The Three Johns
THE equinoctial line itself is not moreimaginary than the line which dividedthe estates of the three Johns. The herdsof the three Johns roamed at will, andnibbled the short grass far and near withoutlet or hindrance; and the three Johns themselves were utterly indifferent as to boundary lines. Each of them had filed hisapplication at the office of the governmentland-agent; each was engaged in the tedioustask of "proving up;" and each ownedone-third of the L-shaped cabin which stoodat the point where the three ranches touched.The hundred and sixty acres which wouldhave completed this quadrangle had notyet been "taken up."The three Johns were not anxious to havea neighbor. Indeed, they had made uptheir minds that if one appeared on thatadjoining "hun'erd an' sixty," it would gohard with him. For they did not deal injustice very much -- the three Johns. Theyconsidered it effete. It belonged in theEast along with other outgrown superstitions. And they had given it out widelythat it would be healthier for land applicantsto give them elbow-room. It took a goodmany miles of sunburnt prairie to affordelbow-room for the three Johns.They met by accident in Hamilton at theland-office. John Henderson, fresh fromCincinnati, manifestly unused to the waysof the country, looked at John Gillispie witha lurking smile. Gillispie wore a sombrero,fresh, white, and expansive. His boots hadhigh heels, and were of elegant leather andfinely arched at the instep. His corduroysdisappeared in them half-way up the thigh.About his waist a sash of blue held a lacedshirt of the same color in place. Henderson puffed at his cigarette, and continuedto look a trifle quizzical.Suddenly Gillispie walked up to him andsaid, in a voice of complete suavity, "Damnyeh, smoke a pipe!""Eh?" said Henderson, stupidly."Smoke a pipe," said the other. "Thatthing you have is bad for your complexion.""I can take care of my complexion," saidHenderson, firmly.The two looked each other straight in theeye."You don't go on smoking that thing tillyou have apologized for that grin you hadon your phiz a moment ago.""I laugh when I please, and I smokewhat I please," said Henderson, hotly, hisface flaming as he realized that he was infor his first "row."That was how it began. How it wouldhave ended is not known -- probably therewould have been only one John -- if it hadnot been for the almost miraculous appearance at this moment of the third John. Forjust then the two belligerents found themselves prostrate, their pistols only half-cocked,and between them stood a man all gnarledand squat, like one of those wind-torn oakswhich grow on the arid heights. He wasno older than the others, but the lines inhis face were deep, and his large mouthtwitched as he said: --"Hold on here, yeh fools! There's toomuch blood in you to spill. You'll spileth' floor, and waste good stuff. We needblood out here!"Gillispie bounced to his feet. Hendersonarose suspiciously, keeping his eyes on hisassailants."Oh, get up!" cried the intercessor."We don't shoot men hereabouts till theygit on their feet in fightin' trim.""What do you know about what we dohere?" interrupted Gillispie. "This is thefirst time I ever saw you around.""That's so," the other admitted. "I'mjust down from Montana. Came to take upa quarter section. Where I come from wegive men a show, an' I thought perhaps yehdid th' same here.""Why, yes," admitted Gillispie, "we do.But I don't want folks to laugh too much-- not when I'm around -- unless they tellme what the joke is. I was just mentioningit to the gentleman," he added, dryly."So I saw," said the other; "you're kinda emphatic in yer remarks. Yeh ought togive the gentleman a chance to git used tothe ways of th' country. He'll be as toughas th' rest of us if you'll give him a chance.I kin see it in him.""Thank you," said Henderson. "I'mglad you do me justice. I wish you wouldn'tlet daylight through me till I've had a chanceto get my quarter section. I'm going tobe one of you, either as a live man or acorpse. But I prefer a hundred and sixtyacres of land to six feet of it.""There, now!" triumphantly cried thesquat man. "Didn't I tell yeh? Give hima show! 'Tain't no fault of his that he's atenderfoot. He'll get over that."Gillispie shook hands with first one andthen the other of the men. "It's a squaredeal from this on," he said. "Come andhave a drink."That's how they met -- John Henderson,John Gillispie, and John Waite. And a weeklater they were putting up a shanty togetherfor common use, which overlapped each oftheir reservations, and satisfied the law withits sociable subterfuge.The life wasn't bad, Henderson decided;and he adopted all the ways of the countryin an astonishingly short space of time.There was a freedom about it all which wascertainly complete. The three alternatedin the night watch. Once a week one ofthem went to town for provisions. Theywere not good at the making of bread, sothey contented themselves with hot cakes.Then there was salt pork for a staple, andprunes. They slept in straw-lined bunks,with warm blankets for a covering. Theymade a point of bringing reading-matterback from town every week, and there werealways cards to fall back on, and Waite sangsongs for them with natural dramatic talent.Nevertheless, in spite of their contentment, none of them was sorry when theopportunity offered for going to town.There was always a bit of stirring gossip tobe picked up, and now and then there wasa "show" at the "opera-house," in which,it is almost unnecessary to say, no operahad ever been sung. Then there was