Dear Dan,I am discharged because I won’t “beller.” Perhaps I’m doing wrong, but my head is so troubled just now I can’t think very clearly. I wish I might have a word with you. Thank you for all your kindness. Say good-by to the boys. I hope they won’t think I am as bad as some would make me out to be.Fred.P. S. Please take care of my bridle and saddle. I’ll send for them later.
Dear Dan,
I am discharged because I won’t “beller.” Perhaps I’m doing wrong, but my head is so troubled just now I can’t think very clearly. I wish I might have a word with you. Thank you for all your kindness. Say good-by to the boys. I hope they won’t think I am as bad as some would make me out to be.
Fred.
P. S. Please take care of my bridle and saddle. I’ll send for them later.
“I’ll bring that stubborn little cuss to time,” said Hanks; “it ain’t the first critter that’s turned up missin’ out of that blooded bunch. Two others are gone.”
“The kid’s done some careless herdin’,” insinuated Dick.
“Well, he’ll pay fer it. I’ll keep the price o’ them heifers out of his wages.” Hanks didn’t think that Fred would leave. He was astounded to find him gone.
If Dan had been at the ranch, the result undoubtedly would have been different. When he did return to learn from Fred’s note and Noisy the full story, he was angry.
“Hanks,” he said, “you’re boss here; and I ought to respect your orders, but I want to tell you that you haven’t given that boy a square deal.”
“That’s my business,” retorted Hanks. “Nobody can kill the stock around this ranch without paying for it.”
“Who knows that he has killed any stock? I don’t believe it. There are other ranches that have lost stock. There’s some nigger in this business, and I’ll fetch him out.”
“That’s right,” put in Dick, “stick up for the cow-kid.”
“You cowardly cuss!” Dan broke out, letting slip his temper; “don’t you bark again, or you’llrue it. If the truth were known, I’ll bet you are at the bottom of this dirty work. You have treated that boy like hell ever since you came to this ranch. And all because he wouldn’t be a hoodlum like you.”
Dick’s face blazed, but he couldn’t find tongue to retort, so he simply cowered. The other boys sat mute. Suddenly Dan checked himself, and stalked out of the door, walking toward the corral to cool down his temper.
“Dan’s dead right, Cap,” said Jim; “you didn’t give the kid a square deal.”
“Well, let him tell who roped that heifer; that’s all I asked.”
“What! ‘beller’ on some one else? Look here, boss; I’d see you in hell first, and then I wouldn’t. I like the kid’s grit. Let the guilty cuss who done it own up and take his medicine.”
“Yis, be jabers, be it bitter or swate, that’s scripture,” put in Pat; “come on now and take the medicine I’ve got fer ye and fergit yer troubles. These praties are gittin’ cold.”
The boys needed no further urging. They grabbed up their tin dishes and began to eat heartily—all but Dick; he didn’t have much of an appetite. His conscience had been stung a little into life.
“OH, you Primrose, that’s nuthin’. Do you ’spose I’d git mad if a nice feller tried to kiss me?” Sally laughed noisily. “Why, that’s all in the game, goosie.”
Alta’s face showed pain at this rude reception of her confidence. “Why, Sally, I’m shocked to hear you speak of such liberties so flippantly.”
“Oh, pshaw, it only shows he likes you. Dick is a jolly fellow. He don’t mean nuthin’ by it.”
“It only shows he has no respect for himself or me either.”
“You’ll get over that in time, Miss Tenderfoot,” Sally went on; “boys are boys, and we’ll have to take ’em as they are, or we’ll die old maids.”
“Well, I’ll die an old maid then, before I’ll sacrifice my self-respect to get a beau. Respect and love go together. That’s what Aunt Betty used to say, and I believe every word of it.”
“My, how pretty you talk—jest like preachin’.”
“Well, I mean it.”
“Yes, but I don’t believe in bein’ so stiff with the boys that you drive ’em all away. And that’s what you’re doin’ with Dick. He’s a dandy fellow, too.”
“Yes, you’re right, he is a dandy.” Sally missed the double meaning.
“Well, you think a whole lot of him anyway.”
“I’d think a good deal more of him if he thought more of himself.”
“He’s conceited enough, if that’s what you want.”
“That’s just what I don’t want. Conceit and self-respect are two very different things.”
“Oh, you’ll forget all your fine talk one of these days and be glad to forgive him.”
“Sally, what do you take me for?”
“Just a silly little girl who’s got herself upset by a smart fellow, that’s all; but you’ll recover.”
“Indeed I will.”
“Yes, and so will he; for you’ll make up to-night and be swimmin’ in honey.”
Alta flushed. “Please don’t anger me, Sally. Be serious. I came to you for advice, and youmake light of my confidences. You surely don’t think I’m in love with Dick Davis.”
“Oh, no, not yet; but the signs are right for a real case.”
“Signs sometimes fail; don’t they, Aunt ‘Liza?” The bustling housekeeper had just come in with a bucket of eggs she had been gathering.
“Law me, yes; they’ve certainly been failin’ ’bout here. I thought I’d see some signs o’ work, ’gin I got back. You gals better make ’em, stid o’ talkin’ ’bout fellers. That’s what you’ve been doin’, I’ll warrant.”
“Oh, no, we wouldn’t do anything like that—specially Alta. She don’t believe in fellers.”
“Don’t, eh? Well, they seem to b’lieve in her the way they keep shinin’ ’round.”
“Yes, but she—”
“Sally, please don’t,” pleaded Alta; “what can we do to help you, Aunt ‘Liza?”
“Jest pitch in brisk. We got to git this cookin’ goin’ lively, or we’ll never be ready fer that bunch o’ fellers that’s comin’ to-night. It flusters me to think about it. You wash this rice and get it cookin’, Sally; and Alta, you skip over to Willis’s and git some eggs; I ain’t found half enough. Tell her to let me hev all she kin spare. I’ll git the pie crust ready while you’regone. Missus Moffat says she’ll bring her girls over this afternoon and give us a lift. Goodness knows we need it.”
By the time she had finished her speech, Alta was at the corral, bridling Eagle. Leaping on him, she galloped off briskly along the winding trail that lay like a loose flung rope across the meadow. She was glad to be alone for a moment.
“What’s all this feller talk about?” was Aunt ‘Liza’s prying question when Alta had gone.
“Don’t know as I ought to tell,” Sally replied.
“Tell? Well, I guess you orter. Ain’t I that little gal’s protector and confider?”
“Then why ain’t she told you?”
“I dunno. The little puss has been kind o’ sly lately. There’s somethin’ worryin’ her mind and she ain’t so free with me as she was. What’s she been tellin’ you?”
“Oh, jist ’bout Dick Davis tryin’ to kiss her.”
“When?”
“Night of the Pioneer Dance.”
“And she wouldn’t let him?”
“No, she snubbed him for it.”
“Huh! so thet’s the reason Dick quit comin’ here so sudden. And thet’s what’s worrying her, I know, cause she likes Dick.”
“Yes, and he’s gone on her, too.”
“Well, they’ll hev to untangle their own yarn. I’ve got plenty o’ troubles of my own to look after,”—and Aunt ‘Liza began to rattle the pots and pans. Sally pitched into the work with vigor.
“Beats me, though, how the fellers flock round Alta when she acts so independent. I guess it’s true that the meaner you treat ’em the better they like you,” said Sally.
“Yes, but it won’t allus work. I’ve seen many a smart girl who might a had her pick of all of ’em, and hev to take some scrub at last. Girls mustn’t be too particular.”
“You bet I—”
“Here are your eggs,” said Alta, tripping through the door; “and here come Mrs. Willis and Mary to help out.”
“Good fer us!” exclaimed Aunt ‘Liza; “we need their help. Come in, Marthy.”
“I thought you’d have your hands full trying to get ready for the crowd that’s coming. What can we do?” said Mrs. Willis, a motherly, helpful spirit, with a touch of refinement in her voice and manner. She had recently come from the city to try ranching, her husband’s health having begun to break at too close work in the store.
“You might make the cookies, Mrs. Willis. I’ll clear this table for you. And Mary can pitch in with Alta peelin’ the apples fer the pies, if she will. Sally, you jest make that rice puddin’. I’ll git these dishes washed. The bread’s baked, and the boys have got the steer a-roastin’. I guess we’ll git through; but it’s worse than feedin’ the threshers.”
“Of course we shall,” said Alta; “Aunt ‘Liza’s a good manager. I only wish I could handle the kitchen half so well.”
“You could if you’d keep your head on it; but a body can’t cook and read poetry at the same time; still you do mighty well,” said Aunt ‘Liza, inwardly pleased with the praise. “Here comes Mrs. Moffat. Glad to see her, too. Good mornin’, Sarah Jane, come right in.”
“Looks like you need another hand, ‘Liza. What can I do to help?”
“Set down with the girls there, if you will, and show ’em how to peel apples. I’m afraid they’re wastin’ too much.”
“All right; move ’round, Mary, and let’s have an apple peelin’ bee, like we used to have in pioneer days.”
“Oh, jolly,” exclaimed Alta, “and you tell us a story while we work.”
“Name my apple first,” said Mary, jumping up and passing it for everybody to thump.
“And mine too,” said Sally, grabbing one.
“Here, Aunt ‘Liza, let’s name one for you, too.”
“Oh, git away with your foolishness, ’tain’t no use.”
“Let’s name one for her anyway,” said Alta. “Now all together, think hard and thump. Maybe it will bring Aunt ‘Liza a beau to-night.”
“Now for the peelin’s,” said Sally, swinging hers carefully above her head, and letting the paring drop behind her.
“It’s a G,” cried Mary; “who’s that?”
“Law, that’s easy,” said Aunt Liza, not too absorbed in her work to keep in with the fun; “G’s for Jim, of course.”
The girls squealed their delight at Aunt ‘Liza’s happy blunder.
“Sure! sure! that’s it,” they exclaimed.
“Well, try your luck, Mary,” said Sally.
Mary’s paring was flung and it formed an O.
“Old maid, Mary!” teased Sally.
“I don’t believe it,” said Mary.
“Come, Alta,” said Sally, “come, yours next.”
Alta’s paring broke as it dropped.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Broken hearts, we always used to say,” said Mrs. Moffat.
“Oh, that’s bad fortune,” said Alta; “it can’t be true.”
“Apple peelings never lie,” said Sally in mock seriousness.
“You certainly will break somethin’,” interjected Aunt ‘Liza, raising her dough-covered finger to emphasize her remark, “if you don’t quit flirtin’ with the fellers. They won’t keep comin’ always, as I’m a shinin’ example to prove.”
A scream of fun greeted this sermon.
“Oh, Aunt ‘Liza’s had experience, I know—a real romance, I just know it,” said Alta, “but she never gave a hint of it before.”
“Tell us all about it,” teased Mary.
“Romance! shucks! d’ye think I’d hev fellers pesterin’ about me?”
“Oh, don’t be so practical, Auntie; tell us something really romantic,” said Alta.
“Yes, what did he say when he proposed?” added Sally; “why wouldn’t you have him?”
Aunt ‘Liza’s face flushed as she turned without a word to make the old rolling pin chuckle again across the pie dough. Sally had struck a tender chord rather roughly. All felt it. Mrs. Willis, with motherly instinct, turned their thoughts quickly, by saying—
“Come, girls, stop teasing Aunt ‘Liza, and turn on me.”
“All right, you tell us how your beau popped the question,” said Sally.
“No, I won’t tell you that; but I’ll tell you about an apple tree romance with a proposal in it, if you wish.”
“Oh, jolly, jolly!” The girls dropped their apples and clapped their approval.
“Who was it about? Not you, mother?” asked Mary, a little anxiously.
“No, not me exactly, but I was in the fun. It is about John Watkins; you remember him, Aunt ‘Liza?”
“Yes, I reckon I do, lazy old scamp!” came the tart response. “After Maria died he wouldn’t do nuthin’ but read poetry and chase around tryin’ to git another wife to raise his pack o’ young uns—think I did know him.”
“Well, it’s ’bout his proposing to Jerusha Jones that I was going to tell.”
The girls were all interested.
“Oh, come now, you must work or I won’t talk.” The paring knives began to fly again.
“Well, Jerusha was one of my chums, as jolly a girl as you ever saw, pretty, too; and pranks!—what that girl could not think of was hardly worth trying. The fellows were allcrazy over her, but she wouldn’t be serious with any of them.
“Well, Jerusha and Mary Snow—that’s the one this chicken is named for—and I were like triplets, together all the time, and we knew one another’s secrets and shared all our fun and trouble. For we had our troubles, hard work a-plenty, and precious little fun except what we made, but then that’s the best kind anyway.
“Well, as I was saying, Jerusha had plenty of strings to her bow, but that didn’t make any difference to Mr. Watkins. When his wife, Maria, died, he wanted another, of course, and no one but the best was good enough, that is, to begin with. He changed his mind later and took what he could get.”
“Yes, and he got a regular Tartar, too,” supplemented Aunt ‘Liza, “just as mean as Maria was good—served him right.”
“But what was the apple tree romance, mother?” Mary voiced the impatience of the listeners.
“I’m coming to it, girlie. You know we used to get up home dramatics, and Mr. Watkins, being rather literary in his tastes, used to play on the stage with us. Jerusha was generally the star with him, and they were fine, too. Iguess that’s how he came to take to Jerusha afterwards. He got used to making love to her.
“One night when Mary and I went over to Jones’s, we found Jerusha all flustered over something.
“‘It’s coming, girls, it’s coming,’ she broke out, clasping her hands and acting stage-struck.
“‘How am I to meet it—to meet it?’ She acted so tragic it half scared us.
“‘For goodness’ sake, what’s the matter?’ I guess I half screamed.
“Jerusha threw herself in a chair and laughed hysterically. Of a sudden she stopped—
“‘Say, girls, I have a scheme. Will you do it? Dare you do it?’ she whispered in stage tones.
“‘Do what?’ we asked.
“‘Save me from becoming the mother of an orphan asylum.’ She grew tragic again.
“‘You must, or I’ll die! I’ll die! Will you do it?’
“‘Of course, we’ll do it!’ we promised, half alarmed at her antics. ‘What is it?’
“‘My Lord de Vere is going to pop the question, this very night.’
“Mary and I sank on the sofa screaming with laughter. Lord de Vere was Watkins’ stage name.
“‘Jerusha, you don’t mean it?’
“‘Yes, I do; he nearly did it last night, but I headed it off. He’s coming to rehearse to-night, and I know he’ll do it. What can I do? What shall I do?’
“‘Do!’ Aunt ‘Liza sniffed, ‘why tell himnoand be done with it.’”
“Oh, how could you be so cruel, Aunt ‘Liza?” asked Sally.
“Please go on, Mrs. Willis,” said Alta.
“Well, Jerusha finally jumped up and cried, ‘Girls, I have it! Do you want to hear a real proposal?’
“We danced with delight at the suggestion.
“‘Well, I’ll tell you. When my lord comes to-night, you be on hand and I’ll manage the rest. Slip down by the old apple tree.’”
“Mother, you surely didn’t!” said Mary.
“I’m afraid I must confess, child, that I did.”
“And did he propose?”
“Now, don’t crowd my story. We waited a long time before they got through rehearsing, and then, just as we had decided that Jerusha was fooling us, here they came sauntering down to the bench by the apple tree. We didn’t know where else to hide, so we climbed the tree, and sat there giggling. But we managed to holdquiet enough until he began to make love in dead earnest.”
“Huh! the old softy!” inserted Aunt ‘Liza; “jest like him!”
“Did he get down on his knees?” asked Sally; “what did he say?”
“I don’t remember a word; we burst out laughing, and jumped up and down on the limbs till the apples peppered down on them. Jerusha broke away and ran screaming to the house, and Mr. Watkins made a mad scramble for the gate.”
“Oh, mother, mother!” exclaimed Mary; “how could you?”
“Served the old skeezicks just right,” was Aunt ‘Liza’s unfeeling rejoinder.
“Shame on you for spoiling such a romance,” said Alta, laughingly; “how dared you?”
“Well, we got so hungry for fun those days we did do things that were rowdy, perhaps; but if our fun seemed a little rough at times, there wasn’t anything really wicked in it. I guess the spirit of the wild West was just bubbling over in us, that’s all.”
“Is the spirit of the West so different, Mrs. Willis?” asked Alta.
“Perhaps not; yet it seems to me that those who live here long catch something of the wildfreedom of these old mountains. Haven’t you felt it? You are a Western girl through and through, even though you haven’t been here so long.”
“Do you think so? Am I wild?”
“You’re a mixture of ginger and sugar,” said Sally.
“Now, don’t,” pleaded Alta; “tell me, Mrs. Willis, what is the spirit of the true Western girl?”
“She is full of sunshine as a meadow lark, and as spontaneous as a mountain stream, as lively as a squirrel—”
“And just as hard to catch,” inserted Mary.
“Unless the right feller comes along,” said Sally; “then she’s tame enough.”
“Not the true Western girl,” objected Mrs. Willis; “she won’t chase after any man. Her heart is hidden as deep as the mountain’s gold.”
“Oh, you’d make her an angel with wings,” said Sally.
