ON THE TRAIL OF A WILDCAT
Joe went at the plowing the next morning and kept at it with dogged
perseverance for several days. Jessie and I, busy with the sewing, at
first paid little attention to him, but after a few days the look of
settled exasperation on his sable countenance, as he returned to the
house at the close of his day's work, drew my attention.
"Joe," I said to him one morning, as he was about starting for the
field, "what is the matter? You look discouraged."
"I ain' discouraged, so my looks is deceivin', den; but I is kine o'
wore out in my patience."
"Why; what about?"
"Hit's dat 'ar Frank horse; nothin' gwine ter do him, but he mus' stop
in de furrer, ebbery few ya'ahds, an' tun aroun' in de ha'ness ter
look at me. 'Pears like he can' be satisfy dat I knows my own
business, but he's got to obersee hit. Hit done gets mighty worrisome
afore de day's out," he concluded with a heavy sigh.
"Why don't you whip him for it?" demanded Jessie indignantly.
"W'ip nuffin'! Hes a saddle hoss; he's nebber been call' on fer to do
such wuck afore, an' he doan know what hit means."
"I guess if he attended to his business he'd find out in time," Jessie
insisted. But Frank, whatever other faults he had, had none under the
saddle; he was, moreover, old Joe's especial pet. One of the work
horses had died during the preceding winter, which was the reason that
this one was called upon to perform labor that he evidently regarded
with distrust, if not active disapproval.
So now the old man replied to Jessie's observation with unusual
sharpness:
"De whole worl' is plum' full ob plow hosses, so fur's I kin see. Yo'
done meets 'em on de road, and in de chu'ch and de town meetin's, and
on de ranches; yes, sir; yo' kin fine a plow hoss twenty times a day
where yo' meets up wid a saddle hoss once in six mont's w'at is a
saddle hoss, and not a saw-hoss wif a bridle on. Ef somebody's got fer
to poun' dat Frank fer to make him drag a plow aroun', hit'll be
somebody odder dan me w'at does hit! I done cut dem wicked ole clumsy
blinders, w'at is a relict ob ba'barism, ef dere ebber was one, offen
his bridle, so's 't dem bright eyes ob his'n kin see w'ats goin' on
aroun' him, an' now I ain' gwine spile a good saddle hoss ter make a
poor plow hoss. Hit's too much like tryin' ter make a eagle inter a
tame ole goose," the old man concluded soberly.
"Well, then, I suppose we'll have to give up the fall plowing, just on
account of Frank's whims!" Jessie retorted, nettled.
"No," Joe returned patiently; "I'se done gwine ter keep at hit, we's
get hit done somehow; if not dis year, den de nex'. I 'clar fur hit,
sometimes I done been tempted fur t' hitch one ob de cow beasts up
along o' Bill an' tryin' de plowin' dat way."
"Isn't there some way of making Frank keep straight without whipping
him?" I asked, my sympathies being about equally divided between man
and horse.
"Oh, yes! I done thought a hun'nerd times dat ef dere was only some
small, active boy w'at would ride him whilst I--"
I sprang to my feet, tossing aside the pieces of gingham that were
destined to form a new shirt for Mr. Horton: "Here am I, Joe, take
me!"
"You!" Joe's mild eyes looked me over, and gleamed approvingly. "You
is little, you is active, an' yo' has de bravest heart, and de
unselfishest sperrit--" he said, half soliloquizing, until I
interposed, laughingly:
"Come, now! Stop calling me names and say that I'll do!"
"Dat yo' will, honey, chile, but I nebber thought ob askin' yo' to do
sech wuck as dat! Hit ain' fittin' nohow!"
"Fitting! Anything is fitting that is honest, and will help us out,
Joe. Still, I am rather glad that the fields are quite out of sight
from the road."
"Dat's w'at dey is. Come on, den. Frank gwine wuck like a hero, now,
'cause he done think hit's saddle wuck w'at he's a doin'."
"And I'll work all the harder at the sewing," Jessie said, smiling
approval of this novel arrangement, and hastily rescuing Mr. Horton's
unfinished shirt from Guard, who had been trying to utilize it for a
bed. "There, now, see that!" she added, looking at me reproachfully.
"How could you be so careless, Leslie? Guard has been lying on Mr.
Horton's new shirt!"
"It is new, and Mr. Horton has never worn it, so I don't think it will
contaminate Guard," I retorted, perversely, as I turned to follow Joe,
who had already started for the fields.
With me perched upon his back, the long, awkward, pulling lines
discarded, and his movements directed by a gentle touch of the bridle
reins against the side of his neck, Frank worked, as Joe had said he
would, like a hero. The other horse, being of a meek and quiet spirit,
had made no trouble from the outset; he was content to follow Frank's
lead, so we got on famously with the plowing from the day that I was
installed as postillion.
"I always supposed that plowing was such a monotonous kind of
business," I remarked to Joe one day, taking advantage of the
opportunity offered by his stopping the team to wipe away the
perspiration that was streaming down my face. For the day was very
warm, and we had been working steadily.
"If mon'tonus means hot, honey chile, I reckons yo's right," responded
Joe. "Yo's purty face is a sight to behole; red as a turkey cock's
comb, hit is, an' dat streaked wif dirt dat dey doan nuffin' show
natteral but yo' eyes."
"One good thing, Joe, I can't look any dirtier than I feel," I replied
wearily, and with a longing glance toward the river that rippled
silver-white and cool at the foot of the hill beneath us. Joe saw the
glance.
[Illustration: WE GOT ON FAMOUSLY WITH THE PLOWING (Page 150)]
"Hol' on, honey," he exclaimed, as I was about starting the team
again. "Dere's de lines looped up on the back band; I'll jess run
'em out an' finish up dish yer bit alone."
