Ben Blair. Will Lillibridge
Chapter II.
Desolation
Ten miles out on the prairies,—not lands plane as a table, as they are usually pictured, but rolling like the sea with waves of tremendous amplitude—stood a rough shack, called by courtesy a house. Like many a more pretentious domicile, it was of composite construction, although consisting of but one room. At the base was the native prairie sod, piled tier upon tier. Above this the superstructure, like the bar of Mick Kennedy's resort, was of warping cottonwood. Built out from this single room and forming a part of it was what the designer had called a woodshed; but as no tree the size of a man's wrist was within ten miles, or a railroad within fifty, the term was manifestly a misnomer. Wood in any form it had never contained; instead, it was filled with that providential fuel of the frontiersman, found superabundantly upon the ranges,—buffalo chips.
From the main room there was another and much smaller opening into the sod foundation, and below it,—a dog-kennel. Slightly apart from the shack stood a twin structure even less assuming, its walls and roof being wholly built of sod. It was likewise without partition, and was used as a barn. Hard by was a corral covering perhaps two acres, enclosed with a barbed-wire fence. These three excrescences upon the face of nature comprised the "improvements" of the "Big B Ranch."
Within the house the furnishings accorded with their surroundings. Two folding bunks, similar in conception to the upper berths of a Pullman car, were built end to end against the wall; when they were raised to give room, four supports dangled beneath like paralyzed arms. A home-made table, suggesting those scattered about country picnic grounds, a few cheap chairs, a row of chests and cupboards variously remodelled from a common foundation of dry-goods boxes, and a stove, ingeniously evolved out of the cylinder and head of a portable engine, comprised the furniture.
The morning sunlight which dimmed the candles of Mick Kennedy's saloon drifted through the single high-set window of the Big B Ranch-house, revealing there a very different scene. From beneath the quilts in one of the folding bunks appeared the faces of a woman and a little boy. At the opening of the dog-kennel the head of a mottled yellow-and-white mongrel dog projected into the room, the sensitive muzzle pointing directly at the occupied bunk. The eyes of woman, child, and beast were open and moved restlessly about.
"Mamma," and the small boy wriggled beneath the clothes, "Mamma, I'm hungry."
The white face of the woman turned away, more pallid than before. An unfamiliar observer would have been at a loss to guess the age of the owner. In that haggard, non-committal countenance there was nothing to indicate whether she was twenty-five or forty.
"It is early yet, son. Go to sleep."
The boy closed his eyes dutifully, and for perhaps five minutes there was silence; then the blue orbs opened wider than before.
"Mamma, I can't go to sleep. I'm hungry!"
"Never mind, Benjamin. The horses, the rabbits, the birds,—all get hungry sometimes." A hacking cough interrupted her words. "Snuggle close up to me, little son, and keep warm."
"But, mamma, I want something to eat. Won't you get it for me?"
"I can't, son."
He waited a moment. "Won't you let me help myself, then, mamma?"
The eyes of the mother moistened.
"Mamma," the child repeated, gently shaking his mother's shoulder, "won't you let me help myself?"
"There's nothing for you to eat, sonny, nothing at all."
The blue child-eyes widened; the serious little face puckered.
"Why ain't there anything to eat, mamma?"
"Because there isn't, bubby."
The reasoning was conclusive, and the child accepted it without further parley; but soon another interrogation took form in his active brain.
"It's cold, mamma," he announced. "Aren't you going to build a fire?"
Again the mother coughed, and a flush of red appeared upon her cheeks.
"No," she answered with a sigh.
"Why not, mamma?"
There was not the slightest trace of irritation in the answering voice, although it was clearly an effort to speak.
"I can't get up this morning, little one."
Mysteries were multiplying, but the small Benjamin was equal to the occasion. With a spring he was out of bed, and in another moment was stepping gingerly upon the cold bare floor.
"I'm going to build a fire for you, mamma," he announced.
The homely mongrel whined a welcome to the little lad's appearance, and with his tail beat a friendly tattoo upon the kennel floor; but the woman spoke no word. With impassive face she watched the shivering little figure as it hurried into its clothes, and then, with celerity born of experience, went about the making of a fire. Suddenly a hitherto unthought-of possibility flashed into the boy's mind, and leaving his work he came back to the bunk.
"Are you sick, mamma?" he asked.
Instantly the woman's face softened.
"Yes, laddie," she answered gently.
Carefully as a nurse, the small protector replaced the cover at his mother's back, where his exit had left a gap; then returned to his work.
"You must have it warm here," he said.
Not until the fire in the old cylinder makeshift was burning merrily did he return to his patient; then, standing straight before her, he looked down with an air of childish dignity that would have been comical had it been less pathetic.
"Are you very sick, mamma?" he said at last, hesitatingly.
"I am dying, little son." She spoke calmly and impersonally, without even a quickening of the breath. The thin hand, lying on the tattered cover, did not stir.
"Mamma!" the old-man face of the boy tightened, as, bending over the bed, he pressed his warm cheek against hers, now growing cold and white.
At the mouth of the kennel two bright eyes were watching curiously. Their owner wriggled the tip of his muzzle inquiringly, but the action brought no response. Then the muzzle went into the air, and a whine, long-drawn and insistent, broke the silence.
The boy rose. There was not a trace of moisture in his eyes, but the uncannily aged face seemed older than before. He went over to a peg where his clothes were hanging and took down the frayed garment that answered as an overcoat. From the bunk there came another cough, quickly muffled; but he did not turn. Cap followed coat, mittens cap; then, suddenly remembering, he turned to the stove and scattered fresh chips upon the glowing embers.
"Good-bye, mamma," said the boy.
The mother had been watching him, although she gave no sign. "Where are you going, sonny?" she asked.
"To town, mamma. Someone ought to know you're sick."
There was a moment's pause, wherein the mongrel whined impatiently.
"Aren't you going to kiss me first, Benjamin?"
The little lad retraced his steps, until, bending over, his lips touched those of his mother. As he did so, the hand which had lain upon the coverlet shifted to his arm detainingly.
"How were you thinking of going, son?"
A look of surprise crept into the boy's blue eyes. A question like this, with its obvious answer, was unusual from his matter-of-fact mother. He glanced at her gravely.
"I'm going afoot, mamma."
"It's ten miles to town, Benjamin."
"But you and I walked it once together. Don't you remember?"
An expression the lad did not understand