I was so weak with fright and sudden relief when I felt the firm earth under my feet I could scarcely stand but I had to get to the Buckskin’s head and hold on to him, for Owen had his hands full with Beauty, who began to rear and plunge. It was no time for nerves. The horses were finally unhitched. Owen led Beauty and I, the Buckskin. Leaving the buggy on the edge of that yawning gulch, we walked the five miles back to the ranch.
The Bohms had gone. The last load of furniture, upon which old Bohm perched like an ill-omened bird, had disappeared through the gate on the top of the hill. At last, after six months of vexation and trouble, Owen and I could live our own life and run the ranch without interference.
Bohm had tried to wriggle out of every clause in his contract. He had delayed gathering and turning over the stock by every means and had invented a thousand excuses for staying on from week to week. It had made it very difficult and had exasperated Owen. If he hadn’t been wise and patient beyond words, Bohm’s bones long before would have mingled with those of his reputed victims in the old root cellar. I had a different end planned for him each day, but none seemed really fitting. Owen had gone on in his own way, however, insisting upon every part of the contract being fulfilled and reducing Bohm to impotent rage by his quiet firmness.
Mrs. Bohm had recovered from her “fainting spells” and her husband was furious to think he had sold the ranch. In desperation he finally sent to San Francisco for his brother, who was a lawyer, to see if there was any possibility of getting out of the contract. The “Judge” was a nice old chap, who looked like an amiable Mormon with a long beard. He soon settled the question.
“Why, Jim, you wanted to sell out, you signed the contract and you have your money. You’ll have to stay with your bargain now, whether you like it or not.”
We always remembered him kindly for this and for a story he told. We had been discussing the Chinese as servants and he said:
“Well, I had one for two years, but I don’t want any more. I want to know what I’m eating and with those heathen you are never sure.
“It had been raining very hard one day when Wong came to me in the afternoon and said:
“‘Judge, him laining outside, me gottee no meat for dinner.’
“I told him that we would do without meat for it was raining too hard for anyone to go out who didn’t have to. Wong looked dejected for he liked meat. He turned to go out of the room, when his eyes fell on the cat. His face brightened with a sudden inspiration.
“‘Have meat for dinner! Kill’em cat!’
“Kill the cat! What on earth do you mean?
“‘Less, kill’em cat,’ he repeated in a matter of fact tone, ‘him sick anyhow.’”
We had asked the Bohms to take their meals with us, but only Mrs. Bohm came to our table. Bohm preferred to eat with the men. We suspected that he was trying to cause trouble. Charley unconsciously confirmed our suspicions. He was always conversational and seized the opportunity to talk while fixing my window screen.
“Say, Mrs. Brook, you’d orter seen Bill this mornin’. He was eatin’ flapjacks to beat time and was just reachin’ for more, when old Bohm, with that mean way of his, began slammin’ Mr. Brook. He was sayin’ you folks thought you was too good to eat in the kitchen with us common fellers and had to have a separate dinin’ room, when Bill just riz up out of his chair so sudden it went over backwards, and believe me, his eyes had sparks in ’em when he came back at the old man.
“‘Tain’t that the Brooks think that they’re too good, but there’s some folks too stinkin’ common for anybody to eat with’—and out of the door he walked and all the boys fol-lered him, leavin’ Bohm alone there facin’ all them flapjacks. I reckon he’d a rather faced them flapjacks than Bill, though,—Gee, Bill was some hot,” and Charley’s blue eyes sparkled at the reminiscence.
It was exactly as I thought; the boys despised Bohm and were absolutely loyal to Owen.
After this episode, Owen had a long talk with Bill and a short, heated interview with Bohm, which resulted in the old man’s reluctant, but hasty, departure.
I drew a long breath of relief when I saw the last wagon disappear and looked up fully expecting to see the dove of peace pluming herself on our roof-tree. But apparently doves in the cattle country never alight,—they just pass by.
Owen had bought several thousand acres of land from the railroad. A car of barbed wire for the fence, which was to encircle the entire ranch, was at the station. Our land was now in one solid block with the exception of a few acres of Government land which could only be acquired by homestead entry. This limited acreage in the great checkerboard was all that remained of the “free range.”
At this juncture Owen was served with a notice by the United States Marshal forbidding him to build the fence. It would enclose Government land. Every mile of the proposed fence would have been on ground which he had bought, paid for, and on which he was paying taxes—but still—he could not fence it. “Government land must remain uninclosed.” It made no difference, apparently, what happened to the cattleman whose money was tied up in property he could not use. Government land must remain free and open to the public. But, while those few acres of free range remained open to the public, thousands of acres of our unprotected land remained open also. Everyone used it. The ranchmen for miles around, learning that Owen was forbidden to fence, gathered all their cattle and threw them onto our land.
It was a very serious problem. Our range was being destroyed, the grass was eaten off so closely nothing remained for winter range. Our full-blooded Hereford breeding stock was of little use to us. All our money was invested in land and cattle and there was only one thing left to do,—put riders on our range to drive the other cattle off.
Upon this solution of the problem the dove of peace promptly departed and we entered upon a long, hard struggle for the possession and use of what was our own. Owen was faced, not only with financial failure, but absolute ruin. The future was far from bright, but when an old school-mate came with her husband to visit us it seemed positively brilliant by contrast.
Alice Joice and I had been devoted friends for years. The summer before we had spent in Europe, where I had left her, deep in the study of Art, to which she intended “to devote” her life.
“It is so commonplace to marry, Esther,” these were her parting words; “any woman can marry—but so few can have a real career.”
