Home Ranch

by Ralph Moody

  “Go fer enough that-a-way and you’d land plumb in the Great Salt Lake. You just keep your britches drug up till we fetch the top of this here ridge, and I’ll point you out the dome of Pikes Peak. I know these here mountains like I know the palm of my own right hand.”

  The ridge was a lot higher than it looked to be, and it took us nearly two hours to reach the top. When we got there Hank couldn’t point out Pikes Peak or anything else. By that time it was drizzling, and the clouds hung so low we could barely see the next ridge. There was a deep canyon to cross before we reached it, the drizzle had turned into a steady rain, and it was growing dark and cold. I couldn’t keep my teeth from chattering; was so hungry my stomach squealed, and was beginning to worry when Hank sang out, “By dogies, I reckon I missed a beeline by a hair! This here’ll fetch us out to the calf pasture—just t’other side that low ridge.”

  I was so mixed up that all the ridges looked alike, but I did remember a low one to the west of the calf pasture, so I said, “Oh, yes, I remember it now! I guess we’d better hurry before it gets darker or Mr. Batchlett begins to worry.”

  “Batch, he ain’t got no worries—’ceptin’ that team a-gettin’ drownded in the cloudburst. Way this here rain’s a-pickin’ up, it won’t be long afore it hits. You hang close on my trail so’s you don’t get lost when dark comes on.”

  I hung close on Hank’s trail, but don’t know if we ever got to the top of the ridge he was talking about. Before we were halfway down the one we were on, it was so dark we had to feel for each step before we took it. And the rain was getting colder with every step. Once I slipped and fell, and my axe went rattling and sliding down the mountain. There was a second or so when it didn’t make a sound, then it rang against a rock—way below us.

  Ever since twilight I’d been afraid a bear or mountain lion would spring out on us, but that didn’t frighten me any more. I was too afraid that I might step off a cliff, and that my own head might land on a rock the way the axe had. Hank was either as scared as I, or his teeth chattered worse. When he tried to scold me for dropping the axe his words sounded as if he were chewing them when he let them go.

  I chewed right back, and told him I thought we’d better stay where we were till daylight, but he wouldn’t do it. He said we’d be in the calf pasture in half an hour, and all I had to do was to watch my step and keep close behind him. I couldn’t watch my step, and when I tried to keep close I bumped into him. He yapped and scolded me, but didn’t try to go any farther down the mountain. We quartered across the face of it for what seemed an hour, then climbed again. I think it was the climbing that saved us. We’d only gone a little way, crawling on our hands and knees, when we came to a solid wall of rock—and there were dry fir needles at the foot of it.

  I don’t know whether I slept or not, but I dug down into the needles and raked them over me as if they were a blanket. I only remember being cold and scared for a long time, and that I ached all over. When the first light of morning came, white fog filled the canyons, and low-hanging gray clouds sliced off the tops of all the peaks and ridges. Hank was half-buried in the needles, lying on his back and snoring with his mouth open. As I watched him, he jumped in his sleep and mumbled something I couldn’t understand, but I could tell that he was afraid. For the first time, I knew we were nowhere near the calf pasture, and that Hank was completely lost.

  I’d heard plenty of stories about people being lost in the mountains and wandering in circles until they died of cold or starvation. I was already so hungry I felt weak, and was sure we’d just wander around until we dropped in our tracks. Then I remembered that we’d have been at the home ranch before dark if Hank had followed back the way we’d come, instead of being so cocksure about making the shortcut.

  The more I thought of it the sorrier I was for myself, and began thinking I hated Hank for always bragging and acting as if he knew more than anybody else. I don’t know why, but that started me remembering things I’d done since I’d come away from home—and I wasn’t a bit proud of them.

  Mr. Batchlett had had to scold me a dozen times for tearing into things before I’d stopped to think. I’d picked Blueboy when I knew he was too much horse for me and that nobody wanted me to take him. And, only because Hazel had called me a little boy, I’d picked Clay and made a monkey of myself every time I’d used him. I’d made an even bigger monkey of myself when I’d climbed on Kenny’s donkey backwards. And I couldn’t be very proud of bragging because I could cut posts better than Hank; or of sharpening the axe I’d thought I was going to use, and leaving his dull—or of not showing him how to fell trees after knowing I had beat him anyway.

  I’d never stopped to think of it before, but, ever since I could remember, I’d wanted to do something real big, so people wouldn’t call me Little Britches and treat me like a boy. But more than half the time I’d tried to do things that were too big, and had only made myself look silly.

  As I lay there thinking about it Hank mumbled again, and struck out in his sleep. My first thought was that he’d struck out just as blindly when he tried to make the shortcut. And then I was ashamed of myself. I couldn’t help thinking he and I were a good deal alike. Maybe he was trying to do things too big for him so people wouldn’t call him an old man. Maybe he bragged about things he used to do because he couldn’t do them any more, and because he wanted the same thing I did: to have other people think he was as smart and able to do things as they were.

  As the daylight strengthened I forgot about being afraid—and about being sorry for myself. I’d thought I hated Hank, but I knew I didn’t, and that he was the one to be sorry for. All I had to do was to use my head a little to know that I wasn’t in very much trouble. We couldn’t be too badly lost, because we hadn’t gone very far, and knew the home ranch was just east of the mountains—certainly not more than ten or fifteen miles away. In June there would be no blizzards or hard cold that low in the mountains, and the sky was almost never clouded over for more than one or two days at a time. Just as soon as we could see the sun and find our direction, it would be easy to find our way out.

  And when we did get out nobody would blame me for getting lost, and I’d have all the rest of my life to do something really big enough to be proud of. But Hank was an old man. He’d probably never be able to do anything big enough to make people respect him. Beside that, Mr. Batchlett had told him he wouldn’t keep him unless he was back with a load of posts by sunset. Then, too, after all his bragging about knowing the mountains, the men would josh him forever about getting lost. I didn’t believe there was much sense in trying to go any farther until the sun came out, so pushed more dry needles up over Hank and went back to thinking until he woke up.

  Hank came out of the needles as if he’d been stung, grabbed his axe, and swung it above his head. Then he jerked around and shouted, “Where’d he go? Where’d . . . by dogies, I don’t know what Batch is a-thinkin’ ’bout, a-sendin’ men off to these mountains without no gun!”

  “I guess you were having a bad dream,” I told him. “Nothing has stirred around here since daylight.”

  Hank rubbed a hand across his eyes, and said, “By dogies, I must’a dozed off. What time o’ day is it?”

  “About six,” I said. “It’s been light for about an hour.”

  Hank climbed stiffly to his feet, and didn’t have to do any acting for me to know he had a bad backache. He didn’t put his hands on it, but stood as if he were carrying a heavy log on his shoulders. “Dadgummed weather!” he grumbled. “A man can’t scarcely see a landmark no place. Was the sky lighter one way or t’other at sunup? Why didn’t you rouse me?”

  “It wouldn’t have done any good,” I said, “and I thought you needed the rest. Daylight came so slow that . . .”

  “You leave me do the thinkin’!” he hollered. “If you’d’a roused me as daylight come on, we’d been out o’ these here mountains ’fore now. I reckon the calf pasture lies right over that ridge yonder, and I don’t aim to have nobody .
. .”

  Hank didn’t finish, but picked up his axe and hobbled away down the mountainside. I stumbled along behind him with my teeth chattering. It had stopped raining, but our clothes were still wet from the night before. Under the dry fir needles, I hadn’t noticed it much, but, as soon as the cold morning air got through them, I felt as if I’d been dipped in an ice pond.

  The wet rocks were as slippery as soap, and drops of water hung on every bush and twig. By the time we were down as far as the fog, we’d both fallen a dozen times, and were as wet as if we’d been in pouring rain. With each fall Hank moved slower and rowed at me as if I’d made him fall. With every step, the fog grew thicker, until we couldn’t see ten yards ahead, and it seemed to me that Hank was bearing off to our right. When I asked him about it, he chattered, “Don’t tell me where I’m a-goin’! Don’t you think I know? I aim to follow this here canyon down to where it comes out right to west’ard of the buildin’s. Ain’t no sense in us a-headin’ for the calf pasture!” There was nothing for me to do but keep my mouth shut and follow where he led me.

  As near as I could guess, it was about noon when the fog began to lift. Little by little, it rose until we could see nearly a mile ahead, and there the canyon ended—with mountains rising around it in a solid wall. Hank was too tired and discouraged to even swear. He slumped down on a rock, with his face buried in his hands, and for a minute or two I thought he was crying. Then he mumbled, “Dadgummed fog must’a twisted me abouts; this here’s the wrong way. We got to get out! We got to get out whilst we still got the strength!”

  I don’t want to remember much about that afternoon. A cold drizzling rain came on again as soon as we’d started back, and Hank was so worn out he could take only a dozen or so steps without stopping to rest. At first I tried to help him, but was as weak as a wet robin, and glad enough to rest whenever he had to. All afternoon he kept telling me the mouth of the canyon was only a couple of miles ahead, but I knew he was just talking to keep me from being afraid. Well before dark I’d given up any hope of ever getting out alive, and the only thing I could think of was getting back to the dry fir needles under the overhanging cliff.

  Hank must have given up hope at about the same time. He didn’t try to lead the way any more, he didn’t talk, and I don’t think he knew I was trying to find the cliff again. It was almost dark when I saw it, high up the mountainside. Hank had to make the last part of the climb on his hands and knees, then flopped down as if he were dead. I pushed as many needles as I could over him, scraped out a nest, and covered myself over.

  I was sure that was the end of me, and tried to pray, and to think about Mother and the other children at home, but it was sort of warm under the dry needles and I kept falling half asleep. Once, when it was as black as pitch, I heard a scream that made shivers run up and down my back. Hank mumbled, “Mountain lion,” but I wasn’t frightened, and the next thing I knew the sun was shining.

  Hank was still asleep, and it was cold under our cliff, but across the canyon the sun looked warm and yellow against the mountain. For a little while I was too lazy to move, but I knew then that we’d be able to find our way back to the home ranch, and it was kind of nice just to lie there and know it.

  After a while I called to Hank, but he only groaned. And when I got up and shook him he didn’t wake. I was sure he was dying, and I guess I lost my head. I was shaking the liver out of him when he mumbled, “Ain’t no sense a-hollerin’. Save your strength to get out, kid. Go towards the sunrise!” Then he flopped back and went to sleep again, and wouldn’t even try to wake up when I shook him.

  Before I started to skirt the cliff and climb towards the sun, I scooped out a deep nest, rolled Hank into it, and covered him good and deep with the dry needles. Then I took off my jumper and spread it over the top.

  My legs were about as wobbly as a new colt’s, but by taking it easy and resting often I got to the top of the ridge. I wasn’t any longer afraid of not getting out, but I was afraid of not being able to find my way back to where I’d left Hank. Before I started down the far side, I stopped long enough to fix every mountain and ridge and canyon in my memory.

  I had thought that once I reached the top of the ridge, the going down would be easy, but it wasn’t. From just holding myself back, my legs got so shaky I had to keep sitting down to rest them. I’d nearly reached the bottom, and was sitting on a rock, trembling, when I heard the sweetest music I ever hope to hear. It was faint and far away, and came echoing up from the canyon in front of me, “She wore a yella ribbon around her neck.” The echo of the “neck” whispered over and over again as it died away.

  I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time, and went running down the mountain, yelling, “ZEB! ZEB!” as loud as I could. Then my legs went all to jelly, and I fell, tumbling and rolling like a stick in a spring flood. I must have bumped my head, because when I woke up, Zeb was holding me as if I were a baby, and was splashing cold water from a creek onto my face.

  I tried to tell Zeb I was all right, and that I’d wait right there while he went to get Hank, but he wouldn’t do it. He just shook his head, and said, “Covered over warm, the way you say, that old rooster’d hold out a week if he had to. Batch and the boys is somewheres hereabouts; I’ll fetch him after I get you took care of.”

  “Then we weren’t very far from the home ranch?” I asked.

  “’Bout twenty odd miles due west, I’d say.”

  “Then how did you know where to look for us?” I asked.

