Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 85, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 April 1914 — A Man in the Open [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A Man in the Open

bg Roger Pocock

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SYNOPSIS. The story opens with Jesse Smith relating the story of his birth, early life In Labrador and of the death of his father. Jesse a sailor. His mother marries the master of the ship and both ar* lost In the wreck of the vessel. Jesse becomes a cowboy in Texas. He marries -.Polly, a singer of questionable morals, who later is reported to have committed suicide. CHAPTER V.—Continued. And I found wealth. Seems there’s many pe'rsons mistaking dollars for some sort of wealth. I’ve had a few at times by way of samples, the things which you’re apt to be selfish with, or give away to buy self-righteousness. Reckoning with them projuces the feeling called poverty. They’re th* very stuff and substance of meanness, and no man walks straight-loaded. Dollars gets lost, or thrqwed away, or left to your next of kin, but they’re not a good and lasting possession; ! like 'em, too. 1 found peace, I found wealth, yes, and found something more thar in the wilderness. Sweet as the cactus forest in blossom down Salt River is that big memory. It was after I’d found the things of happy solitude. I’d gone to work then. for the Bar Y outfit, breaking the Lightning colts. We was out a few weeks from home, taking an outfit of ponies as far ns the Mesa Abaho, and one night camped at the very rimrock of the Grand Canyon. The Navajo Indians was peevish, the camp dry, grass scant, herd In a raffish moot), and night come sudden. I’d just relieved a man to get his. supper, and rode herd wide alert. I scented the camp smoke, saw the spark of fire glow on the boys at rest, and heard their peaceful talk hushed In the big night. They seemed euch triflin’ critters full of fuss since dawn, bo small as insects at the edge of nothin’, while for miles beneath us that old, old wolfy Colorado River was playing the Grand Canyon like a fiddler. But the river In the canyon seemed no more than trickle in a crack, hushed by the night, while overhead the mighty blazing stars —point, swing, and drive, rode herd -on the milky way. And that seemed no more than cow-boys driving stock. Would God turn His head to see His star herds pass, or notice our earth like some lame calf halting tn the rear? And what am I, then? That was my great lesson,. more gain to mp than peace and wealth of mind, for I was humbled to the dust of earth, below that dust of stars So a very humble thing, not worth praying for, at least I could be master of myself. I rode no more for wages, but cut out my ponies- from the Lightning herd, mounted my stud horse William, told the boys goodby at Montecello, and then rode slowly north -into the British possessions. So I dome at last to this place, an old abandoned ranch. There’s none so poor In- dollars as to envy ragged Jeese, or rich enqugn to want to rob my home. They say there’s hidden wealth wfiar the rainbow goes to earth—that’s whar I live.. PART TWO CHAPTER I. Two Ships at Anchor. •Kate’s Narrative. .My horse was hungry, and ‘ Wanted to get back to the ranch. I was hungry too, but dared hot go. I had left my husband lying drunk on the kitchen floor, and when he woke up it ’ would be worse than thht For miles I had followed the edge of the bench lands, searching tor the

place* for the right place, some point where the rocks went sheer, twelve hundred feet into the river. There must be nothing to break the fell, no risk of being aHve, of being taken back there, of seeing him again. Bat the edge was never sheer, and perhaps, after all, the place by the Soda Spring was best. There the trail from the raaeh goes at a sharp tarn, over

the edge of the cliffs and down to the ferry. Beyond there are three great pines on a headland, and the cliff is sheer for at least five hundred feet. That should be far enough. _ I let my horse have a drink at the spring, then we went slowly on over the soundless carpet of pine needles. I would leave my horse at the pines. Somebody was there. Four laden pack-ponies stood in the shade of the trees, switching their tails to drive away the flies. A fifth, a buckskin mare, unloaded, with a bandaged leg. -stood in the sunlight. Behind the nearest tree a man was speaking . I reined my horse. “Now you, Jones.” he was jsaying to the injured beast, "you take yo’self too serious. ' You ain’t goin’ to Heaven? No! Then why pack yo’ bag? Why fuss?” . I had some silly idea that the man, if he discovered me, would know what business brought me to this headland. I held my breath. His slow, delicious, Texan drawl made me smile. I did not want .to smile. The mare, a very picture of misery, lifted her bandaged, frightfully swollen leg, and hobbled into the shade. I did not want to laugh, but why was she called Jones? She looked just like a Jones. “The inquirin’ mind,” said the man behind the tree, “has gawn surely astray from business, or you’d have know’d that rattlers smells of snake. Then I asks—why paw?” The mare, with her legs all astraddle, snorted in his face. “Sugar is it? Why didn’t you say so befo'?” Jones turned her good eye on the man as though she had just discovered his existence, hobbled briskly after him while he dug in his kitchen boxes, made first grab at the sugar bag, and got her face slapped. The man, always with his eye upon the mare, returned to his place, and sat on his heel as before. “Three lumps,” he said, holding them one by one to be snatched. "You’re acting soft of convalescent, Jones, No more sugar. And don’t beahawg!” The mare was kissing his face. "Back of all! * Back water! Thar now, thank the lady behind me!” And f had imagined my presence still unknown. ■ .“How on earth," I gasped, "did you know I was here?" The man’s eyes were still intent upon the wounded mare. "Wall, Mrs. Trevor,” he drawled. “You know my name? Your back has been turned the whole_tlme! You’ve never seen me in your life — at least I’ve never seen you!” “That’s so,” he answered thoughtfully. “I don’t need tellin* the sound of that colt yo’ husband bought from me. As to the squeak of a lady’s pigskin saddle, thar ain’t no other lady rider short of a hundred and eighty' three and a half miles." What manner of man could this be? My colt was drawing toward him all the time as though a magnet pulled. He stood facing me, the bag still In his hand, and my colt asking pointedly for sugar. Very tall, gaunt, deeply tanned, perhaps twenty-five years of age, he seemed to me Immeasurably old, so deeply lined was his face. And yet-lt was the face of one at peace. I had been away since daybreak, and now the sun was entering the west As to my purpose, that I felt could wait. x So I sat under the pines, pretending to nurse Jones while the shadows lengthened over the-tawny grass, and orange needles flecked fields of rock, out to the edge of the headland. The man unsaddled my horse, unloaded his ponies, fetched water from the spring of natural Apollinaria, but when, coming back, he found me lighting a fire, he begged me to desist, to rest while he made dinner. And 1 was glad to rest, thinking about the peace beyond the edge of the headland. Yet ft was interesting to see how a man keeps house th the wilderness, and how different are his ways from those of a woman No housewife could have been more daintily clean, Jbi shown a swifter skill, or half the SUent ease with-“which this woodemaq mhfle the table-ware for enough to serve ,two people. But a woman would not clean a frying-pan by burning ft and throwing on cold water. He sprinkled flour on a ground sheet, and made dough without wetting the canvas. Would I like bread, or slapjacks, or a pie? He made a loaf of bread, in a frying pan set on edge among glowing coals, and, wondering how a pie could possibly happen without the assistance of an oven, I forgot all about that cliff. The thing I had intended was a crime, and conscience-stricken, I dreaded lest he should speak. 1 could .not bear that. Already his camp was cleaned and in order, his pipe filled and slightest any moment he might break the restful sllenca That’s why I spake, and at random]*asking If he were not from the United States. _ His eyes said plainly, “So that’s the game, eh?" His broad smile said, "Well, we’ll play.” He sat down cross-legged. "Yes," he answered, “I’m an American citizen, except," he added softly, “on election days, and then,"

