Kate's Narrative

We have started a visitor's book. It opens with press cuttings of interviews with Professor Bohns, the famous archÆologist, who came to examine the paleolithic deposits at South Cave. Next are papers relating to a summons for assault, brought by the late Mr. Trevor against J. Smith. There is a letter from a big game hunter, Sir Turner Rounde, who came up the caÑon collecting specimen pelts of ursus horribilis, which Jesse maintains is not a grizzly bear. But the gem of our collection is a letter of lengthy explanation from an eminent Italian cur, who spent a whole month at the ranch last winter. Nobody is more hospitable, or more hungry for popularity than my dear man, but I think that special prayers should be offered for his visitors. He has a motto now:—"Love me: love my bear, not my missus."

My jealous hero has told the story of an old admirer, once my fellow-student, who brought me a dumpy piano for which I had so starved, told me the news, talked shop, and would make me a prima donna—my life's ambition. The trap was well baited. Lonely, and terrified by the dread majesty of winter, I craved for the lights, for the crowds, for my home, for my people, for my art. And there are little things besides which mean so much to a woman.

Salvator turned out to be a cur, his mission despicable, and yet no woman born can ever be without some little tenderness for one whose love misleads him. And I who sought to read a lesson to poor Jesse, learned one for myself. I am no longer free, but fettered, and proud of the chains, Love's chains, worth more to me than that lost world.

And yet I wonder if in Heaven there are blessed but weak little souls like mine, which grow weary at times of the harps, chafed by their crowns of glory, bored to tears with bliss, ready to give it all up just for a nice gossip. That would be human.

Where spring has come like a visitation of angels, where winter's loneliness is changing to summer's happy solitude, I look into mirror pools, and see contentment. Oh, how can civilized people realize the wonder and glamour of this paradise? Up in the black pines it is winter still, but all our towered, bayed, sculptured, sunny precipice is alive with flowers and birds, while the slopes at the foot of the wall are white with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower caÑon the trees are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us, and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown up.

Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip, could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather dangerous.

One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new grass, Mrs. O'Flynn was redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter, spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.

Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs. O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!

Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.

From chivalrous respect for women—the species being rare on the stock range—cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, to inquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters beyond their concern.

In the cattle country a visitor asked to dismount, makes camp or house his home, never suggesting by word or glance a doubt that he is welcome to water, pasturage, food, shelter, and warmth, so long as he needs to stay. I had not invited this man to dismount.

Judged by these signs—chivalry, reticence, courtesy—Mrs. O'Flynn's guest was not a cow-boy. His florid manners, exaggerated politeness, and imitation of our middle-class English speech stamped him bounder, but not of the British breed. Later, in moments of excitement, he spoke New York, with a twang of music-hall.

Even in so lonely a place it is curious to remember that such a person should appeal to me. Still in his common way the man had beauty, carried his clothes well, moved with grace. So much the artist in me saw and liked, but I think no woman could have seen those tragic eyes without being influenced.

"Ah! Mrs. Smith, I believe?" He stood uncovered. "May I venture to ask if your husband is at home? I think I had the pleasuah of knowing him years ago down in Texas."

"He'll be back by noon."

"Thank you, madam. Fact is, we were very much surprised to see your chimney smoke. We thought this exquisite place was quite unoccupied. Indeed!"

"Who's 'we'?"

"Oh, we're the outfit riding for General Schmidt. We've come in search of the spring feed. We were informed that Ponder's place was unoccupied, open to all. Am I mistaken in supposing that this is Ponder's place?"

"It is."

"Er—may I venture to ask if your husband holds squatter's rights, or has the homestead and preemption?"

"You may ask my husband."

"Thank you, madam. Our foreman instructed me to say that if the place proved to be occupied, I was to ask terms for pasturage. We've only two hundred head."

"Mr. Smith will consider the matter."

"We're camped in a little cave at the south end of the bench, deuced comfortable."

Of course I know I'm a fool, and expect to be treated as such. But this man claimed to have camped at the South Cave without passing this house, which was impossible.

"Camped at South Cave?" said I. "In that event I need not detain you. Mr. Smith no doubt will call on you after dinner. Good morning, sir."

But this was not to his mind, and I gathered vaguely that my husband was not really wanted at the Bar Y camp. I even suspected that this visitor would rather deal with me than see my husband. It required more than a hint to secure his departure.

Jesse returned at noon. He had set off singing, but at dinner he was so thoughtful that he never even noticed my casserole, a dish he was expected to enjoy, and when he tried afterward to light an empty pipe, I saw that there was something wrong. He received the story of our caller with the noises of one displeased. "That visitor, Kate," he summed up, "would make a first-class stranger. Knew me, you say, in Texas?"

Hearing from her kitchen Mrs. O'Flynn's sharp grunt of dissent, I closed the door.

"You've left the key-hole open," said Jesse, rising from the table, "come for a walk."

"Now, Kate dear," Jesse sat down beside me on the Apex Rock, "this morn you got your first lesson in robbers. How would you like a visit to old Cap Taylor at Hundred Mile?"

My voice may have quivered just a little. "Danger?" I asked.

"I dunno as there's actual danger, but if I jest knowed you was safe, I'd be free to act prompt."

"Tell me everything, Jesse."

"Up at the north end of the bench, there's maybe two hundred head of strange cattle. One pedigree short-horn bull is worth all of twenty-five hundred dollars, and there's a Hereford stud I'd take off my hat to anywheres. There's Aberdeens or Angus—I get them poll breeds mixed—and a bunch of Jerseys grazing apart, purty as deer. Anyways, that herd's worth maybe two hundred thousand dollars, every hoof of 'em stolen, and if you raked all them millionaire ranches in California I doubt you'd get that value."

"How do you know they're stolen?"

"No stock owner needs that amount of stud cattle. We don't raise such in the north, so they've been drifted in here from the States. They're gaunt with famine and driving, and it beats me to think how many more's been left dead crossing the Black Pine country. The Bar Y brands has been faked. The parties herding 'em waits till I'm away, and tries to make a deal with you for pasturage. The gent with the sad eyes is sent dressed up to fool a woman."

"But how could even robbers collect such a wonderful herd?"

"Kate, in them western states there's just about four hundred cow thieves working together, which you'll see them advertised in the papers robbing coaches, trains, pay for mining-camps, or now and again some bank. Still that's just vacations, and the main business is lifting cattle.

"Ye see, Kate, they'd collect an occasional stud, such as these here imported thoroughbreds, too good to lose, too well-known to sell, too hot to hold. They'd keep 'em in some hid-up pasture. But sometimes the people prods the sheriffs to get a move on, or Uncle Sam sends pony soldiers to play hell with the sovereign rights of them holy western states. Then the robbers is apt to scatter down in store clothes, for a drunk at 'Frisco. This time I seen in the papers that Uncle Sam is rounding up his robbers, so naturally the pick of their stealings requires hiding. They'd drive north for the British possessions, but on the plains there's too much mounted police, whereas this British Columbia has one district constable to a district the size of the old country. Yes, they'd come to this province, and this here ranch of ours is a sort of North Pole to the stock range. Since old man Ponder quit out, and I squatted, only the neighbors know that the ranch is claimed.

"Now, Kate," his great strong arm closed round me like a vise. "The hull country knows you're clear grit, so there's no shame in leaving. For my sake, dear—"

"Do you think I'd leave you in danger?"

He sighed. "I knew it. I cayn't help it, and, Kate, it's the truth, I'd rather see you dead than scared. There's Madam Grizzly, and SeÑora Cougar, there's Lady Elk, and even Mrs. Polecat, brave as lions. I'd hate to have my mate the only one to run like a scalded cat."

"The program, Jesse?"

"Do you remember, Kate, how we lost five dollars finding out that Dale and me is signalers?"

"And Captain Taylor gave us the signals to raise the district: one fire for feasts, two for help, three for war!"

"That's it, little woman. By dusk I'll be on top of the cliffs, and make my fires back from the rim-rock, where them robbers won't see the glare."