Part 6

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.”

IX

THE UNEXPECTED

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.”

X

AROUND THE CHRISTMAS FIRE

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.

Behind the closed doors of the living room the tall tree, festooned with ropes of popcorn and garlands of gaudy paper chains, glittered and glowed with its tinsel ornaments and candles.

Owen divided his attention between his “Santa Claus” costume and pails of water, which he placed near the tree in case it should catch fire.

The boys spent most of the morning “slicking up” and put on their red neckties, the outward and visible sign of some important event, then passed the remaining hours sitting around anxiously awaiting the arrival of the guests of honor and—dinner.

Sometimes members of the family were with us or some friends were lured from the city by the promise of a “really, truly Christmas,” and there were always a few lonely bachelors to whom the holidays, otherwise, would have brought only memories.

Christmas was our one great annual celebration, a day of cheer and happiness, in which everyone joyously shared. It was a new experience in the life of the undomesticated cow-puncher, but he took as much satisfaction in the fact that “Our tree was a whole lot prettier than the one I’ve saw in town” as though he had won a roping contest.

Each year the children and their parents were invited for Christmas dinner. They might be delayed en route by deep snowdrifts, out of which they had to dig themselves, but they always arrived eventually. We came to have a sincere affection for those children, gentle little wild flowers of the prairie.

They were very sweet, perfectly ingenuous, gazing in round-eyed wonder upon things which to most of us were commonplace.

I never thought of its being anything new in their brief experience until at dinner one of the small boys turned to his mother after tasting a piece of celery and said, “Look, Mamma, ’tain’t cabbage and ’tain’t onions. What is it?”

They positively trembled with excitement as they learned to read and laboriously spelled out the words in the simple books we gave them. They craved knowledge as a starving man craves bread.

As Santa Claus, Owen wore a ruddy mask with a long white beard and bristling eyebrows, a fur cap pulled down over his ears, heavy felt boots and his long fur overcoat. He looked and acted the part so perfectly the children for years insisted that “there is a Santa Claus ’cause we’ve seen him.”

The first Christmas everyone was gathered about the tree waiting for this mysterious personage to appear when Owen suddenly thought of bells; he must have sleigh-bells. No self-respecting Santa Claus was complete without them. I was in despair; there wasn’t a sleigh-bell within a hundred miles, but Owen insisted that he must jingle. At last after a great deal of argument and searching for something which would give forth bell-like sounds, he finally pranced out before the spell-bound audience with my silver table bell sewed to the top of one of his boots. He had to prance because the bell refused to tinkle unless it was shaken, and for the ensuing hour he pranced so vigorously that between the exercise and the fur coat he nearly perished from heat.