Lin McLean — Inside the Classic

“So you're leaving your bedding and stuff with the outfit?” said the foreman.

“Brought my tooth-brush,” said Lin, showing it in the breast-pocket of his flannel shirt.

“Take in San Francisco?”

“Don't want anything on your brain?”

“Nothin' except my hat, I guess,” said Lin, and broke into cheerful song:

“'Twas a nasty baby anyhow, And it only died to spite us; 'Twas afflicted with the cerebrow Spinal meningitis!'”

They wound up out of the magic valley of Wind River, through the bastioned gullies and the gnome-like mystery of dry water-courses, upward and up to the level of the huge sage-brush plain above. Behind lay the deep valley they had climbed from, mighty, expanding, its trees like bushes, its cattle like pebbles, its opposite side towering also to the edge of this upper plain. There it lay, another world. One step farther away from its rim, and the two edges of the plain had flowed together over it like a closing sea, covering without a sign or ripple the great country which lay sunk beneath.

“A man might think he'd dreamed he'd saw that place,” said Lin to the foreman, and wheeled his horse to the edge again. “She's sure there, though,” he added, gazing down. For a moment his boy face grew thoughtful. “Shucks!” said he then, abruptly, “where's any joy in money that's comin' till it arrives? I have most forgot the feel o' spot-cash.”

He turned his horse away from the far-winding vision of the river, and took a sharp jog after the foreman, who had not been waiting for him. Thus they crossed the eighteen miles of high plain, and came down to Fort Washakie, in the valley of Little Wind, before the day was hot.

His roll of wages once jammed in his pocket like an old handkerchief, young Lin precipitated himself out of the post-trader's store and away on his horse up the stream among the Shoshone tepees to an unexpected entertainment--a wolf-dance. He had meant to go and see what the new waiter-girl at the hotel looked like, but put this off promptly to attend the dance. This hospitality the Shoshone Indians were extending to some visiting Ute friends, and the neighborhood was assembled to watch the ring of painted naked savages.

The post-trader looked after the galloping Lin. “What's he quitting his job for?” he asked the foreman.

“Same as most of 'em quit.”

“Never had a boy more so. Good-hearted, willing, a plumb dare-devil with a horse.”

“And worthless,” suggested the post-trader.

“Well--not yet. He's headed that way.”

“Been punching cattle long?”

“Came in the country about seventy-eight, I believe, and rode for the Bordeaux Outfit most a year, and quit. Blew in at Cheyenne till he went broke, and worked over on to the Platte. Rode for the C. Y. Outfit most a year, and quit. Blew in at Buffalo. Rode for Balaam awhile on Butte Creek. Broke his leg. Went to the Drybone Hospital, and when the fracture was commencing to knit pretty good he broke it again at the hog-ranch across the bridge. Next time you're in Cheyenne get Dr. Barker to tell you about that. McLean drifted to Green River last year and went up over on to Snake, and up Snake, and was around with a prospecting outfit on Galena Creek by Pitchstone Canyon. Seems he got interested in some Dutchwoman up there, but she had trouble--died, I think they said--and he came down by Meteetsee to Wind River. He's liable to go to Mexico or Africa next.”

“If you need him,” said the post-trader, closing his ledger, “you can offer him five more a month.”

“That'll not hold him.”

“Well, let him go. Have a cigar. The bishop is expected for Sunday, and I've got to see his room is fixed up for him.”

“The bishop!” said the foreman. “I've heard him highly spoken of.”

“You can hear him preach to-morrow. The bishop is a good man.”

“He's better than that; he's a man,” stated the foreman--“at least so they tell me.”