The nose of the intelligent animal was elevated and the contents of two canteens poured down its throat. There was no struggling, and when the drink was exhausted, the soft muzzle again gently caressed the cheek now rapidly growing cold. For several moments there was silence, Bob still kneeling, chafed the fast chilling brow. The passing shadow of a great buzzard, sailing low and in ever narrowing circles, swept the dying Southerner’s upturned face. He started, as he glimpsed the bird of ill-omen, and faltered appealingly:
“Bob—you won’t—let—that—damned—thing—”
Eyes expressive of indefinable tenderness turned to Twilight. The Silent one understood:
“No! Canary. That there feathered hoodoo ain’t a goin’ dese’rate yo’ hoss. We’ll lay Twilight ’longside—”
Bob struggled to hide an emotion that was choking. A wave of comprehension suffused the dimming eyes, as the sufferer fought for speech:
“Twilight—was all—I had. Bury us—together. Up here where—sunshine—clouds—remind me of—of—But no difference! Maybe—somewhere—we will be—together again—with no—cussed—badger holes—to bother.”
There was a long pause, and then:
“Bob—I’m going. I wanted—to end—Twilight’s—suffering. But—I—couldn’t do it. You will—make it—easy for—him—won’t you?”
“Twilight won’t never know. He’ll be with yo’! But I hater—”
A suppressed sob shook the kneeling form. The dying singer of Dixie melodies, seemed, through sheer force of an indomitable will, to hold an ebbing strength, for imparting, a soul troubling secret. While the mind struggled with the gathering mists of a fast approaching sunset, the voice was less husky as he continued:
“Bob, you and—the boys have—been good friends—to me. But you seemed—the closest! Maybe it was—the Dixie tie. I never told—you about the—little—little—But no use now. It’s alright! Last night—she came. Little gal—of long ago. When children—we played in—old orchard—back home. We’d sing—‘hollerin’ down—my apple tree.’ Last night I was—oh! so cold. Wet, freezing! Twilight—shivered. She came—little gal. Spread blanket—over me and—Twilight. Sang again—that song. Placed hand on—my head. Pain—all left. I slept warm. Twilight—seemed not—cold. Dreamed of—the apple tree—old—crooked. Heard song as—we used to—”
The range waif reared himself on an elbow. An ineffable light suffused the pallid countenance, as the gaze went out and beyond the circle of awed watchers. Were those glazing orbs visioning that which is withheld from mortal kind? The voice of the Dixie Canary was clear; the cadence that of the campfire trill, as he sang:
“I’m a comin’! I’m a comin’!
Sho’ my haid’s a bendin’ low;
I heah tha’r gentle voices callin’,”
And then:
“You may holler down my apple tree;
I don’t like you any—”
The poor, broken body fell back against the breast of the only Twilight.
The Dixie Canary was dead.
The sun, at his zenith, blazed down on an imposing mound of rough stone, marking the final resting place of the mysterious “Canary” and his inseparable “Twilight.” The pile was surmounted with a once fine, but now battered saddle, a silver mounted bridle with an easy bit, and fancy chapajeros. A tin tobacco box, placed in a crevice of the wall, contained a leaf torn from the foreman’s time-book, bearing, in labored pencil scrawl, this legend
To memery uv
the
Dixey Canery
&
Twilite
arected by they boys
Angils Drempt A Singin Voise.
God Gived That Voise To The
Dixey CaneryA Cattle King Offered All His
Range For a Hoss Woth While.
God Knowed His Bisnis.
He Saived That Hoss For The
Dixey Canery
XXI
A “Geezar” in Camp
Dream back beyond the cramping lanes
Badger Clark
To glories that have been—
To camp smoke on the sunset plains
The riders loping in;
Loose rein and rowelled heel to spare,
The wind our only guide,
For youth was in the saddle there
With half a word to ride.
At last the beef roundup was over, with the fatigued riders and horses all gathered in camp. The H-B contingent was far from being sorry, since it is the hardest work connected with the range. A man must possess a good physical constitution with the nerve to bear up under the hardships incumbent on such a life. The cowboy is up at dawn to care for his horses, and ofttimes he rides from early morning till sunset. In some instances he does not return to camp until far in the night. He never considers appeasing his own hunger without first feeding, and sometimes rubbing down his tired mount. No difference what the weather, he works just the same, cutting out and branding the “slick-ears,” as the outfit goes from one grazing locality to another. This is kept up until the entire Reservation’s open range has been covered. During such rodeo, each stockman has his share of well mounted riders in the field.
Carter’s boys were now returning to the ranch for a well earned rest; and, but for the one tragedy, all would have been as happy as a bunch of school children out on a summer vacation. That memorial stone-heap back on the skyline of Badger Ridge, loomed a darkened shadow across an otherwise sunlit sky. But men leading the life of the range, are philosophically inclined to accept its vicissitudes along with its measurements of joy. The yesterdays, with whatever of grief and pleasure, as a trail never again to be traversed, is well forgotten. Present duty, and the lure of the future, is Nature’s balm for the wounded spirit. The boys were going home!
“Frenchy is game!” commented Carter, as they broke camp. “He stuck to his job through the roundup, and will make a real ‘puncher’ in time. But he’ll have to learn not to bounce so like rubber in the saddle.”
Jim had devoted his idle moments victimizing the verdant Parisian. As Foreman, qualified to give instructions, he insisted that, to become a good horseman, a beginner should at least ride one entire day without making any use of his stirrups. Frenchy heroically followed the suggestion, and the next morning when the camp moved, he mounted the chuck wagon instead of his horse. Perched on the blanket rolls, he doffed his hat in courteous acknowledgment to the lusty cheering of his companions as they cantered by. All this past, the Toy was now proudly riding in the
