her young in the very heart of our meetin’? Why, it’s plain as the mole
on Lon Rainey’s face,” cried Brother Ducey. “I forgive her a-chasing of
me up that cottonwood,--it’s a right good thing it was so handy,--and
Miz Ducey kin sew the pants. But what did this noble animal show? Jist
what I was praying of you-all to reveal, brethern and sisters. She
showed love and devotion, and a generous sacrifice for somebody else
besides her own self. That’s what she done showed. You-all do likewise.
Brother Perry will now pass the hat.”
We took Molly back to the Tumbling K and turned her into the horse
pasture. She came peaceably enough, six of us acting as escort of honor.
She is there now, followed everywhere she goes by a husky red calf with
a white face. Molly is firmly persuaded that he is her son and the pride
of the range.
VII
THE BABY AND THE PUMA
The wagon jolted and whined over rough ground, winding among giant
pines. Off to the right followed a tawny shape, flitting from blotch of
shadow to screening bush, blending with the blurred outlines of tree and
rock. The moon was hidden and Brother Schoonover drove with
circumspection, lest his ark and all his possessions be wrecked in the
wilderness.
“Doggone that moon. It ain’t never working when you need it right bad,”
cried Brother Schoonover, cracking his whip. “That limb was like to
blind me. Stead-ay, Glossy. Now, girl--now.”
The puma crouched flat on hearing the voice. Then the wagon drew out of
sight beyond a tope of trees and he sprang to the shelter of a mesquite.
There he peered again at the nester’s outfit going down the valley
through the dark. It labored heavily; Brother Schoonover’s tones reached
him, raised in sharp rebuke of the mare; and presently he slunk in
pursuit.
Don’t imagine that Bowallopus--such was he dubbed from that night of
adventure--was stalking prey. Nothing was farther removed from his
purpose. He was dreadfully afraid, but curiosity overrode fear! Time and
again he halted to abandon the game and go about the serious things of
life, but could not. The wagon and its inmates had him fast.
Bowallopus was not even hungry, but he trailed along in rear. Perhaps
there lurked a sneaking hope far back in that hard skull of his that
something might transpire toward the further easement of his stomach,
but it never for a moment dulled his caution.
The nester whistled at the mare and urged her forward, and twice the
harsh scream of the brakes stayed Bowallopus rigid in his tracks. It
should not be held against Brother Schoonover that he forgot on three
occasions the Biblical limitations as regards profane words, because the
night was deceptive and he was far from water. All he had on earth was
with him there in the wagon, and he could descry no suitable place to
camp. The family spring-bed was slung from ropes off the floor under the
arched canvas top, and on it his wife slept. Curled warmly in the hollow
of her arm was the baby. Sometimes the lurchings of their home rolled
him quite away from her side, to return him on the rebound. He slept
placidly, being a seasoned traveler.
Just before descending a gulch to cross a dried creek-bed, Brother
Schoonover drove slap against a large rock, being now far off any
trails. The wagon careened to the point of overturning and the baby slid
from his mother’s arms. Mrs. Schoonover had raised the canvas for
purposes of ventilation--she suffered from an affection of the
lungs--and he shot downward through the hole. Being utterly helpless, he
was unhurt. He hit the ground lightly and the wheel missed him a full
half-inch.
Of course the shock woke the baby, but he was so astonished for a minute
that he could only hold his breath ready for what might befall. When he
did let out a yell, the wagon was thumping over the stones, with the
driver standing up to beat the mare, and the couple in it could not have
heard a steam calliope ten yards off.
Bowallopus vanished when the brown bundle dropped. A hundred paces and
he halted in a thicket, arrested by a gurgling treble cry. The puma had
seen children before, playing near the shack of a Mexican woodchopper,
and he knew that note of distress. Very cautiously he crept back and
began to circle.
The felidae steal upon their prey noiselessly, treading on the
soft elastic pads of the soles of the feet, without risk of
betrayal from the rustle caused by non-retractile claws. When
within a short distance, they crouch and spring, bounding many
times their length upon their unsuspecting victims, which, borne
down by the descending weight of the fierce foe, are at once
fastened upon by the deadly grip of the well-armed jaw and by
the united action of eighteen fully-extended piercing claws.
So says an old school book--or it may be an ancient natural history--and
it is very illuminating and authoritative. But it happens that
Bowallopus belonged to a class of felidae which does not prey upon man
or the children of men, and he did none of these things. He waited until
the groaning of the wagon died away, his head up, keen for sound or
sight of danger. A puma relies more on his ears and eyes than on his
nose to apprise him of enemy or victim. Then he went forward stealthily,
moving in a wide semicircle.
The baby threshed about with his chubby arms and howled, whereat
Bowallopus shrank back, hissing like an enraged gander, his tail lashing
from side to side. Perhaps the threatening noise chilled the boy to
silence; at any rate he broke off in his wail and lay quiet. The lion
went nearer. He stood above the brown bundle, his muscles ready for
combat or instant flight, and eyed it suspiciously. Much as a house cat
would pick up a questionable bit of loot from the floor, Bowallopus
seized the dress in his teeth and lifted the baby. Schoonover, Jr.,
waved a pudgy hand in lively terror and slapped the beast on the nose.
Horribly surprised, Bowallopus dropped him and sprang back. Then he
gathered himself to leap.
“Hi!” yelled Brother Schoonover.
The lion snarled as he turned to flee, but the nester had stopped in his
run and was down on one knee. Bowallopus cleared the distance between
him and some brush with a magnificent, sinuous jump, but as he went, a
crashing sound smote his ears and sharp burning pains ripped along loins
and back. Brother Schoonover had loaded his old smooth-bore with
bird-shot that day to the end that he might pot a dog-rabbit or a brace
of wild doves for supper, and Bowallopus received the entire charge.
Without paying the slightest heed to the fleeing puma, the nester threw
down his weapon and clasped his son. Instantly the baby shrieked his
loudest, and “God, he ain’t hurt a bit,” cried Brother Schoonover in a
great voice. He was shaking like a cottonwood leaf and his fright
impelled the child to further outcry, so contagious is fear. And now
Mrs. Schoonover came running, unable to remain longer in the wagon with
bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh lying helpless somewhere in the
dark along the trail--she could see him dead. She prayed audibly as she
ran.
“Give him to me,” she said, snatching the baby from his sire as though
he had been much to blame.
“It weren’t my fault, Sally Jo,” he protested.
“You drive most awful reckless, Brother Schoonover,” returned his wife,
and hugged her son closer.
“He ain’t hurt a mite. Just scared,” she announced, after a wondrous
inspection by touch of hand. “Something done tore his dress.”
“A big ol’ line had him, Sally Jo,” the nester exclaimed. “I swan he was
a monster. He went a-smashing up among the bushes and rocks.”
“You didn’t kill him? You done let him go and he most had eat our
child?” shrilled Mrs. Schoonover.
“I reckon I done missed, Sally Jo. There, there, girl--it’s all right
now. You cain’t hurt a line with birdshot. It won’t even tickle him.
This here shot would bounce off’n a kitten’s hide, this here would.”
They went back to the wagon, Mrs. Schoonover carrying the baby. The
nester opined that he had had enough of driving for one night and they
would camp here.
“It’s hard on Glossy, but I’ll go find her water first thing in the
morning”--he poked a finger playfully among his son’s ribs--“So that ol’
line was like to git you, boy? Ol’ Bowallopus was a-looking you over for
a meal?”
Brother Schoonover hobbled the mare and they went to rest.
Bowallopus lay on a flat rock amid the lower ridges next day, sunning
himself. He was not far from home and felt perfectly secure. In a gulch,
washed out by floods numberless generations ago, was a large hole that
led into a shallow cave. There was in front a sandstone ledge much to
the beast’s liking, and here the puma resided, as a stinging odor
proclaimed.
He was very handsome, was Bowallopus. On his side, he measured eight
feet ten inches from the tip of his nose to tip of tail, and his weight
could not have been less than two hundred and forty pounds. Just now the
superb richness of his reddish brown coat was marred by unsightly clots
in the region of his rump, and he was constantly reminded thereof by a
gnawing and itching of innumerable tiny spots. The irritation meant that
the wounds were healing, but Bowallopus’s temper was very bad
nevertheless. He licked his sores tenderly and settled himself to bask
in the glare, lids drooping.
Five miles away, Brother Schoonover was digging with might and main into
the side of a low hill, for he had found a spring bubbling from the rock
and was now engaged in fashioning a dugout for a home.
Bowallopus went up the valley early that evening, being minded to kill.
And before darkness closed down he arrived at a butte about three miles
from his lair.
The huge cat crawled warily to a ledge and composed himself to wait. At
the other side of the butte vague figures were moving, and Bowallopus
could hear plainly the crisp munching of grass. These were the range
mares wearing the Anvil brand, and he had taken toll of their young many
times before. In the position he had selected they could not wind him;
and along the base of the butte ran a trail down which the mares went to
drink.
The sun sank back of the mountains. A big roan stallion which ruled the
band gave over eating and lay down to roll. Invigorated by this
exercise, he whinnied joyously and started for the pool. One mare, with
her colt, followed at his heels. The others began to close in, slowly,
then in groups, until they were moving in loose array towards water. The
leader picked the butte trail, paused to pull a tempting tuft, and
rounded a bend. Then he snorted an alarm and swerved outward.
Bowallopus let him go--he was too formidable for attack--but the mare
and her colt were below him. On the stallion’s warning he hurled himself
downward, a yellow streak in the gloom, and bore the luckless colt to
the ground. The crunch of its broken spine was drowned in the rumble of
flying hoofs. Bowallopus gripped his prey by the neck and started
homewards. Twice he was compelled to stop to obtain a fresh hold, but he
dragged the carcass to the washout.
It happened that he made a foray early one evening to Wolf Creek in
quest of a deer.
Sometimes, if he were exceedingly crafty, and wind and bough of tree
were right, he could slay when a deer stole timidly to drink. Bowallopus
went down the valley, alert and noiseless as was his wont. Suddenly he
stiffened, the hairs on neck and back pringling.
Here was a fence. There could be no doubt of that. It was a very crude
contrivance of one strand of wire, but he could see the posts standing
in a ghostly, wavering line. Bowallopus walked along it, tensely
expectant. In the distance a tiny light shone like a fallen star, and
Bowallopus paused often to stare. This was the lantern in Brother
Schoonover’s house. He had fenced a quarter-section, or had enclosed it
sufficiently to conform with the law, and now occupied a one-roomed
dugout constructed of logs and earth. The Brother was fully determined
to prove up on this claim, and already indulged in dreams of how the
place would look when green under Kaffir corn, and a red-roofed house on
the hill back of them. He had longed all his life for a house with a red
roof, for it could be descried so far and looked so cheery.
The puma made the circuit of the place and watched and listened.
Presently the light went out and all was still. He did not tarry long,
being seized of a feeling of unrest. All heart for the hunt was gone
from him and he struck northward, intent on putting distance between
himself and this newest invader of his domain. While the dark was yet
young, he scaled a pine tree--a tree bole was to the lion as greensward
to the antelope--and sat comfortably on a thick limb. Once he tilted his
nose and sent his screech vibrating to the topmost hills. It was a
rending cry like the scream of a woman in mortal pain--no animal but a
horse in its death agony can produce a sound more terrifying. After a
while he descended and went northward once more; but there was no
yowling from Bowallopus now. He had to find something to eat, and
stealth alone could accomplish that end.
Yet he was back at the fence next night and on many nights succeeding.
The dugout and its dwellers recurred again and again to tempt his
curiosity, however far he raided. Bowallopus had no desire to forage
there, but he simply could not keep away. And gradually the feeling of
anxiety over their presence became a fixed dread, an obsession.
Brother Schoonover acquired a dog from a passing Mexican freighter and
owned the mongrel for exactly seven days and six nights. Most of that
period was spent by the canine back of the shack, tied to a post. Then
he was released and ventured too far in the dusk, and Bowallopus
gathered him in. When the nester found the remains he forgot all about
the spirit of kindly charity for which he had been so strong in a two
days’ debate with Brother Ducey in Texas, and railed against all created
things save those man had domesticated.
After this episode Bowallopus absented himself from the vicinity of the
Schoonover home for a space. He went up into the mountains, where he
contrived to get considerable veal and young beef. Winter was coming
upon the land and a calf did not hug his mother’s side so closely of a
night, being grown and prideful.
In the sheen of a late November gloaming, he dropped from a jutting rock
on the rim of The Hatter and padded along a burro trail. This was the
way down the big mountain which the woodchoppers took; thence they drove
their patient beasts of burden seventy long miles to town. Bowallopus
slunk beside the well-worn path, one eye cocked for trouble. He was
ferociously hungry; his stomach clamored for food; and at sight of a
scurrying jackrabbit, a peculiar pulsating ache started back of his
jowl.
Abruptly he drew back and flopped downward behind a thorny bush. Below,
on the shoulder of The Hatter, clung a shack of boughs and sod. A man
was even then hammering on its roof, while a woman passed him up bits of
old tin. Half way between the puma and the hut, a small boy was toiling
under a pile of fagots, tied over his back.
All this Bowallopus saw, but what interested him most was an object
nearer at hand. Not twenty feet away a Mexican baby played in the dirt,
crowing with delight over possession of a captive lizard. The child was
perhaps two years old and much too naked for that time of year, but she
was hearty and cared naught for that. Her brother had brought her up the
trail, leaving her to amuse herself as best she might whilst he gathered
firewood. Naturally he forgot all about the toddler, the job not being
to his liking.
Bowallopus listened and watched and waited. The baby rolled in the dust.
The man and woman were busily engaged and the boy had been sent to fetch
a bucket of water. A bull-bat flew over the puma’s head. A hush crept
over The Hatter.
It may be that he shut his eyes when he launched himself and struck,
though she was so very, very little. There was no cry to betray--only
the throaty snarls of the puma, now turned mankiller and more horribly
afraid and fearfully daring than he had ever been in his life.
“A big ol’ mountain line done eat a Mexican baby up yonder,” Brother
Schoonover reported to his wife.
“You keep buckshot in that gun, Brother Schoonover; do you hear? Oh, my
li’l’ lamb! What if that wicked lion had eat you up?” Her son did not
appear at all disturbed by the speculation, but thumped on her breast
with his fists.
There was a tremendous to-do up and down the country for eighty leagues.
The manager of the Anvil offered a hundred dollars reward for the
murderer’s hide and the cowboys of the region blazed away at every
bobcat that showed a hair within their line of vision. Even Richter’s
sheep herders bestirred themselves to set traps, but all to no avail.
And the victim being a native child, the killing soon ceased to be a
live topic.
The winter arrived in the wake of a norther. It blustered for a
fortnight, then set in to be bitterly cold. Bowallopus fared well, and
grew ever more malignant and furtive. One rib was cracked owing to
misjudgment of distance, but accidents are likely to occur to the best
of hunters. In diving from a tree for the back of a colt, he missed and
came down close to the mare. In a flash he gathered himself and leaped
again, but the mother’s heels crashed full on his side and she went away
at full speed, her son running a good second. On another occasion a
young bull caught him with a headlong rush, unprepared on his kill, and
would have made short work with so excellent a start, had not Bowallopus
sought safety in the fleetness of his legs. He was a sapient animal and
knew when he had enough.
Spring came at last, and Bowallopus had a fight. It was a family
affair--his wife was not wholly blameless--and it is better for all
concerned to say only that he came off the victor. A young puma had
wandered into his ridges from the south and west, and he never went
back. When a mountain lion does fight, it is worth going many miles to
see.
Some years it will rain so hard in this part of the cow country that the
nesters can but sit and watch their puny efforts at raising corn seep
away; but the cattle rejoice exceedingly. It must be admitted, however,
that this happens extremely seldom. Generally the land bakes under
cloudless skies from February to June and the earth opens in cracks, as
though gasping for breath.
Brother Schoonover broke his ground and planned to raise a bumper crop
of corn, the signs being propitious. He made two trips to town, three
days each way by wagon, in order to make all ready. Bowallopus used
often to see him toiling long after sunset; the puma spent many hours of
the dark in sinister vigil beyond the fence, where he could see the
light burning steadily in the dugout. Again he would prowl completely
around the claim, keeping always off the wire, for that solitary strand
was associated with man. Once he topped the hill back of the home in
late afternoon, though it was seldom he went abroad in daylight, and hid
behind a boulder. The Schoonover baby was crawling near the door, on
hands and knees. Bowallopus never once removed his gaze from him in a
full hour.
His own domestic affairs had progressed of late. Three sons had been
born to his wife, who hid them on a day when she detected a certain
glint in her lord’s eyes. Bowallopus discovered their hiding-place and
slew the cubs and ate them.
Rain should have fallen in June, but it did not. July passed, and the
country quivered under a white ball that was the sun. The cattle gave up
the hopeless fight. In the valley the air reeked of carcasses. Brother
Schoonover finished a weary day in his waste fields in August, and said
to his wife:
“Well, Sally Jo, I reckon we’ll be moving agin.”
“No, no; don’t say so. Have we really got to go, Jed? We’re always
moving. This is a right cruel country, ain’t it, Jed? Nowhere for a
person to get along nice and quiet.”
He made no reply, but picked his son from the floor and set him on his
knee. Then he stared out over his bare acres and began to laugh.
“Don’t,” she entreated. “That’s awful. It ain’t so bad as that, Jed.”
“We’ve done nothing but move for six years, Sally Jo. Or I reckon it’s
nearer eight, counting them over in the Nations? And I made certain this
place would do and we’d have a home.”
“Jed,” she said, putting a hand awkwardly on his shoulder. “Can’t we
stay? Ain’t there no way? Perhaps you could get a job somewhere--with
the Anvil boys. Oh, anything, so’s we don’t have to move again. It’ll be
so soon now. I’ll never live through it, I know.”
He eyed her anxiously, dandling the baby the while.
“That’s one of the reasons,” he said. “You ought to be near where a
doctor can be got handy, Sally Jo. No, we’ll have to give this up. I’ll
take you back to my folks for the winter. We ought for to be there
anyway. The ol’ man, he’s getting feeble, and first thing we know, he’ll
be leaving that farm to Sam instead of me, Sally Jo. Cheer up, girl;
we’ll find another place.”
“All right,” she returned hopelessly.
Two nights later they made camp among giant pines in the valley. The
mare grazed near, hobbled to prevent her straying. Brother Schoonover
lighted the fire and his wife cooked supper of bacon and bread and
coffee. That must suffice until they reached town--and afterwards, more
of the same diet, for the family treasury was down to eleven dollars.
They washed the pots and tin plates, and put the baby to bed in the
wagon. Then the couple knelt down and Brother Schoonover offered up a
prayer. He always prayed to his Maker in a loud voice before retiring,
invoking benedictions on the entire world and all the dwellers thereon.
Only two exceptions did he ever make and he made those
religiously--nothing could induce him to intercede for reigning
monarchs, and he made special mention of the Republican party only that
they might be excluded from the general benefits to accrue.
When they were rising to their feet, Sally Jo clutched her husband’s
arm.
“What’s that, Jed? There--back of them mesquite.”
“I cain’t see nothing. Where?”
“Don’t you see? Look along my finger. There, it’s moving again. It looks
like a dog, Jed.”
Her husband saw now and sucked in his breath. Off to the right a tawny
shape flitted from blotch of shadow to screening bush, blending with the
blurred outline of tree and rock.
“Hush,” he cautioned, tiptoeing to the wagon.
The reliable smooth-bore lay on the seat. Brother Schoonover slipped the
shell out without a sound and put in another loaded with buckshot. That
done, he lay down under the wagon and pretended to be asleep, but the
gun protruded through the spokes of a wheel and the Brother occasionally
sighted along the barrel. It was dark, but there was a pale glow from
the stars, which would suffice for the work in hand.
“When he gits in line with that pine tree,” he murmured.
A mountain lion was circling the camp. He had stumbled upon the nester’s
outfit by chance and had no business there, but curiosity beat down
doubts and caution. He had glimpsed the baby near the fire and had
cringed to earth momentarily. Now, he was the more eager. The sight of
the couple on their knees and the man’s harsh tones drove him back a few
yards, and he had inadvertently moved from shadow while one might count
three; but now all was quiet. He lay in the gloom surveying the camp.
The mare cropped the grass noisily on the far side and the puma
determined to take a closer look over there.
He emerged so eerily from nowhere that Brother Schoonover almost doubted
his senses when he saw a head and neck between the sights in line with
the tree. There was a flash and a terrific roar. Brother Schoonover was
knocked backward by the kick of the gun, and his wife cried out. The
baby awoke and squalled in affright.
The puma made a convulsive leap high into the air, hitting out blindly
with his mighty paws. He came down with claws tearing into the earth,
and whirled about and crouched to meet the unseen enemy. Mrs. Schoonover
cowered in the wagon, covering the baby’s head with her apron that he
might not hear the uproar.
“I got you, hey?” Brother Schoonover shouted, furiously elated. “Well,
here’s another of the same kind.”
He held the gun firmly against his shoulder and sent a charge straight
between the eyes glaring at him like two living coals. The puma lurched
forward and stretched out. He coughed once, his muscles jerking; then
stiffened.
In the morning, a mountain lion lay on the edge of camp, his hide
riddled with shot. Still, he was very handsome. He measured eight feet
ten inches from the tip of his nose to tip of tail, and his weight could
not have been less than two hundred and forty pounds.