A Man in the Open

by Roger Pocock

We have started a visitor's book. It opens with press cuttings of interviews with Professor Bohns, the famous archæologist, who came to examine the paleolithic deposits at South Cave. Next are papers relating to a summons for assault, brought by the late Mr. Trevor against J. Smith. There is a letter from a big game hunter, Sir Turner Rounde, who came up the cañon collecting specimen pelts of ursus horribilis, which Jesse maintains is not a grizzly bear. But the gem of our collection is a letter of lengthy explanation from an eminent Italian cur, who spent a whole month at the ranch last winter. Nobody is more hospitable, or more hungry for popularity than my dear man, but I think that special prayers should be offered for his visitors. He has a motto now:—"Love me: love my bear, not my missus."

My jealous hero has told the story of an old admirer, once my fellow-student, who brought me a dumpy piano for which I had so starved, told me the news, talked shop, and would make me a prima donna—my life's ambition. The trap was well baited. Lonely, and terrified by the dread majesty of winter, I craved for the lights, for the crowds, for my home, for my people, for my art. And there are little things besides which mean so much to a woman.

Salvator turned out to be a cur, his mission despicable, and yet no woman born can ever be without some little tenderness for one whose love misleads him. And I who sought to read a lesson to poor Jesse, learned one for myself. I am no longer free, but fettered, and proud of the chains, Love's chains, worth more to me than that lost world.

And yet I wonder if in Heaven there are blessed but weak little souls like mine, which grow weary at times of the harps, chafed by their crowns of glory, bored to tears with bliss, ready to give it all up just for a nice gossip. That would be human.

Where spring has come like a visitation of angels, where winter's loneliness is changing to summer's happy solitude, I look into mirror pools, and see contentment. Oh, how can civilized people realize the wonder and glamour of this paradise? Up in the black pines it is winter still, but all our towered, bayed, sculptured, sunny precipice is alive with flowers and birds, while the slopes at the foot of the wall are white with the blossom of wild orchards. Here our bench pasture is a little sky with marigolds for stars. Down in the lower cañon the trees are in summer leaf. The canaries are nesting, the humming-birds have just come, the bees are having a wedding, just as Mendelssohn told us, and Jesse and I are quite ashamed of ourselves, because the widow's reproachful eyes have found us out. We are not really and truly grown up.

Why should the poor sour woman be afraid of fairies? But then you see I was dreadfully afraid of the landlord, until, emerging gaunt and haggard from his winter sleep, Eph came to inquire for treacle. He had a dish of golden syrup, bless him, and no baby short of nine feet from tip to tip, could ever have got himself in such a mess. He still thinks I'm rather dangerous.

One morning, it must have been the twenty sixth, I think, we had a caller, destined, I fear, to entry in our visitor's book. Jesse had ridden off to see how his ponies thrive on the new grass, Mrs. O'Flynn was redding up after breakfast, and finding myself in the way, I took my water colors down to Apex Rock, to see if one sketch would hold winter, spring, summer, as viewed from the center of wonderland.

Now our house being in full view from the apex, and sound traveling magically in this clear atmosphere, I heard voices. Mrs. O'Flynn had a visitor, and I was in such a jealous hurry to share the gossip, that my sketch went over the cliff as I rose to run. A rather handsome man, in the splendid cow-boy dress, stood by a chestnut gelding, such a horse aristocrat that I made sure he must sport a coat of arms. Moreover, in a gingerly and reluctant way, as though under orders, he was kissing Mrs. O'Flynn. She beamed, bless her silly old heart!

Mrs. O'Flynn looks on her truthfulness as a quality too precious for every-day use, and so carefully has it been preserved that in her fifty-fourth year it shows no signs of wear. Hence, on reaching the house I was not surprised to find that her visitor was a total stranger.

From chivalrous respect for women—the species being rare on the stock range—cow-boys are shy, usually tongue-tied. In a land where it is accounted ill-bred to ask a personal question, as, for instance, to inquire of your guest his name, where he comes from, or whither he is bound, cow-punchers take a pride in their reticence. They never make obvious remarks, ask needless questions, or interfere with matters beyond their concern.