Part 3

We drove over to another claim shack a mile or so from the Reeds’, where Bob was indeed ploughing for Maggie. To him, too, it was quite a matter of course.

The affinity problem in this country really appeared simple. Mrs. Reed evidently accepted Maggie as a natural factor in the situation, and her marital relations were not disturbed in the least, as long as Bob finished his own ploughing first. That woman was truly oriental in her cast of mind.

Maggie Lane’s mother and brother lived near at hand, also. One brother, Tom, was Reed’s constant companion. Altogether it was a perfectly harmonious arrangement.

The Lane family records were not quite clear. Acquaintance revealed that. They all seemed to have a penchant for leaving the straight and narrow path for the broad highway of individual choice. Obviously Maggie’s position did not affect her family, nor her social standing in the community.

Whenever I drove about the country without Owen, I took Charley with me on horseback. Gates were hard to open, and my team of horses was not thoroughly broken. Besides, there were always the possibilities of the unexpected on these lonely prairies. I called Charley my Knight of the Garter. When he knew in advance he was going with me, he went up to the bunkhouse “to slick up.” If it chanced to be summer, he emerged without a coat, his blue shirt sleeves held up by a pair of beribboned pink garters, a pair of heavy stamped leather cuffs on his wrists, and a heavy stamped leather collar holding his neck like a vise.

I suggested one morning that the collar might be uncomfortably warm. He met my objection with scorn.

“Hot, Mrs. Brook? Why, that ain’t hot. You see, the leather kinda ab-sorbs the sweat and makes it nice and cool.”

One day we were out to take the washing to Mrs. Reed. I had asked Bob to take it Saturday night, when he and Tom Lane had “gone over home” to finish that ploughing. I supposed he had done so, but when he came back on Monday, he said he had “plumb forgot it, but would take it next time.”

We had to pass through Maggie’s claim on the way. She was standing at her door, as we stopped to open the gate. There was no freshly ploughed ground in sight, and I idly asked if she had finished her ploughing.

“No,” she replied, “I kinda looked for Bob over Sunday to finish it, but I reckon he couldn’t get off. I wish you’d tell him to stop here the next time he goes home.”

We drove on, and I wondered what Maggie “reckoned” he couldn’t get away from,—the ranch or his wife.

I gave Mrs. Reed the clothes and I told her Bob had forgotten to bring them over with him Saturday. She looked at me curiously.

“Didn’t Bob work Sunday?”

“No,” I replied, “none of the men worked Sunday. Tom and Bob both said they were going home.”

Mrs. Reed frowned.

“Oh, I suppose Maggie had somethin’ she wanted him to do.”

Charley started to answer, but my look stopped him.

“I’ll have your clothes ready Saturday.” Mrs. Reed slammed the gate and turned toward the house.

“Gee,” said Charley, riding up close beside the buggy, “them two women’ll be fightin’ over Bob yet, if he ain’t careful. Why, that’s funny”—he looked at me questioningly,—“Bob wasn’t to Maggie’s, either, was he?”

“No,” I answered, “I was just wondering about that myself. Perhaps he went to town, instead.” A coyote ran out of a gulch. Charley with a whoop started in pursuit, and the entire incident passed from my mind.

We were going in to supper, when three men drove up to the door. Whenever strangers appeared, I always had a moment of uncertainty as to whether they were to be sent to the bunkhouse with the men, or invited to our own table. Instantaneous social classification is rather difficult when there are no distinguishing external signs. And it had to be done at the moment. The men asked for Owen.

We had no idea who they were, so our conversation during supper was limited to impersonal topics, such as the present, past and future weather, the condition of the range and stock—nothing calculated to offend the delicate sensibilities of a Governor, a ranchman or an ex-convict, inasmuch as our guests might come under any of these heads. Entertaining on a ranch is democratic in the extreme.

They went out with Owen after supper. From the window I could see four dim figures sitting on their heels by the corral gate, talking earnestly.

It was late when they drove away. I was putting up the mail, as Owen entered. His announcement drove all idea of the Postal Laws and regulations out of my head.

“Well, they’ve gone, and have taken Bob and Tom Lane with them.”

“Mercy! what for? Who were they, anyhow?”

“The Sheriff and two Pinkerton men,” he answered, gravely. “They have arrested Bob and Tom for the hold-up.”

“Owen,” I gasped, standing up so suddenly that the U. S. mail flew in all directions. “You don’t believe they were the ones, do you?”

“Not for a minute,” Owen answered, with conviction. “And I told them so, but it seems the men have bad records and the description fits them. ‘A tall man, with a Southern accent, and a short, slight, smaller man.’ So they arrested them.” Owen sat down. “It’s absurd. In the first place, they couldn’t have gotten to the railroad in time to hold up the limited. They didn’t leave here until nine o’clock, and in the next place, they went home.”

