The Ranch at the Wolverine

by B. M. Bower

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE BRAVE BUCKAROO

  "BOISE, IDAHO, _December_ 23.

  "BRAVE BUCKAROO,--

  "I wonder if you ever in your whole life got a Christmas present? I'vebeen cultivating the Louise of me, and here are the first fruits of myendeavor; I guess that's the way they say it. I've spent so much timesitting by mommie when she's asleep, and I get tired of reading all thetime, so a nurse in this ward--mommie has a room to herself of course,but not a special nurse, because I can do a lot of the littlethings--well, the nurse taught me how to hemstitch. So I got some silkand made some nice, soft neckerchiefs--one for you and one for me.

  "This one I made last. I didn't want your eagle eyes seeing all thebobbly stitches on the first one. I hope you like it, Ward. Everystitch stands for a thought of the hills and our good times. I'vebrought Minervy back to life, and I try to play my old pretendssometimes. But they always break up into pieces. I'm not a kid now,you see. And life is a lot different when you get out into it, isn'tit?

  "Mommie doesn't seem to get much better. I'm worried about her. Sheseems to have let go, somehow. She never talks about the ranch much,or even worries about whether Phoebe is keeping the windows washed.She talks about when she was a little girl, and about when she anddaddy were first married. It gets on my nerves to see how she hasslipped out of every-day life. The nurse says that's common, though,in sickness. She says I could go home and look after things for a weekor so just as well as not. She says mommie would be all right. But Ihate to leave her.

  "I'm awfully homesick for a good old ride on Blue. I miss himterribly. Have you seen anything of the Cove folks lately? Seems likeI'm clear out of the world. I hate town, anyway, and a hospital is thelimit for dismalness. Even the Louise of me is getting ready to dosomething awful if I have to stay much longer. Mommie sleeps most ofthe time. I believe they dope her with something. She doesn't havethat awful pain so bad. So I don't have anything to do but sit aroundand read and sew and wait for her to wake up and want something.

  "Pal, the Billy of me is at the exploding point! I believe I'll windup by getting out in the corridor some day and shooting holes in allthe steam radiators! Did you ever live with one, Ward? Nasty, sizzlythings; they drive me wild. I'd give the best cow in the bunch forjust one hour in front of our old stone fireplace and see the sparks goup the chimney, and hear the coyotes. Honest to goodness, I'd ratherhear a coyote howl than any music on earth--unless maybe it was yousinging a ten-dollar hoss an' a forty-dollar saddle. I'd like to hearthat old trail song once more. I sure would, Ward. I'd like to hearit, coming down old Wolverine canyon. Oh, I just can't stand it muchlonger. I'm liable to wrap mommie in a blanket and crawl out thewindow, some night, and hit the trail for home. I believe I could cureher quicker right on the ranch. I wish I'd never brought her here; Ibelieve it's just a scheme of the doctors to get money out of us. Iknow my poultices did just as much good as their old dope does.

  "And this is Christmas, almost. I wonder what you'll be doing. Say,Ward, if you want to be a perfect jewel of a man, send me some of thatjerky you've got hanging at the head of your bunk. I swiped some, thatlast time I was there. It would taste mighty good to me now, after allthese hospital slops.

  "And write me a nice, long letter, won't you? That's a good buckaroo.I've got to stop--mommie is beginning to wake up, and it's time for thedoctor to come in and read the chart and look wise and say: 'Well, howare we to-day? Pretty bright, eh?' I'd like to kick him clear acrossthe corridor--that is, the Billy of me would. And believe me, theBilly of me is sure going to break out, some of these days!

  "I hope you like the neckerchief. I want you to wear it; if I comehome and find it hasn't been washed a couple of times, there'll besomething doing! Don't rub soap on it, kid. Make a warm lathery sudsand wash it. And don't wave it by the corners till it dries. Hang itup somewhere. You'll have my stitches looking worse frazzled than mytemper.

  "Well, a merry Christmas, Pal-o'-mine--and here's hoping you and mommieand I will be eating turkey together at the Wolverine when nextChristmas comes. Nummy-num! Wouldn't that taste good, though?

  "Now remember and write a whole tablet full to

  "WILLIAM LOUISA, "WILHEMINA, "BILL-LOO, "BILL-THE-CONK, "BILLY LOUISE, "FLOWER OF THE RANCH-OH."

  Phoebe put that letter on the mantel over the fireplace, the day afterChristmas. Frequently she felt its puffy softness and its cracklycrispness and wondered dully what Billy Louise had sent to Ward.

  Billy Louise refrained from expecting any reply until after New Year's.Then she began to look for a letter, and when the days passed andbrought her no word, her moods changed oftener than the weather.

  Ward's literary efforts, along about that time, consisted of cuttingnotches in the window-sill beside his bunk.

  On the day when the stage-driver gave Billy Louise's letter to Phoebe,Ward cut a deeper, wider notch, thinking that day was Christmas. Underthe notch he scratched a word with the point of his knife. It had fourletters, and it told eloquently of the state of mind he was in.

  It was the day after that when Seabeck and one of his men rode up thecreek and out into the field where Ward's cattle grazed apatheticallyon the little grass tufts that stuck up out of the snow. Ward wasreading, and so did not see them until he raised himself up to make acigarette and saw them going straight across the coulee by the linefence to the farther hills. He opened the window and shouted afterthem, but the wind was blowing keen from that direction, and they didnot hear him.

  Seabeck had been studying brands and counting, and he was telling FloydCarson that everything was straight as a string.

  "He must be out working this winter. I should think he'd stay home andfeed these calves. The cows are looking pretty thin. I guess he isn'tmuch of a stock hand; these nesters aren't, as a general thing, and ifit's as Junkins says, and he puts all he makes into this place, he'slikely hard up. Mighty nice little ranch he's got. Well, let's workover the divide and back that way. I didn't think we'd find anythinghere."

  They turned and angled up the steep hillside, and Ward watched themglumly. He thought he knew why they were prowling around the place,but it seemed to him that they might have stretched their curiosity alittle farther and investigated the cabin. He did not know that thesnow of a week ago was banked over the doorstep with a sharp, crustycombing at the top, to prove that the door had not been opened for sometime. Nor did he know that the two had ridden past the cabin on theother side of the creek and had seen how deserted the place looked; hadridden to the stable, noted there the unmistakable and permanent air ofemptiness, and had gone on.

  Floyd Carson alone might have prowled through both buildings, butSeabeck was a slow-going man of sober justice. He would not invade thepremises of another farther than he thought it necessary. He had heardwhispers that the fellow on Mill Creek might bear investigation, and hehad investigated. There was not a shadow of evidence that the Y6cattle had been gotten dishonestly. Therefore, Seabeck rode away anddid not look into the snow-banked cabin, as another man might havedone; and Ward missed his one chance of getting help from the outside.

  Of course, he was doing pretty well as it was; but he would havewelcomed the chance to talk to someone. Taciturn as Ward was with men,he had enough of his own company for once. And he would have askedthem to make him a cup of coffee and warm up the cabin once more.Little comforts of that sort he missed terribly. If the room had notbeen so clammy cold, he could have sat up part of the time, now. As itwas, he stayed in bed to keep warm; and even so he had been compelledto drag the two wolf-skins off the floor and upon the bed to keep fromshivering through the coldest nights and days.

  One day he did crawl out of bed and try to get over to the stove tostart a fire. But he was so weak that he gave it up and crawled backagain, telling himself that it was not worth the effort.

  The letter with the silk neckerchief inside gathered dust upon themantel, down at the Wolverine.
When the postmark was more than twoweeks old, another letter came, and Phoebe laid it on the fat one withfingers that trembled a little. Phoebe had a letter of her own, thatday. Both were thin, and the addresses were more scrawly than usual.Phoebe's Indian instinct warned her that something was amiss.

  This was Ward's letter:

  "Oh, God, Ward, mommie's dead. She died last night. I thought she wasasleep till the nurse came in at five o'clock. I'm all alone and Idon't know what to do. I wish you could come, but if you don't getthis right away, I'll see you at the ranch. I'm coming home as soon asI can. Oh, Ward, I hate life and God and everything. BILLY LOUISE."

  "Please Ward, stay at the ranch till I come. I want to see you. Ifeel as if you're the only friend I've got left, now mommie's gone.She looked so peaceful when they took her away--and so strange. Ididn't belong to her any more. I felt as if I didn't know her atall--and there is such an awful gap in my life--maybe you'llunderstand. You always do."

  The day that letter was written, Ward drew a plan of the house he meantto build some day, with a wide porch on the front, where a hammockwould swing comfortably. He figured upon lumber and shingles and rockfoundation, and mortar for a big, deep fireplace. He managed to put inthe whole forenoon planning and making estimates, and he was socheerful afterwards that he whistled and sang, and later he tied apiece of jerky on the end of a string and teased a fat fieldmouse,whose hunger made him venturesome. Ward would throw the jerky as faras the string would permit and wait till the mouse came out to nibbleat it; then he would pull the meat closer and closer to the bed andlaugh at the very evident perturbation of the mouse. For the timebeing he was a boy indulging his love of teasing something.

  And while Ward played with that mouse, Billy Louise was longing for hiscomforting presence while she faced alone one of the bitterest thingsin life--which is death. He had no presentiment of her need of him,which was just as well, since he was absolutely powerless to help her.