by Zane Grey
CHAPTER FOUR
HUETT, SELDOM PREY to strong feeling, expected Lucinda to share his joy at their safe arrival in the canyon which they were to homestead, but he was somewhat taken back by his wife’s pale face and the strange gaze that seemed to see beyond the pines. When she had no word to say, he divined that his vague fear of her reaction to Sycamore Canyon had been justified. But, he reflected, women were queer, and beyond men’s understanding. What difference did it really make where they began to live their lives together? The essential thing was that they were together, mated, facing the great project. He stifled his disappointment.
“Come down and let’s rustle,” he said, and helped her out of the wagon, aware that she was heavy on her feet. “Rest a bit. Or better walk about. I’ll throw supper together in a jiffy.”
As she walked slowly away, not looking, Logan felt sorry for her. But what had he done that was amiss? This was the finest place he had ever seen. He threw off his coat and filled all the water-pails. What a wonderful spring — cold as ice, straight from granite rock, soft as silk, and even now, late in the fall, flowing a hundred gallons a minute! That spring was priceless. As Logan carried the pails, he gazed about for firewood. Up the canyon on the slope stood an aspen grove, burning vivid gold in the sunset. There would be dead aspen wood there — a wood next best to dead oak for a corking fire. He fared forth with an axe and dragged down some long poles. He noted with pleasure that beaver had been cutting the live aspens, and he wondered where their dam was. He built a fire with pine, and split the aspen to burn afterwards. Lucinda had not come back.
While Logan was rushing the supper, Lucinda returned, carrying a handful of flowers.
“Purple asters!” she exclaimed, her pale features animated for the first time. “My favourite flowers! These are wild — so much larger and lovelier than cultivated ones.”
“Lots of wild flowers in these woods,” he replied. “I like best that yellow one, like a bell in shape, that nods at you in the creek bottoms.”
“I saw golden rod along the road. That’s something,” she said thoughtfully. She helped him get supper, ate without appetite, and wiped the utensils after he washed them.
Logan felt full of thoughts and feelings. He was not given to voluble expression, but if she had encouraged him now he might have formed the nucleus of a habit to talk. But she said only that it was much warmer down in the canyon. This night she did not put on her heavy coat, nor stand eagerly by the fire.
“I’ll make your bed before it gets too dark,” he said.
“What will we use for lights?” she asked, curiously.
“Camp-fire. I can get some pine knots presently. There’s a box of candles to use in the cabin, when we throw that up:’ When Logan emerged from his task in the wagon, Lucinda was standing with her dog watching the afterglow fade in the west. He made his own bed under the great pine near-by. Dusk fell, and then began the gloaming hour Logan liked best. He lighted his pipe. Lucinda came back presently.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’ll be — all right to-morrow. Good night, Logan.”
“Good night, dear. You’ve sure been game.” He patted her shoulder awkwardly with his hand, but did not attempt to kiss her.
Night closed down upon the canyon. Logan sat smoking. He saw the fading red embers of his fire, the great looming pines, the black, shadowy wall; he smelled the smoke and the tang of the forest; he heard the sough of the wind, the brawl of the brook, the wail of coyotes. But he did not waste thought on these external manifestations which measured his contentment. He had made the drive from Flagg in three days, with a heavy load, the latter half of the distance with a score and more of cattle, and a wild bull. That stock, his oxen, and horses were safe in the canyon. It seemed incredible. Even with less than that he would have had a splendid start. His ranch was an established fact, and his range would be the envy of cattlemen some day. Yet he did not dream; he had no illusions. He was assured of the fact that he would have a great herd. Holbert had had trouble with a grasshopper plague one year, but such a contingency did not worry Logan here.
He looked impartially towards success in the long run. As he would not require cowboys for many years, he could manage the ranch himself. Lucinda would cook and take care of the children when they came. He would do the thousand and one tasks that fell to a homesteader’s lot. For the immediate present he had the log cabin to throw up speedily — a job for one man; then the gaps to close in his natural fences around the canyon; and after that the winter’s supply of firewood and meat. He would never have to kill any beef — not in this forest. Such a reflection afforded him double satisfaction. He would be able to indulge in his one and only pleasure, and, besides that, save many calves and yearlings.
It did not occur to Huett, as he stretched out under the blankets, that he was a happy man. Nevertheless he felt a great sense of accomplishment — to have won Lucinda Baker for a wife, to have driven safely into Sycamore Canyon with supplies and stock sufficient for the long task ahead — this seemed as much of a miracle as he ever dared hope for. The rest depended upon him, and he was positive that he was equal to the task. He had never tested his powers, but he felt that they were unlimited. Sleep glued his eyelids the instant he closed them.
At dawn he was up, wading through the dewy grass to ‘fetch in his horse. He saw deer with the cattle, and wished he had brought along his rifle. Venison was tasty after the first frosts and would keep if hung up in the shade. Returning to camp, he put his heaviest saddle on Buck and left him standing bridle down. Logan next applied himself to putting up a tarpaulin shelter in a convenient place. He had a camp-chair somewhere in the wagon. This and a box for a table would do for Lucinda.
The sun struck down early into Sycamore — another of the many desirable features of this canyon. In summer it would be hot, but in winter the more sun the better. Huett anticipated much from those ample south slopes and walls, Which, would not only melt snow off promptly, but reflect heap down-upon the level. What corn, beans, cabbage, hay, grapes, peaches, he would raise! While mixing the biscuit dough that morning Logan located certain spots for gardens and fields.
Lucinda appeared, her face sunburned and slightly swollen.
“Mawnin’, settler,” she said, with a brightness that he was quick to grasp.
“How are you, Luce?” he greeted her, heartily.
“Fine. Only burnt to a crisp, lame in one leg, and sore from sundry scratches,” she replied wryly. She had brushed her hair and left it to hang in a braid, a way that made her look more girlish, and pleased Logan. “I’m afraid to wash my face, it’s so sore.”
“Don’t. Be chary of water in this country till you’re broken in.”
“Heaven! — What’ll we do for a bath?”
“There’s the brook.”
“Be sensible, Logan. Besides, I felt that water last night. Cold — why, it made me jump! Can’t you fix a place for us?”
“Sure I can. And I’ll do it pronto. The brook will be good enough for me yet awhile.”
“Where’s my dog?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“She went out before daylight.”
“Coyotes! By gum! I hope she doesn’t run true to form. Them half-wolf dogs are queer. She might go back to her kind; for she’s more wolf than shepherd.”
Lucinda made a face. “Oh dear! — I suppose I mustn’t let myself love anything out here, because I can’t keep it.”
“I reckon, Luce. Nothing except me,” he replied, not realizing the jest.
“You? Why — er — of course, Logan. But can’t I keep pets?”
“Sure. But I won’t swear how long. You can have bear-cubs, fawns — anything I can catch for you.”
“A bear-cub? Oh, how darling! I’d love that.”
While they sat at breakfast Coyote came back, her long fur full of burrs, her tongue hanging out. Lucinda was delighted at her return, while Logan was manifestly not displeased. The dog had evidently been chasing some
wild animal, but apparently knew when to return home.
“Well, Luce, you clean up while I tackle the big job,” drawled Logan finally.
“What?”
“Our cabin.”
“How thrilling! Let me help.”
“I should smile you will help.”
“Where’ll we put it? How big?”
“Right there, in the centre of the bench. I reckon those pines are good to stand a hundred more years. How big? — Doggone, that stumps me. I guess I can manage twenty-four-foot logs, if they’re not too big around.”
“Twenty-four feet! How many rooms?”
“One. We’ll have to live in one room. After a time, as our needs grow, we can add a section.”
“But, Logan, that Holbert cabin was awful,” cried Lucinda impetuously. “Small, dark — no floor, no porch...”
“Don’t worry, Luce. I’ve thought of that,” Logan assured her. “We’ll have a floor and a flat stone hearth. I’ll extend the roof beyond the cabin wall — say twenty more feet...like this,” he drew a rude plan on the ground, “with posts to hold it up at the corners. And a loft to store things.”
“Logan, can you do all this alone?” she queried, as if suddenly appreciating the enormity of his undertaking. “Sure can. You’ll have to help, though. Our tough jo! will be to lift logs one above the other, after we get so high. But I’ll cut a forked sapling, heave up an end of the log in that. You’ll hold the sapling while I tend to the other end.” “But suppose the log should slip,” suggested Lucinda fearfully.
“I won’t let it. Shall I move your things under the shelter? I’ve a chair and a box. Then you can find something to do until I come back.”
“Yes, please. I’ve plenty of sewing.”
“Good. Can you knit, Luce?”
“That is one of my few accomplishments.”
“I’ll bet you have a lot of them,” Logan declared pridefully. Then, having moved her belongings and the boxes to the shelter, he took his axe, and, mounting Buck, rode up the canyon. Round the bend and conveniently half-way up the slope stood a dense grove of pines which Logan had remembered from a former trip. He could drag what he needed downhill all the way, a factor saving of labour and time.
It took less than half an hour to cut and trim the first log for snaking down to camp. How deep the heavy axe had bitten into the pine, and how satisfying the feel of swinging it! Logan took a half-hitch with his rope round the log’s end and, mounting, looped the pommel and started at a long angle downhill. The lop slipped along as if greased. As he neared camp the dog barked, and Lucinda ceased her work to watch him. It was something deeply exhilarating tor Logan to see her there.
“Making out fine, Luce,” he called in a cheery tone, as he dragged the log into camp. “What have you been doing?”
“Chastening my spirit, Logan,” she returned cryptically.
Riding back up the canyon, he wondered what Lucinda bad meant. But he did not ponder long over her complexity.
In the following hour Logan snaked down the three other logs, and by the time Lucinda called him to eat ‘he had the four foundation sides of his cabin squared, levelled, and blocked up with flat stones.
“I’ll cut logs this afternoon and to-morrow,” he told Lucinda. “Maybe it’ll take another day. Fine crop of small pines to choose from. But the shakes have me stumped.”
“Shakes?” inquired his wife.
“Yes. Shingles for the roof. They’re called shakes in the West. You split them out of a big pine log. It’s got to be straight grain, and not too sappy. Maybe I can find a lightning-struck pine. Ought to, for lighting sure strikes in this forest.”
“Thunderstorms, you mean?” asked Lucinda fearfully. “I’ll say. Terrible electric storms. Trees crashing all around you — rain, wind...”
“I’m afraid of storms,” said Lucinda in a troubled voice. “When I was a child, Mother used to shut me up in a dark hall.”
“Don’t worry, Luce. It’s too late for that kind of storm.” He glanced at the sky, shaking his dark head. “Lord, I hope the snow holds off till we’re under a roof. But the weather here is fine till Thanksgiving, mostly.”
When Logan finished his work, supper was almost ready and would have been earlier, Lucinda explained, but for the biscuits. She had burnt the first batch.
“Luce, it’s no easy job,” said Logan, hastening to excuse her. “Did you remember to heat the lid while you wen heating the oven?”
“No. But I put a shovelful of coals on the lid.”
“Always heat it first...Well, this has been a doggone good day. Only too short.”
“It was long for me — and lonesome,” she replied wistfully. “You’ll always be at work, won’t you?”
Logan nodded gravely. “I reckon so, Luce, come to think of it. But I like work. That’s what I want. And presently you will be so busy the days will fly.”
Lucinda did not seem to share his optimism. The thought struck Logan that he must be kind and attentive to her. He helped her with the work after supper, talked about the cabin, and afterwards persuaded her to walk with him along the brook. He felt affection and solicitude, and warm yearning; but he was clumsy about expressing such feeling. Still his presence and his attention had a brightening effect upon her that he was glad to see. Lastly he kissed her good night, and was amazed at her wet eyes, shining in the firelight.
Before sunrise next morning Logan shot and dressed a deer, cut and stacked firewood, and had breakfast ready when Lucinda arose. He then put in a prodigious day with the logs, cutting and trimming fifty, and peeling most of them. He did not know where the hours went, but that one spent with Lucinda after supper seemed to bring them closer. She was beginning to display interest in his work, to ask about the future. Yet she seemed to have a dread of being left alone, and she hated the cold. Logan vowed he would make their cabin snug and warm; and as if the daylight hours were not enough, working by firelight, he notched and laid the second square of logs.
“But there’s a space between,” protested Lucinda when she noticed their arrangement.
“Sure. We can’t get the logs perfectly flat one on another.”
“What will we do, then? The rain and wind would blow in.”
“Tenderfoot! What’s dobe mud for if not to fill in the chinks? This kind here in Arizona sets like mortar.”
“I used to build mud houses — and now I’m to live in one,” said Lucinda dreamily, then, “But where’ll the doors be?”
“Only one door. Opening on the porch to the east. Storms usually blow from the south-west. I’ll strain a point, and put in a window for you — in the south wall. That’ll let in sun and light.”
Without any help, the following day Logan notched and lifted and squared four sections of logs on top of the two already laid. This, he told Lucinda, was getting somewhere, but he would need her assistance from then on. His mode of procedure might not have been original, but it was effective. He leaned a forked sapling against the cabin wall and lifted the end of a log to rest in it. Then Lucinda held the sapling while he performed a like service with the other end of the log. He managed to hold it, too, while he climbed up on the wall. Then he set his notched end in place, after which he crossed to Lucinda’s side and placed hers. Logan was delighted with his ingenuity, and could not see why his wife was not the same.
The fifth day bade fair to be the hardest and most trying of all. Log after log Logan notched and set in place, one on, top of the other. The fragrant yellow wall went up. Once Lucinda came near to disaster. A log slipped at Logan’s end while he was climbing and holding at the same time. It fell. Only by remarkable strength for a girl did Lucinda hold here prop in place.
For once Logan lost his characteristic reserve.
“Luce girl, are you all right?” he cried anxiously as he swung down from the ladder. “My God! If that had come down to hit you...” He could not finish the sentence.
After the log had slipped into place, Lucinda leaned against the wal
l, her face white. “I’m all right — I guess,” she said.
“Lord! what a jackass I am! After this I’ll use the rope and haul my end up!” exclaimed Logan fervently. “But, then you haven’t got those square shoulders and round arms for nothing.” Coincidentally his pride in her grew.
They worked late that night and completed the walls. Log was jubilant. He relieved the weary Lucinda from the supper task and laughed at her sore hands, although he tenderly picked the splinters from them. Then he gave her a good night embrace and sat up long beside the fire pondering the problem of the roof. Before he went to bed he solved it; and the following morning, putting the simple plan into effect, had flattened poles, laying them across from wall to wall, giving him a foothold from which to erect the roof structure. He wanted a high peak for two reasons: first to make a steep slant from which the snow would slide, and secondly to give the loft room for a man to stand.
That brought Logan to another problem — to find a suitable pine, cut it down and split out the shakes. But, his good fortune attended him further. He found a fallen pine, riven at the top by lightning. It lay at the edge of the pines above the cabin. Another downhill haul!
Logan’s first few bundles of shakes would make excellent firewood and no more. Presently, however, he got the knack of it and made up for lost time by putting on extra muscle. Packing the shakes down proved a harder job than he had expected. His initial attempt was to drag down a bundle in a canvas. This proved a poor way. Then he tried packing bundles on Buck, an equally ineffectual task, because Buck was a poor pack-horse and displayed temper. By using a burlap bag as a pad on his shoulders, Logan carried a bundle of a hundred or more shakes down at a trip. The climb up was short, and unburdened he made it quickly. Sunset of that day saw his roofing piled neatly beside the cabin.
The weather had been fine, even too hot in the afternoons, but on the last day a change threatened. A haze overspread the sky. The golden Indian summer was at an end. The wind moaned in the pines; November was at hand.
