If there is anything in suggestion, Carlyle was responsible for the
whole affair, otherwise _why_ should we have deferred our drive until
the late afternoon and selected _Sartor Resartus_ of all books to read
aloud after lunch?
Owen wanted to visit one of the sheep camps to examine the corrals
before having the hay stacked there for winter use and he urged us to
go with him. His invitation was joyfully accepted. For many weeks we
had scarcely left the ranch as Owen’s Mother, who was with us, had
been desperately ill. The crisis had passed, however, so we did not
hesitate to go off for a few hours, leaving Madame Brook with her
nurse. My aunt, Owen’s sister and her two children were at the ranch
also, and after so many weeks of anxiety we all felt the relaxation
and joyously climbed into the wagon when Owen drove up.
There were summer and winter camps for the sheep and our objective
point was an old place, acquired with the ranch, which had been
converted into a winter camp. During the summer it was unoccupied.
We drove along laughing and talking. Owen’s nephew carried his gun and
kept a sharp lookout for coyotes. It was a glorious day and we were in
the mood to appreciate all its beauty.
The meadows, waist deep in native hay, were flecked with the gold of
the prairie sun flowers. The wild roses grew in tangled masses
everywhere, their perfume mingled with the odor of the sage which
yielded up its aromatic sweetness as the wheels crushed the silvery
leaves. The plains were mottled with the shade of fleecy clouds which
floated lazily across the sky, the changing lights flooded the hills
with dazzling sunshine, then veiled them softly with faint cloud
shadows. A delicate haze hung over the more distant hills, and behind
the mountains thunderheads were gathering.
The road ran directly past the camp and long before we reached it we
could see the old house, forbidding in its isolation, standing on a
high mesa above the creek. It had been built years before by a settler
named La Monte, whose footsteps misfortune had dogged until she
overtook him at last. His wife deserted him and, broken in heart and
fortune, he had left the country. Bohm held a mortgage on the place
and it had passed into his possession.
An air of abandonment surrounded the camp even in winter when it was
occupied, but during the summer when it was totally deserted the
ghosts of dead happiness stalked unheeded through the silent rooms.
Rank weeds filled the yards, the plaintive notes of the wood-doves in
the cotton-woods by the creek and the weird, haunting howl of the
coyotes were the only sounds to break the silence.
There was a tale connecting old Bohm with the La Monte tragedy for
which an affair with Mrs. La Monte was responsible. We were some
distance from the house, the rest of the party were intent on watching
a big jack-rabbit which was bounding lightly across the prairie, but I
was thinking of the wretched story which the sight of the old house
always recalled, when the door was slowly opened and a naked man
paused for a moment on the threshold then walked down the steps into
the yard.
I gave a gasp, my eyes fixed on that advancing figure, the others
looked around but in that instant the man had seen us and dropped down
into the tall weeds, by which he was completely hidden.
“What’s the matter?” Owen asked, surprised by my exclamation.
“Why, Owen, a man without any clothes on just came out of that door
and is there in the weeds.”
Owen turned toward the yard, there was no one in sight; he looked at
me in amazement. He knew I must be in earnest! I was not given to
“seeing things”.
“Why, that’s absurd, how could you imagine anyone being out here in
this deserted place miles and miles from the railroad?”
We were just opposite the house and as if in response to Owen’s
question the head and naked breast of a man rose up from behind the
weeds. His face was crimson and the thick, black disheveled hair gave
him such an aspect of wildness we were appalled.
Owen stopped the horses, the man rose to his feet, calmly looked at
us, then turned and walked slowly into the house.
We were speechless. It was like a sudden apparition.
After a moment Owen passed the lines to me.
“Here, Esther, hold the horses while I go in and investigate.”
“Be careful,” was all I could say. There was a chorus of “Don’ts” from
the back seat as he got out of the wagon.
I thought of the gun. “Gordon, take your gun and go after your uncle.
I know that man is crazy.”
Gordon jumped out and ran toward the house, but before he reached the
door we heard a loud burst of singing, a curious rendering of
“Ta-rah-rah boom-de-ahy”. In a moment Owen and Gordon reappeared.
“Well, there’s no doubt of his being crazy,” Owen said, “we’ll go to
the Bosman ranch where I can get someone to come back with me. I can
telephone the Sheriff from there, too.” Then he told us what had
happened.
By the time he reached the door the man had put on his outside shirt
and was standing in the middle of the bedroom floor. He glared at Owen
when he entered and made no reply when asked what he was doing there,
then he turned around and walked over to an empty bed frame which
stood against the wall, got behind it and gradually slipped down
underneath. When he was lying flat on his back on the floor, his feet
toward Owen, he began to sing in some broken foreign tongue.
It was uncanny and as we drove on toward the creek I could only say
“What next?”
“I don’t know what on earth can come next,” Owen replied. “This is
positively the most unexpected and unlikely thing that ever happened.”
We had to drive down a hill before we crossed the creek and at last
lost sight of the house, the sound of the wild singing grew more faint
and finally died away.
There were no bridges in the country and while at this time there was
no flowing water, the sand was wet. We drove down a steep bank into
the bed of the creek and were almost across when without the slightest
warning the bottom seemed to drop out of the earth beneath us and the
wagon sank down.
“Quicksand!”
There was just time for that one exclamation in concert. Owen gave the
horses a quick cut with the whip, they sprang forward, caught a
footing on the solid sand and were safe. He gave them another cut, but
pull as they would they could not move the wagon, which had sunk to
the hubs. The double tree broke and the horses were free. Owen and
Gordon jumped out on the tongue, holding onto the horses and drove
them up the bank. There the rest of us sat, feeling the wagon sinking
slowly farther and farther into the deadly, yielding substance.
The end of the wagon-pole rested on the firm sand, so by climbing over
the dashboard holding on to it with one hand I was able to work my own
way down the wagon tongue until I could grasp an outstretched hand and
jump to safety. The others followed my example. The danger was past,
but we trembled as we looked back.
It is impossible to distinguish quicksand from ordinary sand by its
appearance, but it will not support the slightest weight. It seems to
melt into nothing and the sensation is all the more terrifying from
its suddenness. The first effect is instantaneous, then the engulfment
becomes more gradual.
We were safe but afoot. Owen took the horses.
“Gordon and I will go on to the Bosmans and get another wagon. We
won’t be long and you women had better stay here and not walk these
three miles.”
I was just about to say “all right” when I happened to glance behind
me and there on the bank, silhouetted quite sharply against the sky,
stood the figure of a half-clad man.
He was watching every move we made. I pointed to him.
“I think you’d better come with us,” said Owen after one glance, “he
might decide to investigate,” and off we all trudged down the dusty
road.
Blue black masses of cloud were spreading gradually across the sky and
distant thunder muttered ominously.
* * * * *
If a bomb had alighted in the centre of the Bosman ranch, where supper
was in progress, it couldn’t have produced a more startling effect
than our arrival on foot and the account of our experience. They urged
us to spend the night, as the storm was rapidly approaching, but we
felt we must go back with Owen.
Mr. Bosman hitched our team to one of his wagons, while Owen
telephoned to the Sheriff. We took a few pieces of bread and meat for
the poor demented creature at the camp and made another start. Mr.
Bosman and his son accompanied us on horseback.
We went by a different road to avoid crossing the creek.
It was dark by the time we reached the La Monte place, everything was
still. The four men, with a lighted lantern, entered the house. A wild
outburst of singing followed, which told us the same scene was being
enacted. The men came out almost immediately, talking earnestly.
Mr. Bosman, an old-timer, had recognized the man as Jean La Monte, he
had spoken to him, had called him by name, but no sign of
understanding, not one faint glimmer of intelligence had shone from
out those wild eyes. Mr. Bosman was almost overcome.
“It’s just terrible to see him that way, he was such a good man. Poor
old La Monte, trouble has sure driven him crazy. How on earth he ever
got here beats me. There ain’t a thing we can do tonight. We couldn’t
handle him if he got violent. There never was a stronger man in this
country than Jean La Monte. My God! It’s awful!”
So it was arranged that the Bosmans should go back to their ranch and
send word to the Sheriff to be up there early in the morning and that
Owen should have some of our men guard the place during the night.
“Poor devil, I don’t believe he’ll go away. He seemed so suspicious he
wouldn’t touch the bread, and I believe he’s been here two or three
days. See you in the morning,” and the Bosmans disappeared in the
darkness.
The thought of the tragedy with which we had so suddenly come in
touch, weighed upon us. A living ghost connected us with a past in
which we had no part.
Long after we had left the old place behind, the mad singing followed
us, except when it was drowned by a sudden crash of thunder. The
jagged flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens for a brief
second, then left the world shrouded in an impenetrable darkness.
Rather than risk going through the creek a second time, we had decided
to cut across country.
The prairies were broken by deep gullies washed and torn by the fury
of the summer storms. By day, driving was difficult; by night, it was
hazardous in the extreme, and after a blinding flash which fairly tore
the heavens apart, we were forced to stop the horses for fear of
driving into an unseen gulch. The horses, headed toward home and
excited and nervous, were hard to control. We drove along in silence,
our staring eyes trying to pierce the darkness. It was so dangerous
that at last I got out and walked in front of the horses. I could not
see; I could only know from the contour of the ground when we were
near a gulch or by my outstretched hand tell when we were near the
wires of a fence. After a time Gordon took my place, and all the way
one or the other walked before the team. The lightning and thunder
were terrific, but still it did not rain. We were worn out with
fatigue and anxiety when we finally reached the ranch.
Steve was standing with his saddle horse at the crossing of the creek,
swinging a lighted lantern. When he heard the sound of the wheels he
gave a shout.
“Mr. Brook!”
“All right,” Owen called back. Steve came towards us.
“What on earth happened? We’ve all been plumb worried to death, and
Madame Brook, she’s most crazy. I’ve just sent Fred up to the La Monte
place to look for you.”
“La Monte place!” we exclaimed as several of the boys, attracted by
Steve’s shout, came up. “Get on your horse,” said Owen, quickly, “and
overtake him; there’s a madman up there.”
Steve did not wait for further instructions, but flung himself on his
horse and tore off after Fred. We hurried in to reassure Owen’s
mother, who was nearly frantic. Later, as she bade us “Good-night,”
she said very seriously: “Owen, as soon as I am able I am going to
Denver. I must be where it is quiet. I simply cannot stand the
excitement here.”
As the rain began to fall in torrents, we heard the men who had been
detailed to guard the La Monte place galloping off.
An itinerant tailor had pulled into the ranch just before our return,
and was peacefully sleeping in his wagon. He was awakened when the
horses were driven into the corral, and came out to learn the cause of
the commotion. He was so excited when he heard that an insane person
was in the vicinity he asked to sleep at the bunk house with the men.
They tried to laugh him out of his fears, but his fright was so
genuine they told him to “come on.”
The strangeness of the whole affair, the combination of circumstances
and pure nervous and physical exhaustion kept Owen and me awake a long
time. It seemed I had scarcely fallen asleep when I heard someone
knock on the door and say:
“Mr. Brook, Mr. Brook.”
I recognized Mary’s voice, and responded for Owen, who was dead
asleep.
“Mrs. Brook, the crazy man is down here at the corral; will you ask
Mr. Brook to come out?”
It didn’t take Owen long to dress. It was about five o’clock, and from
the window we could see poor old La Monte, still attired in his shirt,
sitting in the door of the granary playing with a little cotton-wood
switch.
How he had escaped the men who had surrounded the place, and how he
had found his way to our ranch were questions no one could answer.
The first intimation of his presence came in the form of a wild yell
from the tailor, who had gotten up early and gone down to the corral
to feed his horses. This brought all the men to the bunk house door as
the terror-stricken little Jew flung himself into their arms.
“Mein Gott! Dot crazy man iss here.”
“You’re the only crazy man on this ranch,” said Bill, taking him by
the collar and giving him a shake. “What ails you, anyhow?”
“Oh, he iss here, he iss here,” wailed the tailor. “He ain’t got on no
clothes, and we’ll all be kilt.” The boys left him and went out to
investigate.
It was true. La Monte was there, and after a futile effort on Bill’s
part to get him to talk the boys retired to the bunk house and sent
for Owen.
“Gee,” Bill said later, “that feller was the doggondest lookin’ thing
I ever seen, settin’ there in what was left of his shirt. His legs was
all tore by the fence wires or brambles, his teeth was chatterin’ and
he was just blue with cold. His eyes had a look in ’em that give me
the shivers. I don’t wonder he scart that there Jew into a fit. I
wasn’t very anxious to come clost to him, neither. I ain’t scart of
anything that’s human, but he ain’t human, goin’ ’round folks dressed
like that.” Bill was a stickler for convention.
“That’s the first thing a person usually does when he goes crazy,
Bill—takes off all his clothes.”
Bill gave me an incredulous look.
“Gosh, I hope I’ll be killed ridin’ or somethin’ and not lose my mind
first. It ain’t decent.”
* * * * *
The poor demented creature would not speak nor pay any attention to
the other men, but when he saw Steve he smiled as he asked:
“You’ve come to take me away from them, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Steve said. “Will you go with me now?”
La Monte stood up.
“Yes, if you won’t let them get me; those witches want to drag me back
to hell, but I’ve fooled them this time. I’ve almost caught up with
him once or twice and they drag me back.” And he walked off quietly by
Steve’s side.
Steve took him to the bunkhouse, gave him some coffee and made him lie
down on his bed. While Steve sat beside him La Monte slept fitfully,
but at the slightest move started and tried to get up. Steve fell in
with all his vagaries; he promised to help him escape the witches and
to help him find the person for whom he seemed to be searching.
“Where was he last?” Steve asked, hoping to find some clue.
“Why, on his horse.” La Monte sat up and stared wildly into Steve’s
eyes. “Don’t you know, he’s always on a horse, a big black horse. He’s
there just ahead of me, he’s always just ahead of me,” and he jumped
up and started toward the door.
Steve calmed him again and he fell back on the pillows and lay there
in silence, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
* * * * *
Six crestfallen cow-punchers returned from the La Monte place. No one
knew when the man had left the camp, no one had even caught a glimpse
of him. His clothes they had found in the well.
The Sheriff and his posse came at last. Steve kept his hand on the arm
of La Monte as they approached the wagon. It was a tense moment; we
were all watching but hidden, fearful lest some trifle would arouse
the demon of violence. The men were all armed.
La Monte put his foot up on the step of the wagon, then took it off,
shook his head, turned and walked toward the granary. We held our
breath. Steve alone followed him.
“Come on; you’re going with me, aren’t you?”
There was no reply. With his eyes fixed on the ground La Monte ignored
Steve completely. Suddenly he stopped and picked up something, the
little cotton-wood switch to which the leaves still clung. Holding it
tightly, he walked back to the wagon, got in, Steve by his side, and
they drove off.
They were scarcely out of sight when Charley came dashing up with
sixty dollars in gold which he had found under a pile of mud at the La
Monte place. Owen sent him to overtake the wagon.
“Is this yours?” Charley asked, as he rode up to them, holding the
money out toward La Monte, who only shook his head and looked off
across the prairie. Charley turned the money over to Steve.
When they reached the town, La Monte seemed to become confused and
suspicious. He would not speak. He was judged insane and committed to
the asylum. Still in charge of the Sheriff, Steve and two other men,
he was put on the train.
“Where did you get him?” the conductor asked the Sheriff.
“Up in the country, at the A L ranch.”
“Oh, yes, I know that place; it used to be the old Bohm——”
He never finished his sentence, for La Monte, with a cry, sprang to
his feet, looked wildly about, brushed them aside and jumped through
the window.
The train was stopped, and they ran back to where he had fallen. He
had broken his leg, but in spite of that fought them off with
superhuman strength. With the help of the train crew, he was
overpowered at last, bound and taken back to the train.
Steve told us later it was the most terrible experience he had ever
been through.
“I just couldn’t stand the look in his eyes when they got him to the
asylum. He didn’t say nothin’, just kept moanin’ all the time. He’d
been there for five years, and no one knew how he got away. I suppose
it would a come anyhow, but it seemed like it was the mention of
Bohm’s name that set him off.”
X