"You are a widow," says I, at last.
She fainted.
There, I'm dead sick of writing this letter, and my wrist is all toothache.
Jesse.
Kate's Narrative
Jesse argues that there's nothing to boast of in the way he saved me. Horse and rifle are like feet to run with, hands to fight with, part of his life. "Now, if I'd rode a giraffe and harpooned you, I'd have my name in all the papers. Shucks! Skill and courage are things to shame the man who hasn't got them."
I married Lionel Trevor in the days when he looked like a god as Parsifal, sang like an angel, had Europe at his feet. "Something wrong with Europe," is Jesse's comment. "West of the Rockies we don't use such, except to sell their skins."
When Lionel lost his voice—more to him than are horse and gun to Jesse—he would not ask me to follow him into the wilderness but tried to persuade me to stay on in London. I was singing "Eurydice" inOrfeo, my feet, thanks to Lionel, were at last onthe great ladder, and if I was ambitious, who shall blame me? Yet for better, for worse, we were married, and here among the pines, in this celestial air, a year or two at the most would give him back his voice. My place was at his side, for better or worse, and when he drank, when day by day I watched the light of reason give place in his eyes to bestial vice, until at last I found myself chained to a maniac—till death us do part—it was then I first saw Jesse, the one man whose eyes showed understanding.
I can't write about that day when Lionel, a thing possessed of devils, hunted me through the woods like a bear. It wasn't fair. I'm only twenty-eight years old. It wasn't fair that I should be treated like that. I doubt if I remember all that happened. I must have been crazed with pain and fear until suddenly I woke up on a boulder by that awful river, and saw him drift past me, caught in the rapids, drowning. I would have shouted I was so glad, until he saw me, and dying as he was, looked at me with Lionel's clear sane eyes.
I fainted, and when I awoke again in the dusk, Jesse bent over me, not as he is, the rugged fighting frontiersman, but dressed in white, wearing a wreath of beaten gold leaves, the laurel crown. He was aGreek warrior, and it seemed to me that I, too, wore the Grecian dress, a milk-white peplum. We were walking side by side along a beach between the cliffs and the sea. He stopped, looking seaward, his bronzed face set with an anxiety, which as he watched, became fear. He clasped me in his arms, and then I saw that out of the distance of the sea, came a wave, rushing straight at us, a monstrous tidal wave with curved and glassy front, crowned with a creaming surf of high-flung diamond. The cliff barred all escape, and we stood waiting, locked in each other's arms, commending our spirits to the gods—
My eyes broke through the vision, for Jesse, the real Jesse of this present life, shook me, imploring me to rouse myself. He says I woke up shouting "Zeus! Zeus!" He lifted me in his arms and carried me.
Of course I was hysterical, being overwrought, and the very thought is nonsense that in some past life thousands of years ago, Jesse and I were lovers. That night and for three weeks afterward, I lay delirious. At the ferryman's cabin he made me a bed of pine boughs, until my household stuff and the Chinese servant could be brought down from theranch. He sent Surly Brown to bring Doctor McGee, and the Widow O'Flynn as my nurse, while her son Billy was hired to do his pack-train work. From that time onward the pack outfit carried cargoes of ore from the mine, and loads from Hundred Mile House of every comfort and luxury which money could buy for me. Jesse bought tents, which he set up beside the cabin, one for my servant, the other for Brown and himself, besides such travelers as from time to time stayed over night at the ferry. When I got well, I found that Jesse had spent the savings of years, and had not a dollar left.
The widow nursed me by day, Jesse by night, and after one attempt by Mrs. O'Flynn, it was he who dressed my foot. In his hands he had the delicate strength of a trained surgeon, but also something more, that sympathetic touch which charms away pain, bringing ease to the mind as well as to the body. "'Tisn't," said he, "as if you kicked me out of the stable every time I laid a hand on yo' pastern. That Jones, when she hurt her foot, just kicked me black and blue."
When at last I crept out of doors to bask in the autumn sunlight, the cotton woods and aspens were changed to lemon, the sumac to crimson, the fallenneedles of the pines clothed the slopes with orange, and a mist of milky blue lay in the cañon. Very beautiful were those days, when no breath of wind stirred the warm perfume, and the music of the rapids echoed from sun-warmed precipice and glowing woodlands up to the gorgeous cobalt of the sky. Cured of all sick fancies, I was content to rest.
Jesse had arranged with lawyers for the probate of Lionel's will, and settlement of his debts, which would leave me nothing. As far as Jesse knew, I was penniless, and to this day I have never dared acknowledge that, secured from the extravagance of my late husband, I have capital bringing in some seven thousand, five hundred dollars a year. Jesse supposed me to be destitute, and when I spoke of returning to my work in Europe, offered to raise the money for my passage. Knowing his ranch to be mortgaged already to its full value, I wondered what limit there was to this poor man's valor. Yes, I would accept, assuring him of swift repayment, yet dared not tell him the wages offered me at Covent Garden. It seemed indecent that a woman's voice should be valued at more per week than his heroic earnings for a year.
I sang to him, simple emotional music: Orfeo'slament, the finale ofIl Trovatore, the angel song from Chopin'sMarche Funèbre.
There was the last of my poor little test which had proved in him a chivalry, a generosity, a moral valor, a physical courage, a sense of beauty, a native humor, which made me very humble. All I had foolishly imagined in poor Lionel, all that a woman hopes for in a man, was here beyond the accidents of rank or caste. How pitiful seemed the standards of value which rated Lionel a gentleman, and this man common! Jesse is something by nature which gentlemen try to imitate with their culture. Should I go back to imitations? I had outlived all that before I realized the glory of the great wilderness, before I met Jesse and loved him.
Could I promise to love, honor and obey? I loved him, I honored him, and as to obeying, of course that's the way they are managed.
I wonder why women make it so important that a man should propose? It needed no telling that Jesse and I were in love. It seemed only natural that we should marry, and any pretense of mourning for the late Mr. Trevor would have been distasteful.
My dear father was content with my first marriage, because—it seems so quaint—Mr. Trevor wasa sound churchman. The old saint had indeed one misgiving, for Lionel was very high church, and if he reverted to Rome, the religious education of any children—my father has found peace in a land where there are no doctrinal worries. But for his daughter he would pray still, lest she be yoked with an unbeliever. For my father's sake I asked Jesse about his religious convictions.
"Wall," he explained, "my old mother was a Hard-Shell Baptist, and father was Prohibition, so if them two forms of ignorance came to be used around here, I'd be a sort of mongrel."
"Surely you don't think the churches mere forms of ignorance?"
"Ignorance," he took the word up thoughtfully. "It's a thing I practises, and am apt to recognize by the way it acks. It ain't so scarce in them churches as you'd think. Maybe, knowin' more than me, you can tell me about that Sermon on the Mount. Was it a Catholic Mount, or Baptist, or Episcopalian?"
"Surely a hill, or mountain."
"And Jesus took his people away from the smell of denominations—Scribes, Pharisees, and such, to some place outdoors?"
The idea struck me full in the face like a suddenlash of spray, but before I could clear my eyes, the man had followed his thought to a weird conclusion.
"The more they build churches and chapels to corral Him, the more He takes to the woods. I sort of follow."
This only left me to wonder what my dear old white saint would have said.
Certainly he could never have accepted that American citizenship, and Jesse's nationality is vague. "Thar's God," he would say quite reverently, "and Mother England, and Uncle Sam, but beyond that I ain't much acquainted. The rest seems to be sort of foreigners. The Labrador? Oh, that's just trimmings."
Whatever he is, I love him,—primitive, elemental, kin of the woodland gods, habitant of the white sierras, the august forest, and the sweet wild pastures. My doubts fluttered away from the main issue to settle down on very twigs of detail. I had not courage to imagine what a fright he would look in civilized clothes, how awkward he would feel among folk and houses, or how such dear illusions would be shattered if ever my cynical relations saw him eat. He is a Baptist, and by his convictions liable to wed in store clothes, with a necktie like a bootlace, and number twelve kid gloves, taking his honeymoon as a solemnity at the very loudest hotel in San Francisco. Preferring plague, pestilence, famine, battle, murder, and sudden death, to such festivities, I pleaded our poverty, and dire need of keeping free from debt. Although born in the Labrador, he had been a cow-boy in Texas for half his working life. As a stockman, he was to wed a rancher's widow. Was he ashamed of his business? No, proud as Lucifer! Was he ashamed of the dress of his trade? Not by a damned sight! Soldiers and sailors are proud to wear the dress of their trade when they marry. "So are cow-punchers," said he, with his head in the air. "S'pose we ride to Cariboo City, and get married in that little old log church."
He managed to persuade me; and I consented also to a hunting trip, instead of the usual honeymoon.
When I was well enough for the journey, I rode my colt, and Jesse his demon mare—Jones—my sole rival, I think, except that dreadful bear, in his affections. Two pack-ponies carried our camp and baggage, and each night he would set up a little tent for me, bedding himself down beside the fire. At the end of five days' journey, we rode at dusk into Cariboo.
Captain Taylor, of Hundred Mile House, and Pete Mathson, thecargadorof the Star Pack-train, two old stanch friends of Jesse, witnessed our marriage in the quaint log building which served the Cariboo miners as church and schoolhouse. The Reverend Cyril Redfern, pioneer and missionary, read the service, while our ponies waited just outside the door. Jesse wore his plain old leather shaps, a navy blue shirt, a scarf of ruby silk against his tanned neck, and golden Mexican spurs—his dearest treasure. He must have known he looked magnificent, for he carried himself with such quiet dignity, and his deep voice thrilled me, for it was music. I could hardly respond for crying, and would gladly have been alone afterward in the church that I might thank God for all His mercy.
Captain Taylor is a retired naval officer, a pioneer of the gold mines, a magistrate, a man to trust, and when he gave me his heartfelt congratulations, it was not without knowledge of Jesse's character. He and Pete, thecargador, rode with us to the camp of his Star Pack-train, and it was there in the forest that we ate our wedding breakfast. The blue haze of Indian summer, the serene splendor of the sunlit woods, and autumn snow on all the shining hills—such was our banquet hall, and a rippling brook our orchestra. We drank healths in champagne from tin cups, and then, saddling up, Jesse and I rode away alone into the solitudes.
Kate's Narrative
Of his life before he reached this province Jesse will so far tell me nothing, yet his speech betrays him, for under the vivid dialect of the stock range, there is a streak of sailor, and beneath that I detect traces of brogue which may be native perhaps to Labrador. Out of a chaos of books he has picked words which pleased him, pronounced of course to suit himself, and used in some sense which would shock any dictionary.
His manners and customs, too, are a field for research. Of course one expects him to be professional with rope, gun, and ax, but how did he learn the rest? I wanted a lantern—he made one; my boot was torn—he made one; my water-proof coat was ruined—he made one; and if I asked for a sewing-machine, he would refuse to move camp until he hadone finished. If his name were not Smith I could prove him directly descended from the Swiss family Robinson. If a project sounds risky, I have to assume that it is something unusually safe, as the only way to keep him out of danger. If I should ever wish to be a widow, I have only to doubt his power to fly without wings.
Our journey last autumn led us into most awesome recesses of the coast range. Heads of the sea fiords lay dismal among crowding glaciers, white cataracts came roaring down through belt after belt of clouds, to where a grim surf battled with black rocks. In that dread region of avalanche and rockslide, of hanging ice-cliffs, roaring storms, ear-shattering thunder, our camp seemed too frail a thing to claim existence, our thread of smoke a little prayer for mercy. "Nary a dollar in sight," was Jesse's comment. "Such microbes don't breed here. D'ye think they'll ever vaccinate agin selfishness, Kate? That plague kills more souls than smallpox."
Guided by his uncanny woodcraft, I began to meet the parishioners, mountain sheep and goats, the elk and cariboo, eagles, bears, wolverines, and certainly I shared something of Jesse's untiring delightin all wild creatures. Even when we needed meat in camp, and some plump goose or mallard was at the mercy of his gun, Jesse would sometimes beg the victim off, and catch more trout. "So long as they don't hunt us," he would say, "I'd rather tote your camera than my gun. But thar's that dog-gone beaver down the crick, he tried to bite me yesterday again. If he don't tame himself, I'll slap his face. Thinks he's editor."
Were there no clouds, would we realize that the sky is blue? If no little misunderstandings had risen above our horizon, would Jesse and I have realized our wedded happiness? How should I know when I read his pocket diary, what was meant by "one night out. Took Matilda," or "Matilda and Fussy to-night," or "marched with Harem!" Matilda and Fussy if you please, are blankets, and the Harem is his winter camp equipment.
What would you think if you found this in a book?
He says it means, "Eating-house woman chasing—Jesse galloping—home dead finish."
And some of it is worse!
I dare not accuse my dear man of being narrow-minded. I have no doubt that he is quite justified in his intense antipathy to niggers, dagos, and chinks—indeed, he will not allow my Chinese servant on the ranch. But if I wished to uncork a choice vintage of stories, I alluded to his prejudice against the word "grizzly" as applied to his pet bear.
"Now that's whar yo're dead wrong." He threw a log of cedar upon our camp altar, making fresh incense to the wild gods. "The landlord's a silver-tip, fat as butter. Down in the low country, whar feed is mean, and Britishers around, the b'ars is poor, and called grizzlies. I'd be shamed to have a grizzly on my ranch. Come to think, though, Kate, the landlord was a sure-enough grizzly three years back. He'd had misfortunes."
"Tell me." As he stirred the fire, gathering his thoughts, I watched the cedar sparks, a very torchlight procession of fairies flowing upward into the darkness overhead.
"Wall, you see, he and the landlady was always around same as you and me, but not together. No. Being respectable b'ars they'd feed at opposite ends of the pasture."
"But don't the married couples live together?"
"None. They feels it ain't quite modest to make a show of their marriage. You see, Kate, after all, these b'ars is not like us but sort of foreigners. Mother gets kind of secluded when there's cubs, 'cause father's so careless and eats 'em."
"How disgusting!"
"I dunno. Time I speak of, their three young lady b'ars was married somewheres up in the black pines, whar it takes say fifty square miles to feed one silver-tip—and no tourists to help out in times of famine. That country was gettin' over-stocked, with a high protective tariff agin cañon b'ars.
"And here's the landlady down on our ranch, chuck full of fiscal theories. 'B'ars is good,' says she, 'the more cubs the merrier,' says she, 'let's be fruitful and multiply.' And it's only a two b'ar ranch. Thar ain't no England handy whar she can dump spare cubs.
"So the landlord gets provident and eats the cubs. Naturally thar's a sort of coolness arises over that, so that she's feeding north, while he's around south. Then the salmon season happens. There's only two fishing rocks in our reach, the same being close together. The landlord, he fishes at the back-waterrock. The landlady fishes at the rapids rock. They has to pretend they've not been introjuiced.
"There's been heavy rains, and up on the edge of the bench I seen a new crack opening across Apex Rock. I'd have put up a danger notice, only these people thinks it's for scratching their backs on. There's the crack getting wider, and the landlady fishing right underneath, and me hollerin,' but she's too full of pride to care about my worries. So I thinks maybe if I just drop her a hint she'll begin to set up and take notice. I run home for my rifle, posts myself at big pine, takes a steady bead, and lets fly, knocking a salmon out of the lady's mouth. Then I remembers that the shock of a gunshot is enough to loose the end of Apex Rock. It does, and while the scenery is being rearranged, the landlady sets up, wondering what's the trouble. When the dust clears, Apex Rock up here is reduced to a stump; down thar by the rapids the fishing rock's extended with additions; the landlord's a widower, running for all he's worth; and the landlady is no more—not enough left of her to warrant funeral obsequies."
"Why is the landlord called Eph?"
"Christian name. Most b'ars is Ephraim, buthe's Ephrata which means 'be open.' I tried to get him to be open with me instead of stealing chickens. That's when the bad year come."
"Were you in difficulties?"
"Eph was. Them canneries down to salt water, had fished the Fraser out, and the hatchery didn't get to its work until the fourth year, when the new spawn come back to their home river. Yes, and the sarvis berries failed. I dunno why, but the silver-tips of this districk ain't partial to the same kinds of feed as they practises in Montana and Idaho. Down south they'll lunch on grubs, ants, or dog-tooth violets, but Eph ain't an original thinker. He runs to application, and shies at new ideas. He'd vote conservative. So when the salmon and berries went back on him, he sort of petered out. He come to the cabin and said, plain as talk, he was nigh quitting business."
"But, Jesse! A starving gr—I mean b'ar. Weren't you afraid even then?"
"Why for? My pardner attends to his business, and don't interfere with my hawss ranch. He owns the grubs, berries, salmon, wild honey and fixings. I owns the grass, stock, chickens, and garden sass. When we disagreed about them cabbages, I shotholes in his ears until he allowed they was mine. His ears is still sort of untidy. As to his eating Sarah, wall, I warned her not to tempt poor Eph too much."
"Sarah?"
"Jones' foal. Being a fool runs in her family. Wall, Sarah died, and cabbages was gettin' seldom, and Eph was losing confidence in my aim, although I told him I'm tough as sea beef."
"He did attack you then?"
"Not exactly. His acts might have been misunderstood, though. Seemed to me it was time to survey the pasture, and see how much in the way of grub could be spared to a poor widower. These people eats meat, but they like it butchered for 'em, and ripened. Down at the south end, I spared Eph a family of wolverines, one at a time, to make the rations hold out. He began to get encouraged. Then this place was just humming with rattlesnakes, so Eph and me just went around together so long as the hunting was worth the trouble. I doubt if there's any left."
At that I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Then Eph gets sassy, wanting squir'ls and chipmunks. Now thar I was firm. Every striped varmint of 'em may rob my oat sacks, every squir'l may set up and cuss me all day, but they won't get hurt. They scold and swear, but every lil' devil among them knows I like being insulted. Though they has enemies—foxes, mink, skunk, weasel, I fed that lot to Eph, saving the foxes. Tell you, Kate, the landlord began to get so proud he wouldn't know me."
"Your great eagles, Jesse; they kill squirrels, too."
"That's a fact. If I shot the eagles, them squir'ls would get too joyful. Eagles acks as a sort of religion to squir'ls, or they'd forget their prayers. The next proposition was cougars."
"Oh, I'm glad you killed them. At the old ranch I was so terrified I'd lie awake all night."
"And you a musician! Now that's curious. You like lil' small cats, only one foot from top to tip, although I own they're songsters for their size. But a nine foot cougar, with a ten-thousand cat-power voice, composing along as he goes, why he's full of music. Now I was goin' to propose a cougar opera troupe. They'd knock the stuffing out of that Wagner, anyway."
