29141	----	Transcriber's Note. The layout of the column headings in the table at the end of this text has been changed for ease of reading. Otherwise the text remains unchanged. Two New Pocket Gophers from Wyoming and Colorado BY E. RAYMOND HALL and H. GORDON MONTAGUE University of Kansas Publications Museum of Natural History Volume 5, No. 3, pp. 25-32 February 28, 1951 University of Kansas LAWRENCE 1951 UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS PUBLICATIONS, MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY Editors: E. Raymond Hall, Chairman, Edward H. Taylor, A. Byron Leonard, Robert W. Wilson Volume 5, No. 3, pp. 25-32 February 28, 1951 UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS Lawrence, Kansas PRINTED BY FERD VOILAND, JR., STATE PRINTER TOPEKA, KANSAS 1951 23-6627 Two New Pocket Gophers from Wyoming and Colorado BY E. RAYMOND HALL AND H. GORDON MONTAGUE In the academic year of 1947-48 Montague studied the geographic variation in _Thomomys talpoides_ of Wyoming. His study was based upon materials then in the University of Kansas Museum of Natural History. Publication of the results was purposely delayed until previously reported specimens from certain adjacent areas, especially in Colorado, could be examined. In the autumn of 1950 one of us, Hall, was able to examine the specimens from Colorado; also, the specimens from Wyoming accumulated in the past two seasons of field work in Wyoming were examined by Hall. A result of these studies is the recognition of two heretofore unnamed subspecies of the northern pocket gopher in southeastern Wyoming. Grateful acknowledgment is made of the opportunity to study the Coloradon specimens in the Biological Surveys Collection of the United States National Museum, and of the financial assistance from the Kansas University Endowment Association which permitted the field work in Wyoming. Descriptions and names for the two new subspecies are given below: =Thomomys talpoides rostralis= new subspecies _Type._--Female, adult, skull and skin, no. 17096 Mus. Nat. Hist., Univ. Kansas; from 1 mi. E Laramie, 7164 ft., Albany County, Wyoming; obtained on July 16, 1945, by C. Howard Westman; original no. 320. _Range._--Southern Wyoming and south in the mountains of Colorado to the Arkansas River but not including the Colorado River drainage except in Grand County and part of Routt County. _Diagnosis._--Size medium (see measurements); upper parts ranging from between Cinnamon-Rufous and Hazel (capitalized terms are of Ridgway, Color Standards and Color Nomenclature, Washington, D. C., 1912) in the eastern part of the range to between Argus Brown and Brussels Brown in the western part of the range; sides Cinnamon-Rufous; throat whitish; remainder of under-parts whitish, in many specimens tipped with Ochraceous-Buff; feet and tail whitish; rostrum long; nasals ordinarily truncate posteriorly; temporal ridges nearly parallel; interpterygoid space broadly V-shaped. _Comparisons._--From _Thomomys talpoides clusius_ (topotypes), _T. t. rostralis_ differs in: Body longer; color more reddish (lighter with less brownish and more ochraceous); rostrum both longer and broader, actually and also in relation to length of the skull; skull broader interorbitally; upper molariform tooth-row longer; tympanic bullae less inflated. For comparison with _T. t. attenuatus_ to the east, see the account of that subspecies. From _Thomomys talpoides macrotis_ (topotypes) to the southeast, _T. t. rostralis_ differs in: Body shorter; upper parts slightly more ochraceous and less grayish; skull averaging smaller in all measurements except that interorbital region is broader and rostrum and upper molariform tooth-row are longer; nasals truncate versus emarginate, and consistently shorter; basilar length consistently less in specimens of equal age; mastoidal breadth less in 16 of 17 specimens of _rostralis_; temporal ridges parallel instead of divergent posteriorly; exposed parts of upper incisors shorter; tympanic bullae more angular antero-laterally. From _Thomomys talpoides fossor_ (specimens from Rico, Silverton, Hermit and Pagosa Springs, all in Colorado), the subspecies to the southward, _T. t. rostralis_ differs in: Longer body; lighter color of upper parts; nasals truncate rather than rounded posteriorly; temporal ridges more nearly parallel (less divergent posteriorly); rostrum longer (averaging longer and broader); skull wider across zygomatic arches in 11 of 12 specimens of _rostralis._ _Remarks._--Geographic variation is evident in the material examined. In the initial study, one of us, Montague, separated the material from the Medicine Bow Range in Wyoming as a subspecies different from that at Laramie and the adjoining mountains to the eastward because of the darker color of the western animals and the smaller size of males. Acquisition of more material from still farther west (Sierra Madre) in Wyoming and the examination of material in the United States Biological Surveys Collection from Colorado discloses that there is a cline of increasing intensity of color from the geographic range of _T. t. cheyennensis_ at Pine Bluffs, Wyoming, westward to the eastern side of the Sierra Madre at a locality three miles east and five miles north of Savery, Wyoming. A further deterrent to setting apart the animals of the Medicine Bow Mountains as a separate subspecies is the large size of males from the North Platte River Valley southeast of Saratoga. The males from the valley of the North Platte are intermediate in size between those from the Medicine Bow Mountains and those from the Laramie River Valley. Females from the same places are available in longer series and show less variation. If there is a difference in size in the females, those from the mountains are larger than those from lower elevations on either side. The examination that one of us, Hall, has made of the related materials from Colorado reveals, as we supposed would be the case, that a large area formerly assigned to the geographic range of _Thomomys talpoides fossor_ is to be assigned to the geographic range of the newly named _Thomomys talpoides rostralis._ It should be added that, at this writing, the lack of ideally complete material from southwestern Colorado leaves some doubt as to the range of variation properly to be included within the geographic range of _T. t. fossor._ Consequently, study of a larger number of specimens from more localities in Colorado may show that the boundary between the geographic ranges of _T. t. fossor_ and _T. t. rostralis_ should be shifted from where we have tentatively placed it. _Specimens examined._--Total number, 168. Unless otherwise indicated, those from Colorado are in the United States National Museum, Biological Surveys Collection, and those from Wyoming are in the Museum of Natural History of the University of Kansas. =Colorado.= _Routt Co._: Hahns Peak, 2; Hayden, 1. _Jackson Co._ Pearle, North Park, 9000 ft., 2; Canadian Creek, North Park, 6; 5 mi. E Canadian Creek, 1; Rabbit Ear Mts., Arapaho Pass, 5. _Larimer Co._: Elkhorn, 7000 ft., 1; Estes Park, 7. _Grand Co._: Coulter, 4. _Boulder Co._: Longs Peak, 3; Gold Hill (the skin only; skull does not belong), 1; 3 mi. S Ward, 9000 ft., 10 (K. U.); 5 mi. W Boulder, 7. _Gilpin Co._: Blackhawk (U. S. N. M.), 2. _Jefferson Co._: Golden, 1; Golden foothills, 7300 ft., 1. _Park Co._: Como, South Park, 9800 ft., 1. _El Paso Co._: Cascade, 1 (too young for certain sub-specific identification). =Wyoming.= _Carbon County_: 13 mi. E and 6 mi. S Saratoga, 8500 ft., 1; 14 mi. E and 6 mi. S Saratoga, 8800 ft., 1; 7 mi. S and 11 mi. E Saratoga, 5; 8 mi. S and 6 mi. E Saratoga, 10; 10 mi. N and 14 mi. E Encampment, 8000 ft., 2; 10 mi. N and 16 mi. E Encampment, 8000 ft., 1; 8 mi. N and 16 mi. E Encampment, 8400 ft., 10. _Albany Co._: 2-1/4 mi. ESE Browns Peak, 10300 ft., 7; 3 mi. ESE Browns Peak 10000 ft., 5; 2 mi. S Browns Peak, 10600 ft., 7; 3 mi. S Browns Peak, 1; 2 mi. E and 1/2 mi. S Medicine Bow Peak, 10800 ft., 2; 5 mi. N Laramie, 7200 ft., 1; 1 mi. E Laramie, 7164 ft., 18; Laramie Mts., 10 mi. E Laramie (8500 ft., 2; 9000 ft., 1), 3 (U. S. B. S.); 5-1/2 mi. ESE Laramie, 8500 ft., 4; 8 mi. E and 4 mi. S Laramie, 8600 ft., 5; 8 mi. E and 6 mi. S Laramie, 8500 ft., 1; 15 mi. SE Laramie, Pole Mtn., 8200 ft., 3 (U. S. B. S.); 1 mi. SSE Pole Mtn., (8250 ft., 4; 8350 ft., 6), 10; 1 mi. S Pole Mtn., 8350 ft., 2; 2 mi. SW Pole Mtn., 8300 ft., 6; 2-1/2 mi. S Pole Mtn., 8340 ft., 1; 3 mi. S Pole Mtn., 1; Woods P. O., 2 (U. S. N. M.); Fort Russell, 1 (U. S. N. M.); Sherman, 2 (U. S. N. M.). _Additional records._--Bailey (N. Amer. Fauna, 39:101, 112, November 15, 1915) has recorded the following specimens, which on geographic grounds, would presumably be referable to _Thomomys talpoides rostralis._ COLORADO: Estes Park (referred by Bailey, p. 101, to _T. t. clusius_), 1; Colorado City, 1; Colorado Springs, 2-1/2 mi. N, 6000 ft., 1; Colorado Springs, east of Palmer Park, 1; Montgomery, 3; Nederland, 4; Teller County Divide, 1. These specimens have not been examined by us. =Thomomys talpoides attenuatus= new subspecies _Type._--Male, adult, skull and skin, no. 15095 Mus. Nat. Hist., Univ. Kansas; from 3-1/2 mi. W Horse Creek Post Office, 7000 ft., Laramie County, Wyoming; obtained on July 16, 1945, by Henry W. Setzer; original no. 629. _Range._--Southeastern Wyoming from Niobrara County south into Weld County, Colorado. _Diagnosis._--Size small; color pale (whitish); skull smooth and, relative to its length, slender; rostrum relatively long; nasals truncate posteriorly; middle parts of zygomatic arches straight; temporal ridges low and more widely separated in middle extent than at anterior or posterior ends; tympanic bullae rounded and moderately inflated; interpterygoid space V-shaped. _Comparisons._--From _Thomomys talpoides bullatus_ (topotypes) to the northward, _T. t. attenuatus_ differs in smaller size, lighter (less brownish, more whitish) color, smaller and slenderer skull. In detail, some cranial features diagnostic of _attenuatus,_ when compared with _bullatus,_ are: Anterolateral angle of zygoma less nearly a right angle; temporal ridges bowed outward at middle, instead of straight, and farther apart posteriorly than anteriorly instead of nearly parallel; sides of basioccipital nearly straight instead of concave. From _Thomomys talpoides cheyennensis_ (holotype and Wyoming specimens from: Pine Bluff; 1 mi. W Pine Bluffs, 5000 ft.; 12 mi. N and 1/2 mi. W Pine Bluffs) to the eastward, _T. t. attenuatus_ differs in smaller size throughout and more slender skull. The two subspecies are indistinguishable in color. From _Thomomys talpoides macrotis_ (topotypes) to the southward, _T. t. attenuatus_ differs in smaller size, slightly lighter (less brownish and more whitish) color, smaller and slenderer skull. From _Thomomys talpoides rostralis_ (specimens from the type locality) to the westward, _T. t. attenuatus_ differs in smaller size; lighter (grayer, less brownish) color, smaller and less angular skull. From _Thomomys talpoides clusius_ (topotypes) to the northwestward, _T. t. attenuatus_ differs in shorter body, slightly grayer color, less width across mastoid region of skull, smaller tympanic bullae, and more obtuse anterolateral angle on zygoma. _Remarks._--This subspecies is of smaller size than any of the geographically adjoining subspecies. Intergradation with _T. t. cheyennensis_ is shown by specimens from two miles south and nine and one-half miles east of Cheyenne, Wyoming. Intergradation with _T. t. bullatus_ or _T. t. clusius_ or both is suggested by the larger size of the specimen from five miles southwest of Wheatland, Wyoming. Although large, this skull has the slender proportions of _attenuatus_ to which the specimen is tentatively referred. Although the specimens from Avalo, Colorado, are typical _attenuatus,_ the specimen from Pawnee Buttes, Colorado, is somewhat larger than typical _attenuatus_ and suggests intergradation with the subspecies to the southward, for example, at Flagler, Colorado. _Specimens examined._--Total number, 44, and unless otherwise indicated in the Museum of Natural History of the University of Kansas. =Wyoming.= _Niobrara County_: 10 mi. N Hatcreek Post Office, 5300 ft., 1. _Platte Co._: 5 mi. SW Wheatland, 1 (U. S. B. S.). _Goshen Co._: Little Bear Creek, 20 mi. SE Chugwater, 1 (U. S. B. S.). _Laramie Co._: 5 mi. W and 1 mi. N Horse Creek P. O., 7200 ft., 1; 3-1/2 mi. W Horse Creek P. O., 7000 ft., 6; 2-1/5 mi. W Horse Creek P. O., 6600 ft., 1; 2 mi. W Horse Creek P. O., 6600 ft., 2; Horse Creek 6500 ft., 1; 3 mi. E Horse Creek P. O., 6400 ft., 5; 6 mi. W Islay, 2 (U. S. B. S.); 2 mi. S and 1/2 mi. E Pine Bluffs, 5200 ft., 1; 7 mi. W Cheyenne, 6500 ft., 1; Cheyenne, 7 (U. S. N. M.); 1 mi. S and 4-1/2 mi. E Cheyenne, 5200 ft., 1; 2 mi. S and 9-1/2 mi. E Cheyenne, 5200 ft., 3; Arcola, 5200 ft., 4. =Colorado.= _Weld Co._: Pawnee Buttes, 5300 ft., 1 (U. S. B. S.). _Logan Co._: Chimney Canyon, 10 mi. NE Avalo, 5100 ft., 5 (U. S. B. S.). _Museum of Natural History, University of Kansas, Lawrence. Transmitted January 15, 1951._ TABLE 1. MEASUREMENTS, IN MILLIMETERS, OF TWO SUBSPECIES OF THOMOMYS TALPOIDES. ______________________________________________________________________ Column A Catalogue number or number of averaged individuals Column B Sex Column C Total length Column D Length of tail Column E Basilar length Column F Length of hind foot Column G Zygomatic breadth Column H Least interorbital constriction Column I Mastoidal breadth Column J Length of nasals Column K Breadth of rostrum Column L Length of rostrum Column M Alveolar length if maxilliary tooth-row A | B | C | D | E | F | G | H | I | J | K | L | M _T. t. rostralis,_ from type locality 17092 |Male |220|56 |28 |33.2|23.7|6.4 |19.5|15.5|8.1 |17.5| 8.2 17095 |Male |228|68 |30 |33.3| - |6.5 |18.8|15.0|7.4 |17.3| 7.3 17091 |Male |212|56 |27 |33.0|22.8|6.5 |18.7|14.2|8.5 |16.2| 7.6 Average|Male |220|60 |28.3|33.2|23.2|6.5 |19.0|14.9|8.0 |17.0| 7.7 9 av. |Female|214|56 |27.1|31.6|22.4|6.5 |18.5|14.4|7.8 |16.8| 7.9 min. |Female|198|45 |25 |30.0|20.7|6.2 |17.7|13.2|7.4 |15.4| 7.1 max. |Female|230|72 |28.5|33.5|23.3|7.0 |19.8|14.9|8.1 |17.7| 8.4 _T. t. attenuatus,_ from type locality 15095 |Male |202|61 |26 |30.1|21.2|6.6 |18.2|13.6|7.3 |16.0| 7.0 15094 |Male |189|56 |24 |29.7|20.1|5.7 |17.2|12.4|7.2 |14.8| 6.9 from 2-1/2 mi. W Horse Creek P. O., 6600 ft. 15100 |Male |196|58 |27 |30.2|21.7|6.1 |18.4|14.5|7.5 |16.3| 7.0 3 av. |Male |196|58 |25.7|30.0|21.0|6.1 |17.9|13.5|7.3 |15.7| 7.0 from type locality 15096 |Female|203|59 |26 |30.0| - |6.1 |18.0|14.1|7.3 |16.3| 6.8 15098 |Female|192|69 |26 |28.8|19.8|5.5 |17.2|12.0|6.7 |14.7| 7.3 Horse Creek, 6500 ft. 15103 |Female|181|58 |25 |29.6|19.5|5.9 |16.3|13.0|6.9 |15.2| 7.0 3 mi. E Horse Creek P. O., 6400 ft. 15107 |Female|190|54 |27 |30.5|20.5|6.0 |17.9|13.5|7.3 |16.4| 6.8 15106 |Female|192|55 |26 |30.8|21.5|6.5 |18.2|12.7|7.6 |15.5| 7.0 5 av. |Female|192|59 |26 |29.9|20.3|6.0 |17.5|13.1|7.2 |15.6| 7.0 
33653	----	A New Pocket Gopher (Genus Thomomys) From Wyoming and Colorado BY E. RAYMOND HALL University of Kansas Publications Museum of Natural History Volume 5, No. 13, pp. 219-222 December 15, 1951 University of Kansas LAWRENCE 1951 UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS PUBLICATIONS, MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY Editors: E. Raymond Hall, Chairman, A. Byron Leonard, Edward H. Taylor, Robert W. Wilson Volume 5, No. 13, pp. 219-222 December 15, 1951 UNIVERSITY OF KANSAS Lawrence, Kansas PRINTED BY FERD VOILAND, JR., STATE PRINTER TOPEKA, KANSAS 1951 24-1359 A New Pocket Gopher (Genus Thomomys) from Wyoming and Colorado By E. RAYMOND HALL Among small mammals accumulated, from Wyoming, in the Museum of Natural History of the University of Kansas, specimens of the wide-spread species _Thomomys talpoides_ are abundantly represented. Subspecific names are available for most of these, but specimens from the Sierra Madre Mountain Range of Wyoming and Colorado prove upon comparison to pertain to an heretofore unnamed subspecies which may be described and named as follows: #Thomomys talpoides meritus# new subspecies _Type._--Male, adult, skull and skin, no. 25628 Mus. Nat. Hist. Univ. Kansas; from 8 mi. N and 19-1/2 mi. E Savery, 8800 ft., Carbon County, Wyoming; obtained on July 19, 1948, by George M. Newton; original no. 4. _Range._--Sierra Madre Mountain Range of southern Wyoming and northern Colorado. _Diagnosis._--Size small (see measurements); color dark, upperparts in worn pelage of July darker than (near, _n_) Raw Umber (capitalized terms are of Ridgway, Color Standards and Color Nomenclature, Washington, D. C., 1912) and in fresh pelage of August between (near, 16') Prout's Brown and Mummy Brown; skull small; relative to basilar length, skull narrow across rostrum, zygomata and mastoids; nasals short and posteriorly truncate; premaxillae extending behind nasals; temporal lines faint and divergent posteriorly. _Comparisons._--From _Thomomys talpoides rostralis_ (North Platte River Valley, SW of Saratoga, Wyoming), the subspecies to the east and south, _T. t. meritus_ differs in: Lesser size, darker color, smaller and slenderer skull. The slenderness is especially noticeable in the breadth across the zygomata, mastoids, and rostrum. From _Thomomys talpoides clusius_ (topotypes), the subspecies to the north and west, _T. t. meritus_ differs in: Color much darker; rostrum longer; skull narrower across mastoids and zygomata; tympanic, and also mastoid, bullae smaller. Resemblance to _T. t. clusius_ is shown in the narrowness of the skull interorbitally and in the shortness of the tooth-row. _Remarks._--The specimens of _Thomomys_ from Wyoming on which the name _T. t. meritus_ is based were obtained by Mr. E. Lendell Cockrum and his associates with the thought that intergradation might be shown between _T. t. rostralis_ to the east and _T. t. clusius_ to the west. The animals showed instead, that there was a subspecies differing from each of the two mentioned subspecies in small size, dark color and slenderness of skull. Acknowledgment of assistance with field work is made to the Kansas University Endowment Association. _Measurements._--Average and extreme measurements of seven adult males and five adult females, from the type locality, are as follows: Total length, [Male] 204 (193-226), [Female] 207 (193-210); length of tail, 56 (46-68), 56 (50-63); length of hind foot, 27.6 (26-30), 27.4 (27-28); basilar length, 30.7 (29.0-33.0), 30.1 (29.5-30.7); zygomatic breadth, 20.4 (18.9-21.6), 19.5 (18.8-20.0); least interorbital breadth, 6.2 (5.8-6.6), 6.1 (5.9-6.3); mastoidal breadth, 17.9 (16.9-18.5), 17.2 (16.7-17.6); length of nasals, 13.7 (12.4-14.7), 13.2 (12.8-13.9); breadth of rostrum, 7.0 (6.5-7.5), 6.9 (6.7-7.3); length of rostrum, 16.3 (15.3-17.5), 15.8 (15.3-16.1); alveolar length of maxillary tooth-row, 7.1 (6.9-7.3), 7.1 (6.8-7.5). _Specimens examined._--Total number 26 and unless otherwise indicated in the Museum of Natural History of the University of Kansas. #Wyoming.#--_Carbon County_: Savery (8 mi. N and 19-1/2 mi. E, 8800 ft., 12; 7 mi. N and 17 mi. E, 8300 ft., 1; 6 mi. N and 12-1/2 mi. E, 8400 ft., 1; 6 mi. N and 13-1/2 mi. E, 8400 ft., 2; 6 mi. N and 14-1/2 mi. E, 8350 ft., 1; 5 mi. N and 3 mi. E, 6800 ft., 1; 4 mi. N and 8 mi. E, 7800 ft., 7300 ft., 3; 4 mi. N and 10 mi. E, 7800 ft., 3) 24. #Colorado#--_Routt Co._ ?: Elkhead Mts., 20 mi. SE Slater, 2 (U. S. B. S.). _Museum of Natural History, University of Kansas, Lawrence. Transmitted October 20, 1951._ 24-1359 
27522	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 27522-h.htm or 27522-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/5/2/27522/27522-h/27522-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/7/5/2/27522/27522-h.zip) VIRGINIA OF ELK CREEK VALLEY by MARY ELLEN CHASE Author of "The Girl from the Big Horn Country," etc. [Illustration: "DONALD PULLED IN MACDUFF, AND YELLED TO CARVER TO JUMP"] A. L. Burt Company Publishers New York Published by arrangement with The Page Company Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1917 by The Page Company All rights reserved Made in U. S. A. TO MY MOTHER A REAL ONE CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Joy of Anticipation 1 II. The Arrival 11 III. The Getting-Acquainted Trip 23 IV. The Bear Canyon Bear 33 V. Jean Macdonald--Homesteader 49 VI. Miss Green Again 68 VII. The Vigilantes Homestead 88 VIII. Aunt Deborah Hunter--Pioneer 109 IX. Mr. Crusoe of Cripple Creek 126 X. A Letter from Dorothy 146 XI. "Ever Vigilant" 161 XII. The Roman Emperor 180 XIII. On the Mesa 198 XIV. The New School-teacher in Bear Canyon 202 XV. Mr. Benjamin Jarvis Entertains 216 XVI. The Cinnamon Creek Forest Ranger 237 XVII. The Winthrop Coat-of-Arms 251 XVIII. A Good Sport 262 XIX. Carver Standish III Fits In 277 XX. Comrades 286 VIRGINIA OF ELK CREEK VALLEY CHAPTER I THE JOY OF ANTICIPATION Elk Creek Valley was a blue and golden place that mid-summer morning in the Big Horn Country. It seemed like a joyous secret tucked away among the mountains, whose hazy, far-away summits were as blue as the sky above them. The lower ranges, too, were blue from purple haze and gray-green sagebrush, while the bare, brown foot-hills tumbling about their feet were golden in the sunlight. Blue lupines and great spikes of mountain larkspur made of the Valley itself a garden which sloped gently to the creek, and lost itself in a maze of quaking-asps and cottonwoods. As for the creek waters, they ceased their tumultuous haste upon nearing the garden, and were content to move slowly so that they might catch and hold the sunlight in their amber depths. Beyond the creek, and through a gap in the foot-hills, the prairie stretched for miles--blue and green with oats and wheat and alfalfa. Now and then a mountain bluebird was lost to sight among the larkspur, and always a cloud of tiny blue butterflies circled above the creek. Two pair of delighted eyes--one gray and the other blue--gazed upon the loveliness of everything as their owners watered a team of big bay horses at the ford. The gray eyes belonged to a girl of seventeen--a girl with golden-brown hair and cheeks glowing red through the tan of her eager, thoughtful face. She was radiant with happiness. It beamed from her eyes and lurked about the corners of her mouth. She seemed too excited to sit still. Now her gray eyes swept the prairie stretches, now scanned the mountains, now peered up the creek beneath the over-hanging trees. She was talking in short, eager sentences to her companion--the owner of the blue eyes. He was a tall, clean, robust lad--a year older than she. "Oh, Don," she cried, "isn't it wonderful? Just think! Our dream is really coming true! I used to say at school that even if it didn't come true, we'd have the joy of dreaming it anyway. But it's coming--this very day! And, oh, Don, isn't this morning perfect? When I found in June they were really coming, I said I'd never be selfish enough to expect a _perfect_ day, because it seemed as though I'd had enough already! But now it's come, I just know it's"--her voice softened--"it's a real gift from God. Don't you think so, too?" "Yes, Virginia," said the boy. Then he gathered up the reins and drove his horses through the creek, and on toward the Gap and the open prairie. "Don," cried the girl, suddenly clutching his arm with one hand and pointing with the other, "there's some wild bergamot just opening! I never knew it to be as early as this! And see! There's a sunflower on the edge of the wheat field! There'll be thousands of them soon! They're like Priscilla! She has such big, brown eyes, and is always so merry and sunny. I know you'll like her, Don. And Mary? I think Mary's like the larkspur in the Valley, don't you? So independent, and sort of--of _self-resourceful_, as Miss Wallace says, and true. I wonder what Vivian's like? Oh, I know! The bluebells back there by the creek. They always must have a shady spot away from the hot sun. That's like Vivian, but she's dear just the same, and some day I really believe she'll be able to stand hard things as well as the rest of us. Tell me, Don, are you just as excited inside as I am?" Donald Keith laughed. "Of course, I am," he said, "only, you see, Virginia, I don't get so excited on the outside as you do. Fellows don't, I guess." "I guess not," returned Virginia thoughtfully. "Father says I need you for a balance-wheel. He says he doesn't know what would happen if we both talked as much and got as excited as I do. You see, I'm seventeen now, and I think he wants me to begin to be a little more--more level-headed, and dignified. But I don't know how to begin. Things just spring up inside of me, and they have to come out!" "Don't try," said the boy bluntly. "I like you best just as you are, Virginia." She sighed--a happy, little sigh. "I'm glad," she said. "I don't know what I'd do if you didn't, Don. Think of all the good times we'd miss!" They passed a little stream, hurrying on toward Elk Creek. Some quaking-asps made a shady spot where ferns grew. "Just the spot for gentians in August," cried Virginia. "The girls will love them so! I'm going to try to send some to Miss Wallace. She'll be in Chicago, so maybe they'll go safely that distance. She's always told me so much about that wonderful blue color in the old Italian pictures. She says that no one has been able to make exactly that shade since. I told her I just knew our mountain gentians were that blue, and I'd send her some. My! I wish she were coming, too! She's so lovely! I hope, when I grow to be her age, I'll be at least just a tiny bit like her. You'd like her, Don." "I'd like her anyway for being such a peach to you," said Donald. "I'll never forget it," Virginia told him, a little break in her voice. "And especially when--when Jim went--Somewhere Else. Oh, Don, she was so good to me at that time! And she seemed to understand everything! I'll always love her for it!" Her gray eyes filled with tears. The boy beside her placed his hand on hers in quick sympathy. "I know," he said. "We don't find a friend like that every day, Virginia. I wish she were coming, too! I'd like to thank her myself." Virginia swallowed the lump in her throat and smiled again. "I wish so, too, but she can't, so we must make the best of it. Aunt Nan is next best. She'll love everything! I know she will. She's such a good sport, too! She'll learn to ride and shoot, I'm sure. I hope she'll want to go everywhere with us, and that we won't seem too young for her." "I think Malcolm may go along some--at least before threshing starts. He said he would. Isn't he about your Aunt Nan's age? He's most thirty." "Yes," said Virginia. "I never thought of it before, but I guess he is. Aunt Nan's thirty, I know, because I remember she told me she'd always sort of dreaded being thirty, but now she'd reached there she found it the most comfortable age in the world. I hope Malcolm will go along. He's splendid!" "He's all right," returned Donald loyally. "Every one's been so dear at home about getting ready," Virginia went on. "William put the finishing touches on the flower garden yesterday. It looks lovely, and Aunt Nan's marigolds are all in bloom. William planted some to make her think of home. And Alec and Joe and Dick insisted on riding three of the horses so they'd be ready for the girls to ride to-morrow. Hannah's baked everything I like best, and Father bought two bran-new tents, because the girls want to sleep out with me. Do Jack and Carver ride, do you suppose?" "Jack does a little. Of course, I don't know about Carver Standish. You think he'll fit in all right, don't you, Virginia? Eastern fellows don't sometimes, you know." "Oh, I'm sure he will," Virginia assured him. "I wish you could have seen how pleased he was when Father asked him to come. And his grandfather, the old Colonel, nearly burst with pride! Of course Carver's different. I think his father and mother are very--well, _New Englandy!_ You know what I mean. But I'm sure he'll love it out here. It's lovely of you to have him at your house, Don. He could stay with us as well as not, of course, but he'll be happier over there with you and Jack and the boys." "That's all right," said Donald carelessly. "There's always room for one more at the Keith ranch. Father says there always will be. Are all the girls Vigilantes, Virginia--Mary and Priscilla and Vivian?" Virginia explained. Mary wasn't really a member, and yet she really was, being the advisor of the society, and general assistant whenever called upon to help. "It certainly was a clever scheme," said Donald. "No one but you would ever have thought of such a thing, Virginia." Virginia discredited his praise. "Oh, yes," she told him. "Priscilla would have done it every bit as well, only she'd never heard of the Vigilantes. You see, no one in New England knows about them--even Miss Wallace who knows almost everything--and when I told Priscilla the things they stood for years ago, and the work they did against evil-doers out here in the pioneer days, we both thought it would be just the thing to name our society after them. You see, Don, we had to do something! 'Twas necessary with Imogene influencing Dorothy and Vivian the way she did, and I've discovered that when a thing just _has_ to be done, there's always some one to do it. Oh, Don, see the wind blowing over the grain! It looks almost like the real sea from Priscilla's house--all blue-green and wavy--only I love the prairie sea better. Won't they all just love it? It's such a big country! I'm getting excited again. That queer feeling inside has come back, and it's a whole hour before we get there, and before the train comes in." "What do you suppose they're doing now?" asked Donald, excited in his turn. "I suppose," began Virginia--"oh, Don, there's another bergamot!--I suppose they're all out on the observation platform, looking at everything they can see. Mary isn't saying much--she's just looking, and Vivian is surprised at all the new sights--I can just see how round and blue her eyes are!--and Aunt Nan is pointing out things, so as to be sure no one will miss one of them. Somehow I can't exactly picture Jack and Carver, but I _know_ what Priscilla is doing. I don't even have to imagine or suppose. I know she's just wild--outside and in! I can just see her jumping from one side of the platform to the other, and exclaiming at everything. Her hair is all blown about her face--she has such unruly hair anyway--and her eyes are almost black, she's so excited over being so near. You see, I know Priscilla. She's a lot like me. She just can't keep still when she's happy! I know she's got the same queer feeling inside that I have. Oh, drive faster, Don! I just don't believe I _can_ wait to see them all!" CHAPTER II THE ARRIVAL Virginia Hunter was right. Priscilla Winthrop, her roommate at St. Helen's, and junior partner in the formation of the Vigilante Order, had not been still for ten minutes since five A. M. At that hour she had risen from bed, dressed hurriedly, and bribed the sleepy porter to allow her a seat on the observation platform. It was contrary to custom and orders at that hour, but he had done it notwithstanding. Apparently this young lady would take no refusal. Priscilla had moved her chair to the extreme rear of the platform that nothing on either side might escape her eager eyes. She had watched the sun rise from behind the first mountain spurs, and gild their barren summits and sagebrush-covered sides. They looked so gaunt and lonely standing there, she thought, like great gods guarding the entrance to an enchanted land. Between her and them stretched the plains--here white with alkali, there barren with sparse sagebrush. Not infrequently the train rumbled across a little creek or irrigation ditch around which cottonwoods grew and grass was green. In these fertile spots there were always rude houses of logs with outlying shacks and corrals. Priscilla had shuddered at the thought of living in such places. These must be other pioneers, she said to herself, whose ancestors Virginia delighted to honor. Well, they most certainly deserved it! She had hardly kept her seat at all. There was constantly something on one side or the other which attracted her attention, and she darted right and left much to the amusement of the brakeman who sat within the car and watched her. As they hurried through one of the irrigated spots, she heard a bird sing--a clear, jubilant, rollicking song. Could it be the meadow-lark of which Virginia had always spoken? At six they had passed through a prairie-dog town, whose inhabitants had thus far existed for Priscilla only in books and in Virginia's stories. Her fascinated eyes spied the little animals, as for one instant they stood upright to survey this rude and noisy intruder, and then darted into their house doorways. She had knocked over two camp chairs in her excited efforts to reach the brakeman, and assure herself that they were really prairie dogs. But the climax had occurred shortly afterward when while going through a country of sagebrush stretches and grim, almost naked buttes, she had seen--actually seen a _cow boy!_ He was true to every description Virginia had ever given her--sombrero, bandana, chaps and all! She could not see his face, but she knew he must be fine-looking like the "Virginian" or like Dick at the Hunter ranch. He was galloping through the sagebrush on a mottled, ugly-looking broncho, doubtless bent on some secret errand. Priscilla was seized with half a dozen impulses as she watched him. Should she hurry through four cars and tell the others that they might see him also? Should she send the porter? How any one could sleep at such a time as this was far beyond her comprehension! But she had remained, rooted at last to one spot, and watched him until he was lost to sight. How would it seem, she wondered, to gallop alone through this country? She hoped the cow boy had noticed the sun rise over the buttes; she hoped that even now he was not blind to the great mountains in the distance, which were reaching their blue summits toward the sky. She drew a long breath of the thin, clear mountain air! So this was Virginia's country! It was a big land! She understood now what Virginia had meant by talking about the bigness of everything. The plains, stretching on and on, gray-green with sagebrush, the gaunt mountain spurs, the far-away real mountains, blue and snow-furrowed, the great, clear sky over all! It must be wonderful at night with countless stars and a moon looking down upon the loneliness of everything. There was something about it all that, in some strange way, pulled out one's very soul--that made one want to be big in thought, tolerant, kind! The brakeman, perhaps alarmed at seeing his interesting passenger actually standing still, had joined her at that moment. Priscilla pointed to a speck in the sagebrush--the vanishing cow boy. "A real cow boy!" she shouted above the rumble of the wheels. "Humph!" grunted her companion. "Didn't you never see one before?" "Never!" cried Priscilla fervently. "It ain't no great sight!" returned the sophisticated brakeman. "Perhaps not to you," Priscilla shouted in his ear, "but it would be if you had dreamed of seeing one for ten months and three-quarters the way I have." "Humph!" grunted the brakeman again. "You must be a tenderfoot." "I am," cried Priscilla, "and I'm glad of it! You can only see bran-new things once. The second time you see them they aren't new any longer, and can't give you thrills like the first time." The brakeman grinned. "There's some yucca," he shouted, pointing to a tall, straight plant with white, bell-shaped flowers growing by the track. "What's that?" screamed the interested Priscilla. "Sometimes folks call it Indian soap-weed," explained the brakeman in her ear, "because if you break the leaves they'll lather in water. And some folks call it Spanish bayonet. It grows in barren places out here." "I'll put that in my Thought Book," Priscilla told him. "I guess it's lucky I have a new one with all these new things to write about. Why are all the trees out here those tall cottonwoods?" "They ain't all," answered the obliging brakeman, "but the cottonwoods don't take so much soil. They grow easy and quick, and make good wind-breaks, so folks plant 'em when they build a house near a creek like that one over there. Quaking-asps--they grow well, too." "Quaking-asps!" cried Priscilla. "Where are they? Please show me! I'd give worlds to see one! My roommate lives out here--I'm just on my way to visit her--and it's her favorite tree." "You don't have to give nothin'," shouted her companion dryly. "There's plenty of 'em right along this creek we're passing. They're them little trees with light green trunks and trembly leaves. They grow by creeks and in springy places mostly." Priscilla leaned over the railing and gazed. "Oh, aren't they happy? They're the jolliest trees I ever saw!" "I guess that is a good word for 'em," agreed the brakeman. "They sure do dance around." "Doesn't anything grow on those hills but little trees and sagebrush?" queried Priscilla. "It _is_ sagebrush, isn't it? I guessed it was from pictures, and from what Virginia said." "Yes, it's sagebrush, ma'am, and nothin' much grows on them buttes except that and rattlers." "Oh!" screamed Priscilla. "That's one thing I'd hate to see! You don't think I will, do you?" "Like's not," encouraged the brakeman. "They ain't so bad. Must come in handy for something, else we wouldn't have 'em." Just then Carver Standish had opened the door for Aunt Nan, who announced breakfast for the party. Priscilla was obdurate. "Miss Webster," she remonstrated, "please don't make me eat! I simply couldn't do it! I've had the most wonderful morning of my whole life. I've seen prairie-dogs and yucca and quaking-asps and a cow boy, and I know I heard a meadow-lark. This gentleman has taught me all kinds of things." The brakeman touched his hat. "He's been very kind, I'm sure," said Aunt Nan, too used to her own niece's methods of making new friends to be troubled. "But we're going to reach Virginia and Donald in another hour, and you must have some breakfast, Priscilla." "Carver will bring me some fruit," persisted Priscilla, "and you can't see a thing from the window. Oh, please, Miss Webster! I just can't eat when I have this queer feeling inside of me!" So Priscilla had been left in peace, much against the better judgment of the chaperone; and now at nine o'clock, the three Vigilantes with Aunt Nan, Jack Williams and Carver Standish III viewed Virginia's country together and all for the first time. The picture which Virginia was at that very moment painting for Donald was very accurate--even to detail. Aunt Nan, eager that no one should miss a thing, kept pointing out this and that feature of interest--the strange, new flowers by the track, the occasional log houses, the irrigation ditches, so new to them all. Vivian sat quietly in one corner--her eyes big, round, almost frightened. The endless stretches of country, the lonely barren places, and the great mountains somehow scared Vivian. It was the loneliest country she had ever seen, she told Aunt Nan. Mary Williams said nothing, but her dark blue eyes roamed delightedly from prairie to foot-hills, and from the foot-hills to the mountains, where they lingered longest. In all her dreams she had never pictured anything so big and wonderful as this. Jack and Carver stood together by the railing, and let nothing escape their eager eyes; while Priscilla, forgetting to eat Carver Standish's banana, hurried from one to another with eager explanations gained from her morning's experience. In half an hour they would be there. Already the barren stretches had given place to acres and acres of grain, across which were comfortable ranch-houses, set about by cottonwoods. Beyond the grain-fields rose the foot-hills--open ranges where hundreds of cattle were feeding, and far above the foot-hills towered the mountains in all their blue-clad mystery. "There's the creek bridge!" cried Priscilla, springing to her feet a few minutes later. "Virginia has written me a dozen times that when we crossed that red bridge we should begin to get ready. I suppose I ought to comb my hair. It's a sight! But Virginia'll be so happy she'll never notice in all this world!" Virginia was assuredly too happy to notice disheveled heads or smoke-stained faces or wrinkled suits when she saw her own dear Aunt Nan and her very best friends step excitedly from the train onto the little station platform. That queer sinking feeling inside vanished, and only joy was left. "It's come true! It's come true!" she kept crying as she greeted them all. "Just think, Priscilla, it's really happening this minute! You're all in my country at last--Donald's and mine!" So the world looked very beautiful to them all as they drove homeward. The three boys on the front seat became acquainted and re-acquainted, while the Vigilantes and Aunt Nan behind held one another's hands and asked question after question of the happy Virginia. No, she told them, the days weren't all as perfect, but most of them were. Yes, the sunflowers grew wild all in among the grain. No, there were no snakes very near. Yes, it was truly sixty-five miles away to the farthest mountains. No, she had never been so happy in all her life. They stopped at the Keith ranch to receive a copyrighted Western welcome, and to leave Jack and Carver. Donald would drive the girls home, and then return. Mr. David, Mother Mary, Malcolm and little Kenneth--all the Keith family--came to greet them. It seemed to Jack Williams as though he had never received a welcome so genuine; and to the hungry and tired Carver Standish III the simple brown ranch-house, surrounded by cottonwoods and set about by wide grain-fields, possessed a charm unsurpassed by the most stately mansions of New England. The Vigilantes and Aunt Nan received as genuine a welcome a half hour later when they drove down the long avenue of cottonwoods to Virginia's home. It came not only from a tall, bronzed man, who shared his little daughter's joy, but also from a white-aproned, kind-faced woman in the doorway, and a quiet, stooped man by Aunt Nan's marigolds. "I know it's Hannah," cried Priscilla, running to the doorway. "She looks just as though she knew all about the German measles!" "And I'm sure this is William," said Mary a little shyly, as she shook hands with the quiet man by the garden. "It just couldn't be--any one else!" CHAPTER III THE GETTING-ACQUAINTED TRIP "If--if you'll excuse me, Virginia, I'd--I'd really rather stay at home with Hannah and your father." It was Vivian who spoke. She was clad in a new riding-suit, which had been worn only during a few trembling and never-to-be-forgotten moments of the day before, when Donald had led the oldest and safest horse on the ranch to and fro beneath the cottonwoods. Old Siwash would never have thrown Vivian. Far was it from him to treat a guest of his mistress in that manner. But in spite of stirrups, saddle-horn, and the reassuring presence of Donald, Vivian had, in some mysterious way, slipped from the saddle, and fallen in an ignominious little heap by the wayside. It had been more ignominious to have Priscilla and Mary, who had themselves been riding but an hour, come cantering--actually _cantering_--up with Virginia to see if she were hurt. She almost wished she had been hurt. If her leg had been broken, or old Siwash had kicked, or even her face been cut just a little, she might have been regarded not exactly as a heroine, perhaps, but as a martyr at least. However, nothing was broken except her spirit; old Siwash had stood stock-still; and her face had shown no sign of anything save fright and dirt. The whole situation was quite too much to be borne, and did not need the disdainful glance which the critical blue eyes of Carver Standish had cast upon her. The Vigilantes had been lovely as they led their horses and walked to the house with her; Aunt Nan, who had had her first lesson with Malcolm Keith that morning, was comforting; Mr. Hunter encouraging; and Donald the finest boy she had ever known in her life. It had really seemed as though, with them all to stand by her, she could mount again the next morning and go on the much-dreamed of getting-acquainted trip to Lone Mountain. But now the time to go had come, and her courage had fled. She had beckoned Virginia from the corral where the men were saddling the horses, and drawn her away to a secluded spot. Virginia did not need Vivian's confession. Her frightened face was quite enough. "I--I just can't do it, Virginia!" she finished. Virginia considered for a long moment. Then her clear gray eyes met Vivian's frightened blue ones. "Vivian," she said, "perhaps you'll be angry with me for speaking so plainly to you, but I've just got to do it. If you don't want the Vigilantes to be dead ashamed of you, here's your chance this minute! I believe way down in my heart that things come to us so that we can show what's really in us--how--how far down we've been putting our roots into good soil, you know. Now this has come to you! There isn't a thing to be afraid of except just Fear, which I admit is a monster; but if you let that control you, you'll spoil your whole life. Jim used to teach me that. Siwash wouldn't hurt a baby! I rode him when I was four years old. We're just going to trail up the mountain as slowly as can be, and Don will ride with you every minute. When there are really things to be afraid of, people excuse a coward; but when there isn't a thing in this world, they don't! So if you don't come, Vivian, and show us what you are made of, you're a _coward inside_, that's all!" It was hard, blunt doctrine, built on seventeen years of wholesome life in a land where cowardice has found no room; but at that moment it was just what Vivian Winters needed. From her frightened heart the fear of Siwash fled only to give place to a more dreadful fear, the contempt and scorn of the Vigilantes. Better be thrown by Siwash than despised by Virginia and Priscilla, Mary and the far-away Dorothy. She had no time to tell Virginia that she would go after all, and to ask her to try to forget her cowardice, for the boys called just then that all was ready. But Virginia understood, for as they hurried toward the corral she held Vivian's hand closely in her own, and gave it a final, encouraging squeeze, as Vivian edged a cautious way toward Siwash and the faithful Donald. After all, it was not so hard. Donald allowed the others to go ahead--the two pack-horses first with tents and provisions, for they were to camp for the night, then Malcolm, Aunt Nan and the others. He and Vivian, riding slowly, brought up the rear. Vivian, determination rising in her soul, was firmly seated and clutching the saddle-horn. She might be thrown, but she would never, never fall again! But old Siwash was faithful to his trust, and Donald was close at hand. Vivian vowed inwardly that she would always bless Donald. Under his calm assurance, her fear gradually went away, and in fifteen minutes she was willing to let go her hold upon the saddle-horn, and to try to follow his instructions. He taught her how to place her feet in the stirrups, how to clutch with her knees, how to rise in the saddle for a trot, how to sit back for a canter; until at length--wonder of wonders!--Vivian, her hair flying in the wind, her eyes filled with triumph, actually _cantered_ with Donald at her side toward the others, who to a rider turned in their saddles and cheered her approach. And pride filled every one's eyes--even the critical ones of Carver Standish III. So now that the worst was over, no one enjoyed the trip more than Vivian. She kept wondering what her timid mother would say could she see her daughter in the suit which hours of pleading had with difficulty procured, and on a real Western horse, riding past the grain-fields, up the canyon, and on into the trail that led up the mountain-side. Only three of the nine had ever ridden through a canyon or followed a mountain trail, and those three experienced the keenest delight in pointing out every object of interest to the others--the blue lupines and pink cranesbill, which made the occasional open spaces riotous with color, the forget-me-nots growing in shady places, and the rare orchids, which they discovered after they had penetrated to the heart of the mountain forest. It was beautiful in among the timber. Great spruces and pines towered above them like masts to the journeying earth. The sunlight fell in shimmering, golden patches upon the moss-grown and leaf-covered ground. In the more open places grew buck-brush and the service-berry, Oregon grape with its holly-shaped leaves, blue lupines, Indian paint-brush and great mountain ferns. It was very still when they stopped their horses to rest. Only the wind in the great trees above them, the chatter of a squirrel remonstrating against this intrusion into his solitude, a strange sad bird-note farther up the mountain, and the occasional fall of a leaf or creak of a limb as it rubbed shoulders with its neighbor, broke the silence. Once in a clearing a deer and her fawn gazed at them with wondering eyes before leaping through the ferns into the safe shelter of the timber. Up--up--up they went. The trail wound in and out around the mountain-side, and their sure-footed horses followed it, never daunted by fallen trees or by rocky and precipitous places. More than once every Vigilante save one held her breath as she was carried up a dangerous, almost obliterated path to heights beyond. But Virginia's Pedro, who was far-famed as a trailer, led the way, and his rider called back reassuring words to those behind. By noon the air was cold. They were near snow, Malcolm said. A few minutes more and they had reached it--a veritable snow-bank in late July. The Vigilantes, reënforced by Aunt Nan, challenged the boys to a snow-ball fight, and they all dismounted for the fray. Then came dinner of Hannah's sandwiches, and bacon and eggs cooked over a little friendship fire beyond the snow. An hour later they reached the mountain-top, and lo! it was spring again. The ground was covered with early spring flowers--shooting-stars and spring beauties and bearded-tongues. In the sheltered nooks they found dog-toothed violets, and more forget-me-nots--both pink and blue. It was here that the inexperienced New Englanders longed to camp. They wanted to wake in the morning, they said, and look far across the blue distances, over the tops of the highest trees, to the mountains beyond, like Moses gazing into the Promised Land. But they willingly consented to ride down on the other side to a more sheltered spot and camp by a tiny mountain lake, when Malcolm, aided by Donald and Virginia, explained that a snow-storm was not an unlikely occurrence away up there--even in July! It was strange to sit around the big camp-fire that night after supper--all alone in a mountain wilderness; strange to rehearse school incidents and to listen to Malcolm's stories of hunting for elk and antelope in that very spot; strangest of all to go to sleep on pine boughs and blankets which the boys had spread in their tents. The weird, lonesome cry of the coyotes startled more than one sleeping Vigilante that night, and Vivian nestled closer beneath Aunt Nan's protecting arm. It was not until the next morning when they started for home that they knew of the bear, who, smelling the ham and bacon, had wandered into camp, only to be repulsed by Malcolm and an extra log on the fire. In that strange, just-before-dawn stillness Virginia awoke to miss Priscilla from her side. She moved the tent flap, and looked out. Priscilla stood by the entrance, her eyes raised to the distant mountains--great shadows beneath a star-strewn sky. She was learning the old, old secrets of those mountains at night. "I couldn't help it, Virginia," she whispered, as she crept back a few moments later. "I've wanted so to see what it was like at night, and now I know. It's bigger than ever! I don't believe that any one could look at the mountains and the stars and ever be doubtful about--God and--and--things like that, do you?" * * * * * The next day, perfect as the one before, they went down, down, down the trail, through the canyon, across the prairie, and home once more. "Mr. Hunter named it just right," Priscilla said to Dick, who came to take the horses. "I've never felt so well-acquainted in my life!" CHAPTER IV THE BEAR CANYON BEAR "Gee!" cried Alden Winthrop. "I wish I was out there!" "So do I!" echoed his brother John. "I wish I _were_, dear," corrected his mother. "Well, _were_, then, Mother. There isn't much difference in the way you say it. I wish I was there anyway!" His mother sighed, but Alden's thoughts were far from English grammar. Instead, they were centering upon the contents of a fat letter from his sister Priscilla, which his father had just read. "I've got more respect for Priscilla than I ever had in all my life," he continued. "I never supposed she'd have sand enough to go on a bear hunt. Now, if she'd just shot the bear herself, it would be----" "Why, Alden!" interrupted his mother. "Imagine Priscilla doing a thing like that! You don't suppose, do you, dear," she continued, turning to Mr. Winthrop, who was reading his daughter's letter for a second time while he finished his breakfast, "you don't suppose Priscilla is really handling a gun herself?" "Sounds like it to me," said Priscilla's father as he turned the pages. "She says, 'I can knock a bottle all to pieces at thirty yards. Don't you call that pretty good?'" "I'd like to know the size of the bottle before replying," commented John. "Dear me!" said Mrs. Winthrop anxiously. "I'm willing she should ride horseback and climb mountains and camp in a perfect wilderness if that's what Western people term pleasure, but I do wish she wouldn't shoot a gun! I'm afraid I shan't have a minute's real peace till she gets home. Of course I know she's in the best of hands, but accidents are so common. Just yesterday I was reading where----" "Now, Mother!" remonstrated the boys. "Don't worry for a moment, Mother," reassured Mr. Winthrop. "She'll come home safe and sound. I'll trust those good people out there to look after her." He turned the pages again. "She's certainly having the time of her life! Makes me wish I were young again myself!" "That skin will look splendid in the library," said Alden. "Read again what she says about sending it, Dad." "Read it all, Dad!" suggested John. "There's plenty of time." Priscilla's father willingly complied. He evidently shared his sons' pride in his daughter's achievement. "'HUNTER RANCH, WYOMING, "'July 26, 19--. "'Dear Folks at Home: "'I am covered with dust and dirt and just dead tired, but I can't wash or dress, or even rest until I tell you the most thrilling experience of my whole life! I, Priscilla Winthrop of Boston, Massachusetts, have helped to trap and kill a bear! I know shivers are running down your back as you read this. Imagine then what it must have been to live through the _real thing!_ To ride up the trail all eagerness and excitement; to visit the empty traps and turn away disappointed; to see your horse as you neared the third suddenly prick up his ears and rear----'" "Dear me!" cried Mrs. Winthrop. "I'm sure, John, those horses out there aren't well-broken!" Mr. Winthrop nodded reassuringly, and continued: "'To hear Dick call back that there must surely be a bear; and, at last, to come upon the infuriated monster, dragging his trap about, gnashing his teeth, and trying to reach you!'" "Oh, dear!" moaned poor Mrs. Winthrop. "Go ahead!" cried the boys. "'I trust you are now in the atmosphere to appreciate my story. "'I wrote you this morning about the lovely getting-acquainted trip to Lone Mountain. Well, I had just come back from walking down to the main road and giving my letter to the carrier, who drives in a funny little canvas house on wheels, when Dick and William rode up to the door and asked if we girls didn't want to ride up into the mountains back of Bear Canyon and visit the bear-traps. Mr. Hunter and the three boys had gone to Willow Creek, but it's a fifty mile ride over there and back, and he thought it was too much for Mary and Vivian and me--much as we wanted to go.'" "Fifty miles on horseback!" murmured Mrs. Winthrop. "I should hope so!" "'Virginia had insisted on staying with us, and Aunt Nan (we all call her that now) had gone to Mystic Lake with Donald's brother, so we four girls were all alone. Virginia said "Yes" on the spot, and Mary and I were wild at the prospect. Vivian's eyes got big when Dick said "bear-traps," but she wouldn't let us know she was afraid. Really, you'd be surprised at what a good sport Vivian's getting to be. "'We said we'd be ready in a minute and hurried into our riding clothes while Dick and William went to saddle our horses. All the time we kept fairly _pelting_ Virginia with questions. _Where were the traps? What did they look like? Did she really think we'd get a bear?_ She wouldn't tell us much of anything, except that bears were not uncommon at all, and that the men liked to get them, because they were a nuisance to the cattle. I think we were all seized with different feelings as we got ready. Vivian's came out and sat upon her face. You just knew she was hoping every bear in the Rockies had been safe at home for a week; Mary kept saying the trip up the trail would be so beautiful, but something told you she was secretly hoping for a greater adventure; and I--well, I couldn't decide between the triumph of bringing a real bear home, and the awfulness of seeing one caught and killed. "'In half an hour we were off. Hannah had given us each some sandwiches in a bundle, which we rolled in our slickers and tied on our saddles. Dick carried the big gun in a holster, and William a coil of rope. Instead of turning off on the Lone Mountain trail we went farther up the canyon, past the little school-house where Virginia used to go, and on toward where the canyon walls were great cliffs instead of foot-hills. It certainly was the _beariest-looking_ place I have ever seen. You could just imagine hundreds of them taking sun-baths on the rocks, surrounded by their devoted families. "'By and by we turned into a rocky, precipitous trail, and went higher and higher. It was much steeper than on the getting-acquainted trip. Sometimes it just seemed as though the horses couldn't make it, but they did. My horse is a perfect wonder! He never hesitates at anything. His name is Cyclone!'" "I trust it has nothing to do with his disposition," interrupted Mrs. Winthrop. "'At noon we were in a perfect wilderness of huge trees, great jagged rocks, and thickets almost as bad as the one Theseus went through to reach Ariadne. William insisted on building a tiny fire to cook bacon, so we rustled some dry sticks and made a little one on a flat rock. I never in all my life tasted anything so good as that bacon and Hannah's sandwiches and some ice-cold water from a little creek that was tearing down the mountain-side. "'Dick said as we rested for a moment that it would take us fifteen minutes to reach the first trap from that spot. It was the most likely place of the three to find a bear, he added, and at that Mary, Vivian, and I tried our best to look as unconcerned as though catching a bear were the most usual thing in all the world. But when we had reached the place, after a hard ride through a narrow trail bordered by all kinds of prickly things, we found no bear in the queer little log-house that held the trap. Neither was there one in the trap a mile distant. "'When we turned away from the second, bearless and tired, every one of us, except perhaps Vivian, felt a sense of defeat. My fears of seeing one caught had vanished. I had borne sunburn and scratches and lameness and I wanted a bear. So did Mary. She was not content with just scenery. Virginia had caught bears before, but she wanted one because we did, and William wanted one because Virginia did. William never seems to want much for himself some way, but he loves Virginia, and I think Virginia loves him next best to Jim. As for Dick--there was no mistaking Dick's feeling. He felt as though he had not done his duty by us since there had been no bear in the two most likely traps. "'The question before the assembly now was--Should we or should we not visit the third trap? It might be dark, William said, before we got out of the canyon, and there wasn't one chance in a hundred of a bear anyway. Virginia--really, she is the biggest peach I ever knew!--proposed that she ride home with Vivian, and the others of us go on with Dick and William, but Vivian would not listen to her. There having been no bears in the first two traps was proof enough for Vivian that there would be none in the last, and her bravery returned. Mary wanted to go on, and I wouldn't have gone home for a thousand dollars or a trip abroad! As for Dick, he was already half-way up the trail. "'This trail was far steeper than either of the others. It led almost straight up the mountain-side beneath over-hanging trees, under fallen timber, and through every kind of bramble imaginable. But there was something exhilarating about even the brambles--something that made you glad to hear the saddle crunch and whine and creak, and to feel yourself being carried higher and higher. It wasn't all the hope of a bear either! "'At last we came to a little creek, which was hurling itself down over the rocks. "'"Moose Creek!" Dick called back. "The trap's one-half a mile farther on." "'On we went, growing more and more excited every moment. Something strange seemed to be in the air. I don't know what it was, but the horses must have felt it, too, for just as we had cleared an especially thick thicket, my Cyclone began to prick up his ears and to sniff the air, and Dick's horse reared. Then, in a moment, the others began to be restive. Even old Siwash, who is lame and halt and maimed and blind like the parable people at the feast, actually jumped, much to Vivian's horror. "'I just wish you could have felt the shivers and thrills and quivers that ran down our backs when Dick halted the procession and cried, "'"There's a bear around all right! The horses smell him! We'll turn back and tie, and then go on foot!" "'Five minutes more and we were stumbling up the trail--Dick and William ahead, Virginia and I next, and Mary and Vivian in the rear. I don't know where my heart was, but I know it was unfastened, for I distinctly felt it in a dozen different places! Vivian had actually forgotten to be frightened, and Mary kept saying over and over again, "Just think of it! Just think of it! A bear! Just think of it!" As for Virginia, she strode along with her head high, just as she always does, and looked as though she were able to cope with any grizzly on earth. "'We gained the clearing almost as soon as Dick and William, and--now, listen, all of you!--there was our bear!!! I'll never forget that moment! I don't believe I'll ever in my life experience so many different feelings--triumph and pity and fear and admiration, all struggling together. The poor thing lay in the hot sun by the creek, rods from the little log house which had concealed the trap, and one of his forelegs was securely held in that cruel, iron grip. A long, strong chain attached to some logs held the trap secure, though bark was torn in layers and strips from the trees near by, whose trunks the poor, mad, suffering animal had climbed--trap, chain, and all. But now--nearly worn out--he lay in the creek, sick at heart and ready to die. "'As Dick drew the big gun from the holster, and went nearer, the bear rose to his feet and growled--a fierce, awful growl that sent Vivian trembling to the thicket. All I could think of just then was Roland keeping at bay the Saracens at Roncesvalles, or Leonidas withstanding the Persians at Thermopylæ. There was something grand in the way that big bear faced Dick. I shall always admire him for it as long as I live. I rather believe he was glad to die as Leonidas and Roland were--secure in the thought that his spirit could never be overcome. "'William turned his back as Dick raised the big gun, and made ready to shoot. Then he said something about seeing to the horses, and hurried down the trail. Mary joined Vivian in the thicket, and so did I. I couldn't help it. We turned our backs, too, and stopped our ears with our fingers. Virginia was the only one who stayed. She stood by Dick as he aimed and shot. Afterward she told me she would have felt mean to desert a hero whose spirit was just about to be taken away from him. She wanted to pay her last respects. But I know it wasn't easy, for when we all came tremblingly back a few minutes after Dick had shot, her eyes were brimful of tears. "'Then William, too, returned, leading Siwash, and together he and Dick hoisted the big bear across Siwash's saddle, binding him securely with the rope. After the horses had become satisfied that there was no occasion for alarm, William led Siwash at the head of a triumphal procession, and the rest of us followed, Vivian on William's Ginger. Down the trail we went, unconscious of scratches and aches and sunburn, now that our aim had been accomplished, and our goal realized. The awful feeling of pity which we had felt by the creek went away somewhere, and we were but victors holding a triumph. "'Virginia and I wondered as we rode along together why it is that you can feel so full of pity one moment at the thought of killing something, and yet so full of triumph the next after you've conquered and killed it. We've decided that the triumphant feeling is something bequeathed to us by the cave-men like those in _The Story of Ab_ you know--an instinct that makes you want to prove yourself master; and that the pity is a sign we're all growing better instead of worse. Don't you think that's a fairly good explanation? Of course it is needless to say that Virginia thought it out! "'Hannah's calling me to supper, and I must hurry. Mr. Hunter and the boys had just reached home from Willow Creek as we rode down the lane. I wish you could have seen Jack and Carver when they saw the bear. They were wild, and hailed us as though we were Augustus entering Rome! Best of all, Mr. Hunter says he is going to send the skin to you, Dad--it's all black and curly--for the library floor. Isn't it splendid of him? "'I simply must run and wash, and rustle a clean middy somewhere. "'Loads of love, "'PRISCILLA. "'P. S.--Mother, dear, I guess I'll have to have still another Thought Book. I never in my life had so many thoughts. They come crowding in--one on top of the other--but many of them are the kind you can't very well express. "'P. A. W. "'P. P. S.--I can shoot a bottle all to pieces at thirty yards. Don't you call that pretty good? "'P. A. W.'" "Rustle?" soliloquized Mrs. Winthrop, as Priscilla's father folded the letter. "I've never heard that word before in such a connection, and she's used it twice!" "Well," announced Alden Winthrop decidedly, "I've never had much use for Thought Books, but I believe I could write down a thought or two myself if I'd trapped a Rocky Mountain bear!" CHAPTER V JEAN MACDONALD--HOMESTEADER South of Elk Creek Valley the foot-hills were less ambitious than those east and north. It was easy to climb their sloping, well-trailed sides on horseback or even afoot, and the view across the wide mesa, blue with sagebrush to the distant mountains blue with August haze, was quite reward enough. Here was real Western country, almost unhampered by civilization, almost unbroken by that certain sign of progress, the barbed-wire fence. This was in miniature what the pioneers must have gazed upon with weary, dream-filled eyes. Virginia and Donald, who often climbed the hills together for a wild gallop through the unfenced sagebrush, liked always to imagine how those sturdy folk of half a century ago urged their tired oxen up other slopes than these; how they halted on the brow of the foot-hills to rest the patient animals and to fan their hot, dusty faces with their broad-brimmed hats; and how their eager eyes, sweeping over miles of ragged prairie land to the mountains, awful with mystery, saw this great country cleared of sagebrush, intersected with ditches, reclad with homes. Such had been the history of most of the land above and beyond Elk Creek Valley, and Donald and Virginia were loath to see this one unbroken mesa go. They wanted it as a hunting-ground for prairie chickens and pheasant in the fall, and as a wide, free, unhindered race-course for Pedro and MacDuff. Pedro and MacDuff wanted it, too. They liked to gallop, neck and neck, joyous in the sense of freedom, and in the knowledge that they were giving happiness to their respective riders. For years Donald and Virginia had loved the mesa. They loved it in the spring when the bare patches among the sagebrush grew green and gave birth to hardy spring flowers--buttercups and shooting-stars and spring beauties; they loved it in the long blue days of August and in the shorter golden ones of October; and sometimes they thought they loved it best of all in winter when it lay, silent and very, very wise, beneath the snow. But it was to be just theirs no longer. The slow, steady tide of oncoming progress had refused to let it alone. In the spring while Virginia was still at St. Helen's, Donald, home for the Easter recess, had written her of two homesteaders' cabins on the mesa toward the southeast, of fences being built, and of sagebrush rooted up and burned. It was even less theirs on this August morning, for the cabin of another homesteader had risen as though by magic in the southwest corner; ten acres of freshly-plowed land were being warmed by the sun and made ready for September wheat; and rods of stout barbed-wire tacked to strong, well-made fence-poles were guarding the future wheat against all intruders. The cabin, superior in plan and workmanship to that of the average homesteader, faced the west. It was built of new spruce logs, with well-filled chinks, and boasted two large windows and a porch, in addition to its necessary door. Moreover, an outside stone chimney betokened a fire-place--an untold luxury to a homesteader. A second wire fence, set at some three rods from the cabin, inclosed it on all sides, and protected a small vegetable garden and a few fruit trees, which the owner had already planted. It was a good quarter section upon which this ambitious homesteader had filed. On the south the mesa mounted into the higher hills, and this claim included timber; the land already plowed showed the soil to be black and fertile; and a creek, tumbling from the mountains and hurrying by just back of the cabin, promised plenty of water, even in a thirsty season. With a substantial new cabin, three cows and a horse, some hens and two collie dogs, a crop nearly in, fruit trees thriving and a garden growing like wild-fire--what more could one desire? Then add to riches already possessed, the surety of a barn and corral in September, and the probability of twelve pure-bred Shropshire sheep, and what homesteader would not sing for joy? That was precisely what Jean MacDonald was doing this sunny August morning; for it was a girl--a strong, robust girl of twenty-one--who had taken up the southwestern claim on Virginia's and Donald's mesa. She was bustling about her little cabin, setting things to rights, and singing for joy. Her voice, clear, strong, and sweet, rang out in one good old Scotch song after another--"Robin Adair," "Loch Lomond," and "Up with the Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee." Sometimes she paused in her sweeping and dusting and hurried to the porch to look away across the mesa toward the north, and to speak to Robert Bruce, her horse, who, saddled and bridled, awaited her coming outside the gate. "Not yet, Bobby," she called, "not yet! There's no sign of them at all, so be patient!" Robert Bruce was quite willing to be patient. There was nourishment in plenty between the sagebrush clumps, and he wandered at will, his dragging reins giving sure proof that he would not stray too far. Meanwhile, his mistress continued her singing and her work. She proudly dusted her new furniture in the room which served as chamber and parlor, rearranged her few books in their wall bookcase, swept up the ashes of her last evening's fire, and brought wood to lay another. Then she turned her attention to the room which was kitchen and dining-room in one. From a neat chest of drawers she drew her best and only white table-cloth and spread it on the table. The table was a little rickety in one leg, but several folds of newspaper acted as a splendid prop, and quite removed the difficulty. Her supply of china and silver was scarce, but it would do with washing between courses. Four chairs were all she had, but they were quite enough as her guests numbered four. An empty soap-box concealed beneath the table-cloth, and drawn out only when necessary, would do for her. In fifteen minutes everything was in readiness, even to five early nasturtiums in a tumbler on the dining-table. They had made a special effort to open that morning, and the homesteader was grateful. She paused on her way to the creek-refrigerator to look in the sitting-room mirror. These guests were her very first, and she wanted to appear at her best. Yes, her khaki blouse and skirt were clean and her hair fairly tidy. Her new red tie, she told herself, was quite decidedly jaunty. She blessed that tie, for had it not been for Donald Keith's kindness in bringing the package to her from the town post-office four days ago, she would neither have known about the girls, nor have had the opportunity of inviting them to come to see her. Of course, they were from the East--all except Virginia Hunter, of whom she had heard so much, and she was a Wyoming homesteader; but, she told herself, that need make no difference. In fact, it made everything much more interesting, for she could learn many things from them, and perhaps--perhaps, they might learn a little bit from her. Still singing, she hurried to the end of the porch, and looked toward the north. Four specks were distinctly visible on the edge of the mesa. Even as she looked they became larger. They were horses coming toward her cabin, and they bore her guests. She whistled loudly to Robert Bruce, who obediently ceased his browsing and came toward her. A quick run to the creek-refrigerator to see that her butter and cream were safe in the clear, cold water, and then back to Robert; a leap into the saddle and she was off to meet her guests. Introductions are stilted, unlovely things between horseback riders on a sagebrush-covered mesa under a blue August sky. There were none this morning. Jean MacDonald reined in the restive Robert Bruce as she drew near her guests, and unceremoniously greeted them all. "I know every one of you," she said brightly, her dark blue eyes searching their faces--"Mary Williams and Priscilla Winthrop and Vivian Winters--all of you. And I've known you even longer, Virginia. Donald Keith told me all about you a month ago when they helped break my land. I'm so glad you're coming to spend the day with me. You're the very first guests I've ever had on my homestead!" They were glad, too, they told her, liking her at once, and feeling perfectly at ease. She rode beside Virginia, talking of Donald, the other Keiths who had been so good to her, and her neighbors in the southeast corner of the mesa. Virginia, too, talked freely, asking questions, telling of their recent bear hunt, joining in Jean's admiration of the Keiths. To the three New Englanders, who rode a little behind them, this new comradeship, though a little startling to their inherent conservatism, was interesting in the extreme. It seemed to be born of a land too big for ceremonies, too frank and open for formalities; and soon they found themselves urging their horses up to Pedro and Robert Bruce, so that they too might enter the widening circle of fellowship. All four Vigilantes found themselves studying the face of this girl who so often turned toward one and another with a question or a reply. It was a face too tanned and too large-featured to be beautiful or even pretty; but the lines about the nose and mouth were firm and strong, the eyes were wide-open and fearless, and the head was set most independently upon a pair of broad, straight shoulders. There was something about the girl like the mesa--fearless, big, wholesome. It showed itself in the way she managed her horse, in her hearty manner of laughing with her head thrown back, and in the calm, sure, straightforward expression of her dark blue eyes. "She'd make the finest kind of a friend, I'm sure of that," said Mary to herself, and then to Priscilla and Vivian, as they dropped behind for a moment just before reaching the little cabin. "Yes," agreed Priscilla, "she surely would. I wonder what there is about her that makes a person feel small. I've been feeling positively microscopic ever since she rode up to us." "I'm glad you have," sighed Vivian, thankful that another shared her sensation. "So have I. I feel about as big as a field-mouse, and I think I know why. You just know a girl like her would never fall off a horse, or run away from a gun, or--do anything babyish like that. And just imagine daring to live all alone in a little cabin like this! I'd die! I know I should!" But the small feeling was forgotten in the good time which followed. Robert Bruce, unspeakably glad of company, escorted his four guests to choice bits of grass in among the sagebrush; the two collies barked in welcome; and the girls, loaded with saddles and bridles, went in through the gate toward the cabin. Jean MacDonald, proud and happy, led the way into the house and the interested Vigilantes followed. They had never supposed a log house could be so attractive within; but the neat dark furniture, the couch with its brown cover, the stone fire-place, and the books and pictures made the little cabin one of the most homelike places they had ever seen. A mountain sheep looked down upon them from above the fire-place. Jean had shot him the winter before in Montana, she told them. In the corner by the cot stood her guns--one large, double-barreled Winchester, a shot-gun, and a small rifle. Above them on the logs rested her fishing-rods. It was all so new and interesting to three pair of fascinated eyes. They asked question after question and explored every nook and corner of the cabin and its surroundings--the kitchen with its shining stove, singing tea-kettle, and white-covered table, the pantry, the root-cellar and chicken-house, and last of all the creek-refrigerator. "It's all right in the daytime," announced Vivian, as they sat on the porch before beginning to get dinner, "but I don't see how you stand it all alone at night." She paused. "I'd die!" she finished simply. Jean MacDonald did not laugh, though she felt like it at first, for she saw that Vivian was very much in earnest. "I think I know how you feel, Vivian," she said kindly. "I know you would be very lonely, because, you see, you've always lived in a city or at school where there have been folks all about you. But, you see, it's different with me. I was born on a homestead in Montana, and I'm used to endless tracts of land without neighbors. I guess I've made better friends with the mountains than you've been able to yet, and with the silence which I know some people fear. You see, I've never been afraid in all my life, so I don't mind the loneliness." Vivian was staring at her, incredulous. "Never--been--afraid--of--anything?" she repeated questioningly. "Honestly, haven't you--all your life?" Jean MacDonald considered for a moment. "No," she said, "honestly, I don't believe I ever have. I was brought up never to fear the dark or the silence or being alone or--anything like that. Those are the most awful things, I guess, to persons who are afraid. And as for wild animals or people who would do harm (and there aren't many of those in the world) why, you see"--she raised her head and her eyes flashed--"you see, I can take care of myself! I'm thankful," she added, "that I'm not afraid of things. I think fear must be a terrible thing!" Vivian's blue eyes filled with sudden tears. "It is," she said. "It's the most dreadful monster in the whole wide world!" Jean MacDonald placed a firm, brown hand on Vivian's shoulder as they all went in together to prepare dinner, and Vivian felt comradeship and understanding in that friendly hand. Perhaps, some day, she said to herself, she would be brave also; even before she went East, she might become a more worthy Vigilante. At all events she would begin once more. Perhaps, after all, she concluded, as she ran to the creek-refrigerator after the butter and cream--perhaps after all, life was just a series of beginnings--again--each one a wee bit farther on! Dinner was the jolliest meal imaginable. They ate and laughed--laughed and ate. Everything was delicious--the trout caught in the creek and fried to a rich brown, the baked potatoes, the fresh biscuits, the lettuce and radishes from the garden, and the custard pudding. Jean MacDonald with all her other accomplishments was a famous cook. That was self-evident. After dinner they went out upon the porch, gazed across the mesa bluer than ever in the afternoon haze, and talked. Jean longed to know about school, and they told her of St. Helen's, of Miss King, and Miss Wallace, of the dear funny Blackmores, and of poor tactless Miss Green. Tears ran down Jean's face as Virginia told of Katrina Van Rensaelar and the deluge she never received, and of how Priscilla had given the German measles to the boys at the Gordon School. Then Mary begged to know something about homesteading, and Jean told of how she had come to Wyoming. Her far-off neighbors in the other corner of the mesa had been friends in Montana, she said, and it was they who had encouraged her to come and take up an opposite claim. She explained how the land would become her own after she had lived upon it seven months each year for three years; how each year she must plow and fence so many acres; and how at the end of that time she could sell the land at a good price, or else stay and improve it further. "And which will you do?" asked the interested Mary while the others listened. "Will you stay or go away after it is yours?" She would go away for a while, she told them, and rent her land. Her neighbors yonder would be glad to hire it. She was going to college. Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm as she dreamed her dream for them. Since her graduation from High School she had taught in country schools until she had saved money enough to pay for her improvements on the homestead. Everything was paid for--the cabin (she had made most of the furniture herself), the fencing, the plowing, her stock--everything; and there was money enough left for fall planting, a new barn, and some sheep, and the autumn expenses. In December, perhaps, she would leave and earn some more money until it was time to come back again. Then in another August she would have a crop from her winter wheat, and another in September from the spring planting. She could hardly wait for the time to come when she should really have money from a crop of her own raising. After the three years were over, and the land was hers, if she could afford it, she was going to college. If she did not have the money then, why she would work until she did. She would study agriculture at college, learn the best methods of improving the land, and then come back to carry them out. She would build a new house in place of the cabin, buy some more land, and make her ranch one of the best in all Wyoming! The Vigilantes were in a new world as they listened--a world where the only capital necessary was ambition, enthusiasm, vigor! Something told them that this homesteading girl was richer in many things than they themselves; that the treasures of hard work were quite as precious as those of wealth; and that Jean MacDonald was finding for herself through her own untiring labor the things most worth-while. They were silent an hour later as they left their new friend on the edge of the mesa, and rode down the hills toward Elk Creek Valley. "I think it's been about the happiest day I've ever had in my life," she told them, as she shook hands all around and said good-by. "I've loads of things to think about and laugh about--until you come again. Give Siwash a looser rein, Vivian. He won't stumble. Good-by!" They looked back as they reached the Valley level to see Jean MacDonald and Robert Bruce silhouetted against the sky-line, and to wave them a last good-by. "It's like your 'Power of the West' picture in our room at school, Virginia," Priscilla almost whispered--"the man on horseback with the sunset and the mountains behind him. Just look! There! Now she's turned Robert, and now they're out of sight!" That night they all sat on the porch together and watched the sunset. A flaming pageant of color traced and retraced its course across the sky. "I never saw such color," cried Aunt Nan. "Sometimes you think it's saffron, and then you know it's amber, and then you're sure it's real gold, and--it's changed again! See, Virginia!" "I think I know what it's like," said Virginia. "Mother and I discovered it years ago when I was a little girl. Jim took us camping once when Father was away, and at night we had a big fire and sat and watched it. The sunset was gorgeous like this, I remember, and just as we were watching it and the fire, Mother discovered what the clouds were like. They're like the smoke as the flames underneath push it through the green boughs! It's just that wonderful color in the sky now. The next time we camp you'll see, Aunt Nan. It always makes me think of the flame-colored veils which the Roman girls used to wear on their wedding-days. Mother told me about them that very night." "Just think how beautiful it must be from Jean's cabin," said Priscilla. "And she can see a larger sweep of sky and mountains because she's up higher than we. I know she's watching it all alone, and maybe dreaming about college." "I'll never forget her to-day," Mary said earnestly. "I think she's wonderful! And, Aunt Nan, you just know from her eyes that she's gazed on big stretches of country all her life. You must go with us next time to see her." "It's more than that, Mary." The voice came from the corner of the porch where Vivian sat apart from the others. "It's more than that. You don't just know she's always looked at big things. You know she's had them inside of her all her life long!" CHAPTER VI MISS GREEN AGAIN "I know I shouldn't worry," said Mary to Aunt Nan, "but I just can't help thinking of Anne and the Twins. Of course, as far as Jean and Jess are concerned, they won't mind--they'll think it the greatest adventure imaginable; but Anne will be terrified, and so will Mrs. Hill. I'm so glad Mother and I went last summer." "What does the paper say?" asked Aunt Nan. They were sitting on the porch awaiting the arrival of Priscilla, Virginia, and Vivian, who had walked to the road for the mail. Dick, coming on horseback, had brought the heavier papers and packages, and Mary was absorbed in the latest reports of the newly declared war. "Oh, it's mostly about mobilizing and the German advance, but there are scores of incidents about Americans unable to get money or return passages, or anything; and here is something about their being made to walk across the border into Switzerland. Dear me! I wonder just where Anne is! In Germany somewhere, I know." "Don't worry, dear," reassured Aunt Nan. "There may be disagreeable things, but I'm sure our people won't be in any real trouble or danger. Where are those girls anyway? They must have sat down to read their own letters, and forgotten all about us." "Here they come," said Mary, looking down the cottonwood-bordered lane. "They're reading something all together, and laughing. Maybe it's a letter from the Twins or Anne." It proved to be a veritable volume from the Blackmore twins, Jean being the real author, but Jess having lent her personality without stint to the incident related. "It's a perfect scream," cried Priscilla, half-choked with laughter as she came up the steps. "Mary, what do you think? They've seen--no, I won't tell, Virginia, but read it quick!" "When is it dated?" asked Mary. "July 20th," Virginia told her. "The very day you people came. You see, 'twas too early then for any trouble. Would you rather wait to hear it, Aunt Nan, until you've read your mail?" Aunt Nan's mail was unimportant, she said, compared to a letter from the interesting Blackmore twins. "It's a regular book," announced Virginia, as she settled herself against a post, and turned the pages. "Jean probably didn't do much sight-seeing on the afternoon she wrote this. "'Safe at last in Berlin, Germany, "'July 20, 19--. "'DEAR VIRGINIA AND EVERYBODY ELSE: "'It is only through Anne's economy and Jess' impudence and my genius at conducting a party that we are here and writing to you. Had each of us lacked the quality named above, we should to-day doubtless be languishing within the walls of a German poor-house. But instead we are in a lovely pension--all together and unspeakably happy. "'The story in itself is so thrilling that I hate to give you the _necessary setting_, as Miss Wallace would say, but I must. The first step is to explain how we all happen to be together. It was this way: Father and Jess and I _did_ stay in England for a week after all. You see, Jess had faithfully promised every girl in English History that she would see Lady Jane Grey's name where she had cut it herself in the Tower; and I had given my oath to record the impressions made upon me by the sight of Kenilworth by moonlight. Whether Dad would have considered those vows worthy or not, we do not know, had it not been that he wanted to go to the Bodleian Library at Oxford to see some musty old manuscript or other. So on our way from Liverpool to Oxford we stopped at Kenilworth, and I _did_ see it at moonlight. I shall give my impressions at a later date. The search for another old manuscript gave Jess her chance at the Tower and "JANE," and it was there in the little chapel that we met Anne and Mrs. Hill. "'They had planned the most wonderful week down in Surrey in a tiny English village called Shere, which Anne said was, according to the guide-books, "the perfect realization of an artist's dream." She begged us to go along with them, and poor Mrs. Hill, I suppose, felt obliged to invite us also, though what she may have said to Anne in private I do not yet know. We became imbued with desire to see the artist's dream realized and to be with Anne, so with Jess to hurry Mrs. Hill and me to drag Anne, we tore through Billingsgate fish-market and up King William Street to the Bank, where we were to meet Father. "'After the poor man had recovered from his astonishment, he gave his consent--namely, that we should go to Surrey with Anne and Mrs. Hill _(if they really wanted us)_ then across the channel to Rotterdam, up the Rhine and on to Berlin, where he would meet us. Mrs. Hill really seemed glad to have us go with them and, to be very frank, I think the Rev. Dr. Blackmore was glad to get rid of us. You see, Jess and I simply can't get enthusiastic over the Middle Ages and old manuscripts, and I think it worries Dad. "'Well, our learned father went on to Berlin, and his imbecile offspring to Surrey. Shere was lovely! _My_ dream was realized at least. I'll never forget the little gardens filled with roses and Canterbury bells, and the grain-fields dotted with poppies, and the woods filled with holly and tall pink foxgloves, and the beeches all silvery and green. We rode bicycles all over Surrey, and ate roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and drank ginger beer at quaint little English inns. You'll hear all about it next year in English class, for I've themes enough for everybody--at least material for them. "'Then we went back to London, and had all sorts of adventures there, from our cab-horse falling flat in Piccadilly Circus to Jess being arrested at the House of Commons gate; but if Mrs. Hill ever repented of her invitation she didn't let us know, and we were never happier in our lives. "'We started for Rotterdam the 14th of July, crossed the Channel with flying colors since we went to bed immediately upon going aboard, and started up the Rhine the next day on a boat appropriately named the _Siegfried_. The first day we went through flat Holland country, but on the next we had reached the hills, all walled-up and covered with vineyards. That evening we arrived at Cologne, where we were to stay a day to see the Cathedral, and went to our hotel. And here the great adventure begins! "'No sooner had we arrived at the hotel and asked for mail, than the clerk handed Mrs. Hill a telegram. It was from her music-teacher in Berlin, and asked her to be in Berlin the next day without fail for a lesson. What was she to do? She said she just couldn't miss the lesson, and yet she just couldn't bear to take us girls before we had seen the Cathedral or the castles on the Rhine. "'It didn't take Jess and Anne and me long to decide. She must go on, of course, we told her, and we would see the Cathedral, go up the rest of the Rhine quite by ourselves, and on by train from Mayence to Berlin. We could see she was hesitating, probably feeling that Anne might be trusted, but not being exactly sure of those Blackmore twins. "'"The language?" she said. "Your German? You may not find English spoken everywhere, you know." "'Anne hastened to remark that I had studied German for three years, and carried off honors. Her imagination gave birth to the honors, whereupon I, wishing above all else to play my part, cleared my throat, thought a moment, and requested the clerk to bring me a glass of water, which he did with a grin. "'Whether my visible success reassured Mrs. Hill or not, I do not know, but anyhow she departed that night for Berlin, leaving us loaded with endless instructions, extra money, and a tiny red German dictionary. I never felt so officious in my life as when I called a cab and ushered Jess and Anne into it after the train had pulled out. I can see now why it is that Thomas Cook and Son have been so eminently successful. "'The next day we spent browsing around in the Cathedral. To describe it would be out of place in this letter, which deals primarily with adventure. I might say, however, that Jess bought all of you silver pendants of the Three Wise Men of Cologne, when she ought to have saved her money. That evening we took the Rhine-boat--the _Parsifal_ this time--and when we awoke in the morning we were well among the castles. It was a marvelous day, and I'll have loads to tell you about it in the fall. "'We reached Mayence in the evening in a pouring rain, and took a cab, driven by a funny, red-faced driver, to a hotel where English was spoken, for however Mrs. Hill may have been impressed by my honors in German she had taken care to recommend English hotels. Our train for Berlin was to leave at nine A.M., so we went to bed early, feeling too self-resourceful for words. "'Do you remember how, with cheers for St. Helen's and groans for Athens, we bequeathed Greenie to the Ancient World last winter? Who at that joyous moment would have thought that she would again and so soon enter our lives? Imagine then, if you can, the chill of horror which shook us all when upon alighting at the Mayence station the next morning, ready to take our train for Berlin, we beheld--_unmistakably beheld_--our beloved Greenie by the drinking-fountain!!! Her back was toward us, and all the proofs we had at that moment were the hang of her familiar gray suit, and our old friend, that absurd chicken feather, awry upon her little, black, St. Helen's hat. We stood breathless and surveyed her. "'"It is!" said Jess. "Let's run!" "'"It's not!" said Anne. "She's in Athens. Besides, she's too antiseptic to drink at a fountain!" "'"I believe it is," said I. "It's just as well to look for shelter!" "'"Of course, it is," said Jess. "That chicken-feather----" "'And just then she looked up! There was no longer any question as to identity. In spite of drinking-fountains and Athens, it was Greenie! She looked quite the same as ever, except for the absence of the gray shawl, and no visible effects of curl-papers. "'Whether it was Providence, Greenie's near-sightedness or our own speed that saved us, I don't know; but I do know we took her bearings and all ran in opposite directions. She was going through the door marked _South_. Anne accordingly ran north, Jess east, and I west. "'"Meet in five minutes at the fountain," I commanded hoarsely as we separated. "'That was the last we saw of Greenie's visible form. How she happened to be in Mayence we knew not. Jess insisted she never reached Athens at all, but was discovered en route at Mayence, placed in the Museum there, and was simply out on parole for exercise! Be that as it may, the excitement of seeing her, and the flight which followed, proved most disastrous to us all, for when we met five minutes later at the fountain, the Blackmore purse, carried by Jess, was gone! "'Anne and I stood and glared at my poor twin just as though dropping a purse were a disgrace which could never come to us even when escaping from Miss Green. I informed her of a fact which she has known for eighteen years--namely, that twenty dollars, the amount in the purse, might be a trifle to some, but was colossal in the eyes of a minister's family. Anne was less scathing, but by no means charitable. Poor Jess, on the verge of tears, suggested that instead of scolding her we'd better look for the purse, which we proceeded to do without success. "'Thereupon Anne counted her money, my honors in German of course being a constant help. A twenty mark piece--five dollars; a ten mark piece--two dollars and a half; and some change amounting to four marks or another dollar. Eight dollars and fifty cents in all, and three persons, who had had no breakfast, must be transported to Berlin! "'"It's impossible!" said Anne. "'"It's got to be done!" said I. "'"If I have to beg on the streets, it _shall_ be done!" cried Jess, so loudly that every one in the station looked in our direction. "'"How much are the tickets?" asked Anne. "Mother said to go second-class in Germany." "'"I'll see," said I officiously, and started toward a blue-capped official in a cage. "'"You'd best hurry," cried Anne. "The train goes in twenty minutes." "'I smiled upon the somber man in the cage and asked in my best and clearest English how much the tickets were. A blank stare was his only answer. He understood no English, and to save my life I could think of no German. I stammered and stammered but with no success, and in a few seconds a fat German lady with six children and a dog had unceremoniously pushed me out of the way. I tried another official and another with the same result. A helpless feeling seized me. I looked at the clock. Five minutes out of the twenty gone! I ran back frantically to Jess and Anne, snatched the little red dictionary, and was off again in search of still another official. This time I was understood, bad as was my German, but _I_ couldn't understand, so things were as hopeless as ever. "'Ten minutes before train time I returned desperate to my twin and Anne, and confessed that honors in German were of no assistance whatsoever. We gazed at one another blankly Money gone--hope gone--what should we do? At that moment Jess darted away. Our first thought was that she had spied Miss Green, and was leaving us to our fate for revenge; but a moment later we saw that she had seized upon a tall man, who had been quietly crossing the platform. Her impudence was appalling! She grabbed the man by the arm without a word of explanation, and literally dragged him toward us. I don't think she had spoken to him at all until she reached Anne and me. "'"Here," she said, pointing a finger of scorn at me, "here is my sister who is supposed to know German and doesn't. She'll tell you how you can help us out." "'The man, who wore a Thomas Cook and Son hat, was very polite after he had recovered from his surprise. I explained the difficulty we were in as quickly as possible, and he, in turn, said that second-class tickets to Berlin cost in the neighborhood of four dollars, that the train left in seven minutes, and that if we would give him the money he would gladly make the purchase. "'"Four dollars!" gasped Anne. "Apiece, you mean, or together?" "'"Apiece," said the man. "'"Then we can't go," said Anne. "I knew it all the time." And she dropped in a limp little heap on the bench near by just as though she never could get up. "'"Why, what's the matter?" asked the man. "Out of money?" "'Then Jess, who was really to blame, felt called upon to explain. "'"Yes, sir, we are," she said, "all but eight dollars and fifty cents. You see, we experienced a severe shock in seeing G---- Miss Green, an old teacher of ours, by the drinking-fountain, when we thought she was in Athens. We didn't feel as though we could speak to her until--until we had washed and brushed up a little, and so we--well, we ran, and somehow I lost our family purse." "'"I see," said the man. "'He seemed very interested all of a sudden, and said we needn't worry at all if we had eight dollars and a half. There was another train leaving an hour later, he said--a train which carried third-class carriages. We would be quite safe in traveling that way, and he would personally see us on board, if we wished. At that Anne and her spirits arose. "'"Miss Green," he repeated. "You say she was your teacher?" "'"Yes," said I wonderingly. "She most certainly was." "'"Harriet, her given name?" asked the man. "'"Yes!" cried Jess and Anne and I all together. "You don't know her, do you?" "'"An angular person in a gray suit?" he continued. "Wears spectacles and----" "'"Crimps," interrupted Jess. "Yes, she's the one, though she hasn't any this morning. You see, at school she always was a little--well, formidable, and we----" "'"I see," said the man again. "Well, since I know she's around here, I may as well wait. I told her to be at our office just outside the station at ten o'clock, and it's nearly that now. You see," he explained, "she's been in Athens for six months, and she's very anxious to conduct a small party back there--lecture on the ancient civilization and all that sort of thing, you know. Perhaps, since she was your teacher, you'll be able to tell me how she'd do. She hasn't had time to get recommendations for just this sort of work, you see." "'"How--how long would she be gone?" ventured Jess. "'"Well," explained the Thomas Cook man, "if she did well, we'd probably keep her on the force. We're always looking for folks like that--to take parties--especially to Athens or Egypt. They're rare! This might be a life job." "'"I'd be willing to recommend her!" said Jess, a little too promptly, I thought. "'"I think," said Anne, "it depends a good deal on the party she's going to take." "'"It certainly does," I agreed. "'"Well," said the man again, "it's an easy party. There's a professor who's nearly eighty, and who's wanted all his life to go to Athens; and a minister who's trying to discover the exact spot where Paul preached to the Athenians; and a couple of teachers who are something like Miss Green, I think--about that type, you know. They're terribly interested in the temples on the Acropolis." "'"Miss Green then is certainly the woman for you, sir," I announced, feeling like an Employment Bureau. "She's steeped in the Ancient World! She dotes on Rameses and the Pharaohs and the Tarquins and Solon; and she knows more about every one of them than she knows about--us, for instance." "'"I see," said the man. "'"The only reason we hesitated for a moment," added Anne, "was because we thought the party might be composed of young people, and, you see, Miss Green has never specialized to any great extent in--in--young life!" "'"I understand perfectly," said our benefactor. "I guess I'll run along, young ladies. She might be in my office. Get your tickets from the man in the red cap at the largest window over there. He speaks English. Your train will reach Berlin at seven. It's on track four. Don't thank me at all. I'm indebted to you. Won't you walk to the office and see Miss Green? She'd be delighted, I'm sure!" "'Anne answered for us. "No, thank you," she said. "I'm afraid we can't. We haven't had breakfast yet, and we must telegraph my mother. She'll expect us earlier. Yes, thank you, I'm sure we can manage quite well alone. Give Miss Green our best regards. I'm sure we hope she'll be successful." "'He shook hands all around. "'"You really think," asked Jess, a little worried in tone, I thought, "you really think it's likely to be a job for life?" "'"Yes," said the man, "I do. I think she's the very woman I've been looking for." "'Then he went. We stood looking at one another, not knowing what to say. It had all been too unexpected." "'"Well," said Jess at last, "I don't know but that a job for life is cheap at twenty dollars. And, you know, she really expected to return to St. Helen's year after next." "'We had just time to eat our belated breakfast, telegraph, buy our tickets, and catch the ten o'clock train, which carried us to Berlin without incident, other than embarrassments arising from my total lack of German. We didn't mind third class at all. It's a lot more human. Mrs. Hill and Dad met us, and Dad forgot all about the twenty dollars when we told him about Greenie. "'I've given up seeing the Emperor's stables to tell you all of this, and I hope you appreciate it. Jess and Anne send loads of love to all of you, and so do I. I can't believe Wyoming is any better than Germany! "'Jean.'" "I can't help wondering, Virginia," said Priscilla, after they had all laughed again over Jean's letter, "I can't help wondering whether Greenie will consider _this_ vocation thrust upon her!" "That's just what I was wondering, too," returned Virginia. CHAPTER VII THE VIGILANTES HOMESTEAD "John, do you really think it's safe?" It was Aunt Nan who asked the question. Mr. Hunter laughed. "Safe, Nan? They couldn't be safer. There's nothing in the wide world to hurt them out there on the mesa. They're safer there, in my opinion, than any place I know, and if they want to know what homesteading is like, why let them homestead for a night! It won't hurt them a bit. If they go back to school with a few of Jean MacDonald's ideas, they'll be very fortunate." "It seems as though I ought to go," said Aunt Nan, "and still I don't know that my being there would do any good." "Not a bit," returned Virginia's father. "Roughing it at seventeen and thirty are two entirely different experiences. Stay at home and be civilized, but let them go and don't worry for a moment. They'll show up to-morrow safe and sound with another bran-new experience for their Thought Books. See if they don't!" So it happened that Aunt Nan was convinced and gave her consent to Virginia's just-born and dearly-beloved plan--namely, that the four Vigilantes should homestead for Jean MacDonald during her absence of one night from her cabin on the mesa. Jean had ridden over that morning on her way to town to spend the night with a friend, and Virginia's plan had sprung full-born like Athena from the head of Zeus. "Don't you want us to homestead for you, Jean, while you're away?" she had asked. Jean had gladly accepted the offer. "It would be just the thing," she said. Then they could really see why she loved the mesa as she did, and especially her very own corner of it. The dogs would be glad of company, for she had driven the three cows that very morning to the neighboring homestead, and except for the chickens, Watch and King were all alone. The cabin door had no lock, and they might go right in and make themselves at home. There was an extra cot in the kitchen, bedding in plenty, and loads of food supplies. She would simply love to have them do it! Virginia had turned questioningly to the listening Vigilantes. "Let's!" said Mary. "Oh, do let's!" cried Priscilla. "Of course," faltered Vivian, insuperably buoyed up by