Chapter VIII REMEMBERING THE EARLY DAYS

 THE celebration was going merrily when Fred rode up to the “Ward House,” a large log structure set prominently among the scattered cabins that made the new village. It was used for all public gatherings by the Mormon colonists.   He was not very late, however; for Dan, who stayed at home as usual, had taken a brotherly interest and insisted that Brownie be given a rest while Fred ride Chief, Dan’s best saddle horse. This was a rare privilege; but Dan went further. When Fred had opened his old valise to find clothes fit for the occasion, he revealed so scant a wardrobe that his friend, without seeming to see the lack, threw up the till of his own well-stocked trunk and urged the boy to help himself.   “Oh, come, now; no foolishness,” he said imperatively, as Fred protested.   “I know you haven’t had any money to blow in on cowboy finery. I used to do it, though; and these are some of the leavings of my sporty{84} days; now help yourself. They’re not much use to me any more.” Dan did not tell what had sobered him. The death of his sweetheart a few years before had cast a lasting shadow over his life.   The shame of shining in borrowed plumes was largely lost in such open-hearted generosity, and Fred, under his companion’s insistence and selection, soon found himself a smartly dressed cowboy indeed. He could hardly voice his thanks as he mounted Chief to ride away.   The night was brilliant with stars; the moon had not yet risen, but was sending its promises of a beautiful night by tipping the dark hills with silver. The air, fresh and fragrant, turned to a gentle breeze as Chief, taking the bits, leaped along the echoing road. It was an exquisite ride. Fred let the fine horse keep his own swift pace till suddenly he galloped out of the timber that lined the creek, and the lights of the village flashed before him.   It was easy to find the dance hall. Lamps were blazing from every window, and the music was ringing as he rode up. A herd of saddle ponies, and a motley collection of buckboards, lumber wagons, and “white tops” were ranged along the fences. Everybody seemed to be out. The meeting house was full of happy celebrators.{85}   Tying Chief securely to a fence, he made his way hesitantly toward the crowd. A feeling of bashfulness swept over him. He had stopped, half tempted not to push his way into the strange crowd, when some one slapped him on the shoulder, and a tipsy tongue said heartily:   “Hello, Tiddy, where the devil did ye drop from? No matter, you’re here; good fer ye, lad, come on.”   “Yes, Pat, I’m here; but I have half a notion not to face the music.”   “The divil ye say! It’s give in now, is it? Not while I’ve me money staked on ye. I’ll have Jim show ye a foine time. It’s just the crowd to suit ye. That Mormon beer they’re passin’ won’t wet your throat, but ye’ll like it, for there’s no stick in it at all, at all; and they’re a mighty social people, even if they do mix prayin’ with their dancin’. Come along, me lad.”   Thus urged, Fred soon found himself in the midst of the crowd.   “Here, Jamie,” called Pat, as he caught sight of his partner in the doorway. Jim whirled around.   “I’ve caught this trout-lassoin’ Tiddy,” Pat went on; “now show him the toime of his life.{86}”   “Why, hello, Teddy,” returned Jim, grabbing the boy’s arm. “Come into the mix-up. You’re losin’ a deal.”   Before Fred could protest, Jim had opened a way through the good-natured, jostling crowd of cowboys that blocked the doorway, and he found himself in the heart of the fun.   “Alleman left!” trumpeted Uncle Toby, through the buzz of voices, shrill music, and clattery feet. “Promenade all!” he called again. Then with a series of scraping flourishes he wound up his lively tune. The laughing, chatty couples, faces aflush, cleared the crowded floor.   “Your attention, please!” called the manager in a commanding tone.   The crowd quieted.   “The next on our program is a quartet by members of the choir, ‘Sunset Land,’ composed by David Willis for this occasion.”   Four young people stepped out of the crowd to make their way to the head of the hall. The organist struck up a pleasing, though not very classic air, and they sang with spirit and harmony this song: When our craggy hillsides freshen in the springtime, When the canyons call for all that love to roam, When the med’ larks trill their love songs o’er the sage plains, Then my heart turns to my rugged mountain home. {87}   Refrain ’Tis the West, the craggy West, that calls, that calls me; ’Tis the sage and sego-lily land I love, With its amber skies, its crystal streams, its mountains, Where among the canyon wilds we rove, we rove. Not your grassy, gentle Eastern hills can lure me, Nor your sunny, Southern skies tempt ’way my heart, Nor the waving green of sky-to-sky prairies, Make me long from rugged Western scenes to part. (Refrain) Let me live fore’er among the mighty mountains, Let me feel their splendid strength within my soul, Let me wander ’neath their groves of whispering aspens, Let me dream at last where mountain streamlets roll. (Refrain)   The crowd applauded noisily till the quartet sang again the refrain, with the audience joining in heartily, if not always harmoniously: ’Tis the West, the craggy West, that calls, that calls me; ’Tis the sage and sego-lily land I love, With its amber skies, its crystal streams, its mountains, Where among the canyon wilds we rove, we rove.   “We’ll now have a few words from one of our Pioneers, Brother Stephens,” announced the manager.   A gray-haired veteran of about sixty rose and made his way to the platform.   “I’m glad to be here, young folks,” he began; “but I don’t like this preachin’ business one{88} bit—never could git used to it. I’ve often said I’d ruther drive four yoke o’ steers from Winter Quarters to the valleys than make a speech. But maybe I kin tell you a few things ’bout pioneerin’ that’ll interest you.   “I’ve pioneered it all my days. That’s why I’m here. Come into this valley to git away from the crowds. From the look o’ things here to-night, I’ll soon hev to be movin’ again. The way these valleys settle up is a caution.   “But you want to hear somethin’ else. Well, I come in ’47, not with the first band, but soon after. We had one hundred and thirty-four wagons in our company, all pulled by oxen, three or four yoke to the wagon. Every night we would make a corral of ’em—the wagons, I mean—by swingin’ ’em in a circle with the tongues pintin’ out—you see, leavin’ two openin’s so’s we could drive the cattle in to yoke ’em. Fer we herded ’em out on the hills at night when there wa’n’t any Injuns about, or when there wa’n’t danger of buffaloes stampedin’ the stock.   “Talkin’ o’ buffaloes, they was so thick they fairly swarmed. Down on the Platte one day we had to stop our train fer three hours to let ’em pass. They had the right o’ way whenever they wanted it, I tell you. Nothin’ could stop{89} ’em when they got goin’ on that steady lope of theirs. Kill ’em? Yes, all we wanted. Buffalo meat is mighty fine eatin’; I kin taste it yet. But then I guess our appetites wa’n’t so pertickler then as they are nowadays.   “I guess that’s enough talk fer to-night. You want to dance. I kin see you do. That’s all right, too; I believe in lettin’ folks have a good time as long as they have it right. Jest pitch in now and enjoy yourselves; but don’t forget the Lord, even when you’re havin’ fun.”   An outburst of hand clapping and some stamping of feet followed the speech. Even the rowdy cowboys got sport out of it; for they kept still to the end, then they set up a hearty laugh, as Dick Davis said smartly:   “Gee! I’m glad that old ox-puncher’s quit. I’m getting nervous to dance again.”   “Take your partners for a polka,” called the floor manager.   The boys broke from their corners to make a rush across the floor for the girls.   “Hold on there!” shouted the manager. The crowd, more from surprise than respect, stopped short.   “Now, boys,” he went on firmly but calmly, “no rowdyism! Have a good time, but have it decently.{90}”   “Huh!” sneered Dick, “he’s gettin’ fresh. Let’s show him what a rough house means.” His hand dropped to his hip to execute the thought he had suggested; but just then he caught the eyes of Alta Morgan. The look she gave stopped him from carrying out his purpose, but it did not check his smartness. Instead of sending a shot through the ceiling, he stepped up to her and said, “Come on, let’s dance.”   Alta hesitated a second before taking his arm; then, ignoring the offense, she accepted, and the next moment they were dancing gracefully to Uncle Toby’s lively tune.   When the dance was announced, Jim drew Fred out of the corner where he had half hid himself during the speech, and took him across the room to a group of girls.   “Oh, don’t, Jim,” he half protested, “I’d rather not.”   “Come now, no backing down,” returned Jim; “Miss Willis, meet Mr. Benton.”   A rosy-cheeked girl smilingly acknowledged the introduction, and Fred made bold to invite her to dance. They fell into the line of couples promenading around the room, and then the tune struck up. Fred found trouble at first to catch the steps, but very soon he caught them, and with them came the spirit of the fun. The{91} dance put him more at ease. Bowing his partner to her seat with thanks at the close, Fred turned to find Jim, and met Alta Morgan, her pretty face aglow to blend with the spray of wild roses on her dainty dress.   Both stopped in surprise.   “Why, it’s Fred; I’m so glad to see you!”   “I’m happy to find you here, Miss Morgan,” he responded, as they shook hands; “I felt rather strange.”   “Oh, we’ll soon make you at home.” She turned to her partner, whom she had momentarily forgotten. “You know Mr. Davis, of course.”   “Why, hello, Dick,” said Fred, warmly; “I didn’t see you.”   “You got here, did you?” replied Dick, rather coolly; “we thought you’d took to the woods as usual.”   “What!” said Alta, “why Fred’s not like that one bit. He’s the jolliest fellow I know. Let’s make him acquainted with everybody.” And Alta began to pass the introduction to those immediately about them. Dick, nettled at being thus suddenly dropped from first place in her attentions, made early opportunity to slip out of the group, and stalk to the crowd of cowboys around the door, while Alta went on{92} merrily to tell her friends how Fred had helped her land a trout and win a bet with her uncle.   The manager checked the fish story by announcing a waltz. A moment later Dick looked up to see Alta on Fred’s arm, walking around the room. The sight stung his pride. To have Fred thus slip in between them, as the boys in their bantering had said he would, and to hear her speak to him with such a friendly air, was too much to stand calmly.   “How did they get so well acquainted?” was the thought that puzzled him.   He had not heard the fish talk or he might have guessed. He anticipated the fun that the other boys would have at his expense; for he had caught Jim taking in the situation gleefully. Yet despite the suddenness of the upset, Dick gathered himself quickly; and to show that he “didn’t care a rap,” marched smartly across the room to Sally Johnson and asked her to dance with him. Sally was only too glad of the chance. Then the music began. It was “The Roses Waltz,” Uncle Toby’s favorite tune, and he played it well.   Dick’s efforts to create a sensation fell short of their mark. Alta and Fred had forgotten all else in the delight of the dance. They were gliding about the room with trippingly grace{93}ful step to the pretty melody and enjoying each other.   “Why, you dance so easily!” said Alta, as the music ended.   “When I have a graceful partner,” responded Fred. “That was too short. May I have another?” He felt his face flushing at his boldness.   “Yes, of course,” returned Alta; “if I can give you pleasure, I’d like to, for it’s my turn to pay up, you know.”   “I’m afraid you’ll leave me in debt,” said Fred.   “Oh, you can soon pay it,” said Alta, laughingly. “Just help me to land old Solomon next time.”   “Good! You can do it too.” Fred glowed with the anticipation of the fun. “Come any time and let me help you.” Then he added modestly, “But I mustn’t be selfish of your time to-night. Thank you ever so much for the dance.”   “It was my pleasure, too,” said Alta with a winsome smile. She turned to talk with the girls about her. As she did so, she caught a flash from Dick’s eyes. He turned his head as their glances met; but she had read the meaning of the angry look, and it suddenly came to her that she had offended her partner.   Alta was ready to make amends, for she liked Dick and had no thought of hurting his feelings;{94} but he was in no mood to make up. He acted independently, flirted with the other girls all the evening. Alta was independent herself and she almost decided not to allow him to accompany her home, but she would not permit herself to pay such respect to his smartness, so she simply gave no further heed to his actions. This hurt him worst of all; and he had hard work to conceal his feelings as they rode away toward the ranch in the moonlight after the ball.   When the dance broke up, with its babble and chatter of hearty voices, rattling of rigs, and galloping hoof-beats, Fred found Chief nervous to be off. He mounted the high-spirited horse, and catching up with Pat and Jim, burst with them into a madcap chase across the flat toward home. A mile or so of this exciting sport and they slowed down to a canter, jollying one another over the night’s doings.   “Bloomin’ surprise party ye are, Tiddy,” said Pat, “a regular step dancer.”   “Yes,” put in Jim, “and as full of spice about swingin’ the girls as any of us.”   “Oh, stop your nonsense,” protested Fred.   “Faith,” Pat broke in, “and didn’t he dive into the bunch and cut Dick’s ranch fairy out, though?{95}”   “Roped and tied her before Dick caught his breath. Oh, he’s a smooth cow-kid, I tell—”   The sentence was cut short by a wild whoop from a cowboy who dashed up just then, reined his puffing pony and called out,   “Hello, stags! travelin’ or just goin’ somewhere?”   “Stag yourself, you bloomin’ spalpeen; and who are you to be salutin’ yer betters so oncivilly?”   “Dick—I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed Jim; “what’s your hurry, sport? Did she shake you.”   “Not on your life,” retorted Dick; “I saw her home all right.”   “Sounds fishy,” said Jim; “you hain’t had time.”   “Time!” snapped Dick; “you pokes need spurs, that’s all, especially this slick cow-kid in his borrowed outfit; here, take one of mine.”   With the words Dick threw up his spurred heel and gave Chief a savage dig in the flank. The proud horse reared at the insult. Fred, caught unawares, was all but flung to the ground. He clutched the saddle horn in time to save himself from a serious fall, while the horse, with free head flung low, bucked and pitched madly along the road. The other riders followed close,{96} Dick laughing at his mischief, Jim shouting encouragement: “Stay with him, boy, stay with him!”   Luckily Chief did not whirl, but bucked straight ahead until his rider gradually drew up his head and quieted him.   The danger past, a violent temper seized Fred. He swung the horse about to face Dick, and with—   “Take that, you sneak!” he fetched his tormentor a stinging crack in the face with his quirt.   Dick jerked out his revolver and fired. Fortunately again for Fred, Chief had leaped as the quirt struck, and began to plunge again along the road. Dick was whirling to shoot again, when another pistol flashed in the moonlight and Jim shouted,   “Stop! you shoot again and I’ll bore you.” His tone meant business and Dick checked himself.   “What does this damned work mean, anyway?” demanded Jim as Fred came back, feverish with excitement.   “Mean,” shouted Fred, “it means that this coward ripped my horse’s flank with his spur.”   “Did you do that, Dick?” again demanded the peacemaker.{97}   “Yes, I did, and I’ll do it again,” was the sullen reply.   “Then you got about half of what you deserved. It was a low down trick. Now, don’t you ever shoot again at an unarmed man, or I’ll take a hand mighty quick.”   “I’ll teach the little devil a lesson that’ll last him.”   “Come on, you coward,” challenged Fred angrily, ready to leap from his horse.   “Here, you young bulls,” commanded Jim; “shut up and square up. You’re even.”   “Yis,” put in Pat; “play the gintlemin, ye’ll slape better.”   “Now forget it!” said Jim more cheerily; “and don’t do any bellerin’ to-morrow, you understand.”   “You mean that I shan’t tell Dan how his horse has been treated?” said Fred. “Well, I guess I will.”   “Oh, let it pass,” said Jim.   “Oh, let the cow-baby beller,” sneered Dick.   “That settles it,” said Fred; “we’ll see who’s the cow-baby.”   “Bully fer you, me boy,” said Pat. “It’s a thoroughbred ye are, fer sure.”   “The kid’s all right,” said Jim encouragingly; “he stuck to that buckin’ bronk like a tick.{98} He’ll stick to anything. Come,” he added, spurring up, “let’s hit the trail; it’s long after bunk time.”   “Yis, and when ye tuck yourselves in the blankets, make sure ye say yer prayers twice,” called Pat, as they struck a livelier pace. “Thank the Lord we’re all gettin’ home to-night without punctures in our hides.”   A few moments later they had all tumbled into their beds in the old shack. But it was some time before either of the boys had worried through their troubled thoughts and fallen asleep. Dick kept nursing his bitterness against his companion into a real hate, and he seized every opportunity thereafter to express his mean feelings by ridiculing and injuring Fred in every way he could.