THE PEACEMAKER
"But I ain't no dove--more like a stork, I guess," reflected Sundown as
he stood in the doorway of his house. "And storks brings
responsibilities in baskets, instead of olive branches. No wonder ole
man Noah fired the dove right out ag'in--bringin' him olives what
wa'n't pickled, instead of a bunch of grapes or somethin' you can eat!
And that there dove never come back. I reckon he figured if he did,
ole man Noah'd shoot him. Anyhow, if I ain't no dove of peace, I'm
goin' to do the best I can. Everybody 'round here seems like they was
tryin' to ride right into trouble wishful, 'stead of reinin' to one
side an' givin' trouble a chance to get past. Gee Gosh! If I'd 'a'
knowed what I know now--afore I hit this country--but I'm here.
Anyhow, they's nothin' wrong with the country. It's the folks, like it
'most always is. Reckon I ought to keep on buildin' fence this
mornin', but that there peace idea 's got to singin' in me head. I'll
jest saddle up Pill and ride over and tell ole man Loring that I'm
takin' care of his sheep charitable what's been hangin' around here
since 'Sandro passed over. Mebby that'll kind o' start the talk. Then
I can slip him a couple of ideas 'bout how neighbors ought to act.
Huh! Me nussin' them sheep for two weeks and more, an' me just dyin'
for a leetle taste o' mutton. Mebby his herders was scared to come for
'em, I dunno."
Sundown was established at the water-hole. Corliss had sent a team to
Antelope for provisions, implements, and fencing. Meanwhile, Sundown
had been industrious, not alone because he felt the necessity for
something to occupy his time, but that he wanted to forget the tragedy
he had so recently witnessed. And he had dreams of a more
companionable future which included Mexican dishes served hot, evenings
of blissful indolence accompanied by melody, and a Señora who would
sing "Linda Rosa, Adios!" which would be the "piece de resistance" of
his pastoral menu.
The "tame cow," which he had so ardently longed for, now grazed
soulfully in a temporary enclosure out on the mesa. Two young and
sprightly black pigs prospected the confines of their littered
hermitage. Four gaunt hens and a more or less dilapidated rooster
stalked about the yard, no longer afraid of the watchful Chance, who
had previously introduced himself to the rooster without the formality
of Sundown's presence as mediator. Sundown was proud of his chickens.
The cow, however, had been, at first, rather a disappointment to him.
Milk had not heretofore been a conspicuous portion of Sundown's diet,
nor was he versed in the art of obtaining it except over the counter in
tins. With due formality and some trepidation he had placed a pail
beneath "Gentle Annie" as he called her, and had waited patiently. So
had Gentle Annie, munching a reflective cud, and Sundown, in a
metaphorical sense, doing likewise. He had walked around the cow
inspecting her with an anxious and critical eye. She seemed healthful
and voluptuously contented. Yet no milk came. Bud Shoop, having at
that moment arrived with the team, sized up the situation. When he had
recovered enough poise to stand without assistance and had wiped the
wild tears from his eyes, he instructed the amazed Sundown as to
certain manipulations necessary to produce the desired result. "Huh!
Folks says cows _give_ milk. But I reckon that ain't right," Sundown
had asserted. "You got to take it away from 'em." So he had taken
what he could, which was not, at first, a great deal.
This momentous morning he had decided that his unsolicited mission was
to induce or persuade Loring to arbitrate the question of
grazing-rights. It was a strange idea, although not incompatible with
Sundown's peculiar temperament. He felt justified in taking the
initiative; especially in view of the fact that Loring's sheep had been
trespassing on his property.
He saddled "Pill," and called to Chance. "See here, Chance, you and
me's pals. No, you ain't comin' this trip. You stick around and keep
your eye on me stock. What's mine is yourn exceptin' the rooster.
Speakin' poetical, he belongs to them hens. If he ain't here when I
get back, I can pretty nigh tell by the leavin's where he is. When I
git back I look to find you hungry, sabe? And not sneakin' around
lookin' at me edgeways with leetle feathers stickin' to your nose. I
reckon you understand."
Chance followed his master to the road, and there the dog sat gazing at
the bobbing figure of Sundown until it was but a speck in the morning
sunshine. Then Chance fell to scratching his ear with his hind foot,
rose and shook himself, and stalked indolently to the yard where he lay
with his nose along his outstretched fore legs, watching the proscribed
rooster with an eloquence of expression that illustrated the proverbial
power of mind over matter.
Sundown kept Pill loping steadily. It was a long ride, but Sundown's
mind was so preoccupied with the preparing of his proposed appeal to
the sheep-man that the morning hours and the sunlit miles swept past
unnoticed. The dark green of the acacias bordering the hacienda, the
twinkling white of the speeding windmill, and the dull brown of the
adobes became distinct and separate colors against the far edge of the
eastern sky. He reined his pony to a walk. "When you're in a hurry to
do somethin'," he informed his horse, "it ain't always good politics to
let folks know it. So we'll ride up easy, like we had money to spend,
and was jest lookin' over the show-case." And Pill was not averse to
the suggestion.
Sundown dismounted, opened the gate, and swinging to the saddle, rode
up to the ranch-house. Had he known that Anita, the daughter of Chico
Miguel, was at that moment talking with the wife of one of Loring's
herders; that she was describing him in glowing terms to her friend,
and moreover, as he passed up the driveway, that Anita had turned
swiftly, dropping the pitcher of milk which she had just brought from
the cooling-room as she saw him, he might well have been excused from
promulgating his mission of peace with any degree of coherence.
Sublimely ignorant of her presence,--spiritualists and sentimentalists
to the contrary in like instances,--he rode directly to the hacienda,
asked for the patron, and was shown to the cool interior of the house
by the mildly astonished Señora. Señor Loring would return presently.
Would the gentleman refresh himself by resting until the Señor
returned? Possibly she herself could receive the message--or the
Señorita, who was in the garden?
"Thanks, lady. I reckon Pill is dry--wants a drink--agua--got a
thirst. No, ma'am. I can wait. I mean me horse."
"Oh! Si! But Juan would attend to the horse and at once."
"Thanks, lady. And if Miss Loring ain't too busy, I reckon I'd like to
see her a minute."
The Señora disappeared. Sundown could hear her call for Juan.
Presently Nell Loring came to the room, checked an exclamation of
surprise as she recognized him, and stepping forward, offered her hand.
"You're from Mr. Corliss. I remember. . . . Is Chance all right now?"
"Yes, ma'am. He is enjoyin' fust-rate health. He eats reg'lar--and
rabbits in between. But I ain't from the Concho, lady. I'm from me
own ranch, down there at the water-hole. Me boss ain't got nothin' to
do with me bein' here. It's me own idea. I come friendly and wishful
to make a little talk to your pa."
Wondering what could have induced Sundown to call at her home,
especially under the existing circumstances, Nell Loring made him
welcome. After he had washed and strolled over to the stables to see
to his horse. Sundown, returning, declined an invitation to come in,
and sat on the veranda, smoking cigarettes and making mental note of
the exterior details of the hacienda: its garden, shade-trees, corrals,
and windmill. Should prosperity smile upon him, he would have a
windmill, be Gosh! Not a white one--though white wasn't so bad--but
something tasty; red, white and blue, mebby--a real American windmill,
and in the front of the house a flagpole with the American flag. And
he would keep the sign "American Hotel" above the gate. There was
nothin' like bein' paterotic. Mexican ranches--some of 'em--was purty
enough in a lazy kind of style, but he was goin' to let folks know that
a white man was runnin' the water-hole ranch!
And all unknown to him, Anita stood in the doorway of one of the
herder's 'dobes, more than ever impressed by the evident importance of
her beau-idéal of chivalry, who took the kick of horses as a matter of
course, and rose smilingly from such indignities to present flowers to
her with eyes which spake of love and lips that expressed, as best they
could, admiration. Anita was a bit disappointed and perhaps a bit
pleased that he had not as yet seen her. As it was she could worship
from a distance that lent security to her tender embarrassment. The
tall one must, indeed, be a great caballero to be made welcome at the
patron's home. Assuredly he was not as the other vaqueros who visited
the patron. _He_ sat upon the veranda and smoked in a lordly way,
while they inevitably held forth in the less conspicuous latitude of
the bunk-house and its environs. Anita was happy.
Sundown, elated by the righteousness of his mission as harbinger of
peace, met Loring returning from one of the camps with gracious
indifference to the other's gruff welcome.
They sat at the table and ate in silence for a while. With the
refreshing coffee Sundown's embarrassment melted. His weird command of
language, enhanced by the opportunity for exercise in a good cause,
astonished and eventually interested his hearers. He did not approach
his subject directly, but mounted the metaphorical steps of his rostrum
leisurely. He discoursed on the opportunities afforded by the almost
limitless free range. He hinted at the possibility of internecine
strife eventually awakening the cupidity of "land-sharks" all over the
country. If there was land worth killing folks for, there was land
worth stealing. If the Concho Valley was once thrown open to
homesteaders, then farewell free range and fat cattle and sheep. And
the mention of sheep led him to remark that there was a small band at
the water-hole, uncared-for save by himself. "And he was no sheep-man,
but he sure hated to see any critters sufferin' for water, so he had
allowed the sheep to drink at the water-hole." Then he paused,
anticipating the obvious question to which he made answer: "Yes. The
water-hole ranch is me ranch. I filed on her the same day that you and
Miss Loring come to Usher. Incondescent to that I was in the calaboose
at Antelope. Somebody tole the sheriff that I was a suspicious
character. Mebby I am, judgin' from the outside, but inside I ain't.
You can't always tell what the works is like by the case, I ain't got
no hard feelin's for nobody, and I'm wishful that folks don't have no
hard feelin's ag'in' me or anybody else."
Loring listened in silence. Finally he spoke. "I'll take care of my
sheep. I'll send for 'em to-day. Looks like you're tryin' to play
square, but you don't figure in this deal. Jack Corliss is at the
bottom of it and he's using you. And he'll use you hard. What you
goin' to do with the overflow from the water-hole?"
"I'm goin' to irrigate me ranch," said Sundown.
Loring nodded. "And cut off the water from everybody?"
"Not from me friends."
"Which means the Concho."
"Sure! Jack Corliss is me friend. But that ain't all. If you want to
be me friend, I ain't kickin' even if you did tell the sheriff he ought
to git acquainted with me closer. I'm goin' to speak right out. I
reckon it's the best way. I got a proposition. If you'll quit sickin'
them herders onto cowboys and if Jack'll quit settin' the punchers at
your herders, I'll open up me spring and run her down to where they's
water for everybody. If cows comes, they drink. If sheep comes,
_they_ drink. If folks comes, they drink, likewise. But no fightin'."
Sundown as arbiter of peace felt that he had, in truth, "spoken right
out." He was not a little surprised at himself and a bit fearful. Yet
he felt justified in his suggestion. Theoretically he had made a fair
offer. Practically his offer was of no value. Sheep and cattle could
not occupy the same range. Loring grumbled something and shoved back
his chair. They rose and stepped to the veranda.
"If you can get Corliss to agree to what you say--and quit runnin'
cattle on the water-hole side--I'll quit runnin' sheep there." And
Loring waved his hand toward the north.
"But the Concho is on the west side--" began Sundown.
"And cattle are grazin' on the east side," said Loring.
Sundown scratched his head. "I reckon I got to see Jack," he said.
"And you'll waste time, at that," said Loring. "Look here! Are you
ranchin' to hold down the water-hole for Corliss or to make a livin'?"
Sundown hesitated. He gazed across the yard to the distant mesa.
Suddenly a figure crossed the pathway to the gate. He jerked up his
head and stood with mouth open. It couldn't be--but, yes, it was
Anita--Linda Rosa! Gee Gosh! He turned to Loring. "I been tellin'
you the truth," he said simply. "'Course I got to see me boss, now.
But it makes no difference what he says, after this. I'm ranchin' for
meself, because I'm--er--thinkin' of gettin' married."
Without further explanation, Sundown stalked to the stable and got his
horse. He came to the hacienda and made his adieux. Then he mounted
and rode slowly down the roadway toward the gate.
Anita's curiosity had overcome her timidity. Quite accidentally she
stood toying with a bud that she had picked from the flower-bordered
roadway. She turned as Sundown jingled up and met him with a murmur of
surprise and pleasure. He swung from his horse hat in hand and
advanced, bowing. Anita flushed and gazed at the ground.
"'Mornin', Señorita! I sure am jest hoppin' glad to see you ag'in. If
I'd 'a' knowed you was here . . . But I come on business--important.
Reckon you're visitin' friends, eh?"
"Si, Señor!"
"Do you come here reg'lar?"
"Only to see the good aunt sometimes."
"Uhuh. I kind of wish your aunt was hangin' out at the Concho, though.
This here ain't a reg'lar stoppin'-place for me."
"You go away?" queried Anita.
"I reckon I got to after what I said up there to the house. Yes, I'm
goin' back to feed me pigs and Chance and the hens. I set up
housekeepin' since I seen you. Got a ranch of me own--that I was
tellin' you about. You ought to see it! Some class! But it's mighty
lonely, evenin's."
Anita sighed and glanced at Sundown. Then her gaze dwelt on the bud
she held. "Si, Señor--it is lonely in the evenings," she said, and
although she spoke in Spanish, Sundown did not misunderstand.
He grinned hugely. "You sure don't need to talk American to tell it,"
he said as one who had just made a portentous discovery. "It was
worryin' me how we was goin' to get along--me short on the Spanish and
you short on my talk. But I reckon we'll get along fine. Your pa in
good health, and your ma?"
Anita nodded shyly.
Sundown was at a loss to continue this pleasant conversation. He
brightened, however, as a thought inspired him. "And the leetle hoss,
is he doin' well?"
"That Sarko I do not like that he should keeck you!" flamed Anita, and
Sundown's cup of happiness was full to overflowing.
Quite unconsciously he was leading his horse toward the gate and quite
unconsciously Anita was walking beside him. Forgotten was the Loring
ranch, the Concho, his own homestead. He was with his inamorata, the
"Linda Rosa" of his dreams.
At the gateway he turned to her. "I'm comin' over to see your folks
soon as I git things to runnin' on me ranch. Keeps a fella busy, but
I'm sure comin'. I ain't got posies to growin' yet, but I'm goin' to
have some--like them," and he indicated the bud which she held.
"You like it?" she queried. And with bashful gesture she gave him the
rose, smiling as he immediately stuck it in the band of his sombrero.
Then he held out his hand. "Linda Rosa," he said gently, "I can't make
the big talk in the Spanish lingo or I'd say how I was lovin' you and
thinkin' of you reg'lar and deep. 'Course I got to put your pa and ma
wise first. But some day I'm comin'--me and Chance--and tell you that
I'm ready--that me ranch is doin' fine, and that I sure want you to
come over and boss the outfit. I used to reckon that I didn't want no
woman around bossin' things, but I changed me mind. Adios!
Señorita!--for I sure got to feed them hens."
Sundown extended his hand. Anita laid her own plump brown hand in
Sundown's hairy paw. For an instant he hesitated, moved by a most
natural impulse to kiss her. Her girlish face, innocently sweet and
trusting, her big brown eyes glowing with admiration and wonder, as she
gazed up at him, offered temptation and excuse enough. It was not
timidity nor lack of opportunity that caused Sundown to hesitate, but
rather that innate respect for women which distinguishes the gentle man
from the slovenly generalization "gentleman." "Adios! Linda Rosa!" he
murmured, and stooping, kissed her brown fingers. Then he gestured
with magnificence toward the flowers bordering the roadway. "And you
sure are the lindaest little Linda Rosa of the bunch!"
And Anita's heart was filled with happiness as she watched her brave
caballero ride away, so tall, so straight, and of such the gentle
manner and the royal air!
It was inevitable that he should turn and wave to her, but it was not
inevitable that she should have thrown him a pretty kiss with the grace
of her pent-up emotion--but she did.