CHAPTER XVII
WITH THE TRAIL-HERD
In the first gray of morning, a caravan swung out from the corral at the Three Sorrows. They were making a start at dawn. You can go almost anywhere if you start at dawn. Indeed, there are worlds that may be penetrated at no other hour. A group of riders were in the lead, the remuda, or saddle-band, following, herded by the wrangler; the chuck wagon, driven by Pearsall, brought up the rear; Hilda, beside Uncle Hank on the high seat, with heaven knows what dreams under the thatch of dark hair, peeping out sometimes from the clear windows of her eyes.
Early morning on the bald plain. To Hilda, moving along in its wonderful dimness, curiously the thought of Pearse Masters was almost as present as though he, and not Uncle Hank, had been beside her on the wagon seat. She remembered the long evenings together, the games they had played, the talk about books they had agreed on, the talk about books they disagreed on—one was as interesting as the other. She had so wished they might have had one ride together. Oh, if only he were riding with them now—one of Uncle Hank’s hands! She’d let him be a right hand. She’d be willing to be the left. People said jokingly, when they offered it in shaking hands, that it was nearer the heart. She nestled a little toward the big arm beside her.
“Happy, Pettie?” he questioned, without looking around.
“Awfully happy.”
They pushed on all forenoon, under the waxing sun, stopping at noon beside a well and windmill for dinner. And so the trip went, sleeping at night under the open sky, near lonely little Llano, where they had bought supplies; listening to the boys telling hunting and cattle stories till the big bass voices became a dream of a bumble-bee; waking in the early morning, in response to Uncle Hank’s hail: “Roll out! Roll out! Roll out! All the big two-fisted fellers that hires for this trip has to get up soon of a-morning—ladies the same as gents.” Then breakfast, and once more the starting on the day’s journey.
They came to the outskirts of El Capitan about three o’clock on the fifth afternoon. Uncle Hank halted the outfit and took Hilda with him over to the courthouse, which also included the jail. The sheriff, a most obliging person, was, in point of fact, at that identical moment, sitting out behind the building playing checkers with Tracey Jacox. The latter, who seemed very cheerful, greeted Hank warmly and introduced the official to him as Berry Henson. Mr. Henson then courteously withdrew, saying:
“I know you gents will like to have some private talk, and I’ll be right inside here if—er—I’m needed.”
A lithe, black-haired, gray-eyed man, deeply weathered, Jacox had white teeth that showed often in smiles beneath a black mustache. The suggestion of him was swift, elastic, lawless, irresponsible, like a child or a pleasing animal. Hilda’s pulse had quickened with the first sight of him—this careless Tracey Jacox, who had finally “shot up the wrong feller” and was taking his medicine so uncomplainingly. Now, when he was formally presented to her, the little-girl heart in her bosom fluttered its short, fledgling wings toward him in dumb salute. Was he not in some sort a prince in misfortune, a fellow-sufferer with Pearse?
The two old partners sat down on their heels close together, cowpuncher fashion, to a long pow-wow. Hilda, looking on, thought how different they were. Uncle Hank, not more than ten or twelve years the elder, looked like Tracey’s father; indeed, he looked like the father of all the world, with those kind, shrewd, tolerant eyes, that benignant brow, that air of paternal solicitude. Jacox was the typical soldier of fortune, the gamester, light-hearted and reckless—a thoroughbred cowpuncher. Hilda’s eyes continued to dwell upon him with pleasure until the sheriff hove in sight, coming slowly around the corner of the building, coughing apologetically. Jacox stood up and spoke out loud to Pearsall, with emphasis: