David Lannarck, Midget
by George S. Harney · English · Gutenberg #20384 · 391,713 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: David Lannarck, Midget
Author: George S. Harney
Release date: January 16, 2007 [eBook #20384]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20384
Credits: Produced by David Starner, Dave Morgan, Jeannie Howse and
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DAVID LANNARCK, MIDGET ***
Produced by David Starner, Dave Morgan, Jeannie Howse and
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| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| Dialect and unusual spelling have been retained in this |
| document. |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in this |
| text. For a complete list, please see the end of this |
| document. |
| |
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| David Lannarck, Midget |
| _An Adventure Story_ |
| by GEORGE S. HARNEY |
| |
| |
| _David was small, but Oh my!_ |
| |
| Circus life was exciting enough, but |
| young David Lannarck was tired of being |
| stared at and bullied because of his |
| small size. So when a tall Westerner |
| saved his life in Cheyenne, and David |
| and he became friends, why, the circus |
| midget decided to make his home in the |
| wide open space. |
| |
| With big, rangy Sam Welborn, David |
| started out to become a rancher and live |
| out his days in peace and quiet. But |
| excitement seemed to follow the circus |
| midget wherever he went. The big man and |
| the little one ran into gunman, thieves |
| and rustlers, and where big Sam's |
| strength was not enough, David's wit had |
| to get them out alive. |
| |
| Circus life and Western adventure are a |
| highly unusual as well as a delightful |
| combination, but the author George S. |
| Harney has a first-hand authentic |
| knowledge of both. As a young man in |
| Indiana, he was a personal friend of Lew |
| Graham, the circus announcer for the Big |
| Show, Barnam & Bailey's Circus. Lew |
| Graham, handsomely dressed, told the big |
| audience what came next on the program. |
| During the long winter lay-ups, they |
| would swap yarns in the unique circus |
| lingo, which Harney has recorded in |
| _David Lannarck, Midget_. |
| |
| Later, Mr. Harney served in the |
| Spanish-American War. After the war, |
| "Cap" Harney became active in the |
| development of southern Idaho, and |
| although he sold his holdings there |
| 1945, he confesses that he is still |
| "haunted by the wild isolation of that |
| district west of Cheyenne." |
| |
| Mr. Harney is a native Hoosier, a |
| resident of Crawfordsville, Indiana. |
+----------------------------------------------+
David Lannarck,
Midget
_AN ADVENTURE STORY_
by GEORGE S. HARNEY
EXPOSITION PRESS · NEW YORK
Copyright, 1951, by George S. Harney
_All rights reserved
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form_
Published by the Exposition Press Inc.
386 Fourth Avenue, New York 16, N.Y.
Manufactured in the United States of America
Consolidated Book Producers, Inc.
Designed by Morry M. Gropper
_It is very true, that the small things in
life are sometimes the most important._
--CHURCHILL
PART ONE
1
In all her days of presenting the spectacular, Cheyenne had never
witnessed a more even contest than was now being staged this day in
the early autumn of 1932, at the circus grounds in the city's suburbs.
It was a race between a midget and a lout.
The little man ducked under the garish banners portraying the wonders
of the Kid Show, raced the interval to the "big top" of the Great
International, then back again, closely followed by a lanky oaf whose
longer strides evened the contest.
"I'll cut yer ears off," the pursuer snarled, as the midget swung
around the pole supporting the snake banner, thus gaining a distance
on his enemy. "En I'll cut yer heart out," the big one yelled as he
stumbled and almost fell.
As evidence that he would make good his terrifying threat, the lout
flourished a clasp-knife in his right hand; with his left, he made
futile grabs at the midget's coat tail.
The crowd that watched this contest was not of the circus. It was a
gathering of those who came to the lot at an early hour to watch the
Circus City set up shop for the one-day stand in this western
metropolis. Some of the onlookers were railroad men, off duty; some
were cow hands from nearby ranches; a few Indians from the reservation
beyond the willow-fringed Lodgepole Creek, lent their stoical
presence, while several soldiers from the newly christened Fort Warren
with or without official sanction, were on hand to witness the setup.
It was the accepted judgment of those present that the midget and the
lout were staging a ballyhoo--a "come-on"--preliminary to the opening
of the Kid Show. There was no applause as the little man outwitted his
follower by an adroit dodge under the ticket wagon. No one tripped
the lout as the race led through the assembled crowd. If the contest
was a part of the day's program, no spectator seemed willing to play
"stooge" in this preliminary performance.
Some distance to the north where the two great tents of the main show
came together, a group of workmen were operating a stake driver. In
this gang the midget knew he would find understanding friends. If he
could gain sufficient distance to undertake this straightaway, he
would find help. He dived between a spectator's legs, turned to the
right, and ran for this haven of hope.
Two things interrupted his plans. A ramshackle auto moved across his
path. To avoid collision, the midget veered his course to step in a
hole and fall sprawling at the feet of the man clambering out of the
machine. His pursuer was on him in an instant. "I tole ye I would cut
yer heart out," he panted as he brandished the knife. But before he
could execute the threat, the knife was struck from his uplifted hand.
The lout screamed with pain as he grabbed his wrist. "Yu've broke my
arm," he shouted as he danced around the big man. "Why don't ye pick
on one of yer size?" The stranger took in the situation at a glance.
The slanting forehead and the evil though childish face revealed a
moron with whom words of reason would have little effect. He said
nothing.
It was the midget who took charge. He scrambled to his feet, took a
few deep breaths, brushed the dust off his coat, and ordered the moron
back to the side show. "Go back to your mother," he commanded. "Go
right back to Mamie and tell her what you've been doing, and tell her
all of it. Don't look for your knife; I'll get that for you when you
get over your tantrum."
The midget watched the retreating figure. "His mother is a fine
woman," he explained to the stranger. "Has charge of costumes and
assists in makeup. That dunce is with her on a few days vacation from
a school for the feeble-minded.
"And now, Mister, I want to thank you for your timely help. You
probably saved my life, for you can't tell what a half-wit will do,
when in a tantrum and armed with a knife. All my life I've had the
enmity of half-wits. The big ones tease 'em and they take it out on
the little fellow.
"Well, that's that, as dear Marie Dressler says. I certainly am
indebted to you, Mister. What's your name, Mister? I surely ought to
know the name of the man that probably saved my life."
"My name is Welborn, Sam Welborn. I live quite a distance back in the
hills."
"And my name is David Lannarck, and I've got a score of other names
besides, to include Shorty, Prince, Runt, Half-Pint, and others. I'm
with the Kid Show. I was getting my stuff in shape for the opening
when Alfred decided to work on me with that knife. And he about got it
done, because there were none of the show people around to take him
off me. The spectators thought it was some sort of a pre-exhibition.
"And now, Mr. Welborn, let's go down to the cook tent and get a cup of
coffee, and then you can look around the lot until the shows open. I
want you to be my guest for the day. I feel that I can never repay you
for what you have done. If you ever want any help or aid that a little
fellow like me can give, call on me; there are a few things that I can
do."
"Well I do need some help, right now," said Welborn. "I want to
dispose of a couple of bears."
"Bears? What kind of bears?"
"Two black bear cubs, fat and fine and just ready to be trained. I
caught them up in the hills, and find that I have about as much use
for them as I would have for a yacht, or a case of smallpox. I've
tried turning them loose, but they won't go. Knowing that the show was
to be here today, I brought them down in the trailer, hoping some one
wanted two healthy cubs to fit into an act or exhibition."
"Bears, bears," mused the midget. "Truth is, Mr. Welborn, I'm not
posted on the bear market. Offhand, I would say that they were not
worth much to a show that was losing money by the bale. You see, this
good old year of '32 is a bust. A depression hits a circus first and
hardest. Just now, we are cutting the season and have planned a
straightaway back to winter quarters. Instead of going down through
Fort Collins, Greeley, Denver, Pueblo, with a swing through Texas, we
have canceled everything. We play this Union Pacific right through to
Omaha and thence back home by direct rails. So a pair of bear cubs
wouldn't be much of an asset right now."
"Anyhow, let's look 'em over while I think up a plan." The midget
recovered Alfred's knife from the dust and walked over to the trailer
that he noted had a wooden coop of slats aboard. He climbed up on the
wheel where he could see two black, wooly objects, scarcely a foot
high, and nearly that size in length and breadth.
"They do look fat and in good fur," he commented, "and from the way
they are working on the slat on yon side, you won't have them long.
They would be out of the pen in another half-hour."
"That's the point to the whole matter. You just can't keep 'em penned
in, and you can't keep 'em barred out. They have reached the pest
stage and are incorrigible. Now I didn't expect to get much out of
them anyhow," continued Welborn. "If I could find a home for them,
where they would earn their keep, I would be willing to give them to
such a party. Oh, I know it sounds sort of mushy," he hastened to
explain as he noted the questioning look on David's countenance, "but
I killed their mother for raiding our truckpatch and hogpen and I
found these little fellows up near the den, starving and unable to
fend for themselves. I took them home, fed them milk and bread and
sugar and brought them up to where they are. But they have reached the
stage where something must be done. As you see, they are hard to pen
up and it's worse to turn them loose. Life to them is one continuous
round of wrestling, scrapping, knocking over anything that's loose,
and tearing up anything in reach. Whipping them does no good. They cry
and beg until you are sorry and then it's to do all over again. I just
couldn't kill them; it would be like killing a pet dog. So I just
thought that if I could find someone to take them and care for them,
it would be good riddance and give me time to go back to my work."
"Well, that solves the problem," said the midget, gleefully. "I've got
your party. He's old Fisheye Gleason right here with the show. We can
deal with that old buzzard as freely and as profitably as if we were
in a cutthroat pawnshop. Hey, you fellows," he called to some passing
laborers, "have any of you seen old Fisheye in the last hour?"
"Fisheye is linin' up the wagons in the menag," said one of the men.
"Er he may be up at the marquee tellin' the boss where to route the
show," said another. "Maybe he's got Beatty cornered, tellin' him a
new plan fer workin' the cats this afternoon," leered another. The
leader pointed to the far end of the big animal tent.
"I've got him located," said David. "Now you fix that slat so the
bears won't leave for the next hour and we'll work on Fisheye. He has
been with this plant ever since Uncle Ben took it out as a wagon show.
Hear him tell it, he set Barnum up in business and loaned the Ringling
boys their first money. Fisheye is a romancer, unhampered by facts.
But he's a wise old man at that.
"Fisheye Gleason still has his first dollar. He wears the same
corduroy pants that Uncle Ben gave him on his twenty-first birthday.
If we had the time he would tell us his personal experiences with
every celebrity in the circus world. We haven't the time, and we've
got to work fast and cautious.
"Now Fisheye would balk and walk away on us if we offered him these
bears for nothing; he just wouldn't understand it. He dickers in
animals a little; trains 'em and has 'em doing things right away. He
likes 'em and they like old Fisheye. Why, he can take these little
bears and have 'em turning somersaults, dancing, and climbing to their
perches in no time. Then he sells 'em into some big act.
"Fisheye is our meat for this play, but don't sell out too quick."
Leaving the cubs to the further destruction of their cage, the
prospective salesmen wended their way through a maze of sidewalls,
poles, unplaced wagons, cages. On past the refreshment booth that was
setting up in the central area; past a score of elephants, swaying in
contentment over the morning hay; past camels, llamas, zebras, and
other luminaries, to the far end of the big tent where a group of
laborers were aiding two elephants to line up the last of the cages
and vans in a proper circle around the enclosure.
It was all confusing enough to the big Westerner, but the little man
knew where to go. He pressed forward to where a little, old, dried up
"razorback" was regaling two of the workmen with words of experience
if not wisdom.
"'En I told Shako," he declared with emphasis, "that he never could
win back old Mom's confidence, till he got a big armload of sugarcane
en doled hit out to her. En shore enough when we got to Little Rock
and Shako got holt of some sugarcane, he win that old elephant's
respect instanter. En that ain't all! When we got to Memphis en hit
into that big storm, why ole Mom--" But the audience died away to one
man as the midget's voice interrupted.
"Say, Fisheye, I want you to meet a friend of mine, Mr. Welborn. Meet
Mr. Welborn, Mr. Gleason. Mr. Welborn here dickers a little in native
animals and has a couple of the slickest, fattest, neatest bear cubs
I've seen in years. He's got too much business to give any time to
training them and I told him of your success with animals and he wants
to make a deal with you."
"What kind of a deal? And where's yer bars?" Fisheye was alert to the
business up to knowing the full import of the deal.
"They are out here in a coop--on a trailer. He brought them down out
of the mountains this morning."
"Did ye ketch 'em this mornin'?" queried Fisheye as he followed the
two salesmen to the truck.
"Naw, he's had 'em in training for two months. Best of all, he knows
how to take care of their hair, how to feed 'em. Look, there they are,
alike as two peas and ready to climb a pole or turn a somersault."
Fisheye was peering through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar I
could see 'em better. Now what's yer deal, Prince? Ye said somethin'
about a deal?"
"Well, it's like this, Fisheye. Mr. Welborn could go right on training
these bruins and peddle them through an ad in _Billboard_ for a sure
two hundred smackers, surely by Thanksgiving--"
"Two hundred nothin's," retorted the wary Fisheye, who was not to let
a fancy price go by without protest. "Thar's no bar in the world wuth
a hundred dollars. Why up in the Yallerstone, they offer to give 'em
away!"
"Sure they do, or did last year. They are the old mangy bears that
bother tourists, Jesse James bears, that they want to get rid of. But
they wouldn't sell you a cub for love or money. Bears are scarce this
year. They hint of a bear famine up there.
"And anyhow, you didn't let me finish. Why if you owned these bears
and had 'em climbing an injun ladder right up to their perch in the
animal act, had 'em dancing, turning somersaults, you would ask a half
grand for them and never bat an eye. They would be worth it, and you
know it. But rather than go through the work of getting them ready,
Mr. Welborn is willing to take an even hundred for the two. Better
still, he'll let you make a note for the hundred due in ninety
days--or say Christmas. By that time you've got the bears sold and
your note paid, and jingling the difference."
Fisheye was squinting through the slats. "I wish we had 'em out whar a
man could see what he's buying."
"Haven't you got an empty cage where we could turn them out in the
daylight?" asked the sales manager.
"Shore I have. I jist got pie Rip's cage all cleaned out an ready fer
what come."
"Well, get it open. Cut loose the trailer, Mr. Welborn, and we will
back it in by hand. Here, Happy, you and Joe help push this trailer in
to where Fisheye shows you. These cubs need initiating anyhow."
The trailer was unhooked and carefully backed in through a passage
laid out by the versatile Fisheye. A door was opened in one of the
unplaced cages and the little bears pushed out into a new world. They
scrambled to a far corner, faced about, and waited for the next move.
"There they are," cried the midget enthusiastically, "black as
midnight, fat as butterballs and ready for work." To be sure, the
little salesman could not see up to the level of the cage floor, but
his sales talk never ceased. "How much am I offered, men," he called
out in a voice simulating an auctioneer. "How much for the two?"
"Now you jist cut out yer comedy until I can squint 'em over," said
Fisheye impatiently. "Kin ye move 'em around a little, Mister?"
Welborn reached his hand through the bars and clucked to the little
scared bruins. Hesitatingly they crept up to the extended hand and
then sat up. They were surely butterballs as the midget proclaimed.
"You can't tell which is Amos and which is Andy. Can you, Fisheye?"
challenged the salesman.
"Naw! I don't know 'em by name but that un is the oldest. In twins or
even litters thar's one that's oldest. That un is the oldest, he
starts to doin things fust. Now you jist tell me all over again,
what's yer proposition about me owning these little b'ars?"
"Well, it is as I said. Mr. Welborn here will take your note for an
even hundred for both bears. The note will be due Christmas. We can go
right over to the ticket wagon and have Lew draw the note, payable at
the Wabash Valley Trust Company for an even hundred, and the cubs are
yours. And here's another thing," David motioned Fisheye over to
another wagon and out of Mr. Welborn's hearing. "Here's the rest of
the plan. I am going to offer this man Welborn ninety dollars for your
note. He won't be bothered by having to send it to the bank, and he'll
take my offer. There's where I come in; I make a ten spot without any
investment."
"How come?" squawked the amazed Fisheye. "Ye don't own no bars, ye
ain't out no cash, en ye draw a sawbuck. Now jist why can't this
mountain man take ninety dollars in folding money offen me and cut out
all this bankin' stuff. I don't want any note at the Wabash Valley
nohow. They'd jist harass me into payin' it. Jist cut all that out and
let him take the foldin' money."
"Well, maybe he will," sighed the super salesman. "But I thought as
cheap as they were, I ought to have a ten spot out of it. But I resign
in your favor. It's all among us folks anyhow. Just you go over and
spot him the ninety and see if you win."
Fisheye went back of a neighboring cage to search himself for the
needed cash. The salesman turned to Welborn who in the whole deal had
said never a word. "It worked out all right," chuckled the midget.
"Fisheye is saying spells over his bankroll and is kissing some of the
tens and twenties a fond and reluctant farewell. He will offer you
ninety dollars and you take it. It's better than I'd hoped. You see,
Fisheye has his money sewed to him and it makes it hard to acquire.
Some of it will be plastered together, for Fisheye hasn't taken a bath
since part of the Barnum-Jenny Lind Special went off the bridge at
Wheeling. The little bears will always know their Fisheye, day or
night."
At this juncture Fisheye returned and counted down the cash. Two of
the twenties and one ten, were printed in the early twenties.
"And now, Mister Welborn, we will have that cup of coffee and I must
go to work. I want you to see the Kid Show and the Big Show as my
guest. I'll have the boys park your machine and trailer right back of
our show where it will be safe until you want it. After the main
performance we will have dinner, say about four o'clock and we will
call it a day."
"I think you should have this money," said Welborn as they drank their
coffee. He handed Fisheye's keepsakes to David. "I did not expect
anything and I am satisfied that the bears are in good hands."
"Not a cent," said David, waving the money aside. "I still owe you
more than I can ever repay. Besides all this, we've done Fisheye a
good turn. He'll have those cubs doing things before snow flies."
"He has always wanted a Happy Family Act, and now he's got a start.
From time to time he will add native animals like foxes, raccoons,
badgers, and maybe a porky or two and label them 'Native Americans'
and sell them to someone, cage and all, before next season."
"Fisheye is versatile. Every winter he has a bunch of misfit dogs, and
out of the outfit he'll get some smart ones that will train well. He
is good, too, on a dog and pony act. Once a zebra got its leg broke in
swinging one of the big poles in place. It looked like there was
nothing to do but shoot it. But Fisheye salvaged the cripple; he
taught it to get up and down with the leg in splints; cured him,
except for a slight limp, and finally sold the beast as the only zebra
that was ever broken to harness. Fisheye is a grand old liar but he's
a fine animal man."
2
Circuses--the big ones, with menageries--have a tradition: "the show
must go on." Storms, fires, rail disasters, major accidents--even
death--shall not deter. The show _must_ go on. The Great International
had lived fully up to this tradition. In all of its growing years, it
had met and overcome any and all obstacles that might hinder its
progress and promises. In the years past, a versatile routing agent
could and did avoid many minor financial losses by routing the show to
other fields. If a mine strike prevailed in one section, that district
was missed by careful routings; if the boll weevil prevailed, the
cotton belt was a closed field; if wheat failed in the Northwest, or
mills were closed in Gary, the bookings were deflected to other marts.
But the year 1932 was different; fertile fields there were not. It was
not a case of dodging; it was a plain case of trying to hit. And there
was no place.
The Great International was making a brave effort to stem the tide of
depression. Its great spread of canvas billowed over many new and
novel attractions. It boasted of the largest herd of tame elephants in
all the world. Its aerial acts were new to the circus lovers of
America. Its grand opening was a riot of splendid colorings and
beauty, never surpassed in all pageantry. Yet old Depression was
winning at every stand. Historic Cheyenne, with its years of
background in gathering humanity to its playdays, was little better
than the rest. Business prudence dictated the routings from here on,
and the route led to winter quarters. It was as David Lannarck said:
"We play the U.P. to Omaha and then home."
Sam Welborn, the man from the mountains, enjoyed the Kid Show,
immensely. The trained cockatoos, the big snakes, the many freak
people, the brief but snappy minstrel show, were some of the varied
features. But best of all, Welborn watched the antics of his little
friend of the morning adventure. He came on the little stage, first as
a swaggering general, then as an admiral, last as a real doughboy of
the United States Army. Dancing, bowing, and waving the flag, he won
generous applause. Later, he came on as Cupid with bow and arrow, and
made some fine shots into a target representing a heart. His song
number was appropriate to this act.
Following this performance, David conducted his friend to the marquee
of the Big Show and passed him in to greater glories. "I will see you
before the performance is over," he said in parting.
The Big Show was not cut or curtailed. From the grand opening to the
closing number the full production was given without a hitch. Sam
Welborn, seated in the reserve section was back to boyhood days. He
watched the many features of the bewildering panorama with childish
enthusiasm. It was a great show. Just before the finale, he was joined
by his little friend.
"Our next stop will be the dining car," said Davy as they followed the
crowd out the main entrance. "I have something I want to talk over
with one of you Westerners and I think you are the man."
"Maybe I am not a Westerner," said Welborn quietly.
"Why you live out here, don't you?" retorted Davy.
"Yes, I live out here, a great ways out, clear out to the rim of
things. If it wasn't for the mountains hemming the horizon, our 'wide
open spaces' would be without limit. I live beyond the Medicine Bow
Mountains over next to North Park. My nearest neighbor is two miles
away. I am fifteen miles from a filling station."
"Why, I didn't know there was a place in America that was fifteen
miles from a filling station. The oil companies are surely overlooking
a bet. Anyhow, every word you speak confirms my opinion that you live
at the right place." The two had arrived at the dining tent where a
head waiter was assigning the guests to their places among the many
tables.
"We'll sit here, Tony, if you don't mind," said Davy as he ushered his
guest to a table apart from the rest. He carried a high chair from
another table and signaled a waiter. "This is what I have in mind, Mr.
Welborn; I want to run away--run away from the yaps and yokels and the
gawkers and get out where nobody can see me and where I can act just
like a man. I am twenty-nine years old. For fifteen years I have been
the 'objective' of the gawking squad. I'm sick of it. I want to run
away when I see a crowd coming. When I am on the platform, I see
nothing but dumb faces; if I am on the ground, I see nothing but legs.
It's too tough a lifetime assignment. You understand I am not
complaining of my lot as a midget, but I am fed up on the role. I want
a rest--a change. And just now, is a good time to make the change from
a game where I've grown stale. My financial affairs are in good shape,
thanks to one of the finest men in all America, and I want to lay off
this freak business until I can look on it without vomiting.
"Two things woo me to this country: your wide open spaces, where
seeing a human being is reduced to the very lowest limit; and second,
I find that in playing vaudeville houses in the winter time, I develop
a sinus trouble that sticks with me until I get back here to the
mountains where it disappears entirely. Yes sir! When I hit the table
lands of Denver, Pocatello, Casper, Rawling, Laramie, or this town,
old Sinus passes right out of the system. For the last five years I
have been planning to come to these Highlands and dig in--where
humanity is the scarcest. Just awhile ago, you described the exact
spot of my dreams. Now what's your reaction? Can I do it?"
"Do you mean that you would want to spend the winter with me, back in
the hills?" The big man's question was quietly put but he stopped
eating, awaiting the answer.
"Sure, that's what I mean. Next winter, next summer, and then some. I
want to get away from this," waving his hand in a circle to include
the showgrounds. "And get to that," and he pointed west. "I want to
get out where I can wear overalls; have a dog--or maybe five dogs--out
where I can ride a hoss and chaw scrap-tobacco and spit like a man. I
want to get away from being gawked at during all my waking hours. This
thing here, is getting on my nerves. I feel like I want to commit
murder when a simpering Jane looks at me, snickers and says, 'ain't he
cute?' I want a ball bat to club every country jake doctor that looks
me over and asks about my pituitary gland. Gee, gosh, but I do want to
get away from that. I want to exchange these human nitwits for cows,
calves, sheep, hosses,--broncho hosses, pintos--but not little
round-bellied shetlands. I want to boss around among chickens, geese,
turkeys, pigs--"
"How about a couple of burros?" interrupted the listener.
"That's it! Burros! I hadn't thought of burros--me on one of
'em--slapping with my hat to get two miles to the gallon! That's it,
burros! Two of them is better!"
"And how about snows? There may be a snow yet this month that is
deeper than you are tall."
"Whoopee for the snow!" yelled the midget. "Me with a mackinaw and
boots, and mittens and a shovel. Snow! Clean white snow! I love it!
But I haven't seen any clean snow for years. All that you ever see now
is the dirty slush that they scrape off the streetcar tracks. I sure
would be disappointed, Mister Welborn, if you didn't have a lot of
clean snow. And you have some sort of a shack, don't you? And we can
cut a lot of wood, and have plenty of blankets--en books and
magazines. And we can haul out a lot of grub, and a first-aid kit and
such. And you don't have a big family, do you, Mister Welborn, and I
wouldn't be much in the way, would I?"
"No, I am all alone," said Welborn trying as best he could to answer
the many questions. "I have no family and I do have a shack that is
very comfortable. It has a fireplace and a stove. I have plenty of
blankets and wood and grub. But what about sickness--home-sickness!
What about the terrors of loneliness that sometimes drive people mad!
The wide open spaces have their handicaps, as I well know. For a year
or more I have had just that experience. I have suffered, along with
the joys of being wholly alone. Truly, I went into it with a bigger
aversion to human society than you have, and I have not escaped.
"Yes, I have a shack, a good one, and a few score acres, but it's not
a ranch. It's not stocked, has no barn or stables, and no crop but the
native grass. It was a dreamer's plaything and I bought it with scant
savings that should have been spent on another project. But it looked
like I just had to own it in order to carry on."
"What's your other project?" asked Davy, curious to know why a man
with a ranch would not be ranching.
"Mining," replied Welborn. "Placer mining back in a canyon or gulch
that never felt a human footfall before I stumbled into it. It's a
limited thing--limited to this ravine that is not more than fifty feet
wide and a half a mile long. It was probably the old stream bed back
before the Tertiary ages, but when the troubled mountain took another
surge, it was left high and dry, twenty feet above water. I was
working it this summer but the little bear cubs took most of my time.
It takes a full day to lug enough water up to the canyon levels to
wash out a pan of gravel. It takes the big part of the day to lower a
sack of gravel down to the water, but at that, I have made wages. Now,
I have an old rocker that was abandoned in the stream bed, but I need
a pump so I can use the rocker right on the gravel bar. As it is a
one-man job, it should be a force pump with a gasoline engine. All
this costs money and it takes a long time to pan out enough dust to
pay the bill. Really I had the money, but I just had to spend it in
buying the cabin and land that was the only entrance to the placer
bed. I just couldn't work the one without owning the other. Then too,
I will have to blast a hole in the rock wall to get the pump located,
after that, one year is all I want. One year's work will clean up all
that one man ought to have. Of course I have practically lost this
summer on account of the bear cub capers, and winter is at hand, but
the outlook is better, thanks to your diplomacy and aid. With the
money, I can live this winter and accomplish many things. By spring, I
should be under full production."
"But you wouldn't stay up there in that solitude with no person around
but an old grouch that probably would not have a word to say for days
at a time?"
"Yes I think I would," said Davy slowly but firmly. "I think I can
risk my case as to care and friendship with a man who is considerate
to little bears."
Some of the circus people had finished the meal and were filing out of
the tent, but Davy stayed, grimly determined to win his point. "About
what would be the cost of this proposed mine equipment, and could I do
some ranching around there while this was going on?"
"I figure it will take three hundred dollars to buy the pump,
pump-jack and engine; these, with a few lengths of hose and some
dynamite, are all that's required. Of course there will be some labor
costs in getting the pump installed, but three hundred will pay all
bills."
"Is that all? Why we can get that amount from Lew up at the ticket
wagon. He will cash my check for that amount and be glad to do it.
Holdups, you know, pass up checks. Therefore, Lew likes checks. When
do you want it? Let's get it now while there is a lull in business,
and you can take the pump and pipe and other gadgets right back with
you in the truck."
"Do you mean that you will go with me--now--on the truck? It's more
than a hundred miles to Carter's filling station and fully twenty
miles more over the roughest roads--or rather no roads--to the Gillis
place and then two miles more. Why, it's an all-night trip if we were
to start right now!"
"No, I am to stick with the show to Omaha. We are to be in North Bend,
tomorrow; Grand Island, Friday; Omaha, Saturday; and then the payoff.
I will have some things to do in Omaha. I want to telephone home and
ask about some friends; I will talk to my financial boss and learn if
he is still weathering the financial storm and then I am ready for the
big jump out to your place. Can you meet me here with this
truck-trailer outfit, say about Wednesday? I will have about three
hundred pounds of baggage, and we must stock up with grub against
getting snowed in. Can you meet me here Wednesday? Or, if you are too
busy, can you send someone?"
"Why sure I'll meet you--Wednesday or any other day--here or any other
place you say." The man of the mountains was absorbing some of the
little man's enthusiasm. "Sure I'll meet you, but you work so fast and
drive right through that I can hardly keep up. Why, we hardly drive
through with one thing until you have another. If I seem indifferent
and not very responsive, it's because I haven't caught up yet. Think
of it! Ten hours ago I was coming out of the hills with a serious
problem that was hindering my work. Now, I am rid of the problem, have
ninety dollars in cash; have the offer of all the funds I need, and
prospects of a fine companion all through the dreaded winter. The
change from poverty to riches has been so rapid that it's more like a
dream than a reality. And here's the worst feature of the whole
business," continued Welborn as the two made their way to the ticket
wagon. "Here's the fly in the ointment. My side of the equation has
been nothing but plus, plus. I am fearful that yours will be more than
minus. You are tired of the mob; you want to get away from the crowds.
You have a mental picture of the ranching business; horses, cattle,
cowboys, knee-deep grass billowing through the great open spaces. It's
your dream to land right in the midst of such surroundings, and your
disappointments will be terrible to endure. I have no such ranch and
there's none nearer than ten miles of my place. Most of the cattle
nowadays are purebred; the cowboys are cow hands, feeders, and
care-takers--without a mount--and many of them never saw a pair of
chaps and few wear ten gallon hats like the picture books show. That
stuff belongs to the rodeos and dude ranches. Why the Diamond A Ranch
over on Mad Trapper Fork is a model for any manufacturing plant. It
has bookkeepers, salesmen, feeders from 'aggy' schools. You won't like
that; it's not up to the standards of your dream. Of course you will
like old Jim Lough of the B-line Ranch. He's ninety and used to be a
tough hombre of the old school. But now he's out of the picture, his
son Larry runs the ranch, and he is soon to give way to a young
college girl who is up on foreign markets and the like.
"My fears are that what you see and experience will not be the picture
of beauty and action that you had dreamed about. My poor little place,
without livestock or feed--or action--will be a terrible
disappointment."
"Well we will make a ranch out of it. The building of a ranch will be
more pleasure than the possession of the finished product," rejoined
Davy stoutly. "We will raise some feed, buy a few sheep and from there
on, watch us grow! But early in this venture, I must get me a pony--a
pinto, preferably--small enough for me to ride and big enough to go
places. Then I'm all set. Hi, Lew!" The midget had climbed up on the
wheel of the ticket wagon and was tapping on the window. "Cash my
check for three hundred dollars and meet my podner, Mister Welborn."
"Your partner in what?" queried the accommodating Lew, as he slid back
the window and began to count out the cash. "What's your racket now,
Prince? Have you hooked up with Ben-a-Mundi in that Crystal Readings
graft, or is it a short-change racket?" Lew aided Davy up to the shelf
where he could sign the check. "Better look out, Mister Welborn, your
partner here is a slicker--a regular city grafter. He skins his
friends just to keep in practice. Paying you this little lump is just
a bait. Later, he'll spring the trap for the big money." Lew slipped a
rubber band around the money and handed it to Davy.
"You had better look 'em over for counterfeit bills," retorted Davy as
he handed the money to Welborn. "This bird puts out more counterfeit
money than he does genuine. And say, Lew, you and Jess think of me
when you are huddled around the stove this winter with a lot of
razorbacks--me out in the great open spaces feeling fine, and clear of
mobs and nitwits. You fellows will have the razorbacks throw another
basket of cobs in the old smoky stove, and I and Mr. Welborn here,
will be toasting our feet before a log fire in the big fireplace--"
"Oh ho, it's that ranch thing that you have been chinning about for
the last five years," chuckled the treasurer of the Great
International. "How many calves will you brand next year? And where's
your chaps and your spurs? And say, that three hundred won't buy your
bridle, let alone a ranch and a hoss. You remember Carter, don't you,
Prince? The broncho-buster that we had in the grand opening last year.
Why his saddle cost an even grand and he paid fifty per for his
Stetsons. Where's your outfit, kid?"
"Why my outfit is still in the supply house in Omaha," countered the
midget. "I am to take it out when you and Jess come back through here
with the Adkins-Helstrom Great Congress of Living Wonders. I'll meet
you here on that date in my full regalia. Anyhow, much obliged, Lew,
and Mr. Welborn I will help you out with the car and trailer so that
you can load out tonight." Down at the edge of the lot where the city
streets pointed to the business district of the city, the ancient
model paused for the final conference between the new partners.
"Now what's your address, Mr. Welborn?" asked Davy, searching about
for pencil and paper. "If any of our plans go haywire, I would want to
let you know."
"And that's just another inconvenience in the business," replied
Welborn in a cautious manner. "My mail address is Adot. I get--"
"Adot? Adot? Where? What?" interposed the midget. "A dot on what?"
"The post office is Adot," replied the miner. "Capital _A-d-o-t_,
Adot. It was probably so named from its importance on the map. It's
just a wide spot in the road and a dirt road. We get mail twice a week
and I am fifteen miles away. Neither will the telegraph lines help;
there's no station nearer than this town. I have no telephone. The
only way I could be reached, would be for you to go to the
broadcasting station in Omaha and put through an S.O.S. on Tuesday
night, as I have a radio. But you would have to put the call in early
as I am going to be in this town bright and early Wednesday morning."
"That's the spirit," crowed the little man. "Both of us, right here in
Cheyenne, Wednesday morning. I will be here unless this Union Pacific
folds up and quits. Why when you come to think of it, I wouldn't want
to be where there was mail deliveries, telephones, and such; that's
what I am running away from, that and the mob. Good-by, Sam," he
called out, as the car took the green lights. "I'll meet you here on
the A-Dot."
"Good-by, Prince," said the big man as the car got under way.
That night, an ancient model T followed by a ramshackle, home-made
trailer, pulled away from the shipping platforms of the Cheyenne
Outfitting & Supply Company loaded to the guards with pump, pump jack,
pipe, lag-screws, wrenches, hand drills, dynamite, fuses and caps, and
a hundredweight of groceries. Cramped under the wheel, driving as
carefully as his cargo would warrant, sat Sam Welborn, the second
happiest man west of the Missouri. The happiest man west of the big
river was flouncing around in his berth on the third section of the
Great International Circus trains bound for North Bend, Nebraska,
planning his outfit to be purchased in a few days at Omaha.
3
An hour in advance of the arrival of the Pacific Limited, Sam Welborn
paced the platform of the Union Pacific passenger station at Cheyenne,
awaiting the arrival of his little partner from Omaha. He was a
different man in appearance from the one who, the week before, had
come down from the mountains in charge of two obstreperous bear cubs.
On that occasion, he had worn overalls, a sheepskin jacket, heavy,
clumsy shoes, and an eared cap of ancient vintage. On the day of his
appointment, he was dressed as the ordinary business man about to take
the train for Ogden or points west. His fairly well-worn, black,
pin-striped suit, neatly pressed, fitted his six-foot-two frame as if
built by a professional clothier; a rolled-collar shirt, a blue polka
dot tie, freshly shined shoes, and a soft crush hat completed the
outfit. Over his arm he carried an overcoat. Other prospective
travelers wore their topcoats, but Sam Welborn was of the outdoors.
He had parked the Ford with its trailer attachment at the west end of
the platform. If his partner's impedimentia was not too bulky, the
ancient model was ready for another trek to the hills. Back and forth
along the long brick platform he strode in the bright autumn sun. It
was no sloven's gait. An observer would have said that somewhere,
sometime, in his career of maybe thirty years, he had faced a
hardboiled old topper who insisted with piratical invectives that
"heads up, shoulders back, stomachs in" was the proper posture for
humans who were eating government grub and drawing government pay.
Very true, Welborn was not in immediate need of exercise. In the last
week he had worked, and worked hard, during every daylight hour. He
had not slept in the last thirty hours. But these were figments,
incidents, to be disregarded now that success was just back of the
curtain. Now he was to meet the little man who had made this prospect
of success possible. Now his greetings must be cordial and
appreciative. Nothing should be left undone to overcome the
disappointments the midget must endure. In his first meeting with
Davy, Welborn had tried to discourage the plan of "holing up" in a
remote section, far removed from the things to which he was
accustomed. He pictured himself as an old grouch, soured on the world,
and surely uncompanionable. He dwelt on the lonely hours, the big
snows, and other bad features but it was of no avail. Davy was on his
way. In other days, in vastly different surroundings, Sam Welborn had
known the tactful duties of a genial host; now he would revert to that
role.
David Lannarck was the first passenger to alight as number twenty-one
came thundering in from the east. The porter helped with his grips.
Davy searched the platform for his friend.
"Why, why, I didn't know you! You look like another fellow!" he
exclaimed, as Welborn reached for his grips. "You are younger, better
looking, different."
"I am younger, but not different," chuckled Welborn. "I've been taking
a tonic--the tonic of hard work. I've nearly completed my big job, and
I've located your horse for you."
"Hurray!" yelled Davy, "And can I get him right away?"
"There you go, jumping the gun again. Why that little horse is a
hundred miles from here. He's not broken to ride. He might not suit
your fancy, and it might take a lot of diplomacy to get him. He
belongs to a girl."
The baggage--two trunks, a showman's keyster, two suitcases, a big
duffle bag and handbags--was loaded on trailer and backseat. "Well, I
don't see much room for groceries," said Davy, as he climbed in.
"We've got to have pickles and beans, and plenty of vitamins and
calories to balance the ration. Really, before starting, I should have
consulted Admiral Byrd on outfitting a polar expedition. Aren't we to
stock up on food--here--or somewhere?" He questioned, as he noted
that Welborn drove across the tracks and away from the city.
"The eating question is practically solved," said Welborn. "Solved
through the providence and frugality of good neighbors. They are
overstocked and it's up to us to reduce the surplus. I took out rice,
sugar, salt, and a lot of extras on my last trip, and with their
surplus of meat, fish, fowl, flour, fruits--canned and preserved,
vegetables--canned and raw, we should live like pigs at a full trough.
However, if you need tobacco, chewing gum, toothpaste, any special
kind of medicine, we can get that at the Last Chance, further down the
road."
"No, I'll not need any such sidelines for many a week, but I thought
you said we did not have any neighbors? Who runs this fine market and
canning factory out in the wide open spaces?"
Welborn laughed. "Wait till we get out of this traffic and on a
straightaway; there's much to tell and we've got a lot of time. I have
arranged for dinner about twenty miles down this road, and we will
push things pretty hard this afternoon so that we can eat a late
supper right at this Market and then you will understand.
"You see, this old car, loaded like she is, and pulling a trailer, can
do about twenty-five miles per, on this federal road, but it's not all
federal road, and the last fifteen miles will take a lot of good luck
and fully two hours to make the grade. I would like to get home in
daylight."
The general direction of the national roadway, was west. The traffic
to and from Cheyenne at this noon hour was not heavy. Tourists were
still touring, notwithstanding the fact that this section of the
country might be snowed under at any time; truckloads of livestock,
were encountered, and far down the highway, where the traffic thinned
down, the partners met a big band of sheep that required care and
diplomacy in passing. Presently, Welborn turned the car into a
driveway at a neat farm home.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Yes, I am always hungry, although I had breakfast somewhere this side
of Julesburg."
"Well, I arranged for dinner here, and we will also stock up on gas
and oil for the long trek. Of course I carry an extra five gallons in
the can on the running board, but this is about our last place to
stock up on eats."
A woman came to the door. "You are right on time," she said. "I hope
you have brought your appetites, as the lunch is just ready."
Somebody was thoughtful; there was a high chair at the dining table.
After a very satisfying meal, Welborn shoved back his chair. He found
a piece of wrapping paper that he spread in front of Davy and drew a
rough map.
"We are near the line of two states," he said. "The Medicine Bow
Mountains are here. Geologists point out that this range so
interrupted the route of the Continental Divide that it turned it back
to the north in a big curve and made it hard to find. We go through a
pass in the range. On this side, we run into the little streams that
form the Laramie River. On yon side is the North Platte. Both run
north and both find sources in the North Park. Those who know, say
that for beauty and grandeur no section of the world beats the North
Park country. Personally I do not know, as my contacts have been
limited. It is said, too, that this is the northern limits of gold. At
this point, the mountains seemed to have changed their content, or
else those to the north were made at a different era. All these things
are speculative and have their exceptions, as I well know.
"North Park, however, is a great grazing country. Its grass wealth may
be greater than its mineral. The government owns the land, except
tracts here and there suitable for farming. Our destination is the
Silver Falls Project, a fine body of rolling land, suitable for either
grazing or farming. It was laid out in convenient tracts for
homesteads. Each parcel was a half section. If there was rough land
adjoining a tract, that was included for good measure. It was opened
for settlers and many came, but none stayed. There was no central
organization to hold them--no church to rally around--no one
established a central trading post--no outstanding personage to
collect and hold, as is always the case in community building in
America. Then, too, there were no roads; therefore no market outlet.
The road over which we are going, is the only inlet and there's no
outlet. A half mile of blasting and building would have made an
entrance to the Tranquil Meadows district and to trails and highways
that led to market towns in two states, but the blasting and building
was never done. The Silver Falls Project never grew big enough to make
its decline noticeable.
"Of those who came to try it out, only four stuck to a final deed. Two
of these are at this end of the project. Carter runs a filling station
at the forks of the road and Withrow, next to him, hunts, traps, and
plays a fiddle. I acquired the two tracts at the far end of the
project and Gillis, our enterprising neighbor, owns two parcels next
to me and operates the abandoned tracts under grazing allotments. This
is a real ranch; small, as compared to others, but modeled as a farm
in the East, for Gillis is a real farmer. I make the guess that when
you grow homesick and tired of the loneliness at my place you will
headquarter at the Gillis place, in fact I have made that kind of
arrangement with them. They have a telephone, a radio, a phonograph,
and take plenty of newspapers and magazines, and, best of all, there
is a kindly, enterprising woman there to manage, to cook and can the
fruits and vegetables, and do the homey things that makes life fit to
live.
"They have cows, chickens, turkeys, pigs, and raise plenty of feed.
But they are an oasis in a desert. Except for our place, they have no
neighbors within fifteen miles. Mrs. Gillis is a worker and a planner.
She sells pigs, turkeys and calves, in Laramie and Cheyenne, more than
one hundred miles away; she has a working arrangement with the
filling station down at the roadside, whereby they sell quite a lot
of her canned stuff and preserves. She's always got something to sell
and sells it, market or no market.
"I depend on them for almost everything. Even the car and trailer out
there belongs to them. I bought a stock of chickens off of them, and I
rent a cow and calf from them. Really, while you have come out here to
my place, you will subsist for the most part off the Gillis family."
"Well the outlook gets better and better each time you add a chapter,"
said Davy as they walked out to the car. "How many in the Gillis
family?"
"Just two, Jim and his wife. But staying with them is Landy--Landy
Spencer, Mrs. Gillis' brother. He's older, is an oldtime cow hand that
has retired, when Mrs. Gillis will let him. He's been in the West
since boyhood and knows the game, but doesn't play it. He just putters
around, when Mrs. Gillis isn't after him to do something, and that's
the reason he stays up at our place most of the time. You will like
Landy. He is the one that located your horse over at Lough's B-line
Ranch. I had told him of your wanting a little horse, and this week,
while Gillis and I were blasting out the rock and setting the pump,
Landy strayed over to Lough's and located the nag. Landy says as soon
as he sees you, he can tell instantly if the horse will fit."
"I've got a saddle in that keyster, and he can measure by that," said
Davy, "and anyhow I don't want a little, low-headed, round-bellied
hoss that can't go places. If he is a cowboy, he will know the kind."
For five or more miles, the route led over a national highway. Then
Welborn turned to the right, drove a few hundred feet and stopped.
"Look out here to the left" he said. "See that big mound with its head
in the clouds? That's Longs Peak, the highest in the country. On a
clear day, it can be seen from Cheyenne. From here on, you are to see
mountains and more mountains, but Longs Peak is the daddy of them
all."
Now the roadway was not so good, but the ancient car labored on in
full vigor. Fences had disappeared; the roadway no longer held to
section lines but took the course of least resistance, generally
following the stream bed which it crossed and re-crossed many times.
The direction was generally west and up. Twice on the trip, Welborn
took a bucket out of the car, dipped water from the stream, and cooled
the heated engine. On one of these occasions, he washed his face in
the cooling waters, explaining that he did this to overcome
drowsiness.
Davy saw everything. This was his country. Except for meeting a lone
herder in charge of a band of sheep, they had not met a human being in
the last fifty miles. Yet there was plenty of life. They were never
out of sight of cattle--not the big herds as Davy thought it would
be--just a few here and there. There were some horses around the
little pole barns off the roadway. High up on distant hills, bands of
sheep were grazing.
Overhead, but not too high, hawks skimmed the levels or tilted over
knolls and hills in search of a quarry; larks gathered in flights for
a final powwow before beginning the long trip southward. Magpies
flitted through the shrubbery of the creek banks. In crossing a little
wooden bridge near a waterfall, Davy saw an object in the water, then
in the air, and then in the water where the spray fell and where foam
formed. Later, he was to know this little slate-colored bird as the
water ouzel, a bird that was neither wader nor swimmer, yet took his
subsistence from the foam and spray.
"That road leads to Laramie," said Welborn pointing out a trail to the
right. "Laramie is closer to our place, and one less mountain range to
cross."
"Why didn't we come that way?" asked Davy.
"Well, the big circus didn't show in Laramie, and I had to get to
Cheyenne for contact. There I met a fellow who freighted me down with
pump tools and I had to take back some of the wrenches I borrowed.
Then this fellow made an appointment for Cheyenne, and I would not
have missed the appointment for anything."
"Oh yeah," said Davy, "I suppose out here, the matter of a few
mountain ranges is all in a day's work. Anyhow, we are seeing some
country, and the lizzie is going fine."
For several miles it was downhill and around many hairpin turns. Then
many small streams were crossed and followed. Several times the sun
seemed to set, only to reappear again through a cleft in the hills.
Where the terrain was level enough, hundreds of jack rabbits were
seen. They were not the nervous, string-halt jacks of the prairies,
but the smaller black-tailed variety.
And then they came to a store and filling station. "Well of all the
places for a filling station," exclaimed Davy. "Many times I've seen
'em located at places where there was little business, but I never
before saw one located where there was absolutely no business. What's
the big idea?"
"He is probably like another fellow I know," answered Welborn. "He
wanted to get somewhere, where he wouldn't see anyone. But at that, he
does some business, seemingly as much as he wants."
More gas was taken on, and the reserve tank filled.
"Adot is on ahead about eight miles, but we turn here for the final
dash."
The final dash was but a creep. Except for the bridge over Ripple
Creek, the roadway was just a trail. The sun had gone down for good.
The lights, none too good, revealed little of the hazards. It was a
long, steady grind, mostly uphill. At last a light appeared ahead. A
dog barked. A lantern shone. Welborn turned the car through a gate.
"Gillis Station," he called out to the midget who had remained very
quiet.
"Have them drive up next to the house," a woman's voice called from
within. "We will throw a canvas over the trailer. They will stay here
tonight. It's too cold to stay in a house that has had no fire."
"There's your orders, Welborn. Drive right over here next to the
chimney. Howdy, Mr. Lannarck, you and Welborn get out and limber up
for there's prospect for a fine supper." It was Gillis speaking as he
aided Davy out of the cab.
"I am Davy to you folks," said the little man as he stamped around to
limber up from the long confinement. "You are Mrs. Gillis, I know, and
you are Landy, aren't you? Will I fit that hoss that the girl owns?"
"You are about a half-hand short right now," the old man chuckled,
"but after a few hikes up to Pinnacle Point, you should fit that
little hoss jist like a clothespin fits the line."
It was a fine supper. There was also a home-made high chair that just
fit Davy's needs.
"Before I go to bed," said Davy earnestly and firmly, "I am going to
write down that supper menu and send it to poor old Lew and Jess, who
are wearing out shoe leather trying to find a restaurant where the
steaks aren't made out of saddle skirts and the potatoes and the
candle grease have parted company. Lemme see, there was fried chicken
and the best cream gravy I ever tasted, mashed potatoes, creamed peas,
fluffier biscuits than those birds ever saw, two kinds of jelly,
strawberry preserves, some other preserves, and apple pie with whipped
cream on it.
"A long time ago--it was my first year in vaudeville--Mr. Singer gave
his midget performers a dinner at one of the celebrated New York
restaurants, I think they called the place Shanley's, a swell place
with a private dining-room, lots of waiters, food in courses. Well,
that big feed would be a tramp's handout compared with this dinner
tonight." Davy was either talking to himself or was trying to interest
Welborn in the conversation as the two were undressing by the light of
the kerosene lamp in Mrs. Gillis' spare room. Welborn seemed not
interested. He was soon in bed and snoring.
"Feathers, by golly," muttered Davy as he snuggled down deep in the
bed.
4
The Gillis menage was well managed. Mrs. Gillis saw to that. Jim, aged
fifty, slim of build, sinewy, even-tempered, quiet, willing, was the
farmer and handyman. Crops grew, orchards bloomed, vines bore a full
vintage, and bushes yielded because he made them do so. Without
splutter or fuss, he did his work, and liked to do it.
The teamwork of Mrs. Gillis was equally effective. One could not say
however that her work was done as quietly. Landy, the cow hand brother
was wont to say--not in her presence however--that "as a child, Alice
was sorta tongue-tied, and she has to ketch up somehow."
And Landy--well, Landy made his contributions. As a young cowboy,
Landy had had his fling. He came into the game as the cattle-sheep
wars were at their peak and he played it strenuously. But with it all,
Landy Spencer kept his moral slate fairly clean. Then as the sober
days of manhood came, and Landy witnessed the finish of the
improvident and foolish, he began to save and skimp. "Hit's the pore
house fer a cow hand," was his terse aphorism on the subject, and
Landy had never seen a "fitten" poor house.
Landy was working for the Crazy-Q outfit, at the time the government
proposed to open the Silver Falls Project. He looked it over and filed
on two of the homesteads. One for himself and one for James Gillis.
Then he went to Illinois where his younger sister and her husband were
share-cropping.
"Come out whar yu've got room, whar ye own it, whar you do it your
way. I'll pay freight on yer car to Laramie, and keep up the supplies
for three years. Then if you're not satisfied, I'll move ye back."
It was Landy too, that planned as to the cows and calves. He bought
purebred cows from the B-line folks, and sold them the big, weaned
calves. And in view of the fact that the calf sale in 1931 was larger
than Alice's big turkey sale to the dealers in Laramie by fully two
hundred dollars, Landy had a modicum of peace on finances. The Gillis
menage was well managed. It made money in a depression.
Davy was awakened by what he thought was gunfire. He bounded out of
bed and ran to the window. Day was breaking. In the dawnlight he saw
Welborn and Landy tinkering with the old model that had brought them
so valiantly through the mountains. She was backfiring her protests
but presently settled down to her accustomed smoothness. Davy hustled
into his clothes. Mrs. Gillis knocked on the door. "There is a pan and
water right here on the bench," she said. "I told them fellers not to
monkey with the old car, but Mr. Welborn is anxious to git started, he
thought he'd tune her up before breakfast."
Gillis came from the barn with a brimming bucket of milk. "Howja rest,
Davy?" he asked.
"Fine! I hit the feathers and never moved until I heard this
bombardment that I thought was an uprising of the Utes."
"Breakfast is ready," called Mrs. Gillis. "How do you want your eggs,
Davy?"
"I want them the way you fix 'em," the little man replied promptly.
"After that supper last night, I wouldn't have the nerve to tell you
anything about cooking."
Mrs. Gillis beamed her appreciation. "I hope you will tell that to Jim
and Landy. To hear them complain, you would think I was serving their
grub raw or burnt. Didn't the circus people feed ye?"
"A circus always hires good cooks. It buys the best meats in the local
markets, and that's about as far as they can go. The vegetables are
out of cans, except the potatoes and cabbage, and the fruits are
either dried or canned. Preserves and jellies are factory made, so it
gets pretty monotonous. I had a good breakfast on the diner yesterday
morning. We had a fine lunch out this side of Cheyenne, but the supper
last night was far beyond anything I have ever enjoyed. I jotted down
some of the menu and as soon as I unpack I am going to write to a
couple of those old circus razorbacks and tell 'em what they have
missed." Davy was talking and eating; the men were eating.
"Now, Laddie, we are ready for the final dash," said Welborn, as he
rose from the table. "The farther we go, the tougher it gets. And we
are on the last leg."
"Landy and I had better go along," said Gillis. "Ye might get stuck,
and we will be needed to help unload."
"You men come back here for dinner," called Mrs. Gillis from the
doorway. "You will be too busy to stop and cook."
The old machine described a big curve in getting out of the enclosure,
but was again headed west. Gillis rode in the front seat with Welborn.
Landy and Davy found room on the trailer. "I want to see everything,"
said Davy as he climbed to a perilous perch on one of the trunks.
The mountains towered in the west, south, and southwest. The terrain
was fairly level, but a spirit level would have shown a marked tilt to
the east. There was a fringe of timberland on every side. Landy
pointed out places of interest. "That's Ripple Creek off to the left.
Ye crossed hit last night on the bridge, and we meet hit agin right up
by the house. That's Brushy Fork over at the right. They 'most come
together up here. Right up that canyon about two mile is whar Welborn
found the b'ar cubs. Way 'round that timber-covered nose to the right
is the B-line Ranch--hit's about ten miles. Right down that draw, in
the timber and brush, I killed two wolves last year. And if yer on a
hoss, ye can foller a trail down to brushy fork and out on yon side.
That's a short cut to the B-line, else ye'd have to go cl'ar back to
the fillin' station, then over to Adot and back across another bridge
to git thar. It's twenty-five miles thataway. When ye git all settled,
we'll sneak over to the B-line and take a squint at that little hoss."
Landy continued to point out the places of interest. "Right along
about here is Welborn's line. He's got two homesteads--bought 'em off
a crazy bird that had bought out both homesteaders. That's one of the
shacks over there and the other one he uses for a cowshed. En thar's
yer home a-settin' up on that bench of land."
Davy craned his neck as the trailer moved down hill. Perched up on a
shelf, he saw a yellow dot against a gray wall that ran to the sky. As
they neared the place he outlined a tiny cabin. Later it proved to be
a two-roomed affair with a porch and lean to at the rear. This was to
be his domicile--for how long, time would tell.
The car described a big curve that took them to the brink of the
Ripple Creek Canyon. In second gear it labored and twisted off to the
right, and then left again, and came to a stop right at the front
porch of the yellow-brown log cabin.
Davy climbed down from his perch. He walked around the cabin,
surveying it from three sides. "She's an Old Faithful," he announced
at last. "Modeled, matched, and built by the man that built Old
Faithful Inn. Why did he do it and when?"
"It was built the summer before last and it took all summer,"
explained Welborn. "The crazy galoot called himself the Count of Como.
He came barging in here and bought out Clark and Stanley, the
homesteaders, and brought in two men who had been building fancy
cabins in Rocky Mountain Park and tourist camps. He left them here on
the job while he drove the roads like a madman, in a big, black,
powerful coupe to Laramie, to Cheyenne, to Denver, anywhere he could
get whiskey and dope. He would come back, rave around, threaten
everybody with a gun, but paid out money like he had the mint back of
him, and finally got it done. You notice that the logs are "treated,"
stained or shellacked, to retain their first color. The mechanics did
that, and the count was mightily pleased until he found out that it
made the shack stand out so that it could be seen for a long distance,
and then he threw a fit. He went wild, ran 'em off the job, then I
came into the picture.
"I was prospecting down Ripple Creek Canyon and living in that shack
that you can see from the rim over there. I was trying to locate a
claim, mining claim. But from the homestead lines, this cabin was off
the reservation, built off the edge of Stanley's claim and on the
government's land where I wanted to stake off a mineral right.
"I came up out of the canyon on the day he had gotten the men back and
explained the error and showed him his predicament and then bought him
out...."
"Ah, tell hit right," growled Landy. "Tell him like them scairt men
told hit to me." Landy took up the recitation of how the home was
acquired. "He made that greasy counterfeit eat his gun that he whipped
out from under his left arm. He kicked him in the ribs, he did, after
he'd knocked him down a coupla times. Made him go down thar and look
at the old survey stakes, he did, then made him drive his crazy car
over to Adot, and old Squire Landry made out the deed and he signed
hit and Welborn here paid him in a sack of gold dust that they weighed
on the grocery scales. That's how 'twas done. Tell hit right, so's
Davy here will know the story."
Welborn laughed at Landy's recitals. "No, I didn't intimidate him. I
made him see the matter in the right light. The proposition to
sell-out came from him. I didn't want to buy him out, I had nothing to
buy with, but the dust that it took me all summer to acquire. Truth
is, this drink-crazed madman was a hoodlum gunman from Chicago or
Saint Louis, that had lost his nerve. A killer who couldn't take the
finish that was due him. He had run from it, and like an ostrich, he
thought he was hidden up here. He didn't want me as a neighbor and
when he found out that he had infringed on government land he was so
scared that he would have given the place to me or anyone that wanted
it. In fact, he didn't want to take the dust. He was afraid that the
government would run him down for selling something that he didn't
own, and maybe then find out about some of his killings back East. At
any rate, he showed more speed in getting away from Adot than he had
ever shown before, and that's saying a lot, for he surely burnt up the
roads. We will unload your plunder right here on the porch, and we can
place them as you want them later."
Davy got his personal grip out of the car, but that was about as far
as he could go in the matter of unloading the baggage. While the men
were engaged in the task, he looked the house over carefully. One with
artistic temperament would have turned his back to the house and
looked on the tremendous spectacle that offered itself to view in the
south, in the east, and north. A vast brown meadow, rimmed with the
dark greenery of the ancient conifers; and high above, a blue arch
that draped down curtains of white to hide the sombre shades of cliffs
and hills and peaks innumerable. It was a wonderful sight.
But Davy's eyes were on this house. He looked it over carefully. The
general plan was as if a crib of logs had been built up to a square
of, say, nine feet. Then another crib of logs built fifteen feet away.
These were connected by a log structure in the center that allowed a
recess in the porch at the front, and by a log extension enclosure
that made a kitchen at the rear. It had been roofed with gray-green
shingles and the porch ornamented by sturdy log columns, with rustic
rails at the side. The logs had been closely fitted so that there was
no space between that needed the chinking of the cabins of the
pioneer.
The floor was in narrow, rift-sawed planks. The walls and ceilings
were covered with wallboard, properly paneled and carefully and
tastefully decorated. There was a big fireplace in the east room. The
west room was heated by a stove that found vent in the kitchen
chimney. Entrance to any room was from the porch. The general plan of
the structure was the same as that of many cabins being built in
public parks and dude ranches. Davy had not seen these. His
comparisons were with the fine, substantial inn, built at Old
Faithful. There was little furniture in the cabin.
"Well, what's your reaction, Laddie?" asked Welborn kindly as he
marked the serious look on Davy's face.
"Well, I don't know whether to sit out there on the porch and have a
good cry or go in the spare room and put up a small dance. For five
years I have been dreaming about this place, and now it's a reality.
Outside of dreaming about it, and in sober moments, I just knew that
there couldn't be such a place, so I contented myself with plans for a
little shack, maybe a teepee, or a tent where I could spread out and
rest up. But here it is--just like the dream said."
"Wal, jist wait till a good winter blizzard comes through here like
they do," interrupted Landy. "Jist wait, ye'll be sorry that ye ever
had a dream. Why, it's six thousand feet up here, and the wind don't
monkey and dally around, hit gits right down to business. Last winter
hit most took the leg off 'en one of them burros old Maddy brought in
here, 'en mighty nigh whipped the fillin' outen his shirt."
"Let her blow," retorted Davy. "I've been in two circus blow-downs,
and we had to stake the elephants down to keep 'em from blowing over
into Texas."
Landy was a good loser. He grinned, and began wrestling the trunks.
All of Davy's plunder was moved into the fireplace room.
"We will live in here this winter, and when spring comes, we can
expand into the other room or out on the porch," explained Welborn.
"And now, before you begin to unpack, I want you to see what Jim and I
have been doing this last week. Let's take a look at the pump and
engine before a snow comes and covers it all." Welborn led the way
down near the brink of the canyon. "Over on the other side of the
creek, you can see a shack. I headquartered there for several months
and panned out some dust. From there I could see this opening here
that looked like it had a floor, and maybe some prospects. Well, I
climbed those trees down by the creek, but could not quite see what I
wanted. As the madman was working over here, I climbed and slipped,
and cut steps in the rock face of the cliff, on yon side. I wormed and
twisted around until I got up to that coulee, and sure enough, it was
what I thought. The floor of the old stream bed that had been thrown
out of line and out of use, by some secondary action in
mountain-making.
