brought out all the hardness the desert had engendered in him. Almost
hate, instead of love, spoke in Slone's words. He hauled on the lasso,
pulling the stallion's head down and down. The action was the lust of
capture as well as the rider's instinctive motive to make the horse fear
him. Life was unquenchably wild and strong in that stallion; it showed
in the terror which made him hideous. And man and beast somehow
resembled each other in that moment which was inimical to noble life.
The avalanche slipped with little jerks, as if treacherously loosing its
hold for a long plunge. The line of fire below ate at the bleached grass
and the long column of smoke curled away on the wind.
Slone held the taut lasso with his left hand, and with the right he
swung the other rope, catching the noose round Wildfire's nose. Then
letting go of the first rope he hauled on the other, pulling the head of
the stallion far down. Hand over hand Slone closed in on the horse. He
leaped on Wildfire's head, pressed it down, and, holding it down on the
sand with his knees, with swift fingers he tied the nose in a
hackamore--an improvised halter. Then, just as swiftly, he bound his
scarf tight round Wildfire's head, blindfolding him.
"All so easy!" exclaimed Slone, under his breath. "Who would believe it!
Is it a dream?"
He rose and let the stallion have a free head.
"Wildfire, I got a rope on you--an' a hackamore--an' a blinder," said
Slone. "An' if I had a bridle I'd put that on you. Who'd ever believe
you'd catch yourself, draggin' in the sand?"
Slone, finding himself falling on the sand, grew alive to the augmented
movement of the avalanche. It had begun to slide, to heave and bulge and
crack. Dust rose in clouds from all around. The sand appeared to open
and let him sink to his knees. The rattle of gravel was drowned in a
soft roar. Then he shot down swiftly, holding the lassos, keeping
himself erect, and riding as if in a boat. He felt the successive
steppes of the slope, and then the long incline below, and then the
checking and rising and spreading of the avalanche as it slowed down on
the level. All movement then was checked violently. He appeared to be
half buried in sand. While he struggled to extricate himself the thick
dust blew away and, settled so that he could see. Wildfire lay before
him, at the edge of the slide, and now he was not so deeply embedded as
he had been up on the slope. He was struggling and probably soon would
have been able to get out. The line of fire was close now, but Slone did
not fear that.
At his shrill whistle Nagger bounded toward him, obedient, but snorting,
with ears laid back. He halted. A second whistle started him again.
Slone finally dug himself out of the sand, pulled the lassos out, and
ran the length of them toward Nagger. The black showed both fear and
fight. His eyes rolled and he half shied away.
"Come on!" called Slone, harshly.
He got a hand on the horse, pulled him round, and, mounting in a flash,
wound both lassos round the pommel of the saddle.
"Haul him out, Nagger, old boy!" cried Slone, and he dug spurs into the
black.
One plunge of Nagger's slid the stallion out of the sand. Snorting,
wild, blinded, Wildfire got up, shaking in every limb. He could not see
his enemies. The blowing smoke, right in his nose, made scent
impossible. But in the taut lassos he sensed the direction of his
captors. He plunged, rearing at the end of the plunge, and struck out
viciously with his hoofs. Slone, quick with spur and bridle, swerved
Nagger aside and Wildfire, off his balance, went down with a crash.
Slone dragged him, stretched him out, pulled him over twice before he
got forefeet planted. Once up, he reared again, screeching his rage,
striking wildly with his hoofs. Slone wheeled aside and toppled him over
again.
"Wildfire, it's no fair fight," he called, grimly. "But you led me a
chase. An' you learn right now I'm boss!"
FOOTNOTE:
[2] From _Wildfire_. Copyright, 1916, by Harper and Brothers, New York
and London. Reprinted by special permission of author and publisher.
[Illustration]
III.--The Hydrophobic Skunk[3]
_By Irvin S. Cobb_
THE Hydrophobic Skunk resides at the extreme bottom of the Grand canyon
and, next to a Southern Republican who never asked for a Federal office,
is the rarest of living creatures. He is so rare that nobody ever saw
him--that is, nobody except a native. I met plenty of tourists who had
seen people who had seen him, but never a tourist who had seen him with
his own eyes. In addition to being rare, he is highly gifted.
I think almost anybody will agree with me that the common, ordinary
skunk has been most richly dowered by Nature. To adorn a skunk with any
extra qualifications seems as great a waste of the raw material as
painting the lily or gilding refined gold. He is already amply equipped
for outdoor pursuits. Nobody intentionally shoves him round; everybody
gives him as much room as he seems to need. He commands respect--nay,
more than that, respect and veneration--wherever he goes. Joy riders
never run him down and foot passengers avoid crowding him into a corner.
You would think Nature had done amply well by the skunk; but no--the
Hydrophobic Skunk comes along and upsets all these calculations. Besides
carrying the traveling credentials of an ordinary skunk, he is rabid in
the most rabidissimus form. He is not mad just part of the time, like
one's relatives by marriage--and not mad most of the time, like the
old-fashioned railroad ticket agent--but mad all the time--incurably,
enthusiastically and unanimously mad! He is mad and he is glad of it.
We made the acquaintance of the Hydrophobic Skunk when we rode down
Hermit Trail. The casual visitor to the Grand canyon first of all takes
the rim drive; then he essays Bright Angel Trail, which is sufficiently
scary for his purposes until he gets used to it; and after that he grows
more adventurous and tackles Hermit Trail, which is a marvel of
corkscrew convolutions, gimleting its way down this red abdominal wound
of a canyon to the very gizzard of the world. Here, Johnny, our guide,
felt moved to speech, and we hearkened to his words and hungered for
more, for Johnny knows the ranges of the Northwest as a city dweller
knows his own little side street. In the fall of the year Johnny comes
down to the canyon and serves as a guide a while; and then, when he gets
so he just can't stand associating with tourists any longer, he packs
his war bags and journeys back to the Northern Range and enjoys the
company of cows a spell. Cows are not exactly exciting, but they don't
ask fool questions.
A highly competent young person is Johnny and a cow-puncher of parts.
Most of the canyon guides are cow-punchers--accomplished ones, too, and
of high standing in the profession. With a touch of reverence Johnny
pointed out to us Sam Scovel, the greatest bronco buster of his time,
now engaged in piloting tourists.
"Can he ride?" echoed Johnny in answer to our question. "Scovel could
ride an earthquake if she stood still long enough for him to mount! He
rode Steamboat--not Young Steamboat, but Old Steamboat! He rode Rocking
Chair, and he's the only man that ever did that and was not called on in
a couple of days to attend his own funeral."
We went on and on at a lazy mule trot, hearing the unwritten annals of
the range from one who had seen them enacted at first hand. Pretty soon
we passed a herd of burros with mealy, dusty noses and spotty hides,
feeding on prickly pears and rock lichens; and just before sunset we
slid down the last declivity out upon the plateau and came to a camp as
was a camp!
This was roughing it de luxe with a most de-luxey vengeance! Here were
three tents, or rather three canvas houses, with wooden half walls; and
they were spick-and-span inside and out, and had glass windows in them
and doors and matched wooden floors. . . . The mess tent was provided
with a table with a clean cloth to go over it, and there were china
dishes and china cups and shiny knives, forks and spoons. . . . Bill was
in charge of the camp--a dark, rangy, good-looking leading man of a
cowboy, wearing his blue shirt and his red neckerchief with an air.
That Johnny certainly could cook! Served on china dishes upon a
cloth-covered table, we had mounds of fried steaks and shoals of fried
bacon; and a bushel, more or less, of sheepherder potatoes; and green
peas and sliced peaches out of cans; and sour-dough biscuits as light as
kisses and much more filling; and fresh butter and fresh milk; and
coffee as black as your hat and strong as sin. How easy it is for
civilized man to become primitive and comfortable in his way of eating,
especially if he has just ridden ten miles on a buckboard and nine more
on a mule and is away down at the bottom of the Grand canyon--and there
is nobody to look on disapprovingly when he takes a bite that would be a
credit to a steam shovel!
Despite all reports to the contrary, I wish to state that it is no
trouble at all to eat green peas off a knife-blade--you merely mix them
in with potatoes for a cement; and fried steak--take it from an old
steak eater--tastes best when eaten with those tools of Nature's own
providing, both hands and your teeth. An hour passed--busy, yet
pleasant--and we were both gorged to the gills and had reared back with
our cigars lit to enjoy a third jorum of black coffee apiece, when
Johnny, speaking in an offhand way to Bill, who was still hiding away
biscuits inside of himself like a parlor prestidigitator, said:
"Seen any of them old Hydrophobies the last day or two?"
"Not so many," said Bill casually. "There was a couple out last night
pirootin' round in the moonlight. I reckon, though, there'll be quite a
flock of 'em out to-night. A new moon always seems to fetch 'em up from
the river."
Both of us quit blowing on our coffee and we put the cups down. I think
I was the one who spoke.
"I beg your pardon," I asked, "but what did you say would be out
to-night?"
"We were just speakin' to one another about them Hydrophoby Skunks,"
said Bill apologetically. "This here canyon is where they mostly hang out
and frolic 'round."
I laid down my cigar, too. I admit I was interested.
"Oh!" I said softly--like that. "Is it? Do they?"
"Yes," said Johnny. "I reckin there's liable to be one come shovin' his
old nose into that door any minute. Or probably two--they mostly travels
in pairs--sets, as you might say."
"You'd know one the minute you saw him, though," said Bill. "They're
smaller than a regular skunk and spotted where the other kind is
striped. And they got little red eyes. You won't have no trouble at all
recognizin' one."
It was at this juncture that we both got up and moved back by the stove.
It was warmer there and the chill of evening seemed to be settling down
noticeably.
"Funny thing about Hydrophoby Skunks," went on Johnny after a moment of
pensive thought--"mad, you know!"
"What makes them mad?" The two of us asked the question together.
"Born that way!" explained Bill--"mad from the start, and won't never do
nothin' to get shut of it."
"Ahem--they never attack humans, I suppose?"
"Don't they?" said Johnny, as if surprised at such ignorance. "Why,
humans is their favorite pastime! Humans is just pie to a Hydrophoby
Skunk. It ain't really any fun to be bit by a Hydrophoby Skunk neither."
He raised his coffee cup to his lips and imbibed deeply.
"Which you certainly said something then, Johnny," stated Bill. "You
see," he went on, turning to us, "they aim to catch you asleep and they
creep up right soft and take holt of you--take holt of a year
usually--and clamp their teeth and just hang on for further orders. Some
says they hang on till it thunders, same as snappin' turtles. But that's
a lie, I judge, because there's weeks on a stretch down here when it
don't thunder. All the cases I ever heard of they let go at sunup."
"It is right painful at the time," said Johnny, taking up the thread of
the narrative; "and then in nine days you go mad yourself. Remember that
fellow the Hydrophoby Skunk bit down here by the rapids, Bill? Let's see
now--what was that hombre's name?"
"Williams," supplied Bill--"Heck Williams. I saw him at Flagstaff when
they took him there to the hospital. That guy certainly did carry on
regardless. First he went mad and his eyes turned red, and he got so he
didn't have no real use for water--well, them prospectors don't never
care much about water anyway--and then he got to snappin' and bitin' and
foamin' so's they had to strap him down to his bed. He got loose
though."
"Broke loose, I suppose?" I said.
"No, he bit loose," said Bill with the air of one who would not deceive
you even in a matter of small details.
"Do you mean to say he bit those leather straps in two?"
"No, sir; he couldn't reach them," explained Bill, "so he bit the bed in
two. Not in one bite, of course," he went on. "It took him several. I
saw him after he was laid out. He really wasn't no credit to himself as
a corpse."
I'm not sure, but I think my companion and I were holding hands by now.
Outside we could hear that little lost echo laughing to itself. It was
no time to be laughing either. Under certain circumstances I don't know
of a lonelier place anywhere on earth than that Grand canyon.
Presently my friend spoke, and it seemed to me his voice was a mite
husky. Well, he had a bad cold.
"You said they mostly attack persons who are sleeping out, didn't you?"
"That's right, too," said Johnny, and Bill nodded in affirmation.
"Then, of course, since we sleep indoors everything will be all right,"
I put in.
"Well, yes and no," answered Johnny. "In the early part of the evening a
Hydrophoby is liable to do a lot of prowlin' round outdoors; but toward
mornin' they like to get into camps--they dig up under the side walls or
come up through the floor--and they seem to prefer to get in bed with
you. They're cold-blooded, I reckin, same as rattlesnakes. Cool nights
always do drive 'em in, seems like."
"It's going to be sort of coolish to-night," said Bill casually.
It certainly was. I don't remember a chillier night in years. My teeth
were chattering a little--from cold--before we turned in. I retired with
all my clothes on, including my boots and leggings, and I wished I had
brought along my ear muffs. I also buttoned my watch into my lefthand
shirt pocket, the idea being if for any reason I should conclude to move
during the night I would be fully equipped for traveling. The door would
not stay closely shut--the door-jamb had sagged a little and the wind
kept blowing the door ajar. But after a while we dozed off.
It was one twenty-seven A. M. when I woke with a violent start. I know
this was the exact time because that was when my watch stopped. I peered
about me in the darkness. The door was wide open--I could tell that.
Down on the floor there was a dragging, scuffling sound, and from almost
beneath me a pair of small red eyes peered up phosphorescently.
"He's here!" I said to my companion as I emerged from my blankets; and
he, waking instantly, seemed instinctively to know whom I meant. I used
to wonder at the ease with which a cockroach can climb a perfectly
smooth wall and run across the ceiling. I know now that to do this is
the easiest thing in the world--if you have the proper incentive behind
you. I had gone up one wall of the tent and had crossed over and was in
the act of coming down the other side when Bill burst in, his eyes
blurred with sleep, a lighted lamp in one hand and a gun in the other.
I never was so disappointed in my life because it wasn't a Hydrophobic
Skunk at all. It was a pack rat, sometimes called a trade rat, paying us
a visit. The pack or trade rat is also a denizen of the Grand canyon. He
is about four times as big as an ordinary rat and has an appetite to
correspond. He sometimes invades your camp and makes free with your
things, but he never steals anything outright--he merely trades with
you; hence his name. He totes off a side of meat or a bushel of meal and
brings a cactus stalk in; or he will confiscate your saddlebags and
leave you in exchange a nice dry chip. He is honest, but from what I can
gather he never gets badly stuck on a deal.
Next morning at breakfast Johnny and Bill were doing a lot of laughing
between them over something or other.
FOOTNOTE:
[3] From _Roughing It de Luxe_. Copyright, 1914, by George H. Doran
Company. Reprinted by special permission of author and publisher.
[Illustration]
IV.--The Ole Virginia[4]
_By Stewart Edward White_
THE ring around the sun had thickened all day long, and the turquoise
blue of the Arizona sky had filmed. Storms in the dry countries are
infrequent, but heavy; and this surely meant storm. We had ridden since
sunup over broad mesas, down and out of deep canyons, along the base of
the mountains in the wildest parts of the territory. The cattle were
winding leisurely toward the high country; the jack rabbits had
disappeared; the quail lacked; we did not see a single antelope in the
open.
"It's a case of hold up," the Cattleman ventured his opinion. "I have a
ranch over in the Double R. Charley and Windy Bill hold it down. We'll
tackle it. What do you think?"
The four cowboys agreed. We dropped into a low, broad watercourse,
ascended its bed to big cottonwoods and flowing water, followed it into
box canyons between rim rock carved fantastically and painted like a
Moorish facade, until at last in a widening below a rounded hill, we
came upon an adobe house, a fruit tree, and a round corral. This was the
Double R.
Charley and Windy Bill welcomed us with soda biscuits. We turned our
horses out, spread our beds on the floor, filled our pipes, and squatted
on our heels. Various dogs of various breeds investigated us. It was
very pleasant, and we did not mind the ring around the sun.
"Somebody else coming," announced the Cattleman finally.
"Uncle Jim," said Charley, after a glance.
A hawk-faced old man with a long white beard and long white hair rode
out from the cottonwoods. He had on a battered broad hat abnormally high
of crown, carried across his saddle a heavy "eight square" rifle, and
was followed by a half-dozen lolloping hounds.
The largest and fiercest of the latter, catching sight of our group,
launched himself with lightning rapidity at the biggest of the ranch
dogs, promptly nailed that canine by the back of the neck, shook him
violently a score of times, flung him aside, and pounced on the next.
During the ensuing few moments that hound was the busiest thing in the
West. He satisfactorily whipped four dogs, pursued two cats up a tree,
upset the Dutch oven and the rest of the soda biscuits, stampeded the
horses, and raised a cloud of dust adequate to represent the smoke of
battle. We others were too paralyzed to move. Uncle Jim sat placidly on
his white horse, his thin knees bent to the ox-bow stirrups, smoking.
In ten seconds the trouble was over, principally because there was no
more trouble to make. The hound returned leisurely, licking from his
chops the hair of his victims. Uncle Jim shook his head.
"Trailer," said he sadly, "is a little severe."
We agreed heartily, and turned in to welcome Uncle Jim with a fresh
batch of soda biscuits.
The old man was one of the typical "long hairs." He had come to the
Galiuro Mountains in '69, and since '69 he had remained in the Galiuro
Mountains, spite of man or the devil. At present he possessed some
hundreds of cattle, which he was reputed to water, in a dry season, from
an ordinary dish pan. In times past he had prospected.
That evening, the severe Trailer having dropped to slumber, he held
forth on big-game hunting and dogs, quartz claims and Apaches.
"Did you ever have any very close calls?" I asked.
He ruminated a few moments, refilled his pipe with some awful tobacco,
and told the following experience:
"In the time of Geronimo I was living just about where I do now; and
that was just about in line with the raiding. You see, Geronimo, and Ju,
and old Loco used to pile out of the reservation at Camp Apache, raid
south to the line, slip over into Mexico when the soldiers got too
promiscuous, and raid there until they got ready to come back. Then
there was always a big medicine talk. Says Geronimo:
"'I am tired of the warpath. I will come back from Mexico with all my
warriors, if you will escort me with soldiers and protect my people.'
"'All right,' says the General, being only too glad to get him back at
all.
"So, then, in ten minutes there wouldn't be a buck in camp, but next
morning they shows up again, each with about fifty head of hosses.
"'Where'd you get those hosses?' asks the General, suspicious.
"'Had 'em pastured in the hills,' answers Geronimo.
"'I can't take all those hosses with me; I believe they're stolen!' says
the General.
"'My people cannot go without their hosses,' says Geronimo.
"So, across the line they goes, and back to the reservation. In about a
week there's fifty-two frantic Greasers wanting to know where's their
hosses. The army is nothing but an importer of stolen stock, and knows
it, and can't help it.
"Well, as I says, I'm between Camp Apache and the Mexican line, so that
every raiding party goes right on past me. The point is that I'm a
thousand feet or so above the valley, and the renegades is in such a
hurry about that time that they never stop to climb up and collect me.
Often I've watched them trailing down the valley in a cloud of dust.
Then, in a day or two, a squad of soldiers would come up and camp at my
spring for a while. They used to send soldiers to guard every water hole
in the country so the renegades couldn't get water. After a while, from
not being bothered none, I got to thinking I wasn't worth while with
them.
"Me and Johnny Hooper were pecking away at the Ole Virginia mine then.
We'd got down about sixty feet, all timbered, and was thinking of
crosscutting. One day Johnny went to town, and that same day I got in a
hurry and left my gun at camp.
"I worked all the morning down at the bottom of the shaft, and when I
see by the sun it was getting along towards noon, I put in three good
shots, tamped 'em down, lit the fuses, and started to climb out.
"It ain't noways pleasant to light a fuse in a shaft, and then have to
climb out a fifty-foot ladder, with it burning behind you. I never did
get used to it. You keep thinking, 'Now, suppose there's a flaw in that
fuse, or something, and she goes off in six seconds instead of two
minutes? Where'll you be then?' It would give you a good boost towards
your home on high, anyway.
"So I climbed fast, and stuck my head out the top without looking--and
then I froze solid enough. There, about fifty feet away, climbing up
the hill on mighty tired hosses, was a dozen of the ugliest Chiricahuas
you ever don't want to meet, and in addition a Mexican renegade named
Maria, who was worse than any of 'em. I see at once their hosses was
tired out, and they had a notion of camping at my water hole, not
knowing nothing about the Ole Virginia mine.
"For two bits I'd have let go all holts and dropped backwards, trusting
to my thick head for easy lighting. Then I heard a little fizz and
sputter from below. At that my hair riz right up so I could feel the
breeze blow under my hat. For about six seconds I stood there like an
imbecile, grinning amiably. Then one of the Chiricahuas made a sort of
grunt, and I sabed that they'd seen the original exhibit your Uncle Jim
was making of himself.
"Then that fuse gave another sputter and one of the Apaches said, 'Un
dah.' That means 'white man.' It was harder to turn my head than if I'd
had a stiff neck; but I managed to do it, and I see that my ore dump
wasn't more than ten foot away. I mighty near overjumped it; and the
next I knew I was on one side of it and those Apaches on the other.
Probably I flew; leastways I don't seem to remember jumping.
"That didn't seem to do me much good. The renegades were grinning and
laughing to think how easy a thing they had; and I couldn't rightly
think up any arguments against the notion--at least from their
standpoint. They were chattering away to each other in Mexican for the
benefit of Maria. Oh, they had me all distributed, down to my suspender
buttons! And me squatting behind that ore dump about as formidable as a
brush rabbit!
"Then, all at once, one of my shots went off down in the shaft.
"'Boom!' says she, plenty big; and a slather of rocks and stones come
out of the mouth, and began to dump down promiscuous on the scenery. I
got one little one in the shoulder blade, and found time to wish my ore
dump had a roof. But those renegades caught it square in the thick of
trouble. One got knocked out entirely for a minute, by a nice piece of
country rock in the head.
"'Otra vez!' yells I, which means 'again.'