Arizona Nights

by Stewart Edward White

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE LONG TRAIL

  The round-up crew started early the next morning, just about sun-up.Senor Johnson rode first, merely to keep out of the dust. Thenfollowed Torn Rich, jogging along easily in the cow-puncher's "Spanishtrot" whistling soothingly to quiet the horses, giving a lead to theband of saddle animals strung out loosely behind him. These moved ongracefully and lightly in the manner of the unburdened plains horse,half decided to follow Tom's guidance, half inclined to break to rightor left. Homer and Jim Lester flanked them, also riding in a slouch ofapparent laziness, but every once in a while darting forward likebullets to turn back into the main herd certain individuals whom theearly morning of the unwearied day had inspired to make a dash forliberty. The rear was brought up by Jerky Jones, the fourthcow-puncher, and the four-mule chuck wagon, lost in its own dust.

  The sun mounted; the desert went silently through its changes. Winddevils raised straight, true columns of dust six, eight hundred, even athousand feet into the air. The billows of dust from the horses andmen crept and crawled with them like a living creature. Gloriouscolour, magnificent distance, astonishing illusion, filled the world.

  Senor Johnson rode ahead, looking at these things. The separation fromhis wife, brief as it would be, left room in his soul for theheart-hunger which beauty arouses in men. He loved the charm of thedesert, yet it hurt him.

  Behind him the punchers relieved the tedium of the march, each afterhis own manner. In an hour the bunch of loose horses lost itsearly-morning good spirits and settled down to a steady plodding, thatneeded no supervision. Tom Rich led them, now, in silence, his timefully occupied in rolling Mexican cigarettes with one hand. The otherthree dropped back together and exchanged desultory remarks.Occasionally Jim Lester sang. It was always the same song of uncountedverses, but Jim had a strange fashion of singing a single verse at atime. After a long interval he would sing another.

  "My Love is a rider And broncos he breaks, But he's given up riding And all for my sake, For he found him a horse And it suited him so That he vowed he'd ne'er ride Any other bronco!"

  he warbled, and then in the same breath:

  "Say, boys, did you get onto the pisano-looking shorthorn at Willetslast week?

  "Nope."

  "He sifted in wearin' one of these hardboiled hats, and carryin' abrogue thick enough to skate on. Says he wants a job drivin'team--that he drives a truck plenty back to St. Louis, where he comesfrom. Goodrich sets him behind them little pinto cavallos he has.Say! that son of a gun a driver! He couldn't drive nails in a snowbank." An expressive free-hand gesture told all there was to tell ofthe runaway. "Th' shorthorn landed headfirst in Goldfish Charlie'shorse trough. Charlie fishes him out. 'How the devil, stranger,' saysCharlie, 'did you come to fall in here?' 'You blamed fool,' says theshorthorn, just cryin' mad, 'I didn't come to fall in here, I come todrive horses.'"

  And then, without a transitory pause:

  "Oh, my love has a gun And that gun he can use, But he's quit his gun fighting As well as his booze. And he's sold him his saddle, His spurs, and his rope, And there's no more cow-punching And that's what I hope."

  The alkali dust, swirled back by a little breeze, billowed up andchoked him. Behind, the mules coughed, their coats whitening with thepowder. Far ahead in the distance lay the westerly mountains. Theylooked an hour away, and yet every man and beast in the outfit knewthat hour after hour they were doomed, by the enchantment of the land,to plod ahead without apparently getting an inch nearer. The onlysalvation was to forget the mountains and to fill the present momentfull of little things.

  But Senor Johnson, to-day, found himself unable to do this. In spiteof his best efforts he caught himself straining toward the distantgoal, becoming impatient, trying to measure progress by landmarks--inshort acting like a tenderfoot on the desert, who wears himself downand dies, not from the hardship, but from the nervous strain which hedoes not know how to avoid. Senor Johnson knew this as well as you andI. He cursed himself vigorously, and began with great resolution tothink of something else.

  He was aroused from this by Tom Rich, riding alongside. "Somebodycoming, Senor," said he.

  Senor Johnson raised his eyes to the approaching cloud of dust.Silently the two watched it until it resolved into a rider lopingeasily along. In fifteen minutes he drew rein, his pony droppedimmediately from a gallop to immobility, he swung into a gracefulat-ease attitude across his saddle, grinned amiably, and began to rolla cigarette.

  "Billy Ellis," cried Rich.

  "That's me," replied the newcomer.

  "Thought you were down to Tucson?"

  "I was."

  "Thought you wasn't comin' back for a week yet?"

  "Tommy," proffered Billy Ellis dreamily, "when you go to Tucson nextyou watch out until you sees a little, squint-eyed Britisher. Take alook at him. Then come away. He says he don't know nothin' aboutpoker. Mebbe he don't, but he'll outhold a warehouse."

  But here Senor Johnson broke in: "Billy, you're just in time. Jed hashurt his foot and can't get on for a week yet. I want you to takecharge. I've got a lot to do at the ranch."

  "Ain't got my war-bag," objected Billy.

  "Take my stuff. I'll send yours on when Parker goes."

  "All right."

  "Well, so long."

  "So long, Senor." They moved. The erratic Arizona breezes twisted thedust of their going. Senor Johnson watched them dwindle. With themseemed to go the joy in the old life. No longer did the long trailpossess for him its ancient fascination. He had become a domestic man.

  "And I'm glad of it," commented Senor Johnson.

  The dust eddied aside. Plainly could be seen the swaying wagon, theloose-riding cowboys, the gleaming, naked backs of the herd. Then theveil closed over them again. But down the wind, faintly, in snatches,came the words of Jim Lester's song:

  "Oh, Sam has a gun That has gone to the bad, Which makes poor old Sammy Feel pretty, damn sad, For that gun it shoots high, And that gun it shoots low, And it wabbles about Like a bucking bronco!"

  Senor Johnson turned and struck spurs to his willing pony.