Judith of the Plains Part 15

"I think we're just sick of h.e.l.ling it." Peter looked towards the star that last night had been the beacon towards which he and Judith had scaled the heights. "Yes, we get sick of h.e.l.ling it after we've turned thirty."

"Then I can't be making a mistake. If I thought it was because I was getting on, I'd stampede this here range. It don't seem fair to a girl to allow that you're broke, tamed, and know the way to the corral, when it's just that you're needin' to go to an old man's home."

"Now this is really love," said Peter to himself, with interest. "This is humility." A sympathetic liking for the self-distrustful lover surged hot and generous into Peter's heart, and he continued to himself: "Now that's what Judith would appreciate in a man, some directness, some humility!"

Poor Judith! Poor burden-bearer! Who was to love her as she deserved to be loved, even as old man Kinson's girl, of the Basin, was loved? Yet suppose some one did love her in such fashion and she returned it? It was a picture Peter had never conjured up before. Nonsense! he was accustomed to think of Judith a great deal, and that was not the way to think of her.

"Dear Judith!" said Peter, half unconsciously to himself, and looked again at the fellow, who had gone back to his dingy letter and continued to reread it in the fire-light as if he hoped to extract some further meaning from the now familiar words. Nature had fitted him out with a rag-bag a.s.sortment of features-the nose of a clown, the eyes of a ferret, the mouth that hangs agape like a badly hinged door, the mouth of the incessant talker. And withal, as he lounged in the fire-light, dreamily turning his love-letter, he had a sort of superphysical beauty, reflected of the glow that many waters cannot quench.

Costigan, who had led the merriment against Simpson at Mrs. Clark's eating-house, was playing "mumbly-peg" with Texas Tyler. They had been working like Trojans all day at the round-up, but they pitched their pocket-knives with as keen a zest as school-boys, bickering over points in the game, accusing each other of cheating, calling on the rest of the company to umpire some disputed point.

But presently, from the opposite side of the fire, some one began to sing, in a rich barytone, a dirgelike thing that caught the attention of first one then another of the men, making them stop their yarning and knife-throwing to listen. The tune, in its homely power to evoke the image of the ceremonial of death, was more or less familiar to most of them.

There was a conscious funeral pageantry in the ring of its measured phrases that recalled to many burials of the dead that had taken place in their widely scattered homes. Mrs. Barbauld's hymn, "Flee as a Bird to the Mountain," are the words usually sung to the air.

Costigan presently cut across the dirgelike refrain with: "Phwat th' divil is ut about that chune that Oi'm thinkin' of?"

"This," said the man with the barytone voice, "is the tune that Nick Steele saved his neck to."

"Begorra, that's ut. I wasn't there mesilf, but Oi've heard th' story told more times than Oi've years to me credit."

"My father was in that necktie party," spoke up a young cow-puncher, "and I've heard him tell the story scores of times, and he always wondered why the devil they let Steele off. Never could understand it after the thing was done. He was talking of it once to a man who was a sharp on things like mesmerism, and the man called it hypnotic suggestion. Said that Steele got control of the whole outfit and mesmerized 'em so they couldn't do a thing to him."

Several of the men asked for the story, echoes of which had come down through all the forty years since its happening. And the cow-puncher, lighting a cigarette, began:

"It was in the good old forty-nine days in California, when gold was sometimes more plentiful than bread, and women were so scarce that one day when they found a girl's shoe on the trail they fitted a gold heel to it and put it up in camp to worship. But sentiment wasn't exactly their long suit, and any little difficulties that cropped up were straightened out by the vigilance committee-and a rope. One day a saddle, or maybe it was a gun, that didn't belong to him, was found among this man Steele's traps, and though he swore that some one had put it there for a grudge, the committee thought that a hemp necktie was the easiest way out of the argument. And this here Steele party finds himself, at the age of twenty-four, with something like thirty minutes of life to his credit. He don't take on none, nor make a play for mercy, nor try any fancy speech-making. He just waits round, kinder pale, but seemin' indifferent, considerin' it was his funeral that was impendin'. I've heard my father say that he was a tall, slim boy, with a kind of girlish prettiness, and the committee looked some for hysterics and they didn't get none. The noose was made ready and they told Steele he could have five minutes to pray, if he wanted to, or he could take it out in cursing, just as he chose. The boy said he felt that he hadn't quite all that was coming to him in the way of enjoyment, and that while he was far from criticising the vigilance committee, he was not altogether partial to the nature of his demise, and if it was just the same to them, instead of praying or cursing, he'd take that five minutes for a song.

"They was agreeable, and he up and steps on the scaffold, what they was mighty proud of, it bein' about the only substantial structure the town could boast. He began to sing that thing you've all been listening to, and he had a voice like water falling light and fine in a pool below. They crowded up close about the scaffold and listened. The words he put to it were his own story, just like those old minstrels that you read about, and at the end of each verse came the chorus, slow and solemn as the moment after something great has happened. There wasn't a hangin'-face in the crowd after he was started. At some time or other every man had heard somebody he thought a heap of, buried to that tune, and his voice got to workin' on their imaginations and turned their hearts to water. I don't remember anything but the chorus-that went like this:

"'Who'll weep for me, on the gallows tree, As I sway in the wind and swing?

