CHAPTER II—THE LAST NIGHT AT HOME
In the mountain country the twilights are longer and the sunset colors lovelier than anywhere else. Long after Virginia and her father, supper over, had come out upon the porch to sit together, the golden light lingered in the western sky, making more blue the far distant mountains, throwing the prairie into shadow, and casting upon the nearer eastern foot-hills a strange, almost violet glow. Slowly the gold changed to the deep, almost transparent blue of the mountain sky at night. The sunset light faded to give place to the stars, which, when the twilight was almost gone, seemed to shine out all at once, as if fearful of the sunset’s lingering too long.
It was very still everywhere. Virginia sat in her favorite way—on a low stool by her father’s chair, her head upon his knees, his hand in hers. Together they watched the light fade and the stars come out, as they had done for so many nights. No sound anywhere, except Hannah’s steps in the kitchen, an occasional distant laugh or song from the men in the bunk-house, and the night noises—the stirring of the cottonwoods and the singing of the insects.
For a long time neither of them spoke, and the realization coming closer every moment that this evening would be their last chance to talk together for many months, did not seem to make conversation easier. The big man in his chair was reviewing the years—thinking of the time, twenty-five years back, when he had first come to this country—then wild and unbroken like its own animals and roaming horses. He had come like countless other young men, seeking a new life, adventure, fortune; and he had stayed, having found an abundance of the first two, and enough of the last. In the darkness he saw the distant, widely separated lights of the homes on the prairie—that prairie which he as a young man had ridden across, then sagebrush-covered, the home of the antelope, the prairie dog, and the rattler; now, intersected with irrigation ditches, covered with wheat fields, dotted with homes. Yet the land possessed its old charm for him. It was still a big country. The mountains had not changed; the plains, though different in feature, stretched as wide; the sky was as vast. He loved this land, so much that it had become a part of him; but his little daughter at his feet he was sending away that she might know another life.
He looked down at her. She was thinking, too—filled with a great desire to stay in her own dear, Western country, and with another as great to experience all the new things which this year was to bring her. Homesickness and anticipation were fighting hard. She looked up at her father, and even in the darkness saw the sadness in his face. Lost in her own thoughts, she had left him out—him, whose loneliness would be far greater than her own. She sprang up from her stool and into his lap, as she had always done before the years had made her such a big girl; and he held her close in his strong arms, while she cried softly against his shoulder.
“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Daddy, dear, do you suppose people often want two different things so much that they can’t tell which they want the most? Did you ever?”
He held her closer. “Yes, little girl. I expect many people do that very thing when it comes to deciding. And your dad is doing that very thing this minute. He thinks he wants to keep you right here with him, but he knows away down deep that he wouldn’t let you stay if he could. He knows he wants his little daughter to go away to her mother’s school, and to have everything this big world can give her.”
“But it’s going to be so lonely for you, father. I’m so selfish, just thinking of me, and never of you. I can’t leave you all alone!” And the tears came again.
Silently he smoothed her hair, until with a choking little laugh she raised her head.
“Don would call me a quitter, I guess,” she said. “I’m homesick already, and he said to-day of course I’d be too plucky to be homesick.” She laughed again. “I’m not going to cry another tear. And there are so many things I want to ask you. Father, tell me truly, do you like the folks in Vermont? Will I like them, do you think?”
She waited for what seemed to her long minutes before he answered her.
“Virginia,” he said at last, “your mother’s people are not like us away out here. They are of New England stock and know nothing of our life here, and it naturally seems rough to them. Your mother seemed to have a different strain in her, else she had never come to Wyoming, and stayed to marry a ranchman like me. But they are your mother’s people, and as such I honor and respect them. And I want you to like them, Virginia, for your mother’s sake.”
“I will, father,” she whispered, clinging to him. “I promise I will!” A minute later she laughed again.
“I’ve written down all of Aunt Lou’s warnings, and I’ll learn them all on the train. Are grandmother and Aunt Nan like Aunt Lou, father?”
“I don’t quite remember. Your grandmother is a lady, and looks it. Your Aunt Nan was but a little girl of your age when I saw her, but I think she’s—well, a little less particular than your Aunt Lou, judging from her letters. I have been wrong,” he continued after a pause, “in not sending you on to them in the summers, but I could not go, and it seemed a long way to have you go without me. And though we’ve always asked them, none of them has ever come here, until your Aunt Lou came this summer.”
“Why didn’t mother go oftener?”
He hesitated a moment. “Some way she didn’t want to leave for so long. She loved this Big Horn country as much as you and I. We went together once before you came; and then the summer you were five years old she took you and went again. But that was the last time. Do you remember it?”
“I remember the tall clock on the stairs. I held the pendulum one day and stopped it, and grandmother said it had not stopped for seventy-five years. Then she scolded me, and told mother I was a little wild thing—not a bit like my mother—and mother cried and said she wished we were back home with you.”
They were silent again, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods. A long silence, then her father said quietly,
“Your grandmother was wrong. You are very like your mother. But I am sorry you had to look like your dad. It will disappoint them in Vermont.”
Virginia’s eyes in the darkness sparkled dangerously. She sat up very straight.
“If they don’t like the way I look,” she announced deliberately, “I’ll go on to school, and not trouble them. I’m proud of looking like my father, and I shall tell them so!”
Her father watched her proudly. Back through the years he heard her mother’s voice:
“If they don’t like the man I’ve married, we’ll come back to the mountains, and not torment them!”
A creaking sound, occurring regularly at intervals of a few seconds, came from the road back of the house leading to the ranch buildings, and gradually grew more distinct.
“Jim’s coming,” said Virginia. “He isn’t going on the round-up to-morrow, is he, father? Don’t let him go, please!”
The creaking drew nearer, accompanied by hard, exhausted breathing.
“No,” her father told her, his voice low. “I’m not going to let him go. He’s too worn out and old for that work, though it’s wonderful how he rides with that wooden leg; but I can’t tell him he shan’t take charge of the branding. He couldn’t stand that disappointment. Come on, Jim,” he called cheerily. “We’re on the porch.”
Virginia echoed her father. “Come and talk with us, Jim.”
“I’m a-comin’,” came from the corner of the porch, “fast as this old stick’ll bring me. Ain’t much the way I used to come, is it, sir? But stick or leg, I’m good for years yet. Lord, Miss Virginia, I’m a-goin’ to teach your boys and girls how to throw the rope!” And talking as he wheezed and creaked, Jim reached the porch and laboriously stumped up the steps.
Jim was an old man, fifty of whose seventy years had been spent on the ranges and ranches of the Great West. He had grown with the country, moving westward as the tide moved, from Iowa to Kansas and Nebraska, Nebraska to the Dakotas, and from the Dakotas to Montana and Wyoming. No phase of the life West had escaped Jim. He had fought Indians and cattle-thieves, punched cattle and homesteaded, prospected and mined. Twenty years before, seeking more adventure, he had made his way on horseback through the mountains to Arizona. Whether he found what he sought, he never told, but five years later, he appeared again in Wyoming, and since that time he had been with Mr. Hunter, whom he had known when the country was new. Had his education equaled his honesty and foresight, Mr. Hunter would long ago have made him foreman, for he had no man whom he so fully trusted; but Jim’s limited knowledge of letters and figures prohibited that distinction, and he remained in one sense an ordinary ranch-hand, apparently content. Still, in another sense, there was something unique about his position. The younger men looked up to him, because of his wide experience and fund of practical knowledge; Mr. Hunter relied implicitly upon his honesty, and consulted him upon many matters of ranch management; and, next to her father, there was no one in all Wyoming whom Virginia so loved.
Jim had taught her to ride when her short legs could hardly reach the stirrups; had told her the names of every tree, bush, and flower of the hills and plains; and had been her guard and companion on expeditions far and wide. As she grew older, he gave and taught her how to use her small rifle; and of late had even given her lessons in swinging the lasso in the corral, in which art he was dexterity itself. And last winter Virginia had been able to repay him,—though all through the years she had given him far more than she knew,—for in the autumn round-up, Jim, galloping over the range, had been thrown from his horse, when the animal stumbled into a prairie dog’s hole, and the fall had broken his leg.
The chagrin of the old cow-puncher was more pitiable to witness than his pain, when the boys brought him in to the ranch. That he, the veteran of the range, should have behaved thus—“like the rankest tenderfoot”—was almost more than his proud spirit could withstand; and later, when the doctor said the leg below the knee must be sacrificed, the pain and loss, even the necessity of stumping about the rest of his days, seemed as nothing to him compared with the shame he felt over his “tenderfoot foolishness.”
The winter days would have been endless, indeed, had not Virginia been there to cheer him. Mr. Hunter would not hear of his staying in the bunk-house, but brought him to the ranch,—and there, under Hannah’s faithful nursing, and Virginia’s companionship, the old man forgot a little of his chagrin and humiliation. Virginia read to him by the hour, nearly everything she had, and her books were many. Seventy is a strange age to receive a long-deferred education, but Jim profited by every chapter, even from “David Copperfield,” who, he privately thought, was “a white-livered kind of fool” and his patience in listening to David, Virginia rewarded by the convict scene in her own dear “Great Expectations,” or by “Treasure Island,” both of which he never tired.
Then, when he was able to sit up, even to stump about a little, Virginia, having reviewed the venture in her own mind, suggested bravely one day that he learn to read, for he barely knew his letters, so that while she was at school the hours might not drag so wearily for him. A little to her surprise, the old man assented eagerly, and took his first lesson that very hour, He learned rapidly, to write as well as read, and now that his labors on the ranch were so impaired he had found it a blessing, indeed.
Of Jim’s early life no one knew. He was always reticent concerning it, and no one safely tried to penetrate his reserve. His accent betokened Scotch ancestry, but his birth-place, his parents, and his name were alike a mystery. He was known to miles of country as “Jim.” That was all. Enough, he said.
As he stood there in the open doorway, the light falling upon his bent figure, and bronzed, bearded face, Virginia realized with a quick pang of how much of her life Jim had been the center. She realized, too, how worn he looked, and how out of breath he was, and she sprang from her father’s lap.
“Come in, Jim,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “It’s cold out here. Come, father.”
They went into the big, low-storied living-room, where Hannah had lighted a fire in the great stone fire-place. The spruce logs were burning brightly, and Virginia drew her father’s big arm-chair toward the fire.
“Sit here, Jim, where it’s warm, and rest.”
Jim about to sit down, hesitated. “You see, sir, I come up on an errand with a message from the boys. If it’s all well and pleasin’ to you both, they’d like to beg permission to come up for a minute. You see, they’re leavin’ early in the mornin’ for the round-up, and they want to wish Miss Virginia good luck. If they was to come, I wasn’t to go back.”
“Why, of course, they’re to come!” cried Virginia, while her father nodded his approval. “I’d forgotten they go so early on the range, and I wouldn’t go for the world without seeing them all. Sit down, Jim. Do! Will they be right up?”
Jim sank gratefully into the big chair, placed his broad-brimmed hat on his knee, and gave a final twist to his clean bandanna.
“They was a-sprucin’ up when I left the bunk-house, kind o’ reckonin’ on your sayin’ to come along. Beats all how walkin’ with a stick takes your wind.” He was still breathing hard. Virginia watched him anxiously.
“Jim,” said Mr. Hunter, after a pause, “I wish you’d look out for the place to-morrow. I’ve some matters in town to attend to after taking Virginia in for the train, and it may be late when I get back. A man from Willow Creek thought he’d be around this week to look at some sheep. I’m thinking of selling one hundred or so of that last year lot, and I’ll leave the choice and price to your judgment.”
“All right, sir.” This helped matters considerably. Jim himself had decided that he could not go upon the range, but here was afforded a valid excuse to give the boys. His tired face brightened.
“And, Jim,” continued Virginia, eagerly, “I almost forgot to tell you. Don and I spied Bess and the colt to-day on the lower range, not two miles from the corral. The colt’s black like Bess, and a darling! Don’t hurt it any more than you can help when you brand it, will you, Jim? Does it hurt much, do you suppose?”
“Sho’ now, don’t you worry, Miss Virginia. You see, brandin’s like most other things that don’t hurt nearly so much as you think they’re goin’ to. It ain’t bad after a minute. I’ll be careful of the little fellow. Here come the boys.”
Five stalwart forms passed the window and came to the porch, cleaning their feet carefully upon the iron mud-scraper screwed to the side of the lowest step for that very purpose. Then, a little embarrassed, they filed up the steps and into the house, the two last bearing between them a large box which they placed near the door. They were hardy men, used to a rough life, of ages varying from young Dick Norton, who was eighteen and a newcomer, to John Weeks, the foreman, a man of fifty. Roughly dressed though they were, in flannel shirts and knee-boots, they were clean, having, as Jim said, “spruced up” for the occasion. For a moment they stood ill at ease, sombreros in their hands, but only for a moment, for Mr. Hunter found them chairs, talking meanwhile of the round-up, and Virginia ran to the kitchen to ask Hannah for cider and gingerbread.
“Come in yourself, Hannah,” she said to the kind soul, who sat by the spotless pine table, knitting busily; and she begged until Hannah changed her apron and joined the circle about the fire.
“Joe,” said Virginia to a big man of thirty, whose feet worried him because they demanded so much room. “Joe, you’ll keep an eye on the littlest pup, won’t you? He has a lump in his throat, and the others pick on him. I wish you’d rub the lump with liniment; and don’t forget to tell me how he is.”
Joe promised. If the service had been for the Queen, he could not have been more honored.
“And, Alec,” to a tall Scotchman, who had a wife and family in the nearest town, “I’m leaving my black Sampson and all his clothes to little David. You’ll take them when you go in Saturday night?”
Alec beamed his thanks.
“I wish you’d use Pedro all you can, Dick.” This to the young lad, who colored and smiled. “He gets sore if he isn’t used; and give him some sugar now and then for me. He’ll miss me at first.”
She turned toward the farthest corner of the room where a man sat apart from the others—a man with a kind, almost sad face, upon the features of which the town saloon had left its mark. This was William, one of the best cattle hands in the county when he could keep away from town. To every one but Virginia he was “Bill,” but Virginia said he needed to be called William.
“William,” she said, “if you kill any snakes, I wish you’d save me the rattles. I’m collecting them. And, if you have any time, I wish you’d plant some perennial things in the bed under my window, so they’ll bloom early in June. You choose whatever you like. It’ll be more fun not to know, and then see them all in blossom when I get home. Don’t you think it would be a good plan?”
William’s tired face, on which were written the records of many hopes and failures, grew so bright with interest that he did not look like “Bill” at all. Moreover, he loved flowers.
“Just the thing, Miss Virginia,” he said. “I’ll have it ready for you in June, and I won’t forget them rattles, either.”
She thanked him. “And oh, Mr. Weeks,” she said, for she dignified the foreman by a title, “you won’t let father work too hard, will you? Because I shall worry if you don’t promise me.”
So the delighted Mr. Weeks promised, while they all laughed. Then the men looked from one another to Jim with shy, embarrassed glances, as though they were waiting for something. Jim was equal to the occasion.
“You, Joe and Dick, bring that box in front of the fire while I get up.”
Joe and Dick, glad of something to do, obeyed, lifting the big box before the fire, while Virginia stared in surprise, and her father smiled, watching her. Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chair and stood facing his audience, but his eyes were on Virginia.
“Miss Virginia,” he began, while the boys fumbled with their hats, “none of us ain’t forgot what you’ve been to us while you’ve been a-growin’ up. Some of us have been here a good while, and some ain’t been so long, but we’ve all been long enough to think a deal o’ you. You’ve always treated us like gentlemen, and we ain’t them that forget. This old ranch ain’t goin’ to seem the same without you, but we’re glad you’re goin’ to be educated in that school your mother went to, for those of us who knowed her, knowed a lady.
“Now there ain’t a better rider in all this country than yourself, Miss Virginia, and I can just see how you’ll make them Easterners’ eyes stick out. And we boys don’t want you to have to ride on any o’ them flat-seated English saddles, that ain’t fit for any one but a tenderfoot. So we’ve just took the liberty of gettin’ you a little remembrance of us. Joe and Dick, suppose you lift the cover, and show Miss Virginia her present.”
“Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chairand stood facing his audience.”
Joe and Dick raised the cover of the box, and lifted from it before Virginia’s shining eyes a new Western saddle. It was made from russet leather with trappings complete, and could not be surpassed in design and workmanship. On its brass-topped saddle-horn were engraved the letters “V. H.”; the same monogram was embroidered on the four corners of the heavy brown saddle blanket; and the brass of the bridle, suspended from the saddle-horn, was cunningly engraved with the same design.
Virginia gazed at the saddle, at her father, at the men, one by one, at Hannah, who was wiping her eyes; and then suddenly the tears came into her own eyes, and her voice, when she tried to thank them, broke at every word.
“Oh, I—just—can’t—thank—you—” she managed to say, while the men’s rough faces twitched, and tears filled the furrows of Jim’s cheeks, “but I’ll—never forget you, never, because you’re my very best friends!” And she went from one to the other, shaking hands with each, while her father followed her example, for he was quite as touched and delighted as she.
Then, after she had examined all over again every part of the saddle; after Jim had explained how they were to pack and ship it so that it would reach school by the time she arrived; after gingerbread and cider had helped them all to regain composure, Virginia went to her room and returned with a tiny box, and her fountain pen.
“Aunt Lou says that every girl who goes away to school must have calling cards,” she explained, “and I’m going to use mine for the very first time to-night to write my address for each one of you. And every time you look at it, please remember how much I thank you every one, and how much I’m missing you.”
So when the men went back to the bunk-house, after an hour they would always remember, each carried in the pocket of his flannel shirt a calling-card, given by a “lady” to a “gentleman.”
“Oh, daddy,” cried Virginia, as the last faint creak of Jim’s stick died away on the road to the bunk-house. “Oh, daddy, why did they ever do it for me? And I’ve never done a thing for them, except perhaps reading to Jim!”
Her father gathered her in his lap for the last few minutes before the fire.
“Virginia,” he said, “I learned long ago that we often help others most by just being ourselves. When you grow older, perhaps you’ll understand what the men mean.” They sat silently for a while, neither wanting to leave the fire and each other. From the bunk-house came the sound of voices singing some lusty song of the range. The boys apparently were happy, too. “And now, little girl, it’s a long drive to-morrow, and we must be off early. Kiss your father, and run to bed.”
Closely she clung to him, and kissed him again and again; but when the lump in her throat threatened to burst with bigness, she ran to her own room, leaving her father to watch the fire die away and to think of many things. Pinned to her pillow, she found a brown paper parcel, with “From Hannah” written in ungainly characters upon it. Inside were red mittens, knitted by the same rough fingers that had penned the words. The lump in Virginia’s throat swelled bigger. She ran across the hall to the little room where Hannah, muffled in flannel gown and night-cap, lay in bed, and kissed her gratefully.
“Run to bed, dearie,” muttered the old servant. “It’s cold these nights in the mountains.”
But Virginia’s mind was too full of thoughts for sleep. She reviewed her ride with Donald, her talk with her father, all the dear events of the evening with its crowning joy. It seemed hours when she heard her father go to his room, and yet she could not sleep. At last she sat up in bed, bundling the covers about her, for the air was cold, and looked out of her window. At night the mountains seemed nearer still, and more friendly—more protecting, less strange and secretive. She looked at them wondering. Did they really know all things? Were they millions of years old, as she had read? Did they care at all for people who looked at them, and wondered, and wanted to be like them?
“To-night I half believe you do care,” she whispered. “Anyway, I’m not frightened of you at all. And oh, do take care of those I love till I come back again!”
Then she lay down again, and soon was fast asleep.