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Curly

<h2>CHAPTER XXVII</h2> <h3>A SECOND-HAND ANGEL</h3> Scouting cautious, and shying wide of settlements except when we had to buy chuck, I herded my youngsters up the long trail north. We took no count of the distance, we lost all tab of dates, but camped where game was plenty, pushed on when the sun was shining, holed up when the wind was too cold, and mostly lived by hunting. So we rode the winter through and came to the spring beyond, catching maybe more happiness than was good to have all at once. One day, the snow being gone, and the prairie one big garden of spring flowers reaching away to the skyline, we happened to meet up sudden with a pony-soldier which he was lying under the shadow of his horse and playing tunes on a mouth-organ, heaps content with himself. His coat was red, his harness all glittering fine, his boots were shiny, his spurs had small cruel rowels. He said his chief was His Imperial Majesty Edward VII., that his tribe was the North-West Mounted Police, and his camp was called Medicine Hat, the same being close adjacent. We sounded him on robbers, but he seemed plumb ignorant, and said there was quite a few antelope if we cared for hunting. Telling the youngsters to camp, I went butting along into Medicine Hat to prospect the same alone. It felt mighty strange to be in a town again, see the people walking around who belonged there, women and children especially, but the whisky I sampled felt right natural, and for all my snuffing and snorting I smelt nothing suspicious in the way of wolf-trap. So I traded with a lady who kept store for woman's clothing, such as she used herself, enough to load up my pack-horse. She certainly selected liberal to judge by the money I paid. When I got back to camp expecting supper, I found the kids had been quarrelling, so that they weren't on speaking terms, and I had to introduce them. Jim was special haughty, but Curly got heaps interested in the clothes I'd bought, crowing and chuckling over everything. Her favorite game was playing at being a lady, but now she shied at committing herself. "Shucks!" she flirted across to the far side of the fire. "I cayn't oppress Jim in them things—I'd get so tame and weak he'd sit on my haid!" "You're due to get mar'ied," says I, "as sure as sunrise to-morrow." "So! Jim ain't caught me yet!" Jim started in to catch her, but she jumped the fire to clear him. "Now!" she deified him complete; "don't you rush my corral with one of yo' fool kisses, or I'll shorely bat yo' haid. I ain't laid down my arms yet!" So she swaggered with her little brown hand on her gun, the firelight glowing on her leather clothes and gold bright hair, on the flush of her sunburnt skin, on milk-white teeth, and laughing, flashing eyes. Jim's heart was burning, I reckon, for he went down on one knee and reached out his arms to her. There was only the fire between them. "Say you love me, Curly?" "It cayn't be helped, Jim," she whispered, and her face went grave, "but I shorely love you." <hr style="width: 45%;" /> Riding the ranges of the world and grazing in life's pastures, I've got to be plumb content with things present, which I can grab the same with my teeth, instead of hungering after that heaven above which seems a lot uncertain, and apt to prove disappointing. Here I've got horses for sure, plenty cows, and Monte, one of my old riders, for my partner. Bear Hole is the name of our new ranche, with the bull pines of the coconino forest all around us, the hoary old volcanoes towering above, and the lava-beds fencing our home pasture. Back of the cabin is the spring where Curly used to splash me when she washed, the cave where she sang to me beside our camp fire. The bubble spring, the wind in the pines, the chatter of the birds, and the meadow flowers remind me of her always. She has put away her spurs and gun never to ride any more with free men on God's grass, because, poor soul! she's only a lady now and gone respectable. Last summer—it sure makes me sweat to think of that scary business—I went to Ireland. First came civilisation—which I'd never seen it before—cities all cluttered up with so various noises and smells that I got lost complete. When you stop to study the trail you get killed by a tramcar. Then there was the ocean, a sure great sight and exciting to the stomach—mine got plumb dissolute, pitching and bucking around like a mean horse, so that I was heaps glad to dismount at Liverpool. That Old Country is plenty strange, too, for a plain man to consider, for I seen women drunk and children starving, and had to bat a white man's head for shining a nigger's shoes. It beats me how such a tribe can ride herd on a bunch of empires as easy as I drive cows, but if I proceed to unfold all I don't know, I'll be apt to get plumb talkative. When I came up against Balshannon Castle, I found it a sure enough palace, which was no place for me, so I pawed around outside inquiring. Her ladyship was to home, and I found her setting in a fold-up chair on the terrace. It made me feel uplifted to see her there nursing a small baby, crooning fool talk to the same, which she patted and smacked and nuzzled all at once. "Wall," says she, as I came looming up accidental, "ef it ain't ole Chalkeye! Didn't I tell you awdehs to come long ago? Now don't you talk, or you'll spoil my kid's morals, 'cause he ain't broke to hawss-thieves. Yes, you may set on that stool." "Curly," says I, feeling scared, "is that yo' kid?" "Sort of. I traded for him. He's a second-hand angel. Now jest ain't he cute?" He was a sure cunning little person, and thought me great medicine to play with. "Whar is his lawdship?" says I. "Jim's down to the pasture, breaking a fool colt, and Chalkeye—oh, you ole felon, how I enjoy to see yo' homely face! I got good news. Father's alive, yes, in New York. He writes to say he's got a job at a theatre, giving shows of roping and shooting. He's the Cowboy Champion, and"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"planning enormous robberies. He'll steal New York, I reckon." "Curly," says I, "spose I give you good news. May I hold that kid just to try?" "Now you tame yo'self, and don't get ra'ring up too proud. Then maybe you shall—to-morrow. Tell me yo' news." I handed her the documents, which the governor of Arizona had made for me himself. Curly was pardoned, the charge against Jim was withdrawn, and I was to come up for trial when called upon. I shall not be called upon so long as I stay good. I saw the tears in Curly's eyes as she read, and her lips went twisty as if she were due to cry. "Shorely," she said, "this comes of tellin' our prayers to God. So Jim and me is free to go back to Holy Crawss?" "You're free." "Old friend," she whispered, "you must be first to tell Jim. Leave me awhile." I walked away into the house as if to look for Jim, then crept back behind a curtain watching her. She looked away to the west, and I knew she was longing for the desert. Then she kissed her baby on the nose, and once again, as in the old days, I heard her singing:— <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Whar y'u from, little stranger—little boy? Y'u was riding a cloud on that star-strewn plain, But y'u fell from the skies like a drop of rain, To this wo'ld of sorrow and long, long pain— Will y'u care fo' yo' motheh, lillie boy?" </div> </div> Far off I could hear the footfall of a horse. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "When y'u grows, little varmint, lillie boy, Y'u'll be ridin' a hawss at yo' fatheh's side, With you' gun and yo' spurs and yo' haidstrong pride: Will y'u think of yo' home when the world rolls wide— Will y'u wish fo' yo' motheh, lillie boy?" </div> </div> The horse was coming nearer up the drive. <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "When y'u love in yo' manhood, little boy, When y'u dream of a girl who is angel fair, When the stars are her eyes, and the winds her hair, When the sun is her smile, and yo' heaven's there, Will y'u care fo' yo' motheh, lillie boy?" </div> </div> The horseman, brought up half-rearing, stepped from the saddle, then threw his rein in the old range way, and Balshannon hurried to his wife. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <h2>LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY'S</h2> <h3>Popular Editions of Recent Fiction</h3> Reissues of favorite copyrighted novels, fully illustrated (with few exceptions), and handsomely bound in cloth. 1. 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