The Sagebrusher: A Story of the West

by Emerson Hough

  CHAPTER IX

  THE HALT AND THE BLIND

  The sweet valley, surrounded by its mountains, was now a sight toquicken the pulse of any heart alive to beauty, as it lay in its longvistas before them; but neither of these two saw the mountains or thetrees, or the green levels that lay between. Long silences fell,broken only by the crackling clatter of the horses' hoofs on the hardroadway.

  It was Mary Warren who at last spoke, after a deep breath, as thoughsummoning her resolution. "You're an honest man," said she. "I oughtto be honest with you."

  "I reckon that's so enough, ma'am," said Sim Gage. "But I just toldyou I ain't been honest with you. I never wrote one of them lettersthat you got--it was some one else."

  "But you came to meet me--you're here----"

  "Yes, but I didn't write them letters. That was all done by friends ofmine."

  "That's very strange. That's just the reason I wanted to tell _you_that I hadn't been honest--I never wrote the letters that _you_ got!It was my room-mate, Annie Squires."

  "So? That's funny, ain't it? Some folks has funny idees of jokes. Ireckon they thought this was a joke. It ain't."

  "Your letters seemed like you seem now," she broke in. "It seems to meyou must have written every word."

  "Ma'am----" said Sim Gage; and broke down.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Them is the finest words I ever heard in my life! I ain't been much.If I could only live up to them words, now----

  "Besides," he went on, a rising happiness in his tones, "seems like youand me was one just as honest as the other, and both meaning fair.That makes me feel a heap easier. If it does you, you're welcome."

  Blind as she was, Mary Warren knew now the gulf between this man's lifeand hers. But his words were so kind. And she so much needed a friend.

  "You're a forgiving man, Mr. Gage," said she.

  "No, I ain't. I'm a awful man. When you learn more about me you'llthink I'm the worst man you ever seen."

  "We'll have to wait," was all that Mary Warren could think to say. Butafter a time she turned her face toward him once more.

  "Do you know," said she, "I think you're a gentleman!"

  "Oh, my Lord!" said Sim Gage, his eyes going every which way. "Oh, mygood Lord!"

  "Well, it's true. Look--you haven't said a word or done a thing--youhaven't touched me--or laughed--or--or hinted--not once. That's beinga gentleman, in a time like this. This--this is a very hard place fora woman."

  "It ain't so easy fer a man! But I couldn't have done no other way,could I?"

  She made no answer. "Are there many other women in this valley, Mr.Gage?" she asked after a time. "Who are they? What are they like?"

  "Five, in twenty-two miles between my place and town, ma'am," heanswered, "when they're home. The nearedest one to us is about couplemiles, unless you cut through the fields."

  "Who is she? What is she like?"

  "That is Mis' Davidson, our school ma'am-- She's the only woman I seena'most all last summer, unlessen onct in a while a woman would come outwith some fishing party in a automobile. Most of them crosses up aboveon the bridge and comes down the other side of the creek from us.Seems to me sometimes women has always been just acrosst the creek fromme, ma'am. I don't know much about them. Now, Wid--Wid Gardner--he'sthe next rancher to me, this side--he sometimes has folks come there inthe fishing season."

  "Your log house is all painted and nice, isn't it?"

  "_Painted_, ma'am? Lord, no! You don't paint a log house none."

  "I never saw one in my life," said she contritely; then, sighing. "Inever will, now."

  "Do men come to your place very much, then?" she asked at length.

  "Why, Wid, he sometimes comes over."

  "And who is Wid?"

  "Like I said, he's got the next ranch to mine. He's maybe a forwardersort of man than me."

  "Did he have anything to do with--that advertisement?"

  "How can you guess things like that?"

  "He thought you were all alone?"

  "We did have some talk. But I want to tell you one thing, ma'am--if Ihad ever thought onct that we'd a-brung a woman like _you_ here, I'dnever of been part nor party to it. I guess not!"

  "And yet you can't see why you're a gentleman!" said she again slowly.

  "You said you'd be going back home again before long?" It was thefirst thing Sim Gage could say.

  "I haven't any home."

  "Nor no folks neither?"

  "There's not a soul in the world that I could go back to, Mr. Gage. Sonow, I've told you the truth."

  "But there was oncet, maybe?" he said shrewdly. "How old are you?" Heflushed suddenly at this question, which he asked before he thought.

