# The Saturday Evening Post/The Line of Least Resistance/Chapter 7

The Saturday Evening Post, , 27 Aug 1910; pp. 16-17; (parts) 18, 50.

### VII

BUT a week before the desert had been seared and bare, brown and dull gray. Now green life crept up from the roots of the gray grama. The first July rains were over and all the clean-washed world lay glistening in the sun, fresh and sweet and pure. Blue-black, wave-edged, clear against the fathomless turquoise sky, far, radiant ranges rimmed out the mesas east and west; the nearer ranges, saw-toothed and broken, gleamed white from bare wet rocks, sparkled where quartz and crystal and mica shone. From the terraced ridge where they rode Don pointed out to Lena Mallory a dim silhouette far to the southwest, on the remotest verge of the broad expanse—a faint, low outline, the mountain that marks the meeting corners of four states.
The mystery and charm of tremendous distances thralled her, the splendor of nearer lights. Everywhere they glittered and sparkled, these warm reflected lights, spangles on the desert's new robe of delicate gray-green; white light thrown back in varying tints from cliffs of limestone, lava, granite, basalt, syenite, porphyry, obsidian; from red sandhills, from leprous bare blotches on the wide plains, from weather-beaten yellowish benches, from pebbles of ruddy-glinting burnished agate on the low slopes, from the white town itself, from the near new quarry, from "gyp" cuts, chalk-white and glaring, where the railroad plunged recklessly from level to lower level, from gleaming tins of abandoned construction camps, from glittering steel of rails, from white, wind-swept roads. Scattered along the central valley of the Jornada, a flashing quick silver chain of new-born shallow lakes lay along the shining flats of sacaton, lake after dazzling lake, till the broad valley bent behind low, lonely hills and was lost beyond their purple cones and pyramids.
But were these lights all indeed of land or sea? If, as is said upon authority, a jest's prosperity lies in the listening ear, it is like that some or much of this bewildering beauty lay in the beholder's eyes. The air was heavy with fragrance of flower and shrub and trampled herb. Lena Mallory flung her arm wide in joyous exaltation; her eye kindled with delight. In such hour and place and mood was reared the stone where "lies buried the soul of the licentiate Lucius." The line gives an added charm to the green pleasant Spanish hill; ages ago, the brain that shaped it, the hand that graved it, are alike crumbled to dust. Old pagan earth-lover, how are your deeds and daring and hopes, your loves and hates and wars and works and sins, lost now in the trackless dark! Yet this one idle fancy outlives them and thee and the forgotten king who was then great—lives and will live while warm flesh glows with the pride of life, while water flows to the sea, and grass grows green to the rain, and young blood thrills to its mate.
The ride had been long; they were on the homeward way, following the long mesquit-grass benches below Fra Christobal. Don had beguiled the hour with tales of Apache warriors: Victoria, Juh and Nana. Then, to her questioning, he had explained at some length the theory and practice of "working" cattle on the free range. Under theory his discourse treated of the drive, the round-up, the night-guard, the wranglers, "floating," "moonshining" and range-riding. He purposely omitted mention of life "on the trail." For a herd was just before them; Lena was to have a notable chance to observe that phase at first hand. Under practice he made clear the cause and effect of mavericking, "sleepering," "changelings" and yet subtler assimilative methods in vogue—called of the wise by the prudent, non-commital term, conveyance—quoting, as summary of the ethics involved, that excellent and pithy apothegm of the short-grass countries: "Never steal cattle; but if you must—then keep what you steal!"
"But it's a great business, all the same. Railroads and fortunes are built on the difference between steer and steak. Let's turn down this tip. I saw a passing herd from up in the foothills. I'll show you a glimpse of the old cattle-trail days before the railroads, when steers went to market afoot."
The old Santa Fe trail, here paralleling the railway, lay below them, skirting the base of the bench. The herd was strung out and scattered, barely grazing toward Dundee; the sleepy herders lounged sidewise in their saddles. "They go as slowly as they can, just so they reach a watering place," said Don. "Tomorrow night they'll stay at McRae and next day they'll cross the river."
