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diff --git a/33423-h/33423-h.htm b/33423-h/33423-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06d4ac6 --- /dev/null +++ b/33423-h/33423-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,8638 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Man in the Open, by Roger Pocock. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +div.centered {text-align: center;} /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 1 */ +div.centered table {margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;} /* work around for IE centering with CSS problem part 2 */ + + + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; + color: #A9A9A9; +} + + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: smaller; + text-align: right; + color: #A9A9A9; + font-weight: normal; font-variant: normal; + font-style: normal; letter-spacing: normal; + +} /* page numbers */ + + + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +.caption {font-weight: bold; font-size: smaller;} + +/* Images */ +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + margin-top: 3em; +} + + +/* Footnotes */ +.footnotes {border: dashed 1px;} + +.footnote {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-size: 0.9em;} + +.footnote .label {position: absolute; right: 84%; text-align: right;} + +.fnanchor { + vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: + none; +} + +.author {text-align: right; margin-right: 5%;} + + +.centerbox { width: 50%; /* heading box */ + margin: 0 auto; + text-align: center; + padding: 1em; + } + + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Man in the Open, by Roger Pocock + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + +Title: A Man in the Open + +Author: Roger Pocock + +Illustrator: M. Leone Bracker + +Release Date: August 13, 2010 [EBook #33423] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAN IN THE OPEN *** + + + + +Produced by D Alexander, Janet Keller and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + + + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 363px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="363" height="550" id="coverpage" alt="" title="Cover" /> +</div> + + + + <h1>A MAN<br /> + IN THE OPEN</h1> + + <h4><i>By</i></h4> + <h2>ROGER POCOCK</h2> + + <h4>Illustrated by</h4> + <h3>M. LEONE BRACKER</h3> + + <p class="center">SYNDICATE PUBLISHING COMPANY<br /> + + NEW YORK LONDON<br /> + + +<span class="smcap">Copyright 1912</span> <span class="smcap">The Bobbs-Merrill Company</span></p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 333px;"> +<img src="images/i003.jpg" width="333" height="500" alt="Kate" title="" /> +<span class="caption">Kate</span> +</div> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> + + + +<div class="centered"> +<table border="0" cellpadding="4" width="65%" cellspacing="0" summary="CONTENTS"> +<tr><th align="center" colspan="3">PART I</th></tr> +<tr><td> </td><td align="left">CHAPTER</td><td align="right">PAGE</td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I</td><td align="left"> <span class="smcap">On the Labrador</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Happy Ship</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_18'>18</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Youth</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_36'>36</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Ordeal by Torture</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_47'>47</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Burning Bush</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_67'>67</a></td></tr> +<tr><th align="center" colspan="3">PART II</th></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Two Ships at Anchor</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_75'>75</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Trevor Accident</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_90'>90</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Love</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_107'>107</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Landlord</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_118'>118</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Illustrious Salvator</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_130'>130</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Robbery-Under-Arms</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_144'>144</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VII</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Round-Up</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_155'>155</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VIII</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Stampede</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_165'>165</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IX</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Untruthful Prisoner</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_178'>178</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">X</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Breaking the Statutes</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_190'>190</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XI</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Billy O'Flynn</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_203'>203</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XII</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Expounding the Scriptures</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_210'>210</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIII</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Nativity</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_225'>225</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">XIV</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Locked House</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_236'>236</a></td></tr> +<tr><th align="center" colspan="3">PART III</th></tr> +<tr><td align="right">I</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Spite House</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_253'>253</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">II</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Impatient Chapter</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_277'>277</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">III</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Rescue</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_290'>290</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">IV</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">At Hundred Mile House</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_298'>298</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">V</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Cargador</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_316'>316</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="right">VI</td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Black Night</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_334'>334</a></td></tr> +<tr><td align="left"> </td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Epilogue</span></td><td align="right"><a href='#Page_349'>349</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="TO_PERSONS_WHO_HAVE_NAMESAKES_IN_THIS_BOOK" id="TO_PERSONS_WHO_HAVE_NAMESAKES_IN_THIS_BOOK"></a>TO PERSONS WHO HAVE NAMESAKES IN THIS BOOK</h3> + + +<p><span class="smcap">Ladies and Gentlemen</span>,</p> + +<p>Except the Bear, who is no more, the characters appearing in this volume +wish me to say that their breaches of etiquette, homicides, etc., are +all original sins. Their infirmities of body, soul, and spirit are their +own, not mimicry of yours, not a caricature of your friend, your +acquaintance, of your second-hand acquaintance, or anybody you have +heard about, or even of some mere celebrity. If we hold up a mirror, it +is to human nature, not to you.</p> + +<p>The characters wish me to tell you that they are all Imaginary Persons, +and therefore very sensitive. The persons of a drama are protected by +footlights, by the stage doorkeeper, not to mention grease paint and +scalps by an eminent artiste; but the characters in a novel are thrust +defenseless into a rude world, with many reporters about. In a page +fright, worse even than stage fright, their only comfort is that absence +of body which is their alternative to your great gift,—presence of +mind.</p> + +<p>So they make their bow under assumed names. There we come to the point. +The proper names were all dealt out to worldly grasping persons, and not +one was left unclaimed. The name department is like a cloak-room when +the guests have departed, a train from which all passengers have +alighted, an office on Christmas day. Can you blame the characters in +fiction who come after you, if they assume the noblest names, such as +Smith, and try to be worthy of their borrowed plumes? Surely you would +not have them wear a numeral such as the number of your house, or +telephone.</p> + +<p>The chances are that they give you no offense. Suppose that gentlemen +named Jesse Smith number one in each million of English-speaking people, +there would be one hundred in North America, half of them adults, with a +moiety in wedlock, and, of these twenty-five, a hundredth part may be +stockmen, of whom say one per cent. have a flaw in their claim to +wedlock. To this residuum, the .0025 part of a perfect gentleman, whom +he has not the honor to know personally, our Mr. Smith tenders profound +apologies.</p> + +<p>But the Persons of the book, dear friends, who have filled two years of +my life with happiness, are not only Imaginary People with assumed +names, but they inhabit a district at variance with the maps, at a +period not shown in earthly calendars. So far aloof from the world where +they might give offense to earthly readers, they are outside the bounds +of space and time, and belong to that realm of Art where there is but +one law, whereby they stand or fall, must live or die—fidelity to Life.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Your obedient servant, +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">THE AUTHOR.</span><br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><br /><a name="A_MAN_IN_THE_OPEN" id="A_MAN_IN_THE_OPEN"></a>A MAN IN THE OPEN<br /></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p> +<h2><br /><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I"></a>PART I<br /></h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>ON THE LABRADOR</h3> + + +<p><i>Dictated by Mr. Jesse Smith</i></p> + +<p>Don't you write anything down yet, 'cause I ain't ready.</p> + +<p>If I wrote this yarn myself, I'd make it good and red from tip to tip, +claws out, teeth bare, fur crawling with emotions. It wouldn't be dull, +no, or evidence.</p> + +<p>But then it's to please you, and that's what I'm for.</p> + +<p>So I proceeds to stroke the fur smooth, lay the paws down soft, fold up +the smile, and purr. A sort of truthfulness steals over me. Goin' to be +dull, too.</p> + +<p>No, I dunno how to begin. If this yarn was a rope, I'd coil it down +before I begun to pay out. You lays the end, so, and flemish down, ring +by ring until the bight's coiled, smooth, ready to flake off as it runs. +I delayed a lynching once to do just that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> and relieve the patient's +mind. It all went off so well!</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>When we kids were good, mother she used to own we came of pedigree +stock; but when we're bad, seems we took after father. You see mother's +folk was the elect, sort of born saved. They allowed there'd be room in +Heaven for one hundred and forty-four thousand just persons, mostly from +Nova Scotia, but when they took to sorting the neighbors, they'd get +exclusive. The McGees were all right until Aunt Jane McGee up and +married a venerable archdeacon, due to burn sure as a bishop. The Todds +were through to glory, with doubts on Uncle Simon, who'd been a whaler +captain until he found grace and opened a dry-goods store. Seeing he +died in grace, worth all of ten thousand dollars, the heirs concluded +the Lord should act reasonable, until they found uncle had left his +wealth to charities. Then they put a text on his tomb—"For he had great +possessions."</p> + +<p>The McAndrewses has corner lots in the New Jerusalem, and is surely the +standard of morals until Cousin Abner went shiftless and wrote poems. +They'd allus been so durned respectable, too.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> + +<p>Anyway, mother's folk as a tribe, is millionaires in grace and pretty +well fixed in Nova Scotia. She'd talk like a book, too. You'd never +suspect mother, playing the harmonium in church, with a tuning-fork to +sharpen the preacher's voice, black boots, white socks, box-plaited +crinoline, touch-me-not frills, poke bonnet, served all round with +scratch-the-kisser roses. Yes, I seen the daguerreotype, work of a +converted photographer—nothing to pay. Thar's mother—full suit of +sail, rated a hundred A-one at Lloyd's, the most important sheep in the +Lord's flock. Then she's found out, secretly married among the goats. +Her name's scratched out of the family Bible, with a strong hint to the +Lord to scratch her entry from the Book of Life. She's married a +sailorman before the mast, a Liveyere from the Labrador, a man without a +dollar, suspected of being Episcopalian. Why, she'd been engaged to the +leading grocery in Pugwash. Oh, great is the fall thereof, and her name +ain't alluded to no more. "The ways of the Lord," says she, "is surely +wonderful."</p> + +<p>In them days the Labrador ain't laid out exactly to suit mother. She's +used to luxury—coal in the lean-to, taties in the cellar, cows in the +barn, barter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> store round the corner, mails, church, school, and a jail +right handy, so she can enjoy the ungodly getting their just deserts. +But in our time the Labrador was just God's country, all rocks, ice, and +sea, to put the fear into proud hearts—no need of teachers. It kills +off the weaklings—no need of doctors. A school to raise men—no need of +preachers. The law was "work or starve"—no place for lawyers. It's +police, and court, and hangman all complete, fire and hail, snow and +vapors, wind and storm fulfilling His word. Nowadays I reckon there'd be +a cinematograph theater down street to distract your attention from +facts, and you'd order molasses by wireless, invoiced C. O. D. to +Torngak, Lab. Can't I hear mother's voice acrost the years, and the +continents, as she reads the lesson: "'He casteth forth His ice like +morsels: who can stand before His cold?'"</p> + +<p>Father's home was an overturned schooner, turfed in, and he was surely +proud of having a bigger place than any other Liveyere on the coast. +There was the hold overhead for stowing winter fish, and room +down-stairs for the family, the team of seven husky dogs, and even a +cord or two of fire-wood. We kids used to play at Newf'nlanders up in +the hold, when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> the winter storms were tearing the tops off the hills, +and the Eskimo devil howled blue shrieks outside. The huskies makes wolf +songs all about the fewness of fish, and we'd hear mother give father a +piece of her mind. That's about the first I remember, but all what +mother thought about poor father took years and years to say.</p> + +<p>I used to be kind of sorry for father. You see he worked the bones +through his hide, furring all winter and fishing summers, and what he +earned he'd get in truck from the company; All us Liveyeres owed to the +Hudson Bay, but father worked hardest, and he owed most, hundreds and +hundreds of skins. The company trusted him. There wasn't a man on the +coast more trusted than he was, with mother to feed, and six kids, +besides seven huskies, and father's aunt, Thessalonika, a widow with +four children and a tumor, living down to Last Hope beyond the Rocks. +Father's always in the wrong, and chews black plug baccy to keep his +mouth from defending his errors. "B'y," he said once, when mother went +out to say a few words to the huskies; "I'd a kettle once as couldn't +let out steam—went off and broke my arm. If yore mother ever gets +silent, run, b'y, run!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> + +<p>I whispered to him, "You don't mind?"</p> + +<p>He grinned. "It's sort of comforting outside. We don't know what the +winds and the waves is saying. If they talked English, I'd—I'd turn +pitman and hew coal, b'y, as they does down Nova Scotia way—where yore +mother come from."</p> + +<p>There was secrets about father, and if she ever found out! You see, he +looked like a white man, curly yaller hair same as me, and he was +fearful strong. But in his inside—don't ever tell!—he was partly small +boy same's me, and the other half of him—don't ever let on!—was +mountaineer injun. I seen his three brothers, the finest fellers you +ever—yes, Scotch half-breeds—and mother never knew. "Jesse," he'd +whisper, "swear you'll never tell?"</p> + +<p>"S'elp me Bob."</p> + +<p>"It would be hell, b'y."</p> + +<p>"What's hell like?"</p> + +<p>"Prayers and bein' scrubbed, forever an' ever."</p> + +<p>"But mother won't be there?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no. It hain't so bad as all that. She'll be in Heaven, making them +angels respectable, and cleaning apostles. They was fishermen, too. +They'll catch it!"</p> + +<p>Thar's me on father's knee, with my nose in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> buckskin shirt, and +even to this day the wood smoke in camp brings back that wuff, whereas +summers his boots smelt fishy. What happened first or afterwards is all +mixed up, but there's the smoke smell and sister Maggie lying in the +bunk, all white and froze.</p> + +<p>There's fish smell, and Polly who used to wallop me with a slipper, +lying white and froze. And yet I knew she couldn't get froze in summer.</p> + +<p>Then there's smoke smell, and big Tommy, bigger nor father, throwing up +blood. I said he'd catch it from mother for messing the floor, but +father just hugged me, telling me to shut up. I axed him if Tommy was +going to get froze, too. Then father told me that Tommy was going away +to where the milk came out of a cow. You just shove the can opener into +the cow so—and the milk pours out, whole candy pails of milk. Then +there's great big bird rocks where the hens come to breed, and they lays +fresh eggs, real fresh hen's eggs—rocks all white with eggs. And +there's vegi tables, which is green things to eat. First time you swell +up and pretty nigh bust, but you soon get used to greens. Tommy is going +to Civili Zation. It's months and months off, and when you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> get there, +the people is so awful mean they'd let a stranger starve to death +without so much as "Come in." The men wear pants right down to their +heels, and as to the women—</p> + +<p>Mother comes in and looks at father, so he forgets to say about the +women at Civili Zation, but other times he'd tell, oh, lots of stories. +He said it was worse for the likes of us than New Jerusalem.</p> + +<p>I reckon Tommy died, and Joan, too, and mother would get gaunt and dry, +rocking herself. "'The Lord gave,'" she'd say, "'and the Lord hath taken +away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"</p> + +<p>There was only Pete and me left, and father wagging his pipe acrost the +stove at mother. "They'll die, ma'am," I heard him say, and she just +sniffed. "If I hadn't taken 'em out doors they'd be dead now, ma'am."</p> + +<p>She called him an injun. She called him—I dunno what she didn't call +him. I'd been asleep, and when I woke up she was cooking breakfast while +she called him a lot more things she must have forgot to say. But he +carried me in his arms out through the little low door, and it was +stabbing cold with a blaze of northern lights.</p> + +<p>He tucked me up warm on the komatik, he hitched<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> up the huskies, and +mushed, way up the tickle, and through the soft bush snow, and at sunup +we made his winter tilt on Torngak Creek. We put in the winter there, +furring, and every time he came home from the round of traps, he'd sell +me all the pelts. I was the company, so he ran up a heap of debt. Then +he made me little small snow-shoes and skin clothes like his, and a real +beaver cap with a tail. I was surely proud when he took me hunting fur +and partridges. I was with him to the fishing, in the fall we'd hunt, +all winter we'd trap till it was time for the sealing, and only two or +three times in a year we'd be back to mother. We'd build her a stand-up +wigwam of fire-wood, so it wouldn't be lost in the snow, we'd tote her +grub from the fort, the loads of fish, and the fall salmon.</p> + +<p>Then I'd see Pete, too, who'd got pink, with a spitting cough. He wanted +to play with me, but I wouldn't. I just couldn't. I hated to be +anywheres near him.</p> + +<p>"Didn't I tell yez?" father would point at Pete coughing. "Didn't I warn +yez?"</p> + +<p>But mother set her mouth in a thin line.</p> + +<p>"Pete," said she, "is saved."</p> + +<p>Next time we come mother was all alone.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span></p> + +<p>"'The Lord gave,'" she says, "'and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be +the name of the Lord,' but it's getting kind of monotonous."</p> + +<p>She hadn't much to say then, she didn't seem to care, but was just numb. +He wrapped her up warm on the komatik, with just a sack of clothes, her +Bible, and the album of photos from Nova Scotia, yes, and the china dogs +she carried in her arms. Father broke the trail ahead, I took the gee +pole, and when day came, we made the winter tilt. There mother kep' +house just as she would at home, so clean we was almost scared to step +indoors. We never had such grub, but she wouldn't put us in the wrong or +set up nights confessing father's sins. She didn't care any more.</p> + +<p>It was along in March or maybe April that father was away in coarse +weather, making the round of his traps. He didn't come back. There'd +been a blizzard, a wolf-howling hurricane, blowing out a lane of bare +ground round the back of the cabin, while the big drift piled higher and +packed harder, until the comb of it grew out above our roof like a sea +breaker, froze so you could walk on the overhang. And just between dark +and duckish father's husky team came back without him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p> + +<p>I don't reckon I was more'n ten or eleven years old, but you see, this +Labrador is kind of serious with us, and makes even kids act +responsible. Go easy, and there's famine, freezing, blackleg, all sorts +of reasons against laziness. It sort of educates.</p> + +<p>Mother was worse than silent. There was something about her that scared +me more than anything outdoors. In the morning her eye kep' following me +as if to say, "Go find your father." Surely it was up to me, and if I +wasn't big enough to drive the huskies or pack father's gun, I thought I +could manage afoot to tote his four-pound ax. She beckoned me to her and +kissed me—just that once in ten years, and I was quick through the +door, out of reach, lest she should see me mighty near to cryin'.</p> + +<p>It was all very well showing off brave before mother, but when I got +outside, any excuse would have been enough for going back. I wished I'd +left the matches behind, but I hadn't. I wished the snow would be too +soft, but it was hard as sand. I wished I wasn't a coward, and the bush +didn't look so wolfy, and what if I met up with the Eskimo devil! Oh, I +was surely the scaredest lil' boy, and dead certain I'd get lost. There +was nobody to see if I sat down and cried under father's lob-stick, but +I was too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> durned frightened, because the upper branches looked like +arms with claws. Then I went on because I was going, and there was +father's trail blazed on past Bake-apple Marsh. The little trees, a cut +here, a slash there, the top of a tree lopped and hanging, then Big +Boulder, Johnny Boulder, Small Boulder, cross the crick, first deadfall, +more lops, a number-one trap empty—how well I remember even now. The +way was as plain as streets, and the sun shining warm as he looked over +into the valley.</p> + +<p>Then I saw a man's mitt, an old buckskin mitt sticking up out of the +snow. Father had dropped his mitt, and without that his hand would be +froze. When I found him, how glad he'd be to get it!</p> + +<p>But when I tried to pick it up, it was heavy. Then it came away, and +there was father's hand sticking up. It was dead.</p> + +<p>Of course I know I'd ought to have dug down through the snow, but I +didn't. I ran for all I was worth. Then I got out of breath and come +back shamed.</p> + +<p>It wasn't for love of father. No. I hated to touch that hand, and when I +did I was sick. Still that was better than being scared to touch. It's +not so bad when you dare.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p> + +<p>I dug, with a snow-shoe for a shovel. There was the buckskin shirt +smelling good, and the long fringes I'd used to tickle his nose +with—then I found his face. I just couldn't bear that, but turned my +back and dug until I came to the great, big, number-four trap he used +for wolf and beaver. He must have stepped without seeing it under the +snow, and it broke his leg. Then he'd tried to drag himself back home.</p> + +<p>It was when I stood up to get breath and cool off that I first seen the +wolf, setting peaceful, waggin' his tail. First I thought he was one of +our own huskies, but when he didn't know his name I saw for sure he must +be the wolf who lived up Two Mile Crick. Wolves know they're scarce, +with expensive pelts, so neither father nor me had seen more'n this +person's tracks. He'd got poor inspecting father's business instead of +minding his own. That's why he was called the Inspector. It was March, +too, the moon of famine. Of course I threw my ax and missed. His hungry +smile's still thar behind a bush, and me wondering whether his business +is with me or father. That's why I stepped on the snow-shoes, and went +right past where he was, not daring to get my ax. Yes, it was me he +wanted to see—first, but of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> course I wasn't going to encourage any +animal into thinking he'd scared a man. Why, he'd scarce have let father +even see his tracks for fear they'd be trapped or shot. So I walked slow +and proud, leadin' him off from father—at least I played that, wishing +all the time that mother's lil' boy was to home. After a while I grabbed +down a lopped stick where father'd blazed, not as fierce as an ax, but +enough to make me more or less respected.</p> + +<p>Sometimes the Inspector was down wind 'specting my smell, times he was +up wind for a bird's-eye view, or again on my tracks to see how small +they looked—and oh, they did feel small!</p> + +<p>From what I've learned among these people, wolves is kind to man cubs, +gentle and friendly even when pinched with hunger, just loving to watch +a child and its queer ways. They're shy of man because his will is +strong compelling them, and his weapons magic. So they respects his +traps, his kids, an' all belonging to him. Only dying of hunger, they'll +snatch his dogs and cats, and little pigs, but they ain't known to hurt +man or his young.</p> + +<p>The Inspector was bigger than me, stronger'n any man, swifter'n any +horse. I tell yer the maned<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> white wolf is wiser'n most people, and but +for eating his cubs, he's nature's gentleman.</p> + +<p>The trouble was not him hunting, but me scared. Why, if he'd wanted me, +one flash, one bite, and I'm breakfast. It was just curiosity made him +so close behind like a stealthy ghost. When I'd turn to show fight, he'd +seem to apologize, and then I'd go on whistling a hymn.</p> + +<p>Thar he was cached right ahead in the deadfall, for a front view, if I'd +known. But I thrashed with my stick in a panic, hitting his snout, so he +yelped. Then he lost his temper. He'd a "sorry, +but-business-is-business" expression on him. I ran at him, tripped on a +stump, let out a yell, and he lep' straight at my throat.</p> + +<p>And in the middle of that came a gunshot, a bullet grazed my arm, and +went on whining. Another shot, and the Inspector ran. Then I was rubbing +whar the bullet hurt, sort of sulky, too, with a grievance, when I was +suddenly grabbed and nigh smothered in mother's arms. She'd come with +the team of huskies followin' me; she'd been gunning, too, and I sure +had a mighty close call.</p> + +<p>She'd no tears left for father, so when I got through sobbin' we went to +the body, and loaded it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> in the komatik for home. Thar's things I don't +like to tell you.</p> + +<p>It wasn't a nice trip exactly, with the Inspector superintending around. +When we got back to the tilt, we daresn't take out the huskies, or +unload, or even stop for grub. We had to drive straight on, mother and +me, down the tickle, past our old empty home, then up the Baccalieu all +night.</p> + +<p>The sun was just clear of the ice when we made the Post, and we saw a +little ball jerk up the flag halyards, then break to a great red flag +with the letters H. B. C. It means Here Before Christ.</p> + +<p>The air was full of a big noise, like the skirl of sea-gulls screaming +in a gale, and there was Mr. McTavish on the sidewalk, marching with his +bagpipes to wake the folk out of their Sunday beds. He'd pants down to +his heels, just as father said, and fat bacon to eat every day of his +life. He was strong as a team of bullocks, a big, bonny, red man, with +white teeth when he turned, smiling, in a sudden silence of the pipes. +Then he saw father's body, with legs and arms stiffened all ways, and +the number-four trap still gripped on broken bones. Off came his fur +cap.</p> + +<p>Mother stood, iron-hard, beside the komatik.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Factor," says she, "I've come to pay his debt."</p> + +<p>"Nay, it's the Sabbath, ma'am. Ye'll pay no debts till Monday. Come in +and have some tea—ye puir thing."</p> + +<p>"You starved his soul to death, and now I've brought his body to square +his debts. Will you leave <i>that</i> here till Monday?"</p> + +<p>Mr. McTavish looked at her, then whispered to me. "B'y," said he, "we +must make her cry or she'll be raving mad. Greet, woman, greet. By God, +I'll make ye greet!"</p> + +<p>He marched up and down the sidewalk, and through the skirl of gulls in a +storm, swept a tune that made the meat shake on my bones.</p> + +<p>Once mother shrieked out, trying to make him stop, but he went on pacing +in front of her, to and fro, with his eyes on her all the time, peering +straight through her, and all the grief of all the world in the skirl +and the wail, and that hopeless awful tune. She covered her face with +her hands, trying to hold while the great sobs shook her, and she reeled +like a tree in a gale, until she fell on her knees, until she threw +herself on the corpse, and cried, and cried.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>THE HAPPY SHIP</h3> + + +<p>Cap'n Mose of the <i>Zedekiah W. Baggs</i> 'e was a Sunday Christian. All up +along 'e'd wear a silk hat, the only one on the Labrador. Yes. Sundays +'e'd be ashore talkin' predestination an' grace out of a book 'e kep' in +'is berth, but never a word about fish or the state of the ice. Mother'd +been raised to a belief in Christians, so when Mose dropped in at her +shack, admirin' how she cooked, she'd be pleased all up the back, and +have him right in to dinner. He'd kiss me, talkin' soft about little +children. Yes. That's how 'e got me away to sea as boy on a sealin' +voyage, without paying me any wages.</p> + +<p>Mother never knew what Cap'n Mose was like on week-days, and Sunday +didn't happen aboard of the <i>Zedekiah</i>. I remember hidin' away at the +back of Ole Oleson's bunk, axing God please to turn me into an animal. +Any sort would do, because I seen men kind to animals. You know an +animal mostly con<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span>sists of a pure heart, and four legs, which is a great +advantage. Queer world though, if all our prayers was granted.</p> + +<p>Belay thar. A man sets out to tell adventures, and if his victims don't +find some excuse for getting absent, he owes them all the happiness he's +got. It's mean to hand out sorrow to persons bearing their full share +already. So we proceeds to the night when I ran from the <i>Zedekiah</i>, and +joined the <i>Happy Ship</i>.</p> + +<p>We lay in the big ice pack off Cape Breton, getting a load of seal +pelts. All hands was out on the ice while daylight lasted, clubbing +seals, gathering the carcasses into pans, sculping, then towing the +hides aboard to salt 'em down.</p> + +<p>We got our supper, then turned in, bone-weary, but the ship groaned so +that I daresn't sleep. A ship ain't got no mouth to give her age away, +and yet with ships and women it's pretty much the same, for the younger +they are the less they need to be painted. The <i>Zedekiah</i> was old, just +paint an' punk, and she did surely groan to the thrust of the pack. I +was too scared to sleep, so I went up on deck.</p> + +<p>I'd allus watched for a chance to run away, and thar was Jim, the +anchor-watch, squatting on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> bitts dead asleep. He used to be that +way when nobody chased him.</p> + +<p>I daresn't make for the coast. You see I'd heard tell of niggers ashore +which eat boys who run away. But I seen the lights of the three-masted +schooner a couple of miles to windward. I grabbed a sealing gaff and +slid down on to the ice.</p> + +<p>First, as the pans rocked under me, I was scary, next I warmed up, +gettin' venturesome, until I came near sliding into the wet, and after +that I'd look before I lep'. There'd been a tops'l breeze from the +norrard, blowin' up since nightfall to a hurricane, and then it blew +some more, until I couldn't pole-jump for fear of being blowed away. +With any other ship, I'd have wished myself back on board.</p> + +<p>You know how the grinding piles an edge around each pan, of broken +splinters? That edge shone white agin the black of the water, all the +guide I had. But times the squalls of wind was like scythes edged with +sleet, so I was blinded, waiting, freezing until a lull came, and I'd +get on. It was broad day, and I reckon each step weighed a ton before I +made that schooner.</p> + +<p>A gray man, fat, with a chin whisker, lifted me in overside. "Come far?" +says he, and I turned round<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> to show him the <i>Zedekiah</i>. She wasn't +there. She was gone—foundered.</p> + +<p>So that's how I came aboard of the <i>Happy Ship</i>, just like a lil' lost +dog, with no room in my skin for more'n bones and famine. Captain Smith +used to say he'd signed me on as family ghost; but he paid me honest +wages, fed me honest grub, while as to clothes and bed, I was snug as a +little rabbit. He taught me reading and writing, and punctuation with +his belt, sums, hand, reef, and steer, catechism, knots and splices, +sewing, squeegee, rule of the road, soojie moojie, psalms of David, +constitution of the United States, and playing the trombone, with three +pills and a good licking regular Saturday nights. Mother's little boy +began to set up and take notice.</p> + +<p>Then five years in the <i>Pawtucket</i> all along, from Montreal to Colon, +from banjos plunking in them <i>portales</i> of Vera Cruz, to bugles crying +revally in Quebec, and the oyster boats asleep by old Point Comfort, and +the Gloucester fleet a-storming home past Sable, and dagos basking on +Havana quays. Suck oranges in the dinghy under the moonlight, waiting to +help the old man aboard when he's drunk; watch the niggers humping +cotton into a tramp at Norfolk; feel the tide-rip snoring up past +Tantra<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>mar; reef home trys'ls when she's coming on to blow, with the +Keys to lee'ard; can't I just <i>feel</i> the old <i>Pawnticket</i> romping home +to be in time for Christmas!</p> + +<p>Did you hear tell that the sea has feelings—the cryin', the laugh, dumb +sorrow, blazin' wrath, the peace, the weariness, the mother-kindness, +the hush like prayers of something which ain't brute, or human, but +more'n human, so grand and awful you hardly dare to breathe?</p> + +<p>Words, only words which don't fit, the misfits which make fun of serious +thoughts. We men is dumb beasts which can't say what we mean, whereas +I've allus reckoned persons like cats and wolves don't feel so much +emotions as they exudes in song.</p> + +<p>Seafaring men is sea-wise, sea-kind, only land-foolish, for there's +things no sailorman knows how to say, things even landsmen can't figure +out in dollars and cents.</p> + +<p>Seems I'm a point off my course? I'm only saying things the captain +said, times on a serious night when we'd be up some creek for fish, or +layin' low for ducks. If ever he went ashore without me, I'd be like a +lost dog, and he drunk before the sun was over the yard-arm. But away +together it wasn't master<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> and boy, but just father and son. He'd even +named me after himself, and that's why my name's Smith.</p> + +<p>I disremember which port—somewheres up the St. Lawrence where we loaded +lumber for the Gulf o' Mexico, but the captain and me was away fishing. +Mother had come from the Labrador to find me, old gray mother. They +dumped her seal-hide trunk on our wharf, so one of the china dogs inside +got split from nose to tail; but mother just sat on a bollard, and +didn't give a damn. She put on her round horn spectacles to smile at the +mate aft, and the second mate forward, the or'nary seaman painting in +the name board, and Bill in his bos'n's chair a-tarring down the +rigging, and the bumboat laundress who'd been tearing the old man's +shirt-fronts. Yes, she'd a smile for every man jack that seemed to warm +their hearts, but nary a word to interfere with work, for she just sat +happy at the sight of the <i>Pawnticket</i>, and she surely admired +everything, from Old Glory to Blue Peter—until our nigger cook came and +spilled slops overside. Seems he'd had news of the lady, and came to +grin, but he was back in his galley, like a rabbit to his burrow, while +she marched up the gangway. "Can't abide dirt," says mother, and even +the new boy heard not a word else 'cept the splash.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> For mother just +escorted that nigger right through the galley, out at the other end, +over the port rail, and boosted him into the blue harbor, for the first +and only bath he'd ever had. Then she took off her horn spectacles, her +old buckskin gloves, and her bonnet, and sot to cleaning a galley which +hadn't been washed since the days of President Lincoln. Floor, range, +walls, beams, pots, kettles, plates and dishes, she washed and scrubbed +and polished. She hadn't time to listen to the wet nigger or the mate, +and narry a man on board could get more than yea or nay out of mother. +She cooked them a supper too good to be eaten and spoilt, then set the +dishes to rights, got the lamp a-shining, and axed to be shown round the +ship. You should have seen the idlers aft and the boys forrard, redding +up as if all their mothers was expected. As to the nigger, the fellers +made a habit of pitching him overboard until he got tired of coming.</p> + +<p>The cap'n and me comes back along with the dinghy, makes fast, and +climbs aboard. There's old gray mother, with the horn specs, calm in her +own kitchen, just tellin' us to set right down to supper. Cap'n lives +aft, and I belongs up forrard, being ordinary seaman, and less important +aboard than the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> man's pig. Yet somehow mother knew, feeding us both +in the galley, and standing by while we fed. Never a word, but mother +had a light for Captain Smith's cigar, and her eyes looking hungry at me +for fear she'd be sent ashore.</p> + +<p>"Well, ma'am," says the captain, "sent your baggage aft? Oh, we'll soon +get your baggage aboard."</p> + +<p>Then I heard him on deck seeing mother's dunnage into the spare berth +aft, and the nigger's turkey thrown out on the wharf.</p> + +<p>Sort of strange to me remembering mother, gaunt, bitter-hard, always in +the right, with lots to say. And here was little mother sobbing her +heart out on the breast of my jersey. Just the same mother changed. Said +she was fed up with the Labrador, coming away to see the world, meet +folks, and have a good time; but would I be ashamed of having her with +me at sea? Surely that had been old mother back there in the long ago +time, and now it was young mother laughing just because she'd cried.</p> + +<p>Shamed? All the ways down from Joe Beef's clear to Rimouski you'll hear +that yarn to-day, of how the old sea custom of winning a berth in fair +fight was practised by a lady, aboard of the <i>Pawnticket</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p> + +<p>You've heard of ship's husbands, but we'd the first ship's mother. And +the way she crep' in was surely insidious. Good word that. Let her draw +stores, you find she's steward and purser, just surely poison to the +chandlers. Oh, she'll see to the washing, and before you can turn +around, she's nurse and doctor. She's got to be queen, and the +schooner's a sea palace, when we suddenly discovered she only signed as +cook.</p> + +<p>Now we're asleep at eleven knots on a beam wind, and Key West wide on +the starboard bow, the same being in the second dog-watch when I'm +invited aft. There's the old man setting in the captain's place, there's +mother at the head of the table sewing, and she asks me to sit in the +mate's seat as if I was chief officer instead of master's dog.</p> + +<p>"Son," says she—queer, little, soft chuckle, "son. You'll never guess."</p> + +<p>I'm sort of sulky at having riddles put.</p> + +<p>Then the old man gets red to the gills, giggling. He slaps hisself on +his fat knee and wriggles. Then he up and kisses mother with a big smack +right on the lips.</p> + +<p>"Can't guess?" says mother.</p> + +<p>"I'm the old man," he giggles, "she's the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> woman." Then he reached +out his paw. "Put her there, son!" says he; "what's yer name, boy?"</p> + +<p>He'd a hand like a bear trap. "Smith!" I squealed. "Smith!"</p> + +<p>"Fact," says he. "Fill yourself a goblet of that 'ere sherry wine, with +some sugar. Drink, you cub, to Captain and Mrs. Smith. Now off with ye, +and pass the bottle forrard."</p> + +<p>There's me chuck-a-block with shyness, spluttering wine, dumb as a fish +'cause I've only one mouth to my face; then I'm to the foc'sle, tellin' +the boys there's mutiny on the high seas with the cook commanding, and +we're flying the aurora borealis for a flag, till we load a cargo of +stars, and clears for paradise.</p> + +<p>Next day, or next week, or maybe the Monday following, the ship's got a +headache, with the sky sitting down on the mastheads, the sea like oil, +the sheets slapping the shadows on the deck, where the tar boils, and +our feet is like overdone toast.</p> + +<p>We sailors is off our feed, and Pierre Legrandeur telling his beads till +they get pitched overboard for luck. Old man's in a stinking temper, +mother abed with sick headache, first mate like a wounded seal, the +second has a touch of the sun, and bo's'n got a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> water-pup on his neck. +We stows every stitch of canvas, sets a storm stays'l reefed to the size +of a towel, everything on deck's lashed solid, and the glass is lookin' +sicker'n ever. Then dad says we'd best take precautions, so he tries to +house the top-masts, and sends down for a drum of oil.</p> + +<p>The sky's like copper edged with sheet lightning, then there's scud in a +hurry overhead, the horizon folding in, and a funnel-shaped cloud to the +southard wrapping up the sky. There's no air, and I noticed the binnacle +alight, so it must have been nigh dark under that funnel cloud. Just as +it struck, some one called out "All aboard!" and I heard the mate yell, +"You mean, all overboard!"</p> + +<p>Couldn't see much at first, as I was busy getting mother out of the +drowned cabin. When I'd passed a halyard round her and the stump of the +mizzen, I'd just breathing time. The sea was flattened, white under +black sky, and what was left of us was mostly blowing about. I felt +sorry for Pierre—gone after his rosary beads, and Mick, too—he'd owed +me a dollar. I missed the masts some, and the bowsprit. Galley gone, +too, and the good old dinghy staved to kindlings. The ship's cat was +mewing around with no curling-up corner left.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span></p> + +<p>Dad was just taking command again of what remained. No use shouting +either, so he hung on and beckoned. The masts overside were battering +holes in us, until we cut adrift. Then to the pumps, but that was sort +of <i>ex officio</i> just to keep us warm. Working's warmer than waiting.</p> + +<p>Being timber-laden we couldn't sink, which was convenient. But, as +mother said, there wasn't any grub on the roof, and we couldn't go +down-stairs. For instance, we wanted a drink of water.</p> + +<p>Well, now, we been three days refreshing our parched mouths with beer +stories, when a fishing vessel comes along smelling salvage. Happens +he's one of them felucca-rigged dago swine out of Invicta, Texas. +Daresn't tow a hair-brush across a wash pail for fear of getting fouled +in his own hawser. But he's a champion artist at gesticulations, so he'd +like to get his picture in the papers for rescuing shipwrecked mariners. +His charges was quite moderate, too, for a breaker of water and some +fancy grub—until we seen the bill.</p> + +<p>I never knew till then that our old man was owner. Of course that's all +right, only he'd run astern with his insurance. That's why he'd stay +with the ship, so it's no good talking. As to mother, she come<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> aboard +the feluccy, ship's cat in her arms, and a sort of cold, dumb, +going-to-be-good-and-it's-killin'-me sort of smile. She bore up brave +until she struck the number-one smell in the dago's cabin. "It's too +much," she says, handing me the cat, "too much. I'm goin' back to drown +clean."</p> + +<p>She kissed me, and went back aboard the wreck.</p> + +<p>But I was to stay with our sailors aboard the dago, to fetch Invicta +quick, and bring a tug. Dad trusted me, even to play the coward and quit +him. I dread to think back on that passage of four days to the port of +Invicta.</p> + +<p>Now in them days I was fifteen, and considered homely. The mouth I got +would be large for a dog, smile—six and three-quarters. Thar ashore at +Invicta, I'd still look sort of cheerful, so all them tug skippers took +me for a joke. It was four days and three nights since I'd slept, so I +suppose I'd look funny wanting to hire a tug.</p> + +<p>I showed power of attorney, wrote in indelible pencil on dad's old dicky +cravat, but the tugs expected cash, and the agents went back on me.</p> + +<p>There was our sailors playing shipwrecked heroes, which is invited to +take refreshments, and tell how brave they'd been, raising the +quotations on tugs up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> to ten thousand dollars. Better have a whisky to +lessen that smile before it takes cramp, they'd say. And mother's voice +seems to call out of the air.</p> + +<p>Nothin' doing Saturday nights at the office, tug crews all ashore, but +the port will get a move on Monday. Trust grown men to know more'n a +mere boy. Keep a stiff upper lip, cheer up and have a drink. The glass +is down, the gulls is flying inland, thar's weather brewing. I seen in +my mind the sprays lash over the wreck.</p> + +<p>It was dark when I went to the wharves with Captain McGaw to see the +<i>Pluribus Unum</i>. He'd show me a tug cheap at ten thousand cash—stores +all complete, steam up, engineer on the premises, though he'd stepped +ashore for a drink. Cute cabin he'd got on the bridge, cunning little +glory-hole forrard. Why, everything was real handy, so that I only had +to bat him behind the ear with a belaying-pin, and he dropped right down +the fore hatch. All I wanted now was a navigating officer I could trust.</p> + +<p>Which brings me to Mr. McMillan, our own second mate, buying a dozen +fried oysters in a card box with a wire handle, all for twenty-five +cents, though the girl seemed expecting a kiss.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Frankie," says I, slapping him on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> back. A foremast hand can +make his officer act real dignified with less. "Say, Mac! D'ye know what +Greed done?" I grabbed his oysters. "Greed, he choke puppy," says I, and +in my mind I seen the gulls wheel round the wreck, where something's +lying huddled. "Come on, puppy!" says I, waving Frankie down street with +them oysters, so all the traffic pauses to admire, and our second +officer is running good. More things I said, escorting him maybe a mile +aboard of the <i>Pluribus Unum</i>. And there I ate them oysters while he was +being coarse and rude, but all the time I seen the wreck heave sick and +sodden on the swell of the gulf, the circling gulls, and how they dove +down, pecking at a huddle of torn clothes beside the wheel.</p> + +<p>Up thar on the tug's masthead I was owning to being in the wrong, while +Frankie Mac was promising faithful to tear my hide off over my ears when +I'm caught.</p> + +<p>"Please, sir," says I, "it ain't so much the oysters worries me. It's +this yer Cap'n McGaw I done embezzled. Cayn't call it kidnaped 'cause +he's over sixty, but I stunned him illegal with a belaying-pin, and I +hears him groaning—times when you stops to pant."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span></p> + +<p>But Frankie Mac wouldn't believe one word until he went down in the fore +peak to inquire, while I applied the hatch, and battened down.</p> + +<p>So you see I'd got a tug, and the crew aboard, so the next thing was to +take in the hawsers, shove off, and let her drift on the ebb.</p> + +<p>It's a caution to see how many taps and things besets an engine-room, +all of 'em heaps efficient. The first thing I handled proved up plenty +steam, for my left arm was pink and blisters for a week. Next I found a +tap called bilge-valve injection, which lets in the sea when you wants +to sink the ship. I turned him full, and went to sit on the fore hatch +while I sucked my arm, and had a chat with the crew.</p> + +<p>They was talkative, and battering at the hatch with an ax, so I'd hardly +a word in edgeways. Then they got scared we'd blow up before we drowned. +Allus in my mind I'd see them gulls squawkin' around the wreck, and +mother fighting them. That heaped thing by the wheel was dad, for I seen +the whites of his eyes as the ship lurched him. An' the gulls—</p> + +<p>Cap'n McGaw was pleadin' with me, then Mr. McMillan. They swore they'd +take me to the wreck for nothin', they'd give their Bible oath, they'd +sign<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> agreements. McGaw had a wife and family ashore. McMillan was in +love.</p> + +<p>I turned off the bilge-valve injection, opened the fore hatch, and set +them two to work. They was quite tame, and that night I slept—only to +wake up screechin' at the things I seen in dreams.</p> + +<p>Seven days we searched for the wreck before we gave up and quit, at +least the captains did. Then night come down black overhead, with the +swell all phosphorescent. I allus think of mother in a light sea under a +black sky, like it was that night, when our tug run into the wreck by +accident.</p> + +<p>I jumped first on board. The poor hulk lay flush with the swell, lifting +and falling just enough to roll the thin green water, all bright specks, +across and across the deck. Mother was there, her bare arm reaching out, +her left hand lifting her skirt, her face looking up, dreaming as she +turned, and turned, and swayed, in a slow dance. It's what they calls a +waltz, and seems, as I stood watching, I'd almost see the music swaying +her as she wove circles, water of stars pouring over her bare feet. +Seems though the music stopped, and she came straight to me. Speaks like +a lil' small girl. "Oh, mummy," she says, "look," and draws her hands +apart so, just as if she<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> was showing a long ribbon, "watered silk," she +mutters, "only nine cents a yard. Oh, mayn't I, mayn't I, mummy?"</p> + +<p>And there was dad, with all that water of stars washing across and +across him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>YOUTH</h3> + + +<p>A dog sets down in his skin, tail handy for wagging—all his possessions +right thar.</p> + +<p>Same with me, setting on the beach, with a cap, jersey, overalls, sea +boots, paper bag of peanuts, beached wreck of the old <i>Pawnticket</i> in +front, and them two graves astern. Got more'n a dog has to think about, +more to remember, nothin' to wag. Two days I been there, and the peanuts +is getting few. Little gray mother, dad, the <i>Happy Ship</i>, just dead, +that's all, dead. The tide makes and ebbs, the wind comes and goes, +there's days, nights and the little waves beating time—time—time, just +as if they cared, which they don't.</p> + +<p>I didn't hear the two horses come, but there's a young person behind me +sort of attracting attention. When he moves there's a tinkle of iron, +creaking leather, horsy smell, too, and presently he sets down along of +me, cross-legged. I shoved him the pea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span>nuts, but he lit a cigarette, +offering me one. Though he wasn't, he just felt same as a seafaring man, +so I didn't mind him being there.</p> + +<p>"The ocean," says he, "is it allus like that?"</p> + +<p>"'Cept when there's weather."</p> + +<p>"That's a ship?"</p> + +<p>"Was."</p> + +<p>"Dead?"</p> + +<p>"Dead."</p> + +<p>He wanted to look at my sheath knife, and when I handed it he seen the +lettering "Green River" on the blade. He'd been along Green River and +there's no knives like that.</p> + +<p>Then I'd got to know about them iron things on his heels—spurs. We +threw peanuts, my knife agin his spurs, and he won easy. Queer how all +the time he's wanting to show himself off. He'd never seen salt water +before. The shipping, making the port, or clearing, foreign or +coastwise, the Hellafloat Yank, the Skowogian Coffin, the family packet, +liner, tramp, fisher, lumberman, geordie and greaser was all the same to +him. "Sounds like injun languages," says he, "can't you talk white?" So +we went in swimming, and afterward there's a lunch he'd got with +him—quart of pickled onions, and cigarettes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> Seems it's the vacuum in +under which makes hearts feel so heavy.</p> + +<p>This stranger begins to throw me horse talk and cow stories. It seems +cow-punchers is sort of sailors of the plains, only it's different. +Seafaring men gets wet and cold, and wrecked, but cow-boys has +adventures instead, excitement, red streaks of life. Following the sea, +I been missing life. Why, this guy ain't more'n two years older'n +me—say, seventeen, but he's had five years ridin' for one man, four +years for another, six years in Arizona, then three in Oregon, until +he's added up about half a century. He's more worldly, too, than +me—been in a train on the railroad. I'm surely humbled by four <span class="smcap">P. M.</span>, +and if he keeps goin', by four bells I'll be young enough to set in +mother's lap.</p> + +<p>Says his name's Bull Durham. Surely I seen that name on lil' sacks of +tobacco. Bull owns up this baccy's named after his father. And surely +his old man must be pretty well fixed. "That's so," says Bull, blushing +to show he's modest "Ye see, kid, the old man's a bishop. Yes, Bishop of +Durham, of course. Lives over to London, England. Got a palace thar, and +a pew in the House of Lords. I'll be a lord when he quits. I'm the +Honorable Bull by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> rights, although I hate to have the boys in camp know +that—make 'em feel real mean when all of 'em rides as well as me, or +almost, and some can rope even better."</p> + +<p>"And you is the young of a real lord!"</p> + +<p>"Sure. I'll have to be a bishop, too, when I comes into the property. +I'm a sort of vice-bishop, sonny. D'ye see these yere gloves? They got a +string to tie 'em at the back, 'cause I been inducted. I got an entail +I'll show you in camp, and a pair of hereditaments."</p> + +<p>"Vice-bishop," says I, "is that like bo's'n's mate? I never hear tell of +a bishop's mate."</p> + +<p>"He mates in two moves," says Bull, "baptism and conflamation."</p> + +<p>"But," says I, so he just shuts me up, saying I may be ignorant, but +that ain't no excuse for being untruthful.</p> + +<p>Well, his talk made me small and mean as a starved cat, but that was +nothing to the emotions at the other end of me when he got me on one of +them horses. I wanted to walk. Walk! The most shameful things he knew +was walking and telling lies. If I walked he'd have nothing more to do +with me. I rode till we got to the ferry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p> + +<p>You know in books how there's a line of stars acrost the page to show +the author's grief. I got 'em bad by the time we rode into Invicta City. +Draw the line right thar:</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>We're having supper at the Palladium, and I'm pretty nigh scared. The +goblets is all full of pink and white serviettes, folded up into fancy +designs, which come undone if you touched. There's a menu to say what's +coming, in French so you don't know what you're eating, and durned if I +can find out whether to tackle an a la mode with fingers or a spoon. +Bull says it's only French for puckeroo, a sort of four-legged burrowing +bird which inhabits silver mines, but if I don't like that, the lady +will fetch me a <i>foe par</i>. Well, I orders one, and by the lady's face I +see I done wrong, even before she complains to the manager. I'm surely +miserable to think I've insulted a lady.</p> + +<p>The manager's suspicious of me, but Bull talks French so rapid that even +froggy can't keep up, although he smiles and shrugs, and gives us +sang-fraws to drink.</p> + +<p>This sort of cocktail I had, was the first liquor I'd tasted. It's +powerful as a harbor tug, dropping me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> out of the conversation, while +the restaurant turns slowly round with a list to starboard, and Bull +deals for a basket in the front window full of decorated eggs. Says +they're vintage eggs, all verd-antique and bookay. For years the +millionaires of Invicta has shrunk from the expense. My job when we +leaves is to carry the basket, 'cause Bull's toting a second-handed +saddle.</p> + +<p>Bull lets me have cocktails to keep me from getting confused on the +night of my day boo. I know I behaves with 'strordinary dignity, and +wants more cocktails.</p> + +<p>I dunno why Bull has to introduce me to the gentleman who keeps the +peanut store down street—seeing I'd dealt there before. Anyway, I'm +introduced to Affable Jones, and I'm the Markis of Worms—the same being +a nom de plume. We proceeds to the opery-house, climbs in through a +little hind window, and finds a dressing-room. Affable Jones dresses up +as a monk, Bull Durham claims he's rigged out already as a vice-bishop, +and I'm to be a chicken, 'cause I'm dealing vintage eggs in the +cotillon. All the same, I'm left there alone for hours, and it's only +when they comes back with a cocktail that I'll consent to dressing up as +a chicken—which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> in passing out through that lil' window is some +crowded. We proceeds up street, me toting eggs, and practising +chicken-talk, and it seems the general public is surprised.</p> + +<p>So we comes to the Masonic Hall, which is all lights, and band, and +fashionable persons rigged out in fancy dress, dancing the <i>horse +doover</i>. I got the name from Bull, who says that the next turn is my day +boo in the omlet cotillion. Seems it's all arranged, too. Affable Jones +lines up the ladies on the left, the dudes on the right, all the length +of the hall. Bull marches up the middle, spurs trailin' behind him, and +there's me dressed as a chicken, with a basket of eggs, wondering +whether this here cow-boy is the two persons I see, or only the one I +can hear. Band's playing soft, Affable serves out tin spoons to the +dudes, and I deals each a decorated egg, laying it careful in the bowl +of the spoon, till there's only a few left over, and I'm safe along with +Bull.</p> + +<p>So far everybody seems pleased. Bull whispers in my ear, "Make for the +back door, you son of a sea cook," which offends one, being true; waves +an egg at the band for silence, and calls out, "Ladies and gents." From +the back door I seen how all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> dudes has to stand dead still for fear +of dropping an egg.</p> + +<p>"Ladies," says Bull, "has any of you seen a live mouse? On the way up +among you, seems I've dropped my mouse, and it's climbing skirts for +solitude."</p> + +<p>Then there's shrieks, screams, ladies throwing themselves into the arms +of them dudes, eggs dropping squash, eggs going bang, Bull throwing eggs +at every man not otherwise engaged, and such a stink that all the lights +goes out. I'm grabbed by the scruff of the chicken, run out through the +back door, and slung on the back of a horse. Bull's yelling "Ride! Ride! +Git a move on!" He's flogging the horses with his quirt, he's yelling at +me: "Ride, or we'll be lynched!"</p> + +<p>My mouth's full of feathers, chicken's coming all to pieces—can't +ride—daresn't fall off. So on the whole I dug the chicken's spurs into +Mr. Horse, and rode like a hurricane in a panic. All of which reminds me +that the hinder parts of an imitation bird is comforting whar she bumps. +Still, draw them stars across.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>I'm feeling better with twenty miles between me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> and Invicta City. The +sun transpires over the eastern sky-line, the horses is taking a roll, +I'm seated on the remnants of the chicken, and Bull Durham says I'm his +adopted orphan. "You rode," says he, "like a pudding on a skewer, you've +jolted yo' tail through yo' hat, you looks like a half-skinned fool hen, +and you've torn that poor mare's mouth till she smiles from ear to ear. +Yet on the whole them proceedings is cheering you up, <i>and thar's more +coming</i>."</p> + +<p>Looking back it seems to me that the first night's proceedings was calm. +Thar was the fat German fire brigade pursuing an annual banquet across +lots by moonlight, all on our way north, too, till the wagon capsized in +a river.</p> + +<p>Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with municipal +honors, until we got found out.</p> + +<p>Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull's wings +caught fire, and spoiled the whole allusion.</p> + +<p>Yes, when I looks back on them radium nights entertainments along with +Bull Durham, I see now what a success they was in learning me to ride. +"What you need," says he, "is confidence. Got to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> forget mere matters of +habeas corpus, and how your toes point, and whether you're looking +pretty. Just trust yo' horse to pull through, so that you ain't caught +in the flower of youthful innocence, and hung on the nearest telegraph +pole. You still needs eclair as the French say, and you got no <i>ung bong +point</i>, but your <i>horse de combat</i> is feeling encouraged to pack you +seventy miles last night, and we'll be in camp by sundown."</p> + +<p>Once I been to a theater, and seen a play. Thar's act one, with fifteen +minutes hoping for act two. Thar's act after act till you just has to +fill up the times between with injun war-whoops, until act five, when +all the ladies and gents is shot or married. It just cayn't go on. So +the aujience says "Let's go'n have a drink," and the band goes off for a +drink, and the lady with the programs tells you to get to hell out of +that.</p> + +<p>It's all over. The millionaire Lord Bishop of Durham is only Bull's +father-in-law. Bull's not exactly a cow-boy yet—but assists his mother, +Mrs. Brooke, who is chef at a ranch. It's not exactly a stock ranch, but +they raise fine pedigree hogs. Bull won't be quite popular with his +mother for having gorgeous celebrations with the hundred dollars she'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> +give him to pay off a little debt. I'd better not come to the ranch +after leading mummie's boy astray from the paths of virtue.</p> + +<p>No, I cayn't set a saddle without giving the horse hysterics, and as for +turning cow-boy, what's the matter with my taking a job as a colonel? +I'd best climb off that mare, and hunt a job afoot. So long, Jesse.</p> + +<p>There's the dust of Bull's horses way off along the road, and me settin' +down by the wayside. A dog sets down in his skin, tail handy for +wagging, all his possessions around him. I ain't even got no tail.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>THE ORDEAL BY TORTURE</h3> + + +<p>The Labrador was good to me, the sea was better, the stock range—wall, +I'd four years punching cows, and I'm most surely grateful. Thar's +plenty trades outside my scope of life, and thar's ages and ages past +which must have been plenty enjoyable for a working-man. Thar's ages to +come I'd like to sample, too. But so far as I seen, up to whar grass +meets sky, this trade of punching cows appeals to me most plentiful. In +every other vocation the job's just work, but all a cow-boy's paid for +is forms of joy—to ride, to rope, to cut out, to shoot, to study tracks +an' sign, read brands, learn cow. A bucking horse, a range fire, a gun +fight, a stampede, is maybe acquired tastes, for I've known good men act +bashful.</p> + +<p>There's drawbacks also—I'd never set up thirst or sand-storms as being +arranged to please, or claim to cheerfulness with a lame horse, or in a +sheep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> range, no. But then you don't know you're happy till you been +miserable, and you'd hate the sun himself if he never set.</p> + +<p>I ain't proposin' to unfold a lot of adventures, the same being mostly +things I'd rather'd happened to some one else. An adventure comes along, +an' it's "How d'ye do?" It's done gone, and "<i>Adios!</i>"</p> + +<p>I was nigh killed in all the usual ways.</p> + +<p>The sun would find us mounted, scattering for cattle; he'd set, leaving +us in the saddle with a night herd still to ride. Hard fed, worked +plenty, all outdoors to live in, and bone-weary don't ax, "Whar's my +pillow?" No. The sun shines through us, and if it's cold we'll shiver +till we sweat. The rains, the northers—oh, it was all so natural! +Living with nature makes men natural.</p> + +<p>We didn't speak much—pride ain't talkative. Riding or fighting we gave +the foreman every ounce we'd got, and more when needed. Persons would +come among us, mean, dirty, tough, or scared, sized-up before they +dismounted, apt to move on, too. Them that stayed was brothers, and all +our possessions usually belonged to the guy who kep' the woodenest face +at poker.</p> + +<p>The world in them days was peopled with only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> two species, puncher an' +tenderfoot, the last bein' made by mistake. Moreover, we cow-boys +belonged to two sects, our outfit, and others of no account. And in our +outfit, this Jesse person which is me, laid claims on being best man, +having a pair of gold mounted spurs won at cyards from Pieface, our old +foreman. I'd a rolled cantle, double-rig Cheyenne of carved leather, and +silver horn—a dandy saddle that, first prize for "rope and tie down" +agin all comers.</p> + +<p>Gun, belt, quirt, bridle, hat, gloves, everything, my whole kit was +silver mounted and everything in it a trophy of trading, poker, or +fighting. Besides my string of ponies I'd Tiger, an entire black colt +I'd broke—though I own he was far from convinced. Add a good pay-day in +my off hind pocket, and d'ye think I'd own up to them twelve apostles +for uncles? D'ye know what glory is? Wall, I suppose it mostly consists +of being young.</p> + +<p>In these days now, I've no youth left to boast of, but it's sweet to +look back, to remember Sailor Jesse at nineteen, six foot one and +filling out, full of original sin, and nothin' copied, feelin' small, +too, for so much cubic contents of health, of growin' power, and +bubbling fun. Solemn as a prairie injun, too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> knowing I was all comic +inside, and mighty shy of being found out for the three-year kid I was.</p> + +<p>Lookin' back it seems to me that all them vanities was only part of +living natural, being natural. I seen cock birds playing up much the +same to the hen birds—which made believe most solemn they wasn't +pleased.</p> + +<p>Time I speak of, our outfit had turned over three thousand head of +long-horns to the Circle S and rode right into Abilene. Thar we was to +take the train for our home ranch down south, and I hoped to get back to +my dog pup Rockyfeller. In my bunk at the ram pasture, too, there was a +china dog, split from nose to tip, but repaired. Yes, I keened for home. +And yet I'd never before been on a railroad, and dreaded the boys would +find out how scared I was of trains.</p> + +<p>A sailorman feels queer, steppin' ashore on to streets which seem to +heave although you know they don't—yes, that's what a puncher feels, +too, alighting in a town. Gives you a sort of bow-legged waddle, and +spurs on a sidewalk trail a lot too loud. I lit in Abilene with a blush, +and just stood rooted while a guy selling gold watches reads my name +graved on the saddle, and then addresses me as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> <i>Mister</i> Smith. Old +Pieface, scared for my morals, did kick this person sudden and severe, +but all the same that <i>Mister</i> went to my head.</p> + +<p>The smell of indoors made my stomach flop right over while we ranged up +brave at the bar for a first drink. The raw rye felt like flames, though +the preserved cherry afloat in it tasted familiar, like soap. At the +same time the sight of a gambling lay-out made my pocket twitch, and I'd +an inward conviction telling me this place ain't good for kids. It's the +foreman sent me off with a message.</p> + +<p>I rolled my tail, and curved off with Tiger to take in the sights of the +town. He shied heaps, and it's curious to think why he objected to +sign-boards, awnings, lamp-posts, even to a harmless person lying drunk. +Then a railroad engine snorted in our face, so Tiger and me was plumb +stampeded up a little side street. It's thar that he bucks for all he's +worth, because of a kneeling man with a straw hat and a punctured soul, +praying abundant. Of course this penitent turned round to enjoy the +bucking match—and sure reveals the face of my ole friend, Bull Durham. +We hadn't met for years, so as soon as Tiger was tired, Bull owned to +finding the Lord, and being stony busted, ask if I was saved. I seen +he'd got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> 'em bad, and shared my wad of money level with him. So we had +cigars, a pound of chocolate creams, an oyster stew, and he bought a +bottle of patent medicine for his liver. We shared that, and went on, he +walking by my stirrup to the revival meeting.</p> + +<p>This revival was happening at a barn, so I rode in. Tiger you see, +needed religion bad, and when people tried to turn him out, he kicked +them. You should just have heard what the preacher told the Lord about +me, and all the congregation groaned at me being so young and fair, with +silver harness, and the hottest prospects—just as Pieface always said +when I was late for breakfast.</p> + +<p>They had a great big wooden cross upon the dais, and somehow, I dunno +why, that made me feel ashamed. A girl in a white dress was singing +<i>Rock of Ages</i>—oh, most beautiful, her arms thrown round the cross, the +sun-bright hair about her like a glory.</p> + +<p>I could a' cried. Yes. For her great cat eyes were set on me, while her +voice went through an' through me, an'—sudden a dumb yearning happened +inside my belt. Seems that half-bottle of liver dope had scouted round, +found all them chocolate creams, and rared up for battle. But no, the +whisky was still calm, though I felt pale.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> + +<p>Something was goin' wrong, for a most frightsome panic clutched my +throat. Suppose I'd caught religion! Oh, it couldn't be so bad as all +that. Fancy being saved like them wormy railroad men, and town scouts, +took abject because the sky pilot was explaining hell. Made in God's +image? No. That don't apply to cowards.</p> + +<p>An' yet it's cows to sheep thar's something wrong when tears runs down +my face, because a girl—why since fifteen I'd been in love with every +girl I seen. As a species they was scarce, some good, some even better. +The sight of girls went to my head like liquor, and this one was surely +good with her sunbright hair, her cheeks flushed 'cause I stared, her +sulky lips rebuking when I throw'd a kiss, her yellow-brown eyes—.</p> + +<p>Oh, had I really washed behind my ears? Suppose I'd got high-water +marks! Was my hands—I whipped off my gloves to inquire. That's what's +the matter, sure. Got to make good before bein' introduced. Got to get a +move on Tiger. I swung, spurred with one spring through the doors, +yelled "Injuns" and stampeded, scatterin' gravel and panic through +Abilene. I just went like one man for our cook wagon down by the +railroad corrals.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span></p> + +<p>Now, for all the shaving-glass could see, I was nice an' clean, but then +that mirror has small views, and I'm not taking risks, but stripped and +scrubbed all over. The place was so durned public I blushed from nose to +heels till I was dressed again, shining my hair and boots. Then I +procured an extra special, cherry-red, silk scarf out of the wrangler's +kit.</p> + +<p>Some of our boys made friendly signs as I passed on my way back, and +fired a few shots after me for luck, but I'd no time to play. I joined +the revival meeting just as the hat came round, so penitent sinners +making for the door, came back to stay and pay because of Tiger. I give +Bull ten dollars to hand to the hat, only he passed it into his own +pocket. He seemed annoyed, too, saying, "Waste not, want not." Then he +explained how the fire-escape only paid Miss Ellis fifty dollars a day, +whereas he was making hundreds.</p> + +<p>Just then she passed, and I got introduced. "Say, Polly," says Bull, +"here's Sailor Jesse wants to get acquainted."</p> + +<p>She stopped, sort of impatient for supper, and velvet-soft her voice, +full of contempt.</p> + +<p>"Oh, pshaw!"</p> + +<p>Hard gold-brown eyes all scorn, soft gold-brown<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> hair, an' freckled +neck, red lips, fierce, tiger fierce—</p> + +<p>"Another damned suppliant?" she asked, and Bull was holding a light for +her cigarette. "Is it saved?" she added.</p> + +<p>I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her how I despised all the religion +I'd seen, the bigots it made, an' the cowards. I'd rather burn with the +goats than bleat among sheep even now.</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all right, then," she said as though she answered me, and +frank as a man she gave her hand to shake. "Good stunt of mine, eh? +Although I own I'd like to have that cross stage-managed."</p> + +<p>She passed the weather, admired Tiger, talked Browns and Joneses with +Bull, turning her back on me, asked him to supper, walked off with him, +an' that's all. Egg-shells throw'd in the ash-heap may feel like I did +then.</p> + +<p>Nobody loved me, 'cept our pony herd, inquirin' piteous for food an' +water. A widow O'Flynn fed me supper, her grub bein' so scarce and bad, +poor soul, she had to charge a dollar to make it pay. She kep' a wooden +leg, and a small son. Our boys, of course, was drunk by then, just +sleepin' whar they'd fell, so I was desolate as a moonlit dog-howl, +ridin' herd with my night horse whar Polly's little home<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> glowed lights +across the prairie. I seen Bull and the preacher leave there on toward +midnight, walkin' sort of extravagant into town. The lights went out. +Then times I'd take some sleep, or times ride herd guarding her little +house, till the cold came, till the dawn broke, till the sun came up.</p> + +<p>It was half past breakfast when I seen Bull again, on his knees like +yesterday, a-puttin' up loud prayers, which made me sick. "Rehearsin'," +says he, "'cause Polly's struck, and I'm to be chief mourner."</p> + +<p>He was my only chance of meetin' Miss Polly agen, so I was leadin' the +talk around, when a guy comes butting into our conversation. He'd puffed +sleeves to his pants, and was all dressed saucy, standing straddle, +aiming to impress. "Oh, whar's my gun?" says Bull.</p> + +<p>This person owned to being a gentleman, with a strong English accent. +He'd 'undreds of 'orses at 'ome in 'Ammersmith, but wanted to own an +'ack 'ere, don'tcherknow.</p> + +<p>So Bull lefts up his eyes to Heaven, praying, "Oh, don't deliver us from +temptation yet!" Whereas I confided with this person about Bull being +far gone in religious mania. I owned Bull right though, about my bein' a +sailor, timid with 'orses; and he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> seen for hisself the way I was riding +my Sam 'orse somethin' dreadful. Told me I'd ought to 'old my 'ed 'igh +instead of 'umping. It's in toes, down 'eels, young feller, an' don't be +'ard on the bally hanimal. He'd gimme lessons only I was frightened, but +out aways from town the ground was softer for falling, an' I gained +courage. Happens Miss Polly's house was opposite. I scrambled down +ungainly, shoved a pebble in along Sam's withers, and let this gent +explain just how to set an 'ard-mouthed 'unter. You 'olds 'is 'ed, +placin' the 'and on the 'orn of the saddle, so. Then hup! That pebble +done the rest.</p> + +<p>They claim these flying men is safe while they stays in the air, herding +with cherubs. That's what's the matter. It's only when this early +aviator came down—bang—that he lit on his temper, and sat denouncing +me. Yes, I'd been misunderstood, and when I told him it was all for the +best he got usin' adjectives. He bet me his diamond ring to a dollar +he'd ride Sam, and I must own the little man had grit. He'd have won, +too—but for Sam.</p> + +<p>Now, it's partly due to this 'ere entertainment, and the diamond ring I +gave her, that Miss Polly began to perceive me with the naked eye, and +said I might come to supper.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> + +<p>And that evening was most surely wonderful, in a parlor all +antimacassars and rocker chairs with pink bows. She showed me plush +photo albums, and hand-painted pictures of ladies with no clothes on. +She played <i>Abide with Me</i> on the harmonium; she made me write poetry in +her birthday book. There was champagne wine, the little cigarettes with +dreams inside, and a bottle no bigger'n my thumb smellin' so fierce it +well-nigh blew my head off. Oh, it was all so elegant and high-toned +that I got proud of being allowed indoors.</p> + +<p>Her people was real society, her poppa an army general, ruined by the +war, her mother prime Virginian. But then she'd gone on the stage, so +there was mean suspicions.</p> + +<p>I hold suspicion to be a form of meanness when it touches women. My +mother would have shied at naked ladies, and dad was powerful agin +cigarettes. As for the smell, so fierce it had to be bottled, I'll own +up I was shocked. But then you see mother, and dad, an' me being working +people, was not supposed to feel the high-toned senses which belongs +with wealth. It's not for grade stock like me to set up as judge on +thoroughbreds, or call a lady immoral for using a spoon whar I should +need a shovel.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> + +<p>No, I was playing worldliness for fear this lady'd think me ignorant. I +was no more'n a little child strayed among civilization, scared of being +found out childish. And I was surely panicky in a house—belonged +outdoors among horses.</p> + +<p>So it happened that in them days, while I rode guard upon Miss Polly, no +man in Abilene could speak to her, or mention her name to me until I +give him leave. She got to be known as Sailor Jesse's kill, and any +person touching on my kill was apt to require a funeral.</p> + +<p>It was the seventh day she married me. I know, because Bull, acting as +best man, claimed a kiss, which she gave him. "Bull," says she, "didn't +I bet you I'd marry Sailor Jesse within a week? You owe me twenty +dollars." I saw the joke was on me.</p> + +<p>I'd been in a dream. Love had made the yellow prairie shine like gold, +that little prairie home a holy place, the woman in it something I'd +kneel and pray to. There'd be lil' small children soon for me to play +with, pride in earning food, the great big honor of guarding all of that +from harm.</p> + +<p>I came to marriage pure as any bear, or wolf, or fox, expecting to find +my mate the same as me, getter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> and giver of life, true to the earth, +and fearless in doin' right.</p> + +<p>Folks said I was young to marry at nineteen, but full nine years I'd +earned my living, fought my way, and done my share of making happiness. +I'd been served with a mouth full wide enough for laughin', a face which +made folks smile when I was sad, eyes to see fun, the heart to take a +joke if any offered, and when things hurt, I wasn't first to squeal. No: +as long as the joke was on me I done my best to take it like a man.</p> + +<p>But suppose— Well, I'd best explain that the English tenderfoot was at +our wedding breakfast, and gettin' encouraged, he put up his best prize +joke. He was all hoo, hoo, hoo at first, so funny he couldn't speak, the +fellows waitin' each with his grin gettin' stale, and Polly laughing +just to encourage him on. Then words got out which made the boys uneasy. +Jake Haffering the Bar T foreman, told the hog to shut up, while others +moved to get clear. I was sort of stupid, wanting the point explained, +couldn't believe it possible the joke was on my wife, although I'd rose +by then, with gun hand free. Then I saw, but the room seemed dark, and +the tenderfoot all indistinct, backing away, and reaching slovenly for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> +weapons, while my bullet smashed in his shoulder. It slued him around as +he dropped.</p> + +<p>I could hear the flies in the window buzzing as I came to myself, seeing +the hot street outside, the yellow plains beyond.</p> + +<p>It was old Jake of the Bar T who spoke out then, and spoke straight.</p> + +<p>"My boy," says he, "put up your gun. That's right. This here tenderfoot +is bleedin' by spurts, arterial. Bull, see if Doc Stuart is sober." Bull +ran for the doctor. "Only a tenderfoot," says Jake, "insults a cow-boy's +wife—which is death from natural causes. Ma'am," he wagged his finger +at Polly, "'tain't long since you come among us. 'Tain't more'n a day +since you told me and others present that you was marryin' for fun. You +laughed at warnings, and this here Jesse would have shot the man who +warned him. You are a lady, and this boy you married for fun, is goin' +to see you treated as a lady. I own he got rattled first shot, missing +this tenderfoot's heart, which ain't up to average practise; but it's +time you began to see the point of the joke."</p> + +<p>They took the tenderfoot away, and we were alone, me watching the pool +of red blood turning<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> brown. Polly sat drumming tunes on the table, her +face turned white, staring out through the window at the noon heat of +the plains. I remember I took a bottle of champagne wine, filled a big +goblet, and drank it off. The flies were buzzing still agin the window. +It made me laugh to think she'd taught me drinking, so I had another, +watching the flies hold congress on the floor. "I see," says Polly, "I +understand now." At that she began to scream.</p> + +<p>I should have told you, that after our boys of the Flying Zee quit +Abilene, I pitched a little A tent on the prairie back of Polly's house. +Thar I could see my ponies at grass, and snuff the air clear of that +stinking town.</p> + +<p>But from the time I moved into the house, thar was something disturbing +my nose—something uneasy—oh, I don't know what it was, back of all +house smells, which give me a sense of evil, so I could hardly bear to +stay indoors.</p> + +<p>And there were signs. I'd come back from some errand into town, to find +a man's track leading into the door, when Polly claimed she had no +visitors. Why should she say she'd been alone all morning, when there's +pipe ashes on the parlor table, or I'd<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> catch the wet smell from a +chewed cigar? She only laughed.</p> + +<p>Comin' from town one night—she'd sent me there—I seen a man's shadow +cross the parlor blind. I fired, missing, a fool's act, for it warned +him, and gave him time. The lamp was out before I reached the house, and +Polly with some hysterics getting in my way.</p> + +<p>It wouldn't be sense to show a match guiding the stranger's aim, or to +stand against a window, or make sounds. Rather I stood right still, and +after a while Polly surprised herself into dead silence. I couldn't hear +that man, or feel, or see him. I could smell him, but that don't supply +his bearings. I could taste the air from him, but that flickered. I +sensed him. Can't explain that—no. You just feel if a man stares hard. +I fired at that. Then Polly, of course, went off into all sorts of fits.</p> + +<p>Next morning I tracked blood sign to the hospital. Seems a young person +from the bank had took to conjuring and swallowed lead.</p> + +<p>It was still before breakfast that I told Polly to pack her dunnage, +'cause we was moving out from Abilene. I claimed I could earn enough to +keep my wife without her needing to go out into society.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span></p> + +<p>"On cow-boy pay?" she said laughing. "On forty dollars a month? I spend +more'n that on champagne. Here you <i>Miss</i> Jesse, who's payin' for +this—you? Who keeps you, eh, Miss Prunes—and—prisms? Shamed of my +bein' a lady, eh? I am a lady, too, and don't you forget it. And now, +git out of my home."</p> + +<p>I struck a match to the bo-kay of paper flowers, heaped on the +hand-painted pictures, the paper fans, the rocker chairs, and slung the +coal-oil lamp into the flames; then while she tore my shoulder with her +teeth, I carried her to my tent "That's your home now," I said, "the +home of an honest working-man," I said, "and if another tough defiles my +home, I'll kill you."</p> + +<p>The house-warming gathered the neighbors, but she had no use for +neighbors. Only they seen the line I drew in the dust around that tent, +the dead line. Afterward if any man came near that line, she'd scream.</p> + +<p>But she'd taught me to drink, an' I drank, day after day, night after +night, while she sat frightened in the tent, moaning when I came. Only +when she was cured could I get work, not while I had to watch all day, +all night. Only when she was cured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> could I get work, make good, an' +keep my wife as women should be kept. And I—and I—why if I let myself +get sober once I'd remember, and remember, and go mad.</p> + +<p>She swore she loved me, she vowed that she'd repented, and I believed +until she claimed religion. I'd seen her breed of religion. I'd rather +have her atheist than shamming. She would keep straight, and be my +faithful wife if I'd quit drinking, if I'd only take her away. But she'd +married me for a joke, and false as a cracked bell she'd chime out lies +and lies, knowing as I knew that if she'd ever been the thing she +claimed, I'd come into her life too late. How could she be the mother of +my children, when—I drank, and sold my ponies to buy liquor, for there +was no way out.</p> + +<p>And by the time I'd only Tiger left, one night came Bull to find me just +as dusk was falling. He'd been away, I hadn't seen him for weeks, and +when he came to me in the Roundup saloon, I seen how frightened he was +of speaking to me. I was drunk, too, scarce knowing what he said, just +telling him to shut up and have a drink. Polly's bin hurt? Well, that's +all right—have rye—Polly's been shot? That's good, we'd all have +drinks. Was she dead?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p> + +<p>She was dead.</p> + +<p>And I was sober then as I am now.</p> + +<p>"Murdered?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Jesse, she shot herself."</p> + +<p>"Is that so?"</p> + +<p>"Through the brow—above the eyes. Come, Jesse."</p> + +<p>Next thing I was standing in the tent door, and it was so dark inside I +had to strike a match. The sulphur tip burned blue, the wood flared, and +for that moment, bending down, I seen the black dark hole between the +eyes, the smear of drying blood. Then the match went out, and I—that +was enough.</p> + +<p>I gave Bull what I'd left, to pay for burial.</p> + +<p>Then I was riding Tiger all alone, with my shadow drawin' slowly out +ahead as the moon waned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>THE BURNING BUSH</h3> + + +<p>Among the Indians, before a boy gets rated warrior, he goes alone afoot, +naked, starvin', thirsty, way off to the back side of the desert. Thar +he just waits, suns, weeks, maybe a whole moon, till the Big Spirit +happens to catch his eye. Then the Big Spirit shows him a stick, or a +stone, or any sort of triflin' common thing, which is to be his +medicine, his wampum, the charm which guards him, hunting, or in war. +There's the ordeal, too, by torture, done in the medicine lodge, so all +the chiefs can see he's fit for bearin' arms. He's given the war-path +secret, taking his rank as a man.</p> + +<p>Among them Bible Indians you'll remember a feller called Moses, out at +the back side of the desert, seen the Big Spirit in a burning bush. +Later his tribe set up a medicine lodge, and the hull story's mighty +natural.</p> + +<p>This Indian life explains a lot to men like me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> raised ignorant, never +grown-up—or at least not to hurt. I had the ordeal by torture, which +done me good, and I been whar Moses went, and the Lord Christ too, +seeking the medicine of the Almighty Father.</p> + +<p>For as I'd broken ponies for their good till they got peaceful, so I was +broke myself. Bein' full of pride an' sin as a young horse, so I was +tamed until He reckoned me worth pasturage. Before then I'd work +hard—yes, for pride. A bucking horse throws miles, sheer waste into the +air, miles better pulled out straight the way you're goin'. I work for +service, now.</p> + +<p>You know when you've been in trouble, how you swing back thinking of +edged words which would have cut, and dirty actions that you wish you'd +done. These devils has got to go if you'd keep your manhood, harder to +beat out than a talky woman, and even the littlest of them puts up a +heap big fight. But when the last is killed, there's room for peace.</p> + +<p>Sloth walks in front of trouble, peace follows after. Water is nothing +till you thirst, rest nothing till you're weary, calm nothing till +you've faced the storm, peace nothing until after war. But peace is like +the water after thirst, rest when you're weary,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> calm after storm, +earnings of warriors only. Many find peace in death, only a few in life, +and I found peace thar in the wilderness, the very medicine of torn +souls, fresh from the hand of the Almighty Father.</p> + +<p>And I found wealth. Seems there's many persons mistaking dollars for +some sort of wealth. I've had a few at times by way of samples, the +things which you're apt to be selfish with, or give away to buy +self-righteousness. Reckoning with them projuces the feeling called +poverty. They're the very stuff and substance of meanness, and no man +walks straight-loaded. Dollars gets lost, or throwed away, or left to +your next of kin, but they're not a good and lasting possession. I like +'em, too.</p> + +<p>What's the good and lasting possession, the real wealth? Times I've been +down in civilization, meeting folks who'd been rusting and rotting on +one spot, from a while or so to a long lifetime, aye, and proud to boast +in long decaying. They'd good memory, but nothing to remember. They're +handy enough as purses if they were filled with coin. But where they're +poor I'm rich, with wealth of memories, some good, some bad, all real. +In coin like "seen" and "known" and "done" I'm millionaire. Ah, yes, +but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> times I wisht that I could part with things I've "lived" to help +beginners, and keep moths out of candles. Things lived ain't current +coin to be given, sold, lost, thrown, aye, or bequeathed. My body's meat +and bones, my soul's the life I've lived, and mine until I square +accounts with God. Queer reckoning that last. I guess He'll have to +laugh, and He who made all life plumb full of humor, is due to enjoy +some things He'll have to punish.</p> + +<p>I found peace, I found wealth, yes, and found something more thar in the +wilderness. Sweet as the cactus forest in blossom down Salt River is +that big memory.</p> + +<p>It was after I'd found the things of happy solitude. I'd gone to work +then for the Bar Y outfit, breaking the Lightning colts. We was out a +few weeks from home, taking an outfit of ponies as far as the Mesa +Abaho, and one night camped at the very rim-rock of the Grand Caņon. The +Navajo Indians was peevish, the camp dry, grass scant, herd in a raffish +mood, and night come sudden.</p> + +<p>I'd just relieved a man to get his supper, and rode herd wide alert. I +scented the camp smoke, saw the spark of fire glow on the boys at rest, +and heard their peaceful talk hushed in the big night. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> seemed such +triflin' critters full of fuss since dawn, so small as insects at the +edge of nothin', while for miles beneath us that old, old wolfy Colorado +River was playing the Grand Caņon like a fiddler plays a fiddle. But the +river in the caņon seemed no more than a trickle in a crack, hushed by +the night, while overheard the mighty blazing stars—point, swing, and +drive, rode herd on the milky way. And that seemed no more than cow-boys +driving stock. Would God turn His head to see His star herds pass, or +notice our earth like some lame calf halting in the rear?</p> + +<p>And what am I, then?</p> + +<p>That was my great lesson, more gain to me than peace and wealth of mind, +for I was humbled to the dust of earth, below that dust of stars. So as +a very humble thing, not worth praying for, at least I could be master +of myself. I rode no more for wages, but cut out my ponies from the +Lightning herd, mounted my stud horse William, told the boys good-by at +Montecello, and then rode slowly north into the British possessions. So +I come at last to this place, an old abandoned ranch. There's none so +poor in dollars as to envy ragged Jesse, or rich enough to want to rob +my home. They say there's hidden wealth whar the rainbow goes to +earth—that's whar I live.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p> + +<p><br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p> + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II"></a>PART II</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>TWO SHIPS AT ANCHOR</h3> + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + + +<p>My horse was hungry, and wanted to get back to the ranch. I was hungry +too, but dared not go. I had left my husband lying drunk on the kitchen +floor, and when he woke up it would be worse than that.</p> + +<p>For miles I had followed the edge of the bench lands, searching for the +place, for the right place, some point where the rocks went sheer, +twelve hundred feet into the river. There must be nothing to break the +fall, no risk of being alive, of being taken back there, of seeing him +again. But the edge was never sheer, and perhaps after all, the place by +the Soda Spring was best. There the trail from the ranch goes at a sharp +turn, over the edge of the cliffs and down to the ferry. Beyond there +are three great bull pines on a headland, and the cliff is sheer for at +least five hundred feet. That should be far enough.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p> + +<p>I let my horse have a drink at the spring, then we went slowly on over +the soundless carpet of pine needles. I would leave my horse at the +pines.</p> + +<p>Somebody was there. Four laden pack-ponies stood in the shade of the +trees, switching their tails to drive away the flies. A fifth, a +buckskin mare, unloaded, with a bandaged leg, stood in the sunlight. +Behind the nearest tree a man was speaking. I reined my horse. "Now you, +Jones," he was saying to the injured beast, "you take yo'self too +serious. You ain't goin' to Heaven? No! Then why pack yo' bag? Why +fuss?"</p> + +<p>I had some silly idea that the man, if he discovered me, would know what +business brought me to this headland. I held my breath.</p> + +<p>"And since you left yo' parasol to home, Jones, come in under out of the +sun. Come on, you sun-struck orphan."</p> + +<p>His slow, delicious, Texan drawl made me smile. I did not want to smile. +The mare, a very picture of misery, lifted her bandaged, frightfully +swollen leg, and hobbled into the shade. I did not want to laugh, but +why was she called Jones? She looked just like a Jones.</p> + +<p>"The inquirin' mind," said the man behind the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> tree, "has gawn surely +astray from business, or you'd have know'd that rattlers smells of +snake. Then I asks—why paw?"</p> + +<p>His voice had so curious a timbre of aching sympathy. He actually began +to argue with the mare. "I've sucked out the pizen, Jones, hacked it out +with my jack-knife, blowed it out with powder, packed yo' pastern with +clay—best kind of clay—millionaires cayn't buy it. And I've took off +your cargo. Now what more kin I do? Feedin' bottle's to home, and we're +out of cough mixture. Why, what on airth—"</p> + +<p>The mare, with her legs all astraddle, snorted in his face.</p> + +<p>"Sugar is it? Why didn't ye say so befo'?"</p> + +<p>Jones turned her good eye on the man as though she had just discovered +his existence, hobbled briskly after him while he dug in his kitchen +boxes, made first grab at the sugar bag, and got her face slapped. The +man, always with his eye upon the mare, returned to his place, and sat +on his heel as before. "Three lumps," he said, holding them one by one +to be snatched. "You're acting sort of convalescent, Jones. No more +sugar. And don't be a hawg!"</p> + +<p>The mare was kissing his face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Back of all! Back water! Thar now, thank the lady behind me!"</p> + +<p>And I had imagined my presence still unknown.</p> + +<p>"How on earth," I gasped, "did you know I was here?"</p> + +<p>The man's eyes were still intent upon the wounded mare. "Wall, Mrs. +Trevor," he drawled.</p> + +<p>"You know my name? Your back has been turned the whole time! You've +never seen me in your life—at least I've never seen you!"</p> + +<p>"That's so," he answered thoughtfully. "I don't need tellin' the sound +of that colt yo' husband bought from me. As to the squeak of a lady's +pigskin saddle, thar ain't no other lady rider short of a hundred and +eighty-three and a half miles."</p> + +<p>What manner of man could this be? My colt was drawing toward him all the +time as though a magnet pulled.</p> + +<p>"This Jones," the man went on, "bin bit by a snake, is afraid she'll be +wafted on high, so my eyes is sort of engaged in holding her down while +she swells. She kicked me hearty, though, and loading sugar's no symptom +of passing away, so on the whole I hope she'll worry along while I cook +dinner."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span></p> + +<p>He stood facing me, the bag still in his hand, and my colt asking +pointedly for sugar. Very tall, gaunt, deeply tanned, perhaps +twenty-five years of age, he seemed to me immeasurably old, so deeply +lined was his face. And yet it was the face of one at peace. Purity of +life, quaint humor, instant sympathy, may perhaps have given him that +wonderful charm of manner which visibly attracted animals, which +certainly compelled me as I accepted his invitation to dinner. I had +been away since daybreak, and now the sun was entering the west. As to +my purpose, that I felt could wait.</p> + +<p>So I sat under the pines, pretending to nurse Jones while the shadows +lengthened over the tawny grass, and orange needles flecked fields of +rock, out to the edge of the headland.</p> + +<p>The man unsaddled my horse, unloaded his ponies, fetched water from the +spring of natural Apollinaris, but when, coming back, he found me +lighting a fire, he begged me to desist, to rest while he made dinner. +And I was glad to rest, thinking about the peace beyond the edge of the +headland. Yet it was interesting to see how a man keeps house in the +wilderness, and how different are his ways from those of a woman. No +housewife could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> been more daintily clean, or shown a swifter +skill, or half the silent ease with which this woodsman made the +table-ware for one, enough to serve two people. But a woman would not +clean a frying-pan by burning it and throwing on cold water. He +sprinkled flour on a ground sheet, and made dough without wetting the +canvas. Would I like bread, or slapjacks, or a pie? He made a loaf of +bread, in a frying pan set on edge among glowing coals, and, wondering +how a pie could possibly happen without the assistance of an oven, I +forgot all about that cliff.</p> + +<p>He parboiled the bacon, then peppered it while it was frying. When the +coffee boiled, he thrust in a red coal to throw the grounds to the +bottom. If I thought of English picnics, that was by way of contrast. My +host had never known, I had almost forgotten, the shabby barriers, +restraints, and traditions of that world where there are picnics. +Frontiersmen are, I think, really spirits strayed out of chivalric ages +into our century of all vulgarities. They are not abased, but only +amused by our world's condescensions. Uneducated? They are better +trained for their world than we are for ours. Their facts are at +first-hand from life, ours only at second-hand from books. Illiterate? I +should like to see one of our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> professors read the tracks on a frontier +trail. What was the good of the education which had led me to the brink +of this cliff? My host, who lived always at the edge of death, had eyes +which seemed to see my very thoughts. How else could he know that +silence was so kind? To the snake-bitten mare he gave outspoken +sympathy, to me his silence. Jones and I were his patients, and both of +us trusted him.</p> + +<p>He had found me out. The thing I had intended was a crime, and +conscience-stricken, I dreaded lest he should speak. I could not bear +that. Already his camp was cleaned and in order, his pipe filled and +alight, at any moment he might break the restful silence. That's why I +spoke, and at random, asking if he were not from the United States.