Part 7

After dinner we all assembled in the big living-room, where my disguised husband presented each person with some little gift and ridiculous toy, accompanied by a still more ridiculous rhyme, over which the boys roared. They enjoyed the jokes most of all. No one escaped; Owen and I came in for our share with the rest. Mine usually bore veiled or open allusion to my particular pet lamb which had developed strong butting proclivities. He butted friend and foe indiscriminately, so that even my fond eyes were not blinded to his faults, and Owen’s remarks were most uncomplimentary after he had acted as a shield for us when “Jackie” had chased my sister and me all about the yard.

Later in the afternoon everybody scattered—our house guests amused themselves as they chose, riding, driving or hunting coyotes, the boys rode over to the neighboring ranches or went to “town,” the store and saloon at the railroad station sixteen miles away, but I spent an hour or two playing with the children or reading to them until their father “brought the team around,” their happy mother climbed up on the high seat of the lumber-wagon and, clinging to dolls, trains and toys, three blissfully happy but perfectly exhausted little children were wrapped up in quilts and coats, stowed into the back of the wagon and started on the twenty-mile drive “back home.”

It had been an eventful day in their short, barren lives, but for us it was the best part of Christmas, except the evening, when we all gathered about the big fireplace which drew everyone into its circle like a magnet.

There was nothing prosaic about those who grouped themselves around the great stone fireplaces on the ranches in the old days. Here again were found those contrasts, so striking and unexpected; university men who had come West for adventure or investment, men of wealth whose predisposition to weak lungs had sent them in exile to the wilderness, modest young Englishmen, those younger sons so often found in the most out-of-the-way corners of the earth, and who, through the sudden demise of a near relative, had such a startling way of becoming earls and lords over night; adventurous Scotchmen, brilliant young Irishmen, all smoking contentedly there in the firelight and discussing the “isms” and “ologies” and every other subject under heaven. But most interesting of all were their own reminiscences.

We were all sitting around the fire one Christmas night when the conversation turned on adventure, and everyone promised to tell the most thrilling experience he had ever had.

Two of the men were lying on the big bearskin before the fire. One, a mining engineer, told of having been captured by bandits and held for a ransom, in some remote corner of Mexico where he had gone to examine a very famous mine. The other, a surveyor for the Union Pacific Railroad, had been lost during a storm and, becoming snow-blind, crawled for five miles on his hands and knees, feeling the trail with naked, half frozen hands until he reached the creek down which he waded until he came to the camp.

In a big chair, the firelight playing over her slender figure, sat Janet Courtland, an Eastern woman, who as a mere girl had come West with her young husband and had gone up into Montana where he had bought a large cattle ranch.

“Come on, Mrs. Courtland, you’re next,” the Surveyor said as he finished his story.

“Well,” Janet began, “Will and I have had so many experiences I scarcely know which was the most exciting, but I think our encounter with the Indians was the most thrilling from first to last.

“Will had to go into Miles City on business and I went with him for great unrest had been reported among the Indians and he didn’t want to leave me on the ranch alone. We had been in town only a few days when we heard that they were on the war path and Will felt he must go back to the ranch. He wanted me to stay in town, but I wouldn’t. If he was going back I was going with him, so we started in the buck-board on that long eighty-five mile drive. I’ll never forget it. The day was fearfully hot and we were constantly looking out for Indians. We had gone about half-way, when we came over the top of a hill and saw a band of Indians just below us. They saw us before we could turn back, we had to go on, and as we came towards them they formed into two lines so that we had to drive between them. It was horrible.” And Janet gave a shiver at the recollection. “I’ll never forget as long as I live those frightful, painted faces. Not an Indian moved; we passed through the line and had gone a short distance beyond, when we heard the report of a gun. Will clapped his hand to his side and said: ‘My God, I’m shot. Drive as fast as you can’—and he threw the lines to me.

“I lashed the horses and we fairly tore. Everything was still, there was only that one shot, the Indians made no attempt to follow us. We did not speak. Will was lying back in the buckboard, his hand pressed to his side. When we had gone out of sight of the Indians I stopped the horses and asked Will where he was struck.

