G'lang there, yeoo-oo-oo, _Rip_. Yeoo-oo-oo, _Squat_. Yeoo-oo-oo ----
---- ---- Buff.
_Bang_.
As it is difficult to make a noise in print, it might be well to
explain that, of the above words, the last is supposed to sound like a
revolver-shot. It is as near as we can come to the disturbance made by
a Texas "prairie buster" as he came down Claxton road.
Ahead of him were ten oxen--five yoke. His far-reaching bull-whip
exploded just beside Rip's left ear. The next shot took Squat exactly
as aimed. There was a momentary scuffling of hoofs, an awful threat in
the ox-driving language; then everything went on peacefully as before.
The ox-driver caught the returning cracker deftly in two fingers of his
right hand and settled down on his iron seat with his elbow on his knee
while he took a chew of tobacco. The big tongue of his "busting" plow
knocked in the ring of the wheelers' yoke; the chain clanked idly
against it; a little cloud of debris--hair and dust which the cracker
had bit out of the tuft between Squat's horns--floated away on the
breeze.
All this was not done with any expectation of making them go faster.
For an ox to alter his gait, except slightly to run away, would be
unnatural. It was merely to convey to certain ones that they were not
out to enjoy the roadside grass. And to remind the string in general
that the seat of authority was still being occupied.
For several days his voracious plowshare had been turning over the
prairie in long ribbons of swath like the pages of a book. Texas in
those days was turning over a new leaf; and such outfits as this did
the turning. His last job had been to put an addition on a farm for an
Ohio man about six miles out of town; he had turned forty more acres of
tough prairie sod black side upwards and left behind him a dry dusky
square in the horizon-girt green of the range. Being now homeward
bound, he bent his sharp gray eyes upon the road ahead. The Claxton
Road community, a moneyed streak in the population, was only half a
mile away.
In the distance appeared a black man riding a broncho mule. It was
Colonel Chase's man, Uncle Israel; he was coming along at an
unsatisfactory pace, using his quirt regularly and remonstrating with
the mule. As he drew near the head of the ox procession, the driver
roared out a _Wo-o-o-o_ in a tone which was intended to be understood
as a general command; the powerful wheelers held back obediently and
drew the chain tight in their efforts to stop; the rest of the string,
after pulling them a short distance, also obeyed.
"Hello, Uncle."
"Good-mawnin', Mistah Hicks."
"How's things doing down home? Anything new?"
"Well--no, sah. Ev'ything jes' 'bout de same."
"Is the Colonel home?"
"No, sah. He's done gone to San Antone."
"Has he shipped yet?"
"Yes, sah."
"Who went up to Chicago with them?"
"Mistah Sattlee an' John Dick an' some mo'."
"Is Steve Brown at home?"
"No, sah. He 's gone somewha's. An' he ain' come back. Mos' all de
men folks is gone away."
"Has Miss Alice got back yet?"
"No, sah. She's off to de school-house in Boston yet. An' it ain't
leff out. She 's gwine be back dis spring."
"What's cattle bringing now?"
"Dunno, sah. I heah dey 's done riz."
"Has little Johnnie Martin got his curls cut yet?"
"No, sah. Ah seed 'em on him."
"What's doing in town? Anything new there?"
"No, sah. Jes' 'bout de same as usual."
Uncle Israel, feeling that his information had not been very abundant,
scratched his head and stirred his mind up thoroughly for news. He met
the demand with two pieces of information.
"De railroad's done built a new loadin'-pen. An' dat high-tone bull
took sick wif acclimatin'. But we 's got him restin' easy now."
"The railroad's getting real extravagant, ain't it?" commented Jonas,
turning his attention to the oxen again.
Having said a few words appropriate to the occasion of starting up, he
flung out his bullwhip in a flourish of aerial penmanship and drove
home the aforesaid remarks with a startling report. Again the bovine
procession got under way.
