QUIESCENCE
After long jogging behind the ranch wagon Pat found himself back in a
stable. He found himself attended once more by the round-faced and
smiling young man who had looked after him before. This friend put salve
upon his wounds, and after that, for days and days, provided him with
food and water, sometimes talking to him hopefully, sometimes talking
with quiet distress in his voice, sometimes attending to his wants
without talking at all. It was all a dread monotony. The days became
shorter; the nights became longer; a chill crept into the stable. All
day long he stamped away the hours in restless discontent, longing for a
change of some sort, longing for a sight of his young master, wanting to
get out into the open, there to race his legs off in thrilling action.
Once this wish was granted. The weather was quite cold, and his
round-faced friend came to him that morning showing every sign of haste.
Hurriedly he bridled and saddled Pat, rushed him out of the stable,
flung up across his back, and put spur to him with such vigor that he
was forced into a gait the like of which he had not taken since his
breathless speeding to the accompaniment of shots. Out across the desert
he raced, breasting a cold wind, on and on till he found himself in a
small railroad town. Here he was pulled up before a little cottage, and
saw his friend mount the front steps and pull a tiny knob in the frame
of the door. A moment of waiting and he saw a portly man appear, heard
sharp conversation, saw his friend run down the steps. Then again he
felt the prick of spurs, and found himself once more cantering across
the desert. But not toward home. Late in the afternoon, wearied and
suffering hunger pangs, he found himself in another small town and
before another tiny cottage, with his friend pulling at a knob as
before, and entering into crisp conversation with the person who
answered, a lean man this time, who nodded his head and withdrew. After
this he once more breasted the cold winds, worse now because of the
night, and continued to breast them until he found himself back in the
stable.
Thus he had his wish. But it was really more than he had wanted, and
thereafter he was content to remain in peace and rest in the stable. But
he was not always confined to the stable now. His friend began to permit
him privileges, and one of these was the spending of long hours outdoors
in a private corral. Here, basking in the sunlight, which was not free
from winter chill, he would spend whole days dreaming and
wondering--wondering for the most part about his master, the master he
liked, and finding himself ever more distressed because of his continued
absence. Sometimes, in the corral, he would see men walk slowly in and
out of the ranch-house, or come to a halt outside his fence and stand
for long minutes gazing at him, a look in their eyes, he thought, though
he was not quite sure, of pity mingled with sorrow. But though these men
came to him frequently, yet they rarely ever spoke to him; even as his
round-faced friend, though still regularly attentive, rarely ever spoke
to him now. It was all mysterious. He knew that something of a very
grave nature was in the air, but what it was and why his real master
never came to him as did the other men, he did not know, though
sometimes he would be obsessed with troubled thoughts that all was not
well with the young man.
Then one day, with spring descending upon the desert, he saw something
that quickened his interest in life. He saw a door open in the house,
saw a very thin young man appear on the threshold, saw him slowly
descend the steps and walk toward him. It was his master. Yet was it? He
pressed close to the fence, gazed at the man long and earnestly. Then he
knew. It was indeed the same young man. He was much thinner now than
when last he had come to him, and he seemed to lack his old-time energy,
but nevertheless it was he. In a moment he knew it for certain, for the
man held out a long, thin, white hand and called his name.
This was the beginning of the end. Thereafter two and three times a day
the young man came to him, sometimes in the corral, sometimes in the
stable, but always with each successive visit, it seemed to Pat,
revealing increasing buoyancy and strength. And finally there came a
day, bright and warm, when his master came to him, as it proved, to
remain with him. The young man was dressed for riding, and he was
surrounded by all the men Pat had ever seen about the place, and not a
few whose faces were new to him. They led him out of the stable into the
open, a dozen hands bridled and saddled him, then all crowded close in
joyful conversation.
"Well, sir," began the round-faced young man, slapping Pat resoundingly
upon the rump, "you're off again! And believe me I'm one that's right
sorry to see you go. I don't care nothin' about this pardner o'
yours--he don't count nohow, anyway. He's been sick 'most to death,
shore, but he's all right now as far as _that_ goes. His arm is all
healed up, and he's fit in every other way--_some_ ways--yet he's
takin' himself off from as nice people as ever dragged saddles through a
bunk-house at midnight. But that ain't it. He's takin' old black hoss
away with him, and it don't jest set. I shore do hate to see you go."
Which seemed to express the opinions of the others. And somehow, even
when his master was in the saddle and everything pointing to a final
departure, Pat found himself hating to go. But duty was duty, and after
his master had gathered up the reins and all had cordially shaken hands
he broke into a canter, and, followed by a chorus of mighty yells,
headed into the interminable desert, within him the feeling of one upon
the threshold of new life, or of old and delightful life returned.
Before he realized either the lapse of time or the distance traveled, he
found himself cantering into the little railroad town he had visited so
hurriedly in the winter. And there followed another experience new to
Pat--a journey by train back to his home.