CHAPTER NINE
THE OLD TIMER
About a week later, in the course of the round-up, we reached thevalley of the Box Springs, where we camped for some days at thedilapidated and abandoned adobe structure that had once been a ranchhouse of some importance.
Just at dusk one afternoon we finished cutting the herd which ourmorning's drive had collected. The stray-herd, with its new additionsfrom the day's work, we pushed rapidly into one big stock corral. Thecows and unbranded calves we urged into another. Fifty head of beefsteers found asylum from dust, heat, and racing to and fro, in the milesquare wire enclosure called the pasture. All the remainder, for whichwe had no further use we drove out of the flat into the brush andtoward the distant mountains. Then we let them go as best pleased them.
By now the desert bad turned slate-coloured, and the brush was olivegreen with evening. The hard, uncompromising ranges, twenty miles toeastward, had softened behind a wonderful veil of purple and pink,vivid as the chiffon of a girl's gown. To the south and southwest theChiricahuas and Dragoons were lost in thunderclouds which flashed andrumbled.
We jogged homewards, our cutting ponies, tired with the quick, sharpwork, shuffling knee deep in a dusk that seemed to disengage itself andrise upwards from the surface of the desert. Everybody was hungry andtired. At the chuck wagon we threw off our saddles and turned themounts into the remuda. Some of the wisest of us, remembering thethunderclouds, stacked our gear under the veranda roof of the old ranchhouse.
Supper was ready. We seized the tin battery, filled the plates withthe meat, bread, and canned corn, and squatted on our heels. The foodwas good, and we ate hugely in silence. When we could hold no more welit pipes. Then we had leisure to notice that the storm cloud wasmounting in a portentous silence to the zenith, quenching the brilliantdesert stars.
"Rolls" were scattered everywhere. A roll includes a cowboy's bed andall of his personal belongings. When the outfit includes a bed-wagon,the roll assumes bulky proportions.
As soon as we had come to a definite conclusion that it was going torain, we deserted the camp fire and went rustling for our blankets. Atthe end of ten minutes every bed was safe within the doors of theabandoned adobe ranch house, each owner recumbent on the floor claim hehad pre-empted, and every man hoping fervently that he had guessedright as to the location of leaks.
Ordinarily we had depended on the light of camp fires, so nowartificial illumination lacked. Each man was indicated by thealternately glowing and waning lozenge of his cigarette fire.Occasionally someone struck a match, revealing for a moment high-lightson bronzed countenances, and the silhouette of a shading hand. Voicesspoke disembodied. As the conversation developed, we graduallyrecognised the membership of our own roomful. I had forgotten to statethat the ranch house included four chambers. Outside, the rain roaredwith Arizona ferocity. Inside, men congratulated themselves, or sworeas leaks developed and localised.
Naturally we talked first of stampedes. Cows and bears are the twogreat cattle-country topics. Then we had a mouth-organ solo or two,which naturally led on to songs. My turn came. I struck up the firstverse of a sailor chantey as possessing at least the interest ofnovelty:
Oh, once we were a-sailing, a-sailing were we, Blow high, blow low, what care we; And we were a-sailing to see what we could see, Down on the coast of the High Barbaree.
I had just gone so far when I was brought up short by a tremendous oathbehind me. At the same instant a match flared. I turned to face astranger holding the little light above his head, and peering withfiery intentness over the group sprawled about the floor.
He was evidently just in from the storm. His dripping hat lay at hisfeet. A shock of straight, close-clipped vigorous hair stood up greyabove his seamed forehead. Bushy iron-grey eyebrows drawn closetogether thatched a pair of burning, unquenchable eyes. A square, deepjaw, lightly stubbled with grey, was clamped so tight that the cheekmuscles above it stood out in knots and welts.
Then the match burned his thick, square fingers, and he dropped it intothe darkness that ascended to swallow it.
"Who was singing that song?" he cried harshly. Nobody answered.
"Who was that singing?" he demanded again.
By this time I had recovered from my first astonishment.
"I was singing," said I.
Another match was instantly lit and thrust into my very face. Iunderwent the fierce scrutiny of an instant, then the taper was thrownaway half consumed.
"Where did you learn it?" the stranger asked in an altered voice.
"I don't remember," I replied; "it is a common enough deep-sea chantey."
A heavy pause fell. Finally the stranger sighed.
"Quite like," he said; "I never heard but one man sing it."
"Who in hell are you?" someone demanded out of the darkness.
Before replying, the newcomer lit a third match, searching for a placeto sit down. As he bent forward, his strong, harsh face once more cameclearly into view.
"He's Colorado Rogers," the Cattleman answered for him; "I know him."
"Well," insisted the first voice, "what in hell does Colorado Rogersmean by bustin' in on our song fiesta that way?"
"Tell them, Rogers," advised the Cattleman, "tell them--just as youtold it down on the Gila ten years ago next month."
"What?" inquired Rogers. "Who are you?"
"You don't know me," replied the Cattleman, "but I was with BuckJohnson's outfit then. Give us the yarn."
"Well," agreed Rogers, "pass over the 'makings' and I will."
He rolled and lit a cigarette, while I revelled in the memory of hisrich, great voice. It was of the sort made to declaim against the seaor the rush of rivers or, as here, the fall of waters and thethunder--full, from the chest, with the caressing throat vibration thatgives colour to the most ordinary statements. After ten words we sankback oblivious of the storm, forgetful of the leaky roof and the dirtyfloor, lost in the story told us by the Old Timer.