The Killer

  CHAPTER II

  THE OLD WEST

  I went to the ranch many years ago, stepping from the train somewherenear midnight into a cold, crisp air full of stars. My knowledge ofCalifornia was at that time confined to several seasons spent on thecoast, where the straw hat retires only in deference to a traditionwhich none of the flowers seem bound to respect. As my dress accordedwith this experience, I was very glad to be conducted across the streetto a little hotel. My guide was an elderly, very brown man, with a whitemoustache, and the bearing of an army regular. This latter surmise laterproved correct. Manning was one of the numerous old soldiers who hadfought through the General's Apache campaigns, and who now in his agehad drifted back to be near his old commander. He left me, after manysolicitations as to my comfort, and a promise to be back with the teamat seven o'clock sharp.

  Promptly at that hour he drew up by the curb. My kit bag was piledaboard, and I clambered in beside the driver. Manning touched his team.We were off.

  The rig was of the sort usual to the better California ranches of theday, and so, perhaps, worth description. It might best be defined as arather wide, stiff buckboard set on springs, and supported by stoutrunning gear. The single seat was set well forward, while the body ofthe rig extended back to receive the light freight an errand to townwas sure to accumulate. An ample hood top of gray canvas could be raisedfor protection against either sun, wind, or rain. Most powerful brakescould be manipulated by a thrust of the driver's foot. You may be surethey were outside brakes. Inside brakes were then considered the weakexpedients of a tourist driving mercenary. Generally the tongue andmoving gear were painted cream; and the body of the vehicle dark green.

  This substantial, practical, and business-like vehicle was drawn by apair of mighty good bright bay horses, straight backed, square rumped,deep shouldered, with fine heads, small ears, and alert yet gentle eyesof high-bred stock. When the word was given, they fell into a steady,swinging trot. One felt instinctively the power of it, and knew thatthey were capable of keeping up this same gait all day. And that wouldmean many miles. Their harness was of plain russet leather, neat andwell oiled.

  Concerning them I made some remark, trivial yet enough to start Manning.He told me of them, and of their peculiarities and virtues. He descantedat length on their breeding, and whence came they and their fathers andtheir fathers' fathers even unto the sixth generation. He left me atlast with the impression that this was probably the best team in thevalley, bar none. It was a good team, strong, spirited, gentle, andenduring.

  We swung out from the little town into a straight road. If it has seemedthat I have occupied you too exclusively with objects near at hand, thematter could not be helped. There was nothing more to occupy you. A fogheld all the land.

  It was a dense fog, and a very cold. Twenty feet ahead of the horsesshowed only a wall of white. To right and left dim, ghostly bushes orfence posts trooped by us at the ordered pace of our trot. An occasionallone poplar tree developed in the mist as an object on a dry platedevelops. We splashed into puddles, crossed culverts, went through allthe business of proceeding along a road--and apparently got nowhere. Themists opened grudgingly before us, and closed in behind. As far asknowing what the country was like I might as well have been blindfolded.

  From Manning I elicited piecemeal some few and vague ideas. Thismeagreness was not due to a disinclination on Manning's part, but onlyto the fact that he never quite grasped my interest in meresurroundings. Yes, said he, it was a pretty flat country, and somebrush. Yes, there were mountains, some ways off, though. Not many trees,but some--what you might call a few. And so on, until I gave it up.Mountains, trees, brush, and flat land! One could construct any and alllandscapes with such building blocks as those.

  Now, as has been hinted, I was dressed for southern California; and thefog was very damp and chill. The light overcoat I wore failed utterly toexclude it. At first I had been comfortable enough, but as milesucceeded mile the cold of that winter land fog penetrated to the bone.In answer to my comment Manning replied cheerfully in the words of anold saw:

  "_A winter's fog Will freeze a dog_,"

  said he.

  I agreed with him. We continued to jog on. Manning detailed what I thenthought were hunting lies as to the abundance of game; but which Iafterward discovered were only sober truths. When too far gone in themiseries of abject cold I remembered his former calling, and glancingsideways at his bronzed, soldierly face, wished I had gumption enoughleft to start him going on some of his Indian campaigns. It was toolate; I had not the gumption; I was too cold.

  Now I believe I am fairly well qualified to know when I really feelcold. I have slept out with the thermometer out of sight somewhere downnear the bulb; I once snowshoed nine miles; and then overheated fromthat exertion, drove thirty-five without additional clothing. On variousother occasions I have had experiences that might be called frigid. Butnever have I been quite so deadly cold as on that winter morning's drivethrough the land fog of semi-tropical California. It struck through tothe very heart.

  I subsequently discovered that it takes two hours and three quarters todrive to the ranch. That is a long time when one has nothing to look at,and when one is cold. In fact, it is so long that one loses track oftime at all, and gradually relapses into that queer condition of passiveendurance whereto is no end and no beginning. Therefore the end alwayscomes suddenly, and as a surprise.

  So it was in this case. Out of the mists sprang suddenly two tall fanpalms, and then two others, and still others. I realized dimly that wewere in an avenue of palms. The wheels grated strangely on gravel. Weswung sharply to the left between hedges. The mass of a building loomedindistinctly. Manning applied the brakes. We stopped, the steam fromthe horses' shining backs rising straight up to mingle with the fog.

  "Well, here we are!" said Manning.

  So we were! I hadn't thought of that. We must be here. After anappreciable moment it occurred to me that perhaps I'd better climb down.I did so, very slowly and stiffly, making the sad mistake of jumpingdown from the height of the step. How that did injure my feelings! Theonly catastrophe I can remember comparable to it was when a teacherrapped my knuckles with a ruler after I had been making snowballs barehanded. My benumbed faculties next swung around to the proposition ofproceeding up an interminable gravel walk--(it is twenty-five feetlong!) to a forbidding flight of stairs--(porch steps--five of them!) Iput this idea into execution. I reached the steps. And then----

  The door was flung open from within, I could see the sparkle and leap ofa fine big grate fire. The Captain stood in the doorway, a broad smileon his face; my hostess smiled another welcome behind him; the Generalroared still another from somewhere behind her.

  Now I had never met the Captain. He held out both hands in greeting. Oneof those hands was for me to shake. The other held a huge glass of hotscotch. The hot scotch was in the right hand!