A Man in the Open Part 4

I'm feeling better with twenty miles between me 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, _and thar's more coming_."

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.

Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with munic.i.p.al honors, until we got found out.

Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull's wings caught fire, and spoiled the whole allusion.

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 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 _ung bong point_, but your _horse de combat_ is feeling encouraged to pack you seventy miles last night, and we'll be in camp by sundown."

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 h.e.l.l out of that.

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 a.s.sists 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 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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IV

THE ORDEAL BY TORTURE

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 gra.s.s 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.

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 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.

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 "_Adios!_"

I was nigh killed in all the usual ways.

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.

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.

The world in them days was peopled with only 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.

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.

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, knowing I was all comic inside, and mighty shy of being found out for the three-year kid I was.

Lookin' back it seems to me that all them vanities was only part of living natural, being natural. I seen c.o.c.k birds playing up much the same to the hen birds--which made believe most solemn they wasn't pleased.

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.

A sailorman feels queer, steppin' ash.o.r.e 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 _Mister_ Smith. Old Pieface, scared for my morals, did kick this person sudden and severe, but all the same that _Mister_ went to my head.

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.

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 '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.

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.

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 _Rock of Ages_--oh, most beautiful, her arms thrown round the cross, the sun-bright hair about her like a glory.

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.

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 h.e.l.l. Made in G.o.d's image? No. That don't apply to cowards.

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--.

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.

Now, for all the shaving-gla.s.s 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.

Some of our boys made friendly signs as I pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Just then she pa.s.sed, and I got introduced. "Say, Polly," says Bull, "here's Sailor Jesse wants to get acquainted."

She stopped, sort of impatient for supper, and velvet-soft her voice, full of contempt.

"Oh, pshaw!"

Hard gold-brown eyes all scorn, soft gold-brown hair, an' freckled neck, red lips, fierce, tiger fierce--

"Another d.a.m.ned suppliant?" she asked, and Bull was holding a light for her cigarette. "Is it saved?" she added.

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.

"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."

She pa.s.sed 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-sh.e.l.ls throw'd in the ash-heap may feel like I did then.

n.o.body loved me, 'cept our pony herd, inquirin' piteous for food an'