A MAN
IN THE OPEN

By

ROGER POCOCK

Illustrated by

M. LEONE BRACKER

SYNDICATE PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
Copyright 1912 The Bobbs-Merrill Company

Kate

CONTENTS

TO PERSONS WHO HAVE NAMESAKES IN THIS BOOK

Ladies and Gentlemen,

Except the Bear, who is no more, the characters appearing in this volume wish me to say that their breaches of etiquette, homicides, etc., are all original sins. Their infirmities of body, soul, and spirit are their own, not mimicry of yours, not a caricature of your friend, your acquaintance, of your second-hand acquaintance, or anybody you have heard about, or even of some mere celebrity. If we hold up a mirror, it is to human nature, not to you.

The characters wish me to tell you that they are all Imaginary Persons, and therefore very sensitive. The persons of a drama are protected by footlights, by the stage doorkeeper, not to mention grease paint and scalps by an eminent artiste; but the characters in a novel are thrust defenseless into a rude world, with many reporters about. In a page fright, worse even than stage fright, their only comfort is that absence of body which is their alternative to your great gift,—presence of mind.

So they make their bow under assumed names. There we come to the point. The proper names were all dealt out to worldly grasping persons, and not one was left unclaimed. The name department is like a cloak-room when the guests have departed, a train from which all passengers have alighted, an office on Christmas day. Can you blame the characters in fiction who come after you, if they assume the noblest names, such as Smith, and try to be worthy of their borrowed plumes? Surely you would not have them wear a numeral such as the number of your house, or telephone.

The chances are that they give you no offense. Suppose that gentlemen named Jesse Smith number one in each million of English-speaking people, there would be one hundred in North America, half of them adults, with a moiety in wedlock, and, of these twenty-five, a hundredth part may be stockmen, of whom say one per cent. have a flaw in their claim to wedlock. To this residuum, the .0025 part of a perfect gentleman, whom he has not the honor to know personally, our Mr. Smith tenders profound apologies.

But the Persons of the book, dear friends, who have filled two years of my life with happiness, are not only Imaginary People with assumed names, but they inhabit a district at variance with the maps, at a period not shown in earthly calendars. So far aloof from the world where they might give offense to earthly readers, they are outside the bounds of space and time, and belong to that realm of Art where there is but one law, whereby they stand or fall, must live or die—fidelity to Life.

Your obedient servant,
THE AUTHOR.

A MAN IN THE OPEN

PART I

CHAPTER I

ON THE LABRADOR

Dictated by Mr. Jesse Smith

Don't you write anything down yet, 'cause I ain't ready.

If I wrote this yarn myself, I'd make it good and red from tip to tip, claws out, teeth bare, fur crawling with emotions. It wouldn't be dull, no, or evidence.

But then it's to please you, and that's what I'm for.

So I proceeds to stroke the fur smooth, lay the paws down soft, fold up the smile, and purr. A sort of truthfulness steals over me. Goin' to be dull, too.

No, I dunno how to begin. If this yarn was a rope, I'd coil it down before I begun to pay out. You lays the end, so, and flemish down, ring by ring until the bight's coiled, smooth, ready to flake off as it runs. I delayed a lynching once to do just that, and relieve the patient's mind. It all went off so well!

* * * * * *

When we kids were good, mother she used to own we came of pedigree stock; but when we're bad, seems we took after father. You see mother's folk was the elect, sort of born saved. They allowed there'd be room in Heaven for one hundred and forty-four thousand just persons, mostly from Nova Scotia, but when they took to sorting the neighbors, they'd get exclusive. The McGees were all right until Aunt Jane McGee up and married a venerable archdeacon, due to burn sure as a bishop. The Todds were through to glory, with doubts on Uncle Simon, who'd been a whaler captain until he found grace and opened a dry-goods store. Seeing he died in grace, worth all of ten thousand dollars, the heirs concluded the Lord should act reasonable, until they found uncle had left his wealth to charities. Then they put a text on his tomb—"For he had great possessions."

The McAndrewses has corner lots in the New Jerusalem, and is surely the standard of morals until Cousin Abner went shiftless and wrote poems. They'd allus been so durned respectable, too.

Anyway, mother's folk as a tribe, is millionaires in grace and pretty well fixed in Nova Scotia. She'd talk like a book, too. You'd never suspect mother, playing the harmonium in church, with a tuning-fork to sharpen the preacher's voice, black boots, white socks, box-plaited crinoline, touch-me-not frills, poke bonnet, served all round with scratch-the-kisser roses. Yes, I seen the daguerreotype, work of a converted photographer—nothing to pay. Thar's mother—full suit of sail, rated a hundred A-one at Lloyd's, the most important sheep in the Lord's flock. Then she's found out, secretly married among the goats. Her name's scratched out of the family Bible, with a strong hint to the Lord to scratch her entry from the Book of Life. She's married a sailorman before the mast, a Liveyere from the Labrador, a man without a dollar, suspected of being Episcopalian. Why, she'd been engaged to the leading grocery in Pugwash. Oh, great is the fall thereof, and her name ain't alluded to no more. "The ways of the Lord," says she, "is surely wonderful."

In them days the Labrador ain't laid out exactly to suit mother. She's used to luxury—coal in the lean-to, taties in the cellar, cows in the barn, barter store round the corner, mails, church, school, and a jail right handy, so she can enjoy the ungodly getting their just deserts. But in our time the Labrador was just God's country, all rocks, ice, and sea, to put the fear into proud hearts—no need of teachers. It kills off the weaklings—no need of doctors. A school to raise men—no need of preachers. The law was "work or starve"—no place for lawyers. It's police, and court, and hangman all complete, fire and hail, snow and vapors, wind and storm fulfilling His word. Nowadays I reckon there'd be a cinematograph theater down street to distract your attention from facts, and you'd order molasses by wireless, invoiced C. O. D. to Torngak, Lab. Can't I hear mother's voice acrost the years, and the continents, as she reads the lesson: "'He casteth forth His ice like morsels: who can stand before His cold?'"

Father's home was an overturned schooner, turfed in, and he was surely proud of having a bigger place than any other Liveyere on the coast. There was the hold overhead for stowing winter fish, and room down-stairs for the family, the team of seven husky dogs, and even a cord or two of fire-wood. We kids used to play at Newf'nlanders up in the hold, when the winter storms were tearing the tops off the hills, and the Eskimo devil howled blue shrieks outside. The huskies makes wolf songs all about the fewness of fish, and we'd hear mother give father a piece of her mind. That's about the first I remember, but all what mother thought about poor father took years and years to say.

I used to be kind of sorry for father. You see he worked the bones through his hide, furring all winter and fishing summers, and what he earned he'd get in truck from the company; All us Liveyeres owed to the Hudson Bay, but father worked hardest, and he owed most, hundreds and hundreds of skins. The company trusted him. There wasn't a man on the coast more trusted than he was, with mother to feed, and six kids, besides seven huskies, and father's aunt, Thessalonika, a widow with four children and a tumor, living down to Last Hope beyond the Rocks. Father's always in the wrong, and chews black plug baccy to keep his mouth from defending his errors. "B'y," he said once, when mother went out to say a few words to the huskies; "I'd a kettle once as couldn't let out steam—went off and broke my arm. If yore mother ever gets silent, run, b'y, run!"

I whispered to him, "You don't mind?"

He grinned. "It's sort of comforting outside. We don't know what the winds and the waves is saying. If they talked English, I'd—I'd turn pitman and hew coal, b'y, as they does down Nova Scotia way—where yore mother come from."

There was secrets about father, and if she ever found out! You see, he looked like a white man, curly yaller hair same as me, and he was fearful strong. But in his inside—don't ever tell!—he was partly small boy same's me, and the other half of him—don't ever let on!—was mountaineer injun. I seen his three brothers, the finest fellers you ever—yes, Scotch half-breeds—and mother never knew. "Jesse," he'd whisper, "swear you'll never tell?"

"S'elp me Bob."

"It would be hell, b'y."

"What's hell like?"

"Prayers and bein' scrubbed, forever an' ever."

"But mother won't be there?"

"Why, no. It hain't so bad as all that. She'll be in Heaven, making them angels respectable, and cleaning apostles. They was fishermen, too. They'll catch it!"

Thar's me on father's knee, with my nose in his buckskin shirt, and even to this day the wood smoke in camp brings back that wuff, whereas summers his boots smelt fishy. What happened first or afterwards is all mixed up, but there's the smoke smell and sister Maggie lying in the bunk, all white and froze.

There's fish smell, and Polly who used to wallop me with a slipper, lying white and froze. And yet I knew she couldn't get froze in summer.

