_John and Demijohn_
The grass on the high mesa was heavy with dew when Lorry stepped from
the cabin next morning. His pony, Gray Leg, stood close to the corral,
where Shoop's horses were playfully biting at him over the bars. Lorry
unhobbled Gray Leg and turned Shoop's horses out to water. The three
ponies trotted to the water-hole, sniffed at the water, and, whirling,
raced across the mesa, pitching and kicking in the joy of liberation.
After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, enjoying the slow
warmth. The morning air was still keen in the shade. Bondsman lay
between them, watching the distant horses.
"He won't let 'em get far into the timber," said Shoop. "He sure saves
me a lot of steps, roundin' up them hosses."
"I can whistle Gray Leg to me," said Lorry. "Then the other horses'll
come."
Shoop nodded. "What you goin' to do to-day?"
"Me? Well, it's so kind of quiet and big up here I feel like settin'
around and takin' it all in. I ain't been in the high country much.
'Course I don't aim to camp on you."
"You're sure welcome," said Shoop heartily. "It gets lonesome up here.
But if you ain't got no reg'lar plan I was thinkin' of ridin' over to
Sheep Crossin'--and mebby on down to Jason."
"Suits me fine!"
Shoop heaved himself up. Lorry whistled shrilly. Gray Leg, across the
mesa, raised his head. Lorry whistled again. The pony lowered his head
and nipped at the bunch-grass as he moved slowly toward the house.
Shoop's horses watched him, and finally decided that they would follow.
Gray Leg stopped just out of reach.
"Get in the corral, there!" said Lorry, waving his arm.
The pony shied and trotted into the corral, the other horses following.
Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he might have been happier.
Shoop had told him to "keep house" until they returned.
"It's a funny thing," said Shoop as he mounted. "Now, if I was to tell
that dog he was gettin' too old to ramble with me, he'd feel plumb sick
and no account. But when I tell him he's got to do somethin'--like
watchin' the house--he thinks it's a reg'lar job. He's gettin' old, but,
just like folks, he wants to think he's some use. You can't tell me dogs
don't know. Why, I've seen young folks so durned fussy about their
grandmas and grandpas, trying to keep 'em from putterin' around, that
the old folks just nacherally folded their hands and set down and died,
havin' nothin' else to do. And a dog is right proud about bein' able to
do somethin'. Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin' of how I can keep
him busy that I ain't got time to shine my boots. That there dog bosses
me around somethin' scandalous."
"That's right," acquiesced Lorry. "I seen a ole mule once that they
turned loose from a freight wagon because he was too old to pull his own
weight. And that mule just followed the string up and down the hills and
across the sand, doin' his best to tell the skinner that he wanted to
get back into the harness. He would run alongside the other mules, and
try to get back in his old place. They would just naturally kick him,
and he'd turn and try to wallop 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with his
head hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was plumb sick of
bein' free and wanted to die. The last day he was too stiff to get on
his feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner was
gettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule was sure wabblin'
like a duck, but he come aside his ole place and followed along all day.
We was freightin' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You know that
grade afore you get to the mesa? Well, the ole mule pulled the grade,
sweatin' and puffin' like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess he
was, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and laid down and died.
Mules sure like to work. Now a horse would have fanned it."
Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy to work if it was only
gettin' his grub and exercise. But I've seen a sight of folks too lazy
to do that much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account they got to
git killed afore folks ever knowed they was livin'. Then they's some
folks so high-chinned they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'd
do tol'able well if they would follow a good hoss or a dog around and
learn how to live human. But this ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun's
keepin' right along doin' business."
They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and entered the timberlands,
following a ranger trail through the shadowy silences. At the lower
level, they came upon another mesa through which wound a mountain
stream. And along a stream ran the trail, knee-high in grass on either
side.
Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy reaches just visible
over the tree-tops. Where the mountain stream merged with a deeper
stream the ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks of cattle
and sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a natural pass where the cattlemen
and sheepmen drifted their stock from the hills to the winter
feeding-grounds of the lower country. It was a checking point for the
rangers; the gateway to the hills.
The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled ponies drank eagerly, and
were allowed to graze. The men moved over to the shade of a blue-topped
spruce. As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty whiskey bottle
from the grass, turned the label toward Shoop, and grinned. He tossed
the bottle into the edge of the timber.
Shoop rolled a cigarette, and Lorry squatted beside him. Presently
Shoop's voice broke the indolent silence of noon: "Just why did you
chuck that bottle over there?"
"I don't know. Horse might step on it and cut himself."
"Yes. But you chucked it like you was mad at somethin'. Would you thrun
it away if it was full?"
"I don' know. I might 'a' smelt of it to see if it was whiskey or
kerosene some herder forgot."
"It's right curious how a fella will smell of a bottle to see what's in
it or what's been in it. Most folks does that. I guess you know what
whiskey smells like."
"Oh, some; with the boys once or twice. I never did get to like it right
well."
Shoop nodded. "I ain't what you'd call a drinkin' man myself, but I
started out that way. I been tol'able well lit up at times. But
temperance folks what never took a drink can tell you more about whiskey
than I can. Now that there empty bottle, a hundred and thirty miles from
a whiskey town, kind of set me thinkin'."
Lorry leaned back against the spruce and watched a hawk float in easy
circles round the blue emptiness above. He felt physically indolent; at
one with the silences. Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as though
from a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry visualized the theme,
forgetting where he was in the vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketched
in the rough dialect of the range.
"I've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough to keep me awake
nights," said Shoop, pushing back his hat. "That there whiskey bottle
kind of set me back to where I was about your years and some lively.
Long about then I knowed two fellas called 'John' and 'Demijohn.' John
was young and a right good cow-hand. Demijohn was old, but he was always
dressed up like he was young, and he acted right lively. Some folks
thought he was young. They met up at a saloon down along the Santa Fé.
They got acquainted, and had a high ole time.
"That evenin', as John was leavin' to go back to the ranch, Demijohn
tells him he'll see him later. John remembers that. They met up ag'in.
And finally John got to lookin' for Demijohn, and if he didn't show up
reg'lar John would set out and chase Demijohn all over the country,
afoot and ahorseback, and likin' his comp'ny more every time they met.
"Now, this here Demijohn, who was by rights a city fella, got to takin'
to the timber and the mesas, with John followin' him around lively. Ole
Demijohn would set in the shade of a tree--no tellin' how he got
there--and John would ride up and light down; when mebby Demijohn would
start off to town, bein' empty, and John after him like hell wasn't hot
enough 'less he sweat runnin'. And that young John would ride clean to
town just to say 'How' to that ole hocus. And it come that John got to
payin' more attention to Demijohn than he did to punchin' cows. Then
come a day when John got sick of chasin' Demijohn all over the range,
and he quit.
"But the first thing he knowed, Demijohn was a chasin' him. Every time
John rode in and throwed off his saddle there'd be ole Demijohn, settin'
in the corner of the corral or under his bunk or out in the box stall,
smilin' and waitin'. Finally Demijohn got to followin' John right into
the bunk-house, and John tryin' his durndest to keep out of sight.
"One evenin', when John was loafin' in the bunk-house, ole Demijohn
crawls up to his bunk and asks him, whisperin', if he ain't most always
give John a good time when they met up. John cussed, but 'lowed that
Demijohn was right. Then Demijohn took to pullin' at young John's sleeve
and askin' him to come to town and have a good time. Pretty soon John
gets up and saddles his cayuse and fans it for town. And that time him
and Demijohn sure had one whizzer of a time. But come a week later, when
John gits back to the ranch, the boss is sore and fires him. Then John
gits sore at the boss and at himself and at Demijohn and the whole
works. So he saddles up and rides over to town to have it out with
Demijohn for losin' a good job. But he couldn't lick Demijohn right
there in town nohow. Demijohn was too frequent for him.
"When young John wakes up next mornin' he is layin' under a tree, mighty
sick. He sees he is up on the high mesa, but he don' know how he got
there; only his pony is grazin' near by, with reins all tromped and the
saddle 'way up on his withers. John sets up and rubs his eyes, and there
he sees ole Demijohn settin' in the grass chucklin' to hisself, and his
back is turned to young John, for he don't care nohow for a fella when
he is sick. Ole Demijohn is always feelin' good, no matter how his
friends feel. Well, young John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseys
over to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his head, and
feels better.
"He never knowed that just plain water tasted so good till that mornin'.
Then he sets awhile, smellin' of the clean pine air and listenin' to the
wind runnin' loose in the tree-tops and watchin' the clouds driftin' by,
white and clean and proud-like. Pretty soon he rares up and walks over
to the tree where ole Demijohn sets rockin' up and down and chucklin'.
He takes a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says: 'You darned
ole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I'm broke, lopin' around this country
with you.'
"'Forget it!' says ole Demijohn. 'Ain't I good comp'ny?'
"'Mebby you be--for some folks,' says young John. 'But not for me. You
don't belong up in this here country; you belong back in town, and I
reckon you better fan it.'
"Ole Demijohn he laughed. 'You can't run me off the range that easy,' he
says.
"'I can't, eh?' says young John, and he pulls his gun and up and busts
ole Demijohn over the head. Then, bein' a likely young fella, he shuts
his jaw tight and fans it back to the ranch. The fo'man is some
surprised to see him come ridin' up, whistlin' like he owned the works.
Fellas what's fired mostly looks for work some place else. But young
John got the idee that he owed it to hisself to make good where he
started as a cow-hand. 'I busted my ole friend Demijohn over the head,'
he says to the fo'man. 'We ain't friends no more.'
"The fo'man he grins. 'All right, Jack,' he says. 'But if I see him
hangin' round the corrals ag'in, or in the bunk-house, you needn't to
wait for me to tell you which way is north.'
"Well, young John had done a good job. 'Course ole Demijohn used to come
sneakin' round in the moonlight, once in a spell, botherin' some of the
boys, but he stayed clear of young John. And young John he took to
ridin' straight and hard and 'tendin' to business. I ain't sayin' he
ever got to be president or superintendent of a Sunday School, for this
ain't no story-book yarn; but he always held a good job when he wanted
it, and he worked for a good boss--which was hisself."
Lorry grinned as he turned to Shoop. "That ole Demijohn never got close
enough to me to get busted on the head."
"Them hosses is strayin' down the creek," said Shoop, rising.
They turned and rode north, somewhat to Lorry's surprise. The trail was
ragged and steep, and led from the mesa to the cañon bottom of the White
River. Before Lorry realized where they were, Jason loomed before them
on the mesa below.
"She's a quick trail to town in summer," explained Shoop. "Snow hangs
too heavy in the cañon to ride it in winter."
At Jason they tied their horses, and entered the ranger's office. Lorry
waited while Shoop talked with Torrance in the private office. Presently
Shoop came to the door and gestured to Lorry.
"Mr. Shoop says he thinks you could qualify for the Service," Torrance
said. "We will waive the matter of recommendations from the Starr
people. But there is one thing I can't do. I can't hire a man who is
wanted by the authorities. There's a deputy sheriff in town with a
warrant for you. That is strictly your affair. If you can square
yourself with the deputy, I'll put you to work."
"I'll go see what he wants," said Lorry.
"He wants you. Understand, you'll only jeopardize your chances by
starting a row."
"They won't be a row," said Lorry.
When he returned he was accompanied by the deputy. Lorry took his stand
without parley.
"I want to ask you folks a question, and then I'm through," he asserted.
"Will you listen to what he says and what I say, and then say who is
right?"
"That might not settle it," said Torrance. "But go ahead."
"Then all I got to say is, was I right or wrong when I turned that hobo
loose and saved him from gettin' beat up by High Chin and the boys, and
mebby strung up, afore they got through?"
"Morally you were right," said Torrance. "But you should have appealed
to Sheriff Hardy to guard his prisoner."
"That's all right, Mr. Torrance. But suppose they wasn't time. And
suppose,--now Buck's deputy is here to listen to it,--suppose I was to
say that Buck is scared to death of High-Chin Bob. Everybody knows it."
The deputy flushed. He knew that Lorry spoke the truth.
Torrance turned to Shoop. "What do you think, Bud?"
Bud coughed and shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Bein' as I'm drug into
this, I say the boy did a good job and he's right about Hardy, which
you can tell him," he added, turning to the deputy.
"Then that's all I got to say," and Lorry pushed back his hat and
rumpled his hair.
The deputy was not there to argue. He had been sent to get Lorry.
"I don't say he ain't right. But how about my job if I ride back to
Stacey with nothin' to show for the trip but my expense card?"
"Buck Hardy isn't a fool," said Torrance.
"Oh, hell!" said Lorry, turning to the deputy. "I'll go back with you.
I'm sick of jawin' about the right and the wrong and who's to blame. But
I want to say in company that I'll go just as far as the county line of
this county. You're south of your county. If you can get me across the
line, I'll go on to Stacey."
Bud Shoop mopped his face with a bandanna. He was not overhot, but he
wanted to hide the grin that spread over his broad countenance. He
imagined he could see the deputy just about the time they arrived at the
county line, and the mental picture seemed to amuse him.
"The idee is, the kid thinks he's right," said Shoop presently.
"Speakin' personal, I never monkey with a man when he thinks he's
right--and he is."
"All I got to go by is the law," asserted the deputy. "As for Adams here
sayin' I won't run him in, I got orders to do it, and them orders goes."
"Adams has applied for a position in the Service," said Torrance.
"I ain't got anything against Lorry personal," said the deputy.
"Then just you ride back an' tell Buck Hardy that Bud Shoop says he'll
stand responsible for Adams keepin' the peace in Jason County, same as I
stood responsible for Buck oncet down in the Panhandle. Buck will
remember, all right."
"Can't you give me a letter to Buck, explainin' things?" queried the
deputy.
Bud glanced at Torrance. "I think we can," said the supervisor.
Lorry stepped to the door with the deputy. There was no personal feeling
evident as they shook hands.
"You could tell ma to send down my clothes by stage," said Lorry.
Shoop and Torrance seemed to be enjoying themselves.
"I put in my say," said Bud, "'cause I kind of like the kid. And I
reckon I saved that deputy a awful wallopin'. When a fella like young
Adams talks pleasant and chokes his hat to death at the same time you
can watch out for somethin' to fall."
"Do you think Adams would have had it out with him?"
"He'd 'a' rode along a spell, like he said. Mebby just this side of the
county line he'd 'a' told the deputy which way was north. And if the
deputy didn't take the hint, I reckon Adams would 'a' lit into him. I
knowed Adams's daddy afore he married Annie Adams and went to live in
Sonora."
"Then you knew that his father was Jim Waring?"
"I sure did. And I reckon I kep' somebody from gettin' a awful
wallopin'. I was a kid oncet myself."