Following the Grass

by Harry Sinclair Drago

  Margarida had to smile, but it proved to her how mature his mind was. Surely a grandfather could have been proud of him. She often looked for her father to come, now that her husband was gone, but that stern man took no step in her direction. Grief had come to his home, too, but of this Margarida knew nothing. She could only wonder how he steeled his heart.

  If David Gault, her husband’s father, had lived, would he have been as unrelenting? The Basques had always found him an implacable foe, but she could not believe that he would have denied his own flesh at such a time as this.

  Twice, during the winter, Kincaid, came. He was the only visitor. His optimism and confidence in Gault became the thread by which she clung to hope.

  One morning she awakened to find the melting snow dripping from the roof of the cabin. Two weeks later, the snow had disappeared from the lower mountain. Above her, the laurel and greasewood were a blackish green against the snowy patches. Tiny rivulets raced down the mountain-side. The pungent aroma of sage-brush filled the air.

  Wherever she looked life was beginning to stir. Margarida would have been less than human not to have answered in lifted spirit to the miracle being performed about her. And then, lambing-time was upon them, bringing work for all.

  Joseph could not have been busier, for, in addition to the lambs, a litter of puppies had been presented to him by the coyote which Enriquez, the herder, had trapped the last winter. Margarida and the Mexican had been for dispatching the wild animal at once, but Joseph had begged to be allowed to keep it.

  In a remarkably short time the dogs had ceased to take exception to the coyote. One of them was, undeniably, the father of the six brown puppies which Joseph exhibited so proudly. The elder Joseph had taken pride in his dogs, and the boy had often heard him say that they were “wolf-crossed”; in fact, he believed it was because of the wolf strain in them that they were so capable.

  Little Joseph had no definite idea of what the offspring of this present mésalliance might develop into; but certainly his father’s words inspired his hopes. Long before the puppies would drink milk from a pan, he was forcing it on them, anxious to see whether they would lap or suck it. If they lapped the milk, they were dogs; if they sucked it, the wild in them predominated, and they would most surely be sheep-killers.

  Later, when they did take the milk, Joseph was unable to understand why four of them lapped it, while the other two sucked it as though they were wolf cubs. Men who have spent their lives crossing dogs with the wolf or coyote have not been able to understand it either. So, it was with a heavy heart that the two outlaws were surrendered to Enriquez.

  Keeping any of the litter was a great mistake in the peon’s eyes. For generations, the wolf and the coyote had been his traditional enemies. He knew that nothing good would come of keeping them, and it was madness to allow their mother to go about unchained.

  Joseph’s lips curled at this. What did Enriquez know about animals? He reckoned that Mexicans didn’t know much about anything!

  “Bet he’d laugh if I told him I’d been lugging salt all winter long to a deer up there in the rim-rocks,” the lad told himself.

  The herder did laugh when Joseph, getting the worst of an argument, told the story of the deer, hoping thereby to confound Enriquez.

  “You wait till those coyotes wean those pup!” the Mexican scoffed. “Pretty queeck she’s go!”

  Joseph looked at him pityingly:

  “Enriquez, you know nothing. I love that coyote; she loves me. She won’t run away. Pretty soon I’m going to send her away, though.”

  The herder was not convinced. “I suppose she never eat sheep again, qué?”

  Joseph shook his head at such stupidity:

  “Sure she’ll kill sheep ! She’s coyote, ain’t she? That'’s why I’m going to send her away. By the time you put the sheep on the clover, the pups will be old enough to get along by themselves. Come then, I’ll take old Slippy-foot over the pass, and toss a rock or two at her. Reckon she’ll figure she made a mistake in picking me for a friend, but that’ll be better than keeping her here until we’d have to kill her.”

  Time proved Joseph right, for when the pups were weaned the mother coyote followed him about like a dog. By late April, the clover was up and Enriquez was ready to move the flock. So, true to his promise, Joseph led Slippy-foot over the mountain. He came back alone; for the first time in his life he had rewarded trust and affection with a blow.

  The significance of what he had done loomed larger in his mind than the deed itself. It had been necessary; but why had it been necessary? Even his mother’s explanation failed to satisfy him. The survival of the fittest held no promise of the God he visioned.

  May brought the birds to Buckskin—thrashers, woodpeckers, doves, quail, sagehen. Once more nighthawks and the whippoorwills sailed over the sage at twilight. Great flocks of crows and magpies cawed and chattered all day long. Phlox and lupine blossomed about the cabin. Where a spring dripped above the coulee, fire-red Indian-lilies nodded their heads.

  Nowhere else in the world could the sky have been so blue. Rarely ever did a cloud appear. Those that came were great white clouds which floated lazily by, unhurried and bound for the far-distant Sierra. The days were long; twilight held until almost nine o’clock; then came the greatest wonder of all—the warm, yellow desert moon, turning mesa and rim-rocks into castles of silver with towers and battlements! What boy of nine could have been long unhappy there?

  Joseph thrilled to it. Life was forever calling to him; not from far horizons, but right here on Buckskin. Margarida saw less and less of him as he roamed about the mountain. He brought home strange tales of his experiences with birds and animals. His mother found them hard to believe. Enriquez was even more skeptical. A few days later, however, the herder had good reason to change his mind.

  It was Sunday, and even on the mountain a religious stillness seemed to mark the day. The flock was above the coulee, and Enriquez, stretched out upon the ground was watching a mob of crows circling above the draw which led toward the cabin.

  Less than two hours previously he had driven the sheep through the draw, so he knew there was nothing there for them to be feeding on; and yet, as he continued to watch them, they kept up an endless cawing. Gradually, they circled lower and lower, until Enriquez knew they had alighted. Soon the cawing stopped.

  The herder’s curiosity was aroused, for he fancied he knew something of the habits of crows, and experience told him this flock had descended to eat, but he knew equally well that there was no food there for them. Getting to his feet he climbed until he was high enough to see into the draw. His surprise at what he beheld rendered him speechless for a moment.

  “Madre de Dios!” he exclaimed when he could use his tongue. “Joseph!—those crow ees eating out of hees han’?”

  Enriquez could appreciate what he saw. He knew how next to impossible it was to get within even shooting-distance of a flock of crows. They were the wisest of all desert birds. A hundred times he had tried unsuccessfully to crawl past their sentries. But there was Joseph, standing in the center of the flock, tossing food of some kind to the hungry birds.

  One crow was perched on his shoulder. Joseph would take the bird and toss it into the air, but after circling about him once or twice, it would fly hack to him.

  Enriquez shook his head as he watched the boy. What he beheld was almost past belief. He thought of Slippy-foot, the coyote, and of the tales of other animals which Joseph had told. He could not doubt them now. After this, he was willing to believe that the boy could do anything with wild things. But it was weird; unnatural. It savored of the devil, of black magic.

  He wanted to cry out to see if the flock would rise, but a certain fear of Joseph had been born in his heart and so, although he watched until the boy went toward the cabin, he made no sound. He expected that Joseph would mention the incident that evening, but the boy said nothing.

  Slippy-foot’s puppies had grown into a playful, barking pack, and i
t became Joseph’s pleasure to begin training them in the ways of sheep dogs. He found that he had set himself a task well-calculated to try the patience of youth. Summer had, passed before the older dogs would work with them.

  It was necessary to move the flock daily now, and the pups had a chance to show what they had learned. Joseph was amply repaid for his faith in them, for even though they were not as patient as the old dogs they appeared able to anticipate the flock’s movements more quickly. And that is the supreme test of a good sheep dog. The boy watched to see if they ever put teeth to the sheep, and when he found that they did not his last fear of the wild strain was removed.

  Margarida smiled at his success, but the brightness of her eye and the roses in her cheeks were not born of health. Many times she hugged the boy to her, and Joseph did not know that the mother-spirit in her was asking him not to grow up, but to be always a boy. She knew how happy he had been this summer, and she was afraid of the future. She dreaded to think of fall and the coming winter; their gray skies and withered blossoms would be too like the bleak, hopeless misery that weighed down her heart.

  But fall came on apace. The elasticity had gone from Margarida’s step. Her brave mouth sagged at last. The blackness of despair had settled on her. She had been determined that, at any cost, Joseph should go to school. The wool had brought more than she had expected; it should give the boy his chance. How she was to get along without him, she did not know; but he must go.

  Joseph took stoically the news of his going. Boy-like, he felt that he already had all the education he needed, that his place was here on the mountain with his mother. But when the time came, he went.

  The days which followed were long ones for Margarida. It had not been her habit to tramp over the mountain, but now, in an endeavor to get away from herself, she began roaming over Buckskin. Enriquez surprised her once, standing on a ledge, her hair streaming out behind her in the wind, her eyes lighted with a strange fire. The Mexican had crossed himself as he gazed at her, silhouetted against the freshening gale. He had stolen away, wondering if she had gone mad.

  He took to watching her after that day. Subconsciously, she must have felt his eyes on her, for she no longer tramped the mountain-side about the cabin, but, instead, climbed to the very top of Buckskin.

  Enriquez spied on her the day she first made the long climb to the crest. It was nearly evening when she returned. He had been blind had he not noticed her excitement. He saw her fingers clutch her apron and tear it as she stood at the stove puttering over his supper.

  Her face, save for the poppies in her cheeks, was a sickly white. He read fear in every line of her. He wondered if she had actually gone mad; or had something happened to her to-day on the mountain?

  That night one of the dogs came to the door of the cabin and bayed the death howl. Enriquez shivered in his blanket. He understood the dog, and knew that death was not far away. He hoped it would come before the winter snows caught him a prisoner on the mountain.

  Early the next morning Margarida set out for the summit. Enriquez shook his head after she had passed. He had seen the shovel which she had tried to conceal beneath her coat. He knew, now, that she was insane, and as he moved about with the flock he chanted the old spirit song of the Moqui, for, in the dim past, he had sprung from Indian stock.

  Margarida read the herder’s thought. Had she, indeed, gone mad? She wondered. But surely, madness would have lifted the weight which bore so heavily on her. And yet, she knew that her tortured brain could stand but little more. Daily for a week, she went to the mountain-top. What the end of this would have been had not the following Saturday brought Joseph home, clothes and books, it is not hard to guess.

  “Don’t you be so surprised, mother,” he declared. “Ain’t nothing happened to me; I’m just done with school.”

  “But something has happened, Joseph,” his mother exclaimed. “How did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  Margarida caught her breath. Whatever it was that had impelled him to do this had been no trivial thing.

  “Left last night,” Joseph went on. “Been coming ever since. The dogs knew me right off, didn’t they?”

  “No, no, Joseph!” Margarida entreated. “Don’t put me off! Why did you leave? You know I want you to stay in school.”

  “Not in that school, mother!” the boy declared earnestly. “Folks are always talking about me in Paradise; sorta making fun of me, I reckon, ’cause I ain’t got clothes like they’ve got. A boy commenced it yesterday, and I sassed him back. He said my daddy was a bad man. I called him a liar. Then he said his grandpa said you and my daddy wasn’t married right; that you didn’t have a priest. He wouldn’t take it back, so I hit him. The teacher came running. But I hit him again, —’cause you did have a priest, didn’t you, mother?”

  Margarida was on her knees before him, her arms outstretched to enfold him.

  “Come to me, my little man!” she cried. “Come to me! Let me kiss you! Of course we had a priest; but he was not the kind of priest they know in Paradise. He had no robes, but he preached the word of God, and your father and I believed in him. It didn’t matter, did it, dear?”

  Joseph shook his head as his mother’s tears wet his face.

  “And that boy, Joseph?” Margarida questioned, “you hit him hard?”

  “I ’most killed him, mother!”

  “Oh, I’m glad! I’m glad! And his name?”

  “Juan Irosabal!” said Joseph.

  Margarida winced.

  “An Irosabal, eh?” In a wild fury she swept her son from his feet. “I’m glad!’ she cried;

  “I’m glad you ’most killed him, Joseph!”

  CHAPTER V.

  THE FAR HORIZON.

  TABOR KINCAID paid a visit to Buckskin shortly after Joseph’s return. His broad, usually smiling face wore a frown, for he was the bearer of bad news, and bad news was the last thing in the world that he wished to carry to Margarida Gault. His courage almost failed him as he stood before her, her thin white hand in his.

  She smiled bravely at him, but his keen eyes were not deceived, and he prayed that she might not see the surprise her appearance caused him. It was hard for him to believe that she was the Margarida Gault, who as a bride, had come to Buckskin such a few years ago.

  Kincaid kept back the news which had brought him up the mountain, and it was not until he was ready to leave that he broached it. Then with that indirection which appears to belong only to desert men, he spoke.

  “Did Joe ever try to buy this land?” he asked.

  “He often spoke of it,” Margarida answered. “But that was before it was put in the Forest Reserve. For the last three years we have been paying a grazing fee; ten cents a head this year, not counting the lambs.”

  “Forest Reserve!” Kincaid exclaimed with biting sarcasm. “Did it ever strike you as strange that Buckskin should have been included in a reserve? They ain’t enough timber on this mountain to build a man a house—stunted cedar and mountain mahogany, and maybe a piñon pine or two, don’t sound to me like much of a beginning for a forest reserve. No sir-ree!

  “The way public lands have been juggled around in this state is something scandalous. The State Land Office has been swapping good for bad so long that they’ve pretty near run out of good things. Somebody has been casting eyes at Buckskin. The Surveyor-General restored it to the public domain last week.”

  “You mean the mountain is no longer a part 0£ the Forest Reserve?” Margarida asked anxiously.

  “It was thrown open to entry last week. It was filed on immediately—almost, I might say, before the dear general public knew about it. It went for a dollar and a quarter an acre. I could have used it.”

  Margarida began to understand what Kincaid was telling her. At first, his matter-of-fact tone had not aroused any sense of suspicion in her, and she had not been prepared for what he had just told her.

  “Do I understand that Buckskin has been sold?” she demanded, her voi
ce strange to her ears.

  Kincaid nodded.

  “Your father bought it in.”

  The big man was watching her covertly, and he reached out his hand to catch her as he saw her lean against the cabin door for support.

  A startled, “Oh!” was Margarida’s only answer, her weary brain refusing to grasp the full significance of what she had heard.

  “He won’t be able to take possession until the first of the year,” Kincaid went on. “But the snow will be here then. I suppose he won’t ask you to go before spring. Even so, you and the boy had better come down to my place for the winter. I had this in mind when I spoke a while back about your coming.”

  Margarida shook her head determinedly:

  “You are very kind. Please do not think we fail to appreciate what you have done. But my place is here. I promised my husband that he would find me waiting for him. Why, I can not say, but he has seemed near me these last days. When he comes, he will find me. My father has left nothing undone to break my heart; let it remain for him to drive me away.”

  And although Kincaid was persistent, urging her health as a reason for accompanying him, he went back to the valley alone. Somehow her saying her husband seemed near lingered in his mind even after he had reached his ranch. He did not doubt that her spirit was wandering already into the limitless void, straightening its wings for the great flight to those sublime heights from which it could commune with the missing loved one.

  Joseph found his mother in tears on the evening of Kincaid’s visit. She told him what had occurred. The effort exhausted her. Enriquez and he carried her to her bed.

  Margarida’s magnificent will had always sustained her; that it had failed· her at last, filled her with fear. Her body had long been weary, but she had willed it on; and now her will was weary. With the knowledge came hopelessness, for the props on which she had leaned had been built on her will; over night they came tumbling down like a house of cards.