Then there's smoke smell, and big Tommy, bigger nor father, throwing up blood. I said he'd catch it from mother for messing the floor, but father just hugged me, telling me to shut up. I axed him if Tommy was going to get froze, too. Then father told me that Tommy was going away to where the milk came out of a cow. You just shove the can opener into the cow so—and the milk pours out, whole candy pails of milk. Then there's great big bird rocks where the hens come to breed, and they lays fresh eggs, real fresh hen's eggs—rocks all white with eggs. And there's vegi tables, which is green things to eat. First time you swell up and pretty nigh bust, but you soon get used to greens. Tommy is going to Civili Zation. It's months and months off, and when you get there, the people is so awful mean they'd let a stranger starve to death without so much as "Come in." The men wear pants right down to their heels, and as to the women—

Mother comes in and looks at father, so he forgets to say about the women at Civili Zation, but other times he'd tell, oh, lots of stories. He said it was worse for the likes of us than New Jerusalem.

I reckon Tommy died, and Joan, too, and mother would get gaunt and dry, rocking herself. "'The Lord gave,'" she'd say, "'and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.'"

There was only Pete and me left, and father wagging his pipe acrost the stove at mother. "They'll die, ma'am," I heard him say, and she just sniffed. "If I hadn't taken 'em out doors they'd be dead now, ma'am."

She called him an injun. She called him—I dunno what she didn't call him. I'd been asleep, and when I woke up she was cooking breakfast while she called him a lot more things she must have forgot to say. But he carried me in his arms out through the little low door, and it was stabbing cold with a blaze of northern lights.

He tucked me up warm on the komatik, he hitched up the huskies, and mushed, way up the tickle, and through the soft bush snow, and at sunup we made his winter tilt on Torngak Creek. We put in the winter there, furring, and every time he came home from the round of traps, he'd sell me all the pelts. I was the company, so he ran up a heap of debt. Then he made me little small snow-shoes and skin clothes like his, and a real beaver cap with a tail. I was surely proud when he took me hunting fur and partridges. I was with him to the fishing, in the fall we'd hunt, all winter we'd trap till it was time for the sealing, and only two or three times in a year we'd be back to mother. We'd build her a stand-up wigwam of fire-wood, so it wouldn't be lost in the snow, we'd tote her grub from the fort, the loads of fish, and the fall salmon.

Then I'd see Pete, too, who'd got pink, with a spitting cough. He wanted to play with me, but I wouldn't. I just couldn't. I hated to be anywheres near him.

"Didn't I tell yez?" father would point at Pete coughing. "Didn't I warn yez?"

But mother set her mouth in a thin line.

"Pete," said she, "is saved."

Next time we come mother was all alone.

"'The Lord gave,'" she says, "'and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord,' but it's getting kind of monotonous."

She hadn't much to say then, she didn't seem to care, but was just numb. He wrapped her up warm on the komatik, with just a sack of clothes, her Bible, and the album of photos from Nova Scotia, yes, and the china dogs she carried in her arms. Father broke the trail ahead, I took the gee pole, and when day came, we made the winter tilt. There mother kep' house just as she would at home, so clean we was almost scared to step indoors. We never had such grub, but she wouldn't put us in the wrong or set up nights confessing father's sins. She didn't care any more.

It was along in March or maybe April that father was away in coarse weather, making the round of his traps. He didn't come back. There'd been a blizzard, a wolf-howling hurricane, blowing out a lane of bare ground round the back of the cabin, while the big drift piled higher and packed harder, until the comb of it grew out above our roof like a sea breaker, froze so you could walk on the overhang. And just between dark and duckish father's husky team came back without him.

I don't reckon I was more'n ten or eleven years old, but you see, this Labrador is kind of serious with us, and makes even kids act responsible. Go easy, and there's famine, freezing, blackleg, all sorts of reasons against laziness. It sort of educates.

Mother was worse than silent. There was something about her that scared me more than anything outdoors. In the morning her eye kep' following me as if to say, "Go find your father." Surely it was up to me, and if I wasn't big enough to drive the huskies or pack father's gun, I thought I could manage afoot to tote his four-pound ax. She beckoned me to her and kissed me—just that once in ten years, and I was quick through the door, out of reach, lest she should see me mighty near to cryin'.

It was all very well showing off brave before mother, but when I got outside, any excuse would have been enough for going back. I wished I'd left the matches behind, but I hadn't. I wished the snow would be too soft, but it was hard as sand. I wished I wasn't a coward, and the bush didn't look so wolfy, and what if I met up with the Eskimo devil! Oh, I was surely the scaredest lil' boy, and dead certain I'd get lost. There was nobody to see if I sat down and cried under father's lob-stick, but I was too durned frightened, because the upper branches looked like arms with claws. Then I went on because I was going, and there was father's trail blazed on past Bake-apple Marsh. The little trees, a cut here, a slash there, the top of a tree lopped and hanging, then Big Boulder, Johnny Boulder, Small Boulder, cross the crick, first deadfall, more lops, a number-one trap empty—how well I remember even now. The way was as plain as streets, and the sun shining warm as he looked over into the valley.

Then I saw a man's mitt, an old buckskin mitt sticking up out of the snow. Father had dropped his mitt, and without that his hand would be froze. When I found him, how glad he'd be to get it!

But when I tried to pick it up, it was heavy. Then it came away, and there was father's hand sticking up. It was dead.

Of course I know I'd ought to have dug down through the snow, but I didn't. I ran for all I was worth. Then I got out of breath and come back shamed.

It wasn't for love of father. No. I hated to touch that hand, and when I did I was sick. Still that was better than being scared to touch. It's not so bad when you dare.

I dug, with a snow-shoe for a shovel. There was the buckskin shirt smelling good, and the long fringes I'd used to tickle his nose with—then I found his face. I just couldn't bear that, but turned my back and dug until I came to the great, big, number-four trap he used for wolf and beaver. He must have stepped without seeing it under the snow, and it broke his leg. Then he'd tried to drag himself back home.

It was when I stood up to get breath and cool off that I first seen the wolf, setting peaceful, waggin' his tail. First I thought he was one of our own huskies, but when he didn't know his name I saw for sure he must be the wolf who lived up Two Mile Crick. Wolves know they're scarce, with expensive pelts, so neither father nor me had seen more'n this person's tracks. He'd got poor inspecting father's business instead of minding his own. That's why he was called the Inspector. It was March, too, the moon of famine. Of course I threw my ax and missed. His hungry smile's still thar behind a bush, and me wondering whether his business is with me or father. That's why I stepped on the snow-shoes, and went right past where he was, not daring to get my ax. Yes, it was me he wanted to see—first, but of course I wasn't going to encourage any animal into thinking he'd scared a man. Why, he'd scarce have let father even see his tracks for fear they'd be trapped or shot. So I walked slow and proud, leadin' him off from father—at least I played that, wishing all the time that mother's lil' boy was to home. After a while I grabbed down a lopped stick where father'd blazed, not as fierce as an ax, but enough to make me more or less respected.

Sometimes the Inspector was down wind 'specting my smell, times he was up wind for a bird's-eye view, or again on my tracks to see how small they looked—and oh, they did feel small!

From what I've learned among these people, wolves is kind to man cubs, gentle and friendly even when pinched with hunger, just loving to watch a child and its queer ways. They're shy of man because his will is strong compelling them, and his weapons magic. So they respects his traps, his kids, an' all belonging to him. Only dying of hunger, they'll snatch his dogs and cats, and little pigs, but they ain't known to hurt man or his young.

The Inspector was bigger than me, stronger'n any man, swifter'n any horse. I tell yer the maned white wolf is wiser'n most people, and but for eating his cubs, he's nature's gentleman.

The trouble was not him hunting, but me scared. Why, if he'd wanted me, one flash, one bite, and I'm breakfast. It was just curiosity made him so close behind like a stealthy ghost. When I'd turn to show fight, he'd seem to apologize, and then I'd go on whistling a hymn.

Thar he was cached right ahead in the deadfall, for a front view, if I'd known. But I thrashed with my stick in a panic, hitting his snout, so he yelped. Then he lost his temper. He'd a "sorry, but-business-is-business" expression on him. I ran at him, tripped on a stump, let out a yell, and he lep' straight at my throat.

And in the middle of that came a gunshot, a bullet grazed my arm, and went on whining. Another shot, and the Inspector ran. Then I was rubbing whar the bullet hurt, sort of sulky, too, with a grievance, when I was suddenly grabbed and nigh smothered in mother's arms. She'd come with the team of huskies followin' me; she'd been gunning, too, and I sure had a mighty close call.

She'd no tears left for father, so when I got through sobbin' we went to the body, and loaded it in the komatik for home. Thar's things I don't like to tell you.

It wasn't a nice trip exactly, with the Inspector superintending around. When we got back to the tilt, we daresn't take out the huskies, or unload, or even stop for grub. We had to drive straight on, mother and me, down the tickle, past our old empty home, then up the Baccalieu all night.

The sun was just clear of the ice when we made the Post, and we saw a little ball jerk up the flag halyards, then break to a great red flag with the letters H. B. C. It means Here Before Christ.

The air was full of a big noise, like the skirl of sea-gulls screaming in a gale, and there was Mr. McTavish on the sidewalk, marching with his bagpipes to wake the folk out of their Sunday beds. He'd pants down to his heels, just as father said, and fat bacon to eat every day of his life. He was strong as a team of bullocks, a big, bonny, red man, with white teeth when he turned, smiling, in a sudden silence of the pipes. Then he saw father's body, with legs and arms stiffened all ways, and the number-four trap still gripped on broken bones. Off came his fur cap.

