CHAPTER XXXIII
_The Fires of Home_
Bud Shoop read the newspaper notice twice before he realized fully itsimport. The Adams House at Stacey was for sale. "Then Jim and Annie'spatched it up," he soliloquized. And the genial Bud did not refer to theAdams House.
Because his master seemed pleased, Bondsman waited to hear the rest ofit with head cocked sideways and tail at a stiff angle.
"That's all they is to it," said Shoop.
Bondsman lay down and yawned. He was growing old. It was only Bud'svoice that could key the big Airedale up to his earlier alertness. Theoffice was quiet. The clerk had gone out for his noon meal. The fallsunshine slanted lazily through the front-office windows. The room waswarm, but there was a tang of autumn in the air. Shoop glanced at thepaper again. He became absorbed in an article proposing conscription. Heshook his head and muttered to himself. He turned the page, and glancedat the livestock reports, the copper market, railroad stocks, and passedon to an article having to do with local politics.
Bondsman, who constituted himself the guard of Shoop's leisure, rappedthe floor with his tail. Shoop glanced over the top of his paper aslight footsteps sounded in the outer office. Dorothy tapped on thelintel and stepped in. Shoop crumpled the paper and rose. Bondsman wasat her side as she shook hands with the supervisor.
"My new saddle came," she said, patting Bondsman. "And father's latestbook. Why don't you cheer?"
"Goodness, missy! I started cheerin' inside the minute I seen you. Now,I reckon you just had to have that new saddle."
"It's at the store. Father is over there talking politics and war withMr. Handley."
"Then you just set down and tell your Uncle Bud the news while you'rewaitin'."
"But I am not _waiting_. I am visiting _you_. And I told you the news."
"And to think a new saddle could make your eyes shine like that! Ain'tyou 'shamed to fool your Uncle Bud?"
"I haven't--if you say you know I have."
"'Course. Most any little gal can get the best of me."
"Well, because you are so curious--Lorry is back."
"I reckoned that was it."
"He rode part-way down with us. He has gone to see his father."
"And forgot to repo't here first."
"No. He gave me the reports to give to you. Here they are. One of Mr.Waring's men, that young Mexican, rode up to the mesa last week and leftword that Lorry's father wanted to see him."
"I aim to know about that," chuckled Shoop. And he smoothed out thepaper and pointed to the Adams House sale notice.
"The Adams House for sale? Why--"
"Jim and Annie--that's Jim Waring and Mrs. Waring now--are goin' to runthe ranch. I'm mighty glad."
"Oh, I see! And Lorry is really Laurence Waring?"
"You bet! And I reckon Lorry'll be fo'man of that ranch one of thesedays. Cattle is sky-high and goin' up. I don't blame him."
"He didn't say a word about that to me."
"'Course not. He's not one to say anything till he's plumb sure."
"He might have said _something_" asserted Dorothy.
"Didn't he?" chuckled Shoop.
Dorothy's face grew rosy. "Your master is very inquisitive," she toldBondsman.
"And your little missy is right beautiful this mawnin'," said Shoop."Now, if I was a bow-legged young cow-puncher with curly hair, andlooked fierce and noble and could make a gal's eyes shine like stars inthe evenin', I reckon I wouldn't be sittin' here signin' letters."
"He _isn't_ bow-legged!" flashed Dorothy. She was very definite aboutthat. "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 amstandin' 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 shelaughed. "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 Isee 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 beentalking about enlisting. He didn't say that he was going to enlist, buthe 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 ageI'd go. Most any fella that can read would. I been readin' the papersfor two years, and b'ilin' inside. I reckon Lorry's just woke up towhat'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 ontheir 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 Iadmire to say that when them kind of folks gets started onct they'snothin' ever built that'll stop 'em. If I get elected I aim to tell somefolks over to the State House about this here war. And I'm goin' tostart by talkin' about what we got to set straight right here to homefirst. They can _feel_ what's goin' on to home. It ain't all print. Andthey 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 ourshare, 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 sistersand sweethearts was like that, they wouldn't be no conscription. Butthey ain't. I'm no hand at understandin' wimmin-folks, but I know themother of a strappin' young fella in this town that says she wouldsooner see her boy dead in her front yard than for him to go off andfight for foreigners. She don't know what this country's got to fightfor pretty quick or she wouldn't talk like that. And she ain't the onlyone. Now, when wimmin talks that way, what do you expect of men? Ireckon the big trouble is that most folks got to see somethin' to fightafore 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 wascoiled down where I couldn't see him. But this ain't no kind of talk foryou 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 youget disap'inted if he don't go right away. It's mighty easy to set backand say 'Go!' to the other fella; and listen to the band and cheer theflag. It makes a fella feel so durned patriotic he is like to forget heain't doin' nothin' hisself.
