Bransford of Rainbow Range

by Eugene Manlove Rhodes

  CHAPTER IV

  THE ROAD TO ROME

  "Behold, one journeyed in the night. He sang amid the wind and rain; My wet sands gave his feet delight-- When will that traveler come again?"

  --_The Heart of the Road_, ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH.

  A hypotenuse, as has been well said, is the longest side of aright-angled triangle. There is no need for details. That we are allfamiliar with the use of this handy little article is shown by theexistence of shortcuts at every available opportunity, and bykeep-off-o'-the-grass signs in parks.

  Now, had Jeff Bransford desired to go to Arcadia--to that masquerade,for instance--his direct route from Jackson's Ranch would have beencater-cornered across the desert, as has been amply demonstrated byPythagoras and others.

  That Jeff did not want to go to Arcadia--to the masked ball, forinstance--is made apparent by the fact that the afternoon preceding saidball saw him jogging southward toward Baird's, along the lonely base ofthat inveterate triangle whereof Jackson's, Baird's and Arcadia are therespective corners, leaving the fifty-five-mile hypotenuse far to hisleft. It was also obvious from the tenor of his occasionalself-communings.

  "I don't want to make a bally fool of myself--do I, old Grasshopper?Anyhow, you'll be too tired when we get to 'Gene's."

  Grasshopper made no response, other than a plucky tossing of his bit anda quickening cadence in his rhythmical stride, by way of pardonablebravado.

  "I never forced myself in where my company wasn't wanted yet, and Iain't going to begin now," asserted Jeff stoutly; adding, as a ferventafterthought: "Damn Lake!"

  His way lay along the plain, paralleling the long westward range, justfar enough out to dodge the jutting foothills; through bare white levelswhere Grasshopper's hoofs left but a faint trace on the hard-glazedearth. At intervals, tempting cross-roads branched away to mountainsprings. The cottonwood at Independent Springs came into view round thegranite shoulder of Strawberry, six miles to the right of him. He rousedhimself from prolonged pondering of the marvelous silhouette, where SanAndres unflung in broken masses against the sky, to remark in a hushedwhisper:

  "I wonder if she'd be glad to see me?"

  Several miles later he quoted musingly:

  "For Ellinor--her Christian name was Ellinor-- Had twenty-seven different kinds of hell in her!"

  After all, there are problems which Pythagoras never solved.

  The longest road must have an end. Ritch's Ranch was passed far to theright, lying low in the long shadow of Kaylor; then the mouth ofHembrillo Canyon; far ahead, a shifting flicker of Baird's windmilltopped the brush. It grew taller; the upper tower took shape. He dippedinto the low, mirage-haunted basin, where the age-old Texas Trailcrosses the narrow western corner of the White Sands. When he emergedthe windmill was tall and silver-shining; the low iron roofs of thehouse gloomed sullen in the sun.

  Dust rose from the corral. Now Jeff's ostensible errand to the West Sidehad been the search for strays; three days before he had prudently beenthree days' ride farther to the north. The reluctance with which he hadturned back southward was justified by the fact that this criticalafternoon found him within striking distance of Arcadia--strikingdistance, that is, should he care for a bit of hard riding. This wasexactly what Jeff had fought against all along. So, when he saw thedust, he loped up.

  It was as he had feared. A band of horses was in the waterpen; amongthem a red-roan head he knew--Copperhead, of Pringle's mount; confirmedrunaway. Jeff shut the gate. For the first time that day, he permittedhimself a discreet glance eastward to Arcadia.

  "Three days," he said bitterly, while Grasshopper thrust his eagermuzzle into the water-trough--"three days I have braced back my feet andslid, like a yearlin' at a brandin' bee--and look at me now! Oh,Copperhead, you darned old fool, see what you done now!"

  In this morose mood he went to the house. There was no one at home. Anote was tacked on the door.

  Gone to Plomo. Back in two or three days. Beef hangs under platform on windmill tower. When you get it, oil the mill. Books and deck of cards in box under bed. Don't leave fire in stove when you go.

  GENE BAIRD.

  N. B.--Feed the cat.

  Jeff built a fire in the stove and unsaddled the weary Grasshopper. Hefound some corn, which he put into a woven-grass _morral_ and hung onGrasshopper's nose. He went to the waterpen, roped out Copperhead andshut him in a side corral. Then he let the bunch go. They strainedthrough the gate in a mad run, despite shrill and frantic remonstrancefrom Copperhead.

  "Jeff," said Jeff soberly, "are you going to be a damned fool all yourlife? That girl doesn't care anything about you. She hasn't thought ofyou since. You stay right here and read the pretty books. That's theplace for you."

  This advice was sound and wise beyond cavil. So Jeff took it valiantly.After supper he hobbled Grasshopper and took off the nosebag. Then hewent to the back room in pursuit of literature.

  * * * * *

  Have I leave for a slight digression, to commit a long-delayed act ofjustice--to correct a grievous wrong? Thank you.

  We hear much of Mr. Andrew Carnegie and His Libraries, the Hall of Fame,the Little Red Schoolhouse, the Five-Foot Shelf, and the World's BestBooks. A singular thing is that the most effective bit of philanthropyalong these lines has gone unrecorded of a thankless world. This shallno longer be.

