Then from the farmhouse the undiminished sounds of conflict forced
themselves into my consciousness and suddenly I burned with a reckless
berserk rage against the whole world.
Springing to my feet, I hurled myself upon the barbed wire fence that
crossed the slough, and clinging with hands and feet to the thorny
strands, edged my way across. Skirt and stockings were torn in a dozen
places. My heavy coils of hair slipped down. My hands bled profusely.
Forcing my way through the second fence, I started across the meadow. As
I rounded a clump of bushes a large red bull, with head to ground and
pawing hoof, barred my way. But I was far past caring for such as he.
Snatching up a stick, I began clapping wood and hatchet together and
charged directly at his lordship. He stood his ground till the hatchet
was almost touching his nose, then, with a bellow of fear, turned tail
and raced across the field with me in close pursuit. Gaining the fence,
I tumbled over and arrived panting at the back of the farmhouse.
In a beautiful kitchen garden a farmer stood as though rooted to the
ground with amazement at my grotesque appearance, as with hands and face
streaked with blood, clothing in shreds and bedraggled with mud, I stood
before him with a club in one hand and a hatchet in the other.
Eyes bulging, nostrils flaming, tail in air, a fine bull calf was
careering madly among the vegetables.
“Wh—wh—why, my good Lord, woman,” began the man as he recovered his
breath. “What’s happened to you? Where in the world did you drop from?”
“Where is my husband? What have you done to him?” I demanded hotly.
“Well, now. Let me see.” He scratched his head perplexedly. “Seems like
I recall a man askin’ for a bucket o’ water something like a half hour
back. Might he be your man now? I was so plum frantic with this here
pesky calf, that I didn’t pay no attention to the man.”
“But who were you going to shoot?” I persisted. “I could hear you
swearing clear over to the railroad.”
“Sho, now. Is that so? ’Scuse me. I’m plum bad about swearin’. Wife,
she’s after me all the time, too,” he apologised. “Now, the wife’s right
set on her posies, and this here —— calf—’scuse me, seems like I just
can’t stop cussin’—got in and trompled ’em all down, and while I was a
trying my darndest to get him out, I’ll be damned if he didn’t bust
through into the vegetables and cavort all over them.”
Meanwhile, the innocent cause of the commotion had taken advantage of
the lull in the storm to make his escape from the garden.
“You didn’t get in the slough, did ye?” continued the farmer, eyeing my
skirt. “Didn’t ye see all them fences? We had so much trouble with the
stock gettin’ in the —— hole—’scuse me, beats the devil how those words
will come apopping out—that we fenced her all in. But what gets me is
how ye come to get past that bull ’thout being gored to death. He’s
turrible dangerous. That’s why we got all them high fences about. Kill’t
two men, he did, ’fore I got him. Bought him cheap, but the wife just
raises a hell of a row—’scuse me—at keepin’ him.”
I asked for water, for my thirst was intense, and after drinking deep
from the dripping dipper and washing off the worst of the blood and
dirt, I followed the farmer to the main road, where he pointed out a
short cut to the railroad.
There I found Dan rushing frantically about, for having found the wheel
with the hatchet gone, he felt sure I had been kidnapped.
It seems that he had gone to the house, found the farmer chasing the
calf, secured the water, then thinking it would be difficult to carry
the kettle through the fences, tried another route and got on the wrong
road. Before he could find the right path and return, I was in the
slough.
We slept that night in a tumble-down shed—or rather, Dan did. Each time
I dropped to sleep, I could feel myself sinking in the slough, and would
wake up with a start.
Next day we rode a good deal and covered a long stretch of territory.
The country was flat and uninteresting and my strained muscles occupied
most of my attention as I tried to confine the rebellious wheel to the
smoother stretches.
At noon we pitched camp near the railroad track and had the meal well
under way when a passenger train pulled out of a station a mile or two
ahead and thundered toward us.
“Look,” exclaimed Dan. “What’s the matter there? The train is going to
stop.”
Sure enough, it was losing speed. People were thrusting their heads from
windows while the fireman was looking back at a group of men on the
blind end of the baggage car. Just as it ranged alongside us, a small
figure catapulted from the platform and rolled almost to our feet. The
train gathered way and sped on.
I rushed forward and fell on my knees beside a grimy, tattered boy of
some twelve years, who was clutching his fiery red head in both hands
and cursing like a pirate. Blood was spurting from a deep jagged gash in
his left wrist, which he had struck against the projecting fragment of a
broken bottle in his descent. I seized his arm and applied pressure to
control the hemorrhage. He fixed me with an uncomprehending glare. Then
his eyes fell on his dripping arm.
“Oh, Lord,” he gasped, “oh, Lord, I’m bleedin’ to death—I’m goin’ to
die. Oh, Ma, Ma.”
“Nonsense, kid, you won’t die. That blood looks a lot worse than it is.
Just be a good boy and hold still for a few minutes and I’ll fix you all
safe. Quick, Dan. Hand me that kettle of boiling water. Now, unpack my
emergency case.”
By the time Dan had the kit unpacked and contents laid out the water had
cooled enough for use. I cleansed and sterilised the wound, tied the
artery, and soon had the arm bandaged in scientific fashion. The boy had
made no sound, but gazed in fascination at the shining little
instruments, the vials of antiseptics and rolls of gauze.
“You see, this case proved useful after all,” I remarked to Dan as I
gathered up the implements. “If such things are needed at all, they
usually are needed badly. This boy would have bled to death without
proper attention.”
At my words the lad burst into tears. “The —— sons of ——” he sobbed.
“They all jumped me at once. They wouldn’t let me alone. I wasn’t doin’
no harm. It—it don’t cost the old railroad nothin’ if I do ride the
blind. I want to go home. I want to go ho—ome.” Tears washed pallid
channels down his sooty cheeks.
“Do you think you can take a little nourishment, young man?” queried Dan
as he busied himself with the meal.
The boy checked his sobs. “I dunno what that is, but I kin eat any old
kind of chuck. You just try me once and I’ll show you. I ain’t had
nothin’ but one little old hunk of bread in two days.”
“Well, take this pan of water and see if you can remove some of that
make-up from your manly countenance and then pitch into the grub. I’ll
die of starvation myself if I don’t eat soon.”
I set another kettle of water to boil for tea, and we all fell to with
avidity.
“Say, I made good time last night,” the boy volunteered, as he finished
his third helping of canned beans and bread. “Rode the Overland Limited.
Gee whiz, but she does burn up the rails. If I only could a stuck, I’d
been home to-morrow. But those boneheads chucked me off this morning.
Then I landed that old hearse they thrown me off of just now. Suppose
I’ll have to hoof it till night.”
“Why don’t you catch a freight? You wouldn’t be nearly so likely to get
into trouble.”
“Huh, a freight! Me? Not on your life! What do you think I am, a dead
one? I’m a live guy, I am. No bundle stiff about me. Say, do you know,
I’ve beat it clear from northern Wyoming. I’ve been workin’ a long time
there as a cowboy on a great big cattle ranch. Say, that’s the life.”
“Seems to me you’re travelling in the wrong direction for a cowboy,” I
observed. “The cattle ranges all lie west of here, and you’re heading
east. How does that happen?”
“Well, you see, Ma she wants to see me, so I thought I’d make a short
trip home. Me and the old man had a falling out, and I beat it west.
Say, do you know, he expected me to milk two cows, milk ’em and feed ’em
and wait on ’em hand and foot. No fun nor nothin’. And weed the garden!
Say, I bet you never saw as big a garden as we got—great long rows—and
say, I bet you never saw weeds grow as fast as ours do—big, tall weeds.
But Ma wants to see me, so I gotta go home.”
“Did your mother write to you to come?” I enquired gravely.
“No, she didn’t write. I’ve never stayed very long in one place so I
never wrote to tell her where I was.”
“Oh, my! She must be terribly worried about you. How long have you been
away?”
“Why, let’s see—it must be nearly six weeks now since I beat it. I met a
gang of hoboes the first day I was out and they took me right along with
’em to northern Wyoming. Say, that’s a great country, all right, all
right. But, of course, when Ma wanted to see me I had to leave.
“I tell you where’s a bad town you gotta fight shy of. That’s little old
Cheyenne. There’s a gun man there, Jeff Farr’s his name. Say, he shoots
a Bo for breakfast every mornin’. You folks want to watch out when you
go through. They run you in for nothin’ at all. I met a nigger just the
other side o’ there. Say, he was runnin’ in circles like a fitty cat.
They had chucked his pal in the can just for nothin’ at all—vag charge
maybe—and no tellin’ when he’d get out, and here’s this poor coon, can’t
go off and leave his pard, can’t find work, can’t get nothin’ to eat,
can’t do a thing in the world but chase around and bawl. Say, I felt
awful sorry for that poor coon.”
