Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 81, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 April 1914 — A Man in the Open [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Man in the Open

by Roger Pocock

SYNOPSIS. The etory opens with Jesse Smith relating the story of his birth, early life in Labrador and of the death of his father. •mm becomes a sailor. His mother marries the master of the ship and both are loet in the wreck of the vessel. lease becomes a cowboy in Texas. He marries Polly, a singer of questionable morals, who later is reported tp have committed suicide, Jesse becomes a rancher and moves to British Columbia. Kate Trevor takes up the narrative. Unhappily married she contemplates suicide, but changes her mind after meeting Jesse. CHAPTER ll.—-Continued. To judge by the hind shoes, Mrs. Trevor's mean colt had gone down toward the river not more’n ten minutes ago, on the dead run, then back up the roadat a racking out-of-breath trot. Something must have gone wrong, and sure enough as I neared a point of rocks which hid the trail ahead, Jones suddenly shied hard in the midst of a hiccup. There was the Widow Bear’s track right across the road, and Mick had to yell blue blazes to get the other ponies' past the smell. Ahead of me the tracks of the TreVor colt were dancing the wjdtb of the road, bucking good and hard at the stink of bear. Then I rounded the point of rocks. There lay Mrs. Trevor in a heap. Since Jones would have shied over the tree-tops at a corpse or a whiff of blood, I knew she’d 'only fainted, but felt at her breast to make sure. 1 tell you it felt like an outrage to lay my paw on a sleeping lady,' and still worse I’d only my dirty old hat to carry water from a seepage in the cliff. My heart thumped when I knelt to sprinkle the water, and when that blamed humming-bird came whirring past my ear, I jumped as though the devil had got me, splashing the hatful over Mrs. Trevor. At that her eyes opened, stating straight at my face, but she made out a sort of smile when •he saw it was only me. “Jesse!” “Yes, ma’am.” "Seen my husband?” “No, ma’am.” “I don’t know what’s come over Mm,” she moaned, clenching her teeth; "he fired at me.” “That gun I traded him?" “Four shots.” “You was running away when your colt shied at the bear?” “My ankle! Jesse, it hurts so dreadfully. Yes. the left.” My knife ripped her riding-boot clear. The old red bandana from my neck made her a wet bandage, and the boot top served for a splint. There was no call to tell her the foot was broken, and the fainting fits eased my job. Between whiles she would tell me to hurry, knowing that the return damned colt would show Trevor which Way she’d run. I had no weapon, so if Trevor happened along with the .45 revolver it wouldn’t be healthy. I couldn’t leave the loads of ore on my ponies, and if I got Mrs. Trevor mounted with her foot hanging down, she’d lose time swooning. So I unloaded all the ponies except Jones and Swift, who has a big heart for travel. Next I filled one of the rawhide panniers with brush, and lashed it across Jones’ neck for a back rest. A wad of pine brush made a seat between Jones* panniers where 1 mostly carry

my grub. Hoisting Mrs. Trevor on to the mare's back was a pretty mean job, but worst of all I had to lash her down. For chafing gear to keep the ropes from scorching, I had to use my coat, shirt, and.undershirt, so that when I mounted Swift to lead off. I’d. only boots and overalls, and Mrs. Trevor could see 1 was blushing down to my belt Shocked? Nothing! Great ladles doesn’t shock like common people. No, In spite of the pain-rack-ing and the fear-haunting, she laughed, and It done me good. She said I looked like Mr. Polio Belvldeary, a dago she’d met up with In Italy. Dagos are swine, but the way she spoke made me proud. Washing day ’after supper. Wo Verenl more than half-way down to the river when we heard Trevor surging and yelling astern, somewherss up on the bench. At that 1 bonito to a trot, telling the lady to let

