A Man in the Open Part 13

I could pick stars like apples. Here's me with my pipe and dog in my home, and my dear wife content. The Dook of London has no more, except frills. I hardly know whar to begin, 'cept whar I left off without mentioning how they run away. The ill.u.s.trious didn't have the nerve, so it was my lady who stole over to stable in the dead of night, and harnessed the team so silent I never woke. She drove off with her trunks, the puppy piano, and her swine, on a bitter night with eighty mile ahead before she'd get any help if things went wrong. She has the pure grit, my great thoroughbred lady, and it makes me feel real good to think of the way she followed her conscience along that unholy trail through the black pines.

By dawn she put up for breakfast at O'Flynn's. The widow had broke her leg reproaching a cow, and sent off her son to the carpenter at Hundred and Fifty Mile House to get the same repaired. Her bed was beside the stove, with cord-wood, water, and grub all within reach. It was real awkward though that the stove had petered out, and the water bucket froze solid while she slept, so she was expecting to be wafted before her son got home, when Kate arrived in time to save her from Heaven.

The signor volunteers to make fire and cook grub while Kate fed and watered the team, so my wife has the pleasure of chopping out a five-foot well at Bent Creek, while this unselfish cavalierio stayed in the house and got warm. Naturally he didn't know enough to light the stove, until the widow threw things, and he got the coal-oil. Then he disremembered how to soak the kindlings before he struck a match, so he lit the fuel first, then stood over pouring oil from the five-gallon can. When the fire lep' up into the can, of course he had to let go, and when he seen the cabin all in flames, he galloped off to the woods, leaving the Widow O'Flynn to burn comfy all by herself.

By the time Kate reaches the cabin, the open door is all flames; but, having the ice ax, she runs to the gable end, and hacks in through the window. The bed's burning quite brisk by then, but the widow has quit out, climbed to the window and gone to sleep with the smoke, so that Kate climbs in and alights on top of her sudden. The fire catches hold of my wife, but she swings the widow through the window, climbs out, lights on top of her again, then takes a roll in the snow.

When the ill.u.s.trious comes out of the woods to explain, d'ye think she'd listen? I can just see him explaining with dago English, paws, shoulders, and eyes. She leaves him explaining in front of the burning cabin. Three days from now young O'Flynn will ride home with his mother's limb tied to the saddle strings, and if the swine's alive then, he'll begin explaining again, though Billy's quick and fretful with his gun.

My wife humped this widow to the barn, and got warm clothes from her trunks for both of them. She fired out her baggage and the puppy piano, bedded down the widow in clean hay, hitched up the team, and hit the trail for home.

She hadn't a mile to go before she met me, and what with the smoke from O'Flynn's, the widow in the rig, and the complete absence of the swine, I'd added up before she reined her team. She would want to cry in my arms.

So she's in bed here, her burns dressed with oil from a bear who held me up once on the Sky-line trail. It's good oil. The widow's asleep in my cabin, and I'm right to home with this letter wrote to you, Mother. I guess you know, Mummy, why me and my pipe and my dog are welcome now, which you've lived in your time and loved.

So hoping you're in Heaven, as this leaves me at present.

Yr. affect. son, JESSE.

CHAPTER VI

ROBBERY-UNDER-ARMS

_Kate's Narrative_

We have started a visitor's book. It opens with press cuttings of interviews with Professor Bohns, the famous archaeologist, who came to examine the paleolithic deposits at South Cave. Next are papers relating to a summons for a.s.sault, brought by the late Mr. Trevor against J.

Smith. There is a letter from a big game hunter, Sir Turner Rounde, who came up the canon collecting specimen pelts of _ursus horribilis_, which Jesse maintains is not a grizzly bear. But the gem of our collection is a letter of lengthy explanation from an eminent Italian cur, who spent a whole month at the ranch last winter. n.o.body is more hospitable, or more hungry for popularity than my dear man, but I think that special prayers should be offered for his visitors. He has a motto now:--"Love me: love my bear, not my missus."

My jealous hero has told the story of an old admirer, once my fellow-student, who brought me a dumpy piano for which I had so starved, told me the news, talked shop, and would make me a prima donna--my life's ambition. The trap was well baited. Lonely, and terrified by the dread majesty of winter, I craved for the lights, for the crowds, for my home, for my people, for my art. And there are little things besides which mean so much to a woman.

Salvator turned out to be a cur, his mission despicable, and yet no woman born can ever be without some little tenderness for one whose love misleads him. And I who sought to read a lesson to poor Jesse, learned one for myself. I am no longer free, but fettered, and proud of the chains, Love's chains, worth more to me than that lost world.

And yet I wonder if in Heaven there are blessed but weak little souls like mine, which grow weary at times of the harps, chafed by their crowns of glory, bored to tears with bliss, ready to give it all up just for a nice gossip. That would be human.

Where spring has come like a visitation of angels, where winter's loneliness is changing to summer's happy solitude, I look into mirror pools, and see contentment. Oh, how can civilized people realize the wonder and glamour of this paradise? Up in the black pines it is winter still, but all our towered, bayed, sculptured, sunny precipice is alive with flowers and birds, while the slopes at the foot of the wall are white with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower canon the trees are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us, and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown up.

Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip, could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather dangerous.

One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new gra.s.s, Mrs. O'Flynn was redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter, spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.

Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs.

O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!

Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.

From chivalrous respect for women--the species being rare on the stock range--cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, to inquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters beyond their concern.

In the cattle country a visitor asked to dismount, makes camp or house his home, never suggesting by word or glance a doubt that he is welcome to water, pasturage, food, shelter, and warmth, so long as he needs to stay. I had not invited this man to dismount.

Judged by these signs--chivalry, reticence, courtesy--Mrs. O'Flynn's guest was not a cow-boy. His florid manners, exaggerated politeness, and imitation of our middle-cla.s.s English speech stamped him bounder, but not of the British breed. Later, in moments of excitement, he spoke New York, with a tw.a.n.g of music-hall.

Even in so lonely a place it is curious to remember that such a person should appeal to me. Still in his common way the man had beauty, carried his clothes well, moved with grace. So much the artist in me saw and liked, but I think no woman could have seen those tragic eyes without being influenced.

"Ah! Mrs. Smith, I believe?" He stood uncovered. "May I venture to ask if your husband is at home? I think I had the pleasuah of knowing him years ago down in Texas."

"He'll be back by noon."

"Thank you, madam. Fact is, we were very much surprised to see your chimney smoke. We thought this exquisite place was quite unoccupied.

Indeed!"

"Who's 'we'?"

"Oh, we're the outfit riding for General Schmidt. We've come in search of the spring feed. We were informed that Ponder's place was unoccupied, open to all. Am I mistaken in supposing that this is Ponder's place?"

"It is."

"Er--may I venture to ask if your husband holds squatter's rights, or has the homestead and preemption?"

"You may ask my husband."

"Thank you, madam. Our foreman instructed me to say that if the place proved to be occupied, I was to ask terms for pasturage. We've only two hundred head."

"Mr. Smith will consider the matter."

"We're camped in a little cave at the south end of the bench, deuced comfortable."

Of course I know I'm a fool, and expect to be treated as such. But this man claimed to have camped at the South Cave without pa.s.sing this house, which was impossible.

"Camped at South Cave?" said I. "In that event I need not detain you.

Mr. Smith no doubt will call on you after dinner. Good morning, sir."

But this was not to his mind, and I gathered vaguely that my husband was not really wanted at the Bar Y camp. I even suspected that this visitor would rather deal with me than see my husband. It required more than a hint to secure his departure.

Jesse returned at noon. He had set off singing, but at dinner he was so thoughtful that he never even noticed my ca.s.serole, a dish he was expected to enjoy, and when he tried afterward to light an empty pipe, I saw that there was something wrong. He received the story of our caller with the noises of one displeased. "That visitor, Kate," he summed up, "would make a first-cla.s.s stranger. Knew me, you say, in Texas?"

Hearing from her kitchen Mrs. O'Flynn's sharp grunt of dissent, I closed the door.

"You've left the key-hole open," said Jesse, rising from the table, "come for a walk."

"Now, Kate dear," Jesse sat down beside me on the Apex Rock, "this morn you got your first lesson in robbers. How would you like a visit to old Cap Taylor at Hundred Mile?"

My voice may have quivered just a little. "Danger?" I asked.

"I dunno as there's actual danger, but if I jest _knowed_ you was safe, I'd be free to act prompt."