  "I'm twenty-five."

  "You don't look that old. Me, I'm thirty-seven. I'm too old to marry.Now I never will."

  "How do you know?" she said. "What do you mean?" As she spoke shefelt the tears come again on her cheeks, felt her hands trembling.

  "Well, ma'am, I know mighty well I'll never marry now. Of course, ifone sort of woman had came out here--big and strong enough to be ahousekeeper and nothing else, and all that, and one thing withanother--I won't say what might have happened. Strange things hashappened that way--right out of them damn _Hearts Aflame_ ads--rightaround along in here, in this here valley, too, I know. Well, ofcourse, a man can't get along so well, ranching, unless he has awife----"

  "Or a housekeeper?"

  "Why, yes. That's what we advertised fer. I didn't know it."

  Mary Warren pondered for a long time.

  "Look at me," she said at last. "There's no place for me back home,and none here. What sort of housekeeper would I make--and what sortof--of--wife? I'm disappointing you; and you're disappointing me.What shall we both do?"

  "Why, how do you mean?" said Sim Gage, wonderingly. "Disappoint you?Of course I couldn't marry a woman like you! You don't want me to do_that_? That wouldn't be right."

  "Oh, I don't mean that! I don't know what I did mean!"

  Some sense of her perturbation must have come to him. "Now don't youworry, ma'am. Don't you git troubled none a-tall. I'm a-goin' to takecare of you myself until everything gits all right."

  "I'm a thief! I'm a beggar!" was all she could say.

  "The same here, ma'am! You've got nothing on me," said Sim Gage."What I said is, we're in the same boat, and we got to go the best waywe can till things shapes out. It ain't very much I got to offer you.Us sagebrushers has to take the leavings."

  "You've said the truth for me--the very truth. I'm of the discard--Ican't earn my living. Leavings! And I wanted to earn my living."

  "You've earned it now, ma'am," said Sim Gage; and perhaps made thelargest speech of all his life.

  "Well, anyways, we're going to come to my land right now," he addedafter a time. "We've passed the school house, only couple mile from myplace. On ahead here is Wid Gardner's ranch, on the left hand side. Idon't reckon he's at home. I told you the school ma'am had maybe wentoff to her homestead, didn't I? Maybe Nels Jensen, he's maybe drivingher to the Big Springs station down below. This here is Wid Gardner'steam and buckboard, ma'am. I ain't got around to fixing mine up thisspring. I've got to drive back after a while and take these thingsback to Wid."

  Her situation grew more tense. They were coming now to the end of thejourney--to her home--to his home. She did not speak. To her ears thesound of the horses' feet seemed less, as though they were passing on aroad not so much used.

  "This is a sort of alley, like, down along between the willers and therail fence," explained Sim Gage. "It's about half a mile of this.Then we come to my gate."

  And presently they did come to his gate, where the silver-edged willowscame close on the one side and the wide hay meadows reached out on theother toward the curving pathway of the river. He pulled up.

  "Could you hold these horses, ma'am, fer a minute? I got to open thegate."

  He ha
nded her the reins, it never occurring to him that there was anyone in the world who had never driven horses. She was frightened, butresolved to appear brave and useful.

  Sim Gage began to untwist the short club which bound the wire gateshut. He pulled it back, and clucked to the horses, seeing that shedid not start them.

  Mary Warren knew nothing of horses. It seemed to her that the correctthing to do was to drop the reins loosely, shaking them a little. Thehalf wild horses, with their uncanny brute sense, knew the absence of amaster, and took instant advantage of the knowledge. With one willthey sprang, lunged, and started forward, plunging. Mary Warrendropped the lines.

  "_Sit still there_!" she heard a voice call out imperatively. Then,"Whoa! damn you, whoa now!"

  She could see nothing, but sensed combat. Sim Gage had sprung forwardand caught the cheek strap of the nearest horse. It reared and struckout wildly. She heard an exclamation, as though of pain, but could notsee him as he swung across to the other horse and caught his fingers inits nostrils, still calling out to them, imperiously, in the voice of acommander.

  At length they halted, quieted. She heard his voice speaking brokenly."Set still where you are, ma'am. I'll tie 'em."

  "You're hurt!" she called out. "It was my fault."

  "I'm all right. Just you set still."

  Apparently he finished fastening the horses to something. She heardhim come to the end of the seat, knew that he was reaching up his armsto help her down. But when she swung her weight from the seat she felthim wince.

  "One of 'em caught me on the knee," he admitted. "It was my new pants,too."

  She could not see his face, gray with pain now under the dust.

  "It's all my fault--I didn't dare tell you--I don't know anything abouthorses. I don't know anything about anything out here!"

  "Take hold of my left hand coat sleeve," he answered to her confession."We'll walk on into the yard. Keep hold of me, and I'll keep hold ofthem horses. I'll look out if they jump."

  For some reason of their own the team became less fractious. He limpedalong the road, his hand at the bit of the more vicious. She couldfeel him limp.

  "You're hurt--they did jump on you!" she reiterated.

  "Knee's busted some, but we'll git along. Don't you mind. Anyhow,we're here. Now, you go off, a little ways--it's all level here--andI'll unhitch these critters."

  "That's the barn over there," he added, pointing in a direction whichshe could not see. "Plain trail between the house and the corral gate.On beyond is my hay lands and the willers along the creek. There's asort of spring thataway"--again he pointed, invisibly to her--"andalong it runs a band of willers--say a hundred yards from the house.It all ain't much. I never ought to of brought you here a-tall, butlike I said, we'll do the best we can. Please don't be afraid, ornothing."

  Stripped of their harness, the wild team turned and made off at a rundown the road, through the gate and back to their own home.

  "Good riddance," said Sim Gage, stooping, his hands at his cutknee-cap. "Wid can come over here fer his own buckboard, fer all ofme."

  "Take right a-holt of my arm tight, and go easy now," he added, turningto Mary Warren. She felt his hand on her arm.

  They passed around the corner of the cabin. She reached out a hand totouch the side post as she heard the door open.

  "It's a right small little place inside," said Sim Gage, "only one bunkin it. I've got some new blankets and I'll fix it all up. Maybeyou'll want to lay down and rest a while before long.

  "Over at the left is the stove--when I git the fire going you can tellwhere it is, all right. Between the stove and the bunk is the table,where we eat--I mean where I used to eat. It all ain't so big. Prettysoon you'll learn where the things all is. It's like learning wherethings is in the dark, ma'am, I suppose?"

  "Yes. What time is it?" she asked suddenly. "You see, I can't tell."

  "Coming on evening, ma'am. I reckon it's around three or four o'clock.You see, I ain't got a clock. I ain't got round to gitting one yet.Mine's just got busted recent.

  "This here's a chair, ma'am," he said. "Jest set down and take itright easy. Lay off your wraps, and I'll put 'em on the bunk. Youmustn't worry about nothing. We're here now."

  By and by she felt his hand touch her sleeve.

  "Here's a couple of poker sticks," said he. "I reckon maybe you'llneed to use one onct in a while to kind of feel around with. Well,it's the same with me--I'm going to need something, kind of, my ownself. That knee's going to leave me lame a while, _I_ believe."

  A sudden feeling that they two were little better than lost childrencame to her as she turned toward him. A strange, swift feeling ofcompanionship rose in her heart. Her vague fears began to vanish.

  "You're hurt," said she. "What can I do? Can't you put some witchhazel on your knee?"

  "I ain't got none, ma'am."

  "Isn't there some alcohol, or anything, in the place?"

  "No, ma'am--why, yes, there is too! I got some whiskey left. Whiskeyis good fer most anything. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll just goround the house, and I'll rub some of that whiskey on my knee."

  She heard him pass out of the door. She was alone. Absolutely shewelcomed the sound of his foot again. He might have seen her facealmost light up.

  "When you git kicked on a bone," he said, "it hurts worse. She'sswelled up some, but I reckon she'll get well in a few days or weeks.I don't think she's busted much, though at first I thought he'd knockedthe knee cap plump off. There's a cut in above there. Cork of theshoe must of hit me there."

  The gravity of her face was her answer. She could see nothing.

  "I reckon you can smell that whiskey," said he, "but I ain't drunknone--it's just on my leg, that's all."

  "You're not a drinking man?" she asked.

  "Why, yes, of course I am. All of us people out here drinks more orless when they can git it--this is a dry state. But I allow I'll cutit out fer a while, now, ma'am."

  "Ain't you hungry now, ma'am?" he added. "We didn't have a bite to eatall day."

  "Yes," said she. "But how can I help cook supper--what can I do?"

  "There ain't much you need to do, ma'am. If I've lived here alone allthis time, and lived alone everywhere else fer thirty-seven years, Ireckon I can cook one more meal."

  "For your housekeeper!" she said, smiling bitterly.

  "Well, yes," he replied. "You don't know where things is yet. I gotsome bacon here, and aigs too. I brought out some oranges fromtown--fer you." She did not see him color shyly. Oranges weresomething Sim Gage never had brought to his ranch before. He hadbought them of the Park commissary at the station.

  "Then I got some canned tomatoes--they're always good with bacon. Outunder my straw pile I got some potatoes that ain't froze so very badanyways, and you know spuds is always good. I didn't bring no moreflour, because I had plenty. I can make all sorts of bread,ma'am--flapjacks, or biscuits, or even sour dough--even dough-gods. Iain't so strong when it comes to making the kind of bread you put inthe oven."

  "Why, I can make that--I know I can do that!" she said, pleased at thethought.

  "We'll start in on that to-morrow," said he. "I'll just cook you onemeal--as bad as I can, ma'am--so as to show you how bad I needed ahousekeeper out here."

  The chuckle in his tones was contagious, so that she almost laughedherself. "All right," said she.

  She heard him bustling around here and there, rattling pans, stumblingover sticks of wood on the floor.

  "Haven't you any chickens?" she asked.

  "No, ma'am, I ain't got around to it. I was a-going to have some."

  "I'd like awfully well to have some chickens. Those little yellowthings, in my hands----"

  "We can get plenty, ma'am. I can drive out just a leetle ways, aboutforty miles, to where the Mormons is at, and I can get plenty of 'em,even them yeller ones."

  "Where is the dog? Haven't you got a dog?"

 
"No, ma'am, I ain't. The wolves got mine last winter, and I ain't gotround to getting another one yet. What kind would you like?"

  "Why, a collie--aren't they nice?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I reckon. Only thing is, they might take me fer a sheepman. I'd hate that."

  "Well--even a little dog?"

  "I'll get you one, any kind you want. I allow myself, a dog is a heapof comfort. I'm about the only homesteader in this valley that ain'tgot one right now. Some has sever'l."

  "I can make the coffee, I'm sure," she said, still endeavoring to be ofuse. But she was skimpy in her measurement, and he reproached her.

  "That won't make it strong enough. Don't you like it right strong?"

  "Well, Annie and I," said she honestly, "couldn't afford to make itvery strong. Annie was my roommate, you see."

  "We can afford anything we want out here, ma'am. I got a credit at thestore. We're going to make six hundred tons of hay right out there inthem medders this summer. We're going to have plenty of money. Hay ismighty high. I can get eight dollars a ton standing out there, and notput a machine into it myself. Wheat is two dollars and twenty cents abushel, the lowest."

  "Why, that's fine, that's fine!" said she. "I'm so glad." She knewnothing in the world about hay or wheat.

  The odors from the stove appealed pleasantly enough to the tired womanwho sat on the box chair, in the same place she originally had taken."Draw up," said Sim Gage. But it was clumsy work for her to eat, newlyblind. She was so sensitive that she made no pretence of concealingher tears.

  "I wouldn't worry none, ma'am," said Sim Gage, "if I could help it. Iwouldn't worry any more'n I could help, anyways. I'll put things whereyou can find 'em, and pretty soon you'll get used to it."

  "But at least I can wash the dishes."

  "That's so," said he. "That's so. I reckon you could do that. Itain't hard." And indeed in due course he made arrangements for that onthe table in front of her, so that she might feel easier in beinguseful.

  "Why, that isn't the dish pan," said she.

  Sim Gage flushed with great guiltiness.

  "No, ma'am, it ain't. It's only the wash pan. Fact is, some one hasbeen in this place since I been away, and they stole my dish pan, thelow-down pups. I didn't know as you'd notice the wash pan."

  "Well, it will do for once," she said dubiously, and so she went on,making good shift, wiping the dishes carefully and placing them beforeher on the table. Then she laughed. "It was the same with Annie andme--we only had the one pan. Yours is much larger than ours was. Ialways helped with the dishes."

  "That's fine," said he. "Do you know, that's the part of keeping houseI always hated more'n anything else, just washing dishes."

  "I almost always did that for Annie and me," said Mary Warren, feelingout with her hands gently and trying to arrange the batteredearthenware upon the table.

  "Now," said Sim Gage, "I reckon I'd better get them new blankets in andmake up that bed. Come along, ma'am, and I'll show you." And in spiteof all he took her arm and led her to the side of the rude bunk.

  "I'm so tired," she said. "Do you know, I'm awfully scared out here."Her lips were quivering.

  "Ain't a woman a funny thing, though?" said Sim Gage. "No use to bescared, none a-tall. I'll show you how us folks makes a bed. There'swiller branches and pine underneath, and hay on top. Over that is thetarp, and now I'm spreading down the blankets. You can feel 'em--softones--_good_ blankets, I can tell you! Whole bed's kind of soft andspringy, ma'am. You reckon you can sleep?"

  Responsively she stretched out a hand and felt across the surface ofthe soft new blankets.

  "Why, where are the sheets?" said she.

  "Sheets!" said Sim Gage in sudden consternation. "Now, look at that!That ornery low-down pup that come and stole my dish pan must of tookall my sheets too! Fact is, I just made it up with blankets, like yousee. But you needn't mind--they're plumb new and clean. Besides, itgets cold here along toward morning, even in the summer time. Blanketsis best, along toward morning."

  She stood hesitant as she heard his feet turning away.

  "I'm going away fer a hour or so," said he. "I got to take care of myhorse and things. Now, you feel around with your stick, sort of. Ireckon I better go over before long and make up my own bed--my tent isbeyond the willers yonder."

  She could not know that Sim Gage's bed that night would be composed ofnothing better than a pile of willow boughs. He had given her the lastof the new blankets--and his own old bed was missing now. Wid hadfulfilled his threat and burned it.

  She stood alone, her throat throbbing, hesitant, at the side of therude bunk.

  "He's a kind man," said she to herself, half aloud, after a time. "Oh,if only I could see!"

  She began to feel her way about, stood at the door for a time, lookingout. Something told her that the darkness of night was coming on. Sheturned, felt her way back to the edge of the bunk, and knelt down, herhead in her hands. Mary Warren prayed.

  She paused after a long time--half-standing, a hand upon the soft-piledblankets, her eyes every way. Yes, she was sure it was dark. Andabove all things she was sure that she was weary, unutterably,unspeakably weary. The soft warmth of the blankets about her wascomforting.

  Sim Gage in his own place of rest was uneasy. Darkness came on late bythe clock in that latitude. Something was on Sim's mind. He hadforgotten to tell his new housekeeper how to make safe the door! Hewondered whether she had gone to bed or whether she was sitting therein the dark--an added darkness all around her. He was sure that if hetold her how to fasten the door she would sleep better.

  Timidly, he got up out of his own comfortless couch, and groped for theelectric flash-light which sometimes may be seen in places such as histo-day. He tiptoed along the path through the willows, across theyard, and knocked timidly at the door. He heard no answer. A suddenfear came to him. Had she in terror fled the place--was she wanderinghopelessly lost, somewhere out there in the night? He knocked moreloudly, pushed open the door, turned the flash light here and there inthe room.

  He saw her lying, the blankets piled up above her, a white arm thrownout, her eyes closed, her face turned upon her other arm, deep in thestupor of exhaustion. She was a woman, and very beautiful.

  Suddenly frightened, he cut off the light. But the glare had wakenedher. She started up, called out, "Who's there?" Her voice was vibrantwith terror. "Who's _there_?" she repeated.

  "It's only me, ma'am," said Sim Gage, his voice trembling.

  "You said you wouldn't come!--Go away!"

  "I wanted to tell you----"

  "Go away!"

  He went outside, but continued stubbornly, gently.

  "--I wanted to say to you, ma'am," said he, "you can lock this heredoor on the inside. You come around, and you'll find a slat that dropsinto the latch. Now, there's a nail on a string, fastened to thatlatch. You can find that nail, and if you'll just drop that bar andpush the nail in the hole up above it--why, you'll be safe as can be,and there can't _no_ one get in."

  He stood waiting, fumbling at the button of the flash light. Byaccident it was turned on again.

  He saw her then sitting half upright in the bed, both her white armsholding the clothing about her, the piled mass of her dark hair framinga face which showed white against the background. Her eyes, unseeing,were wide open, dark, beautiful. Sim Gage's heart stopped in hisbosom. She was a woman. She had come, of her own volition. They wereutterly alone.