“Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,We’re going to leave you now.”
“Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,We’re going to leave you now.”
“Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,Good night, ladies,We’re going to leave you now.”
as they rolled along the ranch roads in their buckboards and lumber wagons.
Colonel Morgan and his little girl, with animated faces, stood in the door till the revelry had died away. Then Alta turned to her warm-souled uncle, the only father she had ever known, and giving him a sweet—not good-night, but good-morning kiss, left for her room and lay down to rest. But she could not go to sleep. Her thoughts kept tossing excitedly, till to calm them she arose and went to the window where she stood looking out upon the dawning day, and thinking, thinking.
The events of the night just past had shocked her soul to a new sense of responsibility. She had begun to learn that it is dangerous business to play with the fire of human hearts. She chided herself for being too free with Dick Davis.What would come of it all? Her sensitive heart was troubled. For Alta Morgan was not a flirt; she was full of life and fun; she liked friends, and she won them quickly by her artless grace and genuine goodness; but though she seemed care-free and merry, her conscience was keen and true. It pained her to hurt any one. She felt more pity than blame for even stupid Bud. But she soothed herself with the feeling that after all, her fault was at worst only a bursting desire for innocent fun; and with this comforting thought she gradually dropped her worries to watch the morning break in peace over her troubled world.
The sunlight was tipping the jagged rim of the eastern mountains with flaming gold, before she threw herself, still in her dainty white but rather crumpled dress, on her couch.
When her uncle came in an hour later, she was still lying there, a quiet smile upon her pretty lips, a trace of tear stain on her cheek, and some withered wild flowers tangled in her silken hair. The Colonel gazed a moment in admiration, then he stepped softly across the room, took a light shawl that hung above her, and after spreading it gently over his “little squirrel” stole from the room, closing the door quietly after him.
THE Bar B ranch was roused that morning by a rowdy, half-tipsy band of cowboys, who dashed up to the old shack just as the sun pushed his blazing face above the eastern peaks.
Dan and Fred were up and had breakfast well under way; for they knew that Pat would not be in any fettle to do the cooking that day.
“Foine gintlemen ye are, may hiven bless ye fer givin’ a helpin’ hand,” Pat called out as he tumbled off his horse.
“Bully boys,” echoed Jim, “to stay at home and have breakfast a smokin’ fer the fellers that’s had the fun. That’s just what my good old mother used to do for this rattle-brain boy of hers.”
“Gee, but I’m sleepy!” said Dick, throwing his head on the saddle he had just jerked from his pony.
“No wonder at all, at all,” returned Jim, “but brighten up, Dickie, and take your rations;you can’t doze off and dream of fancy girls about here to-day.”
Dick was asleep before the sermon was finished. Seeing this, Jim filled a cup with cold water and dashed it in the sleeper’s face. Dick jumped up, sputtering and grumbling sleepily, “Oh, cheese it, Jimmie! Let a feller snooze a little.”
“No snooze for the wicked,” returned Jim, while they all laughed at Dick’s discomfiture; “and you’ve been mighty wicked to flirt with pretty Alta, and shoot poor Bud in the toes. What do you say, boys, first fellow that goes to sleep again to-day gets soused in the creek?”
“Good enough,” shouted the boys.
That settled it. The crowd had to keep awake all day, though it was a sore trial to most of them. But cowboys must get used to that sort of thing, especially during the roundup days, when it often happens that the work means riding all day and herding all night.
To-day, however, it was not the roundup, but a “barn-raising” that called for the help of all hands and the cook. Captain Hanks was anxious to get the big barn up before haying time came, and it took a great deal of muscle to raise the heavy timber.
“Now, all together—yo-hee!” the foreman would shout to the boys ranged along the great logs, and with much straining and puffing they slowly lifted them into place, one on top of the other.
Between lifts the sleepy ones would tumble back on the grass, amusing themselves with poking fun at one another. The dance gave them enough to talk about. But the one thing that touched them off again and again into spasms of laughter was the suggestion of Uncle Toby’s tumble from his fiddler’s perch, and Bud’s yell and flight.
“Now all together, yo-hee!” Captain Hanks shouted for the twentieth time that day. The log was beginning slowly to rise when Jim suddenly let go his hold and yelled, “Now, altogether—whoopee!”
The crowd collapsed, sinking to the ground with the big log on top of them.
“You fellows must have had a high time last night,” said Fred, “the fuss you make about it.”
“Bully time it was, Teddy,” returned Jim; “why didn’t you turn up and help swing the ranch lassies off their feet?”
“Oh, the kid’s not of our kind,” sneered Dick; “you wouldn’t catch him swinging the girls.”
“Don’t be too sure about that, Dick,” retorted Fred; “I’ll just take in the next dance to show you how.”
“Good fer you, me boy,” said Pat, “and we’ll leave Dick home to do the cookin’, next toime.”
“You’ll go damned hungry if you do,” snapped Dick.
“Oh, well, me boy, oh well,” Pat broke out singing:
It’s divil a rap do I care,It’s divil a rap do I care,As long as a drap is left, is left,In the old demijohn next mornin’.
It’s divil a rap do I care,It’s divil a rap do I care,As long as a drap is left, is left,In the old demijohn next mornin’.
It’s divil a rap do I care,It’s divil a rap do I care,As long as a drap is left, is left,In the old demijohn next mornin’.
“That reminds me,” said Cap Hanks, “there’s a demijohn under my bunk, Pat; go get it. The boys need a drop to keep ’em awake to-day.”
“I’m off,” said Pat, jogging away to the old shack. He found a gallon jug of choice old rye where the foreman had said, and was soon back to the barn.
