30,000 On the Hoof. Zane Grey

      “And you going to drive oxen, cook over a wood fire, sleep on hay and a thousand other pioneer jobs? . . . Well, while you’re at that buying don’t forget jeans and socks and boots—a flannel shirt and heavy coat—and a sombrero to protect your pretty white face from the sun. And heavy gloves, my dear, and a silk scarf to keep the dust from choking you.”

      “Oh, is that all?” queried Lucinda, soberly. “You may be sure I’ll get them.”

      * * * *

      Hours later Lucinda surveyed herself before Mrs. Hardy’s little mirror, and could not believe the evidence of her own eyes. But the blacksmith’s good wife expressed pleasure enough to assure Lucinda that from her own point of view she was a sight to behold. Yet when had she ever felt so comfortable as in this cowboy garb?

      “How’ll I ever go out before those men?” exclaimed Lucinda, in dismay. A little crowd had collected round the prairie-schooner, to the back of which Logan appeared to be haltering his horses.

      “My dear child, all women oot heah wear pants an’ ride straddle,” said Mrs. Hardy, with mild humor. “I’ll admit you look more fetchin’ than most gurls. But you’ll get used to it.”

      “Fetching?” repeated Lucinda, dubiously. Then she packed away the traveling-dress, wondering if or when she would ever wear it again. The western woman read her mind.

      “Settlers oot on the range don’t get to town often,” she vouchsafed, with a smile. “But they do come, an’ like it all the better. Be brave now, an’ take your medicine, as we westerners say. Yore man will make a great rancher, so Hardy says. Never forget thet the woman settler does the bigger share of the work, an’ never gets the credit due her.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Hardy,” replied Lucinda, grateful for sympathy and advice. “I begin to get a glimmering. But I’ll go through with it. . . . Goodbye.”

      Lucinda went out, carrying her bag, and she tried to walk naturally when she had a mad desire to run.

      “Whoopee!” yelled Logan.

      If they had been alone that startling tribute to her attire would have pleased Lucinda. Anything to rouse enthusiasm or excitement in this strange, serious husband! But to call attention to her before other men, and worse, before some wild, ragged little imps—that was signally embarrassing.

      “Hey lady,” piped up one of the boys, “fer cripes’ sake, don’t ya stoop over in them pants!”

      That sally elicited a yell of mirth from Logan. The other men turned their backs with hasty and suspicious convulsions. Lucinda hurried on with burning face.

      “Jiminy, she’ll make a hot tenderfoot cowgirl,” called out another youngster.

      Lucinda gained the wagon without loss of dignity, except for her blush, which she hoped the wide-brimmed sombrero would hide. She stowed her bag under the seat and stepped up on the hub of the wheel. When she essayed another hasty step, from the hub to the high rim of the wheel she failed and nearly fell. Her blue jeans were too tight. Then Logan gave her a tremendous boost. She landed on the high seat, awkwardly but safely, amid the cheers of the watchers. From this vantage point Lucinda’s adventurous spirit and sense of humor routed her confusion and fury. She looked down upon her glad-eyed husband and the smiling westerners, and then at those devilish little imps.

      “You were all tenderfeet once,” she said to the men, with a laugh, and then shook her finger at the urchins. “I’ve spanked many boys as big as you.”

      Logan climbed up on the other side to seize a short stick with a long leather thong.

      “Hardy, how do you drive these oxen?” called Logan, as if remembering an important item at the last moment.

      “Wal, Logan, thar’s nothin’ to thet but gadep, gee, whoa, an’ haw.” replied the blacksmith, with a grin. “Easy as pie. They’re a fine trained brace.”

      “Adios, folks. See you next spring,” called Logan, and cracked the whip with a yell: “Gidap!”

      The oxen swung their huge heads together and moved. The heavy wagon rolled easily. Lucinda waved to the blacksmith’s wife, and then at the boys. Their freckled faces expressed glee and excitement. The departure of that wagon meant something they felt but did not understand. One of them cupped his hands round his mouth to shrill a last word to Lucinda.

      “All right, lady. Yu can be our schoolmarm an’ spank us if you wear them pants!”

      Lucinda turned quickly to the front. “Oh, the nerve of that little rascal! . . . Logan, what’s the matter with my blue-jeans pants—that boys should talk so?”

      “Nothing. They’re just great. Blue-jeans are as common out here as flapjacks. But I never saw such a—a revealing pair as yours.”

      The oxen plodded along, the canvas-covered wagon rolled down the side street. It must have been an ordinary sight in Flagg, because the few passers-by did not look twice at it. Lucinda felt relieved at escaping more curiosity and ridicule. What would that trio of cowboys have said? Logan drove across the railroad, on over a rattling wooden bridge, by the cottages and cabins, and at last by the black and yellow sawmill.

      “Darling, we’re off!” exclaimed Logan, quite suddenly, and he placed a powerful hand over hers. With the whip he pointed south beyond the hideous slash of forest, to the dim blur of range beyond. His voice sang deep and rich with emotion. “We’re on our way to my ranch—to our home in Sycamore Canyon.”

      “Yes, Logan. I gathered something of the kind. . . . I’m very happy,” she replied, softly, surprised and moved by his term of endearment and the manifestation of strong feeling.

      “I’ve just lived for this. It’s what I worked for—saved my money for. Down there hides my canyon—the grandest range for cattle—grass and water—all fenced. And here’s my outfit all paid for. And last and best the finest little women who ever came out to help build up the West!”

      Lucinda settled back happily. She had misjudged Logan’s appreciation of her and her sacrifice if not his absorption in his passion for the cattle-range. But she could forgive that, respect it, and cleave to him with joy now that she knew he loved her.

      The road wound through the denuded forest-land, dry but not dusty, and down-grade enough to make an easy pull for the oxen. A sweet musty fragrance came on the slight warm breeze. It grew from pleasant to exhilarating, and Lucinda asked her husband what it was. Dry Arizona he replied—a mixture of sage, cedar, piñon and pine. Lucinda liked it, which was all she did like on that six mile drive out to the forest. Here the cabin and pastures, with their crude fences of poles, appeared to end. Driving into the forest was like entering a green-canopied brown-pillared tunnel. It was still, shadowed, lighted by golden shafts, and strangely haunting. Lucinda was affected by a peculiar feeling she could not define. It had to do with a strange sense of familiarity when she had never before been in a forest.

      Before sunset Logan drove into a wide open place. “We’ll camp on the far side,” he said. “Water and grass. And firewood—well, Lucinda, we’ll never be in want for firewood.”

      They halted under great pines that stood out from the wall of forest. Wrecks of trees that Logan called windfalls lay about, some yellow and splintered still, others old and gray, falling to decay. Logan leaped down, and when Lucinda essayed to follow he lifted her down with a hug. “Now, tenderfoot wife, tight pants and all, you can begin!” he said, gayly. But he did not tell her what to begin, and Lucinda stood there stupidly while he unyoked the oxen, turned them loose, then started to lift bags and boxes out of the wagon. He lifted her trunk down with such ease that Lucinda marveled, remembering how her father had to have help in moving it.

      “That’ll go under the wagon,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll cover it. But the rains are past, Lucinda. What we get next will be snow. Whew! Does it snow and blow!”

      “Logan, I hate wind and I don’t like snow.”

      “I