We were living in the land of the unexpected. Six weeks on the ranch
demonstrated that. The possibilities for surprise were inexhaustible,
and the probabilities innumerable and certain, if Owen happened to be
away.
On one of these occasions the cook eloped with the best rider on the
place, more thrilling and upsetting to my peace of mind than the
cloud-burst and flood that followed soon after. Twenty-two husky and
hungry men wanted three square meals a day, and one inexperienced
bride stood between them and starvation. The situation was mutually
serious.
In my need came help. Tex, our coachman on that first drive, saved the
day. Shortly after the elopement he came in for supplies for the
cow-camp. I was almost hidden by pans of potatoes, and was paring away
endlessly. He was very quiet when I explained, but after supper he
gathered up the dishes to wash them for me, looking very serious. When
he had finished, he suddenly turned to me:
“Say, Mrs. Brook, I’ve just been studyin’. Jack Brent kin cook for the
boys out at camp all right, and if you kin stand it, I kin come in and
cook for you. It sure got my goat to see you rastlin’ with them
potatoes and wearin’ yourself out cookin’ for these here men.”
Good old Tex! That was little short of saintly. Camp cooking where he
was autocrat was far more to his taste. He hated “messin’ ’round where
there was women,” as he expressed it. Here was sacrifice indeed! Tex
scrubbed his hands until they fairly bled, enveloped himself in a
large checked gingham apron, and proceeded to act as chef until the
eloper had been replaced.
Something deepened in me. I was seeing a new thing.
Owen had been gone nearly a week. One morning I happened to be in the
kitchen when Mrs. Bohm entered. Casually she asked Tex whether Ed
More’s wife had left him before he went to jail, or after he got out.
Half in joke, I said:
“Mercy, Mrs. Bohm, is there a man in this country, with the exception
of Tex, who hasn’t been in jail or on the way there?”
I was interrupted by the slamming of a door, and Tex had vanished.
Mrs. Bohm looked embarrassed as she replied:
“I just hate to tell you, Mrs. Brook, and Tex would feel terrible to
have you know; but you say such queer things sometimes, I’d better
tell you now that Tex”—she paused a moment—“he’s only been out of
the ‘pen’ himself a year.”
“Tex in the penitentiary? What on earth for?” I was almost dazed.
[Illustration: ROPING AND CUTTING OUT CATTLE]
“Well, I’ll tell you.” Mrs. Bohm began the story with apparent
reluctance, but her manner soon betrayed a certain zest. “You see,
about four years ago Tex was workin’ for a man up on Crow Creek and
took some cattle on to Omaha to sell for him. When he came back he
never brought a cent of money, and told how he had been held up and
robbed. Everybody believed it at first, then all to onct his
family—they live over West—began to dress to kill, and Tex bought
brass beds for every room in the house; then folks began to suspicion
where he got the money, and he was sent to the Pen for two years.”
Poor old Tex! Who would ever have supposed a secret longing for brass
beds would prove his undoing? I might have guessed horses or cards,
but never brass beds. I almost felt the breath of tragedy. She seemed
sweeping by.
Mrs. Bohm went on: “Tex’s mighty good to his family, though, and it
most killed him when his wife went off with a Mexican sheep-herder
while he was doin’ time. She’s back home now with the girls, but her
and Tex’s separated. Ain’t it a fright the way women acts?”
“It certainly is,” I agreed, trying to reconcile my previous idea of
convicts with having one for a cook. It was dreadfully confusing and
disturbing. In spite of what I had just heard, I knew I trusted Tex.
He would never steal from us, I felt sure. And my instinct told me he
would be a true and loyal friend. There was no apparent excuse for
what he had done, but he had paid for his moment of weakness more
fully perhaps than anyone realized. I pondered over it.
Presently he came in, with a curious, troubled expression on his face.
I gave him the orders, as usual, with no sign of having heard of the
cloud under which he had lived for three miserable years. Our
relations were re-established. I could see his relief.
We were still taking our meals in the kitchen, although the house was
gradually being remodeled. It was Saturday evening, and we were
expecting Owen home. There was an air of suppressed excitement among
the men. One, and then another, bolted from the table and out of the
door, returning in a shame-faced manner to explain that he “thought he
heered somethin’.” Certainly Owen’s coming would never produce such a
sensation, unless he was expected to arrive in an airship. I was more
than ever mystified.
After the meal was over, there was such a general shaving—also in the
kitchen—and such donning of red neckties, that I could not restrain
my curiosity. I called Tex aside and asked him where they were going.
He looked a little sheepish, as he replied:
“Why, we ain’t goin’ nowhere.” Then in a burst of confidence, “I don’t
know as I’d orter tell you, but the fact is, you folks is goin’ to be
surprised; all the folks ’round is goin’ to have a party here, and
we’re expectin’ ’em.”