—26—
RESIGNED TO WAIT FOR the Judge’s horses, Balaam went into his office this dry, bright morning and read nine accumulated newspapers; for he was behindhand. Then he rode out on the ditches, and met his man returning with the troublesome animals at last. He hastened home and sent for the Virginian. He had made a decision.
“See here,” he said; “those horses are coming. What trail would you take over to the Judge’s?”
“Shortest trail’s right through the Bow Laig Mountains,” said the foreman, in his gentle voice.
“Guess you’re right. It’s dinner-time. We’ll start right afterward. We’ll make Little Muddy Crossing by sundown, and Sunk Creek tomorrow, and the next day’ll see us through. Can a wagon get through Sunk Creek Cañon?”
The Virginian smiled. “I reckon it can’t, seh, and stay resembling a wagon.”
Balaam told them to saddle Pedro and one packhorse, and drive the bunch of horses into a corral, roping the Judge’s two, who proved extremely wild. He had decided to take this journey himself on remembering certain politics soon to be rife in Cheyenne. For Judge Henry was indeed a greater man than Balaam.
This personally conducted return of the horses would temper its tardiness, and, moreover, the sight of some New York visitors would be a good thing after seven months of no warmer touch with that metropolis than the Sunday
Herald,
always eight days old when it reached the Butte Creek Ranch.
They forded Butte Creek, and, crossing the well-travelled trail which follows down to Drybone, turned their faces toward the uninhabited country that began immediately, as the ocean begins off a sandy shore. And as a single mast on which no sail is shining stands at the horizon and seems to add a loneliness to the surrounding sea, so the long gray line of fence, almost a mile away, that ended Balaam’s land on this side the creek, stretched along the waste ground and added desolation to the plain. No solitary water-course with margin of cotton-woods or willow thickets flowed here to stripe the dingy, yellow world with interrupting green, nor were cattle to be seen dotting the distance, nor moving objects at all, nor any bird in the soundless air. The last gate was shut by the Virginian, who looked back at the pleasant trees of the ranch, and then followed on in single file across the alkali of No Man’s Land.
No cloud was in the sky. The desert’s grim noon shone sombrely on flat and hill. The sage-brush was dull like zinc. Thick heat rose near at hand from the caked alkali, and pale heat shrouded the distant peaks.
There were five horses. Balaam led on Pedro, his squat figure stiff in the saddle, but solid as a rock, and tilted a little forward, as his habit was. One of the Judge’s horses came next, a sorrel, dragging back continually on the rope by which he was led. After him ambled Balaam’s wise pack-animal, carrying the light burden of two days’ food and lodging. She was an old mare who could still go when she chose, but had been schooled by the years, and kept the trail, giving no trouble to the Virginian who came behind her. He also sat solid as a rock, yet subtly bending to the struggles of the wild horse he led, as a steel spring bends and balances and resumes its poise.
Thus they made but slow time, and when they topped the last dull rise of ground and looked down on the long slant of ragged, caked earth to the crossing of Little Muddy, with its single tree and few mean bushes, the final distance where eyesight ends had deepened to violet from the thin, steady blue they had stared at for so many hours, and all heat was gone from the universal dryness. The horses drank a long time from the sluggish yellow water, and its alkaline taste and warmth were equally welcome to the men. They built a little fire, and when supper was ended, smoked but a short while and in silence, before they got in the blankets that were spread in a smooth place beside the water.
They had picketed the two horses of the Judge in the best grass they could find, letting the rest go free to find pasture where they could. When the first light came, the Virginian attended to breakfast, while Balaam rode away on the sorrel to bring in the loose horses. They had gone far out of sight, and when he returned with them, after some two hours, he was on Pedro. Pedro was soaking with sweat, and red froth creamed from his mouth. The Virginian saw the horses must have been hard to drive in, especially after Balaam brought them the wild sorrel as a leader.
“If you’d kep’ ridin’ him, ’stead of changin’ off on your hawss, they’d have behaved quieter,” said the foreman.
“That’s good seasonable advice,” said Balaam, sarcastically. “I could have told you that now.”
“I could have told you when you started,” said the Virginian, heating the coffee for Balaam.
Balaam was eloquent on the outrageous conduct of the horses. He had come up with them evidently striking back for Butte Creek, with the old mare in the lead.
“But I soon showed her the road she was to go,” he said, as he drove them now to the water.
The Virginian noticed the slight limp of the mare, and how her pastern was cut as if with a stone or the sharp heel of a boot.
“I guess she’ll not be in a hurry to travel except when she’s wanted to,” continued Balaam. He sat down, and sullenly poured himself some coffee. “We’ll be in luck if we make any Sunk Creek this night.”
He went on with his breakfast, thinking aloud for the benefit of his companion, who made no comments, preferring silence to the discomfort of talking with a man whose vindictive humor was so thoroughly uppermost. He did not even listen very attentively, but continued his preparations for departure, washing the dishes, rolling the blankets, and moving about in his usual way of easy and visible good nature.
“Six o’clock, already,” said Balaam, saddling the horses. “And we’ll not get started for ten minutes more.” Then he came to Pedro. “So you haven’t quit fooling yet, haven’t you?” he exclaimed, for the pony shrank as he lifted the bridle. “Take that for your sore mouth!” and he rammed the bit in, at which Pedro flung back and reared.
“Well, I never saw Pedro act that way yet,” said the Virginian.
“Ah, rubbish!” said Balaam. “They’re all the same. Not a bastard one but’s laying for his chance to do for you. Some’ll buck you off, and some’ll roll with you, and some’ll fight you with their forefeet. They may play good for a year, but the Western pony’s man’s enemy, and when he judges he’s got his chance, he’s going to do his best. And if you come out alive it won’t be his fault.” Balaam paused for a while, packing. “You’ve got to keep them afraid of you,” he said next; “that’s what you’ve got to do if you don’t want trouble. That Pedro horse there has been fed, hand fed, and fooled with like a damn pet, and what’s that policy done? Why, he goes ugly when he thinks it’s time, and decides he’ll not drive any horses into camp this morning. He knows better now.”
“Mr. Balaam,” said the Virginian, “I’ll buy that hawss off yu’ right now.”
Balaam shook his head. “You’ll not do that right now or any other time,” said he. “I happen to want him.”
The Virginian could do no more. He had heard cow-punchers say to refractory ponies, “You keep still, or I’ll Balaam you!” and he now understood the aptness of the expression.
Meanwhile Balaam began to lead Pedro to the creek for a last drink before starting across the torrid drought. The horse held back on the rein a little, and Balaam turned and cut the whip across his forehead. A delay of forcing and backing followed, while the Virginian, already in the saddle, waited. The minutes passed, and no immediate prospect, apparently, of getting nearer Sunk Creek.
“He ain’ goin’ to follow you while you’re beatin’ his haid,” the Southerner at length remarked.
“Do you think you can teach me anything about horses?” retorted Balaam.
“Well, it don’t look like I could,” said the Virginian, lazily.
“Then don’t try it, so long as it’s not your horse, my friend.”
Again the Southerner levelled his eye on Balaam. “All right,” he said, in the same gentle voice. “And don’t you call me your friend. You’ve made that mistake twiced.”
The road was shadeless, as it had been from the start, and they could not travel fast. During the first few hours all coolness was driven out of the glassy morning, and another day of illimitable sun invested the world with its blaze. The pale Bow Leg Range was coming nearer, but its hard hot slants and rifts suggested no sort of freshness, and even the pines that spread for wide miles along near the summit counted for nothing in the distance and the glare, but seemed mere patches of dull, dry discoloration. No talk was exchanged between the two travellers, for the cow-puncher had nothing to say and Balaam was sulky, so they moved along in silent endurance of each other’s company and the tedium of the journey.
But the slow succession of rise and fall in the plain changed and shortened. The earth’s surface became lumpy, rising into mounds and knotted systems of steep small hills cut apart by staring gashes of sand, where water poured in the spring from the melting snow. After a time they ascended through the foot-hills till the plain below was for a while concealed, but came again into view in its entirety, distant and a thing of the past, while some magpies sailed down to meet them from the new country they were entering. They passed up through a small transparent forest of dead trees standing stark and white, and a little higher came on a line of narrow moisture that crossed the way and formed a stale pool among some willow thickets. They turned aside to water their horses, and found near the pool a circular spot of ashes and some poles lying, and beside these a cage-like edifice of willow wands built in the ground.
