Joe glanced at the clock as we re-entered the house, after the cart had disappeared down the road. “Now, if yo’ gits right to bed, Leslie, chile, yo’s gwine git right sma’ht ob sleep afore yo’ has to git up ter holp me git stahted,” he said.
It was past one o’clock. “I don’t know, Joe,” I returned. “It seems hardly worth while to try to sleep at all; we must get up so soon.”
“Hit’s wuf while ter git sleep w’enebber, an’ wharebber yo’ kin,” the old man insisted, with the wisdom of experience.
Accordingly, I lay down on my bed without taking the trouble to undress—I was so fearful of oversleeping. For a long time I lay thinking of Jessie, on her hurried night ride, of old Joe, and the blessed relief thathis coming had brought us, and, above all, of Mr. Horton and his machinations. I meant to be awake when the hour that Joe had suggested for rising struck. The hour was five o’clock, but it was well past, when a gentle tap on the door awoke me, and Joe’s voice announced: “Hit’s done struck fibe, Miss Leslie; yo’s bettah be stirrin.”
My reply was forestalled by a delighted cry from the crib, where Ralph was supposed to lie asleep: “Oho! Mine Joe is tum ’ome! Mine Joe is tum ’ome!”
I heard the negro shuffle quickly across the floor, and the next instant Ralph was in his arms and being borne triumphantly into the kitchen. The friendship between the two was mutual, and it was not at all surprising that Ralph was beside himself with joy at Joe’s return. He hurried through his own breakfast, watched Joe, gravely, through his, and then announced his intention of accompanying the latter, “in ’e waggin.” He had gathered from our conversation that Joe was going somewhere,and, wherever it was, he was willing to bear him company.
“W’er my ’at?” he asked, trotting about in search of that article, as Joe drove up to the door with the horses and light wagon.
“Your hat is under your crib, dear, but you can’t go with Joe to-day.”
“’Ess; me doin’,” he returned, obstinately, securing the hat, while I was carrying the Bible out to Joe.
“Now, Joe, take good care of it!” I counseled him, as he stooped down to take the bulky volume from my arms.
“Keer? Ha! I reckons I’se boun’ fur tek’ keer ob dat book! Lots ob folks w’at done all sorts ob t’ings, shet up ’atween de leds ob dat book. Some good t’ings dey done, an’ a mighty lot o’ bad ones, an’ I ain’ goin’ let none ob ’em git out! Leslie, chile, I’se gwine sot on dat book, an’ keep dem folks squelched ’til we all roun’s up in front ob de ’lan’ office; yo’ kin count on dat!”
Placing the book on the wagon-seat, hespread a blanket over it, then planted himself, squarely and with emphasis, upon it. “Dere, dey’s safe!” He gathered up the lines; the outfit was in motion when its progress was suddenly arrested by a piercing cry from Ralph:
“’Top, ’top, Joe! Me’s doin’ wiv’ ’oo, me is!”
The little fellow was standing beside the wagon, his arms upstretched to be taken, and the tears streaming down his cheeks. Joe looked at him, and scratched his head in perplexity. “I’se wisht’ yo’d stayed asleep till I’se done got away, honey, chile—I does so!” he muttered, ruefully.
“Me’s doin’!” Ralph insisted, taking advantage of the halt to swarm up over the wheel-hub, and to get his white apron covered with wagon-grease.
“Me is doin’!” he repeated.
“Train up a chile in de way w’at he wants ter go, an’ w’en he is ole he won’t depart from it!” Joe quoted, with fatal aptness. “Dat chile cain’t be ’lowed fur ter run t’ings dish yer way; he cain’t be ’lowed ter go to town, noway; butI tell yo’ w’at, honey, yo’ might jess slip er clean apern on ter him an’ let him ride down ter Wilson’s ’long ’er me. Dat Mis’ Wilson, she always bein’ tickled when she see Ralph.”
“’Ess; me do see Mif’ ’Ilson,” Ralph declared, brightening. It was true that the good ranchman’s wife had always made much of him, and was glad to have him with her, and I had a particular reason for being glad of the temporary freedom that his going over there would give me. I made haste to change his soiled dress and get him ready. “Tell her,” I said, as I lifted him into the wagon, “that I’ll come over after him some time this afternoon; it isn’t far, and if I start early enough he can easily walk home with me before night.”
“Dat’s right; we’s got dat all fixed,” Joe responded cheerfully. He started the team again, while Ralph, his good humor restored, threw me kisses as the wagon rattled away.
I had mentioned it to no one, but I was secretly a good deal worried over the non-appearance of Guard. In the present absorbedinterest in other matters, I think none of the family, save myself, had taken note of the fact that the dog had not been seen since his noisy scramble up the hillside in pursuit of some animal, the evening before.
