PANHANDLE
While his friends and neighbors called Jim Hastings "Big Jim," he was no
more than average size--compact, vigorous, reared in the Wyoming cattle
lands, and typical of the country. He was called Big Jim simply to
distinguish him from Little Jim, who was as well known in Laramie as his
father. Little Jim, when but five years of age, rode his own pony,
jogging alongside his father when they went to town, where he was
decidedly popular with the townsfolk because of his sturdy independence
and humorous grin.
Little Jim talked horses and cattle and ranching with the grown-ups and
took their good-natured joshing philosophically. He seldom retorted
hastily, but, rather, blinked his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he
digested this or that pleasantry, and either gave it the indifferent
acknowledgment of "Shucks! Think you can josh _me_?" or, if the occasion
and the remark seemed to call for more serious consideration, he rose to
it manfully, and often to the embarrassment of the initial speaker.
Little Jim liked to go to town with his father, yet he considered town
really a sort of suburb to his real world, the homestead, which he had
seen change from a prairie level of unfenced space to a small--and to
him--complete kingdom of pasture lot, hayfield, garden, corrals, stable,
and house. Town was simply a place to which you went to buy things, get
the mail, exchange views on the weather and grazing, and occasionally
help the hands load a shipment of cattle. Little Jim helped by sitting
on the top rail of the pens and commenting on the individual
characteristics of the cattle, and, sometimes, of the men loading them.
In such instances he found opportunity to pay off old scores.
Incidentally he kept the men in good humor by his lively comment.
Little Jim was six years of age when his mother left to resume her
former occupation of waitress in the station restaurant of Laramie,
where she had been popular because of her golden hair, her blue eyes,
and her ability to "talk back" to the regular customers in a manner
which they seemed to enjoy. Big Jim married her when he was not much
more than a boy--twenty, in fact; and during the first few years they
were happy together. But homesteading failed to supply more than their
immediate needs.
Occasional trips to town at first satisfied the wife's craving for the
attention and admiration that most men paid to her rather superficial
good looks. But as the years slipped by, with no promise of easier
conditions, she became dissatisfied, shrewish, and ashamed of her lack
of pretty things to wear. Little Jim was, of course, as blind to all
this as he was to his need for anything other than his overalls, shoes,
and jumper. He thought his mother was pretty and he often told her so.
Meanwhile, Big Jim tried to blind himself to his wife's growing
dissatisfaction. He was too much of a man to argue her own short-comings
as against his inability to do more for her than he was doing. But when
she did leave, with simply a brief note saying that she was tired of it
all, and would take care of herself, what hit Big Jim the hardest was
the fact that she could give up Little Jim without so much as a word
about him. Every one liked Little Jim, and the mother's going proved
something that Big Jim had tried to ignore for several years--that his
wife cared actually nothing for the boy. When Big Jim finally realized
this, his indecision evaporated. He would sell out and try his fortunes
in Arizona, where his sister Jane lived, the sister who had never seen
Little Jim, but who had often written to Big Jim, inviting him to come
and bring his family for a visit.
Big Jim had enough money from the sale of his effects to make the
journey by train, even after he had deposited half of the proceeds at
the local bank, in his wife's name. But being a true son of the open, he
wanted to see the country; so he decided to travel horseback, with a
pack-animal. Little Jim, used to the saddle, would find the journey a
real adventure. They would take it easy. There was no reason for haste.
It had seemed the simplest thing to do, to sell out, leave that part of
the country, and forget what had happened. There was nothing to be
gained by staying where they were. Big Jim had lost his interest in the
ranch. Moreover, there had been some talk of another man, in Laramie, a
man who had "kept company" with Jenny Simpson, before she became Mrs.
Jim Hastings. Mrs. Hastings was still young and quite good-looking.
It had seemed a simple thing to do--to leave and begin life over again
in another land. But Big Jim had forgotten Smiler. Smiler was a dog of
vague ancestry, a rough-coated, yellow dog that belonged solely to
Little Jim. Smiler stuck so closely to Little Jim that their shadows
were veritably one. Smiler was a sort of chuckle-headed, good-natured
animal, meek, so long as Little Jim's prerogatives were not infringed
upon, but a cyclone of yellow wrath if Little Jim were approached by any
one in other than a friendly spirit. Even when Big Jim "roughed" his
small son, in fun, Smiler grew nervous and bristled, and once, when the
mother had smacked Little Jim for some offense or other, Smiler had
taken sides to the extent of jumping between the mother and the boy,
ready to do instant battle if his young partner were struck again.
"I'm afraid we can't take Smiler with us," said Big Jim, as Little Jim
scurried about next morning, getting ready for the great adventure.
Little Jim stopped as though he had run against a rope. He had not even
dreamed but that Smiler would go with them.
Now, Little Jim had not forgathered with punchers and townsfolk for
nothing. He was naturally shrewd, and he did not offer or controvert
opinions hastily. He stood holding a bit of old tie-rope in his hand,
pondering this last unthinkable development of the situation. Smiler was
to be left behind. Jimmy wanted to ask why Smiler could not go. He
wanted to assure his father that Smiler would be a help rather than a
hindrance to the expedition.
Little Jim knew that if he wept, his father might pay some attention to
that sort of plea. But Little Jim did not intend to weep, nor ask
questions, nor argue. Smiler stood expectantly watching the
preparations. He knew that something important was about to happen, and,
with the loyalty of his kind, he was ready to follow, no matter where.
Smiler had sniffed the floor of the empty house, the empty stables, the
corral. His folks were going somewhere. Well, he was ready.
