THE STRANGE DAYS THAT CAME TO JIMMIE FRIDAY
THE "Abwee-chemun" [Algonquin for "paddle and canoe."] Club wasorganized with six charter members at a heavy lunch in the Savarinrestaurant--one of those lunches which make through connections todinner without change. One member basely deserted, while two more lostall their enthusiasm on the following morning, but three of us stuck. Wevaguely knew that somewhere north of the Canadian Pacific and south ofHudson Bay were big lakes and rapid rivers--lakes whose names we did notknow; lakes bigger than Champlain, with unnamed rivers between them. Wedid not propose to be boated around in a big birch-bark by two voyagersamong blankets and crackers and ham, but each provided himself a littlethirteen-foot cedar canoe, twenty-nine inches in the beam, and weighingless than forty pounds. I cannot tell you precisely how our party wassorted, but one was a lawyer with eyeglasses and settled habits, lovingnature, though detesting canoes; the other was nominally a merchant, butin reality an atavie Norseman of the wolf and raven kind; while I am notnew. Together we started.
Presently the Abwees sat about the board of a lumbermen's hotel, filledwith house-flies and slatternly waiter-girls, who talked familiarlywhile they served greasy food. The Abwees were yet sore in their mindsat the thoughts of the smelly beds up-stairs, and discouragement satdeeply on their souls. But their time was not yet.
After breakfast they marched to the Hudson Bay Company's store, knowingas they did that in Canada there are only two places for a traveller togo who wants anything--the great company or the parish priest; and then,having explained to the factor their dream, they were told "that beyond,beyond some days' journey"--oh! that awful beyond, which for centurieshas stood across the path of the pioneer, and in these latter daysconfronts the sportsman and wilderness-lover--"that beyond some days'journey to the north was a country such as they had dreamed--upTemis-camingue and beyond."
The subject of a guide was considered.
Jimmie Friday always brought a big toboggan-load of furs into FortTiemogamie every spring, and was accounted good in his business. He andhis big brother trapped together, and in turn followed the ten days'swing through the snow-laden forest which they had covered with theirdead-falls and steel-jawed traps; but when the ice went out in therivers, and the great pines dripped with the melting snows, they hadnothing more to do but cut a few cords of wood for their widowedmother's cabin near the post. Then the brother and he paddled down toBais des Pierres, where the brother engaged as a deck hand on asteamboat, and Jimmie hired himself as a guide for some bush-rangers, asthe men are called who explore for pine lands for the great lumberfirms. Having worked all summer and got through with that business,Jimmie bethought him to dissipate for a few days in the bustling lumbertown down on the Ottawa River. He had been there before to feel theexhilaration of civilization, but beyond that clearing he had neverknown anything more inspiring than a Hudson Bay post, which is generallya log store, a house where the agent lives, and a few tiny Indian cabinsset higgledy-piggledy in a sunburnt gash of stumps and bowlders, lost inthe middle of the solemn, unresponsive forest. On this morning inquestion he had stepped from his friend's cabin up in the Indianvillage, and after lighting a perfectly round and rather yellow cigar,he had instinctively wandered down to the Hudson Bay store, there tofind himself amused by a strange sight.
The Abwees had hired two French-Indian voyagers of sinister mien, and aScotch-Canadian boy bred to the bush. They were out on the grass,engaged in taking burlaps off three highly polished canoes, while theclerk from the store ran out and asked questions about "how much bacon,"and, "will fifty pounds of pork be enough, sir?"
The round yellow cigar was getting stubby, while Jimmie's modest eyessought out the points of interest in the new-comers, when he wassuddenly and sharply addressed:
"Can you cook?"
Jimmie couldn't do anything in a hurry, except chop a log in two, paddlevery fast, and shoot quickly, so he said, as was his wont:
"I think--I dun'no'--"
"Well, how much?" came the query.
"Two daul--ars--" said Jimmie.
