A Man in the Open Part 12

CHAPTER V

THE ILl.u.s.tRIOUS SALVATOR

_Jesse's Letter_

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. n.o.body loves me, and the mosquitoes has mistook me for a greenhorn.

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.

Loyal Englishmen like the late Trevor now frying, has a cold bath every morning, specially in winter, 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.

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.

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 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.

II

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.

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 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.

III

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 n.i.g.g.e.rs, so that's all right. Seems the puppy piano is for her from her beloved maestro, another 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.

IV

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 m.u.f.f. Tearful had capsized the sleigh over stumps to make his pa.s.senger 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, s...o...b..ring over her hand. She was kneading doe at the time, and there's some on his nose.

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 Widow O'Flynn's where pie occurs whenever her Billy's to home.

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.

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.

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 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 G.o.d in the canon, 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 pa.s.sions of all the d.a.m.ned operas put together. But now she's following after vain swine.

V

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.

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.

From when I'd finished the horses, till nigh on sundown, the music tapered off, and I got more and more rattled. At last I walked right in.

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 h.e.l.l. 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--'"

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.

"You wrote an opery," says I.

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.

"You give the leading woman a base voice?"

He boiled over some more.

"So you got an excuse for coming."

He spread out over the landscape.

"Thinkin'," sez I, "that she'd nothin' more than Trevor to guard her honor."

More talk.

"But you found her married with a man."

He wanted to go alone to civilization.

"You stay here," I says, "and Salvator, you're going to earn your board."

VI

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 in spring, and first exercises in bears. My bear had ought to be a powerful tonic.

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 ill.u.s.trious 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.

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 c.o.c.k angel, and me a c.o.c.k devil. She'll have to find him out for herself.

VII

My wife has run away with him.

VIII