Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 25

better."

Bud Shoop grinned. "That's the way with Bondsman here. Now he won't open his head to one of them paper tunes. I've tried 'em all on him. You can't tell me a dog ain't got feelin's."

Chapter XV

_John and Demijohn_

The gra.s.s on the high mesa was heavy with dew when Lorry stepped from the cabin next morning. His pony, Gray Leg, stood close to the corral, where Shoop's horses were playfully biting at him over the bars. Lorry unhobbled Gray Leg and turned Shoop's horses out to water. The three ponies trotted to the water-hole, sniffed at the water, and, whirling, raced across the mesa, pitching and kicking in the joy of liberation.

After breakfast Bud and Lorry sat out in the sun, enjoying the slow warmth. The morning air was still keen in the shade. Bondsman lay between them, watching the distant horses.

"He won't let 'em get far into the timber," said Shoop. "He sure saves me a lot of steps, roundin' up them hosses."

"I can whistle Gray Leg to me," said Lorry. "Then the other horses'll come."

Shoop nodded. "What you goin' to do to-day?"

"Me? Well, it's so kind of quiet and big up here I feel like settin'

around and takin' it all in. I ain't been in the high country much.

'Course I don't aim to camp on you."

"You're sure welcome," said Shoop heartily. "It gets lonesome up here.

But if you ain't got no reg'lar plan I was thinkin' of ridin' over to Sheep Crossin'--and mebby on down to Jason."

"Suits me fine!"

Shoop heaved himself up. Lorry whistled shrilly. Gray Leg, across the mesa, raised his head. Lorry whistled again. The pony lowered his head and nipped at the bunch-gra.s.s as he moved slowly toward the house.

Shoop's horses watched him, and finally decided that they would follow.

Gray Leg stopped just out of reach.

"Get in the corral, there!" said Lorry, waving his arm.

The pony s.h.i.+ed and trotted into the corral, the other horses following.

Bondsman was not exactly disgruntled, but he might have been happier.

Shoop had told him to "keep house" until they returned.

"It's a funny thing," said Shoop as he mounted. "Now, if I was to tell that dog he was gettin' too old to ramble with me, he'd feel plumb sick and no account. But when I tell him he's got to do somethin'--like watchin' the house--he thinks it's a reg'lar job. He's gettin' old, but, just like folks, he wants to think he's some use. You can't tell me dogs don't know. Why, I've seen young folks so durned fussy about their grandmas and grandpas, trying to keep 'em from putterin' around, that the old folks just nacherally folded their hands and set down and died, havin' nothin' else to do. And a dog is right proud about bein' able to do somethin'. Bondsman there keeps me so busy thinkin' of how I can keep him busy that I ain't got time to s.h.i.+ne my boots. That there dog bosses me around somethin' scandalous."

"That's right," acquiesced Lorry. "I seen a ole mule once that they turned loose from a freight wagon because he was too old to pull his own weight. And that mule just followed the string up and down the hills and across the sand, doin' his best to tell the skinner that he wanted to get back into the harness. He would run alongside the other mules, and try to get back in his old place. They would just naturally kick him, and he'd turn and try to wallop 'em back. Then he'd walk along, with his head hangin' down and his ears floppin', as if he was plumb sick of bein' free and wanted to die. The last day he was too stiff to get on his feet, so me and Jimmy Harp heaved him up while the skinner was gettin' the chains on the other mules. That ole mule was sure wabblin'

like a duck, but he come aside his ole place and followed along all day.

We was freightin' in to camp, back in the Horseshoe Hills. You know that grade afore you get to the mesa? Well, the ole mule pulled the grade, sweatin' and puffin' like he was pullin' the whole load. And I guess he was, in his mind. Anyhow, he got to the top, and laid down and died.

Mules sure like to work. Now a horse would have fanned it."

Shoop nodded. "I never seen a animile too lazy to work if it was only gettin' his grub and exercise. But I've seen a sight of folks too lazy to do that much. Why, some folks is so dog-gone no account they got to git killed afore folks ever knowed they was livin'. Then they's some folks so high-chinned they can't see nothin' but the stars when they'd do tol'able well if they would follow a good hoss or a dog around and learn how to live human. But this ain't gettin' nowhere, and the sun's keepin' right along doin' business."

They rode across the beautiful Blue Mesa, and entered the timberlands, following a ranger trail through the shadowy silences. At the lower level, they came upon another mesa through which wound a mountain stream. And along a stream ran the trail, knee-high in gra.s.s on either side.

Far below them lay the plains country, its hazy reaches just visible over the tree-tops. Where the mountain stream merged with a deeper stream the ground was barren and dotted with countless tracks of cattle and sheep. This was Sheep Crossing, a natural pa.s.s where the cattlemen and sheepmen drifted their stock from the hills to the winter feeding-grounds of the lower country. It was a checking point for the rangers; the gateway to the hills.

The thin mountain air was hot. The unbridled ponies drank eagerly, and were allowed to graze. The men moved over to the shade of a blue-topped spruce. As Lorry was about to sit down he picked an empty whiskey bottle from the gra.s.s, turned the label toward Shoop, and grinned. He tossed the bottle into the edge of the timber.

Shoop rolled a cigarette, and Lorry squatted beside him. Presently Shoop's voice broke the indolent silence of noon: "Just why did you chuck that bottle over there?"

"I don't know. Horse might step on it and cut himself."

"Yes. But you chucked it like you was mad at somethin'. Would you thrun it away if it was full?"

"I don' know. I might 'a' smelt of it to see if it was whiskey or kerosene some herder forgot."

"It's right curious how a fella will smell of a bottle to see what's in it or what's been in it. Most folks does that. I guess you know what whiskey smells like."

"Oh, some; with the boys once or twice. I never did get to like it right well."

Shoop nodded. "I ain't what you'd call a drinkin' man myself, but I started out that way. I been tol'able well lit up at times. But temperance folks what never took a drink can tell you more about whiskey than I can. Now that there empty bottle, a hundred and thirty miles from a whiskey town, kind of set me thinkin'."

Lorry leaned back against the spruce and watched a hawk float in easy circles round the blue emptiness above. He felt physically indolent; at one with the silences. Shoop's voice came to him clearly, but as though from a distance, and as Shoop talked Lorry visualized the theme, forgetting where he was in the vivid picture the old ex-cowboy sketched in the rough dialect of the range.

"I've did some thinkin' in my time, but not enough to keep me awake nights," said Shoop, pus.h.i.+ng back his hat. "That there whiskey bottle kind of set me back to where I was about your years and some lively.

Long about then I knowed two fellas called 'John' and 'Demijohn.' John was young and a right good cow-hand. Demijohn was old, but he was always dressed up like he was young, and he acted right lively. Some folks thought he was young. They met up at a saloon down along the Santa Fe.

They got acquainted, and had a high ole time.

"That evenin', as John was leavin' to go back to the ranch, Demijohn tells him he'll see him later. John remembers that. They met up ag'in.

And finally John got to lookin' for Demijohn, and if he didn't show up reg'lar John would set out and chase Demijohn all over the country, afoot and ahorseback, and likin' his comp'ny more every time they met.

"Now, this here Demijohn, who was by rights a city fella, got to takin'

to the timber and the mesas, with John followin' him around lively. Ole Demijohn would set in the shade of a tree--no tellin' how he got there--and John would ride up and light down; when mebby Demijohn would start off to town, bein' empty, and John after him like h.e.l.l wasn't hot enough 'less he sweat runnin'. And that young John would ride clean to town just to say 'How' to that ole hocus. And it come that John got to payin' more attention to Demijohn than he did to punchin' cows. Then come a day when John got sick of chasin' Demijohn all over the range, and he quit.

"But the first thing he knowed, Demijohn was a chasin' him. Every time John rode in and throwed off his saddle there'd be ole Demijohn, settin'

in the corner of the corral or under his bunk or out in the box stall, smilin' and waitin'. Finally Demijohn got to followin' John right into the bunk-house, and John tryin' his durndest to keep out of sight.

"One evenin', when John was loafin' in the bunk-house, ole Demijohn crawls up to his bunk and asks him, whisperin', if he ain't most always give John a good time when they met up. John cussed, but 'lowed that Demijohn was right. Then Demijohn took to pullin' at young John's sleeve and askin' him to come to town and have a good time. Pretty soon John gets up and saddles his cayuse and fans it for town. And that time him and Demijohn sure had one whizzer of a time. But come a week later, when John gits back to the ranch, the boss is sore and fires him. Then John gits sore at the boss and at himself and at Demijohn and the whole works. So he saddles up and rides over to town to have it out with Demijohn for losin' a good job. But he couldn't lick Demijohn right there in town nohow. Demijohn was too frequent for him.

"When young John wakes up next mornin' he is layin' under a tree, mighty sick. He sees he is up on the high mesa, but he don' know how he got there; only his pony is grazin' near by, with reins all tromped and the saddle 'way up on his withers. John sets up and rubs his eyes, and there he sees ole Demijohn settin' in the gra.s.s chucklin' to hisself, and his back is turned to young John, for he don't care nohow for a fella when he is sick. Ole Demijohn is always feelin' good, no matter how his friends feel. Well, young John thinks a while, and pretty soon he moseys over to a spring and gets a big, cold drink and washes his head, and feels better.

"He never knowed that just plain water tasted so good till that mornin'.

Then he sets awhile, smellin' of the clean pine air and listenin' to the wind runnin' loose in the tree-tops and watchin' the clouds driftin' by, white and clean and proud-like. Pretty soon he rares up and walks over to the tree where ole Demijohn sets rockin' up and down and chucklin'.

He takes a holt of Demijohn by the shoulder, and he says: 'You darned ole hocus, you, I lost my job, and I'm broke, lopin' around this country with you.'

"'Forget it!' says ole Demijohn. 'Ain't I good comp'ny?'

"'Mebby you be--for some folks,' says young John. 'But not for me. You don't belong up in this here country; you belong back in town, and I reckon you better fan it.'

"Ole Demijohn he laughed. 'You can't run me off the range that easy,' he says.