Lin McLean by Owen Wister (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

of the body he had always richly possessed; and now, whenever we met after a season’s absence and spoke those invariable words which all old friends upon this earth use to each other at meeting—“You haven’t changed, you haven’t changed at all!”—I would wonder if manhood had arrived in Lin’s boy soul. And so to-day, while he attended to my horse and explained the nature of Tommy (a subject he dearly loved just now), I looked at him and took an intimate, superior pride in feeling how much more mature I was than he, after all.

There’s nothing like a sense of merit for making one feel aggrieved, and on our return to the cabin Mr. McLean pointed with disgust to some firewood.

“Look at those sorrowful toothpicks,” said he: “Tommy’s work.”

So Lin, the excellent hearted, had angrily busied himself, and chopped a pile of real logs that would last a week. He had also cleaned the stove, and nailed up the bed, the pillow-end of which was on the floor. It appeared the master of the house had been sleeping in it the reverse way on account of the slant. Thus had Lin cooked and dined alone, supped alone, and sat over some old newspapers until bedtime alone with his sense of virtue. And now here it was long after breakfast, and no Tommy yet.

“It’s good yu’ come this forenoon,” Lin said to me. “I’d not have had the heart to get up another dinner just for myself. Let’s eat rich!”

Accordingly, we had richly eaten, Lin and I. He had gone out among the sheds and caught some eggs (that is how he spoke of it), we had opened a number of things in cans, and I had made my famous dish of evaporated apricots, in which I managed to fling a suspicion of caramel throughout the stew.

“Tommy’ll be hot about these,” said Lin, joyfully, as we ate the eggs. “He don’t mind what yu’ use of his canned goods—pickled salmon and truck. He is hospitable all right enough till it comes to an egg. Then he’ll tell any lie. But shucks! Yu’ can read Tommy right through his clothing. ‘Make yourself at home, Lin,’ says he, yesterday. And he showed me his fresh milk and his stuff. ‘Here’s a new ham,’ says he; ‘too bad my damned hens ain’t been layin’. The sons-o’guns have quit on me ever since Christmas.’ And away he goes to Powder River for the mail. ‘You swore too heavy about them hens,’ thinks I. Well, I expect he may have travelled half a mile by the time I’d found four nests.”

I am fond of eggs, and eat them constantly—and in Wyoming they were always a luxury. But I never forget those that day, and how Lin and I enjoyed them thinking of Tommy. Perhaps manhood was not quite established in my own soul at that time—and perhaps that is the reason why it is the only time I have ever known which I would live over again, those years when people said, “You are old enough to know better”—and one didn’t care!

Salmon, apricots, eggs, we dealt with them all properly, and I had some cigars. It was now that the news came back into my head.

“What do you think of—” I began, and stopped.

I spoke out of a long silence, the slack, luxurious silence of digestion. I got no answer, naturally, from the torpid Lin, and then it occurred to me that he would have asked me what I thought, long before this, had he known. So, observing how comfortable he was, I began differently.

“What is the most important event that can happen in this country?” said I.

Mr. McLean heard me where he lay along the floor of the cabin on his back, dozing by the fire; but his eyes remained closed. He waggled one limp, open hand slightly at me, and torpor resumed her dominion over him.

“I want to know what you consider the most important event that can happen in this country,” said I, again, enunciating each word with slow clearness.

The throat and lips of Mr. McLean moved, and a sulky sound came forth that I recognized to be meant for the word “War.” Then he rolled over so that his face was away from me, and put an arm over his eyes.

“I don’t mean country in the sense of United States,” said I. “I mean this country here, and Bear Creek, and—well, the ranches southward for fifty miles, say. Important to this section.”

“Mosquitoes’ll be due in about three weeks,” said Lin. “Yu’ might leave a man rest till then.”

“I want your opinion,” said I.

“Oh, misery! Well, a raise in the price of steers.”

“No.”

“Yu’ said yu’ wanted my opinion,” said Lin. “Seems like yu’ merely figure on givin’ me yours.”

“Very well,” said I. “Very well, then.”

I took up a copy of the Cheyenne Sun. It was five weeks old, and I soon perceived that I had read it three weeks ago; but I read it again for some minutes now.

“I expect a railroad would be more important,” said Mr. McLean, persuasively, from the floor.

“Than a rise in steers?” said I, occupied with the Cheyenne Sun. “Oh yes. Yes, a railroad certainly would.”

“It’s got to be money, anyhow,” stated Lin, thoroughly wakened. “Money in some shape.”

“How little you understand the real wants of the country!” said I, coming to the point. “It’s a girl.”

Mr. McLean lay quite still on the floor.

“A girl,” I repeated. “A new girl coming to this starved country.”

The cow-puncher took a long, gradual stretch and began to smile. “Well,” said he, “yu’ caught me—if that’s much to do when a man is half-witted with dinner and sleep.” He closed his eyes again and lay with a specious expression of indifference. But that sort of thing is a solitary entertainment, and palls. “Starved,” he presently muttered. “We are kind o’ starved that way I’ll admit. More dollars than girls to the square mile. And to think of all of us nice, healthy, young—bet yu’ I know who she is!” he triumphantly cried. He had sat up and levelled a finger at me with the throw-down jerk of a marksman. “Sidney, Nebraska.”

