"Let me see it," and the doctor unwound the dirty rags, handling the wounded hand ever so tenderly. It was treatment to which the boy was entirely unaccustomed, and he did not knowjust what to make of it. Jimmy warned the physician that neither had any money, but nevertheless he proceeded to attend to the sore hand, washing it first, then dressing it and bandaging the whole in clean white linen. John was ordered to come next day. And so, with a kindly smile on his benevolent face, he bade them good day.
The grateful patient tried hard to thank the doctor and harder to thank Jimmy, but he did not succeed very well with either.
"Now, kid, you've got to sleep in a bed till that hand heals up," said the latter, when John tried to voice his gratitude. "I've got a stable full of hay that I'm goin' to sleep in; but you hunt up a lodgin' house and save your money all you can."
John followed the advice at once and found a place where he could sleep in a bed for twenty-five cents a night.
A week passed, Jimmy had taken to the road again, and the boy was left alone for the first time in a great town. He had been lonely before, but it was as nothing compared to the feeling that now possessed him. To be surrounded with people, all of whom were strangers, seemed to him more depressing than to be absolutely alone with rugged nature.
By this time John's hand had nearly healed, but his money had about given out, and he was looking for work. It wasn't hard for a man in those booming days to find work, but the boy was in the awkward stage of growth when he was too small for a man's work and too big for a boy's—though he had a full-grown appetite and clothes to pay for.
He hunted diligently for a job; day after day he tramped the streets in search of one; he looked into thousands of faces for one he knew. He asked continually for work, and at last, after a particularly trying day, heard of a restaurant where a dish-washer was wanted. He went there at once, but was told that the boss would not be there till evening; later he called again and was told that it was still too early. The restaurant was set back of a saloon, which also bore the legend, "Licensed Gambling House." Instead of going away to return again, John determined to wait. He loitered around the bar-room, sick at heart. It was not a pleasant place to wait in; it had no attractions for the boy, accustomed as he was to open-air life. Several tables were scattered about, and at these sat the gamblers, their faces stony and expressionless, perfectly calm, no matter how luck turned—the result of long and severe discipline. It seemed as if "the boss"would never come, and John was about to give up when he chanced to look at a table in a far corner and saw, he thought, a familiar face. He was all alertness in an instant, and went over to make sure. Yes, it was Tom Malloy, John's instructor in "the noble art of self-defence." How glad he was to see him! Yet he must not interrupt, for Tom was playing cards for a considerable stake. He must wait and watch his chance to speak. Tom won steadily, and soon the boy became so absorbed in the game that he forgot all about the dish-washing; a friend was involved, so he "took sides" at once. One by one Malloy's opponents dropped out, remarking that it was "Malloy's night," till he alone remained at the table. Raking the chips into his hat he went over to the bar to turn them into the money they represented; John followed, and when the currency was being counted out he approached:
"Hello, Tom," he said.
"Why, hello, kid," answered the man carelessly.
"Don't you know me?" said John, rather hurt at this reception. "I'm John Worth; you worked for my father down in Dakota."
"The deuce you say! You little John Worth? Not so little, either," said Tom in a breath. "Where'd yer come from? What you doin'round a gamblin' house? It's no place for you."
John remembered his mission and explained.
"Job? Well, I'm just the man to get you one," said Tom cordially. He went back to the restaurant door and called a waiter to him. "Tell Albert I want to see him," he ordered. Albert, the restaurant keeper, soon appeared. "I hear you want a man," Malloy began. "Here's a boy who's as good as any man and an old friend of mine; if you've got a good job, give it to him."
Malloy was a leading character among the gamblers of the town; he won freely and spent freely, and was therefore to be propitiated. Albert graciously admitted that he had a job and that John might have it; he even went so far as to say that "sure he would make a place for a friend of Mr. Malloy's." So it was arranged that the boy was to begin work the next day.
The two passed out together, and Tom noticed the condition of the boy's clothes; they were dusty, torn in many places, and generally disreputable-looking.
"Those all the clothes you have?"
John nodded.
"Well, I'll see if I can't get you fixed up to-morrow."
True to his word, John's friend in need tookhim to a clothing store and saw to it that he was supplied with a complete outfit.
John was togged out as he had never been before in all his life; he looked at himself in the glass, feeling awkward and clumsy and wishing his face wasn't so big and red under the small derby hat. He couldn't get used to that hat, so he slyly rolled up his big, old felt one and tucked it under his arm when they left the store. Before Malloy parted from him he made him promise that he would call on him if he had any trouble or did not get along well with Albert.
John began work at once. He yanked off his new coat, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and started in washing dishes as if his life depended on it. It was a way he had when anything had to be accomplished.
