THE NORTHER
So Hilda, alone at the ranch with Uncle Hank, Sam Kee in the
kitchen, the cowboys out in their own place, came up to the first
Christmas since her father’s death. There’d been Christmas cards
from Aunt Val and Burchie, at the Sanitarium, and some talk of their
trying to be at the Three Sorrows for the week; but in the end Miss
Valeria sent a blue silk party dress for her niece, and a letter
saying she could not risk having Burch exposed to changes of weather
at this time. There was a Miss Wingfield, of Kentucky, in the
Sanitarium, who played a very fair game of cribbage. She had found
some rather good society in Fort Worth itself—and so on, and so on.
Uncle Hank puckered his lips as though he might be going to whistle
when they unpacked the expensive-looking little frock, so utterly
unsuited to any of Hilda’s uses or needs. And when they came to try
it on, they found it too tight in some places and too big in others.
Miss Valeria’s letter said, just as she would have said it if she
had been there, that, since she didn’t have Hilda’s measurements,
there might be changes to be made, but that a local seamstress could
probably attend to it.
“Well,” said Uncle Hank doubtfully, “there’s a Mrs. Johnnie DeLisle
at Mesquite that’s a crackerjack at sewing—sewing and cutting out
things. I reckon Miss Valeria would call her a seamstress. She ain’t
very local—not to us. We’ll have to go sixty miles to her. But as we
was going in to-morrow—weather permitting—to do a—er—a little
Christmas buying, why we can take it along, and have her fix it.”
They were to start before sunrise and make the trip in one day. He
sent Hilda off to bed early; and twice before going to bed himself
stepped from the front door to study the weather. They drove away in
the buckboard next morning in the dark after a hasty breakfast;
Hilda had never seen him push the ponies so. Neither of them seemed
in a humor for talking; she was sure Uncle Hank was worried—or
anyhow he was absent-minded, and Hilda had absorbing affairs of her
own to think of. She carried in a little pasteboard box one
carefully saved whole quarter, two silver dimes and seven pennies,
that were to buy at Brann’s store the finest necktie to be had for
Uncle Hank’s Christmas present. She couldn’t trust any of the boys
to get the exact shade of Uncle Hank’s blue eyes. She must select it
herself. And Uncle Hank had finally agreed to take her.
The air seemed very still. The thud-thud of the ponies’ hoofs
sounded dull. When it was time for the sun to come up, things just
got a little lighter; the gray began to turn blue. Suddenly Uncle
Hank spoke, looking down at her, still pushing his team hard.
“Better get your other coat out of your war-bag, honey.”
Hilda couldn’t trust the situation to words. She drew from under the
seat a very small bundle, opened it and showed that the largest and
heaviest garment it contained was a cambric nightgown.
“Pettie! Is that all you took for a trip like this? Where’s the big
bundle I saw Sam Kee toting down the stairs just before we left? I
thought that was your coat and things.” She shook her head.
“I guess that was the washing, Uncle Hank,” she faltered. “I guess
he was just taking it into the kitchen. He said he’d get it done
while we were gone, don’t you remember?”
“M-m,” the old man murmured noncommittally. “And that’s all you’ve
got? And I let you come out like that?”
“Well—it was kind of warm this morning.” Hilda defended them both.
“And I didn’t think about the big coat. I’m not c-cold, now, Uncle
Hank—hardly a bit,” and she tried not to shiver.
It was a curious, wild, beautiful day. Up there in the north
everything was a clear, strange, wicked blue, out of which there
began now a keen, steady wind. Over in the east, to their right, the
sun was just a blurry pink spot in the heavens.
“I’d never have come out like this—I’d have seen to things myself—if
I hadn’t been sort of troubled in my mind,” said Uncle Hank. “But
that’s no excuse.” He looked down at her. “Not cold? Why, Uncle
Hank’s baby’s just about perished! We’ve got a blue norther—just as
I was afraid—and it’ll blow for three days. If you had your coat,
I’d turn round and go straight back home. But you can’t travel in
that little jacket in a norther. I’ll cut in here to the left; see—”
as he turned into a side trail—“it puts our backs to the wind. We’ll
stop at the Bar Thirteen; you remember, honey, the Reynolds and
MacQueen ranch. Frosty MacQueen, he’s that staving big feller with
the tow-colored hair. You seen him at the last roundup on our
place—” He checked suddenly.
Hilda shook her head. She didn’t remember any one at that roundup
which ended so tragically. Hank glanced sideways at her, and went on
in a cheerful, commonplace tone:
“He’s sort of a joker—Frosty is. Calls hisself
‘Frosty MacQueen
Of the Bar Thirteen.’”
“Oh!” Hilda’s big eyes danced. “That rimes—doesn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Uncle Hank agreed. “And if any one takes notice of it riming
that-a-way, Frosty’ll say, ‘I was a poet—and didn’t know it.’ He
aims to be funny.”
Hilda’s mother had always read poetry to her; she knew a great deal
of it by heart, and used to love to go about sort of saying it under
her breath, or even with closed lips letting it say itself in her
head. Since she’d come to Texas and planned to grow up and be Uncle
Hank’s partner and a ranchwoman, she sometimes wondered if she ought
to do this. And too, out here the plains, the sky, the movements on
these two of the morning and evening which made day and night, also
set her to stringing words together. Sometimes these rimed, and then
it would give her a thrill that was almost painful. There was nobody
to tell about it. Aunt Val, even when she was there, would only have
told her to run away and not interrupt when a person was reading,
and Burchie was too little. So it had made itself into a secret; and
when a thing does that it pretty soon gets to be seeming like
something wrong. Now, here was this Frosty MacQueen, a grown man,
owner of a ranch, and it seemed he was allowed to make rimes without
loss of social standing. She plucked up sudden courage and asked:
“Uncle Hank—did you know I could write poetry?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if you could.” The old man was busy with
his team, getting over a bit of a gully. She watched close to see
whether he was pleased or displeased with her statement, but could
make nothing of him. As he seemed not to be going any further with
the subject, she was obliged to take it up again herself, an effort
that gave a little too much force to her statement:
“But I won’t—if you’d rather I wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t what?” They were going smoothly now without further
attention, as she went on:
“I love it, in the books, too; and maybe—at nights, and times when
you’re resting—but you know I intend to learn to ride and—and grow
up to be a real ranchwoman and your right hand. Do you think I could
do that and write poetry too?”
“Sure, Pettie. Why not? Lots o’ good riders and such write poetry.
I’ve knowed boys that sung it to the cattle, riding night herd. You
go ahead; if you grow up along of me, you’re bound to grow up a
rancher; that’s all there is to be, around here. I couldn’t help you
none in the poetry business; but you can read me any of your little
pieces that you’ve wrote, any time you want to. I expect they’re
fine.”
“Oh, Uncle Hank, I will!” in a flutter of embarrassment and delight.
“But I haven’t got any very good ones—yet. If you don’t think it’s
foolish—I will write a nice one out for you.”
Pearsall was looking keenly ahead.
“Like as not neither of the boys at home,” he said. “But Frosty’s
been pesterin’ me to bring you along some time to see his white cat,
Lily. He’s plumb foolish about Lily; says she’s all the family he’s
got, that she has more sense than some humans. Lily’ll be at home,
anyhow.”
“I’m almost glad the norther come,” Hilda murmured.
Hank drove on a moment in silence, then he said:
“Pettie, I ain’t sure and certain of myself in this here grammer
range; but from what I can make out from the brands and ear-marks,
that there word ought to be ‘came’—not ‘come.’”
The child looked at him wide-eyed with amazement. “Why, Uncle Hank,
you—you say—” she faltered.
“Yes, Pettie, yes, honey—you’ve got me there,” slowly shaking his
head. “You see an old cowpuncher like me—never had no schooling to
speak of—I sure do say a sight of unproper words. That’s one place
where it ain’t a-going to do for you to follow your Uncle
Hank—Pettie, I can’t lead. Cattle ranching—that’s one thing I know,
forward or backward; but that there grammer trail’s a plumb blind
one to me. You’ll have to quit me there, and learn one of your own.
I’ll always try to provide the right party to scout it out and blaze
it for you. Never mind my flinging my rope at ‘come’ and ‘came’ and
such. Ask Miss Belle about ’em when you go back to school after
Christmas. She knows. That’s what she’s here for. And when you get
so you can ride with the grammer pretty stiddy, why I’ll just tail
on the best I can. That’s how you and me’ll work it, Pettie—that’s
the way we’ll operate this here proposition.”
With his free hand he reached over and pulled the blankets up around
the child, exclaiming:
“I thought so! Here she comes.”
And with the ponies at a long steady lope they drove the last
quarter mile to the door of the little Bar Thirteen shack in an
ever-thickening cloud of snow that came steadily out of the north on
that strong wind.
“Ain’t no smoke,” muttered Hank, peering at the shanty through
whirling flakes. “Hop out, Pettie! Hop out, honey, and skalarrup
right into the house, while I put the ponies up. Jest make yourself
to home till I get there.”
When, a few moments later, the old man came into the small front
room, after stamping the snow from his high boots, he found the
child standing forlornly in the middle of it.
“They’ve likely went to town for Christmas,” he said. “But that
don’t make no difference to us; we’ll mighty soon have things
humming here.”
He hung up his big white cowboy hat, hustled off Hilda’s snow-soaked
outer garments, and came back from a foraging expedition with a
small blanket, in which he wrapped her, tucking her into a
comfortable chair.
“Now you’re done up like a papoose,” he laughed. “Can’t move none in
that there _serape_. You just set and watch your Uncle Hank while he
shows you how folks make theirselves to home in Texas when they come
to see you—and you ain’t there.”
Soon fires were roaring gayly in both the kitchen and front-room
stoves, a can of tomatoes was opened, a can of corn beside it; the
odor of brewing coffee floated pleasantly through the house;
condensed milk, butter,—all that goes to make a cozy meal was
brought out. A lamp was lit—as the darkness thickened—the table
spread, and they ate their supper.
Hilda could not get the great white cat to stay with her. Lily came
in and welcomed them sedately; then, in spite of all Hilda’s
petting, offering of diluted condensed milk and other dainties, she
walked away with the air of a hostess who feels her duty complete.
“Leave her go,” said Uncle Hank easily. “You can gentle her
to-morrow. We’ll be right here for three days.”
“I keep on being almost glad,” Hilda said. “It’s like a desert
island—sort of. And the plain out there is the sea. If it had
happened on the way back, and I’d had—er—something I wanted to get
in Mesquite, I think Christmas here would be lots of fun.”
“Ye-ah. So do I, Pettie.” The old man spoke absently from a small
wall cupboard, where he was pushing aside a home-made checkerboard
with buttons for checkers, several incomplete and very dirty packs
of cards, that had made many a solitaire in long lonesome evenings,
and Frosty’s extra supply of tobacco. “If I had—” His voice trailed
off. His plans had not been so exact as Hilda’s, but he had expected
to fill a small stocking to overflowing with what he could buy at
Brann’s store; and now there was nothing to “do with,” as he himself
would have put it, but whatever he could find in or about the Bar
Thirteen shack. He sighed a little, then turned with a smile to drop
another stick of mesquite wood into the little air-tight stove. He
surveyed the bright, warm room, while outside the norther had its
own way on the naked plain. “Comfortable! Why, we’re just
a-suffering with comfort, you and me—ain’t we, honey?”