"Ripple Creek has been noted for its placer workings. It has been
panned and panned, many times, and always yields something. But here
was a part of the stream bed that was virgin, that had never seen a
miner or a pan. I walked over it and tested it. It stood the test.
When it was the bed of the stream, gold was being ground out, washed
out and carried down stream from the quartz-gold veins above. There it
was! I couldn't get to it--couldn't work it without an entrance from
this side of the creek. Landy has told you how I acquired the
entrance, and a farm and a house with it." Still talking, Welborn led
his guest back in the ravine back of the house, then through a tunnel
in the razor-edge cliff, the party walked out on the floor of the old
stream bed. "Jim and I made that tunnel. We dragged those logs through
it, to make a foundation for the engine and pump. Now all we have to
do, is blast out a sort of well-hole down at the creek so that the
intake will be on the claim, and we are all set for production. We can
do this today. Tomorrow, we will have water back on this old stream
bed. Jim and I will take a hand drill, dynamite, fuse and caps into
the gorge, and bust out a space about as big as a washtub, while you
and Landy are unpacking your plunder. Build a fire, Landy, to take the
chill off."
Unpacking suited Davy. While Landy brought in some pine knots and
lighted a fire against the charred backlog, Davy wrestled the
dufflebag open and began to take out the contents. It was a
hodge-podge of parts of every old costume he had ever used. The trunks
and suitcases yielded good property. "There," he pointed to a separate
pile, "there is my notion of where I was going, without seeing the
place. That's a sleeping bag and these are a pair of Hudson Bay
blankets. You see, I didn't know if I was to sleep out of doors or
sleep in a barn--surely, I didn't plan that it was a place like this!
Here's my mackinaw, boots, and mittens, and here's my hardware." He
produced a small rifle that had been packed between the blankets and
handed it to Landy for his inspection. "She's a thirty caliber,
carries two hundred yards at point blank and won't kick over a little
fellow like me.
"And this is what I want you to see in particular." Davy fumbled in
the keyster and brought out a small saddle with a fair leather bridle,
to match. It was not a pad saddle such as jockey's ride, nor yet a
civilian outfit without horn and only one web. It was a genuine
western, with high horn and high cantle and two cinches, but much
reduced in every dimension. "Will that fit the pony you saw over at
the B-line?"
Landy looked the saddle over carefully. "Hit's made by a saddle-maker
all right, and will fit that hoss to a tee. They used to have some
fancy saddles back in the early days. I've seen 'em that cost a
thousand--Chauchaua--made and covered with silver do dads, en maybe
they'd have 'em flung on a hoss that wasn't wuth his feed. I mind the
time when ole Lem Hawks made a right smart lot of change, a-sellin'
ole saddles that he swore come out'n the Custer massacre. Lem finally
got to believin' that he was a survivor of that carnage.
"They finally caught up with Lem however. He had sold more saddles
than Custer had men, and the old cow saddles with their big horns and
high cantles didn't look like an army saddle nohow. But Lem kept right
on a-bein' a survivor--him en about a thousand others. Hit's like
Lincoln's bodyguards--thar's been more of them folks died than Grant
had in his whole army. Yer saddle is all right, son, and we shore ort
to talk the B-line folks outa that little hoss."
"I want to take the saddle over when we go," said Davy
enthusiastically. "They could see how it fit, and that might influence
their decision. I could put it on one of the burros and ride it over."
Landy laughed uproarously. "Why son, ye wouldn't git thar by Febwary.
A burro ain't geared to ride en go places. He will foller ye right up
the side of a glacier, but he ain't mentally constructed to take the
lead. Why, if ye was on one of 'em, backward, en paddlin' him with a
clapboard, he'd back right up agin hit."
"Well, what do they keep them for? Who do they belong to, anyhow?"
"Them two a-roamin' around here, belong to ole Maddy, the ole miner
gent. He left 'em here while he went romancin' around up Ripple Creek.
He goes up thar, and has got a way out to the top. He goes in North
Park, cl'ar over to Granby and Grand Lake. He swings 'round by
Steamboat Springs and Hahns Peak, and comes a-driftin' back, mebbe
from the north. He left 'em here three months ago. He'll git 'em when
he gits 'em, en he won't lose much if he don't.
"Ole Maddy has been in the hills--so hit's told--since the days of Jim
Beck with and Bridger. Some say he was in Virginia Vale when Slade
rubbed out Jules, the Frenchman. They say too, that he knew Carson,
but that ain't so! Yit I do know that he pardnered with Will Drannon,
the boy that ole Kit raised, because I heard Maddy tell a lot about
Drannon, and later I read Drannon's book en right in the book, was ole
Maddy. Oh, he's an oldster all right. He jist projects around in the
hills, pans a little gold en rambles around by himse'f. He's not 'gold
mad,' he jist likes to roam. He's clean, don't talk much, en anybody
will keep him until he gits ready to pull out."
"Well, I am sure disappointed about that burro thing," said Davy
regretfully. "I wanted to ride that saddle over there and maybe they
could see that the saddle, the hoss, and the midget ought not be
separated."
"Don't worry. We'll lengthen the girths, en I'll put ye on ole Frosty.
When they see ye, way up thar', they'll know by every law of
mathematics en justice, that the boy and the saddle belong on the
colt."
A roar reverberated out of the canyon. "Well, that's that," said
Landy, "en now the next big job is to git Welborn out of the coulee
fer dinner. If you leave him alone, he'd stay right thar messin'
around till dark. I git provoked at his ways, but after I heard them
decorators tell how he beat the gunman to the draw and busted him on
the jaw en kicked him till he squawked like an ole hen, then I grew
more tolerant. Welborn's all right, but he works too hard."
Presently Welborn and Jim came up from the coulee. The auto was
started and headed for the Gillis place. The original Gillis cabin had
been augmented by the addition of two rooms on the south, a porch on
the west, and another and better cabin on the north. It was sufficient
for the family needs. The farm was fenced for the most part, and the
neighboring range was alloted by the grazing master to Gillis, Landy,
and their co-homesteaders at the far limits of the tract. Except for a
small forty-acre tract, the Gillis land was dry farmed. The forty was
irrigated from a spring developed on the premises. It was in alfalfa.
Other meadows raised timothy mixed with alsike. Even in unfavorable
years, the ranch yielded more than a hundred and fifty tons of hay.
Besides hay, a lot of oats and barley was produced.
"But thar's Jim's patent," Landy was showing Davy over the premises.
"Jim keeps everything offen that big medder, en the grass comes on,
en cures itse'f. Then hit snows, and the grass lays down like a
carpet. Then hit blows the snow off en around, en stock can graze thar
until near Christmas. Hit's a great savin' on hay. En a great saving
on the hay feeder," Landy added with a grin.
Besides three score cows with their calves, a dozen horses and colts,
turkeys, chickens, ducks, and geese galore, the Gillis ranch had three
dogs, two collies, and a short-tailed sheep dog. The dogs followed
Davy around like they had found a friend.
"They think I am a kid," Davy said. "Dogs sure like children."
After another sumptuous meal, Welborn went out to tinker with the
Ford. Mrs. Gillis called Davy to the kitchen. "I want you to speak to
Welborn," she said. "He works too hard. From daylight to dark, he does
two men's work at that old mine. He'll kill himself before he gets the
money out of it. You can talk to him--he likes you. Why, he sat up all
night, the night before he went to Cheyenne after you, pressing his
pants, making your chair, tying his tie, tinkering on the Ford. He
cautioned all of us not to talk about your being smaller than common,
being a midget. He said you were coming out here to get away from "the
mob," the people who stared and commented. He wanted everything here
to be different. He likes you, would do anything for you, but he's got
something pushing him, driving him, faster and harder than one man can
stand. He'll break if he don't stop and take things easier. If you get
a chance, talk to him, tame him down, make him rest, change his mind
to something different. He's a fine man, big and rugged and a
gentleman. He never hints at what's eating his life out, and we don't
know. But it ought to stop."
"I think you are right, Mrs. Gillis. Sam does work too hard and too
long. I know nothing about his past, and I'll never ask him until he
gets ready to tell it all. This I know, he's well educated, has
trained in big business and is used to good society. I think he is
rather hot-headed and maybe stubborn, if he thinks he's right. It will
be a delicate thing to do, to try to switch him off from what he's
doing and the way he's doing it, but I'll try, because I think it
ought to be done."
Landy did not go in the return trip to "Pinnacle P'int" as he termed
the mine and its environments. He had some "cipherin' around" to do.
"With that pump a-goin' and the water a-flowin', hit don't resemble a
place of rest to me," he said.
Mrs. Gillis brought a loaf of bread out to the car. "There's enough
for your supper and breakfast, and you folks come back here for dinner
tomorrow."
"En say, Jim, you bring the kid's little saddle back with yer," called
Landy. "I want to lengthen the cinches to fit old Frosty. Me en the
kid are aimin' to do a lot of romancin' eround--mebbe tomorry."
Arriving at the cabin, Welborn took a can of gasoline through the
opening out to the pump. He tinkered with the engine and presently a
steady "chug-chug-chug" reverberated down the valley. Mechanical
mining was on at the Silver Falls Project.
Welborn laid the hose at a favorable place on a gravel-bar and scooped
up a pan of dirt and sand that he held under the stream while he
whirled it around in the pan. The contents took up the motion and
spilled over the pan-brim until there was little left. The miner
examined the remainder and then gave it more water and more swirling
around in the pan. This process he repeated several times. Presently
he held the pan where Davy and Jim could see a fifth of a thimble full
of tiny flakes and two small dots not much larger than pinheads.
"That's the object of the meeting, gentlemen," Welborn said grimly.
"That's gold.... Tomorrow," he added, "we will get the old rocker
going, but just now, I want to 'sample around' for good locations."
All this was nothing to Davy. He watched the men awhile and went back
to the cabin to arrange his personal belongings. Pinnacle Point was a
place of sudden sunsets and prolonged twilights. At near five o'clock,
Davy built a fire in the little cook-stove and put several slices of
bacon on to fry. He "set the table" as best he could and broke several
eggs in the bacon grease. He set out a jar of jam, sliced the bread.
Then he went to the tunnel and called: "Supper."
"Say, Laddie, I don't want you to do this," said Welborn as he
surveyed the supper. "You are my guest, you know, and I'll do what
cooking there's to be done. We'll eat our dinners at Gillis', we'll
sleep here, and I will get breakfast and supper. The fine dinners will
offset my poor cooking, and besides you ought to stay outdoors and
look around as much as you can, before we get snowed in for the whole
winter."
"Well, I do plan to go with Landy over to see about that colt," said
Davy, "and I thought maybe you would want to go along."
Welborn laughed. "Not for me! If you and Landy can't skin those B-line
people out of one little horse, you are no traders. I've got to get
that rocker going tomorrow. Look what we did today!" Welborn showed a
little canvas bag that he took out of his pocket. "There is fully an
ounce of dust in there, and we didn't try, just sampled around. With
the rocker going, I can take out ten ounces a day by myself. It's
fairly well distributed all over the tract, but better if you can hit
the potholes right in the old stream bed."
"And when you get it all out, then what?"
Welborn looked rather perplexed. He studied a moment. "Then what?" he
asked slowly, "Why we'll stock that ranch, lay out a flying field, and
visit a lot of places. Truly, I had never planned so far ahead as to
get to the place where I wouldn't be doing anything excepting clipping
coupons."
"Yes, the mine is a fine thing," Davy said earnestly. "Why, there is
enough gold there to make a great fortune. But what's the use in
taking it all out at once? It will keep. You can work awhile, rest
awhile, play awhile, and still be just as rich as if you had worked
yourself to death. You are young, strong, and healthy, just right to
enjoy life. Why work so hard now?"
"Yes, I am healthy, feel pretty strong, but not so young. Right now, I
would like to take a few thousand dollars out of that gulch before
snow flies, for we are going to have a lot of enforced loafing. We are
in good shape to loaf however, all bills are paid and I still have
thirty-five dollars of your money!"
"That's fine. I have been wondering how I would pay for the colt, in
the event we bought him. The B-line folks might not want to take my
check, and it might take more cash than I have on me."
"Mrs. Gillis will take care of that, she has money, plenty of it. She
will tell Landy what to do, and Landy's word is like a bond. They do a
lot of trading with the B-line. Buy cows, sell calves, and trade paper
back and forth. Mrs. Gillis is better than a bank. Since the banking
situation went bad, she has been accumulating government bonds. She
hardly ever comes back from town without at least a hundred-dollar
bond. She's a wonder, that woman. She's not an isolated hill billy
that goes to town on Saturdays and anchors herself in the doorway of
the five-and-ten-cent store to visit and gawk around. She's full of
business. Sells her stuff, buys what she needs, and hits the trail for
home. I expect Mrs. Gillis has seven or eight thousand dollars in
bonds and cash stowed around in their cabin."
"Now that's my notion of living," cried Davy as he edged his chair
back from the cracking sticks that Welborn had added to the
smouldering embers in the fireplace. "Own a fine little ranch, a
decent run of livestock and poultry, raise plenty of feed, and have
something to sell right along. They don't have to meet a daily
schedule, don't have to spread canvas in the rain or look at a mob
tittering yokels all the time. That's the life for me and the Gillis
outfit is my pattern."
"They are fine people," said Welborn. "We will keep in close contact
with them. We need them now. The time may come when they will need
us."
5
"Jim stayed to milk the cows," Landy explained as he rode up to
Pinnacle Point the next morning leading Frosty, a rangy bay with a
diminutive new saddle on his back. "Alice don't like my milkin'
methods. I jist turn the calves in with the cows and let nature take
her course, so she lets Jim do the milkin'. Put on yer jacket, son,
hit's crimpy around the edges, and let's git goin'."
Seated on Ole Gravy, a sturdy gray horse, Landy Spencer was like a
picture page out of the book of the old west. His stubby, gray
mustache, standing out under an aquiline nose and squinting eyes,
failed to conceal a mouth much given to smiles and laughter. He had
cautioned the little man that it was cool, yet his blue shirt was open
at the neck. He wore a slouch hat, dented and battered to
unconventional shape, a dingy knitted waistcoat, unbuttoned of course,
gray jeans, tucked into high boots with long, pointed heels, and spurs
of ancient pattern. Hung to the horn of his old, but generous saddle
was a lariat.
The chuck-chuck-chuck of the gas engine told that Welborn was already
on the job at the mine. Davy ran into the house and returned wearing
his mackinaw and boots. "My, he's a giraffe," he said, as he looked
over Frosty and his equipment.
Landy dismounted and lifted Davy to his saddle. "Did ye ever ride a
hoss, son?"
"Sure, I've ridden some of the big fat ring-horses, but I either had
to lie down or stand up, they were too big around for my legs. Once I
was to ride a shetland in the Grand Entry, but they had a monkey on
another pony and I walked out on 'em." Davy picked up the reins and
Frosty began tiptoeing around and arching his back.
"Jist turn him loose, son," called Landy. "The old simpleton was
expectin' some weight when ye got on, and he's disapp'inted."
Landy led the way down the hill and Frosty followed like a pack horse.
The sun had pushed above the clouds. Frost was flying in the air. It
jeweled the grass of the table land and sparkled amid the green of the
conifers along Ripple Creek. Farther down the indistinct path they met
Jim in the car.
"Are you fellers goin' to git back in time for dinner," he called to
the horsemen.
"Mebbe not," replied Landy. "We are aimin' to bring back that little
hoss, en he may not want to come."
Landy turned from the path and rode down a coulee that led to Brushy
Fork. It was a winding way through brush and stunted hemlocks.
Presently they came to the creek. "Thar's Steelheads en Rainbows up in
them pools," said the leader. "These streams have been stocked en
hit's good fishin', if ye know how."
They followed down the stream bed for a distance and then Landy turned
up a draw on the left bank, that finally led out to level land. At
first it was a narrow way between the stream and foothill, but
presently the landscape broadened to a meadow similar to that on the
right bank of the creek. At one place, where the way was narrow, there
was the crumbling remnant of rough walls of rock.
"That's a relic of them ole wars in here, but I never could git the
hang of the tale. Ole Jim Lough knows all about it but he's too
shut-mouthed and contrary to tell the tale.
"Ye see, I'm not a native son," explained Landy, as they rode abreast
on the widened road. "I got started in the cattle game over to the
north on Crazy Woman Creek en the range betwixt that en Sun Dance on
the Belle Fourche. I was romancin' round when Teddy Roosevelt made
camp up thar. Teddy liked to listen in on some of them Paul Bunyans of
the cattle game, en they shore told some tall ones. I think he
encouraged 'em in their romancin' jist to git a line on their
capacity. Ye see, we were located jist betwixt ole Fort Fetterman and
the Little Big Horn, sorta betwixt Red Cloud en Sittin' Bull, en one
massacre en another. Ours was a period jist follerin' these
history-makin' times en every man had a right to tell hit his way as
they were all unhampered by airy lick of facts.
"Therefore, I didn't git up here in the headwaters of the Platte until
years after, but from what I ketch they had some right stirrin' time
in here, 'twixt cattle rustlin' and sheep crowdin'. Ole Jim knows the
whole story, but he don't broadcast none." Topping a swell of the
meadow lands another stream basin was encountered. "Hit's a little
Ranty," explained Landy. "That's a dam downstream aways en the B-line
waters a couple o' hundred acres." In these meadows there were
cattle--cows and calves and some scrub yearlings. Crossing the Ranty,
the horsemen mounted to the levels again. Here, there were fences.
Farther on, stables, sheds, and a cluster of houses. The B-line ranch.
Landy maneuvered the horses through the gates without dismounting and
rode up to the central stable. "Whar's yer reception committee eround
here?" he yelled. "Call out the guard en parade them colors," he
commanded as he dismounted and assisted Davy down. He threw the reins
over the horses' heads. A man came out of the stable-room, two more
came from back of a shed.
"Well, if it haint the ole buzzard from Ripple Creek, a sailin' around
lookin' fer his dinner. Nothin' dead around here Landy," said the
short, stubby man that came from the stable room.
"Howdy, Potter. 'Lo, Flinthead. Howdy, Hickory. All you cimarrons
wipe yer hands real clean en shake with my friend Mister Lannarck. We
jist took time outen our busy lives to come over here en watch you
birds loaf eround," said Landy after introductions had been
acknowledged. "En my pardner here has a broken handled knife that he
would trade for a little hoss."
"Well, it's a shame, Mister Lannarck," said Potter thoughtfully, "that
ye have to carry sich a load as bein' introduced by sich a
double-barreled, disreputable ole renegade of a crook like this. But
we understand and will try to he'p ye live it down. Now, as to that
little hoss. He belongs to Miss Adine. She's at the house. Flinthead,
you move them hosses in here! Hickory, go tell Adine that the circus
party that Landy told her about is here to see the colt."
Both men set about their tasks. Flinthead led out a horse, mounted and
rode down a lane, propping the gates open as he went. From a corral
back of the stables came a drove of horses, mares, colts, and
yearlings. Trotting, prancing, and snorting as they came down the
lane, they settled down once they were in the stable lot.
Davy was between two fires. He sought a safe place from being run down
by the drove and yet he wanted to catch a glimpse of any kind of horse
suitable to his size. He noted plenty of small ones but their short,
bushy tails revealed colthood. The others were too large. As the drove
settled down a colt came from out the center of the milling herd and
walked up to Potter, extending his muzzle as if expecting something.
"That's the one!" said Dave excitedly.
He was a red sorrel with three white feet and legs and a flaxen mane
and tail. Experts in such matters would have said he was nearly eleven
hands high. Unlike his pony prototypes, his was a lengthy, arched
neck, held high from narrowing withers and a short back. He was dirty.
His mane and tail needed attention. Potter put out his hand. The colt
walked near enough that he placed his arm over his neck and led him
to a post where a rope dangled. This, he secured around the colt's
neck.
"Good morning, everybody."
The colt parley was thus interrupted. Landy's several gallon headpiece
was off and he nearly swept the ground with it. "Why, howdy, Miss
Adine. We was a-lookin' this little hoss over to see if he'd fit a
pattern. Meet Mister Lannarck here. He's the pattern."
"My name is Lannarck all right," said Davy, acknowledging the abrupt
introduction. "But among homefolks, I would rather be called Davy, as
I have always been sceptical of anyone calling me Mister, afraid he
would want to sell me something I didn't want."