“Now do the honors, cook,” said Hanks, “the treat’s on me.”
“You’re a gintleman!” said Pat, pouring out and passing round the whisky. When his turn came he took a long drink, rubbing his stomach with his free hand the while, then smacking his lips, he raised his eyes and said solemnly, “Hiven at last.”
When the laughter that greeted Pat’s performance subsided, Jim said, “You’d better watch out, Dicky, or Teddy here will be leadin’ you a merry chase after your ranch lassie.”
“Yes,” added Pat; “you know that the loikes of ye can’t talk poetry, and Teddy can.”
“Oh, I’ll risk it; he’s harmless,” returned Dick.
“Don’t you be too sure; you can’t tell how far a toad can jump by his looks,” said Jim dryly; “and remember you promised to make me boss when old Morgan deeds the ranch to you.”
“Hip, hooray!” broke in Pat, “what bloomin’ circus is this a-comin’?” Everybody looked up.
“A bunch of Injuns, by ginger!” said Cap Hanks; “I hope they won’t pitch their wickiups about here. They’ll beg the boots off our feet.”
“They’re heading this way,” said Dan.
“Holy mither, defind us poor sinners,” said Pat in mock fright. “Me head is bald as a button already; it’s no ither scalp I have to spare.”
“Hike to the shack with that whisky, Pat,” said the foreman, “and put it out of sight.”
“Right ye are, Captain”; Pat grabbed up the demijohn and dashed off. When inside the shack he took another drink, then placing the jug in the cupboard, returned to see the Indians, who were trailing along slowly toward the waiting cowboys.
“Looks like old Copperhead’s band,” said Dan. “Dave Johnson told me they were in the valley.”
“Yes, and they hev been slaughterin’ game; the warden’s watchin’ ’em,” added one of the boys.
“Them Redskins’ll stir up trouble in this country yet,” said Cap Hanks; “they’ll get mean when the new game laws are pulled on ’em. But Dave says he’s going to do it.”
The Indians by this time were filing past the ranch gate a few rods from the barn. A frowsled, straggly band it was, but picturesque withal, with its rough herd of vari-colored ponies, ragged, wolfish dogs, towsled, half-clad papooses, squaws in bright but tattered calicoes, and sober bucks, decked in spangled and fringed buckskins, with gay blankets.
The cowboys, out of curiosity, had dropped their work and gone to the gate to get a closer look at the dusky travelers.
“Hullo! Where now?” called Cap Hanks to the leader.
“Maybe so over there,” returned the chief, lifting his head and looking upward across the eastern mountains.
“Maybe so catchum elk, huh?” Hanks suggested in a significant tone of voice.
The chief scowled, but said nothing.
“Maybe so game man catchum Injun,” Dick put in smartly.
“Huh!” snapped the chief angrily; “maybe so white man put elk here, huh?”
“Oh, hold on, Chief, don’t get mad,” said Cap Hanks. “White man no stingy; let Injun kill all he needs to eat, but no heap kill ’em for buckskin.”
Old Copperhead’s eyes flashed. “What white man kill ’em for? Not meat, not buckskin. Heap fun. White man let Injun be, Injun let white man be. You savey?” With an angry jerk of the rein, he whirled his pony and started off when Dick, full of mischief, broke out again by jerking a flask from his pocket and saying, “Here, big Injun, maybe this cool ’em down; you likem whisky, huh?”
“You smart fool!” Dan rebuked him, “put that stuff up. They’re chuck full of the devil all ready. Hell only knows what they’d do if they got whisky down their black throats.”
Dick took the cut without a word, and put the bottle back, but not before the Indian had caught sight of it.
The suggestion was enough to wake their thirst; but they filed away sulkily behind theirchief, and pitched their tepees across the ford on the flat near an aspen grove.
Later in the day several of the bucks came back, ostensibly to swap things with the cowboys, who were gathered about the old shack, Hanks having let them quit work somewhat earlier than usual. Pat was getting things ready for supper when they rode up. The Indians began to beg for tea, sugar, and everything else in sight, but they didn’t make much headway with Pat.
Finally one of them caught sight of a flask projecting from the Irishman’s hip pocket and said, “Gimme fire water.”
“Go way wid ye!” snapped Pat.
“Injun give gloves for bottle,” the buck went on, reaching out a gaudily beaded pair.
“Not a bloomin’ drap,” returned Pat in decided tones.
“Give shirt and gloves,” persisted the buck.
“Go long wid ye!” Pat grew stubborn.
“Give pony!”
“Not a drap, ye spalpeen! Didn’t I tell ye?”
“Oh, let the poor devil have a swig to quench his thirst,” said Jim; “why don’t ye?”
“Why don’t I?” echoed Pat. “Why, the likes of it! And can’t ye see it’s the last swig in me bottle? D’ye think I’d let that red devilhave it when me own throat’s a-parchin’?” He had uncorked and raised the bottle while he spoke and now he drained it before the thirsty eyes of the Indians. Then tossing the bottle to the begging buck, who caught it eagerly, he said, “There! I’ll not be stingy wid ye. Take the last swate smell.”
But while the boys were roaring over Pat’s actions, another act was being performed with no audience to watch. One of the bucks, unnoticed, had slipped into and out of the shack. His blanket might have appeared bulgy, if one had looked closely, but the boys paid no attention to it.
After the Redskins had gone, however, Cap Hanks went to the cupboard for a good-night toddy and found his gallon jug of choice old rye gone. Immediately there was an uproar of swearing and accusation, which resulted in rightly placing the blame on the Indians.
But a greater roar followed shortly after dusk, when the drunken bucks began to make night hideous over among the wickiups. The yelling and screaming of the bucks, the frightened squaws and papooses, shocked the silent valley.
“It’s the devil’s own fun that’s up,” said Cap Hanks as he half rose from his bunk to listen.
“Let’s go over and see the circus,” said Dick.
“Not for me,” returned Cap Hanks. “You need some of the smartness taken out of you, so you’d better try it. The thing I’m going to do is to get my breeches on and load my gun. There’s no tellin’ what might happen.”
The other boys followed the suggestion. Then they lay down again to listen rather nervously to the yelling and shrieking that cut fitfully through the murmur of the trees and the sound of the stream. It was only a faint suggestion of the savage orgie that was being enacted around the wigwam fires by the whisky crazed bucks and terrified squaws and little ones. The suggestion of what might come to them sobered the crowd of cowboys. They had little to say as they lay listening till things grew calm again. It was nearly daybreak, however, before they had all quieted into sleep.
THE summer days that followed the Indian mêlée were always counted by Fred as among the richest of his life. His task was to herd the blooded stock.
“Keep ’em on good feed, and keep ’em away from the common cattle,” Cap Hanks had ordered him. Fred did not neglect his duty, but he found many hours when the cattle herded themselves. While they rested during midday or browsed on the open flat, he had time to fish, to hunt chickens, to explore the wilds, or when tired, to throw himself on the grassy banks near the stream and enjoy “Scottish Chiefs” or the “Leather Stocking Tales,” which Dan, who was a lover of good books, had generously lent to him.
Hanks rather admired the boy for his book habits, but in practical fashion he had warned him not to lose his head “fightin’ imaginary Injuns” and lose his cows.
“It’s all right, boy,” he said, “to hev yourhead in the clouds sometimes, but allus keep your feet on the ground.”
His fishing and hunting the foreman not only condoned but encouraged, especially after Fred had brought in his first big string of salmon trout. Straightway the boy, on motion of Pat, was “illected chief fisherman fer the ranch,” and excused from haying, herding, or any other regular job so long as he kept the cook supplied “wid the spickled beauties.” So fishing came to be regarded as part of Fred’s business.
Dick insinuated occasionally that the kid had “a soft snap”; but nobody else complained, and no one even guessed half the fun that Fred was having.
The splendid mountain stream was a never-ending delight. He followed it in all its crystal windings, over gravelly beds, where the trout loved to play, through shadowy, quiet depths, where the fish slept on silken fins; he learned all its windings through the cottonwood and aspen groves, around the willowy bends, and the meadowy stretches. The stream was always clear, sparkling, teeming with wild life, full of pleasant and sometimes unpleasant surprises.
Often as he slipped quietly toward a trout hole, half holding his breath for fear of scaring the fish, he himself would get a scare as a greatsand hill crane or a blue heron would give a startled cry and go thrashing its wings to rise and sail away. Once as he swung hurriedly around a curve of willows to come suddenly upon a kind of bayou, a thousand ducks shocked the air with startled quacking and splashing and whir of wings. Many a time he came upon a fantailed deer, which, rudely roused from its rest, would leap to its feet and, giving one wild look, bound away to a willowy cover.
But trout fishing was the best sport of all. The fish were plentiful, but they were just game enough to keep a fisherman’s wits alive. Oh, the fun of it!—to cast the singing line, to watch the tempting fly skim the ripples, to see the trout leap and grab it, and then with breath-taking suspense, to land him—sometimes! And oh the disappointment that often came when some beauty—always the biggest—would suddenly flip free of the biting hook and dive back into the quiet depths to safety.
Then the search for new trout holes, where no fisherman had ever been, always an impelling desire in Fred, brought many rich experiences. Some of these, however, were far from joyful. Once, indeed, the boy came within a breath of paying with his life for this desire to find the unknown. He trembled always to think how hemight have gone to a watery grave in a place where there was small chance that he would ever have been found.
It happened while he was hunting through Mystery Grove, as he called it, for a new hole to fish. The creek was high, and in this place, it plunged through the tall timber, so dense with fallen logs and undergrowth that he had to fight for an opening into the thicket. With rod held like a guiding spear in one hand, and with a string of fish in the other, the lone fisherman made his way yard by yard along the foaming creek. Finally he spied a promising place some rods ahead; but he could not get at it from that side of the stream.
How to cross was a problem. Nature came suddenly to his help to solve it. A few steps farther on, three trees, washed loose by the water, had fallen. Two of the trees were saplings. They reached clear over the stream. The other was a larger log, but it came only partly across. Fred figured that if he could get to the biggest tree, he would have a safe bridge the rest of the way.
With gingerly steps, he balanced along the swaying saplings till within stepping distance of the largest tree, then he stepped confidently, throwing his full weight upon it. Down it sank with him into the angry stream.
How he did it, he never could tell, but as he went down, he flung fish and rod to the bank and just saved himself from being washed under by catching his arms across the log. And there he hung, legs and body under, head and arms above, hooking on to the log, while the stream swirled and swished about him. He struggled to get back out of the strong, sucking current. It seemed impossible. Once he almost decided to let go and trust to luck to bring him out of the waves on the other side; but just below the logs, the stream dived with angry hiss and roar under great clawing roots. To have become entangled in those horrid, watery claws was death itself.
Breathing a silent prayer for help, he tried once more. One lunge brought him back a little, another and another put him partly above the fallen trees, and then he slowly lifted himself with greater ease to safety. He crawled along the poles to the bank where he lay for a few moments, and then, without even a glance at the new trout hole, he gathered up his few fish and his tackle and made his way painfully out of the woods. He had fished enough for that day.
But the surprises that the old stream gave him were not all so fearful. A few days after his mishap he had another experience that remained with him a golden memory always.
He was fishing the ripples just above Shadow Pool, eager to catch a big trout he had seen there many times, marked by a black spot just behind its gills, when he was startled by a splashing in the stream just above him. Whirling suddenly, he found himself facing Alta Morgan on her dapple-gray pony. Her bright eyes were laughing as she called out cheerily, “Good morning! What luck?”
“Haven’t counted yet; about a dozen, I guess.”
“Surely not; where?”
“Oh, you think I’m telling fish stories, do you? Well, I’ll show up.” He stepped to a shady side pool, and lifted from it a long willow, strung with speckled beauties.
“Fine!” she cried; “you are surely a fisherman.”
“Oh, I sometimes get a few. What’s your luck?” Fred glanced at the rod she held.
“I don’t like to confess.”
“Why not?”
“You’d know why if you took a peep into my basket.” She opened it as she spoke laughingly and showed—not a fish.
“You certainly haven’t loaded your pony,” said Fred; “but say, I can soon make things look better—if you’ll let me.” He reached up his string.
“Oh, no,” protested the girl, “you shame me. It’s very good of you, but—”
“Now look here,” Fred interrupted her, “you mustn’t say no. It’s my chance to pay up. Please play fair and take them.”
“Pay up, play fair,” echoed Alta. “What do you mean?”
“Don’t you remember that you caught my mare the other day and saved me a long chase?”
“Oh, yes, sure enough,” she laughed.
“Now take these fish as part pay, won’t you?”
“I didn’t do it for pay, but I’ll take the gift because you really want me to—and because I need them to win a bet.”
“Bet! How’s that?”
“Oh, Uncle and I made a wager to-day that I shouldn’t get a trout. It’s my first attempt at fishing, you see. Now I’ll have some fun and win his dollar. May I pretend I caught these? It wouldn’t be such an awful fib, would it?”
“Why you did catch them,” Fred put in helpfully—“with a lasso, didn’t you?” They laughed merrily at the suggestion.
“But say,” added he, “I have a better plan to square things with your conscience. You can land a trout for sure. I’ll show you how—if you’ll let me.”
“Let you! Won’t I though?” She slipped off Eagle’s back in eagerness to try.
“Well, take my rod and let’s steal around this bend to another pool. They won’t bite here, because we’ve scared them. Anyway, Old Solomon wouldn’t bite whether he’s scared or not.”
“Old Solomon? I don’t understand you.”
“It’s only a wise old trout I’ve tried to tempt in half a hundred ways. Perhaps I can show him to you, when we return. He’s marked and he’s a beauty; but he won’t bite. Come on.”
“All right.” Her voice was joyous with anticipation.
“Now, be quiet.” Fred led the way along the willowy trails. “There’s a good chance—see where the ripples smooth into that quiet pool. Just cast your fly on the dancing waters and skim it over them.”
Alta tried to follow directions, but unskilled in handling a line, she landed her hook, not on the ripples, but into a willow snag.
“Oh, pshaw! now I’ve spoiled it all,” she exclaimed.
“Sh’,” cautioned the boy, “that’s only fisherman’s luck.” He loosened the line quickly. “Now try again.”
The second fling brought better results. With a tiny splash, the fly struck the water, anddanced down the ripples. It had hardly reached the quieter waters when a lusty trout grabbed it.
“Oh, oh!” she cried, “I’ve caught one!”
“Not yet,” Fred warned her; “be careful.”
The words were scarcely off his lips when flip! the empty hook shot into the air, and a scared trout shot back into the pool.
“Oh, dear! that’s just wicked”; her tone was full of disappointment.
“Never mind,” her companion consoled her; “half the fish we do catch get away, you know. Try again, now, but don’t get so excited and jerk so hard next time.”
She cast her line again but without results; again and again she cast, but no fish rose. Discouragement began to show in her face.
“Maybe we have scared them out,” suggested Fred, as she flung once more across the ripples.
Like a flash to answer his doubt, there came a second splash of the waters. Another trout had grabbed the fly.
“Keep cool now,” the boy cautioned her; “he’s hooked solidly; you’ll land him if you keep steady.”
He stepped toward the bank to give help if needed, while Alta, a picture of mingled joy,suspense, and eagerness, slowly drew the struggling, splashing trout toward the shore. Then with a deft flip of the curving rod, she tossed it ten feet or more up the bank. Dropping her rod, she danced and clapped her hands in childlike delight, while Fred, whose heart was dancing too, unloosed the hook.
“There, now, your bet is fairly won,” he said.
“Oh, this is jolly!” she responded; “Uncle will be glad to give me that dollar, he’ll be so proud of me.” Then she added graciously, “How can I ever thank you for this?”
“Don’t try. It’s the best fun I’ve had to-day. Do you want to catch another?”
“Yes, indeed; but not now. It’s getting nearly dinner time. Uncle would worry if I’m away too long. Perhaps I’ll come again some time. May I? It’s splendid sport. Do you fish here much?”
“Yes, indeed, come any time. I try my luck nearly every day, whenever the cattle are quiet.”
“Well, don’t be surprised to see me again soon. Come, Eagle,” she called to her pony, and when he came, she reached to open her basket.
“Here, let me pack in the fish for you,” said Fred; “I’ll put yours on top so you can tell it.”
“Yes, but you mustn’t give me all of those fish,” she protested.
“Now, please don’t object,” he replied, as he kept on filling the basket; “you said you’d take them; now let me have my way this time, won’t you?”
“All right, if you insist,” she laughed, “and I’ll pretend I stopped fishing because I couldn’t get any more in the basket. It’s full to the cover now.”
He tied it securely to the horn of the saddle, and was holding the stirrup for her to mount, when she reached out her hand, saying, “Thank you ever so much for this rich treat. I’ll not forget it. Now may I ask for one thing more?”
“Certainly; what is it?”
“Your name.”
“Oh, Fred—Fred Benton.”
“Well, Mr. Fred, I don’t like you one bit”; her tone was mischievous.
“Why not?”
“You broke your promise with me. Why didn’t you come to our dance?”
“Oh—well—I! really, Miss Morgan—I—”
“There now, no excuses, you didn’t want to come.”
“Please let me explain.”
“Go on then.”
“Well, I was out hunting, you remember, and in my scouting up through the foothills, I ran on to an old mountaineer. I got so interested listening to his stories, that, before I realized it, it was sundown and when I reached home it was so late I was ashamed to go to the dance; but really I wanted to go.”
“Not very much, I’m afraid.”
“Now, please don’t. We are to be good friends, aren’t we?”
“I hope so, but you’d better not treat my invitations so lightly after this. There’s another dance to be given soon. Will you come?”
“Yes, I promise—”
“Don’t promise, just come,” she said lightly, then—“Say, tell me more about the old mountaineer. What does he look like?”
“He is tall and straight, with long hair and beard and the kindest of eyes and voice—you would like him I know. He lives in the cosiest little cabin in a pretty dell; you ought to see it.”
“I’m interested; take me there—oh!—pardon me—I—”
“No pardon needed. I’ll be delighted to do it.”
“When can we go?”
“Any time you say. Do you like to shoot?”
“I’ve never tried it. Will you teach me how?”
“It’s fun to teach you. Say, I’ll tell you.”
“What?”
“Let’s go on a chicken hunt and visit the old mountaineer together?”
“Fine! I’ll do it; but I must be going now or Uncle will worry about me. Good-by.”
“Good-by,” he responded, as she turned Eagle’s head toward the trail. The little horse leaped up the bank at her touch. With a wave of her hand she disappeared among the willows.
The boys at the ranch missed their usual trout supper that night and they joked Fred about failing to do his duty. He took their flings good-naturedly; but he never let out a word to tell what became of the best string of fish he ever caught.
IT was a gloomy night. The sun had gone down in a bank of black clouds. The lightning was playing above the western hills, and the thunder was beginning to grumble. The lightning flashed more sharply; a wind swept across the valley; the rain began to patter, then to pour; the lightning leaped flash upon flash out of the inky sky, while closely following every stroke came the cracking, booming thunder. The storm was on in all its fury, driving through the swaying trees and drenching the group of silent wigwams that stood ghost-like within the edge of an aspen grove at the foot of the eastern mountains.
Every dusky head was sheltered beneath the smoky canvas. No sign of life was about except the shaggy and dejected herd of squaw ponies which stood with backs hunched up and dripping tails turned toward the driving rain. Most of the Indians had rolled themselves in their blankets and were sound asleep despite the roaring storm.
But within a certain wigwam there was unrest. Had one raised the rain-soaked door-flap, one might have seen in the dull glow of the dying coals, several dusky forms squatted about the fire, while another, rolled in a blanket, lay near.
This one seemed to be in distress, for he tossed about from time to time. Once as the light blazed a little he threw himself with face toward the fire, which lit up his features and showed him to be not an Indian, but a white man. He mumbled something, and a squaw who was watching the sick man closely stepped to his side and gave him a drink of water. Then he rose to a sitting posture and began to rub his leg.
“Too tight, heap hurt,” he half groaned.
“Better soon,” his dusky nurse said comfortingly, while she loosened the bandages to ease his sorely wounded foot, saying as she did so, “Lie down, heap sleep, soon well.”
The patient heeded only part of the advice; he threw himself back into his blanket muttering, “Ugh, heap hurt!” then grinding his teeth savagely, he added, half to himself, “I’ll fix the devils that put me in this fix.”
“Maybe so killum white man, huh?” grunted one of the bucks sitting near.
“Shoot ’em like dogs,” was the bitter reply.
“Injun heap mad at cow men,” came the suggestive rejoinder.
The sufferer, as will be easily guessed, was Bud Nixon. Luck had flung him among the Indians shortly after his precipitate departure from Morgan’s dance. A kind of stupid, stubborn pride had kept him from turning to any of the ranchers for help, though any one of them would have given cheerfully the assistance his distress called for. Rather than ask it, however, he wandered on aimlessly trying to show his grit, until, overcome by loss of blood, he swooned and fell from his horse.
How long he lay in this faint he did not know. Luckily for him, two Indian hunters, following the mountain trail he had taken, found him stretched out, pale and bleeding, while his trusty horse cropped at the grass a few rods away. These dusky good Samaritans soon revived the wounded man and took him back to camp, where they left him in charge of old Towano, their medicine man, whose power to heal the sick was held in superstitious awe by the tribe, though the modern physicians would no doubt scoff at such clumsy attempts at healing as he used.
It proved good fortune, however, for Bud that he was given help of any kind soon. Hisneglect of his wound had already brought on a fever, and blood poison was threatening. The medicine man did his best with incantations to drive the disease away. It is doubtful, however, that his rattling, juggling tricks helped much. The faithful nursing of the white patient’s foot by Towano’s old squaw was no doubt the help that put him, after a few days, on the way to recovery. But these were bitter days for Bud at best. To suffer such indignity at the hands of his friends, to be shot and kicked out into the night, and finally to be forced to lie like a beggar among Redskins, taking their nauseating doses, their coarse food, the dirt and discomfort of their wickiups, in storm and shine,—all this rankled in his soul as he lay convalescing, and filled his heart with hate and a stubborn resolve to get revenge.
In this state of wrath, Bud’s slow brain was rather quickened to see and seize upon the suggestion of co-operative enmity that the Indians occasionally threw out. They were already full of anger towards the warden and the ranchers. The persistent encroachment of the cattlemen on their hunting grounds, and their threats to enforce irritating game laws had put the Indians in an ugly mood. It wouldhave taken but little to precipitate open warfare with all the horrors of massacre and plunder.
Bud was in a state of mind, however, not to reck at consequences. His brain was too unimaginative to picture ahead. He lived only an animal-like existence from day to day. It was an opportunity he saw to pay up his enemies with brutal interest. The idea gradually possessed him; but for the present he said nothing, lying low and nursing his hate by recalling the pictures of Alta Morgan’s refusal, of Dick Davis’s triumph, and the derisive contempt of the whole crowd.
One afternoon as the white patient was lying under the trees near the tepee the Indians had built for him, several young bucks came over to talk with him. They were evidently in a fever of subdued excitement. About an hour before, they had dashed into camp and Nixon heard them talking rather loudly with wild gesticulations, to their old chief; but he could only make out something about game men. They did not offer any explanation now, being still a little afraid to trust the white man who had fallen in with them.
“What’s up?” asked Nixon; “game warden been after you?”
“That’s it,” responded Flying Arrow, a young chieftain; “heap chase Injuns this morning, but no ketch ’em.”
“Oh, he’s no good; he needs killin’.”
“You think so,” the Indian responded; “you no like him.”
“Naw, he’s a squaw killer. Why didn’t you shoot him?”
“Injun no want trouble; white man better let Injun alone”; the chief’s tone was threatening.
“White man has no business stopping you from killing all the deer you want. I’d put a bullet through him if he tried to stop me. What did he do to you?”
“Heap chase ’em Injuns—that’s all. No ketch ’em. Bucks dodge. Some go this way through trees, some that”;—the chief made his story very vivid by expressive gesticulations. “Drop deer in creek. Run up creek, no tracks, long way round to wickiups. No see ’em game man any more. Maybe so lose him in trees.”
“Well, he’ll be sneakin’ round again, don’t worry. He wants to play heap smart, put Injun in jail, get heap money. You’d better kill the devil. If you don’t, he’ll get you.”
The Indians, usually reticent, grew more and more talkative as they found in their whitecompanion one who held bitter grievances against their enemies. Especially was this the case with the hot-blooded ones of the band. For there are Indians and Indians, some always keen for trouble, others peaceful and law-abiding by nature. But all of the tribe were more or less restive at this time.
Bud’s first plans to get even with those against whom his grudge was fiercest contemplated no bloodshed. His main thought was to annoy and harass his foes in some ugly way without risk to himself. The scheme of doing it gradually took shape in his brain. He had been the chief bully of the valley, why not be chief of a band of Indians? It would be an easy trick to lead such a band into all sorts of mischief. Knowing every foot of the ground and all of the people concerned, he could readily raid the ranches, steal cattle and horses, set fire to their stacks, or cut up other kinds of deviltry to torment those on whom he would glut his revenge.
The chance to promote his plot was not hard to find. Let one but strike with energy to realize a strong desire for good or ill, it is surprising how the force draws like a magnet and magnetizes like metal all about it.
The days that Bud lay convalescing he used to the advantage of his plan. By card playingand gambling with the young bucks, he soon established a close fellowship. They naturally took to his leadership, and he had soon so gained their confidence that he felt safe to suggest his plan to Flying Arrow, one of the leading young Indians, straight as an arrow and as light and swift, with keen but not unkindly eyes. The plot found favor with this daring brave rather because it was electric with possibilities, than because of any deep-seated grudge he bore the whites. Through this young chief it was spread to several others of like spirit. They took to it also with avidity, and before Old Copperhead was aware of it, there was formed within his band a kind of secret coalition of dare-devils, bent upon excitement and incidentally revenge toward the whites.
It is doubtful whether the old chief would have permitted such a thing had he known in time to nip it in the bud. He was wise enough to foresee some of its consequences. When he did get a hint of what was doing, it had gone rather too far to check easily; besides, his own hate of the whites made his objections to the scheme only half-hearted. He, therefore, chose the politic way of dealing with the matter by letting things take their course, allowingthe band to leave on their pretended hunting expeditions whenever they chose, and asking no questions about the kind of meat they brought back, a goodly share of which was always left at his wickiup. Nor did he count his ponies often to take stock of the increase in the herd. Secretly the old chief was rather gloating because of the advantage he was getting over his enemies.
The cattlemen did not miss any stock at first; for the thieving band worked very slyly; and it was not the time for rounding up the cattle and horses. Besides, the Indians had a leader who knew well the ground and the game.
Emboldened by success, the marauders grew in numbers and in daring. Bud Nixon was soon glorying in a command big enough to be dangerous, and feeding his stupid soul the while with anticipation of richer revenge. “Ankanamp,” or Red Foot, was the Indian name given to the White Chief.
Even Old Copperhead was beginning to admire his new ally, and planning to make him a real Injun by bringing about a marriage with one of the Indian maidens.
He little knew what Bud’s brain had plotted along that line. No less a mate than the belle of the valley would suit him. Let her oncefall into his power he would bring the proud minx to terms. To that end, he had a scheme of his own that he never divulged to any of his followers. It was to be the culmination of all his desires and his deviltry. How his plot worked out we shall learn later.
IT was July twenty-fourth, the day on which, some forty years before, the Mormon Pioneers had entered the valley of the Great Salt Lake. A colony of these people, who had settled a few miles to the south of the Bar B ranch, had decided to celebrate the occasion. The program looked promising of a good time. It was to begin with a pageant depicting scenes of the early days and close with a banquet in the aspen grove, followed by a “grand ball.” Everybody in the valley, regardless of religious affiliations, was urged to participate in the celebration.
Cap Hanks, yielding to the solicitations of his men, therefore declared the day a holiday for all hands and the cook. Fred, however, made a plan of his own for the day. He awoke early that morning before the stars had faded, and while the rest were asleep he slipped out of bed, caught and saddled his mare and rode away toward the eastern hills.
The air was delightfully crisp as the breezes began to pour out of the canyon down from the snowy peaks. It was a joy to be alive if only to drink deeply of the mountain ozone, sweet with the mingled fragrance of pines and flowers and grasses; the old stream seemed snappier and fresher than ever as Brownie splashed into its clear cold waters across the old ford. Nature was yet asleep. Only the whispering of the trees and the singing of the stream could be heard. But as they climbed the trail up the foothills, live things began to waken. First a sleepy “cheep-cheep” of some little songbird out of the streamside willows, then a far away yelping of the coyotes, and suddenly from under Brownie’s pattering feet an old sage hen sprang into the air with frightened clucking. A moment later the whole flock arose, shocking the stillness with their noises. By the time he had reached the hill crest before the old trapper’s home, the first streaks of day had appeared above the mountain, and the morning star, a spot of flaming silver against the sky, was melting in the reddening glow of the dawn.
Old Tobe gave a sharp, challenging bark as Brownie’s feet rattled the gravel down the trail.
“Who’s there?” called Uncle Dave from within the cabin as the boy rode up.
“Fred Benton,” came the response; “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”
“No, come in; I was just crawlin’ out.”
Fred tied his mare to a sapling and entered the cabin.
“What brings you here so airly, boy?” asked the old man.
“Oh, we have a day off to celebrate with the Mormons.”
“Mormons?” Uncle Dave’s tone was curious.
“Yes, it’s their Pioneer Day,—the day Brigham Young and his band entered Salt Lake Valley, and the colonists here are celebrating, so Cap Hanks gave us a day off to join in the fun.”
“But you’re not joinin’ ’em?”
“No, I don’t like some kinds of cowboy fun,” returned Fred frankly; “I thought I’d rather have another visit with you.”
“That’s good of you, boy, to remember an old man,” responded Uncle Dave with a touch of feeling. “I’ll get a bite of breakfast; your ride has whetted your appetite, I reckon.”
“This air would give anyone an appetite,” said Fred; “what can I do to help?”
“You might get the fire going.”
Fred stepped outside for wood and brought back with his armful a sack he had untied from his saddle.
“Here’s something to help out,” he said, emptying half a dozen fine fish on to the table. “I had a good catch yesterday and thought you’d like some.”
“Much obliged, boy; trout tastes good once in a while, and I ain’t took time to get any lately.”
The breakfast preparations went on briskly. When all was ready, the old man said, “Now set up and be at home.” Then he offered his brief grace and they ate in silence for a few minutes.
“My mother learnt me to pray, boy,” said Uncle Dave quietly; “she allus said it was the right thing to do, and I’ve proved it. You know a man that lives in these wilds alone as I hev these forty-odd years has to get close to God fer comfort. It’s a good thing, boy, to keep the trail between you and Him clear. I once seen it proved, too, by them pioneers you was speaking of.”
Fred was interested.
“I met ’em in a peculiar way when they wuz comin’ here,” the old man went on; “they called me God’s good angel, and I guess they wusn’t far from right; but I’d mighty nigh forgot the whole thing till you reminded me of it.”
“Tell me about it, Uncle Dave,”—the old man had paused.
“Well, it wuz this way, you see; I wuz huntin’ and trappin’ and tradin’ along Green River during the late forties, barterin’ my skins to old Jim Bridger. One day I left my camp and wuz startin’ up the hills to scare up some sage hens fer dinner, when somethin’ said to me, ‘Go up the river.’ That didn’t seem right; I begin to argue with myself that the chickens wouldn’t be up the river that time o’ day, but the notion came again, ‘Go up the river.’ I stopped kind o’ puzzled, then laughin’ to myself fer bein’ so foolish, I started off again up the hills, when the feelin’ came the third time, ‘Go up the river,’ and I turned without any more arguin’ to do what I was told. Yes, what I wuz told, boy; fer if I wuz to live a thousand years I’d never believe any different. I larnt that day, if never before, that God does hear prayers when they’re sent up right.
“I hadn’t walked far when I seen somethin’ across the river that looked curious. It wasn’t animals—it was men—men on their knees, ’bout six of them in a circle. I supposed at first they wuz havin’ dinner, but they wa’n’t anysigns o’ camp about and they had their hats off; looked like they wuz prayin’, and so they wuz.
“Then I looked up the river and jest across from them, ’most ashore on a sand bar, was somethin’ else that looked like a dead man. I hurried up the bank and saw thet it was a dead man—anyway I thought so till I waded out and looked him over. He wa’n’t dead, but he was mighty near drowned. I dragged him to a drier place on the bar and worked to bring him to. Bimeby he got enough life in him to tell me what had happened.
“The men on the other bank were shoutin’ to me all the while, but I couldn’t make out what they said, fer the river was roarin’, it bein’ high water. But this man told me that they wuz Mormon Battalion boys tryin’ to ketch up with Brigham Young’s band of pioneers. They had come up too late to get ’em on the far side of the river, and the ferryboat was left on the side I was. So he had tried to swim the stream on a horse, but the horse was drowned, and he had just barely made it across by half swimmin’ and bein’ washed by the current on to the bar where I found him.