"Not for me, dear. You see, there's trade rivalry. I wish you had shot them."
"I'm sort of sorry. Many's the time, camped onyour bench land, which I own is a good place for cougars, I'd set up half the night to listen. They'd come purring so close I could see their eyes glint. Seemed to me they sat round on their tails and purred because they liked a camp whar there was no gun-smell. They sang love songs, big war songs, and all kinds of music. Fancy you bein' scared!
"Kill them? They're hard to see as ghosts, and every time you fire they just get absent. That ain't the reason though, for if the landlord wanted cat's meat, I'd like to see the fight."
"They'd never dare to fight that giant bear!"
"I dunno. Eph ain't lost no cougars. He treats them as total strangers.
"But the real reason I fed no mountain-lions to Eph is mostly connected with sheep. Cougars does a right smart business in sheep, 'specially Surly Brown's. Sheep is meaner's snakes, sheepmen is meaner'n sheep, and if the herders disagrees with the cougars, give me the cougars. Sheepmen is dirt."
There spoke the unregenerate cow-boy!
"But, Jesse dear, are you sure that Eph won't expect me to be 'spared' next time he's hungry?"
"Why, no. He was raised respectable, andthere's a proper etiquette for b'ars on meeting a lady. It's sort of first dance-movements:—'general slide, pass the cloak-room, and whar's my little home?'"
* * * * * *
Jesse's Note
N. B.—Kate and me agrees that the next chapter has to be cut out, being dull. It's all about the barn-raising after we got home to the ranch. The neighbors put us up a fine big cabin connecting to the old one by a covered porch of cedar shakes. That's where the fire-wood lives, the water-butt, the grind-stone, which Kate says is exactly like my singing voice, likewise the ax and saw.
Of course our house-raising was a celebration, with a dance, camp-fire, water-butt full of punch, and headaches. I bet five dollars I was the only semaphore signaler in our district, and lost it to Iron Dale, who learned signaling five years ago during the Riel rebellion. Cap Taylor put up a signal system for our use, of fires by night or big smokes by day. One means a celebration, two means help, and three means war. The women beat the men at tug-of-war, but that was due to the widow's wooden leg being a rallying point for the battle.Eph being holed up for the winter, I got more popular.
After the celebration we settled for the winter, and I put all the ponies except Jones and the sleigh team down in the cañon pasture. That made the ranch sort of lonesome, but we're short of hay on account of the wedding-trip. We're broke.
Jesse's Letter
Mother, I'm married. I thought I'd got bliss by the horns, but seems I've not roped what I throwed for, and what I've caught is trouble. I wish you weren't in Heaven, which feels kind of cold and distant when a fellow's lonesome. Nobody loves me, and the mosquitoes has mistook me for a greenhorn.
I can't smoke in the lady's home, and when it's forty below zero outside, a pipe clogs with ice from your breath. Chewing is worse, because she cried. She don't need my guns, saddles, and me, or any sort of litter whar she beds down, and my table manners belongs under the table. Men, she says, feeds sitting down, so they won't be mistook for animals, which stand up.
Loyal Englishmen like the late Trevor now frying, has a cold bath every morning, specially in winter, which throws a surprising light upon his last symptoms. It's that frozen manner and pyjamas, which makes the Englishman so durned popular. If I belonged to the episcopal sect, wearing a coat in the house instead of out-of-doors, and used pink tooth-paste instead of yellow soap, maybe I'd like my hash with curry powder, and have some hope of going, when I die, to parts of Heaven where the English keeps open windows, instead of open house. Meanwhile I jest moved back into the old cabin with Mick,—he's wagging himself by the tail between my legs to say as this writing habit is a vice. If I'd only a bottle of whisky now I'd be good, but as it's eighty miles to refreshments, he's got to put up with vice.
This here storm has been running the province since Monday, and making itself at home as if it had come to stay. Put your nose to the door and it's froze, so it's no fun crossing to the stable. I just got back. Horses like to lick white men because we taste salt from eating so much in our bacon, but that mare Jones takes liberties in kicking me through the door when she knows durned well it's shut.
Mrs. Trevor's husband was an opera singer which mislaid his vocal cords, so settled here to be on his romantic lonesome, and spite his wife. He wentloco, and mistook her for a bear; she broke her ankle stampeding; and I took an interest, he shooting me up considerable until he met with an accident. Then his widow married me, and I'm plumb disheartened.
I was cooking slapjacks, which gives quick satisfaction for the time invested, when Iron Dale rolled in on his way home. Says my high-grade slapjacks is such stuff as dreams are made of. With him quoting Scripture like that I got suspicious about his coming around by this ranch, instead of hitting straight for Sky-line. On that he owns up to something dam curious and disturbing to my fur. Thar's a stranger at Hundred Mile House, claiming he's come from London, England, to find my wife.
On the stage sleigh from Ashcroft this person got froze, which mostly happens to a tenderfoot, who'd rather freeze like a man than run behind like a dog. So of course he comes in handy for poor Doc McGee. Our people being hale and artful as bears, McGee would be out of practise altogether but for such, so I hope he'll make good out of this here perishable stranger, the same being a useful absentee from myranch. He's got a sort of puppy piano along, which grieves me to think our settlers must be getting out of date with such latest improvements, and other settlements liable to throw dirt in our face. Puppy pianos which tinkle isn't priced yet in the Hudson's Bay store catalog. Seems it's called harpsecord, and this person plays it night and day, so that the ranch hands is quitting, and Cap Taylor charges him double money for board. I wonder what he wants with my wife, anyhow. The missus wants me to take the sleigh and collect him. I dunno but seems to my dim intellecks that would be meeting trouble half-way, besides robbing the doctor and Capt. Taylor who done me no harm.
This morning, after rigging a life-line to the stable because of this continuing blizzard, I went to the lady's home. She showed me a letter Dale brought, in eytalian, which says the swine proposes to kiss her feet, and wallow in divine song, etc. His name is Salvator, so he's a dago. She, being white, can't have any truck with such, being the same specie as niggers, so that's all right. Seems the puppy piano is for her from her beloved maestro, anotherswine from the same litter. She's singing now, and it goes through my bones. Her voice is deep as a man's, strong as Fraser Rapids, and I own that puppy piano appeals to my best instinks. As for me, my name's mud, and she treads in it.
The wind went chasing after the sun, leaving peace and clear stars, so this morning it must be sixty below zero by the way the logs are splitting. At noon Tearful George transpires, dumping the puppy piano, and the swine with his nose in a muff. Tearful had capsized the sleigh over stumps to make his passenger run instead of arriving here like frozen meat, but appears it hadn't done the harpsecord no good. He said he'd roll his tail before any more music broke out, so didn't stay dinner. The swine was down on one knee in front of the missus, slobbering over her hand. She was kneading doe at the time, and there's some on his nose.
He's got an angels-ever-bright-and-fair expression, smiles to turn milk, dog's eyes, and a turndown collar. He calls her Donner Addoller-r-r-ra-ta, and looks as if he hadn't had much to eat on the trail with Tearful, though they'd camped atWidow O'Flynn's where pie occurs whenever her Billy's to home.
Kate's pleased all to pieces. Seems this gent in the paper collar has wrote an opera, and there's a party goes by the name of Impress Ario, song and dance artist, putting it on the stage at London, England. The leading woman sings base, and that's why Kate is wanted. To the only woman on earth who sings base enough, they sends this dingus and the organ-grinder. She says it's a business proposition with money in it, and wants me to come along to the Old Country. She'd have me in a collar and chain with a pink bow at my off ear, promenading in Strand Street.
She's been having a rough time here, mostly living on wild meat, without money or servants. I'd like well to see her happier; I know her music belongs to the whole world, and I've no right to hold her for any selfishness. If it's up to her to go, it's agin me to look pleased, and she shall go the day I believe in her call.
She and the tinkle dingus and the swine are at it full blast. He's screeching nil desperandum, she's thundering "Shut-ut the dooroh!" "Ting ting tong banggo!" says the puppy piano, while Mick in herehowls like a moonstruck wolf. I dunno, but seems to me that when you're out at night between the stars and the mountains and the river praising God in the cañon, there's music reaching from your soul to the Almighty, and peace descending right out of Heaven. Oh, Lord, speak to my wife, and tell her there's more love right here, than in all the sham passions of all the damned operas put together. But now she's following after vain swine.
I made the dago bed down in here, but he flopped over to breakfast and they've been at it hammer and tongs ever since. "Tinkie tankie ping ping pee-chee-ree-ho-O! Oh! Oho! me-catamiaou-ow-yow." Cougars is kittens to it, but I'm durned ignorant, and I notice that the signor looked on while she washed up.
I didn't sorrow with Kate persuading me to drive them as far as Hundred Mile. The sound of her voice stampedes me every time, but when the dago tries to stroke my ears, he was too numerous, so I held his head in the bucket until he began to subside. I don't take to him a whole lot.
From when I'd finished the horses, till nigh onsundown, the music tapered off, and I got more and more rattled. At last I walked right in.
She'd a black dress, indecent round the shoulders, and a bright star on her brow. She stood with the swine's arms around her, until at the sight of me he shrank off, guilty as hell. There was nary a flicker of shame or fear to her, but she just stood there looking so grand and beautiful that my breath caught in my throat. "Why, Jesse," she said, her voice all soft with joy, "I'm so glad you've come to see. It's the great scene, the renunciation. Come, Salvator, from 'Thy people shall be—'"
I twisted him by the ear into my cabin, he talking along like a gramophone. I set him down on the stool, myself on the bunk, inspecting him while I cut baccy, and had a pipe. If I let him fight me with guns, she'd make a hero of him. If I hoofed him into the cold or otherwise wafted him to the dago paradise, she'd make a villain of me.
"You wrote an opery," says I.
He explains with his tongue, his eyes, and both paws waving around for the time it takes to boil eggs. I'm not an egg.
"You give the leading woman a base voice?"
He boiled over some more.
"So you got an excuse for coming."
He spread out over the landscape.
"Thinkin'," sez I, "that she'd nothin' more than Trevor to guard her honor."
More talk.
"But you found her married with a man."
He wanted to go alone to civilization.
"You stay here," I says, "and Salvator, you're going to earn your board."
I ain't claiming that this Salvator actually earned his grub this month. He can clean stables now without being kicked into a curry hash; he can chop water holes through ice, and has only parted with one big toe up to date; he can buck fire-wood if I tend him with spurs and quirt; but his dish-washing needs more rehearsals, and he ain't word perfect yet at scrubbing floors. He's less fractious and slothful since he was up-ended and spanked in presence of a lady, but on the other hand, there's a lack of joy, cheerfulness, and application. He's too full of dumb yearnings, and his pure white soul seems to worry him, but then there's bucking horses for him to ridein spring, and first exercises in bears. My bear had ought to be a powerful tonic.
I sent a cable message by Tearful George to the song and dance artist who's running the swine's opery, just inquiring if he'd remitted Salvator to collect my wife. The reply is indignant to say that the swine is a liar. Likewise there's a paragraph in the Vancouver papers about the illustrious young composer, Salvator Milani, who's disappeared, it seems, into the wilds. His wife is desolated, his kids is frantic, the Salvatori, a musical society, is offering rewards, which may come in useful, and the rest of mankind throws fits. This paper owns up that the departed is careless and absent-minded, and I just pause to observe that he hasn't made my bed. He'll have some quirt for supper.
As to my wife, she'd never believe that the swine wasn't sent to fetch her, or that he's deserted his wife and family. She thinks he's a little cock angel, and me a cock devil. She'll have to find him out for herself.
My wife has run away with him.
I could pick stars like apples. Here's me with my pipe and dog in my home, and my dear wife content. The Dook of London has no more, except frills. I hardly know whar to begin, 'cept whar I left off without mentioning how they run away. The illustrious didn't have the nerve, so it was my lady who stole over to stable in the dead of night, and harnessed the team so silent I never woke. She drove off with her trunks, the puppy piano, and her swine, on a bitter night with eighty mile ahead before she'd get any help if things went wrong. She has the pure grit, my great thoroughbred lady, and it makes me feel real good to think of the way she followed her conscience along that unholy trail through the black pines.
