"To go to church? Wall, now, ain't that jest fine? And how my wolves would laugh to see!" She stood up swaggering before the fire, her hand on her revolver, her laugh ringing echoes round the cave. "Jest you think," says she, "of me—a lady! Footman at the church door to announce us 'Lord and Lady Balshannon!' and Jim and me goes buttin' along to our pew. Then the preacher he rears up to talk his sermon. 'My lord, my lady, and you common or'nary brethren.' Cayn't you see Jim spit on his crown and give it a rub with his sleeve, and me snarled up in my robe like a roped hawss? Then we ride off home to the castle, and Jim says, 'Be-shrew thee! go to, thou varlet, and wrastle the grub pile 'fore I shoot the cook!' Then the valet says there's a deputy-marshal come to arrest us both for stealin' cows, so Jim has him hung in the moat. Afterwards we put in the hull afternoon shootin' foxes, and other British sports until it's time for supper, then play stud poker beside the parlour stove. You're to come and stop with us, Chalkeye."
"Sing to me, Curly," says I, because her voice was sweet enough to gentle a grizzly bear, and it always smoothed my fur. It seems to me I can see her now, her eyes green and flame in the firelight, her face—I can't describe her face.
"Here's a moccasin track in the drifts,
It's no more than the length of me hand,
An' her instep—just see how it lifts—
If that ain't jest the best in the land!
For the maid ran as free as the wind,
And her foot was as light as the snow,
Why, as sure as I follow, I'll find
Me a kiss whar her red blushes grow.
"Here's two small little feet and a skirt,
Here's a soft little heart all aglow;
See me trail down the dear little flirt
By the sign which she left in the snow!
Did she run? 'Twas a hint to make haste,
An' why, bless her!—I'm sure she won't mind!
If she's got any kisses to waste,
Why, she knew that a man was behind!
"Did she run 'cause she's only afraid?
No, for sure 'twas to set me the pace!
And I've fallen in love with a maid
When I ain't had a sight of her face.
There she is! And I knew she was near;
Will she pay me a kiss to be free?
Will she hate? will she love? will she fear?
Why, the darling! she's waiting to see!"
In all the thousands of camp fires dotted along the trail of my life, that one is best to think of. Surely I believe that the Big Spirit sent us poor little spirits loose on the earth to be kicked and educated, not to have nice times. Looking around at present facts, we see how Life is a cold, hard, business proposition, so we have to keep a mighty sharp look-out for fear of being kicked off the premises. The future glows with hope gay as a sunrise, the past is full of memories shining glorious like the setting sun. Seems to me that in Eternity, when the cold present is mixed up with all the rainbow colours of Past and Future—why, then I'll hear Curly's voice come soft through the pines, and see her face in the fire where I camp.
So in my poor way I dream in this lone camp where I sit at present. Perhaps, says you, I'd better wake up right now and tend to my story.
At midnight Curly rode into the town of Flagstaff. Afterwards, following the Grand Cañon trail at daybreak, she happened by accident on a stage-coach broken down with a load of tourists. The driver chanced to be a retired robber, gone tame with rheumatism, so she helped him to fix his linch pin which had snapped. As to the tourists, they were plumb content to find a "real live cowboy" who would talk to them. Most punchers steer shy of tourists, but Curly enjoyed them. She was always curious as a young antelope at anything unusual in the way of game, so she borrowed all their newspapers "to read to her dying mother"—which was me. Then she told them good advice about keeping alert at night to watch for robbers. On that the teamster cheered them up by divulging how robbers drink human blood to keep their courage boiling, and how they like a baby when they are staled on pork. Curly imparted a few particulars and rode away with a high tail.
I was still asleep when she came whirling into camp, whooping for breakfast ravenous.
"Show a laig," says she, "and set out the grub pile swift while I go wrangle the hawsses. We get a move on ourselves right after breakfast!"