“But they didn’t.” I felt suddenly weak in my knees. “I took the clothes over to Mrs. Reed, and both she and Maggie were wondering why they hadn’t come.”

Owen looked at me in blank amazement, and then asked why on earth I hadn’t told him.

“Good heavens, Owen, I haven’t seen you a moment alone. And, besides, I never supposed it made any difference _where_ the men went. Hereafter if the angel Gabriel comes to work for us, I shall insist upon knowing where he spends his nights. Really,” I began to laugh, “you know, if we ever leave this ranch, the only place we shall feel at home is in the penitentiary. None but people with ‘records’ and ‘pasts’ will interest us.” I was half amused and wholly excited, for even to have a speaking acquaintance with the leading figures in a hold-up and murder was something my wildest flight of imagination could have scarcely pictured a few months before. Owen was really serious.

“Well, I must say,” he shook his head and looked down at the floor, “it begins to look as though Bob and Tom might have some trouble proving they weren’t the men. It’s serious for them, since they weren’t at home. The description certainly fits them.” Owen took up the paper. “‘One man about five feet eight inches high, slender and light mustache, wearing old clothes and a rusty black slouch hat. The other man five feet ten inches tall, slender, short, black mustache, about forty years old, spoke with a Southern accent, wore an old black suit and an old striped rubber coat.’”

“Go on,” I said, as Owen started to put the paper down; “I want to hear it.” He read on:

“‘The men were supposed to have boarded the train coming from Denver, at a small station this side of Star. The Pullmans were on the rear. When the train stopped at the station, the Pullman conductor went out on the back platform and saw two men crouching in the vestibule. He told them to get off, but at that moment the train started, and they rose up, covering him with their revolvers. One got behind him, holding his gun against him, the other in front. They handed him a gunny-sack and made him carry it. In this manner they entered the body of the car.

“‘In the first car they got very little plunder, and pushed on into the next. As they entered the second sleeper, they met the porter, who was forced to elevate his hands and precede them. While they were engaged in robbing the passengers in the second Pullman, the train conductor entered, and was compelled to elevate his hands, with the rest.

“‘They paused at one berth and seemed very much incensed that the woman it contained was so slow in handing over her valuables. They swore and were very impatient. Suddenly, a man in the next berth thrust his head out between the curtains. He had a revolver in his hand and fired, but instantly another shot rang out from the robber in the rear, and the man sank back in his berth.

“‘After the shooting, the robbers appeared more nervous and hurried. When they had gone through the car, they took the gunny-sack and emptied the contents into their pockets. One of the robbers pulled the bell-rope, but evidently not hard enough, for the train continued on its way. Swearing, they compelled the porter and two conductors to stand out on the platform with them, covered by their revolvers, until the train slowed down at Paxton, when they swung off to the ground and disappeared into these vast prairie lands, which are so sparsely settled one can drive for a day without seeing a person.

“‘As soon as the train stopped, the passengers hurried to the berth of the man who had been shot, but he had been instantly killed.

“‘The Sheriff was notified, and a posse started in pursuit, but the robbers had vanished.’” Owen put down the paper, and we sat up far into the night talking it over.

* * * * *

Subsequently our ranch, our horses, and Owen’s opinions were freely quoted in the press. Bob and Tom were positively identified by the three trainmen as the hold-ups. They were retained a week in jail, and then suddenly released on “insufficient proof.”

Owen did not believe in point of time they could have held up the train, for he had talked to Bob that Saturday night until after nine o’clock, but everybody, including Owen, held them capable of it. The point was simply that they had not happened to be there.

Later Bob and Tom returned to the ranch, incensed at their arrest and detention, but no one ever learned where they were that memorable Saturday night.

Moreover, the men who held up the train were never found, and again one of those strange tragedies of the West ended in vagueness.

I was struck by the repetition of that phenomenon “A crime, a tragedy.” At first indignation and an earnest attempt to find the offenders and bring them to justice, then delay, and the whole affair shoved into the background by something newer.

Life here seemed to flow by like a stream at flood-tide. Who could stem that current long enough to catch those bits of human frailty floating on the surface, or follow them down stream to the sea?

V

A GOVERNMENT CONTRACT

From the first, I had been conscious of a fascination about the West impossible to describe. Its charm was too enigmatical and elusive for definition.

There was a suggestion of the sea in that vast circle and in the long undulations of the prairie, as though great waves had become solidified, then clothed in softest green. No sign of restless movement was apparent in those billows which stretched away from the mountains into the vague distance. All was still. The towering mountain itself was the symbol of infinite peace and rest. Yet there, in the midst of that unbroken serenity, stood a cluster of buildings, the center of the greatest activity, where life was vital and thrilling as though a few human beings had been flung through space and dropped onto those silent plains to work out the age-long fight for existence.

Peace and conflict, silence and sound, absence of life and life in its most complex form; contrasts—everywhere and in everything—it could be defined, it was in “contrasts” that the fascination of the West was expressed.

Ranch life might be difficult; it was never commonplace. The mere sight of a lone horseman on a distant hill suggested greater possibilities of excitement than a multitude of people in a city street.

Each day brought so many new experiences, some of comedy, some of tragedy, that I began to look for them.

After the Government had awarded a contract to furnish “150 horses of a dark bay color for cavalry use” our life became dramatic, with the riders cast in the leading roles.

The stage-setting consisted of a large circular corral, twelve feet high, built of heavy pitch-pine posts and three-inch planks with a massive snubbing post set in the center. Since there was “standing room only,” cracks were at a premium.

_The dramatis personae_ were two tall, slender-waisted cow-punchers who walked with a slightly rolling gait, due to extremely high-heeled boots, much too small for them. In their right hands they carried a coiled rope swinging easily. Their costumes were composed of cloth or corduroy trousers, dark-colored shirts, nondescript vests of some sort, dark blue or red handkerchiefs knotted loosely about their necks, expensively-made boots, the tops of which were covered by the legs of their “pants”; spurs, of course; high-priced Stetson hats, the crowns creased to a peak, and frequently encircled by the skin of a rattle-snake, and exceedingly soft gauntlet-gloves. It was my observation that the old-time cow-puncher wore gloves at all times. He did remove them when eating, and, I presume, before going to bed, but they were always in evidence.

The “Star” is a frightened, snorting “broncho,” or unbroken horse which for the five or six years of its life had been running loose. Now it was to be “busted.” It is cut out from the bunch and run into the corral and the gate securely fastened.

One of the men stands near the post, the other does the roping. Facing the men, the broncho stands still, his head high, his eyes wild and full of fear. An abrupt motion by one of the riders starts him on a frantic run around and around in a circle. A sudden throw of the rope and both front feet are in the loop. Quick as lightning the man settles back on it, both front legs are pulled out from under the horse and he falls on his side; the helper runs to his head, seizes the muzzle and twists it straight up, thrusts one knee against the neck and holds the top of the head to the ground. The roper puts two or three more loops above the front hoofs, passes the rope, now doubled forming a loop, between the legs, to one of the hind feet, then pulls on the end that he has all the time held. This action draws all three feet together. One or two more loops about them, a hitch and the horse is tied so that it is impossible for him to get up. While the broncho lies helpless, the saddle and bridle are put on, a large handkerchief passed under the straps of the bridle over the eyes and made fast. The rope is taken off. Feeling a measure of freedom, he staggers to his feet and stands. The cinches are drawn very tight, the rider mounts, gives a sharp order to “let him go,” the man on the ground pulls the handkerchief from the eyes of the horse, and jumps aside.

For a moment the broncho stands dazed, then jumps, throws his head between his front legs almost to the ground, squeals, humps his back and pitches around and around the corral in a vain attempt to rid himself of the fearsome thing on his back. The circular corral, limited in space, gives little opportunity to succeed; the rider has the advantage. The horse stops pitching and runs frantically about the corral, at length tiring himself out. Dripping with sweat, trembling from fear and excitement, he comes to a slow trot. The gate is thrown open. Making a dash for freedom, he plunges through the outside corrals, the horseman or “circler” close beside him, trying to keep between the half-crazed broncho and any object he might run into. The horse bolts out into the open; his is the advantage now, and he makes the rider ride. He bucks this way and that, twisting, turning, jumping and running, the man on his back so racked and shaken it seems incredible that his body can hold together. They tear out over the prairie in a wild race, far off over the hills, out of sight now. After a time they come back on a walk. The broncho has been busted—the act has ended.

Should the horse rear and throw himself backward, there is the greatest danger that the man may be caught under him and killed, it happens so quickly, but these quiet, diffident chaps are absolutely fearless, past masters in the art of riding, facing death each time they ride a new horse, but facing it with the supreme courage of the commonplace, sitting calmly in the saddle, racked, shaken, jolted until at times the blood streams from their nose, yet after a short rest the rider “took up the next one” quite as though nothing at all had happened. All the horses had to be broken and then made ready for the inspection of the Government officials, and the boys were working with them early and late.

It was an unusual experience to live in daily association with these men, in whom were combined characteristics of the Knights of the Round Table and those peculiar to the followers of Jesse James.

In Douglas, Wyoming, there stands a monument erected by the friends of a local character who, curiously, bore the same surname as the famous explorer for whom Pike’s Peak was named. Chiseled out of the solid granite these opposing traits are epitomized in this unique epitaph:

“Underneath this stone in eternal rest Sleeps the wildest one of the wayward west; He was gambler and sport and cowboy, too, And he led the pace in an outlaw crew; He was sure on the trigger and staid to the end, But he was never known to quit on a friend; In the relations of death all mankind is alike, But in life there was only one George W. Pike.”

Strange, contrasting personalities—in awe of nobody, quite as ready to converse familiarly with the President as with Owen, but probably preferring Owen because they knew he was a fine horseman.

Persons and things outside their own world held but slight interest for them. At first I had a hazy idea that I might be the medium through which a glimpse of the outside world would broaden the narrow limits of their lives. I planned to get books for them and to arrange a reading room, but my dream was soon shattered upon discovering that this broader view possessed no charm. Indeed, when I offered to teach Joe to read he refused my offer without a moment’s hesitation, firmly announcing “I ain’t goin’ to learn to read, ’cause then I’d have to!” “Why, Mrs. Brook,” he added, looking with scorn at the book I held in my hand, “I wouldn’t be bothered the way you are for nothin’, havin’ to read all them books in there,” nodding his head in the direction of our cherished library. This was certainly a fresh point of view regarding education. About the same time I found that the Sears and Roebuck or Montgomery Ward catalogue might be fittingly called the Bible of the plains. Night after night the boys pored over them absorbed in the illustrations, of hats, gloves, boots and saddles, the things most dear to their hearts, for on their riding equipment alone they spent a small fortune.

Improvident and generous, however great their vices might be, their lives were free from petty meanness; the prairies had seemed to

“Give them their own deep breadth of view The largeness of the cloudless blue.”

The religion of the cow-puncher? My impression was that he had none, for certainly he subscribed to no conventional creed or dogma. Yet what was it that gave him a code of honor which made cheating or a lie an unforgivable offense and a man guilty of either an outcast scorned by his associates, and what was it that would have made him go without bread or shelter that a woman or child might not suffer?

Rough and gentle, brutal and tender, good and bad, not angel at one time and devil at another, but rather saint and sinner at the same time. Little of religious influence came into his life, and as for Bibles—there were none.

I remember the story of a Bishop who was travelling through the West and was asked to hold service in one of the larger towns. When he arrived he found that he had left his own Bible on the train, so he sent the hotel clerk out to borrow one. After some time the man returned with a Bible, explaining to the Bishop that it was the only one in town. “I went everywhere and finally got this one. It’s the one they use at the Court House to swear on!”

The cow-puncher, however, could swear without any assistance, for usually “cussin’” formed a very necessary part of his conversation. But as I sat at my window sewing one summer morning I heard a violent argument at the corral between Fred and a new “hay-hand” from Kansas. Fred’s voice was decisive.

“That’s all right, but you cut out that cussin’ here—the Missus’ window’s open, and she’ll hear you.” And the heart of “the Missus” warmed to her Knight of the Corral.

There was another incident, the true significance of which I did not know until three years after it occurred, when the foreman of the L—— ranch met Owen in Denver and inquired for me, adding:

“Well, I’ll never forget Mrs. Brook. Do you remember the day we was shippin’ them white faces from the Junction about three years ago, when you and Mrs. Brook happened to come along and stopped to watch us? Well, one of the best men I had was brandin’ a calf when it kicked him and he swore at it proper; all of a sudden he looked up and saw Mrs. Brook and another lady standin’ on that high platform by the yards watchin’ us. He was so plumb beat, he threw down his brandin’ iron, took up his hat, walked across the street to a saloon and began drinkin’ and stayed drunk for three days, and there I was, short-handed, with a train-load of cows and calves to ship.”

Contrast again—chivalry carried to the extent of being drunk for three days because he had sworn before a woman!

The horses were all being ridden and trained for the inspection which was soon to take place. Each man had his own “string,” those he had broken, and every day they were put through their paces. When inspected, they had to be walked, trotted and run up and down before the officers, stopped instantly, and the veterinarian was supposed to put his ear to their chests to see if their breathing was regular and their hearts sound. Now, Western horses are not accustomed to having their hearts tested, and I noticed that while the riders did everything else that was required, they tacitly agreed “to let the vet do his own listnin’.”

The day that the Army officers were to arrive, as Owen was getting ready to drive over to the station to meet them, I remarked casually that I hoped nothing would happen to upset their peace of mind, as it was very important that the honorable representatives of the Government be kept in a good humor.

The house was still in an unsettled condition but for the time being it had been brought into sufficient order to insure their comfort. The larder was stocked with the best the markets afforded and the horses were being “gentled” daily.

When guests came on the train our dinner might be served at any hour up to ten o’clock at night for after their arrival at the station there was the sixteen mile drive to the ranch—and anything might happen. It was late that particular night when I heard them at the meadow gate. I couldn’t understand why they stopped so long. There were sounds of confusion and as they entered the house one of the officers held up a finger dripping with blood, the Colonel’s hat was awry, his clothes covered with mud, and they all appeared agitated and excited. I could not imagine what had happened. Then they all began to tell me at once.