company. "All right," said Jean MacDonald as she turned Robert Bruce toward the road. "It's settled then! There's plenty of butter and milk in the creek-refrigerator--I left them there--and lots of fish in the creek. You'll have to rustle your own wood, I guess. Help yourselves to everything! Good-by!" William, who was working among his flowers, had waited only for Aunt Nan's approval. Now that it had come, he was off to saddle the horses, while the excited Vigilantes flew to get into their riding-clothes. "I'm so glad you dared to suggest it, Virginia," said Priscilla, struggling with her boot lacings. "I thought of it, too--that's what I meant by nudging you--but, of course, I wouldn't have liked to propose it. In the two weeks I've been here, I've had the best time I ever had in my life, and I really believe this is going to be the best of all." "I suppose," observed Virginia, "that the boys will be more or less disappointed because we won't be here to go on the gopher hunt, but we can shoot dozens of gophers any day." "Of course," returned Vivian, who had never shot one in her life. "Of course," echoed Mary, who was in the same class with Vivian. "Besides," continued Priscilla, "the experience of shooting a gopher, while doubtless thrilling in the extreme, doesn't compare for one moment with homesteading. Do you know, girls, I believe I'll take along my Thought Book. Something might come to me!" "I would, if I were you," acquiesced Virginia. "No, Hannah, dear," she added, turning to the faithful retainer in the doorway, "we don't want a thing to eat. Thank you just as much. It wouldn't be homesteading at all if we carried food. Jean says there are plenty of supplies out there. We're just going to take our night-dresses and combs and tooth-brushes and Priscilla's Thought Book." Hannah smiled dubiously. "Supplies is all right, deary," said she, "but who's going to cook them?" "I can make biscuits, I think," offered Mary. "At least, I did once." Virginia thought for a moment, uncertain of her contribution. "I'm sure I can fry fish," she said. "I've seen you do it a hundred times, Hannah." Priscilla and Vivian, not being culinary experts, made no promises; but Virginia, even in the face of discouragement, still insisted that they take nothing. "Then don't go till after dinner," called Aunt Nan from her room. "It will be ready in an hour." "Better wait," reiterated Mr. Hunter. "William's had to go on the range a piece for the horses, anyway." So it was after dinner that the four homesteaders started for their borrowed claim, leaving behind three disgusted boys armed for a gopher hunt, an amused father, an interested William, a still doubtful Aunt Nan, and a much-worried Hannah. "Can't we even come to call?" asked Carver, holding Vivian's horse for her to mount. "No, Carver," said Virginia sweetly, "you can't. We want to see how it will really seem to be homesteading all alone. We'll be back by noon to-morrow, and will go after gophers in the afternoon, if you want to wait. If you don't, it's all right." "Why not invite us to supper?" suggested Donald. "We'll go directly afterward, and won't come too early." "I should say not," cried Priscilla, much to Hannah's amusement as they galloped away. "Supper is to be an experiment for us, and we don't want any guests." They rode south through the hills to Elk Creek Valley, where the pink and blue of the blossoms were fading a little in the August sun. It would be a golden Valley soon, Virginia said--yellow with sunflowers and golden-rod. Then they climbed the foot-hills to the mesa, and rode eagerly toward their newly-acquired cabin in the southwest corner. "I feel exactly like the owner," confided Virginia, urging Pedro forward toward their goal. "I'm wondering if anything has happened since my trip to town." Apparently nothing had happened. The cabin was slumbering peacefully in the August sunshine. Watch and King, however, were wide awake. They came bounding around the corner of the house, ready to guard their mistress' property from all intruders. But in their superior dog wisdom they soon remembered that these young ladies were the friends who a few days before had made their mistress happy, and they gave the Vigilantes a royal welcome--both for Jean and for themselves. Virginia considered matters for a moment before dismounting. "I think I'll leave Pedro's bridle on," she said. "Then he won't stray far, and the others will keep near him. We'll unsaddle and put the things on the porch. Then that will be done. It's three o'clock now," she continued, consulting her watch, "and I don't think it would be a bad plan to get settled and consider supper, do you?" No, they did not, they told her, as they dismounted. Virginia, with Pedro unsaddled and eager to feed, proudly watched Vivian as she tugged at Siwash's saddle-straps, and took off his bridle. It was some time since Vivian had asked assistance. Her heart might be beating fearfully inside--it probably was--when Siwash shook his head impatiently and stamped a foot; but only an instinctive backward movement proved that the fear was still there. "Vivian's making new roots every day," Virginia said to herself, "and deep ones, too." And she smiled encouragingly into Vivian's blue eyes, as, the horses freed, they carried the saddles, blankets, and bridles to the porch. Jean MacDonald was right. The cabin door would not lock. Three Vigilantes looked somewhat askance at one another when this fact was made known, though the fourth seemed not to consider it at all. The cot in the kitchen was examined and pronounced comfortable. "At least as comfortable as one would wish, homesteading for one night," said Priscilla. Lots were drawn for beds and companions. Vivian and Virginia, it was thus decided, should sleep in the living-room, and Priscilla and Mary in the kitchen. "Of course, we could move the kitchen cot into the living-room," said Virginia, "but it really isn't worth the trouble where the door is so small. Besides, you girls don't feel the least bit frightened about sleeping out there, anyway." Mary looked at Priscilla and Priscilla looked at Mary. Not for veritable worlds would they have confided to Virginia the joy which would fill their hearts if that refractory kitchen cot could be moved into the living-room; not for untold riches would they have confessed the sinking feeling which attacked them upon the thought of sleeping in the kitchen nearest that unlocked door. A bear might push open that door, or a mountain lion roar outside their window--they would be game to the end! "Now," announced Virginia, quite unconscious of the sensations which were agitating her friends, "I think we'd best begin to get supper. It may take some time. Mary, I see there's a cook book in the kitchen. If you've made biscuits only once, it might be well for you to study up a little. Vivian can set the table, and get some lettuce from the garden. I'll rustle the wood for the fire, and get the potatoes ready. Hannah told me to bake them about an hour. Priscilla, why don't you take one of Jean's rods and follow up the creek? There are some quaking-asps in a shady place up a little way, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if you got a trout there. Use some of those little dark flies--they're good this kind of a day. Come to think of it, Jean has some already on. You might add a grasshopper or two. There'll be plenty of them hopping around. Pinch their noses and they'll keep still." Priscilla, armed with Virginia's directions, and a total lack of experience, took the rod and went her way. Never in her life had she caught a fish, but the zest of a possible catch seized her. If she could only get one, it would be something more to tell Alden, and might elicit praise as high as the bear-trapping experience had done. She saw the quaking-asps some rods above the cabin, crawled under the wire fence, and went toward them. Something hopped out of her way. A grasshopper! She jumped, but missed him! Personally she did not care for the _feel_ of grasshoppers, and their kindred of crawly things, but if she would accomplish her purpose, she must procure one. She dropped on her knees, and began her search. There were grasshoppers in plenty, but they were of a very swift variety. Priscilla darted and dove on this side and that before she finally caught her prey. With loathing and disgust she proceeded to pinch his nose and render him helpless. She placed him awkwardly and none too securely on the hook beneath the little black fly, strode to the quaking-asps, disentangled her rod and line a dozen times, and at length managed to drop the baited hook into the creek. Then she straightened her weary form, grasped her rod firmly in her right hand and waited. The question was--should she do anything more than wait? Were one's chances of success greater if she wiggled the rod? Should one just stand still or walk back and forth, dragging the line after her? If the trout in the dark pool under the shadow of the quaking-asps had seen the performance that preceded the appearance of that fly and grasshopper, he never would have deigned to approach them. But his late afternoon nap had fortunately prevented, and now supper was before his very eyes. He darted for the grasshopper and securely seized it. Priscilla, standing motionless upon the bank, felt a tremor go through the rod in her hand, saw the tip bend, felt a frightful tug as the fish darted downstream. Something told her that her dream was realized--that she had at least _hooked_ a fish! Had the fish in question been less greedy, he would have assuredly made his escape. Priscilla knew nothing of the rules of angling. She only knew that she should never recover from chagrin and shame if that fish eluded her. She dropped the rod, grasped the line tightly in both hands, slid down the bank, stood in the creek to her boot-tops, and pulled with all her might. The trout, hindered by surprise as well as greediness, surrendered, and Priscilla with trembling hands and glowing eyes drew him to shore. It never occurred to her to take him from the hook. Her one thought was to notify the Vigilantes of her success. Holding the line in one hand, just above the flapping, defeated trout, and grasping the rod in the other, she ran with all her might to the cabin, burst in the door, and exhibited her fish and her dripping, triumphant self to the Vigilantes. Fears of unlocked doors had fled! It was still light, and she was a conqueror! Supper that night, in spite of Hannah's fears, was an unqualified success. Memory and the cook-book had sufficed to make very creditable biscuits, the trout, rather demolished by vigorous cleaning, lay, brown and sizzling, in a nest of fresh lettuce leaves, and the potatoes were perfect. "Isn't it fun?" cried Virginia, as they ate the last crumb. "It's better even than I thought." "It's lovely," said Vivian, "only I feel just the same way that I did about staying all alone as Jean does. Look outside, Virginia. It's getting dark already!" "Yes," answered Virginia, going to the window, "it does in August, though the twilights stay like this a long time. See, there's a star! Doesn't it twinkle? You can actually see the points! Let's wish on it. I wish--let me see--I wish for the loveliest year at St. Helen's we could possibly have--a year we'll remember all our lives!" "I wish," said Mary, "that college may be just as lovely, and that I'll make as good new friends as you all are." "I wish," said Priscilla thoughtfully, "I wish I may be just as good a Senior Monitor as you were, Mary." "I'm not going to tell my wish," said Vivian softly. "It's--it's too much about me." Dishes were washed and dogs and chickens fed. Then they came out-of-doors in the ever-deepening stillness to watch the moon rise over the blue shadowy mountains, and look down upon the mesa, upon the horses feeding some rods away among the sagebrush, and upon them as they stood together a little distance from the cabin. "Isn't it still?" whispered Vivian, holding Virginia's hand. "You can just hear the silence in your ears. I believe it's louder than the creek!" "I love it!" said Mary, unlocked doors all forgotten in a blessed, all-together feeling. "See the stars come out one by one. You can almost see them opening the doors of Heaven before they look through. I never saw so many in all my life. And isn't the sky blue? It's never that way at home!" "I can understand better than ever, Virginia," said Priscilla, "how you used to feel at school when we would open the French doors and go out on the porch. You said it wasn't satisfying someway. I thought I understood on the getting-acquainted trip, but now I know better than ever." "It makes you feel like whispering, doesn't it?" Vivian whispered again. "It's all so big and we're so little. But it doesn't scare me so much now." "I've been thinking," said Virginia softly, "of Matthew Arnold's poem--the one on _Self-Dependence_, you know, Vivian, which we had in class, and which Miss Wallace likes so much. Of course, he was on the sea when he thought of it, but so are we--on a prairie sea--and I'm sure the stars were never brighter, even there. I learned it because I think it expresses the way one feels out here. I used to feel little, too, Vivian, but I don't any more. I feel just as though some strange thing inside of me were trying to reach the stars. It's just as though all the little things that have bothered you were gone away--just as though you were ready to learn _real_ things from the stars and the silence and the mountains--learn how to be like them, I mean. You know what he said in the poem, Vivian--the stanza about the stars--the one Miss Wallace loves the best: 'Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.'" Vivian sighed--a long, deep sigh that somehow drew them closer together. "I don't believe I'll ever be like that," she said. "I'm afraid I'll always want sympathy and--love!" "But it doesn't mean that, Vivian," explained Virginia. "I'm sure it doesn't. Of course, we all want those things--more than anything else in the world. But I think it means just as Miss Wallace said, that instead of demanding them we're to live so--so nobly that they will come to us--unsought, you know. Doesn't that make it a little easier, don't you think?" The August night grew cold, and soon they went indoors to a friendship fire in the stone fire-place. They watched the flames roar up the chimney, then crackle cheerily, and at last flicker away to little blue tongues, which died almost as soon as they were born. There was no other light in the cabin. Virginia had said that none was needed, and she did not notice the apprehensive glances which the other Vigilantes cast around the shadowy, half-lit room. At last Vivian yawned. "Nine o'clock," said Virginia. "Bed-time! I guess we can see to undress by moonlight, can't we?" "What shall we do about the door?" asked Mary hesitatingly. "It won't lock, you know." "That won't matter," said Virginia carelessly, while she covered the fire-brands with ashes. "There's no one in the world around. Besides, Watch and King will take care of things. You don't feel afraid, do you?" "Oh, no!" announced Priscilla, trying her best to ape Virginia's careless manner, and determined to _act_ like a good sport at least. "Oh, no!" echoed Mary faintly. Vivian was unspeakably glad that her lot had fallen with Virginia, and that their bed was in the farther corner of the living-room. "I wish Dorothy were here!" Virginia called fifteen minutes later to the brave souls on the kitchen cot. "Then 'twould be perfectly perfect. Good-night, everybody. Sweet dreams!" "Sweet dreams!" whispered Priscilla to Mary, while she clutched Mary's hand. "I don't expect to have a dream to-night! Mary, don't go to sleep before I do! We'll have to manage it somehow! I'll die if you do!" "I won't," promised Mary. But they were tired from excitement, and sleep came in spite of unlocked doors. A half hour passed and every homesteader was sleeping soundly. The night wore on, midnight passed, and the still, stiller hours of the early morning came. It was yet dark when Mary was rudely awakened by her roommate kicking her with all her might. She sat up in bed, dazed, frightened. Priscilla was clinging to her. "Oh, Mary!" she breathed. "Listen! There are footsteps outside our window! There are, I tell you! Listen!" Mary listened. Her heart was in her mouth and choking her. Yes, there were unmistakably footsteps outside. As they listened, the sound of breathing became apparent. "It _isn't_ our breathing, Mary," Priscilla whispered. "I tell you it _isn't!_ It's--oh, the steps are coming nearer! They're on the path! Oh, Virginia! V-i-r-g-i-n-i-a! V-I-R-G-I-N-I-A!!" The last word ended in a mighty shout, which awoke Virginia and the terrified Vivian. Before the shout was fairly completed, the cot in the living-room was groaning beneath an added weight, and Virginia, striving to rise, was encumbered by three pair of arms. "Let me go, girls!" she cried. "Let me go, I tell you! No one's coming into this cabin unless I say so! Remember that!" By this time the steps were on the porch. Virginia, finally free from embraces and on her feet, reached for Jean MacDonald's gun, and started for the door, which she was just too late to open. Instead, the visitor from without pushed it open, and the terrified Vigilantes on the bed, hearing Virginia laugh, raised their frightened heads from the pillows to meet the astonished gaze of poor old Siwash! "Don't ever let the boys know," warned Virginia, as she returned from escorting Siwash to the gate and out upon the mesa. "We'll never hear the last of it if you do. 'Twas our own fault. We didn't close the gate, that's all, and Siwash has always loved company!" So the boys never knew, though they wondered not a little at the significant and secret glances which the Vigilantes exchanged upon their arrival home the next morning, and at intervals during the days that followed whenever homesteading became the topic of conversation. Once Aunt Nan, to whom also the secret was denied, attempted to probe the mystery, choosing Vivian as the most likely source of information. "Did you really have a splendid time, Vivian?" she asked. "We certainly did, Aunt Nan," answered the loyal Vivian. "I never had a better time in all my life. Only one night of homesteading is enough for me. There are lots of things I envy Jean MacDonald, but homesteading isn't one of them!" CHAPTER VIII AUNT DEBORAH HUNTER--PIONEER Aunt Deborah Hunter was driving from her ranch on Snake Creek to spend the day with her nephew, her grand-niece, and her grand-niece's guests. Clad in her best black silk dress, her black bonnet with the red cherries on the front, and her well-darned black cotton gloves, she was sitting up, very straight and stiff, beside Alec on the front seat. One would have said that her dignity forbade her to rest her shoulders, doubtless tired from the fifteen mile drive. Still, it was not altogether dignity which made Aunt Deborah scorn the support of the cushions which Alec had placed behind her. A great part of it was eagerness. It had been a long time since she had left her ranch even for a day. No one there could attend to things quite so well as she herself, she always insisted. But now, between shearing and threshing, she had chosen a day upon which to accept Virginia's and her father's oft-repeated invitation, and it was a festive occasion for her. Truth to tell, she needed one day a year, she said, "to meet folks." For the remaining three hundred and sixty-four, the hired man, her two dogs, an occasional visitor, her thoughts, and the mountains were quite enough. If the infrequent passer-by had paused long enough to look into Aunt Deborah's gray eyes beneath the cherry-trimmed bonnet, he would have seen therein the eagerness that made their owner scorn the sofa-pillows. It sparkled and beamed, now on this side, now on that, as she spied blue gentians blossoming in a hollow, and the gold which was already creeping over the wheat; it glowed as she looked at the mountains, and shone as she drew long breaths of the clear, bracing air; it was the self-same eagerness which lay deep in the gray eyes of her grand-niece Virginia. As they drew near their journey's end, and came in sight of the white ranch-house behind the cottonwoods, Aunt Deborah made her final preparations. With her handkerchief she brushed every speck of dust from her black dress, settled the old-fashioned brooch at her neck, gave a final straightening to her bonnet, and pulled her cotton gloves on more smoothly before again folding her hands on her lap. She sat up straighter than ever as Alec turned the horse down the lane. She seemed a little troubled about something when she saw the group of young people gathered at the porch and waiting for her. "Alec," she whispered, "the cherries on my bonnet? They worry me. I want to be young, but being long toward eighty I mustn't be childish. What do you think, Alec? I wouldn't displease Virginia for anything!" "Couldn't be nicer, ma'am," reassured Alec. "You need 'em for a touch o' life to your black." Thus assured, the little old lady sat in state, her eyes glowing and her folded hands trembling with excitement. "No, John," she said a few moments later, as she declined Mr. Hunter's outstretched arms. "No, thank you. When I get so I have to be lifted out, I'm not coming any more. Turn just a little more, Alec. There! Here I am!" It was her grand-niece whom she greeted first. "My dear!" she cried, holding the tall, gray-eyed girl at arms' length. "How you grow! John, she's grown an inch since she rode over a month ago. I believe upon my soul she has. And looks more like you every day! Kiss your old aunt, dear! She's plum proud of you!" Then she turned to the others, whom Virginia proudly introduced one by one. "It's a blessed sight--all these young folks together," she said, shaking hands with them all. "Except for Pioneer Reunions, I haven't seen so many all to once for fifty years. And so you all come from away back East--the place we used to call home? It ain't that any longer to us old folks--but the memories are dear all the same!" She stepped briskly upon the porch and toward the chair Virginia had placed for her. The Vigilantes and Aunt Nan watched her, fascinated. Virginia had told them of her wedding journey across the plains in '64; of the hardships and dangers she had withstood; of lonely winter days in a sod hut, and of frightful perils from Indians. She seemed so little someway sitting there, so frail and wrinkled in the big chair. It was almost incredible that she had lived through such terrible things. They longed to hear the story of it all from her own lips. Virginia's recital was thrilling enough! What then must Aunt Deborah's be? But Aunt Deborah was in no haste to talk about herself! She was far more interested in Virginia's friends--their respective homes and families--their school life and their plans and dreams for the future. Somehow the Vigilantes found it the easiest thing in the world to tell Aunt Deborah their ambitions. Aunt Nan found it easy, too, to speak of Virginia's mother to this dear old lady who had known and loved her. Virginia held Aunt Nan's hand close in her own as they heard Aunt Deborah tell of Mary Webster's coming to Wyoming; then a far rougher land than now; of her brave fight against homesickness; of her transformation of the Buffalo Horn School; and, finally, of the fierce struggle within herself over whether she should return to Vermont or stay to marry a Wyoming ranchman. "My nephew John," finished Aunt Deborah proudly. "A good man. None other than a good man could have won Mary Webster." "Oh, I'm so glad she stayed!" cried Aunt Nan, a big lump in her throat and her eyes brimming with tears. "I'm so glad--Aunt Deborah!" She took one of the little old lady's hands in hers. "We're all together now," she said, "New England and the West. There's no difference any longer, is there, Virginia?" "No, Aunt Nan," said Virginia, choking down the lump in her own throat. "There's not a bit of difference. And somehow I'm sure Mother knows. Aren't you, Aunt Deborah?" "Something inside of me says that she does," said Aunt Deborah softly. "You see, dears, even Heaven can't blot out the lovely things of earth! At least, that's how it seems to me!" A moment later, and Mr. Hunter came around the corner of the porch. "John," cried Aunt Deborah gayly, "don't let's worry one bit about this old world! With these young folks to write the books, and teach the schools, and take care of the homeless babies, we're safe for years to come! Come and tell me all about the wheat." So the morning passed, and at noon Malcolm and Donald, Jack and Carver rode over for dinner, and for Aunt Deborah's stories, which Virginia had promised them. Aunt Deborah's talent for listening won them also, and they told her their ambitions quite as eagerly as the Vigilantes had done. All but Malcolm--he was strangely silent! Dinner was served on the lawn beneath the cottonwoods. Joe and Dick brought out the large table, which was soon set by Hannah and her four eager assistants. It was a jolly meal, quite the merriest person being Aunt Deborah. "It wouldn't be so bad to grow old if you could be sure of being like that, would it?" whispered Carver Standish III to Malcolm. "No," said Malcolm absent-mindedly, looking at Aunt Nan. "No, it wouldn't!" "Now, Aunt Deborah," began Virginia, when the things were cleared away, "you know you promised you'd tell stories. You will, won't you?" Aunt Deborah's gray eyes swept the circle of interested faces raised to her own. "Why, of course I will, Virginia," she said. "Where shall I begin?" "At the very beginning," suggested Carver and Jack together. "We want it all, please." "I'm glad William put marigolds on the table," Aunt Deborah began. "They make it easy for me to get started. They take me back fifty years ago to the day before I was married back in Iowa. Robert came up that evening, and saw me with a brown dress on and marigolds at my waist. 'Wear them to-morrow, Deborah,' says he. 'They're so bright and sunny and a good omen. You see, _we're_ going to need sunshine on our wedding journey.' So the next day, when I was married, I wore some marigolds against my white dress. Some folks thought 'twas an awful queer thing to do. They said roses would have been much more _weddingy_, but Robert and I knew--and it didn't matter about other folks. "The very next day we started for our new home across the plains. That was to be our wedding journey. 'Twas in July, 1864. We went to Council Bluffs to meet the others of our train. That was just a small town then. In about three days they'd all collected together, ready to start. We didn't have so large a party as some. There were about seventy-five wagons in all, and two hundred persons, counting the children. "I'll never forget how I felt when I saw the last house go out of sight. I was sitting in the back of our wagon--we were near the end of the train that day--and Robert was ahead driving the oxen. But I guess he knew how I was feeling, for he came back and comforted me. There was comfort, too, in the way other folks besides me were feeling. There wasn't many dry eyes on the day we swung into the plains, and yet we wouldn't have turned back--no, not for worlds!" Aunt Deborah paused now and then for the eager questions which her interested listeners asked. Yes, she told them, the wagons were great, white-covered prairie schooners--real houses on wheels. Yes, the oxen were powerfully slow, but good, kind beasts. No, they were not all. There were mules in the train and a few horses. Most of those were ridden by scouts--men who received their food and bed for giving protection against the Indians. Yes, there were small children and tiny babies--whole families seeking new homes in this great land. Two babies were born on the journey. One lived to reach Montana and to grow into a strong, stout man; the other, a little girl, died on the way, and was buried somewhere in Nebraska. "Yes, there were many hard things like that," she said, "but we expected sadness and trouble and sorrow when we started out. We were not the first who had crossed the plains. There were pleasures, too. Nights when we stopped to camp there was a whole village of us. The men placed the wagons in a great circle, and within the circle was our fire and supper. We forgot to be lonely when the stars came out and looked down upon us--the only human things for miles around. We told stories and visited one another's wagons, and were thankful to be together. Friends were made then--real friends that always stuck!" "Indians?" she asked in response to Jack's interested questions. "Oh, yes, we found plenty of those to our sorrow! The first real hostile ones we met in Nebraska, six weeks after we started. Two days before they came I'd somehow felt as though we were having too smooth sailing for pioneers. One morning four of our men took horses and rode out searching for water. We never saw three of them again. At noon the only one left came riding up, half-dead from exhaustion and from wounds which the Indians had given him. He gave the alarm and soon we were ready for them, our wagons in a circle, and every man armed. Some women, too." Aunt Deborah's head rose proudly. "I shot my first shot that day, and I killed an Indian. Robert was proud of me that night!" So the journey went on, she told them. The long, hot days of mid-summer on the plains shortened into the cooler ones of September and October. All were wearying, of course, but few actually dangerous. The attacks from Indians were rare. They seemed to have learned that more could be gained by friendly bartering. By October the train had left the plains and was going higher into the mountains. The air grew more exhilarating. There was less sickness in the village on wheels. One October morning they found a light covering of snow. "I can't tell you how that snow made me feel," said Aunt Deborah. "It made me afraid somehow. I thought of the days I must stay alone that coming winter while Robert was away. But my fears went later in the day when the sun once more made the land like summer. "It was early November when we reached our journey's end in a Montana valley. A few sod huts were there to welcome us, and the day after our arrival other pioneers drifted in from the south. The spot was chosen because it was near water, and because there seemed to be plenty of wild game. Some of our train pushed on to the gold mines, another day's journey and more, but it was the gravel beds of the creek where we were promised gold, and we decided to stay in the valley. "We built a sod hut like those around us, and began to get settled. Our poor cows and horses were glad enough to rest and crop the grass in among the sagebrush. It was a forlorn-looking village enough when all our huts were done. I wish you could have seen it! There we spent our first winter--the happiest one of my whole life. Yes, my dears," she said, looking into their doubtful, surprised faces, "it _was_ the happiest. There were dangers, of course, and all kinds of hardships, but those made no difference. Of course there were lonely days when I longed for home. When Robert was there, I didn't mind the smoky, crowded hut, but on the days when he had to be away I felt as though I couldn't stand it much longer. We lived on meat and milk that winter. The flour gave out and there was no way to get more, so we had no bread. All the provisions had been used before February came, and we could get no more before spring. Buffalo meat and elk, we ate mostly. Yes, Virginia, what is it?" "The story, Aunt Deborah, about the Indian coming into the hut?" "Oh, yes," said Aunt Deborah, "Virginia always must have that. It happened on one day that Robert was away. He had ridden to the mining camp to try to get flour. I was all alone in the hut. There had been no news of Indians around, so imagine my surprise when the door was pushed open and an Indian walked in. I knew by his signs that he wanted food, so I gave him all I had. He drank all the milk in the hut, and some oat cakes which I had made from our last bit of oat-meal. I remember how angry I was, for I had been saving them especially for Robert, but I dared not refuse. Then he began admiring a rug which we had brought from home. It was on the bed in the corner. He asked me for it, and I refused. Then he insisted, and I still refused. But he wanted that rug, and was going to have it. At last he just grabbed it, and made for the door. That was too much for me. My grandmother had given Robert and me that rug for a wedding gift, and no Indian was going to take it away. I snatched Robert's gun from the corner and raised it. "'Drop it, or I shoot you!" I screamed. "I guess he knew I meant what I said, for he dropped the rug and hurried out of the cabin. I don't know how long I sat there facing the door. I was afraid he would bring others back, but he never came again. When Robert came that night, I was still facing the door with the gun. When I saw him, I burst out crying, and cried and cried. The strain had been too much for me." So Aunt Deborah's stories went on--of the village attacked by night, and her fearful ride to the little fort for protection; of the Vigilantes and their determined hunting-down of robbers and road-agents; of a sickness which broke out in the town toward spring; of hunger and privations--the varied, fascinating, almost incredible tales of pioneer life. Then, like oases, would come stories of Christmas festivities, and of merry, laughing times all together. The minutes, half-hours, and hours flew by as they listened. "My Thought Book will never hold them all," Priscilla whispered to Virginia. "But in the spring," Aunt Deborah finished, casting an anxious glance at the sun, "all was different. A trail to Salt Lake had been opened and provisions came through by stage. I'll never forget the morning the first stage train came. Men had use for their money then, though many of them used gold weighed out in little scales. Flour was a dollar and a half a pound, calico fifty cents a yard, and eggs five dollars a dozen. Shoes were priceless. One man bought a pair for thirty dollars. I remember that Robert and I wanted to give our neighbor's little girl a birthday present. After much thought we decided on an apple, and paid a dollar for it." "I don't see how you did it," said Vivian, who had not spoken a word since Aunt Deborah began. "I don't believe girls of to-day could live through such terrible things!" "Yes, they could, dear," affirmed Aunt Deborah, "only the need hasn't come. When it does, you'll all be ready. Of course, the Pioneer Days are over, but there is always need of pioneers--for Vigilantes, like yourselves." A half hour later and Aunt Deborah was again in the wagon beside Alec--again very straight and very stiff. She had had a beautiful day, she said, smiling upon them all. She had gathered thoughts and memories enough for another year. William came up to the carriage just as Alec lifted the reins. His hands were filled with marigolds--brown and orange and yellow. "I thought you might like 'em, ma'am," he said shyly. A light came into Aunt Deborah's gray eyes. "Like them, William!" she cried. "Like them! They'll give me even more memories--the very sweetest of my life." CHAPTER IX MR. CRUSOE OF CRIPPLE CREEK Mr. Crusoe was washing an extra shirt in the ford between Elk Creek Valley and the Gap. The absence of soap was a distinct disadvantage, but water, a corrugated stone, and Mr. Crusoe's diligence were working wonders. A short distance away among the quaking-asps smoldered the embers of a small fire; a blackened and empty bean-can on the hearth-stone, together with a two-tined fork, bore evidence of a recent breakfast. His washing completed, Mr. Crusoe turned his attention to his personal appearance. Deep in the waters of Elk Creek he plunged his arms, bare to the elbow, and washed his neck and face. From one pocket he drew a soiled and folded towel, which upon being unrolled disclosed a diminutive brush and an almost toothless comb. With these he proceeded to