ON THE TRAIL OF A WILDCAT
Joe went at the plowing the next morning and kept at it with dogged perseverance for several days. Jessie and I, busy with the sewing, at first paid little attention to him, but after a few days the look of settled exasperation on his sable countenance, as he returned to the house at the close of his day’s work, drew my attention.
“Joe,” I said to him one morning, as he was about starting for the field, “what is the matter? You look discouraged.”
“I ain’ discouraged, so my looks is deceivin’, den; but I is kine o’ wore out in my patience.”
“Why; what about?”
“Hit’s dat ’ar Frank horse; nothin’ gwine ter do him, but he mus’ stop in de furrer, ebbery few ya’ahds, an’ tun aroun’ in de ha’ness ter look at me. ’Pears like he can’ be satisfy dat I knows my own business, but he’s got to obersee hit. Hit done gets mighty worrisome afore de day’s out,” he concluded with a heavy sigh.
“Why don’t you whip him for it?” demanded Jessie indignantly.
“W’ip nuffin’! Hes a saddle hoss; he’s nebber been call’ on fer to do such wuck afore, an’ he doan know what hit means.”
“I guess if he attended to his business he’d find out in time,” Jessie insisted. But Frank, whatever other faults he had, had none under the saddle; he was, moreover, old Joe’s especial pet. One of the work horses had died during the preceding winter, which was the reason that this one was called upon to perform labor that he evidently regarded with distrust, if not active disapproval.
So now the old man replied to Jessie’s observation with unusual sharpness:
“De whole worl’ is plum’ full ob plow hosses, so fur’s I kin see. Yo’ done meets ’em on de road, and in de chu’ch and de town meetin’s, and on de ranches; yes, sir; yo’ kin fine a plow hoss twenty times a day where yo’ meets up wid a saddle hoss once in six mont’s w’at is a saddle hoss, and not a saw-hoss wif a bridle on. Ef somebody’s got fer to poun’ dat Frank fer to make him drag a plow aroun’, hit’ll be somebody odder dan me w’at does hit! I done cut dem wicked ole clumsy blinders, w’at is a relict ob ba’barism, ef dere ebber was one, offen his bridle, so’s ’t dem bright eyes ob his’n kin see w’ats goin’ on aroun’ him, an’ now I ain’ gwine spile a good saddle hoss ter make a poor plow hoss. Hit’s too much like tryin’ ter make a eagle inter a tame ole goose,” the old man concluded soberly.
“Well, then, I suppose we’ll have to give up the fall plowing, just on account of Frank’s whims!” Jessie retorted, nettled.
“No,” Joe returned patiently; “I’se done gwine ter keep at hit, we’s get hit done somehow; if not dis year, den de nex’. I ’clar fur hit, sometimes I done been tempted fur t’ hitch one ob de cow beasts up along o’ Bill an’ tryin’ de plowin’ dat way.”
“Isn’t there some way of making Frank keep straight without whipping him?” I asked, my sympathies being about equally divided between man and horse.
“Oh, yes! I done thought a hun’nerd times dat ef dere was only some small, active boy w’at would ride him whilst I—”
I sprang to my feet, tossing aside the pieces of gingham that were destined to form a new shirt for Mr. Horton: “Here am I, Joe, take me!”
“You!” Joe’s mild eyes looked me over, and gleamed approvingly. “You is little, you is active, an’ yo’ has de bravest heart, and de unselfishest sperrit—” he said, half soliloquizing, until I interposed, laughingly:
“Come, now! Stop calling me names and say that I’ll do!”
“Dat yo’ will, honey, chile, but I nebber thought ob askin’ yo’ to do sech wuck as dat! Hit ain’ fittin’ nohow!”
“Fitting! Anything is fitting that is honest, and will help us out, Joe. Still, I am rather glad that the fields are quite out of sight from the road.”
“Dat’s w’at dey is. Come on, den. Frank gwine wuck like a hero, now, ’cause he done think hit’s saddle wuck w’at he’s a doin’.”
“And I’ll work all the harder at the sewing,” Jessie said, smiling approval of this novel arrangement, and hastily rescuing Mr. Horton’s unfinished shirt from Guard, who had been trying to utilize it for a bed. “There, now, see that!” she added, looking at me reproachfully. “How could you be so careless, Leslie? Guard has been lying on Mr. Horton’s new shirt!”
“It is new, and Mr. Horton has never worn it, so I don’t think it will contaminate Guard,” I retorted, perversely, as I turned to follow Joe, who had already started for the fields.
With me perched upon his back, the long, awkward, pulling lines discarded, and his movements directed by a gentle touch of the bridle reins against the side of his neck, Frank worked, as Joe had said he would, like a hero. The other horse, being of a meek and quiet spirit, had made no trouble from the outset; he was content to follow Frank’s lead, so we got on famously with the plowing from the day that I was installed as postillion.
“I always supposed that plowing was such a monotonous kind of business,” I remarked to Joe one day, taking advantage of the opportunity offered by his stopping the team to wipe away the perspiration that was streaming down my face. For the day was very warm, and we had been working steadily.
“If mon’tonus means hot, honey chile, I reckons yo’s right,” responded Joe. “Yo’s purty face is a sight to behole; red as a turkey cock’s comb, hit is, an’ dat streaked wif dirt dat dey doan nuffin’ show natteral but yo’ eyes.”
“One good thing, Joe, I can’t look any dirtier than I feel,” I replied wearily, and with a longing glance toward the river that rippled silver-white and cool at the foot of the hill beneath us. Joe saw the glance.
