Jim Waring of Sonora-Town Part 58

Dorothy's face grew rosy. "Your master is very inquisitive," she told Bondsman.

"And your little missy is right beautiful this mawnin'," said Shoop.

"Now, if I was a bow-legged young cow-puncher with curly hair, and looked fierce and n.o.ble and could make a gal's eyes s.h.i.+ne like stars in the evenin', I reckon I wouldn't be sittin' here signin' letters."

"He _isn't_ bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was very definite about that. "And he's not a cowboy. He is a ranger."

"My goodness! I done put my foot in a gopher hole that shake. I sure am standin' on my head, waitin' for somebody to set me up straight ag'in.

You ain't mad at your Uncle Bud, be you?"

Dorothy tossed her head, but her eyes twinkled, and suddenly she laughed. "You know I like you--heaps! You're just jealous."

"Reckon you said it! But I only got one ear laid back yet. Wait till I see that boy."

"Oh, pshaw! You can't help being nice to him."

"And I got comp'ny."

"But really I want to talk seriously, if you will let me. Lorry has been talking about enlisting. He didn't say that he was going to enlist, but he has been talking about it so much. Do you think he will?"

"Well, now, missy that's a right peart question. I know if I was his age I'd go. Most any fella that can read would. I been readin' the papers for two years, and b'ilin' inside. I reckon Lorry's just woke up to what's goin' on. We been kind of slow wakin' up out here. Folks livin'

off in this neck of the woods gets to thinkin' that the sun rises on their east-line fence and sets on their west line. It takes somethin'

strong to make 'em recollec' the sun's got a bigger job'n that. But I admire to say that when them kind of folks gets started onct they's nothin' ever built that'll stop 'em. If I get elected I aim to tell some folks over to the State House about this here war. And I'm goin' to start by talkin' about what we got to set straight right here to home first. They can _feel_ what's goin' on to home. It ain't all print. And they got to feel what's goin' on over there afore they do anything."

"It's all too terrible to talk about," said Dorothy. "But we must do our share, if only to keep our self-respect, mustn't we?"

"You said it--providin' we got any self-respect to keep."

"But why don't our young men volunteer. They are not cowards."

"It ain't that. Suppose you ask Lorry why."

"I shouldn't want to know him if he didn't go," said Dorothy.

"Missy, I'm lovin' you for sayin' that! If all the mothers and sisters and sweethearts was like that, they wouldn't be no conscription. But they ain't. I'm no hand at understandin' wimmin-folks, but I know the mother of a strappin' young fella in this town that says she would sooner see her boy dead in her front yard than for him to go off and fight for foreigners. She don't know what this country's got to fight for pretty quick or she wouldn't talk like that. And she ain't the only one. Now, when wimmin talks that way, what do you expect of men? I reckon the big trouble is that most folks got to see somethin' to fight afore they get goin'. Fightin' for a principle looks just like poundin'

air to some folks. I don't believe in shootin' in the dark. How come, I've plugged a rattlesnake by just shootin' at the sound when he was coiled down where I couldn't see him. But this ain't no kind of talk for you to listen to, missy."

"I--you won't say that I spoke of Lorry?"

"Bless your heart, no! And he'll figure it out hisself. But don't you get disap'inted if he don't go right away. It's mighty easy to set back and say 'Go!' to the other fella; and listen to the band and cheer the flag. It makes a fella feel so durned patriotic he is like to forget he ain't doin' nothin' hisself.

"Now, missy, suppose you was a sprightin' kind of a boy 'bout nineteen or twenty, and mebby some gal thought you was good-lookin' enough to talk to after church on a Sunday; and suppose you had rustled like a little n.i.g.g.e.r when you was a kid, helpin' your ma wash dishes in a hotel and chop wood and sweep out and pack heavy valises for tourists and fill the lamps and run to the store for groceries and milk a cow every night and mornin'.

"And say you growed up without breakin' your laig and went to punchin'

cattle and earnin' your own money, and then mebby you got a job in the Ranger Service, ridin' the high trails and livin' free and independent; and suppose a mighty pretty gal was to come along and kind of let you take a s.h.i.+ne to her, and you was doin' your plumb durndest to put by a little money, aimin' to trot in double harness some day; and then suppose your daddy was to offer you a half-interest in a growin' cattle business, where you could be your own boss and put by a couple of thousand a year. And you only nineteen or twenty.

"Suppose you had been doin' all that when along comes word from 'way off somewhere that folks was killin' each other and it was up to you to stop 'em. Wouldn't you do some hard thinkin' afore you jumped into your fightin' clothes?"

"But this war means more than that."

"It sure does. But some of us ain't got the idee yet. 'Course all you got to do to some folks is to say 'Fight' and they come a-runnin'. And some of that kind make mighty good soldier boys. But the fella I'm leavin' alone is the one what cinches up slow afore he climbs into the saddle. When he goes into a fight it's like his day's work, and he don't waste no talk or elbow action when he's workin'."

"I wish I were a man!"

"Well, some of us is right glad you ain't. A good woman can do just as much for this country right now as any man. And I don't mean by dressin'

up in fancy clothes and givin' dances and sh.e.l.lin' out mebby four per cent of the gate receipts to buy a ambulance with her name on it.

"And I don't mean by payin' ten dollars for a outfit of gold-plated knittin'-needles to make two-bit socks for the boys. What I mean is that a good woman does her best work to home; mebby just by sayin' the right word, or mebby by keepin' still or by smilin' cheerful when her heart is breakin' account of her man goin' to war.

"You can say all you like about patriotism, but patriotism ain't just marchin' off to fight for your country. It's usin' your neighbors and your country right every day in the week, includin' Sunday. Some folks think patriotism is buildin' a big bonfire once a year and lettin' her blaze up. But the real thing is keepin' your own little fire a-goin'

steady, right here where you live. And it's thinkin' of that little fire to home that makes the best soldier.

"He's got a big job to do. He's goin' to get it done so he can go back to that there home and find the little fire a-burning bright. What do some of our boys do fightin' alongside of them Frenchmen and under the French flag, when they get wounded and get a furlough? Set around and wait to go back to fightin'? I reckon not. Some of 'em pack up and come four, five thousand miles just to see their folks for mebby two, three days. And when they see them little fires to home a-burnin' bright, why, they say: 'This here is what we're fighting for.' And they go back, askin' G.o.d A'mighty to keep 'em facin' straight to the front till the job is done."

Dorothy, her chin in her hand, gazed at Bud. She had never known him to be so intense, so earnest.

"Oh, I know it is so!" she cried. "But what can I do? I have only a little money in the bank, and father makes just enough to keep us comfortable. You see, we spent such lots of money for those horrid old doctors in the East, who didn't do me a bit of good."

"You been doin' your share just gettin' well and strong, which is savin'

money. But seein' you asked me, you can do a whole lot if Lorry was to say anything to you about goin'. And you know how better'n I can tell you or your daddy or anybody."

"But Lorry must do as he thinks best. We--we are not engaged."

"'Course. And it ain't no time for a young fella to get engaged to a gal and tie up her feelin's and march off with her heart in his pocket.

Mebby some day she's goin' to want it back ag'in, when he ain't livin'

to fetch it back to her. I see, by the Eastern papers Torrance has been sendin' me, that some young fellas is marryin' just afore they go to jine the Frenchmen on the front. Now, what are some of them gals goin'

to do if their boys don't come back? Or mebby come back crippled for life? Some of them gals is goin' to pay a mighty high price for just a few days of bein' married. It riles me to think of it."

"I hadn't thought of it--as you do," said Dorothy.

"Well, I hope you'll forgive your Uncle Bud for ragin' and rampin'

around like this. I can't talk what's in my heart to folks around here.

They're mostly narrow-gauge. I reckon I said enough. Let's go look at that new saddle."

"Isn't it strange," said Dorothy, "that I couldn't talk with father like this? He'd be nice, of course, but he would be thinking of just me."

"I reckon he would. And mebby some of Lorry."

"If Lorry should ask me about his going--"

"Just you tell him that you think one volunteer is worth four conscripts any time and any place. And if that ain't a hint to him they's somethin'

wrong with his ears."

Shoop rose and plodded out after Dorothy. Bondsman trailed lazily behind. Because Shoop had not picked up his hat the big dog knew that his master's errand, whatever it was, would be brief. Yet Bondsman followed, stopping to yawn and stretch the stiffness of age from his s.h.a.ggy legs. There was really no sense in trotting across the street with his master just to trot back again in a few minutes. But Bondsman's unwavering loyalty to his master's every mood and every movement had become such a matter of course that the fine example was lost in the monotony of repet.i.tion.

A dog's loyalty is so often taken for granted that it ceases to be noticeable until in an unlooked-for hazard it s.h.i.+nes forth in some act of quick heroism or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tribute than has yet been written.

Bondsman was a good soldier.