Rub-a-dub-dub,Three men in a tub,The butcher, the baker,The candlestick maker;They all jumped out of a holler pertater.Rub-a-dub-dub.
Rub-a-dub-dub,Three men in a tub,The butcher, the baker,The candlestick maker;They all jumped out of a holler pertater.Rub-a-dub-dub.
"Do you call them your prayers?" asked Lafe sternly. "I done told you to get to bed more'n a hour ago, son. I swan I can't figure what your ma's thinking of. Now, drag it."
The boy turned a confident grin on his sire and continued his march through the house, rub-a-dub-dubbing to the best that was in him. He was attired lightly in a chemise, and was accordingly able to give an unhampered illustration of how the candlestick maker and the other tradesmen emerged from the spud. Hetty had gone to prepare his bed; returning, she made a dive for the fugitive and bore him, struggling, to his unwelcome nest. There she was obliged to growl over him in imitation of a big old bear, before Lafe, Jr., became reconciled.
Johnson listened with scant patience to their further discourse inside the bedroom.
"That ain't the way to learn the boy his prayers," he interrupted. "BlessMisterShortredge. Mister! That's a fine way for a li'l feller to pray, ain't it? Call him Jim or Buf'lo, Hetty. Call him Jim or Buf'lo. I reckon the Almighty don't know Jim as Mister."
"I guess the Almighty ain't such a close friend of his, anyhow, seeing as he's a friend of yours," retorted Mrs. Johnson.
Lafe revolved this in his mind. By the time he had hit upon an apt rejoinder, opportunity for its use had fled; but he made a mental note thereof, resolved to steer the talk around some day to the same theme.
Early next morning Jeff Hardin came up the trail, with a letter for Johnson. Letters are rare arrivals in that region and a certain formality attaches to their receipt. This one Lafe accepted with seeming unconcern, and having looked long at the handwriting and turned it over and over, he called his wife. To her Lafe opined that Buffalo must have written to him. Meanwhile Jeff loitered near, flicking the reins on his horse's back, intent on catching anything of interest that might crop up.
"He wouldn't never take a prize, Buf'lo wouldn't," said Lafe critically, "but this looks a bit shaky, even for him."
"Well, let's open it," Hetty suggested.
It took her husband at least ten minutes to scan the brief page, although famous for the ease with which he read and spelled; but this was due to the fact that Shortredge despised punctuation and had broad theories of capitals, into which the sense of the subject-matter did not enter at all. So there existed always a confusion as to where his sentences began and where they left off. But Johnson finished at last, and then he turned to Hetty with a hopeless air.
"Well, if that wouldn't knock you deader'n a rat. Here he owes me fifty-seven dollars already, and he's been owing it for nigh on a million years," he said, "yet he wants—"
He broke off, perceiving that Jeff lingered. "Won't you get down and visit, Jeff?" he asked.
"No-oo, I wouldn't choose to, thanks, Lafe," said Jeff; "I got to drift. Did you say he owed you fifty-seven, Lafe? Well, adios, you two. Take care of yourself, Mrs. Johnson. Come on, boy, and I'll give you a ride as far as the spring."
Hardin continued his journey toward Badger, and told them there how Jim Shortredge had applied to Lafe Johnson for a loan of two hundred dollars, although he had been owing him close to a thousand for seven years.
"Well, what're you going to do about it?" said Hetty, when the courier had departed.
"Do about it? Forget it—that's what I'm going to do."
"We couldn't have him here with little Lafe round," Hetty went on reflectively. "It wouldn't be safe. No, we couldn't. Could we?"
"Well, I should reckon not. I should rather reckon not. Where'd we put him?"
Lafe was highly indignant for the remainder of the forenoon. What sort of an idiot did Buffalo take him to be, anyhow? It was all very well for a man to use his friend's money and time as his own so long as both were single, but when a man married, his family had first claim. If Jim could not get that through his head without having it pounded in, Lafe was sorry, but he would have to make it clear, notwithstanding. Send him fifty dollars—had Hetty ever in her life heard anything to equal that? Here was a feller who could easily earn seventy-five dollars a month—a thick, stout man—and just because he was a trifle sick, he had to send off to borrow and to ask if he could visit. It was weak-kneed, Lafe called it. He had really never suspected this propensity in Shortredge.
"Many's the time I've helped him out," he said, reverting to the subject after dinner, "and what do I get? A man owes it to a friend before he gets married, Hetty. Afterwards, he—"
"He what?"
"Well, he ain't got any friends," said her husband.
His irritation continued throughout the afternoon and he brusquely refused to take his son up in front when he rode away to Horne's headquarters. It was growing dark when he returned and the cattle were drifting up the Cañon to water. Johnson noticed each cow and calf with a shrewd eye, and determined to spread more salt in the morning. His son came galloping to meet him, and Lafe swung the boy to the fork of the saddle. He was still moody, however, and his wife observed that he did not eat with his customary appetite. Finally he pushed the plate from him.
"I declare that stew's no fit food for a man, Hetty. Can't we never have nothing else?"
"You've had stew twice in three weeks. That's what you've had," Hetty returned, bridling. "What's got into you, anyhow? You're worse than a big ol' bear."
