WHEN A MAN'S
A MAN
BY
HAROLD BELL WRIGHT
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
By arrangement with D. Appleton-Century Co.
1916
TO MY SONS
GILBERT AND PAUL NORMAN
THIS STORY OF MANHOOD
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
BY THEIR FATHER
_Acknowledgment_
It is fitting that I should here express my indebtedness to those
Williamson Valley friends who in the kindness of their hearts made this
story possible.
To Mr. George A. Carter, who so generously introduced me to the scenes
described in these pages, and who, on the Pot-Hook-S ranch, gave to my
family one of the most delightful summers we have ever enjoyed; to Mr.
J.H. Stephens and his family, who so cordially welcomed me at rodeo
time; to Mr. and Mrs. Joe Contreras, for their kindly hospitality; to
Mr. and Mrs. J.W. Stewart, who, while this story was first in the
making, made me so much at home in the Cross-Triangle home-ranch; to Mr.
J.W. Cook, my constant companion, helpful guide, patient teacher and
tactful sponsor, who, with his charming wife, made his home mine; to Mr.
and Mrs. Herbert N. Cook, and to the many other cattlemen and cowboys,
with whom, on the range, in the rodeos, in the wild horse chase about
Toohey, after outlaw cattle in Granite Basin, in the corrals and
pastures, I rode and worked and lived, my gratitude is more than I can
put in words. Truer friends or better companions than these
great-hearted, outspoken, hardy riders, no man could have. If my story
in any degree wins the approval of these, my comrades of ranch and
range. I shall be proud and happy. H.B.W.
"CAMP HOLE-IN-THE-MOUNTAIN"
NEAR TUCSON, ARIZONA
APRIL 29, 1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AFTER THE CELEBRATION 11
II. ON THE DIVIDE 23
III. IN THE BIG PASTURE 35
IV. AT THE CORRAL 47
V. A BIT OF THE PAST 81
VI. THE DRIFT FENCE 91
VII. THINGS THAT ENDURE 115
VIII. CONCERNING BRANDS 133
IX. THE TAILHOLT MOUNTAIN OUTFIT 159
X. THE RODEO 181
XI. AFTER THE RODEO 197
XII. FRONTIER DAY 239
XIII. IN GRANITE BASIN 261
XIV. AT MINT SPRING 281
XV. ON CEDAR RIDGE 297
XVI. THE SKY LINE 323
[Illustration: WHEN A MAN'S A MAN]
CHAPTER I.
AFTER THE CELEBRATION.
There is a land where a man, to live, must be a man. It is a land of
granite and marble and porphyry and gold--and a man's strength must be
as the strength of the primeval hills. It is a land of oaks and cedars
and pines--and a man's mental grace must be as the grace of the untamed
trees. It is a land of far-arched and unstained skies, where the wind
sweeps free and untainted, and the atmosphere is the atmosphere of those
places that remain as God made them--and a man's soul must be as the
unstained skies, the unburdened wind, and the untainted atmosphere. It
is a land of wide mesas, of wild, rolling pastures and broad, untilled,
valley meadows--and a man's freedom must be that freedom which is not
bounded by the fences of a too weak and timid conventionalism.
In this land every man is--by divine right--his own king; he is his own
jury, his own counsel, his own judge, and--if it must be--his own
executioner. And in this land where a man, to live, must be a man, a
woman, if she be not a woman, must surely perish.
This is the story of a man who regained that which in his youth had been
lost to him; and of how, even when he had recovered that which had been
taken from him, he still paid the price of his loss. It is the story of
a woman who was saved from herself; and of how she was led to hold fast
to those things, the loss of which cost the man so great a price.
The story, as I have put it down here, begins at Prescott, Arizona, on
the day following the annual Fourth-of-July celebration in one of those
far-western years that saw the passing of the Indian and the coming of
the automobile.
The man was walking along one of the few roads that lead out from the
little city, through the mountain gaps and passes, to the wide, unfenced
ranges, and to the lonely scattered ranches on the creeks and flats and
valleys of the great open country that lies beyond.
From the fact that he was walking in that land where the distances are
such that men most commonly ride, and from the many marks that
environment and training leave upon us all, it was evident that the
pedestrian was a stranger. He was a man in the prime of young
manhood--tall and exceedingly well proportioned--and as he went forward
along the dusty road he bore himself with the unconscious air of one
more accustomed to crowded streets than to that rude and unpaved
highway. His clothing bore the unmistakable stamp of a tailor of rank.
