Our boys in turn taught their coppery friends some civilized games. Trials of strength and skill were frequent, and in most of them the honors were about even. While the red boys could give points on the art of wrestling, and never lost an opportunity to show their superiority, the Worth youngsters got even by initiating them in the "noble art of self-defence." John put in practice the points given him by Tom Malloy, much to the discomfiture of the Indian boys and the corresponding satisfaction of his teacher and the men of the mining camp.
The new sport did not become popular, however, in the redskins' camp; John was too successful—his opponent was invariably worsted.
And so the days passed, with more work and less play, perhaps, than most boys are accustomed to. Many pleasant evenings, after the day's workwas done, were spent by the men telling yarns. John and Ben slipped out often, joined the group, and listened eagerly to the tales that were told. It was on one of these nights that Charley Green told a tale that entirely eclipsed Munchausen; a tale that would never have occurred to a Westerner.
"You know Big Hawk?" he began, looking at the men around him and then out of the corner of his eye at John. "Well, Big Hawk has seen the boys, and especially John, box, and made up his mind that he could do something in that line himself—at least that is my idea of his method of reasoning." He interrupted himself to explain: "He challenged John something in this fashion, 'You heap big fighter,' he said, 'me show you.'"
The men in the circle began to grin; they were beginning to take in the joke. John and his brother gazed in amazement; all this was new to them.
"Though he is a pretty big chap," Green continued, "the kid didn't seem to be scared; he knew how to put up his hands and the big red duffer was entirely ignorant of fistic tactics. Anyhow the boy called the bluff by responding, 'Well, I don't know, I reckon I can do you up.' Ben was sent for the gloves, those primitive,deerskin-stuffed-with-grass affairs. A space was cleared on the dry grassy river bottom, and the spectators marked the boundaries. The spectators were mostly red," added Green.
"Produce a spectator," shouted a listener.
"Proof, proof, we want proof of this."
"Never mind him," exclaimed another; "go on, Charley."
"I'm not making affidavits. I'm simply telling a story," Charley explained. "Big Hawk, knowing it to be a kind of battle, had arrayed himself in full war regalia, which consisted chiefly of a big, feathered bonnet and a decorative effect in yellow, red, and green paint."
The group of interested listeners chuckled, but offered no remarks or objections. John and Ben appeared to be dazed.
"Tom Malloy was the referee, and I acted as John's second. Wolf Voice did the same service for Big Hawk.
"When the two stepped into the ring," Green continued, "the tall, paint-decorated, feather-tufted Indian and the short, pink-skinned boy, a smile appeared on the usually grave-faced red men. I said to myself, Is this a Punch and Judy show or a scene from the Inferno come to the surface? 'Time!' sang out Tom Malloy, watch in hand."
Green stopped to take breath, then continued:
"The two stepped to the centre, and the red man decided to settle matters at once. A strong right-arm jab followed. John dodged, and the force of the blow nearly jerked the Indian off his feet, and at the same time pulled the war bonnet over his eyes. The boy took advantage of this and thumped Big Hawk on the chest. The Indian cleared his eyes and came at him like a wounded buffalo, head down, hands going like flails; avoiding them, John hit out for the nose and landed square on his beak. The buck tripped and fell on his back and the blood began to flow freely from the bruised member, mingling with the yellow and green paint, forming a very weird design. It was enough, Big Hawk was satisfied and hastened to get off the gloves and bathe his nose at the river's edge."
From time to time during the recital of this tale Green glanced at the boys to see the effect of his absurd story. That they were greatly amused was evident. Cries of "Come off!" "What are you giving us?" and the like followed the conclusion, and Charley Green subsided, congratulating himself on his vivid imagination.
The feeling between the two camps, or rather the younger members of them, was not always friendly, and the boys were glad when theirfather came back after opening a new mine, told them that he had bought a sheep ranch, and asked them if they wanted to go to work on it. The brothers accepted eagerly, for they were possessed with the restless spirit of the Westerner and were anxious for new scenes and new experiences.
Much had transpired during the long stay at the Yellowstone mine. The railroad, with its busy construction gang and its noisy, short-breathed engine, had reached and passed the little camp and had left behind its steel trail. The tracks were not used for regular traffic as yet, but the little dinky engine went by frequently, dragging flat cars loaded with rails, ties, and other construction material. The boys became great friends of the engineer, and he allowed them to ride with him in the cab of the locomotive occasionally.
War-dance postures.
It was with real regret, therefore, that onemorning, as the iron horse stood near the mine, hissing and grunting in impatience to be off, the boys climbed up the step and into the cab to bid their friend Mr. Jackson good-by.
"What! going to pull up stakes?" he inquired. "I've got three boys about your size back in the East at school, where you ought to be," he added.
"Well," John replied, "mother has talked about school, but father says he's going to teach us to work first."
"Father's great on work," interposed Ben.
In answer to Mr. Jackson's inquiry, John said that they were to start in a day or two and would go alone, driving a buckboard; and that though they did not know the road the horses had been over it, so with that aid and the description given they would be able to find the way.
"Well, so long, boys," said the kindly engineer, after they had shaken hands and thanked him for the many engine rides, "I shall miss you."
"Same here; so long!" called Ben and John in chorus.
The little engine began to cough, the steam puffed and hissed, and in a few minutes it was out of sight around the turn.
A SHEPHERD ... ALONE WITH HIS FLOCKS. (Page 151.)
A day or two later the boys climbed into the buckboard, and, after bidding a matter-of-fact farewell to all, started off: on a journey to a place neither of them had been to before, over a road that was entirely unfamiliar to both.
With their father's last instructions ringing in their ears, they set out at a good pace.
The hundred-and-fifty-mile drive lasted five long wearisome days. Day after day they travelled, sitting still on the bouncing, rattling buckboard. The white-topped wagons that came into view occasionally were hailed with relief, for they somewhat broke the monotony of the journey; a word or two with these drivers and a question as to the location of the best grass, wood, and water—camp necessaries—was all that passed, but even that was a comfort after the desolation and loneliness through which they had been passing.
On the fourth day the Big Horn River came into view and was crossed in safety. The appearance of the country changed, and the boys for the first time saw real mountains. Living, as they had been, on the flat prairies, their surprise was as great as their interest and delight at these massive hills uprearing themselves against the sky. The day following they drove up to the door of the ranch house and were received cordially by Abe Miller, the foreman in charge. In obedience to their father's command they delivereda letter of instructions, and while Abe was painfully studying this out, his hardened forefinger pointing to each word as he went along, the boys had ample time to observe him as well as their new surroundings. They saw that he was short and rather fat and blessed with the face that is apt to go with that build: it was decidedly cheerful, for the corners of his mouth turned up; even now there was a half smile on his lips, though his brow bore a perplexed frown from his literary struggle. The ranch buildings, which consisted of half a dozen rough sheds and as many more corrals, beside the ranch house or log shack, lay in a valley. On one side rose a high range of mountains, wooded to the summit; on the other, a long, rolling, grass-covered plain.
"I don't see any sheep," said John, after scanning; the country in every direction.
Abe looked up, but held his stubby forefinger pressed firmly on the last word he was deciphering, as if to make sure of its safety.
"Oh, they're twenty-five miles down the creek now," he answered. "We only keep them here in the winter. We'll go there to-morrow; it's too late now."
By the time the ranchman had finished the letter the sun was nearing the mountain crest and the boys' appetites assured them it was time toeat. In the shack a low fire was burning, which blazed cheerfully when John added an armful of dry twigs and brush. While the boy was mending the fire, Abe went to one corner of the cabin and from a tall pole which stood there let down part of a sheep's quarter.
"Why do you keep it up there?" asked Ben, who now noticed it for the first time.
"No flies up there," explained Abe. "Meat keeps in this climate till it dries up if the flies don't get at it."
The boys went out and sat on the door-step to wait till the meal was cooked, for though they were more tired than they realized, they had the greatest curiosity to see everything connected with this new home.
After sitting silent a while, their heads resting on the door-jamb, their eyes on the crest of the mountain where the sun shone with its last departing glory, John turned toward his brother.
"Those mountains are great. We didn't have—Say, Mr. Miller, what's this?" he asked excitedly, interrupting himself and pointing, first to some bullet-holes in the logs and then at a blood stain on the block below.
"That's where Mexican Jack was killed," answered Abe, coming in the doorway, frying pan in hand. "He was shot just where you sit. I'll tell you about it after supper."
John moved away from the spot.
Before long the ranchman called them in, and they enjoyed a supper the like of which had not fallen to their lot since they left the mine. The compliment the boys paid Abe's cooking did much to win his heart. Though they were anxiously waiting to hear the story of the bullet holes and the spot of blood, Abe continued to talk about gravies, the advantages of a very hot pan in cooking, and other culinary topics that would have interested John at another time, for he rather prided himself on his ability as cook, but which now seemed more than trivial.
The boys lent a hand, and soon the tins were washed and the heavy deal table cleared. The fire replenished, and Abe's pipe fairly started, all three drew their stools up to the blaze.
"Well, how about Mexican Jack?" ventured Ben at last, unable to restrain his curiosity longer.
"Oh, yes, I was going to tell you about that, wasn't I? Well, he was a hard case," continued the speaker. "Half Mexican, half white man—and all bad, he was. I made his acquaintance about ten years ago at Boisé City, and the first thing I heard of him was that he'd just killed a gambler—gambler was a hard case, so nobody cared much—and Jack skipped. Shortly after that he went to Denver and bullied the town. Oh, he was a regular 'bad man.' You know what a 'bad man' is, don't you?"
"Sure," said John. "Tough customer who knows he's tough and takes pride in it. They're always mighty quick with their guns, and dead shots. One of 'em shot a man in the arm, near our shack back in Bismarck, and mother tied it up. It was queer; the bullet went right through and it looked like a rose where it came out."
"Well," continued Abe, "Jack was a 'bad man,' and he didn't care who knew it. He had a shooting scrape in Denver and had to jump thetown in pretty lively style. The sheriff's posse got after him, but he killed two of 'em and got off. After that every sheriff in the country was looking for him, so he turned outlaw and road agent near Virginia City, and held up Ben Halliday's stages till the vigilance committee hung some of his partners and got too hot on his trail. Not a thing more did I hear of him till he turned up about two years ago with this bunch of sheep of your father's. He had turned herder and driven 'em all the way in from Utah." Miller stopped to relight his pipe, for he had forgotten to keep it going in the interest of his tale. The boys were impatient at the least delay; the ruddy firelight lit up their faces and showed their eager interest.
"Your father had bought this ranch and put me in charge just a little while before Mexican Jack came along; I spotted him at once and he spotted me, but I didn't let on, for I knew he was all-fired quick with his gun and I wasn't looking for trouble. Of course he never went to town: it wasn't healthy for him there; and if he wanted anything he had to wait till somebody who was going in would get it for him. Even with such care, though, he knew it wasn't safe for him to stay in one place very long, so one day in spring he told me he was going to quit and move on.Don't you boys ever turn 'bad men,'" said Abe, with a laugh; "it don't pay. Brave as that poor chap was, he was fairly afraid of his shadow when he got to thinking of sheriffs' posses. One man isn't much good against the law, even out here. Well," he went on, "I went to town to get another man—it's thirty miles, so I stayed over night. Charley Boyd, who runs a liquor joint there, told me a young feller, an Englishman, he thought, had been in there several times asking about sheep. Charley said there might be some business in it, so I dropped in later.
"Boyd went up to a young chap who was sitting watching a faro game. 'Here's your man, Mr. Simmons,' said he. The stranger wanted to know all about the different bunches of sheep near there, so I told him and talked a good deal about one thing or another having to do with them. I remember I told him I was looking for a herder to take the place of a Mexican that was going to quit. Soon after that he left. I could not quite make him out, but it was plain enough he wasn't buying."
"What's all this got to do with Mexican Jack?" inquired Ben, who didn't see the drift of the narrative.
"If you wait a minute, I'll tell you." Abe was vexed at the thoughtless interruption, andBen subsided, realizing that he had been rather foolish. "In the morning I packed my stuff on the led horse, mounted my own cayuse, and started out. I had just topped the rise near the shack when a bullet went by with a hum, and then another and another, so I chased back for cover to the other side. I dismounted, crawled up to the top, and looked over. There at the door sat Mexican Jack, six-shooter in hand. I couldn't understand why in the world he should shoot at me, so I rode over to look up Billy, the other herder, and find out what was up. He hadn't been to the shack since morning and knew nothing about it, so he left the sheep and we went down the coulie, which runs just below here, you know, till we got behind that clump of brush—perhaps you saw it. We peeked through pretty cautious, I can tell you. The Mexican was still there, but his body was all hunched up; he seemed drunk or asleep, for his six-shooter lay on the ground by his side.
"We covered him with our guns, for he was chained lightning with his shooting irons, and then yelled at him. He didn't answer or move an inch. We jumped out then, still keeping him covered, and walked slowly up, ready to riddle him if he should make a move with that deadly pistol hand of his. Once he quivered a bit andhis right hand stirred toward his gun. I almost plunked him then, I was so nervous, but there was no other sign of wakefulness or life. We decided he must have gotten hold of some liquor somewhere, but when we got within about fifty feet of him Billy noticed a pool of blood at his side. Then we rushed forward—guns still ready, however—and just as we reached the steps he lurched forward and fell full on his face—dead!
"A couple of bullets had gone clean through him. We found out when we turned his body over to the authorities in town that Simmons, the young Englishman I had met, had come over to America a year before expressly to kill Mexican Jack, who had shot his brother in some quarrel. I had supplied the missing link of information, and he had gone early in the morning to our shack, where he had shot the Mexican twice. Jack evidently thought I had given him away purposely and tried to settle me."
"My! what a fiend," said John. "But what became of Simmons?"
"Oh, he went back to town and gave himself up, was tried, and acquitted; for no jury out here would convict such a man for shooting a bad lot like Mexican Jack."
"I should think you'd be glad to get rid ofhim," exclaimed both boys in chorus. "Weren't you afraid to have him round so long?"
"Oh, no; he wouldn't trouble me, I guess, as long as I let him alone; he was a blamed good herder, and it was worth while to keep on the right side of him. Now, you boys want to tumble in, for we'll be going out right early in the morning to the range."
The twenty-five-mile trip next day to the range where the sheep were grazing was made without incident, but the country was all new to the boys and they plied their guide with questions. They learned that Abe Miller was to stay with them on the range and teach them their duties, another man taking charge at the ranch house during his absence.
It was expected that Mr. and Mrs. Worth would move to the new mine (about fifteen miles from the ranch house) in a couple of months.
Their education as herders completed, the boys would be given sole charge of a large bunch of several thousand sheep. A kind of shed, open in front and built of round, chinked logs, entirely lacking in comforts of every kind, was to be their home. Polly, Dick, and Pete, the three sheep dogs, and the great flock of woolly animals would then be their only companions.
Abe initiated them at once into the routine of their new occupation and introduced them to "Polly" and her two sons, Dick and Pete, the ever-vigilant, intelligent dogs who were to be their capable assistants.
MANY LAMBS IN THE FLOCK. (Page 149.)
It was hardly the work that an enterprising, wide-awake, active person, young or old, would choose. Untiring vigilance was the one thing necessary. Watchfulness never ceasing, day and night, rain and shine, was the chief occupation of the sheep herder. Polly, the dog, was a much better herder than her young masters at first, and Dick and Pete were not far behind. They moved the "bunch" to fresh feeding grounds at the command, and fully understood the wig-wag code of the plains. When driving at a distance from camp Polly would trot to a hill top and watch for the boys' signal: if John waved horizontally she would drive them farther, Dick and Pete assisting; when the bunch had been driven far enough John's hat would be flapped up and down, and the dogs, with almost human intelligence, would at once stop their charges.
The attacks of coyotes, wolves, and, more rarely, mountain lions were the greatest danger to the sheep that the young shepherds had to guard against. Some of these four-footed enemies were almost always prowling about, looking hungrily for a chance at a stray sheep or lamb.A coyote or wolf among an unprotected flock will destroy a surprising number of sheep in a few minutes, seemingly for the pure love of killing, so there was good reason for the sharpest kind of lookout.
After the novelty of the life wore off, the boys began to wish themselves back at the mine. For weeks at a time they did not see another human being. Each day was like every other day; in the morning the rope corral enclosing the flock was let down, and the sheep were driven by the dogs to a place where the feed was good; then the boys mounted their horses and followed to the grazing ground. During the two mid hours of the day the animals rested, lying down quietly, and the brothers would take advantage of this time to get in as much sport as the spot afforded. Rifles were always slung on the saddle, and the slinking coyotes gave plenty of opportunity to show good marksmanship. Occasionally the curiously marked antelope appeared, looking, as Charley Green once said, "as if some one had started to paint the whole lot tan but had got tired of the job and left patches of white at odd places"; then the young hunters would set out, and in the excitement of a hunt forget for a time the monotony of the life. Seldom was it safe for both to go at once; only at noon, when the sheepwere lying down in open, level country, could the dogs be left wholly in charge.
Towards evening the bunch must be corraled for the night—a difficult task if there are many lambs in the flock. The boys found, often to their disgust, that a lamb can run like a deer when it gets thoroughly frightened. It was shortly after Abe had left them that, in accordance with his teaching, they began to "round up" the flock preparatory to stretching the rope corral. Ben was on one side with Polly and Dick, John on the other with Pete; all was going well, and John and Pete, neither very experienced in the business in hand, began to feel the pride that goeth before a fall. Suddenly the sheep fifty yards from where John stood began to scatter. Pete was sent forthwith to force them back, and while he was busy there a lamb, long and clumsy of leg, apparently not strong enough to stand alone, started out on a voyage of discovery not ten yards from the boy. It would not do to let it stray far, for a coyote would make short work of it, so John sped off in pursuit.
As he drew near the little woolly thing it increased its speed, running as you would imagine a rickety table would run, but it kept going faster and faster. John, who unfortunately was on foot, found to his mortification that he could notovertake it. It looked as if he would have to give up the chase. At last, however, he tried gradually turning to one side and heading it back to the bunch; even then it might have got away if Polly, taking in the situation, had not flown to the rescue. John came back panting, hot, and tired, only to find Ben sitting calmly in his saddle with a broad grin on his countenance. Even the dogs seemed to be laughing, their open mouths and lolling tongues giving their faces a look of keen enjoyment over his discomfiture.
Even after the flock was safely corralled it required almost as much watching as if in the open. The boys usually took turns, each watching half the night. A fire was built on one side of the enclosure, and the watcher lay on the other. The sheep, probably the most helpless animals one could find, lay right up against each other, their closely packed bodies looking at night like a patch of snow.
As the young herder fought with himself to keep awake, the howl of a coyote often broke the stillness; then he must start up, gun in hand, and make a round of the flock. From time to time he replenished the fire and made a careful scrutiny of the country round in search of the lurking enemies of his charges. Till he woke his brother about midnight there was hardly a minute's rest.Then Ben took up the vigil, while John slept till daylight; and so began another weary day exactly like the preceding one.
While in summer sheep are docile and amiable, though never so interesting as are cattle, horses, or mules, in winter they become stupid, intractable, and aggravating to the herder. It was in the winter that the boys' greatest hardships were encountered, for they found it necessary more than once literally to carry some of the flock through snow drifts to the ranch. They would not be driven or led, but when a trail had been made, and a number carried and forced along it, the remainder would pluck up courage to follow through the bank of snow.
The boys spent all one summer and winter with the sheep. From time to time Mr. Worth, who had moved his entire outfit over to the new mine, came out to the range to inspect the animals; and towards the end of the year the boys each time besought their father to let them go back with him. For the first time they realized the meaning of an expression they had often heard: "as crazy as a sheep herder." The shepherd's life in the far West is as uninteresting, ambitionless, and lonely an existence as falls to the lot of man. For long periods of time a shepherd is so entirely alone with his flock and his dogsthat the experience not infrequently costs him his reason. It was a terribly lonely life for youngsters such as they; though each was company for the other, they both longed to hear the home sounds and see the familiar faces. Mr. Worth, however, would not consent to their return till the year was up. He felt that the discipline was good for them, and besides he was never willing to have them let go of anything without finishing it.
The new mine was the most important and largest that had been opened. It was situated on the line of the railroad that had just been constructed, and was of a more permanent character than the preceding ones. Many of the miners brought their wives and families with them, so that they formed quite a settlement. Occasionally the miners' sons would ride out to visit the Worth boys, who were delighted to see them, though there was little in common between them. The miners were Easterners, as a rule, and knew nothing of horsemanship, hunting, or plains-craft; but they were boys and were gladly received as such. They regaled John and Ben with accounts of the happenings at the mine, but while they listened eagerly, this only added to their impatience to return and made them more discontented with their present life.
When the snow began to melt and the grass to grow green again, the brothers occupied most of their time in thinking what they would do when they got back to civilization, for the time of their release was drawing near.
"I'd go crazy if I had to stay here with these woolly idiots another year," said John one day.
"Yes," returned Ben, "it's about as tame as anything could be. But what are we going to do when we get back? You can bet your bottom dollar father won't let us sit round and enjoy the view."
"I suppose we'll have to get to work at something." John stroked Polly's head reflectively as he spoke, and the good dog, undemonstrative always, showed her pleasure only by the slow wagging of her bushy tail.
"But what?" It was Ben who spoke. "I'll be switched if I want to go to coal mining, and I guess you don't care about it either."
"That's right," replied John, laconically. "I've had enough of mining to last me a lifetime." He shivered a little at the remembrance of his experience.
For a time both were silent; each was trying to think of something he might turn his hand to that would suit his father and at the same time please himself. It was not an altogether cheerfulprospect that lay before them. They would soon change the solitude for their bustling, busy home. It was home, and that was good to think of. Yet it was a home where a boy's love of fun and his healthy animal spirits were not considered: his capacity for work was what counted. A home where uncongenial, hard labor awaited them unless they could think of some other occupation that would satisfy their stern, just, absolutely honest but unyielding father.
"Well?" said Ben at last.
"Well!" returned John in much the same tone, "there is one thing we might do—perhaps."
"Well?" said Ben again, eagerly.
"You remember when young Watson was over here the other night," John began. "He said that a mail route was to be run from Ragged Edge Camp to the railroad, through the pass in the mountain——"
"Yes, and he had the job. That shuts us out, doesn't it?"
"Wait a minute!" exclaimed John, impatiently. "He's a tenderfoot, and he'll never in the world be able to make that trip on time, in winter—he'll never be able to make it at all. You'll see that after he has been late a few times we'll have a chance. Then I intend to apply for the job. See?"
John was the more aggressive, the stronger of the two, both in mind and body. The younger brother had learned to lean on his more independent spirit, so it was John who always had the deciding voice when there was a doubtful plan. Ben's yielding disposition enabled him to get along more comfortably with every one, and especially with the supreme authority in the household.
The Worth boys soon learned from their occasional visitors that they would be expected to show their prowess as boxers and wrestlers on their arrival in camp, so they determined to practise up. Every day at noon, when the sheep lay down, the two went at each other, good humoredly but with seriousness, advising one another when a mistake was made. Every blow, every trick, that Tom Malloy had taught John they tried till they knew it perfectly. Every feint, every fall, that the Indians practised they perfected, till by the time their term with the sheep was up their bodies were as supple and their muscles as strong as constant exercise and clean, healthy living in the open air could make them.
At last the new men arrived, the boys turned over the sheep to them, and promptly saddled up for their ride across the mountains. They wereglad to get away from the ranch, but when they reviewed the passed long months and realized that they had not flinched, they experienced that peculiar pleasure that comes from carrying through a hard job.
Mr. Worth had built for himself a plank house with shingled roof—the first real house the boys had entered since they left Bismarck.
Their father was away when they arrived, to be gone for some weeks, so the boys had a chance to have some of the fun they had longed for. They expected to have great sport with the miners' sons, but were keenly disappointed to find that their tastes were utterly different. The latter were as a rule Eastern boys, and were versed in civilized amusements: baseball, marbles, tops, and all the games of skill and strength dear to the town dwellers. Of all these our boys knew nothing; their amusements were akin to their work—to ride well and shoot straight was a matter of business as well as pleasure for them. And so the Worth boys and those of the camp stood aloof from one another, and John and Ben were soon almost as unhappy as they had been on the sheep range.
They still hoped to have an opportunity to show their skill as wrestlers and fighters in the emphatic way that was the custom in that day and place, but for a long time the camp boys gave them no provocation. As time went on, however, the mining boys grew overbearing and insulting and never lost an opportunity to taunt and aggravate the young Westerners.
"I'm going to lick that Jake Adams within an inch of his life," said John, wrathfully, one day to his brother. "He's the worst one of the lot."
"All right," said Ben. "I'm with you."
Pretty soon an opportunity came, and John challenged Jake to fight. He accepted at once. A ring was formed on the outskirts of the camp by the boys and some of the men who guaranteed fair play. The contest that followed was short, sharp, and decisive. John kept his head and made every blow tell, while Jake in his anger forgot all he knew and defended himself so poorly that his opponent soon satisfied him he was the better man.
After this such contests, generally not quite so earnest, were frequent. From most of them John came out victorious, and for a time the others ceased to taunt the Worth boys. But the feeling was far from being as friendly as it ought to have been between the two factions. Even the settlement of the arguments in so thorough a manner failed to clear the air entirely.
MR. WORTH HAD BUILT FOR HIMSELF A NEW HOUSE. (Page 157.)
THE SHEEP RANCH HOUSE. (Page 137.)
The miners admired pluck and skill, and John had many friends among them. His father, too, did not disapprove, for he also admired one who could give and take hard knocks. His approval was never outspoken, however; on the contrary he made John's bruises the subject of his chaffing. To John—who, in spite of his apparent indifference, was very sensitive and craved sympathy—this was almost unbearable.
As John predicted, young Watson failed to get the mails in on time. John at once offered to undertake the job, and after some questioning the authorities decided he was capable of accomplishing it. Here was something he could do that would test his intelligence, his strength, and his courage. It was work and amusement at the same time, and he accepted it gladly.
Ragged Edge had sprung up in a gulch fourteen miles from the coal camp. It was a new camp of the mushroom variety, called suddenly into being by the discovery of some gold-bearing gravel in the creek there. Deep snows on the range nearly cut off communication with the outer world for three months in the year. By following the high, wind-swept ridge, the mountain could be crossed by a venturesome horsemantill winter came on and the snows grew too deep, when snowshoes must be resorted to. Even late in the summer snowshoes were necessary to travel over the soft masses of the snow which always crowned the summit.
When John presented himself as a candidate for mail rider, Burns, the boss at Ragged Edge, looked at him in good-natured amusement. "Well, kid, if you think you can do it, go ahead and try. But it means work and p'raps danger." John told of his snowshoeing experiences in Dakota modestly but straightforwardly, and satisfied him by his resolute mien that he had the pluck to do it if any one could.
The boy spent several days in going over the ground, noting the best line to follow and making sure of his landmarks before the snows should cover up everything. He found at the top of the pass an old, abandoned cabin and marked its location in his mind in case of future necessity. This bit of precaution served him well before the winter was over.
"You had better get a good strong horse," said Mr. Worth, as John was mounting Baldy—for the trips had already begun. "Baldy's too old. You'll need a good young horse."
John said nothing for a minute, but patted his steed as if to express his confidence in him.
"Oh, no, sir. Baldy knows me and I know Baldy, and I think I can get along better with him than I could with any other horse," he said, rather anxiously, for he was afraid that his companion would be denied him. "Besides," he continued, "Baldy can smell a trail through two feet of snow, and isn't he in good condition? You can't see a rib."
"All right," returned his father. "He's yours, and the job's yours. Go ahead and work it out the way you think best."
So boy and horse encountered the perils of the mountain pass together, friends always, but now sole companions.
While there was no sign of snow in the valleys, it was falling steadily in the mountains. John did not carry out his first plan of tethering Baldy at the snow line on the mine side of the mountains and covering the rest of the distance on snowshoes. He found that by following the bare ridges he could go the whole distance on horseback. His route was changed almost every day, for the wind formed drifts in different places and blocked the old way ten feet deep over night. In certain places cuts in the ridge would become filled with snow, and through this horse and rider had to flounder till a hard trail had been packed. It was in such spots that Baldy's cleverness manifesteditself; he rarely missed the narrow, packed path, though it might be buried two feet or more. An incautious step to one side was sure to cause both horse and rider to disappear in the soft mass.
"Well, I must say you have done pretty well so far," said Burns one day, as John dismounted and handed him the packet of mail.
"Yes; haven't missed a trip," he answered rather proudly. "Don't know if I'd have made such a good record if I hadn't the best snow horse going though. Been snowshoeing it two weeks ago if it wasn't for Baldy." He stopped to stroke the animal's nose affectionately. "I vowed this should be his last trip, it's getting harder and harder; but he's such good company I hate to give him up."
Next morning, as Burns handed out the return mail, he warned the boy that bad weather was coming, and suggested that he leave the horse behind, for he would be more of a hindrance than a help. "Those black clouds mean that we're in for a big storm," he said, "and I tell you that you and your horse had better stay here. I can't boss you, kid, but I advise you not to fool with that storm—it's coming sure and you don't know what it means up here." In spite of this John decided to go on Baldy, for he wished to leave him safe at his father's camp.
The hard travelling had begun to tell on the sturdy little horse; his body was not so round as formerly, nor his step so springy, but he carried his young rider well for all that and was as knowing and careful as ever.
John tucked the package of precious letters in his saddle-bag, and after calling out a good-by to Burns he set out. He had barely reached high ground when snow began to fall heavily and with it came a blustering, roaring wind that buffeted the travellers roundly. The horse slackened his speed, and, by signs that John knew well, advised retreat. The boy urged him forward, however, saying aloud—for he always felt as if Baldy could understand everything he told him—"No, old man, if we go back now you'll have to winter in the Ragged Edge gulch and you'll die sure. We can make it all right." The good beast seemed to acquiesce in his master's judgment, for he went along without further hesitation. The trail now was covered almost knee deep, and the blinding mist and whirling flakes blotted out nearly all landmarks. They pushed forward, at one moment right in the teeth of the blast, at the next turning a sharp corner and running before it, heads down, eyes almost closed, the rider depending on the keen senses of his steed to find the way.
At length Baldy stopped, and John felt, with a thrill of real alarm, that he had lost the trail. To go forward seemed impossible, to go back almost as bad. To and fro they went, in vain efforts to find the way. Baldy still floundered along, his hoofs covered with gunny sacks to prevent their sharp edges from cutting through the crust; but his sides began to heave and his legs to shake under him, for the exertion of breaking through the drifts from one wind-swept ridge to another was most exhausting. John could stand it no longer; he slipped off his back and caught his head in both arms: "Why did I bring you out here?" he said, in bitter self-reproach. It was evident that if he did not find shelter soon his old friend would freeze to death.
There was one chance for himself: he was light and might be able to make his way over the snow to Ragged Edge Camp, perhaps; but what would then become of his faithful friend? Could he leave him to such a fate after he had so spent himself for his master's sake? Baldy stood knee deep in the cruel, treacherous, white snow, his head down, quick, spasmodic puffs coming from his nostrils, his body steaming, and his flanks all in a tremble. There was only one chance for the lives of both. John remembered the abandoned hut at the top of the pass—if they could possiblyreach that, they might be able to weather the storm together. He determined to try. Fastening Baldy's bridle rein to his fore leg, so that he could not follow, and giving him an affectionate pat on the nose, he started off, his teeth set determinedly. A few yards away the driving snow shut Baldy off from his sight entirely, but a gentle whinny reached him and brought a lump into his throat.
"That's all right, old boy," he called aloud; "I'm not going to leave you. I'll be back." He turned in the direction he thought the cabin should be and fought his way on. The wind seemed like a howling fiend; it tore at his clothing, blew the particles of snow into his eyes, and raised such a veil of mist and frost that he could not see ten yards ahead of him. On the high, bare ridges the blast nearly took him off his feet and in the hollows the snow banks engulfed him. Still he struggled on, straining his eyes forward into the gray chaos that confronted him, determined to find the shelter. A vision of Baldy standing dejectedly alone, his rough brown coat turned white by the sleet, his faithful old eyes half closed, drove the boy on irresistibly, for, next to his brother, he loved his horse better than anything else in the world.
He ploughed through drift after drift, followingone ridge, for only by keeping one such landmark in sight was it possible to go in any given direction. Would that haven of rest ever come into view? Even his stout heart began to despair; he was weary, his body bathed in sweat, yet his face, feet, and hands numb with cold; the elements seemed to conspire against him. He was only a boy, and it seemed hard that he should give up his life. He stood still and looked drearily down the hillside. Nothing, nothing but the deadly snow. He began to wonder if it was worth while to fight against such odds any longer.
And then in this abjectness he suddenly gave a cry of delight. For the wind rent the snow apart for an instant and he caught a glimpse through the driving flakes of a dead tree and near it a peculiarly shaped, great gray rock. They seemed positively human, like old friends, for the shelter he sought stood just to the left of them.