THE UPWARD TRAIL
Once across the Missouri the trail began to mount. "Here is the true
buffalo country," thought Mose, as they came to the treeless hills of
the Great Muddy Water. On these smooth buttes Indian sentinels had
stood, morning and evening, through a thousand years, to signal the
movement of the wild herds, and from other distant hills columns of
smoke by day, or the flare of signal fires at night, had warned the
chieftains of the approach of enemies. Down these grassy gulches, around
these sugar-loaf mesas, the giant brown cattle of the plains had crawled
in long, dark, knobby lines. On the green bottoms they had mated and fed
and fought in thousands, roaring like lions, their huge hoofs flinging
the alkaline earth in showers above their heads, their tongues curling,
their tails waving like banners.
Mose was already deeply learned in all these dramas. All that he had
ever heard or read of the wild country remained in his mind. He cared
nothing about the towns or the fame of cities, but these deep-worn
trails of shaggy beasts filled him with joy. Their histories were more
to him than were the wars of Cyrus and Hannibal. He questioned all the
men he met, and their wisdom became his.
Slowly the movers wound their way up the broad, sandy river which came
from the wilder spaces of the West. The prairie was gone. The tiger
lily, the sweet Williams, the pinks, together with the luxuriant
meadows and the bobolinks, were left behind. In their stead, a
limitless, upward shelving plain outspread, covered with a short, surly,
hairlike grass and certain sturdy, resinous plants supporting flowers of
an unpleasant odor, sticky and weedy. Bristling cacti bulged from the
sod; small Quaker-gray sparrows and larks were the only birds. In the
swales blue joint grew rank. The only trees were cottonwoods and cutleaf
willow, scattered scantily along the elbows in the river.
At last they came to the home of the prairie dog and the antelope--the
buffalo could not be far away! So wide was the earth, so all-embracing
the sky, they seemed to blend at the horizon line, and lakes of water
sprang into view, filling a swale in the sod--mystic and beautiful, only
to vanish like cloud shadows.
The cattle country was soon at hand. Cowboys in sombreros and
long-heeled boots, with kerchiefs knotted about their necks, careered
on swift ponies in and out of the little towns or met the newcomers on
the river road. They rode in a fashion new to Mose, with toes pointed
straight down, the weight of their bodies a little on one side. They
skimmed the ground like swallows, forcing their ponies mercilessly.
Their saddles were very heavy, with high pommels and leather-covered
stirrups, and Mose determined to have one at once. Some of them carried
rifles under their legs in a long holster.
Realizing that those were the real "cow-punchers," the youth studied
their outfits as keenly as a country girl scrutinizes the new gown of a
visiting city cousin. He changed his manner of riding (which was more
nearly that of the cavalry) to theirs. He slung a red kerchief around
his neck, and bought a pair of "chaps," a sort of fringed leather
leggings. He had been wearing his pistol at his side, he now slewed it
around to his hip. He purchased also a pair of high-heeled boots and a
"rope" (no one called it a "lariat"), and began to acquire the
technicalities of the range. A horse that reared and leaped to fling its
rider was said to "pitch." Any firearm was a "gun," and any bull, steer,
or heifer, a "cow." In a few days all these distinctions had been
mastered, and only the closest observer was able to "cut out" Mose as a
"tenderfoot."
Pratt was bound for his brother's ranch on the Big Sandy River, and so
pushed on steadily, although it was evident that he was not looked upon
with favor. He had reached a section of country where the cattlemen eyed
his small outfit with contempt and suspicion. He came under the head of
a "nester," or "truck farmer," who was likely to fence in the river
somewhere and homestead some land. He was another menace to the range,
and was to be discouraged. The mutter of war was soon heard.
One day a couple of whisky-heated cowboys rode furiously up behind Mose
and called out:
"Where in h--l ye think ye're goin', you dam cow milker?"
Mose was angry on the instant and sullenly said: "None of your
business."
After threatening to blow his liver into bits they rode on and repeated
their question to Pratt, who significantly replied: "I'm a-goin' to the
mouth o' the Cannon Ball ef I don't miss it. Any objection?"
"You bet we have, you rowdy baggage puller. You better keep out o' here;
the climate's purty severe."
Pratt smiled grimly. "I'm usen to that, boys," he replied, and the
cowboys rode on, cursing him for a fool.
At last, late in July, the mouth of the Cannon Ball was reached. One
afternoon they cut across a peninsular body of high land and came in
sight of a wide green flat (between two sluggish, percolating streams)
whereon a cluster of gray log buildings stood.
"I reckon that's Jake's," said Pratt as they halted to let the horses
breathe. A minute, zig-zag line of deep green disclosed the course of
the Cannon Ball, deep sunk in the gravelly soil as it came down to join
the Big Sandy. All about stood domed and pyramidal and hawk-headed
buttes. On the river bank huge old cottonwoods, worn and leaning,
offered the only shadow in a land flooded with vehement, devouring
light. The long journey was at an end.
Daniel raised a peculiar halloo, which brought a horseman hurrying out
to meet him. The brother had not forgotten their boyish signal. He rode
up swiftly and slid from his horse without speaking.
Jake resembled his brother in appearance, but his face was sterner and
his eyes keener. He had been made a bold, determined man by the pressure
of harsher circumstances. He shook his brother by the hand in
self-contained fashion.
"Wal, Dan'l, I'm right glad you got h'yer safe. I reckon this is Miss
Jinnie--she's a right hearty girl, ain't she? Mrs. Pratt, I'm heartily
glad to see ye. This yer little man must be the tit-man. What's your
name, sonny?"
"Dan. H. Pratt," piped the boy.
"Ah--hah! Wal, sir, I reckon you'll make a right smart of a cowboy yet.
What's this?" he said, turning to Mose. "This ain't no son-in-law, I
reckon!"
At this question all laughed, Jennie most immoderately of all.
"Not yit, Uncle Jake."
Mose turned red, being much more embarrassed than Jennie. He was indeed
enraged, for it hurt his pride to be counted a suitor of this ungainly
and ignorant girl. Right there he resolved to flee at the first
opportunity. Distressful days were at hand.
"You've been a long time gettin' here, Dan."
"Wal, we've had some bad luck. Mam was sick for a spell, and then we had
to lay by an' airn a little money once in a while. I'm glad I'm
here--'peared like we'd wear the hoofs off'n our stawk purty soon." Jake
sobered down first. "Wal, now I reckon you best unhook right h'yer for a
day or two till we get a minute to look around and see where we're at."
So, clucking to the tired horses the train entered upon its last half
mile of a long journey.
Jake's wife, a somber and very reticent woman, with a slender figure and
a girlish head, met them at the door of the cabin. Her features were
unusually small for a woman of her height, and, as she shook hands
silently, Mose looked into her sad dark eyes and liked her very much.
She had no children; the two in which she had once taken a mother's joy
slept in two little mounds on the hill just above the house. She seemed
glad of the coming of her sister-in-law, though she did not stop to say
so, but returned to the house to hurry supper forward.
After the meal was eaten the brothers lit their pipes and sauntered out
to the stables, where they sat down for a long talk. Mose followed them
silently and sat near to listen.
"Now, Dan'l," Jake began, "I'm mighty glad you've come and brought this
yer young feller. We need ye both bad! It's like this"--he paused and
looked around; "I don't want the wimern folks to hear," he explained.
"Times is goin' to be lively here, shore. They's a big fight on 'twixt
us truck farmers and the cattle ranchers. You see, the cattlemen has had
the free range so long they naturally 'low they own it, and they have
the nerve to tell us fellers to keep off. They explain smooth enough
that they ain't got nawthin' agin me pussonally--you understand--only
they 'low me settlin' h'yer will bring others, which is shore about
right, fer h'yer you be, kit an' caboodle. Now you comin' in will set
things a-whoopin', an' it ain't no Sunday-school picnic we're a-facin'.
We're goin' to plant some o' these men before this is settled. The hull
cattle business is built up on robbing the Government. I've said so, an'
they're down on me already."
As Jake talked the night fell, and the boy's hair began to stir. A wolf
was "yapping" on a swell, and a far-off heron was uttering his booming
cry. Over the ridges, which cut sharply into the fleckless dull-yellow
sky, lay unknown lands out of which almost any variety of fierce
marauder might ride. Surely this was the wild country of which he had
read, where men could talk so glibly of murder and violent death.
"When I moved in here three years ago," continued Jake, "they met me and
told me to get out. I told 'em I weren't takin' a back track that year.
One night they rode down a-whoopin' and a-shoutin', and I natcherly
poked my gun out'n the winder and handed out a few to 'em--an' they rode
off. Next year quite a little squad o' truck farmers moved into the bend
just below, an' we got together and talked it over and agreed to stand
by. We planted two more o' them, and they got one on us. They control
the courts, and so we have got to fight. They've got a judge that suits
'em now, and this year will be hot--it will, sure."
Dan'l Pratt smoked for a full minute before he said: "You didn't write
nothin' of this, Jake."
Jake grinned. "I didn't want to disappoint you, Dan. I knew your heart
was set on comin'."
"Wal, I didn't 'low fer to hunt up no furss," Dan slowly said; "but the
feller that tramps on me is liable to sickness."
Jake chuckled. "I know that, Dan; but how about this young feller?"
"He's all right. He kin shoot like a circus feller, and I reckon he'll
stay right by."
Mose, with big heart, said, "You bet I will."
"That's the talk. Well, now, let's go to bed. I've sent word to
Jennison--he's our captain--and to-morrow we'll settle you on the mouth
o' the creek, just above here. It's a monstrous fine piece o' ground; I
know you'll like it."
Mose slept very little that night. He found himself holding his breath
in order to be sure that the clamor of a coyote was not a cowboy signal
of attack. There was something vastly convincing in Jake Pratt's quiet
drawl as he set forth the cause for war.
Early the next morning, Jennison, the leader of the settlers, came
riding into the yard. He was tall, grim lipped and curt spoken. He had
been a captain in the Union Army of Volunteers, and was plainly a man of
inflexible purpose and resolution.
"How d'e do, gentlemen?" he called pleasantly, as he reined in his
foaming broncho. "Nice day."
"Mighty purty. Light off, cap'n, an' shake hands with my brother Dan'l."
Jennison dismounted calmly and easily, dropping the rein over the head
of his wild broncho, and after shaking hands all around, said:
"Well, neighbor, I'm right glad to see ye. Jake, your brother, has been
savin' up a homestead for ye--and I reckon he's told you that a mighty
purty fight goes with it. You see it's this way: The man that has the
water has the grass and the circle, for by fencing in the river here
controls the grass for twenty miles. They can range the whole country;
nobody else can touch 'em. Williams, of the Circle Bar, controls the
river for twenty miles here, and has fenced it in. Of course he has no
legal right to more than a section or two of it--all the rest is a
steal--the V. T. outfit joins him on the West, and so on. They all
stand to keep out settlement--any kind--and they'll make a fight on
you--the thing for you to do is move right in on the flat Jake has
picked out for you, and meet all comers."
To this Pratt said: "'Pears to me, captain, that I'd better see if I
can't make some peaceabler arrangement."
"We've tried all peaceable means," replied Jennison impatiently. "The
fact is, the whole cattle business as now constituted is a steal. It
rests on a monopoly of Government land. It's got to go. Settlement is
creeping in and these big ranges which these 'cattle kings' have held,
must be free. There is a war due between the sheepmen and the cattlemen,
too, and our lay is to side in with the sheepmen. They are mainly
Mexicans, but their fight is our feast."
As day advanced men came riding in from the Cannon Ball and from far
below on the Big Sandy, and under Jennison's leadership the wires of the
Williams fence were cut and Daniel Pratt moved to the creek flat just
above his brother's ranch. Axes rang in the cottonwoods, and when
darkness came, the building of a rude, farmlike cabin went on by the
light of big fires. Mose, in the thick of it, was a-quiver with
excitement. The secrecy, the haste, the glory of flaring fires, the
almost silent swarming of black figures filled his heart to the brim
with exultation. He was satisfied, rapt with it as one in the presence
of heroic music.
But the stars paled before the dawn. The coyotes changed their barking
to a solemn wail as though day came to rob them of some irredeemable
joy. A belated prairie cock began to boom, and then tired, sleepy, and
grimy, the men sat down to breakfast at Jacob Pratt's house. The deed
had been done. Daniel had entered the lion's den.
"Now," said Jennison grimly, "we'll just camp down here in Jake's barn
to sleep, and if you need any help, let us know."
The Pratts continued their work, and by noon a habitable shack was ready
for Mrs. Pratt and the children. In the afternoon Mose and Daniel slept
for a few hours while Jake kept watch. The day ended peacefully, but
Jennison and one or two others remained to see the newcomer through a
second night.
They sat around a fire not far from the cabin and talked quietly of the
most exciting things. The question of Indian outbreaks came up and
Jennison said: "We won't have any more trouble with the Indians. The
Regulars has broken their backs. They can't do anything now but die."
"They hated to give up this land here," said a small, dark man. "I used
to hear 'em talk it a whole lot. They made out a case."
"Hank lived with 'em four years," Jennison explained to Daniel Pratt.
"The Indians are a good deal better than we give 'em credit for bein',"
said another man. "I lived next 'em in Minnesota and I never had no
trouble."
Jennison said decisively: "Oh, I guess if you treat 'em right they treat
you right. Ain't that their way, Hank?"
"Well, you see it's like this," said the hairy little man; "they're kind
o' suspicious nacherly of the white man--they can't understand what he
says, and they don't get his drift always. They make mistakes that way,
but they mean all right. Of course they have young plug-uglies amongst
'em jest the same as 'mongst any other c'munity, but the majority of 'em
druther be peaceful with their neighbors. What makes 'em wildest is
seein' the buffalo killed off. It's like you havin' your water right cut
off."
As the talk went on, Mose squatted there silently receiving instruction.
His eyes burned through the dusk as he listened to the dark little man
who spoke with a note of authority and decision in his voice. His words
conveyed to Mose a conception of the Indian new to him. These "red
devils" were people. In this man's talk they were husbands and fathers,
and sons, and brothers. They loved these lands for which the cattlemen
and sheepmen were now about to battle, and they had been dispossessed by
the power of the United States Army, not by law and justice. A desire to
know more of them, to see them in their homes, to understand their way
of thinking, sprang up in the boy's brain.
He edged over close to the plainsman and, in a pause in the talk,
whispered to him: "I want you to tell me more about the Indians."
The other man turned quickly and said: "Boy, they're my friends. In a
show-down I'm on their side; my father was a half-breed."
The night passed quietly and nearly all the men went home, leaving the
Pratts to meet the storm alone, but Jennison had a final word. "You send
your boy to yon butte, and wave a hat any time during the day and we'll
come, side arms ready. I'll keep an eye on the butte all day and come up
and see you to-night. Don't let 'em get the drop on ye."
It was not until the third day that Williams, riding the line in person,
came upon the new settler. He sat upon his horse and swore. His face was
dark with passion, but after a few minutes' pause he drew rein and rode
away.
"Another butter maker," he said to his men as he slipped from the
saddle at his own door, "some ten miles up the river."
"Where?"
"Next to Pratt's. I reckon it's that brother o' his he's been talking
about. They cut my wires and squatted on the Rosebud flat."
"Give the word and we'll run 'em out," said one of his men. "Every
son-of-a-gun of 'em."
Williams shook his head. "No, that won't do. W've got to go slow in
rippin' these squatters out o' their holes. They anchor right down to
the roots of the tree of life. I reckon we've got to let 'em creep in;
we'll scare 'em all we can before they settle, but when they settle
we've got to go around 'em. If the man was a stranger we might do
something, but Jake Pratt don't bluff--besides, boys, I've got worse
news for you."
"What's that?"
"A couple of Mexicans with five thousand sheep crossed Lizard Creek
yesterday."
The boys leaped to their feet, variously crying out: "Oh, come off! It
can't be true."
"It is true--I saw 'em myself," insisted Williams.
"Well, that means war. Does the V. T. outfit know it?"
"I don't think so. We've got to stand together now, or we'll be overrun
with sheep. The truck farmers are a small matter compared to these
cursed greasers."
"I guess we'd better send word up the river, hadn't we?" asked his
partner.
"Yes, we want to let the whole county know it."
Cheyenne County was an enormous expanse of hilly plain, if the two words
may be used together. Low heights of sharp ascent, pyramid-shaped
buttes, and wide benches (cut here and there by small creek valleys)
made up its surface, which, broadly considered, was only the vast,
treeless, slowly-rising eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. At long
distances, on the flat, sandy river, groups of squat and squalid ranch
buildings huddled as if to escape the wind. For years it has been a
superb range for cattle, and up till the coming of the first settlements
on the Cannon Ball, it had been parceled out among a few big firms, who
cut Government timber, dug Government stone, and pastured on Government
grass. When the wolves took a few ponies, the ranchers seized the
opportunity to make furious outcry and bring in the Government troops to
keep the Indians in awe, and so possessed the land in serenity. Nothing
could be more perfect, more commodious.
But for several years before the coming of the Pratts certain other
ominous events were taking place. Over the mountains from the West, or
up the slope from New Mexico, enormous herds of small, greasy sheep
began to appear. They were "walking" for better pasture, and where they
went they destroyed the grasses and poisoned the ground with foul odors.
Cattle and horses would not touch any grass which had been even touched
by these ill-smelling woolly creatures. There had been ill-feeling
between sheepmen and cattlemen from the first, but as water became
scarcer and the range more fully stocked, bitterness developed into
hatred and warfare. Sheep herders were considered outcasts, and of no
social account. To kill one was by some considered a kindness, for it
ended the misery of a man who would go crazy watching the shifting,
crawling maggots anyway. It was bad enough to be a cow milker, but to be
a sheep herder was living death.
These herds thickened from year to year. They followed the feed, were
clipped once, sometimes twice, and then were headed back to winter in
the south, dying in myriads on the way--only to reappear augmented in
numbers the succeeding year. They were worthless as mutton, and at first
were never shipped, but as the flocks were graded up, the best were
culled and sent to Eastern markets. They menaced the cattlemen in the
West and South, while the rancher made slow but inexorable advance on
the East. As the cattleman came to understand this his face grew dark
and sullen, but thus far no herd had entered the Big Sandy Range, though
Williams feared their coming and was ready to do battle.
At the precise time that Daniel Pratt was entering Cheyenne County from
the East, a Mexican sheepman was moving toward the Cannon Ball from the
Southwest, walking behind ten thousand sheep, leaving a dusty, bare and
stinking trail behind him. Williams' report drew the attention of the
cattlemen, and the Pratts were for the time forgotten.
A few days after Daniel's assault on the fences of the big ranch, a
conference of cattlemen met and appointed a committee to wait upon the
owner of the approaching flock of sheep. The Pratts heard of this, and,
for reasons of their own, determined to be present. Mose, eager to see
the outcome of these exciting movements, accompanied the Pratts on their
ride over the hills.
They found the man and his herders encamped on the bank of a little
stream in a smooth and beautiful valley. He had a covered wagon and a
small tent, and a team of hobbled horses was feeding near. Before the
farmers had time to cross the stream the cattlemen came in sight, riding
rapidly, and the Pratts waited for them to come up. As they halted on
the opposite bank of the stream the sheep owner came out of his tent
with a rifle in his arm and advanced calmly to meet them.
"Good evening, gentlemen," he called pleasantly, but the slant of his
chin was significant. He was a tall, thin man with a long beard. He wore
an ordinary sombrero, with wide, stiff brim, a gray shirt, and loose,
gray trousers. At his belt, and significantly in front and buttoned
down, hung two splendid revolvers. Aside from these weapons, he looked
like a clergyman camping for the summer.
Hitching their horses to the stunted willow and cottonwood trees, the
committee approached the tent, and Williams, of Circle Bar, became
spokesman: "We have come," he said, "to make a statement. We are
peaceably disposed, but would like to state our side of the case. The
range into which you are walking your sheep is already overstocked with
cattle and horses, and we are going to suffer, for you know very well
cattle will not follow sheep. The coming of your flock is likely to
bring others, and we can't stand it. We have come to ask you to keep off
our range. We have been to big expense to build sheds and fences, and we
can't afford to have sheep thrown in on us."
To this the sheepman made calm reply. He said: "Gentlemen, all that you
have said is true, but it does not interest me. This land belongs as
much to me as to you. By law you can hold only one quarter section each
by squatters' right. That right I shall respect, but no more. I shall
drive my sheep anywhere on grounds not actually occupied by your feeding
cattle. Neither you nor I have much more time to do this kind of thing.
The small settler is coming westward. Until he comes I propose to have
my share of Government grass."
The meeting grew stormy. Williams, of Circle Bar, counselled moderation.
Others were for beginning war at once. "If this man is looking for
trouble he can easily find it," one of them said.
The sheepman grimly replied: "I have the reputation in my country of
taking care of myself." He drew a revolver and laid it affectionately in
the hollow of his folded left arm. "I have two of these, and in a mix-up
with me, somebody generally gets hurt."
There was deadly serenity in the stranger's utterance, and the cowboys
allowed themselves to be persuaded into peace measures, though some went
so far as to handle guns also. They withdrew for a conference, and Jake
said: "Stranger, we're with you in this fight; we're truck farmers at
the mouth o' the Cannon Ball. My name is Pratt."
The sheepman smiled pleasantly. "Mighty glad to know you, Mr. Pratt. My
name is Delmar."
"This is my brother Dan," said Jake, "and this is his herder."
When Mose took the small, firm hand of the sheepman and looked into his
face he liked him, and the stranger returned his liking. "Your fight is
mine, gentlemen," he said. "These cattlemen are holding back settlement
for their own selfish purposes."
Williams, returning at this point, began speaking, but with effort, and
without looking at Delmar. "We don't want any fuss, so I want to make
this proposition. You take the north side of the Cannon Ball above the
main trail, and we'll keep the south side and all the grass up to the
trail. That'll give you range enough for your herd and will save
trouble. We've had all the trouble we want. I don't want any gun-work
myself."
To this the stranger said: "Very well. I'll go look at the ground. If it
will support my sheep I'll keep them on it. I claim to be a reasonable
man also, and I've had troubles in my time, and now with a family
growing up on my hands I'm just as anxious to live peaceable with my
fellow-citizens as any man, but I want to say to you that I'm a mean man
when you try to drive me."
Thereupon he shook hands with Williams and several others of the older
men. After most of the cattlemen had ridden away, Jake said, "Well, now,
we'll be glad to see you over at our shack at the mouth o' the Cannon
Ball." He held out his hand and the sheepman shook it heartily. As he
was saying good-by the sheep owner's eyes dwelt keenly on Mose.
"Youngster, you're a good ways from home and mother."
Mose blushed, as became a youth, and said: "I'm camping in my hat these
days."
The sheepman smiled. "So am I, but I've got a wife and two daughters
back in Santy Fay. Come and see me. I like your build. Well, gentlemen,
just call on me at any time you need me. I'll see that my sheep don't
trouble you."
"All right; you do the same," replied the Pratts.
"You fellows hold the winning hand," said Delmar; "the small rancher
will sure wipe the sheepman out in time. I've got sense enough to see
that. You can't fight the progress of events. Youngster, you belong to
the winning side," he ended, turning to Mose, "but it's the unpopular
side just now."
All this was epic business into which to plunge a boy of eighteen whose
hot blood tingled with electric fire at sight of a weapon in the hands
of roused and resolute men. He redoubled his revolver practice, and
through Daniel's gossip and especially through the boasting of Jennie,
his skill with the revolver soon became known to Delmar, who invited him
to visit him for a trial of skill. "I used to shoot a little myself," he
said; "come over and we'll try conclusions."
Out of this friendly contest the youth emerged very humble. The old
sheepman dazzled him with his cunning. He shot equally well from either
hand. He could walk by a tree, wheel suddenly, and fire both revolvers
over his shoulders, putting the two bullets within an inch of each
other. "That's for use when a man is sneaking onto you from behind," he
explained. "I never used it but once, but it saved my life." He could
fire two shots before Mose could get his pistol from his holster. "A gun
is of no use, youngster, unless you can get it into action before the
other man. Sling your holster in front and tie it down when you're going
to war, and never let a man come to close quarters with you. The secret
of success is to be just a half second ahead of the other man. It saves
blood, too."
His hands were quick and sure as the rattlesnake's black, forked tongue.
He seemed not to aim--he appeared to shoot from his fist rather than
from the extended weapon, and when he had finished Mose said:
"I'm much obliged, Mr. Delmar; I see I didn't know the a b c's--but you
try me again in six months."
The sheepman smiled. "You've got the stuff in you, youngster. If you
ever get in a serious place, and I'm in reaching distance, let me know
and I'll open a way out for you. Meanwhile, I can make use of you as you
are. I need another man. My Mexicans are no company for me. Come over
and help me; I'll pay you well and you can have the same fare that I eat
myself. I get lonesome as the old boy."
Thus it came about that Mose, without realizing it, became that
despised, forlorn thing, a sheep herder. He made a serious social
mistake when he "lined up" with the truck farmers, the tenderfeet and
the "greaser" sheep herders, and cut out "a great gob of trouble" for
himself in Cheyenne County.
He admired Delmar most fervidly, and liked him. There was a quality in
his speech which appealed to the eagle's heart in the boy. The Pratts no
longer interested him; they had settled down into farmers. They had
nothing for him to do but plow and dig roots, for which he had no love.
He had not ridden into this wild and splendid country to bend his back
over a spade. One day he accepted Delmar's offer and rode home to get
his few little trinkets and to say good-by.
Another reason why he had accepted Delmar's offer lay in the growing
annoyance of Jennie's courtship. She made no effort to conceal her
growing passion. She put herself in his way and laid hands on him with
unblushing frankness. Her love chatter wearied him beyond measure, and
he became cruelly short and evasive. Her speech grew sillier as she lost
her tomboy interests, and Mose avoided her studiously.
That night as he rode up Daniel was at the barn. To him Mose repeated
Delmar's offer.
Pratt at once said: "I don't blame ye fer pullin' out, Mose. I done the
best I could, considerin'. Co'se I can't begin fer to pay ye the wages
Delmar can, but be keerful; trouble is comin', shore pop, and I'd hate
to have ye killed, on the wimmen's account. They 'pear to think more o'
you than they do o' me."
Jennie's eyes filled with tears when Mose told her of his new job. She
looked very sad and wistful and more interesting than ever before in her
life as she came out to say good-by.
"Well, Mose, I reckon you're goin' for good?"
"Not so very far," he said, in generous wish to ease her over the
parting.
"You'll come 'round once in a while, won't ye?"
"Why, sure! It's only twenty miles over to the camp."
"Come over Sundays, an' we'll have potpie and soda biscuits fer ye," she
said, with a feminine reliance on the power of food.
"All right," he replied with a smile, and abruptly galloped away.
His heart was light with the freedom of his new condition. He considered
himself a man now. His wages were definite, and no distinction was drawn
between him and Delmar himself. Besides, the immense flock of sheep
interested him at first.
His duties were simple. By day he helped to guide the sheep gently to
their feeding and in their search for water; by night he took his turn
at guarding from wolves. His sleep was broken often, even when not on
guard. They were such timid folk, these sheep; their fears passed easily
into destructive precipitances.
But the night watch had its joys. As the sunlight died out of the sky
and the blazing stars filled the deep blue air above his head, the
world grew mysterious and majestic, as well as menacing. The wolves
clamored from the buttes, which arose on all sides like domes of a
sleeping city. Crickets cried in the grass, drowsily, and out of the
dimness and dusk something vast, like a passion too great for words,
fell upon the boy. He turned his face to the unknown West. There the
wild creatures dwelt; there were the beings who knew nothing of books or
towns and toil. There life was governed by the ways of the wind, the
curve of the streams, the height of the trees--there--just over the edge
of the plain, the mountains dwelt, waiting for him.
Then his heart ached like that of a young eagle looking from his natal
rock into the dim valley, miles below. At such times the youth knew he
had not yet reached the land his heart desired. All this was only
resting by the way.
At such times, too, in spite of all, he thought of Mary and of Jack;
they alone formed his attachments to the East. All else was valueless.
To have had them with him in this land would have put his heart entirely
at rest.