“Tex, did you plan this? What on earth shall I do?”
Tex saw I was really troubled. “Why, Mrs. Brook,” he said, “you don’t
have to do nothin’. Just turn the house over to ’em, and along about
midnight I’ll make some coffee—they’ll bring baskets.”
I was relieved to know that they only wanted the house, and would
provide their own refreshments, for it was appalling to be an
impromptu hostess to an entire community and to speculate upon the
possibility of one small cold roast and chocolate cake satisfying a
crowd of young people, after drives of thirty miles or more across the
prairie.
“Me and the boys”—Tex spoke somewhat apologetically, as he started
toward the door—“we kind a thought maybe you and Mr. Brook would like
to get acquainted, seem’s how you’re goin’ to live here; but I guess
we oughten to have did what we done.”
I felt ashamed of my momentary perturbation, as the force of that last
sentence of Tex’s reached me. These men of the plains were as simple
and sensitive as children about many things. They would really grieve
if they felt this affair, planned solely on our account, gave us no
pleasure. I hastened to reassure him.
“It was mighty nice of you men to think of it,” I said, cheerfully.
“We do want to know the people in the country, and we are going to
enjoy every moment. I was ‘surprised’ before the party began, that’s
all.”
Tex went out satisfied, grinning broadly.
To my good fortune, Owen arrived before the guests came. I told him
what was about to befall us. His expression was dubious. All he said
was “Thunder.”
Owen and one of the men had been driving about the country all the
week, buying horses suitable to turn in on a Government cavalry
contract. The night before they had spent on the floor of a cold
railroad station, wrapped up in their blankets, with a lighted lantern
under the covering at their feet. Their sleep was somewhat broken,
with either cremation or freezing pending that cold September night.
Poor Owen! He was completely worn out. And now he had to go through a
surprise party.
At eight o’clock, Tex, self-appointed master of ceremonies, ushered in
the first arrivals. They were a tall, lean chap and two very much
be-curled young misses. I made trials without number at conversation,
but they could only be induced to say “Yes” and “No.”
From eight until ten they came,—ranchmen, cow-punchers,
ex-cow-punchers running their own outfits, infant cow-punchers, girls
and women, until kitchen and sitting room were filled to overflowing,
and every chair and bench on the place in use. Among the last to
arrive was a tall, languid Texan, accompanied by two languid,
drab-colored women. They were presented to us as “Robert, Missus Reed
and Maggie.” “Maggie,” I immediately concluded, was a sister, but not
being quite certain, I sought enlightenment from Mrs. Bohm.
“She ain’t Reed’s sister,” she informed me in a low tone, “she’s his
girl.”
“Oh, works for them, you mean?” I said, somewhat puzzled by the Reed
connections.
“Works nothin’,” Mrs. Bohm replied, scornfully. “She’s got the next
place to ’em and goes with ’em everywhere. Ella don’t seem to mind.
I’d just call her Maggie’ if I was you,” and Mrs. Bohm departed to
join a group of women near the door.
I looked over at the two with a new interest. They were chatting and
laughing together, the “girl” and the wife seemingly on the best of
terms, with no sign of rivalry for the tall Texan’s affections. Here
was a situation fraught with latent possibilities that made me
tremble, yet—“Ella don’t seem to mind.”
The kitchen had been converted into a ballroom by moving the table up
against the wall and placing three chairs upon it. Unfortunately the
sink and stove were fixtures, but everything else, including the bread
jar, found a temporary resting place in the yard.
Old Bohm, with his fiddle under his arm, gingerly ascended the table
first. Then another man followed with a similar instrument; and last
came a youth with a mouth harp. No fatality having resulted from the
musicians taking their seats, the dancing began.
The music, if such a combination of sounds can be dignified by that
name, was such as to defy description. Never in the wildest flights of
fancy could I have conceived of such execution and such sounds. The
two men sawed their violins, and the third was purple in the face from
his efforts on the mouth-harp; all were stamping time with their feet,
and he of the harp was slapping his knee with his unoccupied hand.
Before every dance a council was held, after which each musician would
play the tune decided upon, as best suited to his taste. Old Bohm
tried to get to the end in the shortest time possible, while the
second fiddler, taking things more seriously, finished four or five
bars behind his companion. The harpist, not playing “second” to
anything or anybody, had his own opinion as to how “A Hot Time in the
Old Town” should go. With these independent views, the result was a
series of the most discordant sounds that ever fell on mortal ears.
However, music mattered little, for all had come to have a good time,
and the “caller-out,” with both eyes shut tight and arms folded across
his breast, was making himself heard above all other sounds.
“Birdie in the center and all hands around!” he commanded. Then
fiddles and mouth harp began a wild jig, couples raced ’round and
’round, while “Birdie,” a blond and blushing maiden, stood patiently
in the midst of the whirling circle, until the next order came:
“Birdie hop out and Crow hop in!
Take holt of paddies and run around agin.”
“Crow” was a broad, heavy-set cow-puncher, wearing chaps, and in the
endeavor to “run around agin,” I found my progress somewhat impeded by
his spurs, which caught in my skirt and very nearly upset me.
All the riders wore their heavy boots and spurs, and it required real
agility to avoid being stepped on or having one’s skirt torn to
ribbons. I was devoutly thankful that chiffon and tulle ball gowns
were not worn on ranches.
There was more to avoid than spurs. We had to dance about the kitchen
and avoid the stove, the sink and the tabled musicians, to say nothing
of the nails in the floor. But after a few hours’ practice, I began to
feel qualified to waltz on top of the House of the Seven Gables, and
avoid at least six of them.
Finally, the caller-out shouted loudly:
“Allemande, Joe! Right hand to pardner and around you go.
Balance to corners, don’t be slack;
Turn right around and take a back track.
When you git home, don’t be afraid,
Swing her agin and all promenade.”
My partner obeyed every command with such vigor that when at last he
led me to my seat I was panting and dizzy; nor had I quite recovered
my breath when the music struck up again, and Tex led me forth.
The exertion of the first quadrille had been too much for his comfort,
so he had dispensed with both collar and coat. His trousers and vest
bore evidence of having seen many a round-up, and his shirt, which had
once been white, was now multi-colored. In the wonderful red ascot tie
which encircled his neck were stuck four scarf-pins, one above the
other. There being nothing to hold the loop of the tie in place, it
gradually worked up the back of his head, until its progress was
stopped by the edge of a small skull-cap, which Tex wore as the
crowning feature of his costume. The cap, tilted slightly to one side,
gave him a rakish appearance, quite in contrast with his air of
importance and responsibility.
I danced—my head fairly spins when I think _how_ I danced—for, since
the party was given in our honor, dance I must with every man who
asked me.
Owen, not being a dancing man, made himself agreeable to the
wall-flowers and the children, stealing upstairs about once an hour
for a few moments’ nap on the bedroom floor. The beds themselves were
occupied by sleeping infants, whose mothers were going through the
intricate mazes of those dances below.
At one o’clock Tex began to make the coffee, whereupon the musicians
descended from the table, and the expectant party sat down. But where
were their baskets? My heart sank, as Tex approached holding a very
small one. He informed me in a stage whisper it was all there was!
The basket contained a cake and one wee chick, evidently fried soon
after leaving the shell. It was the smallest chicken I ever saw. I
hastily produced our cake and roast, and then took one despairing look
around at the forty individuals to be fed. I shall never be able to
explain it, unless Tex had an Aladdin’s lamp concealed in his pocket,
for cake, roast and chicken appeared to be inexhaustible, and the
supply more than equaled the demand.
I was aroused from my contemplation of the miracle by a feminine
voice, the speaker saying half to herself and half to me:
“It took me most two hours to iron Nell’s dress this mornin’, but I
sure got a pretty ‘do’ on it.” Following her beaming glance, I found
that it rested on a mass of ruffles, which adorned the dress of
“Birdie” of that first quadrille. Just then the music began again, and
I saw Ed Lay ask her to dance. I trusted, after all that work, the
‘do’ wouldn’t be undone by his spurs; still the effort had not been
wasted, for this was the fifth time he had danced with her.
No doting mother could have taken more pride in the debut of an only
child, than this work-worn sister whose eyes sparkled as they followed
“Birdie’s” whirling figure held firmly by the encircling arm of the
cow-puncher, and she murmured softly with a half sigh, “Ain’t it
grand?” To me it was “grand” indeed, that even an embryo romance could
bring a new light to those tired eyes.
It was six o’clock Sunday morning when one most thoughtful person
suggested that “they’d orter be goin’”; and by seven the last guest
had departed. Then Owen and I, weary and heavy-eyed, donned our wraps,
climbed into the wagon, and started on a sixteen-mile drive to the
railroad to meet his brother, who was coming from California to see
“how we were making it.”
I was almost too tired to speak, but one thought was struggling for
expression, and as we started up the first long hill, I had to say:
“Anyone who ever spoke of the ‘peace and quiet of ranch life’ lived in
New York and dreamed about it. In twenty-four hours I have discovered
that we have an ex-convict for a trusted cook, and have received as
guests a man with his wife and resident affinity. We have had a
surprise party and I have danced with all the blemished characters the
country boasts of, until six o’clock in the morning of the Sabbath
day, with never a qualm of conscience. What do you suppose has become
of my moral standards?”
Owen was amused. He asked me, quizzically, what I thought they would
be by the end of a year.
“Mercy!” I replied, “at the rate they are being overthrown, there
won’t be enough left to consider, unless”—I thought a moment—“unless
I can reconstruct a more enduring set from parts of the old.”