By dawn she put up for breakfast at O'Flynn's. The widow had broke her leg reproaching a cow, and sent off her son to the carpenter at Hundred and Fifty Mile House to get the same repaired. Her bed was beside the stove, with cord-wood, water, and grub all within reach. It was real awkward though that the stove had petered out, and the water bucket froze solid while she slept, so she was expecting to be wafted before her son got home, when Kate arrived in time to save her from Heaven. The signor volunteers to make fire and cook grub while Kate fed and watered the team, so my wife has the pleasure of chopping out a five-foot well at Bent Creek, while this unselfish cavalierio stayed in the house and got warm. Naturally he didn't know enough to light the stove, until the widow threw things, and he got the coal-oil. Then he disremembered how to soak the kindlings before he struck a match, so he lit the fuel first, then stood over pouring oil from the five-gallon can. When the fire lep' up into the can, of course he had to let go, and when he seen the cabin all in flames, he galloped off to the woods, leaving the Widow O'Flynn to burn comfy all by herself.
By the time Kate reaches the cabin, the open door is all flames; but, having the ice ax, she runs to the gable end, and hacks in through the window. The bed's burning quite brisk by then, but the widow has quit out, climbed to the window and gone to sleep with the smoke, so that Kate climbs in and alights on top of her sudden. The fire catches hold of my wife, but she swings the widow through the window, climbs out, lights on top of her again, then takes a roll in the snow.
When the illustrious comes out of the woods to explain, d'ye think she'd listen? I can just see him explaining with dago English, paws, shoulders, and eyes. She leaves him explaining in front of the burning cabin. Three days from now young O'Flynn will ride home with his mother's limb tied to the saddle strings, and if the swine's alive then, he'll begin explaining again, though Billy's quick and fretful with his gun.
My wife humped this widow to the barn, and got warm clothes from her trunks for both of them. She fired out her baggage and the puppy piano, bedded down the widow in clean hay, hitched up the team, and hit the trail for home.
She hadn't a mile to go before she met me, and what with the smoke from O'Flynn's, the widow in the rig, and the complete absence of the swine, I'd added up before she reined her team. She would want to cry in my arms.
So she's in bed here, her burns dressed with oil from a bear who held me up once on the Sky-line trail. It's good oil. The widow's asleep in my cabin, and I'm right to home with this letter wrote to you, Mother. I guess you know, Mummy, why me andmy pipe and my dog are welcome now, which you've lived in your time and loved.
So hoping you're in Heaven, as this leaves me at present.
Yr. affect. son,Jesse.
Kate's Narrative
We have started a visitor's book. It opens with press cuttings of interviews with Professor Bohns, the famous archæologist, who came to examine the paleolithic deposits at South Cave. Next are papers relating to a summons for assault, brought by the late Mr. Trevor against J. Smith. There is a letter from a big game hunter, Sir Turner Rounde, who came up the cañon collecting specimen pelts ofursus horribilis, which Jesse maintains is not a grizzly bear. But the gem of our collection is a letter of lengthy explanation from an eminent Italian cur, who spent a whole month at the ranch last winter. Nobody is more hospitable, or more hungry for popularity than my dear man, but I think that special prayers should be offered for his visitors. He has a motto now:—"Love me: love my bear, not my missus."
My jealous hero has told the story of an old admirer, once my fellow-student, who brought me a dumpy piano for which I had so starved, told me the news, talked shop, and would make me a prima donna—my life's ambition. The trap was well baited. Lonely, and terrified by the dread majesty of winter, I craved for the lights, for the crowds, for my home, for my people, for my art. And there are little things besides which mean so much to a woman.
Salvator turned out to be a cur, his mission despicable, and yet no woman born can ever be without some little tenderness for one whose love misleads him. And I who sought to read a lesson to poor Jesse, learned one for myself. I am no longer free, but fettered, and proud of the chains, Love's chains, worth more to me than that lost world.
And yet I wonder if in Heaven there are blessed but weak little souls like mine, which grow weary at times of the harps, chafed by their crowns of glory, bored to tears with bliss, ready to give it all up just for a nice gossip. That would be human.
Where spring has come like a visitation of angels, where winter's loneliness is changing to summer's happy solitude, I look into mirror pools, and see contentment. Oh, how can civilized people realize thewonder and glamour of this paradise? Up in the black pines it is winter still, but all our towered, bayed, sculptured, sunny precipice is alive with flowers and birds, while the slopes at the foot of the wall are white with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower cañon the trees are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us, and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown up.
Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip, could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather dangerous.
One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new grass, Mrs. O'Flynnwas redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter, spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.
Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs. O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!
Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.
From chivalrous respect for women—the species being rare on the stock range—cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, toinquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters beyond their concern.
In the cattle country a visitor asked to dismount, makes camp or house his home, never suggesting by word or glance a doubt that he is welcome to water, pasturage, food, shelter, and warmth, so long as he needs to stay. I had not invited this man to dismount.
Judged by these signs—chivalry, reticence, courtesy—Mrs. O'Flynn's guest was not a cow-boy. His florid manners, exaggerated politeness, and imitation of our middle-class English speech stamped him bounder, but not of the British breed. Later, in moments of excitement, he spoke New York, with a twang of music-hall.
Even in so lonely a place it is curious to remember that such a person should appeal to me. Still in his common way the man had beauty, carried his clothes well, moved with grace. So much the artist in me saw and liked, but I think no woman could have seen those tragic eyes without being influenced.
"Ah! Mrs. Smith, I believe?" He stood uncovered."May I venture to ask if your husband is at home? I think I had the pleasuah of knowing him years ago down in Texas."
"He'll be back by noon."
"Thank you, madam. Fact is, we were very much surprised to see your chimney smoke. We thought this exquisite place was quite unoccupied. Indeed!"
"Who's 'we'?"
"Oh, we're the outfit riding for General Schmidt. We've come in search of the spring feed. We were informed that Ponder's place was unoccupied, open to all. Am I mistaken in supposing that this is Ponder's place?"
"It is."
"Er—may I venture to ask if your husband holds squatter's rights, or has the homestead and preemption?"
"You may ask my husband."
"Thank you, madam. Our foreman instructed me to say that if the place proved to be occupied, I was to ask terms for pasturage. We've only two hundred head."
"Mr. Smith will consider the matter."
"We're camped in a little cave at the south end of the bench, deuced comfortable."
Of course I know I'm a fool, and expect to be treated as such. But this man claimed to have camped at the South Cave without passing this house, which was impossible.
"Camped at South Cave?" said I. "In that event I need not detain you. Mr. Smith no doubt will call on you after dinner. Good morning, sir."
But this was not to his mind, and I gathered vaguely that my husband was not really wanted at the Bar Y camp. I even suspected that this visitor would rather deal with me than see my husband. It required more than a hint to secure his departure.
Jesse returned at noon. He had set off singing, but at dinner he was so thoughtful that he never even noticed my casserole, a dish he was expected to enjoy, and when he tried afterward to light an empty pipe, I saw that there was something wrong. He received the story of our caller with the noises of one displeased. "That visitor, Kate," he summed up, "would make a first-class stranger. Knew me, you say, in Texas?"
Hearing from her kitchen Mrs. O'Flynn's sharp grunt of dissent, I closed the door.
"You've left the key-hole open," said Jesse, rising from the table, "come for a walk."
"Now, Kate dear," Jesse sat down beside me on the Apex Rock, "this morn you got your first lesson in robbers. How would you like a visit to old Cap Taylor at Hundred Mile?"
My voice may have quivered just a little. "Danger?" I asked.
"I dunno as there's actual danger, but if I jestknowedyou was safe, I'd be free to act prompt."
"Tell me everything, Jesse."
"Up at the north end of the bench, there's maybe two hundred head of strange cattle. One pedigree short-horn bull is worth all of twenty-five hundred dollars, and there's a Hereford stud I'd take off my hat to anywheres. There's Aberdeens or Angus—I get them poll breeds mixed—and a bunch of Jerseys grazing apart, purty as deer. Anyways, that herd's worth maybe two hundred thousand dollars, every hoof of 'em stolen, and if you raked all them millionaire ranches in California I doubt you'd get that value."
"How do you know they're stolen?"
"No stock owner needs that amount of stud cattle. We don't raise such in the north, so they've been drifted in here from the States. They're gaunt with famine and driving, and it beats me to thinkhow many more's been left dead crossing the Black Pine country. The Bar Y brands has been faked. The parties herding 'em waits till I'm away, and tries to make a deal with you for pasturage. The gent with the sad eyes is sent dressed up to fool a woman."
"But how could even robbers collect such a wonderful herd?"
"Kate, in them western states there's just about four hundred cow thieves working together, which you'll see them advertised in the papers robbing coaches, trains, pay for mining-camps, or now and again some bank. Still that's just vacations, and the main business is lifting cattle.
"Ye see, Kate, they'd collect an occasional stud, such as these here imported thoroughbreds, too good to lose, too well-known to sell, too hot to hold. They'd keep 'em in some hid-up pasture. But sometimes the people prods the sheriffs to get a move on, or Uncle Sam sends pony soldiers to play hell with the sovereign rights of them holy western states. Then the robbers is apt to scatter down in store clothes, for a drunk at 'Frisco. This time I seen in the papers that Uncle Sam is rounding up his robbers, so naturally the pick of their stealings requires hiding. They'd drive north for the British possessions, but on the plains there's too much mounted police, whereas this British Columbia has one district constable to a district the size of the old country. Yes, they'd come to this province, and this here ranch of ours is a sort of North Pole to the stock range. Since old man Ponder quit out, and I squatted, only the neighbors know that the ranch is claimed.
"Now, Kate," his great strong arm closed round me like a vise. "The hull country knows you're clear grit, so there's no shame in leaving. For my sake, dear—"
"Do you think I'd leave you in danger?"
He sighed. "I knew it. I cayn't help it, and, Kate, it's the truth, I'd rather see you dead than scared. There's Madam Grizzly, and Señora Cougar, there's Lady Elk, and even Mrs. Polecat, brave as lions. I'd hate to have my mate the only one to run like a scalded cat."
"The program, Jesse?"
"Do you remember, Kate, how we lost five dollars finding out that Dale and me is signalers?"
"And Captain Taylor gave us the signals to raise the district: one fire for feasts, two for help, three for war!"
"That's it, little woman. By dusk I'll be on top of the cliffs, and make my fires back from the rim-rock, where them robbers won't see the glare."
Jesse's Narrative
While I made signal fires on the top of the cliff, Mr. Robber came to find out from my wife why for I hadn't called to leave my card at the South Cave. He's picturesque, says she, hair like a raven's wing, eyes steel-blue, scarf indigo striped with orange, shirt black silk, woolly shaps out of a Wild West show, gold and silver fixings, Cheyenne saddle, carbine of some foreign breed, or maybe a Krag, manners fit for a king, age thirty-four, height six feet two inches, chest only thirty-eight, and such a sad smile—all of this will be useful to the police.
He tried all he knew to get out of being photographed, which I wisht I'd been there, for it must have been plumb comic, but we all submits when Kate gets after us. That reminds me that if he can't capture the camera and plate, we're apt to be burnt out by accident.
She led him on and made him talk. If his boss knew how much Kate has down in her note-book, this guy with the sad eyes would get kicked all round the pasture. When I axed if the robber made love to her, my wife just laughed, and turned away, telling me not to be a fool; but the blush came round her neck.
I dunno. Perhaps it's my liver, so I'm taking the only medicine I have, which it tastes like liniment. Is it liver, or am I getting to dislike this person?
So happens, while I was writing, Billy O'Flynn comes along with the pack outfit on his way to Sky-line. He wanted to know why I made them fires, so I explained I was making a clearing up thar for Kate's spring chrysanthemums. (She spelt that word, which had me bogged down to the hocks.) It may be liver, or my squeam inflamed, but my mind ain't easy, and the Sky-line folk may think I'm only joshing with them fires.
I can't leave Kate to ride for help, I can't shift her, I can't send Billy to the constable without breaking my contract with the Sky-line, and I don'tdivulge nothin' to William O'Flynn, Esquire, who talks to the moon rather than waste conversation.
If I make a letter for Dale, and slip it into the pouch, Billy won't know, or gossip if he happens to meet in with stray robbers. I'll get him up and off by midnight to the Sky-line, in time for the supper pies, and the boys will be surging down to the ferry before to-morrow midnight. Now I must make up some lies to hasten Billy's timid footsteps along the path of duty.
Billy hastened away at midnight to tell Dale that pigeon's milk is selling at eighty-four and three-fourths. He believes that if he can get that secret intelligence to Iron in good time, he's to share the profits. Fact is, that Iron's late wife made him the laughing-stock of the plains over some joke she put up on him connected with pigeon's milk, so that Billy's share of the profits will be delivered on the toe of Dale's boot. He's breaking records to make the Sky-line quick.
Nothing happened this morning, except Bull Durham, calling himself Brooke. He, the gent with thesad eyes, who came to make love to my wife. He paid me one hundred dollars for pasturage. Then I axed him to stay dinner, and Kate says she never seen me so talkative. Bull found out which weeks the Cariboo stage carries specie, and how many thousand dollars a month in amalgam comes down from the Sky-line camp. He even dragged out of me that old Surly Brown, the miser, has fifteen thousand dollars buried under the dirt floor of his cabin—which reminds me that if Brown's home becomes the scene of a mining stampede, I'll have to keep shy of his rifle. I owned up that our provincial constable is in bed with the mumps at Alexandria—temperature of a hundred and six in the shade. I sort of hinted that he was prejudiced agin me for belonging to the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and because I was suspected of adopting poor, dumb, driven cattle which had happened to stray within range of my branding-iron. He even learned I'd rode for the Lightning outfit, and from this jumps on to the conclusion I must have belonged once to the Tonto gang of outlaws. This might account for me being hid up here in the British possessions. Our mutual acquaintance, even at Abilene, was all candidates for the gallows, orsuch of the dear departed as had been invited to the hereafter by Judge Lynch. Yes, he showed a great gift of faith, and got both his photo and the negative to show there was no ill feeling. I'm pastoral, harmless, simple, raised for a pet.
Leaving Kate hid in a ruined shack, half-way to the ferry, I was down by elevenP.M.to the bank of the river, hailing old man Brown. So soon as he'd brung me acrost, I sent him to ride for all he was worth and collect our constable, which cost me eighteen dollars and a horse. The money is severe, but I'll get even on horse trades.
From midnight to oneA.M.I put in the time cussing Dale; from then till twoA.M.I felt that nobody loved me; from twoA.M.to half past, I was scheming to take the robbers single-handed. At two thirty-five Dale rolled up with nine men from Sky-line, mounted on Billy's ponies, besides O'Flynn, and Ransome Pollock, who may be good for a burnt offering but ain't much use alive.
Of course, having raised the country, I'd got to make good, producing a business proposition and robbers to follow. Iron has no sense of humor anyhow, and can't see jokes unless the prices is wrote plain on their tickets. He's come to this earth afterdollars. If a batch of robbers is liable to cost him fifty dollars a day, and only fetches fifty-one dollars a day on the contract, his mine is better money, so he rolls his tail and takes away his men. That's Iron Dale seven days in the week.
He's right smart, too, at holding a business meeting, so when I'd ate cranberry pie, which is a sort of compliment from the mine, and the boys has some of Brown's tea as a donation from me, the convention sits down solemn to talk robbers.
Moved and seconded that hold-ups ain't encouraged in her majesty's dominions, and we hands these robbers to the constable as his lawful meat, but we got to get 'em first.
Resolved that there's money in it. The owners of them cattle had ought to be grateful and show their gratitude, 'cause otherwise the stock is apt to scatter. Proposed that we hit the trail right away, with Iron Dale for leader. Carried, with symptoms of toothache disabling one of his men.
Dale told off O'Flynn and Branscombe to stampede the cattle just at glint of dawn, sending 'em past the cave, and shooting and yelling as if there was no hereafter. That should interest the robbers, and bring them out of the cave which overlooks ourpasture. Looking down at a sharp angle, they weren't likely to hit our riders, whereas our posse, posted in good cover with a steady aim, could attend to the robbers with promptness and despatch.
Crossing the ferry our main outfit left Billy and Branscombe to start drifting the cattle southward, while we rode on to take up our positions around the cave. With dawn coming on, and Kate alone in that shack, I wanted the boys to gallop, whereas Dale said he'd no use for broken legs. The night was dark as a wolf's mouth.
In the ruined shack, half-way to our home, Kate was to have a candle, screened so that it could only be seen from our trail. As soon as we rose the edge of the bench, and a mile before we would reach the shack, I seen the candle and knew that she was safe. We passed my fence, we crossed the half-mile creek, we gathered speed along the open pasture, and then Kate's yell went through me like a knife. The robbers must have had a man on night herd, and found her by that light!
Dale's hand grabbed my rein, and with a growl he halted our whole outfit. "Steady," says he, "you fool!" Then in a whisper, as his men came crowding in: "Dismount! Ransome, hold horses! Sam,take three men afoot round the rear of that cabin. I take the rest to close in the front. Siwash, and Nitchie Scott, find enemy's horses and drift them away out of reach. No man to whisper, no man to make a sound, until I lift my hand at that cabin window. After that, kill any man who tries to escape. Get a move on!"
So, with me at his tail, he crept along from cover to cover, waving hand signals to throw his squad into place. The enemy's five horses at the door were led off by Billy's Siwasharriero, and Nitchie Scott, so gently that the robbers thought they were grazing. By that time Dale and me was at the window gap on the north side of the shack, but the candle was in our way, we couldn't see through its glow, and it wasn't till we got round to the door hole that we'd a view of what was going on inside.
My wife stood in the nor'west, right, far corner. A man with a gray chin whisker and a mournful smile, with his gun muzzle in her right ear, was shoving her head against the wall. Bull was talking as usual, explaining how his tact was better'n Whiskers' gun at persuading females. Ginger was trying to assuage Bull. The greaser was keepinga kind of lookout, although he couldn't see from the lighted room into the dark where we was. Ginger clapped his paws over Bull's mouth before the proceedings went on.
"Now," says Whiskers sadly, "are you goin' to scream any more?"
Kate's face was dead white with rage. "You cur," said she, "I screamed because my—you're hurting me, you brute! Leave off if you want to hear one word from me. Leave off! That's better. No, I won't scream again."
The gun sight was tearing her ear as she screwed her head around, looking him full in the eyes. "If you do me any harm," she said, "my husband's friends won't let you off with death. They'll burn you. Stand back, you coward!"
He flinched back just a little, and I saw his hand drawing slowly clear of her head.
"Get your horses," she cried out sharp, "you've barely time to escape!"
Then I fired, the bullet throwing that hand back, so that it contracted on the gun. His revolver shot went through the rear wall. The hand was spoiled.
"Now, hands up, all of you!" Dale yelled."Hands up! Drop your guns!" One of the robbers was raising his gun to fire, so I had to kill him. The rest surrendered.
"Kate," said I, sort of quiet, and she came to me.