My road to Sunk Creek lay in no straight line. By rail I diverged
northwest to Fort Meade, and thence, after some stay with the kind
military people, I made my way on a horse. Up here in the Black Hills it
sluiced rain most intolerably. The horse and I enjoyed the country and
ourselves but little; and when finally I changed from the saddle into a
stagecoach, I caught a thankful expression upon the animal’s face, and
returned the same.
“Six legs inside this jerky to-night?” said somebody, as I climbed
the wheel. “Well, we’ll give thanks for not havin’ eight,” he added
cheerfully. “Clamp your mind on to that, Shorty.” And he slapped the
shoulder of his neighbor. Naturally I took these two for old companions.
But we were all total strangers. They told me of the new gold excitement
at Rawhide, and supposed it would bring up the Northern Pacific; and
when I explained the millions owed to this road’s German bondholders,
they were of opinion that a German would strike it richer at Rawhide. We
spoke of all sorts of things, and in our silence I gloated on the autumn
holiday promised me by Judge Henry. His last letter had said that an
outfit would be starting for his ranch from Billings on the seventh, and
he would have a horse for me. This was the fifth. So we six legs in the
jerky travelled harmoniously on over the rain-gutted road, getting no
deeper knowledge of each other than what our outsides might imply.
Not that we concealed anything. The man who had slapped Shorty
introduced himself early. “Scipio le Moyne, from Gallipolice, Ohio,” he
said. “The eldest of us always gets called Scipio. It’s French. But
us folks have been white for a hundred years.” He was limber and
light-muscled, and fell skilfully about, evading bruises when the
jerky reeled or rose on end. He had a strange, long, jocular nose, very
wary-looking, and a bleached blue eye. Cattle was his business, as a
rule, but of late he had been “looking around some,” and Rawhide seemed
much on his brain. Shorty struck me as “looking around” also. He was
quite short, indeed, and the jerky hurt him almost every time. He was
light-haired and mild. Think of a yellow dog that is lost, and fancies
each newcomer in sight is going to turn out his master, and you will
have Shorty.
It was the Northern Pacific that surprised us into intimacy. We were
nearing Medora. We had made a last arrangement of our legs. I lay
stretched in silence, placid in the knowledge it was soon to end. So
I drowsed. I felt something sudden, and, waking, saw Scipio passing
through the air. As Shorty next shot from the jerky, I beheld smoke and
the locomotive. The Northern Pacific had changed its schedule. A valise
is a poor companion for catching a train with. There was rutted sand
and lumpy, knee-high grease wood in our short cut. A piece of stray wire
sprang from some hole and hung caracoling about my ankle. Tin cans spun
from my stride. But we made a conspicuous race. Two of us waved hats,
and there was no moment that some one of us was not screeching. It meant
twenty-four hours to us.
Perhaps we failed to catch the train’s attention, though the theory
seems monstrous. As it moved off in our faces, smooth and easy and
insulting, Scipio dropped instantly to a walk, and we two others
outstripped him and came desperately to the empty track. There went the
train. Even still its puffs were the separated puffs of starting, that
bitten-off, snorty kind, and sweat and our true natures broke freely
forth.