“Say that again and I’ll knock you down! Great Cæsar! if I wanted to have the sweetest revenge on an enemy, I’d condemn him to cook all his life for a camp. He’d go crazy—every hair in his head would turn gray in a few months. Heavens! what torments! Talk about your referees—talk about your President of the United States—your umpires—your settlers of disputes—there’s not so thankless a job in the world as that of a camp cook. It is always, cook, do this—cook, do that; cook, when’s dinner going to be ready? There ain’t enough biscuits, cook—why didn’t ye make more? You never make the coffee strong enough, cook—why don’t ye make it stronger? Cook, go fetch some drinking water! just as if I war a slave. No wonder I’m cross; who ever saw a camp cook that wasn’t? Nobody.
“And then if a meal ain’t ready to a second, how I’m sworn at and cursed. Cook, what makes you always behind? you are never on time. Then when it is ready, then comes the music—a regular dirge to me. One grumbling rascal says the meat ain’t cooked; another swears ’cause thar’s gnats in the coffee—just as if I could go round catching bugs like a boy with a butterfly net. And if a feller is in a civilized country and has butter, then it melts until you have to soak your bread in it to get any one. They cuss me for that too, and say I’m lazy and stingy because I won’t tote an ice-chest round. These fellers are the worst I ever did see. Bimeby they’ll be wanting ice cream, jelly, chocolate, oranges, mattresses to sleep on, and a waiter for every one. They’ll be wanting linen shirts, kid gloves, and a boot black bimeby—I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they should beg for ottomans, easy-chairs and musketo-bars—not a bit. Oh, curse the day I was fool enough to join as camp cook! Oh, every hair of my head!”
The Canadian, seeing he was in a fever, no further aggravated him by continuing the conversation, but glancing over the plain, said:
“There are three horses yet—no, two, that are loose. Can you throw a lariat, cook?”
“No, I can’t—and what’s more, I ain’t a-going to. I’m up every morning before daylight, cooking while you lazy fellows are snoring; then I drive team and wash dishes at the same time—I ain’t cross-eyed, and the result is I go slap into some hole, then get cussed. Then at noon you fellers roll on your lazy backs and see me cook, cook; and each one is always wanting me to cook a dish just the way some one else don’t want it done. Then it’s wash dishes and drive team again all the afternoon; a cross-eyed man could do it well enough, but I can’t. Then I’m washing dishes long after every one’s asleep at night, and am expected to turn out every morning a little after midnight and go to work, work again. No, sir; if you want the horses brought up, you can do it yourself, for I can’t and won’t.”
“All right, Duncan. You do have a hard time, that is a fact. Go in now, and get some sleep and I’ll try my hand at catching the horses.”
Duncan went inside and found Pedro and Mr. Wheeler both in a semi-stupor, from different causes, while Robidoux took a lariat and started away toward the black horse and the mustang, Dimple.
They were some two hundred yards distant, and both grazing, though differently. The moon shone brightly, and by its light he could see the black horse was quietly feeding, while the mustang was restless and kept moving away from him as if afraid of his superior size.
Silence reigned over the level plain as the Canadian walked rapidly toward them with his lariat in his hand. He looked carefully over the plain—nothing was in sight; he was alone on the plain in the Land of Silence.
He halted, as a thought struck him, hesitated a moment, then went on.