THE ILLUSTRIOUS SALVATOR
_Jesse's Letter_
Mother, I'm married. I thought I'd got bliss by the horns, but seems
I've not roped what I throwed for, and what I've caught is trouble. I
wish you weren't in Heaven, which feels kind of cold and distant when a
fellow's lonesome. Nobody loves me, and the mosquitoes has mistook me
for a greenhorn.
I can't smoke in the lady's home, and when it's forty below zero
outside, a pipe clogs with ice from your breath. Chewing is worse,
because she cried. She don't need my guns, saddles, and me, or any sort
of litter whar she beds down, and my table manners belongs under the
table. Men, she says, feeds sitting down, so they won't be mistook for
animals, which stand up.
Loyal Englishmen like the late Trevor now frying, has a cold bath every
morning, specially in winter, which throws a surprising light upon his
last symptoms. It's that frozen manner and pyjamas, which makes the
Englishman so durned popular. If I belonged to the episcopal sect,
wearing a coat in the house instead of out-of-doors, and used pink
tooth-paste instead of yellow soap, maybe I'd like my hash with curry
powder, and have some hope of going, when I die, to parts of Heaven
where the English keeps open windows, instead of open house. Meanwhile I
jest moved back into the old cabin with Mick,--he's wagging himself by
the tail between my legs to say as this writing habit is a vice. If I'd
only a bottle of whisky now I'd be good, but as it's eighty miles to
refreshments, he's got to put up with vice.
This here storm has been running the province since Monday, and making
itself at home as if it had come to stay. Put your nose to the door and
it's froze, so it's no fun crossing to the stable. I just got back.
Horses like to lick white men because we taste salt from eating so much
in our bacon, but that mare Jones takes liberties in kicking me through
the door when she knows durned well it's shut.
Mrs. Trevor's husband was an opera singer which mislaid his vocal cords,
so settled here to be on his romantic lonesome, and spite his wife. He
went loco, and mistook her for a bear; she broke her ankle stampeding;
and I took an interest, he shooting me up considerable until he met with
an accident. Then his widow married me, and I'm plumb disheartened.
II
I was cooking slapjacks, which gives quick satisfaction for the time
invested, when Iron Dale rolled in on his way home. Says my high-grade
slapjacks is such stuff as dreams are made of. With him quoting
Scripture like that I got suspicious about his coming around by this
ranch, instead of hitting straight for Sky-line. On that he owns up to
something dam curious and disturbing to my fur. Thar's a stranger at
Hundred Mile House, claiming he's come from London, England, to find my
wife.
On the stage sleigh from Ashcroft this person got froze, which mostly
happens to a tenderfoot, who'd rather freeze like a man than run behind
like a dog. So of course he comes in handy for poor Doc McGee. Our
people being hale and artful as bears, McGee would be out of practise
altogether but for such, so I hope he'll make good out of this here
perishable stranger, the same being a useful absentee from my ranch.
He's got a sort of puppy piano along, which grieves me to think our
settlers must be getting out of date with such latest improvements, and
other settlements liable to throw dirt in our face. Puppy pianos which
tinkle isn't priced yet in the Hudson's Bay store catalog. Seems it's
called harpsecord, and this person plays it night and day, so that the
ranch hands is quitting, and Cap Taylor charges him double money for
board. I wonder what he wants with my wife, anyhow. The missus wants me
to take the sleigh and collect him. I dunno but seems to my dim
intellecks that would be meeting trouble half-way, besides robbing the
doctor and Capt. Taylor who done me no harm.
III
This morning, after rigging a life-line to the stable because of this
continuing blizzard, I went to the lady's home. She showed me a letter
Dale brought, in eytalian, which says the swine proposes to kiss her
feet, and wallow in divine song, etc. His name is Salvator, so he's a
dago. She, being white, can't have any truck with such, being the same
specie as niggers, so that's all right. Seems the puppy piano is for her
from her beloved maestro, another swine from the same litter. She's
singing now, and it goes through my bones. Her voice is deep as a man's,
strong as Fraser Rapids, and I own that puppy piano appeals to my best
instinks. As for me, my name's mud, and she treads in it.
IV
The wind went chasing after the sun, leaving peace and clear stars, so
this morning it must be sixty below zero by the way the logs are
splitting. At noon Tearful George transpires, dumping the puppy piano,
and the swine with his nose in a muff. Tearful had capsized the sleigh
over stumps to make his passenger run instead of arriving here like
frozen meat, but appears it hadn't done the harpsecord no good. He said
he'd roll his tail before any more music broke out, so didn't stay
dinner. The swine was down on one knee in front of the missus,
slobbering over her hand. She was kneading doe at the time, and there's
some on his nose.
He's got an angels-ever-bright-and-fair expression, smiles to turn milk,
dog's eyes, and a turndown collar. He calls her Donner
Addoller-r-r-ra-ta, and looks as if he hadn't had much to eat on the
trail with Tearful, though they'd camped at Widow O'Flynn's where pie
occurs whenever her Billy's to home.
Kate's pleased all to pieces. Seems this gent in the paper collar has
wrote an opera, and there's a party goes by the name of Impress Ario,
song and dance artist, putting it on the stage at London, England. The
leading woman sings base, and that's why Kate is wanted. To the only
woman on earth who sings base enough, they sends this dingus and the
organ-grinder. She says it's a business proposition with money in it,
and wants me to come along to the Old Country. She'd have me in a collar
and chain with a pink bow at my off ear, promenading in Strand Street.
She's been having a rough time here, mostly living on wild meat, without
money or servants. I'd like well to see her happier; I know her music
belongs to the whole world, and I've no right to hold her for any
selfishness. If it's up to her to go, it's agin me to look pleased, and
she shall go the day I believe in her call.
She and the tinkle dingus and the swine are at it full blast. He's
screeching nil desperandum, she's thundering "Shut-ut the dooroh!" "Ting
ting tong banggo!" says the puppy piano, while Mick in here howls like
a moonstruck wolf. I dunno, but seems to me that when you're out at
night between the stars and the mountains and the river praising God in
the canyon, there's music reaching from your soul to the Almighty, and
peace descending right out of Heaven. Oh, Lord, speak to my wife, and
tell her there's more love right here, than in all the sham passions of
all the damned operas put together. But now she's following after vain
swine.
V
I made the dago bed down in here, but he flopped over to breakfast and
they've been at it hammer and tongs ever since. "Tinkie tankie ping ping
pee-chee-ree-ho-O! Oh! Oho! me-catamiaou-ow-yow." Cougars is kittens to
it, but I'm durned ignorant, and I notice that the signor looked on
while she washed up.
I didn't sorrow with Kate persuading me to drive them as far as Hundred
Mile. The sound of her voice stampedes me every time, but when the dago
tries to stroke my ears, he was too numerous, so I held his head in the
bucket until he began to subside. I don't take to him a whole lot.
From when I'd finished the horses, till nigh on sundown, the music
tapered off, and I got more and more rattled. At last I walked right in.
She'd a black dress, indecent round the shoulders, and a bright star on
her brow. She stood with the swine's arms around her, until at the sight
of me he shrank off, guilty as hell. There was nary a flicker of shame
or fear to her, but she just stood there looking so grand and beautiful
that my breath caught in my throat. "Why, Jesse," she said, her voice
all soft with joy, "I'm so glad you've come to see. It's the great
scene, the renunciation. Come, Salvator, from 'Thy people shall be--'"
I twisted him by the ear into my cabin, he talking along like a
gramophone. I set him down on the stool, myself on the bunk, inspecting
him while I cut baccy, and had a pipe. If I let him fight me with guns,
she'd make a hero of him. If I hoofed him into the cold or otherwise
wafted him to the dago paradise, she'd make a villain of me.
"You wrote an opery," says I.
He explains with his tongue, his eyes, and both paws waving around for
the time it takes to boil eggs. I'm not an egg.
"You give the leading woman a base voice?"
He boiled over some more.
"So you got an excuse for coming."
He spread out over the landscape.
"Thinkin'," sez I, "that she'd nothin' more than Trevor to guard her
honor."
More talk.
"But you found her married with a man."
He wanted to go alone to civilization.
"You stay here," I says, "and Salvator, you're going to earn your
board."
VI
I ain't claiming that this Salvator actually earned his grub this month.
He can clean stables now without being kicked into a curry hash; he can
chop water holes through ice, and has only parted with one big toe up to
date; he can buck fire-wood if I tend him with spurs and quirt; but his
dish-washing needs more rehearsals, and he ain't word perfect yet at
scrubbing floors. He's less fractious and slothful since he was up-ended
and spanked in presence of a lady, but on the other hand, there's a lack
of joy, cheerfulness, and application. He's too full of dumb yearnings,
and his pure white soul seems to worry him, but then there's bucking
horses for him to ride in spring, and first exercises in bears. My bear
had ought to be a powerful tonic.
I sent a cable message by Tearful George to the song and dance artist
who's running the swine's opery, just inquiring if he'd remitted
Salvator to collect my wife. The reply is indignant to say that the
swine is a liar. Likewise there's a paragraph in the Vancouver papers
about the illustrious young composer, Salvator Milani, who's
disappeared, it seems, into the wilds. His wife is desolated, his kids
is frantic, the Salvatori, a musical society, is offering rewards, which
may come in useful, and the rest of mankind throws fits. This paper owns
up that the departed is careless and absent-minded, and I just pause to
observe that he hasn't made my bed. He'll have some quirt for supper.
As to my wife, she'd never believe that the swine wasn't sent to fetch
her, or that he's deserted his wife and family. She thinks he's a little
cock angel, and me a cock devil. She'll have to find him out for
herself.
VII
My wife has run away with him.
VIII
I could pick stars like apples. Here's me with my pipe and dog in my
home, and my dear wife content. The Dook of London has no more, except
frills. I hardly know whar to begin, 'cept whar I left off without
mentioning how they run away. The illustrious didn't have the nerve, so
it was my lady who stole over to stable in the dead of night, and
harnessed the team so silent I never woke. She drove off with her
trunks, the puppy piano, and her swine, on a bitter night with eighty
mile ahead before she'd get any help if things went wrong. She has the
pure grit, my great thoroughbred lady, and it makes me feel real good to
think of the way she followed her conscience along that unholy trail
through the black pines.
By dawn she put up for breakfast at O'Flynn's. The widow had broke her
leg reproaching a cow, and sent off her son to the carpenter at Hundred
and Fifty Mile House to get the same repaired. Her bed was beside the
stove, with cord-wood, water, and grub all within reach. It was real
awkward though that the stove had petered out, and the water bucket
froze solid while she slept, so she was expecting to be wafted before
her son got home, when Kate arrived in time to save her from Heaven.
The signor volunteers to make fire and cook grub while Kate fed and
watered the team, so my wife has the pleasure of chopping out a
five-foot well at Bent Creek, while this unselfish cavalierio stayed in
the house and got warm. Naturally he didn't know enough to light the
stove, until the widow threw things, and he got the coal-oil. Then he
disremembered how to soak the kindlings before he struck a match, so he
lit the fuel first, then stood over pouring oil from the five-gallon
can. When the fire lep' up into the can, of course he had to let go, and
when he seen the cabin all in flames, he galloped off to the woods,
leaving the Widow O'Flynn to burn comfy all by herself.
By the time Kate reaches the cabin, the open door is all flames; but,
having the ice ax, she runs to the gable end, and hacks in through the
window. The bed's burning quite brisk by then, but the widow has quit
out, climbed to the window and gone to sleep with the smoke, so that
Kate climbs in and alights on top of her sudden. The fire catches hold
of my wife, but she swings the widow through the window, climbs out,
lights on top of her again, then takes a roll in the snow.
When the illustrious comes out of the woods to explain, d'ye think she'd
listen? I can just see him explaining with dago English, paws,
shoulders, and eyes. She leaves him explaining in front of the burning
cabin. Three days from now young O'Flynn will ride home with his
mother's limb tied to the saddle strings, and if the swine's alive then,
he'll begin explaining again, though Billy's quick and fretful with his
gun.
My wife humped this widow to the barn, and got warm clothes from her
trunks for both of them. She fired out her baggage and the puppy piano,
bedded down the widow in clean hay, hitched up the team, and hit the
trail for home.
She hadn't a mile to go before she met me, and what with the smoke from
O'Flynn's, the widow in the rig, and the complete absence of the swine,
I'd added up before she reined her team. She would want to cry in my
arms.
So she's in bed here, her burns dressed with oil from a bear who held me
up once on the Sky-line trail. It's good oil. The widow's asleep in my
cabin, and I'm right to home with this letter wrote to you, Mother. I
guess you know, Mummy, why me and my pipe and my dog are welcome now,
which you've lived in your time and loved.
So hoping you're in Heaven, as this leaves me at present.
Yr. affect. son,
JESSE.