  Know, then, that once upon a time a certain soulless corporation, ratherin the tobacco trade, placed in each package of tobacco a coupon, eachcoupon redeemable by one paper-bound book. Whether they were moved byremorse to this action or by sordid hidden purposes of their own, or,again, by pure, disinterested and farseeing love of their kind, is notyet known; but the results remain. There were three hundred and threevolumes on that list, mostly--but not altogether--fiction. And each onewas a classic. Classics are cheap. They are not copyrighted. Could I butknow the anonymous benefactor who enrolled that glorious company, howgladly would I drop a leaf on his bier or a cherry in his bitters!

  Thus it was that, in one brief decade, the cowboys, with others, becamecomparatively literate. Cowboys all smoked. Doubtless that was a chiefcause contributory to making them the wrecks they were. It destroyedtheir physique; it corroded and ate away their will power--leaving themseldom able to work over nineteen hours a day, except in emergencies;prone to abandon duty in the face of difficulty or danger, when humaneffort, raised to the nth power, could do no more--all thingsconsidered, the most efficient men of their hands on record.

  Cowboys all smoked: and the most deep-seated instinct of the human raceis to get something for nothing. They got those books. In due course oftime they read those books. Some were slow to take to it; but when youstay at lonely ranches, when you are left afoot until the water-holesdry up, so you may catch a horse in the waterpen--why, you must dosomething. The books were read. Then, having acquired the habit, theybought more books. Since the three hundred and three were all realbooks, and since the cowboys had been previously uncorrupted ofpredigested or sterilized fiction, or by "gift," "uplift" and "helpful"books, their composite taste had become surprisingly good, and theybought with discriminating care. Nay, more. A bookcase follows books; abookcase demands a house; a house needs a keeper; a housekeeper needseverything. Hence alfalfa--houseplants--slotless tables--bankbooks. Thechain which began with yellow coupons ends with Christmas trees. In someproudest niche in the Hall of Fame a grateful nation will yet honor thathitherto unrecognized educator, Front de Boeuf.[A]

  [Footnote A: "_Bull Durham._"]

  * * * * *

  Jeff pawed over the tattered yellow-backed volumes in profanediscontent. He had read them all. Another box was under the bed, behindthe first. Opening it, he saw a tangled mass of clothing, tumbled in thebachelor manner; with the rest, a much-used football outfit--canvasjacket, sweater, padded trousers, woolen stockings, rubber
noseguard,shinguards, ribbed shoes--all complete; for 'Gene Baird was fullback ofthe El Paso eleven.

  Jeff segregated the gridiron wardrobe with hasty hands. His eyebrightened; he spoke in an awed and almost reverent voice.

  "I ain't mostly superstitious, but this looks like a leading. First, I'mhere; second, Copperhead's here; third, no one else is here; and, forthe final miracle, here's a costume made to my hand. Thirty-five miles.Ten o'clock, if I hurry. H'm!

  "'When first I put this uniform on'--how did that go? I'm forgetting allmy songs. Getting old, I guess."

  Rejecting the heavy shoes, as unmeet for waxed floors, and theshinguards, he rolled the rest of the uniform in his slicker and tied itbehind his saddle. Then he rubbed his chin.

  "Huh! That's a true saying, too. I am getting old. Youth turns to youth.Buck up, Jeff, you old fool! Have some pride about you and just a littleold horse-sense."

  Yet he unhobbled Grasshopper, who might then be trusted to find his wayto Rainbow in about three days. He went to the corral and tossed a ropeon snorting Copperhead. "No; I won't go!" he said, as he slipped on thebridle. "Just to uncock old Copperhead, I'll make a little horse-ride toHospital Springs and look through the stock." He threw on the saddlewith some difficulty--Copperhead was fat and frisky. "She don't want tosee you, Jeff--an old has-been like you! No, no; I'd better not go. Iwon't! There, if I didn't leave that football stuff on the saddle! I'lltake it off. It might get lost. Whoa, Copperhead!"

  Copperhead, however, declined to whoa on any terms. His eyes bulged out;he reared, he pawed, he snorted, he bucked, he squealed, he did anythingbut whoa. Exasperated, Jeff caught the bridle by the cheek piece andswung into the saddle. After a few preliminaries in the pitching line,Jeff started bravely for Hospital Springs.

  It was destined that this act of renunciation should be thwarted.Copperhead stopped and dug his feet in the ground as if about to takeroot. Jeff dug the spurs home. With an agonized bawl, Copperhead made acreditable ascension, shook himself and swapped ends before he hit theground again. "_Wooh!_" he said. His nose was headed now for Arcadia; hefollowed his nose, his roan flanks fanned vigorously with a doubledrope.

  "Headstrong, stubborn, unmanageable brute! Oh, well, have it your ownway then, you old fool! You'll be sorry!" Copperhead leaped out to theloosened rein. "This is just plain kidnapping!" said Jeff.

  Kidnapped and kidnapper were far out on the plain as night came on.Arcadia road stretched dimly to the east; the far lights of La Luzflashed through the leftward dusk; straight before them was a glint andsparkle in the sky, faint, diffused, wavering; beyond, a warm and mellowglow broke the blackness of the mountain wall, where the lights oflow-hidden Arcadia beat up against Rainbow Rim.

  Jeff was past his first vexation; he sang as he rode:

  "There was ink on her thumb when I kissed her hand, And she whispered: 'If you should die I'd write you an epitaph, gloomy and grand!' 'Time enough for that!' says I.

  "Keep a-movin here, Copperhead! Time fugits right along. You will playhooky, will you? 'I'm going to be a horse!'"