CHAPTER XVIALL ACCOUNTS SQUARED
THAT very day we started on our tramp into the unknown wilderness, trusting that the stream would, as Percy had said, “bring us out somewhere.”
Heavily laden with a week’s provisions, our rifles, two blankets each, the axe, and last, though by no means least in importance, the little bags of gold-washings, and leaving all the rest of our camping outfit behind, we bade adieu to our late residence and set out, full of hope that now indeed we were homeward bound.
Having passed over the snow bridge without accident—though Jack made us tie ourselves together with a long rope, like Alpine climbers, before he would venture—we found ourselves in a crooked valley of considerable width, walled in by high mountains down whose sides camemany streams, which, uniting with the one we were following, formed a respectable little river. Our spirits rose at the sight.
“This looks well,” said Jack. “This is a stream of some importance, either the Gallatin, I should guess, or else one of its main branches. If we meet with no insurmountable obstacles we shall certainly get down to the settlements by following it.”
It was getting on for sunset, and we were beginning to look out for a suitable camping-place, when our ears caught the sound of a dolorous howling going on somewhere farther down the river. Ulysses did not approve of it, for he stepped to the front, his bristles erect, growling to himself, and walking in that stiff-legged manner dogs assume when they see an enemy approaching.
“Wolves,” said Jack, cocking his rifle; “keep your eyes open.”
Picking our way carefully and silently, we soon came in view of a little clearing in the woods, and there in the midst of it—a most unexpected and most welcome sight—stood a log-cabin about the size of the one we had that morning deserted. The door was shut, and before it sat three grey wolves, howling inconcert, as if they were serenading the inmate of the house. At the sight of them Ulysses could contain himself no longer. He exploded with one great bark which had been accumulating in his chest for the past ten minutes, and instantly the three serenaders vanished like grey shadows into the woods.
Advancing to the house, we knocked at the door.
“Who’s there?” came a shaky voice from inside.
“Three travellers,” replied Jack. “We’d like shelter for the night.”
We heard the inmate shuffle across the floor and fumble at the fastenings of the door, which fell open on its leathern hinges, disclosing to our view a miserable-looking specimen of humanity who stood leaning against the door-post for support, being, seemingly, too weak to stand upright. He was tall, hollow-cheeked, and red-eyed. His face, which to all appearances had not been washed for a week or two, was begrimed with dirt and “blacks” from his fire. A thin, dark beard covered his cheeks and chin, and his hair hung down below his collar. Added to all this, his clothes were so ragged it was a wonder he could keep them on at all.
I did not recognize who it was until Percy, stepping forward, tapped the spectre on the chest with his finger, and said, “Where’s your partner, Bates?”
ItwasBates! The wretched, half-starved, unkempt vagabond who staggered back, throwing up his hands before him as if to ward off an attack, was our sometime neat and well-dressed schoolfellow.
“Don’t be afraid,” said Jack. “We don’t want to hurt you. Where’s your partner?”
“I don’t know,” Bates began, and then, remembering himself: “Partner! What do you mean?”
“Oh, come,” said Jack. “You might as well give up that farce. We know all about you and your partner. We knew who you were when you captured us the other day, though we pretended we didn’t. Where’s Morgan?”
“I don’t know,” replied Bates, as he sank down upon the ground in the corner. “I haven’t seen him for a week or more; not since the big storm.”
As he spoke he pressed his hand over his eyes as though he were giddy, and then for the first time we noticed how thin his hand was; it was like a bird’s foot.
“Why, Bates,” cried Percy, “you look half starved. Are you hungry?”
“Not very,” replied Bates. “I was yesterday and the day before, but I seem to have got over it.”
“Why, how long since you had anything to eat?”
“Three days, I think. I lived for some days on one of those grey wolves, but since that was finished up I’ve lived on snow, which I got from the roof through that hole up there.”
On hearing this Percy and I bustled about to get supper ready, while Jack, spreading our blankets upon the floor, ordered Bates to lie down upon them, and not to say another word until he had been fed; an order which Bates, not being able to help himself, obeyed.
The supper of bread and meat being ready, Bates was given a goodly portion, which, with a self-control I had not expected of him, he ate with great deliberation; and very much better he looked for it.
“Feel better, don’t you?” said Jack, seeing how the colour had come back to his face. “Now, if you feel strong enough, I’d like to hear how you came here, and what you have been doing since you escaped from us in thedust-storm near Bozeman a month ago. But first of all we’ll make a bargain with you:— If you’ll do what you can to help us get back our horses, we’ll say nothing about your part in the business.”