WE GOT ON FAMOUSLY WITH THE PLOWING
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“Hol’ on, honey,” he exclaimed, as I was about starting the team again. “Dere’s de lines looped up on the back band; I’ll jess run ’em out an’ finish up dish yer bit alone.”
“Do you think you can?” I asked, wavering between a longing to rest and my sense of duty.
“T’ink I kin? Dat’s good, now! Yo’ run along down to de ribber an’ hab a good paddle afore hit gits too late.”
Accordingly I slid off of Frank’s back while Joe, gathering in the slack of the lines, clucked encouragingly to him to go on. Instead of doing that the horse wheeled around in the furrow until he had brought my retreating figure into view, then stopped and gazed inquiringly after me.
“Joe,” I called back, halting, “maybe I’d better not leave.”
“Yo’ jess run right erlong, Miss Leslie, honey; dis hoss gwine ter go all right jess soon’s he make up he mine whar yo’ is gwine.”
Glancing back again presently, I found that Joe was right. Frank was working with promising sedateness.
It was deliciously cool down underneath the shadow of the cliff, on the banks of the shallow, bright river. Guard had followed me from the field; he, too, enjoyed the cool water and proceeded to make the most of it. After I had bathed my hot face and hands I sat on the bank and watched him as he splashed about, making sudden, futile darts at the tiny fish that swarmed around him when he was quiet, and went scurrying away like chaff before the wind, the instant that he moved. I had just risen to my feet, intending to start to the house, when Guard suddenly sprang out of the water with a growl. At the same instant the direful squawking of a frightened chicken broke on my ears. The squawking, close at hand at first, receded rapidly. Evidently some animal had caught one of our flock of poultry and was making off with its prize.
There was a wildness of rocks and gnarled cedar trees on the steep mountain slope above us, just beyond the bend in the river, and toward this wild quarter, judging by the outcries—fast lessening in the distance—the animal, whatever it might be, was bearing its prey. I was drenched with a shower of water drops as Guard shot past me, taking the trail with an eager yelp, while I, no less eager, and with as little reflection, ran after him. The dog had cleared the underbrush on the river bank, as I rushed out, and was racing across the little interval, or clear space between the river bank and the first jumble of rocks where the abrupt rise of the mountain slope began. Just in front of him, so close it seemed the next leap would surely enable him to seize the creature, glided, rather than ran, so swift and stealthy was the motion, some large animal, bearing a white chicken in its mouth. A tiny trail of white feathers drifted backward as the animal ran, while the helpless white wings beat the air frantically on either side of the unyielding jaws.
The poor chick might be badly hurt, but it could still squawk and struggle. Indignation gave me renewed strength. I ran forward, shouting, “Sic him, Guard, sic him!” and the next instant my foot caught under a projecting root and I fell headlong to the ground. It really seemed for a blank space as if my fall must have jarred the earth. There was a whirling dance of stars all about my head; the ground rolled and heaved underneath me; sky, earth, and trees swam together, joining that whirling dance of stars. It must have been a full minute before I was able to sit up and weakly wonder what had happened. It all came back to me as a cold, moist nose touched my hand and a sympathetic whimper broke the silence. I turned on Guard reproachfully.
“Why did you leave that thing to come back to me, sir? You could have caught it if you had kept right on after it, and you might have known I’d get along all right without your help. Now, do you go and find it, sir!” and I pointed imperatively, if rather vaguely, towards the jumble of rocks. The chicken’s cries had ceased; there was now nothing to guide the dog, even if he understood, which I, having great faith in his intelligence, believed he did. He ran along the trail for a few yards, stopped, gave a joyful bark, and came running back to me with a stick in his mouth.
I had been trying to teach him to retrieve, and my order, “go find it,” suggested that pastime to him. When he laid the stick at my feet, wagging his tail and looking up in hopeful anticipation of the praise that he felt to be his due, I could not find it in my heart to withhold it. Besides, the chicken thief was, no doubt, safe in his lair at this time, so, abandoning the hopeless pursuit, we made our way homeward.
When Joe came in, and I related our adventure to him, he said: “Yo’ may t’ank yo’ sta’hs, Miss Leslie, dat yo’ done got dat tumble w’en yo’ did! Dat feller wif de black coat, trimmed in yeller, was a lynx—dat’s his’n’s dress ebbery time—an’ I’d ’a’ heap rudder meet up wif a mountain lion, any day, dan one ’o’ dem ar! Land, chile! Ef hit had ’a’ been me, down dar by de ribber, I’d ’a’ helt Guard to keep him still, an’ I’d ’a’ kep’ out o’ sight. Dat’s w’at I’d ’a’ done, honey.”
“Do you recollect, Leslie,” Jessie chimed in, “what Mrs. Loyd told us about her encounter with a lynx, last year? She said that she was in the house one day, when she heard a great outcry among her chickens, right close at hand, in the yard. She ran to the door, and there was a great lynx, chasing the chickens around. The minute the door was opened, they ran toward it, and into the house. The lynx was right behind them, but it stopped as the chickens crowded around her, and she seized the broom and struck at it. Instead of running, it stood its ground and showed its teeth, bristling up and growling. She dropped the broom and sprang into the house, slamming the door shut just as the lynx hurled itself against it. She said that she was almost scared to death. She locked the door, and scrambled up into the loft—she said that she was afraid the cat would take a notion to break in at one of the windows—and the creature stayed outside and killed chickens as long as he pleased, while she stayed up there, trembling, until her husband came home. She said that the next time a bob-cat wanted one of her chickens it could have it, for all of her.”
“I would hate to have Guard get hurt,” I said, looking affectionately at our follower.