Following the Grass (3 page)

T
HE
days of that August had been sunless. At rare intervals, and then for only an hour or two, would the leaden skies part for a reassuring glimpse of the blue heavens beyond. The air was heavy with silence, and although the weather was warm, that stillness which hung over mesa and valley was not unlike the hush which ushers in the violent storms of winter.

The woman in the herder's cabin, far up the side of Buckskin Mountain, busy with her bread-making, paused to glance down at the wide valley which stretched away from the base of the mountain to the Timbered Buttes far to the west. Even at the distance from which she observed it, it took definite shape; the fringes of green willows and buckthorn clearly defining the course Martin Creek took as it zigzagged across the valley. Likewise, the never-failing willows marked where the smaller streams cut through to the Martin.

Moving smudges of color she recognized for cattle. The same sense told her that they were not grazing; they were moving too rapidly. Subconsciously, she wondered if they, too, had been made uneasy by this stillness which hung so heavily in the air. She was a Basque, and therefore superstitious enough to believe that it portended some evil.

And yet, the face, which she pressed to the window to-day seemed marked with something deeper than mere transient apprehension. It was a singularly beautiful face—serious, delicate—the skin a pale olive tint. Her hair was as black as night, and her eyes blacker than any night. But although her eyes—lonely, wistful—arrested the attention, it was her mouth—patient, contented—hinting of suffering and the conquering of suffering—that was unforgettable.

There were no other cabins on Buckskin. Often for weeks on end no one passed the door. The few who did were prospectors or Indians. They never tarried, and so there was no one to carry the tale of that face so often pressed to the window.

On clear days, the woman — she was only twenty-five — could see the town of Paradise. There were no other settlements within forty miles. What supplies they needed, her husband either carried or hauled from there.

If her eyes sought to pierce the haze that hung over the valley to-day for a glimpse of Paradise, it was only because her husband was there, or by now returning from there. Oftenest, her eyes sought the white-washed house and ranch buildings to the north and east of the little town which even distance could not rob of an air of prosperity. Angel Irosabal, the headman of the Basques, lived there.

She was that mighty man's daughter !—and yet, for eight full years she had not entered there, nor in all that time—through sickness, the birth of her son—had one of her own blood exchanged a word with her. There were brothers and sisters of hers in that big house, a mother, too; but if they wondered about her, or hoped that the stem father would relent, Margarida Gault, the herder's wife, had no sign of it.

Eight years is a long time for a father to bear a grudge; it is an equally long time to keep hope of forgiveness alive. Joe Gault's wife had come to believe that the years would never be so many that her father would open his arms to her.

Always she told her husband it didn't matter; that she no longer cared. Often she whispered as much to herself; but on the days when Gault went to town, or when he was away on the mountain, some mad impulse drove her to the window. She believed it to be only habit, and she tried to fight it; but when once the desire had planted itself in her brain, torturing hours of restlessness always followed, and often defeated her.

At the window, she found peace, of a sort; and she never left it without breathing a prayer that God might soften her father's heart; for surely in His eyes no sin was hers. She had but married the man she loved.

That he was of another religion, and of a breed of men who had persecuted her people, was her only transgression. That thought sustained her. . . . She was not a penitent.

If her husband never mentioned her father's name, it was not because he failed to read the message in her eyes. He understood. And much of the business which took him over the mountain was only invented so that the bitterness in his heart could be voiced unheard by her.

There were other Gaults in the valley, kinsmen of his—the old Cross-K outfit—but he never mentioned them. In fact he had long since forgotten them; but he had never been able to forget the man who had put that hungry look in his wife's eyes.

Daily, in countless ways, he tried to make up for what marrying him had cost her, and he came as near to succeeding as love, and patience, and unfailing kindness can come. But some few there were who pitied Margarida Gault. They wondered how she withstood the loneliness of that little cabin perched high upon the mountainside.

Gault, so they said, was a cowman ; how could he expect to have luck with sheep—and on Buckskin Mountain of all places! If the cattle-outfits and the big sheepmen kept their hands off Buckskin it was because the range was so poor that even the jack-rabbits refused it.

And yet for all their talk, Gault's sheep grew fat. There was timber-clover in those little parks of stunted cedars and junipers on the mountain-top. Valley men said it was bad for sheep and cattle; it bloated them and they often died. But Gault found that his sheep thrived on it if they cropped it for only two or three days at a time.

So if his industry fell short of making him a prosperous man, it at least provided the essential things of life, and that pitying few in Paradise Valley would have been surprised had they known that the snug wee cabin on Buckskin often echoed to happy laughter. It was the abiding place of love, the shrine of an infant god who held the hearts of Joseph and Margarida Gault in his pudgy little hands.

He was called Joseph, too—a manly lad of seven, with his father's reddish-brown hair and his Basque mother's finely chiseled features. He was old for his years, and already self-reliant; in his eyes was a wisdom as of the aged. It was a baffling look. To his parents it seemed as if he were reading their souls, and not their lips.

Margarida had first noticed it one day as she turned from the window her eyes filled with tears. She had smiled and kissed him, but his expression had not changed. It seemed that he saw through her pretense and understood the grief which ate at her heart. It had left her with an uncanny feeling, and she was careful to see that the child's questioning eyes never found tears in her own again.

He had been in the kitchen with her to-day, but the angry cawing of a flock of crows had drawn him outside. She had heard him calling to them as they circled about the cabin scolding the laggard leader of the flock. Joseph often talked to the crows and the magpies.

This was disquieting to Margarida; for it brought home so poignantly his loneliness. Even Indian boys played and romped with other children. No wonder then, that Joseph turned to the wild for companionship. He was only answering a primitive instinct which had come down to him through many generations of roving fathers.

It was, however, in a self-accusing frame of mind that Margarida went on with her work. The afternoon was well along, and by the time she had finished her baking it was dark in the kitchen. She. had not known it was so late. A glance at the clock, however, showed that twilight should still be an hour away. Alarmed, she ran to the door and called :

“Joseph! Jo-o-seph!”

The air had grown so cool that she shivered as she stood in the doorway waiting for the boy's answer. Uneasy, she called again, and when her second call went unanswered, she rolled up her apron and started off toward the coulee where the dogs were holding the herd for the night.

She stopped, when she had gone a hundred yards from the cabin, and called again. As she waited, the stillness, which had settled heavier than ever over the mountain, seemed to clutch at her. Not a leaf was stirring, and although it was the time of evening when the whippoorwills sail over the sage-brush, there was not a wing in the air, nor could she catch sound of their plaintive, mocking call. She crossed herself nervously, and turned an anxious eye toward the road which led up from the valley, wishing that her husband was home, but knowing that he would not come for another hour at least.

Joseph had not answered, so she picked up her skirts, and half ran to the coulee. The shadows were deepening, but she could see the flock standing uneasily, apparently loath to bed down for the night. The dogs were running back and forth, grumbling to themselves, as if by this show of authority they hoped to make the flock lie down. They paused only for a second on catching sight of Margarida, for they sensed even better than the sheep that something was amiss. Their mistress's excitement was quickly communicated to them, too, and they barked sharply.

Margarida had expected to find Joseph with the dogs, but a hurried glance told her that they were alone. Her throat went dry with fear as she realized the truth. What could have happened to him ? Her hands shook as she raised them to her mouth.
“Jovencito!”
she cried. “where are you? Answer me!”

She stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the milling sheep in the center ·of the flock. They were kicking up a great dust. A moment later, from out the dust-cloud, rode Joseph, astraddle a snorting ram !

Margarida could only hold her breath. She was afraid to call to him, for if the ram bucked him off before he got to the edge of the flock, the sheep would be panic-stricken immediately. Once upon the ground, the child would be ground to death by their sharp hoofs.

What had tempted him to do this thing? Was he without any sense of fear? She knew it was remarkable that the animal permitted Joseph to ride him at all. This particular ram had been running wild on the range all summer, and he was possessed of a fiendish temper and a dangerous sense of dignity.

And yet as she watched, Joseph caught sight of her, and, although he called and waved his hands, the ram did not buck. In five minutes, he had ridden clear of the flock. The dogs tried to turn the ram, but Joseph urged him on, and not until he was within a few feet of his mother did the boy slip to the ground. The animal waited to have his ears scratched and then, with lowered head, he dashed back into the flock.

Margarida ran to the child and caught him up. “Joseph!” she murmured, “you frightened me so. I've been calling and calling for you,
muchachito
. What if you had fallen?”

“Grandpa wouldn't throw me, mother,” the child answered stoutly.

“Grandpa—you call him Grandpa?” Margarida exclaimed, aghast.

“Well, he looks mean like grandpas look,” Joseph declared naïvely.

“Hush—hush—Joseph!” Margarida crooned as she pressed her cheek to his.
“Cállate, jovencito
. Maybe to-morrow we can find a better name for the ram. But we must go, it is night. Let me have your hand,
niño!”

Even though they hurried along, it was black night before they reached the little draw in which the cabin sat. A thin, piercing scream—far—off and ever rising—struck their ears. With each step they took, it grew. Margarida clutched Joseph's hand. The air about them seemed to tremble.

“Run, Joseph!” Margarida warned. But the next moment the full fury of the wind struck them and knocked them down. Suddenly the air was filled with whirling sand. Great clouds of it were scooped out of the mountain and hurled at them. It cut the eyes and scourged the cheeks. Choking and half blinded, Margarida turned her back to the wind, and with Joseph in her arms staggered to her feet. The cabin was nearly a hundred yards away, and Joseph was heavy for her, but with strength she had little suspected she possessed she swung him up and went on. In spite of her efforts she sank to her knees again and again.

With every passing second the storm grew in violence. The wind was ripping out sage-brush and greasewood and hurling it into the air. Once, a piece of buckthorn struck her and drew blood. Mountain and valley were being swept clean of debris. Branches and limbs of dead willows and mahogany tress, and all the litter of the range, were in that wild maelstrom.

No cry escaped the boy's lips and, although his mouth and eyes were closed tightly, the expression on his face was not one of fear. Even with his mother's body to shield him from the screaming storm, the razor-edged sand seared his little face. When she fell, he snuggled to her and waited patiently for her to rise and go on again. Later—it seemed a long time—he heard her kick open the cabin door.

Once inside, Margarida let Joseph slip to the floor. The gale was rocking the cabin, the windows were rattling and the door banging back and forth as if the storm was intent on ripping it from its fastenings.

With an angry cry, Margarida hurled her body against it and forced it shut. Through every crack and cranny the fine sand was sifting in. It grated beneath her feet as she ran to the kitchen for a lamp. The light flickered fitfully as she placed it upon the table; and as she went about poking bits of rags into the crevices it cast weird shadows of herself upon the walls and ceiling.

Joseph was thrilled rather than alarmed. He hurried about believing he was helping his mother; hut Margarida soon found that it was impossible to keep the sand from coming in, and as she gave up trying, Joseph voiced the very question that was stabbing at her heart:

“Where is daddy, mother?”

“Under shelter, I hope, Joseph. He must have left the valley before the storm broke. He'd know it was coming. If he made the box cañon this side of the Circle-Z fence, he's safe. No horse could keep a trail on such a night. I'm only afraid that he'll be worried about us, and try to get here before the storm is over.

“Your father is a good man, Joseph. You ask God to take care of him. We wouldn't know what to do without him.
Virgen santísima!”
she entreated as she sank to her knees, “don't let him risk that trail to-night.” She crossed herself and waited for Joseph to do the same, but the boy was staring off into space. He did not arise when Margarida got to her feet. He was muttering something, and listening, she heard him say: