Langford of the Three Bars

by Kate Boyles Bingham; Virgil D. Boyles

“We have gone back to the time when Church and State were one and inseparable, and court convenes at ten o’clock sharp in the meeting-house,” he said.

Louise was looking white and miserable.

“You are not contemplating running away, are you?” asked Gordon. “This is unusual weather—really.”

She looked at him with a pitiful smile.

“I should like to be strong and brave and enduring and capable—like Mary. You don’t believe it, do you? It’s true, though. But I can’t. I’m weak and homesick and cold. I ought not to have come. I am not the kind. You said it, too, you know. I am going home just as soon as this court is over. I mean it.”

There was no mistaking that. Gordon bowed his head. His face was white. It had come sooner than he had thought.

All the records of the work of yesterday had been burned. There was nothing to do but begin at the beginning again. It was discouraging, uninteresting. But it had to be done. Dale refused positively to adjourn. The jurymen were all here. So the little frame church was bargained for. If the fire-bugs had thought to postpone events—to gain time—by last night’s work, they would find themselves very greatly mistaken. The church was long and narrow like a country schoolhouse, and rather roomy considering the size of the town. It had precise windows—also like a country schoolhouse,—four on the west side, through which the fine snow was drifting, four opposite. The storm kept few at home with the exception of the people from across the river. There were enough staying in the town to fill the room to its utmost limits. Standing room was at a premium. The entry was crowded. Men not able to get in ploughed back through the cutting wind and snow only to return presently to see if the situation had changed any during their brief absence. So all the work of yesterday was gone over again.

Mingled with the howl and bluster of the wind, and the swirl and swish of the snow drifting outside during the small hours of last night, sometimes had been distinguishable the solemn sound of heavy steps running—likened somewhat to the tramp of troops marching on the double-quick. To some to whom this sound was borne its meaning was clear, but others wondered, until daylight made it clear to all. The sorry day predicted for the cattle had come. The town was full of cattle. They hugged the south side of the buildings—standing in stolid patience with drooping heads. Never a structure in the whole town—house or store or barn or saloon—but was wind-break for some forlorn bunch huddled together, their faces always turned to the southeast, for the wind went that way. It was an odd sight. It was also a pitiful one. Hundreds had run with the wind from the higher range altitude, seeking the protection of the bluffs. The river only stopped the blind, onward impetus. The flat where the camps had been might have been a close corral, so thickly were the animals crowded together, their faces turned uncompromisingly with the wind.

But the most pathetic part of the situation made itself felt later in the day when the crying need of food for this vast herd began to be a serious menace. Starvation stared these hundreds of cattle in the face. Men felt this grimly. But it was out of the question to attempt to drive them back to the grass lands in the teeth of the storm. Nothing could be done that day at least. But during the second night the wind fell away, the snow ceased. Morning dawned clear, still, and stingingly cold, and the sun came up with a goodly following of sun-dogs. Then such a sight greeted the inhabitants of the little town as perhaps they had never seen before—and yet they had seen many things having to do with cattle. There was little grass in the town for them, but every little dead spear that had lived and died in the protection of the sidewalk or in out-of-the-way corners had been ravenously nipped. Where snow had drifted over a likely place, it had been pawed aside. Where there had been some grass, south of town and east, the ground was as naked now as though it had been peeled. Every bit of straw had been eaten from manure piles, so that only pawed-over mounds of pulverized dust remained. Garbage heaps looked as if there had been a general Spring cleaning-up. And there was nothing more now. Every heap of refuse, every grass plot had been ransacked—there was nothing left for those hundreds of starving brutes. Many jurors, held in waiting, begged permission to leave, to drive their cattle home. Whenever practicable, these requests were granted. The aggregate loss to the county would be enormous if the cattle were allowed to remain here many more days. Individual loss would go hard with many of the small owners. The cattle stupidly made no move to return to the grass lands of their own volition.

Later in the day, the numbers were somewhat thinned, but things were happening in the little church room that made men forget—so concentrated was the interest within those four walls. So close was the pack of people that the fire roaring in the big stove in the middle of the room was allowed to sink in smouldering quiet. The heavy air had been unbearable else. The snow that had been brought in on tramping feet lay in little melted pools on the rough flooring. Men forgot to eat peanuts and women forgot to chew their gum—except one or two extremely nervous ones whose jaws moved the faster under the stimulus of hysteria. Jesse Black was telling his story.