Well, it's much the same way with me since my stallion William died—of trapezium, I think the doctor said. The mares are grinning at me ever since, and it will take nine months more of this packing contract before I can buy another stud horse. Then there's the mortgage, and the graveyard artist has seized your tombstone until I pay for repairing the angel on top. Life's full of worries, mother.
Your affectionate son,
Jesse.
Rain-storm coming.
P. S.—It's a caution to see how Jones steps out on the home trail. Or'nary as a muel when she has to climb, she hustles like a little running horse to git back down to bush grass. All night in the pines I'll hear her bell through my dreams, while she and her ponies feed, then the stopping of the bell wakes me up, for them horses doze off from when the Orion sets until its cocklight when I start my fire. By loading-time they've got such grass bellies on them that I has to be quite severe with the lash rope. They hold their wind while I cinch them, and that's how their stomachs get kicked.
Yes, it's a good life, and I don't envy no man. Still it made me sort of thoughtful last time as I swung along with that Jones mare snuggling at my wrist, little Mick snapping rear heels astern, and the sun just scorching down among the pines. Women is infrequent, and spite of all my experiences with the late Mrs. Smith—most fortunate deceased, life ain't all complete without a mate. It ain't no harm to any woman, mother, if I just varies off my trail to survey the surrounding stock.
Mrs. Jubbin passes herself off for a widow, and all the boys at the mine take notice that she can cook. Apart from that, she's homely as a barb-wire fence, and Bubbly Jock, her husband, ain't deceased to any great extent, being due to finish his sentence along in October, and handy besides with a rifle.
Then of the three young ladies at Eighty Mile, Sally is a sound proposition, but numerously engaged to the stage drivers and teamsters along the Cariboo Road. Miss Wilth, the schoolma'am, keeps a widow mother with tongue and teeth, so them as smells the bait is ware of the trap. That's why Miss Wilth stays single. The other girl is a no-account young person. Not that I'm the sort to shy at a woman for squinting, the same being quite persistent with sound morals, but I hold that a person who scratches herself at meals ain't never quite the lady. She should do it private.
There's the Widow O'Flynn on the trail to Hundred Mile,—she's harsh, with a wooden limb. Besides she wants to talk old times in Abilene. I don't.
As to the married women, I reckon that tribe is best left alone, with respects. If you sees me agin, it will be in Heaven, and I don't aim to disappoint you by turning up at the other place. I'd get religion, mother, but for the sort of swine I seen converted, but even for the sake of finding grace I ain't going to graze with them cattle.
While I've mostly kep' away from the married ladies, and said "deliver us from temptation" regular every night, there was no harm as I came along down, in being sorry for Mrs. Trevor. Women are reckoned mighty cute at reading men, but I've noticed when I've struck the complete polecat, that he's usually married. So long as a woman keeps her head she's wiser than a man, but when she gets rattled she's a sure fool. She'll keep her head with the common run of men, but when she strikes the all-round stinker, like a horse runs into a fire, she ups and marries him. Anyway, Mrs. Trevor had got there.