"What patient does he mean?" asked the sheriff.
"It’s a fellow I helped when I first came out here," answered Ross frankly. He was afraid of the sheriff’s suspicions. "He was hurt in front of Sagehen Roost, and as I know something about surgery I–helped–to fix him up."
The sheriff studied his horse’s ears. A look of perplexity overspread his face. "I heard of that down in Basin. But it seems to me that was before you come." He looked hard at Ross. "The McKenzies said––" He stopped suddenly, and bit his lips.
Ross seized this pause to mutter, "It’s not so long ago," and forged ahead on the trail, taking good care to keep ahead until the lights of Cody and the odor of the Shoshone River–"Stinking Water"–smote their senses together through the gathering darkness of the early December night. Then the sheriff, straightening in his saddle, said in a voice of authority:
"Come back here. We’ll ride neck and neck now."
Ross fell back, and asked his first question, and no sooner was it out than he bit his lips savagely in vexation at his own thoughtlessness.
"Is Mr. Jones stopping at ’The Irma’?"
"Who?" exploded the sheriff.
"Mr. Jones," murmured Ross in confusion.
The sheriff looked the boy over silently but intently in the moonlight. The blood surged into Ross’s face, and, despite the chill of the night wind, the perspiration broke out on his forehead.
"Huh!" was the only response to his question. "Jones!"
Then, with their horses neck to neck the two rode over the bridge together and for the second time entered the town to which Buffalo Bill has given his name, Cody. On the other side of the bridge, near the dust-deep road, stood a tent. The flap was fastened back, and, within, seated about a rough table, sat four men playing cards. When the sound of horses’ hoofs reached the players, one of them arose and came to the tent’s opening.
It was Sandy McKenzie.
The sheriff, still regarding Ross, did not look toward the tent, while Ross, excited over the prospect of meeting Leslie’s father, and confused by his recent misspeech, scarcely bestowed a moment’sthought on Sandy, whom he had known was in Cody and believed to be the instigator of the arrest. He glanced, however, within the tent as they passed and recognized Waymart. The man sitting next, his back to the open flap, his face bent over the cards in his hand, one leg stretched out under the table, looked strangely familiar to the boy, but he was too preoccupied to give him any attention. The fourth man, his face turned toward the riders, was a stranger.
A moment later, a man took the horses in front of "The Irma," and the sheriff with his prisoner walked into the lobby and up to the desk. Picking up the pen, the sheriff thrust it into Ross’s hand.
"Register for yourself," he commanded briefly.
Ross hesitated, glanced at the waiting clerk, glanced at the suspicious face of the sheriff and then, with a shaking hand, wrote: "Ross Grant, Junior," and laid the pen down.
The sheriff drew the register toward him with a slowly purpling face.
"That’s my name," declared Ross. He spoke defensively, yet with a ring of exultation in his voice. "You haven’t asked me for it before."
The blood dropped out of the sheriff’s face. The shivers ran down Ross’s spine at the anger in his face.
"What does this mean, you cub!" the sheriff demanded furiously.
"It means that I want to talk to Leslie Jones’ father before he sees Leslie," announced Ross boldly, "so I came with you. There was nothing to prevent my coming."
A hand fell on the sheriff’s shoulder. Sandy McKenzie stood at Ross’s elbow. Sandy’s face wore a curiously baffled expression, but he nodded to Ross in much his usual nonchalant manner.
"Hello, Doc, you here? Didn’t expect to see you. How’d you leave Leslie Jones?"
There was an emphasis on the last name which Ross did not notice. Neither did he notice the shrewd observation in the questioner’s eyes.
"I left him busy," the boy returned glibly, "and so did the sheriff!"
Once more the blood rushed into the sheriff’s face, and in unselected language he had begun to tell Ross what he thought of him, when Sandy succeeded in drawing him aside and leading him into the barroom, followed by Waymart and a group that the conversation had attracted.
After they had disappeared, Ross turned to the clerk. "Is Mr. Jones stopping here?" he asked confidently.
"Nope," responded the clerk, leaning an elbowon the ledger. "What was it you put over the sheriff?"
"Not here!" Ross exclaimed, not hearing the question. "Did you understand the name? I want to see Mr. Jones." In his anxiety he raised his voice.
The clerk grinned. "There ain’t no man here by the name of Jones."
"But there must be," Ross insisted stupidly. "There’s got to be! This is the only hotel in town, isn’t it?"
"Yep," grinned the clerk. "It’s the original Waldorf-Astory all right. Where does this here Jones hail from?"
"Omaha." There was unlimited dismay in Ross’s tone.
"Hain’t got any one from Omaha here, and hain’t had this winter."
Ross pulled the register toward him and began to scan the names. Instantly he exclaimed, "Bully! Steele. I’d forgotten him. I’ll see––"
"Not this trip!" the clerk interrupted lazily. "Ye must ’a’ met Steele. He went back on the stage to-night."
"Leonard, then. He’s here, isn’t he?"
"Nope," replied the clerk nonchalantly. "He’s in Basin. Home’s there, ye know."
Baffled, perplexed, Ross turned again to theregister. The clerk had told the truth. There had been no guest entered from Omaha or any place further away than Montana in weeks. "See here," he exclaimed finally, "do you know anything about Leslie Jones, that went over to Meadow Creek with a man named Wilson a few weeks ago?"
The clerk leisurely turned the pages until he arrived at the entry sought. "Here they be," he pushed the book across the counter. "Wilson and Jones. They stayed here most a week. Knew Wilson and remember Jones when he was here."
"And hasn’t his father been here?" asked Ross eagerly. "Not at any time?"
"Nope."
"Haven’t you–haven’t you heard from him at any time or–or known about him? I’ve got to see the father," Ross burst out in irrepressible confidence born of his distraction. "I’ve stopped work and come all the way down from the Shoshones to talk with Jones."
"Can’t help it. Don’t know anything about any Jones except this young one."
At this point the clerk was called into the dining-room. He left Ross standing beside the desk staring at the register, confused and helpless.
"And right here I got the big head over the way I had managed," he told himself in humiliation, "and at the very last minute gave the whole thing away!"
Why couldn’t he have had the sense to play the game far enough to see the end–and Leslie’s father, he asked himself miserably. Now he had simply made a fool of himself and angered the sheriff and had not benefited Leslie. The sheriff would probably turn about and go back after the right boy. With this thought Ross straightened his shoulders determinedly and turned toward the barroom. As there was nothing to be gained by silence he was going to ask questions. As he turned, a man slid into the hotel in advance of him–the man with the oddly familiar back.
The sheriff, Sandy and Waymart were standing together, and toward them Ross made his way through clouds of tobacco smoke and past groups of cowboys, railroad men and prospectors.
"Hi, Doc!" called Sandy gaily. "Hump along here and be sociable. What’ll you have? It’s on me. Anybody," admiringly, "that’s smart enough t’ fool the sheriff of Big Horn County can have anything on me they’ll take."
The sheriff turned his back on Sandy and scowled. He did not glance at his late prisoner.
"I don’t want anything," declared Ross shortly.He planted himself resolutely in front of Sandy. "But I’d like to know where Leslie Jones’ father is?"
Sandy smiled easily, while the scowl faded from the sheriff’s face.
"I ain’t no city directory, Doc," responded Sandy, "and what’s more, I ain’t knowin’ of any Leslie Jones! His end name ain’t any more Jones than yours is. He’s fooled ye mighty bad–see?"
The blood rushed to Ross’s face. "N-not Jones?" he stammered. "Not Jones! What is it then?"
"Why, Doc, if he don’t want ye t’ know I ain’t got a call t’ tell ye. Be reasonable." Sandy spoke with maddening pleasantry and condescension. "A feller’s name is his own, and if he wants t’ keep it kinda fresh and unused I ain’t the one t’ dig it up ’n’ let it get covered with dust. Better go back t’ Meadow Creek and have it out with Leslie."
Ten minutes later, Ross, with a hot and angry face, was back in the lobby. His indignation burned against Leslie, who had, unconsciously, helped to put him in the hole in which he found himself. The subdued laugh which had marked his retreat from the barroom rang long in his ears. The sheriff’s laugh was the loudest.
"Arrest will serve him right!" muttered Ross as he entered the dining-room. "There isn’t a reason on earth why he shouldn’t have told me his right name when he told me the rest."
Angrily Ross ate his supper, glowering down at his plate and not noticing the entrance of the McKenzies with the sheriff.
After supper he went up to his room. The door was unlocked, the key having been long since lost. A single electric bulb swinging over the dresser was alight. Under the bulb lay a sealed and soiled envelope. Ross picked it up and turning it over came on the direction, "Doc Tenderfoot," in a sprawling and carefully careless hand. Wonderingly he opened the envelope. Within was a note written with a lead pencil on the back of a yellow advertising sheet. It ran:
"Leslie’s name is Quinn, not Jones. His father is A. B. Quinn, North Bend, Okla., or 14 Castle Street, Omaha. He is in Omaha now waiting for Leslie. Sheriff is to send him there. Mum is the word about this note–to him or Leslie or the McKenzies. If I did not know you were on the square you would not get it to be mum about."
"’Oldman Quinn!’" Ross cried aloud. "’Old man Quinn’ and the sheep war. And Leslie is his son!"
It all came back, the story he had almost forgotten in the stress of events on Meadow Creek, the conversation on the train, old Sheepy’s tale and, at last, his suspicions concerning Lon Weston with his dyed hair. And when his memory brought Lon into mental view, Ross’s face lit up with a sudden flash of intelligence.
"It was Weston that I saw in the tent, and it was Weston that went into the barroom ahead of me!"
He laid the note on the dresser and, bending under the electric light, studied it. There was nothing to show who had written it except the caution at the end. That might have emanated from Waymart, but the language was better than he would have used. Ross felt that it was Lon Weston who had written that message. Of course, if such was the case, and Lon was the fourth whomold man Quinn was looking for, that warning not to give the unsigned writer away would be accounted for. It might, in some way, be the clew that would lead to Lon’s detection. Ross now recalled how Lon had lain with one arm over his face all the time that Wilson and Leslie had been at the stage camp. He could not now recall whether or not the injured man’s name had been spoken in Leslie’s presence. But he did remember that Leslie had said of the McKenzies that perhaps they were men at some time in his father’s employ, in which case he might not know them, but that they would probably recognize him.
"Then if he had heard Weston’s name it might not mean anything to Leslie," Ross concluded.
He wondered why Lon had not made himself known that evening and wondered how he came to know the McKenzies. In fact, he sat on the side of his bed wondering about a dozen things until midnight, and then went to bed undecided what to do now that he had Quinn’s address in his possession. His resentment kindled against Leslie whenever he thought of the latter’s deception about his name. And the probabilities were that a letter from him, Ross, would not move the father to clemency.
In this undecided state of mind, Ross strolled into the lobby the following morning, consideringhow he could best kill time until the stage started for Meeteetse that evening. As he was standing in front of a window, his hands deep in his pockets, the sheriff and Sandy rode past, followed by Waymart. Neither the sheriff nor Waymart looked his way. But Sandy did, and, grinning, raised his hand in a graceful salute. Ross, nodding, felt his anger at Sandy dying. Distrust him as he must, Ross could not dislike him. In this strange state of mind, however, the boy was by no means alone throughout the length and breadth of Big Horn County.
"They’re going now after the right chap," thought Ross, and a wave of sympathy for Leslie began to wash away his resentment.
In the end, he spent the greater part of the day composing a letter to old man Quinn, wherein he set forth Leslie’s position, prospects and altered feelings in bald statements containing but few adjectives. In explaining who the writer was he gave a brief account of his connection with the sheriff. Between the acts of composing, tearing up, and rewriting the composition, he searched Cody for Lon Weston, but could not find him.
When, that evening, he climbed into the stage behind Andy, he had sent the letter to Leslie’s father and had not caught a glimpse of Weston.
At the stage camp he was the butt of muchcongratulation and derision from the hilarious Hank. "Say, you made the sheriff mad as a hornet, but he had t’ own up ye cheated ’im out of a year’s growth. Sandy set the hull thing out in good shape. But why didn’t ye stick t’ yer job instid of layin’ down ’n’ kickin’ up yer heels before the time?"
"Because I’m no good, Hank, this side of the Mississippi River," returned Ross in humility of spirit. "Don’t knock me–you can’t get ahead of me in that respect! I’ve kicked myself all over Cody to-day."
The following morning, at Meeteetse, he joined Bill Travers and the Miners’ Camp stage and started on the all day’s journey into the mountains. At noon, he began looking for the sheriff and Leslie. He had calculated that they would meet the stage at the half-way ranch and there he would tell Leslie what he had written his father. But no Leslie appeared. All the afternoon during the stage’s progress into the mountains, Ross looked for the sheriff and his prisoner, but he looked in vain.
At six o’clock, Bill Travers dropped his one passenger in front of Steele’s shack, and Ross, climbing Gale’s Ridge, opened the door on the superintendent in the act of sitting down to supper.
"Hello, there!" cried Steele grasping the boy’s chilled hand. "Here’s the best elk steak you ever planted your teeth in. Draw up and tell me what you’ve been up to, skylarking off to Cody with the sheriff."
Ross followed directions, and soon was giving Steele the entire story of his capture and failure.
Steele, forgetting to eat, alternated between amusement and amazement. "By George, I don’t wonder that sheriff was mad! You see, Doc, he’s new to the business of being sheriff. You were his first arrest."
"Probably if he were not so new he wouldn’t have been so easily fooled."
"I can’t say," retorted Steele, "that he was easily fooled. Strikes me you were about as slow with him as greased lightning."
Ross flushed at the praise. It was balm to his wounds in his self-esteem.
Early the following morning, he started for Meadow Creek, and at the upper camp learned something for which he was unprepared and which was a source of temporary satisfaction to him.
Leslie had disappeared.
Until noon Ross lingered in camp watching the sheriff and Sandy pass and repass in their search for the runaway. Finally, just before noon, he saw them on snow-shoes striking out up WoodRiver cañon into the uninhabited wilderness beyond. Then he slowly mounted the dizzy trail leading to Weimer’s shack and the interrupted work.
"It must have been my note that warned him," Ross thought as he watched the figures toiling up Wood River cañon. "I hope they have the chase of their lives," he said aloud, "and then I can patronize Sandy and stroke him down as he did me at ’The Irma’–provided I dare!"
He found Weimer sitting beside the fire smoking and growling over the absence of both his assistants.
"Dot poy," he explained, "read dot paper you wrote and den vat does he do, hein? He says notings, aber he takes some tings and out he goes und leaves me mit der vork und mit mine eyes, und dey so pad!"
This was the extent of the information he was able to give Ross concerning Leslie. Many grievances he had against the sheriff and "dem McKenzies" that had ransacked the premises and had ridden to and fro, over to Wilson’s and round the mountains searching for traces of Leslie.
As it turned out, they might have found a trace of him had they searched more thoroughly, for the following day, Ross, diving into the pocket of his slicker for some nails that he carried there, came on a folded note pinned in the bottom of the pocket.
BESIDE THE DYNAMITE BOX
BESIDE THE DYNAMITE BOX
"All I understand from your letter," ran the note, "is that it has given me a chance to make my getaway. It was a mighty white thing of you to do, and I appreciate it, though I know I haven’t acted that way. You’ve probably found out what my name is by this time. I didn’t tell you, because I was so dead ashamed about the whole matter that I hated to face myself and disgrace the name. But I never thought father would do such a thing as he has, and so I shall clear out and stay cleared until he has stopped hunting. I know where I’m going, and you’ll see me in Meadow Creek after father goes back and has given me up.–Leslie Jones Quinn."
Ross, standing on the dump beside the dynamite box, a hammer in one hand, read the letter. At once all his remaining resentment against Leslie disappeared. "I guess I would have done the same about the name in his place," he concluded.
Pinning the note in his pocket again for safe keeping he repaired the dynamite box. Then he entered the tunnel, where Weimer was once more at work drilling for a blast.
"Uncle Jake," he asked, "when did Leslie leave, what time in the day?"
"It vas not day, it vas night," growled Weimerwrestling with the drill. "He vent avay mit darkness."
"That accounts," said Ross, "for his not having been seen in camp."
He felt certain that Leslie would take refuge in the shack up Wood River cañon where Wilson had stored some of the supplies in preparation for the winter’s work on the coal claims. In this case he would be discovered, for it was in that direction that the sheriff and Sandy had gone as Ross was climbing the Crosby trail. Therefore, it was with anxiety that the boy looked for the return of the McKenzies.
Darkness had fallen when he left the tunnel that night, and as he emerged from the trees that clustered about the dump, he saw a light in the McKenzie cabin. Without waiting for his supper, he crossed the little valley and rapped on the door.
"Hello, Doc," came Sandy’s voice from within. "Haul up the latch-string and show yerself. Comin’ to crow over us, ain’t ye?" he continued as Ross entered. "Well, that ye can, fer we can’t find hide ner hair of Leslie, and the sheriff has hit the trail to Basin about as mad as they make ’em over the whole thing!"
Here Sandy threw his head back and laughed as amusedly as though the entire affair were a jokeof his own manufacture. He did not seem to harbor the least resentment against Ross for having blocked the wheels of his game. Rather, he applauded the blocking frankly, while Waymart smoked stolidly beside the table and said nothing.
"That little note that you left for Less is what done the business," Sandy went on cheerfully reviewing the situation. "The sheriff had forgot that note ’til we got up here and the bird wa’n’t t’ be found in the hand ner the bush neither. That was a neat little trick, Doc, almost as neat as the way ye come it over the sheriff on the trail to Cody. Guess he’ll not fergit ye fer a spell! Mart, don’t be s’ stingy with that weed. Hand over some. My pipe is about as empty as the sheriff’s head."
"Why did you do it, Sandy?" Ross burst out. "What made you send word to Leslie’s father that he was here?"
Sandy composedly filled his pipe and lighted it. "It was cruelty t’ little children not t’, Doc. The very idee of Leslie Jones leavin’ his pa and––"
"His name isn’t Jones, and you know it, and I know it!" interrupted Ross. He could not keep the ring of triumph from his tone. "He is Leslie Quinn."
Sandy’s hand traveled slowly to his pipe. "Is he? How’d you find out?" he asked quickly.
"Easily enough," said Ross carelessly, "when you know how."
Both Waymart and Sandy regarded the boy intently. "Been back here then, has he?" they asked in one breath.
Ross arose. "’It would be cruelty to little children’ to tell you!" he quoted boldly and opened the door.
Waymart gave an exclamation and sprang to his feet. His hands were clenched. But Sandy, kicking him under the table, guffawed.
"Give and take, Mart," he exclaimed. "I’m willin’ t’ chew my own words, and if I am willin’ there ain’t no kick comin’ from you!"
The following day Ross wrote another letter to Leslie’s father and enclosed the note he had found pinned in his pocket. This letter he entrusted to Wilson to mail in Cody, for Wilson was going to Butte for a few weeks before beginning his winter’s work on his coal claims. He stopped at noon to bid Weimer and Ross good-bye.
"Nothin’ would hire me t’ stay over here all winter," were his last words to Ross.
Although the latter had seen but little of the prospector, his departure made the valley seem lonelier than ever, and caused Ross to cling desperately to the idea of the McKenzies remaining. As the days passed, and more snow fell, thebrothers began to get decidedly uneasy. They accounted for their uneasiness to Ross by telling him they were in need of supplies and saw no way of getting any over from Miners’ Camp. Sandy was the informant, as usual, while Waymart’s eyebrows were lifted in momentary surprise. By that time every horse in Miners’ Camp had been sent "below." There was but little grass on the mountains during the brief summer; and through the winter, which occupied nine months of the year, every ounce of fodder must be packed over the difficult road from the ranches.
"I don’t see," quoth Sandy unconvincingly, "but what we’ll have to strike the trail. Hain’t no way, as I can see, to pack grub over except on our backs, and that’s too slow."
For a moment there was silence in Weimer’s cabin. The wind moaned and wailed among the hemlocks, and whistled savagely past the cabin. In his bunk Weimer snored. Above them came the cry of the coyotes, like a child’s long-drawn scream of pain and fear. The terror of loneliness among those overhanging mountains gripped at the boy’s throat. For a moment he could not speak.
Then, "If you could get provisions over easily, would you stay longer?"
Sandy crossed his legs restfully. "Sure," he answered readily.
That week, therefore, Ross used his spare time–and some time which he ought not to have spared–in making a sled. It was, when finished, a crude but efficient affair, the runners being surmounted by a double-decked box. This vehicle he exhibited one day to the McKenzies as the prospective conveyor of their supplies over the mountains.
Sandy stood in front of the shack, his hands in his pockets, his cap pushed well back on his head and the front lock of hair falling over his forehead.
"Doc, you’re the stuff!" he cried warmly. "There’s an idee or two floatin’ around in yer tenderfoot brain, ain’t there?"
Tied to both front and rear of the sled were ropes, two in front, one behind. Those in front differed in length.
"See?" explained Ross. "Two can’t walk abreast on the trail, but still it’s easier for each one to pull on his own rope. That’s the reason I made ’em of different lengths. Then one of us behind can hold the sled from slipping off the trail with the rear rope. In this way we can bring up a big load of supplies."
Sandy removed his cap, and pushed back his hair.
"Doc, where was you raised? Guess I’ll go backt’ the same place, and be raised over agin. It might pay." His tone expressed an admiration that was almost genuine.
Waymart said nothing. He scarcely glanced at the sled, but turned away scowling up toward the tunnel where, as he had informed himself, Ross and Weimer were doing an amazingly good piece of work.
As they started back toward their own shack, Ross heard Waymart say angrily to Sandy, "Are you goin’ to take the use of that sled?"
And Sandy’s answer, "For sure, now! What’s eatin’ you, Mart? Doc’s got a good head on ’im."
"Entirely too good fer us, mebby!" growled Waymart; and Ross smiled in satisfaction, thinking they referred to his work in the tunnel.
Just before supper, the door of Weimer’s shack unceremoniously opened, and Waymart’s arm was thrust in. "Here," his voice said roughly, "take this here elk steak."
Ross relieved the arm of its burden, and the door closed sharply. It was a sirloin steak, the juiciest and most tender in the animal which the brothers had brought into the valley the day before. Sandy had often brought them venison before, but never Waymart; and Ross was pleased.
"While Sandy is entertaining," Ross had told Steele, "and Waymart seldom says two sentences atone sitting, and next to never meets my eye, yet, if it came right down to a choice, I believe I’d rather travel along with Waymart than with Sandy."
"Your choice is all right," Steele had replied. "If Waymart would cut loose from Sandy, he’d earn an honest living. It’s Sandy that’s the head, though. It’s Sandy that plans; Waymart furnishes the feet and arms. Sandy’s good company, but I wouldn’t trust him with my pocketbook around the corner. Not," Steele added, "that he’d steal it in such a way that the law could touch him. No, he’d have the pocketbook, but it ’ud leave him free to look any jury in the eye and to shake hands with me afterward."
The new sled made its first journey down into Miners’ Camp one Sunday in December two weeks after Ross had ridden down with the sheriff. Waymart went ahead with one of the leading-ropes over his shoulder, and Sandy behind, steadying the empty vehicle around the shoulder of Crosby. Waymart led because he was the heaviest, and there was a deep fall of snow to contend against except around the shoulder, where, fortunately, the wind had swept the mountain clean.
As the trail broadened beyond, Waymart paused to survey the low-hanging clouds. Ross, in the rear, stopped and studied the mountains which Nature had in ages past taken in her gigantic handsand flung into the cañon between Dundee and Crosby, compelling Wood River to crawl and worm and wind and cut its way deep and narrow down into Miners’ Camp.
"I wonder," exclaimed Ross suddenly to Sandy, "what is beyond that conglomeration of peaks."
"Wood River cañon still, clean over on top of the Divide, and you can follow it on horseback right through. Part of the time up there," waving his hand toward the jumble of mountains which seemingly ended the cañon, "it’s pretty rocky trailin’, especially in winter, but it can be done."
Sandy rested one foot on the edge of the sled. Waymart glued his eyes on the Camp far below. From various projecting stovepipes volumes of smoke were curling straight up in the windless air. From the tunnel of the Mountain Company almost opposite them came a succession of blasts which stirred the echoes between Dundee and Crosby. The Mountain Company were no respecters of Sunday. They were also working day and night in view of the near shut-down of the works.
But Ross’s gaze was seeking to penetrate further toward the source of Wood River. "Any one living beyond there?" he asked.
Sandy grinned. "Elk, mountain-sheep, coyotes, bears, and timber wolves."
"But no people?"
"Nope. There ain’t a man livin’ ’twixt here and the Yellowstone Park–now. Last summer a few prospectors sort of strolled up Wood River a few dozen miles, but they hiked it out, I tell ye, when snow come."
"I wish," Ross said impulsively, "that I could go over there exploring."
Waymart lifted his eyes the fraction of a moment, and encountered Sandy’s. A peculiar expression passed between them. Then Waymart’s gaze fell again on the Camp, and Sandy replied carelessly to Ross:
"After you git the work done in your tunnel better strike some of these trails, but not in winter. They ain’t safe, especially for a tenderfoot."
"But in the summer," returned Ross absently, "I don’t expect to be here."
"Oh–that so?" and Sandy gave the sled a careless push.
Waymart drew the rope over his shoulder, and once more the trio descended the trail.
At the upper camp Ross left the brothers to purchase their supplies while he visited the post-office and Steele. At the former place he found a note to himself from Leslie’s father and a bulkier letter addressed to Leslie in his care. Mr. Quinn had received both of Ross’s letters, he wrote, thelast with the enclosure from Leslie. He had taken the steps necessary to recall the warrant, which, he explained, had seemed to him the "surest and quickest way of fetching the boy home," and would allow Leslie to return to Ross as his note indicated that he desired. On his return Ross was to give up the letter put in his care. Mr. Quinn closed his communication with thanks to Ross for the trouble he had been to, also, for his assurance that Leslie was boning down to work!
Two weeks had elapsed since Leslie disappeared. Nothing had been seen of him nor heard of him in either the upper or lower camps, and Ross returned to Meadow Creek troubled in spirit.
"I’m afraid," he told himself as he helped the McKenzies haul their supplies up the trail, "that I’ve made even a bigger mess of it all the way around than I thought at first."
Steele, from his doorway, watched Ross out of sight that afternoon, with a pleased smile on his bearded lips. He was a tanned and freckled Ross now. Sun and wind and work in the open for two months had left their marks on the boy. He stood straighter, walked more firmly, and had laid on pounds of muscle.
"He’s put himself through good and plenty, as well as holding Uncle Jake’s nose to the grindstone," concluded Steele, turning back into thecabin. On the making of the sled he had commented but briefly to Ross, realizing how much the presence of the McKenzies meant to the boy. To himself he thought, however:
"That Sandy McKenzie! How he does manage to make other folks do his work!"
During the week which followed, a stranger passed through Miners’ Camp. He was seen by only one man, "Society Bill," who belonged to the Gale’s Ridge outfit.
"He asked the way to the Meader Creek trail," Society Bill told Steele. "Now, I wonder if he’s a new one of them McKenzies. I never set my two eyes on ’im before."
"Horseback?" asked Steele.
"Yep. Decent sort of bronc he rode. Told me to tell Bill Travers to drive it down below to-morrow if it got down this far."
"That looks as if he knew what he was about, and intended to stay," mused Steele.
Early the following morning the "decent sort of broncho," with its bridle reins tied to the pommel of the saddle, was discovered in front of Steele’s shack, pawing the snow in an ineffectual attempt to get a breakfast. Bill Travers, returning with the stage, according to request, drove the beast ahead of him down to the firstranch, and, taking off saddle and bridle, turned it into a large corral with dozens of other horses to winter. In the spring one by one the owners would straggle along, identify their horses and saddles, pay their bills, and depart for the mountains.
The owner of the ranch pitched the saddle under a shed, and thought no more about the transaction. Bill Travers, whirling his whip over the backs of his four stage horses, gave the stranger and his horse no more thought. Society Bill, having disseminated his news among the other miners, presently forgot it. But Amos Steele neither forgot nor ceased to speculate.
"Who is he, and what is he doing on the Creek?" Steele asked himself.
The first part of the question Ross answered the following Sunday. He could scarcely wait to open the door before announcing:
"Lon Weston is over on the Creek. He is cousin to the McKenzies!"
Rosscould scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses when he saw Lon Weston riding along the trail below the dump. The boy had pushed the car with its load of ore out to the bumper and dumped it before he saw the horseman in the sheepskin coat, the hairy chaps, and a fur cap drawn over forehead and ears. The horse shied at the chunks of ore rolling almost to its feet, and Weston looked up.
"Hello, there!" shouted Ross. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Weston drew in his horse. "Hello, Doc!" he returned with gruff pleasantness without answering the question.
"Doc" slipped and slid down the snowy path to the trail, and held out a cordial hand.
"How’s your leg?"
"All right." Weston gripped the extended hand heartily. "Almost as good ’s new."
His brown eyes above his heavy stubby beard held a pleasanter expression than Ross had seen in them while nursing their owner. They weredeep eyes, capable of mirroring accurately the varied moods of the man looking out of them.
"I didn’t recognize you in Cody three weeks ago," Ross was beginning when Weston interrupted him.
Leaning down from his saddle he met the boy’s eyes steadily. "Remember," he said slowly and meaningly, "that you didn’t see me–nor hear from me–in Cody."
"All right," agreed Ross, embarrassed by the fixity of the other’s stare. "I’ll forget it hereafter, but I want to thank––"
"Cut it out," commanded Weston briefly, straightening again in the saddle.
"At least," invited Ross, "you’ll come to dinner with me. Uncle Jake is frying ham and onions. Smell ’em? I got some onions and half a dozen apples over at Camp Sunday." His voice could not have been more eager had he been relating the finding of free gold. "Come on in, and have some."
Weston’s eyes slipped away from Ross’s in a way which reminded the latter of Waymart’s, and rested on the smoke from the cabin a quarter of a mile away.
"Guess not, to-day. Thank you just the same. The boys are probably rustlin’ grub this minute and they’ll be expectin’ me. See you again."
Ross stood motionless, looking after him. Weston rode sitting straight, unlike the usual careless forward droop of the cow puncher. He was a well-built man, although his shoulders were rather narrow. But the only characteristic that Ross noticed was the grip of the left knee against the horse. For the strength of that grip he was responsible, but it was a responsibility which Lon did not seem to recognize.
Suddenly the boy realized the newcomer’s words. So Sandy and Waymart were expecting him, but had said nothing about it to Ross. And when Ross had told them about Lon Weston at the stage camp they had made no sign that they knew him. That was strange.
He turned slowly toward the cabin, where Weimer was frying ham and onions and boiling coffee. Opening the cabin door he was met by a white gust of steam mingled with savory smoke. He propped the door open, and brought in an armful of wood.
Weimer, in his shirt-sleeves, was bending his head over a little stove, which offered barely room for a small kettle and a skillet with a coffee-pot sandwiched in between. A sheet-iron oven stood on the floor, the top answering for a sideboard. When Weimer made biscuits and sour dough bread, the oven was placed on top of the stove.
Ross threw his wood down on the hard dirt floor, and put a stick into the stove by way of the wide front door. The pine instantly blazed up, showing a wide crack which zigzagged across the side of the old stove.
"Uncle Jake,"–Ross sat back on one heel, and looked up at his partner whose blinking eyes were in the gloom of the cabin unprotected now by goggles,–"Uncle Jake, a stranger has just come into Meadow Creek City on the Limited."
Weimer chuckled. Before the advent of his youthful "pard" the old man–Ross always thought of him as old despite his black hair and great strength–had not laughed in months.
"He stopped at the second station," pursued Ross.
Weimer’s face instantly darkened. "At the McKenzies’? One of dem consarned gang, he ist?"
"That’s what I want to know. It’s Lon Weston, the fellow I told you I took care of at the stage camp."
Weimer dumped ham and onions into an agateware basin, and set it on the table. "I don’t know him, I don’t. But he comes to der McKenzies, hein? Und after all dose days you spen’ mit him!" Uncle Jack frowned heavily, and, sitting down, helped himself to boiled "spuds."
"I tink I knew all dem consarned gang, but dere ist no Veston mit ’em."
Ross dragged to the little bare board table a box marked in big letters, "Ruford’s Canned Tomatoes, The Yellow Brand," and, turning the box on end, straddled it opposite Weimer.
Weimer, eating and drinking noisily, found time to ask vindictively, "Ist he for more medicine come mit you?"
Ross shook his head, and bent over his plate.
The plate was tin. The cup out of which he drank his coffee was also tin. His knife and fork were steel, and his spoon was pewter. The place of the lacking milk pitcher was usurped by a tin can of condensed milk with the top bent back and the milk dried all over the sides. But Ross ate–how he ate! Potatoes followed ham, and coffee followed potatoes, and onions followed both, and then he began all over again. Never had eating been such serious work with him. But never, also, had his muscles been so firm and hard. As for a pickaxe, it was coming to feel no heavier than the baseball bat which he had always rather scorned.
"I wonder," he began after a pause, "what Lon’s up to here, anyway."
The question started Weimer on his favorite topic, the claim jumpers and the injustice of themining laws. He could not talk fast enough in English, and so dropped into his native German.
Ross, accustomed to his tirades, cleared away the dishes, pushed the table back against the dirt chinked logs, and lay down on the blankets of his bunk for a few moments, his eyes glued on the little nickel clock.
He broke into the other’s scolding monologue. "In ten minutes we must go back to work."
Weimer scowled darkly. His lids, red and swollen, almost obscured his pale-blue eyes. "Mine eyes ist too pad to-day," he declared. "I vill not to go out in de sun again."
A few weeks before, this oft-repeated declaration had alarmed Ross. Now he made no reply. But, when the hands of the nickel clock indicated one, he arose and put on his oiled jumper and oilskin cap.
"Come, Uncle Jake," he said in a strong, decided tone. "Here are your goggles. Get busy, or the McKenzie outfit will have our claims in spite of us. Now, when there are three to watch instead of two, we must show the mettle we’re made of."
Moved by the magic statement, ever new and ever powerful, that the claims might be jumped, Uncle Jake, forgetting that in substance he had made the same objection to work twice a day for weeks and that Ross had overcome his objectionsin substantially the same way, "got busy." And presently Ross led him out, his eyes not only securely goggled, but covered as well with a black cloth which he pressed fearfully against the goggles.
The snow was Weimer’s evil genius. He lived in dread of the sight of it. Without assistance he would not move a dozen paces away from the cabin after the sun had risen on Meadow Creek Valley. But the fear of the light had made as great an impression on his mind as the light itself had made on his eyes, and he had fallen into the habit, before Ross came, of staying in his cabin during cloudy days, lest, if he ventured out, the sun might break through the clouds.
The old partner and the young went up the steep trail to the tunnel, Ross leading Weimer up over the side of the dump and into the mouth of the tunnel. In the shelter of its gloom the latter removed his goggles; and, stumbling along over the chunks of ore lying beside the narrow track, he reached the end of the short tunnel which had been blasted from the solid rock. Lighting a fresh candle, he set it in its socket at the end of a sharply pointed iron, a miner’s candlestick, and, jabbing the point into a crevice, leisurely surveyed the wall before him. Behind him the little empty car filled the tunnel with sound as Ross pushed it rattling and jolting over the rusty rails.
"Ready to drill for another shot, ain’t we?" Ross asked. He pushed the car back out of the way. "Got to hustle to get it done this afternoon, too."
Under the stimulus of Ross’s presence and hustle the older man fell to work valiantly, but it was slow work. Down in Miners’ Camp machinery performed the task which Weimer was doing laboriously with the aid of a hand drill. Before him, at the end of the tunnel, was a seamed and uneven wall of rock a little higher than his head and a little broader than his reach had he extended his arms on either side. In this wall he patiently drilled three sets of holes, into which the "sticks" were placed for the next "shot," as the explosion of dynamite was called. In mining terms the old man was "putting a shot." Near the top of the wall he made three holes. Half-way down were two more, long and inclined toward each other at the top. These were the "cut-in holes." Lastly, at the foot of the wall were three large holes called "lifters." The contents of the top holes and the cut-ins were set off first, splintering and cracking the rock. Then the lifters were exploded, actually lifting the loosened mass above it and hurling it into the tunnel.
When quiet reigned again, and Ross had loaded his hand car with the débris, he pushed it out onthe dump again through the moist, freezing atmosphere of the tunnel. There was water everywhere. Near the mouth of the tunnel it was frozen on the sides and the top, and carpeted the floor with slush. Further in it was unfrozen, oozing out of the sides, dripping from the roof, running along the track. It covered the oiled garments of the men at work. It put out their candles. It made muck of the quartz dust on the floor. It often destroyed the lighted fuses.
There was something maddening to Ross in its incessant drip and drizzle, and he always emerged on the dump with a feeling of relief, especially when the sun shone as it did that day in dazzling brightness.
He dumped the car, and was about to push it back when his eyes fell on Weston’s horse journeying on the back trail riderless.
"That means," thought Ross, "that he’s going to stay. Why?"
A feeling of relief was mixed with uneasiness. The relief was caused by this further link in the chain of evidence that when the trail to Miners’ Camp was closed it would not close on Weimer and him alone. The uneasiness had to do with the mission of the McKenzie outfit in Meadow Creek Valley. Why were they reinforced by Weston?
"Oh!" exclaimed Ross aloud in sudden disgust with himself. "He’s come to hunt, of course! His gun was strapped on behind. I never thought of that. If he belongs to the McKenzie outfit, he’d rather hunt than eat."
It seemed to him that the "outfit" bore him not the slightest grudge or ill will. Sandy, indeed, seemed openly to like him, Waymart tolerated him with a surly good humor, while Weston–here Ross knit his brow–Weston baffled him completely; still, considering the incident of the note in Cody, the boy looked on him as a friend albeit one who evidently did not care to pose in that capacity before the McKenzies.
From his position Ross could look down and across on the claims of the McKenzies and almost into the "discovery hole" in which they were supposed to be working. Waymart was leisurely drilling a hole in the rock to receive a stick of dynamite when Sandy came out of the cabin and walked rapidly toward him.
The two talked together a moment, and then Weston joined them. In a moment the three fell apart, and appeared to be talking excitedly. Presently Waymart dropped the discussion, and turning his back walked away a few steps with his hands in his pockets and stood in a listening attitude. Ross watched with absorbing interest.Even at that distance he could see that the discussion between the other two was not amiable. The scene lasted but a few moments, and then all three descended to the cabin together.
That evening after supper, Ross washed the day’s dishes, brought in wood, and put the room to rights, while Weimer alternately smoked and snored in his bunk. The room was dimly lighted by candles in candlesticks thrust into logs. Ross, so tired and sleepy he could scarcely keep his eyes open, hung up the dish-pan on its nail beside the stove, and looked longingly toward the emergency chest pushed beneath his bunk. Not one word had he mastered of the contents of the books he had stowed away there with such high hopes.
"I don’t believe the McKenzies are coming over," he told Weimer, as he filled the stove and wound up the clock. "It’s too late for them."
Weimer made no reply. His pipe had fallen on his chest, and his hair-encircled mouth was wide open in a vacuous sleep. At that moment the rising wind beat the snow against the window, and Ross uttered an exclamation. He had forgotten to shut the tool-house door, and, fearing that with the wind in the south the little log house would be filled with snow before morning, he went back up the trail to the tunnel. Climbing noiselessly over the soft snow, he arrived at the ore dump, and wasmaking for the tool house across the mouth of the tunnel when a light flickered in his path.
Startled, he looked into the tunnel, and saw three figures at the end silhouetted against the dim candle-light.
"Lon, Sandy and Waymart," he muttered.
There was no danger of his being discovered, so dark was the night. Therefore, he sat down on his heels beside the tool house, and watched, puzzled at first to understand the movements of the men.
"Oh," he muttered suddenly, "they’re measuring to see how fast the work is going."
With a tape line the men were estimating the cubic feet of rock excavated by Ross and Weimer.
Ross hugged his knees, and exulted. His "friends the enemy" might measure all they chose, he thought; and every length of the tape line would reveal to them the futility of waiting to jump the Weimer-Grant claims.
Presently the three started out of the tunnel. Ross, seeking a hiding-place, found it behind a clump of low spruce trees at the right of the tunnel’s mouth. The intruders blew out their candles as they came out on the dump.
"At this rate," Ross heard Waymart say, "they’re solid on these here claims."
But, although he strained his ears, he could hear nothing more. After a brief wait the lastsound of twigs breaking under their shoes died away; and Ross, leaving his hiding-place, shut the tool-house door and went back to the cabin.
He found Weimer awake and whistling in his bunk. Ross paused at the door, regarding him curiously. It was the first time he had ever heard the old man make this cheerful sound, although Steele had said he used to be called Whistling Weimer as well as Dutch Weimer.
"Hello, Uncle Jake!" cried Ross. "Feeling pretty gay, aren’t you?"
Weimer stopped in the middle of his tune, and blinked at Ross. "Nein," he denied, "I ain’t feelin’ gay. If your eyes vas––"
Ross interrupted. "Now, see here, Uncle Jake; you know your eyes are better since I’ve taken to doctoring them."
The last few weeks had certainly improved the old man. His eyes were better, owing to a cooling lotion which Ross had dropped under the lids twice a day. Weimer’s mind was clearer because his growing confidence in his young partner had quieted his fears. Ross’s cheerfulness was also contagious. Nor did the cleanliness on which the boy insisted lower Weimer’s vitality. Soap became a known quantity to him.
All these favorable circumstances reacted on Weimer’s work. He was becoming more and moreefficient, and Ross’s spirits had risen as the days passed; and he saw the growing intelligence manifested by the other in regard to operations in the tunnel. This change for the better in Uncle Jake had not passed unnoticed by the McKenzies.
Ross said nothing to the old man about the scene he had just witnessed in the tunnel. It would do no good, and would only inflame the other’s wrath. Therefore, he snuffed the candles, repeating mechanically:
"Don’t believe the McKenzies are coming over to-night."
But at that moment footsteps sounded outside the door. The snow creaked under the pressure of shoes, and Sandy and Waymart entered.
Sandy was as gay and talkative as ever, but not Waymart. He sat down on a box, leaned back against the logs, turned up his coat collar to protect himself from the icy wind, which sought out the dirt-chinked crevices, and, pulling a mouth-organ from his pocket, began to play. Nor did he stop until Sandy rose to go. A sombre figure he made back among the shadows, his eyes resting vacantly on the floor at his feet. One leg was crossed over the other, the toe moving in time to the discordant music. Waymart’s thoughts did not seem to be cheerful companions.
But Sandy had drawn a box close up beside the roaring fire, and sat with his elbows on his knees and a pipe in his mouth. He paid no attention to Weimer nor to his musical brother, but told Ross yarns of the gold-fields of Montana and Nevada, tales concerning other men, Ross noticed; Sandy never talked about himself.
The evening passed and the men rose to depart without having mentioned the newcomer; and Ross, with the thought of their previous reticence concerning him in mind, waited for them to speak first.
It was Sandy who spoke, but not until his hand was on the door and Waymart stood outside the cabin. Then he said carelessly, as though Ross had never seen Weston before, and as though the coming of a relative was an every-day event in Meadow Creek Valley:
"Cousin hiked it over the mountain to-day. We’re goin’ t’ strike th’ trail over t’ the Divide to-morrow, huntin’. He’s great on game."
"So," thought Ross, "I’m right. It’s hunting that has brought him here."
The next morning at daylight, Ross, eating breakfast, chanced to glance out of the dirty west window. Up near the summit of Soapweed Ledge, which met Crosby at right angles, he saw three figures advancing single file. Eachcarried a gun, and had a small pack and snow-shoes strapped on his back.
"Uncle Jake," asked Ross suddenly, "have you ever been over to the Divide?"
Weimer shook his head. "No, I stay home and attend to pizness."
"Haven’t you ever crossed that mountain?" Ross indicated Soapweed Ledge.
"Yes."
"What’s beyond?"
"More mountains," answered Weimer vaguely, "und peyond dem more und more."
It was a week before the hunters returned, a long lonely week for Ross. Each morning he told himself hopefully that before night Leslie might return, but, to his increasing dismay, no Leslie came.
"Can it be that an accident has happened to him, somewhere, alone, or has he changed his mind about coming and gone back home?"
Ross asked himself this question as he stood at the mouth of the tunnel one morning staring in the direction of Soapweed Ledge. A heavy snowstorm had set in that morning, and in the afternoon the falling snow shrouded the Ledge in a white veil out of which the three men now emerged, moving slowly across the little valley. Their snow-shoes were on their feet, and in placeof the light packs with which they had started their shoulders were bent under loads of venison.
The McKenzies had returned.
That evening Waymart appeared at Weimer’s door with a goodly portion of meat, at which Ross looked dubiously.
"You’ve given us so much already," he hesitated.
Waymart interrupted. "Jerk it," he directed briefly. "Jerked meat makes a good stew when ye can’t git no fresh meat." He turned sharply to Weimer in his bunk. "See here, Uncle Jake, have ye forgot how t’ jerk venison?"
Weimer crawled out of his bunk, scowling. "Vell, I haf nicht dat. I guess I jerk him so gud as anypody."
"Get about it then!" retorted Waymart with rough kindness. "Here’s a meat knife to shred it up with."
He laid a large, sharp knife on the table, and cut Ross’s thanks short by an abrupt departure.
Weimer, grumbling at the interruption to his rest, cut the meat in long, thin strips, which, he told Ross, were to be nailed to the outside of the shack after the storm had passed. But in the morning, Ross, objecting to a process which brought the meat into contact with the dirty logs, stretched a cord between two trees, andover it, in the sunshine, folded the strips clothespin fashion, leaving them for the air to cure and dry.
For two or three days the McKenzies did not visit their neighbors. Ross saw them outside their shack occasionally, and something in the air and attitudes spoke, even at that distance, of disagreement.
One evening at six o’clock Weimer stumbled out of the tunnel alone and down the path, the darkness robbing the snow of its terrors. A few moments later, Ross, having laid the dry sticks in the drilled holes in the end wall of the tunnel, lighted the fuses, and, candle in hand, made for the mouth.
He came out on Lon Weston sitting on a stump which projected above the dump.
"Hello, Doc," greeted Lon Weston.
"Hello, Weston." Ross was so astonished to see him there that he nearly forgot to count the explosions that just then thundered in the tunnel behind him.
"One, two, three, four, five." That accounted for the five sticks.
He leaned against the tool house, and looked at Lon through the dusk. Lon’s cap was pulled down over his eyes. His sheepskin collar was turned up, meeting the cap. All that was visibleof his face was a bit of beard protruding around the stem of the pipe. But the voice sounded a more amiable note than it ever had in the stage camp, although his manner revealed an uneasy embarrassment.
"Well, Doc, how d’ye like minin’?"
"I don’t like it at all," replied Ross honestly.
"Seems t’ like you all right," returned Lon. "You’re in better flesh and color than you was down on Dry Creek."
"So are you," retorted Ross, laughing.
Lon made no reply. He moved restlessly.
"Done any studyin’ in that pile o’ books ye had along?" he asked abruptly after a time.
"No." Ross’s tone was crisp. "Haven’t studied a word." The subject was a tender one with him.
There ensued a pause. Ross opened the door of the tool house, and threw in his pick and shovel. He hitched the legs of his high rubber boots nearer his body; and then, as Lon made no move toward going, he swung his numbed hands briskly.
"I thought," Lon began again in a constrained and hesitating way, "that you was mighty anxious about those books. I thought your goin’ to some college or other depended on your gettin’ outside of those books."
Ross struck his hands rapidly together. "Ican’t study," he answered briefly. "I get too tired working."
Weston arose and faced toward the cabin of the McKenzies.
"Another storm comin’," he announced. "Get here day after to-morrow."
"That’s Christmas," muttered Ross. His heart contracted sharply, and a homesick pang assailed him. In his ignorance, before leaving home, he had set Christmas as the date of his return.