by Zane Grey
“Ah—huh, so I see,” went on the father; and after a searching look over the boy he fell to examining the pony.
Pan emboldened by what his father had called him went straight to his mother. She screamed at sight of him, and that struck Pan to the heart. “Aw, mama, it ain’t nuthin’. I’m just a bloody cowpuncher.”
Pan was not quite six years old when he rode to his first roundup, which occurred that summer early in June. His glory in the experience was marred by shame because he had to appear before all these cowboys without a saddle on his horse. He had feared just exactly what happened.
“Wal, heah comes the Ridin’ Kid from Loco Range,” said one, edging near to Pan, with a smile on his shining red face.
“Sonny, yo’re forkin’ a grand hoss, but you forgot to saddle him,” remarked another, with a twinkle of gray eyes.
“Fellars, this heah is Panhandle Smith, kid of the homesteader, over by the river. I heerd Pan’s a trick bareback rider.”
These genial fiery young men, lithe and tall and round limbed, breathing the life and spirit of the range, crowded round Pan, proving that there never was a cowboy who did not like youngsters.
“Say kid, I’ll swap saddles with you,” spoke up the one who had first addressed him.
Pan’s heart was palpitating. How could they know how beautiful and wonderful they looked to him? If it had not been that he was riding Curly bareback! They were making fun of him. Tears were not far from his eyes.
“Young fellar, I’ll bet this nag of yourn can’t run fast enough to ketch cold,” spoke up another.
“I’ll bet he kin,” added a third.
“Pan, do this to them,” put in the cowboy who appeared to know him, and suiting act to word he placed his thumb to his nose and twiddled his finger. “Do that, Pan. That’ll shore shut them up.”
Pan found himself impelled to do as he was bidden, which action raised a howl of mirth from the cowboys.
And so at that early age Panhandle Smith was initiated into the hilarity and trickery and spirit common to these carefree riders of the ranges.
When the roundup began he found that he was far from forgotten.
“Come on, Pan,” shouted one. “Ride in heah an’ help me.… Turn ’em back, kid.”
Pan rode like the wind, breathless and radiant, beside himself with bliss.
Then another rider would yell to him: “Charge him, cowboy. Fetch him back.”
And Pan, scarcely knowing what he was doing, saw with wild eyes how the yearling or calf would seem to be driven by him. There was always a cowboy near him, riding fast, yet close, yelling to him, making him a part of the roundup.
At the noon hour an older man, no doubt the rancher who owned the cattle, called off the work. A lusty voice from somewhere yelled: “Come an’ git it!”
The rancher, espying Pan, rode over to him and said: “Stranger, did you fetch your chuck with you?”
“No—sir,” faltered Pan. “My mama—said for me to hurry back.”
“Wal, you stay an’ eat with me,” replied the man, kindly. “Shore them varmints might stampede an’ we’d need you powerful bad.”
Pan sat next this big black-eyed man, in the circle of hungry cowboys. They made no more fun of Pan. He was one of them. Hard indeed was it for him to sit cross-legged, after the fashion of cowboys, with a steady plate upon his knees. But he had no trouble disposing of the juicy beefsteak and boiled potatoes and beans and hot biscuits that Tex, the boss, piled upon his plate.
After dinner the cowboys resumed work.
“Stand heah by the fire, kid,” said Tex.
Then Pan saw a calf being dragged across the ground. A mounted cowboy held the rope.
“The brand!” he yelled.
Pan stood there trembling while one of the flankers went down the tight rope to catch the bawling, leaping calf. Its eyes stood out, it foamed at the mouth. The flanker threw it over his leg on its back with feet sticking up. A brander with white iron leaped close. The calf bellowed. There was a sizzling of hair, a white smoke, the odor of burned hide, all of which sickened Pan.
Then one of the cowboys came to him: “Reckon thet’s yore mammy come for you.”
He lifted Pan up on Curly and led the pony away from the roundup, out in the open where Pan espied his mother, eager and anxious with her big dark eyes strained.
