Lin McLean by Owen Wister (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

To-day, Drybone has altogether returned to the dust. Even in that day its hour could have been heard beginning to sound, but its inhabitants were rather deaf. Gamblers, saloon-keepers, murderers, outlaws male and female, all were so busy with their cards, their lovers, and their bottles as to make the place seem young and vigorous; but it was second childhood which had set in.

Drybone had known a wholesome adventurous youth, where manly lives and deaths were plenty. It had been an army post. It had seen horse and foot, and heard the trumpet. Brave wives had kept house for their captains upon its bluffs. Winter and summer they had made the best of it. When the War Department ordered the captains to catch Indians, the wives bade them Godspeed. When the Interior Department ordered the captains to let the Indians go again, still they made the best of it. You must not waste Indians. Indians were a source of revenue to so many people in Washington and elsewhere. But the process of catching Indians, armed with weapons sold them by friends of the Interior Department, was not entirely harmless. Therefore there came to be graves in the Drybone graveyard. The pale weather-washed headboards told all about it: “Sacred to the memory of Private So-and-So, killed on the Dry Cheyenne, May 6, 1875.” Or it would be, “Mrs. So-and-So, found scalped on Sage Creek.” But even the financiers at Washington could not wholly preserve the Indian in Drybone’s neighborhood. As the cattle by ten thousands came treading with the next step of civilization into this huge domain, the soldiers were taken away. Some of them went West to fight more Indians in Idaho, Oregon, or Arizona. The battles of the others being done, they went East in better coffins to sleep where their mothers or their comrades wanted them. Though wind and rain wrought changes upon the hill, the ready-made graves and boxes which these soldiers left behind proved heirlooms as serviceable in their way as were the tenements that the living had bequeathed to Drybone. Into these empty barracks came to dwell and do business every joy that made the cow-puncher’s holiday, and every hunted person who was baffling the sheriff. For the sheriff must stop outside the line of Drybone, as shall presently be made clear. The captain’s quarters were a saloon now; professional cards were going in the adjutant’s office night and day; and the commissary building made a good dance-hall and hotel. Instead of guard-mounting, you would see a horse-race on the parade-ground, and there was no provost-sergeant to gather up the broken bottles and old boots. Heaps of these choked the rusty fountain. In the tufts of yellow, ragged grass that dotted the place plentifully were lodged many aces and queens and ten-spots, which the Drybone wind had blown wide from the doors out of which they had been thrown when a new pack was called for inside. Among the grass tufts would lie visitors who had applied for beds too late at the dance-hall, frankly sleeping their whiskey off in the morning air.

Above, on the hill, the graveyard quietly chronicled this new epoch of Drybone. So-and-so was seldom killed very far out of town, and of course scalping had disappeared. “Sacred to the memory of Four-ace Johnston, accidently shot, Sep. 4, 1885.” Perhaps one is still there unaltered: “Sacred to the memory of Mrs. Ryan’s babe. Aged two months.” This unique corpse had succeeded in dying with its boots off.

But a succession of graves was not always needed to read the changing tale of the place, and how people died there; one grave would often be enough. The soldiers, of course, had kept treeless Drybone supplied with wood. But in these latter days wood was very scarce. None grew nearer than twenty or thirty miles—none, that is, to make boards of a sufficient width for epitaphs. And twenty miles was naturally far to go to hew a board for a man of whom you knew perhaps nothing but what he said his name was, and to whom you owed nothing, perhaps, but a trifling poker debt. Hence it came to pass that headboards grew into a sort of directory. They were light to lift from one place to another. A single coat of white paint would wipe out the first tenant’s name sufficiently to paint over it the next comer’s. By this thrifty habit the original boards belonging to the soldiers could go round, keeping pace with the new civilian population; and though at first sight you might be puzzled by the layers of names still visible beneath the white paint, you could be sure that the clearest and blackest was the one to which the present tenant had answered.

So there on the hill lay the graveyard, steadily writing Drybone’s history, and making that history lay the town at the bottom—one thin line of houses framing three sides of the old parade ground. In these slowly rotting shells people rioted, believing the golden age was here, the age when everybody should have money and nobody should be arrested. For Drybone soil, you see, was still government soil, not yet handed over to Wyoming; and only government could arrest there, and only for government crimes. But government had gone, and seldom worried Drybone! The spot was a postage-stamp of sanctuary pasted in the middle of Wyoming’s big map, a paradise for the Four-ace Johnstons. Only, you must not steal a horse. That was really wicked, and brought you instantly to the notice of Drybone’s one official—the coroner! For they did keep a coroner—Judge Slaghammer. He was perfectly illegal, and lived next door in Albany County. But that county paid fees and mileage to keep tally of Drybone’s casualties. His wife owned the dance-hall, and between their industries they made out a living. And all the citizens made out a living. The happy cow-punchers on ranches far and near still earned and instantly spent the high wages still paid them. With their bodies full of youth and their pockets full of gold, they rode into town by twenties, by fifties, and out again next morning, penniless always and happy. And then the Four-ace Johnstons would sit card-playing with each other till the innocents should come to town again.

To-night the innocents had certainly come to town, and Drybone was furnishing to them all its joys. Their many horses stood tied at every post and corner—patient, experienced cow-ponies, well knowing it was an all-night affair. The talk and laughter of the riders was in the saloons; they leaned joking over the bars, they sat behind their cards at the tables, they strolled to the post-trader’s to buy presents for their easy sweethearts their boots were keeping audible time with the fiddle at Mrs. Slaghammer’s. From the multitude and vigor of the sounds there, the dance was being done regularly. “Regularly” meant that upon the conclusion of each set the gentleman led his lady to the bar and invited her to choose and it was also regular that the lady should choose. Beer and whiskey were the alternatives.

Lin McLean’s horse took him across the square without guiding from the cow-puncher, who sat absently with his hands folded upon the horn of his saddle. This horse, too, was patient and experienced, and could not know what remote thoughts filled his master’s mind. He looked around to see why his master did not get off lightly, as he had done during so many gallant years, and hasten in to the conviviality. But the lonely cow-puncher sat mechanically identifying the horses of acquaintances.

“Toothpick Kid is here,” said he, “and Limber Jim, and the Doughie. You’d think he’d stay away after the trouble he—I expect that pinto is Jerky Bill’s.”

“Go home!” said a hearty voice.

McLean eagerly turned. For the moment his face lighted from its sombreness. “I’d forgot you’d be here,” said he. And he sprang to the ground. “It’s fine to see you.”

“Go home!” repeated the Governor of Wyoming, shaking his ancient friend’s hand. “You in Drybone to-night, and claim you’re reformed?

“Yu’ seem to be on hand yourself,” said the cow-puncher, bracing to be jocular, if he could.

“Me! I’ve gone fishing. Don’t you read the papers? If we poor governors can’t lock up the State House and take a whirl now and then—”

“Doc,” interrupted Lin, “it’s plumb fine to see yu’!” Again he shook hands.

“Why, yes! we’ve met here before, you and I.” His Excellency the Hon. Amory W. Barker, M.D., stood laughing, familiar and genial, his sound white teeth shining. But behind his round spectacles he scrutinized McLean. For in this second hand-shaking was a fervor that seemed a grasp, a reaching out, for comfort. Barker had passed through Separ. Though an older acquaintance than Billy, he had asked Jessamine fewer and different questions. But he knew what he knew. “Well, Drybone’s the same old Drybone,” said he. “Sweet-scented hole of iniquity! Let’s see how you walk nowadays.”

Lin took a few steps.

“Pooh! I said you’d never get over it.” And his Excellency beamed with professional pride. In his doctor days Barker had set the boy McLean’s leg; and before it was properly knit the boy had escaped from the hospital to revel loose in Drybone on such another night as this. Soon he had been carried back, with the fracture split open again.

“It shows, does it?” said Lin. “Well, it don’t usually. Not except when I’m—when I’m—”

“Down?” suggested his Excellency.

“Yes, Doc. Down,” the cow-puncher confessed.

Barker looked into his friend’s clear hazel eyes.

Beneath their dauntless sparkle was something that touched the Governor’s good heart. “I’ve got some whiskey along on the trip—Eastern whiskey,” said he. “Come over to my room awhile.”

“I used to sleep all night onced,” said McLean, as they went. “Then I come to know different. But I’d never have believed just mere thoughts could make yu’—make yu’ feel like the steam was only half on. I eat, yu’ know!” he stated, suddenly. “And I expect one or two in camp lately have not found my muscle lacking. Feel me, Doc.”

Barker dutifully obeyed, and praised the excellent sinews.

Across from the dance-hall the whining of the fiddle came, high and gay; feet blurred the talk of voices, and voices rose above the trampling of feet. Here and there some lurking