thehotel, at which one not only got good fare,but a chat with the three daughters of JimO'Neal, the proprietor -- girls with the accident of two Irish parents, who were, notwithstanding, as typically American as theywell could be. A half-hour's talk with thesecheerful young women was all the more tobe desired for the reason that within ridingdistance of the three Johns' ranch there wereonly two other women. One was MinervaFitch, who had gone out from Michiganaccompanied by an oil-stove and a knowledge of the English grammar, with theintention of teaching school, but who hadbeen unable to carry these good intentionsinto execution for the reason that there wereno children to teach, -- at least, none butBow-legged Joe. He was a sad little fellow,who looked like a prairie-dog, and who hadvery much the same sort of an outlook on life.The other woman was the brisk and efficientwife of Mr. Bill Deems, of "Missourah."Mr. Deems had never in his life done anything, not even so much as bring in a basketof buffalo chips to supply the scanty fire.That is to say, he had done nothing strictlyutilitarian. Yet he filled his place. He wasthe most accomplished story-teller in thewhole valley, and this accomplishment of hiswas held in as high esteem as the improvisations of a Welsh minstrel were among hisreverencing people. His wife alone deprecated his skill, and interrupted his spiritednarratives with sarcastic allusions concerningthe empty cupboard, and the "state of herback," to which, as she confided to any whowould listen, "there was not a rag fit to wear."These two ladies had not, as may besurmised, any particular attraction for JohnHenderson. Truth to tell, Henderson hadnot come West with the intention of liking women, but rather with a determination to see and think as little of them aspossible. Yet even the most confirmedmisogynist must admit that it is a goodthing to see a woman now and then, and forthis reason Henderson found it amusing toconverse with the amiable Misses O'Neal.At twenty-five one cannot be unyielding inone's avoidance of the sex.Henderson, with his pony at a fine lope,was on his way to town one day, in thatcomfortable frame of mind adduced by anabsence of any ideas whatever, when hesuddenly became conscious of a shiver thatseemed to run from his legs to the pony,and back again. The animal gave a startledleap, and lifted his ears. There was a stirring in the coarse grasses; the sky, whicha moment before had been like sapphire,dulled with an indescribable grayness.Then came a little singing afar off, as iffrom a distant convocation of cicadæ, andbefore Henderson could guess what it meant,a cloud of dust was upon him, blinding andbewildering, pricking with sharp particlesat eyes and nostrils. The pony was an uglyfellow, and when Henderson felt him put hisforefeet together, he knew what that meant,and braced himself for the struggle. But itwas useless; he had not yet acquired theknack of staying on the back of a buckingbronco, and the next moment he was onthe ground, and around him whirled thatsaffron chaos of dust. The temperaturelowered every moment. Henderson instinctively felt that this was but the beginning of the storm. He picked himself upwithout useless regrets for his pony, andmade his way on.The saffron hue turned to blackness, andthen out of the murk shot a living greenball of fire, and ploughed into the earth.Then sheets of water, that seemed to comesimultaneously from earth and sky, sweptthe prairie, and in the midst of it struggledHenderson, weak as a little child, half bereftof sense by the strange numbness of headand dullness of eye. Another of those greenballs fell and burst, as it actually appearedto him, before his horrified eyes, and thebellow and blare of the explosion made himcry out in a madness of fright and physicalpain. In the illumination he had seen acabin only a few feet in front of him, andtoward it he made frantically, with an animal's instinctive desire for shelter.The door did not yield at once to hispressure, and in the panic of his fear hethrew his weight against it. There was acry from within, a fall, and Henderson flunghimself in the cabin and closed the door.In the dusk of the storm he saw a womanhalf prostrate. It was she whom he hadpushed from the door. He caught the hookin its staple, and turned to raise her. Shewas not trembling as much as he, but, likehimself, she was dizzy with the shock ofthe lightning. In the midst of all theclamor Henderson heard a shrill crying, andlooking toward the side of the room, hedimly perceived three tiny forms crouchedin one of the bunks. The woman took thesmallest of the children in her arms, andkissed and soothed it; and Henderson, afterhe had thrown a blanket at the bottom ofthe door to keep out the drifting rain, satwith his back to it, bracing it against thewind, lest the frail staple should give way.He managed some way to reach out and layhold of the other little ones, and got themin his arms, -- a boy, so tiny he seemedhardly human, and a girl somewhat sturdier.They cuddled in his arms, and clutched hisclothes with their frantic little hands, andthe three sat so while the earth and theheavens seemed to be meeting in angrycombat.And back and forth, back and forth, inthe dimness swayed the body of the woman,hushing her babe.Almost as suddenly as the darkness hadfallen, it lifted. The lightning ceased tothreaten, and almost frolicked, -- little wayward flashes of white and yellow dancingin mid-air. The wind wailed less frequently,like a child who sobs in its sleep. And atlast Henderson could