 | CHAPTER II.
GERRIAN'S RANCH. John Brent |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
GERRIAN'S RANCH.
It happened that, on a journey, early in the
same summer, some twenty miles from my mine,
I had come upon a band of horses feeding on the
prairie. They cantered off as I went riding
down the yellow slope, and then, halting just out
of lasso reach, stopped to reconnoitre me. Animals
are always eager to observe man. Perhaps
they want ideas against the time of their promotion
to humanity, so that they need not be awkward,
and introduce quadruped habits into biped
circles.
The mass of the herd inspected me stupidly
enough. Man to them was power, and nothing
else, — a lasso-throwing machine, — something that
put cruel bits into equine mouths, got on equine
backs, and forced equine legs to gallop until they
were stiff. Man was therefore something to admire,
but to avoid, — so these horses seemed to
think; and if they had known man as brother
man alone knows him, perhaps their opinion
would have been confirmed.
One horse, however, among them, had more
courage, or more curiosity, or more faith. He
withdrew from the gregarious commonalty, — the
haughty aristocrat! — and approached me, circling
about, as if he felt a certain centripetal
influence, — as if he knew himself a higher being
than his mustang comrades, — nearer to man,
and willing to offer him his friendship. He and
I divided the attention of the herd. He seemed
to be, not their leader, but rather one who disdained
leadership. Facile princeps! He was
too far above the noblest of the herd to care for
their unexciting society.
I slipped quietly down from my little Mexican
caballo, and, tethering him to a bush with the
lariat, stood watching the splendid motions of this
free steed of the prairie.
He was an American horse, — so they distinguish
in California one brought from the old
States, — A SUPERB YOUNG STALLION, PERFECTLY
BLACK, WITHOUT MARK. It was magnificent to
see him, as he circled about me, fire in his eye,
pride in his nostril, tail flying like a banner,
power and grace from tip to tip. No one would
ever mount him, or ride him, unless it was his
royal pleasure. He was conscious of his representative
position, and showed his paces handsomely.
It is the business of all beautiful things
to exhibit.
Imagine the scene. A little hollow in the
prairie, forming a perfect amphitheatre; the yellow
grass and wild oats grazed short; a herd of
horses staring from the slope, myself standing in
the middle, like the ring-master in a circus, and
this wonderful horse performing at his own free
will. He trotted powerfully, he galloped gracefully,
he thundered at full speed, he lifted his
fore-legs to welcome, he flung out his hind-legs
to repel, he leaped as if he were springing over
bayonets, he pranced and curvetted as if he were
the pretty plaything of a girl; finally, when he
had amused himself and delighted me sufficiently,
he trotted up and snuffed about me, just out of
reach.
A horse knows a friend by instinct. So does
a man. But a man, vain creature! is willing
to repel instinct and trust intellect, and so suffers
from the attempt to revise his first impressions,
which, if he is healthy, are infallible.
The black, instinctively knowing me for a
friend, came forward and made the best speech
he could of welcome, — a neigh and no more.
Then, feeling a disappointment that his compliment
could not be more melodiously or gracefully
turned, he approached nearer, and, not
without shying and starts, of which I took no
notice, at last licked my hand, put his head
upon my shoulder, suffered me to put my arm
every mark of confidence. We were growing
fast friends, when I heard a sound of coming
hoofs. The black tore away with a snort, and
galloped off with the herd after him. A Mexican
vaquero dashed down the slope in pursuit.
I hailed him.
“A quien es ese caballo — el negrito?”
“Aquel diablo! es del Señor Gerrian.” And
he sped on.
I knew Gerrian. He was a Pike of the better
class. He had found his way early to California,
bought a mission farm, and established
himself as a ranchero. His herds, droves, and
flocks darkened the hills. The name reminded
me of the giant Geryon of old. Were I an
unscrupulous Hercules, free to pillage and name
it protection, I would certainly drive off Gerrian's
herds for the sake of that black horse. So
I thought, as I watched them gallop away.
It chanced that, when I was making my arrangements
to start for home, business took me
within a mile of Gerrian's ranch. I remembered
my interview with the black. It occurred
to me that I would ride down and ask the ranchero
to sell me his horse for my journey.
I found Gerrian, a lank, wire-drawn man,
burnt almost Mexican color, lounging in the
shade of his adobe house. I told him my business
in a word.
“No bueno, stranger!” said he.
“Why not? Do you want to keep the horse.”
“No, not partickler. Thar ain't a better stallion
nor him this side the South Pass; but I can't
do nothing with him no more 'n yer can with a
steamboat when the cap'n says, `Beat or bust!'
He 's a black devil, ef thar ever was a devil into
a horse's hide. Somebody 's tried to break him
down when he was a colt, an now he wont stan'
nobody goan near him.”
“Sell him to me, and I 'll try him with kindness.”
“No, stranger. I 've tuk a middlin' shine to
you from the way you got off that Chinaman
them Pikes was goan to hang fur stealing the
mule what he had n't stoled. I 've tuk a middlin'
kind er shine to you, and I don't want to see
yer neck broke, long er me. That thar black 'll
shut up the hinge in yer neck so tight that
yer 'll never look up to ther top of a red-wood
again. Allowin' you haint got an old ox-yoke
into yer fur backbone, yer 'll keep off that thar
black kettrypid, till the Injins tie yer on, and
motion yer to let him slide or be shot.”
“My backbone is pretty stiff,” said I; “I
will risk my neck.”
