The rancher had ridden into the Canadian plains country from below “the
line” long before barbed wire had become a menace in cattle-land. From
Pincher Creek to Maple Creek, and far beyond, the plains lay unbroken
save by the deep canyons where, through the process of ages, mountain
streams had worn their beds down to gravel bottoms, and by the
occasional trail which wandered through the wilderness like some
thousand-mile lariat carelessly dropped from the hand of the Master
Plainsman. Here and there, where the cutbanks of the river Canyons
widened out into sloping valleys, affording possible access to the
deep-lying streams, some ranchman had established his headquarters, and
his red-roofed, whitewashed buildings flashed back the hot rays which
fell from an opalescent heaven. At some of the more important fords
trading posts had come into being, whither the ranchmen journeyed twice
a year for groceries, clothing, kerosene, and other liquids handled as
surreptitiously as the vigilance of the Mounted Police might suggest.
The virgin prairie, with her strange, subtle facility for entangling the
hearts of men, lay undefiled by the mercenary plowshare; unprostituted
by the commercialism of the days that were to be.
Into such a country Y.D. had ridden from the South, trailing his little
bunch of scrub heifers, in search of grass and water and, it may be, of
a new environment. Up through the Milk River country; across the Belly
and the Old Man; up and down the valley of the Little Bow, and across
the plains as far as the Big Bow he rode in search of the essentials of
a ranch headquarters. The first of these is water, the second grass,
the third fuel, the fourth shelter. Grass there was everywhere; a fine,
short, hairy crop which has the peculiar quality of self-curing in the
autumn sunshine and so furnishing a natural, uncut hay for the herds
in the winter months. Water there was only where the mountain streams
plowed their canyons through the deep subsoil, or at little lakes of
surface drainage, or, at rare intervals, at points where pure springs
broke forth from the hillsides. Along the river banks dark, crumbling
seams exposed coal resources which solved all questions of fuel,
and fringes of cottonwood and poplar afforded rough but satisfactory
building material. As the rancher sat on his horse on a little knoll
which overlooked a landscape leading down on one side to a sheltering
bluff by the river, and on the other losing itself on the rim of the
heavens, no fairer prospect surely could have met his eye.
And yet he was not entirely satisfied. He was looking for no temporary
location, but for a spot where he might drive his claim-stakes deep.
That prairie, which stretched under the hot sunshine unbroken to the rim
of heaven; that brown grass glowing with an almost phosphorescent light
as it curled close to the mother sod;--a careless match, a cigar stub, a
bit of gun-wadding, and in an afternoon a million acres of pasture land
would carry not enough foliage to feed a gopher.
Y.D. turned in his saddle. Along the far western sky hung the purple
draperies of the Rockies. For fifty miles eastward from the mighty range
lay the country of the foothills, its great valleys lost to the vision
which leapt only from summit to summit. In the clear air the peaks
themselves seemed not a dozen miles away, but Y.D. had not ridden
cactus, sagebrush and prairie from the Rio Grande to the St. Mary’s for
twenty years to be deceived by a so transparent illusion. Far over
the plains his eye could trace the dark outline of a trail leading
mountainward.
The heifers drowsed lazily in the brown grass. Y.D., shading his eyes
the better with his hand, gazed long and thoughtfully at the purple
range. Then he spat decisively over his horse’s shoulder and made a
strange “cluck” in his throat. The knowing animal at once set out on
a trot to stir the lazy heifers into movement, and presently they were
trailing slowly up into the foothill country.
Far up, where the trail ahead apparently dropped over the end of the
world, a horse and rider hove in view. They came on leisurely, and half
an hour elapsed before they met the rancher trailing west.
The stranger was a rancher of fifty, wind-whipped and weather-beaten of
countenance. The iron grey of his hair and moustache suggested the iron
of the man himself; iron of figure, of muscle, of will.
“‘Day,” he said, affably, coming to a halt a few feet from Y.D.
“Trailing into the foothills?”