We raided our scanty stores to pack a lunch for the boy. I instructed
him in the care of his wound, described the location of various houses
along the road where I knew by experience he would be sure to find help,
gave him a little note of recommendation and explanation to use when
applying for assistance, then started him on the way to his waiting
mother.
Just at sundown we came to the town of Wood River, a place I am destined
to remember. Storm clouds were piling on the horizon as Dan hurried to
the shop to buy some meat for supper. While he was gone, some Greeks
approached and with much gesticulation endeavoured to explain something
to me. I gathered an idea of trouble of some kind, but exactly what they
were driving at I was unable to determine.
We camped on the outskirts of the village, and had hardly finished our
simple meal when gusts of wind and great drops of rain proclaimed the
coming of the storm. We looked anxiously about for shelter. There were
no barns near, but not far from the railroad track stood a house in
process of construction, and while doors and windows were lacking, the
roof and outside walls gave promise of sufficient protection. To this we
hurried and lifted the wheel onto the veranda just as a flood of rain
burst upon us. After a little search we found some nail kegs and sat
down in the front room. We were dozing when footsteps sounded on the
porch. I strained my eyes, but could see nothing in the pitchy
blackness.
Suddenly a light flashed in my face, the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed
my temple, and a hand gripped my arm.
“Get up there. None of your tricks now,” snarled a harsh voice.
The flash was turned on Dan, who was ordered to throw up his hands by a
second man, who flourished a revolver in his left hand. We stumbled to
our feet, dazed by the unexpectedness of it all.
“You’re under arrest. Better come quietly,” growled the first man
gruffly.
Dan tried to explain that we had only taken shelter from the storm and
had no intention of doing any damage, but was savagely ordered to shut
up. Grasping me tightly by the arm, the first fellow led the way out of
the building and down the road to the village.
Arrived at a tiny, wooden shanty, the man unlocked the door and crowded
us in. They slammed and bolted the door behind us and we heard their
footsteps retreating up the walk. As we stood, too bewildered to move, a
match flared in the darkness and in a moment the feeble rays of a candle
revealed the interior of the lock-up. It consisted of a single room,
partially divided by a partition, and containing two bunks. On one of
these sprawled a man, while a big negro held aloft the guttering candle
end. At sight of a woman the recumbent man sprang to his feet and
courteously bade us good evening. Without further ado or questioning, he
removed his hat and coat from the bunk where he had been lying and
suggested that we make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances would
permit.
At once the negro blew out the candle with the remark that we might need
it before morning.
As we settled ourselves as best we might in the darkness, flashes of
lightning revealed the dimensions of the one small, barred window, which
furnished all ventilation to the unfortunates within. Furniture,
drinking water or conveniences were utterly lacking and my flesh crawled
at the thought of the straw-covered bunk on which we must rest in the
confined space.
Hardly had we lain down, when the door was opened and a fifth person was
hustled in. Again the negro lit his candle stub, and we saw that the
newcomer was a boy of not more than sixteen years.
The officers had paused just outside the window and one remarked that it
was time to go home. There were no occupied buildings near the jail and
I could not help but consider what our fate would be should lightning
strike the flimsy wooden shack or a fire start from match or candle.
When I realised that I was locked within those constricting walls, it
seemed that they were crowding in and smothering me. I wanted to scream,
to beat my hands against the bars, but reason forbade. I settled down
and strove to cultivate the non-resisting attitude of our cell mates,
but my mind kept busy with the wonders of our boasted American
civilisation that permits such occurrences as this. I thought of the
churches throughout the land—no doubt there was one in this very
community—and of the teachings of One who had no place to lay His head.
“I was a stranger and ye took me not in ... sick, and in prison and ye
visited me not.”
How many of the good people of the nation have ever even so much as
thought of visiting those cast into their barbaric prisons?
At sunrise our jailers returned, unlocked the door and set us free.
There was no charge against us and no legal formalities to go through
apparently. Retrieving the wheel, we hastened out of town.
Beside a small house some miles away we stopped to get water for
breakfast. A motherly woman came to talk to us. Hearing of our recent
experiences, she took us into her home, provided us with hot baths, and
sent us to bed while she cleaned and sterilised our contaminated
apparel. Completely exhausted, I slept the clock around and woke next
morning to find my clothing, clean and neatly mended, piled on a chair
at the bedside. So, thanks to our good Samaritan, we are able to go
forward with renewed strength and courage.