His person was groomed with that nicety of detail that is permitted only
to those who possess both means and leisure, as well as taste. It was
evident, too, from his movement and bearing, that he had not sought the
mile-high atmosphere of Prescott with the hope that it holds out to
those in need of health. But, still, there was a something about him
that suggested a lack of the manly vigor and strength that should have
been his.
A student of men would have said that Nature made this man to be in
physical strength and spiritual prowess, a comrade and leader of men--a
man's man--a man among men. The same student, looking more closely,
might have added that in some way--through some cruel trick of
fortune--this man had been cheated of his birthright.
The day was still young when the stranger gained the top of the first
hill where the road turns to make its steep and winding way down through
scattered pines and scrub oak to the Burnt Ranch.
Behind him the little city--so picturesque in its mountain basin, with
the wild, unfenced land coming down to its very dooryards--was slowly
awakening after the last mad night of its celebration. The tents of the
tawdry shows that had tempted the crowds with vulgar indecencies, and
the booths that had sheltered the petty games of chance where
loud-voiced criers had persuaded the multitude with the hope of winning
a worthless bauble or a tinsel toy, were being cleared away from the
borders of the plaza, the beauty of which their presence had marred. In
the plaza itself--which is the heart of the town, and is usually kept
with much pride and care--the bronze statue of the vigorous Rough Rider
Bucky O'Neil and his spirited charger seemed pathetically out of place
among the litter of colored confetti and exploded fireworks, and the
refuse from various "treats" and lunches left by the celebrating
citizens and their guests. The flags and bunting that from window and
roof and pole and doorway had given the day its gay note of color hung
faded and listless, as though, spent with their gaiety, and mutely
conscious that the spirit and purpose of their gladness was past, they
waited the hand that would remove them to the ash barrel and the rubbish
heap.
Pausing, the man turned to look back.
For some minutes he stood as one who, while determined upon a certain
course, yet hesitates--reluctant and regretful--at the beginning of his
venture. Then he went on; walking with a certain reckless swing, as
though, in ignorance of that land toward which he had set his face, he
still resolutely turned his back upon that which lay behind. It was as
though, for this man, too, the gala day, with its tinseled bravery and
its confetti spirit, was of the past.
A short way down the hill the man stopped again. This time to stand half
turned, with his head in a listening attitude. The sound of a vehicle
approaching from the way whence he had come had reached his ear.
As the noise of wheels and hoofs grew louder a strange expression of
mingled uncertainty, determination, and something very like fear came
over his face. He started forward, hesitated, looked back, then turned
doubtfully toward the thinly wooded mountain side. Then, with tardy
decision he left the road and disappeared behind a clump of oak bushes,
an instant before a team and buckboard rounded the turn and appeared in
full view.
An unmistakable cattleman--grizzly-haired, square-shouldered and
substantial--was driving the wild looking team. Beside him sat a
motherly woman and a little boy.
As they passed the clump of bushes the near horse of the half-broken
pair gave a catlike bound to the right against his tracemate. A second
jump followed the first with flash-like quickness; and this time the
frightened animal was accompanied by his companion, who, not knowing
what it was all about, jumped on general principles. But, quick as they
were, the strength of the driver's skillful arms met their weight on the
reins and forced them to keep the road.
"You blamed fools"--the driver chided good-naturedly, as they plunged
ahead--"been raised on a cow ranch to get scared at a calf in the
brush!"
Very slowly the stranger came from behind the bushes. Cautiously he
returned to the road. His fine lips curled in a curious mocking smile.
But it was himself that he mocked, for there was a look in his dark eyes
that gave to his naturally strong face an almost pathetic expression of
self-depreciation and shame.
As the pedestrian crossed the creek at the Burnt Ranch, Joe Conley,
leading a horse by a riata which was looped as it had fallen about the
animal's neck, came through the big corral gate across the road from
the house. At the barn Joe disappeared through the small door of the
saddle room, the coil of the riata still in his hand, thus compelling
his mount to await his return.
At sight of the cowboy the stranger again paused and stood hesitating in
indecision. But as Joe reappeared from the barn with bridle, saddle
blanket and saddle in hand, the man went reluctantly forward as though
prompted by some necessity.
"Good morning!" said the stranger, courteously, and his voice was the
voice that fitted his dress and bearing, while his face was now the
carefully schooled countenance of a man world-trained and well-poised.
With a quick estimating glance Joe returned the stranger's greeting and,
dropping the saddle and blanket on the ground, approached his horse's
head. Instantly the animal sprang back, with head high and eyes defiant;
but there was no escape, for the rawhide riata was still securely held
by his master. There was a short, sharp scuffle that sent the gravel by
the roadside flying--the controlling bit was between the reluctant
teeth--and the cowboy, who had silently taken the horse's objection as a
matter of course, adjusted the blanket, and with the easy skill of long
practice swung the heavy saddle to its place.
As the cowboy caught the dangling cinch, and with a deft hand tucked the
latigo strap through the ring and drew it tight, there was a look of
almost pathetic wistfulness on the watching stranger's face--a look of
wistfulness and admiration and envy.
Dropping the stirrup, Joe again faced the stranger, this time
inquiringly, with that bold, straightforward look so characteristic of
his kind.
And now, when the man spoke, his voice had a curious note, as if the
speaker had lost a little of his poise. It was almost a note of apology,
and again in his eyes there was that pitiful look of self-depreciation
and shame.
"Pardon me," he said, "but will you tell me, please, am I right that
this is the road to the Williamson Valley?"
The stranger's manner and voice were in such contrast to his general
appearance that the cowboy frankly looked his wonder as he answered
courteously, "Yes, sir."
"And it will take me direct to the Cross-Triangle Ranch?"
"If you keep straight ahead across the valley, it will. If you take the
right-hand fork on the ridge above the goat ranch, it will take you to
Simmons. There's a road from Simmons to the Cross-Triangle on the far
side of the valley, though. You can see the valley and the
Cross-Triangle home ranch from the top of the Divide."
"Thank you."
The stranger was turning to go when the man in the blue jumper and
fringed leather chaps spoke again, curiously.
"The Dean with Stella and Little Billy passed in the buckboard less than
an hour ago, on their way home from the celebration. Funny they didn't
pick you up, if you're goin' there!"
The other paused questioningly. "The Dean?"
The cowboy smiled. "Mr. Baldwin, the owner of the Cross-Triangle, you
know."
"Oh!" The stranger was clearly embarrassed. Perhaps he was thinking of
that clump of bushes on the mountain side.
Joe, loosing his riata from the horse's neck, and coiling it carefully,
considered a moment. Then: "You ain't goin' to walk to the
Cross-Triangle, be you?"
That self-mocking smile touched the man's lips; but there was a hint of
decisive purpose in his voice as he answered, "Oh, yes."
Again the cowboy frankly measured the stranger. Then he moved toward the
corral gate, the coiled riata in one hand, the bridle rein in the other.
"I'll catch up a horse for you," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if
reaching a decision.
The other spoke hastily. "No, no, please don't trouble."
Joe paused curiously. "Any friend of Mr. Baldwin's is welcome to
anything on the Burnt Ranch, Stranger."
"But I--ah--I--have never met Mr. Baldwin," explained the other lamely.
"Oh, that's all right," returned the cowboy heartily. "You're a-goin'
to, an' that's the same thing." Again he started toward the gate.
"But I--pardon me--you are very kind--but I--I prefer to walk."
Once more Joe halted, a puzzled expression on his tanned and
weather-beaten face. "I suppose you know it's some walk," he suggested
doubtfully, as if the man's ignorance were the only possible solution of
his unheard-of assertion.
"So I understand. But it will be good for me. Really, I prefer to walk."
Without a word the cowboy turned back to his horse, and proceeded
methodically to tie the coiled riata in its place on the saddle. Then,
without a glance toward the stranger who stood watching him in
embarrassed silence, he threw the bridle reins over his horse's head,
gripped the saddle horn and swung to his seat, reining his horse away
from the man beside the road.
The stranger, thus abruptly dismissed, moved hurriedly away.
Half way to the creek the cowboy checked his horse and looked back at
the pedestrian as the latter was making his way under the pines and up
the hill. When the man had disappeared over the crest of the hill, the
cowboy muttered a bewildered something, and, touching his horse with the
spurs, loped away, as if dismissing a problem too complex for his simple
mind.
All that day the stranger followed the dusty, unfenced road. Over his
head the wide, bright sky was without a cloud to break its vast expanse.
