The Project Gutenberg EBook of ATenderfoot Bride, by Clarice E. Richards

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Title: A Tenderfoot Bride Tales from an Old Ranch

Author: Clarice E. Richards

Release Date: April 12, 2013 [EBook#42507]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKA TENDERFOOT BRIDE ***

Produced by Roger Frank and Sue Clark

PIKE’S PEAK FROM THE OLD RANCH

A TENDERFOOT BRIDE

BY

CLARICE E. RICHARDS

GARDEN CITY—NEW YORK

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY1927

COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY CLARICE E.RICHARDS. ALL

RIGHTS RESERVED. PRINTED IN THEUNITED STATES

AT THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS,GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

To the Onewhose Companionship, Inspiration and

Encouragement have madethis book possible

My Husband

CONTENTS

I. First ImpressionsII. A Surprise PartyIII. The Root CellarIV. The Great Adventure ProgressesV. The Government ContractVI. A Variety of RunawaysVII. The Measure of a ManVIII. The Sheep BusinessIX. The UnexpectedX. Around the Christmas FireXI. TedXII. BlizzardsXIII. Echoes of the Past

ILLUSTRATIONS

Pike’s Peak from the Old RanchRoping and Cutting Out CattleRoping a Steer to Inspect BrandInspecting a BrandThe “Star” is a Frightened, Snorting“Broncho”Trailed All the Way from New MexicoLike a Solitary Fence PostBucking Horse and RiderFacing Death Each Time They Ride aNew Horse

A TENDERFOOT BRIDE

I—FIRST IMPRESSIONS

When our train left Colorado Springs andheaded out into those vast stretches of theprairie, which spread East like a greatgreen ocean from the foot of Pike’s Peak,all the sensations of ChristopherColumbus setting sail for a new world,and a few peculiarly my own, mingled inmy breast.

As the train pounded along I stole a lookat Owen. He was absorbed in thecontemplation of a map of our newholdings. Under that calm exterior Isuspected hidden attributes of theprimitive man. Certainly there was some

reason why Western life was to his liking,having had the chance to choose.

It was late in the afternoon when we foundourselves on the platform of the solitarylittle wayside station. The train wentrushing on through the July sunshine, as ifimpatient at the stop. Our fellowpassengers had drawn their heads backfrom the car windows, after vainly tryingto see what apparently sane people couldfind to stop for in a place like that. Intruth, there was little—a water tank, asection house, two cottages and one store.

A combination station-agent and baggage-man stood on the platform. Near a hitchingrack a tall individual was waving his longarms about like a windmill as hebeckoned us to approach. Owen picked up

the bags; I trudged along behind withvarious coats and packages, stoppingmidway between platform and wagon todisengage a large tumbleweed, which hadrolled merrily to my feet and attacheditself to my skirt.

The tall man took a few steps in ourdirection, still holding the reins in hishand. With one eye he gave us a greeting,while he kept the other on the lunginghorses. He was hardly a prepossessingperson at first sight, except for his smile. Ifelt that his keen black eyes had sized usup in one quick glance. I becameblushingly conscious of being a newbride, and from “the East.”

“How-de-do? Whoa, now, Brownie. Justget in folks,—the old man had to go to

town, so he sent me to meet you, but he’llbe back by the time we get to the ranch.”All this in one breath, while he helpedOwen place the bags in the wagon.

“Don’t mind the horses; they’re plumbgentle—just a little excited now over thetrain, that’s all. Whoa now,” with decidedemphasis. “Sorry, Mrs. Brook, hope youdidn’t hurt yourself”—this last as thehorses suddenly backed and knocked myfoot off the step. “Oh, no, not at all,” Ireplied, hastily scrambling into the wagonand thanking heaven that I had landed onthe seat before they gave an unexpectedlurch forward. Owen got in beside thedriver; the horses reared and started off. Igripped the seat and my hat, and fastenedmy eyes on the horses’ ears. When we had

crossed the railroad and the movementwas more steady, I began to “take notice”of things about me, and the conversationgoing on in the front seat reached me infragments.

The driver said he was called “Tex.” Hewas a true son of Texas, and it was notdifficult to imagine that particles of hisnative soil still clung to him. The deepcreases in his neck were so filled withdirt that he looked like a charcoal sketch.As he turned his face, lined and seamed, Isaw that his chin was covered with atleast a week’s growth of greyish-blackbeard. I estimated his age. He might havebeen fifty; very quick in speech andaction, yet there was a subdued powerabout the man. He managed the horses

easily, and I caught in his drawling speecha casual, half-bantering tone.

“Wonder if them grips is botherin’ theMissus. Ridin’ all right?” he asked,turning with solicitude to see the locationof the bags. As it happened, they were alllocated on top of my feet. It was Owenwho removed them, for Tex’s attentionwas again engaged with Brownie, whosuddenly landed quite outside the road. Acotton-tail had jumped from behind arattleweed.

“Quit that now, Brownie. You never didhave no sense.” The drawl was half-sarcastic. “’Pears like you ain’t neverseen no rabbits before, ’stead a bein’raised with ’em.” Brownie gave a littleshake of her pretty head and crowded her

long-suffering mate back into the roadagain. I was becoming very muchinterested. This man was a distinctly newtype to me. I did not know then that he wasthe old-time cow-puncher, with an ease ofmanner a Chesterfield might have envied,and an unfailing, almost deferential,courtesy toward women.

Never shall I forget that first drive acrossthe prairie,—not a house, not a tree insight, except where the cottonwoodstraced the borders of a waterless creek.Gently rolling hills were all about us,instead of the flat country I had expectedto see; hills which failed to revealanything when we reached the top, but yethigher hills to climb. An unexpectedvastness seemed to extend to the very

boundaries of the unknown, as we lookedabout on all sides, only to see the softgreen circle of the hills, on which thebluest of skies gently rested, sweep aboutus. I felt the spell of unlimited space, andsmiled as I thought of the tearful farewellof one of my bridesmaids. She had“hated” to think of my being “cooped upon a ranch.” “Cooped up” here, when forthe first time I realized what unhamperedfreedom might mean in a country left asGod had made it, with so little trace ofman’s interference!

At last we came to a gate made of threestrands of barbed wire, fastened togetherin the middle and attached to a stick ateach end. It was a real gate when up, butwhen opened, it was a floppy invention of

the Evil One, designed to tax the patienceof a saint. The strands of wire got mixedand crossed and grew perceptibly shorter,so that it required superhuman strength andsomething of a disposition to get the endof the stick through the loop of wire,which held it in place again.

This gate marked the Southern boundary ofthe ranch, ten miles from the railroadstation. We reached the top of a hill andlooked up a long valley, where the creekwound its way, fringed by greatcottonwood trees, until its source was lostbehind three prominent buttes, purple inthe haze of the late afternoon. Beyond thebuttes stood Pike’s Peak, snow-cappedand alone, guardian of the valley, thewhole length of which it commanded.

Through some peculiarity of position allthe other peaks of the Rockies remainedinvisible, while this one mountain rose inmajestic isolation from the plain.

Tex stopped the horses for a moment, andwithout a word pointed with the whiptoward a clump of cottonwoods in thedistance.

“The ranch?” I asked.

He nodded.

In the beautiful valley it stood, the whitefences, corrals and outbuildings gleamingin the sun. Nestled among the trees,planted so densely that only a suggestionof its white walls showed between them,was the house—our first home!

As we drove up to the gate, a short man,

with a thick beard, bustled out to meet us.

“Well, here you are! Got here all right.Sorry I couldn’t meet you. Come right in.You must be tired settin’.” And before wequite realized that we had arrived, wewere ushered into the house through theback door.

As a matter of fact, there was no frontdoor. Two outside doors opened into thekitchen, one on either side, and since thekitchen was in truth the “living-room,”what need of a front door?

A placid-faced, elderly woman greetedus, and after a few moments conducted usup a crooked stairway to a room under theeaves.

Owen left hastily “to look around

outside,” and I followed as quickly aspossible for I knew that if I looked aroundinside for any length of time, I should startback to the railroad station on foot.

Old Mr. and Mrs. Bohm had lived on theplace for over thirty years in this house,which was the evolution of a dug-out, withmany subsequent periods in prospectbefore it became a possible home. Mrs.Bohm had recently been having “faintingspells,” which frightened her husband intoa plan to dispose of the ranch and live intown.

It was a wonderful ranch. Acres on acresof richest grass, a wealth of hay land andnatural water holes,—a paradise forstock. To poor homesick me, this placehad no suggestion of paradise. It looked

run down and disorderly; the fencesaround the house were adorned witheverything from old battered tin bucketsand mowing-machine wheels to thesmallest piece of rusty wire. Mrs. Bohmconfided to me that “James liked it thatway because everything was so handy.”There was no questioning that, but as afirst impression it was hopeless, and myheart grew heavier and heavier as Ithought of the new house in Wyoming,where we had expected to be, and theEastern home I had just left.

I walked out of sight of the festoonedfence and tried to think. Up the valley thePeak was deep blue against the goldenevening sky, and in the vast, unbrokensilence of the prairies I felt the sense of

chaos and confusion give way to peace.The old house, tumble-down fences,mowing machine wheels and wire took aninconsequent place in the scale of thingscompared to Owen’s undertaking. Hemust succeed. The undesirable could beremoved or made over. We were in a newworld, we had a great domain, we facedundreamed of experiences andpossibilities. My spirits rose with abound, and I resolved from that moment toconsider our life here in the West, in themidst of new conditions, a greatadventure. At that instant the originalBohm dug-out would have held no terrorsfor me.

Perhaps if I had known just how great theadventure was to be, what varied and

nerve-testing experiences the future didhold, I might have been daunted; but witha farewell look at the Peak and a newsense of strength and courage, I went tomeet Owen. I realized that he knew thepossibilities of the place and that theconditions would all soon be changed, andI knew, too, that he was distressed at therealization of how it must all appear tome. He looked troubled, as he cametoward me.

“Can you stand it for a little while?” heasked.

“Of course, I can,” I replied, cheerfully,blindly taking the first step toward thegreat adventure.

“It’s all right, dear; it’s going to bewonderful, living here.”

Mr. and Mrs. Bohm, Tex and six bashfulcow-punchers were in the kitchen waitingfor us before they sat down to supper. Wewere presented to the men, and inacknowledgment of the introductionreceived a fleeting glance from six pairsof diffident eyes and a quick jerk from sixslickly brushed heads.

Mrs. Bohm took her seat at the foot of thelong oil-cloth-covered table, and old Mr.Bohm sat at the head. Fortunate for me thatOwen and I sat side by side. If onceduring that meal I had caught his eye, Ishould have disgraced myself forever.

Except old Bohm, no one said anything.Indeed, no one had a chance, for he talkedall the time, telling stories, cracking jokesat which he laughed immoderately,

interspersing his conversation with wavesof his fork, with which from time to timehe reflectively combed his beard. I couldnot take my eyes off him; there was aweird fascination in following themovements of that fork. It was presciencewhich led me to do so, for old Bohmsuddenly ceased using it as a toilet articleand jabbed it into a piece of meat, whichhe held out toward me.

“Here, Mrs. Brook, have some more beef.I’ve been talkin’ along here and cleanforgot you folks must be hungry.” I assuredhim I couldn’t eat another bite. It was themost truthful statement of my life.

That night I lay awake for hours, thinkingover the day’s experiences, andincidentally trying to find a spot on the

mattress where a lump did not threaten topress a rib out of place. At last I fellasleep, to be suddenly awakened by theslam of a gate under our window,followed by an exclamation which floatedup out of the grey dawn: “By hell, but thisis a fine day.” Then came the squeak of thepump handle, as old Bohm performed hismorning ablutions, more slams of the gate,and more salutations of the same order invarying phraseology, but always beginningwith “By hell.”

Shades of my ministerial ancestors! Wasthis the language of the new country inwhich we had come to live? Surely thegreat adventure promised startlingsensations at the outset, to say nothing of acertain sliding scale of standards.

Owen stirred and asked sleepily what onearth I was doing up at that hour of theday.

“Changing my viewpoint,” I replied,looking out toward old Bohm’s shadowyfigure on its way toward the corral. “Thathas to be done early.”

II—A SURPRISE PARTY

We were living in the land of theunexpected. Six weeks on the ranchdemonstrated that. The possibilities forsurprise were inexhaustible, and theprobabilities innumerable and certain, ifOwen happened to be away.

On one of these occasions the cook elopedwith the best rider on the place, morethrilling and upsetting to my peace of mindthan the cloud-burst and flood thatfollowed soon after. Twenty-two huskyand hungry men wanted three square mealsa day, and one inexperienced bride stoodbetween them and starvation. The situation

was mutually serious.

In my need came help. Tex, our coachmanon that first drive, saved the day. Shortlyafter the elopement he came in forsupplies for the cow-camp. I was almosthidden by pans of potatoes, and wasparing away endlessly. He was very quietwhen I explained, but after supper hegathered up the dishes to wash them forme, looking very serious. When he hadfinished, he suddenly turned to me:

“Say, Mrs. Brook, I’ve just been studyin’.Jack Brent kin cook for the boys out atcamp all right, and if you kin stand it, I kincome in and cook for you. It sure got mygoat to see you rastlin’ with them potatoesand wearin’ yourself out cookin’ for thesehere men.”

Good old Tex! That was little short ofsaintly. Camp cooking where he wasautocrat was far more to his taste. Hehated “messin’ ’round where there waswomen,” as he expressed it. Here wassacrifice indeed! Tex scrubbed his handsuntil they fairly bled, enveloped himself ina large checked gingham apron, andproceeded to act as chef until the eloperhad been replaced.

Something deepened in me. I was seeing anew thing.

Owen had been gone nearly a week. Onemorning I happened to be in the kitchenwhen Mrs. Bohm entered. Casually sheasked Tex whether Ed More’s wife hadleft him before he went to jail, or after hegot out. Half in joke, I said:

“Mercy, Mrs. Bohm, is there a man in thiscountry, with the exception of Tex, whohasn’t been in jail or on the way there?”

I was interrupted by the slamming of adoor, and Tex had vanished. Mrs. Bohmlooked embarrassed as she replied:

“I just hate to tell you, Mrs. Brook, andTex would feel terrible to have you know;but you say such queer things sometimes,I’d better tell you now that Tex”—shepaused a moment—“he’s only been out ofthe ‘pen’ himself a year.”

“Tex in the penitentiary? What on earthfor?” I was almost dazed.

ROPING AND CUTTING OUT CATTLE

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Mrs. Bohm began thestory with apparent reluctance, but hermanner soon betrayed a certain zest. “Yousee, about four years ago Tex was workin’for a man up on Crow Creek and tooksome cattle on to Omaha to sell for him.When he came back he never brought acent of money, and told how he had been

held up and robbed. Everybody believedit at first, then all to onct his family—theylive over West—began to dress to kill,and Tex bought brass beds for every roomin the house; then folks began to suspicionwhere he got the money, and he was sentto the Pen for two years.”

Poor old Tex! Who would ever havesupposed a secret longing for brass bedswould prove his undoing? I might haveguessed horses or cards, but never brassbeds. I almost felt the breath of tragedy.She seemed sweeping by.

Mrs. Bohm went on: “Tex’s mighty goodto his family, though, and it most killedhim when his wife went off with aMexican sheep-herder while he was doin’time. She’s back home now with the girls,

but her and Tex’s separated. Ain’t it afright the way women acts?”

“It certainly is,” I agreed, trying toreconcile my previous idea of convictswith having one for a cook. It wasdreadfully confusing and disturbing. Inspite of what I had just heard, I knew Itrusted Tex. He would never steal from us,I felt sure. And my instinct told me hewould be a true and loyal friend. Therewas no apparent excuse for what he haddone, but he had paid for his moment ofweakness more fully perhaps than anyonerealized. I pondered over it.

Presently he came in, with a curious,troubled expression on his face. I gavehim the orders, as usual, with no sign ofhaving heard of the cloud under which he

had lived for three miserable years. Ourrelations were re-established. I could seehis relief.

We were still taking our meals in thekitchen, although the house was graduallybeing remodeled. It was Saturday evening,and we were expecting Owen home.There was an air of suppressed excitementamong the men. One, and then another,bolted from the table and out of the door,returning in a shame-faced manner toexplain that he “thought he heeredsomethin’.” Certainly Owen’s comingwould never produce such a sensation,unless he was expected to arrive in anairship. I was more than ever mystified.

After the meal was over, there was such ageneral shaving—also in the kitchen—and

such donning of red neckties, that I couldnot restrain my curiosity. I called Texaside and asked him where they weregoing. He looked a little sheepish, as hereplied:

“Why, we ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Then in aburst of confidence, “I don’t know as I’dorter tell you, but the fact is, you folks isgoin’ to be surprised; all the folks ’roundis goin’ to have a party here, and we’reexpectin’ ’em.”

I gasped. A sudden suspicion flashedthrough my mind.

“Tex, did you plan this? What on earthshall I do?”

Tex saw I was really troubled. “Why,Mrs. Brook,” he said, “you don’t have to

do nothin’. Just turn the house over to ’em,and along about midnight I’ll make somecoffee—they’ll bring baskets.”

I was relieved to know that they onlywanted the house, and would provide theirown refreshments, for it was appalling tobe an impromptu hostess to an entirecommunity and to speculate upon thepossibility of one small cold roast andchocolate cake satisfying a crowd ofyoung people, after drives of thirty milesor more across the prairie.

“Me and the boys”—Tex spoke somewhatapologetically, as he started toward thedoor—“we kind a thought maybe you andMr. Brook would like to get acquainted,seem’s how you’re goin’ to live here; but Iguess we oughten to have did what we

done.”

I felt ashamed of my momentaryperturbation, as the force of that lastsentence of Tex’s reached me. These menof the plains were as simple and sensitiveas children about many things. They wouldreally grieve if they felt this affair,planned solely on our account, gave us nopleasure. I hastened to reassure him.

“It was mighty nice of you men to think ofit,” I said, cheerfully. “We do want toknow the people in the country, and weare going to enjoy every moment. I was‘surprised’ before the party began, that’sall.”

Tex went out satisfied, grinning broadly.

To my good fortune, Owen arrived before

the guests came. I told him what was aboutto befall us. His expression was dubious.All he said was “Thunder.”

Owen and one of the men had been drivingabout the country all the week, buyinghorses suitable to turn in on a Governmentcavalry contract. The night before they hadspent on the floor of a cold railroadstation, wrapped up in their blankets, witha lighted lantern under the covering attheir feet. Their sleep was somewhatbroken, with either cremation or freezingpending that cold September night. PoorOwen! He was completely worn out. Andnow he had to go through a surprise party.

At eight o’clock, Tex, self-appointedmaster of ceremonies, ushered in the firstarrivals. They were a tall, lean chap and

two very much be-curled young misses. Imade trials without number atconversation, but they could only beinduced to say “Yes” and “No.”

From eight until ten they came,—ranchmen, cow-punchers, ex-cow-punchers running their own outfits, infantcow-punchers, girls and women, untilkitchen and sitting room were filled tooverflowing, and every chair and benchon the place in use. Among the last toarrive was a tall, languid Texan,accompanied by two languid, drab-colored women. They were presented tous as “Robert, Missus Reed and Maggie.”“Maggie,” I immediately concluded, wasa sister, but not being quite certain, Isought enlightenment from Mrs. Bohm.

“She ain’t Reed’s sister,” she informedme in a low tone, “she’s his girl.”

“Oh, works for them, you mean?” I said,somewhat puzzled by the Reedconnections.

“Works nothin’,” Mrs. Bohm replied,scornfully. “She’s got the next place to’em and goes with ’em everywhere. Elladon’t seem to mind. I’d just call herMaggie’ if I was you,” and Mrs. Bohmdeparted to join a group of women nearthe door.

I looked over at the two with a newinterest. They were chatting and laughingtogether, the “girl” and the wife seeminglyon the best of terms, with no sign ofrivalry for the tall Texan’s affections.Here was a situation fraught with latent

possibilities that made me tremble, yet—“Ella don’t seem to mind.”

The kitchen had been converted into aballroom by moving the table up againstthe wall and placing three chairs upon it.Unfortunately the sink and stove werefixtures, but everything else, including thebread jar, found a temporary resting placein the yard.

Old Bohm, with his fiddle under his arm,gingerly ascended the table first. Thenanother man followed with a similarinstrument; and last came a youth with amouth harp. No fatality having resultedfrom the musicians taking their seats, thedancing began.

The music, if such a combination ofsounds can be dignified by that name, was

such as to defy description. Never in thewildest flights of fancy could I haveconceived of such execution and suchsounds. The two men sawed their violins,and the third was purple in the face fromhis efforts on the mouth-harp; all werestamping time with their feet, and he of theharp was slapping his knee with hisunoccupied hand.

Before every dance a council was held,after which each musician would play thetune decided upon, as best suited to histaste. Old Bohm tried to get to the end inthe shortest time possible, while thesecond fiddler, taking things moreseriously, finished four or five barsbehind his companion. The harpist, notplaying “second” to anything or anybody,

had his own opinion as to how “A HotTime in the Old Town” should go. Withthese independent views, the result was aseries of the most discordant sounds thatever fell on mortal ears. However, musicmattered little, for all had come to have agood time, and the “caller-out,” with botheyes shut tight and arms folded across hisbreast, was making himself heard aboveall other sounds.

“Birdie in the center and all handsaround!” he commanded. Then fiddles andmouth harp began a wild jig, couplesraced ’round and ’round, while “Birdie,”a blond and blushing maiden, stoodpatiently in the midst of the whirlingcircle, until the next order came:

“Birdie hop out and Crow hop in!Take holt of paddies and run around agin.”

“Crow” was a broad, heavy-set cow-puncher, wearing chaps, and in theendeavor to “run around agin,” I found myprogress somewhat impeded by his spurs,which caught in my skirt and very nearlyupset me.

All the riders wore their heavy boots andspurs, and it required real agility to avoidbeing stepped on or having one’s skirt tornto ribbons. I was devoutly thankful thatchiffon and tulle ball gowns were notworn on ranches.

There was more to avoid than spurs. Wehad to dance about the kitchen and avoidthe stove, the sink and the tabled

musicians, to say nothing of the nails in thefloor. But after a few hours’ practice, Ibegan to feel qualified to waltz on top ofthe House of the Seven Gables, and avoidat least six of them.

Finally, the caller-out shouted loudly:

“Allemande, Joe! Right hand to pardnerand around you go.

Balance to corners, don’t be slack;Turn right around and take a back track.When you git home, don’t be afraid,Swing her agin and all promenade.”

My partner obeyed every command withsuch vigor that when at last he led me tomy seat I was panting and dizzy; nor had Iquite recovered my breath when the musicstruck up again, and Tex led me forth.

The exertion of the first quadrille hadbeen too much for his comfort, so he haddispensed with both collar and coat. Histrousers and vest bore evidence of havingseen many a round-up, and his shirt, whichhad once been white, was now multi-colored. In the wonderful red ascot tiewhich encircled his neck were stuck fourscarf-pins, one above the other. Therebeing nothing to hold the loop of the tie inplace, it gradually worked up the back ofhis head, until its progress was stopped bythe edge of a small skull-cap, which Texwore as the crowning feature of hiscostume. The cap, tilted slightly to oneside, gave him a rakish appearance, quitein contrast with his air of importance andresponsibility.

I danced—my head fairly spins when Ithink how I danced—for, since the partywas given in our honor, dance I must withevery man who asked me.

Owen, not being a dancing man, madehimself agreeable to the wall-flowers andthe children, stealing upstairs about oncean hour for a few moments’ nap on thebedroom floor. The beds themselves wereoccupied by sleeping infants, whosemothers were going through the intricatemazes of those dances below.

At one o’clock Tex began to make thecoffee, whereupon the musiciansdescended from the table, and theexpectant party sat down. But where weretheir baskets? My heart sank, as Texapproached holding a very small one. He

informed me in a stage whisper it was allthere was!

The basket contained a cake and one weechick, evidently fried soon after leavingthe shell. It was the smallest chicken Iever saw. I hastily produced our cake androast, and then took one despairing lookaround at the forty individuals to be fed. Ishall never be able to explain it, unlessTex had an Aladdin’s lamp concealed inhis pocket, for cake, roast and chickenappeared to be inexhaustible, and thesupply more than equaled the demand.

I was aroused from my contemplation ofthe miracle by a feminine voice, thespeaker saying half to herself and half tome:

“It took me most two hours to iron Nell’s

dress this mornin’, but I sure got a pretty‘do’ on it.” Following her beamingglance, I found that it rested on a mass ofruffles, which adorned the dress of“Birdie” of that first quadrille. Just thenthe music began again, and I saw Ed Layask her to dance. I trusted, after all thatwork, the ‘do’ wouldn’t be undone by hisspurs; still the effort had not been wasted,for this was the fifth time he had dancedwith her.

No doting mother could have taken morepride in the debut of an only child, thanthis work-worn sister whose eyessparkled as they followed “Birdie’s”whirling figure held firmly by theencircling arm of the cow-puncher, andshe murmured softly with a half sigh,

“Ain’t it grand?” To me it was “grand”indeed, that even an embryo romancecould bring a new light to those tired eyes.

It was six o’clock Sunday morning whenone most thoughtful person suggested that“they’d orter be goin’”; and by seven thelast guest had departed. Then Owen and I,weary and heavy-eyed, donned our wraps,climbed into the wagon, and started on asixteen-mile drive to the railroad to meethis brother, who was coming fromCalifornia to see “how we were makingit.”

I was almost too tired to speak, but onethought was struggling for expression, andas we started up the first long hill, I had tosay:

“Anyone who ever spoke of the ‘peace

and quiet of ranch life’ lived in New Yorkand dreamed about it. In twenty-four hoursI have discovered that we have an ex-convict for a trusted cook, and havereceived as guests a man with his wifeand resident affinity. We have had asurprise party and I have danced with allthe blemished characters the countryboasts of, until six o’clock in the morningof the Sabbath day, with never a qualm ofconscience. What do you suppose hasbecome of my moral standards?”

Owen was amused. He asked me,quizzically, what I thought they would beby the end of a year.

“Mercy!” I replied, “at the rate they arebeing overthrown, there won’t be enoughleft to consider, unless”—I thought a

moment—“unless I can reconstruct a moreenduring set from parts of the old.”

III—THE ROOT CELLAR

“East is East and West is West, and neverthe twain shall meet.” The phrase kepthaunting me all through these first dayswhen everything was so new and strange.I almost felt as though I had passed into anew phase of existence.

Except for Owen, there was no point ofcontact between the world of cities andpeople I had just left and this land of cattleand cow-punchers, bounded by the sky-rimmed hills. In Owen, however, the Eastand the West did meet. He understood andbelonged to both and adapted himself aseasily to the one as to the other. Wearing

his derby, he belonged to the life of theEast; in his broad-brimmed Stetson, hewas a living part of the West.

The compelling reality of this new lifeaffected me deeply. Non-essentialscounted for nothing. There were noartificial problems or values.

No one in the country cared who youmight have been or who you were. TheMayflower and Plymouth Rock meantnothing here. It would be thought you werespeaking of some garden flowers or somebreed of chickens.

The one thing of vital importance waswhat you were—how you adjustedyourself to meet conditions as you foundthem, and how nearly you reached, or howfar you fell below their measure of man or

woman.

I felt as though up to this time I had beenin life’s kindergarten, but that I had nowentered into its school, and I realized thatonly as I passed the given tests should Isucceed.

I learned much from the rough, untutoredmen with whom I was in dailyassociation. They were men whose rulesof conduct were governed by individualchoice, unhampered by conventions. Theywere so direct and honest, so unfailinglykind and gentle toward any weaker thing,and so simple and responsive, that I likedand trusted them from the first. All but oldBohm, the man from whom we werebuying. He was such a totally differenttype that he seemed a man apart. The son

of a German father and an Irish mother, hehad inherited a nature too complex andcontradictory to be easily fathomed.

Mrs. Bohm, with her white, calm face andgentle voice, attracted me, but her husbandaroused in both Owen and me aninstinctive distrust. He was good naturepersonified, a most companionableperson, with his easy, contagious laugh,his amusing stories, quick wit, and breezyair of good fellowship. He could quoteBurns, Scott, and other poets by the hour,and fiddle away on his violin, until wewere nearly moved to tears. He wasalmost too good-natured; he didn’t quitering true. I noticed that while he alwaysreferred or spoke to his wifeaffectionately, as “my old mammy,” her

attitude toward him was ratherimpersonal. She called him “James” withquiet dignity, but seldom talked with him,and appeared to take very little interest.

On the side of a hill, some distance fromthe house, was an old root cellar, used,according to Bohm, for storing potatoes,turnips, and other vegetables for winter. Itwas most inconveniently located; therewere hillsides much nearer, andconsidering that the cellar under the housewas always used for such purposes, itseemed strange that another should beneeded so far away. I was possessed witha desire to explore it. It suggested hiddentreasures and Indian relics, which I wascollecting. One day I was poised on thetop of the cellar step, about to descend

into its mysterious depths.

Old Bohm appeared. “Was you lookin’ forsomething’?” he asked, somewhat out ofbreath.

“Oh, no,” I replied, going down a fewsteps. “I was just exploring, and thought Iwould investigate this old root cellar.”

“I thought that was what you was goin’ todo, and I hurried up to tell you to be awfulcareful of rattlesnakes; there’s a pile of’em ’round these here old cellars.” Bohmspoke with apparent solicitude.

“Heavens! I wouldn’t go down there foranything!” I exclaimed,—and I got out ofthe cellarway as quickly as possible.

Old Bohm looked down the steps at thestrong, closed door of heavy boards.

“Oh, maybe it would be all right. Youcould listen for ’em and jump, if you heard’em rattle,” he remarked, casually.

I shook my head. “Not much; I don’t wantto hear them rattle,” and I started towardthe house.

Bohm went up toward the wind-mill. As Iturned away I caught a curious expressionon his face—a faint gleam of something.

As I came through the meadow gate, Owenwas getting into the buggy.

“Hello,” he called, “I’ve been looking foryou everywhere. I have to drive over toThree Bar. Do you want to go?”

I was always ready to go anywhere, sowhile Owen was driving the horses about,I ran in to get my hat.

Not one of our horses was thoroughlybroken, so we always had to follow thesame method of procedure before startinganywhere. After the horses were hitchedup, Charley, to whom fell odd jobs ofevery sort, stood at their heads until Owenwas fairly seated and had the lines firmlyin his hands. Then, after a few ineffectualattempts to kick or run down Charleybefore he could get out of the way, offdashed the horses around and around theopen space between the house and thepond, until a little of the edge had beentaken off their spirits. Then Owen stoppedthem for one moment, I made a quick jumpinto the buggy, and away we went at topspeed toward the gate that Charley had runto open. We usually missed the post by aquarter of an inch, and at that juncture I

invariably shut my eyes and held mybreath.

The road to Three Bar Ranch led to theNorth and wound up a very long hill, thenacross a rolling mesa. The prairie wascovered with short grama grass, justturning a faint brown, the yellowsunflowers and great clumps ofrattleweed, with its spikes of lovelypurple, giving a touch of color to the scenebefore us. The Spanish bayonet dotted thehillsides, and over all hung the summersky like burnished copper. The onlysound, aside from that of the horses’ hoofsand the crunch of the wheels on the softprairie road, was the occasional song ofthe meadow lark, all the joy of the summerday sounding in its one short thrilling note.

In the gulches, where the grass grew deepand rank, the wind tossed it softly, and itrippled and sparkled in the shifting light,as water gleams in the sun. Everythingwas so still that animation seemed for thetime suspended, as we drove alongsilenced by the spell of the prairies.

Three Bar, one of the oldest ranches in thecountry, stood against the side of a hill. Itwas a long, low structure of logs built inthe prevailing fashion of the early ranchhouses, room after room opening into oneanother, usually with an outside door toeach.

The ranch was owned by the Mortons,English people, who were among theearliest settlers in the country. Theygreeted us most cordially, and as Owen

went out to the corral with Mr. Morton tolook at some horses, Mrs. Morton took meinto the house.

The room we entered had very littlefurniture, but was redeemed from barenessby a wonderful old stone fireplace at oneend.

Mrs. Morton was short and heavy set.“Spotless” was the only word herappearance suggested when I first sawher. Her skin was as fair as a child’s,while her hair was as white as the apronshe wore.

Her flow of conversation was unceasing,and I was reminded of a remark thatCharley made to me when the telephonewas first put in over the fence lines.

“Old lady Morton talked so fast that sheripped all the barbs off the wire.” Before Ihad time to reply to one question, she hadasked another, and was off on an entirelydifferent subject. I suppose theaccumulated conversation of months wasvented on my innocent head, for she toldme, poor thing, that she hadn’t seenanother woman since Christmas.

“Us”—she never said we—“us nevervisits the neighbors, but was coming up tosee you, Mrs. Brook, for us heard you andMr. Brook was different. Us lives out hereon a ranch, but us knows when people arethe right kind.”

I didn’t know whether to be considered“different” was desirable, or not, and Iwas dying to ask her what constituted “the

right kind,” but had no time before shesuddenly asked:

“Have the Bohms gone? Us was waitingtill they went.”

I explained that they were still on theranch, as Mr. Bohm had to gather andcounterbrand all the stock before turning itover to Owen, and that he had beendelayed.

Mrs. Morton gave a little grunt ofcontempt. “Old Bohm won’t hurry anywhile he’s getting free board. He may bewith you all winter. Us hopes Mr. Brookwon’t be imposed on. He’s a smart man,old Jim Bohm is, but he’s a bad one.”

“Bad one?” I repeated, inwardly prayingthat the Bohms would not be permanent

guests.

“Old Jim Bohm is a bad man,” Mrs.Morton said again, rocking violently backand forth. “I was here when they came.She’s all right, but there is nothing hewon’t do. Why”—her voice sank to awhisper—“sixteen men have been tracedas far as that ranch and never been heardof again, and Jim Bohm’s been gettingricher all along.”

Mrs. Morton scarcely paused for breath,so I couldn’t have said anything. But I wasspeechless, anyhow.

“Not one of them, not one,” she declared,“was ever heard of again, and if you wereto examine that old root cellar on the hill,you’d find out what I say is true.”

The incident of the morning flashed acrossmy mind, and I felt as though a piece ofice were being drawn slowly along myspine.

“How perfectly horrible!” I managed togasp, “but it can’t be true.”

ROPING A STEER TO INSPECT BRAND

“It’s true, all right.” There was nodoubting Mrs. Morton’s conviction.“There’s facts there’s no getting ’round.Jim Bohm and old Happy Dick, that usedto work for him, came up here over thetrail from Texas with a band of horses thatBohm and another man owned. The otherfellow was with them when they started,but Bohm said he died on the way, and

that’s all anyone knows about it, exceptthat old Bohm kept all the horses.”

“Then a few years later, a young fellowthat was consumptive, came out to workfor them. I know he had quite a bit ofmoney, because he stopped here once toask John what to do with it. He hadn’tbeen there very long before he droppeddead, according to Jim Bohm’s story. Hisfolks back East tried to get the money, butBohm said the fellow owed it to him, andthey couldn’t do a thing about it.”

I sat as if petrified, unable to take my eyesfrom Mrs. Morton’s face, as she went onand on.

“He was in with all the rustlers in thecountry,” she continued, “and once when aposse was hunting a man who had stole a

lot of horses, Bohm tried his best to keepthem from searching the place, but theSheriff told him they would arrest him ifhe made any more fuss about it, so he hadto keep still. When they came to thehaymow, they stuck a pitchfork right into aman hidden in the hay, and old Bohmswore he didn’t know a thing about hisbeing there. The next us heard, old BillLaw had dropped dead in the corral. I tellyou”—Mrs. Morton leaned forward andshook her finger in my face—“it’s mightyfunny, the way men keeps dropping deadover there; they don’t do it anywhere else.Happy Dick was the last. About a yearago he told Morton he’d stole two menrich, and now he was going to stealhimself rich. But two days after he wasfound dead in the willows, and Bohm said

that when he came upon the body, HappyDick had been dead for hours.”

Mrs. Morton showed signs of runningdown for a moment, so I hastened to askwhy it was that, though suspicion alwayspointed toward him, old Bohm had neverbeen arrested.

“Jim Bohm’s too smooth,” Mrs. Mortonanswered. “If you found him with asmoking gun in his hand and a man deadon the ground beside him, he’d lie out of itsomehow; probably would swear that ashe came up, he saw the man shoot himself.Oh! he’s a slick one. Us always said uspitied anyone who had business dealingswith him, but,” she stopped as she sawOwen and Mr. Morton coming up thewalk, “Mr. Brook looks like a man that

can take care of himself. I’d watch out forBohm, though. Watch out for him!”

“Thank you, Mrs. Morton,” I said, asOwen came to the door. “I am glad youtold me. Please come to see us,” and withconflicting emotions I prepared to leaveThree Bar Ranch.

I scarcely knew what to think. I wasworried, and yet——

When I told Owen I expected him to pooh-pooh the story and relieve my mind, but hedid nothing of the sort. With a queer littlewrinkle between his eyes, he listenedattentively.

“Owen, you don’t think there is any truthin it, do you?” I asked, much troubled byhis silence. He flicked a fly off Dan’s

back before replying:

“I don’t know what to think. The oldchap’s a rascal, there’s no doubt aboutthat; but I didn’t suppose he was a cold-blooded murderer.”

Again I felt the ice go up and down myspine. “Great heavens, Owen, can’t youhave someone go through the root cellar,to see if there is anything out of the waythere? And, above all, get the stockgathered and ship Bohm—I despise him,anyhow!”

“Don’t let it worry you,” said Owen;“probably it’s all mere talk. Bohm won’tbother us; and in a few weeks the stockwill all be turned over and he’ll have noexcuse for staying.”

“A few weeks is a long time,” I said,gloomily, feeling as if my hold on lifewere gradually slipping. “According toMrs. Morton, everybody on the placemight drop dead in less time than that.”

Owen laughed, but the next moment ashadow crossed his face, and he saiddecisively:

“I’m going to look into that root-cellarbusiness. I want to have the placethoroughly cleaned out, anyhow.”

The boys were going in to supper whenwe drove up. Charley came to take thehorses, and Owen greeted him:

“Well, how’s everything?”

“Oh, all right,” answered Charleyindifferently, as he started to loosen thetugs. “Nothin’s happened since you folkswent away, only the old root cellar’scaved in.”

Speech was impossible. Owen and I stoodas if petrified, looking at each other. Weturned to go up to the house. I felt asthough some wretched fate were makinggame of us. As we entered the door, Owenspoke:

“Esther”—he was very serious—“don’tsay a word or betray any interest whateverin this matter. After supper is over, I’ll goup to investigate.”

Talk about the skeleton at a feast! Therewere sixteen horrid, grinning thingsaround the table that night, besides a few

that Mrs. Morton had overlooked.

Mrs. Bohm was whiter than usual andvery quiet. Old Bohm was in high spirits.We were scarcely seated before hedeclared it “a damn shame” that the oldroot cellar had to cave in.

We showed a little surprise, but affectedunconcern. Playing the role assigned tome, I remarked indifferently that we neverused it, anyhow, and with this Bohmcheerfully agreed.

Later, when Owen went up to examine thecellar, I noticed, from my point ofobservation at the window, that old Bohmwas close by his side.

Soon after Owen came in looking verygrave.

“Well, it caved in, all right, and it nevercan be cleaned out. But there’s one thing Iam convinced of”—and he looked towardthe hill with a frown—“it didn’t cave in ofitself.”

IV—THE GREATADVENTURE PROGRESSES

John, the mail carrier, was our onlyconnecting link with the great outsideworld. Three times a week he brought themail. From the first sight of a tiny speckon the top of the distant hill, our heartsthrilled. I watched it grow larger andlarger, until the two-wheeled cart stoppedat the garden gate. With hands tremblingwith impatience, I unlocked the old, wornbag, which John threw on the floor.

I was the honorable Postmistress. My deskwas covered with Postal Laws, which Ialmost learned by heart. I had the New

England respect for the Federal prison, theplace of correction for delinquent Postalemployees.

One rule was absolute. The key of themail bag had to be securely attached to thePost Office. My Post Office was awooden cracker box, which held the mailfor the few outside patrons.

The inspector of Post Offices arrivedunannounced one day. He frowninglylooked over my accounts, while I stood byin perturbation. Suddenly he caught sightof the key at the end of a long brass chain“securely attached to the Post Office.” Hegot up to investigate. The frowndisappeared by magic, and a smile playedaround his stern mouth. He burst intolaughter. I explained I was very careful to

comply with all the regulations. He gaveme a humorous glance—and stayed todinner.

The papers on Monday evening brought usexciting news. A train on the U. P. hadbeen held up at a lonely station, thirtymiles from our ranch. All the Pullmanpassengers had been robbed and one manshot and killed. The hold-ups had escapedand were at large in the “countryadjoining.”

“If they are in the country adjoining,they’ll come here eventually,” I remarkedto Owen. “This ranch is a perfect magnetfor all the questionable characters in thevicinity.”

Owen thanked me for the compliment andwent out to the bunk house to interview

Robert Reed, now in charge of the haygang.

This Reed was an interesting fellow,—anatural leader of men, and so efficient thatOwen had made him hay foreman.

When we had driven over to his claim tosee him about working for us, Mrs. Reedcame out to the buggy, wiping her handson her apron.

“No, Bob ain’t home this morning,” sheresponded to Owen’s inquiry for herhusband. “I reckon you’ll find him overploughin’ for Maggie.” A statement madein the most matter-of-fact manner.

We drove over to another claim shack amile or so from the Reeds’, where Bobwas indeed ploughing for Maggie. To him,

too, it was quite a matter of course.

The affinity problem in this country reallyappeared simple. Mrs. Reed evidentlyaccepted Maggie as a natural factor in thesituation, and her marital relations werenot disturbed in the least, as long as Bobfinished his own ploughing first. Thatwoman was truly oriental in her cast ofmind.

Maggie Lane’s mother and brother livednear at hand, also. One brother, Tom, wasReed’s constant companion. Altogether itwas a perfectly harmonious arrangement.

The Lane family records were not quiteclear. Acquaintance revealed that. Theyall seemed to have a penchant for leavingthe straight and narrow path for the broadhighway of individual choice. Obviously

Maggie’s position did not affect herfamily, nor her social standing in thecommunity.

Whenever I drove about the countrywithout Owen, I took Charley with me onhorseback. Gates were hard to open, andmy team of horses was not thoroughlybroken. Besides, there were always thepossibilities of the unexpected on theselonely prairies. I called Charley myKnight of the Garter. When he knew inadvance he was going with me, he went upto the bunkhouse “to slick up.” If itchanced to be summer, he emergedwithout a coat, his blue shirt sleeves heldup by a pair of beribboned pink garters, apair of heavy stamped leather cuffs on hiswrists, and a heavy stamped leather collar

holding his neck like a vise.

I suggested one morning that the collarmight be uncomfortably warm. He met myobjection with scorn.

“Hot, Mrs. Brook? Why, that ain’t hot.You see, the leather kinda ab-sorbs thesweat and makes it nice and cool.”

One day we were out to take the washingto Mrs. Reed. I had asked Bob to take itSaturday night, when he and Tom Lanehad “gone over home” to finish thatploughing. I supposed he had done so, butwhen he came back on Monday, he said hehad “plumb forgot it, but would take itnext time.”

We had to pass through Maggie’s claim onthe way. She was standing at her door, as

we stopped to open the gate. There was nofreshly ploughed ground in sight, and Iidly asked if she had finished herploughing.

“No,” she replied, “I kinda looked forBob over Sunday to finish it, but I reckonhe couldn’t get off. I wish you’d tell himto stop here the next time he goes home.”

We drove on, and I wondered whatMaggie “reckoned” he couldn’t get awayfrom,—the ranch or his wife.

I gave Mrs. Reed the clothes and I told herBob had forgotten to bring them over withhim Saturday. She looked at me curiously.

“Didn’t Bob work Sunday?”

“No,” I replied, “none of the men workedSunday. Tom and Bob both said they were

going home.”

Mrs. Reed frowned.

“Oh, I suppose Maggie had somethin’ shewanted him to do.”

Charley started to answer, but my lookstopped him.

“I’ll have your clothes ready Saturday.”Mrs. Reed slammed the gate and turnedtoward the house.

“Gee,” said Charley, riding up closebeside the buggy, “them two women’ll befightin’ over Bob yet, if he ain’t careful.Why, that’s funny”—he looked at mequestioningly,—“Bob wasn’t to Maggie’s,either, was he?”

“No,” I answered, “I was just wondering

about that myself. Perhaps he went totown, instead.” A coyote ran out of agulch. Charley with a whoop started inpursuit, and the entire incident passedfrom my mind.

