Chapter XIV AT THE OLD SHACK

 CRISP autumn time had come. With lavish yet artistic touch the season had painted all the craggy mountain land. The hills, splashed with scarlet, yellow, purple, and other gorgeous hues, seemed to have put on Joseph’s coat of many colors. The sunburnt meadows, patterned with golden willow patches, made a pretty carpet for the valley floor, while over all the pink-tinted mist of the Indian summer sun threw a veil of mystic beauty.   Poets are prone to sing of the autumn as the melancholy time of the year. Rather is it nature’s social season, the time when all wild things gather to celebrate with gorgeous pageantry, and to feast on the good things Mother Nature spreads before them.   Wild ducks and geese and cranes and swans filled the air or swam on pond and rivers. Partridges whirred through the groves; sage hens flocked upon the flats. Deer and elk gathered out of their retreats far up among the{148} snowy peaks to come down into the less frosty canyons. Herds of antelope fed and frolicked over the rolling hills. It was the time of peace and plenty that precedes the gloomy days when “all wild things lie down to sleep.”   The Indians, alive to their needs for the oncoming winter, made the most of the time to lay in an ample store of meat and skins. The hunters scoured the hills for game. Nixon, fearing the outcome of his attack on Alta, held his band of marauders in check for a time. Fred kept closer watch of his herd, grazing them nearer home until, when haying was over, they were turned into the fenced meadows and he was set at other work. All hands were needed now for the roundup.   Nixon knew that his thieving business was about over, so to finish his work with a flourish that would give him added glory in the eyes of the Indians, and at the same time glut his desire for revenge, he made his final scheme. This worked out, he would “quit the hole forever.” His evil thought proved prophetic.   All the ranches were astir with preparation for the roundup. Getting ready the outfit, broncho-breaking, roping contests were the order of the day. The old rangers welcomed the change. They did not take kindly to fol{149}lowing the “hay basket,” hauling timber, and doing the other “greaser” jobs.   “I’d a heap ruther be aboard a horse trailin’ steers,” said Jim. “If this fencin’ business keeps up, there won’t be any use for cow-punchers in a few years. I hate them horse-murderin’ wires anyway.”   “It sure ain’t what it was a few years back,” added Noisy, a new recruit at the ranch, whose sobriquet had been given because of his tendency to brag long and loudly. “Why, when I worked fer old Peg Leg Jones over on North Platte, we could ride a month and never see a fence. You knew old Peg Leg, didn’t you, Jim?”   “Yes, I remember the old cuss, well enough. He owes me two months’ pay yet.”   “Well, he was mean all right; but he could ride any bronk that ever bucked.”   “He couldn’t ride a winter-killed jackass,” said Jim.   “Couldn’t, eh? Well, you never seen him, that’s all. I watched a cayuse pitch over back’ards with him one day; an’ blame me, if Old Peg didn’t come back up with that cayuse when he got up, clingin’ to the saddle and swingin’ his old rag hat, and that brute a buckin’ to beat the band. Beat anything I ever{150} seen. Broke his old wooden leg, but it never hurt him.”   “Is that a true lie?” asked Jim dryly.   “It’s straight goods.”   The crowd laughed.   “Wall, that ridin’s nuthin’ to crow about,” Jim went on to better the braggart. “You ought to see Bill Hicks bust bronchos. I saw one pitch him thirty feet in the air and he lit right back in the saddle without a scratch. Didn’t he, Pat?”   “Sure an’ he did, and that ain’t all. When the baste began to buck again, Bill took off that saddle, while the horse was pitchin’ him, mind ye, and the bridle, too; and then he stuck to him till the bloomin’ baste was glad to quit. And then fer a grandstand finish, he made him climb the ladder up a haystack.”   The crowd roared at the extravagant nonsense. Even Noisy gave up, and joined in the fun.   “The best ridin’ I ever did see, fer honest,” said Jim, “was when Tim Carter, down on Henry’s Fork, brought Old Panther to time, that roan outlaw of the Diamond C bunch. He stuck to the leapin’ devil like a cocklebur fer a whole hour. You remember it, don’t you, Dan?{151}”   “That was good riding,” came Dan’s quiet response; “they were both ready to give up, but Tim won out at last.”   “He was a bully roper, too,” added Jim, “’specially when he was on Old Buck. That old yaller horse had more sense than most men. The way he’d hold a big steer was a caution. Wonder where Tim is now.”   “Loafing round a Denver hospital last I heard,” returned Dan; “steers got him at last.”   “How?”   “Didn’t you hear how he was trampled in a stampede down on Bitter Creek?”   “Nary a word; how did it happen?”   “Well, he came nearly ending his trail there. He would have done it if Old Buck hadn’t saved him.”   “Tell us about it,” urged Fred, as Dan paused. The crowd were all eager to hear Dan talk.   “There isn’t much to tell,” he went on quietly; “it was just a regular stampede. We were trailing a bunch of longhorns through to Montana and one night we had them rounded up on a sagebrush flat down in the Green River country. Tim and I were taking night shift. The sky was clear enough in early evening; but ’long ’bout ten o’clock it had got black with{152} thunder clouds. The steers began to act nervous, so we kept swinging slowly round them, humming a quiet tune to keep ’em down. Finally, as we were passing each other, Tim said:   “‘You’d better hike for camp and rustle the boys; I smell trouble. Git a move; for there’s no tellin’ when these devils’ll jump.’   “I struck out, roused the boys, and hit back for the herd, but just before I reached it, there was a blinding flash of lightning and a cracking clap of thunder. The herd jumped as if shot, and bolted away in the darkness. I heard Tim’s yell to check them, but it wasn’t any use. The herd plunged on. He was somewhere in front of them, and I was following the roar blindly, trying to join him.   “The thunder cracked and boomed above our heads and the rain pelted down. The best I could do was to cling to the flanks of the herd. I couldn’t get ahead of them. It would have been madness to try. We charged on yelling and firing our revolvers in an effort to swing the mad leaders toward the drag end of the herd. If we could have got them ‘milling,’ or going in a circle, we might have stopped them.   “I caught sight of Tim just once. A vivid flash of lightning gave me a glimpse of him,{153} struggling like a Trojan in his midnight battle with the brutes. He was right in front of that wave of clashing horns. I clapped spurs into my pony to reach and help him; but the herd swept on like a torrent. And it kept on going until daylight broke. When I could get my bearings, I found myself miles away from camp with only about half the bunch. Tim was nowhere to be seen. After a while two of the boys came up and we headed the herd back. They were tired enough to be pretty tame. About sun-up we found Tim, half dead, and almost buried under Old Buck, whose useful life had been crushed out under the ripping hoofs of the steers. We carried Tim to camp, made a litter out of poles and blankets, and took him between two horses to the nearest station, flagged a through train and sent him down to Denver. He got over it enough to live, but he’s a cripple and always will be.”   “That’s too damned bad!” said Jim, soberly; “but it’s the kind o’ pay that’s coming to a good many of us cowpunchers.”   “Oh, cheer up, Jamie, cheer up, me boy,” said Pat; “ye can’t die more’n once.”   “’Tain’t the dyin’ that rubs,” returned Jim; “it’s this livin’ on when ye’re dead. I’d rather hev my old candle snuffed out first shot.{154}”   “Sure, me boy, sure!” agreed Pat, “but phwat would it mane, d’ye think, if we all got pitched out of this old world without a word o’ warnin’? The angels wouldn’t be ready fer us at all, at all. We’d git a hill of a wilcome.”   “We’ll git that anyway,” Jim broke into the laugh that followed.   “Will, I don’t know as I moind that so bad,” Pat went on dryly, “since I heard Mike O’Larney tell about it.”   “How was that?” asked Jim.   “Will, Mike had a dream one night. He dreamed he wint to the Great Behoind, and while he was there he visited both places.   “‘And how did you like ’em?’ I asked of him when he was a-tellin’ me.   “‘Will, Pat,’ sez he, ‘to be honest wid ye, I like hiven fer scenery; but give me hill for auld acquaintance.’”   “That’s all right, Pat,” said Jim, when the boys quieted again, “but I’m thinkin’ that I don’t want to be livin’ in hell here, like Tim Carter.”   “Well,” said Pat, “maybe the other side ain’t such a hivenly place, after all. Fer my part, I don’t think I’d take kindly to wearin’ wings an’ playin’ Jews’ harps fer all eternity.”   “I guess you’re right, old boy; but who knows?—I tell you, Pat, let’s make a bargain.{155}”   “What’s that?”   “Well, if I die first, I’ll send my ghost back to tell you how things are over there; and if you die first you come back and tell me.”   “The divil you say. That’s a mighty spooky bargain, Jamie. I’ll agree to it though; but to spake me moind freely, me boy, I’ve no likin’ for ghosts.”   “Oh, bah! there ain’t any,” said Noisy.   “Ain’t, eh! well, you niver seen one, that’s all.”   “Naw—ner never will!”   “I’m not so sure about that. I think I spied one the other night when I was gittin’ some water.”   “Where?”   “Out by that grave, ’long the road where ole Bill Peter’s boy was buried, an’ afterwards dug up.   “Git out with your ghost stuff; there ain’t no such thing,” said Noisy. “Let’s have some music, Dick, and cheer up this scary bunch.”   “All right,” said Dick, as he lifted down from the log wall his battered guitar, inwardly pleased to center the attention of the crowd himself. He struck up a jigging chord and led out with a stanza from “Juanita.” The others chimed in, and the old shack was soon ringing with{156} their rough music. They tried scraps of this old melody and of that till they were about sung out; then some one called for an Irish song from Pat.   “Will, be jabers,” he said, “I’m no nightingale; but here goes; now jine in the chorus”; and he sang lustily to Dick’s jigging accompaniment: As I sat by my window one evenin’ The postmaster brought unto me A little gilt-edged invitation Sayin’ MaHuley come over to tea; Sure I knew that Miss Fogarty sent it, So I goes up fer old friendship’s sake, And the first thing they gave me to tackle Was a piece of Miss Fogarty’s cake.   “Now all togither,” said Pat, beating time; and they gave this lusty refrain: There were plums and prunes and cherries, There were citrons and cinnamon and raisins, too; There were nutmegs and cloves, and berries, And the crust it was nailed down with glue; There were carroway seeds in abundance Sure to build up a foine stomach-ache; It would kill a man twice, after eating a slice Of Miss Fogarty’s Christmas cake.   “Bully boy, Pat. You’re a born meadow lark!” came the compliments as he finished.   “Oh, thank ye, thank ye!” said Pat, making an operatic bow with flourishes. “Now let’s try, ‘We won’t go home till mornin’.{157}”   “No, give us ‘In the evenin’ by the moonlight’ and let’s tumble in,” said Jim; “I’m gettin’ sleepy.”   Dick struck another chord and they all joined in the old negro melody. Their voices grew tender as they sang the refrain: In the ebenin’ by the moonlight You could hear dem darkies singin’, In de ebenin’ by de moonlight You could hear der banjos ringin’; How the old folks would enjoy it, They would sit all night and listen As we sang in de ebening by de moonlight.   At this juncture, Cap Hanks, who had been out making arrangements with other ranchers for the roundup, rode up to the shack.   “Here, Noisy,” he called, “I want you to carry a message to Blake’s ranch for me. And Jim, you come out to the barn with me while I put up my horse; I want to talk over my plans with you.”   “Boys, I’ll tell ye,” said Pat, when they were out of hearing, “here’s our chance to try out Noisy’s belief in ghosts. I’ve a scheme in me head. Come on.”   Eager to join in Pat’s fun, Fred and Dick jumped up and left the shack with him. On the outside lay some tent poles and a strip of white canvas. At Pat’s suggestion, they{158} grabbed up these and a rope, and hurried through the brush for the grave of which Pat had spoken. It was close to the road. The parents of the cowboy that had been buried there had requested that the body be sent home, and the boys in exhuming it had only half refilled the grave.   Into this hole Pat stuck the tent pole, making it stand up firmly. The canvas was thrown into the grave loose, and the rope, tied to one corner of the canvas, was threaded through an iron ring at the top of the pole. This done, the boys, holding the rope, hid in the brush a rod or so away from the grave. They had hardly quieted their chuckling before hoof beats were heard and Noisy came galloping up the road.   Suddenly a ghost rose out of the grave.   Noisy reined his horse so hard that he almost threw him on his haunches, and stared for a second; the ghost slowly sank back as he sat there stupefied with his terror. He put spurs to his horse to dash by, but up came the ghost again. Noisy whirled his pony and sped back to the barn in a panic.   “What the devil’s up?” demanded Hanks.   “I seen a-a-ghost-out-thar”—Noisy’s voice trembled like the palsy.   “Oh, to hell with your ghosts! There ain’t no such thing!” said Jim, roaring with laughter.{159}   “Go on with your message,” ordered Hanks.   “I’ll be damned if I will,” said Noisy, frightened out of his wits.   “What!” said the foreman; “well, you go or you’ll lose your job.”   “I wouldn’t go past that grave to-night for forty jobs,” said Noisy, with desperate determination in his shaking voice.   “Get off that horse, then, you cowardly son of a shotgun,” said Jim, “and give me the message. I’ll carry it through, ghosts or no ghosts.”   The boys who had caused the mischief stopped to listen to all this talk as they were stealing back to the shack, holding their mouths for fear of laughing too loud and giving their fun away.   Hearing Jim’s decision to go, they dashed back to the grave again to try it out on him.   Hardly were they settled when up Jim came on a swift gallop toward the grave. And up came the ghost as before.   Jim checked his horse suddenly and calmly demanded, “Who be ye?”   No answer came from the ghost; it simply stood there quietly in the moonlight. The rope had caught in the ring and it could not sink back.{160}   “Speak!” ordered Jim, reaching for his revolver. No answer from the ghost.   “Ping!” went a shot. A yelling and scrambling through the brush followed. “Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!” cried Dick.   “I thought you could speak,” said Jim; “I never seen a ghost that couldn’t.” With that he spurred his pony up to the open grave and emptied his revolver into the canvas. Then he rode on, chuckling to himself.   It cost the mischief-makers a dollar apiece to pay for the shot-riddled canvas, but the fun was worth the money.   As for Noisy, Hanks forgave him, and offered to let him keep his job, but he found it even harder to face his tormentors than ghosts.