FELIX THE FAITHLESS
To Whitey's intense relief the following morning was clear, and he realized, with delight, that at last he would be able to get away from the T Up and Down. He had never been so tired of a place in his life. It was almost worse than school.
After breakfast Dan Brayton took Whitey into his office, and while Whitey sat on a saddle, Dan slouched in his saggy chair and talked business.
"I'm sure glad you bin able t' stay a coupl'a days," he said. "It musta bin a pleasant change for you, an' it's give me a chanst t' think over this here important business o' your father's. I've writ a letter for you t' deliver, t' my friend Walt Lampson, o' the Star Circle, down so'east o' here a piece, for you t' take t' him. Y' see, we can't fill all your dad's r'quir'munts, so I'm callin' on Walt t' sort o' help out with th' balance."
Dan looked impressively at Whitey, who didn't understand much of what he was talking about, and didn't care about anything he was to do, he was so glad to get away from the T Up and Down.
"This'll take you out of your way a bit," Dan went on, "but you won't have t' cross th' Zumbro, an' I'll send back that hoss you borrowed from Cal Smith, by one o' the hands. An' I'll lend you one o' my nags t' take you as far as Willer Bend, where you c'n get another mount. Little Thompson'll go that far with you, an' from there on th' goin's straight."
So, on the borrowed horse, and with the letter sewed inside his shirt, Whitey set forth with Little Thompson, the tall, thin, solemn cowboy who had sung the dismal songs. And glad as he was to leave, Whitey regretted that he did not have a more cheerful companion. For Little's idea of entertainment was to talk about funerals.
He seemed to have enjoyed going to them greatly, and described each individual one at length. Never before had Whitey known what a subject for conversation funerals could make. Little dwelled on the burial of each one of his immediate family, then passed on to his distant relatives, then to his friends, then to his acquaintances. Whitey's nerves were pretty steady, as you know, but after about four hours of this, Little got him so fidgety that he thought he would fall off the horse. Finally he thought Little had changed the subject, and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Drink's a awful evil," Little announced solemnly. "They was a friend o' mine, one o' them two-handed drinkers, what was down to Bismarck, an' got in th' c'ndition what liquor perduces, an' this friend o' mine was standin' on th' sidewalk, an' 'long comes a funeral."
"Here it is again!" muttered Whitey, with a groan.
"An' this friend o' mine," Little continued, "sees this here funeral, an' bein' in th' c'ndition he's in, he thinks it is a percession, an' he waves his hat an' cheers, an' he gets urrested."
Little looked sternly at Whitey as though to drive the moral of this story home, and to warn him never to drink and cheer a funeral. But at this moment "Willer Bend" hove in sight, and the talk turned to other channels.
The Bend was a relief in more ways than one, for it was a beautiful spot on the sharp turn of a narrow creek, whose banks were overhung by weeping-willows, the green of their leaves made vivid by the recent rain. One Chet Morgan, a nester, lived here. Nesters—or small farmers—were not usually popular in the early days of the Western ranges, as they had a way of fencing in the springs, or water-holes, to provide irrigation for their crops. But there was plenty of water in that country, so Chet was welcome to all of it he wanted.
While Whitey sat in the doorway of the small shack, Little had a long talk with Chet, near the stable, and Chet seemed to be nodding his head in agreement to everything the puncher said. They then rested awhile and had dinner with the nester, and after that Little rode away, leading Whitey's borrowed horse. There seemed no reason for Whitey's staying any longer, and Chet again went to the stable, and returned leading what is called a jack, "jack" being short for "jackass."
"Here's your mount, son," said Chet, "an' if you'll keep t' th'—"
"Am I to ride that?" Whitey demanded, pointing at the jack.
"Sure," Chet replied. "Both of my hosses has glanders, but this jack's all right. I've rid him offen. You'll find him gentle an' perseverin' an' good comp'ny. Mebbe he does go a mite faster toward home than away from it, but he allus gets somewhere. His name's Felix, after a uncle o' mine what—"
Followed a personal history of Chet's uncle, to which Whitey did not listen. He was thinking of the figure he would cut arriving at the Star Circle on Felix, and hoped he would get there at night. Chet returned to the subject of the jack, to whose back a blanket was strapped.
"I'm sorry my saddles won't fit him," said Chet, "but you'll find sittin' on this blanket as comf'tbul as your mother's rockin'-chair, an' you've only sixty mile t' go."
"Sixty miles!" gasped Whitey.
"Thassall. Now you keep t' that road, with them hills t' your right, an' when you get t'—"
Chet described at length Whitey's route to the Star Circle Ranch. Sadly Whitey mounted Felix and set forth. Again the road proved little but a grass-grown wagon track through the rolling plain edged by the gray hills. And soon it seemed to Whitey that Chet had been over-enthusiastic when he said that Felix's back was easy as a rocking-chair. At first it might have seemed so, but after awhile it felt more like a rail fence.
And Whitey discovered peculiar traits in Felix. He constantly wanted to turn to the right, and had to be pulled back, and he was cold-jawed. And once in a while he would stop short, and when Whitey urged him on, would start in a despondent way, with his head down and his ears flopping, and would have to be kicked or whipped to be urged to do anything faster than a walk. It was all very discouraging.
Perhaps you never have seen a horse or a jack attached to the end of the pole of one of those old stone grinding-mills, around which he marches and marches, while the grain is ground between the whirling stones in the center. That was Felix's regular job, which accounted for many of his peculiarities—but Whitey never knew about it.
Among the interesting things about animals is their sense of time. Many of them seem to be as accurate as clocks and some of them as useful as calendars. One dog, in particular, comes to my mind, whom his master used to bathe on Sundays. And when this custom was firmly fixed in his—the pup's—mind, he would go away on Friday night and stay away till Monday morning. He got to be the dirtiest dog in town.
And the easiest time for an animal to tell is the time to stop work and eat. Felix was very clever in that regard. At about six o'clock the unsuspecting Whitey dismounted to stretch himself and ease the strain of jouncing up and down on that rocking-chair that had come to feel like a ridge-pole. Naturally his eyes turned away from Felix, to whom he was beginning to take a personal dislike.
Whitey's eyes were brought back with a jerk by the soft thud of little hoofs on the prairie, for Felix was beating it back toward Willer Bend, with a speed that astonished his late rider. Whitey started after him instinctively, but he soon realized that that was useless, and he stood and watched, while Felix became a blurred spot in the distance. Whitey didn't know that it was time to quit for the day at the grinding-mill—and it would not have done him any good if he had.
But he knew that it was lonely on the prairie. And that he had come only about a third of the way to the Star Circle Ranch. So he supposed he must be in for another walk, for he wouldn't go back to Willer Bend for that Felix, not if he died for it. He started determinedly on his course. He might meet some one who would give him a lift. Anyway, it was going to be a moonlight night, and wouldn't be so bad; and walking wasn't much slower than riding Felix, and was far more comfortable.
So Whitey trudged and trudged until dusk came. Then he sat down and ate some of the food he had brought with him. Then darkness came, and a big moon poked its head up over the eastern horizon, and rode up into the sky, where it began to get smaller and more silvery, and to flood the prairie with its light. And Whitey started, and it wasn't so bad to tread the soft road, and to hear the hum of the insects, and to feel the gentle night breeze against his face, and it would be something to tell about afterwards.
Whitey did not know what time it was when he sat down on a hummock to rest. And he must have fallen asleep, for after a while, out of some vague country that seemed like the mountains near the Bar O Ranch, a great giant came rushing down toward him. And the giant had a head like Felix's, but on top of it was a big yellow light—like those lamps miners wear on their heads—that grew brighter and brighter, and the giant roared louder and louder, until he woke Whitey up.
Whitey rubbed his eyes, then pinched himself to make sure he was awake, for the roaring still sounded in his ears, and he looked around and saw two little red and green lights disappearing in the distance. And then he understood that he must have sat down near the track of the railroad, for those lights were on the end of a train, and the big yellow light on the giant's head must have been the engine's headlight.
Well, the road followed the railway for a distance, and it couldn't be such an awful way to the Star Circle Ranch. Should he go on, or should he sleep some more? He might catch cold from the dew, but he could put on his slicker, and—he was awfully tired.
He yawned, he nodded, he was sound asleep before he knew it.