“Well, we soon made it up to the ferry and swung the old flatboat back to the men. Theywere so glad they laughed and cried and called me God’s good angel sent in answer to their prayers. They hadn’t had anything to eat fer two days, fer they had been expectin’ to ketch the pioneers sooner and hadn’t stocked up with much grub at Fort Laramie.
“We hurried across the river again and followed the fresh pioneer trail fer about a mile, and there we found ’em camped jest beyend the bluffs of the river. It was a happy meetin’, I tell you. Their leader, Brigham Young, jest hugged the hungry men. As fer me, they couldn’t get over thankin’ me, though I hadn’t done nothin’ worth fussin’ ’bout. They fed me with the best they had and asked me all sorts of questions ’bout the country ’fore I left ’em.
“I tell you, boy, there’s somethin’ in prayer. It’s a good thing to keep the trail between you and God clear.”
The story seemed to open a vein of rich memories in the old mountaineer’s mind. Fred plied him with eager questions and listened rapt in interest as Uncle Dave told of his experiences in the western wilds. His old heart, warmed by the youthful spirit that drew him out, became youthful again as he lived over the days gone by.
It was long past noon before either realized how the day had slipped away. Fred rose togo, saying appreciatively, “My, but I have enjoyed this fun. It has been a real pioneer day for me, Uncle Dave.”
“Glad you come up, boy; but ye ain’t goin’ yet, air ye?”
“Yes, I must be off now; I’ve made a promise to join in the fun that’s coming to-night.”
“Thet’s right; keep yer promise, but come again.”
“I will,” said the boy, as he turned Brownie up the trail toward home.
THE celebration was going merrily when Fred rode up to the “Ward House,” a large log structure set prominently among the scattered cabins that made the new village. It was used for all public gatherings by the Mormon colonists.
He was not very late, however; for Dan, who stayed at home as usual, had taken a brotherly interest and insisted that Brownie be given a rest while Fred ride Chief, Dan’s best saddle horse. This was a rare privilege; but Dan went further. When Fred had opened his old valise to find clothes fit for the occasion, he revealed so scant a wardrobe that his friend, without seeming to see the lack, threw up the till of his own well-stocked trunk and urged the boy to help himself.
“Oh, come, now; no foolishness,” he said imperatively, as Fred protested.
“I know you haven’t had any money to blow in on cowboy finery. I used to do it, though; and these are some of the leavings of my sportydays; now help yourself. They’re not much use to me any more.” Dan did not tell what had sobered him. The death of his sweetheart a few years before had cast a lasting shadow over his life.
The shame of shining in borrowed plumes was largely lost in such open-hearted generosity, and Fred, under his companion’s insistence and selection, soon found himself a smartly dressed cowboy indeed. He could hardly voice his thanks as he mounted Chief to ride away.
The night was brilliant with stars; the moon had not yet risen, but was sending its promises of a beautiful night by tipping the dark hills with silver. The air, fresh and fragrant, turned to a gentle breeze as Chief, taking the bits, leaped along the echoing road. It was an exquisite ride. Fred let the fine horse keep his own swift pace till suddenly he galloped out of the timber that lined the creek, and the lights of the village flashed before him.
It was easy to find the dance hall. Lamps were blazing from every window, and the music was ringing as he rode up. A herd of saddle ponies, and a motley collection of buckboards, lumber wagons, and “white tops” were ranged along the fences. Everybody seemed to be out. The meeting house was full of happy celebrators.
Tying Chief securely to a fence, he made his way hesitantly toward the crowd. A feeling of bashfulness swept over him. He had stopped, half tempted not to push his way into the strange crowd, when some one slapped him on the shoulder, and a tipsy tongue said heartily:
“Hello, Tiddy, where the devil did ye drop from? No matter, you’re here; good fer ye, lad, come on.”
“Yes, Pat, I’m here; but I have half a notion not to face the music.”
“The divil ye say! It’s give in now, is it? Not while I’ve me money staked on ye. I’ll have Jim show ye a foine time. It’s just the crowd to suit ye. That Mormon beer they’re passin’ won’t wet your throat, but ye’ll like it, for there’s no stick in it at all, at all; and they’re a mighty social people, even if they do mix prayin’ with their dancin’. Come along, me lad.”
Thus urged, Fred soon found himself in the midst of the crowd.
“Here, Jamie,” called Pat, as he caught sight of his partner in the doorway. Jim whirled around.
“I’ve caught this trout-lassoin’ Tiddy,” Pat went on; “now show him the toime of his life.”
“Why, hello, Teddy,” returned Jim, grabbing the boy’s arm. “Come into the mix-up. You’re losin’ a deal.”
Before Fred could protest, Jim had opened a way through the good-natured, jostling crowd of cowboys that blocked the doorway, and he found himself in the heart of the fun.
“Alleman left!” trumpeted Uncle Toby, through the buzz of voices, shrill music, and clattery feet. “Promenade all!” he called again. Then with a series of scraping flourishes he wound up his lively tune. The laughing, chatty couples, faces aflush, cleared the crowded floor.
“Your attention, please!” called the manager in a commanding tone.
The crowd quieted.
“The next on our program is a quartet by members of the choir, ‘Sunset Land,’ composed by David Willis for this occasion.”
Four young people stepped out of the crowd to make their way to the head of the hall. The organist struck up a pleasing, though not very classic air, and they sang with spirit and harmony this song: