AN HISTORIC OCCASION
The experienced ear of Major Stephen Douglas Prouty told him that he was
getting a hot axle. The hard dry squeak from the rear wheel of the
"democrat" had but one meaning--he had forgotten to grease it. This
would seem an inexcusable oversight in a man who expected to make forty
miles before sunset, but in this instance there was an extenuating
circumstance. Immediately after breakfast there had been a certain look
in his hostess's eye which had warned him that if he lingered he would
be asked to assist with the churning. Upon observing it he had started
for the barn to harness with a celerity that approached a trot.
Long years of riding the grub-line had developed in the Major a gift for
recognizing the exact psychological moment when he had worn out his
welcome as company and was about to be treated as one of the family and
sicced on the woodpile, that was like a sixth sense. It seldom failed
him, but in the rare instances when it had, he had bought his freedom
with a couple of boxes of White Badger Salve--unfailing for cuts, burns,
scalds and all irritations of the skin--good also, as it proved, for dry
axles, since he had neglected to replenish his box of axle grease from
that of his host at the last stopping place.
He leaned from under the edge of the large cotton umbrella which shaded
him amply, and squinted at the sun. He judged that it was noon exactly.
His intention seemed to be communicated to his horses by telepathy, for
they both stopped with a suddenness which made him lurch forward.
"It's time to eat, anyhow," he said aloud as he recovered his balance
with the aid of the dashboard, disentangled his feet from the long
skirts of his linen duster and sprang over the wheel with the alacrity
of a man who took a keen interest in food.
Unhooking the traces, he led the team to one side of the road, slipped
off the bridles and replaced them with nose bags containing each horse's
allotment of oats--extracted from the bin of his most recent host. Then
he searched in the bottom of the wagon until he found a monkey-wrench
which he applied to the nut and twirled dextrously. Canting the wheel,
he moistened his finger tip and touched the exposed axle.
"Red hot!"
He left it to cool and reached under the seat for a pasteboard shoe-box
and bore it to the side of the road, where he saw a convenient rock.
Both the eagerness of hunger and curiosity was depicted on his face as
he untied the twine which secured it. He was wondering if she had put in
any cheese. The Major especially liked cheese and had not failed to
mention the fact when his hostess had let drop the information that a
whole one had come in with the last freight wagon from town. He removed
the cover and his smile of anticipation gave place to a look of
astonishment and incredulity. It was difficult to believe his eyes! Not
only was there no cheese, but that chicken wing and back which had been
left on the platter last night, and which he had been as sure of as
though he had put them in himself, were not in the box. He felt under
the paper as though hoping against hope that the box contained a false
bottom where the chicken might be concealed. There was no deception. He
saw all there was.
"Sinkers!" His voice expressed infinite disappointment and disgust. He
prodded one of the cold soda biscuits with his finger, took it out and
set the box on the ground beside him. He was hungry, therefore, insulted
as he felt, he had to eat, but he looked over his shoulder in the
direction from which he had come, and said aloud, "Them Scissor-bills'll
know it when I stop there again!" The declaration was in the nature of a
threat. While he munched the dry biscuit, which contained but a trace of
butter between the two halves, he gazed off at the vista of nothing in
particular that stretched out before him.
On his left the sand and sagebrush, cacti and sparse bunch-grass was
bounded by the horizon; behind him, in front of him, it was the same;
only on the right was the monotony broken by foothills and beyond, a
range of purple snow-covered peaks. From the slight elevation or "bench"
upon which he sat he looked down upon a greasewood flat where patches of
alkali gleamed dazzling white under the noon-day sun. The flat was
quarter-circled by a waterless creek upon whose banks grew a few
misshapen and splintered cottonwoods.
The countless millions of nearly invisible gnats that breed in alkali
bogs sighted the Major and promptly rose in swarms to settle upon his
ears and in the edges of his hair. He fanned them away automatically and
without audible comment. Perhaps they served as a counter-irritant; at
any rate, the sting of the indignity put upon him by what he termed a
"hobo lunch" was finally forgotten in more agreeable thoughts.
In the distance there was an interesting cloud of dust. Was it cattle,
loose horses, or some one coming that way? The Major's eyesight was not
all it had been and he could not make out. Since they were coming from
the opposite direction he was sure to have his curiosity gratified. His
roving eyes came back to the greasewood flat and rested there
speculatively. Suddenly his jaw dropped and a crumb rolled out. He
looked as though an apparition had risen before his bulging eyes.
Involuntarily he sprang to his feet and cried, "My Gawd--what a great
place to start a town!"
The idea came with such startling force that it seemed to the Major as
if something broke in his brain. Other ideas followed. They came
tumbling over each other in their struggle to get out all at once. A
panorama of pictures passed so swiftly before his eyes that it made him
dizzy. His eyes gleamed, the color rose in his weather-beaten cheeks,
the hand with which he pointed to the greasewood flat below trembled as
he exclaimed in an excitement that made his breath come short:
"The main street'll run up the creek and about there I'll put the Op'ry
House. The hotel'll stand on the corner and we'll git a Carnegie Libery
for the other end of town. The High School can be over yonder and we'll
keep the saloons to one side of the street. There'll be a park where
folks can set, and if I ain't got pull enough to git a fifty thousand
dollar Federal Buildin'--"
Then came the inspiration which made the Major stagger back:
"I'll git the post office, and name it Prouty!"
He felt so tremulous that he had to sit down.
It seemed incredible that he had not thought of this before, for deep
within him was a longing to have his name figure in the pages of the
history of the big new state. Tombstones blew over, dust storms
obliterated graves, photographs faded, but with a town named after him
and safely on the map, nobody could forget him if he wanted to.
The Major's assertion concerning his "pull" was no idle boast. There
were few men in the state with a wider acquaintance, and he was a
conspicuous figure around election time. The experience he had acquired
in his younger days selling Indian Herb Cough Syrup from the tailboard
of a wagon, between two sputtering flambeaux, served him in good stead
when, later, he was called upon to make a few patriotic remarks at a
Fourth of July Celebration. His rise was rapid from that time, until now
his services as an orator were so greatly in demand for cornerstone
layings and barbecues that, owing to distance between towns, it kept him
almost constantly on the road.
The Major sold an occasional box of salve, and in an emergency pulled
teeth, in addition to the compensation which he received for what was
designated privately as his "gift of gab." But the Major, nevertheless,
had his dark moments, in which he contemplated the day when age should
force him to retire to private life. Since the wagon containing his
patent leather valise was his home, the Major had no private life to
retire to, and his anxiety concerning the future would seem not without
cause. Now in a flash all his worries smoothed out. He would capitalize
his wide acquaintance and his influence, gain independence and
perpetuate his name in the same stroke. At the moment he actually
suffered because there was no one present to whom he could communicate
his thoughts.
The cloud of dust was closer, but not near enough yet to distinguish the
moving objects that caused it, so he set himself energetically to
applying White Badger Salve to the axle, replacing the wheel and
tightening the nut. When he straightened a horseman who had ridden out
of the creek bed was scrambling up the side of the "bench." He was
dressed like a top cowpuncher--silver-mounted saddle, split-ear bridle
and hand-forged bit. The Major was familiar with the type, though this
particular individual was unknown to him.
"Howdy!" The cowboy let the reins slip through his fingers so his horse
could feed, and sagged sidewise in the saddle.
"How are you, sir?" There was nothing in the dignified restraint of the
Major's response to indicate that his vocal cords ached for exercise and
he was fairly quivering in his eagerness for an ear to talk into. There
was a silence in which he removed a nose bag, bridled and shoved a horse
against the tongue.
"Back, can't ye!"
"Nooned here, I reckon?"
The Major thought of his chickenless handout and his face clouded.
"I et a bite."
"Thought maybe you was in trouble when I first see you."
"Had a hot box, but I don't call that trouble." He added humorously:
"I can chop my wagon to pieces and be on the road again in twenty
minutes, if I got plenty of balin' wire."
The cowboy laughed so appreciatively that the Major inquired
ingratiatingly:
"I bleeve your face is a stranger to me, ain't it?"
"I don't mind meetin' up with you before. I've just come to the country,
as you might say."
The Major waited for further information, but since it was not
forthcoming he ventured:
"What might I call your name, sir?"
The cowboy shifted his weight uneasily and hesitated. He said finally
while the red of his shiny sun-blistered face deepened perceptibly: "My
name is supposed to be Teeters--Clarence Teeters."
As a matter of fact he _knew_ that his name was Teeters, but injecting
an element of doubt into it in this fashion seemed somehow to make the
telling easier. Teeters was bad enough, but combined with Clarence! Only
Mr. Teeters knew the effort it cost him to tell his name to strangers.
He added with the air of a man determined to make a clean breast of it:
"I'm from Missoury."
The Major's hand shot out unexpectedly.
"Shake!" he cried warmly. "I was drug up myself at the foot of the
Ozarks."
"I pulled out when I was a kid and wrangled 'round considerible."
Teeters made the statement as an extenuating circumstance.
"I took out naturalization papers myself," replied the Major
good-humoredly. "My name is Prouty--Stephen Douglas Prouty. You'll
prob'ly hear of me if you stay in the country. The fact is, I'm thinkin'
of startin' a town and namin' it Prouty."
"Shoo--you don't say so!" In polite inquiry, "Whur?"
"Thur!"
Mr. Teeters looked a little blank as he stared at the town site
indicated.
"It seems turrible fur from water," he commented finally.
"Sink--drill--artesian well--maybe we'll strike a regular subterranean
river. Anyway, 'twould be no trick at all to run a ditch from Dead Horse
Canyon and get all the water we want." He waved his arm at the distant
mountains and settled that objection.
"Wouldn't them alkali bogs breedin' a billion 'no-see-'ems' a second be
kind of a drawback?" inquired Teeters tentatively.
"That'll all be drained, covered with sile and seeded down in lawns,"
replied the Major quickly. "In two year that spot'll be bloomin' like
the Garden of Eden.
"I've got to be movin'," the Major continued. "I'm on my way from a
cornerstone layin' at Buffalo Waller to a barbecue at No Wood Crick. I'm
kind of an orator," he added modestly.
"And I got about three hundred head of calves to drag to the fire, if I
kin git my rope on 'em," said Teeters, straightening in the saddle.
The Major asked in instant interest:
"Oh, you're workin' for that wealthy eastern outfit?"
"Don't know how wealthy they be, but they're plenty eastern," Teeters
replied dryly.
"I was thinkin' I might stop over night with 'em and git acquainted. The
Scissors Outfit can't be more'n fifteen mile out of my way, and it'll be
a kind of a change from the Widder Taylor's, whur I stop generally."
The cowboy combed the horse's mane with his fingers in silence. After
waiting a reasonable time for the invitation which should have been
forthcoming, the Major inquired:
"They're--sociable, ain't they?"
"They ain't never yit run out in the road and drug anybody off his
horse," replied Teeters grimly. "They charge four bits a meal to
strangers."
"What?" Surely his ears had deceived him.
Inspired by the Major's dumbfounded expression, the cowboy continued:
"They have their big meal at night and call it dinner, and they wash
their hands at the table when they git done eatin', and Big Liz has to
lope in from the kitchen when she hears the bell tinkle and pass 'em
somethin' either one of 'em could git by reachin'." He lowered his voice
confidentially, "Most any meal I look fur her to hit one of 'em between
the horns."
The Major stared round-eyed, breathless, like a child listening to a
fairy tale which he feared would end if he interrupted.
"In the evenin' the boss puts on a kind of eatin' jacket, a sawed-off
coat that makes a growed man look plumb foolish, and she comes out in
silk and satin that shows considerable hide. Have you met this here
Toomey?"
"Not yet; that's a pleasure still in store for me."
"Pleasure!" exclaimed Teeters, who took the polite phrase literally.
"More like you'll want to knock his head off. Old Timer," he leaned over
the saddle horn, "seein' as you're from Missoury, I'll tell you private
that you'd better keep on travelin'. Company ain't wanted at the Scissor
Outfit, and they'd high-tone it over you so 'twouldn't be noways
enjoyable."
"There is plenty of ranches where I am welcome," replied the Major with
dignity. "I kin make the Widder Taylor's by sundown."
"Miss Maggie plays good on the pianner," Teeters commented,
expectorating violently to conceal a certain embarrassment.
"And the doughnuts the old lady keeps in that crock on the kitchen table
is worth a day's ride to git to." The Major closed an eye and with the
other looked quizzically at Teeters, adding, "If it wa'nt for
Starlight--"
"Starlight is shore some Injun," replied the cowboy, grinning
understandingly.
"Now what for an outfit's that?"
The moving cloud of dust which the Major had forgotten in his keen
interest in the conversation was almost upon them. "A band of woolies, a
pack burro, one feller walkin', and another ridin'."
The cowboy's eyes were unfriendly, though he made no comment as they
waited.
"Howdy!" called the Major genially as, with a nod, the herder would have
passed without speaking.
The stranger responded briefly, but stopped.
"Come fur?" inquired the Major sociably.
"Utah."
"Goin' fur?"
"Until I find a location. I rather like the looks of this section."
"Sheep spells 'trouble' in this country," said the cowboy,
significantly.
"Think so?" indifferently.
Seeing Teeters was about to say something further, the Major
interrupted:
"What might I call your name, sir?"
"Just say 'Joe,' and I'll answer."
The Major looked a trifle disconcerted, but in his role of Master of
Ceremonies continued:
"I'll make you acquainted with Mr. Teeters."
The two men nodded coldly.
To break the strained silence the Major observed:
"Got a boy helpin' you, I notice."
"Girl," replied the sheepherder briefly.
"Girl? Oh, I see! Them overalls deceived me. Daughter, I presume."
"Pardner," laconically.
The Major looked incredulous but said nothing, and while he sought for
something further to say in order to prolong the conversation they all
turned abruptly at the rattle of rocks.
"The boss," said Teeters sardonically from the corner of his mouth, and
added, "That's a young dude that's visitin'."
Toomey was perfectly equipped for a ride in Central Park. He looked an
incongruous and alien figure in the setting in his English riding
clothes and boots. The lad who accompanied him was dressed in
exaggerated cowboy regalia.
Toomey used a double bit and now brought his foaming horse to a short
stop with the curb. He vouchsafed the unimportant "natives" in the road
only a brief glance, but addressed himself to Teeters.
"Where have you been?" he demanded in a sharp tone.
"I ain't been lost," replied Teeters calmly. "Where would I be 'cept
huntin' stock?"
"Why didn't you follow me?"
"I think too much of my horse to jam him over rocks when there ain't no
special call for it. I kin ride on a run 'thout fallin' off, when they's
need to."
Toomey's brilliant black eyes flashed. Swallowing the impudence of these
western hirelings was one of the hardest things he had to endure in his
present life. But even he could see that Teeters thoroughly understood
cattle, else he would have long since discharged him.
"I've ridden about ten extra miles trying to keep you in sight."
"If you'd let them sturrups out like I told you and quit tryin' to set
down standin' up, ridin' wouldn't tire you so much." Teeters looked at
the English pigskin saddle in frank disgust.
Toomey ignored the criticism and said arrogantly:
"I want you to follow me from now on."
An ominous glint came in the cowboy's eye, but he still grinned.
"I wa'nt broke to foller. Never was handled right when I was a colt.
Don't you wait fer me, feller, you jest sift along in and I'll come when
I git done."
Judging from the expression on Toomey's face, it seemed to the Major an
opportune time to interrupt.
"Since nobody aims to introduce us--" he began good-naturedly, extending
a hand. "My name is Prouty--Stephen Douglas Prouty. You've heard of me,
like as not."
"Can't say I have," replied Toomey in a tone that made the Major flush
as he shook the extended hand without warmth.
To cover his confusion, the Major turned to the sheepherder whose soft
brown eyes held an amused look.
"Er--Joe--I'll make you acquainted with Mr. Jasper Toomey, one of our
leadin' stockmen in these parts."
The introduction received from Toomey the barest acknowledgment as he
directed his gaze to the grazing sheep.
"Where you taking them?" he asked in a curt tone.
"I really couldn't tell you yet."
Toomey glanced at him sharply, attracted by the cultivated tone.
"I wouldn't advise you to locate here; this is my range."
"Own it?" inquired the herder mildly.
"N-no."
"Lease it?"
"N-no."
"No good reason then is there to keep me out?"
"Except," darkly, "this climate isn't healthy for sheep."
"Perhaps," gently, "I'm the best judge of that."
"You'll keep on going, if you follow my advice." The tone was a threat.
"I hardly ever take advice that's given unasked."
"Well--you'd better take this."
The sheepherder looked at him speculatively, with no trace of resentment
in his mild eyes.
"Let me see," reflectively. "It generally takes an easterner who comes
west to show us how to raise stock from three to five years to go broke.
I believe I'll stick around a while; I may be able to pick up something
cheap a little later."
A burst of ringing laughter interrupted this unexpected clash between
the strangers. It was clear that the lack of harmony did not extend to
their young companions, for the lad and the girl seemed deeply
interested in each other as their ponies grazed with heads together. The
immediate cause of their laughter was the boy's declaration that when he
came to see the girl he intended to wear petticoats.
When their merriment had subsided, she demanded:
"Don't you like my overalls?"
He looked her over critically--at her face with the frank gray eyes and
the vivid red of health glowing through the tan; at the long flat braid
of fair hair, which hung below the cantle of the saddle; at her slender
bare feet thrust through the stirrups.
"You'd look pretty in anything," he responded gallantly.
She detected the evasion and persisted:
"But you think I'd look nicer in dresses, don't you?"
Embarrassed, he responded hesitatingly:
"You see--down South where I come from the girls all wear white and lace
and ribbon sashes and carry parasols and think a lot about their
complexions. You're just--different."
The herder waved his arm. "Way 'round 'em, Shep," and the sheep began
moving.
"Good-bye," the girl gathered up the reins reluctantly.
"You didn't tell me your name."
"Katie Prentice."
"Mine's Hughie Disston," he added, his black eyes shining with
friendliness. "Maybe I'll see you again sometime."
She answered shyly:
"Maybe."
Toomey started away at a gallop, calling sharply:
"Come on, Hughie!"
The boy followed with obvious reluctance, sending a smile over his
shoulder when he found that the girl was looking after him.
"Hope you make out all right with your town," said Teeters politely as,
ignoring his employer's instructions, he turned his horse's head in a
direction of his own choosing.
"No doubt about it," replied the Major, briskly, gathering up the lines
and bringing the stub of a whip down with a thwack upon each back
impartially. "S'long!" He waved it at the girl and sheepherder. "I trust
you'll find a location to suit you."
"Pardner," said Mormon Joe suddenly, when the Major was a blur in a
cloud of dust and the horsemen were specks in the distance, "this looks
like home to me somehow. There ought to be great sheep feed over there
in the foothills and summer range in the mountains. What do you think of
it?"
"Oh--goody!" the girl cried eagerly. "Isn't it funny, I was hoping you'd
say that."
He looked at her quizzically.
"Tired of trailing sheep, Katie, or do you think you might have
company?"
She flushed in confusion, but admitted honestly:
"Both, maybe."