"And they stand watch every night?"
"Guard. Yes—every night. They ride around 'em and sing to 'em. That's where Hiram learned those thirteen thousand little jingles he sings, and why he has one pat for every occasion. Now, if you imagine the herds all big, and all steers, and twenty—thirty—rip-roaring, white-eyed, long-legged unlicked cowboys, instead of Paw and the boys, brother George and Mandy's man and Uncle Bill, like this family outfit, you'll imagine what the trail was like.
In front of the cattle, just below the watchers, crept two covered wagons driven by sunbonneted women. Water-barrels were ironed to the sides of one, and a chuckbox showed behind; chicken-coops were slung on the other.
This latter fact was amusing to Lena. "Look at that, will you? That's where they got the name of prairie schooners, is it?" was her comment. "Those chicken-coops, like boats hanging from a ship's davits."
"Speaking of affidavits," said Don gravely, "they let those chickens out when they camp, and whenever the horses are harnessed the chickens come in on a keen jump, flop over on their backs and stick their feet up so the kids can put 'em in the coops. Yes they do! They're used to it. That's Mandy driving the chicken-wagon."
A girl rode a diminutive pony beside the wagons; from under the white sides children's faces peered curiously at the new land. Behind fed a bunch of saddle-horses attended by a shock-headed, whistling boy; a bunch of silky white Angoras browsed through the bushes in charge of a vigilant collie. A similar outfit, several miles ahead, was dropping down the valley to Dundee Lake. Seeing this, Lena looked behind.
"Why! There's another herd following this one!"
The leaders were just coming in sight to northward, creeping over One Tree Hill.
"Yes, they'll be thick now for a while. You see they couldn't cross the Jornada and the White Sands Desert, beyond the San Andrés, till the rains filled the water-holes," Don explained. "Now there'll be a regular string of 'em, one after another. Texas got too crowded for 'em a while back, so they drifted up the Pecos and followed the branches west till they struck the desert. That stopped 'em. Too much trouble to cross with the herds. But more of 'em kept coming till they piled up three deep all the way from the Pecos to White Mountain. That's what brought on the Lincoln County War. They didn't observe what they were doing. They don't now. Overstocked and eaten out, and didn't know how to get away. Now they've found out how to do it and they're all drifting across to eat out the Gila. When they clean that up they'll have another war and go back to the Pecos."
"Why don't some of them settle here?" said Lena. They had started on; the horses were picking their way down the steep sides of the bench.
"They're not the settling kind. They just stop a while for grass. For another thing, the Rio Grande is already overstocked with cattle and Mexicans. And they don't like Mexicans."
"I don't mean the Rio Grande Valley, I mean the Jornada. And I think you're prejudiced against the Mexicans yourself."
"Me?" Don tapped his breast with an astonished forefinger. "Me? Me prejudiced? Why, I lived for two years right by a place where there was close to a hundred of 'em, and wished there were more of 'em every day. That was at the John Cross headquarters—just below the Palomas graveyard."
"Don—Mr. Kennedy!"
"Don."
"I should think you'd be ashamed!"
"I don't see why. I think it's a nice name. I used to have a dog named Don. Huh, Donnie! Huh, Don! Come, doggie! Good doggie!"
"I do not mean ashamed of your name!" The girl left a withering pause between each word. "I mean ashamed of your cynical speech."
For better evasion of this, the cynic spaced his words in the same deliberate, exasperating fashion.
"Lena—Miss Mallory—the Tejanos can't keep their stuff on the Jornada. The lakes dry up."
"They can dig wells."
"Not on horseback! Running water is what they are looking for. Running down hill, you understand. What they really would like to find is running water, and a little house already built, corrals and garden and henhouse and a little orchard and a woodpile. Then, while they were asleep, the cattle might grow and water flow. Dig wells, did you say? They cannot dig; to dig they are ashamed."
