Bunch Grass Part 8

"And look ye here; I shall be stayin' at my old _adobe_, but if the others want fer anything, you understan', get it--see?"

"Certainly, Mr. Spooner. I shall not fail to call on you, sir, because we want many things."

"That's all right; but," his tone grew hard and sharp, "if--if she-- dies, this contrack is broke. The rest kin die too; the sooner the better."

"But she won't die, Mr. Spooner," said the young doctor, cheerfully.

"I feel in my bones, sir, that Sissy Leadham won't die."

And it may be added here that she didn't.

At the ranch-house that night Ajax and I sat up, watching, waiting, praying for the rain that would wash the diphtheria from Paradise and despair from our hearts. The south-east wind sang louder and louder in the cotton woods by the creek; the parched live oaks crackled with fear that the gathering clouds should roll by, the willows s.h.i.+vered and bowed themselves low in supplication. From the parched earth and every living thing thereon went up the pa.s.sionate cry for water.

One by one we saw the stars fade out of the sky. The Dipper disappeared; then the Pole Star was extinguished. Orion veiled his triple splendours. The Milky Way ceased to be....

"It's coming," whispered Ajax.

Suddenly the wind died down; the trees became mute; only the frogs croaked a final Hallelujah Chorus, because they alone knew. And then, out of the heaven which had seemed to have forsaken us, coming slowly at first, as if with the timid, halting step of a stranger; coming quickly and gladly afterwards, as an old friend comes back to the place where he is sure of a welcome; and lastly, with a sound of ten thousand pattering feet, with a whirring of innumerable wings, with a roar of triumph and ecstasy, Prosperity poured down upon Paradise.

IV

GLORIANA

For three weeks we had advertised for a cook--in vain! And ranch life, in consequence, began to lose colour and coherence. Even the animals suffered: the dogs, the chickens, and in particular the tame piglet, who hung disconsolate about the kitchen door watching, and perchance praying, for the hired girl that was not.

"This," said Ajax, "spells demoralisation."

He alluded to the plates which lay face downward upon the dining-room table. We had agreed to wash up every other meal, saving time at the expense of decency. One plate did double duty, for we used the top for breakfast and the bottom for dinner. Before supper we scrubbed it thoroughly and began again.

"And this bread of yours," I retorted warmly--the plate labour-saving scheme was a happy thought of my own--"spells dyspepsia."

"True," he admitted forlornly. "I can make, but not bake bread. In a domestic crisis like this many things must be left underdone. We must find a cook. I propose that we ride to the village, and rope some aged virgin."

We discussed the propriety of such a raid with spirit. I contended that we might have reason to regret, at the end of another rope, so high-handed a proceeding.

"You are right," said Ajax. "That is the worst of this confounded ranch. Here, we enjoy neither the amenities of civilisation nor the freedom of the desert. However, it's always darkest before dawn, and I've a feeling in my bones that the present state of affairs cannot last. Something will turn up."

That afternoon Gloriana turned up.

We were sitting upon the verandah oppressed with the weight of beans, bacon, and soggy biscuit. As we smoked in silence our eyes rested gloomily upon the landscape--our domain. Before us lay an amber- coloured, sun-scorched plain; beyond were the foot-hills, bristling with chaparral, scrub-oaks, pines and cedars; beyond these again rose the grey peaks of the Santa Lucia range, p.r.i.c.king the eastern horizon.

Over all hung the palpitating skies, eternally and exasperatingly blue, a-quiver with light and heat.

"Somebody's coming," said Ajax.

The country road, white with alkaline dust, crossed the ranch at right angles. Far away, to the left, was a faint blur upon the pink hills.

"It's no wagon," said Ajax idly, "and a _vaquero_ would never ride in the dust. It must be a buggy."

Five minutes later we could distinguish a quaint figure sitting upright in an ancient buckboard whose wheels wobbled and creaked with almost human infirmity. A mule furnished the motive power.

"Is it a man or a woman?" said Ajax.

"Possibly," I replied, "a cook."

"She is about to pay us a visit. Yes, it's a woman, a bundle of bones, dust and alpaca crowned with a sombrero. A book-agent, I swear. Go and tell her we have never learned to read."

I demurred. Finally we spun a dollar to decide upon which of us lay the brutal duty of turning away the stranger within our gates. Fortune frowned on me, and I rose reluctantly from my chair.

"Air you the hired man?" said the woman in the buggy, as I looked askance into her face.

"I work here," I replied, "for my board--which is not of the best."

"Ye seem kinder thin. Say--air the lords to home?"

"The lords?"

"Yes, the lords. They tole me back ther," she jerked her head in the direction of the village, "that two English lords owned a big cattle- ranch right here; an' I thought, mebbee, that they'd like ter see-- me."

A pathetic accent of doubt quavered upon the personal p.r.o.noun.

"Ye kin tell 'em," she continued, "that I'm here. Yes, sir, I'm a book-agent, an' my book will interest them--sure."

Her eyes, soft blue eyes, bespoke hope; her lips quivered with tell- tale anxiety. Something inharmonious about the little woman, a queer lack of adjustment between voice and mouth, struck me as singular, but not unpleasing.

"It's called," she pleaded, in the tenderest tones, "_A Golden Word from Mother_. I sell it bound in cloth, sheep, or moroccy. It's perfectly lovely--in moroccy."

"One of the--er--lords," said I gravely, "is here. I'll call him. I think he can read."

This, according to our fraternal code, was rank treachery, yet I felt no traitor. Ajax obeyed my summons, and, sauntering across the sun- baked yard, lifted his hat to the visitor. She bowed politely, and blinked, with short-sighted eyes, at my brother's overalls and tattered canvas s.h.i.+rt. I have seen Ajax, in Piccadilly, glorious in a frock-coat and varnished boots. I have seen him, as Gloriana saw him for the first time, in rags that might provoke the scorn of Lazarus.

With the thermometer at a hundred in the shade, custom curtseys to convenience. Ajax boasted with reason that the loosening of a single safety-pin left him in condition for a plunge into the pool at the foot of the corral.

"I hope you're well, lord," said the little woman; "an' if ye ain't, why--what I've got here'll do ye more good than a doctor. I reckon ye hev a mother, an' naterally she thinks the world of ye. Well, sir, I bring ye a golden word from her very lips. Jest listen to this. I ain't much on the elocute, but I'm goin' ter do my best."

We listened patiently as she declaimed half a page of wretched prose.

Her voice rose and fell in a sing-song cadence, but certain modulations of tone lent charm to the absurd words. When she finished her eyes were full of tears.

"That is very nice indeed," said Ajax softly. "I should like to buy your book."

Her hands trembled.

"I sell it in cloth at--one dollar; in sheep at--one, six bits; in reel moroccy, with gold toolin' at--two an' a half."

"We must certainly secure a copy in gold and morocco."