"Do you think you can?" I asked, wavering between a longing to rest
and my sense of duty.
"T'ink I kin? Dat's good, now! Yo' run along down to de ribber an' hab
a good paddle afore hit gits too late."
Accordingly I slid off of Frank's back while Joe, gathering in the
slack of the lines, clucked encouragingly to him to go on. Instead of
doing that the horse wheeled around in the furrow until he had brought
my retreating figure into view, then stopped and gazed inquiringly
after me.
"Joe," I called back, halting, "maybe I'd better not leave."
"Yo' jess run right erlong, Miss Leslie, honey; dis hoss gwine ter go
all right jess soon's he make up he mine whar yo' is gwine."
Glancing back again presently, I found that Joe was right. Frank was
working with promising sedateness.
It was deliciously cool down underneath the shadow of the cliff, on
the banks of the shallow, bright river. Guard had followed me from the
field; he, too, enjoyed the cool water and proceeded to make the most
of it. After I had bathed my hot face and hands I sat on the bank and
watched him as he splashed about, making sudden, futile darts at the
tiny fish that swarmed around him when he was quiet, and went
scurrying away like chaff before the wind, the instant that he moved.
I had just risen to my feet, intending to start to the house, when
Guard suddenly sprang out of the water with a growl. At the same
instant the direful squawking of a frightened chicken broke on my
ears. The squawking, close at hand at first, receded rapidly.
Evidently some animal had caught one of our flock of poultry and was
making off with its prize.
There was a wildness of rocks and gnarled cedar trees on the steep
mountain slope above us, just beyond the bend in the river, and toward
this wild quarter, judging by the outcries--fast lessening in the
distance--the animal, whatever it might be, was bearing its prey. I
was drenched with a shower of water drops as Guard shot past me,
taking the trail with an eager yelp, while I, no less eager, and with
as little reflection, ran after him. The dog had cleared the
underbrush on the river bank, as I rushed out, and was racing across
the little interval, or clear space between the river bank and the
first jumble of rocks where the abrupt rise of the mountain slope
began. Just in front of him, so close it seemed the next leap would
surely enable him to seize the creature, glided, rather than ran, so
swift and stealthy was the motion, some large animal, bearing a white
chicken in its mouth. A tiny trail of white feathers drifted backward
as the animal ran, while the helpless white wings beat the air
frantically on either side of the unyielding jaws.
The poor chick might be badly hurt, but it could still squawk and
struggle. Indignation gave me renewed strength. I ran forward,
shouting, "Sic him, Guard, sic him!" and the next instant my foot
caught under a projecting root and I fell headlong to the ground. It
really seemed for a blank space as if my fall must have jarred the
earth. There was a whirling dance of stars all about my head; the
ground rolled and heaved underneath me; sky, earth, and trees swam
together, joining that whirling dance of stars. It must have been a
full minute before I was able to sit up and weakly wonder what had
happened. It all came back to me as a cold, moist nose touched my hand
and a sympathetic whimper broke the silence. I turned on Guard
reproachfully.
"Why did you leave that thing to come back to me, sir? You could have
caught it if you had kept right on after it, and you might have known
I'd get along all right without your help. Now, do you go and find it,
sir!" and I pointed imperatively, if rather vaguely, towards the
jumble of rocks. The chicken's cries had ceased; there was now nothing
to guide the dog, even if he understood, which I, having great faith
in his intelligence, believed he did. He ran along the trail for a
few yards, stopped, gave a joyful bark, and came running back to me
with a stick in his mouth.
I had been trying to teach him to retrieve, and my order, "go find
it," suggested that pastime to him. When he laid the stick at my feet,
wagging his tail and looking up in hopeful anticipation of the praise
that he felt to be his due, I could not find it in my heart to
withhold it. Besides, the chicken thief was, no doubt, safe in his
lair at this time, so, abandoning the hopeless pursuit, we made our
way homeward.
When Joe came in, and I related our adventure to him, he said: "Yo'
may t'ank yo' sta'hs, Miss Leslie, dat yo' done got dat tumble w'en
yo' did! Dat feller wif de black coat, trimmed in yeller, was a
lynx--dat's his'n's dress ebbery time--an' I'd 'a' heap rudder meet up
wif a mountain lion, any day, dan one 'o' dem ar! Land, chile! Ef hit
had 'a' been me, down dar by de ribber, I'd 'a' helt Guard to keep him
still, an' I'd 'a' kep' out o' sight. Dat's w'at I'd 'a' done, honey."
"Do you recollect, Leslie," Jessie chimed in, "what Mrs. Loyd told us
about her encounter with a lynx, last year? She said that she was in
the house one day, when she heard a great outcry among her chickens,
right close at hand, in the yard. She ran to the door, and there was a
great lynx, chasing the chickens around. The minute the door was
opened, they ran toward it, and into the house. The lynx was right
behind them, but it stopped as the chickens crowded around her, and
she seized the broom and struck at it. Instead of running, it stood
its ground and showed its teeth, bristling up and growling. She
dropped the broom and sprang into the house, slamming the door shut
just as the lynx hurled itself against it. She said that she was
almost scared to death. She locked the door, and scrambled up into the
loft--she said that she was afraid the cat would take a notion to
break in at one of the windows--and the creature stayed outside and
killed chickens as long as he pleased, while she stayed up there,
trembling, until her husband came home. She said that the next time a
bob-cat wanted one of her chickens it could have it, for all of her."
"I would hate to have Guard get hurt," I said, looking affectionately
at our follower.