Part 31 (1/2)
The August sun was low in the west when I climbed up the gra.s.sy slope to Morton's little square stone cabin. It stood on a bold height overlooking the Saline River. Far away in every direction the land billows lay fold on fold. Treeless and wide they stretched out to the horizon, with here and there a low elevation, and here and there the faint black markings of scrubby bushes clinging to the bank of a stream.
The stream itself, now only a shallow spread of water, bore witness to the fierce thirst of the summer sun. Up and down the Saline Valley only a few scattered homesteads were to be seen, and a few fields of slender, stunted corn told the story of the first struggle for conquest in a beautiful but lonely and unfriendly land.
Morton was standing at the door of his cabin looking out on that sweep of plains with thoughtful eyes. He did not see me until I was fairly up the hill, and when he did he made no motion towards me, but stood and waited for my coming. In those few moments as I swung forward leisurely--for I was very tired now--I think we read each other's character and formed our estimates more accurately than many men have done after years of close business a.s.sociation.
He was a small man beside me, as I have said, and his quiet manner, and retiring disposition, half dignity, half modesty, gave the casual acquaintance no true estimate of his innate force. Three things, however, had attracted me to him in our brief meeting at Topeka: his voice, though low, had a thrill of power in it; his hand-clasp was firm and full of meaning; and when I looked into his blue eyes I recalled the words which the Earl of Kent said to King Lear:
”You have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.”
And when King Lear asked, ”What's that?” Kent replied, ”Authority.”
[Ill.u.s.tration: Every movement of ours had been watched by Indian scouts]
It was in Morton's face. Although he was not more than a dozen years my senior, I instinctively looked upon him as a leader of men, and he became then and has always since been one of my manhood's ideals.
”I'm glad to see you, Baronet. Come in.” He grasped my hand firmly and led the way into the house. I sat down wearily in the chair he offered me. It was well that I had walked the last stage of my journey. Had I been twenty-four hours later I should have missed him, and this one story of the West might never have been told.
The inside of the cabin was what one would expect to find in a Plainsman's home who had no one but himself to consider.
While I rested he prepared our supper. Disappointment in love does not always show itself in the appet.i.te, and I was as hungry as a coyote. All day new sights and experiences had been crowding in upon me. The exhilaration of the wild Plains was beginning to pulse in my veins. I had come into a strange, untried world. The past, with its broken ties and its pain and loss, must be only a memory that at my leisure I might call back; but here was a different life, under new skies, with new people. The sunset lights, the gray evening shadows, and the dip and swell of the purple distances brought their heartache; but now I was hungry, and Morton was making johnny cakes and frying bacon; wild plums were simmering on the fire, and coffee was filling the room with the rarest of all good odors vouchsafed to mortal sense.
At the supper table my host went directly to my case by asking, ”Have you come out here to prospect or to take hold?”
”To take hold,” I answered.
”Are you tired after your journey?” he queried.
”I? No. A night's sleep will fix me.” I looked down at my strong arms, and stalwart limbs.
”You sleep well?” His questions were brief.
”I never missed but one night in twenty-one years, except when I sat up with a sick boy one Summer,” I replied.
”When was that one night?”
”Oh, during the war when the border ruffians and Copperheads terrorized our town.”
”You are like your father, I see.” He did not say in what particular; and I added, ”I hope I am.”
We finished the meal in silence. Then we sat down by the west doorway and saw the whole Saline Valley s.h.i.+mmer through the soft glow of twilight and lose itself at length in the darkness that folded down about it. A gentle breeze swept along from somewhere in the far southwest, a thousand insects chirped in the gra.s.ses. Down by the river a few faint sounds of night birds could be heard, and then loneliness and homesickness had their time, denied during every other hour of the twenty-four.
After a time my host turned toward me in the gloom and looked steadily into my eyes.
”He's taking my measure,” I thought.
”Well,” I said, ”will I do?”
”Yes,” he answered. ”Your father told me once in the army that his boy could ride like a Comanche, and turn his back to a mark and hit it over his shoulder.” He smiled.
”That's because one evening I shot the head off a scarecrow he had put up in the cherry tree when I was hiding around a corner to keep out of his sight. All the Springvale boys learned how to ride and shoot and to do both at once, although we never had any shooting to do that really counted.”
”Baronet”--there was a tone in Morton's voice that gripped and held me--”you have come here in a good time. We need you now. Men of your build and endurance and skill are what this West's got to have.”
”Well, I'm here,” I answered seriously.