by Ralph Moody
Fred Aultland's haying lasted two weeks—Sundays and all. I remember the last day of that haying better than any of the others, because so many things happened. The last day of haying or harvest or threshing is always the day when the most things happen. Maybe it's because everybody is happy if you had good luck, and if you didn't everybody's glad it's over with.
There was a fight after dinner that noon. One of the young fellows Fred brought out from Denver said something about Bessie that Jerry Alder didn't like. She had her back to us and was picking up the dishes, and she was leaning over so far that her dress was real tight across her bottom. The Denver fellow was looking right at it, then he winked at Jerry before he said whatever it was. Anyway, it was an awful hard fight. The Denver fellow was the biggest man on the job, and Jerry was next biggest. The first sock Jerry hit him, Bessie ran into the house and all the men got up on their feet, but nobody tried to stop them.
The other two Denver fellows were nearest to where they were fighting. Fred and Carl Henry went over and stood by them, but they didn't say anything. The big Denver man didn't hit so often as Jerry did, but he hit a lot harder. He took a longer swing and once he hit Jerry under the ear and knocked him down. I thought he was going to kick him while he was down, but Fred stepped in quick, and he didn't. Jerry rolled over and got right up again, and from there on he fought just like a collie dog.
He used his feet just about as much as he did his fists, but he didn't do any kicking like the other fellow. He'd go in quick and hit, and be out again before the bigger fellow could hit back. And he went around that Denver man like a fly going around a lamp chimney. I guess the big fellow got kind of dizzy turning around and around, trying to catch up with Jerry, because he started looking pretty groggy. Then, all at once, Jerry flew in with both arms working like the Pitman rod on a mowing machine. He got his head right against the other fellow's wishbone, and hammered him in the stomach till he went down yawping for air like a mud cat when you toss him up on the creek bank.
After the fight, Fred took the three Denver fellows over to the bunkhouse and paid them off, but I don't think he ever said anything at all to Jerry for fighting. And as soon as he had washed the blood off his face and got his breath, you wouldn't have known Jerry had been in a fight—except that his lips were kind of swelled up. He came back from the washstand and started to tell stories almost before he had found a place to lie down under the apple tree.
With three hands short, it was late before we had the last load of hay on the stack, so Father and I stayed at Aultland's for supper. When we were through eating, Fred told us to come into the house with him. We sat down by the table in the dining room, and Fred got out his checkbook. I knew Father didn't know how much he was going to get, because I heard Mother ask him, and he just said, "I don't know. I think he's paying the men he got from Denver a dollar and a half a day, but they're quite a bit stouter than I am right now." I hadn't wanted to ask Father what Fred meant when he told me he'd double the ante, so I didn't know how much I was going to get either, but I hoped he meant he was going to give me fifty cents a day.
After Fred got the ink bottle and a pen, he sat down at the table with us and asked me if I wanted to have a separate check, or if he should make one check for Father and me together. I wanted it to be a big enough check that we could buy a cow, and I was proud to have my pay go in with Father's, so I said for him to just make one check. He looked up at Father, and said, "All right then, Charlie, that'll make it a round sum. I figure Spikes is worth twice what Liz Corcoran was giving him, and you've saved me the wages of two men. Will fifty dollars square the books?" I was so excited I didn't even hear what Father said, and he had to tap me on the arm before I remembered to say thank you.
Father was as anxious to get home and show Mother the check as I was. He walked so fast I had to trot part of the time to keep up with him. We hadn't gone very far before he noticed I was having to trot, and scrooched down so I could get on and ride pickaback. I had always liked to have Father lug me pickaback before—and we were far enough from Aultland's house so that I wasn't afraid anyone would see us—but for some reason I didn't want to be carried that night. It just didn't seem right to be carried home when we were taking the check I had helped earn. Father understood how I felt, and he walked slow enough so I didn't have to trot any more, and let me carry the check home to Mother in my overall pocket.
