Skates, Skis, and a Saphead BY William Wallace Cook
DEEPLY steeped in gloom perfectly described the condition of young Nixon J. Peters. Loneliness and bitter regret pervaded his soul as he sat by himself on the rear seat of the flying sleigh and thought of what might have been. He had reason to believe that he was the best skater and ski jumper entered in the winter sports’ contests at Devil’s Lake, on the preceding afternoon, and yet he had lost both main events by an apparent failure to look well to his equipment at the last moment. Every one had expected that he would blunder somewhere, and so no one was greatly disappointed; that is, no one except Nixon J. Peters.
Almost at the take-off of the jump, one of Nixon’s skis had broken. He had taken a wild header, and landed in a snow bank with heels in the air. A big laugh had been the result. Also, he had cast a skate at the critical moment of the skating race, and the other contestants had slid past him, Porter Markham in the lead. This same Porter Markham, too, had won the ski jump. Now, Porter Markham was on the front seat of the sleigh, driving blithely, and exchanging jest and small talk with Hesther Morton, who sat beside him. Truly, Nixon J. Peters’ lines had fallen in hard places!
Nixon was “Nix” to those who knew him best. Often he suffered the crowning indignity of being referred to as the “Saphead.” He had heard the unlovely nickname applied to him many times while digging himself out of the snow bank. It had punctuated the merriment released by his sorry mishap. Hesther Morton had joined in the riot of laughter. Nixon knew this only too well, for she was the first person he had seen after digging the snow out of his eyes. For Hesther to be amused at his expense—well, that was something that hurt.
Then, while seeking, with dogged resolution, to retrieve himself on the steel runners, a strap had broken, and a skate had shot off across the glittering ice. Peters had slipped and slammed around on the course like a crazy curling stone, finally cutting the feet out from under a fat spectator, who called him Saphead right to his face! Ah, what a wind-up for a sorry afternoon! Peters clenched his hands in his bearskin gloves and crouched down on the rear seat in a fruitless effort to efface himself.
He was nineteen, and Porter Markham was twenty. They both worked for Uncle Silas Goddard, who had a ranch in Montana, and made a business of sending range horses into North Dakota to be halter broken and sold to the settlers. Goddard was “uncle” to all his men, in the sense that gives an avuncular character to every genial, middle-aged person who looks after the welfare of younger employees.
In the early summer, Uncle Silas had sent a hundred horses into North Dakota. Business had not been good, and late fall found half the horses still on hand. These horses were being wintered at the Morton ranch, on marsh hay, cut and stacked by Peters, Markham, and Reece Bailey, who had been sent by Uncle Silas to take care of the horse herd. When spring came, there was a promise of turning off every head of the stock at a good profit.
The winter, so far, had not been particularly lonely for the Montana men. The snows of December had been light, and it had been possible for the horses to paw out considerable forage in the hills. January, however, brought in a good fall of “the beautiful,” and it had been necessary to corral and shelter the animals and to go extensively into the feeding.
Reece Bailey, Uncle Si’s foreman, found time to play cribbage with Lance Morton, Hesther’s father; and Peters and Nixon acquired leisure for skating and skiing, popular sports at their home ranch in the Rockies. A river—it would have been a creek in a country of large streams—flowed through the Morton holdings, and its glassy surface offered a resistless invitation to the steel runners. As for the skiing, there were plain and hill for running, climbing, and glissading. While Bailey and Morton were busy at their eternal “fifteen-two, fifteen-four,” Peters and Markham were skating or skiing, often with Hesther, who was fond of both sports. The girl, if appearances were to be believed, was rather fond of Markham, also, but had few smiles to waste on Peters.
In his bashful, blundering way, Peters tried to make himself agreeable to Hesther. He was big and awkward, however, and had tow-colored hair, a slow wit, and few graces of speech or manner. His efforts to impress Hesther were overwhelmed by the never-failing persiflage and the rakish dress and carriage of handsome Porter Markham. Markham possessed a confidence in himself that was sublime, a confidence that shone brilliantly in contrast with the clumsy ineffectiveness of Nixon J. Peters.
Peters realized this, and nourished a bitter grudge against his physical and mental shortcomings. He used to dream of a fire at the ranch, in which he posed as a hero, and bore the fair Hesther to safety from the ranch house, through a furnace of flames. Then, in his visions, he pictured the girl as taking his hand and humbly asking his forgiveness for her failure to perceive his sterling qualities from the first. During such moments of illusion the Saphead was almost happy. But the ranch house never took fire, and the chance to prove himself a hero by rescuing Hesther Morton was denied by fate.
In mid-January, however, an opportunity presented itself, through the winter sports at Devil’s Lake. Markham and Peters entered themselves in the ski-jumping contest and skating race. They drove the fifty miles which separated Morton’s from the lake, and Hesther went with them, to see the “carnival of sports” and to spend a night or two with relatives in Devil’s Lake City. Again Peters had dreams; but now, on the homeward drive, every hope was shattered, and he longed for a period of blank obscurity and complete retirement.
He could have declared that one of his skis had been tampered with, and that one of his skate straps had been all but cut through with the point of a knife. Examination made him sure of both facts, yet it had not occurred to him to “sob.” He had blundered in not making certain of his skis and skates beforehand, so he could not see how any one but himself was at fault. As he crouched in the back seat of the sleigh he considered requesting Uncle Silas Goddard to recall him to the Montana headquarters. There, at least, he would be rid of Markham, and cut off forever from the demoralizing and disdainful eyes of Hesther.
Yes, he would go back to the home ranch, and he would do this in spite of something which he knew, and which was very important to his future. It was common knowledge that a place of preferment was to be given by Uncle Silas either to Peters or to Markham—a foremanship at a newer ranch, with a chance to acquire an interest in the horses and cattle. Reece Bailey was watching Peters and Markham, and on his report Uncle Silas would act. To retire from the North Dakota venture of the ranchowner now would cut Peters off entirely from promotion, and drop the plum in Porter Markham’s hand. But Peters, in the bitterness of his heart, was allowing nothing aside from his own peace of mind to influence him. Yes, he would ask Uncle Silas to recall him to Montana.
“You still there, Nix?” Markham suddenly asked, turning to look rearward.
Peters grunted.
“You’re so blamed quiet,” went on Markham, with a laugh, “that I reckoned you might have taken another header into the snow, back a ways on the trail.”
Hesther joined in the laugh, and, in spirit, poor Peters writhed.
The short day was closing, and the sun went down beyond the white horizon in cold glory. They were five miles from Morton’s, and Markham had driven the horses so hard that they were nearly fagged. They breathed wheezingly, and frost coated their heaving sides. The pace dragged, in spite of Markham’s relentless use of the whip.
“Anyhow,” spoke up Peters suddenly, “you might think of the team a little. Porter. They’re near tuckered.”
“Who’s doing this driving?” cried Markham, “I never yet had to ask a saphead for advice in handling horses.” And again the whip fell on the straining flanks.
Peters clenched his fists in the bearskin gloves. It occurred to him that he could lift Markham bodily out of the front seat, take his place, and do the driving himself; but he did not.
The horses struggled on, and in the falling dark the travelers topped a “rise” that gave them a dim view of the buildings of Morton’s ranch. A light showed in one of the ranch-house windows like a star, and toward it Markham drove, and presently halted at the door.
“Now that I’ve handled the reins all the way from Devil’s Lake, Nix,” remarked Markham, as he jumped out, and helped Hesther to alight, “I allow it’s up to you to take care of the team. Cold, Essie?”
“Not a bit,” the girl answered, and hurried toward the door. Markham followed her, and Peter drove on to the stable.
As he unhitched and brought the horses into the shelter, he was a little surprised to discover that there were no other animals in the place. The team was Morton’s, but Bailey’s cow horse, together with those of Peters and Markham, should have been in the stable; unless Bailey was out at the corral and shelter sheds, looking after the fifty range horses that were kept there.
Peters lighted a lantern, removed the harness from the horses, and, after putting hay in the mangers, began rubbing the animals down with an old gunny sack. He was hard at this when a call reached his ears from the house: “Peters! This way—on the jump!”
It was Markham’s voice, and there was a note of alarm in it that startled Peters. Lantern in hand, he hurried out of the stable and made his way to the house. Flinging the door wide, he crossed the threshold into the ranch-house sitting room.
“What’s wrong, Porter?” he asked.
The “cannon-ball” stove glowed with heat. That, and the bright oil lamp, dazzled Peters’ eyes for the moment, and he could not see what was going on in the room.
“Bailey has been hurt,” came the voice of Markham. “Every horse in the herd has been driven off by thieves—and they even took Bailey’s mount with the rest. Biggest outrage that ever happened in these parts! I’d like to know what the blamed country is coming to!”
The blur lifted from before Peters’ eyes. He saw Bailey, his face twisted with pain, lying on a couch. Mrs. Morton bent over him, bathing a wounded shoulder from a basin of hot water. Her husband was walking up and down, fuming and sputtering. Markham stood beside the couch, looking down at the foreman with a queer expression on his face. Hesther, all excited, was removing her wraps with shaking hands.
“Horses stolen!” gasped Peters, dazed by the weird calamity. “How could it happen? Is Bailey badly hurt?”
“Don’t stand there gawping!” fussed Morton. “Something has got to be done, and it’s up to you and Markham to do it. A gang of scoundrels from across the line made off with the stock; and it’s been no more than three hours since it happened. Take my team and get to Roscommon. The sheriff’s got to be notified. Bailey says the thieves are making for the north, and if you and Markham are quick a posse can get between the gang and the boundary line. For heaven’s sake, Peters, wake up!”
Peters shook himself, put down the lantern, and came to the side of the couch.
“Why don’t Markham wake up?” he asked. “Hasn’t he suggested anything yet?”
“Nothing to suggest,” Markham answered, flashing a sharp look at Peters. “It’s twenty miles to Roscommon, and no chance of getting there ahead of the thieves and the stolen stock. The only animals we can put our hands on are the two that brought us from Devil’s Lake, and they are done up. You know that, Peters.”
“What about using skates or skis?” inquired Peters. “By thunder, there is a way of getting to Roscommon in time to help the sheriff head off the stolen stock!”