We were going in to supper, when threemen drove up to the door. Wheneverstrangers appeared, I always had amoment of uncertainty as to whether theywere to be sent to the bunkhouse with themen, or invited to our own table.Instantaneous social classification israther difficult when there are nodistinguishing external signs. And it had tobe done at the moment. The men asked forOwen.

We had no idea who they were, so ourconversation during supper was limited to

impersonal topics, such as the present,past and future weather, the condition ofthe range and stock—nothing calculated tooffend the delicate sensibilities of aGovernor, a ranchman or an ex-convict,inasmuch as our guests might come underany of these heads. Entertaining on a ranchis democratic in the extreme.

They went out with Owen after supper.From the window I could see four dimfigures sitting on their heels by the corralgate, talking earnestly.

It was late when they drove away. I wasputting up the mail, as Owen entered. Hisannouncement drove all idea of the PostalLaws and regulations out of my head.

“Well, they’ve gone, and have taken Boband Tom Lane with them.”

“Mercy! what for? Who were they,anyhow?”

“The Sheriff and two Pinkerton men,” heanswered, gravely. “They have arrestedBob and Tom for the hold-up.”

“Owen,” I gasped, standing up sosuddenly that the U. S. mail flew in alldirections. “You don’t believe they werethe ones, do you?”

“Not for a minute,” Owen answered, withconviction. “And I told them so, but itseems the men have bad records and thedescription fits them. ‘A tall man, with aSouthern accent, and a short, slight,smaller man.’ So they arrested them.”Owen sat down. “It’s absurd. In the firstplace, they couldn’t have gotten to therailroad in time to hold up the limited.

They didn’t leave here until nine o’clock,and in the next place, they went home.”

“But they didn’t.” I felt suddenly weak inmy knees. “I took the clothes over to Mrs.Reed, and both she and Maggie werewondering why they hadn’t come.”

Owen looked at me in blank amazement,and then asked why on earth I hadn’t toldhim.

“Good heavens, Owen, I haven’t seen youa moment alone. And, besides, I neversupposed it made any difference where themen went. Hereafter if the angel Gabrielcomes to work for us, I shall insist uponknowing where he spends his nights.Really,” I began to laugh, “you know, ifwe ever leave this ranch, the only placewe shall feel at home is in the

penitentiary. None but people with‘records’ and ‘pasts’ will interest us.” Iwas half amused and wholly excited, foreven to have a speaking acquaintance withthe leading figures in a hold-up andmurder was something my wildest flight ofimagination could have scarcely pictureda few months before. Owen was reallyserious.

“Well, I must say,” he shook his head andlooked down at the floor, “it begins tolook as though Bob and Tom might havesome trouble proving they weren’t themen. It’s serious for them, since theyweren’t at home. The description certainlyfits them.” Owen took up the paper. “‘Oneman about five feet eight inches high,slender and light mustache, wearing old

clothes and a rusty black slouch hat. Theother man five feet ten inches tall, slender,short, black mustache, about forty yearsold, spoke with a Southern accent, worean old black suit and an old striped rubbercoat.’”

“Go on,” I said, as Owen started to put thepaper down; “I want to hear it.” He readon:

“‘The men were supposed to haveboarded the train coming from Denver, ata small station this side of Star. ThePullmans were on the rear. When the trainstopped at the station, the Pullmanconductor went out on the back platformand saw two men crouching in thevestibule. He told them to get off, but atthat moment the train started, and they rose

up, covering him with their revolvers. Onegot behind him, holding his gun againsthim, the other in front. They handed him agunny-sack and made him carry it. In thismanner they entered the body of the car.

“‘In the first car they got very littleplunder, and pushed on into the next. Asthey entered the second sleeper, they metthe porter, who was forced to elevate hishands and precede them. While they wereengaged in robbing the passengers in thesecond Pullman, the train conductorentered, and was compelled to elevate hishands, with the rest.

“‘They paused at one berth and seemedvery much incensed that the woman itcontained was so slow in handing overher valuables. They swore and were very

impatient. Suddenly, a man in the nextberth thrust his head out between thecurtains. He had a revolver in his handand fired, but instantly another shot rangout from the robber in the rear, and theman sank back in his berth.

“‘After the shooting, the robbers appearedmore nervous and hurried. When they hadgone through the car, they took the gunny-sack and emptied the contents into theirpockets. One of the robbers pulled thebell-rope, but evidently not hard enough,for the train continued on its way.Swearing, they compelled the porter andtwo conductors to stand out on theplatform with them, covered by theirrevolvers, until the train slowed down atPaxton, when they swung off to the ground

and disappeared into these vast prairielands, which are so sparsely settled onecan drive for a day without seeing aperson.

“‘As soon as the train stopped, thepassengers hurried to the berth of the manwho had been shot, but he had beeninstantly killed.

“‘The Sheriff was notified, and a possestarted in pursuit, but the robbers hadvanished.’” Owen put down the paper,and we sat up far into the night talking itover.

Subsequently our ranch, our horses, andOwen’s opinions were freely quoted inthe press. Bob and Tom were positively

identified by the three trainmen as thehold-ups. They were retained a week injail, and then suddenly released on“insufficient proof.”

Owen did not believe in point of time theycould have held up the train, for he hadtalked to Bob that Saturday night untilafter nine o’clock, but everybody,including Owen, held them capable of it.The point was simply that they had nothappened to be there.

Later Bob and Tom returned to the ranch,incensed at their arrest and detention, butno one ever learned where they were thatmemorable Saturday night.

Moreover, the men who held up the trainwere never found, and again one of thosestrange tragedies of the West ended in

vagueness.

I was struck by the repetition of thatphenomenon “A crime, a tragedy.” At firstindignation and an earnest attempt to findthe offenders and bring them to justice,then delay, and the whole affair shovedinto the background by something newer.

Life here seemed to flow by like a streamat flood-tide. Who could stem that currentlong enough to catch those bits of humanfrailty floating on the surface, or followthem down stream to the sea?

V—A GOVERNMENTCONTRACT

From the first, I had been conscious of afascination about the West impossible todescribe. Its charm was too enigmaticaland elusive for definition.

There was a suggestion of the sea in thatvast circle and in the long undulations ofthe prairie, as though great waves hadbecome solidified, then clothed in softestgreen. No sign of restless movement wasapparent in those billows which stretchedaway from the mountains into the vaguedistance. All was still. The toweringmountain itself was the symbol of infinite

peace and rest. Yet there, in the midst ofthat unbroken serenity, stood a cluster ofbuildings, the center of the greatestactivity, where life was vital and thrillingas though a few human beings had beenflung through space and dropped ontothose silent plains to work out the age-long fight for existence.

Peace and conflict, silence and sound,absence of life and life in its mostcomplex form; contrasts—everywhere andin everything—it could be defined, it wasin “contrasts” that the fascination of theWest was expressed.

Ranch life might be difficult; it was nevercommonplace. The mere sight of a lonehorseman on a distant hill suggestedgreater possibilities of excitement than a

multitude of people in a city street.

Each day brought so many newexperiences, some of comedy, some oftragedy, that I began to look for them.

After the Government had awarded acontract to furnish “150 horses of a darkbay color for cavalry use” our life becamedramatic, with the riders cast in theleading roles.

The stage-setting consisted of a largecircular corral, twelve feet high, built ofheavy pitch-pine posts and three-inchplanks with a massive snubbing post set inthe center. Since there was “standing roomonly,” cracks were at a premium.

The dramatis personae were two tall,slender-waisted cow-punchers who

walked with a slightly rolling gait, due toextremely high-heeled boots, much toosmall for them. In their right hands theycarried a coiled rope swinging easily.Their costumes were composed of clothor corduroy trousers, dark-colored shirts,nondescript vests of some sort, dark blueor red handkerchiefs knotted loosely abouttheir necks, expensively-made boots, thetops of which were covered by the legs oftheir “pants”; spurs, of course; high-pricedStetson hats, the crowns creased to a peak,and frequently encircled by the skin of arattle-snake, and exceedingly soft gauntlet-gloves. It was my observation that the old-time cow-puncher wore gloves at alltimes. He did remove them when eating,and, I presume, before going to bed, butthey were always in evidence.

The “Star” is a frightened, snorting“broncho,” or unbroken horse which forthe five or six years of its life had beenrunning loose. Now it was to be “busted.”It is cut out from the bunch and run into thecorral and the gate securely fastened.

One of the men stands near the post, theother does the roping. Facing the men, thebroncho stands still, his head high, hiseyes wild and full of fear. An abruptmotion by one of the riders starts him on afrantic run around and around in a circle.A sudden throw of the rope and both frontfeet are in the loop. Quick as lightning theman settles back on it, both front legs arepulled out from under the horse and hefalls on his side; the helper runs to hishead, seizes the muzzle and twists it

straight up, thrusts one knee against theneck and holds the top of the head to theground. The roper puts two or three moreloops above the front hoofs, passes therope, now doubled forming a loop,between the legs, to one of the hind feet,then pulls on the end that he has all thetime held. This action draws all three feettogether. One or two more loops aboutthem, a hitch and the horse is tied so that itis impossible for him to get up. While thebroncho lies helpless, the saddle andbridle are put on, a large handkerchiefpassed under the straps of the bridle overthe eyes and made fast. The rope is takenoff. Feeling a measure of freedom, hestaggers to his feet and stands. Thecinches are drawn very tight, the ridermounts, gives a sharp order to “let him

go,” the man on the ground pulls thehandkerchief from the eyes of the horse,and jumps aside.

INSPECTING A BRAND

For a moment the broncho stands dazed,then jumps, throws his head between hisfront legs almost to the ground, squeals,humps his back and pitches around andaround the corral in a vain attempt to ridhimself of the fearsome thing on his back.The circular corral, limited in space,gives little opportunity to succeed; the

rider has the advantage. The horse stopspitching and runs frantically about thecorral, at length tiring himself out.Dripping with sweat, trembling from fearand excitement, he comes to a slow trot.The gate is thrown open. Making a dashfor freedom, he plunges through theoutside corrals, the horseman or “circler”close beside him, trying to keep betweenthe half-crazed broncho and any object hemight run into. The horse bolts out into theopen; his is the advantage now, and hemakes the rider ride. He bucks this wayand that, twisting, turning, jumping andrunning, the man on his back so racked andshaken it seems incredible that his bodycan hold together. They tear out over theprairie in a wild race, far off over thehills, out of sight now. After a time they

come back on a walk. The broncho hasbeen busted—the act has ended.

Should the horse rear and throw himselfbackward, there is the greatest danger thatthe man may be caught under him andkilled, it happens so quickly, but thesequiet, diffident chaps are absolutelyfearless, past masters in the art of riding,facing death each time they ride a newhorse, but facing it with the supremecourage of the commonplace, sittingcalmly in the saddle, racked, shaken,jolted until at times the blood streamsfrom their nose, yet after a short rest therider “took up the next one” quite asthough nothing at all had happened. All thehorses had to be broken and then madeready for the inspection of the Government

officials, and the boys were working withthem early and late.

It was an unusual experience to live indaily association with these men, in whomwere combined characteristics of theKnights of the Round Table and thosepeculiar to the followers of Jesse James.

In Douglas, Wyoming, there stands amonument erected by the friends of a localcharacter who, curiously, bore the samesurname as the famous explorer for whomPike’s Peak was named. Chiseled out ofthe solid granite these opposing traits areepitomized in this unique epitaph:

“Underneath this stone in eternal restSleeps the wildest one of the wayward

west;He was gambler and sport and cowboy,

too,And he led the pace in an outlaw crew;He was sure on the trigger and staid to the

end,But he was never known to quit on a

friend;In the relations of death all mankind is

alike,But in life there was only one George W.

Pike.”

Strange, contrasting personalities—in aweof nobody, quite as ready to conversefamiliarly with the President as withOwen, but probably preferring Owen

because they knew he was a finehorseman.

Persons and things outside their ownworld held but slight interest for them. Atfirst I had a hazy idea that I might be themedium through which a glimpse of theoutside world would broaden the narrowlimits of their lives. I planned to get booksfor them and to arrange a reading room,but my dream was soon shattered upondiscovering that this broader viewpossessed no charm. Indeed, when Ioffered to teach Joe to read he refused myoffer without a moment’s hesitation, firmlyannouncing “I ain’t goin’ to learn to read,’cause then I’d have to!” “Why, Mrs.Brook,” he added, looking with scorn atthe book I held in my hand, “I wouldn’t be

bothered the way you are for nothin’,havin’ to read all them books in there,”nodding his head in the direction of ourcherished library. This was certainly afresh point of view regarding education.About the same time I found that the Searsand Roebuck or Montgomery Wardcatalogue might be fittingly called theBible of the plains. Night after night theboys pored over them absorbed in theillustrations, of hats, gloves, boots andsaddles, the things most dear to theirhearts, for on their riding equipment alonethey spent a small fortune.

Improvident and generous, however greattheir vices might be, their lives were freefrom petty meanness; the prairies hadseemed to

“Give them their own deep breadth ofview

The largeness of the cloudless blue.”

The religion of the cow-puncher? Myimpression was that he had none, forcertainly he subscribed to no conventionalcreed or dogma. Yet what was it that gavehim a code of honor which made cheatingor a lie an unforgivable offense and a manguilty of either an outcast scorned by hisassociates, and what was it that wouldhave made him go without bread or shelterthat a woman or child might not suffer?

Rough and gentle, brutal and tender, goodand bad, not angel at one time and devil atanother, but rather saint and sinner at thesame time. Little of religious influence

came into his life, and as for Bibles—there were none.

I remember the story of a Bishop who wastravelling through the West and was askedto hold service in one of the larger towns.When he arrived he found that he had lefthis own Bible on the train, so he sent thehotel clerk out to borrow one. After sometime the man returned with a Bible,explaining to the Bishop that it was theonly one in town. “I went everywhere andfinally got this one. It’s the one they use atthe Court House to swear on!”

The cow-puncher, however, could swearwithout any assistance, for usually“cussin’” formed a very necessary part ofhis conversation. But as I sat at mywindow sewing one summer morning I

heard a violent argument at the corralbetween Fred and a new “hay-hand” fromKansas. Fred’s voice was decisive.

“That’s all right, but you cut out thatcussin’ here—the Missus’ window’sopen, and she’ll hear you.” And the heartof “the Missus” warmed to her Knight ofthe Corral.

There was another incident, the truesignificance of which I did not know untilthree years after it occurred, when theforeman of the L—— ranch met Owen inDenver and inquired for me, adding:

“Well, I’ll never forget Mrs. Brook. Doyou remember the day we was shippin’them white faces from the Junction aboutthree years ago, when you and Mrs. Brookhappened to come along and stopped to

watch us? Well, one of the best men I hadwas brandin’ a calf when it kicked himand he swore at it proper; all of a suddenhe looked up and saw Mrs. Brook andanother lady standin’ on that high platformby the yards watchin’ us. He was soplumb beat, he threw down his brandin’iron, took up his hat, walked across thestreet to a saloon and began drinkin’ andstayed drunk for three days, and there Iwas, short-handed, with a train-load ofcows and calves to ship.”

Contrast again—chivalry carried to theextent of being drunk for three daysbecause he had sworn before a woman!

The horses were all being ridden andtrained for the inspection which was soonto take place. Each man had his own

“string,” those he had broken, and everyday they were put through their paces.When inspected, they had to be walked,trotted and run up and down before theofficers, stopped instantly, and theveterinarian was supposed to put his earto their chests to see if their breathing wasregular and their hearts sound. Now,Western horses are not accustomed tohaving their hearts tested, and I noticedthat while the riders did everything elsethat was required, they tacitly agreed “tolet the vet do his own listnin’.”

The day that the Army officers were toarrive, as Owen was getting ready todrive over to the station to meet them, Iremarked casually that I hoped nothingwould happen to upset their peace of

mind, as it was very important that thehonorable representatives of theGovernment be kept in a good humor.

The house was still in an unsettledcondition but for the time being it hadbeen brought into sufficient order to insuretheir comfort. The larder was stockedwith the best the markets afforded and thehorses were being “gentled” daily.

When guests came on the train our dinnermight be served at any hour up to teno’clock at night for after their arrival atthe station there was the sixteen mile driveto the ranch—and anything might happen.It was late that particular night when Iheard them at the meadow gate. I couldn’tunderstand why they stopped so long.There were sounds of confusion and as

they entered the house one of the officersheld up a finger dripping with blood, theColonel’s hat was awry, his clothescovered with mud, and they all appearedagitated and excited. I could not imaginewhat had happened. Then they all began totell me at once.

Upon reaching the meadow gate theLieutenant who acted as bookkeeperjumped out to open it but failed to returnafter they had driven through. Uponinvestigation they found he had caught hisfinger between the wire loop and the postand was held fast. They extricated himfrom his dilemma and drove on. It wasvery dark and upon reaching the house asthe august Colonel descended from thewagon, he tripped over a pile of stones

lying near the gate, fell down and justescaped breaking his neck. I tried to smileand yet be sympathetic—but I had a visionof Owen with “one hundred fifty horses ofa dark bay color” on his hands if the goodhumor of the officers was not restoredbefore morning.

They were shown to their rooms and Iprayed nothing would happen to theVeterinarian, who had so far remainedintact.

The Colonel and the Lieutenant had comedown stairs. We were all in the librarywaiting for the Doctor before going in todinner, when we heard a fearful crash. Werushed into the hall to see the poor mansitting on the steps holding both hands tohis head. He was very tall and, coming

down the narrow winding stairs, hadstruck his head on an overhangingprojection which he had failed to observe.His injury was more uncomfortable thanserious and had quite a cheering effect onhis two companions, who began to chaffhim about “taking off an inch or two” soby the time dinner was over they were allin high spirits.

The following morning at nine theinspection began. Each horse was broughtout, looked over and measured to see thathe came up to the stipulated number of“hands”. If he passed he was immediatelyridden.

Each of the men rode the horses he hadbroken. First the horse was walked up anddown between the blacksmith-shop and

the corral, then trotted and then run, afterwhich his lungs and breathing were testedand if satisfactory he was accepted.

Every time a man got on to ride, I wasconscious of a feeling of great uncertainty.The horses looked quiet enough and werefairly gentle, but Owen and I knew that theslightest variation in the manner ofmounting or “touching them up” mightcause them to go through a few movementsnot required by the United StatesGovernment.

As it was, all those we had expected tobuck behaved like lambs, while thosewhich had been considered fairly wellbroken did everything from bucking tosnorting and blowing foam all over theVeterinarian when he attempted to

examine their teeth and test their lungs.

For three days the inspection went on,each day more interesting than the last,until all the horses had been examined andout of the number the necessary onehundred and fifty accepted and branded U.S.

As the bunch of horses headed for Denverwas being driven off the ranch, Fredlooked after them reflectively—

“If them sodjers can ride, it’ll be allright,” he remarked, “but if they go toputtin’ tenderfeet on them bronchs, they’llland in Kingdom-come before they everhit the saddle.”

VI—A VARIETY OFRUNAWAYS

Life in any primitive, sparsely settledcountry is fraught with adventure. It is theelement which gives zest to everydayaffairs and which lifts existence above thecommonplace, but since everything has itsprice, the price of untrammelled livingmust often be paid in discomfort andinconvenience.

To us, and to many others, aboundinghealth and freedom were amplecompensations for a few annoyingcircumstances but with our guests it was amore serious consideration. After a few

experiences we began to discourage thevisits of those unfitted by nature andtemperament for “roughing it”.

We could not control the elements noruntoward events. Fate had such aninvariable custom of upsetting andrearranging all of our most carefully laidplans that when friends, especially“tenderfeet”, arrived, we had apremonition that before they departedsomething would happen. It never failed.

In the house our guests were exempt fromanxiety and discomfort, but no one caredto stay indoors when a dazzling world ofblue, green and gold lay just outside, andthe unexpected was no regarder ofpersons. A cloud-burst was just as apt todescend upon the unsuspecting head of a

delicate, carefully nurtured old lady aswas an indiscriminating rattlesnake tofrighten some timid soul into hysterics.

Everyone who came to the ranch wantedto ride, those knowing least about horsesbeing the most insistent, and not wishingto take any chances, at first we gave themBilly, gentle, trustworthy Billy, who,when running loose, could be caught by aman on foot and ridden into the corralwith a handkerchief around his neckinstead of a bridle. We would start out,the tenderfoot joyously “off for ahorseback ride,” and the next thing weknew he would be off the horse doubledup under a fence or lying flat on theprairie, while Billy peacefully nibbledgrass. No one could explain it unless the

uninitiated had lost a stirrup and hadunwittingly given the horse a dig in theribs which was immediately resented—soeven Billy was disqualified.

The truth was, none of our horses wassufficiently well broken for theinexperienced horseman to ride or drive.They behaved very decently untilsomething occurred, which was out of theordinary, and then the reaction was mostsudden and disastrous.

With the stock on the ranch we hadacquired about four hundred horses, mostof which had never been handled andwere running loose on the range. Beforethey were of any use or value they had tobe broken and Owen felt that it was one ofthe most important things to be done.

Consequently, many of the horses werebroken to drive in the hay field, thebroncho hitched up with a gentle horse,and put onto the rake or mowing machine—many were the runaways.

Charley was leisurely by nature. He neverhurried either in speech or movement.Owen and I were in the office onemorning when he strolled around thehouse and up to the door.

“Mis-ter Brook,” he drawled, “Ja-ne andMaud are running away with the mow-ingmachine down in the timber—they throw-ed Windy off the seat,” but before he gotthe last word out, his listener was downthe steps, over the fence and on his waytoward the creek where Maud and Janewere tearing through the timber leaving

parts of the mowing machine on stumpsand fallen logs, while Charley lookedafter him in mild surprise. The horseswere brought to an abrupt stop when onetried to go on one side of a tree and theother on the opposite side.

There was a beautiful black horse,“Toledo”, that refused to allow anyone tocome near him but Owen or Bill, and therewas also a new man on the ranch who soconstantly boasted of his ability to handlebronchos the boys had dubbed him“Windy”.

Windy concluded one day that he wouldharness Toledo alone. There were violentsounds in the stable, snorts, shouts,thumps, and Windy sailed through theopen door and landed on a conveniently

placed pile of manure, frightened to deathbut unhurt.

Bill was furious.

“What’d you do to him, anyhow?” hestormed after roping Toledo who hadbroken his halter and was running loose inthe corral.

“I didn’t do nothin’ to him,” protestedWindy. “I just crope up and retched overand tetched him and he begun to snort andcave ’round.”

“Course you didn’t do nothin’, youcouldn’t do nothin’ if you tried. You’dbetter go back to town where you belong,’stead a stayin’ out here spoilin’ goodhorses.” Bill’s choler was rising. “Youdon’t know nothin’ neither, you’re jest a

bone head, your spine’s jest growed upand haired over.” And, leading thesubdued Toledo, Bill disappeared into thestable.

When the team that Owen reserved for hisown use had passed the kicking andlunging stage and I had becomesufficiently confident to look at thelandscape instead of watching their ears,he usually concluded they were “prettywell broken” and that he must try out anew one. This trying out process went onindefinitely, for Owen’s New Englandconscience gave him no peace apparentlywhile an unbroken horse remained in hispossession. It was a form of duty.

When we had guests we used, what myhusband was pleased to call, a gentle

team, one that started off decorously withall their feet on the ground instead of inthe air, but one day when we wereexpecting some friends from Wyoming hecould not resist driving a new pair ofbeautiful bay horses when we went tomeet them. I remained behind.

The dinner hour passed and no Owen;additional hours went by and late at nighthe came in dusty, dirty and scratched.

In response to a perfect volley ofquestions he explained that he was allright, but the Lawtons had telegraphedthey had been detained, and then he added,as quite an unimportant detail, that “thehorses had run away.” He had theexpression of a fond and indulgent parent,and as he did not rise to the defense of his

pet team when I called them “miserablebrutes” I knew his pride, at least, hadsuffered.

“You see,” he resumed, “your new sewingmachine and some other freight was at thestation, so when I found the Lawtons werenot coming I thought I’d bring it over. Ihad the crystal clock, too.” Owen lookedso sheepish I had to laugh, although theclock had been a wedding present whichwe had sent up to the jeweler to beregulated.

“Is it smashed?”

“Oh, no,” he reassured me, “but I don’tknow how well it will run. I got out toclose the gate beyond the railroad when aconfounded freight engine whistled andthe horses started. I was holding the reins

in my hand, of course, and tried to climbin the back of the wagon, but couldn’tmake it on account of the load. I ran alongthe side until the horses went so fast I felldown and when they began to drag me I letgo of the reins. They ran all over thatinclosure, the wagon upset and cannedtomatoes, sewing machine and crystalclock were strewn everywhere. I caughtthe horses finally, but the wagon wassmashed so I had to walk back toBecker’s, get his wagon and pick up allthe freight—that’s what delayed me. I’mdreadfully sorry about the sewing machineand the clock, but I don’t believe they aremuch hurt.”

He was very contrite, was my husband,but it didn’t last long, that sense of duty

was too insistent. A very short time after,he was alone, driving another team, with ahorse he had just bought, tied to the tug.The new horse, frightened at a deadanimal in the lane, jumped, broke the tug,plunged forward, pulled the neck yoke off,the buggy tongue stuck into the ground asthe horses ran, the buggy heaved up in theair and pitched Owen out. It landed soclose to a fence post his head wasscratched, but he might have been killed.As long as he had escaped, this runawayhad its amusing side, too. He was bringinghome a quantity of china nest-eggs whichfollowed when he was thrown out, and hesaid for a minute it fairly snowed nest-eggs; the ground was white with them.

Owen and his horses! I never could

decide whether it was more nerve-rackingto go with him or stay behind, so I usuallytook the chance and went. The experienceswe had! I wonder we ever survived thathorse-breaking period, but only once didwe face a fate from which there seemedonly one chance in a thousand of escapingwith our lives.

We were driving a buckskin horse Owenhad just bought and a newly broken mare,a handsome, high spirited creature calledBeauty. She danced and she pranced andforged ahead of the new horse whichbecame nervous and excited in trying tokeep up with her.

We were going up a long hill. Beauty waspulling and tugging on the bit whensuddenly she gave a toss to her head and

to our horror we saw the bridle fall backaround her neck. The bit had broken. Likea flash she was off, the other horse runningwith her. Owen spoke to them. He woundthe reins about his arms and pulled onthem with all his strength.

At the top of the hill there was a fairlylevel space where Owen tried to circlethem, hoping to tire them out, but he hadno control over Beauty and she wheeledabout starting back over the road we hadcome, the buggy bouncing and swayingbehind. There was a fence corner with anold post standing about ten feet from it.The horses headed straight for it. I closedmy eyes, expecting that we would bewrecked, but they turned and raced acrossa gulch, the buggy lurched, tipped, struck

one side and then the other, but by amiracle did not upset.

I saw that Owen was trying to head theminto a fence and braced myself for theshock, realizing that he hoped to entanglethem in the barbed wire and so throwthem, but just as we reached it Beautyveered to one side almost overturning thebuggy. We were so close the skirt ofOwen’s fur coat caught on the barbs andwas instantly torn to ribbons and we heardthe vibrating “ping” of the wire along itsentire length as the wheels struck thefence.

On and on the maddened horses raced, uphills, down long slopes, through gulches inwhich it seemed we must be wrecked,until at length we reached the crest of a

hill at the bottom of which, angling withthe fence, ran a deep gulch with high cutbanks. We knew that if the frantic horsesreached the edge of that bank at the ratewe were going there was no escape for usand we should plunge over theembankment with the horses. To jump wasimpossible. I was in despair, realizing thatOwen, pulling on the horses with all hismight, was nearly exhausted.

“Owen, isn’t there something I can do?” Itwas the first time a word had beenspoken.

“Pull on the Buckskin,” he answeredquickly.

I leaned forward and seized the rein withboth hands as far down as I could reachand threw myself back with all my weight.

The Buckskin was pulled back on hishaunches, Beauty stopped. Owen handedme the reins, another moment he was attheir heads calling to me to jump. In thatinstant before jumping I lived an eternity,for if the horses had started again I shouldhave gone to certain death alone.

THE “STAR” IS A FRIGHTENED, SNORTING“BRONCHO”

I was so weak with fright and suddenrelief when I felt the firm earth under myfeet I could scarcely stand but I had to getto the Buckskin’s head and hold on to him,for Owen had his hands full with Beauty,who began to rear and plunge. It was notime for nerves. The horses were finallyunhitched. Owen led Beauty and I, the

Buckskin. Leaving the buggy on the edgeof that yawning gulch, we walked the fivemiles back to the ranch.

VII—THE MEASURE OF AMAN

The Bohms had gone. The last load offurniture, upon which old Bohm perchedlike an ill-omened bird, had disappearedthrough the gate on the top of the hill. Atlast, after six months of vexation andtrouble, Owen and I could live our ownlife and run the ranch without interference.

Bohm had tried to wriggle out of everyclause in his contract. He had delayedgathering and turning over the stock byevery means and had invented a thousandexcuses for staying on from week to week.It had made it very difficult and had

exasperated Owen. If he hadn’t been wiseand patient beyond words, Bohm’s boneslong before would have mingled withthose of his reputed victims in the old rootcellar. I had a different end planned forhim each day, but none seemed reallyfitting. Owen had gone on in his own way,however, insisting upon every part of thecontract being fulfilled and reducingBohm to impotent rage by his quietfirmness.

Mrs. Bohm had recovered from her“fainting spells” and her husband wasfurious to think he had sold the ranch. Indesperation he finally sent to SanFrancisco for his brother, who was alawyer, to see if there was any possibilityof getting out of the contract. The “Judge”

was a nice old chap, who looked like anamiable Mormon with a long beard. Hesoon settled the question.

“Why, Jim, you wanted to sell out, yousigned the contract and you have yourmoney. You’ll have to stay with yourbargain now, whether you like it or not.”

We always remembered him kindly forthis and for a story he told. We had beendiscussing the Chinese as servants and hesaid:

“Well, I had one for two years, but I don’twant any more. I want to know what I’meating and with those heathen you arenever sure.

“It had been raining very hard one daywhen Wong came to me in the afternoon

and said:

“‘Judge, him laining outside, me gottee nomeat for dinner.’

“I told him that we would do without meatfor it was raining too hard for anyone togo out who didn’t have to. Wong lookeddejected for he liked meat. He turned to goout of the room, when his eyes fell on thecat. His face brightened with a suddeninspiration.

“‘Have meat for dinner! Kill’em cat!’

“Kill the cat! What on earth do you mean?

“‘Less, kill’em cat,’ he repeated in amatter of fact tone, ‘him sick anyhow.’”

We had asked the Bohms to take theirmeals with us, but only Mrs. Bohm came

to our table. Bohm preferred to eat withthe men. We suspected that he was tryingto cause trouble. Charley unconsciouslyconfirmed our suspicions. He was alwaysconversational and seized the opportunityto talk while fixing my window screen.

“Say, Mrs. Brook, you’d orter seen Billthis mornin’. He was eatin’ flapjacks tobeat time and was just reachin’ for more,when old Bohm, with that mean way ofhis, began slammin’ Mr. Brook. He wassayin’ you folks thought you was too goodto eat in the kitchen with us commonfellers and had to have a separate dinin’room, when Bill just riz up out of his chairso sudden it went over backwards, andbelieve me, his eyes had sparks in ’emwhen he came back at the old man.

“‘Tain’t that the Brooks think that they’retoo good, but there’s some folks toostinkin’ common for anybody to eatwith’—and out of the door he walked andall the boys fol-lered him, leavin’ Bohmalone there facin’ all them flapjacks. Ireckon he’d a rather faced them flapjacksthan Bill, though,—Gee, Bill was somehot,” and Charley’s blue eyes sparkled atthe reminiscence.

It was exactly as I thought; the boysdespised Bohm and were absolutely loyalto Owen.

After this episode, Owen had a long talkwith Bill and a short, heated interviewwith Bohm, which resulted in the oldman’s reluctant, but hasty, departure.

I drew a long breath of relief when I saw

the last wagon disappear and looked upfully expecting to see the dove of peacepluming herself on our roof-tree. Butapparently doves in the cattle countrynever alight,—they just pass by.

Owen had bought several thousand acresof land from the railroad. A car of barbedwire for the fence, which was to encirclethe entire ranch, was at the station. Ourland was now in one solid block with theexception of a few acres of Governmentland which could only be acquired byhomestead entry. This limited acreage inthe great checkerboard was all thatremained of the “free range.”

At this juncture Owen was served with anotice by the United States Marshalforbidding him to build the fence. It would

enclose Government land. Every mile ofthe proposed fence would have been onground which he had bought, paid for, andon which he was paying taxes—but still—he could not fence it. “Government landmust remain uninclosed.” It made nodifference, apparently, what happened tothe cattleman whose money was tied up inproperty he could not use. Governmentland must remain free and open to thepublic. But, while those few acres of freerange remained open to the public,thousands of acres of our unprotected landremained open also. Everyone used it. Theranchmen for miles around, learning thatOwen was forbidden to fence, gathered alltheir cattle and threw them onto our land.

It was a very serious problem. Our range

was being destroyed, the grass was eatenoff so closely nothing remained for winterrange. Our full-blooded Herefordbreeding stock was of little use to us. Allour money was invested in land and cattleand there was only one thing left to do,—put riders on our range to drive the othercattle off.

Upon this solution of the problem the doveof peace promptly departed and weentered upon a long, hard struggle for thepossession and use of what was our own.Owen was faced, not only with financialfailure, but absolute ruin. The future wasfar from bright, but when an old school-mate came with her husband to visit us itseemed positively brilliant by contrast.

Alice Joice and I had been devoted

friends for years. The summer before wehad spent in Europe, where I had left her,deep in the study of Art, to which sheintended “to devote” her life.

“It is so commonplace to marry, Esther,”these were her parting words; “anywoman can marry—but so few can have areal career.”

Alice’s “career” had abruptly ended in“commonplace matrimony,” for she hadjust married a Mr. Van Winkle fromBrooklyn, a man I had never met. Theywere touring the West and were mostanxious to include our ranch. I was veryeager to see them so I wrote, urging her tocome, but asked her to let us know whento expect them, so there would be nomistake about our being at the station.

I was particularly anxious to have themsee ranch life at its best for they were ourfirst guests. The house looked veryattractive with all our own furniture andwedding presents in place, but I thoughtthe guest room floor might be improved soI painted it Saturday afternoon. Theneverything went wrong: the wind-millpump failed to work, the whole pipe hadto be pulled out of the well; we werewithout running water in the house andcouldn’t have a fire in the kitchen range,so rations were extremely light.

Supper, consisting chiefly of sardines,awaited Owen, who was trying to getsome of the grease off his hands, when ahomesteader by the name of Hamm, hiswife, sister and five children drove up. He

had come to see Owen on business andthey were invited in to supper.

The table was lengthened and reset, moresardines were opened and we were justready to sit down when my Aunt, who wasstanding near the window, exclaimed:

“Who on earth is that!”

Who, indeed! Alice Joice and her husbandwith a team they had hired at the station.

Having a strong heart I did not faint, butleft Auntie to help the maid make thenecessary additions to the table—andsardines, while Owen and I hurried out togreet them.

“Hello, dearie, here we are,” Alice calledfrom the wagon as I approached.“Clarence and I thought it would be such

fun to surprise you. How-do-you-do, Mr.Brook, I want you to meet my husband,Mr. Van Winkle.” Alice jumped off thestep and threw herself into my arms. “Oh,Esther, isn’t this fun?” Gay, inconsequentAlice, from her city home, neverconsidered for a moment that a surprisecould be anything but joyous.

If I had met him in Egypt, I should haveknown that her husband’s name was VanWinkle—Clarence Van Winkle, itcouldn’t have been anything else.

He was pale and tall and thin and rigid.The inflexibility of the combined ancestralspines had united in his back bone. Hemight break, he could never bend. Myimagination failed when I tried to picturethe meeting between the heir to the Van

Winkle name and the Hamms. It was farworse than anything I could ever haveimagined.

Alice was very sweet; she talked all thetime, patted the five little Hamms and wontheir mother’s heart by asking their namesand ages, but in acknowledging theintroduction Clarence only bowedslightly, a movement which required greateffort, then relapsed into silenceimmediately, scrutinizing the Hammfamily through his glasses as though theywere rare animals in a Zoo. Mrs. Hammand her sister were stupefied and did notspeak a word, but Mr. Hamm, a trulysociable person from Oklahoma,continually addressed Clarence as “youngfeller,” which produced the same effect as

a violent chill, and when he joyouslyjogged a Van Winkle elbow to emphasizesome pleasantry, Clarence firmly movedhis chair out of reach of the defiling touch.

Alice ate everything and did not stoptalking for a moment. Clarence refusedeverything but a cracker, which hemunched in silence. Suddenly he turnedwhite and left the table. Owen escortedhim out-of-doors while Alice and Ifollowed. He was faint, just faint, andcollapsed weakly onto a garden seat.Alice said it was the Denver water, but Isuspected unassimilated Hamm. Owenstayed with him and Alice and I returnedto finish supper. The Hamms left soonafter and Clarence gradually revivedunder the influence of Owen’s New

England accent and Scotch whisky.

All at once I thought of the freshly paintedguest-room floor. I explained the situationto Alice and we went up to see if it wasdry. It was, but the smell of paint wasmost evident. Alice gave a few sniffs andsaid apologetically:

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Esther, butClarence couldn’t possibly sleep here. Heis so sensitive to odors of any kind.” I wasreminded of a faint aroma which had clungto the Hamm garments. “If there is anotherroom we can occupy, I think it would bebetter.” Alice was accustomed to hotels. Ioffered our room; it was reluctantly butfinally accepted, the scion of the VanWinkles must not breathe paint. All thethings from the guest-room were put in our

room and ours were moved up to theguest-room.

Just before they retired Alice confided tome that Clarence had had sometemperature in Denver and the Doctorthought he might be threatened withtyphoid fever.

“I really believe, Esther, if Clarence hasany temperature in the morning we hadbetter go back to Denver.”

I reassured her as I bade her good-nightand then sought Owen. I was beginning tohave some temperature myself.

“Owen, if Clarence Van Winkle has athousandth of a degree of temperature inthe morning don’t tell him that he’ll be allright; let him go back to Denver or

anywhere else he pleases. Imagine thatman with typhoid, here.”

The next morning Alice appeared atbreakfast alone. Clarence had notemperature, but he felt weak and thoughthe had better stay in bed. He continued tofeel weak for three days, Alice dancingattendance white the rest of us tried to getthe household and water running again.

When Clarence finally emerged from hisseclusion, he was in high spirits,positively buoyant.

“Well, now I want to see everything, allthe cattle, the cow-boys, branding,dehorning, a round-up and what is it youcall it? Oh, yes, ‘broncho busting’. Wehave to go back to Denver tomorrow, youknow.” He had to stop for want of breath.

Alice beamed fondly upon her enthusiasticbridegroom. Mine looked far fromenthusiastic. Owen was a perfect host buthe could not give a demonstration of ayear’s work in one day. The horse-breaking was over for the season and thebranded and dehorned cattle scatteredover miles of country. This he endeavoredto explain to Clarence who made noattempt to conceal his disappointment norhis petulance.

“Oh, how unfortunate. I’ve heard so muchof the fascination of ranch life I thought I’dlike to see a little of it. I thought you hadbroncho busting or something interestingor entertaining going on every day.”

Owen bit his lip. He was busy beyondwords but he dropped everything and

afternoon we took our guests for a driveover the ranch. The wagon was new andrattled and, wishing to spare Clarence’sdelicate sensibilities, Owen put on somewashers.

We were in the middle of the prairie milesfrom the house, Clarence had recoveredhis good humor since he was “actuallyseeing something”, as he tactfullyexpressed it, when one of the wheelsbegan to drag. The washers proved to betoo tight, we had a hot spindle. There wasnothing to do but sit there in the blazingsun while the two men took off the wheel,removed a washer or two and greased thespindle.

I wouldn’t have missed it, the merethought of that scene was a joy to me for

months afterwards. Clarence Van Winklered and perspiring from the effort of liftinga wheel, wiping his greasy hands on apiece of dirty waste! Alice’s face was astudy. I had to keep my eyes fixed on thelandscape after one look over the side ofthe wagon. I was afraid I should laugh outloud.

The day they left Bill drove us all to thestation. We just made the train, which wasstanding on the track as we arrived. Owenhurried to check the Van Winkle’sbaggage. Bill had to stay with the horses.Alice and I had all the wraps, which leftClarence to carry two dress suit casesacross the tracks. His eyes were fixed onthe porter and he was hurrying toward thePullman when he stubbed his toe on one

rail, sprawled all the way across the trackand hit his neck on the second rail. Thesuit cases flew in one direction, his hat inanother, his glasses fell off and his watchdropped out of his pocket. Alice and Irushed to the rescue, the porter assistedClarence to his feet and picked up the suitcases, we gathered up the rest of thearticles while Clarence stood in themiddle of the track rubbing his knees, tothe great amusement of the passengers.Alice went up to him when suddenly hescrewed his face up as a child does beforeit begins to cry, threw both arms aroundher neck and buried his face on hershoulder. The conductor terminated thescene by calling “All aboard”. Clarencelimped to the train, rubbing his neck, andthe last we saw was Alice holding all the

wraps, the hat, glasses and watch, wavingto us from the vestibule and Clarencecomfortably seated in the Pullman smilinga wan farewell through the window. Asthe train with its precious freight was lostto sight around a curve, Owen and I beganto laugh. We laughed until we were soweak we could scarcely get into thewagon. Bill’s face was perfectly serious,but his eyes had a little twinkle in them ashe said with his slow drawl:

“Lord, Mrs. Brook, I’m glad that youngman married that girl. He’d orter havesomebody look after him. A poor littlegoslin’ feller like that ain’t got nobusiness goin’ round alone.”

Bill always sized up a situation in thefewest possible words.

During the drive back to the ranch Ithought of Alice and her future by the sideof a man of that type. Our future wasuncertain enough, but if trouble andvicissitudes were our portion, at least Ihad someone with whom to share them.

Tex had been away for several weeks andwe were surprised to see him at the gateas we drove up. He looked very seriousas he asked Owen if he might speak withhim and Owen looked more serious whenhe came out of the office after theirconversation.

“What is it, Owen? Something is wrong.Please tell me.”

Owen took me by the arm and we walkedup and down under the trees.

“Tex came over to tell me, Esther, that Iam to be arrested for ‘driving cattle off therange.’ Technically, it’s a serious charge,carrying a heavy fine and—” he paused—“imprisonment, but don’t worry, mydear,” as he felt me start a little at his lastwords, “it’s listed on the statute books asa criminal offence, connected withrustling, but that can’t hold in this case.It’s a ‘frame-up’ to give me trouble, that’sall. It might have been serious but Texheard of it and came to warn me just intime. There’s been a plot to eat me out andnow they want to drive me out. I’m goingin to Denver to see my lawyer tomorrow.I’m more troubled on your account thananything else.”

“Don’t worry about me, Owen, we’re

going to stay in this country and fight it outto the end. I’ll face anything, as long asyou don’t cry,” and we went into the houselaughing, as we thought of Clarence VanWinkle.

The miserable experience which followedwas sufficiently serious, even after thecharge had been changed to one of minorcharacter.

Owen was arrested on our anniversary. Iwent his bond. There was a long,expensive law-suit which we lost, theJudge contending that if a man wished toprotect his land he should fence it. It wasexplained that the Government hadforbidden it, but the Judge said that did notaffect the verdict in this case. Owen paidthe damages awarded by the Court, we

gathered together our sixteen cow-puncherwitnesses who had been staying with us atone of the largest hotels in Denver, anevent for the cow-punchers, and returnedto the ranch.

Did Owen weep on my shoulder? He sethis lips a little more firmly and his facehad an added sternness as he lookedacross those miles of rolling prairie heowned but which now were utterlyuseless.

He broke the silence at last. His voice hada different tone.

“I am going to have the use of my ownland. They shan’t keep me out of it anylonger. I am going to sell off all the cattleand put in sheep. Then we’ll see! Withherders we don’t need fences and cattle

won’t graze where sheep have ranged.”

Thus with the first year of our marriage,the first chapter of our ranch experienceended and a totally different life began.

VIII—THE SHEEP BUSINESS

With the coming of the sheep everythingwas changed. It was like living in adifferent age, almost as though we hadslipped back hundreds of years intoBiblical times and had come into intimateassociation with Jacob and Joseph. Withthe advent of the wool or lamb buyersthere was a sudden transition to the morecommercial atmosphere of the twentiethcentury, but it was so fleeting our pastoralexistence was scarcely interrupted.

A few of our old men had gone, Texamong them. He left with regret, but as hesaid—

“Lord knows I hate to go, Mr. Brook, butcattle’s all I know and an old cow manain’t got no business around sheep; theyjust naturally despise each other.” And hewent up into Montana where the cattlebusiness still flourished.

Most of the other men stayed on, however,to ride the fence lines, look after thehorses and do the various things about theranch, but the days of branding, dehorningand round-ups were past and the cow-puncher was replaced by “camp tenders”.

The sheep were trailed all the way fromNew Mexico. Steve, who spoke Spanish,was foreman, and with three of the othermen on horseback had come up the trailwith the sheep and the soft-voicedMexican herders.

Their entire camp equipment wasskillfully packed on diminutive burros. Itwas somewhat startling to see whatappeared to be animated wood-piles,water-casks, rolls of bedding or dish-pansbobbing about over the woolly backs ofthe sheep, until a parting in the bandrevealed the legs and lowered head of asleepy-eyed burro.

The herders spoke no English and it wasso charming to receive a gleaming smileand low bow while being addressed as“Padron” and “Señora” that we plungedinto the study of their musical languageforthwith.

Each herder was in charge of a band offrom fifteen hundred to twenty-fivehundred sheep. Two herders occupied a

camp, but the sheep were placed inseparate corrals and, in order to give thevarious bands ample pasturage, the campswere placed miles apart.

Early in the morning the sheep weredriven out, the herders taking their bandsin opposite directions. All day long theflock quietly grazed over the prairie, theMexican with his dog at his feet standinglike a sentinel on a hill from which hecould overlook his entire band and wardoff any prowling coyote whose approachwas heralded by a sudden scurry amongthe sheep.

Eternal vigilance, faithfulness and goodjudgment were the essential qualities in aherder, judgment in the handling of thesheep, in the selection of the best grass

and water, the time for taking them out andbringing them back to the camp. Theherders were not supposed to meet andtalk together for while they wereengrossed in conversation or out of sightof the sheep the two bands might becomemixed, a very serious thing when the eweswere accompanied by their lambs, forwhen the bands were separated again thelamb might be in one band and its motherin the other.

It was a lonely life, but one for whichMexicans are especially suited. They lackthe initiative of the Anglo-Saxons, they arenaturally tranquil, slow of speech andaction and content to do nothing—gentlechildren from the land of Mañana.

Scattered over the prairie, the sheep from

a distance looked like mere dots soclosely resembling the clumps of weeds, itwas necessary to locate the herder beforethey could be identified. He looked like asolitary fence post placed on the top of ahill.

The Mexicans were most gracious andresponsive, so delighted to receive a visitfrom the Padron that it was a joy to talkwith them. We were never certain justwhat we had said, to be sure, but the effectof our halting, broken sentences ofSpanish appeared so pleasing, we wereconvinced that if we could only conversefluently our words would becomeimmortal. Urbanity was most contagious.Owen and I made deep bows to theherders, we almost bowed to the sheep in

an over-mastering desire to equal thepoliteness of Ramon, Fidel, Francisco orTranquilino. What names! The atmosphereof the ranch became so poetic andromantic I should not have been surprisedto see Owen adopt long hair and a flowingtie. After a day spent in visiting the sheepcamps I returned in an ecstatic mood. Ialmost fancied myself the reincarnatedspirit of Bo-Peep or Ramona but alas, mytrue identity was always disclosed assoon as I reached the house—I was only“the Missus”.

Nevertheless the sheep business wasfascinating, and best of all successful. Thequestion of the range was settled. We hadthe use of our own land and our rightswere respected. The customary feud

between the sheepman and the cattleowners was avoided, since our sheepwere always kept within the limits of theland which we owned. From being theobject of hatred and vilification, Owenbecame a personage; his opinion quoted,his method of handling sheep emulated.

TRAILED ALL THE WAY FROM NEW MEXICO

LIKE A SOLITARY FENCE POST

There were a few sheep men in thecountry who had made an indifferentsuccess. They had scoffed at Owen’spractice of selling off all the lambs in theautumn and maintaining the number of hissheep by additional purchases but, whenthey found how small his losses were,

they promptly adopted his plan and evensome of the old-time cattle men put insheep.

The loss of the law suit had certainlyproved to be the turning point in thehistory of the Brook family. Ourpopularity increased so rapidly it wasamusing. Bill expressed what I felt as Imet him riding through the meadow.

“Have you been riding the fence lines,Bill?”

“Yes’m, but it’s just takin’ exercise for myhealth. There ain’t nothin’ wrong anymore. Since you folks got the world by thetail and a down-hill pull, everybody’shuntin’ around seein’ what they can do tomake it pleasant for you. I notice the ThreeCircle outfit don’t go round no more

leavin’ all the gates open and when we geta fence line staked out, the stakes ain’t allpulled up by mornin’.”

“It is peaceful, isn’t it?”

“Peaceful,” echoed Bill, with feeling,“I’m so chuck full of peace I can’t hardlyhold any more. I’ll bet if a feller was tohit me, I’d only ‘baa-a’.”

There was a vast amount of “Baa-ing”going on at the ranch, where Mary and Iwere raising a few score orphan lambs onthe bottle. There was a voracious choruswhenever we appeared. They jumped allover us and as soon as they got hold of thenipple of the bottle they flopped down ontheir knees and did not release it until theyhad gulped down the last drop of milk,after which they stood up, their little sides

sticking out as though they had beenstuffed. As much care had to be exercisedwith the bottles, the temperature andquantity of the milk as though we had beenfeeding so many babies.

There was no milk at the outside campsand no one to care for the poor abandonedlambs whose frivolous young mothersrefused to own them, leaving them tostarve. Occasionally an old ewe of trulymaternal instinct could be fooled intoadopting one of these little “dogies” or“bums”. The skin of her dead lamb wastaken off and slipped over the orphan,which was joyfully accepted because ofits smell!

When the lambs made their appearance inMay, the bands were separated, we had

additional herders and they had to be morewatchful for “Spring lamb” is also verytempting to coyotes. It was easy for aherder to lose ten or twenty lambs, for thelittle things congregate behind rocks orclumps of weeds and go to sleep, areoverlooked when the sheep are drivenback to the camp in the evening, andbecome the victims of those prairiewolves which continually lurk about.

Sometimes when we were driving, a tinywhite speck would come racing after thewagon, a lamb, which had been leftbehind. Lambs are such senseless littlethings, when they are frightened they willadopt any moving object in lieu of amother.

We pulled them out of prairie-dog holes

into which they had thrust their heads andbecome fastened by having the loose earthfall in about their necks—they weretroublesome but so appealing andamusing, they were a never-ending sourceof entertainment from the first moment theyappeared, a tiny body supported on long,wabbly legs.

As they grew stronger “playful as a lamb”acquired a new meaning. They caperedand they bucked, they raced around thecorral in the evening when the ewes werecontentedly lying down, they frisked abouton the backs of their patient mothers, theyjumped stiff-legged, and in a wild excessof joy bounded into the air giving a cork-screw twist to their hindquarters, whichproduced a most ludicrous effect.

Old quotations from the Bible came tohave added significance; as the shearerheld a poor frightened sheep between hisknees and rapidly clipped off the fleecewith his gleaming shears, there was not asound if a clumsy movement cut a deepgash in the tender flesh; the “sheep beforeher shearer was dumb” indeed.

I spent days in the shearing shedswatching the proceedings from a pile ofwool sacks or passing out small metaldisks in exchange for the fleeces theshearers turned in. At the end of the daythe disks were counted and each shearercredited with the number of sheep he hadshorn.

The fleeces were rolled and tiedseparately, then thrown up to a man on a

platform, who packed them in a long sackwhich was suspended from the top of ahigh frame. As it was filled, it was takendown, sewed up and rolled into the end ofthe shed to remain until later in the seasonwhen the wool was sold and hauled to therailroad.

Life was certainly peaceful compared towhat it had been, but there was littledanger of our becoming “on weed”, as acertain retired cattle-man expressed itafter a short sojourn in Europe.

Lambing, shearing and dipping followedin rapid succession. The herders cookedfor themselves and once a week thewagons were piled with supplies andprovisions which were left at each camp.In a huge store-room were kept quantities

of salt-pork, sugar, dried fruits, coffee,flour and other groceries. Flour wasbought by the ton and everything else inproportion. Making out the orders, havingall the freight hauled the sixteen milesfrom the railroad, checking it out andkeeping the camps supplied, were onlydetails but it was the multitude of detailwhich filled the days and kept us frombecoming “on weed”. We issued thesupplies to the camp-tenders ourselves,after one of them had filled all of theMexicans’ cans with gasoline instead ofcoal-oil, because “it kind’a had the samesmell.”

Unless we chanced to have guests, forweeks at a time the only women I sawwere those in our employ, but I resented

having any of my friends think of my lifeas “dull” or “lonely”. On the contrary itwas fascinating, full of incident, rich inexperience which money could not buy.Living so close to the great heart of natureduring those years on the plains, the visionof life partook of their breadth and a newsense of values replaced old, artificialstandards. To be alone on the vast prairiewas to gain a new conception of infinityand—eternity.

The Mexicans stayed on the ranch aboutnine months, then returned to their homesfor a short visit. They were the mostinvariable creatures I ever knew. Whenthey departed for Taos or Trinidad orAntonito, perhaps in July, they would

announce on what date and by what trainthey would return in October. That wasthe end of it, and upon the appointed dayin October someone would meet thedesignated train from which the smilingherder alighted. They never failed andthey never left until another herder wasthere to take care of the sheep.

One summer during this vacation period,eight new herders came to replace eightthat were going home. They were a fiercelooking lot from a different section of thecountry. They had been on the ranch only ashort time when Steve began to havetrouble with them. They were late gettingtheir sheep out in the morning, they drovethem too rapidly and brought them in tooearly in the evening. In a few weeks the

sheep began to lose flesh and show theeffects of bad handling.

The newcomers disobeyed all orders,unless Steve happened to be on the spot.He had to watch them constantly. He cameup to a camp unexpectedly one noon andfound two of these Mexicans ready to sitdown to a dinner they had just cooked. Itwas an invariable rule that the herdersshould take a lunch with them, for theirmid-day meal, and not return to the camp.They had left their sheep alone, so Stevemade them leave their dinner and go backto their bands, while he stayed to makesure they did not return.

It was impossible to discharge them untilnew herders could be brought from NewMexico and he and Owen talked over the

situation at length that night.

Early in the morning Steve went out onanother trip of inspection. About twoo’clock he rode into the yard, his facecovered with blood from a deep gash inhis head. He fell from his horse intoOwen’s arms. We brought him in, washedoff the blood, gave him a stimulant andwaited until he was able to tell us whathad happened.

It developed that as he came in sight of thecamp he saw four of the Mexicans outsideof the cabin. They stood motionless as heapproached, then began to hurl rocks athim. One hit his horse and he was nearlythrown but managed to keep his seat. Hewas struck several times on the body.Although realizing that the Mexicans

intended to kill him, he jumped off hishorse and went toward them. A rockstruck his head, but with undauntedcourage he picked up some of the rocksand threw them back at the herders. Theyhad not expected that turn to the affair andran into the cabin. Steve was unarmed andtoo badly hurt, single handed, to deal withthe Mexicans, so he got on his horse, withdifficulty, and came back to the ranch.

The next thing I knew, Owen, Bill andFred, each carrying a gun, got into thewagon and drove off.

When anything happened it came withsuch suddenness there was neveropportunity for questions, besides, myassociation with men had taught me thevalue of silence—in an emergency.

In a few hours Owen and Fred came back.They had met the eight new herderswalking into the ranch to “quit”. Theywalked back to their respective campsinstead, their pace accelerated by aloaded gun pointing at their backs. Thecabins were searched, several villainouslooking knives confiscated and eightsubdued cut-throats returned to thepeaceful occupation of herding sheep,under Bill’s watchful eye and loaded gun.

Owen said that it wasn’t at all necessaryfor the Mexicans to understand Englishsince Bill’s few remarks were sufficientlylurid to attract their attention.

Until other herders could be brought to theranch, one white man, always armed,stayed at each camp, constantly on guard

lest the vindictive herders set fire to thecamps or kill the sheep. These were nogentle children from the land of Mañana;we discovered they were desperatecharacters from Old Mexico, to whommurder was second nature.

Bill’s opinion of the sheep business afterhis brief experience in the camps couldonly be published in an expurgatededition. He hated the Mexicans, he hatedthe sheep, he hated everything connectedwith them. After seeing his charges safelyon board a southbound train, he returnedto the ranch with all the joy of an exile.

“I’ve been up against tough men, Mrs.Brook, but that bunch is the worst I everseen. They’re just like a pack of coyotes,grinnin’ and sneakin’ up behind you,

waitin’ ’til they git a chance to finish you.Between listnin’ to the grass grow andpickin’ off sheep ticks, I got plumb locoedsettin’ there watchin’ ’em. I jest had tofeel my skin every once in a while to besure I wasn’t growin’ wool.”

IX—THE UNEXPECTED

If there is anything in suggestion, Carlylewas responsible for the whole affair,otherwise why should we have deferredour drive until the late afternoon andselected Sartor Resartus of all books toread aloud after lunch?

Owen wanted to visit one of the sheepcamps to examine the corrals beforehaving the hay stacked there for winter useand he urged us to go with him. Hisinvitation was joyfully accepted. Formany weeks we had scarcely left the ranchas Owen’s Mother, who was with us, hadbeen desperately ill. The crisis had

passed, however, so we did not hesitate togo off for a few hours, leaving MadameBrook with her nurse. My aunt, Owen’ssister and her two children were at theranch also, and after so many weeks ofanxiety we all felt the relaxation andjoyously climbed into the wagon whenOwen drove up.

There were summer and winter camps forthe sheep and our objective point was anold place, acquired with the ranch, whichhad been converted into a winter camp.During the summer it was unoccupied.

We drove along laughing and talking.Owen’s nephew carried his gun and kept asharp lookout for coyotes. It was aglorious day and we were in the mood toappreciate all its beauty.

The meadows, waist deep in native hay,were flecked with the gold of the prairiesun flowers. The wild roses grew intangled masses everywhere, their perfumemingled with the odor of the sage whichyielded up its aromatic sweetness as thewheels crushed the silvery leaves. Theplains were mottled with the shade offleecy clouds which floated lazily acrossthe sky, the changing lights flooded thehills with dazzling sunshine, then veiledthem softly with faint cloud shadows. Adelicate haze hung over the more distanthills, and behind the mountainsthunderheads were gathering.

The road ran directly past the camp andlong before we reached it we could seethe old house, forbidding in its isolation,

standing on a high mesa above the creek. Ithad been built years before by a settlernamed La Monte, whose footstepsmisfortune had dogged until she overtookhim at last. His wife deserted him and,broken in heart and fortune, he had left thecountry. Bohm held a mortgage on theplace and it had passed into hispossession.

An air of abandonment surrounded thecamp even in winter when it wasoccupied, but during the summer when itwas totally deserted the ghosts of deadhappiness stalked unheeded through thesilent rooms. Rank weeds filled the yards,the plaintive notes of the wood-doves inthe cotton-woods by the creek and theweird, haunting howl of the coyotes were

the only sounds to break the silence.

There was a tale connecting old Bohmwith the La Monte tragedy for which anaffair with Mrs. La Monte wasresponsible. We were some distance fromthe house, the rest of the party were intenton watching a big jack-rabbit which wasbounding lightly across the prairie, but Iwas thinking of the wretched story whichthe sight of the old house always recalled,when the door was slowly opened and anaked man paused for a moment on thethreshold then walked down the steps intothe yard.

I gave a gasp, my eyes fixed on thatadvancing figure, the others looked aroundbut in that instant the man had seen us anddropped down into the tall weeds, by

which he was completely hidden.

“What’s the matter?” Owen asked,surprised by my exclamation.

“Why, Owen, a man without any clotheson just came out of that door and is therein the weeds.”

Owen turned toward the yard, there wasno one in sight; he looked at me inamazement. He knew I must be in earnest!I was not given to “seeing things”.

“Why, that’s absurd, how could youimagine anyone being out here in thisdeserted place miles and miles from therailroad?”

We were just opposite the house and as ifin response to Owen’s question the headand naked breast of a man rose up from

behind the weeds. His face was crimsonand the thick, black disheveled hair gavehim such an aspect of wildness we wereappalled.

Owen stopped the horses, the man rose tohis feet, calmly looked at us, then turnedand walked slowly into the house.

We were speechless. It was like a suddenapparition.

After a moment Owen passed the lines tome.

“Here, Esther, hold the horses while I goin and investigate.”

“Be careful,” was all I could say. Therewas a chorus of “Don’ts” from the backseat as he got out of the wagon.

I thought of the gun. “Gordon, take yourgun and go after your uncle. I know thatman is crazy.”

Gordon jumped out and ran toward thehouse, but before he reached the door weheard a loud burst of singing, a curiousrendering of “Ta-rah-rah boom-de-ahy”.In a moment Owen and Gordonreappeared.

“Well, there’s no doubt of his beingcrazy,” Owen said, “we’ll go to theBosman ranch where I can get someone tocome back with me. I can telephone theSheriff from there, too.” Then he told uswhat had happened.

By the time he reached the door the manhad put on his outside shirt and wasstanding in the middle of the bedroom

floor. He glared at Owen when he enteredand made no reply when asked what hewas doing there, then he turned around andwalked over to an empty bed frame whichstood against the wall, got behind it andgradually slipped down underneath. Whenhe was lying flat on his back on the floor,his feet toward Owen, he began to sing insome broken foreign tongue.

It was uncanny and as we drove on towardthe creek I could only say “What next?”

“I don’t know what on earth can comenext,” Owen replied. “This is positivelythe most unexpected and unlikely thing thatever happened.”

We had to drive down a hill before wecrossed the creek and at last lost sight ofthe house, the sound of the wild singing

grew more faint and finally died away.

There were no bridges in the country andwhile at this time there was no flowingwater, the sand was wet. We drove downa steep bank into the bed of the creek andwere almost across when without theslightest warning the bottom seemed todrop out of the earth beneath us and thewagon sank down.

“Quicksand!”

There was just time for that oneexclamation in concert. Owen gave thehorses a quick cut with the whip, theysprang forward, caught a footing on thesolid sand and were safe. He gave themanother cut, but pull as they would theycould not move the wagon, which hadsunk to the hubs. The double tree broke

and the horses were free. Owen andGordon jumped out on the tongue, holdingonto the horses and drove them up thebank. There the rest of us sat, feeling thewagon sinking slowly farther and fartherinto the deadly, yielding substance.

The end of the wagon-pole rested on thefirm sand, so by climbing over thedashboard holding on to it with one hand Iwas able to work my own way down thewagon tongue until I could grasp anoutstretched hand and jump to safety. Theothers followed my example. The dangerwas past, but we trembled as we lookedback.

It is impossible to distinguish quicksandfrom ordinary sand by its appearance, butit will not support the slightest weight. It

seems to melt into nothing and thesensation is all the more terrifying from itssuddenness. The first effect isinstantaneous, then the engulfmentbecomes more gradual.

We were safe but afoot. Owen took thehorses.

“Gordon and I will go on to the Bosmansand get another wagon. We won’t be longand you women had better stay here andnot walk these three miles.”

I was just about to say “all right” when Ihappened to glance behind me and thereon the bank, silhouetted quite sharplyagainst the sky, stood the figure of a half-clad man.

He was watching every move we made. I

pointed to him.

“I think you’d better come with us,” saidOwen after one glance, “he might decideto investigate,” and off we all trudgeddown the dusty road.

Blue black masses of cloud werespreading gradually across the sky anddistant thunder muttered ominously.

If a bomb had alighted in the centre of theBosman ranch, where supper was inprogress, it couldn’t have produced amore startling effect than our arrival onfoot and the account of our experience.They urged us to spend the night, as thestorm was rapidly approaching, but wefelt we must go back with Owen.

Mr. Bosman hitched our team to one of hiswagons, while Owen telephoned to theSheriff. We took a few pieces of breadand meat for the poor demented creature atthe camp and made another start. Mr.Bosman and his son accompanied us onhorseback.

We went by a different road to avoidcrossing the creek.

It was dark by the time we reached the LaMonte place, everything was still. Thefour men, with a lighted lantern, enteredthe house. A wild outburst of singingfollowed, which told us the same scenewas being enacted. The men came outalmost immediately, talking earnestly.

Mr. Bosman, an old-timer, had recognizedthe man as Jean La Monte, he had spoken

to him, had called him by name, but nosign of understanding, not one faintglimmer of intelligence had shone fromout those wild eyes. Mr. Bosman wasalmost overcome.

“It’s just terrible to see him that way, hewas such a good man. Poor old La Monte,trouble has sure driven him crazy. How onearth he ever got here beats me. Thereain’t a thing we can do tonight. Wecouldn’t handle him if he got violent.There never was a stronger man in thiscountry than Jean La Monte. My God! It’sawful!”

So it was arranged that the Bosmansshould go back to their ranch and sendword to the Sheriff to be up there early inthe morning and that Owen should have

some of our men guard the place duringthe night.

“Poor devil, I don’t believe he’ll goaway. He seemed so suspicious hewouldn’t touch the bread, and I believehe’s been here two or three days. See youin the morning,” and the Bosmansdisappeared in the darkness.

The thought of the tragedy with which wehad so suddenly come in touch, weighedupon us. A living ghost connected us witha past in which we had no part.

Long after we had left the old placebehind, the mad singing followed us,except when it was drowned by a suddencrash of thunder. The jagged flashes oflightning illuminated the heavens for abrief second, then left the world shrouded

in an impenetrable darkness. Rather thanrisk going through the creek a second time,we had decided to cut across country.

The prairies were broken by deep gullieswashed and torn by the fury of the summerstorms. By day, driving was difficult; bynight, it was hazardous in the extreme, andafter a blinding flash which fairly tore theheavens apart, we were forced to stop thehorses for fear of driving into an unseengulch. The horses, headed toward homeand excited and nervous, were hard tocontrol. We drove along in silence, ourstaring eyes trying to pierce the darkness.It was so dangerous that at last I got outand walked in front of the horses. I couldnot see; I could only know from thecontour of the ground when we were near

a gulch or by my outstretched hand tellwhen we were near the wires of a fence.After a time Gordon took my place, andall the way one or the other walked beforethe team. The lightning and thunder wereterrific, but still it did not rain. We wereworn out with fatigue and anxiety whenwe finally reached the ranch.

Steve was standing with his saddle horseat the crossing of the creek, swinging alighted lantern. When he heard the soundof the wheels he gave a shout.

“Mr. Brook!”

“All right,” Owen called back. Stevecame towards us.

“What on earth happened? We’ve all beenplumb worried to death, and Madame

Brook, she’s most crazy. I’ve just sentFred up to the La Monte place to look foryou.”

“La Monte place!” we exclaimed asseveral of the boys, attracted by Steve’sshout, came up. “Get on your horse,” saidOwen, quickly, “and overtake him; there’sa madman up there.”

Steve did not wait for further instructions,but flung himself on his horse and tore offafter Fred. We hurried in to reassureOwen’s mother, who was nearly frantic.Later, as she bade us “Good-night,” shesaid very seriously: “Owen, as soon as Iam able I am going to Denver. I must bewhere it is quiet. I simply cannot stand theexcitement here.”

As the rain began to fall in torrents, we

heard the men who had been detailed toguard the La Monte place galloping off.

An itinerant tailor had pulled into theranch just before our return, and waspeacefully sleeping in his wagon. He wasawakened when the horses were driveninto the corral, and came out to learn thecause of the commotion. He was soexcited when he heard that an insaneperson was in the vicinity he asked tosleep at the bunk house with the men. Theytried to laugh him out of his fears, but hisfright was so genuine they told him to“come on.”

The strangeness of the whole affair, thecombination of circumstances and purenervous and physical exhaustion keptOwen and me awake a long time. It

seemed I had scarcely fallen asleep whenI heard someone knock on the door andsay:

“Mr. Brook, Mr. Brook.”

I recognized Mary’s voice, and respondedfor Owen, who was dead asleep.

“Mrs. Brook, the crazy man is down hereat the corral; will you ask Mr. Brook tocome out?”

It didn’t take Owen long to dress. It wasabout five o’clock, and from the windowwe could see poor old La Monte, stillattired in his shirt, sitting in the door of thegranary playing with a little cotton-woodswitch.

How he had escaped the men who hadsurrounded the place, and how he had

found his way to our ranch were questionsno one could answer.

The first intimation of his presence camein the form of a wild yell from the tailor,who had gotten up early and gone down tothe corral to feed his horses. This broughtall the men to the bunk house door as theterror-stricken little Jew flung himself intotheir arms.

“Mein Gott! Dot crazy man iss here.”

“You’re the only crazy man on this ranch,”said Bill, taking him by the collar andgiving him a shake. “What ails you,anyhow?”

“Oh, he iss here, he iss here,” wailed thetailor. “He ain’t got on no clothes, andwe’ll all be kilt.” The boys left him and

went out to investigate.

It was true. La Monte was there, and aftera futile effort on Bill’s part to get him totalk the boys retired to the bunk house andsent for Owen.

“Gee,” Bill said later, “that feller was thedoggondest lookin’ thing I ever seen,settin’ there in what was left of his shirt.His legs was all tore by the fence wires orbrambles, his teeth was chatterin’ and hewas just blue with cold. His eyes had alook in ’em that give me the shivers. Idon’t wonder he scart that there Jew into afit. I wasn’t very anxious to come clost tohim, neither. I ain’t scart of anything that’shuman, but he ain’t human, goin’ ’roundfolks dressed like that.” Bill was astickler for convention.

“That’s the first thing a person usuallydoes when he goes crazy, Bill—takes offall his clothes.”

Bill gave me an incredulous look.

“Gosh, I hope I’ll be killed ridin’ orsomethin’ and not lose my mind first. Itain’t decent.”

The poor demented creature would notspeak nor pay any attention to the othermen, but when he saw Steve he smiled ashe asked:

“You’ve come to take me away from them,haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Steve said. “Will you go with menow?”

La Monte stood up.

“Yes, if you won’t let them get me; thosewitches want to drag me back to hell, butI’ve fooled them this time. I’ve almostcaught up with him once or twice and theydrag me back.” And he walked off quietlyby Steve’s side.

Steve took him to the bunkhouse, gave himsome coffee and made him lie down on hisbed. While Steve sat beside him La Monteslept fitfully, but at the slightest movestarted and tried to get up. Steve fell inwith all his vagaries; he promised to helphim escape the witches and to help himfind the person for whom he seemed to besearching.

“Where was he last?” Steve asked, hopingto find some clue.

“Why, on his horse.” La Monte sat up andstared wildly into Steve’s eyes. “Don’tyou know, he’s always on a horse, a bigblack horse. He’s there just ahead of me,he’s always just ahead of me,” and hejumped up and started toward the door.

Steve calmed him again and he fell backon the pillows and lay there in silence, hiseyes fixed on the ceiling.

Six crestfallen cow-punchers returnedfrom the La Monte place. No one knewwhen the man had left the camp, no onehad even caught a glimpse of him. Hisclothes they had found in the well.

The Sheriff and his posse came at last.Steve kept his hand on the arm of La

Monte as they approached the wagon. Itwas a tense moment; we were allwatching but hidden, fearful lest sometrifle would arouse the demon of violence.The men were all armed.

La Monte put his foot up on the step of thewagon, then took it off, shook his head,turned and walked toward the granary. Weheld our breath. Steve alone followedhim.

“Come on; you’re going with me, aren’tyou?”

There was no reply. With his eyes fixedon the ground La Monte ignored Stevecompletely. Suddenly he stopped andpicked up something, the little cotton-wood switch to which the leaves stillclung. Holding it tightly, he walked back

to the wagon, got in, Steve by his side, andthey drove off.

They were scarcely out of sight whenCharley came dashing up with sixtydollars in gold which he had found undera pile of mud at the La Monte place. Owensent him to overtake the wagon.

“Is this yours?” Charley asked, as he rodeup to them, holding the money out towardLa Monte, who only shook his head andlooked off across the prairie. Charleyturned the money over to Steve.

When they reached the town, La Monteseemed to become confused andsuspicious. He would not speak. He wasjudged insane and committed to theasylum. Still in charge of the Sheriff,Steve and two other men, he was put on

the train.

“Where did you get him?” the conductorasked the Sheriff.

“Up in the country, at the A L ranch.”

“Oh, yes, I know that place; it used to bethe old Bohm——”

He never finished his sentence, for LaMonte, with a cry, sprang to his feet,looked wildly about, brushed them asideand jumped through the window.

The train was stopped, and they ran backto where he had fallen. He had broken hisleg, but in spite of that fought them offwith superhuman strength. With the help ofthe train crew, he was overpowered atlast, bound and taken back to the train.

Steve told us later it was the most terribleexperience he had ever been through.

“I just couldn’t stand the look in his eyeswhen they got him to the asylum. He didn’tsay nothin’, just kept moanin’ all the time.He’d been there for five years, and no oneknew how he got away. I suppose it woulda come anyhow, but it seemed like it wasthe mention of Bohm’s name that set himoff.”

X—AROUND THECHRISTMAS FIRE

Within a radius of many miles there wereonly three small children, and about themour Christmas festivities revolved. Theyfurnished the excuse for the tree, but nowork was too pressing, no snow too deepto prevent the boys from bringing theChristmas tree and greens from a smallclump of pines which stood on top of adistant hill, like a dark green island in themidst of the prairie sea.

Early on Christmas morning Steve startedout with gaily bedecked baskets for theMexicans, and at the ranch the greatest

excitement prevailed. I dashed franticallybetween the bunkhouse and our kitchen tobe certain that nothing was forgotten. Thebig turkeys were stuffed to the point ofbursting, all the “trimmings” were inreadiness, and the last savory mince pieswere in the ovens.

BUCKING HORSE AND RIDER

Behind the closed doors of the livingroom the tall tree, festooned with ropes ofpopcorn and garlands of gaudy paperchains, glittered and glowed with its tinselornaments and candles.

Owen divided his attention between his“Santa Claus” costume and pails of water,which he placed near the tree in case it

should catch fire.

The boys spent most of the morning“slicking up” and put on their red neckties,the outward and visible sign of someimportant event, then passed the remaininghours sitting around anxiously awaiting thearrival of the guests of honor and—dinner.

Sometimes members of the family werewith us or some friends were lured fromthe city by the promise of a “really, trulyChristmas,” and there were always a fewlonely bachelors to whom the holidays,otherwise, would have brought onlymemories.

Christmas was our one great annualcelebration, a day of cheer and happiness,in which everyone joyously shared. It wasa new experience in the life of the

undomesticated cow-puncher, but he tookas much satisfaction in the fact that “Ourtree was a whole lot prettier than the oneI’ve saw in town” as though he had won aroping contest.

Each year the children and their parentswere invited for Christmas dinner. Theymight be delayed en route by deepsnowdrifts, out of which they had to digthemselves, but they always arrivedeventually. We came to have a sincereaffection for those children, gentle littlewild flowers of the prairie.

They were very sweet, perfectlyingenuous, gazing in round-eyed wonderupon things which to most of us werecommonplace.

I never thought of its being anything new

in their brief experience until at dinnerone of the small boys turned to his motherafter tasting a piece of celery and said,“Look, Mamma, ’tain’t cabbage and ’tain’tonions. What is it?”

They positively trembled with excitementas they learned to read and laboriouslyspelled out the words in the simple bookswe gave them. They craved knowledge asa starving man craves bread.

As Santa Claus, Owen wore a ruddy maskwith a long white beard and bristlingeyebrows, a fur cap pulled down over hisears, heavy felt boots and his long furovercoat. He looked and acted the part soperfectly the children for years insistedthat “there is a Santa Claus ’cause we’veseen him.”

The first Christmas everyone wasgathered about the tree waiting for thismysterious personage to appear whenOwen suddenly thought of bells; he musthave sleigh-bells. No self-respectingSanta Claus was complete without them. Iwas in despair; there wasn’t a sleigh-bellwithin a hundred miles, but Owen insistedthat he must jingle. At last after a greatdeal of argument and searching forsomething which would give forth bell-like sounds, he finally pranced out beforethe spell-bound audience with my silvertable bell sewed to the top of one of hisboots. He had to prance because the bellrefused to tinkle unless it was shaken, andfor the ensuing hour he pranced sovigorously that between the exercise andthe fur coat he nearly perished from heat.

After dinner we all assembled in the bigliving-room, where my disguised husbandpresented each person with some little giftand ridiculous toy, accompanied by a stillmore ridiculous rhyme, over which theboys roared. They enjoyed the jokes mostof all. No one escaped; Owen and I camein for our share with the rest. Mine usuallybore veiled or open allusion to myparticular pet lamb which had developedstrong butting proclivities. He buttedfriend and foe indiscriminately, so thateven my fond eyes were not blinded to hisfaults, and Owen’s remarks were mostuncomplimentary after he had acted as ashield for us when “Jackie” had chasedmy sister and me all about the yard.

Later in the afternoon everybody scattered

—our house guests amused themselves asthey chose, riding, driving or huntingcoyotes, the boys rode over to theneighboring ranches or went to “town,”the store and saloon at the railroad stationsixteen miles away, but I spent an hour ortwo playing with the children or readingto them until their father “brought the teamaround,” their happy mother climbed upon the high seat of the lumber-wagon and,clinging to dolls, trains and toys, threeblissfully happy but perfectly exhaustedlittle children were wrapped up in quiltsand coats, stowed into the back of thewagon and started on the twenty-miledrive “back home.”

It had been an eventful day in their short,barren lives, but for us it was the best part

of Christmas, except the evening, when weall gathered about the big fireplace whichdrew everyone into its circle like amagnet.

There was nothing prosaic about thosewho grouped themselves around the greatstone fireplaces on the ranches in the olddays. Here again were found thosecontrasts, so striking and unexpected;university men who had come West foradventure or investment, men of wealthwhose predisposition to weak lungs hadsent them in exile to the wilderness,modest young Englishmen, those youngersons so often found in the most out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and who, throughthe sudden demise of a near relative, hadsuch a startling way of becoming earls and

lords over night; adventurous Scotchmen,brilliant young Irishmen, all smokingcontentedly there in the firelight anddiscussing the “isms” and “ologies” andevery other subject under heaven. Butmost interesting of all were their ownreminiscences.

We were all sitting around the fire oneChristmas night when the conversationturned on adventure, and everyonepromised to tell the most thrillingexperience he had ever had.

Two of the men were lying on the bigbearskin before the fire. One, a miningengineer, told of having been captured bybandits and held for a ransom, in someremote corner of Mexico where he hadgone to examine a very famous mine. The

other, a surveyor for the Union PacificRailroad, had been lost during a stormand, becoming snow-blind, crawled forfive miles on his hands and knees, feelingthe trail with naked, half frozen hands untilhe reached the creek down which hewaded until he came to the camp.

In a big chair, the firelight playing overher slender figure, sat Janet Courtland, anEastern woman, who as a mere girl hadcome West with her young husband andhad gone up into Montana where he hadbought a large cattle ranch.

“Come on, Mrs. Courtland, you’re next,”the Surveyor said as he finished his story.

“Well,” Janet began, “Will and I have hadso many experiences I scarcely knowwhich was the most exciting, but I think

our encounter with the Indians was themost thrilling from first to last.

“Will had to go into Miles City onbusiness and I went with him for greatunrest had been reported among theIndians and he didn’t want to leave me onthe ranch alone. We had been in town onlya few days when we heard that they wereon the war path and Will felt he must goback to the ranch. He wanted me to stay intown, but I wouldn’t. If he was going backI was going with him, so we started in thebuck-board on that long eighty-five miledrive. I’ll never forget it. The day wasfearfully hot and we were constantlylooking out for Indians. We had goneabout half-way, when we came over thetop of a hill and saw a band of Indians just

below us. They saw us before we couldturn back, we had to go on, and as wecame towards them they formed into twolines so that we had to drive betweenthem. It was horrible.” And Janet gave ashiver at the recollection. “I’ll neverforget as long as I live those frightful,painted faces. Not an Indian moved; wepassed through the line and had gone ashort distance beyond, when we heard thereport of a gun. Will clapped his hand tohis side and said: ‘My God, I’m shot.Drive as fast as you can’—and he threwthe lines to me.

“I lashed the horses and we fairly tore.Everything was still, there was only thatone shot, the Indians made no attempt tofollow us. We did not speak. Will was

lying back in the buckboard, his handpressed to his side. When we had gone outof sight of the Indians I stopped the horsesand asked Will where he was struck.

“‘In the side; I can feel the blood oozingthrough my fingers,’ he said. He took hishand away and gave an exclamation as helooked at it. It was wet but not with blood.We could not find the sign of a wound. Wegot out to investigate and discovered—that just as we passed the Indians the corkflew out of a bottle of root beer we had inthe back of the buckboard and struck himin the side. Poor old Willie, no wonder hethought he was shot,” and Janet smiled ather husband, who laughed with the rest ofus.

“Now, Owen,” he said, “I know some of

the things you’ve been through, so youcan’t beg off,” and Owen began his story.

“In the spring of ’81 I came West to visitmy brother, Ed., on his ranch in Wyoming.I was a tenderfoot, never having been onthe plains before—and yet—I hadscarcely arrived when I announced that theone thing I wanted to do was to kill abuffalo. He told me that if my heart wasset on it I should have the chance, but thatit was dangerous sport even forexperienced hunters, as a buffalofrequently turns and gores the horse beforeit can get out of the way.

“The very next day the dead body of aprofessional hunter was brought to theranch. He had wounded a buffalo bullwhich had turned, caught with his horn the

horse he was riding, thrown him to theground and gored the hunter to death. Thesight of his mangled body was shockingand made a terrible impression on mymind, but my purpose was not changed.

“My brother assigned Al. Turpin theresponsibility of serving as my guide. Hewas one of the best riders on the ranch,cool-headed and a good shot. We tookbreakfast before daylight in order to get anearly start. After riding a considerabledistance three dark objects werediscovered far away on a hill whichsloped toward us. A pair of field glassesconfirmed the opinion that they werebuffalo lying down. We rode in theirdirection and kept out of sight, except aswe peered cautiously over the top of each

succeeding ridge until it was possible toapproach no nearer in concealment, whenwe rode to the top of the nearest hill andwere in full view. The buffalo saw us andquick as lightning were on their feetrunning away. We sent our horses at fullspeed down the slope, across a levelpiece of ground and up the hill after them.We were gaining rapidly. My horse wasthe faster of the two and was in the lead.He was one of the best trained cow poniesI have ever ridden and was my brother’sfavorite for cutting out cattle.

“When about thirty yards behind thebuffalo, one stopped. The bit I was usingwas severe. I pulled and threw my horseback on his haunches. The buffalo was animmense bull. He appeared to me as big

as a mountain. He turned facing me, hisbody at an angle, cocked his head on theside, then threw it toward the ground and,quicker than a flash, came down the hilllike a landslide.

“My horse struggled against the bit andtried to jump toward the buffalo and turnhim as he would a steer. I tried to swinghis head away and dug my spurs into hissides to make him move, but he did notunderstand why he should run from abuffalo. He did respond a little and turnedso that his haunches were toward the greatbrute coming down the hill.

“The head of the buffalo was in strikingdistance. He looked like a great devil. Hisbeadlike eyes flashed fire. The next instantI expected the horse to be pitched down

the hill. I could feel myself thrown into theair and then gored to death when I struckthe ground. I could see the mangled bodyof the dead hunter.

“While my six-shooter was a powerfulgun, I knew that if I should shoot the brutein the head, the ball would not go throughthe mass of matted hair and the thick skull.Still there was nothing else to do. I thoughtmy time had come. In order to hit him atall it was necessary to shoot over my leftarm. In my haste I pulled the trigger toosoon. The loud report startled the horseinto a run and turned the buffalo. Itsdischarge, so near my head, gave me aterrible shock. I thought the shot hadblown away all the right side of my headand I put up my hand to keep my brains

from falling out, but there were neitherbrains nor blood on my hand. The bullethad just grazed my head and gone throughthe rim of my hat. That brute looked likean infuriated demon. I couldn’t have beenmore frightened if I had met the devilhimself at the mouth of hell.

“When it was all over, I was not in amood for challenging him again, but as heloped away, Al. ran his horse abreast andfrom a safe distance put a shot into hisbrisket. He fell dead. Believe me, I havehad many close calls, but that was the onetime in all my life when I was reallyscared.”

“What extraordinary experiences peopledo have in this country,” Will Masonexclaimed, as he leaned forward to light a

fresh cigar. “Speaking of Ed. reminds meof a strange coincidence which happenedthe year after he came West.

“We had been together the year before inNew York, where we had met a chapnamed Courtney Drake. He was a Yaleman and a member of the University Club,so we saw quite a good deal of him. Hewas very congenial and one of the mostlovable fellows I ever knew. He wasmarried but he seldom spoke of his wifeand we never met her.

“One morning we picked up the paper andwere horrified to read that Mrs. CourtneyDrake had shot her maid. There it was inglaring headlines, the whole wretchedaffair. The Drakes were one of the oldestand wealthiest families in New York and

it was spicy reading for the scandal loversI assure you.

“It seems that Drake had gotten mixed upwith this woman when he first came out ofcollege and in order to force him to marryher she told him that she was soon to havea child. He wouldn’t believe it, and howshe worked it I don’t know. She must havebeen mighty clever, for she and her maidgot hold of a baby somewhere and shemade Courtney believe it was hers andthat he was the father—so he married her.

“They had only been married a short timewhen the maid began to demand largesums of ‘hush money’ and Mrs. Drakegave her whatever she asked, for she wasin mortal dread of having Drake discoverthe truth. The girl found blackmail so

profitable she became more and moreinsistent in her demands and nearly droveMrs. Drake wild. At last she could endureit no longer and in a perfect frenzy, shotand killed the maid and then the wholething came out. Mrs. Drake was sent toprison, where she died later, but Courtneyvanished utterly after the trial—no oneknew what became of him.

“The next fall Ed. and I came West andtwo years later were up in the Jackson’sHole country with a party, shooting. Ed.and one of the guides went out onemorning to get some ducks, but in a shorttime they came back to camp carrying thedead body of Courtney Drake. They hadcome across his body on the shore of asmall lake, lying face down in the mud.

There was a single bullet hole in the backof his head.

“Think of his having been found out therein the wilderness by the only man in thecountry who knew who he was! Talkabout chance,” Will sighed, “Poor devil,he was living out there under an assumedname. His family had no idea where hewas. Ed. notified them and then took hisbody East.

“Just after his death Drake’s partnerproduced a bill of sale for the entire ranchand took possession of it. Everyonesuspected him of the murder, but itcouldn’t be proved. About three yearslater the man killed his wife and at thetime of his conviction the question ofDrake’s murder was brought up and he

confessed. Isn’t it strange the way thingshappen?” Will’s question was general.“What on earth do you suppose sent Ed.Brook into the Jackson’s Hole country atthat one time of all others?”

No one answered.

“I wonder if all new countries abound insuch tragic mysteries?” The Surveyorlooked up at me.

“What tragic mysteries have youencountered, Mrs. Brook, that makes youspeak so feelingly?”

Just then the clock struck twelve and I gotup.

“It’s too late for more mysteries, it’s timeto go to bed—and we don’t want tragediesto keep us wide awake on Christmas

night.”

“Oh, come on Esther, tell us your mostthrilling experience,” they begged. “Wewon’t move a step until you do.”

“Marrying Owen,” I replied, looking overat my unsuspecting husband, “I’ve neverhad a chance to get my breath since.”

And amid a shout of laughter theChristmas party broke up.

XI—TED

Ted landed in our midst with all theattendant violence of a meteor. He didn’tarrive, he landed, bag and baggage, anduntil his departure weeks later our tranquilexistence was sufficiently hectic to suiteven Bill.

After numerous letters from his dotingaunt, we reluctantly consented to lookafter Ted while she was in Europerecuperating from a nervous break-down.At the end of the first week, weunderstood why Aunt Elizabeth foundrecuperation necessary, and I suggested toOwen, it might be well to engage our

passage on a later steamer, for I had apremonition that my own nerves mightrequire a rest after two months of Ted’sstrenuous companionship.

He wasn’t bad; there was not a bad thingabout him. He was just overflowing withyouth and energy, which had been pent upfor years, between boarding school in thewinter and Newport in the summer.

Motherless, fatherless, rich, neglected orover-indulged by a none too wise aunt,Ted was an appealing young person, acharacter easily to be made or marred bycircumstances.

He looked like a member of the celestialchoir—blue-eyed, fair-haired and mild—but he produced the effect of a Kansascyclone.

There was nothing he did not see, therewas nothing he did not hear and there wasnothing he did not do. Even on eightythousand acres of land his activities weresomewhat limited.

He was wildly enthusiastic about theWest, fascinated by the men, and wasBill’s shadow, so we promptly turned himover to those “rough persons” AuntElizabeth had especially hoped that hemight avoid, to get it all out of his system.