make his voice heard."Is there anything to build a fire with?"he shouted. "The children are shivering so."The woman pointed to a basket of buffalochips in the corner, and he wrapped hislittle companions up in a blanket while hemade a fire in the cooking-stove. The babywas sleeping by this time, and the womanbegan tidying the cabin, and when thefire was burning brightly, she put somecoffee on."I wish I had some clothes to offer you,"she said, when the wind had subsided sufficiently to make talking possible. "I'mafraid you'll have to let them get dry on you.""Oh, that's of no consequence at all!We're lucky to get off with our lives. Inever saw anything so terrible. Fancy!half an hour ago it was summer; now it iswinter!""It seems rather sudden when you're notused to it," the woman admitted. "I'velived in the West six years now; you can'tfrighten me any more. We never die outhere before our time comes.""You seem to know that I haven't beenhere long," said Henderson, with somechagrin."Yes," admitted the woman; "you havethe ear-marks of a man from the East."She was a tall woman, with large blueeyes, and a remarkable quantity of yellowhair braided on top of her head. Her gownwas of calico, of such a pattern as a widowmight wear."I haven't been out of town a week yet,"she said. "We're not half settled. Nothaving any one to help makes it harder;and the baby is rather fretful.""But you're not alone with all these littlecodgers?" cried Henderson, in dismay.The woman turned toward him with a sortof defiance. "Yes, I am," she said; "andI'm as strong as a horse, and I mean to getthrough all right. Here were the threechildren in my arms, you may say, and noway to get in a cent. I wasn't going tostand it just to please other folk. I said,let them talk if they want to, but I'm goingto hold down a claim, and be accumulatingsomething while the children are getting upa bit. Oh, I'm not afraid!"In spite of this bold assertion of bravery,there was a sort of break in her voice. Shewas putting dishes on the table as she talked,and turned some ham in the skillet, and gotthe children up before the fire, and droppedsome eggs in water, -- all with a rapidity thatbewildered Henderson."How long have you been alone?" heasked, softly."Three months before baby was born,and he's five months old now. I -- I -- youthink I can get on here, don't you? Therewas nothing else to do."She was folding another blanket over thesleeping baby now, and the action broughtto her guest the recollection of a thousandtender moments of his dimly rememberedyouth."You'll get on if we have anything to dowith it," he cried, suppressing an oath withdifficulty, just from pure emotion.And he told her about the three Johns'ranch, and found it was only three milesdistant, and that both were on the sameroad; only her cabin, having been put upduring the past week, had of course beenunknown to him. So it ended in a sort ofcompact that they were to help each otherin such ways as they could. Meanwhile thefire got genial, and the coffee filled the cabinwith its comfortable scent, and all of themate together quite merrily, Henderson cutting up the ham for the youngsters; and hetold how he chanced to come out; and sheentertained him with stories of what shethought at first when she was brought abride to Hamilton, the adjacent village, andconvulsed him with stories of the people,whom she saw with humorous eyes.Henderson marvelled how she could inthose few minutes have rescued the cabinfrom the desolation in which the storm hadplunged it. Out of the window he couldsee the stricken grasses dripping cold moisture, and the sky still angrily plunging forward like a disturbed sea. Not a tree or ahouse broke the view. The desolation of itswept over him as it never had before. Butwithin the little ones were chattering tothemselves in odd baby dialect, and themother was laughing with them."Women aren't always useless," she said,at parting; "and you tell your chums thatwhen they get hungry for a slice of homemade bread they can get it here. And thenext time they go by, I want them to stopin and look at the children. It'll do themgood. They may think they won't enjoythemselves, but they will.""Oh, I'll answer for that!" cried he,shaking hands with her. "I'll tell them wehave just the right sort of a neighbor.""Thank you," said she, heartily. "Andyou may tell them that her name is Catherine Ford."Once at home, he told his story."H'm!" said Gillispie, "I guess I'll haveto go to town myself to-morrow."Henderson looked at him blackly. "She'sa woman alone, Gillispie," said he, severely,"trying to make her way with handicaps -- ""Shet up, can't ye, ye darned fool?"roared Gillispie. "What do yeh take mefur?"Waite was putting on his rubber coatpreparatory to going out for his night withthe cattle. "Guess you're makin' a mistake,my boy," he said, gently. "There ain't nodanger of any woman bein' treated rude inthese parts.""I know it, by Jove!" cried Henderson,in quick contriteness."All right," grunted Gillispie, in tacitacceptance of this apology. "I guess youthought you was in civilized parts."Two days after this Waite came in lateto his supper. "Well, I seen her," heannounced."Oh! did you?" cried Henderson, knowing perfectly well whom he meant. "Whatwas she doing?""Killin' snakes, b'gosh! She says th'baby's crazy fur um, an' so she takes aroun'a hoe on her shoulder wherever she goes,an' when she sees a snake, she has it outwith 'im then an' there. I says to 'er, 'Yerdon't expec' t' git all th' snakes outen thishere country, d' yeh?' 