"Ugh-ugh-ugh-ugh!" her son growled, making a persistent effort to worry his father's leg with his teeth. Lafe pried his offspring loose and set him on his knee. The boy wrestled and thumped him, and gradually Lafe softened under the play.
"I mind once, me and Buf'lo went for eleven days on jerky and tobacco; more tobacco than jerky," he said, considering his son with a smile. "Nothing ever seemed to hurt us in them days, me and Buf'lo. Down in the Baccanochi, it was, where we went for some cattle. And of all the sorry steers, you never seen the like, Hetty. Honest, they couldn't throw a shadow. But we got some beef there. I ain't never tasted beef like it since—no, ma'am."
"Ho, haven't you?" Hetty sniffed.
His usual even spirits seemed to return during the after-supper smoke. He sat on the porch and listened to the cows lowing contentedly around the tanks. Some animal went light-footed through the underbrush of the slope opposite, and Lafe, Jr., was morally certain it was a wildcat; but, then, he never failed to detect bears and wolves and mountain lions in the least stirring of a twig. The dark deepened and a coyote yelped against the Cañon's walls. The baby announced his intention of catching the prowler on the morrow with a pinch of salt, and by the exercise of cunning and stealth.
Hetty came out on the porch to fill the canteen and to warn little Lafe that bedtime was close upon him. The boy denied it vehemently.
"I mind once, when me and Buf'lo were sleeping at the ol' Palomino," her husband told her; "just a night like to this it was, and a couple of line riders come along with a deck of cards—"
"That's all you need to say," Hetty said. "You never did understand the game."
Shortly afterward she took the child from his father and put him to bed, Lafe, Jr., howling that he was wide awake and nothing under heaven would make him go. Yet he was asleep in a twinkling. His mother tiptoed out of the room. When she reached the porch, she gave vent to the long sigh a tired woman will give when the day's work is done and she can relax, and she began to rock in the wicker-chair. Her husband was walking meditatively near a tall cottonwood. He appeared to be pacing off the ground.
"What're you doing?" she called.
"Nothing. Nothing much." But when she joined him, he coughed and looked foolish.
"Now," said Hetty, locking both arms about one of his and leaning against him, "tell me."
"Why," Lafe said, "I was just sort of studying how a tent would fit here right snug. It's a slick place for a tent."
Hetty squeezed his arm and looked at him with eyes of perfect understanding.
"Do you want to see what I wrote to him?" she whispered.
"Who? Buf'lo? You wrote to Buf'lo? When did you write to Buf'lo? Well, I swan."
It is best at this juncture to stare for signs of the marauding coyote, or to gaze fixedly at the evening star blazing in line with the chimney, because those two often chose to forget that they had been married five years.
This is what Hetty showed Lafe, bending over his shoulder as he read it by the light of a lamp.
Dear Friend:My husband showed me your letter and I write to say we will be glad to have you come any time and stay with us as long as you like.He has talked a whole lot about you and little Lafe always remembers you in his prayers. He don't like to say his prayers he's like his father. We have a nice home in the cannon and it will do you good it is so high up here.Yours respectfully,Mrs. Johnson.P.S. My husband is writing to you, too.
Dear Friend:
My husband showed me your letter and I write to say we will be glad to have you come any time and stay with us as long as you like.
He has talked a whole lot about you and little Lafe always remembers you in his prayers. He don't like to say his prayers he's like his father. We have a nice home in the cannon and it will do you good it is so high up here.
Yours respectfully,Mrs. Johnson.
Yours respectfully,Mrs. Johnson.
P.S. My husband is writing to you, too.
Lafe took this letter and enclosed one of his own composition, together with several very worn bills which he extracted from a can behind the kitchen clock. And just after daybreak he started for Badger to the end that the letter might be carried to a railway town by the stage driver. While he was making some purchases of flour and groceries that Hetty had itemized on a piece of wrapping paper as an aid to memory, one of the loungers remarked to Johnson that he heard Buffalo Jim had had the nerve to try to borrow some money. It puzzled him how some people would beat their way through the world.
"It does, does it?" Lafe answered, in a nutmeg-grater voice. "Well, it oughtn't to. Any time ol' Buf'lo wants anything, he knows where he can get it quick. Understand? Who done told you that? The man who told you that was a liar. And if there's anybody here got something to get off his mind about Buf'lo, now's the time. I'm a-listening."
Nobody had anything to get off his mind, it would seem. Having given ample opportunity, Johnson gathered up his parcels, tied them carefully to various parts of the saddle, and departed for home. He did not regard the incident in Badger of sufficient importance to communicate to his wife.
Shortredge arrived in a buckboard, driven by Jeff Hardin, toward the close of a July day. They were visible a mile off, but Johnson did not step down from the porch until they pulled up. Then he went slowly to meet them. It took a long time for Buffalo to get clear of the conveyance, he was so shaky and uncertain on his legs.
"Hello, Lafe."
"Hello, Buf'lo."
They clasped hands and regarded each other uncomfortably. Then Shortredge paid the driver and the two friends walked to the porch, where Hetty was waiting to welcome the visitor. Such was the greeting between them after five years.
"Poor feller," said Johnson, when they had retired that night. "He's looking worse'n a ghost."