out a hbwl the moment it hurt beyond bearing. I wonder what amount of pain is beyond the bearing of real thoroughbreds? That lady would burn before she’d even whimper. Nearing the ferry my innards went sick, for the punt was on the far bank, the man was out of sight, and even Jones wouldn’t propose to swim a river with a cargo of mineral and a deck load. As we got to the door of Brown’s cabin, Trevor hove in sight. I lep’ to the ground, giving Jones a hearty slap on the off quarter, which would steer her behind Brown’s cabin; then with one jump I grabbed ol man Brown’s Winchester rifle from its slings above the hearth, shoved home two cartridges from the mantel, rammed the muzzle through the win-dow-pane, which commands a view up the trail, and proceeded to take stock of Mr. Trevor. The man’s.eyes being stark staring mad, it was a sure fact he’d never listen to argument. I waited, following with the rifle until the horse's shoulder widened out, giving me a clear aim at the heart. The horse finished his stride, but while I was running to the door he crumpled and went down dead, the carcass sliding three yards before it stopped. As to the man, he shot a long curve down on his back in a splash of dust, which looked like a brown explosion. His revolver went further on whirling, until a stump touched off the trigger, and its bullet whined over my head. Next thing I heard was the rapids, like a church organ finishing a hymn, and Mrs. Trevor’s call. “You’ve killed him?” “No, ma’am, but he’s had an accident. I’ll take him to the cabin for first aid.” Trevor was sitting up by the time I reached him. He looked sort of sick. “Get up," said I, remembering to be polite in the presence of a lady. “Get up, you cherub.” Instead of rising, he reached out a flask from his pocket, and uncorked io take a little nourishment. I flicked the bottle into the river, and assisted him to rise with my foot. “My poor erring brother,” said I, “please step this way,*or I’ll kick your tail through your hat." He said he wasn’t feeling very well, so when I got him into the cabin, 1 let him He on Brown’s bed, lashing him down good and hard. I gave him a stick to bite Instead of my fingers, which is private. “Now,” said I. “your name is Polecat.. You’re due to rest right there, Mr. Polecat, until I get the provincial constable.” I gathered from his expression that he’d sort of taken a dislike to me. Swift and the mare were grazing on pine chips beside the cabin, and Mrs. Trevor looked wonderfully peaceful. “Your husband,” said I, “Is resting.” She gave me a wry laugh, and seeing she was in pain, I poured water over her foot.

“That’s better,” said she, “how good you are to me!” Old man Brown was coming across with a punt, mighty peevish because I*d dropped a horse carcass to rot at his cabin door, and still worse when he seen I had a lunatic roped in his bunk. I gave him his Winchester, which he < set down by his doo?, also a dollar bill, but he was still crowded full of peevishness, wasting a lady’s time. At last I hustled the ponies aboard the punt, and set the guide lines so that we started out along the cable, leaving the old man to come or stay as he pleased. He came. Fact is, I remembered that while I took Mrs. Trevor to my home, I’d need a messenger to ride for doctor, nurse, groceries, and constable. I’m afraid old man Brown was torn some, catching on a nail while I lifted him into the punt. His language was plentiful.

Now I thought I’d arranged Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Trevor and Mr. Brown, and added up the sum so that old Geometry himself couldn't have figured it better. Whereas I’d left out the fact that Brown’s bunk was nailed careless to the wall of his cabin, as Trevor struggled, the pegs came adrift, the bed capsized, the rope slacked, and the polecat, breaking loose,, found Brown’s rifle. I'd led the ponies out of the punt, and was instructing Brown, whgn the polecat let drive at me from across the river. With all his faults he could shoot good, for his first grazed my scalp, half blinding me. At that the lady attracted attention by screaming, so the third shot stampeded poor Jones. I ain't religious, being only thirty, and not due to reform this side of rheumatism, but all the sins I’ve enjoyed was punished sudden and complete in that one minute. Blind with blood, half stunned, and reeling sick, I heard the mare'as she plunged along the bank dispensing boulders. No top-heavy cargo was going to' stand that strain without coming over, so the woman I loved—yes, I knew that now for a sact —was going to be dragged until her brains were kicked out by the mare. It seemed to me ages before 1 could rouse my senses.

wipe my eyes, and mount the gelding. When sight and sense came back, I was riding as I had never dared to ride in all my life, galloped Mr. Swift on rolling boulders steep as a roof and all a-slither. I got Swift sidewise up the, bank to grass, raced past the mare, then threw Swift in front of Jones. Down went the mare just as her load capsized,, so that she and the lady. Swift and I, were all mixed, up in a heap. My little dog Mick was licking mr scalp when I woke, and it seemed to me at first that something must have gone wrong. My head was between two boulders, with the mare’s shoulder pressing my nose, my legs were under water, and somewhere close around were roaring rapids. Swift was scrambling for a foothold, and Mrs. Trevor shouting for all she was worth. I waited till Swift cleared out, and the lady quit for breath. “Yes, ma’am,” says I. “Oh. say you’re not dead, Jesse!" “Only in parte,” said I, “and how are you?” “I’m cutting the ropes, but oh, this knife's so blunt!” “Don’t spoil your knife. Will you do what I say?” “Of course 1 will.” _ “Reach out then on the off side of the load. The end of that lashing’s fast to the after-basket line.” When I’d explained that two or three times, “I have it," she answered. “Loose!” “Pull on the fore line of the diamond.” “Right. Oh, Jesse, I’m free!” "Kneel on the mare’s head, reach

under the pannier, find the latego, and cast off.” She fumbled awhile, and then reported all clear. “Get off the mare.” In another moment Jones was standing up to shake herself, knee deep In the river, and with a slap I sent her off to join Swift at the .top of the bank. Mrs. Trevor was sitting on a boulder, staring out ?ver the rapids, her eyes set on something coming down midstream. Her face was all gray, and she clutched my hand, holding like grim death. As for me, I’d never reckoned that even a madman would try to swim the Fraser In clothes and boots. “I can’t bear it!” she cried, turning hfer face away. "Tell me—” “I guess,” said I, feeling mighty grave, “you’re due to become a widow.” The rapids got Trevor, and 1 watched. “You are a widow,” says I, at last. She fainted. There, I’m dead sick of writing this letter, and my wrist is all toothache. JESSE.

CHAPTER 111.

Love. Kate’s Narrative. I married Lionel Trevor in the days when he looked like a god as Parsifal, sang like an angel, had Europe at his feet. "Something wrong with Europe," is Jesse’s comment. J*West of the Rockies we don’t use such, except to sell their skins.” When Lionel lost his voice—more to him- than are horse and gun to Jesse —he would not ask me to follow him into the wilderness but tried to persuade me to stay on in London. 1 was singing “Eurydice” in ’’Orfeo?' my feet, thanks to Lionel, were at last on the great ladder, and if I was ambitious, who shall blame me? Yet for better, for worse, we were married, and* here among the pines, in this celestial air, a year or two at the most would give him back his voice. My place was at his side, for better or worse, and when he drank, when day by day I watched the light of reason give place in his eyes to bestial vice, until at last I found myself chained to a maniac—till death do us part—it, was then I first saw Jesse, the one man whose ejres showed understanding. I can’t write about that day,, when Lionel, a thing possessed devils.

hunted me through the woods like a bear. I doubt if I remember ail that happened. I must have been crazed with pain and fear until suddenly 1 woke up on a boulder by that awful river, and saw him drift past me, caught in the rapids, drowning. 1 would have shouted I was Ao glad, until he saw me, and dying as he was, looked at me with Lionel’s dear sane eyes. \ I fainted, and when I awoke again in the dusk, Jesse bent over me. That night and for three weeks afterward. I lay delirious. At the ferryman’s cabin he made me a bed of pine boughs, until my household stuff and -the Chinese servant could be brought down from the ranch. He sent Surly Brown to bring Doctor McGee, and the Widow O’Flynn as my nurse, while her son Billy was hired to do his pack-train work. From that time onward the pack outfit carried cargoes of from the mine, and loads from Hundred Mile House of every comfort and luxury which money could buy for me. When 1 got well, I found that Jesse had spent the savings «f years, and had not a dollar left. When at last I crept ouC of doors to bask in the autumn sunlight, the cottonwoods and aspens were changed to lemon. the sumac to crimson, the fallen needles of the pines clothed the slopes with orange, and a mist of milky blue lay in the canon. Jesse had arranged with lawyers for the probate of Lionel’s will, and settlement of his debts, which would leave me nothing. As far as Jesse knew, I was penniless, and to this day I have never dared acknowledge that, secured from the extravagance of my late husband, I have capital bringing in some seven thousand five hundred dollars a year. Jesse supposed me to be destitute, and when 1 spoke of returning to my work In Europe, offered to raise the money for my passage. Knowing his ranch to be mortgaged already to its full value, I wondered what limit there was to this poor man’s valor. Yes, I would accept, assuring him of swift repayment, yet dared not tell him the wages offered me at Covent Garden. It seemed Indecent that a woman’s voice should be valued at more per week than his heroic earnings for a year.