'Well,' she says,'I'm as good a man as St. Patrick any day.'She is a jolly one, Henderson. She tukme in an' showed me th' kids, and give mea loaf of gingerbread to bring home. Hereit is; see?""Hu!" said Gillispie. "I'm not in it."But for all of his scorn he was not aboveeating the gingerbread.It was gardening time, and the threeJohns were putting in every spare momentin the little paling made of willow twigsbehind the house. It was little enoughtime they had, though, for the cattle werenew to each other and to the country, andthey were hard to manage. It was generallyconceded that Waite had a genius for herding, and he could take the "mad" out of afractious animal in a way that the otherslooked on as little less than superhuman.Thus it was that one day, when the clay hadbeen well turned, and the seeds arranged onthe kitchen table, and all things preparedfor an afternoon of busy planting, that Waiteand Henderson, who were needed out withthe cattle, felt no little irritation at the inexplicable absence of Gillispie, who was tolook after the garden. It was quite nightfall when he at last returned. Supper wasready, although it had been Gillispie's turnto prepare it.Henderson was sore from his saddle, andcross at having to do more than his shareof the work. "Damn yeh!" he cried, asGillispie appeared. "Where yeh been?""Making garden," responded Gillispie,slowly."Making garden!" Henderson indulgedin some more harmless oaths.Just then Gillispie drew from under hiscoat a large and friendly looking apple-pie."Yes," he said, with emphasis; "I've bina-makin' garden fur Mis' Ford."And so it came about that the three Johnsknew her and served her, and that she neverhad a need that they were not ready tosupply if they could. Not one of themwould have thought of going to town without stopping to inquire what was neededat the village. As for Catherine Ford, shewas fighting her way with native pluck andmaternal unselfishness. If she had fearedsolitude she did not suffer from it. Theactivity of her life stifled her fresh sorrow.She was pleasantly excited by the rumorsthat a railroad was soon to be built near theplace, which would raise the value of theclaim she was "holding down" many thousand dollars.It is marvellous how sorrow shrinks whenone is very healthy and very much occupied.Although poverty was her close companion,Catherine had no thought of it in this primitive manner of living. She had come outthere, with the independence and determination of a Western woman, for the purposeof living at the least possible expense, andmaking the most she could while the babywas "getting out of her arms." That processhas its pleasures, which every mother feelsin spite of burdens, and the mind is happilydulled by nature's merciful provision. Witha little child tugging at the breast, care andfret vanish, not because of the happinessso much as because of a certain mammalcomplacency, which is not at all intellectual,but serves its purpose better than the profoundest method of reasoning.So without any very unbearable misery ather recent widowhood, this healthy youngwoman worked in field and house, cared forher little ones, milked the two cows out inthe corral, sewed, sang, rode, baked, andwas happy for very wholesomeness. Sometimes she reproached herself that she wasnot more miserable, remembering that longgrave back in the unkempt little prairiecemetery, and she sat down to coax hersorrow into proper prominence. But thebaby cooing at her from its bunk, the lowof the cattle from the corral begging her torelieve their heavy bags, the familiar callof one of her neighbors from without, eventhe burning sky of the summer dawns, brokethe spell of this conjured sorrow, and inspite of herself she was again a very heartyand happy young woman. Besides, if onehas a liking for comedy, it is impossible tobe dull on a Nebraska prairie. The peopleare a merrier divertissement than the theatrewith its hackneyed stories. Catherine Fordlaughed a good deal, and she took the threeJohns into her confidence, and they laughedwith her. There was Minerva Fitch, whoinsisted on coming over to tell Catherinehow to raise her children, and who wasalmost offended that the children wouldn'tdie of sunstroke when she predicted. Andthere was Bob Ackerman, who had inflammatory rheumatism and a Past, and whoconfided the latter to Mrs. Ford while shedoctored the former with homoeopathicmedicines. And there were all the strangevisionaries who came out prospecting, andquite naturally drifted to Mrs. Ford's cabinfor a meal, and paid her in compliments ofa peculiarly Western type. And there werethe three Johns themselves. Catherine considered it no treason to laugh at them alittle.Yet at Waite she did not laugh much.There had come to be something pathetic inthe constant service he rendered her. Thebeginning of his more particular devotionhad started in a particular way. Malariawas very bad in the country. It had carriedoff some of the most vigorous on the prairie,and twice that summer Catherine herself hadlaid out the cold forms of her neighbors onironing-boards, and, with the assistance ofBill Deems of Missourah, had read theburial service over them. She had avertedseveral other fatal runs of fever by the contents of her little medicine-case. Theseremedies she dealt out with an intelligencethat astonished her patients, until it waslearned that she was studying medicine atthe time that she met her late husband, andwas persuaded to assume the responsibilitiesof matrimony instead of those of the medical profession.One day in midsummer, when the sunwas focussing itself on the