“The Greasers is some on hosses, you 'll give
in, I reckon. Well, thar ain't a Greaser on my
ranch that 'll put leg over that thar streak er
off for him a claim six squar leagues in the raal
old Garden of Paradise, an stock it with ther best
gang er bullocks this side er Santer Fee.”
“But I 'm not a Mexican; I 'm the stiffest kind
of Yankee. I don't give in to horse or man.
Besides, if he throws me and breaks my neck
I get my claim in Paradise at once.”
“Well, stranger, you 've drawed yer bead on
that thar black, as anybody can see. An ef a
man 's drawed his bead, thar ain't no use tellin'
him to pint off.”
“No. If you 'll sell, I 'll buy.”
“Well, if you wunt go fur to ask me to throw
in a coffin to boot, praps we ken scare up a
trade. How much do you own in the Foolonner
Mine?”
I have forgotten to speak of my mine by its
title. A certain Pike named Pegrum, Colonel
Pegrum, a pompous Pike from Pike County,
Missouri, had once owned the mine. The Spaniards,
finding the syllables Pegrum a harsh morsel,
spoke of the colonel, as they might of any
stranger, as Don Fulano, — as we should say,
“John Smith.” It grew to be a nickname, and
finally Pegrum, taking his donship as a title of
honor, had procured an act of the legislature
dubbing him formally Don Fulano Pegrum. As
such he is known, laughed at, become a public
From him our quartz cavern had taken
its name.
I told Gerrian that I owned one quarter of the
Don Fulano Mine.
“Then you 're jess one quarter richer 'n ef you
owned haff, and jess three quarters richer 'n ef
you owned the hull kit and boodle of it.”
“You are right,” said I. I knew it by bitter
heart.
“Well stranger, less see ef we can't banter fur
a trade. I 've got a hoss that ken kill ayry man.
That 's so; ain't it?”
“You say so.”
“You 've got a mine, that 'll break ayry man,
short pocket or long pocket. That 's so; ain't
it?”
“No doubt of that.”
“Well now; my curwolyow 's got grit into
him, and so 's that thar pile er quartz er yourn
got gold into it. But you cant git the slugs out
er your mineral; and I can get the kicks a blasted
sight thicker 'n anything softer out er my animal.
Here 's horse agin mine, — which 'd yer rether
hev, allowin' 't was toss up and win.”
“Horse!” said I. “I don't know how bad
he is, and I do know that the mine is worse
than nothing to me.”
“Lookerhere, stranger! You 're goan home
stop here. I 'd jess as lives gamble off a hundred
or two head o' bullocks on that Foolonner
Mine. You can't find ayry man round here to
buy out your interest in that thar heap er stun
an the hole it cum out of. It 'll cost you
more 'n the hul 's wuth ef you go down to
San Frisco and wait tell some fool comes along
what 's got gold he wants to buy quartz with.
Take time now, I 'm goan to make yer a fair
banter.”
“Well, make it.”
“I stump you to a clean swap. My hoss agin
your mine.”
“Done,” said I.
“I allowed you 'd do it. This here is one er
them swaps, when both sides gits stuck. I git
the Foolonner Mine, what I can't make go, and
you 'll be a fool on a crittur what 'll go a heap
more 'n you 'll want. Haw! haw!”
And Gerrian laughed a Pike's laugh at his
pun. It was a laugh that had been stunted in
its childhood by the fever and ague, and so had
grown up husk without heart.
“Have the black caught,” said I, “and we 'll
clinch the bargain at once.”
There was a Mexican vaquero slouching about.
Gerrian called to him.
“O Hozay! kesty Sinyaw cumprader curwolyow
toethoso!”
Pike Spanish that! If the Mexicans choose to
understand it, why should Pikes study Castilian?
But we must keep a sharp look-out on the new
words that come to us from California, else our
new language will be full of foundlings with no
traceable parentage. We should beware of heaping
up problems for the lexicographers of the
twentieth century: they ought to be free for harmonizing
the universal language, half-Teutonic,
half-Romanic, with little touches of Mandingo
and Mandan.
The bukkarer, as Gerrian's Spanish entitled
Hozay, comprehended enough of the order to
know that he was to drive up the horses. He
gave me a Mexican's sulky stare, muttered a caramba
at my rashness, and lounged off, first taking
a lasso from its peg in the court.
“Come in, stranger,” said Gerrian, “before we
start, and take a drink of some of this here Mission
Dolorous wine.”
“How does that go down?” said he, pouring
out golden juices into a cracked tumbler.
It was the very essence of California sunshine,
— sherry with a richness that no sherry ever had,
— a somewhat fiery beverage, but without any
harshness or crudity. Age would better it, as
age betters the work of a young genius; but still
resign.
“Very fine,” said I; “it is romantic old Spain,
with ardent young America interfused.”
“Some likes it,” says Gerrian; “but taint like
good old Argee to me. I can't git nothin' as
sweet as the taste of yaller corn into sperit. But
I reckon thar ken be stuff made out er grapes
what 'll make all owdoors stan' round. This yer
wuz made by the priests. What ken you spect
of priests? They ain't more 'n haff men nohow.
I 'm goan to plant a wineyard er my own, and
'fore you cum out to buy another quartz mine,
I 'll hev some of ther strychnine what 'll wax
Burbon County 's much 's our inyans here ken
wax them low-lived smellers what they grow to
old Pike.”
| CHAPTER II.
GERRIAN'S RANCH. John Brent | |