by Zane Grey
Soon a gentle, drizzling rain began, and the punchers hurriedly made their beds, as they did so twitting N’Yawk about making his between our tent and the fire. “You’re dead right, pard,” I heard one of them say, “to make your bed there, fer if them outlaws comes this way they’ll think you air one of the women and they won’t shoot you. Just us men air in danger.”
“Confound your fool tongues, how they goin’ to know there’s any women here? I tell you, fellers, my old man waded in bloody gore up to his neck and I’m just like him.”
They kept up this friendly parleying until I dozed off to sleep, but I couldn’t stay asleep. I don’t think I was afraid, but I certainly was nervous. The river was making a sad, moaning sound; the rain fell gently, like tears. All nature seemed to be mourning about something, happened or going to happen. Down by the river an owl hooted dismally. Half a mile away the night-herders were riding round and round the herd. One of them was singing,—faint but distinct came his song: “Bury me not on the lone prairie.” Over and over again he sang it. After a short interval of silence he began again. This time it was, “I’m thinking of my dear old mother, ten thousand miles away.”
Two punchers stirred uneasily and began talking. “Blast that Tex,” I heard one of them say, “he certainly has it bad to-night. What the deuce makes him sing so much? I feel like bawling like a kid; I wish he’d shut up.”
“He’s homesick; I guess we all are too, but they ain’t no use staying awake and letting it soak in. Shake the water off the tarp, you air lettin’ water catch on your side an’ it’s running into my ear.”
That is the last I heard for a long time. I must have slept. I remember that the baby stirred and I spoke to him. It seemed to me that something struck against the guy-rope that held our tarpaulin taut, but I wasn’t sure. I was in that dozy state, half asleep, when nothing is quite clear. It seemed as though I had been listening to the tramp of feet for hours and that a whole army must be filing past, when I was brought suddenly into keen consciousness by a loud voice demanding, “Hello! Whose outfit is this?”
“This is the 7 Up,—Louderer’s,” the boss called back; “what’s wanted?”
“Is that you, Mat? This is Ward’s posse. We been after Meeks and Murdock all night. It’s so durned dark we can’t see, but we got to keep going; their horses are about played. We changed at Hadley’s, but we ain’t had a bite to eat and we got to search your camp.”
“Sure thing,” the boss answered, “roll off and take a look. Hi, there, you Herm, get out of there and fix these fellers something to eat.”
We were surrounded. I could hear the clanking of spurs and the sound of the wet, tired horses shaking themselves and rattling the saddles on every side. “Who’s in the wickiup?” I heard the sheriff ask. “Some women and kids,—Mrs. Louderer and a friend.”
In an incredibly short time Herman had a fire coaxed into a blaze and Mat Watson and the sheriff went from bed to bed with a lantern. They searched the mess-wagon, even, although Herman had been sleeping there. The sheriff unceremoniously flung out the wood and kindling the cook had stored there. He threw back the flap of our tent and flashed the lantern about. He could see plainly enough that there were but the four of us, but I wondered how they saw outside where the rain made it worse, the lantern was so dirty. “Yes,” I heard the sheriff say, “we’ve been pushing them hard. They’re headed north, evidently intend to hit the railroad but they’ll never make it. Every ford on the river is guarded except right along here, and there’s five parties ranging on the other side. My party’s split,—a bunch has gone on to the bridge. If they find anything they’re to fire a volley. Same with us. I knew they couldn’t cross the river nowhere but at the bridge or here.”
The men had gathered about the fire and were gulping hot coffee and cold beef and bread. The rain ran off their slickers in little rivulets. I was sorry the fire was not better, because some of the men had on only ordinary coats, and the drizzling rain seemed determined that the fire should not blaze high.
Before they had finished eating we heard a shot, followed by a regular medley of dull booms. The men were in their saddles and gone in less time than it takes to tell it. The firing had ceased save for a few sharp reports from the revolvers, like a coyote’s spiteful snapping. The pounding of the horse’s hoofs grew fainter, and soon all was still. I kept my ears strained for the slightest sound. The cook and the boss, the only men up, hurried back to bed. Watson had risen so hurriedly that he had not been careful about his “tarp” and water had run into his bed. But that wouldn’t disconcert anybody but a tenderfoot. I kept waiting in tense silence to hear them come back with dead or wounded, but there was not a sound. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Louderer struck a match and said it was three o’clock. Soon she was asleep. Through a rift in the clouds a star peeped out. I could smell the wet sage and the sand. A little breeze came by, bringing Tex’s song once more:—
“Oh, it matters not, so I’ve been told,
How the body lies when the heart grows cold.”
Oh, dear! the world seemed so full of sadness. I kissed my baby’s little downy head and went to sleep.
It seems that cowboys are rather sleepy-headed in the morning and it is a part of the cook’s job to get them up. The next I knew, Herman had a tin pan on which he was beating a vigorous tattoo, all the time hollering, “We haf cackle-berries und antelope steak for breakfast.” The baby was startled by the noise, so I attended to him and then dressed myself for breakfast. I went down to the little spring to wash my face. The morning was lowering and gray, but a wind had sprung up and the clouds were parting. There are times when anticipation is a great deal better than realization. Never having seen a cackle-berry, my imagination pictured them as some very luscious wild fruit, and I was so afraid none would be left that I couldn’t wait until the men should eat and be gone. So I surprised them by joining the very earliest about the fire. Herman began serving breakfast. I held out my tin plate and received some of the steak, an egg, and two delicious biscuits. We had our coffee in big enameled cups, without sugar or cream, but it was piping hot and so good. I had finished my egg and steak and so I told Herman I was ready for my cackle-berries.
“Listen to her now, will you?” he asked. And then indignantly, “How many cackle-berries does you want? You haf had so many as I haf cooked for you.”
“Why, Herman, I haven’t had a single berry,” I said. Then such a roar of laughter. Herman gazed at me in astonishment, and Mr. Watson gently explained to me that eggs and cackle-berries were one and the same.
N’Yawk was not yet up, so Herman walked over to his bed, kicked him a few times, and told him he would scald him if he didn’t turn out. It was quite light by then. N’Yawk joined us in a few minutes. “What the deuce was you fellers kicking up such a rumpus fer last night?” he asked. “You blamed blockhead, don’t you know?” the boss answered. “Why, the sheriff searched this camp last night. They had a battle down at the bridge afterwards and either they are all killed or else no one is hurt. They would have been here otherwise. Ward took a shot at them once yesterday, but I guess he didn’t hit; the men got away, anyway. And durn your sleepy head! you just lay there and snored. Well, I’ll be danged!” Words failed him, his wonder and disgust were so great.
N’Yawk turned to get his breakfast. His light shirt was blood-stained in the back,—seemed to be soaked. “What’s the matter with your shirt, it’s soaked with blood?“ some one asked. “Then that durned Daisy Belle has been crawling in with me, that’s all,” he said. “Blame his bleeding snoot. I’ll punch it and give it something to bleed for.”
Then Mr. Watson said, “Daisy ain’t been in all night. He took Jesse’s place when he went to town after supper.” That started an inquiry and search which speedily showed that some one with a bleeding wound had gotten in with N’Yawk. It also developed that Mr. Watson’s splendid horse and saddle were
gone, the rope that the horse had been picketed with lying just as it had been cut from his neck.
Now all was bustle and excitement. It was plainly evident that one of the outlaws had lain hidden on N’Yawk’s bed while the sheriff was there, and that afterwards he had saddled the horse and made his escape. His own horse was found in the willows, the saddle cut loose and the bridle off, but the poor, jaded thing had never moved. By sunup the search-party returned, all too worn-out with twenty-four hours in the saddle to continue the hunt. They were even too worn-out to eat, but flung themselves down for a few hours’ rest. The chase was hopeless anyway, for the search-party had gone north in the night. The wounded outlaw had doubtless heard the sheriff talking and, the coast being clear to the southward, had got the fresh horse and was by that time probably safe in the heavy forests and mountains of Utah. His getting in with N’Yawk had been a daring ruse, but a successful one. Where his partner was, no one could guess. But by that time all the camp excepting Herman and Mrs. Louderer were so panicky that we couldn’t have made a rational suggestion.
N’Yawk, white around his mouth, approached Mrs. Louderer. “I want to quit,” he said.
“Well,” she said, calmly sipping her coffee, “you haf done it.”
“I’m sick,” he stammered.
“I know you iss,” she said, “I haf before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death.”
“My old daddy—” he began.“Yes, I know, he waded the creek vone time und you has had cold feet effer since.”
Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him. I had cold feet myself just then, and I was powerfully anxious to warm them by my own fire where a pair of calm blue eyes would reassure me.
I didn’t get to see the branding that was to have taken place on the range that day. The boss insisted on taking the trail of his valued horse. He was very angry. He thought there was a traitor among the posse. Who started the firing at the bridge no one knew, and Watson said openly that it was done to get the sheriff away from camp.
My own home looked mighty good to me when we drove up that evening. I don’t want any more wild life on the range,—not for a while, anyway.
Your ex-Washlady,
Elinore Rupert Stewart.
CHAPTER XVII
AT GAVOTTE’S CAMP
November 16, 1912.
My dear Friend,—
At last I can write you as I want to. I am afraid you think I am going to wait until the “bairns” are grown up before writing to my friends, but indeed I shall not. I fully intend to “gather roses while I may.” Since God has given me two blessings, children and friends, I shall enjoy them both as I go along.
I must tell you why I have not written as I should have done. All summer long my eyes were so strained and painful that I had to let all reading and writing go. And I have suffered terribly with my back. But now I am able to be about again, do most of my own work, and my eyes are much better. So now I shall not treat you so badly again. If you could only know how kind every one is to me, you would know that even ill health has its compensations out here. Dear Mrs. Louderer, with her goose-grease, her bread, and her delicious “kuchens.” Mrs. O’Shaughnessy, with her cheery ways, her tireless friendship, and willing, capable hands. Gavotte even, with his tidbits of game and fish. Dear little Cora Belle came often to see me, sometimes bringing me a little of Grandpa’s latest cure, which I received on faith, for, of course, I could not really swallow any of it. Zebbie’s nephew, Parker Carter, came out, spent the summer with him, and they have now gone back to Yell County, leaving Gavotte in charge again.
Gavotte had a most interesting and prosperous summer. He was commissioned by a wealthy Easterner to procure some fossils. I had had such a confined summer that Clyde took me out to Gavotte’s camp as soon as I was able to sit up and be driven. We found him away over in the bad lands camped in a fine little grove. He is a charming man to visit at any time, and we found him in a particularly happy mood. He had just begun to quarry a gigantic find; he had piles of specimens; he had packed and shipped some rare specimens of fossil plants, but his “beeg find” came later and he was jubilant. To dig fossils successfully requires great care and knowledge, but it is a work in which Gavotte excels. He is a splendid cook. I almost believe he could make a Johnny Reb like codfish, and that night we had a delicious supper and all the time listening to a learned discourse about prehistoric things. I enjoyed the meal and I enjoyed the talk, but I could not sleep peacefully for being chased in my dreams by pterodactyls, dinosaurs, and iguanodons, besides a great many horrible creatures whose names I have forgotten. Of course, when the ground begins to freeze and snow comes, fossil-mining is done for until summer comes, so Gavotte tends the critters and traps this winter. I shall not get to go to the mountains this winter. The babies are too small, but there is always some happy and interesting thing happening, and I shall have two pleasures each time, my own enjoyment, and getting to tell you of them.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE HOMESTEADER’S MARRIAGE AND A LITTLE FUNERAL
December 2, 1912.
Dear Mrs. Coney,—
Every time I get a new letter from you I get a new inspiration, and I am always glad to hear from you.
I have often wished I might tell you all about my Clyde, but have not because of two things. One is I could not even begin without telling you what a good man he is, and I didn’t want you to think I could do nothing but brag. The other reason is the haste I married in. I am ashamed of that. I am afraid you will think me a Becky Sharp of a person. But although I married in haste, I have no cause to repent. That is very fortunate because I have never had one bit of leisure to repent in. So I am lucky all around. The engagement was powerfully short because both agreed that the trend of events and ranch work seemed to require that we be married first and do our “sparking” afterward. You see, we had to chink in the wedding between times, that is, between planting the oats and other work that must be done early or not at all. In Wyoming ranchers can scarcely take time even to be married in the springtime. That having been settled, the license was sent for by mail, and as soon as it came Mr. Stewart saddled Chub and went down to the house of Mr. Pearson, the justice of the peace and a friend of long standing. I had never met any of the family and naturally rather dreaded to have them come, but Mr. Stewart was firm in wanting to be married at home, so he told Mr. Pearson he wanted him and his family to come up the following Wednesday and serve papers on the “wooman i’ the hoose.” They were astonished, of course, but being such good friends they promised him all the assistance they could render. They are quite the dearest, most interesting family! I have since learned to love them as my own.
Well, there was no time to make wedding clothes, so I had to “do up” what I did have. Isn’t it queer how sometimes, do what you can, work will keep getting in the way until you can’t get anything done? That is how it was with me those few days before the wedding; so much so that when Wednesday dawned everything was topsy-turvy and I had a very strong desire to run away. But I always did hate a “piker,” so I stood pat. Well, I had most of the dinner cooked, but it kept me hustling to get the house into anything like decent order before the old dog barked, and I knew my moments of liberty were limited. It was blowing a perfect hurricane and snowing like midwinter. I had bought a beautiful pair of shoes to wear on that day, but my vanity had squeezed my feet a little, so while I was so busy at work I had kept on a worn old pair, intending to put on the new ones later; but when the Pearsons drove up all I thought about was getting them into the house where there was fire, so I forgot all about the old shoes and the apron I wore.
I had only been here six weeks then, and was a stranger. That is why I had no one to help me and was so confused and hurried. As soon as the newcomers were warm, Mr. Stewart told me I had better come over by him and stand up. It was a large room I had to cross, and how I did it before all t
hose strange eyes I never knew. All I can remember very distinctly is hearing Mr. Stewart saying, “I will,” and myself chiming in that I would, too. Happening to glance down, I saw that I had forgotten to take off my apron or my old shoes, but just then Mr. Pearson pronounced us man and wife, and as I had dinner to serve right away I had no time to worry over my odd toilet. Anyway the shoes were comfortable and the apron white, so I suppose it could have been worse; and I don’t think it has ever made any difference with the Pearsons, for I number them all among my most esteemed friends.
It is customary here for newlyweds to give a dance and supper at the hall, but as I was a stranger I preferred not to, and so it was a long time before I became acquainted with all my neighbors. I had not thought I should ever marry again. Jerrine was always such a dear little pal, and I wanted to just knock about foot-loose and free to see life as a gypsy sees it. I had planned to see the Cliff-Dwellers’ home; to live right there until I caught the spirit of the surroundings enough to live over their lives in imagination anyway. I had planned to see the old missions and to go to Alaska; to hunt in Canada. I even dreamed of Honolulu. Life stretched out before me one long, happy jaunt. I aimed to see all the world I could, but to travel unknown bypaths to do it. But first I wanted to try homesteading.
But for my having the grippe, I should never have come to Wyoming. Mrs. Seroise, who was a nurse at the institution for nurses in Denver while I was housekeeper there, had worked one summer at Saratoga, Wyoming. It was she who told me of the pine forests. I had never seen a pine until I came to Colorado; so the idea of a home among the pines fascinated me. At that time I was hoping to pass the Civil-Service examination, with no very definite idea as to what I would do, but just to be improving my time and opportunity. I never went to a public school a day in my life. In my childhood days there was no such thing in the Indian Territory part of Oklahoma where we lived, so I have had to try hard to keep learning. Before the time came for the examination I was so discouraged because of the grippe that nothing but the mountains, the pines, and the clean, fresh air seemed worth while; so it all came about just as I have written you.
