Somewhere in Red Gap | Page 2

I briefly pondered the lyric. It told its own simple story and could at
once have been dismissed but for its divined and puzzling relationship
to the popular society favourite of Nome, Alaska. What could there be
in this?
Mrs. Lysander John Pettengill bustled in upon my speculation, but as
usual I was compelled to wait for the talk I wanted. For some moments
she would be only the tired owner of the Arrowhead Ranch--in the tea
gown of a debutante and with too much powder on one side of her
nose--and she must have at least one cup of tea so corrosive that the
Scotch whiskey she adds to it is but a merciful dilution. She now drank
eagerly of the fearful brew, dulled the bite of it with smoke from a
hurriedly built cigarette, and relaxed gratefully into one of those chairs
which are all that most of us remember William Morris for. Even then
she must first murmur of the day's annoyances, provided this time by
officials of the United States Forest Reserve. In the beginning I must
always allow her a little to have her own way.

"The annual spring rumpus with them rangers," she wearily boomed.
"Every year they tell me just where to turn my cattle out on the Reserve,
and every year I go ahead and turn 'em out where I want 'em turned out,
which ain't the same place at all, and then I have to listen patiently to
their kicks and politely answer all letters from the higher-ups and wait
for the official permit, which always comes--and it's wearing on a body.
Darn it! They'd ought to know by this time I always get my own way. If
they wasn't such a decent bunch I'd have words with 'em, giving me the
same trouble year after year, probably because I'm a weak, defenceless
woman. However!"
The lady rested largely, inert save for the hand that raised the cigarette
automatically to her lips. My moment had come.
"What did Wilfred Lennox, the hobo poet, have to do with Mr. Ben
Sutton, of Nome, Alaska?" I gently inquired.
"More than he wanted," replied the lady. Her glance warmed with
memories; she hovered musingly on the verge of recital. But the
cigarette was half done and at its best. I allowed her another moment, a
moment in which she laughed confidentially to herself, a little dry,
throaty laugh. I knew that laugh. She would be marshalling certain
events in their just and diverting order. But they seemed to be many
and of confusing values.
"Some said he not only wasn't a hobo but wasn't even a poet," she
presently murmured, and smoked again. Then: "That Ben Sutton, now,
he's a case. Comes from Alaska and don't like fresh eggs for breakfast
because he says they ain't got any kick to 'em like Alaska eggs have
along in March, and he's got to have canned milk for his coffee. Say, I
got a three-quarters Jersey down in Red Gap gives milk so rich that the
cream just naturally trembles into butter if you speak sharply to it or
even give it a cross look; not for Ben though. Had to send out for
canned milk that morning. I drew the line at hunting up case eggs for
him though. He had to put up with insipid fresh ones. And fat, that man!
My lands! He travels a lot in the West when he does leave home, and
he tells me it's the fear of his life he'll get wedged into one of them
narrow-gauge Pullmans some time and have to be chopped out. Well,

as I was saying--" She paused.
"But you haven't begun," I protested. I sharply tapped the printed verses
and the photograph reading from left to right. Now she became
animated, speaking as she expertly rolled a fresh cigarette.
"Say, did you ever think what aggravating minxes women are after they
been married a few years--after the wedding ring gets worn a little bit
thin?"
This was not only brutal; it seemed irrelevant.
"Wilfred Lennox--" I tried to insist, but she commandingly raised the
new cigarette at me.
"Yes, sir! Ever know one of 'em married for as long as ten years that
didn't in her secret heart have a sort of contempt for her life partner as
being a stuffy, plodding truck horse? Of course they keep a certain dull
respect for him as a provider, but they can't see him as dashing and
romantic any more; he ain't daring and adventurous. All he ever does is
go down and open up the store or push back the roll-top, and keep from
getting run over on the street. One day's like another with him, never
having any wild, lawless instincts or reckless moods