Mother stood, iron-hard, beside the komatik.

"Factor," says she, "I've come to pay his debt."

"Nay, it's the Sabbath, ma'am. Ye'll pay no debts till Monday. Come in and have some tea—ye puir thing."

"You starved his soul to death, and now I've brought his body to square his debts. Will you leave that here till Monday?"

Mr. McTavish looked at her, then whispered to me. "B'y," said he, "we must make her cry or she'll be raving mad. Greet, woman, greet. By God, I'll make ye greet!"

He marched up and down the sidewalk, and through the skirl of gulls in a storm, swept a tune that made the meat shake on my bones.

Once mother shrieked out, trying to make him stop, but he went on pacing in front of her, to and fro, with his eyes on her all the time, peering straight through her, and all the grief of all the world in the skirl and the wail, and that hopeless awful tune. She covered her face with her hands, trying to hold while the great sobs shook her, and she reeled like a tree in a gale, until she fell on her knees, until she threw herself on the corpse, and cried, and cried.

CHAPTER II

THE HAPPY SHIP

Cap'n Mose of the Zedekiah W. Baggs 'e was a Sunday Christian. All up along 'e'd wear a silk hat, the only one on the Labrador. Yes. Sundays 'e'd be ashore talkin' predestination an' grace out of a book 'e kep' in 'is berth, but never a word about fish or the state of the ice. Mother'd been raised to a belief in Christians, so when Mose dropped in at her shack, admirin' how she cooked, she'd be pleased all up the back, and have him right in to dinner. He'd kiss me, talkin' soft about little children. Yes. That's how 'e got me away to sea as boy on a sealin' voyage, without paying me any wages.

Mother never knew what Cap'n Mose was like on week-days, and Sunday didn't happen aboard of the Zedekiah. I remember hidin' away at the back of Ole Oleson's bunk, axing God please to turn me into an animal. Any sort would do, because I seen men kind to animals. You know an animal mostly consists of a pure heart, and four legs, which is a great advantage. Queer world though, if all our prayers was granted.

Belay thar. A man sets out to tell adventures, and if his victims don't find some excuse for getting absent, he owes them all the happiness he's got. It's mean to hand out sorrow to persons bearing their full share already. So we proceeds to the night when I ran from the Zedekiah, and joined the Happy Ship.

We lay in the big ice pack off Cape Breton, getting a load of seal pelts. All hands was out on the ice while daylight lasted, clubbing seals, gathering the carcasses into pans, sculping, then towing the hides aboard to salt 'em down.

We got our supper, then turned in, bone-weary, but the ship groaned so that I daresn't sleep. A ship ain't got no mouth to give her age away, and yet with ships and women it's pretty much the same, for the younger they are the less they need to be painted. The Zedekiah was old, just paint an' punk, and she did surely groan to the thrust of the pack. I was too scared to sleep, so I went up on deck.

I'd allus watched for a chance to run away, and thar was Jim, the anchor-watch, squatting on the bitts dead asleep. He used to be that way when nobody chased him.

I daresn't make for the coast. You see I'd heard tell of niggers ashore which eat boys who run away. But I seen the lights of the three-masted schooner a couple of miles to windward. I grabbed a sealing gaff and slid down on to the ice.

First, as the pans rocked under me, I was scary, next I warmed up, gettin' venturesome, until I came near sliding into the wet, and after that I'd look before I lep'. There'd been a tops'l breeze from the norrard, blowin' up since nightfall to a hurricane, and then it blew some more, until I couldn't pole-jump for fear of being blowed away. With any other ship, I'd have wished myself back on board.

You know how the grinding piles an edge around each pan, of broken splinters? That edge shone white agin the black of the water, all the guide I had. But times the squalls of wind was like scythes edged with sleet, so I was blinded, waiting, freezing until a lull came, and I'd get on. It was broad day, and I reckon each step weighed a ton before I made that schooner.

A gray man, fat, with a chin whisker, lifted me in overside. "Come far?" says he, and I turned round to show him the Zedekiah. She wasn't there. She was gone—foundered.

So that's how I came aboard of the Happy Ship, just like a lil' lost dog, with no room in my skin for more'n bones and famine. Captain Smith used to say he'd signed me on as family ghost; but he paid me honest wages, fed me honest grub, while as to clothes and bed, I was snug as a little rabbit. He taught me reading and writing, and punctuation with his belt, sums, hand, reef, and steer, catechism, knots and splices, sewing, squeegee, rule of the road, soojie moojie, psalms of David, constitution of the United States, and playing the trombone, with three pills and a good licking regular Saturday nights. Mother's little boy began to set up and take notice.

Then five years in the Pawtucket all along, from Montreal to Colon, from banjos plunking in them portales of Vera Cruz, to bugles crying revally in Quebec, and the oyster boats asleep by old Point Comfort, and the Gloucester fleet a-storming home past Sable, and dagos basking on Havana quays. Suck oranges in the dinghy under the moonlight, waiting to help the old man aboard when he's drunk; watch the niggers humping cotton into a tramp at Norfolk; feel the tide-rip snoring up past Tantramar; reef home trys'ls when she's coming on to blow, with the Keys to lee'ard; can't I just feel the old Pawnticket romping home to be in time for Christmas!

Did you hear tell that the sea has feelings—the cryin', the laugh, dumb sorrow, blazin' wrath, the peace, the weariness, the mother-kindness, the hush like prayers of something which ain't brute, or human, but more'n human, so grand and awful you hardly dare to breathe?

Words, only words which don't fit, the misfits which make fun of serious thoughts. We men is dumb beasts which can't say what we mean, whereas I've allus reckoned persons like cats and wolves don't feel so much emotions as they exudes in song.

Seafaring men is sea-wise, sea-kind, only land-foolish, for there's things no sailorman knows how to say, things even landsmen can't figure out in dollars and cents.

Seems I'm a point off my course? I'm only saying things the captain said, times on a serious night when we'd be up some creek for fish, or layin' low for ducks. If ever he went ashore without me, I'd be like a lost dog, and he drunk before the sun was over the yard-arm. But away together it wasn't master and boy, but just father and son. He'd even named me after himself, and that's why my name's Smith.

I disremember which port—somewheres up the St. Lawrence where we loaded lumber for the Gulf o' Mexico, but the captain and me was away fishing. Mother had come from the Labrador to find me, old gray mother. They dumped her seal-hide trunk on our wharf, so one of the china dogs inside got split from nose to tail; but mother just sat on a bollard, and didn't give a damn. She put on her round horn spectacles to smile at the mate aft, and the second mate forward, the or'nary seaman painting in the name board, and Bill in his bos'n's chair a-tarring down the rigging, and the bumboat laundress who'd been tearing the old man's shirt-fronts. Yes, she'd a smile for every man jack that seemed to warm their hearts, but nary a word to interfere with work, for she just sat happy at the sight of the Pawnticket, and she surely admired everything, from Old Glory to Blue Peter—until our nigger cook came and spilled slops overside. Seems he'd had news of the lady, and came to grin, but he was back in his galley, like a rabbit to his burrow, while she marched up the gangway. "Can't abide dirt," says mother, and even the new boy heard not a word else 'cept the splash. For mother just escorted that nigger right through the galley, out at the other end, over the port rail, and boosted him into the blue harbor, for the first and only bath he'd ever had. Then she took off her horn spectacles, her old buckskin gloves, and her bonnet, and sot to cleaning a galley which hadn't been washed since the days of President Lincoln. Floor, range, walls, beams, pots, kettles, plates and dishes, she washed and scrubbed and polished. She hadn't time to listen to the wet nigger or the mate, and narry a man on board could get more than yea or nay out of mother. She cooked them a supper too good to be eaten and spoilt, then set the dishes to rights, got the lamp a-shining, and axed to be shown round the ship. You should have seen the idlers aft and the boys forrard, redding up as if all their mothers was expected. As to the nigger, the fellers made a habit of pitching him overboard until he got tired of coming.

The cap'n and me comes back along with the dinghy, makes fast, and climbs aboard. There's old gray mother, with the horn specs, calm in her own kitchen, just tellin' us to set right down to supper. Cap'n lives aft, and I belongs up forrard, being ordinary seaman, and less important aboard than the old man's pig. Yet somehow mother knew, feeding us both in the galley, and standing by while we fed. Never a word, but mother had a light for Captain Smith's cigar, and her eyes looking hungry at me for fear she'd be sent ashore.

"Well, ma'am," says the captain, "sent your baggage aft? Oh, we'll soon get your baggage aboard."

Then I heard him on deck seeing mother's dunnage into the spare berth aft, and the nigger's turkey thrown out on the wharf.

Sort of strange to me remembering mother, gaunt, bitter-hard, always in the right, with lots to say. And here was little mother sobbing her heart out on the breast of my jersey. Just the same mother changed. Said she was fed up with the Labrador, coming away to see the world, meet folks, and have a good time; but would I be ashamed of having her with me at sea? Surely that had been old mother back there in the long ago time, and now it was young mother laughing just because she'd cried.

Shamed? All the ways down from Joe Beef's clear to Rimouski you'll hear that yarn to-day, of how the old sea custom of winning a berth in fair fight was practised by a lady, aboard of the Pawnticket.

You've heard of ship's husbands, but we'd the first ship's mother. And the way she crep' in was surely insidious. Good word that. Let her draw stores, you find she's steward and purser, just surely poison to the chandlers. Oh, she'll see to the washing, and before you can turn around, she's nurse and doctor. She's got to be queen, and the schooner's a sea palace, when we suddenly discovered she only signed as cook.

Now we're asleep at eleven knots on a beam wind, and Key West wide on the starboard bow, the same being in the second dog-watch when I'm invited aft. There's the old man setting in the captain's place, there's mother at the head of the table sewing, and she asks me to sit in the mate's seat as if I was chief officer instead of master's dog.

"Son," says she—queer, little, soft chuckle, "son. You'll never guess."

I'm sort of sulky at having riddles put.

Then the old man gets red to the gills, giggling. He slaps hisself on his fat knee and wriggles. Then he up and kisses mother with a big smack right on the lips.

"Can't guess?" says mother.

"I'm the old man," he giggles, "she's the old woman." Then he reached out his paw. "Put her there, son!" says he; "what's yer name, boy?"

He'd a hand like a bear trap. "Smith!" I squealed. "Smith!"

"Fact," says he. "Fill yourself a goblet of that 'ere sherry wine, with some sugar. Drink, you cub, to Captain and Mrs. Smith. Now off with ye, and pass the bottle forrard."

There's me chuck-a-block with shyness, spluttering wine, dumb as a fish 'cause I've only one mouth to my face; then I'm to the foc'sle, tellin' the boys there's mutiny on the high seas with the cook commanding, and we're flying the aurora borealis for a flag, till we load a cargo of stars, and clears for paradise.

Next day, or next week, or maybe the Monday following, the ship's got a headache, with the sky sitting down on the mastheads, the sea like oil, the sheets slapping the shadows on the deck, where the tar boils, and our feet is like overdone toast.

We sailors is off our feed, and Pierre Legrandeur telling his beads till they get pitched overboard for luck. Old man's in a stinking temper, mother abed with sick headache, first mate like a wounded seal, the second has a touch of the sun, and bo's'n got a water-pup on his neck. We stows every stitch of canvas, sets a storm stays'l reefed to the size of a towel, everything on deck's lashed solid, and the glass is lookin' sicker'n ever. Then dad says we'd best take precautions, so he tries to house the top-masts, and sends down for a drum of oil.

The sky's like copper edged with sheet lightning, then there's scud in a hurry overhead, the horizon folding in, and a funnel-shaped cloud to the southard wrapping up the sky. There's no air, and I noticed the binnacle alight, so it must have been nigh dark under that funnel cloud. Just as it struck, some one called out "All aboard!" and I heard the mate yell, "You mean, all overboard!"

Couldn't see much at first, as I was busy getting mother out of the drowned cabin. When I'd passed a halyard round her and the stump of the mizzen, I'd just breathing time. The sea was flattened, white under black sky, and what was left of us was mostly blowing about. I felt sorry for Pierre—gone after his rosary beads, and Mick, too—he'd owed me a dollar. I missed the masts some, and the bowsprit. Galley gone, too, and the good old dinghy staved to kindlings. The ship's cat was mewing around with no curling-up corner left.

Dad was just taking command again of what remained. No use shouting either, so he hung on and beckoned. The masts overside were battering holes in us, until we cut adrift. Then to the pumps, but that was sort of ex officio just to keep us warm. Working's warmer than waiting.

Being timber-laden we couldn't sink, which was convenient. But, as mother said, there wasn't any grub on the roof, and we couldn't go down-stairs. For instance, we wanted a drink of water.

Well, now, we been three days refreshing our parched mouths with beer stories, when a fishing vessel comes along smelling salvage. Happens he's one of them felucca-rigged dago swine out of Invicta, Texas. Daresn't tow a hair-brush across a wash pail for fear of getting fouled in his own hawser. But he's a champion artist at gesticulations, so he'd like to get his picture in the papers for rescuing shipwrecked mariners. His charges was quite moderate, too, for a breaker of water and some fancy grub—until we seen the bill.

I never knew till then that our old man was owner. Of course that's all right, only he'd run astern with his insurance. That's why he'd stay with the ship, so it's no good talking. As to mother, she come aboard the feluccy, ship's cat in her arms, and a sort of cold, dumb, going-to-be-good-and-it's-killin'-me sort of smile. She bore up brave until she struck the number-one smell in the dago's cabin. "It's too much," she says, handing me the cat, "too much. I'm goin' back to drown clean."

She kissed me, and went back aboard the wreck.

But I was to stay with our sailors aboard the dago, to fetch Invicta quick, and bring a tug. Dad trusted me, even to play the coward and quit him. I dread to think back on that passage of four days to the port of Invicta.

Now in them days I was fifteen, and considered homely. The mouth I got would be large for a dog, smile—six and three-quarters. Thar ashore at Invicta, I'd still look sort of cheerful, so all them tug skippers took me for a joke. It was four days and three nights since I'd slept, so I suppose I'd look funny wanting to hire a tug.

I showed power of attorney, wrote in indelible pencil on dad's old dicky cravat, but the tugs expected cash, and the agents went back on me.

There was our sailors playing shipwrecked heroes, which is invited to take refreshments, and tell how brave they'd been, raising the quotations on tugs up to ten thousand dollars. Better have a whisky to lessen that smile before it takes cramp, they'd say. And mother's voice seems to call out of the air.

Nothin' doing Saturday nights at the office, tug crews all ashore, but the port will get a move on Monday. Trust grown men to know more'n a mere boy. Keep a stiff upper lip, cheer up and have a drink. The glass is down, the gulls is flying inland, thar's weather brewing. I seen in my mind the sprays lash over the wreck.

It was dark when I went to the wharves with Captain McGaw to see the Pluribus Unum. He'd show me a tug cheap at ten thousand cash—stores all complete, steam up, engineer on the premises, though he'd stepped ashore for a drink. Cute cabin he'd got on the bridge, cunning little glory-hole forrard. Why, everything was real handy, so that I only had to bat him behind the ear with a belaying-pin, and he dropped right down the fore hatch. All I wanted now was a navigating officer I could trust.

Which brings me to Mr. McMillan, our own second mate, buying a dozen fried oysters in a card box with a wire handle, all for twenty-five cents, though the girl seemed expecting a kiss.

"Hello, Frankie," says I, slapping him on the back. A foremast hand can make his officer act real dignified with less. "Say, Mac! D'ye know what Greed done?" I grabbed his oysters. "Greed, he choke puppy," says I, and in my mind I seen the gulls wheel round the wreck, where something's lying huddled. "Come on, puppy!" says I, waving Frankie down street with them oysters, so all the traffic pauses to admire, and our second officer is running good. More things I said, escorting him maybe a mile aboard of the Pluribus Unum. And there I ate them oysters while he was being coarse and rude, but all the time I seen the wreck heave sick and sodden on the swell of the gulf, the circling gulls, and how they dove down, pecking at a huddle of torn clothes beside the wheel.

Up thar on the tug's masthead I was owning to being in the wrong, while Frankie Mac was promising faithful to tear my hide off over my ears when I'm caught.

"Please, sir," says I, "it ain't so much the oysters worries me. It's this yer Cap'n McGaw I done embezzled. Cayn't call it kidnaped 'cause he's over sixty, but I stunned him illegal with a belaying-pin, and I hears him groaning—times when you stops to pant."

But Frankie Mac wouldn't believe one word until he went down in the fore peak to inquire, while I applied the hatch, and battened down.

So you see I'd got a tug, and the crew aboard, so the next thing was to take in the hawsers, shove off, and let her drift on the ebb.

It's a caution to see how many taps and things besets an engine-room, all of 'em heaps efficient. The first thing I handled proved up plenty steam, for my left arm was pink and blisters for a week. Next I found a tap called bilge-valve injection, which lets in the sea when you wants to sink the ship. I turned him full, and went to sit on the fore hatch while I sucked my arm, and had a chat with the crew.

They was talkative, and battering at the hatch with an ax, so I'd hardly a word in edgeways. Then they got scared we'd blow up before we drowned. Allus in my mind I'd see them gulls squawkin' around the wreck, and mother fighting them. That heaped thing by the wheel was dad, for I seen the whites of his eyes as the ship lurched him. An' the gulls—

Cap'n McGaw was pleadin' with me, then Mr. McMillan. They swore they'd take me to the wreck for nothin', they'd give their Bible oath, they'd sign agreements. McGaw had a wife and family ashore. McMillan was in love.

I turned off the bilge-valve injection, opened the fore hatch, and set them two to work. They was quite tame, and that night I slept—only to wake up screechin' at the things I seen in dreams.

Seven days we searched for the wreck before we gave up and quit, at least the captains did. Then night come down black overhead, with the swell all phosphorescent. I allus think of mother in a light sea under a black sky, like it was that night, when our tug run into the wreck by accident.

I jumped first on board. The poor hulk lay flush with the swell, lifting and falling just enough to roll the thin green water, all bright specks, across and across the deck. Mother was there, her bare arm reaching out, her left hand lifting her skirt, her face looking up, dreaming as she turned, and turned, and swayed, in a slow dance. It's what they calls a waltz, and seems, as I stood watching, I'd almost see the music swaying her as she wove circles, water of stars pouring over her bare feet. Seems though the music stopped, and she came straight to me. Speaks like a lil' small girl. "Oh, mummy," she says, "look," and draws her hands apart so, just as if she was showing a long ribbon, "watered silk," she mutters, "only nine cents a yard. Oh, mayn't I, mayn't I, mummy?"

And there was dad, with all that water of stars washing across and across him.

CHAPTER III

YOUTH

A dog sets down in his skin, tail handy for wagging—all his possessions right thar.

Same with me, setting on the beach, with a cap, jersey, overalls, sea boots, paper bag of peanuts, beached wreck of the old Pawnticket in front, and them two graves astern. Got more'n a dog has to think about, more to remember, nothin' to wag. Two days I been there, and the peanuts is getting few. Little gray mother, dad, the Happy Ship, just dead, that's all, dead. The tide makes and ebbs, the wind comes and goes, there's days, nights and the little waves beating time—time—time, just as if they cared, which they don't.

I didn't hear the two horses come, but there's a young person behind me sort of attracting attention. When he moves there's a tinkle of iron, creaking leather, horsy smell, too, and presently he sets down along of me, cross-legged. I shoved him the peanuts, but he lit a cigarette, offering me one. Though he wasn't, he just felt same as a seafaring man, so I didn't mind him being there.

"The ocean," says he, "is it allus like that?"

"'Cept when there's weather."

"That's a ship?"

"Was."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

He wanted to look at my sheath knife, and when I handed it he seen the lettering "Green River" on the blade. He'd been along Green River and there's no knives like that.

Then I'd got to know about them iron things on his heels—spurs. We threw peanuts, my knife agin his spurs, and he won easy. Queer how all the time he's wanting to show himself off. He'd never seen salt water before. The shipping, making the port, or clearing, foreign or coastwise, the Hellafloat Yank, the Skowogian Coffin, the family packet, liner, tramp, fisher, lumberman, geordie and greaser was all the same to him. "Sounds like injun languages," says he, "can't you talk white?" So we went in swimming, and afterward there's a lunch he'd got with him—quart of pickled onions, and cigarettes. Seems it's the vacuum in under which makes hearts feel so heavy.

This stranger begins to throw me horse talk and cow stories. It seems cow-punchers is sort of sailors of the plains, only it's different. Seafaring men gets wet and cold, and wrecked, but cow-boys has adventures instead, excitement, red streaks of life. Following the sea, I been missing life. Why, this guy ain't more'n two years older'n me—say, seventeen, but he's had five years ridin' for one man, four years for another, six years in Arizona, then three in Oregon, until he's added up about half a century. He's more worldly, too, than me—been in a train on the railroad. I'm surely humbled by four P. M., and if he keeps goin', by four bells I'll be young enough to set in mother's lap.

Says his name's Bull Durham. Surely I seen that name on lil' sacks of tobacco. Bull owns up this baccy's named after his father. And surely his old man must be pretty well fixed. "That's so," says Bull, blushing to show he's modest "Ye see, kid, the old man's a bishop. Yes, Bishop of Durham, of course. Lives over to London, England. Got a palace thar, and a pew in the House of Lords. I'll be a lord when he quits. I'm the Honorable Bull by rights, although I hate to have the boys in camp know that—make 'em feel real mean when all of 'em rides as well as me, or almost, and some can rope even better."

"And you is the young of a real lord!"

"Sure. I'll have to be a bishop, too, when I comes into the property. I'm a sort of vice-bishop, sonny. D'ye see these yere gloves? They got a string to tie 'em at the back, 'cause I been inducted. I got an entail I'll show you in camp, and a pair of hereditaments."

"Vice-bishop," says I, "is that like bo's'n's mate? I never hear tell of a bishop's mate."

"He mates in two moves," says Bull, "baptism and conflamation."

"But," says I, so he just shuts me up, saying I may be ignorant, but that ain't no excuse for being untruthful.

Well, his talk made me small and mean as a starved cat, but that was nothing to the emotions at the other end of me when he got me on one of them horses. I wanted to walk. Walk! The most shameful things he knew was walking and telling lies. If I walked he'd have nothing more to do with me. I rode till we got to the ferry.

You know in books how there's a line of stars acrost the page to show the author's grief. I got 'em bad by the time we rode into Invicta City. Draw the line right thar:

* * * * * *

We're having supper at the Palladium, and I'm pretty nigh scared. The goblets is all full of pink and white serviettes, folded up into fancy designs, which come undone if you touched. There's a menu to say what's coming, in French so you don't know what you're eating, and durned if I can find out whether to tackle an a la mode with fingers or a spoon. Bull says it's only French for puckeroo, a sort of four-legged burrowing bird which inhabits silver mines, but if I don't like that, the lady will fetch me a foe par. Well, I orders one, and by the lady's face I see I done wrong, even before she complains to the manager. I'm surely miserable to think I've insulted a lady.

The manager's suspicious of me, but Bull talks French so rapid that even froggy can't keep up, although he smiles and shrugs, and gives us sang-fraws to drink.

This sort of cocktail I had, was the first liquor I'd tasted. It's powerful as a harbor tug, dropping me out of the conversation, while the restaurant turns slowly round with a list to starboard, and Bull deals for a basket in the front window full of decorated eggs. Says they're vintage eggs, all verd-antique and bookay. For years the millionaires of Invicta has shrunk from the expense. My job when we leaves is to carry the basket, 'cause Bull's toting a second-handed saddle.

Bull lets me have cocktails to keep me from getting confused on the night of my day boo. I know I behaves with 'strordinary dignity, and wants more cocktails.

I dunno why Bull has to introduce me to the gentleman who keeps the peanut store down street—seeing I'd dealt there before. Anyway, I'm introduced to Affable Jones, and I'm the Markis of Worms—the same being a nom de plume. We proceeds to the opery-house, climbs in through a little hind window, and finds a dressing-room. Affable Jones dresses up as a monk, Bull Durham claims he's rigged out already as a vice-bishop, and I'm to be a chicken, 'cause I'm dealing vintage eggs in the cotillon. All the same, I'm left there alone for hours, and it's only when they comes back with a cocktail that I'll consent to dressing up as a chicken—which in passing out through that lil' window is some crowded. We proceeds up street, me toting eggs, and practising chicken-talk, and it seems the general public is surprised.

So we comes to the Masonic Hall, which is all lights, and band, and fashionable persons rigged out in fancy dress, dancing the horse doover. I got the name from Bull, who says that the next turn is my day boo in the omlet cotillion. Seems it's all arranged, too. Affable Jones lines up the ladies on the left, the dudes on the right, all the length of the hall. Bull marches up the middle, spurs trailin' behind him, and there's me dressed as a chicken, with a basket of eggs, wondering whether this here cow-boy is the two persons I see, or only the one I can hear. Band's playing soft, Affable serves out tin spoons to the dudes, and I deals each a decorated egg, laying it careful in the bowl of the spoon, till there's only a few left over, and I'm safe along with Bull.

So far everybody seems pleased. Bull whispers in my ear, "Make for the back door, you son of a sea cook," which offends one, being true; waves an egg at the band for silence, and calls out, "Ladies and gents." From the back door I seen how all the dudes has to stand dead still for fear of dropping an egg.

"Ladies," says Bull, "has any of you seen a live mouse? On the way up among you, seems I've dropped my mouse, and it's climbing skirts for solitude."

Then there's shrieks, screams, ladies throwing themselves into the arms of them dudes, eggs dropping squash, eggs going bang, Bull throwing eggs at every man not otherwise engaged, and such a stink that all the lights goes out. I'm grabbed by the scruff of the chicken, run out through the back door, and slung on the back of a horse. Bull's yelling "Ride! Ride! Git a move on!" He's flogging the horses with his quirt, he's yelling at me: "Ride, or we'll be lynched!"

My mouth's full of feathers, chicken's coming all to pieces—can't ride—daresn't fall off. So on the whole I dug the chicken's spurs into Mr. Horse, and rode like a hurricane in a panic. All of which reminds me that the hinder parts of an imitation bird is comforting whar she bumps. Still, draw them stars across.

* * * * * *

I'm feeling better with twenty miles between me and Invicta City. The sun transpires over the eastern sky-line, the horses is taking a roll, I'm seated on the remnants of the chicken, and Bull Durham says I'm his adopted orphan. "You rode," says he, "like a pudding on a skewer, you've jolted yo' tail through yo' hat, you looks like a half-skinned fool hen, and you've torn that poor mare's mouth till she smiles from ear to ear. Yet on the whole them proceedings is cheering you up, and thar's more coming."

Looking back it seems to me that the first night's proceedings was calm. Thar was the fat German fire brigade pursuing an annual banquet across lots by moonlight, all on our way north, too, till the wagon capsized in a river.

Thar was the funeral obsequies of a pig, late deceased, with municipal honors, until we got found out.

Then we was an apparition of angels at a revival camp, only Bull's wings caught fire, and spoiled the whole allusion.

Yes, when I looks back on them radium nights entertainments along with Bull Durham, I see now what a success they was in learning me to ride. "What you need," says he, "is confidence. Got to forget mere matters of habeas corpus, and how your toes point, and whether you're looking pretty. Just trust yo' horse to pull through, so that you ain't caught in the flower of youthful innocence, and hung on the nearest telegraph pole. You still needs eclair as the French say, and you got no ung bong point, but your horse de combat is feeling encouraged to pack you seventy miles last night, and we'll be in camp by sundown."

Once I been to a theater, and seen a play. Thar's act one, with fifteen minutes hoping for act two. Thar's act after act till you just has to fill up the times between with injun war-whoops, until act five, when all the ladies and gents is shot or married. It just cayn't go on. So the aujience says "Let's go'n have a drink," and the band goes off for a drink, and the lady with the programs tells you to get to hell out of that.

It's all over. The millionaire Lord Bishop of Durham is only Bull's father-in-law. Bull's not exactly a cow-boy yet—but assists his mother, Mrs. Brooke, who is chef at a ranch. It's not exactly a stock ranch, but they raise fine pedigree hogs. Bull won't be quite popular with his mother for having gorgeous celebrations with the hundred dollars she'd give him to pay off a little debt. I'd better not come to the ranch after leading mummie's boy astray from the paths of virtue.

No, I cayn't set a saddle without giving the horse hysterics, and as for turning cow-boy, what's the matter with my taking a job as a colonel? I'd best climb off that mare, and hunt a job afoot. So long, Jesse.

There's the dust of Bull's horses way off along the road, and me settin' down by the wayside. A dog sets down in his skin, tail handy for wagging, all his possessions around him. I ain't even got no tail.

CHAPTER IV

THE ORDEAL BY TORTURE

The Labrador was good to me, the sea was better, the stock range—wall, I'd four years punching cows, and I'm most surely grateful. Thar's plenty trades outside my scope of life, and thar's ages and ages past which must have been plenty enjoyable for a working-man. Thar's ages to come I'd like to sample, too. But so far as I seen, up to whar grass meets sky, this trade of punching cows appeals to me most plentiful. In every other vocation the job's just work, but all a cow-boy's paid for is forms of joy—to ride, to rope, to cut out, to shoot, to study tracks an' sign, read brands, learn cow. A bucking horse, a range fire, a gun fight, a stampede, is maybe acquired tastes, for I've known good men act bashful.

There's drawbacks also—I'd never set up thirst or sand-storms as being arranged to please, or claim to cheerfulness with a lame horse, or in a sheep range, no. But then you don't know you're happy till you been miserable, and you'd hate the sun himself if he never set.

I ain't proposin' to unfold a lot of adventures, the same being mostly things I'd rather'd happened to some one else. An adventure comes along, an' it's "How d'ye do?" It's done gone, and "Adios!"

I was nigh killed in all the usual ways.

The sun would find us mounted, scattering for cattle; he'd set, leaving us in the saddle with a night herd still to ride. Hard fed, worked plenty, all outdoors to live in, and bone-weary don't ax, "Whar's my pillow?" No. The sun shines through us, and if it's cold we'll shiver till we sweat. The rains, the northers—oh, it was all so natural! Living with nature makes men natural.

We didn't speak much—pride ain't talkative. Riding or fighting we gave the foreman every ounce we'd got, and more when needed. Persons would come among us, mean, dirty, tough, or scared, sized-up before they dismounted, apt to move on, too. Them that stayed was brothers, and all our possessions usually belonged to the guy who kep' the woodenest face at poker.

The world in them days was peopled with only two species, puncher an' tenderfoot, the last bein' made by mistake. Moreover, we cow-boys belonged to two sects, our outfit, and others of no account. And in our outfit, this Jesse person which is me, laid claims on being best man, having a pair of gold mounted spurs won at cyards from Pieface, our old foreman. I'd a rolled cantle, double-rig Cheyenne of carved leather, and silver horn—a dandy saddle that, first prize for "rope and tie down" agin all comers.

Gun, belt, quirt, bridle, hat, gloves, everything, my whole kit was silver mounted and everything in it a trophy of trading, poker, or fighting. Besides my string of ponies I'd Tiger, an entire black colt I'd broke—though I own he was far from convinced. Add a good pay-day in my off hind pocket, and d'ye think I'd own up to them twelve apostles for uncles? D'ye know what glory is? Wall, I suppose it mostly consists of being young.

In these days now, I've no youth left to boast of, but it's sweet to look back, to remember Sailor Jesse at nineteen, six foot one and filling out, full of original sin, and nothin' copied, feelin' small, too, for so much cubic contents of health, of growin' power, and bubbling fun. Solemn as a prairie injun, too, knowing I was all comic inside, and mighty shy of being found out for the three-year kid I was.

Lookin' back it seems to me that all them vanities was only part of living natural, being natural. I seen cock birds playing up much the same to the hen birds—which made believe most solemn they wasn't pleased.

Time I speak of, our outfit had turned over three thousand head of long-horns to the Circle S and rode right into Abilene. Thar we was to take the train for our home ranch down south, and I hoped to get back to my dog pup Rockyfeller. In my bunk at the ram pasture, too, there was a china dog, split from nose to tip, but repaired. Yes, I keened for home. And yet I'd never before been on a railroad, and dreaded the boys would find out how scared I was of trains.

A sailorman feels queer, steppin' ashore on to streets which seem to heave although you know they don't—yes, that's what a puncher feels, too, alighting in a town. Gives you a sort of bow-legged waddle, and spurs on a sidewalk trail a lot too loud. I lit in Abilene with a blush, and just stood rooted while a guy selling gold watches reads my name graved on the saddle, and then addresses me as Mister Smith. Old Pieface, scared for my morals, did kick this person sudden and severe, but all the same that Mister went to my head.

The smell of indoors made my stomach flop right over while we ranged up brave at the bar for a first drink. The raw rye felt like flames, though the preserved cherry afloat in it tasted familiar, like soap. At the same time the sight of a gambling lay-out made my pocket twitch, and I'd an inward conviction telling me this place ain't good for kids. It's the foreman sent me off with a message.

I rolled my tail, and curved off with Tiger to take in the sights of the town. He shied heaps, and it's curious to think why he objected to sign-boards, awnings, lamp-posts, even to a harmless person lying drunk. Then a railroad engine snorted in our face, so Tiger and me was plumb stampeded up a little side street. It's thar that he bucks for all he's worth, because of a kneeling man with a straw hat and a punctured soul, praying abundant. Of course this penitent turned round to enjoy the bucking match—and sure reveals the face of my ole friend, Bull Durham. We hadn't met for years, so as soon as Tiger was tired, Bull owned to finding the Lord, and being stony busted, ask if I was saved. I seen he'd got 'em bad, and shared my wad of money level with him. So we had cigars, a pound of chocolate creams, an oyster stew, and he bought a bottle of patent medicine for his liver. We shared that, and went on, he walking by my stirrup to the revival meeting.

This revival was happening at a barn, so I rode in. Tiger you see, needed religion bad, and when people tried to turn him out, he kicked them. You should just have heard what the preacher told the Lord about me, and all the congregation groaned at me being so young and fair, with silver harness, and the hottest prospects—just as Pieface always said when I was late for breakfast.

They had a great big wooden cross upon the dais, and somehow, I dunno why, that made me feel ashamed. A girl in a white dress was singing Rock of Ages—oh, most beautiful, her arms thrown round the cross, the sun-bright hair about her like a glory.

I could a' cried. Yes. For her great cat eyes were set on me, while her voice went through an' through me, an'—sudden a dumb yearning happened inside my belt. Seems that half-bottle of liver dope had scouted round, found all them chocolate creams, and rared up for battle. But no, the whisky was still calm, though I felt pale.

Something was goin' wrong, for a most frightsome panic clutched my throat. Suppose I'd caught religion! Oh, it couldn't be so bad as all that. Fancy being saved like them wormy railroad men, and town scouts, took abject because the sky pilot was explaining hell. Made in God's image? No. That don't apply to cowards.

An' yet it's cows to sheep thar's something wrong when tears runs down my face, because a girl—why since fifteen I'd been in love with every girl I seen. As a species they was scarce, some good, some even better. The sight of girls went to my head like liquor, and this one was surely good with her sunbright hair, her cheeks flushed 'cause I stared, her sulky lips rebuking when I throw'd a kiss, her yellow-brown eyes—.

Oh, had I really washed behind my ears? Suppose I'd got high-water marks! Was my hands—I whipped off my gloves to inquire. That's what's the matter, sure. Got to make good before bein' introduced. Got to get a move on Tiger. I swung, spurred with one spring through the doors, yelled "Injuns" and stampeded, scatterin' gravel and panic through Abilene. I just went like one man for our cook wagon down by the railroad corrals.

Now, for all the shaving-glass could see, I was nice an' clean, but then that mirror has small views, and I'm not taking risks, but stripped and scrubbed all over. The place was so durned public I blushed from nose to heels till I was dressed again, shining my hair and boots. Then I procured an extra special, cherry-red, silk scarf out of the wrangler's kit.

Some of our boys made friendly signs as I passed on my way back, and fired a few shots after me for luck, but I'd no time to play. I joined the revival meeting just as the hat came round, so penitent sinners making for the door, came back to stay and pay because of Tiger. I give Bull ten dollars to hand to the hat, only he passed it into his own pocket. He seemed annoyed, too, saying, "Waste not, want not." Then he explained how the fire-escape only paid Miss Ellis fifty dollars a day, whereas he was making hundreds.

Just then she passed, and I got introduced. "Say, Polly," says Bull, "here's Sailor Jesse wants to get acquainted."

She stopped, sort of impatient for supper, and velvet-soft her voice, full of contempt.

"Oh, pshaw!"

Hard gold-brown eyes all scorn, soft gold-brown hair, an' freckled neck, red lips, fierce, tiger fierce—

"Another damned suppliant?" she asked, and Bull was holding a light for her cigarette. "Is it saved?" she added.

I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her how I despised all the religion I'd seen, the bigots it made, an' the cowards. I'd rather burn with the goats than bleat among sheep even now.

"Oh, that's all right, then," she said as though she answered me, and frank as a man she gave her hand to shake. "Good stunt of mine, eh? Although I own I'd like to have that cross stage-managed."

She passed the weather, admired Tiger, talked Browns and Joneses with Bull, turning her back on me, asked him to supper, walked off with him, an' that's all. Egg-shells throw'd in the ash-heap may feel like I did then.

Nobody loved me, 'cept our pony herd, inquirin' piteous for food an' water. A widow O'Flynn fed me supper, her grub bein' so scarce and bad, poor soul, she had to charge a dollar to make it pay. She kep' a wooden leg, and a small son. Our boys, of course, was drunk by then, just sleepin' whar they'd fell, so I was desolate as a moonlit dog-howl, ridin' herd with my night horse whar Polly's little home glowed lights across the prairie. I seen Bull and the preacher leave there on toward midnight, walkin' sort of extravagant into town. The lights went out. Then times I'd take some sleep, or times ride herd guarding her little house, till the cold came, till the dawn broke, till the sun came up.

It was half past breakfast when I seen Bull again, on his knees like yesterday, a-puttin' up loud prayers, which made me sick. "Rehearsin'," says he, "'cause Polly's struck, and I'm to be chief mourner."

He was my only chance of meetin' Miss Polly agen, so I was leadin' the talk around, when a guy comes butting into our conversation. He'd puffed sleeves to his pants, and was all dressed saucy, standing straddle, aiming to impress. "Oh, whar's my gun?" says Bull.

This person owned to being a gentleman, with a strong English accent. He'd 'undreds of 'orses at 'ome in 'Ammersmith, but wanted to own an 'ack 'ere, don'tcherknow.

So Bull lefts up his eyes to Heaven, praying, "Oh, don't deliver us from temptation yet!" Whereas I confided with this person about Bull being far gone in religious mania. I owned Bull right though, about my bein' a sailor, timid with 'orses; and he seen for hisself the way I was riding my Sam 'orse somethin' dreadful. Told me I'd ought to 'old my 'ed 'igh instead of 'umping. It's in toes, down 'eels, young feller, an' don't be 'ard on the bally hanimal. He'd gimme lessons only I was frightened, but out aways from town the ground was softer for falling, an' I gained courage. Happens Miss Polly's house was opposite. I scrambled down ungainly, shoved a pebble in along Sam's withers, and let this gent explain just how to set an 'ard-mouthed 'unter. You 'olds 'is 'ed, placin' the 'and on the 'orn of the saddle, so. Then hup! That pebble done the rest.

They claim these flying men is safe while they stays in the air, herding with cherubs. That's what's the matter. It's only when this early aviator came down—bang—that he lit on his temper, and sat denouncing me. Yes, I'd been misunderstood, and when I told him it was all for the best he got usin' adjectives. He bet me his diamond ring to a dollar he'd ride Sam, and I must own the little man had grit. He'd have won, too—but for Sam.

Now, it's partly due to this 'ere entertainment, and the diamond ring I gave her, that Miss Polly began to perceive me with the naked eye, and said I might come to supper.

And that evening was most surely wonderful, in a parlor all antimacassars and rocker chairs with pink bows. She showed me plush photo albums, and hand-painted pictures of ladies with no clothes on. She played Abide with Me on the harmonium; she made me write poetry in her birthday book. There was champagne wine, the little cigarettes with dreams inside, and a bottle no bigger'n my thumb smellin' so fierce it well-nigh blew my head off. Oh, it was all so elegant and high-toned that I got proud of being allowed indoors.

Her people was real society, her poppa an army general, ruined by the war, her mother prime Virginian. But then she'd gone on the stage, so there was mean suspicions.

I hold suspicion to be a form of meanness when it touches women. My mother would have shied at naked ladies, and dad was powerful agin cigarettes. As for the smell, so fierce it had to be bottled, I'll own up I was shocked. But then you see mother, and dad, an' me being working people, was not supposed to feel the high-toned senses which belongs with wealth. It's not for grade stock like me to set up as judge on thoroughbreds, or call a lady immoral for using a spoon whar I should need a shovel.

No, I was playing worldliness for fear this lady'd think me ignorant. I was no more'n a little child strayed among civilization, scared of being found out childish. And I was surely panicky in a house—belonged outdoors among horses.

So it happened that in them days, while I rode guard upon Miss Polly, no man in Abilene could speak to her, or mention her name to me until I give him leave. She got to be known as Sailor Jesse's kill, and any person touching on my kill was apt to require a funeral.

It was the seventh day she married me. I know, because Bull, acting as best man, claimed a kiss, which she gave him. "Bull," says she, "didn't I bet you I'd marry Sailor Jesse within a week? You owe me twenty dollars." I saw the joke was on me.

I'd been in a dream. Love had made the yellow prairie shine like gold, that little prairie home a holy place, the woman in it something I'd kneel and pray to. There'd be lil' small children soon for me to play with, pride in earning food, the great big honor of guarding all of that from harm.

I came to marriage pure as any bear, or wolf, or fox, expecting to find my mate the same as me, getter and giver of life, true to the earth, and fearless in doin' right.

Folks said I was young to marry at nineteen, but full nine years I'd earned my living, fought my way, and done my share of making happiness. I'd been served with a mouth full wide enough for laughin', a face which made folks smile when I was sad, eyes to see fun, the heart to take a joke if any offered, and when things hurt, I wasn't first to squeal. No: as long as the joke was on me I done my best to take it like a man.

But suppose— Well, I'd best explain that the English tenderfoot was at our wedding breakfast, and gettin' encouraged, he put up his best prize joke. He was all hoo, hoo, hoo at first, so funny he couldn't speak, the fellows waitin' each with his grin gettin' stale, and Polly laughing just to encourage him on. Then words got out which made the boys uneasy. Jake Haffering the Bar T foreman, told the hog to shut up, while others moved to get clear. I was sort of stupid, wanting the point explained, couldn't believe it possible the joke was on my wife, although I'd rose by then, with gun hand free. Then I saw, but the room seemed dark, and the tenderfoot all indistinct, backing away, and reaching slovenly for weapons, while my bullet smashed in his shoulder. It slued him around as he dropped.

I could hear the flies in the window buzzing as I came to myself, seeing the hot street outside, the yellow plains beyond.

It was old Jake of the Bar T who spoke out then, and spoke straight.

"My boy," says he, "put up your gun. That's right. This here tenderfoot is bleedin' by spurts, arterial. Bull, see if Doc Stuart is sober." Bull ran for the doctor. "Only a tenderfoot," says Jake, "insults a cow-boy's wife—which is death from natural causes. Ma'am," he wagged his finger at Polly, "'tain't long since you come among us. 'Tain't more'n a day since you told me and others present that you was marryin' for fun. You laughed at warnings, and this here Jesse would have shot the man who warned him. You are a lady, and this boy you married for fun, is goin' to see you treated as a lady. I own he got rattled first shot, missing this tenderfoot's heart, which ain't up to average practise; but it's time you began to see the point of the joke."

They took the tenderfoot away, and we were alone, me watching the pool of red blood turning brown. Polly sat drumming tunes on the table, her face turned white, staring out through the window at the noon heat of the plains. I remember I took a bottle of champagne wine, filled a big goblet, and drank it off. The flies were buzzing still agin the window. It made me laugh to think she'd taught me drinking, so I had another, watching the flies hold congress on the floor. "I see," says Polly, "I understand now." At that she began to scream.

