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Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. [Illustration: HOLD FAST. "Hold fast, brother, hold fast!" shouted poor Sam in mortal
terror at my danger.] HOLD FAST.New Stories No. 5. BY
A. L. O. E.
T. NELSON AND SONS. LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK. HOLD FAST.BY
A ∙ L ∙ O ∙ E
"NAY, my child, I've nothing else to hold by, either in life or death,
but the great truth, that Christ died for sinners.It's a joyful thing
to hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life which God hath given
us through our Lord Jesus Christ! "The speaker was Peter Ross, a blind and aged man, with bald head
and silvery beard, who, clad in a pauper's dress, had come, as he
was allowed once a fortnight to do, to visit the house of his son.The listener was a rosy-checked girl, about nine years of age, who,
seated at his feet, and resting her little arms on his knee, looked up
lovingly into his face. "Ah!grandfather," said Rose, "if you did not hope to go to heaven,
I don't know who else could!You are so good, so patient, so kind;
you have served God all your life long; you have never been given to
drinking and swearing, like the wicked men in our court, and I really
think that you know nearly half of the Bible by heart!I'm certain that
you deserve heaven!" "Rose, Rose," cried the old man earnestly, "my only plea for heaven
is this,—"
"I'm a poor sinner, and nothing at all;
But Jesus Christ is my all in all! ""I can't tell how it is," said Rose, looking into his face with a
puzzled expression, "the best people seem to think themselves the
worst. If I was half as good as you are, grandfather, I'd be quite sure
of getting to heaven. ""By your good works, my child!" "Yes, by my good works," repeated Rose. "I can see why bad people hope
to be saved only by the Lord; but it must be so very different with
pious people like you! ""Rose," said the blind old man, "do you think that I ever pass one day
without sin?" "I'm sure that you do," replied Rose, "I never knew you do anything
wrong. ""If my salvation were to depend upon my passing one waking hour without
sin, Rose, my poor soul would be lost! Remember that God looks at the
heart.His pure eyes read the evil thought; he knows not only the
sinful things that we do, but the duties which we leave undone. All our
righteousnesses are as filthy rags; that truth is written in the Bible. ""But I can't see," persisted the little girl, "that you need to be
saved by the Lord just in the same way as Luke Dobson did, who was run
over by a cart when he was drunk.He lay ill for months and months,
and father says that he repented, and hoped to go to heaven at last,
because the Lord died for sinners.Now there must be a very great
difference between his case and yours, for he was once a very bad man,
and treated his wife very cruelly when he had been at the public. ""My dear child," said the aged Christian, laying his thin hand on the
curly head of Rose, "I have no more power to reach heaven by my works
than poor Luke Dobson had by his.The blood of Jesus Christ which
cleanseth from all sin, is just as much needed to wash away mine as it
was to wash away his. He depended on the mercy of the Saviour, and I
have nought else to depend on." "I can't understand that," said Rose. "I'll tell you what happened to me in my youth, Rose, nigh three score
years ago, when I was not much older than you are.It seems to me a
sort of picture, as it were, of the way in which sinners are saved, and
how there's nothing that we have to trust to but God's mercy in Christ. ""I should like to hear what happened to you, grandfather; but I want
to ask just one question first. If the wicked and the steady all need
mercy alike, where's the use of doing good, and trying to put away our
sins?Why should we not live as we choose, and trust that all will come
right in the end?" Old Peter looked grave as he replied. "Because no one who really
belongs to the Saviour can bear to continue in wickedness.The Lord
died not only to save His people from hell, but from sin; and they hate
and dread the one as they hate and dread the other. I'll try and show
you what I mean by my story. ""It's nigh sixty years ago, as I said, when I was a young, strong,
active lad, that I lived for some months by the sea-shore.Our dwelling
was near the beach, in a place where the cliffs were rugged and high—so
high, that when we looked front the top of one of them, men walking on
the sands beneath seemed little bigger than crows. ""I set out one day to gather shells—for that was a wonderful place for
shells—and the gentry as came to the village hard by, used often to buy
them from us. I wasn't going alone. I took with me my brother, poor
Sam. ""He and I went together, each with a bag to hold the shells, which was
hung by a long string round our necks, so as to leave our hands quite
free.The last thing our mother said to us afore we started was this,
'Mind, lads, and don't go too far; for the tide is on the turn, and
the waves be running high, and if ye go as far as High cliff, there's
danger that ye both may be drowned. '""'No fear, mother! 'said I; 'even if the tide should come in upon us,
I reckon that I'm active and strong enough to climb to the top of the
cliff; but I could not say as much for Sam, with his weak arms and the
swelling on his ankle, I know he has no chance of climbing, so I'll
keep out of harm's way for his sake. '""'And for your own, too, Peter,' said Sam, as we walked along the beach
together; 'you are strong and active, to be sure, but you are no more
able than I be, to climb up such a mighty high cliff. '""'There may be two opinions as to that,' said I, for I had a great
notion of my own powers, and prided myself on being agile as a goat on
the rocks.Well," pursued the blind pauper, "we had plenty of luck that
day in finding shells on the shore; both of us filled our bags, and we
were so eager and pleased with our success, that we wandered on farther
and farther, and scarce gave a thought to the tide, till we saw the
white creamy foam tossed on the sand from the waves that came rolling
and tumbling in shore, and we looked up and saw the great white cliff
rising high and bluff before us! ""'I say, Sam,' cried I, 'just see how the tide's coming in! 'Tis time
for us to make the best of our way back to mother!'" "My brother turned white as a sheet. ''Tis too late for that,' said
he, giving a wildered gaze at the waste of heaving billows.For the
coast just there made a bend like a crescent, and though we stood upon
dry land still, the white-topped waves, both afore and ahind us, were
rolling right up to the cliff!Where we had walked dry-shod not an hour
before, there was nothing to be seen but the waters which soon would
cover the place where we were!" "'What's to be done!' cried my brother, as he looked up at the great
rocky wall before us. "'Keep a good heart!' | A. L. O. E. - Hold fast |
said I, 'I'll climb up to the top o' the cliff,
and then I'll get help and a rope, and we'll draw you up to safety.'" "So I put down my bag, and I pulled off my jacket, for it was clear
enough that I could not climb with them.I knew well, though I didn't
choose to say it, that it would be hard work to get to the top of so
high and steep a cliff; but I did not know, I would not believe that
it was impossible for me to do so.By dint of straining every muscle,
clasping, clutching at every jutting crag or little rock-plant that
offered a hold, I managed to struggle up a few yards. But the way grew
steeper and harder.I could scarcely find place for my foot, or hold
for my hand; the earth was slipping beneath me!I panted—I gasped—I
strained—feeling myself falling, I tried, with a violent effort, to
catch hold of a little stump that secured to be just beyond my reach.I
caught it, but lost my footing—hung for a moment by one hand, then the
stump gave way, and with a cry of fear I fell heavily down the rock!" "Oh! grandfather, were you much hurt? "exclaimed Rose, who had listened
with breathless interest to Peter's account of his perilous adventure. "Not badly hurt," said the blind man; "but enough bruised and shaken to
be kept from the folly of trying the climbing again. ""Then you were just in the same case as your brother, though you had
fancied yourself so much better able to get to the top than he." "That's it; that's what I wished you to see," cried Peter. "It is for
that I tell you the story.We were alike helpless, my child, the strong
and the weak, the active and the maimed, neither could reach the top;
both were just in the same danger of being drowned by the coming tide. And so it is with the matters of the soul.One man seems wiser, another
better, another bolder than his fellows; but the wisest, the boldest,
the best, can never reach heaven by their efforts. The way is too high,
too steep, to be climbed!Their good deeds break away; they can't
support them; they can't hold them up from destruction!" "But how were you saved?" exclaimed Rose, more eager to hear the story
than to gather its moral. "My brother and I felt that there was but one thing which we could
do—we must loudly call out for assistance.We cried aloud again and
again; we lifted up our voices with all our might, and as God in his
mercy ordered, the sound of our cry was heard from the top of the
cliff.And so it is with the sinner, my child, when he feels that he
is in danger of eternal death, when he finds that he has no power in
himself to help himself, and that unless God come to his aid, he is
lost and ruined for ever.The cry, God be merciful to me a sinner! is
heard even above the heavens, and mercy comes to the rescue!" "Was a rope let down from the top of the cliff?" asked the impatient
Rose. "A rope was let down," replied Peter, "and it was long enough, and
strong enough to save us. It was let down not a minute too soon, for
already the sand on which we stood was washed by every advancing wave!Sam, who was terribly frightened, at once caught hold of the rope, and
clung to it as for his life. Nay, if I remember right, he fastened it
round his body.But my courage, or rather presumption, had risen once
more, as soon as I found that means were provided to draw us up safely
beyond the reach of danger. I put on my jacket again, and passed the
string of my bag of shells round my neck. 'Since I have not to climb,'
cried I, 'there's no use in leaving them behind; I've no mind to part
with one of 'em! 'Now, mark my words, Rose, my child, I was thinking in
an earthly matter as you thought just now when you said, 'if the wicked
and the steady all need mercy alike, what's the use of doing good, and
putting away our sins? 'I believed that the rope was enough to save me;
and so in truth it was; but how could I hold fast by the rope, when I
carried a weight round my neck!" "I see—I see! "exclaimed Rose; "you must leave your heavy bag behind
you; for though the rope might not break, you could not keep your hold
on it, while the weight was dragging you down! ""No more than any man who wilfully keeps one sin, can continue safely
to hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life. He but deceives
himself if he ever tries to do so. I soon found out, as I was drawn
upwards, what a fearful mistake I had made!I had not risen many feet
above the sands when a horrible dread arose in my mind that I should
never be able to hold on till I had reached the top of the cliff!The
muscles of my arms ached terribly, my fingers could scarcely keep their
grasp, and the string round my neck seemed to choke me, like the gripe
of an iron hand!" "'Make haste!' I gasped out in agony, scarce able to bring out the
words. 'Oh!be quick—be quick—or I shall be forced to let go!'" "'Hold fast, brother, hold fast!' shouted poor Sam in mortal terror
at my danger.The men above were straining every nerve to pull us up
before my strength should fail me; but oh, how fearfully slowly we
seemed to ascend!" "The strain on my arms now was torture! My brain grew dizzy. I could
scarcely breathe.I had but one thought—one maddening wish—to get rid
of the fatal bag! It seemed to grow heavier every moment; it was as if
some barbarous foe were pulling me down to destruction!I felt that
unless I could be relieved of the weight, I must let go, and be dashed
to pieces! I dared not attempt to cling by one weary hand, so as to use
the other to untie the fatal string!I cried in despairing agony to
God, for I was beyond all help from man.I know not to this day how his
mercy wrought,—whether the weight on it snapped the string, or whether
in my struggles the knot was untied; but never, till my dying hour
shall I forget the sense of relief, when suddenly something gave way,
I felt that the weight was gone; I heard a splash in the waters below,
and in another minute was firmly grasped by a hand stretched out from
above!""Oh! grandfather, what a mercy!" exclaimed Rose, drawing a long breath. Her heart had beat fast at the account of such terrible danger. "A mercy, indeed!" said the old man solemnly, clasping his hands
together, as memory recalled the awful scene. "Had that bag, instead
of shells, contained all the wealth of the world, how thankful should
I have been to have dropped it into the sea for ever! As that weight
was to my body, so is sin to the soul!In vain do we grasp the hope of
salvation, in vain do we seem to be raised from a state of danger by
the mercy of Christ, if we resolve not to try to cast from us every sin
that our God condemns! Without holiness no man shall see the Lord.We
must cast away every weight, and the sin that doth so easily beset us;
not in our own poor strength, but in the power of prayer, looking to
God, trusting to God, ready to give up everything for God!Then will
His love never fail us; He will never leave us to perish. By His grace | A. L. O. E. - Hold fast |
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed. NEW STORIES
The Look of the Thing and Other Stories
BY
A. L. O. E.
NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL.UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865.PUBLISHED
THROUGH THE OFFERINGS
OF
The Sunday School
OF
TRINITY CHURCH, BRIDGEPORT, CONN. CONTENTS. No. 1 THE LOOK OF THE THING.No. 2 GOOD-BYE. No. 3 GOOD FOR NOTHING. No. 4 HOW LIKE IT IS! NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 1—THE LOOK OF THE THING.NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. THE LOOK OF THE THING. REBECCA BURTON and Lydia White sat chatting over their tea.They were
near neighbours, for they dwelt opposite to each other; and Rebecca,
who earned her living by going out washing and charing, and had but a
lonely time of it during the long winter evenings, was often invited
by kind Widow White to share a meal with her and her little daughter
Agnes.Not that Rebecca was one whose society gave much pleasure to
her friend: she was a bustling, gossiping woman, very full of her
neighbours' concerns.Where there is little thinking, there is apt to
be much talking; it has been well said that only empty bottles are
never corked up.Little Agnes, with her large black attentive eyes, sat perched on a
high chair beside her mother, listening to every word that was spoken,
and not a little amused by Rebecca's idle gossip.While slice after
slice of buttered toast and tea-cake were despatched, cup after cup of
good black tea poured from the shining tea-pot, the guest talked as
eagerly and as fast, as if talking were "the business of life. ""Well, Mrs. White," said Rebecca, helping herself for the third time
from the well-filled plate, "I think that you've always had a bit of
a fancy for that Mrs. Miles, but she's not a person to my mind.Would
you believe it now, when the subscription went round for the poor
weavers,—and even I, hard up as I often am, could manage to drop a bit
of silver into the plate,—Mrs. Miles was not ashamed to put in only a
penny!And she with a house and shop of her own! I'm sure, if I'd been
she, I'd a deal rather have given nothing at all!" "What a mean creature Mrs. Miles must be," thought little Agnes to
herself. "Perhaps," said Mrs. White in her quiet tone, "you do not know that
for the last year Mary Miles has been struggling hard to pay the debts
brought on by her husband's long illness.She, no doubt, feels it her
duty to be just before she is generous, and however willing to give
much, knows that it would not be honest to do so." "Oh, but think of the look of the thing!" exclaimed Rebecca; "who was
to know of her debts?But Mrs. Miles,—she's an odd woman," continued
the charwoman, lowering her voice, though not sufficiently so to
prevent every word being heard by Agnes: "though people say she's so
good, I take it she's not all that folk fancy her to be.You think it
right to go to church regularly, don't you? I often see you there with
your little girl." "Mother always goes to church," exclaimed Agnes, "even if it is raining
ever so hard! ""That's right," said Rebecca, approvingly; "it always looks well when
one is never missed from one's place in church. But I've noticed that
Mrs.Miles has kept away these last two Sundays, and I know that she
has not been ill, for I've seen her on week-days serving in the shop. Even if she don't care for religion, I wonder that she don't attend
steadily, if but for the look of the thing.""Mrs. Miles goes to church for something better than the look of the
thing," said the widow, with a quiet smile; "I am so glad that you
mentioned the subject to me, that I may be able to set you right.These
last two Sunday mornings have been spent by Mary Miles in nursing poor
sick Annie Norris, that her daughter may go to church; and then, in the
evening, Mary herself attends a place of worship with her husband.I
think it a privilege to go to the house of prayer, but I believe that
Mary Miles is doing her Master's work just as truly while nursing a
poor sick neighbour, reading the Bible to her, and giving up her Sunday
rest that another may be able to enjoy it,—as if she attended every
service in the church. ""Ah, well," exclaimed Rebecca, half impatiently, "you are always one
to find excuses; you're ready enough to stand up for your friends! Another drop of tea, if you please," and she pushed her cup across the
table.Then, turning towards little Agnes, she said, in a different
tone, "You must come and pay me a visit some day, my dear,—I have
something to show you worth the seeing.I've been subscribing for a
long long while to the Illustrated Bible, and with some money which
I got as a Christmas box, I've had the numbers bound together into
such a beauty of a book.But I dare say that your mother has done the
same,—she's one to honour the Bible, as all know. Whenever one sees a
large handsome Bible in a parlour, to my mind it's a kind of sign of
the respectability of the people in it.None of your nick-nacks, say I;
give me a well-bound Bible, with shining edges and gilded cover!" and
Rebecca, proud of owning such a volume, sipped her tea with an air of
the utmost self-satisfaction. "Mother," said little Agnes, "your Bible is very old,—it has not a bit
of gilding upon it, Could we not buy a new one?" "My old Bible is more precious to me," said Mrs. White, "than any new
one could be. It belonged to my own dear mother. ""It is shabby, though," observed Rebecca, glancing at the plain black
volume which lay on a shelf; "you might any ways have it new bound,—you
should think of the look of the thing. ""It is in good repair," said Mrs. White; "I am quite contented with my
Bible as it is." Rebecca gave a little meaning nod of her head, as if to say, "I care
more for the Bible than you do, though everybody thinks you a saint. "Nothing more, however, passed on the subject; and the guest soon
afterwards took her departure.Agnes, with her thoughtful black eyes fixed upon the old Bible, sat for
a while in silence, turning over in her young mind the conversation
that had passed between her mother and their neighbour. "What is my quiet little lassie dreaming about? "asked Mrs. White, who
was clearing away the tea things. "Mother," replied Agnes slowly, "I was thinking over what Rebecca
Burton said about Mrs. Miles, and your Bible which looks so old. You
and she didn't seem to feel alike.Is it not right, dear mother, to
care for the look of the thing?" "It is right to care something for appearances, but a great deal more
for realities," quietly observed Mrs. White. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"I do not understand you at all," said Agnes; "is it not a good thing,
mother, to give to the poor, to go to church; and to honour the Holy
Bible? ""A very good thing, my child, if done not to win the praise of men, but
from the motive of love to God." "I do not know what 'motive' means," said Agnes. "It is the spring or cause of our actions.Two persons may give exactly
the same sum to help a poor creature in great distress.One gives her
shilling for the look of the thing, because she wishes the world to
think her generous; the other gives it for the love of God, and so
that He accept her offering, cares not if her gift be known by not one
being on earth.You must see that the motive of the second is piety,
the motive of the first is pride. Both women do the same thing, but one
does it to please God, while her neighbour only pleases herself. ""But so long as the money is given," said Agnes, "I don't see that the
motive matters very much." "It matters everything," observed Mrs. White, "in the eyes of Him who
readeth the heart.The cause of so much self-righteousness in the world
is this: people, respectable people I mean, count up all their own kind
actions, and never take the trouble of searching into their motives at
all.How few would say to themselves, 'I am honest indeed, but only
because I have found that the honest thrive best in the end;' 'I go to
church regularly, but only because it is thought a respectable thing to
do so;' 'I give freely, but only because I could not bear my neighbours
to call me mean;' 'I pay what I owe, but only because if I did not, no
one would trust me again. '""Do you not see, my child, that in all this the love of God is not
the motive?If as much gain, and respect, and praise could be had by
breaking God's laws as by keeping them, those who now do good deeds to
be seen of men, would do evil ones in their stead. "Perhaps little Agnes was growing sleepy, for Mrs. White could not help
perceiving that the child did not follow her argument.The mother did
not try to explain herself further; she waited for some opportunity of
making her little daughter understand more clearly the truth which was
so plain to herself.On the following morning Agnes came running up to her mother with a
look of delight. "See, see!" she exclaimed, "What a beautiful watch my
uncle has given me!" and she held up for the widow's admiration a very
pretty toy watch! "It looks just as well as yours, mother, indeed I
think it much the prettier of the two.Just see,—it has a chain, and
seals, and a nice shining face, with all the hours marked on it, and
slender little bright hands that I can move to any part with my key! Is
not my little watch just as good as yours, mother? ""As far as the look of the thing goes, yes, my dear," replied the
smiling parent. "There's hardly any difference between them," said Agnes; "only mine
looks a little the brighter, because, you know, it is new.Please tell
me the time, the exact time, that I may set my watch right." "A quarter of ten," said Mrs. White. With pride and pleasure little Agnes turned the hands, till they
pointed just to the hour.It was almost time for her to set off for
school, which she did in very high glee, showing to all the companions
whom she met the beautiful present of her uncle. "I am back a little earlier than usual, am I not, mother? "were the
first words of Agnes White, when she returned from morning school. "Oh,
you need not look at your watch,—you know I have now a watch of my
own! "Agnes pulled out her bright little toy, and there were the hands
exactly where she had placed them, pointing to a quarter of ten! "Did you expect them to move, when there was no mainspring inside?" asked the widow with a smile.Agnes scarcely knew whether to look vexed or amused. "I was a stupid
little girl to fancy that they would move," said she; "mine is a very
pretty watch, but it is only good to be looked at," and she laid it
down on the table with an air of disappointment. "Ah, my child," said Lydia White, gently drawing her little daughter
towards her; "is not the watch without springs like that of which we
were yesterday speaking, good conduct without a good motive?The most
precious part of a real watch is that part which is unseen; and in like
manner, it is the hidden motive for any good act which alone can give
it true value." "But ought we never to care how our conduct appears?" asked the child. "Yes, my Agnes," replied her mother, "for those who have been bought
with a price, even the precious blood of God's dear Son, are called to
glorify their heavenly Master both with their bodies and their souls.We are called so to live that the world may say, 'There must be power
in religion, for none are so honest, so true, so kind as those who are
servants of God.'" "I don't quite understand," said Agnes. "Look again, dear child, at my watch, it may help to make the subject
clearer. You know that the watch is a good one, you know that the
mainspring is right." Agnes nodded her head. "How is it that you know?" asked her mother. "The hands always point to the right place," replied Agnes; "they go
just the same as the church clock." "But suppose that we pull off the hands," said the widow. "O mother, that would be a pity,—you never would do such a thing!If
the hands were off, you might, wind up the watch, and the watch might
go, but it would be of no use to others." "Nor would it, do honour to its maker, my child. Now turn front the
watch to the subject which I am trying to explain by its means.If
the motive of love to God be like the mainspring to a Christian, the
cause of all his good actions, his outward conduct is like the hands
whose steady movements show that the mainspring is within.If they are
constantly right, we believe that the hidden wheels are right, we know
that the watch has been wisely made, carefully regulated, daily wound
up.So when the Christian quietly goes on his circle of duties, ever
seeking, by the help of God's grace, to do the will of his Lord,—he
shows to the world a living example of the power and truth of religion;
he does good not for the look of the thing, but because the love of
Christ constraineth him to act as conscience directs. "And then others, seeing the good example, may be led to follow it,"
observed Agnes, upon whose mind the meaning of her mother was now
dawning. "It is a common saying, Agnes, that 'example is better than precept,'"
observed Mrs. White. "If we must search carefully into our motives for
the sake of our own souls, we must also be watchful over our conduct,
for others' sakes as well as our own.Never can we too earnestly study,
too carefully follow the Saviour's command which refers to the outward
behaviour of those who have the hidden motive of love,—'Ye are the
light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.Let
your light so shine before men that they may see your good works, and
glorify your Father which is in heaven.' (Matt. v. 14, 16.)" | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No.2—GOOD-BYE. NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. GOOD-BYE. "GOOD-BYE to you, Mr. Aylmer; I'm sorry that we're not to see you
again till the summer. You've always been ready with a good word, ay,
and a helping hand too for the poor.I'll miss your pleasant smile in
those dull, dark wintry days as have little enough to light 'em. And
little Emmy—she'll miss you too, won't you, my lamb? "said the Widow
Cowell, as she lifted up in her arms a pretty blue-eyed child of about
four years of age, to bid good-bye to the Catechist who was going to a
distant part, of the country. "Good-bye, Mary Cowell," said Aylmer, shaking with kindness the thin
hand which the widow held out; "and good-bye to you, dear little one,"
he added, as bending forward he kissed the brow of the child, between
her clustering locks of gold. "It's a solemn word, 'good-bye,' when we
think of the meaning that's in it." "I did not know as how it had any particular meaning," said Mary. "It's
a word that we're always a-saying, and sometimes with a heavy heart. ""'Good-bye,' is 'God-be-with-you,' shortened to a single word. It
is a blessing to the one who departs, echoed back to the one who
remains.God be with you, Mary Cowell; may you feel His presence in
the street—in the shop—by your board—by your bed—in your heart! You'll
have many a temptation to struggle against—God be with you in the hour
of temptation!You'll have many a trial to bear; God be with you then,
and he will turn all these trials into blessings! You've a little one
there, dear to your heart; remember that, like as a father pitieth his
children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear him! ""Ay, bless her heart! I love her!" thought Mary, as she led her little
girl back into the small room which she hired by the week, in one of
the back streets of London. "But if God pities me, like as a father
pitieth his children, why does he so often leave me to want, why does
he make my lot so hard?I'm sure I'd keep my darling from every trouble
if I could, and if I had the means, she should sleep as soft, and fare
as well as any little lady in the land!" And in truth Mary Cowell was a kind and tender mother.The child had
ever the largest share of the scanty meal, and while the mother's shawl
was threadbare, soft and warm was the knitted tippet that wrapt the
little girl.Mary took a pride in her Emmy; she never suffered her to
run about the streets dirty and barefoot like many of the children
of her neighbours.Emmy's face was washed, and her yellow curls were
smoothed out every morning, and proudly did the fond mother look at
her little darling.The greatest sorrow which poverty brought to Mary
Cowell, was that it hindered her from giving every comfort and pleasure
to her child. "Mother," said Emmy on the following day, as she watched the widow
preparing to go out, putting on her rusty black bonnet and thin patched
shawl; "mother, you won't take the basket; it's Sunday; I hears the
bells a-ringing. ""I must go," said Mary with a sigh. "But didn't the good man tell us it was bad to go out a-sellin' on the
Sunday?" asked the child, with a grave look of inquiry in her innocent
eyes. "Poor folk must eat," said the widow sadly; "God will not be hard upon
us if want drives us to do what we never should do if we'd only enough
to live on." "May Emmy go wid you, mother? ""No, my lamb," answered Mary, "not to stand at the corner of the street
in this bitter sharp wind, and just catch your death of cold.It chills
one to the bones," added the widow, stirring up in her little grate
the fire which burned brightly and briskly, for the weather was frosty
and keen.Mary then took the remains of the morning's meal, the half
loaf and small jug of milk, and put them on the mantel-piece, out of
reach of the child. Her last care was to place a wire-guard before the
fire.Having often to leave her little girl alone in the room, Mary
dreaded her falling into danger, and had, by self-denial, scraped up a
sufficient number of pence, to buy an old wire fire-guard. "Now remain quiet there, my jewel!Don't get into mischief," said Mary. "Look at the pretty prints on the wall; mother won't be long afore she
comes back with something nice for her darling!" So saying the widow
kissed the child, took up her basket, and went to the door. "Good-bye, mother!" cried Emmy. The last sound which Mary heard as she
went down the old creaking stair was the "good-bye" from the sweet
little voice whose tones she loved so well. "She's a-blessing me without knowing it," thought Mary, recalling the
words of the Catechist. "She's a-saying 'God be with you!' I'm afraid
all's not right with me, for it seems as if I couldn't take any comfort
from the thought of God being with me!It makes my conscience uneasy to
know that He is watching me now that I'm a-going to break his law, and
sell on his holy day." O reader!If ever the thought of the presence of your heavenly Father
gives you a feeling of fear, rather than a feeling of comfort, be sure
that you are wandering from the right way, and—whatever excuse you may
make for yourself—that you are doing or thinking something that puts
your soul in danger!As Mary slowly made her way with her heavy basket to the corner of the
street where she usually stood to sell, a friend of hers passed her on
the way, but stopped and turned round to ask after Emmy who had not
been well.A few words were exchanged between the two women, and then
the friend, who had a Prayer-book in her hand, said, "I can't stop
longer now; I don't like to be late for church. Good-bye, Mrs. Cowell." "Good-bye!" repeated poor Mary. "Ah! "she said with a sigh, as she
watched her friend hastening on, "God will be with her, to bless her,
for I know that Martha serves Him.Oft-times I've heard her say, 'The
Lord is my Shepherd, I shalt not want;' and though she's no better off
than myself, it's wonderful, it is, how she has always had friends
raised up for her in her troubles; and when trials came the thickest,
how somehow or other a clear way out was always opened afore her!Martha says the best thing is to trust God and obey him, and that we
don't obey because we don't trust.May be there's truth in that word;
for if I really believed what Aylmer told me, that God cares for me as
I care for my Emmy, I should do even just as he bids me, and keep this
day holy.But it's hard to be hindered getting my bread honestly on one
day out of seven; I don't see the harm in a poor widow woman selling a
little on Sundays. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"And yet Mary's mind was not easy; she had learned enough of God's
word to know that by selling her oranges and nuts upon the day which
the Lord has set apart for Himself, she was not only sinning herself,
but leading others into sin.When little children thronged round her
basket, eager to buy her fruit, Mary could not forget—she wished that
she could—the solemn warning of the Lord: "Whoso shall offend (cause
to sin) one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better
for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were
drowned in the depth of the sea. "There was a struggle in the mind of Mary between faith and
distrust,—between duty and inclination—between the desire to follow her
own will, and the knowledge that in all things we ought to follow the
will of God.Which side in the end won the victory will appear in the
end of my story. We will leave the widow doubting and hesitating at the
corner of the street, and return to little Emmy, whom her mother had
left carefully shut up in her lodging.The child amused herself for some minutes as the widow had desired her
to do, by looking at the coarse prints which were stuck with pins on
the white-washed wall. But Emmy soon tired of this, she had seen them
so often before.Then she sat down in front of the fire, and warmed her
little red hands at the kindly blaze, and wished that that tiresome
wire-guard were away, that kept so much of the glow out. "Why should mother not let me get all the good of the fire? "said the
little murmuring girl. "I'm sure there's no use in that thing that puts
the fire in a cage, and keeps me from doing what I like, and making
it blaze up high! "The child did not consider that one much older and
wiser than herself was likely to have good reasons for putting on
the guard.Emmy was no better judge of these reasons than the widow
herself was of the wisdom which had fenced round the day of rest with
the command, "On it thou shalt do no manner of work. "All that either
mother or child had to do was simply to trust and obey. But Emmy had a
wilful temper, and could not bear anything like restraint.Presently from looking at the fire, the child cast her eyes on the
mantel-piece above it, and the bread and white jug upon it. "Why did mother put them up there, when she knew that Emmy might be
hungry, and want to eat before she comes home? "And impatiently the
child stretched out her hand, and rose on her tiptoes, trying to reach
the food.She could not touch the lower part of the shelf; and well was
it for Emmy that the guard so wisely placed over the fire, prevented
her little frock from catching the flame as she did so! "Emmy will pull the chair to the place and climb up, and get at the
loaf!" cried the child, determined by some means to have her own way,
and procure what she thought that she needed.She ran off to a chair
placed in a corner, which was almost the only article of furniture,
besides the bed, to be found in that bare little room.But the chair
was of clumsy and heavy make, and had several articles heaped upon it;
all the efforts of Emmy were of no avail to drag it out from its place.The difficulty which she found in getting what she desired only served
to increase the eagerness of the child, and her determination to have
the loaf which had been purposely placed out of her reach.Emmy was
ready to cry, and accuse her tender mother of unkindness. And was she
not in this but too much like many who doubt the love of their Heavenly
Father because He has not placed in their hands what they think to be
needful for their comfort?At last a thought came into the mind of little Emmy, as she gazed,
through her tears, at the fire.She had not strength to move the big
chair, in vain she had struggled to do so; but might she not manage to
move the guard, and would it not serve her for a footstool to reach the
loaf on the mantel-piece?But then mother had told her so often not
to meddle with the guard! Why should mother forbid her to touch it?The voice of discontent and distrust in the bosom of the little child,
was much the same as that whose whisperings had led Mary Cowell to go
out selling on Sunday. With both parent and daughter it proved to be
stronger than conscience.Emmy laid hold of the guard and shook it;
but old as it was, she had not the power to pull it from its place. Presently, however, the child felt that though she could not pull she
could lift it.With eager pleasure Emmy raised the guard high enough
to release its iron hooks from the bars, and then there was nothing to
prevent her from removing the fence altogether.Emmy's first pleasure was to poke up the fire with the little rusty
bit of a poker which she had seen her mother use for the purpose, but
which she herself had never been permitted to touch.Then, eager to get
at the loaf; she put down the guard in front of the fire, so that she
might be able to step upon it. Wretched, disobedient little child!With
one foot on that trembling, yielding wire-work, one hand stretched up
to take food not lawfully her own, her dress so close to the flame that
in another moment it must be wrapt in a roaring blaze, what can now
save her from destruction?Suddenly the door opened, and with a cry of terror Mary Cowell sprang
forward in time—but just in time, to snatch her only child away from a
terrible death! "Oh, thank God—thank God—that I came home, that He made me turn back! "exclaimed the widow, bursting into tears. Little Emmy was punished, as she well deserved to be, for breaking her
mother's command, and doing what she knew that she ought not to have
done.But Mary Cowell, with a contrite heart, owned to herself, and
confessed to God, that she had deserved sharper punishment than her
child.There had been doubt and disobedience in both; but the older
sinner was the greater, for she had most cause to trust the providence
of a Father who is almighty as well as all-good.If the child had
removed a guard carefully and wisely placed before the fire which,
while kept to its proper use, is one of our greatest blessings, but
which to those who misuse it may prove the cause of burning and death;
what had the mother done?She had tried on the Lord's Day to earn bread
by treading her duty under foot, by putting aside, as far as she could,
that law by which the great God has fenced round His holy day, "Thou
shalt do no manner of work. "Grateful for the warning given her, never again did Mary carry forth
her basket on Sunday. Henceforth, by example as well as by precept, she
brought up her little one in the fear and love of God.And when, after
many years, the widow was called home to her soul's rest, she could
with peaceful hope thus bid her daughter farewell. "Good-bye, my loved one! God be with you in your trouble, He has never
failed me in mine! 'Trust in the Lord, and do good; dwell in the land
and verily thou shall be fed.' Good-bye, until we meet again, through
the Saviour's merits,—the Saviour's love,—in His kingdom of glory! | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
"NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 3—GOOD FOR NOTHING. NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865.GOOD FOR NOTHING. "GET away with ye, for an idle good for nothing thief!" exclaimed
Mrs. Paton, as with an angry gesture she waved from her door a ragged
miserable lad who stood before it. "Never shall you be trusted with
another errand by me!To take the biscuits out of the very bag! Don't
tell me you were hungry; don't tell me you won't be after doing it
again! I was ready, I was, to give you a chance, since I knew that you
was a homeless orphan; but I'll not be taken in twice!Go, beg about
the streets or starve, or find your way to the workhouse, or the jail! I wash my hands of you, I'll have nothing more to do with ye, I tell
you! Ungrateful and good for nothing as you are! "and as if to give
force to her words, Mrs. Paton slammed the door in his face. Rob Barker turned away from the house with the look of a beaten hound.He knew that the reproaches of the woman were not undeserved, that he
had not been faithful to his trust.Deprived, when a child, of his
parents' care, brought up in the midst of poverty and vice, growing
even as the weeds grow, uncared for and unnoticed, save as something
worse than useless, he seemed as if born to be trampled upon; he
appeared to be bound by no kindly ties to the fellow-creatures who
despised him.A feeling of savage despair was creeping over his soul. "Ay, I'm good for nothing, am I?" Rob muttered, as with slouching gait
he sauntered down the street not knowing whither to go, for all the
world was alike to him, a desert without a home.Almost fiercely he
looked at the passers-by, some on foot, some in carriages, some upon
prancing steeds. "They are good for something," thought Rob; "they
have their homes and their friends, their kind parents, their merry
children.They are loved while they live, and sorrowed for when they
die. But I, I have no one left on earth either to love or care for me,
or miss me when I'm gone. Life is just one tough hard struggle, there's
none will help me through it! "Rob stopped at the corner of a street, leant against an iron lamp-post,
and moodily folded his arms. The bare brown elbows were seen through
the holes in his tattered sleeves. His worn-out shoes would hardly hold
together. "I say, you, won't you come in there?" said a voice just behind him.Rob started, he so little expected to be addressed, and turning half
round he saw a pale boy, in clothes that were poor but not tattered,
who pointed to a door close by, over which was written "Ragged School." "I'm not wanted there," muttered Rob. "Every one's welcome," said the little boy, "and it's better to be in
a warm room, than standing out here in the cold!I'm late, very late
to-day, for I've been sent on an errand, but I think I'm in time for
the little address; teacher, she always gives us a bit of a story at
the end.I can't wait, but you'd better come in;" and with the force of
this simple invitation, Sandy Benne, for such was the young boy's name,
drew the half unwilling Rob within the door of a place where a devoted
servant of the Good Shepherd was trying to feed His lambs.Rob did not venture to do more than enter the low white-washed room
in which he heard the hum of many voices.A poor-looking room it was;
its only furniture, rough benches; its only ornaments, a few hymns and
texts in large letters fastened on the wall. Rob stood close by the
door, a shy, almost sullen spectator, watching the scene before him.The room was thronged with children, such children as, but for the
Ragged School, would have been playing about in the streets.Little
rough-headed urchins, who once had been foremost in mischief, pale
sickly boys who looked as if they had had no breakfast that morning.Seated, some on the benches, some on the floor, they were conning their
tasks with a cheerful industry which might have shamed some of the
children of the rich.But a few minutes after the entrance of Rob, at
a signal given by the teacher, a tall fair lady in mourning, books and
slates were put back in their places, the morning's lessons were ended,
and the school looked like a bee-hive when the bees are about to swarm. "Now we shall have the little address," whispered Sandy, who had kept
all eye upon Rob; "the teacher is going to knock upon the floor with
her parasol, and then, won't we be quiet as mice! "There was no need to call "silence;" two little raps upon the floor
were enough to make every rough scholar in the place go back to his
seat in a minute, and remain there as still as a statue.All the young
eyes were fixed on the teacher, the gentle loving lady, who daily left
her comfortable house to trudge, sometimes through rain, and snow, and
sleet, to spend her time, her strength, and her health, in leading
ragged children to the Saviour.Her voice was a little faint, for the
lady was weary with her work, though never weary of her work, but her
smile was kindly and bright as she began her short address. "I have promised to give you a story, my dear young friends," she
began, "and as I am speaking in a Ragged School, and to those who are
called Ragged Scholars, you will not be shocked or surprised if I
choose for my subject—a Rag. "The teacher's cheerful smile was reflected on many a young sunburnt
face; rags were a theme on which most of the company felt perfectly at
home, though few present, except poor Rob, actually wore the articles
in question. "On a miry road," continued the lady, "trodden down by hoofs, rolled
over by wheels, till it became almost of the colour of the mud on which
it was lying, lay an old piece of linen rag, which had been dropped
there by a beggar.Nothing could be more worthless, and long it lay
unnoticed, till it caught the attention of a woman who, with a child at
her side, was picking her way over the crossing." "'I may as well pick that up for my bag,' said the woman. ""'Oh, mother, don't dirty your fingers by picking up that rag!' cried
the boy with a look of disgust; 'such trash is not worth the trouble of
washing! It's good for nothing; just good for nothing; it is better to
leave it alone! '""'Let me judge of that,' said the woman; and stooping down, she picked
up the miry rag, all torn and stained as it was, and carried it with
her to her home.There she carefully washed it, and put it with other
pieces of linen in a bag; and after a while, it was sold for a trifle
to a manufacturer of paper. ""If the rag had been a living creature, possessed of any feeling,
much might it have complained of all that if had then to undergo.It
was torn to pieces, reduced to shreds, beaten till it became quite a
pulp; no one could have guessed who looked at it then that it had ever
been linen at all. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
But what, my young friends, was the end of all this
washing, and beating, and rending?At length a pure, white, beautiful
sheet of paper lay beneath the manufacturer's hands; into this fair
form had passed the rag which a child had called good for nothing!" "But the sheet was not to lie useless.Not in vain had it been made so
white and clean. It was next carried to the press of a printer.There
it was once more damped, so as better to receive an impression: then
it was laid over blackened type (that is, letters cast in metal), and
pressed down with a heavy roller, until every letter was clearly marked
upon the smooth white surface.God's Holy Word had been stamped upon
it, the sheet was to form a leaf of a Bible; such honour was given to
the once soiled rag, which a child had called good for nothing! ""And where was this Bible to be; to what home and what heart was it
to carry its message of mercy? It was bound, and gilded, and bought,
and carried to the royal palace of the Queen.The Bible lay in the
sovereign's chamber, it was opened by the sovereign's hand; her eye
rested upon it as upon that which was more precious to her than her
crown!What was it to her that a portion of the paper had once been a
worn-out rag dropped by one of the meanest of her subjects?It had been
washed, purified, changed, the Word of God had given it value; well
might the Queen prize and love it as her best possession upon earth. ""Dear friends," continued the lady, looking with loving interest on
the listening groups before her, "can you not, trace out now a little
parable in my story? Need I explain its meaning?There have been some
neglected ones in the world, as little cared for, as little regarded as
the rag which lay on the miry road. But who shall dare to say that even
the soul most stained by sin, most sunk in evil, is good for nothing? ""Such souls may be raised from the dust, such souls have been raised
from the dust. While God spares life we may yet have hope. I have just
read of the case of James Stirling, a faithful servant, an earnest
worker for God.That man for twenty years was a drunkard, a grief to
his wife, a disgrace to his family, an evil example to those around
him. If he, by the power of God's Word, was raised from such a depth
of sin, who now need despair?What if our sins be many before God,
'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth from all sin.' The soiled
may be made pure and clean. What did the Saviour say to the weeping
penitent whom all the world despised? 'Thy sins are forgiven thee, go
in peace.' And thus speaks the merciful Lord to the lowly penitent
still." "And when a soul is washed from its guilt, it is not left to be idle
and useless.When God gives to a sinner a new heart, it is that His
Holy Word may be deeply stamped on that heart. Then those who have been
cleansed, forgiven, and raised, bear to others the blessed message
which they themselves have received. 'Come, hear what the Lord has done
for my soul. Come, taste and see that the Lord is gracious;' such are
the Bible words printed, as it were, on the heart of every pardoned
sinner, who, having been forgiven much, feels that he loveth much. ""And once more, dear friends, let me refer to the leaf of the Bible
described in my little story, as a picture of a soul redeemed. It too
will one day be borne to a palace; not the dwelling of an earthly
monarch, but the mansion of the King of kings!Precious will it be
in his eyes, and counted amongst His treasures. Oh, what a joyful,
glorious end may be reserved for some whom the world call good for
nothing, when penitent, pardoned, purified spirits shine as stars in
the kingdom of heaven! "The lady ceased, but her words seemed to echo still in the ears of poor
Rob. He was fixed to the spot where he stood, scarcely conscious of the
bustle around him as the scholars noisily quitted the room.A door of
hope had been suddenly opened before the almost despairing lad, a gleam
of light had fallen on his darkness.Rob Barker had read the history of
his own past life in that of the trampled rag; could a like future be
before him, could he ever be one of the "penitent, pardoned, purified"
ones, who shall shine at last like the stars?The teacher's attention had been attracted by the wretched appearance
and earnest look of the stranger lad.A feeling of interest and pity
made her watch him, as he lingered in that room in which he had first
learned that it was possible for such as he to be saved.As Rob walked
slowly from the place, the lady overtook him, asked his name, and
inquired what had brought him to the Ragged School that morning. "I believe that God brought me," murmured Rob, and his answer came from
his heart. "Where do you live? "said the lady. "I have no home, no friends," replied the lad, in a tone of gloomy
despair. "You are young, you look strong and active, you must never give up
hope," said the teacher; "God is willing and able to help all who come
in faith to Him.Let us see if no way can be found by which you can
earn your bread as an honest Christian should do. "The lady herself did something, perhaps to some it may seem very
little, to aid the poor homeless lad; she had many poor to think of,
many claims on her purse.She gave but a stale roll, an old broom,
and the means of procuring a single night's lodging, together with an
invitation to come every day and learn at the Ragged School. This was
but a small and humble beginning to Rob's new start in life.I am not
going to trace his career through all its various stages.He was the
crossing-sweeper, the errand-boy, the lad ready for any message or any
work, cleaning boots, putting up shutters, carrying parcels to earn a
few pence, or some broken victuals.Life was a struggle to Rob, as it is a struggle to many who, when they
rise in the morning scarcely know where they will lie down at night.But Rob Barker was learning more and more to put his trust in that
heavenly Father who never forsakes His children. He was learning to be
honest, sober, and pious.Gradually the sky brightened over Rob; his
character became known and trusted, and greater prosperity came. Having
sought first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, other things
were added besides, according to the promise of the Lord.Rob entered
service, and rose in it; he remained for nearly twenty years under the
same kind master, then with his honest earnings, set up in business,
and prospered.Rob lived to be known and respected in the world as a
good husband, father, and master.He lived to be useful in the station
of comfort and honour to which God's mercy had raised him, and to look
forward with humble hope and rejoicing to the rest of Paradise and
changeless glories of heaven.Such was the career of one who had once been deemed good for nothing by
a fellow sinner! NEW STORIES
BY
A. L. O. E.
No. 4—HOW LIKE IT IS!NEW YORK:
GENERAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL SUNDAY SCHOOL. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
UNION AND CHURCH BOOK SOCIETY. 762 BROADWAY. 1865. HOW LIKE IT IS! "I HOPE, aunt, that you did not mind my knocking up the house at twelve
o'clock last night," said Eddy Burns, as he sat down one Monday morning
to the breakfast which had been kept waiting for him nearly an hour. "I own, my dear boy," replied Mrs. Burns, a gentle looking woman with
silvery hair smoothly braided beneath the whitest of caps, "I must own
that I should much rather have had you going with me to church, and
spending Sunday evening quietly here, than wandering off I know not
where, and never returning till midnight. ""Oh, if I were always living in London it would be different,"
cried Eddy, as he emptied the plate of grilled bacon; "but, you
know, when I'm only up on a visit, I must see all that's to be
seen, and make the most of my time.What a whirl I was in all last
week! sights and shows of all kinds—amusement from morning till
night—hither—thither—everywhere." "Where were you yesterday, Eddy?" asked his aunt. "Well, if the truth must be told, I was off to Brighton by an excursion
train to have a sniff of the sea air, and somehow or other we did not
manage to get back till late. ""I was very uneasy and anxious about you," said Mrs. Burns, in a tone
of gentle reproach. "Oh, I'm sorry that I worried you!" exclaimed Eddy; "you're the best
of good aunts, and I owe more to you I know than to any one else in
the world.I may be a wild, thoughtless young fellow, but I'm not
ungrateful—no; there's nothing I hate like ingratitude!" Mrs. Burns' only answer was a kindly smile.She might have upbraided
Eddy for his selfishness, his want of consideration, his neglect of all
religious duties, but she felt that this was not the time for doing so. "Where are you going to-day?" asked the aunt. "Well, I'm off to the Pantheon to see if my photo is ready," said the
lad. "You did not tell me that you had been sitting for your likeness." "Oh, everybody sits now-a-days," laughed Eddy, "you would not have me
behind the rest of the world.If the photo turn out good you shall have
it, aunt;" and the boy passed his hand through his light brown hair
with a very self-satisfied look, which seemed to say, "I'm sure they'll
make a good picture of a handsome young fellow like me! "Off started Eddy for the Pantheon, not a little curious to see his own
face for the first time on paper. Eddy Burns was by no means free from
personal vanity.He had dressed very carefully for his sitting, put
on his best waist-coat and his bright new studs for the occasion, and
had spent nearly ten minutes in fastening his opera tie.Eddy was now
impatient to see the result of all his dressing and study, and hurried
up the Pantheon staircase with all the eagerness of a child.When he
reached the photograph stall, the youth could not wait until those who
had come before him were served; he pushed himself forward, and kept
demanding his picture as if every moment of his time were precious. "What an age the woman takes in looking over her little packets,"
muttered Eddy. "This is yours," said the person behind the stall, handing a carte de
visite to the impatient lad.Eddy almost snatched it from her hand, and then, drawing back a few
steps, looked at it with angry disappointment, almost tempted to fling
it down on the counter in disgust. "Ugh I what a fright they've made me," growled the youth as he
descended the staircase at a slower pace than he had mounted. "I've
half a mind to toss it into the fire; but I'll show it first to my
aunt, and see what she says of the likeness." About an hour afterwards Eddy entered the parlour of Mrs. Burns. "Have you brought back your likeness, my dear boy?" was the aunt's
first question when she saw him. "Here it is, aunt; what do you think of it? "said Eddy, seating himself
on an easy chair, and drawing the little carte from his pocket.He
watched the face of his aunt as she closely examined the picture, and
rather wondered at the tender expression in her gentle grey eyes, and
the smile which rose to her lips. "How like it is!" was her first exclamation. "I'm surprised that you think so," cried Eddy, rather mortified by her
words; "I did not fancy myself to be so ugly a dog; but I suppose that
no one knows his own face. ""The sun will not flatter," said his aunt with a smile, "he is too
truthful often to please. May I keep your photo?" added Mrs. Burns. "I
shall value it dearly, for it will so remind me of you. ""Oh, you're welcome to keep it, or light the fire with it!" cried Eddy,
"I never wish to see it again.I wonder whether," he continued, half
laughing, "if the sun could draw our characters as he draws our faces
in such a dreadfully truthful way, we should recognise ourselves at
all. ""I rather doubt that we would," said Mrs. Burns, with her eyes
thoughtfully fixed upon the photograph, which, though by no means a
pleasing, was a very faithful likeness of her nephew. "Well, aunt, some time or other you shall play the part of the sun,
and make a photograph of my character.I should like to know what I
really am like, and I've heard that you're so sharp at finding out
all that folk are feeling and thinking, that you'll hit me off to a
hair. "Eddy's eye twinkled as he spoke, and his manner was so careless
and gay that it was clear that he was not much afraid that any very
unfavourable opinion could be formed of himself.Indeed, he considered
himself, on the whole, a very pleasant, kind, good-hearted sort of a
fellow. "You must give me a little time for reflection and observation, Eddy,
before I attempt to take your likeness; and you must not be angry when
I have done if my picture does not flatter. ""Oh, I like plain truth," cried Eddy; "I don't think that you'll have
much worse to say of me than that I like play better than work, and am
always up to a lark." Nothing more was said on the subject at that time.Eddy went out to
some place of amusement, and did not return till the evening. He then
looked heated and flushed, and flung himself down on a chair by his
aunt with an air of indignant displeasure. "He's the most ungrateful dog that ever I met with! "muttered Eddy
between his teeth. "Of whom do you speak?" asked his aunt. "Of Arthur Knox, to be sure; who was my school fellow, and to whom I
lent half my pocket money one quarter—which, by the by, he has never
returned to me.There's no saying how many scrapes I've helped that
Arthur out of, for he was always getting into scrapes. And now—would
you believe it—he passed me to-day in the street as if he had quite
forgotten me. A dead cut, if ever there was one. ""Perhaps he did not see you," suggested Mrs. Burns. "Oh, but he did though," cried Eddy, quickly, "I caught his eye as we
met.But he has lately come in to some money, and that has turned his
head, I suppose; and he was walking with some grandly dressed folk; I
fancy he did not choose they should know that I was an acquaintance
of his. | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
Oh, I hate ingratitude of all things.A man may be honest,
pleasant, kind—anything that you like, but once show me that he's
ungrateful, and I would not care ever to set eyes upon him again." "Ingratitude is hateful, Eddy, and yet—"
"Oh, don't you try to defend Arthur Knox! "exclaimed the lad, with
increased impatience of manner; "why, I once sat up a whole night to
nurse him, and that's not what every one would do, I can tell you. I
really cared for the fellow, and that makes his conduct the harder to
bear.To cut me dead in the streets! Did you ever know any being so
ungrateful?" "I know a youth," replied Mrs. Burns, "who has, I think, shown himself
to be quite as ungrateful as Arthur." "I can hardly believe it," said Eddy. "You shall hear and judge for yourself. A youth—I need not give you
his name—had incurred a very heavy debt, which no efforts of his own
would ever enable him to pay.There was nothing before him but, utter
ruin, when a friend, who knew and pitied his distress, before he had
even been asked to relieve, came forward and freely offered to pay not
a part only, but the whole of the debt.But the sacrifice was great to
him who made it; the generous Friend who had once been possessed of
great wealth brought himself to poverty and want, and for years endured
the greatest hardships, on account of his kindness to another. ""What wonderful goodness!" cried Eddy. "Nor was this all," continued Mrs. Burns. "The Benefactor adopted
the youth as his son, gave him his own name; provided him with food,
clothing, lodging, all that he really required; and when the lad
was old enough, placed him in a situation in which he would be able
comfortably to earn his living. ""Now that was a friend!" exclaimed Eddy. "And what return did this
youth make for such unheard of kindness?" "I grieve to say," replied Mrs. Burns, "that I believe that the youth
almost entirely forgot the Benefactor to whom he owed everything.His
Friend desired him to come to his house—but that house appeared to
be the very last place which the lad cared to enter. Months, perhaps
years, would pass without his crossing the threshold.Letters received
from his Benefactor were never opened by the youth, he thought it a
weariness even to read them." "What a heartless wretch!" exclaimed Eddy. "He never did any one thing to please the Friend who had paid his debt
at such vast cost, and who had cared for him from childhood.He loved
the company of those who were enemies to his Benefactor; he did not,
indeed, like them, speak openly against him—"
"I should think not," interrupted the indignant Eddy, "it was hateful
enough to forget him. ""Nay, but I have not told you all. You have heard how freely and
lovingly the Friend had bestowed many goods on the youth: he had,
however, as he had a perfect right to do, reserved a portion for
himself.Even this portion he was laying up to increase the future
wealth of his adopted son; but, he forbade the youth, in the mean time,
to do what he pleased with this portion." "No one could complain of that," observed Eddy. "But the youth did complain," said his aunt, "and he did not content
himself with murmurs, he resolved to spend all as he pleased. Against
right, conscience, and gratitude, he wasted on idle follies what his
generous Friend had reserved.Eddy, what say you now to this youth?" "Say?" repeated her nephew, "I say that he is the most ungrateful,
despicable, good for nothing being in the world. Is he living still? ""Living—yes, and not far hence," replied Mrs. Burns, with a glance of
meaning; "is not my photograph like?" "What on earth do you mean?" exclaimed the astonished Eddy, opening his
eyes wide, and fixing them on his aunt. "Is not the likeness that of every soul that forgets and neglects the
greatest of Benefactors—the best and kindest of Friends? Oh, Eddy
what hath God done for us, can we number up a thousandth part of the
benefits received from His love?Think of the heavy debt of sin, that
sin which, unpardoned, is death! Did not the Lord of glory leave the
throne of heaven to live in poverty and want, and then endure the
scourge and the cross, that our heavy debt might be paid?Was not
that the proof of most wonderful love? And think how, from our feeble
infancy, God has watched over, cared for, and blessed us.For the sight
of our eyes, the strength of our limbs, for the faculties of memory and
reason, we have to thank our great Benefactor. For the home in which we
dwell, the food which we eat, the friends whom we love—we must thank
him.For all that we have in this world, and for all that we hope for
in the next, we must bless and praise our Redeemer. "Eddy looked more thoughtful than usual, and, after a pause, his aunt
went on: "And what return do many of us make for all this goodness
and love? What is the conduct of many of those who bear the name
of Christians?Do they care to please the Lord, or only to please
themselves? When God invites them to His house of prayer, do they not
neglect his invitation, and prefer any place of amusement?Would they
not rather read any light book than the Bible, which is the word of
God, and contains His gracious message?And to mention but one thing
more, that precious portion of time, the Lord's Day, which God has
reserved in His wisdom to be an especial blessing to the soul, the time
which he commands us to hallow—do not many rob him of it lot their own
purposes; their business, their trade, their amusement?If ingratitude
be hateful towards man—oh, what must it be towards God!" "Aunt, you are hard upon me," said Eddy. "Since you take the picture for yourself, dear boy, I can only say—Is | A. L. O. E. - The look of the thing and other stories |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ONE MILLION FOUR HUNDRED NINETY TWO THOUSAND
SIX HUNDRED THIRTY THREE MARLON BRANDOS
BY VANCE AANDAHL
She liked the Brando type.The
more there was of it, the better! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Chester McRae. Good old Chet, best man in Accounting. Six feet tall,
brown hair, brown eyes.Full of vim and vigor, that was good old Chet. "God!" he screamed. "They're strangling me, the skunks!" He rose from
bed, his face dripping with sweat and his hands trembling like a
frightened child's. "They're killing me! "He ran to the bathroom and
vomited. His wife was standing by the door when he finished, but he
walked past her as if she didn't exist. "Why, Chester! What's the matter with you?" she asked, trailing him
into the bedroom. "I've never heard you talk like that before!" For a
moment she stood watching him in numb silence. "For goodness' sake,
Chester, why are you getting dressed at three o'clock in the morning? ""None of your business," he mumbled, setting a firm upper lip and
gazing at her with lizard-cold Marlon Brando eyes. He picked up his
tie, laughed at it with careless ease and threw it across the room. "See you around, baby," he hissed, zipping up his trousers and walking
past her. "Chester McRae! Where are you going at this time of night? You've got
to go to work tomorrow! Don't you love me any more?Chester...."
But her words echoed emptily through Chester McRae's pleasant little
suburban home. Chester was no longer present. * * * * *
Bartholomew Oliver.Good old Barth, best man on a duck hunt since
the guy who invented shotguns. Five foot ten, weak chin, gambler's
mustache. Good man with small-town girls, too. "Hey, Thelma," he said. "You know what I think?" "Go to sleep. ""I think it'd be funnier than hell if I left you flat." "What kind of wisecrack is that? And what do you think you're doing?" "I'm getting dressed...."
"It's three o'clock in the morning." "So? I don't give a damn." "You'll come back. Drunken louse. "He laughed softly and smiled at her in the darkness with ice-white
Marlon Brando teeth. Then he was gone. * * * * *
Oswald Williams. Good old Ozzie, best man in the whole philosophy
department.Five foot two, one hundred and seven pounds, milky eyes. Wrote an outstanding paper on the inherent fallacies of logical
positivism. "Louise," he whispered, "I feel uneasy. Very uneasy." His wife lifted her fatty head and gazed happily down at Oswald. "Go to
sleep," she said. "If you'll excuse me, I think that I shall take a walk." "But, Oswald, it's three o'clock in the morning!" "Don't be irrational," he whispered. "If I want to take a walk, I shall
take a walk." "Well!I don't think you ought to, or you might catch a cold." He rose and dressed, donning a tee-shirt and tweed trousers. With
snake-swift Marlon Brando hands, he tossed his plaid scarf in her face. "Excuse me, Louise," he whispered, "but I gotta make it...."
Then, laughing softly, he strode from the room. * * * * *
At three o'clock in the morning, even a large city is quiet and dark
and almost dead.At times, the city twitches in its sleep; occasionally
it rolls over or mutters to itself. But only rarely is its slumber
shattered by a scream....
"Johnny! Hey, Johnny!" cries Chester McRae, his eyes as dull and
poisonous as two tiny toads. "Let's make it, man ... let's split...." whispers Bartholomew Oliver,
one finger brushing his nose like a rattler nosing a dead mouse. "I don make no move without my boys," says Oswald Williams, his hands
curled like scorpion tails.Together they walk down the street, moving with slow insolence,
their lips curled in snarls or slack with indifference, their eyes
glittering with hidden hatreds. But they are not alone in the city.The college boys are coming, in their dirty jeans and beer-stained
tee-shirts; so too are the lawyers, in dusty jackets and leather pants;
so come the doctors and the businessmen, on stolen motorcycles; the
bricklayers and gas station attendants, the beatniks and dope pushers,
the bankers and lifesaving instructors, the butchers, the bakers, the
candlestick makers... they are all coming, flocking into the city for
reasons not their own, wandering in twos and threes and twenties, all
of them sullen and quiet, all of them shuffling beneath darkly-hued
clouds of ill intent, all of them proud and deadly and virile, filling
the streets by the thousands now, turning the streets into rivers of
flesh....
"Hey, Johnny," says Chester, "let's cool this dump. ""Man, let's make it with the skirts," says Bartholomew. "I don see no skirts," says Chester. "You pig," snarls Ozzie.The mob is monstrous now, like a pride of lion cubs, beyond count in
their number, without equal in their leonine strength, above the common
quick in their immortal pride, milling through the hot black veldt,
swarming in the city streets.Millions of them, more than the eye can
see or the mind can bear. It seems that no man sleeps, that every male
in the great city must walk tonight. "Johnny," says Chester, "I don dig no chicks on the turf." "Eeee, colay.What a drag," whispers Bartholomew. "You goddam logical positivist," snarls Ozzie. * * * * *
An uneasy sound ripples through the mob, like the angry hiss of an
injured ego, moving from street to street and swelling upward in a
sudden, angry roar ... they want their women, the dance-hall girls,
the young waitresses, the nowhere chicks in five dollar dresses,
the Spanish girls with eyes as dark as the Spanish night.And then,
as though by accident, one man looks up at the starry sky and sees
_her_--sees her standing on a balcony far above them, twenty stories
above them, up where the wind can blow her hair and billow her blue
dress like an orchid of the night.She laughs gently, without fear, gazing down at the mindless mob of
rebels. They laugh too, just as gently, their quiet eyes crawling over the
sight of her body, far above. "Thass my chick," whispers Chester. "Cool it, daddy," says Bartholomew, slipping into a pair of dark
glasses and touching his lips with the tip of his tongue. "That skirt
is private property." "You boys may walk and talk," says Ozzie, "but you don play. You don
play with Rio's girl. "Suddenly, angry words and clenched fists erupt from the proud, quiet
millions that flood the streets. Suddenly, a roar like the roar of
lions rises up and buffets the girl in blue, the girl on the balcony.She laughs again, for she knows that they are fighting for her. A figure appears on the balcony, next to the girl. | Aandahl, Vance - 1,492,633 Marlon Brandos |
The figure is a man,
and he too is dressed in blue. Suddenly, just as suddenly as it began,
the fighting ceases. "My God," whispers Chester, his cheeks gone pale, "what am I doing out
here?" "Maybe I got the D.T.s," whispers Bartholomew, "but maybe I don't...."
He sits down on the curb and rubs his head in disbelief. Oswald does not speak.His shame is the greatest. He slinks into the
darkness of an alley and briefly wishes for an overcoat.The pride of lion cubs has been routed, and now they scatter, each one
scrambling for his private den of security, each one lost in a wild and
nameless fear.In twos and threes and twenties they rush back to their
homes, their wives, their endless lives. Far above, in the apartment with the balcony, a man in blue is chiding
a girl in blue. "That was scarcely reasonable, Dorothy. ""But Daddy, you promised to let me have them for the entire night!" "Yes, but...."
"I wasn't really going to let them hurt themselves! Really, I wasn't!" "But, Dorothy--you know these things can get out of hand. ""Oh, but Daddy, you know how I adore strong, quiet, proud men. Rebellious men like Marlon." "Yes, and you know how _I_ adore order and peace. There shall be _no_
more riots!And tomorrow our little puppets shall go back to their
'dull' lives, as you so wittily put it, and everything shall be as I
wish. "* * * * *
Three hours later, Chester McRae arose at the sound of the alarm,
dressed in a stupor and stumbled into his kitchen for breakfast. "My goodness, Chester," said his wife, who had already arisen, "you
look grouchier than usual! Ha, ha!" He smiled wanly and opened the morning paper.Halfway across town, Bartholomew Oliver was still asleep, casually lost
in the pleasures of an erotic dream.But Professor Oswald Williams, his
tiny jaw unshaven and his eager eyes shot through with fatigue, had
been hard at work for three hours, scribbling down his latest exposure
of the logical positivists. | Aandahl, Vance - 1,492,633 Marlon Brandos |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1952.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.Freudian Slip
By FRANKLIN ABEL
Illustrated by HARRINGTON
Things are exactly what they seem? Life is real? Life is
earnest? Well, that depends. * * * * *
On the day the Earth vanished, Herman Raye was earnestly fishing for
trout, hip-deep in a mountain stream in upstate New York.Herman was a tall, serious, sensitive, healthy, well-muscled young man
with an outsize jaw and a brush of red-brown hair. He wore spectacles
to correct a slight hyperopia, and they had heavy black rims because
he knew his patients expected it.In his off hours, he was fond of
books with titles like _Personality and the Behavior Disorders_,
_Self-esteem and Sexuality in Women_, _Juvenile Totem and Taboo: A
study of adolescent culture-groups_, and _A New Theory of Economic
Cycles_; but he also liked baseball, beer and bebop.This day, the last of Herman's vacation, was a perfect specimen: sunny
and still, the sky dotted with antiseptic tufts of cloud. The trout
were biting.Herman had two in his creel, and was casting into the
shallow pool across the stream in the confident hope of getting
another, when the Universe gave one horrible sliding lurch.Herman braced himself instinctively, shock pounding through his body,
and looked down at the pebbly stream-bed under his feet. It wasn't there.He was standing, to all appearances, in three feet of clear water with
sheer, black nothing under it: nothing, the abysmal color of a
moonless night, pierced by the diamond points of a half-dozen
incredible stars.He had only that single glimpse; then he found himself gazing across
at the pool under the far bank, whose waters reflected the tranquil
imagery of trees.He raised his casting rod, swung it back over his
shoulder, brought it forward again with a practiced flick of his
wrist, and watched the lure drop.Within the range of his vision now, everything was entirely normal;
nevertheless, Herman wanted very much to stop fishing and look down to
see if that horrifying void was still there. He couldn't do it. Doggedly, he tried again and again.The result was always the same. It
was exactly as if he were a man who had made up his mind to fling
himself over a cliff, or break a window and snatch a loaf of bread, or
say in a loud voice to an important person at a party, "I think you
stink. "Determination was followed by effort, by ghastly, sweating,
heart-stopping fear, by relief as he gave up and did something else. _All right_, he thought finally, _there's no point going on with it_._Data established: hallucination, compulsion, inhibition._ _Where do
we go from here?_
The obvious first hypothesis was that he was insane. Herman considered
that briefly, and left the question open.Three or four selected
psychoanalyst jokes paraded through his mind, led by the classic,
"You're fine, how am I? "There was this much truth, he thought, in the popular belief that all
analysts were a little cracked themselves: a good proportion of the
people who get all the way through the man-killing course that makes
an orthodox analyst--a course in which an M.D.degree is only a
beginning--are impelled to do so in the first place by a consuming
interest in their own neuroses.Herman, for example, from the age of
fifteen up until the completion of his own analysis at twenty-six, had
been so claustrophobic that he couldn't force himself into a subway
car or an elevator. But was he now insane? Can a foot-rule measure itself?Herman finished. At an appropriate hour he waded ashore, cleaned his
catch, cooked it and ate it. Where the ground had been bare around his
cooking spot, he saw empty darkness, star-studded, rimmed by a tangled
webwork of bare rootlets.He tried to go on looking at it when he had
finished eating the fish. He couldn't. After the meal, he tried to take out his notebook and pen. He
couldn't.In fact, it occurred to him, _he was helpless to do anything that he
wouldn't normally have done_. Pondering that discovery, after he had cleaned his utensils and
finished his other chores, Herman crawled into his tent and went to
sleep.Burying the garbage had been an unsettling experience.Like a lunatic
building a machine nobody else can see, he had lifted successive
shovels-full of nothing, dropped the empty cans and rubbish ten inches
into nothing, and shoveled nothing carefully over them again....
* * * * *
The light woke him, long before dawn.From where he lay on his back,
he could see an incredible pale radiance streaming upward all around
him, outlining the shadow of his body at the ridge of the tent,
picking out the under-surfaces of the trees against the night sky.He
strained, until he was weak and dizzy, to roll over so that he could
see its source; but he had to give up and wait another ten minutes
until his body turned "naturally," just as if he had still been
asleep.Then he was looking straight down into a milky transparency that
started under his nose and continued into unguessable depths.First
came the matted clumps of grass, black against the light, every blade
and root as clear as if they had been set in transparent plastic. Then
longer, writhing roots of trees and shrubs, sprouting thickets of
hair-thin rootlets.Between these, and continuing downward level by
level, was spread an infinity of tiny specks, seed-shapes, spores. Some of them moved, Herman realized with a shock. Insects burrowing
in the emptiness where the Earth should be?In the morning, when he crawled out of the tent and went to the
bottomless stream to wash, he noticed something he had missed the day
before. The network of grasses gave springily under his feet--not like
turf, but like stretched rubber.Herman conceived an instant dislike
for walking, especially when he had to cross bare ground, because when
that happened, he felt exactly what he saw: nothing whatever
underfoot. "Walking on air," he realized, was not as pleasant an
experience as the popular songs would lead you to expect. Herman shaved, cooked and ate breakfast, washed the dishes, did the
chores, and packed up his belongings.With a mighty effort, he pried
out the tent stakes, which were bedded in nothing but a loose network
of roots. He shouldered the load and carried it a quarter of a mile
through pine woods to his car.The car stood at ground level, but the ground was not there any more. The road was now nothing more than a long, irregular trough formed by
the spreading roots of the pines on either side.Shuddering, Herman
stowed his gear in the trunk and got in behind the wheel. When he put the motor into gear, the sedan moved sedately and normally
forward. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
But the motor raced madly, and there was no feeling that it
was taking hold.With screaming engine, Herman drove homeward over a
nonexistent road. Inwardly and silently, he gibbered. Six miles down the mountain, he pulled up beside a white-painted fence
enclosing a neat yard and a fussy little blue-shuttered house.On the
opposite side of the fence stood a middle-aged woman with a floppy hat
awry on her head and a gardening trowel in one of her gloved hands. She looked up with an air of vague dismay when he got out of the car. "Some more eggs today, Dr. Raye? "she asked, and smiled. The smile was
like painted china. Her eyes, lost in her fleshy face, were clearly
trying not to look downward. "Not today, Mrs. Richards," Herman said. "I just stopped to say
good-by. I'm on my way home." "Isn't that a shame? "she said mechanically. "Well, come again next
year." Herman wanted to say, "Next year I'll probably be in a strait-jacket." He tried to say it. He stuttered, "N-n-n-n--" and ended, glancing at
the ground at her feet, "Transplanting some petunias? "The woman's mouth worked. She said, "Yes. I thought I might's well put
them along here, where they'd get more sun. Aren't they pretty?" "Very pretty," said Herman helplessly.The petunias, roots as naked as if they had been scrubbed, were
nesting in a bed of stars. Mrs. Richards' gloves and trowel were
spotlessly clean. * * * * *
On Fourth Avenue, below Fourteenth Street, Herman met two frightful
little men. He had expected the city to be better, but it was worse; it was a
nightmare.The avenues between the buildings were bottomless troughs
of darkness. The bedrock was gone; the concrete was gone; the asphalt
was gone. The buildings themselves were hardly recognizable unless you knew what
they were.New York had been a city of stone--built on stone, built of
stone, as cold as stone. Uptown, the city looked half-built, but insanely occupied, a forest of
orange-painted girders. In the Village the old brick houses were
worse.No brick; no mortar; nothing but the grotesque shells of rooms
in lath and a paper-thickness of paint. The wrought-iron railings were gone, too.On Fourth Avenue, bookseller's row, you could almost persuade yourself
that nothing had happened, provided you did not look down. The
buildings had been made of wood, and wood they remained.The
second-hand books in their wooden racks would have been comforting
except that they were so clean. There was not a spot of dirt anywhere;
the air was more than country-pure. There was an insane selective principle at work here, Herman realized.Everything from bedrock to loam that belonged to the Earth itself had
disappeared.So had everything that had a mineral origin and been
changed by refinement and mixture: concrete, wrought iron, brick, but
steel and glass, porcelain and paint remained.It looked as if the
planet had been the joint property of two children, one of whom didn't
want to play any more, so they had split up their possessions--this is
yours, this is yours, this is _mine_....The two little men popped into view not six feet in front of Herman as
he was passing a sidewalk bookstall. Both were dressed in what looked
like workmen's overalls made of lucite chain-mail, or knitted
glow-worms.One of them had four eyes, two brown, two blue, with
spectacles for the middle pair. Ears grew like cabbages all over his
bald head.The other had two eyes, the pupils of which were
cross-shaped, and no other discernible features except when he opened
his gap-toothed mouth: the rest of his head, face and all, was
completely covered by a dense forest of red hair.As they came forward, Herman's control of his body suddenly returned. He was trying his best to turn around and go away from there, and that
was what his body started to do.Moreover, certain sounds of a
prayerful character, namely "Oh dear sweet Jesus," which Herman was
forming in his mind, involuntarily issued from his lips.Before he had taken the first step in a rearward direction, however,
the hairy little man curved around him in a blur of motion, barring
the way with two long, muscular, red-furred arms. Herman turned. The
four-eyed little man had closed in.Herman, gasping, backed up against
the bookstall.People who were headed directly for them, although showing no
recognition that Herman and the little men were there, moved stiffly
aside like dancing automatons, strode past, then made another stiff
sidewise motion to bring them back to the original line of march
before they went on their way. "Olaph dzenn Härm Rai gjo glerr-dregnarr?" demanded Hairy. Herman gulped, half-stunned. "Huh?" he said. Hairy turned to Four-Eyes. "Grinnr alaz harisi nuya." "Izzred alph! Meggi erd-halaza riggbörd els kamma gredyik. Lukhhal! "Hairy turned back to Herman. Blinking his eyes rapidly, for they
closed like the shutter of a camera, he made a placating gesture with
both huge furry hands. "Kelagg ikri odrum faz," he said, and, reaching
out to the bookstall, he plucked out a handful of volumes, fanned them
like playing cards and displayed them to Four-Eyes.A heated
discussion ensued, at the end of which Hairy kept _For Whom the Bell
Tolls_, Four-Eyes took _The Blonde in the Bathtub_, and Hairy threw
the rest away.Then, while Herman gaped and made retching sounds, the two disgusting
little men tore pages out of the books and stuffed them in their
mouths. When they finished the pages, they ate the bindings.Then
there was a rather sick pause while they seemed to digest the contents
of the books they had literally devoured. Herman had the wild thought
that they were blurb writers whose jobs had gone to their heads.The one with the four eyes rolled three of them horribly. "That's more
like it," he said in nasal but recognizable English. "Let's start
over. Are you Herman Raye, the skull doc?" Herman produced a series of incoherent sounds. "My brother expresses himself crudely," said Hairy in a rich, fruity
baritone. "Please forgive him. He is a man of much heart." "Uh?" said Herman. "Truly," said Hairy. "And of much ears," he added with a glance at his
companion. "But again, as to this affair--tell me true, are you Herman
Raye, the analyst of minds?" "Suppose I am?" Herman asked cautiously. Hairy turned to Four-eyes. "Arghraz iktri 'Suppose I am,' Gurh?Olaph
iktri erz ogromat, lekh--"
"Talk English, can't you?" Four-eyes broke in. "You know he don't
understand that caveman jabber. Anyhow, yeah, yeah, it's him. He just
don't want to say so." He reached out and took Herman by the collar. "Come on, boy, the boss is waitin'." There were two circular hair-lines of glowing crimson where Hairy and
Four-eyes had originally appeared. They reached the spot in one jump,
Hairy bringing up the rear. "But tell me truly," he said anxiously. "You _are_ that same Herman
Raye?" Herman paid no attention. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Below, under the two glowing circles, was
the terrifying gulf that had replaced the Earth; and this time, Herman
was somehow convinced, it was not going to hold him up. "Let go! "he shouted, struggling. "Ouch!" He had struck Four-eyes
squarely on the flat nose, and it felt as if he had slugged an anvil.Paying no attention, Four-eyes turned Herman over, pinned his arms to
his sides, and dropped him neatly through the larger of the two
circles. Herman shut his eyes tightly and despairingly repeated the
multiplication table up to 14 x 14.When he opened them again, he was
apparently hanging in mid-space, with Hairy to his left and Four-eyes
to his right. The visible globe around them was so curiously tinted
and mottled that it took Herman a long time to puzzle it out.Ahead of
them was the darkest area--the void he had seen before. This was oval
in shape, and in places the stars shone through it clearly. In others,
they were blocked off entirely or dimmed by a sort of haze.Surrounding this, and forming the rest of the sphere, was an area that
shaded from gold shot with violet at the borders, to an unbearable
blaze of glory at the center, back the way they had come and a little
to the right.Within this lighted section were other amorphous areas
which were much darker, almost opaque; and still others where the
light shone through diluted to a ruddy ghost of itself, like
candlelight through parchment.Gradually Herman realized that the shapes and colors he saw were the
lighted and dark hemispheres of Earth.The dark areas were the oceans,
deep enough in most places to shut out the light altogether, and those
parts of the continents, North and South America behind him, Europe
and Asia ahead, Africa down to the right, which were heavily forested.Herman's earlier conviction returned. Things like this just did not
happen. _Physician, heal thyself!_
"You're not real," he said bitterly to Four-eyes. "Not very," Four-eyes agreed. "I'm twice as real as that jerk,
though," he insisted, pointing to Hairy. Ahead of them, or "below," a point of orange light was slowly
swelling. Herman watched it without much interest. Hairy broke out into a torrent of cursing. "I this and that in the
milk of your this!" he said. "I this, that and the other in the this
of your that. Your sister! Your cousin! Your grandmother's uncle!" Four-eyes listened with awed approval. "Them was good books, hah?" he
asked happily. "Better than those scratchings in the caves," Hairy said. "Something to think about till they haul us out again. Well," said
Four-eyes philosophically, "here we are. "* * * * *
The orange spot had enlarged into the semblance of a lighted room,
rather like a stage setting. Inside were two enormous Persons, one
sitting, one standing.Otherwise, and except for three upholstered
chairs, the room was bare. No--as they swooped down toward it, Herman
blinked and looked again. A leather couch had appeared against the far
wall.At the last moment, there was a flicker of motion off to Herman's
left.Something that looked like a short, pudgy human being
accompanied by two little men the size of Hairy and Four-eyes whooshed
off into the distance, back toward the surface of the planet. Herman landed.Hairy and Four-eyes, after bowing low to the standing
Person, turned and leaped out of the room. When Herman, feeling
abandoned, turned to see where they had gone, he discovered that the
room now had four walls and no windows or doors.The Person said, "How do you do, Doctor Raye?" Herman looked at him. Although his figure had a disquieting tendency
to quiver and flow, so that it was hard to judge, he seemed to be
about eight feet tall.He was dressed in what would have seemed an
ordinary dark-blue business suit, with an equally ordinary white shirt
and blue tie, except that all three garments had the sheen of polished
metal.His face was bony and severe, but not repellently so; he looked
absent-minded rather than stern. The other Person, whose suit was brown, had a broad, kindly and rather
stupid face; his hair was white.He sat quietly, not looking at
Herman, or, apparently, at anything else. Herman sat down in one of the upholstered chairs. "All right," he said
with helpless defiance. "What's it all about? ""I'm glad we can come to the point at once," said the Person. He
paused, moving his lips silently. "Ah, excuse me. I'm sorry." A second
head, with identical features, popped into view next to the first. His
eyes were closed. "It's necessary, I'm afraid," said head number one
apologetically. "I have so much to remember, you know." Herman took a deep breath and said nothing. "You may call me Secundus, if you like," resumed the Person, "and this
gentleman Primus, since it is with him that you will have principally
to deal.Now, our problem here is one of amnesia, and I will confess
to you frankly that we ourselves are totally inadequate to cope with
it.In theory, we are not subject to disorders of the mind, and that's
what makes us so vulnerable now that it has happened. Do you see?" A fantastic suspicion crept into Herman's mind. "Just a moment," he
said carefully. "If you don't mind telling me, what is it that you
have to remember?" "Well, Doctor, my field is human beings; that's why it became my duty
to search you out and consult with you.And there _is_ a great deal
for me to carry in my mind, you know, especially under these abnormal
conditions. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say it is a
full-time job. ""Are you going to tell me," asked Herman, more carefully still, "that
this--gentleman--is the one who is supposed to remember the Earth
itself? The rocks and minerals and so on?" "Yes, exactly.I was about to tell you--"
"And that the planet has disappeared because he has amnesia?" Herman
demanded on a rising note. Secundus beamed. "Concisely expressed.I myself, being, so to speak,
saturated with the thoughts and habits of human beings, who are, you
must admit, a garrulous race, could not--"
"Oh, no!" said Herman. "Oh, yes," Secundus corrected. "I can understand that the idea is
difficult for you to accept, since you naturally believe that you
yourself have a real existence, or, to be more precise, that you
belong to the world of phenomena as opposed to that of noumena." He
beamed. "Now I will be silent, a considerable task for me, and let you
ask questions." Herman fought a successful battle with his impulse to stand Up and
shout "To hell with it!" He had been through a great deal, but he was
a serious and realistic young man.He set himself to think the problem
through logically.If, as seemed more than probable, Secundus, Primus,
Hairy, Four-eyes, and this whole Alice-in-Wonderland situation existed
only as his hallucinations, then it did not matter much whether he
took them seriously or not.If they were real, then he wasn't, and
vice versa. It didn't make any difference which was which. He relaxed deliberately and folded his hands against his abdomen. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
"Let
me see if I can get this clear," he said. "I'm a noumenon, not a
phenomenon.In cruder terms, I exist only in your mind. Is that true?" Secundus beamed. "Correct." "If _you_ got amnesia, I and the rest of the human race would
disappear. "Secundus looked worried, "That is also correct, and if that should
happen, you will readily understand that we _would_ be in difficulty. The situation is extremely--But pardon me. I had promised to be silent
except when answering questions. ""This is the part I fail to understand, Mr. Secundus. I gather that
you brought me here to treat Mr. Primus. Now, if I exist as a thought
in your mind, you necessarily know everything I know. Why don't you
treat him yourself? "Secundus shook his head disapprovingly. "Oh, no, Dr. Raye, that is not
the case at all. It cannot be said that I _know_ everything that you
know; rather we should say that I _remember_ you.In other words, that
I maintain your existence by an act of memory. The two functions,
knowledge and memory, are not identical, although, of course, the
second cannot be considered to exist without the first.But before we
become entangled in our own terms, I should perhaps remind you that
when I employ the word 'memory' I am only making use of a convenient
approximation.Perhaps it would be helpful to say that my memory is
comparable to the structure-memory of a living organism, although
that, too, has certain semantic disadvantages. Were you about to make
a remark, Doctor? ""It still seems to me," Herman said stubbornly, "that if you remember
me, structurally or otherwise, that includes everything I remember.If
you're going to tell me that you remember human knowledge, including
Freudian theory and practice, but are unable to manipulate it, that
seems to me to be contradicted by internal evidence in what you've
already said.For example, it's clear that in the field of
epistemology--the knowledge of knowledge, you might say--you have the
knowledge _and_ manipulate it." "Ah," said Secundus, smiling shyly, "but, you see, that happens to be
my line.Psychoanalysis and psychotherapy, being specializations, are
not. As I mentioned previously, persons of our order are theoretically
not capable of psychic deterioration. That is why we come to you, Dr.
Raye.We are unable to help ourselves; we ask your help. We place
ourselves unreservedly in your hands." The question, "How was I chosen?" occurred to Herman, but he left it
unasked.He knew that the answer was much likelier to be, "At random,"
than, "Because we wanted the most brilliant and talented psychoanalyst
on the planet." "I gather that I'm not the first person you've tried," he said. "Oh, you saw Dr. Buddolphson departing? Yes, it is true that in our
ignorance of the subject we did not immediately turn to practitioners
of your psychological orientation.In fact, if you will not be
offended, I may say that you are practically our last hope.We have
already had one eminent gentleman whose method was simply to talk over
Mr. Primus's problems with him and endeavor to help him reach an
adjustment; he failed because Mr. Primus, so far as he is aware, has
no problems except that he has lost his memory.Then we had another
whose system, as he explained it to me, was simply to repeat, in a
sympathetic manner, everything that the patient said to him; Mr.
Primus was not sufficiently prolix for this method to be of avail. "Then there was another who wished to treat Mr. Primus by encouraging
him to relive his past experiences: 'taking him back along the
time-track,' as he called it; but--" Secundus looked mournful--"Mr.
Primus has actually _had_ no experiences in the usual sense of the
term, though he very obligingly made up a number of them.Our
ontogeny, Dr. Raye, is so simple that it can scarcely be said to
exist at all. Each of us normally has only one function, the one I
have already mentioned, and, until this occurrence, it has always been
fulfilled successfully. "We also had a man who proposed to reawaken Mr. Primus's memory by
electric shock, but Mr. Primus is quite impervious to currents of
electricity and we were unable to hit upon an acceptable substitute.In short, Dr. Raye, if you should prove unable to help us, we will
have no one left to fall back upon except, possibly, the Yogi." "They might do you more good, at that," Herman said, looking at Mr. Primus. "Well, I'll do what I can, though the function of analysis is
to get the patient to accept reality, and this is the opposite.What
can you tell me, to begin with, about Mr. Primus's personality, the
onset of the disturbance, and so on--and, in particular, what are you
two? Who's your boss? What's it all for and how does it work? "Secundus said, "I can give you very little assistance, I am afraid. I
would characterize Primus as a very steady person, extremely accurate
in his work, but not very imaginative.His memory loss occurred
abruptly, as you yourself witnessed yesterday afternoon. As to your
other questions--forgive me, Dr. Raye, but it is to your own advantage
if I fail to answer them.I am, of course, the merest amateur in
psychology, but I sincerely feel that your own psyche might be damaged
if you were to learn the fragment of the truth which I could give
you." He paused.A sheaf of papers, which Herman had not noticed before, lay
on a small table that he had not noticed, either. Secundus picked them
up and handed them over. "Here are testing materials," he said. "If you need anything else, you
have only to call on me.But I trust you will find these complete." He turned to go. "And one more thing, Dr. Raye," he said with an
apologetic smile. "_Hurry_, if you possibly can. "* * * * *
Primus, looking rather like a sarcophagus ornament, lay limply supine
on the ten-foot couch, arms at his sides, eyes closed.When Herman had
first told him to relax, Primus had had to have the word carefully
explained to him; from then on he had done it--or seemed to do
it--perfectly.In his preliminary tests, the Binet, the Minnesota Multiphasic
Personality Index and the Berneuter P.I., he had drawn almost a
complete blank. Standard testing methods did not work on Mr. Primus,
and the reason was obvious enough.Mr. Primus simply was not a human
being. This room, no doubt, was an illusion, and so was Mr. Primus's
anthropomorphic appearance....
Herman felt like a surgeon trying to operate blindfolded while wearing
a catcher's mitt on each hand.But he kept trying; he was getting
results, though whether or not they meant anything, he was unable to
guess. On the Rorschach they had done a little better, at least in volume of
response. "That looks like a cliff," Primus would say eagerly. "That
looks like a--piece of sandstone. This part looks like two volcanoes
and a cave." Of course, Herman realized, the poor old gentleman was
only trying to please him.He had no more idea than a goldfish what a
volcano or a rock looked like, but he wanted desperately to help. | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Even so, it was possible to score the results.According to Herman's
interpretation, Primus was a case of arrested infantile sexualism,
with traces of conversion hysteria and a strong Oedipus complex. Herman entered the protocol solemnly in his notes and kept going.Next came free association, and, after that, recounting of dreams. Feeling that he might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, Herman
carefully explained to Primus what "sleep" and "dreams" were.Primus had promised to do his best; he had been lying there now,
without moving, for--how long? Startled, Herman looked at his watch. It had stopped.Scoring the Rorschach alone, Herman realized suddenly, should have
taken him nearly a full day, even considering the fact that he hadn't
eaten anything, or taken time out to rest, or--Herman bewilderedly
felt his jaw.There was only the slightest stubble. He didn't feel
hungry or tired, or cramped from sitting.... "Secundus!" he called. A door opened in the wall to his right, and Secundus stepped through. The door disappeared. "Yes, Dr. Raye? Is anything wrong? ""How long have I been here?" Secundus' right-hand head looked embarrassed. "Well, Doctor, without
bringing in the difficult questions of absolute versus relative
duration, and the definition of an arbitrary position--"
"Don't stall.How long have I been here in my own subjective time?" "Well, I was about to say, without being unnecessarily inclusive, the
question is still very difficult.However, bearing in mind that the
answer is only a rough approximation--about one hundred hours." Herman rubbed his chin. "I don't like your tampering with me," he said
slowly. "You've speeded me up--is that it?And at the same time
inhibited my fatigue reactions, and God knows what else, so that I
didn't even notice I'd been working longer than I normally could until
just now?" Secundus looked distressed. "I'm afraid I have made rather a botch of
it, Dr. Raye. I should not have allowed you to notice at all, but it
is growing increasingly difficult to restrain your fellow-creatures to
their ordinary routines. My attention strayed, I am sorry to say. "He
glanced at the recumbent form of Primus. "My word! What is Mr. Primus
doing, Dr. Raye?" "Sleeping," Herman answered curtly. "Remarkable! I hope he does not make a habit of it. Will he awaken
soon, do you think, Doctor? ""I have no idea," said Herman helplessly; but at that moment Primus
stirred, opened his eyes, and sat up with his usual vague, kindly
smile. "Did you dream?" Herman asked him. Primus blinked slowly. "Yes.Yes, I did," he said in his profoundly
heavy voice. "Tell me all you can remember about it." "Well," said Primus, sinking back onto the couch, "I dreamed I was in
a room with a large bed. It had heavy wooden posts and a big bolster.I wanted to lie down and rest in the bed, but the bolster made me
uncomfortable.It was too dark to see, to rearrange the bed, so I
tried to light a candle, but the matches kept going out...."
Herman took it all down, word for word, with growing excitement and
growing dismay. The dream was too good.It might have come out of Dr.
Freud's original case histories. When Primus had finished, Herman
searched back through his notes. Did Primus _know_ what a bed was, or
what a bolster was, or a candle? How much had Herman told him? "Bed" was there, of course. Primus: "What are 'dreams?'" Herman:
"Well, when a human being goes to bed, and sleeps...." "Bolster" was
there, too, but not in the same sense.Herman: "To bolster its
argument, the unconscious--what we call the id--frequently alters the
person's likes and dislikes on what seem to be petty and commonplace
subjects...." And "candle? "Herman: "I want you to understand that I
don't know all about this subject myself, Mr. Primus. Nobody does; our
knowledge is just a candle in the darkness...."
Herman gave up. He glanced at Secundus, who was watching him
expectantly. "May I talk to you privately?" "Of course." Secundus nodded to Primus, who stood up awkwardly and
then vanished with a _pop_. Secundus tut-tutted regretfully. Herman took a firm grip on himself. "Look," he said, "the data I have
now suggest that Primus had some traumatic experience in his infancy
which arrested his development in various ways and also strengthened
his Oedipus complex--that is, intensified his feelings of fear, hatred
and rivalry toward his father.Now, that may sound to you as if we're
making some progress. I would feel that way myself--if I had the
slightest reason for believing that Primus ever had a father." Secundus started to speak; but Herman cut him off. "Wait, let me
finish.I can go ahead on that basis, but as far as I'm concerned I
might just as well be counting the angels on the head of a pin. You've
got to give me more information, Secundus.I want to know who you are,
and who Primus is, and whether there's any other being with whom
Primus could possibly have a filial relationship.And if you can't
tell me all that without giving me the Secret of the Universe, then
you'd better give it to me whether it's good for me or not. I can't
work in the dark." Secundus pursed his lips. "There is justice in what you say, Doctor.Very well, I shall be entirely frank with you--in so far as it is
possible for me to do so of course. Let's see, where can I begin?" "First question," retorted Herman. "Who are you? ""We are--" Secundus thought a moment, then spread his hands with a
helpless smile. "There are no words, Doctor.To put the case in
negatives, we are not evolved organisms, we are not mortal, we are
not, speaking in the usual sense, alive, although, of course--I hope
you will not be offended--neither are you." Herman's brow wrinkled. "Are you _real_? "he demanded finally. Secundus looked embarrassed. "You have found me out, Dr. Raye. I
endeavored to give you that impression--through vanity, I am ashamed
to say--but, unhappily, it is not true. I, too, belong to the realm of
noumena. ""Then, blast it all, what _is_ real? This planet isn't. You're not. What's it all for?" He paused a moment reflectively. "We're getting on
to my second question, about Primus's attitude toward his 'father. 'Perhaps I should have asked just now, '_Who_ is real?' Who remembers
you, Secundus?" "This question, unfortunately, is the one I cannot answer with
complete frankness, Doctor.I assure you that it is not because I do
not wish to; I have no option in the matter. I can tell you only that
there is a Person of whom it might be said that He stands in the
parental relationship to Primus, to me, and all the rest of our
order.""God?" Herman inquired. "Jahweh? Allah?" "Please, no names, Doctor." Secundus looked apprehensive. "Then, damn it, tell me the rest! "Herman realized vaguely that he was
soothing his own hurt vanity at Secundus's expense, but he was
enjoying himself too much to stop. "You're afraid of something; that's
been obvious right along.And there must be a time limit on it, or you
wouldn't be rushing me. Why? | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Are you afraid that if this unnamable
Person finds out you've botched your job, He'll wipe you out of
existence and start over with a new bunch? "A cold wind blew down Herman's back. "Not us alone, Dr. Raye," said
Secundus gravely. "If the Inspector discovers this blunder--and the
time is coming soon when He must--no corrections will be attempted. When a mistake occurs, it is--painted out. ""Oh," said Herman after a moment. He sat down again, weakly. "How long
have we got?" "Approximately one and a quarter days have gone by at the Earth's
normal rate since Primus lost his memory," Secundus said. "I have not
been able to 'speed you up,' as you termed it, by more than a
twenty-to-one ratio. The deadline will have arrived, by my
calculation, in fifteen minutes of normal time, or five hours at your
present accelerated rate. "Primus stepped into the room, crossed to the couch and lay down
placidly. Secundus turned to go, then paused. "As for your final question, Doctor--you might think of the Universe
as a Pointillist painting, in which this planet is one infinitesimally
small dot of color.The work is wholly imaginary, of course, since
neither the canvas nor the pigment has what you would term an
independent existence. Nevertheless, the artist takes it seriously. He
would not care to find, so to speak, mustaches daubed on it. "Herman sat limply, staring after him as he moved to the door. Secundus
turned once more. "I hope you will not think that I am displeased with you, Doctor," he
said. "On the contrary, I feel that you are accomplishing more than
anyone else has.However, should you succeed, as I devoutly hope,
there may not be sufficient time to congratulate you as you deserve.I
shall have to replace you immediately in your normal world-line, for
your absence would constitute as noticeable a flaw as that of the
planet. In that event, my present thanks and congratulations will have
to serve. "With a friendly smile, he disappeared. Herman wound his watch. Two hours later, Primus's answers to his questions began to show a
touch of resentment and surly defiance._Transference_, Herman
thought, with a constriction of his throat, and kept working
desperately. Three hours. "What does the bolster remind you of? ""I seem to see a big cylinder rolling through space, sweeping the
stars out of its way...."
Four hours. Only three minutes left now, in the normal world. _I can't
wait to get any deeper_, Herman thought._It's got to be now or
never._
"You must understand that these feelings of resentment and hatred are
normal," he said, trying to keep the strain out of his voice, "but, at
the same time, you have outgrown them--you can rise above them now.You are an individual in your own right, Primus. You have a job to do
that only you can fill, and it's an important job. That's what
matters, not all this infantile emotional clutter...."
He talked on, not daring to look at his watch.Primus looked up, and a huge smile broke over his face. He began,
"Why, of--"
* * * * *
Herman found himself walking along Forty-second Street, heading toward
the Hudson.The pavement was solid under his feet; the canyon between
the buildings was filled with the soft violet-orange glow of a summer
evening in New York. In the eyes of the people he passed, he saw the
same incredulous relief he felt. It was over.He'd done it. He'd broken all the rules, but, incredibly, he'd got results. Then he looked up and a chill spread over him.No one who knew the
city would accept that ithyphallic parody as the Empire State
Building, or those huge fleshy curves, as wanton as the mountains in
which Mr. Maugham's "Sadie Thompson" had her lusty existence, as the
prosaic hills of New Jersey.Psychoanalysis had certainly removed Mr. Primus's inhibitions. The
world was like a fence scrawled on by a naughty little boy. Mr. Primus
would outgrow it in time, but life until then might be somewhat
disconcerting.Those two clouds, for instance....
--FRANKLIN ABEL | Abel, Franklin - Freudian Slip |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Adam Buchbinder, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
JUNIOR
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January
1956.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.] _All younger generations have been going to the dogs ... but this
one was genuinely sunk!_
"Junior!" bellowed Pater. "_Junior!_" squeaked Mater, a quavering echo. "Strayed off again--the young idiot! If he's playing in the shallows,
with this tide going out...." Pater let the sentence hang blackly.He leaned upslope as far as he could stretch, angrily scanning the
shoreward reaches where light filtered more brightly down through the
murky water, where the sea-surface glinted like bits of broken mirror. No sign of Junior.Mater was peering fearfully in the other direction, toward where, as
daylight faded, the slope of the coastal shelf was fast losing itself
in green profundity.Out there, out of sight at this hour, the reef
that loomed sheltering above them fell away in an abrupt cliffhead, and
the abyss began. "Oh, oh," sobbed Mater. "He's lost. He's swum into the abyss and been
eaten by a sea monster. "Her slender stem rippled and swayed on its
base and her delicate crown of pinkish tentacles trailed disheveled in
the pull of the ebbtide. "Pish, my dear!" said Pater. "There are no sea monsters.At worst," he
consoled her stoutly, "Junior may have been trapped in a tidepool." "Oh, oh," gulped Mater. "He'll be eaten by a land monster." "There ARE no land monsters!" snorted Pater.He straightened his stalk
so abruptly that the stone to which he and Mater were conjugally
attached creaked under them. "How often must I assure you, my dear,
that WE are the highest form of life? "(And, as for his world and
geologic epoch, he was quite right.) "Oh, oh," gasped Mater. Her spouse gave her up. "JUNIOR!" he roared in a voice that loosened
the coral along the reef. * * * * *
Round about, the couple's bereavement had begun attracting attention.In the thickening dusk, tentacles paused from winnowing the sea for
their owners' suppers, stalked heads turned curiously here and there in
the colony.Not far away, a threesome of maiden aunts, rooted en brosse
to a single substantial boulder, twittered condolences and watched
Mater avidly. "Discipline!" growled Pater. "That's what he needs! Just wait till I--"
"Now, dear--" began Mater shakily. "Hi, folks!" piped Junior from overhead. His parents swiveled as if on a single stalk. Their offspring was
floating a few fathoms above them, paddling lazily against the ebb;
plainly he had just swum from some crevice in the reef nearby.In one
pair of dangling tentacles he absently hugged a roundish stone, worn
sensuously smooth by pounding surf. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" "Nowhere," said Junior innocently. "Just playing hide-and-go-sink with
the squids. ""With the other polyps," Mater corrected him primly. She detested slang. Pater was eyeing Junior with ominous calm. "And where," he asked, "did
you get that stone?" Junior contracted guiltily.The surfstone slipped from his tentacles
and plumped to the sea-floor in a flurry of sand. He edged away,
stammering, "Well, I guess maybe ... I might have gone a little ways
toward the beach...."
"You guess!When I was a polyp," said Pater, "the small fry obeyed
their elders, and no guess about it!" "Now, dear--" said Mater. "And no spawn of mine," Pater warmed to his lecture, "is going to flout
my words! Junior--COME HERE! "Junior paddled cautiously around the homesite, just out of
tentacle-reach. He said in a small voice, "I won't." "DID YOU HEAR ME?" "Yes," admitted Junior. The neighbors stared.The three maiden aunts clutched one another with
muted shrieks, savoring beforehand the language Pater would now use. But Pater said "Ulp!" --no more. "Now, dear," put in Mater quickly. "We must be patient.You know all
children go through larval stages." "When I was a polyp ..." Pater began rustily. He coughed out an
accidentally inhaled crustacean, and started over: "No spawn of
mine...." Trailing off, he only glared, then roared abruptly, "SPRAT! ""I won't!" said Junior reflexively and backpaddled into the coral
shadows of the reef. "That wallop," seethed Pater, "wants a good polyping. I mean...." He
glowered suspiciously at Mater and the neighbors. "Dear," soothed Mater, "didn't you _notice_? ""Of course, I.... Notice what?" "What Junior was doing ... carrying a stone. I don't suppose he
understands _why_, just yet, but...."
"A stone? Ah, uh, to be sure, a stone. Why, my dear, do you realize
what this _means_? "* * * * *
Pater was once more occupied with improving Mater's mind.It was a long
job, without foreseeable end--especially since he and his helpmeet were
both firmly rooted for life to the same tastefully decorated homesite
(garnished by Pater himself with colored pebbles, shells, urchins and
bits of coral in the rather rococo style which had prevailed during
Pater's courting days as a free-swimming polyp). "Intelligence, my dear," pronounced Pater, "is quite incompatible with
motility. Just think--how could ideas congeal in a brain shuttled
hither and yon, bombarded with ever-changing sense-impressions?Look
at the lower species, which swim about all their lives, incapable of
taking root or thought! True Intelligence, my dear--as distinguished
from Instinct, of course--pre-supposes the fixed viewpoint!" He paused.Mater murmured, "Yes, dear," as she always did obediently at this point. Junior undulated past, swimming toward the abyss. He moved a bit
heavily now; it was growing hard for him to keep his maturely
thickening afterbody in a horizontal posture. "Just look at the young of our own kind," said Pater. "Scatter-brained
larvae, wandering greedily about in search of new stimuli. But, praise
be, they mature at last into sensible sessile adults.While yet the
unformed intellect rebels against the ending of care-free polyphood,
Instinct, the wisdom of Nature, instructs them to prepare for the great
change!" He nodded wisely as Junior came gliding back out of the gloom of deep
water.Junior's tentacles clutched an irregular basalt fragment which
he must have picked up down the rubble-strewn slope. As he paddled
slowly along the rim of the reef, the adult anthozoans located directly
below looked up and hissed irritable warnings.He was swimming a bit more easily now and, if Pater had not been a
firm believer in Instinct, he might have been reminded of the grossly
materialistic theory, propounded by some iconoclast, according to which
a maturing polyp's tendency to grapple objects was merely a matter of
taking on ballast."See!" declared Pater triumphantly. | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
"I don't suppose he understands
_why_, just yet ... but Instinct urges him infallibly to assemble the
materials for his future homesite. "* * * * *
Junior let the rock fragment fall, and began plucking restlessly at a
coral outcropping. "Dear," said Mater, "don't you think you ought to tell him...?" "Ahem!" said Pater. "The wisdom of Instinct--"
"As you've always said, a polyp needs a parent's guidance," remarked
Mater. "_Ahem!_" repeated Pater. He straightened his stalk, and bellowed
authoritatively, "JUNIOR! Come here!" The prodigal polyp swam warily close. "Yes, Pater?" "Junior," said his parent solemnly, "now that you are about to grow
down, it behooves you to know certain facts." Mater blushed a delicate lavender and turned away on her side of the
rock. "Very soon now," said Pater, "you will begin feeling an irresistible
urge ... to sink to the bottom, to take root there in some sheltered
location which will be your lifetime site.Perhaps you even have an
understanding already with some ... ah ... charming young polyp of the
opposite gender, whom you would invite to share your homesite.Or, if
not, you should take all the more pains to make that site as attractive
as possible, in order that such a one may decide to grace it with--"
"Uh-huh," said Junior understandingly. "That's what the fellows mean
when they say any of 'em'll fall for a few high-class rocks." Pater marshaled his thoughts again. "Well, quite apart from such
material considerations as selecting the right rocks, there are
certain ... ah ... matters we do not ordinarily discuss." Mater blushed a more pronounced lavender.The three maiden aunts,
rooted to their boulder within easy earshot of Pater's carrying voice,
put up a respectable pretense of searching one another for nonexistent
water-fleas. "No doubt," said Pater, "in the course of your harum-scarum
adventurings as a normal polyp among polyps, you've noticed the ways
in which the lower orders reproduce themselves; the activities of the
fishes, the crustacea, the marine worms will not have escaped your
attention. ""Uh-huh," said Junior, treading water. * * * * *
"You will have observed that among these there takes place a good
deal of ... ah ... maneuvering for position.But among intelligent,
firmly rooted beings like ourselves, matters are, of course, on a less
crude and direct plane. What among lesser creatures is a question of
tactics belongs, for us, to the realm of strategy." Pater's tone
grew confiding. "Now, Junior, once you're settled you'll realize the
importance of being easy in your mind about your offspring's parentage. Remember, a niche in brine saves trying. Nothing like choosing your
location well in the first place.Study the currents around your
prospective site--particularly their direction and force at such
crucial times as flood-tide.Try to make sure you and your future mate
won't be too close down-current from anybody else's site, since in a
case like that accidents can happen. You understand, Junior?" "Uh-huh," acknowledged Junior. "That's what the fellows mean when they
say don't let anybody get the drop on you." "Well!" said Pater in flat disapproval. "But it all seems sort of silly," said Junior stubbornly. "_I'd_ rather
just keep moving around, and not have to do all that figuring. And the
ocean's full of things I haven't seen yet. I don't _want_ to grow down!" Mater paled with shock. Pater gave his spawn a scalding, scandalized
look. "You'll learn!You can't beat Biology," he said thickly,
creditably keeping his voice down. "Junior, you may go!" Junior bobbled off, and Pater admonished Mater sternly, "We must have
patience, my dear!All children pass through these larval stages...."
"Yes, dear," sighed Mater. * * * * *
At long last, Junior seemed to have resigned himself to making the best
of it.With considerable exertions, hampered by his increasing
bottom-heaviness, he was fetching loads of stones, seaweed and other
debris to a spot downslope, and there laboring over what promised to
be a fairly ambitious cairn.Judging by what they could see of it,
his homesite might even prove a credit to the colony (so went Pater's
thoughts) and attract a mate who would be a good catch (thus Mater
mused).Junior was still to be seen at times along the reef in company with
his free-swimming friends among the other polyps, at some of whom
his parents had always looked askance, fearing they were by no means
well-bred.In fact, there was strong suspicion that some of them--waifs
from the disreputable Shallows district in the hazardous reaches just
below the tide-mark--had never been bred at all, but were products of
budding, a practice frowned on in polite society.However, Junior's appearance and rate of locomotion made it clear
he would soon be done with juvenile follies.As Pater repeated with
satisfaction--you can't beat Biology; as one becomes more and more
bottle-shaped, the romantic illusions of youth must inevitably perish. "I always knew there was sound stuff in the youngster," declared Pater
expansively. "At least he won't be able to go around with those ragamuffins much
longer," breathed Mater thankfully. "What does the young fool think he's doing, fiddling round with
soapstone? "grumbled Pater, peering critically through the green to try
to make out the details of Junior's building. "Doesn't he know it's apt
to slip its place in a year or two? ""Look, dear," hissed Mater acidly, "isn't that the little polyp who was
so rude once?... I wish she wouldn't keep watching Junior like that. Our northwest neighbor heard _positively_ that she's the child of an
only parent!" "Never mind. "Pater turned to reassure her. "Once Junior is properly
rooted, his self-respect will cause him to keep riffraff at a distance. It's a matter of Psychology, my dear; the vertical position makes all
the difference in one's thinking. "* * * * *
The great day arrived.Laboriously Junior put a few finishing
touches to his construction--which, so far as could be seen from a
distance, had turned out decent-looking enough, though it was rather
questionably original in design: lower and flatter than was customary.With one more look at his handiwork, Junior turned bottom-end-down
and sank wearily onto the finished site. After a minute, he paddled
experimentally, but flailing tentacles failed to lift him.He was
already rooted, and growing more solidly so by the moment. "Congratulations!" cried the neighbors. Pater and Mater bowed this way
and that in acknowledgment. Mater waved a condescending tentacle to the
three maiden aunts. "I told you so! "said Pater triumphantly. "Yes, dear...." said Mater meekly. Suddenly there were outcries of alarm from the dwellers down-reef. A
wave of dismay swept audibly through all the nearer part of the colony. | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
Pater and Mater looked around, and froze.Junior had begun paddling again, but this time in a most peculiar
manner--with a rotary twist and sidewise scoop which looked awkward,
but which he performed so deftly that he must have practiced it.Fixed
upright as he was now on the platform he had built, he looked for all
the world as if he were trying to swim sidewise. "He's gone _mad_!" squeaked Mater. "I ..." gulped Pater, "I'm afraid not. "At least, they saw, there was method in Junior's actions. He went on
paddling in the same fashion and now he, and his platform with him,
were farther away than they had been, and growing more remote as they
stared. * * * * *
Parts of the homesite that was not a homesite revolved in some way
incomprehensible to eyes that had never seen the like.And the whole
affair trundled along, rocking at bumps in the sandy bottom, and
squeaking painfully; nevertheless, it moved.The polyps watching from the reef swam out and frolicked after Junior,
watching his contrivance go and chattering eager questions, while their
parents bawled at them to keep away from that.The three maiden aunts shrieked faintly and swooned in one another's
tentacles. The colony was shaken as it had not been since the tidal
wave. "COME BACK!" thundered Pater. "You CAN'T do that!" "_Come back!_" shrilled Mater. "You can't do _that_! ""Come back!" gabbled the neighbors. "You can't _do_ that!" | Abernathy, Robert - Junior |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PERIL OF THE BLUE WORLD
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
The First Earth Expedition was the scouting
force of the conquering Martians.But conditions
were totally different from those expected, and
science was of no value--for on Earth were
"beings" that weapons could not fight. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ]There are those who have criticized the wisdom of the members of the
First Earth Expedition in returning to Mars so precipitately, without
completing the observations and explorations which it had been intended
they should make.For some time now, we who were with the Expedition
and knew the real reason for that return have chosen to ignore these
few but noisy individuals; but latterly some of the hot-headed younger
generation, but lately out of the egg and unwilling to trust to the
wisdom of their elders, have begun to talk of launching a second
expedition to the Blue Planet.Therefore, I, Shapplo with the Long Proboscis, interpreter to the First
Expedition, have been commissioned by the crew of the Earth Rocket to
tell the full and unexpurgated story of our adventures on Earth, and
the reasons for our contention that the planet must forever remain
closed to Martian colonization.I will pass over the details of the interplanetary voyage, which
consists chiefly of scientific data and figures not calculated to
interest the average reader.Suffice it to say that the Earth Rocket,
with the twenty-three members of its crew alive and intact, came safely
to rest on the crest of a gently-swelling hill in the midst of an
island in the northern hemisphere of Earth.This island is located by
our astronomers as 1-2-2-(1) North, but is called by its inhabitants,
Engelond or Britannia.We landed in the southern portion of this island, on a hilltop as
before stated; and, after conditioning our lungs and wearing gravity
belts against Earth's dense atmosphere and correspondingly strong
gravity, we threw open the exit ports and trooped out, led by our
captain, Tutwa with the Crooked Ears, our second in command, Ikleek
from Gnoxwid, and myself; also, immediately behind us, came our
zoologist, Zesmo Who Fell in the Canal when an Infant.The first thing noticed by all of us, but particularly by Zesmo Who
Fell in the Canal, was the riparian-appearing profusion of Earthly
life which at once displayed itself.Plants of every size and shape,
invariably green in color but bearing blossoms of all shades, covered
the hillside, and all of the rolling landscape that was visible
from our point of vantage.Among the leaves and flowers fluttered
bright-colored objects which we soon perceived, with great surprise, to
be living creatures. "What a planet!" exclaimed the captain philosophically. "Even the lower
animals can fly; what then may we expect of the higher creatures, the
intelligent races? ""You'll notice, however," said Zesmo, who had in the meantime succeeded
in capturing one of these aerial dancers, "that they fly entirely
without artificial aids. It is made possible by the dense atmosphere of
Earth. "* * * * *
As we moved forward among the thick and moderately lofty vegetation,
small, furred, four-legged creatures leaped out of the underbrush and
scampered rapidly away.Using ray-guns at low power, we paralyzed
several of these; but, after close examination, we were forced to
conclude that we must look further for the intelligent inhabitants of
the planet. "It's quite possible that there isn't any intelligent race," said
Zesmo gloomily. "If they were very bright, I should think they'd have
crossed space to Mars before now." "Don't expect too much of the poor Earthman, Zesmo," retorted Ikleek. "Remember that our own race discovered space travel only three
generations ago, and that ours is the first rocket powerful enough
to dare Earth's gravitational field.Due to the high velocity of
escape, the development of space travel by Earthman would be very much
retarded. They might have a high civilization and never get off the
ground." "Aerial flight should be easy," argued Zesmo. "Look at even those
ignorant little--"
He was interrupted by a shrill shout from one of the crew.One and all,
we turned toward the sound, and saw him hastening toward us through the
trees as fast as Earth's tremendous gravity would let him, waving his
tentacles and glowing with terror. "A monster!" he sputtered. "A metal monster! "We hastily adjusted our ray-guns to full power, and awaited anxiously
the onslaught of whatever formidable being might come against us. We
had not long to wait, for in a moment we saw approaching among the
trees a fantastic creature.For some moments we gaped foolishly at the thing before we realized
that it was actually a compound monster--two animals in one, so to
speak. Except that one was not an animal, but evidently a machine!The Earth-monster had not yet seen us; and at this juncture I took
the opportunity to hastily scribble some notes which I very shortly
regretted.However, to illustrate the fact that anyone may make
mistakes and that even the most apparent truths may be misinterpreted,
I will here reproduce what I wrote:
"The intelligent inhabitants of Earth somewhat resemble us in the
possession of four limbs, two eyes, and two elongated protuberances
which are very likely ears.The sensory organs are mostly located
on, or about, the front of the head. The feet are sheathed in horny
coverings which may be either natural or artificial.The caudal
appendage is of considerable length and bears long dense hairs, thus
differing from the rest of the body, over which the hairy covering is
short and flat-lying.No real proboscis is present, but the head is
much elongated in front, with the snout directed downward...."
Enough of this. At least, tremendous as my error was, it was at the
time shared by all the others present.The animal above described formed the lower portion of the compound
being which confronted us.Mounted astride of it was a gleaming metal
creature, constructed on the same lines, but with jointed arms and legs
of metal, without a tail, and seated erect instead of going slavishly
on all fours.In one hand it grasped a long pole with a sharp metal
point, and other accouterments which might be weapons were girded about
it. "A robot!" ejaculated the Captain. He had jumped to the same natural
conclusion as the rest of us. "What do you say to an intelligent race now, Zesmo?" hissed Ikleek. "Obviously the Earthmen were _too_ intelligent. They built a high
civilization and were enslaved by their own machines! | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
""Perhaps we Martians are destined to free this oppressed race from
ignoble servitude!" exclaimed Zesmo. "If we can just paralyze and
capture the machine--" He began adjusting his ray-gun to low power. * * * * *
The creature may have heard our voices, muffled as they were by the
heavy air.At any rate, it suddenly turned toward us, displaying an
expressionless metal face with a curious grille arrangement in front;
and, recovering in a trice from its evident astonishment, it drove feet
armed with dagger-sharp points into the flanks of its mount, and came
galloping toward us.As it came it lowered its long spear, with the
obvious intention of impaling upon it one or more of our number.Zesmo's right tentacle whipped up with his ray-gun; there was a sharp
crackle of invisible energy in the air, blue sparks leaped about the
thing's metal joints, and both it and its mount toppled heavily to the
earth and lay in an inert heap. [Illustration: _Zesmo's right tentacle whipped up; there was the sharp
crackle of energy in the air; sparks leaped about the thing's metal
joints._]
We approached them with caution--none too cautiously, as it developed,
because abruptly the robot stirred and scrambled dizzily to its
feet.Its metal sheathing had absorbed most of the ray-gun's merely
paralyzing energy.With a swift, practiced motion, it drew from its
side a long, straight, sharp blade, which I subconsciously identified
as a primitive weapon operating on the wedge principle, even as I was
raising and aiming my ray-gun.Taking cognizance of the fact that we would much prefer to capture the
machine in an undamaged state, but also of the fact that unless steps
were taken it would very shortly hack me into small pieces, I aimed at
the upraised weapon and pressed the firing button.The ray, at full
power, struck the blade, which glowed red-hot and partially fused. The robot dropped it with a sharp exclamation of uncertain meaning,
probably expressing considerable annoyance.In the meantime Zesmo had stepped to close range, and now he gave the
metal man a considerably augmented dosage of the ray. With a hiss and
crackle, the robot collapsed and gave us no more trouble.Zesmo had begun to examine the prostrate animal upon which it had
ridden, with a view to resuscitation, then Ikleek, who had turned his
attention to the robot, abruptly straightened up and began to rock to
and fro in amusement. "Would you mind telling me what you're so happy about?" inquired Zesmo
with pardonable acerbity. "Merely that we've all made a _very_ silly mistake," gurgled Ikleek,
recovering a portion of his composure.He flipped a contemptuous
tentacle toward the animal which Zesmo had been examining. "Intelligent
creature, bah!" He began to rock back and forth uncontrollably once
more. "Explain yourself," ordered Captain Tutwa sternly.For answer, the second in command bent over the "robot," and, wrenching
off its metal head-covering, revealed the face of an unconscious living
being.I need not describe the Earthman, since the form and appearance of this
race have become familiar to all Martians from the photographs and
descriptions which we brought back from Earth.I will only mention that
this specimen was a male, and consequently was rather hairy about the
lower portion of the face as well as on the top and back of the head.Zesmo made no comment, but popped his eyes in and out of his head at an
expressive rate. "Here's your Earthman!" chortled Ikleek gleefully, tapping on the
creature's metal chest-protector. "He's only wearing armor, a great
deal like a spacesuit. ""Maybe he'll die if you leave his helmet off," exclaimed Zesmo in alarm. I picked up the helmet and examined it. "His armor isn't airtight," I
informed the company. "It must be worn for some other reason. "We were all considerably puzzled by this, and determined to revive the
Earthman as soon as possible, in order to question him on this subject
and others. With some difficulty we carried him back to the ship. * * * * *
Unable to use drugs, due to the possibility of essential differences
between Earthly and Martian chemical constitutions, we were forced to
resort to purely physical means for his resuscitation; but we were very
shortly successful to the extent that the Earthman stirred, opened his
lidded eyes, and sat up groggily--then, seeing us crowding about him
curiously with waving tentacles and proboscides, uttered an insane yell
and attempted to leave the ship at once.It was with much difficulty that we succeeded in overpowering the
frantic Earthman without his breaking the glass oxygen helmet which
we had placed over his head to allow him to breathe air at the normal
Earthly pressure of between fourteen and fifteen pounds to the square
inch.With the aid of a dozen members of the crew, however, we
eventually subdued him, not without ourselves sustaining some damage.The tip of one left tentacle was somehow broken off in the scuffle,
and by the time I had located the fragment and fastened it back on
with medicated adhesive to facilitate healing, the Earthman had been
strapped to a table and the telepathor set up.Since I was interpreter for the expedition, due to my training in the
arts and sciences of telepathy, psychology, and linguistics, I, at
once, took charge, checked over the apparatus, and began to experiment
with a view to discovering the vibration frequency of the Earthman's
mind.At last I found it, surprisingly far down in the scale. The
Earthmen have exceedingly slow minds, which do not allow them to think
quickly in an emergency; this, however, does not prevent them from
acting quickly.Having finally attuned the transformer of the telepathor to step down
my mental frequency to the Earthman's level, I succeeded in entering
into telepathic communication with him.I will not attempt to reproduce
this conversation in words, but will merely give the gist of it, which
was about all that I grasped at the time, having no familiarity with
Earthly idioms of thought.This Earthman's name, I gathered, was Sir Henry de Long, the initial
"Sir" being some sort of title of more or less vague meaning.He
was also a "knight"; this, too, was an honor of some sort, and was
intimately connected with the wearing of a considerable quantity
of heavy iron and the possession of a horse--the animal upon which
the Earthman had been mounted when we first made his acquaintance.In addition to his knighthood, he was an "Englishman," which he
also appeared to consider a distinction.On further questioning, it
developed that being an Englishman meant having been born in this
island of Engelond; I was unable to perceive why this accident should
be a cause for personal pride, but concluded that there must be some
reason buried deep in Earthly psychology.When I inquired about his armor, I discovered that it had something
to do with his being a knight; furthermore, he seemed to be proud of
the armor. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
In fact, this remarkable individual was proud of almost
everything connected with himself.This is one of the characteristics
of a certain class of Earthmen, to which this specimen belonged; we
discovered later that the vast majority of the race is educated to a
becoming humility, while a limited group is allowed to consider itself
out of the ordinary and infinitely better than the rest.This is quite
proper, of course; those who are superior should be accorded fitting
distinction. During our brief stay on Earth, however, we were unable
to ascertain the basis on which the superiority of this class is
determined.I succeeded in assuring de Long of our kindly intentions toward him,
and obtained his promise not to make trouble if released.Considering
the high respect in which this queer fellow held himself, I was
reasonably certain that he would refrain from breaking his "word of
honor." I learned also that de Long's home was not far from our present
location.On due consideration, we decided to move the ship to this
place and gain an opportunity to observe these people in their natural
habitat. * * * * *
The Earth Rocket, accordingly, lifted and flew several miles to
the east, landing near the castle, or great fortress-like building
of stone, which was our guest's usual habitation.The Earthman was
overwhelmed by the actuality of flight; we learned, when he finally
came out of his daze, that artificial flying was here believed
impossible.We were somewhat startled by the sensation produced by our appearance
on the scene; of course, these people had never seen a flying machine,
but their excitement seemed to us wholly disproportionate.However,
it is a characteristic of Earthman psychology to believe anything you
have never seen or heard of impossible, and accordingly to be very
much alarmed when it actually appears.After we had entered the castle
with de Long in our midst, we were disagreeably surprised to learn
that on observing our approach the people in the fortress had prepared
quantities of boiling oil and heavy stones with the idea of dropping
them on us when we passed under the walls, and had only been deterred
by the presence of their chieftain.It was not a pleasant thought.Nevertheless, after their terror had been dissipated by our
pacificatory policy, these people became childishly curious, and
wherever any one of us went, he could be sure of a crowd of gaping
Earthmen following on his heels to observe his every action.Zesmo was a bit disappointed by the low state of advancement in which
we found the Earthmen.They have no electricity and no self-powered
machines; they depend entirely upon muscle, either their own--which
is far from inconsiderable in proportion to their intellect--or that
of their various slave animals.In some things they display striking
ingenuity, in other remarkable obtusity.During our several days' stay near the castle of de Long, Zesmo and our
sociologist, Plagu Long Legs, gathered an immense body of data on the
life and characteristics of the Earthmen, which may be found in almost
any public library in more or less condensed form.Therefore I will
avoid going into it here. So far, we had found no great danger on Earth, and no hint of the
horrors which must forever prohibit exploration of the planet.One day,
however, when I was pursuing an investigation of their socialistic
society in a telepathor conversation with de Long, he happened to
mention that one of the occupations of a good knight was killing
dragons. "Dragons? "I inquired, recording the word in my notebook. "Wot ye not what dragons be?" exclaimed de Long, with raised
eyebrows--an expression of mild surprise with the Earthmen. "A dragon
is a huge beast, the greatest on the Earth.From its mouth and
nostrils, it breathes flame and smoke, so that but to approach it is
deadly peril." "Uh--where do these brutes live?" I wanted to know, somewhat
apprehensively. "There are not many in Engelond in these latter days, St. George and
many another valiant champion having harried them full sore, slaying
many and putting the fear of God into the rest.But in Ireland and
other lands many remain and are the terror of all men living." * * * * *
This was a bit of a shock, to say the least.We had expected dangers on
Earth, naturally; but no such fearsome beasts as de Long described. Our
ray guns might prove quite ineffective against these terrible animals. "Are these the most dangerous creatures on Earth? "I inquired, with
some hesitancy. De Long leaned back and emitted a series of explosive sounds indicative
of amusement. "Far from it," he declared. "For though dragons be vasty and terrible,
yet are there other creatures no whit less perilous to mortal men, and
some far more so.We have many fiends of divers sorts even here in
Engelond, some of which are friends to man and hold no malice, but the
most of which are ill-natured and lose no opportunity to do a mischief.They say that when the rovers came from Noroway in the days of the
good King Aelfred, they brought with them in their long black galleys,
together with many a thirsty spear, the devils and hobgoblins that
were their pagan gods; and that these have stayed after them and are
yet the foes of all true Englishmen. ""We have seen no such creatures," said I doubtfully. "Nay, for men rarely see them. For the most part, they do their evil
deeds by night; and many are able to become invisible at their will.And some take divers forms: such are the werewolves, which are by day
men, by night ravenous man-eating beasts." This was decidedly discouraging. I was still not sure, though, that de
Long was not merely jesting. "Are these things likely to be dangerous to Martians?" I demanded. "I know not--but here in Engelond, as I have said before, there are
much fewer of these fiends than elsewhere," he reassured me. I glanced nervously about the room. "Is it--is it possible that an
invisible fiend might be present even here?" I knew that our scientists
had produced invisibility in the laboratory, but it was hard to
believe--
De Long nodded gravely. "Quite possible," he affirmed, adding
sententiously, "Even walls have ears; speak of the Devil and his imps
will appear." "Excuse me," I said falteringly. "I just remembered an important
engagement--"
I switched off the telepathor, gathered it up and made a hasty exit. I
wanted to consult with Captain Tutwa.The captain listened with skepticism to my retelling of de Long's
account of the dangers of the Blue Planet. "Bah!" he said, when I had finished. "The Earthman was probably lying,
for some reason or other. These fellows have strange motives. ""But why should he tell me such tales?" I persisted. "He seemed
perfectly serious. And if such dangers _do_ exist on Earth--"
"The motive becomes perfectly plain to me!" exclaimed the captain,
snapping a tentacle in the air. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
"By telling us of imaginary dangers,
the Earthman intends to frighten us away and preserve his sovereignty
over the planet." "That sounds like a plausible reason," I admitted. "But--if he _is_
telling the truth, we are risking Martian lives every moment we remain
here! We should at least check the facts." "Well...." The captain turned blue with concentration. "The Council,
in chartering the Earth Expedition, expressed a fear that the planet
might prove unavailable for colonization, due to possible inimical
life forms.It's so much nearer the Sun, and so moist, that we had
anticipated just such a canalbank jungle as does exist; and it's
possible that the pressure of evolutionary competition might develop
strange and fearful creatures....But, remember that we haven't seen
even one of these 'fiends.'" "De Long said that a great many of them are invisible." "Hmm!" said the captain. "Of course, that's within the bounds of
possibility, though not of probability; but before we came here I'd
have said flying animals were improbable. We had best investigate." "Eh?" "It's simple. We'll merely put de Long under the lie detector. "* * * * *
I was struck by the beautiful simplicity of this idea, which should
have been right in my province. "I leave it to you to maneuver de Long into a position where we can use
the detector without his knowledge," said the captain. "Very well," I said joyfully.It was not difficult to get de Long aboard the ship; he had never had
a chance to satisfy his curiosity concerning it.I showed him through
several of the cabins without doing anything to arouse his suspicions,
and finally got him seated within the effective radius of the lie
detector. "Er--I've been wondering about--about those werewolves you were telling
me of, Sir Henry," I improvised. "Just what are their habits?" "They are a dangerous sort of demon," replied the Earthman readily. "By
day they appear to be ordinary men, save that they may be distinguished
by the first finger of the right hand being longer than the second;
but in the dead of night the craving for human flesh comes upon them,
they grow hairy, their nails become claws and their jaws lengthen, and
they are wolves.They may not be slain by any weapon while in the beast
form, but must be taken in human shape." I quivered in spite of myself. The lie detector indicator had not moved
from center--what he was saying must be the dreadful truth! "Are--are they the worst sort of fiend common around here?" I ventured
to ask. De Long constricted the skin above his eyes judiciously. "The vampire
is likewise a direful demon, though little known in these parts," he
declared. "It is the soul of an unsanctified corpse, which rises in the
night from its grave and goes forth to suck blood and life from living
men." * * * * *
I sprang to my feet, unable to remain still any longer. De Long stared. "Is aught amiss?" he exclaimed anxiously. "No--nothing," I muttered, and the lie detector needle leaped clear
against its stop pins. "That is--I rather think we'll be leaving Earth
before very long. "With lame excuses, we managed to get the Earthman
outside. Captain Tutwa thoroughly agreed with me that we must leave this noxious
planet at once, never to return, and that Earth must be declared unfit
for Martian colonization.I can solemnly say that the Blue Planet is
a veritable inferno; we of Mars will do well to keep clear of it in
future interplanetary explorations.I am sure that you can well see that Earth can never be colonized from
Mars, that it must be forever shunned as a plague spot.If any of our
hot-headed youth is now so foolhardy as to brave the horrors of that
planet of fear, their blood is on their own heads.In the 75th day of the 242nd year of the invention of the steam
engine,
(Signed)
Shapplo with the Long Proboscis,
Interpreter, First Earth Expedition. | Abernathy, Robert - Peril of the Blue World |
Righteous Plague
By Robert Abernathy
Complete Novelet of Uncontrolled Weapons
It was a virus, against which the enemy
could make no defense--but a virus does
not distinguish between friend and foe.And immunity to what became known as the
righteous plague could exist anywhere,
or nowhere at all....
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Science Fiction Quarterly May 1951.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The ugly, high-backed truck splashed heavily through the puddles of the
weedy road.Just before it reached a curve, it swayed and slithered as
the brakes locked suddenly. A man had come stumbling from the rain-wet
bushes; he paused now, stared dully at the halted, angrily grumbling
monster.An officer heaved himself out of the seat beside the driver, cursed
irritably, flung open the door and swung out onto the running board--a
malevolently superhuman figure in his panoply of snouted mask and
rubberized armor.His gloved hand lifted, sliding a long-barreled
automatic from its worn holster, aiming. At the shot's crash the man
from the thicket stiffened and toppled into the mud, where he writhed
painfully.Two more bullets, carefully placed, put a stop to that. The officer slid back into the seat and sighed with a sucking sound
inside his mask.Without being told, the driver turned the truck
cautiously off the road; tilting far over, left wheels deep in the
slippery ditch, it ground in lowest gear past the motionless body,
keeping several feet away.In the back of the truck, five oddly-assorted civilian men and one
woman huddled together and exchanged vaguely curious glances over
the stop, the shooting, and the detour.Then, as the machine climbed
back onto the roadbed and they could see the corpse sprawled in the
way behind, the interest left their faces; they reflected only the
emptiness of the gray sky, the hopelessness of the sodden fields
and woods they passed.The prisoners might have found the weather
appropriate for death. They did not speak of that, because they knew
they were on their way to die.But the masked and armored soldiers who sat nervously watching them,
rifles clutched between their knees, did speak of death, and made
sour jokes about it.They did not know they themselves were going to
death--that when the execution was done and reported by radio, a plane
would be overhead inside two minutes to bomb them.That would take place by order of the Diktatura, that is: by the
sovereign will of the People, expressed by its Executive Council, which
was responsible directly to the Dictator.Naturally it was the People's will that no one come out of a plague
spot, for the People feared death. Joseph Euge said as much to the pale, underfed-looking young man who
crouched beside him in the bed of the truck. "The gasproof clothing,"
he added, "protects nothing but morale, and these men's morale needs to
last only until--their job is done. "The young man looked at him fixedly, seeing gray hair, a firm-lined
face, and a suit that had been expensively respectable. They did
not know each other's names.All the trials had been separate; each
prisoner had been told that the others--whom, for the most part, he had
never heard of--had confessed the whole plot. "What makes you think so? ""I know a good deal of the Dictator's ways," said Euge quietly; "I used
to be well acquainted with him." "You were close to him--who are you?" "My name is Joseph Euge." "_Doctor_ Euge. "The pale young man's eyes widened as he repeated the
name the way the newspapers had printed it so often; he edged a little
away from the other, jostling the woman beside him.She, too, stared
with haunted eyes, and her lips framed the name in a whisper; the rest
of the condemned--a large rough man in a workman's faded blue, a little
Jew with twitching hands, and another youth who, like Euge's neighbor,
had evidently been a student--looked at him also, with an expression
compounded of wonder, fear, and hate. * * * * *
Behind their masks, fixed eyes and bayonets gleaming, the guards sat
stony-faced. They were trained to be blind, deaf, and dumb--and on
occasion oblivious of smells--in the stern fulfillment of duty. "You are _the_ Dr. Euge?" whispered the woman with a flicker of
interest. "The man who loosed the plague on the world?" He nodded and stared at his knees. "It is true," he said slowly,
"that I was a military bacteriologist--one of the best; it is only an
accident that I was anything more. I have made my share of mistakes.Most of us have been patriots at one time or another, else there could
have been no Victory. "Euge noted wryly how strong the indoctrination
of his mind was, relegating the word 'war' to the realm of obscene
taboos, and leaving only 'victory' permissible. "But--" he lifted his
gray head and looked candidly into their faces, "when I 'loosed the
plague', as you put it, I was not being a patriot and I do not think I
was making a mistake." They stared at him with bleak eyes.Euge said almost pleadingly, "I
believe you are all members of the Witnesses of the Lord, who are
proscribed for maintaining that the plague is a punishment decreed
against a sinful world.From that standpoint, surely I am not to blame
for having acted as an instrument of divine justice." It was as if he
appealed for judgment to these strangers, to whom he was united in the
intimate community of a grave that must be shared. "He's right," said the Jew, and smiled a little, even then, with
pleasure at a point well made. "We're inconsistent if we blame him. "There was a lightening in their wan, drained faces, mostly of relief at
being told that they need not spend those few last minutes in hating.The woman's reaction was strongest; she leaned forward, eyes suddenly
feverish: "Do you believe as we do, then? Did you know you were guided,
when--"
The scientist said wearily, "I have seen no visions, I have heard no
voices.Still I do not feel responsible for what has come on the world
through me. In the plenum of probabilities, what may be will be...."
"Doctor, beyond your universe of probabilities there must be a power
that chooses among them. "The young student spoke with the quiet
conviction of a man in whom knowledge and faith are at peace. "We must
accept that power--or the logic by which it chooses among the possible
worlds--as good, the definition of good.You should see that--now, if
never before." He quoted Goethe."... | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
_denn nur im Elend erkennt man
Gottes Hand und Finger, der gute Menschen zum Guten leitet._"
Euge looked out through the rear of the truck, at the gray landscape
rumbling away, and guessed that the journey's end was still fifteen
minutes ahead; unless his knowledge of how the Dictator's mind worked
failed him, the place would be near the wreckage of his one-time
laboratory, leveled from the air on the naive theory that some devilish
device there was broadcasting the seeds of plague....
Aching minutes that had to be soothed with words.Words--God, fate,
hope, hereafter--are man's last support when everything else has given
way. "So you accept the plague as good? I saw one of your propaganda
sheets with the phrase 'Judgment Virus'. An apt name.But it does
not judge as men do; it has its own peculiar standards, that virus
I found." Euge's voice was level, colorless; he did not look at the
others to hold their attention or to see if they were listening. "I
will tell you what it is...."
2
Euge was busy in the microscope room, examining tissue from the last
run of test animals, when the communicator buzzed and told him that the
Dictator had arrived and wanted to see him at once.He left the room by way of an airlock, in which--Dictatorial summons
notwithstanding--he spent full five minutes under a spray of
disinfectant chemicals and radiations; after the lock had cleared he
stripped off the airtight armor he wore without touching any of its
outer surfaces, and left the chamber quickly.The Dictator's visit was a signal mark of Euge's importance, or
at least that of his virus research; there was no doubt that Euge
was highly thought of and trusted.His dossier was that of a man
who extended his scientist's worship of "Truth" even into the very
different field of human relations. The Diktatura could use such men. Euge knew his status, had given it little thought for years.It was his
private social contract, the working agreement by which the powers that
be gave him the priceless opportunity to do research, in return for
the--to him--worthless byproducts of same.Now, he thought as he went up in the elevator, the Dictator would
be impatient--or at least eager--to hear the results of the newest
experiments. The first tests of the new strain showed promise, by
inoculations of a monkey, _Macacus rhesus_.The last series of
experimental animals had belonged to another primate species._Homo
sapiens._ That was the crucial proof, whether men infected with Virus
RM4-2197--R for rubeola, or measles, M4 for fourth-stage mutant, the
rest the classification number of the culture--would die swiftly,
surely, with a minimum of fuss.That was routine, too, but the results
were not. The results had kept Euge lying awake for some nights now. Awake,
open-eyed, face to face with himself as he had not been within his
memory.He turned briskly into the contagion laboratory, deliberately making
delay, explaining to himself that it would be best to have all the data
on the new culture at his fingertips.The big room was a jungle of
sealed glass cases where beady-eyed mice tumbled over each other, where
healthy rabbits nibbled lettuce cheek by jowl with rabbits whose bodies
seethed with mutant microbes.At the most crowded end of the room was
Novik, brightest of the skilled young men assigned as assistants and
apprentices to the great Dr. Euge, busy now with pencil and notebook,
counting dead mice. * * * * *
Euge looked over Novik's shoulder at the tallies. They were many. He
asked, "What does it come to?" "So far," said Novik, "I've only been over the direct and remote cages.But--" he gestured at the remaining glass compartments on his right,
"I'd be willing to bet the results of the delayed exposures are the
same. Contagion, one hundred per cent; mortality, one hundred per cent.The only difference is, that where infected and healthy mice have a
screen between them, the healthy ones get it slower--a few cases at
first, then it runs right through them." "Mmm," said Euge without enthusiasm.The figures proved nothing
new--only that the mutant virus bred true; for that matter, the 100-100
ratio of infections and deaths to exposures had been achieved already
with RM3. Euge turned toward a double tier of cages along the side wall.These
were small, built to contain one animal apiece, ten above, ten below.They were segregation cages; the lower tier was wired to a wall plug
through a transformer and a mildly remarkable device, consisting of
two slowly revolving, eccentric wheels and a relay, which insured that
the metal floor of the ten cages should be slightly electrified at
irregular intervals. "Mmm," said Euge again, surveying the victims of his unorthodox
experiment.Of the ten mice in the bottom cages, not all were dead;
they had been exposed to Virus RM4 somewhat later than those in the
large cases, after the first tests on human beings; but those that
still lived were obviously breathing their last.In the upper tier,
though, seven mice were still bright-eyed and alert; two were dead, and
a third lay on its side, panting and bedraggled. Euge swung back to Novik. "Set up fifty more segregation cages. Clear
the wired set for a repeat test.And get me half a dozen cats. And--"
he hesitated, "don't mention these experiments to the others if you
can help it; we two can handle all the necessary work. "Novik's clear eyes dwelt briefly on his superior's face, a look of
sympathetic understanding for the haggard pallor, the tired lines about
the older man's mouth. "Right," he nodded crisply. "I'll be back by the time you're ready," said Euge. "Right now I have a
chore to do." "The Dictator's here?" Euge frowned. "How did you know?" "It's plain in your face.... What are you going to tell him?" "Tell him? Why, what he's come to hear. "* * * * *
The Dictator was as usual splendid in uniform.His was not a garish
or offensive splendor, but beautifully tailored, pointed up with
harmonizing gleams of bright metal, like the tasteful chromium
ornaments of the luxurious modern cars and aircraft.The uniform made
his somewhat stocky figure the epitome of the new age, ruled by the
stars of technical perfection, beauty, and above all harmony.The
Diktatura was the first government which had dared to assume total
power over and total responsibility for the lives and happiness of
its people.Under the sway of its master plan, guided by its ultimate
ideology, all men and things harmonized, cooperated and coordinated;
dissonances were forbidden.And the vast harmony of a nation found its
summit and symbol in this one man, the almighty father of his people. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
Without his knowledge no sparrow fell to the ground in his borders, and
in his files all the hairs of his subjects' heads were numbered.The great Dr. Euge was only one among hundreds of millions whose work
and rewards and recreations and very thoughts were arranged for their
own benefit; but at the same time he was something more.As long as the
Diktatura was not world-wide, there would be groups and nations in the
clashing chaos beyond the frontier which plotted with envious hatred to
destroy it.The earthly paradise must be defended; Euge's position as
a top scientist in a field vital to defense elevated him almost to the
level of the politico-economic planners. * * * * *
The Dictator greeted Euge with a man-to-man warmth he did not use
toward those to whom he was something much like a god. "Well, doctor,
how is the health of your virus? And of those who have sampled it? "The scientist said quietly, "Of the sixteen specimens you sent me, all
but one died within ten days after inoculation." "Ah? And the one?" "That is the strange thing. It would seem that--the virus has some
preference in victims. "The Dictator blinked, his most marked expression of surprise. "Explain!" Euge's face was unreadable. "Before I go into details," he suggested,
"let us consider the nature of the perfect biological weapon. ""Perhaps you have discovered the perfect weapon?" The Dictator frowned;
"you are being obscure." "Then," said Euge stolidly, "suppose I put it negatively. What is wrong
with most biological weapons?" "They are treacherous." "Exactly.Virus RM3 was our best development up to now; it has a
contagion index and mortality rate of 100, with the psychological
advantage of bringing about death in a rather repulsive fashion; it is
easily produced and distributed, and there is no known counteragent.So
it cannot be used as a weapon; it is too dangerous to the user." "We were over that before," said the Dictator. They had been, and he
had found it hard to stomach.Especially when he reflected that the
enemy, while it was improbable they had duplicated the creation of RM3,
might have equally deadly weapons, which similar considerations would
deter them from using--unless driven to suicidal retaliation.It was
known, though, that the enemy had been fortunately slow in developing
the technique of disease mutation--the methods of irradiation,
centrifugal selection and automatic scanning which could produce and
analyze thousands of cultures at a time, compress millions of years of
micro-organic evolution into weeks or days. "The single case of immunity to RM4," said Euge drily, "had no bases
that became evident either at once or on the closest comparison of
the physiological data, both pre-inoculation and post mortem.I was
on the point of giving up and deciding to repeat the experiment, when
it occurred to me to contact the Political Police and ask for their
dossiers on all the specimens.After a little delay, my request was
granted--"
"I know," said the Dictator impatiently; "I approved it myself. ""Well--the fifteen men who died of RM4 were run-of-the mill criminals
and political offenders--malcontents stupid enough to express
themselves antisocially.But the survivor was a Witness of the Lord--a
religious maniac, arrested for overstepping the limits of toleration
in an impromptu sermon. A man of scanty intelligence, barely above the
euthanasia level. "Those facts, however, were less interesting than the letter attached
to the dossier. It stated that, after a review of the case inspired by
my particular interest in it, the Political Police had concluded that
the man's arrest had been a mistake.You know that those fanatics,
though not our most desirable elements, are mostly harmless and even
useful, with their 'whatever is, is right' theology. This one's loyalty
seems to have been beyond question. "The Dictator's eyes glowed with a sudden energy. "When the Popo admits
a mistake, there's really been one!" His breath whistled between his
teeth. "I--begin to--see." He started pacing up and down the room. "The
perfect weapon--an intelligent virus! ""Not intelligent," denied Euge heavily. "The day we develop a thinking
virus here--a thing I do not believe possible--I will call for an
atomic bomb to be dropped on the laboratory.RM4, evolved from an
encephalitic measles strain, attacks primarily the brain--as it
seems now, only certain types of brains. Of course, the data are
insufficient.Some of the lower animals tested were immune--but you
can't draw safe analogies between animals and men. I'll need more human
material." "You'll get it!" The Dictator halted and stood very straight,
glittering impressively in his uniform. "How many--"
"This time I will need a control...."
3
So twenty-five healthy privates of the Dictator's Honor Guard,
handpicked for courage, rigid honesty and selfless loyalty to the
leader, were hospitalized and injected with potent doses of viciously
lethal culture RM4-2197.They were told that it was a new immunization
which would soon become regulation throughout the armed forces.And twenty-five prisoners, likewise healthy save for the twist in
their minds that made them seditionists and rebels instead of Honor
Guardsmen, received the same injection and were told the same story.The results were almost fantastically satisfactory. The twenty-five
convicts died, one and all, with the uncontrolled spasms and
twitchings, lapsing into stupor, that told of the virus' progress
in the higher nerve centers.Their isolated barracks, together with
the unimportant orderlies who had cared for it and the victims, were
sterilized, almost obliterated by caustic chemicals and flame.Meantime
the Honor Guard in their separate quarantine rolled dice and exchanged
dirty jokes and felt no ill effects.The Dictator had commanded that he be first to know the outcome; he,
who fancied himself as a poet of human destiny, also liked to think
that he had a scientific mind, and in this matter, on which the world's
future might hinge, he wished to make his own observations and draw
his own conclusions.But promptly after receiving the news he visited
Euge again to shower him with jubilant congratulations. "Now," he announced fervently, "we must have a final experiment, to
be wholly sure.One on a far grander scale than before--than any
experiment ever was before! I want a large supply of Virus RM4, in
sealed cylinders of five or six liters each, under pressure. Prepared
as for military use, you understand.The rest I will take care of." Euge bowed his head in acquiescence, and refrained from mentioning his
mice. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
* * * * *
Long rows of glass cells where mice lived and died by ones and twos
and threes, were in the contagion laboratory, where by Euge's orders
only he and Novik worked now.Less flamboyantly than the Dictator, Euge
liked to be sure, and he repeated his experiments doggedly until the
statistical results leveled off at well-defined norms.Infected mice, segregated in solitary confinement, developed symptoms
and died in the ratio of sixty-five out of a hundred. Among similarly
exposed animals distributed two to a cage, the mortality averaged
somewhat over eighty-seven per cent.In threes, ninety-six per cent. And when he tried isolating a hundred mice, four to a cage, all of them
died. In every case, if one mouse in a group took the disease, so did
the rest. That was not unreasonable.Re-exposure by contact with more susceptible
specimens.... But Euge played with his apparent immunes. He rigged a
number of cages so that the occupants, their food and their water were
constantly under a fine mist of virus poison.And only a couple of
them died. Then, with difficulty and some danger, working in armor, he
opened the cages and shifted the living mice about, breaking up groups
and creating new ones.In the next few days, the immunes' mortality
rate was better than forty per cent. And in an adjoining storeroom, cleared for the purpose, Euge set up
another and cruder experiment.Mice that had survived exposure to RM4
were imprisoned in sealed glass runs, and in the room at large were let
loose the half-dozen lean alley cats that Novik had procured.The cats
roamed hungrily about, mewed and clawed at the glass and had difficulty
understanding that there was no way of getting at the mice.And the
mice, likewise deceived, ran and squeaked in terror--and quickly
succumbed to the convulsions and lethargy of encephalitis.But when he provided opaque shelters, where the mice could conceal
themselves part of the time, most of them remained immune. The cats, Euge determined, were wholly immune; massive injections of
the virus did no more than infuriate them.Sleeping fitfully in the
small hours, he had nightmares in which the carnivora inherited an
Earth from which men and rodents had vanished. That was only one of his nightmares.He was as phlegmatic as a man need
be in his line of work, but now his peace of mind had gone glimmering,
and he was at odds with his world.From the time when mature reflection
had replaced the last sparks of youthful rebellion in him, he had
been a faithful and coddled servant of the Diktatura, but now he was
increasingly certain that his failure to make known his new data was
treason.A fatalistic streak tried to comfort him, whispering that even
if he spoke it would make no difference.Of only one thing was he sure: he wanted to know....
* * * * *
The Dictator took some time in the preparation of the experiment.A
city of twenty thousand people had to be isolated temporarily from the
rest of the country, and unobtrusively surrounded with troops, guns and
bombers, in case things went disastrously wrong.The isolation was accomplished, by means of a complete embargo on
land and air transportation out of the test area, only an hour before
a few small planes droned over the city, trailing an impalpable and
invisible mist of virus-laden solution.The published and broadcast
reason for the emergency measures was truthfully plausible--a
threatened outbreak of disease, understood to be sleeping sickness.The
difference in symptoms between ordinary _encephalitis lethargica_ and
that produced by RM4 was so slight that few if any of the doctors who
were shipped into the city recognized anything peculiar in the cases
they treated, apart from the high--100%--fatality.It was not necessary
that they know any better, since they were only a part of the ardently
pursued campaign to allay public suspicion and anxiety and prevent an
undesirable panic.The soothing propaganda and example of the authorities, and the
diligence of the Popo agents who swarmed in the stricken area, were so
successful that no mass plague-terror reared its head, though the death
toll during the three weeks it took for the epidemic to run its course
climbed to almost a thousand.Several doctors and a couple of secret policemen contracted the
disease, and, of course, died. That was fair enough, but a far more
untoward incident came near marring the Dictator's pleasure in his
experiment.Chaber, the Popo chief, crossing the country on one of his frequent
incognito tours, happened to be caught in the test city's railway
station by the travel interdict.It took him more than an hour to
convince the distracted officials in charge of enforcing the ban that
a man in his position was above such things, so that he and his aides
were still there when the virus-carrying planes did their job.The Dictator, receiving belated word, was furious. A flying squad of
Honor Guardsmen intercepted Chaber's private train, ran it onto a
siding and held the police chief and his staff there in something very
like arrest.True, the Dictator sent a message to assure Chaber that
the quarantine was a purely temporary result of someone else's mistake,
and that matters would soon be cleared up....
For Chaber they never were.He died eight days later in the coma of
RM4 infection.Most of his aides preceded or followed him by a day or
so; and when the last radioed reports indicated that the contagion was
spreading to the Guards, the Dictator gave horrified orders and the
plague-infested train was set on fire by incendiary bombs.About the same time, past one o'clock in the morning, Dr. Euge was
dragged out of bed and haled unceremoniously before the Dictator.The scientist listened dispassionately to his first news of Chaber's
misfortune and to excited demands for an explanation.He was more at
peace with himself now than he had been for long; he was prepared to
lie coldly and directly, to ensure the unfolding of events to their
logical conclusion. But no lie seemed to be needed yet. "I would suggest," said Euge calmly, "that you impound the deceased's
papers and personal effects, and subject them to rigorous examination. You may find the reason for his death--about which I know no more than
you. "Euge cooled his heels under house arrest for twenty-four hours before
he was summoned again to the Dictator's presence.The leader was
himself again; he greeted Euge with that warm smile which had made more
impressionable men fall at his feet in adoration. "You were right, doctor.The man was, if not an actual traitor, at
least a potential one; he was slyly subverting the loyalty of his
immediate subordinates, with the idea of making himself paramount in
the government.His death becomes a striking demonstration of your
virus's value." A new shadow passed over the Dictator's face as he
recalled how he had trusted Chaber. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
"4
During the speech to the people, the first rockets had already risen
from their scattered launching sites and were soaring at ten, fifteen,
twenty miles per second over continents and oceans.The enemy was not
unprepared; his immensely complex and expensive systems of warning
and defense, radar-eyed, electric-nerved and robot-brained, were
fully on.But that defense setup, which laced a whole nation and
concentrated bristlingly over the great cities, was designed primarily
to detect, deflect and destroy projectiles with atomic warheads,
which must approach within a few miles of their targets to do damage.The bombardment rockets of the Diktatura burst quietly high in the
stratosphere, before very many of them were met and annihilated by
the interceptor barrage.Their cargoes dispersed earthward in a rain
of little protective plastic globes, which, as they fell through the
warm restless levels of the troposphere, darkened and shriveled in a
fantastically swift chemical decay, and spewed their liquid contents in
a fine spray into the air.Six days before--the virus' average incubation period--the code word
had been sent out to the spies and the native fifth columnists who
served the Diktatura for pay or loyalty's sake.It was their mission to
distribute the small quantities of Virus RM4 which had been smuggled
to them, in such a way as to make the plague's initial onslaught as
paralysing as possible.The enemy's total destruction in the end was
foregone; but his power to strike back must be cut down to a minimum. The broadcasts and the headlines continued to proclaim to the nation
that this was Victory Day. * * * * *
Euge had cleared away the remains of his experiments methodically. There was nothing more to be learned that way, and most of the
establishment was converted now to helping in the mass production of
Virus RM4.Euge locked up the contagion laboratory and settled down
by his private televisor to observe the progress of the ultimate
experiment, whose laboratory was the world.Guessing as he did the reason for Novik's failure to return, he was
little surprised or alarmed when a half-dozen booted Guardsmen clumped
in on him, and their leader informed him that he was again confined to
quarters. "If the Dictator wishes to see me--" began Euge politely. "The Dictator's busy," said the squad leader. "He'll talk to you in due
time." "I understand," Euge nodded resignedly, and turned back to his
newscasts.His own name was repeated in them with considerable frequency, and
recorded pictures of him were broadcast. He was understood to be a
modest hero of science, with a passion for anonymity.In the Dictator's
due time, Euge realized, he might receive the accolade of a martyr to
science. He passed over the mentions of himself impatiently.Once he had rather
liked the modicum of glory and the comfort that the Diktatura granted
him in return for his work, but now he was down to basic motives, and
his desire to live was largely a product of his avid curiosity to see
what the offspring of his curiosity would do to mankind's world.The picture emerged but slowly from behind the bright parade of
censored reports; only for one like Euge, who had some experience of
the government's inside ways and who, moreover, knew better than any
other living man what to expect, did it emerge at all.It was evident before long that the enemy's resistance was greater than
anticipated.Easy to say "according to plan", but it was impossible to
ignore or gloss over the news when enemy atomic rockets leaked through
the defenses, and a city here or there puffed skyward in a pillar of
smoke and flame.Or when highflying enemy machines sowed the seeds of
a controllable, but extremely nasty epidemic, which touched even the
capital. The fifth-column offensive must have failed miserably.Naturally, the
first to die in the enemy's country would have been those entrusted
with spreading the plague. Euge wondered if the Dictator had found that
out, and if so, what he thought about it.Never acknowledged, but quickly apparent to the expectant Euge from
certain veiled illusions, denials and instructions that came over the
air, was the beginning spread of RM4, in its active and lethal form
(the latent infection must be almost universal now), among the people
of the Diktatura.In his head Euge kept a map, in which the increasing
areas that the newscasts never mentioned were represented by creeping
splotches of blackness.When he examined and revised it, he was wont
to lean back with closed eyes, on his lips a faint smile that made his
guards look uneasily at one another. Immured, Euge had no means of learning directly what spirit was abroad
in the masses.But he could make shrewd deductions from the changing
tones of the propaganda directed at them.Within the space of less than
a month, it shifted from paeans of celebration for a quick and easy
conquest to the harsh task of inspiring a fiercely realistic, do-or-die
determination, to which Victory was once again a far wandering fire,
beckoning out of storm and darkness ahead.Realism went as far as an admission that the initial biological attack
had failed to fulfill the hopes pinned on it. The plague had taken hold
and spread slowly, but, on the bright side, it was doing its work now
all the more thoroughly....There followed a map, showing the estimated
extent of plague areas in the enemy lands, and an extrapolation by
noted pathologists of the time that must pass, the time that must be
endured with courage, fortitude and hard work, before the foe would be
blotted from the face of the Earth.Euge closed his eyes and made comparisons with his private map and with
his extrapolations from it, and he smiled unpleasantly yet again.He asked for and received a bundle of newspapers; it was among those
there chanced to be an ill-printed pamphlet issued by the Witnesses of
the Lord, which stated positively that, had the original experiments
been correctly understood, it would have been plain at once that
RM4 was the Judgment Virus, come to slay the wicked and spare the
righteous, whose lintels were sprinkled with blood....
Euge read the pamphlet through with a sharp quickening of interest, but
when he had finished he shook his head sadly. * * * * *
He was brought before the Dictator for the last time. The leader's eyes were sunken and spoke of sleepless nights. They
rested on Euge with the cold impersonal enmity of a snake's. "You lied to me," he stated flatly. "No," denied the scientist. "I let you interpret the data in your own
way. It is not my fault that you believed what you wanted to believe." The Dictator strove visibly to say what he had planned. "I have
recalled you, despite grave suspicions, to--to appeal for assistance. Perhaps you have had pacifist sentiments all along--" Euge made a
scornful gesture. | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
"In any case, it is no longer a question of making
war.The enemy has practically ceased to fight, now it is the plague
that must be conquered--"
"I imagine," said Euge softly, "that your statisticians have told you
that RM4 will be pandemic in this country as soon as, or before, it is
in the enemy's. "The other's mouth twitched. "You performed exhaustive experiments with
the plague; you hold the key to its nature and possibly to a remedy." "It is true that I learned something about the virus' _raison d'etre_. Novik must have told you about it.There was nothing which pointed to
a preventive, let alone a cure, at this stage. I am no immunologist,
anyway." "Novik said," the Dictator's eyes narrowed, "'It is fear!'" Euge nodded with satisfaction. "He was right.The virus attacks only
brains that are already sick with fear.Not--my results with mice
indicated--the normal alarm of a healthy organism, which expresses
itself in flight or fight, but the pathological anxiety-state that come
of an inescapable threat or frustration in the environment, and that
turns itself so easily into feelings of guilt or hatred....The fear of
the criminal, the neurotic, the paranoiac." "Then all that is needed is to stamp out such elements, the focus of
infection!" Euge looked at him with open amusement. "You're welcome to try it. But
remember--we are at war now.The psychology of the people is fear, like
that of the criminal, the hunted hunter, the hated hater, perhaps the
guilty.... As long as there was peace, the Diktatura gave most of us
security, reasonable happiness, freedom from fear.The same is true of
the enemy's government, however short it may have fallen of ours. But a
nation at war is a nation afraid. "And RM4 is a successful mutation," added Euge didactically. "It
creates the thing it feeds on.One of the most basic fears in men
or mice--the fear of one's own dead. Thanks to that, the plague is
independent now of anything you do or leave undone." The Dictator stared smolderingly. He spoke with bitter irony, "You awe
me, doctor.You are a traitor to your country and to all mankind. Yet
you seem to consider yourself justified." Euge shrugged. "I am a scientist; I deal in questions of what can be
done. It is left to you politicians to concern yourselves with what
should be. "The Dictator choked, recognizing his own doctrine. "Irresponsibility--science!" His face flamed with finally unleashed
passion. "If I survive this, I'll see to exterminating the whole breed
of scientists!" Euge studied him coolly. "You won't survive; you are afraid." * * * * *
Bent over his desk, the Dictator struggled to compose a speech to the
people--one that would reassure, enhearten, inflame the blackening
coals of hope.He wrote: "There is nothing to fear but fear. A way will be found...."
He scowled at the shaky hand-writing of the last line, scratched it out
angrily and began again. "A way will be found...." But his fingers twitched convulsively with
the pen, and the sentence trailed into a senseless scrawl. * * * * *
The truck swung round and lurched to a halt not far from the road, and
they saw that there would be no grave--only a stretch of wild, rank
weeds in a wet meadow. "So," said Joseph Euge in the same weary monotone, "there will be an
end of man--unless somewhere on Earth are found men without fear." He flinched from the prodding bayonet of a frightened man in a terrible | Abernathy, Robert - Righteous plague |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
STRANGE EXODUS
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Gigantic, mindless, the Monsters had come out of
interstellar space to devour Earth.They gnawed
at her soil, drank deep of her seas. Where, on
this gutted cosmic carcass, could humanity flee? [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1950.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Westover got a shock when he stumbled onto the monster, for all that he
knew one had been through here.He had been following the high ground toward the hills, alternately
splashing through waist-deep water and climbing onto comparatively dry
knolls.To right and left of him was the sullen noise of the river in
flood, and behind him, too, the rising water he had barely escaped. The
night was overcast, the moon a faint disk of glow that left river and
hills and even the mud underfoot invisible.He had not sought in his mind for the flood's cause, but had merely
taken it numbly as part of the fury and confusion of a world in ruin. Anyway, he was dead tired out on his feet.He sensed more than saw the looming wall before him, but he thought
it the bare ledge-rock of a stripped hillside until he stepped into a
small pot-hole and lurched forward, and his outflung hands sank into
the slime that covered a surface faintly, horrifyingly resilient.He recoiled as if seared, and retreated, slithering in the muck. For
moments his mind was full of dark formless panic; then he took a firm
hold on himself and tried to comprehend the situation.Nothing was distinguishable beyond a few yards, but his mind's eye
could see the rest--the immense slug-like shape that extended in
ponderous repose across the river valley, its head and tail spilling
over the hills on either side, five miles apart.The beast was
quiescent until morning--sleeping, if such things slept.And that explained the flood; the monster's body had formed an
unbreakable dam behind which the river had been steadily piling up in
those first hours of night; if it did not move until dawn, the level
would be far higher then.Westover stood motionless in the blackness; how long, he did not know. He was hardly aware of the water that covered his feet, crept over his
ankles, and swirled halfway to his knees.Only the emergence of the
moon through a rift of the cloud blanket brought him awake; its dim
light gleamed all around on a great sheet of water, unbroken save for
scattered black hummocks--crests of knolls like that on which he stood,
all soon to be hidden by the rising flood.For a moment he knew despair. The way back was impassable, and the way
ahead was blocked by the titanic enemy. Then the impersonal will that had driven him implacably two days and
nights without stopping came to his rescue.Westover plodded forward,
pressed his shrinking body against the slimy, faintly warm surface of
the monster's foot, and sought above him with upstretched hands--found
holds, and began to climb with a strength he had not known was left in
him.The moonlight's fading again was merciful as he climbed the sheer,
slippery face of the foot; but he could hear the wash and chuckle of
the flood below. His tired brain told him treacherously: "I'm already
asleep--this is a nightmare. "Once, listening to that insidious voice,
he slipped and for instants hung dizzily by his hands, and for some
minutes after he had found a new foothold merely clung panting with
pounding heart.Some time after he had found courage to resume the climb, he dragged
himself, gasping and quivering, to comparative safety on the broad
shelf that marked the rim of the foot.Above him lay the great black
steep that rose to the summit of the monster's humped back, a mountain
to be climbed.Westover felt poignantly that his exhausted body could
not make that ascent and face the long and dangerous descent beyond,
which he had to make before dawn ... but not now ... not now....
* * * * *
He lay in a state between waking and dreaming, high on the monster's
side; and it seemed that the colossal body moved, swelling and
sighing--but he knew they did not breathe as backboned animals do.Westover had been one of the men who, in the days when humanity was
still fighting, had accumulated quite a store of knowledge about the
enemy--the enemy that was brainless and toolless, but that was simply
too vast for human intelligence and weapons to defeat....
Westover no longer saw the murky moonlight, the far faint glitter of
the flood or the slope of the living mountain.He saw, as he had seen
from a circling jet plane, an immense tree of smoke that rose and
expanded under the noonday sun, creamy white above and black and oily
below, and beneath the black cloud something that writhed and flowed
sluggishly in a cyclopean death agony.That picture dissolved, and was replaced by the face of a man--one who
might now be alive or dead, elsewhere in the chaos of a desolated
planet.It was an ordinary face, roundish, spectacled, but etched now
by tragedy; the voice that went with it was flat, unemotional, pedantic. "There are so many of them, and we've destroyed so few--and to kill
those few took our mightiest weapons.Examination of the ones that have
been killed discloses the reason why ordinary projectiles and bombs and
poisons are ineffective against them--apart, that is, from the chief
reason of sheer size.The creatures are so loosely organized that a
local injury hardly affects the whole. In a sense, each one of them is
a single cell--like the slime molds, the Earthly life forms that most
resemble them. "That striking resemblance, together with the fact that they chose
Earth to attack out of all the planets of the Solar System, shows they
must have originated on a world much like this.But while on Earth the
slime molds are the highest reticular organisms, and the dominant life
is all multicellular, on the monsters' home world conditions must have
favored unicellular growth.Probably as a result of this unspecialized
structure, the monsters have attained their great size and perhaps for
the same reason they have achieved what even intelligent cellular life
so far hasn't--liberation from existence bound to one world's surface,
the conquest of space.They accomplished it not by invention but by
adaptation, as brainless life once crawled out of the sea to conquer
the dry land. | Abernathy, Robert - Strange Exodus |
Thus began for him a weird existence--the life of a parasite, of a flea
on a dog.The monster crawled by day and rested by night; strengthened,
the man could have left it then, but somehow night after night he did
not.It wasn't, he argued with himself sometimes in the days when he
lay torpidly drowsing, lulled by the long sway, arms over his head to
protect him from the sun's baking, merely that he was chained to the
only source of food he knew in all the world--not just that he was
developing a flea's psychology.He was a man and a scientist, and he
was conducting an experiment.... His life on the monster's back was
proving something, something of vast importance for man, the extinct
animal--but for increasingly longer periods of time he could not
remember what it was....There came a morning, though, when he remembered. [Illustration: _Thus began for him a weird existence--the life of a
parasite, of a flea on a dog._]
* * * * *
He woke with the sun's warmth on his body and the realization of
something amiss trickling through his head.It was a little while
before he recognized the wrongness, and when he did he sat bolt upright. The sun was already up, and the monster should have begun once more its
steady, ravenous march to the east.But there was no motion; the great
living expanse lay still around him. He wondered wildly if it was dead. Presently, though, he felt a faint shuddering and lift beneath his
feet, and heard far stifled mutterings and sighs.Westover's mind was beginning to function again; it was as though the
cessation of the rock and sway had exorcised the lethargy that had lain
upon him.He knew now that he had been almost insane for the time he
had passed here, touched by the madness that takes hermits and men lost
in deserts or oceans. And his was a stranger solitude than any of those.Now he listened strainingly to the portentous sounds of change in the
monster's vitals, and in a flash of insight knew them for what they
were.The scientists had found, in the burst bodies of the Titans
that had been killed by atomic bombs, the answer to the riddle of
these creatures' crossing of space: great vacuoles, pockets of gas
that in the living animal could be under exceedingly high pressures,
and that could be expelled to drive the monster in flight like a
reaction engine.Rocket propulsion, of course, was nothing new to
zoology; it was developed ages before man, by the squids and by those
odd degenerate relatives of the vertebrates that are called tunicates
because of their gaudy cellulose-plastic armor....The monster on which Westover had been living as a parasite was
generating gases within itself, preparing to leave the ravished Earth. That was the meaning of its gargantuan belly rumblings.And they meant
further that he must finally leave it--now or never--or be borne aloft
to die gasping in the stratosphere.Hurriedly the man scrambled to the highest eminence of the back and
stood looking about; and what he saw brought him to the brink of
despair.For all around lay blue water, waves dancing and glinting in
the fresh breeze; and sniffing the air he recognized the salt tang
of the sea.While he slept the monster had crept beyond the coast
line, and lay now in what to it was shallow water--fifty or a hundred
fathoms. Back the way it had come, a headland was visible, mockingly,
hopelessly distant.Of course--the great beast would crawl into the sea, which would float
its bloated bulk and enable it to accelerate and take flight. It would
never have been able to lift itself into the air from the dry land.He should have foreseen that and made his escape in time. Now that
he had solved the problem of human survival....But the bright ocean
laughed at him, sparkling away wave beyond rolling wave, and beyond
that blue headland could be only a land made desert, where men become
beasts fought crazily over the last morsels of food.He had lost track
of the days he had been on the monster's back, but the rape of Earth
must be finished now.He had no doubt that the things would depart
as they had come into the Solar System--in that close, seemingly
one-willed swarm that Earth's astronomers had at first taken for a
comet. If this one was leaving, the rest no doubt were too.Westover sat for a space with head in hands, hearing the faint
continuing murmurs from below. And he remembered the voices. * * * * *
He had been hearing them again as he awoke--the distant muffled voices
whose words he could not make out, not the small close ones that
sometimes in the hot middays had spoken clearly in his ear and even
called his name.The latter had to be, as he had vaguely accepted them
even then, illusions--but the others--with his new clarity he was
suddenly sure that they had been real.And a wild, white light of hope blazed in him, and he flung himself
flat on the rough surface, beat on it with bare fists and shouted:
"Help! Here I am! Help! "He paused to listen with fierce intentness, and heard nothing but the
faint eructations deep inside the monster. Then he sprang to his feet, gripping his hand-ax, and ran panting to
the place where he had dug for food.His excavations tended to close
and heal overnight; now he went to work with vicious strokes enlarging
the latest one, hacking and tearing it deeper and deeper. He was almost hidden in the cavity when a shadow fell across him from
behind.He whirled, for there could be no shadows on the monster's back. A man stood watching him calmly--an elderly man in rusty black
clothing, leaning on a stick.The staff, the snowy beard, and something
that smoldered behind the benign eyes, gave him the look of an ancient
prophet. "Who are you?" asked Westover, breathlessly but almost without surprise. "I am the Preacher," the old man said. "The Lord hath sent me to save
you. Arise, my son, and follow me." Westover hesitated. "I'm not just imagining you?" he appealed. "Somebody else has really found the answer? "The Preacher's brows knitted faintly, but then his look turned to
benevolent understanding. "You have been alone too long here. Come with
me--I will take you to the Doctor. "Westover was still not sure that the other was more than one of the
powerful specters of childhood--the Preacher, the Doctor, no doubt the
Teacher next--risen to rob him of his last shreds of sanity. But he
nodded in childlike obedience, and followed.When, a few hundred yards nearer the monster's head, the other halted
at a black rent in the rugose hide, the mouth of a burrow descending
into utter blackness--Westover knew that both the Preacher and his own
wild hope were real. "Down here.Into the belly of Leviathan," said the old man solemnly,
and Westover nodded this time with alacrity. | Abernathy, Robert - Strange Exodus |
* * * * *
The crawling descent through the twisting, Stygian burrow had much
that ought to belong to a journey into Hell.... More than that, no
demonologist's imagination could have conceived without experiencing
the sheer horror of the yielding beslimed walls that seemed every
moment squeezing in to trap them unspeakably.The air was warm and
rank with the familiar heavy sweetish odor of the monster's colorless
blood....
Then, as he knew it must, a light glimmered ahead, the sinus widened,
and Westover climbed to his feet and stood, weak-kneed still, staring
at a chamber carved in the veritable belly of Leviathan.The floor
underfoot was firm, as was the wall his shaking fingers tested.Dazzled, he saw tools leaning against the walls, spades, crowbars,
axes, and a half-dozen people, men and women in rough grimy clothing,
who stood watching him with lively interest.The Preacher stood beside him, breathing hard and mopping his forehead. But he brushed aside the deferential offers of the others: "No--I will
take him to the Doctor myself. All of you must hurry now to close the
shaft. "There was another tunnel to be crawled through, but that one was
firm-walled as the room they left behind.They emerged into a larger
cavern, that like the first was lit--only now did the miracle of it
obtrude itself in his dazed mind--by fluorescent tubes, and filled with
equipment that gleamed glass and metal.Over an apparatus with many
fluid-dripping trays, like an air-conditioning device, bent a lone man. "Is it working?" inquired the Preacher. "It's working," the other answered without looking up from the
adjustment he was making.Bubbles were rising in the fluid that filled
the trays, rising and bursting, rising and bursting with a curiously
fascinating monotony.The subtly tense attitudes of the two initiates
told Westover better than words that there was something hugely
important in the success of whatever magic was producing those bubbles.The thaumaturge straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers as he
turned with a satisfied grin on his round, spectacled face--then both
he and Westover froze in dumbfounded recognition. * * * * *
Sutton was first to recover. He said quietly, "Welcome aboard the ark,
Bill. You're just in time--I think we're about to hoist anchor. "His
quick eyes studied Westover's face, and he gestured toward a packing
box against the wall opposite his apparatus. "Sit down. You've been
through the mill." "That's right," Westover sat down dizzily. "I've been aboard your ark
for some time now, though. Only as an ectoparasite." "It's high time you joined the endoparasites. Lucky you scratched
around enough up there to create repercussions we could feel down here. You got the same idea, then? ""I stumbled onto it," Westover admitted. "I was wandering across
country--my plane crashed on the way back from that South American
bug hunt dreamed up by somebody who'd been reading Wells' _War of the
Worlds_.I think my pilot went nuts; you could see too much of the
destruction from up there.... But I got out in one piece and started
walking--looking for some place with people and facilities that could
try out my method of killing the monsters.I thought--I still think--I
had a sure-fire way to do that--but I didn't realize then that it was
too late to think of killing them off." Sutton nodded thoughtfully. "It was too late--or too early, perhaps. We'll have to talk that over. "Westover finished the brief account of his coming to dwell on the
monster's back. The other grinned happily. "You began with the practice, where I worked out the theory first. ""I haven't got so far with the theory," said Westover, "but I think
I've got the main outlines. Until the monsters came, man was a parasite
on the face of the Earth.Fundamentally, parasitism--on the green
plants and their by-products--was our way of life, as of all animals
from the beginning. But the monsters absorbed into themselves all the
plant food and even the organic material in the soil.So we have only
one way out--to transfer our parasitism to the only remaining food
source--the monsters themselves. "The monsters almost defeated us, because of their two special
adaptations of extreme size and ability to cross space.But man has
always won the battle of adaptations before, because he could improvise
new ones as the need arose. The greatest crisis humanity ever faced
called for the most radical innovation in our way of life." "Very well put," approved Sutton. "Except that you make it sound easy. By the time I'd worked it out like that, things were already in
such a turmoil that putting it into effect was the devil's own job. About the only ones I could find to help me were the Preacher and his
people.They have the faith that moves mountains, that has made this
self-moving mountain inhabitable." "It is inhabitable?" Westover's question reflected no doubt. * * * * *
Sutton gestured at the bubbling device behind him. "That thing is
making air now, which we're going to need when the monster's in space.It was when we were still trying to find a poison for the beasts that I
hit on the catalyst that makes their blood give up its oxygen--that's
its blood flowing through the filters.We've got an electric generator
running by tapping the monster's internal gas pressure.There are
problems left before we'll be fully self-sufficient here--but the
monster is so much like us in fundamental makeup that its body contains
all the elements human life needs too. ""Then," Westover glanced appreciatively around, "it looks like the main
hazard is claustrophobia." "Don't worry about a cave-in. We're surrounded by solid cystoid
tissue.But," Sutton's voice took on a graver note, "there may be
other psychological dangers. I don't think all our people--there are
fifty-one, fifty-two of us now--realize yet that this colony isn't just
a temporary expedient.Human history hasn't had such a turning-point
since men first started chipping stone. Spengler's _Mensch als
Raubtier_--if he ever existed--has to be replaced by the _Mensch als
Schmarotzer_, and the adjustment may come hard.We've got to plan
for the rest of our lives--and our children's and our children's
children's--as parasites inside this monster and whatever others we can
manage to--infect--when they're clustered again in space. ""For the future," put in the Preacher, who had watched benignly the
biologists' reunion, "the Lord will provide, even as He did unto Jonah
when he cried to Him out of the belly of the fish." "Amen," agreed Sutton.But the gaze he fixed on Westover was oddly
troubled. "Speaking of the future brings up the question of the idea
you mentioned--your monster-killing scheme. | Abernathy, Robert - Strange Exodus |
"* * * * *
Westover flexed his hands involuntarily, like one who has been too
long enforcedly idle.In terse eager sentences he outlined for Sutton
the plan that had burned in him during his bitter wandering over
the face of the ruined land.It would be very easy to accomplish
from an endoparasite's point of vantage, merely by isolating from
the creature's blood over a long period enough of some potent
secretion--hormone, enzyme or the like--to kill when suddenly
reintroduced into the system. "Originally I thought we could accomplish
the same thing by synthesis--but this way will be simpler." "Beautifully simple." Sutton smiled wryly. "So much so that I wish
you'd never thought of it." Westover stared. "Why? ""Describing your plan, you sounded almost ready to put it into effect
on the spot." "No! Of course I realize--Well, I see what you mean--I think." Westover
was crestfallen. Sutton smiled faintly. "I think you do, Bill.To survive, we've got to be _good_ parasites. That means before all, for the coming generations, that we keep our
numbers down. A good parasite doesn't destroy or even overtax its host.We don't want to follow the sorry example of such unsuccessful species
as the bugs of bubonic plague or typhoid; we'll do better to model
ourselves on the humble tapeworm. "Your idea is dangerous for the same reason.The monsters probably
spend thousands of years in interstellar space; during that time
they'll be living exclusively on their fat--the fuel they stored on
Earth, and so will we.We've got a whole new history of man ahead
of us, under such changed conditions that we can't begin to predict
what turns it may take. There's a very great danger that men will
proliferate until they kill their hosts.But imagine a struggle for
_Lebensraum_ when all the living space there is is a few thousand
monsters capable of supporting a very limited number of people
each--with your method giving an easy way to destroy these little
worlds our descendants will inhabit.It's too much dynamite to have
around the house." Westover bowed his head, but he had caught a curiously expectant glint
in Sutton's eyes as he spoke. He thought, and his face lightened. "Suppose we work out a way to record my idea, one that can't be
deciphered by anyone unintelligent enough to be likely to misuse it. A
riddle for our descendants--who should have use for it some day." At last Sutton smiled. "That's better.You've thought it through to
the end, I see.... This phase of our history won't last forever. Eventually, the monsters will come to another planet not too unlike
Earth, because it's on such worlds they prey.A tapeworm can cross the
Sahara desert in the intestine of a camel--"
His voice was drowned in a vast hissing roar. An irresistible pressure
distorted the walls of the chamber and scythed its occupants from their
feet.Sutton staggered drunkenly almost erect, fought his way across
the tilting floor to make sure of his precious apparatus.He turned
back toward the others, bracing himself and shouting something; then,
knowing his words lost in the thunder, gestured toward the Earth they | Abernathy, Robert - Strange Exodus |
THE GIANTS RETURN
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Earth set itself grimly to meet them with
corrosive fire, determined to blast them
back to the stars.But they erred in thinking
the Old Ones were too big to be clever. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1949.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ]In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,
and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to the
normal yellow, of a GO sun.That was the Doppler effect as the star's
radial velocity changed relative to the _Quest III_, as for forty hours
the ship had decelerated.They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glittering
backdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the _Quest
III_ drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed of
light, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifeless
luminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell.They had grown
sated with the sight of wonders--of multiple systems of giant stars, of
nebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years. But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the
_Quest III's_ crew.It was a subdued excitement; men and women, they
came and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showed
the oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been born
in the ship and had never seen a planet.The grownups talked in low
voices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what might
lie at the long journey's end. For the _Quest III_ was coming home; the
sun ahead was _the_ Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning. * * * * *
Knof Llud, the _Quest III's_ captain, came slowly down the narrow
stair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the main
recreation room, where most of the people gathered.The great chamber,
a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold.At
the voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-foot
cylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores were
spent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spread
out from its original cramped quarters.Now the interstellar ship was
little more than a hollow shell. Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he met
them with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, "We've
sighted Earth. "A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,
"It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul has
identified it--no more." But this time the clamor was not to be settled.People pressed round
the screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they could
pick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrung
each other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept.For the present their fears
were forgotten and exaltation prevailed. Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been about
to make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing at
his elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, "How do _you_ feel,
Lesra?" She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. "I don't
know.It's good that Earth's still there." She was thinking, he judged
shrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could not
remember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, "What did you think might
have happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years." "That's just it," said Lesra shakily. "Nine hundred years have gone
by--_there_--and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same world
we left, the world we knew and fitted in...."
The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. "Don't
worry.Things may have changed--but we'll manage." But his face had
hardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fear
within him. He let his arm fall. "I'd better get up to the bridge. There's a new course to be set now--for Earth. "He left her and began to climb the stairway again.Someone switched
off the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as the
people saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's own
Sun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens.In that light Lesra's eyes
gleamed with unshed tears. Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the cat
that ate the canary.Gwar Den was finding that the actual observed
positions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely with
his extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System.He had
already set up on the calculator a course that would carry them to
Earth. Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, "Probably we'll be intercepted
before we get that far." Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. "Uh, Captain," he said
hesitantly. "What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?" Llud shook his head slowly. "Who knows? We don't know whether any
of the other _Quests_ returned successful, or if they returned at
all.And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It's
possible--not likely, though--that something has happened to break
civilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has been
forgotten altogether. "* * * * *
He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge.From his private
office-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul to
notify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then he
sat idle, alone with his thoughts.The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Llud
found himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task for
everyone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, but
he couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way.He could go down
and watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might find
Lesra and the children--but somehow he didn't want to do that either. He felt empty, drained--like his ship.As the _Quest III's_ fuel stores
and the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so the
strength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almost
empty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundred
Earth years--though physically he was only forty now, ten years older
than when the voyage had begun.That was the foreshortening along the
time axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
Weeks and
months had passed for the _Quest III_ in interstellar flight while
years and decades had raced by on the home world.Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet with
built-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were about
three dozen film spools there--his personal memoirs of the great
expedition, a segment of his life and of history.He might add that to
the ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as a
report to whatever powers might be on Earth now--if such powers were
still interested. Llud selected a spool from among the earliest.It was one he had made
shortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. He
slid it onto the reproducer. His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant and
confident than he knew it was now. "One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's time
since leaving Earth. "Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twice
the size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony. "Our hopes were dashed--and I think all of us, even remembering the
Centaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit.If
Procyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned after
an absence of not much over twenty years Earth time. "It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute.We go
on to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If success
comes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;
friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the _Quest_ ships
will be long since dead.Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,
humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever...."
Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leaned
back, an ironic smile touching his lips.That fervent idealism seemed
remote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must still
have been ringing in his ears. He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,
later, one. "One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain that
that system, too, is devoid of planets. "We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probably
true--that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that we
may complete our search without finding even one new Earth. "It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan.... This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation to
one world in all the Universe.Certainly the building of this ship
and its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor and
energy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained and
exhausted.Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selfless
and transcendent effort--the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,
or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of the
twentieth century. "Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy are
the result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, and
therefore signalize the beginning of the end.Population can be
limited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone is
life.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth was
in sight--so we launched the _Quests_.Perhaps our effort will prove as
futile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter to
reduce pressure....In any case, it would be impossible to transport
very many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go into
its decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,
expanding limitlessly into the Universe....
"Hopeless, unless we find planets! "* * * * *
Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. That
was from the time when he had grown philosophical after the first
disappointments.He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only four
years old.The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strange
longing....
"We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant on
the screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowing
through fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula. "According to plan, the _Quest III_ has reached its furthest point from
Earth.Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many more
stars and stellar systems--but hope is small that any of those will
prove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examined
already. "But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We have
only, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of the
Universe, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far ahead
along the Milky Way. "On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of the
globular cluster Omega Centauri.There are a hundred thousand stars
there in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun's
neighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek!But
Omega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....
"Even so--by expending its remaining fuel freely, the _Quest III_ could
achieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senility
of aging too greatly.It would be a one-way journey--even if enough
fuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth after
more than forty thousand years.By then our civilization certainly, and
perhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory. "That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other
_Quests_, to less than a thousand years Earth time.Even now, according
to the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization--if the
other expeditions failed also--will have reached a dangerously unstable
phase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely from
overpopulation. "Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget about
Earth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to a
decree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may be
forgotten back there? "Would the crew be willing? I don't know--some of them still show signs
of homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything that
was once 'home' has probably been swept away....
"It doesn't matter.Today I gave orders to swing the ship." Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Then
he sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shake
him.A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read them
once in translation from the ancient English....
... for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die. * * * * *
Llud sighed. | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
He still couldn't say just why he had given the order to
turn back.The stars had claimed his heart--but he was still a part of
Earth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been able
to alter that.He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a green
shady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last of
responsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things went
on, if men didn't change them.And a pine forest where he and young
Knof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at the
glittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure he
would want to do that, though.Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemed
to falter one moment in flight. * * * * *
The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements became
unhurried.Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good idea
what it had been--a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity of
the Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless stars
such collisions were rare to the vanishing point.No harm could have
been done. The _Quest III's_ collision armor was nonmaterial and for
practical purposes invulnerable. Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, the
intercommunication phone shrilled imperatively.Knof Llud wheeled,
frowning--surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,
maybe--it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed. He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shook
the vessel.Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scalded
cat. "Captain?" It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. "Captain,
we're being attacked!" "Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. "He had said it automatically,
then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after all
these years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start--three
short buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of the
interstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,
"Now--attacked by what? ""Ships," said Gwar Den helplessly. "Five of them so far. No, there's a
sixth now." Repeated blows quivered the _Quest III's_ framework. The
navigator said, obviously striving for calm, "They're light craft, not
fifty feet long, but they move fast.The detectors hardly had time to
show them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on them
long enough to tell much." "If they're that small," said Knof Llud deliberately, "they can't carry
anything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course.I'll be right up." In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes were
big; he had heard his father's words. "Something's happened," he judged with deadly twelve-year-old
seriousness and, without wasting time on questions, "Can I go with you,
huh, Dad?" Llud hesitated, said, "All right. Come along and keep out of the way. "He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match. There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts. Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending.The _Quest III_
shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millions
of horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mighty
engines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,
most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain Knof
Llud. "Well?" he snapped. "What are they doing?" Gwar Den spoke. "There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, and
they're all banging away at us." The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screen
where occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twice
from the same position.Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently. His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence in
his father. "If they had anything heavier," surmised the captain, "they'd have
unlimbered it by now.They're out to get us. But at this rate, they
can't touch us as long as our power lasts--or until they bring up some
bigger stuff. "* * * * *
The mild shocks went on--whether from projectiles or energy-charges,
would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hitting
the _Quest III's_ shell was doing it at velocities where the
distinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drive
field which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom of
the ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarly
transmitted and rendered harmless.The effect was as if the vessel and
all space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body.A
meteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded--usually vaporized by
the impact--and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and opposite
forces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, its
deflection was negligible.The people in the _Quest III_ would have felt nothing at all of
the vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that their
inertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,
was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency to
provide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.One of the officers said shakily, "It's as if they've been lying in
wait for us. But why on Earth--"
"That," said the captain grimly, "is what we have to find out. Why--on
Earth. At least, I suspect the answer's there. "The _Quest III_ bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even if
one were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating or
change course.There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel left
if there had been; come what might, this was journey's end--perhaps
in a more violent and final way than had been anticipated.All around
wheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,
always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets.The
interstellar ship bore no offensive weapons--but suddenly on one of the
vision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzling
the watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were torn
apart.Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one was
paying attention to him. The men on the _Quest III's_ bridge looked
questions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashed
into many minds at once.But Captain Llud said soberly, "It must have
caught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scored
too direct a hit." | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
He studied the data so far gathered.A few blurred pictures had been
got, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the _Quest III_,
except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size.Their
size was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distance
and speed--but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, by
the Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approaching
ships.It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller than
Gwar Den had at first supposed--not large enough to hold even one man. Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting. "Robot craft, no doubt," said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spine
as it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of human
origin.They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxy
they had explored, but one of the other _Quests_ might have encountered
and been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able to
conquer. * * * * *
It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by a
constant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away into
space, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition.That
argued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behind
it. Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, "At the rate
we're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eight
hours. ""We'll have reached Earth before then," Gwar Den said hopefully. "If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first." "We're under the psychological disadvantage," said the captain, "of not
knowing why we're being attacked. "Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of a
thought too important to suppress, "But we're under a ps-psychological
advantage, too!" His father raised an eyebrow. "What's that? I don't seem to have
noticed it. ""They're mad and we aren't, yet," said the boy. Then, seeing that he
hadn't made himself clear, "In a fight, if a guy gets mad he starts
swinging wild and then you nail him." Smiles splintered the ice of tension.Captain Llud said, "Maybe you've
got something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not in
a position to throw any punches." He turned back to the others. "As I
was going to say--I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy.At
least we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us. "And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on an
audio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,
repeating on each the same brief recorded message:
"Who are you? What do you want?We are the interstellar expedition
_Quest III_...." And so on, identifying themselves and protesting that
they were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, and
querying again, "Who are _you_?" There was no answer.The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away under
multiplied demands.Those outside were squandering vastly greater
amounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, but
converting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the
_Quest III_ too.Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his own
nerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews of
his ship. Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. "If you have time,
Captain--I've got some data on Earth now. "Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. But
they told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, and
those were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked up
inquiringly at Zost Relyul. "There are some strange features," said the astronomer carefully. "First of all--there are no lights on the night side. And on the
daylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal traces
of cities, canals, and the like--but it does not. "The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normal
green vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer.It indicates
reflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide--so the
vegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a fine
moss or even a coarse mold." "Is that all?" demanded Llud. "Isn't it enough?" said Zost Relyul blankly. "Well--we tried
photography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothing
and likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere is
opaque to it." The captain sighed wearily. "Good work," he said. "Keep it up; perhaps
you can answer some of these riddles before--"
"_We know who you are_," interrupted a harshly crackling voice with a
strange accent, "_and pleading will do you no good._"
* * * * *
Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping from
him once more.He snapped, "But who are you?" and the words blended
absurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeating
tape.He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still crackling
with space static, said, "It may interest you to know that you are the
last.The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have already
returned and been destroyed, as you will soon be--the sooner, if you
continue toward Earth." Knof Llud's mind was clicking again.The voice--which must be coming
from Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships--was not very smart; it
had already involuntarily told him a couple of things--that it was not
as sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deigned
to speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the _Quest
III's_ ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehow
frightened it.So it was trying to frighten them. He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to know
something, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question, "_Are you
human?_"
The voice chuckled sourly. "We are human," it answered, "but you are
not." The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunned
hush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefully
into its field. "Suppose we settle this argument about humanity," said Knof Llud
woodenly.He named a vision frequency. "Very well." The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in its
language that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with the
changes that nine hundred years had wrought. "Perhaps, if you realize
your position, you will follow the intelligent example of the _Quest
I's_ commander." Knof Llud stiffened.The _Quest I_, launched toward Arcturus and the
star cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the _Quest III_ the
most hopeful of the expeditions--and its captain had been a good friend
of Llud's, nine hundred years ago....He growled, "What happened to
him?" "He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for some
time," said the voice lightly. "When he saw that it was hopeless, he
preferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun." A short
pause. | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
"The vision connection is ready." Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and a
picture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,
but undeniably a man's.His features and his light-brown skin showed
the same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the _Quest
III_, but he had an elusive look of deformity.Most obviously, his head
seemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head. He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. "Have you any other last wishes?" "Yes," said Llud with icy control. "You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are." The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his great
eyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of a
poisonous hatred. "It is enough for you to know that you must die." * * * * *
Llud frowned darkly--then an incredible light burst in his brain.He stared at the pictured figure with quite new and indescribable
sensations. "You," he said slowly, "are not on Earth, as I was
assuming; if you were, there'd be a time lag of quite a few minutes
in this conversation.You must be on one of those miniature ships out
there--which aren't big enough to hold a man!" He saw the uncanny hate flare closer to the surface this time. "You are clever," said the big-headed man spitefully. "Very well,
then--in your screen you see some of the differences between me, who am
human, and you, who are not any more.The main difference, which you do
not see, is that I am three point sixty-two millimeters high, and you
are more like two meters." Knof Llud was speechless.The man who had just said he was an eighth
of an inch tall grinned unpleasantly again at his amazement. "Yes," he
said. "I am one of the New Humanity, which has replaced your kind on
the Earth.You are the last of the old, subhuman race of giants, which
will very shortly be extinct." "It's impossible," whispered Llud. But he had to remember that he had
been on the verge of deducing the thing himself.The little man folded his arms and gazed at him with mocking
superiority. "You have the mentality of nine hundred years ago.Your
age would have called size reduction impossible, even though they
already had most of the biophysical and genetic knowledge needed.They
suffered from increasing overpopulation, but they were blind to the
obvious answer--so Earth went through the wasteful folly of launching
the interstellar ships. We are descended from dull-witted giants like
you. "Cautiously, out of sight of the screen, Llud extended a hand and found
a pad of memo blanks and a pencil. Without taking his eyes off the
magnified, bragging image, he began to write. He thought he had the
answer now to this murderous welcome. "_We_ have found the solution of the problem of growth," the image was
saying. "For seven hundred years now, each generation has been smaller
than the one before, so that there is constantly more room on the
planet, relatively speaking; and the process still goes on. There are
six hundred trillion of us on Earth now.In another two generations
there will be a quadrillion human beings only two millimeters tall--and
no overcrowding. "But," the little man snarled venomously, "we have no room for you
giants!" Knof Llud sighed.The sagging lines of his face were calculated to
reassure the other and his superiors on Earth, to whom the sight-sound
conversation was undoubtedly being relayed. Llud said tiredly, "But
you don't have any reason for destroying us.Why not let us land on
one of the worthless outer planets, and make an attempt to live there? Or, if you will give us a little atomic fuel, we will leave the Solar
System again and trouble you no more.In exchange we have a great deal
of knowledge, data on the stars of the Taurus Cluster and beyond, to
offer...."
* * * * *
As he spoke, he was beckoning Gwar Den to him, handing the navigator
the brief order he had scrawled on the pad.The little man laughed shortly. "As if we could trust you--or wanted
your worthless knowledge of stars! No, we will not bargain with giants. "The captain said slowly, for there was still time to be gained in order
that the gamble he had decided on might have its chance, "You're very
sure that you _can_ smash us. Remember, we control gravitic forces, a
science you have evidently lost. "He saw the look of sneering triumph waver a little; then the image
snapped, "We destroyed the others. Your screen, whatever it is, is not
impenetrable; we have power to break through it." That was true, of course.The drive-field would collapse when the fuel
ran out, desperately soon now. Llud started to speak again; then he felt the nearly imperceptible
lurch that meant the _Quest III_ had applied a terrific acceleration at
an angle to its line of flight.Gwar Den had done a quick job. The impacts of enemy fire ceased; the ship's abrupt swerve had
temporarily shaken off its rocket-driven tormentors. Almost simultaneously the image on the screen looked startled.The
man turned as if listening to some one else. "So you've begun a
frantic attempt to dodge. It won't help you--" His jaw dropped and
he listened again; this time he was a little longer overcoming his
surprise.Knof Llud knew what the second message had been as surely as
if he had been there--that the _Quest III_, far from doubling back, was
still heading for Earth, from a slightly different angle, and was even
accelerating.The side thrust had already ceased. That expenditure of
fuel reduced the chances, but it had to be risked. The little man faced Knof Llud again and smiled savagely. "Whatever
you're trying, we're ready for you! ""No doubt," thought the captain with some satisfaction. He sat up
straighter and gazed at the little man. His discouraged air was gone
and the look in his eyes was the distillate of cold, searing scorn.He
said, biting off the words with deliberate emphasis, to that one and
the others who would be listening, "You pitiful pigmies." The face in the screen grew darker with rage; it opened its mouth and
closed it with a snap. "You pitiful pigmies," repeated Knof Llud. "You're pigmies not only in
physical size, but in everything else.You've thrown away everything
that made being human worthwhile, all for the sake of your one pigmy
ambition--to multiply your crawling little lives and become more and
more at the same time that you become less and less. You've shrunk into
vermin.In the end you'll probably shrink away to nothing, and good
riddance." With sudden change of pace he shot out a question: "What's the longest
wave length of visible light?" "2100 angstroms," the answer was mechanical.Then, "You--"
The captain smiled a smile of weary disdain. "I thought so. Six
hundred trillion of you, eh? Crawling around down there in the dark,
because you see in the far ultraviolet--and the atmosphere stops those
frequencies.You can't see the stars! | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
For thousands of years men
watched the stars and wanted them and were kept trying by sight of
them--but you can't see the stars any more. "The face stared at him with great eyes full of unspeakable hate, and
spat a word which had not been in the language when the _Quest III_ was
launched. The screen went suddenly blank. * * * * *
Knof Llud turned away, and his eyes fell on another vision screen. Earth was clear in it, dead ahead, a disk so near that land and sea
were distinguishable with the naked eye, and coming rapidly nearer.The
sight cost him a moment's nostalgic pain; then he thought of the little
men, swarming ant-like over every square foot of habitable land....
Vermin he had called them; vermin they were. He found himself, for no sensible reason, counting seconds.He had
got to seventeen when the screen that showed Earth dissolved into a
featureless and blinding glare. At the same instant a force too tremendous for the senses to register
smote the _Quest III_.The interior of the ship, everything and
everyone in it seemed to stretch and distort like rubber as the
gravitic field was strained beyond its elastic limit.The lights went
out as the drive units claimed the last erg of available energy and
shrieked their overloaded protest through the crushing and twisted
darkness. But then the lights went on again and the ship was hurtling free in
space.Its people picked themselves up dazedly and tried to understand
why they were still alive. "Gee, Dad," young Knof said admiringly as he dabbed at a blackening
eye, "what did you do?" "_I_ didn't do much," said the captain. "The fireworks were from our
little friends. I just took your advice about getting the other fellow
mad, and it worked. They just shut their eyes and swung with everything
they had. "The boy gazed at the vision screen where the Sun was already a star
again. He whistled. "They had plenty." "I thought the heavy artillery must be ready on Earth in case we kept
going that way.It was--enough of it to knock us right out of the
System at close to the speed of light. Just how close I don't know
yet ... ah." He took a couple of sheets of figures from the hands of
Gwar Den, and devoured them rapidly.He nodded with satisfaction to the
anxious faces around. "We must have been hit simultaneously by fire
from all over one hemisphere--and the forces' resultant, which is now
our course, came out as I had hoped.... Our velocity is close enough;
the journey will take about fourteen years, ship's time, but most of us
can expect to live that long--"
"Where are we going? "demanded Knof Jr., unable to contain his
curiosity. Captain Knof Llud smiled down at his son with a touch of wistfulness. The memory of Earth, dwindling into infinite smallness behind, still
hurt him; but young Knof would never know that hurt.And, after
fourteen years, the captain would be about ready to leave his dream in
younger hands.... He laid an arm about the boy's shoulders and pointed
silently to the forward vision screen, to a faint blurred light dead in
its center. | Abernathy, Robert - The Giants Return |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Barbara Tozier and the Online
This etext was produced from Fantastic Universe, January 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed._This story contains what is, to us, at any rate, a novel
idea--that when we of Earth finally reach Mars we may find
there records of prehistoric Earth far surpassing those of our
paleontologists.Or, in other words, that creatures of Mars
may have visited this planet tens of thousands of years ago
and returned home with specimens for their science.A nice
idea well told._
THE RECORD OF CURRUPIRA
_by ... Robert Abernathy_
From ancient Martian records came the grim song of a creature
whose very existence was long forgotten.James Dalton strode briskly through the main exhibit room of New
York's Martian Museum, hardly glancing to right or left though many
displays had been added since his last visit.The rockets were coming
home regularly now and their most valuable cargoes--at least from a
scientist's point of view--were the relics of an alien civilization
brought to light by the archeologists excavating the great dead
cities.One new exhibit did catch Dalton's eye.He paused to read the label
with interest--
MAN FROM MARS:
_The body here preserved was found December 12, 2001, by an
exploring party from the spaceship NEVADA, in the Martian
city which we designate E-3.It rested in a case much like
this, in a building that had evidently been the municipal
museum. Around it, in other cases likewise undisturbed since a
period estimated at fifty thousand years ago, were a number of
Earthly artifacts.These finds prove beyond doubt that a
Martian scientific expedition visited Earth before the dawn of
our history._
On the label someone had painstakingly copied the Martian glyphs found
on the mummy's original case.Dalton's eyes traced the looping
ornamental script--he was one of the very few men who had put in the
years of work necessary to read inscriptional Martian--and he smiled
appreciation of a jest that had taken fifty thousand years to
ripen--the writing said simply, _Man From Earth_.The mummy lying on a sculptured catafalque beyond the glass was
amazingly well preserved--far more lifelike and immensely older than
anything Egypt had yielded.Long-dead Martian embalmers had done a
good job even on what to them was the corpse of an other-world
monster. He had been a small wiry man. His skin was dark though its color might
have been affected by mummification.His features suggested those of
the Forest Indian. Beside him lay his flaked-stone ax, his
bone-pointed spear and spear thrower, likewise preserved by a
marvelous chemistry.Looking down at that ancient nameless ancestor, Dalton was moved to
solemn thoughts.This creature had been first of all human-kind to
make the tremendous crossing to Mars--had seen its lost race in living
glory, had died there and became a museum exhibit for the multiple
eyes of wise grey spiderish aliens. "Interested in Oswald, sir?" Dalton glanced up and saw an attendant. "I was just thinking--if he
could only talk! He does have a name, then?" The guard grinned. "Well, we call him Oswald. Sort of inconvenient,
not having a name.When I worked at the Metropolitan we used to call
all the Pharaohs and Assyrian kings by their first names." Dalton mentally classified another example of the deep human need for
verbal handles to lift unwieldy chunks of environment.The
professional thought recalled him to business and he glanced at his
watch. "I'm supposed to meet Dr. Oliver Thwaite here this morning. Has he
come in yet?" "The archeologist? He's here early and late when he's on Earth.He'll
be up in the cataloguing department now. Want me to show you--"
"I know the way," said Dalton. "Thanks all the same." He left the
elevator at the fourth floor and impatiently pushed open the main
cataloguing room's glazed door.Inside cabinets and broad tables bore a wilderness of strange
artifacts, many still crusted with red Martian sand. Alone in the room
a trim-mustached man in a rough open-throated shirt looked up from an
object he had been cleaning with a soft brush."Dr. Thwaite? I'm Jim Dalton." "Glad to meet you, Professor." Thwaite carefully laid down his work,
then rose to grip the visitor's hand. "You didn't lose any time. ""After you called last night I managed to get a seat on the
dawn-rocket out of Chicago. I hope I'm not interrupting?" "Not at all. I've got some assistants coming in around nine.I was
just going over some stuff I don't like to trust to their
thumb-fingered mercies." Dalton looked down at the thing the archeologist had been brushing. It
was a reed syrinx, the Pan's pipes of antiquity. "That's not a very
Martian-looking specimen," he commented. "The Martians, not having any lips, could hardly have had much use for
it," said Thwaite. "This is of Earthly manufacture--one of the
Martians' specimens from Earth, kept intact over all this time by a
preservative I wish we knew how to make.It's a nice find, man's
earliest known musical instrument--hardly as interesting as the record
though." Dalton's eyes brightened. "Have you listened to the record yet?" "No. We got the machine working last night and ran off some of the
Martian stuff.Clear as a bell. But I saved the main attraction for
when you got here." Thwaite turned to a side door, fishing a key from
his pocket. "The playback machine's in here. "The apparatus, squatting on a sturdy table in the small room beyond,
had the slightly haywire look of an experimental model.But it was
little short of a miracle to those who knew how it had been built--on
the basis of radioed descriptions of the ruined device the excavators
had dug up on Mars. Even more intriguing, however, was the row of neatly labeled boxes on
a shelf.There in cushioned nests reposed little cylinders of
age-tarnished metal, on which a close observer could still trace the
faint engraved lines and whorls of Martian script. These were the
best-preserved specimens yet found of Martian record films.Sound and pictures were on them, impressed there by a triumphant
science so long ago that the code of Hammurabi or the hieroglyphs of
Khufu seemed by comparison like yesterday's newspaper.Men of Earth
were ready now to evoke these ancient voices--but to reproduce the
stereoscopic images was still beyond human technology. Dalton scrutinized one label intently. "Odd," he said. "I realize how
much the Martian archives may have to offer us when we master their
spoken language--but I still want most to hear _this_ record, the one
the Martians made right here on Earth." Thwaite nodded comprehendingly. | Abernathy, Robert - The Record of Currupira |
"The human race is a good deal like an
amnesia patient that wakes up at the age of forty and finds himself
with a fairly prosperous business, a wife and children and a mortgage,
but no recollection of his youth or infancy--and nobody around to tell
him how he got where he is. "We invented writing so doggone late in the game. Now we get to Mars
and find the people there knew us before we knew ourselves--but they
died or maybe picked up and went, leaving just this behind. "He used
both hands to lift the precious gray cylinder from its box. "And of
course you linguists in particular get a big charge out of this
discovery." "_If_ it's a record of human speech it'll be the oldest ever found.It
may do for comparative-historical linguistics what the Rosetta Stone
did for Egyptology." Dalton grinned boyishly. "Some of us even nurse
the hope it may do something for our old headache--the problem of the
origin of language.That was one of the most important, maybe _the_
most important step in human progress--and we don't know how or when
or why!" "I've heard of the bowwow theory and the dingdong theory," said
Thwaite, his hands busy with the machine. "Pure speculations.The plain fact is we haven't even been able to
make an informed guess because the evidence, the written records, only
run back about six thousand years. That racial amnesia you spoke of. "Personally, I have a weakness for the magical theory--that man
invented language in the search for magic formulae, words of power. Unlike the other theories, that one assumes as the motive force not
merely passive imitativeness but an outgoing will. "Even the speechless subman must have observed that he could affect
the behavior of animals of his own and other species by making
appropriate noises--a mating call or a terrifying shout, for instance.Hence the perennial conviction you can get what you want if you just
hold your mouth right, _and_ you know the proper prayers or curses." "A logical conclusion from the animistic viewpoint," said Thwaite.He
frowned over the delicate task of starting the film, inquired
offhandedly, "You got the photostat of the label inscription? What did
you make of it?" "Not much more than Henderson did on Mars.There's the date of the
recording and the place--the longitude doesn't mean anything to us
because we still don't know where the Martians fixed their zero
meridian.But it was near the equator and, the text indicates, in a
tropical forest--probably in Africa or South America. "Then there's the sentence Henderson couldn't make out.It's obscure and
rather badly defaced, but it's evidently a comment--unfavorable--on
the subject-matter of the recording. In it appears twice a sort of
interjection-adverb that in other contexts implies revulsion--something
like _ugh_!" "Funny.Looks like the Martians saw something on Earth they didn't
like. Too bad we can't reproduce the visual record yet. "Dalton said soberly, "The Martian's vocabulary indicates that for all
their physical difference from us they had emotions very much like
human beings'. Whatever they saw must have been something we wouldn't
have liked either. "The reproducer hummed softly. Thwaite closed the motor switch and the
ancient film slid smoothly from its casing.Out of the speaker burst a
strange medley of whirrings, clicks, chirps, trills and modulated
drones and buzzings--a sound like the voice of grasshoppers in a
drought-stricken field of summer.Dalton listened raptly, as if by sheer concentration he might even now
be able to guess at connections between the sounds of spoken
Martian--heard now for the first time--and the written symbols that he
had been working over for years.But he couldn't, of course--that
would require a painstaking correlation analysis. "Evidently it's an introduction or commentary," said the archeologist. "Our photocell examination showed the wave-patterns of the initial and
final portions of the film were typically Martian--but the middle part
isn't. The middle part is whatever they recorded here on Earth. ""If only that last part is a translation...." said Dalton hopefully. Then the alien susurration ceased coming from the reproducer and he
closed his mouth abruptly and leaned forward. For the space of a caught breath there was silence.Then another voice
came in, the voice of Earth hundreds of centuries dead. It was not human. No more than the first had been--but the Martian
sounds had been merely alien and these were horrible.It was like nothing so much as the croaking of some gigantic frog,
risen bellowing from a bottomless primeval swamp. It bayed of stinking
sunless pools and gurgled of black ooze.And its booming notes
descended to subsonic throbbings that gripped and wrung the nerves to
anguish. Dalton was involuntarily on his feet, clawing for the switch. But he
stopped, reeling. His head spun and he could not see.Through his
dizzy brain the great voice roared and the mighty tones below hearing
hammered at the inmost fortress of the man's will. On the heels of that deafening assault the voice began to change.The
numbing thunder rumbled back, repeating the pain and the threat--but
underneath something crooned and wheedled obscenely.It said,
"_Come ... come ... come...._" And the stunned prey came on stumbling
feet, shivering with a terror that could not break the spell. Where the squat black machine had been was something that was also
squat and black and huge.It crouched motionless and blind in the mud
and from its pulsing expanded throat vibrated the demonic croaking. As
the victim swayed helplessly nearer the mouth opened wide upon long
rows of frightful teeth.... The monstrous song stopped suddenly.Then still another voice cried
briefly, thinly in agony and despair. That voice was human. Each of the two men looked into a white strange face. They were
standing on opposite sides of the table and between them the playback
machine had fallen silent.Then it began to whir again in the locust
speech of the Martian commentator, explaining rapidly, unintelligibly. Thwaite found the switch with wooden fingers. As if with one accord
they retreated from the black machine.Neither of them even tried to
make a false show of self-possession. Each knew, from his first
glimpse of the other's dilated staring eyes, that both had experienced
and seen the same.Dalton sank shivering into a chair, the darkness still swirling
threateningly in his brain. Presently he said, "The expression of a
will--that much was true. But the will--was not of man. "* * * * *
James Dalton took a vacation. | Abernathy, Robert - The Record of Currupira |
After a few days he went to a
psychiatrist, who observed the usual symptoms of overwork and worry
and recommended a change of scene--a rest in the country.On the first night at a friend's secluded farm Dalton awoke drenched
in cold sweat.Through the open window from not far away came a
hellish serenade, the noise of frogs--the high nervous voices of
peepers punctuating the deep leisured booming of bullfrogs.The linguist flung on his clothes and drove back at reckless speed to
where there were lights and the noises of men and their machines.He
spent the rest of his vacation burrowing under the clamor of the city
whose steel and pavements proclaimed man's victory over the very grass
that grew. After awhile he felt better and needed work again.He took up his
planned study of the Martian recordings, correlating the spoken words
with the written ones he had already arduously learned to read.The Martian Museum readily lent him the recordings he requested for
use in his work, including the one made on Earth.He studied the
Martian-language portion of this and succeeded in making a partial
translation--but carefully refrained from playing the middle section
of the film back again.Came a day, though, when it occurred to him that he had heard not a
word from Thwaite. He made inquiries through the Museum and learned
that the archeologist had applied for a leave of absence and left
before it was granted. Gone where?The Museum people didn't know--but
Thwaite had not been trying to cover his trail. A call to Global Air
Transport brought the desired information. A premonition ran up Dalton's spine--but he was surprised at how
calmly he thought and acted.He picked up the phone and called
Transport again--this time their booking department. "When's the earliest time I can get passage to Belem?" he asked. With no more than an hour to pack and catch the rocket he hurried to
the Museum.The place was more or less populated with sightseers,
which was annoying, because Dalton's plans now included larceny.He waited before the building till the coast was clear, then, with
handkerchief-wrapped knuckles, broke the glass and tripped the lever
on the fire alarm.In minutes a wail of sirens and roar of arriving
motors was satisfyingly loud in the main exhibit room. Police and fire
department helicopters buzzed overhead. A wave of mingled fright and
curiosity swept visitors and attendants alike to the doors.Dalton, lingering, found himself watched only by the millennially
sightless eyes of the man who lay in state in an airless glass tomb. The stern face was inscrutable behind the silence of many thousand
years. "Excuse me, Oswald," murmured Dalton. "I'd like to borrow something of
yours but I'm sure you won't mind." The reed flute was in a long case devoted to Earthly specimens. Unhesitatingly Dalton smashed the glass. * * * * *
Brazil is a vast country, and it cost much trouble and time and
expense before Dalton caught up with Thwaite in a forlorn riverbank
town along the line where civilization hesitates on the shore of that
vast sea of vegetation called the _mato_.Night had just fallen when
Dalton arrived. He found Thwaite alone in a lighted room of the single
drab hotel--alone and very busy. The archeologist was shaggily unshaven.He looked up and said
something that might have been a greeting devoid of surprise.Dalton
grimaced apologetically, set down his suitcase and pried the wax plugs
out of his ears, explaining with a gesture that included the world
outside, where the tree frogs sang deafeningly in the hot stirring
darkness of the near forest. "How do you stand it?" he asked. Thwaite's lips drew back from his teeth. "I'm fighting it," he said
shortly, picking up his work again. On the bed where he sat were
scattered steel cartridge clips.He was going through them with a
small file, carefully cutting a deep cross in the soft nose of every
bullet. Nearby a heavy-caliber rifle leaned against a wardrobe.Other
things were in evidence--boots, canteens, knapsacks, the tough
clothing a man needs in the _mato_. "You're looking for _it_." Thwaite's eyes burned feverishly. "Yes. Do you think I'm crazy? "* * * * *
Dalton pulled a rickety chair toward him and sat down straddling it. "I don't know," he said slowly. "_It_ was very likely a creature of
the last interglacial period. The ice may have finished its kind. ""The ice never touched these equatorial forests." Thwaite smiled
unpleasantly. "And the Indians and old settlers down here have
stories--about a thing that calls in the _mato_, that can paralyze a
man with fear. _Currupira_ is their name for it. "When I remembered those stories they fell into place alongside a lot
of others from different countries and times--the Sirens, for
instance, and the Lorelei. Those legends are ancient.But perhaps here
in the Amazon basin, in the forests that have never been cut and the
swamps that have never been drained, the _currupira_ is still real and
alive. I _hope_ so!" "Why?" "I want to meet it.I want to show it that men can destroy it with all
its unholy power." Thwaite bore down viciously on the file and the
bright flakes of lead glittered to the floor beside his feet. Dalton watched him with eyes of compassion.He heard the frog music
swelling outside, a harrowing reminder of ultimate blasphemous insult,
and he felt the futility of argument. "Remember, I heard it too," Dalton said. "And I sensed what you did.That voice or some combination of frequencies or overtones within it,
is resonant to the essence of evil--the fundamental life-hating
self-destroying evil in man--even to have glimpsed it, to have heard
the brainless beast mocking, was an outrage to humanity that a man
must...."
Dalton paused, got a grip on himself. "But, consider--the outrage was
wiped out, humanity won its victory over the monster a long time ago. What if it isn't quite extinct? That record was fifty thousand years
old." "What did you do with the record?" Thwaite looked up sharply. "I obliterated that--the voice and the pictures that went with it from
the film before I returned it to the Museum." Thwaite sighed deeply. "Good. I was damning myself for not doing that
before I left. "The linguist said, "I think it answered my question as much as I want
it answered. The origin of speech--lies in the will to power, the lust
to dominate other men by preying on the weakness or evil in them. "Those first men didn't just guess that such power existed--they
_knew_ because the beast had taught them and they tried to imitate
it--the mystagogues and tyrants through the ages, with voices, with
tomtoms and bull-roarers and trumpets.What makes the memory of that
voice so hard to live with is just knowing that what it called to is a
part of man--isn't that it?" Thwaite didn't answer.He had taken the heavy rifle across his knees
and was methodically testing the movement of the well-oiled breech
mechanism. | Abernathy, Robert - The Record of Currupira |
Dalton stood up wearily and picked up his suitcase. "I'll check into
the hotel.Suppose we talk this over some more in the morning. Maybe
things'll look different by daylight." But in the morning Thwaite was gone--upriver with a hired boatman,
said the natives. The note he had left said only, _Sorry.But it's no
use talking about humanity--this is personal._
Dalton crushed the note angrily, muttering under his breath, "The
fool! Didn't he realize I'd go with him?" He hurled the crumpled paper
aside and stalked out to look for a guide. * * * * *
They chugged slowly westward up the forest-walled river, an obscure
tributary that flowed somewhere into the Xingú. After four days, they
had hopes of being close on the others' track.The brown-faced guide,
Joao, who held the tiller now, was a magician. He had conjured up an
ancient outboard motor for the scow-like boat Dalton had bought from a
fisherman.The sun was setting murkily and the sluggish swell of the water ahead
was the color of witch's blood. Under its opaque surface _a mae
dágua_, the Mother of Water, ruled over creatures slimy and
razor-toothed.In the blackness beneath the great trees, where it was
dark even at noon, other beings had their kingdom. Out of the forest came the crying grunting hooting voices of its life
that woke at nightfall, fiercer and more feverish than that of the
daytime.To the man from the north there seemed something indecent in
the fertile febrile swarming of life here. Compared to a temperate
woodland the _mato_ was like a metropolis against a sleepy village. "What's that? "Dalton demanded sharply as a particularly hideous
squawk floated across the water. "_Nao é nada. A bicharia agitase._" Joao shrugged. "The menagerie
agitates itself." His manner indicated that some _bichinho_ beneath
notice had made the noise.But moments later the little brown man became rigid. He half rose to
his feet in the boat's stern, then stooped and shut off the popping
motor.In the relative silence the other heard what he had--far off
and indistinct, muttering deep in the black _mato_, a voice that
croaked of ravenous hunger in accents abominably known to him. "_Currupira_," said Joao tensely. "_Currupira sai á caçada da noite._"
He watched the foreigner with eyes that gleamed in the fading light
like polished onyx. "_Avante!_" snapped Dalton. "See if it comes closer to the river this
time. "It was not the first time they had heard that voice calling since they
had ventured deep into the unpeopled swampland about which the
downriver settlements had fearful stories to whisper. Silently the guide spun the engine. The boat sputtered on.Dalton
strained his eyes, watching the darkening shore as he had watched
fruitlessly for so many miles. But now, as they rounded a gentle bend, he glimpsed a small reddish
spark near the bank.Then, by the last glimmer of the swiftly fading
twilight, he made out a boat pulled up under gnarled tree-roots. That
was all he could see but the movement of the red spark told him a man
was sitting in the boat, smoking a cigarette. "In there," he ordered in a low voice but Joao had seen already and
was steering toward the shore.The cigarette arched into the water and hissed out and they heard a
scuffling and lap of water as the other boat swayed, which meant that
the man in it had stood up. He sprang into visibility as a flashlight in Dalton's hand went on.A
squat, swarthy man with rugged features, a _caboclo_, of white and
Indian blood. He blinked expressionlessly at the light. "Where is the American scientist?" demanded Dalton in Portuguese. "_Quem sabe? Foi-se._"
"Which way did he go? ""_Nao importa. O doutor é doido; nao ha-de-voltar_," said the man
suddenly. "It doesn't matter. The doctor is crazy--he won't come
back." "Answer me, damn it! Which way?" The _caboclo_ jerked his shoulders nervously and pointed. "Come on! "said Dalton and scrambled ashore even as Joao was stopping
the motor and making the boat fast beside the other. "He's gone in
after it!" The forest was a black labyrinth.Its tangled darkness seemed to drink
up the beam of the powerful flashlight Dalton had brought, its uneasy
rustlings and animal-noises pressed in to swallow the sound of human
movements for which he strained his ears, fearing to call out.He
pushed forward recklessly, carried on by a sort of inertia of
determination; behind him Joao followed, though he moved woodenly and
muttered prayers under his breath.Then somewhere very near a great voice croaked briefly and was
silent--so close that it poured a wave of faintness over the hearer,
seemed to send numbing electricity tingling along his motor nerves.Joao dropped to his knees and flung both arms about a tree-bole. His
brown face when the light fell on it was shiny with sweat, his eyes
dilated and blind-looking.Dalton slammed the heel of his hand against
the man's shoulder and got no response save for a tightening of the
grip on the treetrunk, and a pitiful whimper, "_Assombra-me_--it
overshadows me!" Dalton swung the flashlight beam ahead and saw nothing.Then all at
once, not fifty yards away, a single glowing eye sprang out of the
darkness, arched through the air and hit the ground to blaze into
searing brilliance and white smoke.The clearing in which it burned
grew bright as day, and Dalton saw a silhouetted figure clutching a
rifle and turning its head from side to side. He plunged headlong toward the light of the flare, shouting, "Thwaite,
you idiot!You can't--"
And then the _currupira_ spoke. Its bellowing seemed to come from all around, from the ground, the
trees, the air. It smote like a blow in the stomach that drives out
wind and fight.And it roared on, lashing at the wills of those who
heard it, beating and stamping them out like sparks of a scattered
fire.Dalton groped with one hand for his pocket but his hand kept slipping
away into a matterless void as his vision threatened to slip into
blindness.Dimly he saw Thwaite, a stone's throw ahead of him, start
to lift his weapon and then stand frozen, swaying a little on his feet
as if buffeted by waves of sound.Already the second theme was coming in--the insidious obbligato of
invitation to death, wheedling that _this way ... this way ..._ was
the path from the torment and terror that the monstrous voice flooded
over them.Thwaite took a stiff step, then another and another, toward the black
wall of the _mato_ that rose beyond the clearing. With an
indescribable shudder Dalton realized that he too had moved an
involuntary step forward.The _currupira's_ voice rose triumphantly. With a mighty effort of will Dalton closed fingers he could not feel
on the object in his pocket. Like a man lifting a mountain he lifted
it to his lips.A high sweet note cut like a knife through the roll of nightmare
drums. | Abernathy, Robert - The Record of Currupira |
With terrible concentration Dalton shifted his fingers and blew
and blew....Piercing and lingering, the tones of the pipes flowed into his veins,
tingling, warring with the numbing poison of the _currupira's_ song.Dalton was no musician but it seemed to him then that an ancestral
instinct was with him, guiding his breath and his fingers.The powers
of the monster were darkness and cold and weariness of living, the
death-urge recoiling from life into nothingness.But the powers of the pipes were life and light and warmth, life
returning when the winter is gone, greenness and laughter and love.Life was in them, life of men dead these thousand generations, life
even of the craftsmen on an alien planet who had preserved their form
and their meaning for this moment.Dalton advanced of his own will until he stood beside Thwaite--but the
other remained unstirring and Dalton did not dare pause for a moment,
while the monster yet bellowed in the blackness before them.The light
of the flare was reddening, dying....
After a seeming eternity he saw motion, saw the rifle muzzle swing up. The shot was deafening in his ear, but it was an immeasurable relief. As it echoed the _currupira's_ voice was abruptly silent.In the
bushes ahead there was a rending of branches, a frantic slithering
movement of a huge body. They followed the noises in a sort of frenzy, plunging toward them
heedless of thorns and whipping branches.The flashlight stabbed and
revealed nothing. Out of the shadows a bass croaking came again, and
Thwaite fired twice at the sound and there was silence save for a
renewed flurry of cracking twigs.Along the water's edge, obscured by the trees between, moved something
black and huge, that shone wetly. Thwaite dropped to one knee and
began firing at it, emptying the magazine.They pressed forward to the margin of the slough, feet squishing in
the deep muck. Dalton played his flashlight on the water's surface and
the still-moving ripples seemed to reflect redly. Thwaite was first to break the silence.He said grimly, "Damned lucky
for me you got here when you did. It--_had_ me." Dalton nodded without speaking. "But how did you know what to do?" Thwaite asked. "It wasn't my discovery," said the linguist soberly. "Our remote
ancestors met this threat and invented a weapon against it. Otherwise
man might not have survived. I learned the details from the Martian
records when I succeeded in translating them.Fortunately the Martians
also preserved a specimen of the weapon our ancestors invented." He held up the little reed flute and the archeologist's eyes widened
with recognition.Dalton looked out across the dark swamp-water, where the ripples were
fading out. "In the beginning there was the voice of evil--but there
was also the music of good, created to combat it.Thank God that in
mankind's makeup there's more than one fundamental note!" | Abernathy, Robert - The Record of Currupira |
Produced by Frank van Drogen, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.THE ROTIFERS
BY Robert Abernathy
_Beneath the stagnant water shadowed by water lilies Harry found
the fascinating world of the rotifers—but it was their
world, and they resented intrusion._
_Illustrated by Virgil Finlay_
Henry Chatham knelt by the brink of his garden pond, a glass fish bowl
cupped in his thin, nervous hands.Carefully he dipped the bowl into the
green-scummed water and, moving it gently, let trailing streamers of
submerged water weeds drift into it.Then he picked up the old scissors
he had laid on the bank, and clipped the stems of the floating plants,
getting as much of them as he could in the container.When he righted the bowl and got stiffly to his feet, it contained, he
thought hopefully, a fair cross-section of fresh-water plankton.He was
pleased with himself for remembering that term from the book he had
studied assiduously for the last few nights in order to be able to cope
with Harry’s inevitable questions.There was even a shiny black water beetle doing insane circles on the
surface of the water in the fish bowl. At sight of the insect, the eyes
of the twelve-year-old boy, who had been standing by in silent
expectation, widened with interest. "What’s that thing, Dad?" he asked excitedly. "What’s that crazy bug?" "I don’t know its scientific name, I’m afraid," said Henry Chatham. "But
when I was a boy we used to call them whirligig beetles. ""He doesn’t seem to think he has enough room in the bowl," said Harry
thoughtfully. "Maybe we better put him back in the pond, Dad." "I thought you might want to look at him through the microscope," the
father said in some surprise. "I think we ought to put him back," insisted Harry. Mr. Chatham held the
dripping bowl obligingly.Harry’s hand, a thin boy’s hand with narrow
sensitive fingers, hovered over the water, and when the beetle paused
for a moment in its gyrations, made a dive for it.But the whirligig beetle saw the hand coming, and, quicker than a wink,
plunged under the water and scooted rapidly to the very bottom of the
bowl. Harry’s young face was rueful; he wiped his wet hand on his trousers. "I
guess he wants to stay," he supposed. The two went up the garden path together and into the house, Mr. Chatham
bearing the fish bowl before him like a votive offering. Harry’s mother
met them at the door, brandishing an old towel. "Here," she said firmly, "you wipe that thing off before you bring it in
the house. And don’t drip any of that dirty pond water on my good
carpet." "It’s not dirty," said Henry Chatham. "It’s just full of life, plants
and animals too small for the eye to see. But Harry’s going to see them
with his microscope. "He accepted the towel and wiped the water and
slime from the outside of the bowl; then, in the living-room, he set it
beside an open window, where the life-giving summer sun slanted in and
fell on the green plants.――――
The brand-new microscope stood nearby, in a good light. It was an
expensive microscope, no toy for a child, and it magnified four hundred
diameters.Henry Chatham had bought it because he believed that his only
son showed a desire to peer into the mysteries of smallness, and so far
Harry had not disappointed him; he had been ecstatic over the
instrument.Together they had compared hairs from their two heads, had
seen the point of a fine sewing needle made to look like the tip of a
crowbar by the lowest power of the microscope, had made grains of salt
look like discarded chunks of glass brick, had captured a house-fly and
marvelled at its clawed hairy feet, its great red faceted eyes, and the
delicate veining and fringing of its wings.Harry was staring at the bowl of pond water in a sort of fascination. "Are there germs in the water, Dad? Mother says pond water is full of
germs." "I suppose so," answered Mr. Chatham, somewhat embarrassed.The book on
microscopic fresh-water fauna had been explicit about _Paramecium_ and
_Euglena_, diatomes and rhizopods, but it had failed to mention anything
so vulgar as germs.But he supposed that which the book called Protozoa,
the one-celled animalcules, were the same as germs. He said, "To look at things in water like this, you want to use a
well-slide. It tells how to fix one in the instruction book. "He let Harry find the glass slide with a cup ground into it, and another
smooth slip of glass to cover it.Then he half-showed, half-told him how
to scrape gently along the bottom sides of the drifting leaves, to
capture the teeming life that dwelt there in the slime.When the boy
understood, his young hands were quickly more skillful than his
father’s; they filled the well with a few drops of water that was
promisingly green and murky.Already Harry knew how to adjust the lighting mirror under the stage of
the microscope and turn the focusing screws. He did so, bent intently
over the eyepiece, squinting down the polished barrel in the happy
expectation of wonders.Henry Chatham’s eyes wandered to the fish bowl, where the whirligig
beetle had come to the top again and was describing intricate patterns
among the water plants.He looked back to his son, and saw that Harry
had ceased to turn the screws and instead was just looking—looking with
a rapt, delicious fixity. His hands lay loosely clenched on the table
top, and he hardly seemed to breathe.Only once or twice his lips moved
as if to shape an exclamation that was snatched away by some new vision. "Have you got it, Harry?" asked his father after two or three minutes
during which the boy did not move.Harry took a last long look, then glanced up, blinking slightly. "You look, Dad!" he exclaimed warmly. "It’s—it’s like a garden in the
water, full of funny little people!" Mr. Chatham, not reluctantly, bent to gaze into the eyepiece.This was
new to him too, and instantly he saw the aptness of Harry’s simile.There was a garden there, of weird, green, transparent stalks composed
of plainly visible cells fastened end to end, with globules and bladders
like fruits or seed-pods attached to them, floating among them; and in
the garden the strange little people swam to and fro, or clung with odd
appendages to the stalks and branches.Their bodies were transparent
like the plants, and in them were pulsing hearts and other organs
plainly visible.They looked a little like sea horses with pointed
tails, but their heads were different, small and rounded, with big,
dark, glistening eyes. All at once Mr. Chatham realized that Harry was speaking to him, still
in high excitement. "What are they, Dad?" he begged to know. His father straightened up and shook his head puzzledly. "I don’t know,
Harry," he answered slowly, casting about in his memory.He seemed to
remember a microphotograph of a creature like those in the book he had
studied, but the name that had gone with it eluded him. | Abernathy, Robert - The Rotifers |
He had worked as
an accountant for so many years that his memory was all for figures now.He bent over once more to immerse his eyes and mind in the green
water-garden on the slide.The little creatures swam to and fro as
before, growing hazy and dwindling or swelling as they swam out of the
narrow focus of the lens; he gazed at those who paused in sharp
definition, and saw that, although he had at first seen no visible means
of propulsion, each creature bore about its head a halo of thread-like,
flickering cilia that lashed the water and drew it forward, for all the
world like an airplane propeller or a rapidly turning wheel. "I know what they are!" exclaimed Henry Chatham, turning to his son with
an almost boyish excitement. "They’re rotifers!That means
’wheel-bearers’, and they were called that because to the first
scientists who saw them it looked like they swam with wheels." Harry had got down the book and was leafing through the pages. He looked
up seriously. "Here they are," he said. "Here’s a picture that looks
almost like the ones in our pond water." "Let’s see," said his father.They looked at the pictures and
descriptions of the Rotifera; there was a good deal of concrete
information on the habits and physiology of these odd and complex little
animals who live their swarming lives in the shallow, stagnant waters of
the Earth.It said that they were much more highly organized than
Protozoa, having a discernible heart, brain, digestive system, and
nervous system, and that their reproduction was by means of two sexes
like that of the higher orders.Beyond that, they were a mystery; their
relationship to other life-forms remained shrouded in doubt. "You’ve got something interesting there," said Henry Chatham with
satisfaction. "Maybe you’ll find out something about them that nobody
knows yet. "He was pleased when Harry spent all the rest of that Sunday afternoon
peering into the microscope, watching the rotifers, and even more
pleased when the boy found a pencil and paper and tried, in an
amateurish way, to draw and describe what he saw in the green
water-garden.Beyond a doubt, Henry thought, here was a hobby that had captured Harry
as nothing else ever had. ――――
Mrs. Chatham was not so pleased.When her husband laid down his evening
paper and went into the kitchen for a drink of water, she cornered him
and hissed at him: "I told you you had no business buying Harry a thing
like that!If he keeps on at this rate, he’ll wear his eyes out in no
time." Henry Chatham set down his water glass and looked straight at his wife. "Sally, Harry’s eyes are young and he’s using them to learn with.You’ve
never been much worried over me, using my eyes up eight hours a day,
five days a week, over a blind-alley bookkeeping job." He left her angrily silent and went back to his paper.He would lower
the paper every now and then to watch Harry, in his corner of the
living-room, bowed obliviously over the microscope and the secret life
of the rotifers.Once the boy glanced up from his periodic drawing and asked, with the
air of one who proposes a pondered question: "Dad, if you look through a
microscope the wrong way is it a telescope?" Mr. Chatham lowered his paper and bit his underlip. "I don’t think
so—no, I don’t know. When you look through a microscope, it makes things
seem closer—one way, that is; if you looked the other way, it would
probably make them seem farther off. What did you want to know for? ""Oh—nothing," Harry turned back to his work. As if on after-thought, he
explained, "I was wondering if the rotifers could see me when I’m
looking at them."Mr. Chatham laughed, a little nervously, because the strange fancies
which his son sometimes voiced upset his ordered mind. Remembering the
dark glistening eyes of the rotifers he had seen, however, he could
recognize whence this question had stemmed.At dusk, Harry insisted on setting up the substage lamp which had been
bought with the microscope, and by whose light he could go on looking
until his bedtime, when his father helped him arrange a wick to feed the
little glass-covered well in the slide so it would not dry up before
morning.It was unwillingly, and only after his mother’s strenuous
complaints, that the boy went to bed at ten o’clock. In the following days his interest became more and more intense. He
spent long hours, almost without moving, watching the rotifers.For the
little animals had become the sole object which he desired to study
under the microscope, and even his father found it difficult to
understand such an enthusiasm.During the long hours at the office to which he commuted, Henry Chatham
often found the vision of his son, absorbed with the invisible world
that the microscope had opened to him, coming between him and the
columns in the ledgers.And sometimes, too, he envisioned the dim green
water-garden where the little things swam to and fro, and a strangeness
filled his thoughts.On Wednesday evening, he glanced at the fish bowl and noticed that the
water beetle, the whirligig beetle, was missing. Casually, he asked his
son about it. "I had to get rid of him," said the boy with a trace of uneasiness in
his manner. "I took him out and squashed him." "Why did you have to do that?" "He was eating the rotifers and their eggs," said Harry, with what
seemed to be a touch of remembered anger at the beetle.He glanced
toward his work-table, where three or four well-slides with small green
pools under their glass covers now rested in addition to the one that
was under the microscope. "How did you find out he was eating them? "inquired Mr. Chatham, feeling
a warmth of pride at the thought that Harry had discovered such a
scientific fact for himself. The boy hesitated oddly. "I—I looked it up in the book," he answered. His father masked his faint disappointment. "That’s fine," he said. "I
guess you find out more about them all the time." "Uh-huh," admitted Harry, turning back to his table.There was undoubtedly something a little strange about Harry’s manner;
and now Mr. Chatham realized that it had been two days since Harry had
asked him to "Quick, take a look!" at the newest wonder he had
discovered.With this thought teasing at his mind, the father walked
casually over to the table where his son sat hunched and, looking down
at the litter of slides and papers—some of which were covered with
figures and scribblings of which he could make nothing.He said
diffidently, "How about a look?" Harry glanced up as if startled. He was silent a moment; then he slid
reluctantly from his chair and said, "All right." | Abernathy, Robert - The Rotifers |
Mr. Chatham sat down and bent over the microscope.Puzzled and a little
hurt, he twirled the focusing vernier and peered into the eyepiece,
looking down once more into the green water world of the rotifers.――――
There was a swarm of them under the lens, and they swam lazily to and
fro, their cilia beating like miniature propellers.Their dark eyes
stared, wet and glistening; they drifted in the motionless water, and
clung with sucker-like pseudo-feet to the tangled plant stems.Then, as he almost looked away, one of them detached itself from the
group and swam upward, toward him, growing larger and blurring as it
rose out of the focus of the microscope.The last thing that remained
defined, before it became a shapeless gray blob and vanished, was the
dark blotches of the great cold eyes, seeming to stare full at him—cold,
motionless, but alive. It was a curious experience.Henry Chatham drew suddenly back from the
eyepiece, with an involuntary shudder that he could not explain to
himself. He said haltingly, "They look interesting." "Sure, Dad," said Harry.He moved to occupy the chair again, and his
dark young head bowed once more over the microscope. His father walked
back across the room and sank gratefully into his arm-chair—after all,
it had been a hard day at the office.He watched Harry work the focusing
screws as if trying to find something, then take his pencil and begin to
write quickly and impatiently.It was with a guilty feeling of prying that, after Harry had been sent
reluctantly to bed, Henry Chatham took a tentative look at those papers
which lay in apparent disorder on his son’s work table.He frowned
uncomprehendingly at the things that were written there; it was neither
mathematics nor language, but many of the scribblings were jumbles of
letters and figures.It looked like code, and he remembered that less
than a year ago, Harry had been passionately interested in cryptography,
and had shown what his father, at least, believed to be a considerable
aptitude for such things....But what did cryptography have to do with
microscopy, or codes with—rotifers? Nowhere did there seem to be a key, but there were occasional words and
phrases jotted into the margins of some of the sheets. Mr. Chatham read
these, and learned nothing. "Can’t dry up, but they can," said one. "Beds of germs," said another. And in the corner of one sheet, "1—Yes. 2—No." The only thing that looked like a translation was the note:
"rty34pr is the pond."Mr. Chatham shook his head bewilderedly, replacing the sheets carefully
as they had been. Why should Harry want to keep notes on his scientific
hobby in code? he wondered, rationalizing even as he wondered.He went
to bed still puzzling, but it did not keep him from sleeping, for he was
tired.Then, only the next evening, his wife maneuvered to get him alone with
her and burst out passionately:
"Henry, I told you that microscope was going to ruin Harry’s eyesight!I
was watching him today when he didn’t know I was watching him, and I saw
him winking and blinking right while he kept on looking into the thing.I was minded to stop him then and there, but I want you to assert _your_
authority with him and tell him he can’t go on." Henry Chatham passed one nervous hand over his own aching eyes.He asked
mildly, "Are you sure it wasn’t just your imagination, Sally? After all,
a person blinks quite normally, you know." "It was not my imagination!" snapped Mrs. Chatham. "I know the symptoms
of eyestrain when I see them, I guess.You’ll have to stop Harry using
that thing so much, or else be prepared to buy him glasses." "All right, Sally," said Mr. Chatham wearily. "I’ll see if I can’t
persuade him to be a little more moderate." He went slowly into the living-room.At the moment, Harry was not using
the microscope; instead, he seemed to be studying one of his cryptic
pages of notes. As his father entered, he looked up sharply and swiftly
laid the sheet down—face down.Perhaps it wasn’t all Sally’s imagination; the boy did look nervous, and
there was a drawn, white look to his thin young face.His father said
gently, "Harry, Mother tells me she saw you blinking, as if your eyes
were tired, when you were looking into the microscope today. You know if
you look too much, it can be a strain on your sight. "Harry nodded quickly, too quickly, perhaps. "Yes, Dad," he said. "I read
that in the book. It says there that if you close the eye you’re looking
with for a little while, it rests you and your eyes don’t get tired.So
I was practising that this afternoon. Mother must have been watching me
then, and got the wrong idea." "Oh," said Henry Chatham. "Well, it’s good that you’re trying to be
careful. But you’ve got your mother worried, and that’s not so good.I
wish, myself, that you wouldn’t spend all your time with the microscope. Don’t you ever play baseball with the fellows any more?" "I haven’t got time," said the boy, with a curious stubborn twist to his
mouth. "I can’t right now, Dad. "He glanced toward the microscope. "Your rotifers won’t die if you leave them alone for a while. And if
they do, there’ll always be a new crop." "But I’d lose track of them," said Harry strangely. "Their lives are so
short—they live so awfully fast.You don’t know how fast they live." "I’ve seen them," answered his father. "I guess they’re fast, all
right." He did not know quite what to make of it all, so he settled
himself in his chair with his paper.But that night, after Harry had gone later than usual to bed, he stirred
himself to take down the book that dealt with life in pond-water.There
was a memory pricking at his mind; the memory of the water beetle, which
Harry had killed because, he said, he was eating the rotifers and their
eggs. And the boy had said he had found that fact in the book.Mr. Chatham turned through the book; he read, with aching eyes, all that
it said about rotifers. He searched for information on the beetle, and
found there was a whole family of whirligig beetles.There was some
material here on the characteristics and habits of the Gyrinidae, but
nowhere did it mention the devouring of rotifers or their eggs among
their customs. He tried the topical index, but there was no help there.Harry must have lied, thought his father with a whirling head. But why,
why in God’s name should he say he’d looked a thing up in the book when
he must have found it out for himself, the hard way? There was no sense
in it.He went back to the book, convinced that, sleepy as he was, he
must have missed a point. The information simply wasn’t there.He got to his feet and crossed the room to Harry’s work table; he
switched on the light over it and stood looking down at the pages of
mystic notations. There were more pages now, quite a few. But none of
them seemed to mean anything.The earlier pictures of rotifers which
Harry had drawn had given way entirely to mysterious figures. | Abernathy, Robert - The Rotifers |
Then the simple explanation occurred to him, and he switched off the
light with a deep feeling of relief.Harry hadn’t really _known_ that
the water beetle ate rotifers; he had just suspected it. And, with his
boy’s respect for fair play, he had hesitated to admit that he had
executed the beetle merely on suspicion.That didn’t take the lie away, but it removed the mystery at least. ――――
Henry Chatham slept badly that night and dreamed distorted dreams.But
when the alarm clock shrilled in the gray of morning, jarring him awake,
the dream in which he had been immersed skittered away to the back of
his mind, out of knowing, and sat there leering at him with strange,
dark, glistening eyes.He dressed, washed the flat morning taste out of his mouth with coffee,
and took his way to his train and the ten-minute ride into the city.On
the way there, instead of snatching a look at the morning paper, he sat
still in his seat, head bowed, trying to recapture the dream whose
vanishing made him uneasy.He was superstitious about dreams in an
up-to-date way, believing them not warnings from some Beyond outside
himself, but from a subsconscious more knowing than the waking conscious
mind.During the morning his work went slowly, for he kept pausing, sometimes
in the midst of totalling a column of figures, to grasp at some mocking
half-memory of that dream.At last, elbows on his desk, staring
unseeingly at the clock on the wall, in the midst of the subdued murmur
of the office, his mind went back to Harry, dark head bowed motionless
over the barrel of his microscope, looking, always looking into the pale
green water-gardens and the unseen lives of the beings that....
All at once it came to him, the dream he had dreamed._He_ had been
bending over the microscope, _he_ had been looking into the unseen
world, and the horror of what he had seen gripped him now and brought
out the chill sweat on his body.For he had seen his son there in the clouded water, among the twisted
glassy plants, his face turned upward and eyes wide in the agonized
appeal of the drowning; and bubbles rising, fading.But around him had
been a swarm of the weird creatures, and they had been dragging him
down, down, blurring out of focus, and their great dark eyes glistening
wetly, coldly....He was sitting rigid at his desk, his work forgotten; all at once he saw
the clock and noticed with a start that it was already eleven a.m. A
fear he could not define seized on him, and his hand reached
spasmodically for the telephone on his desk.But before he touched it, it began ringing. After a moment’s paralysis, he picked up the receiver. It was his wife’s
voice that came shrilly over the wires. "Henry!" she cried. "Is that you?" "Hello, Sally," he said with stiff lips.Her voice as she answered
seemed to come nearer and go farther away, and he realized that his hand
holding the instrument was shaking. "Henry, you’ve got to come home right now. Harry’s sick. He’s got a high
fever, and he’s been asking for you. "He moistened his lips and said, "I’ll be right home. I’ll take a taxi." "Hurry!" she exclaimed. "He’s been saying queer things. I think he’s
delirious." She paused, and added, "And it’s all the fault of that
microscope _you_ bought him! ""I’ll be right home," he repeated dully. ――――
His wife was not at the door to meet him; she must be upstairs, in
Harry’s bedroom.He paused in the living room and glanced toward the
table that bore the microscope; the black, gleaming thing still stood
there, but he did not see any of the slides, and the papers were piled
neatly together to one side.His eyes fell on the fish bowl; it was
empty, clean and shining. He knew Harry hadn’t done those things; that
was Sally’s neatness. Abruptly, instead of going straight up the stairs, he moved to the table
and looked down at the pile of papers.The one on top was almost blank;
on it was written several times: rty34pr ... rty34pr.... His memory for
figure combinations served him; he remembered what had been written on
another page: "rty34pr is the pond. "That made him think of the pond, lying quiescent under its green scum
and trailing plants at the end of the garden. A step on the stair jerked
him around. It was his wife, of course.She said in a voice sharp-edged with
apprehension: "What are you doing down here? Harry wants you. The doctor
hasn’t come; I phoned him just before I called you, but he hasn’t come." He did not answer.Instead he gestured at the pile of papers, the empty
fish bowl, an imperative question in his face. "I threw that dirty water back in the pond. It’s probably what he caught
something from. And he was breaking himself down, humping over that
thing.It’s _your_ fault, for getting it for him. Are you coming?" She
glared coldly at him, turning back to the stairway. "I’m coming," he said heavily, and followed her upstairs. Harry lay back in his bed, a low mound under the covers.His head was
propped against a single pillow, and his eyes were half-closed, the lids
swollen-looking, his face hotly flushed. He was breathing slowly as if
asleep.But as his father entered the room, he opened his eyes as if with an
effort, fixed them on him, said, "Dad ... I’ve got to tell you." Mr. Chatham took the chair by the bedside, quietly, leaving his wife to
stand. He asked, "About what, Harry?""About—things." The boy’s eyes shifted to his mother, at the foot of his
bed. "I don’t want to talk to her. _She_ thinks it’s just fever. But
you’ll understand." Henry Chatham lifted his gaze to meet his wife’s. "Maybe you’d better go
downstairs and wait for the doctor, Sally." She looked hard at him, then turned abruptly to go out. "All right," she
said in a thin voice, and closed the door softly behind her. "Now what did you want to tell me, Harry? ""About _them_ ... the rotifers," the boy said. His eyes had drifted
half-shut again but his voice was clear. "They did it to me ... on
purpose." "Did _what_?" "I don’t know.... They used one of their cultures.They’ve got all
kinds: beds of germs, under the leaves in the water. They’ve been
growing new kinds, that will be worse than anything that ever was
before.... They live so fast, they work so fast. "Henry Chatham was silent, leaning forward beside the bed. "It was only a little while, before I found out they knew about me. I
could see them through my microscope, but they could see me too.... And
they kept signaling, swimming and turning....I won’t tell you how to
talk to them, because nobody ought to talk to them ever again. Because
they find out more than they tell.... They know about us, now, and they
hate us. They never knew before—that there was anybody but them....So
they want to kill us all." "But why should they want to do that?" asked the father, as gently as he
could. He kept telling himself, "He’s delirious. It’s like Sally says,
he’s been wearing himself out, thinking too much about—the rotifers.But
the doctor will be here pretty soon, the doctor will know what to do." | Abernathy, Robert - The Rotifers |
"They don’t like knowing that they aren’t the only ones on Earth that
can think. I expect people would be the same way." "But they’re such little things, Harry.They can’t hurt us at all." The boy’s eyes opened wide, shadowed with terror and fever. "I told you,
Dad—They’re growing germs, millions and billions of them, _new_ ones....
And they kept telling me to take them back to the pond, so they could
tell all the rest, and they could all start getting ready—for war. "He remembered the shapes that swam and crept in the green water gardens,
with whirling cilia and great, cold, glistening eyes. And he remembered
the clean, empty fish bowl in the window downstairs. "Don’t let them, Dad," said Harry convulsively. "You’ve got to kill them
all. The ones here and the ones in the pond. You’ve got to kill them
good—because they don’t mind being killed, and they lay lots of eggs,
and their eggs can stand almost anything, even drying up._And the eggs
remember what the old ones knew._"
"Don’t worry," said Henry Chatham quickly. He grasped his son’s hand, a
hot limp hand that had slipped from under the coverlet. "We’ll stop
them. We’ll drain the pond. ""That’s swell," whispered the boy, his energy fading again. "I ought to
have told you before, Dad—but first I was afraid you’d laugh, and then—I
was just ... afraid...."
His voice drifted away.And his father, looking down at the flushed
face, saw that he seemed asleep. Well, that was better than the sick
delirium—saying such strange, wild things—
Downstairs the doctor was saying harshly, "All right. All right.But
let’s have a look at the patient." Henry Chatham came quietly downstairs; he greeted the doctor briefly,
and did not follow him to Harry’s bedroom. When he was left alone in the room, he went to the window and stood
looking down at the microscope.He could not rid his head of
strangeness: A window between two worlds, our world and that of the
infinitely small, a window that looks both ways. After a time, he went through the kitchen and let himself out the back
door, into the noonday sunlight.He followed the garden path, between the weed-grown beds of vegetables,
until he came to the edge of the little pond. It lay there quiet in the
sunlight, green-scummed and walled with stiff rank grass, a lone
dragonfly swooping and wheeling above it.The image of all the stagnant
waters, the fertile breeding-places of strange life, with which it was
joined in the end by the tortuous hidden channels, the oozing pores of
the Earth.And it seemed to him then that he glimpsed something, a hitherto unseen
miasma, rising above the pool and darkening the sunlight ever so little.A dream, a shadow—the shadow of the alien dream of things hidden in
smallness, the dark dream of the rotifers.The dragonfly, having seized a bright-winged fly that was sporting over
the pond, descended heavily through the sunlit air and came to rest on a
broad lily pad. Henry Chatham was suddenly afraid.He turned and walked
slowly, wearily, up the path toward the house. *END*
_Transcribers note_: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1953.Extensive research did not uncover any
evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was | Abernathy, Robert - The Rotifers |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
WHEN THE MOUNTAIN SHOOK
By Robert Abernathy
Illustrated by Kelly Freas
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from IF Worlds of Science
Fiction March 1954.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] [Sidenote: _Dark was the Ryzga mountain and forbidding; steep were its
cliffs and sheer its crevasses.But its outward perils could not compare
with the Ryzgas themselves, who slept within, ready to wake and
conquer...._]
At sunset they were in sight of the Ryzga mountain.Strangely it towered
among the cliffs and snow-slopes of the surrounding ranges: an immense
and repellently geometric cone, black, its sides blood-tinted by the
dying sun. Neena shivered, even though the surrounding cold could not reach her.The ice-wind blew from the glacier, but Var's love was round her as a
warming cloak, a cloak that glowed softly golden in the deepening
twilight, even as her love was about him. Var said, "The Watcher's cave should be three miles beyond this pass. "He stood rigid, trying to catch an echo of the Watcher's thoughts, but
there was nothing. Perhaps the old man was resting. From the other
direction, the long way that they two had come, it was not difficult to
sense the thought of Groz.That thought was powerful, and heavy with
vengeance. "Hurry," said Neena. "They're closer than they were an hour ago." She was beautiful and defiant, facing the red sunset and the black
mountain.Var sensed her fear, and the love that had conquered it. He
felt a wave of tenderness and bitterness. For him she had come to this.For the flame that had sprung between them at the Truce of New Grass,
she had challenged the feud of their peoples and had left her home, to
follow him.Now, if her father and his kinsmen overtook them, it would
be death for Var, and for Neena living shame. Which of the two was worse
was no longer a simple problem to Var, who had grown much older in the
last days. "Wait," he commanded.While she waited he spun a dream, attaching it to
the crags that loomed over the pass, and to the frozen ground underfoot.It was black night, as it would really be when Groz and his henchmen
reached this place; lurid fire spewed from the Ryzga mountain, and
strange lights dipped above it; and for good measure there was an
avalanche in the dream, and hideous beasts rushed snapping and ravening
from the crevices of the rock."Oh!" cried Neena in involuntary alarm. Var sighed, shaking his head. "It won't hold them for long, but it's the
best I can do now. Come on." There was no path.Now they were descending the steeper face of the
sierra, and the way led over bottomless crevasses, sheer drops and sheer
ascents, sheets of traitorous glare ice.Place after place had to be
crossed on the air, and both grew weary with the effort such crossings
cost. They hoarded their strength, helping one another; one alone might
never have won through.It was starry night already when they saw the light from the Watcher's
cave.The light shone watery and dim from beneath the hoary back of the
glacier, and as they came nearer they saw why: the cave entrance was
sealed by a sheet of ice, a frozen waterfall that fell motionless from
the rocks above. They heard no sound.The two young people stared for a long minute, intrigued and fearful.Both had heard of this place, and the ancient who lived there to keep
watch on the Ryzga mountain, as a part of the oldest legends of their
childhood; but neither had been here before. But this was no time for shyness.Var eyed the ice-curtain closely to
make sure that it was real, not dream-stuff; then he struck it boldly
with his fist. It shattered and fell in a rain of splinters, sparkling
in the light that poured from within. * * * * *
They felt the Watcher rouse, heard his footsteps, and finally saw him--a
shrunken old man, white-haired, with a lined beardless face.The sight
of him, more marred by age than anyone they had ever seen before, was
disappointing. They had expected something more--an ancient giant, a
tower of wisdom and strength.The Watcher was four hundred years old;
beside him even Groz, who had always seemed so ancient, was like a boy. The Watcher peered at them in turn. "Welcome," he said in a cracked
voice.He did not speak again; the rest of his conversation was in
thought only. "Welcome indeed. I am too much alone here." "You were asleep!" said Var. Shock made his thought accusing, though he
had not meant to be. The old man grinned toothlessly. "Never fear. Asleep or awake, I watch. Come in! You're letting in the wind." Inside the cave it was warm as summer.Var saw with some surprise that
all the walls were sheathed in ice--warm to the touch, bound fast
against melting by the Watcher's will. Light blazed in reflections from
the ice walls, till there was no shadow in the place.Behind them began
a tinkling of falling water, thawed from the glacial ridges above to
descend sheet-wise over the cave mouth, freezing as it fell into
lengthening icicles.The old man gazed at his work for a moment, then
turned questioningly to the young pair. "We need a little rest out of the cold," said Var. "And food, if you can
spare it. We're pursued." "Yes, yes. You shall have what I can give you.Make yourselves
comfortable, and in one minute.... Pursued, eh? A pity. I see the world
is as bad as it was when I was last in it." Hot food and drink were before them almost at once.The Watcher regarded
them with compassion as their eyes brightened and some of the shadow of
weariness lifted from them. "You have stolen your enemy's daughter, no
doubt, young man? Such things happened when I was young. "Warming to the old man now, Var sketched his and Neena's history
briefly. "We should have been safe among my people by now.And before
very long, I'm sure, I would have performed some deed which Groz would
recognize as a worthy exploit, and would thus have healed the feud
between our families. But our flight was found out too soon.They cut us
off and forced us into the mountains, and now they are only a few hours
behind us." "A pity, indeed. I would like to help you--but, you understand, I am the
Mountain Watcher. I must be above feuds and families. "Var nodded somberly, thinking that an old recluse would in any case be
able to do little for them against Groz and his violent kinsfolk. "And what will you do now?" Var grinned mirthlessly. "We haven't much choice, since they're
overtaking us.I have only one idea left: we can go where Groz may fear
to follow us." "To the mountain, you mean." "And into it, if need be." The Watcher was broodingly silent; his eyes shifted to Neena, where she
nestled by Var's side.He asked, "And you--are you willing to follow
your lover in this?" | Abernathy, Robert - When the Mountain Shook |
Neena returned his gaze without flinching; then she looked sidelong at
Var, and her lips curled with a proud and tender mockery. "Follow?Why,
I will lead, if his courage should fail him." * * * * *
The old man said, "It is no part of my duty to dissuade you from this
thing. You are free persons. But I must be sure that you know what you
are doing.That is the second part of the law the First Watcher made: to
guard lest the unwary and the ignorant should bring harm on themselves
and on all men." "We know the stories," Var said brusquely. "In the hollow heart of their
mountain the Ryzgas sleep, as they chose to do when their world
crumbled. But if they are wakened, the mountain will tremble, and the
Ryzgas will come forth." "Do you believe that?" "As one believes stories. ""It is true," said the Watcher heavily. "In my youth I penetrated
farther into the mountain than anyone before, farther even than did the
First Watcher.I did not see the sleepers, nor will any man until they
come again, but I met their sentries, the sentinel machines that guard
them now as they have for two thousand years.When I had gone that far,
the mountain began to shake, the force that is in the Earth rumbled
below, and I returned in time." Now for the first time Var sensed the
power in the old man's look, the power of four hundred years' wisdom.Var stared down at his hands. "The Ryzgas also were men," said the Watcher. "But they were such a race
as the world has not seen before or since.There were tyrannies before
the Ryzgas, there was lust for power, and atrocious cruelty; but such
tyranny, power, and cruelty as theirs, had never been known. They ruled
the Earth for four generations, and the Earth was too little for them.They laid the world waste, stripped it of metals and fuels and bored to
its heart for energy, poisoned its seas and its air with the fume of
their works, wrung its peoples dry for their labor ... and in each of
those four generations they launched a ship of space.They were great
and evil as no other people has been, because they wanted the stars. "Because of them we must build with dreams instead of iron, and our only
fire is that of the Sun, and even now, two thousand years later, the
Earth is still slowly recovering from the pangs and poison of that age.If you turn up the sod in the plain where the wild herds graze, you will
find numberless fragments of rusted or corroded metal, bits of glass and
strange plastic substances, debris of artifacts still showing the marks
of their shaping--the scattered wreckage of the things they made.And
we--we too are a remnant, the descendants of the few out of all humanity
that survived when the Ryzgas' world went down in flame and thunder. "In the last generation of their power the Ryzgas knew by their science
that the race of man would endure them no longer.They made ready their
weapons, they mined the cities and the factories for destruction, making
sure that their works and their knowledge would perish with them.Meanwhile they redoubled the yoke and the punishments, hastening the
completion of the last of the starships. "From the memories that the old Watchers have left here, and from the
memories of dead men that still echo in the air, I have gathered a
picture of that world's end.I will show it to you...."
* * * * *
Var and Neena stared, unstirring, with wide vacant eyes, while the old
man wove a dream around them, and the bright ice-cave faded from their
vision, and they saw--
Black starless night, a sky of rolling smoke above the greatest city
that was ever built.Only the angry light of fires relieved the city's
darkness--that, and the blue-white lightning flashes that silhouetted
the naked skeletons of buildings and were followed by thunder and a
shaking of the earth.Along lightless streets, half choked with rubble and with the dead,
poured a mad, hating horde.The recurrent flashes lit scarred faces,
naked bodies blackened and maimed from the hell of the workshops where
the Ryzgas' might had been forged, eyes that stared white and half
sightless from the glare of the furnaces, gnarled hands that now at long
last clutched the weapons of the last rebellion--a rebellion without
hope of new life on a world gutted and smoldering from the fulfilment of
the Ryzgas' dream, without slogans other than a cry for blood.Before them death waited around the citadel where the masters still
fought. All round, from the lowest and most poisonous levels of the
shattered city, the slaves swarmed up in their millions.And the
lightning blazed, and the city howled and screamed and burned. Then, unbelievably, the thunder fell silent, and the silence swept
outward like a wave, from ruined street to street.The mouths that had
shouted their wrath were speechless, and the rage-blinded eyes were
lifted in sudden awe. From the center, over the citadel, an immense
white globe soared upward, rising swiftly without sound.They had never seen its like, but they knew. It was the last starship,
and it was leaving. It poised motionless. For an instant the burning city lay mute; then the
millions found voice.Some roared ferocious threats and curses; others
cried desolately--_wait!_
Then the whole city, the dark tumuli of its buildings and its leaping
fires and tormented faces, and the black sky over it, seemed to twist
and swim, like a scene under water when a great fish sweeps past, and
the ship was gone.The stunned paralysis fell apart in fury. Flame towered over the
citadel.The hordes ran and shrieked again toward the central inferno,
and the city burned and burned....