"Oh, Lafe, when I look at him I want to cry. To think we ever—"
"He was the stoutest man I ever set eyes on, once, ol' Buf'lo was. But he never would take no care of himself. That, and ridin' broncs, it sort of stove him all up, Hetty. I'm sure glad I done asked him here."
A tent was reared on the knoll under the cottonwood, and in it Jim slept. He scorned the cot which Johnson had procured and spread his blankets on the ground, as had been his wont in the days of his strength. There were several spare saddlers, and when he was feeling especially strong, Buffalo would accompany Lafe on some of his rides, but that happened very seldom. They never spoke much when together, which was as it had always been, but seemed quite satisfied to jog along side by side. At long intervals one would comment on the condition of the cattle they passed.
Within two weeks the invalid began to gain in weight. By that time he and Lafe, Jr., were staunch friends. For hours together he would build dirt forts under the boy's direction, never seeming to tire of the changes in ground plan that the child's whims demanded. And the toys he contrived to fashion, with no other tools than a jackknife, a stick and handkerchief! Yet his playmate imposed reservations on their companionship which sorely puzzled Lafe, Jr. For one thing, he would never dandle the boy on his knee, as his father did, and he laughingly dissuaded him from the rough-and-tumble tests of strength and skill in which the boy was accustomed to imitate a bull, or an outlaw steer, or some equally impulsive creature. Then, too, Hetty had become peculiarly insistent on the wording of her son's nightly supplications. Indeed, Shortredge's name became the feature of his prayer.
"You're looking a heap better, Buf'lo," Johnson told him. It was the first time he had referred directly to Shortredge's health.
"Shore. I feel a heap better too, Lafe. The cough don't bother me much at all now. But I done bust a valve or something—run away to your ma, Lafe, boy—I forget what the doc said now, for certain"—Jim was staring off to the horizon—"it's liable to hit me sudden."
"Hell, no! Doctors don't know nothing."
"Shore not," Buffalo agreed, with a short laugh. "Don't you say nothing to Hetty, Lafe. I'll face the music."
Of nights they would sit on the porch—Buffalo, Hetty and Lafe—the child scuffling with the dog at their feet, in the last spasmodic energy that foreruns infantile sleep. And they would watch the light fade in the Cañon. The cows came slowly to water, calling one to the other. There were soft creepings amid the leaves. A mocking-bird sang in a hackberry tree. It was all very peaceful.
"You can just make out the top of The Hatter from here, Lafe. Ever notice?" Jim asked.
"You can see him mighty plain sometimes, Buf'lo. Do you mind how we used to wonder what was on top of that ol' mountain, me and you? He looks so ragged up there. That was when you were punching on the Lazy L."
"I reckon I do. I've always sort of hankered to climb to the top of The Hatter," Buffalo went on—"all my life I have. But I never did. You-all know how that is. They tell me you can see for ninety miles off'n the peak. It must be right pretty."
"We'll go some day," said Johnson.
Hetty caught her breath and glanced quickly at the visitor, but both men appeared perfectly matter-of-fact. She said: "Weren't you sick last night, Mr. Buf'lo? I thought I heard you."
"Yes, ma'am. Nothing to speak of. Just a li'l spell. Sometimes they hit me and then ag'in they don't."
It was dry the next six weeks. It was also scorching hot. The country began to look wan, then lifeless. On a night in early October a rider came to Johnson's door with word from Horne that the range was on fire. A blaze eight miles wide was sweeping the far shoulder of The Hatter. The messenger delivered this information in a subdued, expressionless voice, sitting his foaming horse in front of the porch, to Lafe inside the house.
"I'll go round up the pasture for you," he ended. "Will Nugget do? I kin catch him easiest."
As Johnson was saddling, he told Hetty through the window that perhaps he would not be back for a week.
"Say, Lafe"—Shortredge was at his elbow, plucking the sleeve of his shirt—"say, I want to go along."
"I don't reckon you'd ought, Buf'lo," Lafe answered. He spoke in a mild tone, as though the request were a very natural one. "It's all of thirty miles and you know what fighting fire means. There won't be nothing to eat but canned tomatoes and mighty li'l water and—"
"Man alive, I know that," said Shortredge, "but I want to go along."
Johnson coiled his rope and hung it carefully from the fork of the saddle. "No, I don't think you'd ought to go, Buf'lo."
"Why not? Listen to me, Lafe." He began to plead, his manner nervously insistent. "If it's going to come, it's going to come, and a lot of good dodging will do. Give me a chance, and not—say, I don't want to crawl off like a sick rat. Me and you never used to run away, did we? Well, I'd kind of like—I'd kind of like to be on top of a good horse."
"Me and you both."
"Come on, Lafe. Go get ol' Scrapper for me. I can stand it all right. Let's see The Hatter together, like we aimed to do. The sun'll be just busting himself when we get there."
"Well, you know what it means. Go get your saddle. Whatever you say, goes," said Johnson.
Ten horsemen met them where the path split, the one to the right sweeping upward and around the rim of the giant mountain. They were in ill-humor, for all had been roused from sleep and they knew what was ahead. Therefore, not a word was exchanged as they dog-trotted in single file. Sometimes only a pinpoint of light, when a cigarette glowed from a long intake, showed where they moved.
Rough and rocky was the trail. Shortredge came last, by Johnson's directions, and the cowboy in front turned in the saddle from time to time to ascertain that he followed in safety. He marveled much that Jim should attempt this ride, but advice is the last thing his class will obtrude. The night was black, but the western sky was a pale yellow, and a broken line of red wavered intermittently above the farther slope of The Hatter.
Once Shortredge became conscious of something beside him and faced toward it swiftly, but there was nothing there. He essayed a laugh. "Pshaw! I'm shore getting foolish," he muttered. "My eyes, I expect."
Twice after that he was moved to peer into the dark on his right hand. Surely something rode there, hovering very near. Lafe dropped back from his position at the head of the line, to satisfy himself about his friend.
"How goes it?"
"Stronger'n the oldest man in the world," said Buffalo cheerily.
Johnson ranged beside him for a short distance. The line wound ever upward, in silence. Several times a horse's hoof clacked on rocks with flare of sparks. At last: "Say, Lafe."
"Well?"
"I've been a-figuring that I must have given you and Hetty a right smart of trouble. There ain't no way of knowing it from you-all, but I kind of got the idea—"
"You make me tired," said Johnson angrily. "What's wrong with you, anyhow? You talk like an ol' woman."
"It's right queer," Shortredge continued, "ain't it?"
"What's queer?"
"Why, me and you both starting out the same way. We used to sleep under the same blankets, me and you did. And here you've got Hetty and li'l Lafe—say, Lafe, there's one kid for you. He says to me only yesterday—"
"Look out for this drop," Johnson cautioned.
"And I've got a bum heart and a bum lung. However, it's all in the game. Hey, Lafe? A feller's got to grin and face the music. That's all there is for him to do, I take it."
"What you need," his friend remarked sagely, "is a drink. But we ain't got any along. Now, take a brace and forget it, Buf'lo. Don't go talking like a quitter. Just as soon as you're a mite stouter, me and you'll go shares on that bunch of cattle we were looking over. I done had this in my mind for a long time. I need a partner—need him bad, what with ol' Horne's work coming on me more every day."
Buffalo started to say something to this, but Johnson touched Nugget with the spur and scrambled forward to the head of his men. They continued to climb. Often they would see the shooting flames; again, merely a dull glow revealed where the fire raged; and now they were mounting the sheer walls of a cañon, now dipping down the faces of cliffs. A horse rolled into a gulch and crushed his rider's leg. Johnson told off a man to look after the injured one. Another strayed from sight and sound, and bawled frantically for twenty minutes before he caught up with the party. Soon it was necessary to raise the cry of the night trail in broken country. Lafe began it.
"Here I go." He sent it weirdly behind him in a long yell.
"Here I go."
And, "Here I go" went down the line to the last man.
Shortredge kept a firm seat and allowed the reins to swing loose. Well he knew that Scrapper was more to be trusted in this work than the guidance he or anybody else could give.
"Here I go," came Johnson's halloo.
"Here I go."
"Here—I—go," Jim echoed.
The sting of early morning was in the air, and often he shivered. Stare at the rider in front as he might, he could not shake off the impression that something kept pace at his side. Vainly he sought the silhouettes of the advance horsemen, stark against the yellow sky, when they rounded a bend. Those were real men. He counted them—nine.
"There's ten in this bunch, all the same," he said to Scrapper. "Don't you see nobody besides us, boy?"
Apparently Scrapper did not. So Shortredge followed behind, encouraging Scrapper up the heights, leaning far back against the cantle when they went downward to thread another defile. Some of the chasms they crossed took his breath away.
"Well," he quavered, with an uneasy laugh. "We're giving him a run for his money. Hey, ol' feller? We're shore making him ride some."
At long last they climbed to the topmost ridge. Above was the peak of The Hatter, and the fire stood revealed a mile below. The air was cold, and a gray shiver ran along the eastern sky. Shortredge's hand flew suddenly to the breast of his shirt. He gasped for breath.
"How goes it?" yelled the man ahead.
"Fine as silk," he answered after a minute.
They skirted a crag and the devastation of the flames was hidden from them. No time was to be lost. With Lafe leading the way, they advanced at a quickened gait.
"Here I go."
"Here I go."
"Here—I—go," said the last man in a faint voice.
He settled gently in the saddle and Scrapper came to a halt. The reins trailed on the ground and the rider's hands were gripping the mane.
Thus did Buffalo Jim face the music, atop a good horse, as he had hoped—the music of the spheres, swelling in the blood-red dawn that broke back of The Hatter.
Ten years have passed. Lafe is a trifle heavier, his figure more set. The gray flecks in his hair are pronounced, and his manner has taken on an assured poise that marks him in the company of his fellows. I have seen Johnson in many companies, composed of men in all ranks of life. It must be admitted that sometimes he looked out of place, because he was so palpably not of their world; but never has he failed to win respect, frequently has he dominated the assembly, although usually silent.
If there be good stuff buried in a man, increased responsibility will bring it out. Larger responsibilities have contributed to develop Johnson's latent strength. He is now not only boss of the Anvil range, but has taken over the management of all its affairs from Horne, who has grown feeble in accumulating wealth and depends wholly on Lafe. In addition, he has started as a cowman in his own right and pays rental on pasture for eleven hundred cows. Fully a thousand calves wear his brand of the Spur—
A visitor to Hope Cañon is met by two tow-headed children, who greet him with their fingers in their mouths, staring round-eyed. These are Virginia and Eunice Johnson, daughters of the ex-sheriff, and they are aged respectively six and three years. Both of the parents are very dark, as you know, and Lafe's most reliable joke is to query Hetty very solemnly on the marked blondness of their offspring.
Hetty herself is plump and matronly. She is now in a position to afford domestics, and she has the calm bearing and complacence of a healthy, fruitful woman whose lot lies in pleasant places. In her face is the fulfillment of early promise. Selfishness and evil thinking may be slow to leave their marks, but devotion to a noble sense of duty will invariably light a woman's face. Although her household duties are greatly lessened, she takes such extraordinary pains in the bringing up of her children that her every hour is fully occupied. True, she occasionally snatches a half day to herself; but guess what the busybody does then? She drives over to the Ferriers', and lends her sister-in-law aid in straightening out her domestic difficulties. Bob Ferrier is working for Lafe, and works conscientiously, but he will never be anything but a salaried employé, for he lacks the faculty of thinking for himself. Perhaps he was too long under routine. Consequently their increasing family necessities provide the industrious Hetty with ample opportunity to exercise her desire of helping. So she is happy.
And when the Ferriers are provided for and everything is running evenly, of course she must interest herself in the plight of less fortunate neighbors. Many nesters have come to the country to take up farms, and to these Hetty appears as a saving angel, however hostile their arrival has been to her husband's interests. There are a few women in this world who must always be doing good or they are wretched, and Lafe had stumbled upon one of them for wife.
I have left until last any reference to a very important individual in the Johnson household—Lafe, Jr., the heir of the Spur. My reason for so doing has been a reluctance to take him up until something more to his credit than his father's comments, could be offered. The truth is that Lafe, Jr., has been a wild boy and a sore trial. He has shown tendencies which have greatly exercised his father. Hetty is more inclined to be lenient, which may be responsible for some of the trouble.
At the time this chapter opens, Lafe, Jr., was a tall, lank youth of about fifteen years, all knobby joints and hands and feet. When he spoke it gave one a scare, because his tones slid without warning from a high falsetto to a most sonorous bass. He was, indeed, at that awkward age when a well-grown boy is verging on manhood. Often Hetty worried over his abstraction and fits of sullenness; also, pimples marred his appearance, and a growth of down on chin and upper lip gave Lafe, Jr., food for thought.
"I swan that boy's getting worse every day," said Lafe to his wife one morning.
"What's he done now?" she asked.
"Oh, I done caught him out behind the barn again smoking cigarettes. Bill, he told me yesterday that he seen Lafe taking a drink out of a bottle with the horse wrangler. I'll can that feller if he don't leave Lafe alone."
"Oh, goodness, let the boy be, Lafe. You told me yourself you smoked when you were nine. All the boys out here learn to do that mighty young, and some of them know how to drink right well, too."
"That's all right," said Johnson stubbornly, "but I don't expect our son to be a no-account feller. We've got the money to educate him fine. But I'm scared to send him away until I'm sure he's worth it."
"Well, anyhow, don't be too hard on him. Don't go jumping on the boy all the time, Lafe. If you do you'll make a sneak out of him."
"He's mighty nigh that now," said Lafe, and walked out of the room before Hetty could start an argument on the point.
He had not spoken to his wife of the worry that rankled deepest. This was nothing less than a doubt of his son's courage. To a man who had lived as Johnson had lived, who had calmly braved danger every month in his life, absence of pluck is the most despicable of human traits. Little incidents he had noted in the behavior of Lafe, Jr., filled the boss with a dread that his son might not only be lacking in aggressive courage, but might be the victim of positive cowardice. However, he reflected that happenings previous to his birth may have been responsible, which gave him a patience with the boy he might not otherwise have had. Yet Lafe, Jr.'s, shrinking fear of the ordinary risks of range life was wholly at variance with the reckless spirit he had shown as a child.
"He's even scared of his horse," said Lafe to me on a night. "Don't tell anybody, Dan. I'd be 'shamed. But I've seen that boy's knees near knock together before he crawled up on ol' Waspnest."
"He's at a bad age," I said, trying to console him. "In the first place, he has grown too fast, and in the second place, you haven't handled him properly. Lafe is a mighty sensitive boy and you ought to be more companionable with him. As long as you hold him off and never give him anything but a stern order, he's going to do things which you think are sneaky."
The boss looked astounded. It was a new experience for him to be told that he did not know how to manage a fellow creature, and the fact that that fellow creature was his son sharpened the sting. He stared at me a long time very thoughtfully.
"Maybe you're right," he said. "I'll give it a trial, anyhow."
Acting on this suggestion, he began to take Lafe, Jr., with him on his rounds of the range. At first the boy was suspicious of his father's motive in this move, and showed it by the reluctance and laziness with which he executed his orders; but, discovering in his sire's attitude nothing to confirm this view, he became more cheerful and took to the work with alacrity. Johnson was much pleased. He told me that the boy was shaping right to become a man yet.
Towards nightfall on a day in June the boss of the Anvil rode in to headquarters from a tour of some water-holes that required patching. His son accompanied him, astride a mouse-colored bronco that, a month before, neither Lafe nor myself would have suspected him capable of handling. There was nobody near the stables, which was unusual, but Mrs. Horne met them at the corral gate. She was very collected, but so white that she frightened Lafe.
"Well," she said distinctly, "it's all over now. He's dead."
Johnson had just stepped out of the saddle. Still holding his horse by the cheek of the bridle, he said in amazement: "Ma'am?"
"Yes," she repeated, "he's dead."
Then she began to sway on her feet, and before Lafe could reach her, Mrs. Horne had fainted. With his son's help he bore her to the house. There he found everything in confusion. Two native women were padding about, wringing their hands and wailing for help, while Manuel knelt beside a sofa in the dining-room and bathed Horne's face and forehead with water. Lafe gave Mrs. Horne into the care of these females and bade them sternly to be silent. He then turned his attention to his employer.
In her distraction and first outbreak of grief, Mrs. Horne had been too hasty. The cowman was not dead. He had a bullet through his neck and another in the region of the stomach, but he was still alive and Johnson did not give up hope. Well he knew what a tough person this same Horne was, and he calculated that his indomitable spirit would help nature to pull him through. To Mrs. Horne, now revived and tearfully anxious to be of use, he said: "Pshaw, don't take on so, Miz Horne. It'll take more'n two bullets to kill the ol' man. How did it happen?"
In a gush of words she began to tell him, but Manuel rose from the floor and interrupted. The Mexican was almost hysterical, but from the two of them Lafe was able to piece together a fairly accurate picture of what had transpired.
Headquarters had been deserted except for the owner and Manuel, who was working in the stables at the time, and the three women. Old man Horne was dozing in a hammock, when a rider came to the corral and turned his horse inside. Horne woke in time to perceive the stranger throw his saddle on one of the Anvil horses. The cowman called out to him to know what he meant by it, and getting no reply, descended from the veranda and hurried to the corral.
Manuel was cleaning out the stallion's stall when he heard loud talking in the corral. Hardly had he laid down his fork in order to go to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, than there came two shots. He reached the door of the stable in time to see a man ride off at full speed. In the corral he had found Mr. Horne lying unconscious, and he heaved him on to his back and carried him to the house; all alone he did it.
In about half an hour the cowman opened his eyes.
"Hello, Lafe," he said.
The boss despatched his son to Badger to fetch Dr. Armstrong and himself set to work to ease the cowman's pain. The wound in his neck gave Lafe no concern, but that in the stomach caused Horne acute agony and Lafe feared internal hemorrhages.
"It was that skunk, Steve Moffatt," Horne told Lafe in a whisper. "He's come back after all these years."
"Don't talk," said Lafe.
"I will talk," said the cowman. "I'm not going to die for a long while yet."
"What was the trouble about?"
"I didn't know him at first, on account of he looks so much older. And he's grown a beard. He wanted a horse and I wouldn't give him one. Then he plugged me. Plugged me in cold blood, he did. Just as he did it he told me that would square us for me and Floyd offering that reward way back fifteen years ago."
In the course of nine hours Lafe, Jr., returned with the doctor. By that time Mrs. Horne had taken to her bed and was almost as much in need of Armstrong's services as was her husband. He made a brief examination and reported that the wounds were dangerous, but not necessarily fatal. The patient's advanced age was his greatest concern. Reassured on this point, Johnson and his son went to sleep.
The cowman sent for his manager in early afternoon.
"Lafe," he said, "I'm going to get all right. I've got enough nurses here, and I want you to go get Steve Moffatt. He's always tried to give me and you dirt, and I'm beginning to think that the Lord intended you to round him up. Take what money you need and go fetch him."
"I'll get him," said the boss.
"And, say," the cowman called after him, "when you catch him, bring him here to me. Whether he's living or dead, bring him here to me. I want to see Steve Moffatt for what he did yesterday."
Lafe promised and went out. He found his son near the corral, repairing a cinch with a bit of twine.
"Where're you going?" the boy asked.
The boss paused in his walk and surveyed him critically for some moments.
"I'm going after a man I've hunted for sixteen years," he said.
"Steve Moffatt?"
"Steve Moffatt," his father replied. "How did you know? Him and me have been shooting each other up since we were old enough to carry a gun."
Lafe, Jr., turned to his task of repairing the cinch again, and said nothing more for a few minutes. His father was inside the corral, roping a fresh mount.
"You might catch me ol' Beanbelly, Dad," Lafe, Jr., cried to him.
"What for?"
"Why, you're going to take me along, ain't you? You're going to give me a chance at him, too, ain't you?"
"You're damn whistlin' I am," said his father. "Come and get your horse."
For twelve days Lafe and his son followed the trail of the outlaw. Sometimes they lost trace of him, but Moffatt could never refrain from trifling displays of bravado which betrayed his identity everywhere he moved, so that Johnson was able to pick up his tracks without much loss of time. He was never more than three days behind Moffatt.
Evidently foreseeing that the telegraph of the entire continent would be put in service to capture him, Moffatt did not attempt to get out of the country by train or by any of the frequented roads of travel. He kept to the by-trails and the wildest regions. Instead of stealing over the Border, he headed north. Lafe heard of him one day in a mountain hamlet; the next at the home of a nester, in a deep valley thirty miles distant. So with his son he followed him along the Border, up into New Mexico and across it, over the San Andres Mountains and onward towards the Capitan range.
At the Bar W headquarters near Carrizozo he learned that a man like the one he sought had taken dinner there and had later ridden onward into the Malpais. Accordingly Johnson and his son followed into these bad lands.
When they started, the sun was glaring ferociously from a pale blue sky and the dust of the flats rose like fine powder under their horses' feet. On their one side was an expanse of baked clay, loose and flaky like a crust of pastry, that stretched away to the base of some foothills where were areas of green, dotted with grazing cattle. Beyond the hills a mountain gloomed, mist-capped. In the right foreground was a grove of trees with a red house nestling in the midst. A windmill rose beside the house, and not far off, standing naked on the parched plain, was an adobe structure, square, flat-roofed and with a single stove-pipe chimney. These were the Bar W headquarters.
Ahead of the two the level country terminated abruptly at a dull red line, and beyond that was a fit abode for lost souls—twisted, gnarled heaps of metal and rock, a torn land where nothing of life stayed voluntarily.
They had set out from the Bar W on Wednesday evening. On Thursday afternoon Johnson and Moffatt were taking pot shots at each other from behind heaps of lava far out in the Malpais. Near the sheriff was his son. Lafe, Jr., lay in a fissure behind a mound of slag-iron and endeavored conscientiously to shoot off the top of Moffatt's head as it bobbed for the fraction of a second from behind another mound a hundred yards away. They had abandoned their horses when they entered the Malpais, because the footing was so treacherous that they could make as good progress by walking. Moreover, there was nothing of sustenance for the beasts in all the forty miles of waste. Coming upon Moffatt unexpectedly as he was examining his jaded horse's feet, the sheriff had not been able to carry into execution his plan of hiding Lafe, Jr., in a position where he would be safe and could yet render assistance. So now Lafe, Jr., flattened out in his fissure in equal danger with his father, and exulting vastly. Of course, what the pursuers should have done, according to the best military tactics, was to separate and come upon the outlaw from two sides, thus exposing him to a shot. About the only objection that could be urged to this strategy was that they couldn't do it. Moffatt could see their every movement and they dare not budge from their shelter. Whatever the quality of his courage, nobody could deny that Steve was terrible with a rifle.
"How about that one, Lafe?" the outlaw yelled, as a bullet from his 25-35 skimmed along Johnson's shoulder and back.
"Two inches too high, Steve," said Lafe, without resentment.
Shortly after this the two pursuers ceased firing, though maintaining a watchful eye for any movement of the fugitive, and partook ravenously of bread and cold beef, canned tomatoes and tepid water.
Night was creeping over the Malpais. Away to their right yawned the crater whence this monstrous flow of lava had anciently spouted. From its base to its rim was about two hundred feet. On every side were the distorted, grotesque knolls of melted rocks, brick-red in color, stretching for leagues like a slag-heap from the fires of giants. Not a moving thing had they seen in their progress through this region. A tiny shrub clung here and there in a fissure, where an inch or two of soil had been gathered by the winds, and once Lafe, Jr., had narrowly escaped falling into a devil's pincushion. About three miles to the south towered the highest point in the Malpais, a precipitous hill of scorched rock, crowned with a blunt shaft. Atop this shaft was a dark object. Presently it soared into the heavens. It was an eagle.
Johnson scanned the western sky and the glory of the setting sun in its halo of gold and crimson and purple. Then he pointed to where the hosts of the storm kings were gathering above the pines just below El Capitan's peak. From the thickest of the mass a flash of lightning licked downward.
"The cook done told me yesterday," he said to his son, "that that ol' mountain yonder is always raising hell. If the lightning gets going strong, there're better places to be in than these here Malpais, son."
"I reckon you're right," said the boy, not without an anxious glance upward.
They exchanged shots twice with Moffatt before the dark came. With its coming they felt a warm splash of rain upon their faces, and in a leaping flash that illuminated the heavens, they beheld El Capitan swiftly despatching his cloud warriors over the country.
"It's getting blacker'n the wash basin at headquarters," said Lafe, Jr., with a nervous laugh. "Moffatt will give us the slip easy in the dark, Dad."
"He won't travel far in this storm, son."
Nor did he attempt it. The rain burst upon them in squalls that drove in regular procession like waves of the sea, and back of it, urging it forward, rode a hurricane of wind, shrieking and tearing among the mounds. From north to south the lightning flared; they could smell it. The detonations of the thunder rocked the earth. A great jagged spear was hurled upon the pile where the eagle had sat his vigil, and their starting eyes had a momentary vision of the awful impact. Lafe, Jr., crawled close to his father. He was shivering.
"Do you reckon we'll be killed, Dad? Look at the lightning."
To right, to left, behind them and in front, the forked flashes played upon the metal heaps, the splitting strokes blinding them with blue and green glares. It was a carnival of fire. Johnson stared fascinated, his whole being numbed. A loafer wolf, his tail between his legs, whining dolefully, slunk past them to his den. He did not see or, seeing, did not heed, his hereditary foes.
