Following the Grass (13 page)

“Ees he dead,
señor?”
Felipe asked, his face pale.

“No,” Joseph answered. “Get me a bucket of water.”

Andres stirred uneasily as Icherraga drenched him. Minutes passed, however, before he attempted to sit up. Slowly, understanding crept back into his eyes, and with it craftiness. Clumsily he lifted his hand to Joseph.

“You win,
señor,”
he mumbled. “But some day mebbe eet be my turn. You shake hands?”

Joseph shook his head slowly.

“No,” said he, “I will not take your hand now. You have not changed. You are still the bully. What name are you called?”

“Andres,” the big man answered sulkily. Joseph could not repress a start.

“So you are Andres, eh?” he asked, his voice chilling. The crowd as well as the man on the ground caught the intimation of previous knowledge.

“I am not surprised,” Joseph went on, his eyes holding Andres's. He paused, then:

“Timoteo was right.”

Only Andres understood him now, for the others had heard little of Timoteo. Joseph saw a question form on the big man's lips.

“It is nothing,” he said before Andres spoke. “Can you get up?”

Andres tried to rise and Joseph reached down a hand to help him, but the man's body had been too severely punished, and as Joseph let go of him he sank back to the ground. The smell of blood had drawn Grimm and, as Andres fell back, the crow hopped upon the man's chest and stretched out his neck, his bill clacking a foot from Andres's eyes.

Andres screamed and tried to move away, but it was more than he could accomplish. Joseph called Grimm and the crow backed off, cawing angrily as he retreated. Joseph was convinced that Andres was helpless.

“We will have to carry him into the cabin,” he said to the crowd. “He will not walk to-day.”

“But,
señor
, he must,” Felipe announced. “He ees here weeth sheep. He ees on the way to my grandfather's
caserio
. We are but a few for so many sheep. I can not go. Eet be night before I get back.”

“Sheep going to the valley so soon?” Joseph asked.

“Si, señor
. Three hundred to be slaughtered. They are very fat.”

One or two spoke to Felipe in Basque, but Joseph made no effort to learn what they said.

“Where is his flock?” he asked at last.

“Across the creek,” Felipe replied. “The dogs are there.”

Joseph pondered for a moment.

“Call in your dogs,” he said finally. “It is my fault that he can not go. I will take the sheep to your grandfather — if you will trust me with them.”

Felipe conferred with the others before answering. They seemed none too willing that Joseph should take the flock even though he had won their confidence.

“But you will need the dogs,
señor,”
Felipe urged. “Three hundred sheep are too many for one man without dogs.”

“No,” Joseph smiled, “the dogs would not help me. Call them in.”

And while Felipe was busy with the dogs, Joseph and two others carried Andres into the cabin. On coming out, he started his own little flock toward Buckskin. He then called to Slippy-foot:

“Home ! Go home!”

The coyote stared at him perplexedly for a moment, but when Joseph repeated his command, she started off after her charges. The young Basques who saw this held it no less than a miracle. But they were herders, and peculiarly fitted to appreciate it.

When Felipe returned with the dogs, Joseph called to Grimm, and with the crow perched upon his shoulder, he crossed the creek. He soon had the big flock moving.

The young Basques watched him until he was lost to sight, marveling that in all that time not a single ewe had broken from the flock; not once had he been forced to stop for stragglers to catch up with the band. Sheep had never behaved that way for them.

So, although they realized now that Joseph was a flesh and blood creature, they found him an even greater mystery than ever. Sheep they could understand, but they could not understand him.

There is an old Spanish proverb to the effect that shepherds are foreordained to control the sheep. Felipe quoted it:

“Dios los cria y ellos se juntan
(God brings them up and they get together).”

Icherraga exclaimed, “It is so.”

JOSEPH drove the flock into the valley over the road which dropped down from Hinkey summit. In entering the Reserve this road ascended so rapidly that it was little used, but for one returning to the vaiiey this mattered not at all. It was several hours shorter than the way that led around by Antelope Springs, so when Joseph arrived at old Angel's
caserio
it was still daylight.

The buildings which formed the
caserio
were some distance apart. In them resided the families of Angel's sons and grandsons. Set off by itself, stood the old Basque's own house, surrounded by barns, sheep pens and countless sheds, roofed over but open. on all sides, which served to house his reapers and other machinery. Corrals were everywhere—some of wire, some of brush.

On that long past day when he had been there before, Joseph had been too young to notice how well-conditioned the
rancho
was. It struck him forcibly now. Everything was in its place; the buildings freshly white-washed, the fences prim and the stock—milch cows, pigs, horses and chickens—fat and healthy.

The usual odds and ends of broken-down hay-rakes and mowers which clutter up most ranch-yards were missing. The barns were free from litter. Indeed, look about him as he would, he could find no sign of waste. The place breathed an air of happy abundance, of tireless husbandry and frugality.

Only Andres, of all Angel's children, remained unmarried, so the great man was quite alone in his big house. But he did not lack for those to wait on him. This night he sat at his table in dignity befitting the head of his clan.

He heard Joseph drive the flock up to his door; but it had been expected all afternoon. Therefore, he did not arise. Others had noticed the flock, too, but believing the herder to be Andres they had gone on with their suppers. Hence Joseph passed almost unnoticed.

It was warm and he found the door open when he reached it. Angel dropped his knife and fork as he recognized him.

Joseph had long counted on facing his grandfather in this very room. In fancy, he had often seen the old man squirm before him, but the unexpected meeting at the Circle-Z had robbed him of that long-dreamed-of pleasure. However, Angel's surprise at seeing him here, now, was genuine, and Joseph saw him draw back as Grimm stepped into the room.

“May I ask why you come here?” Angel questioned. “And that thing?” he cried, his voice rising angrily.

“I have brought the sheep that you expected Andres to bring,” answered Joseph. “They are outside the door.”

“What has happened to Andres?” Angel demanded, pushing back his chair as he got to his feet.

“Andres is a bully,” Joseph declared flatly. “I had to rebuke him.” And he told his grandfather what had happened at the ranger's cabin that morning. “I felt that it was my duty to bring the herd,” he concluded.

Angel offered no word of defense for his son as Joseph told his story, and now he walked around the table in silence, his eyes on the floor. If by any chance he compared the youth before him to his surly son, and cast up a balance in Joseph's favor, no sign of it came into his eyes.

The room had been Angel's sanctum so long that it seemed to have taken on something of his personality. Tables and chairs gave evidence of an uncompromising fight with dust, for they had been scrubbed and scoured so often and so thoroughly that paint had long since ceased to adorn them. In fact, the pleasant odor of freshly scrubbed wood pervaded the room.

The walls were bare, and undoubtedly helped to convey the feeling of severity which the eye felt. A row of old tankards hanging suspended from hooks above the sideboard gave the room its only note of color.

In the corner stood a spinning-wheel (still in use whenever Angel's daughters returned to the parental roof) and beside it a great bag of washed wool ready for the wheel. A gigantic fireplace, fit to cope with the severest winter, occupied a good share of one side of the room.

A seven-pronged candelabra of beaten silver stood upon the table at which Angel ate his meals, its home-made candles standing somewhat askew and reminding one of a badly trimmed clipper ship. In forty years this room had changed but little. There was nothing in it to suggest America —not even a talking-machine. Nothing was “new”—veneered. Joseph liked his grandfather better for that.

“Did Felipe and his cousins know you?” Angel asked as he paused abruptly.

“I had not spoken to them until to-day,” Joseph answered.

“And yet they trust you with three hundred sheep?” the old man muttered, shaking his head as if unable to understand from whence their confidence sprang.

“They have no reason to regret their faith in me,” Joseph said pointedly. Angel chose to ignore this.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“You owe me nothing. I went to the ranger's cabin to buy salt. I will ask you to sell me what I need.”

Angel did not say no or yes to this. The sheep were cailing nervously, and the old Basque went to the door and ran his eye over the flock.

“Where are the dogs?” he demanded.

“I had no dogs—nor any need of them,” Joseph replied.

“You brought this flock from Heaton's cabin without a dog?” Angel asked incredulously. Joseph nodded, but his grandfather found it hard to believe.

“The day has been hot!” he exclaimed. “It is a long way from here to the ranger's cabin. My herders can not drive my flocks that distance in the heat of the day. I have herded sheep myself. I know you can not drive them all day long in the blistering sun.”

“But I did not
drive
them,” Joseph replied without raising his voice. “They followed me.”

“What? Three hundred yearling ewes that have never seen you before—followed you?”

“Three hundred or three thousand—it matters not: they follow me. Your sheep are fat and soft. And yet, I bring them to you as fresh as if they had not moved off their range.”

The tradition of sheep was in the Basque. He knew their habits, their wants. Times almost without number he had proved his knowledge of them. The worries of lambing-time, of shearing, of fighting the storms of winter to get his herds under cover, of the long summer with its blistering heat, of breeding, of feeding—he had known them all. But here was an unbearded boy telling him he had done what sheepmen knew could not be done.

“But the
pinguey
—the rubber-weed—it grows thick along that trail? Andres has often lost a dozen head because of it.”

“These sheep have eaten no rubber-weed,” Joseph declared slowly. “They would he suffering now if they had. But you can walk among them, and you will not find one bloated ewe.”

“You know the
pinguey
then, eh?”

“I do,” Joseph said simply. “My sheep have grazed where the little yellow flower blossomed all about them, but they did not touch it.”

“But my sheep have died from eating it,” Angel insisted.

“Your herders were to blame. God never turned an animal from His hand altogether helpless. Sheep have instincts. If they eat
pinguey
it is only because they have been kept on one range too long—they are starving.”

Angel stared at him in amazement.

“You—are only a boy,” he grumbled, “how do you know these things?”

“I am a shepherd,” Joseph replied. “It is in my blood. My father's people were shepherds. My mother's people—” Joseph stopped abruptly and, fixing his eyes on Angel, he said naïvely:

“I would like to talk to you about my mother and the people from whom she sprang. I—”

“No, no,” Angel cried, aghast at the turn the conversation had taken. “It—it would prove nothing,” he muttered, his face whiter than usual. “I am a sheepman. It is enough. I know sheep. Until now I would have laughed had any one told me they could be driven so far in June. I—”

“You forget,” Joseph interrupted. “I did not drive them; they followed me. But they are tired. Where shall I put them?”

“The brush corral,” Angel answered, indicating the desired one with his hand. Joseph nodded and moved away, the big flock eddying about him.

“Wait!” Angel cried. “I will get my men. You can not put them in by yourself.”

A patient smile flitted across Joseph's face.

“It is not necessary to call your men!” he said. “I will put the flock into the corral.”

“Alone?”

“Alone,” Joseph replied. “In spite of your boast, I see that you know very little about sheep.”

Angel could afford to smile at this.

“You with twenty sheep say that to me with thirty thousand head? I have corralled more sheep in one day than you have in all your time. You can not put those ewes inside without help.

Joseph did not reply to this challenge but without further ado opened the gate and marched into the enclosure. Without a word from him, the sheep followed, fighting each other in their eagerness to get within the corral.

A great dust arose, but Joseph made no effort to leave. The old man heard him crooning some strange melody. One by one the sheep began to lie down. Within ten minutes the entire flock had bedded for the night.

It passed belief. More than a hundred times Angel had watched his sons struggle for the better part of an hour to corral a flock no larger than this. They had always had dogs to aid them.

But here was this boy, single-handed, not only putting the flock inside the corral, but gentling it for the night. And all that in less than ten minutes!

Angel was awed. He trembled as he saw Joseph close the gate. What manner of person was this?

“In all Spain there is not such a one as he,” the old man gasped. “It is as he says—he
is
a shepherd. See! They lick his hand as he passes.”

And now as Joseph walked away, one ewe stuck her head through the brush and bleated, and although Angel had heard thousands of sheep call, he had never heard before such a cry as reached his ears now. This long drawn “Ba-a-a-a-a!” was sad, plaintive, almost human in its pleading.

“They love him,” Angel grumbled to himself. “Look at him! He walks as though he owned this
rancho
. And his eyes—” Angel shivered. “What
is
this power he has over men and beasts? Can it be that the hand of God is upon him? Has he come here to haunt me?”

He knew that he feared Joseph. With an effort he tried to shut from his mind the memories that came surging over him, but even as he steeled himself Grimm, the crow, brushed past him, laughing rather than cawing, and Angel shrank back.

He was glad to see one of his grandchildren, a lad of fifteen, come running now. Angel ordered him to get the salt for Joseph. Grimm had perched himself upon the boy's shoulder, and the Basque eyed the ominous crow fearfully, but he invited Joseph to enter.

“You—are welcome to stay here the night,” Angel said when they were inside. “Shall I have a bed made ready for you?”

“No,” Joseph answered.

“At least, you will eat at my table—you will break bread with me?” Angel urged. The Basque was holding true to a custom as old as his race—that whoever came under his roof should be asked to break bread and eat his salt. He hoped Joseph would refuse, for he was anxious to see the boy gone. He had determined within the last ten minutes that he must devise some means of getting him away from Paradise, and he wanted to be at it immediately.

Joseph understood the reasons that prompted the man's offer of hospitality, and he answered accordingly.

“I will let my friend decide that,” said he, nodding to Grimm who had perched himself upon the mantel above the fireplace. “Come! What is your answer? Is this house for us to-night? Can we share this man's food?”

The crow blinked wisely at Joseph for a moment and then tapped his way across the mantel until he stood almost directly above Angel. The Basque heard him stop, and he flung his head back as if fearful that Grimm would light upon him. But the crow only peered into Angel's eyes, apparently probing them for the truth, and as his malignant, questioning orbs scrutinized the old Basque, Angel shook. Joseph could see that the man suffered.

Suddenly, Grimm lowered his head and a blood-curdling: “Caw-w-w, caw-w-w” broke the evening stillness which had settled over the silent house. Angel's jaw sagged as if his muscles had lost their vitality.

With hands upraised, he backed away, and he did not stop until he brought up against the dining-room table. Grimm fluttered to the floor and with a series of angry caws marched out of the room with never a backward glance.

“The answer is plain,” Joseph announced; “our place is not here. I will pay you for the salt, and go.”

Angel drew the air back into his lungs and with his foot he closed the door lest the crow might return.

“Put the money on the table,” he said to Joseph, his voice shaking. “And never let that crow come here again. It is a thing of the devil. Why is it always with you?”

“We are friends,” Joseph answered.

“Friends?” Angel asked, the word drawn out. “A scavenger bird!” He put all of the contempt and bitterness he could command into his voice. Tempting fate, he rushed to add:

“And you—with your power over animals and fools—why have you come to Paradise?”

Joseph did not answer at once and even before he spoke Angel regretted his question, because what he saw in the boy's eyes told him that his worst fears were to be realized—that Joseph had come back to avenge his father and mother.

One wonders if Joseph sensed what went on in the old Basque's mind. When he spoke, his words confirmed the other's fear:

“I believe you know why I am here.”

Angel heard him drop a piece of silver upon the table as he went out, but the old man did not look up until the sheep bleated as Joseph passed the corral. He went to the window and peered out at them. Two or three of the ewes had thrust their heads through the corral fence, and they called and called as Joseph disappeared in the dusk.