The B. M. Bower Megapack

by B. M. Bower

  Billy Louise was a pretty good mimic. She had Ward doubled over the horn again and shouting so that the canyon walls roared echoes for three full minutes. “I’ve always wanted to hear the Chisholm Trail. I know how it was sung from Mexico north on the old cattle-trails, and how every ambitious puncher who had enough imagination and could make a rhyme, added a verse or so, till it’s really a—a classic of the cow-camps.”

  “Ye-es—it sure is all that.” Ward eyed her furtively.

  “And with that memory of yours, I simply know that you can sing every single word of it,” Billy Louise went on pitilessly—and innocently. “You’re a cowpuncher yourself, and you must have heard it all, at one time and another; and I don’t believe you ever forgot a thing in your life.” She caught her breath there, conscience-stricken, and added hastily and imperiously, “So go on—begin at the beginning and sing it all. I’ll keep tab and see if you sing forty verses.” And she prompted coaxingly:

  “Come along, boys, and listen to my tale,

  I’ll tell you of my troubles on the old Chisholm trail,

  Coma ti yi—”

  and nodded her head approvingly when Ward took up the ditty where she left off and sang it with the rollicking enthusiasm which only a man who has soothed restless cattle on a stormy night can put into the doggerel.

  He did not sing the whole forty verses, for good and sufficient reasons best known to punchers themselves. But, with swift, shamed skipping of certain lines and some hasty revisions, he actually did sing thirty, and Billy Louise was so engrossed that she forgot to count them and never suspected the omissions; for some of the verses were quite “sweary” enough to account for his hesitation.

  The singing of those thirty verses brought a reminiscent mood upon the singer. For the rest of the way, which they rode at a walk, Ward sat very much upon one side of the saddle, with his body facing Billy Louise and his foot dangling free of the stirrup, and told her tales of trail-herds, and the cow-camps, and of funny things that had happened on the range. His “I remember one time” opened the door to a more fascinating world than Billy Louise’s dream-world, because this other world was real.

  So, from pure accident, she hit upon the most effective of all weapons with which to fight the memory-devils. She led Ward to remembering the pleasanter parts of his past life and to telling her of them.

  When spring came at last, and he rode regretfully back to his claim on Mill Greek, he was not at all the morose Ward Warren who had ridden down to the Wolverine that stormy night in January. The distrust had left his eyes, and that guarded remoteness was gone from his manner. He thought and he planned as other men thought and planned, and looked into the future eagerly, and dreamed dreams of his own; dreams that brought the hidden smile often to his lips and his eyes.

  Still, the thing those dreams were built upon was yet locked tight in his heart, and not even Billy Louise, whose instinct was so keen and so sure in all things else, knew anything of them or of the bright-hued hope they were built upon. Fortune’s football was making ready to fight desperately to become captain of the game, that he might be something more to Billy Louise.

  CHAPTER V

  MARTHY BURIES HER DEAD AND GREETS HER NEPHEW

  Jase did not move or give his customary, querulous grunt when Marthy nudged him at daylight, one morning in mid-April. Marthy gave another poke with her elbow and lay still, numbed by a sudden dread. She moved cautiously out of the bed and half across the cramped room before she turned her head toward him. Then she stood still and looked and looked, her hard face growing each moment more pinched and stony and gray.

  Jase had died while the coyotes were yapping their dawn-song up on the rim of the Cove. He lay rigid under the coarse, gray blanket, the flesh of his face drawn close to the bones, his skimpy, gray beard tilted upward.

  Marthy’s jaw set into a harsher outline than ever. She dressed with slow, heavy movements and went out and fed the stock. In stolid calm she did the milking and turned out the cows into the pasture. She gathered an apron full of chips and started a fire, just as she had done every morning for twenty-nine years, and she put the coffee-pot on the greasy stove and boiled the brew of yesterday—which was also her habit.

  She sat for some time with her head leaning upon her grimy hand and stared unseeingly out upon a peach-tree in full bloom, and at a pair of busy robins who had chosen a convenient crotch for their nest. Finally she rose stiffly, as if she had grown older within the last hour, and went outside to the place where she had been mending the irrigating ditch the day before; she knocked the wet sand off the shovel she had left sticking in the soft bank and went out of the yard and up the slope toward the rock wall.

