The day after Spoof's visit I was plowing with the oxen, followed by an
Indian file of expectant blackbirds trailing along in my fresh-turned
furrow, when I suddenly became aware of Jack running toward me. He
pointed in the direction of Spoof's homestead, and I turned my face to
the south. A pillar of creamish-blue smoke rose like a sacrificial
column from section Two; rose until it thinned and flattened out against
the still, warm, summer heaven.
"What do you make of it?" said Jack, wiping the perspiration from his
forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.
I was seized with a sudden and far-fetched sense of humor. "Spoof has
taken your advice about the tiger lilies, and is roasting a wild duck,"
I suggested.
"At any rate," Jack retorted, "he has a fire on his hands, and he's just
as likely to scatter it as to put it out. Lucky for him the grass is
still green, and there's hardly a puff of wind. Shall we hoof it, or
ride the 'bullocks?'"
"Ride them, and save our breath for fire-fighting," I said, with unusual
wisdom, as I began to pull the harness from the oxen.
Buck and Bright were by this time fairly accustomed to strange creatures
like Jack and me perched on their broad backs, with our legs hooped
about their big, flat ribs, and, if the truth must be told, even Jean
and Marjorie had made use of them for locomotion in a similar way. At
first the oxen had rewarded their riders with a wholly unprecedented
burst of speed, but the novelty had soon worn off, and as we now swung
ourselves upon them they responded to our urgings with the most
unconcerned deliberation. We headed them across the prairie in the
direction of section Two, inducing such speed as we could by means of
language and the vigorous application of our boot heels.
Soon the fire could be discerned on that part of Spoof's farm where he
was engaged in putting up hay. The column of smoke was thinning out;
fading into the blue blurr of infinitude; it looked as though the
excitement would be quite over before we could arrive. However, we were
now bent upon paying Spoof a neighbourly call in any case, and when at
last our oxen lumbered up we found him gazing somewhat ruefully upon a
heap of smouldering embers. The tires of his wagon, grey-red with heat,
peered like coiled serpents from under a blanket of ashes.
"What's the matter, Spoof?" we hailed him. "A cigarette butt?"
"No. I was _fixing_ the bullocks, and I've _fixed_ the wagon . . . I
forgot the tiger lilies."
There was no anger in Spoof's voice, but a sort of sadness that made us
a little ashamed of our sport with him the day before.
"Tell us how it happened," we said, dismounting and turning our oxen to
feed along with his at a nearby heap of hay. "We're sorry."
Spoof was himself again. "Of course you are," he rejoined, laughing.
"All my fault. How shall I report this to the Governor? I know; I shall
say I drove over a Canadian double-orbed firefly--one must throw in a
touch of detail, for its realistic effect--and the spark ignited the
hay. By the way, how much does a bally wagon cost? A hundred pounds?"
"Oh, no. You can get a good one for a hundred dollars or less, and
perhaps a second-hand----"
"But I mean for the purposes of a communication to the Governor?"
We agreed that for such a purpose the value of a wagon was one hundred
pounds.
"It happened like this," Spoof explained. "The bullocks decided to have
their afternoon siesta as usual, and were unresponsive to all my
blandishments. Then I remembered your simple remedy--the remedy which
you said would be sure to fix them. So I brought an armful of hay,
spread it impartially under both of them, set fire to it, and stood back
for results.
"The process was a very interesting one. At first they seemed to think
it was flies, but when their kicking and switching proved ineffectual
they gently moved forward just far enough to bring the wagon, half full
of hay, over the fire. Then they resumed their slumbers.
"Well, I paused a moment, wondering whether I should let nature take
its course and have grilled steak for supper, but I decided that I was
in more need of steak on the hoof than in the platter. So I crowded in
and unhitched them, and got my eye-brows singed for my pains."
"Good boy, Spoof!" said I. "You couldn't have done more than that."
Whereupon Spoof turned on me a look of gratitude out of all proportion
to my remark.
"It's good of you to say that. I felt that I had been rather an ass,
don't you know? I was quite sure you would see the smoke. . . . Well,--I
say, let's go in and have some tea."
So we had tea, with bread and jam, and afterwards Spoof insisted upon
reading paragraphs from _Punch_.
"It's a different kind of humor, don't you know?" he would say, when we
failed to laugh at the right moment; "nothing to do with buffalo bones
or tiger lilies, or gophers tied by their hind legs to the corner stakes
of one's farm. But then, we English are a peculiar people; we can have a
joke without making a bonfire over it."
"That is just what you, personally, didn't do," Jack reminded him. "It
was your bonfire, not ours."
It was almost sundown when Spoof for the seventh time absolved us from
all blame in the matter, and we started on our trek homeward across the
green prairie. Jack offered to go to town the next day and negotiate a
deal for a new wagon, but Spoof would not hear of it. He himself would
go, and no other.
"I have to pick up some new language, anyway," he insisted. "The
bullocks are growing very tired of the monotony of my remarks."
Spoof evidently left the next morning, for when Jack and I went over to
Two about the middle of the forenoon the place was deserted. We set to
work in his hay field, and by Wednesday night we had harvested more hay
than Spoof would have put up in a week. That was our atonement.
Affairs now began to move with some rapidity in our little settlement.
Until now we had had the world, as far as the eye could carry, to
ourselves, but Spoof proved only the advance guard of a stream of
neighbours which, from its source in a dozen different springs of
humanity, was to pour in upon us during the next few months. Wednesday
night we came back from Spoof's, as we had a little shyness about being
overtaken in our good works, and the next morning, while I was gulping
great draughts of ozone in front of the shack before breakfast, Marjorie
called over my shoulder,
"What's that, away to the east, Frank?"
Sure enough, there was a little white pyramid outlined against the
horizon; another tent pitched against the front trenches of
civilization.
"Neighbours, Marjorie; neighbours!" I said. "We're getting to be quite a
community. Do you ever think of the day when all this wilderness of
prairie will be plowed, every foot of it; all bearing something for the
world's needs, with prosperous farm houses at every corner, schools,
churches----"
"I smell the porridge!" Marjorie exclaimed, rushing into the shack. She
had a way of cutting off my rhapsodies like that.
Jack had seen the tent, too, and he and Jean came over at noon to
discuss it. We decided to knock off work early that evening and all
drive over to make the acquaintance of the new-comers.
We found that the tent was pitched on Eighteen, in the next township to
the east. As we came up we were greeted by a fine collie dog, who seemed
to be suffering from the conflicting emotions of his natural good humor
and a sense that we had no business on Eighteen. His rush upon us with
great barking and show of ferocity ended in much amiable tail-wagging.
Evidently we measured up to his requirements, which we took to be no
mean compliment.
A team of ponies were tethered on the prairie not far away, and a
democrat stood beside the tent, with some of its burden still to be
unloaded. A woman of slender build and rather striking beauty stood at
the door. There was surprise, and, as I thought, a suggestion of fear in
her eyes. More remarkable was the sudden and unmistakable relief which
sprang into her expression when she had seen us clearly.
I am not a detective, even of the amateur kind, but I found myself
instantly gripped by a conclusion. "The woman is afraid," I said to
myself, "and yet she is no coward, she has no fear of strangers, but she
is afraid of someone--afraid of someone she knows. She was relieved
when she saw we were strangers." The thought was one which was to recur
to me from many angles during the next few months.
She seemed to hesitate about greeting us, and Jean, always the
quick-witted one of our quartette, was the first to break a rather
stupid silence. She sprang lightly from the wagon and went forward with
arms outstretched.
"We are your neighbours, from Fourteen and Twenty-two," she explained.
"We saw your tent, and thought we would welcome you to prairie-land."
"That is good of you," said a well modulated English voice, but some way
the voice seemed to break just there, and the lips of the new-comer went
all a-tremble. The next we knew she and Jean had their arms about each
other. . . .
"Oh, how horribly stupid of me!" the stranger exclaimed, in a moment or
two, disengaging herself and dabbing her eyes with a little lump of
handkerchief. "One gets a bit--a bit lonely, in spite of everything. You
will think I am rather a bad pioneer. My name is Mrs. Alton, and I'm
_so_ glad you came, Miss--Miss----"
Jean introduced herself and the others of our party, and then we
clambered down out of the wagon.
"Gerald and I have been very much alone," Mrs. Alton explained. "Gerald
doesn't seem to mind it a bit--rather glories in it, I think. Already he
has made some great explorations, but always under Sandy's watchful
eye. Sandy is a great comfort. Aren't you, sir?"
She turned to the dog, who sedately held up one paw in acknowledgment of
her remark.
"Gerald, I should have told you, has just turned three. I am a widow,"
Mrs. Alton rattled on, as though not wishing to stress the point--"and
Gerald and I have our way to make in the world. He is tired now, and
asleep after a great day's roaming, but I shall wake him before you go."
"Oh, please don't!" Jean entreated. "Let us see him as he sleeps," and
without waiting for an invitation she gently made her way into the
little tent.
"Don't you think me clever?" Mrs. Alton asked, when we had at last
discovered it.
It consisted of a trunk, with the lid turned back, and about half the
contents removed. In this she had laid a little mattress, and on the
mattress slept a beautiful boy, his face still ruddy from his wrestle
with the prairie winds; his lips cherry red and slightly parted; his
little arms thrown jauntily above his head. Jean leaned and touched the
breathing lips with hers, and so did Marjorie, and a little later I saw
tears on the cheeks of both. It was then I remembered that these girls
had not seen a child since we left Regina in the spring, and the
mothering instinct in them, pent up through all those lonely months, now
burst forth in sweet silent tears. I began to realize that Gerald Alton
was to be one of the important members of the community.
"Isn't he lovely--lovely?" Jean was murmuring as though unable to tear
herself from his side. "Mrs. Alton, I am sure you have placed us all
under a debt of gratitude. This community simply had to have a baby."
After that, conversation came easier, and we found ourselves talking
about farm life, and the problems of the homesteader. Mrs. Alton drank
in every word with avidity; she was eager for information on the most
casual affairs.
"I am so frightfully stupid!" she exclaimed. "You see, I know nothing
about farming, and I suppose it was a very wild notion that I should
take a homestead. I did it on Gerald's account. I shall manage some way,
and in three years--by the time he must start to school--the farm will
be mine. Then I shall sell it or mortgage it to give him an education."
Here was pluck for you. It was apparent from her language that she was a
woman of some refinement; possibly a woman who had never known hard work
or privation. A turn in the wheel of fortune, and she was without the
money for the education of her boy. A free farm in Canada offered the
solution, and the wilds of the West could not deter her.
"By that time we may have a school next door," I suggested. "People will
flow in here in crowds, once they make a start. Have you plans for
carrying on the work of the farm?"
"I have two men following with boards to build a house; just a very tiny
house, in keeping with my purse. Then I hope to hire a neighbor to do
some plowing, and I will plant some corn next spring. I shall raise
chickens, and have a great garden--I know all about gardening," she
added, naively, with a sudden return of confidence. "You should have
seen my English roses!"
We had not the heart to tell her that there lay a great gulf between
English roses and a Canadian cabbage patch, and she rattled on,
evidently glad of some one to watch with sympathy the mirage castles
which she was building on her horizon.
"For myself, I am quite penniless," she confessed, thrusting her
upturned palms towards us with a little impulsive gesture. "Gerald is my
resource, as well as my responsibility. He has a hundred pounds a year.
We shall invest it in this farm. I am sure we are going to prosper
wonderfully.
"All the world seems to circle around Gerald," she added, as though it
were an after-thought.
She made Jean and Marjorie sit down on a box on which she had spread a
steamer rug. Jack and I stood at the door of the tent, where the setting
sun blazoned our wind-tanned faces a ruddy red.
"How healthy you men are!" she exclaimed, clasping her fingers in a
nervous grip. "If only Gerald will grow up like that!"
"We will come over when the men bring the lumber, and help them build
your house," Jack volunteered.
"The lumber--what lumber? Oh, the boards! Oh, how good of you!"
The regard in which she held us appeared to rise another degree.
"And are you carpenters, as well as farmers?" she asked. "How
wonderfully clever your men are, here. I had to go to a doctor in
Regina--Gerald had a rash, or something--it was in the evening and I
found him at his house, building a chicken-coop. Jolly wonderful, isn't
it?"
As the shadow of the democrat filled the tent door we spoke of leaving.
"Not until you have had tea," she insisted. "We shall have tea with
biscuits and jam. I bought an oil stove in Regina--a most wonderful
machine. We shall have it ready in a moment."
While she started her oil stove she asked, casually enough, "And am I
the only new-comer in all this big prairie which you have been having to
yourselves?"
"No; you are the second," I answered. "We already have one neighbour, a
countryman of yours, down on section Two. Spoof, he calls himself,
although that is not his real name."
She was working over the stove, with her back toward us, and perhaps she
dallied longer than there was any need for, but I took no notice of the
matter at the time.
"What a strange name," she said, after a while. . . . "Is he there
now--I mean, have you seen him lately? A countryman of mine; you know, I
must be interested in him," she added, brightly, turning her face to us
again.
Then we told of Spoof's unfortunate attempt to apply a Western
corrective to his balky oxen. But she seemed to lose interest in the
theme, and changed the conversation to some other topic. Suddenly she
remembered her promise that we should see Gerald awake, and,
disregarding our protests, she stirred him out of his sleep. His big,
blue eyes blinked for a moment at the lamp which she had lighted; then
slowly took in his visitors. When he had subjected us to a careful
scrutiny he turned to his mother.
"Dem Injuns," he remarked.
"Oh, no, dear, these are not Indians. I am afraid I have let him think
that all the people in this country are Indians," Mrs. Alton explained.
"He is not the first Englishman who has thought that," Jack interrupted.
"It's a somewhat common opinion."
Mrs. Alton accepted the criticism deftly. "So it is," she admitted, "but
then, you see, we _like_ Indians, just as we like people of all strange
colors, which is something you Americans"--she used the word in its
continental sense--"have not learned to do. No, Gerald, these are not
Red Indians, with feathers and paint and bows and arrows, but white
people like Mumsy and you, only very much wiser. They are friends from
Fourteen and Twenty-two--it _is_ Fourteen and Twenty-two, isn't it?--you
see how I am picking up your way of knowing places by number rather than
by name--and they have come for a little visit with Gerald and Mumsy and
Sandy. Now say 'How do you do, Miss Lane.'"
But Gerald was not in exhibition mood. "Dem Injuns," he insisted, and
with that we had to be satisfied.
At length, with assurances that we would repeat our visit soon, and a
promise from Mrs. Alton that she would return it when the men had her
house under way, we clambered into our wagon and started the oxen on
their slow, lumbering gait homeward. Sandy saw us properly off the
place, and even stood at attention until we faded out of sight in the
twilight. There is likely to be a nip to the night air on the prairies
even in midsummer, and Jean, I noticed, snuggled comfortably beside me
on the board across the wagon box which served as a seat. . . . Or
perhaps it was that for the first time in months the latent motherhood
in her nature had been stirred into consciousness.
It was Sunday before we heard or saw anything more of Spoof. A hot
summer wind was chasing little scurries of dust and billowing our oat
field like a lake of turquoise green when suddenly his tall form loomed
up on the rough trail which already wriggled across the prairie from
Fourteen to Two. He had discarded coat and waist-coat; in a
khaki-colored shirt and corduroy breeches and leggings and an Indian
helmet which he had dug up from somewhere he was a picturesque and
striking figure as he strode into the grateful shade of the shanty.
Under his arm he carried a banjo case.
"I'm tired after a busy week," he explained, "so I didn't bring the
bullocks. Moreover, their behavior last Sunday was not exemplary. But I
say," he continued, "there must be something in that remedy of yours,
after all. They haven't balked since."
"They have learned that you are a man of desperate measures," said Jack.
"They have that. And besides, I fell in with a cow puncher on my way to
town; his horse had gone lame and he took a lift with me. He was a
veritable mine of expletives."
Spoof took off his helmet and sat down in the shade. A ring of dust had
formed on his fair temples and forehead and his brown hair was curly
with perspiration. He was a young man good to look at; straight and
lean, but not too spare; with white teeth that flashed behind lips
always ready to spring to a smile beneath a sandy mustache that had more
in it of promise than of realization. His hands were small and finely
formed, with long, delicate fingers, and he gave his nails a degree of
attention not often found among those so close to the realities of life
as were we pioneers.
"Have you tried playing to them?" said Jack, harking back to the oxen.
"They are said to be very responsive to music."
"I shall try no more experiments on the bullocks," Spoof returned,
pointedly; "not, at least, while I have neighbours at hand who will
serve the purpose as well. But that reminds me----"
Opening the banjo case he produced, not only a banjo, but a box of
candy, which he had managed to smuggle into it.
"The ladies, I hope, will accept," said he, tendering the candy to Jean.
"If accompanied by a serenade in our honour?" was her quick rejoinder.
"But not until after I have had a bath, and have somewhat recovered my
wind," Spoof pleaded, and was excused.
It was evening before he took up his banjo, but almost with the first
sweep of its clamoring strings he started vibrations which seemed to
catch our little band of exiles somewhere about the heart and squeeze us
suddenly hollow with loneliness. Then he sang, dipping into little
fragments of repertoire, until at last he hit upon something that Jean
had learned before we left the East, and there her clear soprano joined
his tenor as naturally as one brook mingles with another and both flow
on, singing a new song which is all of the old one, and something more.
I had never learned to sing, and while I felt the heart-tugs of their
harmony there were other strings tugging at my heart as well.
"But we forgot the greatest news," Jean exclaimed, in a pause after one
of their selections. "We have neighbours--two new neighbours--three
counting Sandy. They are living on Eighteen, to the east; surely you saw
the tent?"
"So I did," said Spoof, "but I thought it might be a wandering Indian
family. Two, did you say? A married couple?"
"No, a widow, Mrs. Alton, and her baby Gerald, the dearest little chap.
He puts us down for Indians, and with some reason."
"Gerald?" said Spoof. "How old is he?"
"Just turned three, so Mrs. Alton told us. You should see her; not very
big, but pluck to the marrow. She has taken a homestead so that she can
raise the money to educate her boy. She is coming over as soon as she is
settled, and we must have you meet her. She's English, and you'll love
her."
Jean's frankness rather set me at ease again. Evidently I was magnifying
the grip that Spoof was gaining upon her. She was content that he should
love his new English neighbor.
"I shall be wonderfully interested in her," Spoof said, gaily, but it
seemed to me that his mind had suddenly gone all a-ramble. There was a
moment's silence, then he took up the thread again. "I once knew a
little boy of that name--Gerald--was much attached to him. Strange how
an incident--a name, for example--will recall a whole chain of
memories."
What memories of Spoof's was aroused he did not say, but he sang no
more, and presently decided it was time to go home.