Me -- Smith

an excerpt from: Chapter I âMEâSMITHâ A man on a tired gray horse reined in where a dim cattle-trail dropped into a gulch, and looked behind him. Nothing was in sight. He half closed his eyes and searched the horizon. No, there was nothingâjust the same old sand and sage-brush, hills, more sand and sage-brush, and then to the west and north the spur of the Rockies, whose jagged peaks were white with a fresh fall of snow. The wind was chill. He shivered, and looked to the eastward. For the last few hours he had felt snow in the air, and now he could see it in the dim, gray mistâstill far off, but creeping toward him. For the thousandth time, he wondered where he was. He knew vaguely that he was âover the lineââthat Montana was behind himâbut he was riding an unfamiliar range, and the peaks and hills which are the guide-boards of the West meant nothing to him. So far as he knew, he was the only human being within a hundred miles. His lips drew back in a half-grin and exposed a row of upper teeth unusually white and slightly protruding. He was thinking of the meeting with the last person to whom he had spoken within twenty-four hours. He closed one eye and looked up at the sun. Yes, it was just about the same time yesterday that a dude from the English ranch, a dude in knee breeches and shiny-topped riding boots, had galloped confidently toward him. He had dismounted and pretended to be cinching his saddle. When the dude was close enough Smith had thrown down on him with his gun. âFeller,â he had said, âI guess Iâll have to trade horses with you. And fall off quick, for Iâm in kind of a hurry.â The grin widened as he thought of the dudeâs surprised eyes and the dudeâs face as he dropped out of the saddle without a word. Smith had stood his victim with his hands above his head while he pulled the saddle from his horse and threw it upon his own. The dude rode a saddle with a double cinch, and the fact had awakened in the Westerner a kind of interest. He had even felt a certain friendliness for the man he was robbing. âFeller,â he had asked, âdo you come from the Mañana country?â âFrom Chepstow, Monmouth County, Wales,â the dude had replied, in a shaking voice. âWhere did you get that double-rigged saddle, then?â âTexas.â The answer had pleased Smith. âYou ainât losinâ none on this deal,â he had then volunteered. âThis horse that you just traded for is a looker when he is rested, and he can run like hell. You can go your pile on him. Just burn out that lazy S brand and run on your own. You can hold him easy, then. I like a feller that rides a double-rigged saddle in a single-rigged country. Sâlong, and keep your hands up till Iâm out of range.â âThank you,â the dude had replied feebly. When Smith had ridden for a half a mile he had turned to look behind him. The dude was still standing with his hands high above his head. âI wonder if heâs there yet?â The man on horseback grinned. He reached in the pocket of his mackinaw coat and took out a handful of sugar. âYou can travel longer on it nor anything,â he muttered. He congratulated himself that he had filled his pocket from the booze-clerkâs sugar-bowl before the mix came. The act was characteristic of him, as was the forethought which had sent him to the door to pick the best saddle-horse at the hitching-post, before the lead began to fly. The man suddenly realized that the mist in the east was denser, and spreading. He jabbed the spurs into his horse and sent the jaded animal sliding on its fetlocks down the steep and rocky trail that led into the dry bed of a creek which in the spring flowed bank high. In the bottom he pulled his horse to its haunches and leaned from his saddle to look at a foot-print in a little patch of smooth sand no larger than his two hands.

Author / Editor: Lockhart, Caroline

Category: Novels

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