There wasn't nearly so much fun in giving it to her as I had thought, because when we got there our old white horse, Bill, was sick. He was breathing so hard you could hear him all over the yard, and was pounding his head on the barn floor. Father took one look at him and said, "Blackwater. I'm afraid he's done for." Then he sent me kiting back to Aultland's for a bottle of spirits of niter.
12
I Go After Two Dog
THEN next morning I was up as soon as the first light peeped over Loretta Heights. Mrs. Corcoran had told me to come back to herd her cows right after haying, but I had a different idea in my head. Bill was still just barely alive and I was going to get Two Dog to come and save him. Before anybody else was up, I went out and sat beside our barn where we had sat the night he and Mr. Thompson stayed at our place.
From there I could get the best look at the mountains when the sun first struck them, and before it got high enough to light the land between them and me. Mother had a stereoscope that you could put pictures into and move them to make far-off places come right up close. The early sun did the same thing to the mountains. I could shut my eyes and see just how Two Dog's fingers had shown me the way to his camp, then open them and trace the trail up through Turkey Creek Canyon so it seemed almost as though I had actually been over it. I got up and swiped a quart of oats for Fanny, so she could have them all cleaned up before Father came out to give the horses their regular breakfasts. By half-past six I started off up the road on Fanny as if I were going to the Corcorans', but I had three cold biscuits hidden in the front of my blouse.
All spring Father had talked about our driving up to the mountains some Sunday, but for one reason or another we never did it. They looked as though they started just a little way beyond the hill in Fred Aultland's back pasture. Turkey Creek Canyon was quite a way south, and the most direct wagon road ran along the west end of our place, past the schoolhouse and Carl Henry's. But I knew Father would never let me go alone, and I didn't want anybody to see me, so I headed west past Aultland's wheat field, then cut southwest across country, straight for the V that marked the mouth of the canyon. I knew better than to run Fanny up hills, but I was so anxious to get to Two Dog's and the distance seemed so short, that I lay tight down against her neck and we went up over Fred's big hill like a jack rabbit in front of a coyote.
Looking from the top of that hill, I could see a series of others, rising one beyond the other toward the hogbacks that stood before the real mountains. Until then there hadn't been any doubt in my mind that I could get to Two Dog's camp without a mite of trouble. But, with all those hills between me and the mountains, I began to get a little bit afraid, and wondered if I shouldn't go back and talk to Father about it first. As soon as we were out of sight over the top of the hill, I stopped Fanny and let her catch her wind. The more I thought about talking to Father, the more sure I was that he wouldn't let me go. And I was just as sure that Two Dog was the only one in the world who could save Bill, so I kicked my heels against Fanny's ribs.
At first there were crops in the valleys between the hills, and a few ranch houses, so I had to ride miles out of my way to get around them. Every time we got to the top of one hill, there was another just beyond it, and the mountains didn't seem any nearer than they had from home. I knew Fanny was beginning to get tired, because the hills were getting steeper and she was climbing slower. There were no more crop fields in the valleys, and I started riding around the hills instead of over them, so as to save Fanny the hard climbs. Two or three times we came to deep gulches that we couldn't get across, and had to turn back and find
another way. If it hadn't been for the mountains I'm sure I would have been lost, but I knew their shapes well enough so that I could always tell where I was. It was getting close to noon and the sun was bearing down like a hot stove lid when we came into a green little valley with a spring of cool water in it. We both drank all we could hold, and while Fanny grazed I ate my biscuits. I must have squeezed them a bit, because they were pretty well crumbled up, and some of the pieces were soggy with sweat, but I was hungry and they tasted all right.
The sun was hanging low above the mountains when we came over the last hill and I could see the break in the hogback where Turkey Creek had cut its gorge. As we came closer I could see there was a little-used wagon road along the north bank of the creek. I loped Fanny toward it and we followed it through the gorge and into the mouth of the canyon. The misgivings I had when we were on top of Fred Aultland's hill were nothing to what I had when we came into the canyon. The creek ran through a narrow cut, and the walls seemed to rise straight up for a mile. From there, the sun had set and a cool breeze was drawing down between the cliffs. All I had on was my blue shirt and overalls, and after the heat among the hills, it made me shiver. I don't know whether I shivered more because I was cold or because I was frightened. I had never seen mountains that were more than big rolling hills, and it seemed to me that those black rock walls might fall on me any minute.