* * * * *
Var blinked dazedly in the shadowless glow of the ice-cave. His arm
tightened about Neena till she gasped.He was momentarily uncertain that
he and she were real and here, such had been the force of the dream, a
vision of such scope and reality as Var had never seen--no, lived
through--before.With deep respect now he gazed upon the bent old man
who was the Mountain Watcher. "Some of the Ryzgas took flight to the stars, and some perished on
Earth. But there was a group of them who believed that their time to
rule would come again.These raised a black mountain from the Earth's
heart, and in hollows within it cast themselves into deathless sleep,
their deathless and lifeless sentinels round them, to wait till someone
dare arouse them, or until their chosen time--no one knows surely. "I have told you the story you know, and have shown you a glimpse of the
old time, because I must make sure that you do not approach the mountain
in ignorance.Our world is unwise and sometimes evil, full of arrogance,
folly, and passion that are in the nature of man. Yet it is a happy
world, compared to that the Ryzgas made and will make again." The Watcher eyed them speculatively. | Abernathy, Robert - When the Mountain Shook |
"Before all," he said finally,
"this is a world where you are free to risk wakening the old tyrants, if
in your own judgment your great need renders the chance worth taking." Neena pressed her face against Var's shoulder, hiding her eyes.In her
mind as it groped for his there was a confusion of horror and pity.Var
looked grimly at the Watcher, and would have spoken; but the Watcher
seemed suddenly a very long way off, and Var could no longer feel his
own limbs, his face was a numb mask. Dully he heard the old man say,
"You are tired.Best sleep until morning." Var strove to cry out that there was no time, that Groz was near and
that sleep was for infants and the aged, but his intention sank and
drowned under wave upon wave of unconquerable languor.The bright cave
swam and dissolved; his eyelids closed. * * * * *
Var woke. Daylight glimmered through the ice of the cave mouth. He had
been unconscious, helpless, for hours! At the thought of that, panic
gripped him.He had not slept since childhood, and he had forgotten how
it was. He came to his feet in one quick movement, realizing in that action that
sleep had refreshed his mind and body--realizing also that a footstep
had wakened him.Across the cave he faced a young man who watched him
coolly with dark piercing eyes that were familiar though he did not know
the face. Neena sat up and stifled a cry of fright. Var growled, "Who are you? Where's the Watcher? "The other flashed white teeth in a smile. "I'm the Watcher," he
answered. "Often I become a youth at morning, and relax into age as the
day passes. A foolish amusement, no doubt, but amusements are few here." "You made us fall asleep.Groz will be on us--"
"Groz and his people could not detect your thoughts as you slept. They
were all night chasing elusive dreams on the high ridges, miles away." Var passed a hand across bewildered eyes. Neena said softly, "Thank you,
Watcher. ""Don't thank me. I take no sides in your valley feuds. But now you are
rested, your minds are clear. Do you still mean to go on to the Ryzga
mountain?" Not looking at the Watcher, Var muttered unsteadily, "We have no
alternative. "There was a liquid tinkling as the ice-curtain collapsed; the fresh
breeze of morning swept into the cave. The youth beckoned to them, and
they followed him outside. The glacial slope on which the cavern opened faced toward the mountain.It rose black and forbidding in the dawn as it had by sunset. To right
and left of it, the grand cliffs, ocher and red, were lit splendidly by
the morning sun, but the mountain of the Ryzgas drank in the light and
gave nothing back.Below their feet the slope fell away into an opaque sea of fog, filling
a mile-wide gorge. There was a sound of turbulent water, of a river
dashed from rock to rock in its struggle toward the plain, but the
curling fog hid everything. "You have an alternative," said the Watcher crisply. The two took their
eyes from the black mountain and gazed at him in sudden hope, but his
face was unsmiling. "It is this.You, Var, can flee up the canyon to the
north, by a way I will show you, disguising your thoughts and masking
your presence as well as you are able, while the girl goes in the other
direction, southward, without seeking to conceal herself.Your pursuers
will be deceived and follow her, and by the time they catch her it will
be too late for them to overtake Var." That possibility had not occurred to them at all. Var and Neena looked
at one another.Then by common consent they blended their minds into
one.They thought, in the warm intimacy of unreserved understanding: "_It
would work: I-you would make the sacrifice of shame and mockery--yet
these can be borne--that I-you might be saved from death--which is alone
irreparable....But to become_ I _and_ you _again--that cannot be
borne._"
They said in unison, "No. Not that." The Watcher's face did not change. He said gravely, "Very well.I will
give you what knowledge I have that may help you when you enter the
Ryzga mountain." Quickly, he impressed on them what he had learned of the structure of
the mountain and of its guardian machines.Var closed his eyes, a little
dizzied by the rapid flood of detail. "You are ready to go," said the Watcher. He spoke aloud, and his voice
was cracked and harsh.Var opened his eyes in surprise, and saw that the
Watcher had become again the hoary ancient of last night. Var felt a twinge of unfamiliar emotion; only by its echo in Neena's
mind did he recognize it as a sense of guilt.He said stiffly, "You
don't blame us?" "You have taken life in your own hands," rasped the Watcher. "Who does
that needs no blessing and feels no curse. Go! "* * * * *
They groped through the fog above blank abysses that hid the snarling
river, crept hand in hand, sharing their strength, across unstable dream
bridges from crag to crag.Groz and his pack, in their numbers, would
cross the gorge more surely and swiftly. When Var and Neena set foot at
last on the cindery slope of the great volcanic cone, they sensed that
the pursuit already halved their lead.They stood high on the side of the Ryzga mountain, and gazed at the
doorway.It was an opaque yet penetrable well of darkness, opening into
the face of a lava cliff, closed only by an intangible curtain--so
little had the Ryzgas feared those who might assail them in their sleep.Var sent his thoughts probing beyond the curtain, listened intently,
head thrown back, to their echoes that returned. The tunnel beyond
slanted steeply downward.Var's hands moved, molding a radiant globe
from the feeble sunshine that straggled through the fog-bank. With an
abrupt motion he hurled it.The sun-globe vanished, as if the darkness
had drunk it up, but though sight did not serve they both sensed that it
had passed through to light up the depths beyond.For within the
mountain something snapped suddenly alert--something alive yet not
living, seeing yet blind. They felt light-sensitive cells tingle in
response, felt electric currents sting along buried, long-idle
circuits....The two stood shivering together. The morning wind stirred, freshening, the fog lifted a little, and they
heard a great voice crying, "There they are!" Var and Neena turned.Far out in the sea of fog, on a dream bridge that
they could not see, stood Groz. He shook the staff he carried. It was
too far to discern the rage that must contort his features, but the
thought he hurled at them was a soundless bellow: "Young fools!I've
caught you now!" Behind Groz the figures of his followers loomed up as striding shadows. Neena's hand tightened on Var's. Var sent a thought of defiance: "Go
back! Or you'll drive us to enter the mountain!" | Abernathy, Robert - When the Mountain Shook |
"Then, startlingly super-imposed on the cool
progression of logical thought, came a wave of raw emotion, devastating
in its force.It was a lustful image of a world once more obedient,
crawling, laboring to do the Ryzgas' will--_toward the stars, the
stars!_ The icy calculation resumed: "Immobilize these and the ones
indicated in the passage above.Then wake the rest...."
Var was staring in fascination at the Ryzga's face.It was a face formed
by the custom of unquestioned command; yet it was lined by a deeply
ingrained weariness, the signs of premature age--denied, overridden by
the driving will they had sensed a moment earlier. It was a sick man's
face.The Ryzga's final thought clicked into place: _Decision!_ He turned
toward the switchboard behind him, reaching with practised certainty for
one spot upon it. Neena screamed.Between the Ryzga and the control panel a nightmare shape reared up
seven feet tall, flapping black amorphous limbs and flashing red eyes
and white fangs. The Ryzga recoiled, and the weapon in his hand came up.There was an instantaneous glare like heat lightning, and the monster
crumpled in on itself, twitched briefly and vanished. But in that moment a light of inspiration had flashed upon Var, and it
remained.As the Ryzga stretched out his hand again, Var acted. The
Ryzga froze, teetering off balance and almost falling, as a numbing grip
closed down on all his motor nerves.Holding that grip, Var strode across the floor and looked straight into
the Ryzga's frantic eyes. They glared back at him with such hatred and
such evil that for an instant he almost faltered.But the Ryzga's
efforts, as he strove to free himself from the neural hold, were as
misdirected and unavailing as those of a child who has not learned to
wrestle with the mind. Var had guessed right.When Neena in her terror had flung a dream
monster into the Ryzga's way--a mere child's bogey out of a fairy
tale--the Ryzga had not recognized it as such, but had taken it for a
real being.Var laughed aloud, and with great care, as one communicates
with an infant, he projected his thoughts into the other's mind. "There
will be no new beginning for you in _our_ world, Ryzga! In two thousand
years, we've learned some new things.Now at last I understand why you
built so many machines, such complicated arrangements of matter and
energy to do simple tasks--it was because you knew no other way." Behind the hate-filled eyes the cold brain tried to reason still. "Barbarians...?Our party was wrong after all. After us the machine
civilization could never rise again, because it was a fire that consumed
its fuel. After us _man_ could not survive on the Earth, because the
conditions that made him great were gone.The survivors must be
something else--capacities undeveloped by our science--after us the end
of man, the beginning.... But those of us who chose to die were right." The tide of hate and sick desire rose up to drown all coherence.The
Ryzga made a savage, wholly futile effort to lift the weapon in his
paralyzed hand. Then his eyes rolled upward, and abruptly he went limp
and fell in a heap, like a mechanical doll whose motive power has
failed.Var felt Neena beside him, and drew her close. As she sobbed her relief,
he continued to look down absently at the dead man. When at last he
raised his head, he saw that the drama's end had had a further audience.In the outer doorway, backed by his clansmen, stood Groz, gazing first
in stupefaction at the fallen Ryzga, then with something like awe at
Var. Var eyed him for a long moment; then he smiled, and asked, "Well, Groz?Is our feud finished, or does your ambition for a worthy son-in-law go
beyond the conqueror of the Ryzgas?" | Abernathy, Robert - When the Mountain Shook |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
MICRO-MAN
BY WEAVER WRIGHT
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Fantasy Book Vol.1
number 1 (1947). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ][Sidenote: _The little man dared to venture into the realm of the
Gods--but the Gods were cruel!_]
The early morning streetcar, swaying and rattling along its tracks, did
as much to divert my attention from the book I was reading as the
contents of the book itself.I did not like Plato.Comfortable though
the seat was, I was as uncomfortable as any collegiate could be whose
mind would rather dwell upon tomorrow's football game than the immediate
task in hand--the morning session with Professor Russell and the book on
my lap.My gaze wandered from the book and drifted out the distorted window,
then fell to the car-sill as I thought over Plato's conclusions. Something moving on the ledge attracted my attention: it was a scurrying
black ant.If I had thought about it, I might have wondered how it came
there. But the next moment a more curious object on the sill caught my
eye. I bent over. I couldn't make out what it was at first. A bug, perhaps. Maybe it was
too small for a bug.Just a little dancing dust, no doubt. Then I discerned--and gasped. On the sill, there----it was a man! A man
on the streetcar's window sill----a _little_ man!He was so tiny I would
never have seen him if it hadn't been for his white attire, which made
him visible against the brown grain of the shellacked wood. I watched,
amazed as his microscopic figure moved over perhaps half an inch.He wore a blouse and shorts, it seemed, and sandals. Something might
have been hanging at his side, but it was too small for me to make out
plainly. His head, I thought was silver-coloured, and I think the
headgear had some sort of knobs on it.All this, of course, I didn't
catch at the time, because my heart was hammering away excitedly and
making my fingers shake as I fumbled for a matchbox in my pocket, I
pushed it open and let the matches scatter out.Then, as gently as my
excitement would allow, I pushed the tiny man from the ledge into the
box; for I had suddenly realized the greatness of this amazing
discovery. The car was barely half-filled and no attention had been directed my
way.I slid quickly out of the empty seat and hurriedly alighted at the
next stop. In a daze, I stood where I had alighted waiting for the next No. 10 that
would return me home, the matchbox held tightly in my hand. They'd put
that box in a museum one day! I collect stamps--I've heard about getting rare ones with inverted
centers, or some minor deviation that made them immensely valuable. I'd
imagined getting one by mistake sometime that would make me rich. But
this!They'd billed "King Kong" as "The Eighth Wonder of the World," but
that was only imaginary--a film ... a terrifying thought crossed my
mind. I pushed open the box hastily: maybe _I_ had been dreaming.But
there it was--the unbelievable; the Little Man! A car was before me, just leaving. Its polished surface had not
reflected through the haze, and the new design made so little noise that
I hadn't seen it.I jumped for it, my mind in such a turmoil that the
conductor had to ask three times for my fare. Ordinarily, I would have
been embarrassed, but a young man with his mind on millions doesn't
worry about little things like that.At least, not this young man. How I acted on the streetcar, or traversed the five blocks from the end
of the line, I couldn't say. If I may imagine myself, though, I must
have strode along the street like a determined machine.I reached the
house and let myself into the basement room. Inside, I pulled the shades
together and closed the door, the matchbox still in my hand.No one was
at home this time of day, which pleased me particularly, for I wanted to
figure out how I was going to present this wonder to the world. I flung myself down on the bed and opened the matchbox. The little man
lay very still on the bottom. "Little Man!" I cried, and turned him out on the quilt. Maybe he had
suffocated in the box. Irrational thought! Small though it might be to
me, the little box was as big as all outdoors to him.It was the bumping
about he'd endured; I hadn't been very thoughtful of him. He was reviving now, and raised himself on one arm. I pushed myself off
the bed, and stepped quickly to my table to procure something with which
I could control him.Not that he could get away, but he was so tiny I
thought I might lose sight of him. Pen, pencil, paper, stamps, scissors, clips--none of them were what I
wanted.I had nothing definite in mind, but then remembered my stamp
outfit and rushed to secure it. Evidently college work had cramped my
style along the collecting line, for the tweezers and magnifier appeared
with a mild coating of dust.But they were what I needed, and I blew on
them and returned to the bed. The little man had made his way half an inch or so from his former
prison; was crawling over what I suppose were, to him, great uneven
blocks of red and green and black moss.He crossed from a red into a black patch as I watched his movements
through the glass, and I could see him more plainly against the darker
background.He stopped and picked at the substance of his strange
surroundings, then straightened to examine a tuft of the cloth. The
magnifier enlarged him to a seeming half inch or so, and I could see
better, now, this strange tiny creature.It _was_ a metal cap he wore, and it did have protruding knobs--two of
them--slanting at 45 degree angles from his temples like horns. I
wondered at their use, but it was impossible for me to imagine.Perhaps
they covered some actual growth; he might have had real horns for all I
knew. Nothing would have been too strange to expect. His clothing showed up as a simple, white, one piece garment, like a
shirt and gym shorts.The shorts ended at the knee, and from there down
he was bare except for a covering on his feet which appeared more like
gloves than shoes. Whatever he wore to protect his feet, it allowed free
movement of his toes.It struck me that this little man's native habitat must have been very
warm. His attire suggested this.For a moment I considered plugging in
my small heater; my room certainly had no tropical or sub-tropical
temperature at that time of the morning--and how was I to know whether
he shivered when he felt chill. Maybe he blew his horns.Anyway, I
figured a living Eighth Wonder would be more valuable than a dead one;
and I didn't think he could be stuffed. But somehow I forgot it in my
interest in examining this unusual personage.The little man had dropped the cloth now, and was staring in my
direction. | Ackerman, Forrest J. - Micro-Man |
Of course, "my direction" was very general to him; but he
seemed to be conscious of me.He certainly impressed _me_ as being
awfully different, but what his reactions were, I didn't know. But someone else knew. * * * * *
In a world deep down in Smallness, in an electron of a dead cell of a
piece of wood, five scientists were grouped before a complicated
instrument with a horn like the early radios.Two sat and three stood,
but their attention upon the apparatus was unanimous. From small
hollowed cups worn on their fingers like rings, came a smoke from
burning incense.These cups they held to their noses frequently, and
their eyes shone as they inhaled. The scientists of infra-smallness were
smoking!With the exception of a recent prolonged silence, which was causing them
great anxiety, sounds had been issuing from the instrument for days. There had been breaks before, but this silence had been long-enduring.Now the voice was speaking again; a voice that was a telepathic
communication made audible. The scientists brightened. "There is much that I cannot understand," it said. The words were
hesitant, filled with awe. "I seem to have been in many worlds.At the
completion of my experiment, I stood on a land which was brown and black
and very rough of surface. With startling suddenness, I was propelled
across this harsh country, and, terrifyingly, I was falling.I must have
dropped seventy-five feet, but the strange buoyant atmosphere of this
strange world saved me from harm. "My new surroundings were grey and gloomy, and the earth trembled as a
giant cloud passed over the sky.I do not know what it meant, but with
the suddenness characteristic of this place, it became very dark, and an
inexplicable violence shook me into insensibility. "I am conscious, now, of some giant form before me, but it is so
colossal that my eyes cannot focus it. And it changes. Now I seem
confronted by great orange mountains with curving ledges cut into their
sides.Atop them are great, greyish slabs of protecting opaque rock--a
covering like that above our Temples of Aerat--'on which the rain may
never fall.' I wish that you might communicate with me, good men of my
world. How go the Gods? "But now!These mountains are lifting, vanishing from my sight. A great
_thing_ which I cannot comprehend hovers before me. It has many colors,
but mostly there is the orange of the mountains.It hangs in the air,
and from the portion nearest me grow dark trees as round as myself and
as tall. There is a great redness above, that opens like the Katus
flower, exposing the ivory white from which puffs the Tongue of Death.Beyond this I cannot see well, but ever so high are two gigantic caverns
from which the Winds of the Legends blow--and suck. As dangerous as the
Katus, by Dal!Alternately they crush me to the ground, then threaten to
tear me from it and hurl me away." _My nose was the cavern from which issued the horrifying wind.I noticed
that my breath distressed the little man as I leaned over to stare at
him, so drew back._
_Upstairs, the visor buzzed.Before answering, so that I would not lose
the little man, I very gingerly pinched his shirt with the tongs, and
lifted him to the table._
"My breath! I am shot into the heavens like Milo and his rocket! I
traverse a frightful distance!Everything changes constantly. A million
miles below is chaos. This world is mad! A giant landscape passes
beneath me, so weird I cannot describe it. I--I cannot understand. Only
my heart trembles within me.Neither Science nor the gods can help or
comfort in this awful world of Greatness! "We stop. I hang motionless in the air. The ground beneath is utterly
insane.But I see vast uncovered veins of rare metal--and crystal,
precious crystal, enough to cover the mightiest Temple we could build! Oh, that Mortia were so blessed!In all this terrifying world, the
richness of the crystal and the marvelous metal do redeem. "Men!----I see ... I believe it is a temple!It is incredibly tall, of
black foundation and red spire, but it is weathered, leaning as if to
fall--and very bare. The people cannot love their Gods as we--or else
there is the Hunger....But the gods may enlighten this world, too, and
if lowered, I will make for it. A sacred Temple should be a
haven--friends! I descend." _The little man's eye had caught my scissors and a glass ruler as I
suspended him above my desk.They were his exposed vein of metal and the
precious crystal. I was searching for something to secure him.In the
last second before I lowered him, his heart swelled at the sight of the
"Temple"--my red and black pen slanting upward from the desk holder._
_A stamp lying on my desk was an inspiration.I licked it, turned it gum
side up, and cautiously pressed the little man against it feet first. With the thought, "That ought to hold him," I dashed upstairs to answer
the call._
_But it didn't hold him.There was quite a bit of strength in that tiny
body._
"Miserable fate! I flounder in a horrid marsh," the upset thought-waves
came to the men of Mortia. "The viscous mire seeks to entrap me, but I
think I can escape it.Then I will make for the Temple. The Gods may
recognize and protect me there." * * * * *
I missed the call--I had delayed too long--but the momentary diversion
had cleared my mind and allowed new thoughts to enter.I now knew what
my first step would be in presenting the little man to the world. I'd write a newspaper account myself--exclusive! Give the scoop to Earl. Would that be a sensation for _his_ paper! Then I'd be made.A friend of
the family, this prominent publisher had often promised he would give me
a break when I was ready. Well, I _was_ ready! Excited, dashing downstairs, I half-formulated the idea.The
headlines--the little man under a microscope--a world afire to see him. Fame ... pictures ... speeches ... movies ... money.... But here I was
at my desk, and I grabbed for a piece of typing paper. They'd put that
in a museum, too!The stamp and the little man lay just at the edge of the sheet, and he
clutched at a "great orange mountain" covered by a "vast slab of
curving, opaque glass" like the "Temples of Aerat." It was my thumb, but
I did not see him there._I thrust the paper into the typewriter and twirled it through._
"I have fallen from the mountain, and hang perpendicularly, perilously,
on a limitless white plain. I tremble, on the verge of falling, but the
slime from the marsh holds me fast. "_I struck the first key._
"A metal meteor is roaring down upon me. Or is it something I have never
before witnessed? It has a tail that streams off beyond sight. It comes
at terrific speed. "I know. The Gods are angry with me for leaving Mortia land.Yes! 'Tis
only They who kill by iron. Their hands clutch the rod in mighty tower
Baviat, and thrust it here to stamp me out." | Ackerman, Forrest J. - Micro-Man |
And a shaking little figure cried: "Baviat tertia!...Mortia mea...." as
the Gods struck wrathfully at a small one daring to explore their
domain.For little man Jeko had contrived to see Infinity--and Infinity
was only for the eyes of the Immortals, and those of the Experience who
dwelt there by the Gods' grace.He had intruded into the realm of the
rulers, the world of the After Life and the Gods Omnipotent! A mortal--in the land of All!In a world deep down in Smallness, in an electron of a cell of dead
wood, five scientists were grouped before the complicated instrument so
reminiscent of early radios. But now they all were standing.Strained,
perspiring, frightened, they trembled, aghast at the dimensions the
experiment had assumed; they were paralysed with terror and awe as they
heard of the wrath of the affronted Gods.And the spirit of science
froze within them, and would die in Mortia land. "Seek the skies only by
hallowed Death" was what they knew.And they destroyed the machine of
the man who had found Venquil land--and thought to live--and fled as
Jeko's last thoughts came through.For many years five frightened little men of an electron world would
live in deadly fear for their lives, and for their souls after death;
and would pray, and become great disciples, spreading the gospels of the
Gods.True, Jeko had described a monstrous world; but how could a mere
mortal experience its true meaning?It was really ethereal and
beautiful, was Venquil land, and they would spend the rest of their days
insuring themselves for the day of the experience--when they would
assume their comforted place in the world of the After Life._As I struck the first letter, a strange sensation swept over me. Something compelled me to stop and look at the typing paper. I was using
a black ribbon, but when the key fell away, there was a tiny spot of | Ackerman, Forrest J. - Micro-Man |
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
South to Propontis
By HENRY ANDREW ACKERMANN
To the South lay Propontis, capital of
Mars.But between it and the homesick
Earth-youth stretched a burning desert--lair
of the deadly _Avis Gladiator_! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Fall 1941.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. ]It wasn't the grim thought that he would be dead in a few moments that
filled the mind of Don Moffat so much as the bitter realization that a
sixteen-year-old suspicion had been confirmed too late.Across the small room a mad light burned in the blood-shot eyes of his
uncle. In spite of the raw liquor he had drunk, the grimy paw that held
the old electronic gun was steady.Beyond the battered hut's open door heat-blasted desert pulsated as
a tiny sun beat savagely down on the arid, sterile wastes from the
inferno's distant rim.It was that southern rim, a mere uneven thread of rust, to which Don
had raised his eyes so many times that day, his heart light with the
thought that he was going to Propontis.And from Propontis to a greener
world beyond--a world he had dreamed of one day seeing; a world where
water wasn't priceless. Earth!Just entering his twenties, he had spent his life on the Martian
wastelands, a motherless kid who had trailed a diamond-mad father over
the wilderness of sand and rock. Don had been seven when they struck the Suzie lode.There were plenty
of the rough stones, and his father sent for the boy's uncle and his
own brother. Together they were to mine and share alike.Shortly after his uncle had arrived Don found his father with a charred
hole in his heart, bleaching on the sand. Uncle Fred had cursed at him
when he wept. Later, though, the man explained that it must have been
one of the native Martians.Don believed him then, but as he grew and
came to know his uncle, he began to doubt. That morning Uncle Fred had abruptly announced that they were through,
that the last gem had been mined from the Suzie lode.But there were
many diamonds in the plastic boxes, enough to satisfy any man. They
would pack their Iguana, Gecko, and make ready for the long trek. So Don had stowed the saddle-bags and water-tanks. Gecko was ready
and waiting outside.Don's last act was to gather his own scanty
belongings. He was in the hut alone when Uncle Fred came in. Don
raised his eyes to find himself staring into the belled muzzle of the
electronic gun. "Desert brat," said Uncle Fred thickly. "I'll blow you so wide open
that there won't be a square meal left for a _Wirler_!" And now Don knew that he was to die by the same hand that had killed
his father. And Fred was through with him.The boy had helped to mine
the gems, but his uncle had never intended that he should live to share
them. That was why Uncle Fred had been drinking all day--to bolster up
his courage to do deliberate murder. He raised the gun an inch.Don saw
his finger tighten on the trigger. He closed his eyes, knowing that it
would be all over in a moment. The paper-thin walls of the hut vibrated with the thunderous crash of
an electronic pistol. Donald's jaw went slack.For a paralyzing second
he could only gape at his uncle. The man had uttered a choking cry, his
fingers loosening the gun. Then he pitched to the floor in a limp heap.In the open doorway stood a bullet-headed, brown-eyed man, holding a
still-glowing electronic pistol. Over his shoulder peered a bearded,
thick-lipped companion. * * * * *
Bullet-head shifted his gaze to the boy. "Glad we showed up?" he asked, grinning. "Sure am. Thanks," said Don, eying the two men closely. They weren't
settlers nor native-born sons of settlers. For the strangers walked
with difficulty.They had yet to learn the gliding stride that was
second nature to Don. And their complexions had never been won on Mars. "You must be Don," said Bullet-Head. "Right," said Don shortly. "What's your tag?" "Call me Pete.I heard about you from your uncle last time he was in
Strada." Strada was the diamond center of Mars, Don knew. His uncle had
been there a month ago with some specimens.There were only three kinds
of people in Strada, the boy thought; business men, police and thieves. Hastily he ruled out the first two. His uncle must have told too much
about his pay-load.These men had decided to cash in before it had
reached a civilized city. Pete's brown eyes wrinkled. "Right, son," he said amiably. "We're
here for the diamonds. Consider yourself lucky to be alive.Now just
keep your mouth shut and pack that lizard of yours. We're going to
Propontis." Don didn't ask any more questions. While he was filling the water
tanks from their stores he thought with desperate clarity and speed.They were city men--earthmen, and could have hoofed it all the way. He knew how an Iguana could go sullen and completely intractable if
it were mishandled; that, he guessed, was what had happened to the
outlaw's pack-lizards.From the thin crust of sand on their boots the
boy guessed that they hadn't had to walk more than a few miles. Don turned, and caught a glance that the two outlaws exchanged. In that
look the boy read an answer to any other question in his mind.Don knew
then that he had escaped death at his uncle's hands only to face it
eventually from these two. Pete eyed him quizzically. "Let's get going," said the outlaw. "We'll
put some distance between us and this shack before we camp for the
night. "The boy gave Gecko a friendly whack on the tail. The lizard cocked a
lazy eye and ambled off, the rest following. Behind him Don could hear the two men talking in low undertones. Only
one snatch of conversstion was clear. "Dumb Martian! "Pete had grunted,
and his friend had snickered agreement. The boy smiled to himself. Yes, he thought, he was a dumb Martian.What chance had he had to learn in a land where everything withered
under the scorching sun, and where only ugly venomous creatures
survived? True, he had read his father's old books, but he had only
half understood them.They were mostly treatises on practical mining
and engineering, the rest unreal blood-and-thunder tales of life in the
space lanes. Two hours later Pete called a halt. He never took his eyes off Don as
preparations were made for the night camp.His companion cooked a meal
out of tins; the outlaws ate most of it and flung the scraps to the boy. "Brought plenty of water?" asked Pete, tilting a canteen. Don nodded. "That's good. Because if we run short you'll be the first to do
without.When's the soonest we can expect to get to Propontis?" "Four days," said Don shortly. Pete raised his brows. "That long?" he asked. "We'd better bunk for
the night." | Ackermann, Henry Andrew - South to Propontis |
He pulled out his sleeping bag and dropped it on the bare
sand. Don smiled grimly.That was no way to live on the desert, he
knew. The boy burrowed down until he struck the red layer of sand that
retained the day's heat. There he spread his sleeping-bag and crawled
carefully in after taking off his heavy sand-shoes.With his free arms
he banked the red sand over his legs before unfolding the top flap. "Kid!" called out Pete. "Yes?" said Don, stopping short in his preparations. "I thought I'd tell you--I have my blaster under my pillow. And I'm a
light sleeper.Get that?" "Yes," said Don coolly. He went on with his bedding. The boy had no
intention at all of running away. The desert was his friend, but the
most implacable enemy that these city men could hope to find. * * * * *
Whether or not Pete slept lightly Don didn't know. He awoke snug and
warm when dawn was striping the wastelands with rosy hues. As he looked
into the horizon he knew that the day would be a blistering one.The outlaws awoke stiff and lame, barely able to crawl out of their
sleeping-bags and not even knowing that they had made the mistake of
sleeping on the hard-packing top layer of sand.By the time they had started and eaten a meager breakfast the outlaws
had swilled down a full quart of water apiece. Don wisely contented
himself with the moisture to be found in the green food he had packed.As the full glare of the sun began to strike the scorching sands the
two Earthmen began to lag. Don slowed his gait for them. They called
for water often; so often that at last he was forced to remind them
that they were drinking too much.Pete glared at him out of his red-rimmed eyes, false geniality gone. "Brat!" he snarled. "You'd like to see us die of thirst, wouldn't you?" Don didn't answer, and silently gave them water whenever they called
for it.By noon both men were suffering from the choking heat. In the
early afternoon Pete called a halt, coughing dryly. "We're stopping here," he said hoarsely, raising a limp arm at an
outcropping of rock that shelved over a stretch of sand, casting a
jet-black shadow.The boy did not speak, but he knew that these rock
formations were little less than refractory furnaces, concentrating
in one innocuous spot the terrible radiations of the desert sun. Pete
coughed again, his smooth skin paling.Suddenly a sort of sympathy came
over the boy. "Look," he said, tossing a bit of vegetation under the rock. It crisped
and blackened. The outlaws stared, first at the cinder and then at
Don. Pete's face twitched with strain as he spoke: "Smart kid?Maybe
you're too smart for us!" His hand fell to his belt, where he wore his
bell-mouthed electronic pistol. The other of the two laid a hand on his arm. "Cut that out," he said
slowly. Then, turning to Don, "Thanks, kid. "Stolidly he spread out
his sleeping-bag and squatted down on it to await the night. Pete
sprawled face-down, breathing heavily till the darkness fell. Then Don,
who had bedded down Gecko the Iguana, and the other slid him into the
sleeping-bag.Before he put up the flap of his own bag Don turned to the silent
outlaw and said: "Half a tank of water left. Ought to hold out if we're
easy on it. There's a water-hole ahead--there was once, I mean. Maybe
it isn't dried up.But it's the wrong season." "Right," said the outlaw. Nothing more was said that night. In the morning, after packing, Don measured out the remaining water
into three canteens. He gave one to each of the outlaws and put his own
on Gecko's back.The heat was worse than the day before. By noon Gecko was voluntarily
picking up speed, the spines on his horny back moving first one way and
then the other. Don knew the signs. The lizard sensed water ahead. "We can't be sure," Don shortly told the Earthmen. "It might not be
drinking water--for us." Thirty minutes later they came upon it, a small patch of rust-red mud
and slime. One of the outlaws groaned. "Dried up," whispered Pete dully.Don said nothing. There was some coarse growth that the pack-lizard
began to eat. The boy was glad of that. He had begun to worry about
Gecko, but now the Iguana would be good for a longer trek than the one
before them.Pete was on his knees, clawing at the mud. The other watched him for a
moment, then looked at Don inquiringly, who shook his head. "He'll only
poison himself," said the boy. The outlaw took his companion by the collar, hoisted him to his feet. "Take this," he said slowly, offering his canteen. "That mud's deadly." Pete took the canteen and tilted it, swallowing convulsively. His
companion pulled away the precious container. "That's enough," he said. "It has to last. "A wild curse ripped from Pete's lips. He snatched back the canteen
and drew his gun. In a voice that was hard to recognize as human, he
rasped: "Stand back--you an' the brat!" His finger whitened on the trigger of the blaster.And then there sounded about them a curiously soft, derisive hooting,
seemingly from every point of the horizon. Pete stared wildly about
him.There had risen from the sand, it seemed, ghostly shapes--tall,
spindly creatures holding recognizable blowguns against their lips. The
outlaw's gun lowered, and he looked at Don. "Native Martians," said the boy. "Don't shoot--they know how to use
those blowguns. They might not harm us." There was no time to say more,
for the weird creatures had noiselessly advanced on them, holding
spread before them what seemed to be heavy draperies.Don hadn't even to wonder before one of the things was clapped over his
head. He felt himself being picked up and carried. * * * * *
Part of the time consumed by the enforced journey he dozed fitfully,
but while he was awake he thought with strange clarity and precision,
dreaming of the other greener world he had hoped to see.The boy was
almost stifled under the heavy folds of the blanket when, after hours
of travel, the Martians removed it. Free of the torment, he drew a deep breath, blinking his eyes as he
looked about him.The first thing he saw were the two Earthmen peering
dazedly about them, their eyes not yet accustomed to the sudden change
of light. And when Don looked beyond the outlaws he gasped in stunned
astonishment.Fronting them were the ruins of an old city! That, he thought, must have been why they had been covered with the
blankets. The Martians wanted to keep the location of the place a
secret.It seemed to the wondering boy that giants had played here a while. He
saw great statues, perhaps of forgotten gods, misshapen things with
cruel faces, tumbled over on one side.He saw vast paving-stones,
hewn from solid rock, thrust up from their bed of sand, standing at
all angles, cracked and split. He saw great buildings, strong as
fortresses, fallen into ruins.In one place that must have been a
public square a tide of sand broke in still waves about the base of a
truncated pyramid. "Where are we?" choked Pete, the first of the three to recover from
the shock. | Ackermann, Henry Andrew - South to Propontis |
He stared about blankly. "It's like a city of the dead," he
whispered hoarsely. "You're right," Don told him. "It is a city of the dead. An ancient,
long deserted city of the Martians, the ancestors of the degenerates
who hold us captive.This band uses it as their base from which they
launch raiding parties." Don had no time to say more. The Martians goaded their captives ahead
of them down streets that had once echoed to the tread of a thousand
feet.The humans picking through squares where multitudes had shouted
saw no other living thing but a shimmering green lizard that basked on
a fallen god. There was no sound but that of the ever-creeping sands.The old people were gone leaving only ghosts, and the hand of Time in
its unhurried way had long since set about the task of wiping out all
trace of their existence.The party turned suddenly around the jutting corner of an immense white
stone edifice. Then Don saw something that took his breath away. Before him was a great towering structure, a temple judging by the
cryptic signs that adorned its face.Before the temple was a sunken
triangular amphitheater of shining yellow stuff. A glance told Don that
the great pit was made of shining bars and heavy slabs of hand-hammered
and hand-polished metal.Don wondered why the outlaws were eying the sunken pit so intently. Since he had been raised on Mars, Don had never heard of gold.But it was the birds perched on the top ledge of the amphitheater that
caught Donald's attention as he neared the temple.There were hundreds of them--_Wirlers_ with plump bodies and pinkish
eyes, iridescent _Zloth_ poking busily with their long, sharp beaks,
spotted _Cotasi_ standing in somber dignity, and everywhere huge black
_Sominas_. Don paused.These birds made him cold in his stomach. "What are those?" asked Pete, his smooth face uneasy. "Birds native to Mars," said the boy. "But I've never seen them in
such numbers. "The Martians and their prisoners halted before a small,
square stone building. Pete was singled out by one of the gangling creatures, and yanked
inside the little structure. The other outlaw was forced in after him.Don watched with a strange feeling of detachment as the two vanished
into the building. It was the heat, the withering heat, that caused
that. It sapped all the strength from one's body and left him feeling
slow and dim-witted.As he stood there he noticed belatedly something he had been looking
at all the while but had not really noticed. It was a small clump
of stunted trees, growing a few paces back from the edge of the
amphitheater.Their crooked branches were overladen with the globes of
some bright red fruit. A sudden impulse came on him. He could just touch one of the limbs. A moment later one of the red fruit was in his pocket.He forgot
about the thing as soon as he saw Pete and his guards emerge from the
building. "What happened?" the boy asked. The outlaw coughed dryly. "They showed me some kind of
machine--motor--something. I don't know what they wanted. "He grinned
feebly. A moment later the man backed away in alarm as one of their
captors approached him. Deliberately the Martians flung the contents
of a clay gourd into the outlaw's face.The Martian laughed, a
hollow, croaking boom that sounded like sacrilege in that city of the
dead. He gave some order in his gobbling tongue, and two Martians
unceremoniously shoved the weakly struggling Earthman into the deep pit
of the amphitheater.The Martians looked on stolidly as the outlaw raved and cursed,
berating them. Then, suddenly, the air above the pit seemed to blast
wide open. A shrieking, unhuman sound beat at the ears of the boy;
he jerked his arms up to shield his face.For the hundreds of birds
clustered grimly about the city were in flight--necks outstretched,
eyes glittering, feathered bullets. Pete screamed faintly and fell to the ground shielding himself. Then he
was overwhelmed by the dark, whirring mass. * * * * *
The birds had gone berserk. They drove straight for the man's face,
hundreds of them.His flailing arms smashed against their soft bodies,
batting them out of the air, crushing them to the ground, but hundreds
more took their places, pecking at him with frenzied beaks, uttering
harsh, discordant cries.It had all happened so quickly that it caught Don off guard. It
was incredible--birds attacking a human being! He jerked forward. Immediately Martians rushed to the aid of his guards.His young muscles
strained to break their grip, but in their hands he was powerless. Agonized, he watched Pete die, a swaying, staggering figure seen dimly
through a heaving whir of wings and stabbing beaks.Finally it was over and the birds, flying heavily, reeled through the
air to their old posts, leaving behind them a hundred dead and dying of
their kind, the result of the outlaw's frantic blows.The boy turned his eyes away from the gory mess on the floor of
the amphitheater. In spite of his horror his mind was working with
desperate clarity. Birds do not attack human beings. It was against
nature. What had maddened them to their deed?His eyes widened as he saw the second of the outlaws dragged from
the little building, his face dripping with the fluid. And then a
forgotten memory linked itself with what he saw.The liquid that
had been poured on the Earthmen was _Xtholla_--Martian language for
"bird-lure." It could be distilled from certain wasteland plants which
the birds ate as a natural tonic and medicine.But the concentrate of
these plants had no mild effect of stimulation. Birds went mad when
they smelled its faint pungent odor. It had a tropic effect on their
ganglia; they _had_ to go to it, gobble it down and wallow in the
stuff.They pecked savagely at anything that had on it the slightest
trace of the distillate. "The pit!" called the boy frantically. "Don't let them--" but one of
his guards struck his mouth and he fell silent, knowing that there was
nothing more he could do to avert the fate that was before the outlaw. The man was wholly paralyzed with fear.The Martians laughed as they
hurled him into the pit. Again the birds swooped, converging on the
terror-stricken man from all points of the compass.They flung their
soft bodies against him at murderous speed, sharp beaks stabbing till
he bled from a myriad wounds. When Don looked up again the birds were reeling back through the air.The boy could not bring himself to look at the thing in the arena. A
sudden chill gripped him as his guards grimly took his arms.They were
leading him to the little building from which had come the Earthmen, he
thought swiftly, and he was to undergo a life-or-death test. He held
himself tense as they passed through the ancient doors of the structure.The walls, he saw, were studded with tubes that had not lit for untold
millennia; machinery of bizarre design covered the floor. | Ackermann, Henry Andrew - South to Propontis |
The boy
jumped as a Martian touched his arm.The gangling travesty on humanity
pointed grimly at a device that alone of the machinery seemed to have
been dusted off and wiped with oil. It was a small motor. The motionless belts and brushes seemed oddly
familiar to the boy. Then he had it!He had seen pictures of just
such motors in one of the old books of his father. But what did the
Martians expect him to do? Obviously the natives wanted him to start
their machine but how could he?He had none of the sources from which
electricity was derived--no steam, no water-power, as they called it on
his father's planet.As Don glanced at the open door and saw the crowd of demoniac faces
framed in its portals, he knew what fate awaited him if he failed. The
same ruthless sentence that had been executed on the outlaw Earthmen
would fall on him.The eyes of his guard became dull and deadly as he saw Don did nothing
to the motor. Then the idea came. Feverishly the boy went to work, racking his brains
for all the details in that old book, "Electricity for the Practical
Miner. "He remembered the title clearly, and ground his knuckles into
his eyes to bring before them the simple diagrams that he once had
learned. Hesitantly he salvaged from a pile of scrap in one corner of the room
two metal plates and lengths of wire.One, he fervently prayed, was
copper and the other zinc. But he could not be sure. The boy clumsily
connected the two terminal wires of the motor, one to each of the
plates. Then he did what seemed a foolish thing.He took the globe of red fruit
from his pocket and sliced it neatly into thin layers. Don laid the
dripping slices atop the copper plate, and then, his heart cold as ice,
laid the zinc plate atop the fruit.The Martians watched coldly, grunting to themselves. Their eyes were
on the world-old motor. Slowly, incredibly, the thing turned over. The
straps sped over the drums; the brushes fizzed and emitted inch-long
blue sparks.And from overhead came a sudden, terrifying wail like nothing that
had been heard on Mars for countless ages. It was not the cry of an
animal nor of a man--that was all the boy knew as he backed against
a wall of the building.The noise rose sickeningly in a demoniacal
shriek. The Martians seemed paralyzed by the awful sound. Then, with
choking cries, they broke ground and ran, their eyes popping and the
shout, "_Kursah-ekh!_" bursting from their lips.Don knew little of the
language, but he did know that their cry was "Demons!" The natives fled with the speed of wild things, and the boy found
himself alone.No, not quite alone, for into the door of the little
building poked the familiar old head of Gecko, Don's pack-lizard. He nearly embraced the ugly creature. It would have been hell to go
without water for another minute.From the canteen on the Iguana's back
Don took a long, refreshing swig. Then he turned again to the motor. It was still turning over, but more slowly.He was about to separate
the plates when it stopped of its own accord and the fiendish wail from
above died away. The boy nimbly scaled the web-work construction and
pried about the tangle of machinery until he found the obvious answer.It had been a blower operated by the motor, to which had been attached
a simple siren. Burglar-alarm, perhaps, or danger signal, he thought. At any rate it had saved him. He laughed as he descended slowly. The old book had been right.Fruit
acid between zinc and copper made the simplest sort of generating
battery cell. What knowledge he had possessed he had used to the full. He drank again from the canteen.And a few moments later with Gecko at his side, he left the city of the
dead behind, Don was going to a greener world. | Ackermann, Henry Andrew - South to Propontis |
A TEXAS MATCHMAKER
by ANDY ADAMS
Author of ‘The Log of a Cowboy’
ILLUSTRATED BY E. BOYD SMITH
1904
TO
FRANK H. EARNEST
MOUNTED INSPECTOR U.S. CUSTOMS SERVICE
LAREDO, TEXAS
Contents
CHAPTER I. LANCE LOVELACE
CHAPTER II.SHEPHERD’S FERRY
CHAPTER III. LAS PALOMAS
CHAPTER IV. CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER V. A PIGEON HUNT
CHAPTER VI. SPRING OF ’76
CHAPTER VII. SAN JACINTO DAY
CHAPTER VIII. A CAT HUNT ON THE FRIO
CHAPTER IX. THE ROSE AND ITS THORN
CHAPTER X.AFTERMATH
CHAPTER XI. A TURKEY BAKE
CHAPTER XII. SUMMER OF ’77
CHAPTER XIII. HIDE HUNTING
CHAPTER XIV. A TWO YEARS’ DROUTH
CHAPTER XV. IN COMMEMORATION
CHAPTER XVI. MATCHMAKING
CHAPTER XVII. WINTER AT LAS PALOMAS
CHAPTER XVIII.AN INDIAN SCARE
CHAPTER XIX. HORSE BRANDS
CHAPTER XX. SHADOWS
CHAPTER XXI. INTERLOCUTORY PROCEEDINGS
CHAPTER XXII.SUNSET
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ROLLING THE BULL OVER LIKE A HOOP
WE GOT THE AMBULANCE OFF BEFORE SUNRISE
FLASHED A MESSAGE BACK
GAVE THE WILDEST HORSES THEIR HEADS
HE SPED DOWN THE COURSE
UTTERING A SINGLE PIERCING SNORT
CHAPTER I
LANCE LOVELACE
When I first found employment with Lance Lovelace, a Texas cowman, I
had not yet attained my majority, while he was over sixty.Though not a
native of Texas, “Uncle Lance” was entitled to be classed among its
pioneers, his parents having emigrated from Tennessee along with a
party of Stephen F. Austin’s colonists in 1821.The colony with which
his people reached the state landed at Quintana, at the mouth of the
Brazos River, and shared the various hardships that befell all the
early Texan settlers, moving inland later to a more healthy locality.Thus the education of young Lovelace was one of privation. Like other
boys in pioneer families, he became in turn a hewer of wood or drawer
of water, as the necessities of the household required, in reclaiming
the wilderness.When Austin hoisted the new-born Lone Star flag, and
called upon the sturdy pioneers to defend it, the adventurous settlers
came from every quarter of the territory, and among the first who
responded to the call to arms was young Lance Lovelace.After San
Jacinto, when the fighting was over and the victory won, he laid down
his arms, and returned to ranching with the same zeal and energy.The
first legislature assembled voted to those who had borne arms in behalf
of the new republic, lands in payment for their services.With this
land scrip for his pay, young Lovelace, in company with others, set out
for the territory lying south of the Nueces. They were a band of daring
spirits. The country was primitive and fascinated them, and they
remained.Some settled on the Frio River, though the majority crossed
the Nueces, many going as far south as the Rio Grande. The country was
as large as the men were daring, and there was elbow room for all and
to spare.Lance Lovelace located a ranch a few miles south of the
Nueces River, and, from the cooing of the doves in the encinal, named
it Las Palomas.“When I first settled here in 1838,” said Uncle Lance to me one
morning, as we rode out across the range, “my nearest neighbor lived
forty miles up the river at Fort Ewell.Of course there were some
Mexican families nearer, north on the Frio, but they don’t count. Say,
Tom, but she was a purty country then!Why, from those hills yonder,
any morning you could see a thousand antelope in a band going into the
river to drink. And wild turkeys? Well, the first few years we lived
here, whole flocks roosted every night in that farther point of the
encinal.And in the winter these prairies were just flooded with geese
and brant. If you wanted venison, all you had to do was to ride through
those mesquite thickets north of the river to jump a hundred deer in a
morning’s ride.Oh, I tell you she was a land of plenty.”
The pioneers of Texas belong to a day and generation which has almost
gone.If strong arms and daring spirits were required to conquer the
wilderness, Nature seemed generous in the supply; for nearly all were
stalwart types of the inland viking. Lance Lovelace, when I first met
him, would have passed for a man in middle life.Over six feet in
height, with a rugged constitution, he little felt his threescore
years, having spent his entire lifetime in the outdoor occupation of a
ranchman.Living on the wild game of the country, sleeping on the
ground by a camp-fire when his work required it, as much at home in the
saddle as by his ranch fireside, he was a romantic type of the
strenuous pioneer.He was a man of simple tastes, true as tested steel in his friendships,
with a simple honest mind which followed truth and right as unerringly
as gravitation. In his domestic affairs, however, he was unfortunate.The year after locating at Las Palomas, he had returned to his former
home on the Colorado River, where he had married Mary Bryan, also of
the family of Austin’s colonists.Hopeful and happy they returned to
their new home on the Nueces, but before the first anniversary of their
wedding day arrived, she, with her first born, were laid in the same
grave.But grief does not kill, and the young husband bore his loss as
brave men do in living out their allotted day.But to the hour of his
death the memory of Mary Bryan mellowed him into a child, and, when
unoccupied, with every recurring thought of her or the mere mention of
her name, he would fall into deep reverie, lasting sometimes for hours.And although he contracted two marriages afterward, they were simply
marriages of convenience, to which, after their termination, he
frequently referred flippantly, sometimes with irreverence, for they
were unhappy alliances.On my arrival at Las Palomas, the only white woman on the ranch was
“Miss Jean,” a spinster sister of its owner, and twenty years his
junior.After his third bitter experience in the lottery of matrimony,
evidently he gave up hope, and induced his sister to come out and
preside as the mistress of Las Palomas. She was not tall like her
brother, but rather plump for her forty years.She had large gray eyes,
with long black eyelashes, and she had a trick of looking out from
under them which was both provoking and disconcerting, and no doubt
many an admirer had been deceived by those same roguish, laughing eyes.Every man, Mexican and child on the ranch was the devoted courtier of
Miss Jean, for she was a lovable woman; and in spite of her isolated
life and the constant plaguings of her brother on being a spinster, she
fitted neatly into our pastoral life.It was these teasings of her
brother that gave me my first inkling that the old ranchero was a wily
matchmaker, though he religiously denied every such accusation.With a
remarkable complacency, Jean Lovelace met and parried her tormentor,
but her brother never tired of his hobby while there was a third person
to listen. Though an unlettered man, Lance Lovelace had been a close observer of
humanity.The big book of Life had been open always before him, and he
had profited from its pages. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
With my advent at Las Palomas, there were
less than half a dozen books on the ranch, among them a copy of Bret
Harte’s poems and a large Bible.“That book alone,” said he to several of us one chilly evening, as we
sat around the open fireplace, “is the greatest treatise on humanity
ever written.Go with me to-day to any city in any country in
Christendom, and I’ll show you a man walk up the steps of his church on
Sunday who thanks God that he’s better than his neighbor. But you
needn’t go so far if you don’t want to.I reckon if I could see myself,
I might show symptoms of it occasionally. Sis here thanks God daily
that she is better than that Barnes girl who cut her out of Amos
Alexander. Now, don’t you deny it, for you know it’s gospel truth!And
that book is reliable on lots of other things. Take marriage, for
instance. It is just as natural for men and women to mate at the proper
time, as it is for steers to shed in the spring. But there’s no
necessity of making all this fuss about it.The Bible way discounts all
these modern methods. ‘He took unto himself a wife’ is the way it
describes such events. But now such an occurrence has to be announced,
months in advance.And after the wedding is over, in less than a year
sometimes, they are glad to sneak off and get the bond dissolved in
some divorce court, like I did with my second wife.”
All of us about the ranch, including Miss Jean, knew that the old
ranchero’s views on matrimony could be obtained by leading up to the
question, or differing, as occasion required.So, just to hear him talk
on his favorite theme, I said: “Uncle Lance, you must recollect this is
a different generation. Now, I’ve read books”—
“So have I. But it’s different in real life.Now, in those novels you
have read, the poor devil is nearly worried to death for fear he’ll not
get her.There’s a hundred things happens; he’s thrown off the scent
one day and cuts it again the next, and one evening he’s in a heaven of
bliss and before the dance ends a rival looms up and there’s hell to
pay,—excuse me, Sis,—but he gets her in the end.And that’s the way it
goes in the books. But getting down to actual cases—when the money’s on
the table and the game’s rolling—it’s as simple as picking a sire and a
dam to raise a race horse.When they’re both willing, it don’t require
any expert to see it—a one-eyed or a blind man can tell the symptoms.Now, when any of you boys get into that fix, get it over with as soon
as possible.”
“From the drift of your remarks,” said June Deweese very innocently,
“why wouldn’t it be a good idea to go back to the old method of letting
the parents make the matches?”
“Yes; it would be a good idea.How in the name of common sense could
you expect young sap-heads like you boys to understand anything about a
woman? I know what I’m talking about. A single woman never shows her
true colors, but conceals her imperfections.The average man is not to
be blamed if he fails to see through her smiles and Sunday humor. Now,
I was forty when I married the second time, and forty-five the last
whirl. Looks like I’d a-had some little sense, now, don’t it? But I
didn’t.No, I didn’t have any more show than a snowball in—Sis, hadn’t
you better retire. You’re not interested in my talk to these
boys.—Well, if ever any of you want to get married you have my consent.But you’d better get my opinion on her dimples when you do. Now, with
my sixty odd years, I’m worth listening to.I can take a cool,
dispassionate view of a woman now, and pick every good point about her,
just as if she was a cow horse that I was buying for my own saddle.”
Miss Jean, who had a ready tongue for repartee, took advantage of the
first opportunity to remark: “Do you know, brother, matrimony is a
subject that I always enjoy hearing discussed by such an oracle as
yourself.But did it never occur to you what an unjust thing it was of
Providence to reveal so much to your wisdom and conceal the same from
us babes?”
It took some little time for the gentle reproof to take effect, but
Uncle Lance had an easy faculty of evading a question when it was
contrary to his own views.“Speaking of the wisdom of babes,” said he,
“reminds me of what Felix York, an old ’36 comrade of mine, once said. He had caught the gold fever in ’49, and nothing would do but he and
some others must go to California.The party went up to Independence,
Missouri, where they got into an overland emigrant train, bound for the
land of gold.But it seems before starting, Senator Benton had made a
speech in that town, in which he made the prophecy that one day there
would be a railroad connecting the Missouri River with the Pacific
Ocean. Felix told me this only a few years ago.But he said that all
the teamsters made the prediction a byword.When, crossing some of the
mountain ranges, the train halted to let the oxen blow, one
bull-whacker would say to another: ‘Well, I’d like to see old Tom
Benton get his railroad over _this_ mountain.’ When Felix told me this
he said—‘There’s a railroad to-day crosses those same mountain passes
over which we forty-niners whacked our bulls.And to think I was a
grown man and had no more sense or foresight than a little baby
blinkin’ its eyes in the sun.’”
With years at Las Palomas, I learned to like the old ranchero.There
was something of the strong, primitive man about him which compelled a
youth of my years to listen to his counsel. His confidence in me was a
compliment which I appreciate to this day.When I had been in his
employ hardly two years, an incident occurred which, though only one of
many similar acts cementing our long friendship, tested his trust.One morning just as he was on the point of starting on horseback to the
county seat to pay his taxes, a Mexican arrived at the ranch and
announced that he had seen a large band of _javalina_ on the border of
the chaparral up the river.Uncle Lance had promised his taxes by a
certain date, but he was a true sportsman and owned a fine pack of
hounds; moreover, the peccary is a migratory animal and does not wait
upon the pleasure of the hunter.As I rode out from the corrals to
learn what had brought the vaquero with such haste, the old ranchero
cried, “Here, Tom, you’ll have to go to the county seat.Buckle this
money belt under your shirt, and if you lack enough gold to cover the
taxes, you’ll find silver here in my saddle-bags. Blow the horn, boys,
and get the guns. Lead the way, Pancho.And say, Tom, better leave the
road after crossing the Sordo, and strike through that mesquite
country,” he called back as he swung into the saddle and started,
leaving me a sixty-mile ride in his stead.His warning to leave the
road after crossing the creek was timely, for a ranchman had been
robbed by bandits on that road the month before. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
But I made the ride in
safety before sunset, paying the taxes, amounting to over a thousand
dollars.During all our acquaintance, extending over a period of twenty years,
Lance Lovelace was a constant revelation to me, for he was original in
all things. Knowing no precedent, he recognized none which had not the
approval of his own conscience.Where others were content to follow, he
blazed his own pathways—immaterial to him whether they were followed by
others or even noticed. In his business relations and in his own way,
he was exact himself and likewise exacting of others.Some there are
who might criticise him for an episode which occurred about four years
after my advent at Las Palomas.Mr. Whitley Booth, a younger man and a brother-in-law of the old
ranchero by his first wife, rode into the ranch one evening, evidently
on important business.He was not a frequent caller, for he was also a
ranchman, living about forty miles north and west on the Frio River,
but was in the habit of bringing his family down to the Nueces about
twice a year for a visit of from ten days to two weeks’ duration.But
this time, though we had been expecting the family for some little
time, he came alone, remained over night, and at breakfast ordered his
horse, as if expecting to return at once.The two ranchmen were holding
a conference in the sitting-room when a Mexican boy came to me at the
corrals and said I was wanted in the house. On my presenting myself, my
employer said: “Tom, I want you as a witness to a business transaction.I’m lending Whit, here, a thousand dollars, and as we have never taken
any notes between us, I merely want you as a witness.Go into my room,
please, and bring out, from under my bed, one of those largest bags of
silver.”
The door was unlocked, and there, under the ranchero’s bed,
dust-covered, were possibly a dozen sacks of silver.Finding one tagged
with the required amount, I brought it out and laid it on the table
between the two men. But on my return I noticed Uncle Lance had turned
his chair from the table and was gazing out of the window, apparently
absorbed in thought.I saw at a glance that he was gazing into the
past, for I had become used to these reveries on his part.I had not
been excused, and an embarrassing silence ensued, which was only broken
as he looked over his shoulder and said: “There it is, Whit; count it
if you want to.”
But Mr. Booth, knowing the oddities of Uncle Lance, hesitated.“Well—why—Look here, Lance. If you have any reason for not wanting to
loan me this amount, why, say so.”
“There’s the money, Whit; take it if you want to. It’ll pay for the
hundred cows you are figuring on buying.But I was just thinking: can
two men at our time of life, who have always been friends, afford to
take the risk of letting a business transaction like this possibly make
us enemies?You know I started poor here, and what I have made and
saved is the work of my lifetime. You are welcome to the money, but if
anything should happen that you didn’t repay me, you know I wouldn’t
feel right towards you.It’s probably my years that does it, but—now, I
always look forward to the visits of your family, and Jean and I always
enjoy our visits at your ranch.I think we’d be two old fools to allow
anything to break up those pleasant relations.” Uncle Lance turned in
his chair, and, looking into the downcast countenance of Mr. Booth,
continued: “Do you know, Whit, that youngest girl of yours reminds me
of her aunt, my own Mary, in a hundred ways.I just love to have your
girls tear around this old ranch—they seem to give me back certain
glimpses of my youth that are priceless to an old man.”
“That’ll do, Lance,” said Mr. Booth, rising and extending his hand. “I
don’t want the money now.Your view of the matter is right, and our
friendship is worth more than a thousand cattle to me.Lizzie and the
girls were anxious to come with me, and I’ll go right back and send
them down.”
CHAPTER II
SHEPHERD’S FERRY
Within a few months after my arrival at Las Palomas, there was a dance
at Shepherd’s Ferry.There was no necessity for an invitation to such
local meets; old and young alike were expected and welcome, and a dance
naturally drained the sparsely settled community of its inhabitants
from forty to fifty miles in every direction.On the Nueces in 1875,
the amusements of the countryside were extremely limited; barbecues,
tournaments, and dancing covered the social side of ranch life, and
whether given up or down our home river, or north on the Frio, so they
were within a day’s ride, the white element of Las Palomas could always
be depended on to be present, Uncle Lance in the lead.Shepherd’s Ferry is somewhat of a misnomer, for the water in the river
was never over knee-deep to a horse, except during freshets.There may
have been a ferry there once; but from my advent on the river there was
nothing but a store, the keeper of which also conducted a road-house
for the accommodation of travelers.There was a fine grove for picnic
purposes within easy reach, which was also frequently used for
camp-meeting purposes.Gnarly old live-oaks spread their branches like
a canopy over everything, while the sea-green moss hung from every limb
and twig, excluding the light and lazily waving with every vagrant
breeze.The fact that these grounds were also used for camp-meetings
only proved the broad toleration of the people.On this occasion I
distinctly remember that Miss Jean introduced a lady to me, who was the
wife of an Episcopal minister, then visiting on a ranch near Oakville,
and I danced several times with her and found her very amiable.On receipt of the news of the approaching dance at the ferry, we set
the ranch in order. Fortunately, under seasonable conditions work on a
cattle range is never pressing.A programme of work outlined for a
certain week could easily be postponed a week or a fortnight for that
matter; for this was the land of “la mañana,” and the white element on
Las Palomas easily adopted the easy-going methods of their Mexican
neighbors.So on the day everything was in readiness. The ranch was a
trifle over thirty miles from Shepherd’s, which was a fair half day’s
ride, but as Miss Jean always traveled by ambulance, it was necessary
to give her an early start.Las Palomas raised fine horses and mules,
and the ambulance team for the ranch consisted of four mealy-muzzled
brown mules, which, being range bred, made up in activity what they
lacked in size.Tiburcio, a trusty Mexican, for years in the employ of Uncle Lance, was
the driver of the ambulance, and at an early morning hour he and his
mules were on their mettle and impatient to start. But Miss Jean had a
hundred petty things to look after.The lunch—enough for a round-up—was
prepared, and was safely stored under the driver’s seat. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
But I was familiar with the simple dance
music of the country, and played everything that was called for.My
talent was quite a revelation to the boys of our ranch, and especially
to the owner and mistress of Las Palomas.The latter had me play
several old Colorado River favorites of hers, and I noticed that when
she had the dashing Captain Byler for her partner, my waltzes seemed
never long enough to suit her.After I had been relieved, Miss Jean introduced me to a number of nice
girls, and for the remainder of the evening I had no lack of partners.But there was one girl there whom I had not been introduced to, who
always avoided my glance when I looked at her, but who, when we were in
the same set and I squeezed her hand, had blushed just too lovely.When
that dance was over, I went to Miss Jean for an introduction, but she
did not know her, so I appealed to Uncle Lance, for I knew he could
give the birth date of every girl present.We took a stroll through the
crowd, and when I described her by her big eyes, he said in a voice so
loud that I felt sure she must hear: “Why, certainly, I know her. That’s Esther McLeod. I’ve trotted her on my knee a hundred times.She’s the youngest girl of old man Donald McLeod who used to ranch over
on the mouth of the San Miguel, north on the Frio.Yes, I’ll give you
an interslaption.” Then in a subdued tone: “And if you can drop your
rope on her, son, tie her good and fast, for she’s good stock.”
I was made acquainted as his latest adopted son, and inferred the old
ranchero’s approbation by many a poke in the ribs from him in the
intervals between dances; for Esther and I danced every dance together
until dawn.No one could charge me with neglect or inattention, for I
close-herded her like a hired hand. She mellowed nicely towards me
after the ice was broken, and with the limited time at my disposal, I
made hay.When the dance broke up with the first signs of day, I
saddled her horse and assisted her to mount, when I received the cutest
little invitation, ‘if ever I happened over on the San Miguel, to try
and call.’ Instead of beating about the bush, I assured her bluntly
that if she ever saw me on Miguel Creek, it would be intentional; for I
should have made the ride purely to see her.She blushed again in a way
which sent a thrill through me. But on the Nueces in ’75, if a fellow
took a fancy to a girl there was no harm in showing it or telling her
so.I had been so absorbed during the latter part of the night that I had
paid little attention to the rest of the Las Palomas outfit, though I
occasionally caught sight of Miss Jean and the drover, generally
dancing, sometimes promenading, and once had a glimpse of them
tête-à-tête on a rustic settee in a secluded corner.Our employer
seldom danced, but kept his eye on June Deweese in the interests of
peace, for Annear and his wife were both present.Once while Esther and
I were missing a dance over some light refreshment, I had occasion to
watch June as he and Annear danced in the same set.I thought the
latter acted rather surly, though Deweese was the acme of geniality,
and was apparently having the time of his life as he tripped through
the mazes of the dance.Had I not known of the deadly enmity existing
between them, I could never have suspected anything but friendship, he
was acting the part so perfectly.But then I knew he had given his
plighted word to the master and mistress, and nothing but an insult or
indignity could tempt him to break it.On the return trip, we got the ambulance off before sunrise, expecting
to halt and breakfast again at the Arroyo Seco.Aaron Scales and Dan
Happersett acted as couriers to Miss Jean’s conveyance, while the rest
dallied behind, for there was quite a cavalcade of young folks going a
distance our way.This gave Uncle Lance a splendid chance to quiz the
girls in the party. I was riding with a Miss Wilson from Ramirena, who
had come up to make a visit at a near-by ranch and incidentally attend
the dance at Shepherd’s.I admit that I was a little too much absorbed
over another girl to be very entertaining, but Uncle Lance helped out
by joining us. “Nice morning overhead, Miss Wilson,” said he, on riding
up.“Say, I’ve waited just as long as I’m going to for that invitation
to your wedding which you promised me last summer.Now, I don’t know so
much about the young men down about Ramirena, but when I was a
youngster back on the Colorado, when a boy loved a girl he married her,
whether it was Friday or Monday, rain or shine.I’m getting tired of
being put off with promises. Why, actually, I haven’t been to a wedding
in three years.What are we coming to?”
On reaching the road where Miss Wilson and her party separated from us,
Uncle Lance returned to the charge: “Now, no matter how busy I am when
I get your invitation, I don’t care if the irons are in the fire and
the cattle in the corral, I’ll drown the fire and turn the cows out.And if Las Palomas has a horse that’ll carry me, I’ll merely touch the
high places in coming. And when I get there I’m willing to do
anything,—give the bride away, say grace, or carve the turkey.And
what’s more, I never kissed a bride in my life that didn’t have good
luck. Tell your pa you saw me.Good-by, dear.”