arrange his somewhat long and dripping black hair. His two weeks' old whiskers apparently worried him, for he pulled them meditatively; but since he was far from a barber and carried no shaving appliances, the brush and comb must suffice for them also. Finally he took his battered old hat from a nearby branch, brushed it carefully, arranged the crown so that fewer holes appeared, and put it upon his head. His clean shirt, spread upon a quaking-asp but by no means dry, afforded the best of reasons why he should not hurry; so, drawing a stained and stubby pipe and sack of tobacco from another pocket, Mr. Crusoe lay beneath a friendly cottonwood at the water's edge and gave himself to quiet contemplation. The morning was perfect, and no one could appreciate it more keenly than Mr. Crusoe, wanderer that he was. He blew a great mouthful of blue smoke into the still air, watched it circle lazily upward, and blew another to hasten the progress of the first. His black eyes, peering from a forest of eyebrows and whiskers, looked long upon the blossoms that clothed Elk Creek Valley--sunflowers, early golden-rod and purple thistles--swept the friendly, tumbling foot-hills and sought beneath the over-hanging trees for the secrets of the creek. It was a morning to love things, Mr. Crusoe thought to himself. He was glad that he had left his comrades of the railroad tracks; more glad that he had abandoned freight-jumping for a season; most glad that he had decided to work during the early fall months. Then with money in his pockets and a new suit of clothes upon his back, he might go back to Cripple Creek whence he had come. A few minutes later his contemplations were broken by the sound of horses' feet coming through the Gap. He sat up, interested, and removed his pipe. In another moment as he met the wide-open eyes of two very much startled young ladies, his hat followed. Mr. Crusoe was used to speaking to persons whom he met in his journeyings. It was one of the many joys of the road. "Good-mornin', comrades," said he. The hearts of Mary and Vivian leaped into their throats. Their eyes, leaving Mr. Crusoe's, saw in one terrifying instant the shirt drying on the quaking-asp, the smoldering fire, the empty bean-can. This man was a tramp! He belonged to that disgusting clan of vagabonds who asked for food at back-doors, and whom one, if frightened into doing it, fed on back stoops as one fed the cat! He, like his fellows, would inspire one to lock all the doors at noonday, and to tell one's neighbors there was a tramp abroad! "Good-mornin'," said Mr. Crusoe again. "It's a fine day." This time Mary answered. She did not dare keep silent. The tramp might become angry. "Good-morning," she faltered. Vivian said nothing. She was waiting for Mary to plan a means of escape. Meanwhile Siwash and his companion, feeling their reins tighten, had stopped and were nibbling at the quaking-asps, quite undisturbed. Mr. Crusoe rose, hat in hand. "Was you plannin' to ford, young ladies?" he asked politely. The vanishing flanks of two horses, unceremoniously yanked away from their luncheon and turned toward the prairie, were his only answer. Mr. Crusoe gazed wonderingly into a cloud of dust. Then he felt of his washing on the quaking-asp. It was dry enough. Laying his pipe and hat on the ground, he proceeded to get into the clean shirt. "Poor little things!" he said from its somewhat damp depths. "They was plum scared of me!" The shirt on, he did its mate into a bundle, cut a forked stick upon which to sling it, stamped out the last ember of his dying fire, took his hat and pipe, and started north up the creek trail. Vivian and Mary did not stop their wild gallop until they were well in sight of the nearest house on the prairie. Blue gentians for Miss Wallace, which had been their errand, were quite forgotten. So also was the glory of the morning. Instead, there ever rose before their still startled eyes a black-whiskered, coatless man, smoking the stub of a dirty pipe beneath a cottonwood. "Mary," said Vivian, gathering courage as the Keith house came into view, and breaking a long, frightened silence, "Mary, did you ever see any one so villainous-looking in your life--outside of the movies, I mean? I guess my heart will never stop thumping! I wish Virginia had been with us! She's always saying there's no one around here to harm any one. I just wish she had!" "I sort of wish we hadn't run so," returned Mary, pulling her horse down to a walk. "Maybe he wasn't any one harmful at all, only he scared me so I never stopped to think. I'd hate to be a snob, even to a tramp!" "I wouldn't! I glory in it! And, besides, you needn't worry. It takes time to be a snob, and we didn't waste a moment. Here's the Keith house. Hadn't we best go in for a moment? There's Carver now playing with Kenneth." The Keiths, upon hearing the story, quieted Vivian's fears, and confirmed Mary's increasing regret. The man was only a hobo, Donald said, doubtless seeking work. They looked unmistakably rough, but were often good fellows inside. Probably he wouldn't have frightened them for the world. "I wish this fellow would stray our way," he added. "We're going to be in need of extra hands when threshing comes, and it won't be long now. Dad would welcome him all right." Vivian stared at Donald, incredulous and speechless. There was no need of asking him if he meant what he had just said. Apparently that horrible creature back there by the creek, the very remembrance of whom caused cold shivers to run over Vivian, would be given a welcome by the Keith family. Vivian's nose, already a trifle high, rose higher. Democracy was unquestionably a splendid attribute. Since knowing Virginia and coming West, she was more inclined to believe in it than ever. But this was too much! An hour later they were riding homeward, their hands filled with gentians. Donald and Jack had ridden back with them to the ford to act as protectors, and, Vivian secretly believed, to interview the hobo, were he still there, upon the subject of threshing. But only an empty bean-can and the charred remnants of a fire bore evidence of the wayfarer. He had gone! Reassured, they had gathered gentians to their hearts' content, left the boys upon the prairie, and ridden homeward. Mr. Hunter came to meet them as they rode beneath the cottonwoods. "Crusoe," he called to some one on the other side of the porch, "here's your first job! Take these horses to the corral." An attempt to describe the sensations which swept over Mary and Vivian when they recognized their acquaintance of the morning would be impossible. Unable for a moment to dismount, they sat in their saddles and stared. Mr. Crusoe, undoubtedly sensible of their surprise, patted Siwash, who responded gladly in spite of black whiskers and a battered hat. Mr. Hunter, thinking that the flowers might be the reason of their delay, relieved them of the gentians. Mary and Vivian, thus assisted, finally fell from the saddles, and followed Mr. Hunter to the porch. "Mr. Hunter," gasped Vivian when the new man had taken the horses, "do you know who he is? He's a hobo! Donald said so! We met him this morning down at the ford--Mary and I. He scared us almost to death! He had washed a shirt and it was drying on the bushes, and he ate canned beans for breakfast right out of the can with a dirty, bent, old fork. He was lying under a tree and smoking a hideous pipe as we rode up! I never was so horrified in all my life! And, Mr. Hunter, he took off his hat and spoke to us! I thought we'd die! Siwash would eat the bushes, and I thought we'd never escape! He's not going to stay here after he has something to eat, is he, Mr. Hunter? You don't know how awful he is!" Vivian stopped--merely for breath. Mr. Hunter with a mighty effort repressed a smile. Mary was torn between a desire to play fair and the awful remembrance of her fright. She said nothing. "Vivian," said Mr. Hunter, "out here we've learned not to judge persons by whether or not they wash in the creek and eat canned beans. I'm sorry Crusoe frightened you. He isn't exactly captivating in appearance, I'll admit, but, from what I can gather, he seems to be a pretty good sort. Any man's worth a try-out, you know. He's looking for work, and now that threshing is coming on I'm looking for an extra man, so he's going to stay here a spell. These fellows who take to the road, you see, fill a great need out here in this country. We depend on one or more of them showing up about this time of year." Vivian was still staring, unable to speak. Mary, desirous that Mr. Crusoe should not misunderstand their flight, explained the affair to Mr. Hunter, a little more rationally than Vivian had done. "You see," she finished, "it's just that we aren't used to seeing persons like that, and he _did_ look fierce, Mr. Hunter. I wish you'd explain to him how it was. I shouldn't want to be rude even to a hobo." Mr. Hunter smiled. "He'll understand, Mary," he said. "In fact, he does already, for when he saw you riding home he told me about how frightened you were at the ford. Don't be at all alarmed, Vivian," he called, for Vivian was hurrying into the house, her head high. "He's a gentleman--underneath the whiskers and the shirt." So Mr. Crusoe stayed on at the Hunter ranch. The men liked him--that was plain to be seen. Every evening their laughter echoed from the bunk-house where Mr. Crusoe was entertaining them with his songs and stories. Even the silent William was loud in his praise, and Mr. Weeks, the foreman, in speaking of his ability and readiness to work, suggested a permanent position. Mary allowed but a day to go by before apologizing for her flight from the ford, and after Mr. Crusoe's courteous acceptance became his firm adherent, much to Vivian's disgust. Even Aunt Nan found him interesting, while Virginia and Priscilla listened eagerly to his tales of Cripple Creek. They were collecting theme material, they told the disdainful Vivian. Apparently Mr. Crusoe had stormed and taken the Hunter ranch. Only one member of the family remained his enemy. Vivian was still unconvinced. To her every one else on the ranch had taken his place among the number of those condemned by the apostle, "who, having eyes, see not." In her suspicious eyes Mr. Crusoe was a "ravening wolf" of whom she should beware. When she had an infrequent occasion to address him she used an offended dignity, tinged with scorn; when his name was brought into the conversation she remained silent, secure in the knowledge that some day they would all see this tramp in his true light! In three days Vivian had worked herself into a state from the eminence of which she looked down with protecting pity upon Aunt Nan, the other Vigilantes, and Mr. Hunter. They were being hoodwinked, and she alone was left to guard their interests. Harrowing memories of tales she had read, terrifying visions of escaped criminals whom she had witnessed in the "movies," and who exactly resembled Mr. Crusoe, came to disturb her rest and haunt her dreams. She was a quaking detective, watching Mr. Crusoe's every act, and discovering treachery and evil design in the most innocent of them. On the fourth day following Mr. Crusoe's advent matters approached a climax. In the early afternoon Mr. Hunter, driving to town on business, had taken the other Vigilantes with him. Vivian, with letters to write, had remained at home, feeling safe with Aunt Nan. In her stimulated imagination Mr. Crusoe had been behaving peculiarly all the morning, and not for worlds would she have stayed alone. Hannah left soon after the others, going for raspberries up the canyon; Aunt Nan, thoughtful and strangely silent, was in the living-room, where within an hour she was joined by Malcolm Keith; Vivian sat beneath the vines in the corner of the porch, and tried to center her attention upon a letter she was writing to Dorothy. She was not eminently successful. Grave apprehensions, strange forebodings, filled her heart. Once Mr. Crusoe passed empty-handed before the porch. He did not see Vivian, although he might easily have detected the beating of her heart. She watched him pause, study for a brief moment the house, its doors and windows, and then pass on. He was seizing the opportunity while they were all away, Vivian told herself, to become better acquainted with his surroundings. Then some day, not far distant, or some night, he----! She jumped from her seat and ran indoors. At that moment she wanted company more than anything else in the world. Sunny as it was outside, the silence worried her. There was something portentous even in the singing of the August insects. Aunt Nan's genuine interest in Mr. Crusoe and his welfare would probably prevent Vivian from giving expression to her new-born fears; but at least nearness to some one might quiet the misgivings which were tormenting her. She reached the living-room door, and stood still, unable to make her presence known, and, for a moment, unable to run away. Aunt Nan and Malcolm Keith were standing by the big western window which faced the prairie and the distant mountains. Malcolm's arm was around Aunt Nan, and her head was on his shoulder. As Vivian stood transfixed to the spot by a strange Something, Malcolm bent his head, and--Vivian fled, unperceived! That same strange Something, stronger than her fear of the silence or even of Mr. Crusoe, was making her breath come in gasps as she sank into her chair and tried to collect her scattered senses. Truly Life was being too generous to her that day! So Malcolm and Aunt Nan loved each other! That was clearly unmistakable. She was sorry she had intruded, though she knew they had not heard her. In that last moment before she had found strength to run away she felt as though she had come unbidden into a sacred place. Her cheeks burned at the thought. How surprised the girls would be when she told them! No, she would not tell! It was Aunt Nan's secret--hers and Malcolm's! Fifteen minutes later, still unperceived and to all appearances quite forgotten, she sat in her chair and watched Aunt Nan and Malcolm go down the lane beneath the cottonwoods, and on toward the foot-hills. They had forgotten her very existence. She was all alone--alone with Mr. Crusoe and the silence. At that very instant Mr. Crusoe again passed before the porch--again paused to study the house. This time he held a key in his hand--a large key on a string which he twisted and untwisted as it swung from his big, brown finger. Vivian knew that key. It belonged to the root-cellar just beyond the kitchen, and it hung in Mr. Hunter's office above his desk. She had seen Hannah take it a dozen times, and once Mr. Hunter had given it to Virginia, asking her to get some papers from a desk he kept down there. Why should Mr. Crusoe want to go to the root-cellar? Something told Vivian that the time for her to act had come; that only she could save the Hunter fortunes from oncoming disaster. As Mr. Crusoe rounded the farther corner of the porch, and started in the direction of the root-cellar, Vivian ran through the house and into Hannah's spotless kitchen. A new sense of responsibility gave birth to a bran-new sense of courage. Vivian, watching from the kitchen window, saw Mr. Crusoe go into the cellar. That was enough. Running to Virginia's room, she grasped the little rifle which stood in the corner. It was the only gun in the house which Vivian had ever used, and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent power and dignity to one's bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded. Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot. She ran down the hall and out the back door toward the root cellar. Her heart was in her mouth, her breath came in gasps, her wide-open blue eyes were filled with terror. When she reached the stone steps leading down to the cellar she looked far less a heroine than a much frightened little girl. Still, there was the gun! Vivian's nervous fingers kept pushing the safety on and off--a rather terrifying sound to the ears of a much surprised man, who, papers in hand, was coming up the steps. Vivian saw the papers. She was right! Mr. Crusoe had been rifling Mr. Hunter's private possessions. She raised the gun with a trembling hand. "Mr. Crusoe," she faltered, "this gun is loaded, and if you try to pass me, I--I'm very sure I shall shoot you. You sit down there in the cellar and wait for Mr. Hunter." Mr. Crusoe sat down. He was too surprised to do anything else. He had faced guns many times before in his varied existence, but never had he been confronted by a shaking .22 in the trembling hands of a very nervous young lady. Moreover, the sound of a safety clicking nervously back and forth is not conducive to peace. Mr. Crusoe did not expect Vivian to shoot him, but he did entertain a fear that the gun might go off in his direction and in spite of her. Considering silence the better part of valor, he accordingly sought the farthest corner of the cellar and hoped for the best. Vivian sat upon the top step, the gun upon her knees. She had not looked for such non-resistance on the part of Mr. Crusoe. Indeed, he looked less fierce than she had ever seen him. Could she have observed the amused smile which was quivering beneath Mr. Crusoe's black whiskers as he began more fully to understand this peculiar situation, she would have been much puzzled. To her, he was a cringing suppliant, and she a distinct conqueror. Still the minutes dragged themselves very slowly away. It seemed two hours, though it was in reality but ten minutes before conqueror and conquered heard the roll of returning wheels, the sound of voices calling for Vivian, the approach of hurrying footsteps. Mr. Crusoe stirred uneasily. He would have willingly saved Vivian from the embarrassment which he knew was bound to follow, but it had been impossible. Vivian's heart beat wildly. Now, at least, they would understand that she had been right all along; now, perhaps, they would no longer think her such a coward! Embarrassment did follow! Embarrassment and tears and explanations and not a little ill-concealed amusement. For one long hour Vivian, in spite of sympathy and understanding and genuine admiration, wished she had never been born. In that hour she discovered that a finer courage is necessary to admit a mistake and to begin anew than to besiege a hobo in a root-cellar. But she proved equal to the task, and Mr. Crusoe in the part he played showed himself the gentleman he really was. For when Vivian was convinced that Mr. Crusoe had been given the key by Mr. Hunter, that he had been told to fetch the papers, and that he really was trustworthy after all, she dried her tears, donned a fresh middy, and went quite alone to offer her apologies. She found Mr. Crusoe by the bunk-house. He had shaved in the meantime, and when Vivian saw his clean firm chin, she knew it was partly the whiskers which had made her level the gun at him. "I'm sorry, Mr. Crusoe," she stammered. "You see, I thought you were just a tramp, and at home we are always afraid of them. But I know now you aren't. I know I've been wrong all the time, and--oh, I'm awfully glad the gun didn't go off!" Mr. Crusoe removed his battered old hat and offered his freshly-washed hand. "I'm glad, too, Miss Vivian," he said. "If it had, perhaps I couldn't have told you how much pluck I think you've got stored away inside of you. And as for your being suspicious of the likes o' me, I don't wonder a mite. Only, you see, there are tramps and tramps. To the best of us, I guess trampin' just means followin' roads that lead to shelters--to _homes_, you see! And now you know I'm not the kind you thought I was, this here ranch looks like a mighty good home to me." "Then you won't go back to Cripple Creek?" asked Vivian. "If I were you I'd stay right here." "That's what I'm plannin' on," said Mr. Crusoe. CHAPTER X A LETTER FROM DOROTHY "It seems an age, doesn't it, since we've had a real meeting," said the founder of the Vigilantes, "and yet it's only nine weeks ago this very identical day. I guess it's because the places are so far apart and so different. The last time 'twas on the big rock back of the Retreat, and now it's away out here in the Land of our Dreams. Oh, you'll never, never know what it's meaning to me to have you all out here, because it's one of the things you feel inside but can never, never tell!" "I guess we know," cried Priscilla, "because we're feeling it, too! Every day I think I'll die if I get any happier, but I guess happiness is one of the things you can keep pouring into your heart like love--without its overflowing." "It's the very same way about pouring it out, too," said Mary. "There's always plenty left like the oil in the Bible story." "Aren't the mountains way off there blue?" cried Vivian. "I think blue's the happiest color in the world. I'll never say that I feel _blue_ again now that I've seen the mountains." They had climbed to the summit of Spruce Ridge for their Vigilante meeting--the first formal one they had held since their arrival in Virginia's country. A letter from Dorothy, coming an hour ago, bore the inscription, "To be read at a Vigilante meeting," and in order to be honest to the letter, as well as in spirit, they had decided upon a place apart and assembled. "After all, it's better to come away like this, isn't it?" asked Virginia. "There's a queer, common feeling that doesn't come when we just sit on the porch and talk. And I love this sweep of country from the Ridge. It's real Vigilante land. Now let's have the letter, Priscilla. I'm wild to hear it. It's the very first we've had in a month." The secretary of the order broke a large amount of sealing-wax, unfolded sheets of blue stationery, and began: "'A PIECE OF HEAVEN IN CALIFORNIA, "'Aug. 11,19--. "'DEAR FELLOW VIGILANTES: "'I've been trying desperately to write you for weeks and weeks, but you've no idea what the cares of a household are, especially when you have a child around.'" "A child!" cried all the Vigilantes at once. "What child?" Priscilla continued: "'But before I tell you about _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, I must say that the summer is being even more wonderful than Dad and I ever dreamed. I never got so well-acquainted with my own father in all my life, and he's been a perfect darling to devote days and days to me. The bungalow is more heavenly than ever. It's positively buried in roses and heliotrope, and you'd never know it had a chimney. You'd think that a huge geranium was growing right out of the roof. The front porch looks out upon the sea. Oh, it's such a dark, deep, sparkly blue! And when the sky is blue, too, and the sand is golden, and the white gulls skim next the water--nothing could be more beautiful in all the world! I think of you a hundred times a day, and wish that you were here. So does Dad. I've told him all about the Vigilantes, and he's so interested. He says he's thankful every day that I have such fine friends at St. Helen's. In fact, I just know he's more pleased with me than ever before. I think he sees there's hope ahead, and it's a very comforting assurance. "'Now I must tell you about Virginia Winthrop Richards. I know you're consumed with curiosity. If you could see her, you'd be consumed with envy. She is seven years old and all pink and white and blue and gold. Her cheeks are just the color of wild roses, and her eyes deep blue--almost like the water--and her hair golden brown with lights in it. I dress her in pink or blue or white all the time. One day two weeks ago Dad and I went to Los Angeles to buy clothes for her. I don't believe I ever had quite such a good time in all my life. 'Twas just like shopping for one's very own child. I put my hair up high for the occasion, and endeavored to look matronly, but I guess I failed, for when I saw a ravishing pink dress and said, "I guess it's too small for my little girl," the stupid clerk laughed in my face. "'We bought the sweetest things you ever saw! Hair-ribbons and adorable shoes and socks striped like sticks of candy and little fairy night-dresses all trimmed in lace. Then Dad bought some toys. I let him do that. He bought a doll and books and a cart and horses, for we want Virginia to be a trifle boyish, too, you see. While he was doing it, his eyes just beamed and beamed. He said he felt just as he did when I was little and he bought toys for me. When we reached home and showed the things to Virginia Winthrop Richards, I thought she'd die of happiness. Really, I didn't know but that we'd lose her after all! "'But here I am dressing my child for you, and you don't even know who she is! She wasn't anybody but _Minnie_ and _No. 31_ until three weeks ago. I've always thought it would be a heavy cross enough to be named _Minnie_ anyway, even though you had a respectable surname, but to be _Minnie_ without any surname at all, and _No. 31_ in addition, seem to me the depths of misery. We found her in the Home for Friendless Children, and I'll always believe that an angel led us there! Dad and I went to the city three weeks ago this very Sunday and walked by the Home. We didn't even know 'twas there--just stumbled upon it while we were roaming around in search of adventure. Poor little _31_ was sitting under a tree on the lawn holding a shingle and singing to it. I'll never forget how she looked. Her curls were braided up tight, and tied with a shoe-string, and she was dressed in a hideous blue-checked thing, but even those drawbacks couldn't spoil her. Dad and I just stopped and stared, and then we walked up the steps and in at the door. "'"Whose child is that out there on the lawn?" Dad asked the matron who greeted us at the office entrance. "'She was a tall, stern-looking person in a shirtwaist and a high, starched collar. You just couldn't imagine her holding a baby, or one cuddling up against her neck. She said _No. 31_ was nobody's child. She had been left in an old basket on the steps six years ago. You see, she isn't one of those children you read about with beautifully embroidered clothes and gold lockets and one thousand dollars in bills under her pillow. She didn't have any name or notes or requests for whoever took her to call at the bank for a fortune when she was twenty-one. She was just wrapped in an old blanket and left there. But Dad and I don't care! "'When the matron saw that we were interested, she asked if we didn't want to borrow _No. 31_ for a few days. She said they sometimes lent children for two weeks or so. When she said it, she sounded just as though a child were a typewriter or a vacuum cleaner, sent on ten days' free trial. I looked at Dad and Dad looked at me, and then he said, "We'll take her!" It didn't take long for the matron to do up her few clothes and to get her ready. She was so glad to make the loan that she hurried. Little No. 31 was so surprised that she didn't know whether to be happy or not. Perhaps she didn't understand what it was to be really happy, but she knows now! She's positively radiant! "'I can't explain how it seemed when we brought her home. Somehow 'twas as though we'd just begun to be a _real_ family. She snuggled between Dad and me on the front seat of the car, and kept looking from one to the other of us. I think it was her name that first gave us the idea of keeping her. We couldn't call that adorable child _No. 31_, and we wouldn't call her _Minnie_. Of course we couldn't name a borrowed child, and so after I'd given her a bath, and we'd seen how truly sweet and adorable she was, we decided that at all events she should never, never go back to that Home, which is a satire on the word. At first Dad thought he knew of a fine home for her with some friends of his who haven't any children, but after the ten days' free trial were over we knew we just couldn't give her up. Best of all, Mrs. Shute, the housekeeper, who's been with us all summer, loves her to death, and she's promised to stay right on with Dad, and keep house for him next winter in Los Angeles. So you see Dad has a home and another child, and he's the happiest man in California. "'He let me do the naming, and, of course, I consulted my child. I couldn't think of anything lovelier than to name her for the two founders of the Vigilantes, and after I'd told her all about you she was pleased as pleased could be. I let her choose between _Priscilla Hunter Richards_ and _Virginia Winthrop Richards_, and she took Virginia and named her new doll _Priscilla_. I wish I could have named her for you and Mary, Vivian, dear, but Dad thought two names were enough. "'We're the very happiest family you ever saw. Virginia fits in better every day. She's learning such sweet manners--I tell Dad it just shows she must be sweet inside! She's learning to read and to write, too. We have a lesson every morning after breakfast. The other day I bought the pattern of a little dress, and Mrs. Shute helped me cut it out and make it. I never felt so proud in all my life. I'm obliged to be more _vigilant_ than ever, because Virginia does and says everything that I do. The other day I said I should certainly die if I didn't get a letter from some of you, and she was quite frightened. So I guess I'll have to be more moderate in speech after this. "'There's one thing more I must tell you before I stop. I saw Imogene the other day. Dad and Virginia and I were walking by one of the big hotels here, when an automobile came up to the curbing. You can just imagine how surprised I was when Imogene and Mrs. Meredith stepped out. There was a young man with them whom I didn't like very well. He had a queer way of looking at you, and was over-dressed, I thought. Imogene looked very handsome, and, oh, loads older! I felt a perfect baby beside her! Mrs. Meredith was just the same, only even more elaborately gowned than she used to be when she visited Imogene. Imogene was as surprised as I was, I think, though she didn't show it. She and her mother shook hands with me, and she introduced her friend. I was so excited I didn't hear his name at all. She told me she was going to be married at Christmas time, and so wouldn't be back at St. Helen's, and Mr. Whoever-he-was laughed and said Imogene had been to school long enough. Dad and I asked them to tea with us, but they said they were just hurrying through and couldn't come. "'When they left us and went into the hotel I had the queerest feeling. 'Twas just as though I had said good-by to Imogene forever--just as though she'd gone away into a different world. And the queerest part of it all was that I didn't care very much. It seemed years since I had cared for her--years since we had done things together at St. Helen's. That night after I had put Virginia to bed, and come out on the porch with Dad, a big machine flew by our house. I heard some one laugh, and knew it was Imogene. She hadn't been hurrying through; she just hadn't cared to come. I suppose it ought to have hurt me, but it didn't. I was glad she'd stopped caring, too, the way I had. Then, at least, neither of us would be hurt. The only thing I'm sorry about is that Imogene has gone into that kind of a world. I don't believe it can give the best kind of happiness, do you? "'It's nearly church time, and I must hurry. We're all going together. It's Virginia's very first service, except for those at the Home, and I do hope she'll be good. I've been instructing her for days--telling her just what to do and what not to do. I'm afraid I'll send out many thoughts in your direction, but Miss Wallace says they're prayers anyway--that is, the kind I'd send to you, so I guess it will be all right. There's Virginia calling now. "'Dearest love, "'DOROTHY. "'P.S. After service. She was angelic! When she knelt and closed her eyes, she looked like one of Raphael's cherubs. Dad wiped his eyes--I saw him--and I could have cried for happiness. The sermon was on "Vigilance"--wasn't that strange? The minister spoke about watching for opportunities to serve, for in so doing, he said, we served ourselves most of all. Dad looked at me then and smiled, and we both looked at Virginia, our opportunity. She was finding _A's_ in the prayer-book. "'This is a selfish letter--all about me--but I knew you'd want to know about your namesake. Write me right away. We'll be watching every mail. "'DOROTHY.'" They looked at one another with shining eyes as Priscilla folded the letter. Mary was the first to speak. "Isn't it the loveliest thing in all the world for Dorothy to do?" she said. "Wonderful!" cried the two who possessed a namesake. "I think we ought to make Virginia Winthrop Richards a present," proposed Priscilla. "I never felt so important in all my life, did you, Virginia?" "Never!" said Virginia. "Why so quiet, Vivian?" "I was thinking about Imogene," said Vivian. "I'm wondering why I don't care much either. It's strange when I cared so much for her--only four months ago." In their excitement over Dorothy's child, the others had for the moment forgotten Imogene. "I guess it's because we went as far as the crossroads together," explained Virginia, "and then chose different paths. I feel the same way Dorothy does. I'm sorry for Imogene, but I don't feel any great loss myself." "I propose we adjourn," said the excited Priscilla, "and go down and tell the news to Aunt Nan and Mr. Hunter. That is, if there's no more business," she added, looking toward the president. The president declared the meeting adjourned, and they started homeward. By a large spruce they stopped for a moment. The ground beneath the tree was a garden, glad with blossoming flowers. Virginia's gray eyes looked at them, then sought the distant mountains. "I never thought," she said softly, "that I'd love to come up here the way I do. Of course I know Jim isn't here. He's gone on to make others happy Somewhere Else. But I like to remember how we used to climb up here and look off at the country. He always loved it so. I used to be so lonely without him, but now I'm glad--glad he's having all the wonderful things that just must happen after we--go on! That's why I like William's flowers so! They're so glad, too!" "I like William for taking such good care of them," said Mary. "I saw him coming up here yesterday with his garden tools." "William!" cried Virginia gladly. "Why, William's _always_ been next best to Jim!" CHAPTER XI "EVER VIGILANT" "There's no reason in the world why more than three of us should go back," said Virginia. "I know just exactly where she left it. It's on the table just back of the jars of raspberries. All right, Vivian, if you insist and are sure you're not too tired. It's all of six miles there and back, you know. It's not a bit necessary, Carver, but we'd love to have you come if you want to. Sagebrush Point, Don--at the open place? All right, we'll be there." "Be sure to make the Canyon Path before dusk," warned Donald. "It's bad there, you know. Signals all right? Better take my revolver. Malcolm has his." Virginia examined the revolver before securing the holster to her saddle. "Two, if we need you; three, if everything's all right. You probably won't hear either. We'll see you by six o'clock. Good luck!" She turned Pedro, and, followed by Carver and Vivian, rode back up the trail, while the others kept on down the mountain side toward Sagebrush Point where they were to meet Malcolm and Aunt Nan. They had ridden far up Bear Canyon, miles beyond the farthest bear-trap, to the Forest Ranger's cabin. The trail was wilder than six of them had ever imagined a trail could be. Sometimes it was almost obliterated, but the blaze of the rangers with its U.S. brand told them that human beings had traversed it, and that they might safely follow. At noon they had reached the cabin--a lonely eyrie looking down into the gorge of the river. Behind it unbroken forests stretched for miles. The ranger was away upon his beat, but his door stood hospitably open, and they had gladly entered, sure that a welcome was intended. In his little kitchen they had eaten dinner, leaving some of their bacon as a gift. Then an idea had seized Aunt Nan. Why not pick some of the raspberries which grew in profusion near by, and cook a quart of them as winter preserves for the ranger? It did not take very long for nine pair of hands to pick three quarts instead of one, and within an hour, sugar having been found in the pantry, the berries were cooking on the little stove. Jars, too, were discovered, and at three o'clock when the boys had brought the horses, five cooks in khaki surveyed their gift with proud eyes. They had ridden hurriedly away, realizing that they were already late if they wanted Sagebrush Point for a camping-place; and three miles below the cabin Vivian had discovered the loss of her wrist-watch, a birthday gift from her father. "Don't you worry a bit, Vivian," Virginia said, reassuringly, as she urged Pedro up the steep trail. "We'd just as soon ride back as not, and I wouldn't have you lose the watch for the world. Of course the ranger would keep it safe for us, but there's no knowing when we could get away up here again. It's best to go now when we're only three miles away." "I'm dead sure it's right on the table," said Carver. "I saw you put it there, Vivian, when you got ready to wash the dishes." Carver Standish was right. The watch was on the table where she had left it. The cabin seemed more lonely than ever as they hurried away. The rush of the river hundreds of feet below, the drowsy hum of the August insects, and the sound of their horses' feet upon the stones alone broke the silence. Vivian shivered. "I hate it here, now," she said. "Let's hurry back to the others." But it was impossible to hurry down the steep, rocky trail. The horses were tired, and a misstep or a stumble would be dangerous. Pedro, sure of himself on any trail, led the way, and Vivian and Carver followed, weaving right and left down the mountain side. More than once Carver glanced apprehensively at his watch. It was growing late--nearly five already!--and Virginia had told Donald they would be at Sagebrush Point at six! It was impossible. They could never make it! Vivian was worried, too. She hated the shadows that began to creep in among the trees, the lonely call of a bird in the timber, the coolness that came as the afternoon waned. She shivered again, when at the first ford, where they had separated more than an hour before, the rawhide thongs in one of her stirrups broke, and caused a second delay. Carver's none too agile fingers laced and re-tied the thong. Virginia allowed Pedro to nibble at the quaking-asps and tried to be patient while she watched the repairing. More than once she was tempted to jump from her saddle and do the work herself, but she knew that Carver would resent the intrusion. Carver Standish III heartily disliked any intimation that he was a tenderfoot. Safe and satisfied in the citadel of New England birth and ancestry, he still was averse to any suggestion of inferiority in Wyoming. Virginia liked Carver, though she knew him far better now than she had ever dreamed she should. She liked him in spite of the tinge of snobbishness which would creep in now and then, try as he did to conceal it. She even liked him during the ten minutes he took to lace the thong when she could have done it in three. It was growing dark when they at last swung into the easier, grass-grown trail of the lower mountains--dark and cold. The realization that they were already two miles from supper and the others, together with the knowledge that there was still the Canyon Path to cross, made them all silent and very grave. They hurried their horses through the last of the tallest timber and out upon the bare summit of a mountain, which looked down across the valley and the river to a point beyond. As they gazed, flames shot up from the point where a newly-kindled fire was welcoming the first star. Dark specks were visible about the fire--persons moving here and there. Sagebrush Point--a mile across the valley, two by the trail! Carver looked questioningly at Virginia, and found his answer in the smile she gravely gave him. They would go no farther. Carver knew it before Virginia discovered the paper. Vivian suspected, but would not know. They sat quietly in their saddles while she rode Pedro close to a great pine which bore a ranger's sign, burned in a piece of wood. "Two miles to Sagebrush Point," read the sign. "A good camping-place. Dangerous trailing!" Below the sign was a folded piece of paper, fastened by Donald's scarf-pin to the tree, and bearing Virginia's name. She read it silently and with difficulty in the fast-fading light. "It's just as I thought," she explained. "When Donald reached here and saw what a long time it had taken, he knew we couldn't make the Point. He says not to attempt it if it's after six, and it's a quarter of seven now. I wouldn't try the Canyon Path for anything in this light, and there's no other way to go. We'll just have to camp here, that's all! We've our blankets and matches and plenty of bacon and bread, and there's a spring near by. It won't be so bad. Quite an adventure!" Her last words were spoken in an attempt to reassure Vivian, who was staring at her--the epitome of horror. "Camp--here--Virginia! Alone! Here! In--this--wilderness!" Vivian was monosyllabic from terror. Carver did not share Vivian's fear, but he was a trifle overbearing in his judgment of those about the fire at Sagebrush Point. "If Donald thought we weren't going to make it, why didn't he camp here himself?" he asked. "Of course it's all right for me, but it's rather tough on you and Vivian. I should think he'd have thought of that." Virginia was quick to champion Donald. Indeed Carver Standish III would have given much for the place Donald held in Virginia's estimation. "Why, Carver," she said, frank in her displeasure, "Donald's one of the most thoughtful persons in the world. Malcolm and Aunt Nan were over at Sagebrush, and he couldn't get word to them before dark. Besides, he knows I'm not afraid to camp by ourselves. They're right across on Sagebrush, and there's nothing in this world to harm us. Of course he wouldn't have gone on for anything if you hadn't been here, but he knew he could depend on you." The knowledge of New England ancestry could not keep Carver Standish from feeling small as he unsaddled the horses, and tied them in among the trees. Then, considering work a good antidote, he cut brush and brought dry sticks for a fire. A dead cedar promised logs enough for the night, and these Carver cut, trimmed, and piled. Vivian, unable as yet to comprehend the situation, stood looking off toward the fire on the point, and wished with all her heart that she had wings. Virginia unstrapped the blankets and laid them upon a fallen log. Then, the big revolver in her hand, she waited only for the fire to give those watching on Sagebrush the signals agreed upon. At last the flame-colored smoke burst into tongues of fire, leaping, crackling tongues which told the anxious watchers on Sagebrush that the note had been found and that all was well. A moment later three shots from the mountain opposite tore away the stillness. Donald sent back an answering three. Then five in quick succession came from Virginia's revolver. "It's the old signal we've always used in hunting," Donald explained to Mary, Priscilla, and Jack who were standing beside him. "It means, 'We're going to camp here.' I knew Virginia would decide on that. She always does the sensible thing anyway," he added proudly. Malcolm and Aunt Nan, standing near the water's edge, watched the flames of Virginia's fire as they blazed skyward. "I've never quite realized before what Virginia's made of," said Aunt Nan thoughtfully. "If her Grandmother Webster were here this minute, I think perhaps she'd realize that there _are_ qualities which balance being born in New England." "Perhaps," returned Malcolm, a little doubtfully. "Perhaps she would. I've known New Englanders to realize several things. The trouble is they're very much averse to admitting it." Meanwhile the three on the summit across the valley had dined, frugally to be sure, and somewhat silently on bread and bacon. Now sweater-clad they sat before the fire, and munched at some sweet chocolate which Carver had discovered in his coat pocket. With every nibble Vivian peered among the trees behind her, glanced fearfully right and left, and ended by gazing with longing eyes at the fire on Sagebrush Point. Carver hugged his knees, and rocked idly to and fro. Virginia gazed thoughtfully into the flames. To her a night in a mountain forest was a privilege, whether three or nine shared its glories. To be sure, a tent would be a distinct addition, but since they had none they must do without it. Its absence was but an incident, and gave her little anxiety--far less, in fact, than the fear which she detected in the blue eyes of Vivian. For to Vivian the approaching night was a terrible ordeal through which she must go. Her reason fled away to parts unknown, and only imagination remained to create a mountain lion in every thicket, and mysterious, unearthly, disembodied presences in the air, behind her back, at her very elbow. She was grateful when Carver came to sit beside her. With Virginia on the other side, two less avenues of approach were opened. At all events she would not talk about her fear; and, acting upon her resolve, she did her best to join in the conversation on school and books and athletics. Ten o'clock came, and Carver brought wood for the fire. Then he unrolled their blankets, spreading them over pine boughs already cut and placed upon the ground. The ground itself was a good enough mattress for him, he said, as he rolled in his blanket Indian-fashion, and lay down under a great pine. They need have no anxiety as to the fire. He probably should sleep but little, and would replenish it whenever wood was needed. If they wanted a thing or became frightened in the night, they should speak to him. Vivian, sleepy in spite of her fears, lay down upon the boughs, her head in Virginia's lap. She knew she should not close her eyes, but she might as well rest. If a bear or a mountain lion came, it would make little difference whether she were sitting or reclining. Virginia was not sleepy. She preferred to sit up. In half an hour a long, resigned snore from the neighborhood of the great pine proved that Carver Standish had forgotten all about fires and protection. Virginia smiled to herself as she reached for more wood. There was bacon in camp and undoubtedly bears on the mountain. The combination made a big fire desirable. Moreover, she was determined that the Sagebrush Point fire, replenished from time to time by a black dot, should not eclipse her own. "Sit up a minute, Vivian," she whispered, trying to rise. "I want to get one of those big logs which I can't reach from here. I'll be back in a moment." But when she returned with the log, Vivian's head had dropped upon the blankets, and the flames which leaped up a moment later showed her, to Virginia's joy, to be fast asleep. So the founder of the Vigilantes was the only one left to guard the fortunes of the camp. She took her station near the edge of the slope, a little distance from the fire, drew her blanket close around her, and began her vigil. There was so much to see and to think about! She was glad she felt wide-awake. Deep in the gorge below her, the river called with a thousand voices. Down in the valley the pine trees reared their heads--little spear points pricking the purple blackness of the night. The fire on Sagebrush sparkled like a single jewel in a vast setting. Far above and beyond the valley rose the opposite height, dark and indistinct--a bridge between two worlds. To Virginia she was like an eagle, secure in his nest on the topmost pinnacle of a cliff, and looking forth upon his domain. Now she turned her face upward toward the deep, almost transparent blue of the midnight sky. It was set with myriads of stars--great arc-lights, beacons at sea, flickering candle-flames. A star fell--it was one of the beacons--and came earthward, trailing glory in its wake. Then, the path blazed, another followed, and a third. The last was a little candle-flame, almost too tiny to find its way alone. The Milky Way was a great, golden trail across the sky. If souls traversed it on their way to the Great Throne, as she had believed when she was a little girl, they would have no difficulty to-night in finding their way. She traced its triumphant course across the heavens. It seemed to begin on earth, she thought to herself, and come back to earth again after its journey skyward. That might break in pieces her childhood dream. But perhaps there were Great Thrones on earth, too, if one only searched far enough. Who knew that there were not? After all, Life was a search. She was beginning to realize that more every day. It meant a seeking after the best things. What were those best things, she wondered? Had she discovered the trail which, like the Milky Way, led to them? Friendship was one, she concluded--the real friendship which never demanded more than it was willing to give. And Service was another--the desire to help people over the hard, rocky places--to be a comrade, not just a spectator. Dorothy had discovered that. Then the Love of Beautiful Things must surely be a third--the love of books and pictures and of all the wonderful treasures of the out-of-doors. These were not all. There were others to be found far ahead, Virginia knew--treasures more wonderful than any yet discovered--if one searched and were worthy of finding them. At least she knew she had discovered the key which would open the gate to the trail. She felt of it upon her waist. To be "Ever Vigilant" would open the door. To be watchful of one's opportunities; never to scorn a chance to serve; to guard against the cheap and the unlovely in books and thoughts; to keep the windows of one's soul shining and clean, so that the light of all things beautiful might shine in. She held the little pin close in her hand. She and Priscilla and Dorothy and Mary and Vivian would keep to the trail together. Life was such a great, big thing she said to herself. Her breath sobbed in her throat at the thought. It was like a day in April--cloudy and sunny and wind-blown and rainy. She wanted her own life to be like that. Then she could understand the storms and clouds in other lives, and prove she was a comrade and not just an onlooker! The fire died down and she went for more wood. As she placed a big log on the glowing embers and turned away from the heat as it burst into flame, she saw that the fire on Sagebrush was rekindled also. She could discern a shadowy shape in the light of it. Donald, perhaps. He loved the night, too. She had forgotten Donald for the moment when she chose her comrades for the Long Trail, but he must go. She had followed trails with Donald all her life, and on this great journey she needed his comradeship more than ever. It was one o'clock, her little watch said--time to sleep. The great log with another added would last till morning. She rolled the second against the first, and lay down beside Vivian. The heat from the fire made her drowsy, and she soon slept. The flames leaped against the darkness; Pedro awakened and neighed questioningly; another star fell from the sky. Carver, Virginia, and Vivian were all in lands of their own. All at once a hideous yell shattered the night silence. It shrieked and quavered and moaned, and at last died away in an echo that encircled the valley. Virginia, mounting a rocky hill with Donald, sat up suddenly. A figure enshrouded in blankets stood beside her. Vivian mercifully slept on. "Gee!" screamed the half-asleep and wholly frightened Carver Standish III. "What was that?" "A mountain lion," said Virginia, shaking in spite of herself. "But he's miles away across the valley. I'm glad Vivian didn't wake up. She'd have been scared to death." "I shouldn't blame her!" replied Carver in a stentorian whisper. "I never heard anything like it in my life. My! I'm sleepy! It's most eleven, isn't it?" Virginia smiled into the darkness. Not for worlds would she have told Carver of his unsuccessful vigil. "Yes, Carver," she said. "It's--it's past eleven!" Alone she watched the day come as she had watched it go. She saw the last stars fade away, and the half-light of early morning greet the eastern mountains. She felt in a strange silence the mystery and majesty of dawn. A mourning dove in a far-away thicket said farewell to the night; an early morning wind stirred the quaking-asps; an orange and yellow bird left his nest and mate to fly across the valley toward a sky-line of his own hue. The trees stood expectant. Then the light came in long, golden rays. It was day. By six they were on their way to breakfast with their fellow-campers at Sagebrush--Vivian, incredulous that the night was really over and that she had slept; Carver, secretly much disturbed over his protecting powers; Virginia, eager, radiant, buoyant. Donald waited for them on the other side of the Canyon Path, and watched their safe transit. Aunt Nan and the others were ready at the camp with welcomes and words of genuine admiration. "I'd have been worried to death about you," said Priscilla with her arm around Virginia, "if it hadn't been for Carver's being there. Yes, I would, Virginia. I don't care how much you know about camping. A man's being around makes a heap of difference. You know it does!" "Of course," agreed the loyal Virginia. But Carver Standish III drank his coffee in silence, glad for once that the cup was large enough to hide his face. CHAPTER XII THE ROMAN EMPEROR The late August days came relentlessly on, each in turn being seized by the Vigilantes and placed in a treasure-house of never-to-be-forgotten joys. The month which they had planned in June was lengthening into six weeks. Mr. Hunter and Virginia had insisted and Aunt Nan seemed very loath to go. Already they were quite Westernized. They "rustled" and "cached" and "packed" things without even stopping to think, and _r's_ were unmistakably creeping into Priscilla's strictly Bostonian speech. What _would_ the Winthrop family say? Every day the country grew lovelier. A veil of bronze and purple was being laid softly over the foot-hills, and the waiting wheat stood golden. Day after day the sun rose in glory, and after a cloudless journey set in a golden sea. In the woods the berries of the kinnikinnick grew red, and on the lawn the mountain ash trees stood clothed in holiday attire. The air was clear and bracing; the nights were cold. One morning the highest mountain was white with snow, which, when the sun rose higher, hurried away, as though it had told a secret. September was on the way, and these were her forerunners. "I never supposed," announced Priscilla one morning at breakfast, "that weeks could go so fast. It makes old age seem awfully close. And still I know how slowly they go sometimes, like January at St. Helen's, for instance. Just sixteen more days, and we'll be going back East, Virginia. Dad says if I'm not back by the tenth, they'll motor to the White Mountains without me. I'm afraid I can't help feeling superior when I view the White Mountains after seeing these!" Virginia was busily counting on her fingers. "I'm trying to remember just what we've done and what we haven't done," she said. "Then we can see what's left. We've ridden hundreds of miles, and we've climbed mountains, and trapped a bear, and shot gophers, and fished, and homesteaded, and camped, and visited Aunt Deborah and Jean MacDonald. I'm so glad Jean went to Aunt Deborah's with us. It was such fun having her along. Then we've been up to Mystic Lake, and out on the range with Joe and William, and----" "But you haven't visited the Roman Emperor," interrupted her father. "I stopped at his place yesterday on my way home from Willow Creek, and found him at home, flag out and all. He promised me some water-cress, but I couldn't wait for it. You see," he added, smiling at the puzzled faces around him, "it isn't every one who can see the Emperor. It takes a special errand. In this case, it's water-cress." "We'll go this very day!" cried Virginia. "Cottonwood Canyon can wait! Don and I've been planning it all along, but he said Mr.--the Emperor, I mean--was away up in the mountains. I'll telephone over for the boys this minute." Not to question had become a Vigilante principle; and not to appear too curious, another. Still the mystery which filled their minds concerning the Emperor was ill-concealed. They knew Patrick Sheehan, the old Vigilante, who lived on the Lone Mountain trail, and queer Aunt Susan Nevitt, who was reputed to have a bag of gold nuggets in the cellar of her tumble-down cabin. But of this personage, the Roman Emperor, they had surely never heard! Curiosity lent haste to their fingers, and in half an hour they were ready to start. "His ca--_estate_ is off the road to Willow Creek," Virginia explained as they went out to greet the boys. "We've ridden by the driveway loads of times, but I knew he wasn't at home by his flag not being out. That's the sign. It's that way in England, you know, at the king's and dukes' palaces. When they're at home, the flag is flying." "I see," said Priscilla, as she mounted Cyclone. "Is the Emperor old?" "Rather. He's nearly eighty. You see, he's been reigning twenty-five years, hasn't he, Don?" "Yes, he commenced when Malcolm was of no account--twenty-five years or so ago. He's met with lots of reverses, too. He was telling me just before you got home how the Senate wouldn't vote him any money to fix up the estate. He'll probably apologize. Everybody ready? Come on!" commanded Don. They rode for a mile across the open prairie, then turned south into the Willow Creek road, which followed the foot-hills. Conversation regarding the Emperor was tantalizing, and questioning was forbidden. Accordingly, they pocketed their curiosity, and devoted their time to one another, and to the signs of approaching autumn upon the brown hillsides. Pedro and MacDuff, eager for a gallop, left the other horses, and dashed along a three-path, grass-grown trail which encircled the hill and met the road again a mile beyond. "It's just the chance I wanted," said Donald, reining in MacDuff to ride beside Virginia. "I want to ask you about Carver. I can't make him out lately. I don't know what's the matter. He's been queer ever since that night on the mountain--last Tuesday, wasn't it? Of course he's all right to the folks, and all that, but he's stuck by himself more or less, and seemed stirred up over something. Dave, the man we got last winter, complained to Dad yesterday about Carver's being rather officious with the men. Dad smoothed it over, of course, and explained how Carver didn't understand that that sort of thing doesn't go out here. But it kind of worries me. Everything went all right up there, didn't it, Virginia--on the mountain, I mean?" Not even Donald could detect hesitation in Virginia's reply. If Carver still chose to keep the ill-gotten rôle of protector, it was not up to her to take it from him. "Why, of course, Don," she said promptly. "Everything was perfectly all right. I guess Carver wasn't awfully pleased at first when he found we had to stay. You see, he--he hasn't much patience with Vivian when she's nervous. But she did splendidly, and tried her best not to show how she felt inside. And I couldn't see why Carver didn't enjoy himself. He certainly seemed to!" Donald was plainly puzzled. "Well," he said, "it gets me! He's not a fellow you can reach very easily either. If it were Jack, I'd ask him just what the matter was, but somehow it's different with Carver. There's always something in the way. I believe it's--too much New England!" Virginia laughed. "Too much of it's a dreadful barrier," she observed. "Grandmother Webster had too much when I first went to Vermont, but I found a little path that led around it after I'd searched a long time. I think part of the trouble with Carver is that he's just one of us out here. He isn't looked up to the way he is at home. Priscilla knew him last summer, you know, and she's told me about him. We were talking about it just last night, because we've noticed he's queer lately. Priscilla says he's always been looked up to by boys and girls of his age because his family's so old, and his father so wealthy, and his grandfather a colonel. In New England, you know, those things count, especially the family and the colonel. Then, besides, Carver's bright and fine-looking and an only son. Out here, you see, Don, we don't care so much about colonels and old families and money. They're all right, of course, if you have them, but you've an equal chance if you don't." "Maybe Carver's learning that we're right after all," said Donald thoughtfully. "Maybe he's seeing that ancestry won't make a man. It's hard to admit those things, I know that. I hated to admit that the Eastern fellows at school had better manners than we cow-punchers from this part of the country. But 'twas so all the same." Virginia allowed Pedro to nibble at the quaking-asps before she spoke. "He'll come out all right, Don," she said. "Don't let's worry! Sometimes I think he's like Captain Myles in the poem. Priscilla does, too. He gets angry all at once, and then hates himself for it. By and by he'll be all right again, and as nice as ever the Captain was at John Alden's wedding. Come on, let's round the hill! We're nearly at Mr. Livy's, and they'll think we're too exclusive for worlds!" The Emperor's flag was out--a diminutive and tattered Old Glory, whose shreds fluttered in the wind. It was tacked to a wooden box, which, mounted on a log at the entrance to a narrow, winding path, served as the Emperor's mail-box. The name A. C. Levinsky was painted upon the side facing the road. As they turned into the path, Priscilla halted Cyclone. There was a decided tinge of stubbornness in her voice as she spoke. "I'm not going another step," she announced, "until I know about this Emperor business. I'm not going to embarrass any poor old thing who may live in this wilderness by not knowing anything about him. Come, Donald! You've got to tell!" "I intended to all along just as soon as we reached the bridge," said Donald. "I know the Emperor, and I wouldn't have him hurt for anything. His real name is Augustus Cæsar Levinsky--at least, his last name is Levinsky, and I guess he hitched on the first. He's a poor old prospector who's been in this valley fifty years. He claims he was the very first to come, and perhaps he was. He's dug holes all over these mountains looking for gold, and you're always coming on him panning out gravel in some creek. Some one grub-stakes him up here to get his land. By that, I mean," he added, noting the puzzled faces of his listeners, "that some one gives him food and clothes and a promise to bury him for the sake of the land he's homesteaded. That's the way with old Pat Sheehan, and a lot of fellows around here." "And now he thinks he's the Emperor of Rome," said Virginia, continuing the Emperor's story. "He's been thinking that for twenty-five years, Father says. Some one gave him an old Roman History years ago, and he knows it all by heart. We all call him Mr. Livy around here. He says he doesn't feel like asking his friends to title him. He sounds pathetic, but he isn't at all. He's the happiest man you ever saw. He's like the verse at the beginning of Emerson's _Essay on History_. He believes he's Cæsar, and so he is. You'll be surprised at the way he speaks, and the fine manners he has. It's believing he's the Emperor that's done those things, I'm sure." Less curious but more interested, they followed the cool, shady path that led toward the imperial estates. They crossed a bridge over a creek, green with fresh water-cress, their open sesame. Upon the railing was tacked a second flag--this one new and untorn. "The Emperor must have had a present," observed Virginia. "You catch your first glimpse of the palace around this curve." Around the curve they went, and into an open, path-cut field through which the creek meandered. The palace lay in the farthest corner. It did not even stand. Its old logs, disjoined and askew, were all but on the ground. How the roof managed to hold the chimney was a mystery. Perhaps, after all, it was the chimney which acted as a prop to the roof. A lean-to of poles, sod, and bark served as an entrance, and boasted a door. Mountain-fringe and other vines had taken root in the sod, and were undoubtedly helping to hold the structure together. An undisturbed, unbroken silence reigned over the imperial residence. The Emperor was doubtless busy with affairs of state, if indeed he were not away upon official business. Still the flag disproved his absence. He might be simply viewing the domain. Suddenly from the lean-to came such fierce barking that more than one Vigilante made a hasty return to the safety of her saddle. Then the door opened, and, preceded by his dogs, the Emperor came out into the sunshine. He had doubtless been too absorbed to note their coming. "Down, Nero! Down, Trajan!" they heard him say. "Is this the way you receive my guests?" The dogs ceased barking, and stood on either side of him as he surveyed his visitors. They in turn surveyed him. They saw a tall, slight old man, still unbent. It seemed as though dignity defied time and kept him upright. His frayed white shirt was spotless, and his gray trousers, held up by thongs of skin, were neatly darned and clean. The lines in his smoothly shaven face vied in intricacy with the streets of Boston; his thin hair was neatly brushed; his faded blue eyes were gentle. He was the kind of an old man to whom one instinctively showed deference. Moreover, he was the Roman Emperor. The hats of Jack, Carver, and Donald came off as they greeted him. "These are our friends, Mr. Livy," Donald explained. "You remember I told you some time ago that they were coming. And you know Virginia Hunter?" Mr. Livy did know Virginia. He and Nero and Trajan came forward all together to greet her. "It's good to see your face again, Miss Virginia," said the Emperor. "Your father was here day before yesterday. He mentioned water-cress. Was that your errand?" "That, and to see you, Mr. Livy," answered Virginia. "My friends wished to come. I hope you're not too busy to show them around a little." The Emperor was not too busy. He said this with a bow, which was many times repeated as he was presented to the others. "I regard you as friends," he said with dignity, "otherwise I should hesitate to show you the palace. There is a sad lack of funds of late--a sad lack! All the Senate's appropriations are being expended on the new aqueduct, and on new roads through the provinces. The roads hold our great possessions together, and the Emperor's home can wait. But next year all will be different. Then I shall again plead my case, and money will be forthcoming. This way, please, young ladies and gentlemen. We will first view the grounds." His guests in respectful silence followed him down a path toward the creek over which he had placed a little foot-bridge. A fish jumped as they stepped upon the logs, and swam away to the safe shelter of the water-cress. "The stream is well-stocked with the best of trout," explained their host. "It is my pastime to catch them in other streams and to bring them here. You remember Horace upon his Sabine farm? Such pleasures as he enjoyed are mine. Yes, there is an abundance of cress. We will wait until later to gather it that it may be fresh and crisp." They followed the stream in its meandering course through the fields. Their guide pointed out to them this and that beauty--the fringed gentians in a thicket near the water's edge; a late wild rose which saw its pink reflection in the still, amber water. It was as though he, aided by the Senate's money, had laid out the grounds himself, such was his pride in them. Another foot-bridge brought them back to the other side, and to the field-path which led to the house. The Emperor felt called upon to apologize again before opening the door of the lean-to. "The Senate still appropriates for conquests," he said gravely. "I am much opposed. The Empire is large enough." They went within. The lean-to was a chaotic place, filled to overflowing with pick-axes, spades, elk-horns, musk-rat traps, mining tools, samples of coal, and curiously-colored pieces of rock. Some skins, stretched on boards, were drying on the wall; some rude fishing-rods stood in one corner. The little room was strangely like the Emperor's poor, befuddled brain. The room in the main house was hardly imperial. A small, rickety stove, bearing corn-meal porridge in a tin basin, stood in the center. In one corner was the Emperor's bed, piled high with skins; in another, a scarred and battered table. Some ragged articles of clothing hung about the room. By the one window was his chair, and on the floor close by lay a soiled and tattered book--Smith's _History of Ancient Rome!_ The Emperor picked it up eagerly and showed it to his guests. "I was reading over again all that my reign has accomplished when you came," he said. "There are the fire department, and the police, and the new roads, and the patronage of poets. I feel encouraged when I think it all over." "I should think you would," complimented Virginia. "And then think of all the things you did before you were Emperor! Think of the early days out here--the Vigilantes and all!" Mr. Livy's faded blue eyes gleamed. Epochs had become as nothing to him. Now he was Emperor of Rome, and then he had fought against robbers and road-agents in a new country. It was all one. "Don't I remember it!" he cried. "Don't I remember how we hung seven robbers in one night from a single cottonwood! Don't I remember how old Jim Gillis said to me: 'For God's sake, Levinsky, get me one last drink before I die!' I got it for him, and in a minute more he was dead!" Jack and Carver's eyes shone. They thought old tales were forthcoming, but they did not know the Emperor. He said no more of Vigilante days, but turned toward the stove to stir the porridge. "I'll get the water-cress for you directly," he said with a return to his old dignity. "Give it to your father with my compliments, Miss Virginia. I sent some but recently to the censor. No payment, I insist!" Thus dismissed, his guests passed reluctantly outside. Ten minutes later they were making their farewells. The Emperor stood between Nero and Trajan, and watched them go. He was glad of occasional visitors, but more glad to return to the knotty problems which were before the Empire. "Good-by," he called as they rode away. "Don't forget to notice the statue of Athena just within the gate. It's a recent gift from the Governor of Gaul." Then he went within the palace, passed through the lofty atrium, and entered his private room, where he sat down to continue the story of his glorious reign. Meanwhile his guests searched for the Athena. There might be something--a post, perhaps--that signified the goddess of wisdom to the plastic mind of poor Mr. Levinsky. But they could find nothing. "She's only a dream like all the other things," said Priscilla. "Poor man! I can't see how he can reconcile things in his own mind!" "He doesn't," explained Virginia. "That's the lovely part of it! He's the happiest Emperor I've ever known of in all my life!" CHAPTER XIII ON THE MESA "Pedro," said Virginia, "do you realize for one little minute what's happened?" Pedro looked back and whinnied. He realized at least that something was agitating his mistress. But half an hour since she had run out of the house to where he was feeding beneath the cottonwoods, and hurried him to the corral where she had saddled and bridled him herself. She had been crying then. Quick little sobs were shaking her shoulders. Then she had sprung upon his back and ridden like mad across the prairie to Elk Creek Valley. Had MacDuff been along, he would not have minded; but it was too warm at mid-day to gallop all alone. Once during that wild ride she had laughed, and once she had leaned forward and put her arms around his neck. It was all a very strange proceeding. Now she had mercifully halted him on the brow of the mesa, and was allowing him to rest and feed while she sat in silence and looked across the sagebrush stretches to the mountains. A long silence. The air throbbed with a hidden insect chorus. Little waves of heat shimmered above the mesa. Jean MacDonald's three cows, searching for better feeding-grounds, passed by and gazed with grave, inquisitive eyes at Pedro and Virginia. Pedro fed on where he was. At last the girl upon his back spoke again. "Pedro," she began, and again Pedro raised his head, "Pedro, I've decided that Life isn't such a strange thing after all! I've always thought it was until to-day, but I guess it isn't. I guess it just means loving people--and things! If you love the wrong kind of people and the things that don't count, why, then--why, then Life's a sad, gray thing. But if you love the right kind of people, the kind who've learned that a primrose isn't just a primrose, and things like the mountain and the mesa and _you_, Pedro--why, then, Life's a golden thing like to-day. And it's the loving that makes all the difference. I discovered that this morning when Aunt Nan told me about Malcolm. When I was in Vermont I thought that Grandmother and Aunt Nan were about the happiest people I'd seen; but this morning, when I saw the light in Aunt Nan's eyes, I understood. I guess it's a home that makes all the difference, Pedro--a home you and _somebody else_ make together!" Pedro fed on, glad to be talked to, confident that his mistress' world had righted itself again. A passing cloud obscured the sun for a brief moment. "That's the way it was with me this morning," confided Virginia. "For just an instant I felt sorry. 