The Long Shadow | Page 2

in the corner was a tumble of gray
blankets and unpleasant, red-flowered comforts--corner-wads,
Charming Billy was used to calling them--and for pillows there were
two square, calico-covered cushions, depressingly ugly in pattern and
not over-clean.
Billy sighed again, threaded a needle with coarse, black thread and
attacked petulantly a long rent in his coat. "Darn this bushwhacking all
over God's earth after a horse a man can't stay with, nor even hold by
the bridle reins," he complained dispiritedly. "I could uh cleaned the
blamed shack up so it would look like folks was living here--and I
woulda, if I didn't have to set all day and toggle up the places in my
clothes"--Billy muttered incoherently over a knot in his thread. "I've
been plumb puzzled, all winter, to know whether it's man or cattle I'm
supposed to chappyrone. If it's man, this coat has sure got the marks uh
the trade, all right." He drew the needle spitefully through the cloth.
The wind gathered breath and swooped down upon the cabin so that
Billy felt the jar of it. "I don't see what's got the matter of the weather,"
he grumbled. "Yuh just get a chinook that starts water running down
the coulées, and then the wind switches and she freezes up solid--and
that means tailing-up poor cows and calves by the dozen--and for your
side-partner yuh get dealt out to yuh a pilgrim that don't know nothing
and can't ride a wagon seat, hardly, and that's bound to keep a dawg!
And the Old Man stands for that kind uh thing and has forbid accidents
happening to it--oh, hell!"
This last was inspired by a wriggling movement under the bunk. A
black dog, of the apologetic drooping sort that always has its tail
sagging and matted with burrs, crawled out and sidled past Billy with a
deprecating wag or two when he caught his unfriendly glance, and
shambled over to the door that he might sniff suspiciously the cold air
coming in through the crack beneath.

Billy eyed him malevolently. "A dog in a line-camp is a plumb disgrace!
I don't see why the Old Man stands for it--or the Pilgrim, either; it's a
toss-up which is the worst. Yuh smell him coming, do yuh?" he snarled.
"It's about time he was coming--me here eating dried apricots and
tapioca steady diet (nobody but a pilgrim would fetch tapioca into a
line-camp, and if he does it again you'll sure be missing the only friend
yuh got) and him gone four days when he'd oughta been back the
second. Get out and welcome him, darn yuh!" He gathered the coat
under one arm that he might open the door, and hurried the dog outside
with a threatening boot toe. The wind whipped his brown cheeks so
that he closed the door hastily and retired to the cheerless shelter of the
cabin.
"Another blizzard coming, if I know the signs. And if the Pilgrim don't
show up to-night with the grub and tobacco--But I reckon the dawg
smelt him coming, all right." He fingered uncertainly a very flabby
tobacco sack, grew suddenly reckless and made himself an exceedingly
thin cigarette with the remaining crumbs of tobacco and what little he
could glean from the pockets of the coat he was mending. Surely, the
Pilgrim would remember his tobacco! Incapable as he was, he could
scarcely forget that, after the extreme emphasis Charming Billy had
laid upon the getting, and the penalties attached to its oversight.
Outside, the dog was barking spasmodically; but Billy, being a product
of the cattle industry pure and simple, knew not the way of dogs. He
took it for granted that the Pilgrim was arriving with the grub, though
he was too disgusted with his delay to go out and make sure. Dogs
always barked at everything impartially--when they were not gnawing
surreptitiously at bones or snooping in corners for scraps, or planting
themselves deliberately upon your clothes. Even when the noise
subsided to throaty growls he failed to recognize the symptoms; he was
taking long, rapturous mouthfuls of smoke and gazing dreamily at his
coat, for it was his first cigarette since yesterday.
When some one rapped lightly he jumped, although he was not a man
who owned unsteady nerves. It was very unusual, that light tapping.
When any one wanted to come in he always opened the door without

further ceremony. Still, there was no telling what strange freak might
impel the Pilgrim--he who insisted on keeping a dog in a
line-camp!--so Billy recovered himself and called out impatiently: "Aw,
come on in! Don't be a plumb fool," and never moved from his place.
The door opened queerly; slowly, and with a timidity not at all in
keeping with the blundering assertiveness of the Pilgrim. When