And the Crawford ranch? Well, the Crawford ranch is the busiest place in the county.
Peter, for whom my parents, like ourselves, took a great liking, quickly thawed out under my mother’s influence, and related to us briefly the reason for his having taken to his solitary life. He had been a school-teacher in Denver, but losing his wife and two children in an accident, he had fled from the place and had hidden himself up in our mountains, where for several years he had spent a lonely existence with no company but old Socrates. Now, however, his house destroyed and his mountain overrun with prospectors, he needed little inducement to abandon his old hermit-life; and accepting gladly my father’s suggestion that he stay and work on the ranch, he built for himself a good log cabin up near the waterfall, and there he and Socrates took up their residence.
There was plenty of work for him and for all of us—indeed, for the first two years there was almost more than we could do. It took that length of time for the “forty rods”to drain off thoroughly, but by the middle of the third summer we were cutting hay upon it; the ore wagons from Sulphide and from the Big Reuben were passing through in a continuous stream; the stage-coach was coming our way; the old hill road was abandoned.
In fact, everybody is busy, and more than busy—with one single exception.
The only loafer on the place is old Sox—tolerated on account of his advanced age. That veteran, whose love of mischief and whose unfailing impudence would lead any stranger to suppose he had but just come out of the egg, spends most of his time strutting about the ranch, stealing the food of the dogs and chickens; awing them into submission by his supernatural gift of speech. And as though that were not enough, his crop distended with his pilferings to the point of bursting, he comes unabashed to the kitchen door and blandly requests my mother, of all people, to give him a chew of tobacco!
But the mail-coach has just gone through, and I hear Joe shouting for me; I must run.
“Yetmore wants fifty-hundred of oats, Phil,”he calls out. “You and I are to take it up. We must dig out at once if we are to get back to-night. To-morrow we break ground on our new ditches. A month or more of good stiff work for us, old chap!”
He rubs his hands in anticipation; for the bigger he grows—and he has grown into a tremendous fellow now—the more work he wants. There is no satisfying him.
We have been very fortunate, wonderfully fortunate; but I am inclined to set apart as pre-eminently our lucky day that one in the summer of ’79, when young Joe Garnier, the blacksmith’s apprentice, stopped at our stable-door to ask for work!