Only hunters, or those who dwell in remote and lonely places, can realize how fully one’s canine followers may become, in certain surroundings, at once comrades and friends. I missed the dog’s shaggy black head and attentive eyes as I hurried through with the morning’s milking. He was wont to sit beside me during that operation, and watch proceedings with absorbed and judicial interest. I missed him again as I heard a fluttering and squawking that might mean mischief, near the poultry yard. Above all, in the absence of the other members of the family, I missed his companionship. So, as I hastened with the morning’s tasks, I resolved to take the opportunity afforded by Ralph’s absence, and go in search of him. Disquieting recollections of the wildcat that he and I had dared, and of thewildcat that had dared Mrs. Lloyd, came to my mind. It seemed to me by no means improbable that Guard had treed one of these creatures and was holding it until help came or until the cat should become tired of imprisonment and make a rush for liberty; a rush that, if it came to close quarters, would be pretty certain to result disastrously for Guard. So thinking, I took father’s light rifle—which was always kept loaded—down from its place on the kitchen wall, buckled a belt of cartridges around my waist, and, locking the door behind me, started on my quest.
Guard’s vanishing bark, on the previous evening, had led up the hillside, behind the house. So, up the hillside I went, scanning the ground eagerly for tracks, or for any sign that might indicate which direction to take. The ground was thickly strewn with pine needles and the search for tracks was fruitless; an elephant’s track would not have shown on such ground as that. After a little, though, I did find something that puzzled me. Lying conspicuouslynear the cattle trail that led upward into the higher hills, was a large piece of fresh beef. Stopping, I turned the meat over cautiously with the toe of my shoe, wondering greatly how it came to be just there. It was cut—not torn—so it could not have been dropped there by any wild beast, but by some person. As I looked attentively at it, some white substance, lying half hidden in a deep cleft in the meat, attracted my attention. I stood still for a long time, studying that bit of beef. That the white substance was poison I had not a doubt. If some one were anxious to kill a dog—like a flash the recollection of Guard’s indiscreet charge on Mr. Horton’s horse, and of Mr. Horton’s speechless rage thereat, came to my mind. An attempt to poison Guard did not strike me, at the moment, as an act indicating anything more than a determination to be revenged on him for the trouble that he had already given Mr. Horton. Afterward, I understood its full significance. A little beyond the spot where I found the poisoned meat, well out of sight from the house, or of anychance passers-by, I came to a tree under which a horse had evidently been recently tethered, and that, too, for a long time. I wondered at this, for, among us, people seldom tether a horse; it is considered an essential part of a cow pony’s training to learn to remain long in one place without being fastened in any way. Still, as I reflected, the matter was not one to cause wonder. The ground was torn and trampled by the impatient, pawing hoofs, and I knew very well what horse it was that, for his recent sins, might have been compelled to do penance in this manner.
Something over half a mile from our house there was a break in the hills—the beginning of a long and dark ravine that, trending southward, led, if one cared to traverse it, in a tolerably straight course to the far lower end of the valley, near where the Hortons lived.
It was an uncanny place—dark at all times, as well as damp, and so uninviting in its wildness, even as a short cut to a brighter place, that it was very seldom entered. As I stood on thehill above it, peering down into its shadows, a great longing took possession of me to know whether Mr. Horton had really gone to town as he threatened. Besides, if Guard were really standing sentinel over a wildcat, no more promising place to search for him could be found. So thinking, I readjusted my cartridge-belt, swung the rifle muzzle to the front, ready for instant use, should occasion demand it, and, not without some unpleasant, creepy sensations at the roots of my hair, I dropped down into the ravine.
The ravine was a mile or more in length, and I traversed it rapidly without coming upon any traces of Guard or the wildcat.
Sooner than I had expected, despite my anxiety, the ravine widened, the encroaching walls became lower, the light stronger, and, in a moment more, I came out on a wide, park-like opening, back of Mr. Horton’s house.
I had not met Mrs. Horton since the morning that the wheat crop was destroyed, although I had seen her passing the house frequently on her way to and from the store. It was plain that she avoided us, through no fault or desire of her own, but out of very shame because of the brand on the cattle that had ruined our crops. Casting about in my mind for an excuse for calling on her now, I was impelled to go on, even without an excuse. My consciencetold me that I had treated her with less kindness on that occasion than she deserved. Striking into the cattle trail that, bordering the park, led to Horton’s corral, I followed it to the corral gate, and was soon after knocking at Horton’s front door. My knock was answered by Mrs. Horton, who exclaimed in astonishment at sight of me:
“Why, I declare! I thought you’d be gone to town to-day, sure. Has Jessie gone?”
“Oh yes; and Ralph is at Mrs. Wilson’s.”
“Well, well! Come right in! And so you didn’t go. I don’t see how you managed it, hardly.”
