# Ainslee's Magazine/The Girl from Kilpatrick's

Extracted from Ainslee's magazine, January 1906, pp. 104–110. Title illustration may be omitted.
THE♥GIRL♥FROM KILPATRICK'S
By B. M. Bower
SPEAKING uh the Rocking-R outfit makes me think uh the deal that caused them to bid me a fond farewell—in other words, the time they canned me. It wasn't a square deal, the way I sized it up; I was looking for a laurel wreath to set on my brow—and maybe a steady job as Family Hero, with nothing to do but look pretty and draw wages—and all I got out of it was my time and a lot uh disparaging remarks from the old man. If yuh want a man to admire your noble courage a lot, see to it that yuh don't hit his pocket; just so sure as yuh cause him to lose a dollar by your heroism, he'll turn yuh down and call yuh hard names—all of which I learned at the Rocking-R.
The way the play come up, I was breaking colts at the home ranch, for fifty a month—and I earned every blamed sou, now I'm telling yuh! Betweenwhiles, I was a kind uh unofficial courier for the whole push; and that was worth another fifty a month—only, I didn't get it. The old man was the sort that'll start yuh out on an errand to-day, and feel hurt if yuh don't get back bright and early yesterday morning. He didn't give a damn how yuh went about it—it was the miracle he was after, every time. He'd say: “Here, Bill, saddle up and take this note to So-and-so, and bring me an answer before sundown,” or something like that. And it didn't make any difference whether So-and-so was ten mile off or a hundred. Little Willie'd have to drift—and I will say that most generally Little Willie made good.
My top horse, that summer, was sure all right—when yuh once got on; but that same getting on wasn't any Labor Day picnic, either. Nobody but me could do any business with him at all, and even me, his loved master, used to dance on one foot for upward of an hour, with my other toe in the stirrup, before there was anything doing. Then he'd eat up all the precious minutes he'd wasted, in the first five miles, and I'd forgive him till next time I had to get on. It sure paid to do the lame-chicken act with him—but, Lord! he was hard on the nerves; especially the old man's, when he was burning with desire to see me start. The boys used to call me and Ring the Human Telegraph; but Ring wasn't human—not quite. I named him Ring-Around-a-Rosy, but life was too short to use that cognomen common, so I called him just Ring, unless maybe on Sunday, when I had time to burn.
I guess I'm a lot like Ring; it takes a lot uh prelude to get me headed anywhere; but I can go some, once II start. So here's the how:
The old man started me off one day—it was in the middle uh the shipping season—with a message for Blank Davis, the round-up boss. I was to get to camp by dark, change horses, and back to the ranch by daylight; the old man was in a sweat, and the “telegraph” had to get busy quick. It was some hurry-up order about a shipment uh beef. The old man was grasping as a devil-fish, and it was “frenzied finance,” and then some, in shipping time.
So, those being my orders, and the old man being more pecky about it than usual, I saddled Ring and done the toe-dance, same as always. It was no good tying up a foot—that made him plumb ugly. The old man danced around and swore, and I danced around and done the same. Finally I got on, and the way we faded from view up the coulée must uh done the old man good to see. I had ninety miles to get over, but I could bank on Ring every time.
The way I was headed took me straight away from Willow Creek and over toward Sand Piper, but bearing more to the east, so as to strike the round-up somewhere along on Big Birch. You know what a dense population that country hasn't got. There ain't a ranch in twenty mile; nothing but the hills and coulées and benches, all wearing a large, loose garment uh pure lonesomeness.
So I was burning the earth, along about half-way across the flat between Square Butte and Hell Coulée—and that's sure as lonesome a land as ever I want to ride over—when I seen something white fluttering from what I took to be a sheep-herder's monument on the little pinnacle at the head of Hell Coulée; only there hadn't ever been a monument there before. I headed for the flag uh truce, though it was quite a bit out uh my way, and the old man hadn't give me none too much time to make the trip in, and it was getting along past the middle uh the afternoon then.
But out where nature hasn't ever been manhandled, it don't do to overlook any bets; in those places “All men are brothers” is a good rule to go by. I rode along, and pretty soon I seen it was some human waving me a come-on—and a little closer, I knew it for a woman.
