第55章

There are occasional exceptions, of course, but they belong to the universal genus of bully, and can be found among any class.Attend to your own business, be cool and good-natured, and your skin is safe.Then when it is really "up to you," be a man;you will never lack for friends.

The Sierras, especially towards the south where the meadows are wide and numerous, are full of cattle in small bands.They come up from the desert about the first of June, and are driven back again to the arid countries as soon as the autumn storms begin.In the very high land they are few, and to be left to their own devices; but now we entered a new sort of country.

Below Farewell Gap and the volcanic regions one's surroundings change entirely.The meadows become high flat valleys, often miles in extent; the mountains--while registering big on the aneroid--are so little elevated above the plateaus that a few thousand feet is all of their apparent height; the passes are low, the slopes easy, the trails good, the rock outcrops few, the hills grown with forests to their very tops.Altogether it is a country easy to ride through, rich in grazing, cool and green, with its eight thousand feet of elevation.Consequently during the hot months thousands of desert cattle are pastured here; and with them come many of the desert men.

Our first intimation of these things was in the volcanic region where swim the golden trout.From the advantage of a hill we looked far down to a hair-grass meadow through which twisted tortuously a brook, and by the side of the brook, belittled by distance, was a miniature man.We could see distinctly his every movement, as he approached cautiously the stream's edge, dropped his short line at the end of a stick over the bank, and then yanked bodily the fish from beneath.Behind him stood his pony.We could make out in the clear air the coil of his raw-hide "rope," the glitter of his silver bit, the metal points on his saddle skirts, the polish of his six-shooter, the gleam of his fish, all the details of his costume.Yet he was fully a mile distant.After a time he picked up his string of fish, mounted, and jogged loosely away at the cow-pony's little Spanish trot toward the south.Over a week later, having caught golden trout and climbed Mount Whitney, we followed him and so came to the great central camp at Monache Meadows.

Imagine an island-dotted lake of grass four or five miles long by two or three wide to which slope regular shores of stony soil planted with trees.Imagine on the very edge of that lake an especially fine grove perhaps a quarter of a mile in length, beneath whose trees a dozen different outfits of cowboys are camped for the summer.You must place a herd of ponies in the foreground, a pine mountain at the back, an unbroken ridge across ahead, cattle dotted here and there, thousands of ravens wheeling and croaking and flapping everywhere, a marvelous clear sun and blue sky.The camps were mostly open, though a few possessed tents.They differed from the ordinary in that they had racks for saddles and equipments.

Especially well laid out were the cooking arrangements.

A dozen accommodating springs supplied fresh water with the conveniently regular spacing of faucets.

Towards evening the men jingled in.This summer camp was almost in the nature of a vacation to them after the hard work of the desert.All they had to do was to ride about the pleasant hills examining that the cattle did not stray nor get into trouble.It was fun for them, and they were in high spirits.

Our immediate neighbors were an old man of seventy-two and his grandson of twenty-five.At least the old man said he was seventy-two.I should have guessed fifty.He was as straight as an arrow, wiry, lean, clear-eyed, and had, without food, ridden twelve hours after some strayed cattle.On arriving he threw off his saddle, turned his horse loose, and set about the construction of supper.This consisted of boiled meat, strong tea, and an incredible number of flapjacks built of water, baking-powder, salt, and flour, warmed through--not cooked--in a frying-pan.He deluged these with molasses and devoured three platefuls.It would have killed an ostrich, but apparently did this decrepit veteran of seventy-two much good.

After supper he talked to us most interestingly in the dry cowboy manner, looking at us keenly from under the floppy brim of his hat.He confided to us that he had had to quit smoking, and it ground him --he'd smoked since he was five years old.

"Tobacco doesn't agree with you any more?" I hazarded.

"Oh, 'taint that," he replied; "only I'd ruther chew."The dark fell, and all the little camp-fires under the trees twinkled bravely forth.Some of the men sang.

One had an accordion.Figures, indistinct and formless, wandered here and there in the shadows, suddenly emerging from mystery into the clarity of firelight, there to disclose themselves as visitors.Out on the plain the cattle lowed, the horses nickered.

The red firelight flashed from the metal of suspended equipment, crimsoned the bronze of men's faces, touched with pink the high lights on their gracefully recumbent forms.After a while we rolled up in our blankets and went to sleep, while a band of coyotes wailed like lost spirits from a spot where a steer had died.