Part 5

We used to have a boy in our outfit, a great rough fellow from Montana, who knew only one song, and that was the hymn "I'm a Pilgrim, and I'm a Stranger." I have awakened many a night and heard him bawling it at the top of his voice, as he rode slowly around the herd. He knew three verses of it and would sing them over and over again. It didn't take the boys long to name him "The Pilgrim," and by that name he went for several years. He was killed in a row in town one night, and I'm not sure then that any one knew his right name, for he was carried on the books of the cow-outfit he was working for as "The Pilgrim."

I lost no time in rolling out my bed and turning in, only removing my boots, heavy leather chaps (chaparejos), and hat, and two minutes later was sound asleep. How long I slept I can't say, but I was awakened by a row among the night-horses tied to the wagon.

The storm had for the present cleared away just overhead, the full moon was shining down as it seems to do only in these high altitudes in Arizona; not a breath of air was stirring, and I could hear the measured "chug, chug, chug," of the ponies' feet as the men on guard slowly jogged around the cattle. I was lazily wondering what guard it was, and how long I had slept, when suddenly the clear, full voice of Tom Flowers broke the quiet with one of his cowboy songs. It was set to the air of "My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean," and as I lay there half awake and half asleep it seemed to me, with all its surroundings, that it was as charming and musical as the greatest effort of any operatic tenor.

"Last night as I lay on the prairie, And looked at the stars in the sky, I wondered if ever a cowboy Would drift to that sweet by and by."

The voice would swell and grow louder as he rode round to the campside of the cattle, and as he reached the far side the words "sweet by and by," came to me faintly and softly, as if the very night was listening to his song.

"The road to that bright, mystic region, Is narrow and dim, so they say, But the trail that leads down to perdition, Is staked and is blazed all the way."

I had never heard Tom sing this song before, nor had I ever heard him sing so well, and I raised on my elbow to catch every word:

"They say that there'll be a big round-up, Where the cowboys like dogies[A] will stand, To be cut by those riders from Heaven, Who are posted and know every brand."

[A] A dogie is a name applied to yearlings, that have lost their mothers when very young and just managed to live through the winter.

Here an enterprising steer made a sudden break for liberty, and the song was stopped, as Tom raced away over the prairie to bring him back, which being done in a couple of minutes, the song was again taken up:

"I wonder was there ever a cowboy Prepared for that great judgment day, Who could say to the boss of the riders, I'm all ready to be driven away."

Another interruption which I judged from the sounds was caused by his pony having stumbled into a prairie-dog hole, and I think Tom was "waking him up," as the boys say, with his heavy quirt.[B]

[B] Quirt, a short, heavy Mexican riding-whip used by cowboys.

That done, he picked up the thread of his song again

"And they say, He will never forget you, That He notes every action and look, So for safety you'd better get branded, And have your name in His big 'tally-book.'

"For they tell of another big owner, Who is ne'er overstocked, so they say, But who always makes room for the sinner, Who strays from that bright, narrow way."

As the closing words floated out on the cool night air, I turned sleepily in my bed and saw that a huge black cloud had come up rapidly from the West and bid fair to soon shut out the moon. I snuggled down in my blankets, wondering if we would have to turn out to help hold the steers if it rained, when the silence of the night was broken by a peal of thunder that seemed to fairly split the skies. It brought every man in camp to his feet, for high above the reverberation of the thunder was the roar and rattle of a stampede.

It is hard to find words to describe a stampede of a thousand head of long-horned range steers.

It is a scene never to be forgotten. They crowd together in their mad fright, hoofs crack and rattle, horns clash against one another, and a low moan goes through the herd as if they were suffering with pain. Nothing stands in their way: small trees and bushes are torn down as if by a tornado, and no fence was ever built that would turn them. Woe betide the luckless rider who racing recklessly in front of them, waving his slicker or big hat, or shooting in front of them, trying to turn them, has his pony stumble or step into a dog-hole and fall, for he is sure to be trampled to death by their cruel hoofs. And yet they will suddenly stop, throw up their heads, look at one another as if to say, "What on earth were you running for?" and in fifteen minutes every one of them will be lying as quietly as any old, pet milk cow in a country farm-yard.

They bore right down on the camp, and we all ran to the wagon for safety; but they swung off about a hundred feet from camp and raced by us like the wind, horns clashing, hoofs rattling, and the earth fairly shaking with the mighty tread.

Riding well to the front between us and the herd was Tom trying to turn the leaders. As he flew by he shouted in his daredevil way, "Here's trouble, cowboys!" and was lost in the dust and night. Of course all this took but a moment. We quickly recovered ourselves, pulled on boots, flung ourselves into the saddle, and tore out into the dark with the wagon boss in the lead. I was neck and neck with him as we caught up with the end of the herd, and called to him: "Jack, they are headed for the 'cracks.' If we get into them, some of us will get hurt." Just then, "Bang, bang, bang," went a revolver ahead of us, and we knew that Tom had realized where he was going, and was trying to turn the leaders by shooting in their faces.

These cracks are curious phenomena and very dangerous. The hard adobe soil has cracked in every direction. Some of them are ten feet wide and fifty deep, others half a mile long and only six inches or a foot wide. The grass hides them, so a horse doesn't see them 'til he is fairly into them, and every cowboy dreaded that part of the valley.

Jack and I soon came to what, in the dust and darkness, we took to be the leaders. Drawing our revolvers, we began to fire in front of them, and quickly turned them to the left, and by pressing from that side crowded them round more and more, until we soon had the whole herd running round and round in a circle, or "milling," as it's called, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes got them quieted down enough to be left again in charge of the regular guard.

Jack sent me around the herd to tell the second-guard men to take charge, as it was their time, and for the rest of us to go to camp, which was nearly a mile distant and visible only, because "Dad," the cook, had built up the fire, well knowing we wouldn't be able to find camp without it.

Before we got there the rain began, and we were all wet to the skin; but we tied up our ponies again, and five seconds after I lay down I was sound asleep and heard nothing till the cook started his unearthly yell of "Roll out, roll out, chuck away." I threw back the heavy canvas, that I had pulled over my head to keep the rain out of my face, and got up. The storm was over. In the East the morning star was just beginning to fade, and the sky was taking that peculiar gray look that precedes the dawn and sunrise. The night-horse wrangler was working his horses up toward camp, and the three or four bells in the bunch jingled merrily and musically in the cool, fresh, morning air.

We were all sleepy and cold, and as we gathered around the fire to eat, some one said, "Where's Flowers?" The foreman glanced around the circle of men, set down his plate and cup, and strode over to where Tom had rolled out his bed the evening before. It was empty, and, what was more, hadn't been slept in at all. A hasty questioning developed the fact that none of us had noticed him after we had come in from the stampede.

"Well," said Jack, "it's one of two things: either he has run into one of those blamed cracks and is hurt, or else he has a bunch of steers that got cut off from the herd in the rain and has had to stay with 'em all night, because he got so far from camp he couldn't work 'em back alone." As this was not an unusual thing we all felt sure it was the case, and after a hasty breakfast, all of us but the men just off guard, struck out to look for him.

Some way I felt a premonition of trouble as I rode out into the prairie, and leaving the rest to scatter out in different directions I rode straight for the cracks. It was an easy matter to trail up the herd, and as I loped along I couldn't get the song out of my head. As I drew near the crack country I saw by the trail that we had not been at the leaders when we thought we were, but had cut in between them and the main herd. I could see our tracks where we had swung them around, leaving probably one hundred head out.

I hurried along their trail, and as the daylight got stronger and the sun began to peep over the hills, I could make out, about a couple of miles from me, a bunch of cattle feeding. I knew this was the bunch I was trailing, and already some of the other boys had seen them also and were hurrying toward them. But, between me and the cattle was, I knew, a dangerous crack. It was some six feet wide and ten deep, and probably half a mile long. If Tom had ridden into that he was either dead or badly hurt. As I neared the crack my heart sank, for I saw the trail would strike it fairly about the widest place, and my worst fears were realized when I reached it, for there lying under a dozen head of dead and dying steers was poor Tom. The trail told the whole story. He had almost turned them when they reached the crack, and he had ridden into it sideways or diagonally, and some twenty steers had followed, crushing him and his horse to death, and killing about a dozen of them. The balance were wandering about in the bottom of the crack trying to get out, but its sides were precipitous everywhere.

Drawing my six-shooter, I fired two shots, and rode my pony in circles from left to right, which in cowboy and frontier sign language means, "Come to me." The boys quickly rode over to where I was, and we, with great work, managed to get his body out from under his horse and up on top. He still held his pearl-handled Colts in his hand, every chamber empty, and his hat was hanging round his neck by the leather string. Tenderly we laid his body across a saddle, lashed it on with a rope, and taking the boy thus dismounted up behind me, we led the horse with its sad burden back to camp.

I think death, when it strikes among them, always affects rough men more than it does men of finer sensibilities and breeding. They get over it more quickly, but for the time the former seem to be fairly overwhelmed with the mystery of death, and seem dazed and helpless, where the latter would not for a moment lose their heads.

But Jack quickly pulled himself together. It was fifty miles to the nearest town. With our heavy mess-wagon and slow team over a sandy road, it would take two days to get the body there. Packing it on a horse in that hot Arizona sun was out of the question, and so we decided to bury him right there.

Tom had no relatives in Arizona, nor any nearer friends than us rough "punchers," so that no wrong would be done any one by burying him there.

We laid his crushed form under a cedar tree near by, while Jack and I went out to find a place to dig a grave. About half a mile from camp was a big black rock that stood up on end in the prairie as if it had been dropped from the clouds. Some prehistoric race of people had carved deep into its smooth face dozens and scores of queer hieroglyphics which no man today can decipher or understand. Snakes, lizards, deer, and antelope, turtles, rude imitations of human figures, great suns with streaming rays, human hands and feet, and odd geometrical designs, all drawn in a rude, rough way as if the rock had been the gigantic slate of some Aztec schoolboy which hundreds of years of storm and weather had not rubbed out. This rock was called the "Aztec Rock." It was a landmark for miles around, and as Jack remarked: "It was a blamed sight better headstone than they'd give him if we put him in the little Campo Santo,[C] in the sand at the foot of the mesa, back of town."

[C] Campo Santo, the Mexican term for graveyard.

So here we dug his grave, and then we wrapped him in a gorgeous Navajo Indian blanket, and laid poor Tom Flowers away as carefully and tenderly as in our rough way we knew how.

The day-herders had grazed the herd up close to the rock, so that they could be at the grave, the cattle were scattered all around us, and the cook had taken out the mess-box and used the mess-wagon to bring the body over in.

When the last sods were placed on the mound, Jack with tears running down his sunburned face, which he vainly tried to stay with the back of his glove, looked around and said: "Boys, it seems pow'ful hard to plant poor Tom and not say a word of Gospel over him. Can't some of ye say a little prayer, or repeat a few lines of Scripter?"

We all looked at one another in a hopeless sort of way, and no one spoke a word until the youngest there, the "horse-wrangler," a boy from Indiana, whom we had named the "Hoosier Kid," spoke up and said: "I kin say the Lord's Prayer, ef that'll be any good."

"Kneel down, fellers, and take off your hats," said Jack; and there in the bright sunshine of an Arizona day, with a thousand long-horned steers tossing their heads and looking at us with wondering and suspicious eyes, with no sound save the occasional hoarse "caw, caw" of a solitary desert raven idly circling above, that dozen of rough cowboys knelt down, their heads reverently bared, while the "Hoosier Kid" with streaming eyes, slowly recited that divinely simple prayer which we had all learned at our mother's knee, "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name."

As we rode slowly back to camp the words of the last song that poor Tom ever sang would come to me again in spite of all I could do.

Ah, me. Poor Tom. It's little religious training you got on the prairies, or the trail, or in the cow camp; but if that "Great Owner" looks into the heart, I am sure He found you worthy to wear His brand, and to be cut into the herd that goes up the "trail that is narrow and dim."

THE NAVAJO TURQUOISE RING

By permission _The Argonaut_, San Francisco, Cal.

"I tell you, Miss Nell, it's not safe for you to ride over the range so much all alone. That Navajo's plumb crazy about you now, and he's liable to do you some mischief."

The speaker, a handsome, blue-eyed young fellow, clad in the rough garb of a cowboy, with broad sombrero, "chaparejos," his buckskin gloves thrust through his cartridge belt, stood leaning against the door-post of a typical Arizona ranch house. In one hand he held the end of a long hair rope, the other end being fast to his pony, which, all saddled, stood pawing and restless, eager to be away on the range. Slung on the near side of the saddle was a Winchester carbine, for, between white and red thieves, the cowboys had to be ready for all sorts of emergencies, and besides, the big gray wolves were beginning to show up on the range, and a wolf scalp was worth twenty dollars at the county seat.

The person to whom these remarks were addressed stood idly switching her riding-habit with her "quirt," a handsome piece of cowboy work, over which one of her many admirers had spent hours by the light of a campfire plaiting and decorating it with "Turk's heads" and other fancy knots known to cowboy quirt-makers. She was all ready for a ride and waiting only for her pony to be brought up from the corral, where Juan, the Mexican, was saddling him.

There was a pleading, pathetic tone in the man's voice that spoke the lover, even had his eyes shown no sign of passion; but his words seemed to rouse all the perversity of her sex. Her red lips curled and her brown eyes snapped. "Oh, pshaw, Mr. Cameron, you're always worrying about some imaginary danger. Please return me my ring--that is, if you have finished examining it."

A red wave swept over Cameron's face, like the shadow of a cloud across the prairie on a bright day, and he stood for a full minute idly turning the ring in question upon the very tip of the little finger of his own sun-browned hand. It was a splendid specimen of the Navajo silversmith's art. Now, the Navajo Indians' blankets have made them famous, but they deserve quite as much fame for their cunning as workers in silver.

This ring was indeed a gem. It was wide, as most of their rings are, cut in two on the inner side so that it could be made larger or smaller by "springing" it to fit any finger, and in the top was set a turquoise as blue as a summer sky--a stone precious to the Navajos--that among the tribe would have bought twenty ponies, a hundred sheep, and squaws galore. Around the ring ran the most intricate and delicate carving, and the whole effect was at once unique and barbaric.

The girl's hand was outstretched for the ring, and almost mechanically the man turned and dropped it into the upturned palm. "Well, Miss Nell, I've warned you, and I'm sure if Mr. Hull were here that he'd feel just as I do." His voice grew tense. "I can't go with you today, for I've got to go over the other side of the mountain to see if I can find those lost horses, and won't be back till dark."

The girl, scarcely heeding his words, took the ring, and in a mock-heroic sort of way kissed and slipped it on to her engagement finger, a gleam of mischief in her eyes, at which action Cameron, stung almost to madness, smothered a groan, and strode across the porch, his spurs clanking on the floor, gathering up his hair rope as he went. With one hand on the pommel of the saddle and the other on the pony's mane, he leaped lightly into his seat without aid of stirrup and, bringing the coil of rope down on the animal's flank, went off down the line of wire fence on a dead run, and soon turned out of sight around a low hill in the valley.

The girl watched him in silence until he was lost to view, and then, with a gay laugh, turned into the room, saying, "Poor Cam, what fun it is to tease him!"

A moment later, when Juan appeared at the door with her horse, she pulled on her pretty buckskin gloves, and with a "Goodbye, Mary, I'll be home by noon," to the heavy-faced cook, who stood watching her from the door of the log kitchen, she rode off almost as fast as Cameron, but in a different direction.

Three months before these happenings George Hull had gone down to the little railroad station, some thirty miles from the ranch, to meet his wife's only sister, who was coming to spend the summer with them in Arizona, and from her first day she had taken to the life like a duck to water. She was a fearless horsewoman, and never so happy as when out on the range riding with the cowboys, if they were there, or alone if they were not. Nell Steele was a warm-hearted, impulsive girl, but she could no more help making a slave of every man she met than she could stop breathing.

It was an easy task for her, too, and it mattered not whether it was some high-bred, educated gentleman, or a rough Texas "puncher" who had never in all his life spoken a dozen words to a woman of her class. And naturally with such surroundings, with men unused to women's wiles, she soon had the whole country at her feet.

Of them all, however, young Cameron had by far the worst case of it, and the girl, while in her heart greatly pleased with his attentions, seemed to delight in keeping him in a state of absolute misery by alternately raising him to the very highest pinnacle of happiness, and again dropping him into the bottomless pit of despair. Deep in her heart she knew he was her ideal, but she could not resist the temptation to coquette with and tease him.

Cameron had come west for his health some years before. Too hard application at college had seriously impaired his strength, and he had been ordered to live in the open air for several years. Letters of introduction to George Hull had brought him to this ranch in the high mountain country of northern Arizona, and he had taken to the cowboy life from the very first, until now he was looked upon as one of the most trusted and satisfactory "boys" on the place.

The ranch to which George Hull brought his pretty sister-in-law was located near the line of the Navajo Indian Reservation, and, as the Navajos are great roamers, it was nothing unusual to have them hanging round. One day a party of them came, bringing in some horses the boys had missed for some time. It was Miss Steele's first sight of the Navajo, and she came down to the corral, where they were all gathered, to see them. Among them was a young chief named Chatto, who had attended an Indian school at Albuquerque, and could therefore speak fairly good English. He was a picture of savage finery. Around his waist was buckled a costly belt made of great plates of solid silver; in his ears hung huge silver rings; each arm was clasped by bracelets of the same precious metal; around his neck were yards of the precious silver, turquoise and shell beads so dear to the Navajo heart; and his moccasins and leggings were thickly studded with buttons fashioned from dimes, quarters, and half-dollars. Across his shoulders hung a gaudy Navajo blanket, and his horse's bridle was fairly weighted down with glittering trophies of the Indian silversmith's skill.

It was but a few moments before Miss Steele was bartering with him for a bracelet; but it was of no avail, he would not sell it at any price. However, when the other Indians left, he stayed behind, until, as the dinner-hour was nearing, the boys asked him to eat with them. It was soon evident that he had eyes only for Miss Steele; and after dinner she spent an hour talking to him of his school experience and trying to learn a few words of the Navajo tongue.

The next day he returned, and the next, until it was plainly to be seen that the gay laugh and brown eyes of the girl had completely bewitched him.

One day he came bearing the ring I have described, and shyly offered it to her, insisting that she must place it on her engagement finger, which she did, never dreaming that the boys, keenly watching from the bunk-house, had put him up to it, telling him that that was the way white lovers did, and that once she put on his ring she was his by all the laws and customs of the white man.

When Cameron, who was away at the time, heard of it, he was furious, and went straight to Miss Steele and urged her to return the ring and banish the Indian from the ranch. But she, seeing that back of his lover's eagerness for her safety was a lover's jealousy as well, affected not to believe him, and declared her intention of keeping and wearing the ring. It was this ring that she had kissed so tragically and replaced on her hand.