Round The Circle

O Henry

Find yo' shirt all right, Sam?" asked Mrs. Webber, from her chair under the live-oak, where

she was comfortably seated with a paper- back volume for company.

"It balances perfeckly, Marthy," answered Sam, with a suspicious pleasantness in his tone.

"At first I was about ter be a little reckless and kick 'cause ther buttons was all off, but since

I diskiver that the button holes is all busted out, why, I wouldn't go so fur as to say the

buttons is any loss to speak of."

"Oh, well," said his wife, carelessly, "put on your necktie--that'll keep it together."

Sam Webber's sheep ranch was situated in the loneliest part of the country between the

importance, and the Chapman ranch being almost a small town in population and size, Sam

had decided to "dress up" accordingly. The result was that he had transformed himself from

a graceful, picturesque frontiersman into something much less pleasing to the sight. The

tight white collar awkwardly constricted his muscular, mahogany-colored neck. The

buttonless shirt bulged in stiff waves beneath his unbuttoned vest. The suit of "ready-made"

effectually concealed the fine lines of his straight, athletic figure. His berry-brown face was

set to the melancholy dignity befitting a prisoner of state. He gave Randy, his three-year-old

son, a pat on the head, and hurried out to where Mexico, his favorite saddle horse, was

standing.

Marthy, leisurely rocking in her chair, fixed her place in the book with her finger, and

man's clothes you're al'ays setting around a-readin' them billy-by-dam yaller-back novils."

"Oh, shet up and ride along," said Mrs. Webber, with a little jerk at the handles of her chair;

"you always fussin' 'bout my readin'. I do a-plenty; and I'll read when I wanter. I live in the

bresh here like a varmint, never seein' nor hearin' nothin', and what other 'musement kin I

have? Not in listenin' to you talk, for it's complain, complain, one day after another. Oh, go

on, Sam, and leave me in peace."

Sam gave his pony a squeeze with his knees and "shoved" down the wagon trail that

connected his ranch with the old, open Government road. It was eight o'clock, and already

beginning to be very warm. He should have started three hours earlier. Chapman ranch was

only eighteen miles away, but there was a road for only three miles of the distance. He had

ridden over there once with one of the Half-Moon cowpunchers, and he had the direction

well-defined in his mind.

Sam turned off the old Government road at the split mesquite, and struck down the arroyo

of the Quintanilla. Here was a narrow stretch of smiling valley, upholstered with a rich mat

twenty yards in any direction, choosing his way by the prairie-dweller's instinct, guided only

by an occasional glimpse of a far distant hilltop, a peculiarly shaped knot of trees, or the

position of the sun.

Sam rode down the sloping hill and plunged into the great pear flat that lies between the

Quintanilla and the Piedra.

In about two hours he discovered that he was lost. Then came the usual confusion of mind

and the hurry to get somewhere. Mexico was anxious to redeem the situation, twisting with

alacrity along the tortuous labyrinths of the jungle. At the moment his master's sureness of

the route had failed his horse had divined the fact. There were no hills now that they could

climb to obtain a view of the country. They came upon a few, but so dense and interlaced

country--afraid of Mexicans, of snakes, of panthers, even of sheep. So he had never left her

alone.

It must have been about four in the afternoon when Sam's conscience awoke. He was limp

and drenched, rather from anxiety than the heat or fatigue. Until now he had been hoping to

strike the trail that led to the Frio crossing and the Chapman ranch. He must have crossed it

at some dim part of it and ridden beyond. If so he was now something like fifty miles from

home. If he could strike a ranch-- a camp--any place where he could get a fresh horse and

inquire the road, he would ride all night to get back to Marthy and the kid.

So, I have hinted, Sam was seized bv remorse. There was a big lump in his throat as he

thought of the cross words he had spoken to his wife. Surely it was hard enough for her to

himself grimly, and felt a sudden flush of shame that over-glowed the summer heat as he

reading fiction.

"Ther only so'ce ov amusement ther po' gal's got," said Sam aloud, with a sob, which

unaccustomed sound caused Mexico to shy a bit. A-livin with a sore-headed kiote like me--

a low-down skunk that ought to be licked to death with a saddle cinch--a-cookin' and a-

washin' and a-livin' on mutton and beans and me abusin' her fur takin' a squint or two in a

He thought of Marthy as she had been when he first met her in Dogtown--smart, pretty, and

He knew what he would do. He would write to Garcia & Jones, his San Antonio merchants

where he bought his supplies and sold his wool, and have them send down a big box of

novels and reading matter for Marthy. Things were going to be different. He wondered

family having to move out of doors.

would have to pass the night alone. In spite of their bickerings, when night came Marthy

was wont to dismiss her fears of the country, and rest her head upon Sam's strong arm with

a sigh of peaceful content and dependence. And were her fears so groundless? Sam thought

of roving, marauding Mexicans, of stealthy cougars that sometimes invaded the ranches, of

rattlesnakes, centipedes, and a dozen possible dangers. Marthy would be frantic with fear.

product than a diplomatist is. Men lost in the snow travel in exact circles until they sink,

exhausted, as their footprints have attested. Also, travellers in philosophy and other mental

processes frequently wind up at their starting-point.

It was when Sam Webber was fullest of contrition and good resolves that Mexico, with a

heavy sigh, subsided from his regular, brisk trot into a slow complacent walk. They were

winding up an easy slope covered with brush ten or twelve feet high.

"I say now, Mex," demurred Sam, "this here won't do. I know you're plumb tired out, but

we got ter git along. Oh, Lordy, ain't there no mo' houses in the world!" He gave Mexico a

smart kick with his heels.

quickened his gait into a languid trot. Rounding a great clump of black chaparral he stopped

not ten yards away.

Marthy, serene and comfortable, sat in her rocking-chair before the door in the shade of the

house, with her feet resting luxuriously upon the steps. Randy, who was playing with a pair

of spurs on the ground, looked up for a moment at his father and went on spinning the

rowels and singing a little song. Marthy turned her head lazily against the back of the chair

finger holding the place.

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