The girl laughed. "I am troubled that way myself. If anyone calls me
Miss Lough, I pay no attention, thinking they mean someone else. Won't
you men come to the house? Father is in Omaha on business and Mother
and I are changing things around for the winter. Grandaddy picked out
this busy time for one of his visits, so we are all together. Grandad
will want to see you Landy, so come up to the house. I want to tell
you about that colt, and tell you why it is that I am not to sell
him."
There was little else for the mystified Landy and the now, heartbroken
midget to do but to follow along, through the gate and along the
well-kept bordered path to the immense porch. They loitered at the
gate for parley.
"... and he's the handsomest horse I ever saw," complained the little
man, "and she said she was not to sell him. I suppose it's some
parental promise she's made, or some skin-game buyer has been through
here and threw a wrench in the gears. Why, Landy, this is a
high-school horse! He's showy, fine color, fancy markings and anyone
can see that he's smart. We've just got to work it out somehow. A
high-school horse, pony size, he's worth a thousand."
"Well, I ain't up on school classifications for hosses," said Landy
dryly. "He may be a colleger fer all I know. But, we're dealin' with
a woman en thar's no accountin' fer what's the matter. Hit may be, yer
complexion don't match, er she may be a-keepin' him to contrast with
some letter paper she's goin' to buy. Ye jist can't tell a dern thing
about hit till we hear her story. After that, well, we can tell if
it's worthwhile to go on with the struggle."
When first introduced, Davy was certain that Miss Adine Lough was
about the handsomest girl he had ever seen. Surely not more than
twenty years of age, of medium height, a peach complexion, tanned a
little but fair to look at. She stood on the Colonial porch of the big
Lough homestead, her hands in the pockets of her black horse-hide
jacket awaiting the arrival of her reluctant guests.
She ushered the two into the wide hallway. "You had better see
Grandaddy first, Landy, he's camped in here by the fire. Then we'll go
in the library and talk over our business."
Jim Lough, ancient Nestor of the North Park district, was seated in a
big Morris-chair in front of the smouldering fire. "Well, if it ain't
ole Turkeyneck in person," he called in a high falsetto voice, as the
two entered. "I've been wantin' to see you, Landy. I told the sheriff
to bring you over the next time he had you in charge. I want to find
somebody that can sing 'The Cowboy's Lament' and sing it right, as I
am plannin' a funeral party and I want to work out all the details.
Can you sing 'The Lament' so it's fitten to hear?"
"Yer dern tootin' I can sing 'The Lament'," retorted Landy, "all
forty-four verses of hit, en the chorus betwixt every verse. I'm a
prima donna when it comes to singin' that ole favorite. I learned it
off a master-singer, ole Anse Peters, up in God's country whar men are
men--en the women are glad of it. But what's led ye off on that wagon
track, Jim? Why don't ye git a saxophone en tune in on some jazz? Be
modern, like the rest of us fellers. Here you are, slouchin' around
without a dressin' jacket er slippers en talkin' 'bout an ole song
that's in the discard. Shame on ye! But before ye apologize, meet my
friend here, Mister Lannarck, lightweight circus man, who's visitin'
us here en lookin' around for relics en sich. That's why I brought him
over."
Old Jim took the extended hand of the little man and held it while he
talked. "Thar's been a lot of people had their necks stretched up in
this deestrict for being caught in bad company, young man. You're
borderin' on that condition right now in runnin' around with ole
turkeyneck here. If the Vigilance Committee finds it out, you are a
goner.
"Circus man, hey? I mind the time when a lot of us fellers rode to
Cheyenne to see Barnum. Last man in had to pay all bills--it was some
pay, by the time we got through. We saw the show all right and we saw
Barnum. He was a fine man. But circus er no circus, ye ain't a goin'
to sidetrack me out'n them funeral arrangements. If ye can sing 'The
Lament,' yer engaged."
"Why, who's dead, Jim?" asked Landy innocently. "Did ole Selim die, er
is hit yer favorite hound dawg?"
"None sich," replied the old man heatedly. "It's me--my funeral--en
I'm aimin' to make a splendid time outen it. The boys on hosses,
firin' salutes as they see it, a preacher sharp to give it dignity, en
the 'Cowboy's Lament,' as sung by ole Landy Spencer. That's a fitten
program, en you are engaged fer the job."
"En about when do ye plan to stage this splendid event?" drawled
Landy.
"Why, when I die, ye idiot, mebbe now, mebbe later, jist whenever I
bed down fer the last time. Here I am, over ninety years old. I can't
go on livin'! It's agin nature. I want to make ready when it comes.
I'm ready and I want everything else to be jist as ready as I am."
Landy Spencer drummed his knotty fingers on the armchair and looked
thoughtfully at the old Nestor seated at his fireside. Ninety years
old! Seventy years of activity in a territory where activity was
enforced, if one were to live. Strange stories, legends now, were told
of the doings of this gaunt, eagle-beaked, shaggy-browed old man who
now, chatted complacently of death. Very true, none living was able to
verify them. Those who had passed on told only fragments, and Jim
Lough, neither verified nor denied.
One legend persisted. Landy had heard it long before coming to the
district. It related to the beginning days of the great cattle game of
the grasslands--days before the coming of the vast herds and the
problems they brought. It concerned the destinies of those who
followed fast in the footsteps of the trailmakers and sought to
establish a business where there was neither law nor precedent. Sordid
days, these. The honest men were not yet organized; the dishonest and
criminal were unrestrained by laws. Cattle and kine were taken
furtively or openly to these very hills and vales where Jim Lough now
lived in quietude and peace. Here they were held until a sufficient
number was collected for the drive to the marches and markets that lay
east of the Virginia Dale.
Jim Lough was a youngster then, without ownership of herds or home,
but he was not content to see the weak and unorganized robbed, without
recourse. Alone, he made trips over the forbidden trails to the places
of the illicit exchange; then back to the grasslands again he
organized a posse of five and laid his trap. In a narrow pass this
robber band was successfully ambushed and by effective gunfire,
reduced from eight to three. The three surrendered. By every rule of
the game, in a new land where there was neither law, nor courts nor
sheriffs, the culprits must be hung, and hung on the spot where
apprehended. But to this Jim Lough demurred. "We'll swing 'em where it
counts," he announced grimly, and the cavalcade set out on the
two-days' journey to the Skeel's cabin, the reputed hangout of the
lawless and criminals of the new country. The posse found the cabin
deserted, except for the presence of a lame, old man who was reported
as the cook for the outfit. He was loaded on a horse and headed
northward out of the country. The rest of the livestock was turned
from the corrals and the cabin and stables set afire. Then, as a
fitting finish to the work of the hour, the three culprits were hung
on extended limbs of trees bordering the ruins.
"Now the skunks will have something to look at when they come back
here to plan their stealing," Jim Lough had said as the posse
dispersed.
But "the skunks" never came back, and through the long winter and most
of the following summer the ghastly mementos of early justice swayed
and swung, until the ravens and winds made merciful disposition of the
bodies.
In the next few years there was peace in the grasslands, and the
settlers prospered as others joined. But it was not always so. For
with more settlers came greed and avarice. Laws were made, regulations
were had, rules announced and they were not always fair. Greed,
sometimes sat in the councils, and the avaricious bent the rules.
Then, there were other wars in which justice and fairness ran not
parallel with Greed-made law.
Grassland remembered young Jim Lough and his stern and speedy methods
and now as an older man, he was often called to council and to lead.
But the problems were not of easy solution; the 'right side' of the
controversy was not always obvious, but under Jim Lough's leadership
the greedy must surrender self-appropriated water holes, odious fences
were banished and grazing allotments went to the needy as well as the
greedy. In these things, Jim Lough made enemies as well as friends,
but cared as little for the one as he appreciated the other.
Landy Spencer, drummed knotty fingers on the arm of his chair as he
listened to Jim Lough's explanations of his arrangements for a
splendid funeral. At last he spoke. "Jim, I used to think that ye'd
make a fine gov'ner. I know ye make a dandy good district marshal,
but ye are slippin'--goin' addled 'bout this funeral business.
A-settin' here tryin' to run things en you deceased, that-a-way. Ye
know, well en' good, that the folks livin' will take charge of them
obsequies; hit'll be about ten years from now, I figger; en yore plans
will fit in about like a last-year's birdnest. Ye have jist about as
much to do a-bossin' that party as ye'll have in selectin' yer harp en
halo when ye git inside the pearly gates. Ten years from now, thar
won't be a cow hand ner a gun outside a dude ranch er a rodeo. Singin'
'The Lament' would be about as well understood as recitin' a Latin
epic."
"Pshaw, Jim, yer wastin' valuable time," said Landy, wanting to get a
last word, before the old man had time for a reply. "Come over next
week--Alice is to have a turkey dinner with all the fixin's--en we'll
plan a funeral that's modern. Aryplanes, automobiles, jazz, en dancin'
en sich. That's the kind I'm plannin' en I ort to kick-in long before
you do."
Landy backed out and crossed the hallway before the ancient could
reply.
6
Adine Lough ushered her guests across the hall into what seemed to be
her workshop. Seated around a library table, Davy perched on a big
dictionary, Landy at the end, drumming his fingers as usual, the girl
plunged at once into the business at hand.
"At the very start," she said in a serious manner, "I must tell some
personal things. I've been going to school at Boulder. I am staying
out this semester to work on my graduate thesis, 'Social Work in Rural
Communities.' When you consider my restricted field, it's a big job.
But I like that kind of work--studying people, their individualities,
their shortcomings, their accomplishments. From what I hear of you,
David, you have an aversion for those things--in fact have run away
from the mob. I like it. I would want nothing better than to stand
along side of you on a platform at the circus opening and watch the
general populace pass in review. Then and there, I could study all
phases of humanity; classify them as they passed; and then investigate
each case personally to see if I had made the right appraisals at
first sight."
"--And right there is where you would miss the trapeze bar by a foot,
and no net under you," interrupted Davy disgustedly. "They are all
alike, from Bangor to Los Angeles. You can throw 'em all into one of
two groups: yokels and shilabers. They are either out with a skin game
or else they are goats, about to lose their hide."
Adine laughed. "Oh, you surely could subdivide the Yokels. Why in my
observations they alone, could be classified under many heads. But to
go on with my story. Adot, the town, and the neighboring ranches, is
my limited field of research and I have gone over the field in detail.
Last month, I had up the matter of the Methodist church in Adot. It
was a-once-a-month affair, the minister living in Weldon and no chance
to ride circuit in the winter months. No budget, no money, and worse,
yet, no outlook.
"Now, I didn't go into the matter to do church work and help them; my
business was to appraise them as they were; but I got involved. The
few members thought I was trying to do a bit of missionary work. The
upshot of the affair was, that I found myself with a roster of the
church membership and a list of names of nearly everybody else. I had
my own figures as to needs, debts, and community possibilities. So,
carrying the thing to a finish, I took up the matter of putting them
on a budget and providing the funds.
"First I made them elect Brother Peyton treasurer. He wasn't doing
anything except waiting for the bank to resume business. Then I
canvassed all the names on the rosters and combed the neighboring
ranches for small monthly contributions. I got enough subscriptions to
pay the minister and paint the church house. But it was some job. It
took two weeks. Two weeks of joy and rebuffs, of elations and disgust.
I was tired. I planned to rest up a couple of weeks and wait for my
halo, or wings, or whatever a Christian gets for doing his whole duty;
when right on the heels of my labors, came the greatest catastrophe
that could have happened."
"Did the meetin' house burn down?" interrupted Landy, who had followed
the recitals intently. "Did the preacher gent die, er did Brother
Peyton jump the game, taking the jackpot with him?"
"No, nothing like that. The Nazarenes moved in! You both know about
the Nazarenes?"
Davy did. He had noticed their meetings in cities. But with Landy, the
subject was a blank page and he withheld comment. In later months he
confessed that he thought that the Lough gal was nuts in tryin' to
project the Saviour en some of his kin onto Adot.
"The Nazarenes are new in this country," continued the girl, "and they
have all the enthusiasm of the new convert. Really, they seem to have
the early zeal that some of the churches have lost. And they are a
stubborn lot. That the field seems barren, is nothing to them. They
set up shop in a desert and carry on just the same. To them, poverty
is an asset. Christ's admonition to the rich man, to give his
substance away and follow Him, is a literal command to be obeyed.
"In the week following my campaign for the Methodist, two Nazarenes, a
young man and his wife, came barging into Adot and set up for
business. She took up cooking and waiting table in Jode's restaurant
for their board, and he went about the street preaching and about the
house praying, day and night. They were both good singers and he
played an accordion. In that week they talked Joe Burns into letting
them have the use of the old mercantile warehouse, and they set up
meetings in that big, barn of a place. That same week they came out
here, in a truck they had borrowed, to get me to help them as I had
the Methodists.
"Well, of all things, you just cannot say 'no' to such people. Why, I
almost insulted them; told them Adot was a barren field, overworked
and already supplied with their spiritual needs. But I failed to
impress them. They even wanted to pray for me. Me, who thought I was
already sainted for my work with the Methodists! Then I went on
another tack; I explained that I had already exhausted my resources in
my work with others; that I had canvassed everyone and could not,
consistently, go over the field asking for subscriptions for another
organization. That failed. They insisted that they wanted only a
start, just a little influence; and that I should come and assist them
some night!
"They trapped me. To get rid of them, I half-way promised to aid in
some sort of an entertainment to help them get their first money;
after that, they were to be on their own resources. And while I was
berating myself and wondering how to get out of it, or how to get in
it, Landy here came with the news that a little showman was to visit
us here on the plateau and that he wanted a horse. Right then and
there the clouds lifted; the problem was solved."
Adine let her voice fall, pushed her chair back from the conference
table and folded her arms. Landy drummed on the table and looked
thoughtful. Davy wiggled around on his high perch and nearly fell off
the dictionary.
"Well, that's a fine story, Miss Adine, and well told, but I don't get
the connection as to why you are not to sell the little horse."
The girl laughed. "Sure, I will not sell him, but I'll trade him.
Trade him for that entertainment that I promised those impractical and
improvident Nazarenes."
"Do you mean that me and Landy here must put on some sort of a show in
Adot? Why--why, I don't know a soul here. I know nothing of the
community's talent. Surely I am not a church entertainer; my dances
and songs won't fit into a church entertainment. You can't preach or
exhort, can you Landy?" asked Davy anxiously. "We've just got to have
that horse. I will agree to go over to Adot and stand on my head, in
some show-window if that gets him. But you wouldn't want to sponsor
that kind of entertainment," the little man appealed to Adine. "What's
needed is something half-way refined and where the patron would get
his money's worth. And I can't produce that kind of a show."
"Oh, yes, you can," said Adine smiling, "and the patron would get his
money's worth. Why you, yourself know that little people--or what
shall I call them?"
"Midgets," interposed Davy, "midgets is our classification, not
dwarfs, nor gnomes, nor half-pints, just midgets."
"Thanks, that helps, and you see how little I know about it and how
anxious I am to learn. Well, midgets, as a class are attractive and a
rarity too. Except for yourself, I do not know of another. People want
to see them. They go to circuses and theaters just to see little
people. I have no doubt, that in many cases, people are
ill-mannered--stare and giggle--and say uncalled for things, but
that's to be expected from the run of persons, yet the fact remains,
midgets are attractive.
"Now you've been before the public, know how to handle crowds and know
what they want. You could supplement your appearance with a lecture or
talk on midgets, your experience with them, and something of your
travels with the circus and with the troopers of the theater. Why,
it's just what the public wants."
"That little hoss is sold," said Landy exultantly. "One speech fer one
hoss. Fair enough!"
"Now you hold on, Landy," Davy interrupted. "You are getting me out in
deep water and no oars. I am a good Presbyterian all right, but they
wouldn't stand for my stuff in their church and these Nazarenes surely
have the same standards of propriety. Now, Miss Adine, let me give you
fifty or a hundred dollars for this colt and you give that to these
needy Christians."
"And leave me out as a promoter! Not much! Why, I want to see this
show myself. I wouldn't miss it for anything."
"Ner me," cried Landy in much glee. "Why me en Potter en Flinthead en
Hickory and some of the boys from the Diamond-A, will git us front
seats and cheer yer ev'ry utt'rance. Come to think of hit, we could
hold a big afternoon parade, with a lot of yippin' around, and git up
more excitement than they've had in that sleepy ole burg since the
women swarmed down on Gatty's quart shop en wrecked hit."
"Well, you and Mr. Potter and Mr. Flinthead just keep out of it," said
Adine emphatically. "You would ruin everything."
"No just let 'em come, I've been kidded by experts and their stuff
might prove an added feature. But Adine, you had better let me hand
you the cash...."
"No, that would be a departure from what we are trying to do. The
object of the affair is publicity, not cash. And besides, the colt
isn't worth a dime to me--or anyone else but you. He's too little for
anyone to ride, and he ought to be trained and made to be useful. As
it is, he's just one in the drove and would remain so, until he died.
"But you can take him, train him, and make a beautiful show-horse out
of him. Why, I can see you riding, parading, and having him doing
stunts such as are rarely seen in a circus.
"Now I want you to ride him home today. The trade is made. You have
the horse and are obligated to give an entertainment for the Nazarenes
in Adot. I think we can arrange it for next Saturday night week. The
little weekly newspaper, the _Adot Avalanche_, comes out Thursday. I
will run a display ad that a famous Midget and circus performer will
give a lecture at the warehouse Saturday night under the auspices of
the Nazarenes. The little paper goes all over the district and the
town won't hold the people. It will be Adot's premier event.
"So you come over here Saturday morning, Davy," continued Adine, "we
will drive over to Adot in the afternoon in my roadster. We'll lay the
top back and drive over the town so the public will know that you are
there in person! It will be Adot's biggest day."
Landy had been ready to get back to the stables for some time. He was
standing, twirling his ancient headpiece, awaiting the word to start.
In all his years of dealing in horseflesh, this trade interested him
deeply. He wanted his little friend to have that horse.
As the three walked down the path to the stables, Adine was insistent
that Davy should ride the colt home. "He's not a range horse," she
explained, "not a westerner, as they sometimes describe horses that
are out of a drove. This colt doesn't need to be broken. He was sired
by our Allan-a-Dale, a registered saddle horse; his mother is Janie,
that I used to ride barebacked and without a bridle. He was her last
colt and will be three years old this month."
Davy was just a little skeptical about attempting his first riding of
the colt in company. He would much rather have him over on his own
range with no other company but Landy. He wondered, as they walked
along, if Potter and the boys at the stables had framed a rodeo
spectacle for themselves and were to witness some worm-fence bucking
by midget contestants. He was much relieved as Landy took charge,
transferred the saddle from lofty Frosty to the diminutive colt,
fitted the cinches and shortened the stirrup leathers to what he
thought was about the right length. Then he slipped the bit in the
colt's mouth and took up the cheek leathers of the bridle. Before Davy
realized what was going on, Landy had lifted him to the saddle,
mounted Gravy, clucked to Frosty and the procession moved out the
gate.
"I'll see you all in Adot, Saturday," called Davy without turning his
head.
"Good luck and bon voyage," called Adine.
7
On the way down to the Ranty, the colt behaved remarkably well. He
followed closely in the wake of Frosty, occasionally shaking his head
in an effort to throw the bit from his mouth. At the ford, Landy
adjusted the bridle so as to withdraw the bit and allow the colt to
drink his fill.
It was a proud moment in the varied career of David Lannarck, midget
and showman, as the little cavalcade gained the level land near
Pinnacle Point after a strenuous half-hour on the hazardous trail that
led up from Brushy Fork. He waved a cautious hand to a man and woman
standing near a car parked in front of the cabin.
Landy lifted Davy from his saddle, removed the bit from the colt's
mouth, made an improvised halter out of his bridle and tied the reins
to a sapling. The older horses were left standing with reins down.
"Well! If it ain't my ole scatter-about-friend, James Madison Stark,
in person!" cried Landy as he and Davy made their way to the car. "Now
I know that winter is not two days away. Hi, Maddy! Howdy, Mis Carter!
Must be big news in the wind, if you two hit Pinnacle Pint same time,
same day. What's up?"
"Maddy is anxious to see Mr. Welborn," Mrs. Carter replied gravely to
Landy's facetious banter, "but I don't know how to get back to where
that gas engine is chuffing. Welborn will have to come out here to
Maddy, for the hoodlums over at Grand Lake have burnt his feet and
tortured him until mind and body are a wreck."
"Tell Sam to come out here," was Landy's command to Davy. "Well,
somebody has shore mussed ye up a heap, en right in yer gaddin' about
department," he added as he noted the bandaged feet and ankles of the
old fellow. "Sandals and a crutch don't become ye at all, Oldtimer.
