_The Little Fires_
With the coming of winter the Blue Mesa reclaimed its primordial
solitude. Mount Baldy's smooth, glittering roundness topped a world that
swept down in long waves of dark blue frosted with silver; the serried
minarets of spruce and pine bulked close and sprinkled with snow.
Blanketed in white, the upland mesas lay like great, tideless lakes,
silent and desolate from green-edged shore to shore. The shadowy caverns
of the timberlands, touched here and there with a ray of sunlight,
thrilled to the creeping fingers of the cold. Tough fibers of the
stiff-ranked pines parted with a crackling groan, as though unable to
bear silently the reiterant stabbing of the frost needles. The frozen
gum of the black spruce glowed like frosted topaz. The naked whips of
the quaking asp were brittle traceries against the hard blue of the sky.
Below the rounded shoulders of the peaks ran an incessant whispering as
thin swirls of powdered snow spun down the wind and sifted through the
moving branches below.
The tawny lynx and the mist-gray mountain lion hunted along snow-banked
ranger trails. The blue grouse sat stiff and close to the tree-trunk,
while gray squirrels with quaintly tufted ears peered curiously at
sinuous forms that nosed from side to side of the hidden trail below.
The two cabins of the Blue Mesa, hooded in white, thrust their lean
stovepipes skyward through two feet of snow. The corrals were shallow
fortifications, banked breast-high. The silence seemed not the silence
of slumber, but that of a tense waiting, as though the whole winter
world yearned for the warmth of spring.
No creak of saddle or plod of hoof broke the bleak stillness, save when
some wandering Apache hunted the wild turkey or the deer, knowing that
winter had locked the trails to his ancient heritage; that the white
man's law of boundaries was void until the snows were thin upon the
highest peaks.
Thirty miles north of this white isolation the low country glowed in a
sun that made golden the far buttes and sparkled on the clay-red waters
of the Little Colorado. Four thousand feet below the hills cattle
drifted across the open lands.
Across the ranges, to the south, the barren sands lay shimmering in a
blur of summer heat waves; the winter desert, beautiful in its golden
lights and purple, changing shadows. And in that Southern desert, where
the old Apache Trail melts into the made roads of ranchland and town,
Bronson toiled at his writing. And Dorothy, less slender, more
sprightly, growing stronger in the clean, clear air and the sun,
dreamed of her "ranger man" and the blue hills of her autumn wonderland.
With the warmth of summer around her, the lizards on the rocks, and the
chaparral still green, she could hardly realize that the Blue Mesa could
be desolate, white, and cold. As yet she had not lived long enough in
the desert to love it as she loved the wooded hills, where to her each
tree was a companion and each whisper of the wind a song.
She often wondered what Lorry was doing, and whether Bondsman would come
to visit her when they returned to their cabin on the mesa. She often
recalled, with a kind of happy wonderment, Bondsman's singular visit and
how he had left suddenly one morning, heedless of her coaxing. The big
Airedale had appeared in Jason the day after Bud Shoop had returned from
Criswell. That Bondsman should know, miles from the town, that his
master had returned was a mystery to her. She had read of such
happenings; her father had written of them. But to know them for the
very truth! That was, indeed, the magic, and her mountains were towering
citadels of the true Romance.
Long before Bronson ventured to return to his mountain camp, Lorry was
riding the hill trails again as spring loosened the upland snows and
filled the cañons and arroyos with a red turbulence of waters bearing
driftwood and dead leaves. With a companion ranger he mended trail and
rode along the telephone lines, searching for sagging wires; made notes
of fresh down timber and the effect of the snow-fed torrents on the
major trails.
Each day the air grew warmer. Tiny green shoots appeared in the rusty
tangle of last season's mesa grasses. Imperceptibly the dull-hued mesas
became fresh carpeted with green across which the wind bore a subtly
soft fragrance of sun-warmed spruce and pine.
To Lorry the coming of the Bronsons was like the return of old friends.
Although he had known them but a short summer season, isolation had
brought them all close together. Their reunion was celebrated with an
old-fashioned dinner of roast beef and potatoes, hot biscuit and honey,
an apple pie that would have made a New England farmer dream of his
ancestors, and the inevitable coffee of the high country.
And Dorothy had so much to tell him of the wonderful winter desert; the
old Mexican who looked after their horses, and his wife who cooked for
them. Of sunshine and sandstorms, the ruins of ancient pueblos in which
they discovered fragments of pottery, arrowheads, beads, and trinkets,
of the lean, bronzed cowboys of the South, of the cattle and sheep,
until in her enthusiasm she forgot that Lorry had always known of these
things. And Lorry, gravely attentive, listened without interrupting her
until she asked why he was so silent.
"Because I'm right happy, miss, to see you lookin' so spry and pretty.
I'm thinkin' Arizona has been kind of a heaven for you."
"And you?" she queried, laughing.
"Well, it wasn't the heat that would make me call it what it was up here
last winter. I rode up once while you was gone. Gray Leg could just make
it to the cabin. It wasn't so bad in the timber. But comin' across the
mesa the cinchas sure scraped snow."
"Right here on our mesa?"
"Right here, miss. From the edge of the timber over there to this side
it was four feet deep on the level."
"And now," she said, gesturing toward the wavering grasses. "But why did
you risk it?"
Lorry laughed. He had not considered it a risk. "You remember that book
you lent me. Well, I left it in my cabin. There was one piece that kep'
botherin' me. I couldn't recollect the last part about those 'Little
Fires.' I was plumb worried tryin' to remember them verses. When I got
it, I sure learned that piece from the jump to the finish."
"The 'Little Fires'? I'm glad you like it. I do.
"'From East to West they're burning in tower and forge
and home,
And on beyond the outlands, across the ocean foam;
On mountain crest and mesa, on land and sea and height,
The little fires along the trail that twinkle down the night.'
"And about the sheep-herder; do you remember how--
"'The Andalusian herder rolls a smoke and points the way,
As he murmurs, "Caliente," "San Clemente," "Santa Fé,"
Till the very names are music, waking memoried desires,
And we turn and foot it down the trail to find the little fires.
Adventuring! Adventuring! And, oh, the sights to see!
And little fires along the trail that wink at you and me.'"
"That's it! But I couldn't say it like that. But I know some of them
little fires."
"We must make one some day. Won't it be fun!"
"It sure is when a fella ain't hustlin' to get grub. That poem sounds
better after grub, at night, when the stars are shinin' and the horses
grazin' and mebby the pack-horse bell jinglin' 'way off somewhere. Then
one of them little fires is sure friendly."
"Have you been reading this winter?"
"Oh, some. Mostly forestry and about the war. Bud was tellin' me to read
up on forestry. He's goin' to put me over west--and a bigger job this
summer."
"You mean--to stay?"
"About as much as I stay anywhere."
Dorothy pouted. She had thought that the Blue Mesa and the timberlands
were more beautiful than ever that spring, but to think that the
neighboring cabin would be vacant all summer! No cheery whistling and no
wood smoke curling from the chimney and no blithe voice talking to the
ponies. No jolly "Good-mornin', miss, and the day is sure startin' out
proud to see you." Well, Dorothy had considered Mr. Shoop a friend. She
would have a very serious talk with Mr. Shoop when she saw him.
She had read of Waring's fight in the desert and of his slow recovery,
and that Waring was Lorry's father; matters that she could not speak of
to Lorry, but the knowledge of them lent a kind of romance to her ranger
man. At times she studied Lorry, endeavoring to find in him some trace
of his father's qualities. She had not met Waring, but she imagined much
from what she had heard and read. And could Lorry, who had such kind
gray eyes and such a pleasant face, deliberately go out and kill men as
his father had done? Why should men kill each other? The world was so
beautiful, and there was so much to live for.
Although the trail across the great forest terraces below was open clear
up to the Blue Mesa, the trails on the northern side of the range were
still impassable. The lookout man would not occupy his lonely cabin on
Mount Baldy for several weeks to come, and Lorry's work kept him within
a moderate radius of the home camp.
Several times Dorothy and her father rode with Lorry, spending the day
searching for new vistas while he mended trail or repaired the telephone
line that ran from Mount Baldy to the main office. Frequently they would
have their evening meal in Bronson's camp, after which Lorry always
asked them to his cabin, where Dorothy would play for them while they
smoked contentedly in front of the log fire. To Dorothy it seemed that
they had always lived in a cabin on the Blue Mesa and that Lorry had
always been their neighbor, whom it was a joy to tease because he never
showed impatience, and whose attitude toward her was that of a brother.
And without realizing it, Lorry grew to love the sprightly, slender
Dorothy with a wholesome, boyish affection. When she was well, he was
happy. When she became over-tired, and was obliged to stay in her room,
he was miserable, blaming himself for suggesting some expedition that
had been too much for her strength, so often buoyed above its natural
level by enthusiasm. At such times he would blame himself roundly. And
if there seemed no cause for her depression, he warred silently with the
power that stooped to harm so frail a creature. His own physical freedom
knew no such check. He could not quite understand sickness, save when it
came through some obvious physical injury.
Bronson was glad that there was a Lorry; both as a companion to himself
and as a tower of strength to Dorothy. Her depression vanished in the
young ranger's presence. It was a case of the thoroughbred endeavoring
to live up to the thoroughbred standard. And Bronson considered anything
thoroughbred that was true to type. Yet the writer had known men
physically inconsequent who possessed a fine strain of courage, loyalty,
honor. The shell might be misshapen, malformed, and yet the spirit burn
high and clear. And Bronson reasoned that there was a divinity of blood,
despite the patents of democracy.
Bronson found that he had to go to Jason for supplies. Dorothy asked to
go with him. Bronson hesitated. It was a long ride, although Dorothy had
made it upon occasion. She teased prettily. Lorry was away. She wasn't
afraid to stay alone, but she would be lonesome. If she kissed him three
times, one right on top of the other, would he let her come? Bronson
gave in to this argument. They would ride slowly, and stay a day longer
in Jason to rest.
When they arrived at Jason, Dorothy immediately went to bed. She wanted
to be at her best on the following day. She was going to talk with Mr.
Shoop. It was a very serious matter.
And next morning she excused herself while her father bought supplies.
She called at the supervisor's office. Bud Shoop beamed. She was so
alert, so vivacious, and so charming in her quick slenderness. The
genial Bud placed a chair for her with grandiloquent courtesy.
"I'm going to ask a terrible favor," she began, crossing her legs and
clasping her knee.
"I'm pow'ful scared," said Bud.
"I don't want favors that way. I want you to like me, and then I will
tell you."
"My goodness, missy! Like you! Who said I didn't?"
"No one. But you have ordered Lorry Adams to close up his camp and go
over to work right near the Apache Reservation."
"I sure did."
"Well, Mr. Shoop, I don't like Apaches."
"You got comp'ny, missy. But what's that got to do with Lorry?"
"Oh, I suppose he doesn't care. But what do you think his _mother_ would
say to you if he--well, if he got _scalped_?"
A slow grin spread across Bud's broad face. Dorothy looked solemn
disapproval. "I can't help it," he said as he shook all over. Two tears
welled in the corner of his eyes and trickled down his cheeks. "I can't
help it, missy. I ain't laughin' at you. But Lorry gettin' scalped! Why,
here you been livin' up here, not five miles from the Apache line, and I
ain't heard you tell of bein' scared of Injuns. And you ain't no bigger
than a minute at that."
"That's just it! Suppose the Apaches did come over the line? What could
we do if Lorry were gone?"
"Well, you might repo't their trespassin' to me. And I reckon your daddy
might have somethin' to say to 'em. He's been around some."
"Oh, I suppose so. But there is a lot of work to do in Lorry's district,
I noticed, coming down. The trails are in very bad condition."
"I know it. But he's worth more to the Service doin' bigger work. I got
a young college man wished onto me that can mend trails."
"Will he live at Lorry's cabin?"
"No. He'll head in from here. I ain't givin' the use of my cabin and my
piano to everybody."
Dorothy's eyes twinkled. "If Lorry were away some one might steal your
piano."
"Now, see here, missy; you're joshin' your Uncle Bud. Do you know that
you're tryin' to bribe a Gov'ment officer? That means a pow'ful big
penalty if I was to repo't to Washington."
Dorothy wrinkled her nose. "I don't care if you do! You'd get what-for,
too."
"Well, I'll tell you, missy. Let's ask Bondsman about this here hocus.
Are you willin' to stand by what he says?"
"Oh, that's not fair! He's _your_ dog."
"But he's plumb square in his jedgments, missy. Now, I'll tell you.
We'll call him in and say nothin'. Then you ask him if he thinks I ought
to put Lorry Adams over west or leave him to my camp this summer. Now,
if Bondsman wiggles that stub tail of his, it means, 'yes.' If he don't
wiggle his tail, he says, 'no,'--huh?"
"Of course he'll wiggle his tail. He always does when I talk to him."
"Then suppose I do the talkin'?"
"Oh, you can make him do just as you wish. But all right, Mr. Shoop.
And you will really let Bondsman decide?"
"'Tain't accordin' to rules, but seein' it's you--"
Bud called to the big Airedale. Bondsman trotted in, nosed Dorothy's
hand, and looked up at his master.
"Come 'ere!" commanded Shoop brusquely. "Stand right there! Now, quit
tryin' to guess what's goin' on and listen to the boss. Accordin' to
your jedgment, which is plumb solid, do I put Lorry to work over on the
line this summer?"
Bondsman cocked his ears, blinked, and a slight quiver began at his
shoulders, which would undoubtedly accentuate to the affirmative when it
reached his tail.
"Rats!" cried Dorothy.
The Airedale grew rigid, and his spike of a tail cocked up straight and
stiff.
Bud Shoop waved his hands helplessly. "I might 'a' knowed it! A lady can
always get a man steppin' on his own foot when he tries to walk around a
argument with her. You done bribed me and corrupted Bondsman. But I'm
stayin' right by what I said."
Dorothy jumped up and took Bud's big hand in her slender ones. "You're
just lovely to us!" And her brown eyes glowed softly.
Bud coughed. His shirt-collar seemed tight. He tugged at it, and coughed
again.
"Missy," he said, leaning forward and patting her hand,--"missy, I
would send Lorry plumb to--to--Phoenix and tell the Service to go find
him, just to see them brown eyes of yours lookin' at me like that. But
don't you say nothin' about this here committee meetin' to nobody. I
reckon you played a trick on me for teasin' you. So you think Lorry is a
right smart hombre, eh?"
"Oh," indifferently, "he's rather nice at times. He's company for
father."
"Then I reckon you set a whole lot of store by your daddy. Now, I wonder
if I was a young, bow-legged cow-puncher with kind of curly hair and
lookin' fierce and noble, and they was a gal whose daddy was plumb
lonesome for company, and I was to get notice from the boss that I was
to vamose the diggin's and go to work,--now, I wonder who'd ride twenty
miles of trail to talk up for me?"
"Why, I would!"
"You got everything off of me but my watch," laughed Bud. "I reckon
you'll let me keep that?"
"Is it a good watch?" she asked, and her eyes sparkled with a great
idea.
"Tol'able. Cost a dollar. I lost my old watch in Criswell. I reckon the
city marshal got it when I wa'n't lookin'."
"Well, you may keep it--for a while yet. When are you coming up to visit
us?"
"Just as soon as I can, missy. Here's your daddy. I want to talk to him
a minute."
Three weeks later, when the wheels of the local stage were beginning to
throw a fine dust, instead of mud, as they whirred from St. Johns to
Jason, Bud Shoop received a tiny flat package addressed in an unfamiliar
hand. He laid it aside until he had read the mail. Then he opened it. In
a nest of cotton batting gleamed a plain gold watch. A thin watch,
reflecting something aristocratic in its well-proportioned simplicity.
As he examined it his genial face expressed a sort of childish
wonderment. There was no card to show from where it had come. He opened
the back of the case, and read a brief inscription.
"And the little lady would be sendin' this to me! And it's that slim and
smooth; nothin' fancy, but a reg'lar thoroughbred, just like her."
He laid the watch carefully on his desk, and sat for a while gazing out
of the window. It was the first time in his life that a woman had made
him a present. Turning to replace the watch in the box, he saw something
glitter in the cotton. He pulled out a layer of batting, and discovered
a plain gold chain of strong, serviceable pattern.
That afternoon, as Bud came from luncheon at the hotel, a townsman
accosted him in the street. During their chat the townsman commented
upon the watch-chain. Bud drew the watch from his pocket and exhibited
it proudly.
"Just a little present from a lady friend. And her name is inside the
cover, along with mine."
"A lady friend, eh? Now, I thought it was politics mebby?"
"Nope. Strictly pussonel."
"Well, Bud, you want to watch out."
"If you're meanin' that for a joke," retorted Bud, "it's that kind of a
joke what's foundered in its front laigs and can't do nothin' but walk
around itself. I got the same almanac over to my office."