My own memory is as stubborn as a mule and as grippy as a bulldog. What it does remember, it calls up in the shape o’ pictures; and I see old things just as plain as livin’, breathin’ beings; but try as I would, I never could keep my memory from loadin’ herself down with so many trifles that sometimes I’ve had to spade it over as many as six times to turn up some important item which I was actually in need of. When my memory’s in a good humor, I like to start a pipe and lean back and just watch old scenes over again, the same as if I was in a the-ater; and I can see every twinkle in a pair o’ well-known eyes, which have been lookin’ up through six feet of earth for this many a long year, and I can hear—actually hear—the half tones ripplin’ through voices which have no more part in my to-day than the perfume o’ last year’s flowers; and then, like as not, my memory’ll lay her ears back and refuse to confide what I did with my shavin’ soap.
When I look back at my own life and compare it with others, it seems like a curious, patch-worky sort of affair, and not much more my own than the lives o’ those others with which I compare it. I allus liked my work, and yet it never attracted my attention much. Side-trips and such-like stand out plain as figures in a hand-painted picture, such as I’ve seen in hotels down at Frisco; but the work part is just a blotchy, colorless sort of smudge, the same as the background o’ one o’ these pictures.
When I first took on with Jabez—every one called him ol’ Cast Steel Judson at this time—they wanted to know if I could ride. I was nothin’ but a regular kid then, so I handed in a purty high average as to my ridin’ ability; though, truth to tell, I wasn’t no bronco buster those days. They gave me a genuwine mean one as a starter, and told me to ride him clean or step off and walk.
At that time I didn’t even know how to discard a hoss when I couldn’t stand the poundin’ any longer; so when I felt my backbone gettin’ wedged too far into my skull, I made a grab for the horn. My luck was on the job that day and I got the quirt, instead. At his next pitch, my hand went up as natural as ever, and I slammed down the quirt as hard as I could. It landed on a ticklish spot and before he had time to make up his mind, the cayuse had started to run, me whalin’ him at every jump and givin’ thanks between ’em. I rode him good and out as soon as he started to stampede, and they all thought I was a real rider. Well, this gave me a lot o’ trouble—tryin’ to live up to my reputation—but that’s a good sort o’ trouble for a kid to have.
Now I can feel all the sensations o’ this ride as plain as though it was this mornin’; but the’s a thousand rides since then which have all melted an’ run together. The same with most o’ the rest o’ my work: I allus aimed to do my bit a little quicker and cleaner ’n the rest; but as soon as I learned all the tricks of it, it fell into a rut, like breathin’ and seein’. Easteners seem to have an idee that our life must be as carefree and joyous as goin’ to a different circus every day in the year; but it ain’t: it’s work, just like all other work. We’re a good bit like our ridin’ ponies: when we’re in the thick of it we’re too busy to take notice; and when we’re through, we’re hungry—and that’s about the whole story.
Jabez Judson was a high peak, and once a feller knew him, he never ran any risk o’ gettin’ him mixed up with any one else. He was the settest in his ways of any man I ever had much doin’s with; but he didn’t change about any—if he faced north on a question one day, he faced north on it always; so a feller could tell just how any action would strike him, and this made livin’ with him as accurate as workin’ out a problem in multiplication, which I claim to hold qualities o’ comfort.
His daughter, Barbie, was a little tot when I first took on; and she was the apple of ol’ Cast Steel’s eye; an’ his curb bit, and his spurs as well. Barbie and I were pals from one end o’ the trail to the other, and this explains a lot o’ my life which otherwise wouldn’t have any answer. My ordinary work at the Diamond Dot wasn’t out-standin’ enough to give me any special privileges; but I happened to come back one time when the Brophy gang was about to clean things out, and Jabez gave me credit for savin’ Barbie’s life; so ’at he didn’t check up my time any and I did purty much as I pleased, only quittin’ him when I couldn’t put up with his set ways any longer. I aimed to play fair with Jabez, and he with me; but once in a while we locked horns, though not often, takin’ everything into account.
It was shortly after ol’ Cast Steel had bought in the D lazy L brand, an’ we was still pickin’ up strays here an’ there. Whenever he bought up a brand he allus put the Diamond Dot on the stuff as soon as he could, his mark commandin’ more respect than some o’ the little fellers’.
When I’d get tired o’ loafing about the home place, I’d take one o’ the boys an’ we’d start out to look for stray hosses. Spider Kelley was with me this time, an’ we had meandered here an’ there until we had picked up a big enough string to stand as an excuse for our trip, and were about minded to start back.
We had just forded a little crick when we heard a man’s voice singin’ off to the right. The’ was a mess o’ cottonwoods between us, an’ we stopped to listen. Now I had never heard that voice before, an’ I had never seen the man who was running it; but right then I was ready to believe anything he had a mind to tell me. It was a deep, rich voice; but mellow an’ tender, an’ a feller could tell that he was singin’ simply because he couldn’t help it.