Judith!” he struggled as a swimmer in a +drowning clutch. Then his patron saint threw him a life-line and he +saved the situation. + +“Judith!” he said, a third time, and now he knew his voice. It was the +voice of the man who tilted at life picturesquely in a broad-brimmed +hat, who loved his darling griefs and fitted them as a Rembrandt fits +its background. And still, in the same voice, the voice he knew, he +said: “I feel as if we had died and our souls were meeting. You know +Aldrich’s exquisite lines: + +“Somewhere in desolate, wind-swept space, + In twilight land—no man’s land— +Two hurrying shapes met face to face + And bade each other stand. + +“‘And who are you?’ cried one, agape, + Shuddering in the gloaming light. +I know not,’ said the other shape, + ‘I only died last night.’” + + +“‘I only died last night!’” she repeated the line, slowly, +significantly. In her questioning she forgot the night, the desolation, +the presence of the man. Had she died last night? Had youth, the joy of +living, her infinite capacity for love, had they died when Peter, with +the ugly haste of the man without a nice sense of the time that should +elapse between the old and the new love, had spurred away cheerfully at +the beck of another woman? And now the desert, this earth-mother as she +called it, in the Indian way, had given him back to her, thrown them +together as driftwood in the still ocean of space. She drew a long +breath, the breath of one waking from an anguished dream. A wild, +unreasoning gladness woke in her heart, the joy of living swept her +back again to life. She had not died last night, she was riding through +the wilderness with Peter. + +“Look!” she whispered. The sky had lost its forbidding blackness. The +sharp notches of the mountains, faintly outlined in white, undulated +through an eternity of space. Venus hung in the west, burning softly as +a shaded lamp. The trail they climbed seemed to end in her pale yellow +light. + +Peter had saved the situation, but the wild beauty of the night stirred +in him that gift of silvery speech that was ever his tribute to the +sex, rather than the woman. He bent towards Judith. A loosened strand +of her hair blew across his cheek. The breakneck ride to Kitty was +already the madness of a dead and gone incarnation. He pointed to the +pale star, and told her it was the omen of their destiny; the formless +blackness through which they had groped was the way of life, but for +such as were not condemned to eternal darkness Venus held high her lamp +and they scaled the heights. + +And Judith, listening, found her heart a battle-field of love and hate. +“Were women dogs, that men should play with them in idle moods, caress +them, and fling them out for other toys?” she demanded of herself, even +while the tones of his voice melted her innermost being to thankfulness +for this hour that he was wholly hers. + +Gayly, with ready turns of speech and snatches of song, trolled in his +musical barytone, Peter rode through the night, even as he rode through +life, a Sir Knight of the Joyous Heart, unbrushed by the wing of +sorrow, loving his pale griefs for the values they gave the picture. +And Judith understood by reason of that exquisite perception that was +hers in all matters pertaining to him, and, knowing, only loved the +more. + +Down the valley came the sharp yelp of a coyote, and in a moment the +towering crags had taken it up, the echo repeating it and giving it +back to the valley, where the coyote barked again at the shadow of his +voice. The night was full of the eerie laughter. Peter put a +restraining hand on Dolly’s bridle, and, waiting for the coyote to +stop, called Judith’s name, and all the mountains made music of it. The +echo sang the old Hebrew name as if it had been a psalm. Peter’s voice +gave it to the mountains joyously, but the mountains gave it back in +the minor. And Judith was reminded of the soft, singing syllables that +her mother, in the Indian way, had made of her daughter’s Indian name. +The remembrance tugged at her heart. In her joy at seeing Peter she had +forgotten that the errand that had brought her was an errand of life +and death—life and death for her brother! + +But Peter’s ready enthusiasms pressed him hard. Surely love-making was +the business of such a night. “Ah, Judith, goddess of the heights, if I +could sing your name like the mountains, would you love me a little?” + +For his pains he had a flash of white teeth in a smile that recalled +his first acquaintance with Kitty, the sort of smile one would give to +a “nice boy” when his manœuvres were a trifle obvious. “Not if you sang +my name as the chorus of all the Himalayas and the Rockies and Andes, +and with the fire of all their volcanoes and the beauty of their snows +and the strength of all their hills, for it’s not my way to love a +little!” + +He bent towards her; to brush her cheek lightly as they rode was but to +imply his appreciation of the scene as a bit of chiaroscuro, the +panorama of the desert night, eternal romance typified by the man and +woman scaling the heights, the goddess of love lighting them on their +way by her flaming torch. But Judith, who said little because she felt +much, was in no mood to brook such dalliance, and, urging the mare +sharply, she cantered down the divide at peril of life and limb. Peter, +cursing the heavy-footed beast he rode, came stumbling after. + +Judith rode wildly through the night, leaving Peter laps behind, to +beseech, to prophesy dire happening if she should slip, and to scramble +after, as best he might, on the heavy-footed beast he repudiated, with +all his ancestors, as oxen, to the fourth generation. But the woman +kept her pace. She had stern questions to put to herself, and they were +likely to have truer answers if Peter were elsewhere than riding beside +her. Whither was he going? They had met casually on a trail known to +few honest men. It led over a spur of the Wind River to a sort of no +man’s land, the hiding-place of horse and cattle thieves. She had gone +to warn her brother. Could he be going there—She could not bring +herself to finish. + +Her heart was divided against itself. Within it were fought again the +red and the white man’s battles, bitterly, and to the finish. And now +the white man, with his open warfare, won, and all her love rose up and +scourged her little faith. She would wait on the trail for Peter, +penitent and ashamed. And while she waited suspicions bred of her +Indian blood stirred distrustfully, and she told herself that her +mother’s daughter made a worthy champion of the ways of white men. Did +Hamilton hunt her brother gallowsward, making merry with her the +meantime? He had not even been courteously concerned as to where she +was going when they met on the divide. They had met and ridden together +as casually as if it had been the most natural thing for them both to +be taking the horse-thief trail as a summer evening’s ride. And she had +not thought to wonder at his possible destination, when the man from +whom she rode in terror through the night proved to be Peter, because +the lesser question of his errand had been swallowed up in the greater +miracle of his presence. + +She was by this time well down the divide. The temperature had risen +perceptibly on the down grade. The heat of the plains had already +mingled with the cool hill air; the heights, where Venus kept her love +vigil, were already past. Judith gave Dolly a breathing spell, herself +lounging easily meanwhile. She knew how to take her ease in the saddle +as well as any cow-puncher on the range. + +“The Hayoka has dominion over me,” she mused, with Indian fatalism. “As +well resign myself to sorrow with dignity. Hayoka, Hayo—ka!” and she +began to croon softly a hymn of propitiation to the Hayoka, the Sioux +god of contrariety. According to the legends, he sat naked and fanned +himself in a Dakota blizzard and huddled, shivering, over a fire in the +heat of summer. Likewise the Hayoka cried for joy and laughed for +sorrow. + +She remembered how the nuns at Santa Fé had been shocked at her for +praying to Indian gods, and how once she had built a little mound of +stones, which was the Sioux way of making petition, in the shadow of +the statue of the Virgin Mary, and how Sister Angela had scattered the +stones and told her to pray instead to the Blessed Lady. She still +prayed to the Blessed Lady every day; but sometimes, too, she reared +little mounds of stones in the desert when she was very sad and the +kinship between her and the dead gods of her mother’s people seemed the +closer for their common sorrow. + +Peter, coming up with a much-blown horse, found her still chanting the +Indian song. + +“Sing him a verse for me, Judith. Heaven knows I need something to +straighten out my infernal luck. Tell the Hayoka that I’m a good fellow +and need only half a chance. Tell him to prosper my present venture.” + +She had begun to chant the invocation, then stopped suddenly. “I must +not; you know I am a Catholic.” Suspicion that had been scotched, not +killed, raised its head. “What was his present venture?” Her eye had +not changed in expression, nor a tone of her voice, but in her heart +was a sickening distrust for all things. + +A belated moon had come up. The level plain, on which their horses +threw grotesque, elongated shadows, was flooded with honey-colored +light. Each straggling clump of sage-brush, whitening bone and bowlder, +gleamed mysterious, ghostly in the radiant flood-tide. They seemed to +be riding through a world that had no kinship with that black, formless +void through which they had groped but yet a little while. Then +darkness had been upon the face of the deep. Now there was a miracle of +light such as only the desert, in its desolation, knows. To Judith, +with a soul attuned to every passing expression of nature, there was +significance in this transition from darkness to light. The sudden +radiance was emblematic of her belated perception, coming as it did +after a blindness so dense as to appear almost wilful. Her mind was +busy with a multitude of schemes. Fool though she had been, she would +not be the instrument of her brother’s undoing. + +“I’ve come too far,” she cried, in sudden dismay. “I should have +stopped at the foot of the divide. I’ve never been over the trail +before.” + +“You foolish child, why should you stop in the middle of the +wilderness?” + +She wheeled the mare about and faced him, a figure of graven +resolution. + +“I promised to meet Tom Lorimer there—now you know.” + +With which she cracked Dolly sharply with her heel and began to retrace +her way over the trail. Peter turned his horse and followed, with the +feeling of utter helplessness that a man has when confronted with the +granite obstinacy of women. Judith had meanwhile expected that the +announcement of her mythical appointment with Tom Lorimer would be +received differently. Tom Lorimer’s reputation was of the worst. An +Eastern man formerly, an absconder from justice, rumor was busy with +tales of ungodly merrymaking that went on at his ranch, where no woman +went except painted wisps from the dance-halls. But Peter was too loyal +a friend, despite his shortcomings as a lover, to see in Judith’s +statement anything more than a sisterly devotion so deeply unselfish +that it failed to take into account the danger to which she subjected +herself. + +However, it was plainly his duty to prevent an unprotected rendezvous +with Lorimer, to reason, to plead, and, if he should fail to bring her +to a reasonable frame of mind, to go with her, come what would of the +result. There were reasons innumerable why he, a cattle-man, should +avoid the appearance of dealing with the sheep faction, he reflected, +grimly. Lorimer owned sheep, many thousand head. His herds had been +allowed to graze unmolested, while smaller owners, like Jim Rodney, had +been crowded out because his influence, politically, was a thing to be +reckoned with. So Peter followed Judith, pleading Judith’s cause; she +did not understand, he told her, what she was doing; and while perhaps +there was not another man in the country who would not honor her +unselfishness in coming to him, Lorimer’s chivalry was not a thing to +be reckoned with, drunken beast that he was. And Judith, worn with the +struggle, tried beyond measure, made reckless by the daily infusion of +ill-fortune, pulled up the mare and laughed unpleasantly. + +“You think I’m going to see Lorimer about Jim? I’m going with him to a +merrymaking. We’re old pals, Lorimer and I.” + +“Judith, dear, has it come to this, that you not only distrust an old +friend, but that you try to degrade yourself to hide from him the fact +that you are going to your brother’s? You’ve never spoken to Lorimer. I +heard him say, not a week ago, that he had never succeeded in making +you recognize him. You deceived me at first when you spoke of meeting +him—I thought you had a message from Jim—but this talk of merrymaking +is beneath you.” He shrugged his shoulders in disgust. He felt the +torrent of grief that rent her. No sob escaped her lips; there was no +convulsive movement of shoulder. She rode beside him, still as the +desert before the sand-storm breaks, her soul seared with white-hot +iron that knows no saving grace of sob or tear. She rode as Boadicea +might have ridden to battle; there was not a yielding line in her body. +But over and over in her woman’s heart there rang the cry: “I am so +tired! If the long night would but come!” + +Peter drew out his watch. “It’s a quarter to eleven. We’ll have a hard +bit of riding to reach Blind Creek before midnight.” + +Then he knew as well as she, perhaps better, the route to Jim’s +hiding-place; she had never been there as yet. And if Peter knew, +doubtless every cattle-man in the country knew. What a fool she had +been with her talk of meeting Tom Lorimer! A sense of utter defeat +seemed to paralyze her energies. She felt like a trapped thing that +after eluding its pursuers again and again finds that it has been but +running about a corral. Physical weariness was telling on her. She had +been in the saddle since a little past noon and it was now not far from +midnight. And still there was the unanswered question of Peter’s +errand. It was long since either had broken the silence. A delicious +coolness had crept into the air with the approach of midnight. Judith, +breathing deep draughts of it, reminded herself of the stoicism that +was hers by birthright. + +“Peter”—her voice lost some of its old ring, but it had a deeper +note—“Peter, we make strange comrades, you and I, in a stranger world. +We meet on Horse-Thief Trail, and there is reason to suppose that our +errands are inimical. You’ve pierced all my little pretences; you know +that I am going to my brother, who is an outlaw—my brother, the rope +for whose hanging is already cut. And yet we have been friends these +many years, and we meet in this world of desolation and weigh each +other’s words, and there is no trust in our hearts. Our little faith is +more pitiful than the cruel errands that bring us. I take it you, too, +are going to my brother’s?” + +“I’m going there to see that you arrive safe and sound, but I had no +intention of going when I left camp. You’ve brought me a good twenty +miles out of my way, not to mention accusing me of ulterior motives. +Now, aren’t you penitent?” He smiled at her, boyish and irresistible. +To Judith it was more reassuring than an oath. “It’s like dogs fighting +over a picked bone; the meat’s all gone. The range is overworked; it +needs a good, long rest.” He turned towards Judith, speaking slowly. +“What you have said is true. We’re friends before we’re partisans of +either faction. I’m on my way to a round-up. There’s been an unexpected +order to fill a beef contract—a thousand steers. We’re going to furnish +five hundred, the XXX two hundred and fifty, and the “Circle-Star” two +hundred and fifty. Men have been scouring the enemy’s country for days +rounding up stragglers. It will go hard with the rustlers after this +round-up, Judith.” + +She felt a great wave of penitence and shame sweep over her. She had +not trusted him; in her heart she had nourished hideous suspicions of +him, and he was telling her, quite simply, of the plans of his own +faction, trusting her, as, indeed, he might, but as she never expected +to be trusted. + +“Peter, do you know that sometimes I think Jim has gone quite mad with +these range troubles. He’s acted strangely ever since his sheep were +driven over the cliff. He’s not been home to Alida and the children +since he has been out of jail, and you know how devoted to them he has +always been! He spends all his time tracking Simpson. Alida wrote me +that she expects him to-night, and I’m going there on the chance.” + +“It’s the devil’s own hole for desolation that he’s come to.” Peter +looked about the cup-shaped valley that was but a _cul-de-sac_ in the +mountains. Its approach was between the high rock walls of a cañon. +Passing between them, the rise of temperature was almost incredible. +The great barrier of mountain-range, that cut it off from the rest of +the world, seemed also to cut it off from light and air. The atmosphere +hung lifeless, the occasional bellow of range-cattle sounded far-off +and muffled. Vegetation was scant, the sage-brush grew close and +scrubby, even the brilliant cactus flowers seemed to have abandoned the +valley to its fate. A lone group of dead cotton-woods grew like +sentinels close to the rocky walls. Their twisted branches, gaunt and +bare, writhed upward as if in dumb supplication. There was about them a +something that made Judith come closer to Peter as they passed them by. +The night wind sang in their leafless branches with a long-drawn, +shuddering sigh. The despair of a barren, deserted thing seemed to have +settled on them. + +“Those frightful trees, how can Alida stand them?” She looked back. +“Oh, I wish they were cut down!” + +Before them was the cabin, its ruined condition pitifully apparent even +by night. It had been deserted ten years before Jim brought his family +to it. Rumor said it was haunted. Grim stories were told of the death +of a woman who had come there with a man, and had not lived to go away +with him. The roof of the adjoining stable had fallen in, the bars of +the corral were missing. The house was dark but for a feeble light that +glimmered in one window, the beacon that had been lighted, night after +night, against Jim’s coming. It added a further note of apprehension, +peering through the dark, still valley like a wakeful, anxious eye, +keeping a long and unrewarded vigil. Judith felt the consummation of +the threatening tragedy after her first glimpse of the sentinel trees. +She could not explain, but her heart cried, even as the wind in them +had sung of death. Perhaps her mother’s spirit spoke to her, just as +she had said, on that memorable drive, that the Great Mystery spoke to +his people in the earth, the sky, and the frowning mountains. + +“Peter”—she had slid from her horse and was clinging to his arm—“when +it happens, Peter, you will have no part in it?” + +“It won’t happen, Judith, if I can help it.” + +She kissed his hand as it held the loose reins. + +“Lord, I am not worthy!” was the thought in his heart. He sat graven in +the saddle. Sir Knight of the Joyous Heart though he was, the unsought +kiss of trust gifted him with a self-reverence that would not soon +forsake him. + +Judith was rapping on the door and calling to Alida not to be +frightened. And presently it was opened. Peter wanted to leave Judith, +now that she was safely at the end of her journey, but she would not +hear of it till he had eaten. + +“You would have had your comfortable supper five hours ago had you not +been playing cavalier to me all over the wilderness.” And Peter +yielded. + +Judith busied herself about the kitchen. Her mood of racking +apprehension had disappeared. Indian stoicism had again the guiding +hand. She waved Peter from the fire that she was kindling, as if he +were a blundering incompetent. But she let him slice the bacon and +grind the coffee as one lets a child help. Alida came in, white-faced +and anxious over the long absence of her husband, but conscientiously +hospitable nevertheless. Peter noticed that Judith made a gallant +pretence of eating, crumbling her bread and talking the meanwhile. The +pale wife, who had little to say at the best of times, was put to the +test to say anything at all. But, withal, their intent was so genuinely +hospitable that Peter himself could not speak with the pity of it. +Accustomed as he was to the roughness of these frontier cabins, never +had he seen a human habitation so desolate as this. The mud plaster had +fallen away from between the logs, showing cross sections of the +melancholy prospect. An atmosphere of tragedy brooded over the place. +Whether from its long period of emptiness, or from the vaguely hinted +murder of the woman who had died there, or whether it took its +character from the prevailing desolation, the cabin in the valley was +an unlovely thing. Nor did the cleanliness, the conscientious making +the best of things, soften the woful aspect of the place. Rather was +the appeal the more poignant to the seeing eye, as the brave makeshift +of the self-respecting poor strikes deeper than the beggar’s whine. The +house was bare but for the few things that Alida could take in the +wagon in which they made their flight. And all through the pinch of +poverty and grinning emptiness there was visible the woman-touch, the +brave making the best of nothing, the pitiful preparation for the +coming of the man. Wild roses from the creek bloomed against the +gnarled and weather-warped logs of the walls. Sprays of clematis +trailed their white bridal beauty from cans rescued from the ashes of a +camp-fire. But Alida was a strategist when it came to adorning her +home, and the rusty receptacle was hid beneath trailing green leaves. +There was at the window a muslin curtain that in its starched and +ruffled estate was strongly suggestive of a child’s frock hastily +converted into a window drapery. The curtain was drawn aside that the +lamp might shed its beam farther on the way of the traveller who came +not. There was but one other light in the place, a bit of candle. Alida +apologized for the poor light by which they must eat, but she did not +offer to take the lamp from the window. + +Peter was no longer Sir Knight of the Joyous Heart as he watched the +little, white-faced woman, who went so often to the door to look +towards the road that entered the valley that she was no longer aware +of what she did. He saw her wide eyes full of fear, the bow of the +mouth strained taut with anxiety, her unconscious fear of him as one of +the alien faction, and withal her concern for his comfort. Judith’s +control was far greater, but though she hid it skilfully, he knew the +sorrow that consumed her. + +There was a cry from the room beyond, and Judith, snatching up the +candle, went in to the children. All three of them were sleeping +cross-ways in one bed, their small, round arms and legs striking out +through the land of dreams as swimmers breasting the waves. She gave a +little cry of delight and appreciation, and called Peter to look. +Little Jim, who had cried in some passing fear, sat up sleepily. He +stretched out his small arms to Peter, whom he had never seen before. +Peter took him, and again he settled to sleep, apparently assured that +he was in friendly hands. + +The warm, small body, giving itself with perfect confidence, strongly +affected Peter’s heightened susceptibilities. In the very nature of the +situation he could be no friend to Jim Rodney, yet here in his arms lay +Jim Rodney’s son, loving, trusting him instinctively. Judith noticed +that his face paled beneath its many coats of tan. He was afraid of the +little sleeping boy, afraid that his unaccustomed touch might hurt him, +and yet loath to part with the small burden. Judith took the boy from +Peter and placed him between the two little girls on the bed. + +Through the window they could see Alida’s dress glimmering, like a +phantom in the darkness, as she strained her eyes towards the path. +Peter hated to leave the women and children in this desolate place. The +night was far spent. To reach the round-up in season, he could at best +snatch a couple of hours’ sleep and be again in the saddle while the +stars still shone. His saddle and saddle blanket were enough for him. +The broad canopy of heaven, the bosom of mother earth, had given him +sound, dreamless sleep these many years. He bade the women good-night, +and made his bed where the cañon gave entrance to the valley. But sleep +was slow to come. Now, in that vague, uncertain world where we fall +through oceans of space, and the waking is the dream, the dream the +waking, Peter caught pale flashes of Kitty’s gold head as she ran and +ran, ever in the pursuit of something, she knew not what. And as she +ran hither and thither, she would turn her head and beckon to Peter, +and as he followed he felt the burden of years come upon him. And then +he saw Judith’s eyes, still and grave. He turned and wakened. No, it +was not Judith’s eyes, but the stars above the mountain-tops. + + + + +XII. +The Round-up + + +The stars were still shining when Peter Hamilton looked at his watch +next morning, but he sternly fought the temptation to lie another two +minutes by remembering the day’s work before him, and went in search of +the horse that he had not picketed overnight, as the beast required a +full belly after the hard night’s ride he had given him. Peter had +rolled out of his blankets with a keen anticipatory relish for the day +ahead. It was well, he knew, that there was ample work of a definite +nature for Peter the cow-puncher; as for Peter the man, he was +singularly at sea. Had Judith Rodney been his desert comrade all these +cheerful years for him to get his first belated insight into the real +Judith only a few little hours back? Or was it, he wondered, her +seeming unconsciousness of him, as she rode brave and sorrowful through +the night, to avert, if might be, her brother’s death—at all events, to +comfort and inspirit the frightened woman and her little children—that +had freshly tinged the friendship he had so long felt for her? Many +were the questions that Peter vaguely put to himself as he started out +for his long day in the saddle; and none of them he answered. Indeed, +he could not satisfactorily explain to himself why he should think of +Judith at all in this way—Judith, whom he had known so long, and upon +whom he counted so securely—Judith, who understood things, and was as +good a comrade as a man. Surely it was a strange thing that he should +discover himself in a sentimental dream of Judith! + +For it was in such dreams that Katherine Colebrooke had figured ever +since Peter could remember. For years, indeed—and Judith knew it!—he +had stood, tame and tractable, waiting for Chloe to throw her dainty +lariat. But Chloe had intimated that her graceful fingers were engaged +with the inkpot and her head with schemes for further sonneting. Chloe +was becoming famous. To Peter, who was unmodern, there was little to be +gained in arguing against a state of affairs so crassly absurd as +career-getting for women. At such seasons it behooved sane men to pray +for patience rather than the gift of tongues. When the disheartened +fair should weary of the phantom pursuit, then might the man of +patience have his little day. Peter winced at the picture. To the world +he knew that his long waiting on the brink of the bog, while his +ambitious lady floundered after false lights, was, in truth, no more +impressive a spectacle than the anguished squawking of a hen who +watches a brood of ducklings, of her own hatching, try their luck in +the pond. + +And there was Judith the great-hearted, Judith who was as inspiring as +a breath of hill air, Judith with no thought of careers beyond the +loyal doing of her woman’s part, Judith, trusty and loyal—and Judith +with that accursed family connection! + +Peter tightened his cinch and turned his horse westward. The stars had +grown dim in the sky. The world that the night before had seemed to +float in a silvery effulgence looked gray and old. The cabin in the +valley flaunted its wretched squalor, like a beggar seeking alms on the +highway. Riding by, Peter lifted his sombrero. “Sweet dreams, gentle +lady!” He dug the rowel into his horse’s side and began his day at no +laggard pace. Nor did he spare his horse in the miles that lay between +him and breakfast. The beast would have no more work to do that day, +when once he reached camp, and Peter was not in his tenderest mood as +he spurred through the gray of the morning. The pale, chastened world +was all his own at this hour. Not a creature was stirring. The +mountains, the valleys, the softly huddled hills slept in the deep hush +that is just before the dawn. He looked about with questioning eyes. +Last night this very road had been a pale silver thread winding from +the mountain crests into a world of dreams. To-day it was but a trail +across the range. “Where are the snows of yester year?” he quoted, with +a certain early-morning grimness. At heart he was half inclined to +believe Judith responsible for the vanished world; Judith, Judith—he +was riding away from her as fast as his horse could gallop, and yet his +thoughts perversely lingered about the cabin in the valley. + +After a couple of hours’ hard riding he could dimly make out specks +moving on that huge background of space, and presently his horse +neighed and put fresh spirit into his gait, recognizing his fellows in +moving dots on the vast perspective. And being a beast of some +intelligence, for all his heavy-footed failings, he reasoned that food +and rest would soon be his portion. Peter had no further use for the +rowel. + +Breakfast was already well under way when he reached camp. The outfit, +seated on saddles in a semicircle about the chuck wagon, ate with that +peculiar combination of haste and skill that doubtless the life of the +saddle counteracts, as digestive troubles are apparently unknown among +plainsmen. The cook, in handing Peter his tin plate, cup, spoon, and +black-handled fork, asked him if “he would take overland trout or +Cincinnati chicken, this morning?” The cook never omitted these jocular +inquiries regarding the various camp names for bacon. He seemed to +think that a choice of alias was as good as a change of menu. There was +little talk at breakfast, and that bearing chiefly on the day’s work. +Every one was impatient for an early start. The horse wrangler had his +string waiting, the cook was scouring his iron pots, saddles were +thrown over horses fresh from a long night’s good grazing, cinches were +tightened, slickers and blankets were adjusted, and camp melted away in +a troup of horsemen winding away through the gray of early morning. + +The scene of the beef round-up was a mighty plain, affording limitless +scope for handling the cattle of a thousand hills. In the distance rose +the first undulations of the mountains, that might be likened to the +surplusage of space that rolled the length of the sweeping levels, then +heaped high to the blue. The specks in the far distance began to grow +as if the screw of a field-glass were bringing them nearer, turning +them into horsemen, bunches of cattle, “chuck-wagons” of the different +outfits, reserves of horses restrained by temporary rope-corrals, all +the equipment of a great round-up. Dozens of men, multitudes of horses, +hordes of cattle—the mighty plain swallowed all the little, prancing, +galloping, bellowing things, and still looked mighty in its loneliness. +Fling a handful of toys from a Noah’s Ark—if they make such simple toys +now—in an ordinary field, and the little, wooden men, horses and cows, +will suggest the round-up in relation to its background. Men darted +hither and thither, yelling shrilly; cows—born apparently to be +leaders—broke from the bunches to which they had been assigned and +started at a clumsy run, followed by kindred susceptible to example. +Cow-punchers, waiting for just such manifestations of individuality, +whirled after them like comets, and soon they were again in the pawing, +heaving, sweltering bunch to which they belonged. + +Peter Hamilton, whose particular skill as a cow-puncher lay in that +branch of the profession known as “cutting out,” found that the work of +the rustlers had been carried on with no unsparing hand since the early +spring round-up. Calves bearing the “H L” brand—that claimed by a +company known to be made up of cattle-thieves—followed mothers bearing +almost every brand that grazed herds in that part of the State. The +Wetmore outfit, that used a “W” enclosed in a square, were apparently +the heaviest losers. The cows and calves were herded at the right of +the plain, convenient to the branding-pen, the steers well away to the +opposite side. As Peter drove a “W-square” cow, followed by a little, +white-faced calf, whose brand had plainly been tampered with, he heard +one of his associates say: + +“There’s nothing small about the ‘H L’ except their methods.” + +“What’s ‘H L’ stand for, anyway?” the other cow-puncher asked. + +“Why, Hell, or, How Long; depends whether you’re with ’em or again +’em.” + +Peter wheeled from the men and headed for the bunch he was cutting out. +He fancied that the man had looked at him strangely as he offered a +choice of meanings for the “H L”—and yet he could not have known that +Peter had gone to Rodney’s cabin last night. He flung himself heart and +soul into his work, dashing full tilt at the snorting, stamping bedlam, +enveloped in clouds of dust that dimmed the very daylight. Calves +bleated piteously as they were jammed in the thickening pack. Peter +shouted, swung the rope right and left, thinning the bunch about him, +and a second later emerged, driving before him a cow, followed by a +calf. These were turned over to cow-boys waiting for them. Time after +time Hamilton returned to that mass of unconscious power, that with a +single rush could have annihilated the little band of horsemen that +handled them with the skill of a dealer shuffling, cutting, dealing a +pack of cards. + +To the left were the steers, pawing and tearing up the earth in a very +ecstasy of impotent fury. Picture the giant propeller of an ocean liner +thrashing about in the sands of the desert and you will have an +approximate knowledge of the dust raised by a thousand steers. Their +long-drawn, shrieking bellow had a sinister note. Horns, hoofs, tails +beat the air, their bloodshot eyes looked menacingly in every +direction; but a handful of cow-boys kept them in check, circling round +and round them on ponies who did their work without waiting for quirt +or rowel. + +The noonday sun looked down upon a scene that to the eye unskilled in +these things was as confusion worse confounded. Cow-boys dashed from +nowhere in particular and did amazing things with a bit of rope, +sending it through the air with snaky undulations after flying cattle. +The rope, taking on lifelike coils, would pursue the flying beast like +an aerial reptile, then the noose would fall true, and the thing was +done. A second later a couple of cow-boys would be examining the +disputed brand on the prone animal. + +The smell of burning flesh and hair rose from the branding-pen and +mingled with the stench of the herds in one noisome compound. The yells +of the cow-punchers, each having its different bearing on the work in +hand, were all but lost in the dull, steady roar of the cattle, +bellowing in a chorus of fear, rage, and pain. And still the work of +sorting, branding, cutting-out, went steadily on. Though an outsider +would not have perceived it, the work was as crisp-cut and exact in its +methods as the work in a counting-house. One of the cow-boys, in hot +pursuit of a fractious heifer, encountered a gopher-hole, and horse and +rider were down in a heap. In a second a dozen helping hands were +dragging him from under the horse. He limped painfully, but stooped to +examine his horse. The beast had broken a leg, and turned on the man +eyes almost human in their pain. + +“Bob, Bob!” The cow-puncher went down on his knees and put his arms +about the neck of his pet. “My God!” he said, “me and Bob was just like +brothers. Everybody knowed that.” He uncinched the saddle with clumsy +tenderness; not a man thought a whit less of him because he could not +see well at the moment. He turned his head away, that he might not see +the well-aimed shot that would release his pet from pain. Then he +limped away after another horse—it was all in the day’s work. + +The beef contract called for a thousand steers, four and five years +old, and these having been well and duly counted, and some dozen extra +head added in case of accident, they were immediately started on the +trail, as they could accomplish some seven or eight miles before being +bedded down for the night. Hamilton, who had crossed to the beef side +of the round-up to have a necessary word with the “Circle-Star” +foreman, was amazed to find Simpson making ready to start with the +trail herd. Peter inquired, with a few expletives, “how long he had +been a cow-man, in good and regular standing?” + +“As far as the regularity is concerned, that would be a pretty hard +thing to answer, but he’s had an interest in the ‘XXX’ since—since—” + +“He drove Rodney’s sheep over the cliff?” + +“Ain’t you a little hard on the beginning of his cattle career? It +usually goes by a more business-like name, but—” he shrugged his +shoulders—“it’s up to the ‘XXX.’ We wouldn’t have him help to pull +bogged cattle out of a creek.” + +The beeves, hidden in a simoom of their own stamping, were gradually +being pressed forward on the trail, a huge pawn, ignorant of its own +strength, manipulated by a handful of men and horses. Its bellowing, +like the tuning of a thousand bass-fiddles, shook the stillness like +the long, sullen roar of the sea, as out of the plain they thundered, +to feed the multitude. + +“Well, there goes as pretty a bunch of porterhouses as I’d want to put +tooth to. If I get away from here within the next two months, as I’m +expecting, doubtless I’ll meet some of you again with your personality +somewhat obscured by reason of fried onions.” + +The foreman of the “Circle-Star” waved his hand after the slowly moving +herd that gradually pressed forward like an army in loose marching +order. Outriders galloped ahead, like darting insects, and pointing the +lumbering mass that trailed its half-mile length at a snail’s-pace. The +great column steadily advanced, checked, turned, led as easily as a +child trails his little steam-cars after him on the nursery floor, and +always by the little force of a handful of men and a few horses. + +After supper came general relaxation around the camp-fire. The men, who +had all day been strung to a keen pitch of nervous energy, lounged in +loose, picturesque uncouthness, while each began to unravel his own +lively miscellany of information or invention. There was jest, +laughter, spinning of yarns, singing of songs. As Peter lay in the +fire-light, smoking his brier-wood, he noticed that the man next him +spent a great deal of time poring over a letter, holding it close to +the blaze, now at arm’s-length, which was hardly surprising, +considering the penmanship of the more common variety of _billet-doux_. +The man was plainly disappointed that Peter would not notice or +comment. Finally he folded it up, and with sentimental significance +returned it to the left side pocket of his flannel shirt, and remarked +to Peter, “It’s from her.” + +“Indeed,” said Peter, who had not the faintest notion who “her” could +be. “Let me congratulate you.” + +“Yes, sir,” and there was conviction in the cow-puncher’s tone; “it’s +from old man Kinson’s girl, up to the Basin, and the parson’s goin’ to +give us the life sentence soon. A man gets sick o’ helling it all over +creation.” He rolled a cigarette, lit it, took a puff or two, then +turned to Peter, as one whose acquaintance with the broader side of +life entitled him to speak with a certain authority. “Is it that, or is +it that we’re getting on, a little long in the tooth, logy in our +movements?” + +“I think we’re just sick of helling it.” Peter looked towards the star +that last night had been the beacon towards which he and Judith had +scaled the heights. “Yes, we get sick of helling it after we’ve turned +thirty.” + +“Then I can’t be making a mistake. If I thought it was because I was +getting on, I’d stampede this here range. It don’t seem fair to a girl +to allow that you’re broke, tamed, and know the way to the corral, when +it’s just that you’re needin’ to go to an old man’s home.” + +“Now this is really love,” said Peter to himself, with interest. “This +is humility.” A sympathetic liking for the self-distrustful lover +surged hot and generous into Peter’s heart, and he continued to +himself: “Now that’s what Judith would appreciate in a man, some +directness, some humility!” Poor Judith! Poor burden-bearer! Who was to +love her as she deserved to be loved, even as old man Kinson’s girl, of +the Basin, was loved? Yet suppose some one did love her in such fashion +and she returned it? It was a picture Peter had never conjured up +before. Nonsense! he was accustomed to think of Judith a great deal, +and that was not the way to think of her. “Dear Judith!” said Peter, +half unconsciously to himself, and looked again at the fellow, who had +gone back to his dingy letter and continued to reread it in the +fire-light as if he hoped to extract some further meaning from the now +familiar words. Nature had fitted him out with a rag-bag assortment of +features—the nose of a clown, the eyes of a ferret, the mouth that +hangs agape like a badly hinged door, the mouth of the incessant +talker. And withal, as he lounged in the fire-light, dreamily turning +his love-letter, he had a sort of superphysical beauty, reflected of +the glow that many waters cannot quench. + +Costigan, who had led the merriment against Simpson at Mrs. Clark’s +eating-house, was playing “mumbly-peg” with Texas Tyler. They had been +working like Trojans all day at the round-up, but they pitched their +pocket-knives with as keen a zest as school-boys, bickering over points +in the game, accusing each other of cheating, calling on the rest of +the company to umpire some disputed point. + +But presently, from the opposite side of the fire, some one began to +sing, in a rich barytone, a dirgelike thing that caught the attention +of first one then another of the men, making them stop their yarning +and knife-throwing to listen. The tune, in its homely power to evoke +the image of the ceremonial of death, was more or less familiar to most +of them. There was a conscious funeral pageantry in the ring of its +measured phrases that recalled to many burials of the dead that had +taken place in their widely scattered homes. Mrs. Barbauld’s hymn, +“Flee as a Bird to the Mountain,” are the words usually sung to the +air. + +Costigan presently cut across the dirgelike refrain with: “Phwat th’ +divil is ut about that chune that Oi’m thinkin’ of?” + +“This,” said the man with the barytone voice, “is the tune that Nick +Steele saved his neck to.” + +“Begorra, that’s ut. I wasn’t there mesilf, but Oi’ve heard th’ story +told more times than Oi’ve years to me credit.” + +“My father was in that necktie party,” spoke up a young cow-puncher, +“and I’ve heard him tell the story scores of times, and he always +wondered why the devil they let Steele off. Never could understand it +after the thing was done. He was talking of it once to a man who was a +sharp on things like mesmerism, and the man called it hypnotic +suggestion. Said that Steele got control of the whole outfit and +mesmerized ’em so they couldn’t do a thing to him.” + +Several of the men asked for the story, echoes of which had come down +through all the forty years since its happening. And the cow-puncher, +lighting a cigarette, began: + +“It was in the good old forty-nine days in California, when gold was +sometimes more plentiful than bread, and women were so scarce that one +day when they found a girl’s shoe on the trail they fitted a gold heel +to it and put it up in camp to worship. But sentiment wasn’t exactly +their long suit, and any little difficulties that cropped up were +straightened out by the vigilance committee—and a rope. One day a +saddle, or maybe it was a gun, that didn’t belong to him, was found +among this man Steele’s traps, and though he swore that some one had +put it there for a grudge, the committee thought that a hemp necktie +was the easiest way out of the argument. And this here Steele party +finds himself, at the age of twenty-four, with something like thirty +minutes of life to his credit. He don’t take on none, nor make a play +for mercy, nor try any fancy speech-making. He just waits round, kinder +pale, but seemin’ indifferent, considerin’ it was his funeral that was +impendin’. I’ve heard my father say that he was a tall, slim boy, with +a kind of girlish prettiness, and the committee looked some for +hysterics and they didn’t get none. The noose was made ready and they +told Steele he could have five minutes to pray, if he wanted to, or he +could take it out in cursing, just as he chose. The boy said he felt +that he hadn’t quite all that was coming to him in the way of +enjoyment, and that while he was far from criticising the vigilance +committee, he was not altogether partial to the nature of his demise, +and if it was just the same to them, instead of praying or cursing, +he’d take that five minutes for a song. + +“They was agreeable, and he up and steps on the scaffold, what they was +mighty proud of, it bein’ about the only substantial structure the town +could boast. He began to sing that thing you’ve all been listening to, +and he had a voice like water falling light and fine in a pool below. +They crowded up close about the scaffold and listened. The words he put +to it were his own story, just like those old minstrels that you read +about, and at the end of each verse came the chorus, slow and solemn as +the moment after something great has happened. There wasn’t a +hangin’-face in the crowd after he was started. At some time or other +every man had heard somebody he thought a heap of, buried to that tune, +and his voice got to workin’ on their imaginations and turned their +hearts to water. I don’t remember anything but the chorus—that went +like this: + +“‘Who’ll weep for me, on the gallows tree, + As I sway in the wind and swing? +Is there never a tear to be shed for me, + As I swing by a hempen string? +Who’ll weep, who’ll keep +Watch, as I’m rocked to sleep, + Rocked by a hempen string?’” + + +There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the +camp-fire and the night sounds of the lonely plain. The leaping flames +showed a group of thoughtful faces. Finally, Costigan broke the silence +with: + +“Begorra, ’tis some av thim ’ud be doin’ well to be lukin’ to their +music-lessons about here, Oi’m thinkin’, afther th’ day’s wurruk.” + +The Irishman, with his instinctive loquacity, had expressed what none +of the rest would have considered politic to hint. It was like the +giving way of the pebble that starts the avalanche. Soon they were deep +in tales of lynchings. Peter knew only too well the trend of their +talk, the “XXX” men were feeling the public pulse, as it were. Now, +according to the unwritten code of the plains, lynching was “meet, +right, just, and available” for the cattle-thief. And Peter felt +himself false to his creed, false to his employer, false to himself, in +seeking to evade the question. And yet that pitiful cabin, the +white-faced woman running to the door so often that she knew not what +she did, and the little rosy boy, who had put out his arms so +trustfully! Peter broke into their grewsome yarning. “Lord, but you’re +like a lot of old women just come from a funeral!” + +“Whin the carpse died hard, and th’ wake was a success.” Costigan +turned over. “Werra, werra, but we’ll be seein’ fairies the night!” + +A “XXX” man turned his head with a deliberate slowness and regarded +Peter with narrowing eyes: “If the subject of cattle-thieves and their +punishment is unpleasant to the gentleman from New York, perhaps he +will favor us with something more cheerful.” It was the same man who +had given the two definitions of the “H L” brand that morning at the +round-up. + +“Delighted,” said Peter, affecting not to notice the significance of +the man’s remark. “Did you ever hear of the time that Tony Neville was +burned with snow?” + +The “XXX” man yawned long and audibly. No one seemed especially +interested in Tony Neville’s having been burned with snow, but Peter +struck out manfully, just in time to head off a man who said that he +had seen Jim Rodney or some one who looked like him, following the +trail-herd. + +“Once on a time, when it paid to be a cattle-man,” began Peter, “there +was an outfit near Laramie that hailed from the United Kingdom, every +mother’s son of them. A fine, manly lot of fellows, but wedded to +calamity along of their cooks—not the revered range article,” and Peter +waved his hand towards the “W-square” cook, who was one of the party, +“but the pampered ranch article that boasts a real stove, planted in a +real kitchen, the spoiled darling that never has to light a fire out of +wet wood in the rain. + +“These unhappy Britons had every species of ill luck that could befall +an outfit, in the way of cooks; they were of every nationality, age, +and sex, and they stole, drank, quarrelled, till the outfit determined +to sweep the house clear of them and do its own cooking. Every man was +to have a turn at it for a week. There was a Scotchman, who gave them +something called ‘pease bannocks,’ three times a day; followed by an +Irishman, who breakfasted them on potatoes and whiskey. There was an +Englishman, who had a beef slaughtered every time he fancied a +tenderloin. There was a Welshman, who sang as he cooked. There were as +many different kinds of indigestion as there were men in the outfit. +They would beg to do night-herding, anything to get them away from that +ranch. Finally, when their little tummies got so bad that their +overcoats thickened, or wore through, or whatever happens to stomachs’ +overcoats that are treated unkindly, some one’s maiden aunt sent him a +tract saying that rice was the salvation of the human race, as witness +the Chinese. Whosever turn it was to cook that week determined to try +the old lady’s prescription. Rice was procured, about a peck, I think; +and the man who was cooking, pro tem, put the entire quantity on to +boil in a huge ham-boiler, over a slow fire, as per the directions of +the maiden aunt. The rice seemed to be doing nicely, when some one came +in and said that a bunch of antelope was over on the hills and there +was a good chance to get a couple. Every man got his gun, all but the +cook, and he looked at the rice, that hadn’t done a thing over the slow +fire, in a way that would melt your heart. ‘Just my luck that it should +be my week to pot-wrestle when there’s good hunting right at one’s +front door.’ + +“‘Oh, come on,’ some one said. ‘Didn’t Kellett’s aunt say the rice +ought to be cooked over a slow fire? Kellett, get your aunt’s letter +and read the directions for cooking that rice again.’ + +“The cook didn’t need a second invitation, and they got into their +saddles, cook and all, and went for the antelope. + +“Now antelope are not like stationary wash-tubs; they move about. And +when that particular outfit arrived at the spot where those antelope +were last seen, they had moved, but the boys found traces of them, and +continued on their trail. They went in the foot-hills and they searched +for those antelope all day. They caught up with old man Hall’s outfit +at dinner-time and were invited to take a bite. Coming home by way of +the ‘Circle-Star’ ranch, Colonel Semmes asked them in to have a +mint-julep; the colonel was a South Carolinian, and he had just +succeeded in raising some mint. They had several—I fear more than +several—drinks before leaving for home, with never a trace of antelope +nor a thought of the rice cooking over the slow fire. The colonel +remembered some hard cider that he had, and topping off on that, they +set out. The weather was pretty warm, and on their way home they +experienced some remorse over the hard cider. Now hard cider is an +accumulative drink; it piles up interest like debt or unpaid taxes. And +by the time those Englishmen had turned the little lane leading into +their home corral, they saw a sight that made their sombreros rise. As +I have said before, it was hot, being somewhere in the month of August. +Gentlemen, I hardly expect you to believe me when I say it was snowing +on their house, and not on another God blessed thing in the landscape. + +“The blame thing about it was, that every man took the phenomenon to be +his own private view of snakes, or their bibulous equivalent, +manifested in another and more terrifying form. Here was the August sun +pouring down on the plain where their ranch-house was situated; +everything in sight hot and dry as a lime-kiln, grasshoppers chirping +in a hot-wave prophecy, and snow covering the house and the ground, +about to what seemed a depth of four inches. Every one of them felt +sensitive about mentioning what he saw to the others. You see, +gentlemen, being unfamiliar with American drinks, and especially old +Massachusetts cider, they merely looked to keep their saddles and no +questions asked. + +“But when they got a bit closer the horror increased. Flying right out +of their windows were perfect drifts of snow, banks of it, gentlemen, +and the thermometer up past a hundred. One of the men looked about him +and noticed the pallor on the faces of the rest: + +“‘Do you notice anything strange, old chap? These cursed American +drinks!’ + +“‘Strange!’—the boy he had spoken to was about eighteen, a nice, +red-cheeked English lad out with his uncle learning the cattle +business. ‘Good God!’ the boy said. ‘I’ve always tried to lead a good +life, and here I am a paretic before I’ve come of age.’ + +“They halted their horses and held a consultation. The boss came to the +conclusion that since they had all seen it, there was nothing to do but +continue the investigation and send the details to the ‘Society for +Psychical Research,’ when he got down from his horse and walked towards +the door of the house. At his approach, as if to rebuke his wanton +curiosity, a great blast of snow blew out of the window and got him +full in the face. He howled—the snow was scalding hot. + +“Then they remembered the rice.” + +“Is that all?” demanded the man who had wanted to talk about rustling. + +“Isn’t it enough?” said Peter, who could afford to be magnanimous, now +that he had accomplished his point. + +“When I first heard that story, ’bout ten years ago, it ended with the +Britishers riding like hell over to the Wolcott ranch to borrow +umbrellas to keep off the hot rice while they got into the house,” said +the man, still sulky. + +“That’s the way they tell it to tenderfeet,” and Peter turned on his +heel. The story-telling for the evening was over, the boys got their +blankets and set about making their beds for the night. + + + + +XIII. +Mary’s First Day In Camp + + +The first day spent as governess to the family of Yellett reminded Mary +Carmichael of those days mentioned in the opening chapter of Genesis, +days wherein whole geological ages developed and decayed. Any era, +geological or otherwise, she felt might have had its rise, decline, and +fall during that first day spent in a sheep camp. + +She awoke to the sound of faint tinklings, and accepted the towering +peaks of the Wind River mountains, with their snowy mantles all shadowy +in the whitening dawn, and the warmer grays of huddling foot-hills, as +one receives, without question, the fantastic visions of sleep. The +faint tinkling grew nearer, mingled with a light pitter patter and a +far off baa-ing and bleating; then, as shadowy as the sheep in dreams, +a great flock came winding round the hill; in and out through the +sage-brush they went and came, elusive as the early morning shadows +they moved among. The air was crystalline and sparkling; creation’s +first morning could not have promised more. It would have been +inconsistent in such a place to waken in a house; the desert, that +seemed a lifeless sea, the sheep moving like gray shadows, were all +parts of a big, new world that had no need of houses built by hands. + +Ben, oldest of the Brobdingnag tribe, who had greeted Mary’s request to +be directed to “the house” as a bit of dry Eastern humor, led the herd +to pasture. Ben’s right-hand man was “Stump,” the collie, so named +because he had no tail worth mentioning, but otherwise in full +possession of his faculties. Stump was newly broken to his official +duties and authority sat heavily on him. Keenly alert, he flew hither +and thither, first after one straying member of the herd, then another, +barking an early morning roll-call as he went. Two other male +Brobdingnags came from some sequestered spot in the landscape and +joined Ben—Mary recognized two more pupils. + +Mrs. Yellett then unrolled the pillow constructed the night previous of +such garments as she had been willing to dispense with, and put them +on. The vastness of her surroundings did not prevent her from locating +the minutest article, and Mary gave her the respectful admiration of a +woman who has spent a great deal of time searching for things in an +infinitely smaller space. The matriarch then called the remaining +members of her household officially—the Misses Yellett accomplished +their early morning toilets with the simplicity of young robins. Only +the new governess hung back, but finally mustered up enough courage to +say that if such a thing was possible she would like to have a bath. + +Mrs. Yellett greeted her request with the amused tolerance of one who +has never given such a trifle a thought. + +“The habit of bathing,” she commented, “is shore like religion: them +that observes it wonders how them that neglects it gets along.” She +beckoned Mary to follow, and led the way to a bunch of willows that +grew about a stone’s-throw from the camp. “Here be a whole creek full +of water, if you don’t lack the fortitood. It’s cold enough to sell for +ten cents a glass down to Texas.” + +Somewhat dismayed, Mary stepped gingerly into the creek. Its intense +cold numbed her at first, but a second later awoke all her young +lustiness, and she returned to camp in a fine glow of courage to +encounter whatever else there might be of novelty. Mrs. Yellett was +preparing breakfast at a sheet-iron stove, assisted by Cacta and +Clematis. + +“Your hankering after a bath like this”—she added another handful of +flour to the biscuit dough—“do shore remind me of an Englishman who +come to visit near Laramie in the days of plenty, when steers had +jumped to forty-five. This yere Britisher was exhibit stock, shore +enough, being what’s called a peer of the realm, which means, in his +own country, that he is just nacherally entitled from the start to +h’ist his nose high. + +“The outfit he was goin’ to visit wasn’t in the habit of havin’ peers +drop in on them casual, but they aimed to make him feel that he wasn’t +the first of the herd that headed that way by a quart”—she cut four +biscuits with a tin cup, and resumed—“to which end they rounded up +every specimen of canned food that’s ever come across the Rockies. + +“‘Let him ask for “salmon esplinade,” let him ask for “chicken +marine-go,” let him ask for plum-pudding, let him ask for hair-oil or +throat lozengers, this yere outfit calls his bluff,’ says Billy Ames, +who owns the ‘twin star’ outfit and is anticipatin’ this peer as a +guest. + +“Well, just as everything is ready, the can-opener, sharp as a razor, +waitin’ to open up such effete luxuries as the peer may demand, Bill +Ames gets called to California by the sickness of his wife. He feels +mean about abandonin’ the peer, but he don’t seem to have no choice, +his wife bein’ one of them women who shares her bad health pretty +impartially round the family. So Billy he departs. But before he goes +he expounds to Joplin Joe, his foreman, the nature of a peer and how +his wants is apt to be a heap fashionable, and that when he asks for +anything to grasp the can-opener and run to the store-house—Cacta, you +put on the coffee! + +“That peer arrives in the afternoon, and he never makes a request any +more than a corpse. Beyond a marked disposition to herd by himself and +to maintain the greatest possible distance between his own person and a +six-shooter, he don’t vary none from the bulk of tenderfeet. At night, +when all parties retires, and Joplin Joe ponders on them untouched, +effete luxuries in the store-room, and how the can-opener ’ain’t once +been dimmed in the cause of hospitality, it frets him considerable, and +he feels he ain’t doin’ his duty to the absent Billy Ames. + +“At sunrise he can stand it no longer. He thunders on the Britisher’s +door with the butt of his six-shooter, calling out: + +“‘Peer, peer, be you awake?’ + +“The peer allowed he was, though his teeth was rattling like broken +crockery. + +“‘Peer, would you relish some “salmon esplinade”?’ + +“The peer allowed he wouldn’t. + +“‘Peer, would you relish some “chicken marine-go”?’ + +“The peer allowed he shore wouldn’t, and the crockery rattled harder +than ever. Joplin Joe then tried him on the hair-oil and the throat +lozengers, the peer declining each with thanks. + +“‘Peer,’ said Joplin Joe, fair busting with hospitality, ‘is there +anything in this Gawd’s world that you do want?’ + +“The crockery rattled an interlood, then Joplin Joe made out: + +“‘Thanks, very much. I should like a ba-ath’—Clematis, you see if them +biscuits is brownin’. + +“Joe he ran to the store-room, and his eye encountered a barrel of +corned-beef. He calls to a couple of cow-punchers, and the first thing +you know that late corned steer is piled onto the prairie and them +cow-punchers is hustling the empty barrel in to the peer. Next they +detaches the steps from the kitchen door, ropes ’em to the barrel and +introduces the peer to his bath. He’s good people all right, and when +he sees they calls his bluff he steps in all right and lets ’em soak +him a couple of buckets. This here move restores all parties to a +mutual understanding, and the peer he bathes in the corned-beef barrel +regular durin’ his stay—you see the habit had cinched him.” + +Ned had shot an antelope a day or two previous, and antelope steak, +broiled over a glowing bed of wood coals, with black coffee, stewed +dried apples, and soda biscuit made up what Mary found to be an +unexpectedly palatable breakfast. As camp did not include a cow, no +milk or butter was served with meals. Nevertheless, the hungry +tenderfoot was quite content, and missed none of the appurtenances she +had been brought up to believe essential to a civilized meal, not even +the little silver jug that Aunt Martha always insisted came over with +William the Conqueror—Aunt Martha scorned the _May-flower_ contingent +as parvenus. + +The family sat on the grass, tailor fashion, and every one helped +himself to what appetite prompted, in a fashion that suggested +brilliant gymnastic powers. To pass a dish to any one, the governess +discovered, was construed as an evidence of mental weakness and +eccentricity. The family satisfied its appetite without assistance or +amenities, but with the skill of a troupe of jugglers. + +Breakfast was half over when Mrs. Yellett laid down her knife, which +she had handled throughout the meal with masterly efficiency. Mary +watched her in hopeless embarrassment, and wondered if her own timid +use of a tin fork could be construed as an unfriendly comment upon the +Yelletts’ more simple and direct code of table etiquette. + +“Land’s sakes! I just felt, all the time we’ve been eating, we was +forgettin’ something. You children ought to remember, I got so much on +my mind.” + +All eyes turned anxiously to the cooking-stove, while an expression of +frank regret began to settle over the different faces. The backbone of +their appetites had been broken, and there was something else, perhaps +something even more appetizing, to come. + +Interpreting the trend of their glance and expression, up flared Mrs. +Yellett, with as great a show of indignation as if some one had set a +match to her petticoats. + +“I declare, I never see such children; no more nacheral feelin’s than a +herd of coyotes; never thinks of a plumb thing but grub. No, make no +mistake about the character of the objec’ we’ve forgot. ’Tain’t sweet +pertaters, ’tain’t molasses, ’tain’t corn-bread—it’s paw! It’s your +pore old paw—him settin’ in the tent, forsook and neglected by his own +children.” + +All started up to remedy their filial neglect without loss of time, but +Mrs. Yellett waved them back to their places. + +“Don’t the whole posse of you go after him, like he’d done something +and was to be apprehended. Ben, you go after your father.” + +Ben strode over to the little white tent that Mary had noticed +glimmering in the moonlight the preceding evening, and presently +emerged, supporting on his arm a partially paralyzed old man, who might +have been Rip Van Winkle in the worst of tempers. His white hair and +beard encircled a shrivelled, hawklike face, the mouth was sucked back +in a toothless eddy that brought tip of nose and tip of chin into +whispering distance, the eyes glittered from behind the overhanging, +ragged brows like those of a hungry animal searching through the brush +for its prey. + +“If you’ve done eatin’,” whispered Mrs. Yellett to Miss Carmichael, +“you’d better run on. Paw’s langwidge is simply awful when we forget to +bring him to meals.” Mary ran on. + +When, after the lapse of some thirty minutes or so, the stentorian +voice of Mrs. Yellett recalled Mary to camp, she found that the tin +breakfast service had been washed and returned to the mess-box, the +beds had been neatly folded and piled in one of the wagons—in fact, the +extremely simple tent-hold, to coin a word, was in absolute order. It +was just 6 A.M., and Mrs. Yellett thought it high time to begin school. +Mary tried to convey to her that the hour was somewhat unusual, but she +seemed to think that for pupils who were beginning their tasks +comparatively late in life it would be impossible to start sufficiently +early in the morning. So at this young and tender hour, with many +misgivings, Mary set about preparing her _al fresco_ class-room. + +She chose a nice, flat little piece of the United States, situated in +the shade of the clump of willows that bordered a trickling creek not +far from her sylvan bath-room of the early morning. How she was to sit +on the ground all day and yet preserve a properly pedagogical demeanor +was the first question to be settled. That there was nothing even +remotely resembling a chair in camp she felt reasonably assured, as +“paw” was sitting on an inverted soap-box under a pine-tree, and “paw,” +by reason of age and infirmity, appropriated all luxuries. Mrs. +Yellett, with her usual acumen, grasped the situation. + +“I’m figgerin’,” she commented, “that there must be easier ways of +governin’ than sittin’ up like a prairie-dog while you’re at it.” + +Mrs. Yellett took a hurried survey of the camp, lessening the distance +between herself and one of the light wagons with a gait in which grace +was entirely subservient to speed; then, with one capacious wrench of +the arms, she loosened the spring seat from the wagon and bore it to +the governess with an artless air of triumph. It was difficult, under +these circumstances, to explain to Mrs. Yellett that without that +symbol of scholastic authority, a desk, the wagon seat was useless. +Nevertheless, Mary set forth, with all her eloquence, the mission of a +desk. Mrs. Yellett was genuinely depressed. Had she imported the +magician without his wand—Aladdin without his lamp? She proposed a +bewildering choice—an inverted wash-tub, two buckets sustaining the +relation of caryatides to a board, the sheet-iron cooking-stove. In an +excess of solicitude she even suggested robbing “paw” of his soap-box. + +Mary chose the wash-tub on condition that Mrs. Yellett consented to +sacrifice the handles in the cause of lower education. She felt that an +inverted tub that was likely to see-saw during class hours would tend +rather to develop a sense of humor in her pupils than to contribute to +her pedagogical dignity. + +The camp, as may already have been inferred, enjoyed a matriarchal form +of government. Its feminine dictator was no exception to the race of +autocrats in that she was not an absolute stranger to the rosy byways +of self-indulgence. There was a strenuous quality in her pleasuring +perhaps not inconsistent in one whose daily tasks included +sheep-herding, ditch-digging, varied by irrigating and shearing in +their proper seasons. Under the circumstances, it was not surprising +that her wash-tub bore about the same relationship to her real duties +as does the crochet needle or embroidery hoop to the lives of less +arduously engaged women. It was at once her fad and her relaxation, the +dainty feminine accomplishment with which she whiled away the hours +after a busy day spent with pick and shovel. Of all this Mary was +ignorant when she proposed that Mrs. Yellett saw off the tub-handles in +the cause of culture. However, Mrs. Yellett procured a saw, yet the +hand that held it lingered in its descent on the handles. She +contemplated the tub as affectionately as Hamlet regarding the skull of +“Alas, poor Yorick!” + +“This,” she observed, “is the only thing about camp that reminds me I’m +a woman. I’d plumb forget it many a time if it warn’t for this little +tub. The identity of a woman is mighty apt to get mislaid when dooty +compels her to assoome the pants cast aside by the nacheral head of the +house in sickness or death. It’s ben six years now since paw’s done a +thing but set ’round and wait for meals.” Mrs. Yellett sighed +laboriously. “Not that I’m holdin’ it agin him none. When a man sees +eighty, it’s time he bedded himself down comfortable and waited for the +nacheral course of events to weed him out. But when the boys get old +enough to tend to herdin’, irrigatin’, and the work that God A’mighty +provided that man might get the chance to sweat hisself for bread, +accordin’ to the Scriptures, I aim to indulge myself by doin’ a wash of +clothes every day, even if I have to take clean clothes and do ’em over +again.” + +The poor “gov’ment’s” tender heart could not resist this presentation +of the case. + +“We won’t touch the handles, Mrs. Yellett,” she laughed. “I’m glad you +told me you had a personal sentiment for the tub. There are some things +I should feel the same way about—my hoe and rake, for instance, that I +care for my garden with, at home. And that suggests to me, why not dig +two little trenches for the handles and plant the tub? Then I shall +have an even firmer foundation on which to arrange the—the—the +educational miscellany.” + +The suggestion of this harmless expedient was gratefully received, and +the “desk” duly implanted, whereupon Mary pathetically sought to +embellish her “class-room” from such scanty materials as happened to be +at hand. A hemstitched bureau scarf that she had tucked in her trunk, +in unquestioning faith in the bureau that was to be part of the ranch +equipment, took the “raw edge,” as it were, off the desk. A bunch of +prairie flowers, flaming cactus blossoms in scarlet and yellow, ox-eyed +daisies, white clematis from the creek, seemed none the less decorative +for the tin cup that held them. Mary grimly told herself that her +school was to have refining influences, even if it had no furniture. + +The books, pencils, and paper arranged in decorous little piles, Miss +Carmichael announced to her patroness that school was ready to open. +Mrs. Yellett, who had never heard that “a soft voice is an excellent +thing in woman,” and whose chest-notes were not unlike those of a +Durham in sustained volume of sound, made the valley of the Wind River +echo with the summons of the pupils to school, upon which the teacher +herself was overcome by the absurdity of the situation and had barely +time to escape back of the willows, where she laughed till she cried. + +As the pupils trooped obediently to school, Mary noted that they +carried no flowers to their dear teacher, but that Ben, the oldest +pupil, twenty-one years old, six feet four inches in height and deeply +saturnine in manner, carried a six-shooter in his cartridge-belt. The +teacher felt that she was the last to deny a pupil any reasonable +palliative of the tedium of class-hours—the nearness of her own +school-days inclined her to leniency in this particular—but she was +hardly prepared to condone a six-shooter, and confided her fears to +Mrs. Yellett, who received them with the indulgent tolerance a +strong-minded woman might extend to the feminine flutter aroused by a +mouse. She explained that Ben did not shoot for “glory,” but to defend +the herd from the casual calls of mountain-lions, bears, and coyotes. +Jack and Ned, who were very nearly as tall as their older brother, +carried similar weapons. Mary prayed that a fraternal spirit might +dwell among her pupils. + +The Misses Yellett were hardly less terrifying than their brothers. +They had their father’s fierce, hawklike profile, softened by youth, +and the appalling height and robustness due to the freedom and fresh +air of a nomadic existence. Their costumes might, Mary thought, have +been fashioned out of gunny-sacks by the simple expedient of cutting +holes for the head and arms. The description of the dress worn by the +charcoal-burner’s daughter in any mediaeval novel of modern +construction would approximate fairly well the school toilets of these +young lady pupils. The boys wore overalls and flannel shirts, which, in +contrast to the sketchy effects of their sisters’ costumes, seemed +almost modish. Mrs. Yellett then left the “class-room,” saying she must +take Ben’s place with the sheep. + +The Brobdingnags, huge of stature, sinister of aspect, deeply +distrustful of the rites in which they were about to participate, +closed in about their teacher. From the pigeon-holes of memory Mary +drew forth the academic smile with which a certain teacher of hers had +invariably opened school. The pupils greeted the academic smile with +obvious suspicion. No one smiled in camp. When anything according with +their conception of the humorous happened, they laughed uproariously. +Thus, early in the morning, on his way to breakfast, Ned had stumbled +over an ax and severely cut his head. Every one but Ned saw the point +of this joke immediately, and hearty guffaws testified to their +appreciation. + +Miss Carmichael took her place behind the upturned tub. + +“Will you please be seated?” she said. + +The class complied with the instantaneous precision of automata newly +greased and in excellent working order. Their abrupt obedience was +disconcerting. Some one must have been drilling them, thought their +anxious teacher, in the art of simultaneous squatting. The temper of +the class respecting scholastic deportment leaned towards rigidity +bordering on self-torture. + +Mary made out a roll-call, and by unanimous consent it was agreed to +arrange the class as it then stood, or rather squatted, with the +Herculean Ben at the top, and gradually diminishing in size till it +reached the vanishing point with Cacta, who was ten and the least +terrifying of all. + +“And now,” ventured the teacher, with the courage of a white rabbit, +“what have you been in the habit of studying?” + +Absolute silence on the part of the class, which confronted its +questioner straight as a row of bottles, presenting faces imperturbable +as so many sphinxes. + +Other questions met with an equally disheartening response. Miss +Carmichael sat up straight, pushed back the persistent curls from her +face, and bent every energy towards the achievement of a “firm” +demeanor. + +“Clematis,” said she, wisely selecting perhaps the least formidable of +the class, “I want you to give me some idea of the kind of work you +have been doing, so that we may all be able to understand each other. +Now, in your mathematics, for instance, which of you have finished with +your arithmetic, and which—” + +“What do you mean?” begged Clematis, somewhat tearful. + +“Where are you in your arithmetic? + +“Nowhere, ma’am.” + +“Do you mean you have never learned any?” Mary Carmichael shuddered as +she icily put the question. + +“Yes, ma’am.” + +“Is that the case with all of you?” + +Emphatic nods left no room for doubt. + +“Then we’ll leave that for the present. If you will tell me, Clematis, +what kind of work you have been doing in your history and English, we +will get to work on those to-day. What books have you been using?” + +Not unnaturally, Clematis, who was emotional and easily impressed, +began to feel as though she were a criminal. She sobbed in a helpless, +feminine way. Ben spoke up, fearsomely, from the top of the class. + +“We ’ain’t got no books,” said he, in grim rebuke, as though to put an +end to a profitless discussion. + +“Do you wish me to understand,” quavered Mary, “that you have had no +studies—that you—can’t read?—that you—don’t know—anything?” + +“That’s it,” said Ben, with the nearest approach to cheerfulness he had +yet manifested. + +Meanwhile there lay on the teacher’s “desk” copies of Clodd’s +_Childhood of the World_, two of that excellent series of _History +Primers_, and _The Young Geologist_, all carefully selected, in the +fulness of Mary’s ignorance, for the little pupils of her imagination. +She had brought no primer, as Mrs. Yellett’s letter had distinctly said +that the youngest child was ten and that all were comparatively +advanced in their studies. More than ever Mary longed to penetrate the +mystery of that Irish linen decoy, for without doubt it was to be her +melancholy fate to conduct this giant band through the alphabet! + +Accordingly she wrote out the letters of the alphabet with large +simplicity and a sublime renunciation of flourish. The class received +it tepidly. Mary grew eloquent over its unswerving verities. The class +remained lukewarm. The difference between a and b was a matter of +indifference to the house of Yellett. They regarded their teacher’s +strenuous efforts to furnish a key to the acquirement of the alphabet +with the amused superiority of “grown-ups” watching infant antics with +pencil and paper. Meanwhile her fear of the class increased in +proportion as her ability to hold its attention diminished. The +backbone of the school was plainly wilting. The little scholars, armed +to the teeth, no longer sat up straight as tenpins. After twenty-five +minutes of educational experience, satiety bowled them over. + +A single glance had convinced Ben that the alphabet was beneath +contempt. He yawned automatically at regular intervals—long, dismal +yawns that threatened to terminate in a howl, the unchecked, primitive +type of yawn that one hears in the cages of the zoological gardens on a +dull day. Miss Carmichael raised interrogatory eyebrows, but she might +as well have looked reproof at a Bengal tiger. + +The class was rapidly promoted to c-a-t, cat; but these dizzy +intellectual heights left them cold and dull. Ben began to clean his +revolver, and on being asked why he did not pay attention to his +lessons, answered, briefly: + +“It’s all d——d foolishness.” + +Cacta and Clem were pulling each other’s hair. Mary affected not to see +this sisterly exchange of torture. Ned whittled a stick; and, in +chorus, when their teacher told them that d-o-g spelled dog, they +shouted derision, and affirmed that they had no difficulty in +compelling the obedience of Stump even without this particular bit of +erudition. Though Mary had always abhorred corporal punishment, she +began to see arguments in its favor. + +With the handleless tub as an elbow-rest the teacher took counsel with +herself. Strategy must be employed with the intellectual conquest of +the Brobdingnags. Summoning all the pedagogical dignity of which she +was capable, she asked: + +“Boys, don’t you want to know how to read?” + +“Noap,” responded the head of the class. + +“Don’t you want to know how to write?” + +“Noap.” + +“But, my dear boy, what would you do if you left here and went out into +the world, where every one knows these things and your ignorance would +be evident at every turn. What would you do?” + +“Slug the whole blamed outfit!” + +Mary looked at her watch. School had lasted just forty-five minutes. +Had time become petrified? + + + + +XIV. +Judith Adjusts The Situation + + +Mary had been a member of the Yellett household for something over a +week, and the intellectual conquest of her Brobdingnag pupils seemed as +hopeless as on that first day. School seemed to be regarded by them as +a sort of neutral territory, admirably adapted for the settlement of +long-standing grudges, the pleasant exchange of practical jokes, peace +and war conferences; also as a mart of trade, where fire-arms, knives, +bear and elk teeth might be swapped with a greater expenditure of time +and conversation than under the maternal eye. “Teacher,” as she was +understood and accepted by the house of Yellett, undoubtedly filled a +long-felt want. Presiding over a school of six-imp power for a week, +however, had humbled Mary to the point of seriously considering a +letter to the home government, meekly asking for return transportation. +But this was before feminine wile had struggled with feminine vanity, +and feminine wile won the day. School still continued to open at six, +from which early and unusual hour it continued, without recess or +interruption, till noon, when dinner pleasantly invaded the scholastic +monotony, to the infinite relief of all parties concerned. + +Mary had dismissed her pupils a few minutes before the usual hour, on a +particularly bad day, that she might rally her scattered faculties and +present something of a countenance to the watchful eye of Mrs. Yellett. +Every element of humor had vanished from the situation. The inverted +tub was no longer a theme for merriment in her diary; home-life without +a house was no longer a diverting epigram; she had closed her eyes that +she might not see the mountains in all their grandeur. In her present +mood of abject homesickness the white-capped peaks were part and parcel +of the affront. With head sunk in the palms of her hands, and elbows +resting on the inverted tub, Mary presented a picture of woe, in which +the wicked element of comedy was not wholly lacking. Looking up +suddenly, she saw Judith Rodney advancing. The first glimpse of her put +Mary in a more rational mood. + +“I’m so glad to see you! Behold my class-room appointments! They may +seem a trifle novel, but, for that matter, so are my pupils,” began +Mary, determining to present the same front to Judith that she had to +Mrs. Yellett. But Judith was not to be put off. She looked into Mary’s +eyes and did not relax her gaze until she was rewarded with an +answering twinkle. Then Mary laughed long and merrily, the first good, +hearty laugh since the beginning of her teaching. + +“Tell me,” Mary broke out, suddenly, “or the suspense will kill me, who +wrote that lovely letter—on such good quality Irish linen, too? Snob +that I was, it was the letter that did it.” + +“So you have your suspicions that it was not a home product?” + +“You didn’t do it, did you?” + +“Oh no; though I was asked, and so was Miss Wetmore, I believe. Of +course poor Mrs. Yellett had no other recourse, as I suppose you know. +I chose to be disobliging that time, and was sorry for it +afterwards—sorry when I heard about the letter that really went! Do you +find the sheep-wagon so very dreadful?” + +“I thought,” laughed Mary, “that it was going to be like a picture I +saw in a magazine, Mexican hammocks, grass cushions, and a lady pouring +tea from a samovar; instead it was the sheep-wagon and ‘Do you sleep +light or dark?’ There is Mrs. Yellett calling us to dinner. Shall I +have a chance to talk to you alone afterwards?” + +“I’ve come all the way from Dax’s to see you,” explained Judith, with +characteristic directness. “We have all the afternoon.” + +“Really!” Mary displayed a flash of school-girl enthusiasm. “I feel as +if I could almost bear the scenery.” + +Presumably Judith was a favorite guest of the Yellett household, and +not without reason. She took her place in the circle about the homely, +steaming fare, with an ease and grace that suggested that dining off +the ground was an every-day affair with her, and chairs and tables +undreamed-of luxuries. Mary envied her ready tact. Why could she not +meet these people with Judith’s poise—bring out the best of them, as +she did? The boys talked readily and naturally—there was even a flavor +to what they said. As for herself, try never so conscientiously and she +would be confronted by frank amusement or shy distrust. Even “paw” +beamed at Judith appreciatively as he consumed his meal with infinite, +toothless labor. The Spartan family became almost sprightly under the +pleasantly stimulating influence of its guest. + +“What kind of basques are they wearing this summer, Judy?” inquired +Mrs. Yellett, regarding her guest’s trim shirt-waist judicially. “I +reckon them loose, meal-sack things must be all the go since you and +Miss Mary both have ’em; but give me a good, tight-fittin’ basque, +every time. How’s any one to know whether you got a figure or not, in a +thing that never hits you anywhere?” questioned the matriarch, not +without a touch of pride anent her own fine proportions. + +“You really ought to have a shirt-waist, Mrs. Yellett. You’ve no idea +of the comfort of them, till you’ve worn them.” + +“I don’t see but I’ll have to come to it.” Her tone was frankly +regretful, as one who feels obliged to follow the behests of fashion, +yet, in so doing, sacrifices a cherished ideal. Mary Carmichael choked +over her coffee in an abortive attempt to restrain her audible +hilarity. Judith, without a trace of amusement, was discussing +materials, cut, and buttons; the plainswoman had proved herself the +better gentlewoman of the two. + +“Get me a spotty calico, white, with a red dot, will you, the next time +you’re over to Ervay? Buttons accordin’ to your judgment; but if you +could get some white chiny with a red ring, I think they’d match it +handsome.” She frowned reflectively. “You’re sure one of them loose, +hangy things ’d become me? Then you can bring it over Tuesday, when you +come to the hunt.” + +“What hunt?” asked Judith, in all simplicity. + +“Why, the wolf-hunt. Peter Hamilton come here three days ago and made +arrangements for ’em all to have supper here after it was done. ’Lowed +there was a young Eastern lady in the party, Miss Colebrooke, who +couldn’t wait to meet me. Course you’re goin’, Judy? You’ve plumb +forgot it, or somethin’ happened to the messenger. Who ever hyeard tell +of anythin’ happenin’ in this yere county ’thout you bein’ the very +axle of it?” + +Judith had not betrayed her chagrin by the least change of countenance. +To the most searching glance every faculty was intent on the +shirt-waist with the ringed buttons. Yet both women felt—by a species +of telepathy wholly feminine—that Judith was deeply wounded. Loyal +Sarah Yellett decided that Hamilton’s guests would get but a scant +supper from her if her friend Judith was to be unfavored with an +invitation, while Judith, in her own warm heart, resented as deeply as +Peter’s slight of herself, his tale of Miss Colebrooke’s impatience to +meet Mrs. Yellett. The matriarch’s dominant personality evoked many a +smile even from those most deeply conscious of her worth; but it wasn’t +like Peter to make a spectacle of his ruggedly honest neighbor. +Nevertheless she remarked, coolly: + +“I sha’n’t be able to bring your shirt-waist things up Tuesday, I’m +afraid, Mrs. Yellett, but I’ll try to bring them towards the end of the +week.” Then, with a swift change of subject, “How are the boys getting +on with their education, Miss Carmichael?” + +The boys looked at Mary out of the corners of their eyes. Their prowess +in the field of letters had not been publicly discussed before. Mary +Carmichael, emboldened by Judith’s presence, looked at her tormentors +with a judicious glance. + +“The girls are doing fairly well,” she replied, suppressing the +mischief in her eyes, “but the boys, poor fellows, I think something +must be the matter with them. Did they ever fall on their heads when +they were babies, Mrs. Yellett?” + +“Not more than common. All babies fall on their heads; it’s as common +as colic.” + +“Poor boys!” said Mary, with a manner that suggested they were miles +away, rather than within a few feet of her. “Poor boys! I’ve never seen +anything like it. They try so hard, too, yet they can make nothing of +work that would be play for a child of three. They must have fallen on +their heads harder than you supposed, Mrs. Yellett.” + +“Perhaps their skulls were a heap frailer than I allowed for at the +time,” said Mrs. Yellett, with similar remoteness, yet with a twinkle +that showed Mary she understood the situation. + +“An infant’s skull doesn’t stand much knocking about, I suppose, Mrs. +Yellett?” + +“Not a great deal, if there ain’t plenty of vinegar and brown paper +handy, and I seldom had such fancy fixings in camp. It’s too bad my +boys should be dumb ’n account of a little thing like vinegar and brown +paper.” + +“Maw, they be dumb as Injuns,” declared Cacta, preening herself, while +the Messrs. Yellett reapplied themselves to their dinner with +ostentatious interest. + +“Well, well!” said Mrs. Yellett; “it be a hard blow to me to know that +my sons are lackings; there’s mothers I know as would give vent to +their disapp’inted ambition in ways I’d consider crool to the +absent-minded. Now hearken, the whole outfit of you! Any offspring of +mine now present and forever after holding his peace, who proves +feebleminded by the end of the coming week, takes over all the work, +labor, and chores of such offspring as demonstrates himself in full +possession of his faculties, the matter to be reported on by the +gov’ment.” + +No sovereign, issuing a proclamation of war, could have assumed a more +formidable mien than Mrs. Yellett, squatting erect on the prairie, +crowned by her rabbit-skin cap. Mary and Judith, with bland, impassive +expressions, noted the effect of the mandate. There was not the +faintest symptom of rebellion; each Brobdingnag accepted the +matriarch’s edict without a murmur. + +With an air of further meditation on the efficacy of brown paper and +vinegar at the crucial moment, Mrs. Yellett suddenly observed: + +“The lacking, like the dog, may be taught to fetch and carry a book; +but to learn it he is unable.” + +“Maw, does it say that in the Book of Hiram?” asked Clematis. + +“It says that, an’ more, too. It says, ‘The words of the wise are an +expense, but the lovin’ parent don’t grudge ’em.’” + +Mary Carmichael had noticed, as her alien presence came to be less of a +check on Mrs. Yellett’s natural medium of expression, that she was much +addicted to a species of quotation with which she impartially adorned +her conversation, pointed family morals, or administered an occasional +reproof. These family aphorisms were sometimes semi-legal, sometimes +semi-scriptural in turn of phrase, and built on a foundation of homely +philosophy. They were ascribed to the “Book of Hiram” and never failed +of salutary effect in the family circle. But the apt quotations that +she had just heard piqued Mary’s curiosity more than before. + +“Do you happen to have a copy of the Book of Hiram, Mrs. Yellett?” she +asked, in all innocence, supposing that the ‘homely apothegms were to +be found at the back of some patent-medicine almanac. Judith Rodney +listened in wonder. The question had never before been asked in her +hearing. + +“I lost mine.” Mrs. Yellett folded her arms and looked at her +questioner with something of a challenging mien. + +“What a pity! I’ve been so interested in the quotations I’ve heard you +make from it.” + +“What’s the matter with ’em?” she demanded, pride and apprehension +equally commingled. + +Judith Rodney rushed to the rescue: + +“Nothing is the matter with them, Mrs. Yellett,” she said, with her +disarming smile, “except that there is not quite enough to go around.” + +The matriarch had the air of gathering herself together for something +really worth while. Then she tossed off: + +“‘’Tain’t always the quality of the grub that confers the flavor, but +sometimes the scarcity thereof.’” + +Perhaps it has been the good-fortune of some of us to say a word of +praise to an author, while unconscious of his relationship to the book +praised. Mark the genial glow radiating from every feature of our +auditor! How we feel ourselves anointed with his approval, our good +taste and critical faculty how commended! It is a luxury that goes a +long way towards mitigating the discomfitures caused by the reverse of +this unctuous blunder. + +“The Book of Hiram,” said Mrs. Yellett, angling for time, “is a book—it +do surprise me that it escapes your notice back East. You ever heard +tell of the Book of Mormon?” + +Mary assented. + +“Well, the Book of Hiram is like the Book of Mormon, only a heap more +undefiled. The youngest child can read it without asking a single +embarrassing question of its elder, and the oldest sinner can read it +without having any fleshly meditations intrudin’ on his piety.” + +The Yellett family had by this time dispersed itself for the afternoon, +and the matriarch and the two girls started in to clear away the meal +and wash the dishes. + +“That’s the kind of book for me,” continued Mrs. Yellett, vigorously +swishing about in the soapy water. “Story-books don’t count none with +me these days. It’s my opinion that things are snarled up a whole lot +too much in real life without pestering over the anguish of print +folks. Flesh and blood suffering goes without a groan of sympathy from +the on-lookers, while novel characters wade to the neck in compassion. +I’ve pondered on that a whole lot, seem’ a heap of indifference to +every-day calamity, and the way I assay it is like this: print folks +has terrible fanciful layouts given to their griefs and worriments by +the authors of their being. The trimmings to their troubles is mighty +attractive. Don’t you reckon I’d be willin’ to have a spell of trouble +if I had a sweeping black velvet dress to do it in? Yes, indeed, I’d be +willin’ to turn a few of them shades of anguish, ‘gray’s ashes,’ ‘pale +as death,’ and so on, if they’d give me the dress novel ladies seems to +have for them special occasions.” + +“But you used to like novels, you know you did, Mrs. Yellett,” observed +Judith Rodney. + +“Yes, I didn’t always entertain these views concernin’ romance. You +wouldn’t believe it, but there was a time when I just nacherally went +careerin’ round enveloped in fantasies. I was young then—just about the +time I married paw. Every novel that was read to me, I mean that I +read”—Mrs. Yellett blushed a deep copper color through her many coats +of tan—“convinced me that I was the heroine thereof. And, nacherally, I +turned over to paw the feachers and characteristics of the hero in said +book I happened to be enjoyin’ at the time. Paw never knew it, but +sometimes he was a dook, and it was plumb hard work. Just about as hard +as ropin’ a mountain-lion an’ sayin’, ‘remember, you are a sheep from +this time henceforth, and trim your action accordin’.’ I’d say to paw, +‘Let’s walk together in the gloaming, here in this deserted garden’; +and paw would say, ‘Name o’ Gawd, woman, have you lost your mind? It’s +plumb three hundred and fifty miles to the Tivoli beer-garden in +Cheyenne, and it ain’t deserted, either!’ + +“Then I’d wring my hands in anguish, same as the Lady Mary, an’ paw +would declare I was locoed. He seemed a heap more nacheral when I +pretended he was ‘Black Ranger, the Pirate King.’ His language came in +handy, and his cartridge-belt and pistol all came in Black Ranger’s +outfit. Yes, it was a heap easier playing he was a pirate than a dook. +All this happened back to Salt Lake, where me an’ paw was married.” + +Mrs. Yellett looked towards the mountain-range that separated her from +the Mormon country, and her listeners realized that she was verging +perilously close to confidences. Mary Carmichael, who dreaded missing +any detail of the chronicle that dealt with paw in the rôle of +apocryphal duke, hastened to say: + +“And you lost your taste for romance, finally?” + +“In Salt Lake I was left to myself a whole lot-there was reasons why I +didn’t mingle with the Mormon herd. Paw was mighty attentive to me, but +them was troublous times for paw. I pastures myself with the fleetin’ +figures of romance the endoorin’ time and enjoys myself a heap. When +paw wasn’t a dook or a pirate king, unbeknownst to himself, like as not +he was Sir Marmaduke Trevelyun, or somebody entitled to the same amount +of dog. + +“’Bout this time a little stranger was due in our midst, and the woman +who came to take care of me was plumb locoed over novels, same as me, +only worse. She just hungered for ’em, same as if she had a longin’ for +something out of season. She brought a batch of them with her in her +trunk, we borrowed her a lot more, some I don’t know how she come by. +But they didn’t have no effect; it was like feedin’ an’ Injun—you +couldn’t strike bottom. She read out of ’em to me with disastrous +results happenin’, an’ that cured me. The brand on this here book that +effected my change of heart was _The Bride of the Tomb_. I forget the +name of the girl in that romance, but she was in hard luck from the +start. She couldn’t head off the man pursooin’ her, any way she turned. +She’d wheel out of his way cl’ar across country, but he’d land thar +fust an’ wait for her, a smile on his satanine feachers. + +“I got so wrought up along o’ that book, an’ worried as to the outcome, +’most as bad as the girl. Think of it! An’ me with only three +baby-shirts an’ a flannel petticoat made at the time! Seemed ’s if I +couldn’t hustle my meals fast enough, I just hankered so to know what +was goin’ to happen next! I plumb detested the man with the handsome +feachers, same as the girl. Me an’ her felt precisely alike about him. +And when he shut her up in the family vault I just giv’ up an’ was took +then an’ there, an’ me without so much as finishin’ the flannel +petticoat! I never could endure the sight of a novel since. Perhaps +that’s why Ben is so dumb about his books—just holds a nacheral grudge +against ’em along of my havin’ to borrow slips for him.” + +“Has the Book of Hiram anything to say against the habit of novel +reading, Mrs. Yellett?” inquired Judith, demurely. + +She paused for a moment. “It’s mighty inconvenient that I should have +mislaid that book, but rounding up my recollections of it, I recall +something like this: ‘Romance is the loco-weed of humanity.’” + +“So you don’t approve of the Mormon Bible?” ventured Mary. + +“I jest nacherally execrates Mormonism, spoken, printed, or in action,” +she said, with an emphasis that suggested the subject had a strong +personal bearing. “I recall a text from the Book of Hiram touching on +Mormon deportment in particklar an’ human nature at large. It says, +‘Where several women and one man are gathered together for the purpose +of serving the Lord, the man gets the bulk of the service.” + +She broke off suddenly, as if she feared she had said too much. “Judy,” +she demanded, “is Mis’ Dax busy with Leander now?” + +“Not more than usual,” smiled Judith. + +“Jest tell her for me, will you, that I want to hire her husband to do +some herdin’; Leander’s handy, ’n’ can work good an’ sharp, if he is an +infidel. An’ I like to have him over now an’ then, as you know, Judy. +As the Book of Hiram says, ‘It’s neighborly to ease the check-rein of a +gentled husband.’ But you tell him I don’t want to hear any of his +ever-lastin’ fool argufyin’ ’bout religion. Leander ’d stop in the +middle of shearin’ a sheep to argue that Jonah never came out o’ the +whale’s belly. I ain’t no use for infidels, ’less they’re muzzled, +which Leander mos’ generally is.” + +With the feeling that there was an excellent though unspoken +understanding between them, the two girls walked together to the top of +the path that wandered away from camp towards a bluff overlooking wave +after wave of foot-hills, lying blue and still like a petrified sea. + +“I’m still dying to know who wrote that letter,” begged Mary. + +“It was written by a lady who is very anxious to return to Washington, +and she took that means of getting one more vote. Her husband is going +to run for the Senate next term. We hear a good deal of that side of +politics, you know.” + +“It was certainly convincing,” remarked the victim of the letter. “My +aunts detected many virtues in the handwriting.” + +“But now that you are really here, isn’t it splendid? Mountains are +such good neighbors. They give you their great company and yet leave +you your own little reservations.” + +“But I fear I can never feel at home out-of-doors,” Mary announced, +with such a rueful expression that they both smiled. + +“Perhaps, then, it depends on the frame of mind. I’ve had longer than +you to cultivate it.” + +Mary looked towards the mountains, serene in their strength. “Awesome +as they are,” she laughed, “they don’t frighten me nearly as much as +Ben and Ned. They are really very difficile, my pupils, and I feel so +ridiculous sitting up back of that tub, teaching them letters and the +spelling of foolish words, when they know things I’ve never dreamed of. +The other day, out of a few scratches in the dust that I should never +have given a second glance, one of them made out that some one’s horses +had broken the corral and one was trailing a rope. Whereupon my pupil +got on a horse, went in search of the strays, and returned them to men +going to a round-up. After that, the spelling of cat didn’t seem quite +so much of an achievement as it had before.” + +“But they need the spelling of cat so much more than you need to +understand trail-marks. Why don’t you try a little strategy with them? +Perhaps a bribe, even? It seems to me I remember something in history +about the part played in colonization by the bright-colored bead.” + +Sundry wood-cuts from a long-forgotten primer history of the United +States came back to Mary. In that tear-stained, dog-eared volume, all +explorers, from Columbus down to Lewis and Clarke, were unfailingly +depicted in the attitude of salesmen displaying squares of cloth to +savages apparently in urgent need of them. + +“How stupid of me not to remember Father Marquette concluding +negotiations with a necklace!” + +“Frankly plagiarize the terms of your treaty from Père Marquette, and +there you are!” + +“You are so splendid!” said Mary, impulsively, remembering Judith’s own +sorrows and the smiling fortitude with which she kept them hidden. “You +make me feel like a horrid little girl that has been whining.” + +Judith looked towards the mountains a long time without speaking. + +“When you know them well, they whisper great things that little folk +can’t take away.” + +She turned back towards camp, walking lightly, with head thrown back. +Mary watched her. Yes, the mountains might have admitted her to their +company. + + + + +XV. +The Wolf-hunt + + +Judith awakened with all the starry infinitude of sky for a canopy. In +the distance loomed the foot-hills, watchful sentinels of her slumbers; +and, sloping gently away from them, rolled the plain, like some smooth, +dark sea flowing deep and silently. Judith, a solitary figure adrift in +that still ocean of space, sat up and watched the stars fade and saw +the young day peer timorously at the world that lay before it. Her +mind, refreshed by long hours of dreamless sleep, turned to the problem +of impending things, serenely contemplative. The passing of many +mornings and many peoples had the mountains seen as the wreathed mists +came and went about their brows, and to all who knew the value of the +gift they gave their great company, and to such as could hear, they +told their great secrets. Judith’s prayer was an outflowing of soul to +the great forces about her, a wish to be in harmony with them, to +remember her kinship, to keep some measure of their serenity in the +press of burdens. The way of the Indian was ever her way when +circumstance raised no barriers; the four walls of a house were a +prison to her after the days lengthened and the summer nights grew +warm. To the infinite disapproval of that custodian of propriety, Mrs. +Dax, she would make her bed beneath the stars, night after night, and +bathe in the cold, clear waters of the stream that purled from the +white-capped crest of the mountains. + +“Nasty Injun ways!” scoffed Leander’s masterful lady, consciously +superior from the intrenchment of her stuffy bedroom, that boasted +crochet-work on the backs of the chairs and a scant lace curtain at its +solitary window. + +Judith, going to her favorite pool to bathe, saw that it had shrunk +till it seemed but a fairy well hid among the willows. A quarter of a +mile above was another pool, hidden like a jewel in its case of green, +broidered with scarlet roseberries and white clematis; and towards this +she bent her steps, as time was a-plenty that morning. She kept to the +stones of the creek for a pathway, jumping lightly from those that were +moss-grown to those that hid their nakedness in the dark, velvet +shadows of early morning, her white feet touching the shallow stream +like pale gulls that dipped and skimmed. “Diana’s Pool,” as she called +it, was always clear. It lay half hid beneath a shelving rock, a fount +for the tiny, white fall that crooned and sang as it fell. And here she +bathed, as the east flamed where the mountains blackened against it. +Gold halos tipped the clouds, that melted presently into fiery waves, +then burst into one great aureole through which the sun rode +triumphant, and it was day. + +She had kept post-office the day before, and it would not be till day +after to-morrow that the squires of the lariat would come again to +offer their hearts, their worldly goods, their complete reformation, if +she would only change her mind. It was all such an old story that she +had grown to regard them with a tenderness almost maternal. But to-day +was all her own, and the spirit of adventure swelled high in her bosom +as she thought of what she had planned. It was warm and close and still +in the Dax house as Judith made her way softly to her own room and +began her preparations for the long journey she was to take afoot. To +walk in the abominations devised by the white man for the purpose of +cramping his feet would have been a serious handicap to Judith. The +twenty miles that she would walk before nightfall was no very great +undertaking to her, but it was part of her primitive directness to +accomplish it with as little expenditure of fatigue and comfort as +possible. Moreover, who could steal through the forest in those heeled +things without announcing his coming and frightening the forest folk, +and sending them skurrying? And Judith loved to surprise them and see +them busy with their affairs—to creep along in her soft, elk-hide +moccasins and catch their watchful eyes and see the things that were +not for the heavy-booted white man. + +She might have inspired Kitty Colebrooke to a sonnet as she stepped out +into the glad morning light, in short skirt and jacket, green-clad as +the pines that girdled the mountains, with a knapsack with rations of +bread and meat and the wherewithal to build a fire should she wander +belated. She softly closed the door, not to awaken Leander and his +slumbering lady, and broke into the running gait that the Indians use +on their all-day journeys, the elk-hide moccasins falling soft as +snow-flakes on the trail. Dolly she missed chiefly for her +companionship, for Judith had not the white man’s utter helplessness +without a horse in this country of high altitudes. When she walked she +breathed, carried herself, covered ground like her mother’s people, and +loved the inspiration of it. + +The eerie shadows of the desert drew back and hid themselves in the +mountains. The day began with splendid promise—the day of the +wolf-hunt, of which no word had been spoken to her by Peter. She, too, +was going hunting, but silently and unbidden she would steal through +the forest and see this mysterious woman who played fast and loose with +Peter, who loved her apparently all the better for the game she played. +What manner of woman could do these things? What manner of woman could +be indifferent to Peter? Judith was consumingly curious to see. And, +apart from this naked and unashamed curiosity, there was the +possibility that at sight of Miss Colebrooke there might come a +relaxation of Peter’s tyrannous hold upon her thoughts, her life, her +very heart’s blood. Would her loyalty bear the test of seeing Peter +made a fool of by a woman she could dismiss with a shrug—a softly +speaking shrew, perhaps, who played a waiting game with her finger on +the pulse of Peter’s prospects? For there was talk of a partnership +with the Wetmores. Or a fool, perhaps, for all her sonneting, for there +are men who relish a weak headpiece as the chiefest ornament of women, +especially when its indeterminate vagaries boast an escape-valve +remotely connected with the fine arts. Or a devil-woman, perhaps—an +upright wanton who could think no wrong from very poverty of +temperament, yet kept him dangling. The possibility of Kitty’s honesty, +Judith in her jealousy would not admit. Had she gone to the devil for +him, stood and faced the drift of opinion for his sake, that Judith +could have understood. But what was the spinning of verses to a woman’s +portion of loving and being loved? Even Alida, through all her +distracting anxieties, had in her heart the thrice-blessed leaven, +reasoned the woman of the plains, who might, according to modern +standards, be reckoned a trifle primitive in her psychological +deductions. And, withal, Judith was forced to admit that there was +something simple and true about a man who would let a woman make a fool +of him, whoever the woman was. + +Perhaps with this hunting would end the long reign of Peter as a +divinity. Judith was tired, not in her vigorous young body, because +that was strong and healthful as the hill wind, but tired in heart and +mind and life. Her destiny had not been beautiful or happy before he +invaded it, but it had been calm, and now serenity seemed the worthiest +gift of the gods. It was not that she loved him less, but that she had +so long reflected upon him that her imagination was numb; her thoughts, +arid, unfruitful as the desert, turned from him to the problems that +beset her, and from them back to him again, in dull, subconscious +yearning. She could no longer project an anguished consciousness to +those scenes wherein he walked and talked with Kitty. Her Indian +fatalism had intervened. “Life was life,” to be lived or left. And yet +she felt herself a poor creature, one who had lived long on illusion, +who had bent her neck to the yoke of arid unrealities. The pale-haired +woman who kept him with her miserliness of self, who intruded no sombre +tragedy of loving, was well worth a trip across the foot-hills to see. +And yet, Judith reflected, it was the portion of her mother’s daughter +to make of loving the whole business of life, even if she rebelled and +fought against it as an accursed destiny. It was in her inheritance to +know and live for the wild thrill of ecstasy in her pulses, to feel +trembling joy and despair and frantic hope, that exacted its tribute +hardly less poignant; as it was, also, to feel a shivering +sensitiveness in regard to the loneliness and bitterness of her life, +to have the same measureless capacity for sorrow that she had for +loving, to have a soul attuned to the tragedy of things, to love the +mighty forces about her, to feel the reflection of all their moods in +her heart, and, lastly, it was her destiny to be the daughter of a +half-Sioux and a border adventurer, and to feel the counter influences +of the two races make forever of her heart a battleground. + +Her light feet scarcely touched the ground as she sped swiftly through +all the network of the hills; and more than once her woman’s heart +asked the question, “And, prithee, Judith, if from henceforth you are +only to hold fellowship with the stars and have no part in the ways of +men, why do you walk a day’s journey to catch a glimpse of a +pale-haired woman?” + +She knew the probable course of the wolf-hunt. She had been on scores +of them, galloped with Peter after the fleeing gray thing that swept +along the ground like the nucleus of a whirling dust-devil. At least +she was sure of the place of their nooning—a limpid stream that ran +close to many young pine-trees. Here was a pause in the rugged ascent, +a level space of open green, thick with buffalo grass. Many times had +she been here with Peter, sometimes with many other people on the +chase—sometimes, and these occasions were enshrined in her memory, each +with its own particular halo, with Peter alone; and they had fished for +trout and cooked their supper on the grassy levels. It was in Judith’s +planning to arrive before the hunting-party, to hide among the thickets +of scrub pine that grew along the steep cliffs and overlooked the +grassy level, to take her fill of looking at the pale-haired girl and +the hunters at their merrymaking, and, when she had seen, to steal back +across the trail to the Daxes’. They would not penetrate the thickets +where she meant to hide, and, should they, she was prepared for that +contingency, too. She had brought with her a bright-colored shawl that +she would throw over her head, and with the start of them she could +outrun them all, even Peter. Had she not outdistanced him easily, many +times, in fun? Through the tangle of tree-trunks that grew not far from +the thicket, they would think she was but a poor Shoshone squaw lying +in wait for the broken meat of the revellers. + +By crossing and recrossing the tiny creeks that trickled slow and +obstructed through the gaunt levels of plain and foot-hill, she had +come by a direct route to the fringes of the pine country. And here she +found a world dim, green, and mysterious. It was wellnigh inconceivable +that the land of sage-brush and silence could, within walking distance +of desolation, show such wealth of young timber, such shade and beauty. +Her noiseless footfalls scarce startled a sage-hen that, realizing too +late her presence, froze to the dead stump—a ruffled gray excrescence +with glittering bead eyes that stared at her furtively, the one live +thing in the tense body. + +The sun wanted an hour of noon when Judith rested by the stream, bathed +her face and hands, flushed from the long walk, ate the bread and meat, +then lay on the bed of pine-needles, brown and soft from the weathering +of many suns and snows. She had been all day in the company she loved +best—the earth, the sky, the sun and wind—and in her heart at last was +a deep tranquillity. Thus she could face life and ask nothing but to +watch the cloud fleeces as they are spun and heaped high in the long +days of summer; in soberer moods to watch the thoughts of the Great +Mystery as He reveals them in the shifting cloud shapes; to penetrate +further and further into the councils of the great forces. Thus did she +dream the moments away till the sun was high in the blue and threw +long, yellow splashes of light on her still body, on the soft +pine-needles, beneath the boughs. But there was no time for further +day-dreams if she intended to forestall the hunters at the place of +nooning. She followed a game trail that lay along the stream, ascending +through the dense growths till she reached the top of the jutting +rocks. Her hair was loosened, her skirt awry, and the pine-needles +stood out from it as from a cushion. Much of the way she gained by +creeping beneath the low branches on her hands and knees. No white +woman would be likely to follow her reasoned the daughter of the +plains. It would be a little too hard on her appearance. And here, by +lying flat and hanging over the jutting knob of rock, with a pine +branch in her hand, she could see this mysterious woman and Peter and +the hunters. + +She broke a branch to shade her face, she looked down on the grassy +level. She waited, but there was no sound of hoofs falling muffled on +the soft ground. The shadows of the pines contended with the splashes +of sunlight for the little world beneath the trees. They trembled in +mimic battle, then the shadows stole the sunlight, bit by bit, till all +was pale-green twilight, and there was no sound of the hunters. + +The hunters, meanwhile, had not been altogether successful in the +chase. The necessary wolf had been coy, and they, perforce, had to +compromise with his poor relation, the coyote—a poor relation, indeed, +whose shabby coat, thinned by the process of summer shedding, made it +an unworthy souvenir to Miss Colebrooke. But it was not the lack of a +wolf that robbed the hunting-party of its zest for Kitty. She could not +tell what it was, but something seemed to have gone wrong with the day +from the beginning. She rode beside her cavalier in a habit the like of +which the country had never before seen, and Peter, usually the most +observant of men, had no word for its multitude of perfections. In the +first realization of disappointment with the day, the hunt, the +hardships of the long ride, her perturbed consciousness took up the +problem of this missing element and tried to adjust itself to the +irritating absence. Kitty wondered if it were something she had +forgotten. No, there were her two little cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, +remotely suggestive of orris, and bearing her monogram delicately +wrought and characteristic. It was not her watch, the ribbon fob of +which fluttered now and then in the breeze. It was not veil nor +scarf-pin nor any of the paraphernalia of the properly garbed +horsewoman. And yet there was something missing, something she should +have had with her, something the absence of which was taking the savor +from the day’s hunting. + +It must be the very bigness of this great, splendid world that gave her +the sense of being alone at sea. Intuitively she turned and looked at +Peter riding beside her. There was something in his face that made her +look again before accepting the realization at first incredulously, +then with frank amusement. Peter had scarcely spoken since they left +the ranch. She had come down to breakfast so sure of her new +riding-habit. The Wetmore girls had been moved to hyperboles about its +cut and fit and the trim shortness of the skirt—short riding-skirts +were something of a novelty then. The fine gold hair, twisted tight at +the back of the shapely head, was like a coiled mass of burnished +metal, some safe-keeping device of mint or gold-worker till the season +of coining or fashioning should come round. The translucent +flesh-tints, pearl-white flushing into pink—“Bouguereau realized at +last,” as Nannie Wetmore was in the habit of summing up her cousin’s +complexion—was as marvellous as ever. The delicate firmness of profile +gave to the face the artificial perfection of an old miniature, rather +than of a flesh-and-blood countenance, and all these were there as of +yore, but the marvel of them failed of the customary tribute. Kitty, on +scanty reflection, was at no loss to translate Peter’s reserve into a +language at once flattering and retributive. In her scheme of life he +was always to be her devoted cavalier, as indeed he had been from the +beginning. She loved her own small eminence too well to imperil her +tenure of it by sharing its pretty view of men and things with any one. +In country house parties she loved the mild wonder that the successful +_littérateuse_ could fight and play and win her social triumphs so +well. She loved the star part, and next to playing it she enjoyed +wresting it from other women or eclipsing them completely in some +conspicuously minor rôle, while, in the matter of dress, Miss +Colebrooke went beyond the point decreed by the most exigent mandates +of fashion. When hats were worn over the face, her admirers had to +content themselves with a glimpse of her charming mouth and chin. When +they flared, hers fairly challenged the laws of equilibrium. She danced +with the same facility with which she rode, swam, and played tennis. In +doing these things supremely well she felt that she vindicated the +position of the woman of letters. Why should one be a frump because one +wrote? + +Her friendship with Peter was to endure to greenest old age, more +platonic, perhaps, than that of Madame Récamier and Chateaubriand. It +was to be fruitful in letters that would compare favorably with the +best of the seventeenth century series. Even now her own letters to +Peter were no sprightly scrawl of passing events, but efforts whose +seriousness suggested, at least in their carefully elaborated stages of +structure, the letters of the ladies of Cranford. + +But in the course of these Western wanderings, undertaken not wholly +without consideration of Peter, there had appeared in the maplike +exactness of her plans an indefinite territory that threatened +undreamed-of proportions. It menaced the scheme of the letters, it +shook the foundations of the Chateaubriand-Récamier friendship. The +unknown quantity was none other than the frequent and irritating +mention of one Judith Rodney, who, from all accounts, appeared a +half-breed. Her name, her beauty, some intrinsic charm of personality +made her an all too frequent topic, except in the case of Peter. He had +been singularly keen in scenting any interrogatory venue that led to +the mysterious half-breed; when questioned he persistently refused to +exhibit her as a type. + +Kitty knew that she had treated her long-suffering cavalier with scant +consideration the day he had spurred across the desert to see her. +True, she had written him on her arrival, but, with feminine perversity +of logic, thought it a trifle inconsiderate of him to come so soon +after that trying railroad journey. An ardent resumption of his +suit—and Peter could be depended on for renewing it early and often—was +farthest from her inclination at that particular time. She intended to +salve her conscience at the wolf-hunt for her casual reception of his +impetuous visit. But apparently Peter did not intend to be prodigal of +opportunity. + +“How garrulous you people are this morning!” Nannie Wetmore challenged +them. Peter came out of his brown study with the look of one who has +again returned to earth. + +“You don’t find it like the drop-curtain of a theatre, now that you’ve +seen it?” he questioned Kitty. For she had doubted her pleasure in the +mountains, in the conviction that they would be too dramatic for her +simple taste. + +Kitty closed her eyes and sighted the peaks as if she were getting the +color scheme for an afternoon toilet. + +“Mass, bulk, rather than line—no, it’s not like a drop-curtain, but +it’s distinctly ‘hand-painted.’ All it needs is a stag surveying the +prospect from that great cliff. It’s the kind of thing that would sound +well in a description. Oh, I assure you I intend to make lavish use of +it, but it leaves nothing to one’s poor imagination!” + +Peter had a distinct feeling of being annoyed. No, she could not +appreciate the mountains any more than they could appreciate her. They +were incongruous, antipathetic, antipodal. Kitty, in her pink and white +and flaxen prettiness and her trim habit, was in harmony with the +bridle-path of a city park; in this great, lonely country she was an +alien. He thought of Judith and the night they had climbed Horse-Thief +Trail, of her quiet endurance, her keen pleasure in the wild beauty of +the night, her quality of companionship, her loyalty, her silent +bearing of many burdens. Yet until he had seen them both against the +same relentless background, he had never been conscious of comparing +the two women. + +Nannie Wetmore had fallen behind. She was riding with a bronzed young +lieutenant from Fort Washakie. The two ahead rode long without +speaking. Then Peter broke the silence impatiently: + +“You did not really mean that, did you?” He was boyishly hurt at her +flippant summing up of his beloved blue country. And Kitty, tired with +the long, hard ride, and missing that something in Peter that had +always been hers, turned on him a pair of blue eyes in which the tears +were brimming suspiciously. They were well out of sight of the others, +and had come to the heavy fringes of a pine wood. Was it the +psychological moment at last? Then suddenly their horses, that had been +sniffing the air suspiciously, stopped. Kitty’s horse, which was in +advance of Peter’s, rushed towards the thicker growth of pines as if +all Bedlam were in pursuit. Peter’s horse, swerving from the cause of +alarm, bolted back across the trail over which they had just made their +way. A large brown bear, feeding with her cub, and hidden by the trees +till they were directly in front of her, had caused the alarm. + +And presently the hush of the shadowy green world in which Judith lay +was broken by a light, sobbing sound. It had been so still that, lying +on her bed of pine-needles, she had likened it to great waves of +silence, rolling up from the valley, breaking over her and sweeping +back again, noiseless, green from the billowing ocean of pine branches, +and sunlit. Judith bent over the rocky ledge and saw a girl making her +way down the game trail, dishevelled and tearful. Her hat was gone, her +pale-yellow hair, that in shadow had the greenish tinge of corn-silk, +blew about her shoulders, her trim skirt was torn and dusty, and she +looked about, bewildered, hardly realizing that through the unexpected +course of things she had been stranded in this great world of sunlit +splendor and loneliness. She closed her eyes. The awful vastness and +solitude oppressed her with a deepening sense of calamity. Suppose they +never found her? How could she find her way in this endless wilderness, +afoot? She sank to the turf and began to cry hysterically. + +Judith knew in a flash of instant cognition that this was Miss +Colebrooke. Amazement seemed to have dulled her powers of +action—amazement that she, who had stolen to this place and crouched +close to earth that she might see the triumph of this preferred woman, +and, having seen and paid her grievous dole, steal away and take up the +thread of endless little things that spun for her the web of life, was +forced instead to be an unwilling witness of the other’s distress. +Judith had risen with her first impulse, which had been to go to Kitty, +but half-way through the thicket she hesitated and reconsidered. +Undoubtedly Peter would come soon, and Peter’s consolation would be +more potent than any she could offer. She shrank in shuddering +self-consciousness at the thought of her presence at their meeting, the +uninvited guest, the outgrown friend and confidante, blundering in at +such a time, pitifully full of good intentions. She recoiled from the +picture as from a precipice that all unwittingly she had escaped. What +madness had induced her to come on this expedition? A sudden panic at +the possibility of discovery possessed her; suppose Peter should find +her skulking like a beggar, waiting for broken meats? She looked at the +image of herself that she carried in her heart. It was that of a proud +woman who made no moan at the scourge of the inevitable. Many burdens +had she carried in her proud, lonely heart, but of them her lips gave +no sign. In her contemplative stoicism she felt with pride that she was +no unworthy daughter of her mother’s people, and catching a glimpse +through the trees of the abjectly waiting woman who, though safe and +sound, could but wait, wretched and dispirited, for some one to come +and adjust her to the situation, Judith felt for her a wondering pity +at her helplessness. She waited, expectant, for the sound of Peter’s +horse. Surely he must come at any moment, overcome with apologies, and +she—Judith hid her face in her hands at the thought—she would steal +away through the thicket at the first sound of hoofs. But as the +minutes slipped by and still no sign of Peter, a sickening anxiety +began to gnaw at her heart. Had something happened to him? + +She did not wait to ask herself the question twice. She crawled the +length of the thicket with incredible rapidity, gained the pine forest, +and made her way beneath the low-hanging boughs; without stopping to +protect herself from them she gained the open space and ran quickly to +Kitty. + +“Are you hurt? What has happened?” + +Kitty looked up, startled at the voice. She had not heard the sound of +the moccasined feet. Her wandering, forlorn thoughts crystallized at +sight of the woman before her. A new lightning leaped into her eyes as +she recognized Judith. There was between them a thrilling consciousness +that gave to their mutual perception a something sharp and fine, that +grasped the drama of the moment with the precision and fidelity of a +camera. And through all the wonder of the meeting there was in the +heart of each an outflowing that met and mingled and understood the +potential tragedy element of the situation. + +“You are Miss Rodney, I believe?” + +Kitty was conscious of something strange in her voice as she looked +into the dark eyes, wide with questioning fear. Ah, but she had amazing +beauty, and a something that seemed of the very essence of deep-souled +womanliness! The two women presented a fine bit of antithesis, Kitty, +flower-like, small, delicately wrought, the finished product of the +town, exotic as some rare transplanted orchid growth. And in Judith +there was a gemlike quality: it was in the bloom of her skin, the +iridescent radiance of her hair, that was bluish, like a plum in +sunlight; it was in the warm, red life in her lips, in the pulsing +vitality of the slim, brown throat; in every line was sensuous force +restrained by spiritual passion. + +Kitty told of the accident in which her horse had thrown her and +disappeared in the pine fringes, leaving her stunned for a moment or +two; and how she had finally pulled herself together and followed what +appeared to be a trail, in the hope of finding some one. She dwelt long +on the details of the accident. + +“Yes, but Peter, what has happened him?” Judith chose her words +impatiently. She was racked with anxiety at his long delay, and now she +hung over Kitty, waiting for her answer, without the semblance of a +cloak for her alarm. + +There was reproof in Kitty’s amendment. “I don’t know which way Mr. +Hamilton’s horse went. It started back over the trail, I think.” + +Judith clasped her hands. “Let us go and look for him. Why do we waste +time?” But Kitty hung back. She was shaken from her fall, and upset by +the events of the morning. Besides, her faith in Peter’s ability to +cope with all the exigencies of this country was supreme. And chiefest +reason of all for her not going was a something within her that winced +at the thought of this fellowship that had for its object the quest of +Peter. + +“Oh, don’t you see,” pleaded Judith, “that if something had not +happened to him he would have been here long ago?” + +Judith’s anxiety awoke in Kitty a new consciousness. What was she to +him, that at the possibility of harm, a fear not shared by Kitty, she +should throw off a reserve that every line of her face pronounced +habitual? In her very energy of attitude, an energy that all +unconsciously communicated itself to Kitty, there was the power that +belongs to all elemental human emotion—the power that compels. Kitty +rose to follow Judith, then hesitated. + +“I’m sure nothing has happened him. No, I’m really too unstrung by my +fall to walk.” She sank again to the bowlder on which she had been +sitting. + +To the woman of the world, Judith’s ingenuous display of feeling had in +its very sincerity a something pitiable. How could she strip from her +soul every fold of reserve and stand unloved and unashamed, sanctified, +as it were, by the very hopelessness of her passion? How could women +make of their whole existence a thing to be rejected, reflected Kitty, +who, giving nothing, could not understand. She looked again at the +bronzed face beside her, so bold in outline, so expressive in detail. +Yes, she was beautiful, and yet, what had her beauty availed her? The +thought that she herself was the preferred woman throbbed through her +for a moment with a sense of exaltation. The next moment a haunting +doubt laid hold of her heart, held up mockingly the little that she and +Peter had lived through together, the lofty plane of friendship along +which she had tried to lead his unwilling feet sedately, his protests, +his frank amusement at her serious pretensions to a career. How much +fuller might not have been the intercourse between him and this woman, +who, in all probability, had been his comrade for years? And she had +been idealizing him, and his love for her, and his loneliness! Kitty +stood with eyes cast down, while images crowded upon her, leaving her +cold and smiling. + +“But think,” pleaded Judith; “if you don’t come it will take me longer +to search the trail-marks. You could show me just where the horses +ran—” + +Kitty’s eyes were still on the ground. She did not lift them, and +Judith, realizing that further appeal was but a waste of time, turned +and ran swiftly down the trail. + +“He is her lover,” said Kitty; and all the wilderness before her was no +lonelier than her heart. + +Swift, intent, Judith traced Kitty’s footprints. They followed the game +trail, the one she herself had taken earlier in the day. She traced +them back through the pine wood about a hundred rods, and then the +trail-marks grew confused. This was unquestionably the place where the +horses had taken fright, circled, reared, then dashed in different +directions. She traced the other horse, whose tracks led under +low-hanging boughs. It would have been a difficult matter for a horse +with a rider to clear; and now the impression of the horse’s shoes grew +fainter, from the lighter footfalls of a horse at full gallop. + +“Ah!” A cry broke from her as she saw the marks had become almost +eliminated by something that had dragged, something heavy. Those +long-drawn lines were finger-prints, where a hand had dragged in its +vain endeavor to grasp at something. A sickening image came +persistently before her eyes—Peter’s upturned face, blood-smeared and +disfigured. + +“Sh-sh-sh!” She put her hand to her breast to still the beating of her +heart. She could hear the sound of hoofs falling muffled on the soft +ground, and a man’s voice speaking in a soothing sing-song. She +listened. It was Peter’s voice, reassuring the horse, asking him what +kind of a bag of nerves he was for a cow pony, to get frightened at a +bear? Judith stood tall and straight among the pines. Surely he could +not blindly pass her by. He must feel the joy in her heart that all was +well with him. The hoofs came nearer, the man’s voice sounded but +intermittently, as he got his horse under better control. She felt as +if he must come to her, as if some overpowering consciousness of her +presence would speak from her heart to his; but his eyes scanned the +distant trail for a glimpse of Kitty or Kitty’s horse. Judith saw that +his head was bound in something white and that it bore a red stain, but +he held himself well in the saddle. He was not the man to heed a +tumble. He urged the horse forward, never looking towards the +tree-trunks, his face white and strained with anxiety as he scoured the +trail for evidences of Kitty. The horse, with a keener sense than his +master, shied slightly as he passed the group of pines where Judith +stood; but Peter’s glance was for the open trail, and as she heard him +canter by, so close that she could have touched his stirrup with her +hand, it seemed as if he must hear the beating of her heart. + +“Oh, blind eyes, and ears that will not hear, and heart that has +forgotten how to beat! Yes, go to that pale, cold girl! You speak one +language, and life for you is the way of little things!” + +She waited till the last sound of the horse’s hoofs had died away and +all was still in the tremulous green of the forest. Judith’s mind was +busy with the image of their meeting, the man bringing the joy of his +youth to the calm divinity who could feel no thrill of fear in his +absence. She broke into the running gait and hurried through the forest +to the Daxes’. + + + + +XVI. +In The Land Of The Red Silence + + +The beef-herd, that had been the pivotal point of the round-up and had +made the mighty plain echo to its stampings and bellowings, beating up +simooms that choked it with thirst, blinded it with dust, confounding +itself on every side by the very fury of its blind force, had trailed +for a week, tractable as toys in the hands of children. Little had +happened to vary the monotony for the cow-punchers that handled the +herd—they grazed, guarded, watered, night-herded the cattle day after +day, night after night. Pasturage had been sufficient, if not abundant. +The creeks were running low and slimy with the advance of summer, but +there had been sufficient water to let the herd drink its fill at least +once a day. + +The outfit ate its “sow-belly,” soda-biscuit, and coffee three times a +day, and smoked its pipes, but was a little shy on yarns round the +camp-fire. + +“This yere outfit don’t lather none,” commented the cook to the +horse-wrangler, over the smoke of an early morning fire. + +“Don’t lather no more than a chunk of wood,” agreed the horse-wrangler. +“That’s the trouble with a picked-up outfit like this. Catch ‘W-square’ +men kowtowing to a ‘XXX’ boss, even if he is only acting foreman.” + +Simpson, the origin of whose connection with the “XXX” was rather a +sensitive subject with that outfit, had begun to take his duties as a +cattle-man with grim seriousness; he was untiring in his labors; he +spent long hours in the saddle, he took his turn at night herding, +though he was old for this kind of work. He condemned the sheep-men +with foul-mouthed denunciations, scoffed at their range-rights, said +the sheep question should be dealt with in the business-like manner in +which the Indian question had been settled. He was an advocate of +violence—in short, a swaggering, bombastic wind-bag. He talked much of +“his outfit” and “his men.” “What was good enough for them was good +enough for him,” he would announce at meal-time, in a snivelling tone, +when the food happened to be particularly bad. He split the temporary +outfit, brought together for the purpose of handling the beef-herd, +into factions. He put the “XXX” in worse repute than it already +enjoyed—he was, in fact, the discordant spirit of the expedition. The +men attended to their work sullenly. Discord was rife. The one thought +they shared in common was that of the wages that would come to them at +the end of the drive; of the feverish joy of “blowing in,” in a single +night; perchance, of forgetting, in one long, riotous evening, the +monotony, the hardship, the lack of comradery that made this particular +drive one long to be remembered in the mind of every man who had taken +part in it. + +Meanwhile the herd trailed its half-mile length to the slaughtering +pens day after day, all unconscious of its power. When the steers had +trailed for about a fortnight, the question of finding sufficient water +for them began to be a serious one. The preceding winter had been +unusually mild, the snow-fall on the mountains averaging less than in +the recollection of the oldest plains-man. Summer had begun early and +waxed hot and dry. The earth began to wrinkle, and cracked into +trenches, like gaping mouths, thirsty for the water that came not. Such +streams as had not dried shrank and crawled among the willows like +slimy things, that the herd, thirsty though it was from the long +drives, had to be coaxed to drink from. + +Discontent grew. The acting foreman, who was a “XXX” man, and a +comparative stranger to that part of the country, refused to consult +with the “W-square” men in the outfit, who knew every inch of the +ground. The acting foreman thought the Wetmore men looked down on him, +“put on dog”; and, to flaunt his authority, he ordered the herd driven +due west instead of skirting to the north by the longer route, where +they would have had the advantage of drinking at several creeks before +crossing Green River. Moreover, the acting foreman was drinking hard, +and he insisted upon his order in spite of the Wetmore men’s +protestations. + +The character of the country began to change, the soil took on the +color of blood, even the omnipresent sage-brush began to fail the +landscape; sun-bleached bones glistened on the red soil, white as +ulcers. All the animal trails led back from the country into which they +were proceeding. The sky, a vivid, cloudless blue, paled as it dipped +earthward. The sun looked down, a flaming copper shield. There was no +sign of life in all the land. Even the grasshoppers had left it to the +sun, the silence, and the desolation. To ears accustomed to the +incessant shrilling of the insects, the cessation was ominous, like the +sudden stopping of a clock in a chamber of death. Above the angry +bellow of the thirsty herd the men strained their ears again and again +for this familiar sound of life, but there was nothing but the +bellowing of the cattle, the trampling of their hoofs, and sometimes +the long, squealing whinny of a horse as he threw back his head in +seeming demand to know the justice of this thing. + +Across the red plain snailed the herd, like a many-jointed, prehistoric +reptile wandering over the limitless spaces of some primeval world. A +cloud of red dust hung over them in a dense haze, trailed after them a +weary length, then all was featureless monotony as before. What were a +thousand steers, a handful of men and horses, in the land of the red +silence? It had seen the comings and goings of many peoples, and once +it had flowed with streams; but that was before the curse of God came +upon it, and in its harsh, dry barrenness it grew to be a menace to +living things. + +The saddle-stock had been watered at some fetid alkali holes that had +scarce given enough to slake their thirst. The effect of the water had +weakened them, and the steers that had been without water for +thirty-six hours were being pushed on a course slightly northwest as +rapidly as the enfeebled condition of the saddle-horses would permit. +Creek after creek that they had made for proved to be but a dry bed. + +The glare of the red earth, under the scourge of the flaming sun, +tormented the eyes of the men into strange illusions. The naked red +plain stretched flat like the colossal background of a screen, over +which writhed a huge dragon, spined with many horns, headless, trailing +its tortuous way over the red world. Sometimes it was as unreal as a +fever-haunted dream, a drug-inspired nightmare, when a Chinese screen, +perchance, has stood at the foot of the sleeper’s bed. Sometimes the +dragon curled itself into a ball, and the foreman sung out that they +were milling, and the men turned and rode away from it, then dashed +back at it, after getting the necessary momentum, entered like a flying +wedge, fought their way into the rocking sea of surging bodies, shouted +from their thirst-parched throats imprecations that were lost in the +dull, sullen roar. Then the dragon would uncoil and again trail its way +over the red waste-lands. + +A red sun had begun to set over a red earth, and the men who had been +out since noon-scouring the country for water, returned to say that +none had been found, and they began to look into each other’s faces for +the answer that none could give. At sunset they made a dry camp; there +was but enough water left to cook with. Each man received, as a +thirst-quenching ration, a can of tomatoes. After supper they +consulted, and it was agreed to trail the herd till midnight, taking +advantage of the coolness to hurry them on as fast as possible to Green +River. The grave nature of their plight was indicated by the fact that +no one smoked after supper. Silent, sullen, they sat round, waiting for +the foreman to give the order to advance. He waited for the moon to +come up. Slowly it rose over the Bad Land Hills and hung round and full +like a gigantic lantern. The watches were arranged for the night with a +double guard. Every man in the outfit was beginning to have a feeling +of panic that communicated itself to every other man, and as they +looked at the herd, tractable now no longer, but a blind force that +they must take chances with through the long watches of the night, +while the thirst grew in the beasts’ parched throats, they foresaw what +would in all probability happen; they thought of their women, of all +that most strongly bound them to life, and they sat and waited dumbly. + +The moon that night was too brilliant for benisons; the gaunt, red +world lay naked and unshriven for the sin that long ago had brought +upon it the wrath of God. The picture was still that of the grotesque +Chinese screen, with the headless dragon crawling endlessly; but the +dream was long, centuries long, it seemed to the men listening to the +bellowing of the herd. And while they waited, the red grew dull and the +dragon dingy, and its fury made its contortions the more horrible; and +that was all the difference between day and night in the land of the +red silence. Sometimes the dragon split, and joints of it tried to turn +back to the last water it had drunk; for cattle, though blinded with +thirst, never forget the last stream at which they have quenched +thirst, and will turn back to it, though they drop on the way. But the +men pressed them farther and farther, and for yet a little while the +cattle yielded. + +At midnight the saddle-stock was incapable of moving farther. One horse +had fallen and lay too weak to rise. The others, limping and foot-sore, +no longer responded to quirt and rowel. The foreman ordered the herd +thrown on the bed ground for the night. The herders for the first watch +began to circle. The rest of the outfit took to its blankets to snatch +a little rest for the double duty that awaited every man that night. +Now it is a time-honored belief among cow-men that the herd must be +sung to, particularly when it is restless, and to-night they tried all +the old favorites, the “Cow-boy’s Lament” being chief among them. But +the herd refused to be soothed, and round and round it circled; not +once would it lie down. + +The moon gleamed almost brazen, showing the cruel scars, the trenches +torn by cloud-bursts, the lines wrought by the long, patient waiting of +the earth for the lifting of the wrath of God. Imperishable grief was +writ on the land as on a human face. The night wore on, the watches +changed, the herd continued restless; not more than a third of it had +bedded down. The third watch was from one o’clock to half-past three in +the morning. Simpson and another “XXX” man, with two of the Wetmore +outfit, made up a double watch, and rode, singing, about the herd, as +the long, dreary watch wore away. The cattle’s lowing had taken on a +gasping, cracked sound that was more frightful than the maddened bellow +of the early evening. Simpson, who was past the age when men live the +life of the saddle, felt the hardship keenly. He had ridden since +sunrise, but for the respite at noon and the scant time at the dry camp +while the evening meal was being eaten. He was more than half asleep +now, as he lurched heavily in the saddle, crossing and recrossing his +partner in the half-circle they completed about the herd. Suddenly the +sharp yelp of a coyote rang out; it seemed to come from no farther than +twenty yards away. The cattle heard it, too, and a wave of panic swept +through them. Simpson stiffened in his saddle. The sound, which was +repeated, was an exact reproduction of a coyote’s yelp, yet he knew +that it was not a coyote. + +The herd rose to its feet as a single steer, and for a second stood +undetermined. From a clump of sage-brush not more than two feet high +fluttered something long and white like a sheet. It waved in the wind +as the cry was repeated. The herd crashed forward in a stampede, +Simpson in the lead on a tired horse, but a scant length ahead of a +thousand maddened steers bolting in a panic of thirst and fear. + +“Hell’s loose!” yelled the men in their blankets, making for the +temporary rope corral to secure horses. Simpson, tallow-colored with +fear, clung like a cat to his horse, and dug the rowels in the beast’s +flanks till they were bloody and dripping. He had seen Jim Rodney’s +face above the white cloth as it fluttered in the face of the herd that +came pounding behind him with the rumble of nearing thunder. He was too +close to them to attempt to fire his revolver in the air in the hope of +turning them, but the boys had evidently got into their saddles, to +judge by the volley of shots that rang out and were answered. Simpson +alone rode ahead of the herd that tore after him, ripping up the earth +as it came, bellowing in its blind fury. His horse, a thoroughly +seasoned cow-pony, sniffed the bedlam and responded to the goading +spur. She had been in cattle stampedes before, and, though every fibre +ached with fatigue, she flattened out her lean body and covered ground +to the length of her stride at each gallop. The herd was so close that +Simpson could smell the stench of their sweating bodies, taste their +dust, and feel the scorch of their breath. The sound of their hoofs was +like the pounding of a thousand propellers. From above looked the moon, +round and serene; she had watched the passing of many peoples in the +land of the red silence. The horse seemed to be gaining. A few more +lengths ahead and Simpson could turn her to one side and let the +maddened cattle race to their own destruction. All he asked of God was +to escape their trampling hoofs, and though he gained he dug the rowel +and plied the quirt, unmindful of what he did. On they came; the chorus +of their fear swelled like the voice of a mighty cataract, the pound, +pound, pound of their hoofs ringing like mighty sledge-hammers. + +Suddenly he felt himself sinking, horribly, irresistibly. “God! What is +it?” as his horse went down with her foreleg in a gopher-hole. “Up, up, +you damned brute!” but the mare’s leg had cracked like a pipe-stem. In +his fury at the beast Simpson began kicking her, then started to run as +the cattle swept forward like a black storm-cloud. + +The next second the great sea of cattle had broken over horse and +rider. When it had passed there was not enough left of either to +warrant burial or to furnish a feast for the buzzards. A few shreds of +clothes, that had once been a man, lay scattered there; a something +that had been a horse. + + + + +XVII. +Mrs. Yellett Contends With A Cloudburst + + +The matriarch had delayed longer in moving camp than was consistent +with her habitual watchfulness where the interests of the sheep were +involved. Mary Carmichael, who had already become inured to the +experience of moving, was even conscious of a certain impatience at the +delay, and could only explain the apathy with which Mrs. Yellett +received reports of the dearth of pasturage on the ground that she +wished each fresh educational germ to take as deep root as possible +before transplantation. So that when Mrs. Yellett, shortly after +Leander Dax’s arrival at camp in the capacity of herder, announced that +she and Leander were to make a trip to the dipping-vat that had kept +Ben from his classes for the past ten days, and invited the “gov’ment” +to join the expedition, Mary accepted with fervor. + +The Yelletts’ “bunch” of sheep did not exceed three thousand head, and +the matriarch had wisely decreed that it should be restricted to that +number, as she wished always to give the flock her personal +supervision. + +“‘The hen that’s the surest of her chicks is the one that does her own +settin’,’” was the adage from the Book of Hiram with which Mrs. Yellett +succinctly summed up the case. + +Each autumn, therefore, the wethers and the dry-bag ewes were sent to +the market, and as the result of continual weeding of the stock the +matriarch had as promising a herd of its size as could be found in +Wyoming. Often she had explained to Mary, who was learning of the +wonders of this new world with remarkable aptness, that she had +constantly to fight against the inclination to increase her business of +sheep-raising, but that as soon as she should begin to hire herders or +depend on strangers things would go wrong. With the assistance of her +sons, she therefore managed the entire details of the herd, with the +exception of those occasions on which Leander lent his +semi-professional co-operation. + +As a workman Leander was, considering his size and apparent weakness, +surprisingly efficient. It was as a dispenser of anti-theological +doctrine that Mrs. Dax’s husband annoyed his temporary employer. Freed +from his wife’s masterful presence, Leander dared to be an “agnostic,” +as he called himself, of an unprecedentedly violent order. His +iconoclasm was not of a pattern with paw’s gusty protests against life +in general, but it was Leander’s way of asserting himself, on the rare +occasions when he got a chance, to deny clamorously every tenet +advanced by every religion. The mere use of certain familiar expletives +drove him, ordinarily mild and submissive though he was, to frantic +gesticulation and diatribe. Mary Carmichael could not make out, as she +watched the comedy with growing amusement, whether poor Leander really +believed that he was the first of doubting Thomases, or whether he took +an unfair advantage of the lack of general information in his casual +audiences to set forth well-known opinions as his own. Whatever its +basis may have been, Leander sustained the rôle of doubter with +passionate zeal, wearing himself to tatters of rage and hoarseness over +arguments maliciously contrived beforehand by cow-punchers and +sheep-herders in need of amusement; and yet he never saw the traps, +going out of his way, apparently, to fall into them, tumbling headlong +into the identical pits time after time. Jonah and the whale +constituted one bait by means of which Leander could be lured from +food, sleep, or work of the most pressing nature. + +“The poor fool would stop in the middle of shearing a sheep to argue +that Jonah never come out of the whale’s belly,” the matriarch had told +Mary Carmichael, in summing up Leander’s disadvantages as a herder. And +the first remark she had addressed to him on his arrival was: “Leander +Dax, you’d have to be made over, and made different, to keep you from +bein’ a infidel, but there’s one p’int on which you are particularly +locoed, and that’s Jonah and the whale. Now at this particular time in +the hist’ry of the United States, nobody in his faculties has got no +call to fret hisself over Jonah and his whereabouts—none whatever. +There’s a lot of business round this here camp that’s a heap more +pressin’. Now, Leander Dax, if I do hereby undertake to hire, engage, +and employ you to herd sheep, do you agree to renounce discussions, +arguments, and debates on the late Jonah and his whereabouts durin’ +them three days? God A’mighty, man, any one would think you was Jonah’s +wife, the interest you have in his absence!” + +“I come here to herd sheep,” Leander had brazenly retaliated. “I ’ain’t +come to try to make you think.” + +Nevertheless, he appeared docile enough as the time came for the +journey to the dipping-vat, and did his part in making ready. The wagon +was the rudest of structures; it consisted merely of one long, stout +pole. Though she saw the horses being harnessed to this pole, Mary +Carmichael, discreetly exercising her newly acquired wisdom, forbore to +ask where she was going to sit, and listened with interest to a +discussion between Mrs. Yellett and Leander as to the number of horses +it would take to get the dip up the mountain. Leander, who loved pomp +and splendor, was for taking six, but Mrs. Yellett, who carried +simplicity to a fault, was in favor of only two. They finally +compromised on four, and Leander went to fetch the extra two. + +Mrs. Yellett, ever economical of the flitting moment, took advantage of +the delay to give Mr. Yellett a dose of “Brainard’s Beneficial +Blackthorn.” + +“Paw’s as hard to manage as a bent pin,” she remarked, in an aside to +Mary, while he protested and fought her off with his stick. But she, +with the agility of an acrobat, got directly back of him, took his head +under her arm, pried open his mouth, and poured down the unwelcome, if +beneficial, dose. + +“There, there, paw,” she said, wiping his mouth as if he had been a +baby, “don’t take on so! It’s all gone, and I can’t have you sick on my +hands.” + +But Mr. Yellett continued to splutter and flare and use violent +language, whereupon the matriarch went into the tent and returned with +a drink of condensed-milk and water, “to wash down the nasty taste,” +she told him, soothingly. + +A moment afterwards she and Leander were engaged in rolling the barrels +of sheep-dip to the wagon, Mary Carmichael helplessly looking on while +Mrs. Yellett looked doubtfully at a “gov’ment” who could not handle +barrels. Finally, under the skilful manipulation of Mrs. Yellett and +Leander, the long pole took on the aspect of a colossal vertebral +column, from which huge barrel-ribs projected horizontally, leaving at +the rear a foot or so of bare pole as a smart caudal appendage, bearing +about the same proportion to the wagon as the neatly bitten tail of a +fox-terrier does to the dog. + +Mrs. Yellett kissed “paw” good-bye, explaining to Mary, in extenuation +of her weakness, that she would never forgive herself if she neglected +it and anything happened to him during her absence. She then climbed to +the front barrel and secured the ribbons. Leander had brought out three +rolls of bedding of the inevitable bed-quilt variety, but Mrs. Yellett +scorned such luxury while driving, and accordingly gave hers to the +“gov’ment” for a back-rest. Mary sat on the lower row of barrels, with +her feet dangling, using one roll of bedding for a seat and the other +comfortably arranged at her back as a cushion. + +Madam called sharply to the horses, “Hi-hi-hi-kerat! hi-kerat-kerat!” +and they started off at a rattling pace, the barrels of dip creaking +and squeaking as they swayed under their rope lashings. Mary bounced +about like a bean in a bag, working loose from between the bed-quilt +rolls at each gulley, clinging frantically to barrel ends, shaken back +and forth like a shuttle. Indeed, the drive seemed to combine every +known form of physical exercise. Mrs. Yellett herself was in fine +fettle; she drove sitting for a while, then rose, standing on a narrow +ledge while she held the four ribbons lightly in one hand and tickled +the leaders with a long whip carried in the other. She drove her four +horses over the rough road with the skill of a circus equestrienne, +balancing easily on the crazy ledge, shifting her weight from side to +side as the wagon rattled down gullies and up ridges, the horses +responding gallantly to the shrill “Hi-hi-kerat! hi-kerat! hi-kerat!” +Her costume on this occasion represented joint concessions to her sex +and the work that was before her, as the head of a family at the +dipping-vat. She still wore the drum-shaped rabbit-skin cap pulled well +down over her forehead for driving. The great, cable-like braids of +hair stood out well below the cap, giving her head an appearance of +denseness and solidity, but the rambling curls were still blowing about +her face, perhaps adding to the sum total of grotesqueness. She wore a +man’s shirt of gray flannel, well open at the neck, from which the +bronzed column of the throat rose in austere dignity. A pair of Mr. +Yellett’s trousers, stuffed into high, cow-puncher’s boots, that met +the hem of a skirt coming barely to the knees, contributed to the +originality of her dress. + +The wagon had been pitching like a ship at sea through the desert +dreariness for about an hour, when Mary Carmichael suddenly became +conscious that the prods she had been receiving from time to time in +her back were not due either to their manner of locomotion or to the +freight carried. Clinging to two barrels, she waited for the next lurch +of the wagon to shake her free from the rolls of bedding, and, at the +peril of life and limb, looked round. Leander hung over the top row of +barrels, gesticulating wildly. The change in the man, since leaving +camp some two hours previous, was appalling. He seemed to have +shrivelled away to a wraith of his former self. His cheeks, his chin, +had waned to the vanishing point. He opened his lips and mouthed +horribly, yet his frightful grimacings conveyed no meaning. Mary called +to Mrs. Yellett, but her voice was drowned in the rattle of the wagon, +the clatter of four horses’ hoofs, and the continual “Hi-hi-hi-kerat! +hi-kerat!” of the driver. In the mean time Leander pointed to his mouth +and back to the road in indescribably pathetic pantomime. “Perhaps the +poor creature wants to turn back and die in his bed, like a Christian, +even if he isn’t one,” thought Mary, as she called and called, Leander +still emitting the most inhuman of cries, like the sounds made by deaf +mutes in distress. Presently Mrs. Yellett drew up, and asked in the +name of many profane things what was the matter with her companions. + +Leander resumed his mouthings and his dumb show, but Mrs. Yellett +proved a better interpreter than Mary Carmichael. + +“God A’mighty!” she said, “he’s lost his false teeth!” And without +another word she turned the four horses and the wagon with a skill that +fell little short of sleight-of-hand. + +The dialogue that followed between Mrs. Yellett and Leander as to how +far back he had dropped his teeth, cannot be given, owing to the +inadequacy of the English language to reproduce his toothless +enunciation. Catching, as Mary did, the meaning of Mrs. Yellett’s +remarks only, she received something of the one-sided impression given +by overhearing a telephone conversation: + +“What did you have ’em out for?... You didn’t have ’em out?... I just +shook ’em out? Then what made you have your mouth open? Ef your mouth +had been shut, you couldn’t have lost ’em.... You was a-yawnin’, eh? +Well, you are a plumb fool to yawn on this kind of a waggin, with your +mouth full o’ china teeth. Your yawnin’ ’ll put us back a good hour an’ +we won’t reach camp before sundown.” + +At this point of the diatribe the Infidel left the wagon and began to +search along the road. He said he had noticed a buffalo skull near the +place where he had dropped the teeth, and thought he could trace them +by this landmark. Mrs. Yellett held the ribbons and suggested that Mary +get down “and help to prospect for them teeth.” As Mary clambered down +she heard a fragment of the matriarch’s monologue, which, being duly +expurgated for polite ears, was to the effect that she would rather +take ten babies anywhere than one grown man, and that as for getting in +the way, hindering, obstructing, and being a nuisance, generally +speaking, man had not his counterpart in the scheme of creation. + +“Talk about a woman bein’ at the bottom of everything!” sniffed Mrs. +Yellett; “I be so sick of always hearin’ about ‘the woman in the case!’ +Half the time the case would be a blame sight worse if it was left +exclusive to the men. The Book of Hiram says: ‘A skunk may have his +good p’ints, but few folks is takin’ the risk of waitin’ round to get +acquainted with ’em.’” + +While Mary was still “prospecting,” a glad cry roused her attention, +and Leander came up smiling, with his dental treasures nicely adjusted. + +“Quit smilin’ like a rattlesnake, you plumb fool!” called out Mrs. +Yellett. “Do you want to lose ’em again?” + +So, curtailing the muscular contraction indicative of his pleasure, the +Infidel again took his place among the bed-quilts and the journey was +resumed. + +It was now about five in the afternoon. The heat, which had been +oppressive all day, suddenly relaxed its blistering grip, and a keenly +penetrating dampness, not unlike that of a sea-fog, came from some +unknown quarter of the arid wastes and chilled the three travellers to +the marrow. The horses flung up their heads and sniffed it, rearing and +plunging as if they had scent of something menacing. Across the horizon +a dark cloud scudded, no bigger than your hand. + +“Cloud-burst!” announced Mrs. Yellett. + +“Cloud-burst, all right enough,” agreed Leander, and he turned up his +coat-collar in simple preparation for the deluge. + +There flashed into Mary Carmichael’s mind a sentence from her physical +geography that she had been obliged to commit to heart in her +school-days: “A cloud-burst is a sudden, capricious rainfall, as if the +whole cloud had been precipitated at once.” She wanted to question her +companions as to the accuracy of this definition, but before she had +time to frame a sentence the real cloud-burst came, with a splitting +crack of thunder; then the lightning flashed out its message in the +short-hand of the storm, across the inky blackness, and the water fell +as if the ocean had been inverted. In the fraction of a second all +three were drenched to the skin, the water pouring from them in sheets, +as if they had been some slight obstruction in the path of a waterfall. +The wagon was soon in a deep gully, with frothing, foaming, yellow +water up to the hubs of the wheels. Mrs. Yellett, like some goddess of +the storm, lashed her horses forward to keep them from foundering in +the mud, and the wagon creaked and groaned in all its timbers as it +lurched and jolted through the angry torrents. + +Each moment Mary expected to be flung from the barrels, and clung till +her finger-tips were white and aching. From the drenched red bedquilts +a sticky crimson trail ran over the barrel heads, as well as over +Mary’s hands, face, and dress. Still they forged on through the deluge, +Mrs. Yellett shouting and lashing the horses, holding them erect and +safe with the skill she never lost. The fur on her rabbit-skin cap was +beaten flat. The great, wet braids had fallen from the force of the +water and hung straight and black, like huge snakes uncoiled. She was +far from losing her grip on either the horses or the situation, and +from the inspiring ring of her voice as she urged them forward it was +plain that she took a fierce joy in this conflict of the elements. + +It was bitterly cold, and Mary reflected that if Leander’s teeth +chattered half as hard as hers did, without breaking, they must, +indeed, be of excellent quality. The storm began to abate, and the sky +became lighter, though the water still poured in torrents. As soon as +her responsibility as driver left her time to speak, Mrs. Yellett lost +no time in fastening the cloud-burst to Leander. + +“This here is what comes of settin’ up your back against God A’mighty +and encouragin’ the heathen and the infidel in his idolatry. I might +’a’ knowed somethin’ would happen, takin’ you along! ‘And the heathen +and the infidel went out, and the Lord God sent a cloud-burst to wet +him,’” quoted Mrs. Yellett from the apocryphal Scriptures that never +yet failed to furnish her with verse and text. + +The infidel, from his side of the wagon, began to display agitation. +His jaws worked, but he said nothing. + +“You ’ain’t lost them teeth again, have you?” + +He nodded his head wretchedly. + +“‘And the Lord took away the teeth of his enemy, so that he could +neither bite nor talk,’” quoted Mrs. Yellett to the miserable man, who +could make no reply. + +“Wonder you wouldn’t see the foolishness o’ being a heathen and a +infidel, and turn to the Lord! You ’ain’t got no teeth, and it takes +your wife to herd you. ‘And the Lord multiplied the tribulations of his +enemy.’ You got no more show standin’ up agin the Lord than an insect +would have standin’ up agin me.” + +She had Leander, at last, just where she wanted him. He was forced to +listen, and he could make no reply. She alternately abused him for his +lack of faith and urged him to repentance. Leander raged, gesticulated, +turned his back on her, mouthed, and finally put his fingers in his +ears. But nothing stemmed the tide of Mrs. Yellett’s eloquence; it was +as inexhaustible and as remorseless as the cloud-burst. + +It continued bitterly cold, even after the rain had stopped falling, +and the heap of sodden bedclothes furnished no protection against the +chilling dampness. It was growing dark; there was no red in the sunset, +only a streak of vivid orange along the horizon, chill and clear as the +empty, soulless flame of burning paper. There were no deep, glowing +coals, no amethystine opalescence, fading into gold and violet. All was +cold and subdued, and the scrub pines on the mountain-tops stood out +sharply against this cold background like an etching on yellow paper. + +Mrs. Yellett’s self-inspired scriptural maxims were discontinued after +a while, either because she could think of no more, or because the +rain-soaked, shivering, chattering object towards which they were +directed was too abject to inspire further efforts. Leander huddled on +the barrel that was farthest from Mrs. Yellett, and wrapped himself in +the soaked red bedquilt. The dye smeared his face till he looked like +an Indian brave ready for battle, but there was no further suggestion +of the fighting red man in the utter desolation of his attitude. Mary +Carmichael, on her barrel, shivered with grim patience and longed for a +cup of tea. Only Mrs. Yellett gave no sign of anxiety or discomfort; +she drove along, sometimes whistling, sometimes swearing, erect as an +Indian, and to all appearances as oblivious of cold and wet as if she +were in her own home. + +The gathering darkness into which the horses were plunging was +mysterious and appalling. Objects stood out enormously magnified, or +distorted grotesquely, in the uncertain light. It was like penetrating +into the real Inferno, like stumbling across the inspiration of Dante +in all its sinister splendor. It was the Inferno of his dream rather +than the Inferno of his poem; it had the ghastly reality of the unreal. + +“It wouldn’t surprise me if we had a smash-up in Clear Creek,” said +Mrs. Yellett, just by way of adding her quota of cheerful speculation. +She ducked her head and whispered in Mary’s ear: + +“It’s all along of me hirin’ _him!_ I wouldn’t be surprised if paw +died. I’m thinkin’ of shakin’ him out after his teeth. ‘Take not up +with the enemy of the Lord, lest he make of you also an enemy.’” + +But there was no accent of apprehension in Mrs. Yellett’s dismal +prognostications of the evil that might befall her for employing +Leander. She spoke more with the air of one who produces incidents to +prove an argument than of one who anticipates a calamity. + +Leander, toothless and wretched, sitting on the side of the wagon, +began to show symptoms of joy comparable to that of the vanguard of the +Israelites, catching their first glimpse of the Promised Land. Touching +Mary Carmichael on the shoulder, he pointed to a white tent and the +remains of a camp-fire. Already Mrs. Yellett had begun to “Hallo, Ben!” +But Ben was at work at the vat, which was still a quarter of a mile +further up the mountain; so Mrs. Yellett, throwing the reins to Leander +and bidding him turn out the horses, lost no time in building a fire, +putting on coffee, and making her little party comfortable. So various +was her efficiency that she seemed no less at home in these simple +domestic tasks than when guiding her horses, goddess-like, through the +cloud-burst. And Mary Carmichael, succumbing gradually to the +revivifying influence of the fire and the hot coffee, acknowledged +honestly to herself a warmth of affection for her hostess and for the +atmosphere Mrs. Yellett created about her that made even Virginia and +her aunts seem less the only pivot of rational existence. She felt that +she had come West with but one eye, as it were, and countless +prejudices, whereas her powers of vision were fast becoming increased a +hundredfold. How very tame life must be, she reflected, as she sat +smiling to herself, to those who did not know Mrs. Yellett, how +over-serious to those who did not know Leander! Yet, after all, she +knew that the real basis of her readjusted vision was her brief but +illuminating acquaintance with Judith Rodney. To Mary, freed for the +first time in her life from the most elegantly provincial of +surroundings, Judith seemed the incarnation of all the splendor and +heroism of the West. And in the glow of her enthusiasm she decided then +and there not to abandon the Yellett educational problem till she +should have solved it successfully. She might not be born to valiant +achievement, like these sturdy folk about her, but she might as well +prove to them that an Eastern tenderfoot was not all feebleness and +inefficiency. + +“Leander!” called Mrs. Yellett. “Just act as if you was to home and +wash up these dishes.” + + + + +XVIII. +Foreshadowed + + +Alida awoke, knowing what was to happen. She had dreamed of it, just +before daylight, and lay in bed stupefied by the horror of it, living, +again and again, through each frightful detail. It had happened—there, +in the very room, and before the children; the noise of it had startled +them; and then she woke and knew she had been dreaming. In the dream +the noise had wakened the children—when it really happened they must +never know. It wouldn’t be fair to them; they needed a “clean start.” + +What had she done to keep them quiet? There had been a thunderous +knocking at the door. She had expected it and was prepared; because the +lock was feeble, she had shoved the old brown bureau against the door. + +Nothing had happened. What a fool she was to lie there and think of it! +There was the brown bureau against the wall; she could hear the deep +breathing of Jim in the room beyond. Jim had been unequal to the task +of conventionally going to bed the night before, and she had put a +pillow under his head and a quilt over him. She was the last woman in +the world to worry about Jim, drunk, or to nag him for it when sober. +But she didn’t like the children to see him that way. + +What was it that she had done to quiet the children when “they” rode +up? She had done something and they had gone to sleep again, and +she—and she—oh no, it hadn’t happened. What a fool she was to lie there +thinking! There were the children to rouse and dress, and breakfast to +cook, and Jim—Jim would be feeling pretty mean this morning; he’d like +a good cup of coffee. She was glad he was alive to make coffee for. + +She got up and, in the uncertainty bred of the dream, felt the brown +bureau, felt it hungrily, almost incredulously. The brown bureau had +been pushed against the door when they had come, and knocked and +knocked. Then they had thundered with the butts of their six-shooters, +and the children had wakened, and she had called out to them: + +“Sh-sh! It’s only a bad dream. Mammy will give you some dough to bake +to-morrow.” + +And she had gone to press her face flat to the thin wall, and call, +“For God’s sake, don’t wake the children!” + +And they had called out, “Let him come out quiet, then.” + +And then she could feel that they put their shoulders to the door—the +weather-beaten door—with its crazy lock that didn’t half catch. The +brown bureau had spun across the floor like a top, and they had crowded +in. Then she had done something to quiet the children—it was queer that +she could not remember what it was, when everything else in the dream +still lived within her, horribly distinct and real. + +What a fool she was, with Jim asleep in the next room; she would not +think about it another minute. She began to dress, but her fingers were +heavy, and the vague oppression of nightmare blocked her efficiency. +Repeatedly she would detect herself subconsciously brooding over some +one of the links in that pitiless memory—what they had said to Jim; his +undaunted replies; how she had left him and gone into the next room +because Jim had told her to. + +She called the children, but the sight of them, happy and flushed with +sleep, did not reassure her. + +“Mammy,” said Topeka, eldest of the family, and lately on the invalid +list, the victim of a cactus thorn, “my toe’s all well; can I go +barefoot?” + +“Topeka Rodney, what kind of feet do you expect to have when you are a +young lady, if you run barefoot now?” + +Topeka, sitting on the side of the bed, with tousled hair, put her +small feet together and contemplated them. The toe was still +suspiciously inflamed for perfect convalescence, although Topeka, with +a Spartan courage that won her a place in the annals of household +valor, had the day before allowed her mother to pick out with a needle +the torturing cactus thorn, scorning to shed a tear during the +operation, though afterwards she had taken the piece of dried apple +that was offered her and devoured it to the last bite, as only just +compensation for her sufferings. + +“Dimmy dot a tore toe, too.” But Jimmy showed a strange reticence about +offering proofs of his affliction. At the peril of his equilibrium, he +clasped the allegedly injured member in his chubby hand and rolled over +on the bed in apparent anguish. + +“Less see, Jimmy,” asked his mother, anxiously. + +“Don’t bleeve him, mammy. He ’ain’t ever cried. He’d a cried, for sure, +if his toe was sore.” At the age of five, little Judith, namesake of +her aunt, was something of a doubting Thomas. + +“Let mammy see, Jimmy,” and Alida bent over her son and heir. + +“Doth Dimmy det any apple?” The wee man sometimes succeeded in making +terms with his mother, when the other children were not present. Though +feeling himself a trifle over-confident, he held the disputed toe with +the air of one keeping back a trump card, and looked his mother +squarely in the eyes. + +She struggled with the temptation to give him the apple. He had lifted +the horrors of her dream as nothing else could have done, but she +answered him with quiet firmness. + +“Jimmy must not tell stories.” + +“Less see,” insisted Topeka. + +“He dassent,” affirmed Judith, junior, of little faith. + +“It hurths me,” and Jimmy tried to squeeze out a tear. “It hurths me, +my tore toe!” + +His mother tipped him over on his fat little back and opened the chubby +hand that held the trump toe. It was white from the pressure applied by +the infant dissembler, but there was no trace of the treacherous cactus +thorn. She gave him an affectionate spank and went into the kitchen to +make coffee. + +“I with I had a tore toe,” he crooned, quite unabashed at the discovery +of his deception. “I with I toud det a tore toe ’thout the hurt.” + +But the horror of the dream gripped her when she found herself alone in +the kitchen; and she remembered she had not told the children not to go +into the room where their father was sleeping. She went back and found +that Jimmy had not left his post on the side of the bed, where he still +regretted that his perfectly well toe did not entitle him to +gastronomic consideration. Topeka, who had arrived at an age where +little girls, in the first subconscious attempt at adornment, know no +keener delight than plastering their heads with a wet hairbrush, till +they present an appearance of slippery rotundity equalled only by a +peeled onion, put down the brush with guilty haste at sight of her +mother. + +“I’m goin’ to dress him soon as I’ve done my hair.” + +“Any one think you was goin’ to be married, the time you’ve took to +it.” + +“It’s gettin’ so long,” urged Topeka. + +“I wouldn’t give it a chance to grow no longer while Jimmy was waitin’ +to get dressed. And don’t go into the front room. Your father’s gettin’ +his sleep out.” + +Topeka opened her round eyes. There was always something suspicious +about that sleep her father had to get out, but she felt it was +something she must not ask questions about. Her mother lingered; she +dreaded to be alone in the kitchen. The little, familiar intimacies +between herself and her children scattered the horrors of the dream +which would come back to her when she was again at the mercy of her +thoughts. + +“Judy, s’pose you dress Jimmy this morning! I want Topeka to help me +get breakfast.” + +“Yessum,” said Judith, dutifully. “Is he to have his face washed?” + +“He certainly is, Judy. I’s ashamed to have you ask such a question. +’Ain’t you all been brought up to have your faces washed?” + +But young Judith seemed disinclined to take up this phase of family +superiority. She merely inquired further: + +“Is he to have it washed with soap, maw?” + +“He shore is. Any one would think you had been born and raised in +Arizony or Nebrasky, to hear you talk. I’m plumb ashamed of you, Judy.” + +“But, ’deed, maw, I ain’t big enough to wash his face with soap. It +takes Topeka to hold his head.” + +The subject of the discussion still sat on the edge of the bed, a small +lord of creation, letting his women folk arrange among themselves who +should minister to his wants. As an instrument of torture the +washcloth, in the hands of his sister Judy, was no ignoble rival of the +cactus thorn. The question of making terms for his sufferings again +appealed to him in the light of a feasible business proposition. + +“Muvvy, tan’t I have the apple? Judy hurts me a lot when she wathes my +face wis soap.” + +“Yes, you can have the apple, honey; and, Judy, you be gentle with him. +Don’t rub his features up, and be careful and don’t get soap in his +eyes.” + +“No’m.” And Judy heroically stifled the longing to slick her hair, like +Topeka’s, with the wet hairbrush. There were easier tasks than washing +the face of her younger brother. + +When Topeka and her mother were alone in the kitchen, Topeka grinding +the coffee and all unconsciously working her jaw in an accompaniment to +the coffee-mill, her mother bent over her and said: + +“Did you dream of anything last night?” + +Topeka simultaneously stopped working the coffee-mill and her jaw, and +regarded her mother solemnly. She did not remember having been thus +questioned about her dreams before. + +“No’m,” she answered, after laborious consideration. But something in +her mother’s face held her. + +“You’re sure you didn’t dream nothing?” + +“Yes, maw.” + +“Did Judy or Jim say that they dreamed anything?” + +“Jim said he dreamed he had a pup.” + +“Was that all? Think hard, Topeka!” + +Topeka held the handle of the coffee-mill in her hand; her jaw +continued to work with the labor of her mental process. “I’ve thought +hard, maw, and all he told was about the pup.” + +Alida went back to her bedroom and again felt the brown bureau. “What’s +the matter with me, anyhow? It’s the lonesomeness, and they bein’ agin +Jim the way they are. God, this country’s hard on women and horses!” + +When breakfast was over, and young Jim had received the reward of his +valor in presenting a brave face to his ablution, and Judith the reward +of her skill, the evidence of which almost prevented the young martyr +from smiling while he enjoyed his treat, their mother sent them all to +play in the cañon. She told them not to come home till she should come +for them, and if any one should ask about their father, to say that he +was away from home. And this, as well as the mystery of her father’s +“getting his sleep out,” roused some slight apprehension in Topeka, who +was old for her age. They were seldom sent to the cañon to play. Topeka +looked at her mother as she had when questioned about the dream, but +there was no further confidence between them. + +“You do as your sister Topeka tells you, and remember what I said about +your papa,” Alida said to the younger children. Jim and Judy clasped +each other’s hands in mute compact at the edict. Their sister Topeka +had a real genius for authority; they were minded all too well when she +swayed the maternal sceptre vicariously. + +Alida made fresh coffee for Jim when the children had gone. She made it +carefully; there was this morning, unconsciously, about each little +thing that she did for him, the solemnity of a funeral rite. Struggle +as she would, she could not divest her mind of the conviction that what +she did this day she did for the dead. She would go to the door and +listen to his breathing, and tell herself that she was a fool, then +wring her hands at the remembrance of the dream. + +As he tossed, half waking, she heard him groan and curse the cattle-men +with oaths that made her glad she had sent the children from home. Then +she bent over him and woke him from his uneasy slumber. + +“Jim, don’t you want me to bathe your head? And here’s some nice, hot +coffee all ready for you.” + +Jim woke slowly to a realization of his troubles and his blessings. His +wife was bathing his head with hands that trembled. Not always had she +greeted his indiscretions with such loving forbearance. He noticed, +though his waking faculties were not over-keen, that her face was pale +and frightened, and that her eyes, meeting his, held a dumb, +measureless affection. + +“What th’ hell are you babying me for?” But his roughness did not +deceive her woman’s wits. He was not getting the lecture he +anticipated, and this was his way of showing that he was not +embarrassed by her kindness. The morning sunlight was pitilessly frank +in its exposure of the grim pinch of poverty in the mean little room, +but the woman was unconscious of these things; what she saw was that +Jim, the reckless, Jim, the dare-devil terror of the country, Jim, who +had married and settled with her into home-keeping respectability, Jim, +who had struggled with misfortune and fallen, had, young as he was, +lost every look of youth; that hope had gone from his dull eyes, and +that his face had become drawn until the death’s-head grinned beneath +the scant padding of flesh. But he was to-day, as always, the one man +in the world for her. In making a world of their own and reducing their +parents to supplementary consideration, their children, whom she had +sent away that she might be alone with him, had given a different +quality to the love of this pair that had known so many curious +vicissitudes. The responsibilities of parenthood had placed them on a +tenderer, as well as a securer footing; and as she saw his age and +weariness, he recognized hers, and both felt a self-accusing twinge. + +“That’s a blamed good cup of coffee,” he said, by way of relieving the +tension that had crept into the situation. “Any one would think you was +settin’ your cap for me ’stead of us being married for years.” + +Alida sighed. “It’s better to end than to begin like this,” she said, +in the far-away voice of one who thinks aloud. The word “end” had +slipped out before she realized what she was saying, and the knowledge +haunted her as an omen. She glanced at him quickly, to see if he had +noticed it. + +“Why did you say end?” He saw that her eyes were full of tears and +chafed her. “You ain’t thinking of divorcing me, like Mountain Pink +done Bosky?” + +“Oh, Jim,” she said, and her face was all aquiver, “I never could +divorce you, no matter what you done.” And then the grim philosophy of +the plains-woman asserted itself. “I never can understand why women +feed their pride on their heart’s blood; it never was my way.” + +He did not like to remember that he had given her cause for a way. +“There’s a lot of women as wouldn’t exactly regard me as a Merino, or a +Southdown, either;” he gulped the coffee to ease the tightness in his +throat. + +“They’d be women of no judgment, then,” she said, with conviction. + +Jim’s head was tilted back, resting in the palm of his hand. His +profile, sharpened by anxiety, more than suggested his quarter-strain +of Sioux blood. He might almost have been old Chief Flying Hawk +himself, as he looked steadily at the woman who had been a young girl +and reckless, when he had been a boy and reckless; who had paid her +woman’s penalty and come into her woman’s kingdom; who had made a man +of him by the mystery of her motherhood, and who had uncomplainingly +gone with him into the wilderness and become an alien and an outcast. + +These things unmanned him as the sight of the gallows and the rope for +his hanging could not have done. Shielding himself with an affected +roughness, he asked: + +“What the hell’s the matter with you? I’ve been drinking like a beast +of an Indian, and you give me coffee instead of a tongue-lashing.” + +The color had all gone out of her face. She gasped the words: + +“Jim, I dreamed it last night—they came for you!” + +She cowered at the recollection. + +“Did they get me?” he asked. There was no surprise in his tone. He +spoke as one who knew the answer. + +“Yes, the children saw. The noise woke them.” + +“You mustn’t let ’em see, when—they come. They’ve a right to a fair +start; we didn’t get it, old girl.” + +“The children gave it to us,” and she faced him. + +“Yes, yes, but we want them to have it from the start, like good +folks.” + +They looked into each other’s eyes. The memory of dead and gone madness +twinkled there a moment, then each remembered: + +“You must hurry, Jim. You haven’t a moment to lose. I dreamed it was to +be to-night—they’ll come to-night!” + +“The game’s all up, old girl! If I had a month I couldn’t get away. +Morrison’s been looking for me over to the Owl Creek Range; he’s +back—Stevens told me yesterday. He’ll be heading here soon. The price +on my head is a strain on friendship.” + +“Have the sheep-men gone back on you?” + +“Yes, damn them! A thousand dollars is big money, and they’ve had hard +luck!” + +“They deserve it; I hope every herd in the State dies of scab.” + +“There wasn’t a scabby sheep in our bunch. What a sight they were, +loaded with tallow! There wasn’t one of them that couldn’t have +weathered a blizzard; they could have lived on their own tallow for a +month.” + +She tried to divert his attention from his lost flock. When he began to +talk about them the despair of his loss drove him to drink. She was +ground between the millstones of his going or staying. If he stayed +they would come for him; if he went, they would apprehend him before he +was ten miles from the house. + +“Jim, we got to think. If there’s a chance in a thousand that you can +get away, you got to take it; if there ain’t, the children mustn’t +know. We got to think it out!” + +“There ain’t a chance in a thousand, old girl. There ain’t one in a +million. They’re circling round in the hills out here now, waitin’ for +me, like buzzards waitin’ for the eyes of a dyin’ horse.” + +She rocked herself, and the clutching fingers left white marks on her +face, but the eyes that met his glittered tearless: + +“Then there ain’t nothing left but to face it like a man?” + +“That’s all there be.” He might have been giving an opinion on a matter +in which he had no interest. + +“Then there ain’t no use in our having any more talk about it?” + +“’Tain’t just what you’d call an agreeable subject,” he answered, with +the sinister humor of the frontiersman who has learned to make a crony +of death. + +She was tempted to kiss him—they were not given to demonstrations, this +pair—then decided it were kinder to him, less suggestive of what they +anticipated, not to deviate from their undemonstrative marital routine. + +“Do you want your breakfast now?” + +“I guess you might bring it along.” + +And for the same reason that she refrained from kissing him, she +repressed a desire to wring the neck of a young broiler and cook it for +his breakfast, remembering that she had heard they gave folks pretty +much what they wanted when they wouldn’t want it long. So Jim got his +usual breakfast of bacon, uncooked canned tomatoes, soda-biscuit, and +coffee. She sat with him while he ate, but they spoke no more of “them” +or of how soon “they” might be expected. She told him that young Jim +had pretended that morning that he had a cactus thorn in his foot, so +that he might have a piece of dried apple. And old Jim, in an excess of +parental fondness and pride, said: “The damned little liar, he’ll get +to Congress yet!” + +But the children were a dangerous topic for overstrained nerves at this +particular time, so Alida told Jim that she had put the black hen to +set and she thought they’d have some chickens at last. Jim smoked while +Alida washed the dishes, and when Jim’s back was turned she examined +the lock on the door—a good push would open it. Then she looked at the +brown bureau, and the recklessness of despair came into her eyes. In +the room beyond, Jim was reading a two weeks’ old newspaper and +smoking. He looked like a lazy ranchman taking his ease. + +As she went about her household tasks that morning, Alida noticed +things as she had never noticed them before. A sunbeam came through the +shutterless window of the house and writhed and quivered on the wall as +if it were a live thing. She read a warning in this, and in the color +of the sun, that was red, like blood, and in the whirr of the +grasshoppers, that was sinister and threatening. The creeks had dried, +and their slimy beds crept along the willows like sluggish snakes. +Gaunt range-cattle bellowed in their thirst, and the parched earth +crackled beneath the sun that hung above the house like a flaming disk. +Sometimes she sank beneath the burden of it; then she would wring her +hands and call on God to help them; they were beyond human power. She +and Jim were alone all the morning; they did not again refer to what +they knew would happen. He read his old paper and she put her house in +order. She did it with especial care. It was meet to have things seemly +in the house of the dead. And every time she glanced at Jim she +repressed the desire to fling herself on his breast and cry out the +anguish that consumed her. + +At noon she brought the children home to dinner, and afterwards Jim +taught them to throw the lasso and played buffalo with them. Alida did +not trust herself to watch them; she stayed in the kitchen and saw the +sunbeam grow pale with the waning of the day, the day whose minutes +dragged like lead, yet had rushed from her, leaving her the night to +face. At sundown she cooked supper, but she no longer knew what she +did. A crazy agility had taken possession of her and she spun about the +kitchen, doing the same errand many times, finding herself doing always +something different from that she had set about doing. The molten day +was burning itself out like a fever; hot gusts of air beat up from the +earth, but the woman who waited felt chilled to the marrow, and took a +cloak down from a peg and wrapped it about her while she waited for the +biscuit to bake. At supper they sat down together, the man and his wife +and their three children. The children were in fine spirits from the +fun they had had that afternoon. Never had daddy been so nice to them. +He had taught Topeka to throw the lasso so well that she had caught the +cat once and little Jim twice; and daddy had played he was a buffalo +and had charged them all with his head down, till they screamed in +terror. But daddy seemed more quiet through the meal, and once mother +started up and cried: + +“What’s that?” + +She ran to the door with her hand pressed to her side, but daddy called +after her: + +“Don’t you know the cowards better than that? They’ll wait for +nightfall.” + +But these things had not worried the children, with their heads full of +playing buffalo and throwing the lariat. + +“Jim,” said his father, before they went to bed, “remember you are the +man of the family.” But young Jim was already nodding with sleep. +Topeka and Judith were sleepy, too; they kissed their father and were +glad to go to bed. + +The night began menacingly to close over the wilderness. Where the sun +had hung above the mountain a moment before there glowed a great pool +of red that dripped across the blackness in faint tricklings. The +outlines of the foot-hills loomed huge, formless, uncouth. In the +half-light it seemed a world struggling in the birth-throes. All day +the dry, burning heat had quivered over the desert, like hot-air waves +flickering over a bed of live coals, and now the very earth seemed to +palpitate with the intensity of its fever. The bellowing of the +thirst-maddened cattle had not stopped with the twilight that brought +no dew to slake their parched throats. In the hills the coyotes wailed +like lost souls. It was night bereft of benisons, day made frightful by +darkness. All the heat of a cycle of desert summers seemed concentrated +in that house in the valley where the man and his wife waited. Each +sound of the desert night Alida translated into the trampling of +horses’ feet; then, as the sound would die away, or prove to be but +some night noise of the wilderness, the pallor would lose its pinch on +her features, and she would stare into her husband’s face with eyes +that did not see. Jim smoked his pipe and refilled it, smoked and +filled again, but gave no sign of the object of his waiting. + +“Jim,” she said, when the clock had struck ten, then eleven, “I am +going to fasten up the house.” + +“Do you hear them?” he asked, without emotion, but as one who deferred +to the finer senses of women. + +She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak. + +He looked at the door that was shrunken and warped from the heat till +it barely held together, and there was no measure to the tenderness he +put into: + +“Oh, you poor little fool, do you think you could keep them out by +fastening that?” + +“Jim, I must,” and her voice broke. “They may think you are not here, +that it’s only me and the children, and that’s why the house is +fastened.” She got up and began to move about as though her thoughts +scourged her to action, even if futile. He shook the ashes from his +pipe. + +“Do anything you blame please,” he said, more by way of humoring her +than from faith in her stratagem. He felt strong enough to face his +destiny, to meet it in a way worthy of his mother’s people. + +Alida seemed under a spell in her preparations for the night. Each +thing she did as she had done it in her dream the night before; it was +as if she were constrained by a power greater than her will to fulfil a +sinister prophecy. Yet now and then she would stop and wonder if she +might not break the spell by doing things differently from the way she +had dreamed them. Her hand grasped the knob of the door uncertainly, +and she swung it to and fro on its creaking hinges, while her mind +seemed likewise to sway hither and thither. Should she fasten the door +and push the bureau against it, as it had been in the dream, or should +she leave door and windows gaping wide for them? And then, as one who +walks and does familiar things in sleep, she shut the door and turned +the key. Jim smiled at her, but she could no longer look at him. One of +the children wailed fretfully from the room beyond. Sleep had become a +scourge in the stifling heat. One by one she lowered the windows and +nailed them down; then she dragged the brown bureau against the door, +took the brace of six-shooters from the wall, and sat down with Jim to +wait. + +“What are you going to do with them toys?” he asked, as he saw her +examine the chambers of one of the six-shooters. + +“You ain’t going to let yourself be caught like a rat in a hole, are +you?” she reproached him. + +“’Ain’t we agreed that it’s best to keep onpleasant family matters from +the kids?” He smiled at her bravely. “The remembrance of what we’re +anticipatin’ ain’t going to help young Jim to get to Congress when his +time comes, nor it ain’t going to help the girls get good husbands, +either. This here country ain’t what it was in the way of liberality +since it’s got to be a State.” + +“Sh-sh-sh!” she said. “Is that the range-cattle stampedin’ after water, +or is it—” They listened. The furniture in the room crackled; there was +not a fibre of it to which the resistless heat had not penetrated. On +the range the cattle bellowed in their thirst-torture; in the intervals +of their cries sounded something far off, but regular as the thumping +of a ship’s screw. The woman did not need an answer to her question. +The steady trampling of hoofs came muffled through the dead air, but +the sound was unmistakable. She put her arms about the man’s neck and +crushed him to her with all her woman strength. “Oh, Jim, you’ve been a +good man to me!” + +“Steady—steady.” He strained her close to him. “They’d be, by the sound +of them, on the straight bit of road now, before the turn. Soon we’ll +hear their hoofs ring hollow as they cross the plank bridge.” + +His plainsman’s faculty was as keen as ever; his calculation of the +horsemen’s distance was made as though he were the least concerned. All +Alida’s courage had gone, with the dread thing at hand. She clung to +him, dazed. + +“They’re sober, all right enough.” + +“How do you know?” + +“They’d be cursing and bellowing if they were drunk.” + +The hoofs rang hollow on the little plank bridge that crossed the ditch +about a stone’s-throw from the door. Not a word was said either within +or without. The lynchers seemed to have drilled for their part; there +was no whispering, no deferring to a leader. On they came, so close +that Jim and Alida could hear the creaking of their saddles. There was +the clank of spurs and the straining of leather as they dismounted, +then some one knocked at the door till the warped boards rattled. + +Jim could feel the thudding of Alida’s heart as she clung to him, but +when the knock was repeated a new courage came to her, and she left Jim +and went on her knees close to the outer wall. + +“Jim, is that you?” she called, and now every sense was trained to +battle; her voice had even a sleepy cadence, as if she had been +suddenly roused. + +“That won’t do at all, Miz Rodney. We know you got Jim in there, just +as certain as we’re out here, and we want him to come out and we’ll do +the thing square, otherwise he can take the consequences.” + +Jim opened his mouth to speak, but she, still on her knees beside the +wall, gained his silence by one supplicating gesture. There was a +sleepy, fretful cry from the room beyond—the noise had roused one of +the children. + +“Sh-sh, dear,” she called. “It’s only a bad dream. Go to sleep again; +mother is here.” + +Through the warped door came sounds of the whispering voices without, +drowned by the shrieking bellow of the cattle. There was not a breath +of air in the suffocating room. Jim bent towards Alida: + +“I’m goin out to ’em. They’ll do it square, over on the cotton-woods; +this rumpus’ll only wake the kids.” + +But she shook her head imploringly, putting her finger to her lips as a +sign that he was not to speak, and he had not the heart to refuse, +though knowing that she made a desperate situation worse. + +“Gentlemen”—she spoke in a low, distinct voice—“Jim ain’t here. He’s +been away from home five days. There’s no one here but me and the +children; you’ve woke them up and frightened them by pounding on the +door. I ask you to go away.” + +“If he ain’t in there, will you let us search the house?” It was +Henderson that spoke, Henderson, foreman of the “XXX” outfit. + +“I can’t have them frightened; please take my word and go away.” + +“Whas er matter, muvvy?” called Judith, sleepily. Young Jim was by this +time crying lustily. Only Topeka said nothing. With the precocity of a +frontier child, she half realized the truth. She tried to comfort +little Jim, though her teeth chattered in fear and she felt cold in the +hot, still room. Then Judith called out, “Make papa send them away.” + +“Your papa ain’t here, Judith.” But the fight had all gone out of +Alida’s voice; it was the groan of an animal in a trap. + +“Where’s papa gone to?” + +“Sh-sh, Judith! Topeka, keep your sister quiet.” + +It was absolutely still, within and without, for a full minute. Then +Alida heard the shoving of shoulders against the door. Once, twice, +thrice the lock resisted them. The brown bureau spun across the room +like a child’s toy. The lynchers, bursting in, saw Alida with her arms +around Jim. When the last hope had gone it was instinct with her to +protect him with her own body. + +“Go into the kids, old girl, this is no place for you.” And there was +that in his voice that made her obey. + +Something of the glory of old Chief Flying Hawk, riding to battle, was +in the face of his grandson. + +“Remember, the children ain’t to know,” he said to his wife; and to the +lynchers, “Gentlemen, I’m ready.” + + + + +XIX. +“Rocked By A Hempen String” + + +Alida heard the mingled sounds of footsteps and hoofs grow fainter on +the trail. The children looked at her to tell them why this night was +different from all others—what was happening. But she could only cower +among them, more terrified than they. She seemed to be shrunken from +the happenings of that day. They hardly knew the little, shrivelled, +gray woman who looked at them with unfamiliar eyes. Alida gazed at the +little Judith, and there was something in her mother’s glance that made +the little one hide her face in her sister’s shoulder. Young Judith it +was who all unwittingly had told the lynchers that her father was at +home, and in Alida’s heart there was towards this child a blind, +unreasoning hate. Better had she never been born than live to do this +thing! + +It was the wee man, Jim, who first began to reflect resentfully on this +intrusion on his slumbers. He had been sleeping well and comfortably +when some grown-ups came with a lot of noise, and his father had gone +away with them. It had frightened him, but his mother was here, and why +should she not put him to sleep again? + +“Muvvy, sing ‘Dway Wolf.’” And as she paid no heed, but looked at him, +white-faced and strange, he again repeated, with his most insinuating +and beguiling tricks of eye and smile: + +“Muvvy, sing ‘Dway Wolf’ for Dimmy.” + +The child put his head in his mother’s lap, and Alida began, scarce +knowing what she did: + +“‘The gray wolves are coming fast over the hill, + Run fast, little lamb, do not baa, do not bleat, +For the gray wolves are hungry, they come here to kill, + And the lambs shall be scattered—’ + + +No, no, Jimmy, muvvy cannot sing. Oh, can’t you feel, child? Judith, +Judith, why were you ever born?” + +It was still in the valley. Had they come to the dead cotton-woods yet? +Had they begun it? The children shrank from this gray-faced woman whom +they did not know and but yet a little while had been their mother. An +awful silence had fallen on the night. The range-cattle no longer +bellowed in their thirst; the hot wind no longer blew from the desert. +A hush not of earth nor air nor the things that were of her ken seemed +to have fallen about them, muffing the dark loneliness as by invisible +flakes. The children had crouched close together for comfort. They +feared the little, gray-faced woman who seemed to have stolen into +their mother’s place and looked at them with strange eyes. + +Jimmy looked at the woman who held him, hoping his mother would come, +and he could see them both. And while he waited he dropped off to +sleep; and little Judith, hiding her head on Topeka’s shoulder, that +she might not see the look in those accusing eyes, presently dreamed +that all was well with her again; and Topeka reflected that if her +mother should ask her in the morning whether she had dreamed last +night, she would have a fine tale to tell of men riding up, and loud +voices, and trying of the door, and father going away with them. Her +mother had questioned her this morning when nothing had happened to +warrant it. Surely she would ask again to-morrow, and Topeka could +tell—she could tell—all. + +Alida looked at her three sleeping children—his children, and yet they +could sleep. Into her mind came that cry of utter desolation, “Could ye +not watch with me one hour?” And God had been deaf to Him, His son, +even as He was deaf to her. + +The children were sleeping easily. The hush that had hung like a pall +over the valley had not lifted. Had they done it? Was it over yet? She +went to the door and listened. Surely the silence that wrapped the +valley was a thing apart. It was as no other silence that she could +remember. It was still, still, and yet there was vibration to it, like +the muffled roar within a shell. She strained her ears—was that the +sound of horsemen going down the trail? No, no, it was only the beating +of her foolish heart that would not be still, but beat and fluttered +and would not let her hear. Yes, surely, that was the sound of hoofs. +It was over then—they were going. + +She would go and look for him. Perhaps it would not be too late—she had +heard of such things. A dynamic force consumed her. She had no +consciousness of her body. Her feet and hands did things with +incredible swiftness—lighted a lantern, selected a knife, ran to the +corral for an old ladder that had been there when they took possession +of the deserted house; and through all her frantic haste she could feel +this new force, as it were, lick up the red blood in her veins, burn +her body to ashes as it gave her new power. She felt that never again +would she have need of meat and drink and sleep. This force would abide +with her till all was over, then leave her, like the whitened bones of +the desert. + +It was dark in the valley, but the menacing stillness seemed to be +lifting. The range-cattle had again taken up their plaint, the sounds +of the desert night swept across the stony walls of the cañon. Alida +knew that it must have happened at the dead cotton-woods. There were no +other high trees about for miles. Again she listened before advancing. +There was no sound of hoof or champing bit or men moving quickly. They +had gone their way into the valley. She ran swiftly, her lantern +throwing its beam across the scrubby inequalities of ground, but for +her there was no need of its beacon. To-night she was beyond the +halting, stumbling uncertainties of tread to which man is subject. +There was magic in her feet and in her hands and brain. Like the wind +she ran, the wind on the great plain where there are no foot-hills to +hinder its course. The black, dead trees stood out distinctly against +the starry sky, and from a cross-limb of one of them dangled something +with head awry, like a broken jumping-jack, something that had once +been a man—and her husband. She could touch the feet of this frightful +thing and feel its human warmth. A wind came up from the desert and +blew across the cañon’s rocky walls into the valley, and the parody of +a man swayed to it. + +She had been expecting this thing. For weeks the image of it had been +graven on her heart. Sleeping or waking, she had seen nothing but his +dangling body from the cross-limb. Yet with the actual consummation +before her, she felt its hideous novelty as though it were unexpected. +At sight of it the force that had borne her up through the happenings +of that day went out of her, and as she stood with the knife and the +rope, that she had brought in the hope of cheating the lynchers, +dangling from her nerveless hand her helplessness overcame her. Again +and again she called to the dead man for help, called to him as she had +been accustomed to call when her woman’s strength had been unequal to +some heavy household task. + +Far down the trail she could hear the gallop of a horse coming closer, +and mingled with the sounds of its flying feet was a voice urging the +horse to greater speed in the shrill cabalistic “Hi-hi-hi-ki!” of the +plains-man. What was it—one of them returning to see that she did not +cheat the rope of its due?—to hang her beside him, as an after-thought, +as they hanged Kate Watson beside her man? Let them. She was standing +near the swaying thing when horse and rider gained the ground beside +her, and what was left to her of consciousness made out that the rider +was Judith. She pointed to it, and stood helpless with the dangling +rope in her hand. + +“Are we too late?” Judith almost whispered, as she caught Alida’s cold, +inert hands. “I dreamed it all and came. If I could have dreamed it +sooner!” + +Alida did not seem to hear, neither could she speak. She only pointed +again to the thing beside her. + +Judith understood. The women had a task to share, and in silence they +began it. The lynchers had done their work all too well. Again and +again the women strove with all their strength to take down the +dangling parody of a man, which in its dead-weight resistance seemed in +league with the forces against them. At last the thing was done. Down +to a pale world, that in the haggard gray of morning seemed to bear in +its countenance something of the pinch of death, Judith lowered the +thing that had so lately been a man. She cut the rope away from the +neck, she straightened the wry neck that seemed to wag in pantomimic +representation of the last word to the lynchers. They’d have to reckon +with him on dark nights, and when the wind wailed like a famished wolf +and when things not to be explained lurked in the shadows of the +desert. + +The morning stillness came flooding into the cup-shaped valley like a +soft, resistless wave. Something had come to the gray, old +earth—another day, with all its human gift of joy and woe, and the +earth welcomed it though it had known so many. The sun burst through +the gold-tipped aureole of cloud, scattering far and wide lavish +promises of a perfect day. The earth seemed to respond with a thrill. +No longer was the pinch of death in her countenance. The valley, the +mountains, the invisible wind, even the dead cotton-woods, seemed +endowed with throbbing life that contrasted fearsomely with the +terrible nullity of this thing that once had been Jim Rodney. + +Alida had ceased to take any part in the hideous drama. She sat on the +ground, a crouching thing with glittering eyes. It was past +comprehension that the sun could shine and the world go on with her man +dead before her. Judith had become the force that planned and did to +save the family pride. While her hands were busy with preparations for +the dead, she rehearsed what she would say to this and that one to +account for Jim’s absence. The silence of the men who had done this +thing would be as steadfast as their own. + +And there were the children. Through all her frantic search for things +in the house, Judith remembered that she must step softly and not waken +the children. With each turn of the screw, as her numbed consciousness +rallied and responded afresh to the hideous realization of this thing, +there came no release from the tyrannous hold of petty detail. She +remembered that she must be back at noon to hold post-office, and there +would be the endless comedy to be played once more with her cavaliers. +They must never suspect from word or look of hers. And there was the +dance to-night at the Benton ranch—she hid her face in her hands. Ah, +no, she could not do this thing! And yet they must not suspect. She +must contrive to give the impression that Jim had cheated the rope. +Yes, she must go and dance, and, if need be, dance with his very +murderers. Jim’s children were to have the “clean start” that he +intended, and they would have to get it here. There was no money for an +exodus and a beginning elsewhere. + +Alida still crouched beside the long, even tarpaulin roll that Judith +had prepared with hands that knew not what they did. But now Judith +gently roused her and put in her hand a spade; already she herself had +begun. But Alida stared at it dully, as if she did not understand. Then +Judith pointed to something black that had begun to wheel in the sky, +wheel, and with each circular swoop come closer to the roll of +tarpaulin. Then Alida knew, and, taking the spade, she and Judith began +to dig the grave. + + + + +XX. +The Ball + + +The dance in the Benton ranch was the great social event of the +midsummer season. The Bentons had begun to give dances in the days of +plenty, when the cattle industry had been at its dizziest height; and +they had continued to give dances through all the depressing +fluctuations of the trade, perhaps in much the same spirit as one +whistles in the dark to keep up his courage. Thus, though cattle fell +and continued to fall in the scale of prices till the end no man dared +surmise, the Benton “boys”—they were two brothers, aged respectively +forty-five and fifty years—continued to hold out facilities to dance +and be merry. + +All day strange wagons—ludicrous, makeshift things—had been discharging +loads of women and children at the Benton ranch, tired mothers and +their insistent offspring. To the women this strenuous relaxation came +as manna in the wilderness. What was the dreary round of washing, +ironing, baking, and the chain of household tasks that must be done as +primitively as in Genesis, if only they might dance and forget? So the +mothers came early and stayed late, and the primary sessions of the +dances fulfilled all the functions of the latter-day mothers’ +congresses—there were infant ailments to be discussed, there were the +questions of food and of teething, of paregoric and of flannel bands, +which, strange heresy, seemed to be “going out,” according to the +latest advices from those compendiums of all domestic information, the +“Woman’s Pages” of the daily papers. + +Inasmuch as these more than punctual debaters must be cooked for, there +was, to speak plainly, “feeling” on the part of the housekeeper at the +Bentons’. Wasn’t it enough for folks to come to a dance and get a good +supper, and go away like Christians when the thing was over, instead of +coming a day before it began and lingering on as if they had no home to +go to? This, at least, was the housekeeper’s point of view, a crochety +one, be it said, not shared by the brothers Benton, whose hospitality +was as genuine as it was primitive. To this same difficult lady the +infants, who were too tender in years to be separated from their +mothers, were as productive of anxiety as their elders. A room had been +set apart for their especial accommodation, the floor of which, +carefully spread with bed-quilts and pillows, prevented any great +damage from happening to the more tender of the guests; and they rolled +and crooned and dug their small fists into each other’s faces while +their mothers danced in the room beyond. + +By nightfall the Benton ranch gleamed on the dark prairie like a +constellation. Lights burned at every window; a broad beam issued from +the door and threw a welcoming beacon across the darkness and silence +of the night. The scraping of fiddles mingled with the rhythmic scuffle +of feet and the singsong of the words that the dancers sung as they +whirled through the figures of the quadrille and lancers. About the +walls of the room where the dancing was in progress stood a fringe of +gallants, their heads newly oiled, and proclaiming the fact in a +bewildering variety of strong perfumes. Red silk neckerchiefs knotted +with elaborate carelessness displayed to advantage bronzed throats; new +overalls, and of the shaggiest species, amply testified to the social +importance of the Benton dance. + +As yet the dancing was but intermittent and was engaged in chiefly by +the mothers with large progeny, who felt that after the arrival of a +greater number of guests, and among them the unmarried girls, their +opportunities might not be as plentiful as at present. One or two +cow-punchers, in an excess of civility at the presence of the fair, had +insisted on giving up their six-shooters, mumbling something about +“there being ladies present and a man being hasty at times.” In the +“bunk-room,” which did duty as a gentleman’s cloak-room, things were +really warming up. There was much drinking of healths, as the brothers +Benton had thoughtfully provided the wherewithal, and that in excellent +quality. + +Costigan was there, and Texas Tyler, who had ridden sixty miles to +“swing a petticoat,” or, if there were not enough to go round, to dance +with a handkerchief tied to some fellow’s sleeve. By “swinging a +petticoat” it was perfectly understood among all his friends that he +meant a chance to dance with Judith Rodney. Year in and year out Texas +never failed to present himself at the post-office on mail-days, if his +work took him within a radius of fifty miles of the Daxes. No dance +where the possibility of seeing Judith was even remote was too long a +ride for him to undertake, even when it took him across the dreariest +wastes of the desert. Texas had been devoted to Judith since she had +left the convent, and sometimes, perhaps twice a year, she told him +that she valued his friendship. On all other occasions she rejected his +suit as if his continual pressing of it were something in the nature of +an affront. Yet Texas persevered. + +“Well, here’s lukin’ at you, since in the way of a frind there’s +nothing better to look at!” and Costigan drained a tin cup at Texas +Tyler. + +“Your very good health,” said Texas, who was somewhat embarrassed by +what was regarded as Costigan’s “floweriness.” + +“Begorra, is that Hinderson or the ghost av the b’y?” Costigan’s roving +eye was arrested by the foreman of the “XXX,” who stood drinking with +two or three men of his outfit. He was pale and ill-looking. He drank +several times in succession, as if he needed the stimulant, and without +the formality of drinking to any one. The two or three “XXX” men who +were with him seemed to be equally in need of restoratives. + +They talked of the cattle stampede in which several of the outfits had +been heavy losers. Some nine hundred head of cattle had been recovered, +and members of the different outfits were still scouring the Red Desert +for strays. + +Something in the nature of a sensation was created by the arrival of +the Wetmore party. The women were frankly interested in the clothes, +bearing, and general deportment of the New-Yorkers. Rumors of Miss +Colebrooke’s beauty were rife, and there was a general inclination to +compare her with local belles. Such exotic types—they had seen these +city beauties before—were as a rule too colorless for their +appreciation. They liked faces that had “more go to them,” was the +verdict passed upon one famous beauty who had visited the Wetmores the +year before. In arrangement of the hair, perhaps, in matters of dress, +the judges were willing to concede the laurels to city damsels, but +there concession stopped. But evidently Kitty, to judge from the +elaboration of her toilet, did not intend to be dismissed thus +cursorily. She herself was delicately, palely pretty, as always, but +her hair was tortured to a fashionable fluffiness, and the simplicity +of her green muslin gown was only in the name. It was muslin disguised, +elaborated, beribboned, lace-trimmed till its identity was all but lost +in the multitude of pretty complications. + +“Did you know that old Ma’am Yellett had a school-marm up to her +place?” asked one of the men, apropos of Eastern prettiness. + +“Well, well,” Costigan reminisced, “’tis some av thim Yillitt lambs +thot’s six fut in their shtockings, if Oi be rimimbering right. Sure, +the tacher ought to be something av a pugilist, Oi’m thinkin’.” + +“I seen her the other day, and a neater little heifer never turned out +to pasture. Lord, I’d like to be gnawing the corners of the primer +right now, if she was there to whale the ruler.” + +“Arrah,” bayed Costigan, “but the women question is gittin’ complicated +ontoirely, wid Miss Rodney—an’ herself lukin’ loike a saint in a church +window—dalin’ the mails an’ th’ other wan tachin’ in the mountains. +Sure, this place is gittin’ to be but a sorry shpot for bachelors loike +mesilf.” + +“I ain’t mentionin’ no names, but there’s a man here ain’t treatin’ a +mighty fine woman square and accordin’ to the way she ought to be +treated.” + +The information ran through the circle like an electric shock. Men +stopped in the act of pledging each other’s healths to listen. Loungers +straightened up; every topic was dropped. The man who had made the +statement was the loose-lipped busybody who had suggested to his host +that he give up his six-shooter since there were “ladies present.” + +“What the hell are you waiting for?” queried Texas Tyler, savagely. +“You’ve cracked your whip, made your bow, and got our attention; why +the hell don’t you go on?” + +The man looked about nervously. He was rather alarmed at the interest +he had excited. The next moment Peter Hamilton had walked into the +room. There was something crucial in his entrance at this particular +time; it crystallized suspicion. The gossip took advantage of the +greetings to Hamilton to make his escape. Texas Tyler left the +bunk-room immediately and looked for him in the room with the dancers. +The fiddles, in the hands of a couple of Mexicans, had set the whole +room whirling as if by magic. As they danced they sang, joining with +the “caller-out,” who held his vociferous post between the rooms, till +the room was full of singing, dancing men and women, who spun and +pirouetted as if they had not a care in the world. But Texas Tyler was +not of these, as he looked through the dancers for his man. There was a +red flash