I should have told you, that after our boys of the Flying Zee quit Abilene, I pitched a little A tent on the prairie back of Polly's house. Thar I could see my ponies at grass, and snuff the air clear of that stinking town.

But from the time I moved into the house, thar was something disturbing my nose—something uneasy—oh, I don't know what it was, back of all house smells, which give me a sense of evil, so I could hardly bear to stay indoors.

And there were signs. I'd come back from some errand into town, to find a man's track leading into the door, when Polly claimed she had no visitors. Why should she say she'd been alone all morning, when there's pipe ashes on the parlor table, or I'd catch the wet smell from a chewed cigar? She only laughed.

Comin' from town one night—she'd sent me there—I seen a man's shadow cross the parlor blind. I fired, missing, a fool's act, for it warned him, and gave him time. The lamp was out before I reached the house, and Polly with some hysterics getting in my way.

It wouldn't be sense to show a match guiding the stranger's aim, or to stand against a window, or make sounds. Rather I stood right still, and after a while Polly surprised herself into dead silence. I couldn't hear that man, or feel, or see him. I could smell him, but that don't supply his bearings. I could taste the air from him, but that flickered. I sensed him. Can't explain that—no. You just feel if a man stares hard. I fired at that. Then Polly, of course, went off into all sorts of fits.

Next morning I tracked blood sign to the hospital. Seems a young person from the bank had took to conjuring and swallowed lead.

It was still before breakfast that I told Polly to pack her dunnage, 'cause we was moving out from Abilene. I claimed I could earn enough to keep my wife without her needing to go out into society.

"On cow-boy pay?" she said laughing. "On forty dollars a month? I spend more'n that on champagne. Here you Miss Jesse, who's payin' for this—you? Who keeps you, eh, Miss Prunes—and—prisms? Shamed of my bein' a lady, eh? I am a lady, too, and don't you forget it. And now, git out of my home."

I struck a match to the bo-kay of paper flowers, heaped on the hand-painted pictures, the paper fans, the rocker chairs, and slung the coal-oil lamp into the flames; then while she tore my shoulder with her teeth, I carried her to my tent "That's your home now," I said, "the home of an honest working-man," I said, "and if another tough defiles my home, I'll kill you."

The house-warming gathered the neighbors, but she had no use for neighbors. Only they seen the line I drew in the dust around that tent, the dead line. Afterward if any man came near that line, she'd scream.

But she'd taught me to drink, an' I drank, day after day, night after night, while she sat frightened in the tent, moaning when I came. Only when she was cured could I get work, not while I had to watch all day, all night. Only when she was cured could I get work, make good, an' keep my wife as women should be kept. And I—and I—why if I let myself get sober once I'd remember, and remember, and go mad.

She swore she loved me, she vowed that she'd repented, and I believed until she claimed religion. I'd seen her breed of religion. I'd rather have her atheist than shamming. She would keep straight, and be my faithful wife if I'd quit drinking, if I'd only take her away. But she'd married me for a joke, and false as a cracked bell she'd chime out lies and lies, knowing as I knew that if she'd ever been the thing she claimed, I'd come into her life too late. How could she be the mother of my children, when—I drank, and sold my ponies to buy liquor, for there was no way out.

And by the time I'd only Tiger left, one night came Bull to find me just as dusk was falling. He'd been away, I hadn't seen him for weeks, and when he came to me in the Roundup saloon, I seen how frightened he was of speaking to me. I was drunk, too, scarce knowing what he said, just telling him to shut up and have a drink. Polly's bin hurt? Well, that's all right—have rye—Polly's been shot? That's good, we'd all have drinks. Was she dead?

She was dead.

And I was sober then as I am now.

"Murdered?" I asked.

"Jesse, she shot herself."

"Is that so?"

"Through the brow—above the eyes. Come, Jesse."

Next thing I was standing in the tent door, and it was so dark inside I had to strike a match. The sulphur tip burned blue, the wood flared, and for that moment, bending down, I seen the black dark hole between the eyes, the smear of drying blood. Then the match went out, and I—that was enough.

I gave Bull what I'd left, to pay for burial.

Then I was riding Tiger all alone, with my shadow drawin' slowly out ahead as the moon waned.

CHAPTER V

THE BURNING BUSH

Among the Indians, before a boy gets rated warrior, he goes alone afoot, naked, starvin', thirsty, way off to the back side of the desert. Thar he just waits, suns, weeks, maybe a whole moon, till the Big Spirit happens to catch his eye. Then the Big Spirit shows him a stick, or a stone, or any sort of triflin' common thing, which is to be his medicine, his wampum, the charm which guards him, hunting, or in war. There's the ordeal, too, by torture, done in the medicine lodge, so all the chiefs can see he's fit for bearin' arms. He's given the war-path secret, taking his rank as a man.

Among them Bible Indians you'll remember a feller called Moses, out at the back side of the desert, seen the Big Spirit in a burning bush. Later his tribe set up a medicine lodge, and the hull story's mighty natural.

This Indian life explains a lot to men like me, raised ignorant, never grown-up—or at least not to hurt. I had the ordeal by torture, which done me good, and I been whar Moses went, and the Lord Christ too, seeking the medicine of the Almighty Father.

For as I'd broken ponies for their good till they got peaceful, so I was broke myself. Bein' full of pride an' sin as a young horse, so I was tamed until He reckoned me worth pasturage. Before then I'd work hard—yes, for pride. A bucking horse throws miles, sheer waste into the air, miles better pulled out straight the way you're goin'. I work for service, now.

You know when you've been in trouble, how you swing back thinking of edged words which would have cut, and dirty actions that you wish you'd done. These devils has got to go if you'd keep your manhood, harder to beat out than a talky woman, and even the littlest of them puts up a heap big fight. But when the last is killed, there's room for peace.

Sloth walks in front of trouble, peace follows after. Water is nothing till you thirst, rest nothing till you're weary, calm nothing till you've faced the storm, peace nothing until after war. But peace is like the water after thirst, rest when you're weary, calm after storm, earnings of warriors only. Many find peace in death, only a few in life, and I found peace thar in the wilderness, the very medicine of torn souls, fresh from the hand of the Almighty Father.

And I found wealth. Seems there's many persons mistaking dollars for some sort of wealth. I've had a few at times by way of samples, the things which you're apt to be selfish with, or give away to buy self-righteousness. Reckoning with them projuces the feeling called poverty. They're the very stuff and substance of meanness, and no man walks straight-loaded. Dollars gets lost, or throwed away, or left to your next of kin, but they're not a good and lasting possession. I like 'em, too.

What's the good and lasting possession, the real wealth? Times I've been down in civilization, meeting folks who'd been rusting and rotting on one spot, from a while or so to a long lifetime, aye, and proud to boast in long decaying. They'd good memory, but nothing to remember. They're handy enough as purses if they were filled with coin. But where they're poor I'm rich, with wealth of memories, some good, some bad, all real. In coin like "seen" and "known" and "done" I'm millionaire. Ah, yes, but times I wisht that I could part with things I've "lived" to help beginners, and keep moths out of candles. Things lived ain't current coin to be given, sold, lost, thrown, aye, or bequeathed. My body's meat and bones, my soul's the life I've lived, and mine until I square accounts with God. Queer reckoning that last. I guess He'll have to laugh, and He who made all life plumb full of humor, is due to enjoy some things He'll have to punish.

I found peace, I found wealth, yes, and found something more thar in the wilderness. Sweet as the cactus forest in blossom down Salt River is that big memory.

It was after I'd found the things of happy solitude. I'd gone to work then for the Bar Y outfit, breaking the Lightning colts. We was out a few weeks from home, taking an outfit of ponies as far as the Mesa Abaho, and one night camped at the very rim-rock of the Grand Cañon. The Navajo Indians was peevish, the camp dry, grass scant, herd in a raffish mood, and night come sudden.

I'd just relieved a man to get his supper, and rode herd wide alert. I scented the camp smoke, saw the spark of fire glow on the boys at rest, and heard their peaceful talk hushed in the big night. They seemed such triflin' critters full of fuss since dawn, so small as insects at the edge of nothin', while for miles beneath us that old, old wolfy Colorado River was playing the Grand Cañon like a fiddler plays a fiddle. But the river in the cañon seemed no more than a trickle in a crack, hushed by the night, while overheard the mighty blazing stars—point, swing, and drive, rode herd on the milky way. And that seemed no more than cow-boys driving stock. Would God turn His head to see His star herds pass, or notice our earth like some lame calf halting in the rear?

And what am I, then?

That was my great lesson, more gain to me than peace and wealth of mind, for I was humbled to the dust of earth, below that dust of stars. So as a very humble thing, not worth praying for, at least I could be master of myself. I rode no more for wages, but cut out my ponies from the Lightning herd, mounted my stud horse William, told the boys good-by at Montecello, and then rode slowly north into the British possessions. So I come at last to this place, an old abandoned ranch. There's none so poor in dollars as to envy ragged Jesse, or rich enough to want to rob my home. They say there's hidden wealth whar the rainbow goes to earth—that's whar I live.

PART II

CHAPTER I

TWO SHIPS AT ANCHOR

Kate's Narrative