POOR CHARLEY
Hank Pearsall, used enough to the drinking that belongs with life in
the western cattle country, the town outbreaks of hard-muscled
cowpunchers who live under the open sky, watched with dismay the
very different sort of drinking that his young employer indulged in.
After that miserable Fort Worth episode and the arrival of Rose
Marie, things were never quite so bad again. Charley eased up on the
trips to town, and to the hard-drinking ranches. The Sorrows was
already so crippled, its resources so reduced that a day of
reckoning must certainly be at hand; but Hank knew that no more land
was being sold, no more big sums borrowed on mortgage. And again Van
Brunt made spasmodic efforts to interest himself in the ranch work.
To the old man at this time Charley had the pathetic charm of a
repentant child. The entire household management had slipped into
the boss’s hands; Hank was but fifty-two, yet he seemed like an
indulgent father with an incompetent son and his family in charge.
Hilda could read. She hardly remembered a time when she wasn’t able
to make a sense that satisfied her, anyhow, out of the words and
letters under the pictures in her story books. She had a curious
habit of looking at these and partly “making up” as she went along,
entertaining herself with such tales as they suggested. At first,
her father laughed at it; then, in his careless, haphazard way,
tried a bit of teaching. But this was a sort of work that took
patience; it was easier to read aloud to the child; and so the
lessons usually ended up that way. Uncle Hank, listening, gave the
sober opinion that a child of Pettie’s age “ought to have
schooling.”
“And I think I can manage it, Charley,” he said to his employer.
“They need a school in the neighborhood. There’s eight or ten kids
of the right age within riding distance.”
“Go ahead, then, Pearsall. You’ve lived here—you know how to tackle
the matter,” Van Brunt answered easily.
So Uncle Hank got Capadine, McGregor, and three other ranches to
“join in”; an adobe hut that, before the day of fences, had been a
sign camp, was put in repair; an enthusiastic young woman brought
out from Kansas; and what the cowpunchers instantly christened
“Hank’s Academy” was started with eight pupils. It was Pearsall
himself who took Hilda over the first morning, and tenderly launched
her on the tide of school life. After that, she rode alone on
Papoose, the fat little red pony he had got for her. Hilda’s school
and Hilda’s lessons became an important household interest.
Then came a time of roundups. Charley was still making efforts to be
a ranchman. His help on the range might have been of questionable
value, but at least Charley himself was getting moral and physical
benefit from the riding.
Upon a morning that Hilda never forgot, the roundup was working a
mile or so from the house and within sight of the school playground,
a mere hard-trodden spot of plain outside the south window, where
small feet had worn off the grass. She had begged to stay home from
school and go with the Three Sorrows outfit. Her father would have
allowed it, but Uncle Hank put in mildly:
“Best not, Pettie. I’d stay with the lessons while we got a
teacher.”
She had teased and even pouted a little, so that Uncle Hank finally
allowed that she might ask Miss Belle to be excused at morning
recess. This request the teacher denied. They were having special
work. In the cattle country, if you begin stopping school for
roundups, education will fare ill. So she went out to the south of
the house with the released, yelling children who were playing at
roundups of their own, depressed and somewhat bitter, refusing to
join when they roped at each other. She could see the cloud of dust
that rose above the herd; she could just make out the smaller bunch
that was “the cut,” held at a distance from the main herd; and
riders swaying out to head galloping animals into it, moving swiftly
like toy mechanisms. Her heart was hot with resentment. She ought to
be there right now. Uncle Hank would let her ride old Paddy and help
hold herd. She could be lots of use—Miss Belle didn’t know that.
She gave several longing glances to where Papoose was staked out, on
the further side of the schoolhouse, and began to walk.
She kept on walking, her back to the school, her face to the
roundup, until she was as near to the one as the other. When the
bell rang to call the others in, she calculated that it was too late
for her to get there in time—she might as well go on. She walked
faster, and finally began to run.
It was a general roundup of everybody’s cattle. The C Bar C outfit
was there, but Clarke Capadine was back at the schoolhouse, sitting
on a bench, singing the multiplication table—they always had that
after morning recess. Kenny Tazewell, of the Quien Sabe—Kenny was
big enough to help some, and his papa almost always let him come.
But he also was slaving at the multiplication table. There would be
no one to divide the glory of the roundup with her. She went forward
more resolutely.
Uncle Hank was at the chuck wagon. He wasn’t a bit surprised to see
her.
“Miss Belle let ye off all right, did she?” he inquired casually,
and Hilda didn’t even have to answer, for he turned and hurried down
to the branding pen where the men were laboring like demons to keep
up with the cutters and handlers.
Papa didn’t see her at all. He was changing horses over by the roped
corral. She saw him get on the little gray. It always pranced most
splendidly, but Uncle Hank had said it wasn’t much of a cutting
pony. She watched him mount and ride. She loved to see her father on
horseback. He looked so beautiful, among the other men, it made her
think of knights and tourneys. He fetched a half-circle around the
cattle, out of her sight. She dropped down beside the chuck wagon
and sat quite still. It would not be prudent to put herself forward
just yet. As for to-morrow, and Miss Belle’s explanations—after
them, the deluge.
She knew the cook; it was Limpy Phillips of the C Bar C. He only
made one or two derogatory remarks about children at roundups. When
he was busy at his covered pots and Dutch ovens in their trench, she
earned toleration by mutely handing him the thing he needed from the
chuck wagon. At five minutes to twelve he straightened up and told
her she might go tell her Uncle Hank that dinner was ready, and she
better look sharp and mind that the whole blame herd didn’t run over
her and stamp her flatter’n a flapjack.
She got to the branding pen. Uncle Hank came to its bars. She was
just about to give her message, when something in the old man’s face
stopped her. He was looking toward Shorty, who came galloping, a
hand up, his mouth open. She knew Shorty must be calling, though in
the din of the roundup she couldn’t hear any word. Uncle Hank jumped
the bars and ran toward the oncoming rider, and then she got the
cowpuncher’s voice.
“Pearsall—Charley’s hurt.”
With one motion Hank swung around, flung the reins over Buckskin’s
head, was on him and away. The two men galloped side by side. Hilda
began to run. She had no memory of the cook’s errand, no fear of the
herd or the hard-driven horses. She ran desperately, blindly, till
stopped by old Snake Thompson’s voice and hand.
She was picked up as a big dog picks up a puppy. Old Snake had
scooped her from the ground in the manner of a cowpuncher lifting a
handkerchief in a display of fancy riding.
“Lookee here,” he said with irrelevant wisdom, “children should be
saw, not heard. What in time are you doing here?”
“My papa—he’s hurt—”
“Where’s he at?”
“Over there.” She pointed. “Uncle Hank went—Shorty—Oh, hurry!”
Thompson began circling toward the other side of the herd, Hilda on
the saddle in front of him. McGregor of the Cross K thundered up
behind them.
“Is it Charley?” called Thompson.
“Yes.” McGregor checked a little to explain, “Buster says he ran
into an old cow—rode her down full tilt. Horse’s neck’s broke.”
They suddenly rounded the shoulder of the herd, that mass of dark,
bellowing, pawing life, with its restless hoofs and shaken horns,
and came in sight of a group at a little distance from its edge,
motionless, with a sense of arrest. Three men, four ponies, and
something dark on the ground. Capadine came running toward them.
“How bad is it?” asked McGregor.
Capadine glanced toward Hilda.
“He’s breathing.”
Hilda heard the word while old Snake was lifting her down. Uncle
Hank was kneeling by that something on the ground.
“Move back a little, boys. Don’t crowd around him that-away,” she
heard him say. They opened out, and she caught sight of the still
features, the closed eyes, of her father. As she looked, those eyes
fluttered open, the head moved.
“That you, Pearsall?” came the whisper. “Get me home.”
The ranch boss bent closer.
“Are you sufferin’, Charley?” he asked.
“No,” was the dubious response. “No, I’m not in pain.”
“God!” groaned Snake under his breath; and McGregor dropped his
head. Hilda wondered that they should be so dismayed. Surely it was
good that father was not in pain.
Uncle Hank got to his feet. The eyes that had gazed so fearfully at
Charley went keenly round the circle of faces. If he saw Hilda, he
made no sign; but there was a sharp scrutiny for the horse that
looked over each man’s shoulder.
“Jeff—Buster—” he muttered under his breath, with a wavering return
of his glance to the injured man’s face—“No. Mex, is that pony of
yours fresh?”
“Yes, sir.” The slim, wiry cowpuncher put an eager hand up on his
blue roan’s mane. “He’ll do whatever you ask of him.”
Charley’s eyes had closed again. Hilda wanted very much to creep in
closer to him, but dared not. Uncle Hank was doing everything.
“Pull straight for Mesquite,” she heard him say to Mex. “Stop at the
Lazy F for a fresh pony if that one gives out. You can get another
at the Circle 99 company’s, if you need it. If Doc. Elder ain’t in
Mesquite, nor anywhere in riding distance, and if anything’s the
matter that you can’t get him, go on to El Centro for McClosky.
Don’t come back without a doctor. Have you got money?”
Hilda’s eyes followed the motions of Buster and Jeff who were
pulling the saddles from two ponies and unfolding the blankets. She
heard McGregor offer to attend to the money for Mex and see to the
Three Sorrows cattle in the roundup. Uncle Hank thanked him, and
stooped once more to her father.
“Bring me them blankets now, boys,” he said. “That’s right—one over
the other, that-away. Shorty—Jeff Allen—Bud McGregor,” they were
laying the blankets on the ground close beside her father. Uncle
Hank looked around. “Jim—where’s Jim Tazewell?” he asked. “Here,
Jimmie; to this side. Kansas, you get acrost from him. Now, the six
of you—slip your hands under him as far as you can and ease him onto
the blankets.”
They stooped, shouldering close. Hilda could see nothing but their
backs. She felt a sick shutting-in at the heart as they lifted. Then
came Uncle Hank’s voice again.
“Did we hurt you, Charley?”
They were placed now, three on a side, ready to take up the blanket.
Hilda could see her father. His eyes were still closed, but his lips
shaped themselves into an unheard “No.” Cautiously they stepped out
on the mile trip to the ranch house. Hilda ran beside them, crouched
a little, her hand out, not quite touching them. She moved like a
young partridge, startled from cover, and out of her eyes fear
looked. Over on the playground school was turning out. Thin and
clear came the treble whoops, as soon as they had left the noise of
the roundup sufficiently behind them. It was very strange to think
that over there they didn’t know; for them it was prisoner’s base
and the multiplication table, just as it had been this morning.
When the journey was little more than half done, the six bearers
stepping with infinite care, Van Brunt began to groan aloud. Uncle
Hank was walking at his head, watching his face.
“Where hurts you boy? Does it joggle past bearin’? Ought we put you
down and rest you a spell?”
He failed to catch the whispered reply at first. The bearers halted,
and he leaned closer.
“No.” Van Brunt motioned feebly with his hand. “Get on, boys ... I
want to see the baby, before—”
The big fellows carrying the blanket moved ahead, stepping short,
watching pitifully. Charley groaned outright at every stride now;
Hilda, beside him, moaned, too. Her eyes were so blinded with crying
that she did not see the ranch house when it came in sight. Going up
the long, tree-lined avenue to the front door, Uncle Hank bent and
spoke to her.
“Go in ahead, Pettie. Tell your aunt that your father’s bad hurt,
and we’re bringing him.”
Hilda had a sense of flying, of getting to the house at a single
step. It happened that Aunt Val was just coming down the stairs.
Hilda cried out her communication as it had been given, and turned
back to the bearers, who were toiling up the porch steps.
Miss Valeria moved uncertainly into the open door, got a glimpse of
what lay in the blankets; her hands went up, she stumbled blindly,
and Hank’s arm caught her as she fell. He let her down on the hall
couch. Charley went past them, carried for the last time into his
own house.
“Pettie,” Hank gave the direction over his shoulder, as he followed,
“you run find some one to look after auntie.”
Jose’s wife was in the kitchen. Hilda caught at her skirts and
dragged her toward the front hall, explaining as they went. She left
the woman questioning, exclaiming, and flew to the living-room. They
had shoved out the couch, and were raising the blankets high, so
that the injured man could be laid gently down.
This done, they stood about him, seven tall, white-hatted,
deep-voiced cowpunchers, afraid to move or speak lest their tones be
too loud for sick-room pitch, the creaking of their boots offend. In
the silence, the rustling of their big, virile bodies, in the strain
of feeling, sounded plain. Something pushed against Hilda in the
doorway. It was Burchie, in his soiled playfrock. She took his
little grubby hand and led him forward to Uncle Hank. The old man
lifted him.
“Charley,” he said.
Van Brunt’s eyes unclosed.
“The baby—here.” A faint motion of his hand indicated a place on the
couch. Hank set the child there, and he remained motionless as a
small image, only the wondering, distressed blue eyes going from one
face to another. Hilda crouched in an inconspicuous heap at the side
of the bed, unnoticed; Burch’s little hand reached down and grasped
the shoulder of her dress.
Van Brunt’s dark head on the pillow moved a bit from side to side.
Uncle Hank bent over to try to ease his position. She saw the look
which flashed up into the old man’s face as her father said:
“I’ve made an awful mess of it.”
Uncle Hank shook his head.
“I’ve made beggars of these children.”
Hilda hadn’t been sure, till he said “these children” that he knew
she was beside him.
“No, no, boy.” Uncle Hank’s eyes entreated, reassured. “You was new
to the ranching business. We all make our mistakes.”
“Ah!” breathed the dying man, “I’ve made nothing else.”
He closed his eyes and was silent for a minute. Then he opened them
once more with that tearing groan.
“Katie’s children—what’s to become of them?”
Hilda took heart to reach out a shaking little hand and touch his
fingers. They were chill, but they closed upon hers strongly. She
wanted to say that he was not to be troubled, but such things were
for grown-ups. She looked about on the cowpunchers, Shorty holding
hard to the edge of his chair, old Snake Thompson over by the window
shaken by rigors of feeling. The sun was sending long arrows in
through the slit of the silken curtain beyond the couch.
“Don’t worry. You’re a-going to be all right,” came Hank’s full,
grave voice. “The doctor’ll be here inside of twenty-four hours.
You’ll be all right.”
“No,” Van Brunt stopped him with a husky whisper. “I’m not going to
live an hour. My children are orphans.”
Plainly this tortured him more than bodily pain.
“Would it quiet your mind, Charley, if I was to promise to stick to
’em always, exactly as if they was my own?”
The great wave of relief that went over the white face on the pillow
was sufficient answer, and Hilda looked to see her father get better
at once; but what he said between labored breaths was:
“God bless you, Pearsall. I’m leaving nothing but debts—”
“’S all right, Charley—all right. They’s a-plenty—I’ll make it
a-plenty. And God so deal with me as I deal by these children.”
It was like a solemn ceremony; the picture of it as such remained
with Hilda in after life, vivid, ineffaceable. Her father on the
bed, the sure knowledge of death in his eyes, Uncle Hank putting a
brown hand over her own and Charley’s, the cowpunchers standing
about like witnesses to the pact.
When it was done the father kissed them both. Hilda thought he was
going to say something as he looked at her, but he rolled his head
painfully on the pillow and murmured instead:
“Take them out, now—take them away. Poor things—poor little things—I
don’t want them to remember—take them out, quick!”
They were hurried from the room. Shorty picked up Burch, and Bud
McGregor led her. They were lingering forlornly outside the closed
door when Uncle Hank opened it a few moments later, and said:
“You boys go with them to the bunk house.” He came fully into the
hall and closed the door. “Hurry on with ’em—see about Miss Valeria
as you go.”
And he turned back into Charley’s room, to sit by the young fellow’s
couch while he passed in anguish down into the Valley of the Shadow,
to reassure him in moments of respite from pain, with promises that
the mortgages should be paid off, the children have education and
opportunities.