</p> + +<p>His eyes said plainly, "So that's the game, eh?" His broad smile said, +"Well, we'll play." He sat down, cross-legged. "Yes," he answered, "I'm +an American citizen, except," he added softly, "on election days, and +then," he cocked up one shrewd eye, "I'm sort of British. Canadian? No, +I cayn't claim that either, coming from the Labrador, for that's +Newf'nland, a day's march nearer home.</p> + +<p>"Say, Mrs. Trevor, you don't know my name yet. It's Smith, and with my +friends I'm mostly Jesse."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p> + +<p>"If you please, may I be one of your friends?"</p> + +<p>"If I behave good, you may. No harm in my trying."</p> + +<p>From behind us the sun flung beams of golden splendor and blue tree +shadows, which went over the rim-rock into the misty depths of the +abyss. Down there the Fraser roared. Beyond on the eastern side soared a +vast precipice of gold and mauve which at an infinite height above our +heads was crested with black pines. Level with our bench land that +amazing cliff was cut transversely by a shelf of delicate verdure, with +here and there black groves of majestic pines. Nearly opposite, half +hidden by the trees, perched a log cabin, in form and in its exquisite +proportion like some old Greek temple.</p> + +<p>"And that is where you live?"</p> + +<p>The moment Jesse Smith had given me his name, I knew him well by +reputation. Comments by Surly Brown, the ferryman, and my husband's +bitter hatred had outlined a dangerous character. Nobody else lived +within a day's journey.</p> + +<p>"That's my home," said Jesse. "D'ye see a dim trail jags down that upper +cliff? That's whar I drifted my ponies down when I came in from the +States. I didn't know of the wagon road from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> Hundred Mile House to the +ferry, which runs by the north end of my ranch."</p> + +<p>"Your house," I said, "always reminds me of an eagle's aerie."</p> + +<p>"Wall, it's better'n that. Feed, water, shelter, timber, and squatter's +rights is good enough to make a poor man's ranch."</p> + +<p>"And the tremendous grandeur of the place?"</p> + +<p>"Hum. I don't claim to have been knocked all in a heap with the scenery. +A thousand-foot wall and a hundred-foot gulch is big enough for dimples, +and saves fencing. But if you left this district in one of them Arizona +caņons over night, it would get mislaid.</p> + +<p>"No. What took holt of me good and hard was the company,—a silver-tip +b'ar and his missus, both thousand pounders, with their three young +ladies, now mar'ied and settled beyond the sky-line. There's two couples +of prime eagles still camps along thar by South Cave. The timber wolf I +trimmed out because he wasted around like a remittance man. Thar was a +stallion and his harem, this yere fool Jones bein' one of his young +mares. El Seņor Don Cougar and his seņora lived here, too, until they +went into the sheep business with Surly Brown's new<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> flock. Besides +that, there was heaps of lil' friendly folks in fur, hair, and feathers. +Yes, I have been right to home since I located."</p> + +<p>"But grizzly bears? How frightful!"</p> + +<p>"Yes. They was frightened at first. The coarse treatment they gets from +hunters, makes them sort of bashful with any stranger. Ye see, b'ars +yearns to man, same as the heathen does to their fool gods, whereas +bullets, pizen, and deadfalls is sort of discouraging. Their sentiments +get mixed, they acts confused, and naturally if they're shot at, they'll +get hostile same as you and me. They is misunderstood, and that's how +nobody has a kind word for grizzlies."</p> + +<p>"But the greatest hunters are afraid of them."</p> + +<p>"The biggest criminals has got most scare at police. B'ars has no use +for sportsmen, nor me neither. My rifle's heaps fiercer than any b'ar, +and I've chased more sportsmen than I has grizzlies."</p> + +<p>"Wasn't Mr. Trevor one of them?"</p> + +<p>Jesse grinned.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," I said, for the other side of the story must be worth +hearing.</p> + +<p>"Wall, Mr. Trevor took out a summins agin me for chasing him off my +ranch. He got fined for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> having no gun license, and no dawg license, and +not paying his poll-tax, and Cap Taylor bound him over to keep the +peace. I ain't popular now with Mr. Trevor, whereas he got off cheap. +Now, if them b'ars could shoot—"</p> + +<p>I hadn't thought of that. "Can they be tamed?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Men can be gentled, and they needs taming most. Thar was three +grizzlies sort of adopted a party by the name of Capen Adams, and camped +and traveled with him most familiar. Once them four vagrants promenaded +on Market Street in 'Frisco. Not that I holds with this Adams in +misleading his b'ars among man-smell so strong and distrackful to their +peace of mind. But still I reckon Capen Adams and me sort of takes after +each other. I'm only attractive to animals."</p> + +<p>"Oh, surely!" I laughed.</p> + +<p>But Jesse became quite dismal. "I'm not reckoned," he bemoaned himself, +"among the popular attractions. The neighbors shies at coming near my +ranch."</p> + +<p>"Well, if you protect grizzlies and hunt sportsmen, surely it's not +surprising."</p> + +<p>"Can't please all parties, eh? Wall, perhaps that's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> how the herd is +grazing. Yes. Come to think of it, I remember oncet a Smithsonian grave +robber comes to inspect South Cave. He said I'd got a boneyard of some +ancient people, and he'd rob graves to find out all about them olden +times. He wanted to catch the atmosphere of them days, so I sort of +helped. Robbing graves ain't exactly a holy vocation, the party had a +mean eye, a German name, and a sort of patronizing manner, but still I +helped around to get him atmosphere, me and Eph."</p> + +<p>"Who's Eph?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's just a silver-tip, what scientific parties calls <i>ursus +horribilis ord</i>. You just cast your eye where the trickle stream falls +below my cabin. D'ye see them sarvis berry bushes down below the spray?"</p> + +<p>"Where the bushes are waving? Oh, look, there's a gigantic grizzly +standing up, and pulling the branches!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, that's Eph.</p> + +<p>"Wall, as I was telling you, Eph and me is helping this scientific +person to get the atmosphere of them ancient times."</p> + +<p>"But the poor man would die of fright!"</p> + +<p>"Too busy running. When he reached Vancouver,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> he was surely a cripple +though, and no more use to science."</p> + +<p>"Crippled?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, lost his truthfulness, and a professor without truth is like a +woman with no tongue, plumb disabled. His talk in the Vancouver papers +beat Ananias, besides exciting a sort of prejudice. The neighbors shies +at me, and I'm no more popular. Shall I call Eph?"</p> + +<p>"I think not to-day," said I, hurriedly rising, "for indeed I should be +getting home at once."</p> + +<p>Without ever touching the wound, he had given me the courage to live, +had made my behavior of the morning seem that of a silly schoolgirl; but +still I did not feel quite up to a social introduction. I said I was +sure that Eph and I would have no interests in common.</p> + +<p>"So you'll go home and face the music?" said Jesse's wise old eyes.</p> + +<p>"My husband," said I, "will be getting quite anxious about me."</p> + +<p>Without a word he brought my horse and saddled him.</p> + +<p>And I, with a sinking heart, contrasted the loneli<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>ness and the horror +which was called my "home" with all the glamour of this man's happy +solitude.</p> + +<p>While Jesse buckled on the head-stall, some evil spirit prompted me to +use the word "romantic." In swift resentment he seized and rent the +word.</p> + +<p>"Romantic? Snakes! Thar's nothen romantic about me. What I can't earn +ain't worth stealing, and I most surely despise all shiftless people."</p> + +<p>"Forgive me. I did not mean romantic in that sense."</p> + +<p>"Lady, what did you mean?"</p> + +<p>"May I say picturesque?"</p> + +<p>He spat. "Thank Gawd I ain't that, either. I'd shoot myself if I thought +I was showing off, or dressing operatic, or playing at bein' more than I +am."</p> + +<p>Seeing him really hurt, I made one last wriggle.</p> + +<p>"May I say what I mean by romance?"</p> + +<p>He held the stirrup for me to mount, offered his hand.</p> + +<p>"Do you never get hungry," I asked, "for what's beyond the horizon?"</p> + +<p>He sighed with sheer relief, then turned, his eyes seeing infinite +distances. "Why, yes! That country beyond the sky-line's always calling. +Thar's some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span>thing I want away off, and I don't know what I want."</p> + +<p>"That land beyond the sky-line's called romance."</p> + +<p>He clenched his teeth. "What does a ship want when she strains at +anchor? What she wants is drift. And I'm at anchor because I've sworn +off drift."</p> + +<p>At that we parted, and I went slowly homeward, up to my anchor. Dear +God! If I might drift!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>THE TREVOR ACCIDENT</h3> + + +<p>N.B.—Mr. Smith, while living alone, had a habit of writing long letters +to his mother. After his mother's death the habit continued, but as the +letters could not be sent by mail, and to post them in the stove seemed +to suggest unpleasant ideas, they were stowed in his saddle wallets.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Dear Mother in Heaven:</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>There's been good money in this here packing contract, and the wad in my +belt-pouch has been growing till Doctor McGee suspecks a tumor. He +thinks I'll let him operate, and sure enough that would reduce the +swelling.</p> + +<p>Once a week I take my little pack outfit up to the Sky-line claim for a +load of peacock copper. It runs three hundred dollars to the ton in horn +silver, and looks more like jewels than mineral. Iron Dale's cook, Mrs. +Jubbin, runs to more species of pies and cake than even Hundred Mile +House, and after din<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span>ner I get a rim-fire cigar which pops like a +cracker, while I sit in front of the scenery and taste the breath of the +snow mountains. Then I load the ponies, collects Mick out of the cook +house, which he's partial to for bones, Iron slings me the mail-pouch, +and I hits the trail. I aim to make good bush grass in the yellow pines +by dusk, and the second day brings me down to Brown's Ferry, three miles +short of my home. From the ferry there's a good road in winter to +Hundred Mile House, so I tote the cargoes over there by sleigh. There my +contract ends, because Tearful George takes on with his string team down +to the railroad. I'd have that contract, too, only Tearful is a +low-lived sort of person, which can feed for a dollar a week, whereas +when I get down to the railroad, I'm more expensive.</p> + +<p>Did you hear tell of the Cock and Bull Ranch? Seeing it's run by a +missionary you may have the news in Heaven. This man starts a stock +ranch with a bull and cow, a billy-goat and nanny-goat, a rooster and +hen; but it happened the cow, the hen, and the nanny-goat got drowned on +the way up-country; and ever since then the breeding ain't come up to +early expectations.</p> + +<p>Well, it's much the same way with me since my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> stallion William died—of +trapezium, I think the doctor said. The mares are grinning at me ever +since, and it will take nine months more of this packing contract before +I can buy another stud horse. Then there's the mortgage, and the +graveyard artist has seized your tombstone until I pay for repairing the +angel on top. Life's full of worries, mother.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Your affectionate son, +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><span class="smcap">Jesse.</span></span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Rain-storm coming.</p> + +<p>P. S.—It's a caution to see how Jones steps out on the home trail. +Or'nary as a muel when she has to climb, she hustles like a little +running horse to git back down to bush grass. All night in the pines +I'll hear her bell through my dreams, while she and her ponies feed, +then the stopping of the bell wakes me up, for them horses doze off from +when the Orion sets until its cocklight when I start my fire. By +loading-time they've got such grass bellies on them that I has to be +quite severe with the lash rope. They hold their wind while I cinch +them, and that's how their stomachs get kicked.</p> + +<p>Yes, it's a good life, and I don't envy no man. Still it made me sort of +thoughtful last time as I swung along with that Jones mare snuggling at +my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> wrist, little Mick snapping rear heels astern, and the sun just +scorching down among the pines. Women is infrequent, and spite of all my +experiences with the late Mrs. Smith—most fortunate deceased, life +ain't all complete without a mate. It ain't no harm to any woman, +mother, if I just varies off my trail to survey the surrounding stock.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jubbin passes herself off for a widow, and all the boys at the mine +take notice that she can cook. Apart from that, she's homely as a +barb-wire fence, and Bubbly Jock, her husband, ain't deceased to any +great extent, being due to finish his sentence along in October, and +handy besides with a rifle.</p> + +<p>Then of the three young ladies at Eighty Mile, Sally is a sound +proposition, but numerously engaged to the stage drivers and teamsters +along the Cariboo Road. Miss Wilth, the schoolma'am, keeps a widow +mother with tongue and teeth, so them as smells the bait is ware of the +trap. That's why Miss Wilth stays single. The other girl is a no-account +young person. Not that I'm the sort to shy at a woman for squinting, the +same being quite persistent with sound morals, but I hold that a person +who scratches herself at meals ain't never quite the lady. She should do +it private.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> + +<p>There's the Widow O'Flynn on the trail to Hundred Mile,—she's harsh, +with a wooden limb. Besides she wants to talk old times in Abilene. I +don't.</p> + +<p>As to the married women, I reckon that tribe is best left alone, with +respects. If you sees me agin, it will be in Heaven, and I don't aim to +disappoint you by turning up at the other place. I'd get religion, +mother, but for the sort of swine I seen converted, but even for the +sake of finding grace I ain't going to graze with them cattle.</p> + +<p>While I've mostly kep' away from the married ladies, and said "deliver +us from temptation" regular every night, there was no harm as I came +along down, in being sorry for Mrs. Trevor. Women are reckoned mighty +cute at reading men, but I've noticed when I've struck the complete +polecat, that he's usually married. So long as a woman keeps her head +she's wiser than a man, but when she gets rattled she's a sure fool. +She'll keep her head with the common run of men, but when she strikes +the all-round stinker, like a horse runs into a fire, she ups and +marries him. Anyway, Mrs. Trevor had got there.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>Said to be Tuesday.</p> + +<p>Trip before last was the first time I seen this lady.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> The trail from +Trevor's meets in with the track from Sky-line just at the Soda Spring. +From there a sure-enough wagon road snakes down over the edge of the +bench and curves away north to Brown's Ferry. At the spring you get the +sound of the rapids, you catch the smell of the river like a wet knife, +you looks straight down into white water, and on the opposite bench is +my ranch.</p> + +<p>Happens Jones reckoned she'd been appointed inspector of snakes, so I'd +had to lay off at the spring, and Mrs. Trevor comes along to get shut of +her trouble. She's hungry; she ain't had anything but her prize hawg to +speak to for weeks, and she's as curious as Mother Eve, anyway. +Curiosity in antelopes and women projuces venison and marriages, both +species being too swift and shy to be met up with otherwise.</p> + +<p>She's got allusions, too, seeing things as large as a sceart horse, so +she's all out of focus, supposin' me to be romantic and picturesk, +wharas I'm a workingman out earning dollars. Still it's kind in any +lady to take an interest, and I done what you said in aiming at the +truth, no matter what I hits.</p> + +<p>Surely my meat's transparent by the way her voice struck through among +my bones. If angels speak<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> like that I'd die to hear. She told me +nothin', not one word about the trouble that's killing her, but her +voice made me want to cry. If you'd spoke like that when I was your +puppy, you'd a had no need of that old slipper, mother.</p> + +<p>'Cause I couldn't tear him away from the beef bones, I'd left Mick up at +the Sky-line, or I'd ast that lady to accept my dog. You see, he'd bite +Trevor all-right, wharas I has to diet myself, and my menu is sort of +complete. Still by the time she stayed in camp, my talk may have done +some comfort to that poor woman. She didn't know then that her trouble +was only goin' to last another week.</p> + +<p>This is pie day. I comes now to describing my last trip down from the +Sky-line, when I hustled the ponies just in case Mrs. Trevor might be +taking her <i>cultus cooly</i> along toward Soda Spring. Of course she wasn't +there.</p> + +<p>You'd have laughed if you'd seen Jones after she drank her fill of water +out of the bubbly spring, crowded with soda bubbles. She just goes hic, +tittup, hic, down the trail, changing step as the hiccups jolted her +poor old ribs. The mare looked so blamed funny that at first I didn't +notice the tracks along the road.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p> + +<p>To judge by the hind shoes, Mrs. Trevor's mean colt had gone down toward +the river not more'n ten minutes ago, on the dead run, then back up the +road at a racking out-of-breath trot. Something must have gone wrong, +and sure enough as I neared a point of rocks which hid the trail ahead, +Jones suddenly shied hard in the midst of a hiccup. There was the Widow +Bear's track right across the road, and Mick had to yell blue blazes to +get the other ponies past the smell. Ahead of me the tracks of the +Trevor colt were dancing the width of the road, bucking good and hard at +the stink of bear. Then I rounded the point of rocks.</p> + +<p>There lay Mrs. Trevor all in a heap. The afternoon sun caught her hair, +which flamed gold, and a green humming-bird whirred round as though it +were some big flower. Since Jones would have shied over the tree-tops at +a corpse or a whiff of blood, I knew she'd only fainted, but felt at her +breast to make sure. I tell you it felt like an outrage to lay my paw on +a sleeping lady, and still worse I'd only my dirty old hat to carry +water from a seepage in the cliff. My heart thumped when I knelt to +sprinkle the water, and when that blamed humming-bird came whirring past +my ear, I jumped as though the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> devil had got me, splashing the hatful +over Mrs. Trevor. At that her eyes opened, staring straight at my face, +but she made out a sort of smile when she saw it was only me.</p> + +<p>"Jesse!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'am."</p> + +<p>"Seen my husband?"</p> + +<p>"No, ma'am."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what's come over him," she moaned, clenching her teeth; +"he fired at me."</p> + +<p>"That gun I traded to him?"</p> + +<p>"Four shots."</p> + +<p>"You was running away when your colt shied at the bear?"</p> + +<p>"My ankle! Jesse, it hurts so dreadfully. Yes the left."</p> + +<p>My knife ripped her riding-boot clear. The old red bandana from my neck +made her a wet bandage, and the boot top served for a splint. There was +no call to tell her the foot was broken, and the fainting fits eased my +job. Between whiles she would tell me to hurry, knowing that the return +of that damned colt would show Trevor which way she'd run. I had no +weapon, so if Trevor happened along with the .45 revolver it wouldn't be +healthy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> + +<p>I couldn't leave the loads of ore on my ponies, and if I got Mrs. Trevor +mounted with her foot hanging down, she'd lose time swooning. So I +unloaded all the ponies except Jones, and turned them loose, keeping +Jones and Swift, who has a big heart for travel. Next I filled one of +the rawhide panniers with brush, and lashed it across Jones' neck for a +back rest. A wad of pine brush made a seat between Jones' panniers where +I mostly carry my grub. Hoisting Mrs. Trevor on to the mare's back was a +pretty mean job, but worst of all I had to lash her down. Taking my +thirty-eight-foot rope I threw a single-hand diamond, hitching the lady +good and hard to mare and cargo. Her head and shoulders was over Jones' +neck, her limbs stretched out above his rump, where I had made them fast +with a sling rope. I've packed mining machinery, wheels, and once a +piano, but I never heard tell of any one packing a lady. For chafing +gear to keep the ropes from scorching, I had to use my coat, shirt, and +undershirt, so that when I mounted Swift to lead off, I'd only boots and +overalls, and Mrs. Trevor could see I was blushing down to my belt. +Shocked? Nothing! Great ladies doesn't shock like common people. No, in +spite of the pain-racking and the fear-haunting, she laughed, and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> +done me good. She said I looked like Mr. Pollo Belvideary, a dago she'd +met up with in Italy. Dagos are swine, but the way she spoke made me +proud.</p> + +<p>Jones leads good, which was well for me riding bareback, for we didn't +stop to pick flowers.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>Washing day after supper.</p> + +<p>We weren't more than half-way down to the river when we heard Trevor +surging and yelling astern, somewheres up on the bench. At that I broke +to a trot, telling the lady to let out a howl the moment it hurt beyond +bearing. I wonder what amount of pain is beyond the bearing of real +thoroughbreds? That lady would burn before she'd even whimper.</p> + +<p>Nearing the ferry my innards went sick, for the punt was on the far +bank, the man was out of sight, and even Jones wouldn't propose to swim +the river with a cargo of mineral and a deck load. As we got to the door +of Brown's cabin, Trevor hove in sight.</p> + +<p>Now, supposing you're poor in the matter of time, with, say, half a +minute to invest to the best advantage, you try to lay out your thirty +seconds where they will do most good. I lep' to the ground, giving Jones +a hearty slap on the off quarter, which would steer her behind Brown's +cabin; then with one jump<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> I grabbed old man Brown's Winchester rifle +from its slings above the hearth, shoved home two cartridges from the +mantel, rammed the muzzle through the window-pane, which commands a view +up the trail, and proceeded to take stock of Mr. Trevor.</p> + +<p>The man's eyes being stark staring mad, it was a sure fact he'd never +listen to argument. If I shot him, the horse would surge on, dropping +the corpse at Mrs. Trevor's feet, which would be too sudden to please. +If I stopped the horse at full gallop, the rider would go on till he hit +the scenery, and after that he wouldn't feel well enough to be +injurious. That's why I waited, following with the rifle until the +horse's shoulder widened out, giving me a clear aim at the heart.</p> + +<p>The horse finished his stride, but while I was running to the door, he +crumpled and went down dead, the carcass sliding three yards before it +stopped. As to the man, he shot a long curve down on his back in a +splash of dust, which looked like a brown explosion. His revolver went +further on whirling, until a stump touched off the trigger, and its +bullet whined over my head.</p> + +<p>Next thing I heard was the rapids, like a church organ finishing a hymn, +and Mrs. Trevor's call.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> + +<p>"You've killed him?"</p> + +<p>"No, ma'am, but he's had an accident. I'll take him to the cabin for +first aid."</p> + +<p>Trevor was sitting up by the time I reached him. He looked sort of sick.</p> + +<p>"Get up," said I, remembering to be polite in the presence of a lady. +"Get up, you cherub."</p> + +<p>Instead of rising, he reached out a flask from his pocket, and uncorked +to take a little nourishment. I flicked the bottle into the river, and +assisted him to rise with my foot. "My poor erring brother," said I, +"please step this way, or I'll kick your tail through your hat."</p> + +<p>He said he wasn't feeling very well, so when I got him into the cabin, I +let him lie on Brown's bed, lashing him down good and hard. I gave him a +stick to bite instead of my fingers, which is private. "Now," said I, +"your name is Polecat. You're due to rest right there, Mr. Polecat, +until I get the provincial constable." I gathered from his expression +that he'd sort of taken a dislike to me.</p> + +<p>Swift and the mare were grazing on pine chips beside the cabin, and Mrs. +Trevor looked wonderfully peaceful.</p> + +<p>"Your husband," said I, "is resting."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span></p> + +<p>She gave me a wry laugh, and seeing she was in pain, I poured water over +her foot.</p> + +<p>"That's better," said she, "how good you are to me!"</p> + +<p>Old man Brown was coming across with the punt, mighty peevish because +I'd dropped a horse carcass to rot at his cabin door, and still worse +when he seen I had a lunatic roped in his bunk. Moreover, he wasn't +broke to seeing ladies used for cargo on pack-animals, or me naked to +the belt, and making free with his rifle. I give him his Winchester, +which he set down by his door, also a dollar bill, but he was still +crowded full of peevishness, wasting the lady's time. At last I hustled +the ponies aboard the punt, and set the guide lines so that we started +out along the cable, leaving the old man to come or stay as he pleased. +He came. Fact is, I remembered that while I took Mrs. Trevor to my home, +I'd need a messenger to ride for doctor, nurse, groceries, and +constable. I'm afraid old man Brown was torn some, catching on a nail +while I lifted him into the punt. His language was plentiful.</p> + +<p>Now I thought I'd arranged Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Trevor and Mr. Brown, and +added up the sum so that old Geometry himself couldn't have figured it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> +better. Whereas I'd left out the fact that Brown's bunk was nailed +careless to the wall of his cabin. As Trevor struggled, the pegs came +adrift, the bed capsized, the rope slacked, and the polecat, breaking +loose, found Brown's rifle. I'd led the ponies out of the punt, and was +instructing Brown, when the polecat let drive at me from across the +river. With all his faults he could shoot good, for his first grazed my +scalp, half blinding me. At that the lady attracted attention by +screaming, so the third shot stampeded poor Jones.</p> + +<p>I ain't religious, being only thirty, and not due to reform this side of +rheumatism, but all the sins I've enjoyed was punished sudden and +complete in that one minute. Blind with blood, half stunned, and reeling +sick, I heard the mare as she plunged along the bank dispensing +boulders. No top-heavy cargo was going to stand that strain without +coming over, so the woman I loved—yes, I knew that now for a fact—was +going to be dragged until her brains were kicked out by the mare. It +seemed to me ages before I could rouse my senses, wipe my eyes, and +mount the gelding. When sight and sense came back, I was riding as I had +never dared to ride in all my life, galloped Mr. Swift on rolling +boulders steep as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> a roof, and all a-slither. I got Swift sidewise up +the bank to grass, raced past the mare, then threw Swift in front of +Jones. Down went the mare just as her load capsized, so that she and the +lady, Swift and I, were all mixed up in a heap.</p> + +<p>My little dog Mick was licking my scalp when I woke, and it seemed to me +at first that something must have gone wrong. My head was between two +boulders, with the mare's shoulder pressing my nose, my legs were under +water, and somewhere close around was roaring rapids. Swift was +scrambling for a foothold, and Mrs. Trevor shouting for all she was +worth. I waited till Swift cleared out, and the lady quit for breath.</p> + +<p>"Yes, ma'am," says I.</p> + +<p>"Oh, say you're not dead, Jesse!"</p> + +<p>"Only in parts," said I, "and how are you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm cutting the ropes, but oh, this knife's so blunt!"</p> + +<p>"Don't spoil your knife. Will you do what I say?"</p> + +<p>"Of course I will."</p> + +<p>"Reach out then on the off side of the load. The end of that lashing's +fast to the after-basket line."</p> + +<p>When I'd explained that two or three times, "I have it," she answered. +"Loose!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pull on the fore line of the diamond."</p> + +<p>"Right. Oh, Jesse, I'm free!"</p> + +<p>"Kneel on the mare's head, reach under the pannier, find the latego, and +cast off."</p> + +<p>She fumbled a while, and then reported all clear.</p> + +<p>"Get off the mare."</p> + +<p>In another moment Jones was standing up to shake herself, knee deep in +the river, and with a slap I sent her off to join Swift at the top of +the bank. Mrs. Trevor was sitting on a boulder, staring out over the +rapids, her eyes set on something coming down mid-stream. Her face was +all gray, and she clutched my hand, holding like grim death. As for me, +I'd never reckoned that even a madman would try to swim the Fraser in +clothes and boots.</p> + +<p>"I can't bear it!" she cried, turning her face away. "Tell me—"</p> + +<p>"I guess," said I, feeling mighty grave, "you're due to become a widow."</p> + +<p>The rapids got Trevor, and I watched.</p> + +<p>"You are a widow," says I, at last.</p> + +<p>She fainted.</p> + +<p>There, I'm dead sick of writing this letter, and my wrist is all +toothache.</p> + +<p class="author"> +<span class="smcap">Jesse.</span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>LOVE</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Jesse argues that there's nothing to boast of in the way he saved me. +Horse and rifle are like feet to run with, hands to fight with, part of +his life. "Now, if I'd rode a giraffe and harpooned you, I'd have my +name in all the papers. Shucks! Skill and courage are things to shame +the man who hasn't got them."</p> + +<p>I married Lionel Trevor in the days when he looked like a god as +Parsifal, sang like an angel, had Europe at his feet. "Something wrong +with Europe," is Jesse's comment. "West of the Rockies we don't use +such, except to sell their skins."</p> + +<p>When Lionel lost his voice—more to him than are horse and gun to +Jesse—he would not ask me to follow him into the wilderness but tried +to persuade me to stay on in London. I was singing "Eurydice" in +<i>Orfeo</i>, my feet, thanks to Lionel, were at last on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> the great ladder, +and if I was ambitious, who shall blame me? Yet for better, for worse, +we were married, and here among the pines, in this celestial air, a year +or two at the most would give him back his voice. My place was at his +side, for better or worse, and when he drank, when day by day I watched +the light of reason give place in his eyes to bestial vice, until at +last I found myself chained to a maniac—till death us do part—it was +then I first saw Jesse, the one man whose eyes showed understanding.</p> + +<p>I can't write about that day when Lionel, a thing possessed of devils, +hunted me through the woods like a bear. It wasn't fair. I'm only +twenty-eight years old. It wasn't fair that I should be treated like +that. I doubt if I remember all that happened. I must have been crazed +with pain and fear until suddenly I woke up on a boulder by that awful +river, and saw him drift past me, caught in the rapids, drowning. I +would have shouted I was so glad, until he saw me, and dying as he was, +looked at me with Lionel's clear sane eyes.</p> + +<p>I fainted, and when I awoke again in the dusk, Jesse bent over me, not +as he is, the rugged fighting frontiersman, but dressed in white, +wearing a wreath of beaten gold leaves, the laurel crown. He was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> +Greek warrior, and it seemed to me that I, too, wore the Grecian dress, +a milk-white peplum. We were walking side by side along a beach between +the cliffs and the sea. He stopped, looking seaward, his bronzed face +set with an anxiety, which as he watched, became fear. He clasped me in +his arms, and then I saw that out of the distance of the sea, came a +wave, rushing straight at us, a monstrous tidal wave with curved and +glassy front, crowned with a creaming surf of high-flung diamond. The +cliff barred all escape, and we stood waiting, locked in each other's +arms, commending our spirits to the gods—</p> + +<p>My eyes broke through the vision, for Jesse, the real Jesse of this +present life, shook me, imploring me to rouse myself. He says I woke up +shouting "Zeus! Zeus!" He lifted me in his arms and carried me.</p> + +<p>Of course I was hysterical, being overwrought, and the very thought is +nonsense that in some past life thousands of years ago, Jesse and I were +lovers. That night and for three weeks afterward, I lay delirious. At +the ferryman's cabin he made me a bed of pine boughs, until my household +stuff and the Chinese servant could be brought down from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> ranch. He +sent Surly Brown to bring Doctor McGee, and the Widow O'Flynn as my +nurse, while her son Billy was hired to do his pack-train work. From +that time onward the pack outfit carried cargoes of ore from the mine, +and loads from Hundred Mile House of every comfort and luxury which +money could buy for me. Jesse bought tents, which he set up beside the +cabin, one for my servant, the other for Brown and himself, besides such +travelers as from time to time stayed over night at the ferry. When I +got well, I found that Jesse had spent the savings of years, and had not +a dollar left.</p> + +<p>The widow nursed me by day, Jesse by night, and after one attempt by +Mrs. O'Flynn, it was he who dressed my foot. In his hands he had the +delicate strength of a trained surgeon, but also something more, that +sympathetic touch which charms away pain, bringing ease to the mind as +well as to the body. "'Tisn't," said he, "as if you kicked me out of the +stable every time I laid a hand on yo' pastern. That Jones, when she +hurt her foot, just kicked me black and blue."</p> + +<p>When at last I crept out of doors to bask in the autumn sunlight, the +cotton woods and aspens were changed to lemon, the sumac to crimson, the +fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> needles of the pines clothed the slopes with orange, and a mist +of milky blue lay in the caņon. Very beautiful were those days, when no +breath of wind stirred the warm perfume, and the music of the rapids +echoed from sun-warmed precipice and glowing woodlands up to the +gorgeous cobalt of the sky. Cured of all sick fancies, I was content to +rest.</p> + +<p>Jesse had arranged with lawyers for the probate of Lionel's will, and +settlement of his debts, which would leave me nothing. As far as Jesse +knew, I was penniless, and to this day I have never dared acknowledge +that, secured from the extravagance of my late husband, I have capital +bringing in some seven thousand, five hundred dollars a year. Jesse +supposed me to be destitute, and when I spoke of returning to my work in +Europe, offered to raise the money for my passage. Knowing his ranch to +be mortgaged already to its full value, I wondered what limit there was +to this poor man's valor. Yes, I would accept, assuring him of swift +repayment, yet dared not tell him the wages offered me at Covent Garden. +It seemed indecent that a woman's voice should be valued at more per +week than his heroic earnings for a year.</p> + +<p>I sang to him, simple emotional music: Orfeo's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> lament, the finale of +<i>Il Trovatore</i>, the angel song from Chopin's <i>Marche Funčbre</i>.</p> + +<p>There was the last of my poor little test which had proved in him a +chivalry, a generosity, a moral valor, a physical courage, a sense of +beauty, a native humor, which made me very humble. All I had foolishly +imagined in poor Lionel, all that a woman hopes for in a man, was here +beyond the accidents of rank or caste. How pitiful seemed the standards +of value which rated Lionel a gentleman, and this man common! Jesse is +something by nature which gentlemen try to imitate with their culture. +Should I go back to imitations? I had outlived all that before I +realized the glory of the great wilderness, before I met Jesse and loved +him.</p> + +<p>Could I promise to love, honor and obey? I loved him, I honored him, and +as to obeying, of course that's the way they are managed.</p> + +<p>I wonder why women make it so important that a man should propose? It +needed no telling that Jesse and I were in love. It seemed only natural +that we should marry, and any pretense of mourning for the late Mr. +Trevor would have been distasteful.</p> + +<p>My dear father was content with my first marriage, because—it seems so +quaint—Mr. Trevor was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> a sound churchman. The old saint had indeed one +misgiving, for Lionel was very high church, and if he reverted to Rome, +the religious education of any children—my father has found peace in a +land where there are no doctrinal worries. But for his daughter he would +pray still, lest she be yoked with an unbeliever. For my father's sake I +asked Jesse about his religious convictions.</p> + +<p>"Wall," he explained, "my old mother was a Hard-Shell Baptist, and +father was Prohibition, so if them two forms of ignorance came to be +used around here, I'd be a sort of mongrel."</p> + +<p>"Surely you don't think the churches mere forms of ignorance?"</p> + +<p>"Ignorance," he took the word up thoughtfully. "It's a thing I +practises, and am apt to recognize by the way it acks. It ain't so +scarce in them churches as you'd think. Maybe, knowin' more than me, you +can tell me about that Sermon on the Mount. Was it a Catholic Mount, or +Baptist, or Episcopalian?"</p> + +<p>"Surely a hill, or mountain."</p> + +<p>"And Jesus took his people away from the smell of +denominations—Scribes, Pharisees, and such, to some place outdoors?"</p> + +<p>The idea struck me full in the face like a sudden<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> lash of spray, but +before I could clear my eyes, the man had followed his thought to a +weird conclusion.</p> + +<p>"The more they build churches and chapels to corral Him, the more He +takes to the woods. I sort of follow."</p> + +<p>This only left me to wonder what my dear old white saint would have +said.</p> + +<p>Certainly he could never have accepted that American citizenship, and +Jesse's nationality is vague. "Thar's God," he would say quite +reverently, "and Mother England, and Uncle Sam, but beyond that I ain't +much acquainted. The rest seems to be sort of foreigners. The Labrador? +Oh, that's just trimmings."</p> + +<p>Whatever he is, I love him,—primitive, elemental, kin of the woodland +gods, habitant of the white sierras, the august forest, and the sweet +wild pastures. My doubts fluttered away from the main issue to settle +down on very twigs of detail. I had not courage to imagine what a fright +he would look in civilized clothes, how awkward he would feel among folk +and houses, or how such dear illusions would be shattered if ever my +cynical relations saw him eat. He is a Baptist, and by his convictions +liable to wed in store clothes, with a necktie like a boot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span>lace, and +number twelve kid gloves, taking his honeymoon as a solemnity at the +very loudest hotel in San Francisco. Preferring plague, pestilence, +famine, battle, murder, and sudden death, to such festivities, I pleaded +our poverty, and dire need of keeping free from debt. Although born in +the Labrador, he had been a cow-boy in Texas for half his working life. +As a stockman, he was to wed a rancher's widow. Was he ashamed of his +business? No, proud as Lucifer! Was he ashamed of the dress of his +trade? Not by a damned sight! Soldiers and sailors are proud to wear the +dress of their trade when they marry. "So are cow-punchers," said he, +with his head in the air. "S'pose we ride to Cariboo City, and get +married in that little old log church."</p> + +<p>He managed to persuade me; and I consented also to a hunting trip, +instead of the usual honeymoon.</p> + +<p>When I was well enough for the journey, I rode my colt, and Jesse his +demon mare—Jones—my sole rival, I think, except that dreadful bear, in +his affections. Two pack-ponies carried our camp and baggage, and each +night he would set up a little tent for me, bedding himself down beside +the fire. At the end of five days' journey, we rode at dusk into +Cariboo.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span></p> + +<p>Captain Taylor, of Hundred Mile House, and Pete Mathson, the <i>cargador</i> +of the Star Pack-train, two old stanch friends of Jesse, witnessed our +marriage in the quaint log building which served the Cariboo miners as +church and schoolhouse. The Reverend Cyril Redfern, pioneer and +missionary, read the service, while our ponies waited just outside the +door. Jesse wore his plain old leather shaps, a navy blue shirt, a scarf +of ruby silk against his tanned neck, and golden Mexican spurs—his +dearest treasure. He must have known he looked magnificent, for he +carried himself with such quiet dignity, and his deep voice thrilled me, +for it was music. I could hardly respond for crying, and would gladly +have been alone afterward in the church that I might thank God for all +His mercy.</p> + +<p>Captain Taylor is a retired naval officer, a pioneer of the gold mines, +a magistrate, a man to trust, and when he gave me his heartfelt +congratulations, it was not without knowledge of Jesse's character. He +and Pete, the <i>cargador</i>, rode with us to the camp of his Star +Pack-train, and it was there in the forest that we ate our wedding +breakfast. The blue haze of Indian summer, the serene splendor of the +sunlit woods, and autumn snow on all the shining hills<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span>—such was our +banquet hall, and a rippling brook our orchestra. We drank healths in +champagne from tin cups, and then, saddling up, Jesse and I rode away +alone into the solitudes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>THE LANDLORD</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Of his life before he reached this province Jesse will so far tell me +nothing, yet his speech betrays him, for under the vivid dialect of the +stock range, there is a streak of sailor, and beneath that I detect +traces of brogue which may be native perhaps to Labrador. Out of a chaos +of books he has picked words which pleased him, pronounced of course to +suit himself, and used in some sense which would shock any dictionary.</p> + +<p>His manners and customs, too, are a field for research. Of course one +expects him to be professional with rope, gun, and ax, but how did he +learn the rest? I wanted a lantern—he made one; my boot was torn—he +made one; my water-proof coat was ruined—he made one; and if I asked +for a sewing-machine, he would refuse to move camp until he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> one +finished. If his name were not Smith I could prove him directly +descended from the Swiss family Robinson. If a project sounds risky, I +have to assume that it is something unusually safe, as the only way to +keep him out of danger. If I should ever wish to be a widow, I have only +to doubt his power to fly without wings.</p> + +<p>Our journey last autumn led us into most awesome recesses of the coast +range. Heads of the sea fiords lay dismal among crowding glaciers, white +cataracts came roaring down through belt after belt of clouds, to where +a grim surf battled with black rocks. In that dread region of avalanche +and rockslide, of hanging ice-cliffs, roaring storms, ear-shattering +thunder, our camp seemed too frail a thing to claim existence, our +thread of smoke a little prayer for mercy. "Nary a dollar in sight," was +Jesse's comment. "Such microbes don't breed here. D'ye think they'll +ever vaccinate agin selfishness, Kate? That plague kills more souls than +smallpox."</p> + +<p>Guided by his uncanny woodcraft, I began to meet the parishioners, +mountain sheep and goats, the elk and cariboo, eagles, bears, +wolverines, and certainly I shared something of Jesse's untiring +delight<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> in all wild creatures. Even when we needed meat in camp, and +some plump goose or mallard was at the mercy of his gun, Jesse would +sometimes beg the victim off, and catch more trout. "So long as they +don't hunt us," he would say, "I'd rather tote your camera than my gun. +But thar's that dog-gone beaver down the crick, he tried to bite me +yesterday again. If he don't tame himself, I'll slap his face. Thinks +he's editor."</p> + +<p>Were there no clouds, would we realize that the sky is blue? If no +little misunderstandings had risen above our horizon, would Jesse and I +have realized our wedded happiness? How should I know when I read his +pocket diary, what was meant by "one night out. Took Matilda," or +"Matilda and Fussy to-night," or "marched with Harem!" Matilda and +Fussy if you please, are blankets, and the Harem is his winter camp +equipment.</p> + +<p>What would you think if you found this in a book?</p> + +<div class="figcenter" style="width: 400px;"> +<img src="images/i126.jpg" width="400" height="98" alt="" title="untitled decoration" /> +</div> + +<p>He says it means, "Eating-house woman chasing—Jesse galloping—home +dead finish."</p> + +<p>And some of it is worse!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p> + +<p>I dare not accuse my dear man of being narrow-minded. I have no doubt +that he is quite justified in his intense antipathy to niggers, dagos, +and chinks—indeed, he will not allow my Chinese servant on the ranch. +But if I wished to uncork a choice vintage of stories, I alluded to his +prejudice against the word "grizzly" as applied to his pet bear.</p> + +<p>"Now that's whar yo're dead wrong." He threw a log of cedar upon our +camp altar, making fresh incense to the wild gods. "The landlord's a +silver-tip, fat as butter. Down in the low country, whar feed is mean, +and Britishers around, the b'ars is poor, and called grizzlies. I'd be +shamed to have a grizzly on my ranch. Come to think, though, Kate, the +landlord was a sure-enough grizzly three years back. He'd had +misfortunes."</p> + +<p>"Tell me." As he stirred the fire, gathering his thoughts, I watched the +cedar sparks, a very torchlight procession of fairies flowing upward +into the darkness overhead.</p> + +<p>"Wall, you see, he and the landlady was always around same as you and +me, but not together. No. Being respectable b'ars they'd feed at +opposite ends of the pasture."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p> + +<p>"But don't the married couples live together?"</p> + +<p>"None. They feels it ain't quite modest to make a show of their +marriage. You see, Kate, after all, these b'ars is not like us but sort +of foreigners. Mother gets kind of secluded when there's cubs, 'cause +father's so careless and eats 'em."</p> + +<p>"How disgusting!"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. Time I speak of, their three young lady b'ars was married +somewheres up in the black pines, whar it takes say fifty square miles +to feed one silver-tip—and no tourists to help out in times of famine. +That country was gettin' over-stocked, with a high protective tariff +agin caņon b'ars.</p> + +<p>"And here's the landlady down on our ranch, chuck full of fiscal +theories. 'B'ars is good,' says she, 'the more cubs the merrier,' says +she, 'let's be fruitful and multiply.' And it's only a two b'ar ranch. +Thar ain't no England handy whar she can dump spare cubs.</p> + +<p>"So the landlord gets provident and eats the cubs. Naturally thar's a +sort of coolness arises over that, so that she's feeding north, while +he's around south. Then the salmon season happens. There's only two +fishing rocks in our reach, the same being close together. The landlord, +he fishes at the back-water<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> rock. The landlady fishes at the rapids +rock. They has to pretend they've not been introjuiced.</p> + +<p>"There's been heavy rains, and up on the edge of the bench I seen a new +crack opening across Apex Rock. I'd have put up a danger notice, only +these people thinks it's for scratching their backs on. There's the +crack getting wider, and the landlady fishing right underneath, and me +hollerin,' but she's too full of pride to care about my worries. So I +thinks maybe if I just drop her a hint she'll begin to set up and take +notice. I run home for my rifle, posts myself at big pine, takes a +steady bead, and lets fly, knocking a salmon out of the lady's mouth. +Then I remembers that the shock of a gunshot is enough to loose the end +of Apex Rock. It does, and while the scenery is being rearranged, the +landlady sets up, wondering what's the trouble. When the dust clears, +Apex Rock up here is reduced to a stump; down thar by the rapids the +fishing rock's extended with additions; the landlord's a widower, +running for all he's worth; and the landlady is no more—not enough left +of her to warrant funeral obsequies."</p> + +<p>"Why is the landlord called Eph?"</p> + +<p>"Christian name. Most b'ars is Ephraim, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span> he's Ephrata which means +'be open.' I tried to get him to be open with me instead of stealing +chickens. That's when the bad year come."</p> + +<p>"Were you in difficulties?"</p> + +<p>"Eph was. Them canneries down to salt water, had fished the Fraser out, +and the hatchery didn't get to its work until the fourth year, when the +new spawn come back to their home river. Yes, and the sarvis berries +failed. I dunno why, but the silver-tips of this districk ain't partial +to the same kinds of feed as they practises in Montana and Idaho. Down +south they'll lunch on grubs, ants, or dog-tooth violets, but Eph ain't +an original thinker. He runs to application, and shies at new ideas. +He'd vote conservative. So when the salmon and berries went back on him, +he sort of petered out. He come to the cabin and said, plain as talk, he +was nigh quitting business."</p> + +<p>"But, Jesse! A starving gr—I mean b'ar. Weren't you afraid even then?"</p> + +<p>"Why for? My pardner attends to his business, and don't interfere with +my hawss ranch. He owns the grubs, berries, salmon, wild honey and +fixings. I owns the grass, stock, chickens, and garden sass. When we +disagreed about them cabbages, I shot<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> holes in his ears until he +allowed they was mine. His ears is still sort of untidy. As to his +eating Sarah, wall, I warned her not to tempt poor Eph too much."</p> + +<p>"Sarah?"