Part 21 (1/2)

The afterglow of sunset slowly faded out of the western sky. And the hush of the night was over all. The feeling of an awful solitude, which comes to those whose business is to pa.s.s the night on the open prairie, is enhanced rather than reduced by the buzz of insect life upon the night air. The steady hum of the mosquito--the night song of the gra.s.shoppers and frogs--the ticking, spasmodic call of the invisible beetles--all these things help to intensify the loneliness and magnitude of the wild surroundings. Nor does the smoldering camp-fire lessen the loneliness. Its very light deepens the surrounding dark, and its only use, after the evening meal is cooked, is merely to dispel the savage attack of the voracious mosquito and put the fear of man into the hearts of the prairie scavenger, the coyote, whose dismal howl awakens the echoes of the night at painfully certain intervals, and often drives sleep from the eyes of the weary traveler.

It is rare that the ”cow-hand” pitches his camp amongst hills, or in the neighborhood of any bushy growth. The former he shuns from a natural dislike for a limited view. The latter, especially if the bush takes the form of pine woods, is bad for many reasons, chief amongst which is the fact of its being the harborage of the savage, gigantic timber wolf--a creature as naturally truculent as the far-famed grizzly, the denizen of the towering Rockies.

Upon a high level of the prairie, out towards the upper reaches of the Rainy River, a tributary of the broad, swift-flowing Foss River, and some fifteen miles from the settlement, two men were lounging, curled leisurely round the smoldering remains of a camp fire. Some distance away the occasional lowing of a cow betrayed the presence of a band of cattle.

The men were wide awake and smoking. Whether they refrained from sleep through necessity or inclination matters little. Probably the hungry attacks of the newly-hatched mosquito were responsible for their wakefulness. Each man was wrapped in a single brown blanket, and folded saddle-cloth answered as a pillow, and it was noticeable that they were stretched out well to leeward of the fire, so that the smoke pa.s.sed across them, driving away a few of the less audacious ”skitters.”

”We'll get 'em in by dinner to-morrow,” said one of the sleepless men thoughtfully. His remark was more in the tone of soliloquy than addressed to the other. Then louder, and in a manner which implied resentment, ”Them all-fired skitters is givin' me a twistin'.”

”Smoke up, pard,” came a m.u.f.fled rejoinder from the region of the other blanket ”Maybe your hide's a bit tender yet. I 'lows skitters 'most allus goes fur young 'uns. Guess I'm all right.”

”Dessay you are,” replied the first speaker, sharply. ”I ain't been long in the country--leastways, not on the prairie, an' like as not I ain't dropped into the ways o' things. I've allus heerd as was.h.i.+n' is mighty bad when skitters is around. They doesn't worry you any.”

He pulled heavily at his pipe until his face was enveloped in a fog of smoke. His companion's tone of patronage had nettled him. The old hand moved restlessly but did not answer. It is doubtful if the other's sarcasm had been observed. It was scarcely broad enough to penetrate the toughened hide of the older hand's susceptibilities.

The silence was broken by a man's voice in the distance. The sound of an old familiar melody, chanted in a manly and not unmusical voice, reached the fireside. It was the voice of the man who was on watch round the band of cattle, and he was endeavoring to lull them into quiescence.

The human voice, in the stillness of the night, has a somnolent effect upon cattle, and even mosquitoes, unless they are very thick, fail to counteract the effect. The older hand stirred. Then he sat up and methodically replenished the fire, kicking the dying embers together until they blazed afresh.

”Jim Bowley do sing mighty sweet,” he said, in disparaging tones. ”Like a crazy buzz-saw, I guess. S'pose them beasties is gettin' kind o'

restless. Say, Nat, how goes the time? It must be night on ter your spell.”

Nat sat up and drew out a great silver watch.

”Haf an hour yet, pard.” Then he proceeded to re-fill his pipe, cutting great flakes of black tobacco from a large plug with his sheath knife.

Suddenly he paused in the operation and listened. ”Say, Jake, what's that?”

”What's what?” replied Jake, roughly, preparing to lie down again.

”Listen!”

The two men bent their keen, prairie-trained ears to windward. They listened intently. The night was very black--as yet the moon had not risen. Jake used his eyes as well as ears. On the prairie, as well as elsewhere, eyes have a lot to do with hearing. He sought to penetrate the darkness around him, but his efforts were unavailing. He could hear no sound but the voice of Jim Bowley and the steady plodding of his horse's feet as he ceaselessly circled the band of somnolent cattle. The sky was cloudy, and only here and there a few stars gleamed diamond-like in the heavens, but threw insufficient light to aid the eyes which sought to penetrate the surrounding gloom. The old hand threw himself back on his pillow in skeptical irritation.

”Thar ain't nothin', young 'un,” he said disdainfully. ”The beasties is quiet, and Jim Bowley ain't no tenderfoot. Say, them skitters 'as rattled yer. Guess you 'eard some prowlin' coyote. They allus come around whar ther's a tenderfoot.”

Jake curled himself up again and chuckled at his own sneering pleasantry.

”Coyote yerself, Jake Bond,” retorted Nat, angrily. ”Them lugs o' yours is gettin' old. Guess yer drums is saggin'. You're mighty smart, I don't think.”

The youngster got on to his feet and walked to where the men's two horses were picketed. Both horses were standing with ears c.o.c.ked and their heads held high in the direction of the mountains. Their att.i.tude was the acme of alertness. As the man came up they turned towards him and whinnied as if in relief at the knowledge of his presence. But almost instantly turned again to gaze far out into the night. Wonderful indeed is a horse's instinct, but even more wonderful is the keenness of his sight and hearing.

Nat patted his broncho on the neck, and then stood beside him watching--listening. Was it fancy, or was it fact? The faintest sound of a horse galloping reached him; at least, he thought so.

He returned to the fire sullenly antagonistic. He did not return to his blanket, but sat silently smoking and thinking. He hated the constant reference to his inexperience on the prairie. If even he did hear a horse galloping in the distance it didn't matter. But it was his ears that had first caught the sound in spite of his inexperience. His companion pigheadedly derided the fact because his own ears were not sufficiently keen to have detected the sound himself.

Thus he sat for a few minutes gazing into the fire. Jake was now snoring loudly, and Nat was glad to be relieved from the tones of his sneering voice. Presently he rose softly from his seat, and taking his saddle blanket, saddled and bridled his horse. Then he mounted and silently rode off towards the herd. It was his relief on the cattle guard.

Jim Bowley welcomed him with the genial heartiness of a man who knows that he has finished his vigil and that he can now lie down to rest. The guarding of a large herd at night is always an anxious time. Cattle are strange things to handle. A stampede will often involve a week's weary scouring of the prairie.

Just as Jim Bowley was about to ride up to the camp, Nat fired a question which he had been some time meditating.

”Guess you didn't hear a horse gallopin' jest now, pard?” he asked quietly.

”Why cert, boy,” the other answered quickly, ”only a deaf mule could 'a'