RESPONSIBILITY SITS HEAVILY ON LAFE
"It's a wonder," said Johnson to his wife one day, "it's a wonder we
ain't never heard anything from Steve Moffatt."
She looked up from her sewing in curiosity. "Surely you don't want to
hear from him, do you? I declare, one would think, to hear you talk,
that you were sorry."
Lafe did not dispute this, but got down on his knees that his son might
mount and ride him. Lafe, Jr., was pleased to consider his father a
bucking bronco on these occasions and used to dig his heels gleefully
into his ribs. Time--two months after Mordecai Bass and the half-breed
shook dice against death, and they hanged Baptismo to a stout tree.
The boss of the Anvil freed himself from his rider by pitching him over
his shoulder, and rose and dusted his knees.
"Well, anyhow," he said, "you remember what he done wrote to me when me
and you were married. He said 'adios,' you mind. And he told me he
wouldn't bother me until after the honeymoon."
"I remember well enough. What of it?"
"It's a mighty long time since the honeymoon," said her husband, shaking
his head dubiously.
Hetty laughed, but the look she turned on Lafe was not wholly devoid of
anxiety. For this was but one of a series of incidents. His behavior and
recent trend of thought worried her. Since Jerry's tragic death, he
seemed another individual. Lafe had grown subject to fits of depression
and frequently gave utterance to the gloomiest forebodings. What had he
on his mind? Nothing--not a thing in the world. Yet he continued to hint
darkly that it would be just their luck if he fell ill, or were killed,
leaving Hetty and the boy alone to starve.
"Nonsense!" cried Hetty, after she had listened patiently to several
repetitions of this obsession. "We're doing fine. You've got this place
and six hundred dollars saved. And Mr. Horne pays you a hundred and
twenty-five a month, and Bob owes you three hundred--"
Lafe gave a hollow laugh. "Yes," said he, "Bob owes me three hundred.
Ha-ha! That's a fine asset--what Bob owes--ain't it?"
"So you think he's going to rob you? Say it. Say it right out. What did
you lend it to him for, then?" she exclaimed.
"Because you done worried me into it," he retorted, but perceiving that
he had offended her, he began to weaken, and ended by apologizing.
Although he scoffed at the prospect of his brother-in-law ever repaying
the loan, it is my belief that Johnson had full confidence in Bob and
would have resented with bodily injury any imputation from an outsider.
"If a man can't roast his friends, who can?" said he once, when I
remonstrated with him concerning a criticism of Ferrier. "My friends
knock me, I reckon. If they don't, then they can't think such a heap of
me. No, sir. Bob's behaved like a no-account. Why, man alive, I had to
let him have forty dollars more yesterday. What do you think of
that--hey?"
Every one of his acquaintance had remarked the transformation in Johnson
and all of us were at a loss. The change was revolutionary. It had never
been my fortune to meet with an individual so reckless of the morrow as
Lafe had been before marriage. Not only had he gambled daily with his
life, but had held to it that money was to spend, and the prospect of
poverty never appeared to enter into his calculations. Indeed, he had
scorned those who showed reluctance to toss their hard-won earnings to
the winds. Himself had always been penniless or in debt, but he had gone
his way cheerily, indulging no worry over his plight.
Then he married, and now he talked like this: "I swan, Dan, when I think
of what I married Hetty on, it sure makes me shake like a leaf. It's a
wonder we didn't starve. A man's pluckier or he don't think of these
things when he's younger--don't you reckon? I'd never dare do it over
again now."
"Pluckier? No. Simply irresponsible--that's all. A lot of 'em hope for
a miracle--these young people," said I.
"And damn my eyes if they don't usually get it," Lafe said. "It's most
amazing how things will turn up to help people who can't help
themselves--just when you think you're done for, too."
"Then why are you worrying so now?"
"Am I worrying?" he asked, looking sharply at me.
I could see he was displeased, and consequently dropped the subject. But
Horne and others told me that Johnson was much concerned about his
health merely because he had contracted a cold. This was to them a
symptom of hopeless effeminacy.
On a night when Lafe and I were riding under myriads of stars, and a
drink of mezcal had contributed to warm the confidential impulses
begotten by a long day together in the saddle, the boss inquired
abruptly whether I would look after Lafe, Jr., in the event of anything
happening to him. I gaped at him.
