CHAPTER XI
THE T UP AND DOWN
The next day Cal Smith said that a joke was all very well, buttwenty-five miles was far enough to carry it, and he staked Whitey to ahorse to make the rest of the trip with, Whitey to return the horse onhis way back. When they reached Zumbro Creek it hadn't gone down a bit,except to go down stream, and it was doing that like the dickens. Itcertainly was a very bad-tempered-looking creek, but Cal Smith wasn'tafraid of it.
He had brought along all his sons, and a couple of ranch hands, andinstructed them to stand by with ropes, while he took Whitey about aquarter of a mile up the creek, and the two of them plunged in. CalSmith was not going to let any kid try to swim a horse across that creekby himself.
It was quite a sight to see all those Smith boys standing in a line onthe bank. With the biggest one, Abe, at one end, and the smallest one,Cal, at the other, and the rest of them standing according to theirsizes, they looked like a flight of steps. And little Cal was too smallto be of any use, but he didn't know that, and some one had given himthe end of a lariat to hold, and he clutched it, and looked as anxiousand important as any one.
All went well with Cal Smith and Whitey until they got to about themiddle of the creek, and then, zowie! the full force of the current hitthem, and they went down the stream as though they were a couple offeathers. But the little range ponies were just as game as Cal Smith,and they kept fighting that stream as though they were humans, and keptedging over and edging over until they finally got a footing andscrambled out on the other bank, a full quarter of a mile below theford. So Zumbro Creek had beat them a whole half-mile down stream, onthat trip across.
"So long, son," said Cal Smith. "You've only got about twelve miles togo to reach the T Up and Down, and you'd better stay there a couple ofdays before you start back, to give this creek a chance to learn how tobehave itself."
Then Cal Smith rode back a half-mile up the stream to make the returntrip, and Whitey watched, and the flight of steps of Smith boys watched.And when Cal landed safely, and Whitey waved at them all from adistance, as he rode away, he felt, as I think you will feel, that itwas no wonder Western men had the reputation of being big-hearted, whena man like Cal Smith would take all that trouble for a boy he never hadseen before.
The T Up and Down was a rather small ranch, boasting not over a thousandhead of cattle, but its manager, Dan Brayton, proved to be a very largeman. That is, he was large around, for he was not tall. He must haveweighed nearly three hundred pounds, and when Whitey first saw him, heat once wondered how he ever got on a horse, and then Whitey reflectedthat it sure would take a mighty strong horse to buck with Dan on it.
When Whitey arrived, Dan was in what he called his office, a small roomall fitted up with saddles and bridles, and boots and spurs, and beltsand guns, and--oh, yes; there was a little desk almost hidden in thelitter, and Dan Brayton was seated at it, his face all wrinkled in theeffort to solve some figures written on a piece of paper.
Dan received Whitey cordially, but seemed surprised to hear that he wasthe bearer of an important letter from Bill Jordan. He held the letterin his hand and looked at it critically, as people do who are not in thehabit of receiving many letters, and he asked:
"How is Silent?"
"Silent?" inquired the puzzled Whitey.
"Sure, Silent," replied Dan. "That's what we allus called Bill Jordanback in Wyomin'."
"Why, he talks all the time," said Whitey.
"That's th' reason we called him Silent," Dan answered, chuckling.
Whitey did not know that Bill Jordan hated this nickname, and had donehis best to leave it behind when he moved from Wyoming, and that when hecame to Montana he only got rid of it by licking several cowpunchers whotried to tack it onto him there. But he answered that Bill was verywell. When Dan had looked the letter up and down, and behind andbefore, and over and back, he finally opened it and read it.
But before he had finished it, he was attacked by a violent fit ofcoughing and choking, and became almost purple in the face. Whiteyfeared that he might be about to have a fit of apoplexy, which he hadheard that stout people are subject to, but Dan gasped out somethingabout going to get a drink, and hurried from the room, and was gone along time.
Even then Whitey did not suspect anything. He was so pleased with thejourney--barring the twenty-five-mile walk--and with the strangeexperiences he was having, that his mind had no room in which to harborsuspicious thoughts of Bill Jordan. When Dan returned, he seemed better,though his face was a trifle red. He apologized to Whitey, saying thathe was subject to such "spells." Then he inquired how Whitey got alongon his trip to the T Up and Down.
Whitey described his journey, and Dan seemed much concerned aboutWhitey's having had to walk the twenty-five miles, and couldn'tunderstand how Bill Jordan had made the mistake of supposing that CalSmith's ranch was on the stage road. And when Whitey told him that thedriver thought Bill was playing a joke on him, Dan shook his headsolemnly, and seemed almost about to have another spell, and allowedthat Bill suttinly wouldn't play no joke o' that kind.
Whitey had thought that most fat people were jolly, and was surprised tofind Dan Brayton so serious. But he thought maybe it was the letter thatmade him so, for when he looked at it, he wrinkled up his forehead, andcoughed behind his hand, and seemed to be considering it very weightily.At last he spoke.
"This here letter's very important," Dan said, "an' I don't wonder Billwouldn't trust none o' them fool punchers with it. An' 'course, Billdidn't c'nfide its insides t' you, knowin' how important your fathertakes all them important matters o' his."
Whitey wondered if Dan didn't know any other long word besides"important," but he said nothing, while Dan thought and thought aboutthe letter, and finally spoke again.
"I bin thinkin'," he said, "that I'll have t' c'nsider this here matter't some length, 'fore decidin' on no course o' action. You don't mindstayin' overnight, do you?"
Whitey replied that it had been his intention to remain at the T Up andDown for a day or two, if it was agreeable to Dan, so that matter wassettled.
"Th' ain't much t' see 'round here, th' country bein' kind o' flat an'uninterestin', an' I reck'n, bein' rather tired, you wouldn't mind justsettin' here an' readin', while I go an' c'nsult with my foreman," Dansaid, and went away and presently returned with a big thick book, whichwas very heavy, and gave it to Whitey. "This here's my fav'rut book,"Dan continued, "an' is very absorbin'. Set in my chair there, an' ready'self t' death, 'f you feel like it," and Dan took himself off.
So Whitey sat in Dan's chair, which happened to be the only chair in theroom, and was extremely uncomfortable, being all sagged down on oneside, on account of Dan's weight. The book proved to be aseveral-years-old copy of the Congressional Record, containing thespeeches made before Congress at that time, and in addition to beingheavy, it was more than dull. Whitey couldn't understand how Dan foundit "absorbin'." Dan certainly must be a serious-minded person, despitehis fat. And yet, from over near the bunk house, Whitey heard loudlaughter coming from several men. He reflected hopefully that perhapsthe hands were not so solemn as Dan Brayton.
But this hope was ill-founded, for later, when Dan took Whitey to thebunk house, he found all the punchers who were there were readingserious-looking books. Whitey supposed that "like master, like man,"they must be taking after Dan Brayton. He did not know that some ofthose cowboys couldn't read at all, and if he had looked close enough hemight have seen that some of those who could read were holding theirbooks upside down.
Whitey's stay at the T Up and Down turned out to be as dull as theCongressional Record. There was an old-fashioned melodeon in theliving-room of the ranch house, and it was very much out of tune. One ofthe punchers could play, and he played, and the others sang hymns, andsang them very badly, and when they had finished the hymns, they startedon doleful songs like "The Cowboy's Lament," and "Bury Me On the LonePerare-e-e."
These seemed to be great favorites with the punchers, and Whiteywond
ered at it. They were getting less popular with him every minute.Afterwards he learned what may have made them please the men; thatalmost all the songs sung on the ranges are written by the cowboysthemselves, and they may be dismal because of being composed duringlonely night rides.
One puncher called "Little" Thompson, who was high and narrow inbuild--shaped something like a lath, with a face something like anundertaker's--sang at length. First a doleful ditty that went like this:
"Oh! my name it is J.W. Wright, I came from Tennessee. There was a killin' in th' mountains, th' sheriff got his, ye see. I left my wife an' babies, them kids I loved so well, An' I'll find a grave on th' lone prairee, Oh! pardners, ain't it hell?"
After this had dragged out its weary length he got an encore, andresponded with this gem:
"We came up over th' long trail, Three thousand cattle strong. Ned Saunders needed a hair cut, Fer his hair was too darned long.
"Oh, th' night was dark an' stormee, An' the Injuns round did yell, So we herded into a canyon, An' th' sons-o'-guns come like hell.
"Ned lost his hair, he didn't care, Fer he had lots t' spare, Oh, te-tumity tum-tum,"--and so on.
There were at least a hundred verses of this last, each verse moredeadly dull than the one before, and Little was very conscientious; hedidn't slight any of them. Long before he was through, Whitey envied thefate of Ned Saunders. But the evening was only mortal, it had to end,and at last it did.
Whitey must have shown signs of wear, for as they parted to go to bed,Dan Brayton said to him, "Cheer up, it may rain to-morrow," and it did!
Now, if there was anything more depressing than the T Up and Down whenthe weather was fine, it was that same ranch when it rained. How Whiteygot through that awful day he never really knew. The most cheerful thingthat happened was during dinner, when Dan Brayton told a long yarn abouta brother of his, who had small-pox and fleas at one and the same time,and, as Dan said, "was more t' be pitied than scorned." And this mighthave been a joke, though no one laughed. But at last evening came withanother programme of dirges, then night with its blessed sleep.