THE HERMIT OF THE YUCCA.
Late that same afternoon the three boy travelers found themselves
riding amidst a perfect forest of stiff–armed yucca plants. Here
they came upon a small shack where lived a strange character of the
Texan wilds. This old man was known to the cowboys and ranchers who
passed that way as Mad Mat. He was supposed to have been driven to the
solitudes of the yucca desert by some unfortunate love affair, but of
this he never talked, and all concerning his former life was merely
rumor.
Hot and dusty as the boys were, they decided that it would be pleasant
to stop in at the shack and see if they could obtain some fresh water
and a cooked meal, for, although they had plenty of cold grub, they had
neglected to bring any cooking appliances. Jack knocked at the door of
the dilapidated shack and the boys, who had not been prepared for the
strange appearance of Mad Mat, almost shrank back as he appeared.
The old hermit was dressed in a collection of filthy rags, apparently
secured from all sources, for no two pieces matched. A long gray beard
hung almost to his waist, and out of the hairy growth which half
covered his face his eyes glowed like two coals of fire. However, he
did not appear half so formidable as he looked, and the boys concluded
that the old hermit of the yucca waste would be an interesting
character to study.
Mad Mat invited them cordially enough into his shack, and opened the
door to them with as consequential a flourish of his hand as if this
had been the dwelling place of an emperor. He lived, so he told them,
by tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, so rumor in that
part of the country had it, had been stolen from passing herds.
However that might be, Mad Mat was able to set forth some excellent
mutton before his hungry guests, and, although the surroundings were
not suited to the fastidious, the boys had roughed it too much in the
southwest to be over–particular.
They found Mad Mat talkative on every subject but himself. In fact,
when Ralph asked him where he came from the old man became quite angry
and glared at them out of his beard like an “owl in an ivy bush,” as
Ralph put it afterward.
Jack found an opportunity to draw Ralph aside and warned him that
it was not good policy in that country to ask personal questions of
strangers.
“Most of these odd characters of the plains have a reason for being out
here which they don’t like to talk about,” he said.
By way of changing the subject, Walt turned to that safe topic, the
weather.
“You evidently haven’t had much rain here lately?” he said.
“Nope,” rejoined Mad Mat in his odd, jerky way of talking; “no rain. No
rain for a year.”
“No rain for a year!” echoed the boys.
“That’s right. Maybe a drop now and then, but not to amount to
anything.”
“How do you get water then?” asked Ralph, for the ponies had been
watered from a big tub filled from a wooden pipe.
“Pipe it from a dry spring.”
“That’s a funny sort of spring—a dry one,” exclaimed Walt.
“It’s so, just the same,” replied the hermit, rather angrily. “We call
a dry spring one that you have to dig out, one that doesn’t come to the
surface. We find ’em with divining rods.”
“Well, it looks to me as if you might get some rain to–night,” said
Jack, who had risen and looked out of the door.
“I guess not,” said the hermit confidently. “The sheep ain’t baaing,
and they mos’ gen’ally always do afore rain.”
“Well, there’s something coming up then, or I’m no judge of weather.”
At the same time a low, distant rumbling was heard.
“Thunder!” cried Walt, springing to his feet.
“That’s what,” agreed Ralph. “I guess we are in for a wetting.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the hermit, shrugging his thin shoulders.
He rose and accompanied by Walt and Ralph came to the door, where Jack
was already standing.
“Goshen!” he exclaimed, “it is makin’ up its mind to suthin’, fer sure.”
Far off to the southwest lightning was ripping and tearing in livid
streaks across the sky. It had grown almost as black as night, and
there was a distinctly sulphurous smell in the air.
It was a magnificent sight as the storm swept down on them, although it
was also awe–inspiring. The sky grew like a black curtain spread above
the earth. Across it riven fragments of white cloud were driven, like
flying steam. Through this sable canopy the lightning tore and crackled
with vicious emphasis.
But, strangely enough, there was no rain. Instead, great clouds of dust
heralded the coming of the storm. The air was stifling and heavy, too,
like the breath from an open oven door.
“There ain’t much rain up yonder,” said the old hermit, his long white
hair and beard blown about wildly by the wind.
“No rain?” questioned Jack. “What is there, then?”
“Lightning,” exclaimed the old man, his eyes glowing strangely as he
spoke. It seemed that he rejoiced and triumphed in the advance of the
storm. He held his arms extended to the heavens like a prophet of olden
days.
Suddenly with an ear–splitting crash a bolt tore its way across the sky
and fell with a sizzling crash almost in front of the shanty. It bored
into the earth, throwing up a cloud of stones and dust on every side.
So great was the force of the explosion when it struck that Jack was
sent reeling back against the door post.
“No more of that for me,” said the boy. “I’m going inside.”
“A lot of good that will do you,” scoffed Walt Phelps. “It wouldn’t
much surprise me if this house was hit next.”
Ralph’s face turned pale as he heard. In truth the constant display
of heavenly artillery was discomposing. A green glare lit up the
surroundings, the yuccas standing out blackly against the constant
flashes.
The thunder, too, was terrific and incessant, shaking the earth as it
reverberated. All at once came a crash that seemed as if it must have
split the earth wide open. Balls of green and white fire spattered in
every direction. The boys were hurled helter–skelter all over the hut.
It was almost pitch dark, and they called to each other nervously. Not
one knew but that the other might have been killed or seriously injured.
But although bruised and badly scared, they were all right, it was
found. Yet as they scrambled to their feet the lightning outside showed
them a still form lying across the door of the hut.
“It’s the hermit!” cried Jack.
“He’s dead!” shouted Ralph.
“Hold on a minute,” warned Jack.
He went outside and Walt helped him drag the old man into the hut. The
lightning, by one of those freaks for which it is noted, had stripped
his miserable collection of rags right off him and there did not appear
to be much life in him.
The boys laid him on a table and then lighted a lantern, for it was too
dark to see but by artificial light. All this time the storm raged and
crashed alarmingly about them, but they were too intent on discovering
a spark of life in the old hermit to pay any attention to it.
“Get some water, quick!” ordered Jack.
There was a tub in one corner of the hut and the boys dipped cloths
into it, which Jack applied to the base of the old man’s skull. After
a time, to Jack’s great delight, the old hermit began to give signs of
recovery. He opened his queer, bloodshot eyes and looked up at the boys.
“How do you feel?” asked Jack.
“As if I’d bin kicked by a blamed mule,” answered Mad Mat.
The boys could not help laughing at his whimsical description of the
effects of the lightning.
“It took all the—the————”—Jack hesitated as to what to call the
hermit’s rags—“the clothes off you.”
“Consarn it, so it did,” grunted the old man, sitting up. “The last
time it hit me it did the same thing.”
“What! Have you been hit before?” demanded the boys in astonishment.
“Sure. This makes the third time, an’ I guess as I’ve got through this
safely, I’m all right now.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” declared Walt with a grin,
“but once would be quite enough for me.”
“Anyhow, it didn’t rain,” said the hermit triumphantly. “I told yer it
wouldn’t.”
It was all the boys could do to keep from breaking out into hearty
laughter at the strange old man who seemed to mind being hit by
lightning no more than any ordinary occurrence.
“Waal, now I’ve got to stitch all them rags together agin,” he said
presently in a complaining tone, regarding the scattered collection of
stuff that had been torn off him by the lightning.
“Gracious! I should think you’d get a new outfit,” declared Jack.
The hermit glowered at him.
“Git a new outfit? What’d I git a new outfit fer? Ain’t them clothes as
good as ever? All they want is stitching together agin and they’ll be
as good as new.”
So saying, he went outside, for the storm had passed over by this time,
and began gathering his scattered raiment.
“Hadn’t you better put on some clothes?” suggested Jack, trying to
stifle his laughter.
“Oh, that’s right!” exclaimed the hermit, who had apparently quite
forgotten that he was bereft of all garments. He returned to the shack,
put on an old blanket, and with this wrapped about him he set about
collecting his rags once more, grumbling to himself all the time.
“I s’pose that blame lightnin’ will hit one of my sheep next trip,” he
grunted, as if the fact that he had been struck was nothing compared
with the loss of one of his sheep.
“Speaking of sheep, we’d better go and see how the ponies are getting
along,” said Jack presently.
They ran to the rough shed where the ponies had been tied. Two of them,
they found, had been knocked down by a bolt, while the other was half
wild from fright. The two that had been struck were just struggling to
their feet.
The boys quieted their distressed animals and saddled them up ready to
depart from the strange old hermit and his abode.
“You can’t blame the ponies for being scared,” declared Jack with a
laugh; “being knocked out twice in one day is pretty tough.”
“Unless you’re a hermit,” laughed Walt, at which they all roared.
Jack handed the hermit some money to pay for their entertainment as
they were leaving. The old man took it without a word, except to say
that he would have to hurry and stitch a pocket on his rags so as to
have some place to put it.
Then, without a word of farewell, he continued picking up his scattered
raiment, and the last the boys saw of him he was still intent on his
odd task.