intimate acquaintance, was acting as though he had lost his wits, or so
it seemed to me until I began to understand what he was doing. He would
dart into the bunch, scattering cattle right and left, and would weave
in and out, out and in, waving his arms, shouting, throwing his rope,
occasionally hitting an animal across the nose or the flank, sometimes
twisting their tails, dodging blows and kicks, and finally emerge driving
before him a cow followed by her calf. These another cowboy would take
charge of and drive to a small bunch of cows and calves which I now
noticed for the first time, separating them from their relations, who
remonstrated in loud bellowings, stampings and freakish, brief, ill
judged attacks. And then I understood what it meant to 'cut out' cattle
from 'a whole lot.'
When the calves and cows were finally separated, it was necessary to
drive them also to the Big Flat for the afternoon's work of branding
those that 'needed it.' Van guarded the rear of the bunch and of course
I rode with him, that is as near as I could, for he was as restless as a
blue bottle fly in a glass jar, dashing hither and thither, keeping those
crazy creatures together, and ever pushing them forward. The dust and
heat and noise and smell and continual action made my head ache. So this
was cowboy life, Van's choice! I thought of a certain far away, well
ordered home, with perhaps a sweet voiced mother and well groomed sister,
and wondered, even while I knew the answer. On the one hand, peace,
comfort, affection, and the eternal sameness; on the other, effort,
hardship, fighting sometimes, but ever with the new day a whole world of
unlived possibilities, change, action, and bondage to no one.
A particularly fractious heifer at this point suddenly changed my
contemplation of Van Anden's character into a lively share of Van
Anden's job. The creature was making good time straight towards me, and
as I had dropped considerably behind the herd in order to breathe some
fresh air and to be free from the dust, I knew that it meant a long hard
chase for Van and his tired horse if I did not head off that heifer; I
felt I owed him that much. I had seen the cowboys do that very thing a
hundred times that morning, but you cannot stand on your toe by watching
a ballet dancer do it. However, I started on a gallop, slanting
diagonally towards the creature, swinging one arm frantically (I really
could not let go with both) and yelling "Hi, hi!" I wondered what would
happen next, for to be honest, I was exquisitely scared. Why scared? It
is not for me to explain a woman's dread of the unknown and untried.
[Illustration: I STARTED ON A GALLOP, SWINGING ONE ARM.]
I heard Van shouting, but could not understand. To know you are right and
then go ahead is a pretty plan, but how to know? The animal did not stop
or swerve from its course. We would surely collide. What was I to do? Oh,
for a precedent! Evidently the mare was aware of one, for she wheeled to
the right just in time to miss the oncoming heifer, and we raced
alongside for a few seconds. I had so nearly parted company with my mount
in the last manoeuvre (centaurs would have an enormous advantage as
cowboys) that I had lost all desire to help Van and only wanted to get
away from that heifer, to make an honourable dismount, and go somewhere
by myself where a little brook babbled nothings, and the forget-me-nots
placidly slept. Rough riding and adventures of the Calamity Jane order
tempted me no more.
Whether now the heifer did the proper thing or not, I cannot say, but
she circled around with me on the outer side (I suspect my cow pony knew
how it was done) and was half way back to the herd when Van took it in
charge. His face bore a broad grin for the first time that day, from
what emotions caused I have never been able to determine. I, of course,
said nothing.
Then, oh, the joy of that round up dinner! The 'WB' outfit had a meal
tent, a mess wagon, and a cook for the men, and a rope corral, food and
water for the horses. Everybody was happy for the noon hour, save the
unlucky ones whose turn it was to guard the herd. Bob had driven the
ex-mayor's wife, the sad eyed spinster, and Nimrod over to join us at
dinner. The boss greeted Nimrod with the assurance that I was 'all right'
and could apply any time for a job. I may as well say that Nimrod had
allowed me to go without him in the morning, because the cattle business
was no novelty to him; because daybreak rising did not appeal to him as a
pastime; and because, at the time I broached the subject, being engaged
in writing a story, he had removed but one-eighth of his mind for the
consideration of mundane affairs, and that, as any one knows, is
insufficient to judge fairly whether the winged thing I was reaching out
for was a fly or a bumble bee. In the morning, the story being finished
and the other seven-eights of brain at liberty to dwell upon the same
question, he decided to follow me, with the result that in the afternoon
I rode in the wagon.
The cowboy meal, which I believe was not elaborated for us, was a healthy
solid affair of meat, vegetables, hot biscuit, coffee, and prunes,
appetisingly cooked and unstintingly served, for the Bad Land appetite is
like unto that of the Rocky Mountains, lusty and big. The saddling of
fresh horses made a lively scene for a few moments in the corral; then
the men rode off for the afternoon's business of branding.
The ranch party packed itself into a three-seated buckboard and we
followed behind. We went at a wide safe distance from the half-crazed
herds, which had been driven this way and that until they knew not what
they wanted, nor what was wanted of them, to where a huge fire was
blazing and rapidly turning cold black iron to red hot. These irons were
fashioned in curious shapes, from six to ten inches long and fastened to
a four foot iron handle. The smell of burning flesh was in the air, and
horrid shrieks. Beyond was the ceaseless bellowing and stamping and
weaving of the herds.
From the time I got into the wagon and became a mere onlooker, my point
of view changed. The exhilaration of action had disappeared. I was a
cowboy no longer. The cattle in the morning had been stupid foolish
creatures, dangerous in their blind strength, which must be made to do
what one willed. Now they were poor, dumb, persecuted beasts which must
be tormented, even tortured (for who shall say that red hot iron on
tender flesh is not torture?) and eventually butchered for the swelling
of man's purse. I saw the riders dash towards an animal who 'needed
branding'--which I discovered to mean one that had hitherto escaped the
iron, or that had changed owners--throw a rope over its head or horns,
fasten the other end to the pommel, and drag it to the fire, where it was
thrown and tied. Then it was seized by several men who sat on its head
and legs to hold it comparatively still while another took the hot brand
from the fire and pressed it against the quivering side of the animal. It
was then released and, bawling with pain and fright, allowed to return to
its mother, who had been kept off by another rider. A sound at my side
informed me that the little old maid was weeping copiously.
It is a pity I could not have had the cowboy's point of view, for mine
was most unpleasant, but my little glimpse of the other side was gone,
and gladly I drove away from the mighty smells and sounds of that
unfortunate mass of seething life, subjected to the will of a dozen men,
Van Anden the worst of the lot. And as we went silently through the sweet
cool air, crisp as an October leaf, where a bluebird was twittering a
wing-free song on the poplar yonder, where silver-turned willows were
gently swaying, and a jolly chipmunk was rippling from log to stone, I
wondered whether the Newport girl had really done so wrong after all.
XV.
THE SWEET PEA LADY SOMEONE ELSE'S MOUNTAIN SHEEP.
It was at Winnipeg (you do not want to know how we got there) that I
first walked into the aura of the Sweet Pea Lady, and by so doing
prepared the way for the shatterment of another illusion--namely, that
'little deeds of kindness' always result in mutual pleasure.
Flowers and fruit in Manitoba are treasured as sunshine in London, for
you must remember that Manitoba is a very new country, that it is only a
paltry few thousands of years since its thousands of miles were scraped
flat as a floor. Everything even yet looks so immodest on those vast
stretches. The clumps of trees stand out in such a bold brazen fashion.
The houses appear as though stuck on to the landscape. Even an honest
brown cow can not manage to melt herself into the endless stretch of
prairies. In fact, the little scenic accidents of trees and hollows,
which mean fruit and flowers, are mainly due to man.
So, when our friends who saw us off on the west-bound Canadian Pacific
left in our sleeper two huge bouquets of sweet peas and ten pounds of
blackberries, we knew that the finest garden in Winnipeg had been rifled
to do us pleasure. Now, I dearly love flowers and fruit, as I did the
giver, but ten pounds of great, fat blackberries and an armful of sweet
peas in a cramped stuffy Pullman caused my heart to resound in the minor
chords. We rallied again and again to demolish the fruit as we voyaged,
and sat with one foot on top of the other to avoid crushing the lovely
pea blossoms as we fidgeted about, but the results of our efforts, messy
fruit in hopeless abundance and withering leaves in dreary profusion,
were discouraging.
When the noon hour came, Nimrod carried the fruit basket into the
Diner and set it down on the table. The waiter eyed us askance.
"It's a dollar each for dinner, sah." It was clear we were emigrants.
We paid the waiter's demand and then from soup to coffee ate
blackberries--blackberries until we were black in the mouth and pale in
the face. Then we picked up our basket, upon the contents of which our
labours had apparently made no impression, and, hastily pushing a plate
over the rich red stain it had left on the table cloth, departed with our
fruit and a grieved feeling in the region of our hearts. It may not be
amiss to remark that I have never eaten a blackberry since. To get to our
car it was necessary to pass through another sleeper, where I noticed a
made up berth in which was reclining a young woman, and hovering over her
solicitously a man, evidently the husband.
Hope and joy awoke within me--perhaps she would like some blackberries!
No, she would not venture to eat fruit, and with many thanks, oh, many,
many thanks, she declined it. But the blessedness of giving I felt must
be mine, so I bribed the porter to take as many sweet peas as he could
carry and present them to the sick lady in the next car, and on no
account to tell where he got them. I did not want the thanks, neither did
I want the sweet peas, but I was illogical enough to hope that the
Recording Angel would be busy and accept the act at its face value as a
"deed of kindness."
It must have been a slack day with the angel, for this is a brief but
accurate account of what followed, and I am willing to leave it to any
human, whether my punishment was not out of all proportion to the offense
committed:
_One hour later_. Train stops for ten minutes. I got out for fresh air
and promenade on platform. Behold, the first object that meets my gaze is
the sick lady, miraculously recovered. She swooped down upon me with the
deadly light of determination in her eyes. I was discovered. There was no
escape. I was going to be thanked--and I was thanked. Up and down,
backwards and forwards, inside and out, and all hands around. And when
she paused breathless her husband took up the theme. It seems she was a
semi invalid, and the sweet peas were quite the most heavenly thing that
could have happened to her. Nimrod joined me at this moment and he was
thanked separately and dually, for being the husband of his wife, I
suppose. At last we were able to retire with profuse bows, tired but
exceedingly thankful that the incident, though trying, was ended.
_Three minutes later_. Have been driven indoors by the sweet pea woman,
as each turn of the walk brought us face to face, when it immediately
became necessary to nod and smile, and for our husbands to lift hats and
smile, until we looked like loose-necked manikins. At least, the sleeper
is tranquil, if stuffy.
_Supper time_. Have been thanked again by the Sweet Pea Lady, who sat at
our table. She had sweet peas in her hair, and at her belt. The husband
had a boutonnière of them.
_Next morning, Carberry_. Bade an elaborate farewell to the Sweet Pea
Lady. She is going straight to the coast where they catch steamer for
Japan. Praise be to Allah! I shall see her no more. The heavy polite
is wearing.
_Next day, Banff Hot Springs_. First person on the hotel steps I see
is the S.P. Lady. She rushed up and assured me that the S.P.'s were
still fresh, and that she and her husband had unexpectedly stopped
over for a day.
_Next day_. Spent the day avoiding S.P.L. Left for Glacier House in the
evening. At least, I shall not see S.P.L. there, as they have to go right
through to catch steamer.
_Two days later, Glacier House_. Had horrid shock. Found apparition of
S.P. Lady sitting beside me at breakfast table. She began to speak, then
I knew it was the real thing. She assured me that many of the S.P.'s were
still fresh, as she had clipped their stems night and morning. I again
said good by to her, and to those ghastly flowers. She just has time to
catch her steamer.
_Three days later: Vancouver_. Ran across the S.P. Lady in hotel
corridor. She saw me first. There was another weary interchange of the
heavy polite. Her steamer had been delayed from sailing for two days--in
order that we might meet again, I have no doubt.
_Next morning. She's gone_. Ring the bells, boom the cannon! I saw the
Japan steamer bear the Sweet Pea Lady rapidly into deep water. At last
easeful peace may again dream on my shoulder. When I returned to the
hotel the clerk handed me an envelope enclosing a lady's visiting card
(kind fate, she lives in Japan) on which was written "In grateful
appreciation of your kindness," and with the card were two sprays of
Pressed Sweet Peas.
After this when it comes to "scattering deeds of kindness on the weary
way," I shall be the woman who didn't, and who shall say me nay?
However, all this flower and fruit piece was but an episode; the event of
that journey was the intimate acquaintance we made of the Great Glacier
of the Selkirks, and the nice opportunity I had to lose my life. And the
only reason this tale is not more tragic is because, given the choice, I
preferred to lose the opportunity rather than the life.
I wonder if I can give any idea to one who has not seen it what a snow
slide really is; how it sweeps away every vestige of trees, grass, and
roots, and leaves a surface of shirting, unstable earth almost as
treacherous as quicksand.
Nimrod and I had paid a superficial visit to the Glacier the day before:
that is, we had gone as far as its forefoot, a hard but thoroughly safe
climb, and had explored with awe the green glass ice caves with which the
Great Glacier has seen fit to decorate its lower line, wonderful rooms of
ice, emerald in the shadows, with glacial streams for floors.
[Illustration: THE WARM BEATING HEART OF A MOUNTAIN SHEEP.]
So the next morning we started out, intending a little bit to further
explore the vast, cold, heartless ice sheet (vaster than all the Swiss
glaciers together), but more to hunt for the warm beating heart of a
mountain sheep, whose home is here. We had been travelling for miles in
the wildest kind of earth upheavals, for the Selkirks are still hard and
fast in the grip of the ice king; huge boulders, uprooted trees, mighty
mountains, released but recently from the glacial wet blanket, when
Nimrod discovered the stale track of a mountain sheep. We followed it
eagerly till it brought us across the path of a snow slide. At that point
it was about five hundred feet across, at an angle of forty-five
degrees; below us a thousand feet was a vicious looking glacial torrent;
above, an equal distance, was the lower edge of the glacier, the mother
of all this devastation.
The fearless-footed mountain sheep had crossed this sliding crumbling
earth and gravel incline with apparent ease. For us it was go on or go
back. There was no middle course. The row of tiny hoof marks running
straight across from one safe bank to the other deceived us. It could not
be so very difficult. We dismounted; Nimrod threw the bridle over his
horse's head and started across, leading his beast. The animal snorted as
he felt the foot-hold giving way beneath him, but Nimrod pulled him
along. It was impossible to stand still. It would have been as easy for
quicksilver to remain at the top of an incline. Amid rattling stones and
sliding earth they landed on the firm bank beyond, fully three hundred
feet below me.
It was a shivery sight, but I started expecting the horse would follow.
He, however, jerked back snorting and trembling, which unexpected move
upset my equilibrium, uncertain at best, and I fell. Nothing but the
happy chance of a tight grip on the reins kept me from sliding down that
dreadful bank, over the rock into the water, and so into eternity (Please
pardon the Salvation Army metaphor).
I had barely time to right myself and get out of the way of my horse,
which now plunged forward upon the sliding rock with me. The terrified
animal lost his head completely. I could not keep away from his hoofs. He
would not let me keep in front, I dare not get above for fear I should
slip under his feet, or below him for fear he should slide upon me. I
lost my balance again while dodging away from him as he plunged and
balked, but managed to grab his mane and we both slid a horrible
distance. I could hear Nimrod shouting on the bank, but did not seem to
understand him. I had the stage, centre front, and it was all I could
attend to.
We were now opposite to Nimrod, but only half way across. Such an ominous
rolling and tumbling of stones and tons of earth sliding down over the
low precipice into the water! I expected to be with it each instant.
Nimrod had started out after me.
[Illustration: I COULD NOT KEEP AWAY FROM HIS HOOFS.]
Then I understood what he was shouting: "Let go that horse." Why, of
course! Why had I not thought of that? I did let go and, thus freed,
managed to get across, falling, slipping, but still making progress
until I reached the safe ground one hundred feet lower in a decidedly
dilapidated condition. My animal followed me instinctively for a short
distance, and Nimrod got him the rest of the way--I do not know how. It
did not interest me then.
And the saddest of all, the mountain sheep had vanished into the unknown,
taking his little tracks with him, so we had to go back in a roundabout
way, without sheep, without joy--and without a tragedy.
XVI.
IN WHICH THE TENDERFOOT LEARNS A NEW TRICK.
For those who have driven four-in-hand, this will have no message. But as
four-in-hand literature seems to be somewhat limited and my first lesson
was somewhat drastic, I shall venture to tell you how it felt.
Of coaching there are two kinds: Eastern coaching, with well-groomed
full-fed horses, who are never worked harder than is good for them; with
silver-plated harness, and coach with the latest springs and running
gear, umbrella rack, horn, lunch larder, and what not; with footmen or
postilions, according to the degree of style, to run to the horses' heads
at the first hitch; with the gentleman driver in cream box coat and
beribboned whip; with everything down to the pole pin correct and
immaculate.
Then there is Western coaching, which is more properly termed staging,
for which is used any vehicle that will hold together and whose wheels
will turn round. This is pulled by half-broken shaggy horses which would
kick any man who ventured near them with brush or currycomb, and which
are sometimes made to travel until they drop in the road. The harness on
such coaching trips is an assortment of single, double, leaders and
wheelers sets, mended with buckskin or wire and thrown on irrespective of
fit. Lucky the cayuse who happens to be the right size for his harness.
And the driver! No cream box coat for him--provident the one who owns a
slicker and a coat of weather green (the same being the result of sun and
rain on any given color). And the people in the stage hoist no white and
red silk parasols. They are there because they are "going somewhere." My
multi-murderous cook taught me the distinction between "just travellin'"
and "going somewhere."
As for the roads--oh, those Rocky Mountain roads! They make coaching
quite a different thing from that on the smooth boulevards around New
York. I have twice made seventy-five miles in twelve hours, by having
four relays, but the average rate of travel is about twenty miles in
eight hours. And the day when I first took the ribbons in my hands to
guide--four horses we were from nine in the morning till five at night
going twelve miles. This was the way of it: Nimrod and I were on a
hunting trip in the Canadian Rockies, and as the government map said
there was a road, though not a good one, we decided to carry our
belongings in a four-horse wagon, in which we could also ride if we
liked, and to have saddle horses besides.
Green, a man of the region, was the driver and cook, and we had as guest
a famous bear hunter from the Sierra Nevadas. On the first two days out
from the little mountain town where we started, we saw many tracks of
black bear, which encouraged the hunters to think that they might find a
grizzly (which, by the way, they did not).
The dust was thick and red, enveloping us all day long like some horrible
insistent monster that had resolved itself into atoms to choke, blind and
strangle us. Nimrod looked like a clay man--hair, eyebrows, mustache,
skin, and clothes were all one solid coating of red dust. We were all
alike. Even the sugar, paper-wrapped in the bottom of a box, covered by
other boxes, bags and a canvas, became adulterated almost past use.
On the fourth day this changed, and we camped at the foot of a granite
mountain. It made one think of the Glass Mountain of fable, with its
smooth stretches of polished rock shining in the sun. That a human being
should dare to take a wagon over such a place seemed incredible. Yet
there the road was, zigzagging up the rocky slope, while here and there
the jagged outlines of blasted rock showed where the all-powerful
dynamite had been used to make a resting place for straining horses.
That morning excitement surrounded our out-of-door breakfast table. We
had had strange visitors during the night, while we slept. A mountain
lion, the beautiful tan-coated vibrant-tailed puma, had nosed within ten
feet of me and then, not liking the camp-fire glow and unalarmed by my
inert form, had silently retreated.
It made me feel creepy to see how easily that lithe-limbed powerful
creature might have had me for a midnight meal. But I was not trying to
do him harm, and so he granted me the same tolerance. Then, too, not
far away was a bear track, and the canned peaches were fewer than the
night before.
All of this caused Nimrod and the bear-hunter to saddle their horses
early; and agreeing to meet us at night on the other side of the
mountain, where the map showed a stream, they set out for a day's hunt.
Nimrod's horse having gone slightly lame, I offered mine, a swift-footed
intelligent dear, and agreed to ride in the wagon.
It was the same old story. Virtue is somebody else's reward. I never had
a worse day in the mountains. Green and I started blithely enough by
nine, which had meant a 5:30 rising in the cold gray dawn. The horses had
been worked every day since the start, and were jaded.