Now, a woman is most generally a welcome sight to a man out on the range, where they ain't too thick to be a novelty; but that's once when I wasn't glad to have one cross my trail; woman means time wasted, always—and I hadn't none to throw away. I was plumb ignorant uh how she come there, or what was wrong, but I was willing to learn. She come running down to meet me—where it wasn't too steep; other places she was slipping and sliding down in the thick grass. You know how slippery dead grass can get.
When she got down where I was, I took a good look at her while I was lifting my hat. A fellow that's used to reading brands on sight, and all that, don't have to drop his jaw and gawp all day to size up anything. I couldn't place her, and I didn't know where was her home range, but I can say right here that she sure looked good to Little Willie! She was slim and light on her feet—I knowed her right there for a swell dancer, just the way she carried herself—and she had red hair—the dark, shiny kind that yuh like to watch the sun shine on, just to see it turn to gold. And her eyes put a crimp in me, right there.
They said things, those eyes did. They asked me to please be good, because she was in hard luck out there alone; and where did I come from, and what might my name be? And at the same time they was sassing me for being a strange man and on the earth at all, and for wanting to know things; and they double-dared me to think wrong, or to make a crooked move. I tell yuh right now, Little Willie's hands went up in the air, and he gentled right down till a lady could drive him—which she sure did.
She stopped twenty feet off, for all the world like a meadow-lark that would like to make friends and dassent. And I said: “Good afternoon,” just as if I'd met her in her dad's front door—wherever that might be.
That seemed to make her feel that we was on speaking terms, anyway, for she said: “Did you see anything of a loose saddle-horse?”
I said I hadn't, and had she lost one?
She told me she had—just as if it was a handkerchief, or as if she didn't realize that a saddle-horse is trumps in a place like that. I've always thought that God made that country the last thing, and was kind uh sick uh the job and slapped it together in a hurry, and never went back to smooth it down any.
So then she told me that she was Glen Kilpatrick, and was riding across to McHardie's place on Willow Creek. It's a good forty miles—some folks say it's only thirty-five, but they lie, and the truth ain't in 'em—and she wasn't lost, because she'd often made the trip alone. But back there in Hell Coulée she'd got off to get a drink, out uh the spring there, and her horse pulled out and left her afoot. She'd put a rock on the bridle-reins, she said, but she jumped up a jack-rabbit and scared him, so he broke loose.
I said he'd probably head for home, and they'd be out looking for her; but it's a blamed discouraging place to find any one in, and that's no dream. I didn't tell her that, but she didn't need any telling. She was wiser than me to the situation. She said the horse was a new one that her father had just bought of Frank Potter, so he'd take a straight shoot to Frank's place, which was down below the Rocking-R quite a piece. I hadn't run onto him—and you can see the prospect didn't cheer Glen Kilpatrick or me.
I set there and studied so hard my head ached, but I couldn't see but one thing to do. I couldn't take her up on Ring, nor she couldn't ride him alone—that was a cinch. She couldn't even get within ten feet of him but he'd back and snort, that impolite I was plumb ashamed of him. The walking wasn't all took up, as they say—there was miles of it in any direction you wanted, all up-hill and down coulée. I figured that the closest place was her home—I knew where it was, but I'd never been right to the place—and that was a good long fifteen miles. I looked at her feet and shook my head, without mentioning what I was thinking about; but she savvied, I guess, for her face got all pinky. There was no use taking after her horse—she said he'd been gone a couple uh hours. So I rolled me a cigarette and delivered my ultimatum.
I told her there was just the one thing for me to do, and that was ride to her dad's and get another horse and bring it to her. She didn't look none hilarious, but she said it seemed the only way—if it wouldn't be too much trouble! There's one fundamental principle in life that none uh these New Thoughters or science sharps are ever going to argue away, and that is, that nothing's too much trouble for a man when he's doing it for a woman—well, the woman. I'll bet Glen Kilpatrick was next to that great truth, too, the way her eyes laughed when she said it.
Then I looked at the place where I guessed the sun was, done some mental arithmetic with a page uh geography for the key, and did another thinking stunt. It would be plumb dark before I could get back, even if I put Ring through all there was in him; and how was I going to find her again? If yuh know that country, and how rough it is, with a dozen hills that look just alike, you'll savvy that I couldn't find her; not in the dark—and it was going to be black as down a well at midnight. The air was heavy with smoke from prairie fires, so the sun couldn't drill a hole through, even. And as for the moon—well, there wouldn't be any till near morning, anyhow.
