months' absence. As we "topped" the last hill I pulled up the team. Down
in the Valley below us the white adobe walls of the ranch house, like
some desert light house, blazed through the glorious green of the
cottonwoods that hovered about it. To its right a brown circle marked
the big stockade corral. A smooth mirror-like spot out in the flat in
front of the house was the stock-watering reservoir, into which the
windmill, seconded by an asthmatic little gas engine, pumped water from
the depths. Above it the galvanized iron sails of the great mill
glittered and flickered and winked in the bright sunlight as if to
welcome us home. A cloud of dust stringing off into the distance marked
the trail where a bunch of "broom tails" were scurrying out onto the
range after filling themselves at the tank with water and salt.
Suddenly, a gleam of color caught our eyes. It was "Old Glory" at the
top of the tall pole, stirred by a little gust of wind that shook out
its folds, the green of the trees making a splendid background.
Evidently the boys were expecting us, for the flag was only run up on
holidays, Sundays, and when guests were due to arrive.
A soft hand slipped quietly into mine. "Be it ever so humble, there's no
place like home," she sang, and as the words of the homesick,
world-tired Payne came from her lips, there came into my throat a great
lump, my eyes filled with tears, and to us both, the sage brush plain
shimmering and baking in the bright Arizona sunshine, those brown rugged
mountains in the distance and that desert oasis in the foreground were
by far the loveliest thing we had seen in all our travels. The team,
too, seemed to sense our feelings, for they freshened up and took us
across the intervening distance as if they had not already made a good
forty miles from the railroad.
Old Dad, the ranch cook, was at the "snorting post" to greet us as we
pulled up, and we soon were sitting on the broad veranda plying the old
rascal with questions about the work, the men, and all the happenings
while we had been away; for of all forlorn, unsatisfactory things on
earth the worst are the letters written by the average cow-puncher ranch
foreman concerning matters upon which his absent boss has requested full
and frequent information.
One of the first anxious inquiries on the part of the madam was as to
the whereabouts of her Boston terrier, a bench show prize winner sent
out to her shortly before we left. The letter accompanying the dog
advised us that, barring accidents, the animal should in a few months
bring into the world some offspring, which, considering its parentage,
ought to bring fancy prices on the dog market.
"Where's Beauty?" she asked.
"I reckon she done went off with the boys this morning. They's down to
Walnut Spring, buildin' a new corral."
"But didn't she--er--hasn't she--" She looked at me appealingly.
"Where are her pups?" was my blunt inquiry.
"Them pups?" The old man took his pipe from his jaws. A queer look
flashed across his brown face; he chuckled as if the words brought up
some rather amusing recollection. Now, old Dad was one of the worst
practical jokers in the West. Nor did he count the cost or think of the
results as long as he could carry his point, and fool some one with one
of his wildly improbable yarns. To "pick a load" into some innocent
tenderfoot was his most joyous occupation. I waited patiently for him to
recover from the fit of mirth into which my innocent question seemed to
have plunged him. There was a look of extreme disgust on the face of the
lady sitting nearby.
"Ye 'member that there young kid-like chap what drifted in here last
spring after the steer gatherin'?" Again that witless chuckle.
Yes, I remembered. We both did--the madam nodded.
"Well, along about the time them there pups came into this here state of
Arizony"--the madam's face lighted; there were some pups after all--"the
kid and I was here at the ranch all alone, the whole outfit bein' out on
the _rodeo_, an' we havin' been left behind to watch the pasture fence,
where a bunch of yearlin's was bein' weaned. One mornin' the kid busted
into the kitchen. 'The mut's got four purps! Come an' look at em; they's
all de-formed!' ses he, almost breathless with the news."
(Business of surprise and horror on part of listening lady.)
"'De-formed?'" ses I.
"'That's what I sed,' he snaps back at me."
(More business of S. and H. on part of lady; also friend husband.)
"I follers the kid out to the shed back of the house, where the dog had
a pile of ole saddle blankets for a bed, and sure enough she had four
white faced brindle purps all right, whinin' an' sniffin' just as purps
allers does.
"'What's wrong with 'em?' says I, me not seein' anything de-formed about
'em.
"'Hell' ses he, 'can't you see they's all de-formed?'
"'Search me,' ses I, lookin' 'em all over carefully.
"The kid picked up two of 'em. 'Lookit them tails then.' He turned one
of 'em around. Now Beauty ain't got no great shakes of a tail herself,
but what she has is straight. 'By Heck!' ses I, seein' a chanst to have
some fun with him, 'sure enough, they is sort of de-formed in their
little ole _colas_. Reckon they's no use botherin' to raise 'em, is
they--what with their tails all as crooked as a gimlet. Too bad, too
bad,' ses I, 'fer the missus will be monstrously disapp'inted over it.'
"'They's every dad burned one of 'em got a watch eye too, jist like that
there ole Pinto hoss I rides.' The kid's sure worried.
"'Wuss an' more of it,' I comes back at him.
"'What we goin' to do with 'em?' droppin' the animiles back into the
blankets.
"'Nothin', I reckon,' lookin' straight down my nose, 'less'n we drownds
'em--said job not bein' one I'm actually hankerin' fer.'"
[Illustration: "_The galvanized iron sails of the windmill flashed in
the sunlight_"]
(Business of fury, anger and indignation, with signs of approaching
tears on part of listening lady.)
"You blithering old idiot!" I shrieked, "do you mean to say that you
loaded the kid with that sort of a story till he went off and drowned
those valuable pups under the mistaken impression that they were
deformed and therefore worthless?" I glared at him as if to wither his
old carcass with one look. (More of above mentioned business by
lady--with real tears.)
"Well"--and the old renegade emitted that infernal chuckle again--"well,
how should I sense that he didn't savvy that crooked tails and a glass
eye were sure enough signs of birth an' breedin' with them there Boston
terriers?" He looked away; we felt sure he dared not face the wrath in
both our eyes.
I stormed up and down the porch for a few moments, speechless. The lady
was registering every known phase of indignation. Her voice, however,
was silent. Evidently there are times in her life when words fail her.
This was one of them.
"Where's that kid?" I finally demanded. "I want to have a little heart
to heart talk with that _hombre_! As for you"--and I tried to look the
indignation I knew the madam felt--"it seems to me your fondness for
picking loads into idiots green enough to be fooled by such a gabbling
old ass as you are has gone just about far enough. After I've seen the
kid, I'll talk to you further."
Old Dad was slowly and carefully reloading his pipe. From his shirt
pocket he dug a match. With most aggravating deliberation he struck it
on the door-post against which he leaned, held it over the bowl, gave
several long pulls at the pipe to assure himself it was well lit before
he even deigned to raise his keen gray eyes to mine. The madam's face
was a study in expression. "Where's the kid?" I really thought he had
not heard my first inquiry as to the whereabouts of that individual.
"Where's he at?" with the grandest look of innocent inquiry on his
weather beaten face that could possibly be imagined. For mere facial
expression he should be a star performer in some big movie company.
"Yes!" I snapped out the words as if to annihilate him. "I want to hold
sweet converse with him, _muy pronto, sabe_?"
"Well, he's _vamosed_--drifted yonderly" and he waved his pipe towards
the eastern horizon.
"Ahead of the sheriff?" I never did have much faith in the young
gentleman from Missouri.
"Yep--in a way he was." Once more that devilish chuckle.
I saw the old man evidently had a story concealed about his person and
that, with his usual contrariness the more we crowded him the longer he
would be in getting it out of his system. I dropped angrily into the
porch swing, where I could watch his face, while the madam sat herself
down on the steps of the porch apparently utterly oblivious of
everything but the sage-dotted prairie spread out before us. Finally the
aged provision spoiler began to emit words.
"The last time the outfit shipped steers over at the railroad," he said
slowly, "the kid he tanked up pretty consid'able till he's a feeling his
oats, an' imaginin' hisself a reg'lar wild man from Borneo, and
everything leading up to his gittin' into trouble before he was many
hours older. Comes trotting down the sidewalk old man Kates, the Justice
of the Peace who, on account of his gittin' the fees in all cases
brought up before him, was allers on the lookout for biz. Also he done
set into a poker game the night before and lose his whole pile, which
didn't tend to make him view this here world through no very rosy specs.
The kid comes swaggering along and the two meets up jist in front of the
'Bucket of Blood' saloon. You know Kates he allers wears a plug hat, one
of them there old timers of the vintage of '73 or thereabouts, an' the
kid he bein' a comparative stranger in these parts, and not knowin' who
the judge was nor havin' seen any such headgear for some time, he ses to
hisself, 'Right here's where I gits action on that _sombrero grande_,'
and he manages to bump into the judge in such a way as to knock off the
tile, and before it hits the ground the kid was filling it so full of
holes that it looked like some black colander.
"Every one came pouring out of the saloon and nearby stores to see what
was up, and the judge he takes advantage of the kid's having to stop and
reload his six pistol, to relieve hisself of some of the most expressive
and profane language ever heard in the burg before or since, windin' up
by informin' the gent from ole Missou that he was goin' straight to his
office and swear out a warrant for him and send him down to Yuma by the
next train.
"When the boys tells the kid who he's been tamperin' with he gits onto
his hoss and tears outa town like hell a-beatin' tanbark, he havin' no
particular likin' for court proceedin's, owing to several little
happenin's in that line down on the Pecos in Texas. About a week later
the sheriff he gits a tip that the kid's probably hangin' out at Deafy
Morris's sheep camp up on Wild Cat, so he saunters up that a-way and
nabs the young gent as he's a helpin' Deafy fix up his shearin' pens.
Sheriff he sort of throws a skeer into the kid, tellin' him Kates is
liable to send him up for ten years for assaultin' the honor and dignity
of a J. P., but the kid's mighty foxy and also plumb sober by that time,
and he tells the sheriff he's willing to go back to town and take his
medicine.
"Next morning Deafy he ses as how he's a-goin' down to town, and the
sheriff, havin' got track of somebody else he's a wantin' up on the
mountain, and believin' the kid's story about bein' willing to go to
town, he deputizes Deafy to take him in and deliver him at the
'Hoosgow.'[D]
[D] Jusgado--The prisoner's dock in a Spanish criminal court.
"Deafy he tells the sheriff he's not a goin' clean through to town that
day, but is a-goin' to camp at the Jacob's Well, a place about half way
down, on the edge of the pines, where he's arranged to meet up with the
camp rustler of one of his bands of sheep grazin' in that section. Ever
been at that there Jacob's Well?" And the old man looked at me
inquiringly. I nodded affirmatively.
The Jacob's Well was located in the center of a very large level mass of
sandstone covering perhaps three or four acres, with a dense thicket of
cedar and piñon trees all about it. It was a fairly round hole about
five feet wide and perhaps ten deep, bored down into the sandstone
formation either by human agency or some peculiar action of nature. The
lay of the rocks all about it was such as to form a regular watershed,
so that the natural drainage from the rain and snow kept it nearly
filled almost all the year round.
Just what made this well was a moot question in the country. A
scientific investigator promptly put it down to the action of hard flint
rocks lying in a small depression and rolled about by the wind until
they dug a little basin in the rock, then the water collecting in it
continued the attrition until, finally, after what may have been ages,
the well was the result. My private opinion was that it was the work of
prehistoric or even modern Indians who, wishing to secure a supply of
water at this particular point, possibly for hunting purposes, formed
the hole by fire. A large fire was built upon the rock, then when at a
white heat water was thrown upon it, causing the stone to flake and
crack so it could easily be removed. This was a slow process, of course,
but having myself once seen a party of Apache squaws by the same
primitive means remove over half of a huge boulder that lay directly in
the line of an irrigating ditch they were digging, and which they
otherwise could not get around, I am convinced the scientific person
missed the true methods employed to excavate the hole.
However, without regard to its origin, the well was a fine camping
place, for water was scarce in that region and there was always good
grass for the horses near it. The old man rambled on.
"Deafy he gits a poor start next mornin' 'count of a pack mule what
insisted on buckin' the pack off a couple of times and scatterin' the
load rather promisc'ous-like over the landscape, an' by the time they
reached the well it was plumb dark. They unsaddles and hobbles their
hosses out, and then Deafy he sets to work buildin' a fire, tellin' the
kid to take his saddle rope and the coffee pot and git some water. The
kid he's never been there afore, but Deafy tells him the well's only
about a hundred feet from where they unpacked, so he moseys out into the
dark lookin' for the well, his rope in one hand, the camp coffee pot in
'tother, the idee bein' to let the pot down into the well with the rope.
"It were sure dark in them trees, and the kid he's a blunderin' and
stumblin' along, a-cursin' the world by sections, when all to once he
stepped off into fresh air, and the next thing he knows he's a standin'
at the bottom of the well in about four or five feet of ice-cold water,
and him a-still hangin' onto the rope and pot with a death grip. Took
him about five minutes to git his breath and realize he done found the
well all rightee, and then he sets up a squall like a trapped wildcat.
He ain't forgot, neither, that Deafy ain't likely to hear him, the ole
man bein' deafer than a rock; so after hollerin' a while and gittin' no
results he stops it and begins cussin' jist to relieve his mind and help
keep him from shakin' all his teeth outen his head account o' shiverin'
so blamed hard.
"Up on top Deafy he's busy startin' a fire and openin' up the packs
gittin' ready to cook supper. The kid not bein' back with the water yit,
and he bein' obliged to have water fer bread makin' purposes, Deafy
finally decides the kid's gone and got hisself lost out there in the
dark, and so he takes a _pasear_ out that a-way huntin' fer him. The
ole man's a hollerin' and a trompin' through the cedars an' rocks,
thinkin' more how much his wool's a-goin' to fetch than anything else,
when he thinks he hears someone a-callin'. He turns to listen, gits a
little more sound in his ears, takes a step or two in its direction,
and, kerslop, he's into that there well hole, square on top of the young
gent from 'ole Missou'. Say, the things them two fellers sed to each
other, an' both at the same time, most cracked the walls of the hole."
Dad wiped his eyes with the heel of his fat hand.
"Talk about your Kilkenny cats," he continued, "they wan't in it with
them two pore devils down in that cold water. Finally, they both run out
of mouth ammunition an' set to work to figger out how they was goin' to
git outen the well. It was too wide to climb out of by puttin' a foot on
each side and coonin' up the walls like a straddle bug, an' it was
mostly too deep for either of 'em to reach the top with their hands. So
they mighty soon agrees between 'em that there's but one way to git out,
an' that's fer one of 'em to stand on 'tother's shoulder so's to git a
grip on the edge, pull hisself out, an' then help his shiverin', shakin'
_amigo_ what's down in the hole onto terry firmy. Bein' a foot taller
than Deafy, Bob agrees that the old man can climb onto his shoulders an'
git out first. But Deafy, he's heavy on his feet, an' bein' sixty years
old an' none too spry, he cain't seem to make the riffle to git onto the
kid's back, so he finally gives it up, an' lets the kid have a try at
it. The kid he's soon on Deafy's shoulders, an' one jump an' he's on
top.
"Meantime the kid he's been doin' some powerful hard thinkin'. He ain't
hankerin' after a close-up view of that there indignant judge down in
town. The sheep man he's got a monstrous fine hoss, a new Heiser saddle,
an' a jim dandy pack mule and outfit, while his own hoss an' saddle
ain't nothin' much to brag on. He knows the sheep man's dead safe where
he's at till some one comes to help him out, which will be when his camp
rustler arrives on the scene, which may be in an hour an' may be in ten
minutes. Meantime, bein' a cow-puncher bred and born on the Pecos, he
ain't lovin' a sheep person any too well, so he makes up his mind he
jist as well die for an 'ole sheep as a lamb, and within ten minutes
he's hittin' the trail for New Mexico a straddle of Deafy's hoss an'
saddle, leadin' his pack mule, with a bully good pack rig onto his back.
"Also the pore old feller down in the well is a holdin' up his hands
expectin' every minute the kid will reach down an' help him out;
incidentally, as far as his chatterin' teeth will let him, doin' some
mighty fancy cussin' along broad an' liberal lines."
Dad stopped a moment to light his pipe. My curiosity could wait no
longer.
"What happened to Deafy and how did he get out?" burst from my eager
lips.
Once again that chuckle. "Seems he tole the camp rustler to meet him
there that night, but the _paisano_ was late gittin' his sheep bedded
down on account of a bear skeerin' of 'em just about sundown, so he
didn't git round till the kid had done been gone for two hours. Even
then he might not 'a' found him, for the fire was all out an' it was too
dark to see much, but the ole man he had his six shooter with him when
he started in to bathe, also about forty beans in his catridge belt.
Knowin' mighty well his only hope was in drawin' some one's attention
with his shootin', he was mighty economical with his beans, only
shootin' about onc't every five minutes. The herder he hears him, runs
the sound down, an' finds his ole boss a soakin' in the well, him bein'
jist about ready to cash in his chips, he's that numbed and chilled."
"And the kid?" gasped the lady listener.
"Oh, he done got clean away over the line into New Mexico and they ain't
never got no track of him to this very yit."
We heard a raucous squeak from the corral back of the house, indicating
the opening of one of the heavy pole gates. Evidently the boys had come
in. I was just rising from my seat in the swing, when from around the
corner of the house dashed a brindle Boston terrier, followed by four
crazy pups about two months old. The mother barked a joyous welcome to
the madam, to whom she flew and in whose arms she found a warm
reception. I turned to the cook. That same aggravating chuckle again.
"But you told us they were drowned" was the only thing the amazed and
perplexed woman could find words to utter.
The old reprobate was gazing into the bowl of his pipe as if in its
depths he had found something extremely interesting. I began to see a
light.
"You miserable old hot air artist!" I said. "You picked a load into us
the very first hour after we landed on the ranch, didn't you? You've
been humbugging us all this time, haven't you?" I tried hard to be
fiercely indignant.
"You fooled your own selves," he snickered, "fer I never tole you them
there pups was drownded; you jist nachelly jumped at it of your own
accord, an' seein' as how you'd find it out anyhow when the boys came
in, I jist let it run along."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LOST IN THE PETRIFIED FOREST
By permission _Overland Monthly_, San Francisco, Calif.
When the stockholders of the "Lazy H" outfit met annually in solemn
conclave to receive the report of their range manager and find out how
much more the expenses for the year had been than the receipts, they
called it the "Montezuma Cattle Company," but as their brand was an H
lying down on the sides of their cattle thus, ([symbol: H]) everyone on
the range called it the "Lazy H" outfit.
We were in the Lazy H winter horse camp looking after a hundred and
seventy-five cow-ponies that had seen a hard summer's work, and the job
was a snap. Two men rode out every morning and saw that none of the
animals strayed too far, bringing them all in for water down the trail
in the cañon, salting them once a week, and keeping a sharp lookout for
horse thieves, both white and Indian.
The camp was a dugout in the side of a hill, part logs, part hill, with
a dirt roof a foot thick. A grand fireplace in one end served alike for
heating and cooking purposes, and at night with a fire of pine knots you
could lie in the "double decker" bunks and read as if the place was
lighted with an arc lamp. There was a heavy door in the end, while half
a dozen loopholes cut in the logs served for windows and for defense if
necessary.
Two of the boys were playing a solemn game of "seven-up" to decide which
of them should build the fire in the morning, and the balance were
smoking or reading some two-weeks-old newspapers that had come out from
town with the last load of grub.
Outside the wind was whistling around the corner, and the coyotes,
attracted by the scent of a freshly killed yearling hanging in a
cedar near the dugout, were howling and shrieking like a lot of
school-children at play.
"Just about such a night outside as the night old man Hart's wife and
kids got lost two years ago," remarked Peg Leg Russel, who was busy with
leather strings and an awl plaiting a fancy quirt.
"Didn't you help hunt for 'em?" queried a voice from one of the bunks.
"Sure thing I did," answered the quirt maker, "and, what's more," he
continued, "I hope I never get another such job as long as I live."
"Tell us about it Peg Leg. You know I was over in Kansas looking after a
bunch of company steers that fall and never did get the straight of it."
The speaker turned from his game of solitaire toward the one-legged
cow-puncher. With his knife Russel clipped the end of a leather string
from the finished "Turk's head," laid the quirt on the floor and rolled
it back and forth under the sole of his boot to give it the proper "set"
and finish, finally hanging it on the wall. Then he filled and lighted
his pipe, and after a few preliminary puffs, began his story.
[Illustration: "_We was camped over in the petrified forest_"]
"Well, boys, that was one of the toughest nights I've seen in Arizony.
We was camped up near the 'Peterified' Forest on our way back to the
headquarter ranch. We'd been down to the railroad with a bunch of
steers, and expected to bust the outfit up for the winter when we got
back to the ranch. It were late in November, an' you all know how
everlastin' cold it gits 'long in November an' December.
"Well, 'long comes one of them tearin' howlin' sandstorms 'bout two
o'clock in the afternoon, and the wagon boss camped us under the lee of
a hill and wouldn't go any furder. And 'twas well he did, too, fer the
wind blowed a gale, snow begin to fall, and ag'in sunset it was as
ornery a piece of weather as I ever seen anywheres. You all know wood's
pow'ful skeerce up thar, too, and all the cook had was sage brush an'
'chips.'
"We put in a mis'able night. The wind blowed every way, an' drifted sand
an' snow into our beds in spite of all a feller could do. Me and Sandy,
the horse-wrangler, slep' together, an' Sandy he lowed, he did, that the
Lord mus' have it in fer us pore ignorant cow-punchers that night,
shore. About daylight I heard a shot, then another, an' another.
Everybody 'most in camp waked up, an' Wilson, the wagon boss, he takes
his six-shooter an' fires a few shots to answer 'em.