knocking was heard at the hall door, and, on going out, the neighbor
woman found a cattleman who had recently moved into the Territory from
northern Texas standing on the stone step. Having heard that morning
from the Swede boy that the little girl was dangerously ill, he had
ridden down to proffer the services of himself and his swift horse
Sultan. And when the neighbor woman told him that there was small hope
of the little girl's recovery, he stabled his animal, and prepared to
remain all night.
As he came out of the barn, after having tied Sultan in a vacant stall,
he found that, unknown to the family, another anxious watcher was
lingering about. A tow head was suddenly thrust from behind the partly
open door, and a hand halted him by catching appealingly at his sleeve.
"She bane bater?" asked a low, timid voice.
The cattleman turned, half startled, and shook his head as he replied,
"I reckon she's a lot worse," he said. He walked on, but paused again at
the smoke-house. The tow-head was just behind, and the cattleman could
hear the sound of chattering teeth; so he whipped off his overcoat and
tossed it back. When he entered the hall the chattering had stopped, and
the coat had disappeared into the shadow of a granary.
After the cattleman settled himself upon the bench in the kitchen, the
house fell into quiet once more; and it was not until midnight that the
hush was broken. Then the biggest brother, having moved the curtains of
the canopied bed and turned up the lamp, discovered what he felt to be
the dreaded change in the little girl, and uttered a frightened
exclamation.
Her face, so long flushed with fever, was blanched and wan. Her eyes
were entirely closed, and their long lashes lay on her cheeks. Her arms
were outspread and relaxed, her palms open. Her breathing was so faint
that he had to bend his ear to her lips to hear it. He was certain that
the end was near, and hastened to call his mother and summon his
brothers and the doctor. They were joined in the sitting-room by the
neighbor woman and the cattleman.
It was apparent to all that a change for the worse had taken place in
the little girl. Yet the doctor, who hurried to her side, watch in hand,
betrayed neither satisfaction nor alarm as he bent above her; and the
group about him could only wait in suspense.
Suddenly there came a sigh from the pillow, and the little girl opened
her eyes. For a week she had recognized no one. Now she looked about at
the faces turned upon her, and a faint smile curved her lips. It brought
a cry of joy from her mother. "Oh, pet lamb," she said, "the doctor's
here, and he's going to make my baby well."
A shade passed over the little girl's face, and she glanced from her
mother to the doctor. "I'm really not a baby," she said in a weak voice,
but with something of the old spirit; "my mother jus' says that. I'll be
seven in June."
The doctor nodded, and smiled back at her. His fingers were still at her
wrist, and his face wore a worried expression. The cattleman leaned and
whispered a question in his ear, and he replied out loud. "I can't
tell," he said. "She may and she may not."
The little girl's eyes closed. The doctor poured out a stimulant, and
put the glass to her mouth. When he lifted her head, she drank it, and
her breath came in longer and heavier respirations. No one spoke.
All at once a sound of scratching at the front door, followed by
whining, startled her so that she looked up once more, and her lips
moved. "That's Luffree," she said. Her mother began to smooth her head
tenderly, and it brought a new thought to the little girl. "'Monia'll
give me curly hair," she added, and closed her eyes again.
The family watched her hopelessly, for to them the doctor's silence had
only one meaning; but the cattleman, standing behind the eldest
brother, could not bear the wordless waiting. He felt that if she would
rouse and continue to speak, death would be delayed. So he called to her
pleadingly.
"Little gal!" he said huskily; "little gal!" She stirred wearily, and
her lids fluttered as if she were striving to lift them. "Little gal,"
he went on; "I want ye t' fight this out. Don't ye let no ol' typhoid
git _you_. An' when ye git well, ye jus' come to see me, an' ye kin hev
anything on th' whole ranch." She turned her face toward him. "Anything
on th' whole ranch," he repeated, his voice breaking. She moved one hand
till it found one of her mother's, then she lay very still.
The biggest brother dropped to his knees beside the bed and crouched
there. The youngest brother began to weep, leaning against the eldest.
The neighbor woman crept away toward the kitchen, her face buried in her
apron. The cattleman turned his back. The mother clung prayerfully to
the transparent hand. And so passed a long and despairing five minutes.