“Joe came home in time to drive down, and Mr.—we thought it best not to leave the homestead alone.”
Mrs. Horton nodded her head approvingly.
“That was a good thought; you can’t be too careful. I declare, I wish you had brought Ralph over here—the precious! I’ve been feeling as lonesome as an owl this morning. Generally I don’t mind being left alone, not a bit;I’m used to it; but I was feeling disappointed to-day, and so everything goes against the grain, I s’pose.”
I must have looked sympathetic, for she presently broke out:
“I don’t feel, Leslie, as if I was an unreasonable or exacting kind of woman, in general, but Jake talked last night as if he thought I was. You see, I had set my heart on going to town when it came time for you girls to prove up. I’d thought of lots of little things that I was going to mention to the Land Agent, to influence him in your favor, and I guess there aren’t many folks that know better than I do how you’ve tried and tried to fill all the requirements. But Jake—”
She paused, her mouth, with its gentle-looking curves, closing as if she would say no more. But her grievance was too fresh and too bitter to admit of her keeping silence. In answer to my respectful inquiry as to why she didn’t go, she burst out impatiently:
“Jake wouldn’t let me. Said if I did I’dbe interfering with what was none of my business—as if I ever interfered with any one else’s business—and, besides, he said it wasn’t convenient to take me. He went on horseback himself.”
“Oh, he’s gone, then?”
“Gracious, yes! Gone! He’s been in town nearly all night. He was out somewhere last evening, looking up cattle, he said, and he didn’t get in till almost nine o’clock; then he ate supper and started right off. I thought it was a rather dark time to be starting for town, but he said the moon would be rising before he got out on to the plains, and he didn’t care for the dark.”
“Why was he so anxious to get to town early this morning?” I asked, with what I inwardly felt to be almost insolent persistency. Mr. Horton’s good wife suspected nothing, however.
“Why, I suppose, to help you folks, if help was needed,” she replied, readily. “I’ve felt awfully cut up, Leslie, about the way our cattle destroyed your crops. It just went to my heartto think that it was our cattle that did it”—and the tears in her honest blue eyes attested the sincerity of her words—“I’ve talked to Jake a good deal about it. He hasn’t said straight out that he’d pay damages, but I’ve been thinking maybe he intended to do it in his own way, and his way was to get to town and help you all he could with the Land Agent. As he’s been known to the claim so long, his word ought to have weight. Don’t you think so?”
“I am afraid—I mean yes, certainly,” I stammered. It was not re-assuring to think of the weight that his word might have.
“When do you look for Mr. Horton to return?” I asked, rising from my chair as I spoke.
“Oh, not until your business is all settled; he said he’d stay and see it all through. He said that he’d have a surprise for me when he got back; but I guess he won’t. I imagine that he thought I’d feel surprised to learn that you’d received your papers, but I’d be surprised if you didn’t, after the way you’ve kept the faith, so tospeak. Oh, now, sit down! You’re not going yet, are you? And after such a walk as it is from your house here, too!”
“I came down by the trail, Mrs. Horton.” And then I told her about Guard, thus accounting for the gun, which I had caught her glancing at, once or twice, rather curiously.
“Young dogs are foolish,” was her comment, when she had heard the story. “If he was older, I should tell you not to be a mite worried, but as he’s a young one, it’s different. I’ve known a young dog to get on a hot trail, and follow it until he was completely lost. My father lost a fine deerhound that way once. The dog got on the trail of a buck, and last we ever heard of him he was twenty miles away, and still going. I do hope you won’t have such bad luck with your dog.”
I bade good-by to Mrs. Horton, and started homeward, again taking the trail through the ravine. I was not much cheered by her words in regard to Guard, and heavily depressed by the knowledge that Mr. Horton had, after all,beaten Mr. Wilson and Jessie in his start for town—though what difference it could make, either way, until the Land Office was open in the morning no one could have told. Being troubled, I walked slowly, this time, with my eyes on the ground. Half-way through the ravine I came to a point where a break in the walls let in the sunlight. Through this low, ragged depression the light was streaming in in a long, brilliant shaft as I approached the spot. The warm, bright column of golden light had so strange an effect, lighting up the gray rocks and the moist, reeking pathway, that I paused to admire it. “If it were only a rainbow, now,” I thought, “I should look under the end of it, there, for a bag of gold.” My eyes absently followed the column of light to the point where it seemed suddenly to end in the darkness of the ravine, and I uttered a startled cry. Under the warm, bright light I saw the distinct impression of a dog’s foot. It was as clearly defined in the oozy reek as it would have been had some one purposely taken a cast of it, but after the firststart, I reflected that it did not necessarily follow that the print was made by Guard. Still, examination showed that it might well be his. Searching farther, I found more tracks—above the break in the wall, but none in the ravine below it. The footprints had been a good deal marred by my own as I came down the ravine, and, what I thought most singular, supposing the tracks to have been made by Guard, there were also the hoof-marks of a horse—not a range-horse, for this one wore shoes, and, developing Indian lore as I studied the trail, I presently made the important discovery that, while the dog’s tracks occasionally overlaid those of the horse, the horse’s tracks never covered the dog’s. Clearly, then, if those footprints belonged to Guard, as I had a quite unaccountable conviction that they did, he was quietly following some horseman. For an indignant instant I suspected some reckless cowboy of having lassoed and stolen him, but a little further study of the footprints spoiled that theory. Guard would have resisted such a seizure, and the footprintswould have been blurred and dragging. The clean impressions left by this canine were not those of an unwilling captive. I followed the tracks along the trail to the upper end of the ravine for some time, but learning nothing further in that way, returned again to the break in the wall. Looking attentively at that, I at length discovered a long, fresh mark on the slippery rock. Such a mark as might have been made by the iron-shod hoof of a horse, scrambling up the wall in haste, and slipping dangerously on the insecure foothold. With the recognition of this, I was scrambling up the bank myself. Scarcely had my head reached the level of the bank when a loud, eager whinny broke the silence. Startled, I slipped into a thicket of scrub-oaks, and, from their friendly shelter, made a cautious reconnoissance. Not far away, and standing in clear view, a bay horse was tethered to the over-hanging limb of a pine tree. It did not need a second glance for me to recognize Don, Mr. Horton’s favorite saddle-horse. That the poor creature had had along and tedious wait, his eager whinnying, and the pawing of his impatient hoof, as he looked over in my direction, plainly told.
I watched him for awhile, breathlessly, and in silence, but he was far too anxious to keep silent himself. His distress was so apparent that I felt sorry for him, and finally decided that I might, at least, venture to approach and speak to him. Leaving my place of concealment I started toward him, but stopped abruptly with my heart in my mouth, before I had taken a dozen steps, as a new sound broke the silence. A new sound, but familiar, and doubly welcome in that wild place. It was the sharp, excited yelping that Guard was wont to make when he had treed game and needed help.
At the sound of Guard’s voice, regardless of caution, and waiting only to raise the hammer of the rifle that I held ready in my hand, I ran forward. Guard evidently had his eyes on me, although I could not see him; his yelps ceased for an instant to break forth with redoubled energy as I came within sight of him. He was standing over a heap of rubbish, into which he was glaring with vindictive watchfulness, but with one alert ear bent in my direction and the tip of his bushy tail quivered in joyful recognition as I advanced toward him. Before reaching him, however, I had found my bearings, as the hunters say, and knew the locality. Still, the place had an unfamiliar air. It was a minute or two before I saw the cause of this; then I missed the one thing that particularly designated the spot, setting it apart to that extent frommany similar places. I had not seen the lonely, secluded little park more than two or three times in all the years that we had lived so near it, but whenever I had seen it, hitherto, a hunter’s shack, long abandoned, had stood on the farther edge of the opening. It had always seemed on the verge of falling, and, as I neared Guard, I saw that this was the thing that had happened: the cabin had collapsed, and, more than that, Guard had run something to earth under it.
The dog’s excited yelping, now that relief was at hand, was ear-splitting, but his vigilant watch did not for an instant relax.
“What is it, Guard—have you got a wildcat in there?” I panted, breathlessly, halting beside him. “Well; you just wait, now; we’re going to get him this time!” So speaking, I cautiously trained the muzzle of the rifle on the spot that his vigilant eyes never left off watching. Then I cast a hasty glance around. If half the wildcat stories that I had been hearing of late were true, it would be well to have some place of retreat to fall back upon, in case thecat, proving obdurate, should decline to die easily. Fortunately, as I thought, there was a large pine tree close at hand; it was, indeed, immensely large. I could no more have swarmed up that scaly trunk, had I flown to it for protection, than I could have spread out a pair of wings and flown to its topmost branches. In my excitement, I never thought of that, nor of the equally unpleasant fact that wildcats are expert climbers. Sure that the refuge at hand would suit, I dropped on one knee, training the rifle-muzzle into a crevice between a couple of fallen logs, and sighting along the barrel. I could see nothing, but, with my finger on the trigger, I was prepared to fire whether I sighted the enemy or not. Guard drew back, silent, now, but trembling with excitement.
“HOLD ON, I AIN’T NO WILDCAT!” (Page 306)“HOLD ON, I AIN’T NO WILDCAT!”(Page306)
“Hold on!” cried a voice from the rubbish heap, “I ain’t no wildcat!” The voice was shrill and sharp with terror, but I knew it instantly for that of Jacob Horton. The rifle slipped unheeded from my nerveless hand, while Guard, since there was evidently to be no shooting,resumed his former post and growled menacingly.
“Why—why,” I stammered, “if you are not a wildcat—if you are a man—I thought you had gone to town!”
“Gone to town!” the voice, losing its tone of terror, degenerated into a snarl. “I’ve been here all night. I’ve met up with an accident. I’m pinned down under a log, and that infernal dog of yours has stood and growled at me all night; I ain’t dared to say my soul was my own.”
“I don’t believe that any one else would care to claim it.”
The words broke from me involuntarily. I had the grace to feel ashamed the minute they were spoken. Guard’s prisoner answered my unfeeling observation with a groan, and I looked reproachfully at Guard, who returned the look with a hopeful glance of his bright eye and wagged his tail cheerfully. I think that he quite expected to receive orders to go in and drag his fallen enemy out to the light of day.Realizing that as a general thing Guard understood his own business I forbore to reproach him, at the moment, for having treed or grounded Mr. Horton.
“Are you badly hurt?” I inquired, falling on my knees before the crevice, and trying to catch a glimpse of the victim of an accident.
“I do’ no’s I’m hurt in none of my limbs,” was the cautious reply, “but I’m covered with bruises, and I’m pinned fast. I couldn’t ’a’ got away if I hadn’t been, for that brute was determined to have my life. Turn about’s fair play; we’ll see how he comes out after this!”
Clearly, the victim’s temper had not been improved by the night’s adventures, and it was easy to see that he had made almost no effort at all to escape from a position which, although certainly uncomfortable, had the great advantage of keeping the dog at bay. I thought of the Land Office in Fairplay and of the business that was probably being transacted there at that moment, and resolved to give Guard the whole of the roast that was left over fromyesterday’s dinner when we reached home again.
“Ain’t you even goin’ to try to help me? Goin’ to let me lay here an’ die?” demanded the angry voice from under the ruins.
“Oh, no, certainly not. I’ll try to help you out. I guess you’ve been here long enough,” I replied, cheerfully.
“Huh! I should think I had been here long enough. This night’s work’ll prob’ly cost me thousands of dollars—but I’ll have that whelp’s life when I do git out; that’s one comfort.”
For a wicked instant I was tempted to turn away and leave our unrepentant enemy where he was. The impulse passed as quickly as it came, but I am not ashamed to confess that before setting to work to try to extricate the prisoner I threw my arms around Guard’s neck and hugged him ecstatically. “It’s all right; we’re safe!” I whispered in his ear, as if he could understand me—and I am not sure to this day that he could not. Then I began tugging awayat the rotten pieces of wood that, fallen in a heap, formed a rough sort of wickiup, under which Mr. Horton reclined at length. It was a pretty hard task, for some of the timbers were heavy enough to tax all my strength; but an opening was made at last, and through it Mr. Horton slowly crawled into the light. He was compelled to advance backward, after the manner of the crawfish, and as he finally got clear of the ruins and staggered to his feet, he was a most disreputable-looking figure. Apart from a good many scratches and bruises, he did not seem to be injured in the least. The timbers had fallen in such a way that their weight did not rest on him. His scowling face, as he turned it to the light, was further disfigured by several long scratches and by a dry coating of blood and dirt. His coat—the coat, again—was torn, his hat gone, and his bushy iron-gray hair stood fiercely upright. The change from the semi-darkness of his place of imprisonment to the full light of day partially blinded him, and he stood, blinking and winking for afull minute after getting on his feet; then he apprehensively examined his arms and legs.
“I reckon there ain’t none of ’em broken,” he said at last, grudgingly. “But it’s no thanks to that dog of your’n that I ain’t chawed into mince-meat—confound you!”—this to Guard, who was sniffing inquiringly at the legs of his late quarry. The words were further emphasized by a vicious kick, which, missing its intended victim, did astounding execution on something else.
We were standing, at the moment, on a drift of leaves that had lain inside the hut. Mr. Horton’s vigorous kick sent a shower of these leaves flying in all directions, and disclosed, half hidden beneath them, a large, square, leather-bound volume, on which my eyes rested in amazed recognition, while Guard, with a bark of delight, took his station beside it, wagging his tail joyfully.
I looked at Mr. Horton, whose face, under its mask of blood and dirt, had turned the color ofgray ashes. He began to back slowly away toward his horse.
“Wait!” I cried; “I want you to tell me—you must tell me, Mr. Horton, what you were doing last night. How came Jessie’s dictionary here?”
“Jessie’s dictionary?” His voice rose in a shrill cry, that made me jump, and drew a warning growl from Guard.
I thought of the window beside Ralph’s crib, that Jessie so stoutly averred she did not leave open, and light dawned upon me. “Yes!” I repeated, sternly, contempt for the wretch before me overcoming all fear; “Jessie’s dictionary.” I had, by this time, picked up the book. Mr. Horton extended his hand toward it; and his tone was almost humble as he said:
“Let me see it.”
When the book was in his hands, he turned over the leaves, examining them with evident surprise and bewilderment. Finally:
“It is a dictionary, ain’t it?” he said, feebly, and repeated, under his breath. “It is a dictionary!”
“You thought, when you opened the window last night, and stole it off the ledge, that it was the Bible, with our family record in it, didn’t you?” I recklessly inquired. But Mr. Horton was past being angry.
“Yes, I did,” he said, making the admission as if still dazed.
“And you left the window open?” I went on.
“Yes, I did. The dog took after me—the dog has been hot on my trail from first to last, it ’pears, and you ain’t been fur behind him.”
“No,” I admitted, glancing at his torn coat, from which the upper button was still absent, “I don’t think I have. I even have a bit of your property as a reward for some of my work. There’s a button missing from your coat. I found it.”
“Where?” Mr. Horton inquired, in a low voice.
“Under the window that you are so fond of visiting; the one that you started the fire under some weeks ago.”
Mr. Horton stirred uneasily, and again glanced toward his horse. “You think I lost the button there, do you?”
“I know you did.”
Mr. Horton did not dispute the statement. He had dropped down on a log, after the discovery of the dictionary, as if his knees were too weak to sustain him. He looked at Guard, and then at me, studying us both for a full minute.
“You make quite a pair of detectives, you and the dog,” he said. Then, suddenly, he rose to his feet, his bunched up figure straightened, he lifted his head, as one might who had inwardly made some strong resolve, and I felt, with a curious kind of thrill, that a new atmosphere enveloped us both.
Quite irrelevantly, as it then seemed to me, some words that father had spoken many weeks ago, came into my mind: “They all tell me,” he had said, “that Horton’s as good a friend as one need ask for, once let him be fairly beaten at his own game.” Could that be true? Surely, if ever a man was fairly and very badly beaten,this one was. The result had been brought about, in a measure, by his own blundering, but it was none the less effective for that. If he would but acknowledge it—if he would cease to persecute us! At the very thought of such a thing as that the world seemed suddenly to grow radiant. I had not seemed to realize before how much of our trouble, our unspoken apprehension and dread of impending calamity was due to this man.
“Say,” Mr. Horton suddenly exclaimed, looking squarely in my face for the first time, “I reckon I’ve been making an everlastin’ fool of myself long enough!”
I had not been very polite to Mr. Horton before that morning, but when he made the abrupt declaration that he had made a fool of himself long enough, I was civil enough to refrain from contradicting him.
“I ain’t had no breakfast,” he went on, presently, glancing at his torn dress. “I’m a pretty tough-looking subject, too, I reckon.” Again I did not dispute the statement. Looking away from me, he took a step or two toward the spot where his horse awaited him, then turned resolutely back again. “Say, I’m going to own up while I’ve got courage to do it!” he exclaimed, speaking rapidly and with suppressed excitement: “I ain’t treated you and your folks right, Miss Leslie; I’ve knowed it all along; but, you see, I’d got my mind set on that bit of land that your father took up—not that I needed it,or anything of that kind—a claim would ’a’ been more bother than good to me as a general thing; but I’d said to folks that I meant to have it and I’d managed to get up a kind of ugly pride in showing folks that what I said went, whether or no.
“My wife—she’s a good woman—I do’no what she’d do if she was to know all that I’ve done or tried to do, but I reckon you know pretty well, Miss Leslie. Well, you’ve known Jake Horton as he was. I’m going to give you all a chance to know him as he is now. When a man undertakes to do a bit of spite work like this; work that he’s no call to feel proud of, and knows that so well that he tries to do it alone and in the dark, and is held back from making a consummate idiot of himself, and a criminal, too, like enough, by a dog and a young girl, it’s time to call a halt. That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to call a halt and travel a new trail from this on. I don’t ask you to believe anything that I say, Miss Leslie, there ain’t no reason at present why you should, but therewill be!” He paused to moisten his dry lips. I looked up at him expectantly. “I’m going to do what’s right by you and yours, from this on,” he said, in answer to the look. Despite my past acquaintance with him I believed him, and indignantly strove to smother the tormenting little recollection that would keep obtruding itself—the recollection that, from the moment that the deed to the homestead was secured this man would be powerless to injure us, unless he did it openly and in ways that might be easily brought home to him, and it was now too late for him to do us any harm at the Land Office.
I am ashamed to be obliged to record that Mr. Horton’s declaration of a change in his feelings toward us, and his promises of better conduct toward us in the future were accompanied in my secret thought by such damaging reflections, but such was the case. The dictionary was under my arm and glancing down at it I said: “I would like to know, if you don’t mind, Mr. Horton, how this book—and you—came to be under the ruins of that shack?”
There was a big black and blue bruise on the back of Mr. Horton’s right hand, the hand that some weeks previously had been injured by an oak splinter, as he told his wife, on the night that I had fired at a man fleeing up the hillside. Looking attentively at the bruise, and not at all at me, Mr. Horton replied:
“Well; it was an easier thing to undertake than it is to tell; that’s so. ’Bout as easy to tell though as it was to go through with. That’s a wide-awake dog of yours, Miss Leslie, lives up to his name, too. He was living right up to it last night when I sneaked up to your window after watching you and Miss Jessie go out to the corral, and making sure that the boy was asleep. I opened the window, got the book that, I made sure, was the Bible that I had seen put on the window ledge that morning, and started back toward my horse. But I’d forgot one thing, I’d forgot about the dog. He didn’t forget himself, though; he came round the corner after me and I had to leg it like scat. I had studied some about him earlier in the day;enough so that I had thrown a piece of poisoned meat near the upper trail. Not seeing anything of him in the evening I never thought of him again until I felt him a-holt of my coat-tail, for he caught up with me in a minute. I do’no how it would ’a’ come out between us, but jest then while I was pulling up the hill and he was pulling back for all he was worth, we come to the meat, stumbled over it, in fact. The dog let go my coat—he’s young, I reckon—” the victim interpolated, impartially; “an old dog wouldn’t ’a’ give up his game for such a thing as that—and stopped to sniff the meat. That give me time to reach my horse, but he come tearing after me like a whole pack o’ bloodhounds. After I was fairly in the saddle, though, I didn’t hear anything more of the dog. I ’lowed that he’d given up and gone back, or else that he’d swallered the meat and the poison had got in its work. I rode down along the ravine, feeling good. As I said, I’d planned it out beforehand. I knew jest what I was going to do with the Bi—dictionary. I didn’t ’low to plumb destroy it.I ’lowed that when it was too late for it to be of any use to you—that is, after I’d entered the claim—I’d see to it that it accidentally come to light again. I didn’t want to plumb destroy it,” he repeated apologetically.
I made no comment, and Mr. Horton, plucking a pine branch, began divesting it of its needles with fingers that shook a little in spite of himself as he proceeded:
“I’d made up my mind to hide the Bi—dictionary in the old shack here until it was time to bring it to light again. When I got to that break in the cañon wall, down here, I put the horse up the break and rode to the shack, and then—I made a mistake.” He paused to silently review this mistake, then continued: “Instead of dismounting and carefully covering the book with the leaves, as I’d ought to ’a’ done, I jest slung it into the shack, letting it fall where it would. I heard it fall, soft like, on the leaves, and then I went on home. My wife, she had supper all ready, and I sot down and et it. I told her I was going to start right off, as soonas I’d done eating, for town. She kind o’ objected to my going then; said she’d been wanting to go herself, to help you folks when it come to proving up. That made me some mad, for I wan’t figuring on helping you then. But all the time that I was eating supper, and all the time that she was talking, I kept thinking: ‘S’pos’n some one should come along past that shack, look in there, and see that book lying there?’ I felt that I’d ought to ’a’ covered it up with leaves”—“and Robin Redbreast painfully did cover them with leaves,” ran the silent under-current of my thought, while I listened gravely to Mr. Horton’s elucidation of the mystery of the book. “I felt it so strong that nothing would suit me, at last, but I must make my way back there and cover it before I started for town. So, while my wife thought, after I’d mounted again, that I was riding toward town, I was sneaking back up the cañon. I tied my horse near the break in the wall, and went to the shack on foot, this time. It was as dark as a stack of black cats inside the shack. I couldn’t see athing—I stooped down, and was feeling ’round ’mong the leaves for the book, when I run up ag’in’ a surprise.” Mr. Horton dropped the branch, now denuded of its needles, and stared thoughtfully at the bruise on his hand. “That dog—he wan’t dead, as it turned out; he hadn’t even gone back, or gone before. He was all there and ready for business—I had time to study the thing out whilst I was a lyin’ on my back, last night, starin’ up into his eyes that was glarin’ down into mine, through a chink in the logs—and I figured it out that he’d follered me, quiet, after I’d mounted; then, when I threw the book into the shack, he’d gone in there and stayed with it. He knew that it belonged to his folks, and he meant to guard it. He did, too. As I was stoopin’ down, feeling ’round, something gave a yell, all at once, that made my hair stan’ up, stiff and spiky, all over my head, and, next thing, something—some animal—sprung at me with such force that I reeled and fell back ag’in’ the side of the shack, and then—the shack it fell, too. I do’ know’s I fainted!”Mr. Horton continued, reflectively; “I never have lost conscientiousness as I know of, but there was quite a spell that I didn’t realize where I was, nor what had happened. When I did come to I found that I was pinned to the ground, and the animal—I hadn’t recognized him for your dog yet—was stretched out on the rubbish above my body, looking down at me and growling. The critter growled so ferocious whenever I tried to move that I gin up trying. I had found out, though, that the animal was a dog, and, natterally, I’d a pretty clear idea whose dog it was.”
Mr. Horton concluded abruptly. He got up slowly and stiffly, and again started toward his horse. Watching him, as he walked away, I saw that he looked broken and humbled, and an impulsive desire to help him, who had so often hindered us, took possession of me. “Wait,” I cried, starting up suddenly, for I had also found a seat on one of the fallen logs; “wait a minute, Mr. Horton!” He stopped, and I went up to him. “Mr. Horton,” I said, earnestly,“I want to do what’s right. I am sure that you are sorry for what you have done—”
“I am, you may believe me, Miss Leslie; I am sorry. I’ve done many a mean thing in my life, but none meaner than this job of persecutin’ a couple of orphan girls and their baby brother, and I’ve known it, and been ashamed of it, all along in my own heart. But I’d never ’a’ given in, nor given nor owned up to what I’m telling you this minute, Leslie Gordon, if you’d ’a’ shown less spunk and courage; and I’ll be as good a friend to you after this as I’ve been merciless enemy before it. I don’t ask you to believe me—”
“But I do believe you! I do believe you! If I—if we can begin again—if keeping still about what happened last night—and—about other things; the button, and the fire, and the crops, with your cattle brand on them,” I stammered, eagerly, not making things very clear in my haste, but Mr. Horton understood me.
“You are a good girl, Leslie,” he said, looking away from me; “you are a good girl. Yousee, my wife believes in me—she’s a better man than I am.”
“Yes; she must not know. No one need know anything about it, for I have told no one. I have kept my own counsel, and I will keep it still.”
Mr. Horton faced me now, holding out his hand. There was a mist over his hard eyes, and wonderfully softened and improved those same eyes were in such unaccustomed setting. I laid my hand in his, he clasped it closely for an instant, then dropping it, observed in his usual tones:
“Well, I reckon I’ll ride over to the fur pasture; then I’ll git home again jest about the time the folks come in from town.”
“No,” I said; “come home with me first and have some breakfast, and get brushed up a little.”
“I will,” he replied, readily, adding, with a rueful glance at his torn clothing, “I need a little mending done about as bad as any one I’ve seen lately.”
Guard and I walked along the ravine with him, while he led his horse. On emerging from the ravine Mr. Horton suddenly stopped, and began looking anxiously around. “That meat, now,” he observed, at length, “it ought not to be left layin’ around.”
I had put the poisoned meat up in the fork of a pine tree, and now showed it to him. “We’d better dispose of it,” he said, taking it down. Reaching the house, I went on in to prepare breakfast for my unlooked-for guest, who lingered outside until his horse was cared for; then he came in, and, going straight to the stove, lifted the lid and dropped the meat on the glowing coals. “There!” he exclaimed, replacing the lid, “that bit of death won’t hurt anything now.”
An hour afterward, washed, brushed, and partially mended—for I do hate mending, even in a righteous cause, like this—breakfasted, and with his horse equally refreshed, Mr. Horton rode away, looking like, and, I am sure, feeling like, another man.
Early in the afternoon I went over to the Wilsons’, and brought Ralph back with me. Long before they could possibly arrive we were both watching for Jessie’s and Joe’s return. The stars were shining big and bright, and Ralph was nodding sleepily in his high chair when the bays and the light wagon, with Jessie and Joe perched on the front seat, came rattling down the homeward road. Snatching Ralph, who was wide awake on the instant, up in my arms, I ran out to meet them.
“We didn’t have one bit of trouble, Leslie!” cried Jessie, jubilantly, as the team stopped at the gate; “Mr. Horton never came near us. I’m afraid we’ve been almost too ready to believe evil of him; but it won’t matter now, anyway, for the land is ours, Leslie, ours!”
“Hit is so, honey, chile!” echoed old Joe’s gentle voice. His black face was one expansive grin of satisfaction. “Young Mas’r Ralph Gordon ain’t nebber gwine want fur place to lay he head, now; yo’ listen at dat!”
“Neither is Joe!” said Jessie, brightly, asshe sprang to the ground. “Every one has been so kind, Leslie,” she continued, as we turned back into the house, while Joe drove on to the barn with the horses. “Lots of the neighbors were down there, besides our witnesses. I feel so cheered, Leslie, dear. We have so many friends.”
That was true, indeed; but, as time passed, not one among them all proved to be more helpful, steadfast, and efficient than was our erstwhile enemy, Mr. Jacob Horton.