David Lannarck, Midget Part 6

"That's the one!" said Dave excitedly.

He was a red sorrel with three white feet and legs and a flaxen mane and tail. Experts in such matters would have said he was nearly eleven hands high. Unlike his pony prototypes, his was a lengthy, arched neck, held high from narrowing withers and a short back. He was dirty.

His mane and tail needed attention. Potter put out his hand. The colt walked near enough that he placed his arm over his neck and led him to a post where a rope dangled. This, he secured around the colt's neck.

"Good morning, everybody."

The colt parley was thus interrupted. Landy's several gallon headpiece was off and he nearly swept the ground with it. "Why, howdy, Miss Adine. We was a-lookin' this little hoss over to see if he'd fit a pattern. Meet Mister Lannarck here. He's the pattern."

"My name is Lannarck all right," said Davy, acknowledging the abrupt introduction. "But among homefolks, I would rather be called Davy, as I have always been sceptical of anyone calling me Mister, afraid he would want to sell me something I didn't want."

The girl laughed. "I am troubled that way myself. If anyone calls me Miss Lough, I pay no attention, thinking they mean someone else. Won't you men come to the house? Father is in Omaha on business and Mother and I are changing things around for the winter. Grandaddy picked out this busy time for one of his visits, so we are all together. Grandad will want to see you Landy, so come up to the house. I want to tell you about that colt, and tell you why it is that I am not to sell him."

There was little else for the mystified Landy and the now, heartbroken midget to do but to follow along, through the gate and along the well-kept bordered path to the immense porch. They loitered at the gate for parley.

"... and he's the handsomest horse I ever saw," complained the little man, "and she said she was not to sell him. I suppose it's some parental promise she's made, or some skin-game buyer has been through here and threw a wrench in the gears. Why, Landy, this is a high-school horse! He's showy, fine color, fancy markings and anyone can see that he's smart. We've just got to work it out somehow. A high-school horse, pony size, he's worth a thousand."

"Well, I ain't up on school cla.s.sifications for hosses," said Landy dryly. "He may be a colleger fer all I know. But, we're dealin' with a woman en thar's no accountin' fer what's the matter. Hit may be, yer complexion don't match, er she may be a-keepin' him to contrast with some letter paper she's goin' to buy. Ye jist can't tell a dern thing about hit till we hear her story. After that, well, we can tell if it's worthwhile to go on with the struggle."

When first introduced, Davy was certain that Miss Adine Lough was about the handsomest girl he had ever seen. Surely not more than twenty years of age, of medium height, a peach complexion, tanned a little but fair to look at. She stood on the Colonial porch of the big Lough homestead, her hands in the pockets of her black horse-hide jacket awaiting the arrival of her reluctant guests.

She ushered the two into the wide hallway. "You had better see Grandaddy first, Landy, he's camped in here by the fire. Then we'll go in the library and talk over our business."

Jim Lough, ancient Nestor of the North Park district, was seated in a big Morris-chair in front of the smouldering fire. "Well, if it ain't ole Turkeyneck in person," he called in a high falsetto voice, as the two entered. "I've been wantin' to see you, Landy. I told the sheriff to bring you over the next time he had you in charge. I want to find somebody that can sing 'The Cowboy's Lament' and sing it right, as I am plannin' a funeral party and I want to work out all the details.

Can you sing 'The Lament' so it's fitten to hear?"

"Yer dern tootin' I can sing 'The Lament'," retorted Landy, "all forty-four verses of hit, en the chorus betwixt every verse. I'm a prima donna when it comes to singin' that ole favorite. I learned it off a master-singer, ole Anse Peters, up in G.o.d's country whar men are men--en the women are glad of it. But what's led ye off on that wagon track, Jim? Why don't ye git a saxophone en tune in on some jazz? Be modern, like the rest of us fellers. Here you are, slouchin' around without a dressin' jacket er slippers en talkin' 'bout an ole song that's in the discard. Shame on ye! But before ye apologize, meet my friend here, Mister Lannarck, lightweight circus man, who's visitin'

us here en lookin' around for relics en sich. That's why I brought him over."

Old Jim took the extended hand of the little man and held it while he talked. "Thar's been a lot of people had their necks stretched up in this deestrict for being caught in bad company, young man. You're borderin' on that condition right now in runnin' around with ole turkeyneck here. If the Vigilance Committee finds it out, you are a goner.

"Circus man, hey? I mind the time when a lot of us fellers rode to Cheyenne to see Barnum. Last man in had to pay all bills--it was some pay, by the time we got through. We saw the show all right and we saw Barnum. He was a fine man. But circus er no circus, ye ain't a goin'

to sidetrack me out'n them funeral arrangements. If ye can sing 'The Lament,' yer engaged."