"Now, missy, suppose you was a sprightin' kind of a boy 'bout nineteenor twenty, and mebby some gal thought you was good-lookin' enough totalk to after church on a Sunday; and suppose you had rustled like alittle nigger when you was a kid, helpin' your ma wash dishes in a hoteland chop wood and sweep out and pack heavy valises for tourists and fillthe lamps and run to the store for groceries and milk a cow every nightand 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 theRanger Service, ridin' the high trails and livin' free and independent;and suppose a mighty pretty gal was to come along and kind of let youtake a shine to her, and you was doin' your plumb durndest to put by alittle money, aimin' to trot in double harness some day; and thensuppose your daddy was to offer you a half-interest in a growin' cattlebusiness, where you could be your own boss and put by a couple ofthousand a year. And you only nineteen or twenty.
"Suppose you had been doin' all that when along comes word from 'way offsomewhere 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 yourfightin' clothes?"
"But this war means more than that."
"It sure does. But some of us ain't got the idee yet. 'Cour
se all yougot to do to some folks is to say 'Fight' and they come a-runnin'. Andsome of that kind make mighty good soldier boys. But the fella I'mleavin' alone is the one what cinches up slow afore he climbs into thesaddle. When he goes into a fight it's like his day's work, and he don'twaste 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 asmuch for this country right now as any man. And I don't mean by dressin'up in fancy clothes and givin' dances and shellin' out mebby four percent 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-platedknittin'-needles to make two-bit socks for the boys. What I mean is thata good woman does her best work to home; mebby just by sayin' the rightword, or mebby by keepin' still or by smilin' cheerful when her heart isbreakin' account of her man goin' to war.
"You can say all you like about patriotism, but patriotism ain't justmarchin' off to fight for your country. It's usin' your neighbors andyour country right every day in the week, includin' Sunday. Some folksthink patriotism is buildin' a big bonfire once a year and lettin' herblaze 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 fireto 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 backto that there home and find the little fire a-burning bright. What dosome of our boys do fightin' alongside of them Frenchmen and under theFrench flag, when they get wounded and get a furlough? Set around andwait to go back to fightin'? I reckon not. Some of 'em pack up and comefour, five thousand miles just to see their folks for mebby two, threedays. 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' God A'mighty to keep 'em facin' straight to the front till thejob is done."
Dorothy, her chin in her hand, gazed at Bud. She had never known him tobe so intense, so earnest.
"Oh, I know it is so!" she cried. "But what can I do? I have only alittle money in the bank, and father makes just enough to keep uscomfortable. You see, we spent such lots of money for those horrid olddoctors 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 tosay anything to you about goin'. And you know how better'n I can tellyou 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 galand 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 beensendin' me, that some young fellas is marryin' just afore they go tojine 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 forlife? Some of them gals is goin' to pay a mighty high price for just afew 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 atthat new saddle."
"Isn't it strange," said Dorothy, "that I couldn't talk with father likethis? 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 conscriptsany 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 lazilybehind. Because Shoop had not picked up his hat the big dog knew thathis master's errand, whatever it was, would be brief. Yet Bondsmanfollowed, stopping to yawn and stretch the stiffness of age from hisshaggy legs. There was really no sense in trotting across the streetwith his master just to trot back again in a few minutes. But Bondsman'sunwavering loyalty to his master's every mood and every movement hadbecome such a matter of course that the fine example was lost in themonotony of repetition.
A dog's loyalty is so often taken for granted that it ceases to benoticeable until in an unlooked-for hazard it shines forth in some actof quick heroism or tireless faithfulness worthy of a greater tributethan has yet been written.
Bondsman was a good soldier.