Alice’s “career” had abruptly ended in “commonplace matrimony,” for she had just married a Mr. Van Winkle from Brooklyn, a man I had never met. They were touring the West and were most anxious to include our ranch. I was very eager to see them so I wrote, urging her to come, but asked her to let us know when to expect them, so there would be no mistake about our being at the station.
I was particularly anxious to have them see ranch life at its best for they were our first guests. The house looked very attractive with all our own furniture and wedding presents in place, but I thought the guest room floor might be improved so I painted it Saturday afternoon. Then everything went wrong: the wind-mill pump failed to work, the whole pipe had to be pulled out of the well; we were without running water in the house and couldn’t have a fire in the kitchen range, so rations were extremely light.
Supper, consisting chiefly of sardines, awaited Owen, who was trying to get some of the grease off his hands, when a homesteader by the name of Hamm, his wife, sister and five children drove up. He had come to see Owen on business and they were invited in to supper.
The table was lengthened and reset, more sardines were opened and we were just ready to sit down when my Aunt, who was standing near the window, exclaimed:
“Who on earth is that!”
Who, indeed! Alice Joice and her husband with a team they had hired at the station.
Having a strong heart I did not faint, but left Auntie to help the maid make the necessary additions to the table—and sardines, while Owen and I hurried out to greet them.
“Hello, dearie, here we are,” Alice called from the wagon as I approached. “Clarence and I thought it would be such fun to surprise you. How-do-you-do, Mr. Brook, I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Van Winkle.” Alice jumped off the step and threw herself into my arms. “Oh, Esther, isn’t this fun?” Gay, inconsequent Alice, from her city home, never considered for a moment that a surprise could be anything but joyous.
If I had met him in Egypt, I should have known that her husband’s name was Van Winkle—Clarence Van Winkle, it couldn’t have been anything else.
He was pale and tall and thin and rigid. The inflexibility of the combined ancestral spines had united in his back bone. He might break, he could never bend. My imagination failed when I tried to picture the meeting between the heir to the Van Winkle name and the Hamms. It was far worse than anything I could ever have imagined.
Alice was very sweet; she talked all the time, patted the five little Hamms and won their mother’s heart by asking their names and ages, but in acknowledging the introduction Clarence only bowed slightly, a movement which required great effort, then relapsed into silence immediately, scrutinizing the Hamm family through his glasses as though they were rare animals in a Zoo. Mrs. Hamm and her sister were stupefied and did not speak a word, but Mr. Hamm, a truly sociable person from Oklahoma, continually addressed Clarence as “young feller,” which produced the same effect as a violent chill, and when he joyously jogged a Van Winkle elbow to emphasize some pleasantry, Clarence firmly moved his chair out of reach of the defiling touch.
Alice ate everything and did not stop talking for a moment. Clarence refused everything but a cracker, which he munched in silence. Suddenly he turned white and left the table. Owen escorted him out-of-doors while Alice and I followed. He was faint, just faint, and collapsed weakly onto a garden seat. Alice said it was the Denver water, but I suspected unassimilated Hamm. Owen stayed with him and Alice and I returned to finish supper. The Hamms left soon after and Clarence gradually revived under the influence of Owen’s New England accent and Scotch whisky.
All at once I thought of the freshly painted guest-room floor. I explained the situation to Alice and we went up to see if it was dry. It was, but the smell of paint was most evident. Alice gave a few sniffs and said apologetically:
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Esther, but Clarence couldn’t possibly sleep here. He is so sensitive to odors of any kind.” I was reminded of a faint aroma which had clung to the Hamm garments. “If there is another room we can occupy, I think it would be better.” Alice was accustomed to hotels. I offered our room; it was reluctantly but finally accepted, the scion of the Van Winkles must not breathe paint. All the things from the guest-room were put in our room and ours were moved up to the guest-room.
Just before they retired Alice confided to me that Clarence had had some temperature in Denver and the Doctor thought he might be threatened with typhoid fever.
“I really believe, Esther, if Clarence has any temperature in the morning we had better go back to Denver.”
I reassured her as I bade her good-night and then sought Owen. I was beginning to have some temperature myself.
“Owen, if Clarence Van Winkle has a thousandth of a degree of temperature in the morning don’t tell him that he’ll be all right; let him go back to Denver or anywhere else he pleases. Imagine that man with typhoid, here.”
The next morning Alice appeared at breakfast alone. Clarence had no temperature, but he felt weak and thought he had better stay in bed. He continued to feel weak for three days, Alice dancing attendance white the rest of us tried to get the household and water running again.
When Clarence finally emerged from his seclusion, he was in high spirits, positively buoyant.
“Well, now I want to see everything, all the cattle, the cow-boys, branding, dehorning, a round-up and what is it you call it? Oh, yes, ‘broncho busting’. We have to go back to Denver tomorrow, you know.” He had to stop for want of breath.
Alice beamed fondly upon her enthusiastic bridegroom. Mine looked far from enthusiastic. Owen was a perfect host but he could not give a demonstration of a year’s work in one day. The horse-breaking was over for the season and the branded and dehorned cattle scattered over miles of country. This he endeavored to explain to Clarence who made no attempt to conceal his disappointment nor his petulance.
“Oh, how unfortunate. I’ve heard so much of the fascination of ranch life I thought I’d like to see a little of it. I thought you had broncho busting or something interesting or entertaining going on every day.”
Owen bit his lip. He was busy beyond words but he dropped everything and afternoon we took our guests for a drive over the ranch. The wagon was new and rattled and, wishing to spare Clarence’s delicate sensibilities, Owen put on some washers.
We were in the middle of the prairie miles from the house, Clarence had recovered his good humor since he was “actually seeing something”, as he tactfully expressed it, when one of the wheels began to drag. The washers proved to be too tight, we had a hot spindle. There was nothing to do but sit there in the blazing sun while the two men took off the wheel, removed a washer or two and greased the spindle.
I wouldn’t have missed it, the mere thought of that scene was a joy to me for months afterwards. Clarence Van Winkle red and perspiring from the effort of lifting a wheel, wiping his greasy hands on a piece of dirty waste! Alice’s face was a study. I had to keep my eyes fixed on the landscape after one look over the side of the wagon. I was afraid I should laugh out loud.
The day they left Bill drove us all to the station. We just made the train, which was standing on the track as we arrived. Owen hurried to check the Van Winkle’s baggage. Bill had to stay with the horses. Alice and I had all the wraps, which left Clarence to carry two dress suit cases across the tracks. His eyes were fixed on the porter and he was hurrying toward the Pullman when he stubbed his toe on one rail, sprawled all the way across the track and hit his neck on the second rail. The suit cases flew in one direction, his hat in another, his glasses fell off and his watch dropped out of his pocket. Alice and I rushed to the rescue, the porter assisted Clarence to his feet and picked up the suit cases, we gathered up the rest of the articles while Clarence stood in the middle of the track rubbing his knees, to the great amusement of the passengers. Alice went up to him when suddenly he screwed his face up as a child does before it begins to cry, threw both arms around her neck and buried his face on her shoulder. The conductor terminated the scene by calling “All aboard”. Clarence limped to the train, rubbing his neck, and the last we saw was Alice holding all the wraps, the hat, glasses and watch, waving to us from the vestibule and Clarence comfortably seated in the Pullman smiling a wan farewell through the window. As the train with its precious freight was lost to sight around a curve, Owen and I began to laugh. We laughed until we were so weak we could scarcely get into the wagon. Bill’s face was perfectly serious, but his eyes had a little twinkle in them as he said with his slow drawl:
“Lord, Mrs. Brook, I’m glad that young man married that girl. He’d orter have somebody look after him. A poor little goslin’ feller like that ain’t got no business goin’ round alone.”
Bill always sized up a situation in the fewest possible words.
During the drive back to the ranch I thought of Alice and her future by the side of a man of that type. Our future was uncertain enough, but if trouble and vicissitudes were our portion, at least I had someone with whom to share them.
Tex had been away for several weeks and we were surprised to see him at the gate as we drove up. He looked very serious as he asked Owen if he might speak with him and Owen looked more serious when he came out of the office after their conversation.
“What is it, Owen? Something is wrong. Please tell me.”
Owen took me by the arm and we walked up and down under the trees.
“Tex came over to tell me, Esther, that I am to be arrested for ‘driving cattle off the range.’ Technically, it’s a serious charge, carrying a heavy fine and—” he paused—“imprisonment, but don’t worry, my dear,” as he felt me start a little at his last words, “it’s listed on the statute books as a criminal offence, connected with rustling, but that can’t hold in this case. It’s a ‘frame-up’ to give me trouble, that’s all. It might have been serious but Tex heard of it and came to warn me just in time. There’s been a plot to eat me out and now they want to drive me out. I’m going in to Denver to see my lawyer tomorrow. I’m more troubled on your account than anything else.”
“Don’t worry about me, Owen, we’re going to stay in this country and fight it out to the end. I’ll face anything, as long as you don’t cry,” and we went into the house laughing, as we thought of Clarence Van Winkle.
The miserable experience which followed was sufficiently serious, even after the charge had been changed to one of minor character.
Owen was arrested on our anniversary. I went his bond. There was a long, expensive law-suit which we lost, the Judge contending that if a man wished to protect his land he should fence it. It was explained that the Government had forbidden it, but the Judge said that did not affect the verdict in this case. Owen paid the damages awarded by the Court, we gathered together our sixteen cow-puncher witnesses who had been staying with us at one of the largest hotels in Denver, an event for the cow-punchers, and returned to the ranch.
Did Owen weep on my shoulder? He set his lips a little more firmly and his face had an added sternness as he looked across those miles of rolling prairie he owned but which now were utterly useless.
He broke the silence at last. His voice had a different tone.
“I am going to have the use of my own land. They shan’t keep me out of it any longer. I am going to sell off all the cattle and put in sheep. Then we’ll see! With herders we don’t need fences and cattle won’t graze where sheep have ranged.”
Thus with the first year of our marriage, the first chapter of our ranch experience ended and a totally different life began.
With the coming of the sheep everything was changed. It was like living in a different age, almost as though we had slipped back hundreds of years into Biblical times and had come into intimate association with Jacob and Joseph. With the advent of the wool or lamb buyers there was a sudden transition to the more commercial atmosphere of the twentieth century, but it was so fleeting our pastoral existence was scarcely interrupted.
A few of our old men had gone, Tex among them. He left with regret, but as he said—
“Lord knows I hate to go, Mr. Brook, but cattle’s all I know and an old cow man ain’t got no business around sheep; they just naturally despise each other.” And he went up into Montana where the cattle business still flourished.
Most of the other men stayed on, however, to ride the fence lines, look after the horses and do the various things about the ranch, but the days of branding, dehorning and round-ups were past and the cow-puncher was replaced by “camp tenders”.
The sheep were trailed all the way from New Mexico. Steve, who spoke Spanish, was foreman, and with three of the other men on horseback had come up the trail with the sheep and the soft-voiced Mexican herders.
Their entire camp equipment was skillfully packed on diminutive burros. It was somewhat startling to see what appeared to be animated wood-piles, water-casks, rolls of bedding or dish-pans bobbing about over the woolly backs of the sheep, until a parting in the band revealed the legs and lowered head of a sleepy-eyed burro.
The herders spoke no English and it was so charming to receive a gleaming smile and low bow while being addressed as “Padron” and “Señora” that we plunged into the study of their musical language forthwith.
Each herder was in charge of a band of from fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred sheep. Two herders occupied a camp, but the sheep were placed in separate corrals and, in order to give the various bands ample pasturage, the camps were placed miles apart.
Early in the morning the sheep were driven out, the herders taking their bands in opposite directions. All day long the flock quietly grazed over the prairie, the Mexican with his dog at his feet standing like a sentinel on a hill from which he could overlook his entire band and ward off any prowling coyote whose approach was heralded by a sudden scurry among the sheep.
Eternal vigilance, faithfulness and good judgment were the essential qualities in a herder, judgment in the handling of the sheep, in the selection of the best grass and water, the time for taking them out and bringing them back to the camp. The herders were not supposed to meet and talk together for while they were engrossed in conversation or out of sight of the sheep the two bands might become mixed, a very serious thing when the ewes were accompanied by their lambs, for when the bands were separated again the lamb might be in one band and its mother in the other.
It was a lonely life, but one for which Mexicans are especially suited. They lack the initiative of the Anglo-Saxons, they are naturally tranquil, slow of speech and action and content to do nothing—gentle children from the land of Mañana.
Scattered over the prairie, the sheep from a distance looked like mere dots so closely resembling the clumps of weeds, it was necessary to locate the herder before they could be identified. He looked like a solitary fence post placed on the top of a hill.
The Mexicans were most gracious and responsive, so delighted to receive a visit from the Padron that it was a joy to talk with them. We were never certain just what we had said, to be sure, but the effect of our halting, broken sentences of Spanish appeared so pleasing, we were convinced that if we could only converse fluently our words would become immortal. Urbanity was most contagious. Owen and I made deep bows to the herders, we almost bowed to the sheep in an over-mastering desire to equal the politeness of Ramon, Fidel, Francisco or Tranquilino. What names! The atmosphere of the ranch became so poetic and romantic I should not have been surprised to see Owen adopt long hair and a flowing tie. After a day spent in visiting the sheep camps I returned in an ecstatic mood. I almost fancied myself the reincarnated spirit of Bo-Peep or Ramona but alas, my true identity was always disclosed as soon as I reached the house—I was only “the Missus”.
Nevertheless the sheep business was fascinating, and best of all successful. The question of the range was settled. We had the use of our own land and our rights were respected. The customary feud between the sheepman and the cattle owners was avoided, since our sheep were always kept within the limits of the land which we owned. From being the object of hatred and vilification, Owen became a personage; his opinion quoted, his method of handling sheep emulated.
There were a few sheep men in the country who had made an indifferent success. They had scoffed at Owen’s practice of selling off all the lambs in the autumn and maintaining the number of his sheep by additional purchases but, when they found how small his losses were, they promptly adopted his plan and even some of the old-time cattle men put in sheep.
The loss of the law suit had certainly proved to be the turning point in the history of the Brook family. Our popularity increased so rapidly it was amusing. Bill expressed what I felt as I met him riding through the meadow.
“Have you been riding the fence lines, Bill?”
“Yes’m, but it’s just takin’ exercise for my health. There ain’t nothin’ wrong any more. Since you folks got the world by the tail and a down-hill pull, everybody’s huntin’ around seein’ what they can do to make it pleasant for you. I notice the Three Circle outfit don’t go round no more leavin’ all the gates open and when we get a fence line staked out, the stakes ain’t all pulled up by mornin’.”
“It is peaceful, isn’t it?”
“Peaceful,” echoed Bill, with feeling, “I’m so chuck full of peace I can’t hardly hold any more. I’ll bet if a feller was to hit me, I’d only ‘baa-a’.”
There was a vast amount of “Baa-ing” going on at the ranch, where Mary and I were raising a few score orphan lambs on the bottle. There was a voracious chorus whenever we appeared. They jumped all over us and as soon as they got hold of the nipple of the bottle they flopped down on their knees and did not release it until they had gulped down the last drop of milk, after which they stood up, their little sides sticking out as though they had been stuffed. As much care had to be exercised with the bottles, the temperature and quantity of the milk as though we had been feeding so many babies.
There was no milk at the outside camps and no one to care for the poor abandoned lambs whose frivolous young mothers refused to own them, leaving them to starve. Occasionally an old ewe of truly maternal instinct could be fooled into adopting one of these little “dogies” or “bums”. The skin of her dead lamb was taken off and slipped over the orphan, which was joyfully accepted because of its smell!
When the lambs made their appearance in May, the bands were separated, we had additional herders and they had to be more watchful for “Spring lamb” is also very tempting to coyotes. It was easy for a herder to lose ten or twenty lambs, for the little things congregate behind rocks or clumps of weeds and go to sleep, are overlooked when the sheep are driven back to the camp in the evening, and become the victims of those prairie wolves which continually lurk about.
Sometimes when we were driving, a tiny white speck would come racing after the wagon, a lamb, which had been left behind. Lambs are such senseless little things, when they are frightened they will adopt any moving object in lieu of a mother.
We pulled them out of prairie-dog holes into which they had thrust their heads and become fastened by having the loose earth fall in about their necks—they were troublesome but so appealing and amusing, they were a never-ending source of entertainment from the first moment they appeared, a tiny body supported on long, wabbly legs.
As they grew stronger “playful as a lamb” acquired a new meaning. They capered and they bucked, they raced around the corral in the evening when the ewes were contentedly lying down, they frisked about on the backs of their patient mothers, they jumped stiff-legged, and in a wild excess of joy bounded into the air giving a cork-screw twist to their hindquarters, which produced a most ludicrous effect.
Old quotations from the Bible came to have added significance; as the shearer held a poor frightened sheep between his knees and rapidly clipped off the fleece with his gleaming shears, there was not a sound if a clumsy movement cut a deep gash in the tender flesh; the “sheep before her shearer was dumb” indeed.
I spent days in the shearing sheds watching the proceedings from a pile of wool sacks or passing out small metal disks in exchange for the fleeces the shearers turned in. At the end of the day the disks were counted and each shearer credited with the number of sheep he had shorn.
The fleeces were rolled and tied separately, then thrown up to a man on a platform, who packed them in a long sack which was suspended from the top of a high frame. As it was filled, it was taken down, sewed up and rolled into the end of the shed to remain until later in the season when the wool was sold and hauled to the railroad.
Life was certainly peaceful compared to what it had been, but there was little danger of our becoming “on weed”, as a certain retired cattle-man expressed it after a short sojourn in Europe.
Lambing, shearing and dipping followed in rapid succession. The herders cooked for themselves and once a week the wagons were piled with supplies and provisions which were left at each camp. In a huge store-room were kept quantities of salt-pork, sugar, dried fruits, coffee, flour and other groceries. Flour was bought by the ton and everything else in proportion. Making out the orders, having all the freight hauled the sixteen miles from the railroad, checking it out and keeping the camps supplied, were only details but it was the multitude of detail which filled the days and kept us from becoming “on weed”. We issued the supplies to the camp-tenders ourselves, after one of them had filled all of the Mexicans’ cans with gasoline instead of coal-oil, because “it kind’a had the same smell.”
Unless we chanced to have guests, for weeks at a time the only women I saw were those in our employ, but I resented having any of my friends think of my life as “dull” or “lonely”. On the contrary it was fascinating, full of incident, rich in experience which money could not buy. Living so close to the great heart of nature during those years on the plains, the vision of life partook of their breadth and a new sense of values replaced old, artificial standards. To be alone on the vast prairie was to gain a new conception of infinity and—eternity.
The Mexicans stayed on the ranch about nine months, then returned to their homes for a short visit. They were the most invariable creatures I ever knew. When they departed for Taos or Trinidad or Antonito, perhaps in July, they would announce on what date and by what train they would return in October. That was the end of it, and upon the appointed day in October someone would meet the designated train from which the smiling herder alighted. They never failed and they never left until another herder was there to take care of the sheep.
One summer during this vacation period, eight new herders came to replace eight that were going home. They were a fierce looking lot from a different section of the country. They had been on the ranch only a short time when Steve began to have trouble with them. They were late getting their sheep out in the morning, they drove them too rapidly and brought them in too early in the evening. In a few weeks the sheep began to lose flesh and show the effects of bad handling.
The newcomers disobeyed all orders, unless Steve happened to be on the spot. He had to watch them constantly. He came up to a camp unexpectedly one noon and found two of these Mexicans ready to sit down to a dinner they had just cooked. It was an invariable rule that the herders should take a lunch with them, for their mid-day meal, and not return to the camp. They had left their sheep alone, so Steve made them leave their dinner and go back to their bands, while he stayed to make sure they did not return.
It was impossible to discharge them until new herders could be brought from New Mexico and he and Owen talked over the situation at length that night.
Early in the morning Steve went out on another trip of inspection. About two o’clock he rode into the yard, his face covered with blood from a deep gash in his head. He fell from his horse into Owen’s arms. We brought him in, washed off the blood, gave him a stimulant and waited until he was able to tell us what had happened.
It developed that as he came in sight of the camp he saw four of the Mexicans outside of the cabin. They stood motionless as he approached, then began to hurl rocks at him. One hit his horse and he was nearly thrown but managed to keep his seat. He was struck several times on the body. Although realizing that the Mexicans intended to kill him, he jumped off his horse and went toward them. A rock struck his head, but with undaunted courage he picked up some of the rocks and threw them back at the herders. They had not expected that turn to the affair and ran into the cabin. Steve was unarmed and too badly hurt, single handed, to deal with the Mexicans, so he got on his horse, with difficulty, and came back to the ranch.
The next thing I knew, Owen, Bill and Fred, each carrying a gun, got into the wagon and drove off.
When anything happened it came with such suddenness there was never opportunity for questions, besides, my association with men had taught me the value of silence—in an emergency.
In a few hours Owen and Fred came back. They had met the eight new herders walking into the ranch to “quit”. They walked back to their respective camps instead, their pace accelerated by a loaded gun pointing at their backs. The cabins were searched, several villainous looking knives confiscated and eight subdued cut-throats returned to the peaceful occupation of herding sheep, under Bill’s watchful eye and loaded gun.
Owen said that it wasn’t at all necessary for the Mexicans to understand English since Bill’s few remarks were sufficiently lurid to attract their attention.
Until other herders could be brought to the ranch, one white man, always armed, stayed at each camp, constantly on guard lest the vindictive herders set fire to the camps or kill the sheep. These were no gentle children from the land of Mañana; we discovered they were desperate characters from Old Mexico, to whom murder was second nature.
Bill’s opinion of the sheep business after his brief experience in the camps could only be published in an expurgated edition. He hated the Mexicans, he hated the sheep, he hated everything connected with them. After seeing his charges safely on board a southbound train, he returned to the ranch with all the joy of an exile.
“I’ve been up against tough men, Mrs. Brook, but that bunch is the worst I ever seen. They’re just like a pack of coyotes, grinnin’ and sneakin’ up behind you, waitin’ ’til they git a chance to finish you. Between listnin’ to the grass grow and pickin’ off sheep ticks, I got plumb locoed settin’ there watchin’ ’em. I jest had to feel my skin every once in a while to be sure I wasn’t growin’ wool.”
If there is anything in suggestion, Carlyle was responsible for the whole affair, otherwise why should we have deferred our drive until the late afternoon and selected Sartor Resartus of all books to read aloud after lunch?
Owen wanted to visit one of the sheep camps to examine the corrals before having the hay stacked there for winter use and he urged us to go with him. His invitation was joyfully accepted. For many weeks we had scarcely left the ranch as Owen’s Mother, who was with us, had been desperately ill. The crisis had passed, however, so we did not hesitate to go off for a few hours, leaving Madame Brook with her nurse. My aunt, Owen’s sister and her two children were at the ranch also, and after so many weeks of anxiety we all felt the relaxation and joyously climbed into the wagon when Owen drove up.
There were summer and winter camps for the sheep and our objective point was an old place, acquired with the ranch, which had been converted into a winter camp. During the summer it was unoccupied.
We drove along laughing and talking. Owen’s nephew carried his gun and kept a sharp lookout for coyotes. It was a glorious day and we were in the mood to appreciate all its beauty.
The meadows, waist deep in native hay, were flecked with the gold of the prairie sun flowers. The wild roses grew in tangled masses everywhere, their perfume mingled with the odor of the sage which yielded up its aromatic sweetness as the wheels crushed the silvery leaves. The plains were mottled with the shade of fleecy clouds which floated lazily across the sky, the changing lights flooded the hills with dazzling sunshine, then veiled them softly with faint cloud shadows. A delicate haze hung over the more distant hills, and behind the mountains thunderheads were gathering.
The road ran directly past the camp and long before we reached it we could see the old house, forbidding in its isolation, standing on a high mesa above the creek. It had been built years before by a settler named La Monte, whose footsteps misfortune had dogged until she overtook him at last. His wife deserted him and, broken in heart and fortune, he had left the country. Bohm held a mortgage on the place and it had passed into his possession.
An air of abandonment surrounded the camp even in winter when it was occupied, but during the summer when it was totally deserted the ghosts of dead happiness stalked unheeded through the silent rooms. Rank weeds filled the yards, the plaintive notes of the wood-doves in the cotton-woods by the creek and the weird, haunting howl of the coyotes were the only sounds to break the silence.
There was a tale connecting old Bohm with the La Monte tragedy for which an affair with Mrs. La Monte was responsible. We were some distance from the house, the rest of the party were intent on watching a big jack-rabbit which was bounding lightly across the prairie, but I was thinking of the wretched story which the sight of the old house always recalled, when the door was slowly opened and a naked man paused for a moment on the threshold then walked down the steps into the yard.
I gave a gasp, my eyes fixed on that advancing figure, the others looked around but in that instant the man had seen us and dropped down into the tall weeds, by which he was completely hidden.
“What’s the matter?” Owen asked, surprised by my exclamation.
“Why, Owen, a man without any clothes on just came out of that door and is there in the weeds.”
Owen turned toward the yard, there was no one in sight; he looked at me in amazement. He knew I must be in earnest! I was not given to “seeing things”.
“Why, that’s absurd, how could you imagine anyone being out here in this deserted place miles and miles from the railroad?”
We were just opposite the house and as if in response to Owen’s question the head and naked breast of a man rose up from behind the weeds. His face was crimson and the thick, black disheveled hair gave him such an aspect of wildness we were appalled.
Owen stopped the horses, the man rose to his feet, calmly looked at us, then turned and walked slowly into the house.
We were speechless. It was like a sudden apparition.
After a moment Owen passed the lines to me.
“Here, Esther, hold the horses while I go in and investigate.”
“Be careful,” was all I could say. There was a chorus of “Don’ts” from the back seat as he got out of the wagon.
I thought of the gun. “Gordon, take your gun and go after your uncle. I know that man is crazy.”
Gordon jumped out and ran toward the house, but before he reached the door we heard a loud burst of singing, a curious rendering of “Ta-rah-rah boom-de-ahy”. In a moment Owen and Gordon reappeared.
“Well, there’s no doubt of his being crazy,” Owen said, “we’ll go to the Bosman ranch where I can get someone to come back with me. I can telephone the Sheriff from there, too.” Then he told us what had happened.
By the time he reached the door the man had put on his outside shirt and was standing in the middle of the bedroom floor. He glared at Owen when he entered and made no reply when asked what he was doing there, then he turned around and walked over to an empty bed frame which stood against the wall, got behind it and gradually slipped down underneath. When he was lying flat on his back on the floor, his feet toward Owen, he began to sing in some broken foreign tongue.
It was uncanny and as we drove on toward the creek I could only say “What next?”
“I don’t know what on earth can come next,” Owen replied. “This is positively the most unexpected and unlikely thing that ever happened.”
We had to drive down a hill before we crossed the creek and at last lost sight of the house, the sound of the wild singing grew more faint and finally died away.
There were no bridges in the country and while at this time there was no flowing water, the sand was wet. We drove down a steep bank into the bed of the creek and were almost across when without the slightest warning the bottom seemed to drop out of the earth beneath us and the wagon sank down.
“Quicksand!”
There was just time for that one exclamation in concert. Owen gave the horses a quick cut with the whip, they sprang forward, caught a footing on the solid sand and were safe. He gave them another cut, but pull as they would they could not move the wagon, which had sunk to the hubs. The double tree broke and the horses were free. Owen and Gordon jumped out on the tongue, holding onto the horses and drove them up the bank. There the rest of us sat, feeling the wagon sinking slowly farther and farther into the deadly, yielding substance.
The end of the wagon-pole rested on the firm sand, so by climbing over the dashboard holding on to it with one hand I was able to work my own way down the wagon tongue until I could grasp an outstretched hand and jump to safety. The others followed my example. The danger was past, but we trembled as we looked back.
It is impossible to distinguish quicksand from ordinary sand by its appearance, but it will not support the slightest weight. It seems to melt into nothing and the sensation is all the more terrifying from its suddenness. The first effect is instantaneous, then the engulfment becomes more gradual.
We were safe but afoot. Owen took the horses.
“Gordon and I will go on to the Bosmans and get another wagon. We won’t be long and you women had better stay here and not walk these three miles.”
I was just about to say “all right” when I happened to glance behind me and there on the bank, silhouetted quite sharply against the sky, stood the figure of a half-clad man.
He was watching every move we made. I pointed to him.
“I think you’d better come with us,” said Owen after one glance, “he might decide to investigate,” and off we all trudged down the dusty road.
Blue black masses of cloud were spreading gradually across the sky and distant thunder muttered ominously.
If a bomb had alighted in the centre of the Bosman ranch, where supper was in progress, it couldn’t have produced a more startling effect than our arrival on foot and the account of our experience. They urged us to spend the night, as the storm was rapidly approaching, but we felt we must go back with Owen.
Mr. Bosman hitched our team to one of his wagons, while Owen telephoned to the Sheriff. We took a few pieces of bread and meat for the poor demented creature at the camp and made another start. Mr. Bosman and his son accompanied us on horseback.
We went by a different road to avoid crossing the creek.
It was dark by the time we reached the La Monte place, everything was still. The four men, with a lighted lantern, entered the house. A wild outburst of singing followed, which told us the same scene was being enacted. The men came out almost immediately, talking earnestly.
Mr. Bosman, an old-timer, had recognized the man as Jean La Monte, he had spoken to him, had called him by name, but no sign of understanding, not one faint glimmer of intelligence had shone from out those wild eyes. Mr. Bosman was almost overcome.
“It’s just terrible to see him that way, he was such a good man. Poor old La Monte, trouble has sure driven him crazy. How on earth he ever got here beats me. There ain’t a thing we can do tonight. We couldn’t handle him if he got violent. There never was a stronger man in this country than Jean La Monte. My God! It’s awful!”
So it was arranged that the Bosmans should go back to their ranch and send word to the Sheriff to be up there early in the morning and that Owen should have some of our men guard the place during the night.
“Poor devil, I don’t believe he’ll go away. He seemed so suspicious he wouldn’t touch the bread, and I believe he’s been here two or three days. See you in the morning,” and the Bosmans disappeared in the darkness.
The thought of the tragedy with which we had so suddenly come in touch, weighed upon us. A living ghost connected us with a past in which we had no part.
Long after we had left the old place behind, the mad singing followed us, except when it was drowned by a sudden crash of thunder. The jagged flashes of lightning illuminated the heavens for a brief second, then left the world shrouded in an impenetrable darkness. Rather than risk going through the creek a second time, we had decided to cut across country.
The prairies were broken by deep gullies washed and torn by the fury of the summer storms. By day, driving was difficult; by night, it was hazardous in the extreme, and after a blinding flash which fairly tore the heavens apart, we were forced to stop the horses for fear of driving into an unseen gulch. The horses, headed toward home and excited and nervous, were hard to control. We drove along in silence, our staring eyes trying to pierce the darkness. It was so dangerous that at last I got out and walked in front of the horses. I could not see; I could only know from the contour of the ground when we were near a gulch or by my outstretched hand tell when we were near the wires of a fence. After a time Gordon took my place, and all the way one or the other walked before the team. The lightning and thunder were terrific, but still it did not rain. We were worn out with fatigue and anxiety when we finally reached the ranch.
Steve was standing with his saddle horse at the crossing of the creek, swinging a lighted lantern. When he heard the sound of the wheels he gave a shout.
“Mr. Brook!”
“All right,” Owen called back. Steve came towards us.
“What on earth happened? We’ve all been plumb worried to death, and Madame Brook, she’s most crazy. I’ve just sent Fred up to the La Monte place to look for you.”
“La Monte place!” we exclaimed as several of the boys, attracted by Steve’s shout, came up. “Get on your horse,” said Owen, quickly, “and overtake him; there’s a madman up there.”
Steve did not wait for further instructions, but flung himself on his horse and tore off after Fred. We hurried in to reassure Owen’s mother, who was nearly frantic. Later, as she bade us “Good-night,” she said very seriously: “Owen, as soon as I am able I am going to Denver. I must be where it is quiet. I simply cannot stand the excitement here.”
As the rain began to fall in torrents, we heard the men who had been detailed to guard the La Monte place galloping off.
An itinerant tailor had pulled into the ranch just before our return, and was peacefully sleeping in his wagon. He was awakened when the horses were driven into the corral, and came out to learn the cause of the commotion. He was so excited when he heard that an insane person was in the vicinity he asked to sleep at the bunk house with the men. They tried to laugh him out of his fears, but his fright was so genuine they told him to “come on.”
The strangeness of the whole affair, the combination of circumstances and pure nervous and physical exhaustion kept Owen and me awake a long time. It seemed I had scarcely fallen asleep when I heard someone knock on the door and say:
“Mr. Brook, Mr. Brook.”
I recognized Mary’s voice, and responded for Owen, who was dead asleep.
“Mrs. Brook, the crazy man is down here at the corral; will you ask Mr. Brook to come out?”
It didn’t take Owen long to dress. It was about five o’clock, and from the window we could see poor old La Monte, still attired in his shirt, sitting in the door of the granary playing with a little cotton-wood switch.
How he had escaped the men who had surrounded the place, and how he had found his way to our ranch were questions no one could answer.
The first intimation of his presence came in the form of a wild yell from the tailor, who had gotten up early and gone down to the corral to feed his horses. This brought all the men to the bunk house door as the terror-stricken little Jew flung himself into their arms.
“Mein Gott! Dot crazy man iss here.”
“You’re the only crazy man on this ranch,” said Bill, taking him by the collar and giving him a shake. “What ails you, anyhow?”
“Oh, he iss here, he iss here,” wailed the tailor. “He ain’t got on no clothes, and we’ll all be kilt.” The boys left him and went out to investigate.
It was true. La Monte was there, and after a futile effort on Bill’s part to get him to talk the boys retired to the bunk house and sent for Owen.
“Gee,” Bill said later, “that feller was the doggondest lookin’ thing I ever seen, settin’ there in what was left of his shirt. His legs was all tore by the fence wires or brambles, his teeth was chatterin’ and he was just blue with cold. His eyes had a look in ’em that give me the shivers. I don’t wonder he scart that there Jew into a fit. I wasn’t very anxious to come clost to him, neither. I ain’t scart of anything that’s human, but he ain’t human, goin’ ’round folks dressed like that.” Bill was a stickler for convention.
“That’s the first thing a person usually does when he goes crazy, Bill—takes off all his clothes.”
Bill gave me an incredulous look.
“Gosh, I hope I’ll be killed ridin’ or somethin’ and not lose my mind first. It ain’t decent.”
The poor demented creature would not speak nor pay any attention to the other men, but when he saw Steve he smiled as he asked:
“You’ve come to take me away from them, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Steve said. “Will you go with me now?”
La Monte stood up.
“Yes, if you won’t let them get me; those witches want to drag me back to hell, but I’ve fooled them this time. I’ve almost caught up with him once or twice and they drag me back.” And he walked off quietly by Steve’s side.
Steve took him to the bunkhouse, gave him some coffee and made him lie down on his bed. While Steve sat beside him La Monte slept fitfully, but at the slightest move started and tried to get up. Steve fell in with all his vagaries; he promised to help him escape the witches and to help him find the person for whom he seemed to be searching.
“Where was he last?” Steve asked, hoping to find some clue.
“Why, on his horse.” La Monte sat up and stared wildly into Steve’s eyes. “Don’t you know, he’s always on a horse, a big black horse. He’s there just ahead of me, he’s always just ahead of me,” and he jumped up and started toward the door.
Steve calmed him again and he fell back on the pillows and lay there in silence, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Six crestfallen cow-punchers returned from the La Monte place. No one knew when the man had left the camp, no one had even caught a glimpse of him. His clothes they had found in the well.
The Sheriff and his posse came at last. Steve kept his hand on the arm of La Monte as they approached the wagon. It was a tense moment; we were all watching but hidden, fearful lest some trifle would arouse the demon of violence. The men were all armed.
La Monte put his foot up on the step of the wagon, then took it off, shook his head, turned and walked toward the granary. We held our breath. Steve alone followed him.
“Come on; you’re going with me, aren’t you?”
There was no reply. With his eyes fixed on the ground La Monte ignored Steve completely. Suddenly he stopped and picked up something, the little cotton-wood switch to which the leaves still clung. Holding it tightly, he walked back to the wagon, got in, Steve by his side, and they drove off.
They were scarcely out of sight when Charley came dashing up with sixty dollars in gold which he had found under a pile of mud at the La Monte place. Owen sent him to overtake the wagon.
“Is this yours?” Charley asked, as he rode up to them, holding the money out toward La Monte, who only shook his head and looked off across the prairie. Charley turned the money over to Steve.
When they reached the town, La Monte seemed to become confused and suspicious. He would not speak. He was judged insane and committed to the asylum. Still in charge of the Sheriff, Steve and two other men, he was put on the train.
“Where did you get him?” the conductor asked the Sheriff.
“Up in the country, at the A L ranch.”
“Oh, yes, I know that place; it used to be the old Bohm——”
He never finished his sentence, for La Monte, with a cry, sprang to his feet, looked wildly about, brushed them aside and jumped through the window.
The train was stopped, and they ran back to where he had fallen. He had broken his leg, but in spite of that fought them off with superhuman strength. With the help of the train crew, he was overpowered at last, bound and taken back to the train.
Steve told us later it was the most terrible experience he had ever been through.
“I just couldn’t stand the look in his eyes when they got him to the asylum. He didn’t say nothin’, just kept moanin’ all the time. He’d been there for five years, and no one knew how he got away. I suppose it would a come anyhow, but it seemed like it was the mention of Bohm’s name that set him off.”
Within a radius of many miles there were only three small children, and about them our Christmas festivities revolved. They furnished the excuse for the tree, but no work was too pressing, no snow too deep to prevent the boys from bringing the Christmas tree and greens from a small clump of pines which stood on top of a distant hill, like a dark green island in the midst of the prairie sea.
Early on Christmas morning Steve started out with gaily bedecked baskets for the Mexicans, and at the ranch the greatest excitement prevailed. I dashed frantically between the bunkhouse and our kitchen to be certain that nothing was forgotten. The big turkeys were stuffed to the point of bursting, all the “trimmings” were in readiness, and the last savory mince pies were in the ovens.