THE ORDEAL BY TORTURE
The Labrador was good to me, the sea was better, the stock range—wall, I'd four years punching cows, and I'm most surely grateful. Thar's plenty trades outside my scope of life, and thar's ages and ages past which must have been plenty enjoyable for a working-man. Thar's ages to come I'd like to sample, too. But so far as I seen, up to whar grass meets sky, this trade of punching cows appeals to me most plentiful. In every other vocation the job's just work, but all a cow-boy's paid for is forms of joy—to ride, to rope, to cut out, to shoot, to study tracks an' sign, read brands, learn cow. A bucking horse, a range fire, a gun fight, a stampede, is maybe acquired tastes, for I've known good men act bashful.
There's drawbacks also—I'd never set up thirst or sand-storms as being arranged to please, or claim to cheerfulness with a lame horse, or in a sheep range, no. But then you don't know you're happy till you been miserable, and you'd hate the sun himself if he never set.
I ain't proposin' to unfold a lot of adventures, the same being mostly things I'd rather'd happened to some one else. An adventure comes along, an' it's "How d'ye do?" It's done gone, and "Adios!"
I was nigh killed in all the usual ways.
The sun would find us mounted, scattering for cattle; he'd set, leaving us in the saddle with a night herd still to ride. Hard fed, worked plenty, all outdoors to live in, and bone-weary don't ax, "Whar's my pillow?" No. The sun shines through us, and if it's cold we'll shiver till we sweat. The rains, the northers—oh, it was all so natural! Living with nature makes men natural.
We didn't speak much—pride ain't talkative. Riding or fighting we gave the foreman every ounce we'd got, and more when needed. Persons would come among us, mean, dirty, tough, or scared, sized-up before they dismounted, apt to move on, too. Them that stayed was brothers, and all our possessions usually belonged to the guy who kep' the woodenest face at poker.
The world in them days was peopled with only two species, puncher an' tenderfoot, the last bein' made by mistake. Moreover, we cow-boys belonged to two sects, our outfit, and others of no account. And in our outfit, this Jesse person which is me, laid claims on being best man, having a pair of gold mounted spurs won at cyards from Pieface, our old foreman. I'd a rolled cantle, double-rig Cheyenne of carved leather, and silver horn—a dandy saddle that, first prize for "rope and tie down" agin all comers.
Gun, belt, quirt, bridle, hat, gloves, everything, my whole kit was silver mounted and everything in it a trophy of trading, poker, or fighting. Besides my string of ponies I'd Tiger, an entire black colt I'd broke—though I own he was far from convinced. Add a good pay-day in my off hind pocket, and d'ye think I'd own up to them twelve apostles for uncles? D'ye know what glory is? Wall, I suppose it mostly consists of being young.
In these days now, I've no youth left to boast of, but it's sweet to look back, to remember Sailor Jesse at nineteen, six foot one and filling out, full of original sin, and nothin' copied, feelin' small, too, for so much cubic contents of health, of growin' power, and bubbling fun. Solemn as a prairie injun, too, knowing I was all comic inside, and mighty shy of being found out for the three-year kid I was.
Lookin' back it seems to me that all them vanities was only part of living natural, being natural. I seen cock birds playing up much the same to the hen birds—which made believe most solemn they wasn't pleased.
Time I speak of, our outfit had turned over three thousand head of long-horns to the Circle S and rode right into Abilene. Thar we was to take the train for our home ranch down south, and I hoped to get back to my dog pup Rockyfeller. In my bunk at the ram pasture, too, there was a china dog, split from nose to tip, but repaired. Yes, I keened for home. And yet I'd never before been on a railroad, and dreaded the boys would find out how scared I was of trains.
A sailorman feels queer, steppin' ashore on to streets which seem to heave although you know they don't—yes, that's what a puncher feels, too, alighting in a town. Gives you a sort of bow-legged waddle, and spurs on a sidewalk trail a lot too loud. I lit in Abilene with a blush, and just stood rooted while a guy selling gold watches reads my name graved on the saddle, and then addresses me as Mister Smith. Old Pieface, scared for my morals, did kick this person sudden and severe, but all the same that Mister went to my head.
The smell of indoors made my stomach flop right over while we ranged up brave at the bar for a first drink. The raw rye felt like flames, though the preserved cherry afloat in it tasted familiar, like soap. At the same time the sight of a gambling lay-out made my pocket twitch, and I'd an inward conviction telling me this place ain't good for kids. It's the foreman sent me off with a message.
I rolled my tail, and curved off with Tiger to take in the sights of the town. He shied heaps, and it's curious to think why he objected to sign-boards, awnings, lamp-posts, even to a harmless person lying drunk. Then a railroad engine snorted in our face, so Tiger and me was plumb stampeded up a little side street. It's thar that he bucks for all he's worth, because of a kneeling man with a straw hat and a punctured soul, praying abundant. Of course this penitent turned round to enjoy the bucking match—and sure reveals the face of my ole friend, Bull Durham. We hadn't met for years, so as soon as Tiger was tired, Bull owned to finding the Lord, and being stony busted, ask if I was saved. I seen he'd got 'em bad, and shared my wad of money level with him. So we had cigars, a pound of chocolate creams, an oyster stew, and he bought a bottle of patent medicine for his liver. We shared that, and went on, he walking by my stirrup to the revival meeting.
This revival was happening at a barn, so I rode in. Tiger you see, needed religion bad, and when people tried to turn him out, he kicked them. You should just have heard what the preacher told the Lord about me, and all the congregation groaned at me being so young and fair, with silver harness, and the hottest prospects—just as Pieface always said when I was late for breakfast.
They had a great big wooden cross upon the dais, and somehow, I dunno why, that made me feel ashamed. A girl in a white dress was singing Rock of Ages—oh, most beautiful, her arms thrown round the cross, the sun-bright hair about her like a glory.
I could a' cried. Yes. For her great cat eyes were set on me, while her voice went through an' through me, an'—sudden a dumb yearning happened inside my belt. Seems that half-bottle of liver dope had scouted round, found all them chocolate creams, and rared up for battle. But no, the whisky was still calm, though I felt pale.
Something was goin' wrong, for a most frightsome panic clutched my throat. Suppose I'd caught religion! Oh, it couldn't be so bad as all that. Fancy being saved like them wormy railroad men, and town scouts, took abject because the sky pilot was explaining hell. Made in God's image? No. That don't apply to cowards.
An' yet it's cows to sheep thar's something wrong when tears runs down my face, because a girl—why since fifteen I'd been in love with every girl I seen. As a species they was scarce, some good, some even better. The sight of girls went to my head like liquor, and this one was surely good with her sunbright hair, her cheeks flushed 'cause I stared, her sulky lips rebuking when I throw'd a kiss, her yellow-brown eyes—.
Oh, had I really washed behind my ears? Suppose I'd got high-water marks! Was my hands—I whipped off my gloves to inquire. That's what's the matter, sure. Got to make good before bein' introduced. Got to get a move on Tiger. I swung, spurred with one spring through the doors, yelled "Injuns" and stampeded, scatterin' gravel and panic through Abilene. I just went like one man for our cook wagon down by the railroad corrals.
Now, for all the shaving-glass could see, I was nice an' clean, but then that mirror has small views, and I'm not taking risks, but stripped and scrubbed all over. The place was so durned public I blushed from nose to heels till I was dressed again, shining my hair and boots. Then I procured an extra special, cherry-red, silk scarf out of the wrangler's kit.
Some of our boys made friendly signs as I passed on my way back, and fired a few shots after me for luck, but I'd no time to play. I joined the revival meeting just as the hat came round, so penitent sinners making for the door, came back to stay and pay because of Tiger. I give Bull ten dollars to hand to the hat, only he passed it into his own pocket. He seemed annoyed, too, saying, "Waste not, want not." Then he explained how the fire-escape only paid Miss Ellis fifty dollars a day, whereas he was making hundreds.
Just then she passed, and I got introduced. "Say, Polly," says Bull, "here's Sailor Jesse wants to get acquainted."
She stopped, sort of impatient for supper, and velvet-soft her voice, full of contempt.
"Oh, pshaw!"
Hard gold-brown eyes all scorn, soft gold-brown hair, an' freckled neck, red lips, fierce, tiger fierce—
"Another damned suppliant?" she asked, and Bull was holding a light for her cigarette. "Is it saved?" she added.
I couldn't speak. I wanted to tell her how I despised all the religion I'd seen, the bigots it made, an' the cowards. I'd rather burn with the goats than bleat among sheep even now.
"Oh, that's all right, then," she said as though she answered me, and frank as a man she gave her hand to shake. "Good stunt of mine, eh? Although I own I'd like to have that cross stage-managed."
She passed the weather, admired Tiger, talked Browns and Joneses with Bull, turning her back on me, asked him to supper, walked off with him, an' that's all. Egg-shells throw'd in the ash-heap may feel like I did then.
Nobody loved me, 'cept our pony herd, inquirin' piteous for food an' water. A widow O'Flynn fed me supper, her grub bein' so scarce and bad, poor soul, she had to charge a dollar to make it pay. She kep' a wooden leg, and a small son. Our boys, of course, was drunk by then, just sleepin' whar they'd fell, so I was desolate as a moonlit dog-howl, ridin' herd with my night horse whar Polly's little home glowed lights across the prairie. I seen Bull and the preacher leave there on toward midnight, walkin' sort of extravagant into town. The lights went out. Then times I'd take some sleep, or times ride herd guarding her little house, till the cold came, till the dawn broke, till the sun came up.
It was half past breakfast when I seen Bull again, on his knees like yesterday, a-puttin' up loud prayers, which made me sick. "Rehearsin'," says he, "'cause Polly's struck, and I'm to be chief mourner."
He was my only chance of meetin' Miss Polly agen, so I was leadin' the talk around, when a guy comes butting into our conversation. He'd puffed sleeves to his pants, and was all dressed saucy, standing straddle, aiming to impress. "Oh, whar's my gun?" says Bull.
This person owned to being a gentleman, with a strong English accent. He'd 'undreds of 'orses at 'ome in 'Ammersmith, but wanted to own an 'ack 'ere, don'tcherknow.
So Bull lefts up his eyes to Heaven, praying, "Oh, don't deliver us from temptation yet!" Whereas I confided with this person about Bull being far gone in religious mania. I owned Bull right though, about my bein' a sailor, timid with 'orses; and he seen for hisself the way I was riding my Sam 'orse somethin' dreadful. Told me I'd ought to 'old my 'ed 'igh instead of 'umping. It's in toes, down 'eels, young feller, an' don't be 'ard on the bally hanimal. He'd gimme lessons only I was frightened, but out aways from town the ground was softer for falling, an' I gained courage. Happens Miss Polly's house was opposite. I scrambled down ungainly, shoved a pebble in along Sam's withers, and let this gent explain just how to set an 'ard-mouthed 'unter. You 'olds 'is 'ed, placin' the 'and on the 'orn of the saddle, so. Then hup! That pebble done the rest.
They claim these flying men is safe while they stays in the air, herding with cherubs. That's what's the matter. It's only when this early aviator came down—bang—that he lit on his temper, and sat denouncing me. Yes, I'd been misunderstood, and when I told him it was all for the best he got usin' adjectives. He bet me his diamond ring to a dollar he'd ride Sam, and I must own the little man had grit. He'd have won, too—but for Sam.
Now, it's partly due to this 'ere entertainment, and the diamond ring I gave her, that Miss Polly began to perceive me with the naked eye, and said I might come to supper.
And that evening was most surely wonderful, in a parlor all antimacassars and rocker chairs with pink bows. She showed me plush photo albums, and hand-painted pictures of ladies with no clothes on. She played Abide with Me on the harmonium; she made me write poetry in her birthday book. There was champagne wine, the little cigarettes with dreams inside, and a bottle no bigger'n my thumb smellin' so fierce it well-nigh blew my head off. Oh, it was all so elegant and high-toned that I got proud of being allowed indoors.
Her people was real society, her poppa an army general, ruined by the war, her mother prime Virginian. But then she'd gone on the stage, so there was mean suspicions.
I hold suspicion to be a form of meanness when it touches women. My mother would have shied at naked ladies, and dad was powerful agin cigarettes. As for the smell, so fierce it had to be bottled, I'll own up I was shocked. But then you see mother, and dad, an' me being working people, was not supposed to feel the high-toned senses which belongs with wealth. It's not for grade stock like me to set up as judge on thoroughbreds, or call a lady immoral for using a spoon whar I should need a shovel.
No, I was playing worldliness for fear this lady'd think me ignorant. I was no more'n a little child strayed among civilization, scared of being found out childish. And I was surely panicky in a house—belonged outdoors among horses.
So it happened that in them days, while I rode guard upon Miss Polly, no man in Abilene could speak to her, or mention her name to me until I give him leave. She got to be known as Sailor Jesse's kill, and any person touching on my kill was apt to require a funeral.
It was the seventh day she married me. I know, because Bull, acting as best man, claimed a kiss, which she gave him. "Bull," says she, "didn't I bet you I'd marry Sailor Jesse within a week? You owe me twenty dollars." I saw the joke was on me.
I'd been in a dream. Love had made the yellow prairie shine like gold, that little prairie home a holy place, the woman in it something I'd kneel and pray to. There'd be lil' small children soon for me to play with, pride in earning food, the great big honor of guarding all of that from harm.
I came to marriage pure as any bear, or wolf, or fox, expecting to find my mate the same as me, getter and giver of life, true to the earth, and fearless in doin' right.
Folks said I was young to marry at nineteen, but full nine years I'd earned my living, fought my way, and done my share of making happiness. I'd been served with a mouth full wide enough for laughin', a face which made folks smile when I was sad, eyes to see fun, the heart to take a joke if any offered, and when things hurt, I wasn't first to squeal. No: as long as the joke was on me I done my best to take it like a man.
But suppose— Well, I'd best explain that the English tenderfoot was at our wedding breakfast, and gettin' encouraged, he put up his best prize joke. He was all hoo, hoo, hoo at first, so funny he couldn't speak, the fellows waitin' each with his grin gettin' stale, and Polly laughing just to encourage him on. Then words got out which made the boys uneasy. Jake Haffering the Bar T foreman, told the hog to shut up, while others moved to get clear. I was sort of stupid, wanting the point explained, couldn't believe it possible the joke was on my wife, although I'd rose by then, with gun hand free. Then I saw, but the room seemed dark, and the tenderfoot all indistinct, backing away, and reaching slovenly for weapons, while my bullet smashed in his shoulder. It slued him around as he dropped.
I could hear the flies in the window buzzing as I came to myself, seeing the hot street outside, the yellow plains beyond.
It was old Jake of the Bar T who spoke out then, and spoke straight.
"My boy," says he, "put up your gun. That's right. This here tenderfoot is bleedin' by spurts, arterial. Bull, see if Doc Stuart is sober." Bull ran for the doctor. "Only a tenderfoot," says Jake, "insults a cow-boy's wife—which is death from natural causes. Ma'am," he wagged his finger at Polly, "'tain't long since you come among us. 'Tain't more'n a day since you told me and others present that you was marryin' for fun. You laughed at warnings, and this here Jesse would have shot the man who warned him. You are a lady, and this boy you married for fun, is goin' to see you treated as a lady. I own he got rattled first shot, missing this tenderfoot's heart, which ain't up to average practise; but it's time you began to see the point of the joke."
They took the tenderfoot away, and we were alone, me watching the pool of red blood turning brown. Polly sat drumming tunes on the table, her face turned white, staring out through the window at the noon heat of the plains. I remember I took a bottle of champagne wine, filled a big goblet, and drank it off. The flies were buzzing still agin the window. It made me laugh to think she'd taught me drinking, so I had another, watching the flies hold congress on the floor. "I see," says Polly, "I understand now." At that she began to scream.
I should have told you, that after our boys of the Flying Zee quit Abilene, I pitched a little A tent on the prairie back of Polly's house. Thar I could see my ponies at grass, and snuff the air clear of that stinking town.
But from the time I moved into the house, thar was something disturbing my nose—something uneasy—oh, I don't know what it was, back of all house smells, which give me a sense of evil, so I could hardly bear to stay indoors.
And there were signs. I'd come back from some errand into town, to find a man's track leading into the door, when Polly claimed she had no visitors. Why should she say she'd been alone all morning, when there's pipe ashes on the parlor table, or I'd catch the wet smell from a chewed cigar? She only laughed.
Comin' from town one night—she'd sent me there—I seen a man's shadow cross the parlor blind. I fired, missing, a fool's act, for it warned him, and gave him time. The lamp was out before I reached the house, and Polly with some hysterics getting in my way.
It wouldn't be sense to show a match guiding the stranger's aim, or to stand against a window, or make sounds. Rather I stood right still, and after a while Polly surprised herself into dead silence. I couldn't hear that man, or feel, or see him. I could smell him, but that don't supply his bearings. I could taste the air from him, but that flickered. I sensed him. Can't explain that—no. You just feel if a man stares hard. I fired at that. Then Polly, of course, went off into all sorts of fits.
Next morning I tracked blood sign to the hospital. Seems a young person from the bank had took to conjuring and swallowed lead.
It was still before breakfast that I told Polly to pack her dunnage, 'cause we was moving out from Abilene. I claimed I could earn enough to keep my wife without her needing to go out into society.
"On cow-boy pay?" she said laughing. "On forty dollars a month? I spend more'n that on champagne. Here you Miss Jesse, who's payin' for this—you? Who keeps you, eh, Miss Prunes—and—prisms? Shamed of my bein' a lady, eh? I am a lady, too, and don't you forget it. And now, git out of my home."
I struck a match to the bo-kay of paper flowers, heaped on the hand-painted pictures, the paper fans, the rocker chairs, and slung the coal-oil lamp into the flames; then while she tore my shoulder with her teeth, I carried her to my tent "That's your home now," I said, "the home of an honest working-man," I said, "and if another tough defiles my home, I'll kill you."
The house-warming gathered the neighbors, but she had no use for neighbors. Only they seen the line I drew in the dust around that tent, the dead line. Afterward if any man came near that line, she'd scream.
But she'd taught me to drink, an' I drank, day after day, night after night, while she sat frightened in the tent, moaning when I came. Only when she was cured could I get work, not while I had to watch all day, all night. Only when she was cured could I get work, make good, an' keep my wife as women should be kept. And I—and I—why if I let myself get sober once I'd remember, and remember, and go mad.
She swore she loved me, she vowed that she'd repented, and I believed until she claimed religion. I'd seen her breed of religion. I'd rather have her atheist than shamming. She would keep straight, and be my faithful wife if I'd quit drinking, if I'd only take her away. But she'd married me for a joke, and false as a cracked bell she'd chime out lies and lies, knowing as I knew that if she'd ever been the thing she claimed, I'd come into her life too late. How could she be the mother of my children, when—I drank, and sold my ponies to buy liquor, for there was no way out.
And by the time I'd only Tiger left, one night came Bull to find me just as dusk was falling. He'd been away, I hadn't seen him for weeks, and when he came to me in the Roundup saloon, I seen how frightened he was of speaking to me. I was drunk, too, scarce knowing what he said, just telling him to shut up and have a drink. Polly's bin hurt? Well, that's all right—have rye—Polly's been shot? That's good, we'd all have drinks. Was she dead?
She was dead.
And I was sober then as I am now.
"Murdered?" I asked.
"Jesse, she shot herself."
"Is that so?"
"Through the brow—above the eyes. Come, Jesse."
Next thing I was standing in the tent door, and it was so dark inside I had to strike a match. The sulphur tip burned blue, the wood flared, and for that moment, bending down, I seen the black dark hole between the eyes, the smear of drying blood. Then the match went out, and I—that was enough.
I gave Bull what I'd left, to pay for burial.
Then I was riding Tiger all alone, with my shadow drawin' slowly out ahead as the moon waned.