_Bondsman's Decision_
Bud Shoop's homestead on the Blue Mesa lay in a wide level of grassland,
round which the spruce of the high country swept in a great, blue-edged
circle. To the west the barren peak of Mount Baldy maintained a solitary
vigil in sunshine and tempest. Away to the north the timbered plateaus
dropped from level to level like a gigantic stair until they merged with
the horizon-line of the plains. The air on the Blue Mesa was thin and
keen; warm in the sun, yet instantly cool at dusk. A mountain stream,
all but hidden by the grasses, meandered across the mesa to an emerald
hollow of coarse marsh-grass. A few yards from this pool, and on its
southern side, stood the mountain cabin of the Shoop homestead, a roomy
building of logs, its wide, easy-sloping veranda roof covered with
home-made shakes. Near the house was a small corral and stable of logs.
Out on the mesa a thin crop of oats wavered in the itinerant breeze.
Round the cabin was a garden plot that had suffered from want of
attention. Above the gate to the door-yard was a weathered sign on which
was lettered carefully:
"The rose is red; the violet blue;
Please shut this gate when you come through."
And on the other side of the sign, challenging the possible
carelessness of the chance visitor, was the legend:--
"Now you've been in and had your chuck,
Please close this gate, just once, for luck."
Otherwise the place was like any mountain homestead of the better sort,
viewed from without. The interior of the cabin, however, was unusual in
that it boasted of being the only music-room within fifty miles in any
direction.
When the genial Bud had been overtaken with the idea of homesteading, he
had had visions of a modest success which would allow him to entertain
his erstwhile cow-puncher companions when they should ride his way. To
this end he had labored with more heart than judgment.
The main room was large and lighted by two unusually large windows. The
dimensions of the room were ample enough to accommodate a fair number of
dancers. Bud knew that if cowboys loved anything they loved to dance.
The phonograph was so common that it offered no distinction in gracing
Bud's camp; so with much labor and expense he had freighted an upright
piano from the distant railroad, an innovation that at first had stunned
and then literally taken the natives off their feet. Riders from all
over the country heard of Bud's piano, questioned its reality, and
finally made it a point to jog over and see for themselves.
For a time Bud's homestead was popular. A real piano, fifty miles from
a settlement, was something worth riding far to see. But respect for the
shining veneer of the case was not long-lived. In a moment of
inspiration, a cowboy pulled out his jackknife and carved his home brand
on the shining case. Bud could have said more than he did when he
discovered it. Later another contingent, not to be outdone, followed
this cowboy's incisive example and carved its brand on the piano.
Naturally it became a custom. No visitor in boots and chaps left the
cabin without first having carved some brand.
Bud suffered in silence, consoling himself with the thought that while
there were many pianos in the lower country, there were none like his.
And "As long as you don't monkey with her works or shoot her up," he
told his friends, "I don't care how much you carve her; only leave
enough sidin' and roof to hold her together."
Cowboys came, danced long and late as Bud pumped the mechanical player,
and thrilled to the shuffle of high-heeled boots. Contingent after
contingent came, danced, and departed joyously, leaving Bud short on
rations, but happy that he could entertain so royally. Finally the
novelty wore off, and Bud was left with his Airedale, his saddle-ponies,
and the hand-carved piano.
But Bud had profited by the innovation. An Easterner sojourning with Bud
for a season, had taught him to play two tunes--"Annie Laurie" and
"Dixie." "Real hand-made music," Bud was wont to remark. And with these
tunes at his disposal he was more than content. Many a long evening he
sat with his huge bulk swaying in the light of the hanging lamp as he
wandered around Maxwelton's braes in search of the true Annie Laurie; or
hopped with heavy sprightliness across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, while
Bondsman, the patient Airedale, sat on his haunches and accompanied Bud
with dismal energy.
Bud was not a little proud of his accomplishment. The player was all
right, but it lacked the human touch. Even when an occasional Apache
strayed in and borrowed tobacco or hinted at a meal, Bud was not above
entertaining the wondering red man with music. And Bud disliked Apaches.
And during these latter days Bud had had plenty of opportunity to
indulge himself in music. For hours he would sit and gently strike the
keys, finding unexpected harmonies that thrilled and puzzled him. The
discords didn't count. And Bondsman would hunch up close with watchful
eye and one ear cocked, waiting for the familiar strains of "Annie
Laurie" or "Dixie." He seemed to consider these tunes a sort of
accompaniment to his song. If he dared to howl when Bud was
extemporizing, Bud would rebuke him solemnly, explaining that it was not
considered polite in the best circles to interrupt a soloist. And an
evening was never complete without "Annie Laurie," and "Dixie," with
Bondsman's mournful contralto gaming ascendance as the evening
progressed.
"That dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous," Bud was wont to
remark, as he rose from his labors and prepared for bed. "There I was
huntin' around for that chord I lit on the other night and almost
findin' it, when he has to howl like a coyote with a sore throat and
spile the whole thing. I ought to learned more tunes."
* * * * *
It was almost dusk when Lorry topped the trail that led across the Blue
Mesa to Bud's cabin. Gray Leg pricked his ears, and jogged over the wide
level, heading straight for the corral. The cabin was dark. Lorry
hallooed. A horse in the corral answered, nickering shrilly. Lorry found
some loose gramma grass in the stable and threw it to the horse. If this
was Shoop's place, Shoop would not be gone long, or he'd have turned the
horse to graze on the open mesa.
Lorry entered and lighted the lamp. He gazed with astonishment at the
piano. But that could wait. He was hungry. In a few minutes he had a
fire going, plates laid for two, had made coffee and cut bacon. He was
mixing the dough for hot biscuit when he heard some one ride up. He
stepped to the door. A bulky figure was pulling a saddle from a horse.
Lorry called a greeting.
"Just a minute, friend," came from the darkness.
Lorry stepped to the kitchen, and put the biscuit pan in the oven. A
saddle thumped on the veranda, and Bud Shoop, puffing heavily, strode
in. He nodded, filled a basin, and washed. As he polished his bald spot,
his glance traveled from the stove to the table, and thence to Lorry,
and he nodded approval.
"Looks like you was expectin' comp'ny," he said, smiling.
"Yep. And chuck's about ready."
"So am I," said Bud, rubbing his hands.
"I'm Adams, from Stacey."
"That don't make me mad," said Bud. "How's things over to your town?"
"All right, I guess. Mr. Torrance--"
Bud waved his hand. "Let's eat. Been out since daylight. Them biscuits
is just right. Help yourself to the honey."
"There's somebody outside," said Lorry, his arm raised to pass the honey
jar.
"That's my dog, Bondsman. He had to size up your layout, and he's
through and waitin' to size up you. Reckon he's hungry, too. But
business before pleasure is his idea mostly. He's tellin' me to let him
in. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous. When did you
get in?"
"About sundown."
"Uh-uh. I seen that your horse hadn't grazed out far yet. How do you
like this country?"
"Good summer country, all right. Too high for stock in winter."
"Yes. Four feet of snow on the mesa last winter. When you say 'Arizona'
to some folks, they don't think of snow so deep a hoss can't get from
the woods over there to this cabin." Bud Shoop sighed and rose. "Never
mind them dishes. Mornin' 'll do."
"Won't take a minute," said Lorry.
Bud's blue eyes twinkled as he waddled to the living-room. Young Adams
was handy around a kitchen. He had laid plates for two, knew how to
punch dough, was willing to wash the dishes without a hint, and had fed
the horse in the corral.
"He trots right along, like he knew where he was goin'," Bud said to
himself. "I like his looks--but that ain't always a sign."
Lorry whistled as he dried the dishes. Bud was seated in a huge armchair
when Lorry entered the room. Shoop seemed to pay no attention to
Bondsman, who whined and occasionally scratched on the door.
"Funny thing happened this mornin'," said Shoop, settling himself in his
chair. "I was ridin' down the ole Milk Ranch Trail when I looked up and
seen a bobcat lopin' straight for me. The cat didn't see me, but my hoss
stopped, waitin' for me to shoot. Well, that kittycat come right along
till I could 'a' almost roped him. Bondsman--that's my dog--never seen
him, neither, till I hollered. You ought to seen that cat start back
without losin' a jump. I like to fell off the hoss, laughin'. Bondsman
he lit out--"
"I'll let him in," said Lorry, moving toward the door.
"--After that cat," continued Shoop, "but the cat never treed, I reckon,
for pretty soon back comes Bondsman, lookin' as disgusted as a hen in a
rainstorm. 'We're gettin' too old,' I tells Bondsman--"
"Ain't you goin' to let him in?" queried Lorry.
"--We're gettin' too old to chase bobcats just for fun," concluded
Shoop. "What was you sayin'?"
"Your dog wants to come in."
"That's right. Now I thought you was listenin' to me."
"I was. But ain't he hungry?"
Shoop chuckled. "Let him in, son."
Lorry opened the door. Bondsman stalked in, sniffed at Lorry's boots,
and padded to the kitchen.
"What do you feed him?" said Lorry, hesitating.
"He won't take nothin' from you," said Shoop, heaving himself up. "I've
had him since he was a pup. You set down and I'll 'tend to him.
"And I says to him," said Shoop, as he returned to his chair,--"I says,
'Bondsman, that there cat was just passin' the buck to us to see if we
was game.' And he ain't got over it yet."
"I've roped 'em," said Lorry--"roped 'em out of a tree."
"Uh-uh. Where'd you learn to rope?"
"At the Starr Ranch. I worked there once."
"Git tired of it?"
"Nope. I had a argument with the foreman."
"Uh-uh. I reckon it ain't hard to pick a fuss with High Chin."
"I wasn't lookin' for a fuss. It was his funeral."
"So I heard; all but the procession."
"And that's why I came up to see you. Mr. Torrance told me to hunt you
up."
"He did, eh? Well, now, John sure gets queer idees. I don't need a man
round here."
"I was after a job in the Service."
"And he sends you to me. Why, I ain't ever worked a day for the
Service."
"I guess he wanted you to look me over," said Lorry, smiling.
"Well, they's lots of time, 'less you're in a hurry."
"If I can't get in the Service, I'll look up a job punchin'," said
Lorry. "I got to get somethin'."
Bondsman stalked in, licking his chops. He nuzzled Shoop's hand. Lorry
snapped his fingers. Bondsman strode to him. Lorry patted his knee. The
big dog crouched and sprang to Lorry's knees, where he sat, studying him
quizzically, his head to one side, his keen eyes blinking in the
lamplight. Lorry laughed and patted the dog.
"He's trying to get my number," said Lorry.
"He's got it," said Shoop. "You could 'a' snapped your fingers off afore
he'd 'a' come nigh you, 'less he wanted to. And while we're talkin'
about it, you can tell John Torrance I said to give you a try."
Lorry sat up quickly. "Guess you didn't know that Buck Hardy is lookin'
for me," said Lorry. "Mr. Torrance says I got to square myself with Buck
afore I get the job."
"He did, eh? Well, speakin' of Buck, how would you like to hear a little
talk from a real music-box?"
"Fine!"
Shoop waddled to the piano. "I ain't no reg'lar music sharp," he
explained unnecessarily, "but I got a couple of pieces broke to go
polite. This here piano is cold-mouthed, and you got to rein her just
right or she'll buffalo you. This here piece is 'Annie Laurie.'"
As Bud struck the first note, Bondsman leaped from Lorry's knees and
took his place beside the piano. The early dew had just begun to fall
when Bondsman joined in. Lorry grinned. The dog and his master were
absolutely serious in their efforts. As the tune progressed, Lorry's
grin faded, and he sat gazing intently at the huge back of his host.
"Why, he's playin' like he meant it," thought Lorry. "And folks says Bud
Shoop was a regular top-hand stem-winder in his day."
Shoop labored at the piano with nervous care. When he turned to Lorry
his face was beaded with sweat.
"I rode her clean through to the fence," he said, with a kind of
apologetic grin. "How did you like that piece?"
"I always did like them old tunes," replied Lorry. "Give us another."
Shoop's face beamed. "I only got one more that I can get my rope on. But
if you can stand it, I can. This here one is 'Dixie.'"
And Bud straightened his broad shoulders, pushed back his sleeves, and
waded across the sandy bottoms of Dixie, hitting the high spots with
staccato vehemence, as though Dixie had recently suffered from an
inundation and he was in a hurry to get to dry land. Bondsman's moody
baritone reached up and up with sad persistency.
Lorry was both amused and astonished. Shoop's intensity, his real love
for music, was a revelation. Lorry felt like smiling, yet he did not
smile. Bud Shoop could not play, but his personality forced its own
recognition, even through the absurd medium of an untutored performance
on that weird upright piano. Lorry began to realize that there was
something more to Bud Shoop than mere bulk.
Bud swung round, puffing. "I got that tune where I can keep her in sight
as long as she lopes on the level. But when she takes to jumpin' stumps
and makin' them quick turns, I sure have to do some hard ridin' to keep
her from losin' herself. Me and Bondsman's been worryin' along behind
them two tunes for quite a spell. I reckon I ought to started in
younger. But, anyhow, that there piano is right good comp'ny. When I
been settin' here alone, nights, and feelin' out her paces, I get so het
up and interested that I don't know the fire's out till Bondsman takes
to shiverin' and whinin' and tellin' me he'd like to get some sleep
afore mornin'."
And Bondsman, now that the music had stopped, stalked to Lorry and eyed
him with an expression which said plainly: "It's his weak spot--this
music. You will have to overlook it. He's really a rather decent sort of
person."
"I got a mechanical player in the bedroom," said Shoop. "And a reg'lar
outfit of tunes for dances."
Lorry was tempted to ask to hear it, but changed his mind. "I've heard
them players. They're sure good for a dance, but I like real playin'
better."
Bud Shoop grinned. "That's the way with Bondsman here. Now he won't open
his head to one of them paper tunes. I've tried 'em all on him. You
can't tell me a dog ain't got feelin's."