The morning was another gorgeous burst of sunshine. There had been an
early dew, and as the sunlight swept along the prairies every blade of
grass was hung with diamonds. When I was able to shed my blankets--I
have always had a way of getting into intricate entanglements with the
bed clothes--I filled my lungs with the fresh oxygen, thumped my chest
with my fists, and, looking out over the sparkling prairie, breathed a
sort of prayer of possession--"It's mine; it's mine!" Then I found my
soap and towel and hustled down to the stream for my morning wash.
The girls, too, were early about. As I came up from the stream I met
Jean going down, wearing a blanket, Indian fashion, for lack of a
bathrobe. A week on a dusty trail had made the presence of snow water,
as deep as one wanted it, a peculiar luxury.
"Gee, but it's good to be alive!" she exclaimed, swinging her arms, to
the peril of her costume. "Does one always feel like this on the
prairies?"
"Always mildly intoxicated, so Jake says, but those are not his words.
That's why Westerners are more optimistic--and more reckless--than
Easterners. Always an atmosphere jag under their belts."
"Here's to Jake," she cried. "Have one with me!" as she took a great
chestful of fresh air. "See you at breakfast--if I'm sober enough!"
That day, and those that followed, were busy, busy days. The oxen were
tired and footsore with their long journey, and we decided to let them
rest, but Jack and I took no holiday. I was determined that on the very
first day I would plant some crop on my farm, so I started at once to
spade up land for a garden. Have you ever turned the first sod on a
quarter section with a spade, and then stopped and looked over the vast
expanse before you? It made me humble, but not discouraged. There is
something almost sacramental in turning over the fresh sod of the
prairies--sod which no plow, no human hand, has ever turned before. If
you have a mind for serious thinking it brings you very close to your
Creator. Perhaps that is why I preferred to dig that first little plot
with a spade instead of making use of Buck and Bright on the plow. Buck
and Bright were not conducive to piety.
After all, it is remarkable how much prairie sod one can turn over in a
day with a spade--sod with no stones nor tough, brushy roots to
interrupt progress, but only the gentle scraping of steel against loam
and the ripping of little grassy tendons to mark your time as, foot by
foot, you throw the trenches of civilization one furrow farther west. By
mid-afternoon I had spaded quite a sizable garden plot. Then I broke
the clods as best I could and planted a few rows of potatoes. The
following day I continued my digging, and that evening, with assistance
from Jean and Marjorie, planted onions, carrots, beets, lettuce and
radish.
We agreed that by the third day the oxen should be ready for the road
again, and Jack was away soon after sunrise of the bright spring
morning. He took the trail for the railway station some thirty miles to
the south, and the sound of his wagon rumbling along over the soft earth
came floating back on the breeze as a sort of accompaniment to the
bellicose voice which Jack affected when he was ox-driving. The forenoon
was well gone before the slow-moving speck faded out of sight on the
skyline.
My next effort was the digging of a cellar. The location of our shack
had to be decided upon, and for this I called Marjorie and Jean into
council. We agreed that it should be close to one brow of the ravine,
and that Jack should build his close to the other, so that each would
command an unbroken view of his neighbour. Perhaps even then we had some
premonition of the spectre of Loneliness creeping down upon us through
the night-mists of the summer or the snow-wraiths of the blizzard, and
already we were planning our lines of defence.
"How many rooms will there be?" asked Jean. "Let me see--reception-room,
living-room, parlor, dining-room--you must at least have that."
"We shall," I said, "and one door will lead into them all. A room is
anything you call it. We can change the name as we change the purpose.
One moment it is kitchen, the next, living-room, and so on."
"Draw a plan of it," said Marjorie, turning up the planed side of a
hoard. So I sat down and drew a plan, while the girls watched over my
shoulders with as much intentness as though I were an architect
designing a palace.
"The house will be one storey," I explained, "and long, and narrow,
because that is the simplest as well as the cheapest way to build it,
and we are to be our own carpenters. The walls will be of shiplap,
covered with matched siding, with tarpaper between. The roof will be of
two thicknesses of boards, bent to a gentle oval over a stout
ridge-pole, and again with tarpaper between. You have no idea how much
the West owes to tarpaper. Wherever the new settler goes, goes tarpaper.
I would almost say," I continued, warming up to my subject, "that if a
flag is ever needed for these western prairies it should be a banner of
tarpaper, nailed between two laths. 'O say, does the tarpaper banner
still wave?'--you see, it has possibilities."
"But isn't it awfully smelly stuff?" said Jean, who had a strain of
delicacy in her that at times conflicted with her surroundings.
"Ah, that is one of its chief virtues. You may not know yet, but you
will learn--at least, so Jake assured me--that population is not nearly
so scarce on the prairies as it seems. He says that the inmates of one
of these little bachelor shacks in many cases number literally millions.
Millions. Well--they don't like tarpaper. Blessed be tarpaper!
"The house is to be fourteen feet wide, so that sixteen-foot boards will
bend just the right length for the roof. The main room--which is to be
all the rooms you mentioned, Jean, and the kitchen as well--will be in
the centre of the building. It will be fourteen feet square--like that.
At the south end of the building, where the sun will shine in spring and
flowers will grow up the wall, will be a room eight by
fourteen--Marjorie's. At the north end, where the winter winds will hit
us first, will be a room eight by fourteen--Frank's. That's all."
"And the windows?" said Marjorie.
"A window in the south for you, a window in the north for me, a window
in the west for the living-room, and a door in the east for us all."
"How simple--and delightful!" Jean trilled. "And is Jack's house--our
house--to be the same?"
"That is the intention. Of course, these plans are subject to approval
or rejection by the feminine vote, but Jack and I talked it over with
Jake, and we figured this was the best we could afford, and the most we
could get for the money."
Marjorie seemed to be studying deeply. "Then your window will look
across the valley into Jean's," she said suddenly.
Now this was something which I had planned with, it seemed to me,
consummate cleverness. I had thought that on dark nights and stormy
nights, when the wind was whining dolefully about the gables, my light
in my window might be--well, Jean might like to see it there. Still, it
was surely right that Jean should occupy a south room, the same as
Marjorie. I was provoked at Marjorie for--for finding me out.
"Why, Marjorie, I am surprised," I began, as severely as I could, but
Jean cut me short. "I move the adoption of the plan," she said.
So I scratched the outline of the shack in the sod with my shovel and
began digging a cellar in the centre of the little plot. For a depth of
nearly two feet I dug through a brownish-black loam that turned easily
and threw clean from the shovel. Then I struck a sticky, yellow clay,
and the going was much slower. But by the time we heard Jack's hoarse
voice and his tired oxen clicking their hoofs up the trail on the
evening of the second day I had succeeded in making a hole which we
agreed to call a cellar.
The wagon was well loaded with boards and other building material,
including the inevitable tarpaper, and the next morning we were about to
start construction work when Jack dropped an armful of two-by-fours with
a sudden exclamation.
"I clean forgot," he said. "They told me in town yesterday that it was
Saturday. This must be Sunday."
As you know, Jack and I had been brought up with good old Ontario ideas
of the sanctity of the Sabbath. It was not surprising that he should
drop his burden where he stood, and that his face, when he turned to
me, had written on it something almost akin to dismay.
"Must be," I said, laying down my shovel.
For some moments we stood trying to drink in the significance of the
fact, and realizing for the first time what an artificial thing the
calendar is. This morning was exactly like the other mornings of the
week; a burst of golden dawn, a sea of diamond dew-drops, a rollicking
breeze out of the West, a wisp of feathery cloudland far above. There
was nothing about it to suggest that it was more holy than its
neighbors.
"Fact is," said I at last, "I begin to think we must have missed one
Sunday altogether."
"I'm afraid we did," Jack admitted, contritely. "Let's tell the girls."
Accordingly we bore to them the great information. All work was
discontinued, and we lounged about, trying to feel good. It was one of
the longest days I can remember.
Next day we set about our building in earnest. I wish I dared weary you
with the detail of the operations; the twanging of the saw in the new
boards, the thwack of the hammer on the bright nails, the smell of cedar
sawdust and of tarpaper, the sheer joy of creation as we saw our home
rise tier by tier from the bare bosom of the plain. There were no Union
hours with us. We worked from early morning until after sunset, and laid
down our tools at last with affectionate reluctance. We were stiff and
sore in every joint and muscle; our hands were caloused and our finger
nails were battered with misdirected energy, but our hearts were with
the gods. I relate only absolute truth in saying that when our shack was
finished we moved into it with a sense of accomplishment such as perhaps
no king ever knew amid the luxury of his palaces.
As soon as our first building was finished we started a similar one for
Jack and Jean. Then we built a little stable down in the gully for the
oxen, the cow, the pig, and the hens; we improved the crossing of the
stream; we dug a well; we plowed a small area on each farm and planted
it to oats, and then we went on plowing for next season's crop; we
bought a mowing-machine and rake--on credit--and cut an ample supply of
wild prairie hay for our winter needs. We had decided that, as fall came
on, Jack and I, with the yoke of oxen, should make a pilgrimage into the
more settled districts with a view to getting work with some farmer, and
so replenishing our resources.
It was a hot day in the middle of July when, up the trail from the
south, a speck grew out of the distance. Traffic did not often come our
way, and Jack and I both stopped work in the field to study its approach
and to conjecture as to who or what it might be. The light on the
prairies on a hot day has a way of shimmering that sometimes renders the
outline of an object, or even its color, vague, although its location
may be discerned for many miles. Even as we watched a curious optical
illusion occurred; the strange object left the ground and seemed to hang
motionless, suspended slightly over the horizon.
We glanced over to the shacks and saw both Marjorie and Jean standing
with shaded eyes studying the phenomenon. Then, as we watched, the
figure took the form of a horse and rider of heroic size charging down
upon us literally out of the heavens. As it approached the mirage lost
its illusion and horse and rider came back to earth. By this time we
were sure that the glint of color which had seemed to dance vaguely
about the figure had a basis in fact; there was no longer a doubt that
an atom of scarlet was approaching along the trail.
Leaving the oxen to their midday meditations we walked over to my shack,
where Jean had already joined Marjorie. It could now be seen that the
figure was approaching at a rapid gait, and its outline, no longer
blurred by the shimmering of the mirage, stood out sharp and clean
against the distance. It was a Mounted Policeman.
As he drew up beside us I had a sense of being in the presence of
physical perfection. His horse, although wet over the flanks, showed
little sign of fatigue; the dust of travel clung to the rider's
sunburned face, but the smartness of his bearing and uniform was
unimpaired. He saluted as he brought his horse to a standstill; then
sprang lightly to the ground.
"I see I am right," he said, addressing Marjorie and Jean. "Won't you
introduce me?"
Marjorie was the first to act, although I suspected, even then, that he
had spoken more particularly to Jean. "My brother, Frank," she said,
"and Jean's brother, Jack. This is Mr. Brook."
We shook hands cordially, and Jean asked our visitor if he had had
dinner. "I have not," he confessed, "but please don't go to any
trouble." But the girls were already in the house, making preparations.
"There's a stream around here, if my maps are right," the policeman
continued, speaking to us, "and both Dick and I could do with water."
We led him down to the stream, and to the well, and although I was
disposed to be prejudiced against this strapping young fellow who seemed
to take more than a casual interest in Jean, I lost much of that
prejudice through a little incident that happened when we reached the
water. Although Brook was undoubtedly suffering from thirst he removed
his horse's bit, so that he could drink in comfort, before he accepted
the proffered cup of water which Jack brought him from the well. Jack
and I spoke of it afterward and agreed that a chap who did that sort of
thing was a good bit of a man.
After a hearty drink Brook took off his hat and tunic, produced towel,
soap, comb and brush, and cleaned up even more thoroughly than seemed
necessary. As I watched him parting his hair by the reflection in the
water I realized that Brook had not forgotten what so many of we
pioneers often did forget--the value of personal appearance. While we
walked up the bank together I admitted to myself that although I was as
good a man as he was, I didn't look it.
The meal which the girls had prepared loosened all our tongues, and
before it was over we were chatting merrily. Brook had the latest
gossip from Regina, and interesting news about himself. At last he had
escaped from barracks, temporarily, at any rate. He was detailed to two
months' relief duty at a point farther west; he promised himself another
meal at our board on his way back, a prospect which Jean and Marjorie
and Jack received with much satisfaction, and I trust I showed no
smallness about it.
The policeman rested with us in the shade of the house for an hour or
two, chatting breezily, and smoking numerous cigarettes. Neither Jack
nor I smoked at that time, but I think it must be recorded that Brook
introduced us, somewhat hesitatingly, to the alleged charms of Lady
Nicotine. In short, we smoked rather less than half a cigarette each. It
is one of the complexities of woman's nature which I did not understand
then, and do not understand yet, that Jean, who openly admired this
cigarette-smoking policeman, scaled me down many feet in her estimation
because I surrendered to a single inch of temptation.
At length Brook insisted that he must be on his way, but before going he
laid a dollar bill on the table in payment for his meal. We objected
most strenuously to accepting money for our hospitality, but as he
pointed out that it was the Government that footed the bill, we allowed
ourselves to be persuaded. Governments, like railways, are legitimate
prey. Also, from somewhere, the policeman produced a small box of candy,
which he presented impartially to Marjorie and Jean. But most important,
in-so-far as this story is concerned, was a bundle of letters. They
were tied together with a stout string, with only the backs of the
envelopes exposed, and on them was written in a bold hand the single
word "Spoof".
"They're for a young Englishman who is to be a neighbour of yours,"
Brook explained. "He left word at the Regina post-office, asking to have
his mail sent out if there was any chance. It seems he had some local
fame under the name of Spoof, and the clerk in the post-office
readdressed his letters that way. That's discipline for you! My word,
what they wouldn't do to a man in the Force----"
"I know him," I broke in; "at least I have heard of him. Jake, our land
guide told us about him. Where does he settle?"
"North-west quarter of Two," said the policeman. "Two miles due south of
you, as the crow flies, or would fly, if he had occasion to. Spoof isn't
there yet--I came by the quarter this morning. I suppose he's travelling
by ox-team and will arrive some time later in the season. You'll see his
sign up on Two when he gets here, and perhaps one of you wouldn't mind
dropping in on him with this mail, if he doesn't call on you within a
few days. He's English, and he may wait for an introduction."
We shook hands with the policeman and parted with him, and the girls
stood watching the scarlet figure as it faded to a speck in the
distance.
"Isn't he wonderful, Frank?" said Jean, turning to me with an enthusiasm
dancing in her eyes which, under any other circumstances, it would have
been good to see. "Don't you think that he --that all of the Mounted
Police--are very wonderful?"
"_All_ of the Mounted Police are wonderful," I agreed, catching at the
impersonal noun. "They are a wonderful Force. They have a tradition
which has made them what they are. It is '_Get your man!_'"
"In Regina they say it is 'Get your woman'," interrupted Marjorie, who
had a way of bursting in at inopportune moments. "I think, brother mine,
you'd better keep an eye cocked."
"For the Englishman on Two? That will be Jack's look-out," Jean
retorted. "Well, here's a welcome to a neighbour--any neighbour. I must
pick an acquaintance with Spoof."
The opportunity was not long delayed. Two mornings later we saw the
white gleam of a tent on section Two. We quit work early that afternoon,
hitched the oxen to the wagon, and went down _en masse_ to call on
Spoof. He saw us when we were yet afar off, and, when it was evident we
were headed for his tent, he came striding out to meet us. He was tall
and slim and sunburned; he wore leggings and corduroy trousers and a
belt, and he took off his hat when he saw the girls.
"My first callers," he said, in his clear, English voice. "This is jolly
decent of you. Won't you get down, ladies, and visit my farm--this is
it, all around here--while we unhitch the bullocks and turn them to
grass? I suspect you are my neighbours from Fourteen?"
"Fourteen and Twenty-two," said I, acting as spokesman, and introducing
our little party. "We have heard of you, but only as Spoof."
"Spoof is good enough. In fact, I think it is rather a ripping name,
don't you? And I know enough already about the West to know that a
catchy nick-name, once applied, sticks. So Spoof I am, to everybody,
except the dear folks at home, who, of course, could never understand.
When I wrote the Governor and said the people here called me Spoof he
answered, 'Such insolence! I'd have the law on them! Remember you are
still an Englishman!' Poor old Governor!"
"Here are some letters, Mr. Spoof," said Jean, extending the little
bundle. "Mr. Brook, the policeman, left them as he rode by a few days
ago."
"Good old post office!" Spoof exclaimed. "Wonderful how they chase a
beggar down, isn't it? They even know me by my Canadian name. Good old
P.O."
Spoof made us come into his tent. The furnishings were not elaborate,
but they had a little air of something that seemed to be missing in
ours. There was a tin trunk, which had been sat on until it had a great
depression in the top, and a leather trunk, generously plastered with
labels. There was a great box, which he used as a table, and dishes of
inappropriately delicate china. There was a folding camp cot with
steamer rugs. Quite a handsome shaving set was strapped to a wall of the
tent, and a great cartridge belt with a prodigious revolver hung from a
tent pole, while a rifle leaned against it. Spoof evidently meant to
sell his life dearly, if there should be any demand for it. Three or
four English magazines lay about, and a tobacco jar with pipes stood in
the centre of the table. But what caught Jean's eyes were the pictures
on the walls. Spoof's tent was up less than a day, and there were
pictures on the walls!
"This is my diggings," our host was saying. "A little crowded inside,
but plenty of room outside. The law of compensation, you know. Have to
do for the present. Beastly expensive business farming. We'll have some
tea presently, if there's any spirit left in the spirit lamp. Sorry I
can't offer you anything better." So he rattled on and made us feel very
much at home, even while I found rising in my heart some yearning of
sympathy for him. I recalled the incident about Jake and Spoof's sixty
pounds, and I supposed that was but one of many similar experiences in
the life of this young seed of Empire. That was the price of being a
"greenhorn". When I spoke a little while ago of railways and governments
being fair prey, I should have added greenhorns.
"It's the only way to treat 'em," Jake defended the custom of the
country when I took him to task about it afterwards. "They're jus' like
bronchoes--not worth a dang until they're broke. Then they'll work."
Evidently Spoof had come to the point where he was willing to work, but
certainly not to allow work to interfere with his social engagements.
Fragments of harness about the door of the tent indicated the line of
his effort just before we had come up, but now he was pouring tea and
helping sugar and biscuits and cheese with a grace of manner which made
Jack and me and even Marjorie a little ill at ease. We had an
uncomfortable feeling of being out of our class, as one does when he
listens to a conversation in which his limitations will allow him to
take little part. Only Jean seemed to wholly enjoy it; she was talking
with him about prairie cloudscapes, and seemed to have quite forgotten
herself in her enthusiasm. As I listened I marvelled how wonderful
Jean's voice was; it was not harsh or guttural or uneven, but seemed to
flow in a liquid, limpid stream, tinkling and rippling and running in
happy little rills. It must have sounded very sweet to English ears.
Spoof, too, seemed to enjoy the conversation, and to react to the music
of Jean's voice. He was too fine mannered to monopolize the stage with
any one of his guests; occasionally he threw conversational feelers at
Marjorie, and Jack, and me, but we were slow in the up-take, and before
we quite knew what he was talking about the dialogue had again passed
back to Jean. She seemed to have a grasp of things, of delicate,
thoughtful, artistic things, far beyond any gift of ours. I was
astonished and a bit terrified by the gulf which I now found spreading
between her plane and mine. I had not been conscious of that gulf
before. I had not failed to appreciate Jean's charms, but never before
had I realized how high her level was above mine; never before had I
felt myself unworthy of her; never had I known the lurking fear that
some one, of finer clay than I, might claim her in the end.
The sun was setting when our little caravan started homeward, casting
its mammoth shadows across the soft, warm prairies, and bearing Spoof's
promise to return our visit at the earliest opportunity.