PIE; AND SEPTEMBER MORN
When a Westerner, a native-born son of the outlands, likes a man, he
likes him. That is all there is to it. His horses, blankets, money,
provender, and even his saddle are at his friend's disposal. If the
friend prove worthy,--and your Westerner is shrewd,--a lifelong
friendship is the result. If the friend prove unworthy, it is well for
him to seek other latitudes, for the average man of the outlands has a
peculiar and deep-seated pride which is apt to manifest itself in
prompt and vigorous action when touched by ridicule or ingratitude.
There are many Davids and Jonathans in the sagebrush country. David
may have flocks and herds, and Jonathan may have naught but the care of
them. David may possess lands and water-rights, and Jonathan nothing
more than a pick, a shovel, a pan, and an incurable itch for placering.
A Westerner likes a man for what he is and not because of his vocation.
He usually proceeds cautiously in the matter of friendship, but sudden
and instinctive friendships are not infrequent. It so happened that
John Corliss had taken a liking to the Hobo, Sundown Slim. Knowing a
great deal more about cattle than about psychology, the rancher wasted
no time in trying to analyze his feelings. If the tramp had courage
enough to walk another thirty miles across the mesas to get a job
cooking, there must be something to him besides legs. Possibly the
cattle-man felt that he was paying a tribute to the memory of his
brother. In any event, he greeted Sundown next morning as the latter
came to the water-hole to drink. "You can't lose your way," he said,
pointing across the mesa. "Just keep to the road. The first ranch on
the right is the Concho. Good luck!" And he led Chinook through the
gateway. In an hour he had topped the hill. He reined Chinook round.
He saw a tiny figure far to the south. Half in joke he waved his
sombrero. Sundown, who had glanced back from time to time, saw the
salute and answered it with a sweeping gesture of his lean arm. "And
now," he said, "I got the whole works to meself. That Concho guy is a
mighty fine-lookin' young fella, but he don't look like Billy. Rides
that hoss easy-like jest as if he was settin' in a rockin'-chair
knittin' socks. But I reckon he could flash up if you stepped on his
tail. I sure ain't goin' to."
It was mid-afternoon, when Sundown, gaunt and weary, arrived at the
Concho. He was faint for lack of food and water. The Mexican cook, or
rather the cook's assistant, was the only one present when Sundown
drifted in, for the Concho was, in the parlance of the riders, "A man's
ranch from chuck to sunup, and never a skirt on the clothes-line."
Not until evening was Sundown able to make his errand known, and
appreciated. A group of riders swung in in a swirl of dust,
dismounted, and, as if by magic, the yard was empty of horses.
The riders disappeared in the bunk-house to wash and make ready for
supper. One of the men, who had spoken to him in passing, reappeared.
"Lookin' for the boss?" he asked.
"Nope. I seen him. I'm lookin' for Mr. Shoop."
"All right, pardner. Saw off the mister and size me up. I'm him."
"The boss said I was to be cook," said Sundown, rather awed by the
personality of the bluff foreman.
"Meet him at Antelope?"
"No. It was the American Hotel. He said for me to tell you if I
walked in I could get a job cookin'."
"All right. What he says goes. Had anything to eat recent?"
"I et a half a rabbit yesterday mornin'."
"Well, sufferin' shucks! You fan it right in here!"
Later that evening, Sundown straggled out to the corral and stood
watching the saddle-stock of the Concho pull hay from the long
feed-rack and munch lazily. Suddenly he jerked up his hand and jumped
round. The men, loafing in front of the bunk-house, laughed. Chance,
the great wolf-dog, was critically inspecting the tramp's legs.
Sundown was a self-confessed coward, physically. Above all things he
feared dogs. His reception by the men, aside from Bud Shoop's
greeting, had been cool. Even the friendship of a dog seemed
acceptable at that moment. Plodding along the weary miles between the
water-hole and the ranch, he had, in his way, decided to turn over a
new leaf: to ignore the insistent call of the road and settle down to
something worth while. Childishly egotistical, he felt in a vague way
that his virtuous intent was not appreciated, not reasoning that the
men knew nothing of his wanderings, nor cared to know anything other
than as to his ability to cook. So he timidly stroked the long muzzle
of the wolf-dog, and was agreeably surprised to find that Chance seemed
to like it. In fact, Chance, having an instinct superior to that of
his men companions of the Concho, recognized in the gaunt and lonely
figure a kindred spirit; a being that had the wander-fever in its
veins; that was forever searching for the undiscoverable, the something
just beyond the visible boundaries of day. The dog, part Russian
wolf-hound and part Great Dane, deep-chested, swift and powerful, shook
his shaggy coat and sneezed. Sundown jumped. Again the men laughed.
"You and me's built about alike--for speed," he said, endeavoring to
convey his friendly intent through compliment. "Did you ever ketch a
rabbit?"
Chance whined. Possibly he understood. In any event, he leaped
playfully against Sundown's chest and stood with his paws on the
tramp's shoulders. Sundown shrunk back against the corral bars. "Go
to it," he said, trying to cover his fear with a jest, "if you like
bones."
From behind him came a rush of feet. "Great Scott!" exclaimed Shoop.
"Come 'ere, Chance. I sure didn't know he was loose."
The dog dropped to his feet and wagged his tail inquiringly.
"Chance--there--he don't cotton to strangers," explained Shoop,
slipping his hand in the wolf-dog's collar. "Did he nip you?"
"Nope. But me and him ain't strangers, mister. You see, I knowed the
boss's brother Billy, what passed over in a wreck. He used to own
Chance, so the boss says."
"You knew Billy! But Chance don't know that. I'll chain him up till
he gets used to seein' you 'round."
Shoop led the dog to the stable. Sundown felt relieved. The
solicitude of the foreman, impersonal as it was, made him happier.
Next morning he was installed as cook. He did fairly well, and the men
rode away joking about the new "dough-puncher."
Then it was that Sundown had an inspiration--not to write verse, but to
manufacture pies. He knew that the great American appetite is keen for
pies. Finding plenty of material,--dried apples, dried prunes, and
apricots,--he set to work, having in mind former experiences on the
various "east-sides" of various cities. Determined that his reputation
should rest not alone upon flavor, he borrowed a huge Mexican spur from
his assistant and immersed it in a pan of boiling water. "And speakin'
of locality color," he murmured, grinning at the possibilities before
him, "how's that, Johnny?" And he rolled out a thin layer of pie-dough
and taking the spur for a "pattern-wheel," he indented a free-hand
sketch of the Concho brand on the immaculate dough. Next he wheeled
out a rather wobbly cayuse, then an equally wobbly and ferocious cow.
Each pie came from the oven with some symbol of the range printed upon
it, the general effect being enhanced by the upheaval of the piecrust
in the process of baking. When the punchers rode in that evening and
entered the messroom, they sniffed knowingly. But not until the
psychological moment did Sundown parade his pies. Then he stepped to
the kitchen and, with the lordly gesture of a Michael Angelo unveiling
a statue for the approval of Latin princes, commanded the assistant to
"Bring forth them pies." And they were "brung."
Each astonished puncher was gravely presented with a whole
pie--bubbling kine, dimpled cayuses, and sprawling spurs. Silence--as
silence is wont to do in dramatic moments--reigned supreme. Then it
was that the purveyor of spontaneous Western exclamations missed his
opportunity, being elsewhere at the time.
"Whoop! Let 'er buck!" exclaimed Bud Shoop, swinging an imaginary hat
and rocking from side to side.
"So-o, Boss!" exclaimed a puncher from the Middle West.
"Hand-made and silver mounted," remarked another. "Hate to eat 'em."
"Trade you my pinto for a steer," offered still another.
"Nothin" doin'! That hoss of yours has got colic--bad."
"Swap this here goat for that rooster of yours," said "Sinker," a youth
whose early education in art had been neglected.
"Goat? You box-head! That's a calf. Kind 'a' mired down, but it's
sure a calf. And this ain't no rooster. This here's a eagle settin'
on his eggs. You need specs."
"Noah has sure been herdin' 'em in," said another puncher.
Meanwhile, "Noah" stood in the messroom doorway, arms folded and face
beaming. His attitude invited applause, and won it. Eventually his
reputation as a "pie-artist" spread far and wide. When it leaked out
that he had wrought his masterpieces with a spur, there was some
murmuring. Being assured by the assistant that the spur had been
previously boiled, the murmuring changed to approval. "That new cook
was sure a original cuss! Stickin' right to the range in his
picture-work. Had them there old Hopi picture-writin's on the rocks
beat a mile." And the like.
Inspired by a sense of repletion, conducive to generosity and humor,
the boys presented Sundown with a pair of large-rowelled Mexican spurs,
silver-mounted and altogether formidable. Like many an historic
adventurer, he had won his spurs by a _tour-de-force_ that swept his
compatriots off their feet; innuendo if you will--but the average
cowboy is capable of assimilating much pie.
Although Sundown was offered the use of a bunk in the men's quarters,
he chose to sleep in a box-stall in the stable, explaining that he was
accustomed to sleep in all kinds of places, and that the unused
box-stall with fresh clean straw and blankets would make a very
comfortable bedroom. His reason for declining a place with the men
became apparent about midnight.
Bud Shoop had, in a bluff, offhand way, given him a flannel shirt,
overalls, an old flop-brimmed Stetson, and, much to Sundown's delight,
a pair of old riding-boots. Hitherto, Sundown had been too preoccupied
with culinary matters to pay much attention to his clothing.
Incidentally he was spending not a little time in getting accustomed to
his spurs, which he wore upon all occasions, clinking and clanking
about the cook-room, a veritable Don Quixote of the (kitchen) range.
The arrival of Corliss, three days after Sundown's advent, had a
stimulating effect on the new cook. He determined to make the best
appearance possible.
The myriad Arizona stars burned with darting radiance, in thin,
unwavering shafts of splintered fire. The moon, coldly brilliant,
sharp-edged and flat like a disk of silver paper, touched the twinkling
aspens with a pallid glow and stamped a distorted silhouette of the
low-roofed ranch-buildings on the hard-packed earth. In the corral the
shadow of a restless pony drifted back and forth. Chance, chained to a
post near the bunk-house, shook himself and sniffed the keen air, for
just at that moment the stable door had opened and a ghostly figure
appeared; a figure that shivered in the moonlight. The dog bristled
and whined. "S-s-s-h!" whispered Sundown. "It's me, ain't it?"
With his bundle of clothes beneath his arm, he picked a hesitating
course across the yard and deposited the bundle beside the
water-trough. Chance, not altogether satisfied with Sundown's
assurance, proclaimed his distrust by a long nerve-reaching howl. Some
one in the bunkhouse muttered. Sundown squatted hastily in the shadow
of the trough. Bud Shoop rose from his bunk and crept to the door. He
saw nothing unusual, and was about to return to his bed when an
apparition rose slowly from behind the water-trough. The foreman drew
back in the shadow of the doorway and watched.
Sundown's bath was extensive as to territory but brief as to duration.
He dried himself with a gunny-sack and slipped shivering into his new
raiment. "That there September Morn ain't got nothin' on me except
looks," he spluttered. "And she is welcome to the looks. Shirts and
pants for mine!"
Then he crept back to his blankets and slept the sleep of one who has
atoned for his sins of omission and suffered righteously in the ordeal.
Bud Shoop wanted to laugh, but forgot to do it. Instead he padded back
to his bunk and lay awake pondering. "Takin' a bath sure does make a
fella feel like the fella he wants to feel like--but in the
drinkin'-trough, at night . . .! I reckon that there Hobo ain't right
in his head."
Sundown dreamed that he was chasing an elusive rabbit over endless
wastes of sand and greasewood. With him ran a phantom dog, a lean,
shaggy shape that raced tirelessly. When Sundown wanted to give up the
dream-hunt and rest, the dog would urge him on with whimperings and
short, explosive barks of impatience. Presently the dream-dog ran
ahead and disappeared beyond a rise. Sundown sank to the desert and
slept. He dreamed within his dream that the dog was curled beside him.
He put out his hand and stroked the dog's head. Presently a side of
the box-stall took outline. A ray of sunlight filtered in; sunlight
flecked with fine golden dust. The straw rustled at his side and he
sat up quickly. Chance, stretching himself and yawning, showed his
long, white fangs in an elaborated dog-smile. "Gee Gosh!" exclaimed
Sundown, eyeing the dog sideways, "so it's you, eh? You wasn't foolin'
me, then, when you said we'd be pals?"
Chance settled down in the straw again and sighed contentedly.
From the corral came the sound of horses running. The boys were
catching up their ponies for the day's work. Chance pricked his ears.
"I guess it's up to me and you to move lively," said Sundown,
stretching and groaning. "We're sleepin' late, account of them
midnight abolitions."
He rose and limped to the doorway. Chance followed him, evidently
quite uninterested in the activities outside. Would this queer,
ungainly man-thing saddle a horse and ride with the others, or would he
now depart on foot, taking the trail to Antelope? Chance knew quite as
well as did the men that something unusual was in the air. Hi Wingle,
the cook, had returned unexpectedly that night. Chance had listened
gravely while his master had told Bud Shoop that "the outfit" would
move over to Bald Knoll in the morning. Then the dog had barked and
capered about, anticipating a break in the monotony of ranch-life.
Sundown hurried to the cook-room. Chance at his heels. Hi Wingle was
already installed in his old quarters, but he greeted Sundown heartily,
and set him to work helping.
After breakfast, Bud Shoop, in heavy wing chaps and trailing his spurs,
swaggered up to Sundown. "How you makin' it this mornin'?" he
inquired. There was a note of humorous good-fellowship in his voice
that did not escape Sundown.
"Doin' fine without crutches," replied Sundown, grinning.
"Well, you go eat now, and I'll catch up a cayuse for you. We're goin'
to fan it for Bald Knoll in about ten minutes."
"Do I go, too?"
"Sure! Do you think we don't eat pie only onct a year? You bet you
go--helpin' Hi. Boss's orders."
"Thanks--but I ain't no rider."
Shoop glanced questioningly at Sundown's legs. "Mebby not. But if I
owned them legs I'd contract to ride white-lightnin' bareback. I'd
just curl 'em 'round and grab holt of my feet when they showed up on
the other side. Them ain't legs; them's _cinchas_."
"Mebby they ain't," sighed Sundown. "It's the only pair I got, and I'm
kind of used to 'em."
"Did you let Chance loose?" queried the foreman.
"Me? Nix. But he was sleepin' in the stall with me this mornin'."
"Heard him goin' on last night. Thought mebby a coyote or a wolf had
strayed in to get a drink."
"Get a drink! Can't they get a drink up in them hills?"
"Sure! But they kind of fancy the flavor of the water-trough. They
come in frequent. But you better fan it for chuck. See you later."
Sundown hurried through breakfast. He was anxious to hear more about
the habits of coyotes and wolves. When he again came to the corral,
many of the riders had departed. Shoop stood waiting for John Corliss.
"You said them wolves and coyotes--" began Sundown.
"Yes, ding 'em!" interrupted Shoop. "Looks like they come down last
night. Somethin' 's been monkeyin' with the water."
"Did you ever see one--at night?" queried Sundown, nervously.
"See 'em? Why, I shot droves of 'em right from the bunk-house door. I
never miss a chance. Cut loose every time I see one standin' with his
front paws on the trough. Get 'em every time."
"Wisht I'd knowed that."
"So?"
"Uhuh. I'd 'a' borrowed a gun off you and set up and watched for 'em
myself."
Bud Shoop made a pretense of tightening a cinch on Sundown's pony, that
he might "blush unseen," as it were.
Presently Corliss appeared and motioned to Shoop. "How's the new cook
doing?" he asked.
"Fine!"
Sundown retired modestly to the off-side of the pony.
"Got a line on him already," said Shoop. "First thing, Chance, here,
took to him. Then, next thing, he manufactures a batch of pies that
ain't been matched on the Concho since she was a ranch. Then, next
thing after that, Chance slips his collar and goes and bushes with the
Bo--sleeps with him till this mornin'. And you can rope me for a
parson if that walkin' wish-bone didn't get to ramblin' in his sleep
last night and come out and take a _bath_ in the _drinkin_'-trough!
He's got on them clothes I give him, this mornin'. Can you copper
that?"
"Bad dream, Bud."
"You wait!" said the grinning foreman. "You watch him. Don't pay no
'tention to me."
Corliss smiled. Shoop's many and devious methods of estimating
character had their humorous angles. The rancher appreciated a joke
quite as much as did any of his employees, but usually as a spectator
and not a participant. Bud Shoop had served him well and faithfully,
tiding over many a threatened quarrel among the men by a humorous
suggestion or a seemingly impersonal anecdote anent disputes in
general. So Corliss waited, meanwhile inspecting the ponies in the
corral. He noticed a pinto with a saddle-gall and told Shoop to turn
the horse out on the range.
"It's one of Fadeaway's string," said Shoop.
"I know it. Catch him up."
Shoop, who felt that his opportunity to confirm his dream-like
statement about Sundown's bathing, was slipping away, suddenly evolved
a plan. He knew that the horses had all been watered. "Hey!" he
called to Sundown, who stood gravely inspecting his own mount. "Come
over here and make this cayuse drink. He won't for me."
Shoop roped the horse and handed the rope to Sundown, who marched to
the water-trough. The pony sniffed at the water and threw up his head.
"I reckoned that was it!" said Shoop.
"What?" queried Corliss, meanwhile watching Sundown's face.
"Oh, some dam' coyote's been paddlin' in that trough again. No wonder
the hosses won't drink this mornin'. I don't blame 'em."
Sundown rolled a frightened eye and tried to look at everything but his
companions. Corliss and Shoop exploded simultaneously. Slowly the
light of understanding dawned, rose, and radiated in the dull red of
the new cook's face. He was hurt and a bit angry. The anticipating
and performing of his midnight ablutions had cost Slim a mighty
struggle, mentally and otherwise.
"If you think it's any early mornin' joke to take a wash-up in that
there Chinese coffin--why, try her yourself, about midnight." Then he
addressed Shoop singly. "If I was _you_, and you got kind of
absent-minded and done likewise, and I seen _you_, do you think I'd go
snitch to the boss? Nix, for it might set him to worryin'."
Shoop accepted the compliment good-naturedly, for he knew he had earned
it. He swaggered up to Sundown and slapped him on the back. "Cheer
up, pardner, and listen to the good news. I'm goin' to have that
trough made three foot longer so it'll be more comfortable."
"Thanks, but never again at night. Guess if I hadn't been feelin'
all-to-Gosh happy at havin' a home and a job, I'd 'a' froze stiff."