On overtaking the ambulance in camp, our party included about twenty,
several of whom were young ladies; but Miss Jean insisted that every
one remain for breakfast, assuring them that she had abundance for all.After the impromptu meal was disposed of, we bade our adieus and
separated to the four quarters. Before we had gone far, Uncle Lance
rode alongside of me and said: “Tom, why didn’t you tell me you was a
fiddler?God knows you’re lazy enough to be a good one, and you ought
to be good on a bee course. But what made me warm to you last night was
the way you built to Esther McLeod. Son, you set her cush about right.If you can hold sight on a herd of beeves on a bad night like you did
her, you’ll be a foreman some day. And she’s not only good blood
herself, but she’s got cattle and land. Old man Donald, her father, was
killed in the Confederate army.He was an honest Scotchman who kept
Sunday and everything else he could lay his hands on. In all my travels
I never met a man who could offer a longer prayer or take a bigger
drink of whiskey. I remember the first time I ever saw him.He was
serving on the grand jury, and I was a witness in a cattle-stealing
case. He was a stranger to me, and we had just sat down at the same
table at a hotel for dinner.We were on the point of helping ourselves,
when the old Scot arose and struck the table a blow that made the
dishes rattle.‘You heathens,’ said he, ‘will you partake of the bounty
of your Heavenly Father without returning thanks?’ We laid down our
knives and forks like boys caught in a watermelon patch, and the old
man asked a blessing. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
I’ve been at his house often.He was a good man,
but Secession caught him and he never came back.So, Quirk, you see, a
son-in-law will be a handy man in the family, and with the start you
made last night I hope for good results.” The other boys seemed to
enjoy my embarrassment, but I said nothing in reply, being a new man
with the outfit.We reached the ranch an hour before noon, two hours in
advance of the ambulance; and the sleeping we did until sunrise the
next morning required no lullaby.CHAPTER III
LAS PALOMAS
There is something about those large ranches of southern Texas that
reminds one of the old feudal system.The pathetic attachment to the
soil of those born to certain Spanish land grants can only be compared
to the European immigrant when for the last time he looks on the land
of his birth before sailing. Of all this Las Palomas was typical.In
the course of time several such grants had been absorbed into its
baronial acres. But it had always been the policy of Uncle Lance never
to disturb the Mexican population; rather he encouraged them to remain
in his service.Thus had sprung up around Las Palomas ranch a little
Mexican community numbering about a dozen families, who lived in
_jacals_ close to the main ranch buildings. They were simple people,
and rendered their new master a feudal loyalty.There were also several
small _ranchites_ located on the land, where, under the Mexican régime,
there had been pretentious adobe buildings.A number of families still
resided at these deserted ranches, content in cultivating small fields
or looking after flocks of goats and a few head of cattle, paying no
rental save a service tenure to the new owner.The customs of these Mexican people were simple and primitive. They
blindly accepted the religious teachings imposed with fire and sword by
the Spanish conquerors upon their ancestors.A padre visited them
yearly, christening the babes, marrying the youth, shriving the
penitent, and saying masses for the repose of the souls of the
departed. Their social customs were in many respects unique.For
instance, in courtship a young man was never allowed in the presence of
his inamorata, unless in company of others, or under the eye of a
chaperon.Proposals, even among the nearest of neighbors or most
intimate of friends, were always made in writing, usually by the father
of the young man to the parents of the girl, but in the absence of
such, by a godfather or _padrino_.Fifteen days was the term allowed
for a reply, and no matter how desirable the match might be, it was not
accounted good taste to answer before the last day.The owner of Las
Palomas was frequently called upon to act as _padrino_ for his people,
and so successful had he always been that the vaqueros on his ranch
preferred his services to those of their own fathers.There was
scarcely a vaquero at the home ranch but, in time past, had invoked his
good offices in this matter, and he had come to be looked on as their
patron saint.The month of September was usually the beginning of the branding season
at Las Palomas.In conducting this work, Uncle Lance was the leader,
and with the white element already enumerated, there were twelve to
fifteen vaqueros included in the branding outfit.The dance at
Shepherd’s had delayed the beginning of active operations, and a large
calf crop, to say nothing of horse and mule colts, now demanded our
attention and promised several months’ work.The year before, Las
Palomas had branded over four thousand calves, and the range was now
dotted with the crop, awaiting the iron stamp of ownership.The range was an open one at the time, compelling us to work far beyond
the limits of our employer’s land. Fortified with our own commissary,
and with six to eight horses apiece in our mount, we scoured the
country for a radius of fifty miles.When approaching another range, it
was our custom to send a courier in advance to inquire of the ranchero
when it would be convenient for him to give us a rodeo.A day would be
set, when our outfit and the vaqueros of that range rounded up all the
cattle watering at given points.Then we cut out the Las Palomas brand,
and held them under herd or started them for the home ranch, where the
calves were to be branded. In this manner we visited all the adjoining
ranches, taking over a month to make the circuit of the ranges.In making the tour, the first range we worked was that of rancho Santa
Maria, south of our range and on the head of Tarancalous Creek. On
approaching the ranch, as was customary, we prepared to encamp and ask
for a rodeo.But in the choice of a vaquero to be dispatched on this
mission, a spirited rivalry sprang up.When Uncle Lance learned that
the rivalry amongst the vaqueros was meant to embarrass Enrique Lopez,
who was _oso_ to Anita, the pretty daughter of the corporal of Santa
Maria, his matchmaking instincts came to the fore.Calling Enrique to
one side, he made the vaquero confess that he had been playing for the
favor of the señorita at Santa Maria.Then he dispatched Enrique on the
mission, bidding him carry the choicest compliments of Las Palomas to
every Don and Doña of Santa Maria. And Enrique was quite capable of
adding a few embellishments to the old matchmaker’s extravagant
flatteries.Enrique was in camp next morning, but at what hour of the night he had
returned is unknown.The rodeo had been granted for the following day;
there was a pressing invitation to Don Lance—unless he was willing to
offend—to spend the idle day as the guest of Don Mateo. Enrique
elaborated the invitation with a thousand adornments.But the owner of
Las Palomas had lived nearly forty years among the Spanish-American
people on the Nueces, and knew how to make allowances for the
exuberance of the Latin tongue.There was no telling to what extent
Enrique could have kept on delivering messages, but to his employer he
was avoiding the issue. “But did you get to see Anita?” interrupted Uncle Lance. Yes, he had
seen her, but that was about all.Did not Don Lance know the customs
among the Castilians? There was her mother ever present, or if she must
absent herself, there was a bevy of _tias comadres_ surrounding her,
until the Doña Anita dare not even raise her eyes to meet his.“To
perdition with such customs, no?” The freedom of a cow camp is a
splendid opportunity to relieve one’s mind upon prevailing injustices. “Don’t fret your cattle so early in the morning, son,” admonished the
wary matchmaker.“I’ve handled worse cases than this before. You
Mexicans are sticklers on customs, and we must deal with our neighbors
carefully. Before I show my hand in this, there’s just one thing I want
to know—is the girl willing?Whenever you can satisfy me on that point,
Enrique, just call on the old man. But before that I won’t stir a step. You remember what a time I had over Tiburcio’s Juan—that’s so, you were
too young then. Well, June here remembers it.Why, the girl just cut up
shamefully. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
But there is little
recreation on a cow hunt, and we were soon under full headway again.By
the time we had worked down the Frio, opposite headquarters, we had too
large a herd to carry conveniently, and I was sent in home with them,
never rejoining the outfit until they reached Shepherd’s Ferry.This
was a disappointment to me, for I had hopes that when the outfit worked
the range around the mouth of San Miguel, I might find some excuse to
visit the McLeod ranch and see Esther.But after turning back up the
home river to within twenty miles of the ranch, we again turned
southward, covering the intervening ranches rapidly until we struck the
Tarancalous about twenty-five miles east of Santa Maria.We had spent over thirty days in making this circle, gathering over
five thousand cattle, about one third of which were cows with calves by
their sides.On the remaining gap in the circle we lost two days in
waiting for rodeos, or gathering independently along the Tarancalous,
and, on nearing the Santa Maria range, we had nearly fifteen hundred
cattle.Our herd passed within plain view of the rancho, but we did not
turn aside, preferring to make a dry camp for the night, some five or
six miles further on our homeward course.But since we had used the
majority of our _remuda_ very hard that day, Uncle Lance dispatched
Enrique and myself, with our wagon and saddle horses, by way of Santa
Maria, to water our saddle stock and refill our kegs for camping
purposes.Of course, the compliments of our employer to the ranchero of
Santa Maria went with the _remuda_ and wagon. I delivered the compliments and regrets to Don Mateo, and asked the
permission to water our saddle stock, which was readily granted.This
required some time, for we had about a hundred and twenty-five loose
horses with us, and the water had to be raised by rope and pulley from
the pommel of a saddle horse.After watering the team we refilled our
kegs, and the cook pulled out to overtake the herd, Enrique and I
staying to water the _remuda_.Enrique, who was riding the saddle
horse, while I emptied the buckets as they were hoisted to the surface,
was evidently killing time. By his dilatory tactics, I knew the young
rascal was delaying in the hope of getting a word with the Doña Anita.But it was getting late, and at the rate we were hoisting darkness
would overtake us before we could reach the herd. So I ordered Enrique
to the bucket, while I took my own horse and furnished the hoisting
power.We were making some headway with the work, when a party of
women, among them the Doña Anita, came down to the well to fill vessels
for house use. This may have been all chance—and then again it may not.But the
gallant Enrique now outdid himself, filling jar after jar and lifting
them to the shoulder of the bearer with the utmost zeal and amid a
profusion of compliments.I was annoyed at the interruption in our
work, but I could see that Enrique was now in the highest heaven of
delight.The Doña Anita’s mother was present, and made it her duty to
notice that only commonplace formalities passed between her daughter
and the ardent vaquero.After the jars were all filled, the bevy of
women started on their return; but Doña Anita managed to drop a few
feet to the rear of the procession, and, looking back, quietly took up
one corner of her mantilla, and with a little movement, apparently all
innocence, flashed a message back to the entranced Enrique.I was aware
of the flirtation, but before I had made more of it Enrique sprang down
from the abutment of the well, dragged me from my horse, and in an
ecstasy of joy, crouching behind the abutments, cried: Had I seen the
sign?Had I not noticed her token? Was my brain then so befuddled? Did
I not understand the ways of the señoritas among his people?—that they
always answered by a wave of the handkerchief, or the mantilla? Ave
Maria, Tomas! Such stupidity!Why, to be sure, they could talk all day
with their eyes. A setting sun finally ended his confidences, and the watering was soon
finished, for Enrique lowered the bucket in a gallop.On our reaching
the herd and while we were catching our night horses, Uncle Lance
strode out to the rope corral, with the inquiry, what had delayed us.“Nothing particular,” I replied, and looked at Enrique, who shrugged
his shoulders and repeated my answer.“Now, look here, you young
liars,” said the old ranchero; “the wagon has been in camp over an
hour, and, admitting it did start before you, you had plenty of time to
water the saddle stock and overtake it before it could possibly reach
the herd.I can tell a lie myself, but a good one always has some
plausibility.You rascals were up to some mischief, I’ll warrant.”
I had caught out my night horse, and as I led him away to saddle up,
Uncle Lance, not content with my evasive answer, followed me.“Go to
Enrique,” I whispered; “he’ll just bubble over at a good chance to tell
you. Yes; it was the Doña Anita who caused the delay.” A smothered
chuckling shook the old man’s frame, as he sauntered over to where
Enrique was saddling.As the two led off the horse to picket in the
gathering dusk, the ranchero had his arm around the vaquero’s neck, and
I felt that the old matchmaker would soon be in possession of the
facts.A hilarious guffaw that reached me as I was picketing my horse
announced that the story was out, and as the two returned to the fire
Uncle Lance was slapping Enrique on the back at every step and calling
him a lucky dog.The news spread through the camp like wild-fire, even
to the vaqueros on night herd, who instantly began chanting an old love
song.While Enrique and I were eating our supper, our employer paced
backward and forward in meditation like a sentinel on picket, and when
we had finished our meal, he joined us around the fire, inquiring of
Enrique how soon the demand should be made for the corporal’s daughter,
and was assured that it could not be done too soon.“The padre only
came once a year,” he concluded, “and they must be ready.”
“Well, now, this is a pretty pickle,” said the old matchmaker, as he
pulled his gray mustaches; “there isn’t pen or paper in the outfit.And
then we’ll be busy branding on the home range for a month, and I can’t
spare a vaquero a day to carry a letter to Santa Maria. And besides, I
might not be at home when the reply came.I think I’ll just take the
bull by the horns; ride back in the morning and set these old
precedents at defiance, by arranging the match verbally.I can make the
talk that this country is Texas now, and that under the new regime
American customs are in order.That’s what I’ll do—and I’ll take Tom
Quirk with me for fear I bog down in my Spanish.”
But several vaqueros, who understood some English, advised Enrique of
what the old matchmaker proposed to do, when the vaquero threw his
hands in the air and began sputtering Spanish in terrified disapproval.Did not Don Lance know that the marriage usages among his people were
their most cherished customs? | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
“Oh, yes, son,” languidly replied Uncle
Lance. “I’m some strong on the cherish myself, but not when it
interferes with my plans.It strikes me that less than a month ago I
heard you condemning to perdition certain customs of your people. Now,
don’t get on too high a horse—just leave it to Tom and me.We may stay
a week, but when we come back we’ll bring your betrothal with us in our
vest pockets.There was never a Mexican born who can outhold me on
palaver; and we’ll eat every chicken on Santa Maria unless they
surrender.”
As soon as the herd had started for home the next morning, Uncle Lance
and I returned to Santa Maria.We were extended a cordial reception by
Don Mateo, and after the chronicle of happenings since the two
rancheros last met had been reviewed, the motive of our sudden return
was mentioned.By combining the vocabularies of my employer and myself,
we mentioned our errand as delicately as possible, pleading guilty and
craving every one’s pardon for our rudeness in verbally conducting the
negotiations.To our surprise,—for to Mexicans customs are as rooted as
Faith,—Don Mateo took no offense and summoned Doña Gregoria.I was
playing a close second to the diplomat of our side of the house, and
when his Spanish failed him and he had recourse to English, it is
needless to say I handled matters to the best of my ability.The
Spanish is a musical, passionate language and well suited to love
making, and though this was my first use of it for that purpose, within
half an hour we had won the ranchero and his wife to our side of the
question.Then, at Don Mateo’s orders, the parents of the girl were summoned. This involved some little delay, which permitted coffee being served,
and discussion, over the cigarettes, of the commonplace matters of the
country.There was beginning to be a slight demand for cattle to drive
to the far north on the trails, some thought it was the sign of a big
development, but neither of the rancheros put much confidence in the
movement, etc., etc.The corporal and his wife suddenly made their
appearance, dressed in their best, which accounted for the delay, and
all cattle conversation instantly ceased. Uncle Lance arose and greeted
the husky corporal and his timid wife with warm cordiality.I extended
my greetings to the Mexican foreman, whom I had met at the rodeo about
a month before.We then resumed our seats, but the corporal and his
wife remained standing, and with an elegant command of his native
tongue Don Mateo informed the couple of our mission. They looked at
each other in bewilderment. Tears came into the wife’s eyes.For a
moment I pitied her. Indeed, the pathetic was not lacking. But the
hearty corporal reminded his better half that her parents, in his
interests, had once been asked for her hand under similar
circumstances, and the tears disappeared.Tears are womanly; and I have
since seen them shed, under less provocation, by fairer-skinned women
than this simple, swarthy daughter of Mexico.It was but natural that the parents of the girl should feign surprise
and reluctance if they did not feel it. The Doña Anita’s mother offered
several trivial objections. Her daughter had never taken her into her
confidence over any suitor.And did Anita really love Enrique Lopez of
Las Palomas? Even if she did, could he support her, being but a
vaquero? This brought Uncle Lance to the front. He had known Enrique
since the day of his birth.As a five-year-old, and naked as the day he
was born, had he not ridden a colt at branding time, twice around the
big corral without being thrown?At ten, had he not thrown himself
across a gateway and allowed a _caballada_ of over two hundred wild
range horses to jump over his prostrate body as they passed in a
headlong rush through the gate?Only the year before at branding, when
an infuriated bull had driven every vaquero out of the corrals, did not
Enrique mount his horse, and, after baiting the bull out into the open,
play with him like a kitten with a mouse?And when the bull, tiring,
attempted to make his escape, who but Enrique had lassoed the animal by
the fore feet, breaking his neck in the throw?The diplomat of Las
Palomas dejectedly admitted that the bull was a prize animal, but could
not deny that he himself had joined in the plaudits to the daring
vaquero.But if there were a possible doubt that the Doña Anita did not
love this son of Las Palomas, then Lance Lovelace himself would oppose
the union. This was an important matter. Would Don Mateo be so kind as
to summon the señorita?The señorita came in response to the summons. She was a girl of
possibly seventeen summers, several inches taller than her mother,
possessing a beautiful complexion with large lustrous eyes.There was
something fawnlike in her timidity as she gazed at those about the
table. Doña Gregoria broke the news, informing her that the ranchero of
Las Palomas had asked her hand in marriage for Enrique, one of his
vaqueros.Did she love the man and was she willing to marry him? For
reply the girl hid her face in the mantilla of her mother.With
commendable tact Doña Gregoria led the mother and daughter into another
room, from which the two elder women soon returned with a favorable
reply.Uncle Lance arose and assured the corporal and his wife that
their daughter would receive his special care and protection; that as
long as water ran and grass grew, Las Palomas would care for her own
children.We accepted an invitation to remain for dinner, as several hours had
elapsed since our arrival.In company with the corporal, I attended to
our horses, leaving the two rancheros absorbed in a discussion of Texas
fever, rumors of which were then attracting widespread attention in the
north along the cattle trails.After dinner we took our leave of host
and hostess, promising to send Enrique to Santa Maria at the earliest
opportunity.It was a long ride across country to Las Palomas, but striking a free
gait, unencumbered as we were, we covered the country rapidly.I had
somewhat doubted the old matchmaker’s sincerity in making this match,
but as we rode along he told me of his own marriage to Mary Bryan, and
the one happy year of life which it brought him, mellowing into a mood
of seriousness which dispelled all doubts.It was almost sunset when we
sighted in the distance the ranch buildings at Las Palomas, and half an
hour later as we galloped up to assist the herd which was nearing the
corrals, the old man stood in his stirrups and, waving his hat, shouted
to his outfit: “Hurrah for Enrique and the Doña Anita!” And as the last
of the cattle entered the corral, a rain of lassos settled over the
smiling rascal and his horse, and we led him in triumph to the house
for Miss Jean’s blessing.CHAPTER IV
CHRISTMAS
The branding on the home range was an easy matter. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The cattle were
compelled to water from the Nueces, so that their range was never over
five or six miles from the river.There was no occasion even to take
out the wagon, though we made a one-night camp at the mouth of the
Ganso, and another about midway between the home ranch and Shepherd’s
Ferry, pack mules serving instead of the wagon.On the home range, in
gathering to brand, we never disturbed the mixed cattle, cutting out
only the cows and calves.On the round-up below the Ganso, we had over
three thousand cattle in one rodeo, finding less than five hundred
calves belonging to Las Palomas, the bulk on this particular occasion
being steer cattle.There had been little demand for steers for several
seasons and they had accumulated until many of them were fine beeves,
five and six years old.When the branding proper was concluded, our tally showed nearly
fifty-one hundred calves branded that season, indicating about twenty
thousand cattle in the Las Palomas brand.After a week’s rest, with
fresh horses, we re-rode the home range in squads of two, and branded
any calves we found with a running iron. This added nearly a hundred
more to our original number.On an open range like ours, it was not
expected that everything would be branded; but on quitting, it is safe
to say we had missed less than one per cent of our calf crop.The cattle finished, we turned our attention to the branding of the
horse stock. The Christmas season was approaching, and we wanted to get
the work well in hand for the usual holiday festivities.There were
some fifty _manadas_ of mares belonging to Las Palomas, about one
fourth of which were used for the rearing of mules, the others growing
our saddle horses for ranch use.These bands numbered twenty to
twenty-five brood mares each, and ranged mostly within twenty miles of
the home ranch.They were never disturbed except to brand the colts,
market surplus stock, or cut out the mature geldings to be broken for
saddle use.Each _manada_ had its own range, never trespassing on
others, but when they were brought together in the corral there was
many a battle royal among the stallions.I was anxious to get the work over in good season, for I intended to
ask for a two weeks’ leave of absence. My parents lived near Cibollo
Ford on the San Antonio River, and I made it a rule to spend Christmas
with my own people.This year, in particular, I had a double motive in
going home; for the mouth of San Miguel and the McLeod ranch lay
directly on my route.I had figured matters down to a fraction; I would
have a good excuse for staying one night going and another returning.And it would be my fault if I did not reach the ranch at an hour when
an invitation to remain over night would be simply imperative under the
canons of Texas hospitality.I had done enough hard work since the
dance at Shepherd’s to drive every thought of Esther McLeod out of my
mind if that were possible, but as the time drew nearer her invitation
to call was ever uppermost in my thoughts.So when the last of the horse stock was branded and the work was
drawing to a close, as we sat around the fireplace one night and the
question came up where each of us expected to spend Christmas, I
broached my plan.The master and mistress were expected at the Booth
ranch on the Frio. Nearly all the boys, who had homes within two or
three days’ ride, hoped to improve the chance to make a short visit to
their people.When, among the others, I also made my application for
leave of absence, Uncle Lance turned in his chair with apparent
surprise. “What’s that? You want to go home? Well, now, that’s a new
one on me.Why, Tom, I never knew you had any folks; I got the idea,
somehow, that you was won on a horse race. Here I had everything
figured out to send you down to Santa Maria with Enrique. But I reckon
with the ice broken, he’ll have to swim out or drown.Where do your
folks live?” I explained that they lived on the San Antonio River,
northeast about one hundred and fifty miles. At this I saw my
employer’s face brighten. “Yes, yes, I see,” said he musingly; “that
will carry you past the widow McLeod’s.You can go, son, and good luck
to you.”
I timed my departure from Las Palomas, allowing three days for the
trip, so as to reach home on Christmas eve.By making a slight
deviation, there was a country store which I could pass on the last
day, where I expected to buy some presents for my mother and sisters.But I was in a pickle as to what to give Esther, and on consulting Miss
Jean, I found that motherly elder sister had everything thought out in
advance.There was an old Mexican woman, a pure Aztec Indian, at a
ranchita belonging to Las Palomas, who was an expert in Mexican drawn
work.The mistress of the home ranch had been a good patron of this old
woman, and the next morning we drove over to the ranchita, where I
secured half a dozen ladies’ handkerchiefs, inexpensive but very rare.I owned a private horse, which had run idle all summer, and naturally
expected to ride him on this trip.But Uncle Lance evidently wanted me
to make a good impression on the widow McLeod, and brushed my plans
aside, by asking me as a favor to ride a certain black horse belonging
to his private string.“Quirk,” said he, the evening before my
departure, “I wish you would ride Wolf, that black six-year-old in my
mount.When that rascal of an Enrique saddle-broke him for me, he
always mounted him with a free head and on the move, and now when I use
him he’s always on the fidget.So you just ride him over to the San
Antonio and back, and see if you can’t cure him of that restlessness.It may be my years, but I just despise a horse that’s always dancing a
jig when I want to mount him.”
Glenn Gallup’s people lived in Victoria County, about as far from Las
Palomas as mine, and the next morning we set out down the river.Our
course together only led a short distance, but we jogged along until
noon, when we rested an hour and parted, Glenn going on down the river
for Oakville, while I turned almost due north across country for the
mouth of San Miguel.The black carried me that afternoon as though the
saddle was empty. I was constrained to hold him in, in view of the long
journey before us, so as not to reach the McLeod ranch too early.Whenever we struck cattle on our course, I rode through them to pass
away the time, and just about sunset I cantered up to the McLeod ranch
with a dash. I did not know a soul on the place, but put on a bold
front and asked for Miss Esther.On catching sight of me, she gave a
little start, blushed modestly, and greeted me cordially. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Texas hospitality of an early day is too well known to need comment; I
was at once introduced to the McLeod household.It was rather a
pretentious ranch, somewhat dilapidated in appearance—appearances are
as deceitful on a cattle ranch as in the cut of a man’s coat.Tony
Hunter, a son-in-law of the widow, was foreman on the ranch, and during
the course of the evening in the discussion of cattle matters, I
innocently drew out the fact that their branded calf crop of that
season amounted to nearly three thousand calves.When a similar
question was asked me, I reluctantly admitted that the Las Palomas crop
was quite a disappointment this year, only branding sixty-five hundred
calves, but that our mule and horse colts ran nearly a thousand head
without equals in the Nueces valley.I knew there was no one there who could dispute my figures, though Mrs.
McLeod expressed surprise at them. “Ye dinna say,” said my hostess,
looking directly at me over her spectacles, “that Las Palomas branded
that mony calves thi’ year?Why, durin’ ma gudeman’s life we alway
branded mair calves than did Mr. Lovelace.But then my husband would
join the army, and I had tae depend on greasers tae do ma work, and oor
kye grew up mavericks.” I said nothing in reply, knowing it to be quite
natural for a woman or inexperienced person to feel always the prey of
the fortunate and far-seeing.The next morning before leaving, I managed to have a nice private talk
with Miss Esther, and thought I read my title clear, when she surprised
me with the information that her mother contemplated sending her off to
San Antonio to a private school for young ladies.Her two elder sisters
had married against her mother’s wishes, it seemed, and Mrs. McLeod was
determined to give her youngest daughter an education and fit her for
something better than being the wife of a common cow hand.This was the
inference from the conversation which passed between us at the gate. But when Esther thanked me for the Christmas remembrance I had brought
her, I felt that I would take a chance on her, win or lose.Assuring
her that I would make it a point to call on my return, I gave the black
a free rein and galloped out of sight. I reached home late on Christmas eve.My two elder brothers, who also
followed cattle work, had arrived the day before, and the Quirk family
were once more united, for the first time in two years.Within an hour
after my arrival, I learned from my brothers that there was to be a
dance that night at a settlement about fifteen miles up the river.They
were going, and it required no urging on their part to insure the
presence of Quirk’s three boys. Supper over, a fresh horse was
furnished me, and we set out for the dance, covering the distance in
less than two hours.I knew nearly every one in the settlement, and got
a cordial welcome. I played the fiddle, danced with my former
sweethearts, and, ere the sun rose in the morning, rode home in time
for breakfast.During that night’s revelry, I contrasted my former girl
friends on the San Antonio with another maiden, a slip of the old
Scotch stock, transplanted and nurtured in the sunshine and soil of the
San Miguel.The comparison stood all tests applied, and in my secret
heart I knew who held the whip hand over the passions within me. As I expected to return to Las Palomas for the New Year, my time was
limited to a four days’ visit at home.But a great deal can be said in
four days; and at the end I was ready to saddle my black, bid my
adieus, and ride for the southwest.During my visit I was careful not
to betray that I had even a passing thought of a sweetheart, and what
parents would suspect that a rollicking, carefree young fellow of
twenty could have any serious intentions toward a girl?With brothers
too indifferent, and sisters too young, the secret was my own, though
Wolf, my mount, as he put mile after mile behind us, seemed conscious
that his mission to reach the San Miguel without loss of time was of
more than ordinary moment.And a better horse never carried knight in
the days of chivalry. On reaching the McLeod ranch during the afternoon of the second day, I
found Esther expectant; but the welcome of her mother was of a frigid
order.Having a Scotch mother myself, I knew something of arbitrary
natures, and met Mrs. McLeod’s coolness with a fund of talk and
stories; yet I could see all too plainly that she was determinedly on
the defensive.I had my favorite fiddle with me which I was taking back
to Las Palomas, and during the evening I played all the old Scotch
ballads I knew and love songs of the highlands, hoping to soften her
from the decided stand she had taken against me and my intentions.But
her heritage of obstinacy was large, and her opposition strong, as
several well-directed thrusts which reached me in vulnerable places
made me aware, but I smiled as if they were flattering compliments.Several times I mentally framed replies only to smother them, for I was
the stranger within her gates, and if she saw fit to offend a guest she
was still within her rights.But the next morning as I tarried beyond the reasonable hour for my
departure, her wrath broke out in a torrent.“If ye dinna ken the way
hame, Mr. Quirk, I’ll show it ye,” she said as she joined Esther and me
at the hitch-rack, where we had been loitering for an hour. “And I
dinna care muckle whaur ye gang, so ye get oot o’ ma sight, and stay
oot o’ it.I thocht ye waur a ceevil stranger when ye bided wi’ us last
week, but noo I ken ye are something mair, ridin’ your fine horses an’
makin’ presents tae ma lassie. That’s a’ the guid that comes o’ lettin’
her rin tae every dance at Shepherd’s Ferry.Gang ben the house tae
your wark, ye jade, an’ let me attend tae this fine gentleman. Noo,
sir, gin ye ony business onywhaur else, ye ’d aye better be ridin’ tae
it, for ye are no wanted here, ye ken.”
“Why, Mrs. McLeod,” I broke in politely.“You hardly know anything
about me.”
“No, an’ I dinna wish it. You are frae Las Palomas, an’ that’s aye
enough for me. I ken auld Lance Lovelace, an’ those that bide wi’ him.Sma’ wonder he brands sae mony calves and sells mair kye than a’ the
ither ranchmen in the country.Ay, man, I ken him well.”
I saw that I had a tartar to deal with, but if I could switch her
invective on some one absent, it would assist me in controlling myself.So I said to the old lady: “Why, I’ve known Mr. Lovelace now almost a
year, and over on the Nueces he is well liked, and considered a cowman
whose word is as good as gold. What have you got against him?”
“Ower much, ma young freend.I kent him afore ye were born. I’m sorry
tae say that while ma gudeman was alive, he was a frequent visitor at
oor place. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
But we dinna see him ony mair.He aye keeps awa’ frae here,
and camps wi’ his wagons when he’s ower on the San Miguel to gather
cattle.He was no content merely wi’ what kye drifted doon on the
Nueces, but warked a big outfit the year around, e’en comin’ ower on
the Frio an’ San Miguel maverick huntin’.That’s why he brands twice
the calves that onybody else does, and owns a forty-mile front o’ land
on both sides o’ the river. Ye see, I ken him weel.”
“Well, isn’t that the way most cowmen got their start?” I innocently
inquired, well knowing it was.“And do you blame him for running his
brand on the unowned cattle that roamed the range? I expect if Mr.
Lovelace was my father instead of my employer, you wouldn’t be talking
in the same key,” and with that I led my horse out to mount.“Ye think a great deal o’ yersel’, because ye’re frae Las Palomas. Aweel, no vaquero of auld Lance Lovelace can come sparkin’ wi’ ma lass. I’ve heard o’ auld Lovelace’s matchmaking. I’m told he mak’s matches
and then laughs at the silly gowks.I’ve twa worthless sons-in-law the
noo, are here an’ anither a stage-driver. Aye, they’re capital husbands
for Donald McLeod’s lassies, are they no?Afore I let Esther marry the
first scamp that comes simperin’ aroond here, I’ll put her in a
convent, an’ mak’ a nun o’ the bairn. I gave the ither lassies their
way, an’ look at the reward.I tell ye I’m goin’ to bar the door on the
last one, an’ the man that marries her will be worthy o’ her. He winna
be a vaquero frae Las Palomas either!”
I had mounted my horse to start, well knowing it was useless to argue
with an angry woman.Esther had obediently retreated to the safety of
the house, aware that her mother had a tongue and evidently willing to
be spared its invective in my presence.My horse was fidgeting about,
impatient to be off, but I gave him the rowel and rode up to the gate,
determined, if possible, to pour oil on the troubled waters. “Mrs.McLeod,” said I, in humble tones, “possibly you take the correct view
of this matter. Miss Esther and I have only been acquainted a few
months, and will soon forget each other. Please take me in the house
and let me tell her good-by.”
“No, sir.Dinna set foot inside o’ this gate. I hope ye know ye’re no
wanted here. There’s your road, the one leadin’ south, an’ ye’d better
be goin’, I’m thinkin’.”
I held in the black and rode off in a walk. This was the first clean
knock-out I had ever met.Heretofore I had been egotistical enough to
hold my head rather high, but this morning it drooped. Wolf seemed to
notice it, and after the first mile dropped into an easy volunteer
walk.I never noticed the passing of time until we reached the river,
and the black stopped to drink. Here I unsaddled for several hours;
then went on again in no cheerful mood.Before I came within sight of
Las Palomas near evening, my horse turned his head and nickered, and in
a few minutes Uncle Lance and June Deweese galloped up and overtook me.I had figured out several very plausible versions of my adventure, but
this sudden meeting threw me off my guard—and Lance Lovelace was a hard
man to tell an undetected, white-faced lie.I put on a bold front, but
his salutation penetrated it at a glance.“What’s the matter, Tom; any of your folks dead?”
“No.”
“Sick?”
“No.”
“Girl gone back on you?”
“I don’t think.”
“It’s the old woman, then?”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know that old dame.I used to go over there occasionally
when old man Donald was living, but the old lady—excuse me! I ought to
have posted you, Tom, but I don’t suppose it would have done any good. Brought your fiddle with you, I see. That’s good.I expect the old lady
read my title clear to you.”
My brain must have been under a haze, for I repeated every charge she
had made against him, not even sparing the accusation that he had
remained out of the army and added to his brand by mavericking cattle.“Did she say that?” inquired Uncle Lance, laughing. “Why, the old
hellion! She must have been feeling in fine fettle!”
CHAPTER V
A PIGEON HUNT
The new year dawned on Las Palomas rich in promise of future content.Uncle Lance and I had had a long talk the evening before, and under the
reasoning of the old optimist the gloom gradually lifted from my
spirits.I was glad I had been so brutally blunt that evening,
regarding what Mrs. McLeod had said about him; for it had a tendency to
increase the rancher’s aggressiveness in my behalf.“Hell, Tom,” said
the old man, as we walked from the corrals to the house, “don’t let a
little thing like this disturb you.Of course she’ll four-flush and
bluff you if she can, but you don’t want to pay any more attention to
the old lady than if she was some _pelado_.To be sure, it would be
better to have her consent, but then”—
Glenn Gallup also arrived at the ranch on New Year’s eve. He brought
the report that wild pigeons were again roosting at the big bend of the
river.It was a well-known pigeon roost, but the birds went to other
winter feeding grounds, except during years when there was a plentiful
sweet mast.This bend was about midway between the ranch and
Shepherd’s, contained about two thousand acres, and was heavily
timbered with ash, pecan, and hackberry.The feeding grounds lay
distant, extending from the encinal ridges on the Las Palomas lands to
live-oak groves a hundred miles to the southward. But however far the
pigeons might go for food, they always returned to the roosting place
at night.“That means pigeon pie,” said Uncle Lance, on receiving Glenn’s report. “Everybody and the cook can go. We only have a sweet mast about every
three or four years in the encinal, but it always brings the wild
pigeons.We’ll take a couple of pack mules and the little and the big
pot and the two biggest Dutch ovens on the ranch. Oh, you got to
parboil a pigeon if you want a tender pie. Next to a fish fry, a good
pigeon pie makes the finest eating going.I’ve made many a one, and I
give notice right now that the making of the pie falls to me or I won’t
play. And another thing, not a bird shall be killed more than we can
use.Of course we’ll bring home a mess, and a few apiece for the
Mexicans.”
We had got up our horses during the forenoon, and as soon as dinner was
over the white contingent saddled up and started for the roost.Tiburcio and Enrique accompanied us, and, riding leisurely, we reached
the bend several hours before the return of the birds.The roost had
been in use but a short time, but as we scouted through the timber
there was abundant evidence of an immense flight of pigeons.The ground
was literally covered with feathers; broken limbs hung from nearly
every tree, while in one instance a forked hackberry had split from the
weight of the birds.We made camp on the outskirts of the timber, and at early dusk great
flocks of pigeons began to arrive at their roosting place. We only had
four shotguns, and, dividing into pairs, we entered the roost shortly
after dark.Glenn Gallup fell to me as my pardner. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
When I crawled out there was that d——d cat
rubbing himself against my boot leg.I stood breathless for a minute,
thinking what next to do, and the cat remarked: ‘Wasn’t that a peach of
a race we just had!’
“I made one or two vicious kicks at him and he again vanished.Well,
fellows, in that dream I walked around that old _jacal_ all night in my
shirt sleeves, and it raining pitchforks.A number of times I peeped in
through the window or door, and there sat the cat on the hearth, in
full possession of the shack, and me out in the weather.Once when I
looked in he was missing, but while I was watching he sprang through a
hole in the roof, alighting in the fire, from which he walked out
gingerly, shaking his feet as if he had just been out in the wet.I
shot away every cartridge I had at him, but in the middle of the
shooting he would just coil up before the fire and snooze away.“That night was an eternity of torment to me, and I was relieved when
some one knocked on the door, and I awoke to find myself in a good bed
and pounding my ear on a goose-hair pillow in a hotel in Oakville.Why,
I wouldn’t have another dream like that for a half interest in the Las
Palomas brand.No, honest, if I thought drinking gave me that hideous
dream, here would be one lad ripe for reform.”
“It strikes me,” said Uncle Lance, rising and lifting a pot lid, “that
these birds are parboiled by this time. Bring me a fork, Enrique.Well,
I should say they were. I hope hell ain’t any hotter than that fire.Now, Tiburcio, if you have everything ready, we’ll put them in the
oven, and bake them a couple of hours.”
Several of us assisted in fixing the fire and properly coaling the
ovens.When this had been attended to, and we had again resumed our
easy positions around the fire, Trotter remarked: “Aaron, you ought to
cut drinking out of your amusements; you haven’t the constitution to
stand it. Now with me it’s different.I can drink a week and never
sleep; that’s the kind of a build to have if you expect to travel and
meet all comers.Last year I was working for a Kansas City man on the
trail, and after the cattle were delivered about a hundred miles
beyond,—Ellsworth, up in Kansas,—he sent us home by way of Kansas City. In fact, that was about the only route we could take.Well, it was a
successful trip, and as this man was plum white, anyhow, he concluded
to show us the sights around his burg.He was interested in a
commission firm out at the stockyards, and the night we reached there
all the office men, including the old man himself, turned themselves
loose to show us a good time.“We had been drinking alkali water all summer, and along about midnight
they began to drop out until there was no one left to face the music
except a little cattle salesman and myself.After all the others quit
us, we went into a feed trough on a back street, and had a good supper. I had been drinking everything like a good fellow, and at several
places there was no salt to put in the beer.The idea struck me that I
would buy a sack of salt from this eating ranch and take it with me. The landlord gave me a funny look, but after some little parley went to
the rear and brought out a five-pound sack of table salt.“It was just what I wanted, and after paying for it the salesman and I
started out to make a night of it. This yard man was a short, fat
Dutchman, and we made a team for your whiskers.I carried the sack of
salt under my arm, and the quantity of beer we killed before daylight
was a caution. About daybreak, the salesman wanted me to go to our
hotel and go to bed, but as I never drink and sleep at the same time, I
declined.Finally he explained to me that he would have to be at the
yards at eight o’clock, and begged me to excuse him. By this time he
was several sheets in the wind, while I could walk a chalk line without
a waver.Somehow we drifted around to the hotel where the outfit were
supposed to be stopping, and lined up at the bar for a final drink.It
was just daybreak, and between that Dutch cattle salesman and the
barkeeper and myself, it would have taken a bookkeeper to have kept a
check on the drinks we consumed—every one the last.“Then the Dutchman gave me the slip and was gone, and I wandered into
the office of the hotel. A newsboy sold me a paper, and the next minute
a bootblack wanted to give me a shine.Well, I took a seat for a shine,
and for two hours I sat there as full as a tick, and as dignified as a
judge on the bench.All the newsboys and bootblacks caught on, and
before any of the outfit showed up that morning to rescue me, I had
bought a dozen papers and had my boots shined for the tenth time.If
I’d been foxy enough to have got rid of that sack of salt, no one could
have told I was off the reservation; but there it was under my arm.If
ever I make another trip over the trail, and touch at Kansas City
returning, I’ll hunt up that cattle salesman, for he’s the only man I
ever met that can pace in my class.”
“Did you hear that tree break a few minutes ago?” inquired Mr. Nathan.“There goes another one. It hardly looks possible that enough pigeons
could settle on a tree to break it down. Honestly, I’d give a purty to
know how many birds are in that roost to-night. More than there are
cattle in Texas, I’ll bet.Why, Hugh killed, with both barrels,
twenty-two at one shot.”
We had brought blankets along, but it was early and no one thought of
sleeping for an hour yet.Mr. Nathan was quite a sportsman, and after
he and Uncle Lance had discussed the safest method of hunting
_javalina_, it again devolved on the boys to entertain the party with
stories.“I was working on a ranch once,” said Glenn Gallup, “out on the Concho
River. It was a stag outfit, there being few women then out Concho way. One day two of the boys were riding in home when an accident occurred.They had been shooting more or less during the morning, and one of
them, named Bill Cook, had carelessly left the hammer of his
six-shooter on a cartridge.As Bill jumped his horse over a dry
_arroyo_, his pistol was thrown from its holster, and, falling on the
hard ground, was discharged.The bullet struck him in the ankle, ranged
upward, shattering the large bone in his leg into fragments, and
finally lodged in the saddle. “They were about five miles from camp when the accident happened.After
they realized how bad he was hurt, Bill remounted his horse and rode
nearly a mile; but the wound bled so then that the fellow with him
insisted on his getting off and lying on the ground while he went into
the ranch for a wagon.Well, it’s to be supposed that he lost no time
riding in, and I was sent to San Angelo for a doctor. It was just noon
when I got off. I had to ride thirty miles. Talk about your good
horses—I had one that day.I took a free gait from the start, but the
last ten miles was the fastest, for I covered the entire distance in
less than three hours. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
There was a doctor in the town who’d been on the
frontier all of his life, and was used to such calls.Well, before dark
that evening we drove into the ranch. “They had got the lad into the ranch, had checked the flow of blood and
eased the pain by standing on a chair and pouring water on the wound
from a height.But Bill looked pale as a ghost from the loss of blood. The doctor gave the leg a single look, and, turning to us, said: ‘Boys,
she has to come off.’
“The doctor talked to Bill freely and frankly, telling him that it was
the only chance for his life.He readily consented to the operation,
and while the doctor was getting him under the influence of opiates we
fixed up an operating table.When all was ready, the doctor took the
leg off below the knee, cursing us generally for being so sensitive to
cutting and the sight of blood. There was quite a number of boys at the
ranch, but it affected them all alike.It was interesting to watch him
cut and tie arteries and saw the bones, and I think I stood it better
than any of them. When the operation was over, we gave the fellow the
best bed the ranch afforded and fixed him up comfortable.The doctor
took the bloody stump and wrapped it up in an old newspaper, saying he
would take it home with him. “After supper the surgeon took a sleep, saying we would start back to
town by two o’clock, so as to be there by daylight.He gave
instructions to call him in case Bill awoke, but he hoped the boy would
take a good sleep. As I had left my horse in town, I was expected to go
back with him.Shortly after midnight the fellow awoke, so we aroused
the doctor, who reported him doing well. The old Doc sat by his bed for
an hour and told him all kinds of stories.He had been a surgeon in the
Confederate army, and from the drift of his talk you’d think it was
impossible to kill a man without cutting off his head.“‘Now take a young fellow like you,’ said the doctor to his patient,
‘if he was all shot to pieces, just so the parts would hang together, I
could fix him up and he would get well.You have no idea, son, how much
lead a young man can carry.’ We had coffee and lunch before starting,
the doctor promising to send me back at once with necessary medicines. “We had a very pleasant trip driving back to town that night.The
stories he could tell were like a song with ninety verses, no two
alike.It was hardly daybreak when we reached San Angelo, rustled out a
sleepy hostler at the livery stable where the team belonged, and had
the horses cared for; and as we left the stable the doctor gave me his
instrument case, while he carried the amputated leg in the paper.We
both felt the need of a bracer after our night’s ride, so we looked
around to see if any saloons were open. There was only one that showed
any signs of life, and we headed for that.The doctor was in the lead
as we entered, and we both knew the barkeeper well. This barkeeper was
a practical joker himself, and he and the doctor were great hunting
companions.We walked up to the bar together, when the doctor laid the
package on the counter and asked: ‘Is this good for two drinks?’ The
barkeeper, with a look of expectation in his face as if the package
might contain half a dozen quail or some fresh fish, broke the string
and unrolled it.Without a word he walked straight from behind the bar
and out of the house. If he had been shot himself he couldn’t have
looked whiter.“The doctor went behind the bar and said: ‘Glenn, what are you going to
take?’ ‘Let her come straight, doctor,’ was my reply, and we both took
the same. We had the house all to ourselves, and after a second round
of drinks took our leave.As we left by the front door, we saw the
barkeeper leaning against a hitching post half a block below.The
doctor called to him as we were leaving: ‘Billy, if the drinks ain’t on
you, charge them to me.’”
The moon was just rising, and at Uncle Lance’s suggestion we each
carried in a turn of wood.Piling a portion of it on the fire, the
blaze soon lighted up the camp, throwing shafts of light far into the
recesses of the woods around us.“In another hour,” said Uncle Lance,
recoaling the oven lids, “that smaller pie will be all ready to serve,
but we’ll keep the big one for breakfast.So, boys, if you want to sit
up awhile longer, we’ll have a midnight lunch, and then all turn in for
about forty winks.” As the oven lid was removed from time to time to
take note of the baking, savory odors of the pie were wafted to our
anxious nostrils.On the intimation that one oven would be ready in an
hour, not a man suggested blankets, and, taking advantage of the lull,
Theodore Quayle claimed attention.“Another fellow and myself,” said Quayle, “were knocking around Fort
Worth one time seeing the sights. We had drunk until it didn’t taste
right any longer. This chum of mine was queer in his drinking.If he
ever got enough once, he didn’t want any more for several days: you
could cure him by offering him plenty. But with just the right amount
on board, he was a hail fellow.He was a big, ambling, awkward cuss,
who could be led into anything on a hint or suggestion. We had been
knocking around the town for a week, until there was nothing new to be
seen.“Several times as we passed a millinery shop, kept by a little blonde,
we had seen her standing at the door. Something—it might have been his
ambling walk, but, anyway, something—about my chum amused her, for she
smiled and watched him as we passed.He never could walk along beside
you for any distance, but would trail behind and look into the windows. He could not be hurried—not in town.I mentioned to him that he had
made a mash on the little blond milliner, and he at once insisted that
I should show her to him. We passed down on the opposite side of the
street and I pointed out the place.Then we walked by several times,
and finally passed when she was standing in the doorway talking to some
customers. As we came up he straightened himself, caught her eye, and
tipped his hat with the politeness of a dancing master.She blushed to
the roots of her hair, and he walked on very erect some little
distance, then we turned a corner and held a confab. He was for playing
the whole string, discount or no discount, anyway.“An excuse to go in was wanting, but we thought we could invent one;
however, he needed a drink or two to facilitate his thinking and loosen
his tongue. To get them was easier than the excuse; but with the drinks
the motive was born.‘You wait here,’ said he to me, ‘until I go round
to the livery stable and get my coat off my saddle.’ He never
encumbered himself with extra clothing. We had not seen our horses,
saddles, or any of our belongings during the week of our visit.When he
returned he inquired, ‘Do I need a shave?’
“‘Oh, no,’ I said, ‘you need no shave. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
You may have a drink too many,
or lack one of having enough.It’s hard to make a close calculation on
you.’
“‘Then I’m all ready,’ said he, ‘for I’ve just the right gauge of
steam.’ He led the way as we entered. It was getting dark and the shop
was empty of customers.Where he ever got the manners, heaven only
knows. Once inside the door we halted, and she kept a counter between
us as she approached. She ought to have called the police and had us
run in.She was probably scared, but her voice was fairly steady as she
spoke. ‘Gentlemen, what can I do for you?’
“‘My friend here,’ said he, with a bow and a wave of the hand, ‘was
unfortunate enough to lose a wager made between us.The terms of the
bet were that the loser was to buy a new hat for one of the dining-room
girls at our hotel. As we are leaving town to-morrow, we have just
dropped in to see if you have anything suitable.We are both totally
incompetent to decide on such a delicate matter, but we will trust
entirely to your judgment in the selection.’ The milliner was quite
collected by this time, as she asked: ‘Any particular style?—and about
what price?’
“‘The price is immaterial,’ said he disdainfully.‘Any man who will
wager on the average weight of a train-load of cattle, his own cattle,
mind you, and miss them twenty pounds, ought to pay for his lack of
judgment. Don’t you think so, Miss—er—er.Excuse me for being unable to
call your name—but—but—’ ‘De Ment is my name,’ said she with some
little embarrassment. “‘Livingstone is mine,’ said he with a profound bow,’ and this
gentleman is Mr. Ochiltree, youngest brother of Congressman Tom.Now
regarding the style, we will depend entirely upon your selection. But
possibly the loser is entitled to some choice in the matter.Mr. Ochiltree, have you any preference in regard to style?’
“‘Why, no, I can generally tell whether a hat becomes a lady or not,
but as to selecting one I am at sea. We had better depend on Miss De
Ment’s judgment.Still, I always like an abundance of flowers on a
lady’s hat. Whenever a girl walks down the street ahead of me, I like
to watch the posies, grass, and buds on her hat wave and nod with the
motion of her walk.Miss De Ment, don’t you agree with me that an
abundance of flowers becomes a young lady? And this girl can’t be over
twenty.’
“‘Well, now,’ said she, going into matters in earnest, ‘I can scarcely
advise you.Is the young lady a brunette or blonde?’
“‘What difference does that make?’ he innocently asked. “‘Oh,’ said she, smiling, ‘we must harmonize colors. What would suit
one complexion would not become another.What color is her hair?’
“‘Nearly the color of yours,’ said he. ‘Not so heavy and lacks the
natural wave which yours has—but she’s all right. She can ride a string
of my horses until they all have sore backs. I tell you she is a cute
trick.But, say, Miss De Ment, what do you think of a green hat, broad
brimmed, turned up behind and on one side, long black feathers run
round and turned up behind, with a blue bird on the other side swooping
down like a pigeon hawk, long tail feathers and an arrow in its beak?That strikes me as about the mustard. What do you think of that kind of
a hat, dear?’
“‘Why, sir, the colors don’t harmonize,’ she replied, blushing. “‘Theodore, do you know anything about this harmony of colors?Excuse
me, madam,—and I crave your pardon, Mr. Ochiltree, for using your given
name,—but really this harmony of colors is all French to me.’
“‘Well, if the young lady is in town, why can’t you have her drop in
and make her own selection?’ suggested the blond milliner.He studied a
moment, and then awoke as if from a trance. ‘Just as easy as not; this
very evening or in the morning. Strange we didn’t think of that sooner.Yes; the landlady of the hotel can join us, and we can count on your
assistance in selecting the hat.’ With a number of comments on her
attractive place, inquiries regarding trade, and a flattering
compliment on having made such a charming acquaintance, we edged
towards the door.‘This evening then, or in the morning at the
farthest, you may expect another call, when my friend must pay the
penalty of his folly by settling the bill. Put it on heavy.’ And he
gave her a parting wink.“Together we bowed ourselves out, and once safe in the street he said:
‘Didn’t she help us out of that easy? If she wasn’t a blonde, I’d go
back and buy her two hats for suggesting it as she did.’
“‘Rather good looking too,’ I remarked.“‘Oh, well, that’s a matter of taste. I like people with red blood in
them. Now if you was to saw her arm off, it wouldn’t bleed; just a
little white water might ooze out, possibly.The best-looking girl I
ever saw was down in the lower Rio Grande country, and she was milking
a goat. Theodore, my dear fellow, when I’m led blushingly to the altar,
you’ll be proud of my choice.I’m a judge of beauty.’”
It was after midnight when we disposed of the first oven of pigeon
pot-pie, and, wrapping ourselves in blankets, lay down around the fire.With the first sign of dawn, we were aroused by Mr. Nathan and Uncle
Lance to witness the return flight of the birds to their feeding
grounds. Hurrying to the nearest opening, we saw the immense flight of
pigeons blackening the sky overhead.Stiffened by their night’s rest,
they flew low; but the beauty and immensity of the flight overawed us,
and we stood in mute admiration, no one firing a shot. For fully a
half-hour the flight continued, ending in a few scattering birds.CHAPTER VI
SPRING OF ’76
The spring of ’76 was eventful at Las Palomas. After the pigeon hunt,
Uncle Lance went to San Antonio to sell cattle for spring delivery.Meanwhile, Father Norquin visited the ranch and spent a few days among
his parishioners, Miss Jean acting the hostess in behalf of Las
Palomas.The priest proved a congenial fellow of the cloth, and among
us, with Miss Jean’s countenance, it was decided not to delay Enrique’s
marriage; for there was no telling when Uncle Lance would return.All
the arrangements were made by the padre and Miss Jean, the groom-to-be
apparently playing a minor part in the preliminaries. Though none of
the white element of the ranch were communicants of his church, the
priest apparently enjoyed the visit.At parting, the mistress pressed a
gold piece into his chubby palm as the marriage fee for Enrique; and,
after naming a day for the ceremony, the padre mounted his horse and
left us for the Tarancalous, showering his blessings on Las Palomas and
its people.During the intervening days before the wedding, we overhauled an unused
_jacal_ and made it habitable for the bride and groom. The _jacal_ is a
crude structure of this semi-tropical country, containing but a single
room with a shady, protecting stoop.It is constructed by standing
palisades on end in a trench. These constitute the walls. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The floor is
earthen, while the roof is thatched with the wild grass which grows
rank in the overflow portions of the river valley.It forms a
serviceable shelter for a warm country, the peculiar roofing equally
defying rain and the sun’s heat.Under the leadership of the mistress
of the ranch, assisted by the Mexican women, the _jacal_ was
transformed into a rustic bower; for Enrique was not only a favorite
among the whites, but also among his own people.A few gaudy pictures
of Saints and the Madonna ornamented the side walls, while in the rear
hung the necessary crucifix.At the time of its building the _jacal_
had been blessed, as was customary before occupancy, and to Enrique’s
reasoning the potency of the former sprinkling still held good.Weddings were momentous occasions among the Mexican population at Las
Palomas. In outfitting the party to attend Enrique’s wedding at Santa
Maria, the ranch came to a standstill.Not only the regular ambulance
but a second conveyance was required to transport the numerous female
relatives of the groom, while the men, all in gala attire, were mounted
on the best horses on the ranch.As none of the whites attended,
Deweese charged Tiburcio with humanity to the stock, while the mistress
admonished every one to be on his good behavior. With greetings to
Santa Maria, the wedding party set out.They were expected to return
the following evening, and the ranch was set in order to give the bride
a rousing reception on her arrival at Las Palomas.The largest place on
the ranch was a warehouse, and we shifted its contents in such a manner
as to have quite a commodious ball-room.The most notable decoration of
the room was an immense heart-shaped figure, in which was worked in
live-oak leaves the names of the two ranches, flanked on either side
with the American and Mexican flags.Numerous other decorations,
expressing welcome to the bride, were in evidence on every hand. Tallow
was plentiful at Las Palomas, and candles were fastened at every
possible projection.The mounted members of the wedding party returned near the middle of
the afternoon. According to reports, Santa Maria had treated them most
hospitably. The marriage was simple, but the festivities following had
lasted until dawn.The returning guests sought their _jacals_ to snatch
a few hours’ sleep before the revelry would be resumed at Las Palomas. An hour before sunset the four-mule ambulance bearing the bride and
groom drove into Las Palomas with a flourish.Before leaving the bridal
couple at their own _jacal_, Tiburcio halted the ambulance in front of
the ranch-house for the formal welcome. In the absence of her brother,
Miss Jean officiated in behalf of Las Palomas, tenderly caressing the
bride.The boys monopolized her with their congratulations and welcome,
which delighted Enrique. As for the bride, she seemed at home from the
first, soon recognizing me as the _padrino segundo_ at the time of her
betrothal.Quite a delegation of the bride’s friends from Santa Maria accompanied
the party on their return, from whom were chosen part of the musicians
for the evening—violins and guitars in the hands of the native element
of the two ranches making up a pastoral orchestra.I volunteered my
services; but so much of the music was new to me that I frequently
excused myself for a dance with the senoritas. In the absence of Uncle
Lance, our _segundo_, June Deweese, claimed the first dance of the
evening with the bride.Miss Jean lent only the approval of her
presence, not participating, and withdrawing at an early hour. As all
the American element present spoke Spanish slightly, that became the
language of the evening.But, further than to countenance with our
presence the festivities, we were out of place, and, ere midnight, all
had excused themselves with the exception of Aaron Scales and myself.On the pleadings of Enrique, I remained an hour or two longer, dancing
with his bride, or playing some favorite selection for the delighted
groom. Several days after the wedding Uncle Lance returned.He had been
successful in contracting a trail herd of thirty-five hundred cattle,
and a _remuda_ of one hundred and twenty-five saddle horses with which
to handle them.The contract called for two thousand two-year-old
steers and fifteen hundred threes.There was a difference of four
dollars a head in favor of the older cattle, and it was the ranchero’s
intention to fill the latter class entirely from the Las Palomas brand.As to the younger cattle, neighboring ranches would be invited to
deliver twos in filling the contract, and if any were lacking, the home
ranch would supply the deficiency.Having ample range, the difference
in price was an inducement to hold the younger cattle. To keep a steer
another year cost nothing, while the ranchero returned convinced that
the trail might soon furnish an outlet for all surplus cattle.In the
matter of the horses, too, rather than reduce our supply of saddle
stock below the actual needs of the ranch, Uncle Lance concluded to buy
fifty head in making up the _remuda_.There were several hundred
geldings on the ranch old enough for saddle purposes, but they would be
as good as useless in handling cattle the first year after breaking.As this would be the first trail herd from Las Palomas, we naturally
felt no small pride in the transaction. According to contract,
everything was to be ready for final delivery on the twenty-fifth of
March.The contractors, Camp & Dupree, of Fort Worth, Texas, were to
send their foreman two weeks in advance to receive, classify, and pass
upon the cattle and saddle stock. They were exacting in their demands,
yet humane and reasonable.In making up the herd no cattle were to be
corralled at night, and no animal would be received which had been
roped. The saddle horses were to be treated likewise.These conditions
would put into the saddle every available man on the ranch as well as
on the ranchitas. But we looked eagerly forward to the putting up of
the herd.Letters were written and dispatched to a dozen ranches within
striking distance, inviting them to turn in two-year-old steers at the
full contract price.June Deweese was sent out to buy fifty saddle
horses, which would fill the required standard, “fourteen hands or
better, serviceable and gentle broken.” I was dispatched to Santa
Maria, to invite Don Mateo Gonzales to participate in the contract.The
range of every saddle horse on the ranch was located, so that we could
gather them, when wanted, in a day.Less than a month’s time now
remained before the delivery day, though we did not expect to go into
camp for actual gathering until the arrival of the trail foreman. In going and returning from San Antonio my employer had traveled by
stage.As it happened, the driver of the up-stage out of Oakville was
Jack Martin, the son-in-law of Mrs. McLeod. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
He and Uncle Lance being
acquainted, the old ranchero’s matchmaking instincts had, during the
day’s travel, again forged to the front.By roundabout inquiries he had
elicited the information that Mrs. McLeod had, immediately after the
holidays, taken Esther to San Antonio and placed her in school.By
innocent artful suggestions of his interest in the welfare of the
family, he learned the name of the private school of which Esther was a
pupil.Furthermore, he cultivated the good will of the driver in
various ways over good cigars, and at parting assured him on returning
he would take the stage so as to have the pleasure of his company on
the return trip—the highest compliment that could be paid a
stage-driver.From several sources I had learned that Esther had left the ranch for
the city, but on Uncle Lance’s return I got the full particulars.As a
neighboring ranchman, and bearing self-invented messages from the
family, he had the assurance to call at the school.His honest
countenance was a passport anywhere, and he not only saw Esther but
prevailed on her teachers to give the girl, some time during his visit
in the city, a half holiday.The interest he manifested in the girl won
his request, and the two had spent an afternoon visiting the parks and
other points of interest. It is needless to add that he made hay in my
behalf during this half holiday.But the most encouraging fact that he
unearthed was that Esther was disgusted with her school life and was
homesick. She had declared that if she ever got away from school, no
power on earth could force her back again.“Shucks, Tom,” said he, the next morning after his return, as we were
sitting in the shade of the corrals waiting for the _remuda_ to come
in, “that poor little country girl might as well be in a penitentiary
as in that school.She belongs on these prairies, and you can’t make
anything else out of her. I can read between the lines, and any one can
see that her education is finished.When she told me how rudely her
mother had treated you, her heart was an open book and easily read. Don’t you lose any sleep on how you stand in her affections—that’s all
serene. She’ll he home on a spring vacation, and that’ll be your
chance.If I was your age, I’d make it a point to see that she didn’t
go back to school. She’ll run off with you rather than that.In the
game of matrimony, son, you want to play your cards boldly and never
hesitate to lead trumps.”
To further matters, when returning by stage my employer had ingratiated
himself into the favor of the driver in many ways, and urged him to
send word to Mrs. McLeod to turn in her two-year-olds on his contract.A few days later her foreman and son-in-law, Tony Hunter, rode down to
Las Palomas, anxious for the chance to turn in cattle.There had been
little opportunity for several years to sell steers, and when a chance
like this came, there would have been no trouble to fill half a dozen
contracts, as supply far exceeded demand.Uncle Lance let Mrs. McLeod’s foreman feel that in allotting her five
hundred of the younger cattle, he was actuated by old-time friendship
for the family.As a mark of special consideration he promised to send
the trail foreman to the San Miguel to pass on the cattle on their home
range, but advised the foreman to gather at least seven hundred steers,
allowing for two hundred to be culled or cut back.Hunter remained over
night, departing the next morning, delighted over his allowance of
cattle and the liberal terms of the contract.It was understood that, in advance of his outfit, the trail foreman
would come down by stage, and I was sent into Oakville with an extra
saddle horse to meet him. He had arrived the day previous, and we lost
no time in starting for Las Palomas.This trail foreman was about
thirty years of age, a quiet red-headed fellow, giving the name of
Frank Nancrede, and before we had covered half the distance to the
ranch I was satisfied that he was a cowman.I always prided myself on
possessing a good eye for brands, but he outclassed me, reading strange
brands at over a hundred yards, and distinguishing cattle from horse
stock at a distance of three miles.’
We got fairly well acquainted before reaching the ranch, but it was
impossible to start him on any subject save cattle.I was able to give
him a very good idea of the _remuda_, which was then under herd and
waiting his approval, and I saw the man brighten into a smile for the
first time on my offering to help him pick out a good mount for his own
saddle.I had a vague idea of what the trail was like, and felt the
usual boyish attraction for it; but when I tried to draw him out in
regard to it, he advised me, if I had a regular job on a ranch, to let
trail work alone.We reached the ranch late in the evening and I introduced Nancrede to
Uncle Lance, who took charge of him.We had established a horse camp
for the trail _remuda_, north of the river, and the next morning the
trail foreman, my employer, and June Deweese, rode over to pass on the
saddle stock.The _remuda_ pleased him, being fully up to the contract
standard, and he accepted it with but a single exception.This
exception tickled Uncle Lance, as it gave him an opportunity to annoy
his sister about Nancrede, as he did about every other cowman or drover
who visited the ranch.That evening, as I was chatting with Miss Jean,
who was superintending the Mexican help milking at the cow pen, Uncle
Lance joined us. “Say, Sis,” said he, “our man Nancrede is a cowman all right.I tried
to ring in a ‘hipped’ horse on him this morning,—one hip knocked down
just the least little bit,—but he noticed it and refused to accept him. Oh, he’s got an eye in his head all right.So if you say so, I’ll give
him the best horse on the ranch in old Hippy’s place. You’re always
making fun of slab-sided cowmen; he’s pony-built enough to suit you,
and I kind o’ like the color of his hair myself.Did you notice his
neck?—he’ll never tie it if it gets broken. I like a short man; if he
stubs his toe and falls down he doesn’t reach halfway home.Now, if he
has as good cow sense in receiving the herd as he had on the _remuda_,
I’d kind o’ like to have him for a brother-in-law.I’m getting a little
too old for active work and would like to retire, but June, the durn
fool, won’t get married, and about the only show I’ve got is to get a
husband for you. I’d as lief live in Hades as on a ranch without a
woman on it.What do you think of him?”
“Why, I think he’s an awful nice fellow, but he won’t talk. And
besides, I’m not baiting my hook for small fish like trail foremen; I
was aiming to keep my smiles for the contractors.Aren’t they coming
down?”
“Well, they might come to look the herd over before it starts out. Now,
Dupree is a good cowman, but he’s got a wife already. And Camp, the
financial man of the firm, made his money peddling Yankee clocks.Now,
you don’t suppose for a moment I’d let you marry him and carry you away
from Las Palomas. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Marry an old clock peddler?—not if he had a million! The idea! If they come down here and I catch you smiling on old Camp,
I’ll set the hounds on you.What you want to do is to set your cap for
Nancrede. Of course, you’re ten years the elder, but that needn’t cut
any figure. So just burn a few smiles on the red-headed trail foreman!You know you can count on your loving brother to help all he can.”