The transaction was complete. The yellow butt went over the fence, andJimmie shed his coat. He was directed to lend a hand by the bustlingsportsmen, and requested to run and find things of which he had neverbefore in his life heard the name.
42 THE LAWYER HAD BECOME A VOYAGER]
After two days' travel the Abwees were put ashore--boxes, bags, rolls ofblankets, canoes, Indians, and plunder of many sorts--on a pebbly beach,and the steamer backed off and steamed away. They had reached the"beyond" at last, and the odoriferous little bedrooms, the bustle of thepreparation, the cares of their lives, were behind. Then there was agirding up of the loins, a getting out of tump-lines and canvas packs,and the long portage was begun.
The voyagers carried each two hundred pounds as they stalked away intothe wilderness, while the attorney-at-law "hefted" his pack, wiped hiseyeglasses with his pocket-handkerchief, and tried cheerfully to assumethe responsibilities of "a dead game sport."
"I cannot lift the thing, and how I am going to carry it is more than Iknow; but I'm a dead game sport, and I am going to try. I do not want tobe dead game, but it looks as though I couldn't help it. Will somegentleman help me to adjust this cargo?"
The night overtook the outfit in an old beaver meadow half-way throughthe trail. Like all first camps, it was tough. The lean-to tents went upawkwardly. No one could find anything. Late at night the Abwees lay ontheir backs under the blankets, while the fog settled over the meadowand blotted out the stars.
On the following day the stuff was all gotten through, and by this timethe lawyer had become a voyager, willing to carry anything he couldstagger under. It is strange how one can accustom himself to "pack." Hemay never use the tump-line, since it goes across the head, and willunseat his intellect if he does, but with shoulder-straps and atump-line a man who thinks he is not strong will simply amaze himselfinside of a week by what he can do. As for our little canoes, we couldtrot with them. Each Abwee carried his own belongings and his boat,which entitled him to the distinction of "a dead game sport," whateverthat may mean, while the Indians portaged their larger canoes and ourmass of supplies, making many trips backward and forward in the process.
At the river everything was parcelled out and arranged. The birch-barkswere repitched, and every man found out what he was expected to portageand do about camp. After breaking and making camp three times, theoutfit could pack up, load the canoes, and move inside of fifteenminutes. At the first camp the lawyer essayed his canoe, and wascautioned that the delicate thing might flirt with him. He stepped inand sat gracefully down in about two feet of water, while the "delicatething" shook herself saucily at his side. After he had crawled drippingashore and wiped his eye-glasses, he engaged to sell the "delicatething" to an Indian for one dollar and a half on a promissory note. Thetrade was suppressed, and he was urged to try again. A man who has helddown a cane-bottom chair conscientiously for fifteen years looks askanceat so fickle a thing as a canoe twenty-nine inches in the beam. They arenearly as hard to sit on in the water as a cork; but once one is in thebottom they are stable enough, though they do not submit to liberties orpalsied movements. The staid lawyer was filled with horror at theprospect of another go at his polished beauty; but remembering hisresolve to be dead game, he abandoned his life to the chances, and gotin this time safely.
43 IT IS STRANGE HOW ONE CAN ACCUSTOM HIMSELF TO 'PACK']
So the Abwees went down the river on a golden morning, theirdouble-blade paddles flashing the sun and sending the drip in a showeron the glassy water. The smoke from the lawyer's pipe hung behind him inthe quiet air, while the note of the reveille clangored from the littlebuglette of the Norseman. Jimmie and the big Scotch backwoodsman swayedtheir bodies in one boat, while the two sinister voyagers dipped theirpaddles in the big canoe.
The Norseman's gorge came up, and he yelled back: "Say! this suits me. Iam never going back to New York."
Jimmie grinned at the noi
se; it made him happy. Such a morning, such awater, such a lack of anything to disturb one's peace! Let man's betternature revel in the beauties of existence; they inflate his soul. Thecolors play upon the senses--the reddish-yellow of the birch-barks, theblue of the water, and the silver sheen as it parts at the bows of thecanoes; the dark evergreens, the steely rocks with their lichens, thewhite trunks of the birches, their fluffy tops so greeny green, and overall the gold of a sunny day. It is my religion, this thing, and I do notknow how to tell all I feel concerning it.
The rods were taken out, a gang of flies put on and trolled behind--butwe have all seen a man fight a five-pound bass for twenty minutes. Thewaters fairly swarmed with them, and we could always get enough for the"pot" in a half-hour's fishing at any time during the trip. The Abweeswere canoeing, not hunting or fishing; though, in truth, they did notneed to hunt spruce-partridge or fish for bass in any sporting sense;they simply went out after them, and never stayed over half an hour. Ona point we stopped for lunch: the Scotchman always struck the beacha-cooking. He had a "kit," which was a big camp-pail, and inside of itwere more dishes than are to be found in some hotels. He broiled thebacon, instead of frying it, and thus we were saved the terrors ofindigestion. He had many luxuries in his commissary, among them driedapples, with which he filled a camp-pail one day and put them on toboil. They subsequently got to be about a foot deep all over the camp,while Furguson stood around and regarded the black-magic of the thingwith overpowering emotions and Homeric tongue. Furguson was a goodgenius, big and gentle, and a woodsman root and branch. The Abwees hadintended their days in the wilderness to be happy singing flights oftime, but with grease and paste in one's stomach what may not befall themind when it is bent on nature's doings?
44 DOWN THE RIVER ON A GOLDEN MORNING]
And thus it was that the gloomy Indian Jimmie Friday, despite histuberculosis begotten of insufficient nourishment, was happy in thesestrange days--even to the extent of looking with wondrous eyes on thenooks which we loved--nooks which previously for him had only shelteredpossible "dead-falls" or not, as the discerning eye of the trapperdecided the prospects for pelf.
Going ashore on a sandy beach, Jimmie wandered down its length, hishunter mind seeking out the footprints of his prey. He stooped down, andthen beckoned me to come, which I did.
Pointing at the sand, he said, "You know him?"
"Wolves," I answered.
"Yes--first time I see 'em up here--they be follerin' thedeers--bad--bad. No can trap 'em--verrie smart."
A half-dozen wolves had chased a deer into the water; but wolves do nottake to the water, so they had stopped and drank, and then gonerollicking-together up the beach. There were cubs, and one great trackas big as a mastiff might make.
"See that--moose track--he go by yesterday;" and Jimmie pointed toenormous footprints in the muck of a marshy place. "Verrie big moose--wemake call at next camp--think it is early for call."
At the next camp Jimmie made the usual birch-bark moose-call, and atevening blew it, as he also did on the following morning. This camp wasa divine spot on a rise back of a long sandy beach, and we concluded tostop for a day. The Norseman and I each took a man in our canoes andstarted out to explore. I wanted to observe some musk-rat hotels down ina big marsh, and the Norseman was fishing. The attorney was content tosit on a log by the shores of the lake, smoke lazily, and watch the sunshimmer through the lifting fog. He saw a canoe approaching from acrossthe lake. He gazed vacantly at it, when it grew strange and more unlikea canoe. The paddles did not move, but the phantom craft drew quicklyon.
45 A REAL CAMP]
"Say, Furguson--come here--look at that canoe."
The Scotchman came down, with a pail in one hand, and looked."Canoe--hell--it's a moose--and there ain't a pocket-pistol in thiscamp," and he fairly jumped up and down.
"You don't say--you really don't say!" gasped the lawyer, who now beganto exhibit signs of insanity.
"Yes--he's going to be d----d sociable with us--he's coming right banginto this camp."
The Indian too came down, but he was long past talking English, and thegutturals came up in lumps, as though he was trying to keep them down.
The moose finally struck a long point of sand and rushes about twohundred yards away, and drew majestically out of the water, his hidedripping, and the sun glistening on his antlers and back.
The three men gazed in spellbound admiration at the picture until themoose was gone. When they had recovered their senses they slowly went upto the camp on the ridge--disgusted and dum-founded.
"I could almost put a cartridge in that old gun-case and kill him,"sighed the backwoodsman.
"I have never hunted in my life," mused the attorney, "but few men haveseen such a sight," and he filled his pipe.
"Hark--listen!" said the Indian. There was a faint cracking, whichpresently became louder. "He's coming into camp;" and the Indian nearlydied from excitement as he grabbed a hatchet. The three unfortunate menstepped to the back of the tents, and as big a bull moose as walks thelonely woods came up to within one hundred and fifty feet of the camp,and stopped, returning their gaze.
Thus they stood for what they say was a minute, but which seemed likehours. The attorney composedly admired the unusual sight. The Indian andFurguson swore softly but most viciously until the moose moved away. TheIndian hurled the hatchet at the retreating figure, with a final curse,and the thing was over.
"Those fellows who are out in their canoes will be sick abed when wetell them what's been going on in the camp this morning," sighed Mr.Furguson, as he scoured a cooking-pot.
I fear we would have had that moose on our consciences if we had beenthere: the game law was not up at the time, but I should have asked forstrength from a higher source than my respect for law.
The golden days passed and the lake grew great.
46 ROUGH WATER]
The wind blew at our backs. The waves rolled in restless surges, pilingthe little canoes on their crests and swallowing them in the troughs.The canoes thrashed the water as they flew along, half in, half out, butthey rode like ducks. The Abwees took off their hats, gripped theirdouble blades, made the water swirl behind them, howled in glee to eachother through the rushing storm. To be five miles from shore in a seawayin kayaks like ours was a sensation. We found they stood it well, andgrew contented. It was the complement to the golden lazy days when thewater was glass, and the canoes rode upsidedown over its mirror surface.The Norseman grinned and shook his head in token of his pleasure, muchas an epicure might after a sip of superior Burgundy.
"How do you fancy this?" we asked the attorney-at-law.
"I am not going to deliver an opinion until I get ashore. I would neverhave believed that I would be here at my time of life, but one neverknows what a ---- fool one can make of one's self. My glasses are coveredwith water, and I can hardly see, but I can't let go of this paddle towipe them," shrieked the man of the office chair, in the howl of theweather.
But we made a long journey by the aid of the wind, and grew a contemptfor it. How could one imagine the stability of those little boats untilone had tried it?
That night we put into a natural harbor and camped on a gravel beach.The tents were up and the supper cooking, when the wind hauled and blewfuriously into our haven. The fires were scattered and the rain came inblinding sheets. The tent-pegs pulled from the sand. We sprang to ourfeet and held on to the poles, wet to the skin. It was useless; the rainblew right under the canvas. We laid the tents on the "grub" and steppedout into the dark. We could not be any wetter, and we did not care. Tostand in the dark in the wilderness, with nothing to eat, and afire-engine playing a hose on you for a couple of hours--if you haveimagination enough, you can fill in the situation. But the gods werepropitious. The wind died down. The stars came out by myriads. The fireswere relighted, and the ordinary life begun. It was late in the nightbefore our clothes, blankets, and tents were dry, but, like boys, weforgot it all.
