by Zane Grey
He ploughed all the ground he had farmed the year before, even the sandy ten acres he had planted in corn. For the hayfield he chose a plot lower down, near the brook, where the grass grew abundantly. He trebled the area for potatoes. He would sell two hundred bushels that fall.
Planting was labour he loved best of all, with the exception of work pertaining to cattle. Mistakes indulged in during the preceding year he carefully avoided. From dawn until dark he sowed, planted, waded through the rich, dark soil, but when he arrived at the cornfield he had scarce begun sowing when the flight of crows arrived. A black crowd of cawing crows!
“All the damn crows in Arizona!” ejaculated Logan, in a rage. “You black buzzards; why don’t a few of you call on some other farmer?”
This spring he gave up killing them. All the corn he laid that first day they ate behind him. Next day he covered the precious kernels, and so outwitted them. Crows were not diggers, at least.
“If it gets dry this summer, I’ll irrigate,” soliloquized Logan, surveying the land, and its relation to the brook. By going up the canyon he could dam the stream and run water all over his farmland. He scarcely gave a thought to the prodigious labour involved. After planting the cornfield he set to work with the beans. In a country where beans were supposed to flourish he had failed signally. He had one sack left, which was enough for a dozen long rows. He had no turnip seed.
One morning at breakfast Lucinda said: “Logan, it is July.”
“July? — Well! — How do you know?”
“I’ve kept track of the months...My time is near.”
“Aw! I almost forgot, dear. I wish I could stand it for you...Another boy! Gosh, I hope he comes on the Fourth of July. Anyway, I’ll name him Abraham Lincoln Huett.”
“Husband, we should wait until we get him.” Lucinda’s tone was strange and far away, but Logan failed to notice it.
“Hadn’t you better take it easy, Luce?” he asked earnestly. “You’re on your feet all the time, even when you’re not helping me.”
“I feel strong — restless. I don’t get tired. If I’m idle, I brood.”
“I know so little about such things...Can you tell any-ways near when?”
“Not very closely. But when the hour comes a woman knows...You must be ready to hurry after Mrs. Holbert.”
“I can get her here in five hours.”
“That’s reasonably quick, I’m sure. But it might be all over in far less time than that. We’ll hope not...only you must have your horse ready.”
“I’ll keep Buck in the’ corral. Don’t worry, dear. It’ll be all right. I’ll be within call any time.”
“Logan, you forget I’m alive while you’re at work,” she said, sombrely.
Several days went by with Logan ever thoughtful of Lucinda, neglecting his work to make frequent trips back to the cabin, and never going far away. However, she went about her tasks as usual, and gradually his anxiety lessened. He expected another word from her to prepare him.
There was a long, narrow ravine opening down into the canyon, a favourite place for cattle to stray in hot weather. It was shady, and the grazing was green. Logan had not fenced the upper end of this, as he had never tracked any cattle that far. One afternoon, however, happening along near this spot, he found to his dismay that several of his steers had worked out on to the ridge above. He discovered them up an aspen swale and drove them back, carrying poles and logs to obstruct the opening for the time being. When he had completed this job and started home, he saw that the afternoon was spent. The shade of the deep ravine where he had worked had failed to warn him of the approach of sunset and dusk.
Darkness had settled down by the time he reached the fields. The night hawks were flying about with their weird cries, the insects had begun their buzzing chorus, and the drowsy summer warmth of the day had begun to cool. Logan was surprised not to see a light in the cabin. He hurried on, a sudden fear assailing him. Reaching the open door, he found the cabin dark.
“Luce,” he called, anxiously. She did not answer. He went in, repeating his call, this time sharply. She was not in the cabin. He rushed out to shout. If she had gone out for wood or water she could hear him; but there was no answer. The only other place she could possibly be was at the cowshed. His neglect to come back early to milk the cows might have induced her to do those chores herself — she was queer about such little things.
Logan strode down the path. Stars had begun to twinkle. He heard a pattering on the ground, and the dog came running to him, leaping up and whining. Coyote would not be far from Lucinda. Nevertheless Logan’s sense of something amiss did not leave him.