raw pine boardsof her shanty, and Catherine had the shadesdrawn for coolness and the water-pitcherswathed in wet rags, East Indian fashion,she heard the familiar halloo of Waite downthe road. This greeting, which was usuallysent to her from the point where the dipping road lifted itself into the first view ofthe house, did not contain its usual note ofcheerfulness. Catherine, wiping her handson her checked apron, ran out to wave awelcome; and Waite, his squat body lookingmore distorted than ever, his huge shoulderslurching as he walked, came fairly plunging down the hill."It's all up with Henderson!" he cried,as Catherine approached. "He's got themalery, an' he says he's dyin'.""That's no sign he's dying, because hesays so," retorted Catherine."He wants to see yeh," panted Waite,mopping his big ugly head. "I think he'sgot somethin' particular to say.""How long has he been down?""Three days; an' yeh wouldn't know'im."The children were playing on the floor atthat side of the house where it was leasthot. Catherine poured out three bowls ofmilk, and cut some bread, meanwhile tellingKitty how to feed the baby."She's a sensible thing, is the littledaughter," said Catherine, as she tied onher sunbonnet and packed a little basketwith things from the cupboard. She kissedthe babies tenderly, flung her hoe -- heronly weapon of defence -- over her shoulder,and the two started off.They did not speak, for their throats weresoon too parched. The prairie was burnedbrown with the sun; the grasses curled asif they had been on a gridiron. A strongwind was blowing; but it brought no comfort, for it was heavy with a scorching heat.The skin smarted and blistered under it, andthe eyes felt as if they were filled with sand.The sun seemed to swing but a little wayabove the earth, and though the sky wasintensest blue, around about this burningball there was a halo of copper, as if thevery ether were being consumed in yellowfire.Waite put some big burdock-leaves onCatherine's head under her bonnet, and nowand then he took a bottle of water from hispocket and made her swallow a mouthful.She staggered often as she walked, and theroad was black before her. Still, it was notvery long before the oddly shaped shack ofthe three Johns came in sight; and as hecaught a glimpse of it, Waite quickened hisfootsteps."What if he should be gone?" he said,under his breath."Oh, come off!" said Catherine, angrily."He's not gone. You make me tired!"But she was trembling when she stoppedjust before the door to compose herself fora moment. Indeed, she trembled so verymuch that Waite put out his sprawling handto steady her. She gently felt the pressuretightening, and Waite whispered in her ear:"I guess I'd stand by him as well as anybody, excep' you, Mis' Ford. He's beenmy bes' friend. But I guess you like himbetter, eh?"Catherine raised her finger. She couldhear Henderson's voice within; it waspitiably querulous. He was half sitting upin his bunk, and Gillispie had just handedhim a plate on which two cakes were swimming in black molasses and pork gravy.Henderson looked at it a moment; thenover his face came a look of utter despair.He dropped his head in his arms and brokeinto uncontrolled crying."Oh, my God, Gillispie," he sobbed, "Ishall die out here in this wretched hole! Iwant my mother. Great God, Gillispie, amI going to die without ever seeing mymother?"Gillispie, maddened at this anguish, whichhe could in no way alleviate, sought comfortby first lighting his pipe and then taking hisrevolver out of his hip-pocket and playingwith it. Henderson continued to shake withsobs, and Catherine, who had never beforein her life heard a man cry, leaned againstthe door for a moment to gather courage.Then she ran into the house quickly, laughing as she came. She took Henderson'sarms away from his face and laid him backon the pillow, and she stooped over himand kissed his forehead in the most matter-of-fact way."That's what your mother would do if shewere here," she cried, merrily. "Where'sthe water?"She washed his face and hands a longtime, till they were cool and his convulsivesobs had ceased. Then she took a slice ofthin bread from her basket and a spoonfulof amber jelly. She beat an egg into somemilk and dropped a little liquor within it,and served them together on the first cleannapkin that had been in the cabin of thethree Johns since it was builtAt this the great fool on the bed criedagain, only quietly, tears of weak happiness running from his feverish eyes. AndCatherine straightened the disorderly cabin.She came every day for two weeks, and bythat time Henderson, very uncertain as to thestrength of his legs, but once more accoutredin his native pluck, sat up in a chair, forwhich she had made clean soft cushions,writing a letter to his mother. The floorwas scrubbed; the cabin had taken to itselfcupboards made of packing-boxes; it hadclothes-presses and shelves; curtains at thewindows; boxes for all sort of necessaries,from flour to tobacco; and a cook-book onthe wall, with an inscription within whichwas more appropriate than respectful.The day that she announced that shewould have no further call to come back,Waite, who was looking after the housewhile Gillispie was afield, made a littlespeech."After this here," he said, "we fourstands er falls together. Now look here,there's lots of things can happen to a personon this cussed praira, and no one be noneth' wiser. So see here, Mis' Ford, everynight one of us is a-goin' to th' roof of thisshack. From there we can see your place.If anything is th' matter -- it don't signifyhow little er how big -- you hang a lanternon th' stick that I'll put alongside th' houseto-morrow. Yeh can h'ist th' light up witha string, and every mornin' before we goout we'll look too, and a white rag'll bring usquick as we can git there. We don't saynothin' about what we owe yeh, fur thatain't our way, but we sticks to each otherfrom this on."Catherine's eyes were moist. She lookedat Henderson. His face had no expressionin it at all. He did not even say good-byto her, and she turned, with the tears suddenly dried under her lids, and walkeddown the road in the twilight.Weeks went by, and though Gillispie andWaite were often at Catherine's, Hendersonnever came. Gillispie gave it out as hisopinion that Henderson was an ungratefulpuppy; but Waite said nothing. Thisstrange man, who seemed like a mere untoward accident of nature, had changed during the summer. His big ill-shaped bodyhad grown more gaunt; his deep-set grayeyes had sunk deeper; the gentleness whichhad distinguished him even on the wildranges of Montana became more marked.Late in August he volunteered to take onhimself the entire charge of the nightwatch."It's nicer to be out at night," he saidto Catherine. "Then you don't keep looking off at things; you can look inside;" andhe struck his breast with his splay hand.Cattle are timorous under the stars. Thevastness of the plains, the sweep of the windunder the unbroken arch, frighten them;they are made for the close comforts of thebarn-yard; and the apprehension is contagious, as every ranchman knows. Waiterealized the need of becoming good friendswith his animals. Night after night, ridingup and down in the twilight of the stars, ordozing, rolled in his blanket, in the shelterof a knoll, he would hear a low roar; itwas the cry of the alarmist. Then fromevery direction the cattle would rise withtrembling awkwardness on their knees, andanswer, giving out sullen bellowings. Someof them would begin to move from place toplace, spreading the baseless alarm, andthen came the time for action, else over theplain in mere fruitless frenzy would go thewhole frantic band, lashed to madness bytheir own fears, trampling each other, heedless of any obstacle, in pitiable, deadly rout.Waite knew the premonitory signs well, andat the first warning bellow he was on hisfeet, alert and determined, his energynerved for a struggle in which he alwaysconquered.Waite had a secret which he told to none,knowing, in his unanalytical fashion, that itwould not be believed in. But soon as everthe dark heads of the cattle began to liftthemselves, he sent a resonant voice outinto the stillness. The songs he sang werehymns, and he made them into a sort ofimperative lullaby. Waite let his lungsand soul fill with the breath of the night;he gave himself up to the exaltation ofmastering those trembling brutes. Mounting, melodious, with even and powerfulswing he let his full notes fall on the airin the confidence of power, and one by onethe reassured cattle would lie down again,lowing in soft contentment, and so fallasleep with noses stretched out in muteattention, till their presence could hardlybe guessed except for the sweet aroma oftheir cuds.One night in the early dusk, he saw Catherine Ford hastening across the prairie withBill Deems. He sent a halloo out to them,which they both answered as they ran on.Waite knew on what errand of mercy Catherine was bent, and he thought of the children over at the cabin alone. The cattlewere quiet, the night beautiful, and he concluded that it was safe enough, since he wason his pony, to ride down there about midnight and see that the little ones were safe.The dark sky, pricked with points of intensest light, hung over him so beneficentlythat in his heart there leaped a joy whicheven his ever-present sorrow could not disturb. This sorrow Waite openly admittednot only to himself, but to others. He hadsaid to Catherine: "You see, I'll always hevto love yeh. An' yeh'll not git cross withme; I'm not goin' to be in th' way." AndCatherine had told him, with tears in hereyes, that his love could never be but a comfort to any woman. And these words, whichthe poor fellow had in no sense mistaken,comforted him always, became part of hisjoy as he rode there, under those piercingstars, to look after her little ones. He foundthem sleeping in their bunks, the baby tightin Kitty's arms, the little boy above them inthe upper bunk, with his hand in the longhair of his brown spaniel. Waite softlykissed each of them, so Kitty, who was halfwaking, told her mother afterwards, andthen, bethinking him that Catherine mightnot be able to return in time for their breakfast, found the milk and bread, and set it forthem on the table. Catherine had beenwriting, and her unfinished letter lay openbeside the ink. He took up the pen andwrote,"The childdren was all asleep at twelv."J. W."He had not more than got on his ponyagain before he heard an ominous soundthat made his heart leap. It was a franticdull pounding of hoofs. He knew in asecond what it meant. There was a stampede among the cattle. If the animals hadall been his, he would not have lost his senseof judgment. But the realization that hehad voluntarily undertaken the care of them,and that the larger part of them belongedto his friends, put him in a passion of apprehension that, as a ranchman, was almost inexplicable. He did the very thing of allothers that no cattle-man in his right senseswould think of doing. Gillispie and Henderson, talking it over afterward, were neverable to understand it. It is possible -- justbarely possible -- that Waite, still drunk onhis solitary dreams, knew what he was doing,and chose to bring his little chapter to anend while the lines were pleasant. At anyrate, he rode straight forward, shouting andwaving his arms in an insane endeavor tohead off that frantic mob. The noise wokethe children, and they peered from thewindow as the pawing and bellowing herdplunged by, trampling the young steersunder their feet.In the early morning, Catherine Ford, spentboth in mind and body, came walking slowlyhome. In her heart was a prayer of thanksgiving. Mary Deems lay sleeping back inher comfortless shack, with her little son byher side."The wonder of God is in it," said Catherine to herself as she walked home. "Allthe ministers of all the world could not havepreached me such a sermon as I've hadto-night."So dim had been the light and so perturbed her mind that she had not noticedhow torn and trampled was the road. Butsuddenly a bulk in her pathway startled her.It was the dead and mangled body of a steer.She stooped over it to read the brand on itsflank. "It's one of the three Johns'," shecried out, looking anxiously about her."How could that have happened?"The direction which the cattle had takenwas toward her house, and she hastenedhomeward. And not a quarter of a milefrom her door she found the body of Waitebeside that of his pony, crushed out of itsfamiliar form into something unspeakablyshapeless. In her excitement she halfdragged, half carried that mutilated bodyhome, and then ran up her signal of alarmon the stick that Waite himself had erectedfor her convenience. She thought it wouldbe a long time before any one reached her,but she had hardly had time to bathe thedisfigured face and straighten the disfiguredbody before Henderson was pounding at herdoor. Outside stood his pony panting fromits terrific exertions. Henderson had notseen her before for six weeks. Now hestared at her with frightened eyes."What is it? What is it?" he cried."What has happened to you, my -- mylove?"At least afterward, thinking it over as sheworked by day or tossed in her narrow bunkat night, it seemed to Catherine that thosewere the words he spoke. Yet she couldnever feel sure; nothing in his manner afterthat justified the impassioned anxiety of hismanner in those first few uncertain moments;for a second later he saw the body of hisfriend and learned the little that Catherineknew. They buried him the next day in alittle hollow where there was a spring andsome wild aspens."He never liked the prairie," Catherinesaid, when she selected the spot. "And Iwant him to lie as sheltered as possible."After he had been laid at rest, and shewas back, busy with tidying her neglectedshack, she fell to crying so that the childrenwere scared."There's no one left to care what becomesof us," she told them, bitterly. "We mightstarve out here for all that any one cares."And all through the night her tears fell,and she told herself that they were all for theman whose last thought was for her and herbabies; she told herself over and over againthat her tears were all for him. After thisthe autumn began to hurry on, and the snowfell capriciously, days of biting cold givingplace to retrospective glances at summer.The last of the vegetables were taken out ofthe garden and buried in the cellar; and afew tons of coal -- dear almost as diamonds-- were brought out to provide against theseverest weather. Ordinarily buffalo chipswere the fuel. Catherine was alarmed atthe way her wretched little store of moneybegan to vanish. The baby was fretful withits teething, and was really more care thanwhen she nursed it. The days shortened,and it seemed to her that she was foreverworking by lamp-light The prairies werebrown and forbidding, the sky often a meregray pall. The monotony of the life beganto seem terrible. Sometimes her ears achedfor a sound. For a time in the summer somany had seemed to need her that she hadbeen happy in spite of her poverty and herloneliness. Now, suddenly, no one wantedher. She could find no source of inspiration.She wondered how she was going to livethrough the winter, and keep her patienceand her good-nature."You'll love me," she said, almost fiercely,one night to the children -- "you'll lovemamma, no matter how cross and homelyshe gets, won't you?"The cold grew day by day. A strongwinter was setting in. Catherine took upher study of medicine again, and sat overher books till midnight. It occurred to herthat she might fit herself for nursing byspring, and that the children could be putwith some one -- she did not dare to thinkwith whom. But this was the only solutionshe could find to her problem of existence.November settled down drearily. Fewpassed the shack. Catherine, who had noone to speak with excepting the children,continually devised amusements for them.They got to living in a world of fantasy,and were never themselves, but always wildIndians, or arctic explorers, or RobinsonCrusoes. Kitty and Roderick, young asthey were, found a never-ending source ofamusement in these little grotesque dreamsand dramas. The fund of money was getting so low that Catherine was obliged toeconomize even in the necessities. If it hadnot been for her two cows, she would hardlyhave known how to find food for her littleones. But she had a wonderful way of making things with eggs and milk, and she kepther little table always inviting. The daybefore Thanksgiving she determined thatthey should all have a frolic."By Christmas," she said to Kitty, "thesnow may be so bad that I cannot getto town. We'll have our high old timenow."There