CORDELIA SEES A COWBOY
Through the broad, dusty streets, by the straggling houses, and out on
to the boundless sea of grass trailed the carriage and the ranch wagons,
with Mr. Tim in the lead.
Five pairs of eyes grew wide with wonder and awe.
"I didn't suppose anything in the world could be so--so far," breathed
Cordelia, who was with Mr. Hartley on the front seat of the carriage.
"No wonder Genevieve was always talking about 'space, wide, wide
space,'" cried Bertha. "Why, it's just like the ocean--only more so,
because there aren't any waves."
"As if anything could be more like the ocean than the ocean itself,"
giggled Tilly.
Mr. Hartley laughed good-naturedly.
"Never mind, Miss Bertha," he nodded. "Just you wait till there's a
little more wind, and you'll see some waves, I reckon. It's mighty still
just now; and yet--there, look! Over there to the right--see?"
They all looked, and they all saw. They saw far in the distance the
green change to gray, and the gray to faint purple, and back again to
green, while curious shifting lights and shadows glancing across the
waving blades of grass, made them ripple like water in the sunlight. At
the same time, from somewhere, came a soft, cool wind.
"Why, it is--it is just like the ocean," exulted Cordelia. "I've seen it
look like that down to Nantasket, 'way, 'way off at sea."
"I told you 'twas," triumphed Bertha.
"Well, anyway," observed Tilly, demurely, "they must be awfully dry
waves--not much fun to jump!"
"Tilly, how can you?" protested Cordelia. "How you do take the poetry
out of anything! I believe you'd take the poetry out of--of Shakespeare
himself!"
"Pooh! Never saw much in him to take out," shrugged Tilly.
"Tilly!" gasped Cordelia.
"Tilly can't see poetry in anything that doesn't jingle like 'If you
love me as I love you, no knife can cut our love in two,'" chanted
Bertha.
"My dears!" remonstrated Mrs. Kennedy, feebly.
Tilly turned with swift pacification.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Kennedy. I'm used to it. They can't trouble me
any!"
It was Mr. Hartley who broke the silence that followed.
"Well, Miss Cordelia," he asked laughingly, "what is the matter? You've
been peering in all directions, and you look as if you hadn't found what
you were hunting for. You weren't expecting to find soda fountains and
candy stores on the prairie, were you?"
Cordelia smiled and shook her head.
"Of course not, Mr. Hartley! I was looking for the blue bonnets--the
flowers, you know. Genevieve said they grew wild all through the prairie
grass."
"And so they do--specially, early in the spring, my dear. I wish you
could see them, then."
"I wish I could--Genevieve has told me so much about them. She says
they're the state flower. I thought they had such a funny name; I wanted
to pick one, if I could. She says they're lovely, too."
"They are, indeed, and I wish you could see them when they are at their
best," rejoined Mr. Hartley; then he turned to Bertha, who had been
listening with evident interest. "In the spring it's a blue ocean, Miss
Bertha--I wish you could see the wind sweep across it then! And I wish
you could smell it, too," he added with a laugh. "I reckon you wouldn't
think it much like your salty, fishy east wind," he finished,
twinkling.
"Oh, but we just love that salty, fishy east wind, every time we go near
the shore," retorted a chorus of loyal Eastern voices; and Mr. Hartley
laughed again.
In the ranch wagon behind them, Genevieve was doing the honors of the
prairie right royally. Here, there, and everywhere she was pointing out
something of interest. In the ranch wagon, too, the marvelous hush and
charm of limitless distance had wrought its own spell; and all had
fallen silent.
It was Alma Lane who broke the pause.
"What are all those deep, narrow paths, such a lot of them, running
parallel to the wheel tracks?" she asked curiously. "I've been watching
them ever since we left Bolo. They are on both sides, too."
"They're made by the cattle," answered Genevieve; "such a lot of them,
you know, traveling single file on their way to Bolo. Bolo is a 'cow
town'--that is, they ship cattle to market from there."
"Poor things," sighed Elsie, sympathetically. "I saw some yesterday from
the train. I thought then I never wanted to eat another piece of
beefsteak--and I adore beefsteak, too."
Genevieve sobered a little.
"I know it; I know just how you feel. I hate that part--but it's
business, I suppose. I reckon I hate business, anyhow--but I love the
ranch! I can't get used to the branding, either."
"What's that?" asked Elsie.
Genevieve shook her head. A look of pain crossed her face.
"Don't ask me, Elsie, please. You'll find out soon enough. Branding is
business, too, I suppose--but it's horrid. Mammy Lindy says that the
first time I saw our brand on a calf and realized what it meant and how
it got there, I cried for hours--for days, in fact, much of the time."
"Why, Genevieve," cried Elsie, wonderingly. "How dreadful! What is a
brand? I thought 'brand' meant the kind of coffee or tea one drank."
Alma frowned and threw a quick look into Genevieve's face.
"What a funny little town Bolo is!" she exclaimed, with a swift change
of subject. "I declare, it looked 'most as sleepy as Sunbridge."
"Sleepy!" laughed Genevieve, her face clearing, much to Alma's
satisfaction. "You should see Bolo when it's really awake--say when some
association of cattlemen meet there. And there's going to be one next
month, I think. There's no end of fun and frolic and horse-racing then,
with everybody there, from the cowboys and cattle-kings to the trappers
and Indians. You wouldn't think there was anything sleepy about Bolo
then, I reckon," nodded Genevieve, gayly.
"Genevieve, quick--look!--off there," cried Elsie, excitedly.
"Some more of Fred's 'boats'--three of them this time," laughed Alma,
her eyes on the three white-topped wagons glistening in the sunlight.
"Boats?" questioned Genevieve.
"That's what little Fred Wilson told us we were going to ride in,"
explained Alma. "He said they had prairie schooners here, and schooners
were boats, of course."
Genevieve laughed merrily.
"I wish Fred could see these 'boats,'" she said.
"Well, I don't know; I feel as if they were boats," declared Alma,
stoutly. "I'm sure I don't think anybody on the ocean could be any more
glad to see a sail than I should be to see one of these, if I were a
lonely traveler on this sea of grass!"
"But where are they going?" questioned Elsie.
"I don't know--nor do they, probably," rejoined Genevieve, with a
quizzical smile. "They're presumably emigrants hunting up cheap land for
a new home. There used to be lots of them, Father says; but there aren't
so many now. See--they're going to cross our way just ahead of us. We'll
get a splendid view of them."
Nearer and nearer came the curiously clumsy, yet curiously airy-looking
wagons. Sallow-faced women looked out mournfully, and tow-headed
children peeped from every vantage point. Brawny, but weary-looking men
stalked beside their teams.
"Look at the men--_walking_!" cried Elsie.
"They're 'bull-whackers,'" nodded Genevieve, mischievously.
"Bull-whackers!"
"Yes, because their teams happen to be oxen; if they were mules, now,
they'd be 'mule-skinners.'"
"Is that what you are, then?" asked Elsie, with a demureness that
rivaled Tilly's best efforts. "You're driving mules, you know."
"Well, you better not call me that," laughed Genevieve. "See, they've
stopped to speak to Father. I reckon we'll have to stop, too."
"I 'reckon' we shall," mimicked Elsie, good-naturedly.
"They've got all their household goods and gods in those wagons," said
Genevieve, musingly. "I can see a tin coffeepot hanging straight over
one woman's head."
"I shouldn't think they had anything but children," laughed Alma, as
from every wagon there tumbled a scrambling, squirming mass of barefoot
legs, thin brown arms, and touseled hair above wide, questioning eyes.
Long minutes later, from the carriage, Cordelia Wilson followed with
dreamy eyes the slow-receding wagons, now again upon their way.
"I feel just like 'ships that pass in the night,'" she murmured.
"I don't. I feel just like supper," whispered Tilly. Then she laughed
at the frightened look Cordelia flung at Mr. Hartley.
On and on through the shimmering heat, under the cloudless sky, trailed
the carriage and the ranch wagons. Mr. Tim had long ago galloped out of
sight.
It was when they were within five miles of the ranch that Cordelia,
looking far ahead, saw against the horizon a rapidly growing black
speck. For some time she watched it in silence; then, suddenly, she
became aware that, large as was the speck now, it had broken into other
specks--bobbing, shifting specks that promptly became not specks at all,
but men on horseback.
Spasmodically she clutched Mr. Hartley's arm.
"What--are--those?" she questioned, with dry lips.
Mr. Hartley gave an indifferent glance ahead.
"Cowboys, I should say," he answered.
Cordelia caught her breath. At that moment a shot rang out, then
another, and another.
Mr. Hartley looked up now, sharply, a little angrily. The indifference
was quite gone from his face.
It was then that Genevieve's voice came clear and strong from the wagon
behind.
"It's the boys, Father--our boys!" she called. "I know it's the boys. I
told them I'd promised the girls a welcome, and they're giving it to
us!"
"By George! it is our boys," breathed Mr. Hartley. And the scowl on his
face gave way to a broad smile.
"Is it really all--fun?" quavered Cordelia, breathlessly.
"Every bit," Mr. Hartley assured her. And then--though still
breathlessly--Cordelia gave herself up to the excitement of the moment.
They were all about them soon--those lithe, supple figures, swaying
lightly, or sitting superbly erect in their saddles. From the top of
their broad-brimmed hats to the tips of their high-heeled cowboy boots
they were a wonder and a joy to the amazed eyes of Cordelia. With
stirrups so long the chains clanked musically, they galloped back and
forth, shouting, laughing, and shooting wildly into the air. With their
chaparejos, or leather overalls, their big revolvers, their spurs, their
bright silk handkerchiefs knotted loosely around their necks over the
open collar of their flannel shirts, they made a brave show, indeed. Nor
was the least of the wonders about them the graceful swirls of
loosely-coiled lariats hanging from the horns of their saddles.
After all, it lasted only a minute before the revolvers were thrust into
the waiting holsters, and before the men, bareheaded, were making a
sweeping bow from their saddles.
It was Genevieve who led the clapping.
"Oh, boys, thank you! That was fine--just fine!" she crowed. "Now I
reckon Cordelia thinks she has seen a cowboy all right!"
And Cordelia did. A little white, but bravely smiling, she was sitting
erect, apparently serene. And only Mr. Hartley knew that one of her
hands was clutched about his arm in a grasp that actually hurt.
"They did that--all that shooting and yelling--just for a joke, then?"
she asked Mr. Hartley, a little later.
"Only that. They were giving you a welcome to the Six Star Ranch."
"Then they don't act like that all the time?"
"Hardly!" laughed the man. "I reckon they wouldn't get much work done if
they did."
Cordelia drew a relieved sigh. Her eyes, a little less fearful, rested
on the erect figure of the nearest cowboy, just to the right of the
carriage.
"I'm so glad," she murmured. "I'll tell Mrs. Miller. She thought they
did, you know--yell always without just and due provocation, and shoot
at sight."
The man's lips twitched; but the next moment they grew a bit stern at
the corners.
"That's exactly it, Miss Cordelia--exactly the idea that some people
have of the boys, and I'll grant that when they--they drink too much
whiskey, they aren't exactly what you might call peaceable, desirable
companions--though three-fourths of their antics then are caused by
reckless high spirits rather than by real ugliness--with exceptions, of
course. But when sober they are quiet, straightforward, generous-hearted
good fellows, hard-working and honest; certainly my boys are."
Mr. Hartley hesitated, then went on, still gravely.
"There's just as much difference in ranches, of course, Miss Cordelia,
as there is in folks; and all the ranches are changing fast, anyway,
nowadays. Lots of the owners are quitting living on them at all. They've
gone into the towns to live. On the Six Star the boys take their meals
with the family; and in many places they don't do that, I know, even
where the owner lives on the ranch. Our boys are very loyal to us, and
very much interested in all that concerns us. They fairly worship
Genevieve, and have, all the way up."
"I'm so glad," murmured Cordelia, again; and this time there was a look
very much like admiration in the eyes that rested on Long John just
ahead.
It was some time later that Mr. Hartley said, half turning around:
"Look straight ahead, a little to the right, young ladies, and you'll
get a very good view of the Six Star Ranch."
"Oh, and you've got a windmill," cried Tilly. "I can see it against the
sky; I know I can!"
"Yes, we've got a windmill," nodded Mr. Hartley.
"I love windmills," exulted Cordelia.
"So does Genevieve," observed Mr. Hartley, raising his eyebrows a
little.
Only Cordelia noticed the odd smile he gave as he spoke, and she did not
know what it meant. Later, however, she remembered it. She was too much
excited now to think of anything but the fact that the Six Star Ranch
was so near.
Bertha craned her neck to look ahead.
"Only think, we haven't passed a house, not a house since we left Bolo,"
she cried.
Mr. Hartley smiled.
"You see, Miss Bertha, Bolo, eighteen miles away, is our nearest
neighbor; and you'll have to go even farther than that in any other
direction to strike another neighbor."
"My stars!" gasped Bertha. "How awful lonesome it must be, Mr. Hartley."
"Anyhow, you can't be much bothered with neighbors running in to borrow
two eggs and a little soda, can you?" giggled Tilly.
"No; that isn't one of the difficulties we have to deal with," smiled
Mr. Hartley; but Bertha bridled visibly.
"Well, really, Tilly Mack," she exclaimed in pretended anger, "I should
like to know if you mean anything special! You see," she added
laughingly to Mr. Hartley, "I happen to live next to Tilly, myself!"
From both carriage and wagon, now, came a babel of eager chatter. There
was so much to be seen on the one hand, so much to be explained on the
other. The buildings and corrals were plainly visible by this time, and
each minute they became more clearly defined.
"Do you mean that all that belongs to just one ranch?" demanded Tilly.
"Sure!" twinkled Mr. Hartley. "You see, if folks can't borrow of us, we
can't borrow of them, either; so it's rather necessary that we have all
the comforts of home ourselves."
"Well, I guess you've got them," laughed Tilly, looking wonderingly
about her.
"I reckon we have," nodded Mr. Hartley, as he began to point out one and
another of the buildings.
There was the long, low ranch house facing the wide reach of the
prairie. Behind it, and connected with it by a covered way, were the
dining room and the cook room. Beyond that was the long bunk house where
the men slept, flanked by another building for the Mexican servants.
There were stables, sheds, a storehouse and saddle-room, and a
blacksmith's shop. Below the house an oblong bit of fenced ground showed
a riot of color--Genevieve's flower garden. Below that was a vegetable
garden. There was a large corral for the cattle, and a smaller one,
high and circular, for the horses. There were three or four green trees
near the house--tall, thin cottonwoods that had grown up along the
slender streams of waste water from the windmill.