The Yellow Rose Part 17

"Two days? Two? Surely that is over much."

"I don't know."

"But I do--or else the two days will lengthen into a rest much longer!"

"Well, I must hurry and get the bay home before they are up. Because when the overseer swears at the herdsman, then the cowboy vents all his rage on me. Just wait till I'm herdsman, and then I'll have a barrow-boy of my own to knock about! G.o.d bless you, Sandor bacsi."

"He has done that already."

The little lad jumped on the bay, bareback as it was, and stuck his naked feet into its sides. But the bay absolutely refused to stir, turned suddenly right round, and tried to return to the stud. Finally the csikos, taking pity on the boy, brought out his stock-whip, caught it a good thwack in the hind-legs and cracked it two or three times, whereupon the horse, lowering its head, set out full tilt over the puszta, as straight as it could go. The boy had hard enough work to keep his seat, clutching the mane with both hands. The csikos, meanwhile, was quite clear as to his own course.

"Tell Ferko Lacza that Sandor Decsi sends him his respects!" he shouted out after the vanishing "taligas." But whether the boy heard this message is doubtful.

CHAPTER XI.

Next day the csikos went into the "karam," and said to the head herdsman,

"I have some business on hand, G.o.dfather, may I take a half-holiday this afternoon? By evening I will be back."

"Certainly you can have leave, my son," replied the old man, "but on one condition. Your are not to enter the Hortobagy inn. Do you understand me?"

"I give you my word of honour not to put a foot inside the Hortobagy inn."

"Very well, I know you will keep your word."

But this, the csikos had omitted to add, "unless I am carried in on a sheet."

It was a hot sultry afternoon when he started, the sky was the colour of b.u.t.termilk, and the air charged with moisture. The play of the mirage seemed specially fantastic. Not a bird sang overhead, but all sank nestling in the gra.s.s. On the other hand the swarms of horse-flies, gad-flies, and midges appeared more wickedly inclined than ever, and the horse could only get along slowly, having to drive off the blood-thirsty torments, now with its hind-foot, now with its head. Still it never missed the path though the bridle lay slack between the csikos' fingers.

Man too feels the approach of a storm.

Suddenly, as they reached that substantial triumph of Scythian architecture--the Hortobagy bridge--the csikos started.

"No, no!" he cried. "Here we can't go, old fellow. You know how I swore by the starry heavens never to cross that bridge again."

But never to _ford_ the Hortobagy river was not included in his oath.

So he turned down below the mill, and where the water widens into the shallows, waded easily across. The horse had to swim a little, but the herdsman took no heed of that; his fringed linen trousers would soon dry in the hot sunshine.

Then he trotted on to the Hortobagy inn. Here the horse tried to go at a brisker pace, whinnying joyously the while. A glad neigh answered it, for there, tied up to an acacia, stood its comrade--the white-faced bay.

Properly speaking, the Hortobagy inn has no courtyard, for the wide gra.s.sy expanse fronting house, stable, and sheds is without fence of any sort. Still it serves as such. A table is put there, and two long benches where the customers sit tippling under the trees.

The csikos sprang from his horse, and tied it up to the other acacia, not that same tree to which the white-faced bay was tethered.

A couple of long-eared steeds were also meditating in the shade of the garden paling, stretching out their necks for the overhanging sprays of barberry, just out of their reach. Their riders were seated at the table, under the acacia, with their fur-lined "bundas" slung over their shoulders, inside out, despite the sweltering weather. In fact, they wore them for shade. As they tippled away, drinking cheap acid stuff out of green gla.s.ses, they hummed an endless shepherd's song, monotonous and wearisome. Both were shepherds, whose steed is the donkey.

Sandor Decsi sat down at the further end of the bench, placed his cudgel on the table, and studied the glittering clouds looming heavy on the horizon, and the dark rim of earth beneath. A great yellow pillar rose swirling in one quarter--the whirlwind. Meanwhile the shepherds sang:

"When the shepherd takes his gla.s.s, Sad and mournful grows his a.s.s.

Cheer up, little donkey, grey!

Behind the flock we'll ride away."

This was too much for the csikos to stand.

"See, that's enough, Pista!" he snapped. "For goodness' sake stop that doleful ditty, and get on your grey donkey and trundle after your flock before you're too tipsy to move."

"Dear, dear! Sandor Decsi does seem upset to-day!"

"I'll upset you worse if you try aggravating me!" said the csikos, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Now he was "ready" for anyone who crossed his path.

The shepherds whispered. Well they knew the puszta rule that when a csikos sits at a table a shepherd may only squat down there with his express permission. If he says, "Get out!" why then the shepherd has to go.

One of them rapped on the table with the bottom of his gla.s.s.

"We had better pay, the storm is coming."

The innkeeper's daughter came out at the sound. She made as if she did not see the csikos at all, but attended to the two shepherds, counted up the wine, gave them back the change out of their "dog-tongues," and wiped the table where wine had been spilled. They mounted their donkeys, and being once more in full security, rattled on with their song defiantly:

"Wolves all fear my dogs so strong.

Two lads lead the flock along.

I? Why I ride all the day On my little donkey grey."

Only when they had quite taken themselves off did the girl address the csikos.

"Well, haven't you even 'good-day' for me, my dearest treasure?"

"Sandor Decsi is my name," growled the herdsman savagely.

"I beg your honour's pardon! Won't you please step into the tap-room, sir?"

"Thanks! I'm well enough out here."

"There you would find fitting society."

"So I see by the horse. He'll come out to me soon enough."

"Well, what can I bring you? Red wine? White wine?"

"No, I won't drink wine," said the csikos. "Bring me bottled beer."

Bottled beer cannot be poisoned. Once the cork is drawn it all froths out.

The girl understood the insinuation. Crushing down the bitterness in her heart she soon returned with a bottle, which she placed before the lad.

"What is this?" he cried. "Am I a cobbler's apprentice, to have _one_ bottle brought me?"