30,000 On the Hoof

by Grey, Zane

  Nevertheless it was home. And his pang of agony was appalling. He should have lived for his family, and not for cattle. His great ambition had been a blunder. His greed had broken him. He had been clubbed down in the prime of his marvellous physical manhood. And as his vision sharpened he saw three dirty-faced, ragged little boys playing beside the brook. And he cried out in his soul: Oh, my sons, my sons! Would God I had died for you! Oh, my sons, my sons!

  Huett had telegraphed his wife the day he would arrive in Flagg, which no doubt accounted for his being met at the train by Al Doyle, Holbert, Hardy, and other friends. But Lucinda did not come. No observer could have discerned from their greeting that they thought the world had come to an end for Logan Huett. Arizonians took hard knocks as incidents of range experience. They did not mention the loss of Huett's three sons.

  "Old-timer, how'd you make out in Washington?" asked Al, hopefully.

  "No good, Al," replied Huett, wearily. "Senator Spellman said my case against the Government was useless. When I signed that receipt and took that package I ruined myself... Some shyster lawyer down there said he could recover my money, and he fleeced me out of twenty-five hundred."

  "By God, Logan, I was agin thet trip East," said Holbert glumly.

  "It's over--and I'm done," said Logan, aware of their close scrutiny of his face.

  "Wal, you reckon so now," returned Doyle, sagely wagging his grey head, "but a cowman who has bucked the Tonto for thirty years gets habits that can't be changed overnight."

  "How are my women-folk?" asked Huett.

  "Lucinda shows surprisin' strength. She must have known it was comin'.

  But I heah Barbara took it bad."

  "Aghh!" grunted Huett, clearing his throat, and moved to leave the platform. Doyle and Holbert walked up street with him.

  "Logan, what you reckon about this?" queried Holbert. "None of us, an' shore not one of the cattle-buyers, had the prices of beef on the hoof figgered. Cattle are up to forty dollars a haid, an' goin' up."

  "What did I say?" exclaimed Huett, stung out of his apathy. "I had it figured. I wanted to hold on for another year. My Gawd, if I only had!"

  "Too late. But heh's somethin'. Cattle prices will not go down for years."

  "Ha! Too late for me, in more ways than one."

  "Aw no! Why, Logan, you're far younger'n me, an' I'm hangin' on," said Holbert, earnestly. "You know the cattle game. Twenty-five years ago I was rich. Then I was poor for twenty years. Now with these high prices an' a growin' herd I'm sittin' pretty."

  "Quien sabe, Logan?" added Al. "You can never tell. But I reckon how cattle gossip makes you sick. So we'll cut it."

  "Thanks, Al. There are some words I never want to hear again, so long as I live. They are cattle, money, Government, war."

  "Wal, then, you'll have to get back into the woods again. For this burg is full of war news. It's been hard hit, Logan... Last Tonto cowboy to go was Jack Campbell. He crawled up on a nest-hole of machine-guns, an' threw a bomb in on the Boches, just as they riddled him. That was jack's finish. We're all forgettin' what once was his bad name."

  "Well we may!" sighed Huett.

  At the gate of Huett's yard Al and Holbert bade him good day and hurried away. Logan went in slowly, like a man walking a narrow log over a deep gulch, and who dreaded the opposite side. He mounted the porch, and as he hesitated, wiping his clammy face, the door opened to disclose Lucinda.

  "Luce!" he cried, with tremendous relief and gladness that she did not look as he expected. And he staggered in, dropping his bag to reach for her. Lucinda closed the door and then took him in her arms.

  "Poor old darling Logan!" she murmured, and held him close and kissed him and wept over him.

  "Wife," he replied, huskily, as he held her away to gaze into her face.

  It was like marble, thinner, showing traces of havoc, sad and marvellously strong. Huett found home, love, Understanding, mother, in her deep, dark eyes. "I--I don't know just how I expected to see you, but not like this."

  "Logan dear, I always knew. It was a relief of torture when the news came... No other word about Abe. Missing. That was all."

  "Missing! What does it mean?"

  "Almost hopeless. They say it means a soldier might be blown to bits, or buried in a trench, or lost in a river."

  "Ah!... No chance of having been made a prisoner?"

  "In that case we'd have known long since."

  "Where's Barbara?--Al said it went bad with her."

  "Wait, dear, a little... It's hard to tell."

  Logan sat down heavily and averted his eyes from Lucinda's intense and pitiful gaze. She came close and pressed his head against her. "I'm so glad you're back," she said. "There is something serious to talk over... Would you take us back to Sycamore?"

  A keen blade could not have made Logan wince more violently. How terribly the question hurt! But Logan let it sink in before he asked her why.

  "There are a number of reasons. We can earn our living there. We'll be away from this hot-pressed war news day and night... Back in our quiet canyon!... I can garden again. And you can farm. It's not so cold down there. We nearly froze here... I think Barbara might get better there. And the baby would thrive."

  "Baby!"

  "Yes. Barbara's baby. A lovely boy like Abe. But not so dark, and he has Barbara's eyes."

  "Ah. I forgot about Bab. I forgot... Abe's boy! Well, now, isn't that just fine?... Luce, it makes me a grandfather."

  "Logan, I'm afraid it was high time... Will you take us back?"

  "Sure I will, Lucinda," returned Huett, his mind halting ponderingly at practical ideas. "It's a good idea. We got to stay somewhere... Mebbe it wouldn't hurt for long--going back to Sycamore... Let's see. Hardy has my wagon. My horses are running in Doyle's pasture. We can pack the stuff here that's ours. And buy what we need along with supplies... Supplies! My Gawd, what does that make you think of, Luce?... How about money?"

  "I have over a thousand of what you left me."

  Huett took out his cheque book and looked at his balance. "I've about the same. Ha! That's a fortune for us homesteaders. When shall we----"

  A piercingly sweet, droning little song interrupted Huett. "Is that--the new baby?" he whispered, with a thrill.

  "No, dear. That is Barbara. She sings a good deal of the time... You see--she has lost her mind!"

  Chapter SEVENTEEN.

  Lucinda was no less shocked at Logan's aberration of mind than at his changed appearance. He appeared a ghost of his old stalwart, virile, giant self. And he forgot even the errands she sent him on. When he came home from down town she smelled liquor on his breath. She realized then, in deep alarm, that Logan had cracked. All his life he had leaned too far over on one side; now in this major catastrophe of his life he had toppled over the other way to collapse.

  She had divined something of this upon his return, and had at once appealed to him to take her and Barbara back to Sycamore. If anything could save Logan it was action--something to do with his hands--some labours to draw his mind back to the old channels of habit. Before this blow, despite his sixty years, he had been at the peak of a magnificent physical life. If he stayed in Flagg, to idle away the hours in saloons and on corners, to sit blankly staring at nothing, he would not live out the year.

  When the days had passed into weeks without his having done anything in regard to their return to Sycamore, she resolved to make the arrangements herself. She got Hardy to have a look at the big wagon, to grease the axles and repair the harness; and she hired a negro to drive in the team and put them on grain.

  Then she set about the dubious task of supplies and utensils. Al Doyle, who was as keen as Lucinda to get Logan out in the open again, declared vehemently: "There won't be one single damn thing left on that ranch.

  Logan forgot to leave a man on the place. All the tools, and furniture left in the cabin, will be gone. Stole!"

  "Oh dear me! Al, it's beginning to pioneer all over again!"

  "It
shore is. But that's good, Lucinda, 'cause it'll raise Logan out of this bog he's in... I advise you to take two wagon-loads. I'll borrow one for you, and hire a driver, an' I'll buy all the necessary tools, an' have them packed. The grub supply is easy to figure out. We'll put our heads together on the cabin an' the needs of you women-folk... Don't worry, Lucinda. It'll all be jake. The thing to do is to be arustlin'."

  Only once did Lucinda's heart faint within her, and that was when she came home to 'find Logan and Barbara in the sitting-room, with little Abe crawling half naked and dirty around the floor. Logan was trying again to get some coherent response from Barbara. And she sat hunched in a chair, her great dark eyes the windows of a clouded mind. They struck terribly at Lucinda's heart.

  She could not endure to stay there on the moment, so she went into the kitchen, where she grappled with fear and doubt. Was she mad to take these two broken wrecks back to the wilderness? Possible illness, accident, loneliness, Barbara's obsession to wander around, would be infinitely more difficult to combat down in the canyon than in town. Here she could call in women neighbours or the doctor. Despite the strong appeal of reason supporting her fears, she succumbed to her first intuition. If there were any hopes left for Barbara and Logan, not to say bringing up the child, they might rise down in Sycamore Canyon. The labour did not appal Lucinda. Well she knew that upon the pioneer wife and mother fell the greater burdens. A strange subtle voice cried down her misgivings. And with resurging heart she plunged into the immediate tasks of getting ready.

  They left Flagg with two wagons next morning before sunrise. Only faithful old Al Doyle saw them off. His last words were--and they were the last they ever heard him speak--"Wal, old-timer, it's the long road again an' the canyon in the woods. That's good. Adios!"

  Lucinda rode on the driver's seat with Logan. Barbara and the boy had a little place behind, under the canvas. Evidently the movement, the grind of wheels and clip-clop of heavy hoofs had excited Barbara, who knelt on the hay to peer out with strained eyes no mortal could have read. The second wagon, driven by the negro, contained the farm tools, furniture, and utensils.

  After a while Lucinda's eyes cleared so that she could see. She was glad to get out of Flagg. The black stumps, the grey flats, the green lines of pines and blue bluffs in the distance seemed to welcome her. They had not quite reached the timber belt six miles from town when Lucinda sustained a thrilling relief and joy in Logan's response to the winding road, the reins once more in his hands, the team of big horses, the rolling wheels, and the beckoning range. These had been so great a part of his life that only insanity or paralysis or death could have wholly eradicated them.

  They began to call upon old associations. Lucinda's loving divination had been god-sent. Logan's heart and spirit had been broken, and the splendid rush of his life at maturity had been stemmed, stagnated, sunk in the sands of grief and hopelessness. Her great task was to keep him physically busy until this ghastly climax of tragedy wore into the past.

  Life held strange recompense for the plodder.

  Logan spoke at intervals, especially when they passed old camp-sites, now homesteads and ranches. Cedar Ridge, Turkey Flat, Rock Waterhole still existed in their pristine loneliness. Logan halted at the Waterhole for lunch and to rest the horses. Then he drove on till sunset, to stop at a small brook which drained into Mormon Lake.

  They camped. The negro turned out to be a helpful fellow, and between him and Logan, with Lucinda cooking, they soon had camp made and supper ready. Barbara walked around, her staring dark eyes as groping as her actions. She ate, fed the boy, and helped Lucinda. Sometimes she broke out into soft, hurried speech, half coherent, and again she stood gazing into the pine forest. Logan sat beside the camp-fire, but he did not smoke. Lucinda spread her blankets under a tarpaulin pegged down from the wagon-top and lay down with weary, aching body. The camp-fire sputtered, the wind blew--then while she was fearing the old lonely sounds, her eyelids closed as if with glue and she faded into oblivion.

  Next day Logan made another long drive, to the deserted cabin half-way between the south end of Mormon Lake and Sycamore Canyon. Logan might not have even thought of their nearness to the old ranch, but Lucinda, during the supper tasks and afterwards, kept talking and asking questions until he became aroused.

  Before noon the next day Logan turned off the main road at the end of Long Valley and drove down through the forest towards Sycamore.

  What stinging beautiful emotions flashed over her as they passed the open glade where she had first seen Barbara play' ing with the boys! From then on she was blinded by tears. They struck the down-grade. The old gate had not been closed since the cattle-drive. Logan emitted a strange hard cough, almost like a sob. He drove on, applying the brake. The wheels squeaked, the heavy wagon pushed the horses on. And then they reached a level.

  "Same as always, Luce--just the same!" exclaimed Logan, huskily. "Only we are changed."

  Lucinda wiped her eyes so that she could see to get off.

  "Drive up to the cabin, Logan," she said, "and spread a blanket in the shade for Barbara and the baby... What shall I tell the teamster to do with his load?"

  "Unload it, I reckon, here by the barn," rejoined Logan,' whipping his reins. "Gedap there!"

  The negro arrived while Lucinda was looking around. The barn was stripped, proving how wise Al Doyle had been to advise a new outfit.

  Lucinda directed the driver to unload the farming equipment and pack it into the barn, then come on up to the cabin with the furniture.

  That done, Lucinda turned to the old hollow-worn path. Her feet seemed leaden. There was a pang in her breast and a constriction in her throat.

  The joy she had anticipated failed to come at once. But she knew something would break the deadlock.

  The brook was bank-full of snow-fed water, the old log bridge as it had been. Then she espied Logan. He had halted the wagon and was looking across at the unfinished stone corral. One look at his tortured visage was enough. The very stone Lucinda remembered seeing Logan put down on the wall sat there, mute yet trenchant with memory of the three sons who had helped build that wall with Logan, and who could not finish it because they had gone to war.

  Logan drove on up to the cabin. Lucinda, lagging behind, fighting her own anguish, came to the long row of her sunflowers. They were blooming, great golden-leaved, brown-centred flowers, facing the sun. With sight of them the joy of home-coming flooded her being. She caressed the big blossoms and pressed them to her breast; then she found early golden rod and purple asters along the path. She gazed down the canyon for the first time. The high walls, the black ruins, seemed to gaze down protectingly upon her. Home! They assured her of that and they gave austere and solemn promise of the future.

  Lucinda found the baby rolling and crawling on a blanket; Barbara, wildly excited by familiar scenes and objects that must have pierced close to reason, was running around in and out of the cabin. Logan was inside.

  The flat flagstone lay under the hollowed log threshold. Lucinda knew both as well as her right hand. Wan bluebells smiled up at her out of the grassy margins. She peered into the cabin conscious of a clogged breast and pounding heart. Her emotions had not prepared her for practical facts. That cabin, hallowed by so much of sad and beautiful life, was a dingy, dusty, spider-webbed barn. The rude table and bench-seats and the old rustic armchair, relics of Logan's master hand so many years ago, were the only articles left inside. The bough-bed had been torn apart, no doubt for firewood; all the deer and elk horns and skins were gone from the walls. In places the yellow stones of the fireplace were crumbling.

  An Indian or some cowboy artist had drawn crude but striking images on the smooth surfaces.

  Logan was cursing, which sounds for once Lucinda heard with delight.

  "...---- ----dirty hole not fit for cattle. This here home of ours has been a camp for low-down hunters and loafers, and later a den for skunks, wildcats, coyotes, and Lord knows what else!... There's a hole in th
e shingles. Some of the chinks are out between the logs. That door is hanging loose and won't shut. And dirt! Say, it's dirtier than all outdoors. Just one hell of a dump!"

  "Yes, Logan--but home," rejoined Lucinda softly, as much overcome by his practical reaction as by the fact she expressed. "Huh!... Home?--Aw, thet's so, Luce."

  "I'll be practical, too, husband," said Lucinda, inspired to action. "Get out the broom and mop. And water buckets. And soap. We'll sweep and brush and scrape and scrub... Mend the hinge on the door. Have the driver put a canvas over the hole in the roof. Have him cut a lot of spruce boughs.

  After that's done you can unpack and carry everything in. After that, Logan, if you're able to, see if you can chop some wood."

  "Hell! I can chop wood," declared Logan, in gruff resentment.

  Lucinda set to work, and she kept the two men, and Barbara also, busy at various tasks. When Logan flagged and Barbara drifted off into space, Lucinda prompted them again. They could not apply themselves for long.

  When sunset came, and at that season of early summer the golden rays shone through door and window, Lucinda surveyed the interior of the cabin with incredulous eyes and swelling heart. The den of hunters and beasts had been transformed. It was home once more, and more comfortable and colourful than ever before. Barbara had her old corner, where she sat on her bed with vague gaze trying to pierce a veil of mystery. Little Abe crawled around delighted with this new abode. Logan sat in his old chair, watching the fire, apparently lost to any of the grateful and beautiful feelings that stirred Lucinda.

  Darkness stole up the canyon while she prepared supper. The night-hawks and the insects began their familiar choruses. A glorious rose and gold after-glow slowly paled above the western rim. The brook babbled as of old. Nature had not changed. Lucinda recalled the prayers of her youth.