The conversation was interrupted by our _segundo_ and the trail foreman
riding up to the cow pen.The two had been up the river during the
afternoon, looking over the cattle on the range, for as yet we had not
commenced gathering.Nancrede was very reticent, discovering a
conspicuous lack of words to express his opinion of what cattle Deweese
had shown him.The second day after the arrival of the trail foreman, we divided our
forces into two squads and started out to gather our three-year-olds. By the ranch records, there were over two thousand steers of that age
in the Las Palomas brand.Deweese took ten men and half of the ranch
saddle horses and went up above the mouth of the Ganso to begin
gathering.Uncle Lance took the remainder of the men and horses and
went down the river nearly to Shepherd’s, leaving Dan Happersett and
three Mexicans to hold and night-herd the trail _remuda._ Nancrede
declined to stay at the ranch and so joined our outfit on the
down-river trip.We had postponed the gathering until the last hour,
for every day improved the growing grass on which our mounts must
depend for subsistence, and once we started, there would be little rest
for men or horses.The younger cattle for the herd were made up within a week after the
invitations were sent to the neighboring ranches.Naturally they would
be the last cattle to be received and would come in for delivery
between the twentieth and the last of the month. With the plans thus
outlined, we started our gathering.Counting Nancrede, we had twelve
men in the saddle in our down-river outfit.Taking nothing but
three-year-olds, we did not accumulate cattle fast; but it was
continuous work, every man, with the exception of Uncle Lance, standing
a guard on night-herd. The first two days we only gathered about five
hundred steers.This number was increased by about three hundred on the
third day, and that evening Dan Happersett with a vaquero rode into
camp and reported that Nancrede’s outfit had arrived from San Antonio.He had turned the _remuda_ over to them on their arrival, sending the
other two Mexicans to join Deweese above on the river. The fourth day finished the gathering.Nancrede remained with us to the
last, making a hand which left no doubt in any one’s mind that he was a
cowman from the ground up.The last round-up on the afternoon of the
fourth day, our outriders sighted the vaqueros from Deweese’s outfit,
circling and drifting in the cattle on their half of the circle.The
next morning the two camps were thrown together on the river opposite
the ranch. Deweese had fully as many cattle as we had, and when the two
cuts had been united and counted, we lacked but five head of nineteen
hundred.Several of Nancrede’s men joined us that morning, and within
an hour, under the trail foreman’s directions, we cut back the
overplus, and the cattle were accepted.Under the contract we were to road-brand them, though Nancrede ordered
his men to assist us in the work.Under ordinary circumstances we
should also have vented the ranch brand, but owing to the fact that
this herd was to be trailed to Abilene, Kansas, and possibly sold
beyond that point, it was unnecessary and therefore omitted.We had a
branding chute on the ranch for grown cattle, and the following morning
the herd was corralled and the road-branding commenced.The cattle were
uniform in size, and the stamping of the figure ‘4’ over the holding
“Lazy L” of Las Palomas, moved like clockwork. With a daybreak start
and an abundance of help the last animal was ironed up before sundown.As a favor to Nancrede’s outfit, their camp being nearly five miles
distant, we held them the first night after branding.No sooner had the trail foreman accepted our three-year-olds than he
and Glen Gallup set out for the McLeod ranch on the San Miguel.The day
our branding was finished, the two returned near midnight, reported the
San Miguel cattle accepted and due the next evening at Las Palomas.By
dawn Nancrede and myself started for Santa Maria, the former being
deficient in Spanish, the only weak point, if it was one, in his
make-up as a cowman. We were slightly disappointed in not finding the
cattle ready to pass upon at Santa Maria.That ranch was to deliver
seven hundred, and on our arrival they had not even that number under
herd. Don Mateo, an easy-going ranchero, could not understand the
necessity of such haste.What did it matter if the cattle were
delivered on the twenty-fifth or twenty-seventh? But I explained as
delicately as I could that this was a trail man, whose vocabulary did
not contain _mañana_.In interpreting for Nancrede, I learned something
of the trail myself: that a herd should start with the grass and move
with it, keeping the freshness of spring, day after day and week after
week, as they trailed northward.The trail foreman assured Don Mateo
that had his employers known that this was to be such an early spring,
the herd would have started a week sooner.By impressing on the ranchero the importance of not delaying this trail
man, we got him to inject a little action into his corporal.We asked
Don Mateo for horses and, joining his outfit, made three rodeos that
afternoon, turning into the cattle under herd nearly two hundred and
fifty head by dark that evening.Nancrede spent a restless night, and
at dawn, as the cattle were leaving the bed ground, he and I got an
easy count on them and culled them down to the required number before
breakfasting.We had some little trouble explaining to Don Mateo the
necessity of giving the bill of sale to my employer, who, in turn,
would reconvey the stock to the contractors. Once the matter was made
clear, the accepted cattle were started for Las Palomas.When we
overtook them an hour afterward, I instructed the corporal, at the
instance of the red-headed foreman, to take a day and a half in
reaching the ranch; that tardiness in gathering must not be made up by
a hasty drive to the point of delivery; that the animals must be
treated humanely.On reaching the ranch we found that Mr. Booth and some of his neighbors
had arrived from the Frio with their contingent.They had been allotted
six hundred head, and had brought down about two hundred extra cattle
in order to allow some choice in accepting.These were the only mixed
brands that came in on the delivery, and after they had been culled
down and accepted, my employer appointed Aaron Scales as clerk.There
were some five or six owners, and Scales must catch the brands as they
were freed from the branding chute. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
There were enough young
mares to form twelve bands of about twenty-five head each.In selecting
these we were governed by standard colors, bays, browns, grays, blacks,
and sorrels forming separate _manadas,_ while all mongrel colors went
into two bands by themselves.In the latter class there was a tendency
for the colors of the old Spanish stock,—coyotes, and other hybrid
mixtures,—after being dormant for generations, to crop out again.In
breaking these fillies into new bands, we added a stallion a year or
two older and of acceptable color, and they were placed in charge of a
trusty vaquero, whose duty was to herd them for the first month after
being formed.The Mexican in charge usually took the band round the
circuit of the various ranchitas, corralling his charge at night,
drifting at will, so that by the end of the month old associations
would be severed, and from that time the stallion could be depended on
as herdsman.In gathering the fillies, we also cut out all the geldings three years
old and upward to break for saddle purposes. There were fully two
hundred of these, and the month of April was spent in saddle-breaking
this number.They were a fine lot of young horses, and under the master
eye of two perfect horsemen, our _segundo_ and employer, every horse
was broken with intelligence and humanity.Since the day of their
branding as colts these geldings had never felt the touch of a human
hand; and it required more than ordinary patience to overcome their
fear, bring them to a condition of submission, and make serviceable
ranch horses out of them.The most difficult matter was in overcoming
their fear. It was also necessary to show the mastery of man over the
animal, though this process was tempered with humanity.We had several
circular, sandy corrals into which the horse to be broken was admitted
for the first saddling. As he ran round, a lasso skillfully thrown
encircled his front feet and he came down on his side.One fore foot
was strapped up, a hackamore or bitless bridle was adjusted in place,
and he was allowed to arise. After this, all depended on the patience
and firmness of the handler.Some horses yielded to kind advances and
accepted the saddle within half an hour, not even offering to pitch,
while others repelled every kindness and fought for hours.But in
handling the gelding of spirit, we could always count on the help of an
extra saddler. While this work was being done, the herd of geldings was held close at
hand. After the first riding, four horses were the daily allowance of
each rider.With the amount of help available, this allowed twelve to
fifteen horses to the man, so that every animal was ridden once in
three or four days. Rather than corral, we night-herded, penning them
by dawn and riding our first horse before sun-up.As they gradually
yielded, we increased our number to six a day and finally before the
breaking was over to eight.When the work was finally over they were
cut into _remudas_ of fifty horses each, furnished a gentle bell mare,
when possible with a young colt by her side, and were turned over to a
similar treatment as was given the fillies in forming _manadas._ Thus
the different _remudas_ at Las Palomas always took the name of the bell
mare, and when we were at work, it was only necessary for us to hobble
the princess at night to insure the presence of her band in the
morning.When this month’s work was two thirds over, we enjoyed a holiday. All
good Texans, whether by birth or adoption, celebrate the twenty-first
of April,—San Jacinto Day.National holidays may not always be observed
in sparsely settled communities, but this event will remain a great
anniversary until the sons and daughters of the Lone Star State lose
their patriotism or forget the blessings of liberty.As Shepherd’s
Ferry was centrally located, it became by common consent the
meeting-point for our local celebration.Residents from the Frio and
San Miguel and as far south on the home river as Lagarto, including the
villagers of Oakville, usually lent their presence on this occasion. The white element of Las Palomas was present without an exception.As
usual, Miss Jean went by ambulance, starting the afternoon before and
spending the night at a ranch above the ferry. Those remaining made a
daybreak start, reaching Shepherd’s by ten in the morning.While on the way from the ranch to the ferry, I was visited with some
misgivings as to whether Esther McLeod had yet returned from San
Antonio.At the delivery of San Miguel’s cattle at Las Palomas, Miss
Jean had been very attentive to Tony Hunter, Esther’s brother-in-law,
and through him she learned that Esther’s school closed for the summer
vacation on the fifteenth of April, and that within a week afterward
she was expected at home.Shortly after our reaching the ferry, a
number of vehicles drove in from Oakville. One of these conveyances was
an elaborate six-horse stage, owned by Bethel & Oxenford, star route
mail contractors between San Antonio and Brownsville, Texas.Seated by
young Oxenford’s side in the driver’s box sat Esther McLeod, while
inside the coach was her sister, Mrs. Martin, with the senior member of
the firm, his wife, and several other invited guests.I had heard
something of the gallantry of young Jack Oxenford, who was the nephew
of a carpet-bag member of Congress, and prided himself on being the
best whip in the country.In the latter field I would gladly have
yielded him all honors, but his attentions to Esther were altogether
too marked to please either me or my employer. I am free to admit that
I was troubled by this turn of affairs.The junior mail contractor made
up in egotism what he lacked in appearance, and no doubt had money to
burn, as star route mail contracting was profitable those days, while I
had nothing but my monthly wages.To make matters more embarrassing, a
blind man could have read Mrs. Martin’s approval of young Oxenford.The programme for the forenoon was brief—a few patriotic songs and an
oration by a young lawyer who had come up from Corpus Christi for the
occasion.After listening to the opening song, my employer and I took a
stroll down by the river, as we were too absorbed in the new
complications to pay proper attention to the young orator.“Tom,” said Uncle Lance, as we strolled away from the grove, “we are up
against the real thing now. I know young Oxenford, and he’s a dangerous
fellow to have for a rival, if he really is one.You can’t tell much
about a Yankee, though, for he’s usually egotistical enough to think
that every girl in the country is breaking her neck to win him.The
worst of it is, this young fellow is rich—he’s got dead oodles of money
and he’s making more every hour out of his mail contracts. One good
thing is, we understand the situation, and all’s fair in love and war.You can see, though, that Mrs. Martin has dealt herself a hand in the
game. By the dough on her fingers she proposes to have a fist in the
pie. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Well, now, son, we’ll give them a run for their money or break a
tug in the effort.Tom, just you play to my lead to-day and we’ll see
who holds the high cards or knows best how to play them.If I can cut
him off, that’ll be your chance to sail in and do a little
close-herding yourself.”
We loitered along the river bank until the oration was concluded, my
employer giving me quite an interesting account of my rival.It seems
that young Oxenford belonged to a family then notoriously prominent in
politics.He had inherited quite a sum of money, and, through the
influence of his congressional uncle, had been fortunate enough to form
a partnership with Bethel, a man who knew all the ropes in mail
contracting.The senior member of the firm knew how to shake the tree,
while the financial resources of the junior member and the political
influence of his uncle made him a valuable man in gathering the plums
on their large field of star route contracts.Had not exposure
interrupted, they were due to have made a large fortune out of the
government. On our return to the picnic grounds, the assembly was dispersing for
luncheon.Miss Jean had ably provided for the occasion, and on reaching
our ambulance on the outer edge of the grove, Tiburcio had coffee all
ready and the boys from the home ranch began to straggle in for dinner.Miss Jean had prevailed on Tony Hunter and his wife, who had come down
on horseback from the San Miguel, to take luncheon with us, and from
the hearty greetings which Uncle Lance extended to the guests of his
sister, I could see that the owner and mistress of Las Palomas were
diplomatically dividing the house of McLeod.I followed suit, making
myself agreeable to Mrs. Hunter, who was but very few years the elder
of Esther.Having spent a couple of nights at their ranch, and feeling
a certain comradeship with her husband, I decided before dinner was
over that I had a friend and ally in Tony’s wife.There was something
romantic about the young matron, as any one could see, and since the
sisters favored each other in many ways, I had hopes that Esther might
not overvalue Jack Oxenford’s money.After luncheon, as we were on our way to the dancing arbor, we met the
Oakville party with Esther in tow.I was introduced to Mrs. Martin,
who, in turn, made me acquainted with her friends, including her
sister, perfectly unconscious that we were already more than mere
acquaintances.From the demure manner of Esther, who accepted the
introduction as a matter of course, I surmised she was concealing our
acquaintance from her sister and my rival.We had hardly reached the
arbor before Uncle Lance created a diversion and interested the mail
contractors with a glowing yarn about a fine lot of young mules he had
at the ranch, large enough for stage purposes.There was some doubt
expressed by the stage men as to their size and weight, when my
employer invited them to the outskirts of the grove, where he would
show them a sample in our ambulance team.So he led them away, and I
saw that the time had come to play to my employer’s lead. The music
striking up, I claimed Esther for the first dance, leaving Mrs. Martin,
for the time being, in charge of her sister and Miss Jean.Before the
first waltz ended I caught sight of all three of the ladies mingling in
the dance.It was a source of no small satisfaction to me to see my two
best friends, Deweese and Gallup, dancing with the married sisters,
while Miss Jean was giving her whole attention to her partner, Tony
Hunter.With the entire Las Palomas crowd pulling strings in my
interest, and Father, in the absence of Oxenford, becoming extremely
gracious, I grew bold and threw out my chest like the brisket on a beef
steer. I permitted no one to separate me from Esther.We started the second
dance together, but no sooner did I see her sister, Mrs. Martin, whirl
by us in the polka with Dan Happersett, than I suggested that we drop
out and take a stroll.She consented, and we were soon out of sight,
wandering in a labyrinth of lover’s lanes which abounded throughout
this live-oak grove.On reaching the outskirts of the picnic grounds,
we came to an extensive opening in which our saddle horses were
picketed. At a glance Esther recognized Wolf, the horse I had ridden
the Christmas before when passing their ranch.Being a favorite saddle
horse of the old ranchero, he was reserved for special occasions, and
Uncle Lance had ridden him down to Shepherd’s on this holiday.Like a
bird freed from a cage, the ranch girl took to the horses and insisted
on a little ride. Since her proposal alone prevented my making a
similar suggestion, I allowed myself to be won over, but came near
getting caught in protesting.“But you told me at the ranch that Wolf
was one of ten in your Las Palomas mount,” she poutingly protested.“He is,” I insisted, “but I have loaned him to Uncle Lance for the
day.”
“Throw the saddle on him then—I’ll tell Mr. Lovelace when we return
that I borrowed his horse when he wasn’t looking.”
Had she killed the horse, I felt sure that the apology would have been
accepted; so, throwing saddles on the black and my own mount, we were
soon scampering down the river.The inconvenience of a man’s saddle, or
the total absence of any, was a negligible incident to this daughter of
the plains. A mile down the river, we halted and watered the horses.Then, crossing the stream, we spent about an hour circling slowly about
on the surrounding uplands, never being over a mile from the picnic
grounds. It was late for the first flora of the season, but there was
still an abundance of blue bonnets.Dismounting, we gathered and wove
wreaths for our horses’ necks, and wandered picking the Mexican
strawberries which grew plentifully on every hand. But this was all preliminary to the main question.When it came up for
discussion, this one of Quirk’s boys made the talk of his life in
behalf of Thomas Moore. Nor was it in vain.When Esther apologized for
the rudeness her mother had shown me at her home, that afforded me the
opening for which I was longing.We were sitting on a grassy hummock,
weaving garlands, when I replied to the apology by declaring my
intention of marrying her, with or without her mother’s consent.Unconventional as the declaration was, to my surprise she showed
neither offense nor wonderment.Dropping the flowers with which we were
working, she avoided my gaze, and, turning slightly from me, began
watching our horses, which had strayed away some distance.But I gave
her little time for meditation, and when I aroused her from her
reverie, she rose, saying, “We’d better go back—they’ll miss us if we
stay too long.”
Before complying with her wish, I urged an answer; but she, artfully
avoiding my question, insisted on our immediate return.Being in a
quandary as to what to say or do, I went after the horses, which was a
simple proposition. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
On my return, while we were adjusting the garlands
about the necks of our mounts, I again urged her for an answer, but in
vain.We stood for a moment between the two horses, and as I lowered my
hand on my knee to afford her a stepping-stone in mounting, I thought
she did not offer to mount with the same alacrity as she had done
before.Something flashed through my addled mind, and, withdrawing the
hand proffered as a mounting block, I clasped the demure maiden closely
in my arms.What transpired has no witnesses save two saddle horses,
and as Wolf usually kept an eye on his rider in mounting, I dropped the
reins and gave him his freedom rather than endure his scrutiny.When we
were finally aroused from this delicious trance, the horses had strayed
away fully fifty yards, but I had received a favorable answer, breathed
in a voice so low and tender that it haunts me yet.As we rode along, returning to the grove, Esther requested that our
betrothal be kept a profound secret.No doubt she had good reasons, and
it was quite possible that there then existed some complications which
she wished to conceal, though I avoided all mention of any possible
rival.Since she was not due to return to her school before September,
there seemed ample time to carry out our intentions of marrying.But as
we jogged along, she informed me that after spending a few weeks with
her sister in Oakville, it was her intention to return to the San
Miguel for the summer. To allay her mother’s distrust, it would be
better for me not to call at the ranch.But this was easily compensated
for when she suggested making several visits during the season with the
Vaux girls, chums of hers, who lived on the Frio about thirty miles due
north of Las Palomas.This was fortunate, since the Vaux ranch and ours
were on the most friendly terms. We returned by the route by which we had left the grounds.I repicketed
the horses and we were soon mingling again with the revelers, having
been absent little over an hour. No one seemed to have taken any notice
of our absence.Mrs. Martin, I rejoiced to see, was still in tow of her
sister and Miss Jean, and from the circle of Las Palomas courtiers who
surrounded the ladies, I felt sure they had given her no opportunity
even to miss her younger sister.Uncle Lance was the only member of our
company absent, but I gave myself no uneasiness about him, since the
mail contractors were both likewise missing.Rejoining our friends and
assuming a nonchalant air, I flattered myself that my disguise was
perfect.During the remainder of the afternoon, in view of the possibility that
Esther might take her sister, Mrs. Martin, into our secret and win her
as an ally, I cultivated that lady’s acquaintance, dancing with her and
leaving nothing undone to foster her friendship.Near the middle of the
afternoon, as the three sisters, Miss Jean, and I were indulging in
light refreshment at a booth some distance from the dancing arbor, I
sighted my employer, Dan Happersett, and the two stage men returning
from the store.They passed near, not observing us, and from the
defiant tones of Uncle Lance’s voice, I knew they had been tampering
with the ‘private stock’ of the merchant at Shepherd’s.“Why,
gentlemen,” said he, “that ambulance team is no exception to the
quality of mules I’m raising at Las Palomas. Drive up some time and
spend a few days and take a look at the stock we’re breeding.If you
will, and I don’t show you fifty mules fourteen and a half hands or
better, I’ll round up five hundred head and let you pick fifty as a
pelon for your time and trouble.Why, gentlemen, Las Palomas has sold
mules to the government.”
On the return of our party to the arbor, Happersett claimed a dance
with Esther, thus freeing me.Uncle Lance was standing some little
distance away, still entertaining the mail contractors, and I edged
near enough to notice Oxenford’s florid face and leery eye.But on my
employer’s catching sight of me, he excused himself to the stage men,
and taking my arm led me off. Together we promenaded out of sight of
the crowd.“How do you like my style of a man herder?” inquired the old
matchmaker, once we were out of hearing. “Why, Tom, I’d have held those
mail thieves until dark, if Dan hadn’t drifted in and given me the
wink.Shepherd kicked like a bay steer on letting me have a second
quart bottle, but it took that to put the right glaze in the young
Yank’s eye. Oh, I had him going south all right!But tell me, how did
you and Esther make it?”
We had reached a secluded spot, and, seating ourselves on an old fallen
tree trunk, I told of my success, even to the using of his horse.Never
before or since did I see Uncle Lance give way to such a fit of
hilarity as he indulged in over the perfect working out of our plans.With his hat he whipped me, the ground, the log on which we sat, while
his peals of laughter rang out like the reports of a rifle.In his fit
of ecstasy, tears of joy streaming from his eyes, he kept repeating
again and again, “Oh, sister, run quick and tell pa to come!”
As we neared the grounds returning, he stopped me and we had a further
brief confidential talk together.I was young and egotistical enough to
think that I could defy all the rivals in existence, but he cautioned
me, saying: “Hold on, Tom. You’re young yet; you know nothing about the
weaker sex, absolutely nothing.It’s not your fault, but due to your
mere raw youth. Now, listen to me, son: Don’t underestimate any rival,
particularly if he has gall and money, most of all, money.Humanity is
the same the world over, and while you may not have seen it here among
the ranches, it is natural for a woman to rave over a man with money,
even if he is only a pimply excuse for a creature.Still, I don’t see
that we have very much to fear. We can cut old lady McLeod out of the
matter entirely. But then there’s the girl’s sister, Mrs. Martin, and I
look for her to cut up shameful when she smells the rat, which she’s
sure to do.And then there’s her husband to figure on. If the ox knows
his master’s crib, it’s only reasonable to suppose that Jack Martin
knows where his bread and butter comes from. These stage men will stick
up for each other like thieves.Now, don’t you be too crack sure.Be
just a trifle leary of every one, except, of course, the Las Palomas
outfit.”
I admit that I did not see clearly the reasoning behind much of this
lecture, but I knew better than reject the advice of the old matchmaker
with his sixty odd years of experience.I was still meditating over his
remarks when we rejoined the crowd and were soon separated among the
dancers. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Several urged me to play the violin; but I was too busy
looking after my own fences, and declined the invitation.Casting about
for the Vaux girls, I found the eldest, with whom I had a slight
acquaintance, being monopolized by Theodore Quayle and John Cotton,
friendly rivals and favorites of the young lady.On my imploring the
favor of a dance, she excused herself, and joined me on a promenade
about the grounds, missing one dance entirely.In arranging matters
with her to send me word on the arrival of Esther at their ranch, I
attempted to make her show some preference between my two comrades,
under the pretense of knowing which one to bring along, but she only
smiled and maintained an admirable neutrality.After a dance I returned the elder Miss Vaux to the tender care of John
Cotton, and caught sight of my employer leaving the arbor for the
refreshment booth with a party of women, including Mrs. Martin and
Esther McLeod, to whom he was paying the most devoted attention.Witnessing the tireless energy of the old matchmaker, and in a quarter
where he had little hope of an ally, brought me to thinking that there
might be good cause for alarm in his warnings not to be overconfident.Miss Jean, whom I had not seen since luncheon, aroused me from my
reverie, and on her wishing to know my motive for cultivating the
acquaintance of Miss Vaux and neglecting my own sweetheart, I told her
the simple truth.“Good idea, Tom,” she assented. “I think I’ll just
ask Miss Frances home with me to spend Sunday. Then you can take her
across to the Frio on horseback, so as not to offend either John or
Theodore.What do you think?”
I thought it was a good idea, and said so. At least the taking of the
young lady home would be a pleasanter task for me than breaking horses.But as I expressed myself so, I could not help thinking, seeing Miss
Jean’s zeal in the matter, that the matchmaking instinct was equally
well developed on both sides of the Lovelace family. The afternoon was drawing to a close.The festivities would conclude by
early sundown. Miss Jean would spend the night again at the halfway
ranch, returning to Las Palomas the next morning; we would start on our
return with the close of the amusements.Many who lived at a distance
had already started home. It lacked but a few minutes of the closing
hour when I sought out Esther for the “Home, Sweet Home” waltz, finding
her in company of Oxenford, chaperoned by Mrs. Martin, of which there
was need.My sweetheart excused herself with a poise that made my heart
leap, and as we whirled away in the mazes of the final dance, rivals
and all else passed into oblivion.Before we could realize the change
in the music, the orchestra had stopped, and struck into “My Country,
’tis of Thee,” in which the voice of every patriotic Texan present
swelled the chorus until it echoed throughout the grove, befittingly
closing San Jacinto Day.CHAPTER VIII
A CAT HUNT ON THE FRIO
The return of Miss Jean the next forenoon, accompanied by Frances Vaux,
was an occasion of more than ordinary moment at Las Palomas.The Vaux
family were of creole extraction, but had settled on the Frio River
nearly a generation before.Under the climatic change, from the swamps
of Louisiana to the mesas of Texas, the girls grew up fine physical
specimens of rustic Southern beauty.To a close observer, certain
traces of the French were distinctly discernible in Miss Frances,
notably in the large, lustrous eyes, the swarthy complexion, and early
maturity of womanhood.Small wonder then that our guest should have
played havoc among the young men of the countryside, adding to her
train of gallants the devoted Quayle and Cotton of Las Palomas.Aside from her charming personality, that Miss Vaux should receive a
cordial welcome at Las Palomas goes without saying, since there were
many reasons why she should.The old ranchero and his sister chaperoned
the young lady, while I, betrothed to another, became her most obedient
slave. It is needless to add that there was a fair field and no favor
shown by her hosts, as between John and Theodore.The prize was worthy
of any effort. The best man was welcome to win, while the blessings of
master and mistress seemed impatient to descend on the favored one.In the work in hand, I was forced to act as a rival to my friends, for
I could not afford to lower my reputation for horsemanship before Miss
Frances, when my betrothed was shortly to be her guest.So it was not
to be wondered at that Quayle and Cotton should abandon the _medeno_ in
mounting their unbroken geldings, and I had to follow suit or suffer by
comparison.The other rascals, equal if not superior to our trio in
horsemanship, including Enrique, born with just sense enough to be a
fearless vaquero, took to the heavy sand in mounting vicious geldings;
but we three jauntily gave the wildest horses their heads and even
encouraged them to buck whenever our guest was sighted on the gallery.What gave special vim to our work was the fact that Miss Frances was a
horsewoman herself, and it was with difficulty that she could be kept
away from the corrals.Several times a day our guest prevailed on Uncle
Lance to take her out to witness the roping. From a safe vantage place
on the palisades, the old ranchero and his protégé would watch us
catching, saddling, and mounting the geldings.Under those bright eyes,
lariats encircled the feet of the horse to be ridden deftly indeed, and
he was laid on his side in the sand as daintily as a mother would lay
her babe in its crib.Outside of the trio, the work of the gang was
bunglesome, calling for many a protest from Uncle Lance,—they had no
lady’s glance to spur them on,—while ours merited the enthusiastic
plaudits of Miss Frances. Then came Sunday and we observed the commandment. Miss Jean had planned
a picnic for the day on the river.We excused Tiburcio, and pressed the
ambulance team into service to convey the party of six for the day’s
outing among the fine groves of elm that bordered the river in several
places, and afforded ample shade from the sun.The day was delightfully
spent. The chaperons were negligent and dilatory. Uncle Lance even fell
asleep for several hours. But when we returned at twilight, the
ambulance mules were garlanded as if for a wedding party.The next morning our guest was to depart, and to me fell the pleasant
task of acting as her escort. Uncle Lance prevailed on Miss Frances to
ride a spirited chestnut horse from his mount, while I rode a _grulla_
from my own.We made an early start, the old ranchero riding with us as
far as the river. As he held the hand of Miss Vaux in parting, he
cautioned her not to detain me at their ranch, as he had use for me at
Las Palomas.“Of course,” said he, “I don’t mean that you shall hurry
him right off to-day or even to-morrow. But these lazy rascals of mine
will hang around a girl a week, if she’ll allow it.Had John or
Theodore taken you home, I shouldn’t expect to see either of them in a
fortnight. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Now, if they don’t treat you right at home, come back and
live with us. I’ll adopt you as my daughter.And tell your pa that the
first general rain that falls, I’m coming over with my hounds for a cat
hunt with him. Good-by, sweetheart.”
It was a delightful ride across to the Frio.Mounted on two splendid
horses, we put the Nueces behind us as the hours passed.Frequently we
met large strings of cattle drifting in towards the river for their
daily drink, and Miss Frances insisted on riding through the cows,
noticing every brand as keenly as a vaquero on the lookout for strays
from her father’s ranch.The young calves scampered out of our way, but
their sedate mothers permitted us to ride near enough to read the
brands as we met and passed. Once we rode a mile out of our way to look
at a _manada_.The stallion met us as we approached as if to challenge
all intruders on his domain, but we met him defiantly and he turned
aside and permitted us to examine his harem and its frolicsome colts.But when cattle and horses no longer served as a subject, and the wide
expanse of flowery mesa, studded here and there with Spanish daggers
whose creamy flowers nodded to us as we passed, ceased to interest us,
we turned to the ever interesting subject of sweethearts.But try as I
might, I could never wring any confession from her which even suggested
a preference among her string of admirers.On the other hand, when she
twitted me about Esther, I proudly plead guilty of a Platonic
friendship which some day I hoped would ripen into something more
permanent, fully realizing that the very first time these two chums met
there would be an interchange of confidences.And in the full knowledge
that during these whispered admissions the truth would be revealed, I
stoutly denied that Esther and I were even betrothed. But during that morning’s ride I made a friend and ally of Frances
Vaux.There was some talk of a tournament to be held during the summer
at Campbellton on the Atascosa. She promised that she would detain
Esther for it and find a way to send me word, and we would make up a
party and attend it together.I had never been present at any of these
pastoral tourneys and was hopeful that one would be held within reach
of our ranch, for I had heard a great deal about them and was anxious
to see one.But this was only one of several social outings which she
outlined as on her summer programme, to all of which I was cordially
invited as a member of her party.There was to be a dance on St. John’s
Day at the Mission, a barbecue in June on the San Miguel, and other
local meets for the summer and early fall.By the time we reached the
ranch, I was just beginning to realize that, socially, Shepherd’s Ferry
and the Nueces was a poky place. The next morning I returned to Las Palomas. The horse-breaking was
nearing an end.During the month of May we went into camp on a new
tract of land which had been recently acquired, to build a tank on a
dry _arroyo_ which crossed this last landed addition to the ranch.It
was a commercial peculiarity of Uncle Lance to acquire land but never
to part with it under any consideration.To a certain extent, cows and
land had become his religion, and whenever either, adjoining Las
Palomas, was for sale, they were looked upon as a safe bank of deposit
for any surplus funds.The last tract thus secured was dry, but by
damming the _arroyo_ we could store water in this tank or reservoir to
tide over the dry spells.All the Mexican help on the ranch was put to
work with wheelbarrows, while six mule teams ploughed, scraped, and
hauled rock, one four-mule team being constantly employed in hauling
water over ten miles for camp and stock purposes.This dry stream ran
water, when conditions were favorable, several months in the year, and
by building the tank our cattle capacity would be largely increased.One evening, late in the month, when the water wagon returned, Tiburcio
brought a request from Miss Jean, asking me to come into the ranch that
night.Responding to the summons, I was rewarded by finding a letter
awaiting me from Frances Vaux, left by a vaquero passing from the Frio
to Santa Maria.It was a dainty missive, informing me that Esther was
her guest; that the tournament would not take place, but to be sure and
come over on Sunday. Personally the note was satisfactory, but that I
was to bring any one along was artfully omitted.Being thus forced to
read between the lines, on my return to camp the next morning by dawn,
without a word of explanation, I submitted the matter to John and
Theodore.Uncle Lance, of course, had to know what had called me in to
the ranch, and, taking the letter from Quayle, read it himself. “That’s plain enough,” said he, on the first reading.“John will go
with you Sunday, and if it rains next month, I’ll take Theodore with me
when I go over for a cat hunt with old man Pierre.I’ll let him act as
master of the horse,—no, of the hounds,—and give him a chance to toot
his own horn with Frances. Honest, boys, I’m getting disgusted with the
white element of Las Palomas. We raise most everything here but white
babies.Even Enrique, the rascal, has to live in camp now to hold down
his breakfast. But you young whites—with the country just full of young
women—well, it’s certainly discouraging.I do all I can, and Sis helps
a little, but what does it amount to—what are the results? That poem
that Jean reads to us occasionally must be right.I reckon the
Caucasian is played out.”
Before the sun was an hour high, John Cotton and myself rode into the
Vaux ranch on Sunday morning. The girls gave us a cheerful welcome.While we were breakfasting, several other lads and lasses rode up, and
we were informed that a little picnic for the day had been arranged.As
this was to our liking, John and I readily acquiesced, and shortly
afterward a mounted party of about a dozen young folks set out for a
hackberry grove, up the river several miles. Lunch baskets were taken
along, but no chaperons.The girls were all dressed in cambric and
muslin and as light in heart as the fabrics and ribbons they flaunted.I was gratified with the boldness of Cotton, as he cantered away with
Frances, and with the day before him there was every reason to believe
that his cause would he advanced.As to myself, with Esther by my side
the livelong day, I could not have asked the world to widen an inch. It was midnight when we reached Las Palomas returning. As we rode along
that night, John confessed to me that Frances was a tantalizing enigma.Up to a certain point, she offered every encouragement, but beyond that
there seemed to be a dead line over which she allowed no sentiment to
pass. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The next morning
our party included the three daughters of our host.Don Pierre led the
way on a roan stallion, and after two hours’ riding we crossed the San
Miguel to the north of his ranch.A few miles beyond we entered some
chalky hills, interspersed with white chaparral thickets which were
just bursting into bloom, with a fragrance that was almost
intoxicating.Under the direction of our host, we started to beat a
long chain of these thickets, and were shortly rewarded by hearing the
pack give mouth.The quarry kept to the cover of the thickets for
several miles, impeding the chase until the last covert in the chain
was reached, where a fight occurred with the lead hound.Don Pierre was
the first to reach the scene, and caught several glimpses of a monster
puma as he slunk away through the Brazil brush, leaving one of the
Don’s favorite hounds lacerated to the bone.But the pack passed on,
and, lifting the wounded dog to a vaquero’s saddle, we followed,
lustily shouting to the hounds. The spoor now turned down the San Miguel, and the pace was such that it
took hard riding to keep within hearing.Mr. Vaux and Uncle Lance
usually held the lead, the remainder of the party, including the girls,
bringing up the rear.The chase continued down stream for fully an
hour, until we encountered some heavy timber on the main Frio, our
course having carried us several miles to the north of the McLeod
ranch.Some distance below the juncture with the San Miguel the river
made a large horseshoe, embracing nearly a thousand acres, which was
covered with a dense growth of ash, pecan, and cypress.The trail led
into this jungle, circling it several times before leading away.We
were fortunately able to keep track of the chase from the baying of the
hounds without entering the timber, and were watching its course, when
suddenly it changed; the pack followed the scent across a bridge of
driftwood on the Frio, and started up the river in full cry.As the chase down the San Miguel passed beyond the mouth of the creek,
Theodore Quayle and Frances Vaux dropped out and rode for the McLeod
ranch.It was still early in the day, and understanding their motive, I
knew they would rejoin us if their mission was successful.By the
sudden turn of the chase, we were likely to pass several miles south of
the home of my sweetheart, but our location could be easily followed by
the music of the pack.Within an hour after leaving us, Theodore and
Frances rejoined the chase, adding Tony Hunter and Esther to our
numbers. With this addition, I lost interest in the hunt, as the course
carried us straightaway five miles up the stream.The quarry was
cunning and delayed the pack at every thicket or large body of timber
encountered. Several times he craftily attempted to throw the hounds
off the scent by climbing leaning trees, only to spring down again.But
the pack were running wide and the ruse was only tiring the hunted. The
scent at times left the river and circled through outlying mesquite
groves, always keeping well under cover.On these occasions we rested
our horses, for the hunt was certain to return to the river. From the scattering order in which we rode, I was afforded a good
opportunity for free conversation with Esther.But the information I
obtained was not very encouraging.Her mother’s authority had grown so
severe that existence under the same roof was a mere armistice between
mother and daughter, while this day’s sport was likely to break the
already strained relations.The thought that her suffering was largely
on my account, nerved me to resolution. The kill was made late in the day, in a bend of the river, about
fifteen miles above the Vaux ranch, forming a jungle of several
thousand acres.In this thickety covert the fugitive made his final
stand, taking refuge in an immense old live-oak, the mossy festoons of
which partially screened him from view.The larger portion of the
cavalcade remained in the open, but the rest of us, under the
leadership of the two rancheros, forced our horses through the
underbrush and reached the hounds.The pack were as good as exhausted
by the long run, and, lest the animal should spring out of the tree and
escape, we circled it at a distance. On catching a fair view of the
quarry, Uncle Lance called for a carbine.Two shots through the
shoulders served to loosen the puma’s footing, when he came down by
easy stages from limb to limb, spitting and hissing defiance into the
upturned faces of the pack.As he fell, we dashed in to beat off the
dogs as a matter of precaution, but the bullets had done their work,
and the pack mouthed the fallen feline with entire impunity.Dan Happersett dragged the dead puma out with a rope over the neck for
the inspection of the girls, while our horses, which had had no less
than a fifty-mile ride, were unsaddled and allowed a roll and a half
hour’s graze before starting back.As we were watering our mounts, I
caught my employer’s ear long enough to repeat what I had learned about
Esther’s home difficulties.After picketing our horses, we strolled
away from the remainder of the party, when Uncle Lance remarked: “Tom,
your chance has come where you must play your hand and play it boldly.I’ll keep Tony at the Vaux ranch, and if Esther has to go home
to-night, why, of course, you’ll have to take her. There’s your chance
to run off and marry. Now, Tom, you’ve never failed me yet; and this
thing has gone far enough.We’ll give old lady McLeod good cause to
hate us from now on. I’ve got some money with me, and I’ll rob the
other boys, and to-night you make a spoon or spoil a horn. Sabe?”
I understood and approved.As we jogged along homeward, Esther and I
fell to the rear, and I outlined my programme. Nor did she protest when
I suggested that to-night was the accepted time. Before we reached the
Vaux ranch every little detail was arranged.There was a splendid moon,
and after supper she plead the necessity of returning home. Meanwhile
every cent my friends possessed had been given me, and the two best
horses of Las Palomas were under saddle for the start.Uncle Lance was
arranging a big hunt for the morrow with Tony Hunter and Don Pierre,
when Esther took leave of her friends, only a few of whom were
cognizant of our intended elopement.With fresh mounts under us, we soon covered the intervening distance
between the two ranches. I would gladly have waived touching at the
McLeod ranch, but Esther had torn her dress during the day and insisted
on a change, and I, of necessity, yielded.The corrals were at some
distance from the main buildings, and, halting at a saddle shed
adjoining, Esther left me and entered the house.Fortunately her mother
had retired, and after making a hasty change of apparel, she returned
unobserved to the corrals. As we quietly rode out from the inclosure,
my spirits soared to the moon above us. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The night was an ideal one.Crossing the Frio, we followed the divide some distance, keeping in the
open, and an hour before midnight forded the Nueces at Shepherd’s. A
flood of recollections crossed my mind, as our steaming horses bent
their heads to drink at the ferry.Less than a year before, in this
very grove, I had met her; it was but two months since, on those hills
beyond, we had gathered flowers, plighted our troth, and exchanged our
first rapturous kiss.And the thought that she was renouncing home and
all for my sake, softened my heart and nerved me to every exertion. Our intention was to intercept the south-bound stage at the first road
house south of Oakville.I knew the hour it was due to leave the
station, and by steady riding we could connect with it at the first
stage stand some fifteen miles below. Lighthearted and happy, we set
out on this last lap of our ride.Our horses seemed to understand the
emergency, as they put the miles behind them, thrilling us with their
energy and vigor.Never for a moment in our flight did my sweetheart
discover a single qualm over her decision, while in my case all
scruples were buried in the hope of victory.Recrossing the Nueces and
entering the stage road, we followed it down several miles, sighting
the stage stand about two o’clock in the morning.I was saddle weary
from the hunt, together with this fifty-mile ride, and rejoiced in
reaching our temporary destination. Esther, however, seemed little the
worse for the long ride.The welcome extended by the keeper of this relay station was gruff
enough. But his tone and manner moderated when he learned we were
passengers for Corpus Christi.When I made arrangements with him to
look after our horses for a week or ten days at a handsome figure, he
became amiable, invited us to a cup of coffee, and politely informed us
that the stage was due in half an hour.But on its arrival, promptly on
time, our hearts sank within us. On the driver’s box sat an express
guard holding across his knees a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun. As
it halted, two other guards stepped out of the coach, similarly armed.The stage was carrying an unusual amount of treasure, we were informed,
and no passengers could be accepted, as an attempted robbery was
expected between this and the next station. Our situation became embarrassing.For the first time during our ride,
Esther showed the timidity of her sex. The chosen destination of our
honeymoon, nearly a hundred miles to the south, was now out of the
question.To return to Oakville, where a sister and friends of my
sweetheart resided, seemed the only avenue open.I had misgivings that
it was unsafe, but Esther urged it, declaring that Mrs. Martin would
offer no opposition, and even if she did, nothing now could come that
would ever separate us.We learned from the keeper that Jack Martin was
due to drive the north-bound stage out of Oakville that morning, and
was expected to pass this relay station about daybreak.This was
favorable, and we decided to wait and allow the stage to pass north
before resuming our journey.On the arrival of the stage, we learned that the down coach had been
attacked, but the robbers, finding it guarded, had fled after an
exchange of shots in the darkness.This had a further depressing effect
on my betrothed, and only my encouragement to be brave and face the
dilemma confronting us kept her up.Bred on the frontier, this little
ranch girl was no weakling; but the sudden overturn of our well-laid
plans had chilled my own spirits as well as hers.Giving the up stage a
good start of us, we resaddled and started for Oakville, slightly
crestfallen but still confident.In the open air Esther’s fears
gradually subsided, and, invigorated by the morning and the gallop, we
reached our destination after our night’s adventure with hopes buoyant
and colors flying.Mrs. Martin looked a trifle dumfounded at her early callers, but I lost
no time in informing her that our mission was an elopement, and asked
her approval and blessing.Surprised as she was, she welcomed us to
breakfast, inquiring of our plans and showing alarm over our
experience.Since Oakville was a county seat where a license could be
secured, for fear of pursuit I urged an immediate marriage, but Mrs.
Martin could see no necessity for haste.There was, she said, no one
there whom she would allow to solemnize a wedding of her sister, and,
to my chagrin, Esther agreed with her.This was just what I had dreaded; but Mrs. Martin, with apparent
enthusiasm over our union, took the reins in her own hands, and decided
that we should wait until Jack’s return, when we would all take the
stage to Pleasanton, where an Episcopal minister lived.My heart sank
at this, for it meant a delay of two days, and I stood up and stoutly
protested. But now that the excitement of our flight had abated, my own
Esther innocently sided with her sister, and I was at my wit’s end.To
all my appeals, the sisters replied with the argument that there was no
hurry—that while the hunt lasted at the Vaux ranch Tony Hunter could be
depended upon to follow the hounds; Esther would never be missed until
his return; her mother would suppose she was with the Vaux girls, and
would be busy preparing a lecture against her return.Of course the argument of the sisters won the hour. Though dreading
some unforeseen danger, I temporarily yielded.I knew the motive of the
hunt well enough to know that the moment we had an ample start it would
be abandoned, and the Las Palomas contingent would return to the ranch.Yet I dare not tell, even my betrothed, that there were ulterior
motives in my employer’s hunting on the Frio, one of which was to
afford an opportunity for our elopement.Full of apprehension and
alarm, I took a room at the village hostelry, for I had our horses to
look after, and secured a much-needed sleep during the afternoon.That
evening I returned to the Martin cottage, to urge again that we carry
out our original programme by taking the south-bound stage at midnight. But all I could say was of no avail. Mrs. Martin was equal to every
suggestion.She had all the plans outlined, and there was no occasion
for me to do any thinking at all. Corpus Christi was not to be
considered for a single moment, compared to Pleasanton and an
Episcopalian service. What could I do?At an early hour Mrs. Martin withdrew. The reaction from our escapade
had left a pallor on my sweetheart’s countenance, almost alarming. Noticing this, I took my leave early, hoping that a good night’s rest
would restore her color and her spirits.Returning to the hostelry, I
resignedly sought my room, since there was nothing I could do but wait. Tossing and pitching on my bed, I upbraided myself for having returned
to Oakville, where any interference with our plans could possibly
develop.The next morning at breakfast, I noticed that I was the object of
particular attention, and of no very kindly sort. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
No one even gave me a
friendly nod, while several avoided my glances.Supposing that some
rumor of our elopement might be abroad, I hurriedly finished my meal
and started for the Martins’. On reaching the door, I was met by its
mistress, who, I had need to remind myself, was the sister of my
betrothed.To my friendly salutation, she gave me a scornful, withering
look. “You’re too late, young man,” she said. “Shortly after you left last
night, Esther and Jack Oxenford took a private conveyance for Beeville,
and are married before this.You Las Palomas people are slow. Old Lance
Lovelace thought he was playing it cute San Jacinto Day, but I saw
through his little game. Somebody must have told him he was a
matchmaker.Well, just give him my regards, and tell him he don’t know
the first principles of that little game. Tell him to drop in some time
when he’s passing; I may be able to give him some pointers that I’m not
using at the moment.I hope your sorrow will not exceed my happiness. Good-morning, sir.”
CHAPTER X
AFTERMATH
My memory of what happened immediately after Mrs. Martin’s contemptuous
treatment of me is as vague and indefinite as the vaporings of a
fevered dream.I have a faint recollection of several friendly people
offering their sympathy.The old stableman, who looked after the
horses, cautioned me not to start out alone; but I have since learned
that I cursed him and all the rest, and rode away as one in a trance.But I must have had some little caution left, for I remember giving
Shepherd’s a wide berth, passing several miles to the south. The horses, taking their own way, were wandering home.Any exercise of
control or guidance over them on my part was inspired by an instinct to
avoid being seen. Of conscious direction there was none.Somewhere
between the ferry and the ranch I remember being awakened from my
torpor by the horse which I was leading showing an inclination to
graze.Then I noticed their gaunted condition, and in sympathy for the
poor brutes unsaddled and picketed them in a secluded spot. What
happened at this halt has slipped from my memory.But I must have slept
a long time; for I awoke to find the moon high overhead, and my watch,
through neglect, run down and stopped. I now realized the better my
predicament, and reasoned with myself whether I should return to Las
Palomas or not.But there was no place else to go, and the horses did
not belong to me. If I could only reach the ranch and secure my own
horse, I felt that no power on earth could chain me to the scenes of my
humiliation. The horses decided me to return.Resaddling at an unknown hour, I rode
for the ranch. The animals were refreshed and made good time. As I rode
along I tried to convince myself that I could slip into the ranch,
secure my own saddle horse, and meet no one except the Mexicans.There
was a possibility that Deweese might still be in camp at the new
reservoir, and I was hopeful that my employer might not yet be returned
from the hunt on the Frio. After a number of hours’ riding, the horse
under saddle nickered.Halting him, I listened and heard the roosters
crowing in a chorus at the ranch. Clouds had obscured the moon, and so
by making a detour around the home buildings I was able to reach the
Mexican quarters unobserved.I rode up to the house of Enrique, and
quietly aroused him; told him my misfortune and asked him to hide me
until he could get up my horse. We turned the animals loose, and,
taking my saddle inside the _jacal_, held a whispered conversation.Deweese was yet at the tank. If the hunting party had returned, they
had done so during the night.The distant range of my horse made it
impossible to get him before the middle of the forenoon, but Enrique
and Doña Anita assured me that my slightest wish was law to them.Furnishing me with a blanket and pillow, they made me a couch on a dry
cowskin on the dirt floor at the foot of their bed, and before day
broke I had fallen asleep. On awakening, I found the sun had already risen.Enrique and his wife
were missing from the room, but a peep through a crevice in the
palisade wall revealed Doña Anita in the kitchen adjoining. She had
detected my awakening, and soon brought me a cup of splendid coffee,
which I drank with relish.She urged on me also some dainty dishes,
which had always been favorites with me in Mexican cookery, but my
appetite was gone.Throwing myself back on the cowskin, I asked Doña
Anita how long Enrique had been gone in quest of my horse, and was
informed that he left before dawn, not even waiting for his customary
cup of coffee.With the kindness of a sister, the girl wife urged me to
take their bed; but I assured her that comfort was the least of my
concerns, complete effacement being my consuming thought.Doña Anita withdrew, and as I lay pondering over the several possible
routes of escape, I heard a commotion in the ranch. I was in the act of
rising when Doña Anita burst into the _jacal_ to tell me that Don Lance
had been sighted returning.I was on my feet in an instant, heard the
long-drawn notes of the horn calling in the hounds, and, peering
through the largest crack, saw the cavalcade.As they approached,
driving their loose mounts in front of them, I felt that my ill luck
still hung over me; for among the unsaddled horses were the two which I
had turned free but a few hours before.The hunters had met the gaunted
animals between the ranch and the river, and were bringing them in to
return them to their own _remuda_. But at the same time the horses were
evidence that I was in the ranch.From the position of Uncle Lance, in
advance, I could see that he was riding direct to the house, and my
absence there would surely cause surprise. At best it was but a
question of time until I was discovered.In the face of this new development, I gave up. There was no escaping
fate. Enrique might not return for two hours yet, and if he came,
driving in my horse, it would only prove my presence.I begged Doña
Anita to throw open the door and conceal nothing. But she was still
ready to aid in my concealment until night, offering to deny my
presence.But how could I conceal myself in a single room, and what was
so simple a device to a worldly man of sixty years’ experience? To me
the case looked hopeless.Even before we had concluded our discussion,
I saw Uncle Lance and the boys coming towards the Mexican quarters,
followed by Miss Jean and the household contingent.The fact that the
door of Enrique’s _jacal_ was closed, made it a shining mark for
investigation.Opening the inner door, I started to meet the visitors;
but Doña Anita planted herself at the outer entrance of the stoop, met
the visitors, and within my hearing and without being asked stoutly
denied my presence.“Hush up, you little liar,” said a voice, and I
heard a step and clanking spurs which I recognized. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
I had sat down on
the edge of the bed, and was rolling a cigarette as the crowd filed
into the _jacal_.A fortunate flush of anger came over me which served
to steady my voice; but I met their staring, after all, much as if I
had been a culprit and they a vigilance committee. “Well, young fellow, explain your presence here,” demanded Uncle Lance.Had it not been for the presence of Miss Jean, I had on my tongue’s end
a reply, relative to the eleventh commandment, emphasized with
sulphurous adjectives.But out of deference to the mistress of the
ranch, I controlled my anger, and, taking out of my pocket a flint, a
steel, and, a bit of _yesca,_ struck fire and leisurely lighted my
cigarette.Throwing myself back on the bed, as my employer repeated his
demand, I replied, “Ask Anita.” The girl understood, and, nothing
abashed, told the story in her native tongue, continually referring to
me as _pobre Tomas_.When her disconnected narrative was concluded,
Uncle Lance turned on me, saying:—
“And this is the result of all our plans. You went into Oakville, did
you? Tom, you haven’t, got as much sense as a candy frog.Walked right
into a trap with your head up and sassy. That’s right—don’t you listen
to any one. Didn’t I tell you that stage people would stick by each
other like thieves? And you forgot all my warnings and deliberately”—
“Hold on,” I interrupted.“You must recollect that the horses had had a
fifty-mile forced ride, were jaded, and on the point of collapse. With
the down stage refusing to carry us, and the girl on the point of
hysteria, where else could I go?”
“Go to jail if necessary.Go anywhere but the place you went. The
horses were jaded on a fifty-mile ride, were they? Either one of them
was good for a hundred without unsaddling, and you know it.Haven’t I
told you that this ranch would raise horses when we were all dead and
gone? Suppose you had killed a couple of horses?What would that have
been, compared to your sneaking into the ranch this way, like a whipped
cur with your tail between your legs? Now, the countryside will laugh
at us both.”
“The country may laugh,” I answered, “but I’ll not be here to hear it.Enrique has gone after my horse, and as soon as he gets in I’m leaving
you for good.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You think you’re all shot to pieces,
don’t you? Well, you’ll stay right here until all your wounds heal.I’ve taken all these degrees myself, and have lived to laugh at them
afterward. And I have had lessons that I hope you’ll never have to
learn.When I found out that my third wife had known a gambler before
she married me, I found out what the Bible means by rottenness of the
bones with which it says an evil woman uncrowns her husband. I’ll tell
you about it some day.But you’ve not been scarred in this little
side-play. You’re not even powder burnt. Why, in less than a month
you’ll be just as happy again as if you had good sense.”
Miss Jean now interrupted.“Clear right out of here,” she said to her
brother and the rest. “Yes, the whole pack of you. I want to talk with
Tom alone. Yes, you too—you’ve said too much already.Run along out.”
As they filed out, I noticed Uncle Lance pick up my saddle and throw it
across his shoulder, while Theodore gathered up the rancid blankets and
my fancy bridle, taking everything with them to the house.Waiting
until she saw that her orders were obeyed, Miss Jean came over and sat
down beside me on the bed.Anita stood like a fawn near the door,
likewise fearing banishment, but on a sign from her mistress she spread
a goatskin on the floor and sat down at our feet. Between two languages
and two women, I was as helpless as an ironed prisoner.Not that Anita
had any influence over me, but the mistress of the ranch had. In her
hands I was as helpless as a baby.I had come to the ranch a stranger
only a little over a year before, but had I been born there her
interest could have been no stronger. Jean Lovelace relinquished no
one, any more than a mother would one of her boys.I wanted to escape,
to get away from observation; I even plead for a month’s leave of
absence. But my reasons were of no avail, and after arguing pro and con
for over an hour, I went with her to the house.If the Almighty ever
made a good woman and placed her among men for their betterment, then
the presence of Jean Lovelace at Las Palomas savored of divine
appointment.On reaching the yard, we rested a long time on a settee under a group
of china trees. The boys had dispersed, and after quite a friendly chat
together, we saw Uncle Lance sauntering out of the house, smiling as he
approached.“Tom’s going to stay,” said Miss Jean to her brother, as
the latter seated himself beside us; “but this abuse and blame you’re
heaping on him must stop. He did what he thought was best under the
circumstances, and you don’t know what they were.He has given me his
promise to stay, and I have given him mine that talk about this matter
will be dropped.Now that your anger has cooled, and I have you both
together, I want your word.”
“Tom,” said my employer, throwing his long bony arm around me, “I was
disappointed, terribly put out, and I showed it in freeing my mind.But
I feel better now—towards you, at least. I understand just how you felt
when your plans were thwarted by an unforeseen incident. If I don’t
know everything, then, since the milk is spilt, I’m not asking for
further particulars.If you did what you thought was best under the
circumstances, why, that’s all we ever ask of any one at Las Palomas. A
mistake is nothing; my whole life is a series of errors.I’ve been
trying, and expect to keep right on trying, to give you youngsters the
benefit of my years; but if you insist on learning it for yourselves,
well enough. When I was your age, I took no one’s advice; but look how
I’ve paid the fiddler.Possibly it was ordained otherwise, but it looks
to me like a shame that I can’t give you boys the benefit of my dearly
bought experience. But whether you take my advice or not, we’re going
to be just as good friends as ever.I need young fellows like you on
this ranch. I’ve sent Dan out after Deweese, and to-morrow we’re going
to commence gathering beeves. A few weeks’ good hard work will do you
worlds of good.In less than a year, you’ll look back at this as a
splendid lesson. Shucks! boy, a man is a narrow, calloused creature
until he has been shook up a few times by love affairs. They develop
him into the man he was intended to be.Come on into the house, Tom,
and Jean will make us a couple of mint juleps.”
What a blessed panacea for mental trouble is work! We were in the
saddle by daybreak the next morning, rounding up _remudas_.Every
available vaquero at the outlying ranchitas had been summoned. Dividing
the outfit and horses, Uncle Lance took twelve men and struck west for
the Ganso.With an equal number of men, Deweese pushed north for the
Frio, which he was to work down below Shepherd’s, thence back along the
home river. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
From the ranch books, we knew there were fully two thousand
beeves over five years old in our brand.These cattle had never known
an hour’s restraint since the day they were branded, and caution and
cool judgment would be required in handling them.Since the contract
only required twelve hundred, we expected to make an extra clean
gathering, using the oldest and naturally the largest beeves. During the week spent in gathering, I got the full benefit of every
possible hour in the saddle.We reached the Ganso about an hour before
sundown. The weather had settled; water was plentiful, and every one
realized that the work in hand would require wider riding than under
dry conditions.By the time we had caught up fresh horses, the sun had
gone down. “Boys,” said Uncle Lance, “we want to make a big rodeo on
the head of this creek in the morning.Tom, you take two vaqueros and
lay off to the southwest about ten miles, and make a dry camp to-night. Glenn may have the same help to the southeast; and every rascal of you
be in your saddles by daybreak.There are a lot of big _ladino_ beeves
in those brushy hills to the south and west. Be sure and be in your
saddles early enough to catch _all_ wild cattle out on the prairies. If
you want to, you can take a lunch in your pocket for breakfast.No; you
need no blankets—you’ll get up earlier if you sleep cold.”
Taking José Pena and Pasquale Arispe with me, I struck off on our
course in the gathering twilight.The first twitter of a bird in the
morning brought me to my feet; I roused the others, and we saddled and
were riding with the first sign of dawn in the east.Taking the outside
circle myself, I gave every bunch of cattle met on my course a good
start for the centre of the round-up. Pasquale and Jose followed
several miles to my rear on inner circles, drifting on the cattle which
I had started inward.As the sun arose, dispelling the morning mists, I
could see other cattle coming down in long strings out of the hills to
the eastward. Within an hour after starting, Gallup and I met.Our half
circle to the southward was perfect, and each turning back, we rode our
appointed divisions until the vaqueros from the wagon were sighted,
throwing in cattle and closing up the northern portion of the circle.Before the sun was two hours high, the first rodeo of the day was
together, numbering about three thousand mixed cattle. In the few hours
since dawn, we had concentrated all animals in a territory at least
fifteen miles in diameter.Uncle Lance was in his element. Detailing two vaqueros to hold the beef
cut within reach and a half dozen to keep the main herd compact, he
ordered the remainder of us to enter and begin the selecting of beeves.There were a number of big wild steers in the round-up, but we left
those until the cut numbered over two hundred. When every hoof over
five years of age was separated, we had a nucleus for our beef herd
numbering about two hundred and forty steers.They were in fine
condition for grass cattle, and, turning the main herd free, we started
our cut for the wagon, being compelled to ride wide of them as we
drifted down stream towards camp, as there were a number of old beeves
which showed impatience at the restraint.But by letting them scatter
well, by the time they reached the wagon it required but two vaqueros
to hold them. The afternoon was but a repetition of the morning.Everything on the
south side of the Nueces between the river and the wagon was thrown
together on the second round-up of the day, which yielded less than two
hundred cattle for our beef herd.But when we went into camp, dividing
into squads for night-herding, the day’s work was satisfactory to the
ranchero.Dan Happersett was given five vaqueros and stood the first
watch or until one A.M. Glenn Gallup and myself took the remainder of
the men and stood guard until morning.When Happersett called our guard
an hour after midnight, he said to Gallup and me as we were pulling on
our boots: “About a dozen big steers haven’t laid down. There’s only
one of them that has given any trouble.He’s a pinto that we cut in the
first round-up in the morning.He has made two breaks already to get
away, and if you don’t watch him close, he’ll surely give you the
slip.”
While riding to the relief, Glenn and I posted our vaqueros to be on
the lookout for the pinto beef.The cattle were intentionally bedded
loose; but even in the starlight and waning moon, every man easily
spotted the _ladino_ beef, uneasily stalking back and forth like a
caged tiger across the bed ground.A half hour before dawn, he made a
final effort to escape, charging out between Gallup and the vaquero
following up on the same side. From the other side of the bed ground, I
heard the commotion, but dare not leave the herd to assist.There was a
mile of open country surrounding our camp, and if two men could not
turn the beef on that space, it was useless for others to offer
assistance.In the stillness of the morning hour, we could hear the
running and see the flashes from six-shooters, marking the course of
the outlaw. After making a half circle, we heard them coming direct for
the herd.For fear of a stampede, we raised a great commotion around
the sleeping cattle; but in spite of our precaution, as the _ladino_
beef reëntered the herd, over half the beeves jumped to their feet and
began milling.But we held them until dawn, and after scattering them
over several hundred acres, left them grazing contentedly, when,
leaving two vaqueros with the feeding herd, we went back to the wagon.The camp had been astir some time, and when Glenn reported the incident
of our watch, Uncle Lance said: “I thought I heard some shooting while
I was cat-napping at daylight. Well, we can use a little fresh beef in
this very camp.We’ll kill him at noon. The wagon will move down near
the river this morning, so we can make three rodeos from it without
moving camp, and to-night we’ll have a side of Pinto’s ribs barbecued.My mouth is watering this very minute for a rib roast.”
That morning after a big rodeo on the Nueces, well above the Ganso, we
returned to camp.Throwing into our herd the cut of less than a hundred
secured on the morning round-up, Uncle Lance, who had preceded us, rode
out from the wagon with a carbine.Allowing the beeves to scatter, the
old ranchero met and rode zigzagging through them until he came face to
face with the pinto _ladino_. On noticing the intruding horseman, the
outlaw threw up his head.There was a carbine report and the big fellow
went down in his tracks. By the time the herd had grazed away,
Tiburcio, who was cooking with our wagon, brought out all the knives,
and the beef was bled, dressed, and quartered.“You can afford to be extravagant with this beef,” said Uncle Lance to
the old cook, when the quarters had been carried in to the wagon.“I’ve
been ranching on this river nearly forty years, and I’ve always made it
a rule, where cattle cannot be safely handled, to beef them then and
there. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The first night at the ranch, Miss Jean and I talked until nearly
midnight.There had been so many happenings during my absence that it
required a whole evening to tell them all.From the naming of Anita’s
baby to the rivalry between John and Theodore for the favor of Frances
Vaux, all the latest social news of the countryside was discussed.Miss
Jean had attended the dance at Shepherd’s during the fall, and had
heard it whispered that Oxenford and Esther were anything but happy.The latest word from the Vaux ranch said that the couple had separated;
at least there was some trouble, for when Oxenford had attempted to
force her to return to Oakville, and had made some disparaging remarks,
Tony Hunter had crimped a six-shooter over his head.I pretended not to
be interested in this, but secretly had I learned that Hunter had
killed Oxenford, I should have had no very serious regrets.Uncle Lance had promised Tully and Nancrede a turkey hunt during the
holidays, so on our unexpected return it was decided to have it at
once.There had been a heavy mast that year, and in the encinal ridges
to the east wild turkeys were reported plentiful. Accordingly we set
out the next afternoon for a camp hunt in some oak cross timbers which
grew on the eastern border of our ranch lands.Taking two pack mules
and Tiburcio as cook, a party of eight of us rode away, expecting to
remain overnight. Uncle Lance knew of a fine camping spot about ten
miles from the ranch.When within a few miles of the place, Tiburcio
was sent on ahead with the pack mules to make camp. “Boys, we’ll divide
up here,” said Uncle Lance, “and take a little scout through these
cross timbers and try and locate some roosts.The camp will be in those
narrows ahead yonder where that burnt timber is to your right. Keep an
eye open for _javalina_ signs; they used to be plentiful through here
when there was good mast.Now, scatter out in pairs, and if you can
knock down a gobbler or two we’ll have a turkey bake to-night.”
Dan Happersett knew the camping spot, so I went with him, and together
we took a big circle through the encinal, keeping alert for game signs.Before we had gone far, evidence became plentiful, not only of turkeys,
but of peccary and deer.Where the turkeys had recently been
scratching, many times we dismounted and led our horses—but either the
turkeys were too wary for us, or else we had been deceived as to the
freshness of the sign.Several successive shots on our right caused us
to hurry out of the timber in the direction of the reports. Halting in
the edge of the timber, we watched the strip of prairie between us and
the next cover to the south.Soon a flock of fully a hundred wild
turkeys came running out of the encinal on the opposite side and
started across to our ridge. Keeping under cover, we rode to intercept
them, never losing sight of the covey.They were running fast; but when
they were nearly halfway across the opening, there was another shot and
they took flight, sailing into cover ahead of us, well out of range.But one gobbler was so fat that he was unable to fly over a hundred
yards and was still in the open. We rode to cut him off.On sighting
us, he attempted to rise; but his pounds were against him, and when we
crossed his course he was so winded that our horses ran all around him.After we had both shot a few times, missing him, he squatted in some
tall grass and stuck his head under a tuft. Dismounting, Dan sprang on
to him like a fox, and he was ours.We wrung his neck, and agreed to
report that we had shot him through the head, thus concealing, in the
absence of bullet wounds, our poor marksmanship.When we reached the camp shortly before dark, we found the others had
already arrived, ours making the sixth turkey in the evening’s bag.We
had drawn ours on killing it, as had the others, and after supper Uncle
Lance superintended the stuffing of the two largest birds.While this
was in progress, others made a stiff mortar, and we coated each turkey
with about three inches of the waxy play, feathers and all.Opening our
camp-fire, we placed the turkeys together, covered them with ashes and
built a heaping fire over and around them.A number of haunts had been
located by the others, but as we expected to make an early hunt in the
morning, we decided not to visit any of the roosts that night.After
Uncle Lance had regaled us with hunting stories of an early day, the
discussion innocently turned to my recent elopement. By this time the
scars had healed fairly well, and I took the chaffing in all good
humor.Tully told a personal experience, which, if it was the truth,
argued that in time I might become as indifferent to my recent mishap
as any one could wish.“My prospects of marrying a few years ago,” said Tully, lying full
stretch before the fire, “were a whole lot better than yours, Quirk. But my ambition those days was to boss a herd up the trail and get
top-notch wages.She was a Texas girl, just like yours, bred up in Van
Zandt County. She could ride a horse like an Indian. Bad horses seemed
afraid of her.Why, I saw her once when she was about sixteen, take a
black stallion out of his stable,—lead him out with but a rope about
his neck,—throw a half hitch about his nose, and mount him as though he
was her pet.Bareback and without a bridle she rode him ten miles for a
doctor. There wasn’t a mile of the distance either but he felt the
quirt burning in his flank and knew he was being ridden by a master.Her father scolded her at the time, and boasted about it later. “She had dozens of admirers, and the first impression I ever made on
her was when she was about twenty.There was a big tournament being
given, and all the young bloods in many counties came in to contest for
the prizes.I was a double winner in the games and contests—won a
roping prize and was the only lad that came inside the time limit as a
lancer, though several beat me on rings. Of course the tournament ended
with a ball.Having won the lance prize, it was my privilege of
crowning the ‘queen’ of the ball. Of course I wasn’t going to throw
away such a chance, for there was no end of rivalry amongst the girls
over it.The crown was made of flowers, or if there were none in
season, of live-oak leaves. Well, at the ball after the tournament I
crowned Miss Kate with a crown of oak leaves. After that I felt bold
enough to crowd matters, and things came my way.We were to be married
during Easter week, but her mother up and died, so we put it off awhile
for the sake of appearances. “The next spring I got a chance to boss a herd up the trail for Jesse
Ellison.It was the chance of my life and I couldn’t think of refusing. The girl put up quite a mouth about it, and I explained to her that a
hundred a month wasn’t offered to every man. She finally gave in, but
still you could see she wasn’t pleased.Girls that way don’t sabe
cattle matters a little bit. She promised to write me at several points
which I told her the herd would pass. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
When I bade her good-by, tears
stood in her eyes, though she tried to hide them.I’d have gambled my
life on her that morning. “Well, we had a nice trip, good outfit and strong cattle. Uncle Jess
mounted us ten horses to the man, every one fourteen hands or better,
for we were contracted for delivery in Nebraska.It was a five months’
drive with scarcely an incident on the way. Just a run or two and a dry
drive or so. I had lots of time to think about Kate.When we reached
the Chisholm crossing on Red River, I felt certain that I would find a
letter, but I didn’t. I wrote her from there, but when we reached
Caldwell, nary a letter either. The same luck at Abilene. Try as I
might, I couldn’t make it out.Something was wrong, but what it was,
was anybody’s guess. “At this last place we got our orders to deliver the cattle at the
junction of the middle and lower Loup.It was a terror of a long drive,
but that wasn’t a circumstance compared to not hearing from Kate. I
kept all this to myself, mind you.When our herd reached its
destination, which it did on time, as hard luck would have it there was
a hitch in the payment. The herd was turned loose and all the outfit
but myself sent home.I stayed there two months longer at a little
place called Broken Bow. I held the bill of sale for the herd, and
would turn it over, transferring the cattle from one owner to another,
on the word from my employer.At last I received a letter from Uncle
Jesse saying that the payment in full had been made, so I surrendered
the final document and came home. Those trains seemed to run awful
slow.But I got home all too soon, for she had then been married three
months. “You see an agent for eight-day clocks came along, and being a stranger
took her eye.He was one of those nice, dapper fellows, wore a red
necktie, and could talk all day to a woman. He worked by the rule of
three,—tickle, talk, and flatter, with a few cutes thrown in for a
pelon; that gets nearly any of them. They live in town now.He’s a
windmill agent. I never went near them.”
Meanwhile the fire kept pace with the talk, thanks to Uncle Lance’s
watchful eye. “That’s right, Tiburcio, carry up plenty of good lena,”
he kept saying.“Bring in all the black-jack oak that you can find; it
makes fine coals. These are both big gobblers, and to bake them until
they fall to pieces like a watermelon will require a steady fire till
morning.Pile up a lot of wood, and if I wake up during the night,
trust to me to look after the fire.I’ve baked so many turkeys this way
that I’m an expert at the business.”
“A girl’s argument,” remarked Dan Happersett in a lull of talk, “don’t
have to be very weighty to fit any case. Anything she does is
justifiable.That’s one reason why I always kept shy of women. I admit
that I’ve toyed around with some of them; have tossed my tug on one or
two just to see if they would run on the rope.But now generally I keep
a wire fence between them and myself if they show any symptoms of being
on the marry. Maybe so I was in earnest once, back on the Trinity.But
it seems that every time that I made a pass, my loop would foul or fail
to open or there was brush in the way.”
“Just because you have a few gray hairs in your head you think you’re
awful foxy, don’t you?” said Uncle Lance to Dan.“I’ve seen lots of
independent fellows like you.If I had a little widow who knew her
cards, and just let her kitten up to you and act coltish, inside a week
you would he following her around like a pet lamb.”
“I knew a fellow,” said Nancrede, lighting his pipe with a firebrand,
“that when the clerk asked him, when he went for a license to marry, if
he would swear that the young lady—his intended—was over twenty-one,
said: ‘Yes, by G—, I’ll swear that she’s over thirty-one.’”
At the next pause in the yarning, I inquired why a wild turkey always
deceived itself by hiding its head and leaving the body exposed.“That
it’s a fact, we all know,” volunteered Uncle Lance, “but the why and
wherefore is too deep for me. I take it that it’s due to running to
neck too much in their construction. Now an ostrich is the same way,
all neck with not a lick of sense.And the same applies to the human
family. You take one of these long-necked cowmen and what does he know
outside of cattle. Nine times out of ten, I can tell a sensible girl by
merely looking at her neck.Now snicker, you dratted young fools, just
as if I wasn’t talking horse sense to you.Some of you boys haven’t got
much more sabe than a fat old gobbler.”
“When I first came to this State,” said June Deweese, who had been
quietly and attentively listening to the stories, “I stopped over on
the Neches River near a place called Shot-a-buck Crossing.I had an
uncle living there with whom I made my home the first few years that I
lived in Texas. There are more or less cattle there, but it is
principally a cotton country.There was an old cuss living over there
on that river who was land poor, but had a powerful purty girl. Her old
man owned any number of plantations on the river—generally had lots of
nigger renters to look after.Miss Sallie, the daughter, was the belle
of the neighborhood. She had all the graces with a fair mixture of the
weaknesses of her sex. The trouble was, there was no young man in the
whole country fit to hold her horse.At least she and her folks
entertained that idea. There was a storekeeper and a young doctor at
the county seat, who it seems took turns calling on her. It looked like
it was going to be a close race.Outside of these two there wasn’t a
one of us who could touch her with a twenty-four-foot fish-pole. We
simply took the side of the road when she passed by.“About this time there drifted in from out west near Fort McKavett, a
young fellow named Curly Thorn. He had relatives living in that
neighborhood. Out at the fort he was a common foreman on a ranch.Talk
about your graceful riders, he sat a horse in a manner that left
nothing to be desired. Well, Curly made himself very agreeable with all
the girls on the range, but played no special favorites.He stayed in
the country, visiting among cousins, until camp meeting began over at
the Alabama Camp Ground. During this meeting Curly proved himself quite
a gallant by carrying first one young lady and the next evening some
other to camp meeting.During these two weeks of the meeting, some one
introduced him to Miss Sallie. Now, remember, he didn’t play her for a
favorite no more than any other. That’s what miffed her. She thought he
ought to.“One Sunday afternoon she intimated to him, like a girl sometimes will,
that she was going home, and was sorry that she had no companion for
the ride. This was sufficient for the gallant Curly to offer himself to
her as an escort.She simply thought she was stealing a beau from some
other girl, and he never dreamt he was dallying with Neches River
royalty. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
But the only inequality in that couple as they rode away from
the ground was an erroneous idea in her and her folks’ minds.And that
difference was in the fact that her old dad had more land than he could
pay taxes on.Well, Curly not only saw her home, but stayed for
tea—that’s the name the girls have for supper over on the Neches—and
that night carried her back to the evening service. From that day till
the close of the session he was devotedly hers.A month afterward when
he left, it was the talk of the country that they were to be married
during the coming holidays. “But then there were the young doctor and the storekeeper still in the
game.Curly was off the scene temporarily, but the other two were
riding their best horses to a shadow.Miss Sallie’s folks were pulling
like bay steers for the merchant, who had some money, while the young
doctor had nothing but empty pill bags and a saddle horse or two.The
doctor was the better looking, and, before meeting Curly Thorn, Miss
Sallie had favored him. Knowing ones said they were engaged.But near
the close of the race there was sufficient home influence used for the
storekeeper to take the lead and hold it until the show down came.Her
folks announced the wedding, and the merchant received the best wishes
of his friends, while the young doctor took a trip for his health. Well, it developed afterwards that she was engaged to both the
storekeeper and the doctor at the same time.But that’s nothing. My
experience tells me that a girl don’t need broad shoulders to carry
three or four engagements at the same time. “Well, within a week of the wedding, who should drift in to spend
Christmas but Curly Thorn.His cousins, of course, lost no time in
giving him the lay of the land. But Curly acted indifferent, and never
even offered to call on Miss Sallie.Us fellows joked him about his
girl going to marry another fellow, and he didn’t seem a little bit put
out. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the sudden turn as a good joke on
himself.But one morning, two days before the wedding was to take
place, Miss Sallie was missing from her home, as was likewise Curly
Thorn from the neighborhood. Yes, Thorn had eloped with her and they
were married the next morning in Nacogdoches.And the funny thing about
it was, Curly never met her after his return until the night they
eloped. But he had a girl cousin who had a finger in the pie.She and
Miss Sallie were as thick as three in a bed, and Curly didn’t have
anything to do but play the hand that was dealt him. “Before I came to Las Palomas, I was over round Fort McKavett and met
Curly.We knew each other, and he took me home and had me stay
overnight with him. They had been married then four years. She had a
baby on each knee and another in her arms. There was so much reality in
life that she had no time to become a dreamer.Matrimony in that case
was a good leveler of imaginary rank. I always admired Curly for the
indifferent hand he played all through the various stages of the
courtship. He never knew there was such a thing as difference.He
simply coppered the play to win, and the cards came his way.”
“Bully for Curly!” said Uncle Lance, arising and fixing the fire, as
the rest of us unrolled our blankets.“If some of my rascals could make
a ten strike like that it would break a streak of bad luck which has
overshadowed Las Palomas for over thirty years. Great Scott!—but those
gobblers smell good. I can hear them blubbering and sizzling in their
shells.It will surely take an axe to crack that clay in the morning.But get under your blankets, lads, for I’ll call you for a turkey
breakfast about dawn.”
CHAPTER XII
SUMMER OF ’77
During our trip into Mexico the fall before, Deweese contracted for
three thousand cows at two haciendas on the Rio San Juan.Early in the
spring June and I returned to receive the cattle. The ranch outfit
under Uncle Lance was to follow some three weeks later and camp on the
American side at Roma, Texas.We made arrangements as we crossed into
Mexico with a mercantile house in Mier to act as our bankers,
depositing our own drafts and taking letters of credit to the interior.In buying the cows we had designated Mier, which was just opposite
Roma, as the place for settlement and Uncle Lance on his arrival
brought drafts to cover our purchases, depositing them with the same
merchant.On receiving, we used a tally mark which served as a road
brand, thus preventing a second branding, and throughout—much to the
disgust of the Mexican vaqueros—Deweese enforced every humane idea
which Nancrede had practiced the spring before in accepting the trail
herd at Las Palomas.There were endless quantities of stock cattle to
select from on the two haciendas, and when ready to start, under the
specifications, a finer lot of cows would have been hard to find.The
worst drawback was that they were constantly dropping calves on the
road, and before we reached the river we had a calf-wagon in regular
use.On arriving at the Rio Grande, the then stage of water was
fortunately low and we crossed the herd without a halt, the import
papers having been attended to in advance.Uncle Lance believed in plenty of help, and had brought down from Las
Palomas an ample outfit of men and horses. He had also anticipated the
dropping of calves and had rigged up a carrier, the box of which was
open framework.Thus until a calf was strong enough to follow, the
mother, as she trailed along beside the wagon, could keep an eye on her
offspring.We made good drives the first two or three days; but after
clearing the first bottoms of the Rio Grande and on reaching the
tablelands, we made easy stages of ten to twelve miles a day.When near
enough to calculate on our arrival at Las Palomas, the old ranchero
quit us and went on into the ranch.Several days later a vaquero met
the herd about thirty miles south of Santa Maria, and brought the
information that the Valverde outfit was at the ranch, and instructions
to veer westward and drive down the Ganso on approaching the Nueces.By
these orders the delivery on the home river would occur at least twenty
miles west of the ranch headquarters. As we were passing to the westward of Santa Maria, our employer and one
of the buyers rode out from that ranch and met the herd.They had
decided not to brand until arriving at their destination on the Devil’s
River, which would take them at least a month longer. While this
deviation was nothing to us, it was a gain to them.The purchaser was
delighted with the cattle and our handling of them, there being fully a
thousand young calves, and on reaching their camp on the Ganso, the
delivery was completed—four days in advance of the specified time.For
fear of losses, we had received a few head extra, and, on counting them
over, found we had not lost a single hoof. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
In making the changes,
all I asked was a good grip on the mane, and I found my seat as the
horse shot away.The horses had broken into an easy sweat before the
race began, and having stripped to the lowest possible ounce of
clothing, I felt that I was getting out of them every fraction of speed
they possessed.The ninth horse in my mount, a roan, for some unknown
reason sulked at starting, then bolted out on the prairie, but got away
with the loss of only about ten seconds, running the half mile like a
scared wolf.Until it came the roan’s turn to go again, no untoward
incident happened, friendly timekeepers posting me at every change of
mounts.But when this bolter’s turn came again, he reared and plunged
away stiff-legged, crossed the inward furrow, and before I could turn
him again to the track, cut inside the course for two stakes or
possibly fifty yards.By this time I was beyond recall, but as I came
round and passed the starting-point, the judges attempted to stop me,
and I well knew my chances were over.Uncle Lance promptly waived all
rights to the award, and I was allowed to finish the race, lowering
Earnest’s time over twenty seconds. The eighth contestant, so I learned
later, barely came under the time limit.The vaqueros took charge of the relay mounts, and, reinvesting myself
in my discarded clothing, I mounted my horse to leave the field, when
who should gallop up and extend sympathy and congratulations but Miss
Jean and my old sweetheart.There was no avoiding them, and discourtesy
to the mistress of Las Palomas being out of the question, I greeted
Esther with an affected warmth and cordiality.As I released her hand I
could not help noticing how she had saddened into a serious woman,
while the gentleness in her voice condemned me for my attitude toward
her.But Miss Jean artfully gave us little time for embarrassment,
inviting me to show them the unconcluded programme. From contest to
contest, we rode the field until the sun went down, and the trials
ended.It was my first tournament and nothing escaped my notice. There were
fully one hundred and fifty women and girls, and possibly double that
number of men, old and young, every one mounted and galloping from one
point of the field to another.Blushing maidens and their swains
dropped out of the throng, and from shady vantage points watched the
crowd surge back and forth across the field of action.We were sorry to
miss Enrique’s roping; for having snapped his saddle horn with the
first cast, he recovered his rope, fastened it to the fork of his
saddletree, and tied his steer in fifty-four seconds, or within ten of
the winner’s record.When he apologized to Miss Jean for his bad luck,
hat in hand and his eyes as big as saucers, one would have supposed he
had brought lasting disgrace on Las Palomas. We were more fortunate in witnessing Pasquale’s riding.For this
contest outlaws and spoilt horses had been collected from every
quarter. Riders drew their mounts by lot, and Pasquale drew a
cinnamon-colored coyote from the ranch of “Uncle Nate” Wilson of
Ramirena.Uncle Nate was feeling in fine fettle, and when he learned
that his contribution to the outlaw horses had been drawn by a Las
Palomas man, he hunted up the ranchero.“I’ll bet you a new five-dollar
hat that that cinnamon horse throws your vaquero so high that the birds
build nests in his crotch before he hits the ground.” Uncle Lance took
the bet, and disdainfully ran his eye up and down his old friend,
finally remarking, “Nate, you ought to keep perfectly sober on an
occasion like this—you’re liable to lose all your money.”
Pasquale was a shallow-brained, clownish fellow, and after saddling up,
as he led the coyote into the open to mount, he imitated a drunken
vaquero.Tipsily admonishing the horse in Spanish to behave himself, he
vaulted into the saddle and clouted his mount over the head with his
hat.The coyote resorted to every ruse known to a bucking horse to
unseat his rider, in the midst of which Pasquale, languidly lolling in
his saddle, took a small bottle from his pocket, and, drinking its
contents, tossed it backward over his head.“Look at that, Nate,” said
Uncle Lance, slapping Mr. Wilson with his hat; “that’s one of the Las
Palomas vaqueros, bred with just sense enough to ride anything that
wears hair.We’ll look at those new hats this evening.”
In the fancy riding which followed, Pasquale did a number of stunts.He
picked up hat and handkerchief from the ground at full speed, and
likewise gathered up silver dollars from alternate sides of his horse
as the animal sped over a short course.Stripping off his saddle and
bridle, he rode the naked horse with the grace of an Indian, and but
for his clownish indifference and the apparent ease with which he did
things, the judges might have taken his work more seriously.As it was,
our outfit and those friendly to our ranch were proud of his
performance, but among outsiders, and even the judges, it was generally
believed that he was tipsy, which was an injustice to him.On the conclusion of the contest with the lance, among the thirty
participants, four were tied on honors, one of whom was Theodore
Quayle.The other contests being over, the crowd gathered round the
lancing course, excitement being at its highest pitch. A lad from the
Blanco was the first called for on the finals, and after three efforts
failed to make good his former trial.Quayle was the next called, and
as he sped down the course my heart stood still for a moment; but as he
returned, holding high his lance, five rings were impaled upon it.He
was entitled to two more trials, but rested on his record until it was
tied or beaten, and the next man was called. Forcing her way through
the crowded field, Miss Jean warmly congratulated Theodore, leaving
Esther to my tender care.But at this juncture, my old sweetheart
caught sight of Frances Vaux and some gallant approaching from the
river’s shade, and together we galloped out to meet them.Miss Vaux’s
escort was a neighbor lad from the Frio, but both he and I for the time
being were relegated to oblivion, in the prospects of a Las Palomas man
by the name of Quayle winning the lancing contest.Miss Frances, with a
shrug, was for denying all interest in the result, but Esther and I
doubled on her, forcing her to admit “that it would be real nice if
Teddy should win.” I never was so aggravated over the indifference of a
girl in my life, and my regard for my former sweetheart, on account of
her enthusiasm for a Las Palomas lad, kindled anew within me. But as the third man sped over the course, we hastily returned to watch
the final results. After a last trial the man threw down his lance,
and, riding up, congratulated Quayle.The last contestant was a
red-headed fellow from the Atascosa above Oakville, and seemed to have
a host of friends. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
On his first trial over the course, he stripped four
rings, but on neither subsequent effort did he equal his first attempt.Imitating the former contestant, the red-headed fellow broke his lance
and congratulated the winner. The tourney was over. Esther and I urged Miss Frances to ride over with
us and congratulate Quayle.She demurred; but as the crowd scattered I
caught Theodore’s eye and, signaling to him, he rode out of the crowd
and joined us.The compliments of Miss Vaux to the winner were insipid
and lifeless, while Esther, as if to atone for her friend’s lack of
interest, beamed with happiness over Quayle’s good luck.Poor Teddy
hardly knew which way to turn, and, nice girl as she was, I almost
hated Miss Frances for her indifferent attitude.A plain, blunt fellow
though he was, Quayle had noticed the coolness in the greeting of the
young lady whom he no doubt had had in mind for months, in case he
should win the privilege, to crown as Queen of the ball.Piqued and
unsettled in his mind, he excused himself on some trivial pretense and
withdrew. Every one was scattering to the picnic grounds for supper,
and under the pretense of escorting Esther to the Vaux conveyance, I
accompanied the young ladies.Managing to fall to the rear of Miss
Frances and her gallant for the day, I bluntly asked my old sweetheart
if she understood the attitude of her friend. For reply she gave me a
pitying glance, saying, “Oh, you boys know so little about a girl!You
see that Teddy chooses Frances for his Queen to-night, and leave the
rest to me.”
On reaching their picnic camp, I excused myself, promising to meet them
later at the dance, and rode for our ambulance.Tiburcio had supper all
ready, and after it was over I called Theodore to one side and repeated
Esther’s message. Quayle was still doubtful, and I called Miss Jean to
my assistance, hoping to convince him that Miss Vaux was not unfriendly
towards him.“You always want to judge a woman by contraries,” said
Miss Jean, seating herself on the log beside us. “When it comes to
acting her part, always depend on a girl to conceal her true feelings,
especially if she has tact.Now, from what you boys say, my judgment is
that she’d cry her eyes out if any other girl was chosen Queen.”
Uncle Lance had promised Mr. Wilson to take supper with his family, and
as we were all sprucing up for the dance, he returned.He had not been
present at the finals of the lancing contest, but from guests of the
Wilsons’ had learned that one of his boys had won the honors.So on
riding into camp, as the finishing touches were being added to our
rustic toilets, he accosted Quayle and said: “Well, Theo, they tell me
that you won the elephant.Great Scott, boy, that’s the best luck that
has struck Las Palomas since the big rain a year ago this month! Of
course, we all understand that you’re to choose the oldest Vaux girl. What’s that? You don’t know? Well, I do.I’ve had that all planned out,
in case you won, ever since we decided that you was to contest as the
representative of Las Palomas.And now you want to balk, do you?”
Uncle Lance was showing some spirit, but his sister checked him with
this explanation: “Just because Miss Frances didn’t show any enthusiasm
over Theo winning, he and Tom somehow have got the idea in their minds
that she don’t care a rap to be chosen Queen.I’ve tried to explain it
to them, but the boys don’t understand girls, that’s all. Why, if Theo
was to choose any other girl, she’d set the river afire.”
“That’s it, is it?” snorted Uncle Lance, pulling his gray mustaches.“Well, I’ve known for some time that Tom didn’t have good sense, but I
have always given you, Theo, credit for having a little. I’ll gamble my
all that what Jean says is Bible truth.Didn’t I have my eye on you and
that girl for nearly a week during the hunt a year ago, and haven’t you
been riding my horses over to the Frio once or twice a month ever
since?You can read a brand as far as I can, but I can see that you’re
as blind as a bat about a girl.Now, young fellow, listen to me: when
the master of ceremonies announces the winners of the day, and your
name is called, throw out your brisket, stand straight on those
bow-legs of yours, step forward and claim your privilege.When the
wreath is tendered you, accept it, carry it to the lady of your choice,
and kneeling before her, if she bids you arise, place the crown on her
brow and lead the grand march.I’d gladly give Las Palomas and every
hoof on it for your years and chance.”
The festivities began with falling darkness.The master of ceremonies,
a school teacher from Oakville, read out the successful contestants and
the prizes to which they were entitled.The name of Theodore Quayle was
the last to be called, and excusing himself to Miss Jean, who had him
in tow, he walked forward with a military air, executing every movement
in the ceremony like an actor.As the music struck up, he and the
blushing Frances Vaux, rare in rustic beauty and crowned with a wreath
of live-oak leaves, led the opening march.Hundreds of hands clapped in
approval, and as the applause quieted down, I turned to look for a
partner, only to meet Miss Jean and my former sweetheart.Both were in
a seventh heaven of delight, and promptly took occasion to remind me of
my lack of foresight, repeating in chorus, “Didn’t I tell you?” But the
music had broken into a waltz, which precluded any argument, and on the
mistress remarking “You young folks are missing a fine dance,”
involuntarily my arm encircled my old sweetheart, and we drifted away
into elysian fields.The night after the first tournament at Shepherd’s on the Nueces in
June, ’77, lingers as a pleasant memory. Veiled in hazy retrospect,
attempting to recall it is like inviting the return of childish dreams
when one has reached the years of maturity.If I danced that night with
any other girl than poor Esther McLeod, the fact has certainly escaped
me.But somewhere in the archives of memory there is an indelible
picture of a stroll through dimly lighted picnic grounds; of sitting on
a rustic settee, built round the base of a patriarchal live-oak, and
listening to a broken-hearted woman lay bare the sorrows which less
than a year had brought her.I distinctly recall that my eyes, though
unused to weeping, filled with tears, when Esther in words of deepest
sorrow and contrition begged me to forgive her heedless and reckless
act. Could I harbor resentment in the face of such entreaty?The
impulsiveness of youth refused to believe that true happiness had gone
out of her life. She was again to me as she had been before her
unfortunate marriage, and must be released from the hateful bonds that
bound her.Firm in this resolve, dawn stole upon us, still sitting at
the root of the old oak, oblivious and happy in each other’s presence,
having pledged anew our troth for time and eternity. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
With the breaking of day the revelers dispersed.Quite a large
contingent from those present rode several miles up the river with our
party.The _remuda_ had been sent home the evening before with the
returning vaqueros, while the impatience of the ambulance mules
frequently carried them in advance of the cavalcade.The mistress of
Las Palomas had as her guest returning, Miss Jule Wilson, and the first
time they passed us, some four or five miles above the ferry, I noticed
Uncle Lance ride up, swaggering in his saddle, and poke Glenn Gallup in
the ribs, with a wink and nod towards the conveyance as the mules
dashed past.The pace we were traveling would carry us home by the
middle of the forenoon, and once we were reduced to the home crowd, the
old matchmaker broke out enthusiastically:—
“This tourney was what I call a success.I don’t care a tinker’s darn
for the prizes, but the way you boys built up to the girls last night
warmed the sluggish blood in my old veins.Even if Cotton did claim a
dance or two with the oldest Vaux girl, if Theo and her don’t make the
riffle now—well, they simply can’t help it, having gone so far. And did
any of you notice Scales and old June and Dan cutting the pigeon wing
like colts?I reckon Quirk will have to make some new resolutions this
morning. Oh, I heard about your declaring that you never wanted to see
Esther McLeod again.That’s all right, son, but hereafter remember that
a resolve about a woman is only good for the day it is made, or until
you meet her. And notice, will you, ahead yonder, that sister of mine
playing second fiddle as a matchmaker.Glenn, if I was you, the next
time Miss Jule looks back this way, I’d play sick, and maybe they’d let
you ride in the ambulance.I can see at a glance that she’s being
poorly entertained.”
CHAPTER XIII
HIDE HUNTING
During the month of June only two showers fell, which revived the grass
but added not a drop of water to our tank supply or to the river.When
the coast winds which followed set in, all hope for rain passed for
another year. During the residence of the old ranchero at Las Palomas,
the Nueces valley had suffered several severe drouths as disastrous in
their effects as a pestilence.There were places in its miles of
meanderings across our range where the river was paved with the bones
of cattle which had perished with thirst. Realizing that such disasters
repeat themselves, the ranch was set in order.That fall we branded the
calf crop with unusual care. In every possible quarter, we prepared for
the worst. A dozen wells were sunk over the tract and equipped with
windmills.There was sufficient water in the river and tanks during the
summer and fall, but by Christmas the range was eaten off until the
cattle, ranging far, came in only every other day to slake their
thirst.The social gayeties of the countryside received a check from the
threatened drouth. At Las Palomas we observed only the usual Christmas
festivities.Miss Jean always made it a point to have something extra
for the holiday season, not only in her own household, but also among
the Mexican families at headquarters and the outlying ranchites.Among
a number of delicacies brought up this time from Shepherd’s was a box
of Florida oranges, and in assisting Miss Jean to fill the baskets for
each _jacal_, Aaron Scales opened this box of oranges and found a
letter, evidently placed there by some mischievous girl in the packery
from which the oranges were shipped.There was not only a letter but a
visiting card and a small photograph of the writer.This could only be
accepted by the discoverer as a challenge, for the sender surely knew
this particular box was intended for shipment to Texas, and banteringly
invited the recipient to reply.The missive certainly fell upon fertile
soil, and Scales, by right of discovery, delegated to himself the
pleasure of answering. Scales was the black sheep of Las Palomas.Born of a rich, aristocratic
family in Maryland, he had early developed into a good-natured but
reckless spendthrift, and his disreputable associates had contributed
no small part in forcing him to the refuge of a cattle ranch.He had
been offered every opportunity to secure a good education, but during
his last year in college had been expelled, and rather than face
parental reproach had taken passage in a coast schooner for Galveston,
Texas.Then by easy stages he drifted westward, and at last, to his
liking, found a home at Las Palomas.He made himself a useful man on
the ranch, but, not having been bred to the occupation and with a
tendency to waywardness, gave a rather free rein to the vagabond spirit
which possessed him.He was a good rider, even for a country where
every one was a born horseman, but the use of the rope was an art he
never attempted to master.With the conclusion of the holiday festivities and on the return of the
absentees, a feature, new to me in cattle life, presented itself—hide
hunting.Freighters who brought merchandise from the coast towns to the
merchants of the interior were offering very liberal terms for return
cargoes.About the only local product was flint hides, and of these
there were very few, but the merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry offered so
generous inducements that Uncle Lance investigated the matter; the
result was his determination to rid his range of the old, logy,
worthless bulls.Heretofore they had been allowed to die of old age,
but ten cents a pound for flint hides was an encouragement to remove
these cumberers of the range, and turn them to some profit.So we were
ordered to kill every bull on the ranch over seven years old. In our round-up for branding, we had driven to the home range all
outside cattle indiscriminately.They were still ranging near, so that
at the commencement of this work nearly all the bulls in our brand were
watering from the Nueces.These old residenter bulls never ranged over
a mile away from water, and during the middle of the day they could be
found along the river bank.Many of them were ten to twelve years old,
and were as useless on the range as drones in autumn to a colony of
honey-bees. Las Palomas boasted quite an arsenal of firearms, of every
make and pattern, from a musket to a repeater.The outfit was divided
into two squads, one going down nearly to Shepherd’s, and the other
beginning operations considerably above the Ganso.June Deweese took
the down-river end, while Uncle Lance took some ten of us with one
wagon on the up-river trip. To me this had all the appearance of a
picnic. But the work proved to be anything but a picnic. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
On
reaching the edge of the thicket, Uncle Lance called for volunteers to
beat the brush and rout out the bull.As this must be done on foot,
responses were not numerous.But our employer relieved the
embarrassment by assigning vaqueros to the duty, also directing Enrique
to take one point of the thicket and me the other, with instructions to
use our ropes should the outlaw quit the thicket for the river.Detailing Tiburcio, who was with us that afternoon, to assist him in
leading the loose saddle horses, he divided the six other men into two
squads under Theodore Quayle and Dan Happersett.When all was ready,
Enrique and myself took up our positions, hiding in the outlying
mesquite brush; leaving the loose horses under saddle in the cover at a
distance.The thicket was oval in form, lying with a point towards the
river, and we all felt confident if the bull were started he would make
for the timber on the river.With a whoop and hurrah and a free
discharge of firearms, the beaters entered the chaparral.From my
position I could see Enrique lying along the neck of his horse about
fifty yards distant; and I had fully made up my mind to give that
bucolic vaquero the first chance.During the past two weeks my
enthusiasm for roping stray bulls had undergone a change; I was now
quite willing that all honors of the afternoon should fall to Enrique.The beaters approached without giving any warning that the bull had
been sighted, and so great was the strain and tension that I could feel
the beating of my horse’s heart beneath me.The suspense was finally
broken by one or two shots in rapid succession, and as the sound died
away, the voice of Juan Leal rang out distinctly: “Cuidado por el
toro!” and the next moment there was a cracking of brush and a pale dun
bull broke cover.For a moment he halted on the border of the thicket: then, as the din
of the beaters increased, struck boldly across the prairie for the
river. Enrique and I were after him without loss of time.Enrique made
a successful cast for his horns, and reined in his horse; but when the
slack of the rope was taken up the rear cinch broke, the saddle was
jerked forward on the horse’s withers, and Enrique was compelled to
free the rope or have his horse dragged down.I saw the mishap, and,
giving my horse the rowel, rode at the bull and threw my rope.The loop
neatly encircled his front feet, and when the shock came between horse
and bull, it fetched the toro a somersault in the air, but unhappily
took off the pommel of my saddle.The bull was on his feet in a jiffy,
and before I could recover my rope, Enrique, who had reset his saddle,
passed me, followed by the entire squad.Uncle Lance had been a witness
to both mishaps, and on overtaking us urged me to tie on to the bull
again.For answer I could only point to my missing pommel; but every
man in the squad had loosened his rope, and it looked as if they would
all fasten on to the _ladino_, for they were all good ropers.Man after
man threw his loop on him; but the dun outlaw snapped the ropes as if
they had been cotton strings, dragging down two horses with their
riders and leaving them in the rear.I rode up alongside Enrique and
offered him my rope, but he refused it, knowing it would be useless to
try again with only a single cinch on his saddle. The young rascal had
a daring idea in mind.We were within a quarter mile of the river, and
escape of the outlaw seemed probable, when Enrique rode down on the
bull, took up his tail, and, wrapping the brush on the pommel of his
saddle, turned his horse abruptly to the left, rolling the bull over
like a hoop, and of course dismounting himself in the act.Then before
the dazed animal could rise, with the agility of a panther the vaquero
sprang astride his loins, and as he floundered, others leaped from
their horses. Toro was pinioned, and dispatched with a shot.Then we loosened cinches to allow our heaving horses to breathe, and
threw ourselves on the ground for a moment’s rest. “That’s the best
kill we’ll make on this trip,” said Uncle Lance as we mounted, leaving
two vaqueros to take the hide.“I despise wild cattle, and I’ve been
hungering to get a shot at that fellow for the last three years.Enrique, the day the baby is born, I’ll buy it a new cradle, and Tom
shall have a new saddle and we’ll charge it to Las Palomas—she’s the
girl that pays the bills.”
Scarcely a day passed but similar experiences were related around the
camp-fire.In fact, as the end of the work came in view, they became
commonplace with us. Finally the two outfits were united at the general
hide yard near the home ranch.Coils of small rope were brought from
headquarters, and a detail of men remained in camp, baling the flint
hides, while the remainder scoured the immediate country.A crude press
was arranged, and by the aid of a long lever the hides were compressed
into convenient space for handling by the freighters. When we had nearly finished the killing and baling, an unlooked-for
incident occurred.While Deweese was working down near Shepherd’s
Ferry, report of our work circulated around the country, and his camp
had been frequently visited by cattlemen.Having nothing to conceal, he
had showed his list of outside brands killed, which was perfectly
satisfactory in most instances.As was customary in selling cattle, we
expected to make report of every outside hide taken, and settle for
them, deducting the necessary expense.But in every community there are
those who oppose prevailing customs, and some who can always see
sinister motives.One forenoon, when the baling was nearly finished, a
delegation of men, representing brands of the Frio and San Miguel, rode
up to our hide yard. They were all well-known cowmen, and Uncle Lance,
being present, saluted them in his usual hearty manner.In response to
an inquiry—“what he thought he was doing”—Uncle Lance jocularly
replied:—
“Well, you see, you fellows allow your old bulls to drift down on my
range, expecting Las Palomas to pension them the remainder of their
days.But that’s where you get fooled. Ten cents a pound for flint
hides beats letting these old stagers die of old age. And this being an
idle season with nothing much to do, we wanted to have a little fun. And we’ve had it.But laying all jokes aside, fellows, it’s a good idea
to get rid of these old varmints. Hereafter, I’m going to make a
killing off every two or three years.The boys have kept a list of all
stray brands killed, and you can look them over and see how many of
yours we got. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
We have baled all the stray hides separate, so they can
be looked over.But it’s nearly noon, and you’d better all ride up to
the ranch for dinner—they feed better up there than we do in camp.”
Rather than make a three-mile ride to the house, the visitors took
dinner with the wagon, and about one o’clock Deweese and a vaquero came
in, dragging a hide between them.June cordially greeted the callers,
including Henry Annear, who represented the Las Norias ranch, though I
suppose it was well known to every one present that there was no love
lost between them.Uncle Lance asked our foreman for his list of
outside brands, explaining that these men wished to look them over.Everything seemed perfectly satisfactory to all parties concerned, and
after remaining in camp over an hour, Deweese and the vaquero saddled
fresh horses and rode away.The visitors seemed in no hurry to go, so
Uncle Lance sat around camp entertaining them, while the rest of us
proceeded with our work of baling.Before leaving, however, the entire
party in company of our employer took a stroll about the hide yard,
which was some distance from camp.During this tour of inspection,
Annear asked which were the bales of outside hides taken in Deweese’s
division, claiming he represented a number of brands outside of Las
Norias. The bales were pointed out and some dozen unbaled hides looked
over.On a count the baled and unbaled hides were found to tally
exactly with the list submitted.But unfortunately Annear took occasion
to insinuate that the list of brands rendered had been “doctored.”
Uncle Lance paid little attention, though he heard, but the other
visitors remonstrated with Annear.This only seemed to make him more
contentious. Finally matters came to an open rupture when Annear
demanded that the cordage be cut on certain bales to allow him to
inspect them.Possibly he was within his rights, but on the Nueces
during the seventies, to question a man’s word was equivalent to
calling him a liar; and _liar_ was a fighting word all over the cattle
range.“Well, Henry,” said Uncle Lance, rather firmly, “if you are not
satisfied, I suppose I’ll have to open the bales for you, but before I
do, I’m going to send after June. Neither you nor any one else can cast
any reflections on a man in my employ.No unjust act can be charged in
my presence against an absent man.The vaqueros tell me that my foreman
is only around the bend of the river, and I’m going to ask all you
gentlemen to remain until I can send for him.”
John Cotton was dispatched after Deweese.Conversation meanwhile became
polite and changed to other subjects. Those of us at work baling hides
went ahead as if nothing unusual was on the tapis.The visitors were
all armed, which was nothing unusual, for the wearing of six-shooters
was as common as the wearing of boots.During the interim, several
level-headed visitors took Henry Annear to one side, evidently to
reason with him and urge an apology, for they could readily see that
Uncle Lance was justly offended.But it seemed that Annear would listen
to no one, and while they were yet conversing among themselves, John
Cotton and our foreman galloped around the bend of the river and rode
up to the yard.No doubt Cotton had explained the situation, but as
they dismounted Uncle Lance stepped between his foreman and Annear,
saying:—
“June, Henry, here, questions the honesty of your list of strays
killed, and insists on our cutting the bales for his inspection.”
Turning to Annear, Uncle Lance inquired, “Do you still insist on
opening the bales?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
Deweese stepped to one side of his employer, saying to Annear: “You
offer to cut a bale here to-day, and I’ll cut your heart out.Behind my
back, you questioned my word. Question it to my face, you dirty sneak.”
Annear sprang backward and to one side, drawing a six-shooter in the
movement, while June was equally active. Like a flash, two shots rang
out.Following the reports, Henry turned halfway round, while Deweese
staggered a step backward.Taking advantage of the instant, Uncle Lance
sprang like a panther on to June and bore him to the ground, while the
visitors fell on Annear and disarmed him in a flash.They were dragged
struggling farther apart, and after some semblance of sanity had
returned, we stripped our foreman and found an ugly flesh wound
crossing his side under the armpit, the bullet having been deflected by
a rib.Annear had fared worse, and was spitting blood freely, and the
marks of exit and entrance of the bullet indicated that the point of
one lung had been slightly chipped.“I suppose this outcome is what you might call the _amende honorable_”
smilingly said George Nathan, one of the visitors, later to Uncle
Lance.“I always knew there was a little bad blood existing between the
boys, but I had no idea that it would flash in the pan so suddenly or
I’d have stayed at home. Shooting always lets me out.But the question
now is, How are we going to get our man home?”
Uncle Lance at once offered them horses and a wagon, in case Annear
would not go into Las Palomas.This he objected to, so a wagon was
fitted up, and, promising to return it the next day, our visitors
departed with the best of feelings, save between the two belligerents.We sent June into the ranch and a man to Oakville after a surgeon, and
resumed our work in the hide yard as if nothing had happened.Somewhere
I have seen the statement that the climate of California was especially
conducive to the healing of gunshot wounds.The same claim might be
made in behalf of the Nueces valley, for within a month both the
combatants were again in their saddles. Within a week after this incident, we concluded our work and the hides
were ready for the freighters.We had spent over a month and had taken
fully seven hundred hides, many of which, when dry, would weigh one
hundred pounds, the total having a value of between five and six
thousand dollars.Like their predecessors the buffalo, the remains of
the ladinos were left to enrich the soil; but there was no danger of
the extinction of the species, for at Las Palomas it was the custom to
allow every tenth male calf to grow up a bull.CHAPTER XIV
A TWO YEARS’ DROUTH
The spring of ’78 was an early one, but the drouth continued, and after
the hide hunting was over we rode our range almost night and day.Thousands of cattle had drifted down from the Frio River country, which
section was suffering from drouth as badly as the Nueces.The new wells
were furnishing a limited supply of water, but we rigged pulleys on the
best of them, and when the wind failed we had recourse to buckets and a
rope worked from the pommel of a saddle.A breeze usually arose about
ten in the morning and fell about midnight. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
Well, I should remark!Five
thousand deposited with Smith & Redman, and I was particular to have it
inserted in the contract between us that every saddle horse, mare,
mule, gelding, and filly was to be in the straight ‘horse hoof’ brand.There is a possibility that when Tuttle sees them again at Fort Worth,
they won’t look as large as they did on that hillside this morning.”
We made an early start from San Antonio the next morning, passing to
the westward of the then straggling city.The vaqueros were disturbed
over the journey, for Fort Worth was as foreign to them as a European
seaport, but I jollied them into believing it was but a little
_pasear_.Though I had never ridden on a train myself, I pictured to
them the luxuriant ease with which we would return, as well as the trip
by stage to Oakville.I threw enough enthusiasm into my description of
the good time we were going to have, coupled with their confidence in
Deweese, to convince them in spite of their forebodings.Our _segundo_
humored them in various ways, and after a week on the trail, water
getting plentiful, using two guards, we only herded until midnight,
turning the herd loose from then until daybreak.It usually took us
less than an hour to gather and count them in the morning, and
encouraged by their contentment, a few days later, we loose-herded
until darkness and then turned them free.From then on it was a picnic
as far as work was concerned, and our saddle horses and herd improved
every day.After crossing the Colorado River, at every available chance en route
we mailed a letter to the buyer, notifying him of our progress as we
swept northward.When within a day’s drive of the Brazos, we mailed our
last letter, giving notice that we would deliver within three days of
date.On reaching that river, we found it swimming for between thirty
and forty yards; but by tying up the pack mules and cutting the herd
into four bunches, we swam the Brazos with less than an hour’s delay.Overhauling and transferring the packs to horses, throwing away
everything but the barest necessities, we crossed the lightened
commissary, the freed mules swimming with the _remuda_.On the morning
of the twentieth day out from San Antonio, our _segundo_ rode into the
fort ahead of the herd.We followed at our regular gait, and near the
middle of the forenoon were met by Deweese and Tuttle, who piloted us
to a pasture west of the city, where an outfit was encamped to receive
the herd.They numbered fifteen men, and looked at our insignificant
crowd with contempt; but the count which followed showed we had not
lost a hoof since we left the Nueces, although for the last ten nights
the stock had had the fullest freedom.The receiving outfit looked the brands over carefully. The splendid
grass and water of the past two weeks had transformed the famishing
herd of a month before, and they were received without a question.Rounding in our _remuda_ for fresh mounts before starting to town, the
vaqueros and I did some fancy roping in catching out the horses,
partially from sheer lightness of heart because we were at our
journey’s end, and partially to show this north Texas outfit that we
were like the proverbial singed cat—better than we looked.Two of
Turtle’s men rode into town with us that evening to lead back our
mounts, the outfit having come in purposely to receive the horse herd
and drive it to their ranch in Young County.While riding in, they
thawed nicely towards us, but kept me busy interpreting for them with
our Mexicans.Tuttle and Deweese rode together in the lead, and on
nearing town one of the strangers bantered Pasquale to sell him a nice
maguey rope which the vaquero carried.When I interpreted the other’s
wish to him, Pasquale loosened the lasso and made a present of it to
Tuttle’s man.I had almost as good a rope of the same material, which I
presented to the other lad with us, and the drinks we afterward
consumed over this slight testimony of the amicable relations existing
between a northern and southern Texas outfit over the delivery and
receiving of a horse herd, showed no evidence of a drouth.The
following morning I made inquiry for Frank Nancrede and the drovers who
had driven a trail herd of cattle from Las Palomas two seasons before.They were all well known about the fort, but were absent at the time,
having put up two trail herds that spring in Uvalde County.Deweese did
not waste an hour more than was necessary in that town, and while
waiting for the banks to open, arranged for our transportation to San
Antonio. We were all ready to start back before noon.Fort Worth was a
frontier town at the time, bustling and alert with live-stock
interests; but we were anxious to get home, and promptly boarded a
train for the south.After entering the train, our _segundo_ gave each
of the vaqueros and myself some spending money, the greater portion of
which went to the “butcher” for fruits. He was an enterprising fellow
and took a marked interest in our comfort and welfare.But on nearing
San Antonio after midnight, he attempted to sell us our choice of three
books, between the leaves of one of which he had placed a five-dollar
bill and in another a ten, and offered us our choice for two dollars,
and June Deweese became suddenly interested.Coming over to where we
were sitting, he knocked the books on the floor, kicked them under a
seat, and threatened to bend a gun over the butcher’s head unless he
made himself very scarce.Then reminding us that “there were tricks in
all trades but ours,” he kept an eye over us until we reached the city. We were delayed another day in San Antonio, settling with the
commission firm and banking the money.The next morning we took stage
for Oakville, where we arrived late at night. When a short distance out
of San Antonio I inquired of our driver who would relieve him beyond
Pleasanton, and was gratified to hear that his name was not Jack
Martin.Not that I had anything particular against Martin, but I had no
love for his wife, and had no desire to press the acquaintance any
further with her or her husband. On reaching Oakville, we were within
forty miles of Las Palomas.We had our saddles with us, and early the
next morning tried to hire horses; but as the stage company domineered
the village we were unable to hire saddle stock, and on appealing to
the only livery in town we were informed that Bethel & Oxenford had the
first claim on their conveyances.Accordingly Deweese and I visited the
offices of the stage company, where, to our surprise, we came face to
face with Jack Oxenford. I do not think he knew us, though we both knew
him at a glance.Deweese made known his wants, but only asked for a
conveyance as far as Shepherd’s. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
From
timber along the river we cut the necessary temporary curbing, and put
it in place as the wells were sunk.On the third day both wells became
so wet as to impede our work, and on our foreman riding by, he ordered
them curbed to the bottom and a tripod set up over them on which to rig
a rope and pulley.The next morning troughs and rigging, with a
_remuda_ of horses and a watering crew of four strange vaqueros,
arrived.The wells were only about twenty feet deep; but by drawing the
water as fast as the seepage accumulated, each was capable of watering
several hundred head of cattle daily.By this time Deweese had secured
ample help, and started a second crew of well diggers opposite the
ranch, who worked down the river while my crew followed some fifteen
miles above.By the end of the month of May, we had some twenty
temporary wells in operation, and these, in addition to what water the
pools afforded, relieved the situation to some extent, though the
ravages of death by thirst went on apace among the weaker cattle.With the beginning of June, we were operating nearly thirty wells. In
some cases two vaqueros could hoist all the water that accumulated in
three wells.We had a string of camps along the river, and at every
windmill on the mesas men were stationed night and day. Among the
cattle, the death rate was increasing all over the range.Frequently we
took over a hundred skins in a single day, while at every camp cords of
fallen flint hides were accumulating.The heat of summer was upon us,
the wind arose daily, sand storms and dust clouds swept across the
country, until our once prosperous range looked like a desert, withered
and accursed. Young cows forsook their offspring in the hour of their
birth.Motherless calves wandered about the range, hollow-eyed, their
piteous appeals unheeded, until some lurking wolf sucked their blood
and spread a feast to the vultures, constantly wheeling in great
flights overhead.The prickly pear, an extremely arid plant, affording
both food and drink to herds during drouths, had turned white,
blistered by the torrid sun until it had fallen down, lifeless.The
chaparral was destitute of foliage, and on the divides and higher
mesas, had died.The native women stripped their _jacals_ of every
sacred picture, and hung them on the withered trees about their doors,
where they hourly prayed to their patron saints.In the humblest homes
on Las Palomas, candles burned both night and day to appease the
frowning Deity. The white element on the ranch worked almost unceasingly, stirring the
Mexicans to the greatest effort.The middle of June passed without a
drop of rain, but on the morning of the twentieth, after working all
night, as Pasquale Arispe and I were drawing water from a well on the
border of the encinal I felt a breeze spring up, that started the
windmill.Casting my eyes upward, I noticed that the wind had veered to
a quarter directly opposite to that of the customary coast breeze.Not
being able to read aright the portent of the change in the wind, I had
to learn from that native-born son of the soil: “Tomas,” he cried,
riding up excitedly, “in three days it will rain!Listen to me:
Pasquale Arispe says that in three days the _arroyos_ on the hacienda
of Don Lancelot will run like a mill-race. See, _companero_, the wind
has changed. The breeze is from the northwest this morning. Before
three days it will rain!Madre de Dios!”
The wind from the northwest continued steadily for two days, relieving
us from work. On the morning of the third day the signs in sky and air
were plain for falling weather.Cattle, tottering with weakness, came
into the well, and after drinking, playfully kicked up their heels on
leaving. Before noon the storm struck us like a cloud-burst. Pasquale
and I took refuge under the wagon to avoid the hailstones.In spite of
the parched ground drinking to its contentment, water flooded under the
wagon, driving us out.But we laughed at the violence of the deluge,
and after making everything secure, saddled our horses and set out for
home, taking our relay mounts with us.It was fifteen miles to the
ranch and in the eye of the storm; but the loose horses faced the rain
as if they enjoyed it, while those under saddle followed the free ones
as a hound does a scent.Within two hours after leaving the well, we
reined in at the gate, and I saw Uncle Lance and a number of the boys
promenading the gallery.But the old ranchero leisurely walked down the
pathway to the gate, and amid the downpour shouted to us: “Turn those
horses loose; this ranch is going to take a month’s holiday.”
CHAPTER XV
IN COMMEMORATION
A heavy rainfall continued the greater portion of two days.None of us
ventured away from the house until the weather settled, and meantime I
played the fiddle almost continuously.Night work and coarse living in
camps had prepared us to enjoy the comforts of a house, as well as to
do justice to the well-laden table.Miss Jean prided herself, on
special occasions and when the ranch had company, on good dinners; but
in commemoration of the breaking of this drouth, with none but us boys
to share it, she spread a continual feast.The Mexican contingent were
not forgotten by master or mistress, and the ranch supplies in the
warehouse were drawn upon, delicacies as well as staples, not only for
the _jacals_ about headquarters but also for the outlying ranchitas.The native element had worked faithfully during the two years in which
no rain to speak of had fallen, until the breaking hour, and were not
forgotten in the hour of deliverance.Even the stranger vaqueros were
compelled to share the hospitality of Las Palomas like invited guests. While the rain continued falling, Uncle Lance paced the gallery almost
night and day.Fearful lest the downpour might stop, he stood guard,
noting every change in the rainfall, barely taking time to eat or catch
an hour’s sleep.But when the grateful rain had continued until the
evening of the second day, assuring a bountiful supply of water all
over our range, he joined us at supper, exultant as a youth of twenty. “Boys,” said he, “this has been a grand rain.If our tanks hold, we
will be independent for the next eighteen months, and if not another
drop falls, the river ought to flow for a year.I have seen worse
drouths since I lived here, but what hurt us now was the amount of
cattle and the heavy drift which flooded down on us from up the river
and north on the Frio. The loss is nothing; we won’t notice it in
another year.I have kept a close tally of the hides taken, and our
brand will be short about two thousand, or less than ten per cent of
our total numbers. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
They were principally old cows and will not be
missed.The calf crop this fall will be short, but taking it up one
side and down the other, we got off lucky.”
The third day after the rain began the sun rose bright and clear.Not a
hoof of cattle or horses was in sight, and though it was midsummer, the
freshness of earth and air was like that of a spring morning. Every one
felt like riding.While awaiting the arrival of saddle horses, the
extra help hired during the drouth was called in and settled with. Two
brothers, Fidel and Carlos Trujillo, begged for permanent employment.They were promising young fellows, born on the Aransas River, and after
consulting with Deweese Uncle Lance took both into permanent service on
the ranch.A room in an outbuilding was allotted them, and they were
instructed to get their meals in the kitchen. The _remudas_ had
wandered far, but one was finally brought in by a vaquero, and by pairs
we mounted and rode away.On starting, the tanks demanded our first
attention, and finding all four of them safe, we threw out of gear all
the windmills.Theodore Quayle and I were partners during the day’s
ride to the south, and on coming in at evening fell in with Uncle Lance
and our _segundo_, who had been as far west as the Ganso.Quayle and I
had discussed during the day the prospect of a hunt at the Vaux ranch,
and on meeting our employer, artfully interested the old ranchero
regarding the amount of cat sign seen that day along the Arroyo Sordo.“It’s hard luck, boys,” said he, “to find ourselves afoot, and the
hunting so promising. But we haven’t a horse on the ranch that could
carry a man ten miles in a straightaway dash after the hounds.It will
be a month yet before the grass has substance enough in it to
strengthen our _remudas_. Oh, if it hadn’t been for the condition of
saddle stock, Don Pierre would have come right through the rain
yesterday.But when Las Palomas can’t follow the hounds for lack of
mounts, you can depend on it that other ranches can’t either. It just
makes me sick to think of this good hunting, but what can we do for a
month but fold our hands and sit down?But if you boys are itching for
an excuse to get over on the Frio, why, I’ll make you a good one. This
drouth has knocked all the sociability out of the country; but now the
ordeal is past, Theodore is in honor bound to go over to the Vaux
ranch.I don’t suppose you boys have seen the girls on the Frio and San
Miguel in six months. Time? That’s about all we have got right now. Time?—we’ve got time to burn.”
Our feeler had borne fruit.An excuse or permission to go to the Frio
was what Quayle and I were after, though no doubt the old matchmaker
was equally anxious to have us go.In expressing our thanks for the
promised vacation, we included several provisos—in case there was
nothing to do, or if we concluded to go—when Uncle Lance turned in his
saddle and gave us a withering look.“I’ve often wondered,” said he,
“if the blood in you fellows is really red, or if it’s white like a
fish’s. Now, when I was your age, I had to steal chances to go to see
my girl.But I never gave her any show to forget me, and worried her to
a fare-ye-well. And if my observation and years go for anything, that’s
just the way girls like to have a fellow act.Of course they’ll bluff
and let on they must be wooed and all that, just like Frances did at
the tournament a year ago.I contend that with a clear field the only
way to make any progress in sparking a girl, is to get one arm around
her waist, and with the other hand keep her from scratching you.That’s
the very way they like to be courted.”
Theodore and I dropped behind after this lecture, and before we reached
the ranch had agreed to ride over to the Frio the next morning.During
our absence that day, there had arrived at Las Palomas from the
Mission, a _padrino_ in the person of Don Alejandro Travino.Juana
Leal, only daughter of Tiburcio, had been sought in marriage by a
nephew of Don Alejandro, and the latter, dignified as a Castilian
noble, was then at the house negotiating for the girl’s hand.Juana was
nearly eighteen, had been born at the ranch, and after reaching years
of usefulness had been adopted into Miss Jean’s household.To ask for
her hand required audacity, for to master and mistress of Las Palomas
it was like asking for a daughter of the house.Miss Jean was agitated
and all in a flutter; Tiburcio and his wife were struck dumb; for Juana
was the baby and only unmarried one of their children, and to take her
from Las Palomas—they could never consent to that.But Uncle Lance had
gone through such experiences before, and met the emergency with
promptness. “That’s all right, little sister,” said the old matchmaker to Miss
Jean, who had come out to the gate where we were unsaddling.“Don’t you
borrow any trouble in this matter—leave things to me.I’ve handled
trifles like this among these natives for nearly forty years now, and I
don’t see any occasion to try and make out a funeral right after the
drouth’s been broken by a fine rain. Shucks, girl, this is a time for
rejoicing!You go back in the house and entertain Don Alejandro with
your best smiles till I come in. I want to have a talk with Tiburcio
and his wife before I meet the _padrino_.There’s several families of
those Travinos over around the Mission and I want to locate which tribe
this _oso_ comes from.Some of them are good people and some of them
need a rope around their necks, and in a case of keeps like getting
married, it’s always safe to know what’s what and who’s who. Now, Sis,
go on back in the house and entertain the Don.Come with me, Tom.”
I saw our plans for the morrow vanish into thin air. On arriving at the
jacal, we were admitted, but a gloom like the pall of death seemed to
envelop the old Mexican couple.When we had taken seats around a small
table, Tia Inez handed the ranchero the formal written request.As it
was penned in Spanish, it was passed to me to read, and after running
through it hastily, I read it aloud, several times stopping to
interpret to Uncle Lance certain extravagant phrases.The salutatory
was in the usual form; the esteem which each family had always
entertained for the other was dwelt upon at length, and choicer
language was never used than the _padrino_ penned in asking for the
hand of Doña Juana.This dainty missive was signed by the godfather of
the swain, Don Alejandro Travino, whose rubric riotously ran back and
forth entirely across the delicately tinted sheet.On the conclusion of
the reading, Uncle Lance brushed the letter aside as of no moment, and,
turning to the old couple, demanded to know to which branch of the
Travino family young Don Blas belonged.The account of Tiburcio and his wife was definite and clear. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |
The father
of the swain conducted a small country store at the Mission, and
besides had landed and cattle interests.He was a younger brother of
Don Alejandro, who was the owner of a large land grant, had cattle in
abundance, and was a representative man among the Spanish element. No
better credentials could have been asked.But when their patron rallied
them as to the cause of their gloom, Tia Inez burst into tears,
admitting the match was satisfactory, but her baby would be carried
away from Las Palomas and she might never see her again.Her two sons
who lived at the ranch, allowed no day to pass without coming to see
their mother, and the one who lived at a distant ranchita came at every
opportunity. But if her little girl was carried away to a distant
ranch—ah!that made it impossible! Let Don Lance, worthy patron of his
people, forbid the match, and win the gratitude of an anguished mother. Invoking the saints to guide her aright, Doña Inez threw herself on the
bed in hysterical lamentation.Realizing it is useless to argue with a
woman in tears, the old matchmaker suggested to Tiburcio that we delay
the answer the customary fortnight. Promising to do nothing further without consulting them, we withdrew
from the _jacal_.On returning to the house, we found Miss Jean
entertaining the Don to the best of her ability, and, commanding my
presence, the old matchmaker advanced to meet the _padrino_, with whom
he had a slight acquaintance.Bidding his guest welcome to the ranch,
he listened to the Don’s apology for being such a stranger to Las
Palomas until a matter of a delicate nature had brought him hither.Don Alejandro was a distinguished-looking man, and spoke his native
tongue in a manner which put my efforts as an interpreter to shame.The
conversation was allowed to drift at will, from the damages of the
recent drouth to the prospect of a market for beeves that fall, until
supper was announced.After the evening repast was over we retired to
the gallery, and Uncle Lance reopened the matchmaking by inquiring of
Don Alejandro if his nephew proposed taking his bride to the Mission. The Don was all attention.Fortunately, anticipating that the question
might arise, he had discussed that very feature with his nephew. At
present the young man was assisting his father at the Mission, and in
time, no doubt, would succeed to the business.However, realizing that
her living fifty miles distant might be an objection to the girl’s
parents, he was not for insisting on that point, as no doubt Las
Palomas offered equally good advantages for business.He simply
mentioned this by way of suggestion, and invited the opinion of his
host. “Well, now, Don Alejandro,” said the old matchmaker, in flutelike
tones, “we are a very simple people here at Las Palomas.Breeding a few
horses and mules for home purposes, and the rearing of cattle has been
our occupation.As to merchandising here at the ranch, I could not
countenance it, as I refused that privilege to the stage company when
they offered to run past Las Palomas. At present our few wants are
supplied by a merchant at Shepherd’s Ferry.True, it’s thirty miles,
but I sometimes wish it was farther, as it is quite a temptation to my
boys to ride down there on various pretexts. We send down every week
for our mail and such little necessities as the ranch may need.If
there was a store here, it would attract loafers and destroy the peace
and contentment which we now enjoy.I would object to it; ‘one man to
his trade and another to his merchandise.’”
The _padrino_, with good diplomacy, heartily agreed that a store was a
disturbing feature on a ranch, and instantly went off on a tangent on
the splendid business possibilities of the Mission.The matchmaker in
return agreed as heartily with him, and grew reminiscent. “In the
spring of ’51,” said he, “I made the match between Tiburcio and Doña
Inez, father and mother of Juana.Tiburcio was a vaquero of mine at the
time, Inez being a Mission girl, and I have taken a great interest in
the couple ever since. All their children were born here and still live
on the ranch.Understand, Don Alejandro, I have no personal feeling in
the matter, beyond the wishes of the parents of the girl. My sister has
taken a great interest in Juana, having had the girl under her charge
for the past eight years.Of course, I feel a pride in Juana, and she
is a fine girl. If your nephew wins her, I shall tell the lucky rascal
when he comes to claim her that he has won the pride of Las Palomas.I
take it, Don Alejandro, that your visit and request was rather
unexpected here, though I am aware that Juana has visited among cousins
at the Mission several times the past few years.But that she had lost
her heart to some of your gallants comes as a surprise to me, and from
what I learn, to her parents also.Under the circumstances, if I were
you, I would not urge an immediate reply, but give them the customary
period to think it over.Our vaqueros will not be very busy for some
time to come, and it will not inconvenience us to send a reply by
messenger to the Mission. And tell Don Blas, even should the reply be
unfavorable, not to be discouraged. Women, you know, are peculiar.Ah,
Don Alejandro, when you and I were young and went courting, would we
have been discouraged by a first refusal?”
Señor Travino appreciated the compliment, and, with a genial smile,
slapped his host on the back, while the old matchmaker gave vent to a
vociferous guffaw.The conversation thereafter took several tacks, but
always reverted to the proposed match. As the hour grew late, the host
apologized to his guest, as no doubt he was tired by his long ride, and
offered to show him his room.The _padrino_ denied all weariness,
maintaining that the enjoyable evening had rested him, but reluctantly
allowed himself to be shown to his apartment.No sooner were the
good-nights spoken, than the old ranchero returned, and, snapping his
fingers for attention, motioned me to follow. By a circuitous route we
reached the _jacal_ of Tiburcio.The old couple had not yet retired,
and Juana blushingly admitted us. Uncle Lance jollied the old people
like a robust, healthy son amusing his elders.We took seats as before
around the small table, and Uncle Lance scattered the gloom of the
_jacal_ with his gayety. “Las Palomas forever!” said he, striking the table with his bony fist.“This _padrino_ from the Mission is a very fine gentleman but a poor
matchmaker.Just because young Don Blas is the son of a Travino, the
keeper of a picayune _tienda_ at the Mission, was that any reason to
presume for the hand of a daughter of Las Palomas?Was he any better
than a vaquero just because he doled out _frijoles_ by the quart, and
never saw a piece of money larger than a _media real_? Why, a Las
Palomas vaquero was a prince compared to a fawning attendant in a
Mission store.Let Tia Inez stop fretting herself about losing Juana—it
would not be yet awhile. | Adams, Andy - A Texas Matchmaker |