title="[Pg 36]"/>Olaf Swanson and that he was a sheep-herder; that he had seen us and had come to ask for a little smoking. By that he meant tobacco.

Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was eyeing him very closely. She asked him when he had eaten. That morning, he said. She asked him what he had eaten; he told her cactus balls and a little rabbit. I saw her exchange glances with Professor Glenholdt, and she left her dinner to get out her war-bag.

She called Olaf aside and gently dressed his blisters with listerine; after she had helped him to clean his mouth she said to him, “Now, Olaf, sit by me and eat; show me how much you can eat. Then tell me what you mean by saying you are a sheep-herder; don’t you think we know there will be no sheep on the desert before there is snow to make water for them?”

“I am what I say I am,” he said. “I am not herding now because sorrow has drove me to dig wells. It is sorrow for horses. Have you not seen their bones every mile or so along this road? Them’s markers. Every pile of bones marks where man’s most faithful friend has laid down at last: most of ’em died in the harness and for want of water.

“I killed a horse once. I was trying to have a good time. I had been out with sheep for months and hadn’t seen any one but my pardner. We planned to have a rippin’ good time when we took the sheep in off the summer range and drew our pay. You don’t know how people-hungry a man gets livin’ out. So my pardner and me layed out to have one spree. We had a neat little bunch of money, but when we got to town we felt lost as sheep. We didn’t know nobody but the bartender. We kept taking a drink now and then just so as to have him to talk to. Finally, he told us there was going to be a dance that night, so we asked around and found we could get tickets for two dollars each. Sam said he’d like to go. We bought tickets.

“Somehow or another they knew us for sheep-herders, and every once in a while somebody would baa-baa at us. We had a couple of dances, but after that we couldn’t get a pardner. After midnight things begun to get pretty noisy. Sam and me was settin’ wonderin’ if we were havin’ a good time, when a fellow stepped on Sam’s foot and said baa. I rose up and was goin’ to smash him, but Sam collared me and said, ‘Let’s get away from here, Olaf, before trouble breaks out.’ It sounded as if every man in the house and some of the women were baa-ing.

“We were pretty near the door when a man put his hand to his nose and baa-ed. I knocked him down, and before you could bat your eye everybody was fightin’. We couldn’t get out, so we backed into a corner; and every man my fist hit rested on the floor till somebody helped him away. A fellow hit me on the head with a chair and I didn’t know how I finished or got out.

“The first thing I remember after that was feeling the greasewood thorns tearing my flesh and my clothes next day. We were away out on the desert not far from North Pilot butte. Poor Sam couldn’t speak. I got him off poor old Pinto, and took off the saddle for a pillow for him. I hung the saddle-blanket on a greasewood so as to shade his face; then I got on my own poor horse, poor old Billy, and started to hunt help. I rode and rode. I was tryin’ to find some outfit. When Billy lagged I beat him on. You see, I was thinking of Sam. After a while the horse staggered,—stepped into a badger hole, I thought. But he kept staggerin’. I fell off on one side just as he pitched forward. He tried and tried to get up. I stayed till he died; then I kept walking. I don’t know what became of Sam; I don’t know what became of me; but I do know I am going to dig wells all over this desert until every thirsty horse can have water.”

All the time he had been eating just pickles; when he finished his story he ate faster. By now we all knew he was demented. The men tried to coax him to go on with us so that they could turn him over to the authorities, but he said he must be digging. At last it was decided to send some one back for him. Mr. Struble was unwilling to leave him, but the man would not be persuaded. Suddenly he gathered up his “smoking” and some food and ran back up the draw. We had to go on, of course.

All that afternoon our road lay along the buried river. I don’t mean dry river. Sand had blown into the river until the water was buried. Water was only a few feet down, and the banks were clearly defined. Sometimes we came to a small, dirty puddle, but it was so alkaline that nothing could drink it. The story we had heard had saddened us all, and we were sorry for our horses. Poor little Elizabeth Hull wept. She said the West was so big and bare, and she was so alone and so sad, she just had to cry.

About sundown we came to a ranch and were made welcome by one Timothy Hobbs, owner of the place. The dwelling and the stables were a collection of low brown houses, made of logs and daubed with mud. Fields of shocked grain made a very prosperous-looking background. A belled cow led a bunch of sleek cattle home over the sand dunes. A well in the yard afforded plenty of clear, cold water, which was raised by a windmill. The cattle came and drank at the trough, the bell making a pleasant sound in the twilight.

The men told Mr. Hobbs about the man we saw. “Oh, yes,” he said, “that is Crazy Olaf. He has been that way for twenty years. Spends his time digging wells, but he never gets any water, and the sand caves in almost as fast as he can get it out.” Then he launched upon a recital of how he got sweet water by piping past the alkali strata. I kept hoping he would tell how Olaf was kept and who was responsible for him, but he never told.

He invited us to prepare our supper in his kitchen, and as it was late and wood was scarce, we were glad to accept. He bustled about helping us, adding such dainties as fresh milk, butter, and eggs to our menu. He is a rather stout little man, with merry gray eyes and brown hair beginning to gray. He wore a red shirt and blue overalls, and he wiped his butcher’s knife impartially on the legs of his overalls or his towel,—just whichever was handiest as he hurried about cutting our bacon and opening cans for us.

Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and he got on famously. After supper, while she and Elizabeth washed the dishes, she asked him why he didn’t get married and have some one to look after him and his cabin.

“I don’t have time,” he answered. “I came West eighteen years ago to make a start and a home for Jennie and me, but I can’t find time to go back and get her. In the summer I have to hustle to make the hay and grain, and I have to stay and feed the stock all the rest of the time.”

“You write her once in a while, don’t you?” asked Mrs. O’Shaughnessy.

“Yes,” he said, “I wrote her two years ago come April; then I was so busy I didn’t go to town till I went for my year’s supplies. I went to the post office, and sure enough there was a letter for me,—been waitin’ for me for six months. You see the postmaster knows me and never would send a letter back. I set down there right in the office and answered it. I told her how it was, told her I was coming after her soon as I could find time. You see, she refuses to come to me ’cause I am so far from the railroad, and she is afraid of Indians and wild animals.”

“Have you got your answer?” asked Elizabeth.

“No,” he said, “I ain’t had time yet to go, but I kind of wish somebody would think to bring the mail. Not many people pass here, only when