For a week that car was trundled southward, shifted, laid over, and manipulated after the manner of rolling stock, but Chicken stuck to it, leaving it only at necessary times to satisfy his hunger and thirst.He knew it must go down to the cattle country, and San Antonio, in the heart of it, was his goal.There the air was salubrious and mild; the people indulgent and long-suffering.The bartenders there would not kick him.If he should eat too long or too often at one place they would swear at him as if by rote and without heat.They swore so drawlingly, and they rarely paused short of their full vocabulary, which was copious, so that Chicken had often gulped a good meal during the process of the vituperative prohibition.The season there was always spring-like; the plazas were pleasant at night, with music and gaiety; except during the slight and infrequent cold snaps one could sleep comfortably out of doors in case the interiors should develop inhospitability.
At Texarkana his car was switched to the I.and G.N.Then still southward it trailed until, at length, it crawled across the Colorado bridge at Austin, and lined out, straight as an arrow, for the run to San Antonio.
When the freight halted at that town Chicken was fast asleep.In ten minutes the train was off again for Laredo, the end of the road.Those empty cattle cars were for distribution along the line at points from which the ranches shipped their stock.
When Chicken awoke his car was stationary.Looking out between the slats he saw it was a bright, moonlit night.Scrambling out, he saw his car with three others abandoned on a little siding in a wild and lonesome country.A cattle pen and chute stood on one side of the track.The railroad bisected a vast, dim ocean of prairie, in the midst of which Chicken, with his futile rolling stock, was as completely stranded as was Robinson with his land-locked boat.
A white post stood near the rails.Going up to it, Chicken read the letters at the top, S.A.90.Laredo was nearly as far to the south.
He was almost a hundred miles from any town.Coyotes began to yelp in the mysterious sea around him.Chicken felt lonesome.He had lived in Boston without an education, in Chicago without nerve, in Philadelphia without a sleeping place, in New York without a pull, and in Pittsburg sober, and yet he had never felt so lonely as now.
Suddenly through the intense silence, he heard the whicker of a horse.
The sound came from the side of the track toward the east, and Chicken began to explore timorously in that direction.He stepped high along the mat of curly mesquit grass, for he was afraid of everything there might be in this wilderness--snakes, rats, brigands, centipedes, mirages, cowboys, fandangoes, tarantulas, tamales--he had read of them in the story papers.Rounding a clump of prickly pear that reared high its fantastic and menacing array of rounded heads, he was struck to shivering terror by a snort and a thunderous plunge, as the horse, himself startled, bounded away some fifty yards, and then resumed his grazing.But here was the one thing in the desert that Chicken did not fear.He had been reared on a farm; he had handled horses, understood them, and could ride.
Approaching slowly and speaking soothingly, he followed the animal, which, after its first flight, seemed gentle enough, and secured the end of the twenty-foot lariat that dragged after him in the grass.It required him but a few moments to contrive the rope into an ingenious nose-bridle, after the style of the Mexican /borsal/.In another he was upon the horse's back and off at a splendid lope, giving the animal free choice of direction."He will take me somewhere," said Chicken to himself.
It would have been a thing of joy, that untrammelled gallop over the moonlit prairie, even to Chicken, who loathed exertion, but that his mood was not for it.His head ached; a growing thirst was upon him;
the "somewhere" whither his lucky mount might convey him was full of dismal peradventure.
And now he noted that the horse moved to a definite goal.Where the prairie lay smooth he kept his course straight as an arrow's toward the east.Deflected by hill or arroyo or impractical spinous brakes, he quickly flowed again into the current, charted by his unerring instinct.At last, upon the side of a gentle rise, he suddenly subsided to a complacent walk.A stone's cast away stood a little mott of coma trees; beneath it a /jacal/ such as the Mexicans erect--a one-
room house of upright poles daubed with clay and roofed with grass or tule reeds.An experienced eye would have estimated the spot as the headquarters of a small sheep ranch.In the moonlight the ground in the nearby corral showed pulverized to a level smoothness by the hoofs of the sheep.Everywhere was carelessly distributed the paraphernalia of the place--ropes, bridles, saddles, sheep pelts, wool sacks, feed troughs, and camp litter.The barrel of drinking water stood in the end of the two-horse wagon near the door.The harness was piled, promiscuous, upon the wagon tongue, soaking up the dew.
Chicken slipped to earth, and tied the horse to a tree.He halloed again and again, but the house remained quiet.The door stood open, and he entered cautiously.The light was sufficient for him to see that no one was at home.The room was that of a bachelor ranchman who was content with the necessaries of life.Chicken rummaged intelligently until he found what he had hardly dared hope for--a small, brown jug that still contained something near a quart of his desire.
Half an hour later, Chicken--now a gamecock of hostile aspect--emerged from the house with unsteady steps.He had drawn upon the absent ranchman's equipment to replace his own ragged attire.He wore a suit of coarse brown ducking, the coat being a sort of rakish bolero, jaunty to a degree.Boots he had donned, and spurs that whirred with every lurching step.Buckled around him was a belt full of cartridges with a big six-shooter in each of its two holsters.