“Beg pardon, lady,” spoke up the cowboy, touching his sombrero. “It’s our fault yore boy stayed so long. We’re sorry if you worried. Please don’t blame him. He’s shore a game kid an’ will make a grand cowboy some day.”
CHAPTER TWO
So this was how Panhandle Smith, at the mature age of five, received the stimulus that set the current of his life in one strong channel. He called himself “Tex.” If his mother forgot to use this thrilling name he was offended. He adopted Tex’s way of walking, riding, talking. And all the hours of daylight, outdoors or indoors, he played roundup. Stones, chips, nails—anything served for cattle—and he had a special wooden image of himself and horse. Much of this time he spent on the back of Curly, in the corral or the field, rounding up an imaginary herd. At night his dreams were full of cowboys, chuck wagons, pitching horses and bawling steers.
Every new sight of a snaky slim cowpuncher on a racy horse intensified this impression in Pan’s mind, stamped the future more vividly on his heart. It was what he had been born to.
One by one pioneers came in their covered wagons to this promising range and took up homesteads of one hundred and sixty acres each. Some of these men, like Pan’s father, had to work part of the time away from home, to earn much-needed money.
Jim Blake, the latest of these incoming settlers, had chosen a site down in a deep swale that Pan always crossed when he went to visit his uncle. It was a pretty place, with grass and cottonwoods, and a thin stream of water, a lonesome and hidden spot which other homesteaders had passed by.
Pan met Jim one day and rode with him. He was a young man, pleasant and jolly, a farmer and would-be rancher, without any of the signs of cowboy about him. Pan thought this a great detriment, but he managed to like Jim and loftily acquainted him with his achievements on Curly.
One day Pan saw Jim’s wife, a pretty blonde girl, strong and healthy and rosy cheeked. Her sleeves were rolled up showing round bare arms. Her smile won Pan, yet he was too shy to go in and take the cookies she offered.
Autumn days came, dull and gray, with cold wind sweeping the plain, and threatening clouds lodging against the mountain peaks. Another winter was coming. Pan hated the thought. Snow, ice, piercing winds would prevent him from riding Curly. With this fact pressing closer he rode as much as his mother would let him and some more besides.
His father and mother wanted him to go with them to the settlement one Saturday. They were taking the wagon in for winter supplies. Pan’s yearning for adventure almost persuaded him, but he preferred to stay with Curly. His mother demurred, but his father said he might remain at home.
“Pan, you can ride over to Uncle George’s with some things. But be careful not to get caught in a storm.”
Thus it came about that Pan found himself alone for the first time in his life, master of himself, free to act as he chose. And he did not choose to go at once to Uncle George’s. His uncle was nice, but did not accord Pan the freedom that he craved. So what with one and another of his important cowboy tasks the hours flew and it was late before he got started across the prairie toward his uncle’s homestead.
Pan never needed an excuse to ride fast, but now he had one that justified him. The two miles would not take long. He would have to hurry back, for indeed it looked as if a storm were sweeping down from the black peaks. Pan realized that he should have gotten his errand done earlier in the day.
The cold wind stung his face and made his eyes water. Curly loped at his easy swift stride over the well-trodden trail. The bleached grass waved, the tumbleweeds rolled along the brown ground. There was no sun. All the west was draped in drab clouds. Soon Pan w
as riding down into the swale where Blake lived. The cottonwoods were almost bare. Only a few yellow leaves clung to the branches, and every moment a leaf fluttered down. Here in this swale Pan caught the autumn smells, dank and woody.
Once across the swale he put his pony to a gallop and soon reached Uncle George’s homestead. No one at home! The horse and wagon were gone. Pan left his package and turned back. As he trotted past the Blake gate Pan heard a faint call. It startled him. Reining in Curly he listened and looked. Blake’s cabin stood back out of sight among the Cottonwoods. The barn, however, with its low open-sided shed, stood just inside the gate. The cows had been brought in for milking. A lusty calf was trying to steal milk from its mother. Chickens were going to roost. Pan did not believe that any of these had made the call. He was about to ride on by when suddenly he again caught a strange cry that appeared to come from the barn or shed. It excited rather than frightened him. Sliding off Curly he pushed open the big board gate and ran in.
Under the open shed he found Mrs. Blake lying on some hay which evidently she had just pulled down from the loft. When she saw Pan her pale convulsed face changed somehow. “Oh—thank God!” she cried.
“Are you hurted?” asked Pan in hurried sympathy. “Did you fall out of the haymow?”
“No, but I’m in terrible pain.”
“Aw—you’re sick?”
“Yes. And I’m alone. Will you please—go for your mother?”
“Mama an’ Daddy went to town,” replied Pan in distress. “An’ nobody’s home at Uncle George’s.”
“Then you must be a brave little man and help me.”
Bill Smith hurrying homeward with his wife and Jim Blake were belated by the storm. It was midnight when they arrived at Bill’s house. They found Curly with bridle hanging, standing in the snow beside the barn. Mrs. Smith was distracted. Bill and Jim, though worried, did not fear the worst. But with lanterns they set out upon the tracks Curly had left in the snow. Bill’s wife would not remain behind.
Soon they arrived at Blake’s homestead, though the pony tracks became difficult to follow and found Pan wide awake, huddled beside the cow, true to the trust that had been given him. Mrs. Blake was not in bad condition, considering the circumstances, nor was the baby. It was a girl, whom Jim named Lucy right then and there, after his wife.
The men carried the mother and her babe up to the house, while Mrs. Smith followed with the now sleepy Pan. They built fires in the open grate, and in the kitchen stove, and left Mrs. Smith to attend to the mother. Both women heard the men talking. But Pan never heard, for he had been put to bed in a corner, rolled in blankets.
“Doggone my hide!” exclaimed Bill. “Never seen the beat of that kid of mine!”
“Mebbe Pan saved both their lives, God bless him,” replied Blake with emotion.
“Quien sabe? It might be.… Wal, strange things happen. Jim, that kid of mine was born right out on the plowed field. An’ here comes your kid—born in the cowshed on the hay!”
“It is strange,” mused Blake, “though we ought to look for such happenin’s out in this great west.”
“Wal, Pan an’ Lucy couldn’t have a better birthright. It ought to settle them two kids for life.”
“You mean grow up an’ marry some day? Now that would be fine. Shake on it, Bill.”
Pan asleep in the corner of the other room and Lucy wailing at her mother’s breast were pledged to each other by their fathers.
The winter passed for Pan much as had the preceding one, except that he had more comfort to play his everlasting game of roundup.
“When will Lucy be big enough to play with me?” he often asked. The strange little baby girl had never passed from his mind, though he had never seen her. She seemed to form the third link in his memory of the forging of his life. Curly—the cowboys—and Lucy! He did not know how to reconcile her with the other two. But those three events stood out above the blur of the past.
At last the snow melted, the prairie took on a sheen of green, the tree burst into bud, and birds returned to sing once more. All of this was beautiful, but insignificant beside Curly. He was fatter and friskier than ever.
Pan’s father came home once or twice a month that spring, always arriving late and leaving at an early hour. How Pan longed for his father’s coming!
Then there came the fourth epoch in Pan’s life. His father brought him a saddle. It was far from new, of Mexican make, covered with rawhide, and had an enormous shiny horn. Pan loved it almost as much as he loved Curly; and when it was not on the pony it adorned the fence or a chair, always with Pan astride it, acting like Tex.
The fifth, and surely the greatest event in Pan’s rapidly developing career, though he did not know it then, was when his mother took him over to see his baby, Lucy Blake. It appeared that the parents in both homesteads playfully called her “Pan’s baby.” That did not displease Pan, but it made him singularly shy. So it was long before his mother could get him to make the acquaintance of his protégée.
Pan’s first sight of Lucy was when she crawled over the floor to get to him. How vastly different she really was from the picture he recalled of a moving bundle wrapped in a towel! She was quite big and very wonderful. She was dressed in a little white dress. Her feet and legs were chubby. She had tiny pink hands. Her face was like a wild rose dotted with two violets for eyes. And her hair was spun gold. Marvelous as were all these things they were as nothing to the light of her smile. Pan’s shyness vanished, and he sat on the floor to play with her. He produced little chips and pebbles, and stones, with which he played roundup. Lucy grew most gratifyingly interested in Pan’s game, but she made it hard for him to play it, and also embarrassing, by clinging with most tenacious and unshakable grip to his finger.
Every Sunday that summer the Smiths visited at the homestead of the Blakes. They became fast friends. Bill and Jim discussed the cattle business. The mothers sewed and talked hopefully of the future. Pan never missed one of these Sunday visits, and the time came when he rode over on his own account. Lucy was the most satisfactory cowgirl in all the world. She did not object to his being Tex. She tried her best to call him Tex. And she crawled after him and toddled after him with unfailing worship. The grown folks looked on and smiled.
Meanwhile the weeks and months passed, the number of homesteaders increased, more and more cattle dotted the range. When winter came some of the homesteaders, including Pan and his mother, moved into Littleton to send their children to school.
Pan’s first teacher was Emma Jones. He liked her immediately which was when she called to take him to school. Pan was not used to strangers. The men in the streets, the grown boys all bothered him. Cowboys were scarce, and that was a great disappointment to Pan. It lowered Littleton in his estimation.
It developed that Pan was left handed. Now Miss Jones considered it wrong for anyone to write with his left hand so she tied Pan’s fast to the desk, and made him practice letters with his right. What a dreary unprofitable time Pan had of it! So many little boys and girls confused him, though he was not backward in making acquaintance. But he wanted Curly and the prairie. He would rather be with Lucy. Most of all he wanted the cowboys.
Dick Hardman came again into Pan’s life, fatefully, inevitably, as if the future had settled something inscrutable and sinister, and childhood days, school days, days of youth and manhood had been inextricably planned before they were born. Dick was in a higher grade and made the fact known to Pan. He had grown into a large boy, handsomer, bolder, with a mop of red hair that shone like a flame. He called Pan “the little skunk tamer,” and incited other boys to ridicule. So the buried resentment in Pan’s depths smoldered and burst into blaze again, and found fuel to burn it into hate. He told his mother what Dick had got the boys to call him. Then he was indeed surprised to see his sweet soft-eyed mother give way to quick-flashing passion. Somehow this leap of her temper strengthened Pan in his resentment. He had her blood, her fire, her pride, though he was only a child.
Another uncle had moved into the country to take up a homestead. Pan now had a second place to ride to, farther away, over a wilder bit of range, and much to his liking. He saw cowboys every time he rode there.
One day while Pan was at this new uncle’s, a dreadful thing happened—his first real tragedy. Some cowboy left the slide door of the granary open. Curly got in there at the wheat. Before it became known he ate enormously and then drank copiously. It foundered him. It killed him.
When Pan came out of his stupefaction to realize his actual loss he was heartbroken. He could not be consoled. Hours he spent crying over his saddle. Not for a long time did he go to see little Lucy. His father could not afford to buy him another horse then and indeed it was a long time before he did get one.
Days and weeks passed, and fall came, then winter with more school, tedious and wearing, and again spring and summer. Cowboys were plentiful now in the growing range, but Pan avoided them, ashamed and sick because he could not approach them without Curly. He never got over grieving for his pony, though he reached a stage where any horse would have freed him from his melancholy. He played alone, or with Lucy. She was the one bright spot in all that gray prairie. Lucy was growing fast now; her golden curly head seemed to spring up at him.
That autumn the homesteaders erected a schoolhouse of their own. It was scarcely three miles from Pan’s home.
“Pan, can you walk it?” asked Bill Smith with his keen eye on the lad. “Yes Daddy—but—but,” replied Pan, unable to finish with the thought so dear to his heart.
“Ah—huh. An’ before long Lucy will be old enough to go too,” added his father. “Reckon you’ll take her?”