“Will you promise?” asked Bates, looking eagerly from one to the other of us.
“Yes; we’ll promise,” we all three replied; not knowing that by so doing we were compounding a felony—though I doubt if it would have made any difference if we had known.
“Well, then,” said he, brightening up wonderfully, “I’ll promise too, and I’ll tell you all about it. When we escaped from you in the dust-storm——”
“Hold up a bit,” Jack interrupted. “I just wanted to tell you that we had no intention of turning you over to the sheriff that time; we had agreed to let you escape.”
“Had you?” exclaimed Bates. “I wish I’d known it; I never would have run away, for I should have been only too glad to part company with Morgan. Well, when we escaped that day, we rode for twenty miles without stopping, and camped in a secluded place not far from a ranch. In the morning Morgan watched until the people went out to the fields, and then heslipped down to the house, and came back presently with a bridle for his horse, a rifle and cartridges, and a piece of beef, all of which, of course, he had stolen. Then we mounted again and rode off. We were afraid to go back to the thieves’ den for the stolen horses, so, at Morgan’s suggestion, we went straight up the Yellowstone River, in the hope of being able to run off the stock of the Survey-party. We came across a party, but whether of the Survey or not I don’t know, and made an attempt to steal their horses; but they were too sharp for us, and chased us up into the high mountains, where the country was so terribly rough that we had to abandon our own horses and go afoot. We did not know where we were, until we found ourselves one morning upon the top of the wall, looking down into the valley of the Mushroom Rock. Almost as soon as we recognised the place we saw two of you walk up the valley, climb a ladder, and disappear up the mountain. As Swayne did not appear we concluded that he—and the dog as well, perhaps—was on guard somewhere; so, by Morgan’s advice, we descended the ladder and took up a station among the trees whence we could watch your camp; our idea, or, rather, Morgan’s idea being that ifthe sentinel should leave his post for any reason we would slip across the valley and escape.”
“I see,” said Jack, “and you got your chance when Tom Swayne and the dog ran off down the valley to help Goodall.”
“Yes, that was our chance. We cut across the valley, and as your animals were feeding near your camp we drove them in front of us up the cañon, and there I held them against the bars while Morgan slipped back to get a couple of saddles and bridles; and as soon as we were ready I let down the bars, pulled aside the brush, and off we went.”
“Did Morgan upset that big rock into the gully?” asked Jack.
“Yes,” replied Bates. “His intention was to keep you down there until he should get money for your release from the people at home. But though I pretended to agree to this plan, my intention was to desert Morgan at the first opportunity, give information of where you were, and get you out. I was afraid you would starve to death if you had to spend the winter down in that hole.”
“That was good of you,” said Jack. “What did you do next?”
“We were afraid to go near Bozeman, so weturned to the left over the range, intending to keep clear of all towns and ride back to Utah, but as we rode along next day, the snow coming down like a blanket,—Morgan leading and I bringing up the rear,—my horse fell, throwing me off upon my head. How long I lay there I don’t know, but when I recovered I was buried completely in the snow, and Morgan and the horses were gone. I have never seen them since. I came very near to freezing to death, for the wind was blowing terribly, and after wandering about for some time I came upon this cabin, and here I spent the night. Next morning when the storm ceased I went out to collect fire-wood; for my teeth were rattling in my head from the prolonged exposure to the cold. I had gathered a good deal and was going out for more, when four grey wolves made a rush at me, and I had to retreat hastily and shut the door. They have been besieging me ever since—at least three of them have. I couldn’t open the door an inch but one of them would make a dash for it. That gave me an idea—after my wits had been sharpened by going a whole day without food. I drove a stake into the ground behind the door, so that the door would open only about eight inches.Then, with a stout club ready in my hand, I let the door fall back against the stake. One of the wolves jumped for the opening directly, but his shoulders stuck, and before he could get back again I hit him a tremendous crack upon the top of his head and killed him. He was mostly bones, but he lasted me four days. Since then I have had nothing. The other wolves have sat outside, waiting for me to come out, so all I could do was to sit in here and starve.”
“Well,” said Jack, “you certainly have had a hard time of it, but you are all right now. We’ll stay here to-morrow and give you a chance to pick up a bit, and then you shall come on with us to Bozeman, or wherever else we come out.”
“Thank you,” said Bates, “you are very kind.” Then, in an embarrassed, hesitating manner, he went on: “I sha’n’t forget your kindness. I’ll do anything I can to help you to recover your stock. And I beg your pardons, all of you, for my part in this horse-stealing business. The beginning of it all was my losing my money in a gambling-place. There’s another thing I should like to mention,” he went on, after a short pause, “though it is no concern of yours and may not interest you. While I have beensitting here starving and thinking, I have made a resolution. I will never bet or play cards for money again as long as I live.”
“Good for you!” exclaimed Jack, reaching out and shaking hands with him. “It is a pretty rough cure for gambling, but if you stick to that resolution you will look back at this experience of yours as the most fortunate thing that ever happened to you.”
“I’ll stick to it,” said Bates, with a very earnest countenance. “Never fear.”
I may add that Bates did stick to it; and as Jack had prophesied, he came to regard that hard experience as the most fortunate episode of his life.
Our patient was so much recovered next morning that we were able to make a short march of about ten miles, camping in a sheltered curve of the woods which the wind had swept bare of snow, and passing a tolerably comfortable night in spite of the cold. On the third day after this, climbing over a high ridge, we were rejoiced to see, far away in the distance, a wide-spreading plain, over one point of which hung a cloud of smoke. It was the smoke made by the housewives of Bozeman, getting dinner ready.
We were naturally much encouraged by the sight, and went into camp that evening with the expectation that one more march would bring us to the desired haven. As a matter of fact, it did so, but with a change in our mode of progression we could hardly have anticipated.
When, next morning, we crawled out of our blankets, we were surprised to find that the fire was blazing high, having been renewed, seemingly, a couple of hours before. But this surprise was small in comparison with the astonishment we felt when we discovered that Bates had gone; and not only had he gone, but he had taken Ulysses with him!
It was most unaccountable. Had he gone off to explore the road? Had he——? We hastily felt at our sides for our bags of gold-washings. No; that was an unjust suspicion; the bags were all right. What then was the meaning of it?
Having shouted and whistled without effect, we were proceeding to cook our breakfast, when Ulysses bounced into camp and starting up we saw Bates running down the hill towards us.
As soon as he could get breath enough to speak, he gasped out: “I’ve found them! I’ve found the horses!”
“Where? How?” we all exclaimed together.
“Over the hills in that direction,” replied Bates, pointing off to the south-west, “in a little valley about two miles away. Why Morgan has not gone farther I don’t know; but there he is, I’m sure.”
“How came you to go over there?” inquired Jack.
“The cold woke me up this morning while it was still dark,” replied Bates, speaking quickly and eagerly, “so I got up and put some more logs on the fire. Just as I was going to lie down again I thought I heard a mule bray, somewhere a long way off. Ulysses heard it, too, for he pricked up his ears, went over to that side of the fire, and began sniffing the breeze which blew from that direction. The sound came again. Ulysses appeared to be much interested—though why, I could not guess. He began to whine, and running a short distance towards the point from which the sound came, he looked back at me as if to invite me to go with him. As soon as I took a step forward he turned and trotted on, looking back over his shoulder now and then to see that I was following, and in that manner on we went, Ulysses leading, and I, wondering wherehe was going, hurrying after him. It never occurred to me that he might have recognised the mule’s voice, but I believe he must have done so.”
“He must,” replied Jack. “And it must have been Calliope who brayed; she is the only mule I know of whose voice will carry two miles. Go on.”
“Ulysses kept going on and I kept following, up hill and down, until we came to a point overlooking a little valley, and there in the middle of it were all the horses and mules, one picketed and the rest loose. There was a shed of brush down by the stream, and the remains of a fire smoking before it; and I have no doubt Morgan was lying asleep in the shed.”
“I’m going over there at once,” cried Jack, full of eagerness at the prospect of recovering his friend Toby. “I must have a try for the horses. Will you come back and show me the place, Bates? I don’t ask you two fellows to come—it’s dangerous.”
“Well, we’re coming, whether you ask us or not,” remarked Percy, calmly.
“All right,” assented Jack, laughing. “Come on, then. We must eat our breakfast as we go. Bring your rifles; we’ll leave everything else here.”
We set off at once, single file, Bates a hundred yards in the lead, and after a tramp of about half an hour’s duration our guide stopped and came stooping back towards us.
“He’s there all right,” said he softly, “cooking his breakfast. How are we going to get at him? He’s right out in the middle of the valley; no cover nearer than two hundred yards.”
“Let’s have a look,” said Jack.
Silently we crept forward, and lying flat upon the ground on the brow of the hill, looked down into the little valley. In the middle of it were a few scattered willows, and among them we could distinguish the figure of a man stooping over a fire. Near him were the horses and mules quietly feeding; one of them, which we recognised as Toby, being picketed.
That the man was Squeaky we had no doubt, but there being no cover, as Bates had said, we did not see how we were to come upon him unawares and make him surrender, which was what we had hoped to do. We might shoot him in the back, without doubt, but such a course was out of the question, nor did it, I believe, occur to any of us.
“I’ll tell you a way of doing it,” whisperedBates. “You three go round through the trees until you get behind him, and wait there. I’ll walk straight down to him from here. He won’t shoot at me. I’ll get into conversation with him, and if I can find the opportunity I’ll capture his rifle and run off with it in your direction. If I can’t get his rifle I’ll tackle him, and then you must run down as fast as you can to my assistance. It is rather a mean, under-hand way of doing it, and so, if you will, I should be glad if you would let him go again after we have got back the horses. What do you say?”
Jack thought a little, and then shook his head.
“No, no,” said he. “It’s too dangerous. You can’t trust a fellow like that. He thinks he has got these horses all to himself, and if you appear he’ll suppose you have come to claim your share, and he is just as likely as not to shoot you. It’s too risky. I won’t agree to that.”
“But, look here,” Bates argued. “I promised to do my best to help you get your horses back, and here’s my chance. Besides, I don’t believe he’ll shoot. At any rate I’m willing to try it.”
But Jack would not consent, and Percy and I backing up his opinion, Bates was obliged to give in.
“You are a good fellow, Bates,” said Jack, “to be willing to take the risk, but, you see, we are all against it. I’ll tell you another way that I think may work; a way by which, if there is any shooting to be done, we’ll do it—though I hope there’ll be no occasion. We will all go round through the trees until we get behind him, and then we’ll step out of cover and walk straight down upon him as quietly as possible. When we get pretty close we will call upon him to surrender. If he shows fight—why, then, I suppose we shall have to shoot. I’ll fire first, as I’m responsible for this whole business, but if I miss you must fire. What do you think? Would you rather keep out of the business altogether? I sha’n’t blame you if you would.”
Though Percy and I—and Jack, too, for that matter—had the strongest disinclination to shoot at a man, we could not leave our captain to “go it alone,” as he plainly intended to do, and after an instant’s hesitation we both agreed to his plan.
“All right, then,” whispered Jack. “Let us go ahead at once. Mind your footing. Don’t make a noise. Rifles loaded? Cock ’em, then, and come on.”
Keeping well within the trees, we started off, Jack in the lead this time, and walking round the valley until we thought we had reached the proper point, we halted again.
“Take your places ten feet apart,” Jack whispered. “Let me get a little ahead.”
Creeping to the edge of the wood, he peered out, and then, beckoning to us to follow, stepped softly into the open.
We had chosen our point well. Squeaky, sitting by the stream with his back toward us, was perfectly unconscious of our presence. Softly we advanced until we had covered half the intervening distance, when, just as we began to feel confident that the enemy had been delivered into our hands, that marplot, Toby, betrayed us. He lifted his head, recognised Jack instantly, and greeted him with a neigh of welcome.
Up sprang Squeaky, cast one glance behind him, and bolted in among the animals. With one jerk he pulled up the picket-pin, sprang upon Toby’s back, and clapping his heels into the horse’s sides rode off at full gallop.
“Stop!” shouted Jack. “I’ll fire!”
But before Jack could even take aim the matter was brought to a sudden climax in a most unexpected manner.
Squeaky had hardly got under way when the mule, Calliope, thinking she was about to be deserted by her beloved friend Toby, started off at full speed in chase. She was pretty quick on her feet for a short distance, and being unencumbered by a rider she quickly caught up with him. The fugitive was leaning forward beside the horse’s neck, gathering up the trailing rope with both hands, when Calliope, coming up behind, stepped upon the picket-pin. The sudden jerk flung Squeaky to the ground, head first,—and broke his neck!
It was with a feeling of awe that we gathered round the dead man, and stood looking down at him; thankful that it was not by our hands he had fallen. We were glad that we need fear him no longer, but we were far more glad that his death—to which he had been directly led by his own misdeeds—was due to an irresponsible mule, and not to any one of us. Though, doubtless, we should have been fully justified, both legally and morally, in shooting him if he had shown a disposition to shoot at us, it would have been a grievous burden to bear through life—the thought that we had had a hand in the killing of a human being.
IT WAS WITH A FEELING OF AWE THAT WE GATHERED AROUND THE DEAD MAN“IT WAS WITH A FEELING OF AWE THAT WE GATHERED AROUND THE DEAD MAN.”
“IT WAS WITH A FEELING OF AWE THAT WE GATHERED AROUND THE DEAD MAN.”
“IT WAS WITH A FEELING OF AWE THAT WE GATHERED AROUND THE DEAD MAN.”
Rascal though he might have been, we feltthat we could not leave him there to the mercy of the wolves and coyotes, and after a long pause, Jack, who had been kneeling beside the body, rose up, and said:
“We must cover him up. We can’t dig a grave, having no tools, so the best thing we can do is to build a cairn over him. Tom, you and Percy go up into the timber and bring down some dead poles, the biggest you can carry, while Bates and I collect rocks.”
In the course of an hour of hard work we built a frame of timber around and over our dead enemy, covering it with such a great pile of heavy stones that we felt satisfied no wild animal could get at him. Then, feeling that we had done all that lay in our power, we saddled the horses—for we found the saddles and bridles piled near the fire—and rode back to our own camp, whence we made all haste to Bozeman, arriving there safely after dark that evening.
Our wanderings were ended. At last our faces were fairly turned toward home!
It was four weeks after this that we two stood upon the deck of a great steamship in the harbour of New York, shaking hands with Jack who had come across the continent with us to see us safely out of the country, as he said.
The value of our gold-washings, which Jack had sold to the smelter at Golconda, had proved to be considerably in excess of the calculation he had made on the waggon-sheet with the burnt stick. The sum he received was enough not only to start up the mine again, but enough to pay all the expenses of the trip, to buy our tickets back to England, and even to refund the money spent by our parents for the services of Mr. Hiram Jenkins. In fact, there was sufficient left over to buy a handsome, brass-mounted collar for our most respected friend Ulysses; that being, in our opinion, a more suitable present for him than the gold medal Percy had once promised him.
“Good-bye, you fellows!” cried Jack, shaking hands with us for the last time, as the bell rang for strangers to leave the ship. “Good-bye! You won’t forget me, I know; and you may be very sure I’ll never forget you. Next time you run away from home mind you run straight to Golconda. I’ll take charge of you. Good-bye!”
With that he turned and ran across the gang-plank. The big boat moved slowly out into the river, one last “Good-bye!” was shouted to and fro, and Jack’s kind, brown face was lost to sight.
We had experienced many hardships since the night when Percy climbed out of the window at Moseley’s, but the greatest of them all was the parting with Jack.
The night was drawing in, when, some twelve days later, a dog-cart rattled out of Southampton toward Moseley’s, and the old church clock in the village was striking eight as the cart pulled up at the vicarage gate. Percy and I descended from it, and having paid the driver, walked up the pathway to the house and entered without knocking.
At the sitting-room door we paused to listen. We could distinguish several voices inside.
“My father is here,” whispered Percy, excitedly, at the same time digging me in the ribs with his elbow so violently that I could not have contradicted him had I wished to do so. “And so is Sir Anthony. Hark! He is talking now.”
He gently opened the door. As we walked in we heard Sir Anthony say, “You may depend upon it they will bounce in upon us suddenly.” Then, as his ear caught the click of the latch,—“And here they are!”
Dear, dear! To think that we foolish, foolish youngsters had ever run away from suchkind people as these! We were fairly smothered with welcomes. If anything had been needed to convince us that Home was the finest place in the world—! But what is the use of talking about that? Every sensible boy knows that for himself; or else he is a very unfortunate boy.
It was half-past twelve ere Sir Anthony rose to go home.
“Well, you young scapegraces,” said he, with a kindly twinkle in his eye, as he shook hands with both of us at once, “I’m very glad to see you safely back again. I won’t prosecute you for poaching this time—on one condition, though. Next time you make up your minds to run away from home, go and ask advice of your parents first. Remember, boys,” he went on, abandoning his joking tone, and laying a hand upon the shoulder of each of us—“Remember: Whenever you get into trouble, go and ask advice in the right quarter. And remember, each of you, that you never will have, and never can have, such perfect friends as your own parents.”
“We have found that out for ourselves, sir,” said Percy.
“You have! I congratulate you. If yourescapade had had no other result it would have been worth all the hardships you have suffered yourselves, and all the anxiety you have caused your elders to have made such a grand discovery. You are a very fortunate pair. So, good-night, my boys; and welcome home!”
Sir Anthony was a wise old man. I acknowledge readily and thankfully that he was perfectly right when he said I never could have such good friends as my own parents. At the same time, I must not omit to state that there is a certain American—one Percy Goodall—who will always come treading very close upon their heels.
THE END.