Then I really began to be afraid I could never find Two Dog's camp. I stopped Fanny and shut my eyes tight, trying to bring back the way he had pointed out the trail with his fingers, but all I could see was a big green blotch with black rock walls running up around it. As I had sat beside the barn with Two Dog a couple of weeks ago, and again that same morning, I had been able to picture the trail just as I was sure it was going to look, but it was all different now. For a minute or two I was going to turn back, but I knew night would come long before I could make it, and I could never hope to find my way home in the dark. I kicked my heels into Fanny's ribs and we went on. The harder I tried to think how Two Dog's fingers had moved, the more confused I got.
In half an hour it had become darker and colder in the canyon. I could remember that Two Dog's fingers had shown the trail going in quite a way before it branched off, but he had made them go straight, while the trail wound in and out against the wall of the canyon. At last I thought that if I could just be sitting down behind our barn again for a few minutes I could remember it all right. But, of course, I couldn't do that, so I slid off Fanny and sat down with my back against the canyon wall. I was so tired I almost went to sleep, and it must have been when I was just between being asleep and awake that it all came back to me. I could remember that he had shown the trail going up, as though there was a steep hill, and then angling off to the right. I climbed back on Fanny and put her into a good stiff lope. It wasn't more than ten minutes before we came around a shoulder of rock and the track climbed steeply up a shelf on the canyon wall.
Just above the rise the trail forked. The main track followed the shelf above the creek, but a thin thread of it turned up the side of a jagged cleft through the rocks to the right. I had no question in mind, and turned Fanny up the steep side trail. The sun had sunk so low that it no longer shone on the top of the peaks above me, and I began to get panicky for fear black darkness would catch me and we would fall to the bottom of the gorge if Fanny made a misstep. I dug my knees into her withers and kept her climbing so hard that it made her breath whistle through her nose.
We were nearly at the top of the climb when the whole air of the canyon was ripped to pieces by a sound that almost made my heart stop. It was a howl that seemed to come from nowhere in particular, but from everywhere at once, as it echoed back and forth between the canyon walls. Cold shivers raced up and down my back and it felt as though it were covered with stiff hair that was standing up as it does on a frightened dog. Fanny must have felt just the same way I did, because her ears pinned back tight against her head, and I could feel a tremble pass through her withers. She crowded close against the cliff and stood shaking.
I started thinking about Father and Mother and the rest of the youngsters at home. I wanted to turn Fanny and race out of the canyon as fast as she could go, but when I looked down into the gorge it was as black as a well. Though I had never heard a wolf's howl before, I had read about it and knew that was what I must have heard. I tried to remember the sound and see if I could figure out whether it came from above or below, but I was so scared I couldn't think straight, and when I shut my eyes I could see gray shadows racing up the trail behind me. That settled it. I kicked my heels into Fanny's ribs and tried to cluck to her, but my mouth was so dry that I only made a hissing sound.
I think that was the first time Fanny ever trusted my judgment more than her own. She gathered her muscles and tore up the rest of the grade as though the wolf had her by the tail. We came out onto a flat rock ledge, raced across it, and were out onto a narrow path that wound through great boulders. Fanny was taking the sharp turns of the path so fast that I had to hang on with every ounce of strength in my knees. We must have gone a mile or more that way—I could hear every breath she took rasp through her throat like tearing cloth. It was deep twilight when we came out into a little open field set in between tall black-looking trees—and the path was gone. I sawed on the reins and pulled Fanny to a stop in the middle of the field. We stood shivering as though it were below zero. There wasn't a sound except the rushing of Fanny's breath. The first thought that came into my head was—timber wolves. I had read stories about their tearing wood choppers to pieces, and turned Fanny to get back out of there the way we had come in. But I couldn't even see a gap in the wall of black trees, and I was so panicky I couldn't remember whether there should be more to the trail or not.
Without even thinking what I was doing, I yelled, "Two Dog!" at the top of my lungs. The sound came yodelly like a coyote call. A second later an oblong of light from an open doorway showed at the edge of the woods, and Mr. Thompson's voice called out, "Hi there, Little Papoose."
Mother used to sing a song about "the golden gates of heaven," and that's what the yellow light coming out of the doorway reminded me of. I leaned forward a little bit on Fanny and she went over there on the fly. I guess that light looked as good to her as it did to me.
When I rode up to the door, Mr. Thompson told me to light down and come in while he put Fanny in the corral. At first I didn't want to let him take her and asked if the wolves might not get her, but he just laughed and said, "Ain't saw a wolf 'round these parts in years—'ceptin' Two Dog's old tame one. Always hollers when there's anybody on the trail, and generally scares 'em off. That's how we knowed you was comin'."
Their house only had one small room and not a single window. It was made of poles on the front and sides, and built right against a ledge, so that the back wall was solid stone. The spaces between the poles were stuffed with hard-baked adobe and straw. There wasn't any stove or chimney, but there was a cleft in the ledge about three feet deep that they used for a fireplace. It was wedge-shaped, and about as wide as it was deep at the bottom, but the top narrowed to less than a foot. The floor was partly a flat rock and the rest hard dirt. There were two bunks at one end of the room—one above the other—but there weren't any bedclothes or mattresses. The springs were made of tightly stretched horsehide, and the covers were mountain goat skins with long white hair.
The only furniture was a table and two stools. The table must have weighed a ton. It was nearly four feet wide, and had been made by splitting the butt of a log in two. The legs were heavy stakes driven into holes in the round side of the log. One stool sat on each side of the table. They were made the same way, and didn't look as though they had ever been moved. Pieces of wagon iron, worn horseshoes, and harness hung on wooden pegs in the walls. Strips of dried meat and bunches of herbs were tied to a line in front of the fireplace. The only lamp was a bottle of fat with a rope wick in it. It didn't have any chimney.
Two Dog was sitting
on the floor beside the fireplace with his back against the stone wall. He didn't get up when I came in, but his eyes lighted and he held one arm toward me with the palm of his hand down. I didn't know how to shake hands with his palm turned down like that, so I just took hold of the ends of his fingers, then let go and sat down beside him. He didn't say a word, but reached over and laid his hand on my leg three times, the way he did beside our barn. It was five or ten minutes before Mr. Thompson came back from putting Fanny in the corral. I had plenty of time to show Two Dog how Bill was lying on our barn floor with his back all humped up. And how he was pounding his head, and how he was breathing.
I used to wonder if the reason Two Dog didn't talk wasn't because Mr. Thompson talked enough for both of them. As soon as he came back from putting Fanny in the corral, Two Dog said about six words to him—kind of grunts, I guess it was Indian. Then Mr. Thompson began asking me questions faster than I could answer them. He wanted to know if Father and Mother knew I was coming up there, and how I had found their place, and if my folks wouldn't be worried about me. All the time he was talking he kept fussing with something in a big black iron pot over the fire.
While I was telling him, he took three dented old pie tins from the table and started ladling out the stew. It looked like rabbit stew, but the gravy was thick and brown. There was a covered iron kettle sitting on the floor by the fireplace. Mr. Thompson fished a few cold biscuits and three iron spoons out of it, put a biscuit and a spoon on each plate, and gave one to Two Dog and one to me. Then he sat down on a stool with his plate beside him on the table.
Mr. Thompson kept asking questions all the time between mouthfuls, and telling me to hurry and eat my victuals so he could take me right home. I was real hungry and the stew was good, so I just let him talk till I had cleaned up my plate. Just as I was sopping up the last of the gravy with my biscuit, Two Dog patted me on the leg again, nodded his head toward his plate, and said, "Skunk—good!" For a minute I thought I was going to be sick, but I decided it wouldn't hurt me if it didn't hurt them, and it stayed down all right.