  “Cal’clated old Hank might head for Californy. Most men goes the wrong way when they get scairt. Don’t stop to take note of signs around ’em. You set there till I let off a blast to call the boys in.”

  I hadn’t noticed till then that Zeb was carrying a six-shooter. He pointed it at the sky and emptied it—two and two and two. Then he picked me up, hung me over his shoulders like a shawl, and slouched away down the canyon. He didn’t seem to hurry, or pay much attention to where he stepped, but his loose-jointed stride would have kept me trotting. And he wound through boulders and brush without breaking a twig or rolling a stone.

  9

  Goin’ to Make Out

  WHEN Zeb brought me out of the side canyon, Mr. Batchlett and Sid were waiting. They both came running, and Mr. Batchlett called out, “Is he all right, Zeb? Where’d you find him?”

  “Didn’t find him no place!” Zeb called back. “Little varmint found me! He’s got Hank wropped in cotton wool atop a ridge back yonder.”

  By that time I was rested enough to have ridden alone, but Mr. Batchlett wouldn’t let me. He took me back to the home ranch—wrapped in blankets like a papoose—and Mrs. Bendt had him put me to bed in the house. But all she’d let me have to eat was about half a cup of chicken soup.

  I wasn’t really sick from being out in the mountains, but I’d fallen down so many times I was scratched and black and blue all over, and was as weak as a brand new kitten. I don’t think I’d been in bed five minutes before I was sound asleep. When I woke up, Hank was in another bed in the same room, and was really sick. Mrs. Bendt was sitting by his bed, trying to spoon medicine into his mouth. I could hear it gurgle in his throat as he groaned and mumbled. Then he flailed out one arm, and, shouted, “Go towards the sunrise!”

  That first day Hank thought he was still up in the mountains, and that something was after him. Mrs. Bendt hardly left his bedside, but couldn’t do much with him, because he’d yank away and strike out at her. It was Mr. Batchlett who finally got him quieted down and asleep, but at first I thought he was being pretty rough. He cuffed Hank, scolded him, and forced his mouth open while he spooned in some whiskey. But after Hank went to sleep Mr. Batchlett tucked the covers up around his shoulders, told Mrs. Bendt to keep bottles of hot water around him, and said, “Poor old maverick! Ought to had better sense than to crowd him. Ought to knew he’d try to bull his way out when he seen he was bested.”

  Mr. Batchlett wasn’t talking to me, but I didn’t want Hank to get blamed too
much, or fired for not having brought in a load of posts, so I said, “We had the wagon half-loaded when the team ran away, and I didn’t have Hank bested. He’d cut a lot more trees than I had.”

  Mr. Batchlett looked around at me, and said, “So I seen when I went up there. Traded axes with you too, didn’t he? Lucky thing he didn’t drop that tree right atop the team! Might as well try stoppin’ a cyclone as old Hank when he’s got the bit in his teeth.”

  I hadn’t said a word about our post-cutting, but Mr. Batchlett seemed to know the whole story, so I just said, “Yes, sir, I know it.” Then he told me I needed to get some more sleep and went out.

  By that time I wasn’t half as much interested in sleeping as eating. After more than two days without a bite, I felt as if I could eat a whole steer, but they wouldn’t give me anything but soup. As soon as Hank went to sleep, Jenny started being our nurse. She kept bringing bottles of hot water to lay around Hank, and once in a while she’d bring me a cup of chicken soup. But it wasn’t until supper time that she let me have a cracker to go with it.

  I liked Mrs. Bendt fine, and she was real good to me, but I liked Jenny a lot better for a nurse. Every time Mrs. Bendt came in she called me a poor little boy, and said it was a shame I’d had to go through any such a hardship, but Jenny never said a word about it. Each time she came in to see Hank she’d sit on my bed and talk a few minutes, or make some kind of joke. But she always talked about things that had happened at her school, or let me tell her things that had happened at home.

  After supper all the men came in, but they tiptoed as if they’d been walking up a church aisle in the middle of a sermon. Then, after they’d whispered a few words, asking me how I felt, they looked at Hank and tiptoed out. I really didn’t feel sick at all—just a little weak and awfully hungry—but I liked having them come in to see me, and maybe I acted a little bit sicker than I was.