"What on earth's going to happen to you? You're as healthy as a goat."
"Dan, it makes me ashamed, but, consarn it, I lie awake nights often,
wondering what would become of Hetty and the kid if I was to be killed
or got hurt or fell sick. We ain't got enough saved to--"
"Oh, pshaw!" I protested. "Forget it. This isn't like you, Lafe."
Really anxious, I took the opportunity to mention to Hetty that her
husband was suffering from indigestion and that it behooved her to get
him fit again.
"Do you know," said she, "I've been wondering if that wasn't what ailed
him. A man is only half a man when his stomach is out of order. He's got
to get his meals all proper or he won't amount to anything. Thank you,
Dan, I'll attend to it."
Old man Horne put a different interpretation on Lafe's peculiar nervous
dread. Very condescendingly he explained to me that, being a bachelor, I
could not be expected to probe the mystery, but the fact was that every
married man was seized some time with this species of anxiety.
"That is," said Horne, "if he's conscientious and worth his salt. Some
of 'em, they never do get rid of it. It isn't cowardice. He's just
afraid for his family."
"But Johnson has no real cause for worry. Not like a lot of others. Look
at him."
"Sure not. That's why he's worrying. He's got things too easy, the
rascal. If he had some real troubles, probably he wouldn't fret at all."
Winter dragged along--a winter of blustering winds, of abrupt, dead
calms and terrible cold. The cold did not last, however. Some snow fell
in the hills, and under a bright sun ran down in rills to the river.
Later, the rains held off and the grass shriveled. The country turned a
pale brown.
We never look for the first rains to wash the land until July--for some
unexplained reason everybody sets the date at July Fourth. But in early
June numberless clouds massed in tumbled glory above the mountains and
the rain drove down in sheets. Three days later the country showed green
and pure, the trees put forth new leaves and the ocatilla flared
turkey-red on the ridges.
"The cattle are looking fine," Lafe reported. "Their hides are loose.
We've had a good calf crop. It'll run to seventy per cent, Horne. And
there ain't no worms, or likely will be."
"Start the roundup next week," said Horne.
Accordingly, the Anvil outfit gathered its horses, packed its chuckwagon
with food and bedding, and set out for Zacaton Bottom, there to pitch
the first camp. They would not reach the mountain pastures, where the
wild steers roamed, until late in the autumn.
The horses were on edge from their winter's freedom. One in every three
were broncos just broken. What the Anvil buster facetiously called a
broken horse was one that had had three saddles. After those, he was
turned into the remuda--not bridle-wise, full of fight and vicious from
memory of what the buster had imposed on him. As a result, we had five
or six contests of endurance between riders and mounts each morning. One
of the boys was thrown and had his collar bone broken.
As boss, Johnson had the privilege of topping the remuda for his
string--that is to say, he had first choice of all horses. Yet it was
generally a point of honor not to appropriate all the gentle ones;
also, not to assign all the bad ones to one particular hand; and it is
always a point of honor to retain those selected, and ride them,
whatever characteristics they may develop afterwards.
In Lafe's mount was a big J A sorrel that had roved the fastnesses of
Paloduro in Texas. The buster had christened him Casey Jones, after the
celebrated engineer, because of the desperate quality of his courage.
Now, by reason of Lafe's recently developed nervousness concerning
himself, I could not repress my impatience for the day to arrive for
Casey Jones' saddling--the horses are worked in rotation and, being
entirely grass-fed, each can only be used about once in three days.
In a chill dawn the roper called to Johnson: "Want Casey Jones?"
"No-oo. Catch me Tommy," said the boss.
Nobody but the roper, the horse wrangler and myself marked this
weakening. We did not even comment on it among ourselves, but I was much
cast down. Of course no man after he has got beyond twenty-five years,
or has otherwise arrived at some degree of sense, wants to ride a
bucking horse; but when it is put up to him, when it becomes his duty,
then the man who shirks is discredited. Yet none of us could think of
Lafe as really shirking. Perhaps he had some excellent reason. Much more
of this, though, and there would be a lessening of his authority.