Who's been disturbin' yer dogs that away?"
"I got all that and a lot more, off the killer that built this cabin,"
said the oldster firmly, "and I want to warn this newcomer as to his
threats to come over here and kill him."
Welborn, accompanied by Davy, came through the arch and approached the
car. He had never seen the oldster but had heard, in full, the story
of his idiosyncrasies, his wanderings, and persistent research for the
hidden mineral wealth of a vast and varied district. In his life's
story there were no paragraphs that old Maddy was a hoarder of gold or
a promoter or exploiter of things found. His research yielded amply
for his needs. It was known that he owned the filling station and that
his summer accumulations of mineral wealth was more than sufficient to
meet the annual upkeep of that establishment. James Madison Stark's
pleasures had been the joys of solitude rather than the raptures of
vast accumulations. He preferred that the mineral wealth of earth
remain in the veins of its native rock rather than be taken out en
masse, to be later hoarded, manipulated, and juggled to create
distress and poverty and want.
Old Maddy had not reduced his life's philosophy to writing, but the
midget, David Lannarck, as he had heretofore heard the fragments of
the stories of this long and varied career, wondered if he too was not
in the same groove. His present-day problem was the life-story of the
ancient Nestor who preferred solitude to the mob; who would leave
nature's treasures to remain hidden and unclaimed, awaiting the
investigations and industry of the generations to follow. Davy gazed
in awe at the old man, who in general appearance resembled the
accepted portrayals of Santa Claus, but whose face was now seamed with
lines of pain.
Landy made hasty introductions. Maddy proceeded with the business at
hand. "I've come to warn you," he said to Welborn, "that the mobster
who built this cabin says he is going to kill you. He's been hiding
out at some of the resorts over in the Grand Lake district, but like
others of his kind, he just couldn't keep his mental cussedness hidden
and the better element over there is making it too hot for him. It's
his next move and he's evidently going to make a big jump, leaving the
state, maybe the nation. But before he goes, he swears he is coming
over here and kill the only man that ever beat him to the draw--that
ever knocked him down. So be on your guard, my friend. He's a fiend, a
maniac, and that incident preys on him."
"Well, I am certainly obliged to you for this warning," said Welborn
quietly. "If I only knew the date of his proposed visit, we would
provide him with a fitting welcome--a welcome that would add a climax
to his book of hate."
"When he's to come, or how, I don't know," Maddy replied. "It's been a
week since I heard him make the threat, then he made it twice in one
night, accompanied by all the profanity he could muster. He and his
gang were dissolving partnership on account of recent publicity. Two
of 'em would go over to Las Vegas to look over the new dam at Boulder,
one was returning to Denver and this Count Como--he has several other
names--was to come here, get his revenge, and seek another hideout."
Pressed by Landy as to how he contacted the gangsters and received his
injuries, the oldster related the story of his summer's wanderings. He
had spent some time on the other side of the Divide in the Hahns Peak
district, skirted Steamboat Springs on his way to Oak Creek. In his
wanderings, he had panned the alluvium of many small streams and had
recovered more than the usual amount of gold. Now he would work his
way back home through the Middle Park and cross the tortuous windings
of the Divide by the way of his secret pass.
Approaching the Grand Lake district he encountered two men who said
they were looking for lost sheep. Both were maudlin drunk and each was
trying to impress the other with his wisdom, his repartee and
boldness. Upon Maddy's refusal to accompany them, they seized him
bodily, searched him, searched the burro to find the gold and then
pushed, dragged, and drove him and the burro to a nearby cabin.
Here, he was to encounter two other drunken fanatics whose maudlin
quarrels were interrupted by the exhibition of the pouches of gold.
Now, they would know the exact location of the find. The explanation
of the aged wanderer that the dust and particles came from many
sources, seemed to enrage them further. "Just where was this
mother-lode?" They wanted to know. "Here was wealth aplenty-enough to
buy everything."
And they applied the third degree with all the fiendish deviltries of
their distorted minds, to get the exact location of this rival of the
Comstock lode. The aged man was tied hand and foot and beaten and
abused the whole night long. In pushing splinters under his toenails,
the lamp was upset, kerosene was spilled over his feet to catch fire.
A quarrel ensued as to whether the fire should be extinguished or
allowed to burn. A fist-fight developed and they abandoned the cabin,
leaving Maddy to his fate.
"It was young Byron Goff that found me," concluded the aged narrator.
"I recognized his voice when I came to, the next day. He was looking
for lost sheep and stopped to inquire. He took me to his home,
doctored me, cared for me, and brought me home. I owe him my life, not
only for the rescue, but for his kindly nursing. Due to him, my feet
will be all right in a few days. While he would accept nothing from
Mrs. Carter, we've got a plan to part-pay him for his kindness."
The disclosures as made by Maddy, awakened much interest among the
five dwellers of Pinnacle Point. Mrs. Gillis arranged for the evening
meal at the Gillis home where plans could be made to thwart an
invader. Landy and Davy rode their horses to the Gillis barn; Welborn
and Gillis came later in the car. It was following the meal that the
problem was talked over in detail.
It was agreed by all that the invader would come in his car; there was
no other way. He would have to come to the filling station to gain the
roadway to Pinnacle Point. He would have to pass the Gillis cabin and
a warning could be phoned if a wire was strung from the Gillis home to
Welborn's cabin. But in that case the wire would have to be extended
to reach the mine as Welborn was up in that canyon during the day. Jim
proposed a fence across the road with an electric alarm on it when the
gate was opened. Landy suggested felling a tree across the road at a
narrow place and thus reduce the uses of the thoroughfare to journeys
on horseback; Davy offered to keep watch at a favorable place where he
could shoot the tires of the intruder's auto.
Welborn took but little part in the discussions. As the conversation
lagged he briefly summarized the situation. "This gangster is a killer
all right and drink and dope may have overcome the usual cautions of
the breed. All of 'em are cowards; they prefer unarmed victims that
are hog-tied. Sometime in his career this buzzard was the killer for
some liquor gang. He evidently double-crossed his associates in
getting this money that he's spending. He hides from them as well as
the law. There is little we can do except to keep alert. I'll keep my
gun with me up at the canyon and a shot through his windshield would
drive him frantic. He's liable to miss the bridge in his zeal to get
away. He will have to come in the daytime and the folks at the filling
station will warn us now that they know his intentions."
However the matter of the proposed visit of the killer had an exciting
and ludicrous interruption when, on the next morning, Mrs. Gillis
heard the labored chugging of a car coming up the hill to the east.
Landy and Davy were at the barn. They too heard the noise and saw a
small ancient roadster turn into the driveway and stop. A young man
got out of the car and came to the door. This was not the killer but
it might be news of his plans. Landy and Davy entered the house by the
back door.
"Why, it's young Goff," said Landy, interrupting the introduction. "I
met you last spring over at Rawlins. You were in a confab with some
sheep men over there."
The visitor laughed. "Yes, these Rawlins folks are big operators," the
young man explained. "I have to visit 'em about once a year to let 'em
know that I am still alive and still grazing a few head over east of
their allotment. Why, my little band isn't big enough to make up their
summer shortage. If one of their herders rambles over in my district
and there is a mixup, I could easily lose a lot of grass and some
sheep. I can't talk Spanish, and the herder says that he no savvy
'Meriky' and it's up to me to sort and claim.
"But they are a fine lot of fellows, these Rawlins operators, once
they understand that you are on the square. I visit with them every
spring when I sell my fur and pelts. Yes, I have to trap in the winter
to get enough money to pay my grazing allotment, and in my contacts
with these sheep owners, I find that they are always willing to
cooperate."
The young visitor had taken the proffered chair. Mrs. Gillis, Landy
and Davy joined to complete the half-circle. It was apparent that he
had a mission more important than reciting the details of herding and
trapping. Landy had introduced Davy as a new-comer, "Wuth a lot more
than his size would indicate."
"I came over to Carter's last evening to buy some gas and see how old
Maddy was getting along and to tell him how his friends, the
gangsters, finished their orgy. I found the oldster was doing
fine--would be fully recovered by next spring--but they wouldn't sell
me any gas." The raconteur allowed an interval for the astonishing
news to be absorbed. "No sir, not a spoonful would they sell me. They
wanted to give it to me--by the tankful. And after I told my news of
the gangster's finish and the complications incident thereto, Maddy
and the Carters insisted that I take all the gas--that I come up here
with the news, and the problem, and work out the solution.
"You see, I was over to Northgate Saturday on the matter of trading
some bucks with Andy Pelser and encountered the astonishing news that
the whole gangster mob, those that stole Maddy's dust, were in jail.
They had been arrested, and convicted, on about all the crimes in the
book. Reckless driving, drunkeness, inciting a riot, possessing stolen
property, and finally contempt of court, when they offered Judge
Withers, Maddy's two sacks of dust if he would let 'em off. On this
last charge the Judge added four months in jail. It was a grand finish
of an awful mess.
"I went over to the country seat to verify the news. It was no mere
rumor, it was a fact. Sheriff Bill White had 'em all in hock; had the
two bags of gold dust and their guns. He wants to get rid of the dust
if he can find the true owner, and get a disclaimer of ownership from
the gangsters. I told him it was Maddy's, and Bill wants Maddy to come
and prove ownership and take the property. Maddy is willing, but
there's a hitch to it. Just now, I want to see Mr. Gillis, or you
Landy, and unhitch the hitch."
"Well, Jim is up at Pinnacle Pint helpin' Welborn scrape the bottom of
the canyon fer what dust he can find, en I'm shore busy gittin' this
youngster acquainted with his new hoss," said Landy thoughtfully. "But
we ort to take time out to recover Maddy's property. Let's go up to
the canyon en sign Jim up fer the job. That dust up in the canyon
won't run away. It will still be thar even if Jim knocks off work fer
a couple a days."
The young visitor readily concurred in the plan, he wanted to see the
house that the gangster had built anyhow. He started out to the car,
but was detained by Landy. "You wait here," the veteran cautioned, "ye
might git a bullet through yer windshield if ye drive up thar
unannounced. My podner here and I will saddle up and ride ahead, to
prevent accidents."
Following his equestrian escort, the visitor presently reached the
Point where introductions were made and the purpose of the visit
explained. Jim asked many questions and for the most part the answers
were satisfactory. Really, the judge and sheriff wanted to get rid of
these malefactors if the serious charge of robbery was eliminated.
They were a burden to the state and community. "I begrudge feeding the
dirty skunks," was the sheriff's scornful comment. "Hanging 'em would
terminate expense and trouble."
But two problems hindered a quick solution; would these culprits leave
the country if given a suspended sentence. Judge Withers was giving
them a few days for reflection. Meanwhile Sheriff White was making
their stay as uncomfortable as possible in order to hasten a favorable
decision.
"What's the other problem?" asked Gillis, casually.
"Why, if the dust is recovered, old Maddy wants to give it to me, says
that I earned it. And I'm not going to take it."
During the interview, Welborn had been a quiet listener. On hearing
this last declaration from the visitor, he straightened up to make a
quick inquiry. "Why won't you take it?" he demanded.
"I haven't done anything to earn it," replied young Goff in a low but
firm tone.
There was an interval of silence.
"You see, Maddy is old," the visitor explained. "The awful experience
he's gone through affected him. He wants to contrast the little
service I gave him with what the gangsters did to him. His sentiment
outruns his judgment. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary--just
fed him and doctored him as best I could. I didn't do any more--"
"Is your mother living?" interrupted Welborn. "She must be a gentle,
thoughtful woman, well-grounded in the old fashioned ideas of kindness
in social service, to have raised a son with such ideals. People,
now-a-days, expect pay, even for their charities. You will have much
trouble and many disappointments if you approach a sordid world with
such sentiments."
"Hold on Mister," said the younger man, with much spirit. "Old Maddy's
case is different. His case was not a business transaction, it was a
duty." The young visitor ducked his head to chuckle a little while he
scraped the gravel with the toe of his shoe. "If you run into Andy
Pelser, in about a month from now, you will know what I mean. Andy is
young and bright, but old in the sheep game. I had no scruples in
giving him a good cross-lifting in that sheep trade we made. But this
Maddy case is different. I don't want pay for being neighborly, for
doing my duty to oldsters."
"Back the car out, Jim!" commanded Welborn. "This young man is
irresistible. We had as well take a day off to do our part in this
entanglement. Back the car out while I spruce up a little to meet the
law as well as the law-breakers."
Presently Welborn came out of the house, dressed as a man of business.
His attitude was as one in authority. "I have a plan in mind that
might work. It has about one chance in fifty of fitting the case, but
we'll take that chance. But we must do two things if it is to
succeed," cautioned Welborn. "We must not let the Judge see poor old
Maddy in his present plight. It would infuriate the Judge to sentence
those buzzards to the hoosegow for life. Then too, I must see this
sheriff alone, if the plan is made to work. Drive on, my boy," he said
to Goff, "and we'll try to keep in sight. See you tomorrow night,
maybe," he called to Landy and Davy as the two cars got underway.
8
A busy little man was David Lannarck in the week that followed. With a
horse to break and a speech to make, the time was fully occupied. The
colt was quartered at the Gillis barn. Davy stayed with the colt. Of
mornings, Landy assisted with the colt's grooming and education. His
white mane and tail were washed and brushed and his red coat fairly
shone from the attention given. Landy rasped his feet to evenness and
cautioned that he would have to be shod if used on hard-surfaced
roads. "Potter can shoe him all right," he explained, "but we'll have
to send an order for a set of little shoes to fit."
The morning rides were usually on the rather level roadway that led up
to Pinnacle Point, but there were sidetrips down ill-defined paths to
the little creeks. Landy sometimes went along to advise as to road
gaits. The Gillis dogs were constant companions. In fact, since the
night of Davy's arrival they waited around until he made his
appearance and followed him constantly. Except for the fact that he
was scheduled to make a public appearance at Adot next Saturday night,
David Lannarck was now enjoying the rest and joys that he had dreamed
of and planned when he was oppressed by the mob.
"I am not writing out a speech," Davy explained to Mrs. Gillis as he
bent over the pad of paper, pencil in hand. "I am just jotting down
some incidents of circus life that the public might want to know. This
girl over at the B-line--My, oh, my, but she's got a compelling line
of chatter. If she would do the ballyhoo for a Kid Show, she would
pack 'em in to bust down the sidewalls. Now this girl said I was to
talk about midgets and circuses. What I know about midgets and
circuses would fill two books. My problem is to leave out the
commonplace routine and tell 'inside stuff.'"
Mrs. Gillis had cleared a side table where Davy, in his high chair,
could jot down the items that he would use in his talk. It was while
he was thus engaged of afternoons and evenings that Mrs. Gillis heard
the life story of the only midget she had ever known.
"My name wasn't always Lannarck," Davy explained one afternoon when
Mrs. Gillis detailed something of her ancestry and early childhood.
"My name was O'Rahan, and I was christened Daniel. I am Irish--both
sides. My Dad was a young, happy-go-lucky Irish lad, a hard worker, a
free liver, and surely improvident. Foot-loose and free he joined a
party in the rush to the Klondike. Three years later he came back with
enough money to fill a pad saddle. And they took it away from him as
fast as he had accumulated it.
"He met my mother, Ellen Monyhan, at a party, and he was as speedy at
courting as he was at spending. They were married but a short while
when the financial crash came. He was ashamed and humiliated but not
beaten. He wanted another try at this fascinating game. He went back
to the Klondike--and to his death at sea.
"I was born in a hospital in Springfield. My young, heartbroken mother
died there. There were no relatives nearer than cousins. In due time I
was committed to an orphanage. I have no memory of either parent and
my information concerning them is meager and second hand. Now this
orphanage was well conducted, but it wasn't a home; it was an
institution. With anywhere from thirty to sixty children to care for,
it lacked the personal equation. It was mass production--you did
things by rote, en-masse--no individuality. But I have no complaint.
As a babe and child I was well-fed and clothed, in a uniform common to
all.
"And then I started to school along with all the others. But something
was happening to me that did not happen to the others. I quit growing.
Mentally I was like the others--kept up with my grades--but I never
grew taller than thirty-two inches and never weighed more than
thirty-eight pounds. Other children would shoot up like corn stalks,
but I stayed right where I had been in the months and years past.
"To me, it was a heart breaking disclosure. I wanted to play ball, to
make the team, only to find that as the slow months crept on, I was
assigned to the playground of the little kids, babes, toddlers. The
balls, bats, mitts, and other playthings were too big for me. But I
kept up with my classes in school and maybe the disappointments in
sports urged me to win somewhere else. I won the eighth-grade prize in
arithmetic and mechanical drawing. And then came high school, and the
great disaster, quickly followed by an entrance into an Orphan's
Heaven--a home in a private family. In the shifting personnel at the
orphanage, there were fewer high-school pupils. We went to a different
building over different streets. It was no doubt a singular sight to
the residents to see a midget with six-footers, but it was just that
way. And it must have been a singular sight to Loron Usark, a big
childish lout that lived on Spruce Street. We would pass the end of
the alley back of his house and he was out there every day to watch us
go by. Now this Loron was too weak, mentally, for school. Ordered
around by everybody and pestered and teased by many, the
moronic-minded will seek a victim that he can abuse and bend to his
own will, and this Loron party was on the lookout. One day he caught
me tagging along behind the others. He grabbed me and would have
beaten me, but my companions rescued me. After that, I had to be on
the lookout. I was marked for slaughter by this fool.
"Mrs. Gillis," Davy changed his tone of voice to a deeper bass, as was
his wont when he desired to impress a listener. He shook his pencil at
his deeply interested audience of one. "Mrs. Gillis, I've seen a lot
of people in my time. Except for old-time circus people and theatrical
troopers, I've seen a million more than my share. And you can set
this down on your mental calendar as an established truth: whenever
you see a Big One taunting a Little One, you can set him down as a big
coward. And, whenever you see a Dub kidding a Lout, you can be assured
that the dub is trying to lift himself above a similar rating.
"Well, this Loron lout finally got me," said Davy, resuming the thread
of his life story. "I was on my way back to the orphanage for a book
and as I passed the alley he swept me down. They were good sidewalks
out there, else he would have broken them in bits as he pounded my
head on 'em. He kicked when he could and struck as often as he cared.
His exultant cries must have attracted attention, for I was past even
an outcry. Finally a lady rushed out of the nearby house and came to
the rescue. The lout ran, of course. I stayed put. I couldn't do
anything else. The lady gathered me up, carried me into the house,
laid me on a couch as I passed out entirely.
"When I came to, a doctor had been there to patch me up and pass
judgment on my chances. He had washed off a lot of blood, plastered my
cheek, clipped my hair to plaster some more places, eased some body
welts, and announced that no bones had been broken. I was in a bed,
most of my clothing had been removed, and the lady was offering me a
drink of water. I took it.
"Mrs. Gillis," here Davy gave his voice its lowest pitch, "Mrs.
Gillis, that woman was Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Lannarck, and I know you
won't condemn me or be jealous when I say that she was the kindest,
most considerate woman that ever drew the breath of life. There have
been a lot of noble women on this troubled earth, doing what they
could to ease pain, to keep down strife, and to make the world a
better place in which to live. They are all worthy of our praise, but
to me, Mrs. Lannarck is sainted, and apart from the rest. Well, the
rest of the story is in happier settings and more readable chapters,"
said Davy, as he noted that Mrs. Gillis was somewhat affected by the
recital. "I really suspect that you would know more about these
conditions than I. Personally, I think all women want to manage a
home, want to boss the inmates. If there are no children, then they
manage the men-folk, or the household pets. And I was Mrs. Lannarck's
pet. She used me as a substitute for the children that never came into
her life. I was little; I was injured; I was a fit object of her
suppressed affections.
"She telephoned Mrs. Philpott, matron at the orphanage, and when she
called to see me, Mrs. Lannarck arranged to care for me until I was
well. She explained the whole affair to Mr. Lannarck, when he came
home to luncheon and that big, grave, silent man accepted her
statements without comment. Sick as I was, I heard all this and I too,
made some resolutions. I was not going to miss this chance of having a
home, and a mother. The very next morning I offered to get up and help
her do the dishes. She laughed like a girl, and vetoed my offer. In a
day or two I limbered up enough to get into my clothes and I puttered
around, offering to do things. My help was declined, but I could see
that it had the right effect.
"I didn't go to school for a few days. My face and head were still in
bandages. The story of the attack was in the newspaper and the civil
authorities committed the moron to an institution for the
feeble-minded. Some of the orphan kids visited me and I got them to
bring my little set of drawing tools. I was tinkering with these when
Mister Lannarck came in. He looked at some of my sketches and asked if
I could draft a plan in true proportions. I told him I thought I
could, if I had the correct measurements. He put on his coat and left.