"You seem to be in the objective mood as a regular thing. With all your wing shots at flying follies, it surprises me that you do not sometimes have a crack at the South," said the girl with dainty malice. "You rather slight that quarter, it strikes me. First the Easterner doesn't suit you, then the native bears your scorns, and now you flaunt the man from the Lone Star State."
"I knew a man once—knew him very well—who got himself gloriously licked for making just such another statement as that. He had been off holidaying. When he got back he found a Texas friend at the ranch. 'Well,' says the Texas man, '’d you see any dances when you was romancin' around?' And the other says before he thought just how it'd sound: 'Oh, yes. I went to three—an American dance, a Mexican dance and a Texas dance!' So the Texas licked him."
"But you must admit that you're hard to please," insisted the girl. "If these Texans go to Arizona they certainly won't crowd you—I believe that is the phrase you cowmen use when any one settles within a day's ride of you? So you ought to be glad. You're going to stay here, are you not?"
"I told you I knew that man well. I am that man," said Don. "When a man is easily displeased with others it is a sure sign that he is not pleased with himself. Let's gallop on ahead before we cross over. They've got the cattle strung out nicely now and going just so. If we go too close to the leaders it's liable to turn 'em."
But when they were past the cattle and turned down on the new road beside the railroad track, the girl repeated her unanswered question. They were wise ancients who made gifts of goods to the sea in the hour of prosperity, that they might so placate the envious gods.
"I suppose you expect to stay here? Hiram tells me your well will make a fine ranch."
Kennedy reined up his horse and pointed eagerly. "Look there, Miss Mallory! Do you see that sugar-loaf peak in the San Andrés—in the Moongate? No, not that one. Here, let me sight you. Ride up a step or two—a little farther—there! Now look straight beyond this telegraph pole and over the top of that big soapweed. Do you see it? All covered with cedar—cone-shaped—sticking up right in the middle of Moongate Pass?"
"Do You See It—Sticking Up Right in the Middle of Moongate Pass"
"I see it, yes," said the girl. "Why?"
"That was there when I first came here!"
By these time-honored elusive tactics Dundee still seeks to change the venue for avoidance of inopportune questioning. But if it is not already clear that this young woman was possessed of a—of an intelligence inquiring, alert, persevering, direct of purpose, not to be swerved aside or parried by quibble, wile, equivocation, question-begging or any such pal try device, it is now expressly stated.
Logic-choppers are masculine; the feminine mind is concerned not with how it proceeds, but solely with where it triumphantly arrives. She turned to him; their eyes met in an electric shock; their words clashed like swords.
"You're going away."
"Yes."
"When?"
"Now."
"Why?"
There was no answer; his face was turned away. "Why?" she challenged.
"Why?" he repeated bitterly. For a moment she shrank before the leaping light of his eyes. In such flaming moment the lightning cleaves the midnight, leaving a blacker dark. He set himself with a visible effort. His hand tightened on the bridle, the swift pulses of his throat beat evenly again; his eyes were old and sad and stern, fixed on the long horizon. His face was set to a high look of renunciation, resolute with a measureless pride such as no taker of cities ever wore. "Because I am not fit to ride by your side. Because the curse of Reuben is upon me; unstable as water. Because I am unworthy of friendship or trust." After the first moment of weakness his voice was controlled, steady, dull and low.
She put out her startled hand to touch his, but he drew it away. In the same steady, lifeless voice he answered the unspoken question. "Yes—there is blood upon it. If that were all! That was in fair fight. I scarcely regret that; my shame is not for that. It is for the years of evil living, for all my wild and undisciplined youth, for all my reckless, wasted manhood, for all my wrecked and wasted life. It is but a pitiful weakness that I am now here."
Her face was pale, her forehead knitted in its old trick of concentrated intent to an odd, wistful frown; her voice trembled a little with its compassion and with its sorrow.
"You are young. Life is before you. If the past is so ill—it can be retrieved."
