It all came about through me bein' edicated. Most any one can read print words, if they're of a reasonable size,—the words I mean,—but I could read handwritin' too. I never was no great mathematician when you got above fractions, an' I was some particular in what I read; but if I 'd been minded that way, I reckon I could have waded through purty much any kind of a book ever was written. At that time, however, I was still middlin' young in some things, an' I sure was suspicious of any kind of book 'at looked like a school book.
If you'd have school books did up in paper with the right kind of pictures on the covers you could easy get children to peruse 'em. Did you ever notice bear cubs gettin' an edication? They ain't beat into it, they has to be helt back. Same with the Injun kids; they was up on edge to learn until they got to schoolin' 'em, then they fought again it just like the white kids. The reason is that we make children learn things they ain't curious about. I bet if you was to try an' keep it a secret about George Washington bein' made President because he wouldn't lie about choppin' down that cherry tree, the kids would stay awake nights to pry into it. Kids is only human, any way you take 'em.
But this business was sure a fetcher to me, an' Barbie, she just stumbled on it too. One afternoon me an' her went for a little ride up into the foothills, an' after we'd built our fire, like we allus did, no matter how hot it was, she lay there rollin' cigarettes for me to smoke, like she allus did—the little scamp used to get on the lee side o' me so the smoke would blow in her face; but we never mentioned it.
Well, after a while she begun to talk of romances, an' to ask me questions about 'em. I told her as many as I could remember, an' the one what suited her best was "Claud, the Boy Hero of Gore Gulch." It allus used to fret her to think 'at the' wasn't nothing she could do to make her a boy, an' she tried to even up by plannin' to herself what she'd have done if so be she had been a boy. We talked along about as usual; but I see the' was somethin' on her mind. She wasn't the one to flare up an' shout for information. She allus talked in a circle like an Injun when she really needed news.
After a while she fished out a funny old letter. It wasn't put into an envelope, it was just wrapped inside itself an' stuck fast with a gob o' some kind o' wax which had been broke before it was opened. The' had been a name on the outside, but it had been rubbed out. Inside at the beginning was the name "Rose Cottage, San Francisco," and a date; but I've forgotten the date. The letter began, "Dearest George." I read that much an' then I looked at Barbie. "Where'd you get this?" sez I.
She reddened a little, an' then she looked me straight in the face, and sez "I found it in the attic. I wanted a new box to put my cigarettes in, an' one day Daddy left the attic door open an' I went in. The' was just a dandy chest there an' he had left the key in it. I opened it an' this letter was on top. He goes to the attic alone every now an' again,—mostly at night,—an' he won't never let me go with him."
"I suppose that was the reason you thought he wanted you to go alone to the attic, too," sez I. She flushed again. "If a person don't trust me he ain't got no call to be surprised when I don't suit him."
I shook my head. Now in talkin' to her you forgot she was a child, 'cause she didn't talk broken like most of 'em do—nor she didn't think broken neither; but when you looked at her, little and slim an' purty as a picture, you couldn't help but wonder if she hadn't got her soul changed off with some one else, like what they say the Chinese believe. She had the same rules that I did for so many things that it floored me to understand how she got 'em that young, me havin' had to figger 'em out with a heap o' sweat.
"Was the letter to you?" I sez, gettin' around to facts.
"No, it wasn't; but I read it, an' I wisht I knew what it means."
"I ain't a-goin' to read it," sez I.
"You 're a coward," sez she.
"That's nothing," sez I; "if it wasn't for the cowards the' would be a heap o' vacant land in this country," sez I.
"I thought you was my friend," sez she, takin' back the letter an' holdin' it open in her hand. "If Spider Kelley could read he would read it for me."
"So would Hawkins, your pinto," sez I, grinnin'. "What you ought to do is to tell your Dad that you have the letter. If you don't tell him, I reckon I'll have to."
At first she was mad as hops, an' then she looked into my eyes an' laughed. "I'll dare you to," sez she. The' was some woman in her even then.
The' wasn't no way to bluff her, so I said serious, "Well, what do you intend to do about it?"
"I don't know," said she. "Dad has lost so many other things beside his temper, stumpin' around with that cane, that he thinks he has lost the key to the chest. He goes around grumblin' an' lookin' for it; but he don't ask if any one has found it. Why do you suppose that is?"
"It ain't any of my supposin'," sez I. "What are you goin' to do about it?"
"As soon as I get through with this letter—an' make up my mind not to hunt through the chest—I'm goin' to slip the key into his pocket—an' then watch his face when he finds it."
"You oughtn't to treat your own father so, Barbara," sez I.
She laughed. "Barbara! that's a good soundin' name on your tongue, Happy," sez she. Then she sobered. "I don't care nothing for what you say or what he says; the' 's things I'm goin' to find out; an' I have a right to. I never told him why it was that I whopped those two girls over at school last winter, an' I never told even you. I whopped 'em 'cause they said I never had a mother. Everything has to have a mother, even a snake, an' I had one too. Why don't he tell me about her? Why does he allus turn me off when I ask about her? I don't intend to just let him tell me that she was the most beautiful woman in the world an' too good to stay here, an' such things. I am going to find out who she was, an' if you wasn't a coward you'd help me. Now."
It was true what she said, an' I might have known she was studyin' about it. I might, if I'd had the sense of a hoss, have known that this was what made her old-like—studyin' about things she never ought to have been forced to study about.
"Does that letter tell about her, Barbie?" I asked.
"That's what I want to know; but you ain't got the sand to read it, an' I can't make it out. Here, read it."
I took it an' read it. The writin' was fine an' like what was in Barbie's writin' book along the top. It sounded like as if a young girl had written it partly against her will, although it was purty lovesome too. It told about how lonely she was, an' that she hadn't never been able to tell whether it was Jack or him she was most in love with until Jack had asked her, an' then after Jack had deceived her an' he had been so kind, she found out 'at he was the one she had loved the most all the time. She reminded him 'at she had written to him before acceptin' Jack, an' that now if he was still sure he wanted her, she would accept him; but she could never live near the Creole Belle. She closed with love, an' signed herself Barbara.
I kept on lookin' at the page a long time after I had read it. I remembered what Monody had said when I thought he was out of his head—about George Jordan an' Jack Whitman, an' the Creole Belle. I knew 'at Barbie was studyin' my face, an' I pertended to spell out the words a letter at a time until I could get full control o' myself.
"What kind of a bell is a Creole Bell?" sez I. "She ain't got it spelled right neither."
"A Creole Belle is a beautiful woman of French an' Spanish blood who lives in New Orleans," sez Barbie. "What do you make out about it?"
I was thinkin' fast as I could, but I still pertended to read the letter. So Jabez had been in a scrape with some cross-breed woman, an' he an' this Jack Whitman had loved the same girl, an' the' was a bad mix-up somewhere.
"Little girl," I sez, "the' 's a lot o' wickedness in this world you don't know about—"
"An' the' a lot o' wickedness I do know about 'at I ain't supposed to," she snaps in. "Do you reckon I could knock around this ranch the way I have an' not know nothin' except about flowers an' moonlight? You cut out the little girl part an' play square."
"Well, you look here," I sez. "I don't know what you do know an' I don't know what you don't know; but I do know 'at lots of the things you think you know ain't so, if you picked it up from the fool stories some o' these damn cow punchers tell; an' you ought to be ashamed to listen to 'em."
"Oh, yes, of course!" she fires up. "I am the one what ought to be ashamed of the stories the cow punchers tell! That's the way from one end to the other; somebody else says somethin' an' I ought to be ashamed 'cause I ain't too deaf to hear it. Now the' 's a lot of questions I'm goin' to ask you as soon as I get time. I want to know why—"
"No, you don't!" I yells, jumpin' to my feet an' blushin' clear to my ears. "I ain't neither one o' your parents an' I ain't your teacher. If you want to know things you ask Melisse. If you don't put a curb on yourself I'm goin' to flop myself on Starlight an' streak for the Lion Head this very minute, an' I won't stop before reachin' the Pan Handle."
She knew enough to stop bettin' up a pair o' tens when she see the other feller wasn't to be bluffed; so she sez, "Well, I'm goin' to find it out some way or other—I'm going to find out everything I want to know before I'm done. I love my Daddy, but he don't always play fair; an' I'm goin' to find out what I want to find out—whether he wants me to or not."
I was in a sweat. "Barbie," I sez at last, "supposin' he is playin' fair? Supposin' he has sacrificed his own happiness to keep sorrow out of your life, an' supposin' you nose around an' discover it—who'd be the one 'at played un-fair then? You're powerful young yet; you're a heap younger'n you realize, an' you can't know it all in a day. He'll tell you when he can, an' you ought to trust him. He loves you more'n anything else in this wide world. You ought to trust him, Barbie."
She trembled tryin' to steady herself, an' I looked off into the valley for a moment. "I know he loves me, an' I wouldn't hurt him for the world; but I think I'm old enough to know, an' I'm goin' to ask him. If he won't tell me now he has to set a date to tell me. I ain't goin' to have no dirty-faced school kids askin' me questions I can't answer."
"I reckon all you want to know is in that chest in the garret," sez I; "an' I reckon it's kept for you to read after—well some day; but if I was you, I'd put back the letter an' I'd not think about it any more'n I could help. Supposin' your Dad had had to kill a man to save your mother, an' didn't want you to know 'at he had ever killed a man—"
"Humph!" she snaps in. "Didn't Claud kill fourteen men in Gore Gulch, an' didn't I think it was fine? If he's killed a man I'd be proud of it."
"It's different in real life," sez I. "I like to read about Claud myself, but I wouldn't want to slaughter men in the quantities he does."
"You killed a man oncet yourself," sez she.
"When?" sez I.
"You killed at least one o' the Brophy gang with the butt of your gun," sez she.
"It couldn't be proved," sez I.
"It couldn't be denied," sez she. "If that's all you think it is I'm goin' to ask him."
"Supposin' your mother had made him promise not to tell you until you came of age,—you know what store he sets on keepin' his word,—would you be glad to know 'at you had made him break it? This Barbara might have been his sister, an' some one else might have been your mother."
"Oh, I see it now—my mother was the Creole Belle, the beautiful lady. He allus said she was beautiful, the most beautiful woman in the world—" She sat there with her eyes flashin', but I didn't want to let her make up things 'at wasn't so an' then be disappointed. "Who do you suppose George was, an' Jack?" sez I quiet.
She drew her brows together an' sat diggin' her spur into the dirt. "That's so, too," she said, thinkin' aloud. "But Barbara certainly did have something to do with me, an' I wisht I knew! Oh, I wish I could grow as big as I feel—I hate this bein' a child. I hate it!"
"Will you put the letter back an' try to forget it?" I said at last.
"I'll put it back at once, I'll give him the key at once; that is, I'll slip it into his pocket, an' I won't pester him about it—now; but you got to promise to tell me if you ever find it out. Will ya?"
"Yes," sez I. "If I ever find it all out I'll tell you, honest across my heart."
"An' you won't say nothin' about this letter to Daddy, until I let you?" she said, fixin' her eyes on me.
"No, I won't say a word about that until you tell me to," sez I.
"Now, then, let's play tag goin' back to the house," she said, with her lip stiff again. Oh, she had a heart in her, that child had.
"You know the pinto has Starlight beat on turns an' twists," sez I.
"Yes," she sez, "an' on a two-hundred mile race, too." She played away through the summer an' never spoke a word on the subject again; but she hid it most too careful, and Jabez saw the' was somethin' on her mind. "Have you any idea what the child's thinkin' about?" he asked me one day when we was figurin' some on the beef round-up.
I didn't answer straight off, an' he noticed it. "What is she studyin' about?" sez he, mighty shrewd.
"How can a body tell what that child is studyin' about?" sez I.
"You're with her most of the time—fact is, about all you do is to play with her these days."
"Any time my work here don't suit you," I began; but he snaps in, "It ain't a question o' work. If you amuse her you're worth more to me'n any other ten men; but I have some rights. I want to know what you think."
"Have you asked her?" sez I.
"I'm askin' you," sez he.
"Well, I want you to understand 'at I ain't no spy," sez I, glad of a way out. "I don't know all 'at 's on her mind, an' I don't propose to guess; and if I did know, I wouldn't tell unless she told me to. If you know any way to make me tell, why go ahead and I'll stand by and watch the proceedin's."
Well, he ranted up an' down a while, an' finally he pulls himself down an' sez, "Now look here, Happy, the' 's a difference between a parent an' anybody else."
"I own too to that," sez I; "but what have I got to do with it?"
"Well, you can sort of hint around until you find out what's on her mind, an' if it ain't somethin' fit, you can tell her so; because if it comes to a show down, she thinks I ought to tell her anything she wants to know."
"Well, hadn't you?" sez I.
"Yes, sometime, I suppose—but hang it, it's mighty hard to answer some of her questions, or to give reasons why I can't answer 'em."
"Have you asked her what's on her mind this time?" sez I.
He fidgeted around a while, an' then he sez, "Yes, I asked her."
"What did she say?" sez I.
"She looked me plumb in the eyes, an' said, 'Do you want me to ask you what I want to find out?'"
"What did you say?" sez I.
"Why, I said, 'Yes, Barbara, if it is something you ought to know.'"
"Well?" I sez, after waitin' a bit.
"Why, she flared up," sez Jabez, "an' went on sarcastic about it bein' strange to her why girls was so much different from other folks, an' there bein' so many things 'at they wasn't fit to know; an' finally she said to me point blank, 'Do you want me to ask you what I want to know, an' if I do ask you will you answer?'"
"What did you say?" I sez.
"I didn't know what to say," sez Jabez. "She looked different from any way she had ever looked before, and after a minute I sez, 'No, Barbara, I don't think you had better ask me, an' I don't think you had better think of it any more.' Don't you think I did right?"
"No," sez I, "you did not. You simply side-stepped; you wilted under fire, an' she hates a coward as much as you do. Why didn't you face it right then?"
"Happy," he sez, an' his voice wrung my heart, "the' 's things she'll have to know sometime, but she ain't old enough to know 'em yet." He stopped, an' his face grew hard as stone when he went on. "But the' 's some things that she never can know, an' I don't want her to even learn that there are such things. That's why you have to find out what's on her mind."
"Now you know, Jabez, that I have my own ideas on what I have to do; but you tell me what kind o' things there are that she mustn't ever learn, an' maybe I'll see your way of it."
Jabez looked down at the ground, an' the sweat broke out on his forehead before he answered me. When he did the' wasn't a trace of friendliness in his tone. "You have done a heap for me, Happy, and if there's anything in the money line that you think I owe you, why, name it an' it's yours; but you can see for yourself that we can't go on this way. I haven't asked you to do anything unreasonable and you have refused point blank. I don't intend to explain myself to one of my own men, and I don't intend to have an argument with him every time I want anything done my way. This is my ranch and as long 's my own way suits me, that's the only man it has to suit."
"Yes, you own this ranch," sez I; "but you don't own the earth, so I'll move on."
"I haven't fired you," sez Jabez. "You're welcome to work here as long as you want to; but you'll have to be like the other men from this on. You've been like one of the family so long 'at we don't pull together any more, and so if you stay I'll have to send you out with the riding gangs."
I looked into his face and laughed, though even then I was sorry for him. He led a lonely life, an' I knew 'at he'd miss me; but we was both as we was, so I rolled up my stuff, loaded up Starlight, an' said good-bye to little Barbie. That was the hard part of it. She didn't cry when I told her I was goin'—that would 'a' been too girlish-like for her; she just breathed hard an' jerky for a couple o' minutes while we looked in opposite directions, an' then she said, "How'll you come back next time, Happy? It's over three years ago since you left that other time, an' you came back just as you said, ridin' on a black hoss with silver trimmed leather. How'll you come back next time?"
"I don't know, Barbie," I said, "but I'll sure come back, true to you."
"Yes," she said, "an' I'll sure be true to you, all the time you're away and when you come back."
"Barbie," I said, "you haven't treated your father right. You've let him see that you're worryin' about somethin', an' it bothers him."
"I ain't made out o' wood," she snaps out fierce. "I try to be contented, but I get tired o' bein' a girl. I've half a mind to go with you, Happy."
"Yes, but the other half of your mind is the best half, Barbie," I said. "Now I'm goin' to tell you a secret; your daddy is twice as lonesome as you are, and he's been through a heap of trouble sometime. You miss the mother that you never did see, but he misses the mother that he knew and loved; and I want you to promise to do all you can to cheer him up and make him happy."
"I never thought o' that before," said she, "I'll do the best I can—but you'll come back to me sometime, won't you, Happy?"
"I sure will," I said, an' we shook hands on it. Then I decided that I'd leave Starlight with her. He wasn't as good for knockin' around as a range pony, and I didn't know what I'd be doin', so I took my stuff off him, picked out a tough little mustang from the home herd, shook hands with her again, an' started. I glanced up toward old Savage, and she read my thoughts. "I'll take flowers to him now and again," sez she, "and I'll go up there and talk to him about you; and Happy, Happy, we'll both be lonesome until you come back!" And so I kissed her on the lips, and rode away the second time.
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