in the pupils of his eyes, and he told himself that he was +going to do things the way they did them in Texas, for, of course, he +knew that the loose-lipped idiot had meant Judith Rodney and Peter +Hamilton. Never before had such an idea occurred to him, and now that +it had been presented to his mind’s eye, he wondered why he had been +such a blind fool. Never had the singing to these dances seemed so +absurd. + +“Hawk hop out and the crow hop in, +Three hands round and go it ag’in. +Allemane left, back to the missus, +Grande right and left and sneak a few kisses.” + + +He rushed from the room and down to the stable. At sight of him some +one leaped on a horse and rode out into the darkness. + +“Who was that?” asked Texas of a man lounging by the corral. + +“That was—” and he gave the name of the loose-lipped man. + +Texas cursed long and picturesquely. Then he went back to the bunk-room +and tried to pick a quarrel with Peter Hamilton, who good-naturedly +assumed that his old friend had been drinking and refused to take +offence. + +Peter went in to ask Kitty to dance with him. All that evening he had +been waiting anxiously for Judith. Meanwhile he had used all his +influence as a newly appointed member of the Wetmore outfit to soothe +the ruffled feelings of the cattle-men. Of the tragedy in the valley he +had heard no rumor. + +Kitty had come to the point where she was willing to waive the +Récamier-Chateaubriand friendship in favor of one more personal and +ordinary. In fact, as Peter showed a disposition to regard as final her +answer to him on the day he had spurred across the desert, Kitty, with +true feminine perversity, inclined to permit him to resume his suit. +His acquiescence in her refusal she had at first regarded as the +turning of the worm; after the wolf-hunt, however, her meditations were +more disturbing. She had never told Peter of that strange woodland +meeting with Judith, yet Judith’s beauty, her probable hold over Peter, +the degree of his affection for her were rankling questions in Kitty’s +consciousness. In the stress of these considerations Kitty lost her +head completely for so old a campaigner. She drew the apron-string +tight—attempted force instead of strategy. + +Kitty and Peter finished their waltz, one of the few round dances of +the evening. + +“How perfectly you dance, Kitty! It’s a long time since we’ve had a +waltz together.” + +The cow-punchers looked at Kitty as if she were not quite flesh and +blood. Such flaxen daintiness, femininty etherealized to angelic +perfection, was new to them, but their admiration was like that given +to a delicate exotic which, wonderful as it is, one is well pleased to +view through the glass of the florist’s window. + +Peter was deferentially attentive and zealous to make the Wetmore party +have a thoroughly good time, yet he did all these things, as it were, +with his eye on the door. He was not obviously distrait; he was the man +of the world, talking, making himself agreeable, “doing his duty,” +while his subconsciousness was busy with other matters. It was rather +through telepathy than through any lack of attention paid to her that +Kitty realized the state of things, and in proportion to her +realization came a feeling of helplessness; it was so new, so +unexpected, so cruel. He seemed drifting away from her on some tide of +affairs of the very existence of which she had been unconscious. +Further and further he had drifted, till intelligible speech no longer +seemed possible between them. They said the foolish, empty things that +people call out as the boat glides away from the shore, the things that +all the world may hear, and in his eyes there was only that smiling +kindness. How had it come about after all these years? What was it that +had first cut the cable that sent him drifting? What was it? She must +think. Oh, who could think with that noise! How silly was their singing +as they danced, how uncouth! + +“All dance as pretty as you can, +Turn your toes and left alleman; + First gent sashay to the right, +Now swing the girl you last swung about, +And now the one that’s cut her out, + And now the one that’s dressed in white, +And now the belle of the ball.” + + +The dancers seemed bitten to the quick with the tarantula of an +ecstatic hilarity; their bodies swayed in perfect harmony to the swing +of the fiddles and the swell of the chorus. The most uncouth of them +came under the spell of that mad magic. Their movements, that in the +beginning of the dance had been shy and awkward, became almost +beautiful; they forgot arms, hands, feet; their bodies had become like +the strings of some skilfully played instrument, obediently responsive +to rhythm, and in that composite blending of races each in his dancing +brought some of the poetry of his own far land. The scene was amazing +in its beauty and simplicity, like the strong, inspirational power and +rugged rhythm of some old border minstrel. One by one the dancers +glowed with better understanding; discordant elements, alien nations +were fused to harmony in this vivid picture. + +Peter turned to Kitty, expecting to see her face aglow with the warmth +of it. She stood beside him, the one unresponsive soul in the room, on +her lips a pale, tolerant smile. + +“Aren’t they splendid, Kitty, these women? More than half of them work +like beavers all day, and they have young children and dozens of +worries, but would you suspect it? They’re just the women for this +country.” + +Now in the present state of affairs almost any other subject would have +been better calculated to promote good feeling than the one on which +Peter had alighted. Kitty’s thoughts had perversely lingered about one +who, though not one with these women, had yet their sturdy +self-reliance, their acquiescence in grim conditions, their pleasure in +simple things. Kitty’s apprehension, slow to kindle, had taken fire +like a forest, and by its blaze she saw things in a distorted light; +her present vision magnified the relations of Peter and Judith to a +degree that a month ago she would have regarded as impossible. “He is +her lover!” was the accusation that suddenly flashed through her mind, +and with the thought an overwhelming desire to say something unkind, +something that should hurt him, supplanted all judgment and reason. + +“Oh, it’s a decidedly remarkable scene, pictorially, I agree with you. +And an artist, of course—but isn’t it a trifle quixotic, Peter, to +idealize them because they are having a good time? There’s no virtue in +it. It is conceivable that they might have to work just as hard and +have just as many little children to look after, and yet not have these +dances you praise them for coming to.” + +“I’m afraid you find us and our amusements a little crude. Evidently +the spirit of our dances does not appeal to you; but I did not suppose +it necessary to remind you that they should not be judged by the +standard of conventional evening parties,” said Peter, hurt and angry +in his turn. + +“Us, our amusements, our dances? So you are quite identified with these +people, my dear Peter, and I had thought you an ornament of cotillions +and country clubs. I can only infer that it is somebody in particular +who has brought about your change of heart.” + +Peter flushed a little, and Kitty kept on: “Some of the native belles +are quite wonderful, I believe. Nannie Wetmore tells of a half-breed +who is very handsome.” + +Peter set his lips. “At the expense of spoiling Nannie’s pretty +romance, I must tell you that the lady she refers to is not only the +most beautiful of women, but she would be at ease in any drawing-room. +It would be as ridiculous to apply the petty standards of ladyhood to +her as it would to—well, imagine some foolish girl bringing up the +question at a woman’s club—‘Was Joan of Arc a lady?’” Peter spoke +without calculating the conviction that his words carried. He was +angry, and his manner, voice, intonation showed it. + +Kitty, now that her most unworthy suspicions had been confirmed by +Peter’s ardent championing of Judith, lost her discretion in the pang +that gnawed her little soul: “I beg your pardon, Peter. When I spoke I +did not, of course, know that this young woman was anything to you.” + +“Anything to me? My dear Kitty, I’ve never had a better friend than +Judith Rodney.” + +The dance was at its flood-tide. The exhilaration had grown with each +sweep of the fiddle-bow, with the sorcery of sinuous, swaying bodies, +with the song of the dancers as they joined in the calling out of the +figures, with the rhythmic shuffle of feet, with the hum of the pulses, +with the leaping of blood to cheek and heart till the dancers whirled +as leaves circling towards the eddies of a whirlpool. The dancing Mrs. +Dax split her favors into infinitesimal fragments, for each measure of +which her long list of waiting gallants stood ready to pick a quarrel +if need be. Her dancing, in the splendor of its spontaneity, had +something of the surge of the west wind sweeping over a field of grain. +Sometimes she waved back her partner and alone danced a figure, putting +to the music her own interpretation—barbaric, passionate, rude, but +magnificently vivid. And the dancers would stop and crowd about her, +clapping hands and stamping feet to the rhyming movement of her body, +while against the wall her hostile sister-in-law, Mrs. Leander, stood +and glared in a fury of disapproval, Leander himself smiling broadly +meanwhile and exercising the utmost restraint to keep from joining Mrs. +Johnnie’s train. + +The “XXX” men, who had remained aloof from the dancers and the +merriment, keeping a faithful vigil in the bunk-room, where the +hospitable bottles were to be found, seemed to awaken from the spell +that had bound them all day. Henderson, the foreman, whose face had not +lost its tallow paleness despite the number of his potations, put his +head through the door to have a look at the dancing Mrs. Dax, was +caught in the outermost eddy of the whirling throng, and was soon +dancing as madly as the others. The rest of the “XXX” party still +hugged the bunk-room, where the bottles gleamed hospitable. They were +still dusty from their long ride of the early morning, and more than +once their fear-quickened imaginations had been haunted by the spectre +of the dead cotton-woods, from which something heavy and limp and warm +had been swaying when they left it. Henderson had secured the dancing +Mrs. Dax for a partner. The “caller-out,” stationed between the two +rooms, warmed to his genial task. He improvised, he put a wealth of +imagination and personality into his work, he showered compliments on +the nimbleness of Mrs. Dax’s feet, he joked Henderson on his pallor, he +attempted a florid venture at Kitty. Miguel put fresh magic into his +bowing, José’s fiddle rioted with the madness of it. + +Judith stood for a moment in the kindly enveloping darkness, and her +heart cried out in protest at the thing she must do. It was the utmost +cruelty of fate that forced her here to dance on the evening of the day +that they had killed him. But she must do it, that his children might +evade the stigma of “cattle-thief,” that the shadow of the gallows-tree +might not fall across their young lives, that the neighbors might give +credence to the tale of Jim’s escape from his enemies, that Alida and +she might earn the pittance that would give the children the “clean +start” that Jim had set his heart on so confidently. And she must dance +and be the merriest of them all that these things might happen, but +again and again she deferred the dread moment. The light, the music, +the voices, the shuffle of the feet came to her as she stood forlorn in +the grateful darkness. On the wall the shadows of the dancers, +magnified and grotesque, parodied their movements, as they contended +there, monstrous, uncouth shapes, like prehistoric monsters gripping, +clinching in some mighty struggle; and above it all sang out the wild +rhythm of Miguel’s fiddle, and young José’s bow capered madly. + +Judith drew close to the window, and the merriment struck chill at her +heart like the tolling of a knell. She saw the pale face of Henderson +gleam yellow-white among the dancers, and, watching him, the blood-lust +of the Indian woke in her heart. The rest of the room was but a blur; +the dancers faded into swaying shadows; she saw nothing but Henderson +as he danced that he might forget the gray of morning, the black, dead +trees, and the grotesque thing with head awry that swayed in the breeze +like a pendulum. He dreaded the long, black ride that would bring him +to his camp, for he alone of the lynchers remained. Something was +drawing his gaze out into the blackness of the night. He struggled +against the temptation to look towards the window. He whirled the Dax +woman till her twinkling feet cleared the floor. He sang to the +accompaniment of Miguel’s fiddle. He was outwitting the thing that +dangled before his eyes, having the incontrovertible last word with a +vengeance. And as he danced and swayed, all unwittingly his glance fell +on the window opposite, and Jim Rodney’s face looked in at him, +beautiful in its ecstasy of hate—Rodney’s face, refined, sharpened, +tried in some bitter crucible, but Rodney’s face! Henderson could not +withdraw his fascinated gaze. He stood in the midst of the dancers like +a man turned to stone. He put up his hand to his eyes as if to brush +away a cloud of swarming gnats, then threw up his arms and rushed from +the room. The dancers paused in their mad whirl. Miguel’s bow stopped +with a wailing shriek. Every eye turned towards the window for an +explanation of Henderson’s sudden panic, but all was dark without on +the prairie. The magic had gone from the dance, the whirlwind of +drapery that had swung like flags in a breeze dropped in dead air. +“What was it?” the dancers asked one another in whispers. + +And for answer Judith entered, but a Judith that was strange to them. +There was about her a white radiance that kept the dancers back, and in +her eyes something of Mary’s look, as she turned from Calvary. The +dancers still kept the position of the figures, the men with their arms +about their partners’ waists, the women stepping forward; they were +like the painted figures of dancers in a fresco. And among them stood +Judith, waiting to play her part, waiting to show her world that she +could dance and be merry because all was well with her and hers. But +the bronzed sons of the saddle hung back, they who a day before would +have quarrelled for the honor of a dance. They were afraid of her; it +would be like dancing with the death angel. She looked from face to +face. Surely some one would ask her to dance, and her eyes fell on +Henderson, returning from the bottled courage in the bunk-room. Some +word was due from him to explain his terror of a moment ago. + +“Oh, Miss Judith, I thought you was a ghost when I seen you at the +window.” + +“A ghost that’s ready to dance.” She held out her hand to him. In her +gesture there was something of royal command, and Henderson, reading +the meaning in her eyes, stepped forward. Her face, almost a perfect +replica of the dead man’s, looked at him. + +“I bring you greeting from my brother,” she said. “He has gone on a +long journey.” + +Henderson started. Through the still room ran the murmur, “Rodney’s +outwitted them; he’s played a joke on the rope!” And Judith, his +dare-devil sister, had come with his greetings to Henderson, leader of +the faction against him! The tide had turned. The applause that is ever +the meed of the winner was hers to command. The cattle faction were +ready to sing the praises of her splendid audacity. In their hearts +they were glad in the thought that Jim had outwitted them. + +Miguel’s bow dashed across the strings, and he drew from the little +brown fiddle music that again made them merry and glowing. The magic +came back to the dance, the blood leaped again with the merry madness, +and they swept to the bowing like leaves when the first faint wail of +winter cries in the trees. + +Hamilton, standing apart with Kitty Colebrooke, had been a dazed +witness of the scene. With the rest he had watched the entrance of +Judith, had been stunned by the change in her appearance, had seen her +triumph and heard the rumor of Jim’s escape, and his heart had warmed +with the good word. She had probably managed the plan, and had come +to-night, in the joy of her triumph, to hurl in their faces that she +had outwitted them. And she had paid the penalty of her courage—her +face told that. What a woman she was! Her heart would pay the penalty +to the last throb, and yet she could dance with the merriest of them. +And as she danced she seemed to Peter Hamilton, in her white draperies, +like a cloud of whirling snow-flakes drifting across the silence of the +desert night. She was the one woman in all the world for him, though +his blind eyes had faced the light for years and had not known it. He +had squandered the strength of his youth in the pursuit of a little wax +light, and had not marked the serene shining of the moon. + +“And a man there was and he made his prayer—” he quoted to himself. +Well, thank God that it had not been answered. He would take her away +from here. She could take her place in his family and reflect credit on +his choice. His family, his friends—he winced at the thought of their +possible reception of the news. But Judith’s presence would adjust +these difficulties. He would present her to Kitty now, that his old +friend might see what manner of woman she was. Kitty, he felt, would be +kind in memory of the old days. She would give to them both in +friendship what she had denied him in love. And as he warmed to the +thought he turned to the woman of his youth. And she read a look in his +face that had not been there in a long time. Had he, then, come back to +her? Was the distance from bark to shore lessening as the sea of +misunderstanding diminished? + +“Kitty, we were speaking a moment ago of Miss Rodney. You would like to +know her, I’m sure. We’ve been such good friends all these years while +you were deciding that what I wanted was not good for us—and deciding +wisely, as I know now. Look at her! You’ll understand how she has +helped me keep the balance of things. When she’s finished dancing +you’ll let me bring her to you, won’t you?” + +And Kitty, who had expected much different words, struggled with the +meaning of these unexpected ones. The strangeness of the pain +bewildered her. Her dazed consciousness refused to accept that Peter +was asking permission to present to her a woman whom she thought should +not have been permitted to enter her presence. There was about her a +white flame of anger that seemed to lick up the red blood in her veins +as she turned to answer: + +“She is undeniably handsome, Peter, but I do not care to meet your +mistress.” + +He bowed low to her as Lieutenant Swift, of Fort Washakie, who was of +the Wetmore party, came to claim Kitty’s hand for the next dance. +Judith and Henderson were leading the last figure, their hands clasped +high in an arch through which the dancers trooped in couples. Again and +again he tried to catch Judith’s eye, but her glance never once met +his. Her great, wide eyes had a far-away look as if they saw some +tragedy, the shadow of which would never fall from her. She was, +indeed, the tragic muse in her floating white drapery, the tragic muse +whose grief is too deep for tears. He watched her as she swept towards +him in the figure of the dance, the head thrown back, slightly +foreshortened, the mouth smiling with the smile that knows all things, +the eyes holy wells of truth. He saw in her something of the tenderness +of Eve, for all the blending of the calm modern woman, capable in +affairs, equal to emergency. It was like her to contrive her brother’s +escape and then to dance with the very men who had knotted the noose +for his hanging. Henderson was bowing to her, the dance was over, and +the next moment she was alone. + +“Is it you, Peter?” She thrust a strand of hair back from her temple. +Her eyes rested on him for a moment, then wandered, till in their +absent look was the rapt expression of the sleep-walker. The +dark-rimmed eyes had in their depths the quiet of a conflagration, and +Peter, seeing these things, and knowing the gamut of all her moods, saw +that he had been mistaken. She had not come, to dance in triumph, in +the face of her brother’s enemies. There was no triumph in her face, +but white, consuming despair. + +“Did you ask me to dance?” Again she put back the strand of hair. +“Forgive me for being so stupid, but I’ve kept post-office to-day, and +had a long ride, and I danced with Henderson.” + +He drew her arm within his and led the way out through the crowd of +dancers to the star-strewn night. She did not speak again, nor did she +seem to notice that they had left the room with the dancers. She turned +her face towards the lonely valley, where the drama of her brother’s +passing had been consummated, and something there was in her look as it +turned towards the hills that told Peter. + +“Tell me, Judith, ‘what has happened?” + +For answer she pointed towards the valley. “They did it last night at +the dead cotton-woods. Henderson led them. I could not stay with Alida. +I had to come here to dance that no one might suspect.” + +Her voice was steady, but low and thrilling. In its deep resonance was +the echo of all human sorrow. There was no hint of accusation, yet +Peter felt accused. He felt, now when it was too late, that his +position had been one of almost pusillanimous negligence. From the +beginning he had taken a firm stand against violent measures. He had +talked, argued, reasoned, inveighed against violence; no later than a +week ago he had ridden across the desert to tell Henderson that the +Wetmore outfit would take no part in violence of any sort, and that the +cattle outfit that did resort to extreme measures would miss the +support of the “W-Square” in any future range business. But it had not +been enough. He should have made plain his position in regard to +Judith. With her as his future wife the tragedy of the valley would not +have been possible. + +From the ranch-house came the swell of the fiddles, the rhythmic +shuffle of feet, the song of the dancers, dulled by distance. Beside +him was Judith, a white spirit, the woman in her dead of grief. And +yet, through all the grim horror of the tragedy she remembered the part +that had been allotted to her, threw all the weight of her personality +on the side of the game she was playing. + +“You must be on our side, Peter, and when there is talk of Jim’s +absence you must imply that he is East somewhere. You will know how to +meet such inquiries better than we women. Henderson will be only too +glad. You should have seen the wretch when I held out my hand to him +and told him to dance with me. He came, white and shambling; we have +nothing to fear from Henderson. Alida has no money to go away with. She +and I must stay here and make a beginning for the children, and, Peter, +we want you to help us.” + +He had no voice to answer her brave words for a minute, and then his +sentences came uncertain and halting. + +“You must think me a poor sort of friend, Judith, one who has been +blind till the eleventh hour and is then found wanting. I feel so +guilty to you, to your brother’s wife, to that little child who put out +his arms so trustfully to me that night, but I never imagined that +things would come to such a pass as this. The smaller cattle outfits +have been doing a good deal of blustering, but the more conservative +element supposed that they had them in check, and did not for a moment +think that they would take the law into their own hands. Believe me, +this lawlessness has been in the face of every influence that could be +brought to bear, and it shall not go unpunished.” + +She spoke to him from the darkness, as the spirit of grief might speak. +“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, that is the justice of the +plains. But, Peter, it is but poor justice. What’s done is done, and +fresh violence will not give back Alida her husband nor the little ones +their father. What we need is friends, one or two loyal souls who, +though knowing the hideous truth of this thing, will stand by us in our +pitiful falsehood. I have told no one, nor shall I, but you and—Peter, +you must not laugh at your fellow-conspirator—Leander.” + +He took her hands in his and pressed them; big hands they were, and +hardened by many a homely task, but withal tender and with the healing +quality of womanliness in the touch of their warm, supple fingers. But +to-night she did not seem to know that he held them, nor to be +conscious of his presence. The woman in her was dead of grief. The +white spirit in her place, that plotted and planned that Jim’s children +and Jim’s wife might not from henceforth walk in the shadow of the +gallows, was beyond the prompting of the flesh. And again she spoke to +him in the same far-away voice, with the same far-away look in her +eyes. + +“You must know, Peter, that Leander is at heart of the salt of the +earth. I told him about it all, and he asked to be given the commission +to deal with the men. He has risen to his post magnificently. I heard +him swear the wretches to secrecy, hint to them that he had a great +story to tell them. They were frightened, and listened. And the poor +little man that we have so despised told them convincingly how Jim had +made good his escape—even Henderson half believes we saved him.” + +Peter hoped that she would accuse him of his half-heartedness +indirectly, if not openly. It would have made his conscience more +comfortable, and his conscience troubled him sorely to-night. It was +that fatal habit of procrastination that had brought this thing about. +He had hesitated all these weeks about Judith, and while he had +threshed out the pro and con of her disadvantageous family connection, +this hideous tragedy had happened. + +“Peter”—and now her eyes seemed to come back to earth again, to lose +something of the far-away look of the sleep-walker—“Peter, I’m cruel to +speak to you of these things now. When your heart is full of your own +happiness, I come to you like a dark shadow with this tragedy. But I am +glad for the good that has come to you, Peter. Perhaps Miss Colebrooke +told you of the day I met her in the wood, the day of the wolf-hunt. +She was so beautiful, I understood—” + +“Judith, I hardly know how to say what I am going to, I feel that I +have been such a bad friend to you, but you must hear me patiently. +Together, if you are willing, after knowing all of me that you do, we +must look after your brother’s children. That night in the little house +in the valley, when the little chap came to me, don’t you remember, +there was something fine and fearless in the way he did it. ‘You may +belong to the cattle side of the argument,’ he seemed to say, ‘but I +trust you.’ Now, Judith dear, that boy’s faith in me is not going to be +shaken. We must look after them together. It is a very little thing you +have asked of me, my dearest, but a very big one that I am asking of +you. Do you understand, my Judith, it is you that I want? Don’t think +of me as I have been, Judith, but as you are going to make me. I want +you to give me the right now, this evening, to share all this trouble +with you. Do we understand each other, Judith? Is it to be? And will +you come back with me now, into the room where they are dancing, and +let me present you to them, to the Wetmores, as _my_ Judith, my +betrothed?” + +“But, Peter, I don’t understand. I—I thought you and Miss Colebrooke +were—” + +“That’s all over, Judith. I did love her once. Oh, you dear, brave +woman, I’m not a hero from any point of view, and you know it. It’s but +a sorry lover that’s making his prayer to you, my dearest; but you +won’t judge, I know, beloved, you will love me instead?” + +Judith turned towards the valley. Her whole being throbbed with a +passionate response to the man who stood so humbly before her, but +there were duties that came first. Her mind was full of Alida and her +children, and her eyes still sought Peter’s imploringly. + +“You will be a good friend to them, Peter—to Jim’s people? I cannot +talk to you of anything else to-night. Your heart is big, Peter, but +you cannot feel, perhaps—” + +“Listen, Judith. Whatever friendship and protection I can give your +family you may count upon from now till the end of time. I will be +theirs as I am yours. I feel your grief, but I want to soothe it, too. +And if you love me, and I feel, Judith, that you do, you must let them +all see to-night, these people who know us both, that we stand together +before all the world for better or worse. Think, Judith, and you will +see that you owe it to yourself, to me, to all these men, who reverence +you as the one woman, the one ideal in their lonely lives.” + +She could not speak. The moment was too full, the strain had been too +great; but she smiled surrender, and Peter caught her tenderly in his +arms and kissed her once—his Judith she was now, his heroine. Then, +without another word, he drew her arm through his and led her back to +the lights, where the dancers still held high carnival. + +Judith’s half-sister, Eudora, was making a pretty quarrel by perversely +forgetting the order in which she had given her dances. The girl was so +undeniably happy that Judith dreaded the grim news she must tell her. +Eudora blushed as she encountered Judith’s eye. Her half-sister ever +offered a check on Eudora’s exuberant coquetry, with its precipitation +of discussions that often ended in bullets. Leander stood on the +outermost fringe of Eudora’s potential partners. He would not have +dared to maintain it openly, yet he was sure the pretty minx had +promised that dance to him. + +“Dance with Leander, dear, and don’t let those men begin quarrelling. +I’ve something to tell you, presently,” said Judith. + +Texas Tyler stood glowering at them from the doorway. He would not +catch Judith’s eye as she tried to speak to him. Kitty sat alone for +the moment. She had sent the young lieutenant to fetch her a cup of +coffee, but as Peter approached with Judith she averted her eyes. + +“Kitty, may I present to you my fiancée, Miss Rodney?” + +Kitty rose superbly to the situation. She might, indeed, have made the +match she was so overjoyed in the good-fortune of her old friend Peter. +She made no reference to the woodland meeting—she hoped for the +happiness of seeing them in town. And she bade Peter tell the good news +to Nannie Wetmore, they would be so glad. Nannie swallowed a grimace +and proffered a cousinly hand. She had suspected some such news as this +when she saw that things were not going well with Kitty and Peter. + +“Better one dance with a good partner that can swing ye than several +with a feeble partner that leaves ye to swing your own corners!” + +Judith looked up, smiling. She recognized the characteristic utterance +of her old friend Mrs. Yellett. The matriarch had sustained a +breakdown, and arrived, in consequence, when the dance was half over, +but she was philosophical, as always, in the face of misfortune, and +loudly attested her pleasure in the renowned pedal feats of her +partner, Costigan. + +Behind came Mary Carmichael, looking brown and happy. From the attitude +of the group around Judith and Peter Mary divined what had happened, +and came to add her congratulations. Even Mrs. Yellett forgot to choose +an axiom as her medium of expression, and kissed Judith publicly, with +affectionate unction. Henderson had effaced himself, and Leander, proud +of his triumph and Judith’s commendation, sat in a corner and smiled +contentedly. Ignorant of the drama to which they had played chorus, the +dancers still riotously swung one another up and down the length of the +room, and from the little brown fiddles came the gay music of Judith’s +betrothal. + +THE END + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JUDITH OF THE PLAINS *** + +***** This file should be named 15573-0.txt or 15573-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/5/7/15573/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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