is no denying that Catherine usedslang even in talking to the children. Thelittle pony had been sold long ago, andgoing to town meant a walk of twelve miles.But Catherine started out early in themorning, and was back by nightfall, notso very much the worse, and carrying inher arms bundles which might have fatigueda bronco.The next morning she was up early, andwas as happy and ridiculously excited overthe prospect of the day's merrymaking asif she had been Kitty. Busy as she was,she noticed a peculiar oppression in the air,which intensified as the day went on. Thesky seemed to hang but a little way abovethe rolling stretch of frost-bitten grass. ButKitty laughing over her new doll, Roderickstartling the sullen silence with his drum,the smell of the chicken, slaughtered tomake a prairie holiday, browning in theoven, drove all apprehensions from Catherine's mind. She was a common creature.Such very little things could make her happy.She sang as she worked; and what with thedrumming of her boy, and the little exultingshrieks of her baby, the shack was filled witha deafening and exhilarating din.It was a little past noon, when she becameconscious that there was sweeping down onher a gray sheet of snow and ice, and nottill then did she realize what those loweringclouds had signified. For one moment shestood half paralyzed. She thought of everything, -- of the cattle, of the chance for beingburied in this drift, of the stock of provisions, of the power of endurance of thechildren. While she was still thinking, thefirst ice-needles of the blizzard came peppering the windows. The cattle ran bellowingto the lee side of the house and crouchedthere, and the chickens scurried for the coop.Catherine seized such blankets and bits ofcarpet as she could find, and crammed themat windows and doors. Then she piled coalon the fire, and clothed the children in allthey had that was warmest, their out-door garments included; and with them close abouther, she sat and waited. The wind seemedto push steadily at the walls of the house.The howling became horrible. She couldsee that the children were crying with fright,but she could not hear them. The air wasdusky; the cold, in spite of the fire, intolerable. In every crevice of the wretchedstructure the ice and snow made their way.It came through the roof, and began pilingup in little pointed strips under the crevices.Catherine put the children all together inone bunk, covered them with all the bedclothes she had, and then stood before themdefiantly, facing the west, from whence thewind was driving. Not suddenly, but bysteady pressure, at length the window-sashyielded, and the next moment that whirlwindwas in the house, -- a maddening tumult ofice and wind, leaving no room for resistance;a killing cold, against which it was futile tofight. Catherine threw the bedclothes overthe heads of the children, and then threwherself across the bunk, gasping and choking for breath. Her body would not haveyielded to the suffering yet, so stronglymade and sustained was it; but her dismaystifled her. She saw in one horrified momentthe frozen forms of her babies, now so pinkand pleasant to the sense; and oblivion cameto save her from further misery.She was alive -- just barely alive -- whenGillispie and Henderson got there, threehours later, the very balls of their eyesalmost frozen into blindness. But for aninstinct stronger than reason they wouldnever have been able to have found theirway across that trackless stretch. The children lying unconscious under their coveringswere neither dead nor actually frozen, although the men putting their hands on theirlittle hearts could not at first discover thebeating. Stiff and suffering as these youngfellows were, it was no easy matter to getthe window back into place and re-light thefire. They had tied flasks of liquor abouttheir waists; and this beneficent fluid theyused with that sense of appreciation whichonly a pioneer can feel toward whiskey. Itwas hours before Catherine rewarded themwith a gleam of consciousness. Her bodyhad been frozen in many places. Her arms,outstretched over her children and holdingthe clothes down about them, were rigid.But consciousness came at length, dimlystruggling up through her brain; and overher she saw her friends rubbing and rubbingthose strong firm arms of hers with snow.She half raised her head, with a horror ofcomprehension in her eyes, and listened. Acry answered her, -- a cry of dull pain fromthe baby. Henderson dropped on his kneesbeside her."They are all safe," he said. "And wewill never leave you again. I have beenafraid to tell you how I love you. I thoughtI might offend you. I thought I ought towait -- you know why. But I will never letyou run the risks of this awful life aloneagain. You must rename the baby. Fromthis day his name is John. And we willhave the three Johns again back at the oldranch. It doesn't matter whether you loveme or not, Catherine, I am going to takecare of you just the same. Gillispie agreeswith me.""Damme, yes," muttered Gillispie, feelingof his hip-pocket for consolation in his oldmanner.Catherine struggled to find her voice, butit would not come."Do not speak," whispered John. "Tellme with your eyes whether you will comeas my wife or only as our sister."Catherine told him."This is Thanksgiving day," said he."And we don't know much about praying,but I guess we all have something in ourhearts that does just as well.""Damme, yes," said Gillispie, again, ashe pensively cocked and uncocked his revolver.
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