He hurried to the sheds. All dark! Still, it was nothing for Lucinda to finish milking after nightfall. Logan heard the rustle and munching of hay. Coyote had left him, but he noticed that Bossy was in her stall.
“Lucinda — are you there?” called Logan hesitantly, peering into the darkness. Fear knifed him with a swift, sharp pang.
“Here — I am,” Lucinda replied, in a voice from which it seemed all life had drained.
Logan felt his way to the next stall. It had been used to store hay, of which only a lower layer was left. He called again huskily.
“Here,” she replied, almost under his feet.
“Luce — girl!” he cried, falling on his knees to feel around for her. “What has happened?”
“I wanted — to milk — before dark...But I never got to it...my time came...Your son, Abraham Lincoln, has just — been born...He was in a hurry to — come into this world.”
“Son! Abraham — oh, my God!...Luce, this is awful...what shall I do?”
“Leave me here...Go for Mrs. Holbert.”
“Let me carry you up to the cabin.”
“It wouldn’t be safe...You’d better go...and hurry!...The baby is alive.”
Logan struck a match with shaking hands. The light flared up. He saw Lucinda lying on the hay, white as a corpse. Her face appeared small — shrunken — her eyes too large — somehow terrible. Tucked under her arm, half covered, lay a strange little mite with a mop of black hair.
“Well! — Howdy there — Abe!” he said, in a strangled voice.
But he did not look at his wife again. He extinguished the match with fingers which did not feel the burn.
“Luce, I hate to leave you. But I’m helpless...If only I — —”
“Go, Logan. Don’t waste time.”
Huett left her with a husky utterance, and running clumsily in the dark to the corral, saddled and bridled Buck with hands that shook in spite of his intense efforts to control them. Mounting, he was off up the hill. He found that Buck was not a racer, but was strong and tireless and could lope indefinitely. Except on the grades where Logan was forced to walk or trot, the homesteader kept his horse in open gait.
The hard action gradually steadied Logan, but he could not remember having known such agitation before. However, his practical habit of thinking out obstacles soon enabled him to apply all his faculties towards the ride through the forest. Where the pines grew dense it was darker and the road was full of pits and roots; but in the open stretches Logan made better time. Vigilant and intense in his concentration over the lay of the land, Logan hardly realized the passing of time. At last he swung out of the deep wood and into the open where the south end of Mormon Lake gleamed under the stars. In less than half an hour he hauled Buck up in front of Holbert’s ranch.
The rancher and his womenfolk were astounded at Logan’s onslaught upon their door; particularly his panting relief at finding them at home, and his frantic appeal for help.
“Hitch up pronto, John,” said the older woman calmly. “Mary, you come help me get ready...Don’t worry, Huett. It’ll be all right. There was once a great and good man born in a manger.”
Logan unsaddled Buck and turned him into the pasture. Then he ran to the barn, where Holbert was readying the wagon by the light of a lantern.
“Won’t take a jiffy,” announced the rancher. “B
ill went after the hosses. I had them in to water no more than hour ago...It’s a downhill pull. You can drive it in three hours. My wife is an old hand at birthday parties. Don’t be upset, Huett. This is kinda common in the lives of settlers.”
Logan had a fleeting idea that he lacked something theses pioneers like Holbert possessed, but their assurance and kindliness heartened him in this extremity. For the first time he echoed Lucinda’s wish that they might have had near neighbours. Presently Holbert drove the buck-board up to the cabin, Logan following with the son-in-law, Bill, who was solicitous and helpful. When they arrived at the cabin, the women were emerging.
“We’ll take the lantern,” Mrs. Holbert was saying. “But put it out. Give Huett some matches. Put some blankets under the seat...Mary, have I forgotten anything?”
“I reckon not, maw.”
They climbed into the back seat. Holbert gave the reins over to Logan and jumped down. “Easy team to drive, Huett. Hold them to a fast trot, except on the grades...Good hick!”
“I’m much obliged, Holbert,” said Logan, gratefully. He drove out and turned south on the main road. A half moon had risen over the black forest and gleamed softly on the lake. That would be a help, he thought. The women wrapped blankets around their knees and lapsed into a silence welcome to Logan. He attended to the road, forcing into abeyance his acute anxiety, while his sense of dragging time eased away under the influence of swift movement. Holbert had spoken modestly of this team: they trotted on tirelessly, rolling the light buckboard; the lake passed, the moon soared, and the sections of black forest gradually grew longer as the miles went by.
Before Logan thought such a thing possible he reached Long. Valley, and was soon clattering down into moonlit Sycamore Canyon.
Halting at the corrals, he leaped out to dash towards the cow-stalls. He could dimly see Lucinda lying on the hay. The moment was exceedingly poignant. His voice almost failed him, but she heard and answered.
“Aw!” he exclaimed, fervently. “They’re here, Luce.” And he ran back to the buckboard. “She’s alive, Mrs. Holbert!” he cried, boyishly. “She spoke!”
“Shore she’s alive. What was you thinkin’, man? Light the lantern an’ hand out thet bundle.”
Logan heard the cheery pioneer woman talking solicitously to Lucinda. He halted the team near the corral fence to pace the moonlit path. After an endless interval the younger woman sought him.
“Maw says to tell you it’s a strappin’ boy an’ favours you,” she said. “Both doin’ fine. In the mawnin’ they can be moved to the house. We’ll stay heah with them...An’ you can go to bed.”
Logan mumbled his profound gratitude to her and to something more of which he was only vaguely conscious. He unhitched the horses and turned them loose to graze. Then he went up to the cabin and sat down outside the open door, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. The silent canyon with its silver winding ribbon seemed to rebuke him.
“Reckon there was something I didn’t figure on,” he soliloquized, grimly. “And that’s been Luce’s part in this lousy cattle-range deal of mine. My idee of a husky mate and some strappin’ sons!...I reckon now I sure see the cost to a woman.”
Logan worked in the fields. Before August was out Lucinda was helping him with the harvest. The rain and heat for summer season held to normal; Logan raised no bumper crop, but he was satisfied with a yield that looked great compared with the failure of the years before. He sacked more potatoes than he would be able to haul to town in one load. The corn did not mature well, but there would be enough to take care of the young stock he wanted to keep enclosed during the winter. By mid-September the harvesting was finished. Then Logan was eager to make his fall trip to Flagg. Upon his return October would be well advanced — the one season he had any leisure to roam the woods with his gun.
Lucinda kept to her vow regarding the next trip to Flagg. She went, despite the heavy load, and carried the baby on her lap, letting George hang on as best he could. They camped the first night at Turkey Flat, and late the next afternoon made Mormon Lake, where the Holberts welcomed them.
“Abe Lincoln Huett, huh?” ejaculated the rancher, as the baby was placed on his knee. “Wal, if he ain’t a kid! Got your eyes, Huett, only a little darker.”
Logan slept under the wagon with Coyote. At breakfast the following morning Holbert asked more questions about Sycamore Canyon.
“Thet’s a good place, if you ever get started,” he said, thoughtfully. “My herd is growin’ fast. I’m drivin’ a hundred head to the railroad next month. Don’t forget to find out the latest price.”
“I won’t. Holbert, I’m wondering if you could spare me some stock this fall and let me pay you when I do get started.”
“Shore glad to oblige you, Huett...Have you proved up on your homestead yet?”
“Not till next year.”
“Wal, I’d make application for a patent to the land. Government’s awful slow. When the land’s yours, wal, it’s different. You’ll own your homestead allotment an’ have right of way over a big range. But in case you cain’t make it go down there, I’d advise your locatin’ over here north of me. There’s a fine range thet some feller will locate sooner or later. An’ he might not be a good neighbour. We got to expect rustlin’ in this wild country.”
“Rustling! You mean cattle-thieves?”
“Shore do. Wait till more settlers drift in an’ we all raise enough stock. Then we’ll ketch it hot, I’ll bet.”
“Last thing I’d ever thought of,” replied Huett, sombrely.
Soon he was driving on, with Lucinda beside him, more animated than she had been for months. Logan decided that in the future, when he went to town, it would be the right thing to do to take his wife along.
“Wife, we’ll stay a couple of days,” said Logan, upon their arrival at Flagg. “I haven’t any money. But I’ll trade in this load of potatoes and arrange for credit this time.”
“Logan, are we forced to go in debt?” asked Lucinda.
“I reckon so. But not much.”
“A little is too much...I’ll lend you a hundred dollars.”
“Luce! — Say, have you got that much money? — Well, you just spend it on yourself and the children.”
Babbitt’s gave Logan a dollar a bushel for his potatoes and claimed they were the finest ever brought into that store. This pleased Logan and made him thoughtful, although he did not deviate in his ambition to be a cattleman, not a farmer. Nevertheless, he saw clearly the value of good crops while his herd was growing. Logan purchased food supplies, seed, tools, and clothes and boots for himself, of which necessities he was sadly in need. He renewed old acquaintances and made new ones. Flagg, a wide-open frontier town, had begun to grow rapidly, especially in undesirable citizens. Hard characters from New Mexico and Colorado had come to Arizona, and were drifting about looking for a place to lodge. Logan hardly saw his wife that day. They took supper at the blacksmith’s, where Logan scarcely recognized the new, gayer Lucinda. Next morning he packed his supplies, leaving a space under the seat for Lucinda’s purchases, but it developed that he had not left enough room for her numerous bundles. He had to tie many of them on the wagon-side; and about a few Lucinda was both particular and mysterious, refusing to allow him to handle them. Then she surprised him by announcing that if he was ready she would be glad to start for home.
“I’ve had a wonderful time,” she said gaily. “Everybody was nice — and crazy about the babies. I’m ready if you are. We mustn’t waste money. And if I stay another hour I’ll spend...Well, it’s time to go home, Logan.”
Logan opined she had meant that she might spend money she did not have, as he had done. He had further cause to appreciate this wonderful wife.
Logan had reason to rejoice for more than good credit in Flagg and at the prospect of an addition to his herd. Lucinda appeared to have changed, to have lost a sombreness that had come so gradually that Logan had scarcely perceived it. She was more like her old self. The ride into
Sycamore Canyon after Logan had arranged with Holbert for the new stock was almost as thrilling for her, it appeared, as her first one had been. The golden rod and the purple asters had bloomed during their absence. The canyon was beginning to blaze with scarlet and gold and purple.
“I’m glad to get back,” Lucinda announced as if telling herself something new and exciting. “After all, it’s home!”
Three weeks later Holbert’s sons drove in the score and more of lately purchased cows and heifers. All too soon, then, Logan’s short fall season for hunting ended with deep snows up on the ridges. Again he was disappointed that he could not trap beaver. He must wait for an open winter. When he completed hanging up the winter supply of meat, he attacked the firewood job. This he made a long and hard one, goaded by the unforgettable fact that Lucinda had been forced to chop wood during her delicate condition while he lay helpless in bed from the cougar wounds.
Day by day the snows crept down into the canyon, limiting Logan’s activities to chores and the killing Or frightening away of the predatory beasts that preyed on his herd. The winter passed swiftly, giving way to an early spring and a warm summer. Lucinda persuaded Logan to wait until fall for the trip to town. Their third boy, whom Logan named Grant Huett, after General Grant, was born at Flagg in October. When they again returned to their ranch the snows were whitening the forest ridge-tops.
Logan toiled early and late. He had a growing trio of youngsters now — the lusty boys he had prayed for — and prosperity still held aloof. The Government finally gave Logan patent for his homestead, and now the land was his as well as the rights of water, grass, and timber for all the canyon area. But Logan’s draught of sweetness was rendered bitter by Holbert’s demanding a mortgage on the property for the cattle he had advanced — the little herd which, instead of increasing in number towards the long-deferred fulfilment, had dwindled to a quarter. In spite of his dreams, Huett was a better farmer than a cattle-raiser. But he never faltered, never lost sight of his vision; and while he toiled, his giant frame bent over plough or furrow or axe, the months and years rolled on.