I sang to him, simple emotional music: Orfeo’s lament, the finale of ”11 Trovatore,” th 6 angel song from Chopin’s “Marche Funebre.” I wonder why women make it so important that a man should propose? It needed no telling that Jesse and I were in love. It seemed only natural that we should marry, and any pretense of mourning for the late Mr. Trevor would have been distasteful. Although born in the Labrador, Jesse had been a cow-boy in Texas for half his working life. As a stockman, he was to wed a rancher’s widow. Was he ashamed of his business? No, proud as Lucifer! Was he ashamed of the dress, of his trade? Not by a damned sight! ’ Soldiers and sailors are proud to wear the dress of their trade when they marry. “So are cow punchers,” said he, with his head in the air. “S’pose we ride to Cariboo City, and get mafried in that little old log church.” He managed to persuade me; and I consented also to a hunting trip, instead of the usual honeymoon. When I was well enough for the journey, I rode my colt, and Jesse his demon mare—Jones —my sole rival, I think except that dreadful bear, in his affections. Two packponies carried our camp and baggage, and each night he would set up a little tent for me, bedding himself down beside the fire. At the end of five days’ journey, we rode at dusk into Cariboo.

Captain Taylor, of Hundred Mlle House, and Pete Mathson, the carga dor of the Star Pack-train, two old stanch friends of Jesse, witnessed our marriage in the quaint log building which served as church and schoolhouse. Captain Taylor is a retired naval officer, a pioneer of the gold mines, a magistrate, a man to trust, and when he gave me bis heartfelt congratulations, it was not without knowledge of Jesse’s character. He and Pole, the cargador, rode with us to the camp of his Star Pack-train.

and it was there In the forest that we ate our wedding-breakfast. We drank the healths in champagne from tin cups, and then, saddling up, Jesse and I rode away alone into the solitudes.

CHAPTER IV.

The Landlord. Kate's Narrative. Of his life before tys reached this province Jesse will so far tell me nothing, yet his speech betrays him. for under the vivid dialect of the stock range, there is a streak of sailor, and beneath, that 1 detect traces of brogue which may be native perhaps to Labrador. Out of a chaos of books he has peeked words which pleased him, pronounced, of course, to suit himself, and used in some sense which would shock any dictionary. *■* “ His manners and customs, too, are a field for research. Of course one expects him to be professional with

rope, gun, and ax, but how did he learn the rest? I wanted a lantern — he made one; my boot was torn —he made one; my water-proof coat was ruined—he made one; and if 1 asked for a sewing-machine, he would refuse to move camp until he had one finished. If his name were not Smith I could prove him directly descended from the Swiss family Robinson. It a project sounds risky, I have to assume that it is something unusually safe, as the only Way to keep him out of danger. If I should ever wish to be a widow, I. have only to doubt his power to fly without wings. Guided by his uncanny woodcraft, I began to meet the parishioners, mountain sheep and goats, the elk and caribou, eagles, bears, wolverines, and certainly I shared something of Jesse’s untiring delight in all wild creatures. Even when we needed meat in camp, and .some plump gooss or mallard was at the mercy of his gun, Jesse would sometimes beg the victim off, and catch more trout. "So long as they don’t hunt us,” he would say, “I’d rather tote your camera than my gun. But thar’s that dog-gone beaver down the crick, he tried to bite me yesterday again. If he don’t tame hi&self, I’ll slap his face. Thinks he’s editor.” (TO BE CONTINUED.)

Galloped Mr. Swift on Rolling Boulders Steep as a Roof.

There Lay Mrs. Trevor All In a Heap.

Each Night He Would Set Up a Little Tent for Me.