The Lure of the Dim Trails by B. M. Bower (best management books of all time TXT) 📖

CHAPTER V. THE STORM

The third night he was detailed to stand with Bob MacGregor on the middle guard, which lasts from eleven o'clock until two. The outfit had camped near the head of a long, shallow basin that had a creek running through; down the winding banks of it lay the white-tented camps of seven other trail-herds, the cattle making great brown blotches against the green at sundown. Thurston hoped they would all be there in the morning when the sun came up, so that he could get a picture.

“Aw, they'll be miles away by then,” Bob assured him unfeelingly. “By the signs, you can take snap-shots by lightning in another hour. Got your slicker, Bud?”

Thurston said he hadn't, and Bob shook his head prophetically. “You'll sure wish yuh had it before yuh hit camp again; when yuh get wise, you'll ride with your slicker behind the cantle, rain or shine. They'll need singing to, to-night.”

Thurston prudently kept silent, since he knew nothing whatever about it, and Bob gave him minute directions about riding his rounds, and how to turn a stray animal back into the herd without disturbing the others.

The man they relieved met them silently and rode away to camp. Off to the right an animal coughed, and a black shape moved out from the shadows.

Bob swung towards it, and the shape melted again into the splotch of shade which was the sleeping herd. He motioned to the left. “Yuh can go that way; and yuh want to sing something, or whistle, so they'll know what yuh are.” His tone was subdued, as it had not been before. He seemed to drift away into the darkness, and soon his voice rose, away across the herd, singing. As he drew nearer Thurston caught the words, at first disjointed and indistinct, then plainer as they met. It was a song he had never heard before, because its first popularity had swept far below his social plane.

“She's o-only a bird in a gil-ded cage, A beautiful sight to see-e-e; You may think she seems ha-a-aappy and free from ca-a-re..”

The singer passed on and away, and only the high notes floated across to Thurston, who whistled softly under his breath while he listened. Then, as they neared again on the second round, the words came pensively:

“Her beauty was so-o-old For an old man's go-o-old, She's a bird in a gilded ca-a-age.”

Thurston rode slowly like one in a dream, and the lure of the range-land was strong upon him. The deep breathing of three thousand sleeping cattle; the strong, animal odor; the black night which grew each moment blacker, and the rhythmic ebb and flow of the clear, untrained voice of a cowboy singing to his charge. If he could put it into words; if he could but picture the broody stillness, with frogs cr-ekk, er-ekking along the reedy creek-bank and a coyote yapping weirdly upon a distant hilltop! From the southwest came mutterings half-defiant and ominous. A breeze whispered something to the grasses as it crept away down the valley.

“I stood in a church-yard just at ee-eve, While the sunset adorned the west.”

It was Bob, drawing close out of the night. “You're doing fine, Kid; keep her a-going,” he commended, in an undertone as he passed, and Thurston moistened his unaccustomed lips and began industriously whistling “The Heart Bowed Down,” and from that jumped to Faust. Fifteen minutes exhausted his memory of the whistleable parts, and he was not given to tiresome repetitions. He stopped for a moment, and Bob's voice chanted admonishingly from somewhere, “Keep her a-go-o-ing, Bud, old boy!” So Thurston took breath and began on “The Holy City,” and came near laughing at the incongruity of the song; only he remembered that he must not frighten the cattle, and checked the impulse.

“Say,” Bob began when he came near enough, “do yuh know the words uh that piece? It's a peach; I wisht you'd sing it.” He rode on, still humming the woes of the lady who married for gold.

Thurston obeyed while the high-piled thunder-heads rumbled deep accompaniment, like the resonant lower tones of a bass viol.

“Last night I lay a-sleeping, there came a dream so fair; I stood in old Jerusalem, beside the temple there.”

A steer stepped restlessly out of the herd, and Thurston's horse, trained to the work, of his own accord turned him gently back.

“I heard the children singing; and ever as they sang, Me thought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang.”

From the west the thunder boomed, drowning the words in its deep-throated growl.

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, lift up your gates and sing.”

“Hit her up a little faster, Bud, or we'll lose some. They're getting on their feet with that thunder.”

Sunfish, in answer to Thurston's touch on the reins, quickened to a trot. The joggling was not conducive to the best vocal expression, but the singer persevered:

“Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your King!”

Flash! the lightning cut through the storm-clouds, and Bob, who had contented himself with a subdued whistling while he listened, took up the refrain:

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem.”

It was as if a battery of heavy field pieces boomed overhead. The entire herd was on its feet and stood close-huddled, their tails to the coming storm. Now the horses were loping steadily in their endless circling—a pace they could hold for hours if need be. For one blinding instant Thurston saw far down the valley; then the black curtain dropped as suddenly as it had lifted.

“Keep a-hollering, Bud!” came the command, and after