In the course of time he came to where Claxton road ends and Claxton
Road begins. It will be recalled that Claxton road, hemmed in by barb
wire, leads interminably past vacant stretches of prairie with
occasionally a farm and farmhouse. Nearing town its scene and
atmosphere suddenly change. On the left are the ranchmen's home
estates, with the stables and windmills and short avenues of
china-berry trees leading up to comfortable porches; to the right, or
facing these, is a large square of green with no roadside houses and no
longer any confining fence. To any one who had come a long distance
between the barb wires, this emergence upon the free, open common was
very much as if he had been following a stream which, after long
confinement to its course, opens out suddenly into a lake. This piece
of land was not different from the prairie it had always been, except
that the houses which faced it on all sides, as if it were a lake of
the summer-resort variety, gave it an importance which was not its own.
It was no more nor less than a square of primeval prairie whose owner,
being satisfied with it, let it be as it was. Surrounded on all sides
by real estate and other improvements, it held its own as immovably as
if Texas had here taken her last stand, in hollow square, against the
encroachments of civilization. It belonged to Jonas Hicks. In the
exact middle of it was the paintless frame house which we have already
mentioned.
This structure is easily described. It consisted of a house with one
room downstairs and one room upstairs. Its boarding was of the kind
that runs up and down with battening strips at the cracks. Any one
familiar with prairie architecture would see at once that the owner,
having a house to build, had gone straightway to work and erected a
herder's shack on a residential scale and put some windows in it.
Because of its porchlessness it seemed rather tall, as if it had grown
after it was built or had stretched itself up to get a better view; and
the single window in the end of the upper story gave it a watchful
appearance. This watchful window, which might be said to mark its
front, looked toward the residences along Williston Road.
The cottages which faced this place on the side toward town were
confined to "lots" along an unpaved street. Across on Claxton Road
town lots grew to the size of country estates and looked more
commanding. But the shack house, with its twenty acres of elbow room,
rather commanded them all, especially as its central position marked
the common as its own grounds. Being tall and upright and spare, like
a Texan, it had an attitude toward them like that of a pioneer
drill-master; it seemed to be standing out on the drill-grounds with
the other houses all marshaled up before it and toeing the social line.
The place was given shape and form entirely by the other property, all
of which was fenced on its own side of the highway, the owner of the
twenty acres never having shut it off from the roads which passed along
two sides of it. This hospitable openness was a fortunate thing for
the traveling public, affording as it did a short cut to town. Quite a
little of the traffic that came down Williston Road turned out and
followed the trail which led diagonally across it past the door of the
house. And usually the traveler, whether horseman or driver, would
speak in passing; or, more likely, stop to have a talk with Jonas
Hicks, who, if he were at home, might be engaged in plaiting a whip or
mixing batter for pancakes or taking a stitch in his clothes, the iron
seat of a "prairie-busting" plow being particularly hard on the seat of
a man's trousers. It was to this place that the plowman was bending
his homeward way.
Eventually, as oxen always do, they arrived. Having navigated them up
to the kitchen door and brought them to a stop with a stentorian _Wo_,
he unhooked the wheelers, dropped the chain from each yoke, and turned
them loose to graze or lie down as each pair might decide; then he went
around the corner of the house and set to work making a fire in the
stove. It was an outdoor stove of the locomotive variety, having two
large iron wheels upon which it had traveled thousands of miles in the
service of the J. W. Cattle Company. Mr. Hicks had fastened its tongue
or handle to a staple in the chimney of the house, for which chimney it
had no use, having a smoke-stack of its own.
When the stove was belching forth smoke he turned his attention to the
inside of the house. Presently he came out with a pan of flour and
various kitchen utensils which he placed on a bench beside the door;
then he drew a bucket of water and proceeded to mix pancake batter. He
had not accomplished much when he was interrupted. Just when the
batter was mixed to the right consistency, and the first spoonful was
ready to go on, a little girl appeared. She had a pie which she bore
before her with a look of great responsibility.
"Ma says maybe you would like to have a pie."
"Why, how do, Susie. How 's Susie getting along these days?"
"Real well," replied Susan, holding the pie up higher.
Mr. Hicks bent his tall Texas form in the middle and took it from her.
The pie had the outlines of a star in its centre by way of a vent-hole;
the edges were nicely crimped.
"It's a mighty good-looking pie. What does that stand for, Susie?" he
asked, holding the pie up so that she could view its face and placing
his finger upon its centre.
"That stands for Texas," answered Susan promptly.
Mr. Hicks put the pie on the bench and sat down beside it with his
elbows on his knees.
Something like a smile betrayed itself in the lean muscles of his jaw
and showed somehow around his large aggressive chin.
