Home Ranch (9 page)

I had my fourth tree down and was cutting it into post lengths when, from right behind me, Hank shouted, “Gittin' pretty dadgummed big for them little britches o' yourn, ain't you? Git on over there and go to trimmin' out them trees I chopped down 'fore I have to lay a hand on you!”

I knew Hank was bluffing, and he didn't scare me a bit. “I'm not going to help you, and you're not going to lay a hand on me,” I told him. “You took the best axe and now you can cut your own posts; this is supposed to be a race.”

Hank went grumbling back, and though I could hear him cussing once in a while, he didn't bother me again for three or four hours. He hadn't taken a single post down to the wagon, and each time I took mine down I glanced up to see how he was doing. He was still hacking away at standing trees, but every one he'd cut had fallen crossways and hung up in the branches. I could have gone up and showed him how to make them fall the right way, but I was still peeved about his taking my sharp axe and wouldn't do it.

Though we hadn't stopped to eat, and the sky was so overcast I couldn't tell the time, I guessed it to be about four o'clock when I started to fell the tree that would finish my half of the load. As it toppled straight out toward the creek bed I jumped back, and found Hank standing behind me. “By dogies, didn't I tell Batch?” he shouted. “We're a-goin' to get the dadgumdest cloudburst ever you seen! Look how them clouds is a-settin' in! We'd best to hightail out'n here 'fore we get catched in a flood and drownded.”

I stood my axe down and stepped out where I could see the sky better. The clouds had become dark, and I was pretty sure we'd get rain, but not a cloudburst, so I said, “It's all right to go if you want to, but Mr. Batchlett will know by the axe marks that I cut every post on the load.”

“Reckon we might as leave stick it out a while longer,” Hank said, and started back with an axe over his shoulder. When I went to pick up mine, I found that he'd traded with me again. He'd left me the one I'd ground so carefully that morning, but the edge was nicked and scalloped till it looked like the crust on a piece of pumpkin pie. There was no sense in trying to make Hank trade back, or in trying to use the ruined axe, so I went over to grind it on the rock beside the wagon.

I might have been sitting there fifteen minutes when the horses suddenly snorted and plunged away, with the wagon bouncing, slewing, and spilling off all the posts I'd loaded. A moment later the top of a tree whipped down where the wagon had stood.

As the team raced away down the creek bed Hank came yelling at me, blaming me for scaring the horses. I knew he'd found out, from watching me, how to drop a tree where he wanted it, and had purposely felled that one so it would frighten the horses. When I yelled back and told him so, he quieted down and said pleasantly, “Ain't no sense of us a-squabblin' 'bout it. I reckon we'd best cut acrost the ridge and get home 'fore that cloudburst sets in. I know these here mountains like the palm of my own hand. ‘Tain't more'n seven, eight miles the way the crow flies.”

“Isn't it best to go back the way we came?” I asked. “If we found the team we could finish out the load by sunset.”

“No, by dogies!” Hank shouted. “I don't aim to get catched in no dad-burned canyon in a cloudburst! And I don't aim to get catched in these here mountains after dark without no gun! There's a mess o' bears hereabouts, and there ain't no tellin' when a mountain lion'll spring out on you.”

There was nothing for me to do but pick up my jumper and axe, and follow him as he led off up the mountainside.

8

Lost

H
ANK
led off up the ridge we'd been working on, quartering along below the trees. With the whole sky clouded over I couldn't be sure of the direction, but if the canyon had looped around the way I thought it had, we'd be heading north. I knew the home ranch was just a little south of straight east, so I asked, “Aren't we going the wrong way, Hank?”

“Just a dite,” he said, “to get around these here trees.”

I kept still for another half hour, but was sure we should have gone up the ridge on the other side of the canyon. After Hank turned up a rocky ridge to our left, I asked again, “Are you sure we're going the right way?”

“Got the mountain fever a'ready?” he laughed. “By dogies, I seen prairie men get so fuddled up in these here mountains they didn't know straight up from Sunday. Now you take . . . Why, afore I was your age . . .”

“I didn't say you were wrong,” I told him. “I just thought we should have gone up the other side of the canyon.”

“Go fer enough that-a-way and you'd land plumb in the Great Salt Lake. You just keep your britches drug up till we fetch the top of this here ridge, and I'll point you out the dome of Pikes Peak. I know these here mountains like I know the palm of my own right hand.”

The ridge was a lot higher than it looked to be, and it took us nearly two hours to reach the top. When we got there Hank couldn't point out Pikes Peak or anything else. By that time it was drizzling, and the clouds hung so low we could barely see the next ridge. There was a deep canyon to cross before we reached it, the drizzle had turned into a steady rain, and it was growing dark and cold. I couldn't keep my teeth from chattering; was so hungry my stomach squealed, and was beginning to worry when Hank sang out, “By dogies, I reckon I missed a beeline by a hair! This here'll fetch us out to the calf pasture—just t'other side that low ridge.”

I was so mixed up that all the ridges looked alike, but I did remember a low one to the west of the calf pasture, so I said, “Oh, yes, I remember it now! I guess we'd better hurry before it gets darker or Mr. Batchlett begins to worry.”

“Batch, he ain't got no worries—'ceptin' that team a-gettin' drownded in the cloudburst. Way this here rain's a-pickin' up, it won't be long afore it hits. You hang close on my trail so's you don't get lost when dark comes on.”

I hung close on Hank's trail, but don't know if we ever got to the top of the ridge he was talking about. Before we were halfway down the one we were on, it was so dark we had to feel for each step before we took it. And the rain was getting colder with every step. Once I slipped and fell, and my axe went rattling and sliding down the mountain. There was a second or so when it didn't make a sound, then it rang against a rock—way below us.

Ever since twilight I'd been afraid a bear or mountain lion would spring out on us, but that didn't frighten me any more. I was too afraid that I might step off a cliff, and that my own head might land on a rock the way the axe had. Hank was either as scared as I, or his teeth chattered worse. When he tried to scold me for dropping the axe his words sounded as if he were chewing them when he let them go.

I chewed right back, and told him I thought we'd better stay where we were till daylight, but he wouldn't do it. He said we'd be in the calf pasture in half an hour, and all I had to do was to watch my step and keep close behind him. I couldn't watch my step, and when I tried to keep close I bumped into him. He yapped and scolded me, but didn't try to go any farther down the mountain. We quartered across the face of it for what seemed an hour, then climbed again. I think it was the climbing that saved us. We'd only gone a little way, crawling on our hands and knees, when we came to a solid wall of rock—and there were dry fir needles at the foot of it.

I don't know whether I slept or not, but I dug down into the needles and raked them over me as if they were a blanket. I only remember being cold and scared for a long time, and that I ached all over. When the first light of morning came, white fog filled the canyons, and low-hanging gray clouds sliced off the tops of all the peaks and ridges. Hank was half-buried in the needles, lying on his back and snoring with his mouth open. As I watched him, he jumped in his sleep and mumbled something I couldn't understand, but I could tell that he was afraid. For the first time, I knew we were nowhere near the calf pasture, and that Hank was completely lost.

I'd heard plenty of stories about people being lost in the mountains and wandering in circles until they died of cold or starvation. I was already so hungry I felt weak, and was sure we'd just wander around until we dropped in our tracks. Then I remembered that we'd have been at the home ranch before dark if Hank had followed back the way we'd come, instead of being so cocksure about making the shortcut.

The more I thought of it the sorrier I was for myself, and began thinking I hated Hank for always bragging and acting as if he knew more than anybody else. I don't know why, but that started me remembering things I'd done since I'd come away from home—and I wasn't a bit proud of them.

Mr. Batchlett had had to scold me a dozen times for tearing into things before I'd stopped to think. I'd picked Blueboy when I knew he was too much horse for me and that nobody wanted me to take him. And, only because Hazel had called me a little boy, I'd picked Clay and made a monkey of myself every time I'd used him. I'd made an even bigger monkey of myself when I'd climbed on Kenny's donkey backwards. And I couldn't be very proud of bragging because I could cut posts better than Hank; or of sharpening the axe I'd thought I was going to use, and leaving his dull—or of not showing him how to fell trees after knowing I had beat him anyway.

I'd never stopped to think of it before, but, ever since I could remember, I'd wanted to do something real big, so people wouldn't call me Little Britches and treat me like a boy. But more than half the time I'd tried to do things that were too big, and had only made myself look silly.

As I lay there thinking about it Hank mumbled again, and struck out in his sleep. My first thought was that he'd struck out just as blindly when he tried to make the shortcut. And then I was ashamed of myself. I couldn't help thinking he and I were a good deal alike. Maybe he was trying to do things too big for him so people wouldn't call him an old man. Maybe he bragged about things he used to do because he couldn't do them any more, and because he wanted the same thing I did: to have other people think he was as smart and able to do things as they were.

As the daylight strengthened I forgot about being afraid—and about being sorry for myself. I'd thought I hated Hank, but I knew I didn't, and that he was the one to be sorry for. All I had to do was to use my head a little to know that I wasn't in very much trouble. We couldn't be too badly lost, because we hadn't gone very far, and knew the home ranch was just east of the mountains—certainly not more than ten or fifteen miles away. In June there would be no blizzards or hard cold that low in the mountains, and the sky was almost never clouded over for more than one or two days at a time. Just as soon as we could see the sun and find our direction, it would be easy to find our way out.

And when we did get out nobody would blame me for getting lost, and I'd have all the rest of my life to do something really big enough to be proud of. But Hank was an old man. He'd probably never be able to do anything big enough to make people respect him. Beside that, Mr. Batchlett had told him he wouldn't keep him unless he was back with a load of posts by sunset. Then, too, after all his bragging about knowing the mountains, the men would josh him forever about getting lost. I didn't believe there was much sense in trying to go any farther until the sun came out, so pushed more dry needles up over Hank and went back to thinking until he woke up.

Hank came out of the needles as if he'd been stung, grabbed his axe, and swung it above his head. Then he jerked around and shouted, “Where'd he go? Where'd . . . by dogies, I don't know what Batch is a-thinkin' 'bout, a-sendin' men off to these mountains without no gun!”

“I guess you were having a bad dream,” I told him. “Nothing has stirred around here since daylight.”

Hank rubbed a hand across his eyes, and said, “By dogies, I must'a dozed off. What time o' day is it?”

“About six,” I said. “It's been light for about an hour.”

Hank climbed stiffly to his feet, and didn't have to do any acting for me to know he had a bad backache. He didn't put his hands on it, but stood as if he were carrying a heavy log on his shoulders. “Dadgummed weather!” he grumbled. “A man can't scarcely see a landmark no place. Was the sky lighter one way or t'other at sunup? Why didn't you rouse me?”

“It wouldn't have done any good,” I said, “and I thought you needed the rest. Daylight came so slow that . . .”

“You leave me do the thinkin'!” he hollered. “If you'd'a roused me as daylight come on, we'd been out o' these here mountains 'fore now. I reckon the calf pasture lies right over that ridge yonder, and I don't aim to have nobody . . .”

Hank didn't finish, but picked up his axe and hobbled away down the mountainside. I stumbled along behind him with my teeth chattering. It had stopped raining, but our clothes were still wet from the night before. Under the dry fir needles, I hadn't noticed it much, but, as soon as the cold morning air got through them, I felt as if I'd been dipped in an ice pond.

The wet rocks were as slippery as soap, and drops of water hung on every bush and twig. By the time we were down as far as the fog, we'd both fallen a dozen times, and were as wet as if we'd been in pouring rain. With each fall Hank moved slower and rowed at me as if I'd made him fall. With every step, the fog grew thicker, until we couldn't see ten yards ahead, and it seemed to me that Hank was bearing off to our right. When I asked him about it, he chattered, “Don't tell me where I'm a-goin'! Don't you think I know? I aim to follow this here canyon down to where it comes out right to west'ard of the buildin's. Ain't no sense in us a-headin' for the calf pasture!” There was nothing for me to do but keep my mouth shut and follow where he led me.

As near as I could guess, it was about noon when the fog began to lift. Little by little, it rose until we could see nearly a mile ahead, and there the canyon ended—with mountains rising around it in a solid wall. Hank was too tired and discouraged to even swear. He slumped down on a rock, with his face buried in his hands, and for a minute or two I thought he was crying. Then he mumbled, “Dadgummed fog must'a twisted me abouts; this here's the wrong way. We got to get out! We got to get out whilst we still got the strength!”

I don't want to remember much about that afternoon. A cold drizzling rain came on again as soon as we'd started back, and Hank was so worn out he could take only a dozen or so steps without stopping to rest. At first I tried to help him, but was as weak as a wet robin, and glad enough to rest whenever he had to. All afternoon he kept telling me the mouth of the canyon was only a couple of miles ahead, but I knew he was just talking to keep me from being afraid. Well before dark I'd given up any hope of ever getting out alive, and the only thing I could think of was getting back to the dry fir needles under the overhanging cliff.

Hank must have given up hope at about the same time. He didn't try to lead the way any more, he didn't talk, and I don't think he knew I was trying to find the cliff again. It was almost dark when I saw it, high up the mountainside. Hank had to make the last part of the climb on his hands and knees, then flopped down as if he were dead. I pushed as many needles as I could over him, scraped out a nest, and covered myself over.

I was sure that was the end of me, and tried to pray, and to think about Mother and the other children at home, but it was sort of warm under the dry needles and I kept falling half asleep. Once, when it was as black as pitch, I heard a scream that made shivers run up and down my back. Hank mumbled, “Mountain lion,” but I wasn't frightened, and the next thing I knew the sun was shining.

Hank was still asleep, and it was cold under our cliff, but across the canyon the sun looked warm and yellow against the mountain. For a little while I was too lazy to move, but I knew then that we'd be able to find our way back to the home ranch, and it was kind of nice just to lie there and know it.

After a while I called to Hank, but he only groaned. And when I got up and shook him he didn't wake. I was sure he was dying, and I guess I lost my head. I was shaking the liver out of him when he mumbled, “Ain't no sense a-hollerin'. Save your strength to get out, kid. Go towards the sunrise!” Then he flopped back and went to sleep again, and wouldn't even try to wake up when I shook him.

Before I started to skirt the cliff and climb towards the sun, I scooped out a deep nest, rolled Hank into it, and covered him good and deep with the dry needles. Then I took off my jumper and spread it over the top.

My legs were about as wobbly as a new colt's, but by taking it easy and resting often I got to the top of the ridge. I wasn't any longer afraid of not getting out, but I was afraid of not being able to find my way back to where I'd left Hank. Before I started down the far side, I stopped long enough to fix every mountain and ridge and canyon in my memory.

I had thought that once I reached the top of the ridge, the going down would be easy, but it wasn't. From just holding myself back, my legs got so shaky I had to keep sitting down to rest them. I'd nearly reached the bottom, and was sitting on a rock, trembling, when I heard the sweetest music I ever hope to hear. It was faint and far away, and came echoing up from the canyon in front of me, “
She wore a yella ribbon around her neck.
” The echo of the “
neck
” whispered over and over again as it died away.