BY PYE POD.
Sancho Panza hastened to his master's help as fast as his ass
could go, and when he came up he found the knight unable to
stir, such a shock had Rosinante given him in the fall.--_Don
Quixote._
The casualty, which terminated our celebration on the fifth,
seemed to portend bad luck. The metaphorical lightning first
struck me. We struck camp, that hot July day, before the sun was
an hour high, and a mile beyond trailed through a dog-town
reservation. I had long been desirous of securing a prairie dog to
have mounted; as a rule one can pick off these shy creatures only
at long rifle range. This morning, stealing up behind a cornfield,
I wounded a dog, then dropping my gun, ran to catch him before he
could escape into his hole. Crawling through a barbed-wire fence
without afterward appearing in dishabille is considered by a
tenderfoot the feat of feats. Before I reached the hole half
undressed the dog had tumbled into it. He must have made a
mistake, however, for out the fellow came, and made for another
hole. I grabbed him, but instantly dropped him, for he tried to
bite me. Then, like a shot, he dived into the second hole, and I
thrust my arm in to pull him out. But my hand came out quite as
fast as it went in. It was bitten; and at the mouth of the hole I
now detected for the first time the tail of a rattlesnake. That
was an awful moment, What should I do? My whiskey was gone; I had
no antidote for the poison. I rushed to where Coonskin was
waiting with my outfit.
"Make for the house!" he exclaimed.
A ranch house stood some two miles away, but not a soul was in
sight. Still, that seemed to be my only salvation; I realized a
painful death was the only alternative. With a hundred other
thoughts rushing into my head, I ran toward the distant house.
Coonskin began picketing the donkeys, and promised to follow.
While racing madly through the cacti and sage, I thought of my
past, from three months upward. Just when I had reached an
episode, which almost ended my reckless career at the age of ten,
I heard the sound of galloping hoofs, and, a moment later, a young
woman reined her steed at my side, dismounted and gave me her
horse.
"Into the saddle, quick, man!" she cried. "Mother has turpentine
and whiskey. The horse will take the fence and ditch. Pull
leather, stick to the saddle, never mind the stirrups!" and to the
horse--"Git home, Topsy!--Run for your life, old girl!" Like a
flash, the big mare sped forward with the velocity of the wind.
To pull leather, in the parlance of the cowboy, means to grip the
saddle with the hands. For a cow-puncher to pull leather is deemed
disgraceful; for Pod, it was excusable. Although the mare fairly
flew, she did not travel half fast enough to suit me. With reins
round the saddle-horn, I gripped the saddle with my left hand and
sucked the bite on my right, but suddenly the mare took a
hop-skip-and-jump over the fence and ditch; fell to her knees, and
threw me over her head.
When I sat up, I saw a woman in the door of the house, yet a half
mile away, no doubt, wondering how a maniac happened to be on her
daughter's steed. The next moment, Coonskin arived all out of
breath, and assisted me to the house. Before we could fully
explain the situation, the good woman disappeared, soon to return
with a bottle of turpentine, which she turned nozzle down over the
snake bite, while my valet poured whiskey down my throat.
They say it takes a long time and much whiskey to affect one
bitten by a rattler, but this case seemed to be an exception; in a
few moments, my head was going round, and I prostrate on a couch.
My kind nurse looked curiously at the turpentine, and finally said
it was queer it didn't turn green, as it should in the case of a
rattle-snake bite.
A half hour passed and still there was no change. Then when I
repeated my story of how the thing happened, she grinned, and said
she guessed it was the prairie dog and not the snake that bit me,
after all. I was so dead drunk when the daughter came that she
glanced at me and asked in a whisper, "Is he dead?"
"No," said the mother, "and he ain't going to die. We've been
trying to cure dog bite with 'snake bit', and I reckon it'll take
a week or more to sober the man up."
Then the daughter began to get a meal, and Coonskin went after my
outfit, on the good woman's suggestion, to fetch my animals to the
corral.
It was not until morning that I was fit to sit my saddle; but I
made the effort, and after thanking my hostesses and insisting on
paying for the turpentine, we said good-bye.
Mid-day travel, in the Colorado desert at that season, was
enervating in the extreme. Our straw helmets, being supported by a
skeleton crown, allowed a free circulation of air over and about
the head; also a free circulation of buffalo gnats, blue flies,
mosquitos, flying ants, grasshoppers, and everything else that
hadn't an excuse for living. Everything seemed to be free in that
country.
The sunrays beat down mercilessly on the sandy plain, and every
live thing seemed to be in search of shade or water. Once, while
crossing the dry and cracked bed of a stream, I saw a rabbit,
almost dying of thirst, and I put an end to its agony with my
six-shooter. In the narrow bars of shade cast by the fence posts
along the railroad, could be seen occasional birds, standing on
the hot sand, immovable, with bills wide open, panting from the
excessive heat.
We reached Sterling late that night, after a twenty-eight mile
journey. The town looked dull. Everybody complained of the hottest
weather for years. It occurred to me that an awning would add
greatly to our comfort, so I bought the canvas, and had one made.
Henceforth we would travel at night, and sleep as much as possible
in the day beneath the awning. I also purchased a light folding
chair, which, with our table and stove, could easily be carried on
Skates, the new donkey.
We pitched camp eight miles from town, near a sod house and well.
On the way the donkeys became obstreperous, and before they were
under control, our only lantern was smashed. This stroke of bad
luck was the forerunner of other misfortunes.
As I fell on my hard bed, expecting to have a delightful rest, I
voiced a righteous yell of pain, and leaped out of doors. I was a
fair imitation of a porcupine. Coonskin had carelessly pitched the
tent on a bed of cacti. The astonished fellow made profuse
apologies, and set to the task of picking the cactus spears out of
me by the flare of lighted matches. But for a week I suffered the
sensations of sleeping on pins and needles.
The turtle, Bill, deserves some notice. He was put in the center
of a table at meal time to catch flies, but all that stupid turtle
did was to scrape them off his head by drawing it under his shell.
He disdained the carnivorous diet. Millions of insects swarmed
about the table, where before only thousands had gathered,
attracted, doubtless, by Bill. They literally covered our food and
all we could safely eat was flapjacks. Holding a fork against the
mouth, we could with lips and tongue draw a flapjack in through
the tines, by which delicate operation all flies and other insects
were scraped off; and in course of time a fairly good meal was
conveyed to our stomachs. Of course, one's success depended upon
the strength of the flapjacks. Most of them stood the strain.
The afternoon of July 11, we saw Long's Peak, the first spur of
the Rocky Mountains, in view. The following evening we rode into
Fort Morgan. Journeying on, to escape the heat of the day, we came
at midnight to where several trails crossed, and were puzzled
which to take.
"Put the responsibility on the donkeys," I finally suggested.
"They've great instinct."
"Good idea," commented my valet; "I've often heard of horses
taking lost hunters out of the woods." So giving the word, my
caravan resumed the march in the darkness, and went into camp
about four in the morning. When I arose about noon, I was
surprised to find ourselves on the outskirts of a village. I
called Coonskin, with a feeling of suspicion dawning in my mind.
"The blasted town looks familiar," said my valet.
About that time a cowboy rode up, and I asked him the name of the
town.
"Fort Morgan," he answered. "Have you fellows lost anything?"
Coonskin and I eyed each other, then both gazed thoughtfully at
the jackasses.
I was provoked about the loss of that night's journey; to think of
our following our donkey's ears round an imaginary race-course in
the desert, some twenty odd miles, was not conducive to a good
temper. Many well-meaning persons had advised me to carry a
compass. Some day, some night, they said, I would stray from the
trail. I resolved to purchase such an instrument immediately on
reaching Denver.
We spent the afternoon enjoying the luxuries of our new awning and
camp chairs; I writing my article for the press, Coonskin reading
a thrilling dime novel.
"This is life," remarked my napping valet, as he rolled over on
his pillow.
"You bet," I replied; "we know who we are."
"I suppose there are lots of folks who don't know, Prof," he
returned; "but they'll find out before we reach 'Frisco."
"But Coonskin," I asked, looking up from my writing, "do you know
where we are?"
I had no sooner put the question than a whirlwind swept down upon
the camp and scattered everything broadcast. Tent, awning, table,
chairs, ink and writing pad, packing cases, and articles of all
kinds, not to mention dog, donkeys, and men chased each other over
the cacti and sand; the tent half inflated, rolled over in the
scudding wind like a balloon.
"No, I don't," said Coonskin, gaining a sitting posture a rod from
where I stood on my head, some hundred yards from our original
camp.
"What are you talking about?--are you wandering?" I asked.
"I think the whole shooting-match has been wandering some," said
he, picking the sand out of his eyes.
It was long before we collected our belongings. I never found my
letter for the press.
Just before sunset we took up the march across the broad, rolling
plains, which grew tiresome to look upon before darkness set in.
But occasionally a hand-car with its sloop-rigged sails set to the
wind would speed over the rails in the distance, like a cat-boat
before a gale, and break the monotony of the scene. This mode of
travel appears to be characteristic of the Western plains alone.
We saw innumerable buffalo wallows, great depressions in the sand
where the vast herds of buffalo in the early days wallowed in the
cool earth for salt, and to escape the heat and pestering gnats.
In most cases these "wallows" are covered with cacti and other
desert verdure, and are apt to upset the unwary traveler after
dark, unless he keeps to the beaten trail.
At a little before sunset we arrived at the great D. Horse Ranch,
where we watered our animals and accepted the ranchman's
invitation to supper.