For several months the boy stuck to his job, working steadily and well. The town, or at least the meaner part of it, became very familiar to him. Schools, churches, concerts, and society events abounded, but they might have been in another planet so far as John was concerned. The saloon, the "Licensed Gambling House," the cheap theatre, and the back streets were his haunts. The rough teamsters, miners, and gamblers were his associates. Tom Malloy was his hero; the man's generosity and kindly spirit won the boy's heart, but the former kept a strict watch over him for all that, and it is doubtful if John could have got into very bad habits if he had desired. The boy soon learned to know all the celebrities of the under-world in which he lived: Peter Aston, or Poker Pete, "handy with his gun"; Charley, or Snoozer, Johnson, also known as "Gain," who played a "close, hard game"; Tom Malloy, with the widespread reputation of being a man "hard to lick."
THE MEN BROKE UP INTO LITTLE GROUPS. (Page 276.)
The class John associated with was a restless lot, seldom staying long in one place, and soon the same spirit infected him. He longed for the open air and open country; the interminable walls of the city oppressed him. It was with great interest therefore that he listened to a chance acquaintance who told of a new job on railroad construction he had secured. John asked several questions and learned that many men were needed, and that there might be a chance for him.
"Where's the contractor?" he asked suddenly, his mind made up. "I'm goin' to ask him for a job."
"I met him half an hour ago at the 'Bucket of Blood,'" answered his new friend. "I'll go along with you; perhaps we'll find him there."
They soon reached the saloon with the sanguinary name, and luckily found the contractor. John stated his errand and stood while the man looked him over. "Perhaps you might work in the cook house," he said at length. "You're too light to drive a scraper."
"Yes, I could do that, but I don't want to. I want out-of-door work. Have you got a horse-wrangler yet?"
As luck would have it, the job John wanted was not given out, and, after telling of his experience, he was appointed night horse-wrangler.
To get a saddle and riding outfit was the next thing necessary, and this Tom Malloy lent him from the store of such things he had won at cards.
John found that to part from the man who had befriended him in his need was the only really trying thing in connection with leaving Helena. Squalid as were most of his associations with the place, he was really sorry to go away from Tom Malloy. The thought of being once more in the saddle, however, delighted him, and it was with a preponderance of joy rather than sorrow, therefore, that he clambered early one morning into the rough wagon that was to convey his party to the scene of operations and saw the city disappear in the distance.
Soon he would be astride of a horse, out in the open. No walls to encompass him, no roofs to shut out the sky—what a glorious and inspiring thought it was!
"Seems to me," said John to his new partner, Frank Bridges, "that this is a pretty tough gang. Half of 'em drunk, and the rest of 'em ready to take your head off if you speak to 'em."
"Oh, well," answered the other, "some of them got out of money quicker than others and so got out of liquor quicker. It's kinder hard to go back to work in the wilds after loafing round the town a good while. You'll find that they're not such a bad lot when they're sober and get to workin'."
The two were sitting on one of the scrapers that trundled behind the wagons—a vehicle which, though not exactly comfortable, was exclusive—they had it entirely to themselves. All day long they had travelled thus, except at dinner time, when a short halt was made. John said he would almost as lief ride a brake beam as a "break-back," for so he had christened this jolting equipage.
Long after dark they saw the white tents of the camp loom up, and in a minute after their arrival it was the scene of bustling activity. Orders were bawled, greetings were shouted, the teamsters yelled and swore at their horses. But above the din rose the voice of Old Murphy, the contractor: "Here, boys, rustle round and get these horses out of the harness. Worth, saddle up and take these horses to the other bunch and watch 'em all till morning." Then, turning to his foreman: "Ricks, get this fellow a saddle horse."
"The others are tied up yet, Mr. Murphy," the man ventured.
"What! Not out yet?" roared the boss. A regular tirade followed, and John realized that he must do his work well to escape a tongue-lashing. He was rather staggered at the order to saddle up and get out at ten o'clock at night, with a lot of strange horses, in a country he did not know.
"Say, Frank," he said to his friend, who was busy unloading the rolled-up "beds" or bedding, "this is no joke; I don't want to lose a lot of horses and maybe kill myself in the bargain—it's going it blind with a vengeance."
"You'd better make a stab at it, anyhow," he was advised. "The old man's raging, and youmight lose your job if you showed the white feather."
"You ready yet, Worth?" It was Murphy's voice, and John jumped at the sound of it.
"Give me a hand, Frank, will you. Bring the blasted old cayuse over here while I get the saddle ready. I'll do it or bust," and John suited the action to the word.
In a few minutes the boy was in the saddle and following the already straggling bunch of horses.
"Keep your eye open for prospect holes," shouted Frank.
"You want to watch those horses like thunder, Worth," called out Murphy, who seemed to be everywhere at once. "They're strangers to each other, and they'll split up and scatter to the four winds if you don't watch 'em. Some's from Oregon and some's from Utah, and if they get separated it'll cost mor'n they're worth to get 'em back again. You've got fifty-six head—keep counting 'em." The "old man" apparently did not want him to get beyond the sound of his voice, but kept following and shouting instructions. Perhaps he realized that he was giving the boy a trying, and possibly dangerous, task.
"All right," shouted John cheerfully, but at heart he was not so confident.
It was long after ten and quite dark; the horses in front were mere shadows and could only be distinctly made out by the tramp of their hoofs. To count them exactly was almost impossible, for it was hard to tell where one horse began and another ended. The old beast John was riding, however, knew his business, and it was well he did, for it was necessary to trust almost entirely to his acuteness and keen sense of smell. Horses and herder splashed across the creek and pushed their way through the brush and up the hill opposite.
The boy realized that his work was cut out for him, and he determined he would see the thing through. The hills and gulches round about were new to him. There might be precipices, quicksand bottoms, bogs, and, worst of all, the night-rider's menace, old prospect holes. These were short, narrow, and often deep ditches dug by miners in their search for the precious metal. Besides all this, he was on a horse he had never thrown a leg over before and of whose disposition and capabilities he knew nothing.
"If I only had Baldy!" he thought as the cayuse he was riding plunged into the brush after the retreating bunch.
Immediately his trouble began. The old horses, old companions, jealous of the newcomers,tried to elude them, and the latter were none too anxious for their company. John could only gallop forward and back and all around, restraining this scattering tendency as best he could, and depending on his mount's sagacity to avoid holes and obstructions. A merry dance his charges led him—merry in the lively sense only—up and down, in and out, over what kind of country he could only guess. All he could see of his troublesome charges was a shadowy back now and then, or a high-thrown head silhouetted against a lighter patch of sky or a bank of sand.
He judged himself to be two miles from camp before the animals seemed to think of stopping to feed. Even then they were determined to separate, and it taxed John's vigilance to the utmost to keep them together. His horse began to tire, it was many hours before daylight, and something had to be done—at once. An old gray mare carried a bell on her neck and John noticed that the rest of the bunch followed her blindly. If he could catch and tie her up the others might be more inclined to stay in one spot. How to do this was the question. She was too wily to be caught by hand, and if in throwing the rope the loop missed, she would scatter the entire herd in a minute. For a while he gave up theplan, but it grew more and more difficult for his weary horse to keep up the continued darting to and fro.
At last he decided to make the trial—it was the last resort and the cast must be successful. He made ready his lariat, holding a coil in his left hand and the wide loop in his right, and waited an instant for a good opportunity. The gray mare stood out more distinctly than the other horses and made a better mark, but at best it would be a difficult throw. For several seconds John sat still in his saddle, the noose circling slowly round his head, his arm still, only the supple wrist bending. The old mare was watching him. The rope now began to whistle as its speed increased. Suddenly the belled mare snorted and started off on a run; John shut his teeth hard, threw at what looked like a neck, took a couple of turns round the horn of the saddle with the slack rope, then waited.
Almost at once the line tightened. A gentle pressure was put on the bridle rein, and the pony's weight checked the mare in her flight. The throw was a good one, and the mare was caught. The shock was great, and John's pony was green at this sort of business and the tightening cinches made him jump in lively fashion. The mare too had not learned that it is uselessto "run against a rope," and for a while kept John and his mount busy; but the increasing tightness of the slip noose round her neck soon quieted her and enabled the boy to tie her up short to a tree.
The remedy proved to be effective; soon all the horses were feeding quietly round the tied leader.
John congratulated himself on his success and prepared to take a much-needed rest, but was interrupted by the sound of another bell far up the gulch. Evidently there were other horses feeding near, and it was essential to keep them separated; so he trotted to a point between the herd and the place from which the ringing came. Again he dismounted from his sweating pony and sat down to rest, when, chancing to glance over his shoulder, he saw a small fire blazing a quarter of a mile away. "No rest for the weary," he grunted resignedly, mounted once more and started out to investigate. As he rode slowly nearer he made out a man sitting cross-legged by the fire, his face in strong relief, his back almost lost in shadow. Behind stood a saddled horse, barely showing in the gloom.
John rode up, slapping his chaps with his quirt to let the stranger know that he was a horseman also and giving fair warning of his approach. Otherwise he might be taken for a horse thief and shot on sight.
A ROPE CORRAL WAS DRAWN ABOUT THE SADDLE BAND. (Page 281.)
The stranger rose quickly and retreated into the shadow. John did not like this. "Hullo, pardner!" he called, drawing nearer.
"Hullo, stranger," replied the other. "Are you lost?"
"No. I'm Murphy's night herder. Pretty dark night, isn't it?"
The man returned to the circle of firelight, his suspicions allayed, thus evidencing his own honesty. John dismounted and came up to him, glad to have some one to talk and listen to.
"You night-herdin' too? I heard a bell ringing up the gulch and I guessed there was another bunch of horses up there."
"Yep. I've got Brady's horses up there," and he nodded in the direction of a dimly visible lot. John described the difficulties he had experienced and asked if there were many prospect holes about.
"Yes, lots of 'em," answered the Brady man. "An' they're deep too. I was ridin' along with my bunch last spring, spurrin' my horse to get ahead of the critters, when he went plump into a blamed hole—and he's there yet. I only got away by the skin of my teeth."
"I guess I'm in great luck to get through this safe," said John. "I was never on this range till after dark to-night."
"Horses all there?" inquired the other, nodding towards John's charges.
"Sure. But I guess I'd better count 'em."
"My horses are like a lot of sheep. I'll go along with you."
The two rounded the animals together again and counted them as well as the darkness would allow. They agreed that they numbered fifty-six and John breathed easier.
And so the first night passed, the two herders chatting pleasantly till dawn, when they parted, agreeing to meet some other night.
A little before daybreak John rounded up his bunch and began driving them in the direction of the camp. When daylight came he counted them again and to his satisfaction found them all there. In spite of the tiresome trip of the day before, the hard riding of the preceding evening, and the long night's vigil, he felt as gay as the lark that soared overhead pouring out a song entirely out of proportion in volume to its size. He hummed blithely an Indian war chant, made over for the occasion, and breathed in the early morning fragrance with a feeling of exhilaration that made him forget for the time that hehad gone to work the night before supperless and had not put his teeth into anything edible since.
The sight of the cook preparing breakfast speedily reminded him that he had an "aching void," which seemed to extend to his very heels.
The boss's query, "Got 'em all, Worth?" was answered, with pardonable pride, in the affirmative. For John felt that he had done good work.
The breakfast was soon over, and what a breakfast! Baked beans, bacon, bread, and coffee, a feast fit for the gods, John thought, as he rolled into the bed that Frank had previously showed him. He was sound asleep in a minute and entirely unconscious of the bustle and noise about him. Murphy was giving orders in stentorian tones that could be heard half a mile away; the unwilling horses were being harnessed to the big scoop-like scrapers and to the wagons containing tools; the men were divided into gangs, the new arrivals, cross, surly, and suffering from aching heads, starting with irritating slowness. Soon all hands were hard at work, "moving hills to fill up hollows," making a level trail for the iron horse.
At this point there was much digging and scraping to be done, a deep cut and a long "fill" on the other side. At noon the men trooped back to dinner—silent until their hunger was satisfied,then noisy and boisterous—but John slept peacefully through it all.
About four o'clock he woke up and gazed about him wonderingly. He was lying in a tent, through the open flap of which the sunlight streamed.
A dip in the stream that ran close by refreshed him greatly and dispelled the sleepy, heavy feeling that had possessed him. The creek was clear and cool, and John lingered on its banks half clothed, digging in the sand and mud with his bare feet and hands. As he was dabbling in the moist earth, he came across some sand that had black streaks in it. His curiosity was aroused, for he had not seen the like before, and he gathered some in his hat, intending to ask what it was.
The cook was busy washing beans for supper, so John sat down on a log near by and watched him idly. His thoughts wandered back to the coal camp, and he wondered about Ben and Baldy; he longed for both, and for the momentwas tempted to go home and see them; then he realized that he had chosen the path he was now travelling for himself and felt that he must follow it out to the end. He thought of the journey to Helena, of Jimmy the hobo, and of the life he had just left. His brown study was interrupted with a jolt. "What's that you've got in your hat?" It was the cook, speaking rather excitedly.
"Oh, that? That's some sand and gravel I picked out down the creek; brought it up to ask what it is."
"Well, it looks to me like gold." This impressively.
"But it's black," objected John.
"Yes, the black is magnetic iron and often holds gold—maybe there's enough to pay. Do you know how to work the pan?" Cook was evidently interested.
The boy professed his ignorance, and the other volunteered to show him.
The pan, a flat, round, shallow tin affair, was taken down to the spot indicated by John and the lesson began. A little gravel, which included some of the black sand, was scooped up. Then the pan was taken to the creek, dipped under, and the water was allowed to run out slowly. This was repeated over and over, and each timea little sand and gravel was washed over the edge. At last only the black sand, being heavier, remained. This the cook showed triumphantly.
"Only a little black sand! Where's the gold?" inquired John.
"It's in the sand, and has to be separated from it by quicksilver, which absorbs the gold; then you can throw away the sand," explained cook, who had put away the residue carefully in a bottle and was dipping up more gravel.
"But how do you take the gold out of the quicksilver?" The boy was determined to get to the bottom of this thing.
"Why, you can put it in the sun and let it evaporate, leaving the gold, or you can send it to town to be separated and run the risk of losing both quicksilver and some of your gold."
John tried panning, but he found it needed a much more practised hand than his; he spilled out water, gravel, and all, or else he didn't accomplish anything. Cook's teaching was careful, however, and before long his pupil was able to gather enough sand, after sleeping and before beginning his night's work, to realize fifty or sixty cents' worth of gold when separated.
Immediately after supper John had to saddle his horse and drive the work stock out to feed. This task was becoming more and more easy asthe horses learned to know each other. He met Curran, Brady's wrangler, regularly now, and the companionship helped to while away the long night hours very pleasantly.
Curran was of medium height, stoop-shouldered, and rather bow-legged from long contact with a horse's rounded body. He was awkward and stiff when afoot, an appearance accentuated by the suit of canvas and leather that he wore. In the saddle he was another being, graceful, supple, strong—seemingly a part of the beast he rode. His skin was tanned and seamed by long years of exposure to the sun. He might be the very hero himself of a song he sang to John one night.
Bow-legged Ike on horseback was sentFrom some place, straight down to this broad continent.His father could ride and his mother could, too,They straddled the whole way from Kalamazoo.Born on the plains, when he first sniffed the airHe cried for to mount on the spavined gray mare.And when he got big and could hang to the horn'Twas the happiest day since the time he was born.He'd stop his horse loping with one good, strong yank,He'd rake him on shoulder and rake him on flank.He was only sixteen when he broke "Outlaw Nell,"The horse that had sent nigh a score men to—well!He climbed to the saddle and there sat still,While she bucked him all day with no sign of a spill.Five years later on a cayuse struck the trailWhose record made even old "punchers" turn pale.He was really a terror; could dance on his ear,And sling a man farther than that stump—to here!A man heard of Ike; grinned and bet his whole pileHis sorrel would shake him before one could smile.So the crowd they came round and they staked all they had,While Ike, sorter innocent, said: "Is hebad?"And durin' their laugh—for the sorrel, you see,Had eat up two ropes and was tryin' for me—Ike patted his neck—"Nice pony," says he,And was into the saddle as quick as a flea.That sorrel he jumped and he twisted and bucked,And the man laughed, expectin' that Ike would be chucked.But soon the cayuse was fair swimmin' in sweatWhile Ike, looking bored, rolled a neat cigarette.And then from range to range he hunted a cayuseThat could evenin-ter-esthim, but it wasn't any use.So he got quite melancholic, wondering why such an earth,Where the horses "had no sperrits," should have given himself birth.
Bow-legged Ike on horseback was sentFrom some place, straight down to this broad continent.
His father could ride and his mother could, too,They straddled the whole way from Kalamazoo.
Born on the plains, when he first sniffed the airHe cried for to mount on the spavined gray mare.
And when he got big and could hang to the horn'Twas the happiest day since the time he was born.
He'd stop his horse loping with one good, strong yank,He'd rake him on shoulder and rake him on flank.
He was only sixteen when he broke "Outlaw Nell,"The horse that had sent nigh a score men to—well!
He climbed to the saddle and there sat still,While she bucked him all day with no sign of a spill.
Five years later on a cayuse struck the trailWhose record made even old "punchers" turn pale.
He was really a terror; could dance on his ear,And sling a man farther than that stump—to here!
A man heard of Ike; grinned and bet his whole pileHis sorrel would shake him before one could smile.
So the crowd they came round and they staked all they had,While Ike, sorter innocent, said: "Is hebad?"
And durin' their laugh—for the sorrel, you see,Had eat up two ropes and was tryin' for me—
Ike patted his neck—"Nice pony," says he,And was into the saddle as quick as a flea.
That sorrel he jumped and he twisted and bucked,And the man laughed, expectin' that Ike would be chucked.
But soon the cayuse was fair swimmin' in sweatWhile Ike, looking bored, rolled a neat cigarette.
And then from range to range he hunted a cayuseThat could evenin-ter-esthim, but it wasn't any use.
So he got quite melancholic, wondering why such an earth,Where the horses "had no sperrits," should have given himself birth.
All that summer John tended the work stock, keeping them together on good feeding ground during the short night and driving them into camp soon after daylight.
Much of this work was very pleasant; the two herders, Curran and John, met regularly and many were the long talks and interchanges of experiences they enjoyed.
The rainless summer nights were cool enough to be refreshing and yet warm enough to make the time spent in the open air delightful. But when rain came all this was changed. The horses became nervous and restless and required constant watchfulness and continual riding, regardless of treacherous foothold and hidden, water-filled prospect holes. The long, yellow "slicker" or oilskin coat, being cut deep in the back and hanging over the rider's legs to his spurred heels, served but poorly to keep out the driving rain, and by morning he was fairly soaked. Arrivingin camp with his dripping charges, he would dismount stiffly, and after a half-cold breakfast crawl into a damp bed under an oozing tent.
John, however, learned to take things as they came, good or ill, gathering valuable experience from right and left. Curran was a horseman of long standing, and gave the fast-maturing boy a great many points that served him in good stead later in life. He taught him how to detect any uneasiness in the stock that might grow into fright and start a stampede; how to check this by voice and by constant active presence; and, above all, by force of example he showed that only through quick thought and unhesitating exposure of himself to danger could harm to his charges be averted. By nature courageous, almost to recklessness, John learned these lessons unconsciously.
And so the summer passed—herding horses at night, sleeping and panning gold by day. By the latter operation he was able to add, on an average, fifty cents a day to his hardly princely income of seven dollars a week.
As the warm season drew to a close, the night wrangler's work became more of a hardship and less a pleasure; only by dint of constant exercise and a roaring fire was the life made endurable. The night's work over, horse and rider wouldcome in stiff with cold and not infrequently wet as well.
"Well, kid, the outfit breaks camp this week," said cook to John one cold, wet morning in November as he slid off his patient beast. "Here's your coffee; keep it out of the wet."
"Can't break any too soon for me," said John, sipping the steaming beverage and clinging tightly to the tin cup with both hands for the sake of the warmth it contained.
"Must be pretty tough this time o' year," said cook sympathetically. "More coffee?"
"You bet," answered the other. "I couldn't stand it if I wasn't all-fired tough. I'll have to be tough if I go range-ridin' this winter."
Curran put this thought into his head, where it had been growing until it became a resolve.
"So you're goin' range-ridin', eh, kid?"
John nodded and asked the cook where he was going.
"Well, I'll tell yer," he said, stopping to wipe his hands on the flour bag that served for an apron, "I'm goin' straight back East where my folks live; soon's I get back to town I'm goin' to buy a railroad ticket East and go right off."
"Good enough," said John confidently, but rather sceptical at heart, for he knew of many men whose good resolutions melted under thedireful influence of the first glass of whiskey that went down their throats. "Well, I'm off to bed," he concluded, making for the bed that Frank had vacated but a little while before. He knew he needed all the rest he could get. The following morning, as he came near the collection of tents with the horses, he heard Murphy shouting: "Rustle round now, boys; get the cook outfit loaded, the tents down, and your beds rolled up—quick. We'll be in town by noon."
The work was taken up with such a will that John barely got his share of coffee, bacon, beans, and bread before the cook's stores were stowed away ready for travelling.
It was a very different crowd that now set out for the town, and yet it was the same lot of men. Nine months' heavy, open-air work had dispelled weakness and brought strength, had replaced bad temper with cheerfulness, and had, moreover, filled pockets with Uncle Sam's good coin.
Frank and John, his chum, again sat on the scraper that trailed behind a wagon, not now for fear of contact with ill-tempered, almost desperate men, but for the sake of comparative quiet and to escape the practical jokes that none in the wagon could avoid.
"Well," said Frank, "would you rather wrestle dishes in Helena or wrangle horses in the open?"
"I'd rather wrangle than wrestle," said John, taking the cue with a laugh, "weather or no; and I'd like to go out again soon."
On reaching town the men parted company, each to seek the pleasure that most attracted him. John at once hunted up Tom Malloy, who was still prosperous and evidently glad to see him.
"Well, kid, how did you get along?" he said, in his old, familiar, kindly way. The boy first paid him for the saddle he had borrowed, to which he had become accustomed and attached, and then told in detail of his experiences.
"Do you want to get back to pot-wrestling?" asked Molloy at length.
"No; not on your life!" and John told him of his liking for work in the open and his distaste for town life.
"Right you are, kid," said Tom encouragingly, "the town's no place for you, or for me, either," he added rather sadly. "I'll be done up some day"—a prophecy which proved but too true.
John and Frank took lodgings together, and for a time did nothing but travel round the town, noting the changes that had been made since they had been away and taking in such cheap amusement as the place offered. It was on one of thesejaunts round the streets that John met his friend the cook, blear-eyed, slouchy, and dirty, the bold mustache he was usually so proud of drooping dismally.
"Why, cook, I thought you were in the East by this time," said the ex-wrangler, remembering the solemn resolution confided to him a few days before.
"No, I just stopped for one drink and that settled it," confessed the other. "Haven't a quarter to buy a dinner with now."
John took him to a restaurant and fed him.
This was the first of a series of encounters with ex-campmates. The first feeling was one of wonder and disgust that the demon of drink could make such short work of a man; and then came the fear that the constant drafts upon him would use up his small savings.
"Frank," he said one day, "I've got to get out of this or I'll be stone broke; do you know of any fellow that will take me on a range?"
"Why, what's the matter?"
"Oh," said John, "this gang takes me for the treasurer of an inebriates' home, I guess, and will soon scoop every cent I've got."
"That's it, eh?" returned Bridges. "Well, I'll go down the Missouri with you. I'm pretty well acquainted a hundred and fifty miles or sobelow, and I know where I can go range-ridin' for a big cattleman any time."
"If you think you can work me in, I'll go," exclaimed the younger. "I'll buy that sorrel cayuse from Murphy. I can get him for fifteen, I guess, and we'll go to-morrow-that is, if you can work me in." This last was spoken rather dubiously, but Frank assured him that he would fix it somehow, and the compact was sealed.
The balance of the day was spent in getting their outfit ready. Frank was already provided with horse, saddle, and bridle, and the other appurtenances of the rider: chaps, spurs, oilskin slicker, and blankets. Some of these John possessed also, but he still lacked a horse; a few simple necessaries in the shape of a frying-pan, tin cups, coffee, flour, sugar, and the inevitable beans must be supplied for both. The dicker for John's sorrel was made in short order, and by nightfall all the outfit was complete. At daylight the following morning they were busy making up the packs, and a hard job they found it, for nothing seemed to fit, and apparently there was enough stuff to load a whole train. It was made up at last into two packs and lashed securely behind the saddles; they mounted and rode out of the fast-awakening town. One of the two at least was leaving it for a long time,to return under very different circumstances. Nothing of this sort entered their minds, however, and they went out as unconsciously as if off for a half-day's trip.
Frank knew the country pretty thoroughly, having been over it once or twice before, so it was plain sailing most of the time. Day after day they travelled along at a dog trot—a gait that the Western horse can keep up all day and one which a rider brought up to it finds perfectly comfortable, but which would shake the teeth out of an Easterner. The trail was clearly marked, easily followed, and much of the way wide enough to allow the horsemen to ride side by side.
Though the two had been partners for several months they had seen but little of each other; during the day at the railroad camp Frank worked while John slept, and during the night the reverse was the case. This was the first chance either had of really knowing the other, and both were well pleased. There was plenty of time and opportunity to talk, and they soon found that they had plenty of acquaintances in common.
"Ever been to Miles City?" John said one day as they were trotting steadily along. The leather of the saddles creaked and the cooking utensils made a regular accompaniment to the thudding hoof-beats.
EACH MAN TOOK HIS ROPE AND FLUNG IT OVER THE HORSE HE WANTED. (Page 281.)
"Sure. Two years ago this spring."
"That was about the time Dick Bradford and Charley Lang shot each other, wasn't it?" John was referring to a "killing" that was famous the country round.
"Yes, and I was right there in Brown's place at the time."
"Tell me about it, Frank. Some say Bradford was to blame and some say that Lang deserved it. I knew Charley Lang a little and thought him a nice fellow."
"Well," said Frank, "it isn't a long story; it all happened the same day, the quarrel and the killing. For some reason there was bad blood between them; both had been drinking, and a little dispute was enough to make them ready to pull their guns on each other."
"Charley was pretty quick with his gun," interpolated John, full of interest.
"So was Dick; but their friends took their shootin' irons away from 'em, and finally persuaded them to shake hands, and for a time there was no further trouble, but all the old hands feared that the business would not end there. Both men came to Brown's place before supper. Maybe you know the joint—a good many thingshave happened there, and Brown himself could tell enough stories to fill a dozen dime novels."
John nodded.
"It wasn't very pleasant there then; the two were plainly looking for each other's gore, and we all wished we could put a couple of hundred miles between them. Well, anyway, Dick saw Charley and called him an ugly name and then invited him to take a drink. He might have refused; that would have been bad enough, but he did worse, accepted, and took the glass in his left hand—which, as everybody knows, is a deadly insult, to accept a man's hospitality with your left hand, leaving your right free to pull your gun."
"But I should think it might just happen so," suggested John.
"So it might, but Charley made his meaning clear by the look he gave Dick. Nothing occurred then—neither had a gun—but after supper they managed to get a six-shooter apiece and soon turned up at Brown's again. When I came in Charley was sitting on the end of the bar, talking to the 'barkeep,' his hat on the back of his head, his legs swinging, the spurs on his heels jingling when they touched—the most unconcerned man going. Dick was leaning against the wall the other side of the room. He was madclean through. A couple of fellers were with him, but they couldn't stop him from jerking out his gun. He fired, but Charley had had his eye on him and reached for his six-shooter. The same instant the ball hit him in the chest. He slid off the bar, but as he fell he fired twice, and both shots went through Dick's heart. Dick died right off and Charley lived only a few minutes—he died in my arms."
"What a way to die!" was the only comment John made.
"Those were the very last words Charley spoke," said Frank, more to himself than to his listener.
"I guess Miles City was the toughest place going then," said the boy. "Why, I was driving through the town with my father one day (that was when we were opening a big coal mine down the Yellowstone) and we went under a half-finished railroad bridge and there, hanging from the ties, were the bodies of three men. Lynched. Ugh!" John shuddered at the remembrance of it.
"Was that the case where there was some talk of the men being killed first and hung afterwards?" inquired Frank.
"Yes. There had been a row in Brown's place, and these three had been put in jail, butduring the night they were taken out and in the morning were found as we saw them. The regular vigilance committee had not done it, and the doctor said death first, hanged afterwards."
Both of these characteristic stories were common talk whenever a crowd got together, but neither Frank nor John had heard the facts told by an eye-witness before.
It must not be thought all the conversation of these two was of this blood-and-thunder variety. Frank had lived in the East, and marvellous were the tales he told about the buildings, the people, and their doings. The two were so interested in each other, and what each had seen, that the time passed very quickly, and so John was surprised when Frank said late one afternoon: "See that blue range of hills about thirty miles ahead?"
John looked and nodded an assent.
"Well, Baker's ranch is right at the foot of them, and Sun River runs through it. That's where we're goin'."
The following morning they rode towards the ranch house, past the minor buildings, the barns and sheds, past the hay stack, now bulging with its winter store, past the inevitable horse corral, just then containing several horses which were circling round trying to avoid a cow-puncher's "rope." As they reached the ranch houseproper—a low, single-storied house built of logs and roofed with split logs covered with turf—a chunky, white-haired man in overalls stepped out of the door.
"Hello, Mr. Baker," said Frank. "You see you can't lose me."
"Well, Frank, it's you, is it? I'm terrible glad to see you. How are you?" Mr. Baker's greeting was cordial. "Who's your friend? What's his name?" he added, noticing John for the first time.
He was introduced, and the warm grasp of the hand that John got from the old ranchman won him at once.
"Mrs. Baker will bubble over when she sees you, Frank. Tie your horses and come in."
A long hitching rail ran along the front of the shack, and to this Frank and John made their horses fast.
Mrs. Baker's greeting was even more cordial than her husband's, and the youngster looked on at the display of affection rather wistfully. Nor was he ignored in the general greetings.
"You're just the fellow I want to see, Frank," said the cheerful, kindly, buxom, albeit gray-haired ranchman's wife. "Mr. B.'s getting kinder old to be chasing round the ranch looking after cattle and the range-riders, and I want youto see to all that so I can keep Mr. Baker at home. Will you do it?" She looked from her husband to Frank and back again.
"I'm looking for a job, and so's my friend Worth here. If you'll take us both I'll be glad to stay," and Frank began to enlarge on John's virtues, and told how they had shared the same bed. He characterized him as a "plumb good feller."
"Of course he can get to work," said the couple together.
"Got a saddle?" asked the old man.
"Yes, I've got a good outfit," answered the boy.
"Well, you can go range-ridin'." The ranchman spoke in a tone that was not to be gainsaid—it amounted to a command. John understood vaguely that range-riding was something like horse-wrangling, only the job he was now about to undertake would last during the day and night too.
The following day the boy was sent forth to his new work. It was cold, and the gray November sky had a look of snow in it; the air, too, felt snowy. In the ranch house all was warm and comfortable: a great fire of cottonwood logs was blazing in the open fireplace, a few pictures and examples of needle-work—the evidences of awoman's hand—were interspersed with mannish things: rifles in rough wooden racks, antlers of deer and prong-horns, bridles decorated with silver hung here and there on nails, and a long wooden peg, driven into the whitewashed logs, supported a richly carved saddle, Mr. Baker's own.
From this cheer and comfort John went into exile, to last several months—the cold, bitter, winter months of the Northwest.