CHAPTER X.
ON THE RANCH—THE ANIMALS.
would be difficult for anyone who has never had the work to do, to realise how puzzling it is to take an up-and-down hilly piece of land, all covered with shrub and brush, and plan it out so that all shall be placed conveniently, and also look at its best.
In our great hurry, we had certainly chosen the wrong place for our barn, and, moreover, it was much too small. We saw now perfectly well which was the right place. So as soon as the last piece of furniture had been lifted into the house, the carpenters set to work to take the barn to pieces, and carry it down the hill to the new site upon which we had settled.
It is a wonderful and rather a fearful thing to see how they can move large and small buildings about in this land of ingenuity. One feels quite embarrassed the first time one meets a house walking down the middle of a street. No doubt it is a great convenience to be able to keep your own house, and yet change your neighbourhood!
An acquaintance of ours, having some money to invest, put up a neat row of small detached houses on a piece of land which he had bought during a boom in those parts. The boom, alas! departed, leaving, as usual, disaster and emptiness behind, and these poor little houses stood all by themselves, never a single tenant or purchaser offering for them. Finally, however, someone of enterprise was found, who chose one for himself, and having a “lot” in an attractive part of San Miguel, had his new cottage driven over and rearranged in its new setting.
This answered so well, that it seemed to break the spell of ill-luck for the others also, and soon we were much amused to meet another and yet another of Jim Baxter’s houses driving with stately slowness up and down the different streets of San Miguel, till the desolate little row, planted quite four miles away in an empty waste, had all been absorbed into friendly comfortable corners of the town.
Our present barn has very little resemblance to the original one, which was, however, all absorbed into it. With all the additions which have grown as they were felt to be needed, it is now about four times the size of the little wooden box we lived in during those four hot, dusty months.
There is a large, cool, lemon-curing room in the centre, over which is the hay-loft, holding twenty-five tons. At one side is a convenient workshop, with joiner’s bench, and all necessary arrangements for the many different kinds of jobs one has to do for oneself here, such as harness mending, soldering, etc. A nice little room for the ranchman is built over this. At the other side is a waggon-shed, and good-sized buggy-house, large enough to hold four vehicles. There are stalls for six horses and the cow, with one loose box, and a shed extending over one part of the corral, to give shade from the fierce sun. This, with hen-houses, etc., is quite a little settlement.
We have a comfortable bench down there, where I often sit in the evening, during “chore” time, while the animals are being made comfortable for the night; the cow milked, with the barn cat in close attendance, waiting for her accustomed share; the horses each in turn brought to the trough for a drink; the hens, too, after much fuss and hysterical chatter, fed and shut up, lest the coyotes, whose mocking yelp sounds often so very near in the night, should “carry off one to his den, oh!”
We soon realised in our ranch life how very much the animals added to our pleasure and interest. They are so very happy on a ranch, both dogs and horses, that one catches many a wave of the infection from them. They are so interested in each other and in us, showing such friendliness and affection, and also so much individuality. When the horses are not needed on the ranch, they are put into the corral, where they go through an impromptu circus performance of their own. After a good roll over in a spot carefully selected by much snuffing and pawing, they will stand on their hind legs in front of each other, pawing the air, and looking huge, then chase each other round and round the corral at such a speed, that one wonders they escape hurting themselves against the enclosing fence.
Poee, who is very exclusive, and resents the slightest intrusion on the part of any of the horses, lady or gentleman, has a stall close to the corral. As there is a window in her box, it is one of their mischievous pleasures to go softly up to it and look in, so as to hear Poee’s angry shrill squeal, followed by a few hard kicks, when they scamper off, just as pleased as any wicked schoolboy who brings out an angry servant in answer to a runaway ring at the bell.
Jennie, the only other lady among them, though very nervous and high-strung, is much more amiable; in fact, she is quite ready to flirt and coquette with Rex. Like other flirts, she has more than one string to her bow, and though she does not really approve of Ben, she will tempt him to pay her attentions, which she receives with a virtuous and indignant squeal. They are all accustomed to being talked to, and look for occasional mouthfuls of something dainty from friends.
The dogs take a more intimate part still in our lives, and, indeed, we miss them greatly if for any reason they have to be left out of any expedition or undertaking. Whatever the spirit of the moment, they understand, and take the cue. If it is a pleasure drive, off for the day, with baskets of eatables and drinkables, then there is such excitement among them that they can hardly wait till we are ready, but make little false starts by themselves, to rush back, jumping up at the horses’ noses again and again, bumping up against each other, and smiling at us. Or, if the business in hand is serious, like any work on the ranch, or hauling firewood from the Silvero Valley, they take part with quite a different air; every line of head and tail shows grave responsibility, and I am sure they are convinced that things could not be carried on without their help.
It is quite pathetic to see old Sport doing his ranch duties. He is a brown setter, and was getting well on in years when given to Larry, and is now showing many signs of real old age; but when the little grey team are being hitched up to the cultivation, or Ben is waiting, staid and obedient, to be harnessed to the plough, Sport will lift himself rather stiffly from his favourite seat, which is on the top of the rain-water cistern, from which high perch he can keep a ready look-out all over the ranch, and after a grave shake he trudges down the hill, and stands waiting quietly till all is ready, and will follow the plough up and down the ranch till his tired old legs can do no more, when he limps up to the house, and rests in a cosy corner with the air of one who has done his duty, and can look any man, or any dog, in the face.
Between him and Bullie there is an undying rivalry, kept in abeyance generally by the truly gentlemanly spirit of both dogs, but breaking out now and again into a savage fight, when everyone flies to the rescue, lest poor old Sport should have his little remnant of pleasant life shaken out of him.
Bullie is a very “low down” dog, mongrel to the tips of his big, clumsy toes; but he is Tip’s dearly-loved friend, and, indeed, we all take part in him.
Skibi, the bull terrier, is a perfect darling. She is so bright, and loving, and quick, so anxious to please, so brave, that she would fain fly at all the dogs three times her own size, bristling her whole back, and looking terribly dangerous. It is no wonder that Bullie and Sport look hatred and murder at each other for her sake. Both Skibi and Bullie adore the horses. Bullie will stand perfectly rigid in front of Dick and Rex, waiting anxiously for a little notice. If they lean down and sniff at him, he seems to hold his very breath, and when they lay hold of him, by his thick, loose skin, and lift him off his legs, as they do sometimes (though he weighs sixty pounds), then the very height of his pride and ambition is reached.
The greetings which the dogs give one, either in the mornings, or when one returns after any absence, is so full of true love and friendship, that we would feel quite bereft without our faithful comrades in this lonely life.
(To be continued.)