BACK TO THE WOLF PACK
Being given to raising fowls, I'm instructed on eggs a whole lot. Killed
young, an egg is a sure saint, being a pure white on the outside, and
inwardly a beautiful yellow; but since she ain't had no chance to go bad
she's not responsible. But when an egg has lingered in this wicked
world, exposed to heat, cold, and other temptations, she succumbs, being
weary of her youth and shamed of virtue. So she participates in vice to
the best of her knowledge and belief. Yes, an old egg is bad every time,
and the more bluff she makes with her white and holy shell, the more
she's rotten inside, a whited sepulchre.
I reckon it's been the same with me, for at Holy Cross I was kept good
and fresh by the family. Shell, white, and yolk, I was a good egg then,
with no special inducements to vice. Now I know in my poor old self what
an uphill pull it is trying to reform a stale egg.
In those days, when I thought I was being good on my own merits, I had
no mercy on bad eggs like poor McCalmont, however much he tried to
reform. Balshannon took me aside, and wanted to know if he could trust
this robber.
"So far as you can throw a dawg," said I.
That night the lady fed alone, and we dined in the great hall, the
patrone at the head of the table, McCalmont and Curly on one side, the
padre and me on the other. Curly's ankle being twisted, and wrapped up
most painful in wet bandages, the priest allowed that he couldn't ride
away with his father, but had better stay with us.
Curly shied at that. "I won't stay none!" he growled.
But McCalmont began to talk for Curly, explaining that robbery was a
poor vocation in life, full of uncertainties. He wanted his son to be a
cowboy.
"If he rides for me," says I, "he'll have to herd with my Mexicans.
They're greasers, but Curly's white, and they won't mix."
"I'd rather," says McCalmont, "for Arizona cowboys are half-wolf
anyways, but this outfit is all dead gentle, and good for my cub."
Then the boss offered wages to Curly, and the priest took sides with
him. So Curly kicked, and I growled, but the boy was left at Holy Cross
to be converted, and taught punching cows.
As to McCalmont, he rode off that night, gathered his wolves, and jumped
down on Mr. George Ryan at the Jim Crow Mine, near Grave City. He wanted
"compensation" for not getting any plunder out of Holy Cross, so he
robbed Mr. Ryan of seventy thousand dollars. The newspapers in Grave
City sobbed over poor Mr. Ryan, and howled for vengeance on McCalmont's
wolves.
Curly read the newspaper account, and was pleased all to pieces. Then he
howled all night because he was left behind.
It took me some time to get used to that small youngster, who was a
whole lot older and wiser than he looked. He had a room next to my
quarters, where he camped on a bed in the far corner, and acted crazy if
ever I tried to come in. Because he insisted on keeping the shutters
closed, that room was dark as a wolf's mouth--a sort of den, where one
could see nothing but his eyes, glaring green or flame-coloured like
those of a panther. If he slept, he curled up like a little wild animal,
one ear cocked, one eye open, ready to start broad awake at the
slightest sound. Once I caught him sucking his swollen ankle, which he
said was a sure good medicine. I have seen all sorts of animals dress
their own wounds that way, but never any human except little Curly. As
to his food, he would eat the things he knew about, but if the taste of
a dish was new to him, he spat as if he were poisoned. At first he was
scared of Lady Balshannon, hated the patrone, and surely despised me;
but one day I saw him limping, attended by four of our dogs and a brace
of cats, across to the stable-yard. I sneaked upstairs to the roof and
watched his play.
There must have been fifty ponies in the yard, and every person of them
seemed to know Curly, for those who were loose came crowding round him,
and those who were tied began whickering. Horses have one call, soft and
low, which they keep for the man they love, and one after another gave
the love-cry for Curly. He treated them all like dirt until he came to
Rebel, an outlaw stallion. Once Rebel tried to murder a Mexican; several
times he had pitched off the best of our broncho busters; always he
acted crazy with men and savage with mares. Yet he never even snorted at
Curly, but let that youngster lead him by the mane to a mounting-block;
then waited for him to climb up, and trotted him round the yard tame as
a sheep.
"Curly!" said I from the roof. And the boy stiffened at once, hard and
fierce. "Curly, that horse is yours."
"I know that!" said Curly; "cayn't you see fo' yo'self?"
The dogs loved Curly first, then the horses, and next the Mexican
cowboys, but at last he seemed to take hold of all our outfit. He thawed
out slowly to me, then to the patrone and the old priest; afterwards
even to Lady Balshannon. So we found out that this cub from the Wolf
Pack was only fierce and wild with strangers, but inside so gentle that
he was more like a girl than a boy. He was rather wide at the hips,
bow-legged just a trace, and when his ankle healed we found he had a
most tremendous grip in the saddle, the balance of a hawk. Yes, that
small, slight, delicate lad was the most perfect rider I've seen in a
world of great horsemen. The meanest horse was tame as a dog with Curly,
while in tracking, scouting, and natural sense with cattle I never knew
his equal. Yet, as I said before, he was small, weak, badly built--more
like a girl than a boy. With strangers he was a vicious young savage;
with friends, like a little child. He did a year's work on the range
with me, and that twelve months I look back to as a sort of golden age
at Holy Cross.
We were raising the best horses and the finest cattle in Arizona; prices
were high, and the patrone was too busy to have time for cards or drink
over at Grave City; and even the lady braced up enough to go for evening
rides.
And then the Honourable James du Chesnay rode home to us from college.
The patrone and his lady were making a feast for their son; the cowboys
were busy as a swarm of bees decorating the great hall; the padre
fluttered about like a black moth, getting in everybody's way; so Curly
and I rode out on the Lordsburgh trail to meet up with the Honourable
Jim.
"I hate him!" Curly snarled.
"Why for, boy?"
"Dunno. I hate him!"
I told Curly about my first meeting with that same little boy Jim, aged
six, and him turning his hot gun loose against hostile Indians, shooting
gay and promiscuous, scared of nothing.
"I hate him," snarled Curly between his teeth. "Last night the lady was
reading to me yonder, on the roof-top."
"Well?"
"There was a big chief on the range, an old long-horn called Abraham,
and his lil' ole squaw Sarah. They'd a boy in their lodge like me,
another woman's kid, not a son, but good enough for them while they was
plumb lonely. That Ishmael colt was sure wild--came of bad stock, like
me. 'His hand,' says the book, 'will be up agin every man, and every
man's hand agin him.' I reckon that colt came of robber stock, same as
me, but I allow they liked him some until their own son came. Then their
own son came--a shorely heap big warrior called Isaac--and the old
folks, they didn't want no more outlaw colts running loose around on
their pasture. They shorely turned that Ishmael out to die in the
desert. Look up thar, Chalkeye, in the north, and you'll see this Isaac
a-coming on the dead run for home."
"Curly," says I, "this young chief won't have no use for old Chalkeye;
he'll want to be boss on his own home range, and it's time he started in
responsible to run Holy Cross. At the month's end I quit from this
outfit, and I'm taking up a ranche five miles on the far side of Grave
City. Thanks to the patrone, I've saved ponies and cattle enough to
stock my little ranche yonder. Will you come at forty dollars a month,
and punch cows for Chalkeye?"
"No, I won't, never. I come from the Wolf Pack, and I'm going back to
the Wolf Pack to be a wolf. That's where I belong--thar in the desert!"
He swept out his hand to the north, and there, over a rise of the
ground, I saw young Jim du Chesnay coming, on the dead run for home.