"How does it come that you did n't go to school to-day, Susie?" He
pointed to the white frame school-house which occupied a corner of his
place.
"'Cause," answered Susan, by way of complete explanation.
"That's a mighty good reason. If I had an excuse like that I would n't
go to school myself. How's your ma? Is she well?"
"Yes, sir. Only she had a kinda headache this morning, and I wiped the
dishes."
"You did? How did you know so quick that I was back? Were you
watching for me so that you could bring over the pie?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Susan, "we heard you coming. We could hear you saying
bad words when you was 'way up the road."
A change suddenly came over the spirit of Mr. Hicks's physiognomy. He
sat stroking his wide-spreading moustache. Jonas Hicks had a self-made
moustache which seemed to have borrowed its style from the horns of a
Texas steer. It might be said that, for the moment, he looked serious;
but you could never tell from his face exactly what his emotions were.
It was against his principles to be caught laughing, and yet his
solemnity was somewhat radiant despite him.
Suddenly he rose and went into the house. In a little while he
reappeared carrying a milk-pan filled with comb-honey. It was white
honey which the bees had deposited in his useless chimney; the sirup
filled the pan almost to its edge, while the middle was piled high with
oozing chunks of comb. He placed it on the bench beside him. The eyes
of Susan opened wide as she saw this sight. He talked about one thing
and another and asked her many inconsequential questions. After much
tantalizing talk on Mr. Hicks's part, she learned that the honey was
for her and that she was to take it all home with her.
Susan was for starting home at once.
"What' s your hurry, Susie? Won't you stay a while and have a piece of
pie?"
"I 'd rather I 'd have a pancake," said Susan, looking furtively at the
smoking griddle.
He rose at once and put on a large spoonful of batter. When the cake
was ready to turn, he caused it to turn a somersault with a quick toss
of the griddle; then he spread it evenly with honey and rolled it into
the form of a cylinder with the honey inside.
"There, now, Susie. That's what I call a joof-lickum _tamale_. It's
pancake _de la verandah_. Watch out that you don't burn your fingers."
He set the griddle temporarily aside and sat down again. While Susan
ate, she leaned across his tall knee and looked up at him admiringly.
"I like your pancakes," she volunteered. "Your pancakes has got fringe
on them."
Mr. Hicks's countenance took on more of an expression around the eyes;
he regarded her with deep interest.
"All the boys at school like your pancakes, too," she continued. "They
are coming over some other recess when you are home, and you can make
them all a pancake again. Will you put honey on their pancakes?"
"For boys!" exclaimed Susan's heroine in great surprise. "No honey for
boys. Honey is only for girls."
"And mas too," added Susan. "Ain't honey for mas too?"
"Does n't your ma make them with fringe on?" inquired Jonas, in hope of
making a new start.
Susan vouchsafed no reply. The subject stood in abeyance while she
feasted and took thought. Presently her attention rested upon the
griddle. On it there was a diminutive pancake which had made itself
from the drippings of an overgenerous spoonful.
"I like little pancakes too," she hinted.
Jonas took it off and presented it to her.
"There, Susie. When you go home you can give that to your dollie."
Susan's eyes seemed to expand as she turned them up to Mr. Hicks, the
source of supernal illumination. If the pancake had seemed desirable,
this wonderful _idea_ was ten times as much of a present. Her bliss
grew visibly deeper as she looked first at the pancake and then at the
resourceful Mr. Hicks. She was so completely won that she consented to
sit on his knee. There she resumed her _tamale_ in the intervals of
conversation.
"Mr. Hicks. How did the bees come to go down your chimbly?"
"'Cause," replied Mr. Hicks.
"Oh, _Mister_ Hicks--tell me _why_ the bees went down your chimbly. I
want to know why."
"I guess they thought it was an old hollow tree."
"Do you think maybe they would think our chimbly was an old hollow
tree? Oh, I wish they would come down our chimbly."
"Oh, they would n't come down your chimney. That would n't do at all."
"Why would n't they, Mr. Hicks?"
"'Cause," answered Jonas, still pretending to be taciturn and
mysterious.
"Oh, Mister _Hicks_. _Please_ don't talk that way. Tell me why."
"Because," explained Mr. Hicks, "bees would know better than that. If
they came and stopped your chimney all up with honey, how would Santa
Claus ever get down? Who gave you the dolly?"
"Santa Claus."
"Well, don't you see if the chimney was all full of honey he would get
it all over his clothes? And all over _her_ clothes? And besides, he
would get his whiskers all chock-full of honey. How would you like to
have your curls all full of molasses?"
As he made this remark he lifted a curl and contemplated it, the truth
being that he was not nearly so much interested in the honey as in her
hair. He made these remarks simply by way of sticking to the subject.
Susan, conscious of her curls, gave her head a toss which sent them
flying about her face, one side and then the other; then she took
another bite and returned to her speculations.
"Did the bees know that you haven't got any little girl?"
Mr. Hicks was inclined to sanction the idea that the bees had this view
of the uselessness of his chimney. The subject of his girllessness
leading on to another case of "why," he fell back promptly upon the
hollow tree theory pure and simple; the which he took pains to
establish by stories of trees filled with honey and of terrible big
bears that lived in the trees and ate the honey. He was going on to
consider the advantages of living in a hollow tree--with a good strong
door to it--when a new game offered itself.
Leaning forward and turning his head to see how the stove was doing,
the end of his long moustache stroked Susan under the chin and drew a
fine trail of titillation across her throat. To the surprise of the
owner of the "whiskers," she clapped her chin to her shoulder and
shrank from the excruciating touch. Before long Mr. Hicks had occasion
to turn his head to the other side. This time it tickled even more and
Susan had to giggle. After that a surprising number of things, of all
imaginable sorts, demanded his attention on one side or the other, and
every time the moustache acted in the same manner, much to the surprise
of the innocent Mr. Hicks. As soon as that beard developed its full
powers of tickling, it took effect wherever it touched, and Susan had
to protect herself by grabbing the moustache and pushing Mr. Hicks's
face, which face seemed able to stand any amount of rough usage. When
finally his every move produced such paroxysms of laughter that she
could stand it no longer, Susan squirmed out of his arms. Then, with
sudden seriousness, she picked up the doll's pancake which had fallen
from her hand. Their visit thus brought to an end, Jonas did not try
to renew it; he was growing hungry. He gave her the pan of honey and
placed her hands so that she would hold it level.
"There, now, Susan. Be careful that you don't fall down and get any of
it in your mouth."
Susan, who was nobody's fool, knew that Mr. Hicks sometimes made
remarks which were purposely foolish. This one engaged her mind for a
moment as if she hoped to make head and tail of it, but as it seemed to
be unanswerable she gave him an amused look and started for home.
As Susan neared her front gate another visitor was approaching--this
time from the direction of Claxton Road. It was Mrs. Norton; she had
in mind to get the rockery returned. Jonas, watching Susan to see
whether she got home with the honey unspilt, was oblivious to the half
of the world that was behind his back; but when he turned about and
took up the dish of batter, intending to pour out a griddleful of
pancakes, he saw her coming. Immediately he seized the pie and hurried
it into the house. By the time he came out she had arrived.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Norton."
"Good-morning, Mr. Hicks. Have you got all through with your work?"
"All except sewing on a few buttons. Ploughing is all done for the
present, I guess."
"Mr. Hicks, we have been wondering whether you could do us a little
favor. The ladies of the Chautauqua Circle have been studying
geology,--the earth, you know,--and we needed some stones for
specimens--samples. And of course stones are not very plentiful around
here--"
"Why don't you go and take some out of Steve Brown's rockery? Help
yourself, as God says."
"Why, that's just what we did do. We were passing there, and we each
took one--without particularly thinking. They are lying behind Colonel
Chase's big gate. We got them up there, but found they were rather
heavy. Could we get you to haul them back for us?"
"I bet you could, Mrs. Norton. The next time I pass there with the
wagon I 'll put them on. I don't suppose those stones are in any
particular hurry, are they?"
"Well," said Mrs. Norton, taking thought, "I have been thinking that
perhaps it would be just as well to get them back before he comes home.
He is out at the Thompson ranch tending to those sheep again, you know."
"Did you hear whether any one went with him?"
"Well, no--er--yes. That is, I don't really know whether there is or
not. I heard there was somebody out there."
Her answer, or the manner of it, struck Jonas as peculiar.
"Extra herder or two?" he suggested.
"One of the boys who was out at the ranch told somebody in town that
there was somebody out there. The regular herder was up at the
county-seat and had n't got back."
Mrs. Norton, now that she had boggled, by surprise, into the
acknowledgment that she knew anything whatever about the matter, felt
herself in a problematical position. She did not know whether his
question had been accidental or not; it sounded as if he knew; possibly
he had put it as a feeler to discover whether she knew. In which case
the subject became rather difficult; she did not know whether to
dissemble, nor how much to dissemble, nor how to do it.
Jonas, his curiosity aroused, persevered with more inquiries. Mrs.
Norton, after answering with a few vague references to Tuck Reedy's
report, suddenly made a bald evasion of the subject; she went back
without ceremony to the subject of rocks. Jonas had a new feeling that
there was something peculiar about the matter.
"And so I was thinking," continued Mrs. Norton, "that we had better
return them pretty soon. It was really an improper thing for us to
do--though we did not particularly think of it at the time. If he came
home and found the rockery gone he might not like it."
"Steve is rather peculiar, some ways," remarked Jonas.
"Is he? In what way?"
This remark of his had seemed to bear upon the hidden subject. She had
hope of receiving moral enlightenment from the masculine standpoint.
"Mostly about rocks. Did you ever hear about the time I hauled that
tombstone for him?"
"I knew you did, of course. What did he do?"
"Well, he did n't do anything much. He expected me to drive oxen
without using any strong language. Just took a sudden notion he did
n't want it. I had got that stone loaded onto a strong truck that I
had rigged up apurpose; then I started up and got the cattle headed up
Main Street in fine shape. Steve was coming along on the sidewalk.
All of a sudden he stepped out into the road and spoke to me. He said
he did n't like the sound of it and he wished I 'd leave out the
swearing. He said it rather cool and solemn, like Pastor Gates does
when he says to omit the second stanza. For a minute I did n't know
what to think. I was doing a plain job of ox-driving and I told him
so. 'That's all right; I understand that,' he says. 'But you don't
expect to go cussing into that cemetery, do you?' 'Well--no,' I says.
'Not since you mention it.' For a minute he had me where I could n't
go ahead nor back up. A man has got to use language to oxen, and what
is he going to say? I am so used to it that I don't even hear myself,
unless I stop to listen; and so it does n't mean any more than the oxen
understand by it. And that is n't much. 'No,' I says, 'not since you
mention it.' 'Well, then,' he says, 'you might as well quit now.
Afterwards you can drive them any way you please and say anything you
want. But it does n't sound right to me now, and I don't want any
swearing on this job.' He said it in such a way that I could see just
about how he felt about it. I saw that any more of it would n't do. I
guess I ought to 'a' thought of it myself."
"And did you succeed in doing as he wished?" asked Mrs. Norton.
"Well, I managed to get them there somehow--considering I hadn't had
any time to practice. It made me wonder, though, what a deaf and dumb
man would think if he got a job driving oxen."
"And that is what you mean by his being peculiar?"
"That's sort of it. But maybe that one does n't quite cover the point.
What I mean is that he 's got all sorts of notions of what's right and
wrong; and he tells it to you all of a sudden. He 's quicker 'n
pig-tail lightning."
"Do you suppose he might think it wrong for us to meddle with his
property?"
"Oh, no. He is n't that way. You know how he is about such things.
And besides he would n't be likely to say anything. I only mentioned
that tombstone business because his mother set so much store by the
rockery. He looks at that as a sort of a monument."
A look of deep seriousness came over Mrs. Norton's countenance. It
deepened as she thought.
"Of course, Mr. Hicks, we intended to tell him about it--and thank him
for the use of the stones. But possibly it would be more considerate
not to say anything about it."
"Not tell him at all," repeated Jonas reflectively.
"But I suppose that no matter how we put them back he would notice that
it had been changed."
"Yes. I guess he knows it by heart. He had those blue-flower vines
started on it."
"It was really very thoughtless of us," mused Mrs. Norton.
"Oh, well; it is n't anything serious," remarked Jonas. "If he seems
serious about it you can blame me. Tell him I told you to. I 'm
really part owner anyway; I discovered a lot of those stones and put
them there. He 'll understand how it was. And if he says anything to
me I 'll tell him I did n't think. If you want me to I 'll make it all
right when I go out there this afternoon."
"Are you going out there?" she asked, looking up with sudden interest.
"I 've been thinking I would. I want to drop out those three middle
yoke and let them run on grass a while. While I 'm out there, I guess
I 'll make Steve a call and stop overnight. It 'll be late when I get
there."
"Oh!"
She saw a very lively and interesting picture of Mr. Hicks's arrival at
the shack. He would not be a very welcome visitor, she thought.
Having the misconceptions she did of affairs at the ranch, she saw all
sorts of possibilities; she said nothing, however, which would keep
this interesting three-cornered meeting from taking place. She turned
the conversation at once into other channels. Having answered his
inquiries regarding neighborhood affairs, and having been finally
assured that he would return the rockery and make everything "all
right," she took her leave.
Jonas had had no very definite intention of undertaking the journey at
once; but now that his mind was turned in that direction, he saw that
to-day was as good as to-morrow, or even the day after; he fired up the
stove and again took the batter in hand. This time the pancakes went
ahead without interruption. When he had stacked up the requisite
number, and eaten them with honey and bacon, he hooked the wheelers to
the wagon, and then added the rest of the cattle, yoke after yoke. The
plough was to remain where it was. Ensconced upon the more
altitudinous seat of authority he swung his lash out with a report like
a starting-gun and made his way, with the necessary language, across
the open and up Claxton Road.
Jonas's trip to the ranch took longer than it takes to tell it. But
there is not, in truth, anything about the trip itself to tell--and yet
there ought to be some way of describing time. Under the
circumstances, and especially as oxen cannot be hurried, it might be
well to pass the time by talking about Jonas Hicks's past; it will be
better than to take up the scenery again. In those parts the scenery,
if the weather remains settled, is rather uneventful; it is the same
when you arrive as when you started. On a prairie the human mind
carries its own scenery.
Jonas Hicks's past had been somewhat variegated and thus all of a
piece. Some years before the present moment, when the railroad was
younger and the "garden spot of the world" was just beginning to
attract attention to its future, Jonas carelessly acquired a patch of
forty acres near the new town of Thornton. At that time he was still
"on the drive," a vocation which took him with the big herds anywhere
from Texas to Fort Benton in Montana. In the calling of cowboy he had,
by a process of natural selection, risen and gradually settled into the
character of cook. Risen, we say, because, in a cattle outfit, there
is not a more important and unquestioned personage; his word is law and
they call him pet names. However, from the day he got down out of the
saddle, in an emergency, and consented to act in the capacity of
"Ma,"--which was a joke,--he was in continual demand as cook, with
increasing popularity. Though he still claimed the ability to ride and
rope and hog-tie with the best of them, he was thenceforth a cook with
all the cook's perquisites and autocratic say-so. There is nowhere, we
might observe, so deep an indication of the true power of Woman as this
respect that is paid to her position, even when it is being occupied by
a red-faced being who wears whiskers and who has no real right, of his
own, to be anything more than an equal of his brother man. But the
cook's laws must not be disobeyed; they allow him to make laws because
he is cook; masculine sentiment is on his side; human welfare demands
it. As Jonas was popular in the position, and did not mind the work
when it was appreciated, he continued to fry bacon and fringy flapjacks
and, in general, to furnish "the grease of life," as he called it, to
the outfit. And while he was doing it his fellows conducted the beef,
on ten thousand legs, from the South to the North. They took them
North so that they would put on fat under the stimulus of a Northern
winter.
In those days he engineered the peculiar cookstove which we have
already noticed. It was a big, square, sheet-iron stove with an iron
axle and wheels like those of a sulky plow. This piece of machinery
was hooked on behind the chuckwagon, which it followed from clime to
clime. Jonas, being a live man and a "hustler," seldom waited for the
outfit to reach the camping-place and come to a halt before starting to
get a meal. As he explained, he had to get about a two-mile start on
their appetites, with pancakes; and so, while the stove was yet far off
from its destination, he would fire up and get things going. Then he
would trot along behind and cook. While "she" (the stove) lurched into
buffalo wallows and rode the swells and unrolled the smoke other stack
far out across the billowy prairie, Jonas would hurry along behind and
keep house. Entirely occupied with his kitchen duties he would move
busily here and there or remain steadily behind or beside the stove
while it pursued its onward way, and with the bucket of batter in his
hand and the griddle smoking and sizzling, he would seldom miss a flap.
From the standpoint of a weary cowboy it was a beautiful sight. It is,
indeed, a pleasant thing, when you are tired and hungry, to see your
supper thus coming along as conqueror over space and time.
No one but a man like Jonas, who had the combined talents of a sea-cook
and a cowboy, could have managed it. To make coffee under such
circumstances took considerable ability, of course. And even the
flapjacks, which stayed on the stove better, might seem difficult.
Jonas, however, was a man of quick hand and eye; things seldom got the
drop on him, and he handled the pancakes with a revolver wrist. As the
foreman said, he was "a first-class culinary engineer." In doing this,
his longtime experience on bucking bronchos stood him in good stead;
then, too, his practice was confined almost entirely to pancakes and
coffee, for they were but few and simple dishes that he knew by heart.
But even with this special expertness it took a quick man and a
philosopher, especially when the stove cut a caper and the footing was
uneven. As Jonas once remarked when he stepped amiss on his high
boot-heel and spilled all the batter into a buffalo wallow, "This is
certainly a corrugated country." He was not always and necessarily a
profane man, whatever one might think who heard him driving oxen. In
times of real trouble he expressed himself coolly and then stuck to the
facts.
For a long time Jonas thought little of the small patch of prairie
which belonged to him; he only began to take it seriously when he sold
twenty acres--a deal which was consummated through the agency of
Stephen Brown, senior, who paid the taxes in his absence and thus knew,
generally, where Jonas was. Coming back a year or two later he was
surprised to see how that place had built up; and when, after repeated
visits, he had made himself known to all the neighbors and discovered
what nice people they were,--it was a new sensation for Jonas to have
neighbors,--he got it more and more into his head that they were _his_
neighbors, and that he belonged there. He decided to settle down in
those parts. Things in general seemed to be shifting into a new mode
of life and impelling him to go along. In the early eighties, central
Texas was becoming tightly fenced; the barb wire was spreading out
generally; railroads were hauling herds where formerly they went afoot;
shorthorn bulls were changing the face of nature; it was plain to be
seen that before a great while the long drives would be a thing of the
past. While there was still use for the cowboy, there was less call
for Jonas's peculiar abilities.
Having land which seemed to call for a house, he built one on it; but
at first he did not occupy it himself. During his absences it was
occupied by "white" families of the sort that move often by wagon and
work cotton on shares; meantime his fancy was playing about the place
and taking root. Coming back in the fall the house was vacant. As
Jonas was himself an excellent wife and a kind husband, he moved in.
Having in mind to stop a while, he of course stopped at his own house.
The problem of living on one spot solved itself in the most natural
manner. Instead of driving cattle in the old way, he conquered a few
and drove them from the seat of a plow. Thus while everything was
going forward, he mounted the wheel of Progress and put his hand to the
throttle; and now every time he got back from one of his occasional
absences a new farm had been opened up forever and ever. But it must
not be thought that he had himself become an agriculturist. He had not
even dreamed of it. There is not necessarily any more relation between
a "prairie buster" and the land he "busts" than there is between a
farmer and a locomotive engineer; the spirit of it is different. Jonas
bossed cattle.
If there would seem to be anything of incongruity or humorous contrast
between Jonas and his married neighbors, it must be remembered that,
under the circumstances of a growing country, there was not. In a land
where many men live alone in shacks and do their own work, and where
any woman's husband must be able to go forth with a frying-pan and
shift for himself at times, it was no marvel to see Jonas Hicks doing
the same; though, to be sure, he was doing it a little nearer town than
is customary, and this proximity made his single-blessedness shine out
a little plainer. But if there was any humor in that, or in fact
anything else, it was Jonas's prerogative to see it first and to
stretch the joke as far as it would go. Then, too, he lived there only
at intervals--which were getting to cover the greater part of the
time--in the style of a man who camps out. And after a few days'
absence in "busting," he would suddenly reappear and turn loose his
oxen and start up housekeeping with all the new pleasure of a man who
is glad to get back among the folks again.