I looked around for fuel, but there wasn't anything there, uh course. She said there was plenty uh currant bushes and the like down in the coulée behind the pinnacle. So I got off my horse and led him up to the top and anchored him good—he'd stand with the reins dropped, all right, but I wasn't taking any chances just then—and we went down after some wood, so when it got about time for me to get back, she could start a little fire on the pinnacle.
She was sure plucky, that little girl, and never made a whine about camping there alone for three or four hours. I know lots uh women that would a cried at the mere mention uh such a thing.
Well, we packed up two loads apiece, and it was slow work. The hill was so steep we couldn't carry much at a time, and it was a heartbreaking climb, anyhow. I broke it up so she could feed a little at a time, and keep it going, if I was longer than we thought.
I gave up the last match I had—there wasn't but four—and commenced to play Ring-around-a-rosy with that fool horse; and if ever I wanted to cuss and couldn't, it was right then. We'd spent quite a lot uh time getting the wood, and it was getting pretty late. I didn't want to leave that gritty little girl alone out there in the dark any longer than I had to—but Ring had to have his little fun with me, whether I had time to play or not.
When I did get on, I throwed the hooks into him pretty savage, and hollered: “See yuh later!” to Glen. And my Adam's apple come up and like to choked me, so I had to swallow twice on it—the way she stood there by that little heap uh wood and watched me go, and tried to look as if she didn't mind being left; but I wouldn't be afraid to bet she cried some, out there on that pinnacle, when she couldn't see me no more. I don't mean that I'm so many, but 'most anybody would look good to her, out there.
I took my bearings by the hills, and hit her up pretty lively the first six miles or so. Lord! that's a rough bit uh land—about forty little draws and coulées to the mile, and some of them you can cross, and some you have to go around, unless yuh get off and lead your horse. I wasn't for getting off uh Ring—not on your life! I rode around the worst places.
I'd got six or seven miles, maybe, and was riding up the highest ridge of all—that one between Dry Fork and Sweet Grass Coulée—and it was getting dark already; but there was red in the sky, and a mighty rank odor uh burning grass. It was right in the prairie-fire season, and the grass was heavy and fires common.
I got to the top, and glanced back over my shoulder—and, say! I could feel my hair stand on end, under my hat. Straight across behind me stretched a line uh flame, from Willow Creek clear across to Sand Piper, and it was galloping up before a stiff southwest wind. Hell Coulée lay about in the middle of its path—and it wasn't going to do no turning out to go around, either! And that little girl back there on that pinnacle——
I'll bet old Ring turned on a space you could cover with a dishpan—and back I put for Hell Coulée. Ring had his work cut out for him to reach her ahead uh that fire, and I was the boy that knew it, all right. I laid flat as I could, and sent him ahead all there was in him, now I'm telling yuh. You needn't ever tell me a horse hasn't got as much brains as a man; Ring knowed just as well as I did what was wrong. The brute in him told him to head the other way, and not to loiter, but the human in him told him about that little girl back there, and the human was a heap the strongest. He laid along the ground like a yellow streak, and went straight across places we'd dodged going out.
I'd a said prayers, I guess, if me and Ring hadn't been so pressed for time. I watched that red glow in the sky, now, I tell you! After I got down off that ridge I couldn't see the fire no more—and that made it forty times worse. I couldn't tell how the game was going, and—— Say, a man can sure suffer a heap in a mighty short time; I found that out right then.
I guess we made a record run that time, all right; I know Ring never done anything like it before or since. After about a hundred and fifty years—according to the way I felt—we sighted the pinnacle. It wasn't dark then! The whole country looked like a tableau when the red fire is burning, and big flakes of burnt grass fell on us like a snow-storm done in black.
I seen her standing on the highest point, and I yelled, but I don't know if she heard me; the roar was like a fast train going over a bridge by that time. Anyway, we got there first—and it was blame lucky we didn't have any farther to go, for Ring was about all in. He fair whistled going up that last hill.
I slid off beside her, and grinned—I was so tickled to be there. And she just put her arms around me for a second and never said a damn word; she's got grit, that girl has!
I hollered for the matches, to set a back-fire; but she'd used up the last one trying it. The wind blew so hard, she said, they went out fast as she could light them; well, she'd done the best she could—she wasn't no cigarette fiend, and hadn't learned to keep matches going in an eighty-mile breeze. So that settled the back-fire scheme, all right; and the fire was galloping up the hill that fast we could feel it, and we looked like we was under a stage lime-light—till the smoke rolled up onto us,
I didn't have no time to study what was best—I went to work. I tied Ring's bridle-reins up and turned him loose, and he hiked. Then I grabbed the girl by an arm and put for Hell Coulée in a long lope.
The smoke come mighty near putting us both out uh business, and this story'd a ended right there if it had. But we stayed with it and kept agoing, just 'cause we neither of us was particularly anxious to go out by the fire route. I'd noticed a sluff-off down a piece from where we'd got the wood, where there was a kind of ledge part way down the coulée side, and around it just yellow, clay and gravel. I made for that spot. I'll never tell yuh how we got to it and onto that ledge, but we did. I know, 'cause when I kinda come to myself and got the smoke out uh my lungs, we was both there. I've thought since that the Lord is mighty thoughtful; He must a kept that place ready for us a good many years, so it would be there when we needed it worse than we'd ever needed anything before in our lives. I asked Glen about it afterward, and she sure agreed with me.
That fire struck Hell Coulée like a cyclone, and licked its chops around that sluff-off, and like to broiled us with the heat; it would, I guess, only it didn't last long. But while it did Hell Coulée sure lived right up to its name and then some.
When it had passed—and, say! it made me think uh that piece uh poetry about “The hurricane had swept the glen.” I can't remember the rest. We just sat there and got our lungs full uh clean air once more, and rested; and we didn't say anything much. I guess we both felt kinda shaky to think what it was we'd gone up against. I know I did; and I was having a little prayer-meeting inside, over that ledge, and one thing and another.
After awhile the stars come out, and it wasn't quite so much like being several thousand feet down a coal mine, with no lamp. Then Glen said it didn't seem to do any good to set there like Micawber, waiting for something to turn up; and if I was willing to tackle a little stroll of about fifteen miles, she was. I never knew Micawber—but I liked her grit, and I told her if she thought she was good for fifteen miles, we'd strike out.
So we did. Anyhow, she said, we needn't be afraid of another prairie fire. You've been over burnt land, I guess; did yuh ever walk across the prairie about forty minutes behind a fire? If yuh have, yuh know the kind uh deal we had. The ground didn't feel hot when we started; after a little, the warm began to get through our shoes. And that rank, burnt-grass smell got plumb monotonous, and so did the black ashes flying up in our faces at nearly every step.
Before we'd got across the coulée I was sorry we started, for I could see it was going to be an even chance if she made it; and high-heeled boots ain't what I'd recommend for a walking-match. I took my spurs off and hung them over my arm, and helped her along all I could—or all she'd let me. She started off mighty brave and independent, and wanted to walk fast, so as to get home before the supper got cold, it looked like.
But when a man has put in 'steen years on the range, and has gone up against every kind of scaly layout, and has nursed cattle through long, dry drives, he learns some things. I don't for a minute mean that Glen Kilpatrick was like cattle, but, all the same, I applied the same rules as far as I could. I made her take her time; and when we came to a hill, or a nice pile uh rocks, I'd make her set down and rest. And when we came to water, she had to take a drink and bathe her face, and I done the same; for those ashes were a hard proposition, now, I tell you.
Fifteen miles don't sound like such a terrible ways—and it ain't, when you're on a horse. But you start out and walk it. There is an old saying—you've heard it—“From hell to Kilpatrick's.” I never gave it much thought—but if it means Hell Coulée, I can tell yuh right now it's a mighty long jaunt. And you want to recollect that the fifteen miles meant straight across—an air-line. It didn't count in all the hills we went down, nor the ones we climbed, to get across coulées. If we'd a had one uh those clock businesses attached to us, I'll bet it would a registered a good fifty miles—and that's no josh.
About half-way we came to a little creek. Glen was about all in, only she wouldn't own up. I made her set down and take off her shoes and bathe her feet good. She kicked on doing it—but I went off a little piece and turned my back; and, anyway, it was pretty dark.
