AS HE CAME HE BELLOWED HOARSELY THE WILD-BULL CRYOF THE FIGHTING MALE, CRAZED WITH PAIN OR ANGER
"It's big Oscar!" cried McHale. "That feller downed his horse. Holy catamounts! Look at them mix it! And here's the whole camp a-boilin' after us! Casey, did I hear you say this was the day I didn't need a gun?"
Before they could pull up they almost ran over the fighting men. The two were locked in ferocious grips. The big guardian of the gate was fighting for his life, silently, with clenched teeth, every cord and muscle and vein standing out with the heartbreaking strain put upon them.
For the big Swede was the stronger man. Ordinarily mild and sweet-tempered, he was now a wild beast. Foam blew from his mouth and flecked his soft, golden beard, and he rumbled and snarled, beast-like, in his throat. He made no attempt to strike or to avoid the blows which beat against his face; but with one arm around his enemy's neck, the hand gripping the nearer side of the jaw, and the other hand pushing at it, he strove to break his neck. Little by little he twisted it. Gradually the chin pointed to the shoulder, almost past it. It seemed that with the fraction of an inch more the vertebral column must crack like a stick of candy. But the hand on the jaw slipped, and the chin, released, shot back again, to be tucked desperately down against the breastbone.
"Get in here and pull Oscar off!" cried Casey as he leaped from his horse.
"Not in a thousand years," McHale responded. "He can kill him. Let him do it. Serve the cuss right."
"You cursed fool!" snarled Casey. "That gang will be here in half a holy minute. They'll pound Oscar to death if he's fighting then. Here, you crazy Swede, let go! Let go, I say! It's me—Casey Dunne!"
But Oscar was past reason. Once more he had got the palm of his hand beneath that stubborn chin and was lifting it from its shelter. As he put forth his huge strength, he roared out a torrent of Scandinavian oaths, interspersed with the more hardy varieties of Anglo-Saxon epithets.
"Catch hold of him," Casey ordered. "Jam your arm into his windpipe while I break his grip." As he spoke, he kicked the big Swede sharply on the left biceps. For an instant that mighty arm was paralyzed. Casey grasped his wrists and dragged them loose, while McHale, his forearm across the huge, bull-like throat, heaved back.
Oscar came apart from his victim slowly and reluctantly, as a deeply rooted stump yields to the pull of a purchase.
"He kel my Olga! He kel my Olga!" he vociferated. "He shoot her yust like she ban von vulf! By the yumpin' Yudas, you let me go!"
"Keep quiet, keep quiet, I tell you!" cried Casey. "You can get him later. See this bunch coming? They'll kill you with their shovels in half a minute."
The rush of men was almost upon them. They carried the tools which were in their hands the moment the shots were fired—mixing shovels, hoes, axes, pinch bars, and odd bits of wood and iron caught up on the impulse of the instant. Behind, straining every muscle to reach the front, ran Farwell.
Meanwhile Oscar's opponent had risen unsteadily to his feet. His eyes searched the ground, and he made a sudden dive. But McHale was before him.
He swooped on the revolver half buried in the dust, and whirled on the first comers, holding the weapon jammed tightly in front of his right hip.
"Don't crowd in on us with them shovels and things," he advised grimly. "There's lots of room right where you are."
The rush stopped abruptly. An ugly, short-barrelled gun in the hand of a man who bore all the earmarks of a hip shot was not to be treated lightly. There were rough and tough men in the crowd who were quite ready for trouble; but their readiness did not extend to rushing a gunman unless an urgent necessity existed.
Farwell broke through them, breathless from a sprint at top speed. He paid no attention whatever to McHale's weapon.
"What's the matter here?" he demanded. "You, Lewis, speak up!"
"This batty Swede tried to ride over me," Lewis replied. "I give him fair warnin', and then I downed his horse. When he hits the dirt he goes on the prod. These fellers pulled him off of me. That one's got my gun."
"You bet I have!" McHale interjected. "You tried to plug Oscar. I seen you cut down on him at about ten feet—and miss. Looks like you ain't got the nerve to hit anything that'scomin'for you. You sorter confines your slaughter to harmless cayuses and such."
"Guess again," said Lewis, unmoved. "I thought I could stand the Swede off, that's why. I shot two foot high on purpose."
"You kel my Olga!" shouted Oscar. "Yust wait, you faller. Ay gat my goose gun, and Ay blow you all to hal! By Yudas, Ay gat skvare kvick!"
"This is crowding things," said Casey. "Mr. Farwell, you really must not plant gunmen by the trails with instructions to shoot our horses."
"Nobody has any such instructions," said Farwell. "This man tried to ride Lewis down, and he protected himself. I'm sorry it occurred, but we are not to blame."
"Without arguing that point," said Casey, "I warn you that we won't stand this sort of thing."
"If you fellows will keep off our lands there will be no trouble," Farwell responded. "We don't want you, and we won't have you. If you come on business, of course, that's different. Otherwise keep away. Also we don't want your stock grazing on our property."
"We may as well have an understanding while we're about it," said Casey. "The next man who pulls a gun on me—this Lewis, or anybody else—will have to beat me to the shooting. If you don't want your lands used as part of the range, fence them off. Don't interfere with a single head of my stock, either. And, if I were in your place, I'd offer this man about two hundred dollars for his mare, and throw in an apology."
"But you're not in my place," snapped Farwell. "Nobody is going to pull a gun on you if you behave yourself. If this man puts in a claim for his horse, I'll consider it, but I won't promise anything." He turned to his men. "You get back to work, the lot of you." Without further words, he strode off to the camp.
Lewis stepped up to McHale. "I'll take my gun if you're through with it."
McHale handed him the weapon.
"I don't reckon she's accurate at much over ten yards," he observed. "If I was you, I'd fix myself with a good belt gun. It ain't unlikely I packs one myself after this, and we might meet up."
"Organize yourself the way you want to," said Lewis carelessly, slipping the weapon in his pocket. "And if you're a friend of that big Swede, tell him not to look for me too hard. I don't want to hurt him; but I ain't taking chances on no goose guns." He nodded and marched off after the others.
The three men, left alone, stood in silence for a moment. Then Oscar, with a rumbling curse, began to strip saddle and bridle from his dead pet mare, the tears running down his cheeks.
"And now what?" asked McHale.
"Now," Casey replied, "I guess we've got to make good."
CHAPTER XI
Some two miles distant from the construction camp at the dam, a little cavalcade moved slowly through the darkness of a moonless, cloudy night. A southeast wind was blowing, but it was a drying wind, with no promise of rain. It had blown for days steadily, until it had sucked every vestige of moisture from the top earth, leaving it merely powdery dust. Because of it, too, no dew had fallen; the nights were as dry as the days.
In the grain fields, the continued blast had stripped the surface soil away from the young plants, wrenching and twisting them, desiccating their roots, which, still too feeble to reach what dampness lay lower down, sucked ineffectually at the dry breast of the earth. The plants they could not feed took on the pale-green hue of starvation. There, among the young grain, the stronger gusts lifted dust clouds acres in extent. Low down along the surface, the soil sifted and shifted continually, piling in windrows in spots, burying the young plants, leaving others bare. Odd little devils of whirlwinds, marked by columnar pillars of dust, danced deviously across the fields and along the trails. From the standpoint of a disinterested person, the ceaseless wind would have been unpleasant in its monotony; but from the viewpoint of a rancher it was deadly in its persistence.
The moving figures were so strung out that it appeared almost as though they were riding in the same direction fortuitously, without relation to each other. First came two horsemen; then, at an interval of five hundred yards, came a buckboard, with two men and a led horse. In the rear, five hundred yards back, were two more riders.
This order, however, was not the result of accident, but of calculation. The buckboard held Oscar and the elder McCrae. Also it contained a quantity of dynamite. Naturally, it was drawn, not by McCrae's eager road team, but by a pair of less ambition. And the riders, front and rear, were in the nature of pickets; for, though it was unlikely that any one would be met at that time of night, it was just as well to take no chances.
The riders in the lead were Casey Dunne and Tom McHale. Each had a rifle beneath his leg. In addition, McHale wore two old, ivory-handled Colts at his belt, and Dunne's single holster held a long automatic, almost powerful as a rifle. They rode slowly, seldom faster than a walk, peering ahead watchfully, their ears tuned to catch the slightest suspicious sound.
"This here is like old times," said McHale. "Durn me if I hadn't about forgotten the feel of a gun under my leg. I wish we could have our photos took now. We sure look plenty warlike."
"I don't want any photo," said Casey. "If I can get home without meeting any one, it will suit me down to the ground. I wish we hadn't brought these guns. It's safer every way."
"It's safer for some people," McHale commented. "S'pose we struck hard luck to-night and got backed into a corner or followed up too close—how'd we look without guns? 'Course, I'd take awful long chances before I shotatanybody; but all the same a Winchester helps out a retirin' disposition a whole lot."
"No doubt about that. But the devil of packing a gun is the temptation to use it before you really have to. That accounts for a lot of trouble. Why, even in the old days, a man who didn't pack a gun was safe, unless he tracked up with some mighty mean specimen of a killer. And those dirty killers usually didn't last long."
"That's so in one way," McHale admitted, "but I look at it different. If nobody but the killers had packed guns they'd have run the whole show. Some of them gents killed for the fun of it, like a mink in a chicken coop. The mean sort'd pick out some harmless, helpless party, and stomp up and down, r'arin' and cussin' till they got up a big mad. The chances was about even they'd shoot. Usual they didn't try them plays on men that wore their artillery in plain sight."
"Well, we haven't any killers now, anyway," said Dunne. "This is about as far as it's safe to go with the horses. We'll wait till the others come up."
In a few minutes, the faint straining of leather, creak of springs, and subdued clank of axles came to them. The buckboard loomed out of the darkness, and halted suddenly.
"That you, boys?" McCrae's voice asked.
"Yes. We won't take the horses any farther. If that watchman is on the dam to-night he might hear something. We can pack the powder the rest of the way ourselves."
The rear riders, young Sandy McCrae and Wyndham, arrived. Then a dispute arose. No one wished to remain with the horses. Casey Dunne settled it.
"There's only one man going to plant powder and cut fuses, and that's Oscar," said he. "If we all go messing around with it in the dark, half the shots won't fire, and we may have an accident. Outside of that there's nothing to do except take care of the watchman if he's there; and he's sure to be. Wyndham, you're not cut out for that sort of work. You will stay with the ponies. Now, McCrae, you'd better turn around and drive home."
McCrae pulled the team around. "Good luck, boys," said he quietly, and was gone. The spare horse which had been tied to the buckboard remained for Oscar.
The Swede proceeded to load himself with dynamite, placing it around his legs in the high socks he wore, in the breast of his shirt, and in his pockets. This was the overflow from a gunny sack in which he carried the rest. He resembled a perambulating mine.
"Ay ban ready now," he announced.
"I say, Oscar, don't trip," said Wyndham facetiously.
"Nor interfere," McHale added. "Plant them number twelves of yours plumb wide apart, Oscar, and don't try to scratch your ankle with your boot."
Oscar grinned at them, his big, white teeth shining in the darkness. He attempted the repartee of his adopted country.
"You faller tenk you mek big yoke—vat!" said he. "You go to hal, please."
"Sure—if you bump anything hard," McHale retorted.
"Come on, come on!" said Casey impatiently.
Wyndham remained with the horses. He was to allow the others half an hour, and then bring the animals down nearer the dam, so that no time should be lost in getting away. His companions vanished in the darkness.
Young McCrae took the lead. In the moccasins he affected he trod noiselessly, making no more sound than a prowling, nocturnal animal. Casey Dunne followed, almost as light-footed. Behind him Oscar clumped along, planting his heavy boots solidly at every step. McHale brought up the rear. Soon they struck an old cattle trail which wound down a short coulée and brought them to the bank of the river immediately below the dam. McCrae halted.
"There she is," he announced.
Across the river lay the huddled, black shapes of the camp buildings, with here and there a pallid spot which marked a tent. Not a light was visible there. Evidently the camp slept, and that was as it should be. But nearer at hand, beside the bank of the river where the bulk of the dam reared itself, a solitary light gleamed.
"That's the watchman," McCrae whispered. "We're in luck, boys. He's on this side."
"Say, Ay sneak up on dat faller," Oscar proposed. "Ay mek von yump—so!—and Ay gat him in de neck." He uttered a horrible sound, suggestive of death by strangulation.
"Shut up!" hissed young McCrae fiercely. "Keephim quiet, Tom!"
"Shut up, Oscar!" growled McHale. "Don't you savvy nothing? You and me ain't in on this. Stand right still now, and don't breathe no harder than you have to. Go to it, boys!"
If young McCrae had been a prowling animal before, he was now the ghost of one. Casey Dunne, behind him, endeavoured to copy his noiseless method of progress. Gradually they drew near the light.
They could discern the figure of the watchman beside it. He was sitting on a stick of timber, smoking. McCrae drew from his pocket a long canvas bag, of about the dimensions of a small bologna sausage, and weighed it in his hand. They crept nearer and nearer. They were not more than ten feet away. The guardian of the dam laid his pipe on the timber, rose to his feet, and stretched his arms high above his head in a huge, satisfying yawn.
At that instant McCrae sprang like a lynx on a fawn. The sandbag whistled as it cut down between the upstretched arms, and the watchman dropped as if hit by lightning.
"That was an awful crack, Sandy," said Casey reprovingly. He flashed the lantern at the face, and slipped his fingers to the wrist. To his relief, the pulse was strong.
"I had to get through his hat, hadn't I?" said McCrae. "I wasn't taking any chances. He's got a head like a bull. Come on, let's fix him up."
The watchman came out of their hands trussed up like a fowl for roasting, securely gagged, with a gunny sack drawn over his head and tied at the waist. They lifted him between them and bore him away from the dam to what they considered a safe distance.
"'Watchman, tell us of the night,'" chuckled Casey. "He's all right, by the way he kicks, and nothing can hit him away out there. They'll see him first thing in the morning. Hustle up Oscar, now. This is where he gets action."
Oscar, when he came up, got to work at once. Because the planting of shots by different men would have been both unsatisfactory and dangerous he worked alone. The others lay flat in the gloom, watching the lantern which he had appropriated flitting here and there along the structure.
"Oscar's some powder man, you bet," McHale observed. "He don't look like he had the savvy, but he'll cut them fuses so's the shots'll come mighty near together. Blamed if I know why a Swede takes to powder. Seems to come natural to 'em, like pawin' snow to a cayuse."
The light blinked and disappeared as Oscar descended. Followed a long interval of silent waiting. Then across in the camp a dog began to bark, at first uncertainly, with what was almost a note of interrogation, and then, as the wind brought confirmation of suspicion to his nostrils, with savage vigour. By the sound, he was apparently approaching the dam.
Some sleeper, awakened by the noise, yelled a profane command to the animal, which had no effect. It merely awakened another, who cursed the first sleepily.
"Hey, Kelly," he called, "hit that dog with a rock!" A pause. "Hey, Kelly, wake up, there!"
"I guess we've got Kelly," Casey whispered to Sandy. He called out hoarsely: "He'll quit in a minute! G'wan to sleep. You don't know your own luck."
But the dog continued to bark, jumping up and down frantically. A light appeared in a window of one of the shacks.
"Blazes!" muttered McHale, "somebody's getting up."
A low whistle came from behind them. It was significant of the tension of the moment that both McHale and McCrae jumped. But Dunne was cooler.
"That's only Wyndham with the horses," he said.
Suddenly a long aperture of light appeared in the dark wall of the shack. For a moment it was partially obscured by a figure, and then it vanished utterly. The door had closed. The light from the window remained.
"Somebody's come out," said McHale. "That's about where Farwell's shack is. What's keepin' Oscar? He's had time enough. Maybe I'd better go across and hold up this feller? We don't want——"
The lantern bobbed into view once more. Oscar was coming at last, but he was taking his time about it. Had he placed the powder? Had he fired the fuses? Or had something gone wrong at the last moment? They asked themselves these questions impatiently. It would be just like him to have forgotten his matches. It might not occur to him to use the lantern flame. In that case——
"Come on, hurry up there!" McCrae called softly.
Oscar clambered up beside them. "Ay tal you somet'ing——" he began. But the dog yelped suddenly. A sharp voice cut across to them:
"Kelly! What the devil's going on here? What are you about? Who's that with you?"
"Farwell!" Dunne whispered. "Did you light the fuses, Oscar?"
"Sure t'ing," Oscar replied. Proud of the phrase, he repeated it. "She ban light, all right."
"When'll she fire? Quick, now?"
"Mebbe fema minute. We ban haf lots of time to gat out of har. Say, Kessy, what faller——"
An oath cracked in the darkness like a rifle shot.
"You, Kelly, answer me! Come across here at once!" He paused for a moment. "By thunder! Kelly, I'll come over there and——"
Casey Dunne did not hear the conclusion of the sentence. His mind was working swiftly. For, if Farwell tried to come across, he would probably be killed by the coming explosions; and that must be prevented at any cost. The destruction of the dam was justifiable, even necessary. But homicide with it would never do. To shoot in self-defence or to protect his rights was one thing; to allow a man to be killed by a blast was quite another. But just how to prevent it was the question.
"Come along, Casey," McHale urged. "We ain't got too much time."
"Time or not, we can't have Farwell hurt. You go. I'll be after you in a minute."
"If you stay we all stay," said McHale. "Let him take his chance. Come on!"
"Git, I tell you," Casey insisted. "I've got to keep him where he is till the first shot goes." He called out: "All right, Mr. Farwell. You don't need to come. I'll be there."
"That's not Kelly's voice," snapped Farwell. "What deviltry's going on here?"
By his voice, Casey guessed that he was advancing. He dropped the pretence as useless. "Get back, there!" he ordered sharply, but endeavouring to disguise his natural voice. "Get back to your shack, you, or I'll drill you!"
Farwell's response came with surprising promptness in the form of a revolver bullet that sang just above Casey's head. By the momentary flash of the weapon his big figure was just discernible standing bent forward, legs wide apart, tense and watchful.
As Casey's hand dropped to his automatic, McHale clutched his wrist. "Don't shoot!" he whispered.
"I'm not going to hit him," Casey replied. "I'm just going to make him stay where he is."
"Let me," said McHale, and fired as he spoke. Farwell's revolver answered. They emptied the guns in the darkness; but as one shot high by accident and the other low by design, no damage ensued.
The camp, aroused by the shooting, buzzed like a hornet's nest. Lights appeared everywhere. Dark figures streamed out of doorways and thrown tent flaps; and, once outside, stood in helpless uncertainty.
"Coom, coom!" cried Oscar. "Ve gat out of har!" They rose and ran in the dark.
A mighty roar drowned the echoes of the pistol shots, as the bass bellow of his sire might dominate the feeble bleatings of a new-born calf. A vivid flash split the night. In the momentary illumination details were limned sharply—the buildings, the groups of men on one side, the running figures on the other. And poised, stationary, as it seemed, in mid-air, above the instant eruption, hung a mushroom cloud of smoke and dust, specked with fragments of riven wood and shattered concrete. Through the succeeding contrasted blackness the débris thudded upon the earth. With scarcely an interval followed a second shot, a third, a fourth. The air became alive with hurtling masses raining from the heavens.
The four dynamiters reached Wyndham, who, cursing in his excitement, was straining every muscle and a comprehensive vocabulary in an effort to hold the frightened horses.
Casey, McHale, and Sandy seized their nigh stirrups, shot them at their left toes, gripped saddle horns, and went up in an instant. Oscar, less expert, fumbled for a hold with his toe, hopping on his right leg as his horse sidled and backed.
"Stand still, Ay tal you!" he gritted. "By Yudas, Ay club hal from you purty kvick!"
Young McCrae wheeled his horse on the off side and gripped the headstall by the bit. "Up you go!" he cried, and Oscar fell into the saddle, the horn striking him amidships and momentarily checking a torrent of oaths. "Hang on, now!" McCrae ordered and let go.
They shot away with a wild plunge and a scurry of panicky hoofs. The going was rough, but luck was with them. They surged up the coulée, emerging on the higher bench land by the trail.
"Look here, Tom," said Dunne, "what did you want to do the shooting for back there? Afraid I'd get rattled and hit somebody?"
McHale grinned in the darkness. "Not hardly. Mostly, Casey, youmamook tumtuma heap—you look ahead and savvy plenty. You're foolish—the way an old dog fox is. But onct in a while you overlook a bet. You're too plumb modern and up to date."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"A lot. I don't know no other man hereabouts that packs a forty-four automatic. See, now?"
"No."
"Why, Casey," said McHale, "I'm surprised at you! It's clear as gin. Them guns spits out the empty shells right where you stand. Farwell finds 'em, and he goes lookin' for a gun to fit 'em. You've got it. There ain't no other gun hereabouts that takes forty-four automatic ammunition. Now, my old gun don't leave no trail of ca'tridges to follow unless I breaks her open. So I just naturally horned in and played the hand myself."
CHAPTER XII
When daylight fully disclosed the wreck, and also his night watchman lying helpless out of harm's way, Farwell was in a savage temper. Never before, in all his career, had anything like that been put over on him. And the knowledge that he had been sent there for the express purpose of preventing anything of the kind did not improve matters. He hated to put the news on the wire—to admit to headquarters that the ranchers apparently had caught him napping. But, having dispatched his telegram, he set his energies to finding some clew to the perpetrators of the outrage.
He drew a large and hopeless blank in Kelly, the watchman. Mr. Kelly's films ran smoothly up to a certain point, after which they were not even a blur. The Stygian darkness of his hiatus refused to lift by questioning. He had neither seen nor heard anything suspicious or out of the ordinary. About one o'clock in the morning he had laid down his pipe to rest his long-suffering tongue. Immediately afterward, so far as his recollection went, he found himself tied up, half smothered, with aching jaws and a dull pain in his head.
Farwell metaphorically bade this unsatisfactory witness stand aside, and proceeded to investigate the gunny sack, the rope that had tied him, and the rag and stick that had gagged him. Whatever information these might have given to M. Lecoq, S. Holmes, or W. Burns, they yielded none to Farwell, who next inspected the ground. Here, also, he found nothing. There were footmarks in plenty, but he could not read them. Though in the first flare of the explosion he had glimpsed three or four running figures, his eyes had been too dazzled to receive an accurate impression.
"Maybe an Australian nigger or a Mohave trailer could work this out," he said in disgust to his assistant, Keeler. "I can't."
"Well, say," said young Keeler, "talking about Indians—how about old Simon over there? Might try him."
He pointed. Just above the dam an Indian sat on a pinto pony, gazing stolidly at the wreck. His hair streaked with gray, was braided, and fell below his shoulders on either side. His costume was that of ordinary civilization, save for a pair of new, tight moccasins. Having apparently all the time there was, he had been a frequent spectator of operations, squatting by the hour watching the work. Occasionally his interest had been rewarded by a meal or a plug of tobacco. These things he had accepted without comment and without thanks. His taciturnity and gravity seemed primeval.
"Huh! That old beat!" said Farwell contemptuously. "Every Indian can't trail. However,wecan't, that's sure. Maybe he can make a bluff at it. Go and get him."
Keeler brought up old Simon, and Farwell endeavoured to explain what was wanted in language which he considered suited to the comprehension of a representative of the original North American race. He had a smattering of Chinook,1and for the rest he depended on gestures and a loud voice, having the idea that every man can understand English if it be spoken loudly enough.
"Simon," said he, "last night bad man come andmamookraise heap hell. Him blow up dam. You savvy 'dam,' hey?"
"Ah-ha!" Simon grunted proudly. "Mekumtuks. Mekumtukshell. Mekumtuksdam. Dam good, dam bad; godam——"
"No, no!" rasped Farwell. "Halocuss word—no bad word—no. D-a-m, 'dam.' Oh, Lord, the alphabet's wasted on him, of course. What's Siwash for dam, Keeler?"
"Search me," said Keeler; "but 'pence' is Chinook for fence, and 'chuck' means water. Try him with that." And Farwell tried again.
"Now, see, Simon! Last nighthiyu cultusman come. Bring dynamite—hiyu skookumpowder. Put um in dam—inchuck pence. Set um off.Mamook poo!—all same shoot. Bang! Whoosh! Up she go!" He waved his hand at the wreck. "Youkumtuksthat?"
Simon nodded, understanding.
"Mamookbang," said he; "mamookbust!"
"Right," Farwell agreed. "Cultusman come at night. Dark. Black. No see um." He made a footprint in the earth, pointed at it, and then to Simon, and waved a hand at the horizon generally. "You find trail, follow, catch um. Hey, can you do that, Simon? And I'll bet," he added to Keeler, "the infernal old blockhead doesn't understand a word I've said."
But Simon's reply indicated not only comprehension, but a tolerable acquaintance with modern business methods. Said he:
"How moch you give?"
Keeler grinned. "I think he gets you," he commented.
"I guess he does," Farwell admitted. "How much you want?"
"Hundred dolla'!" Simon answered promptly.
"Like blazes!" snapped Farwell. "You blasted, copper-hided old Shylock, I'll give you five!"
Simon held out his hand. The gesture was unmistakable.
"And they say an Indian doesn't know enough to vote!" said Farwell. He laid a five-dollar bill in the smoky palm. "Now get busy and earn it."
Simon inspected the ground carefully. Finally he took a course straight away from the dam.
"That's about where those fellows ran," said Farwell. "Maybe the old rascal can trail, after all."
Simon came to a halt at a spot cut up by hoofs. He bent down, examining the tracks carefully. Farwell, doing likewise, caught sight of a single moccasin track plainly outlined. It lay, long and straight-footed, deep in the soft soil; and where the big toe had pressed there was the mark of a sewn-in patch.
"Here, look here!" he cried. "One of 'em was wearing moccasins, and patched moccasins at that."
"Sure enough," said Keeler.
"Here, Simon, look at this," said the engineer. "You see um? Onecultusman wear moccasin. Was he white man or Indian?"
Simon surveyed the track gravely, knelt, and examined it minutely. "Mebbyso Injun," he said.
"Mebbyso white man," Farwell objected. "What makes you think it's an Indian?"
"Oleman moccasin, him," Simon replied oracularly. "White man throw him away; Injun keep him, mend him—mamook tipshin klaska."
"Something in that, too," Farwell agreed. "It's a straight foot—no swing-in to the toe. Still, I don't know. I've seen white men like that. I wonder——" He broke off abruptly, shaking his head.
Simon gave a correct imitation of mounting a horse. "Himklatawa," he announced. "Him Injun."
"Got on his horse and pulled out, hey?" said Farwell. "Yes, of course, that's what he did. That's why the track is pressed in so deep. That's all right. Simon, how many men stop last night?"
"Four, five cayuse stop," Simon answered. "Mebbyso four, five, man stop."
"Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow—catchum. Find where they live—theirillahee, where they hang out. You get that?"
Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.
"What?" Keeler asked.
"Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin—him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?"
Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed.
"Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed. "This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first."
"So he does," said Keeler.
"So this fellow is a white man," Farwell concluded triumphantly. "We want a white man with a patched moccasin. Youkumtuks, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so—left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon."
"Huh!" Simon grunted gravely. "Mebbyso white man; mebbysositkum Siwash."
"Half-breed nothing!" Farwell declared. "Straight white, I tell you. Now get ahead on the trail."
But whatever Simon's skill as a trailer, it availed little. In half a mile the hoofprints merged with many others in a beaten track, and so were lost. Simon halted.
"Halo mamook!" said he, signifying that he had done his possible. The fact was so self-evident that Farwell could not gainsay it.
"That's an easy five for you," he grumbled. "We might as well get back, Keeler. I never took any stock in that old buck, anyway. He's a gold brick, like all the rest of them."
But Simon, when they had gone, kept along the beaten track. And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin.
Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.
The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.
Old Simon rode slowly along the ditch until he came to where Sandy McCrae was working.
"Hello, Simon!" said the latter carelessly. "How you makin' it this morning? You keepingskookum?"
"Ah-ha!" Simon responded gutturally. "Skookum, you?"
"You bet," Sandy replied. "Hiyu skookumme." He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.
"Mamook huyhuymoccasin," said he.
"Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new.Cheemoccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk."
But Simon insisted. "Mamook huyhuy," said he. "Halo mitlite olemanmoccasin."
"Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.
Simon lifted McCrae's right foot and placed his finger on a patch beneath the ball of the great toe. His features expanded in a knowing grin. Sandy McCrae's face suddenly became grave and his mouth grim. His voice, when he spoke, was hard and metallic.
"Quit this sign business and spit it out of you," he ordered. "Mamook kumtuks!Tell me what you mean!"
Simon condescended to a measure of English which he knew well enough, but which he usually disdained on general principles. He pointed back whence he had come.
"Tenassun (early morning) me stop along camp. Bosstyeeman goodandam mad. Him saycultusmanmamookraisehiyuhell. Catchhiyu skookumpowder—bang! Whoosh! Upshego!" He mimicked Farwell's words and gestures to a nicety. "Him say, s'pose me catchcultusman me catchkwimnumdolla'." He exhibited the five-dollar bill, grinning once more. "Good! Menanitch'round me find trail. Bosstyeeman see track of oleman moccasin." He pointed to Sandy's right foot.
Young McCrae, his face black as the heart of a storm cloud, said nothing; but his eyes glinted dangerously. The Indian continued:
"Meklatawa kimtaon trail.Tyeeman him come, too. Bimeby come tohiyutrail, all same road. Me lose trail. Me telltyeeman 'halo mamook.'" He grinned broadly. "Himklatawabackyaka illahee. Me come along alone. See wherechik-chikwagon turn around. All right. Me come tell youmamook huyhuymoccasin."
It was very plain to Sandy now. The old Indian had recognized the track of his moccasin at the dam; had followed the trail to the travelled road where he had deliberately quit; and had come on to warn him to get rid of the incriminating moccasins which were even then on his feet. The suggestion of exchange was merely polite diplomacy.
"Simon," he said slowly, "blamed if you ain't a white Injun!"
Simon acknowledged the compliment characteristically. He produced a pipe and examined the empty bowl with interest.
"Halosmokin', me!" he observed gravely.
Sandy nodded and handed him a large plug. The Indian filled his pipe and put the tobacco in his pocket.
"You mytillikum," he announced. "When youtenasboy I like you, you like me. Good,KonawayMcCrae (every McCrae) mytillikum." He made a large gesture of generous inclusion, paused for an instant, and shot a keen glance at his friend. "Cas-ee Dunne mytillikum,too."
"Sure," said Sandy gravely. "We're all friends of yours, Simon."
Simon nodded and considered.
"All rancher mytillikum," he continued after an interval. "Ah-ha! Good! S'pose some time memamooksick, me feel all same oleman—no more grub stop, no more smokin' stop—mebbyso all rancherpotlatchgrub,potlatchsmokin', send doctin', send med'cin'? Youkumtuks?"
He formulated this general scheme of pension and old-age insurance gravely. With five dollars in hand and a future provided for by grateful ranchers, he would be able to worship theSaghalie Tyeeat the mission with a good heart.
"You don't want much," Sandy commented. "I guess we'd chip in, though, if you got up against the iron any time. Sure. S'pose youmamooksick, all ranchermamookhelp, give youmuckamuckand smokin', stake you to doctor and dope; s'pose you gomimoluse, bury you in style."
Simon nodded, well pleased. A fine funeral thrown in for good measure suited his ideas perfectly. It was no more than his due for this evidence of friendship. So much for the future. Now for the present. He surveyed the five-dollar bill and chuckled.
"Tyeemanhyasdamfool!" said he. He cast a shrewd eye at the sun, which stood near the meridian. "Sitkum sun!" he announced.
"Noon—and that means you're hungry," said Sandy. "I never saw you when you weren't. Go on up to the house, and say I sent you.Muckamuck mika sick yakwahtin.Eat till your belly goes back on you, if you want to."
Simon grinned again; but he pointed to Sandy's feet.
"Youmamook hyuhuymoccasin dam quick!" he warned once more.
1AUTHOR'S NOTE.—Chinook, the trade jargon of the Pacific coast, is similar in origin to the pidgin English of China. It is composite, its root words being taken from various tribal vocabularies and from the French and English languages. The spelling conforms to the pronunciation; and the latter in most cases is merely the Indian rendering of French and English word sounds. It is, in fact, an Indian Volapuk, used extensively by the tribes of Oregon, Washington, British Columbia, and Alaska. The number of words is comparatively small, probably not exceeding nine hundred. Therefore each has various meanings, rendered by shades of pronunciation or by combination with other words. Thus the word "mamook," signifying to do, to make, to perform, or anything denoting action, begins some two hundred phrases, for each of which there is one equivalent English word. Its nearest parallel is the French verb "faire," and its use is much the same. It is impossible in this space to attempt a vocabulary. "Halo" is the general negative. Throughout I have endeavoured to supply the meaning by the context.
CHAPTER XIII
Casey Dunne crossed from the Coldstream Supply Company's store—which was also the post office—to Bob Shiller's hotel. His pockets bulged with mail, for it was his first visit to town since the destruction of the dam a week before, and there was an accumulation of letters, newspapers, and periodicals. Ever since then he had been irrigating, throwing upon his thirsty fields every drop of water he could get.
As he came upon the veranda, he saw Shiller in conversation with a stranger.
"Oh, Casey," said Shiller, "I want you to shake hands with Mr. Glass. Mr. Glass—Mr. Dunne. Mr. Glass," the genial Bob went on, "has some notion of locating here if he can get a place to suit him. He likes the land, and he likes the climate; but the recent—the events—er—the way things shape at present has aleetleundecided him. Anything Mr. Dunne tells you, Mr. Glass, will be straight. He has land to burn, and one of our best ranches. Yes. I'll just leave you to talk it over together." And so saying, he executed a masterly retreat.
Glass was a mild, colourless, middle-aged man, attired in worn hand-me-down garments. His blue eyes, clear and direct enough, seemed to hold a little of the pathetic apprehension and appeal of a lost puppy. He hesitated when he spoke, repeatedly qualifying his statements. His was the awkwardness of the man who, having spent his life in familiar surroundings in some small community, suddenly finds himself in new places among strangers. And, lacking adaptability, is constrained and ill at ease.
"You see, Mr. Dunne, it's this way with me," he began. And, appearing to remember something suddenly, he asked: "Hadn't we better have a drink?"
"Not unless you need it in your business," said Casey. "Sit down and smoke a cigar with me and tell me your trouble."
"Well, I'd just as soon," said Glass, plainly relieved. "I don't drink much myself. My wife don't like it. It's a bad example for the children. But I thought that out here, maybe from what I'd heard——"
"Current Western fiction!" Casey laughed. "No, we don't drink every time we shake hands. Couldn't stand it. Well, what can I do for you?"
And thereupon Mr. Glass unbosomed himself ramblingly, with much detail, which included a sketch of his life and family history. Casey saw that Shiller had unloaded a bore on him.
Glass, it appeared, hailed from Maine, from the vicinity of one of the "obscots" or "coggins." He had followed various callings—carpenter, market gardener, and grocer—with indifferent success; but he had succeeded in accumulating a few thousand dollars. His eldest girl was not well. Consumption ran in her mother's family. The doctor had ordered a dryer climate, a higher altitude. For some years Glass had been thinking of migrating westward; but he had stuck in the narrow groove, lacking the initiative to pull up stakes and see for himself the land in which others had prospered. This sickness had decided him—and here he was.
He liked the climate, which he was sure would be just the thing for his daughter; and he liked the land. But here was the point—and it was the point which was worrying Sleeman grayheaded. There was trouble between the ranchers and the land company. Not that it was for him to say who was right or wrong. But therewastrouble. Now, he was a man of small means, and he was forced to put all his eggs in one basket. Which was to say, that if he bought land, and subsequently was unable to get water for it, he would be ruined. Also he had heard that the ranchers were unfriendly to those who bought land from the company.
"And I'm a man that has kept out of trouble all my life, Mr. Dunne," he concluded plaintively. "I'm on good terms with everybody at home, and I wouldn't want, right at the start-off, as you might say, to have anybody think I was trying to take water away from him. And yet I like the country. I thought maybe you could advise me what to do. It seems like a lot of gall asking you, too; you having land for sale and me thinking of buying the company's. But, then, I saw their advertising. It was only right I should go to them, wasn't it?"
"Of course," said Casey. "I haven't any land for sale now. I'm holding what I have. But as to advising you, it's a difficult thing. Here's the situation: The amount of the total water supply is limited. The railway claims the right to take it all, if it likes. We claim enough to irrigate our properties. Right there we lock horns. There is a lawsuit just starting; but the Lord only knows which way it will be settled, or when. And now you know as much about it as I do."
"It don't look good," said Glass, shaking his head. "No, sir, it don't look good to me. And here's another thing. They tell me that there was trouble out here a ways the other night. I mean with the company's dam. Of course, I don't know anything about it myself; it's just what I've heard. I hope you don't mind me speakin' of it."
"Not in the least. Well, what about it, Mr. Glass?"
"It was a turrible risky thing to do—to blow up a dam," said Glass. "It'd be against the law, wouldn't it? Of course, I don't say it was. It might not be. I don't claim to know, and likely whoever done it had reasons. All the same, I wouldn't choose to be mixed up in doin's like that."
"Good thing to keep out of," Casey agreed.
"I wouldn't want anything of mine to be blown up."
"But who would blow up anything of yours?"
"I don't say anybody'd do it, of course," Glass protested hastily. "Only, you see, men that'd blow up a dam are—I mean, if I bought land off of the company and started in to use water and farm, they might blame me. I wouldn't want to get my neighbours down on me, Mr. Dunne."
"Does that mean you think that some of your prospective neighbours blew up the dam?"
"No, no," Glass disclaimed, in a flurry. "I don't know who did it, of course. I'm not saying anybody did. Only somebody must of. That's just common sense. You'll admit that yourself."
"Why, yes, that's a pretty safe conclusion," Casey agreed. "I don't think you need worry about that, though. The only point is whether the company will be able to keep an agreement to supply you with water. I can't tell you whether they will or not. If you buy you take a chance. If you bought from me, you'd take almost the same chance."
"I don't know what to do," said Glass, picking nervously at his white-metal watch chain. "It's hard to tell—there's so many things to be considered. I can't afford to lose money. This irrigation's new to me. I never saw it working. Would you mind if I came out to your farm and sort of looked around? I could learn a lot that way. Maybe if you had time, you could explain what I didn't understand? But, then, I wouldn't want to trouble you."
But Casey Dunne was already tired of Glass, of his timidity, his indecision, his self-effacement, his continual air of apology for existence.
"Come any time," he said. "Glad to see you. Sorry I can't do any more for you; but you'll have to decide for yourself."
"Yes, I know," Glass agreed dismally. "I'll look around first. I'm obliged to you. You—you're sure you won't have a drink? No. Well, I guess I'll go in and write a letter to my wife. I write to her twice a week. I'll see you later, maybe."
Casey nodded, glad to be rid of him. He put his feet on the rail and proceeded to go through his correspondence, which, though bulky, was not especially important.
"The mails would be a whole lot lighter if it wasn't for fake oil and cement propositions and special offers of the world's best authors," he grumbled. "Promoters and publishers seem to consider the small post office the natural breeding ground for suckers. Maybe they're right, too. Hello! Here's something different."
It was a large, square, white envelope, perfectly plain, but of aristocratic finish and thickness.
"Wedding—for the drinks!" growled Casey. "Not so different, after all." He ripped it open ruthlessly with his thumb. "Here's where I get set back a few dollars starting another domestic plant. Blamed if it's any better than—hello!"
It was not a wedding announcement. Instead, it was a check. The amount thereof was the surprising sum of eighty cents, exchange added; and the signature, firm, square, clear-cut as lettering, was "Clyde Burnaby."
"Now what the devil?" Casey exclaimed, and jerked out the accompanying letter.
It was merely a short, friendly note. Miss Burnaby inclosed her check for one year's interest, at 8 per cent. on the loan from Mr. Dunne. She referred to the Wades. Gave an item or two of unimportant personal news. Hoped that his ranch was flourishing, and that he was well: and was his very cordially.
In feminine fashion followed a postscript: