Book: The Freebooters of the Wilderness

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"'Tis beautiful, Wayland, y'r lone Desert world; but man alive, it's
sad! Y' call some the Painted Desert, don't ye? 'Tis like a painted
woman, Wayland, vera beautiful, vera fair to look on an' allurin', but
a' out o' perspective; an' Wayland, the painted woman is always a bit
lonely in the bottom o' her soul spite o' harsh laugh. So is the
Desert wi' its harsh silence. Those as like to be shrivelled up wi'
thirst, may have it! A'm a plain man!"

Then one morning, the opal swimming above the smoke haze of the North
shone,--was it the shape of a cross?

"Wayland, man, look!"

The old frontiersman had taken off his hat.

"Man alive, open y'r throat an' let out a yell."

"I'm too busy drinking in the air," answered Wayland.

And they both laughed. The mule and the broncho stood pointing their
ears forward. Wayland's mare, which he had bought at one of the
irrigation farms, lifted up her neck and whinnied. It was at that
irrigation farm operated by a retired newspaper man from Chicago--they
had got a reading of the first newspaper seen since leaving the Valley
and learned that the bodies of the two remaining fugitive outlaws had
been found by the railway navvies. Wayland thoughtfully removed his
Forest Service medallion. Men do not question each other over much in
the West. They had passed on unquestioning and unquestioned, Wayland a
disguised figure in his new ready-to-wear kakhi, not a sign of the
Forest Service about them, but the green felt hat still worn by the old
preacher, and the hatchets fastened to the saddles.

"How many Holy Cross Mountains have y' in the West, Wayland?"

"Three that I know of."

"That's ours, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's ours: the old priests and explorers scattered the name round
pretty thick in the old days."

"How far do you make it?"

"About a hundred miles, perhaps more!"

"Been a pilot to the priests and explorers for centuries?"

"I guess so, sir."

"Wayland, may it be so t' th' Nation, now! Y've got a wilderness an' a
Red Sea an' a Dead Sea an' a devilish dirty lot o' travellin' to do on
th' way t' y'r promised land; an' A'm thinkin', man, y've wasted a lot
o' time on the trail worshippin' th' calf; an' God knows who is y'r
Moses."


They camped that night among the evergreens with red fir branches for
beds, the first beds they had known for seven weeks, with the needled
end pointing in and the branch end out, "unless y' want t' sleep on
stumps," the old preacher had admonished the bed maker. And during the
night, the wind sprang up shaking all the pixie tambourines in the
pines and the hemlocks, and setting the poplars and cottonwoods
clapping their hands. A spurt of moisture hit the old man's face.

"Man alive, but is that rain?" he asked. Wayland laughed. "Only a
drop from a broken pine needle; but rain would taste good, wouldn't it?"

"D' y' smell it? Smell hard! It's like cloves."

Wayland laughed. He had had all these sensations of coming back from
South to North before.

The next night, they camped beside a chorus of waterfalls, joyous,
gurgling, laughing silver water, not the sullen silent blood red
streams of the Desert that flow without a sound but the plunk of the
soft bank corroding and falling in. They could not talk. They lay in
quiet, listening to the tinkle and trill and treble of the silver flow
over the stones; to the little waves lipping and lisping and lapping
through the grasses; and when the moon came up, every rill showed a
silver light. Wayland was thinking,--need I tell what he was thinking?
Was he thinking at all; or was he drinking, drinking, drinking life
from a fountain of memory immanent as present consciousness? He tossed
restlessly. He sat up with his face in his hands. When he turned, the
old man had risen and was stripping.

"A'm goin' t' find a pool an' go in, Wayland. Dry farmin' may be good
for crops; but this dry bath business o' y'r Desert,--'tis not for a
North man. Better come along! If A can find it to my neck, y'll need
a cant hook to get me out 'fore daylight!"


They had come back from their plunge and were spreading the slickers
above the fir branches for bed, when Matthews began to talk in a low
dreamy voice, more as a man thinking out loud than one uttering a
confessional. It was the first word of religion the Ranger had heard
him utter. Wayland had really come to wonder when the old preacher
prayed. When he came to know him better, he realized that a good man
may pray standing on his feet, or striding to duty, readily as on prone
knees.

"'Tis like the water o' life, Wayland! Men laugh at that phrase
to-day! Oh, A know vera well, we've no time for an old or a new
dispensation nowdays. We're too busy wi' the golden calf, an' the
painted woman, an' th' market place, an' th' den o' thieves; an' when
th' vision faileth, the people perish! 'Ye shall have a just balance
an' a just ephah'; 'an' take away y'r offerings an' y'r burnt offerings
an y'r gifts, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Ram _that_ down the throat of
y'r church-buildin' thieves, an' y'r bribe-givin' pirates, who steal a
billion out o' th' Nation's pocket, then take out an insurance policy
against a Hell, they're no so sure doesn't exist, by givin' back a
million t' th' people they've plundered! Tell me y'r old
dispensation's past? A could preach a sermon from th' oldest book in
the Bible w'ud burn up Fifth Avenue an' have y'r churches sendin' in a
call for the p'lice t' cart me away t' a lunatic asylum! Ah, yes, A
know they'll tell y' A'm not learned an' don't know Hebrew! No; but A
know th' language o' th' man on the street; an A know life; an' A know
God; an' A know how to putt righteousness in the end o' my doubled
fist; which is what th' world is wantin'. Y'r learned men, what are
they do in' for th' man on the street? 'Darkening counsel without
knowledge,' while the people go gropin' in the dark for light.

"Y' wonder how a man, who was a whiskey smuggler an' a gambler an' a
contractor, who could skin the Devil, comes to be a preacher, Wayland;
a missionary t' th' Cree?"

"Yes, I have wondered, sometimes," confessed Wayland. "I could not
just reconcile you with the poverty-stricken, down-in-the-mouth--"

"Don't say 'poverty-stricken', Wayland! A'm . . . rich. A've _never_
known want! God has taken care of me since A put it squarely up to
Him! A've my wife! A've my children! A've my ranch; an' my ranch
pays for the school! A've never known want! Why, man, thirty dollars
a year is more than A need for m' clothes! A'm rich! What wud A be
doin' goin' among a lot o' kiddie boys t' study Hebrew when A know the
language o' the man on the street; an' A know God? 'Twas the bishop's
idea t' have me come t' College at forty years o' age an' potter t'
A-B-C an' white collar an' clerics buttoned up the back an' a' the
rest." The old frontiersman laughed. "Poh! What for wud A waste m'
years doin' that? A'd wasted forty servin' the Devil. A'd no more
years t' waste. A must be up, up, up an' doin', Wayland, the way y'r
up an' doin', for the Nation. A'd earned m' livin' when A served th'
Devil! A would earn m' livin' when A served God; an' as A spoke th'
Cree, A tackled them first; an' now we're buildin' our hospital.

"How did it happen, y' ask?" The old frontiersman sat down on a log.
"God knows! A don't! A can no more tell y', Wayland, what happened t'
me, than y' cud tell a man what comin' off th' Desert an' bathin' in a
cool mountain stream was like; no more than y' cud tell what happened
t' y', when y' first looked in her eyes an' read, love! God, man, it
_was_ love! That's what happened t' me! A all of a sudden got t' see
what life meant when ye bathed in love. God looked into m' eyes,
Wayland, that was it! An' all th' dirt o' me shrivelled up an' th' mud
in m' manhood, way yours did when y' looked in her eyes! A needed
washin', Wayland, that was it, an' then A saw Him on the Cross as y'
see _that_--yon Cross there in the sky. 'Sense o' sin!' Man alive,
A'd never heard them words till that night."

"What night?" asked Wayland, quietly.

"Oh, 'twas a hot night, Wayland, my boy; an' hot for more reasons than
one. Th' tin horns an' the plugs an' the toots had come up t' our
construction camp, an' of a Monday mornin' after Sunday's spree, y' cud
count fifty dead navvies, Chinks an' Japs an' dagoes, washed down th'
river after gamblers' fights an' chucked up in the sands o' Kickin'
Horse! Well, a lot o' big fellows o' th' railway company had come
thro' that day on the first train. There was Strathcona, who was plain
Donald Smith in them days, an' Van Horn, who was manager, an' Ross, who
was contractor! A'd been workin' m' crews on the high span bridge,
there,--y' don't know,--well no matter, 'tis the highest in the Rockies
an' dangerous from a curve! A didn't want that train load o' directors
to risk crossin': wasn't safe! M' crew hadn't one main girder placed;
but Ross was a headstrong dour man; an' Smith--Smith wud a' sent a
train thro' Hell in them days to prove that railway could be built.
Full lickety smash their train came onto that bridge o' mine off the
sharp curve: the dagoes went yellow as cheese wi' fear, th' Chinks
chattered in their jaws, an' the Japs: well the Japs hung on to the
girder an' the cranes. A saw th' bridge heave an' swerve, an' th'
girder went smashin' to th' bottom o' yon creek bed so far below y'
could scarcely see the water; Ross was ridin' wi' th' engineer. Ross
kept his head, ordered them to throw throttle open. All that saved
that train load o' directors was th' train got across before th' weight
smashed thro'; way a quick skater can cross thin ice. Man alive, but A
was mad, riskin' m' crew o' two hundred workmen for a train load o'
rash directors! Th' train stopped! A dashed up! Ross opened out, his
throttle was full open: so was mine; an' th' steam an' smoke escapin'
from yon big mogul,--well, Wayland, them was my unregenerate days! A
may as well confess, Wayland, A gave him back all he'd given with
sulphur thrown in extra; till Donald Smith poked his head out o' th'
private car callin', 'Go on, Ross! Go on, what are you delayin' for?'
Well, then, three of us contractors and th' company doctor was summoned
to th' coast next week. We were all so mad at the fool rashness, we
had our resignations in our pockets. They had our pay checks ready;
but when they saw all four of us had our resignations written, well,
everybody took a cool breath; an' A think mebbee th' wise little man o'
that private car sent across something to help us wash away bitter
memories! Anyway, 'twas a hot night, Wayland! Y' couldn't drink one
of the four under th' table; an' we had cashed our checks at the pay
car! A was playin' wi' th' doctor for partner! Mebbee, it was that
little night cap from the private car, mebbee, well, in an hour or two,
three month's wages for four men was in the middle o' that table; an'
mebbee th' loafers in that saloon didn't sit up! Mebbee, somebody from
that private car didn't saunter in t' look us four fools over! Wayland
man, we won it all, th' doctor an' me! Th' other two wanted to play on
their watches, they wud a' pawned th' clothes off their backs; but we
wouldn't let them! We gave 'em back enough to grub stake 'em back to
their job! Then some one says, th' vera words: A can hear them yet,
'Let's go across an' hear those damned evangelists: there's a white
faced whiskers, an' a little clean shaved jumpin' jack skippin' all
over the backs o' the church seats pretendin' he's Henry Ward Beecher
an' sayin' in a fog horn voice, 'I like that.' Let's go an' raise Hell.

"Wayland, man, we went across! 'Twas all true, there was the white
faced fat man; an' there was the little clean chopped chap jumpin' all
over the backs o' th' seats; an' there was a lot o' snivellin' Saints
in Israel, women that cry an' sissie men that get converted an'
converted at every meetin'! Man, Wayland, A'd like to dump th' job lot
o' such folks out in a cesspool! They do religion more harm than the
Devil! They're about as like what fightin' Christians ought to be as a
spit wad's like a bullet! Well, we went in with a whoop; but God
wasn't out for the sissies that night, Wayland: he was out with a gun
for red blood men! He got us, Wayland! That's all! 'Twasn't the poor
puny preachers, perhaps 'twas th' music: th' fat one cud sing, but when
we came out the doctor was cryin'; poor fellow he killed himself in D.
T.'s later; an' A was all plugged up wi' cold in m' head blowin' m'
nose! 'Boys,' says I, 'here's where I get off. Here's y'r money back.
A've put up a pretty good fight for the Devil so far an' A've earned m'
way! Now, A'm goin' t' fight for God an' earn m' way!' They didn't
want to take the money back. They didn't believe it. A finished my
job on the railroad, then A slummed it in th' cities, this was when the
bishop tried to turn me school boy at forty, an' to dig in y'r
graveyard o' theology; that was before m' brother was bishop and why, A
hiked for Indians, Wayland! A know the Cree tongue, an' A know the
need o' decency in th' tepees, an' A know the trick o' puttin'
Christianity into th' end o' m' fist on white blackguards! An' that's
all."

"Is that all?" repeated Wayland; and he gave the old frontiersman the
same kind of a look, Matthews had given him that day going up the face
of the Pass precipice.

"Yes, that's all there was to it; an' A could no more tell y' what
happened, Wayland, than y' could tell a man what happened when y'
jumped in that pool an' got washed clean! Better try it, Wayland!"

They sat late listening to the gurgle and trill and tinkle of the water
slipping over the stones. Neither man said anything more, nor mouthed,
nor kneeled, nor amened, nor did save as men among men do and say: but
somehow Wayland had never felt so sure of the God, who was Love and
whose Love washed men clean, being, as he told himself, 'on the job.'
It may not have been religion; and it may not have been theology; but I
think it was the workable conviction that many a fighting man
incorporates into his life. Perhaps, it was what Christians call
Belief, only we have so slimed that good word over with hypocrisy that
it's hard for fighting working men among men, women among women, people
on the job, to mine down to the exact business sense of those old
religious terms. 'Slimed with hypocrisy?' Yes, good friends, 'slimed
with hypocrisy.' Have you not known men and women, legions of them,
who shouted their fire-proof Belief, Belief, Belief, their
fire-insurance Belief that was to roof them from rain of fire and act
as an umbrella against the results of their own misdeeds; who
underscored their Bibles, and prayed long and loud, and proclaimed
themselves right, when every day, every act of every day, every
leastermost act of very hour, shouted blasphemous denial of what so
ever is lovely and pure and unselfish and Christlike; whose influence
damned and injured and blighted every life it touched? You must not
blame business men and women for wanting a workable faith, a faith that
will deliver the goods on the job.




CHAPTER XXI

THE HAPPY AND TRIUMPHANT HOME-COMING

They were up before sunrise following along a rock trail against the
face of a mountain through the morning mists, when they turned a sharp
crag and came suddenly on one of those flower slopes bevelled out of
the forests by snow or ice. The slant sunlight met their faces, and
the mists were lifting in a curtain, with a riffle of wind that ran
through the grasses like the ripple of waves to the touch of unseen
feet. The slope lay literally a field of gold, spikes and umbels of
gold--the gold of yellow midsummer light dyed in the asters and
sunflowers and great flowered gaillardias and golden rod, with an odor
of dried grasses or mint or cloves.

"By George," cried Wayland, "you'd not believe it! Only seven weeks;
look!"

Matthews looked but apparently did not see.

"Don't you see? It's the place where the snow slide slumped down!"

"But where in the name o' conscience is all yon snow; and where's th'
bodies, Wayland?"

"Washed down to the bottom of the Lake Behind the Peak by this time; or
you may find a great rock pile at the foot of the slope."

"A'm thinkin' they'll lie quiet till the crack o' doom, Wayland; but,
but do y' no' see a tent back in yon larches across th' slide, man,
where the thing knocked us both sprawlin'?"

"By George, yes, I do! Wonder if they're homesteading this next? It's
off the N. F."

They put their ponies to an easy lope across the slope and came on a
tepee tent with the flap laced tight and no sign of life, but a horse
lazily floundering up beside a large fallen log, an empty whiskey
bottle on the log, and a man's boot leg protruding from beneath the
tent skirt.

"A'm wonderin' if there's a leg in that boot, Wayland."

"It's the sheriff's horse," said Wayland.

"It is, is it? And this is off y'r Forest Range; an' y'r not
responsible for what A may be tempted to do?"

The old frontiersman literally avalanched off his broncho and made a
dash at the tent flap, frapping it loudly with the flat of his hand.

"Here you--anybody inside?"

No response came from the owner of the leg.

"Here you, waken up." Matthews caught hold of the leg and pulled and
pulled. There was a splutter of snorts, and, 'what in Hell's,' and the
fat girth of an apple-shaped body ripped the tent pegging free and came
out under the tepee skirt followed by another leg, and two oozy hands
flabbily clawing at the grass roots to stop the unusual exit. One hand
held a flat flask and the air became flavored with the second-hand
fumes of a whiskey cask. The sheriff rolled over after the manner of
apple-shaped bodies and sat up on the end of his spine rubbing his
eyes. Then, he recollected the dignity of his office and got groggily
to his feet, steadying himself by clutches at the tent flap. Then, he
emitted a hiccough. "'Scuse m'," he said thickly. "I'm not well, thas
ish not really well! Will one of y' pleash gimme a drink o' water? I
been chasin' those damn-cow-boy-outlawsh seven weeks sclean 'cross
Shate Sline, I'm dead beat out. Thas you, ain't it Wayland? Kindsh o'
you both come after me! Saw y' pash tha' day y' called t' door! Wife
tol' me to hide--not risk m' life, women 're all thas way; skeary;
skeary. Well, I bin out ever shince y' pashed! I nearly got 'em, too!
I caught 'em right in here day after shnow slide had 'em cornered!
Gosh, bullets was pretty thick fur about half-an-hour; bu' I cud'nt
chross Shtate Line." Something in the old frontiersman's widening eyes
and glowering brows stopped the flow of valor; and Sheriff Flood
dragged his exhausted virtue across to the log with some difficulty as
to knees and elbows, got himself turned round and seated.

"Y' been out huntin' them seven weeks?"

"Yes, seven weeks!" His articulation had cleared a little. "Please
gimme m' gun, Wayland!"

"Y' saw them? Y're sure y' saw them?"

"Saw them?" Sheriff Flood laughed in a thin little squeaking laugh.
"Gosh A'mighty, I--I fought--them single handed for a whole half day; I
think I got one! Least ways, there's a powerful smell som'pin dead
comin' up below the Pass Trail. It's too steep to go down to see. I
wish I knew."

"Ye wish ye knew? Ye do--do you? 'Tis a wish bone instead of a back
bone the likes of you have; and it was too steep to see?" Matthews
megaphoned a laugh that echoed loud and long and scornful from the
rocks. "I saw a man who was no sheriff climb both up an' down that
place too steep for the likes o' you to see; and he climbed to do more
than see! 'Twas half an hour y' fought them th' first version? Now
'tis raised to half a day. A'm thinkin' y' be applyin' to th' pension
bureau for a hero's triflin' remembrance! Hoh! An' y' saw us pass did
y'? An' y'r frowsy dyed-haired slattern wife told us y' were away?
An' 't will be a week y' fought 'em when y' tell it again; an' y' been
huntin' them seven weeks lyin' sodden drunk in y'r tent wi' a whiskey
keg from th' cellar o' y'r white-vested friend? Hoh?"

He caught the flabby body by the collar, spinning the dignity of the
law round face down prone upon the log. "A'll not take my fist t' y'
as A wud t' a Man! Ye dastard, drunken, poltroon, coward, whiskey
sodden lout an' scum o' filth, an'," each word was emphasized by the
thud of the empty whiskey bottle wielded as a flail.

"Look out, sir," warned Wayland, rolling from his horse in laughter,
"you'll hurt something, with that bottle."

"Hurt something? N' danger on this wad of fat an' laziness an' lies."
(Thud . . . thump . . . and a double tattoo.) He threw the instrument
of castigation aside and spinning the hulk of flesh and sprawling legs
erect, began applying the sole of his boot. "A'll no take m' fist t'
y' as A wud t' a Man! A'll treat y' as A wud a dirty broth of a brat
of a boy with the flat o' my hand an' sole leather; y' scum, y' runt,
y' hoggish swinish whiskey soak o' bacon an' fat! 'Tis th' likes o'
you are the curse o' this country, y' horse-thief sheriff, y'
bribe-takin' blackguard guardian o' justice an' right! y' coward not
doin' th' crime y' self, but shieldin' them that do."

The sheriff had uttered a splutter of filthy expletives at the first
blow, then a yell; now he was bellowing aloud, chattering with terror,
screaming to be, "let go, let go! I never done you no harm. I'll have
y'r life for this."

"Y' will, will y'? Did y' ask for a drink? Wayland, wait for m' here!"

The Ranger saw the white-haired frontiersman seize one sprawling leg
and the shirt front of the struggling limp thing in his hands. He
heard him plunging down through the tangle of windfall and brush.
There was a bellowing howl and a splash; and Wayland being altogether
human flesh and blood doubled up on the ground with laughter.

"That'll cool him," remarked Matthews coming back very red of face and
sober, "an' it's not deep enough to drown."

He tore open the tent flap and rolled out a small keg. There was a
sound of dregs still rinsing round inside. They could hear the bellows
from the brook. The majesty of the law had evidently crawled out on
the far side.

"He's the kind o' brave man will slap children, an' call a boy a calf,
an' bully timid women, an' knock down little Chinks and dagoes! Oh, A
know his kind o' thunder-barrel bravery, that makes the more noise the
emptier and bigger it is--they're thick as louse ticks under the slimy
side of a dirty board in this world, Wayland; an' they're thick in the
girth an' thicker in the skull." Matthews had taken one of the Forest
axes from the saddle. He left the whiskey keg in kindling wood.

"He's camped dead beat on the State line, all right, Wayland," said the
irate old frontiersman as they mounted their ponies. "He'll have at
least some scars to prove his story, but A'm no thinkin' he'll boast
round showin' them marks o' glory! 'Tis some satisfaction for my
thirst back in the Desert."

"I thought it was about here, on our way out, that a law-loving Briton,
I know, gave me a sermon about exceeding law, taking the law in our own
hands?"

"Hoh!" said the old man.


And the Sheriff's tent was not the only one seen on the way back to the
Ridge. Where the Pass widened to the Valley above the Sheriff's
homestead, they came on a huge miner's tent boarded half way up as for
winter residence, with eight tow-headed half-clad urchins thumb in
mouth staring out from the open mosquito wire door. There was a smell
of onions and frying pork.

"What! a homestead, here, Wayland? D' y'r homesteaders farm on th'
perpendicular, or the level; an' what will they grow on these rocks?"

The Ranger had reined in his pony and was running his glance up the
precipice face for the posts marking the bounds.

"What do they grow? Water-power, I guess! I'm looking for the lines.
The fellow has his posts in for a wire fence; he couldn't get a hundred
and sixty acres on the level; and the posts run up the face, by George
he's blanketed a cool square mile, mostly on the up and down."

"Your territory, Wayland?"

The Ranger had turned looking back up the Pass.

"The trail marks the lower bounds of the N. F., but this fellow's line
runs clear up above the trail. If you bunch this fellow's claim with
the Sheriff's, they've got forty miles of the Pass corked up: no way to
bring the timber above down but by the River; and they've got the
River; and if possession is nine points in the law, they've got our
Forest road besides. We'll have to give that fellow warning and if he
doesn't move, break his fence down."

"Gutt dae." A big burly Swede came forward from the miner's tent.

"Are you one of the new settlers?" asked Wayland.

"Yaw! A gott pig--varm! Tra--vor--years mak' pig money liffin' y'ere!
Mae voman, Ae send her vork citie; Ae build mae house y're!"

"All these children yours?"

"Yaw!" The man smiled bigly, incredulous that any one could doubt.

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