THE FRENCH ROSE
The home of Jean LaFrance, a small cabin built principally of the
ever-ready cottonwood, was located in a corner of his quarter-section,
farthest from the Jones' Luck River, which formed one boundary of his
farm. He had designs upon more than one quarter-section, not at that
time an unusual or impossible ambition, in so far as homestead laws
went. His simple plan regarding residence was to move the cabin or
build against it as occasion arose. The rolling country sloped steadily
upward from the river to the chain of hills farther to the east. These
sent down several tributary streams, all unreliable during the warm
weather with the exception of one which passed close to the cabin. The
conformation of the land gave a view from the cabin of one long stretch
of the trail from Twin River and several short ones; opposite the house,
continuing to Wayback, the trail was lost sight of.
Thus Buck was plainly visible as he loped along the trail on the morning
following the Sweet-Echo tragedy, only no one happened to be observing
him. As he disappeared behind the first rise, a pair of inquisitive
young eyes, half closed in the effort of the mouth below to retain
possession of far more than its capacity, arose above the level of the
window sill and looked eagerly for an invitation to mischief. Seeing
nothing that particularly called him, Pickles went out and into the
barn.
Buck struck off the trail and rode along the path to the house. Spring
had returned in force after its temporary retreat before the recent cold
and the air bore whisperings of the mighty wedlock of nature; all about
him the ecstatic song of the meadow-lark held a meaning that escaped
him, vague, intangible, but thrillingly near to suggestion; the new
green of the prairie melted into the faint purple of the distant hills,
beneath a sky whose blue depths touched infinity. It was a perfect day
and Buck, on his errand of aid to the helpless, forgave the fences and
the evidence of land cultivation which threatened the life of the range.
Riding close to the door he raised his quirt--and paused.
Rivalling the meadow-larks there flowed the music of a mellow contralto
roice in song. His hand dropped to his side. That the language was
strange made little difference: the meaning of life almost was
discovered to him as he listened.
"Earth has her flowers and Heaven her sun--
But I have my heart.
Winter will come, the sweet blossoms will die--
But warm, ah! so warm
Is my heart.
"When the White King makes his truce with the Gold--
How dances my heart!
All the sweet perfumes that float in the Spring
Rest close, ah! so close
In my heart.
"One day when Love like a bee, buzzing past,
Wings close to my heart,
Deep he shall drink where no winter can chill,
Content, ah! content
In my heart."
The low voice died away into silence; from afar came the soft cooing of
a dove, soothingly insistent as the croon of a lullaby; the riotous call
of the larks arose in gleeful chorus; within the cabin were the sounds
of movement: footsteps, the pushing of a pan across the table, and then
a subdued pounding which sent Buck's thoughts whirling back into the
distant past to hover over one of his most sacred memories. He sat
perfectly still. How many years had gone by since he had heard a good
woman singing over her household tasks! How very long ago it seemed
since his mother had made bread to the tune of that same 'punch, punch,
slap--punch, punch'! His stern face softened into a tenderness that had
not visited it since he was a boy. Mother--The French Rose--it was a
pretty name.
Buck was not in the least aware of it but when a man thus links the name
of a woman with that of his mother, it has a significance.
The faint nicker of a horse aroused Allday from his apathetic interest
in flies; he raised his head and sent forth a resounding whinny in
response; the blare of it was yet in the air when Rose stood in the open
doorway.
I despair of picturing her to you, so difficult it is to portray in
words the loveliness of a woman's beauty; and the charm of the French
Rose was as many-hued as the changing sky at sunset; the modulations of
her voice ranged from the grave, rich tones of an organ to the melting
timbre of a flute, pitched to the note of the English thrush; her very
presence was as steadfastly delightful as the fragrance of a hay field,
newly mown. In a long life I have known but one such woman and this was
she.
First, then, she harmonized. The simple gown, turned in at the throat,
with sleeves rolled high on the arms for greater freedom in her work,
the short skirt impeding but little her activity of movement, covered a
form meant by God to be a mother of men; and the graceful column of her
neck supported a head that did honor to her form. Lustre was in every
strand of the black hair, against which the ears set like the petals of
a flower; the contour of the face, the regularity of the features, were
flawless, unless for an overfulness of the lips in repose; the natural
olive complexion, further darkened by the sun-tan from her out-door
life, could not conceal the warm color of the blood which glowed in her
cheeks like the red stain on a luscious peach; and the mystery of her
dark, serious eyes had drawn men miles to the solving--in vain.
So she stood, silently regarding Buck, who as silently regarded her.
When she had first come upon him, in those few moments of unaccustomed
softness when the hard mask of assertive manhood had been slipped aside,
her questioning gaze had probed the depths of him, wondering and warming
to what it found there. Her smile awoke Buck to a sense of his rudeness
and he swept off his hat with the haste of embarrassment. "I 've come
for Pickles," he blurted out, anxious to excuse his unwarranted
presence.
"Is it--is it M'sieu Peters?" she questioned.
"That's me," admitted Buck. "Can I have him?" He smiled at the
absurdity of his question. Of course she would be glad to get rid of
such a mischievous little "cuss."
Rose considered. "Enter, M'sieu Peters. We will speak of it," she
invited.
"I shore will," was the prompt acceptance. Buck's alacrity would have
called forth hilarious chaffing from the Bar-20 punchers. It surprised
himself. She set out a cup and a bottle on one end of the table and
hastened to the other with an exclamation of dismay: "_Helas, mon
pain!_" and forthwith the "punch, punch!" was resumed, while Buck stared
at the process and forgot to drink.
"Why do you take Fritz from me?" asked Rose.
Buck resumed his faculties with a grunt of disgust. "What's th' matter
with me?" he asked himself. "Am I goin' loco or did Johnny Nelson bite
me in my sleep? What was that: '_Take_ Fritz?'"
This was seeing the matter in a different light. Buck ran his fingers
through his hair and looked helpless. He poured himself a drink. "Take
Fritz? Take anything she wants? Why, I'd give her my shirt. There I
go again--" and he savagely, in imagination, kicked himself.
"You see--I sort o' reckoned," he faltered, "Dutch bein' one o' my
boys--Pickles--Fritz--ought to be taken care of, an'--"
"So--and you think I will not take care of him?"
"Oh, no; ma'am. Never thought nothin' o' th' kind. You stick yore brand
on him an' we 'll say no more about it. Yore health, ma'am."
Rose packed the dough into the pan and set it aside. Buck watched her
with rueful countenance. "Now you 've gone an' made her mad," he told
himself. "Guess you better stick to cows, you longhorn!"
She returned to her place and sat opposite him, her flour-stained arms
lying along the table. "You shall take him, M'sieu Peters," she
declared.
To Buck's remonstrance she nodded her head. "_Mais oui_--it is better,"
she insisted. "He grow up a man, a strong man--yes. Only a strong man
have a chance in this so bad country. Yes, it is better, I call him."
"Let me," Buck interposed, and stepping to the door he cried out a
yodelling call that brought Fritz scampering into the cabin with scared
face: it was his father's well-known summons. Rose called him to her
and put her arms about his shoulders.
"M'sieu Peters have come to take you with him, Fritz. You will go?" she
asked him.
"Betcher life," said Pickles.
Buck grinned and Rose laughed a little at the callous desertion. "_Eh,
bien, m'sieu_--you hear?" she said to Buck, and then, to the boy: "It
please you more to go with M'sieu Peters than stay with me--yes?"
"Betcher life," repeated Pickles. "Yo 're all right, but I want to be a
cow-punch an' rope an' shoot. Some day I 'll get that d--d ol' Dave
Owens for killin' dad."
"_Dieu!_" Rose was on her feet, gripping Fritz so hard that he
squirmed. "Dave kill--Dave--"
"Sure, he done it! Who'd yeh s'pose?" Fritz wriggled loose and stood
rubbing his shoulder. Rose stood staring at him until Buck pushed him
out of the room, when she sank back into her chair, covering her eyes
with one shaking hand.
Outside Buck was questioning Pickles. "You rid yore daddy's bronc over,
didn't you? Can you rope him? Bully for you. Get a-goin', then. We
want to pull out o' here right smart." Pickles was off on the run and
Buck slowly entered the cabin. He went over and stood looking out of
the window. "I would n't take it so hard," he ventured. "These sort o'
mistakes is bound to happen. An' it might a' been worse. It might a'
been Dave went under."
Rose flung out a hand towards him. "I wish--" she began passionately
and then caught back the words, horrified at her thought.
"Course you wish he had n't done it. He had n't oughter done it.
Dutchy was a good man--an' a square man--an' Dave ain't neither--though
I shore hates to hurt yore feelin's in sayin' so."
"_I_ know him. He is bad--bad. No one know him like me." The deep
voice seemed to hold a measureless scorn. Buck wondered at this.
"Well, if you know him I 'm right glad. I figgered it out you did n't."
"I know him," she repeated, and this time she spoke with a weariness
that forbade further remark.
They remained thus silent until Fritz rode up on the Goat, shouting out
that he was ready and long since forgetful of a scene he had not
understood. Buck turned from the window. "Good-bye, ma'am, I reckon we
'll drift."
Rose came forward with extended hand. "Good-bye. You will guard him?
But certainly. When you ride to town, maybe you ride a little more and
tell me he is well and good. It is not too far?"
"Too far! Th' Double Y ain't none too far. I reckon you forget I come
from Texas."
They waved to her just before they dropped from sight down the last dip
to the trail. She was watching when they came into view again at the
first gap and watched them out of sight at the end of the long stretch
before the bend. Then she turned back into the room and removing the
demijohn and cup from the table, she stood looking at the chair where
Buck had sat. "_Voila, un homme_," she declared, patting gently the
rough back of the chair: "a true man. They are not many--no."