A Tenderfoot Bride: Tales from an Old Ranch

When our train left Colorado Springs and headed out into those vast stretches of the prairie, which spread East like a great green ocean from the foot of Pike’s Peak, all the sensations of Christopher Columbus setting sail for a new world, and a few peculiarly my own, mingled in my breast.

As the train pounded along I stole a look at Owen. He was absorbed in the contemplation of a map of our new holdings. Under that calm exterior I suspected hidden attributes of the primitive man. Certainly there was some reason why Western life was to his liking, having had the chance to choose.

It was late in the afternoon when we found ourselves on the platform of the solitary little wayside station. The train went rushing on through the July sunshine, as if impatient at the stop. Our fellow passengers had drawn their heads back from the car windows, after vainly trying to see what apparently sane people could find to stop for in a place like that. In truth, there was little—a water tank, a section house, two cottages and one store.

A combination station-agent and baggage-man stood on the platform. Near a hitching rack a tall individual was waving his long arms about like a windmill as he beckoned us to approach. Owen picked up the bags; I trudged along behind with various coats and packages, stopping midway between platform and wagon to disengage a large tumbleweed, which had rolled merrily to my feet and attached itself to my skirt.

The tall man took a few steps in our direction, still holding the reins in his hand. With one eye he gave us a greeting, while he kept the other on the lunging horses. He was hardly a prepossessing person at first sight, except for his smile. I felt that his keen black eyes had sized us up in one quick glance. I became blushingly conscious of being a new bride, and from “the East.”

“How-de-do? Whoa, now, Brownie. Just get in folks,—the old man had to go to town, so he sent me to meet you, but he’ll be back by the time we get to the ranch.” All this in one breath, while he helped Owen place the bags in the wagon.

“Don’t mind the horses; they’re plumb gentle—just a little excited now over the train, that’s all. Whoa now,” with decided emphasis. “Sorry, Mrs. Brook, hope you didn’t hurt yourself”—this last as the horses suddenly backed and knocked my foot off the step. “Oh, no, not at all,” I replied, hastily scrambling into the wagon and thanking heaven that I had landed on the seat before they gave an unexpected lurch forward. Owen got in beside the driver; the horses reared and started off. I gripped the seat and my hat, and fastened my eyes on the horses’ ears. When we had crossed the railroad and the movement was more steady, I began to “take notice” of things about me, and the conversation going on in the front seat reached me in fragments.

The driver said he was called “Tex.” He was a true son of Texas, and it was not difficult to imagine that particles of his native soil still clung to him. The deep creases in his neck were so filled with dirt that he looked like a charcoal sketch. As he turned his face, lined and seamed, I saw that his chin was covered with at least a week’s growth of greyish-black beard. I estimated his age. He might have been fifty; very quick in speech and action, yet there was a subdued power about the man. He managed the horses easily, and I caught in his drawling speech a casual, half-bantering tone.