From all of which it will be seen that Jonas's house needed to make no
apology for its presence; he had owned land there among the first; it
was the others who were the innovators and the newcomers; and as to his
way of housekeeping it simply clung a little closer to nature. It was,
in fact, the most natural thing in the neighborhood.
As he continued to live there he liked it more and more. He was glad
that things turned out just as they did. His very location in "the
middle of the puddle," as Steve Brown put it, made it look, to him, as
if all these beautiful women and interesting little children had
gathered round to ornament his position in life; and there is a great
deal in looks. He felt also, having owned some of the land upon which
the townspeople were settled, that he was in some manner responsible
for it all; and so he had a corresponding pride in the community at
large and was personally interested in everybody's welfare.
His own property he could have sold or cultivated; but he was well
enough satisfied with things as they were. He could have put up a
sign, "keep off the grass"; he could have built a fence or forbidden
any one to use his place as a short cut to town; he could have done
anything that goes with private ownership; but with him ownership was
not necessarily private. To a man with such large Texas views and
lifelong experience of "free grass," such carefulness of a mere twenty
acres would seem rather small, especially small as directed against
such neighbors. He was pleased to be numbered among them, and he acted
accordingly. If the minister's wife needed temporary pasturage for her
real shorthorn cow, just arrived from the North, he invited her to use
his place permanently; he rather liked to see cows around. If an
incoming herd of cattle wished to halt there they were welcome; it
reminded him of old times. If the whole surrounding country went
"cross-lots" over his land, there was no objection; what difference did
it make? And besides, it was the farmers and ranchmen who gave him
employment.
He would not sell any land, though. Right here was where he exercised
his private right. He liked things well enough as they were. But when
the proposition came up to purchase a small site for a school-house, he
presented them with a small piece off the corner, only asking that they
refrain from putting a fence around it. As this restriction was no
drawback to the community, they readily acceded to it; consequently the
children played ball or did whatever they pleased all over the place,
much to his entertainment. At recess the youngsters spent much of
their time around him, if he were at home, and though this interfered
considerably with his housework he did not mind the delay.
However difficult it might be to name his particular function in the
social organism, he had certainly made a place for himself; and it was
wonderful, as time went on, how large that place grew to be. Any
woman, when her husband is away from home, is likely to face situations
which make sudden call for a Man. In a neighborhood where husbands and
hired men were frequently away at the ranch, this state of affairs was
always breaking out somewhere, and Jonas, occupying his prominent
position as next door neighbor to everybody, and being naturally
adapted to act in that capacity, was always the Man. His very
geographical situation was sufficient to turn the mind towards him, but
the particular reason for that heliotropism on the part of his feminine
neighbors was that he was an easy man for a woman to ask. Being asked,
he always served her in a spirit of masculine banter and then went away
as if he had enjoyed the joke. Thus she could be grateful for his
neighborly turn without feeling herself under any painful state of
obligation. Naturally his custom grew. One moment he would be mending
a yoke or plaiting a lash, the next moment he would be clapping himself
on a broncho to outdodge an escaped bull, or dashing up the road to put
out a prairie fire before it reached the stable; he could lift a stove
or drive a nail or spade up a little place for flower seed; he could do
any one of these things in about a minute and then have time to sit
down and have a good neighborly visit. Possibly his familiarity with
cookstove affairs had brought him nearer to woman's point of view. He
looked like a Texas Ranger, and was just as generally useful, but in a
more domestic way. And yet he had been good with a six-shooter. So
times change; and men with them.
Altogether, he might be best described simply as Jonas Hicks; his
position being one that he naturally fell into. And he filled the
position of Jonas Hicks the same as if he were a policeman or a priest
or a fire department. In time of trouble it was only necessary for a
woman to ask. Indeed, his trade with woman grew to such proportions
that he had been obliged, on more than one occasion, to cancel an
engagement with a man in order that he might do something for his wife.
And he stated the case in just about that way.
Chivalry is not entirely a thing of the past. It is a virtue which
grows wild in Texas. When it is domesticated with the ox, and pursues
the even tenor of everyday life, it is a most useful institution.
With all this talk of ours, it is doubtful if we have brought the oxen
a mile on their way. At this point we shall go on ahead.
It will be easy enough to reach the next chapter before he does.