A SNOW-SCENE
There was a big fire out under the mesquite that night and a band of
cowboys, in all the bravery of spurs, shaps, and pistols, romped
around it in a stage-struck exuberance of spirits. The night was
hardly cold enough to call for fringed leather _chaparejos_, and their
guns should have been left in their blankets; nor are long-shanked
Texas spurs quite the proper thing about camp, having a dirty way of
catching and tripping their wearers; but the _rodeo_ outfit felt that
it was on dress parade and was trying its best to look the cowboy
part. Bill Lightfoot even had a red silk handkerchief draped about his
neck, with the slack in front, like a German napkin; and his cartridge
belt was slung so low that it threatened every moment to drop his huge
Colt's revolver into the dirt--but who could say a word?
The news of Judge Ware's visit had passed through the Four Peaks
country like the rumor of an Indian uprising and every man rode into
Hidden Water with an eye out for calico, some with a foolish grin,
some downcast and reserved, some swaggering in the natural pride of
the lady's man. But a becoming modesty had kept Lucy Ware indoors, and
Kitty had limited herself to a furtive survey of the scene from behind
what was left of Sallie Winship's lace curtains. With the subtle
wisdom of a _rodeo_ boss Jefferson Creede had excused himself to the
ladies at the first sound of jangling horse-bells, and now he kept
resolutely away from the house, busying himself with the manifold
duties of his position. To the leading questions of Bill Lightfoot and
the "fly bunch" which followed his lead he turned a deaf ear or
replied in unsatisfying monosyllables; and at last, as the fire lit up
the trees and flickered upon their guns and silver-mounted trappings
and no fair maids sallied forth to admire them, the overwrought
emotions of the cowboys sought expression in song.
"Oh my little girl she lives in the town,"
chanted Lightfoot, and the fly bunch, catching the contagion, joined
promptly in on the refrain:
_"A toodle link, a toodle link, a too--oo-dle a day!"_
At this sudden and suggestive outbreak Jeff Creede surveyed Bill
Lightfoot coldly and puffed on his cigarette. Bill was always trying
to make trouble.
"And every time I see 'er, she asts me f'r a gown,"
carolled the leading cowboy; and the bunch, not to seem faint-hearted,
chimed in again:
_"Reladin to reladin, and reladin to relate!"_
Now they were verging toward the sensational part of the ballad, the
place where a real gentleman would quit, but Lightfoot only tossed his
head defiantly.
"O-Oh--" he began, and then he stopped with his mouth open. The
_rodeo_ boss had suddenly risen to an upright position and fixed him
with his eye.
"I like to see you boys enjoyin' yourselves," he observed, quietly,
"but please don't discuss _politics_ or _religion_ while them ladies
is over at the house. You better switch off onto 'My Bonnie Lies over
the Ocean,' Bill." And Bill switched.
"What's the matter?" he demanded aggrieved, "ain't anybody but you got
any rights and privileges around here? You go sportin' around and
havin' a good time all day, but as soon as one of us punchers opens
his mouth you want to jump down his throat. What do _we_ know about
ladies--_I_ ain't seen none!"
The discussion of the moral code which followed was becoming
acrimonious and personal to a degree when a peal of girlish laughter
echoed from the ranch house and the cowboys beheld Judge Ware and
Hardy, accompanied by Miss Lucy and Kitty Bonnair, coming towards
their fire. A less tactful man might have taken advantage of the hush
to utter a final word of warning to his rebellious subjects, but
Creede knew Kitty Bonnair and the human heart too well. As the party
came into camp he rose quietly and introduced the judge and the ladies
to every man present, without deviation and without exception, and
then, having offered Miss Ware his cracker box, he moved over a man or
two and sat down.
In the bulk of his mighty frame, the rugged power of his countenance,
and the unconscious authority of his words he was easily master of
them all; but though he had the voice of Mars and a head like Olympian
Zeus he must needs abase his proud spirit to the demands of the
occasion, for the jealousy of mortal man is a proverb. Where the
punchers that he hired for thirty dollars a month were decked out in
shaps and handkerchiefs he sat in his shirt-sleeves and overalls, with
only his high-heeled boots and the enormous black sombrero which he
always wore, to mark him for their king. And the first merry question
which Miss Kitty asked he allowed to pass unnoticed, until Bill
Lightfoot--to save the credit of the bunch--answered it himself.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied politely. "That was a genuwine cowboy song we
was singin'--we sing 'em to keep the cattle awake at night."
