pages 294-295

Pages 294-295

                Then Jim arose, dressed and went out into the dawn of a new day, coming in later, humming, then whistling a tune, a pretty tune.  He began rattling the stove lids, building the fire, saying as he did so, “It’s a peach of a day, couldn’t be better, let’s hurry around now, I’ll get the team hitched.”  Going out again, as I sleepily pulled myself up out of bed, yawning and stretching  lazily, put my clothes on.  The fire in the kitchen range was burning merrily from the sage wood.  When I took out the griddle to fry the pancakes I had made up the night before with yeast, this made the  them lighter and it had to be set before retiring.  While they fried, I put on the chokecherry jam, butter and made sugar syrup, then fried a cut-up onion with some left over potatoes, and made coffee.  This accomplished, breakfast was ready when Jim came in.  Spending little time with eating, I hurriedly made the sandwiches, packing them in a box along with the cookies, doughnuts and a jug of water.  This, Jim put in the buggy, while I cleared away the breakfast things, then, slipping into my coat.

                Jim assisted me into the buggy and we were off, driving through the gate Jim took extra precaution in shutting it before leaving for the day, looking back as we left the lane, could still see a thin wisp of sage smoke from the chimney curling away over the canyon.  We had a slight south wind that morning with the sun shining overhead.  But, now and then as I gazed upward feathery white clouds floated lazily by and I still imagined I could hear the murmur of Shirley Creek, for with the stillness of dawn or early morn, things were much plainer or one’s ears more keen, than at mid-day, and with our cheeks bathed and caressed by the soft cool refreshing early air of the desert, for the sun had only been from behind the mountain peaks a short while, traveling through heavy sage now on each side, of the road, a booming like noise resounded in our ears, slowing the horses and looking to the right was a clearing.  There before us was a most fantastic sight, that of the sage hens in the springtime, a bunch of them strutting  back and forth in a swaggering manner with puffed necks and ruffled feathers, with wings raised as if beating the air, making a booming like sound.

                “They are very pretty at this time of year.”  I said and thrilled by the sight, we sat for some time watching this phenomenon and perhaps not far away a coyote was slinking in the under-brush waiting his chance to greedily devour one or more, spoiling this grand sight of nature, I thought, as we drove on.  The sun was getting higher and warmer, now , for we were pretty well down in the flats where little houses and clearings dotted the landscape, people trying to acquire a home and piece of ground, and mirages, which appeared often before us, took shape some as trees and water, only to become an illusion, when we reached the spot.

                Pointing to a valley between two mountains, like hills, Jim said, “That’s where we are going.”

                “How do you know?” I asked.  “you’ve never been there.”

                “But,” he answered, “That is where Coe Creek is, and we are just supposed to find the fellow there with his ranch and corral.”

                “Well sure—I had that much figured out, too.”  And we both laughed with that hollow sound of the wasteland.

                Putting his arm around me, he drew me close, hugging me tight.  The horses were sweating profusely, with the dust of the flats, flecking their hair and evidently were thirsty, for they had had no water since we left home, hoping to find water soon for them, so we could feed the hay.  For Jim had put hay in the back of the buggy.  Consulting his watch found it almost noon, but since we were on the climb heading for this supposed man’s place, we continued on this slightly winding road, with a clump of trees now and then, letting the team rest at intervals,  Then on a little farther and here was a small stream flowing form its source in the hills, which we took to be the much heard of Coe Creek, then a house and corrals farther on up which we took to be the folks we were looking for.  Resting the horses a bit before going on, we were suddenly confronted with a herd of range cattle, coming down to get their noon day drink.  Jim pulled over to one side and stopped.  On seeing us though, they too off with fright in a cloud of dust.  Some distance away they stopped in a bunch, looking toward us.

                To the right we saw an old log cabin, and a broken down corral, water trough and trees with a grassy spot.  Jim’s suggestion sounded good when he said “the horses are tired. We’ll pause here, water, feed, and eat our lunch.”  driving into the yard.  Beneath the much appreciated shade, the horses seemed glad of the rest.  Jim spread the canvas, while I got out the lunch, having eaten an early breakfast, we were plenty hungry, sandwiches disappeared, then the doughnuts,  The cookies, I thought would be a surprise and Jim would like them, didn’t work so well even though I was enjoying them, saying he never cared much for raisins in anything.  Sitting awhile after we had finished to enjoy the shade, scenery and the view back across the flats over the long narrow winding road we had come and just behind us the partly crumbling old log cabin, which held a fascination partly through curiosity, for I was always inquisitive of things old, the sagging door ajar, held by one hinge, admitted me, the dirt floor that gaping hole on the far side of the room, with its days of usefulness long in the past and its occupants long gone left telltale traces of those long ago days, for in a darkened corner, a badly dilapidated baby cradle stood, I could readily imagine its many years of use and the babies’ rocked in its some fifty years before, its cupboards with doors gone and empty except for a broken dish or two, gave mute evidence along with the cradle and an old rocker, minus one rocker.  They had come perhaps by ox team across the plains; a partly worn crumpled and buttoned baby shoe lay in another dim corner. Sage rats had left their tell tale marks on an old bench sawed from a log.  The windows gone and open to the atmosphere, for the murmuring winds of summer to sigh through and the drifting snows of winter.  In the back of the fireplace a lot of debris was piled like the doings of a packrat, and bird had built her nest in one end of the cupboard.  Here was this tranquil peaceful old abode left to the ravages of time and destruction of nature, sagging and rotting from time, weather and the sighing winds was only a landmark now, once inhabited in by gone years, with shrubs , a wild rose and the trill of a meadowlark some distance away, but, for all this, years just stand still for the old log cabin, and undismayed with the trend of time, I thought, while looking back , as we drove on.