FELIX THE FAITHLESS
To Whitey's intense relief the following morning was clear, and he
realized, with delight, that at last he would be able to get away from
the T Up and Down. He had never been so tired of a place in his life. It
was almost worse than school.
After breakfast Dan Brayton took Whitey into his office, and while
Whitey sat on a saddle, Dan slouched in his saggy chair and talked
business.
"I'm sure glad you bin able t' stay a coupl'a days," he said. "It musta
bin a pleasant change for you, an' it's give me a chanst t' think over
this here important business o' your father's. I've writ a letter for
you t' deliver, t' my friend Walt Lampson, o' the Star Circle, down
so'east o' here a piece, for you t' take t' him. Y' see, we can't fill
all your dad's r'quir'munts, so I'm callin' on Walt t' sort o' help out
with th' balance."
Dan looked impressively at Whitey, who didn't understand much of what
he was talking about, and didn't care about anything he was to do, he
was so glad to get away from the T Up and Down.
"This'll take you out of your way a bit," Dan went on, "but you won't
have t' cross th' Zumbro, an' I'll send back that hoss you borrowed from
Cal Smith, by one o' the hands. An' I'll lend you one o' my nags t' take
you as far as Willer Bend, where you c'n get another mount. Little
Thompson'll go that far with you, an' from there on th' goin's
straight."
So, on the borrowed horse, and with the letter sewed inside his shirt,
Whitey set forth with Little Thompson, the tall, thin, solemn cowboy who
had sung the dismal songs. And glad as he was to leave, Whitey regretted
that he did not have a more cheerful companion. For Little's idea of
entertainment was to talk about funerals.
He seemed to have enjoyed going to them greatly, and described each
individual one at length. Never before had Whitey known what a subject
for conversation funerals could make. Little dwelled on the burial of
each one of his immediate family, then passed on to his distant
relatives, then to his friends, then to his acquaintances. Whitey's
nerves were pretty steady, as you know, but after about four hours of
this, Little got him so fidgety that he thought he would fall off the
horse. Finally he thought Little had changed the subject, and breathed a
sigh of relief.
"Drink's a awful evil," Little announced solemnly. "They was a friend o'
mine, one o' them two-handed drinkers, what was down to Bismarck, an'
got in th' c'ndition what liquor perduces, an' this friend o' mine was
standin' on th' sidewalk, an' 'long comes a funeral."
"Here it is again!" muttered Whitey, with a groan.
"An' this friend o' mine," Little continued, "sees this here funeral,
an' bein' in th' c'ndition he's in, he thinks it is a percession, an' he
waves his hat an' cheers, an' he gets urrested."
Little looked sternly at Whitey as though to drive the moral of this
story home, and to warn him never to drink and cheer a funeral. But at
this moment "Willer Bend" hove in sight, and the talk turned to other
channels.
The Bend was a relief in more ways than one, for it was a beautiful spot
on the sharp turn of a narrow creek, whose banks were overhung by
weeping-willows, the green of their leaves made vivid by the recent
rain. One Chet Morgan, a nester, lived here. Nesters--or small
farmers--were not usually popular in the early days of the Western
ranges, as they had a way of fencing in the springs, or water-holes, to
provide irrigation for their crops. But there was plenty of water in
that country, so Chet was welcome to all of it he wanted.
While Whitey sat in the doorway of the small shack, Little had a long
talk with Chet, near the stable, and Chet seemed to be nodding his head
in agreement to everything the puncher said. They then rested awhile and
had dinner with the nester, and after that Little rode away, leading
Whitey's borrowed horse. There seemed no reason for Whitey's staying any
longer, and Chet again went to the stable, and returned leading what is
called a jack, "jack" being short for "jackass."
"Here's your mount, son," said Chet, "an' if you'll keep t' th'--"
"Am I to ride _that_?" Whitey demanded, pointing at the jack.
"Sure," Chet replied. "Both of my hosses has glanders, but this jack's
all right. I've rid him offen. You'll find him gentle an' perseverin'
an' good comp'ny. Mebbe he does go a mite faster toward home than away
from it, but he allus gets somewhere. His name's Felix, after a uncle o'
mine what--"
Followed a personal history of Chet's uncle, to which Whitey did not
listen. He was thinking of the figure he would cut arriving at the Star
Circle on Felix, and hoped he would get there at night. Chet returned to
the subject of the jack, to whose back a blanket was strapped.
"I'm sorry my saddles won't fit him," said Chet, "but you'll find
sittin' on this blanket as comf'tbul as your mother's rockin'-chair, an'
you've only sixty mile t' go."
"Sixty miles!" gasped Whitey.
"Thassall. Now you keep t' that road, with them hills t' your right, an'
when you get t'--"
Chet described at length Whitey's route to the Star Circle Ranch. Sadly
Whitey mounted Felix and set forth. Again the road proved little but a
grass-grown wagon track through the rolling plain edged by the gray
hills. And soon it seemed to Whitey that Chet had been over-enthusiastic
when he said that Felix's back was easy as a rocking-chair. At first it
might have seemed so, but after awhile it felt more like a rail fence.
And Whitey discovered peculiar traits in Felix. He constantly wanted to
turn to the right, and had to be pulled back, and he was cold-jawed. And
once in a while he would stop short, and when Whitey urged him on, would
start in a despondent way, with his head down and his ears flopping, and
would have to be kicked or whipped to be urged to do anything faster
than a walk. It was all very discouraging.
Perhaps you never have seen a horse or a jack attached to the end of the
pole of one of those old stone grinding-mills, around which he marches
and marches, while the grain is ground between the whirling stones in
the center. That was Felix's regular job, which accounted for many of
his peculiarities--but Whitey never knew about it.
Among the interesting things about animals is their sense of time. Many
of them seem to be as accurate as clocks and some of them as useful as
calendars. One dog, in particular, comes to my mind, whom his master
used to bathe on Sundays. And when this custom was firmly fixed in
his--the pup's--mind, he would go away on Friday night and stay away
till Monday morning. He got to be the dirtiest dog in town.
And the easiest time for an animal to tell is the time to stop work and
eat. Felix was very clever in that regard. At about six o'clock the
unsuspecting Whitey dismounted to stretch himself and ease the strain of
jouncing up and down on that rocking-chair that had come to feel like a
ridge-pole. Naturally his eyes turned away from Felix, to whom he was
beginning to take a personal dislike.
Whitey's eyes were brought back with a jerk by the soft thud of little
hoofs on the prairie, for Felix was beating it back toward Willer Bend,
with a speed that astonished his late rider. Whitey started after him
instinctively, but he soon realized that that was useless, and he stood
and watched, while Felix became a blurred spot in the distance. Whitey
didn't know that it was time to quit for the day at the
grinding-mill--and it would not have done him any good if he had.
But he knew that it was lonely on the prairie. And that he had come only
about a third of the way to the Star Circle Ranch. So he supposed he
must be in for another walk, for he wouldn't go back to Willer Bend for
that Felix, not if he died for it. He started determinedly on his
course. He might meet some one who would give him a lift. Anyway, it was
going to be a moonlight night, and wouldn't be so bad; and walking
wasn't much slower than riding Felix, and was far more comfortable.
So Whitey trudged and trudged until dusk came. Then he sat down and ate
some of the food he had brought with him. Then darkness came, and a big
moon poked its head up over the eastern horizon, and rode up into the
sky, where it began to get smaller and more silvery, and to flood the
prairie with its light. And Whitey started, and it wasn't so bad to
tread the soft road, and to hear the hum of the insects, and to feel the
gentle night breeze against his face, and it would be something to tell
about afterwards.
Whitey did not know what time it was when he sat down on a hummock to
rest. And he must have fallen asleep, for after a while, out of some
vague country that seemed like the mountains near the Bar O Ranch, a
great giant came rushing down toward him. And the giant had a head like
Felix's, but on top of it was a big yellow light--like those lamps
miners wear on their heads--that grew brighter and brighter, and the
giant roared louder and louder, until he woke Whitey up.
Whitey rubbed his eyes, then pinched himself to make sure he was awake,
for the roaring still sounded in his ears, and he looked around and saw
two little red and green lights disappearing in the distance. And then
he understood that he must have sat down near the track of the
railroad, for those lights were on the end of a train, and the big
yellow light on the giant's head must have been the engine's headlight.
Well, the road followed the railway for a distance, and it couldn't be
such an awful way to the Star Circle Ranch. Should he go on, or should
he sleep some more? He might catch cold from the dew, but he could put
on his slicker, and--he was awfully tired.
He yawned, he nodded, he was sound asleep before he knew it.