  On a tiny, level place above the main ditch and just under the wall, Marthy began to dig, setting her broad, flat foot uncompromisingly upon the shoulder of the shovel and sending it deep into the yellow soil. She worked slowly and methodically and steadily, just as she did everything else. When she had dug down as deep as she could and still manage to climb out, and had the hole wide enough and long enough, she got awkwardly to the grassy surface and sat for a long while upon a rock, staring dumbly at the gaunt, brown hills across the river.

  She returned to the cabin at last, and with the manner of one who dreads doing what must be done, she went in where Jase lay stiff and cold under the blankets.

  Early that afternoon, Marthy went staggering up the slope, wheeling Jase’s body before her on the creaky, home-made wheelbarrow. In the same harsh, primitive manner in which they both had lived, Marthy buried her dead. And though in life she had given him few words save in command or upbraiding, with never a hint of love to sweeten the days for either, yet she went whimpering away from that grave. She broke off three branches of precious peach blossoms and carried them up the slope. She stuck them upright in the lumpy soil over Jase’s head and stood there a long while with tear-streaked face, staring down at the grave and at the nodding pink blossoms.

  * * * *

  Billy Louise rode singing down the rocky trail through the deep, narrow gorge, to where the hawthorn and choke-cherries hid the opening to the cove. Just on the edge of the thickest fringe, she pulled up and broke off tender branches of cherry bloom, then went on, still singing softly to herself because the air was sweet with spring odors, the sunshine lay a fresh yellow upon the land, and because the joy of life was in her blood and, like the birds, she had no other means of expression at hand. Blue’s feet sank to the fetlocks in the rich, black soil of the little meadow that lay smooth to the tumbling sweep of the river behind its own little willow fringe. His ears perked forward, his eyes rolling watchfully for strange sights and sounds, he stepped softly forward, ready to wheel at the slightest alarm and gallop back up the gorge to more familiar ground. It was long since Billy Louise had turned his head down the rocky trail, and Blue liked little the gloom of the gorge and the sudden change to soft, black soil that stopped just short of being boggy in the wet places. Where the trail led into a marshy crossing of the big, irrigating ditch that brought the stream from far up the gorge to water meadow and orchard, Blue halted and cast a look of disapproval back at his rider. Billy Louise stopped singing and laughed at him.

  “I guess you can go where a cow can go, you silly thing. Mud’s a heap easier than lava rock, if you only knew it, Blue. Get along with you.”

  Blue lowered his head, snuffed suspiciously at the water-filled tracks, and would have turned back. Mud he despised instinctively, since he had nearly mired on the creek bank when he was a sucking colt.

  “Blue! Get across that ditch, or I’ll beat you to death!” The voice of Billy Louise was soft with a caressing note at the end, so that the threat did not sound very savage, after all. She sniffed at the branch of cherry blossoms and reined the horse back to face the ditch. And Blue, who had a will of his own, snorted and wheeled, this time in frank rebellion against her command.

  “Oh, will you? Well, you’ll cross that ditch, you know, sooner or later—so you mi
ght just as well—” Blue reared and whirled again, plunging two rods back toward the cherry thicket.

  Billy Louise set her teeth against her lower lip, slid her rawhide quirt from slim wrist to firm hand-grip, and proceeded to match Blue’s obstinacy with her own; and since the obstinacy of Billy Louise was stronger and finer and backed by a surer understanding of the thing she was fighting against, Blue presently lifted himself, leaped the ditch in one clean jump, and snorted when he sank nearly to his knees in the soft, black soil beyond.

  From there to the pink drift of peach bloom against the dull brown of the bluff, Blue galloped angrily, leaving deep, black prints in the soft green of the meadow. So they came headlong upon Marthy, just as she was knocking the yellow clay of the grave from her irrigating shovel against the pole fence of her pig-pen.

  “Why, Marthy!” Once before in her life Billy Louise had seen Marthy’s chin quivering like that, and big, slow tears sliding down the network of lines on Marthy’s leathery cheeks. With a painful slump her spirits went heavy with her sympathy. “Marthy!”

  She knew without a word of explanation just what had happened. From Marthy’s bent shoulders she knew, and from her tear-stained face, and from the yellow soil clinging still to the shovel in her hand. The wide eyes of Billy Louise sent seeking glances up the slope where the soil was yellow; went to the long, raw ridge under the wall, with the peach blossoms standing pitifully awry upon the western end. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Marthy! When was it?”

  “In the night, sometime, I guess.” Marthy’s voice had a harsh huskiness. “He was—gone—when I woke up. Well—he’s better off than I be. I dunno what woulda become of him if I’d went first.” There, at last, was a note of tenderness, stifled though it was and fleeting. “Git down, Billy Louise, and come in. I been kinda lookin’ for yuh to come, ever sence the weather opened up. How’s your maw?”

  Spoken sympathy was absolutely impossible in the face of that stoical acceptance of life’s harsh law. Marthy turned toward the gate, taking the shovel and the wheelbarrow in with her. Billy Louise glanced furtively at the raw, yellow ridge under the rock wall and rode on to the stable. She pulled off the saddle and bridle and turned Blue into the corral before she went slowly—and somewhat reluctantly—to the cabin, squat, old, and unkempt like its mistress, but buried deep in the renewed sweetness of bloom-time.

  “The fruit’s comin’ on early this year,” said Marthy from the doorway, her hands on her hips. “They’s goin’ to be lots of it, too, if we don’t git a killin’ frost.” So she closed the conversational door upon her sorrow and pointed the way to trivial, every-day things.

  “What are you going to do now, Marthy?” Billy Louise was perfectly capable of opening a conversational door, even when it had been closed decisively in her face. “You can’t get on here alone, you know. Did you send for that nephew? If you haven’t, you must hire somebody till—”

  “He’s comin’. That letter you sent over last month was from him. I dunno when he’ll git here; he’s liable to come most any time. I ain’t going to hire nobody. I kin git along alone. I might as well of been alone—” Even harsh Marthy hesitated and did not finish the sentence that would have put a slight upon her dead.

  “I’ll stay tonight, anyway,” said Billy Louise. “Just a week ago I hired John Pringle and that little breed wife of his for the summer. I couldn’t afford it,” she added, with a small sigh, “but Ward had to go back to his claim, and mommie needs someone in the house. She hasn’t been a bit well, all winter. And I’ve turned all the stock out for the summer and have to do a lot of riding on them; it’s that or let them scatter all over the country and then have to hire a rep for every round-up. I can’t afford that, I haven’t got cattle enough to pay; and I like to ride, anyway. I’ve got them pretty well located along the creek, up at the head of the canyons. The grass is coming on fine, so they don’t stray much. Are you going to turn your cattle out, Marthy? I see you haven’t yet.”

  “No, I ain’t yit. I dunno. I was going to sell ’em down to jest what the pasture’ll keep. I’m gittin’ too old to look after ’em. But I dunno— When Charlie gits here, mebby—”

  “Oh, is that the nephew? I didn’t know his name.” Billy Louise was talking aimlessly to keep her thoughts away from the pitifulness of the sordid little tragedy in this beauty-spot and to drive that blank, apathetic look from Marthy’s hard eyes.

  “Charlie Fox, his name is. I hope he turns out a good worker. I’ve never had a chance to git ahead any; but if Charlie’ll jest take holt, I’ll mebby git some comfort outa life yit.”

  “He ought, to, I’m sure. And everyone thinks you’ve done awfully well, Marthy. What can I do now? Wash the dishes and straighten things up, I guess.”

  “You needn’t do nothin’ you ain’t a mind to do, Billy Louise. I don’t want you to think you got to slop around washin’ my dirty dishes. I’m goin’ on down into the medder and work on a ditch I’m puttin’ in. You jest do what you’re a mind to.” She picked up the shovel and went off down the jungly path, herself the ugliest object in the Cove, where she had created so much beauty.

  Again the sympathetic soul of Billy Louise had betrayed her into performing an extremely disagreeable task. Shudderingly she looked into the unpleasant bedroom, and comprehending all of the sordidness of the tragedy, spent half an hour with her teeth set hard together while she dragged out dingy blankets and hung them over the fence under a voluptuous plum-tree. The next hour was so disagreeably employed that she wondered afterward how even her sympathy could have driven her to the things she did. She carried more water, after she had scrubbed that bedroom, and opened the window with the aid of the hammer, and set the tea-kettle on to heat the dish-water. Then, because her mind was full of poor, dead Jase, she took the branches of wild cherry and hawthorn blossoms she had gathered coming down the gorge and went up the slope to lay them on his grave.

  She sat down on the rock where Marthy had rested after digging the grave, and with her chin in her two cupped palms, stared out across the river at the heaped bluffs and down at the pink-and-white patch of fruit-trees. She was trying, as the young will always try, to solve the riddle of life; and she was baffled and unhappy because she could not find any answer at all that pleased both her ideals and her reason. And then she heard a man’s voice lifted up in riotous song, and she turned her head toward the opening of the gorge and listened, her eyes brightening while she waited.

  “Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn,

  Best damn cowboy ever was born,

  Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a, youpy-a,

  Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a!”

  Billy Louise, with her chin still in her palms, smiled and hummed the tune under her breath; that shows how quickly we throw off the burdens of our neighbors. “Wonder what he’s doing down here?” she asked herself, and smiled again.

  “I’ll sell my outfit soon as I can,

  I won’t punch cattle for no damn’ man,

  Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a, youpy-a,

  Coma ti yi youpy, youpy-a!

  “I’m goin’ back to town to draw my money,

  I’m going back to town to see my honey,

  Coma ti yi—”

  Ward came into sight through the little meadow, riding slowly, with both hands clasped over the horn of the saddle, his hat tilted back on his head, and his whole attitude one of absolute content with life. He saw Billy Louise almost as soon as she glimpsed him—and she had been watching that bit of road quite closely. He flipped the reins to one side and turned from the trail to ride straight up the slope to where she was.

  Billy Louise, with a self-reproachful glance at the grave, ran down the slope to meet him—an unexpected welcome which made Ward’s heart leap in his chest.

  “Oh, Ward, for heaven’s sake don’t be singing that come-all-ye at the top of your voice, like that. Don’t you—”

  “Now I was given to understand that you liked that same come-all-ye. Have you been educating yo
ur musical taste in the last week, Miss William Louisa?” Ward stopped his horse before her, and with his hands still clasped over the saddle-horn, looked down at her with that hidden smile—and something else.

  “No, I haven’t. I don’t have to educate myself to the point where I know the Chisholm Trail isn’t a proper kind of funeral hymn, Ward Warren.” Billy Louise glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice instinctively, as we all do when death has come close and stopped. “Jase died last night; that’s his grave up there. Isn’t it perfectly pitiful? Poor old Marthy was here all solitary alone with him. And—Ward! She dug that grave her own self, and took him up and buried him—and, Ward! She—she wheeled him up in the—wheelbarrow! She had to, of course. She couldn’t carry him. But isn’t it awful?” Her hands were up, patting and smoothing the neck of his horse, and her face was bent to hide the tears that stood in her eyes, and the quiver of her mouth.

  Ward drew in his lip, bit it, and let it go. He was a man, and he had seen much of tragedy and trouble; also, he did not know Marthy or Jase. His chief emotion was one of resentment against anything that brought tears to Billy Louise; she had not hidden them from him; they were the first and most important element in that day’s happenings, so far as he was concerned. He leaned and flipped the end of his reins lightly down on her bare head.

  “William Louisa, if you cry about it, I’ll—do something shocking, most likely. Yes, it’s awful; a whole lot of life is awful. But it’s done, and Mrs. Martha appears to be a woman with a whole lot of grit, so the chances are she’ll carry her load like a man. She’ll be horribly lonesome, down here! They lived alone, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, and they didn’t seem to love each other much.” Billy Louise was not one to gloss over hard facts, even in the face of that grave. “Marthy was always kicking about him, and he about her. But all the same they belonged together; they had lived together more years than we are old. And she’s going to miss him awfully.”