“No, I wouldn’t, I’d just make her all she is—wholesome, natural, free—a wild rose that blooms among a tangle of thorns, scattering sweetness free and far, but stinging the hand that tries rudely to pluck it.”
“Why, you’re a regular preacher,” said Sally.
“You’re a poet!” said Alta.
“No, I’m neither poet nor preacher, but if I were either I’d give you girls one lesson.”
“And what’s that?” asked Alta.
“Have all the rollicking fun you want, but make it pure, and remember, if you want any man always to love you, make him respect you first.”
“That sounds just like Aunt Betty,” said Alta, snuggling closer to Mrs. Willis, who responded by smoothing back the silken hair and kissing the beautiful forehead. A tear stole down Alta’s cheek.
“Let’s sing a hymn now and be dismissed,” said Sally. “This is getting too blamed serious. All together now!”
She grabbed up the rolling pin and began to beat time, singing with solemnity in nasal tones:
“Do what is right, let the consequence follow,Battle for freedom with spirit and might.”
“Do what is right, let the consequence follow,Battle for freedom with spirit and might.”
“Do what is right, let the consequence follow,Battle for freedom with spirit and might.”
“Oh, give us something cheerful!” Mary broke in, “like ‘music in the air.’”
“You don’t call this music, then?” said Sally, in mock injury. “Well, let’s try another: ‘Mary Lee, we’ll roll the dough, roll the dough, roll the dough,’”and suiting the action to the word, she began to make the old rolling pin chuckle on the table.
“That’s a heap better,” said Aunt ‘Liza; “we’d better be gettin’ this work movin’ faster. That sun’s slidin’ to’rds night perty fast.”
They all began briskly to do the various tasks Aunt ‘Liza had assigned them.
“Who do you think’ll be here anyway?” asked Sally.
“Jim for one,” said Alta.
“And that one’s Sally,” added Mary.
“Good for poor lonely me! Who else?”
“The rest of the Bar B bunch, with Pat the cook.”
“I wonder if Alta’s new beau will come?” said Mary.
“Who, Dick? Yes, he’ll be here, don’t worry.”
“But I meant that other one.”
“Who, the cow-kid? That young fellow she danced with half a dozen times the last dance?”
“Oh, what a fib!” said Alta.
“Yes, that’s the one,” said Mary.
“No, he won’t be here; he’s skipped.”
“What do you mean?” asked Alta.
“Well, Noisy says he’s been discharged and has quit the valley.”
“Discharged? left the valley?” said Alta. “What for?”
“For doing some crooked work with the cattle he was herding.”
“It’s a cruel lie,” said Alta, trembling between anxiety and anger.
All stared at the anxious, excited girl.
“That boy is not capable of crooked work.”
“How do you know it?” asked Sally.
“Well, I know him, that’s all.”
“Seems to be a partickler friend of yours,” suggested Sally.
“Yes, he is; and I’ll stand by him. If that boy has been driven out of this valley, he’s been wronged, and I know it”; with these worried words she turned silently to her work, resolved in her heart to find out the truth.
It was this determination that made her ready to meet Dick more than half way that night, when he, stimulated by Sally’s suggestion that Alta was “dying to make up,” invited her to dance. His delight in feeling that he had brought the independent girl to terms was doubled when she invited him to sit down with her. But his hopes were dashed when she asked abruptly, “Where is Fred to-night?”
“Who, the cow-kid?” Dick stammered; “why, he’s hit the trail.”
“What do you mean by that?” Alta half demanded.
“Skipped the country, that’s all,” Dick was evasive and snappish.
“Why did he do it?”
“He lost and killed several critters out of his blooded bunch, and the boss fired him.”
“Killed his cattle? How?” Alta was provokingly persistent. Dick began to get nervous.
“Well, the boys found one with his rope on choked to death, and another was shot.”
“Shot? Where was it?”
“Up Sage Creek.”
“When?”
“Week or so ago.”
“Oh!” Alta’s eyes flashed as a new thought struck her. “How did they know Fred shot it?”
“They don’t know exactly; but it looked suspicious, and when Hanks faced him, he wouldn’t tell nuthin’ one way or the other.”
“And the foreman discharged him?”
“Yes, he said he’d have to tell or git.”
“Where did he go?”
“Nobody knows; he skipped out when everybody was away from the shack.”
“Did he have any money?”
“I guess not. Hanks wouldn’t pay him.”
“It’s an outrage,” exclaimed Alta, “to treat him that way. That boy has been cruelly wronged.”
“You seem to be takin’ his goin’ pretty rough,” Dick insinuated.
“Why shouldn’t I? Fred is a friend of mine. The Bar B ranch ought to be ashamed of this business.”
“What you people gittin’ so serious about?” Sally interrupted them as the next dance closed. “Come on and dance.”
“All right!” said Dick, jumping up. “Miss Morgan’ll be glad to excuse me. She’s frettin’ over the cow-kid.”
Alta paid no heed to his jealous tone and words. She was lost in thought. With a woman’s intuition, she had hit upon the truth. Bud Nixon was at the bottom of some of Fred’s trouble; and she innocently had been the cause. She tried to shake off her anxiety and join in the rollicking fun; but though she seemed happy, a cruel worry was in her heart.
When the celebration finally broke up and the merry noises had faded with the echoes into silence, she stood again by the window looking into the depths of the starry sky above her while she thought of Fred somewhere battling alone with his trouble and hers. It was in that hour that Alta began to learn how much she cared. At last she turned to her couch, and knelt and prayed God to protect and comfort him.
IT was a cheerless night. The clouds, which had smothered the tops of the mountains all day, began about dusk to drip and drizzle a chilly rain. The dispiriting fall storms had set in.
Uncle Dave, forewarned, not by a “tech of rheumatiz,” for his sturdy limbs had never felt that persecution, but by his unerring weather instinct, was prepared for the gloomy spell. An ample supply of meat and other provisions was in his larder; the woodshed was full; so he could rest by his inviting fireplace, as now he did, in cozy content.
He sat in his big rustic chair, his long gray beard adrift over his breast, a far-away look in his half-shut eyes, as he gazed into the dancing flames. Faithful Tobe lay dozing near him. On the wall above hung his old Kentucky rifle, long unused, but kept for memory’s sake. It held a store of tales of trying times when it had been his tried and indeed his only friend.
But to-night the old mountaineer’s thoughts went back farther than even those long ago tales. He was dreaming of his boyhood days, when he lived with his pioneer parents in the woods of the Buckeye country—days of hazel and hickory nuts, and maple sugar, of husking parties, and “spellin’ bees,” when Hannah’s bright eyes lighted the only flame of love his heart had ever known. What had become of them all? How different his life might have been had the wanderlust not seized his heart! He poked the fire to change the pictures in the flames, and he was just settling back again when Tobe, giving a low growl, jumped up and faced the door.
The old man listened. His sharp ear caught the sound of footsteps. The dog growled again more threateningly, as a gentle rap came at the door.
“Be still, Tobe,” said his master. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Fred.”
The old man rose and threw open the door. “Come in, boy, come in. What brings ye here this drippin’ night?”
“I’m in trouble, Uncle Dave”; the voice trembled slightly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’ve left the ranch—discharged, I guess.”
“Hev ye been doin’ mischief?” The tone was incisive.
“No, I haven’t,” Fred looked squarely into the calm eyes that searched him. “Perhaps I’ve made mistakes, but I did the best I could.”
“None of us kin beat that; but why d’ye come to me?”
“Because I have no other friend I can trust with my trouble. I haven’t any money—they wouldn’t pay me—but I thought you might take me in till I can find a way to get back home. I’ll make it right some way.”
“Wall, boy, you’re welcome.” The voice was tender. Fred’s eyes filled.
“There, now, fergit yer troubles. We’ll figure them out in the morning. Get off that wet jacket and dry yerself—but take care of your pony fust.”
“I haven’t any.”
“You come afoot?”
“Yes, my little mare was killed in the roundup.”
“That’s more trouble. Wall, never mind, set down and thaw out while I git somethin’ ready to comfort yer insides. Yer hungry, I reckon.”
“Not so very.”
“Frettin’, I warrant. Stop it, boy, stop it. We can’t allus hev our way in this world. If we did, we’d get so cranky people couldn’t live with us.”
He stirred the coals to warm up the coffee, then he cut some slices from a haunch of roasted venison and put these with bread and butter on the rustic table.
“Here, set up to this and pitch in. You’ll feel better after you git a cup o’ this smoking coffee down. This fall rain soaks to the bones.”
“I’m hungrier than I thought,” said Fred, as he began to eat. “This venison is fine.”
“That’s a piece o’ the yearlin’ buck I got the other day—shot him right from the door. It seemed kind o’ mean to kill him, he looked so perty; but I was needin’ the meat; he’s as fat as a butter ball; that’s the kind that makes good eatin’.”
“Do they often come close to your cabin?”
“I see ’em every few days. This storm will bring a herd o’ ’em down, I reckon. They winter in the foothills, you know. Elk and moose like to browse on the willows along the creeks.”
“Which meat do you like better, elk or moose?”
“Oh, moose beats elk way yender, to my notion; but nary one’s got the taste of tender buffalo—or maybe my appetite’s growin’ old.”
“Did the buffalo ever roam over this valley?”
“Yes, herds of ’em. Ain’t you seen their skulls lyin’ round?”
“I wonder if that was one I picked out of the creek the other day when I went to take a drink. It was a big thick one with short horns.”
“That’s the kind; they’re scattered all over here. I used to hunt ’em with the Shoshones on them rollin’ hills over west thar. One time I was with Washakie’s band when we killed nigh on to thirty of ’em. That old robe in the corner come from that hunt.”
“You knew Washakie, then?”
“Like a brother—mighty good Injun, too. Got lots of white sense in his head; but he likes whisky too well. That cursed stuff’ll end his trail one of these days, I’m afraid. Why I see him one time down at Bridger come into the tradin’ store with a bunch o’ braves and lift the feller in charge clean over the counter; then he helped himself and his bucks to a barrel o’ whisky that stood in the corner; took all they wanted—didn’t touch another thing—and they paid for the whisky, every cent, after their spree was over. But it was warm times for thesquaws and papooses while it was on, I tell ye. We didn’t know what minute they’d cut loose and lift our scalps. You never kin tell what’ll happen when an Injun gits full o’ whisky.”
“Yes, we found that out when that band got drunk down by the creek a month or so ago.”
“What band?”
“I don’t know—Old Copperhead, I believe the boys called their chief. They seemed to be a hunting party, but they acted sulky and disappeared about as suddenly as they came.”
The mountaineer’s face looked puzzled for a moment. “I reckon that’s the bunch that’s holed up in that cove to the south o’ here. I caught sight of their tepees a few days back when I was out prospectin’ fer beaver. I can’t quite make out why they’re hidin’ thar; looks like some deviltry to me; and what makes me think it more is that bunch I seen sneakin’ up the creek a little while back—’bout a dozen young bucks. There was a half-breed, or a dirty white with ’em. They didn’t see me, but I watched ’em as they skulked along through the willows. Had their ponies loaded with meat. Struck me at the time they hadn’t come by it honestly.”
Fred’s face lighted with the thought that flashed through his mind. “I’ll bet those devils did it.”
“Did what?”
“Killed my cattle.”
“You lost some?”
“Yes, two head were missing. I found one shot dead. The other never turned up. That was one reason I left the ranch. The boss got mad because I wouldn’t give away one of the boys that had roped and killed another.”
“Maybe so, boy, maybe so.”
“You say a white was in the band?”
“Yes.”
“How did he look?”
“He was dressed in Injun toggery.”
“That’s the devil. I’d like to help lynch that black cur.”
“Why?”
Fred hesitated, as he recollected his promise to Alta. “But,” he thought, “I owe it to her to clear this business up.” Then he opened his heart and told Uncle Dave the whole story.
The old trapper followed with eager interest. He studied a moment when the boy had done, then said quietly, “Looks like we’ve found the snake’s trail, boy; looks like it. But it’s too late to foller it to-night. Let’s get some sleep to clear our eyes.”
He rose stiffly as he spoke and walked over to the cot in the corner.
“You’d better tumble in here,” he said; “I’ll pitch this old robe and a few blankets on the floor.”
“No, indeed, I’ll sleep on the floor; you must keep your bed.” Fred’s objection was not to be overruled, so Uncle Dave yielded. They tucked themselves cosily under the covers and lay there listening to the patter of the rain till it sang them both to sleep.
“HOW d’ye like to hole up with me this winter and try yer luck a-trappin’?” asked Uncle Dave as they sat at breakfast the next morning.
“Fine!” Fred responded enthusiastically, “that is, if mother could be cared for.”
“Is she dependin’ on you?”
“Yes, partly; her little farm doesn’t pay much now that she has to let it out on shares; and she’s getting too old to do much for herself. I came up here to earn something to help her. It was our plan to spend the winter in the city so that I could finish high school; but my bad luck has upset all that. I shouldn’t care for myself so much, but I’m anxious for mother.”
Uncle Dave listened thoughtfully. “Wall, boy,” he said cheerily, “many’s the time I’ve had to find a new trail by makin’ it. This idee came to me last night, but I didn’t say anything till I’d slept on it. We might make a good haul by hitchin’ up together. I’m gittin’ a little too stiff to chase around after the traps, but I kin skin beaver and stretch the hides as spry as ever; and I reckon you kin larn the business quick enough if you’ll listen to me. There are some streams up here that are full o’ fur—flat-tails and mink—and otter, too, though they ain’t so plenty. I b’lieve we kin make some money.”
Fred’s heart lightened as he saw this clearing through his thicket of troubles. “I’ll do it in a minute,” he said, “if I can find a way to make mother comfortable.”
“As to that,” said Uncle Dave, “I think I kin let you hev some money out of my rainy day savin’s. You can pay me when we cash our pelts in the spring.”
“That’s mighty good of you,” responded the boy, “but I’m afraid you are too generous.”
“Tut, tut, boy! jest write your mother and make it right with her. I’ll do the rest.”
So the plan was settled.
“If this storm clears to-day, as it ’pears likely to, I’ll take ye up the mountain to help ye git the lay o’ things. We’ll need some more meat anyway.”
The mountaineer’s weather instinct proved true. A clear sunset followed by a sharp night brought the morning sky out clear and crisp.Before the sun was very high, the two were well up the wooded slopes. Uncle Dave led the way; Fred, leading old Buck, brought up the rear.
Their trail led through a wildly beautiful country. Autumn had flung a riot of colors over the leaves and grasses. Wild life was astir. The pine hens, startled from their morning meal among the seeds and berries, would whir from the ground and perch up in the trees within easy reach of Fred’s shotgun. He bagged half a dozen of the blue fantails, then tied his gun to his horse; for as Uncle Dave suggested, they weren’t “out on a murderin’ expedition, like tom fool dudes.”
A climb of about two hours brought them up to the rim of the first range. As they lifted to the top, a panorama of craggy grandeur burst into full view. A wild mountain valley patched with pine and aspen groves lay below them. Its farther side—a mighty saw-tooth range of jagged granite peaks, barren, savage spires and broken domes and buttresses of ragged rock, streaked with ancient snow banks—towered high into the blue. Shaggy canyons, down which foaming streams leaped and shouted, had made great chasms in the face of the range, scarring and carving it into fantasticforms. The valley floor was gentler, a meadowy, flower-tangled stretch of quiet beauty. The streams here, though still playful, had spread in places into delightful little lakes, glimpses of which could be caught shining through the trees.
“That’s the doin’s of the flat-tails,” remarked Uncle Dave, as they paused on the summit to breathe a spell.
“Did the beaver make those lakes?” asked Fred.
“Sartinly.”
“How did they do it?”
“Maybe we kin ketch ’em at their work if we’ll go careful; then you kin see fer yerself,” was the quiet reply.
“This is the place I call Grizzly Cove,” he went on; “I killed a big silvertip over by that grove o’ pine once. There’s a heap o’ beaver in this stream and further down in the main canyon. Don’t think it’s ever been trapped much. Old Pierre, the French trapper, might o’ nosed about here, but I reckon he found all he wanted in his hole further down. Over by them dead aspens I killed the elk whose big antlers are above my fireplace. Shouldn’t wonder if we’d scare up a bunch o’ ’em to-day, or maybe some black-tail.”
“Do deer get up here too?”
“Not so many. They like the lower hills; but there’s mountain sheep a-plenty among them rocks. Wall, I reckon we’d better be movin’.”
He rose as he spoke and began the descent, winding by an easy way of his own choosing down into the canyon. They had gone a mile perhaps, when they emerged from a thick pine grove upon a small mountain lake.
It was a picture framed with pine-trimmed crags, a double picture, indeed; for the water, crystal clear, had mirrored sky, crags, trees, and hedgy banks so perfectly that one could scarce tell substance from shadow. Fred was ready to shout his joy at sight of it.
“Quiet now,” cautioned his guide, half divining the boy’s impulse; “beaver are ticklish. We’ll hev to step keerful if we get a glimpse o’ ’em. Here, Tobe, you and Buck stay back while we do some prospectin’.” He took off the bridle from the old horse to let him graze freely, and then led the way with Indian tread toward a rocky point that rose among the trees between them and an arm of the lake. Fred tried to imitate the cautious step. They stole up the slope. Gaining the crest, they peered over and looked upon the beaver-made bay—a rounded stretch of meadowy mountain lake inwhich the busy creatures had pitched their rustic lodges,—ragged, dome-shaped heaps of sticks, plastered and thatched with mud and grasses.
“The dam is over thar,” whispered Uncle Dave. “There comes one now towing a stick towards it.”
Fred looked at the V-shaped wave toward which his companion pointed, and saw the little brown animal. Then he saw others, old and young, at work and play. One sat atop his house making his dinner off some succulent root he had pulled; two others were industriously cutting down a sapling with their teeth. Some young ones were chasing one another about in the water. The boy, in eagerness to see them better, began to crawl up the cliff. In doing so he dislodged a stone, which tumbled with a rattle and splash into the lake. In a flash the beaver had dropped work and play and dived out of harm’s reach. A few seconds and there was no sign of life about the lodges but the plashy ripples dying one by one on the shores.
“You hev to be mighty still around them critters,” said Uncle Dave; “but I reckon you’ve seen enough; let’s go back and hev a bite to eat.”
“All right,” said Fred, and they retraced their steps to the old horse and dog. Herethey untied their lunch from the saddle and sat down to eat and talk about the habits of the beaver.
“I b’lieve we’d better try another trail home,” said Uncle Dave; “mebbe we kin strike some big game if we rise a bit over this ridge to the south and strike down into the other canyon thar.”
“You’re chief,” said Fred.
They followed up the creek for a way, rising gradually up a ridge; then gaining the summit, they began to trail down between two ledges into the main canyon.
They were just emerging from this side gorge when the old man suddenly stopped, and giving a warning gesture to Fred, reached for his rifle, which hung in its leathern scabbard under the flap of his saddle.
Fred looked up quickly to see another crag-framed picture thrilled with wild life. It was a band of mountain sheep filing calmly and unsuspectingly along the rocky trail just below. A stately ram, with great, gracefully curved horns led the march. Following him came a band of about fifteen ewes, younger bucks, and lambs. They stepped springily in single file behind their proud captain.
The old mountaineer stood tense till the leader came within about two hundred yards ofhim. Then, just as the ram neared a big rock by the trail, he aimed, fired, and missed.
Like a steel spring suddenly released, the ram leaped and landed squarely atop the big rock. And there he stood above the trail, his proud head turning nervously from side to side while he looked with wild eyes to sight the cause of his alarm. The rest of the band, terror-stricken, bounded forward to gather about the rock whereon their leader stood, and there they waited tremblingly for the signal to strike for a safer place.
The old trapper in a flash had thrown another cartridge into his rifle. Again he raised—this time with the poise of a statue, and leveled at the kingly target. A sharp “ping” cut the still air. The proud ram, mortally hurt, sank and tumbled from the rock to the trail, while the leaderless band broke, scattered, and fled.
The mountaineer did not fire again, though he might have dropped several before they bounded out of gunshot. Fred, unable to restrain himself, threw his hat in the air and giving a shout that waked the echoes, bounded past the old man down to the dying ram, reaching it just as the life-light faded from his great pleading eyes. That sight dulled the joy of the kill for Fred, and his heart echoed Uncle Dave’s quiet words.
“It’s hard to do it, boy, hard and cruel. In all these years’ trapping and killing, I have never found it easy to snuff out the life of God’s creatures. Wall, they’ll soon get another leader, and there won’t be any lambs a-bleatin’ for him. Fine sheep, ain’t he?”
“He’s a wild prince,” said Fred; “look at those horns. My, but I’d like to have that head mounted.”
“I reckon you kin, if you’ll take the trouble o’ carrying it home. I’ll skin it for you, when we get there. Then you can get it stuffed and get eyes fer it. Take a good look, so you’ll know the right color.”
“That’s good of you,” said Fred, as they set to work to get the sheep ready to pack on old Buck’s back. Tied securely there, they took up their way again. As they reached the broader trail in the main canyon, the mountaineer stopped and looked sharply at the tracks.
“Bunch o’ Injuns has gone down the canyon this mornin’. ’Bout time they was gettin’ back. Wall, we’ll just keep clear o’ their trail by taking another. Same bunch, I reckon, that I see the other day.”
“Is their camp near here?” asked Fred.
“Right up in the cove at the head of that gorge.” Uncle Dave pointed to the south.“That’s the only trail into it, and it ain’t fit fer a mountain sheep. I can’t figure out how they got their squaws and papooses into it. Mighty curious to me why they’ve holed up so smart.”
“They’re a bunch of thieves, that’s why,” said Fred, positively.
“Wall, whatever they be, we’d best not cross their trail; let’s slip down on the other side of the creek. Foller me close and keep your eyes peeled.”
They had just forded the stream and were following a deer trail cautiously through the brush, when the old mountaineer suddenly stopped, eyes and ears alert. He listened a moment, then motioning Fred to follow, stepped quietly into the thicker willows; and there they waited, peering through the brush to the main trail just across the creek, a few rods away.
A moment more and here came the band of Indian marauders, single file up the trail, with Flying Arrow at their head and Ankanamp just behind him. They had almost filed past when Buck snorted. The old horse could never stand the smell of Injuns. One of the hindmost of the band caught the sound, stopped, and looked sharply through the willows to catchsight of the hunters. He passed the word ahead, and the whole band drew rein and turned around.
Uncle Dave, seeing that they were discovered, began calmly to take up the trail toward home; but with a whoop several of the young bucks plunged their ponies across the creek and headed the hunters off. Old Tobe, bristling like a cornered panther, leaped in front of his master, ready to defend him.
“Quiet, Tobe,” said the mountaineer, as the savages plunged through the brush around them. An ugly look of triumph lighted Nixon’s face when he recognized Fred.
“Oh, ho! the cow-kid!” he gloated. “Playin’ the sneak on us, huh!”—the tone turned hateful. “I’ll teach you a trick or two. Here,” he ordered, “tie ’em up.”
Half a dozen Indians leaped from their ponies to obey. In their scramble one of them brushed too close to old Buck, and the old horse kicked savagely, sending the Redskin head over heels into a bunch of willows. The band roared with laughter at their companion’s upset; while the old horse snorted and plunged through the band down the canyon, with two bucks on their ponies after him. As they neared the runaway, Buck kicked again, landing squarely on thehead pony’s shoulder. They tried in vain to head him back, but he dodged and finally escaped; and they came whooping back to their comrades.
“You cowardly cur!” Fred broke out, as Nixon with the others grabbed him and began to tie his arms with buckskin thongs, “I’ll—”
“Keep cool, boy, cool,” came the quiet voice of the old mountaineer. Fred held his tongue, but his heart thumped with distress and anger.
“Now git across that creek,” ordered the White Injun. “Hustle up!” he fetched Fred a stinging blow with his quirt.
The boy, furious with the insult, could hardly hold his temper; but he obeyed, plunging through the icy stream behind Uncle Dave, with Bud on his pony, crowding and splashing them.
“Nothin’ like cold water for keepin’ cool,” jeered Nixon.
“You know it, damn you!” retorted Fred, unable to restrain himself.
“Shut up!” snapped his tormentor, giving him another biting crack with his quirt.
“Strike again, you dirty devil!” Fred defied him, tugging at the thongs.
“Quiet, boy, quiet,” cautioned the old mountaineer.
“I’ll larn ye to be impudent with your betters,” snarled the bully, cutting the boy a third time.
They had reached the main trail; the White Injun ordered the captives lashed to some pine trees that stood near; then with his band he withdrew to a spot some rods away and held a council. The mountaineer studied their movements carefully, but he could not divine their purpose.
“What will they do with us?” asked Fred anxiously.
“I dunno, boy, but keep cool, whatever comes.”
“Will they murder us?” The boy’s face was tense and pale.
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet; it’ll take all of ’em to agree to that; that dirty white is stirrin’ up some mischief, but I can’t tell just what.”
They could not hear what was being said.
A whoop came from the savages; they leaped on their ponies and came dashing back.
“Keep yer head, boy,” cautioned Uncle Dave, his voice still steady, but in his heart were serious misgivings as to the outcome.
The band circled round their captives, yelling and whooping, and occasionally taking a shot. Two of the bucks flung their knives into thetrees just above the prisoners’ heads; then Nixon capped the brutal scare by emptying his revolver at the knives. This done, the band gave a furious yell and burst away up the canyon.
Fred, dazed with fright, could hardly rouse himself to the reality that they were gone, when Uncle Dave called gently,
“Hev they hurt ye, boy?”
“I guess not,” the voice trembled, “but they’ve left us here to die.”
“Wall, we ain’t dead yet,” came the reassuring tone; “try to git loose.”
They both began to struggle to free themselves from the thongs.
It seemed impossible. They worked and tugged till they were exhausted and sore. As they hung there resting, to try again, they suddenly heard the hoof beats of a horse. A moment more and it appeared with Flying Arrow on its back. The Indian rode swiftly up behind the trees to which the captives were bound, jerked out his hunting knife from its scabbard, and with a few swift strokes, cut the thongs that held them. This done, he sped back up the canyon without a word.
As the Indian band was entering the gorge, the young chief had leaped from his horse, and,pretending to fix his saddle, had let his companions file past him. The moment they were out of sight, he had dashed back to free the prisoners. The band was just riding into camp when he caught up with them.
“What you been doin’?” demanded the White Injun, as Flying Arrow rode up on his panting pony.
“Fixin’ saddle.”
“You lie,” snapped Nixon, half guessing the truth; for his suspicions had been aroused by the young brave’s actions in behalf of the captives during the council.
The Indian’s eyes flashed angrily, but he held his tongue.
“You been up to some Injun deviltry; now you keep your place while I’m chief, or I’ll horsewhip you.”
Flying Arrow took the insult with princely poise. No outward sign revealed how deeply his proud heart was cut and Nixon supposed he had cowered under his abuse. The bully had something yet to learn of Indian nature.
Uncle Dave and Fred, meanwhile, finding themselves free, staggered down the trail toward home together, inwardly blessing their deliverer and wondering the while what had caused him to befriend them.
If the old mountaineer had got a good look at the young brave he might have guessed, for he had known Flying Arrow well. Some ten years before when he was trapping with the Indians, there was one boy papoose to whom he had taken a great fancy, a lithe and manly little fellow full of promise. The old trapper had won his confidence by little acts of kindness, and the boy had reciprocated the friendship. They had many pleasant hours chatting and fishing and hunting together.
But the boy had changed so greatly since then that Uncle Dave did not recognize him quickly; Flying Arrow, however, could not forget “Long Beard,” as the Indians had named the old mountaineer. It is a beautiful trait with the Redmen always to remember their friends, and this was no ordinary friendship.
When the weary hunters finally did reach their cabin along toward midnight, they found Buck patiently cropping the grass near by. On the saddle still hung the rifle and the mountain sheep. They quickly relieved his tired old back of its burdens and went in to prepare supper.
“Do you think those devils will stir up more trouble for us?” asked Fred.
“There’s no tellin’, boy; but don’t worry; the Lord has brought us over a pretty roughtrail to-day. I reckon we kin trust him fer the rest o’ the way.”
“That white devil is at the bottom of their meanness; he ought to be given his just deserts, and I’m going to see that he gets them.” Fred’s tone had a new ring in it. His latent manliness had been aroused.
“You’re right, boy,” returned his old friend calmly; “but let’s say our prayers now and go to sleep. Give your nerves a rest before you grip that job.”
“All right,” said Fred, “but I’m going to grip it.”