An especially brilliant flash, followed on the instant by a shock of thunder, brought the sheriff half-way to his feet, so close did it feel. In their ears sounded a wild, immeasurably plaintive scream, and he peered over the mound.
"That's a horse!" he shouted close to his son's ear. "They yell something awful when they're mortal scared. Yes, I swan there's Steve's horse laying on its side on a rock."
Lafe, Jr., was mumbling to himself, but his words were unintelligible, although Lafe afterward assured Hetty that he heard "Now I lay me," quite distinctly. However that may be, his son took heart and began to grope about in the dark behind him.
"What's the matter, Lafe?" asked his father anxiously. "Anything wrong, boy?"
"I'm looking for my slicker. I brought it along."
"What do you want your slicker for? You're soaked through now. You can't get any wetter."
"I'll feel sort of safer," said the boy obstinately. "Here it is. I'm going to put it on."
He got to his knees to don the sticky, clinging coat, and as he held it extended loosely in his hands to discover the armholes, a fierce gust of wind whipped it from his grasp and it flew high over their heads with a loud flapping, straight towards Moffatt's hiding-place. A shout, a shot and maniacal laughter came to them faintly against the tempest.
Peeping over their barrier, in a succession of flashes that lighted up the wastes for miles, they made out Moffatt standing on top of his mound with his hands raised to the sky. His hat was gone and his rifle he had thrown away. For a full minute he was blotted from their sight. Then, in another illumination, they say him running towards them, laughing wildly.
"It's the angel of the Lord!" he shrilled to the contending skies. "It's the angel of the Lord. I seen him."
The renegade ran a dozen steps more, whirled dizzily and toppled to the earth. Shaking off his son's imploring hands, Johnson sprang into the dark. Three minutes later he was back, dragging Moffatt by the arms and shoulders.
"The lightning done hit him, I reckon," he panted. "Singed down both sides, he is. I reckon he got hit twice. He ain't dead—not him."
Moffatt regained consciousness in a few minutes, but the horror of it was still upon him, and his imagination peopled the night with avenging spirits. He cowered down between the two and endeavored to interpose the boy's body between him and the elements.
"You won't let the ol' man kill me, will you, son?" he whimpered.
"Shut up," said Lafe, Jr., coldly.
"You keep quiet, Steve," said Johnson irritably. "It's bad enough without having you blubber like that. We've got to stay here till daylight."
"All right. I'll be quiet, Lafe. But you-all won't kill me, now? Promise? Where's my gun?"
"I've got it," said Lafe, Jr. "'I do believe this ol' storm is blowing itself out."
At daylight they sought their horses, Moffatt carrying his saddle over his shoulder and staggering weakly beside the boy. He was too frightened to remain near Lafe, and implored his son whiningly at every step to intercede for him with his father and the Anvil men. If he only would, he would treat him fair and teach him how to shoot.
Their mounts had drifted with the gale and were nowhere in sight, and there was nothing for them to do but toil the weary miles on foot. They arrived at the Bar W bunkhouse at nightfall, spent with hunger and want of sleep. They slept twelve hours, with Moffatt locked in the cook's own bedroom.
It was five days later that Mrs. Horne, emerging from the door on hearing a horse neigh, espied a pair of riders coming up the lane. Her mouth opened in amazement and she sped into the house, crying excitedly for Manuel. Lafe, Jr., pulled up at the yard gate and said; "No, you don't, Moffatt. You get down first and go in front."
"Sure, I'm ready, Lafe. Better not get too reckless with that li'l gun, boy. She's liable for to go off."
They passed into the house and entered Horne's bedroom, after Lafe, Jr., had whispered to the perturbed Manuel. Mrs. Horne was standing guard beside the bed, her face white and accusing, as Moffatt was thrust forward by young Johnson. The renegade would not look at the sick man, but mumbled, and fidgeted from one foot to the other. Horne surveyed him dully for a moment; then his eyes brightened and he turned his face towards Lafe, Jr., with a smile.
"Dad and I got him over in New Mexico," said Lafe, Jr., in answer to the look. "We caught up with him in the Malpais. Dad, he had to stay home this morning because mother's poorly, so he sent me with him."
The boy did not state that Lafe had purposely permitted him to come alone, for his greater triumph and the hardening of his nerve. In fact, Lafe, Jr., did not know it.
"Is he—what's wrong with him, Lafe?"
"Lightning. He got burned awful bad. He's awful scared, too, Mr. Horne. Here, you, stand up straight!"
"Moffatt," said the cowman weakly, "I ought to give you up to be hanged. You aren't worth shooting. But I reckon you're worse off alive than dead. Turn him loose, Lafe boy. I always knew his nerve wasn't real. He won't bother us any more."
"I can go then, Mr. Horne, sir?" the prisoner quavered.
"You heard what he said, didn't you?" said Lafe, Jr. "Out you go! No, you can't have that horse. You can walk. And say—get a move on you. I'm going to begin shooting when I've counted fifty."
"Say, Lafe, you'll give me a fair count, won't you, boy? Don't be mean and cut in on it, Lafe. Yes, yes, I'm a-going."
"One, two, three, four—"