We stayed there quite awhile and rested, and talked a little. We got pretty well acquainted on that trip. And I found out that she was The Woman, and always would be; but I didn't tell her so—not in so many words. I ain't quite a fool, I hope. But I do admire nerve, in man or woman; I never yet saw a coward that was much force, anyhow. You can't depend on them. And when yuh find a woman like Glen—well! I was singing “Just One Girl”—down deep inside uh me—before we left the ledge, even.
Then we went on, and history repeated itself till we was both plumb sick of it. It was walk, walk, walk; scramble and slide and fall down a hill; feel your way across a black coulée bottom, and watch out yuh don't tumble head-first into a washout—I went ahead, places like that, with one hand behind me holding to Glen—climb up out uh that coulée; walk, walk, walk—and so on, ad infinitum—if yuh know what that means. I don't, but it sounds like cuss words in a foreign tongue, so I guess it applies.
By and by the moon peeked up over a mountain, like it wondered what the dickens was up, anyhow. And the land was dead still—no grass for the wind to whisper things to, and no living thing left to cheep at us and scurry away. Nothing but black, burnt prairie, till yuh felt like yuh was walking through the earth the next day after resurrection, when the world had been rolled together and burnt. It got pretty chilly, too, along toward morning. I wanted Glen to take my coat and put it on, but she got mad at me mentioning it, so I had to work a scheme on her. I went along like I'd given up the idea—but I hadn't; not when I could feel her shiver every once in awhile. So pretty soon I unbuttoned my coat and throwed it open, and said that walking was warm work as wrassling calves. She eyed me suspicious, but I never let on. Then, after awhile, I got hotter, and took my coat off—but I didn't offer it to her; I just slung it over my arm and walked on unconcerned.
After a mile or so I got tired uh carrying it, and said I guessed I'd leave it on the next big rock, and come after it in the morning, and then she walked into the trap and said if I was going to leave it, she might as well put it on, for she did feel a little chilly! She was pretty sharp—but I hadn't tamed bronks all these years for nothing!
The sun come up and found us still a-walking. We was closer to Kilpatrick's than we was to Hell Coulée, and that was about all I could see we had gained. But we kept pegging away, only we rested oftener, and Glen never objected. She looked like a tired little nigger, and I had to put my arm around her and help her along—which wasn't such a cross, either; only I did hate to see her so played out.
Then she got to the limit, where she couldn't go no farther, and didn't seem to care much whether she ever got home or not. It ain't only freezing and seasickness that puts yuh into that frame uh mind; you can just get so tired you lay em down and don't give a cuss.
So I had to carry her that last mile or so. I took her on my back—which wasn't graceful, nor picturesque, maybe, but it was practical. Yuh can't carry a woman very far in your arms, the way they do on the stage; it looks better, but you wouldn't get far.
When we did get down into Kilpatrick's coulée, Glen roused up and walked the last few hundred yards, and we went up to the door and I knocked. Old Kilpatrick come to the door, and, so help me, he didn't know Glen from a hole in the ground, she was that black and draggled, and with my coat on. She had to call him by name, and he looked kind uh dazed even then—and I can't say I blamed him any. But I would 'a' felt plumb jealous at the way he gathered her into his arms, if he hadn't been her dad.
We had something to eat, and then Little Willie slept the clock around twice, more or less. Then I felt more normal—except in the region uh my heart—and I borrowed a horse from Kilpatrick and went and delivered that message to Blank Davis—only they'd moved twice, away from Big Birch, and I had a dickens of a time finding camp, and rode about a hundred and twenty-five miles.
I delivered it, all right—trust Little Willie for that!—and hiked back to the Rocking-R only about two days overdue. And that's where I got turned down. Ring had gone back—how he dodged the fire's a plumb mystery to me, but I told yuh Ring was half human—and the old man wanted explanations and then some. I told him all about how the play come up, and waited for the congratulations. If anybody should ask yuh, I'm still a-waiting! It was just my luck that he hates old Kilpatrick worse than snakes, and by my courage and chivalry—he had some different names for it, which I won't repeat in public—I'd caused him to lose a rise in the market, or some darned thing. He was dollars to the bad, anyway, and so Little Willie had to drift.
But I ain't worrying none. I went straight back over to Kilpatrick's and went to work for him, and he's a grateful old party. He's going to let me marry Glen—which shows how sensible he is, because I'd marry her, anyway, whether he let me or not.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse