III
"I do believe there shall be a winter yet in heaven--and in hell." --_Paradise and the Periscope._
"Realism, _n._ The art of depicting nature as it is seen by toads." --_The Devil's Dictionary._
"They sit brooding on a garbage scow and tell us how bad the world smells." --BERTON BRALEY.
"Just round the block" is a phrase familiar to you. To get the sameeffect in the open country you would say "thirty miles" or sixty;and in those miles it is likely there would be no water and nohouse--perhaps not any tree. Consider now: Within the borders of NewMexico might be poured New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland,Delaware. Then drop in another small state and all of Chesapeake Bay,and still New Mexico would not be brimful--though it would have tobe carried carefully to avoid slopping over. Scattered across thiscountry is a population less than that of Buffalo--half of itclustered in six-mile ribbons along the Rio Grande and the Pecos.Those figures are for to-day. Divide them by three, and then excusethe story if it steps round the block. It was long ago; Plancus wasconsul then.
Some two weeks after the day when Johnny Dines went to horse camp,Charlie See rode northward through the golden September; northwardfrom Rincon, pocket of that billiard table you know of. His way waseast of the Rio Grande, in the desperate twisting country where theriver cuts through Caballo Mountains. His home was beyond the river,below Rincon, behind Cerro Roblado and Selden Hill; and he rode for areason he had. Not for the first time; at every farm and clearing hewas hailed with greeting and jest.
Across the river he saw the yellow walls of Colorado, of old FortThorne, deserted Santa Barbara. He came abreast of them, left thembehind, came to Wit's End, where the river gnaws at the long bareridges and the wagon road clings and clambers along the brownhillside. He rode sidewise and swaying, crooning a gay little saddlesong; to which Stargazer, his horse, twitched back an inquiring ear.
_Oh, there was a crooked man and he rode a crooked mile_----
Charlie See was as straight as his own rifle; it was the road hetraveled which prompted that joyful saddle song. As will be found uponexamination, that roistering ditty sorts with a joyful jog trot. Itfollows that Charlie See was not riding at a run, as frontiersmen doin the movies. It is a great and neglected truth that frontiersmen onthe frontier never ride like the frontiersmen in films. And it may bementioned in passing that frontiersmen on frontiers never do anythingat all resembling as to motive, method or result those things whichfrontiersmen do in films. And that is the truth.
The actual facts are quite simple and jolly. In pursuit of wild stock,men run their horses at top speed for as short a time as may becontrived; not to make the wild stock run faster and farther, but tohold up the wild stock. Once checked, they proceed as soberly as maybe to the day's destination; eventually to a market. Horse or steercomes to market in good shape or bad, as the handling has beenreckless or tender; and the best cowman is he whose herds have beenmoved slowest. At exceptional times--riding with or from the sheriff,to get a doctor, or, for a young man in April, riding a fresh horsefor a known and measured distance, speed is permitted. But the rule isto ride slowly and sedately, holding swiftness in reserve for need.Walk, running walk, pace, jog trot--those are the road gaits, to whichhorses are carefully trained, giving most mileage with least effort.Rack and single-foot are tolerated but frowningly.
The mad, glad gallop is reserved for childhood and for emergencies.Penalties, progressively suitable, are provided for the mad, gladgalloper. He becomes the object of sidelong glances and meaningsmiles; persistent, he becomes the theme of gibe and jest to flay theskin. If he be such a one as would neither observe nor forecast, onewho will neither learn nor be taught, soon or late he finds himselfset afoot with a give-out horse; say, twenty-five miles from water. Itis not on record that wise or foolish, after one such experience, isever partial to the sprightly gallop as a road gait. Of thirst, as of"eloquent, just and mightie Death," it may be truly said: "Whom nonecould advise, thou hast perswaded."
The road wound down to the bottom land for a little space. Then sangCharlie See:
_Oh, mind you not in yonder town When the red wine you were fillin', You drank a health to the ladies round And slighted Barbara Allan?_
Followed a merry ditty of old days:
_Foot in the stirrup and a hand on the horn, Best old cowboy ever was born! Hi, yi-yippy, yippy-hi-yi-yi, Hi-yi-yippy-yippy-yay!_
_Stray in the herd and the boss said kill it, Shot him in the ear with the handle of the skillet! Hi, yi-yippy, yippy-hi-yi-yi, Hi-yi-yippy-yippy-yay!_
That rollicking chorus died away. The wagon road turned up a sandydraw for a long detour, to cross the high ridges far inland.Stargazer clambered up the Drunkard's Mile, a steep and dizzy cut-off.High on an overhang of halfway shelf, between water and sky, Stargazerpaused for breathing space.
_The world has no place for a dreamer of dreams, Then 'tis no place for me, it seems, Dearie!... My dearie!_
Echo rang bugle-brave from cliff to cliff, pealed exulting, answeredagain--came back long after, faint and far:
"Dearie!... My dearie!"
He looked down, musing, at the swirling black waters far below.
_For I dream of you all the day long! You run through the hours like a song! Nothing's worth while save dreams of you, And you can make every dream come true-- Dearie! My dearie!_
Drunkard's Mile fell off into the valley at Redbrush and joined thewagon road there. They passed Beck's Ferry and Beneteau's; they cameto a bridge over the _acequia madre_, the mother ditch, wide anddeep. Beyond was a wide valley of cleared and irrigated farm lands.This was Garfield settlement.
* * * * *
You remember Mr. Dick and how he could not keep King Charles' head outof his Memorial? A like unhappiness is mine. When I remember thatpleasant settlement as it really was, cheerful and busy and merry, Iam forced to think how gleefully the super-sophisticated Sons of Lightwould fall afoul of these friendly folk--how they would pounce uponthem with jeering laughter, scoff at their simple joys and fears; setdown, with heavy and hateful satisfaction, every lack and longing;flout at each brave makeshift, such as Little Miss Brag crowed over,jubilant, when she pointed with pride:
_For little Miss Brag, she lays much stress On the privileges of a gingham dress-- A-ha-a! O-ho-o!_
A lump comes to my throat, remembering; now my way is plain; if Iwould not be incomparably base, I must speak up for my own people.Now, like Mr. Dick, I must fly my kite, with these scraps and tags ofMemorial. The string is long, and if the kite flies high it may takethe facts a long way; the winds must bear them as they will.
Consider now the spreading gospel of despair, and marvel at the powerof words--noises in the air, marks upon paper. Let us wonder to seehow little wit is needed to twist and distort truth that it may setforth a lie. A tumblebug zest, a nose pinched to sneering, a slurringtongue--with no more equipment you and I could draw a picture ofGarfield as it is done in the fashion of to-day.
Be blind and deaf to help and hope, gay courage, hardship noblyborne; appeal to envy, greed, covetousness; belaud extravagance andluxury; magnify every drawback; exclaim at rude homes, simple dress,plain food, manners not copied from imitators of Europe's idlesse;use ever the mean and mocking word--how easy to belittle! BeholdGarfield--barbarous, uncouth, dreary, desolate, savage and forlorn;there misery kennels, huddled between jungle and moaning waste;there, lout and boor crouch in their wretched hovels! We have left outlittle; only the peace of mighty mountains far and splendid, a gallantsun and the illimitable sky, tingling and eager life, and theinvincible spirit of man.
Such picture as this of Garfield _comme il faut_ is, I humblyconceive, what a great man, who trod earth bravely, had in mind whenhe wondered at "the spectral unr
eality of realistic books." It is whathe forswore in his up-summing: "And the true realism is ... to findout where joy resides and give it a voice beyond singing."
This trouble about Charles the First and our head--it started in 1645,I think--needs looking into.
There are circles where "adventurer" is a term of reproach, where"romance" is made synonym for a lie, and a silly lie at that.Curious! The very kernel and meaning of romance is the overcoming ofdifficulties or a manly constancy of striving; a strong play pushedhome or defeat well borne. And it would be hard to find a man butfound his own life a breathless adventure, brief and hard, with upsand downs enough, strivings through all defeats.
Interesting, if true. But can we prove this? Certainly--by trying.Mr. Dick sets us all right. Put any man to talk of what he knowsbest--corn, coal or lumber--and hear matters throbbing with theentrancing interest born only of first-hand knowledge. Our pessimists"suspect nothing but what they do not understand, and they suspecteverything"--as was said of the commission set to judge the regicideswho cut off the head of Charles the Martyr--whom I may have mentioned,perhaps.
Let the dullest man tell of the thing he knows at first hand, and hisspeech shall tingle with battle and luck and loss, purr for smallcomforts of cakes and ale or sound the bell note of clean mirth; hisvoice shall exult with pride of work, tingle and tense to speak ofhard-won steeps, the burden and heat of the day and "the bright faceof danger"; it shall be soft as quiet water to tell of shadows wherewinds loiter, of moon magic and far-off suns, friendship and fire andsong. There will be more, too, which he may not say, having no words.We prate of little things, each to each; but we fall silent beforelove and death.
It was once commonly understood that it is not good for a manto whine. Only of late has it been discovered that a thinker issuperficial and shallow unless he whines; that no man is wise unlesshe views with alarm. Eager propaganda has disseminated the glad newsthat everything is going to the demnition bowwows. Willing hands passon the word. The method is simple. They write very long books in whichthey set down the evil on the one side--and nothing on the other. Thatis "realism." Whatsoever things are false, whatsoever things aredishonest, whatsoever things are unjust, whatsoever things are impure,whatsoever things are of ill report; if there be any vice, and ifthere be any shame--they think on these things. They gloat upon thesethings; they wallow in these things.
The next time you hanker for a gripping, stinging, roaring romance,try the story of Eddystone Lighthouse. There wasn't a realist on thejob--they couldn't stand the gaff. For any tough lay like this ofWinstanley's dream you want a gang of idealists--the impractical kind.It is not a dismal story; it is a long record of trouble, delay,setbacks, exposure, hardship, death and danger, failure, humiliation,jeers, disaster and ruin. Crippled idealists were common in PlymouthHarbor. The sea and the wind mocked their labor; they were crushed,frozen and drowned; but they built Eddystone Light! And men in otherharbors took heart again to build great lights against night andstorm; the world over, realists fare safelier on the sea forWinstanley's dream.
There is the great distinction between realism and reality: It is thebusiness of a realist to preach how man is mastered by circumstances;it is the business of a man to prove that he will be damned first.
You may note this curious fact of dismal books--that you remember nopassage to quote to your friends. Not one. And you perceive, withlively astonishment, that despairing books are written by thefortunate. The homespun are not so easily discouraged. When crows pullup their corn they do not quarrel with Creation. They comment on thecrows, and plant more corn.
This trouble in King Charles' head may be explained, in part, ona closer looking. As for those who announce the bankruptcy of aninsolvent and wildcat universe, with no extradition, and who proclaimGod the Great Absconder--they are mostly of the emerged tenth. Theirlips do curl with scorn; and what they scorn most is work--and doers.For what they deign to praise--observe, sir, for yourself, what theyuphold, directly or by implication. See if it be not a thing compactof graces possible only to idleness. See if it be not their great andfatal mistake that they regard culture as an end in itself, and notas a means for service. Aristocracy? Patricians? In a world which hasknown the tinker of Bedford, the druggist's clerk of Edmonton, theStratford poacher, backwoods Lincoln, a thousand others, and tenthousand--a carpenter's son among them?
Returning to the Provisional Government: Regard its members closely,these gods _ad interim_. The ground of their depression is thateverybody is not Just like Them. They have a grievance also in thematter of death; which might have been arranged better. It saddensthem to know that so much excellence as theirs should perish fromthe earth. The skeptic is slacker, too; excusing himself from thehardships of right living by pleading the futility of effort.
Unfair? Of course I am unfair; all this is assumption withoutknowledge, a malicious imputation of the worst possible motives,judgment from a part. It is their own method.
A wise word was said of late: "There are poor colonels, but no poorregiments." It would be truer to change a word; to say that there arepoor soldiers, but no poor regiments. The gloomster picks the poorestsoldier he can find, and holds him up to our eyes as a sample. "Thisis life!" says the pessimist, proud at last. "Now you see the stuffyour regiments are made of!"
If one of these pallbearers should write a treatise on pomology hewould dwell lovingly on apple-tree borers, blight and pest and scale.He would say no word of spray or pruning; he would scoff at the gloryof apple blossoms as the rosy illusion of romance; and he wouldresolutely suppress all mention of--apples. But he would feature hardcider, for all that; and he would revel in cankerworms.
These blighters and borers--figuratively speaking--when the curse ofthe bottle is upon them--the ink bottle--they weave ugly words to uglyphrases for ugly books about ugly things; with ugly thoughts of uglydeeds they chronicle life and men as dreary, sordid, base, squalid,paltry, tawdry, mean, dismal, dull and dull again, interminablydull--vile, flat, stale, unprofitable and insipid. No splendid follyor valiant sin--much less impracticable idealisms, such as kindness,generosity, faith, forgiveness, courage, honor, friendship, love; nocharm or joy or beauty, no ardors that flame and glow. They show fortha world of beastliness and bankruptcy; they picture life as apurposeless hell.
I beg of you, sir, do not permit yourself to be alarmed. What you hearis but the backdoor gossip of the world. And these people do not getenough exercise. Their livers are torpid. Some of them, poor fellows,are quite sincere--and some are merely in the fashion. It isn't true,you know; not of all of us, all the time. Nothing is changed; there isno shadow but proves the light; in the farthest world of any universe,in the latest eternity you choose to mention, it will still be playingthe game to run out your hits; and there, as here, only the shirkerwill lie down on the job.
In the meantime, now and here, there are two things, and two only,that a man may do with his ideals: He may hold and shape them, ortread them under foot; ripen or rot.
What, sir, the hills are steep, the sand heavy, the mire isDespond-deep; for that reason will you choose a balky horse? Or willyou follow a leader who plans surrender?
The bookshelviki have thrown away the sword before the fight. Theyshriek a shameful message: "All is lost! Save yourselves who can!"
The battle is sore upon us; true. But there is another war cry thanthis. It was born of a bitter hour; it was nobly boasted, and bravemen made it good. Now, and for all time to come, as the lost andfurious fight reels by, men will turn and turn again for the watchwordof Verdun: "They shall not pass! They shall not pass!"
Pardon the pontifical character of these remarks. They come tardy off.For years I have kept a safe and shameful silence when I should havebeen shouting, "Janet! Donkeys!" and throwing things. I will behighbrow-beaten no longer. I hereby resign from the choir inaudible.Modesty may go hang and prudence be jiggered; I wear Little MissBrag's colors for favor; I have cut me an ellum gad, and I mean to useit on the seat of the scorner.<
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* * * * *
"Everything in Nature is engaged in writing its own history." So saysEmerson or somebody. Here is the roll call of that lonesome bitbetween the Rio Grande and Caballo Mountain. Salem, Garfield,Donahue's, Derry and Shandon; those were the hamlets of the eastside. Sound Irish, don't they? They were just what they sound like, atfirst. A few Irish families, big families, half of them girls--Irishgirls; young gentlemen with a fancy to settle down settled right thereor thereabouts. That's a quick way to start settlements. There wasalso a sardonic Greenhorn, to keep alive a memory of the old-timeTexans, before the fences. A hundred years older than Greenhorn wasthe old Mexican outpost, San Ysidro; ruthlessly changed to Garfieldwhen the Mississippi Valley moved in. Transportation was the poorestever; this was the last-won farm land of New Mexico.
Along with snakes, centipedes, little yellow bobcats, whisky, poker,maybe a beef or two--there were other features worthy of note. Eachman had to be cook, housekeeper, hunter, laundryman, shoemaker,blacksmith, bookkeeper, purchasing agent, miner, mason, nurse, doctor,gravedigger, interpreter, surveyor, tailor, jailor, judge, jury andsheriff. Having no sea handy, he was seldom a sailorman.
A man who could do these things well enough to make them work mightbe illiterate, but he couldn't be ignorant, not on a bet. It wasn'tpossible. He knew too much. He had to do his own thinking. There wasno one else to do it for him. And he could not be wretched. He was toobusy. "We may be poor sinners, but we're not miserable"--that was afavorite saying. When they brought in supplies or when they packed fora long trip, they learned foresight and imagination. A right goodcollege, the frontier; there are many who are proud of that degree.
It is easy to be hospitable, kindly and free-hearted in a thinlysettled country; it is your turn next, you know generosity from bothsides; the Golden Rule has no chance to get rusty. So they werepleasant and friendly people. They learned cooperation by making wagonroads together, by making dams and big irrigation ditches, and fromthe round-ups. They lived in the open air, and their work was hard,they had health; there were endless difficulties to overcome;happiness had a long start and the pursuit was merry.
There was one other great advantage--hope. They had much to hope for.Almost everything. They wished three great wishes: Water for thefields, safety from floods, a way to the outside world. To-day thethick and tangled _bosques_ are cleared to smiling farms, linked by ashining network of ditches. The floods are impounded at Engle Dam, andheld there for man's uses. A great irrigation canal keeps high andwide, with just fall enough to move the water; each foot saved of highlevel means added miles of reclaimed land under the ditch. To astranger's eye the water of that ditch runs clearly uphill. To holdthat high level the main ditch, which is first taken out to serve thewest side, crosses the Rio Grande on a high flume to Derry; curveshigh and winding about the wide farm lands of Garfield valley; issiphoned under the river for Hatch and Rodey, and then is siphonedonce again to the east side, to break out in the sunlight for the useof Rincon Valley. Rough and crooked is made smooth and straight; safebridge and easy grade, a modern highway follows up the valley, with abrave firefly twinkling by night, to join the great National Trail atEngle Dam. This is what they dreamed amid sand and thorn--and theirdreams have all come true. Now who can say which was better, thehoping or the having?
It was pleasant enough, at least, on this day of hoping. Stargazershuffled by farm and farm, and turned aside at last to where, with axand pick and team and tackle, a big man was grubbing up mesquiteroots. Unheeded, for the big man wrought sturdily, Charlie rode close;elbow on saddlehorn, chin on hand, he watched the work with mingledinterest and pity.
"There," he said, and shuddered--"there, but for the grace of God,goes Charlie See!"
The big man straightened up and held a hand to his aching back. Hisface was brown and his hair was red, his eyes were big and blue andmerry, and his big, homely, honest mouth was one broad grin.
"Why, if it ain't Nubbins! Welcome, little stranger! Hunting saddlehorses--again?"
"Why, no, Big Boy--I'm not. Not this time."
Big Boy rubbed the bridge of his nose, disconcerted. "You always wasbefore. Not horses? Well, well! What say we go a-visitin', then?" Hesquinted at the low sun. "I'll call this a day, and we'll mosey righthome to my little old shack, and wolf down a few eggs and such. Thenwe'll wash our hands and faces right good, catch us up some freshhorses out of the pasture, and terrapin up the road a stretch. Bullybig moonlight night." He began unhooking his team.
"Fine! I just love to ride. Only came about fifty miles to-day, too."
"I was thinkin' some of droppin' in on old man Fenderson. I ain't beenover there since last night. Coalie! You, Zip! Ged-dap!"
"Mr. Adam Forbes," said Charlie, "I've got you by the foot!"
* * * * *
"Now if you was wishful of any relaxations," said Adam after supper,"you might side me up in the feet hills to-morrow, prospectin'."