</p> + +<p>"Jones' foal. Being a fool runs in her family. Wall, Sarah died, and +cabbages was gettin' seldom, and Eph was losing confidence in my aim, +although I told him I'm tough as sea beef."</p> + +<p>"He did attack you then?"</p> + +<p>"Not exactly. His acts might have been misunderstood, though. Seemed to +me it was time to survey the pasture, and see how much in the way of +grub could be spared to a poor widower. These people eats meat, but they +like it butchered for 'em, and ripened. Down at the south end, I spared +Eph a family of wolverines, one at a time, to make the rations hold out. +He began to get encouraged. Then this place was just humming with +rattlesnakes, so Eph and me just went around together so long as the +hunting was worth the trouble. I doubt if there's any left."</p> + +<p>At that I breathed a sigh of relief.</p> + +<p>"Then Eph gets sassy, wanting squir'ls and chipmunks. Now thar I was +firm. Every striped var<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span>mint of 'em may rob my oat sacks, every squir'l +may set up and cuss me all day, but they won't get hurt. They scold and +swear, but every lil' devil among them knows I like being insulted. +Though they has enemies—foxes, mink, skunk, weasel, I fed that lot to +Eph, saving the foxes. Tell you, Kate, the landlord began to get so +proud he wouldn't know me."</p> + +<p>"Your great eagles, Jesse; they kill squirrels, too."</p> + +<p>"That's a fact. If I shot the eagles, them squir'ls would get too +joyful. Eagles acks as a sort of religion to squir'ls, or they'd forget +their prayers. The next proposition was cougars."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm glad you killed them. At the old ranch I was so terrified I'd +lie awake all night."</p> + +<p>"And you a musician! Now that's curious. You like lil' small cats, only +one foot from top to tip, although I own they're songsters for their +size. But a nine foot cougar, with a ten-thousand cat-power voice, +composing along as he goes, why he's full of music. Now I was goin' to +propose a cougar opera troupe. They'd knock the stuffing out of that +Wagner, anyway."</p> + +<p>"Not for me, dear. You see, there's trade rivalry. I wish you had shot +them."</p> + +<p>"I'm sort of sorry. Many's the time, camped on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> your bench land, which I +own is a good place for cougars, I'd set up half the night to listen. +They'd come purring so close I could see their eyes glint. Seemed to me +they sat round on their tails and purred because they liked a camp whar +there was no gun-smell. They sang love songs, big war songs, and all +kinds of music. Fancy you bein' scared!</p> + +<p>"Kill them? They're hard to see as ghosts, and every time you fire they +just get absent. That ain't the reason though, for if the landlord +wanted cat's meat, I'd like to see the fight."</p> + +<p>"They'd never dare to fight that giant bear!"</p> + +<p>"I dunno. Eph ain't lost no cougars. He treats them as total strangers.</p> + +<p>"But the real reason I fed no mountain-lions to Eph is mostly connected +with sheep. Cougars does a right smart business in sheep, 'specially +Surly Brown's. Sheep is meaner's snakes, sheepmen is meaner'n sheep, and +if the herders disagrees with the cougars, give me the cougars. Sheepmen +is dirt."</p> + +<p>There spoke the unregenerate cow-boy!</p> + +<p>"But, Jesse dear, are you sure that Eph won't expect me to be 'spared' +next time he's hungry?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no. He was raised respectable, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> there's a proper etiquette for +b'ars on meeting a lady. It's sort of first dance-movements:—'general +slide, pass the cloak-room, and whar's my little home?'"</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p><i>Jesse's Note</i></p> + +<p>N. B.—Kate and me agrees that the next chapter has to be cut out, being +dull. It's all about the barn-raising after we got home to the ranch. +The neighbors put us up a fine big cabin connecting to the old one by a +covered porch of cedar shakes. That's where the fire-wood lives, the +water-butt, the grind-stone, which Kate says is exactly like my singing +voice, likewise the ax and saw.</p> + +<p>Of course our house-raising was a celebration, with a dance, camp-fire, +water-butt full of punch, and headaches. I bet five dollars I was the +only semaphore signaler in our district, and lost it to Iron Dale, who +learned signaling five years ago during the Riel rebellion. Cap Taylor +put up a signal system for our use, of fires by night or big smokes by +day. One means a celebration, two means help, and three means war. The +women beat the men at tug-of-war, but that was due to the widow's wooden +leg being a rallying point for the battle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> Eph being holed up for the +winter, I got more popular.</p> + +<p>After the celebration we settled for the winter, and I put all the +ponies except Jones and the sleigh team down in the caņon pasture. That +made the ranch sort of lonesome, but we're short of hay on account of +the wedding-trip. We're broke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>THE ILLUSTRIOUS SALVATOR</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Letter</i></p> + +<p>Mother, I'm married. I thought I'd got bliss by the horns, but seems +I've not roped what I throwed for, and what I've caught is trouble. I +wish you weren't in Heaven, which feels kind of cold and distant when a +fellow's lonesome. Nobody loves me, and the mosquitoes has mistook me +for a greenhorn.</p> + +<p>I can't smoke in the lady's home, and when it's forty below zero +outside, a pipe clogs with ice from your breath. Chewing is worse, +because she cried. She don't need my guns, saddles, and me, or any sort +of litter whar she beds down, and my table manners belongs under the +table. Men, she says, feeds sitting down, so they won't be mistook for +animals, which stand up.</p> + +<p>Loyal Englishmen like the late Trevor now frying, has a cold bath every +morning, specially in win<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>ter, which throws a surprising light upon his +last symptoms. It's that frozen manner and pyjamas, which makes the +Englishman so durned popular. If I belonged to the episcopal sect, +wearing a coat in the house instead of out-of-doors, and used pink +tooth-paste instead of yellow soap, maybe I'd like my hash with curry +powder, and have some hope of going, when I die, to parts of Heaven +where the English keeps open windows, instead of open house. Meanwhile I +jest moved back into the old cabin with Mick,—he's wagging himself by +the tail between my legs to say as this writing habit is a vice. If I'd +only a bottle of whisky now I'd be good, but as it's eighty miles to +refreshments, he's got to put up with vice.</p> + +<p>This here storm has been running the province since Monday, and making +itself at home as if it had come to stay. Put your nose to the door and +it's froze, so it's no fun crossing to the stable. I just got back. +Horses like to lick white men because we taste salt from eating so much +in our bacon, but that mare Jones takes liberties in kicking me through +the door when she knows durned well it's shut.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Trevor's husband was an opera singer which mislaid his vocal cords, +so settled here to be on his romantic lonesome, and spite his wife. He +went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> loco, and mistook her for a bear; she broke her ankle stampeding; +and I took an interest, he shooting me up considerable until he met with +an accident. Then his widow married me, and I'm plumb disheartened.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>I was cooking slapjacks, which gives quick satisfaction for the time +invested, when Iron Dale rolled in on his way home. Says my high-grade +slapjacks is such stuff as dreams are made of. With him quoting +Scripture like that I got suspicious about his coming around by this +ranch, instead of hitting straight for Sky-line. On that he owns up to +something dam curious and disturbing to my fur. Thar's a stranger at +Hundred Mile House, claiming he's come from London, England, to find my +wife.</p> + +<p>On the stage sleigh from Ashcroft this person got froze, which mostly +happens to a tenderfoot, who'd rather freeze like a man than run behind +like a dog. So of course he comes in handy for poor Doc McGee. Our +people being hale and artful as bears, McGee would be out of practise +altogether but for such, so I hope he'll make good out of this here +perishable stranger, the same being a useful absentee from my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> ranch. +He's got a sort of puppy piano along, which grieves me to think our +settlers must be getting out of date with such latest improvements, and +other settlements liable to throw dirt in our face. Puppy pianos which +tinkle isn't priced yet in the Hudson's Bay store catalog. Seems it's +called harpsecord, and this person plays it night and day, so that the +ranch hands is quitting, and Cap Taylor charges him double money for +board. I wonder what he wants with my wife, anyhow. The missus wants me +to take the sleigh and collect him. I dunno but seems to my dim +intellecks that would be meeting trouble half-way, besides robbing the +doctor and Capt. Taylor who done me no harm.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>This morning, after rigging a life-line to the stable because of this +continuing blizzard, I went to the lady's home. She showed me a letter +Dale brought, in eytalian, which says the swine proposes to kiss her +feet, and wallow in divine song, etc. His name is Salvator, so he's a +dago. She, being white, can't have any truck with such, being the same +specie as niggers, so that's all right. Seems the puppy piano is for her +from her beloved maestro, another<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> swine from the same litter. She's +singing now, and it goes through my bones. Her voice is deep as a man's, +strong as Fraser Rapids, and I own that puppy piano appeals to my best +instinks. As for me, my name's mud, and she treads in it.</p> + + +<h3>IV</h3> + +<p>The wind went chasing after the sun, leaving peace and clear stars, so +this morning it must be sixty below zero by the way the logs are +splitting. At noon Tearful George transpires, dumping the puppy piano, +and the swine with his nose in a muff. Tearful had capsized the sleigh +over stumps to make his passenger run instead of arriving here like +frozen meat, but appears it hadn't done the harpsecord no good. He said +he'd roll his tail before any more music broke out, so didn't stay +dinner. The swine was down on one knee in front of the missus, +slobbering over her hand. She was kneading doe at the time, and there's +some on his nose.</p> + +<p>He's got an angels-ever-bright-and-fair expression, smiles to turn milk, +dog's eyes, and a turndown collar. He calls her Donner +Addoller-r-r-ra-ta, and looks as if he hadn't had much to eat on the +trail with Tearful, though they'd camped at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> Widow O'Flynn's where pie +occurs whenever her Billy's to home.</p> + +<p>Kate's pleased all to pieces. Seems this gent in the paper collar has +wrote an opera, and there's a party goes by the name of Impress Ario, +song and dance artist, putting it on the stage at London, England. The +leading woman sings base, and that's why Kate is wanted. To the only +woman on earth who sings base enough, they sends this dingus and the +organ-grinder. She says it's a business proposition with money in it, +and wants me to come along to the Old Country. She'd have me in a collar +and chain with a pink bow at my off ear, promenading in Strand Street.</p> + +<p>She's been having a rough time here, mostly living on wild meat, without +money or servants. I'd like well to see her happier; I know her music +belongs to the whole world, and I've no right to hold her for any +selfishness. If it's up to her to go, it's agin me to look pleased, and +she shall go the day I believe in her call.</p> + +<p>She and the tinkle dingus and the swine are at it full blast. He's +screeching nil desperandum, she's thundering "Shut-ut the dooroh!" "Ting +ting tong banggo!" says the puppy piano, while Mick in here<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> howls like +a moonstruck wolf. I dunno, but seems to me that when you're out at +night between the stars and the mountains and the river praising God in +the caņon, there's music reaching from your soul to the Almighty, and +peace descending right out of Heaven. Oh, Lord, speak to my wife, and +tell her there's more love right here, than in all the sham passions of +all the damned operas put together. But now she's following after vain +swine.</p> + + +<h3>V</h3> + +<p>I made the dago bed down in here, but he flopped over to breakfast and +they've been at it hammer and tongs ever since. "Tinkie tankie ping ping +pee-chee-ree-ho-O! Oh! Oho! me-catamiaou-ow-yow." Cougars is kittens to +it, but I'm durned ignorant, and I notice that the signor looked on +while she washed up.</p> + +<p>I didn't sorrow with Kate persuading me to drive them as far as Hundred +Mile. The sound of her voice stampedes me every time, but when the dago +tries to stroke my ears, he was too numerous, so I held his head in the +bucket until he began to subside. I don't take to him a whole lot.</p> + +<p>From when I'd finished the horses, till nigh on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> sundown, the music +tapered off, and I got more and more rattled. At last I walked right in.</p> + +<p>She'd a black dress, indecent round the shoulders, and a bright star on +her brow. She stood with the swine's arms around her, until at the sight +of me he shrank off, guilty as hell. There was nary a flicker of shame +or fear to her, but she just stood there looking so grand and beautiful +that my breath caught in my throat. "Why, Jesse," she said, her voice +all soft with joy, "I'm so glad you've come to see. It's the great +scene, the renunciation. Come, Salvator, from 'Thy people shall be—'"</p> + +<p>I twisted him by the ear into my cabin, he talking along like a +gramophone. I set him down on the stool, myself on the bunk, inspecting +him while I cut baccy, and had a pipe. If I let him fight me with guns, +she'd make a hero of him. If I hoofed him into the cold or otherwise +wafted him to the dago paradise, she'd make a villain of me.</p> + +<p>"You wrote an opery," says I.</p> + +<p>He explains with his tongue, his eyes, and both paws waving around for +the time it takes to boil eggs. I'm not an egg.</p> + +<p>"You give the leading woman a base voice?"</p> + +<p>He boiled over some more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> + +<p>"So you got an excuse for coming."</p> + +<p>He spread out over the landscape.</p> + +<p>"Thinkin'," sez I, "that she'd nothin' more than Trevor to guard her +honor."</p> + +<p>More talk.</p> + +<p>"But you found her married with a man."</p> + +<p>He wanted to go alone to civilization.</p> + +<p>"You stay here," I says, "and Salvator, you're going to earn your +board."</p> + + +<h3>VI</h3> + +<p>I ain't claiming that this Salvator actually earned his grub this month. +He can clean stables now without being kicked into a curry hash; he can +chop water holes through ice, and has only parted with one big toe up to +date; he can buck fire-wood if I tend him with spurs and quirt; but his +dish-washing needs more rehearsals, and he ain't word perfect yet at +scrubbing floors. He's less fractious and slothful since he was up-ended +and spanked in presence of a lady, but on the other hand, there's a lack +of joy, cheerfulness, and application. He's too full of dumb yearnings, +and his pure white soul seems to worry him, but then there's bucking +horses for him to ride<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> in spring, and first exercises in bears. My bear +had ought to be a powerful tonic.</p> + +<p>I sent a cable message by Tearful George to the song and dance artist +who's running the swine's opery, just inquiring if he'd remitted +Salvator to collect my wife. The reply is indignant to say that the +swine is a liar. Likewise there's a paragraph in the Vancouver papers +about the illustrious young composer, Salvator Milani, who's +disappeared, it seems, into the wilds. His wife is desolated, his kids +is frantic, the Salvatori, a musical society, is offering rewards, which +may come in useful, and the rest of mankind throws fits. This paper owns +up that the departed is careless and absent-minded, and I just pause to +observe that he hasn't made my bed. He'll have some quirt for supper.</p> + +<p>As to my wife, she'd never believe that the swine wasn't sent to fetch +her, or that he's deserted his wife and family. She thinks he's a little +cock angel, and me a cock devil. She'll have to find him out for +herself.</p> + + +<h3>VII</h3> + +<p>My wife has run away with him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p> + + +<h3>VIII</h3> + +<p>I could pick stars like apples. Here's me with my pipe and dog in my +home, and my dear wife content. The Dook of London has no more, except +frills. I hardly know whar to begin, 'cept whar I left off without +mentioning how they run away. The illustrious didn't have the nerve, so +it was my lady who stole over to stable in the dead of night, and +harnessed the team so silent I never woke. She drove off with her +trunks, the puppy piano, and her swine, on a bitter night with eighty +mile ahead before she'd get any help if things went wrong. She has the +pure grit, my great thoroughbred lady, and it makes me feel real good to +think of the way she followed her conscience along that unholy trail +through the black pines.</p> + +<p>By dawn she put up for breakfast at O'Flynn's. The widow had broke her +leg reproaching a cow, and sent off her son to the carpenter at Hundred +and Fifty Mile House to get the same repaired. Her bed was beside the +stove, with cord-wood, water, and grub all within reach. It was real +awkward though that the stove had petered out, and the water bucket +froze solid while she slept, so she was expecting to be wafted before +her son got home, when Kate ar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span>rived in time to save her from Heaven. +The signor volunteers to make fire and cook grub while Kate fed and +watered the team, so my wife has the pleasure of chopping out a +five-foot well at Bent Creek, while this unselfish cavalierio stayed in +the house and got warm. Naturally he didn't know enough to light the +stove, until the widow threw things, and he got the coal-oil. Then he +disremembered how to soak the kindlings before he struck a match, so he +lit the fuel first, then stood over pouring oil from the five-gallon +can. When the fire lep' up into the can, of course he had to let go, and +when he seen the cabin all in flames, he galloped off to the woods, +leaving the Widow O'Flynn to burn comfy all by herself.</p> + +<p>By the time Kate reaches the cabin, the open door is all flames; but, +having the ice ax, she runs to the gable end, and hacks in through the +window. The bed's burning quite brisk by then, but the widow has quit +out, climbed to the window and gone to sleep with the smoke, so that +Kate climbs in and alights on top of her sudden. The fire catches hold +of my wife, but she swings the widow through the window, climbs out, +lights on top of her again, then takes a roll in the snow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> + +<p>When the illustrious comes out of the woods to explain, d'ye think she'd +listen? I can just see him explaining with dago English, paws, +shoulders, and eyes. She leaves him explaining in front of the burning +cabin. Three days from now young O'Flynn will ride home with his +mother's limb tied to the saddle strings, and if the swine's alive then, +he'll begin explaining again, though Billy's quick and fretful with his +gun.</p> + +<p>My wife humped this widow to the barn, and got warm clothes from her +trunks for both of them. She fired out her baggage and the puppy piano, +bedded down the widow in clean hay, hitched up the team, and hit the +trail for home.</p> + +<p>She hadn't a mile to go before she met me, and what with the smoke from +O'Flynn's, the widow in the rig, and the complete absence of the swine, +I'd added up before she reined her team. She would want to cry in my +arms.</p> + +<p>So she's in bed here, her burns dressed with oil from a bear who held me +up once on the Sky-line trail. It's good oil. The widow's asleep in my +cabin, and I'm right to home with this letter wrote to you, Mother. I +guess you know, Mummy, why me and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> my pipe and my dog are welcome now, +which you've lived in your time and loved.</p> + +<p>So hoping you're in Heaven, as this leaves me at present.</p> + +<p class="center"> +Yr. affect. son,<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 6em;"><span class="smcap">Jesse.</span></span><br /> +<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>ROBBERY-UNDER-ARMS</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>We have started a visitor's book. It opens with press cuttings of +interviews with Professor Bohns, the famous archæologist, who came to +examine the paleolithic deposits at South Cave. Next are papers relating +to a summons for assault, brought by the late Mr. Trevor against J. +Smith. There is a letter from a big game hunter, Sir Turner Rounde, who +came up the caņon collecting specimen pelts of <i>ursus horribilis</i>, which +Jesse maintains is not a grizzly bear. But the gem of our collection is +a letter of lengthy explanation from an eminent Italian cur, who spent a +whole month at the ranch last winter. Nobody is more hospitable, or more +hungry for popularity than my dear man, but I think that special prayers +should be offered for his visitors. He has a motto now:—"Love me: love +my bear, not my missus."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> + +<p>My jealous hero has told the story of an old admirer, once my +fellow-student, who brought me a dumpy piano for which I had so starved, +told me the news, talked shop, and would make me a prima donna—my +life's ambition. The trap was well baited. Lonely, and terrified by the +dread majesty of winter, I craved for the lights, for the crowds, for my +home, for my people, for my art. And there are little things besides +which mean so much to a woman.</p> + +<p>Salvator turned out to be a cur, his mission despicable, and yet no +woman born can ever be without some little tenderness for one whose love +misleads him. And I who sought to read a lesson to poor Jesse, learned +one for myself. I am no longer free, but fettered, and proud of the +chains, Love's chains, worth more to me than that lost world.</p> + +<p>And yet I wonder if in Heaven there are blessed but weak little souls +like mine, which grow weary at times of the harps, chafed by their +crowns of glory, bored to tears with bliss, ready to give it all up just +for a nice gossip. That would be human.</p> + +<p>Where spring has come like a visitation of angels, where winter's +loneliness is changing to summer's happy solitude, I look into mirror +pools, and see contentment. Oh, how can civilized people realize the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> +wonder and glamour of this paradise? Up in the black pines it is winter +still, but all our towered, bayed, sculptured, sunny precipice is alive +with flowers and birds, while the slopes at the foot of the wall are +white with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a +little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower caņon the trees +are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have +just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us, +and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's +reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown +up.</p> + +<p>Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I +was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard +from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of +golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip, +could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather +dangerous.</p> + +<p>One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a +caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had +ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new grass, Mrs. O'Flynn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> +was redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my +water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter, +spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.</p> + +<p>Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling +magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a +visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my +sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in +the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse +aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a +gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs. +O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!</p> + +<p>Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for +every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her +fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the +house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.</p> + +<p>From chivalrous respect for women—the species being rare on the stock +range—cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is +accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> +inquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is +bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make +obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters +beyond their concern.</p> + +<p>In the cattle country a visitor asked to dismount, makes camp or house +his home, never suggesting by word or glance a doubt that he is welcome +to water, pasturage, food, shelter, and warmth, so long as he needs to +stay. I had not invited this man to dismount.</p> + +<p>Judged by these signs—chivalry, reticence, courtesy—Mrs. O'Flynn's +guest was not a cow-boy. His florid manners, exaggerated politeness, and +imitation of our middle-class English speech stamped him bounder, but +not of the British breed. Later, in moments of excitement, he spoke New +York, with a twang of music-hall.</p> + +<p>Even in so lonely a place it is curious to remember that such a person +should appeal to me. Still in his common way the man had beauty, carried +his clothes well, moved with grace. So much the artist in me saw and +liked, but I think no woman could have seen those tragic eyes without +being influenced.</p> + +<p>"Ah! Mrs. Smith, I believe?" He stood uncovered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> "May I venture to ask +if your husband is at home? I think I had the pleasuah of knowing him +years ago down in Texas."</p> + +<p>"He'll be back by noon."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, madam. Fact is, we were very much surprised to see your +chimney smoke. We thought this exquisite place was quite unoccupied. +Indeed!"</p> + +<p>"Who's 'we'?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, we're the outfit riding for General Schmidt. We've come in search +of the spring feed. We were informed that Ponder's place was unoccupied, +open to all. Am I mistaken in supposing that this is Ponder's place?"</p> + +<p>"It is."</p> + +<p>"Er—may I venture to ask if your husband holds squatter's rights, or +has the homestead and preemption?"</p> + +<p>"You may ask my husband."</p> + +<p>"Thank you, madam. Our foreman instructed me to say that if the place +proved to be occupied, I was to ask terms for pasturage. We've only two +hundred head."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Smith will consider the matter."</p> + +<p>"We're camped in a little cave at the south end of the bench, deuced +comfortable."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> + +<p>Of course I know I'm a fool, and expect to be treated as such. But this +man claimed to have camped at the South Cave without passing this house, +which was impossible.</p> + +<p>"Camped at South Cave?" said I. "In that event I need not detain you. +Mr. Smith no doubt will call on you after dinner. Good morning, sir."</p> + +<p>But this was not to his mind, and I gathered vaguely that my husband was +not really wanted at the Bar Y camp. I even suspected that this visitor +would rather deal with me than see my husband. It required more than a +hint to secure his departure.</p> + +<p>Jesse returned at noon. He had set off singing, but at dinner he was so +thoughtful that he never even noticed my casserole, a dish he was +expected to enjoy, and when he tried afterward to light an empty pipe, I +saw that there was something wrong. He received the story of our caller +with the noises of one displeased. "That visitor, Kate," he summed up, +"would make a first-class stranger. Knew me, you say, in Texas?"</p> + +<p>Hearing from her kitchen Mrs. O'Flynn's sharp grunt of dissent, I closed +the door.</p> + +<p>"You've left the key-hole open," said Jesse, rising from the table, "come +for a walk."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Now, Kate dear," Jesse sat down beside me on the Apex Rock, "this morn +you got your first lesson in robbers. How would you like a visit to old +Cap Taylor at Hundred Mile?"</p> + +<p>My voice may have quivered just a little. "Danger?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"I dunno as there's actual danger, but if I jest <i>knowed</i> you was safe, +I'd be free to act prompt."</p> + +<p>"Tell me everything, Jesse."</p> + +<p>"Up at the north end of the bench, there's maybe two hundred head of +strange cattle. One pedigree short-horn bull is worth all of twenty-five +hundred dollars, and there's a Hereford stud I'd take off my hat to +anywheres. There's Aberdeens or Angus—I get them poll breeds mixed—and +a bunch of Jerseys grazing apart, purty as deer. Anyways, that herd's +worth maybe two hundred thousand dollars, every hoof of 'em stolen, and +if you raked all them millionaire ranches in California I doubt you'd +get that value."</p> + +<p>"How do you know they're stolen?"</p> + +<p>"No stock owner needs that amount of stud cattle. We don't raise such in +the north, so they've been drifted in here from the States. They're +gaunt with famine and driving, and it beats me to think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> how many more's +been left dead crossing the Black Pine country. The Bar Y brands has +been faked. The parties herding 'em waits till I'm away, and tries to +make a deal with you for pasturage. The gent with the sad eyes is sent +dressed up to fool a woman."</p> + +<p>"But how could even robbers collect such a wonderful herd?"</p> + +<p>"Kate, in them western states there's just about four hundred cow +thieves working together, which you'll see them advertised in the papers +robbing coaches, trains, pay for mining-camps, or now and again some +bank. Still that's just vacations, and the main business is lifting +cattle.</p> + +<p>"Ye see, Kate, they'd collect an occasional stud, such as these here +imported thoroughbreds, too good to lose, too well-known to sell, too +hot to hold. They'd keep 'em in some hid-up pasture. But sometimes the +people prods the sheriffs to get a move on, or Uncle Sam sends pony +soldiers to play hell with the sovereign rights of them holy western +states. Then the robbers is apt to scatter down in store clothes, for a +drunk at 'Frisco. This time I seen in the papers that Uncle Sam is +rounding up his rob<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>bers, so naturally the pick of their stealings +requires hiding. They'd drive north for the British possessions, but on +the plains there's too much mounted police, whereas this British +Columbia has one district constable to a district the size of the old +country. Yes, they'd come to this province, and this here ranch of ours +is a sort of North Pole to the stock range. Since old man Ponder quit +out, and I squatted, only the neighbors know that the ranch is claimed.</p> + +<p>"Now, Kate," his great strong arm closed round me like a vise. "The hull +country knows you're clear grit, so there's no shame in leaving. For my +sake, dear—"</p> + +<p>"Do you think I'd leave you in danger?"</p> + +<p>He sighed. "I knew it. I cayn't help it, and, Kate, it's the truth, I'd +rather see you dead than scared. There's Madam Grizzly, and Seņora +Cougar, there's Lady Elk, and even Mrs. Polecat, brave as lions. I'd +hate to have my mate the only one to run like a scalded cat."</p> + +<p>"The program, Jesse?"</p> + +<p>"Do you remember, Kate, how we lost five dollars finding out that Dale +and me is signalers?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And Captain Taylor gave us the signals to raise the district: one fire +for feasts, two for help, three for war!"</p> + +<p>"That's it, little woman. By dusk I'll be on top of the cliffs, and make +my fires back from the rim-rock, where them robbers won't see the +glare."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h2> + +<h3>THE ROUND-UP</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>While I made signal fires on the top of the cliff, Mr. Robber came to +find out from my wife why for I hadn't called to leave my card at the +South Cave. He's picturesque, says she, hair like a raven's wing, eyes +steel-blue, scarf indigo striped with orange, shirt black silk, woolly +shaps out of a Wild West show, gold and silver fixings, Cheyenne saddle, +carbine of some foreign breed, or maybe a Krag, manners fit for a king, +age thirty-four, height six feet two inches, chest only thirty-eight, +and such a sad smile—all of this will be useful to the police.</p> + +<p>He tried all he knew to get out of being photographed, which I wisht I'd +been there, for it must have been plumb comic, but we all submits when +Kate gets after us. That reminds me that if he can't capture the camera +and plate, we're apt to be burnt out by accident.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p> + +<p>She led him on and made him talk. If his boss knew how much Kate has +down in her note-book, this guy with the sad eyes would get kicked all +round the pasture. When I axed if the robber made love to her, my wife +just laughed, and turned away, telling me not to be a fool; but the +blush came round her neck.</p> + +<p>I dunno. Perhaps it's my liver, so I'm taking the only medicine I have, +which it tastes like liniment. Is it liver, or am I getting to dislike +this person?</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>So happens, while I was writing, Billy O'Flynn comes along with the pack +outfit on his way to Sky-line. He wanted to know why I made them fires, +so I explained I was making a clearing up thar for Kate's spring +chrysanthemums. (She spelt that word, which had me bogged down to the +hocks.) It may be liver, or my squeam inflamed, but my mind ain't easy, +and the Sky-line folk may think I'm only joshing with them fires.</p> + +<p>I can't leave Kate to ride for help, I can't shift her, I can't send +Billy to the constable without breaking my contract with the Sky-line, +and I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> divulge nothin' to William O'Flynn, Esquire, who talks to +the moon rather than waste conversation.</p> + +<p>If I make a letter for Dale, and slip it into the pouch, Billy won't +know, or gossip if he happens to meet in with stray robbers. I'll get +him up and off by midnight to the Sky-line, in time for the supper pies, +and the boys will be surging down to the ferry before to-morrow +midnight. Now I must make up some lies to hasten Billy's timid footsteps +along the path of duty.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Billy hastened away at midnight to tell Dale that pigeon's milk is +selling at eighty-four and three-fourths. He believes that if he can get +that secret intelligence to Iron in good time, he's to share the +profits. Fact is, that Iron's late wife made him the laughing-stock of +the plains over some joke she put up on him connected with pigeon's +milk, so that Billy's share of the profits will be delivered on the toe +of Dale's boot. He's breaking records to make the Sky-line quick.</p> + +<p>Nothing happened this morning, except Bull Durham, calling himself +Brooke. He, the gent with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> sad eyes, who came to make love to my +wife. He paid me one hundred dollars for pasturage. Then I axed him to +stay dinner, and Kate says she never seen me so talkative. Bull found +out which weeks the Cariboo stage carries specie, and how many thousand +dollars a month in amalgam comes down from the Sky-line camp. He even +dragged out of me that old Surly Brown, the miser, has fifteen thousand +dollars buried under the dirt floor of his cabin—which reminds me that +if Brown's home becomes the scene of a mining stampede, I'll have to +keep shy of his rifle. I owned up that our provincial constable is in +bed with the mumps at Alexandria—temperature of a hundred and six in +the shade. I sort of hinted that he was prejudiced agin me for belonging +to the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and because I was +suspected of adopting poor, dumb, driven cattle which had happened to +stray within range of my branding-iron. He even learned I'd rode for the +Lightning outfit, and from this jumps on to the conclusion I must have +belonged once to the Tonto gang of outlaws. This might account for me +being hid up here in the British possessions. Our mutual acquaintance, +even at Abilene, was all candidates for the gallows, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> such of the +dear departed as had been invited to the hereafter by Judge Lynch. Yes, +he showed a great gift of faith, and got both his photo and the negative +to show there was no ill feeling. I'm pastoral, harmless, simple, raised +for a pet.</p> + +<p>Leaving Kate hid in a ruined shack, half-way to the ferry, I was down by +eleven <span class="smcap">P.M.</span> to the bank of the river, hailing old man Brown. So soon as +he'd brung me acrost, I sent him to ride for all he was worth and +collect our constable, which cost me eighteen dollars and a horse. The +money is severe, but I'll get even on horse trades.</p> + +<p>From midnight to one <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> I put in the time cussing Dale; from then till +two <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> I felt that nobody loved me; from two <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> to half past, I was +scheming to take the robbers single-handed. At two thirty-five Dale +rolled up with nine men from Sky-line, mounted on Billy's ponies, +besides O'Flynn, and Ransome Pollock, who may be good for a burnt +offering but ain't much use alive.</p> + +<p>Of course, having raised the country, I'd got to make good, producing a +business proposition and robbers to follow. Iron has no sense of humor +anyhow, and can't see jokes unless the prices is wrote plain on their +tickets. He's come to this earth after<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> dollars. If a batch of robbers +is liable to cost him fifty dollars a day, and only fetches fifty-one +dollars a day on the contract, his mine is better money, so he rolls his +tail and takes away his men. That's Iron Dale seven days in the week.</p> + +<p>He's right smart, too, at holding a business meeting, so when I'd ate +cranberry pie, which is a sort of compliment from the mine, and the boys +has some of Brown's tea as a donation from me, the convention sits down +solemn to talk robbers.</p> + +<p>Moved and seconded that hold-ups ain't encouraged in her majesty's +dominions, and we hands these robbers to the constable as his lawful +meat, but we got to get 'em first.</p> + +<p>Resolved that there's money in it. The owners of them cattle had ought +to be grateful and show their gratitude, 'cause otherwise the stock is +apt to scatter. Proposed that we hit the trail right away, with Iron +Dale for leader. Carried, with symptoms of toothache disabling one of +his men.</p> + +<p>Dale told off O'Flynn and Branscombe to stampede the cattle just at +glint of dawn, sending 'em past the cave, and shooting and yelling as if +there was no hereafter. That should interest the robbers, and bring them +out of the cave which overlooks our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> pasture. Looking down at a sharp +angle, they weren't likely to hit our riders, whereas our posse, posted +in good cover with a steady aim, could attend to the robbers with +promptness and despatch.</p> + +<p>Crossing the ferry our main outfit left Billy and Branscombe to start +drifting the cattle southward, while we rode on to take up our positions +around the cave. With dawn coming on, and Kate alone in that shack, I +wanted the boys to gallop, whereas Dale said he'd no use for broken +legs. The night was dark as a wolf's mouth.</p> + +<p>In the ruined shack, half-way to our home, Kate was to have a candle, +screened so that it could only be seen from our trail. As soon as we +rose the edge of the bench, and a mile before we would reach the shack, +I seen the candle and knew that she was safe. We passed my fence, we +crossed the half-mile creek, we gathered speed along the open pasture, +and then Kate's yell went through me like a knife. The robbers must have +had a man on night herd, and found her by that light!</p> + +<p>Dale's hand grabbed my rein, and with a growl he halted our whole +outfit. "Steady," says he, "you fool!" Then in a whisper, as his men +came crowding in: "Dismount! Ransome, hold horses! Sam,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> take three men +afoot round the rear of that cabin. I take the rest to close in the +front. Siwash, and Nitchie Scott, find enemy's horses and drift them +away out of reach. No man to whisper, no man to make a sound, until I +lift my hand at that cabin window. After that, kill any man who tries to +escape. Get a move on!"</p> + +<p>So, with me at his tail, he crept along from cover to cover, waving hand +signals to throw his squad into place. The enemy's five horses at the +door were led off by Billy's Siwash <i>arriero</i>, and Nitchie Scott, so +gently that the robbers thought they were grazing. By that time Dale and +me was at the window gap on the north side of the shack, but the candle +was in our way, we couldn't see through its glow, and it wasn't till we +got round to the door hole that we'd a view of what was going on inside.</p> + +<p>My wife stood in the nor'west, right, far corner. A man with a gray chin +whisker and a mournful smile, with his gun muzzle in her right ear, was +shoving her head against the wall. Bull was talking as usual, explaining +how his tact was better'n Whiskers' gun at persuading females. Ginger +was trying to assuage Bull. The greaser was keeping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> a kind of lookout, +although he couldn't see from the lighted room into the dark where we +was. Ginger clapped his paws over Bull's mouth before the proceedings +went on.</p> + +<p>"Now," says Whiskers sadly, "are you goin' to scream any more?"</p> + +<p>Kate's face was dead white with rage. "You cur," said she, "I screamed +because my—you're hurting me, you brute! Leave off if you want to hear +one word from me. Leave off! That's better. No, I won't scream again."</p> + +<p>The gun sight was tearing her ear as she screwed her head around, +looking him full in the eyes. "If you do me any harm," she said, "my +husband's friends won't let you off with death. They'll burn you. Stand +back, you coward!"</p> + +<p>He flinched back just a little, and I saw his hand drawing slowly clear +of her head.</p> + +<p>"Get your horses," she cried out sharp, "you've barely time to escape!"</p> + +<p>Then I fired, the bullet throwing that hand back, so that it contracted +on the gun. His revolver shot went through the rear wall. The hand was +spoiled.</p> + +<p>"Now, hands up, all of you!" Dale yelled.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> "Hands up! Drop your guns!" +One of the robbers was raising his gun to fire, so I had to kill him. +The rest surrendered.</p> + +<p>"Kate," said I, sort of quiet, and she came to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h2> + +<h3>THE STAMPEDE</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Being married to a lady, and full of dumb yearnings for reform, I axed +Dale when he was down to Vancouver to dicker for a book on etiquette. +<i>Deportment for Gents</i> being threw at a policeman and soiled, Dale only +paid six bits; but I tossed him double or quits, and come out all right. +As to the book, it's wrote mighty high and severe by Professor Aaron E. +Honeypott, but when I tried some on my wife she laughed so she rolled on +the floor. I know now that when I sweats at a dance I'm not to hang my +collar on the chandileer, or press bottled beer on my partner. If ever I +get to a town I'm to take the outside of the sidewalk, wipe my gums on +the mat, and wash before I use them roller towels. But it doesn't say +when I'm to wear my boots inside my pants, or how old Honeypott chews +without having to spit, or what to say when Jones kicks me in the +morning, or in deadfall tim<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span>ber, or when a bear dislikes me, or any +unusual accident in this vale of tears; and there ain't one word about +robbers.</p> + +<p>Which these robbers we got in the cave is a disappointment. This old man +what leads them with a plume on his face, ought to have more deportment, +for screwing a gun in Kate's ear ain't no sort of manners. Even after +I'd shot his hand to chips, he grabbed Ransome's gun with his left and +tried to make me lie down. There's some folks jest don't know when you +give them a hint.</p> + +<p>And Bull, with the sad eyes, ought to comport himself around like a +Honeypott, seeing the way he was raised, and how he claims on me his +ancient friendship. While we lashed his thumbs behind him, he told us +he'd been educated at Oxford and Cambridge.</p> + +<p>"What!" Kate flashed out, "after leaving Eton and Harrow?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and I've enough education to guess this ain't no way to treat +American citizens. You'll hear of this," he shouted, "from Uncle Sam!"</p> + +<p>"Thar," says Dale, "I knew there'd be rewards for you, dead or alive. +How much? Two thousand dollars a head?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> + +<p>Then old Whiskers ordered this Bull to shut his head. He's a curious, +slow, mournful voice, like a cat with the toothache.</p> + +<p>"I demand—"</p> + +<p>"Shut up."</p> + +<p>So Bull shut up while we lashed him, likewise young Ginger and the +greaser. Seeing the fellow I'd killed might want an inquest, we laid him +straight in the ruined shack, and then marched our prisoners off to +South Cave, where they'll wait until we get our constable to arrest +them.</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>Now on the second day after we captures these ladrones, along toward +supper, the depositions of the various parties is as follows, viz.:</p> + +<p>Up to the ruined shack two mile north of my home, lies the remains of +one robber expecting an inquest. Two miles south, right where the upper +cliff cuts off the end of our pasture, there's our cave full of captured +bandits, to wit; Whiskers, Bull Durham, Ginger, and the dago. Down on +the bench in front of the cave is our guard-camp with Iron Dale in +command, and Kate with the boys having supper. Right home at the ranch +house is me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> finishing my chores, and the widow spoiling hash for my +supper, because she hates me worse nor snakes for being a Protestant. +Away off beyond the horizon is old man Brown cussing blue streaks 'cause +he can't find much constable.</p> + +<p>Such being the combinations at supper-time, along comes the widow's +orphan, young Billy O'Flynn, who handles my pack contract with the +Sky-line. He's supposed to be on duty at the guard-camp, and his riding +back to the home ranch completely disarranges the landscape. I'm busy, +hungry, and expected to take charge of the night guard at the cave, but +somehow this Billy attracts my attention by acting a whole lot +suspicious. Instead of bringing me some message from Dale, he rides +straight to the lean-to kitchen, steps off his pony, and whispers for +his mother. I sneaks through the house to the kitchen in time to see +this widow with a slip of paper, brown paper what we used to wrap up the +prisoners' lunch. At sight of me she gets modest, shoving it into the +stove, but I becomes prominent, and grabs it "Shure," she explains, "an' +it's only a schlip av paper!"</p> + +<p>Seems to be scratches on the smooth side of this paper, sort of +reminding me that Bull has a fountain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>pen sticking out of his vest +pocket. If he's been writing with milk, I'd warm the paper—but no, we +use canned milk, and haven't got any either. I've heard faintly +somewheres of things wrote in spittle, so I pours on a bottle of ink, +and rinses the paper in the water-butt. Yes, there's the message plain +as print.</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Gun to hand, but cartridges wrong size, no good. Get .45. Billy to +wait with ponies under nearest pine N. of cave, when plough above +N. Star. Send more gum for chief's wound.—Bull."</p></blockquote> + +<p>Billy was mounting at the door to put out for solitude, but since he +knows I can't miss under two hundred yards, he was persuaded to come +into the cabin. There I read him some of the etiquette about keeping his +temper, and not using coarse language. Also I told him politely what I +thought of him, and where he'll go when he dies. He waited, stroking the +little fur on his muzzle, till I got through, looking so damned patient +with me that I came near handing him one in the eye.</p> + +<p>"You invited these robbers to my grass?"</p> + +<p>He nodded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Thanks to you, my wife had a gun muzzle screwed round in her ear."</p> + +<p>"Bet she squinted!" said Billy.</p> + +<p>If I lose my temper, I can't shoot, and Billy knew that well. "She's up +agin it good and hard," said he.</p> + +<p>"Agin what?"</p> + +<p>"Making a silk purse out of a sow's ear."</p> + +<p>"You lop-eared, mangy, pig-faced, herring-gutted son of a ——"</p> + +<p>"From the <i>Etiquette</i>?" asked Billy. "I don' think much of you, anyway. +Mother ain't got no use for you either, or any of the neighbors, you old +cow thief!"</p> + +<p>Now if Billy talked so big as all that, it must be to astonish his +mother. So she must be at the key-hole, and sure enough I heard her +grind her stump with the backache from stooping down. Happens Mrs. Smith +has a garden squirt which it holds a gallon, so while I kep' young Billy +interested with patches of etiquette, I took off the rose, filled the +squirt, and let drive through the key-hole into the widow's ear. At that +she lifted up her voice and wept.</p> + +<p>Feeling better, I resumed the conversation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> "Billy," sez I, smooth as +cream, while I filled the squirt, "on the shelf there you'll find a +little small bottle." In my dim way I aimed to get him excited, and +talkative, divulging secrets with all his heart. Then afterward I'd like +him asleep, out of mischief.</p> + +<p>"Get your bottle yourself," says he, sort of defiant, so I let drive at +him with the squirt.</p> + +<p>"If you please," said I, and he got the bottle all right.</p> + +<p>"If you don't mind," said I, "will you just draw the cork?"</p> + +<p>"And if I won't?"</p> + +<p>I took my squirt and watched him pull the cork.</p> + +<p>"Thank you," sez I, seeing how beautiful is the uses of true politeness. +"Now may I trouble you to spill what's left in the bottle into that +there goblet? Now be so kind."</p> + +<p>"I refuse!"</p> + +<p>The squirt won't scare any more Billy, so I exhibits my gun.</p> + +<p>"I regrets to remark, Mr. O'Flynn, that this gun acts sort of sudden."</p> + +<p>"Shoot, and you go to jail!"</p> + +<p>"But first, my dear young friend, I've time to lop off a few fingers, +one at a time—won't miss them all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> at once. May I request you to pour +out the medicine? No—not on the floor, please, but into the goblet, +while I observe that your right thumb seems tender after that cut, and +ought to be treated. So, a little more. That's right. Now honor me by +adding a little water from the pitcher. Thank you. Thumb feeling easier? +Well, that there laudanum soothes the fractious infant, and causes a +whole lot of repose. Quite sweet without sugar. Yes, please, you'll lift +the goblet to your mouth while I watch that nothing goes wrong with your +pug nose. You want to throw back your head, you treacherous swine. +Drink, or I'll splash your brains on the floor!"</p> + +<p>"I daren't! It's poison!"</p> + +<p>"It's bullets—you'd better! Drink, or I'll kill you! Drink! +One—two—much obliged, I'm sure. Hope you'll sleep well."</p> + +<p>"Curse you!" he shrieked, and flung the glass at my head.</p> + +<p>Then down came the widow like a landslide. She scratched my face, +confessed my sins, sobbed over her darling Billy <i>avick</i>, prescribed for +my future, wrung her wet frock, and made a soap emetic for her offspring +all at once. It's a sure fact that widow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> was plenty busy, and what with +slinging that emetic at the patient, and gently introducing the lady to +the kitchen cupboard, wall, I declare I didn't have a dull moment. Then +distant shots brought us up all standing.</p> + +<p>"At last!" Billy shouted, "they're off!"</p> + +<p>"Who's off?"</p> + +<p>"Father and his men—escaped while I kep' you in talk. Fooled, Jesse! +Fooled! I fooled you to the eyes! My father's Larry O'Flynn, Captain +Larry O'Flynn, captain of the outlaws!" My, there was pride in the lad! +He sat on the table in the dusk, fighting to keep awake, rubbing his +eyes with his sleeve. "He's give me leave to join, and I'm hitting the +trail to-night—hitting the trail, d'ye hear?" His eyes closed, his +voice trailed off to a whisper, and then once more he roused. "I'm a +wolf!" he howled. "I come from Bitter Creek! The higher up, the worse +the waters, and I'm from the source! Robbery-under-arms, and don't you +forget it, Mister Jesse Smith!" He rocked from side to side, gripping +hard at the table, muttering threats.</p> + +<p>Outside I could hear a rider coming swift, and Dale's voice hailing, +"Jesse! Jesse!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Jesse," the lad was muttering, "lift his stock, and his woman, burn his +ranch, and put his fires out—thatsh the way to—"</p> + +<p>Dale had stepped from his horse, and stood in the doorway, making it +dark inside. "Where in blazes are you?"</p> + +<p>"Look," said I, and Dale watched, for the boy, dead pale, was lurching +from side to side, his eyes closed, his lips still moving.</p> + +<p>"Only drugged," said I. "Who let them robbers escape?"</p> + +<p>"Ransome Pollock," said Dale.</p> + +<p>"Who else?"</p> + +<p>"Dave."</p> + +<p>"How's his poor tooth?" says I, and Dale explained he'd been clubbed.</p> + +<p>Young O'Flynn rolled over, and went down smash, so that I had to kneel, +and try if his heart was all right. It thumped along steady and give no +sign of quitting.</p> + +<p>"I had to," said I, "old Whiskers yonder is the widow's husband, and +father to this boy. He's clear grit, Iron."</p> + +<p>"Where's the widow?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Resting." I heard horses come thundering out of the dusk. "Robbers +broke south?"</p> + +<p>"Yep."</p> + +<p>"Hev they grow'd wings?"</p> + +<p>"Nope."</p> + +<p>"Can't swim the Fraser?"</p> + +<p>"Bottled?" said he, cheering up.</p> + +<p>"Some," says I. "Not corked yet. You want to make a line here quick, +from the foot of the upper cliff to the edge of the river, and each man +make three big fires. Then post half your men to tend fires, and the +best shots to hold that line with rifles. Them robbers has got to break +through when they knows they're cornered. Here's your boys, Iron. Git a +move on!"</p> + +<p>"That's so," says Dale, and in two shakes of a duck's tail he was +throwing his men into line. Seems that some of the boys rode the +robbers' horses, and the rest were bareback on my pack-ponies, so Kate +had a fine gallop home with the mob. But when she saw what I'd +prescribed for Billy's symptoms, she wasn't pleased, and by the time +she'd made herself content, I had to be off on duty. Meanwhile the +widow, wild and lone, had flew; so that left Kate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> without help, her job +being coffee to keep the boys awake till we'd daylight to corner the +robbers.</p> + +<p>Men watching on a strain like that get scary as cats, so by moonset some +of our warriors would loose off guns at stumps, trees, rocks, or just +because they felt lonesome. After the moon went down, dry fuel got +scant, so that the fires waned, and some of our young men must have seen +millions of outlaws. When at last something actually happened, it was +natural that Ransome should have adventures. He wasn't built for +solitude, and when he seen a flag wave from behind a bush, he called the +boys from left and right to bunch in and corroborate. The flag kep' +waving, and presently two more of our men had to join the bunch because +they couldn't shout their good advice, lest the robbers hear every word. +I was away to Apex Rock, Iron down in the caņon, and these blasted +idiots talked.</p> + +<p>Of course old Whiskers knew that antelope will always creep up to +inspect any waving rag. Before the excitement was properly begun he and +his robbers slipped through our broken line.</p> + +<p>If Ransome has time to aim he's dangerous to the neighbors, but since +the odds were a thousand to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> one the gun would kick him as far as next +Thursday, I'd have bet my debts he wouldn't hit the party with that +flag. Yet that's what happened. He got the widow O'Flynn.</p> + +<p>With one heart-rending, devastating howl she went to grass, and she did +surely shriek as if there was no hereafter. Murthered in the limb she +was, and as I left to follow the sounds of them escaping robbers, I +didn't have time to send a carpenter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h2> + +<h3>THE UNTRUTHFUL PRISONER</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>With creditors, women, robbers, and everything dangerous, you want to be +chuck full of deportment, smooth as old Honeypott, and a whole lot +tactful. Anything distractful or screeching disturbs one's peace of +mind, and sends one's aplomb to blazes, just when a bear trap may happen +at any moment. I traveled for all I was worth to put that widow behind +me, and compose my mind.</p> + +<p>Which her wolf howls was plumb deplorable. It wasn't her limb. Indeed, +she wanted excuses for a new one ever since she seen that table limb in +my barn. It was her husband, Whiskers, departing, desperate to get away +from her. And I don't blame him. She was an irreverent detail anyhow, +diminishing gradual into the night, for if I let them robbers once get +out of hearing, they couldn't be tracked till morning. The worst of it +was I'd no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> smell dog; my Mick being sick with a cold and hot +fermentations, had his nose out of action. No, the only thing was to get +clear of the widow's concert, and keep in hearing while the outlaws +traveled. I was laying a trail of torn paper, mostly unpaid bills, so +that the boys could find which way I'd gone.</p> + +<p>Maybe I'd gone a mile before remorse gnawed Whiskers because he'd +abandoned the widow. He paused, and as I came surging along, he lammed +me over the head with a gun.</p> + +<p>Yes, I was captured. They got my gun, too, and marched me along between +them. Mr. Bull, he yapped like a coyote, full of glory's if he'd +captured me himself. What with being clubbed, and not feeling good just +then, I didn't seem to be much interested, although I put up a struggle +wherever the ground was muddy, leaving plenty tracks down to the ferry, +so that the boys would know which way I'd been dragged.</p> + +<p>Old man Brown was away, but as I'd left the scow on the near bank, the +robbers were able to cross, and put the Fraser between me and rescue. +That ought to have cheered them up, since it gave them a start of +several hours toward safety, but instead of skinning out of British +Columbia, as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> advised them with powerful strong talk, they'd got to +stop for breakfast on old Brown's beans and sow-belly, cussing most +plenteous because he wasn't there to cook hot biscuits.</p> + +<p>After breakfast they wasted an hour dressing his paw for old Whiskers, +and wondering whether they'd waste one of my cartridges on me, or keep +them all for my friends. On that I divulged a lot of etiquette out of my +book. I told these misbegotten offspring they'd been brung up all wrong, +or they'd have enough deportment to make tracks. "Now," says I, "in the +land of the free and the home of the brave you been appreciated, whereas +if you linger here till sunup you'll be shot."</p> + +<p>That made poor Whiskers still more suspicious, wondering what sort of +bear traps guileful Smith was projecting. "Wants to get us up on the +bench," says he, "that means ware traps. We'll stay right here, boys, +for daylight, when we'll be able to see ourselves, how to save them +cattle."</p> + +<p>"We'd better kill the prisoner," Bull argues, and this reminds me of his +ancient friendship.</p> + +<p>"Shut your fool head," says Whiskers. "His friends would rather us go +free than see him killed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> before their eyes. You've no more brains than +a poached owl."</p> + +<p>"You're dead right, Whiskers!" says I. "Hair on you!"</p> + +<p>But he being fretful with his wound, orders his men to disable Brown's +fiddle, and lash me up with catgut. Moreover, when I was trussed, this +Bull seen fit to kick me on the off chance, a part which ain't referred +to in polite society, especially with a boot.</p> + +<p>"Brave man!" says I, and the rest of them robbers was so shamed they got +me a gag.</p> + +<p>"Sorry," says I, "pity I won't be able to guide you to Brown's cigars. +He keeps a bottle, too."</p> + +<p>"Where are they?" says Bull.</p> + +<p>"Gag Brooke," said I, for Bull went by that name, "and I'll divulge the +drinks."</p> + +<p>"Gag Brooke," says Whiskers, cheering up a little, "pity he weren't born +gagged."</p> + +<p>So they gagged Mr. Brooke, and mounted him on sentry while they had +Brown's bottle of whisky and cigars. I got some, too.</p> + +<p>Of course these or'nary, no-account, range wolves reckoned my friends +would wait for day before they attempted tracking. Whereas Dale got the +lantern,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> found my paper trail, and guessed at the ferry. Before we +entered the cabin, I'd seen the glint of that lantern behind the rim of +the bench, and I knew our boys trusted me to keep the robbers somehow +down at the ferry-house. Ginger and the greaser lay down for an hour's +sleep, Mr. Brooke, gagged and not at all pleased, kep' guard at the +door, Whiskers, since the liquor made his wound worse, lurched groaning +around the shack. At the first glint of dawn, he ordered Bull to take +out the gag and lie down, then went to the door himself.</p> + +<p>It's a pity that Dale, our leader, a sure fine shot, has a slight cast +in his near eye, which throws his lead a little to the right. That's +why, when Whiskers went to the door, Dale's bullet only whipped off his +left ear. Instead of being grateful, Whiskers skipped around holding the +side of his face, with remarks which for a poor man was extravagant. The +shot made Bull bolt courageous behind the stove, to look for a bandage, +he said, while Ginger and the greaser sat up on their tails looking sort +of depressed. Not one of the four was happy on finding that they'd +bottled themselves in the cabin instead of taking my advice and clearing +for the States.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Prisoner," says, Whiskers, dolesome, holding his poor ear, "you can +talk to your friends acrost the river?"</p> + +<p>"Why, certainly, Captain."</p> + +<p>"What way?"</p> + +<p>"Signaling."</p> + +<p>"Then tell your friends that if they don't throw all their guns into the +river, you die at sunrise. Have you got religion?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't mention," says I, sort of thoughtful, "that any of my friends +can read the signals."</p> + +<p>"Then," says he, in that suicide manner he had, "they won't get your +last sad words. Get them weapons thrown in the river, or grab religion +right away, for you'll need it."</p> + +<p>"Cut the catgut, Colonel."</p> + +<p>So Ginger cut me free.</p> + +<p>"Show a white flag, General," said I.</p> + +<p>So Ginger waved a paper on a stick, and Dale replied with a white scarf +from his neck.</p> + +<p>When I walked out, the boys acrost the river gave three cheers, but I +was halted from behind before I'd got far sideways. "Now," says +Whiskers, "signal, and pray that you won't be tempted to send erroneous +messages."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Remember," Bull shouts, "I can read Morse. No fooling."</p> + +<p>"All right, Mr. Brooke," I called back, "then I'll use semaphore."</p> + +<p>I heard Whiskers in tears directing his two youngsters to put Mr. +Brooke's head in the meal sack, and sit hard on top. So I began to +signal, explaining each word to Whiskers.</p> + +<p><i>Swim.</i> "That," says I, "means 'Dale.'"</p> + +<p><i>Pool.</i> "That's 'fool,'" says I, "because he don't give the answer."</p> + +<p><i>Below.</i> "That's 'Hello.'"</p> + +<p><i>Rapids.</i> "That's 'Hello' again."</p> + +<p>"You lie," says Whiskers, miserable, through his teeth. "You made six +letters."</p> + +<p>"Sorry," says I, "it got spelt wrong first time."</p> + +<p><i>Float.</i> "That's 'skunk,'" says I, "because he's a polecat not to answer +me."</p> + +<p><i>Guns.</i></p> + +<p>"What's that?" asked Whiskers, heaps suspicious because I couldn't think +of another word of four letters. "Hell!" says I.</p> + +<p>"Quite right," sighed Whiskers, "to think of your future home."</p> + +<p>Dale signaled, <i>Coming</i>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Says he's ready for the Epistle and Gospel now. Spit it out, Whiskers."</p> + +<p>"Tell him to throw his guns in the river, or I'll shoot prisoner. And +what's more, young man, you don't want to call me Whiskers."</p> + +<p>I wagged all that, word for word, as far as "Whiskers," and when the +boys were through laughing, Dale asked if the robbers were serious.</p> + +<p>I explained to the general that Dale wouldn't wet good guns to please a +lot of—</p> + +<p>"Lot of what?"</p> + +<p>"Terms of endearment," says I, "which I blushes for Dale's morals."</p> + +<p>Dale signaled, <i>Keep your tail up.</i></p> + +<p>"Well, General," says I, "without being able to read him exact, I guess +Dale ain't drawing his men off along the bank with your outfit to shoot +them like rabbits the moment they quit cover."</p> + +<p>"Tell Dale," said Whiskers in his tired voice, "he needn't trouble to +take his men along the bank to whar they can swim the river. Now if you +had religion—"</p> + +<p>I could have choked with grief.</p> + +<p>"Tell Dale," says Whiskers, and his bereaved voice kind of jarred me +now, "we're just goin' to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> keep a gun at your ear-hole while we march up +the trail. If Dale's men fire, your wife will be a widow, Mr. Smith."</p> + +<p>At that I wagged my arms and signaled. <i>No call to get wet. Hold-ups +marching to Georgia. Kill man with gun. If you miss, ware Widow Smith.</i> +You see if Dale squinted and missed, my widow was apt to reproach. So I +added, <i>Allow windage for squint.</i></p> + +<p>Dale answered, <i>You bet your life I will.</i></p> + +<p>Then I swung round facing the cabin, and saw the barrel of my own +revolver just peering round the door. By its height from the ground I +judged that poor young Ginger was the artist. I wished it had been Bull, +for I'd taken a fancy to Ginger.</p> + +<p>"Well, gents," says I, "your umbrellas is in the hat rack. All aboard +for Robbers' Roost, and don't forget the lunch."</p> + +<p>Talking encourages me, and it seemed even betting whether me or Ginger +was booked right through to glory. Yes, I talked to gain time for +Ginger, and for me a little, even persuading the robbers to take no +risks. I forgot how them sort of cattle drives by contraries. I only set +their minds on coming, and heard their boss give orders.</p> + +<p>He wanted me into the cabin, but I'd taken a dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span>like to catgut, so +Ginger got orders to shoot me. At that I flared up. "Shoot," says I, +"you skulking cowards, scared to show your noses at the door. Hold your +off ear, Whiskers. Charge, you curs!"</p> + +<p>The chief came first, straight at me, and seemed to climb over my foot +on to his nose. Mr. Bull Brooke got hurt on the nose too, and I'd just +time to hand the greaser a left hander behind the ear, before I went +down on top of Whiskers, and the four of us rolled in a heap. I learned +when I was a sailor how to argue.</p> + +<p>Then I struggled, dragging my pile of robbers off sideways, so that to +keep me covered with the gun, poor Ginger showed his red head in the +doorway. It was his life or mine, yet when the shot rang out from across +the river, and I saw the lad come crashing to the ground, I felt sort of +sick. Of course that shot slacked the grip of the three robbers, so I +wrenched loose, struck hard, and jumped high, gaining the north wall of +the cabin. When I turned round, our boys across the river were pouring +hot lead after the robbers as they dived through the door of the shack. +Ginger sprawled dead on the door-step, and my gun, six paces off, lay in +the dust. The robbers were disarmed, and I was free.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Boys," I called out to them, "you done like men. You put up a good +fight and it ain't no shame to surrender."</p> + +<p>Mr. Bull Brooke's voice answered.</p> + +<p>"Jesse, old friend!"</p> + +<p>I heard a crash inside and guessed that Mr. Brooke had been discouraged.</p> + +<p>"Whiskers," I called, "don't make a mess of that cabin with Mr. Brooke."</p> + +<p>"All right, young fellow," said Whiskers, "we've only put him back in +the flour sack."</p> + +<p>He spoke quite cheerful.</p> + +<p>"Say, Whiskers," I called, "I want to save your lives, you and the +greaser. Come and throw up your hands before you're hurt."</p> + +<p>There was no answer. Rocky Mountain outlaws may be mean and bad, but +they fight like Americans, and they know how to die. I'd only one way +left to force their surrender, and save their lives, so I hustled +brushwood, cord-wood, coal-oil from the shed, piled up the fuel, and got +a sulphur match from the bunch in my hind pocket.</p> + +<p>"Boys," I called, "Old Brown sort of values this place. It's all the +home he's got, and it ain't insured."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> + +<p>No answer.</p> + +<p>The little flame lep' up and caught the brushwood, the crackling lifted +to a roar, and the robbers must surely know that their time was come, +for if they showed at the door they would be shot. I grabbed my gun from +the ground and ran to the doorway to stop our boys from firing. Then I +shouted above the noise of the flames, "Come out and throw up your +hands!"</p> + +<p>They came, poor fellows, and I made them prisoners, marching them down +to the ferry.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X</h2> + +<h3>BREAKING THE STATUTES</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>At Hundred Mile House the long table had been removed from the dining +hall, the benches set back to the log walls, and at the head of the room +an enormous Union Jack draped a very small portrait of Queen Victoria. +Beneath was the chair, in front of it a table set with writing materials +and the Bible, while at one end the schoolma'am looked very +self-conscious as clerk, in official black, with large red bows like +signals of distress.</p> + +<p>On the right sat Iron Dale, Jesse, and myself, and all our posse, very +ill at ease. On the left were two gaunt American stockmen, both wearing +hats, while one had the star of a United States marshal. Beside them sat +the general public, consisting of Tearful George, two ranch-hands, an +Indian, and the captain's bulldog. Wee James, the captain's grandson, +sat with the dog at first, but presently he inter<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span>rupted the court to +say that he would like to sit on me. He sat with considerable weight for +so small a person.</p> + +<p>At Captain Taylor's entrance the constable ordered us all to stand. +Every inch a naval officer, bluff, ruddy, cheery, choleric, frightfully +impressive in a frock coat, he wore a Russian order slung by a ribbon at +his throat, and a little row of miniature war medals, the ribbons, alas, +too small to show me of which campaigns. At sight of the two strangers +he mounted a single eye-glass, and stared with growing wrath until they +removed their hats. Then, taking the chair, he permitted us to be seated +and ordered his constable to "Bring the prisoners aft."</p> + +<p>Had our captives been washed and brushed, they might not have looked so +wretched or so guilty. Old O'Flynn, described by Jesse as Whiskers, with +his head in a blood-stained bandage, his right hand in a gory +handkerchief, looked so ill that he was given a seat. The Mexican, whose +beautiful leather dress, and soft dark eyes reminded me sharply of the +opera-house, seemed like a trapped wolf, only thinking of escape to the +nearest woods. Bull Durham's swaggering gallantry was marred by obvious +traces of the flour sack wherein he had been immersed by his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> disgusted +chief, and the shower of rain which followed.</p> + +<p>"Prisoners," said the magistrate.</p> + +<p>At that moment the United States marshal squirted tobacco juice, +adroitly hitting a spittoon distant some fourteen feet.</p> + +<p>"Constable," said the magistrate austerely, "remove that person until he +has washed his mouth." Every man present had been furtively chewing +tobacco, but no one who knew Captain Taylor in his official mood would +have presumed to spit. Every jaw became rigid, every eye looked +reproachfully at the marshal, who rose protesting in stately sentences +that he represented the majesty of the people.</p> + +<p>"Take his majesty out," said the captain with dreadful calmness, "and +put him under the pump."</p> + +<p>The representative of the stock associations rose to support his +countryman.</p> + +<p>"Clap them in irons," said the captain. "I'll have no spitting on my +quarter deck."</p> + +<p>Jesse and Dale rose to assist the constable, and for some stirring +moments we were threatened with international complications. Then in his +quaint slow drawl my husband obtained leave to address the magistrate. +"I got an American book right here,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> said he, "in my hind pocket. It's +called <i>Deportment for Gents</i>. In real high-toned society, this +Honeypott claims that Amurrican gentlemen chews, but reserves the juice +until they happens on a yaller dawg. Then they assists that dawg with +his complexion."</p> + +<p>The marshal stooped to pet the captain's bulldog.</p> + +<p>"I'd help this yaller purp," said he, with a grave smile, "if I'd +thicker pants."</p> + +<p>The captain chuckled and the case went on, our visitors having "allowed +that they didn't propose to chew in a court of justice."</p> + +<p>"Prisoners," said our justice of the peace, laying his hand on the +Bible, "this book contains the only law I know. I'm not here as judge or +lawyer, but as one of Her Majesty's officers trusted to do the sporting +thing, and to deal fairly and squarely with three innocent men who have +the misfortune to be charged with crime. You've only to prove to me that +you're innocent, and I have power to let you go free. But I warn you to +tell the truth."</p> + +<p>"Seems a square deal, Cap," said Whiskers.</p> + +<p>"It is a square deal. Now, would you like to have some one of your +countrymen as prisoners' friend?"</p> + +<p>Whiskers looked reproachfully at the United<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> States marshal who demanded +his extradition, and the representative of stock associations who +offered fabulous rewards for his body "dead or alive."</p> + +<p>"Wall," he drawled, "not exactly."</p> + +<p>"You other prisoners. Do you accept this man as your spokesman?"</p> + +<p>"<i>Si</i>, seņor."</p> + +<p>"That's all right," said Bull.</p> + +<p>"Prisoner O'Flynn, you are charged with assaulting a woman, you others +with aiding and abetting. Guilty or not guilty?"</p> + +<p>"It's a fact," said Whiskers sadly, "and all three of us wishes to say +what's got to be said"—he drew himself up to his full height—"by +gentlemen! We tried to force a lady to give her husband away. She shamed +us, and we honors Mrs. Smith for what she done. She told us to go to +blazes. Yes, sir! We just owns up that we're guilty as hell, as the best +way of showing our respect."</p> + +<p>"Gentlemen," Captain Taylor spoke very gently. "I understand that you, +O'Flynn, received two wounds in punishment, and that two of your +comrades were killed by the men who avenged this affront. Is that true?"</p> + +<p>"It's a fact."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p> + +<p>"The verdict of the court is, 'not guilty.'</p> + +<p>"But prisoner, your confession proves the right of the settlers to +organize for defense of the settlement until the constable could be +brought to their help. All you settlers who have taken part in the +capture of these prisoners are engaged by the province as special +constables from the day you undertook service, until I give you your +discharge. You will be paid on such a scale as I direct.</p> + +<p>"Rudolf Schweinfurth."</p> + +<p>The marshal came forward and was sworn.</p> + +<p>"You are a United States marshal?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, your honor."</p> + +<p>"You submit proof?"</p> + +<p>The marshal's credentials were read.</p> + +<p>"You claim these prisoners for extradition?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir."</p> + +<p>"Sit down. Cyrus Y. Jones." The other stockman was sworn. "You are +representative of certain stock associations and submit proof? Right. +You claim certain cattle alleged to be stolen, and found in possession +of the prisoners? Right. You submit photographs identifying certain of +these cattle and evidence of theft. And you offer twenty-five thou<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>sand +dollars' reward for recovery of the stock. Pay that money into court and +take my receipt.</p> + +<p>"Prisoners, you are charged in your own country with robbery-under-arms +and homicide in various degrees. Now, I don't pretend to understand to +what particular degree you may or may not have murdered people, but it +seems to me that being killed even to a very slight extent must be +damned inconvenient. I don't want to know whether you're guilty or not +guilty, because it's no business of mine. I do know that this official +who claims you represents the republic. I have plenty of evidence that +you were found in this country under suspicious circumstances, and that +you proceeded to make yourselves a general nuisance. If I committed you +for vagrancy or assault, it would delay you in a business which you must +have deeply at heart. I know that if I were charged with a tenth part of +these crimes I'd never sleep until I proved my innocence. Do you or do +you not wish to prove your innocence?"</p> + +<p>The prisoners scratched their heads.</p> + +<p>"Marshal," said the magistrate. "I don't know what my powers are in this +matter, but it's evident that the less red tape there is the sooner +these men will get the justice they rightly demand. I don't<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> want them. +Give me a receipt and engage what men you need for escort duty. You, Mr. +Representative, give me your receipt for the cattle. Now clear out, and +get to the States before you're interfered with by any lop-eared +officials. Constable, hand over your prisoners.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Dale and Mr. Smith, will you trust me as magistrate to make a fair +division of this reward? All right. One-quarter goes to Dale, +one-quarter to Smith, and the other half to be equally divided among +you. Is that fair? All right, here's the plunder. Let's get the table in +and dinner served. I'm famished."</p> + +<p>So the court rose, and the dear old captain, having, I believe, broken +every statute in British Columbia jurisprudence, asked all hands and the +prisoners to dinner. "Of course," he said afterward to Jesse, "I ought +to have committed you and Dale to trial for homicide, fined you all +round for using guns without a license, turned the lawyers loose on a +fat extradition case, and impounded the cattle to eat my grass at +government expense. As it is, I'll be hanged, drawn, and quartered by +the politicians, damned by the press, and jailed for thrashing editors. +And I missed all the fun."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> + +<p>After dinner the crowd broke up into little groups. In one corner the +American officials were bargaining with Mr. Dale for his Sky-line men to +ride with the prisoners and the cattle. By the door stood Mr. Brooke, +explaining something at great length to our bored constable. At the head +of the long table Captain Taylor was telling me how difficult it was to +find a suitable nursery governess for Wee James. At the foot of the +table I saw the Mexican whispering to his unfortunate chief—plans for +escape, no doubt. Then Jesse joined them, with a present of pipes, +matches, and tobacco to ease their journey.</p> + +<p>"Mr. Smith," said poor old O'Flynn, "this yere Sebastian Diaz has been +with me these twelve year. He's only a greaser—"</p> + +<p>"<i>Medio Sangre</i>, seņor!" said the half-breed proudly.</p> + +<p>"But he's got the heart of a white man. He's like a son to me."</p> + +<p>"I'm proud," said Jesse, "to make your acquaintance, both of you. You +are men, all right."</p> + +<p>"We fought the rich men what had wronged us, them and their breed. We +put up a good fight. Yes, sir! And we wouldn't have missed a mile of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> +that twelve years' trail. It wasn't our way to insult women, Mr. Smith."</p> + +<p>"You had to git that information somehow," said Jesse, "and Mrs. Smith +forgives you."</p> + +<p>The old man bowed his head.</p> + +<p>"Muchos gracias, caballero!" said the Mexican, gently.</p> + +<p>"That's off our minds, Mr. Smith."</p> + +<p>"Mostly known as Jesse," said my husband.</p> + +<p>"Jesse. We bin consulting, and we agree you're the only man here we'd +care to ask favors of."</p> + +<p>"I'm your friend all right."</p> + +<p>"Jesse, if we don't escape, we are due to pass in our chips."</p> + +<p>"I'm not going to help you escape."</p> + +<p>"Wall, you haven't helped our escape to any great extent, so far as I +know."</p> + +<p>Jesse chuckled.</p> + +<p>"But I'm asking you to look after my wife and my son."</p> + +<p>"I'll do that."</p> + +<p>"You'll save the boy from his father's trade?"</p> + +<p>"I reckon."</p> + +<p>"Put her thar."</p> + +<p>And they shook hands.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Them horses we was riding," said the outlaw, "is for my son."</p> + +<p>"That's all right."</p> + +<p>"And one thing more. This yere Brooke ain't white."</p> + +<p>"You don't say!"</p> + +<p>The outlaw grinned. "You sized him up all right. He joined us out of a +Wild West show last fall. He's never done nothin' to earn hanging or +jail, being too incompetent. But he's state's evidence enough to hang us +twenty times over. He'll get off.</p> + +<p>"Moreover, Jesse, take a dying man's word. That Brooke has an eye on +your good lady. He's your enemy from times far back at Abilene. He'll +live to do you dirt. Thar, I sort of hates to talk so of one of my men, +and I won't say no more.</p> + +<p>"Say, my hands being hurt, will you just reach into my off hind pocket? +That's right. There's a gold watch. Take it, my time's up. Give that to +your lady from us as a sort of keepsake. Good-by, partner."</p> + +<p>"Good-by, friend."</p> + +<p>"<i>Adios</i>," said the Mexican. "<i>Vaya usted con Dios!</i>" And the English of +that is, "May you ride with God!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p> + +<p>From the other end of the room Captain Taylor and I were watching that +little scene. Without hearing a word we could understand so well. "Young +woman," said the captain, "when I was a younger fool than I am now, I +was a naval attaché at St. Petersburg. I'd seen how the Russian Bear +behaved at Sebastopol and I liked to watch how he behaved in the Winter +Palace. One day a Cossack officer and his son came to make an appeal. +Mrs. officer had been a puss and bolted with one of the court officials, +so her husband and son wanted leave to go after the man with their guns. +They were so miserable that they sat at a table and took no notice of +anybody or anything. After they'd been sitting a long time, a man came +and laid down a case of dueling pistols on the table beside them. I +couldn't hear what he said, but he sat down with them. Presently I saw +him shake hands with the general.</p> + +<p>"Now your husband put something on the table, and sat down with those +wretched prisoners, and presently shook hands with one of them.</p> + +<p>"Your husband and that Russian chap did the very same things in the very +same way. Yes, you've married a gentleman by mistake."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span></p> + +<p>I was puzzled. "Who was the Russian?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Oh, didn't I tell you? He was the emperor."</p> + +<p>After a minute, while I watched my royal man, the captain laid his hand +on mine. "Don't let these loafers see you crying," he whispered.</p> + +<p>"I'm not crying." I looked round to prove that I was not crying, and as +I did so, my glance fell upon the old man's miniature medals. One of +them was the Victoria Cross.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI</h2> + +<h3>BILLY O'FLYNN</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Both Jesse and I have a habit of committing our thoughts to paper and +not to speech. Things written can be destroyed, whereas things said stay +terribly alive. I think if other husbands and wives I know of wrote more +and talked less, their homes would not feel so dreadful, so full of +horrible shadows. There are houses where I feel ill as soon as I cross +the door-step, because the very air of the rooms is foul with the spite, +the nagging, the strife of bitter souls. As to the houses where horrors +have taken place—despair, madness, murder, suicide—these are always +haunted, and sensitive people are terrified by ghosts.</p> + +<p>My pen has rambled. I sat down to write a thing which must not be said.</p> + +<p>Jesse is cruel to young O'Flynn. Perhaps he is justly, rightly cruel, in +gibing at this young cow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>-boy, taunting him until the lad is on the very +edge of murder. "Got to be done," says Jesse, "I promised his father +that I'd break the colt until he's fed up with robbers. So just you +watch me lift the dust from his hide, and don't you git gesticulating on +my trail with your fool sympathies." Billy does not suspect that the +tormentor loves his victim.</p> + +<p>My heart aches with his humiliation. His mother is my cook, not a +princess, as the boy's pride would have her. His father was one of the +most dangerous leaders of the Rocky Mountain outlaws, so there the lad +saw glory, and I don't blame him. But all the glamour was stripped away +when Jesse tricked O'Flynn and his gang into surrender, handed them over +to justice, and showed poor Billy his sordid heroes for what they really +were. His father has been hanged.</p> + +<p>Remember that this ranch, ablaze with romance for me, is squalid +every-day routine for Billy, whose dreams are beyond the sky-line. He +imagines railways as we imagine dragons, and the Bloomsbury +boarding-house from which my sister wrote on her return from India is, +from his point of view, a place in the Arabian Nights. I read to him +Taddy's letter, about the new boarder from Selangor, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> is down with +fever, the German waiter caught reading Colonel Boyce's manuscript on +protective color for howitzers, the tweeny's sailor father drowned at +sea, and the excitement in that humdrum house when Lady Blacktail +called. "Wish I'd had a shot," said Billy wistfully, his mind on the +black-tail, our local kind of deer. Perhaps he saw forest behind the +boarding-house. "In the old country," said he, "do the does call? Only +the buck calls here. Your folks is easy excited, anyways."</p> + +<p>"Lady Blacktail," said I, "is a woman."</p> + +<p>"What was she shouting about?"</p> + +<p>"She just called—came to take tea, you know."</p> + +<p>"Got no job of work?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, but her husband, Sir Tom, was a very rich man. He left her +millions."</p> + +<p>"Mother's first husband," said Billy, his mind running on widows, "had +lots of wealth. He kep' a seegar stand down-town near the Battery, and +had a brass band when they buried him. Mother came out West."</p> + +<p>That night the lad had come from Hundred Mile House, with Jesse's +pack-train bearing a load of stores. There was a dress length, music for +my dear dumpy piano, spiced rolls of bacon, much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> needed flour and +groceries, and an orange kerchief for Billy. From his saddle wallets he +produced my crumpled letters and the weekly paper, a Vancouver rag. +Therein Jesse labors among tangles of provincial politics, I gloat over +the cooking recipes of America's nice cuisine, and spare maybe just a +sigh over the London letter. Billy's portion consists of blood-curdling +disasters and crimes, and the widow waits ravenous for her kindling, bed +stuffing, wall paper, and new pads for her wooden leg. At ten cents that +paper is a bargain.</p> + +<p>She hovered presiding while her boy had supper, I checked stores against +an untruthful invoice, and Jesse prepared to read: "Bribed with a +Bridge! Who Stole the Bonds," etc. Dear Jesse takes his reading +seriously. His mind must be prepared with a pipe. His stately spectacles +are cleaned on his neck-cloth, and so mounted that he can see to read +over the edges. Next he crawls under the stove to find the bootjack, and +pull off his long boots. After that he fills the lamp, lights that and a +cigar of fearful pungency, and settles his great limbs in the chair of +state. When all was arranged that night he looked up from his paper. +"Say," he drawled, "Billy. When you ride away and turn<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> robber, what's +the matter with politics? You see if you was Sir Billy O'Flynn, and a +Right Honorable Premier, you could steal enough to buy spurs as big as +car wheels. You're fiercer than our member already with that new +cow-scaring scarf, so all you'd need is a machine gun slung on your +belt, a man-killer like my mare Jones, and you'll be the tiger of the +forest. You git yo' mother's cat to learn you how to yowl."</p> + + +<h3>II</h3> + +<p>After breakfast when Jesse had gone to work, the widow came to me in +deep distress, leaning against the door-post, twisting up her apron with +tremulous fingers, her eyes dark with dread. When I led her to a seat, +perhaps she felt my sympathy, for a flood of tears broke loose, and wild +Irish mixed with her sobs. The leprechawn possessed her bhoy <i>avick</i>, +night-riders haunted him, divils was in him <i>acushla</i>, and the child was +fey. His step-uncle went fey to his end in the dreadful quicksands, her +brother-in-law went mad in the black Indian hills, running on the spears +of the haythen, rest his sowl, and now Billy! He was gone this hour. +Fiercely she ordered me out to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> search, for she would take the southern +pasture, so surely I would find him in the pines. She feared that place; +muttered of fires lighted by no mortal hands. She spoke of wandering +lights; the cat had bristled sparks flying from his coat because of +elfin voices, and Mick had howled all night down at the Apex. Yestreen a +falling star had warned her that she was to lose her bhoy, and had I not +seen that face in the windy last night?</p> + +<p>Soothing the poor thing as best I could, I undertook the search, glad of +an excuse to get away outdoors. Presently I came upon Billy perched on a +root overhanging the depths of the caņon. He was cleaning Jesse's rifle, +and I surprised him in a fit of angry laughter.</p> + +<p>"Billy," I shouted, "come in off that root before you fall!"</p> + +<p>He obeyed, with sulky patience at my whims.</p> + +<p>"Why are you not at work? What are you doing with my husband's rifle?"</p> + +<p>"I'm at work," he answered sulkily,—then with an odd vagueness of +manner, "I'm cleaning the durned thing."</p> + +<p>Being a woman, and cursed at that with the artistic temperament, I could +not help being moved by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> this lad's extraordinary beauty,—the curly +red-gold hair, skin with the dusty block of a ripe peach, the poise of +easy power and lithe grace, the sense he gave me of glowing color +veiling rugged strength. As an artist studies a good model, I had +observed very closely the moods of Billy's temperament.</p> + +<p>His mother was right. That vagueness of manner was abnormal, and the lad +was fey.</p> + +<p>"But why are you cleaning his rifle?"</p> + +<p>"It kicks when it's foul," he said absently.</p> + +<p>"You're off hunting?"</p> + +<p>"Goin' to shoot Jesse, thet's all."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure," I said, "he cleaned it yesterday. Look here," and I took the +rifle to show him it was clean. "See." I put my little finger nail in +the breech while he looked down the barrel. "Come," said I, and told him +that in my sewing-machine there was a bottle of gun oil. The rifle was +in my possession, safe.</p> + +<p>Then he heard Jesse coming. "Whist! Hide the gun!" he said, and as +though we were fellow conspirators, I placed it behind a tree, so that +my man saw nothing to cause alarm.</p> + +<p>Jesse came, it seemed, in search of Billy.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Kate," he said in greeting. "Say, youngster, when you sawed off +that table leg to make your mother's limb, what did you do with the +caster?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII</h2> + +<h3>EXPOUNDING THE SCRIPTURES</h3> + + +<p>I wonder how many persons live in Jesse's body? On the surface he is the +rugged whimsical stockman, lazy, with such powers in reserve as would +equip a first-class volcano. Sing to him and another Jesse emerges, an +inarticulate poet, a craftless artist, an illiterate writer, passionate +lover of all things beautiful in art and nature. And beneath all that is +Jesse of the Sabbath, in bleak righteousness and harsh respectability, +scion of many Smiths, the God-fearing head of his house, who reads and +expounds the Scriptures on Sunday evenings to sullen Billy, the morose +widow, and my unworthy self. Hear him expound in the vindictive mood:—</p> + +<p>"When I survey the pasture in these here back blocks of Genesis, I know +we got to make allowances. These patriarchs is only sheepmen anyhow, and +sheep herders is trash. They're not what we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> call white men, but Jews, +which is a species of dago. When they get religion they're a sort +Mormons, a low-lived breed, yet useful for throwing population quick +into a lonesome country where they don't seem popular.</p> + +<p>"Now here's Laban. He hasn't got religion, but keeps a trunk full of +no-account gods, believed in by ignorant persons. Instead of attending +to business, he trusts his foreman Jacob, so it serves him right if he's +robbed. Yet the Lord ain't down on him quite so much as you'd think, for +he's allowed to graze government land, with no taxes, mortgage, or +railroads to rob the meat off his bones. Maybe the Lord's sort of sorry +for the poor sheep-herding dago without no horses—the same being good +for men's morals, though Jones did kick me out of the stable this very +morning. Moreover, Laban lives in a scope of country where men is surely +scarce, or he'd never give more'n one of his daughters to such a swine +as Jacob. Laban tries to be white, so he'd get my vote at elections.</p> + +<p>"You'd think that if the Lord could stand Jacob He must be plumb full of +mercy—so there's hope for skunks. He's got so many millions of +thoroughbred stud angels that even the best of men is low<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> grade stock +to Him. And regarding us mavericks, He has an eye on them as takes +kindly to their feed. Yes, He claps His brand on them as know their +work.</p> + +<p>"So He sees Jacob is a sure glutton, and more, a great stockman, +projucing an improved strain of ringstraked goats and sheep. And Jacob +does his duty to his country, begetting twelve sons—mean as snakes but +still the best he can raise. Yes, there's excuses for Jacob, and +lynching ain't yet invented.</p> + +<p>"Jacob throws dirt in old man Laban's face, then skins out for his own +reservation. On this trail he's got to cross Esau's ranch—the first man +he ever swindled. Just you watch him, abject as a yaller dawg, squirming +and writhing and crawling to meet the only gentleman in that country. +You or me, Billy, would have kicked Jacob good and plenty, but we're +only scrub cow-boys, and that's what the Bible instructs.</p> + +<p>"The mean trash agrees to keep off Laban's grass; he puts up bribes to +Esau; he plays his skin game on the folks at Succoth, which I explain +because there's ladies present, and the only comfort is that the angel +of the Lord has sized him up, being due to twist his tail in next +Sunday's chapter. Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> let us get through praying, quick as the Lord +will let us, because them calves ain't had their buttermilk."</p> + +<p>When we knelt, the widow still sat rigid, and with her wooden leg +scratched out upon the oil-cloth vague outlines of a gallows. Afterward +she explained. "Yer husband, Mrs. Smith, bad cess to him, is mighty +proud av his spectacles, phwat he can't see through and all, and showing +off his learning and pride av a Sunday."</p> + +<p>"But why draw gallows on the floor?"</p> + +<p>"And why for should I not draw gallows on the flure, seeing he'll never +drown? It's hung he'll be for a opprissing the fatherless and the widow, +and burn he will afther for a Protestant. Yis," she flashed round on her +son, "feed buttermilk to thim calves, and hould up yer head <i>alladh</i>, +'cause you inherit glory while he's frying!"</p> + +<p>Away from the widow's hate and her son's vengeance, I led my man out +under the stars. I gave him his cigar, that black explosive charged with +deadly fumes, lighted him a sulphur match. It soothes his passions, and +the pasture scent makes him gentle, but when I fear my grizzly bear, and +hardly dare to stroke, I lead him by the keen silver spring,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> across the +hollow where our flowers would make a devil smile, and on through the +wild rose tangle, to my cathedral pines. To-night he seemed suspicious, +even there, biting off tags of the vindictive Psalms. Nor would he sit +under the father tree until I sang to him.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"When Faith's low doorway leads into the church,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Light from austere saints mellows dusty gloom,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Sad music echoes in the stony heavens,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And this bleak pavement masks a charnel hell.</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yet in man's likeness God makes Pain divine</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">And here Truth's dawn breaks upwards towards the Light.</span><br /> +<br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Come to the hill-top: blackbird choristers</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Peal their clear anthem to the kneeling gorse;</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">The old trees pray, their thirsty faces rapt,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">While congregations of great angel clouds</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Receive the holy Sacramental Light</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">From God's high priest, the ministering Sun!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"What do you want?" asked Jesse, all the rancor gone.</p> + +<p>"Jesse, do you know that it's nearly a year since we married?"</p> + +<p>"Ten months, Kate, and fourteen days. Do you think I don't reckon?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span></p> + +<p>I sat down on the root of the little governess tree, the humblest in the +grove. "In the Bible, dear, who was the son of Jesse?"</p> + +<p>"David, of course."</p> + +<p>"Do you remember, dear: 'for I have provided a king among his sons'?"</p> + +<p>He looked away across the thundrous misty depths of the caņon, and the +moonlight caught his profile as though it were etched in silver. "A +mighty valiant man," he whispered, "prudent in matters, and a man of +war."</p> + +<p>"Jesse, I've got such a confession to make. When you settled Mr. +Trevor's estate—"</p> + +<p>"His estates were debts, and we paid 'em. There ain't no need to fuss."</p> + +<p>"You paid the debts. You were hard driven to meet the interest on your +mortgage."</p> + +<p>"That's paid off now. Besides we've a clear title to our land, mother's +gravestone's off my chest, we don't owe a cent in the world, and there's +nary a worry left, except I'm sort of sorry for them poor robbers. Why +fuss?"</p> + +<p>"You earned six thousand dollars, at goodness knows what peril. I let +you still imagine that you were poor."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span></p> + +<p>"We got plenty wealth, Kate, wealth enough for—for David."</p> + +<p>"I wanted you, Jesse, just you, I wanted poverty because you were poor. +I have been content, and now you've won the capital to free the ranch, +to buy a thoroughbred stallion, to stock the place."</p> + +<p>"That's so."</p> + +<p>"Jesse, under my dear father's will, I have seven thousand five hundred +dollars a year."</p> + +<p>"A <i>what</i>!"</p> + +<p>"I'm a rich woman, dear. I've been saving my income, and there's ten +thousand dollars for you at the bank."</p> + +<p>So I gave him my check, which he receipted promptly with a kiss. He is +so rough, too.</p> + +<p>Then we discussed improvements. A bunch of East Oregon horses, three +cow-boys to handle our stock, a man to run the Sky-line contract, an +irrigated corn field, and winter feed, two Chinese servants, so many +'must haves' that we waxed quite despondent over ways and means. Jesse +must go to Vancouver on business, and thus after much preamble I came at +last to the point.</p> + +<p>"Take Billy with you."</p> + +<p>"But if I go, he's got to look after the ranch."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> + +<p>Men are so stupid. When I sing to my dear bull pines, they breathe a +swaying thin echo like some distant chorus; yet at the sight of Jesse, +become impassive as red Indian chiefs. How could I tell such a man of +peril? The widow understands, and no sacrifice is too great for a +mother.</p> + +<p>"You preach at Billy," I said, "you pray at him. Remember he's wild as +these woods, son of a dangerous felon. His mother goads him on, and +there's danger, Jesse."</p> + +<p>I knew while I spoke the folly of appealing to any sense of fear. He +chuckled softly.</p> + +<p>"Why, Billy daresn't say good morning to my pinto colt. He was bucking +plentiful to-day, and me spitting blood before I got him conquered. Now +just you leave me to tame colts and cow-boys. I propose to rub old man +Jacob into Billy by way of liniment until he supples, yes, and works. +Dreams earn no grub."</p> + +<p>"Take him away, Jesse, dear."</p> + +<p>"He bin making love to you, Kate?"</p> + +<p>My heart stood still, and to my jealous husband silence means consent. +Two bats came darkly by, with a business manner, having perhaps an +appointment with some field mouse. Then the hypocrite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> in me sighed, and +Jesse flinging away his cigar stub, said with an oath that Billy should +be on his way to Vancouver by daybreak.</p> + +<p>Yes, Jesse is hard to manage, but presently he remembered about the +check, which made him for the first time in his life feel rich. He's too +rough when I let him love me. Indeed I had to do up my hair in the dark, +though the fireflies offered the dearest little lamps. Besides a little +jealousy is good for Jesse. I should not like to see his love go hungry.</p> + + +<h3>III</h3> + +<p>Last night Jesse came home from Vancouver, and it being Sunday evening, +he read and expounded the Scriptures to the amazement of the three new +ranch-hands. The Chinamen, being heathens, were let off.</p> + +<p>"Not being wise in the ways of high society, I ain't free to comment on +Mrs. Potiphar, who kep' a steward instead of doing her job as +housekeeper, or on this General Sir Something Potiphar, C.O.D., C.P.R., +H.B.C., P.D.Q., commanding the Haw-Haw Guards, who seems to neglect his +missus. As a plain stockman I pursues after Joseph."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> + +<p>By this time three godless cow-punchers, crimson with suppressed +emotions, were digging one another fiercely in the ribs.</p> + +<p>"This here Joseph is a sheep-herding swine from the desert, smooth +because he's been brung up among range animals, but mean because he's +raised for a pet by Jacob, the champion stinker of the wild west."</p> + +<p>At that Pete exploded, and had to retire in convulsions, while the other +two infants reproached him for interruption.</p> + +<p>"Smooth and mean is Joseph, a cream-laid young person like Pete, who's +going to have black draft to heal his cough before morning. Joseph is +all deportment and sad eyes, with a crossed-in-love droop. His brothers +is mean so far as they knows how without reading newspapers, but even +they can't stand Joseph. General and Mrs. Potiphar don't seem to like +his perfume. When he's in jail he's steward, so that the other prisoners +has dreams of grub but nary a meal till he goes.</p> + +<p>"I dunno, but if I was a self-made man, I'd hate to have my +autobiography wrote by my poor relations, or the backers I'd cheated and +left on my trail to Fifth Avenue. Them brethren, the Potiphar<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> outfit, +and the jailbirds, is plumb full of grief that they ever seen this +Joseph, and you'll notice that when he dies, the Egyptians don't +subscribe for a monument. He's a city man, a financier, and the Lord is +with him, watching his natural history, this being the first warning of +the plagues of Egypt.</p> + +<p>"Thar's only one man as can afford to know the Honorable Joseph. Pharaoh +has an ax, so any gent caught with more'n four aces, is apt to fade away +out of Egypt. Yes, he can afford to know Joseph, and they're birds of a +feather all right.</p> + +<p>"Now horses is so scarce that up to now there ain't one in the Bible, +until Pharaoh loans Joseph his second-best chariot, and gives him a sure +fine sleigh-robe to go buggy riding.</p> + +<p>"And Jews is scarce. This Pharaoh is the first king to get a Jew +financier to do his graft.</p> + +<p>"It ain't the king who pays for that corner in wheat, and you can bet +your socks it's not Joseph. It's the bleeding, sweating, hungry +Egyptians who pays the wheat trust which makes Pharaoh and Joseph +multimillionaires. So there on the high lonesome is the Jew and His +Majesty, with no club of millionaires to tell them they done right, and +nobody in all Egypt left to swindle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Old Pharaoh's in a museum now, Joseph is located at Chicago, Egypt is +sand-rock desert; but God's in His Heaven, and judging by the way us +human beings behave, them golden pavements ain't got crowded yet.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Lord, Thou knowest that we who ride herd in Thy pastures, haven't +got much to be selfish about on earth. We cayn't make dollars out of Thy +golden sunshine, or currency bills out of Thy silver streams, but all +the same, deliver us from selfishness, and lead us not into the +temptations of a large account at the bank, 'cause we're only kids when +we gets down to civilization, and all our ways is muddy so soon as we +quit Thy grass."</p> + +<p>The cow-boys slipped away, no longer hilarious, perhaps even a little +awed, for Jesse's quaint observances are spray from a sea, sparkling on +the surface, but in its depths profound. And we two women waited, the +widow longing for news about her son, while I was concerned for my man. +Hard, bitter, sinister the sermon, humble and reverent the appeal for +help, and now when the men had left us, Jesse remained in prayer. Almost +with tears he pleaded for widows and fatherless children, until my +servant's austere face became quite gentle, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> she was able to hobble +off to her bed feeling that all was well.</p> + +<p>The night being cold, Jesse had his cigar beside the stove, while I sat +on the low stool so that the fumes might rise above my unworthy head.</p> + +<p>"The widow believes," I said, "that her boy will get rich in the city."</p> + +<p>"I got Billy a job."</p> + +<p>Jesse's face looked very grave.</p> + +<p>"At a grocery," he added.</p> + +<p>I sighed for the romantic lad, condemned to an apron behind the counter.</p> + +<p>"And the young hawk flew off."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad!"</p> + +<p>"Ye see it's this way, Kate. He's shying heaps at Ashcroft, the first +town he ever seen, where there's a bit of sidewalk, electric lights, and +waitresses. I had to kiss the fluffy one to show him they don't bite.</p> + +<p>"Then thar's the railroad. By that time he's getting worldly, all +'you-can't-fool-me,' and 'not-half-so-slick-as-our-ranch' until we comes +to his first tunnel, and he jumps right out of his skin. After that he +wants everybody to know he's a cow-boy wild and lone, despising the +tenderfoot passen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>gers right through the two hundred and fifty miles to +Vancouver. At the depot he points one ear at the liners in port, and the +other ear at them sky-scraping, six-story business blocks up street. He +feels he'd ought to play wolf, shoot up saloons, and paint the town, but +he's getting scary as cats because there's too many people all at once. +He loses count, thinks there's three horns goes to one steer, and wants +to hold my hand. That's when a motorcar snorts in his ear; a +street-car comes at him ears back, teeth bare, and tail a-waving; and a +lady axes him what time the twelve o'clock train leaves. Then he hears a +band play, and it's too much—he just stampedes for the woods. When I +rounds him up next afternoon, he's just ate a candy store, he's gorged +to the eyes, and trying to make room for ice-cream. The next two days +Billy's close-herded, and fed high to give his mind a rest. He seen the +sea, pawed the wet of it, snuffed the big smell—yes, and the boy near +crying. Town men who can't smell, or see, or hear, or feel with their +hands, would have some trouble understanding what the sea means to a +sort of child like that.</p> + +<p>"He's willing to start work as a millionaire, but don't feel no holy +vocation for groceries. So in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> end he runs away, out of that +frying-pan into the—wall, the rest ain't clearly known, although the +police has a clue. It seems my wolf cub leads some innocent yearling +astray down by the harbor, said victim being the crimp from a sailors' +boarding-house. To prove he's fierce, Billy has a skinful of mixed +drinks, and this stranger is kind enough to take him to see a beautiful +English bark which is turning loose for Cape Horn. Seems the ship takes +a notion to Billy, and the captain politely axes him to work. He's been +shanghaied."</p> + +<p>"This will kill his mother."</p> + +<p>"Not if she thinks her son's another Joseph getting rich."</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's too awful!"</p> + +<p>"Wall, maybe I'm a fool, Kate, but seems to me that this young person +had to be weaned from running after a woman, before he'd any chance to +be a man."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII</h2> + +<h3>NATIVITY</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Jesse allowed that the upper forest does look "sort of wolfy." He would +post relays of ponies along the outward trail, so that he and McGee +could ride the eighty miles back in a single march. If the doctor +survived that, he would be here in forty-eight hours, perhaps in time.</p> + +<p>I made Jesse take his revolver, yes, loaded it myself, and he promised a +signal shot from the rim-rock to give me the earliest news of his +return. He put out the light, he kissed me good-by, and was gone.</p> + +<p>From the inner edge of the bed I could see through the window, and +watched Orion rising behind the cliffs. The night turned pale, then for +a long time the great gaunt precipice was revealed in tender primrose +light and amber shade. I heard our riders saddle, mount, and canter away +for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> day's work. The two Chinamen went off also on some domestic +errand. The sunrise caught the pines upon the rim-rock into points of +flame. I heard a distant shot, and fell asleep.</p> + +<p>The widow had stumped about nearly all night, weary to the tip of her +wooden leg, poor soul, so when I woke again and crept to the lean-to +door, it was a relief to find that she had gone to sleep. She had left +me a saucepan full of bread and milk which I warmed, and it warmed me +nicely.</p> + +<p>Mrs. O'Flynn asleep is like peace after war. Dressing in stealth, I +prayed for peace in our time, then with a sweet enjoyment of fresh +guilt, stole out into the sunshine.</p> + +<p>Instead of Jesse's whistling, Mick's barking, the altercations in the +new ram-pasture where our cow-boys live, the snuffles of old Jones, our +yard was filled with the exact opposite. Of course each sound has its +opposite, its shadow, making a gap in the chorus of things heard, and +when all the homely voices are replaced by gaps, one feels the +desolation of the high lonesome. Yet I fled away lest the widow's +vengeful stump should overtake me. I was so tired of being in bed.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p> + +<p>The silver spring, the glade of marigolds, the brier-rose brake, are all +most necessary before one ventures into the cathedral grove, for it is +not well to pass direct from any worldly home into a holy place. And yet +I felt that something was badly wrong, for evil persons must have come +in the night and stretched the trail to double its usual length. I was +very angry, and I shall tell my husband.</p> + +<p>I reached the grove, at this cool hour so like a green lagoon where +coral piers branch up to some ribbed vault. The waves of incense, the +river's organ throb, the glory in the windows, gave me peace, but the +choir of the winds had gone away, and for once in that sweet solitude I +was lonely. My sitting is at the root of the governess tree, and Jesse's +under the great father pine. If he were only there, how it would ease +the pain. I needed him so badly as I sat there, trying to make him +present in my thoughts. He had gone away, and the squirrel who lives in +the widow tree, had taken even his match ends. Only the cigar stubs were +left, which would, of course, be bad for the squirrel's children. I +wasn't well enough to call but I left my nut.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> + +<p>Close by is the terrific verge of the inner caņon, and sitting at the +very edge of death I saw into the mists.</p> + +<p>It was so foolish, why should I be frightened of death, such a coward in +bearing pain? And yet I had better confess the truth, that presently I +ran away screaming, my skirt torn by brambles, my feet caught in the +roots. Only when I passed the place where by anemones live, and beyond +the east door of the grove came out into full sunlight, I could go no +farther but fell to the ground exhausted. Yes, it was very silly, and +that blind panic shamed me as I looked up at the crescent of silvery +birch trees who hold court at the foot of the upper cliff.</p> + +<p>Something small and black was coming toward me, a clergyman too, and +nervous, because he twiddled his little hat.</p> + +<p>"Are you in pain?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Are you a fairy?" I answered, wondering. I couldn't think of anything +else at the moment, for our lost ranch is so far from everywhere.</p> + +<p>"No, madam," he said quite gravely. "I'm only a curate. May I sit down?"</p> + +<p>My heart went out to him, for he was so little, so old, English like me, +but with the manner of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> great world. When he sat down he took care +not to hurt one of my flowers.</p> + +<p>"I fear I'm trespassing," he said, "in your royal gardens. May I +introduce myself? My name is Nisted—Jared Nisted, once an army +chaplain, now a tourist."</p> + +<p>Was he real, or had I imagined him? "My name is Kate," I answered. "My +husband would be ever so pleased to make you welcome. But he's away."</p> + +<p>"And are you lonely?"</p> + +<p>"Not now." Somehow the pain and fear were gone as though they dared not +stay in the serene presence of this dear old saint. "Are you sure," I +ventured, "that you're not a—"</p> + +<p>"Fairy? Believe me, dear lady, I'm a very commonplace little person.</p> + +<p>"A humble admirer of yours, one Tearful George, has been kind enough to +bring me here in his buck-board, which has complaining wheels, a creaky +body, and such a wheezy horse. He, Tearful George I mean, contracted for +seventy-five dollars to bring me to paradise and back; but as we creaked +our passage through that weird black forest, I feared my guide had taken +the pathway which leads to the other place. I confess, the upper forest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> +frightened me, and now, having come to paradise, I don't want to go +back." He sighed. "George," he added, "is making camp up yonder. Mrs. +Smith, will you laugh at me very much if I tell you a fairy tale? It's +quite a nice one."</p> + +<p>"Oh, do!" I begged.</p> + +<p>"Well," he began, "you know where the three birch trees are all using a +single pool as their mirror?"</p> + +<p>Of course these were the Three Graces. Mrs. O'Flynn and I had known for +months past that the spot was haunted.</p> + +<p>"Each of them," said my visitor, "seems to think the others quite +superfluous."</p> + +<p>That was true. I asked him if any one was there.</p> + +<p>"A lady, yes."</p> + +<p>"That's the minx," I whispered. "She's a fairy. But don't tell my +husband. You know he laughs at me for being so superstitious."</p> + +<p>"Indeed. Fact is, Mrs. Smith, she was bathing, and George insisted, most +stupidly I think, on watering his horse at that pool. I mounted guard, +with my back turned, of course, and tried to persuade the good man to +water his horse elsewhere. He couldn't see any sanguinary lady in the +rosy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> pool, and you know the poor fellow has but a very meager choice of +words. He reviled me, and my progenitors, and if you'll believe me, my +dear mother was not at all the sort of person George described. He made +me feel so plain, too, with his candor about my personal appearance. And +all that time, while George made my flesh creep with his comments, the +lady in the pool was splashing me. I'm still quite damp."</p> + +<p>"Did the horse see?"</p> + +<p>"Do horses wink, Mrs. Smith? Do they smile? Can they blush? The Graces +shook their robes above our heads, the squirrels gossiped, the rippled +pool caught glints from the rising sun, and a flight of humming-birds +came whirring, as though they had been thrown in George's face. Them +sanguinary birds, he said, was always getting in the ruddy way. As to +the old horse, he kicked up his heels and pranced off sidewise down the +glen, and the man followed, rumbling benedictions."</p> + +<p>I explained that my dear husband can not see the minx, that my servant +dare not look.</p> + +<p>"I doubt," said Father Jared, with regret, "that very few fairies +nowadays are superstitious enough to believe in us poor mortals."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span></p> + +<p>For that I could have kissed him.</p> + +<p>"They used," the dear old man went on, "to believe in our forefathers, +but there is a very general decline of faith. It is not for us to blame +them. What fairy, for example, could be expected to believe in Tearful +George? He chews tobacco."</p> + +<p>"Oh, tell me more about her. Did she speak to you? She's fearfully +dangerous. We had a ranch-hand here who went quite fey, possessed, I +think. I'm frightened of her now."</p> + +<p>"She thinks," he retorted, "that you're a wicked woman."</p> + +<p>"Me?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, you. She said you would run away, and you did. I am to tell you +that's very unwise."</p> + +<p>"Please tell the minx to mind her own business."</p> + +<p>"What is her business?" he asked mildly.</p> + +<p>"Being a fairy, I suppose. I'll never forgive her for what she did to +Billy. Besides," I added, "she makes fun of us."</p> + +<p>"No wonder, for we humans are so stupid."</p> + +<p>"She's full of mischief."</p> + +<p>"Of course." The old man's eyes twinkled and blinked as though—I can't +set words to fit that puzzled memory. He had told me twice that he was +not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> a fairy. "I am to tell you from my lady, that she is not the minx. +Winds, waves, and living things," he said, "are full of mischief and +laughter. The sun has room to sparkle even in a tear, and Heaven touches +our lips with every smile, for joy is holy. Spirits, angels, fairies, +are only thoughts which have caught the light celestial, mirror-thoughts +which shine in Heaven's glory. Children, and happy people see that +light, which never shines on any clouded soul."</p> + +<p>"My soul is clouded. Help me."</p> + +<p>"I wonder," he smiled with his old kind eyes. "Have you a sense of +humor? Ah,—there. Then you need never worry, or run away. As sunshine +and rain are to the dear earth, so are laughter and tears to every +living soul. Humor, dear, is the weather in which the spirit lives."</p> + +<p>"But sorrow and tears?"</p> + +<p>"Why, how can the sun make rainbows without rain?"</p> + +<p>"You'll praise pain next!"</p> + +<p>"That is a sacrament," he answered gravely, "the outward sign of inward +grace. For how else can God reach through selfishness down to the soul +in need?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> + +<p>My pain had come back, but it was welcome now.</p> + +<p>On the left were the solemn pines, and at their feet white flowers; on +the right were my fair birch trees; and the glade between lay in warm +sunshine.</p> + +<p>"Lift up your hearts," whispered the priest, and I saw my trees, which +in winter storm and summer sun alike show their brave faces to the +changing sky.</p> + +<p>"We lift them up unto the Lord," they seemed to answer.</p> + +<p>"It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty," he responded, then +looked as it seemed into my very soul.</p> + +<p>I saw the dear priest's face through tears, but when I brushed them away +the mist remained. He seemed remote, awful, and beautiful.</p> + +<p>"There is a place," he said, "where souls awaiting incarnation, rest, +and from that place they come, borne by messengers. A messenger was +waiting in these woods, no evil spirit, my daughter, but one who came +bearing a child to you. She stands august and lovely at your back, and +in her arms the soul of a man-child, just on the verge of incarnation, +waits at the boundary of the spirit land.</p> + +<p>"'The light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></p> + +<p>"That light is all around you, and I must go. This very ground is holy. +Fare you well."</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>Two days had passed since my dear Jesse left, then through the long day +I waited in the house, and the blue gloom of night swept up the glowing +cliff. It was then I heard the signal shot from the rim-rock, and told +my baby David that his father was coming home.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV</h2> + +<h3>THE LOCKED HOUSE</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Memoir</i></p> + +<p>The book of our adventures which we began together, was to go on through +all our years. We were too young to think how it must some time finish +at our parting, that one of us two was to be left, with only the broken +end, the pity of Christ, and every word a stabbing memory.</p> + +<p>Since I lost Kate is four years to-night, and in all that time till now, +I never dared to enter the house where once she lived with me, her poor +fool Jesse. To-day, I unlocked the door. The sunlight, glinting through +chinks in the boarded windows, fell in long dust-streaks on rat-eaten +furniture, gray cobweb, scattered ashes. There was the puppy piano, +green with mold, her work-basket, half eaten, her writing-table littered +with rat-gnawed paper. The pages are yellow, the ink is rusty brown, but +the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> past is alive in every line, the living past, the sunny +warm-scented land of memory, all full of love and glory and delight, and +agony which can not be taken from me.</p> + +<p>If she were here with me in the old log cabin, she should not see me +mourning, or afraid to face the past, or dreading to set an end to our +book. She expected courage, and I will face it out, write the last +chapter in our Book of Life, then bury it all, lest any one should see. +I warm and burn my hands at the fires of memory, and if the fine sweet +pain were taken from me, what should I have left but cobweb, and ashes, +dust, and the smell of rats.</p> + +<p>How wonderful it is to think that a great lady, and this ignorant +callous brute shown up in the rotted manuscript, should ever have been +man and wife together! When I think of what I was—illiterate, slovenly, +lazy, selfish, brutal, meanly jealous, ignorantly cruel, I see how it +was right that she should leave me. It has taken me bitter lonely years +to realize that I was unworthy to be her servant while she tamed me. So +much the greater mystery is the love which made amends for my +shortcomings, made her think me better than I was, a something for which +she sacrificed herself, and in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> self-sacrifice became like the great +angels which she saw in dreams.</p> + +<p>Then came the letter from Polly herself, which sent me crazy, so that my +lady read every word of it, without being warned.</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Opium, Jesse, an overdose of opium did the trick, and paint to +make me look like a corpse, and blood from the butcher's shop +poured over my face as I laid there. You was no husband for such as +me with Brooke around, the man I'd kept. Shucks, did ye think I'd +be such a puke as to set, with yer dead-line round me, screaming if +men came near, with all Abilene grinning, and you drunk as Noah? +That was no way to treat a lady. That was no cinch for me as could +buy cow-boys, all I'd a mind to. Pshaw, it makes me sick at the +stummick to think I married you. I only done it for a joke.</p> + +<p>"But you jest mark my words on the dead thieving, no foreign woman +from London, England, shall have you while you're mine. I heerd of +this Mrs. Trevor daring to call you her husband. She's not your +wife, she's not Mrs. Jesse Smith, she's not a married woman, but a +poor <i>thing</i>, and her child, <i>what's he</i>? I've had my revenge on +her, and you, and I'm coming to rub it in. I'm at Ashcroft, I am, +coming on the same coach as this letter, coming to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> live in your +home. If I don't love you, no other woman shall. It's Fancy Brooke, +the man you calls Bull Durham, what give you dead away, he, and the +news he got by mail, since you let him get off alive, you <i>fool</i>. +That ought to splash yer.</p> + +<p>"And if I didn't love, d'ye reckon that I'd care?</p> + +<p class="center"> +"Your deserted true wife,<br /> +<span class="smcap" style="margin-left: 6em;">"Polly Smith.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"P. S.—I'll be to your ranch Monday."</p></blockquote> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>My husband was still at dinner when we heard a horseman come thundering +in, the old cargador, Pete Mathson, spurring a weary horse across the +yard. Jesse took the letter, and while he read, I had a strange awful +impression of days, months, years passing, a whirlwind of time. My man +was growing old before my eyes, and it is true that within a few hours +his hair was flecked with silver. When the letter fell from his hands he +walked away, making no sound at all.</p> + +<p>I sat on my little stool and took the letter. The paper felt like +something very offensive, so that I had to force myself to read, and +even then without<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> understanding one word, I went and washed my hands +and face, why I don't know, except that it was better not to make a +scene. I came back to my stool.</p> + +<p>Pete stood in the doorway very nervous about his hat, as though he tried +to hide it away. I remember telling him quite gravely that I like to see +a hat.</p> + +<p>"Cap Taylor, ma'am," he was saying, "told me to get here first by the +horse trail, so I rode hell-for-leather. They'll be another hour comin' +by road."</p> + +<p>"Another hour?"</p> + +<p>"A stranger's driving. Mebbe more'n an hour."</p> + +<p>Then Jesse came back.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>I found my lady seated on her stool, that letter in her hands, while +Pete, uneasy, clicked his spurs in the doorway. I asked if he'd take a +message.</p> + +<p>"Burning the trail," he said.</p> + +<p>"Say, if she comes, I'll kill her."</p> + +<p>"Not that," my lady whispered, so I knelt down by her, and she stroked +my forehead.</p> + +<p>"I didn't catch your words," said Pete.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Promise," my lady whispered, "there must be no murder."</p> + +<p>"Tell her, Pete," said I, "there'll be no murder. I can't let her off +with that—give her fair warning."</p> + +<p>Pete rode away slow.</p> + +<p>"Wife," I whispered—we spoke in whispers, because it was the end of the +world to us two—"you trust me?"</p> + +<p>She kissed my forehead.</p> + +<p>"Tell me," she said, "one thing. Polly was not dead?"</p> + +<p>"She shammed dead. She's alive, Kate. She's coming here. Take David +away. Take him to South Cave, to Father Jared's camp."</p> + +<p>"What will you do?"</p> + +<p>"Lock the house before it's defiled."</p> + +<p>"And then, dear?"</p> + +<p>"When she's gone, I'll come to the cave, too."</p> + +<p>Kate took David, letting me kiss him, letting me kiss her, even knowing +everything, let me take her into my arms. She was very white, very +quiet. She even remembered to take her servant, and the two Chinamen, +making some excuse to get them away. I locked the house and the old +cabin. Then I made the long call to Ephrata, and went to the Apex<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> Rock, +calling until he answered from among the dog-tooth violets. He climbed +straight up the steep rocks, whimpering, because I'd scarcely called him +once in fourteen months. He rubbed against me, forgetting he hefted +eleven hundred pounds, and I had to scratch his neck before we started +up to the house, then to the left along the wagon track just past +Cathedral Grove.</p> + +<p>The wagon was swinging round the end of the grove at a canter, and when +I let out a yell for the last warning, the woman only snatched at the +driver's whip to flog the team faster. Then I turned loose my bear, he +rearing up nine feet or so to inspect that outfit.</p> + +<p>The horses shied into the air, then off at a gallop straight for the +edge of the cliffs. The woman was shot out as the wagon overturned, the +driver caught for a moment while his wagon went to match-wood. He lay in +the wreckage stunned, but the horses went blind crazy, taking that +twelve hundred feet leap into the Fraser Rapids. So I had aimed, and as +I'd promised my lady to do no murder, I kept my bear beside me.</p> + +<p>The driver was awake and staggering to his feet. He would have talked, +only my bear was with me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> hard to hold by the roach hair. The man +needed no telling, and after he escaped from my ranch, I did not see him +there in the years which followed.</p> + +<p>The woman, standing in the wreckage of her trunks, wanted to talk. We +herded her, Eph and I, to the foot of the pack-trail, which leads up by +steep jags to the rim-rock of the upper cliffs, then on through the +black pines to Hundred Mile. We herded her up the pack-trail, my bear +and I, and pointed her on her way, alone, afoot. If she lived through +that eighty miles, she would remember the way, the way which is barred.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>I was waiting for Jesse until the low sun shone into the cave. All that +letter, which had been a blur of horror, cleared now before my mind, but +Father Jared held me by the hands, drawing the pain away. He had given +me tea, he had made me a very throne of comfort in front of his +camp-fire. David slept in my lap, and now while the dear saint held my +hands, and I looked through the smoke out toward the setting sun, he +spoke of quaint sweet doings in his hermitage. He spoke as a worldly +an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span>chorite with a portable bath, of his clumsy attempts to patch a +worn-out cassock, and how the squirrels tried to superintend his prayers +at even-song. Then the sun caught the walls of the cave and the roof to +glowing beryl and ethereal ruby, the smoke was a rose-hued thread of +light, and the deep caņon at our feet filled with a shadowy sea of +flooding amethyst.</p> + +<p>"Kate, it is even-song. We see the steep way of to-morrow's journey, the +pain and sorrow from here to the next hill. But presently our way shall +be revealed from star to star. We pass from earthly sunshine and fretted +time, into the timeless ageless glory of the heavens. We sleep in +Heaven, and when we wake again we rise filled with the presence of the +Eternal to put immortal power into our daily service."</p> + +<p>The sun had set, and the first star just shone out, as Jesse came, +standing at the mouth of the cave, dark against the glory. I could not +see his face.</p> + +<p>The father released me, turning to my dear man. "Jesse," he said, "won't +you shake hands with me?</p> + +<p>"You see," he said, "I made a mistake myself, thinking a priest should +be celibate to win love from on high. But in its fullest strength God's +love comes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> through a woman to shine upon our life—and so I've missed +the greatest of His gifts. Your wife has told me everything, and I'm so +envious. Won't you shake hands? I've been so lonely. Won't you?"</p> + +<p>But my man stood in the mouth of the cave, as though he were being +judged.</p> + +<p>"This filth," he said, "out of the past. Filth!"</p> + +<p>His voice sounded as though he were dead.</p> + +<p>"The law," he said. "I've come to find out what's the law?"</p> + +<p>"Man's law?"</p> + +<p>"I suppose so."</p> + +<p>"But I don't know. I'm only a very ignorant old man; your friend, if +you'll have me."</p> + +<p>"What do you think?"</p> + +<p>"So far as I see, Jesse, the woman can arraign you on a charge of +bigamy. Moreover, if you seek divorce she can plead that there's equal +guilt, from which there's no release."</p> + +<p>"And that's the law?"</p> + +<p>"Man's law. But, Jesse, when you and Kate were joined in holy matrimony, +was it man's law which said, 'Whom God hath joined, let no man put +asunder.' What has man's law to do with the awful justice of Almighty +God?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span></p> + +<p>"And here, my son, I am something more than a foolish old man." He rose +to his feet, making the sign of the cross. "I am ordained," he said, "a +barrister to plead at the bar of Heaven. Will you not have me as your +adviser, Jesse?"</p> + +<p>"Whom God hath joined," Jesse laughed horribly, "that harlot and I."</p> + +<p>"She swore to love, honor and obey?"</p> + +<p>"Till death us part!"</p> + +<p>"And that was perjury?"</p> + +<p>"A joke! A joke!"</p> + +<p>"That was not marriage, my son, but blasphemy, the sin beyond +forgiveness. The piteous lost creature has never been your wife. She +tried to break her way into our poor world of life and love. It is +forbidden and she was fearfully wounded. To-day she tried again, and is +there, in that forest, with the falling night."</p> + +<p>"I told her what she is, straight from the shoulder."</p> + +<p>"Who made her so?"</p> + +<p>Jesse lowered his head.</p> + +<p>"Who made her the living accusation of men's sins? She is the terrible +state's evidence, God's evidence, which waits to be released in the Day +of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> Judgment. You told her straight from the shoulder. Judge not that ye +be not judged. Remember that of all the men she knew on earth, you only +can plead not guilty."</p> + +<p>"Because I married her?" asked Jesse humbly.</p> + +<p>"Because you tried. You gave her your clean name, your pure life, your +manhood, an act of knightly chivalry. Arthur, Galahad, Perceval, +Launcelot, and many other gentlemen who are now at rest, will seek your +friendship in the after life. You are being tried as they were tried in +that fierce flame of temptation which tests the finest manhood.</p> + +<p>"Only a cur would blame the weak. Only a coward would accuse the lost. +But in your manhood remember her courage, Jesse. Forgive as you hope for +pardon. Keep your life clean, from every touch of evil, but to the world +stand up for the honor of the name you gave her."</p> + +<p>"I will."</p> + +<p>"You forgive?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"You will pray for her?"</p> + +<p>"I will pray."</p> + +<p>"And now the hardest test has still to come. For your wife's honor and +for the child, you must keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> their names stainless, clear of all +reproach while you await God's judgment. They must leave you, Jesse."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not that, sir!"</p> + +<p>"Can they stay here in honor?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"Can you run away?"</p> + +<p>"Never!"</p> + +<p>"Then you must part."</p> + +<p>Jesse covered his face with his hands, and there against the deepening +twilight I saw shadows reaching out from him, as though—slowly the +shadows took form of high-shouldered wings and mighty pinions sweeping +to the ground.</p> + +<p>He looked up, and behold he was changed.</p> + +<p>"Pray for me, sir!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>Then the priest raised his hand, and gave him the benediction.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + + +<p><i>Jesse Closes the Book</i></p> + +<p>It is years now since my lady left me. Never has an ax touched her +trees, or any human creature entered her locked house. The rustle of her +dress is in the leaves each fall, the pines still echo to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> voice. I +hear her footsteps over the new snow, I feel her presence when I read +her books. I know her thoughts are spirits haunting me, and all things +wait until she comes back. Not until I lost my lady did I ever hear that +faint, thin, swaying echo when her grove seemed to be humming tunes. At +times when dew was falling, I have heard the pattering of millions and +millions of little feet, just as she said, making the grass bend.</p> + +<p>The papers often have pictures of my lady, the last as the Electra of +Euripides. I love her most of all in the Grecian robes, for once she +dreamed that she and I had been Greeks in some lost forgotten life. +Perhaps this is not our only life, or our last life, and we may be mated +in some place yet to come, where we shall not part.</p> + +<p>Tears drop on the paper, and shame poor fool Jesse. The Book says that +He shall wipe away all tears. If my bear had only lived, I should not +have been so lonely. I wonder if—God help me, I can't write more. The +book is finished.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p> + + +<p><br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span></p> +<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p><p><br /><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> +<h2><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III"></a>PART III</h2> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER I</h2> + +<h3>SPITE HOUSE</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate Reviews the Book</i></p> + +<p>The book is not finished. This book of Jesse's life and mine is not +finished while she who set us asunder is allowed to live. "Vengeance is +mine," saith the Lord, "I will repay." We wait.</p> + +<p>What impulse moved my man after four years to enter that tragic house? +He read our book, so piteously stained, this heap of paper scrawled with +rusty ink. He added parts of a chapter, which I have finished. It is all +blotted with tears, this record of his life—childhood, boyhood, youth, +manhood, humor, passion—veritable growth of an immortal spirit—annals +of that love which lifteth us above the earth—and then!</p> + +<p>What did the woman gain who stole our happiness? A fairy gold, changing +to ashes at the glint of day, for which she lost her soul.</p> + +<p>Caught in the leaves there is a long pine needle.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> So it was among the +bull pines of Cathedral Grove that Jesse sought to bury this record. +Then knowing that his life was not all his to bury, he sent me this dear +treasure, so breaking the long, long silence.</p> + +<p>How precious are even the littlest memories of love! Here is the muddy +footprint of our kitten, and Jesse's "witness my hand." Here is a scrap +of paper, inked and rinsed to reveal some secret writing of those poor +outlaws. Pages of wrath from our visitors' book—and the long pine +needle.</p> + +<p>"Belay thar!" as Jesse said. "We're hunting happiness while sorrow's +chasing us. Takes a keen muzzle and runaway legs to catch up happiness, +while sorrow's teeth is reachin' for yo' tail."</p> + +<p>So I must try to catch up happiness. I have notes here of dear Father +Jared, made at the time when he was bringing me with Baby David home. I +remember we sat in our deck chairs on the sunny side of the ship, +watching a cloud race out in mid-Atlantic. We talked of home.</p> + +<p>"You see, my dear"—I copy from my notes—"we have in our blessed isles +an atmosphere lending glamour to all things, whether a woman's skin or a +slum town. Why, British portraiture and landscape are respected, even by +our own art critics, and they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> are far from lenient." I replied that I +wanted air, air for King David.</p> + +<p>"Now when we come to air, that's very serious. North of the Tweed the +air produces Scotchness, across St. George's Channel it makes Irishness. +Then in the principality of Wales it makes most people Welsh, to say +nothing of the Yarkshire vintage, or Zummerzet, or the 'umble 'omes of +the East Anglians."</p> + +<p>"But that's not what I mean. Some places are so relaxing."</p> + +<p>"Or bracing, or just damp, eh? Do you know, my dear, that at Frognall +End mushrooms are fourpence a pound."</p> + +<p>"That has nothing to do with it."</p> + +<p>"Are you sure?" The delicious fairy-look came to his eyes. "Of course +they prefer the Russian kind of mushrooms with red tops—warmer to sit +on. That's why they love Russia, and Russian hearts stay young. And +besides, they like to live where people are really and truly +superstitious.</p> + +<p>"That's what's so wrong with England. Ah, these board schools! I want to +dig up all the board schools and plant red mushrooms. Then, of course, +the fairies will each have an endowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> mushroom, the children will be +properly taught how to stay young, and we shall live happily ever +afterward.</p> + +<p>"Do you know I called on the prime minister, and, politics apart, he's +not at all a bad fellow. We quite agreed, especially about drowning the +Board of Education, but then the nonconformist conscience would get +shocked, while as to the treasury—bigots, my dear, are getting more +bigotty every day."</p> + +<p>I was getting mixed.</p> + +<p>"So you see, Kate, with mushrooms at fourpence a pound, it stands to +reason that they're very plentiful at Frognall End, with fairies in +strict proportion: one mushroom—one fairy, that is in English weather. +In a dry season, of course, they <i>can</i> sit on the ground, although it +wouldn't be quite the thing; whereas in wet weather they really require +their mushrooms—and you know they're much too careless to clear up +afterward. Yes, at Frognall End young David would get what modern +children need so very badly—some wholesome uneducation."</p> + +<p>This the father explained in all its branches.</p> + +<p>1. Consider the lilies.</p> + +<p>2. Take no thought for the morrow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span></p> + +<p>3. Blessed are the poor in spirit, the pure, the merciful, the +peacemakers.</p> + +<p>4. Suffer the little children to come unto me.</p> + +<p>"You see," he added wistfully, "the churches have to preach a heap of +doctrines piled twenty centuries high—with truth squashed flat beneath. +The poor are very worrisome, too, and there's such a lot of heathen to +convert. Why, all of our educated people belong to societies for +reforming their neighbors, and yet—and yet—well, fairies have a nicer +time than curates."</p> + +<p>Frognall End, where my saint is curate-in-charge, is on the river near +Windsor, and there I went to live with Baby David. It was there I +learned that heartache is a cultivated plant not known along the +hedge-rows, that peace may be found as long as the gorse blooms, that +love grows lustiest where it has least soil. For the rest, please see +the Reverend Jared Nisted's <i>Fairyland</i> which is full of most important +information for all who are weary and heavy-laden. Its text is from the +Logia of Christ: "Raise the stone, and thou shalt find Me; cleave the +wood and I am there."</p> + +<p>From the first my Heaven-born was interested in milk, later in a growing +number of worldly things,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> but it was not until last winter by the +fireside that we really had serious tales all about Wonderland. It's a +difficult place to reach, but when you get down the cliff, and feel your +neck to make quite sure it's not broken, you come to the witch who has a +wooden leg. She lives in the Dust House, where the Dust Fairies want to +sleep, only she will worry them with her broom. When they are worried, +they dance with the Sunbeam Fairy who comes in through the window, and +never breaks the glass.</p> + +<p>There's a fairy mare called Jones, who lost her Christian name in a fit +of temper, and always searches for it with her hind legs. There's a +fairy bear who is not a truly grizzly, though he does live in a grizzly +bear skin even when it's ever-so-hot weather. He's a great hunter, too, +and likes sportsmen so much that they keep getting fewer, and <i>fewer</i>, +and <span class="smcap">FEWER</span>. The last sportsman was a fairy Doctor called McGee, who +perched all day long in a tree, like the fowls-of-the-air, practising +bird-calls, while the fairy bear sat underneath taking care of his +rifle.</p> + +<p>Wonderland is full of stories, especially about Mr. Man. When Mr. Man +was stolen away by robbers, and tied up with fiddle-strings in a +ferry-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span>house, well—David flatly refused to go to bed until we'd come to +the ferry across Dream River.</p> + +<p>David's dog came of an alliance between two noble families, so his name +is Whiskers Retriever-Dachshund, Esq., P.T.O. David's cat, who died +expensively in a pail of cream, was Mrs. Bull Durham. Ginger was a +squirrel in the garden, and the dago was a badger who lived a long way +off beyond the grumpy cow. Dog, cat, squirrel and badger were all of +them robbers, but David would have been quite wretched if he had caught +them doing anything dishonest.</p> + +<p>Did I mention Mr. Man? He was a hero who lived in fairyland, and didn't +believe in fairies, who spoke with a slow, sweet, Texan drawl, who loved +and protected all living creatures except politicians, who believed in +God, in Mother England, and in Uncle Sam, and who always wrote long +letters to his mother. David said his funny prayers for mother, and +Whiskers, and all kind friends "and make me good like Mr. Man in +Wonderland. Amen. Now, tell me some wobbers, mummie."</p> + +<p>Although David has decided to be a tram conductor, he still takes some +little interest in other walks of life. Once on the tow-path he asked +an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> old gentleman who was fishing, what he was fishing for, and got the +nice reply: "I often wonder." And it was on this path beside the Thames, +that one day last November he made a big friendship. His nurse was +passing a few remarks with a young man who asked the way to my house, +and baby went ahead pursuing his lawful occasions. Curious to know what +it felt like to be a real fish, he was stepping into the river to see +about it, when the young man interfered.</p> + +<p>"Leggo my tail," said David wrathfully, then with sudden defiance, "I +got my feet wet anyway, so there!"</p> + +<p>"That's so," the young man agreed.</p> + +<p>"I say," David grew confident. "Mummie says it's in the paper, so it's +all right."</p> + +<p>"What's that, sonny?"</p> + +<p>"A little boy what went in to see about some fishes, and that man what +swum and swum, and I saw'd his picture in the paper. So now 'tend you +look de udder way."</p> + +<p>"Why, I can't see nothen."</p> + +<p>"You <i>can</i> see. The game is for me to jump in, and you swim."</p> + +<p>"But I can't swim. I'm a sailor."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Oh, weally? Then what's your name?"</p> + +<p>"It's Billy O'Flynn."</p> + +<p>"No, but that's weally my guinea-pig, the pink one—Billy O'Flynn. +You're not a fairy, Billy?"</p> + +<p>"Why, what does you know about fairies?"</p> + +<p>"Most truthfully, you know? I don't believe in fairies, but then it +pleases mummie."</p> + +<p>So Billy sat on his heel making friends with the heaven-born, and Patsy, +the nurse, came behind him, craving with cotton-gloved hands to touch +the sailor's crisp, short, golden hair, and David gravely tried on the +man's peaked cap.</p> + +<p>"Yes," Billy agreed, "fairies is rot when there's real gals about, with +rosy cheeks a-blushin' an' cotton gloves."</p> + +<p>"Lawks! 'Ow you sailors does fancy yourselves," said Patsy, her shy +fingers drawn by that magnetic gold of the man's hair.</p> + +<p>"Climb on my back and ride," said young O'Flynn to David, "I'll be a +fairy horse."</p> + +<p>"The cheek of 'im!" jeered Patsy, "fairy 'orse indeed!"</p> + +<p>Oh, surely the fairies were very busy about them, tugging at +heartstrings, while Billy and Patsy fell head over ears in love, and my +pet cupid had them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> both for slaves. David rode Billy home, by his +august command straight into my brown study, where I sat in my lazy +chair.</p> + +<p>Was it my voice telling baby to go and get dry feet? Was it my hand +grasping Billy's horny paw? For I heard my roaring caņon, saw my cliffs, +my embattled sculptured cliffs, and once more seemed to walk with Jesse +in Cathedral Grove. I could hear my dear man, speaking across the years, +"Say, youngster, when you sawed off that table leg to make your mother's +limb, what did you do with the caster?"</p> + +<p>I laughed, I cried. Oh, yes, of course I made a fool of myself. For this +dear lad came out of Wonderland, this heedless ruffian who knew of my +second marriage, who had such a tale to tell of "Madame Scotson." Oh, +haven't you heard? Her precious Baby David is illegitimate! Couldn't I +hear my neighbor, Mrs. Pollock, telling that story at the Scandal Club? +Then a discreet paragraph from Magpie in <i>Home Truths</i> would be libel +enough to brand a public singer. My mother would suggest ever so gently +that in the interests of the family, my retirement to a warmer +climate—say Italy, would be so <i>suitable</i>. And madame's illegitimate +son<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> would be barred from decent schools. Oh, I could see it all!</p> + +<p>With his pea-jacket thrown open, wiping his flushed face with a red +handkerchief, shifting from one foot to the other in torment of +uneasiness, blowing like some sea beast come up from the deeps to +breathe, Billy consented not to run away from my hysterics.</p> + +<p>Feeling ill-bred and common, I begged Billy's pardon, made him sit down, +tried ever so hard to put him at his ease. Poor lad! His father +condemned as a felon, his mother such a wicked old harridan, his life, +to say the very least, uncouth. Yet somehow out of that rough savage +face shone the eyes of a gentleman, and there was manliness in all he +said, in everything he did. After that great journey for my sake, how +could I let him doubt that he was welcome?</p> + +<p>"I know I'm rough," he said humbly, "but you seem to understand. You +know I'm straight. You won't mind straight talk unless you're changed, +and you're not changed—at least not that way, mum."</p> + +<p>Changed! Ah, how changed! The looking-glass had bitter things to tell +me, and crying makes me such a frump. I never felt so plain. And the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> +eyes of a young man are often brutally frank to women.</p> + +<p>"Don't mind about me, Billy. Say what you've come to tell me."</p> + +<p>"Been gettin' it ready to say ever since I started for England. Look +here, mum, <i>I</i> want to go back to the beginning, to when I was a kid, +an' mother kep' that hash house in Abilene. D'ye mind if I speak—I mean +about this here Polly?"</p> + +<p>I set my teeth, and hoped he would be quick.</p> + +<p>"Well, ye see, mum, she only done it for a joke, and the way Jesse +treated her—"</p> + +<p>"I can't hear this."</p> + +<p>"You don't mind if I say that mother and me haven't no use for Jesse?"</p> + +<p>"I know that."</p> + +<p>"Well, mother put her up to the idea. To get shut of him, she shammed +dead. I helped. I say she done right, mum. If she'd let it go at that, +I'd take her side right now."</p> + +<p>"Billy, was that a real marriage?"</p> + +<p>"It was that. She's Jesse's wife all right."</p> + +<p>There was something which braced me in his callous frankness. "I hoped," +I said. "Go on."</p> + +<p>"Well, mother hated Jesse somethin' chronic. Afterward when—well, she +had to run for the Brit<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>ish possessions, and we met up with Jesse again +by accident. He give us a shack and some land, but mother an' me had our +pride. How would <i>you</i> like to take charity? Mother hated him still +worse, and don't you imagine I'd go back on her. She's my mother.</p> + +<p>"Then you married Jesse. Of course, mother and me both knew that Polly +was alive. Father knew too—and father was around when no one but us +ever seen him. We knew that Polly was alive, and mother would have given +Jesse dead away, only we stopped her. Father said it was none of our +business. Father liked Jesse, I thought the world of you, so when mother +wrote to Polly, we'd burn her letters."</p> + +<p>What an escape for us!</p> + +<p>"Then you saved mother from burning in that shack, and afterward she +hated Jesse worse, because she couldn't hit him for fear of hurting you. +Oh, she was mad because she'd got fond of you.</p> + +<p>"And you took us into your ranch. Charity again, and you sailin' under +Protestant colors, both of yez. The way mother prayed for Jesse was +enough to scorch his bones." Billy chuckled. "I ain't religious—I +drink, and mother's professin' Catholic cuts no figure with me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Then there's the fightin' between father's gang and Jesse's. Dad got +hung, Jesse got the dollars. Rough, common, no-account, white trash, +like mother an' me, hears Jesse expounding the Scriptures. We ain't got +no feelings same as you."</p> + +<p>Poor lad! Poor savage gentleman!</p> + +<p>"You saved me from murdering Jesse, and got me away from that ranch. +Since then I've followed the sea. There's worse men there than Jesse. I +seen worse grub, worse treatment, worse times in general since I quit +that ranch. Five years at sea—"</p> + +<p>There was the glamour, the greatness of the sea in this lad's eyes, just +as in Jesse's eyes. Sailors may be rugged, brutal, fierce—not vulgar. +Men reach out into spaces where we sheltered women can not follow.</p> + +<p>"Suppose I've grown," said Billy. "Well, mum, I got a notion to go home. +Signed as A. B. in a four-masted bark <i>Clan Innes</i> out o' Glasgow, for +Vancouver with general cargo. I quit her at Vancouver, made Ashcroft by +C. P. R., blind baggage mostly, then hit the road afoot. I thought I'd +take my departure from the Fifty-Nine."</p> + +<p>"The old bush trail?"</p> + +<p>"Hard goin', but then I expected, of course,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> mother'd be there at the +ranch, and you, mum, an' Jesse, of course, and—"</p> + +<p>"Jones?"</p> + +<p>Dreading his news, I fought for this one little respite before he came +to all I feared. If Jesse lived, if he only lived! But at thought of the +old ranch life, Billy lapsed to a sheepish grin with one quaint glint of +mischief. Then with the utmost gravity he asked me if Patsy, my +nursemaid, "was claimed".</p> + +<p>"There's many a little craft dips her colors for one who wants me to +stand by, but still—"</p> + +<p>"Patsy is free."</p> + +<p>"Faix! Can't help it, I backed my tawps'l."</p> + +<p>"Proposed?"</p> + +<p>"Save us! It's time to offer a tow when they're union down, and a danger +to navigation. Um. I'm off my course."</p> + +<p>"You must have found things changed when you got to the ranch."</p> + +<p>"Didn't get there. I'd news at Hat Creek, and kep' the road main north. +Mother wasn't at the ranch any more. She'd poisoned Jesse's bear. Oh, +mum, I don't want to hurt."</p> + +<p>"Go on, dear lad."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Mother'd took up with Polly at Spite House."</p> + +<p>"Spite House?"</p> + +<p>"It's the Ninety-Nine Mile House. There's a sign-board right across the +road:—</p> + +<p class="center"> +THE NINETY-NINE<br /> +MRS. JESSE SMITH<br /> +HOTEL, STORE, LIVERY. +</p> + +<p>"She did that to spite Jesse, and they call the place Spite House."</p> + +<p>Just then the maid brought in the tea things, so, cowardly as usual, I +played hostess, delaying all the news I dared not face. We gossiped of +Captain Taylor's half-bred child, Wee James at school down East, of +Tearful George married to that dreadful young person at Eighty Mile +House who scratched herself at meals, so Jesse said. At the +Hundred-and-Four, where Hundred Mile Hill casts its tremendous shadow on +the lowlands northward, Pete Mathson and his wife were making new +harness for the Star Pack-train. There a shadow fell on our attempt at +gossip—why does the conversation always stop at twenty minutes past? +Billy began to tell me about Spite House.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span></p> + +<p>Spite House! How right Father Jared was. "Sword versus dragon," he told +us, "is heroic: sword versus cockroach is heroics. Don't draw your sword +on a cockroach."</p> + +<p>This much I tried to explain to young O'Flynn, whose Irish blood has a +fine sense of humor. But the smile he gave me was one of pity, turning +my heart to ice. "Jesse," he said, "made that mistake. That's why I've +come six thousand miles to warn you. Howly Mother, if I'd only the +eddication to talk so I'd be understood!</p> + +<p>"I'm going to try another course. See here, mum. You've heered tell of +Cachalot whales. They runs say eighty tons for full whales—one hundred +fifty horse-power, dunno how many knots, full of fight to the last drop +of blood. That stands for Jesse.</p> + +<p>"And them sperm whales is so contemptuous of the giant squid they uses +her for food. She's small along of a sperm whale, but she's mean as +eight python snakes with a devil in the middle. That'll do for Polly.</p> + +<p>"Well, last voyage I seen one of them she-nightmares strangle a bull +Cachalot, and the sight turned me sick as a dog. Now, d'ye understand +what Polly's doing? I told you I hated Jesse. I told you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> straight to +your face why I hated him. And now, mum, I'm only sorry for poor Jesse."</p> + +<p>It was then, I think, that I began really to be terrified. Never in the +old days at the ranch had Billy been off his guard even with me. Now he +let me know his very heart. I could not help but trust him, and it was +no small uneasiness which had brought the lad to England.</p> + +<p>I had fought so hard, schooling myself to think of Jesse as of the dead, +with reverent tenderness. Little by little I had filled a bleak and +empty widowhood with mother duties, womanly service, my holy art of +song, and harmless fairies, making the best of it while age and +plainness were my destiny. But now of a sudden my poor peace was +shattered, and that gift of imagination which had imagined even +contentment, played traitor and made havoc. Laws, conventions, mean +respectabilities, seemed only cobwebs now. Love swept them all away, and +nothing mattered. Jesse! Jesse!</p> + +<p>"Them devil-squids," he was saying, "has a habit of throwing out ink to +fog the water, so you won't see what they're up to until they lash out +to grapple. That's where they're so like this Polly. She's a fat, +hearty, good-natured body, and it's the surest fact<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> she's kind to men +in trouble. Anybody can have a drink, a meal and a bed, no matter how +broke he is; and Spite House is free hospital for the district. She'll +sit up nights nursing a sick man, and, till I went an' lived there, I'd +have sworn she was good as they make 'em. That's the ink.</p> + +<p>"Then you begins to find out, and what I didn't see, mother would tell +me. She'd been three years there. Besides, I seen most of what we calls +sailor towns, and I'd thought I'd known the toughest there was in the +way of boardin'-houses; but rough house in 'Frisco itself is holiness +compared with what goes on there under the sign of Mrs. Jesse Smith. +That name ain't exactly clean."</p> + +<p>"That's enough, I think, if you don't mind. I'd rather have news about +our old friends—Captain Taylor, for instance, and Iron Dale, and how is +dear Doctor McGee?"</p> + +<p>"Dear Doctor McGee, is it? Well, you see he lived within a mile of +Polly. She got him drinkin', skinned him at cards, then told him he'd +best shoot himself. The snow drifts through his house.</p> + +<p>"And Iron Dale? Oh, of course, he was Jesse's friend, too. I'd forgot. +She got him drunk and went through him. That money was for paying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> his +hands at the Sky-line—wasn't his to lose, so he skipped the country. +The mines closed down and there wasn't no more packing contracts for +Jesse."</p> + +<p>I began to understand what Billy meant, and it was with sick fear I +asked concerning my dear man's stanchest friend, his banker, Captain +Boulton Taylor.</p> + +<p>"You'd better know, mum." There was pain in the lad's face, reluctance +in his voice. "Being the nearest magistrate, he tried to down Polly for +keeping a disorderly house. But then, as old man Taylor owned, he didn't +know enough law to plug a rat hole. There ain't no municipality, so +Spite House is outside the law. But Polly's friends proved all the good +she done to men who was hurt, or sick, or broke. Then she showed up how +her store and hotel was cutting into the trade of Hundred Mile House. +She brung complaints before the government, so Taylor ain't magistrate +now. The stage stables got moved from Hundred Mile to Spite House. The +post-office had to follow. Now he's alone with only a Chinaman. He's +blind as a bat, too, and there's no two ways about it—Bolt Taylor's +dying."</p> + +<p>"Is there no justice left?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Dunno about that. She <i>uses</i> a lot of law."</p> + +<p>I dared not ask about Jesse. To sit still was impossible, to play caged +tiger up and down the room would only be ridiculous. Still, Billy's +poisonous tobacco excused the opening of a window, so I stood with my +back turned, while a November night closed on the river and the misty +fields.</p> + +<p>How could I leave my baby? How could I possibly break with Covent +Garden—where my understudy, a fearsome female, ravened for the part? +The cottage would never let before our river season. "Madame Scotson has +been called abroad on urgent private business."</p> + +<p>"Of course," the lad was saying, "when Polly got to be postmistress, she +handled Jesse's letters, held the envelopes in the steam of a kettle +until they'd open, and gummed them when she was through—if she sent +them on. She found out who he dealt with and got them warned not to +trust him. There's no letters now."</p> + +<p>"She wouldn't dare!"</p> + +<p>"No? You remember he sent you that book you wrote together at the +ranch?"</p> + +<p>"You know that!"</p> + +<p>"I read it at Spite House. She had a heap of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> fun in the barroom with +Jesse's letter. Her cat eyes flamed like mad."</p> + +<p>"There was no letter."</p> + +<p>"She made a paper house of it, and set it alight to show how Jesse +burned her home in Abilene. She was drunk, too, that night. But that's +nothin'. Glad you didn't hear them yarns she put about the country. +Jesse wasn't never what I'd call popular, but he ain't even spoken to +now by any white man. His riders quit, his Chinamen cleared out. Then +she bought Brown's ferry, had the cable took away, the scow sent adrift, +and Surly Brown packed off. She'd heard that Jesse lived by his rifle, +so she's cut him off from his hunting grounds. There's nothing left to +hunt east of the Fraser."</p> + +<p>"He's starving?"</p> + +<p>"Shouldn't wonder."</p> + +<p>"Billy!"</p> + +<p>"Yes'm."</p> + +<p>"How soon can I get a ship?"</p> + +<p>"None before Saturday."</p> + +<p>"Go on. Tell me the worst."</p> + +<p>"The signs may read coarse weather or typhoon. I dunno which yet. She's +been locatin' settlers along them old clearings in the black pine and, +judging by samples I'd seen, she swept the jails."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Why more than one?" I asked, "why all that expense when one would do?"</p> + +<p>"Who'd blackmail Polly afterward? She's no fool. She says straight out +in public she'd shoot the man who killed him. But them thugs is planted +in hungry land, they see his pastures the best in the district, and you +know as well as I do he's a danger to all robbers. Why, even when +sportsmen and tourists comes along his old gun gets excited. He hates +the sight of strangers, anyway.</p> + +<p>"Now, all these years she's goading him to loose out and break the law. +That's why she's got the constable protecting her at Spite House. Once +she can get him breaking the law she has all them thugs—so many dollars +a head—as witnesses. It ain't murder she wants. She says that when she +went to his ranch that time Jesse sent her a message by old Mathson, 'I +won't let her off with death.'</p> + +<p>"She won't let him off with death. Twice she has put him to shame in +public. She'll never rest until she gets him hanged. There's only one +thing puzzles me. I see it's his silence, the waiting, which makes Polly +wake up and screech at night. But I dunno myself—has Jesse lost his +nerve?"</p> + +<p>"How do you know all this?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span></p> + +<p>"She told mother everything."</p> + +<p>"And your mother told you. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Because—say, mum, you remember the thing your husband called Bull +Durham?"</p> + +<p>"Brooke."</p> + +<p>"Fancy Brooke, the thing which Polly kept like a pet lap-dog. The thing +which turned state's evidence to hang my poor old dad. Brooke's come to +Spite House as Polly's manager. Yes, now you know why mother's got no +more use for Polly—told me I'd best come to you and give you warning. +That thing is at Spite House, and mother's gone."</p> + +<p>"I see it all now. But one last question. How did you get to England?"</p> + +<p>"Do you remember, mum, that my poor dad just thought the world of +Jesse?"</p> + +<p>"I remember, a legacy for you,—some ponies."</p> + +<p>"Well, Jesse found out somehow that I was at Spite House. He sent me the +value of them ponies, with only a receipt for me to sign. I reckon, mum, +that ruined and well-nigh starving, he rode a hundred and sixty miles +through the black pines, because he's honest. That's why I spent the +money comin' to you. I wants to help."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER II</h2> + +<h3>THE IMPATIENT CHAPTER</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>This chapter is so difficult to start. It deals with a time when life +had become impossible unless one could jump from here to Wednesday next, +and thence to Monday fortnight. Of course the book is only meant for +Jesse, for David, for me, and for those to come who may revere us as +their ancestors. Thank goodness, I am not a novelist! Think of the fate +of the professional writer whose hosts of "characters," the bodiless +papery creatures of his brain, will rise up in judgment to accuse their +petty creator, to gibber at him, to make his dreams a nightmare. What +novelist would escape that condemnation? Dickens might be saved, perhaps +Balzac. Tourguenieff maybe, even Kipling, but in Heaven the writers will +not be overcrowded.</p> + +<p>My characters are ready to hand, and my events are real, but how can I +possibly weld the notes in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> waiting, to make an harmonious, sane, +restful chapter, whose very motif is worry? I give it up, for what am I +that I should do this thing?</p> + +<p>To three-fourths' pound of artistic temperament, add one cup Celtic +blood; stir in a tablespoon of best Italian melody, add humor and +laziness to taste; then fry in moonlight over a slow anthem, and there +you are. That's me!</p> + +<p>As a little girl I would prefer a hobgoblin I couldn't see, to a real +doll stuffed with the best sawdust. If there happened to be any +day-dreams about, visions or reveries, I would play hostess and be well +amused; but fend me from accounts, from business men, and from all the +things you catch, such as trains and influenza. Hateful practical +affairs have to be faced, but I rush them to get through quick.</p> + +<p>Have you noticed that artists who vend feelings as a grocer sells sugar, +are always accused of being callous? I sent David with his nurse to stay +with Father Jared, so mother called me a cold-blooded wretch. I +abandoned my part at the opera to a weird ravening female who can't +sing, so my manager called me an atheist. My maids had to pack and run +to escape storage with the furniture at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> "Pecking and Tootham +Emporiums"; my little home passed to a gentleman with mourning nails, +diamonds, and a lisp; my bits and scraps of stock were sold and the +proceeds banked with the Hudson's Bay Company. Then came casual +farewells to baby and Father Jared, and, just as the train pulled out, +the district nurse threw a bunch of violets. So I broke down and howled, +wondering damply why. Even then I longed for my dear wilderness where +every wind blows clean, for the glamour of an austere land braving the +naked eternities, the heart of a lonely man who dared to do his duty, +all, all that was real and great in life, calling me, calling me home.</p> + +<p>The keenest pleasure which ever money gave me came when Billy and I +helped in the drafting of a cable order from the Hudson's Bay Company in +London to that bland magnifico who manages their branch palace at +Vancouver. One always feels that if one happened to want a Paris hat, a +bag of nuts, and a monkey, this Vancouver potentate would make a parcel +of them without the slightest fear of their getting mixed. As to +surprising the company, one might as well tickle the Alps. So here is +the telegram:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span>—</p> + +<blockquote><p>"Provide three sleighs, each with two horses; engage two reliable +bush teamsters; six months' guaranteed bonus for secrecy and +fidelity.</p> + +<p>"Referring to previous requirements of Jesse Smith, load No. 1 +sleigh to capacity with provisions, luxuries, ammunition, books, +consigned to him via bush trail from 59 Mile House, Cariboo Road. +Referring to Captain Taylor's past requirements and present +sickness, load No. 2 sleigh with stores invalid comforts, consigned +100 Mile House. Each driver to present load, rig and team, with +personal services, and to forward consignee's receipt.</p> + +<p>"Hire third sleigh with team one month, furnish furs on approval, +equipment, comforts suitable to bush travel and residence of a +lady. Place in charge of young competent civil engineer, bringing +instruments and assistant to report to Madame Scotson, arriving +Ashcroft Pacific Limited 20 inst.</p> + +<p>"Absolute secrecy required. Charge Scotson."</p></blockquote> + +<p>So far the impulse had moved me to be quick before I repented, and the +journey gave time for that. Leaving the sweet majesty and serene order +of the English landscape, I made the usual passage by <i>S.S. Charon</i> +across the Styx to New York, where I caught a stuffy train for the +transit of an untidy continent. And so, in the starry middle of a night, +I was met at Ashcroft.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span></p> + +<p>The civil engineer sent by the Hudson's Bay Company was Mr. Sacrifice T. +Eure. He stood uncovered, and while his ears froze, spelled his name to +me, explaining that there were two syllables in "Eure" with accent on +the first. He seemed to convey an offer of protection, to claim my +friendship, to take charge of my affairs, and with perfect modesty to +let me know that he was competent. Mud-colored hair hung dank over a +fine bloodless face with eyes like steel, jaws like iron, accounting, +perhaps, for the magnetic charm of his smile. His English was that +spoken by gentlefolk, which has the clearness of water, the sparkle of +champagne. His accent? How puzzling that is in a stranger's voice! +Except when we play Shakespearean drama, we all speak with an accent, +American say, or British. This gentleman lacked the primitive manliness +which stamps the men of the Dominions. Afterward Mr. Eure confessed +himself a native of New England.</p> + +<p>He presented his assistant, led me to the sleigh, showed Billy where to +stow the luggage, tucked me into some warm furs, congratulated me on +escaping the local hotels, then bidding my man and his own to jump in, +took the reins and asked which way we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> were going. I served as pilot +along a trail of poignant memories. Once as we climbed the great steeps +northward, I caught the scent of the bull pines, and would have cried +but for the cold, which made it much wiser to sniff. Tears freeze.</p> + +<p>We slept that night at Hat Creek station, where Tearful George proved a +most kindly host. He told me of a loaded sleigh which had passed last +week on the way to Jesse's ranch. The teamster was Iron Dale. So far I +had wondered whether my name was changing letter by letter from Madame +Scotson into Mrs. Grumble, but now the scent of the pines brought ease +of mind, and in the great calm of the wilderness one is ashamed to fret.</p> + +<p>Our next march brought us rather late for the midday dinner to +Fifty-Nine Mile House, which marks the summit of the long climb from +Ashcroft to the edge of the black pines. The light was beginning to wane +when we set out into that land of silent menace, where black forests +cast blue shadows over deathly snow, and the cold was that of the space +between the stars. Once we had to pull up to adjust a trace, and in that +instant the trees seemed suddenly to have paused from dreadful motion. A +snow-covered boulder faced us as though in chal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span>lenge: "You think I +moved?" A deadfall log seemed to ask us: "Did I moan?" A hollow tree +became rigid as though it had been swaying, a gaunt pine leaned as +though stopped in the act of falling upon our sleigh. All of them, alert +and full of menace, watched us. The trees were dead, the water was all +frozen, the snow was but a shroud which seemed to lift and creep. What +were we doing here in the land of the dead? The shadows closed upon us, +a mist rose, flooding over us, and far off the cold split a tree asunder +with loud report as of some minute gun.</p> + +<p>We drove on, freezing, and right glad I was to be welcomed with all the +ruddy warmth and kindly cheer of Eighty Mile House. There we had tea, +and secured fresh horses for the last stage of our journey. I learned +also that the driver intrusted by the Hudson's Bay Company with +provisions for Hundred Mile House had gone off with the team, leaving +his sleigh still loaded in Captain Taylor's yard.</p> + +<p>The malign bush seemed cowed by sheer immensity of glittering starlight +as we drove on. Only once I ventured to speak, asking Mr. Eure to look +out for Ninety-Nine Mile House. Horses accus<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span>tomed to bait there would +try to stop. I did not want to stop.</p> + +<p>He nodded assent, and, crouched down beside him, I waited until a brave +red warmth shone out across the snow from all the lighted windows of +Spite House. Mr. Eure lashed his horses, and in a moment more we had +passed into the night again. Presently we crossed the little shaky +bridge over Hundred Mile Creek, then swung to the left into Captain +Taylor's yard. I could see on the right the loom of the old barns, on +the left the low house, and at the end one window dimly lighted, which +told me my friend still lived. While Tom, the assistant, stabled the +team, Mr. Eure and Billy got snow shovels from the barn, and hewed out a +way to the deep drifted door at the near end of the building. Presently +the Chinese servant let us in, and I made my way through the barroom and +dining-hall to that far door on the right. How changed was the grand old +Hundred since the days, only five years ago, of pompous assizes, +banquets, dances, when these rooms overflowed with light, warmth, and +comfort, now dark, in Arctic cold, in haunted silence! I crept into the +captain's room, where, in an arm-chair beside the stove, the old man<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> +lay. I knelt beside him, taking his dreadfully swollen hand.</p> + +<p>"Dear wife," he muttered, whose wife must have been dead full forty +years, "this hulk is going to be laid up soon, in Rotten Row. Can't all +of us founder in action."</p> + +<p>I ran away. But then there was much to be done, fires, lights, supper, +beds, and the unloading of the sleigh full of hospital comforts, which +would set my patient a great deal more at ease.</p> + +<p>When I left my patient, very late that night, supposing all lucky people +to be in bed, I found Mr. Eure making himself some tea. Gladly I joined +him beside the kitchen stove, ever so pleased with its warmth and the +tea, for I was weary, past all hope of any sleep. Besides, the poor man +was just dying with curiosity as to our journey and his engagement as my +engineer. So, for that one and only time I told the story of Jesse's +fate, and mine. The creature would stop me at times to check the +pronunciation of words, or note the English manner of placing accents, +his own odd way of showing sympathy.</p> + +<p>And then I tried to explain the scheme which needed his services as an +engineer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Let's see," he checked my rambling statement. "Try if I've got all that +correct. This Cariboo wagon road runs from Ashcroft to Quesnelle, due +north, except at one point where the government wouldn't pay for a +bridge across the Hundred Mile gorge.</p> + +<p>"So at the ninety-five-mile post the road swings eastward five miles, +passing Spite House to the head of the gorge, where it crosses Hundred +Mile Creek, right here.</p> + +<p>"From here the road turns west again on the north side of the gorge, and +after one mile on the level, drops down the Hundred Mile Hill, which is +three miles high, and a terror to navigation.</p> + +<p>"At the bottom the road turns north again for Quesnelle, at a cabin +called the One Hundred and Four where old Pete Mathson lives, a hairy +little person, like a Skye terrier with a faithful heart.</p> + +<p>"And said Mathson has blazed a cut-off, crossing the foot of the gorge, +then climbing by an easy grade to the ninety-five-mile post. The said +cut-off is five miles long. Made into a wagon road, it would give a +better gradient for traffic, save four miles, employ local labor at a +season when money is scant, and be an all-round blessing to mankind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> At +the foot of the gorge we'd locate the new Hundred Mile House.</p> + +<p>"Incidentally, Spite House would be side-tracked, left in the hungry +woods four miles from nowhere."</p> + +<p>"Tell me," I urged, "what you think."</p> + +<p>"My dear madam, when I've made a survey you shall have dates and figures +for a temporary snow road, a permanent way, and a house."</p> + +<p>"It can be done?"</p> + +<p>"Why, certainly."</p> + +<p>"You approve?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I see dollars in this, for me."</p> + +<p>"You think I'm foolish!"</p> + +<p>"It will be an excellent road."</p> + +<p>"But the result?"</p> + +<p>"Please don't blame the engineer."</p> + +<p>"Oh, tell me what you think, as a man."</p> + +<p>"Well, let's pretend I'm Polly."</p> + +<p>I laughed.</p> + +<p>"Being Polly, and from my Polly point of view, frankly, I'm pleased. +Here are hundreds of new customers, with Madame Scotson's money to spend +at Spite House."</p> + +<p>"My men will sign an agreement. The man who visits Spite House forfeits +a bonus for good serv<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span>ice, loses all outstanding pay, and leaves my camp +that day."</p> + +<p>"Is that so? Of course the coaches change horses at Spite House."</p> + +<p>"When I've bought out the stage company, they'll change horses at the +New Hundred."</p> + +<p>"And only stop at Spite House for the mails?"</p> + +<p>"I shall appeal to the postmaster-general."</p> + +<p>"On the ground that you're running a rival house? Captain Taylor, you +say, did that."</p> + +<p>"My house shall charge nothing. It shall be free, and the visitors my +guests."</p> + +<p>"Then, in my little Polly way, I'm afraid I'll have to move Spite House +down to the new road."</p> + +<p>"On to my land?"</p> + +<p>"Your cruelty reduces me to tears. I am a martyr. I appeal to the +chivalrous public to boycott that new road."</p> + +<p>"When I've brought money into the country? Oh, you don't know this +hungry neighborhood!"</p> + +<p>"Mercy! My client's done for. I'm Madame Scotson's managing engineer. +May I ask a plain question?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly."</p> + +<p>"Is there water-power in this gulch?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> + +<p>"There's a lovely waterfall."</p> + +<p>"I'll look around to-morrow."</p> + +<p>And then came Mr. Eure's confession. The assistant, not himself, was a +surveyor. "I'm only a paper-maker. I'm looking for cheap timber, good +snow for haulage, water-power to mill the lumber into paper-pulp, and a +road to market. I've been traveling some months now in search of that +combination, and if your lovely waterfall will give me five thousand +horse-power, I shall have to build your cut-off road for myself, also +the house. Then there'll be war against these black pines, your enemies. +As to Spite House, it seems hardly the kind of thing for you to deal +with. Perhaps you'll leave that to me."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER III</h2> + +<h3>RESCUE</h3> + + +<p><i>Jesse's Letter</i></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Mother in Heaven:</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Please thank God for me and say I'm grateful. Tell the neighbor angels +how little mothers having sons on earth are badly missed and grudged by +hungering mortals. Prayers sent to Heaven are answered, but not letters. +I reckon no one here could ever write a letter happy enough, so light +with joy that it could fly up there. And when I'd a notion to write, in +these last years, I knew a heavy letter might reach the wrong address, +to make more sorrow in the other place. I've passed the hours writing, +times when I had paper, but the stuff I wrote would make no creature +happy, except, perhaps, critics, who enjoy to scoff. What can't make +happiness is worse than dirt.</p> + +<p>In the days when I thought this Jesse person was important, I used to +read the Old Testament, which is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> full human with pride and arrogance of +man. But since I learned that this whole world is only a dream from +which we shall awake, the New Testament has been my pasturage. Maybe +three moons ago, when my ammunition had run out, and my neighbor animals +had learned all the little secrets of my traps and snares, there was no +food for the earthly part of me, and I wondered what God was going to do +about it. Of course I couldn't question about His business, but seeing +that likely He intended me to leave my little worries behind, I made a +good fire in the cabin, lay down in the bunk, arranged my body to be in +decent order in case I left it, and took my Bible to pass away the time.</p> + +<p>I suppose I'd dropped off to sleep, when something rough began to +happen, jolting me back into the world of fuss. A man in a buckskin +shirt and a bad temper, stamping the snow off his moccasins, shaking me +by the arm. He was my old friend Iron Dale, a man of the world—which +smashed him.</p> + +<p>He seemed to be worried, and that, of course, was natural to a man like +Iron, lusty and eager, with an appetite for money—whereas poor Polly +had done her best to cure him of his dollars. She is like a dutiful +scapegoat eager to carry the burdens of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> the people, but Iron +doesn't understand and would carry rocks to the cliffs rather than have +no load in a world of workers. Don't you remember, mother, the lesson of +the Labrador, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be +the name of the Lord." He takes away the things which keep us from Him.</p> + +<p>But here was Iron jumping about the cabin, busy as a chipmunk, with just +the same hurried, funny way of blaspheming. He had to make fire, cook +soup, and haul things in from outdoors, while he told me news about a +team, a sleigh, a load of stores for me, and his own services paid up +six months ahead if I'd let him work on the ranch. He was like a little +boy which plays at keeping store, where you've got to pretend to trade, +with nary a smile, lest he should see and the whole game turn unreal. So +I sat up for soup, which made my loose skin fit me again as I filled. +I'd answer to all he did, grave as a constable, playing the game of life +just as I used to.</p> + +<p>All of us have to play, at trade, at war, at love, at kingdoms and +republics. We play at empire without a grin, we play with serious faces +at learning and the arts. Yet all the business of men is like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> game of +children playing on the sands, as though there were no tide to sweep +away our footprints.</p> + +<p>I played with Iron at being alive, and he got so damned indulgent I +could have smacked his face.</p> + +<p>When he'd tended the horses, Iron set up a clock upon the shelf, so I +might hear the ticking as time passed. He carried in armloads from the +sleigh, he opened cases, he spilled out sacks. He showed me maple syrup, +try-your-strength cigars, a dandy rifle with plenty ammunition, books, +clothes, candy, a piano which plays itself, then garden seeds, and all +sorts of things which you'd have honed for in the long ago. The place +was like a barter store, piled to the beams with riches wasted on me, +who hadn't a neighbor left. Why, even Iron, who used to think for no one +but himself, had a kitten for me, warm in his pocket, and forgotten +until a case of hardware squashed out its best Sunday scream. Who'd ever +think, too, that so small a bundle of fur and claws should have a purr +to fill my whole bed with joy. Surely, I loved this world I'd so nearly +quit, when after supper Iron loosed a gramophone. The Hudson's Bay man +had shown him a special "record" from England, the angel song in +Chopin's <i>Marche Funčbre</i>. We had that first, the very song<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> she used to +sing in this cabin, times when I reckoned it a shameful thing for any +man to cry.</p> + +<p>It was Kate's voice.</p> + +<p>Oh, tell God, mother, that I'm very grateful. I heard her voice filling +this place which used to be her home. Though my wife and I are parted +for all our years—love finds a way.</p> + +<p>A week or more had passed, and I'd my strength again. The river had +frozen so that we could cross to the hunting grounds beyond, and when we +came back our camp was full of meat.</p> + +<p>I was once rich, before my wealth of memories went bad and turned to +pain. I once had peace or thought so, till I found that there is none +for men who keep on growing. But wealth of memories, and peace of mind, +and humbleness of spirit are but emptiness, and life is a waste until it +is filled with love. Iron's kindness to me, the charity which sent me +Kate's voice, the love behind the gift which found me dying—these are +the things which saved my soul alive. My life must be filled with love, +my hours must be deeds of help for others, there must be no more self in +me at all. It would be better to be damned and doing good in hell, than +to squander love where it runs waste in Heaven.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span></p> + +<p>The truth is scarce, being winnowed by many preachers, and my grains +when I try to eat them, are mostly husks. Iron calls me a coward. But +Polly only weighs ninety-eight pounds, and I two hundred, so that I +couldn't have managed to feel brave fighting her. Then Iron claims it's +not the little woman I ought to fight, but the big evil she did in +bringing all our settlers to death or ruin. A woman's whim is light as +thistle-down, but thistles choke the pasture unless you fight them, and +Christ himself fought to the death against the evils which grew rank +around him. I doubt I've been a cowardly sort of Christian.</p> + +<p>Was I right to live alone? For if this world's a school, I've been a +truant. Can I live for self, while all things done for self are only +wasted? My place was in the world working for others.</p> + +<p>I'd got so far in thinking my morals needed repairs, when a new thing +happened, pointing out the way. O'Flynn rode over burning the trail from +the Hundred. My wife is there! Although we may not meet, her love has +brought her from England to be near me.</p> + +<p>O'Flynn has seen my son, he has spoken with Father Jared, he has come +with Kate from England,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> and he left her nursing at Bolt Taylor's +bedside. She is sending Surly Brown from Soda Creek with a cable, to +build a new scow, and start the ferry again. Ransome Pollock's to manage +the Trevor ranch. Iron's to reopen the Sky-line while she makes his +peace with the owners—O'Flynn wants to run the packing. She is finding +a doctor to take McGee's practise. Tearful George is to buy an imported +stallion, and drift him with a bunch of East Oregon mares to stock my +empty pastures. The dead settlement is to live again as though there had +been no Polly to rob, ruin, and murder among our pioneers. And then my +wife will send young Englishmen to school with me for training.</p> + +<p>Stroke by stroke this Mr. O'Flynn comes lashing home the news into my +hide, as though I were being flogged. He says he hated me always, but +never despised me before as he does now. My wife and I should change +clothes, only I'd be too useless for a woman. Iron says the same, and in +a most unchristian way I thrashed the pair, knocking their heads +together, for putting me too much in the wrong while I wanted my +breakfast. They think there's something in my argument.</p> + +<p>The news is better for being discussed, and best<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> of all I reckon this +man Eure who is to side-track Polly, building a town at the foot of the +Hundred Mile Falls. The pines on the high land, too small a trash for +lumber, are good enough for pulp to feed a mill, while paper is the +plate from which we eat our knowledge. I see the black bush turning into +books, the lands in oats or pasture till they're warmed for wheat, and +when we come to the rocks there's marble to build colleges for our sons, +gold to endow them. The land too poor for any other crop, is best for +raising men.</p> + +<p>It's only because I'm happy I write nonsense, feeling this night as +though I were being cured of all my blindness. I have a sense that +though I sit in darkness, my wife is with me, and if my eyes were +opened, I should see her. Is it our weakness which gives such strength +to love?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER IV</h2> + +<h3>AT HUNDRED MILE HOUSE</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>Mr. Eure inspected the woods and water-power, then departed for the +coast, secretly to buy timber limits, avowedly to find a nurse and a +doctor.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tom Faulkner, his engineer, surveyed, then let contracts for +temporary snow road, log buildings at the falls, and a telegraph line +which would secure our business from being known at Polly's post-office.</p> + +<p>Mr. Dale reopened the Sky-line mines, pending my arrangement with the +owners.</p> + +<p>Mr. Surly Brown placed a cable and built a scow in readiness to renew +his ferry business.</p> + +<p>Mr. Tearful George placed loads of forage a day's march apart across the +forest, then drifted live stock into Jesse's ranch.</p> + +<p>Father Jared sought out young gentlemen to be trained at Jesse's "School +of Colonial Instruction."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span></p> + +<p>Mr. William O'Flynn became bartender, despatch rider, stable man, +general adviser, and commander-in-chief at the Hundred.</p> + +<p>A bewildered Chinaman, with a yellow smile, cooked, scrubbed, chattered +pidgin-English, and burned incense to Joss in the kitchen.</p> + +<p>And I, Kate, was busy nursing and keeping house, with never a moment to +spare for the specters which thronged our forest. After the snow road +diverted traffic, my one visitor was Pete Mathson, who on Saturdays +climbed the long hill for his rations. When my patient was well enough, +he would talk with "Bolt" Taylor about old times in the gold mines, or +on the high technic of pack-train harness, above the comprehension of a +woman.</p> + +<p>Until the nurse came I was with my patient always, and slept in the same +close room. On her arrival—how I envied that pretty uniform—Nurse +Panton proceeded to set us all to rights. She was a colorless creature, +supported by routine as by a corset, and Billy informed me that she +needed to be shocked thoroughly. He told her that the patient, being a +sailor, wanted the nursing done shipshape and Bristol fashion. Nurse and +I were to have each four hours on and four off, with two dog or half<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> +watches, which would daily reverse the order, so giving us the middle +watch by turns. Nurse was indignant at the very idea, and finding me on +Billy's side, protested to the captain. "Capital!" said he, delighted at +any chance of shaking up the long monotony of illness. "You'll strike +the bells as we do at sea," he said, "two for each hour."</p> + +<p>Of course the first of the nursing ten commandments is, "Pretend to +agree with the patient;" but then the naval officer, if he missed his +bells, would awake with horrible deep-sea oaths, and "Stop her grog," so +that she got no tea except by obedience.</p> + +<p>Whether relieved at midnight or at four <span class="smcap">A</span>. <span class="smcap">M</span>. I would put on my furs for +a little prowl outdoors. To leave the house when it was forty degrees +below zero, felt like the plunge into an icy bath, but gave the same +refreshment afterward. And it was good to watch the ghostly dances of +the northern lights fill the whole sky with music visible.</p> + +<p>Once setting out on such an excursion I traversed the dining-hall, +entered the dark barroom, and opened the inner door which gave upon the +porch. But this time I could not push the storm door open. Something +resisted, something outside thrusting at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> the panels, something alive. I +fell back against the bar, imagining bears, burglars, bogies, anything, +while I listened, afraid to breathe.</p> + +<p>It was then I heard a voice, a girlish voice outside in the Arctic cold, +chanting in singsong recitation as though at school:</p> + +<p>"Bruce, Bruce; Huron, Desoronto; Chatham Cayuga; Guelph—not Guelph—oh, +what comes after Cayuga?" Then feeble hands battered against the door, +"Teacher! Teacher!"</p> + +<p>But when I opened the door, the girl stepped back afraid.</p> + +<p>"You're not the teacher," she said; "oh, tell me before she comes. +Sixty-six counties and the towns have all got mixed."</p> + +<p>"Come in and let me tell you."</p> + +<p>"I daren't! I daren't! You're not the teacher. This is not the school. +You'll take me back!"</p> + +<p>She turned, trying to run away, but her legs seemed wooden, and she slid +about as though she were wearing clogs.</p> + +<p>"I won't," she screamed, "I won't go back!" Then she fell.</p> + +<p>"Dear child, you shan't go back."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> + +<p>But still she shrank from me. "Oh, leave me alone!" she pleaded.</p> + +<p>"Mayn't I give you some tea?"</p> + +<p>"You won't take me back to Spite House?"</p> + +<p>"Not to that dreadful place."</p> + +<p>"Do you keep girls, too?"</p> + +<p>"There's only a nurse, and a poor dying man."</p> + +<p>"And you'll hear me the counties of Ontario?"</p> + +<p>"Why, yes, dear."</p> + +<p>"I'll come then," but as she tried to get up, "it's cramp," she moaned.</p> + +<p>"Dear child, you're freezing."</p> + +<p>"I'm not cold, it's cramp."</p> + +<p>She must have fallen through the snow which covered our water-hole, for +she was literally incased in ice up to the breasts.</p> + +<p>Finding I had not strength to carry her, I shouted for the nurse, who +roused Billy, and then the Chinaman. Together we carried her indoors, +gave her brandy, and laid her, dressed as she was, in Captain Taylor's +bath. Then while Billy rode hard for a doctor, nurse and I filled the +bath with freezing water, which for eight hours we kept renewed with +ice. Drawn gently from her body, the frost formed a film of ice upon the +surface, but she assured me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> that she felt quite warm, without the +slightest pain. To sustain her I gave liquid food at intervals, and +quite clear now in her mind, even cheerfully she trusted me with her +story.</p> + +<p>She told me of a village among vineyards, overlooking Lake Ontario, +just where a creek comes tumbling down from the Niagara heights. Her +father, a retired minister, wasted his narrow means in trying to raise +the proper grapes for sacramental wine. Mother was dead, and nine small +children had to be fed and clothed, to appear with decency at church and +school, so that they would not be ashamed among the neighbors. "You +see," she added primly, "I'm the eldest, the only one grown up, so, of +course, I couldn't be spared to stay at college." And there was little +to earn in the village, much to do taking a mother's place.</p> + +<p>Then Uncle John found an advertisement in the paper. A governess was +wanted for four children somewhere in British Columbia. The wages were +so generous that there would be enough to spare for helping father. It +meant so much of proper food, and good warm clothing for the younger +children. So references were exchanged with Mr. Brooke, who wrote most +charming letters, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> Uncle John lent money for the journey. My little +schoolma'am pursed her lips severely over that loan, which must be +repaid by instalments. Then her eyes shone with tears, and her face +quivered, all the scholastic manner quite gone, for she spoke of the sad +parting with everybody she loved, then of the long nights, the lonely +days of that endless journey across the continent.</p> + +<p>Mr. Brooke met Jenny at Ashcroft, and took her by sleigh nearly a +hundred miles, getting more and more familiar and horrid until, in a +state of wild fear of him, she ran for safety into a drunken riot at +Spite House. The waitresses were rude and cruel, Polly lay drunk on the +floor. There were no children.</p> + +<p>Afterward I learned from Mr. Eure that I was a prejudiced witness, +without a shred of evidence, that no court would listen to hearsay, and +that the dying girl's confession would not be allowed in court except it +were made under oath before a magistrate. Poor Jenny would never have +told any man what happened at Spite House; she would not have given the +last sane moments of her life to vengeance; and so there was no case +against either<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> Brooke or Polly in a crime which had earned them penal +servitude.</p> + +<p>Vengeance? I think our prayers together did more good, and when the time +came for Jenny's removal to a bed of lint soaked in carbolic oil, she +was prepared to face the coming pain.</p> + +<p>"Shall I die?" she asked. I could only kiss her.</p> + +<p>"Then," she said, "even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game."</p> + +<p>She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.</p> + +<p>Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge, +and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had +done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is +that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion—and +release.</p> + +<p>I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has +taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law, +but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There +was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite +House were treated as lepers until they left the country.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span></p> + +<p>For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the +public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or +discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.</p> + +<p>The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These +things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relationship +with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the +conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to +seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The +waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from +his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were +transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly +were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further +mischief.</p> + +<p>Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me, +but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal +of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's +vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might +have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy +was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and nei<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span>ther the nurse, the +Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went +to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.</p> + +<p>While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be +danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor, +perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life +by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As +a professional gambler, he wore long hair, mustache and imperial, +broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid "linen" and sham diamonds. To +these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the +hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common, +of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank, +and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him +something of charm, his only asset in the place of manhood.</p> + +<p>No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to +know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of +showing any temper.</p> + +<p>When I asked him to state his business, with a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> large gesture he claimed +the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.</p> + +<p>"You think I'm a villain?"</p> + +<p>I made no comment.</p> + +<p>"I've come to thank you, ma'am. If you'd pressed that girl's case it +might have been well—awkward."</p> + +<p>I told him that had I known the law, I should have done my best to get +him penal servitude for life.</p> + +<p>"That's straight," he answered indulgently, "you always were clear grit, +and that's why I want—well, ma'am," he lowered his eyes, "I'm going to +confess. You don't mind?" he added.</p> + +<p>My eyes betrayed my one desire, escape, but he stood in the doorway +leading to the house.</p> + +<p>"Your presence," I said, "is distasteful. Please, will you let me pass?"</p> + +<p>"Not till I've set things straight."</p> + +<p>There was no bell with which to summon help, and I should have been +ashamed to make a scene.</p> + +<p>"Go on," I said.</p> + +<p>"I dunno how you feel, mum, about life. I've been disappointed, starting +in with ideals, and they're gone. I'm as straight as the world will let +me, without my going hungry."