"Why, who's dead, Jim?" asked Landy innocently. "Did ole Selim die, er is. .h.i.t yer favorite hound dawg?"

"None sich," replied the old man heatedly. "It's me--my funeral--en I'm aimin' to make a splendid time outen it. The boys on hosses, firin' salutes as they see it, a preacher sharp to give it dignity, en the 'Cowboy's Lament,' as sung by ole Landy Spencer. That's a fitten program, en you are engaged fer the job."

"En about when do ye plan to stage this splendid event?" drawled Landy.

"Why, when I die, ye idiot, mebbe now, mebbe later, jist whenever I bed down fer the last time. Here I am, over ninety years old. I can't go on livin'! It's agin nature. I want to make ready when it comes.

I'm ready and I want everything else to be jist as ready as I am."

Landy Spencer drummed his knotty fingers on the armchair and looked thoughtfully at the old Nestor seated at his fireside. Ninety years old! Seventy years of activity in a territory where activity was enforced, if one were to live. Strange stories, legends now, were told of the doings of this gaunt, eagle-beaked, s.h.a.ggy-browed old man who now, chatted complacently of death. Very true, none living was able to verify them. Those who had pa.s.sed on told only fragments, and Jim Lough, neither verified nor denied.

One legend persisted. Landy had heard it long before coming to the district. It related to the beginning days of the great cattle game of the gra.s.slands--days before the coming of the vast herds and the problems they brought. It concerned the destinies of those who followed fast in the footsteps of the trailmakers and sought to establish a business where there was neither law nor precedent. Sordid days, these. The honest men were not yet organized; the dishonest and criminal were unrestrained by laws. Cattle and kine were taken furtively or openly to these very hills and vales where Jim Lough now lived in quietude and peace. Here they were held until a sufficient number was collected for the drive to the marches and markets that lay east of the Virginia Dale.

Jim Lough was a youngster then, without ownership of herds or home, but he was not content to see the weak and unorganized robbed, without recourse. Alone, he made trips over the forbidden trails to the places of the illicit exchange; then back to the gra.s.slands again he organized a posse of five and laid his trap. In a narrow pa.s.s this robber band was successfully ambushed and by effective gunfire, reduced from eight to three. The three surrendered. By every rule of the game, in a new land where there was neither law, nor courts nor sheriffs, the culprits must be hung, and hung on the spot where apprehended. But to this Jim Lough demurred. "We'll swing 'em where it counts," he announced grimly, and the cavalcade set out on the two-days' journey to the Skeel's cabin, the reputed hangout of the lawless and criminals of the new country. The posse found the cabin deserted, except for the presence of a lame, old man who was reported as the cook for the outfit. He was loaded on a horse and headed northward out of the country. The rest of the livestock was turned from the corrals and the cabin and stables set afire. Then, as a fitting finish to the work of the hour, the three culprits were hung on extended limbs of trees bordering the ruins.

"Now the skunks will have something to look at when they come back here to plan their stealing," Jim Lough had said as the posse dispersed.

But "the skunks" never came back, and through the long winter and most of the following summer the ghastly mementos of early justice swayed and swung, until the ravens and winds made merciful disposition of the bodies.

In the next few years there was peace in the gra.s.slands, and the settlers prospered as others joined. But it was not always so. For with more settlers came greed and avarice. Laws were made, regulations were had, rules announced and they were not always fair. Greed, sometimes sat in the councils, and the avaricious bent the rules.

Then, there were other wars in which justice and fairness ran not parallel with Greed-made law.

Gra.s.sland remembered young Jim Lough and his stern and speedy methods and now as an older man, he was often called to council and to lead.

But the problems were not of easy solution; the 'right side' of the controversy was not always obvious, but under Jim Lough's leadership the greedy must surrender self-appropriated water holes, odious fences were banished and grazing allotments went to the needy as well as the greedy. In these things, Jim Lough made enemies as well as friends, but cared as little for the one as he appreciated the other.

Landy Spencer, drummed knotty fingers on the arm of his chair as he listened to Jim Lough's explanations of his arrangements for a splendid funeral. At last he spoke. "Jim, I used to think that ye'd make a fine gov'ner. I know ye make a dandy good district marshal, but ye are slippin'--goin' addled 'bout this funeral business.

A-settin' here tryin' to run things en you deceased, that-a-way. Ye know, well en' good, that the folks livin' will take charge of them obsequies; hit'll be about ten years from now, I figger; en yore plans will fit in about like a last-year's birdnest. Ye have jist about as much to do a-bossin' that party as ye'll have in selectin' yer harp en halo when ye git inside the pearly gates. Ten years from now, thar won't be a cow hand ner a gun outside a dude ranch er a rodeo. Singin'

'The Lament' would be about as well understood as recitin' a Latin epic."

"Pshaw, Jim, yer wastin' valuable time," said Landy, wanting to get a last word, before the old man had time for a reply. "Come over next week--Alice is to have a turkey dinner with all the fixin's--en we'll plan a funeral that's modern. Aryplanes, automobiles, jazz, en dancin'

en sich. That's the kind I'm plannin' en I ort to kick-in long before you do."

Landy backed out and crossed the hallway before the ancient could reply.

6

Adine Lough ushered her guests across the hall into what seemed to be her workshop. Seated around a library table, Davy perched on a big dictionary, Landy at the end, drumming his fingers as usual, the girl plunged at once into the business at hand.

"At the very start," she said in a serious manner, "I must tell some personal things. I've been going to school at Boulder. I am staying out this semester to work on my graduate thesis, 'Social Work in Rural Communities.' When you consider my restricted field, it's a big job.

But I like that kind of work--studying people, their individualities, their shortcomings, their accomplishments. From what I hear of you, David, you have an aversion for those things--in fact have run away from the mob. I like it. I would want nothing better than to stand along side of you on a platform at the circus opening and watch the general populace pa.s.s in review. Then and there, I could study all phases of humanity; cla.s.sify them as they pa.s.sed; and then investigate each case personally to see if I had made the right appraisals at first sight."

"--And right there is where you would miss the trapeze bar by a foot, and no net under you," interrupted Davy disgustedly. "They are all alike, from Bangor to Los Angeles. You can throw 'em all into one of two groups: yokels and shilabers. They are either out with a skin game or else they are goats, about to lose their hide."

Adine laughed. "Oh, you surely could subdivide the Yokels. Why in my observations they alone, could be cla.s.sified under many heads. But to go on with my story. Adot, the town, and the neighboring ranches, is my limited field of research and I have gone over the field in detail.

Last month, I had up the matter of the Methodist church in Adot. It was a-once-a-month affair, the minister living in Weldon and no chance to ride circuit in the winter months. No budget, no money, and worse, yet, no outlook.

"Now, I didn't go into the matter to do church work and help them; my business was to appraise them as they were; but I got involved. The few members thought I was trying to do a bit of missionary work. The upshot of the affair was, that I found myself with a roster of the church membership and a list of names of nearly everybody else. I had my own figures as to needs, debts, and community possibilities. So, carrying the thing to a finish, I took up the matter of putting them on a budget and providing the funds.

"First I made them elect Brother Peyton treasurer. He wasn't doing anything except waiting for the bank to resume business. Then I canva.s.sed all the names on the rosters and combed the neighboring ranches for small monthly contributions. I got enough subscriptions to pay the minister and paint the church house. But it was some job. It took two weeks. Two weeks of joy and rebuffs, of elations and disgust.

I was tired. I planned to rest up a couple of weeks and wait for my halo, or wings, or whatever a Christian gets for doing his whole duty; when right on the heels of my labors, came the greatest catastrophe that could have happened."

"Did the meetin' house burn down?" interrupted Landy, who had followed the recitals intently. "Did the preacher gent die, er did Brother Peyton jump the game, taking the jackpot with him?"

"No, nothing like that. The Nazarenes moved in! You both know about the Nazarenes?"

Davy did. He had noticed their meetings in cities. But with Landy, the subject was a blank page and he withheld comment. In later months he confessed that he thought that the Lough gal was nuts in tryin' to project the Saviour en some of his kin onto Adot.

"The Nazarenes are new in this country," continued the girl, "and they have all the enthusiasm of the new convert. Really, they seem to have the early zeal that some of the churches have lost. And they are a stubborn lot. That the field seems barren, is nothing to them. They set up shop in a desert and carry on just the same. To them, poverty is an a.s.set. Christ's admonition to the rich man, to give his substance away and follow Him, is a literal command to be obeyed.

"In the week following my campaign for the Methodist, two Nazarenes, a young man and his wife, came barging into Adot and set up for business. She took up cooking and waiting table in Jode's restaurant for their board, and he went about the street preaching and about the house praying, day and night. They were both good singers and he played an accordion. In that week they talked Joe Burns into letting them have the use of the old mercantile warehouse, and they set up meetings in that big, barn of a place. That same week they came out here, in a truck they had borrowed, to get me to help them as I had the Methodists.