"I might," said Charlie; "and then again I mightn't. Don't you go andbet on it."
Adam stropped his razor. "You know there's three canyons headin'off from MacCleod's Tank Park? And the farthest one, that big,steep, rough, wide, long, high, ugly, sandy, deep gash that runsanti-gogglin' north, splittin' off these spindlin' little hills fromthe main Caballo and Big Timber Mountain--ever been through that?'Pache Canyon, we call it--though we got no license to."
"Part way," said Charlie. Then his voice lit up with animation. "Say,Big Chump, that's it! Them warty little hills here--that's what makesus look down on you folks the way we do. And here I thought all alongit was because you was splay-foot farmers, and unfortunate, you know,that way like all nesters is. But blamed if I don't think it was themhills, all the time. We got regular old he-mountains, we have. Butthese here little old squatty hills clutterin' up your back yard--why,Adam, they ain't respectable, them hills ain't--squanderin' roundwhere a body might stub his toe on 'em, any time. You ought to pile'em up, Adam. They look plumb shiftless."
"That listens real good to me. You got more brains than people say."Adam scraped tranquilly at cheek and chin, necessitating an occasionalpause in his speech. "Now you can see for yourself how plumb foolishand futile a little runt of a man seems to a people that ain't neverbeen stunted."
"'Seems' is a right good word," said Charlie. He blew out a smokering. "You sure picked the very word you wanted, that time. I didn'tthink you had sense enough."
Adam passed an appraising finger tip over his brown cheek; he stirredup fresh lather.
"Yes," he said musingly, "a little sawed off sliver like you sure doeslook right comical to a full-grown man. Like me. Or Hob Lull." Hepaused, brush in air, to regard his guest benignantly. "I wonder ifgirls feel that way too? Miss Lyn Dyer, now? Lull, he hangs roundthere right smart--and he's a fine, big, upstanding man." He latheredhis face and rubbed it in. "First off, I fixed to assassinate himquiet, from behind. You know them two girls don't hardly know wherethey do live--always together, Harkey's house or Fenderson's. So Imistrusted, natural enough, that 'twas Miss Edith he was waitin' on.But I was mistook. Just in time to save his life from my bloody andbrutal designs he began tolling Miss Lyn to one side to look atsunsets and books and such, givin' me a chance to buzz Miss Edithalone. Good thing for him. That's why I'm lettin' you tag alongto-night--you can entertain Pete Harkey and Ma Fenderson and the oldman, so's they won't pester me and Hobby."
"Like fun I will! If you fellows had any decent feeling at all you'dboth of you clear out and give me a chance."
"Now, deary, you hadn't ought to talk like that--indeed you hadn't!"protested Adam. "You plumb distress me. You ought to declare yourself,feller. I'd always hate it if I was to slay you, and then find out I'dbeen meddlin' with Hobby Lull's private affairs. I'd hate that--I surewould!"
"Well now, there's no use of your askin' me for advice." Charlie'seyebrows shrugged, and so did his shoulders. "You'll have to decidethese things for yourself. Say, you mangy
, moth-eaten, slab-sided,long, lousy, lop-eared parallelopipedon, are you goin' to be allnight dollin' up? Let's ride!"
"Don't blame you for bein' impatient. Hob, he's there now." Face andvoice expressed fine tolerance; Adam looked into a scrap of brokenmirror for careful knotting of a gay necktie.
"I won't be sorry to see Hob once more, at that," observed Charlie."Always liked Lull. Took to him first time I ever saw him. That wasseven years ago, when I was only a kid."
"Only a kid! Only--Great Caesar's ghost, what are you now?"
"I'm twenty-five years old in my stocking feet. And here's how I metup with Lull. El Paso had a big ball game on with Silver City, andHob, he wanted to be umpire. Nobody on either team would hear of it,and not one of the fifteen hundred rip-roarin', howlin' fans. It wassure a mean mess while it lasted. You see, there was a lot of money upon the game."
"And who umpired?"
"Hob."
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