"Now Mr. Lannarck was a carpenter-contractor. Not a big one, with an
office and a draftsman, bookkeeper and such; just a carpenter with a
desk in the front room where he kept his papers. He had little
education but his figures were correct. He had built good buildings,
but he specialized in repairs--in the upkeep of property--and he had
many clients. He was honest and fair; he made money and saved it. He
could read blueprints but he couldn't make 'em. His fingers were all
thumbs when it came to outlining.
"Presently he came back with some figures, and about the worst outline
I had ever seen. He explained it was a church. It was to have an
addition. There was a memorial window to be taken out and placed at
the right place in the new part. He had the correct figures and he
wanted a rough draft to show 'em. He gave me some big sheets to work
on.
"That night, Mrs. Lannarck had to order me to bed, I was that
interested. The next morning I was up early. That evening I showed him
my outline. He didn't say much. He took the drawings and his own
figures to a meeting that night. When he came home he said he had
closed the deal, that my outline was what had helped, said it would
make money. My, oh, my, but there was a proud boy in a big bed at the
Lannarck home that night. That was the first dollar I have ever
earned. Of course, I didn't get the dollar, but I got much more.
"It sounds sorta mushy, doesn't it, Mrs. Gillis," said Davy,
interrupting the recital. "Kind of a Pollyanna tale with a Horatio
Alger finish. But in none of his stories did Alger ever portray a
tougher background or give it a bigger skyrocket finish. Just think of
it, Mrs. Gillis! Here was a kid with the black thought that he was
never to be a man; was never to do a man's work, never to win in any
manly contest. Worse yet, he had never seen his father or felt a
mother's caress. He never had had a place called home. Do you blame
him for horning in?
"Well, it worked out better than I hoped. The next day Mrs. Lannarck
began moving the furniture in one of the bedrooms. She emptied dresser
drawers, cleared out the closet and brought in other things. Then she
invited me up there; told me that she had arranged every thing and
this was to be my room, where I could put my things.
"Things? Why, I had come into that home with a busted head and not a
penny in my pocket. The very clothes that I wore belonged to the
county. Except for the little drawing tools I had, you could have put
all of my things in a thimble. Yet I was the richest man in
Springfield.
"I lived in that room four happy blessed years. They were years of few
incidents and no friction. Mrs. Lannarck bought me a complete outfit
of clothing, and she was as particular about the details as if it were
a bride's trousseau. She even provided me with a weekly allowance,
small, to be sure, but there was nothing I needed. I kept right on at
school and helped around the house wherever I could. I kept Mr.
Lannarck's books, made out his estimates, and drafted his plans. I
checked up his payrolls, met his workmen, and his banker. I even met
the judge of the court when they adopted me and changed my name.
"I went to church with Mrs. Lannarck, went to Sunday School, and took
part in the entertainments. They insisted I was a drawing card and
they featured the appearance of a midget on the program. It was all
right by me if it met the approval of the Lannarcks.
"During the war, the committee featured me in the Bond Drives. There
was a big fellow I teamed up with, named George Ruark. He was nearly a
seven-footer and weighed three hundred. I could stand in his two hands
as he held them in front of him and urged everybody to back up the war
as strongly as I was backed. It made a hit; it got results.
"And then inevitable but unwanted death stalked in, to ruin
everything. Mister Lannarck died. He was older than I had thought. He
was always careful and honest. He was putting a new roof on the
Auditorium when he fell. Maybe it was a stroke. They took him to the
hospital. He died on the third day after the fall.
"This was the beginning of the end. A link was broken in the chain. It
never mended. Mrs. Lannarck bore up bravely, but I could see that she
had lost all earthly joys and simply awaited her summons. Mr.
Lannarck's financial affairs were in good shape. He left quite an
estate. The income was ample for our simple needs, but that was not
enough. Mrs. Lannarck simply could not go on. She died in a little
over a year following the death of her companion. For the second time
in my life, I was an orphan.
"But this time I was to have a guardian. I had been legally adopted. I
was the heir. I was rich. In the first fifteen years of my life, I had
never seen money, never a penny of my own. Now it was the other way.
After the funeral I went down to the bank to consult with Mister
Gaynor. He handed me a sealed envelope. It was a message from the
dear, kind, motherly Mrs. Lannarck. It was a letter of kindly advice,
personal and spiritual. She said that she never doubted but that I
would walk in the right path, but she made this final appeal. If I
never married, never had heirs or dependents, and if there was any of
the Lannarck estate left at my death, would I make a will, leaving a
portion of it to the Grace Avenue Presbyterian Church, in trust for
its upkeep, and a portion to the county orphanage, for the occasional
entertainment of its inmates.
"Mrs. Gillis." Davy was the one now affected by the recitals. His
voice was lower and slower. "Mrs. Gillis, after reading that message,
I hadn't the tears out of my eyes nor my voice cleared up, until I was
making that will. Gaynor did the work, he knew how, that was his
business, and he made it read just as Mrs. Lannarck had requested. The
Trust Department of the bank was made the trustee. One-half of all
income from my estate was to be paid to the church, the other half for
orphanage entertainment. It stands just that way yet, although the
value of the estate has doubled.
"The Lannarck estate was what the bank folks called Income Property.
It included two suburban store rooms with apartments above. There were
three very good residences, five shares of bank stock, bonds and notes
and a considerable bank deposit. I made a resolution then and there,
that I would never touch a penny of it, and that resolution has been
kept. The income has piled up until it now nearly equals the
principal. Poor old Gaynor, the next-best friend I ever had, keeps the
income collected and invested, and if this depression would only let
up and give him a chance, he could build those Presbyterians a new
church and give the orphans a picture show every night.
"Of course I've earned quite a lot of money, meanwhile, but Gaynor
keeps that as a separate checking account; says circuses and
vaudeville are not a dependable source of income and that I may go
broke. This Ralph Gaynor is a wonder in his line, but it's not my kind
of a line. He talks of interest, margins of safety, of unearned
increments, corporate earnings, and things like that. His is not the
big bank, with its long rows of figures. His is just a little
'Dollar-Down' concern, and he owns it all. Just now, in this
depression, the Big Fellows are running to him asking, 'What to do?'
And he's telling 'em to trim sails and stay close to shore.
"Ralph Gaynor is the second helpful man to come into my life, but when
I grew sick and tired of being gawked at, during all my waking hours
and resolved to duck away from the mob, I didn't go back to Ralph
Gaynor for advice. He just wouldn't understand. The word 'recreation'
is not in his vocabulary. Colts, dogs, kid-saddles, horseback riding,
Landy's wisecracks, and my present-day joys have no listed values with
Ralph Gaynor, and I passed him up. If it were Mrs. Lannarck, she would
understand and give it sympathetic approval.
"Well, that's something of the life story of one midget, Mrs. Gillis.
Add to this, twelve long summers with circuses and the winters spent
in vaudeville (both with their mobs and gawking crowds) and it's
almost a completed volume. There is yet one chapter to be added and I
want to talk about it to the public. One man, Baron Singer, did more
for midgets--little people--than any other person, in all time. He
lifted them out of the mediocre; gave them standing and personality.
I never met the Baron, but I want the public to know what great work
he did for an underprivileged group. And I will tell 'em Saturday
night."
9
Gillis and Welborn did not return from their mission the next day as
they had planned. Sunday passed by without word of their whereabouts.
The stay-at-homes wondered if it was to be peace or war with maudling
gangsters. Did Welborn's fifty-to-one chance fail? Davy had planned to
ride over to the B-line, and go over his speech-plans with his manager
and promoter. Now, it seemed necessary that he and Landy ride down to
the filling station seeking news of the missing ones. Monday noon, the
faithful old Gillis car labored up the hill and came to a stop. Jim
and Sam got out to inquire if dinner was ready.
Little was said during the meal as to the outcome of their trip. Jim
made a brief explanation that they had been as far as Rawlins,
accompanying the sheriff in his disposition of his boarders. The
sheriff explained that he wanted to take them past the penitentiary to
show them what they missed, and where they would live if they ever
came back to this section. He took them all to the railway station,
loaded two on the east-bound train and two went west. The sheriff
retained the count's car as security for advances made.
That evening, however, after Davy had returned from delivering Welborn
his supper, the four gathered in the Gillis sitting room and Jim gave
more details. "This man Welborn musta been in the army," he declared.
"Musta been a tough old top sergeant, er the general in command, the
way he took charge. He managed every detail and managed it right.
Everything worked out as planned.
"We kept old Maddy out of the judge's sight, 'en it was well enough
that we did, for Judge Withers was pretty hostile towards these crazy
galoots that invaded the community and disturbed the peace. He would
enforce the sentence, but he listened to the sheriff's complaint that
four such prisoners were too many for his cramped quarters, too costly
for the results obtained. The judge agreed to suspend sentence on
condition that the sheriff would deport 'em and keep 'em deported.
"We didn't have any trouble establishing Maddy's claim to the two
sacks of dust. Maddy easily identified 'em and I knew they were his,
but what about these gangsters? Would the count surrender title to the
damaged car to compensate for rail transportation? And would they
agree to leave and never come back? The sheriff had had several
interviews with 'em on these matters and had never gained assent to
the plan, especially as to the count and his car. The sheriff was
bothered, didn't believe it could be done.
"Again it was Welborn who made the plan and gave orders. 'Bring that
count in here,' he said, 'and leave me alone with him for about ten
minutes. I'll find out if he wants to live or die.' And the sheriff
did as Welborn said, and before the ten minutes were up, the count had
readily and eagerly accepted all the conditions. We took all of 'em
over to court, the judge repeated the sentence, suspended it if they
stayed out of the court's jurisdiction. We had 'em in Rawlins and on
their way by Sunday noon.
"No, I don't know what Welborn said to the count," was Jim's reply to
Davy's eager question. "It must have been potent and terrifying, the
way that gangster wet his lips and swollered."
"Did young Goff accept Maddy's gift of the gold dust?" Jim laughed.
"That's another Welborn plan and order and it wasn't ignored. This
young Goff is a fine fellow. He took good care of Maddy during the
whole trip. When we got back to the filling station and Goff was to go
on his way, Maddy offered him the dust and he refused it. Here
Welborn stepped in. He shook a little out of one sack to make 'em
equal; he handed one sack to Mrs. Carter and placed the other in
Goff's car. 'You keep that,' he ordered. 'This old man will live
longer, happier, more contented in knowing he has a neighbor that he
can freely call on for help who will respond to his call. He's got a
right to this comfort and satisfaction. You take it.' And young Goff
took it."
The next morning David Lannarck was up bright and early, intent on his
plans to visit the B-line ranch, but Mrs. Gillis had beat him to the
draw. Landy was directed to change the stock cattle over into the
ravine pasture while Jim did the milking. Davy would take Welborn's
breakfast to him and wait at the Point until Landy, and the dogs, had
finished their job.
Like the rest of the men folk at the Gillis ranch, Davy accepted his
orders. He saddled the colt, maneuvered him up to the kitchen door for
the basket of breakfast, and rode to the Point alone. Early as it was,
he found Welborn up the ravine examining the gravel in a sheltered
nook.
"I can work this area this winter, when the rest of the valley is
covered with snow," Welborn explained as they walked back to the cabin
and the basket of breakfast.
"Yes, and if you had a dynamo and electric lights," retorted Davy,
"you could work nights. What's all the rush? This stuff will keep."
Welborn laughed, but he grew serious to explain: "I would like to take
nine thousand dollars out of this hole by early spring, and as near as
I estimate values, I've got the job about half done. There's nearly
two hundred ounces in those little sacks. If my partner will be
lenient in demanding his share, I think I can get it done this
winter."
"If I advance the nine thousand right now, say by the end of the week,
will you let up on this drive-drive-drive stuff, and relax and be
yourself?" Davy's question was a demand, earnestly stated.
Welborn gave an inquiring look to see if he was being scolded or
kidded. He decided that it was neither of these. "Why would you want
to do that, Laddie?" he asked in a subdued tone.
"Just to keep a good man from worrying himself to death," retorted the
midget. "I want to prevent a funeral, make an asset out of a
liability. I want to get a big, fine man back to his normal self. If
you will agree to let up on this push-drive-urge stuff; stop long
enough to read a book, to laugh at Jiggs or Popeye or Dagwood, or any
of the other funnies, go with me over to Adot where the mine-run folks
can see what a big, fine upstanding partner I've got, why I'll have
that little, old nine thousand in here by Saturday.
"Oh, I know that money is scarce, hard to get just now," Davy
explained in response to Welborn's shake of the head, "but this money
is idle, and there's plenty of security up in that ravine. It's not
the loan, it's the results, I'm wanting. Of course, there's something
eating you, some past catastrophe or mistake, that's got you down.
You're worried, killing yourself trying to get it corrected. I don't
know what it is, and don't want to know, until you are ready. Of
course it will work out all right. There'll be a climax, a denouement,
as old director Mecklin used to call the final act, and I want you to
be right here, in person, in good health and spirits, to join with the
rest of us in the applause and cheers."
Welborn had walked over to the window, but not to look out. His head
was down, he was taking punishment. Presently he lifted his shoulders
and head. There was a smile on his face even if his voice was husky.
"In all my varied years, Sonny Boy, I never heard finer compliments
mixed up with some real truths. What you've said is worth more to me
than your kindly offer of funds. I wouldn't take your money under any
condition, it would add complications, but I am going to take your
advice. From now on, I'll try to do as you say, try to save myself for
the glorious finish that you picture."
The arrival of Jim in the old car and Landy's clamorous calls broke up
the conference. Davy hurried out to join his friend in their planned
trip to the B-line ranch. He was very quiet in the hazards of Brushy
Fork, but on arriving at the level stretch beyond he stopped Landy.
"What am I going to name this colt, Landy? He's got to have a name, if
he's to be taught to do things. Old Boss Fletcher had a name for every
elephant in the herd, and they would step right out when their names
were called. Horses, dogs, elephants, even the cats quickly learned
their names and the short words like 'halt,' 'go,' 'kneel,' 'turn,'
and the like. This colt is smart, wants to do things, if you're not
too dumb in telling him what you want. But he's got to have a name."
"Alice and I were talkin' about that the other night," replied the ex
cow-hand. "She had some flossy ones: Emperor, Commander, President, en
sich, but I vetoed that trash, the colt couldn't carry 'em and live. I
suggested Red, er Monty, er some sich. Thar we adjourned and left the
colt without a moniker. What's yer notion of a name fer this little
hoss?"
"I just can't think of the right one," said Davy resignedly. "It
wouldn't do to name him after some of the folks around here, that
would mix things up. The circus folks have worn out such names as
Barnum, Ringling, Robinson, Bailey, Coles, Sells, Barnes, Wallace, and
others and they don't fit a small hoss anyhow. I am in hopes that this
fine, smart Adine girl at the B-line has some sort of a suggestion.
Maybe, she's got a name that will do."
At a favorable place on the narrow road where the travelers could gaze
down on a bunch of the B-line cattle quietly grazing and where the
morning sun splashed varied colors on the distant hills, Davy pushed
his mount in front of old Gravy to halt the party. He flung his hand
in a wide sweep to include everything in sight.
"That's Paradise, Landy. It's what I've dreamed about for the last ten
years. It's the wide open spaces filled with all the variations in old
Nature's book of scenery. And best of all, there's no mob of nit-wits
to titter and smirk. It's my Heaven.
"Just now, two things blur the picture; I want to get this speech
thing off my hands, and I want to find a resister, a sass-back, a
contrary cuss, that will argue back at me. I want to keep him nearby
to remind me of old times. Why back two years ago, I used to visit old
Polo Garrett, who had the concession in the menagerie tent, just to
get cussed out. Polo's vocabulary was limited to sassing back. 'What's
eatin' ya?,' 'Git outa here,' 'Who's a-running this dump?' 'Whar do ya
git that stuff?' were his mildest phrases. When I got fed up on a
bunch of simpering women and their, 'ain't he cute?' stuff, all I had
to do was to barge in on Polo and get cussed out and learn that the
world wasn't all gush and guff.
"And particularly I need this 'argufyer' right out here now. I'm
getting tired of having my own way. The people are too kind, too
considerate, regard me as a child to be petted and pampered. There's
too much mushy sentiment. A day or two ago, I told Mrs. Gillis my life
history. It was mushy and without climax. She wanted to cry over it.
This morning, before you came to the Point, I gave Welborn a big going
over about his working all the time. And he never sassed back. He
should have kicked me out. Instead of that, he agreed with me. Him, a
big, strong man that had made a gangster eat his gun and ordered the
judge and sheriff what to do! The idea! Him letting a midget order him
around! What we need here is a good cusser-outer."
"You're too late," said Landy dryly. "You've missed yer appointment by
about forty years. We had a party up state wunst, that filled all yer
requirements. Hit was a woman. She'd fuss at the sun fer comin' up, an
cuss hit fer goin' down. She buried three husbands en was deserted by
several more. At her death, en in honor of the happy event, they named
a little crick after her. They called hit Crazy Woman's Crick.... Hi,
Potter," Landy called, as they approached the stables of the B-line
ranch. "Git that gate opened and throw out yer welcome rug."
"Troubles never come single, they come in bunches," grumbled Potter as
he complied. "Two hosses go lame this mornin', en Jim Finch, the
grazing commissioner, comes from up on the Mad Trapper Fork a-callin'
on us fer help to round up some of old Hull Barrow's misfits of horns,
hoofs, and hides, en to add further miseries, here you arrive on the
scene. Why, Peaches gave out strict orders, that if old Turkeyneck
came prowlin' around, to say, that she wasn't at home at all en to
tell the little gent to ride right into the house."
"Who said that?" demanded Davy, with alacrity.
"Why, Peaches, Miss Adine, she said if old Landy--"
"Ye, Ho!" yelled Davy excitedly. "This colt is named. That's it!
Peaches! Why didn't we think of that before, Landy?" Davy patted the
colt's neck affectionately. "That's your name, old boy, Peaches!"
Hearing the outcry, Adine Lough came out of the house, and down the
graveled way. "Good morning," she called. "I was expecting you. My,
but he's handsome," she exclaimed, examining the little horse that
arched his neck in approval of the inspection. "You look like a
gallant cavalier out of the old picture books."
"We've just named him," said Davy proudly. "We named him after you.
His name is Peaches."
"Ah, pshaw," said the girl, laughing and blushing. "That's just a
nickname that these men out here call me behind my back, of course,
and the poor colt deserves a better fate. But come in, both of you, I
have good news." The girl led the way into the hall. "You go in and
visit with grandpa, Landy, while we talk shop in the library.
"I talked with the Nazarene preacher and he's very enthusiastic over
the plan and prospects," Adine explained after they were settled in
the workshop. "I told him of the ad, that I was to run in the paper
and he's somewhat of an artist and is putting up signs all over town.
It augurs a good crowd, the biggest ever to assemble in Adot. He plays
an accordion and his wife sings and they have arranged for a quartette
of girls to sing a couple of numbers and then you are to talk. The
meeting is to be held in Joe Burns's big warehouse and it won't hold
the people. Now this is not a church meeting, it's an entertainment.
You can laugh and applaud at will. You can tell funny stories about
circuses or what-have-you, it's informal, go as far as you like!"
"Well, here's how I had mapped out the talk. I'll tell 'em something
about midgets," said Davy, "for midgets seem to be a forgotten subject
in literature. If you will comb your college library down at Boulder,
you'll not find a single book on the subject, and I am not sure that I
know enough about 'em to fill out a talk on the subject."
"That's the very subject you ought to talk on. Why I can hardly wait
to hear it. Who better can tell it? If you are short of facts, just
romance a little, that's allowable where facts are scarce. Tell 'em
personal incidents and don't make 'em too solemn or pathetic. Make 'em
laugh. Personally, I'm going to get a close-up seat, for in that big
barn of a place I doubt if you can reach the outer fringes."
"Well, if the preacher gent can make himself heard, I can too,"
retorted Davy. "I practiced up on that stuff, there's where I
specialized. You see, Miss Adine, when I joined up with the Singer
Midgets at Saint Louis, I didn't have an act, a specialty, anything to
give the public. I just joined up because Baron Singer was collecting
midgets, showing 'em a good time, with no thought of making a profit.
But it did make profit. The public wanted to see midgets.
"It was my first contact with my clan. I noticed that midgets didn't
change their voices when they reached maturity, still spoke in
childish tones. Not having much to do, I practiced voice culture,
deepened and strengthened my speech. I made my voice reach to the back
seats. It earned me a job. I became the announcer; made the
in-front-of-the-curtain talks. In the summer, with the Big Top, I
often simulated the ringmaster to make announcements from the center
ring. It was a feature all right, seeing a little guy doing a big
man's job.
"Oh I'll make 'em hear all right, but what they are to hear is the
problem. To the midget stuff I thought I would add a few paragraphs
about circus people, the different kinds and what they do. The general
public never contacts the real circus people, just the ticket takers,
ushers, and roustabouts. They never meet the managers and performers.
And because grafters, shilabers, and skin-game artists follow
circuses, the public thinks these are a part of it. It's only fair to
circus people that this connection be denied."
"Why, I didn't know that," exclaimed Adine, "I just supposed the
grafters were a part of it. Here I am, learning a lot of things and
school not yet started. Anyhow, I'm going to buy a ticket for Mrs.
Carmody and inveigle her to the entertainment. She said circus people
ought not be allowed to participate in a church benefit.
"Now you are to come over here Saturday morning. Bring Landy with you,
as we can all three ride to Adot in my roadster. There, we will lay
the top back, and with you between us, sitting up on the back cushion,
we'll parade the town. The door opens at seven o'clock. Performance
begins at seven-thirty. Then we come back here for the night and you
can ride home Sunday morning. You can talk for an hour if you want to,
but you should speak for thirty minutes at least."
10
"Are you going to live here always?" asked Davy as he slid down off
the dictionary and chair at the end of the conference. "What I mean is
this, Adine," he added, noting the girl's questioning look. "Are you
going to spend your life out here in the sticks, with cattle, horses,
and a few yokels that you have to ride miles and miles, before you see
two of 'em together?"
"Why, this is my home, I belong here, the same as other young people
live with their folks," replied the girl, somewhat startled by the
abruptness of the question. "I haven't planned to shift pastures, as
grandaddy would say. Why are you asking such an abrupt, personal
question?"
"Well, it is sorta personal and rather abrupt," agreed the midget in
an appeasing tone. "I should have made the approach with more finesse.
Abruptness is one of my defects. But now that I've blundered in, I'd
just as well finish. You don't belong out here in the wide open
spaces, in these sparse settlements. You belong in the congested
areas, where big things are being done, where there's planning,
execution, accomplishment. Why, you've taken over both ends of a
little hoss trade, laid out all the plans, details and ground work for
a community entertainment, and did it with the ease of a big executive
lighting a cigarette. You need a big job, in a big place. With your
personality and head-work, you can climb up the ladder to the top
rung."
"Well, of all things!" said the girl, embarrassed at the unexpected
drift, but laughing at the implications. "And this from a guy that has
fled the mob and wants me to take his place. Now just what big job
have you laid out for me? Running a circus? Managing a theater? Or
maybe operating a railroad?"
"You could make a success with any or all of 'em," retorted Davy. "But
none of these were in my mind. Some women want a career. Some gain it
by their own efforts and some climb to success on a ladder supported
by others. Then there is the big majority--many of 'em brilliant and
capable--that just settle down in the doldrums of marriage and let
their talents rust out in negligence and inattention."
"Then I'm not to marry?"
"You ought to. A gal as attractive, vivacious, and clever as you are,
would have to marry--in self-defense, if for no other reason. Marriage
need not interfere. It might help. With that hazard and gamble out of
the way, it would allow you to expand your talents in planning,
executing, and managing in any line you choose."
"And about when do you plan that this defense marriage--this shotgun
wedding--is to take place?" questioned Adine scornfully. "And who's
the victim?"
"Now that's a candle-flame that I'll keep my fingers out of," said
Davy hastily. "Judge Vane told me once a person who advises or mixes
in on the marriage relations of others is liable in damages. And
anyhow, sane people don't run matrimonial agencies. In that debacle,
you're on your own. I'm promoting talent, not running a marriage
bureau. And I don't want the side show to dim the performance in the
big top. You've got talent, personality, ability to influence others,
and whether you are solo in the orchestra or doubling in brass in the
matrimonial band makes no difference. You ought to be directing the
mob instead of listening to a lone midget."
Adine Lough laughed, not at the text, but the homely comparisons of
the little man that, standing hat in hand, was earnestly and seriously
throwing bouquets of compliments and darts of poignant facts right in
her face. And both the flowers and darts were coming from an
unexpected source. With the delicate matrimonial problem swept
completely aside, she felt that this new-found friend, in his
nation-wide travels and a million contacts, was really sincere in some
of his estimates and was trying to be helpful in his blunt, abrupt
appraisals. Anyhow, she was reconciled to that view.
"Well, I never had so many compliments in all my life! I didn't know
that you were a student of sociology--could estimate capabilities and
get everyone in their right groove. I should have been conferring with
you, for I have an unsolved problem, bigger than any you've
mentioned." Adine had ceased her scorning tones; now she was asking
for an answer. She motioned Davy to a footstool.
"Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett
used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'"
"My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that is able to do
things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I
am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of
bankruptcy.
"Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was
called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into
something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was
tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He
hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster
was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a
period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready.
"Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers,
only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one
season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from
these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's
little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to
reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious
until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity.
And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you
think I should seek a job in the congested areas?"
"Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of
responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak
of two ranches. Where's the other one?"
"Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up
the pretense of operating one of his own--wants to compete with Father
in management--in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus
the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and
encourages him in the plan.
"You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four
miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the
surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And
there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built
this home. Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It
is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but
folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name.
And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in
management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall,
Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at
the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in
the early morning.
"But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership
of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a
roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for
help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills
without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now.
Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I
don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate
that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the
Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine,
as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the
footstool.
"Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful
and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or
retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is
already solved."
"We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've
just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there
were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets,
and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in which
they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money,
and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live
as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days,
he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he
calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper
money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously.
The keyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel
or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as
I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to
try to take it by force.
"Grandmother died before I was born. After her death, and while Father
was setting up business over here, the Craigs moved in with Grandaddy.
They were young people, brother and sister, Joe and Myrah, and they
have been there ever since. Now just who the Craigs are I do not know.
There is an old rumor among the cow hands that Grandaddy was paying
off some sort of an old romantic debt when he took them in. It must
have been a far-flung romance, for the Craigs reputedly came from up
in the Wind River district.
"At any rate there they are. Myrah is a good housekeeper and has been
a good caretaker of an aged man. Joe was never a cow man. He has a
crippled hand. In his young days he roamed the country as a hunter and
trapper. He cuts the wood, builds the fires, and runs the errands;
just a lackey boy, and is still just that.
"When Father came to Omaha this last time, Grandaddy came over here
occasionally. He would bring the keyster and pay the bills. Finally,
as Father's stay was prolonged, I persuaded Grandfather to headquarter
over here. I fixed up the front room for his convenience. He seems
contented with the fireplace and Morris chair. I could have gotten
along all right but the matter of finances bothered me. With the banks
closed, we have little money available. Even if we had a considerable
sum, I wouldn't know where to keep it. A cupboard or desk seemed an
insecure place and my financial experience has been limited to a
little money purse with small change and probably only one bill. Just
now, Grandfather's keyster is the Rock of Gibraltar, the financial
prop that is sustaining the whole structure. But what about this prop?
How strong is it? Will it outlast the depression? I don't know. I
doubt if Father would know, if he were here. He and Grandaddy might
exchange quips or gibes over the matter of sales or production but
they didn't broadcast as to funds on hand.
"Truly, I don't care to know how much money is in Grandaddy's keyster,
that's his affair. But it's irksome and tragic not to know one's
limitations. Tomorrow the whole structure may crumble and fall, for
lack of another dollar.
"My relations with Grandaddy are peculiar. He was sorely disappointed
that I wasn't a boy. He tolerates me and that's about all. To him,
women are a liability, not an asset. He regards them as a necessary
evil. If anything important is to be done, it must be done by a man.
If he is irritated by some woman's accomplishments he growls out: 'Men
fought for and won the territory and women followed in to take
possession.' And for this reason it was an easy matter to induce him
to come over here with his keyster and take charge. He just couldn't
conceive that a girl could manage a business.
"But notwithstanding his disappointments and my timidity, we've gotten
along very well. When I go away to school he always slips me a bill or
two for spending money. I could feel that he resented my buying a car,
yet he pays for my gasoline without complaint. His bias, prejudice,
and vindictiveness doesn't apply to the members of his immediate
family, but it does apply intensely and vigorously to others. It's
this peculiarity that might wreck the works at this critical time.
"It's a family tradition that Grandaddy never went in debt for
anything. If he hadn't the cash to pay, he didn't buy. But just now,
they are closing out the Bar-O ranch lands, cattle, chattels, and it's
ill repute. If Grandaddy knew of this sale, he would spend every dime
in that keyster of his, and go in debt as far as he could, in order to
own this thing that has been a life's obsession. And if he were to
spend this money, be it much or little, this B-line would be
bankrupt. I have tried to keep the news of this sale away from
Grandaddy just to avoid this catastrophe. If it comes, I am helpless."
During this recital, Adine was seated facing Davy on the footstool.
There were lines in her face that Davy had never seen, a near quaver
in her voice that he had never heard. The Sir Galahad of the Sawdust
Ring had surely found a maiden in dire distress. He wriggled on his
seat, mustering comforting words.
"Well, I don't want to offend by poo-pooing your troubles," said Davy
as consolingly as he could. "Sickness is always bad, but everything is
being done that's possible; your grandfather's acts couldn't work much
harm. You don't owe anything to anybody; your needs are few; your
expenses are at a minimum. There will be a moratorium on taxes and
your few employees would readily accept a note in lieu of cash, and
friends like Mrs. Gillis would gladly come to the rescue if quick
funds are needed. Frankly, you are a long way from Trouble River and
you should not worry about crossing it until you reach the brink.
"And that's that," said the little man, brushing his hands as if the
matter were fully settled. "Now tell me about this Bar-O thing. Is
this the same affair that Mister Potter spoke of? What's the grazing
master got to do, in folding up a ranch? Why would your grandfather
get all het up if he heard about it? Where is this Bar-O property?
Maybe in this tragic drama, there is a comedy part that I could play."
"There's no comedy in this local drama," said Adine, resuming her
challenging attitude. "And you brush the tragedies into the
wastebasket like mere dross. A while ago, you were assigning me to big
jobs in the congested areas while you were to idle around in the wide
open spaces. Just now, I would put you back in some city as a public
relations officer, a Mister Fixit, to diagnose and cure personal and
community ills. You would fix 'em or discard 'em instantly.
"But, badinage aside, I know very little of the Bar-O entanglements
and complications. It's an old story. Grandaddy knows all about it but
he doesn't talk. There are few facts and many rumors. For three
generations it's been a sort of a gnaw-bone, to be dug up and chewed
on when there's nothing else. It's a musty old tradition, a sort of a
remnant of the old days, that present day newsmongers use as a
yardstick for comparisons. If a modern domestic complication breaks
out, the current gossip outmatches it by the entanglements in the
Barrow family. If it's murder, robbery, or arson, some of the Barrows
did worse and got away with it.
"Just now, some current chapters are being written. Mister Logan, the
receiver of the bank of Adot, has foreclosed a mortgage on the real
estate and seeks possession. Mister Finch, the grazing master, always
lenient and forebearing, is seeking to recover past due payments. This
may be the final chapter. Grim facts are taking the place of hearsay."
"Well, just where is this land of romantic tragedy and domestic
infelicity?" questioned Davy. "How come that the movie people haven't
taken it over to fit their verbiage: thrilling, stupendous, smashing,
wondrous, and so forth?"
"Well, if the movie people have as much trouble getting on the
property as the sheriff and Mister Finch are having, they wouldn't get
a very clear picture and the story would be limited to their own
misfortunes. Up to now, old Hulls Barrow has stood 'em off with a gun.
They don't want to kill him and they can't get possession.
"Now this Bar-O ranch is just over the hogback, south of us. There is
no road, just a trail over the ridge. The Barrows use the other road.
I don't know how big it is. The surveys in these hills stay in the
valleys; the lines run from point to promontory. The units are miles,
not rods. Tranquil Meadows, a fine area of grassland, is just south of
the Bar-O. Had the Silver Falls project been a success, the government
would have done the same with the Meadows tract. A road blasted
through the hills would have connected the two tracts.
"Old Matt Barrow was one of the early settlers. Grandfather's feud
with him had early beginnings. I don't think it was personal, for they
rarely met. Grandaddy was outstanding as a law enforcer and here was a
petty offender right under his nose. Barrow had no cattle brand until
they made him use one. He was uneducated, couldn't spell his own name,
and his name, in the records, is spelled in several ways. He had no
fences and would employ any misfit or doubtful that came along. He
seemed to prey on one side of the ridge and sell on the other. But in
all the years he escaped conviction of even a minor offense. In an
early day, a lone prospector was missing. Everybody had ideas, but no
evidence. Dan Hale's stacks were burned. No evidence. And so it ran
through the years.
"Barrow raised two boys. This Hulls, who is standing off the law with
a gun, and Archie, who disappeared in about a year after Maizie came.
The boys surely must have had a mother, but there is no record or
rumor of a death or burial. The same is true of old Clemmy Pruitt, who
went there to live. Old Matt Barrow must have maintained a private
cemetery and conducted the funerals.
"The boys, Hulls and Archie, grew up to be old bachelors. They carried
on in about the same fashion as the old man. Maybe they visited the
settlements and got drunk oftener than he did, but the Bar-O continued
as a mystery and a sore spot in a neighborhood that was struggling up
from primitive ways." Adine paused to chuckle a bit at the midget's
interest in the recital. The little man's eyes were glued on the
speaker, he missed never a word.
"You are marveling how I know so much about a thing that is based on
hearsay and rumors," continued the narrator as she pointed to a
manuscript on the table. "There are my notes for my thesis, 'Social
Work in Rural Communities.' It's full of notes and comments on the
rumors and hearsay about the Barrow family. In every community the
exception to the rule is played up as the feature story. In
Pittsburgh it's steel; in Boston, the Back Bay district gets the
headlines; in Charleston, it's the Colonial homes that are featured.
The mine-run folks get no mention. Here in Henry County, it's the
Barrow family. In my notes, I simply list 'em as rumors, letting the
reader be the judge. And now, let's get along to the final chapter.
"Maizie came to the Barrows about ten years ago. Where from, nobody
knew, but there were many unconfirmed rumors. It was given out that
her last name was Menardi. Whether this was her family name or
acquired by marriage, was not stated. Maizie took over--house, corral,
and ranch. She made but few changes in the material things, but the
two old bachelors and the occasional cow hands were certainly speeded
up. Old Jeff Stoups, who had been a retainer since the days of old
Matt, quit. 'A woman boss is bad enough, but a hellion is wu's,' was
Jeff's statement.
"I have never seen Maizie in all these years. She is rarely away from
the Bar-O. Her public appearances are limited to a few rare visits to
the stores and a few days spent in court. Mr. Phillips, on her first
visit to the drygoods store, described her as dazzling and imperious.
Mrs. Phillips describes her as being near thirty years old, tall,
rather graceful, regular features, a perpetual sneer, coal-black hair
and a coppery skin never seen on another. Her dress was normal, with
few adornments. She was bareheaded, wore mannish gloves, and sported
large circlet earrings. She differed little in appearance from other
women; her voice was low and deep; she could read. She bought books
and magazines.
"Our Charley Case (the comedians around the stables call him
Flinthead) furnished the caricature of the lady. He was coming back
from Grandaddy's south pasture and rode the trail past the Bar-O to
see what he could see. He pictured Maizie as wearing overalls, a man's
shirt with the tail out, a big slouch hat, and buckskin gloves. She
was directing Jeff Stoups about digging a post hole.
"And then came an added feature to the strange personnel. About a
month after Maizie's arrival, a young man was occasionally seen around
the Bar-O. He was neither cow hand nor laborer. His status was that of
a constant visitor. He quartered with the family, if Hulls, Archie,
and Maizie would be called a family, instead of living at the
bunkhouse. Old Jeff referred to him as a dude, but the comment applied
to mannerisms rather than clothes. He dressed as a townsman; he
frequented the poolroom and Gatty's doggery. He announced his name as
Steve Adams, said that he was Maizie's nephew. He played a fancy game
of pool and drank in moderation.
"Questioned by the curious, he talked freely but always about places
and conditions elsewhere. He knew nothing about local affairs. That
summer he made frequent trips. On his return he would report having
been to Chicago, Kansas City, Denver. A later checkup revealed that he
was telling the truth. And these truthful stories were exasperating.
They explained nothing. The Bar-O, with its mixed up domestic
complications, was still an isolated enigma.
"That fall was the time of the great train robbery. The event occurred
at the same time as the local raid on Gatty's Quart Shop. The world
news was minimized by the local affair. We gave it little thought. In
the week following, several cattle men headquartered here and at
Grandaddy's. They inspected several herds to include the Bar-O outfit.
And later still, they raided the Bar-O premises. They were railroad
detectives, posing as cattle buyers. They were too late. They got
nothing but some bits of evidence that the train robbers had used the
Bar-O as a hangout. Maizie explained to the detectives and sheriff
that the strangers represented themselves as mineral prospectors. They
worked in the hills in the daytime. They left in the evening following
the cattle inspection. She reported that her nephew, Steve Adams, was
in Chicago, had been there for several weeks. A check up revealed that
this was true.
"A further check up revealed that these strangers had stayed all
night at the Unicorn Ranch near Northgate. Abel Sneed, the Unicorn
boss, as a matter of precaution went through their 'war bags' while
they slept. He found nothing unusual, surely no money.
"What became of this giant sum that was blasted out of the safe after
wounding the messenger? Neither the detectives nor anyone else ever
found a trace of it. But a further enigma was added to the mystery
when a month later Archie Barrow, the younger brother, came to the
Records office and made a deed of his undivided share in the Bar-O
lands to his brother Hulls. Archie made the statement that he was
through, was leaving for the Northwest, and that he would not return.
"Hulls Barrow surely didn't get the Express Company's money. A year or
two later Maizie brought him to town to give the bank a mortgage to
secure funds to defend Steve Adams, charged with murdering Allie
Garrett. Maizie hired a firm of Denver lawyers and the case went
through all the complications of venue, trial, and appeal.
"This trial was the community's biggest event, although it had origin
in a barroom brawl. During its progress, business was suspended while
the public swarmed in, hoping that the truth of the Barrow mysteries
might be revealed. The public was disappointed. Steve Adams never took
the witness stand, although many thought he had an even chance to
convince a jury that he was not the aggressor. The prosecutor was
materially aided in the case by Judge Griffith of Laramie. There was
no record as to who paid Judge Griffith, but Grandaddy was highly
gratified that the accused got a ten-year sentence. He was one man in
the community that knew of Griffith's ability as a prosecutor.
"And now that old mortgage is being foreclosed. The Bar-O is on the
market at a forced sale. If Grandaddy knew about it, he wouldn't sleep
until he owned it. If he were ten years younger he would go over there
and shoot it out with Hulls Barrow for the possession. And he needs
more land about as badly as he needs ten thumbs on one hand. He
already owns all that joins his, his holdings envelope the Bar-O on
three sides. He might covet the grazing rights in the Tranquil Meadows
district, but two of our winter grazing meadows will lay idle this
winter and our fifty ricks of hay are about four times more than we
can use.
"Really, Grandaddy doesn't want more land, wouldn't buy other
adjoining land, but he would spend every available cent to get rid of
the Barrows. I have two slender, lingering hopes. First, if he does
find out about the sale and buys it, that there will still be money
left in the keyster. And secondly, if he should buy it, I hope I can
persuade him to sell it to some first class, reputable rancher.
Someone with a family with whom we can be neighborly and the men folks
can exchange work in the busy season."
"How much is this mortgage thing?" questioned Davy, as the lengthy
story seemed near the end. "What's due the grazing master? How many
cattle are they running? When is this sale? Who can I see about the
details? Maybe I could find somebody to take over. And anyhow, don't
you worry about expense money. Mrs. Gillis has enough cash-on-hand to
take care of all of us, unless this panic grows into a financial
cyclone."
"Mister Potter, out at the stables, knows most of the details. Mister
Finch and a deputy sheriff were here this morning, talking it over
with him. As I understand it, Mister Logan, the bank receiver, bought
the land at the sale, but it seems that a bank receiver can't hold the
land, he must sell it to make cash assets. Mister Logan has the bank's
affairs in good shape, except for this item, and it's got him badly
worried. Just now, he thinks it would have been better to have sold
the note and mortgage to someone and let the buyer take the grief of
getting possession. Anyhow, talk to Mister Potter, he has the answers
to most of your questions. See him, by all means,"
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