His lips twisted to a mirthless smile. "So the poets say. If living were like scribbling, now! If we could go over our lives, revise to a happier turn, erase the hateful error, change and shape and interline, prune out the blunders, cross out the shabby phrase, the futile line, supply the wiser word, the nobler thought, copy the clean, amended record in a fair round hand! Not so! Crude and tawdry, blotted and stained and soiled, the shameful record stands!"
"Is it so blotted then—so stained?"
"Blotted with tears—foul with sin."
"Then—write again! Overwrite it—make it a palimpsest! Make the new line brave and strong and high! Let who will trace out the fading, feebler text beneath and wonder, with each dim-deciphered phrase, each weak, ignoble word, to see how greatly a brave man learns from past mistakes!"
Her pale face was defiant, confident, exalted; in every word rang courage and pride and unfaltering faith. "Perhaps," he said, and under his breath—"It is like you!" He hardly dared look at her; all the tingling blood leaped and surged and thrilled at the call. "Perhaps. But for today——" The word drooped to a long silence. "If I have paused one hair's breadth this side of utter dishonor, my best-wisher could say no more than that." A thought came to him of Hiram, his friend, of clean and wholesome youth.
"Today—to stay here longer would be to cross that hair breadth. … Oh, it was madness, madness! I should have gone before."
"You should have gone before!" She said it simply and bravely and unashamed.
They said no more then. White Dundee lay before them, desolate and lone, under a brazen sky. Oh, poor licentiate Lucius, how shallow was thy trust!
The horses walked with drooping heads—slowly, slowly—shuffling up little dust about their feet. The town was very near.
"So this is—goodby?"
"It is best."
"It means, God be with you!" said the girl. "Then—goodby!"
"Goodby!" he said hoarsely, and again "Goodby," they whispered at her door. And so he left her with no other parting word, though he had that to say for which the angel Israfil had stilled the chorded lute-strings of his heart to listen reverently.
He rode slowly away, with no backward look, dwindled to a black speck against the sun, faded at last in a red, blinding glare.
That night she sat alone in her darkening room and crooned old twilight songs, with fitful accompaniment of slow minor chords, weird and faint and low—old songs of lovers dead, or to die:
O, ken ye nae my heart was sair
As I laid the mold on his yellow hair—
The chord changed; her rich voice rose on a fuller note:
Here the dream is ended; here the road to Day
Kiss me for my kindness and let me go my way!
The mandolin sobbed on alone. Then:
O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair
And Greta woods are green And I'd rather rove with Edmund there—
The chords crashed to bitter silence; in the dusk her arms fell forward on the table and her proud head crumpled over and hid in the bent arms.
Louie Kaylor, the big blond sheriff, rode in after sundown and made diligent, quiet inquiry of a select few as to the whereabouts of Don Kennedy. No one knew. Wherefore, about nine of the clock, he went to Kim Ki's store to make direct demand of Hiram Yoast, sedulously avoided up to this time, but watched by Kaylor's new deputy, a tall stranger lately named Smith.
Hiram was seated upon the counter entertaining the crowd and apparently in high feather. The sheriff waited politely until Hiram finished that chapter of his memoirs with which he was engrossed. Then he said:
"Can I speak with you a minute, Mr. Yoast?"
Hiram considered, biting an auburning mustache as an aid to reflection. "We-ll—yes, I guess so!" he said good-naturedly. The sheriff stiffened.
"I am looking for Don Kennedy. I have a warrant for his arrest. I want you to tell me where your new well is. It is thought that Kennedy is there."
"Well, well!" said Hiram, assiduously rolling a cigarette; "what's Don went and gone and done now?"
Kaylor had also a warrant to arrest Kennedy on a charge of murder. But, judging from what he had heard about the killing of Leonard and Jones, he thought this might be properly kept to himself. If the reputed circumstances of the killing were known to any one—as they probably would be—the charge would make sympathizers for Kennedy. Leonard and Jones had been bad actors, and the bruit ran that Kennedy had but barely saved his own life from wanton assault. So he said:
"He is charged with train robbery."
"Dear me! Did he—did he get much?" asked Hiram, with polite interest. There was that in the query, an undercurrent of insolence and scarcely-veiled hostility below the patronizing kindness, at which the sheriff writhed in spirit.
"Where is your new well?" he repeated.
"Now, now, Louie," Hiram expostulated; "you don't want me to go projecting out there this late at night. He can likely prove a lullaby by this time." Lest you think Hiram unfeeling, be it here hastily explained that one of the men questioned by the sheriff had not proved worthy of his confidence. Young Jimmy Collins, a Mercury chosen as being a boy and hence least liable to suspicion, had brought Hiram a discreet warning word that his friend was wanted and himself close-watched; and old Jimmy Collins, being for his wooden leg the most unlikely messenger in Dundee, had driven northward toward the hay camp—with a saddle covered up in his wagon bed. Once out of town he had saddled one mule and circled back to the southwest—and was now an hour on his way to pass the word to Don. So this sheriff-baiting of Hiram's, as causing delay, was advisable as well as mildly amusing.
Kaylor himself was not amused. "I think that will be about enough foolishness from you, Hiram. Now you answer my question. Where is this new well of yours?"
Hiram removed his hat and scratched his head. "I'm not sure that I remember exactly." Then he brightened. "But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you the description just as it reads in our location notice." Which he accordingly did, to the great edification of the interested assembly.
"I warn you against bucking the law, you stubborn, stiff-necked——" Kaylor hesitated, his outraged feelings as a private man struggling with official etiquette.
"Dolt, fool, ass, idiot, knave, imbecile, incendiary, assassin, procrastinator? That's what Don calls me while he's thinking up something to say."
The sheriff regarded him sourly. "That's a slick tongue you've got there. Look out it don't get you in trouble. I'm going to keep an eye on you this night."
Hiram raised his brows and twitched his nose thoughtfully. "But can you arrest me for just being Don's friend? You got the papers for that?"
"No; but I can get out some other kind of papers if it's necessary—don't you doubt that a minute!"
The eyebrows went still higher. "Goin' to turn state's evidence, Louie?"
The sheriff ignored the taunt, but a subdued titter ran around the circle. "I'll tell you what I'll do, right now. You may consider yourself summoned on my posse."
"I've just bought a piece of land," said Hiram mildly, "and five yoke of oxen and a wife, and I'd like to be excused." Dorothy had been a-missionarying, you see.
Kaylor stared. He was a good sheriff, but weak on parables. "You'll serve on my posse tonight, Mr. Yoast. That's the word with the bark on it."
Mr. Yoast slid off the counter. "Oh, well, have it your own way. Ride or walk?"
The sheriff permitted himself a thin smile. "You might lose your way in the hills. So we'll not go tonight. You just sleep with me and help me resist Don if he tries to break in and give up. Come over to the restaurant with me now. I've not had supper yet."
Hiram, with a parting wink, managed an offensive official strut of conscious brief authority as he fell in step between Kaylor and the silent, alleged Smith. As the door closed behind them he trolled a merry stave:
Oh, will you leave your home, And will you leave your baby, And will you leave your own true love, For to go with Black Jack Davy?
"Say, Sheriff, does your county feed its posse? I got no money on me.
"I'll feed you myself, you derned old fool," said Kaylor, rather pleased to find Hiram so tractable. He had got around a delicate situation with his legal fiction. So much Hiram sensed from his tones.
They lined up at the counter of the Nip and Tuck, hooking their heels in the rounds of the high stools.
"Well, gents, what'll it be?" inquired Nip, who was waiter at this hour.
The others gave their orders. But Hiram leaned his elbows on the counter and deliberated, surveying the displayed eatables on the shelves with discontent. "You may bring me the head of John the Baptist," he growled, "and charge it!" Some of the broadcasting had evidently fallen on good ground.