VII—THE MEASURE OF A MAN
The Bohms had gone. The last load of furniture, upon which old Bohm perched like an ill-omened bird, had disappeared through the gate on the top of the hill. At last, after six months of vexation and trouble, Owen and I could live our own life and run the ranch without interference.
Bohm had tried to wriggle out of every clause in his contract. He had delayed gathering and turning over the stock by every means and had invented a thousand excuses for staying on from week to week. It had made it very difficult and had exasperated Owen. If he hadn’t been wise and patient beyond words, Bohm’s bones long before would have mingled with those of his reputed victims in the old root cellar. I had a different end planned for him each day, but none seemed really fitting. Owen had gone on in his own way, however, insisting upon every part of the contract being fulfilled and reducing Bohm to impotent rage by his quiet firmness.
Mrs. Bohm had recovered from her “fainting spells” and her husband was furious to think he had sold the ranch. In desperation he finally sent to San Francisco for his brother, who was a lawyer, to see if there was any possibility of getting out of the contract. The “Judge” was a nice old chap, who looked like an amiable Mormon with a long beard. He soon settled the question.
“Why, Jim, you wanted to sell out, you signed the contract and you have your money. You’ll have to stay with your bargain now, whether you like it or not.”
We always remembered him kindly for this and for a story he told. We had been discussing the Chinese as servants and he said:
“Well, I had one for two years, but I don’t want any more. I want to know what I’m eating and with those heathen you are never sure.
“It had been raining very hard one day when Wong came to me in the afternoon and said:
“‘Judge, him laining outside, me gottee no meat for dinner.’
“I told him that we would do without meat for it was raining too hard for anyone to go out who didn’t have to. Wong looked dejected for he liked meat. He turned to go out of the room, when his eyes fell on the cat. His face brightened with a sudden inspiration.
“‘Have meat for dinner! Kill’em cat!’
“Kill the cat! What on earth do you mean?
“‘Less, kill’em cat,’ he repeated in a matter of fact tone, ‘him sick anyhow.’”
We had asked the Bohms to take their meals with us, but only Mrs. Bohm came to our table. Bohm preferred to eat with the men. We suspected that he was trying to cause trouble. Charley unconsciously confirmed our suspicions. He was always conversational and seized the opportunity to talk while fixing my window screen.
“Say, Mrs. Brook, you’d orter seen Bill this mornin’. He was eatin’ flapjacks to beat time and was just reachin’ for more, when old Bohm, with that mean way of his, began slammin’ Mr. Brook. He was sayin’ you folks thought you was too good to eat in the kitchen with us common fellers and had to have a separate dinin’ room, when Bill just riz up out of his chair so sudden it went over backwards, and believe me, his eyes had sparks in ’em when he came back at the old man.
“‘Tain’t that the Brooks think that they’re too good, but there’s some folks too stinkin’ common for anybody to eat with’—and out of the door he walked and all the boys fol-lered him, leavin’ Bohm alone there facin’ all them flapjacks. I reckon he’d a rather faced them flapjacks than Bill, though,—Gee, Bill was some hot,” and Charley’s blue eyes sparkled at the reminiscence.
It was exactly as I thought; the boys despised Bohm and were absolutely loyal to Owen.
After this episode, Owen had a long talk with Bill and a short, heated interview with Bohm, which resulted in the old man’s reluctant, but hasty, departure.
I drew a long breath of relief when I saw the last wagon disappear and looked up fully expecting to see the dove of peace pluming herself on our roof-tree. But apparently doves in the cattle country never alight,—they just pass by.
Owen had bought several thousand acres of land from the railroad. A car of barbed wire for the fence, which was to encircle the entire ranch, was at the station. Our land was now in one solid block with the exception of a few acres of Government land which could only be acquired by homestead entry. This limited acreage in the great checkerboard was all that remained of the “free range.”
At this juncture Owen was served with a notice by the United States Marshal forbidding him to build the fence. It would enclose Government land. Every mile of the proposed fence would have been on ground which he had bought, paid for, and on which he was paying taxes—but still—he could not fence it. “Government land must remain uninclosed.” It made no difference, apparently, what happened to the cattleman whose money was tied up in property he could not use. Government land must remain free and open to the public. But, while those few acres of free range remained open to the public, thousands of acres of our unprotected land remained open also. Everyone used it. The ranchmen for miles around, learning that Owen was forbidden to fence, gathered all their cattle and threw them onto our land.
It was a very serious problem. Our range was being destroyed, the grass was eaten off so closely nothing remained for winter range. Our full-blooded Hereford breeding stock was of little use to us. All our money was invested in land and cattle and there was only one thing left to do,—put riders on our range to drive the other cattle off.
Upon this solution of the problem the dove of peace promptly departed and we entered upon a long, hard struggle for the possession and use of what was our own. Owen was faced, not only with financial failure, but absolute ruin. The future was far from bright, but when an old school-mate came with her husband to visit us it seemed positively brilliant by contrast.
Alice Joice and I had been devoted friends for years. The summer before we had spent in Europe, where I had left her, deep in the study of Art, to which she intended “to devote” her life.
“It is so commonplace to marry, Esther,” these were her parting words; “any woman can marry—but so few can have a real career.”
Alice’s “career” had abruptly ended in “commonplace matrimony,” for she had just married a Mr. Van Winkle from Brooklyn, a man I had never met. They were touring the West and were most anxious to include our ranch. I was very eager to see them so I wrote, urging her to come, but asked her to let us know when to expect them, so there would be no mistake about our being at the station.
I was particularly anxious to have them see ranch life at its best for they were our first guests. The house looked very attractive with all our own furniture and wedding presents in place, but I thought the guest room floor might be improved so I painted it Saturday afternoon. Then everything went wrong: the wind-mill pump failed to work, the whole pipe had to be pulled out of the well; we were without running water in the house and couldn’t have a fire in the kitchen range, so rations were extremely light.
Supper, consisting chiefly of sardines, awaited Owen, who was trying to get some of the grease off his hands, when a homesteader by the name of Hamm, his wife, sister and five children drove up. He had come to see Owen on business and they were invited in to supper.
The table was lengthened and reset, more sardines were opened and we were just ready to sit down when my Aunt, who was standing near the window, exclaimed:
“Who on earth is that!”
Who, indeed! Alice Joice and her husband with a team they had hired at the station.
Having a strong heart I did not faint, but left Auntie to help the maid make the necessary additions to the table—and sardines, while Owen and I hurried out to greet them.
“Hello, dearie, here we are,” Alice called from the wagon as I approached. “Clarence and I thought it would be such fun to surprise you. How-do-you-do, Mr. Brook, I want you to meet my husband, Mr. Van Winkle.” Alice jumped off the step and threw herself into my arms. “Oh, Esther, isn’t this fun?” Gay, inconsequent Alice, from her city home, never considered for a moment that a surprise could be anything but joyous.
If I had met him in Egypt, I should have known that her husband’s name was Van Winkle—Clarence Van Winkle, it couldn’t have been anything else.
He was pale and tall and thin and rigid. The inflexibility of the combined ancestral spines had united in his back bone. He might break, he could never bend. My imagination failed when I tried to picture the meeting between the heir to the Van Winkle name and the Hamms. It was far worse than anything I could ever have imagined.
Alice was very sweet; she talked all the time, patted the five little Hamms and won their mother’s heart by asking their names and ages, but in acknowledging the introduction Clarence only bowed slightly, a movement which required great effort, then relapsed into silence immediately, scrutinizing the Hamm family through his glasses as though they were rare animals in a Zoo. Mrs. Hamm and her sister were stupefied and did not speak a word, but Mr. Hamm, a truly sociable person from Oklahoma, continually addressed Clarence as “young feller,” which produced the same effect as a violent chill, and when he joyously jogged a Van Winkle elbow to emphasize some pleasantry, Clarence firmly moved his chair out of reach of the defiling touch.
Alice ate everything and did not stop talking for a moment. Clarence refused everything but a cracker, which he munched in silence. Suddenly he turned white and left the table. Owen escorted him out-of-doors while Alice and I followed. He was faint, just faint, and collapsed weakly onto a garden seat. Alice said it was the Denver water, but I suspected unassimilated Hamm. Owen stayed with him and Alice and I returned to finish supper. The Hamms left soon after and Clarence gradually revived under the influence of Owen’s New England accent and Scotch whisky.
All at once I thought of the freshly painted guest-room floor. I explained the situation to Alice and we went up to see if it was dry. It was, but the smell of paint was most evident. Alice gave a few sniffs and said apologetically:
“I’m dreadfully sorry, Esther, but Clarence couldn’t possibly sleep here. He is so sensitive to odors of any kind.” I was reminded of a faint aroma which had clung to the Hamm garments. “If there is another room we can occupy, I think it would be better.” Alice was accustomed to hotels. I offered our room; it was reluctantly but finally accepted, the scion of the Van Winkles must not breathe paint. All the things from the guest-room were put in our room and ours were moved up to the guest-room.
Just before they retired Alice confided to me that Clarence had had some temperature in Denver and the Doctor thought he might be threatened with typhoid fever.
“I really believe, Esther, if Clarence has any temperature in the morning we had better go back to Denver.”
I reassured her as I bade her good-night and then sought Owen. I was beginning to have some temperature myself.
“Owen, if Clarence Van Winkle has a thousandth of a degree of temperature in the morning don’t tell him that he’ll be all right; let him go back to Denver or anywhere else he pleases. Imagine that man with typhoid, here.”
The next morning Alice appeared at breakfast alone. Clarence had no temperature, but he felt weak and thought he had better stay in bed. He continued to feel weak for three days, Alice dancing attendance white the rest of us tried to get the household and water running again.
When Clarence finally emerged from his seclusion, he was in high spirits, positively buoyant.
“Well, now I want to see everything, all the cattle, the cow-boys, branding, dehorning, a round-up and what is it you call it? Oh, yes, ‘broncho busting’. We have to go back to Denver tomorrow, you know.” He had to stop for want of breath.
Alice beamed fondly upon her enthusiastic bridegroom. Mine looked far from enthusiastic. Owen was a perfect host but he could not give a demonstration of a year’s work in one day. The horse-breaking was over for the season and the branded and dehorned cattle scattered over miles of country. This he endeavored to explain to Clarence who made no attempt to conceal his disappointment nor his petulance.
“Oh, how unfortunate. I’ve heard so much of the fascination of ranch life I thought I’d like to see a little of it. I thought you had broncho busting or something interesting or entertaining going on every day.”
Owen bit his lip. He was busy beyond words but he dropped everything and afternoon we took our guests for a drive over the ranch. The wagon was new and rattled and, wishing to spare Clarence’s delicate sensibilities, Owen put on some washers.
We were in the middle of the prairie miles from the house, Clarence had recovered his good humor since he was “actually seeing something”, as he tactfully expressed it, when one of the wheels began to drag. The washers proved to be too tight, we had a hot spindle. There was nothing to do but sit there in the blazing sun while the two men took off the wheel, removed a washer or two and greased the spindle.
I wouldn’t have missed it, the mere thought of that scene was a joy to me for months afterwards. Clarence Van Winkle red and perspiring from the effort of lifting a wheel, wiping his greasy hands on a piece of dirty waste! Alice’s face was a study. I had to keep my eyes fixed on the landscape after one look over the side of the wagon. I was afraid I should laugh out loud.
The day they left Bill drove us all to the station. We just made the train, which was standing on the track as we arrived. Owen hurried to check the Van Winkle’s baggage. Bill had to stay with the horses. Alice and I had all the wraps, which left Clarence to carry two dress suit cases across the tracks. His eyes were fixed on the porter and he was hurrying toward the Pullman when he stubbed his toe on one rail, sprawled all the way across the track and hit his neck on the second rail. The suit cases flew in one direction, his hat in another, his glasses fell off and his watch dropped out of his pocket. Alice and I rushed to the rescue, the porter assisted Clarence to his feet and picked up the suit cases, we gathered up the rest of the articles while Clarence stood in the middle of the track rubbing his knees, to the great amusement of the passengers. Alice went up to him when suddenly he screwed his face up as a child does before it begins to cry, threw both arms around her neck and buried his face on her shoulder. The conductor terminated the scene by calling “All aboard”. Clarence limped to the train, rubbing his neck, and the last we saw was Alice holding all the wraps, the hat, glasses and watch, waving to us from the vestibule and Clarence comfortably seated in the Pullman smiling a wan farewell through the window. As the train with its precious freight was lost to sight around a curve, Owen and I began to laugh. We laughed until we were so weak we could scarcely get into the wagon. Bill’s face was perfectly serious, but his eyes had a little twinkle in them as he said with his slow drawl:
“Lord, Mrs. Brook, I’m glad that young man married that girl. He’d orter have somebody look after him. A poor little goslin’ feller like that ain’t got no business goin’ round alone.”
Bill always sized up a situation in the fewest possible words.
During the drive back to the ranch I thought of Alice and her future by the side of a man of that type. Our future was uncertain enough, but if trouble and vicissitudes were our portion, at least I had someone with whom to share them.
Tex had been away for several weeks and we were surprised to see him at the gate as we drove up. He looked very serious as he asked Owen if he might speak with him and Owen looked more serious when he came out of the office after their conversation.
“What is it, Owen? Something is wrong. Please tell me.”
Owen took me by the arm and we walked up and down under the trees.
“Tex came over to tell me, Esther, that I am to be arrested for ‘driving cattle off the range.’ Technically, it’s a serious charge, carrying a heavy fine and—” he paused—“imprisonment, but don’t worry, my dear,” as he felt me start a little at his last words, “it’s listed on the statute books as a criminal offence, connected with rustling, but that can’t hold in this case. It’s a ‘frame-up’ to give me trouble, that’s all. It might have been serious but Tex heard of it and came to warn me just in time. There’s been a plot to eat me out and now they want to drive me out. I’m going in to Denver to see my lawyer tomorrow. I’m more troubled on your account than anything else.”
“Don’t worry about me, Owen, we’re going to stay in this country and fight it out to the end. I’ll face anything, as long as you don’t cry,” and we went into the house laughing, as we thought of Clarence Van Winkle.
The miserable experience which followed was sufficiently serious, even after the charge had been changed to one of minor character.
Owen was arrested on our anniversary. I went his bond. There was a long, expensive law-suit which we lost, the Judge contending that if a man wished to protect his land he should fence it. It was explained that the Government had forbidden it, but the Judge said that did not affect the verdict in this case. Owen paid the damages awarded by the Court, we gathered together our sixteen cow-puncher witnesses who had been staying with us at one of the largest hotels in Denver, an event for the cow-punchers, and returned to the ranch.
Did Owen weep on my shoulder? He set his lips a little more firmly and his face had an added sternness as he looked across those miles of rolling prairie he owned but which now were utterly useless.
He broke the silence at last. His voice had a different tone.
“I am going to have the use of my own land. They shan’t keep me out of it any longer. I am going to sell off all the cattle and put in sheep. Then we’ll see! With herders we don’t need fences and cattle won’t graze where sheep have ranged.”
Thus with the first year of our marriage, the first chapter of our ranch experience ended and a totally different life began.