“Indian camp,” observed the Virginian.
There were the tracks of five or six horses on the farther side of the pool, and they did not come into the trail, but led off among the rocks on some system of their own.
“They’re about a week old,” said Balaam. “It’s part of that outfit that’s been hunting.”
“They’ve gone on to visit their friends,” added the cow-puncher.
“Yes, on the Southern Reservation.
2
How far do you call Sunk Creek now?”
“Well,” said the Virginian, calculating, “it’s mighty nigh fo‘ty miles from Muddy Crossin’, an’ I reckon we’ve come eighteen.”
“Just about. It’s noon.” Balaam snapped his watch shut. “We’ll rest here till 12.30.”
When it was time to go, the Virginian looked musingly at the mountains. “We’ll need to travel right smart to get through the canon to-night,” he said.
“Tell you what,” said Balaam; “we’ll rope the Judge’s horses together and drive ’em in front of us. That’ll make speed.”
“Mightn’t they get away on us?” objected the Virginian. “They’re pow’ful wild.”
“They can’t get away from me, I guess,” said Balaam, and the arrangement was adopted. “We’re the first this season over this piece of the trail,” he observed presently.
His companion had noticed the ground already, and assented. There were no tracks anywhere to be seen over which winter had not come and gone since they had been made. Presently the trail wound into a sultry gulch that hemmed in the heat and seemed to draw down the sun’s rays more vertically. The sorrel horse chose this place to make a try for liberty. He suddenly whirled from the trail, dragging with him his less inventive fellow. Leaving the Virginian with the old mare, Balaam headed them off, for Pedro was quick, and they came jumping down the bank together, but swiftly crossed up on the other side, getting much higher before they could be reached. It was no place for this sort of game, as the sides of the ravine were ploughed with steep channels, broken with jutting knobs of rock, and impeded by short, twisted pines that swung out from their roots horizontally over the pitch of the hill. The Virginian helped, but used his horse with more judgment, keeping as much on the level as possible, and endeavoring to anticipate the next turn of the runaways before they made it, while Balaam attempted to follow them close, wheeling short when they doubled, heavily beating up the face of the slope, veering again to come down to the point he had left, and whenever he felt Pedro begin to flag, driving his spurs into the horse and forcing him to keep up the pace. He had set out to overtake and capture on the side of the mountain these two animals who had been running wild for many weeks, and now carried no weight but themselves, and the futility of such work could not penetrate his obstinate and rising temper. He had made up his mind not to give in. The Virginian soon decided to move slowly along for the present, preventing the wild horses from passing down the gulch again, but otherwise saving his own animal from useless fatigue. He saw that Pedro was reeking wet, with mouth open, and constantly stumbling, though he galloped on. The cow-puncher kept the group in sight, driving the packhorse in front of him, and watching the tactics of the sorrel, who had now undoubtedly become the leader of the expedition, and was at the top of the gulch, in vain trying to find an outlet through its rocky rim to the levels above. He soon judged this to be no thoroughfare, and changing his plan, trotted down to the bottom and up the other side, gaining more and more; for in this new descent Pedro had fallen twice. Then the sorrel showed the cleverness of a genuinely vicious horse. The Virginian saw him stop and fall to kicking his companion with all the energy that a short rope would permit. The rope slipped, and both, unencumbered, reached the top and disappeared. Leaving the packhorse for Balaam, the Virginian started after them and came into a high tableland, beyond which the mountains began in earnest. The runaways were moving across toward these at an easy rate. He followed for a moment, then looking back, and seeing no sign of Balaam, waited, for the horses were sure not to go fast when they reached good pasture or water.
He got out of the saddle and sat on the ground, watching, till the mare came up slowly into sight, and Balaam behind her. When they were near, Balaam dismounted and struck Pedro fearfully, until the stick broke, and he raised the splintered half to continue.