THE SANITY OF THE WILD
Summer, tan-colored, musical with note of katydid and cicada, and the
constant purr of the south wind, was upon the prairie country. Under the
eternal law of necessity,--the necessity of sunburnt, stunted
grass,--the boundaries of the range extended far in every direction. The
herds bearing the Box R brand no longer fed in one body, but scattered
far and wide. Often for a week at a time the men did not sleep under
cover. Morning and night, when a semblance of dew was upon the blighted
grass, the cattle grazed. The life was primitive and natural almost
beyond belief in a world of artificial civilization; but it was
independent, care-free, and healthy.
The land surrounding the ranch-house was now almost as bare as the palm
of a hand. Only one object relieved the impression of desolation, and
that was a tree. It stood carefully fenced about in the drain from the
big artesian well,--a vivid blot of green against the dun background.
The first year after he came, Rankin had imported it,--a goodly sized
soft maple; and in the pathway of constantly trickling water, it had
grown and prospered. It was the only tree for miles and miles about,
except the scrawny scrub-oaks, cotton-woods, and wild plums that flanked
the infrequent creeks,--creeks which in Summer, save in deepest holes,
reverted to mere dry runs. Beneath its shade Rankin had constructed a
rough bench, and therein Ma Graham, day after day when her housework was
finished, dozed and sewed and dozed again, apparently as forgetful as
the cowboys upon the prairies that beyond her vision were great cities
where countless thousands of human beings sweltered and struggled in
desperate competition for daily bread.
So much for the day. With the coming of dusk, a coolness like a
benediction took the place of heat. The south wind gradually died down
with the descending sun, until immediately following the setting it was
absolutely still; now it sprang up anew, and wandered on until the break
of day.
Such an evening in late July found Rankin and Baker stretched out like
boys upon a pile of hay in the latter's yard. The big man had just
arrived; the old buckboard, with its mouse-colored mustangs, stood just
as he had driven it up. Scotty knew him well enough to know that he had
come for a purpose, and he awaited its revelation. Rankin slowly filled
and lit his pipe, drew thereon until the glow from the bowl was
reflected upon his face, and blew a great cloud of smoke out into the
gathering dusk.
"Baker," he asked at last, "what are we going to do for the education of
these youngsters of ours? We can't let them grow up here like savages."
Scotty rolled over on his side, and leaned his head comfortably in his
hand.
"I've thought of that," he answered, "and there seems to me only one of
two things to do--either move into civilization, or import a pedagogue."
A pause, and a whimsical inflection came into his voice. "Unfortunately,
however, neither plan seems exactly practical at this time."
Rankin smoked a minute in silence. "How would it do to move into
civilization six months of the year--the Winter six?" he suggested.
Scotty considered for a moment. "Do you mean that seriously?" he asked.
"Yes."
By the sense of feeling alone, the Englishman rolled a cigarette
skilfully. "How about the stock here while we're gone," he said
hesitatingly. "Do you suppose we'd find anything left when we came back
in the Spring?"
Rankin crowded the half-burned tobacco down into the pipe-bowl with his
little finger. "I don't think you got the idea," he explained. "My plan
was for you to go East in the Fall and put the kids in school. I'd stay
here and see that everything ran smoothly while you were gone. Mrs.
Baker has said a dozen times that she wanted a change--for a time,
anyway."
Scotty threw one long leg over the other. "As usual you're right,
Rankin," he said slowly. "The Lord knows Mollie gets restless enough at
times. People were like ants in a hill where she was raised, and that
life was a part of her." He took a last puff at the cigarette, and with
a toss sent the smoking stump spinning like a firefly into the darkness.
"And Flossie can't grow up wild--I know that. I'll talk your suggestion
over with Mollie first, but I think I'd be safe in saying right now
that we'll accept."
For a moment Rankin did not speak; then he knocked the ashes out of his
pipe upon his heel.
"Excuse me if I keep going back to something unpleasant, Baker," he said
slowly, "but in considering the matter there's one thing I don't want
you to forget." Then, after a meaning pause, he went on: "It's the same
reason I had for not introducing Ben in the first place."
Scotty drew out his book of rice-paper again almost involuntarily.
"I'd thought of that this time," he said; then paused to finger a gauzy
sheet absently. "I don't see why I should consider it now,
though--seeing I didn't before."
Rankin said nothing, and conversation lapsed. Irresistibly, but so
gradually as to be all but unconscious, the spirit of the prairie
night--a sensation, a conception of infinite vastness, of unassailable
serenity--stole over and took possession of the men. The ambitious and
manifold artificial needs for which men barter their happiness, their
sense of humanity, even life itself, seemed beyond belief out there
alone with the stars, with the prairie night-wind singing in the ears;
seemed so puny that they elicited only a smile. The lust of show, of
extravagance, follies, wisdoms, man's loves and hates--how their true
proportions stand revealed against the eternal background of
immeasurable distance, in nature's vast scheme!
Scotty cleared his throat. "I used to think, when I first came here,
that I'd been a fool; but now, somehow, at times like this, I wonder if
I didn't blunder into the wisest act of my life." The prairie spirit
had taken hold of him. "And the longer I stay the more it grows upon me
that such a life as this, where one's success is not the measure of
another's failure, is the only one to live. It is the only life," he
added after a pause.
Rankin said nothing.
Scotty was silent for a moment, but the mood was too strong for him to
remain so, and he went on.
"I know the ordinary person would laugh if I said it, but really, I
believe I'm developing a distaste for money. It's simply another term
for caste; and that word, with the unreasoning superiority it implies,
has somehow become hateful to me." He looked up into the night.
"I used to think I was happy back in England. I had my home and my
associates; born so, because their fathers were friends of my father,
their grandfathers of my grandfather's class. As a small landlord I had
my gentlemanly leisure; but as well as I know my name, I realize now
that I could never return to that life again. Looking back, I see its
intolerable narrowness, its petty smugness. By comparison it's like the
relative clearness of the atmosphere there and here. There, perhaps I
could see a few miles: here, I look away over leagues and leagues of
distance. It's symbolic." The voice paused; the face, turned directly
toward his companion's, tried in the half-darkness to read its
expression. "I've been in this prairie country long enough now to
realize that financially I've made a mistake. I can earn a living, and
that's all; but nevertheless I'm happy--happier than I ever realized it
was possible for me to be. I've got enough--more would be a burden to
me. If I have a trouble in the world, it's because I see the inevitable
prospect of money in the future,--money I don't want, for I'm an only
son and my father is comparatively wealthy. Without turning his hand,
his rent-roll is five thousand pounds a year. He's getting along in
life. Some day--it may be five years, it may be fifteen--he will die and
leave it to me. I am to maintain and pass on the family name, the family
dignity. It was all cut and dried generations back, generations before I
was born."
Still Rankin said nothing. For any indication he gave, the other's
revelation might have been only that he had a hundred dollars deposited
in the savings bank against a rainy day.
But Scotty was now fairly under headway. He stripped his reserve and
confidence bare.
"You see now why I'm glad to consider your proposition. Whatever I
believe myself must be of secondary importance. I've others to think
about--Florence and her mother. Flossie is only a child, but Mollie is a
woman, and has lived her life in sight of the brazen calf. She doesn't
realize, she never can realize, that it is of brass and not of gold.
Personally, I believe, as I believe in my own existence, that Flossie
would be immeasurably happier if she never saw the other side of
life,--the artificial side,--but lived right here, knowing what we
taught her and developing like a healthy animal; perhaps, when the time
came, marrying a rancher, having her own home, her own family interests,
and living close to nature. But it can't be. I've got to develop her,
cultivate her, fit her for any society." The voice paused, and the
speaker turned his face away.
"God knows,--and He knows also that I love her dearly,--that looking
into the future I wish sometimes she were the daughter of another man."
The minutes passed. The ponies shifted restlessly and then were still.
In the lull, the soft night-breeze crooned its minor song, while near or
far away--no human ear could measure the distance--a prairie owl gave
its weird cry. Then silence fell as before.
Once more Scotty turned, facing his companion.
"I've a question to ask you, Rankin; may I ask it without offence?"
The big man nodded. By the starlight Baker caught the motion.
"You told me once that you were a college man, and that you had a
Master's degree. From the very first you started cattle-raising on a big
scale. You must have had money. Still, such being the case, you left
culture and civilization far behind and came here to choose a life
absolutely different. I have told you why I wish to educate my daughter.
But why, feeling as you must have felt and must still feel, since you're
here, why do you wish to educate this waif boy you've picked up? By all
the standards of convention, he is at the very bottom of the social
scale. Why do you want to do this?"
It was a psychological moment. Even in the semi-darkness, Rankin felt
the other's eyes fixed piercingly upon him. He passed his hand over his
face; he seemed about to speak. But the habit of reticence was too
strong upon him. Even the inspiration of the Englishman's confidence
was not sufficient to break the seal of his own reserve. He arose slowly
and shook the clinging wisps of hay from his clothes.
"For somewhat the same reason as your own," he answered at last. "Ben,
like Flossie, is a child, an odd old child to be sure, but nevertheless
a child. I have no reason to know that when he grows up his beliefs will
be my beliefs. He must see both sides of the coin, and judge for
himself."
The speaker paused, then walked slowly over to the old buckboard. "It's
getting late, and I've got a long drive home." With an effort he mounted
into the seat and picked up the reins. "Good-night."
Scotty hesitated a moment, and then said, "Good-night."