THE DINNER AT HEART'S DESIRE
_This continuing the Relation of Curly, the Can of Oysters, and the
Girl from Kansas; and Introducing Others_
There were no stockings hung up in Heart's Desire that Christmas Eve,
for all the population was adult, male, and stern of habit. The great
moon flooded the street with splendor. Afar there came voices of
rioting. There were some adherents to the traditions of the South in
regard to firecrackers at Yuletide, albeit the six-shooter furnished
the only firecracker obtainable. Yet upon that night the very shots
seemed cheerful, not ominous, as was usually the case upon that long
and crooked street, which had seen duels, affairs, affrays,--even riots
of mounted men in the days when the desperadoes of the range came
riding into town now and again for love of danger, or for lack of
_aguardiente_. It was so very white and solemn and content,--this
street of Heart's Desire on Christmas Eve. Far across the _arroyo_,
as Curly had said, there gleamed red the double windows of the cabin
which had been preempted by the man from Leavenworth. To-night the man
from Leavenworth sat with bowed head and beard upon his bosom.
Christmas Day dawned, brilliant, glorious. There was not a Christmas
tree in all Heart's Desire. There was not a child within two hundred
miles who had ever seen a Christmas tree. There was not a woman in all
Heart's Desire saving those three newcomers in the cabin across the
_arroyo_. Yet these new-comers were acquainted with the etiquette of
the land. There was occasion for public announcement in such matters.
At eleven o'clock in the morning the man from Leavenworth and the
Littlest Girl from Kansas came out upon the street. They were
ostensibly bound to get the mail, although there had been no mail stage
for three days, and could be none for four days more, even had the man
from Leavenworth entertained the slightest thought of getting any mail
at this purely accidental residence into which the fate of a tired team
had thrown him. Yet there must be the proper notification that he and
his family had concluded to abide in Heart's Desire; that he was now a
citizen; that he was now entitled by the length of his beard to be
called "'Squire," and to be accepted into all the councils of the town.
This walk along the street was notice to the pure democracy of that
land that all might now leave cards at the cabin across the _arroyo_.
One need hardly doubt that the populace of Heart's Desire was lined up
along the street to say good morning and to receive befittingly this
tacit pledge of its newest citizen. Moreover, as to the Littlest Girl,
all Heart's Desire puffed out its chest. Once more, indeed, the camp
was entitled to hold up its head. There were Women in the town!
_Ergo_ Home; _ergo_ Civilization; _ergo_ Society; and ergo all the
rest. Heretofore Heart's Desire had wilfully been but an unorganized
section of savagery; but your Anglo Saxon, craving ever savagery, has
no sooner found it than he seeks to civilize it; there being for him in
his aeon of the world no real content or peace.
"I reckon the old man is goin' to take a look at the post-office to see
how he likes the place," said Curly, reflectively, as he gazed after
the gentleman whom he had frankly elected as his father-in-law. "He'll
get it, all right. Never saw a man from Leavenworth who wasn't a good
shot at a postoffice. But say, about that Littlest Girl--well, I
wonder!"
Curly was very restless until dinner-time, which, for one reason or
another, was postponed until about four of the afternoon. We met at
Dan Anderson's law office, which was also his residence, a room about a
dozen feet by twenty in size. The bunks were cleaned up, the blankets
put out of the way, and the centre of the room given over to a table,
small and home-made, but very full of good cheer for that time and
place. At the fireplace, McKinney, flushed and red, was broiling some
really good loin steaks. McKinney also allowed his imagination to soar
to the height of biscuits. Coffee was there assuredly, as one might
tell by the welcome odor now ascending. Upon the table there was
something masked under an ancient copy of a newspaper. Outside the
door of the adobe, in the deepest shade obtainable, sat two soap boxes
full of snow, or at least partly full, for Tom Osby had done his best.
In one of these boxes appeared the proof of Curly's truthfulness--three
cans of oysters, delicacies hitherto unheard of in that land! In the
other box was an object almost as unfamiliar as an oyster can,--an
oblong, smooth, and now partially frost-covered object with tinfoil
about its upper end. A certain tense excitement obtained.
"I wonder if she'll get _frappe_ enough," said Dan Anderson. He was a
Princeton man once upon a time.
"It don't make no difference about the frappy part," said Curly, "just
so she gets _cold_ enough. I reckon I savvy wine some. I never was
up the trail, not none! No, I reckon not! Huh?"
We agreed on Curly's worldliness cheerfully; indeed, agreed cheerfully
that all the world was a good place and all its inhabitants were
everything that could be asked. Life was young and fresh and strong.
The spell of Heart's Desire was upon us all that Christmas Day.
"Now," said Curly, dropping easily into the somewhat vague position of
host, when McKinney had finally placed his platter of screeching hot
steaks upon the table. "Now, then, grub pi-i-i-i-le!" He sang the
summons loud and clear, as it has sounded on many a frosty morning or
sultry noon in many a corner of the range. "Set up, fellers," said
Curly. "It's bridles off now, and cinches down, and the trusties next
to the mirror." (By this speech Curly probably meant that the time was
one of ease and safety, wherein one might place his six-shooter back of
the bar, in sign that he was in search of no man, and that none was in
search of him. It was not good form to eat in a private family in
Heart's Desire with one's gun at one's belt.)
We sat down and McKinney uncovered the cake which had been made by the
wife of the man from Leavenworth. It appeared somewhat imposing.
Curly wanted to cut into it at the first course, but Dan Anderson
rebelled and coaxed him off upon the subject of oysters. There was
abundance for all. The cake itself would have weighed perhaps five or
six pounds. There was a part of a can of oysters for each man, any
quantity of wholesome steaks and coffee, with condensed milk if one
cared for it, and at least enough champagne for any one who cared for
precisely that sort of champagne.
It was nightfall before we were willing to leave the little pine table.
Meantime we had talked of many things; of the new strike on the
Homestake, of the vein of coal lately found in the Patos, of Apache
rumors below Tularosa, and other matters interesting to citizens of
that land. We mentioned an impending visit of Eastern Capital bent
upon investigating our mineral wealth. We spoke of the vague rumor
that a railroad was heading north from El Paso, and might come close to
Heart's Desire if all went well; and, generous in the enthusiasm of the
hour, we builded upon that fancy, ending by a toast to Dan Anderson as
our first delegate to Congress. Dan bowed gravely, not knowing the
future any more than ourselves. Nor should it be denied that there was
talk of the new inhabitants across the arroyo. The morning promenade
of the man from Leavenworth had been productive of results; add to
these the results of so noble a feast as this Christmas dinner of ours,
and it was foregone that our hearts must expand to include in welcome
all humanity west of the Pecos.
After all, no man is better than the prettiest woman in his
environment. As to these girls from Kansas, it is to be said that
there had never before been a real woman in Heart's Desire. You, who
have always lived where there is law, and society, and women, and
home,--you cannot know what it is to see all these things gradually or
swiftly dawning upon your personal horizon. Yet this was the way of
Heart's Desire, where women and law and property were not.
It was perhaps the moon, or perhaps youth, or perhaps this state of
life to which I have referred. Assuredly the street was again flooded
with a grand, white moonlight, bright almost as a Northern day, when we
looked out of the little window.
Dan Anderson was the first to speak, after a silence which had fallen
amidst the dense tobacco smoke. "It cost us less than fifteen dollars
a plate," said he. "I've paid more for worse--yes, a lot worse. But
by the way, Mac, where's that other can of oysters? I thought you said
there were four."
"That's what I said," broke in Tom Osby. "I done told Mac I ought to
bring 'em all down, but he said only three."
"Well," said McKinney, always a conservative and level-headed man, "I
allowed that if they would keep a month, they would keep a little
longer. Now you all know there's goin' to be a stage in next week, and
likely it'll bring the president of the New Jersey Gold Mills, who's
been due here a couple of weeks. Now here we are, hollerin' all the
time for Eastern Capital. What's the right thing for us to do when we
get any Eastern Capital into our town? This here man comes from
Philadelphy, which I reckon is right near the place where oysters
grows. What are you goin' to _do_? He's used to oysters; like enough
he eats 'em every day in the year, because he's shore rich. First
thing he hollers for when he gets here is _oysters_. Looks like you
all didn't have no public spirit. Are we goin' to give this here
Eastern man the things he's used to, kinder gentle him along like, you
know, and so get all the closeter and easier to him, or are we goin' to
throw him down cold, and leave him dissatisfied the first day he
strikes our camp? It shore looks to me like there ain't but one way to
answer that."
"And that there one answer," said Tom Osby, "is now a-reclinin' in the
snowbank up on Carrizy."
"I reckon that's so, all right, Mac," assented Curly, reflectively. "I
_could_ have et one more oyster or so, but I can quit if it's for the
good of the country."
"Well, I'm feeling just a little bit guilty as it is," said Dan
Anderson, who was in fairly good post-prandial condition. "Here we
are, eating like lords. Now who knows what that poor family from
Kansas is having for Christmas dinner? Mac, I appoint you a committee
of one to see how they are getting along. Pass the hat. Make it about
ten for the cake. Come on, now, let's find out about these folks."
Curly was distinctly unhappy all the time McKinney was away. It was
half an hour before the latter came back, but the look on his face
betrayed him. Dan Anderson made him confess that he still had the ten
dollars in his pocket, that he had been afraid to knock at the door,
and that he had learned nothing whatever of the household from Kansas.
McKinney admitted that his nerve had failed, and that he dared not
knock, but he said that he had summoned courage enough to look in at
the window. The family had either finished its dinner long ago, had
not eaten, or did not intend to eat at all. "The table looked some
shy," declared McKinney. Beyond this he was incoherent, distressed,
and plainly nervous. Silence fell upon the entire group, and for some
time each man in Dan Andersen's salon was wrapped in thought. Perhaps
each one cast a furtive look from the tail of his eye at his neighbors.
Of all present, Curly seemed the happiest. "Didn't see the Littlest
Girl?" he asked. McKinney shook his head.
"Well, I guess I'll be gettin' up to see about my wagon before long,"
said Tom Osby, rising and knocking his pipe upon his boot-heel. "I've
got a few cans of stuff up here in my load that I don't really need.
In the mornin', you know--well, so long, boys."
"I heard that Jim Peterson killed a deer the other day," suggested Dan
Anderson. "I believe I'll just step over and see if I can't get a
quarter of venison for those folks."
"Shore," said McKinney, "I'll go along. No, I won't; I'll take a
_pasear_ acrost the street and have a look at a little stuff I brung
up from the ranch yesterday."
"No Christmas," said Curly, staring ahead of himself into the tobacco
smoke, and indulging in a rare soliloquy. "No Christmas dinner--and
this here is in Ameriky!"
It is difficult to tell just how it occurred; but presently, had any
one of us turned to look about him, he must have found himself alone.
The moonlight streamed brilliantly over the long street of Heart's
Desire. . . . The scarred sides of old Carrizo looked so close that
one might almost have touched them with one's hand. . . .
It was about three miles from the street, up over the foot-hills, along
the fiat cañon which debouched below the spring where lay the snowbank.
There were different routes which one could take. . . .
I knew the place very well from Curly's description, and found it easy
to follow up the trickle of water which came down the cañon from the
spring. Having found the spring, it was easy to locate the spot in the
snowbank where the oysters had been cached. I was not conscious of
tarrying upon the way, yet, even so, there had been feet more swift
than mine. As I came up to the spring, I heard voices and saw two
forms sitting at the edge of the snowbank.
"Here's another one!" called out Dan Anderson as I appeared; and
forthwith they broke into peals of unrighteous laughter. "You're a
little slow; you're number three; Mac was first."
"I thought I heard an elk as I came up," said I, as I sat down beside
the others and tried to look unconcerned, although plainly out of
breath.
"Elk!" snorted McKinney, as he arose and walked to the other edge of
the snowbank. "Here's your elk tracks." McKinney, foreman on
Carrizoso, was an old range-rider, and he was right. Here was the
track, plunging through the snow, and here was a deep hole where an
elk, or something, had digged hurriedly, deeply, and, as it proved,
effectively.
"Elk!" said McKinney again, savagely. "Damn that cow puncher! He took
to his horse, 'course he did, and not one of us thought of ridin'.
Who'd ever think a man would ride up here at all, let alone at night?
Come on, fellers, we might as well go home."
"Well, I'm pleased to have met you, gentlemen," said Anderson, lighting
a philosophic pipe, "and I don't mind walking back with you. It's a
trifle lonesome in the hills after dark. Why didn't you tell me you
were coming up?" He grinned with what seemed to us bad taste.
When we got down across the foot-hills and into the broad white street
of Heart's Desire, we espied a dark figure slowly approaching. It
proved to be Tom Osby, who later declared that he had found himself
unable to sleep. He had things in his pockets. By common consent we
now turned our footsteps across the _arroyo_, toward the cabin where
dwelt the family from Kansas.
The house of the man from Leavenworth was lighted as though for some
function. There were no curtains at the windows, and even had there
been, the shock of this spectacle which went on before our eyes would
have been sufficient to set aside all laws and conventions. With hands
in pockets we stood and gazed blankly in at the open window. There was
a sound of revelry by night. The narrow Mexican fireplace again held
abundance of snapping, sparkling, crooked pinon wood. The table was
spread. At its head sat the next postmaster; near him a lately
sorrowful but now smiling lady, his wife, the woman from Kansas. The
elder daughter was busy at the fire. At the right of the man from
Leavenworth sat none less than Curly, the same whose cow pony, with
bridle thrown down over its head, now stood nodding in the bright flood
of the moonlight of Heart's Desire. At the side of Curly was the
Littlest Girl from Kansas, and she was looking into his eyes.
It was thus that the social compact was first set on in the valley of
Heart's Desire.
A vast steaming fragrance arose from the bowl which stood at the head
of the table. In the home of the girl from Kansas there was light,
warmth, comfort, joy. It was Christmas, after all.
"By the great jumpin' Jehossophat!" said Tom Osby, "them's _our_
oysters!"
"And to think," mused Dan Anderson, softly, as we turned away,--"we
_fried_ ours!"