CASEY
The two men followed the dog across the flats, through mesquite, through
scattered sage and greasewood, mounting gradually through chaparral to
barren slopes set with strange twisted shapes of cactus. When it became
apparent that Sandy's hazard had hit the mark, as they entered the
defile that made entrance for Pyramid Pass, the only path across the
Cumbre Range to the Bad Lands beyond, Sandy reined in, coaxed up Grit,
resentful, almost suspicious of any halt, lifting the collie to the
saddle in front of him. Grit protested and the pinto plunged, but
Sandy's persistence, the soothe of his steady voice, persuaded the dog
at last to accommodate itself as best it could, helped by Sandy's one
arm, sometimes with two as Sandy, riding with knees welded to Pronto's
withers, dropping reins over the saddle horn, left the rest to the
horse.
"I figger we got some distance yet," he said to Sam. "Dawg was goin'
steady as a woodchuck ten mile' from water. Reckon my guess was
right,--he wore his pads out crossin' the lava beds, though what in time
any hombre who ain't plumb loco is trapesin' round there for, beats me.
There is some grazin' on top of the Cumbre mesa, enough for a small
herd, but the other side is jest plain hell with the lights out, one big
slice of desert thirty mile' wide."
"Minin' camp over that way, ain't there?"
"Was. There's a lava bed strip of six-seven miles at the end of the
pass, then comes a bu'sted mesa, all box canyon an' rim-rock, shot with
caves, nothin' greener than cactus an' not much of that. There's a
twenty per cent. grade wagon road, or there was, for it warn't
engineered none too careful, that run over to the mines. I was over
there once, nigh on to ten years ago. They called the camp Hopeful then.
Next year they changed the name to Dynamite. Jest natcherully blew up,
did that camp. Nothin' left but a lot of tumbledown shacks an' a couple
hundred shafts an' tunnels leadin' to nothin'. Reckon this P. Casey is a
prospector, Sam. One of them half crazy old-timers, nosin' round tryin'
to pick up lost leads. One of the 'riginal crowd that called the dump
Hopeful, like enough. Desert Rat. Them fellers is born with hope an'
it's the last thing to leave 'em."
"Hope's a good hawss," said Sam. "But it sure needs Luck fo' a runnin'
mate."
"You said it." Sandy relapsed into silence.
At the far end of the pass the dog struggled to get down. They looked
out upon a stretch of desolation. Sandy had called it six or seven
miles. It might have been two or twenty. The deceit of rarefied air was
intensified by the dazzle of the merciless sun beating down on powdered
alkali, on snaky flows of weathered lava, on mock lakes that sparkled
and dissolved in mirage. The broken mesa, across which ran the road to
the deserted mining camp, mysteriously changed form before their eyes;
unsubstantial masses in pastel lights and shades of saffron, mauve and
rose. Over all was the hard vault of the sky-like polished turquoise.
"I'll let him give us a lead," said Sandy, "soon as we hit the lava. We
can foller his trail that fur. Sit tight, son." Grit whined but subsided
under the restraining hands.
"How about a drink 'fore we tackle that?" asked Sam, nodding at the
shimmering view.
"Better hold off for a while." Sandy took the lead, bending from the
saddle, reading the trail that Grit's paws had left in the alkali and
sand. Cactus reared its spiny stems or sprawled over the ground more
like strange water-growths that had survived the emptying of an inland
sea than vegetation of the land. Once the dog's tracks led aside to a
scummy puddle, saucered by alkali, dotted with the spoor of desert
animals that drank the bitter water in extremity. Then it ran straight
to a wide reef of lava. Sandy set down the collie. Grit ran fast across
the pitted surface, ahead of the horses, waiting for them to cross the
lava. They had hard work to get him to come to hand again, but he gave
in at last to the knowledge that they would not go on otherwise.
"Sand's too hot fo' yore pads, dawg," said Sandy, "Raise the mischief
with that tape. Shack erlong, Pronto. Give you a slice of Pedro's
dried-apple pie when we git back, to make up for workin' you Sunday."
The pinto tossed a pink muzzle and his master reached to pat the dusty,
sweat-streaked neck. Alkali rose about them in clouds. Grit's trail,
though blurred in the soft soil, was plain enough. The two riders went
silently on at a steady walking gait. Talk in the saddle with men who
make range-riding a business comes only in spurts.
"Never see a prospector with a dawg afore," said Sam at last. "An' that
a sheep dawg."
"Dawg 'ud be apt to tucker out in desert travel," agreed Sandy. "Mean
one more mouth fo' water."
He, like Sam, speculated on the kind of man P. Casey--if it was Casey
they were after--might be. If not a sheepman or a prospector, a third
probability made him an outlaw, a man with a price on his head, hiding
in the wilds from punishment. It sufficed to them that he was a man whom
a dog loved enough to bear a call to help his master.
Slowly, the mesa ahead took on more definite shape. The shadows resolved
themselves into ravines and canyons. They entered a gorge filled with
boulders and rounded rocks, over which the sure-footed ponies made
clattering, slippery progress. Here and there the gaunt skeleton of a
tree, white as if lime-washed, showed that once cottonwoods had
flourished before the devouring desert had claimed the territory. The
cactus was all prickly pear, the gray-green flesh of the flat leaves
starred with brilliant blossom. Along one side of the canyon, mounting
zigzag, showed the remains of a road, broken down by landslip and the
furious rush of cloud-burst waters.
Making this, finding it free of wagon sign or horse tracks, Sandy picked
up Grit's trail once again. The collie wriggled, shot up its muzzle,
whined, licked Sandy's face.
"Nigh there," suggested Sam. Sandy nodded and let the dog get down. Grit
raced off, nose high, streaking around a curve. When they reached it he
was out of sight. The road had been built up in places on the outer edge
with stones, dry-piled. They had fallen away, the grade following, so
that sometimes all that was left for passage was a ledge along which the
horses sidled carefully in single file, stirrups brushing the inside
bank. The zigzags ended, the canyon narrowed, deepened. Sandy looked down
to the dry bed of it four hundred feet below. The road rose at a steep
pitch, cliff to the right, precipice to the left, stretching on and up
to the summit of the pass.
Suddenly Pronto shied violently, tried to bolt up the cliff, scrambling
goatwise for twenty feet to stand shivering and snorting. Sandy's
balance was automatic, the muscles of his knees clamped for grip, he
gave the pinto its head, trusting to it to establish footing. He saw
Sam's roan dancing in the trail, the led mare plunging, dust rising all
about them. Left-handed, a Colt flashed out of Sandy's holster, barked
twice, the echoes tossing between the canyon walls. In the road a
rattlesnake writhed, headless, its body, thicker than a man's wrist,
checkered in dirty gray and chocolate diamonds.
"Git down there, you hysteric son of a gun," he said to the horse. "It's
all over." The pinto hesitated, shifted unwilling hoofs, squatted on its
haunches and, tail sweeping the dirt, tobogganed down to the road,
jumping catwise the moment it was reached, away from the squirming
terror. Sandy forced him back, leaned far down, tucked the barrel of the
gun under the snake's body and hurled it looping into the gorge. Sam got
his roan and the mare under control as the dust subsided.
"More'n a dozen buttons," said Sandy. "Listen!"
Grit, unseen, ahead, was barking in staccato volleys. There was another
sound, a faint shout, unmistakably; human. The men looked at each other
with eyebrows raised.
"That ain't no man's voice," said Sam. "That's a gal." He looked
quizzically at Sandy, knowing his chum's inhibition.
Sandy was woman-shy. Men met his level glance, fairly, with swift
certainty that here stood a man, four-square; or shiftily, according to
their ease of conscience, knowing his breed. Sandy was a two-gun man but
he was not a killer. There were no notches on the handles of his Colts.
In earlier days he had shot with deadly aim and purpose, but never save
in self-defense and upon the side of law and right and order. Among men
his poise was secure but, in a woman's presence, Sandy Bourke's tongue
was tied save in emergency, his wits tangled. Whatever he privately felt
of the attraction of the opposite sex, the proximity of a girl produced
an embarrassment he hated but could not help. He had seen admiration,
desire for closer acquaintance, in many a fair face but such invitation
affected him as the sight of a circling loop affects a horse in a
remuda.
He gave Sam no chance for banter. Action was forward and it always
straightened out the short-circuitings of Sandy's mental reflexes toward
womankind. He touched Pronto's flanks with the dulled rowels he wore,
and the pinto broke into a lope. A big boulder was perched upon the nigh
side of the road. Grit came out from behind it, barked, whirled and
seemingly dived into the canyon. Coming up with the mare, Sam found Sandy
dismounted, waiting for him.
What had happened was plain to both of them. The rotten, hastily made
road collapsed under the lurch of a wagon jolting over outcrop uncovered
by the rains. Scored dirt where frantic hoofs had pawed in vain, tire
marks that ended in side scrapes and vanished.
Sam got off the roan, the tired horses standing still, snuffing the
marks of trouble. Far down the slope Grit gave tongue. The cliff
shouldered out and they could see nothing from the broken road. How any
one could have hurtled over the precipice and be still able to call for
help without the aid of some miracle was an enigma. They listened for
another shout but, save for the barking of the dog, there was silence
in the grim gorge. In the sky, two buzzards wheeled.
Sandy poured a scant measure of water from his canteen into the
punched-in crown of his Stetson, after he had knocked out the dust. Sam
did the same, giving each horse a mouth-rinse and a swallow of tepid
water so they would stand more contentedly. Each took a swift swig from
the containers. Sandy untied the package of food and the leather
medicine kit, Sam slapped his hip to be sure of his whisky flask. Aided
by their high heels, digging them in the unstable dirt, they worked down
the cliff, rounding the shoulder.
A wide ledge of outcrop jutted out from the canyon wall jagged into
battlements. Piled there was a wagon, on its side, the canvas tilt
sagged in, its hoops broken. A white horse, emaciated, little more than
buzzard meat when alive, lay with its legs stiff in the air, neck
flattened and head limp. A broken pole, with splintered ends, crossed
the body of its mate, a bay, gaunt-hipped, high of ribs. It lay still,
but its flanks heaved, catching a flash of sun on its dull hide.
Between the wheels of the wagon knelt a girl in a gown of faded blue,
head hidden behind a sunbonnet. She leaned forward in the shadow of the
wagon. Sandy caught a glimpse of a huddled body beyond her. Grit sat on
his haunches, head toward the road, thrown back at each bark. Sandy
reached the ledge first. The girl did not turn her head, though his
descent was noisy. He touched her gently on the shoulder, telling
himself that she was "just a kid."
She looked up, her face lined where tears had laned down through the
mask of dust. Now she was past crying. Her eyes met Sandy's pitifully,
holding neither surprise nor hope.
"He's dead." She seemed to be stating a fact long accepted.
"He's dead. An' he made me jump. You come too late, mister."
The man lay stretched out, head and shoulders hidden, his gaunt body
dressed in jeans, once blue, long since washed and sun-faded to the
green of turquoise matrix. The boots were rusty, patched. The wagon-bed,
toppling sidewise, had crashed down on his chest. Rock partly supported
the weight of it. Sandy picked up a gnarled hand, scarred, calloused and
shrunken, the hand of an old prospector.
"Yore dad?" he asked, kneeling by the girl.
"Yes." She stood up, slight and straight, with limbs and body just
curving into womanhood. "The hawsses was tuckered out," she said, "or
Dad c'ud have made it. They didn't have no strength left, 'thout food or
water. The damned road jest slid out from under. Dad made me jump. I
figgered he was goin' to, but his bad leg must have caught in the brake.
We slid over like water slides over a rock. He didn't have a
hell-chance." As she spoke them the oaths were merely emphasis. She
talked as had her father.
Sandy nodded.
"Got an ax with the outfit?" he asked. Then turning to Sam as the girl
went round to the back of the fallen wagon and fumbled about through
the rear opening of the canvas tilt: "Man's alive, Sam. Caught a flirt
of the pulse. Have to pry up the wagon. Git that bu'sted end of the
tongue."
The girl handed an ax to Sandy mutely, watching them as Sandy pried
loose the part of the tongue still bolted to the wagon, getting it clear
of the horses.
"Think you can drag out yore dad by the laigs when we lift the body of
the wagon?" he asked her. "May not be able to hold it more'n a few
seconds. May slip on us, the levers is pritty short."
She stooped, taking hold of a wrinkled boot in each hand, back of the
heel. A tear splashed down on one of them and she shook the salt water
from her eyes impatiently as if she had faced tragedy before and knew it
must be looked at calmly.
The two men adjusted the boulders they had set for fulcrums and shoved
down on the stout pieces of ash, their muscles bunching, the veins
standing out corded on their arms. Grit ran from one to the other with
eager little whines, sensing what was being attempted, eager to help.
The wagon-bed creaked, lifted a little.
"Now," grunted Sandy, "snake him out."
The girl tugged, stepping backward, her pliant strength equal to the
dead drag of the body. Sandy, straining down, saw a white beard appear,
stained with blood, an aged seamed face, hollow at cheek and temple,
sparse of hair, the flesh putty-colored despite its tan. Grit leaped in
and licked the quiet features as Sam and Sandy eased down the wagon.
"Whisky, Sam."
The girl sat cross-legged, her father's head in her lap, one hand
smoothing his forehead while the other felt under his vest and shirt,
above his heart.
"He ain't gone yit," she announced.
The old miner's teeth were tight clenched, but there were gaps in them
through which the whisky Sandy administered trickled.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
It might have been the tender agony of the cry to which Patrick Casey's
dulling brain responded, sending the message of his will along the
nerves to transmit a final summons. His body twitched, he choked,
swallowed, opened gray eyes, filmy with death, brightening with
intelligence as he saw his daughter bending over him, the face of Sandy
above her shoulder. The gray eyes interrogated Sandy's long and
earnestly until the light began to fade out of them and the wrinkled
lids shuttered down.
Another swallow of the raw spirits and they opened flutteringly again.
The lips moved soundlessly. Then, while one hand groped waveringly
upward to rest upon his daughter's head, Sandy, bending low, caught
three syllables, repeated over and over, desperately, mere ghosts of
words, taxing cruelly the last breath of the wheezing lungs beneath the
battered ribs, the final spurt of the spirit.
"_Molly--mines!_"
"I'll look out for that, pardner," said Sandy.
The eyelids fluttered, the old hands fell away, the jaw relaxed,
serenity came to the lined face, and no little dignity. For the first
time the girl gave way, lying prone, sobbing out her grief while the two
cowmen looked aside. The bay horse began to groan and writhe.
"Got to kill that cavallo," said Sam in a whisper.
"Wait a minute." The girl had quieted, was kneeling with clasped hands,
lips moving silently. Prayer, such as it was, over, she rose, her fists
tight closed, striving to control her quivering chin--doing it. She
looked up as the shadow of a buzzard was flung against the cliff by the
slanting sun.
"We got to bury him, 'count of them damn buzzards."
"We'll tend to that," said Sandy. "Ef you-all 'll take the dawg on up to
the hawsses...."
"No! I helped to bury Jim Clancy, out in the desert, I'm goin' to help
bury Dad. It's goin' to be lonesome out here--" She twisted her mouth,
setting teeth into the lower lip sharply as she gazed at the desolate
cliffs, the birds swinging their tireless, expectant circles in the
throat of the gorge.
"Dad allus figgered he'd die somewheres in the desert. 'Lowed it 'ud be
his luck. He wanted to be put within the sound of runnin' water--he's
gone so often 'thout it. But--" She shrugged her thin shoulders
resignedly, the inheritance of the prospector's philosophy strong within
her.
"See here, miss," said Sandy, while Sam crawled into the wagon in search
of the dead miner's pick and shovel that now, instead of uncovering
riches, would dig his grave, "how old air you?"
"Fifteen. My name's Margaret--Molly for short--same as my Ma. She's been
dead for twelve years."
"Well, Miss Molly, suppose you-all come on to the Three Star fo' a spell
with my two pardners an' me? You do that an' mebbe we can fix yore
daddy's idee about runnin' water. We'd come back an' git him an' we'll
make a place fo' him under our big cottonwoods below the big spring. I
w'udn't wonder but what he c'ud hear the water gugglin' plain as it runs
down the overflow to the alfalfa patches."
Molly Casey gazed at him with such a sudden glow of gratitude in her
eyes that Sandy felt embarrassed. He had been comforting a girl, a
boyish girl, and here a woman looked at him, with understanding.
"Yo're sure a white man," she said. "I'll git even with you some time if
I work the bones of my fingers through the flesh fo' you. Thanks don't
amount to a damn 'thout somethin' back of 'em. I'll come through."
She put out her roughened little hand, man-fashion, and Sandy took it as
Sam emerged from the wagon with the tools. The bay mare groaned and gave
a shrill cry, horribly human. Sam drew his gun, putting down pick and
shovel.
"Got any water you c'ud spare?" asked the girl. Sandy handed her his
canteen.
"Use it all," he said. "Soon's it's dark, it'll cool off. We'll git
through all right."
He picked up the tools and moved toward Sam as the bay collapsed to the
merciful bullet. The girl washed away as best she could the stains of
blood and travel from the dead face while Sandy sounded with the pick
for soil deep enough for a temporary grave.
The body would have to lie on the ledge over night, nothing but burial
could save it from marauding coyotes, though the wagon might have
baffled the buzzards. The two set to work digging a shallow trench down
to bedrock, rolling up loose boulders for a cairn. The whirring chorus
of the cicadas drummed an elfin requiem. Now and then there came the
chink of bit, or hoof on rock, from the waiting horses in the broken
road. The sun was low, horizontal rays piercing the flood of violet haze
in the canyon. Across the gorge the cliff, above the wash of shadow,
glowed saffron; a light wind wailed down the bore. Lizards flirted in
and out of the crevices as the miner was laid in his temporary grave,
the girl dry-eyed again.
She had brought a little work box from the wagon, of mahogany studded
with disks of pearl in brass mountings. Out of this she produced a
handkerchief of soft China silk brocade, its white turned yellow with
age. This she spread over her father's features, showing strangely
distinct in the failing light.
"I don't want the dirt pressin' on his face," she said.
From the dead man's clothes Sandy and Sam had taken the few personal
belongings, from the inner pocket of the vest some papers that Sandy
knew for location claims.
"Want to take some duds erlong to the ranch?" he asked Molly. "We can
bring in the rest of the stuff later. Got to shack erlong, it's gittin'
dark. Brought an extry hawss with us. Can you ride?"
"Some. I ain't had much chance."
"Don't know how the mare'll stand yore skirt. If she won't Pinto'll pack
you."
"I'll fix that." She clambered into the wagon. Before she came out with
her bundle they piled the cairn, a mask of broken rim-rock heavy enough
to foil the scratching of coyotes.
It looked to Sandy as if the girl had changed into a boy. The slender
figure, silhouetted against the afterglow, softly pulsing masses of
fiery cloud above the top of the mesa, was dressed in jean overalls, a
wide-rimmed hat hiding length of hair.
"I reckon I can fool that hawss of yores now," she said. "I gen'ally
dress thisaway 'cept when we expect to go nigh the settlements or a
ranch where we aim to visit. We was makin' for the Two-Bar-P outfit,
where Grit came from when he was a bit of a pup. I expected that's where
he was headin' for when I sent him off after help, but you come
instead."
"I was wonderin' how he come to make the ranch," said Sandy. "You see
we-all bought the Two-Bar-P, though I never figgered old Samson 'ud ever
own a sheepdawg. He might give one away fast enough."
"Grit was sent him for a present by a man who summered at the ranch an'
heerd Samson say he wanted a dawg," said the girl. "He was a tenderfoot
when he come, an' when he left, 'count bein' sick. Samson didn't want
to kill the dawg an' didn't want to keep him, so he gave him to Dad an'
me when I was ten years old. Are you ready to start?"
She had avoided looking toward the grave, purposely Sandy thought,
talking to bridge over the last good-by, the chance of a breakdown.
Suddenly she pointed down the cliff.
"Wait a minute," she cried and disappeared, sliding and leaping down
like a goat, reappearing with her hat half filled with crimson
silk-petaled cactus blooms, scattering them at the head of the cairn.
"Seemed like there jest had to be flowers," she said as, with Grit
nosing close to his mistress, they mounted to the road. The gray mare
made no bother and soon they were riding down toward the strip of Bad
Lands. Sandy let the collie go afoot for the time.
The glory of the range departed, the cliffs turned slate color, then
black, while a host of stars marshaled and burned without flicker. The
wind moaned through the trough of the canyon as they rode out on the
plain. Up somewhere in the darkness the buzzards came circling down, to
settle on the ledge beside the carcasses of the two horses.
It was close to midnight when they reached the home ranch, riding past
the outbuildings, the bunk-house of the men where a light twinkled, the
cook shack, the corrals, up to the main house. There they alighted. All
about cottonwoods rustled in the dark, the air was sweet and cool, not
far from frost. Molly Casey shivered as she moved stiffly in her
saddle. Sandy lifted her from the saddle and carried her up the steps,
across the porch, kicking open the door of the living-room where the
embers of a fire glowed. There was no other light in the big room, but
there was sufficient to show the great form of Mormon, stowed at ease in
a chair, asleep and snoring.
Sam struck a match and lit a lamp. He struck Mormon mightily between his
shoulders.
"Gawd!" gasped the heavyweight partner. "I been asleep. But there's a
kittle of hot water, Sandy. Where's the--what in time are you totin'? A
gel or a boy?"
"This is Miss Molly Casey," said Sandy gravely, setting down the girl.
"Miss Casey, this is Mr. Peters. Mormon, Miss Molly is goin' to tie up
to the Three Star for a bit."
Mormon, a little sheepish at the suddenly developing age of the girl as
she shook hands with him, recovered himself and beamed at her. "Yo're
sure welcome," he said. "Boss hired you? Cowgirl or cook?"
Sandy noticed the girl's lips quiver and he slipped an arm about her
shoulders. He was not woman-shy with this girl who needed help, and who
seemed a boy.
"Don't you take no notice of him an' his kiddin'," he said. "We'll make
him rustle some grub fo' all of us an' then we-all 'll turn in. I'll
show you yore room. Up the stairs an' the last door on the right. Here's
some matches. There's a lamp on the bureau up there. Give you a call
when supper's ready."
He led her to the door and gave her a friendly little shove, guessing
that she wanted to be alone.
"The kid's lost her father, lost most everything 'cept her dawg," he
said to Mormon. "Thought we might adopt her, sort of, then I thought
mebbe we'd hire her--for mascot."
"Lost her daddy? An' me hornin' in an' tryin' to kid her! I ain't got
the sense of a drowned gopher, sometimes," said Mormon contritely.
"She's game, plumb through, ain't she, Sam? Stands right up to trouble?"
"You bet. Mormon, open up a can of greengages, will ye? I reckon she's
got a sweet tooth, same as me."
Molly Casey was not through standing up to trouble. They coaxed her to
eat and she managed to make a meal that satisfied them. Then she got up
to go to her room, with Grit nuzzling close to her, her fingers in his
ruff, twisting nervously at the strands of hair.
"Do you reckon," she asked the three partners, "that Dad knows he fooled
me when he told me to jump? If I'd known he c'udn't git clear I'd have
stuck--same as he would if I was caught. Do you reckon he knows
that--now?"
"I'd be surprised if he didn't," said Sandy gravely. "You did what he
wanted, anyway."
She shook her head.
"If I'd been on the outside, he w'udn't have jumped, no matter how much
I begged him. I didn't think of the brake. Don't seem quite square,
somehow, way I acted. Good night. What time do you-all git up?"
"With the sun, soon's the big bell rings," said Sandy. "Good night."
She looked at them gravely and went out.
"Botherin' about playin' square in jumpin'," said Sandy. "That gel is
square on all twelve eidges. Sam, slide out an' muzzle that bell. She'll
likely cry herself to sleep after a bit but she'll need all the sleep
she can git. No sense in wakin' her up at sun-up."
"How'd you come to know so much about gels?" asked Mormon.
"Me? I don't know the first thing about 'em," protested Sandy.
"No more'n any man," put in Sam. "'Cept it's Mormon. He's sure had the
experience."
"Experience," said Mormon, with a yawn, "may teach a man somethin' about
mules but not wimmen. Woman is like the climate of the state of Kansas,
where I was born. Thirty-four below at times and as high as one-sixteen
above. Blowin' hot an' cold, rangin' from a balmy breeze through a rain
shower or a thunder-storm, up to a snortin' tornado. Average number of
workin' days, about one hundred an' fifty. Them's statistics. It ain't
so hard to set down what a woman's done at the end of a year, if you got
a good mem'ry, but tryin' to guess what she is goin' to do has got the
weather man backed off inter a corner an' squealin' for help. They ain't
all like Kansas. My first resembled it, the second was sorter
tropic--she run off with a rainmaker an' I hear she's been divorced
three times since then. Mebbe that's an exaggeration. My third must
have been born someways nigh the no'th pole. W'en she got mad she'd
freeze the blood in yore veins.
"No, sir, that feller in the po'try who says, 'I learned about wimmen
from 'er,' was braggin'. Now, this gel of Casey's 'pears like what her
dad 'ud call a good prospect, but you can't tell. Fool's gold is bright
enough but you can't change it to the real stuff no matter how you
polish it."
"Ever see the sour-milk batter Pedro fixes fo' hot cakes?" asked Sam.
"Sure I have. What's that got to do with it?" demanded Mormon.
"That's what you've got sloppin' inside of yore haid 'stead of brains.
Yore disposition concernin' wimmen is gen'ally soured. You 'mind me of
the man from New Jersey who come out west to buy a ranch. A hawss
throwed him five times hand-runnin'. He ropes a steer that happens to
run into the bum loop he was swingin' an' it snakes him out'n the
saddle. A pesky cow chases him when he was afoot, a couple calves gits a
rope twisted round his stummick an' lastly a mule kicks him into a bunch
of cactus. Whereupon he remarks, 'I don't figger I was calculated for
runnin' a cattle ranch,' sells out an' goes back to herdin' muskeeters
in New Jersey.
"Mormon, you warn't calculated to handle wimmen. This li'l' gel is game
as they make 'em, an' I reckon she's right sweet if she on'y gits a
chance. Leastwise, I see several signs of pay dirt this afternoon an'
evenin' as I reckon Sandy done the same. She's been trailin' her dad all
over hell an' creation, talkin' like him, swearin' like him, actin' like
him. Never see nothin' different. All she needs is a chance."
"What's the idee in pickin' on me?" asked Mormon aggrievedly. "She's as
welcome as grass in spring. They ain't no one got a bigger heart than me
fo' kids."
"No one got a bigger heart, mebbe," said Sam caustically. "Nor none a
smaller brain. All engine an' no gasoline in the tank!"
"She's an orphan," went on Sandy. "She ain't got a cent that I know of.
The claims her old dad mentioned ain't no good because, in the first
place, they'd have been worked if they was; second place, they're over
to Dynamite an' the sharps say Dynamite's a flivver. All she has in
sight is the dawg. Some dawg! Comes in from the desert an' takes us out
to her an' Pat Casey--him dyin'. Ef it hadn't been fo' the dawg, she'd
have stayed there, to my notion. Got some sort of idee she'd deserted
ship ef she hadn't stuck till it was too late fo' her to crawl out of
that slit in the mesa. She's fifteen an' she's got sense. I figger we
better turn in right now an' hold a pow-wow with the gel ter-morrer."
"Second the motion," said Sam.
"Third it," said Mormon.
And the Three Musketeers of the Range went off to bed.