Illustration: THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWSTHE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS
THE CAMP IN THE WILLOWS
He was awakened by snorts of all three ponies. The fire had burned out with the exception of a bed of coals glowing in the deep black night. The "watchdogs" of the camp had crowded up to the lengths of their picket ropes, getting as near each other as they could. Jack slowly raised himself to a sitting position and listened attentively. Peering out through the willows he could see, by the restive tugging of the ponies at their fastenings with the pricking of their ears toward the high precipice, that the cause for alarm did not come from inside the cañon. Cautiously putting on a pair of moccasins, which he always had near him at night, he picked up his .44 and was on the point of stepping into the open by the fire, when from above came a screech, a long cat-like growl of defiance, yet defeat, that made the cañon echo and re-echo with maniacal vocal debauchery. Jack's heart, it is needless to say, quit doing business peremptorily for at least thirty seconds. His eyes followed the ear-vanes on the ponies' heads, and just at the edge of that breastwork of rock could be seen two golden discs as big as car wheels, Jack thought. A greenish glare as of a halo surrounded the yellow spots, and occasionally the bright spots suddenly disappeared only to shine forth again appallingly bright. It was a mountain lion taking snap shots while it speculated on its appetite. Jack stepped out and gave the end of a burned log a kick into the hot coals. Millions of sparks flew up. The big lemon-colored orbs slunk back out of sight and ten minutes later the faint repetition of the first number proclaimed the concert ended.
The "big dipper" pointed to 3 o'clock. Throwing on some more fuel the fire blazed high. Chiquita thrust her head out of the environments of the fur bag and sat up in the willow retreat. "Me want 'em drink; mouth heap dry," was the laconic remark she made to Jack as he acknowledged her wakefulness. Giving her a cup of water, he referred to the visitor just departed, to which she scornfully replied:
"Heap big coward, big cat with long tail. Little cat with short tail all same like this bag, no coward. Big cat all same you call 'em lion, no catch 'em ponies, Indian or white man, all time afraid. Big cat catch 'em rabbit, lame deer. Mebbe so heap hungry tackle 'em big elk; drop from big tree on elk back. Big cat, little cat, wolf, bear, no come near camp fire. Look at camp fire long way off. Chiquita no fraid when all 'lone."
With this piece of information, with which Jack was already acquainted, they both resumed their interest in the land of Nod.
The bright winter sun had not mounted far enough in the heavens to shed any warm rays into the camp when Jack pulled on his boots and poked the fire preparatory to an early breakfast. The ponies did not look as if dyspepsia troubled them, nor did Jack feel overburdened with belly worship. The little larder was a hollow mockery to the knockings of a ravenous appetite. Jack concluded that a well-fed discretion was better than hungry haste, so he meandered down the river in search of a rabbit, while Chiquita attended to her morning ablutions. About the time that the average city girl would have consumed with curling tongs, cashmere bouquet and in getting her hat on straight, Jack returned with a nice fat "jack" of thelepus cuniculusfamily, all ready for the coals. It did not take long to cook the choice cuts from the delectable portions of "Bunny." The seasoning was rather crude, consisting of powder taken from a misfire cartridge, which Jack happened to have in his belt. But "saltpeter in gunpowder is better than no salt at all" is an old axiom among hunters. This addition to the "hollow mockery" larder sent their spirits up to the top of the goodfellowship thermometer.
"A burned hare is worth two in the bush," said Jack, as he irreverently twisted a trite quotation and rabbit leg. But Chiquita kept right on in her argument with a section of the vertebra just roasted on a forked stick.
After the first pangs of hunger had been somewhat appeased the Indian girl said to Jack, "What you call 'em little things use all same knife when eat off tin plate?"
Jack recalled the fact of some cheap silver-plated forks that made up the camp kit.
"Forks," he replied, adding, as Chiquita seemed to want further information, "The fair sisters of Jack no eat 'em venison with fingers, all same Chiquita. Think 'em Chiquita wild girl. When Jack come back bring 'em forks and spoons for Chiquita."
To this she seemed satisfied, but remarked: "Mebbe so fingers pale face girl good play 'em tom-tom, make 'em beadwork, wash 'em tin plates. No good catch 'em pony, cut 'em firewood, make 'em buckskin."
With this she scornfully turned her lip up in a manner that made Jack laugh outright, a proceeding that always made Chiquita's eyes snap with dangerous fire. He quieted her by pointing at the sun as an indication that it was time to say adios. The ponies were brought up and quickly saddled, Jack's belongings packed in the most approved fashion to stand another hard climb over the Gore range, and Chiquita's restive "Bonito" carefully cinched for the return trip to the Indian village. The last point of the "diamond hitch" had been made and the rope drawn taut; the last knot had been tied over the roll of blankets behind Jack's saddle, and the last of the morning's banquet had been divided between the wayfarers, whose journeys would in a few moments lead in opposite directions. As Chiquita arranged herself on the back of "Bonito" she looked wistfully at the sky and surrounding peaks. "Me make 'em Yamanatz tepee sun here," pointing halfway down the horizon to the west.
Jack signified his expectations by remarking, rather dubiously, "Me mebbe so get to Troublesome heap dark."
Following the direction of Chiquita's finger as she pointed to the high divide where the previous day they had battled long in the deep snow, Jack felt some misgivings as to the Indian girl being able to ride the big drift down. But the confidence she enjoyed in her own ability to stand hardship and the additional reliance she placed in the thoroughbred Ute pony was summed up in her one decisive comment, uttered almost imperiously, at least scornfully:
"Bonito take Chiquita through deep snow like big fish go through foaming water. Wind all gone up there now."
Jack threw himself into his saddle and reined up beside the future medicine queen of the White River Utes. She drew from her bosom a beaded buckskin bag, from which she took a pair of beaver's jaws, the short teeth bound with otter and a long strip of mountain-lion fur bound firmly around a braid of her own hair. She handed them to Jack, saying in a low, almost beseeching tone: "Will the white man Jack bring em back Chiquita's medicine teeth when the beaver cuts the trees?"
It was a great sacrifice to part with the "medicine," to which all Indians pin their faith. Otter and mountain-lion fur especially is woven into the long straight braids of both buck and squaw to drive away evil spirits, and Chiquita evidently had been to a good deal of trouble to obtain the prescription from the head medicine man for her own use. The beaver teeth were symbolic of the time when Chiquita expected Jack to keep faith with her. His reply was made while the palms of both hands were stretched toward her, the fingers pointing up.
"Jack will come," then pressing his knees against the sides of his pony, he leaned over and, after a quick hand grasp, bid adios to the smiling daughter of Yamanatz.
An hour later he had reached the end of his first "look." Scanning the side of the high divide he could see "Bonito" lunging forward into the deep drifts skirting the top of the divide. Presently the pony stopped and turned broadside toward him. Looking intently he saw Chiquita wave a farewell response by means of a small silk flag handkerchief which he had given her upon the first visit to Rock Creek. Signaling a return salute by means of his sombrero, he waited until "Bonito" disappeared into that fortress of snow, knowing that once over the crest ten minutes would be sufficient time to make the crossing in safety. As she did not reappear, Jack struck boldly into the trail, which now led him by easy stages up toward timber line, the dark rushing waters of the Grand River hissing and seething far below him. At the entrance to the cañon, where the warmer current of air met the colder wave from the snow-covered mountainside, huge bristling bayonets of frosted rye grass waved their menacing blades at intruders. Lattice-worked ramparts of ice and snow were veiled with filmy curtains bespangled with millions of scintillating diamonds, the congealed breathings from that steaming throat, through which ceaselessly poured the mountain torrent in its strenuous effort to join the ocean.
Jack looked wistfully at the scene and sighed that a spectacle of such rare beauty could not be shared by his eastern friends.
