BY MAC A'RONY.
"A torch for me, let wantons, light of heart,
Tickle the useless rushes with their heels;
For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase.
I'll be a candle-holder, and look on."
--_Romeo and Juliet._
Old Len A----n was a jolly old soul, and a jolly old soul was he;
he leaped aboard in the middle of my back, and hollared to me:
"Git!----Haw!----Gee!"
We donks had a great time at that little desert metropolis. Len
owned the place, that is, until Pod's outfit arrived, then Mac
A'Rony owned it. Pardon my seeming vanity. When the nabob of
Sinclair rode me to the corral, the crowd cheered me three times
three, "Hooray fer Mac A'Rony!"
Besides Len, the sturdy pioneer of '49, there were the foremen,
store-keeper, blacksmith, bronco buster, justice of the peace,
postmaster, cowboys, cooks, and numerous wives and daughters and
cousins and aunts all willing and anxious to make our party
comfortable. Pod was at once escorted to the house to entertain
and be entertained by the ladies, while Coonskin unpacked, watered
and fed us donks, like a good fellow. For once on my long journey,
I had my fill.
Finally we were left to entertain ourselves. In less than a half
hour I wanted a drink, for when we were led to the well I refused
to imbibe; now I regretted it. Donks are funny creatures--regular
Chinese puzzles. When you think us thirsty we ain't, and when we
are we must help ourselves, or go dry.
I discovered a rope dangling from a projecting arm of a high
gatepost, nabbed it, and pulled; the gate did the rest--opened. So
I walked straightway to the well trough and drank, then sauntered
to the house to learn how Pod was faring. S' help me, Balaam!
there he sat with Coonskin at a long table, surrounded by men and
women, all talking and laughing and "joshing." But I noticed the
travelers kept their knives and forks busy, and wasted no time. It
made me hungry to see them eat, so I returned to the corral to
finish my barley; but when I got there I found it already
finished. No use talking, a jackass ain't to be trusted, nohow, at
any time. The only thing left for me to do was to go foraging.
Out I went, nosing around, hoping to discover a clothesline with
some shirts and socks hanging on it, or to stumble over an old
gunnysack or cast-off garment. After a little, I observed that the
second largest house was the scene of considerable activity, and I
sneaked up and peeped in the window.
The ground floor was one vast room, presumably the bunk house for
those men not having homes of their own. At one extremity a ladder
reached from the floor to the loft. One half of the ceiling was
boarded, and the other half looked white, as if it were made of
canvas or sheeting. I suppose lumber was scarce out there in the
desert. Now, a donkey's curiosity ain't to be sneezed at. Fearing
lest I might be discovered and locked up, I withdrew to the rear
to another window, when, suddenly, I ran into a heap of bedding
and other stuff. I could arrive at only one conclusion; there was
to be a dance in honor of Pye Pod.
I had devoured half of a hay mattress before the guests began to
arrive for the dance. They came from the various houses and
cabins, clad in their finest, and among them were a fiddler and a
mouth-organ grinder, who at once pitched camp in one corner of the
room and tuned up.
To open the dance, the Prof. led off with the landlord's pretty
daughter in a waltz, Coonskin sailed around close behind with her
black-eyed companion, and soon that bunk-house was as busy as a
stock exchange.
After several dances had occurred, the men excused themselves and
came out to the table beside the luggage, and commenced opening
several bottles of the "real article." I stood stock still at some
distance in the darkness, but within smell of the refreshments,
and noted that some took it straight, while others mixed it with
sugar and water, or milk. Coonskin doted on punches of all kinds
(except one variety reserved for obstreperous donks), milk
punches, rum punches, whiskey punches, claret punches, etc., but
milk punches mostly, and so this was an event for that unbridled
youth. He gulped down several milk punches with great glee, and
then followed the gang into the house and went at the dance again
in earnest. Later on the men came out for more refreshments. At a
late hour that "O be joyful dance" was brought to a sudden finish
by a frightful incident, or accident.
It seems that the cowboys had to rise early to hunt up stock on
the range, and therefore went up the ladder to bed before the
dance was over. As Coonskin had a cot with them, he was asked to
retire at the same time, so as not to disturb them. But that boy
wanted just one more dance--it was one too many.
When he started to climb the ladder I held my breath; once he
slipped through the rungs and only caught himself by his chin.
The rest of the dancers kept their feet as busy as ever, and the
fiddler had just called "Balance ter corners," and everybody
looked to be in good spirits--the best of spirits was in the
men--when all at once Coonskin dropped through the sheet ceiling
overhead on to the floor in their midst. I was glad to see he lit
on his feet like a cat, instead of on his head, as one would
suppose with such a heavy "load" as it must have had. The
frightened, embarrassed fellow chased himself in his shirt tail
round and round that room, passing three doors at every lap, yet
calling: "Where's th' door?" For a moment everybody looked
paralyzed. But by the time the first of them regained his senses,
Coonskin discovered a door and scooted out into the darkness, and
ran plumb over me. Both of us went sprawling on the ground. It
broke up the dance and everybody there. The women gathered in one
corner and laughed in their sleeves, and the men ran out to look
for what had dropped out of the ceiling, or sky--they seemed sort
of dazed like, as if they didn't know. When I got my breath, I set
out for the corral and brayed with laughter all the way.
Finally, I heard a familiar voice whispering to me in the stable
door, and creeping up I discovered Coonskin shivering with a
sheepskin about his shoulders.
"They're after me, ain't they?" he asked.
"Well, I reckon they are," I replied. "How did it happen?"
"Well, it was this way," Coonskin explained. "When I went upstairs
to bed, I found the men had blown out the candle and left me to
undress in the dark-hic-ness. I felt round till I found my cot,
and undressed, all but my shirt, when I found my pillow missing.
Says I, 'Where's my pillow?' One fellow says: 'There it is, over
there; wese had a pillow fight.' So I started to go for it. I
hadn't gone far before I sort o' felt I was treading-hic-on
velvet, but I thought it was the punches and kept right on, till I
struck the floor downstairs. That-hic-'s-all."
Just then the men entered the stables and finding Coonskin huddled
up in wool, had a laugh, and brought him clothes to put on, and
went with him to the deserted dance hall, and saw him safely to
bed.
The more I thought of this accident the more sober I got, until I
thought what a miracle saved Pod's valet, and wondered what he
would have done without him out there in the desert. Then I
tangled up my legs and went to sleep.
Next day Coonskin was the most embarrassed fellow that ever rode a
donk. The good-natured host could hardly persuade him to
breakfast. Everybody was silent at the table, Pod said; but
finally Len began to chuckle, and remarked that he'd been West
nigh on to fifty year, but last night was the first time he had
ever seen the ghost dance. Coonskin said it was no ghost dance,
just a new kind of breakdown.
After breakfast, Len gave Pod a look at his stock and made him
stock up with all necessary provisions. He wouldn't take a cent
for anything, only a few photographs to distribute to his
retainers. He even said he was sorry for the hard times; he would
like to give the Prof. at least a hundred dollars. I believed the
generous old pioneer, for it would be just like him.
Pod began the day in fine spirits. He had been pleasantly
surprised on being assigned to a room in Len's house to notice the
furnishings arranged with distinctively feminine taste; so he was
not surprised, when at the breakfast table he catechized Miss
A----n, to draw from the lips of the blushing maiden the
confession that she had resigned her boudoir to the distinguished
donkey-traveler. Hence Pod had a delicious sleep in the downiest
of beds. And, as a token of his appreciation for the courtesy, he
presented the young lady with a silver scarf-pin which he had worn
across the desert.
I shared some of my master's regrets on leaving. The women hugged
me good-bye, but when the ranchman's daughter put her arms round
my neck, Pod was so jealous that he jammed a spur in my side.
After a time we got started on the trail. Len not only declined
pay for Pod's supplies, but gave me a hundred pounds of barley.
This my comrades offered to carry provided I would divide with
them.
For the three days following there was little else to see besides
sand and sage and basaltic rocks. Ragtown still stands, a squatty
cabin and dilapidated shed with corral adjoining, where old Ace
Kenyon of questionable fame reaped a harvest from the half-starved
emigrants of early days by extorting from them rewards for
recovering their lost cattle, which he had had his retainers drive
into the mountains in the night. Ace would place all the blame on
the innocent shoulders of the Indians. He claimed that such
depredations were often made by hostile tribes, and that only
through the courage of his desperate cowboys could he possibly
retrieve them. After the despondent emigrants had tarried several
days and been forced to pay extravagant prices for provisions, and
some of them induced to throw away their rags for a suit of new
clothes, the cattle would be driven into camp. Then the elated
travelers had to open their purses again. Ragtown, situated as it
was at the extremity of the Humboldt Desert, was a sort of
overland depot, and we were told that thousands of emigrants used
to drift in that direction from other routes when water had given
out and for miles the trail was then strewn with cast-off raiment,
abandoned wagons, sometimes with oxen attached, and the skeletons
of cattle and men who died from thirst. At times we could see the
winding line of cotton-woods that marked the tortuous current of
the Carson in the distance, and again the river would flow slowly
close at hand. Pod spent most of the dull hours playing solitaire
on Damfino's broad back, riding backwards.
We struck camp at the last ranch on the Carson the morning of
October 18, and tried to reach Dayton the same night. Everything
went well until we came to a point where three trails met. Pod had
been cautioned to take the best-beaten one, so, the night being
dark, Coonskin left us donks in Pod's charge and ventured to
examine the trails. It was eleven o'clock. Not a thing had we had
to eat or drink all day except a small measure of barley. To stand
waiting for that slow boy to get his bearings was more than we
donks could bear, and soon Damfino whispered to Cheese and me to
slip away from the outfit and follow her lead.
The suggestion was at once acted upon. Each of us took a different
course to start with, but we soon caught up with Damfino, who led
us a good pace for two hours and ran us all into Six Mile Canyon
about one a. m. There we lay down with saddle and packs on, and,
to our surprise, discovered that faithful dog, Don, lying close
by, on guard. It was not the most comfortable night I had ever
passed, but it was better than standing. When Coonskin found us in
the afternoon he caused me to change my ideas on that question,
but on reaching Dayton, the Prof, was so glad to see me that he
lavishly dined us all, watered us, and let us roll to our heart's
content. So all scores were settled.