Within a radius of many miles there were only three small children,
and about them our Christmas festivities revolved. They furnished the
excuse for the tree, but no work was too pressing, no snow too deep to
prevent the boys from bringing the Christmas tree and greens from a
small clump of pines which stood on top of a distant hill, like a dark
green island in the midst of the prairie sea.
Early on Christmas morning Steve started out with gaily bedecked
baskets for the Mexicans, and at the ranch the greatest excitement
prevailed. I dashed frantically between the bunkhouse and our kitchen
to be certain that nothing was forgotten. The big turkeys were stuffed
to the point of bursting, all the “trimmings” were in readiness, and
the last savory mince pies were in the ovens.
[Illustration: BUCKING HORSE AND RIDER]
Behind the closed doors of the living room the tall tree, festooned
with ropes of popcorn and garlands of gaudy paper chains, glittered
and glowed with its tinsel ornaments and candles.
Owen divided his attention between his “Santa Claus” costume and pails
of water, which he placed near the tree in case it should catch fire.
The boys spent most of the morning “slicking up” and put on their red
neckties, the outward and visible sign of some important event, then
passed the remaining hours sitting around anxiously awaiting the
arrival of the guests of honor and—dinner.
Sometimes members of the family were with us or some friends were
lured from the city by the promise of a “really, truly Christmas,” and
there were always a few lonely bachelors to whom the holidays,
otherwise, would have brought only memories.
Christmas was our one great annual celebration, a day of cheer and
happiness, in which everyone joyously shared. It was a new experience
in the life of the undomesticated cow-puncher, but he took as much
satisfaction in the fact that “Our tree was a whole lot prettier than
the one I’ve saw in town” as though he had won a roping contest.
Each year the children and their parents were invited for Christmas
dinner. They might be delayed en route by deep snowdrifts, out of
which they had to dig themselves, but they always arrived eventually.
We came to have a sincere affection for those children, gentle little
wild flowers of the prairie.
They were very sweet, perfectly ingenuous, gazing in round-eyed wonder
upon things which to most of us were commonplace.
I never thought of its being anything new in their brief experience
until at dinner one of the small boys turned to his mother after
tasting a piece of celery and said, “Look, Mamma, ’tain’t cabbage and
’tain’t onions. What is it?”
They positively trembled with excitement as they learned to read and
laboriously spelled out the words in the simple books we gave them.
They craved knowledge as a starving man craves bread.
As Santa Claus, Owen wore a ruddy mask with a long white beard and
bristling eyebrows, a fur cap pulled down over his ears, heavy felt
boots and his long fur overcoat. He looked and acted the part so
perfectly the children for years insisted that “there is a Santa Claus
’cause we’ve seen him.”
The first Christmas everyone was gathered about the tree waiting for
this mysterious personage to appear when Owen suddenly thought of
bells; he must have sleigh-bells. No self-respecting Santa Claus was
complete without them. I was in despair; there wasn’t a sleigh-bell
within a hundred miles, but Owen insisted that he must jingle. At last
after a great deal of argument and searching for something which would
give forth bell-like sounds, he finally pranced out before the
spell-bound audience with my silver table bell sewed to the top of one
of his boots. He had to prance because the bell refused to tinkle
unless it was shaken, and for the ensuing hour he pranced so
vigorously that between the exercise and the fur coat he nearly
perished from heat.
After dinner we all assembled in the big living-room, where my
disguised husband presented each person with some little gift and
ridiculous toy, accompanied by a still more ridiculous rhyme, over
which the boys roared. They enjoyed the jokes most of all. No one
escaped; Owen and I came in for our share with the rest. Mine usually
bore veiled or open allusion to my particular pet lamb which had
developed strong butting proclivities. He butted friend and foe
indiscriminately, so that even my fond eyes were not blinded to his
faults, and Owen’s remarks were most uncomplimentary after he had
acted as a shield for us when “Jackie” had chased my sister and me all
about the yard.
Later in the afternoon everybody scattered—our house guests amused
themselves as they chose, riding, driving or hunting coyotes, the boys
rode over to the neighboring ranches or went to “town,” the store and
saloon at the railroad station sixteen miles away, but I spent an hour
or two playing with the children or reading to them until their father
“brought the team around,” their happy mother climbed up on the high
seat of the lumber-wagon and, clinging to dolls, trains and toys,
three blissfully happy but perfectly exhausted little children were
wrapped up in quilts and coats, stowed into the back of the wagon and
started on the twenty-mile drive “back home.”
It had been an eventful day in their short, barren lives, but for us
it was the best part of Christmas, except the evening, when we all
gathered about the big fireplace which drew everyone into its circle
like a magnet.
There was nothing prosaic about those who grouped themselves around
the great stone fireplaces on the ranches in the old days. Here again
were found those contrasts, so striking and unexpected; university men
who had come West for adventure or investment, men of wealth whose
predisposition to weak lungs had sent them in exile to the wilderness,
modest young Englishmen, those younger sons so often found in the most
out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and who, through the sudden
demise of a near relative, had such a startling way of becoming earls
and lords over night; adventurous Scotchmen, brilliant young Irishmen,
all smoking contentedly there in the firelight and discussing the
“isms” and “ologies” and every other subject under heaven. But most
interesting of all were their own reminiscences.
We were all sitting around the fire one Christmas night when the
conversation turned on adventure, and everyone promised to tell the
most thrilling experience he had ever had.
Two of the men were lying on the big bearskin before the fire. One, a
mining engineer, told of having been captured by bandits and held for
a ransom, in some remote corner of Mexico where he had gone to examine
a very famous mine. The other, a surveyor for the Union Pacific
Railroad, had been lost during a storm and, becoming snow-blind,
crawled for five miles on his hands and knees, feeling the trail with
naked, half frozen hands until he reached the creek down which he
waded until he came to the camp.
In a big chair, the firelight playing over her slender figure, sat
Janet Courtland, an Eastern woman, who as a mere girl had come West
with her young husband and had gone up into Montana where he had
bought a large cattle ranch.
“Come on, Mrs. Courtland, you’re next,” the Surveyor said as he
finished his story.
“Well,” Janet began, “Will and I have had so many experiences I
scarcely know which was the most exciting, but I think our encounter
with the Indians was the most thrilling from first to last.
“Will had to go into Miles City on business and I went with him for
great unrest had been reported among the Indians and he didn’t want to
leave me on the ranch alone. We had been in town only a few days when
we heard that they were on the war path and Will felt he must go back
to the ranch. He wanted me to stay in town, but I wouldn’t. If he was
going back I was going with him, so we started in the buck-board on
that long eighty-five mile drive. I’ll never forget it. The day was
fearfully hot and we were constantly looking out for Indians. We had
gone about half-way, when we came over the top of a hill and saw a
band of Indians just below us. They saw us before we could turn back,
we had to go on, and as we came towards them they formed into two
lines so that we had to drive between them. It was horrible.” And
Janet gave a shiver at the recollection. “I’ll never forget as long as
I live those frightful, painted faces. Not an Indian moved; we passed
through the line and had gone a short distance beyond, when we heard
the report of a gun. Will clapped his hand to his side and said: ‘My
God, I’m shot. Drive as fast as you can’—and he threw the lines to
me.
“I lashed the horses and we fairly tore. Everything was still, there
was only that one shot, the Indians made no attempt to follow us. We
did not speak. Will was lying back in the buckboard, his hand pressed
to his side. When we had gone out of sight of the Indians I stopped
the horses and asked Will where he was struck.
“‘In the side; I can feel the blood oozing through my fingers,’ he
said. He took his hand away and gave an exclamation as he looked at
it. It was wet but not with blood. We could not find the sign of a
wound. We got out to investigate and discovered—that just as we
passed the Indians the cork flew out of a bottle of root beer we had
in the back of the buckboard and struck him in the side. Poor old
Willie, no wonder he thought he was shot,” and Janet smiled at her
husband, who laughed with the rest of us.
“Now, Owen,” he said, “I know some of the things you’ve been through,
so you can’t beg off,” and Owen began his story.
“In the spring of ’81 I came West to visit my brother, Ed., on his
ranch in Wyoming. I was a tenderfoot, never having been on the plains
before—and yet—I had scarcely arrived when I announced that the one
thing I wanted to do was to kill a buffalo. He told me that if my
heart was set on it I should have the chance, but that it was
dangerous sport even for experienced hunters, as a buffalo frequently
turns and gores the horse before it can get out of the way.
“The very next day the dead body of a professional hunter was brought
to the ranch. He had wounded a buffalo bull which had turned, caught
with his horn the horse he was riding, thrown him to the ground and
gored the hunter to death. The sight of his mangled body was shocking
and made a terrible impression on my mind, but my purpose was not
changed.
“My brother assigned Al. Turpin the responsibility of serving as my
guide. He was one of the best riders on the ranch, cool-headed and a
good shot. We took breakfast before daylight in order to get an early
start. After riding a considerable distance three dark objects were
discovered far away on a hill which sloped toward us. A pair of field
glasses confirmed the opinion that they were buffalo lying down. We
rode in their direction and kept out of sight, except as we peered
cautiously over the top of each succeeding ridge until it was possible
to approach no nearer in concealment, when we rode to the top of the
nearest hill and were in full view. The buffalo saw us and quick as
lightning were on their feet running away. We sent our horses at full
speed down the slope, across a level piece of ground and up the hill
after them. We were gaining rapidly. My horse was the faster of the
two and was in the lead. He was one of the best trained cow ponies I
have ever ridden and was my brother’s favorite for cutting out cattle.
“When about thirty yards behind the buffalo, one stopped. The bit I
was using was severe. I pulled and threw my horse back on his
haunches. The buffalo was an immense bull. He appeared to me as big as
a mountain. He turned facing me, his body at an angle, cocked his head
on the side, then threw it toward the ground and, quicker than a
flash, came down the hill like a landslide.
“My horse struggled against the bit and tried to jump toward the
buffalo and turn him as he would a steer. I tried to swing his head
away and dug my spurs into his sides to make him move, but he did not
understand why he should run from a buffalo. He did respond a little
and turned so that his haunches were toward the great brute coming
down the hill.
“The head of the buffalo was in striking distance. He looked like a
great devil. His beadlike eyes flashed fire. The next instant I
expected the horse to be pitched down the hill. I could feel myself
thrown into the air and then gored to death when I struck the ground.
I could see the mangled body of the dead hunter.
“While my six-shooter was a powerful gun, I knew that if I should
shoot the brute in the head, the ball would not go through the mass of
matted hair and the thick skull. Still there was nothing else to do. I
thought my time had come. In order to hit him at all it was necessary
to shoot over my left arm. In my haste I pulled the trigger too soon.
The loud report startled the horse into a run and turned the buffalo.
Its discharge, so near my head, gave me a terrible shock. I thought
the shot had blown away all the right side of my head and I put up my
hand to keep my brains from falling out, but there were neither brains
nor blood on my hand. The bullet had just grazed my head and gone
through the rim of my hat. That brute looked like an infuriated demon.
I couldn’t have been more frightened if I had met the devil himself at
the mouth of hell.
“When it was all over, I was not in a mood for challenging him again,
but as he loped away, Al. ran his horse abreast and from a safe
distance put a shot into his brisket. He fell dead. Believe me, I have
had many close calls, but that was the one time in all my life when I
was really scared.”
“What extraordinary experiences people do have in this country,” Will
Mason exclaimed, as he leaned forward to light a fresh cigar.
“Speaking of Ed. reminds me of a strange coincidence which happened
the year after he came West.
“We had been together the year before in New York, where we had met a
chap named Courtney Drake. He was a Yale man and a member of the
University Club, so we saw quite a good deal of him. He was very
congenial and one of the most lovable fellows I ever knew. He was
married but he seldom spoke of his wife and we never met her.
“One morning we picked up the paper and were horrified to read that
Mrs. Courtney Drake had shot her maid. There it was in glaring
headlines, the whole wretched affair. The Drakes were one of the
oldest and wealthiest families in New York and it was spicy reading
for the scandal lovers I assure you.
“It seems that Drake had gotten mixed up with this woman when he first
came out of college and in order to force him to marry her she told
him that she was soon to have a child. He wouldn’t believe it, and how
she worked it I don’t know. She must have been mighty clever, for she
and her maid got hold of a baby somewhere and she made Courtney
believe it was hers and that he was the father—so he married her.
“They had only been married a short time when the maid began to demand
large sums of ‘hush money’ and Mrs. Drake gave her whatever she asked,
for she was in mortal dread of having Drake discover the truth. The
girl found blackmail so profitable she became more and more insistent
in her demands and nearly drove Mrs. Drake wild. At last she could
endure it no longer and in a perfect frenzy, shot and killed the maid
and then the whole thing came out. Mrs. Drake was sent to prison,
where she died later, but Courtney vanished utterly after the
trial—no one knew what became of him.
“The next fall Ed. and I came West and two years later were up in the
Jackson’s Hole country with a party, shooting. Ed. and one of the
guides went out one morning to get some ducks, but in a short time
they came back to camp carrying the dead body of Courtney Drake. They
had come across his body on the shore of a small lake, lying face down
in the mud. There was a single bullet hole in the back of his head.
“Think of his having been found out there in the wilderness by the
only man in the country who knew who he was! Talk about chance,” Will
sighed, “Poor devil, he was living out there under an assumed name.
His family had no idea where he was. Ed. notified them and then took
his body East.
“Just after his death Drake’s partner produced a bill of sale for the
entire ranch and took possession of it. Everyone suspected him of the
murder, but it couldn’t be proved. About three years later the man
killed his wife and at the time of his conviction the question of
Drake’s murder was brought up and he confessed. Isn’t it strange the
way things happen?” Will’s question was general. “What on earth do you
suppose sent Ed. Brook into the Jackson’s Hole country at that one
time of all others?”
No one answered.
“I wonder if all new countries abound in such tragic mysteries?” The
Surveyor looked up at me.
“What tragic mysteries have you encountered, Mrs. Brook, that makes
you speak so feelingly?”
Just then the clock struck twelve and I got up.
“It’s too late for more mysteries, it’s time to go to bed—and we
don’t want tragedies to keep us wide awake on Christmas night.”
“Oh, come on Esther, tell us your most thrilling experience,” they
begged. “We won’t move a step until you do.”
“Marrying Owen,” I replied, looking over at my unsuspecting husband,
“I’ve never had a chance to get my breath since.”
And amid a shout of laughter the Christmas party broke up.