Part 19 (2/2)

”Like it! That doesn't express it at all. Why, if you'd lived in an abandoned sheep camp for months and prepared your own meals on a broken stove, and eaten them all alone on a b.u.mpy table covered with a piece of oilcloth, and taken your bath in an icy cold creek and then only on the darkest nights for fear someone were watching, and read a few magazines over and over 'til you knew even the advertis.e.m.e.nts by heart--then suddenly found yourself seated in a room like this, with real china and silver, and comfortable chairs and a _luncheon cloth_--you'd think it was heaven.”

Patty was aware that the old lady was smiling at her across the table.

”If I had lived like that for months, did you say? My dear girl, we lived for years in that little shack--you can see it from where you sit--it's the tool house, now. Mr. Samuelson built it with his own hands when there weren't a half-dozen white men in the hills, and until it was completed we lived in a tepee!”

”You've lived here a long time.”

”Yes, a long, long time. I was the first white woman to come into this part of the hill country to live. This was the first ranch to be established in the hills, but we have a good many neighbors now--and such nice neighbors! One never really appreciates friends and neighbors until a time--like this. Then one begins to know. A long time ago, before I knew, I used to hate this place. Sometimes I used to think I would go crazy, with the loneliness--the vastness of it all. I used to go home and make long visits every year, and then--the children came, and it was different.” The woman paused and her eyes strayed to the open window and rested upon the bold headland of a mighty mountain that showed far down the valley.

”And--you love it, now?” Patty asked, softly, as she poured French dressing over crisp lettuce leaves.

”Yes--I love it, now. After the children came it was all different. I never want to leave the valley, now. I never shall leave it. I am an old woman, and my world has narrowed down to my home, and my valley--my husband, and my friends and neighbors.” She looked up guiltily, with a tiny little laugh. ”Do you know, during those first years I must have been an awful fool. I used to loathe it all--loathe the country--the men, who ate in their s.h.i.+rt sleeves and blew into their saucers, and their women. It was the uprising that brought me to a realization of the true worth of these people--” The little woman's voice trailed off into silence, and Patty glanced up from her salad to see that the old eyes were once more upon the far blue headland, and the woman's thoughts were evidently very far away. She came back to the present with an apology: ”Why bless you, child, forgive me! My old wits were back-trailing, as the cowboys would say. You have finished your salad, come, let's go out onto the porch, where we can get the afternoon breeze and be comfortable.” She led the way through the living-room where she left the girl for a moment, to tiptoe upstairs for a peep at the sick man. ”He's asleep,” she reported, as they stepped out onto the porch and settled themselves in comfortable wicker rockers.

”What was the uprising?” asked Patty. ”Was it the Indians? I'd love to hear about it.”

”Yes, the Indians. That was before they were on reservations and they were scattered all through the hills.”

A cowboy galloped to the porch, drew up sharply, and removed his hat.

”We rode through them horses that runs over on the east slope an'

they're all right--leastways all the markers is there, an' the bunches don't look like they'd be'n any cut out of 'em. But, about them white faces--Lodgepole's most dried up. Looks like we'd ort to throw 'em over onto Sage Crick.”

The little woman looked thoughtful. ”Let's see, there are about six hundred of the white faces, aren't there?”

”Yessum.”

”And how long will the water last in Lodgepole?”

”Not more'n a week or ten days, if we don't git no rain.”

”How long will it take to throw them onto Sage Creek?”

”Well, they hadn't ort to be crowded none this time o' year. The four of us had ort to do it in three or four days.”

The old lady shook her head. ”No, the cattle will have to wait. I want you boys to stay right around close 'til you hear from Vil Holland. Keep your best saddle horses up and at least one of you stay right here at the ranch all the time. The rest of you might ride fences, and you better take a look at those mares and colts in the big pasture.”

The cowboy's eyes twinkled: ”I savvy, all right. Guess I'll take the bunk-house s.h.i.+ft myself this afternoon. Got a couple extry guns to clean up an' oil a little.”

”Whatever you do, you boys be careful,” admonished the woman. ”And in case anything happens and Vil Holland isn't here, send one of the boys after him at once.”

The other laughed: ”Guess they ain't much danger, if anything happens he won't be a-ridin' right on the head of it.” The cowboy gathered up his reins, dropped them again, and his gloved fingers fumbled with his leather hat band. The smile had left his face.

”Anything else, Bill?” asked Mrs. Samuelson, noting his evident reluctance to depart.

”Well, ma'am, how's the Big Boss gittin' on?”

”He's doing as well as could be expected, the doctor says.”

The cowboy cleared his throat nervously: ”You know, us boys thinks a heap of him, an' we'd like fer him to git a square deal.”

”A square deal!” exclaimed the woman. ”Why, what in the world do you mean?”

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