Then came a river--blue and
flat like the sky above--running throughrushy banks, backed by the masses of the forest; anon the waters rushedupon us over the rocks, and we fought, plunk-plunk-plunk, with thepaddles, until our strength gave out. We stepped out into the water, andgetting our lines, and using our long double blades as fenders,"tracked" the canoes up through the boil. The Indians in their heavierboats used "setting-poles" with marvellous dexterity, and by furiousexertion were able to draw steadily up the grade--though at times theytoo "tracked," and even portaged. Our largest canoe weighed two hundredpounds, but a little voyager managed to lug it, though how I couldn'tcomprehend, since his pipe-stem legs fairly bent and wobbled under theenormous ark. None of us by this time were able to lift the loads whichwe carried, but, like a Western pack-mule, we stood about and had thingspiled on to us, until nothing more would stick. Some of the backwoodsmencarry incredible masses of stuff, and their lore is full of tales whichno one could be expected to believe. Our men did not hesitate to taketwo hundred and fifty pounds over short portages, which were very roughand stony, though they all said if they slipped they expected to break aleg. This is largely due to the tump-line, which is laid over the head,while persons unused to it must have shoulder-straps in addition, whichare not as good, because the "breastbone," so called, is not strongenough.
47 THE INDIANS USED 'SETTING-POLES']
We were getting day by day farther into "the beyond." There were notraces here of the hand of man. Only Jimmie knew the way--it was histrapping-ground. Only once did we encounter people. We were blown into alittle board dock, on a gray day, with the waves piling up behind us,and made a difficult landing. Here were a few tiny log houses--anoutpost of the Hudson Bay Company. We renewed our stock of provisions,after laborious trading with the stagnated people who live in the lonelyplace. There was nothing to sell us but a few of the most commonnecessities; however, we needed only potatoes and sugar. This wasJimmie's home. Here we saw his poor old mother, who was being tossedabout in the smallest of canoes as she drew her nets. Jimmie's fatherhad gone on a hunting expedition and had never come back. Some dayJimmie's old mother will go out on the wild lake to tend her nets, andshe will not come back. Some time Jimmie too will not return--for thisIndian struggle with nature is appalling in its fierceness.
There was a dance at the post, which the boys attended, going by canoeat night, and they came back early in the morning, with much giggling attheir gallantries.
The loneliness of this forest life is positively discouraging to thinkabout. What the long winters must be in the little cabins I cannotimagine, and I fear the traders must be all avarice, or have none atall; for there can certainly be absolutely no intellectual life. Thereis undoubtedly work, but not one single problem concerning it. TheIndian hunters do fairly well in a financial way, though their lives arebeset with weakening hardships and constant danger. Their meagre dietwears out their constitutions, and they are subject to disease. Thesimplicity of their minds makes it very difficult to see into their lifeas they try to narrate it to one who may be interested.
48 TRYING MOMENTS]
From here on was through beautiful little lakes, and the voyagers riggedblanket sails on the big canoes, while we towed behind. Then came theriver and the rapids, which we ran, darting between rocks, bumping onsunken stones--shooting fairly out into the air, all but turning overhundreds of times. One day the Abwees glided out in the big lakeTesmiaquemang, and saw the steamer going to Bais des Pierres. We hailedher, and she stopped, while the little canoes danced about in the swellas we were loaded one by one. On the deck above us the passengersadmired a kind of boat the like of which had not before appeared inthese parts.
At Bais des Pierres we handed over the residue of the commissaries ofthe Abwee-Chemun to Jimmie Friday, including personally many pairs ofwell-worn golf-breeches, sweaters, rubber coats, knives which would beproscribed by law in New York. If Jimmie ever parades his solemnwilderness in these garbs, the owls will laugh from the trees. Oursimple forest friend laid in his winter stock--traps, flour, salt,tobacco, and pork, a new axe--and accompanied us back down the lakeagain on the steamer. She stopped in mid-stream, while Jimmie got hisbundles into his "bark" and shoved off, amid a hail of "good-byes."
The engine palpitated, the big wheel churned the water astern, and wedrew away. Jimmie bent on his paddle with the quick body-swing habitualto the Indian, and after a time grew a speck on the reflection of thered sunset in Temiscamingue.
The Abwees sat sadly leaning on the after-rail, and agreed that Jimmiewas "a lovely Injun." Jimmie had gone into the shade of the overhang ofthe cliffs, when the Norseman started violently up, put his hands in hispockets, stamped his foot, said, "By George, fellows, any D. F. wouldcall this a sporting trip!"
THE SOLEDAD GIRLS
"TO-NIGHT I am going down to my ranch--the Soledad--in my private car,"said the manager of the Mexican International Railroad, "and I wouldlike the Captain and you to accompany me."
The Captain and I were only too glad; so in process of time we awoke tofind our car sidetracked on the Soledad, which is in the state ofCoahuila, Mexico. The chaparral spread around, rising and falling in theswell of the land, until it beat against the blue ridge of the SierraSanta Rosa, miles to the north. Here and there the bright sun spotted ona cow as she threaded the gray stretches; a little coyote-wolf sat onhis haunches on a near-by hill-side, and howled protests at hisnew-found companions; while dimly through the gray meshes of theleaf-denuded chaparral we could see the main ranch-house of the Soledad.We were informed at breakfast by the railroad manager that there was tobe that day a "round-up," which is to say, a regular Buffalo Bill Show,with real cowboys, ponies, and cattle, all three of them wild, full ofthorns, and just out of the brush.
The negro porters got out the saddles of the young women, thusdisclosing their intention to ride ponies instead of in traps. Wealready knew that they were fearless horseback-riders, but when thestring of ponies which were to be our mounts was led up by a fewMexicans, the Captain and I had our well-concealed doubts about theirbeing proper sort of ponies for young girls to ride. We confided in animperturbable cowboy--one of those dry Texans. He said: "Them are whatwe would call broke ponies, and you fellers needn't get to worryin''bout them little girls--you're jest a-foolin' away good time."Nevertheless, the broncos had the lurking devil in the tails of theireyes as they stood there tied to the wire fencing; they were humble anddejected as only a bronco or a mule can simulate. When that ilk lookmost cast down, be not deceived, gay brother; they are not like this.Their humility is only humorous, and intended to lure you on to theirbacks, where, unless you have a perfect understanding of the game, thejoke will be on you. Instantly one is mounted, the humility departs; heplunges and starts about, or sets off like the wind, regardless ofthorny bushes, tricky ground underfoot, or the seat of the rider.
The manager's wife came out of the car with her little brood of three,and then two visiting friends. These Soledad girls, as I call them, eachhad a sunburst of yellow hair, were well bronzed by the Mexican sun, andwere sturdy little bodies. They were dressed in short skirts, withleggings, topped with Tam o' Shanters, while about their waists werecartridge-belts, with delicate knives and revolvers attached, and withspurs and _quirts_ as accessories. They took up their men's saddles, forthey rode astride, except the two visitors, who were older and morelately from Chicago. They swung their saddles on to the ponies, showingfamiliarity with the _ladigo_ straps of the Texas saddles, and proudlyescaping the humiliation which alights on the head of one who in thecow-camps cannot saddle his own "bronc." Being ready, we mounted, andfollowed a cowboy off down the road to the _rodeo-ground._ The managerand Madam Mamma rode in a buckboard, proudly following with their gazethe galloping ponies which bore their jewels. I thought they should befearful for their safety, but after more intimate inspection, I couldsee how groundless was such solicitude.
I must have it understood that these little vaquero girls were not theordinary Texas product, fed on corn-meal and bred in the chaparral, bu
tthe much looked after darlings of a fond mother. They are taken Southevery winter, that their bodies may be made lithe and healthy, but atthe same time two or more governesses crowd their minds with French,German, and other things with which proper young girls should beacquainted. But their infant minds did not carry back to the days whenthey had not felt a horse under them. To be sure, in the beginning itwas only a humble donkey, but even before they knew they had graduatedto ponies, and while yet ten years old, it was only by a constant watchthat they were kept off unbroken broncos--horses that made the toughestvaqueros throw down their hats, tighten their belts, and grin with fear.
From over the hills came the half-wild cattle, stringing along at atrot, all bearing for the open space in the waste of the chaparral wherethe _rodeo_ occurred, while behind them followed the cowboys--gay desertfigures with brown, pinched faces, long hair, and shouting wild cries.The exhilaration of the fine morning, the tramp of the thousands, gotinto the curls of the three little Misses Golden-hairs, and theyscurried away, while I followed to feast on this fresh vision, whereabsolutely ideal little maids shouted Spanish at murderous-lookingMexican cow-punchers done up in bright scrapes and costumed out of allreason. As the vaqueros dashed about hither and thither to keep theirherds moving in the appointed direction, the infants screamed in theirchildish treble and spurred madly too. A bull stands at bay, but a childdashes at him, while he turns and flees. It is not their first _rodeo,_one can see, but I should wish they were with mamma and the buckboard,instead of out here in the brush, charging wild bulls, though in truththis never were written. These bulls frequently charge men, and acow-pony turns like a ball off a bat, and a slippery seat in the saddlemay put you under the feet of the outraged monarch of the range.
49 THE HALF-WILD CATTLE CAME DOWN FROM THE HILLS]
Driving down to the _rodeo-ground,_ we all stood about on our ponies andheld the herd, as it is called, the young girls doing vaquero duty, asimperturbable of mien as Mr. Flannagan, the foreman. So many women inthe world are afraid of a dairy cow, even gathering up their skirts andpreparing to shriek at the sight of one eating daisies. But these youngwomen will grow up and they will be afraid of no cow. So much for aSoledad education.
The top-ropers rode slowly into the dust of the milling herd, scamperedmadly, cast their ropes, and came jumping to us with a blatting calftrailing at their ropes' end. Two men seized the little victim, threwhim on his back, cut a piece out of his ear with a knife, and still heldhim in relentless grip while another pressed a red-hot branding-iron onhis side, which sizzled and sent up blue smoke, together with an odor ofburned flesh. The calves bawled piteously. There was no more emotion onthe faces of the Soledad girls than was shown by the brown cowboys. Theyhad often, very often, seen this before, and their nerves were strong.Some day I can picture in my mind's eye these young girl vaqueros grownto womanhood, and being such good-looking creatures, very naturally someyoung man will want very badly to marry one of them--for it cannot beotherwise. I only hope he will not be a thin-chested, cigarette-smokingdude, because it will be a sacrilege of nature. He must undoubtedly haveplayed forward at Princeton or Yale, or be unworthy.
As we stood, a massive bull emerged from the body of the herd, his headthrown high, tail stiff with anger, eye rolling, and breath comingquick. He trotted quickly forward, and, lowering his head, chargedthrough the "punchers." Instantly a small Soledad girl was after him,the vaqueros reining back to enjoy the strange ride with their eyes. Herhat flew off, and the long curls flapped in the rushing air as her ponyfairly sailed over the difficult ground. The bull tore furiously, butbehind him swept the pony and the child. As we watched, the chase hadgone a mile away, but little Miss Yellowcurls drew gradually to the farside of the bull, quartering him on the far side, and whirling on,headed her quarry back to her audience and the herd. The rough-and-readyAmerican range boss sat sidewise in his saddle and thought--for he nevertalked unnecessarily, though appreciation was chalked all over his pose.The manager and madam felt as though they were responsible for thiswonderful thing. The Mexican cowboys snapped their fingers and eyes atone another, shouting quick Spanish, while the American part of thebeholders agreed that it was the "limit"; "that as a picture," etc.;"that the American girl, properly environed "; "that this girl inparticular," etc., was a dream. Then the bull and the girl came home;the bull to his fellows, and the girl to us. But she didn't have an ideaof our admiration, because we didn't tell her; that would have beenwrong, as you can imagine. Ten years will complicate little MissYellowcurls. Then she could be vain about such a thing; but, alas! shewill not be--she will have forgotten.
THE END
Crooked Trails Page 9