Is there never a tear to be shed for me, As I swing by a hempen string?

Who'll weep, who'll keep Watch, as I'm rocked to sleep, Rocked by a hempen string?'"

There was a long silence, broken only by the crackle of the logs in the camp-fire and the night sounds of the lonely plain. The leaping flames showed a group of thoughtful faces. Finally, Costigan broke the silence with:

"Begorra, 'tis some av thim 'ud be doin' well to be lukin' to their music-lessons about here, Oi'm thinkin', afther th' day's wurruk."

The Irishman, with his instinctive loquacity, had expressed what none of the rest would have considered politic to hint. It was like the giving way of the pebble that starts the avalanche. Soon they were deep in tales of lynchings. Peter knew only too well the trend of their talk, the "x.x.x" men were feeling the public pulse, as it were. Now, according to the unwritten code of the plains, lynching was "meet, right, just, and available" for the cattle-thief. And Peter felt himself false to his creed, false to his employer, false to himself, in seeking to evade the question. And yet that pitiful cabin, the white-faced woman running to the door so often that she knew not what she did, and the little rosy boy, who had put out his arms so trustfully! Peter broke into their grewsome yarning. "Lord, but you're like a lot of old women just come from a funeral!"

"Whin the carpse died hard, and th' wake was a success." Costigan turned over. "Werra, werra, but we'll be seein' fairies the night!"

A "x.x.x" man turned his head with a deliberate slowness and regarded Peter with narrowing eyes: "If the subject of cattle-thieves and their punishment is unpleasant to the gentleman from New York, perhaps he will favor us with something more cheerful." It was the same man who had given the two definitions of the "H L" brand that morning at the round-up.

"Delighted," said Peter, affecting not to notice the significance of the man's remark. "Did you ever hear of the time that Tony Neville was burned with snow?"

The "x.x.x" man yawned long and audibly. No one seemed especially interested in Tony Neville's having been burned with snow, but Peter struck out manfully, just in time to head off a man who said that he had seen Jim Rodney or some one who looked like him, following the trail-herd.

"Once on a time, when it paid to be a cattle-man," began Peter, "there was an outfit near Laramie that hailed from the United Kingdom, every mother's son of them. A fine, manly lot of fellows, but wedded to calamity along of their cooks-not the revered range article," and Peter waved his hand towards the "W-square" cook, who was one of the party, "but the pampered ranch article that boasts a real stove, planted in a real kitchen, the spoiled darling that never has to light a fire out of wet wood in the rain.

"These unhappy Britons had every species of ill luck that could befall an outfit, in the way of cooks; they were of every nationality, age, and s.e.x, and they stole, drank, quarrelled, till the outfit determined to sweep the house clear of them and do its own cooking. Every man was to have a turn at it for a week. There was a Scotchman, who gave them something called 'pease bannocks,' three times a day; followed by an Irishman, who breakfasted them on potatoes and whiskey. There was an Englishman, who had a beef slaughtered every time he fancied a tenderloin. There was a Welshman, who sang as he cooked. There were as many different kinds of indigestion as there were men in the outfit. They would beg to do night-herding, anything to get them away from that ranch. Finally, when their little tummies got so bad that their overcoats thickened, or wore through, or whatever happens to stomachs' overcoats that are treated unkindly, some one's maiden aunt sent him a tract saying that rice was the salvation of the human race, as witness the Chinese. Whosever turn it was to cook that week determined to try the old lady's prescription. Rice was procured, about a peck, I think; and the man who was cooking, pro tem, put the entire quant.i.ty on to boil in a huge ham-boiler, over a slow fire, as per the directions of the maiden aunt. The rice seemed to be doing nicely, when some one came in and said that a bunch of antelope was over on the hills and there was a good chance to get a couple. Every man got his gun, all but the cook, and he looked at the rice, that hadn't done a thing over the slow fire, in a way that would melt your heart. 'Just my luck that it should be my week to pot-wrestle when there's good hunting right at one's front door.'

"'Oh, come on,' some one said. 'Didn't Kellett's aunt say the rice ought to be cooked over a slow fire? Kellett, get your aunt's letter and read the directions for cooking that rice again.'

"The cook didn't need a second invitation, and they got into their saddles, cook and all, and went for the antelope.

"Now antelope are not like stationary wash-tubs; they move about. And when that particular outfit arrived at the spot where those antelope were last seen, they had moved, but the boys found traces of them, and continued on their trail. They went in the foot-hills and they searched for those antelope all day. They caught up with old man Hall's outfit at dinner-time and were invited to take a bite. Coming home by way of the 'Circle-Star'

ranch, Colonel Semmes asked them in to have a mint-julep; the colonel was a South Carolinian, and he had just succeeded in raising some mint. They had several-I fear more than several-drinks before leaving for home, with never a trace of antelope nor a thought of the rice cooking over the slow fire. The colonel remembered some hard cider that he had, and topping off on that, they set out. The weather was pretty warm, and on their way home they experienced some remorse over the hard cider. Now hard cider is an acc.u.mulative drink; it piles up interest like debt or unpaid taxes. And by the time those Englishmen had turned the little lane leading into their home corral, they saw a sight that made their sombreros rise. As I have said before, it was hot, being somewhere in the month of August.

Gentlemen, I hardly expect you to believe me when I say it was snowing on their house, and not on another G.o.d blessed thing in the landscape.

"The blame thing about it was, that every man took the phenomenon to be his own private view of snakes, or their bibulous equivalent, manifested in another and more terrifying form. Here was the August sun pouring down on the plain where their ranch-house was situated; everything in sight hot and dry as a lime-kiln, gra.s.shoppers chirping in a hot-wave prophecy, and snow covering the house and the ground, about to what seemed a depth of four inches. Every one of them felt sensitive about mentioning what he saw to the others. You see, gentlemen, being unfamiliar with American drinks, and especially old Ma.s.sachusetts cider, they merely looked to keep their saddles and no questions asked.

"But when they got a bit closer the horror increased. Flying right out of their windows were perfect drifts of snow, banks of it, gentlemen, and the thermometer up past a hundred. One of the men looked about him and noticed the pallor on the faces of the rest:

"'Do you notice anything strange, old chap? These cursed American drinks!'

"'Strange!'-the boy he had spoken to was about eighteen, a nice, red-cheeked English lad out with his uncle learning the cattle business.

'Good G.o.d!' the boy said. 'I've always tried to lead a good life, and here I am a paretic before I've come of age.'

"They halted their horses and held a consultation. The boss came to the conclusion that since they had all seen it, there was nothing to do but continue the investigation and send the details to the 'Society for Psychical Research,' when he got down from his horse and walked towards the door of the house. At his approach, as if to rebuke his wanton curiosity, a great blast of snow blew out of the window and got him full in the face. He howled-the snow was scalding hot.

"Then they remembered the rice."

"Is that all?" demanded the man who had wanted to talk about rustling.

"Isn't it enough?" said Peter, who could afford to be magnanimous, now that he had accomplished his point.

"When I first heard that story, 'bout ten years ago, it ended with the Britishers riding like h.e.l.l over to the Wolcott ranch to borrow umbrellas to keep off the hot rice while they got into the house," said the man, still sulky.

"That's the way they tell it to tenderfeet," and Peter turned on his heel.

The story-telling for the evening was over, the boys got their blankets and set about making their beds for the night.

XIII

Mary's First Day In Camp

The first day spent as governess to the family of Yellett reminded Mary Carmichael of those days mentioned in the opening chapter of Genesis, days wherein whole geological ages developed and decayed. Any era, geological or otherwise, she felt might have had its rise, decline, and fall during that first day spent in a sheep camp.

She awoke to the sound of faint tinklings, and accepted the towering peaks of the Wind River mountains, with their snowy mantles all shadowy in the whitening dawn, and the warmer grays of huddling foot-hills, as one receives, without question, the fantastic visions of sleep. The faint tinkling grew nearer, mingled with a light pitter patter and a far off baa-ing and bleating; then, as shadowy as the sheep in dreams, a great flock came winding round the hill; in and out through the sage-brush they went and came, elusive as the early morning shadows they moved among. The air was crystalline and sparkling; creation's first morning could not have promised more. It would have been inconsistent in such a place to waken in a house; the desert, that seemed a lifeless sea, the sheep moving like gray shadows, were all parts of a big, new world that had no need of houses built by hands.

Ben, oldest of the Brobdingnag tribe, who had greeted Mary's request to be directed to "the house" as a bit of dry Eastern humor, led the herd to pasture. Ben's right-hand man was "Stump," the collie, so named because he had no tail worth mentioning, but otherwise in full possession of his faculties. Stump was newly broken to his official duties and authority sat heavily on him. Keenly alert, he flew hither and thither, first after one straying member of the herd, then another, barking an early morning roll-call as he went. Two other male Brobdingnags came from some sequestered spot in the landscape and joined Ben-Mary recognized two more pupils.

Mrs. Yellett then unrolled the pillow constructed the night previous of such garments as she had been willing to dispense with, and put them on.

The vastness of her surroundings did not prevent her from locating the minutest article, and Mary gave her the respectful admiration of a woman who has spent a great deal of time searching for things in an infinitely smaller s.p.a.ce. The matriarch then called the remaining members of her household officially-the Misses Yellett accomplished their early morning toilets with the simplicity of young robins. Only the new governess hung back, but finally mustered up enough courage to say that if such a thing was possible she would like to have a bath.

Mrs. Yellett greeted her request with the amused tolerance of one who has never given such a trifle a thought.