"Oh, how interesting!" exclaimed Kitty, leaning forward in her
eagerness. "But why do you try to keep them awake? I should think they
would be so tired, after travelling all day."
"Yes, ma'am," responded Bill, twisting his silk handkerchief
nervously, "but if they go to sleep and anything wakes 'em up quick
they stompede--so we ride through 'em and sing songs."
"Just think of that, Lucy!" cried Miss Kitty enthusiastically. "And it
was such a pretty tune, too! Won't you sing it again, Mr. Lightfoot?
I'd just love to hear it!"
Here was a facer for Mr. Lightfoot, and Jefferson Creede, to whom all
eyes were turned in the crisis, smiled maliciously and let him sweat.
"Bill ain't in very good voice to-night," he observed at last, as the
suspense became unbearable, "and we're kinder bashful about singin' to
company, anyway. But if you want to hear somethin' good, you want to
git Bill goin' about Coloraydo. Sure, Mr. Lightfoot is our best
story-teller; and he's had some mighty excitin' times up there in them
parts, hain't you, Bill?"
Bill cast a baleful glance at his rival and thrust out his chin
insolently. His Coloraydo experiences were a matter of jest with Jeff
Creede, but with the ladies it might be different. His courage rose
before the flattering solicitude of Kitty Bonnair and he resolved then
and there to fool Mr. Creede or know the reason why.
"Well," he replied, stoutly, "they may look kinder tame alongside of
your Arizona lies, but--"
"Oh, Mr. Lightfoot, _do_ tell me all about it!" broke in Kitty, with
an alluring smile. "Colorado is an awfully wild country, isn't it? And
did you ever have any adventures with bears?"
"Bears!" exclaimed Bill contemptuously. "Bears! Huh, we don't take no
more account of ordinary bears up in Coloraydo than they do of coons
down here. But them big silver-tips--ump-um--excuse _me_!" He paused
and swaggered a little on the precarious support of his cracker box.
"And yet, Miss Bunnair," he said, lowering his voice to a confidential
key, "I slept a whole night with one of them big fellers and never
turned a hair. I could've killed him the next day, too, but I was so
grateful to him I spared his life."
This was the regular "come-on" for Lightfoot's snow-storm story, and
Creede showed his white teeth scornfully as Bill leaned back and began
the yarn.
"You see, Miss Bunnair," began the Colorado cowboy, rolling his eyes
about the circle to quell any tendency to give him away, "Coloraydo is
an altogether different country from this here. The mountains is
mighty steep and brushy, with snow on the peaks, and the cactus ain't
more 'n a inch high out on the perairie. But they's plenty of feed and
water--you betcher life I wisht I was back there now instead of
fightin' sheep down here! The only thing aginst that country up there
is the blizzards. Them storms is very destructive to life. Yes, ma'am.
They's never any notice given but suddenly the wind will begin to blow
and the cattle will begin to drift, and then about the time your horse
is give out and your ears frozen it'll begin to snow!
"Well, this time I'm tellin' about I was up on the Canadian River west
of the Medicine Bow Mountains and she came on to snow--and snow, I
thought it would bury me alive! I was lost in a big park--a kind of
plain or perairie among the mountains. Yes'm, they have'm there--big
level places--and it was thirty miles across this here level perairie.
The wind was blowin' something awful and the snow just piled up on my
hat like somebody was shovellin' it off a roof, but I kept strugglin'
on and tryin' to git to the other side, or maybe find some sheltered
place, until it was like walkin' in your sleep. And that light fluffy
snow jest closed in over me until I was covered up ten feet deep. Of
course my horse had give out long ago, and I was jest beginnin' to
despair when I come across one of them big piles of rocks they have up
there, scattered around promiscus-like on the face of nature; and I
begin crawlin' in and crawlin' in, hopin' to find some cave or
somethin', and jest as I was despairin' my feet fell into a kind of
trail, kinder smooth and worn, but old, you know, and stomped hard
under the snow. Well, I follers along this path with my feet until it
come to a hole in the rocks; and when I come to that hole I went right
in, fer I was desprit; and I crawled in and crawled in until I come to
a big nest of leaves, and then I begin to burrow down into them
leaves. And as soon as I had made a hole I pulled them leaves over me
and fell to sleep, I was that exhausted.
"But after a while I had some awful bad dreams, and when I woke up I
felt somethin' kickin' under me. Yes 'm, that's right; I felt
somethin' kinder movin' around and squirmin', and when I begin to
investergate I found I was layin' down right square on top of a
tremenjous big grizzly bear! Well, you fellers can laugh, but I was,
all the same. What do you know about it, you woolies, punchin' cows
down here in the rocks and cactus?
"How's that, Miss Bunnair? W'y sure, he was hibernatin'! They all
hibernate up in them cold countries. Well, the funny part of this was
that Old Brin had gone to sleep suckin' his off fore foot, jest like a
little baby, and when I had piled in on top of him I had knocked his
paw out of his mouth and he was tryin' to git it back. But he was all
quilled up with himself under them leaves, and his claws was so long
he couldn't git that foot back into his mouth nohow. He snooped and
grabbed and fumbled, and every minute he was gittin' madder and
madder, a-suckin' and slobberin' like a calf tryin' to draw milk out
of the hired man's thumb, and a-gruntin' and groanin' somethin'
awful.
"Well, I see my finish in about a minute if he ever got good an' woke
up, so I resolved to do somethin' desprit. I jest naturally grabbed
onto that foot and twisted it around and stuck it into his mouth
myself! Afraid? Ump-um, not me--the only thing I was afraid of was
that he'd git my hand and go to suckin' it by mistake. But when I
steered his paw around in front of him he jest grabbed onto that big
black pad on the bottom of his foot like it was m'lasses candy, and
went off to sleep again as peaceful as a kitten."
The man from Coloraydo ended his tale abruptly, with an air of
suspense, and Kitty Bonnair took the cue.
"What did I do then?" demanded Lightfoot, with a reminiscent smile.
"Well, it was a ground-hog case with me--if I moved I'd freeze to
death and if I knocked his paw out'n his mouth again he'd mash my face
in with it--so I jest snuggled down against him, tucked my head under
his chin, and went to sleep, holdin' that paw in his mouth with both
hands."
"Oh, Mr. Lightfoot," exclaimed Kitty, "how could you? Why, that's the
most remarkable experience I ever heard of! Lucy, I'm going to put
that story in my book when I get home, and--but what _are_ you
laughing at, Mr. Creede?"
"Who? Me?" inquired Jeff, who had been rocking about as if helpless
with laughter. "W'y, _I_ ain't laughin'!"
"Yes, you are too!" accused Miss Kitty. "And I want you to tell me
what it is. Don't you think Mr. Lightfoot's story is true?"
"True?" echoed Creede, soberly. "W'y, sure it's true. I ain't never
been up in those parts; but if Bill says so, that settles it. I never
knew a feller from Coloraydo yet that could tell a lie. No, I was jest
laughin' to think of that old bear suckin' his paw that way."
He added this last with such an air of subterfuge and evasion that
Kitty was not deceived for a moment.
"No, you're _not_, Mr. Creede," she cried, "you're just making fun of
me--so there!"
She stamped her foot and pouted prettily, and the big cowboy's face
took on a look of great concern.
"Oh, no, ma'am," he protested, "but since it's gone so far I reckon
I'll have to come through now in order to square myself. Of course I
never had no real adventures, you know,--nothin' that you would care
to write down or put in a book, like Bill's,--but jest hearin' him
tell that story of gittin' snowed in reminded me of a little
experience I had up north here in Coconino County. You know Arizona
ain't all sand and cactus--not by no means. Them San Francisco
Mountains up above Flag are sure snow-crested and covered with tall
timber and it gits so cold up there in the winter-time that it breaks
rocks. No, that's straight! Them prospectors up there when they run
short of powder jest drill a line of holes in a rock and when one of
them awful cold snaps comes on they run out and fill the holes up with
hot water out of the tea-kittle. Well, sir, when that water freezes,
which it does in about a minute, it jest naturally busts them rocks
wide open--but that ain't what I started to tell you about."
He paused and contemplated his hearers with impressive dignity.
"Cold ain't nothin'," he continued gravely, "after you git used to
it; but once in a while, ladies, she snows up there. And when I say
'snows' I don't refer to such phenominer as Bill was tellin' about up
in Coloraydo, but the real genuwine Arizona article--the kind that
gits started and can't stop, no more 'n a cloudburst. Well, one time I
was knockin' around up there in Coconino when I ought to've been at
home, and I come to a big plain or perairie that was _seventy miles
across_, and I got lost on that big plain, right in the dead of
winter. They was an awful cold wind blowin' at the time, but I could
see the mountains on the other side and so I struck out for 'em. But
jest as I got in the middle of that great plain or perairie, she come
on to snow. At first she come straight down, kinder soft and fluffy;
then she began to beat in from the sides, and the flakes began to git
bigger and bigger, until I felt like the Chinaman that walked down
Main Street when they had that snow-storm in Tucson. Yes, sir, it was
jest like havin' every old whiskey bum in town soakin' you with
snow-balls--and all the kids thrown in.
"My horse he began to puff and blow and the snow began to bank up
higher and higher in front of us and on top of us until, bymeby, he
couldn't stand no more, and he jest laid down and died. Well, of
course that put me afoot and I was almost despairin'. The snow was
stacked up on top of me about ten feet deep and I was desprit, but I
kept surgin' right ahead, punchin' a hole through that fluffy stuff,
until she was twenty foot deep. But I wasn't afraid none--ump-um, not
me--I jest kept a-crawlin' and a-crawlin', hopin' to find some rocks
or shelter, until she stacked up on top of me thirty foot deep.
_Thirty foot_--and slumped down on top o' me until I felt like a
horny-toad under a haystack. Well, I was gittin' powerful weak and
puny, but jest as I was despairin' I come across a big rock, right out
there in the middle of that great plain or perairie. I tried to crawl
around that old rock but the snow was pushin' down so heavy on top o'
me I couldn't do nothin', and so when she was _fif-ty-two foot deep_
by actual measurement I jest give out an' laid down to die."
He paused and fixed a speculative eye on Bill Lightfoot.
"I reckon that would be considered pretty deep up in Coloraydo," he
suggested, and then he began to roll a cigarette. Sitting in rigid
postures before the fire the punchers surveyed his face with slow and
suspicious glances; and for once Kitty Bonnair was silent, watching
his deliberate motions with a troubled frown. Balanced rakishly upon
his cracker box Bill Lightfoot regarded his rival with a sneering
smile, a retort trembling on his lips, but Creede only leaned forward
and picked a smoking brand from the fire--he was waiting for the
"come-on."
Now to ask the expected question at the end of such a story was to
take a big chance. Having been bitten a time or two all around, the
_rodeo_ hands were wary of Jeff Creede and his barbed jests; the
visitors, being ignorant, were still gaping expectantly; it was up to
Bill Lightfoot to spring the mine. For a moment he hesitated, and then
his red-hot impetuosity, which had often got him into trouble before,
carried him away.
"W'y, sure it would be deep for Coloraydo," he answered, guardedly.
Jefferson Creede glanced up at him, smoking luxuriously, holding the
cigarette to his lips with his hand as if concealing a smile.
"Aw, rats," snapped out Lightfoot at last, "why don't you finish up
and quit? What happened then?"
"Then?" drawled Creede, with a slow smile. "W'y, nothin', Bill--_I
died_!"
"Ah-hah-hah!" yelled the punchers, throwing up handfuls of dirt in the
extravagance of their delight, and before Bill could realize the
enormity of the sell one of his own partisans rose up and kicked the
cracker box out from under him in token of utter defeat. For an hour
after their precipitate retreat the visitors could hear the whoops
and gibes of the cowboys, the loud-mouthed and indignant retorts of
Lightfoot, and the soothing remonstrances of Jefferson Creede--and
from the house Kitty the irrepressible, added to their merriment a
shriek of silvery laughter. But after it was all over and he had won,
the round-up boss swore soberly at himself and sighed, for he
discerned on the morrow's horizon the Indian signs of trouble.