he cocked up one shrewd eye, “I’m sort of British. Canadian? No. I cayn’t claim that either, coming from the Labrador, for that’s NeWfnland, a day’s march nearer home. “Say, Mrs. Trevor, you don’t know my name yet It’s Smith, and with my friends I’m mostly Jesse.* "If you please, may I be one of your friends?" ' “If I behave good, you may. No harm in my trying." The moment Jesse Smith had given me his name, I knew him well by reputation. Comments by Surly Brown, the ferryman, and my husband’s bitter hatred had outlined a dangerous character. Nobody else lived within a day’s journey. “That’s my home," said Jesse. "D’ye see a dim trail jags down that upper cliff? That’s whar I drifted my ponies down when I came from the States. I didn’t know of the wagon road from Hundred Mile House to the ferry, which runs by the north end of my. ranch." "And the tremendous grandeur of the place?” “Hum. I don’t claim to have been knocked all in a heap with the scenery. No. What took holt of me good and hard was the company—a silver top b’ar and hie missus, Ix)th thousand pounders, with their three young ladies, now marled and settled beyond the sky-line. There’s two couples of prime eagles still camps along thar by South Cave. The timber wolf I trimmed out because he wasted around like a remittance man. Thar was a stallion and his harem, this yere fool Jones bein’ one of his young mares. Besides that, there was heaps of Ifl’ friendly folks in fur, hair, and feathers. Yes, . I have been right to home since I located." "But grizzly bears? How frightful!" "Yes. They was frightened at first The coarse treatment they gets from hunters, makes them sort of bashful with any stranger.” "But the greatest hunters are afraid of them." < . “The biggest-criminals has got most scare at police. B’ars has no use for sportsmen, nor me neither. My rifle’s heaps fiercer than any b’ar, and J’ve chased more sportsmen than I has grizzlies.” . ~ "Wasn’t Mr. Trevor one of them?" Jesse grinned. "Tell me," I said, for the other side, of the story must be worth hearing. “Wall, Mr. Trevor took out a summlns agin me for chasing him off my ranch. ' He got fined for having no gen license, and no dawg license, and not paying his poll-tax, and Cap Taylor bound him over to keep the peace. I ain’t popular now with Mr. Trevor? whereas he got off cheap. Now, if them ’b’ars could shoot —’’ I hadn’t thought of that “Can they be tamed?” I asked. ~V“Men can be gentled, and they needs taming most Thar was three grizzlies sort of adopted a party by the name of Capen Adams, and camped and traveled with him most familiar. Once them four vagrants promenaded on Market Street in ’Frisco. Not that I holds with this Adams in misleading his b’ars among man-smell so strong and dlstrackful to their peace of mind. But still I reckon Capen Adams and me sort of takes after each other. I’m only attractive to animals.” “Oh, surely!” I laughed. But Jesse became quite dismal. “I’m not reckoned,” he bemoaned himself, “among the popular attractions. The neighbors shies at coming near my ranch.” “Well, if you protect grizzlies and hunt sportsmen, surely it’s not surprising." “Can’t please all parties, eh? Wall, perhaps that’s how the herd is grazing. Yes. Come to think of it, I remember oncet a Smithsonian grave robber comes to inspeck South Cave. He said I'd got a bone yard of ancient people, and he’d rob graves to find out all about them olden times. He wanted to catch the atmosphere of them days, so I sort of helped. Robbing graves ain’t exactly a holy vocation, the party had a mean eye. a German name, and a sort of patronizing manner, but still I helped around to get him atmosphere, me and Eph." "Who’s Eph?" “Oh, he’s just a silver-tip, what scientific parties calls ursus horribills ord. You just cast your eye whar the trickle stream falls below my cabin. D’ye see them sarvis berry bushes down below the spray?" “Where the bushes are waving? Oh, look, there’s a gigantic grizzly standing up, and pulling the branches!” "Yes, that’s Eph. “Well, as I was tellin* you, Eph and me is helping this scientific person to get the atmosphere of them ancient times.” ■■■ - ' - “But the poor man would die of fright!" "Too busy running. When he reached Vancouver, he was surely a cripple though, and no more use to science. Shall 1 call Eph?" “I think not to-day," said I, hurriedly rising, "for indeed J should be getting home at once.”’ ” Without ever touching the wound, he had givep mo ths courage to live.

'had matin my behavior of the morning seem that of a silly schoolgirl; but still I did not feel quite up to a social introduction. I said I was sure that Eph and I would have no interests in common. “So you’ll go home and face the music?" said Jesse’s wise old eyes. “My husband," said I, "will be getting quite anxious about me." Without a word he brought my horse and saddled, him. And I, with a sinking heart, contrasted the loneliness and the horror which was called my “home” with all the glamour of this man’s happy solitude. He held the stirrup for me to mount, offered his hand. r “Do you never get hungry," I asked, “for what’s beyond the horizon?’.’ He sighed with sheer relief, then turned, his eyes seeing infinite distances. "Why, yes! That .country beyond the sky-line’s always calling. Thar’s something I want away off, and I don’t know what I want” "That land beyond the sky-line’s called romance." He clenched hie teeth. "What does a ship want when she strains at anchor? What she wants is drift And I’m at anchor because I’ve sworn off drift." At that we parted, and I went slowly homeward, up to my anchor. Dear God! If I might drift! CHAPTER 11. —— c The Trevor Accident ’N. B. —Mr. Smith, while living alone, had a habit of writing long letters to his mother. After his mother’s death the habit continued, but as the letters could not be sent by mail, and to post them in the stove seemed to euggest unpleasant ideas, they were stowed in his saddle wallets. Dear Mother in Heaven: There’s been good money in this here packing contract, and the wad in my belt-pouch has been growing till Doctor McGee suspecks a tumor. He thinks I’ll let him operate, and sure enough that would reduce the swelling. Once a week I take my little pack outfit up to the Sky-line claim for a load of peacock copper. It runs three hundred dollars to the ton in horn silver, and looks more like jewels than minerat Iron Dale’s cook, Mrs. Jubbin, nine to more species of pies and cake than even Hundred Mile house, and after dinner I get a rim-fire cigar which pops like a cracker, while I sit in front of the scenery and taste the breath of the snow mountains. Then I lotyl the ponies, collects Mick out of the cook house, which he’s partial to for bones, Iron slings me the mailpouch, and I hits the trail. I aim to make good bush grass in the yellow pines by dusk, and the second day brings me down to Brown’s Ferry, three miles short of my home. From the ferry there’s a good road in winter to Hundred Mile House, so. I tote the cargoes over there by sleigh There my contract ends, because Tearful George takes on with his string team down to the railroad. I’d have that contract, too, only Tearful is, V low-lived sort of a person, which can feed for a dollar a week, whereas when I get down to the railroad I'm mqre expensive. Your affectionate son, JESSE. Rain-storm coming. P. S. —Yes, it’s a good life, and I don’t envy no man. Still It made me sort of thoughtful last time as I swung along with that Jones mare snuggling at my wrist, little Mick snapping rear heels astern, and the sun just scorching down among the pines. Women is

infrequent, and spite of all my experiences with the late Mrs. Smith — most fortunate deceased, itfe ain’t all complete without a mate. It ain’t no harm to any woman, mother, if I just varies off my trail to survey the surrounding stock. Mrs. Jubbln passes herself , off for a widow, and all the boys at the mine take notice that she can cook. Apart from that, she’s homely as a barb-wire fence, and Bubbly Jock, her husband, ain’t deceased to any great extent, being due to finish his sentence along in October, and handy besides with a rifle. Then of the three young ladies at Eighty Mile, Sally is a sound proposition, but numerously engaged to the stage drivers and teamsters along the Cariboo Road. Miss Wilth, the schoolma’am, keeps a widow mother with tongue and teeth, so them as smells the bait is ware of the trap. That’s why Miss Wilth stays single. The other girl is a no-account young person. Not that I’m the sort to shy at a woman for squinting, the same being quite persistent with sound morals, but I hold that a person who scratches herself at meals ain’t never quite the lady. She should do it private. There’s the Widow O’Flynn on the trail to Hundred Mile, —she’s harsh, with a wooden limb. Besides she wants to talk old times in Abilene. 1 don’t While I’ve mostly kep’ away from the married ladies, and said "deliver us from temptation" regular every night, there was no harm as I came along down, in being sorry for Mrs. Trevor. Women are reckoned mighty cute at reading men, but I’ve noticed when Fve struck the complete polecat that he’s usually married. So long as a woman keeps her head she’s wiser than a man, but when she gets rattled she’s a sure fool. She’ll keep her head with the common run of men. but when she strikes the all-round stinker, like a horse runs into a fire, she ups and marries him. Anyway, Mrs. Trevor had got there. Said to be Tuesday. Trip before last was the first time I seen this lady. Happens Jones reckoned she’d been appointed Inspector of snakes, so I’d had to lay off at the spring, and Mrs. Trevor comes along to get shut of her trouble. She’s hungry; she ain’t had anything but her prize hawg to speak to for weeks, and she’s as curious as Mother Eve. anyway. Surely my meat’s transparent by the way her voice struck through among my bones. If angels speak like her I’d die to hear. She told me nothin', not one word about the trouble that’s killing her, but her voice made me want to cry. If you’d spoke like that when I was your pup- , py, you’d a had no need of that old slipper, mother. ’Cause I couldn’t tear him away from the beef bones, I’d left Mick up at the Sky-line, or I’d ast that lady to accept my dog. You see, he’d bite Trevor all-right, wharas I has to diet myself, and my menu is sort of complete. Still by the time she stayed in camp, my talk may have done some comfort to that poor woman. She didn’t know then that her trouble was only goth’ to last another week. You'd have laughed if you’d seen Jones after she drank her fill of water out of the bubbly spring, crowded with soda bubbles. She just goes hie, tittup, hie, down the trail, changing steps as the hiccups jolted her poor old ribs. The mare looked so blamed funny that at first I didn’t notice the tracks along the road. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

"Sugar, is It? Why Didn’t Ye Say So Before?"