Y.D. lolled in his saddle. His attitude did not invite conversation,
and, on the other hand, intimated no desire to avoid it.
“Maybe,” he said, noncommittally. Then, relaxing somewhat,--“Any water
farther up?”
“About eight miles. Sundown should see you there, and there’s a decent
spot to camp. You’re a stranger here?” The older man was evidently
puzzling over the big “Y.D.” branded on the ribs of the little herd.
“It’s a big country,” Y.D. answered. “It’s a plumb big country, for
sure, an’ I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can’t
he?”
Y.D. began to resent the other man’s close scrutiny of his brand.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what ‘Y.D.’ might stand for.”
“Might stand for Yankee devil,” said Y.D., with a none-of-your-business
curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was not
prepared for the quick retort.
“Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!” The stranger’s
strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.
Y.D.’s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can’t
draw on a man who isn’t armed.
“Listen!” the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. “You are
a stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man.
Let me give you some advice. First--get rid of that artillery. It will
do you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you
civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson--Frank Wilson, and if
you settle in the foothills you’ll find me a decent neighbor, as soon as
you are able to appreciate decency.”
To his own great surprise, Y.D. took his dressing down in silence. There
was a poise in Wilson’s manner that enforced respect. He recognized in
him the English rancher of good family; usually a man of fine courtesy
within reasonable bounds; always a hard hitter when those bounds are
exceeded. Y.D. knew that he had made at least a tactical blunder;
his sensitiveness about his brand would arouse, rather than allay,
suspicion. His cheeks burned with a heat not of the afternoon sun as
he submitted to this unaccustomed discipline, but he could not bring
himself to express regret for his rudeness.
“Well, now that the shower is over, we’ll move on,” he said, turning his
back on Wilson and “clucking” to his horse.
Y.D. followed the stream which afterwards bore his name as far as the
Upper Forks. As he entered the foothills he found all the advantages
of the plains below, with others peculiar to the foothill country. The
richer herbage, induced by a heavier precipitation; the occasional belts
of woodland; the rugged ravines and limestone ridges affording
good natural protection against fire; abundant fuel and water
everywhere--these seemed to constitute the ideal ranch conditions. At
the Upper Forks, through some freak of formation, the stream divided
into two. From this point was easy access into the valleys of the Y.D.
and the South Y.D., as they were subsequently called. The stream rippled
over beds of grey gravel, and mountain trout darted from the rancher’s
shadow as it fell across the water. Up the valley, now ruddy gold with
the changing colors of autumn, white-capped mountains looked down from
amid the infinite silences; and below, broad vistas of brown prairie
and silver ribbons of running water. Y.D. turned his swarthy face to
the sunlight and took in the scene slowly, deliberately, but with a
commercialized eye; blue and white and ruddy gold were nothing to him;
his heart was set on grass and water and shelter. He had roved enough,
and he had a reason for seeking some secluded spot like this, where he
could settle down while his herds grew up, and, perhaps, forget some
things that were better forgotten.
With sudden decision the cattle man threw himself from his horse,
unstrapped the little kit of supplies which he carried by the saddle;
drew off saddle and bridle and turned the animal free. The die was cast;
this was the spot. Within ten minutes his ax was ringing in the grove of
spruce trees close by, and the following night he fried mountain trout
under the shelter of his own temporary roof.
It was the next summer when Y.D. had another encounter with Wilson. The
Upper Forks turned out to be less secluded than he had supposed; it was
on the trail of trappers and prospectors working into the mountains.
Traders, too, in mysterious commodities, moved mysteriously back and
forth, and the log cabin at The Forks became something of a centre of
interest. Strange companies forgathered within its rude walls.
It was at such a gathering, in which Y.D. and three companions sat about
the little square table, that one of the visitors facetiously inquired
of the rancher how his herd was progressing.
“Not so bad, not so bad,” said Y.D., casually. “Some winter losses, of
course; snow’s too deep this far up. Why?”
“Oh, some of your neighbors down the valley say your cows are uncommon
prolific.”
“They do?” said Y.D., laying down his cards. “Who says that?”
“Well, Wilson, for instance--”
Y.D. sprang to his feet. “I’ve had one run-in with that ----,” he
shouted, “an’ I let him talk to me like a Sunday School super’ntendent.
Here’s where I talk to him!”
“Well, finish the game first,” the others protested. “The night’s
young.”
Y.D. was sufficiently drunk to be supersensitive about his honor, and
the inference from Wilson’s remark was that he was too handy with his
branding-iron.
“No, boys, no!” he protested. “I’ll make that Englishman eat his words
or choke on them.”
“That’s right,” the company agreed. “The only thing to do. We’ll all go
down with you.”
“An’ you won’t do that, neither,” Y.D. answered. “Think I need a
body-guard for a little chore like that? Huh!” There was immeasurable
contempt in that monosyllable.
But a fresh bottle was produced, and Y.D. was persuaded that his honor
would suffer no serious damage until the morning. Before that time his
company, with many demonstrations of affection and admonitions to “make
a good job of it,” left for the mountains.
Y.D. saddled his horse early, buckled his gun on his hip, hung a lariat
from his saddle, and took the trail for the Wilson ranch. During the
drinking and gambling of the night he had been able to keep the insult
in the background, but, alone under the morning sun, it swept over him
and stung him to fury. There was just enough truth in the report to
demand its instant suppression.
Wilson was branding calves in his corral as Y.D. came up. He was alone
save for a girl of eighteen who tended the fire.
Wilson looked up with a hot iron in his hand, nodded, then turned to
apply the iron before it cooled. As he leaned over the calf Y.D. swung
his lariat. It fell true over the Englishman, catching him about the
arms and the middle of the body. Y.D. took a half-hitch of the lariat
about his saddle horn, and the well-trained horse dragged his victim in
the most matter-of-fact manner out of the gate of the corral and into
the open.
Y.D. shortened the line. After the first moment of confused surprise
Wilson tried to climb to his feet, but a quick jerk of the lariat sent
him prostrate again. In a moment Y.D. had taken up all the line, and sat
in his saddle looking down contemptuously upon him.
“Well,” he said, “who’s too handy with his branding-iron now?”
“You are!” cried Wilson. “Give me a man’s chance and I’ll thrash you
here and now to prove it.”
For answer Y.D. clucked to his horse and dragged his enemy a few yards
farther. “How’s the goin’, Frank?” he said, in mock cordiality. “Think
you can stand it as far as the crick?”
But at that instant an unexpected scene flashed before Y.D. He caught
just a glimpse of it--just enough to indicate what might happen. The
girl who had been tending the fire was rushing upon him with a red-hot
iron extended before her. Quicker than he could throw himself from the
saddle she had struck him in the face with it.
“You brand our calves!” she cried in a fury of recklessness. “I’ll brand
YOU--damn you!”
Y.D. threw himself from the saddle, but in the suddenness of her
onslaught he failed to clear it properly, and stumbled to the ground. In
a moment she was on him and had whipped his gun from his belt.
“Get up!” she said. And he got up.
“Walk to that post, put your arms around it with your back to me, and
stand there.” He did so.
The girl kept him covered with the revolver while she released the
lariat that bound her father.
“Are you hurt, Dad?” she inquired solicitously.
“No, just shaken up,” he answered, scrambling to his feet.
“All right. Now we’ll fix him!”
The girl walked to the next post from Y.D.’s, climbed it leisurely and
seated herself on the top.
“Now, Mr. Y.D.,” she said, “you are going to fight like a white man,
with your fists. I’ll sit up here and see that there’s no dirty work.
First, advance and shake hands.”
“I’m damned if I will,” said Y.D.
The revolver spoke, and the bullet cut dangerously close to him.
“Don’t talk back to me again,” she cried, “or you won’t be able to
fight. Now shake hands.”
He extended his hand and Wilson took it for a moment.
“Now when I count three,” said the girl, “pile in. There’s no time
limit. Fight ‘til somebody’s satisfied. One--two--three--”
At the sound of the last word Wilson caught his opponent a punch on the
chin which stretched him. He got up slowly, gathering his wits about
him. He was twenty years younger than Wilson, but a rancher of fifty
is occasionally a better man than he was at thirty. Any disadvantages
Wilson suffered from being shaken up in the lariat were counterbalanced
by Y.D.’s branding. His face was burning painfully, and his vision was
not the best. But he had not followed the herds since childhood without
learning to use his fists. He steadied himself on his knee to bring his
mind into tune with this unusual warfare. Then he rushed upon Wilson.
He received another straight knock-out on the chin. It jarred the joints
of his neck and left him dazed. It was half a minute before he could
steady himself. He realized now that he had a fight on his hands. He was
too cool a head to get into a panic, but he found he must take his time
and do some brain work. Another chin smash would put him out for good.
He advanced carefully. Wilson stood awaiting him, a picture of poise and
self-confidence. Y.D. led a quick left to Wilson’s ribs, but failed
to land. Wilson parried skilfully and immediately answered with a left
swing to the chin. But Y.D. was learning, and this time he was on guard.
He dodged the blow, broke in and seized Wilson about the body. The two
men stood for a moment like bulls with locked horns. Y.D. brought his
weight to bear on his antagonist to force him to the ground, but in some
way the Englishman got elbow room and began raining short jabs on his
face, already raw from the branding-iron. Y.D. jerked back from this
assault. Then came the third smash on the chin.
Y.D. gathered himself up very slowly. The world was swimming around in
circles. On a post sat a girl, covering him with a revolver and laughing
at him. Somewhere on the horizon Wilson’s figure whipped forward and
back. Then his horse came into the circle. Y.D. rose to his feet, strode
with quick, uncertain steps to his horse, threw himself into the saddle
and without a word started up the trail to The Forks.
“Seems to have gone with as little ceremony as he came,” Wilson remarked
to his daughter. “Now, let us get along with the calves.”...
Y.D. rode the trail to The Forks in bitterness of spirit. He had sallied
forth that morning strong and daring to administer summary punishment;
he was retracing his steps thrashed, humiliated, branded for life by a
red iron thrust in his face by a slip of a girl. He exhausted his by
no means limited vocabulary of epithets, but even his torrents of abuse
brought no solace to him. The hot sun beat down on his wounded face
and hurt terribly, but he almost forgot that pain in the agony of his
humiliation. He had been thrashed by an old man, with a wisp of a girl
sitting on a post and acting as referee. He turned in his saddle and
through the empty valley shouted an insulting name at her.
Then Y.D. slowly began to feel his face burn with a fire not of the
branding-iron nor of the afternoon sun. He knew that his word was a lie.
He knew that he would not have dared use it in her father’s hearing. He
knew that he was a coward. No man had ever called Y.D. a coward; no
man had ever known him for a coward; he had never known himself as
such--until to-day. With all his roughness Y.D. had a sense of honor
as keen as any razor blade. If he allowed himself wide latitude in some
matters it was because he had lived his life in an atmosphere where the
wide latitude was the thing. The prairie had been his bed, the sky his
roof, himself his own policeman, judge, and executioner since boyhood.
When responsibility is so centralized wide latitudes must be allowed.
But the uttermost borders of that latitude were fixed with iron
rigidity, and when he had thrown a vile epithet at a decent woman he
knew he had broken the law of honor. He was a cur--a cur who should be
shot in his tracks for the cur he was.
Y.D. did hard thinking all the way to The Forks. Again and again the
figure of the girl flashed before him; he would close his eyes and jerk
his head back to avoid the burning iron. Then he saw her on the post,
sitting, with apparent impartiality, on guard over the fight. Yes,
she had been impartial, in a way. Y.D. was willing to admit that much,
although he surmised that she knew more about her father’s prowess with
his fists than he had known. She had had no doubt about the outcome.
“Well, she’s good backing for her old man, anyway,” he admitted, with
returning generosity. He had reached his cabin, and was dressing his
face with salve and soda. “She sure played the game into the old man’s
hand.”
Y.D. could not sleep that night. He was busy sorting up his ideas of
life and revising them in the light of the day’s experience. The more he
thought of his behavior the less defensible it appeared. By midnight he
was admitting that he had got just what was coming to him.
Presently he began to feel lonely. It was a strange sensation to Y.D.,
whose life had been loneliness from the first, so that he had never
known it. Of course, there was the hunger for companionship; he had
often known that. A drinking bout, a night at cards, a whirl into
excess, and that would pass away. But this loneliness was different. The
moan of the wind in the spruce trees communicated itself to him with an
eerie oppressiveness. He sat up and lit a lamp. The light fell on the
bare logs of his hut; he had never known before how bare they were. He
got up and shuffled about; took a lid off the stove and put it back on
again; moved aimlessly about the room, and at last sat down on the bed.
“Y.D.,” he said with a laugh, “I believe you’ve got nerves. You’re
behavin’ like a woman.”
But he could not laugh it off. The mention of a woman brought Wilson’s
daughter back vividly before him. “She’s a man’s girl,” he found
himself, saying.
He sat up with a shock at his own words. Then he rested his chin on his
hands and gazed long at the blank wall before him. That was life--his
life. That blank wall was his life.... If only it had a window in it; a
bright space through which the vision could catch a glimpse of something
broader and better.... Well, he could put a window in it. He could put a
window in his life.
The next noon Frank Wilson looked up with surprise to see Y.D. riding
into his yard. Wilson stiffened instantly, as though setting himself
against the shock of an attack, but there was nothing belligerent in
Y.D.’s greeting.
“Wilson,” he said, “I pulled a dirty trick on you yesterday, an’ I got
more than I reckoned on. The old Y.D. would have come back with a gun
for vengeance. Well, I ain’t after vengeance. I reckon you an’ me has
got to live in this valley, an’ we might as well live peaceful. Does
that go with you?”
“Full weight and no shrinkage,” said Wilson, heartily, extending his
hand. “Come up to the house for dinner.”
Y.D. was nothing loth to accept the invitation, even though he had his
misgivings as to how he should meet the women folks. It turned out that
Mrs. Wilson had been at a neighboring ranch for some days, and the girl
was in charge of the home. The flash in her eyes did not conceal a glint
of triumph--or was it humor?
“Jessie,” her father said, with conspicuous matter-of-factness, “Y.D.
has just dropped in for dinner.”
Y.D. stood with his hat in his hand. This was harder than meeting
Wilson. He felt that he could manage better if Wilson would get out.
“Miss Wilson,” he managed to say at length, “I just thought I’d run in
an’ thank you for what you did yesterday.”
“You’re very welcome,” she answered, and he could not tell whether
the note in her voice was of fun or sarcasm. “Any time I can be of
service--”
“That’s what I wanted to talk about,” he broke in. There was something
bewitching about the girl. She more than realized his fantastic visions
of the night. She had mastered him. Perhaps it was a subtle masculine
desire to turn her mastery into ultimate surrender that led him on.
“That’s just what I want to talk about. You started breakin’ in an
outlaw yesterday, so to speak. How’d you like to finish the job?”
Y.D. was very red when this speech was finished. He had not known that a
wisp of a girl could so discomfit a man.
“Is that a proposal?” she asked, and this time he was sure the note in
her voice was one of banter. “I never had one, so I don’t know.”
“Well, yes, we’ll call it that,” he said, with returning courage.
“Well we won’t, either,” she flared back. “Just because I sat on a post
and superintended the--the ceremonies, is no reason that you should want
to marry me,--or I, you. You’ll find water and a basin on the bench at
the end of the house, and dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
Y.D. had a feeling of a little boy being sent to wash himself.
But the next spring he built a larger cabin down the valley from The
Forks, and to that cabin one day in June came Jessie Wilson to “finish
the job.”