Birds twittering in the poplars and willows by the river wakened Rock
when the rose-pink dawn was turning to gold. He lay watching,
listening. He could hear the ripple of running water. He could see the
bleached hills rising abrupt from the gray-green valley floor. The cool
air was like balm on his face. Beyond all doubt this was a pleasant
country. If a man could settle on one of these river bottoms, with a
couple of hundred cows, in ten years---- But Rock was a long way from
peering anxious-eyed into the future.
He sat up and rolled a cigarette. The sun thrust searching yellow
fingers into the valley of the Marias. The winter-bleached log walls of
the house drew his gaze and set his mind to work in fruitless
speculation. This must be quite an outfit, he reflected. The house was
big, built to accommodate a score of men. He had marked a bunk room
across that hall from the roomy kitchen. The stable argued plenty of
riding stock in winter. There were machinery and wagons, even a spring
buggy, under a lean-to shed. Yet apparently the place was held down by
a young woman, a baby, and one man. Hadn’t the girl said there were no
other men? Still, she had been more or less fussed at the time. The
riders might be afar on round-up. But Rock had that sense of
abandonment, just the same. It was rather puzzling. Whereupon he
reached for his boots, dressed, fed and watered the horses, and sat
down on the river bank to watch the clear water sparkle in the sun,
while he waited some sign of life from the house.
He didn’t wait long. A voice at his elbow roused him to attention. The
girl had come unseen and unheard. Her dark hair was coiled in a neat
rope about her head. She had on a short gray skirt and a white blouse.
Her skin, in the clear morning light, was like a piece of satin, dusky
and transparent. Rock had seen enough of slatternly women on ranches to
make him appreciate freshness. There was a peculiar interest-compelling
quality about this girl, over and above her youth and charm. Rock had
felt it last night. He felt it now, even when she said no more than a
low-toned: “Good-morning, Mr. Holloway.
“I thought you had gone,” she continued, “until I saw you moving around
here. I must have seemed rather inhospitable last night, not even
thinking where you were to sleep.”
“A cowpuncher,” Rock drawled, “generally carries his bed with him when
he’s on the move. And there’s all outdoors to spread it in.”
“Of course. But when you come to a ranch---- Well, breakfast’s ready.”
He walked with her to the house.
“I got up early,” she said when they had finished. “Betty generally
sleeps till seven or eight o’clock. I thought----”
She stopped a moment, then continued with quiet decision:
“I want to bury him.”
“Here?” Rock didn’t mistake her meaning.
“Yes. I’m sure he’d as soon be buried here as anywhere. There is
nothing else we can do for him. You know what this country is like.
We’re practically out of the world.”
“Isn’t this part of the country organized at all?” Rock asked. “No
local authorities?”
“Are you a complete stranger here?” she countered. “I didn’t think so
by the way you spoke of the Seventy Seven last night.”
“I passed through this country last fall with a trail herd bound from
Texas to Canada.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “Well, this Territory of Montana is a good deal
of a no man’s land, outside of the western part, where there is a lot
of mining. Fort Benton is the nearest thing to a town. It’s quite a
place, but it isn’t a regularly organized community. There’s a United
States marshal there, I think, and a judge comes down from the western
part of the State, once a year, to hold court. There aren’t enough
people to form a proper county organization yet, although it’s talked
of. When my father came in here four years ago, we were the first
outfit on the Marias. Betty is the first white child born north of the
Missouri River in the Territory, I believe. So, you see,” she motioned
abruptly with her hands, “there’s not much use running around in
circles telling that Doc Martin has been shot. Last night I was in a
terrible state. But I can think straight now. Doc is dead. We can’t do
anything but bury him. I’d like to get it over with before Betty wakes
up. She doesn’t know. She was awfully fond of Doc, and he of her.”
“All right,” Rock agreed. If there were no formalities to be complied
with, no coroner to sit in inquiry, no sheriff to seek trace of the
killers, the sooner the dead man was buried the better. Trail outfits
buried their dead and went on. And, perhaps, the last rites men
performed for their dead under such circumstances lost nothing of
sincerity because they were informal.
* * * * *
So Rock, shovel in hand, followed her to a spot a hundred yards east of
the house, near the river bank. Under a giant cottonwood stood a small
picket inclosure. Within that inclosure lifted two grassy mounds, long
and narrow, a painted board at the end of each. For a second Rock
thought the girl would break down again.
“It’s ghastly,” she whispered. “It’s almost as if there were a curse on
this place, if I believed in such a thing. Mamma died when Betty was
born. A horse fell on dad. They’re both there. Now Doc.”
The soft mold dug easily. When Rock had a hole deep enough, they
returned to the house. Some time between dark and dawn the girl had
changed the man’s clothing and wiped clean every trace of blood. She
had put on him a clean, soft shirt, with a coat and trousers of blue
serge. He looked calm and contented, as if he slept. And Rock, gazing
at the still face, marveled again at the resemblance to himself. He
would have liked to meet this man alive, he thought.
They wrapped the body in heavy canvas, swathed like a mummy. A coffin
was out of the question. Sawed lumber there was none. Except furniture,
freighted in from afar, everything about that place was hewn from raw
timber with axes. And canvas, Rock thought, was as good as a steel
casket. The dead are careless of their housing. Only the living fret
over such things.
He piled on the last shovelful of earth and stood aside. The girl
looked down at the raw soil. Her lips quivered. She dropped to her
knees. She seemed to whisper something like a prayer. Rock stood with
bared head in the morning sun that sent bright shafts of light through
the crooked boughs above. Then he left her, still on her knees, her
head bowed, her fingers locked tight together.