“‘In the side; I can feel the blood oozing through my fingers,’ he said. He took his hand away and gave an exclamation as he looked at it. It was wet but not with blood. We could not find the sign of a wound. We got out to investigate and discovered—that just as we passed the Indians the cork flew out of a bottle of root beer we had in the back of the buckboard and struck him in the side. Poor old Willie, no wonder he thought he was shot,” and Janet smiled at her husband, who laughed with the rest of us.

“Now, Owen,” he said, “I know some of the things you’ve been through, so you can’t beg off,” and Owen began his story.

“In the spring of ’81 I came West to visit my brother, Ed., on his ranch in Wyoming. I was a tenderfoot, never having been on the plains before—and yet—I had scarcely arrived when I announced that the one thing I wanted to do was to kill a buffalo. He told me that if my heart was set on it I should have the chance, but that it was dangerous sport even for experienced hunters, as a buffalo frequently turns and gores the horse before it can get out of the way.

“The very next day the dead body of a professional hunter was brought to the ranch. He had wounded a buffalo bull which had turned, caught with his horn the horse he was riding, thrown him to the ground and gored the hunter to death. The sight of his mangled body was shocking and made a terrible impression on my mind, but my purpose was not changed.

“My brother assigned Al. Turpin the responsibility of serving as my guide. He was one of the best riders on the ranch, cool-headed and a good shot. We took breakfast before daylight in order to get an early start. After riding a considerable distance three dark objects were discovered far away on a hill which sloped toward us. A pair of field glasses confirmed the opinion that they were buffalo lying down. We rode in their direction and kept out of sight, except as we peered cautiously over the top of each succeeding ridge until it was possible to approach no nearer in concealment, when we rode to the top of the nearest hill and were in full view. The buffalo saw us and quick as lightning were on their feet running away. We sent our horses at full speed down the slope, across a level piece of ground and up the hill after them. We were gaining rapidly. My horse was the faster of the two and was in the lead. He was one of the best trained cow ponies I have ever ridden and was my brother’s favorite for cutting out cattle.

“When about thirty yards behind the buffalo, one stopped. The bit I was using was severe. I pulled and threw my horse back on his haunches. The buffalo was an immense bull. He appeared to me as big as a mountain. He turned facing me, his body at an angle, cocked his head on the side, then threw it toward the ground and, quicker than a flash, came down the hill like a landslide.

“My horse struggled against the bit and tried to jump toward the buffalo and turn him as he would a steer. I tried to swing his head away and dug my spurs into his sides to make him move, but he did not understand why he should run from a buffalo. He did respond a little and turned so that his haunches were toward the great brute coming down the hill.

“The head of the buffalo was in striking distance. He looked like a great devil. His beadlike eyes flashed fire. The next instant I expected the horse to be pitched down the hill. I could feel myself thrown into the air and then gored to death when I struck the ground. I could see the mangled body of the dead hunter.

“While my six-shooter was a powerful gun, I knew that if I should shoot the brute in the head, the ball would not go through the mass of matted hair and the thick skull. Still there was nothing else to do. I thought my time had come. In order to hit him at all it was necessary to shoot over my left arm. In my haste I pulled the trigger too soon. The loud report startled the horse into a run and turned the buffalo. Its discharge, so near my head, gave me a terrible shock. I thought the shot had blown away all the right side of my head and I put up my hand to keep my brains from falling out, but there were neither brains nor blood on my hand. The bullet had just grazed my head and gone through the rim of my hat. That brute looked like an infuriated demon. I couldn’t have been more frightened if I had met the devil himself at the mouth of hell.

“When it was all over, I was not in a mood for challenging him again, but as he loped away, Al. ran his horse abreast and from a safe distance put a shot into his brisket. He fell dead. Believe me, I have had many close calls, but that was the one time in all my life when I was really scared.”

“What extraordinary experiences people do have in this country,” Will Mason exclaimed, as he leaned forward to light a fresh cigar. “Speaking of Ed. reminds me of a strange coincidence which happened the year after he came West.

“We had been together the year before in New York, where we had met a chap named Courtney Drake. He was a Yale man and a member of the University Club, so we saw quite a good deal of him. He was very congenial and one of the most lovable fellows I ever knew. He was married but he seldom spoke of his wife and we never met her.

“One morning we picked up the paper and were horrified to read that Mrs. Courtney Drake had shot her maid. There it was in glaring headlines, the whole wretched affair. The Drakes were one of the oldest and wealthiest families in New York and it was spicy reading for the scandal lovers I assure you.

“It seems that Drake had gotten mixed up with this woman when he first came out of college and in order to force him to marry her she told him that she was soon to have a child. He wouldn’t believe it, and how she worked it I don’t know. She must have been mighty clever, for she and her maid got hold of a baby somewhere and she made Courtney believe it was hers and that he was the father—so he married her.

“They had only been married a short time when the maid began to demand large sums of ‘hush money’ and Mrs. Drake gave her whatever she asked, for she was in mortal dread of having Drake discover the truth. The girl found blackmail so profitable she became more and more insistent in her demands and nearly drove Mrs. Drake wild. At last she could endure it no longer and in a perfect frenzy, shot and killed the maid and then the whole thing came out. Mrs. Drake was sent to prison, where she died later, but Courtney vanished utterly after the trial—no one knew what became of him.

“The next fall Ed. and I came West and two years later were up in the Jackson’s Hole country with a party, shooting. Ed. and one of the guides went out one morning to get some ducks, but in a short time they came back to camp carrying the dead body of Courtney Drake. They had come across his body on the shore of a small lake, lying face down in the mud. There was a single bullet hole in the back of his head.

“Think of his having been found out there in the wilderness by the only man in the country who knew who he was! Talk about chance,” Will sighed, “Poor devil, he was living out there under an assumed name. His family had no idea where he was. Ed. notified them and then took his body East.

“Just after his death Drake’s partner produced a bill of sale for the entire ranch and took possession of it. Everyone suspected him of the murder, but it couldn’t be proved. About three years later the man killed his wife and at the time of his conviction the question of Drake’s murder was brought up and he confessed. Isn’t it strange the way things happen?” Will’s question was general. “What on earth do you suppose sent Ed. Brook into the Jackson’s Hole country at that one time of all others?”

No one answered.

“I wonder if all new countries abound in such tragic mysteries?” The Surveyor looked up at me.

“What tragic mysteries have you encountered, Mrs. Brook, that makes you speak so feelingly?”

Just then the clock struck twelve and I got up.

“It’s too late for more mysteries, it’s time to go to bed—and we don’t want tragedies to keep us wide awake on Christmas night.”

“Oh, come on Esther, tell us your most thrilling experience,” they begged. “We won’t move a step until you do.”

“Marrying Owen,” I replied, looking over at my unsuspecting husband, “I’ve never had a chance to get my breath since.”

And amid a shout of laughter the Christmas party broke up.

XI

TED

Ted landed in our midst with all the attendant violence of a meteor. He didn’t arrive, he landed, bag and baggage, and until his departure weeks later our tranquil existence was sufficiently hectic to suit even Bill.

After numerous letters from his doting aunt, we reluctantly consented to look after Ted while she was in Europe recuperating from a nervous break-down. At the end of the first week, we understood why Aunt Elizabeth found recuperation necessary, and I suggested to Owen, it might be well to engage our passage on a later steamer, for I had a premonition that my own nerves might require a rest after two months of Ted’s strenuous companionship.

He wasn’t bad; there was not a bad thing about him. He was just overflowing with youth and energy, which had been pent up for years, between boarding school in the winter and Newport in the summer.

Motherless, fatherless, rich, neglected or over-indulged by a none too wise aunt, Ted was an appealing young person, a character easily to be made or marred by circumstances.

He looked like a member of the celestial choir—blue-eyed, fair-haired and mild—but he produced the effect of a Kansas cyclone.

There was nothing he did not see, there was nothing he did not hear and there was nothing he did not do. Even on eighty thousand acres of land his activities were somewhat limited.

He was wildly enthusiastic about the West, fascinated by the men, and was Bill’s shadow, so we promptly turned him over to those “rough persons” Aunt Elizabeth had especially hoped that he might avoid, to get it all out of his system.

“Let him stay at the bunk-house,” Owen advised after Ted had besought me to allow him to stay with the men. “It will do him more good than anything else in the world, if he has the right stuff in him.”

Ted stood on the porch, uneasily shifting from one foot to the other, when I came out of the office.

“All right, Ted, Mr. Brook and I are perfectly willing for you to stay with the men, if you really want to.”

He hopped up and down and almost embraced me in his joy.

“Oh, thank you, Mrs. Brook. You see,” he explained, carefully, “I’ve seen people like you and Mr. Brook all my life, but I never had the chance to be with real cow-punchers before.” Evidently, from Ted’s point of view, Owen and I were very commonplace individuals compared to these heroes of the prairie, and I laughed to myself as he bounded down the steps to break the joyful news to Bill that he was to share his bed and board.

The next day we had to go to town to meet some prospective wool buyers, and, after having his breakfast interrupted five different times by Ted’s dashing in to see if we were ready, Owen was moved to inquire finally, “What on earth is on the boy’s mind now?”

“His outfit,” I answered. “He’s been planning it for days; wishes to select it himself and we are not to see it until we get home.”

That was a wise stipulation of Ted’s, for if we had seen it, we should never have been able to get home.

He put it on as soon as we reached the ranch, and when he finally emerged, the flaming sunset paled with chagrin at its futile effort of years.

The “outfit” consisted of tan corduroy trousers, chaps of long silky angora wool, which had been dyed a brilliant orange, a shirt of vivid green, a bright red silk handkerchief for his neck, an enormous Stetson hat, high-heeled tan boots, silver studded belt and huge spurs.

We gasped when we saw him, but he was so intent on showing himself to Bill, as to be utterly unconscious of the effect he produced.

We followed him into the yard where the boys were waiting the call to supper. Bill looked up from the quirt he was braiding and blinked.

“Gosh! I thought the sun had set an hour ago,” he remarked.

“No,” Ted laughingly responded, giving him a push, “but he’s going to ‘set’ now,” and he threw himself down by Bill’s side. “I knew you fellows would guy me, but all the same I think this outfit’s great,” and he surveyed himself with infinite pride and satisfaction.

“It’s all right,” said Bill, taking in all the details of the resplendent costume, and looking up at Owen and me with twinkling eyes, “I like somethin’ a little gay myself; but round here where everything’s green, we won’t be able to tell you from a bunch of soap-weed,” and Ted good naturedly joined in the laugh at his own expense.

“Wouldn’t his Aunt Elizabeth die of heart-failure if she could see him now?” I asked Owen as we went into the house.

“She certainly would,” he answered, “but we’ll trust to luck and let Nature take its course.”

Everything, including Nature, took its course rapidly with Ted, and for the next few weeks wise prairie dogs, rabbits and rattle-snakes stayed in their holes. By the end of his stay that energetic young person had enough rattle-snake skins to provide belts and hat-bands for all of New York, and scores of live prairie-dogs he had trapped to be shipped to his aunt’s place in Newport.

I tried to picture the joy of Aunt Elizabeth and her neighbors when they found informal prairie-dog towns in the midst of their formal gardens. If life is measured by experiences, a few additional years were in store for Newport.

Bill taught Ted to shoot and he spent hours and a fortune shooting at old tin cans on a post before Bill finally consented to say:

“I’ve saw fellers do worse,” the sweetest praise that ever fell on mortal ears, judging by Ted’s expression.

And, then, Owen went to New Mexico to buy some sheep and Bohm came to sleep on a claim.

This claim was one over which Owen and Bohm had been having a controversy for months. It had been included in the sale of the ranch, and after one of our most important sheep camps had been built upon it, Owen discovered that Bohm could not give a deed to it, as he had not made final proof on the land.

Bohm never ceased to regret having sold the ranch, and had never forgiven Owen for buying it and making him live up to his contract, so was only too glad of the opportunity to cause him all the trouble possible. Time after time he promised to come out and “prove up”, but he never came, so although I was most anxious to have him come, I was far from pleased to have him about when Owen was away.

Ted, however, was overjoyed; he seemed to feel that Providence had arranged Bohm’s visit to the ranch for his especial entertainment, and from the moment the old chap arrived Ted dogged his footsteps.

At first, old Bohm seemed quite flattered and laughed and joked with him, praised his shooting, told him stories of the Indian days, promised to show him the underground passage to an abandoned stage station, but later he became annoyed, for no clinging burr ever clung more closely than Ted. He scarcely allowed Bohm to get out of his sight for one moment.

How much the boy had heard of old Bohm’s history I did not know, but I concluded a few rumors had reached those ever-attentive ears, for one day he came in fairly beaming.

“Gosh! Pudge and Soapy haven’t got anything on me, they’ve only seen Buffalo Bill in a show, and I’m right in the same house with a man that’s a holy terror!”

“What do you mean, Ted?” I asked, anxious to find out how much he had heard.

“Oh, you know well enough, Mrs. Brook,” he laughed, going to the door as he saw old Bohm on his way to the barn. “You can’t fool me. Gee! I wouldn’t have missed him for the world. The fellows’ll just be sick when I tell them.”

“The fellows” were evidently “Pudge” and “Soapy”, his two chums at St. Paul’s, “Pudge” because of “his shape,” as Ted explained, and “Soapy”, whose parental millions came from the manufacturing of soap.

The game between the boy and Bohm was amusing. Clever as the old chap was, he couldn’t evade Ted’s watchful eye. If Bohm thought him miles away, he suddenly appeared with such an unconscious air of innocence he disarmed all suspicion, but he made Bohm uneasy.

“Quit campin’ on the old man’s trail, Kid,” said Bill one evening at the corral after Ted had driven Bohm to the bunk-house to escape his questions. “You’re gettin’ on his nerves; let him go and sleep on his claim and get through with it. You and me’s got to hunt horses tomorrow, anyways.”

Ted cheerfully acquiesced, and old Bohm loaded his wagon alone and drove toward his claim in peace.

The next morning very early, I heard Bill calling Ted. No Ted appeared, and I went out to see where he was.

“Where do you reckon that crazy kid’s went now?” demanded Bill, impatient to start.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Bill, hunting prairie-dogs, probably. Don’t wait for him, if you’re ready to go.”

“Huntin’ prairie-dogs,” echoed Bill. “I’ll bet a hat he’s huntin’ old Bohm somewheres.” He frowned as he cinched up his saddle. “I reckon I’d better ride over that way and see what he’s up to.”

“I wish you would,” I said, vaguely uneasy. “I don’t want him to bother Bohm too much.”

“Me neither,” said Bill, getting on his horse, “there’s his pony’s tracks now,” he looked at the ground. “I’ll find him and take him along with me. Don’t you worry, he’s all right, but he sure is a corker—that kid,” and Bill galloped off.

I felt confident that he would overtake the lad, so I dismissed them all from my mind and settled down to an uninterrupted morning, and a delayed postal report.

I was busy all day and was just starting out for a little walk before supper when Bill and Ted rode up.

Bill and Ted, hatless, clothes torn and covered with dirt and blood, their faces scratched and bruised, and Ted regarding me triumphantly from one half-closed eye, the other being swollen shut.

“What on earth hap—” I tried to ask, my breath fairly taken away. Bill got off his horse and came up to the gate.

“We’re all right, Mrs. Brook. I’m sorry you seen us ’fore we got fixed up a little; we just got mixed up some with Bohm—that’s all—’taint nothin’ serious. We look a whole lot worse than we feel, don’t we Ted?”

“You bet we do,” mumbled Ted from a cut and bleeding mouth, “but you ought to see Bohm, he’s a sight!”

Ted got off his horse with difficulty. “Gosh, it was great,” he said, leaning up against the fence for support.

“Come in and sit down, both of you, Charley will take your horses,” and I led the way into the house followed a little unsteadily by Bill and Ted, who collapsed on the first chairs they could reach.

I gave them some wine, washed off their blood-stained faces, and made protesting Ted go into my room and lie down. He was very pale, and I saw that he was faint.