But at its end the doctor uttered an ejaculation of surprise and
pleasure, and sprang to his feet. At the same time he raised a warning
finger and motioned all toward the kitchen. They obeyed him and
retreated, remaining together in troubled impatience until he came among
them.
"I can't be absolutely certain," he said, his face alight with
happiness, "but I believe you can all go to bed with safety. Things seem
to have turned our way: her skin is soft and moist, her temperature is
down, and, better than anything else, she's asleep."
As a full realization of the good news broke upon them, all save the
biggest brother sat down to talk it gratefully over. But he dashed out
of doors to voice his joy, and, as he bounded up and down the yard, half
laughing and half crying, he caught up a muffled figure that was lurking
in the rear of the kitchen and swung it high into the air.
* * * * *
DURING the weeks that followed, while the little girl was slowly
fighting her way back to a sure hold on life, there often came into her
mind, vaguely at first and then more clearly, the promise that the
cattleman had made her the night they thought she was dying. "Ye kin hev
anything on th' whole ranch," had been his exact words; and in the
intervals when, having gratified an appetite that was alarming in its
heartiness, she sat in the sun with the dogs about her, or drove with
her mother in the new buckboard, she pondered them exultantly and with a
confidence that was absolute.
However, it was not until she was so well that she was again saying pert
things to the eldest brother, and so strong that she was once more
tending the herd, that she determined to pay the cattleman a visit and
remind him of his agreement. Aware that the family would oppose her
acceptance of a gift from a neighbor, she made her preparations for the
trip in secret, and quietly left the farm-house one Sunday afternoon,
taking with her a bridle and a gunny feed-bag half filled with oats.
She had chosen a Sunday for several reasons: she was always relieved on
that day of the task of herding, the youngest brother taking her place;
her mother invariably spent it in writing long letters that traveled
across land and sea to far-away England; and the eldest and biggest
brothers puttered it away in the blacksmith-shop, where there were farm
implements to mend, hoes to sharpen, and picket-ropes and tugs to
splice. Usually it was the lonesomest day of the week to the little
girl; but this Sunday proved to be an exception.
She was careful not to disturb the household as she set off, and when
she passed the cattle, which were feeding in the river meadows, she
crept round them as slyly as an Indian, so that the youngest brother,
who was fashioning willow whistles, should not see her. Once having
gained the straight road that led across the railroad track toward the
cattleman's, she took off her hat and made faster progress.
But the way was long, and, still weak from her recent sickness, she was
easily tired. When only two thirds of the distance was traveled it was
so late that the night-blooming flowers were unfolding their chalices,
as white and glimmering as the little girl's Sunday apron, to let the
crape-winged moths drink their sweetness. Migrant birds were already
speeding above her, to fly till dawn, and they veered from their course
as they saw her hurrying along beneath them. Wild creatures that had
been sleeping during the day came from their holes to seek food and
timidly watched her hasten past. And all along, out of the tall, brittle
grass, the busy lightning-bugs sprang up with their lanterns to help the
dim stars light the way.
It was dusk on the plains before she looked in, through a tangle of corn
and young cottonwoods, upon the low shanty, in front of which sat the
cattleman in his shirt-sleeves, thoughtfully chewing a quid. The growl
of a dog at his feet discovered her to him at the same moment, and, as
he squinted in the half-light at her thin little form and cropped head,
she seemed like some strange prairie fay coming, light-footed, out of
the gloom to meet him.
"Hi thar!" he called, rising up as the little girl threaded the corn and
cottonwoods. She was breathless with walking, and did not answer as she
crossed the yard, shielding herself with the bridle and the feed-bag
from the dog, bounding boisterously against her. "Wal, what on airth!"
exclaimed the cattleman when she halted before him.
As she glanced up, he took on the forbidding height and glowering aspect
of her first school-teacher. But she summoned heart. "How d' ye do?" she
said, nodding at him cordially.
"What're ye doin' up here?" he demanded. "Ye lost? Come in! come in!"
"Oh, no," answered the little girl, following him into the shanty.
He lighted a lantern, and, turning it upon her, eyed her anxiously. She
looked even thinner, paler, and more eerie than she had in the yard.
"Sit down," he said, motioning her to a bench. But he remained standing,
his hands shoved far into the top of his wide, yellow, goatskin "chaps,"
his quid rolling from side to side. "W'y, I thought you 's a spook," he
laughed, "er a will-o'-th'-wisp--one. Want a drink er somethin' to eat?
Got lots o' nice coffee. Guess y' 're petered."
"No, I'm not," she declared. And as he turned from the stove, where he
had put the coffee on to boil, she got up and stepped toward him.
"I--I--called to get somefing," she faltered, resuming, in her
trepidation, a babyish pronunciation long since discarded for one more
dignified.
"Ye did?" queried the cattleman.
"Yes," she continued. "You 'member the night I 'most died?" He
acquiesced silently. "Well, you told me then that if I'd get well you'd
give me anyfing on your ranch."
The cattleman started as if he had been stung, and, wheeling about, took
out his quid and threw it on the flames, so that he might be better able
to cope with the matter before him.
"And so," the little girl went on, "I fought I'd come to-day."
The cattleman rubbed his chin. "I see; I see," he said.
"I couldn't get here sooner," she explained, "'cause I didn't ride."
"Oh, ye didn't?" he said. Then, noting the bridle and bag, "What ye got
them fer?" he asked.
"I didn't want to use yours," she replied.
"Mine?" The cattleman was puzzled.
"Yes: I brought this," she went on, holding up the bag, "to catch him
wiv; and this," holding up the bridle, "to take him home wiv."
"Him?" questioned the cattleman, more puzzled than ever.
The little girl saw that she would have to make herself more clear.
"Why, yes," she said. "You promised me anyfing I wanted if I'd get
well; now I'm well, so I've come to--to--get Sultan."
The cattleman sat down, amazement and consternation succeeding each
other on his face. Until now he had forgotten the compact made with her,
and which he was in honor bound to keep. Recalling it, he realized that
it meant the loss of his best horse.
He was silent for a while, thinking hard for a means of escape from his
dilemma. When he spoke at last he was smiling good-naturedly. "Ye're
right," he said, rubbing his hands briskly over the long hair of the
breeches; "I did say that very thing. An' I'm a man o' my word. But it
seems to me," and he leaned forward confidently, "thet ye ain't made
exac'ly the best pick thet ye could." The little girl sat up with a new
interest. "Now I've got sunthin' here," continued the cattleman,
"thet'll jes make yer eyes pop." He got up, went to a box that, nailed
against the wall above the stove, served him for a cupboard, and took
out a long, slender package. "Ye've got more horses than ye can shake a
stick at," he began again; "ponies an' plow teams an' buggy nags, but ye
ain't got nuthin' like what I'm 'bout to show ye."
Slowly and impressively he began to undo the package, keeping one eye
covertly on the little girl all the while. She was beside him, rigid
with expectancy. When many thicknesses of thin brown paper had been
unrolled, he stepped back, unwrapped a last cover, and, with a proud
wave of his hand, revealed to her delighted gaze a big, thick,
red-and-white candy cane.
"Now, what do ye think o' that?" he demanded.
An exclamation of wonder came from her parted lips. She moved nearer
without answering.
"As I said," he went on, "y' 've got all kinds of horses; but when in
yer life hev ye hed anything like this?" He laid it gently on the table,
and folded his arms solemnly. "Thet came all the way from Yankton," he
said, as if recounting the history of some famous work of art. "I bought
it down thar of a feller, an' paid some little money fer it." He did not
add that she was in his thoughts when he bought it. "Now I'm going out
to hitch up an' take ye home," he continued. "While I'm gone, ye make up
yer mind which ye want--" He started for the door, but paused half-way.
"--which ye want," he repeated, lowering his voice, "Sultan--er thet
_beautiful_ cane?"
When he was gone the little girl stole closer to the table and gazed
rapturously down. Never in her life, as the cattleman truly said, had
she seen anything like it. No horse, on a prairie overrunning with
horses, could compare with it. She put out her hand and touched its
crooked head, almost reverently, with one small finger.
The cattleman harnessed a span of fat mules at the barn, and led them
into their places on each side of a wagon tongue. All the while he
talked out loud to himself, with occasional guffaws of hearty laughter
and sharp commands to the team. Despite his merriment, however, he
peered back at the shanty uneasily from time to time; so that it was a
full quarter of an hour before the mules were hitched to the
whiffletrees and ready for their journey. Then he climbed to the seat
and circled toward the door.
She was not in sight when he brought up with a loud whoa, and getting
down, the lines in one hand and a black-snake in the other, he advanced
to the sill and looked in. "Any passengers goin' south?" he cried
cheerily, cracking the whip.
"Me," answered a voice from behind the table, and the little girl,
fagged but blissful, came forward smilingly, a long, brown-paper package
clasped tightly to her breast.
X
"BADGY"
IT was the little girl who discovered that the badgers were encroaching
upon the big wheat-field that stretched westward, across the prairie,
from the farm-house to the sandy bank of the Vermillion. In bringing the
cattle home from the meadows one night, along the cow-path that bordered
the northern end of the grain, she allowed several to stray aside into
the field, which was now faintly green with its new sprouting. And as
she headed them out, riding her pony at full gallop, she saw a fine
shorthorn suddenly pitch forward with a bellow and fall. She checked her
horse and waited for the animal to rise again. But it could not--it had
snapped a fore ankle in a freshly dug badger hole.
The shorthorn was a favorite and, as befitted her good blood, carried
across her dewlap the string of silver sleigh-bells that in wintertime
tinkled before the pung. So the news of her injury was received with
sorrow at the farm-house; and when, later in the evening, the little
girl's big brothers went down to the field to put the heifer out of her
misery, they vowed that the last feeble jingle of her bells should be
the death-knell of the badgers.
They found that the burrowing host, driven out of their former homes
either by an unlooked-for seepage or the advent of a stronger animal,
had been attracted to the field because the harrow had so recently
broken and softened the fallow, and had dug so rapidly since the
planting of a few weeks before, that the north end, perforated every
three or four feet, would be utterly useless, that year at least, for
either the harvester or the plow. Each family had dug two tunnels that
slanted toward each other and met at the nest. And since the tunnels of
one family often crossed those of another, the ground was treacherously
unstable. The outlying, unplowed land also bore, mile upon mile, marks
of the ravages of an army of badgers; but the north end of the
wheat-field was the concentration camp.
The badgers had thrived in their new home, for on one side was a grassy
rise where the eggs and young of the plover and prairie-chicken could be
found; and, on the other, a gully led down to the sloughs that yielded
succulent roots and crawling things. The little girl's big brothers saw
that the animals were so abundant that shot, traps, or poison would not
avail--only a thorough drowning-out would rid the grain-land of the
pest.
The attack was planned for the following day. It would be timely, since
four feet beneath the surface were the newly born, half-blind litters
that could be wiped out by a flood. Some of the old badgers would,
undoubtedly, escape the deluge and get past the dogs, but they would be
driven away to hunt other ground for their tunneling.
The next afternoon, when the farm wagon, creaking under its load of
water-barrels and attended by the dogs, was driven down to the badger
holes in the field, the little girl went along. Drownings-out were
exciting affairs, for the badgers always gave the pack a fine tussle
before they were despatched; and she was allowed to attend them if she
would promise to remain on the high seat of the wagon, out of harm's
way.
When the team had been brought to a standstill on the cow-path, she
watched the preparations for the drowning from her perch.
Two holes were found that slanted toward each other. One big brother,
armed with two or three buckets of water, stationed himself at the hole
nearer the wagon; and another, similarly armed, guarded the farther
hole. The pack divided itself, half remaining at each outlet, and barked
itself hoarse with anticipation.
At last all was in readiness, and, at a word, the water was
poured--bucketful after bucketful--down the tunnels. Then a big brother
sprang to the horses' heads to prevent their running when the fight
began, another jumped into the wagon to refill the pails and hand them
down, and the dogs, leaping excitedly, closed about the holes. The
little girl watched breathlessly and clung fast to the seat.
For a moment there was no sign of anything. Suddenly from the nearer
hole bounded a female, the refuse of her nest clinging to her dripping
hair. Whirling and biting furiously on all sides, she growled in fear
and rage as she defied the pack. There was a quick, fierce fight that
was carried a rod before it ended; then, amid a din of yelping, the
badger met a speedy death.
The little girl climbed down from the wagon, and ran to the hole out of
which the badger had come. From her seat she had spied a small, gray bit
of fur in the debris lying about it, and guessed what it was. She
reached the hole none too soon; for the dogs, having been drawn off
their prey, were coming back, whining and limping and licking their
chops. She caught up the little, half-drowned thing and climbed hastily
into the wagon again, as the pack, scenting it, pursued her and leaped
against the wheels.
The baby badger came very near to going the way of superfluous kittens
when the little girl's big brothers saw what she had, and was saved only
through her pleading. She begged to keep and tame him, and promised to
thwart any desire of his to burrow indiscriminately about the house and
garden. So she was finally permitted to take him home, snugly wound up
in her apron, and revive him with warm milk.
* * * * *
THE first time that he saw the world he viewed it from a subterranean
standpoint, his birthplace being a round, soft, warm pocket far below
the level of the growing wheat. True, his horizon was somewhat limited,
since the pocket was of small dimensions. Nevertheless, it was wide to
him; and he spent several days in surveying the top and sides of his
home with his weak, little, blinking eyes before he ventured to crawl
about. Then it was necessary for his mother to lift him from his cozy
bed in the midst of his brothers and sisters and give him a sharp pinch
on the neck with her teeth to make him start.
The pocket was reached by a tunnel that had been well begun and then
abandoned by an industrious but timid pocket-gopher. This timidity and
industry had been taken advantage of when the badgers began their
colonization of the wheat-field, and the pocket and a second tunnel
completed; so that the result was a comfortable residence and, finally,
an ideal nursery. But in all probability he and his brothers and sisters
did not realize how cozily Providence had placed them until that
dreadful day.
It was when they were having their regular romp with their mother that
the first indication of trouble came. His father, who had been sitting
at the mouth of the tunnel gossiping with a neighboring fox, rushed down
wildly to the little family, and fairly fell over them in an effort to
escape by the second tunnel beyond. The fierce barking of the dogs was
heard. Then the great flood of water swept down upon them from both
tunnels, lifting them all in a struggling, suffocating mass to the top
of the pocket.
His mother, the instinct of self-preservation overcoming her parental
love, started madly for a tunnel, and, in swimming against the floating
ruins of her nest, pushed him before her up the opening and into the
full light of day. There, blinded by the sunlight and exhausted, he lost
consciousness, and lay unnoticed, partly hidden beneath the feathers and
grass that had made his bed, until the little girl saw him.
* * * * *
HE rewarded her for his first meal by turning on his back with his legs
in the air and grunting contentedly. He was of a grizzled gray color,
soft, fat, clumsy, short of limb and thick of tail, and displayed, in
spite of his few weeks, a remarkably fine set of claws on his fore feet.
These he alternately thrust out and drew in, as she petted him, and
curled up his long, black-and-white nose. The little girl thought him
the nicest pet she had ever had, and soon fell a willing slave to his
wheedling grunts.
He was christened "Badgy," and spent the first month of his new life in
a warmly padded soap-box in the farm-house kitchen. But by the end of
that time he had outgrown the box, and, the weather being warmer, was
given the empty potato-bin in the cellar. When he was big enough to run
about, he spent his days out of doors. Early in the morning he was
called from the bin by the little girl, who opened the cellar doors and
watched him come awkwardly up the steps, ambitiously advancing two at a
time and generally falling back one. After his breakfast of meat and
bread and milk he enjoyed a frolic, which consisted of a long run in a
circle about the little girl, while he grunted for joy and lack of
breath. When he was completely worn out with play, he rolled over on his
back and had a sleep in the sun.
Badgy learned to love the little girl; and it was found, after he had
lived in the potato-bin for a while, that she was the only person he
would follow or meet amicably; all others were saluted with a snarl and
a lifting of the grizzled hair. So the household came to look upon him
in the light of a worthy supplanter of the Indian dogs as a protector
for her. He accompanied her everywhere over the prairie, keeping close
to her bare feet and grunting good-naturedly at every swaying step. If
they met a stranger, he sprang before her, his hair on end, his teeth
showing, his claws working back and forth angrily. When a Sioux came
near, he went into a perfect fit of rage; and not an Indian ever dared
lay hands upon him.