“Let him stay at the bunk-house,” Owenadvised after Ted had besought me toallow him to stay with the men. “It will dohim more good than anything else in theworld, if he has the right stuff in him.”

Ted stood on the porch, uneasily shiftingfrom one foot to the other, when I came

out of the office.

“All right, Ted, Mr. Brook and I areperfectly willing for you to stay with themen, if you really want to.”

He hopped up and down and almostembraced me in his joy.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brook. You see,” heexplained, carefully, “I’ve seen peoplelike you and Mr. Brook all my life, but Inever had the chance to be with real cow-punchers before.” Evidently, from Ted’spoint of view, Owen and I were verycommonplace individuals compared tothese heroes of the prairie, and I laughedto myself as he bounded down the steps tobreak the joyful news to Bill that he wasto share his bed and board.

The next day we had to go to town to meetsome prospective wool buyers, and, afterhaving his breakfast interrupted fivedifferent times by Ted’s dashing in to seeif we were ready, Owen was moved toinquire finally, “What on earth is on theboy’s mind now?”

“His outfit,” I answered. “He’s beenplanning it for days; wishes to select ithimself and we are not to see it until weget home.”

That was a wise stipulation of Ted’s, forif we had seen it, we should never havebeen able to get home.

He put it on as soon as we reached theranch, and when he finally emerged, theflaming sunset paled with chagrin at itsfutile effort of years.

The “outfit” consisted of tan corduroytrousers, chaps of long silky angora wool,which had been dyed a brilliant orange, ashirt of vivid green, a bright red silkhandkerchief for his neck, an enormousStetson hat, high-heeled tan boots, silverstudded belt and huge spurs.

We gasped when we saw him, but he wasso intent on showing himself to Bill, as tobe utterly unconscious of the effect heproduced.

We followed him into the yard where theboys were waiting the call to supper. Billlooked up from the quirt he was braidingand blinked.

“Gosh! I thought the sun had set an hourago,” he remarked.

“No,” Ted laughingly responded, givinghim a push, “but he’s going to ‘set’ now,”and he threw himself down by Bill’s side.“I knew you fellows would guy me, but allthe same I think this outfit’s great,” and hesurveyed himself with infinite pride andsatisfaction.

“It’s all right,” said Bill, taking in all thedetails of the resplendent costume, andlooking up at Owen and me with twinklingeyes, “I like somethin’ a little gay myself;but round here where everything’s green,we won’t be able to tell you from a bunchof soap-weed,” and Ted good naturedlyjoined in the laugh at his own expense.

“Wouldn’t his Aunt Elizabeth die of heart-failure if she could see him now?” I askedOwen as we went into the house.

“She certainly would,” he answered, “butwe’ll trust to luck and let Nature take itscourse.”

Everything, including Nature, took itscourse rapidly with Ted, and for the nextfew weeks wise prairie dogs, rabbits andrattle-snakes stayed in their holes. By theend of his stay that energetic young personhad enough rattle-snake skins to providebelts and hat-bands for all of New York,and scores of live prairie-dogs he hadtrapped to be shipped to his aunt’s placein Newport.

I tried to picture the joy of Aunt Elizabethand her neighbors when they foundinformal prairie-dog towns in the midst oftheir formal gardens. If life is measured byexperiences, a few additional years were

in store for Newport.

Bill taught Ted to shoot and he spent hoursand a fortune shooting at old tin cans on apost before Bill finally consented to say:

“I’ve saw fellers do worse,” the sweetestpraise that ever fell on mortal ears,judging by Ted’s expression.

And, then, Owen went to New Mexico tobuy some sheep and Bohm came to sleepon a claim.

This claim was one over which Owen andBohm had been having a controversy formonths. It had been included in the sale ofthe ranch, and after one of our mostimportant sheep camps had been builtupon it, Owen discovered that Bohmcould not give a deed to it, as he had not

made final proof on the land.

Bohm never ceased to regret having soldthe ranch, and had never forgiven Owenfor buying it and making him live up to hiscontract, so was only too glad of theopportunity to cause him all the troublepossible. Time after time he promised tocome out and “prove up”, but he nevercame, so although I was most anxious tohave him come, I was far from pleased tohave him about when Owen was away.

Ted, however, was overjoyed; he seemedto feel that Providence had arrangedBohm’s visit to the ranch for his especialentertainment, and from the moment theold chap arrived Ted dogged hisfootsteps.

At first, old Bohm seemed quite flattered

and laughed and joked with him, praisedhis shooting, told him stories of the Indiandays, promised to show him theunderground passage to an abandonedstage station, but later he became annoyed,for no clinging burr ever clung moreclosely than Ted. He scarcely allowedBohm to get out of his sight for onemoment.

How much the boy had heard of oldBohm’s history I did not know, but Iconcluded a few rumors had reached thoseever-attentive ears, for one day he came infairly beaming.

“Gosh! Pudge and Soapy haven’t gotanything on me, they’ve only seen BuffaloBill in a show, and I’m right in the samehouse with a man that’s a holy terror!”

“What do you mean, Ted?” I asked,anxious to find out how much he hadheard.

“Oh, you know well enough, Mrs. Brook,”he laughed, going to the door as he sawold Bohm on his way to the barn. “Youcan’t fool me. Gee! I wouldn’t havemissed him for the world. The fellows’lljust be sick when I tell them.”

“The fellows” were evidently “Pudge”and “Soapy”, his two chums at St. Paul’s,“Pudge” because of “his shape,” as Tedexplained, and “Soapy”, whose parentalmillions came from the manufacturing ofsoap.

The game between the boy and Bohm wasamusing. Clever as the old chap was, hecouldn’t evade Ted’s watchful eye. If

Bohm thought him miles away, hesuddenly appeared with such anunconscious air of innocence he disarmedall suspicion, but he made Bohm uneasy.

“Quit campin’ on the old man’s trail,Kid,” said Bill one evening at the corralafter Ted had driven Bohm to the bunk-house to escape his questions. “You’regettin’ on his nerves; let him go and sleepon his claim and get through with it. Youand me’s got to hunt horses tomorrow,anyways.”

Ted cheerfully acquiesced, and old Bohmloaded his wagon alone and drove towardhis claim in peace.

The next morning very early, I heard Billcalling Ted. No Ted appeared, and I wentout to see where he was.

“Where do you reckon that crazy kid’swent now?” demanded Bill, impatient tostart.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Bill, huntingprairie-dogs, probably. Don’t wait forhim, if you’re ready to go.”

“Huntin’ prairie-dogs,” echoed Bill. “I’llbet a hat he’s huntin’ old Bohmsomewheres.” He frowned as he cinchedup his saddle. “I reckon I’d better rideover that way and see what he’s up to.”

“I wish you would,” I said, vaguelyuneasy. “I don’t want him to bother Bohmtoo much.”

“Me neither,” said Bill, getting on hishorse, “there’s his pony’s tracks now,” helooked at the ground. “I’ll find him and

take him along with me. Don’t you worry,he’s all right, but he sure is a corker—thatkid,” and Bill galloped off.

I felt confident that he would overtake thelad, so I dismissed them all from my mindand settled down to an uninterruptedmorning, and a delayed postal report.

I was busy all day and was just startingout for a little walk before supper whenBill and Ted rode up.

Bill and Ted, hatless, clothes torn andcovered with dirt and blood, their facesscratched and bruised, and Ted regardingme triumphantly from one half-closed eye,the other being swollen shut.

“What on earth hap—” I tried to ask, mybreath fairly taken away. Bill got off his

horse and came up to the gate.

“We’re all right, Mrs. Brook. I’m sorryyou seen us ’fore we got fixed up a little;we just got mixed up some with Bohm—that’s all—’taint nothin’ serious. We looka whole lot worse than we feel, don’t weTed?”

“You bet we do,” mumbled Ted from a cutand bleeding mouth, “but you ought to seeBohm, he’s a sight!”

Ted got off his horse with difficulty.“Gosh, it was great,” he said, leaning upagainst the fence for support.

“Come in and sit down, both of you,Charley will take your horses,” and I ledthe way into the house followed a littleunsteadily by Bill and Ted, who collapsed

on the first chairs they could reach.

I gave them some wine, washed off theirblood-stained faces, and made protestingTed go into my room and lie down. Hewas very pale, and I saw that he was faint.

I came back into the kitchen.

“Now, Bill, tell me about it. Whathappened and where is Bohm?”

“On his way back to Denver in thebaggage car,” announced Bill, draining thelast drop from the glass he still held in hishand.

I started, “Oh, Bill, you didn’t kill him?”

“No, but I wisht I had,” he said calmly.“He’d oughter be dead, the old skunk,trying to poison all them sheep.”

“Poison the sheep; what sheep?”

“Your sheep,” Bill’s brows contracted ashe looked at me. “Your sheep,” herepeated, his voice rising as I scarcelyseemed able to grasp his meaning. “Allthe sheep at Hay Gulch Camp, that’s whathe came out here for, and he’d a done it,too, if it hadn’t been for that kid in there.”Bill jerked his head in the direction of myroom.

“Ted?” I asked, my emotion stifling myvoice.

“Ted,” Bill affirmed, “he caught him at itred-handed, and probably saved twothousand sheep from bein’ dead thisminute.”

“How on earth did he find out?”

Bill straightened up in his chair.

“Them eyes of his’n don’t miss much, I’mhere to tell you, and his everlastin’snoopin’ around done some good afterall.” Bill’s eyes glowed with pride.“Yesterday, before Bohm left, Ted comeacross him mixin’ a lot of stuff with somegrain, and, of course, had to know allabout it. The old man finally told him hewas fixin’ to poison the prairie-dogs onhis claim, bit he was so peevish about it,Ted said he didn’t believe him, andmistrusted somethin’ was wrong.

“The kid didn’t say nothin’ to me about it;had some fool notion about playin’detective, I reckon, at any rate he got upalong about four o’clock and rode out toBohm’s claim to do a little reconorterin’.”

Bill reluctantly put the glass down andtipped back in his chair. “He hid his horsein the gulch and crope up in the grass likean Injin. The herder wasn’t nowhere insight and the sheep was still in the corral,but old Bohm was there all right, fixin’little piles of that poisoned wheat justwhere the sheep would come acrost it thefirst thing.”

“Oh, Bill, that’s the worst thing I everheard!” I was sick at the mere thought.

Bill was too engrossed to pay attention tothe interruption.

“Ted said he was comin’ back to tell me,but he got so excited when he seen whatBohm was up to, he never thought ofnothin’ but stoppin’ him. The old man wasstoopin’ over with his back to Ted, and

the kid gave a yell for the herder and ranfor Bohm and before he could straightenup Ted was on top of him.”

Bill scarcely paused for breath—“the oldman reached for his gun, but Ted was tooquick for him and knocked it out of hishand, and when I came up, there they wasrollin’ all over the prairie, first one on topand then the other.”

Bill looked toward the door of my room,reflectively—“I kinder felt there wassomethin’ wrong when I left here, andbelieve me, I didn’t spare my cayuse nonegettin’ there neither, and I didn’t get therenone too soon.”

I was incapable of speech. I just stared atBill.

“There ain’t no doubt about Bohm’s bein’ready to kill him; he was on top then andreachin’ for his throat. I didn’t stop to askno questions. I jest grabbed him, andpulled him off of Ted. He was white aschalk and ready to eat us both alive, but Ihung on to him while Ted got up cryin’,‘Look what he’s done, Bill, look whathe’s done,’ and pointed at somethin’ onthe ground.”

Bill’s eyes were like two live coals.“Bohm was cussin’ like a steam engine’bout the kid’s jumpin’ him when he wasputtin’ out poison for the prairie-dogs. Ijust took one look around and seen allthem piles of poison wheat there by thecorral when there wasn’t a prairie-dogwithin two miles. I—well, I aint goin’ to

tell you what I said, Mrs. Brook, ’taint fitfor you to hear.”

FACING DEATH EACH TIME THEY RIDE A NEWHORSE.

Bill looked down and turned the glass onthe table around and around. He looked upagain and smiled, but his browscontracted as he went on—“We hadwords then, sure enough. All of a suddenBohm made a lunge and caught the

handkerchief round my neck with one handand reached for somethin’ with the other,and the first thing I knew he was slashin’at me with a pocket knife. I guess I sawred then, ’cause I knocked him down andnearly pounded the life out of him.”

Bill stopped a moment—“His eyes wasrollin’ back in his head and his tonguewas hangin’ out and there was a pool ofblood ’round us, three yards across.”Bill’s description was so vivid I shut myeyes. “I reckon I’d killed him if Tedhadn’t tromped my legs and kinda broughtme to myself. He’d oughter been killed,but I let him up then and told Ted to go formy rope. We tied his hands and legs. Iguess he had about all he wanted for hewasn’t strugglin’ much.” Bill smiled

grimly. “We carried him into the cabin,and there was the Mexican lying in hisbunk—doped. We knew who done it allright, and I tell you we didn’t handleBohm like no suckin’ infant when we laidhim down, neither.”

Bill’s face was stern and set and I sharedhis indignation too much to trust myself tospeak.

“We left him there and went to get thewheat out of the way before we openedthe corral gates for the sheep. Thanks toTed, Bohm hadn’t had time to put mucharound. He’s a great little kid, that boy.”Bill’s voice broke.

“Bless his heart,” I said, my own heartfilled with gratitude and tenderness for theplucky little chap in the other room. Bill’s

eyes were moist, but his voice was steadyagain.

“Steve and Charley came up just then withthe supply wagon, so Steve set Charley toherd the sheep. We loaded Bohm into thewagon and Steve took him over to therailroad. He said he’d see he got on thetrain all right.” Bill grinned, “You’re ridof Bohm for good now, Mrs. Brook, for Ikinda think he gathered from what me andSteve said the ranch wouldn’t be no healthresort for him if he ever showed his uglyface round here again.”

“Oh, Bill, I’m so thankful; it makes mesick when I think what might havehappened.”

“Don’t thank me, Mrs. Brook, I ain’t donenothin’.” Bill’s face was red with

embarrassment as he stood up. “Ted’s theone to thank, he’s some kid, believe me,”and Bill’s eyes were very tender.

“Let’s go in and see how he’s making it.”Bill followed me into the room.

Ted was sitting up on the couch, regardinghis battered visage in my hand-glass withthe greatest interest. I could see at once hewas in no mood for emotion or petting.

“Hello, I’m all right,” he murmured with aone-sided grin. “Say, Bill, wasn’t it great?I wouldn’t have missed it for a milliondollars.”

He sank back with a sigh of supremesatisfaction. “I just wish I could rememberall the things he called me. I want tospring them on the fellows when I go

back.”

Bill looked at him with genuine concern.“See here, kid,” he said decidedly, “youwant to forget all them things as quick asyou can. Don’t you go springin’ any suchlanguage back where you come from. I’mno innocent babe myself, but I’m here totell you old Bohm’s cussin’ made anythingI ever heard sound like a Sunday Schoolpiece. You forget it now, pronto,” hecommanded as he went out of the door.“It’s a reflection on me and Mrs. Brook.”

After Bill had gone, Ted looked at himselfagain, then at me. “What do you supposeAunt Elizabeth would say if she could seeme now?” We both laughed.

“I would be a ‘disgrace to my family andposition’ now, sure enough.” He felt his

blackened eye tenderly.

I sat down on the couch beside him. “Youwill never be more of a credit to yourfamily than you are at this minute, Ted, normore of a man.”

He looked up, for my voice shook a little.He knew what I meant and his lipstwitched as he patted my hand gently, andturned his face away.

XII—BLIZZARDS

It was just like Louise Reynolds to arriveon the wings of a blizzard, wearing astraw hat and spring suit. Louise led theseasons, she never followed them, and shepreceded that particular storm by abouttwo hours; but she was justified, for it wasApril and she was on her way fromCalifornia.

In this land of the unexpected even theweather disregarded all establishedprecedents. A glorious Indian Summernight extended into January, or a suddenblizzard would swoop down from theNorth in October or April and leave us

snowed in for days.

That is exactly what happened upon thisoccasion and most of Louise’s visit wasspent in shovelling snow for the pure joyof the exercise. That energetic youngperson had to do something in lieu oftennis or golf.

The prairies were covered with a fluffymantle of purest white, great drifts filledthe gulches and the roads were utterlyobliterated. Long after the storm the menhad to go about on horseback for nowagon could be moved through the deepsnow.

At this juncture Louise announced that shehad all of her reservations through toBaltimore, where she was to officiate asbridesmaid. She was obliged to go and we

had to take her to the railroad.

We could scarcely go on horseback withbaggage, there wasn’t a sleigh in thecountry, certainly none on the ranch, but ifNecessity was the Mother of Invention,Owen was a near relative. He never failedto find some way of meeting the mostdifficult problem. If Louise must go itdevolved upon him to see that she reachedthe station and so he produced a sled, adisreputable old affair, used for theexalted purpose of hauling dead animalsto “the dump”—but still it was a sled andunder Owen’s direction it was scrubbedand transformed into the most luxuriousequipage by having a packing box nailedon the back and covered with rugs. Louiseand I perched on the box, with heavy

robes tucked in about us, the suit caseswere at our feet and Owen sat on the trunkin front to drive.

There was only one draw-back, the sledhad no tongue to keep it from running on tothe heels of the horses, so Owen cut a holein the bottom of the sled through which hestuck a broom-stick. My task was to workthis improvised brake when we wentdown hill by jabbing the broom-stick intothe snow. It worked beautifully except thatthe friction against the hard snow brokepieces of it off and it grew perceptiblyshorter as we advanced.

In order to avoid some especially deepgulches we left the valley and followed ahigh ridge. It was much longer, but we hadallowed the entire day for the trip. There

was no danger of becoming lost as long aswe could see, for we knew too well thecountry and the general direction to befollowed.

No incident marred the joy of that day.When the horses floundered and almostdisappeared from sight in a snow-filledgulch, leaving the sled stranded like anArk on a gleaming Ararat, we had only todig the horses out with a shovel which hadbeen taken for the purpose and aftergetting them on the level ground, go backand hitch a long rope to the sled, draw itacross the gulch and proceed upon ourway.

The light of the sun upon the snow was sointense it was necessary to wear coloredglasses to avoid snow blindness, and

being muffled in furs, we looked like threebears in goggles. Our wraps kept usperfectly warm and it was a merry ride.The adventure filled us with joy as weglided over the trackless world in whichwe alone moved.

There was no suggestion of dreariness ordesolation in the scene. Under the magictouch of the sun the world burst forth intoa miracle of glory and beauty which heldus spellbound. The sky was cloudless, nota shadow fell across that dazzling whiteexpanse, which flashed and sparkled withall the prismatic colors. Far to the westPike’s Peak stood, a marvel of varyinglights and shadows, its head resting on thesoft blue bosom of the sky. Itscommanding height had filled the Indian of

the Plains with worshipful awe, it was tohim “the Gate of Heaven, the abidingplace of the Great Spirit.” According tohis own testimony, the one inevitable dutyin the life of the Indian is the duty ofprayer—and how often as he looked uponthat distant mountain must the red hunterhave paused in the midst of the vastprairies, his soul uplifted and an unspokenprayer on his lips!

The whole aspect of the country waschanged, all the familiar landmarks weregone. Except for the hills, the surface ofthe prairie was perfectly level as thoughthe Great Spirit had stretched his handforth from that mystic mountain andpassing it over the world had left itsmooth and stainless.

It was a wonderful experience, and whentoward evening we reached the railroadwe were thrilled and triumphant over ouraccomplishment. The night was spent inthe little four-room “hotel,” we sawLouise safely on board the eastboundexpress the next morning, then returned tothe ranch.

To be out after a blizzard is one thing, tobe out in one is quite another, and wealways grew apprehensive when the skybecame suddenly overcast and the snowbegan to fall from leaden clouds. What ifthe storm should catch the herders and thesheep too far away from the camp?

They were all warned to range their sheepto the North if it threatened to storm, asmost of the blizzards came from that

direction and the sheep would go beforethe wind back to camp and safety. But theywill not face it and, if unmindful of hisorders, the herder took them South and asudden storm came, he could not turn hissheep back to the camp; they would drifton and on before the wind, sometimesplunging over a bank to be buried beneaththe drifting snow or piling up andsmothering each other.

One winter just as Owen and I werestarting home from California we receiveda telegram from Steve saying that during ablizzard the buck herd had been lost.Owen had some very important businesswhich detained him when we reachedDenver, so he asked me to go on to theranch, have Steve organize the men into

searching parties and look through everygulch in the vicinity for any discoloredholes on the top of the drifts which wouldbe caused by the breath of the sheep ifthey were under the snow. For two daysthe men searched and finally came to adeep bank of snow on the top of whichwere found the discolored holes theysought; they dug down and discovered thebucks. A few had been smothered, butmost of them were taken out alive afterhaving been buried for ten days! Duringthe storm the herder had left them and thepoor distracted things had drifted over anembankment and were entombed under thesnow.

When anyone speaks of “good-for-nothingMexicans” I think of Fidel, a mere lad,

who had taken his sheep South on a clearmorning, but was overtaken by a stormbefore he could get them back to thecorrals. He and his dog did everythingthey could do to turn them, but they driftedfarther and farther away. Fidel stayed withthem, guiding them away from the gulchesuntil they reached a railway cut. ThereSteve found them twenty-four hours laterwhen we feared that Fidel had perishedwith his sheep. Facing death alone in thefreezing wind and blinding, smotheringsnow, hour after hour he had kept hissheep from piling up. He not only savedthem all, but they were in better conditionthan many in the corrals at the camps. Notfor a moment had he left them. His handsand feet were frozen; he barely escapedfreezing to death and on that day we

learned the true meaning of “Fidelity.”

Then once more Fate took a hand in ouraffairs and a blizzard changed the wholecourse of our lives.

We owned our land and no one couldencroach upon us, but after a few years webegan to notice forlorn little shacks builthere and there on the open range by thepoor home-seekers who, attracted by theprospect of free land, had begun“homesteading.” They built flimsy littlehouses, scratched up the surface of theprairie for a few inches and raised pitiful,straggling crops. The settlers were comingin! The opening wedge of that great onrushhad been thrust deep into the heart of theprairie. In the undisputed possession of

our own land we were not disturbed.While we knew that it meant theoccupation of the free range and thepassing of the large ranches, eventually,we scarcely realized how soon it wouldcome and were not prepared to receive anoffer from an Eastern syndicate to buy theentire ranch—to cut it into small units tobe sold as farms.

The era of “dry-farming” had just begun,when by scientific methods, deepploughing and the conservation of allmoisture, dry land might be successfullycultivated without irrigation. It was adream of the future of the prairie region,impossible to visualize, and I laughed inmy ignorance, as Owen read me the letter.

“How perfectly absurd. Imagine trying to

farm out here; the grangers would starveto death in a year unless they had stock ofsome sort. Surely you would never thinkof selling out?”

“I don’t know, Esther, the homesteaderscan’t come on to our deeded land, but theyare filing on all the Government land. In ashort time there will be no more freerange, and did you ever stop to considerthat our land will soon be so valuable thatwe can’t afford to run sheep on it?”

In that last sentence I saw the handwritingon the wall. It was only a question of timeand this phase, too, of our life would pass.

In the East life seems to be static, but inthe West it is in a state of flux andconditions are constantly changing.

Perhaps I had inherited the static state ofmind for I had taken it for granted that allthe rest of our days were to be spent thereon the ranch under the shadow of themountain. Suddenly a realization of thefacts swept over me. In a sense we hadbeen pioneers, we had blazed a trail thatothers were to follow and like the Indianswe, too, were destined to move on.However, before you are thirty to regardyourself as a hoary-headed pioneerrequires a series of mental gymnasticsand, while my brain was going through afew preparatory exercises, I did not takethe question of selling out very seriously.After all those years of struggle just as ithad been brought to perfection, after wehad put into it the best of our life, youth,energy and work, a part of our very

selves, it did not seem possible that wecould part with the ranch. Owen felt muchas I did, but he was the first to realize thatwe had come again to the parting of theways and that a decision must be made.

Yet—in the end—it wasn’t the financialconsideration nor a deep conviction thatthe future development of the countrywould be retarded if we remained, but anunexpected blizzard which turned thescale and set us adrift again.

The sun rose clear on the 19th of October,but during the morning it began to growcloudy.

Owen and several of the men were at therailroad station where they were shipping

lambs. During the afternoon the windbegan to blow, it grew much colder andsnow fell.

The next morning it was storming veryhard and Steve, after arranging to have hayhauled to the various camps, went out onhorseback to see that all the sheep werekept in the corrals. I was greatly relievedwhen Owen got home in the middle of theafternoon. Ten thousand lambs had beenloaded and started on their way in spite ofthe storm, but the drive back to the ranchhad been very hard, for hour by hour thestorm increased in fury. The ground wascovered and even the dull grey sky washidden by dense clouds of powdery snowwhich did not seem to fall upon the earthbut was blown in long horizontal lines

across the prairies by the force of a mightygale. It filled the gulches and piled in deepdrifts. It was driven against the house withsuch force it sifted through the smallestcrack. The windows on the North andWest were covered with a solid coating ofsnow, the wind whistled and moaned andtore at the shutters as if trying to carrythem with it on a wild race over theplains. It was impossible to see thecorrals, even the garden fence was lostbehind the driving, swirling snow. Toopen the door was to inhale a freezing gustof snow-laden air, millions of icyparticles blinded the eyes and took awaythe breath.

We knew that the sheep were all in thecorrals, but we feared that unless the

herders watched them carefully theywould pile up as the snow drifted over thehigh sides of the inclosure. The rest of thestock was protected and my heart wasfilled with thankfulness that Owen and themen had been able to reach the ranch.They went about the place like whitewraiths doing the necessary things. Abovethe howling of the wind not a sound couldbe heard; a shout was carried miles awayas soon as it left the lips. By five o’clockit was dark.

About eight o’clock, Mary came in andtold Owen that Steve wanted to see him.When Owen returned, instead of cominginto the living-room, he went to the closet,took down his short, fleece-lined ridingcoat and began to put it on.

“What’s the matter, Owen, you are notgoing out?”

“I must,” he said, quietly, winding a longscarf about his neck, “Steve says that Dornwent out yesterday afternoon with a loadof hay for the camp on Six Shooter; heshould have come back last night orcertainly this morning. He’s new anddoesn’t know the country and he may belost. I’m going to see if I can find him.”

My heart stood still; the camp on SixShooter gulch was fully eight miles away.Eight miles in that storm! It did not seempossible that a man could live to go amile.

“Oh, Owen, I can’t let you go! Don’t yousuppose he is at the camp?”

“I don’t know, he may be, but I must goand find out. We can’t take a chance on aman’s being lost.” In the face of thatargument there was nothing to say andnothing to do but accept it.

“Who is going with you?”

“No one”—Owen did not look at me as heanswered—“I can’t ask any of the men toface this storm.”

I understood; he couldn’t require any ofhis men to risk their lives. A hand of iceclosed about my heart and deadened everysensibility. Like a machine I went abouthelping Owen get ready and at last went tothe kitchen to bring him some coffee justbefore he left. A man was standing by thedoor muffled in wraps. I stood still.

“Why, Bill, where have you been?”

“I ain’t ‘been’, I’m goin’. I’m goin’ withMr. Brook. A man ain’t got no businessout a night like this alone.”

“Bill!” It was all I could say—but heunderstood.

When Owen came out he tried to dissuadehim, but Bill was determined.

“I know I don’t have to go, Mr. Brook,you never asked me, but I’m a goin’, thereain’t nothin’ can keep me.”

I had never seen him so serious, all theold half bantering tone was gone and theywent out together, master and man, eachrisking his life for the sake of another.

I tried to watch them but instantly they

were lost to my sight as a vague greycloud closed about them.

How the night passed I do not know. I keptthe fires up and the coffee hot and walkedmiles, back and forth, back and forth. I didnot think of sleeping. It was useless to tryto read. I could not see the words—theprinted page was blank and I could onlysee the figures of two men on horseback,beaten, buffeted, fighting for their livesagainst the cruel snow-laden gale. I sawthem separated, perhaps, trying to getthrough the gulches on their flounderinghorses, or walking to keep from freezingand then perhaps exhausted—lying downto rest while that last deadly sensation ofsleepiness crept over them.

Daylight came at last, but still I walked. I

pushed my breakfast away untasted andtried to occupy myself with the duties ofthe day. I felt as though I should screamaloud if that howling wind did not cease,but hour after hour passed and there wasno other sound. The men came and wentabout their work quietly, speaking butlittle and then in subdued tones as in thepresence of death; over us all hung thepall of terrifying uncertainty.

When occasionally it was possible tocatch a glimpse of the corrals or theblacksmith shop I knew that the wind mustbe abating and time after time I knockedthe snow from the windows and stoodstraining my eyes into that misty, vagueout-of-doors. Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock.Something moved along the edge of the

pond, the vague outlines of some animal, aslight lull in the wind and I could see thatit was a horseman, another followed—Icaught up a cape, flung open the door,dashed out into the storm through drifts,over every detaining obstacle until Ireached the corral and—Owen.

They were safe, but so weary and wornthey could scarcely speak. Their faceswere swollen, having been whipped andlashed by the icy particles the wind haddriven against them like bits of steel froma mighty blast furnace, their eyebrows andlashes were solid ice, their lips crackedand bleeding.

After a night of horror, at three in themorning, they had found Dorn at the SixShooter camp comfortably sleeping with

the Mexican herder! When the storm beganhe made no attempt to come back to theranch, not stopping to think that his non-appearance would cause any anxiety,besides endangering the lives of two men.

“I was so hot when I seen Dorn nice andwarm all cuddled up there with that DagoI jest drug him out by the collar and shookhim. Anybody that’ud sleep with aMexican had orter freeze to death. Gosh!Here was Mr. Brook and me amblin’ overthis whole blamed country, flounderin’through snow drifts as high as this house,gettin’ our horses down and most freezin’to death, blintin’ a no account thing likethat.” Bill was himself again.

Their knowledge of the country andpresence of mind had saved them, for once

when they found that it had grown warmerand apparently the wind had ceased, theyrealized that the horses had turned with thewind so that it was at their backs, theyforced the poor things into the face of thebitter gale again and went on. They passedthe camp without seeing it and had gonebeyond when the wind brought them thesmell of the sheep, they turned back andafter searching found the cabin. It was anarrow escape for they were tooexhausted to have gone farther.

A few days later we learned that old John,who had been our mail carrier, hadperished in the storm. He had gone out totry to find his cattle and did not return. Hiswife and little son were alone and whenthey were able to get out and look for him,

they found him just outside the gardenfence lying frozen and half eaten by thecoyotes.

I thought much during the following daysand finally I came to a conclusion.

“Owen, if you want to sell out I’m willing—it will have to come some day, I realizethat, and besides—there is too much atstake. I don’t believe I can ever livethrough another blizzard.”

In three months all the stock on the ranchwas sold, a caretaker was placed incharge of the home ranch, which weretained, and we moved to Denver. Butinstead of selling out to the syndicate,Owen decided to put our lands on the

market himself and they were listed forsale.

It was the end of the old life; we had madeway for the settlers.

XIII—ECHOES OF THEPAST

The curtain of years had fallen and risenagain on the same scene, the valley whichstretched off toward the setting sun and theguardian mountain which stood unchangedat its head. But this was October, the royalseason of purple and gold and red, whenthe asters and sunflowers were bloomingtheir lives away in one lavish outpouringof beauty and the rose bushes werecrimson under the kiss of the frost. Ashimmering mass of gold clothed the greatcotton-woods along the winding course ofthe creek and hills of russet brown

replaced those of vivid green I had firstseen sixteen years before.

Where the young bride had stood on thatJuly day, amid the strange surroundings,looking with inexperienced eyes upon anew world, she stood again, seeing it fromthe angle of a participant, from theviewpoint of a woman, fused by thefurnace of experience into a part of thatlife.

It was the same scene, but the setting hadchanged and as a flood of memories sweptover me I felt as though I were areincarnated spirit, walking the earth in athird phase of existence, having passedthrough the first, a light-hearted girl amongfamily and friends in urban surroundings,having lived through the second, an atom

in the midst of those vast wind-sweptplains amongst elemental conditions, apart in the great primitive struggle forexistence and coming back again to findthe prairies transformed by cultivationinto farms, with the crops covering thehills and bottom lands like a huge patch-work quilt of green, brown and brilliantyellow, fastened together with blackthreads of barbed wire.

Above on the hill stood a church and aschool-house, those certain indications ofcommunity life. Across the meadows greatred barns and towering wind millsovershadowed the less pretentious houses.Bridges spanned the creek with itsshifting, treacherous sand and in place ofthe dim winding trails across the prairie,

neatly fenced county roads decorouslyfollowed the section lines.

It was the same—yet everything waschanged. This well-ordered farmingcommunity seemed prosaic, it lacked theromance and charm of the old ranch lifeand the glorious sense of unlimitedfreedom.

The bunkhouse was occupied by thefamily of a hard-working farmer who hadmarried the daughter of our caretaker,Parker; tractors, ploughs and harrowsfilled the space about the blacksmith shop.I resented those unfamiliar implementsand the prosperous farms. On all sidesthere was heard a strange language ofsilos, separators and “crop rotation”. Ihad become a part of the old life, but here

I felt restricted and out of place—an alien.

Inside the house all, too, was changed.The books which Joe had scorned, thecrystal clock and our Lares and Penateswere in our Denver home, but on the ranchI missed them and most of all the oldfamiliar faces. All had gone. Several ofthe boys had stayed in the country, marriedand taken up farming, raising bounteouscrops and numerous children. Some,individual and picturesque to the end, hadcrossed the Great Divide, others hadsought new positions in Wyoming, the lastof the frontier states. Bill was therecooking in an oil camp. We receivedcharacteristic, though infrequent, lettersfrom him, usually in the early summer,labored epistles over which he had

“sworn and sweat,” as he expressed it,which began by assuring us that he waswell and hoped that we were the same andended by an earnest request to go with usas cook “in case you was thinkin’ of goin’campin’.” He went with us when we didgo, the same old Bill, unchanged in heartor humor.

Old Bohm was dead. The final act of thatgreat tragedy took place in an isolatedmine where he had sunk all his fortune in agolden prospect. Hoping to regain it, thefortune he held in trust for a friend hadfollowed, but the game he had played sosuccessfully before failed when Nemesistook a hand. His friend went to the mine todemand an accounting and several hourslater Bohm’s body, broken and bleeding,

was taken from the depths of the mine.According to the story of his companion,the only witness, he had slipped and fallento the bottom of the shaft—and his death,as his life, remained an enigma.

But down through the long years theechoes of the past reverberated. Again andagain we heard them, sometimes veryfaintly, then with perfect distinctness andon that day of our return after a longabsence we felt again that mysterioussuggestion of tragedy and the echoes werestartlingly clear.

As I came in from my walk just beforesupper, a strange man rode up and Mr.Parker asked him to stop.

He told us his name and during theprogress of the meal took little part in the

conversation, but after he had eaten hissupper he leaned back in his chair and inresponse to Owen’s question, said:

“No, I ain’t exactly a stranger round here,but this old kitchen is about the only thingthat ain’t changed. I used to know everyinch of ground in this country when I waspunchin’ cows for the Three Circle outfit.This was the only ranch within twenty-five miles. I’ve et here lots of times.”

“You knew the Bohms then?” I asked,trying as always to find the answer to theriddle of old Bohm’s personality.

“Sure, I knew the Bohms,” the strangerreplied, his clear blue eyes meeting minefrankly. “I knowed everybody there was inthe country, there wasn’t many in themdays, jest the Bohms, the Mortons, the

Bosmans and the La Montes. They’re mostall gone now except Bosman. I heered oldLa Monte died last winter—but Lord, he’sbeen worse ’en dead for most twentyyears. Did you folks know him?”

“Scarcely, we only saw him once,” andbefore me rose the picture of the desolateold place, the slowly opened door and thatliving ghost on the threshold.

The stranger again spoke.

“You folks bought from Bohm, so youknowed him, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, we knew him.” Owen answeredfor my thoughts were far away.

“Well, sir,” said the old cow-puncher,reaching for a toothpick, “Jim Bohm was agreat one, he was the slickest man in this

country. He didn’t have nothin’ but a littleband of horses that he drove up fromTexas when he came, but he kept gettin’richer all the time.” I came back to thepresent with a start, his words werealmost the same Mrs. Morton had usedsixteen years before.

“Wasn’t he honest?” I asked, wonderingwhat the reply would be.

He did not answer for a moment.

“Well, I can’t say as to that. I jest knowedhim from meetin’ him on the round-upsand when I stopped here. I never had nodealin’s with him, but he sure had areputation for all the meanness there was,and I guess he deserved it. He was goodcompany though, and Lord, how he couldplay the fiddle.” He was interrupted by a

sudden clatter. Mrs. Parker had droppedher spoon and was looking at him as iffascinated. “I liked Mrs. Bohm, but Inever had no use for him. I don’t knowabout the other things, but he sure doneJean La Monte dirt.” He rose from thetable and walked toward the door. “Well,I reckon I’d better be movin’ on, I want toget to Bosman’s tonight.” He looked upthe valley, “I can see Bohm now, ridin’that big black horse of his, carryin’ a littlecotton-wood switch for a whip, andlaughin’ at everything, he was a queer one,sure enough. Well, so long—thank you formy supper,” and he went out into theevening.

“Big black horse! He was always on a bigblack horse!” That pitiful refrain of Jean

La Monte as he had sought the rider of thathorse through all those weary years. AgainI saw the men waiting in the wagon andthat poor half-clad figure stooping to pickup a little cotton-wood switch, and Iwondered if across the great divide LaMonte had caught up with Bohm at last.

Owen was busy in the office making outcontracts for recently purchased land. Mr.Parker and an agent were entertainingsome land-buyers, scraps of theirconversation “bushels to the acre” and“back in Kansas” reached me from time totime as I walked up and down under thestars.

“Where are you, childy?” Dear Mrs.Parker was always concerned when I was

not in sight. “Out there alone?” she askedas she came across the yard to join me.We sat down on the bunk-house steps,glorying in the beauty of the night. Wewere silent for a few moments and thenshe spoke.

“Do you know, Mrs. Brook, him talkin’about Mr. Bohm tonight at supper hasmade me think of so many things. I neverpaid much attention to all them stories oldMrs. Morton and other folks told, butsome mighty queer things have happenedsince we’ve been here.”

“What kind of things?” I asked, wonderingif she, too, had breathed the air of mysterywhich surrounded the old ranch.

“Well, I don’t know exactly,” shehesitated, “you’ll think I’m silly, perhaps,

but you know sometimes when I’m downthere,” she pointed to the house among thetrees, “makin’ out my postal reports,sometimes it’s eleven or twelve o’clockbefore I’m through. It’s awful quiet aftereveryone’s gone to sleep and I’ve heardall kinds of queer sounds, maybe theymight be rats or the wind, but often andoften, just as plain as I can hear yourvoice now, I’ve heard the sound of aviolin like somebody was playin’. It giveme an awful start when that man spoke ofBohm’s havin’ played the violin.”

“Perhaps somebody is playing,” Iventured, with a well rememberedsensation of ice in the region of my spine.“The houses aren’t far away now; youcould easily hear someone playing if the

wind was in the right direction.”

Mrs. Parker shook her head.

“No, that ain’t it. There ain’t a violin inthe country, and, besides, it’s too near; it’slike it came from here”—Mrs. Parkerlooked up at the bunkhouse door—“andnone of Ethel’s plays.”

I said nothing. I remembered too wellhearing the strains of the violin as theyused to float out through the silent nightwhile old Bohm played to himself up therein the bunkhouse, hour after hour. I wastroubled as the echoes of the past grewlouder.

“And then,” Mrs. Parker resumed, “therewas that passage. I told you about that,didn’t I?”

“No. Passage! What passage?” I turned toher in the moonlight which showed apuzzled frown between her eyes.

“Why, the passage old Dad Patten found. Ithought I’d told you about that, but maybeit was the year that you and Mr. Brookwas away.” She paused a moment. “Thethird year after Ethel and John came here,John, he raised such a big crop of potatoesthe cellar was plumb full, so he had Dadtear out some of the old bins under thebunk house to make some larger ones.Tom Lane was helpin’ him, and, ofcourse, Tom was drunk. They’d tore outone or two, but when they come to thethird, they found a deep hole behind itabout four foot square. They stuck a spadeinto it, but it seemed to go back so far Dad

he thought he’d investigate, so he begun tocrawl into it to see how far it went. Hewas well in when Tom begun to laugh andact like he was goin’ to wall him up, soDad backed out, for he said that he wasafraid Tom was just drunk enough to do it.Dad said, though, that he went in thewhole length of his body and stretched hisarm out as far as he could, but didn’t touchnothin’, so he knew it went on further, andhe said that it seemed to lead off in thedirection of the old root cellar.”

“Root cellar,” I repeated, too perturbed tosay anything else.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Parker, “but, you know,Dad, he’d never heard any of them storiesabout the root cellar; Dad’s too deaf tohear anything, so he didn’t think nothin’

about it except that it was some kind of anold dugout, and they went on and built thenew bins, and about two months after Johnhad got all his potatoes in Dad happenedto say something about it. I was so beat Ilike to died, and when I told Dad whatfolks said about the old root cellar andBohm, he turned as white as a sheet. Youcouldn’t get him up to the bunk house nowif you was to drag him.”

“You don’t believe——” I began, thenstopped as Mrs. Parker rose and put herhand on my shoulder.

“Childy, I don’t know whether I believethem tales or not. I’ve scarcely been offthis place since you went away ten yearsago and I’ve seen and heard some mightystrange things. There’s lots of things in lifewe can’t explain—we just have to accept’em, and that’s the way I’ve had to dohere. Maybe there’s spirits and maybethere ain’t, but there’s some facts there’sno gettin’ ’round”—Mrs. Morton’s verywords again—“but Dad’s findin’ thatpassage sure made me believe ’em morethan I ever did before, and I do believethat some terrible things have been doneright here on this dear old place, and that

somewhere old Bohm’s spirit’s mightyrestless.”

Owen and I sat up before the fire talkinguntil late that night, for one of the buyerswanted the home place. It was hard togive it up, for we both loved it, but the oldlife had passed, and we were not a part ofthe new. Owen’s business kept him almostconstantly in Denver, and we were at theranch so little it seemed useless to cling toit longer. The most difficult decision hadbeen made ten years before. This, in away, was more simple, yet this was final;it meant the breaking of the last tie whichbound us to those broad acres, and wewere both silent a long time after we hadagreed that it was best to let the old place

go.

Suddenly I thought of my conversationwith Mrs. Parker, and told Owen of thefinding of the passage under the bunkhouse. He sat looking into the fire, andmade no comment until I had finished.

“It is strange, to say the least. I don’tsuppose we shall ever know the real truthabout it, but it doesn’t make muchdifference now; and if old Bohm’s spiritis wandering about here it will feel a littleout of place in a cornfield.”

“It certainly will, but, Owen, don’t youhope ‘it’s mighty restless somewhere’?”

“Indeed I do,” he laughed, and then grewserious again. “It’s been wonderful fromfirst to last, our life here.” He sighed a

little. “What experiences we’ve had!”

“Yes, it has,” I said, getting up andstanding by the fireplace, where Owenjoined me. “It hasn’t always been easy,but I wouldn’t take anything for the thingsI’ve learned. I’m not the ‘Tenderfoot’ youbrought out sixteen years ago; I’m a dyed-in-the-wool Westerner now. My wholeview of life has changed. It has not onlybeen a wonderful experience, Owen, but awonderful privilege—to have lived here.”

Without a word we watched the last logbreak apart. The glowing sparks lightedthe room for a single instant, then dieddown, and in the fading light of the coalswe turned away.

That night I lay awake. Vivified by thethought of the final parting which was to

come, our whole life on the ranch passedin review before me, the problems and thedifficulties, the adjustments, the changedconditions and that disturbing sense ofunsolved mystery.

I got up and stood by the window lookingout upon a world of silver. Myriads ofstars shone faintly in the heavens dimmedby the glory of the moon, the pale outlineof the mountain was just visible, and, ason that first day when my heart was soheavy, I felt the sense of confusion giveway to peace.

From the vast spaces, under theguardianship of that commanding summit,we had gained a new sense of proportion,freedom from hampering trivialities and abroader vision of life and its

responsibilities.

Standing there in the moonlight facing themountain, I saw in it more than a symboland source of strength; to me it hadbecome indeed the abiding place of aGod.

Looking back over the years, all thechanges revealed only the evolution of awondrous plan. We had launched our frailbarque in the midst of the prairie sea at theebb of the tide of the wild, lawless daysof the West; with the flow we had beencarried through the years of a well-ordered pastoral existence to the era ofagricultural productivity, and on eachsucceeding wave we had seen civilizationborne higher and higher toward theultimate goal set by the Great Spirit.

Ours had been, indeed, a wonderfulexperience.

THE END.

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