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By ANNA FULLER
A Literary Courtship: Under the Auspices of
Pike's Peak. 28th thousand. 16 deg. $1.25
A Venetian June. Illustrated. 15th thousand.
16 deg. $1.25
Peak and Prairie: From a Colorado Sketch-Book.
Illustrated. 7th thousand. 16 deg.
New Edition. 12 deg. $1.50
Pratt Portraits: Sketched in a New England
Suburb. Illustrated, 12th thousand. 12 deg. $1.50
One of the Pilgrims. A Bank Story. 6th
thousand. 12 deg. $1.25
Katherine Day. 8th thousand. 12 deg. $1.50
A Bookful of Girls. 4th thousand. Illustrated.
12 deg. $1.50
Later Pratt Portraits. Illustrated $1.50 net
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[Illustration: "THE PEAK WAS SUPERB THAT MORNING, BIG AND STRONG AND
GLITTERING WITH SNOW."]
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PEAK AND PRAIRIE
From a Colorado Sketch Book
By
ANNA FULLER
Author of "A Literary Courtship"
"Pratt Portraits," Etc.
Illustrated by
Emma G. Moore
New York and London
G. P. Putnam's Sons
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Copyright, 1894
BY
ANNA FULLER
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
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TO ONE
TO WHOM I OWE
COLORADO
AND MUCH BESIDES
THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED
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PREFACE.
The sketches of Colorado life which make up this volume are little more
than hints and suggestions caught from time to time by a single observer
in a comparatively narrow field of observation. Narrow as the field is,
however, it offers a somewhat unusual diversity of scene; for that most
charming of health resorts known in these pages as Springtown, is the
chance centre of many varying interests. In its immediate vicinity
exists the life of the prairie ranch on the one hand and that of the
mining-camp on the other; while dominating all as it were--town,
prairie, and mountain fastness--rises the great Peak which has now for
so many years been the goal of pilgrimage to men and women from the
Eastern States in pursuit of health, of fortune, or of the free,
open-air life of the prairie. If, from acquaintance with these
fictitious characters set in a very real environment, the reader be led
to form some slight impression of the stirring little drama which is
going forward to-day in that pleasant Land of Promise, he will have
incidentally endorsed the claim of these disconnected sketches to be
regarded as a single picture.
May, 1894.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PREFACE v
I.--A PILGRIM IN THE FAR WEST 1
II.--BRIAN BORU 36
III.--JAKE STANWOOD'S GAL 60
IV.--AT THE KEITH RANCH 101
V.--THE RUMPETY CASE 123
VI.--THE LAME GULCH PROFESSOR 151
VII.--THE BOSS OF THE WHEEL 187
VIII.--MR. FETHERBEE'S ADVENTURE 217
IX.--AN AMATEUR GAMBLE 240
X.--A ROCKY MOUNTAIN SHIPWRECK 266
XI.--A STROKE IN THE GAME 301
XII.--THE BLIZZARD PICNIC 335
XIII.--A GOLDEN VISTA 369
Note.--Of the thirteen sketches included in this volume six have
previously appeared in periodicals, as follows:
_A Pilgrim in the Far West_ in _Harper's Weekly_; _Brian Boru_ in
_Worthington's Magazine_; _Jake Stanwood's Gal_ and _At the Keith Ranch_
in _The Century Magazine_; _The Rumpety Case_ in _Lippincott's
Magazine_; and _An Amateur Gamble_ in _Scribner's Magazine_. They were,
however, all prepared with reference to their final use as a consecutive
series.
A. F.
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ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"The Peak was Superb that Morning, Big and
Strong and Glittering with Snow" _Frontispiece_
"A Handful of Cottonwood Trees Clustered about
the House" 24
"The Vast Sea of the Prairie" 46
"Between his Cabin Door and 'The Range'
Stretched Twenty Miles of Arid Prairie" 60
The Keith Ranch 104
"A Half-Hearted Stream Known as 'The Creek'" 122
"The Great Dome of Snow Towered in All its Grandeur" 142
"A Town of Rude Frame Huts had Sprung up in
the Hollow below" 156
"On the Edge of a Dead Forest" 212
"It's a Kind of Double Back-Action Slant we've
Got to Tackle this Time" 228
Pine Bluff 258
"They Looked out at the Peak" 289
"The Brook, Which Came Dashing Down From The
Canon, Still Rioting on Its Way" 324
"The Ranch Gate, Which Had Swung Half To On
Its Hinges" 360
"The Wild and Beautiful Gorge" 378
A Golden Vista 388
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PEAK AND PRAIRIE
I.
A PILGRIM IN THE FAR WEST.
The Peak was superb that morning, big and strong, and glittering with
snow. Little Mrs. Nancy Tarbell turned, after shutting and locking the
door of her cottage, and looked down the street, at the end of which the
friendly giant stood out against a clear blue sky. The cottonwood trees
on either side of the road were just coming into leaf, and their
extended branches framed in her mighty neighbor in a most becoming
manner. The water in the irrigating ditch beneath the trees was running
merrily. The sound of it brought a wistful look into the cheerful old
face. It made Mrs. Nancy think of the gay little brook in the pasture
behind the house at home--at home, in far New England.
Surely it must have been a strange wind of destiny that wafted this
unadventurous little woman across half a continent to the very foot of
the Rocky Mountains--a long and weary journey for the young and
vigorous. Yet it was something no stranger than a mother's love for her
only child. For "Willie's" sake the widow Tarbell had turned her back
upon the dear New England woods and meadows, upon the tidy village where
every man and woman was her friend; for his sake she had come to dwell
among strangers in a strange and barren land. The old homestead had been
sold, and with the meagre proceeds she had paid their way across the
prairies, and had bought a little house and a lot of land on the
outskirts of Springtown, while Willie looked about him for something to
do. But the enemy before whom they had fled followed them to the high
pure altitude it loves not, and before poor Willie had found anything to
do, he had been "called up higher." This was the phrase the minister
used at Willie's funeral, and it had been peculiarly comforting to the
bereaved mother. She had known well that her boy needed higher air, for
that she had come to live six thousand feet above the level of the New
England pastures. But the Lord saw that she, with her poor human
wisdom, could not lead him to the needed height, and He had called him
up higher yet, where are blessing and healing forever. With this abiding
consolation in her heart, Willie's mother could face the shining Peak
day after day and month after month with a countenance as brave and
cheerful as his own. It was only when she listened to the sound of
running waters, or some other voice of the past, that the wistful look
came into her face.
Meanwhile it was good life-giving air that she breathed, and good warm
sunshine that rested upon her, as she stepped briskly on her way. Her
little cottage was no longer on the outskirts of the town. Stately
mansions had risen up about her, and a long procession of houses now
stretched far up to the northward. The people idly looking forth from
the windows of the stately mansions, did not realize how much a part of
the landscape the little black figure had become, passing and repassing
their doors. A small meek figure it was, with little indication of the
bright spirit within. It was her "best dress" of ten years ago that she
now "wore common." The folds of the skirt, cut in the fashion of a
by-gone day, offered ample accommodation for bustle and steels, and in
the absence of these props the gown had a collapsed, inconsequent air.
But little Mrs. Nancy had never seen her own back, and she wore the gown
with a pleased consciousness of being well dressed. Then there was the
thin cashmere shoulder cape, with the long slimpsy fringe, which Willie,
in his pride and fondness, had persuaded her to buy, and which had a
curiously jaunty and inapt appearance on the narrow shoulders. The close
black felt bonnet was rusty and of antiquated shape. And since few ever
thought of looking within these prosaic externals to note the delicacy
of the soft old cheek, and the sweet innocence of the faded blue eyes
beneath the thin gray locks, it is perhaps no wonder that the dwellers
in the stately mansions quite overlooked their modest little neighbor.
Mrs. Nancy was expecting to bring back her marketing in the flat twine
bag she carried, and she was also thinking of calling at the milliner's
and inquiring the cost of having her old black straw bonnet pressed over
and retrimmed. She held her purse tightly between her fingers, encased
in loose black cotton gloves, as she tried to estimate the sum of such
an unwonted outlay. Her means were very, very slender, yet she could not
bear that Willie's mother should look too shabby.
And was that all? Who knows but that the spring instinct of renewal and
rejuvenation played a part in her resolve quite independent of the
perennial thought of Willie? The drama of life does not cease even in
the most unobtrusive consciousness. It was going on in little Mrs.
Nancy's brain at every step of her morning walk. As the shriek of a
locomotive rent the air, a bright smile suddenly crossed her face. Her
thoughts had taken a different and more inspiring turn.
"Who knows," she said to herself. "Maybe that is the very engine that
will take me home some day--when Atchison begins to pay again."
The noisy engines had always a reassuring sound to her ears. She would
sometimes lie in bed listening with rapture to their discordant cries.
They were the willing servants that would one day carry her eastward,
miles upon miles, hours upon hours--eastward to the old home, within
smell of the salt air, where there were familiar faces to welcome her,
familiar voices to speak of Willie.
The people here, the few she knew, were very kind, but they seemed to
have forgotten Willie, and she was shy of speaking of him. But all the
home folks would flock to meet her, and to hear of his last brave hours.
How glad they would be to know that he had lacked nothing! Atchison had
given them all they needed while Willie was alive. She blessed Heaven
for that.
She had arrived in the business part of the town, where wagons and
foot-passengers thronged at this hour of the morning. She willingly let
them divert her thoughts. She liked the bustle and hurry of the scene.
The well-dressed men and women in their trim turnouts little guessed
what pleasure their high-stepping horses and silver-mounted harnesses
gave to the modest little woman threading her way among the people on
the sidewalk.
Suddenly Mrs. Nancy's pleased survey of the scene was interrupted.
Glancing down a side street, she beheld a sight which made her heart
beat hard. A big, rough-looking man was striding along the sidewalk,
dragging at the end of a long pole a frightened white dog. The dog was
pulling back with might and main, scarcely using its unwilling legs in
its enforced progress over the ground. What could it mean? Was the dog
mad? He looked harmless enough. They were only a few rods off, and Mrs.
Nancy soon overtook them. The dog proved to be a small white collie,
and as she came up with him he gave her an appealing look out of his
great brown eyes, which filled her with compassion and indignation.
"What are you doing with that dog?" she demanded, in a peremptory tone
of voice quite out of keeping with the rusty black bonnet.
"Doin'?" repeated the man, somewhat surprised. "I'm takin' him to the
City Hall."
"What for?"
"He ain't got no license on."
"And what are you going to do with him when you get him there?"
"_I_ ain't goin' to do nothin' more with him."
"Will they put a license on him?"
"Not much! He won't need no license after to-morrow morning." The man's
grin seemed perfectly diabolical.
"You don't mean they'll kill him?"
"I reckon that's about the size of it."
"But suppose the owner would rather pay the license?" she urged.
"Then he'd better step round lively and pay it. There ain't no time to
lose. The law was on the 1st of May, and the owner'd ought to have
attended to it before now."
The unutterable tragedy of the situation was heightened by the needless
humiliation and terror of the victim, and once again Mrs. Nancy
protested.
"What makes you drag him at the end of that pole?"
"I ain't goin' to give him a chance at my breeches, not if I knows
myself," replied the man, defiantly.
"He wouldn't hurt your pantaloons. See how gentle he is!" and the little
woman pulled off her glove to pat the pretty white head. As the grateful
creature licked her hand she felt a thrill of new pity and tenderness.
By this time they were at the City Hall. "What do you have to pay for a
license?" she asked.
"Two good solid dollars," said the man. "I never seen a dog yet that was
worth that money, did you?" And dog and persecutor disappeared together
within a sinister-looking basement door.
Mrs. Nancy Tarbell stood for a moment irresolute, and then she slowly
wended her way along the sidewalk, pondering the thing she had seen. Two
dollars! That was a large sum of money in these hard times. Could she
possibly spare it? She did not know yet what her tax bill would be, but
for some unexplained reason it turned out to be larger every year. She
supposed it was owing to the improvements they were making in the town,
and she had too much self-respect to protest. But it was really getting
to be a serious matter.
In her perplexity and absorption the little lady had turned eastward,
and presently she found herself close upon a railroad track over which a
freight train was slowly passing. It was the Atchison road, and she
watched with interest the long, slow train.
"They appear to be doing a good business," she said to herself. "Seems
as though they might make out to pay something or other."
When the train had passed she stepped across the track, looking with
interest at the well-laid rails and the solid ties. "Queer, isn't it?"
she thought. "Now I own six thousand dollars worth of that track, and
yet I can't squeeze out of it enough to pay a poor little dog's
license."
She never could think without a feeling of awe of the magnitude of the
sum left her by her thrifty husband, the bulk of which sum was
represented by those unfruitful certificates. She stooped and felt the
rails, looking cautiously up and down the road to be sure no train was
coming. After all, it was consoling to think that that good honest steel
and timber was partly her property. It was not her first visit to the
spot.
"Queer, isn't it," she reflected, as she had often done before, "that
there isn't any way that I can think of to make my own road take me
home? Anyhow I'll buy that license _just to spite 'em_," she exclaimed,
with sudden decision; and shaking the dust of Atchison from her feet,
and the far more bewildering dust of financial perplexities from her
mind, she walked quickly back to the town.
It took a certain amount of resolution to turn the handle of the
sinister-looking door, and the group of men lounging in the
smoking-room, and turning upon her inquisitive glances as she entered,
might even then have daunted her, had not her eye fallen upon a dejected
bunch of whitish hair in one corner.
As she stepped into the room, a white tail disengaged itself from the
round hairy bundle, and began pathetically to beat the floor, while two
very beautiful and beseeching eyes were fixed upon her face. Had she
still been irresolute this mute appeal would have been irresistible, and
suddenly feeling as bold as a lion she stepped up to the desk where the
city marshal was throned, and demanded a license for the white dog. The
two great silver dollars which she drew from her purse looked very large
to the widow Tarbell, yet it was with a feeling of exultation that she
paid them as ransom for the white dog. In return for the money she
received a small, round piece of metal with a hole bored through it,
bearing a certain mystic legend which was to act as a talisman to the
wearer. Her name and address were duly entered on the books. Then her
agitated little beneficiary was untied from the chair leg, the rope
which bound him was put into her hands, and with a polite courtesy Mrs.
Tarbell turned to go.
By a sudden impulse one of the rough-looking men got up from his chair,
and, taking his hat off, opened the door. A light flush crossed the
little woman's cheek as she accepted the attention, and then the two
small figures, the black and the white, passed out into the delicious
Colorado sunshine.
"She looked 'most too small to handle that big door," said the tall
fellow, apologetically, as he re-established his wide sombrero on the
back of his head, and, resuming his seat, tilted his chair once more
against the wall. The other men smoked on in silence. No one felt
inclined to chaff this shamefaced Bayard. Mrs. Tarbell, meanwhile, led
her willing captive along, delighting in his cheerful aspect and
expressive tail. He was dirty, to be sure, and he was presumably hungry.
Who could tell what hardships he had suffered before falling into the
brutal hands of the law? She stopped to buy her dinner, to which she
added five cents' worth of dog's-meat, but the milliner's door was
passed coldly by. The old straw would have to serve her another season.
Before they had gone two blocks, Mrs. Nancy had named the collie David.
She had no question whatever about the name, for had he not been
delivered out of the hands of the Philistines? She was patient with him
when he paused to make the acquaintance of other dogs, and even once
when he succeeded in winding the cord tightly about her ankles.
Nevertheless it was a relief to get him home, and to tie him to the post
of her front porch, where he established himself with entire
willingness, and promptly dropping asleep, forgot alike his perils and
his great escape.
The first care of his new friend on arriving home was to secure the
license upon him. He was collarless, and she was a good deal "put to it"
to supply the lack. At last she resolved to sacrifice her shawl-strap
in the emergency. She might miss it, to be sure, when she came to go
home, but then, she reflected, if she were once on her way home, she
would not care about any little inconvenience. So as soon as she and
David had had a good dinner, she got down the old strap, which had hung
on a certain nail for five long years, and taking a kitchen knife,
ruthlessly chopped it off to the right length. Then she bored a new hole
with her scissors for the tongue of the buckle to pass through, and,
going to Willie's tool box, found a short piece of wire with which--it
seemed but the other day--he had been tinkering something about the
house. With the wire she fastened the license securely to the collar.
But before David could be found worthy of such decoration, he was
subjected to a pretty severe bath in an old tub out in the back yard.
Poor David! This was a novel and painful dispensation, and he submitted
only under protest. But his new mistress was firm, and arrayed in her
oldest calico gown, with spectacles on her nose, she applied herself,
with the energy and determination of all her New England grandmothers,
to the task of scrubbing and soaping and squeezing and combing the dirt
out of the long, thick hair. Three tubs of water were barely sufficient
for the process, but finally David emerged, subdued but clean, looking
very limp and draggled, and so much smaller because of his wet,
close-clinging coat, that for a moment Mrs. Nancy thought, with a pang,
that she might have washed away a part of the original dog. Later,
however, when the sun had dried the fluffy hair, and when she fastened
the new collar about the neck of the spotless animal, she let him lick
her very face, so delighted were they both with the result of her
labors. The rest of the afternoon they passed amicably together on the
sunny porch. She would look up occasionally from her sewing, and say,
"Good doggy!" and David would immediately wag his tail in delighted
response. He was extremely mannerly and appreciative of the slightest
attention--always excepting his enforced ablutions--and he seemed to
approve of the kind eyes of his little protectress as warmly as she
approved of his cool leather nose and speaking ears. As often as he
moved, his license, hitting against the collar buckle, made a safe,
cheerful sound, and Mrs. Nancy felt quite overcome with joy and
gratitude at having been the chosen instrument of his preservation. When
she lighted the lamp in the evening and began her regular game of
backgammon, David curled himself up at her feet in a most companionable
manner, and pricked his ears with interest at the fall of the dice.
But for her backgammon it would be difficult to imagine what Mrs.
Tarbell would have done with her evenings, for her eyes were not strong
enough for reading or sewing. She had got the habit of playing
backgammon with Willie, after he became too weak for more active
occupations, and they had kept the score in a little green blank-book.
After he died she had missed the game, and she had found it pleasant to
take it up again, and to play for both herself and Willie. The score,
too, had been continued in the old book. At the top of each new page she
wrote in her precise old-fashioned hand, "Mother," "Willie," and under
her name all the victories of the "whites" were scored, while those of
the "blacks" were still recorded to Willie's credit. After a while her
eyesight began to fail still more, and it became necessary to lift the
dice and examine them "near to." Then gradually she found that the black
checkers occasionally eluded her, and that she was straining her eyes in
her efforts to see them in the shadowy corners of the board. When at
last she found that by an oversight she had committed a flagrant
injustice to Willie's interests, she felt that something must be done.
Being fertile in resource, she presently bethought herself of the bright
colored wafers she had played with in her childhood, and to her joy she
found they were still to be bought. Having possessed herself of a box of
them, she proceeded to stick a glittering gilt star upon each side of
each checker, both black and white, after which the checkerboard took on
a showy theatrical appearance.
Mrs. Nancy rarely felt lonely when playing backgammon. The click of the
dice sounded cheerful and sociable; the checkers, with their shining
eyes, seemed to take a real interest in the game; and when she scored
the result to "Willie" or to "Mother," the old familiar every-day
relation seemed restored between them.
To-night Willie was having all the luck, and that was sure to put his
mother in the best of spirits. She played on and on, much later than her
custom was, till at last the luck turned, and looking at her flat,
gold-faced watch, she found, with a shock, that it was ten minutes after
ten o'clock.
"My sakes!" she cried. "I ought to be ashamed of myself! Come, David,
come right along to bed. You're going to sleep on the mat at the back
door."
David, who was nothing if not amenable, cheerfully acceded to this
arrangement. Even before his new mistress had finished tying him to the
railing, he had curled himself up on the mat and was fast asleep. When
she patted him on the head, however, by way of good-night, his tail gave
a responsive wag, and little Mrs. Nancy left him with the friendliest
feelings.
The next morning the dog was gone. Yes, incredible as it seems, that
graceless dog was gone--gone without a word of farewell.
Mrs. Nancy was standing gazing in dejected mood at the fragment of
string he had left behind him, when the milkman, one of her special
cronies, arrived. The good-natured Sam was full of sympathy.
"I reckon he came in with some ranchman yesterday, and got lost in the
town. Like as not he's gone home. Good Lord! I'd just like to see that
'ere ranchman when his dog gits back with a locket round his neck!"
"I washed him too, Sam," Mrs. Nancy lamented, as she accompanied her
visitor to the gate. She was too conscientious to detain the man from
the performance of his duty.
"You washed him!" he cried, as he got into his cart. "Jerusalem! I guess
that's the first time a ranch dog ever got a taste of a bath."
And the cart rattled off, leaving David's little friend standing at the
gate. It was just after sunrise, and she looked down the street to the
mountains, which were bathed in a flood of translucent crimson reflected
from the east.
"I wonder if the walls of the heavenly Jerusalem look very different
from that!" she mused, as she gazed into the deepening color. When she
turned back to the house, she had almost forgotten the ungrateful
runaway in thoughts of her boy and his heavenly abiding place.
The next afternoon Mrs. Tarbell was sitting on her front porch
endeavoring to readjust the bows upon the old straw bonnet. She had
taken them off, and sponged both ribbon and straw, and she was now
trying her best to make the bows hold up their heads with the spirit and
grace which distinguish a milliner's trimming. She looked up from time
to time to enjoy the reflection of the trees in the lake surrounding the
house. For her grass was being flooded to-day, and that was always a
pretty sight. "It looks almost as pretty as Watkins' pond out on the
Goodham turnpike," she reflected, as the water glistened in a broad
expanse. She owned a good piece of land, a hundred feet front. Willie
had meant to have a vegetable garden when he had got strong enough to
work in it.
A horseman had turned into the street, and came cantering toward the
house. But horsemen were part of the landscape in Colorado, and she
scarcely noticed his approach till a joyful bark caused her to look up,
just in time to see David take a flying leap over the gate and come
dashing up to her.
"Why, David!" she cried; and then she stopped, abashed, for the horseman
was already tying his pony to the post.
"Mrs. Tarbell?" he questioned, as he opened the gate; and without
waiting for an answer, he went on: "I've come to thank you for getting
my dog away from those scoundrels at the City Hall. They had the decency
to tell me where to look for you."
"Oh, pray don't mention it!" said little Mrs. Nancy, with old-fashioned
courtesy.
"Not mention it!" cried her visitor. "It was the kindest thing I ever
heard of. I don't see what made you do it."
"Oh, I couldn't help it. David looked so miserable being dragged along
at the end of a pole."
"The cowards!" he cried. "Don't get a chair, ma'am. I like the steps
better. Did you call him David?" he asked, with a twinkle of amusement
in his kind gray eyes, as he seated himself on the low step, with his
long legs trailing off over the walk.
"Well, yes. I didn't know what else to call him, and as he'd been
delivered out of the hands of the Philistines----"
"That's a good one!" cried the ranchman. "Come here, David. You've got a
name now as well as a locket. Do you hear that?"
David had established himself between his master and his rescuer, and
looked from one to the other with evident satisfaction. They were soon
engaged in an amicable conversation, quite unconscious of the picture
they were forming. The tall ranchman, clad in full cowboy
paraphernalia, his extended legs encased in leathern "shaps" decorated
with long fringes, his belt of rattlesnake-skin, his loose shirt showing
a triangle of bronzed throat, in his hand the broad sombrero clasped
about with a silver band.
Little Mrs. Nancy sitting upright in her chair, in her neat old black
gown, holding the forgotten bonnet in her lap, watched her picturesque
visitor with the greatest interest. And looking up into the delicate
little old face, he noted all the sweetness and brightness which had so
long been lost upon the world. To make a clean breast of it, the two
fell frankly in love with each other upon the spot, and before the
stranger had departed, he had persuaded her to visit his ranch with him
the very next Sunday.
"But I don't know what to call you," she said, after having agreed upon
this wild escapade.
"That's so," said he. "I go by the name of Wat Warren out here, but they
used to call me Walter at home. I wish you would call me Walter."
"It's a pretty name," she said. "I thought some of calling my boy Walter
at first."
Warren was on the point of departure, and a sudden embarrassment seemed
to seize him. He had his hand in his trousers' pocket. "I 'most forgot
the money for the license," he stammered, as he pulled out a couple of
silver dollars.
Nobody knows what came over Mrs. Nancy, but she suddenly found she could
not take the money.
"Oh, that's of no consequence," she said, quite as though she had had at
her command the whole treasury surplus of a few years ago. "I should
like to make David a present of the license;" and as her two visitors
departed at full gallop, she sat down in a flutter of pleasurable
excitement.
How surprising it all was! She looked back upon the last hour quite
incredulous. She felt as though she had known this strange young man all
her life. Not that he had told her much about his own concerns. On the
contrary, after complimenting her on the subject of David's collar and
David's bath, he had got her talking about herself; and she had told him
about Willie, and about Atchison, and about her desire to go home to New
England.
"My sakes!" said she to herself; "what a chatterbox I'm getting to be in
my old age! What must he have thought of me?" But in her heart she knew
he had not thought any harm of her confidence. There had been no
mistaking the sympathy in that sunburnt face, and if there had been any
doubt remaining, the hearty grip of the rough hand, which she still
felt upon her palm, would have set her mind quite at rest.
But if Mrs. Nancy wondered at herself on Tuesday, she had fairly lost
all track of her own identity when, on Sunday, she found herself seated
beside her broad-shouldered friend in a light wagon, bowling over the
prairies behind a pair of frisky four-year-olds, while David bounded
beside them or scampered about in the vain pursuit of prairie-dogs.
"Do you feel afraid?" asked her host, looking protectingly down upon the
tiny figure at his side.
"Not a mite," she declared. "I never was one of the scary kind."
They had left the mountains behind them and were speeding to the
eastward. It seemed to her that a few hours of this rapid progress would
bring them to the very shores of the Atlantic. On and on they went over
the undulating yellow plains. As they neared the top of each rise of
ground Mrs. Nancy's heart stood still in a strange fantastic suspense.
Would there be trees over beyond, or lakes, or rivers, or perhaps a
green New England meadow?
"Isn't it like sailing?" said her companion as they bowled along.
"I never went sailing," Mrs. Nancy replied. "I've only been out in a
boat on the pond, and I think this is pleasanter."
They did little talking on that drive. Mrs. Nancy was too entirely
absorbed in her new experience to have much to say. But when at last
they reached the ranch, lying like an oasis in the vast barren, with
young corn sprouting in the wide fields, and a handful of cottonwood
trees clustered about the house, the tears fairly started to the little
woman's eyes, so much did this bit of rural landscape remind her of her
own far-away New England. And when the master of the house led the way
into a neat little room, with a south window looking across the plains,
it came his turn for confidences.
"This room was built on for my mother," he said.
"Did she live here with you?"
"No; she died before she could get here."
"Oh dear!" said his little visitor.
The two small words were eloquent with sympathy.
That was a red-letter day for Mrs. Nancy Tarbell. She felt as though she
were getting a glimpse of the great West for the first time in all these
years. When her host casually informed her that he owned about seven
square miles of land and two hundred head of cattle, she gave a little
gasp of amazement.
[Illustration: "A HANDFUL OF COTTONWOOD TREES CLUSTERED ABOUT THE
HOUSE."]
"I always wanted to see a cattle ranch," she said.
"Oh, this is no cattle ranch. It's only a dairy." And he took her about
through the many sheds and barns, which were hidden in a hollow a few
rods away. Here he showed her his ice-houses, his huge churns, and his
mammoth "separator" that went whirling around, dividing the cream from
hundreds of gallons of milk in the time it would have taken her to skim
a couple of three-pint pans.
"Sakes alive!" she exclaimed again and again, as these wonders were
explained to her--"sakes alive! what would our folks say to that?"
"You'll have a great deal to tell them when you go back," said Warren,
studying her animated face.
"If I ever go," she said, with a little sigh.
This was after dinner, which had been a savory meal served by a man
cook.
"Do you want very much to go?"
"Oh yes! I shall go just as soon as ever Atchison begins to pay again. I
hope I haven't any false pride," she added, deprecatingly, "but I can
live cheaper here than I should be willing to there, where I've seen
better days."
Brave little Mrs. Nancy! It was not indeed false pride that deterred
her, but the fear of being a burden to others.
They were sitting in the big living-room, which on this great occasion
had been made as neat as her own little parlor. Antlers and other
strange trophies ornamented the walls, where also guns and spurs and
lassos hung. The little woman did not seem in the least out of place
among these warlike objects. She sat in an old leathern chair, her feet
on a coyote-skin, looking about her with quick bright motions that made
the big fellow think of the shy field creatures that sometimes strayed
over his threshold--ground squirrels, rabbits, and the like. David lay
curled up close beside her, and half a dozen less-favored dogs looked
wistfully in from time to time. Warren was wondering whether she could
possibly fit in naturally to the stiff, scant New England life which he
had fled away from when a boy. Presently he said:
"Have you any idea how much your house and land are worth?"
"Oh yes! We paid ten hundred and fifty dollars for it when the house was
new, but it's a good deal out of repair now."
"But you know real estate is pretty high here just now."
Struck by the peculiar emphasis with which he spoke, Mrs. Nancy gave him
a startled look. "Why--why--what do you mean?"
"Well, I was talking with a real-estate man about the value of land the
other day, and he said you could realize six thousand dollars on your
place any day."
"Six--thousand--dollars?"
"Yes, six thousand dollars."
"Why, that's just what we had in Atchison!"
"Well, I guess there's no question but that you could get that for your
land to-morrow."
It had indeed been an eventful day, and it was followed by a sleepless
night. For years little Mrs. Nancy had had one great wish, and suddenly
it was to be fulfilled. She could go home--home to New England, to the
village where she was born, to the village where everybody knew her,
where they would talk of Willie. Through the hours of the night, which
sped fast, she thought and thought of the home-coming. She passed in
review all her old neighbors, forgetting for the moment how many would
be found missing; she wandered in spirit through the familiar pastures,
beneath the green trees, beside the pond at the foot of the hill.
Suddenly a strange suggestion intruded itself upon her thoughts. Must it
not be "kind o' damp" with all that swamp land so near by, and the great
elm-trees so close about the house? Her house no longer, however. It had
passed into the hands of strangers--city people, whom she did not know.
She wondered where she should live. She should want to be independent,
and she should hate to "board out."
But with the alloy of perplexity her radiant visions faded, and she fell
asleep. For the first time in all these years the milkman found locked
doors. He would not disturb the "little widdy," but when he had left the
can upon the back steps he turned away, feeling somewhat aggrieved.
The next morning, after her house was set in order and her marketing
done, Mrs. Nancy sat herself down in her porch to darn her stockings.
She had formed the habit, for Willie's sake, of doing all the work
possible out in the air and sunshine, and she still clung to all the
habits that were associated with him. Her weekly darning was a trifling
piece of work, for every hole which ventured to make its appearance in
those little gray stockings was promptly nipped in the bud.
The water was merrily flowing in the irrigating ditch, a light breeze
was rustling in the cotton woods before the door, while the passing
seemed particularly brisk. Two small boys went cantering by on one
bareback horse; a drove of cattle passed the end of the street two or
three rods away, driven by mounted cow-boys; a collection of small
children in a donkey cart halted just before her door, not of their own
free will, but in obedience to a caprice of the donkey's. They did not
hurt Mrs. Nancy's feelings by cudgelling the fat little beast, but sat
laughing and whistling and coaxing him until, of his own accord, he put
his big flapping ears forward as though they had been sails, and ambled
on. There were pretty turnouts to watch, and spirited horses, and Mrs.
Nancy found her mind constantly wandering from what she meant should be
the subject of her thoughts.
When the postman appeared around the corner he came to her gate and
lifted the latch. It was not time for her small bank dividend. The
letter must be from her husband's sister-in-law, who wrote to her about
twice a year. As Mrs. Nancy sat down to read the letter her eyes rested
for a moment upon the mountains.
"If Almira could have come with the letter she'd have thought those
snowy peaks well worth the journey," she said to herself. And then she
read the letter.
Here it is:
"DEAR NANCY,--Excuse my long silence, but I've been suffering from
rheumatism dreadfully, and haven't had the spirit to write to
anybody but my Almira. It's been so kind of lonesome since she went
away that I guess that's why the rheumatism got such a hold of me.
When you ain't got anybody belonging to you, you get kind of
low-spirited. Then the weather--it's been about as bad as I ever
seen it. Not a good hard rain, but a steady drizzle-drozzle day
after day. You can't put your foot out of doors without getting
your petticoats draggled. But you'll want to hear the news. Cousin
Joshua he died last month, and the place was sold to auction.
Deacon Stebbins bought it low. He's getting harder-fisted every
year. Eliza Stebbins she's pretty far gone with lung trouble,
living in that damp old place; but he won't hear to making any
change, and she ain't got life enough left to ask for it. Both her
boys is off to Boston. Does seem as though you couldn't hold the
young folks here with ropes, and I don't know who's going to run
the farms and the corner store when we're gone. Going pretty fast
we be too. They've been eight deaths in the parish since last
Thanksgiving--Mary Jane Evans and me was counting them up last
sewing circle. Mr. Williams, the new minister, made out as we'd
better find a more cheerful subject; but we told him old Parson
Edwards before him had given us to understand that it was
profitable and edifying to the spiritual man to dwell on thoughts
of death and eternity. They do say that Parson Williams would be
glad to get another parish. He's a stirring kind of man, and there
ain't overmuch to stir, round here. I sometimes wish I could get
away myself. I'd like to go down to Boston and board for a spell,
jest to see somebody passing by; but they say board's high down
there and living's poor; and, after all, it's about as easy to
stick it out here. I don't know though's I wonder that you feel 's
you do about coming home. 'T ain't what you're used to out West,
and I don't suppose you ever feel real easy in your mind from
cow-boys and Indians and wild animals. I was reading only yesterday
about a grizzly-bear that killed a man right there in the Rocky
Mountains, and I'm glad you feel 's you do about coming home. I
should like to think that you'd be here to close my eyes at the
last.
"But no more at present. This is quite a letter for me. Your true
friend,
"ALMIRA TARBELL.
"P.S.--You remember my old tabby that I set such store by? She died
along in March, and I buried her under the sugar-maple side of the
barn. The maples didn't do as well this year."
"Poor Almira," said the little widow, folding the letter with a sigh;
"she's having a real hard time. I do feel for her, I declare."
An hour after, when her new friends Warren and David came to inquire how
she had borne the fatigues of her yesterday's drive, they found her
sitting with the letter in her hands. There was a bright flush on her
cheeks, and a look of perplexity in her blue eyes.
"Fine day, isn't it?" said Warren, while David wagged his tail till it
almost touched his ears.
"Yes, it's a very fine day. 'Pears to me Colorado never did look so nice
as it does to-day."
"That is because you are thinking of leaving us," Warren rejoined,
thoughtfully pulling the ears of David, who could scarcely contain
himself for joy at being the object of such a flattering attention.
"I don't know 's I should be in such a hurry to go right straight away,
even if I could sell my land," said the widow, slipping the letter into
her pocket with a guilty air.
They chatted awhile in the bright sunshine, and Warren soon had an
inkling of the little woman's state of mind.
"I don't suppose, now, you'd be willing to take a ground-rent on the
other half of your land if a desirable party should apply? A rent, say,
for five years, with the privilege of purchase at the expiration of the
term?"
The long words sounded very technical and business-like, yet rather
agreeable too.
"You mean somebody might like to build on my land?"
"That's the idea," said Warren. "Fact is," he went on, after a pause, "I
happen to know a nice, steady young fellow who is thinking of getting
married. He told me he would be willing to pay $300 and taxes."
"Three hundred dollars!" cried the wondering little land-owner. "Why, I
should feel like a rich woman!"
"Well, the land's worth it, and the young man's able to pay."
The air was growing warmer and sweeter every minute, and the water in
the irrigating ditch sounded quite jubilant as it raced past the house.
Yes, Colorado was a pleasant place to live in, especially with Walter
Warren for a neighbor only ten miles away. The ranch did not seem at all
far off since that rapid drive across the prairies.
She sat so long silent that her visitor felt he must offer greater
inducements. He began pulling David's ears so vigorously that a dog of
a less refined perception might have howled remonstrance, and then,
while the color deepened in the sunburnt face and an engaging shyness
possessed him, Warren said, "Perhaps you'd take more kindly to the
arrangement if you knew who the young man was?"
"My dear, are you going to get married?" cried Mrs. Nancy, forgetting
alike her perplexities and her dreams of opulence.
"Well, yes, I am; some time next fall. She lives back East; and I
thought it would be nice to have a little place in town where we could
stay through the off seasons. You'll let us come, won't you?" he cried,
with a look of boyish beseeching. "I know you would if you could see
Jenny. _She's so sweet!_"
The momentous visit was over; Warren had had his turn at confidences,
and was now striding down the street, with David at his heels.
The little widow stood at the gate, her heart feeling bigger and warmer
than for many a long day. Once more she looked down under the row of
cotton woods, which had come into full leaf during the past week, looked
to where her giant mountain neighbor stood, strong and constant as an
old friend. The air seemed clearer, the sunshine brighter, than ever
before. The running stream was singing its own gay song, and for once it
waked no longing in her breast. As Mrs. Nancy turned to walk up the
path, she drew forth Almira's letter, not without a momentary pang of
remorse. With the letter in her hand she paused again, and looked and
listened as though she would drink in the whole of Colorado at one
draught. Suddenly a gleam of roguish wilfulness came into the sweet old
face, and speaking half aloud, she murmured,
"I don't know but I'm getting to be a heartless old woman, but--I'm
afraid I'd full as lief somebody else closed Almira's eyes for her!"
And with this revolutionary sentiment the faithless little New Englander
passed into the house that had at last taken on the dignity and the
preciousness of a home.
II.
BRIAN BORU.
Sir Bryan Parkhurst, a young Irish sportsman just over from the old
country, was rather disappointed in Colorado; and that was a pity,
considering that he had crossed an ocean and half a continent to get
there. The climate, to be sure, was beyond praise, and climate is what
Colorado is for, as any resident of Springtown will tell you. Nature,
too, was very satisfactory. He liked the way the great mass of Rocky
Mountains thrust itself up, a mighty barrier against the west, perfectly
regardless of scenic conventionalities. There was something refreshingly
democratic about the long procession of peaks, seeming to be all of
about the same height. In that third week of September not a single one
of them all wore the ermine, though their claim to that distinction,
measured by their altitude, equalled that of their snow-clad cousins of
another hemisphere. On the other hand, Sir Bryan pleased himself with
fancying that the splashes of golden aspen and crimson sumac on the
mountain sides, contrasting with the brilliant, unalterable blue of the
sky, had a Star-Spangled-Banner effect--a thing which the British
tourist is always delighted to discover.
Truth to tell, it was the people that bothered Sir Bryan. In dress, in
manners,--he sometimes feared in morals, they lacked the strong flavor
which he had confidently looked for. They did not wear flannel shirts in
general society; they did not ask impertinent questions; a whiskey
cocktail did not seem to play a necessary part in the ceremony of
introduction; the almighty dollar itself did not stalk through every
conversation, putting the refinements of life to the blush. In short,
Sir Bryan found himself forced to base his regard for his new
acquaintances upon such qualities as good breeding, intelligence, and a
cordial yet discriminating hospitality,--qualities which he was
perfectly familiar with at home.
He sometimes wondered whether the taint of civilization might not
already have attached itself to the grizzly bear and the mountain lion,
for whose inspiring acquaintance he had ardently pined since boyhood. He
was on the eve of going to pay his respects to these worthies in their
own mountain fastnesses, and, meanwhile, was getting himself in training
by walking great distances with a rifle over his shoulder.
In the course of the last of his extended tramps--for he was due to join
that inveterate sportsman, Lord Longshot, at Denver, on the following
day,--he found himself passing through a wilderness of loveliness. He
had entered what he would have termed, with the genial inaccuracy of his
race, a "boundless enclosure," and having crossed a vast, yellowish
field, populous with scrawny cattle and self-important prairie-dogs, he
was following a well-marked road, which led alluringly up hill.
Thousands of scrub-oaks, in every shade of bronze and russet, massed
themselves on either hand, and in among them tufts of yellow asters
shone, and here and there a belated gilia tossed its feathery plume.
Scattered groups of pine trees that scorn the arid plains were lording
it over the bolder slopes of the mountain side. The steep road went on
its winding way, after the manner of its kind, dipping occasionally to
meet a bridge of planks, beneath which flowed a stream of autumn colors.
After a while Sir Bryan found the ascent too gradual for his ambition,
and, leaving the road to make its way as it would, he pushed upwards
through the bushes. Every step brought him nearer the gigantic crags
which formed the buttresses of the mountain, and looked wild and
impregnable enough to be the haunt of the grizzly himself.