The tortuous trail often led to the edge of a precipice, where the slightest misstep of his pony would have hurled both beast and rider into a frightful abyss. At other times the narrow pathway meandered serpentine fashion between pine trees so thickly interspersed that the pack would wedge first on one side and then the other, to the imminent destruction of Jack's belongings.
It was pitch dark when Jack rode into the corral at the ranch on the Troublesome. After unpacking and storing his trappings he went over to the ranch house. Several Ute ponies were in the corral. Their presence puzzled him, and as he entered the log house what was his surprise to find himself in the presence of Colorow, Bennett and Antelope. Old Tracy, the owner of the ranch, greeted the newcomer with a merry "How—how—well, beat my brains out with a straw ef I tho't of a-seeing you afore spring."
Bill, the fiery red-whiskered, red-haired, red-faced, stuttering Irishman, ejaculated, after a good deal of effort, "D—d—d—durn my p—p—p—pictures! G—g—g—glad t—t—t—to see yer." The obese, low-browed renegade Colorow looked inquiringly. So did the other Indians as Jack replied to both ranchmen:
"I left Rock Creek yesterday morning and crossed the Gore range today. The snow was pretty deep in spots."
Colorow's eyes glittered as it dawned on him that the white man Jack of Rock Creek and this man were one and the same. Jack did not know any of the trio except Bennett, neither of the others having openly visited the camp below. As Bennett rose up from the floor with a greeting he turned and waved his hand:
"This Antelope, this Colorow."
Jack involuntarily stepped back a pace, halfway starting his hand as if to grasp his six-shooter. Colorow saw the motion as well as the swift, penetrating flash that shot from Jack's gray eyes into the very soul of the old red devil. But the warrior never made a hostile movement. The least perceptible smile crept into his face as he interpreted the telegraphic glance. He realized that Jack guessed for a certainty what Bennett and Antelope might guess, for Colorow had never told any of the Utes that he actually followed Jack, nor that he waited in vain at the mouth of the long gulch for that worthy young man to walk to his death. It was with mock cordiality that the two men acknowledged each other's presence, but not so with Antelope, who rose and grasped Jack's outstretched hand. Antelope and Bennettdidguess right. The ranchmen had seen the little exchange of "symptoms" and were at loss to understand the purport thereof. Nevertheless, they had in an instant, yet seemingly in a careless manner, lessened the distance between the right hand and the butt end of their respective six-shooters, for the frontiersman is keen to scent danger. Colorow remained in his chair and thus addressed Jack:
"Sabe white man Rock Creek trail?"
Jack nodded in reply.
"Sabe camp where Utes sleep?"
Jack nodded again, holding up two fingers, signifying he had seen both camping places, as the Utes had not made as rapid progress as he.
"Colorow lose twelve ponies," counting them by holding up both hands, then two additional fingers. "Mebbe so white man see 'em ponies?"
Jack shook his head. The ponies had become hungry, broken away and probably were hunting buffalo grass in the lower hills when he was crossing the higher slopes of the Gore range. A few questions as to the camp on Rock Creek, what disposition he had made of the camp property and furs, and then the Indians drew their blankets about themselves and silently filed away to the corral, where they mounted their ponies and set out for their own camp in the willows, some half mile distant. After they had departed Tracy said with a quizzical look:
"That old devil is up to mischief," meaning Colorow. He turned to Jack, continuing, "Tho't mebbe so yer were goin' to plunk him fer a minnit thar."
Bill chimed in: "I seen the f—f—f—fire in yer eyes and says to myself, it's all over with Cu—cu—col—col—Colorow at last, b—b—b—but why in h—h—h—hellen d—d—d—didn't yer shoot?"
"Well," said Jack, just the least regretting he had not, "I didn't know how much of a 'stink' it would raise. The Utes are getting pretty bad, and the whole parcel of them might take a notion to come up here and clean out the Park before the soldiers could stop them."
"What d' yer mean?" anxiously asked both his listeners, with a perceptible blanching of their bronzed faces.
"Old Yamanatz tells me things aren't going just right at the agency. Colorow and Douglas' band of renegade Utes were camped outside the reservation, two miles from the cabin where the trapper and I put up. Didn't the trapper tell you anything?" suddenly asked Jack.
The ranchmen looked curiously at one another, and Tracy evasively remarked, "Well, he didn't say much; just said he got lonesome and had left the old woman without any wood an' allowed he'd cut some for her, then he'd go back byme-by."
"Yes, byme-by," scornfully broke in Jack, adding, with some feeling, "Between me and the corral that trapper is afraid of the Utes and left me in the lurch."
Tracy and Bill exchanged glances, as much as to say, "The tenderfoot has got his eye-teeth cut all right." Bill spoke up as if a sudden impulse had made him forget the dangers that lurked in the Ute question.
"How about that redskin g—g—gal? Tho't mebbe so y—y—yer hed jined in holy wedlock into the Ute family," at which both the ranchmen slapped their hands together and laughed uproariously. Jack joined in with them, for he appreciated the gossip of ranch life, and no sewing bee ever furnished better "stamping ground" for wagging tongues than the frontier masculine brand.
Bill set about getting something to eat, and Jack had a double-barreled appetite stowed away under his belt. The table, with its marble oilcloth, real stone china plates, cups, saucers, glass vinegar cruets and a molasses jug, was soon loaded with a big platter of venison, a plate of hot biscuits, a pot of coffee, a pitcher of rich cream and a crock of yellow butter. It was nearly three months since Jack had put his legs under any kind of a table or seen anything the color of butter or cream, and it was a treat that could not have been equaled in Delmonico's to draw up to that feast with those truly honest brothers of wild civilization, partake of their hospitality and listen to their straightforward talk, rich in its omission of studied rhetoric or ponderous grammatical phrases; no fear of using the wrong spoon or creating a social riot by helping one's self to a little venison gravy, even sopping the bread in the platter. Etiquette, frills and napkins had to give way to blunt speech, solid, wholesome food and a red bandanna. Back of it all, too, was his famous digestion and ravenous appetite, essential elements that have no co-existence with spike-tailed coats, trained gowns, "eye-openers" and "night caps." Jack had been busy, but he slowed down long enough to let out his belt one hole. Bill had entertained in the conversation direction.
"Say, yer know when yer shot the antelope and Irish Mike got sore at it because he missed the whole bunch? Well, old man Snyder come in with his team last October after a load of fish, and we got up the old raft and dropped the net into the bend of the river right there and dragged out over a thousand fine suckers at one haul. We threw back all under two pounds and a half."
Jack broke in with the remark, "Those red-finned suckers are most as good as trout."
"Yer bet yer life they are," chimed in Tracy.
"Well," continued Bill, "the old man and his boy was a watchin' us from the other bank, so we hed to be sort o' careful as we picked them fish over, but there was five as pretty red-throated trout clum up my coat sleeve as ever yer laid eyes on; two of 'em tipped the scales at five pounds apiece. We had trout to eat fer a week. Gosh all humlock, but it was cold work gettin' them suckers ready. We worked 'til most midnight. They cleaned up about six hundred dollars on the load. Sold 'em in Georgetown, Central City, Idaho Springs—yes, sir, clean down to Golden. The first of 'em brought forty cents a pound in the big camps, but the last end of 'em went fer a nickel apiece. Down at McQueery's they got another load for some other chaps a month after; pulled in over seventeen hundred fish at one clip, but them fellers didn't know how to peddle them out and lost money by shippin' 'em to Denver."
"How's the stock, Tracy?" inquired Jack.
"Doin' tiptop; we've got about one hundred and twenty head of horses winterin' now. Mike brought in a lot of forty soon after you went down trappin'. I keep a good watch on them haystacks this year to see that the snowflakes don't strike fire again. They burned up a couple years ago when I hed thirty ton of as fine hay as they ever get in this yere Park. I had all the stock that was bein' wintered, and some of the other fellows up the river had hay but no stock. The range had closed, so they had no chans't to get any stock. Well, my hay ketched fire and, of course, I wouldn't see them horses starve, so I had to buy them fellers' hay. A good ba'r trap would have ketched something besides ba'r that winter if I had set a few out. While I'm tendin' to the corral Bill will tell you about that hole in the door frame," pointing to a badly mangled orifice about as big as an orange.
"Shotgun?" queried Jack.
"Yes," said Bill; "shotgun—kingdom cum," and he had to straighten out his vocal impediments and tell it slowly, although it was a hard task for him, and his red whiskers and hair would rise up in their wrath, seemingly, as he stuttered along:
"Yer see, Dick Bradner came along one day over from Rattlesnake, and said he wanted a good jack-rabbit shoot. The snow was just right and he was gone all afternoon. He got half a wagonload, I guess. Along about dark he steps in on the way to the corral and sets his gun up aside the fireplace with the other guns. I was just beginning to get grub and had a pan of flour mixin' up some sour-dough bread, the lamp standin' in front of the pan and me at the other end of the table from the door frame. I was puttin' in some good licks on that bread, for sour dough needs a lot of punchin', and guess I had my head leanin' out pretty well toward the door. I heard some one step in from the outside, but didn't look up to see who it was, when there came a flash, and kingdom cum, I thought my head had caved in. The splinters flew into the bread and the powder smoke choked me clean up. All I could see was that crazy fool Irish Mike, his face as white as it will be when he's gone over the range, standin' there with Dick's gun pintin' to the roof. That idjit never sees a new gun standin' round but he must pull it up and aim it at somethin'. You know how he shoots. Dick must have left the gun at full cock, as he allus does. It was lucky it went off before he got the barrel on a level with the lamp, or we'd all been in kingdom cum."
"You got some of the powder in your face," remarked Jack, noticing the blue pits sprinkled here and there in Bill's forehead.
"Yes," said Bill, energetically, with several powder-burned adjectives; "he leaves his mark everywhere he goes. Pity the foolkiller don't git him."
Tracy had joined the party again just in time to hear Bill's bouquet of choice epithets.
"Tain't so much coz he means to do anything harmin', but the big brute is so allfired strong and clumsy that when he sets out to do anything he busts everything he teches. Why, he went to pitchin' hay off the far stack and must have thought the fork handle would hold up the whole five ton, fer he snapped it like a ginger cake just outen the oven. Then he was helpin' put up logs on the barn. We had the top logs most up on the skids when she fotched up again' the cross log that the skid was leanin' again'. He reaches the ax up and sets the blade under the log and pulls on the handle, and away went my dollar-and-a-half handle. He broke it square off. Took me nigh onto a week to dress another out. But he's a good worker. All he needs is a sledge and a big enough drill so he won't miss the head on't and he can pound that 'til jedgment day if the feller turnin' the drill keeps a good lookout for his hand from bein' hit when the Irishman misses the drill."
"I see he left his rifle," remarked Jack.
"Yes; said he didn't want it at the mines, an' he allows he'll come back afore the range opens to pick out a hundred and sixty acres somewhere in the Park. Likely as not he'll see you in Georgetown, but yer got some snow climbin' to do. Thar ain't many goin' out now, and I heerd Bill Redmon say he'd have to use 'skis' pretty soon and drag the mail on a sled. When yer goin' out?"
Jack thought a minute or two and then replied:
"I guess I can make it day after tomorrow. That will be the 17th of January, and I guess 'Red' will bring the pony back and you can feed both of them for me. By the way, I guess I'll have to snowshoe it in about beaver-trappin' time. I've got a little business myself down near the agency."
Tracy and Bill eyed each other quizzically and tried to guess the mission, but Jack gave them no satisfaction.
"I'll be back here by the middle of April, if not before. Beaver begin to chew the trees down in early March, don't they?"
"Yes," said Tracy; "but it gets lonesome as all git out before Aprile. If yer comin' in that soon, why in Christmas don't yer stay now? We've got grub enough and we can go back in the timber, mebbe so, and ketch a grizzly or cinnamon about six weeks from now."
"No; can't do it. Got to go back to the States and attend to some business, sure. You can have all the grizzlies that are loose. By the way, you got that silver tip since I left."
Jack was admiring a fine skin that was nailed up on the inside of the cabin, taking up the greater portion of a wall ten feet long and eight feet high.
"We got that out on the Blue about four weeks ago. I shot him eleven times afore he quit bein' sassy," said Tracy, with little or no concern, as if killing a grizzly was on a par with breaking a broncho. "I'll get twenty-five dollars for that pelt in the summer if I take it to Denver."
With the dishes cleared away and everything in readiness for the night, Jack, Tracy and Bill sat around the fireplace smoking their pipes. The pine knots sputtered and glistened with deep, red-inflamed eyes as Jack told of the Rock Creek pow-wows.
"You see, old man Meeker has been trying to teach the Utes how to plow, how to subtract and divide and to carry wood, while the squaws crochet, hemstitch and make sofa pillows."
"Yes, I see them redskin devils tote firewood," broke in Tracy. "If there's anything an Indian despises it's work. They won't even walk when the snow is belly deep. I've seen six of 'em on one little cayuse wallerin' through big drifts at timber line. Why, durn their pictures, a Ute won't cook if he can beg a bite anywhere, let alone plow, and he'll freeze to death afore gettin' wood for a fire if thar's a squaw within a mile to git it fur him. The trapper told us you would git yer fill of Injuns."
Bill crossed his legs and then uncrossed them again, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and his neck began to swell. He wanted to say something right bad. Pulling a string off his buckskin pants leg, he commenced tying it into knots, nervously fingering the ends.
"Them gol durned skule teachers is all right back in the old red skule-house in—in Missouri," he said, "but kingdom cum, when they try to make them blanket Injuns plow it's time fur white folks in Middle Park to put up a stockade and lay in lots of 45-90's for Sharp's old reliable, and a dozen or two Colts' frontier sixes. Them's my sentiments, and don't yer ferget it."
"Bill hit the nail on the head," echoed Tracy.
Jack was studying the red, gleaming eyes of the pine knots, and the moccasin prints in the snow on the high divide seemed to gather again in the ashes. He started suddenly, as if an inspiration struck him.
"Boys, it will come to it. That bunch down in the willows have been off the reservation a long time. Meeker can't get them back without a regiment of soldiers, and he hasn't got along that far yet. Susan is the 'woman in the case,' and she's putting the young bucks into a trance about encroaching white folks, while the old fighters, like Colorow and Douglas, sneak up behind and pat her on the back. Ignacio, Yamanatz—not even old Ouray—can stop them if they once get a supply of powder and lead. Wait until the next annuities are paid in and Uncle Sam will have to send a burying squad over there. They will not do anything for some time; they haven't any meat, no bullets to kill deer with, not even salt." Jack stopped for a breath and Tracy took up the conversation.
"I seen yer was good and strong agin' Colorow when yer found out he was here, but I didn't know it was that bad. 'Peers to me yer must have had a grudge agin' him wuss'n yer hev let on."
"Yes," echoed Bill, "s—s—sumthin' must a s—s—set yer afire down below."
"Well, Bill and Tracy, that old scalp-lifter followed me like a shadow for two days, ready at any moment, if chance presented, to plant the steel in a spot where it would take, as they say when you are vaccinated."
The frontiersmen both jumped to their feet with one impulse to get hold of their "Sharps," as if to use them at once. Thus does habit breed in that rugged life. Then they sat down and listened to the rest of the story wherein Jack told of Yamanatz's warnings, of young Colorow's early mission to see if white man Jack was in his camp. But he left the most interesting story until the last, then mentioned no names, "And who do you suppose followed Colorow to see that no harm came to me?"
Bill and Tracy guessed every Ute in the White River Reservation. Finally Jack said:
"The only one that Susan fears."
"Chiquita!" exclaimed Bill and Tracy, in one voice.
"The same," said Jack.
"Holy smoke! Kingdum cum!"
"Yes, the fairest Indian girl that ever drew breath."
"Or ever strung a bow," chimed Bill.
"Or beaded a moccasin," said Tracy.
Dozens of tepee fires flickered against the dark night pall as Chiquita made her way toward the Ute village. The tongues of dozens of Indian dogs snarled their yippi-yappy language at each other, at imaginary evils and at the resounding clatter of hoofs as her pony loped along through the sage-covered mesa which skirted the river bank. Old bucks, warriors with necklaces of cruel-looking claws and beaded breast plates decorated with strands of human hair woven into pendants, stood in the shadow of the tepee fires. Shrill cries of hungry papooses rent the air; guttural jargon of young bucks in animated conversation rasped ominously against the sensitive ear with words which only an Indian can pronounce, made up as they are from Mexican, Spanish and Indian dialect.
Old squaws tottered into camp, loaded with bundles of fagots gathered from the fallen timber, and as these old witches with thrice-wrinkled faces peered into the gloom and discerned Chiquita astride "Bonito" they spitefully threw an armful of new wood into the fire, raising a cloud of tiny sparks, and mutterings, half welcome and half imprecation, greeted her; all cringed before that dauntless maiden, yet all would have been glad to see her the victim of some tragedy. Her word was law, and that law a restraining influence which had thus far protected the settlers, the hunters, the trappers and the white men and women who composed the agent's family on the reservation, so far from the habitation of white men and so far from the protecting arm of the United States military.
Old Hutch-a-ma-Chuck was bedecked with a grotesque war bonnet of eagles' feathers, from the tips of which hung Arapahoe scalp locks; a necklace of grizzly claws surrounded his wrinkled neck, and in his arms he carried a worn-out army carbine, which had not been loaded in ten years. Uncas, wrapped in a military coat made from a United States blanket, stood with a big frontier six-shooter hanging listlessly from his arm, but his eyes snapped viciously as he smiled a welcome to Chiquita, the smile retreating into an ambuscade of wrinkles which seemed to say, "Wait until I get a good chance." Broken Nose, with head encircled half a dozen times with the skins of rattlesnakes, needed no placard to warn the stranger against encroaching on this Indian's domain. Bowlegs, the dandy of the camp, was regal in a red-lined vest which he wore lining outside, and an old plug hat picked up at the Agency or at some frontier town, ornamented with shipping tags and express labels, was jauntily tipped on one side of his head, while a gaudy plaid shirt flapped literally in the breezes, for an Indian knows not of decrees of fashion regarding shirtology and could not be induced to confine the biggest part of that splendid garment from view.
Nearly every Indian had some cast-off garment which had served its mission for a white man. Hunters, freighters, army men, etc., contributed old socks, trousers, coats, gloves, hats, caps, and even women helped bedeck these children of the forest in the glory clothes, but the "medicine" each and every one possessed was of the same general character—otter, beaver and mountain lion skins woven into the hair, constituting a charm to scare away evil spirits.
Yamanatz was by the camp fire of his tepee as Chiquita threw herself from the back of "Bonito." There were no impulsive greetings, merely a question or two, and Chiquita disappeared in the gloom of the night to her lodge, to dream of other scenes and to allow her imagination to carry her to the abode of the white man's medicine houses, where nurses comforted the maimed and sick.
In a couple of weeks the absent Utes returned, bringing provisions to last for some time, but these did not abate the surly looks or conduct of the older ones, who chafed at the escape of Jack, nor assuage the enmity which the younger bucks bore him when they learned that Chiquita piloted him safely over the divide. They dared not openly deride her as they gathered in council to plan the breaking up of reforms which the government anticipated at the hands of the agent at White River.
They rebelled against cultivating the ground. They ridiculed the proposition of a Ute warrior at the plow, and muttered imprecations on the heads of the Indian Department.
About a month after Jack had left his camp at Rock Creek, Susan arrived at the village accompanied by her father, big chief Red Plume and a dozen young bucks, all eager to drive the whites over the range and out of Middle Park. But of these, half of them were desirous of annihilating the pale faces, simply to gain Susan's favor. The other half were striving to win Chiquita, and Susan was jealous of Chiquita to a marked degree, while Chiquita cared naught for Susan nor any of Susan's admirers. Susan, of course, had learned of the perilous trip of Chiquita, and every Indian youth had a deep admiration for Chiquita that Susan never received.
Red Plume had left the Agency to personally visit Colorow's village, and endeavor to obtain that surly old monster's consent to move the village back to White River, as agent Meeker had requested. Upon one pretext and another Colorow delayed the matter day after day. In the meantime Susan was taunting Chiquita and Chiquita's admirers, while spurring her own suitors to acts of violence. This was not done openly, as Indian maidens do not take part in matters of love or war, in person, unless the circumstances are very pronounced. Susan felt that it was equal to the crime of elopement for Chiquita to escort the white man over the divide, and could she have had her way Chiquita would have been burned at the stake the morning following her return to the village, for this is the penalty inflicted when the maiden eloping is the daughter of a chief. Susan was particularly partial to Antelope and never tired of singing his praises, but Antelope had no eyes or ears for any one except Chiquita. Many a haunch of venison had this handsome young savage laid at the lodge door of Chiquita's mother, and handsome lion skins, eagle plumes and strings of elk teeth had he presented to Yamanatz in his effort to win Chiquita.
As the moon rode high in the heavens, throwing long shafts of silvery light through the pine boughs, and casting deep shadows across the rushing waters of Toponas creek, Chiquita was wont to wend her way along the needle carpeted bank, her red lips firmly compressed, while her eyes appealed to the heavens above for the return of spring and Jack. As she wandered here Antelope watched her from the sheltering shadow of some great rock, and chanted love songs in hopes of obtaining the least little recognition from her, for the Indian must win his bride by feats of strength, conquest or purchase, and not by personal servitude, as does his white brother, and his wooing must be indirect unless the maiden vouchsafes him the pleasure of a meeting in some glen or dell, where a few words may be spoken; but she reserves the right of making first advances or indicating by some sign that her suitor may address her, and if especially desired by her she will leave a token in the shape of a flower, spruce branch, or rabbit's foot where the lover may see it and heed the invitation.
Chiquita knew that the young warriors would eventually precipitate a clash, which might occur when Jack was coming or going from the reservation. She grew sick at heart when she reviewed the actions of Colorow, and how certain it was that Jack's life had been in peril, and always would be whenever he visited the Ute camps. She determined to stop the agitation which Susan was fomenting, or at least get assurance in some way that no overt act would be committed until after she and Yamanatz should be far away towards the "Blazing-Eye-by-the-Big-Water."
The new grass was beginning to show itself along the creek. Mountain crocuses bloomed in the edge of the fast melting snow, as the white blanket gradually receded towards the tops of the high peaks under the heat of the early spring sun. Chiquita watched the beaver dams as the inhabitants industriously fashioned new homes for the next winter, cutting down the big trees and laying in a supply of willows for food and comfort. She looked toward the sun as he peered down into the deep cañons and besought the sun god to hurry Jack upon his way.
It was near midday, and Chiquita sat in a little grove of piñons, watching the splashing waters and gleaming flash of a trout darting hither and thither for a morsel as it swept along in the vicious, turbulent stream. She had hung a branch of spruce buds, entwined with a vine of Kilikinnick, upon a convenient tree, and she knew that it would bring Antelope to her. She knew the symbol by him would be interpreted, "hope in peace," but she intended that his hope must result in peace. As she listened she heard a voice close beside her. She had felt for some time the forest intuition that some one was approaching, but so silently had those footsteps glided along that no sound gave any warning.
"The daughter of Yamanatz is fair as the morning dove, and it pleases Antelope to do her bidding, for is not Antelope a suitor for the hand of Chiquita, and has not Antelope done many things that make him worthy of the great chiefs daughter?"
"The son of Big Buffalo stands erect. He speaks with the tongue of one who is a master, one day to be chief. Antelope is brave and his prowess great enough to entitle him to the daughter of any chief."
"The daughter of Yamanatz is as good as she is fair in that she speaks of Antelope in this wise, and it is a pleasure that the eyes of Antelope go thirsty and his heart hungry for the return of the love which Chiquita can give. It would be for Chiquita that Antelope would build the signal fires, that the Utes may put on their war paint and sharpen their hatchets to take the land where were the great buffalo before the paleface drove them into the deep sea where the sun goes down, and when the paleface has been driven away, then Antelope will claim Chiquita that she may sing him songs of love by his camp fire. And when Antelope is big chief then Chiquita will be the mother of many tribes, and our people will again hunt the buffalo which shall be as the needles in the pine forest, and no more shall the white man drive the noble Ute away from the paradise the Great Spirit has made for them. Hear me, daughter whose breath is as the perfume of the trailing arbutus and whose voice is like the voice of the lark. It is Antelope who speaks."
"The son of Big Buffalo is as brave as the wild horse who leads his herd to drink of the waters of the deep cavern, but know this, that in the sky Chiquita reads of deeds done by her white sisters who teach the little paleface to say 'Our Father,' and she hears the song of spirits from another land, as they sing 'peace on earth, good will to man.' The great Antelope is not a hen to cackle and run away at the sight of danger. He is brave but sees not that Chiquita thinks not of deeds of battle, nor the mighty buffalo, which the great Antelope says will return. It grieves Chiquita that the hand of the white man on the throttle of the great iron horse is driving our people back, back into the deep sea where have plunged the buffalo, and in their trail are the cities where the white children are taught that the red faced Ute is a dog, a coyote that snarls and bites and like the owl that goes hoo! oo-oo-oo-hoo! The paleface has widened the trail from the great ocean by the rising sun to the mountain, to the big water where the sun again quenches his thirst. The paleface has spread out as the wings of an eagle until the lands are gone. The smoke rises from the tall stacks and long ago have we been forgotten by the old Ute warriors who have passed into the great Happy Hunting Ground, there to live on pots of savory flesh while we slave in the sage brush or eat army rations and wear army blankets, which are brought to us on the cars. This is civilization and it is so that Chiquita is to learn what her white sister does in civilization, and Antelope is asked to be patient and wait for Chiquita while she may see the fair sister unto the end. Then if Chiquita cares not for the civilized life, she will sit by the camp fire and sing to Antelope and Antelope may caress Chiquita and she will be his wife."
Illustration: ANTELOPE, THE WARRIOR, 1877.ANTELOPE, THE WARRIOR, 1877.
ANTELOPE, THE WARRIOR, 1877.
"Chiquita has spoken, Antelope will wait, but the heart of Antelope is sad, for it will be many snows ere Chiquita will make glad the lodge of Antelope and he will then be an old man," replied the Indian buck.
"It may not be so Long. Antelope must not make war upon the white man. Antelope must stay the hands of the warlike Utes who seek the lives of Chiquita's friend and his brothers. The warriors of the Utes must not molest these people and it is Antelope who must obey Chiquita in this. Hear not what Susan says and all will be well."
"Antelope hears the words of Chiquita. Antelope will see that no harm comes to the friends of Chiquita, nor to the white man's brethren. Antelope cares not for Susan. Antelope hears not her words, which are cunning, but hears only Chiquita, the flower of the Utes."
Jack hastened his departure from the ranch on the Troublesome, stopping at Hot Sulphur Springs one night, crossing the Berthoud pass, early in the day, again fighting snow drifts as big as houses, as he skirted around and over the great continental divide but a little distance from the summit of cheerless Gray's Peak buried in her white mantle. Leaving his pony at Georgetown for the mail carrier to lead back, he continued his journey by rail to Denver and from there eastward to his home. Jack dearly loved his New England home and, as the old scenes again appeared before him, he saw new beauties to enchant and impress him. His mother, sister and sweetheart were all on the veranda of the grand mansion, and, as he jumped from the carriage, he found himself attacked by a center rush such as no college boy ever before struck. At least five touch downs were scored before they broke away.
"Did you bring any Indian things?" all demanded in a chorus.
"I say Jack," said Hazel, "where is the pony you promised me?"
"I want those eagle plumes for my hat," said one of his sisters. Even his mother could not resist the avalanche of wants and, during an opportune lull, archly asked if there was any danger of her having to give up the "spare room" to an Indian daughter-in-law, which of course produced a laugh at the expense of Hazel.
With the first greetings over, Jack at last got his mother and father alone, and plunged into the subject uppermost in his mind.
"My son," his mother commented, "be cautious regarding your actions with this heathen daughter of the wilderness. You can not tell what kind of an ambush she may lead you into. Fancy Hazel trotting about educating one of the young warriors!"
This was logic with a vengeance. Even Jack could not gainsay it. It was the same old proposition of woman's prerogative to outdo a man. Jack pondered over the trip from the Ute village across the divide and the night camp in the willows. He looked a little sheepish and waited in discreet silence.
"Is it necessary, Jack," asked his father, "that you should go to this unheard-of mine with the old Indian? Why not let him go and return with the treasure alone as he has done before?"
"He is too old to attempt the journey and it is his desire that Chiquita be one of the party, as he will give the mine to her and myself equally," answered Jack, not at all assured that the reply would make matters any better.
"Have you such an unbounded faith in a crafty Indian as to believe that he knows of any such fabulous treasure that even a nation might send an army to snatch away from its rightful owners, and that he will lead you to this mine simply to reward you for standing as press agent for his equally crafty daughter?"
Jack saw that his father was beginning to tread upon dangerous ground, that it would take but little to cause an unpleasant scene unless he could overcome the prejudice now gaining ground with his parents. He keenly felt the implied lack of confidence which both displayed, and for a moment he was inclined to become a trifle skeptical himself, but he quickly reasoned, "If I show any weakening they will hammer all the harder."
"Father," he slowly began, "and mother, you are both ripe in the experience of this world, with the civilized method of taking from the untutored forest man his hunting ground, his home, by the simple process of a representation from each state of a government; a proposition is voted upon to drive this native farther and farther toward the setting sun, farther and farther back, until now he lives in a barren country, his larder empty and his proud mien broken. The remnant of former greatness drooped to a low ebb of cunning, outmatched only by the cunning of the frontier statesman, backed by the grasping political land-grabber and office-holding despot bidding for votes—these jackals whose blighting breath corrupt juries, legislatures and even the church into a belief that it is justice to waylay the child of nature in the onward march of civilization, to wrest from him the land which God gave as an heritage. Yes, father, I have unbounded faith in Yamanatz that he can and will show me the greatest mass of gold in one mine ever uncovered by the hand of man. I will forestall you as to finance. See, in this pouch is some twenty pounds of gold dust, which the great chief gave me for 'pin money,' and in the strong box of the express company is one hundred pounds of the same kind of dust. This is earnest money. This deposit, made of his own accord, warrants my belief in his ability to produce the property. Coupled with this was the watchfulness over me by both Yamanatz and Chiquita, and but for their care and warning I should not be here now."
As Jack unrolled the buckskin pouch of nuggets and grains of dull, rich gold, the look on his father's face changed from one of intense scorn to deference, from sarcasm to a fawning smile. The avarice in his nature manifested itself in so apparent a manner that Jack was tempted to make one little fling, but restrained himself.
"My son, what you have uttered about the Indian being deprived of his land is the old story. Every once in a while it comes out in a little different cover, but are we to blame for the actions of our ancestors? They came here to live, to escape the tyranny of rulers whom they renounced, and in the seeking of a new world were obliged to treat with these pagans. Is it not far better to have this country populated with a race of God-fearing, civilized, labor-giving people, a people who by their master minds and master hands today provide the world with food, with clothing, with machinery that other nations may become enlightened and as progressive as we are?"
"Yes," interrupted Jack, "and with our own machinery send back goods and experienced laborers to compete with the skilled labor we have educated up to the necessary standard. You would add also, that this class of citizens, with its Saturday night carousals and Monday's line of police court criminals, is superior to the noble red man, who knew not fire water nor knavery until these civilized, God-fearing people taught it to them."
"Well, Jack, are you going to head a tribe of Utes to drive us back across the big sea?"
"No, father, I guess I shall have all the work of philanthropy I need in piloting this young heathen through the 'hell gate' of learning into the whirling vortex of society and accomplishments," laughingly answered Jack.
"When will you start on this quest?" timidly asked his mother.
"Not later than the first of March, for I must be at Rock Creek soon after that time, and part of the trip is via the snow shoe route."
Just then Hazel and Jack's sisters knocked imperatively for admission.
"Oh—ee, Jack, is that real gold dust in that nasty looking bag?" said Miss Hazel, as she sniffed at the pouch suspiciously.
"Yes, Miss Tenderfoot, that is the real stuff."
"What is that you call me, tenderfeet? Why, my feet are not tender."
"Oh, that is the mountain name for what sailors call 'landlubbers,' and—say, when I get a couple of wagon loads of that you will tack my name onto your own with a little hyphen, won't you, dear?"
"I say, Jack," broke in one of his sisters, "did you run across any good looking white men, with lots of money, that want some one nice, 'to cook for two?'" And the dear little apron-bedecked bit of sunshine pirouetted on her toes in gleeful anticipation of Jack's reply.
"Sure I did. Bill commissioned me to get him a cook, dishwasher, milkmaid and wood chopper,"—
"Hold on, Mr. Jack, I draw the line on milking. Ugh! I tried it once down at Uncle John's and I squirted my eyes full of milk. You need not laugh so. Uncle John just laughed fit to kill himself. That wasn't half so bad as Hazel, though. She tried to put blankets over the little pigs so they would keep warm, and when the old pig chased her"—
"You stop, stop, stop! Fire! Water!" screamed Hazel and no one ever found out what happened during the chase.
Then sister Katherine wanted something.
"Jack, you know what you promised to get me once, and you said when you had enough money you would buy me a nice canary and brass cage, and now that you have got it—such lots of it—won't you keep your word?"
"They raise larger and louder voiced birds in the west than they do in the Hartz mountains. The 'Rocky mountain canary' is the greatest warbler on earth. I have my mind on one that is a daisy and when I come back you shall surely have it."
"Oh, Jack, you are so good," murmured she.
Jack's eyes twinkled as he thought of the joke he would have on Katherine, but he never said a word. Turning to Hazel he said: "Well, Lady Jack, what do you think of my chaperoning a dusky maiden for several years in her search for a continuous performance of good deeds, hospitals, nurses and the study of political and social economy? Do you think her thirst will find a quencher?"
"Oh, Jack, go by all means, only don't attempt to get her into any clubs or societies and expect me to help you out. I recommended Daisy Deane for initiation in our B. A. F. club,—you know 'Bachelors Are Forbidden,' and she got one black ball. Daisy is a stenographer, you know, and her employer is Mr. Doolittle and Mrs. Doolittle is our High Priestess."
"Yes," said Jack curtly, "and she does not belie her name, I guess."
"That isn't all, Jack. Mrs. Doolittle has got her ax sharpened for me, I understand, at next election. I was going to run for corresponding secretary, but I guess I will give it up!"
The short visit made to his home was devoted mainly to making arrangements with tutors and deciding on the best lines to follow in fitting Chiquita for the work she had chosen.
Hazel and his sisters made quite a bit of sport of the undertaking, but Jack took it all good naturedly, holding his own against the combined forces in repartee.
After these details were disposed of he joined Hazel at her home for a few days, then started for the frontier.
The diuturnal petticoat of snow which clothed the mountain was getting shorter and shorter as the diurnal sun crept farther and farther north on his summer ascension. The beavers were busy, tooth and tail, building new dams and repairing old ones. The Ute ponies were getting fat on new buffalo and bunch grass, and the tender-eyed does were seeking higher altitudes when Jack again reached the old trail leading to the Indian village on Rock Creek.
Chiquita spied the lone horseman long before he was aware of his proximity to the old camping ground.
"Chiquita heap glad to see Jack." She made her welcome, palms to the front, raised high in the air.
"How! How!" replied Jack and he looked askance at Chiquita in wonderment that she should be so far from the village. "Jack no sabe," he continued, and looked from one point of the compass to another for a familiar landmark.
"Chiquita know, see Jack, old trail behind big peak, new trail this way, when Jack go where sun rise, ground covered with heap big snow—no see this trail."
"Me sabe. Where Yamanatz, Colorow, Antelope?"
Chiquita smiled at the first, became grave at the second and a flash shot from her eyes at the word Antelope, then her face saddened as she looked into Jack's very soul. "Yamanatz well, Colorow gone to Agency, Antelope ready for big pony race—Susan want Antelope, Antelope no like Susan, like—mebbe so Jack knows," she said with an arch look. "Antelope get up big race when white man come from Hot Sulphur Springs with heap fast pony to race Ute ponies—mebbe so Ute win ponies—white man walk back, Antelope heap smart. Plan big race, big dance and big games among the braves. Susan she put Antelope up to it, beat all Indians and white men, win Susan for his wife, carry her off to his tepee where she sing songs in twilight. But Antelope tell Chiquita he no race—just make believe. Antelope wait for Chiquita, but"—and she stopped abruptly with the frightened look of a startled deer as she gazed again into Jack's face.
"When race?" he asked.
"Three moons."
"About August," said Jack to himself. Then aloud, as a bright thought came to him, "Does Chiquita sabe name of white man's ponies?"
"Me sabe one," she replied.
"Jack sabe one heap fast pony in Middle Park. 'Brown Dick,'—run like the forked lightning out of the clouds."
Chiquita looked surprised and interrogatively answered, "Mebbe so 'Brown Dick' beat 'em Ute ponies, white man ride back?"
At which Jack laughed heartily. Chiquita continued: "That is the pony Antelope think no run much, heap fast, but Ute beat him. Antelope bet money, beads, buckskin, two ponies and other Utes bet heap lot."
"Has Yamanatz bet anything yet?" asked Jack.
"Yamanatz don't know—wait Jack come—Jack tell Yamanatz what to do."
Jack knew the horse well and all the people interested in the races and decided to stay and see the sport. Even had Yamanatz desired to go to the big mine, they would go later. On reference to his calendar he found a total eclipse of the sun would take place in August and he desired to see the Indians under this phenomenon as well as in their sports, and witness the struggles for the hand of Susan.
Upon arrival at the Indian village Yamanatz greeted Jack in the customary fashion. It was not long before they arranged to wait for the August festivities, then start for the desert mine from the Agency, to which point the Rock Creek village moved a short time after Jack's arrival.
During the three months Jack spent his time prospecting, hunting, and studying Indian character. Chiquita made rapid strides in her studies under his tutorship and by the time set for the races she could converse very well in English and read ordinary words. Jack watched the ponies and the athletic braves as preparation was made for the great event.
For days the frontiersmen along the reservation border had been wending their way to the Agency. Gamblers and confidence men from the nearest mining camps ran over to gather in a few dollars which would be "easy money." The Government's long delayed annuities and rations were to be distributed the week before the contest, so every Indian had money to bet or to buy plunder with. Groups of Indians, squatting on their haunches or kneeling beside a big blanket spread upon the ground as a table, gambled or traded their wares in common with the visitors.
On a big Navajo blanket sat Chiquita, making beaded moccasins, while near by on another blanket rested Susan, engaged in beading a buckskin shirt. Off at the side with bridle reins dragging, four ponies fed on the stubby grass as their owners, two Indians and two cowmen, played Spanish monte. The cowmen wore heavily fringed buckskin shirts and broad-brimmed hats, each hat having a leather band and leather string which passed back of the ears and under the back of the head to keep the hat from blowing off. Their feet were clad in high-topped boots, from which clanked the cruel Mexican spurs with tinkling bells. Each—and, in fact, every man on the reservation, had six-shooters—some four, and nearly all carried some make of rifle, not that they feared any evil, but it was second nature to be prepared for game of any kind. Another mark of civilization was the red bandanna handkerchief tied loosely around nearly every man's throat.
Oaths of the most curdling nature bellowed their way incessantly into the ears of the onlooker. A brightly painted Indian with eagle feathered bonnet and a string of grizzly claws around his neck, won a mule skinner's money. The latter turned loose a wild yell and a string of hair-raising adjectives, accompanied by the pistol-like crack of his fifteen-foot whip, and stalked off to his mules, swearing "agin the Gov'n'ment, the redskin and hisself"—chiefly in the end "agin hisself." Jack hailed him.
"Pard, I've seen you before."
"Mebbe so, stranger; I've lived in these hills many snows," answered the freighter.
"Didn't you lose some blankets about a year ago in the Wet Mountain valley, near Buena Vista?" asked Jack without mincing matters.
"That's what I did, but I got 'em back and—well"—and he stopped as Jack commenced to smile. "What pleases you, stranger?"
"I was picturing in my mind what that fellow's wife, if he had one, and she could have seen him, would have said after you fellows got through heaving him into that dirty pond instead of hanging him."
The man of mules and wagons broke into a long guffaw that echoed back from the woods, and circled his long whip about his head, allowing the big broad cracker to settle lightly the length of the lash from him as daintily as an expert caster lets his flies settle into a riffle where the big trout hide, then with a fierce backward motion and overhand shoot to the front the long sinuous black snake straightened out with a vicious snap that made Jack wince, for it told the rest of the tale of what happened to the blanket thief before "court" adjourned. Then the freighter finished his remark.
"Well, that onery cuss that stole my blanket has got my mark on his hide, made like that."
"Yes, I think he must have about fifteen of them the way the whips cracked as he ran the gauntlet between about thirty of you. Did he live?"
"Oh, yes. That is he was alive when we left him on the prairie, headed for the Missouri River."
"I was on my way to Leadville. Buena Vista was the end of the railroad and in looking after some freight at the depot I saw the preliminaries of opening 'court' and execution of 'judgment' against the prisoner," explained Jack. To which the grizzled teamster replied:
"It looks cruel to one not familiar with frontier life. It seems a crime, the justice which overtakes horse thieves and camp prowlers, while those who commit greater crimes go free. But there are no two things so essential to life on the border as blankets and horses. We have to sleep and travel. Hotels don't pop up for the asking, with warm beds on a winter's night, nor do horses grow out of a pine bough when a man is miles away from any habitation. If men be too onery and sassy and get to be too handy in their gun play with each other we make no fuss if both 'go over the range with their boots on'—a-killing of them fellers does not necessitate an honest man's freezing to death. We never hang a man, nor shoot him, if he steals our grub or watch, or even gets our gun, but blankets and horses are sacred property. But what be you doin' in here?"
"Came over to see the Ute races and study Indians," replied Jack.
"So did I, but to make it more binding I brought in a train of government plunder for the Agency, some plows and mowin' machines and school house desks. Say, but I'd like to see some of these redskins trying to cut a furrer down that sage brush flat or sittin' at one of them desks doin' sums in 'rithmetic. More'n likely they'll be makin' pictures of Parson Meeker crossing the divide on a sulky plow under escort of Uncle Sam's cavalry," at which the freighter turned his gigantic laugh loose again.
Just then two men in "store clothes" picked their way around the various groups of horses and Indians, stopping a short distance from Jack and the freighter, whose sobriquet was "Cal." As the new comers faced square about Cal eyed them a moment and then said to Jack:
"You see that red-faced, black mustached feller standin' there? Well, that's Sam Tupper, the graveyard starter of the Animas and Wet Mountain valleys. I seen him make the first corpse in Silver Cliff. Wonder what he's doin' up here. Sure as gun's made of iron he's up here for mischief. It was October and the first blizzard of the season caught us all with short wood and no pitch hot. Every prospector around the cliff made for 'Nigger Barber's' place—afterward it got a regular name, the 'slaughter house,' kase 'Nigger,'—he was half Indian, half Mexican and balance coyote—had two great big stoves to keep us warm. Four fellers rode into the Cliff about 10 o'clock, cold and hungry, and expected to find a tavern started, but they were a little early, for the camp was right young, so they got permission to use some feller's tent near by—one of the four was Charley Rogers"—
"Owner of 'Brown Dick,'" interrupted Jack, in surprise.
"Yes; and Frank Mitchell, Les McAvoy and Paddy Dinslow. Les was a bad man, no mistake. His daddy was a judge in one of the northern counties and when Les was a kid the old man would take the youngster to some of the faro banks, hold him on his knee and seem to think it cute if the little gambler picked up a 'sleeper' and sold it to the barkeep for lumps of sugar or a bottle of pop. Well, Les got pretty tough. Worked some, but liked his 'licker' and was allus waitin' to pick a fuss. He was nervy and could fight with fists, stove pokers, 'toad stabbers' or six-shooters, it was all the same to him. Sam and 'Nigger' both knew him of old in Trinidad and Silverton. The first night after the boys got into the Cliff they dropped into 'Nigger's' and got into a game of faro. Les piled his stack of reds above the limit and Sam there, who was lookout, told Les to take 'em down. Les lost on the turn, but before the dealer could rake in the chips Les snatched the extra ones off the top of the pile. If he won, the dealer only paid the limit, and then Les would talk bad. All of 'em were scared of Les and no one wanted to make a beginning, so they humored him, but the next night they laid for him. I met Frank and Charley durin' the day and they said Les had been run out of Silverton, and he remarked as he came into the Cliff, 'Boys, mebbe it's my time to die with my boots on in this very camp, but I'm game.'
"It was almost 8 o'clock and 'Nigger's' was jammed. There was a big crowd at the table near the end of the bar. I sat at a table parallel to it, the big red hot stove making the apex of a triangle about the same distance as the tables were apart. The deal which old Colonel Crumpy was making came to an end. I was winner and thumbing my chips, when bang went a gun at the other table. Say, but did you ever see two hundred and fifty crazy, desperate men push and crowd out of gun play range? Well, there was lots of tenderfeet in that gang. They jumped onto the 'mustang' table and then to the hazard table and into the crowd, pell-mell, out of windows. One feller was so scar't he never stopped to open it, but went kersmash through glass and all. Durin' this I backed away keerful like to the wall between two windows. I knew if any of 'em started to run it would be in the middle of the room and I didn't feel like risking my back to that crowd. My gun hung handy in case of a free get-away, or die a doin' it. As I felt the cold green boards rub my spine I seen the rest of the show. It don't take a man a lifetime to move when guns are speakin'.
"It seems a kid, with sickly taller-like face and pinched cheeks, a young feller from the States lookin' for a gold mine, who got broke and nothing to do but clean spit-kits in 'Nigger's' and tend bar, had been exercised a little with the cards, dealing faro, and they put him on watch with a big Colt's old-fashioned navy on his lap, all cocked and ready for business, with instructions that if Les did any more funny work to plug him. Les had bet his stack as high as he could pile 'em and lost, grabbed the extra chips, and to the dealer's 'You—put them chips back,' Les slid up the back of his chair. He was keepin' cases and had his back to me, reachin' fer his gun. He had on a pair of blue overalls, and the hammer of that six-shooter got caught in the corner of his pocket. I seen him tuggin' to get it out, and the dealer, whose name was Bert Lillis, had lifted the big cannon, the muzzle half way across the table, and with both hands pulled the trigger, got scared, dropped the gun and was trying to skin under the table. He turned his head sideways to keep from scratching his nose, and just then Les got into action. He leaned on his left hand over the middle of the faro layout, put the muzzle of his gun against the eye of the dealer as he was sliding down and fired. As Les was doin' this Sam Tupper was busy, but Les had his eye on the lookout, who dared not move his hand for fear Les would git him first. As quick as Les made his play at the dealer, Sam reached for a drawer about six inches from his hand and grabbed a pearl-handled, silver-plated gun. As Les turned with uplifted arm, cocking his weapon, Sam stepped to the edge of the drygoods box on which the lookout's chair was placed, his weapon pointing straight at Les's heart. Before Les could fire there was a flash—a report. The smoke from the pearl-handled gun wreathed around Les's head as he turned convulsively, frantically trying to get the muzzle of his pistol on a line with Sam, who stood with the least perceptible smile waiting for the eye of his opponent to catch his own, but as Les's body slowly swayed and pivoted the gambler knew that in a moment more all would be over. The fingers which tightly gripped the murderous firearm now slackened, gripped again, then the pistol dropped to the floor; a body straightened up its full height, the head thrown back in defiance and with eyes rolling upward, Les McAvoy fell prone to the floor backwards. As he fell that man standing there stepped off the box with the pearl-handled gun cocked for a second shot, and hissed between those white teeth of his, 'You got it that time.' The jury heard no evidence of any shots but Lillis' and the one Les fired—no bullet was found from a Colt's navy, round ball. A conical ball rested just beneath the skin in the small of the back. The jury said, 'Justifiable homicide at the hands of Bert Lillis,' and I heard that Lillis died the next day."
"And that is the man who did the deed?" asked Jack, as he gazed at a real bad man; "one of those who make the history of every country black with their infamous deeds, which they plan and then inveigle innocent people to execute."
"Yes," said Cal, "and these redskins are not much to blame for goin' on the warpath the way they are bamboozled about. The trouble is, them cusses in Washington, who never see an Injun and who don't know what a real live one is, pass laws and send commissioners and army officers and agents out here to investigate. Some are preachers, some cunning lawyers and some statesmen—they call 'em so. The investigation drags along while the poor devils go hungry. Rations are held back, blankets rot for want of transportation, and somebody back in the woodpile is getting rich all the time. Then the Injun takes it out of a party of prospectors or some poor rancher, or like as not holds up a train of mules and the mule-skinners 'bite the dust' after defending their own property. But I suppose in the end it is all for the benefit of what they call civilization. Let's go and see them ponies over there."
"Look," said Jack; "must have been a bunch of folks come in last night," pointing to a regular settlement of new tents and camping outfits.
"Well, durn my pictures," ejaculated Cal. "Throw a rope on that blaze-faced, lop-eared son of Israel with a pack on his back and let's see his brand. Guess you find them everywhere except in Jerusalem. Hello, Isaac; where's Abraham?"
"Who'd you mean, my brodder or my fadder? My name is Cohen, and I gome to make a locashun for a cloding store. Dis will be a fine blace for a town, und Cohen will be der bioneer merchant, ain't it?"
"Git out, you hook-nosed Jew; this is Injun reservation, and yer 'Uncle Sam' don't allow no storekeepers here, except his own pets!"
"What iss dot? I got no Ungel Sam; I got un Ungel Moses und Ungel Solomon, but no Ungel Sam. Ain'd dis a new town? Don' the shentlemans wand a negdie or hangerchief? I haf a"—but Jack and Cal had turned a deaf ear to the would-be "bioneer."
As Jack stepped around the trunk of a big pine the noose of a lariat circled around and settled over his head and arms; a short jerk and he was brought up standing. Cal looked on wonderingly, for at the other end of the rope sat a buckskin-clad cow-puncher mounted on a thoroughbred cow-pony.
"Now will you be good?" The bronzed face of "Happy Jack" broke into wreaths of smiles and happy laughter.
"Hello, Jack!"
"Hello yourself."
"Shake, old man—put her thar, Jack. Glad ter see yer. Never thought to see yer over here among the Utes."
"When did you leave Roaring Forks?"
"About a week ago; been looking for some horses that are missing."
"Jack, shake hands with Cal Wagner. No, not the minstrel man, but his equal just the same."
"Cal, this is 'Happy Jack' of the Bar E Ranch over in the Grand River country."
Both men, thus introduced, shook hands, and after a few exchanges of the day "Happy Jack" coiled up his lariat and, lifting his bridle reins, said, "I must look around this camp a while afore the races. May find some signs, but I'll see yer both again—adios."
The spurs jingled and his pony loped off toward the valley. Cal looked at the disappearing cow-puncher and turned to Jack, who said:
"He's as good one as ever straddled a broncho. He sure is a character and his name is well earned. One of the happiest men I ever met. I'll tell you about him as we take a smoke and watch the Indians. Down on Roaring Forks of the Grand River a young fellow from the east by the name of Eads took up a ranch. He was staked by some rich relative, and after buying a bunch of steers and some American-bred horses, drove them over the Tennessee pass to the Bar E ranch, five miles above the big Hot Springs[A]where the Forks empties into the Grand. He hired 'Happy Jack' as boss of the outfit, and with two or three other cow-punchers he started in and built a log house, and when I was there seemed to be doing well. I was on a hunting trip from Middle Park and heard about the Bar E ranch and the Springs, so our party made the place our camping ground for a week. The grass was fine and all the stock rolling fat. His horses were in two bands—one 'used' on one side of the Forks and the other band grazed on the opposite side. They rounded up the horses once a week at least, and the range riders never let the stock get away very far.
"One evening just after grub one of the boys came down to the cabin from the corral and said, 'Old Martha has pulled her picket pin and vamoosed.' 'Martha' was stake mare. Jack said, 'I guess not,' and bolted up the bank to the open bench which run for half a mile back to the cedars and piñons, where the branding pens and corrals were. He walked out to where he had picketed the mare and pulled up the pin with about ten feet of rope left where it had been cut. It was just before sundown, and a bunch of horses which had been run into the corral when the stake horse was changed had not gotten far away. Jack yelled 'Thief!' and for the boys to hustle and see if some of the bunch could be gotten back into the corral—a feat, you know, next to impossible when no one is mounted. As luck would have it, four went in when the rest broke, but we managed to get the bars up before they turned. It was but a few seconds' work to rope a 'saddle-wise' one and cinch him up. Jack had taken off his belt and it lay on the ground with his six-shooters back at the cabin. He pointed at mine and said, 'Give me that gun.' Throwing himself into the saddle, he was off like a streak of lightning. The mare's hoofprints were plainly visible in the trail leading toward the Grand River. About 9:30 o'clock we heard a yell and went up to the corral. Jack had the mare. Not a word was uttered, except 'She was in the middle of the ford just above where the Forks go into the Grand.' Both horses were covered with ridges of dry sweat and looked jaded, as though every inch of ten miles had been run in a death-race struggle. On the off side of 'Martha' a dirty red streak mingled with the sweat. As we went slowly back to the cabin, after picketing both horses, Jack handed me my belt and gun—a Colt's .41 double action. Two empty cartridge shells told the story of a tragedy. A week later one of our party found the body of a man on the bank of the Grand five miles below the Forks with two bullet holes in his back.