I nodded. This was not the lady’s name—he could not recall her name—but his geography of her was accurate.

One day in February my friend, Mrs. Taylor over on Bear Creek, had received a letter—no common event for her. Therefore, during several days she had all callers read it just as naturally as she had them all see the new baby, and baby and letter had both been brought out for me. The letter was signed,

“Ever your afectionite frend. “Katie Peck,

and was not easy to read, here and there. But you could piece out the drift of it, and there was Mrs. Taylor by your side, eager to help you when you stumbled. Miss Peck wrote that she was overworked in Sidney, Nebraska, and needed a holiday. When the weather grew warm she should like to come to Bear Creek and be like old times. “Like to come and be like old times” filled Mrs. Taylor with sentiment and the cow-punchers with expectation. But it is a long way from February to warm weather on Bear Creek, and even cow-punchers will forget about a new girl if she does not come. For several weeks I had not heard Miss Peck mentioned, and old girls had to do. Yesterday, however, when I paid a visit to Miss Molly Wood (the Bear Creek schoolmistress), I found her keeping in order the cabin and the children of the Taylors, while they were gone forty-five miles to the stage station to meet their guest.

“Well,” said Lin, judicially, “Miss Wood is a lady.”

“Yes,” said I, with deep gravity. For I was thinking of an occasion when Mr. McLean had discovered that truth somewhat abruptly.

Lin thoughtfully continued. “She is—she’s—she’s—what are you laughin’ at?”

“Oh, nothing. You don’t see quite so much of Miss Wood as you used to, do you?”

“Huh! So that’s got around. Well, o’ course I’d ought t’ve knowed better, I suppose. All the same, there’s lots and lots of girls do like gettin’ kissed against their wishes—and you know it.”

“But the point would rather seem to be that she—”

“Would rather seem! Don’t yu’ start that professor style o’ yours, or I’ll—I’ll talk more wickedness in worse language than ever yu’ve heard me do yet.”

“Impossible!” I murmured, sweetly, and Master Lin went on.

“As to point—that don’t need to be explained to me. She’s a lady all right.” He ruminated for a moment. “She has about scared all the boys off, though,” he continued. “And that’s what you get by being refined,” he concluded, as if Providence had at length spoken in this matter.

“She has not scared off a boy from Virginia, I notice,” said I. “He was there yesterday afternoon again. Ridden all the way over from Sunk Creek. Didn’t seem particularly frightened.”

“Oh, well, nothin’ alarms him—not even refinement,” said Mr. McLean, with his grin. “And she’ll fool your Virginian like she done the balance of us. You wait. Shucks! If all the girls were that chilly, why, what would us poor punchers do?”

“You have me cornered,” said I, and we sat in a philosophical silence, Lin on the floor still, and I at the window. There I looked out upon a scene my eyes never tired of then, nor can my memory now. Spring had passed over it with its first, lightest steps. The pastured levels undulated in emerald. Through the many-changing sage, that just this moment of to-day was lilac, shone greens scarce a week old in the dimples of the foothills; and greens new-born beneath today’s sun melted among them. Around the doubling of the creek in the willow thickets glimmered skeined veils of yellow and delicate crimson. The stream poured turbulently away from the snows of the mountains behind us. It went winding in many folds across the meadows into distance and smallness, and so vanished round the great red battlement of wall beyond. Upon this were falling the deep hues of afternoon—violet, rose, and saffron, swimming and meeting as if some prism had dissolved and flowed over the turrets and crevices of the sandstone. Far over there I saw a dot move.

“At last!” said I.

Lin looked out of the window. “It’s more than Tommy,” said he, at once; and his eyes made it out before mine could. “It’s a wagon. That’s Tommy’s bald-faced horse alongside. He’s fooling to the finish,” Lin severely commented, as if, after all this delay, there should at least be a homestretch.

Presently, however, a homestretch seemed likely to occur. The bald-faced horse executed some lively manoeuvres, and Tommy’s voice reached us faintly through the light spring air. He was evidently howling the remarkable strain of yells that the cow-punchers invented as the speech best understood by cows—Oi-ee, yah, whoop-yahye-ee, oooo-oop, oop, oop-oop-oop-oop-yah-hee!” But that gives you no idea of it. Alphabets are worse than photographs. It is not the lungs of every man that can produce these effects, nor even from armies, eagles, or mules were such sounds ever heard on earth. The cow-puncher invented them. And when the last cow-puncher is laid to rest (if that, alas! have not already befallen) the yells will be forever gone. Singularly enough, the cattle appeared to appreciate them. Tommy always did them very badly, and that was plain even at this distance. Nor did he give us a homestretch, after all. The bald-faced horse made a number of evolutions and returned beside the wagon.

“Showin’ off,” remarked Lin. “Tommy’s showin’ off.” Suspicion crossed his face, and then certainty. “Why, we might have knowed that!” he exclaimed, in dudgeon. “It’s her.” He hastened