Little Jim, who had been gazing wistfully at Smiler, suddenly strode to
his pack and sat down. He bit his lips. Tears welled to his eyes and
drifted slowly down his cheeks. He had not intended to let himself
weep--but there was Smiler, wagging his thick tail, waiting to go.
"I g-g-guess you better go ahead and hit the trail, dad."
"Why, that's what we're going to do. What--" Big Jim glanced at his boy.
"What's the matter?"
Little Jim did not answer, but his attitude spoke for itself. He had
decided to stay with Smiler.
Big Jim frowned. It was the first time that the boy had ever openly
rebelled. And because it was the first time, Big Jim realized its
significance. Yet, such loyalty, even to a dog, was worth while.
Big Jim put his hand on Little Jim's shoulder. "Smiler'll get sore feet
on the trails, Jimmy. And there won't be a whole lot to eat."
Little Jim blinked up at his father. "Well, he can have half of my grub,
and I reckon I can pack him on the saddle with me if his feet get
tender."
"All right. But don't blame me if Smiler peters out on the trip."
"Smiler's tough, he is!" stated Little Jim. "He's so tough he bites barb
wire. Anyhow, you said we was goin' to take it easy. And he can catch
rabbits, I guess."
"Perhaps he won't want to come along," suggested Big Jim as he pulled up
a cincha and slipped the end through the ring.
Little Jim beckoned to Smiler who had stood solemnly listening to the
controversy about himself as though he understood. Smiler trotted over
to Jimmy.
"You want to take it plumb easy on this trip," said Little Jim, "and not
go to chasin' around and runnin' yourself ragged gettin' nowhere. If you
get sore feet, we'll just have to beef you and hang your hide on the
fence."
Smiler grinned and wagged his tail. He pushed up and suddenly licked
Little Jim's face. Little Jim promptly cuffed him. Smiler came back for
more.
Big Jim turned and watched the boy and the dog in their rough-and-tumble
about the yard. He blinked and turned back to the horses. "Come on,
Jimmy. We're all set."
"Got to throw my pack on ole Lazy, dad. Gimme a hand, will you?"
Little Jim never would admit that he could not do anything there was to
be done. When he was stuck he simply asked his father to help him.
Big Jim slung up the small pack and drew down the hitch. Little Jim
ducked under Lazy and took the rope on the other side, passing the end
to his father.
"Reckon that pack'll ride all right," said the boy, surveying the
outfit. "Got the _morrals_ and everything, dad?"
"All set, Jimmy."
"Then let's go. I got my ole twenty-two loaded. If we run on to one of
them stingin' lizards, he's sure a sconer. Does dogs eat lizards?"
Big Jim swung to the saddle and hazed the old pack-horse ahead. "Don't
know, Jimmy. Sometimes the Indians eat them."
"Eat stingin' lizards?"
"Yep."
"Well, I guess Smiler can, then. Come on, ole-timer!"
Suddenly Little Jim thought of his mother. It seemed that she ought to
be with them. Little Jim had wept when Smiler was in question. Now he
gazed with clear-eyed faith at his father.
"It ain't our fault ma ain't goin' with us, is it?" he queried timidly.
Big Jim shrugged his shoulders.
"Say, dad, we're headed west. Thought you said we was goin' to Arizona?"
"We'll turn south, after a while."
Little Jim asked no more questions. His father knew everything--why they
were going and where. Little Jim glanced back to where Smiler padded
along, his tongue out and his eyes already rimmed with dust, for he
would insist upon traveling tight to Lazy's heels.
Little Jim leaned back. "Stick it out, ole-timer! But don't you go to
cuttin' dad's trail till he gets kind of used to seein' you around.
Sabe?"
Smiler grinned through a dust-begrimed countenance. He wagged his tail.
Little Jim plunked his horse in the ribs and drew up beside his father.
Little Jim felt big and important riding beside his dad. There had been
some kind of trouble at home--and they were leaving it behind. It would
be a long trail, and his father sure would need help.
Little Jim drew a deep breath. He wanted to express his unwavering
loyalty to his father. He wanted to talk of his willingness to go
anywhere and share any kind of luck. But his resolve to speak evaporated
in a sigh of satisfaction. This was a real holiday, an adventure.
"Smiler's makin' it fine, dad."
But Big Jim did not seem to hear. He was gazing ahead, where in the
distance loomed an approaching figure on horseback. Little Jim knew who
it was, and was about to say so when his father checked him with a
gesture. Little Jim saw his father shift his belt round so that his gun
hung handy. He said nothing and showed by no other sign that he had
recognized the approaching rider, who came on swiftly, his high-headed
pinto fighting the bit.
Within twenty yards of them, the rider reined his horse to a walk.
Little Jim saw the two men eye each other closely. The man on the pinto
rode past. Little Jim turned to his father.
"I guess Panhandle is goin' to town," said the boy, not knowing just
what to say, yet feeling that the occasion called for some remark.
"Panhandle" Sears and his father knew each other. They had passed on the
road, neither speaking to the other. And Little Jim was not blind to the
significant movement of shifting a belt that a gun might hang ready to
hand.
Yet he soon forgot the incident in visioning the future. Arizona, Aunt
Jane, and stingin' lizards!
Big Jim rode with head bowed. He was thinking of the man who had just
passed them. If it had not been for the boy, Big Jim and that man would
have had it out, there on the road. And Jenny Hastings would have been
the cause of their quarrel. "Panhandle" Sears had "kept company" with
Jenny before she became Big Jim's wife. Now that she had left him--
Big Jim turned and gazed back along the road. A far-away cloud of dust
rolled toward the distant town of Laramie.