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span></p> + +<p>Let me here quote one of Jesse's letters to his mother. "This Brooke and +I grew our beef and matured our horns on the same strong pasture, but +where a homely face kept me out of temptation, he had what you call +beauty, and I'd call vanity. Instead of trying to <i>be</i>, he aimed to act. +He'd play cow-boy, or robber, or gambler, things he could never <i>be</i>, +because he's not a man. He could wear the clothes, the manners, the +talk, and pass himself off for real. The women who petted him sank and +were left in the lurch. The men who trusted him were shot and hanged. +That made him lonesome, gave him the melancholy past, the romantic air, +the charm—all stock in trade. Long hair costs nothing, he pays no dog +tax, but life is too rich for his blood, and in the end he'll die of it +like Judas. Say, mother, wasn't there a Mrs. Judas Iscariot? She must +have been a busy woman to judge by the size of the Iscariot family."</p> + +<p>"Yes," Brooke sighed, "I'm a disillusioned, disappointed man."</p> + +<p>I had a curious sense that this actor of life was trying to be real, and +in the attempt he posed.</p> + +<p>"Not that I claim," he went on, "that Spite House is anyways holy. It's +not. Of course, a sporting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> and gambling joint meets a demand, a +regrettable demand, a thing we both abhor and would like to be shut of. +But since demand creates the supply, let's have it in high-toned style, +not run by thugs. That's what I say."</p> + +<p>His spacious benevolence seemed to confer partnership, yet to be shocked +at my immoral tendencies.</p> + +<p>"However," he sighed, "it's over. It's done with, shoved aside. There +was money in it, but small money, and we pass on. Old Taylor may have +told you that as far back as November we decided, Mrs. Smith and me, to +run the house as a first-class resort for tourists. We bought the Star +Pack-train from Taylor, and the old cargador is making our new +riggings."</p> + +<p>This was news indeed!</p> + +<p>"Of course pack-trains as such are out of date as Noah's ark, and we've +got to march with the procession. You'll see in this prospectus," he +held out a paper, "well, I'll read it. Let's see—yes—'Forest Lodge, +long under the able management of Mrs. Jesse Smith, with great +experience in' * * * no, it's further on—'Forest Lodge is the natural +center for parties viewing the wondrous wilds.' That should grip them, +eh? 'Experienced guides<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> with pack and saddle animals from the famous +Star <i>atajo</i>,' we can't call them mules, of course, 'will escort parties +visiting the sceneries and hunting grounds of the Coast Range, the +Cariboo, the Omenica, the Babine, and the Cassiar.' That ought to +splash!"</p> + +<p>Billy had warned me of bad characters settled on the lands toward +Jesse's ranch. Were these Brooke's "experienced guides"?</p> + +<p>"Naturally," Brooke folded his prospectus, "the sporting trade had to be +closed right down before the tourist connection took a hold. Millionaire +sportsmen out to spend their dollars, expect to find things just so. +They want recherché meals, and unique decorations, real champagne wine, +and everything 'imported' even when it's made on the spot. They don't +make no hurroar over losing a few thousands at cards, but they just +ain't going to stand seeing Polly laying around drunk on the barroom +floor. I tell you when they comes I ain't going to have Polly around my +place. That's straight. She'll get her marching orders P. D. Q."</p> + +<p>So Polly was next for betrayal.</p> + +<p>"Yes." Brooke became very confidential. "What I require at Forest Lodge +is a real society hostess,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> a lady. Yes, that's what's the matter—a +lady. Now that's what I come about. Ever since I seen you Mrs., I mean +madam, I mean—"</p> + +<p>He became quite diffident, leaving the doorway, leaning over the +counter.</p> + +<p>"Would you—" he began, "would you be prepared, ma'am, to—"</p> + +<p>My way was clear, and I ran.</p> + +<p>It often seemed to me that Jesse's life and mine were veiled in some +strange glamour of a directed fate. Little by little, in ever so slow +degrees this mist was lifting, and I began to feel that soon the air +would clear, giving us back to blessed commonplace. Through no act of +mine, but by Brooke's incompetence, the prosperous business of Spite +House had been brought to ruin.<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> Polly was drinking herself to death, +and presently would find herself betrayed by that same callous treachery +which had wrought such havoc in my dear man's life and mine.</p> + + +<p>Billy had held these last few weeks that Polly's funds were gone, that +she was penniless. He begged me to let him destroy the great sign-board +across the road to Spite House. Failure to renew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> that would indeed be +conclusive proof of the woman's penury, but the meanness of such a test +revolted me, for one does not strike a fallen adversary.</p> + +<p>Were there any funds to promote black pines and mosquitoes as an +attraction to millionaires? Brooke in his folly had divulged that +foolish scheme, sufficient to complete the ruin of a poor wretched +woman, before he abandoned her interests to seek his own. Was it true? I +went straight to Captain Taylor.</p> + +<p>For a week past my refractory patient had insisted upon living entirely +upon cheese, a seemingly fatal diet, which to confess the truth had done +him a world of good. Save for the loss of his sight he was quite his +dear old self and glad of a gossip.</p> + +<p>"Yes, Kate," he chuckled, "the murder's out at last. You see I'm not +exactly prosperous, and my retired pay is a drop in my bucket of debts. +And then our good friend Polly invested all her wealth in buying up the +mortgage on this ranch."</p> + +<p>"But why?"</p> + +<p>"For fun. For the pleasure of turning me out. She kindly granted me +permission to sleep in that old barrel which used to belong to my fox, +but then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> you see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the +lady."</p> + +<p>"Did you pay off the mortgage?"</p> + +<p>"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my +early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my +family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear +mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county +society—you really must call and leave cards."</p> + +<p>"But the portraits!"</p> + +<p>"They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to +remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed +as Polly's aunts."</p> + +<p>"And the Star Pack-train?"</p> + +<p>"A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all."</p> + +<p>"So you're in partnership?"</p> + +<p>"Why, no. Fact is, old Pete has been working thirty-five years, with his +faithful eyes shining behind that hair—it's silver now, eh? Well, I +couldn't leave him in the lurch. And there's the Hudson's Bay to +consider, with forts up north depending on us for supplies. And I +suppose, when I come to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> think of it, I'm rather proud of the outfit. +So, in my sentimental way, I made a deed by which Pete is managing +owner, with a half-interest, while Polly is sleeping partner with no +right to interfere."</p> + +<p>"You've told Pete?"</p> + +<p>"No. I suppose I've got to own up?"</p> + +<p>"You don't want Pete to be cheated by his partners."</p> + +<p>"You're right. Just open my desk and look inside. It's the paper on +top."</p> + +<p>I found and read the deed.</p> + +<p>"You've read it, of course," I said.</p> + +<p>"It was read to me by the lawyer chap. Isn't it all right?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," I managed to say, "it's all right—such funny legal jargon."</p> + +<p>I looked at the names of the witnesses, Cultus McTavish and Low-lived +Joe, the worst characters in our district. The document read to the old +blind man had been no doubt destroyed. The deed actually signed made +Polly sole owner of the famous pack-train. My friend had been cheated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER V</h2> + +<h3>THE CARGADOR</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>It was sixty degrees below zero. The moonlight lay in silver on the +pines, the hundred-and-four-mile cabin, deep buried among the drifts, +glittered along the eaves with icicles, the smoke went up into the hush +of death, and the light in the frosted window would glow till nearly +dawn.</p> + +<p>Within, Pete sat upon his shiny bench, rolling waxed end upon his shiny +knee, and tautened his double stitches through the night, scarcely +feeling the need of sleep. His new <i>aparejos</i>, stacked as they were +finished, had gradually crowded poor Mrs. Pete into her last stronghold, +the corner between the wood-box and the bunk. Fiercely she resented the +filling of her only room with harness, of her bunk with scrap leather, +which scratched her, she said. Wedged into her last corner, she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> +patch disgraceful old socks, while Pete at his sewing crooned <i>One More +River</i>, or some indecent ballad of the gold mines.</p> + +<p>"Mother," Pete would look up from his bench. "You mind when I brung her +here right to this very cabin, with Father Jared, and the Baby, David?"</p> + +<p>"What makes you hover, Pete?"</p> + +<p>"D'ye mind Baby David?"</p> + +<p>"Didn't I nurse him?" said the old woman softly. "He'd red hair like his +stuck-up mother, blue eyes same as Jesse, and a birthmark on his off +kidney. Now, did you ask her about that birthmark?"</p> + +<p>"I told her," said Pete, "that a suspicious female, with a face like a +grebe and an inquirin' mind is wishful to inspeck Dave's kidneys."</p> + +<p>Mother wagged her head. "I own I'd like to believe Kate Smith is back in +this country, but you're such a continuous and enduring liar."</p> + +<p>"That's so," said Pete.</p> + +<p>One day when the sun shone brightly into the cabin, Billy arrived with a +letter from Captain Taylor. Pete would not give it to mother, or read it +aloud, or even tell the news. He danced an ungainly hornpipe, and mother +had to shake him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span></p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Can a woman's tender care</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Cease toward the child She—Bear?</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">In the Old town</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 4em;">To-night my ba-Bee!"</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Now what on airth's the matter with yew?" mother boiled over.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Yes, she may forgetful Bee,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Yet will I—remember Me.</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Finish them riggings by first May, says he.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Says the old Obadiah</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">To the young Obadiah,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Obadiah, Obadiah!</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Oh, be damned!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Says I'm partner and boss of the outfit, and running the whole shootin' +match, and I'll get more wealth than'll patch hell a mile, and</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Thar's none like Nancy Lee, I trow,</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 7em;">Ow! Ow!</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>"Oh, mother, Bolt's give me a half-interest, and ain't this a happy +little home, my darlin'!"</p> + +<p>At that Mrs. Pete flung her skinny arms around his neck, and the two +silly old things sobbed together.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span></p> + +<p>A week later, when, to save Pete a long tramp, Billy rode down with the +rations, he found the old people concerned "about this yere +partnership."</p> + +<p>"Mother allows this Brooke is trash," said Pete, wagging his snowy head, +"and for all the interest he takes he's mostly corpse. Thar's shorely +holes in my 'skito bar."</p> + +<p>Billy read the letter thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>"Brooke been to see the riggings?" he asked.</p> + +<p>"Once in December. He don't know nothin', either."</p> + +<p>"Wonder what he wants?"</p> + +<p>"Smells mean, eh?"</p> + +<p>"A mean smell, Pete."</p> + +<p>Billy had spent the week tracking down the two bad characters who had +served as witnesses to a false agreement. Their confession was now in +evidence against Brooke, in case he dared repudiate Mathson's rights as +partner, but there was no need to alarm the cargador. So Billy changed +the subject, demanding tea, and there was a fine gossip.</p> + +<p>"Mr. O'Flynn," asked mother, "hev yew bin in love?"</p> + +<p>"Engaged," said Billy in triumph.</p> + +<p>"Dew tell!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Yes, to Madame Scotson's nurse over in England."</p> + +<p>"Does she patch your socks?"</p> + +<p>"Now, mother," Pete interrupted, "when you was courting me did you patch +my socks?"</p> + +<p>"Wall, I—"</p> + +<p>"Come to think," said the cargador, "I didn't have them, being then in +the Confederate army. But, mother, you did sure scratch my face!"</p> + +<p>"Wall, that's no dream," said mother, bridling.</p> + +<p>Once after his Saturday's tramp up the great hill, Pete returned looking +very old. "I axed Bolt," he explained, "about this yere partnership."</p> + +<p>"Well?" asked mother sharply. "Well?"</p> + +<p>"Bolt says thar's pigs with pink bows to their tails, just stretchin' +and stretchin' around his sty."</p> + +<p>The old woman turned her back, for Pete was crying.</p> + +<p>In April there came a rush of warmth out of the west, licking up all the +snow, save only on that high plateau where the Hundred and Spite House +seemed to wait and wait in the white silence.</p> + +<p>The spring storms came, the rains changed to snow, the snow changed to +rain, with hail-storms, and thunder rolling over snow. The cheeky +little<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> buttercups peeped up through the tails of the snowdrift, and +far away, below Jesse's ranch in the Fraser caņon, the Star brand mules +worshiped their old bell mare among the marigolds. The ground was bare +now about Pete's cabin, all sodden pine chips to the edge of the +rain-drenched bush, and the willow buds were bursting.</p> + +<p>Pete sat under a roof of cedar shakes which he had built to shelter the +new "riggings." Around him in a horseshoe stood fifty complete +<i>aparejos</i>, each with coiled lash and sling rope underneath, breeching +and crupper, <i>sovran helmo</i> and <i>cinchas</i>, sweat pad, blanket, and +<i>corona</i>, while the head-ropes strapped the <i>mantas</i> over all. He was +riveting the last of sixty hackamores, as he dreamed of the great north +trail, of open meadows by the Hagwilgaet, of the heaven-piercing spire +of Tsegeordinlth at the Forks of Skeena.</p> + +<p>"Mother," he said, "I'm no slouch of a cargador. Them red gin cases is +still to rig for kitchen boxes, and it's all complete. The mules is +fattening good, I hear, and the men's the same as last summer, all worth +their feed, too."</p> + +<p>But mother, grim and fierce in the throes of her spring cleaning, had +not come to admire. "Pete,"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> she shrilled, "two more buckets of water, +and yew jest git a move on. And how long hev yew bin promisin' to +whittle me them clothes-pins? Now jest yew hustle, Pete, or I'll get +right ugly."</p> + +<p>Pete only cut from the plug into his palm, and rolled the tobacco small +for his corn-cob pipe. His winter servitude was ended, and he was +master, the cargador before whom all men bow in the dread northlands. +Mother went off content to carry her own water, and Pete, with something +of a flourish, lighted his pipe.</p> + +<p>"Mother!" Pete let out a sharp call, and forgetting her business, mother +came quite humbly, as though to heel. "Yes, Pete?"</p> + +<p>He pointed with his pipe at a distant horseman rounding the flank of the +hill.</p> + +<p>"Brooke?" she whispered, both gnarled rheumatic hands clutched at her +heart.</p> + +<p>"I reckon," said Pete cheerfully. "Thinks he's a circus procession. That +sorrel's clattering a loose near-hind shoe, and her mouth just bleeding +as he saws with that spade bit. He's a sure polecat. Trots down-hill, +too, and suffers in his tail. Incompetent, mother. Look at his feet! +He's bad as a stale salmon, rotten to the bones. Been drinking, too."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span></p> + +<p>Brooke drew up and dismounted, leaving his rein on the horse's neck, +instead of dropping it to the ground. When Brooke moved to sit on an +<i>aparejo</i>, Pete ordered him to one of the kitchen boxes. "Not Bolt +hisself may sit on <i>my</i> riggings," said the old gray cargador.</p> + +<p>"I thought," said Brooke quite kindly, "that this harness was mine."</p> + +<p>"A half-interest," said mother, "sure-ly."</p> + +<p>"I fear," said Brooke, "you sort of misunderstood. Old Taylor did say +something about your usefulness as a working partner, and, of course, if +we hadn't canceled that preposterous contract with the Hudson's Bay +Company, there's no doubt your knowledge of the country up north would +have been worth paying for. It was, as you say, damned awkward about his +being blind as a bat; in fact, I was put to quite a lot of trouble +getting the agreement witnessed. However," he produced a document which +mother snatched, "it's all there in black and white, and there's the old +fool's signature—holds good in any court of law—proves that I've +bought and paid for the whole <i>atajo</i>. You needn't claim I haven't a +clear title—so you needn't stare at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> me as if I'd forged the signature. +It's straight goods, I tell you."</p> + +<p>Mother reeled backward, while she grabbed Pete's shoulders so that the +agreement fluttered to Brooke's feet. She steadied herself, then with a +husky croak, "You made Bolt sign <i>that</i>—blind, dying, so he dunno +what's on the paper."</p> + +<p>"Can you prove that?" asked Brooke indulgently, as though he spoke to +children. "If you say things like that, it's criminal libel, and you're +both liable to the Skookum House. However," he shrugged his shoulders, +and put the agreement away, "I don't want to be hard on you, Pete."</p> + +<p>"Mister Mathson," mother hissed at him.</p> + +<p>Pete, with a whispered word to mother, rose from his bench, and without +appearing to see Mr. Brooke, walked past him across the sunlit yard, and +on slowly up the great lifting curve of the road to Hundred Mile House.</p> + +<p>The sun was setting behind him when Pete rested at last upon the +snowclad summit, and dusk lay in lakes of shadow far below him. At the +Hundred he found the lamps alight, and, as usual, Billy offered him a +drink. "I ain't drinking," said Pete huskily, as he lurched past the bar +into the dining-<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span>hall, and on to the little room on the right where +Captain Taylor lay.</p> + +<p>"Bolt!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>"That you, Pete? Sit down," said the boss cheerily. "How's the claim, +Pete? Getting coarse gold, eh?"</p> + +<p>"Gold? Say, Bolt, what's the matter, old fellow?"</p> + +<p>"Matter? Why, nothing, Pete," the blind eyes shone keenly; "of course +I'm not nearly to bedrock yet, and as to what I owe you've jolly well +got to wait. How's old Calamity? I got Lost Creek Jim to work at last."</p> + +<p>Was the boss dreaming of old times on Lightning Creek?</p> + +<p>"Watty's in with the mail," said Bolt.</p> + +<p>Watty had been dead these thirty years.</p> + +<p>Then Pete sat down on the bedside, and the two miners prattled about the +new flume, and the price of flour in a camp now overgrown with jungle.</p> + +<p>A word to Billy would have been enough to get the <i>aparejos</i> to a place +of safety, pending the settlement of Pete's just claim as partner. But +the cargador knew well that death had come to take the one man he loved. +This was no time for sordid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> business, disturbing Bolt Taylor's peace. +It was better to go quietly.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>The sky was full of stars as Pete went homeward. The stars were big and +round; the forest in an ecstasy kept vigil all alert, all silent, and +the little streams of the thaw were saying their prayers before the +frost sleep of the later hours. The man was at peace. It is not so very +much to be cargador; but it is a very big thing indeed to be unselfish. +The trees kept vigil, the little streams crooned sleepy prayers, the +stars in glory humbly served as lamps, and the man made no cry in his +pain. Far down in the valley he saw a red flame rise.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>Mother saw Brooke ride off to inspect his Star mules in their pasture +far away down the Fraser Caņon. She blacked the stove with malice, she +shook the bedding in enmity, set the furniture to rights as though it +were being punished, then sat on the damp floor brooding, while twilight +deepened over a world of treachery. Brooke was a thief, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> lying boss +had used Pete and thrown him away wrung dry. And Pete was an old fool +who would forgive.</p> + +<p>She had dreaded the lonely summer when she was left with only squirrels +for company. Now Pete would be "settin'" around, ruined, and out of +work, the man who had been used and thrown aside, the laughing-stock of +the teamsters who saw his pride brought low.</p> + +<p>Cold and hot by turns, mother made herself tidy against Pete's return, +got the supper ready, and sat watching the door-step. She smoked his +spare corn-cob pipe devising vengeance, while the night closed over her +head.</p> + +<p>The frontier breeds fierce women, with narrow venomous enmities toward +the foes of the house. Even if Pete suffered, Brooke should not prosper, +or the boss who had failed her man. Mother dragged two five-gallon cans +of petroleum from the lean-to, and staggering under their weight, poured +the oil over all Brooke's harness. Breathing heavily with her labor, she +carried loads of swampy hay, and cord-wood, until the <i>aparejos</i> were +but part of a bonfire. Then with a brand from the stove she set<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> the hay +alight. There should be no public shame to break Pete's heart, there +should be no pack-train unless he were cargador.</p> + +<p>Pete stood beside the ashes, searching mother's face with his slow +brooding eyes. Her burning rage was gone, and she was afraid, for now +she thought too late of all his loving pride in the work, the greatness +of the thing which his knowledge and skill had made. <i>That</i> she had +burned. Understanding how love had made this blunder, Pete said no word. +He only knew that Bolt had paid him seven hundred dollars in cash and +kind, which must be returned. In silence he turned away, and once more +faced the terrible hill which led to the Hundred Mile House.</p> + +<p class="center"> * * * * * * </p> + +<p>The spring was in my blood, and I could not sleep. Can any creature +sleep when the spring's sweet restless air calls to all nature? The +bears were about again after their winter sleep, busy with last year's +berries. The deer were feasting on new grass down in the lowlands, the +wolverines and cougar were sneaking homeward after the night's hunting. +Even the little birds were coming back to the north, for now and again +as I strolled along the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> road I would hear a sleepy twitter. "Isn't it +dawn yet?" "Not yet, have another nap." So I came to the brow of the +great hill whence I should see the dawn.</p> + +<p>Down in the lower country, on every pool the water-fowl lay abed, each, +from the biggest goose to the littlest teal, with its head tucked under +cover of a wing, and one quaint eye cocked up to catch the glint of +dawn. A wan light was spreading in the northeastern sky, and presently +the snowy brow of the hill revealed its wrinkled front, its frozen +runnels. The sentinels of the wild fowl saw that first gleam of coming +day, called the reveille along from pool to pool, roused thunder of +innumerable wings, marshaled their echelons in soaring hosts, and broke +away in the northward flight of spring. Far in the east a lone moose +trumpeted.</p> + +<p>I was turning back refreshed toward my duty, when I heard something +moan. The sound came from underneath a pine tree, the one at the very +top of the long climb which Pete had blazed with his inscription, "Got +thar." With my heart in my mouth I went to find out what was the matter, +and so discovered the old cargador crouched down against the trunk.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Pete," I asked in a very shaky voice, "what on earth's the matter?"</p> + +<p>"Dying, mum."</p> + +<p>"But it's too damp here. Why, you'll catch your death of cold."</p> + +<p>"That would never do. Say, mum, how's Bolt?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, ever so much better."</p> + +<p>"Can't do it," said Pete, "if I died first he'd have the joke on me."</p> + +<p>"Wouldn't you like a hot rum?"</p> + +<p>Pete staggered to his feet. "I'd go for that," he sighed, "just like one +man."</p> + +<p>So he took my arm, and I helped him along the road.</p> + +<p>"She burned them riggings," he said.</p> + +<p>"Mother?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Brooke came inspecting them riggings, so mother burned 'em."</p> + +<p>"Won't that be rather awkward?"</p> + +<p>"Some. You see, mum, Bolt paid me four hundred and five dollars cash, so +I come to return him the money."</p> + +<p>I didn't quite understand. "You see, Pete," I suggested, "you and Brooke +are the owners. Don't you owe half to yourself and half to Brooke?"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Well, if that's so, I'll pay myself and owe the rest to Brooke. But +then he claims the whole Star <i>atajo</i>."</p> + +<p>"In that case you owe the whole of the money to Brooke."</p> + +<p>"I don't mind owing Brooke." Pete felt so much better that he was able +to walk without help. "Brooke's gone on to inspect mules. I wonder how +he'll get on with them mules?"</p> + +<p>As it happened, Jesse was an actual witness to Mr. Brooke's inspection +of the Star mules at their pasture below his ranch. Here is his +narrative:</p> + +<p>"Mules are the most religious of all animals. They believe in the bell +mare, who creates grass, water, mud holes, and mosquitoes, and leads +them in the paths of virtue where they don't get any fun. And when they +worship her too much she kicks them in the stomach.</p> + +<p>"The trouble for these poor mules was that they followed a false +goddess. Their bell mare Prue ought to have been old enough to know +better, but at the age of twenty-three, with gray hair and bald withers, +she was still female.</p> + +<p>"She and her mules had been grazing maybe half a mile when my new +stallion, young Jehoshaphat,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> happened along with his harem of +twenty-five mares, smelling down wind for a drink. The mares looked so +snug and grass-fat they could scarcely waddle, but Jehoshaphat was full +of sinful pride, waltzing high steps at the sight of Prue.</p> + +<p>"You should have seen Prue playing up innocent modesty in front of +Jehoshaphat, pretending she wasn't there, making believe he was too +sudden, didn't approve of the gentleman, flattering his vanity with all +sorts of airs and graces. He up with his tail and showed off, prancing +around pleased as Punch. Prue paraded herself along in front of the +harem to spite the married mares, and all her mules came worshiping +along in pursuit. Those mares gave the mules the biggest kicking you +ever saw in your life.</p> + +<p>"There was me lying on Face Rock like a little boy at a circus, and +there was the performance proceeding so joyful that I never saw Brooke +until he rode down right into the middle of the fun. Jehoshaphat got mad +and went for Brooke, chasing him around the pasture. Prue chased +Jehoshaphat, the mules chased Prue, the harem mares bit and kicked at +everybody, Brooke galloped delirious in all direc<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span>tions, and I laughed +until I could hardly hold down the rocks.</p> + +<p>"Of course, if Brooke hadn't been a mere mistake on earth, he would have +herded gently to the nearest corral, and cut the two outfits apart. But +Brooke proceeded to lose his temper, pulled his gun, jumped his wretched +sorrel behind a tree, and let drive. He missed the stallion. He shot +Prue through the heart.</p> + +<p>"There was nothing after that to keep the sixty Star mules together. +Some went up the caņon, some down, a few even swam the Fraser, but the +heft of them climbed the big cliffs and vanished into the forest.</p> + +<p>"I reckon Pete and his <i>arrieros</i> could collect those mules and break +them to loving a new <i>madrina</i>. But with Brooke as cargador, the great +Star Pack-train's numbered with the past, and Mathson's partnership is +scarce worth arguing.</p> + +<p>"I was sorry to see the fine mules lost, and in my grief I kicked Brooke +about one-third of a mile on his way home afoot."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2>CHAPTER VI</h2> + +<h3>THE BLACK NIGHT</h3> + + +<p><i>Kate's Narrative</i></p> + +<p>"I, Boulton Wemyss Taylor, Commander R. N., retired, being of sound mind +in a dying body, do hereby make my last will and testament:</p> + +<p>"And do appoint the lady known as Madame Scotson my sole executress and +trustee of all property which I may die possessed of;</p> + +<p>"To pay my just debts, and to administer the remainder on behalf of my +grandson, James Taylor,</p> + +<p>"Until at his coming of age he shall receive the whole estate, if there +is any;</p> + +<p>"Save only that I bequeath to Madame Scotson my sword and the Victoria +Cross;</p> + +<p>"And with regard to burial, it is my will that no money whatever shall +be spent, but that my body, wrapped in the flag by right of her +majesty's commission, shall be consigned to the earth by my neighbors; +that no friend of mine shall be allowed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> to stand uncovered catching +cold, or to wear unseemly black clothing at the service of the +resurrection, or to toll bells which should be pealed when the soul +passes to God, or to make pretense or parade of grief for one who is +glad to go."</p> + +<p>The months of nursing were ended. No longer should Nurse Panton and I be +afraid when our patient was good, or rejoice when fractious whims and +difficult absurdities marked those rallies in which he fought off death. +At the last, after many hours of silence, he asked me in a boyish voice +if he might go up-stairs to see his uniform. In his dreams he was +leaving school to enter the royal navy.</p> + +<p>Billy was away on an errand to the Falls, and it was Nurse Panton's +watch below, when at ten in the evening I saw the change come very +suddenly. The face of my dear friend, no longer old, but timeless, +reflected an unearthly majesty.</p> + +<p>For the next hour I was busy rendering the last services, in haste, for +the lamp had a most peculiar smell. I took it away and lighted candles, +but it was not the lamp. Spreading the Union Jack upon the bed, I bolted +from that room. For a time I sat in the dining-hall but could not stay +there. Even in the barroom I still had to fight off something +in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span>tangible, a sense of being watched, a presentiment of evil coming +swiftly nearer.</p> + +<p>Closing the door which led into the house, I opened that which gave upon +the yard, then placed a flickering candle on the counter, and my chair +in front of it facing the darkness. All through the evening the +drenching rain had fallen, with sob of dripping eaves. Now at the open +doorway, loud, insistent, the great diapason of the rain was choral to +those little sad voices which fluted, throbbed, and muttered near at +hand, the lament of the water drops, the liquid note from every pool, +the plaint of trickling streamlets.</p> + +<p>It is the presence of the dead which makes their resting-places serene +with quiet beauty, instinct with tenderness toward all living hearts. +That presence had entered the good log house, a home of human warmth, of +kindly comfort, made holy, consecrate, where people would hush their +voices, constrained to reverence.</p> + +<p>And in the gracious monotone of the rain, compound of voices joined in +requiem, I felt a soothing melancholy beauty, knowing well how peace not +of this world had come into the homestead.</p> + +<p>But outside that, beyond, in the dread forest, a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> threat, a menace +filled the outer darkness. Fear clutched at my heart, a presentiment +told me of evil, of instant danger. Then, as though the horror in the +night moved other hearts as well as mine, the Chinese cook came groping +his way through the dining-hall and humbly scratched at the door. I let +him in and he crept to a stool in the near corner. I whispered to him:</p> + +<p>"Are you frightened, Sam?"</p> + +<p>"Too plenty much," he quavered, "me flitened bad."</p> + +<p>He lighted his pipe and seemed, like me, to be eased by human company. +Once only he moved, and in the queerest way came with his long yellow +fingers to touch me, then timid, but reassured, crept back to his stool +in the corner.</p> + +<p>Soon Nurse Panton joined us, her hair in corkscrews, looking very plain, +peevish because she had not been called at midnight. "What's the +matter?" she asked crossly, and for answer I pulled down the blinds. She +shivered as she passed the open door to take a chair behind it. She +begged me to close the door, but the night was warm, and besides I dared +not. Nurse and Chinaman each had a glass<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> of port, and so did I, feeling +much better afterward.</p> + +<p>An hour passed, the Chinaman nodding like those ridiculous mandarin +figures with loose heads, the nurse pallid against the gloom, staring +until she got on my nerves. I always disliked that woman with her +precise routine and large flat feet.</p> + +<p>Far off I heard the thud of a gunshot, then three shots all together, +and afterward a fifth. The evil in the night was coming nearer, and I +said to myself, "If I were really frightened I should close that door. +I'm half a coward."</p> + +<p>The hero himself had strung his Victoria Cross upon a riband which I +wore about my neck. Could I wear the cross and set an example of +cowardice to these poor creatures who crouched in the corners of the +room? To show fear is a privilege of the underbred. But I did long for +Jesse.</p> + +<p>Through the murmurs of the nearer rain, I felt a throb in the ground, +then heard a sound grow, of a horse galloping. The swift soft rhythm, +now loud, now very faint again, then very near, echoed against the +barns, thundered across the bridge, splashed through the flooded yard, +and ceased abruptly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span></p> + +<p>Billy had come home from the Falls, he was stabling his roan, he was +crossing the yard in haste, his spurs clanked at the door-step and, +dreading his news, a sudden panic seized me. I fled behind the bar.</p> + +<p>He entered, astream with rain, shading his eyes against the +candle-light; then as I moved he called out, as though I were at a +distance, begging me for brandy. His face was haggard, his hand as he +drank was covered with dried blood, he slammed the glass on the counter +so that it broke.</p> + +<p>"You heard the shots?" he said.</p> + +<p>"At Spite House?" I whispered.</p> + +<p>He nodded.</p> + +<p>"You were there?" I asked.</p> + +<p>"Half a mile beyond. When I got there it was all dark. Looked in through +the end window, but the rain got down my neck, so I went round. The +front door was standing open. I listened a while. No need to get shot +myself. Thought the place was derelict. Then I heard groans.</p> + +<p>"Struck a bunch of matches then, found the hall lamp, and got it alight. +Wished I'd got a gun, but there wasn't nothing handy except the poker, +so I took that and the light—just followed the groans.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> He was lying on +the barroom floor."</p> + +<p>"Brooke?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Shot through the throat, blood spurting down the side of his neck, +making a big pool on the oil-cloth. You know the thing you make with a +stick and a scarf to twist up? A tourniquet, yes. Well, it choked the +swine, so I quit. He whispered something about my thumb hurting the +wound, so I told him my father's neck hurt worse.</p> + +<p>"Up to that I thought he was just acting, playing pathetic to touch my +feelings. Once he muttered your name, and then he was dead."</p> + +<p>"Brooke dead!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, he'd been shooting Polly, too. I traced her blood tracks all the +way to the front door. Hello, what's that? I thought I heard—"</p> + +<p>I listened and there was only the sound of the rain.</p> + +<p>"I suppose it's all right," said Billy, "we'd better close that door, +though."</p> + +<p>But before he could reach the door, Nurse Panton called him away to her +corner, where she spoke in a whisper so that I should not hear, sending +him, perhaps, for her cloak. Meanwhile I came from behind the counter to +my former seat before the open<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> doorway, where I sat staring into the +darkness, unable to feel any more, but just benumbed. Across my +weariness flickered the mournful soliloquy of a poor barn-door +fowl—"Yesterday an egg, to-morrow a feather duster! What's the good of +anythin', why, nothin'."</p> + +<p>Then I, too, heard a sound in the night, and because Billy and the nurse +were muttering, I stood up with the candle-light behind me, trying to +see into the darkness. Billy said afterward he had moved quickly, to +shut the door, but I waved him back just as the shot rang out.</p> + +<p>The explosion blinded, deafened, seemed even to scorch me, while the +mirror on the wall came crashing down. Stunned, dazzled, horrified, I +felt a dull rage at this attempted murder.</p> + +<p>A second revolver-shot stirred my hair, and I'm afraid then that I lost +my temper. I am not a fish-fag that I should stoop to fighting a +creature such as Polly, but I would have died rather than let her see +one trace of fear.</p> + +<p>Billy rushed past the firing to reach the door and close it, but I +ordered him to desist, then grasped the candle and held it out to show a +better light.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Lower your lights!" I shouted into the dark, "you fired too high!"</p> + +<p>A revolver crashed on the door-step, and low down within three feet of +the ground, I saw a dreadful face convulsed with rage, changing to fear. +The woman was sinking to her knees, she buried her face in grimy, +blood-smeared hands, and rocked to and fro in awful abandonment of +grief.</p> + +<p>The danger was over now, the menace of evil in the night had vanished. I +felt an immense relief, with hands wet, mouth parched, knees shaking, +and great need of tears. I knew the strain had been beyond endurance, +but now it was gone, although a velvet darkness closing round me, black +night swinging round me, sickness—I must not faint, when I had to +fight, to keep command, to set an example worthy of Jesse's wife. And +there I was sitting in my chair, with drops of sweat forming and pouring +on my forehead. Billy, groping on the floor at my feet, had found and +lighted the candle, and was holding the flame in the palms of his hands +till it steadied and blazed up clear. "Buck up, missus," he was saying. +"Cheer-oh. Don't let 'em know you swooned, mum. Grab on to that cross, +and make it proud of you. That's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> right. Laugh, mum! Laugh! Wish'd I'd +half yer grit."</p> + +<p>I had come to myself and only Billy knew, who was loyal. As the candle +blazed up I saw the Chinaman gibbering like some toothless mask of +yellow india-rubber, but that nurse still kept up her silly screaming, +until I ordered her to shut her mouth, which she did in sheer surprise.</p> + +<p>There lay Polly prone across the doorway on her face, racked with +convulsive sobs, until feeling, I suppose, the lashing rain on her back, +she rose on hands and knees like some forlorn wild animal crawling to +shelter, while behind her stretched a trail of wet and blood. I stared +until in shame she sat up, still for all the world like an animal lost +to human feeling, and to a woman's dignity, until as she looked at me a +wan shamed smile seemed to apologize. She sat back then against the log +wall, limp, relaxed with weakness.</p> + +<p>"Nurse," I called, still with my gaze on Polly, "this woman is wounded. +You are a nurse. You claimed to be a nurse."</p> + +<p>But Miss Panton indulged in hysterics, so I turned to Billy. "Run into +the house, get the hip bath, warm water, blankets, bandages."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Aye, aye, mum," he touched his forelock, and swinging the Chinaman to +his feet: "Come along, Sam," he grunted, and bustled him off on duty.</p> + +<p>Polly looked up, trusting me with her tawny bloodshot eyes. Her voice +was a dreary hoarseness, demanding liquor. But with an open wound, to +quicken the heart's action might be fatal, and Polly knew well it was no +use pleading. Instead of that she pointed at the nurse, and said, "Send +<i>that</i> away."</p> + +<p>I turned upon Nurse Panton who sat forsaken and ostentatious in her +corner. "Go," I said, "and make beef tea."</p> + +<p>Sniff.</p> + +<p>I took her by the shoulders, and marched her out of the room, while +Polly grinned approval. I came back and asked where she was wounded. She +pointed to the left hip, but I dared not remove any clothing which might +have caught and sealed the flow of blood. A sole diet of alcohol and +months of neglect had made her condition such that I shrank from +touching her.</p> + +<p>"So you're Kate," she lay against the bottom log of the wall, head back, +eyes nearly shut, looking along her nose at me, "Carroty Kate."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> + +<p>Her own tawny hair, draggled, and hung in snakes, was streaked with +dirty gray.</p> + +<p>"Ye took Jesse," she said in weary scorn, "so I ruined him. Then this +Brooke, he fell in love with yer, so I murdered him. Take everything, +give nothin'; that's you, Carrots, give nothin'. That's you, Carrots, +give nothin' away, not even a drink. And I gave everything.</p> + +<p>"So you're good, and I'm bad; you're high-toned society, and I'm a poor +sporting lady. Oh, I saw ye lift yer skirt away when yer passed +me—calling yerself a Christian, when just one word of Christian +kindness would have saved the likes of me.</p> + +<p>"Ye needn't look over my head as if I wasn't there. I'm no fairy, I +ain't—no dream. I'm facts, and ye'd better face 'em. 'Sisters of +Sorrow' they calls us, who gave everything, who gave ourselves.</p> + +<p>"And you <i>good</i> women pride yerselves in virtue, which ain't been +tempted. Your virtue never been outdoors in the rain, gettin' wet. Your +virtue never been starved and froze, or fooled and betrayed. Your colors +ain't run, 'cause they've never been to the wash. You don't know good +from evil, and you set thar judgin' me.</p> + +<p>"Tears running down yer face, eh? You think<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> you struck it rough when +you came up agin me. Poor Carrots playin' Christian martyr. I done you +good if you know'd it. I'm all the schoolin' you got in real life. I +waked ye from dreams to livin'. And you an' me is women, sisters in +pain. I wish'd I'd auburn hair like your'n, Kate, and a baby David to +favor me with hair an' eyes. And if I'd had a home! But I didn't get a +fair show ever, and every time I done good, I got it in the neck. Well, +what's the odds?</p> + +<p>"It wasn't you brung me down, Kate. Don't cry like that, dear. It don't +matter. Nothing matters. It was this Brooke which done for me, not you +or Jesse. Brooke's only a thing I took in like a lost dog 'cause he was +hungry. He said he'd manage my business, and he shorely did—invested +all I'd got in a governess, and a bonfire at Mathson's, and a stampede +of mules. Then he fooled a widow down to Ashcroft to start him running a +tourist joint, and I was to be turned out. And he fell in love with you.</p> + +<p>"I guess that's all, excep' I got to tell you one thing. It was nursing +the sick men kep' me straight all them years, kep' me from drink. You +see I was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> meant for a nurse, trained for a nurse until—until—well, +never you mind. Brooke stopped the nursing, and I drank. I'm only a +nurse gone wrong.</p> + +<p>"Yes, your eyes is wonderin' why they don't come back with them +bandages, and the bath. Don't worry about that, 'cause I'll be dead by +daybreak. Jesse loved yer. Brooke loved yer, and somehow, well, I'm +kinder ranging that way myself. And if I go, you'll get back Jess, eh?"</p> + +<p>Rallying what courage I had left, I knelt down and kissed my sister, my +poor sister. For a moment I let her stroke my carroty hair, which she +liked. Then I ran to hurry my people to bring the beef tea, the hot +water, the bandages. I found that wretched nurse detaining Billy and the +Chinaman, with some pretense that I must not be disturbed. I was telling +her to get out of my sight, to go to her bed, when a revolver-shot rang +through the echoing house.</p> + +<p>Polly had crawled to the door-step, found her revolver. She who gave +everything in life, had given me back to Jesse, and lay dead, her +forehead shattered in with the revolver-shot. For some seconds Billy and +I hung back, watching from the doorway while a slow coil of smoke +unfolded in the wan light<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> of the dawn. The rain had ceased, and the +east was all aglow with golden radiance.</p> + +<p>Billy knelt and touched the poor broken forehead, then looking up at +me, "This time," he said, "it's real."<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span></p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h2><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE</h2> + + +<p>Once more with Jesse in Cathedral Grove! The breath of evening stirred +its tangled coral, the long needles clustered in globes were swaying as +censors sway, with heavy incense. Beyond the purple night swept up over +glowing cliffs to where the upper forest like an edge of flame burned +against deeps of sky.</p> + +<p> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Come to the hilltop: blackbird choristers</span><br /> +<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Peal their clear anthem to the kneeling gorse."</span><br /> +</p> + +<p>Jesse lay dreaming while I sang to him. Crisp silvered hair, and the +deeply graven lines of his dear face, gave him at rest a sweet sad +dignity; but presently he would look up, his big mouth humorous, his +eyes alight with fun, a man of commanding power matured in wisdom, in +sympathy, and valor to lead his fellows.</p> + +<p>Through the east window of the grove, I could see a little procession of +my closest friends pass on their Sunday stroll. First came Pete, ill at +ease in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> his Sabbath suit of blacks, and with him, arm in arm, was Mrs. +Pete in silk, full-skirted, prickly, and so very grim. Then Billy passed +slowly by, his mother stumping beside him, bound to keep the pace. They +had the new rabbit with them, collared and chained like a bulldog, and +were followed by David's nurse, dear Patsy, Billy's wife—plucking my +young anemones—the wretch!</p> + +<p>Out on the perilous edge of Apex Rock I could see young Mr. Nisted, +Father Jared's nephew, a pupil in Jesse's school of colonial training. +With rod and line he was seriously fishing—for birds!</p> + +<p>"Don't you reckon," said Jesse, relighting a stale cigar, "that it's +time we stopped our book?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, but—"</p> + +<p>"It's tempting Providence, young woman; it's encouraging the police. +From the moment you started the thing, we've had more'n our share of +adventures. Put up a notice, 'Book Closed. No more adventurers need +apply. Try Surly Brown for a change.'"</p> + +<p>"But what shall we do?"</p> + +<p>"Publish the blamed thing, and serves it right. Throw it to the +critics."</p> + +<p>"But it's all secrets!"<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> + +<p>"Change the names and places. We'll be 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith,' +well-meaning private persons located somewhere west. I'm going to have +blue eyes."</p> + +<p>"But mine <i>are</i> blue."</p> + +<p>"I made first grab. You can have green, and a large mouth, and your +Christian name is Carrots. Hello, here's Baby David."</p> + +<p>My son was coming through the scented dusk, and in his arms he carried a +large dog, a china dog with gilt muzzle, split from nose to tail, but +carefully mended.</p> + +<p>"Sonny," said Jesse, "don't you drop Maria, or she'll have puppies."</p> + +<p>"I did, and she didn't; so there! Something dropped out, though. See, +mummie."</p> + +<p>David had thrown Maria into my lap, and danced about in the gloaming +with some strange trophy, the tail of a large animal.</p> + +<p>"Sort of reminds me," said Jesse, "of being a little boy. That's the +Inspector's tale. This is a long way, too, from the Labrador."</p> + +<p>The wind made quite a disturbance, telling the pines to hush, while both +my son and Jesse wanted to play with the wolf tail, and would not be +quiet,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> though already the stars and the fireflies had lighted Cathedral +Grove, and the great river like an organ crooned the first deep notes of +nature's even-song. An awed expectant silence came to us.</p> + +<p>"Lighten our darkness," said the grave old trees, "we beseech Thee."</p> + +<p>"By Thy great mercy," pleaded the little flowers.</p> + +<p>"Defend us from all perils," the small birds twittered.</p> + +<p>"And dangers of the night," the aspens quavered.</p> + +<p>"For the love of Thy only Son," cried the South Wind.</p> + +<p>"Our Saviour Jesus Christ," a woman's voice responded.</p> + +<p>"Amen," the cliffs were breathing.</p> + +<p>"Amen," the high clouds echoed.</p> + +<p>"Amen," said the organ river.</p> + +<p>And from the reverent woodlands came:</p> + +<p>"Amen. Amen."</p> + +<div class="footnotes"> + +<h4>Footnote</h4> +<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> Note: Jesse says I ruined Polly, which just shows how +<i>prejudiced</i> men are, even at the best.</p></div></div> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<div class="centerbox"> +<p class="center">Transcriber's note:</p> + +<p>Many words are unusual compared to modern-day, but are as in the original. Changes +have only been made where a printers typo was reasonably certain.</p></div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Man in the Open, by Roger Pocock + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MAN IN THE OPEN *** + +***** This file should be named 33423-h.htm or 33423-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/4/2/33423/ + +Produced by D Alexander, Janet Keller and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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