On the great, open range of mountain, flat and valley the cattle lay
quietly in the shade of oak or walnut or cedar, or, with slow, listless
movement, sought the watering places to slake their thirst. The wild
things retreated to their secret hiding places in rocky den and leafy
thicket to await the cool of the evening hunting hour. The very air was
motionless, as if the never-tired wind itself drowsed indolently.
And alone in the hushed bigness of that land the man walked with his
thoughts--brooding, perhaps, over whatever it was that had so strangely
placed him there--dreaming, it may be, over that which might have been,
or that which yet might be--viewing with questioning, wondering,
half-fearful eyes the mighty, untamed scenes that met his eye on every
hand. Nor did anyone see him, for at every sound of approaching horse or
vehicle he went aside from the highway to hide in the bushes or behind
convenient rocks. And always when he came from his hiding place to
resume his journey that odd smile of self-mockery was on his face.
At noon he rested for a little beside the road while he ate a meager
sandwich that he took from the pocket of his coat. Then he pushed on
again, with grim determination, deeper and deeper into the heart and
life of that world which was, to him, so evidently new and strange. The
afternoon was well spent when he made his way--wearily now, with
drooping shoulders and dragging step--up the long slope of the Divide
that marks the eastern boundary of the range about Williamson Valley.
At the summit, where the road turns sharply around a shoulder of the
mountain and begins the steep descent on the other side of the ridge, he
stopped. His tired form straightened. His face lighted with a look of
wondering awe, and an involuntary exclamation came from his lips as his
unaccustomed eyes swept the wide view that lay from his feet unrolled
before him.
Under that sky, so unmatched in its clearness and depth of color, the
land lay in all its variety of valley and forest and mesa and
mountain--a scene unrivaled in the magnificence and grandeur of its
beauty. Miles upon miles in the distance, across those primeval reaches,
the faint blue peaks and domes and ridges of the mountains ranked--an
uncounted sentinel host. The darker masses of the timbered hillsides,
with the varying shades of pine and cedar, the lighter tints of oak
brush and chaparral, the dun tones of the open grass lands, and the
brighter note of the valley meadows' green were defined, blended and
harmonized by the overlying haze with a delicacy exquisite beyond all
human power to picture. And in the nearer distances, chief of that army
of mountain peaks, and master of the many miles that lie within their
circle, Granite Mountain, gray and grim, reared its mighty bulk of cliff
and crag as if in supreme defiance of the changing years or the hand of
humankind.
In the heart of that beautiful land upon which, from the summit of the
Divide, the stranger looked with such rapt appreciation, lies Williamson
Valley, a natural meadow of lush, dark green, native grass. And, had the
man's eyes been trained to such distances, he might have distinguished
in the blue haze the red roofs of the buildings of the Cross-Triangle
Ranch.
For some time the man stood there, a lonely figure against the sky,
peculiarly out of place in his careful garb of the cities. The schooled
indifference of his face was broken. His self-depreciation and mockery
were forgotten. His dark eyes glowed with the fire of excited
anticipation--with hope and determined purpose. Then, with a quick
movement, as though some ghost of the past had touched him on the
shoulder, he looked back on the way he had come. And the light in his
eyes went out in the gloom of painful memories. His countenance,
unguarded because of his day of loneliness, grew dark with sadness and
shame. It was as though he looked beyond the town he had left that
morning, with its litter and refuse of yesterday's pleasure, to a life
and a world of tawdry shams, wherein men give themselves to win by means
fair or foul the tinsel baubles that are offered in the world's petty
games of chance.
And yet, even as he looked back, there was in the man's face as much of
longing as of regret. He seemed as one who, realizing that he had
reached a point in his life journey--a divide, as it were--from which he
could see two ways, was resolved to turn from the path he longed to
follow and to take the road that appealed to him the least. As one
enlisting to fight in a just and worthy cause might pause a moment,
before taking the oath of service, to regret the ease and freedom he was
about to surrender, so this man paused on the summit of the Divide.
Slowly, at last, in weariness of body and spirit, he stumbled a few feet
aside from the road, and, sinking down upon a convenient rock, gave
himself again to the contemplation of that scene which lay before him.
And there was that in his movement now that seemed to tell of one who,
in the grip of some bitter and disappointing experience, was yet being
forced by something deep in his being to reach out in the strength of
his manhood to take that which he had been denied.
Again the man's untrained eyes had failed to note that which would have
first attracted the attention of one schooled in the land that lay about
him. He had not seen a tiny moving speck on the road over which he had
passed. A horseman was riding toward him.