'Twas the selfish part of me coming out. I didn't want any one to take a bigger piece of Aunt Nan's heart than mine. I didn't want to move over and make room for any one else--even Malcolm. But that mean, drab feeling lasted only a moment. It went right away, and now I'm glad, _glad--glad!_ If Grandmother Webster's only glad, too, there couldn't be any greater happiness in the world, could there, Pedro?" Pedro stopped feeding to look back at his mistress, and to shake his head. Virginia laughed. "You're the only friend I want to-day, Pedro," she said, her arms around his neck, "you and a big Something in my heart. I wanted to come away off up here alone with you. That's why I hurried you so, poor dear! I wanted to hear the stillness all around, and to look at the mountains. I wanted to think about it, and to wonder if, some day, after I've learned more things, it will come to me, too!" Impulsively she turned in her saddle and looked down the foot-hills. Some one was fording the creek. She knew it even before she heard the splash of water. As she watched, two riders left the ford, and turned north up the canyon trail. They were Malcolm and Aunt Nan. Virginia turned back toward the mountains, and sat very still. "Pedro," she said at last, her voice breaking, "I guess perhaps we'd better go home, don't you? Aunt Nan and Malcolm have found their trail, you see. They don't need us just now. No, I'm not sorry! I'm glad! I just _know_ it's the most wonderful thing in all the world!" CHAPTER XIV THE NEW SCHOOL-TEACHER IN BEAR CANYON "Yes, sir," said Mr. Samuel Wilson, stretching his boot-clad legs to their fullest extent, and twirling his thumbs thoughtfully, "yes, sir, we've got to have a teacher up in Bear Canyon. There ain't a bit o' use in waitin' a week for that teacher from Sheridan. Come December, there'll be snow, and school not out. Accordin' to my judgment, and I'm the chief trustee o' this district, it's best to get some one to teach a week until the one we've hired gets here. I stopped at Ben Jarvis' place on my way down here, and he agreed with me. Says he, 'Sam, there'd ought to be one out o' that crowd o' ladies over to Hunter's who could keep school a week. They're all raised around Boston, folks tell me. Now you go along over, and see.' And I said I would. What do you think, John? Ain't there a likely one among 'em? If Virginia didn't know the children so well, I'd be for choosin' her. But a stranger's what we want. That school seems to need a stranger 'bout every term." "That's just the difficulty," said Mr. Hunter. "It is a hard school, and these girls aren't used to schools out here. The girl I am thinking of is Mary Williams, but she's young--only eighteen. I shouldn't even consider her if she hadn't said the other day that she'd like to try teaching in that little school-house up the canyon. Of course 'twould be only for a week. They're going back East in a little more than two." "Her age ain't nothin' against her," reassured Mr. Wilson. "Remember Eben Judd's girl who kept the school last spring? She was only seventeen, and she could thrash the biggest boy there! Supposin' you let me talk with this girl if she's around. Seems to me twenty dollars a week is mighty easy money for just keepin' school and givin' out things you've got in your head a'ready!" Mr. Hunter, half-sorry that he had even considered the matter, went in search of Mary, while Mr. Samuel Wilson stretched his legs even farther across the floor, re-lit his old corn-cob pipe, and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He did not rise when Mary, forewarned but very eager, came into the room a few minutes later, but he did remove his pipe. Then he stated his errand, while Mary, feeling very professional, listened with the deference due Mr. Wilson's position as chief trustee of the Bear Canyon District. "What we want," concluded the chief trustee, with a wave of his hand, after he had explained all the difficulties and expatiated on all the joys of the Bear Canyon school, "what we want is a teacher who can start things right. A heap depends on the startin' things have in this world, I've noticed. Now you look like a spunky young lady. Ain't afraid o' big boys, are you?" Mary, with the memory of Eben Judd's daughter and the biggest boy fresh in her mind, hesitated. Bear Canyon might offer problems too big for her inexperienced hands. Then she summoned an extra amount of dignity. "It surely isn't necessary to thrash them, Mr. Wilson, if you can get along with them some other way. No, I'm not at all afraid of them. Are there many big ones?" Mr. Wilson considered for a moment. No, there were not many. Ben Jarvis' big boy Allan was the worst, and even he wasn't bad if he had enough to do. The trouble was he led all the others, and if he once got "contrary," trouble arose. Mary inwardly resolved that he should not get "contrary." "Now up here in Bear Canyon," Mr. Wilson further remarked, "we're strong on figurin'. How are you on arithmetic?" Mary's heart fell. Dismal visions of cube root and compound proportion came to torment her. Her ship, sailing smoothly but a moment since, had apparently struck a reef. Then a never-failing imagination came to her rescue. She saw Priscilla solving her problems in the evening at the table. "Arithmetic isn't exactly my specialty, Mr. Wilson," she said brightly. "That is, I don't love it as I do other studies; but I assure you I shall be quite able to teach it." The chief trustee rose from his seat, knocked the ashes from his pipe into the fire-place, and took his hat. "I guess you're hired for the week, then," said he, "at twenty dollars. I'll stop in at Ben Jarvis' on my way home and tell him. School begins Monday morning at nine. I may drop in myself durin' the week to see how things is goin'. Good-mornin'." Mary stood in the middle of the room, paying no heed to the curious voices which called her from the porch. She saw the chief trustee ride past the window on his way to tell Ben Jarvis that she was elected. She pictured the incorrigible Allan Jarvis spending the Sabbath in the invention of mischief. It had come too suddenly. She could not realize that she was actually a Wyoming school-teacher. Now the time which she had thought to be four years' distant had come--the time to begin to realize the ideals she had shaped for herself upon the teaching and the personality of her adored Miss Wallace. The voices on the porch became more curious, and Mary, at last coming to herself, hurried out to tell the wonderful news. She found the Vigilantes and Aunt Nan as interested as she herself, and willing to sacrifice her company for five days for the sake of Bear Canyon's rising generation. Priscilla offered all the proficiency in arithmetic she possessed; Aunt Nan hurried indoors to cut and make two aprons for the teacher; and Vivian and Virginia went in search of pencils and paper. This was Saturday and there was no time to lose. On Monday morning at eight they all stood beneath the cottonwoods to watch a wide-eyed and much excited school-teacher start for Bear Canyon. In a bag which she hung on the saddle-horn were her pencils, papers, and new apron; in a package strapped to the saddle was her lunch, packed by Hannah's interested hands; and in her heart were excitement, misgivings, and eagerness. She preferred to go alone, she said, as she mounted into the saddle. They might ride up at four, and come home with her if they liked, but she must go alone. They did go up that afternoon at four--Vivian, Priscilla, and Virginia. As they swung around a bend in the road, and came upon the little school-house, they were surprised at the stillness. Where was everybody? The children had not gone home--that was certain--for half a dozen horses were picketed round about. Had the school adjourned and gone for a picnic in the woods? That would not be unlike the new teacher, but it would be very unlike the former traditions of the Bear Canyon school. No sound came from within and it was long past four. Had the big Jarvis boy triumphed after all, and made Mary a prisoner? After five minutes of patient, puzzled waiting they added their horses to those already grazing among the sagebrush, and stole quietly to the open window. The new teacher sat in the middle of the battered, scarred, ugly little room. She held her two youngest children upon her lap much to the detriment of her new apron. A dirty eager face was raised to hers from either side of her chair. The others of her twenty charges sat as near as the seats would permit. The big Jarvis boy had not deigned to move toward the front--that was too much of a concession for the first day--but he was leaning forward in his seat, his big, shaggy, unkempt head resting in his folded arms, his eyes never leaving Mary's face. She was telling them the story of the _Dog of Flanders_. The Vigilantes, crouching beneath the window, heard her as she finished. "The next day," she said, "they came to the great cathedral, and found Nello and Patrasche dead upon the stone floor. People were sorry then. Alois' father was one who came. He realized how cruel he had been to Nello, and was ready now to help him. But it was too late. Little Alois came also. She begged Nello to wake and come home for the Christmas festivities, and cried when she saw that he could not. Then a great artist came. He had seen Nello's picture of the old man on the fallen tree, and he knew that some day Nello might become a wonderful painter, even though another had won the Antwerp prize. He wanted to take Nello away with him, he said, and teach him art. But he, also, was too late, for Nello and Patrasche had gone away together to a Kinder Country. All their lives they had not been separated, and so the people of their little village, sorry and ashamed, made them one grave and laid them to rest together." There was a silence in the Bear Canyon school-house until a little girl in a pink apron sobbed. Sobs were at a discount in Bear Canyon, and yet strangely enough no one laughed. Allan Jarvis, in the back seat, was intent upon his finger-nails. The others were gazing admiringly at their new teacher. "It's such a sad story," said the little girl, using her pink apron for a handkerchief, "but I like it all the same." "Deary me!" cried the new teacher, depositing the two littlest ones on the floor, "it's half-past four! We must close school at once!" At that the big Jarvis boy left his seat and came down the aisle, for the first time in his life abstaining from pulling the hair of the girls nearest him. "Shan't I get your horse ready for you, ma'am?" he asked. The new teacher smiled gratefully upon him. "If you please, Allan," she said. "I'll be ever so much obliged." And Allan Jarvis departed for the horse sheds--a conquered hero! Mary, tired but enthusiastic, told them all about it as they rode home together, followed at a respectful distance by a dinner-pail laden throng. How she had arrived that morning to find Allan Jarvis the center of a mischief-bent circle; how she had begun the day by the most exciting shipwreck story she knew; and how the promise of another story before four o'clock had worked a miracle. They were starved for stories, she said. She thought they needed them more than arithmetic. "Besides," she added, "probably the Sheridan person knows all about figures. I'm going to put all the arithmetic classes the last thing in the afternoon, and if we don't get around to them, why all right. It's unfortunate, of course, but it can't be helped." One day was quite sufficient to establish the name and the fame of the Bear Canyon school-teacher. Around every supper-table circled tales of her wisdom, her beauty, her strange way of speaking, and her general superiority over any teacher Bear Canyon had ever hired. Her ability to tell stories was lauded to the skies, and her genius at making six hitherto mercilessly long hours seem like three marvelously short ones was freely advertised. History under this new teacher had become something more than a dog-eared text-book; geography more than stained and torn wall-maps; reading more than a torturesome process of making sounds. They proudly told their parents what the Constitution of the United States had looked like when their teacher had last seen it; the size and shape of Plymouth Rock as recorded by her during her last visit there. They re-told her stories one by one to the children at home, too young for school. Allan Jarvis did his part. He told his father he would go to school without a word, if the new teacher could be persuaded to stay in Bear Canyon. Because of this Mr. Benjamin Jarvis left his work the third day, put on a clean shirt, and visited the school himself. Mr. Samuel Wilson joined him, as did the third trustee from farther up the canyon. When these three gentlemen entered, the oldest History class was engaged in reproducing the trial of Nathan Hale, the leading man in the cast being the big Jarvis boy. It was a novel method of teaching history, the trustees said to themselves, remembering the barren instruction they had received, but it seemed effectual. That night they offered the new teacher a permanent job in Bear Canyon. The teacher in Sheridan was not over-anxious to come, they said, and the position was Mary's if she cared to accept it. But Mary was going to college, she explained to the disappointed trustees. Perhaps, some day, she would come back--some day when she had learned more about teaching. As it was, Friday night must end her labors, grateful as she was, and happy as she felt over the reception Bear Canyon had given her. It came all too soon--Friday night. The children stood in a disconsolate little group to bid her good-by. They knew Bear Canyon teachers of old. There would be no more stories, no more circuses at recess, no more flower hunts in the woods, no more plays. School now would become just a weary succession of days--all pointing toward Saturday. Figures would take the place of reading, and the Rhine would again be just a crooked, black line, not a river surmounted by frowning castles and golden with legends. The little girl in the pink apron again used it as a handkerchief as Mary rode down the trail. "I--I'd go to school all my life--with her!" she said loyally. The school-teacher halted at the residence of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, second trustee. He it was who was to sign the check for her services, give to her the very first money she had ever earned. He was waiting for her, the check in his hand. "I--I think I ought to tell you, Mr. Jarvis," said Mary, "especially since you're strong on figures in Bear Canyon, that I haven't taught many this week. I'm afraid I'm very weak on system. That will be one of the things I'll have to learn in college, I guess. The days have gone so fast I just haven't seemed to have time to get them in. And--and to tell the truth, Mr. Jarvis, I'm not very strong on figures myself." "Figures!" said Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as he shook hands with her. "I guess you've given that boy o' mine somethin' better'n figures, God bless you!" The boy himself came around the house just as Mary was mounting her horse to ride away. He had left school before the others, and had said no good-by. Now he came up to her, a brown paper parcel in his hand. "It's a rattlesnake skin I fixed for you," he said shyly. "You said you liked 'em once. And the heavy thing in the end's my jack-knife. I carved your letters on the handle. I thought it might come in handy when you went to college." CHAPTER XV MR. BENJAMIN JARVIS ENTERTAINS Bear Canyon did not forget Mary. A score of heart-broken children was proof against such oblivion. Moreover, hope began to dawn in the hearts beneath pink gingham and outing flannel when the teacher from Sheridan, discouraged perhaps by a total lack of cordiality in her students, resigned after two lugubrious days of service. Then Mr. Samuel Wilson, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Jarvis and the third trustee rode in a body to the Hunter ranch, and offered Mary a substantial "raise" if she would only stay on until December, and finish the fall term so triumphantly begun. The memories of the little girl in the pink apron, together with the pleas of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis on behalf of Allan, and the assurance of Mr. Samuel Wilson that his children had cried "five nights runnin'" was almost too much for Mary. In one mad wave of sympathy she determined to give up college and to wire her mother that the Path of Duty for her led unmistakably to the Bear Canyon school. But the more mature judgment of Mr. Hunter and Aunt Nan prevailed, and an hour later three very reluctant trustees rode away, leaving behind them a sad, but much relieved, school-teacher, who lay long awake that night and pondered over the desperate state of affairs in Bear Canyon. But her worry, like most that encumbers the world, was needless, for the County Superintendent over at Elk Creek lent a helping hand, and sent Miss Martha Bumps to Bear Canyon. Now Miss Bumps was not Mary, but she was assuredly Miss Martha Bumps, and the three trustees, disappointed as they were not to have Mary, held their heads a trifle higher as they drove to town. For the aforesaid Miss Bumps was a character of renown throughout the county, and it was only because of the whooping-cough in the consolidated rural schools of Willow Creek that she was prompted to forsake her larger field and hurry to the aid of Bear Canyon. For twenty-five years Miss Martha Bumps had dedicated her energies to the teaching of Wyoming country schools. Some who knew her well affirmed that she had made money thereby; and this statement will doubtless be given credence by all who are not themselves school-teachers. After relinquishing the dreams in which most women of thirty indulge, and deciding once and for all that she would give the best of her life to teaching, she had spent much thought and ingenuity in scheming how such a vocation could be a distinctly pleasurable one. Ten years of boarding in homesteaders' cabins, of sleeping with the youngest child, and eating salt pork three times a day, of drinking condensed milk on ranches devoted solely to cattle, and of riding miles to her place of business in all kinds of weather--these experiences had been fruitful in the extreme. Now she boarded nowhere. Instead, she lived in her own two-room house, which, clapboarded, shingled, windowed and doored after the manner of all houses, was mounted upon four stout cart-wheels, and driven by an obliging trustee of one district to the next chosen field whenever Miss Bumps decided that the time had come to make a change. Arriving at her destination, the house was drawn to the best site near the school, the horses were unhitched, and the trustee, riding and leading, started homeward, leaving Miss Bumps to begin her double labors in her new situation. Now, although this rather unusual mode of living on wheels had attracted much attention and comment, it must be conceded (and will by all country school-teachers) that it was decidedly superior to boarding. In her small but spotless kitchen, Miss Bumps cooked the food which no homesteader's cabin afforded, and at night slept luxuriously in her own comfortable bed which nearly filled her other room. All day she gave herself untiringly to her profession. In the evenings she sat by her small air-tight stove, read, and tatted! To this last-named accomplishment Miss Bumps had dedicated fifteen years of practice until expert proficiency had made eyes unnecessary. She tatted while she read, tatted while she taught, tatted while she watched the potatoes boiling for dinner. Some even asserted that they had seen her tat on horseback with all the diligence attributed to Bertha the beautiful queen of old Helvetia, who spun from a distaff fastened to the saddle of her betasseled palfrey. But even such a curiosity as Miss Bumps may have been in the early days of her portable residence and ever-present tatting grows ordinary when besieged by Time, and Wyoming no longer regarded her as a phenomenon. She was just plain Martha Bumps, to whom many a rural community owed much. Nevertheless, it must be admitted that her singular customs of living were considered most eccentric by strangers who often laughed long and uproariously at the portable house. Three amused Vigilantes found in her the best theme material imaginable, and on the day when Mr. Crusoe reported having passed her house and her on the road from Elk Creek, they hastened with their hostess to the mail-box, ostensibly to await the postman, but really to see Miss Martha Bumps pass by. They did not have long to wait. The Willow Creek trustee had used his best team of horses in the transportation, and Miss Bumps' entry into Bear Canyon was a triumphal one. At a brisk trot and in a cloud of dust, the equipage came down the easy grade toward the mail-box and the four interested Vigilantes, who, throwing aside all ostentation, sprang to their feet and stared. They saw a little, blue-ginghamed woman under a huge peanut-straw hat, who sat in her own front doorway beside a substantial trustee and tatted while her interested eyes scanned her chosen country. Spying the four wayside spectators and doubtless mistaking them for members of her future flock, she smiled from behind a pair of gold-bowed spectacles, and waved a welcoming tatting-shuttle. "She thinks I'm one of the children," said the former Bear Canyon school-mistress. "She doesn't recognize me as a professional friend. But I'm going to call upon her to-morrow if it's the last thing I do while I'm in Wyoming. Maybe, since I know the Bear Canyon school, I'll even dare give her some suggestions. I'm so anxious she should understand Allan." But Mary's call was never made, for an hour later Mr. Benjamin Jarvis rode in to announce with an air of mystery a barn-warming in his new building for that very evening. "It's short notice," he explained to those who had met his invitation with instantaneous and delighted acceptance, "it's short notice, but, when you come to think of it, there ain't much time left. You ladies go back East in less than a week, and the threshers may come any day, so I says to Allan this mornin' that seein' the floor was laid we hadn't better wait to get the windows in nor any finishin' touches. It will be a farewell party from Bear Canyon to you, Miss Mary, and a welcomin' one to the new teacher. I just rode past the school-house to see how she felt about to-night before invitin' the others. She's all set up an' settled in the pine grove next the school, ain't tired a mite, and says there's nothing like a neighborhood party to get a person acquainted." Mary repeated her appreciation as the second trustee, having announced the time of assembling and probable other guests, turned his horse's head homeward. Nor were the others slow to voice their own. Virginia was radiant. A real Wyoming barn-warming, she told Mr. Jarvis, seemed the final joy in their collection of summer treasures, and she could not be grateful enough for his hospitality toward her guests. Everybody for miles around would be there, she announced that evening as they hurried from supper to dress. All the people in the Canyon and the Valley, and even the forest rangers from Sagebrush Point and Cinnamon Creek. It would not be much like a Gordon dance or one at St. Helen's, but she knew they would enjoy it. Yes, she said in response to Priscilla's questions, it might really be quite like the one in _The Virginian_ where they had swapped the babies. Vivian, who had been burrowing in her closet for a stray blue satin slipper to match the gown spread upon her bed, was surprised a few moments later to see Virginia's dismayed face. "Oh, Vivian, dear," she cried, "I thought you'd understand about dressing. You really can't wear that, you know. Why, nobody will be dressed up like that! It's for everybody, you see--Dick and Mr. Crusoe and William and the men at Keiths'. They'll all come in flannel shirts and chaps, and they'd all feel so queer and awkward if we dressed as we would at school. A clean middy is what you want. I'm going to wear that. You see, it's so different out here, Vivian." It certainly was different out there, Vivian said to herself a little petulantly as she hung up the blue dress, and selected a fresh middy and some lighter shoes. Would she be expected to dance with the Bear Canyon forest ranger and his brethren from Cinnamon Creek and Sagebrush Point--with Dick and William and Mr. Crusoe? They were picturesque, and she would enjoy describing them as characteristic of the West when she returned home, but as for dancing with them, that--she was careful not to admit to the others--was quite another matter. By seven they were off, Mr. Crusoe being the proud driver of the large rig, and the other men following on horseback. The Keith family with Carver and Jack joined them at the main road, and all together they journeyed up Bear Canyon which was populated beyond its wont with pedestrians and equestrians, all bound for the barn-warming of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis. Virginia's prophecy was fulfilled. _Everybody was there!_ Not a family in the Valley or Canyon had missed this opportunity. Babies, securely bundled against the night air, slumbered on fresh hay in the unused bins, and allowed their tired parents a few moments to greet their neighbors. Love for their old teacher, and interest in their new, divided the hearts of every child but two in the Bear Canyon school, those of the little girl in the pink apron and Allan Jarvis being immovably anchored. The rangers from Bear Canyon and Sagebrush, together with a bran-new man from Cinnamon Creek, were among the guests, and two cow boys from the great Biering ranch westward had, at the invitation of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, driven their bunch of cattle into his corral, made camp on the nearby hillside, and stayed for the celebration. The two guests of honor were escorted to seats on the center platform, expressly built for Mr. Samuel Wilson's phonograph, which by elevation, it was believed, would furnish sufficient volume for dancing. In the few intervals between the quickly succeeding introductions, Bear Canyon's two school-mistresses began their acquaintanceship, and Mary found herself strangely fascinated by plain Miss Martha Bumps. A critical analysis failed to warrant the fascination. Certainly Miss Bumps' appearance was not engrossing. To her, clothes were an economical and a social necessity. She wore her traveling gown of faded blue gingham, which of itself was inconspicuous, had it not been for two pockets of newer material on either side of the front. These proofs of unheeded Scriptural warning, being far different in size, gave the entire garment a sinister, cross-eyed effect, which did not fail to catch the eye of the most casual observer. After a surreptitious examination of the aforesaid pockets, Mary discovered that one was occupied by Miss Bumps' ample handkerchief, and the other by her tatting. Nor was there anything extraordinary in the features of her successor. Ordinary gray hair was parted most punctiliously upon a most ordinary forehead. Her eyes were the usual blue, and her nose a trifle better shaped than the average. In vain Mary searched for the hiding-place of the fascination which years afterward she was to understand--that fascination which is born of noblest enthusiasm and a passion for service, and which can transform all the Valleys of Baca in the wide world. Priscilla stood with Virginia and Donald, and with eyes full of eagerness watched the gathering of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' guests. She longed for Miss King and Miss Wallace and Dorothy and the Blackmore Twins--yes, she even longed for her mother, in spite of her apprehension lest her Bostonian mother might not strictly appreciate this Wyoming barn-warming and the cosmopolitan society attendant thereupon. She wanted them all to feel as six weeks ago she had felt that indescribable _first_ thrill at the sight of chaps and lariats and fully-equipped cowboys. She wanted them all to realize that here in Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' new barn was a true democracy of comradeship--a comradeship freed from the obnoxious fetters of ball-room etiquette. It was the interest sparkling in her brown eyes which made the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger outdistance Carver Standish III in his haste to ask her for the grand march. Carver, in white trousers and an air a little too pronounced to be termed self-possession, was leisurely crossing the floor toward her when his chap-clad rival of Cinnamon Creek slid past him unceremoniously and reached Priscilla first. Even then Carver could not believe she would choose a forest ranger in place of him; and his anger was by no means cooled when he heard her say as though in answer to an apology: "Oh, but you see I can dance with Carver any day, and I've never danced with a forest ranger in my life. I was just hoping you'd ask me when you came!" Baffled, Carver sought Vivian in the corner whence he had come. Weak as Vivian was at times, he said to himself, in the matter of associates she showed better judgment than some other girls he might name. Vivian did not turn him down. Secretly she was devoutly thankful he had rescued her from a persistent Biering cow boy to whom she had not been introduced, and with whom, had an introduction been procured, she did not care to dance. Before Carver had come, she had watched Mary talking with that freakish Miss Bumps, Priscilla chatting with a dozen different ranchmen, cow boys, and Bear Canyon children, and Virginia attending to the needs of a fretful baby while its mother went cookie-hunting to the family rig. In her heart of hearts Vivian envied them all. Inwardly she longed to be one with whom all others felt at ease; but outwardly it was far easier to echo Carver's vindictive mood, and agree with him, as they went to take their places in the ever-lengthening line, that never in her life had she seen such people. Mr. Samuel Wilson with Miss Bumps as a partner and Mr. Benjamin Jarvis with Mary led the march, which three times made the circle of the new barn before breaking into an hilarious two-step. Mr. Samuel Wilson's phonograph groaned and wheezed bravely from its platform; three great bon-fires outside made the great barn glow with light; the babies in the straw-filled bins slumbered on while their fathers and mothers grew young again. Carver, scorning a two-step, was teaching Vivian a new dance introduced at Gordon the winter before. Pretty as it was, it was strangely inappropriate in Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn, and served to separate Carver and Vivian still farther from their fellow guests. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger watched them until the straight line between his eyebrows grew deeper and deeper. Then he left Miss Martha Bumps with the excuse of bringing her a glass of cider, and started across the floor. It was too bad, he was thinking to himself, for a likeable chap like that young Standish to get in bad. A good-natured word might give him a hint, and no one be the wiser. Carver and Vivian did not notice his approach. They were resting from their dance, and talking together in tones low yet perfectly audible to one who might be passing by. "Did you ever see such queer people in your life?" the tall ranger heard Vivian say, and Carver's rejoinder made the straight line between his brows even deeper than before. Apparently there was double need for his friendly hint. "Some five hundred, _believe me_!" said the third Carver Standish. The scorn in his voice was born of petulance rather than of snobbishness, but no such kindly discrimination would be made by any sharp-eared guest of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis, and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger lost no time. "If I were you," he said frankly but pleasantly to the amazed Carver Standish, "I'd be a bit more careful about what I said. You see, here in Wyoming it's not considered good form to talk about your host and his guests. If they heard you, it mightn't be comfortable. And, besides, it seems to me it would be better to dance with other folks. That's why I came to ask you if you'd dance the next dance with me, Miss Winters." Carver and Vivian were too discomfited to be gracious. Like many persons more mature than they, they sought to cover embarrassment and to gain control of the situation by bad manners. "I hardly think," said Carver Standish III stiffly, "that I need any coaching on behavior from you!" And before the ranger had time to reply, had he contemplated such action, Vivian was ready with her self-defense. "I rather guess New Englanders have about as good manners as Wyoming people," she said scathingly, "at least judging from those I've seen!" The reply of the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger was brief and to the point. "I always thought so myself until to-night," he said. Then he bowed politely, procured a glass of cider for the waiting Miss Bumps, who was tatting during the interval, and quietly took his leave. But his words, angrily received though they had been, bore fruit, for Carver Standish III danced not only with Miss Martha Bumps but also with Mrs. Samuel Wilson who was twice his size; and Vivian, heartily ashamed of herself and seeking redemption in her own eyes, accepted the Biering cow boy without a show of an introduction, and danced with him three times during the evening, not to mention her hearty acceptance of Dick and Alec and Joe. It was late when Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' barn-warming broke up, and later when the guests rode and drove away down the canyon. In Mr. Crusoe's rig, save from one occupant, conversation and laughter never ceased until they turned down the avenue of cottonwoods. The Cinnamon Creek forest ranger came in for his share of the observations from all but Vivian--his general superiority over the other rangers, his good English, the interesting line between his eyes, and his air of having seen the world. Miss Bumps was admired and complimented. The stature of the biggest Biering cow boy brought forth exclamations. The capacity of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis as a host received loud praise. In short, no one was omitted, even to the youngest Wilson baby, who had looked so adorable as he lay asleep in the bin. It had been a memorable evening, Aunt Nan said, as they gathered around the big fire which Hannah had kept for them, for a last half hour before bed-time. She thought they all needed just such an occasion, so that they might carry back home with them a knowledge of real Wyoming hospitality which knew no strangers. Of course, they had seen it all summer long, she added, smiling at Virginia, but the courtesy of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis had made them one with all Elk Creek Valley and Bear Canyon. "I've been thinking all the evening of the little poem we learned last Christmas, Virginia," she said. "You know, the one about the fire. I guess the big bon-fires at Mr. Jarvis' made me think of it, and now this one at home brings it back again. You remember it, don't you?" Virginia did remember. She repeated it softly while they watched the flames and listened. Vivian, in her corner, was glad no one could see the red which crept into her cheeks. "'I watched a log in the fire-place burning, Wrapped in flame like a winding sheet, Giving again with splendid largess The sun's long gift of treasured heat-- "'Giving again in the fire's low music The sound of wind on an autumn night, And the gold of many a summer sunrise Garnered and given out in light. "'I watched a log in the fire-place burning-- Oh, if I, too, could only be Sure to give back the love and laughter That Life so freely gave to me!'" "That's what the people out here do," said Aunt Nan after a little when Virginia had finished. "They're not afraid to give back the 'love and laughter' which Life has given them. I think we reserved New Englanders can learn a lesson from Mr. Jarvis and the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and all the other people we met and be more willing to give back what we've had given to us." For a long hour after she had gone to bed Vivian remembered the lesson she might have learned from the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger and would not; the love and laughter she might have given the guests of Mr. Benjamin Jarvis and did not. Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she lay looking through the tent opening at the mountains--great, silent souls beneath the stars. They gave back--just _everything_, she thought. "Can't you sleep, Vivian?" Virginia whispered from her bed across the tent. "What's the matter?" Vivian told half the truth. "It's that poem," she said petulantly. "Of course it's lovely, but I can't get it out of my mind, and I hate to have things run through my head like that!" CHAPTER XVI THE CINNAMON CREEK FOREST RANGER "No, Vivian," assured Virginia for at least the tenth time, "there aren't any cattle on those hills. You just turn up the Bear Canyon road where we went after the bear, and go till you reach the creek. It's only a mile from here. Then if you feel a bit nervous about riding Siwash up the mountain, why tie him to a tree and walk. Perhaps 'twill be easier anyway, for you'll find the kinnikinnick just after you leave the creek. It will be redder in the open places, so hunt for those. You'll love it for Christmas boxes. If it weren't for Cæsar, I'd go with you, but I want to finish the third book before Mary goes. Is it at the creek Carver's going to meet you?" "There or at the crossroads," explained Vivian, as she mounted Siwash. "He went to town this morning with Donald, but he said he'd be back in plenty of time. I tried to 'phone, but I guess there must be something wrong. I couldn't get any one, and it didn't buzz at all. But I know he'll be there, and I'm not a bit afraid of Siwash. Good-by." Virginia stood on the porch and watched Vivian ride down the lane before returning to Cæsar. She was wondering if anything could be the matter, if, perhaps, something had happened at the barn-warming the evening before to displease Vivian. She had seemed so unlike herself all the morning. But, she concluded wisely, few days were cloudless, and even an almost perfect house-party had its ups and downs. She and Donald had both discovered that. So many different personalities were bound to collide occasionally, and one couldn't be happy always. An afternoon on the mountain was sure to make Vivian's world bright again. Meanwhile Vivian neared the crossroads. Carver was not there. A scanning of the prairie showed him nowhere in sight. She would ride up the canyon to the ford and wait there, she said to herself. When she rode, her thoughts were less troublesome, and it was far easier to stick to her resolve. Last evening, just as Mr. Benjamin Jarvis' guests were dispersing, she had made a hasty engagement with Carver to meet her the following afternoon and go for kinnikinnick up Cinnamon Creek. The search for kinnikinnick was not, however, her real reason for wishing to see Carver. If her courage did not fail her, and if her sudden resolve did not wane in the light of day, as resolves so often do, she was going to ask Carver to ride with her up Cinnamon Creek to the ranger's cabin, and there help her to apologize for their rudeness. To admit her regret to Carver would be even more difficult than to apologize to the ranger, and she was not at all sure that she should wish to do so in severely practical daylight. Yet daylight had come--it was early afternoon of the next day--and she was still ready if Carver would only come. She allowed Siwash to sink his warm nose in the amber waters of the ford while she waited. It was very still up there. In fact, only Virginia's repeated assurances that there were no cattle on the hills and her own knowledge that a homesteader's cabin was just out of sight beyond the quaking-asps on her left, made Vivian endure that stillness, broken only by the hurrying creek waters and the lazy humming of tiny, hidden insects. To her right rose the mountain wall, dark with pine and spruce, though here and there a flaming service-berry or a hawthorn broke through the evergreens like sudden fire. The tangle of trees and shrubs seemed impenetrable, and yet Virginia had told of a trail which led from the creek not three rods from the ford--led up, up, up for five miles until it reached the Cinnamon Creek Station. Why did not Carver come? She wished she could be as patient as Siwash who stood knee deep in the ford, hung his shaggy, homely head, and stole a nap gratefully. For the twentieth time Vivian rehearsed her speeches, the one to Carver and the other to the insulted ranger. That is, he had every cause to be insulted, though her memory of the smile with which he had received her thrust would seem to dispute his justifiable indignation. Perhaps here in the mountains people were not so easily insulted. They, the mountains, were so big and generous that they made one ashamed of littleness. Being sure of the speeches, she grew more and more impatient. Carver, waiting in Elk Creek for a stock train to load up with its living freight, was even more uneasy than she. He could not leave Donald and there was no way of letting Vivian know that he could not meet her at the ford. At last, having convinced himself that he could not help matters, he sat down on the station platform, disturbed in spirit and conscience, and hoped that Vivian had already turned back home. But Vivian did not turn back. It grew hot by the ford, and she decided to tie Siwash in the shadow of some quaking-asps across the creek, and go up the trail herself to a shady place. Carver would see Siwash and call to her if she did not hear him come. It was cool and shady beneath the trees that bordered the rocky trail. She would willingly have rested had not her eyes spied the red berries of some kinnikinnick growing on either side of the path. Farther away in an open space she saw more and larger. They were far prettier than holly for Christmas boxes, and would be so different to her friends back East. She loved the tiny leaves and graceful trailing of the vines, which seemed hardly sturdy enough to hold the big, round, jolly-looking berries. Virginia was right. They did grow more luxuriantly in the infrequent open places, and she climbed farther and farther up the mountain side, seeking like Hansel and Gretel for bigger berries than she had found. Sometimes she stood still and listened. The silence made a queer catch in her throat. Had it not been for her eagerness to find more and better kinnikinnick, and her knowledge that the homesteader's cabin was very near, she would have been frightened. But Carver must be there very soon, and though she often left the trail, the sound of the creek was proof against her being lost. Her own woodsman instinct was not strong, but Virginia had told her always to trust the creek, which would ever lead one down whence she had come. Once her heart almost stopped beating. Away in the top of a great spruce she heard a hammering sound. It echoed through the silent woods like great blows of an ax, and some long moments passed before Vivian could assure her frightened heart that it was only a flicker searching for his dinner. Her box was filled with kinnikinnick and she would go back. If Carver were not at the ford, they must make the trip up the trail the next day in spite of Virginia's plan for a ride to Lone Mountain. If necessary, she would be brave enough to explain matters, and then they would understand. She turned to go down the mountain, when suddenly from above her came a sound of breaking underbrush as though some creature were bursting from its covert. Vivian stood motionless, too terrified to move or to scream. It was not Carver--that was certain. He would never be upon the mountain. It was far more likely to be a bear. Why not one here as well as farther up the canyon where they had caught that monster from the sight of which she had not yet recovered? Thoughts passed like flashes through her brain while that awful sound of breaking twigs continued. Hundreds and hundreds of them came, crowding one another for space--thoughts of St. Helen's, snatches of poems she had learned, memories of things which had frightened her as a child. And last of all, perhaps because without knowing it she had reached a great tree and sunk in a little heap at its foot, came the picture of a sallow youth in eye-glasses and a linen duster, who had once, ages ago, crashed through some underbrush somewhere else! The crashing ceased. Some one stepped into the trail above her. The thought of a bear had somehow given place to her old knight-errant of the soda-fountain. And yet when she looked up, expecting to see his pale, sickly countenance, she saw instead the khaki-clad form and the surprised blue eyes of the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger! He was the very person she had wished to see. She could make her speech now, and be spared her long ride, and yet she found herself studying the line between his eyes and wondering why other people did not have a line there, too. It was the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger who spoke first. "If that were an oak tree," he said, "I'd think you were consulting an oracle; but since it isn't, maybe you're just a Dryad who's fallen out of the branches. What are you doing away up here anyway? I guess you startled me almost as much as I seem to have startled you. I'm mighty sorry I scared you though!" His apology made Vivian remember her own, and though she quite forgot her speech and just stammered out how sorry she was, the ranger liked it quite as well and assured her he should never think of it again. "And now," he said, "since you've come away off up here, I'm not going to let you go home until you've seen my garden." "Your garden?" queried Vivian. "Why, your cabin isn't here! It's----" "I know," he interrupted, "but my garden is. Follow me. I'll show you. I promise there aren't any bears." She followed him for half a mile up the trail. They wound around great bowlders and along the edges of steep, forbidding places. Then the ranger paused before a thicket of yellow quaking-asps. "This is the entrance," he explained. "Now prepare, for you're going to see something more wonderful than the hanging gardens of Nineveh." Pushing aside the quaking-asps, he made a path for Vivian, who followed, mystified. A few moments more and they had passed the portals, and stood in the ranger's garden. Vivian caught her breath. Never in her life had she seen such grandeur of color. They stood in an open place--a tiny valley surrounded by brown foot-hills. Beyond, the higher pine-clad mountains shut off the valley from the eyes of all who did not seek it. Some great, gray, over-hanging rocks guarded the farther entrance. Within the inclosure, carpeting the valley and clothing the foot-hills, great masses of color glowed in the gold of the sunlight. The ranger's garden was a flaming pageant of yellow and bronze and orange, crimson and scarlet and purple between a cloudless, turquoise sky. "Oh!" cried Vivian. "It's just like a secret, isn't it, hidden away up here? I never saw such color in all my life, except in Thaïs, you know, where the women in Alexandria wore such beautiful gowns." Somehow she knew that the Cinnamon Creek forest ranger _did_ know. "Yes," he said understandingly, "I remember, only this is better than grand opera, because it's real. You see, I spotted this place last spring. I saw all the different shrubs--quaking-asp and buck-brush and Oregon grape and service-berry and hawthorn and wild currant--and I thought to myself that this would be some garden in September. It's cold nights up here in these hills, the frosts are early, and the sun strikes this valley all day. It's going to be even more gorgeous in two weeks more. It isn't exactly on my beat, but it's near enough so I can make it. Come on. I'll show you all the different things." So he led her from golden quaking-asp to crimson hawthorn, and taught her the names of everything that grew in his wonderful garden. Before they had made the circle, Vivian mustered courage, and, seeing the jeweled pin upon the pocket of his rough shirt, which his coat had covered the evening before, asked him about himself, and if Wyoming were his home. No, he said, glad to tell her. He was from Maine, and the pin he wore was his fraternity pin. He had studied forestry in the university there, and then, becoming ill, had been sent West to get rid of a nasty cough which didn't want to go away. But the mountains had proven the best doctors in the world, and he was only staying on a year in the cabin at Cinnamon Creek to learn the mountain trees, and to add a few more pounds before going back home again. Vivian grew more and more confused as she listened. Here he was a New Englander like herself, and she had been so rude. What would Carver say when he knew? "It just shows," she said, "that we never can tell about persons on first acquaintance. I'm doubly sorry I was rude last night. I thought you didn't talk like a Westerner, but I didn't dream you were from New England!" He smiled. "I've learned since I've been out here," he said, "that it doesn't make any difference where we're from. Wyoming hearts are just like New England ones, and the only safe way is never to be rude or unkind at all." Vivian agreed with him. She never would be again, she said to herself, as they left the garden and went back down the trail to Siwash and the ford. Carver was not there, and the ranger insisted upon walking home with her. He would not have stayed for supper had not Virginia and Aunt Nan, meeting them at the mail-box, persuaded him. So it was a very merry party that ate supper beneath the cottonwoods--a party saddened only by the early good-night of the Cinnamon Creek ranger, who wanted to make his mountain cabin before darkness quite obliterated the trail. As he swung into the main road after some cordial handshakes which warmed his heart, he met Carver Standish III. It was too nearly dark for Carver to see the fraternity pin, and no one had yet told him that the ranger was from New England. Nevertheless, he straightened his shoulders, and held out his hand. "I've wanted to see you, sir," he said, "to tell you that I was an awful cad last night, and that I'm dead ashamed of it!" CHAPTER XVII THE WINTHROP COAT-OF-ARMS Priscilla, sitting under the biggest cottonwood, was writing to Miss Wallace, in her best handwriting, on her best stationery, in her best style. One unconsciously brought forth the best she had for Miss Wallace. She was telling of the Emperor and of the Cinnamon Creek ranger, sure that Miss Wallace would be glad to add both to her collection of interesting people. Interruptions were many. Carver, moody and silent, rode over, looking for entertainment, and she did her best; Vivian, having reached a halt in her daily Latin review, asked assistance; little David, Alec's adorable son, had come over with his mother for the afternoon, and Priscilla found him irresistible; and at last Donald, riding homeward, hot and tired from working on the range, had stopped for rest and refreshment. With Hannah's help Priscilla had provided the refreshment, and the ground beneath the cottonwood was giving the rest. "Some stationery!" said Donald, raising himself on his elbow to look at the pile of sheets which Priscilla had placed in readiness on the grass. "A shield and an eagle and a lion and a unicorn all at once, to say nothing of Latin. What does it say? '_Courage--my----_'" "_Courage is my heritage_," translated Priscilla proudly. "It's our family coat-of-arms, and that's the motto. We've had it for years and years, ever since the Wars of the Roses. A Winthrop was shield-bearer for Edward, Duke of York, and Grandfather used to say we could be traced back to the Norman Conquest." "I see," said Donald politely, but with something very like amusement in his blue eyes. "You New England folks are strong on crests and mottoes and that sort of thing, aren't you?" "No more than we should be," announced Priscilla a little haughtily. "We are the oldest families for the most part, and I think we ought to remember all those things about our ancestors. It's--it's very--stimulating. The West is so excited over progress and developing the country and all that," she finished a little disdainfully, "that it doesn't care about family traditions or--or anything like that." "Oh, I don't know," returned Donald. "It isn't so bad as that. We think a fine family history is a splendid thing. I venture I'm as proud of my Scotch forefathers as you are of the Duke of York's shield-bearer, though we haven't any coat-of-arms, and never did have any, I guess. Only back there you think it's a necessity to have a good ancestry, and out here we just consider it a help. I like what Burns said about a man being just a man. That's the way we feel out here. It isn't what you come from; it's what you _are_, and what you can do. Family mottoes are all right, if you live up to them. I knew a fellow at school when I was East two years ago. He roomed with me. He had the family coat-of-arms framed and hung on the wall. 'Twas all red and silver, and the motto was '_Ne cede malis_'--'Yield not to difficulties.' The funny part was that he was the biggest quitter in school. You see, I think it's you who have to uphold the motto--not the motto that has to uphold you." Priscilla ate a cookie silently. She wished Donald were not so convincing. "For instance," Donald continued, "suppose _Courage is my heritage_ were Vivian's family motto. Do you think that fact would give Vivian an extra amount of courage if she said it over a thousand times? I don't. All the courage Vivian's got she's gained for herself without any motto to help her out. And I guess that's the way with most of us in this world." He took his hat and rose to go. "I've got to be making for home," he said. "Dave's gone, and I've an extra amount of work to do. Thanks awfully for the cookies, and don't think I'm too hard on the family motto business. I can see where your motto means a heap to you, but you're not a quitter anyway, Priscilla." He jumped on MacDuff and rode down the lane with a final wave of his hat as he galloped homeward across the prairie. Priscilla's cheeks grew red as she watched him. She was not any too sure that she was not a quitter. Disturbing memories came to trouble her--memories of occasions when she had not proven the truth of the motto, which had fired her ancestors. Donald was right, too, about ancestry and coats-of-arms and mottoes being only helps. Her New England conscience told her that, and her weeks in Wyoming corroborated her conscience. Still she was averse to admitting it--even to Donald. She returned to her unfinished letter, but Genius seemed on a vacation. She could not picture the Emperor to Miss Wallace--could not give the impression which he had indelibly stamped upon her memory as he stood between Nero and Trajan at the palace entrance. The coat-of-arms seemed a disturbing element. She covered it with a strip of paper, but still thoughts would not come. Disgruntled and out-of-sorts, she put away her letter, and started toward the house. Carver's mood was contagious, she said to herself. In Hannah's kitchen she found Mrs. Alec and little David, a roly-poly youngster of three who demanded too much attention for just one mother. Priscilla, seeing in David a sure antidote for introspection, offered to play the part of the necessary other mother, and took him out-of-doors, much to the relief of tired Mrs. Alec. She had no more time to think of family mottoes or coats-of-arms. David clamored for attention, begged to be shown the horse, the dogs, and all the live-stock which the ranch afforded. Priscilla was an obedient guide. Nothing was omitted from the itinerary. When David, satisfied as to the other four-footed possessions, said "Pigs" in his funny Scotch way, pigs it was! She led him down the hill to the corral, then off toward the right where the pigs had their abiding-place. A pile of rocks, the crevices of which were filled with all weeds infesting the neighborhood of pigs, offered a vantage-ground from which they might view the landscape so alluring to little David. With his hand in hers, she was helping him mount the rocks one by one. Suddenly a miniature saw-mill whirred at their feet. A swarm of bees filled the air! Priscilla, intent upon David, had not noticed the flat surface of the rock where the sun lay warm and bright. Warned by the strange sound, her terrified eyes saw the snake, coiled and ready to spring! She had a fleeting vision of a flat, cruel head, and a thousand diamond-shaped yellow dots as she grasped little David by the neckband and pulled him from the rocks to the corral. It was a rattlesnake! The brakeman's prophecy had come true! In spite of Virginia's assertion that they never came near the house, she had seen one! Little David was crying from surprise and a sore neck. He had not seen the snake. Priscilla was trembling in every muscle. There was no one whom she could call. The men were on the range and in the fields; Mr. Hunter and the girls, except Vivian, were in town; Aunt Nan was at the Keiths. The snake must not be allowed to live. Little David might be playing around there again, or some other child. She herself would never, never have the courage----! She started, for suddenly in place of the sound of the saw-mill and the vision of the diamond-shaped dots, came the memory of a lion rampant on a field of gold, an eagle perched upon a shield, and a unicorn surrounded by stars. As the red came back into her white cheeks, Donald's words came back also: "You see, you're no quitter anyway, Priscilla!" Two minutes later Mrs. Alec and Hannah were surprised to receive into their midst a shrieking child, borne by a most determined girl, who was almost out of breath. "He's all right!" she gasped. "Except his neck, I mean! I dragged him. I had to! I'll tell you why by and by. Keep him till I get back!" Then she flew out of the house and down the path to the stables. A many-tined pitchfork rested against one of the sheds. It was one which William had used that morning in turning over sod for a new flower-bed. Priscilla in her hurried transit with David had marked the fork, and chosen it as her best weapon. Of all those cruel tines, one must surely be successful. Donald had told tales of forked sticks and heavy stones, but her hands were too inexperienced for those things. She seized the fork and ran down the path toward the rocks, not daring to stop lest her resolve should fail her; not even waiting to plan her attack lest the memory of that awful head should send her back to the kitchen. The saw-mill whirred again as she neared the rock. Apparently the snake had not stirred since his last conquest. This time she saw his wicked little eyes, his flattened head, and the contraction of his diamond-covered muscles as he made ready to spring. But Priscilla sprang first. The tines of the heavy pitchfork pierced the coils, and the only whirr which sounded was the whirr of iron against the rock. Priscilla, on the rock below, held the handle of the pitchfork firmly, and tried not to look at her victim as he writhed in agony. A sickness was creeping over her. There were queer vibrations in the air, and a strange, singing sound in her ears. Memory brought back the picture of an evening in Carver Standish's room at the Gordon School when she had felt the same way. She would not faint, she said to herself, rallying all her forces. She would die first! The snake had ceased writhing. He was surely dead. Little David need be no longer in danger, and she--perhaps she need not feel so unworthy when she thought of the Winthrop coat-of-arms. She was very white when she reached the kitchen after depositing the pitchfork and its burden by the shed. Grateful Mrs. Alec cried and held little David closer when Priscilla, fortified by Hannah's cider, told the story. Alec, who came in a few minutes later, was grateful, too, in his bluff Scotch way. The snake, he said, was a whopper. He had rarely seen a larger, and Miss Priscilla was a trump--the very bravest tenderfoot he'd ever seen! She had been true to her heritage, Donald said that evening--worthy to bear the Winthrop coat-of-arms. But then he knew she wasn't a quitter anyway. He had told her so that very afternoon. But Priscilla's honesty was equal to all the demands placed upon it that night. Donald's praise was but the last straw! "All the coats-of-arms and family mottoes in the world, Donald," she said, "couldn't have made me kill that snake. It was what you said about them, and about me not being a quitter that did it. I think I was a quitter until this afternoon; but now I can go and write Miss Wallace without covering up the top of the paper. I'm going to do it before bed-time, if you'll excuse me. Good-night!" CHAPTER XVIII A GOOD SPORT "Whew!" sighed Vivian, shifting her position in the saddle for the tenth time in as many minutes, and taking off her broad-brimmed hat to fan her tanned, flushed face. "I think sagebrush must attract the sun. I never was hotter in all my life! I wish now we'd stayed at the Buffalo Horn and waited till after supper to start back. Of course I don't exactly love riding in the dark, but of the two I'd about as soon be scared to death as baked. Where is the next shady spot, Virginia? I can't see a tree for miles! I honestly can't!" "There aren't any," said the comforting Virginia, brushing back the damp rings of hair from her hot forehead, "and the next shady spot is two miles away. The trail bends and there are some quaking-asps by a spring. We'll rest there, and eat our cookies, and drink some real water. 'Twill be a change from the river." "I'm thankful for the river though, even if I have drunk all kinds of bugs. I guess we'd have died without it through all these miles of sagebrush. When will the others get home, do you suppose?" "Not until late," Virginia answered, "that is, if they wait for supper. I'd have loved to have stayed, but William wants Pedro for the range to-morrow, and I wanted him to have a longer rest. Besides, he runs so with the other horses and gets nervous. You were a peach to come with me, Vivian. Right in the hottest part of the day, too." Vivian was honest. "It wasn't all out of kindness," she admitted, "though, of course, I love to ride with you. I didn't especially care about riding home at night, and I don't like such a big crowd either. Siwash always forgets how old he is, and begins to act kittenish, and I never know what to do. I'm thirsty again. Shall we drink a few more bugs?" "Might as well, I suppose," Virginia replied. "Pedro and Siwash seem ready. Ugh! I got one that time! Actually felt him go down my throat! We ought not to put water on our faces, Vivian. They're peeling now! Here's some cold cream!" Vivian squeezed the tube and smeared her glowing nose, before she again mounted Siwash. "We mustn't drink any more of the river," she said. "I feel like an insect cabinet already. Let's get to the quaking-asps as soon as we can and rest." Virginia's eyes glowed with pride as she watched Vivian mount Siwash and ride away from the river. One would never have known it was the same Vivian who nearly seven weeks ago had begged to stay at home from the getting-acquainted trip. She had learned to ride well and easily, and no apparent fear, at least of Siwash, remained. With still more pride Virginia saw her tanned, happy face, the red color in her cheeks, and the extra pounds which Wyoming had given her. The Big Horn country had been kind to Vivian in more ways than one. "I never saw any one improve so in riding, Vivian," she could not resist saying. "You do every bit as well as Priscilla, and Don thinks she's a marvel. I'm proud as Punch of you!" Vivian's cheeks glowed redder. "I can't help but be a tiny bit pleased with myself," she said hesitatingly, "at least about the riding. And--and there are other things, too, Virginia. Of course I know there have been loads of silly things--Mr. Crusoe, for instance. I'll never forget how awful that was, even though you were all so fine about it. But in spite of everything foolish, I have learned things out here, Virginia, that I never knew in all my life. Mother and Father probably won't see any difference next week when I get home, but there is some just the same. I'm not quite such a--a coward as I was! I feel it inside!" "I know you do," said Virginia, riding Pedro closer. "It shows on your face, too. I guess what's really inside of us usually does. You're getting to be a good sport, Vivian, and we're all proud of it--with you!" The knowledge of Virginia's approval somehow made the mid-day heat less intense, and the two miles to the quaking-asps less long. It was good to reach them, and to lie at full length on the cool ground before drinking from the spring a few steps away. Pedro and Siwash were grateful, too, as they cropped the sweet, moist grass. A half hour here would sustain them against the three miles of sagebrush beyond. Virginia and Vivian lay flat on their backs with their arms straight above their heads and rested, as they had been taught to do at St. Helen's. Above them the interlaced branches of the quaking-asps shut out the sun. The air was still with that strange stillness which sometimes comes before a storm. Even the ever-active leaves of the quaking-asps moved not at all. "It's the stillest place I ever knew," said Vivian, as she reached for a cookie. "How far is it to the nearest house?" Virginia considered. "Six miles," she said. "No, there's a homesteader's cabin nearer. That's about four, I guess, but Michner's, the cattle ranch, is six. We always call them the nearest neighbors from here. It is still, isn't it?" "Awfully!" returned Vivian. Their words were hardly finished when the sound of hoofs broke the stillness. Pedro and Siwash snorted. Virginia and Vivian sat up quickly--one interested, the other alarmed. Some one was coming along the rough trail through the sagebrush. Some one was very near! They peered through the quaking-asps. The some one was a lone cowboy riding a buckskin horse. He was leaning forward in his saddle and clutching the horn. His face, almost covered by the big hat he wore, was close to the black mane of the sturdy little buckskin. From their shelter they watched him draw near with beating hearts. There was something strange about him--strange as the stillness. They could not see that he was guiding the horse, who apparently knew not only the way, but her mission as well. She came straight toward the shady thicket and stopped beneath the trees a few rods away from the two anxious spectators. Her rider, conscious perhaps from the halt that he had reached his destination, loosened his hold upon the saddle-horn, swung himself with a mighty effort from the saddle, and fell upon the ground, his hat all unnoticed falling from his head. The buckskin was apparently worried. She sniffed the air dubiously, snorted an anxious greeting to Pedro and Siwash, and moved to one side, lest by mistake she should tread upon her master, who lay in a motionless heap close beside her. Then Virginia's quick eyes discovered blood upon the man's head and face. She jumped to her feet. "He's hurt somehow, Vivian," she said, "terribly hurt, I'm afraid. We mustn't leave him like this. He might die here all alone! Come on! Let's see what we can do." Vivian, too surprised to remonstrate, followed Virginia through the quaking-asps. The man lay where he had fallen, unconscious of anything about him. Blood was flowing from an ugly wound just above his forehead. He was a sad and sorry sight. Vivian shuddered and drew back. "Who is he, Virginia?" she breathed. "You know who he is, don't you? Oh, what are you going to do?" For Virginia's strong young arms were trying to pull the man into a more comfortable position, and farther beneath the trees. "No, I don't know who he is," she whispered, fanning the man's white face with her broad-brimmed hat. "That doesn't make any difference. He's awfully hurt! I thought at first 'twas a shot, but I guess he's fallen. It looks like that. The horse belongs to Michner's. I know by the brand. Fan him, Vivian, while I fix his head and see if he has any whisky about him anywhere." The dazed and frightened Vivian obediently took the fan, and turning her face away, frantically fanned the quaking-asps until they danced and fluttered once more. Virginia untied the cow boy's slicker from the back of the buckskin's saddle and folded it into a pillow, which she placed beneath the sick man's head. The buckskin was relieved and whinnied her thanks. Then from one pocket she drew a small, leathern flask and shook it. "Empty!" she said. "Hard luck! Water will have to do. We were careless to forget our drinking-cups. Rinse this flask, and get some water from the spring, Vivian." Vivian, still waving the fan in the air, brought the water, which Virginia tried to pour between the man's lips. It seemed to arouse him, for he drank some gratefully, though without opening his eyes. "I ought to wash some of this blood away," said Virginia, "but I guess I won't take the time. You can do that after I'm gone. There's only one thing to do. We can't leave this man here in this condition. He might die before any one found him. I'll take Pedro and ride on to Michner's as fast as I can for help. Or," she added, seeing Vivian's eyes open wider, "_you_ take him, and I'll stay here. Either you like, only we must decide at once. Maybe we'll meet somebody or somebody'll come, or maybe there'll be somebody at the homesteader's cabin. Which will you do, ride or stay?" Vivian had decided before she looked at Pedro. She always felt that Pedro entertained scorn for her, contempt that wild gallops through the sagebrush should, together with his youth and speed, present terrors. She knew that he despised her for preferring Siwash to him. "I'll stay," she said firmly. "Pedro will do more for you than for me. When will you be back?" Virginia was already in the saddle. "Probably in little more than an hour, if I find folks," she said. "Keep giving him some water if he needs it, and fan him. He may come to. Good-by." The sound of Pedro's feet died away all too quickly. The stillness which followed was deeper than ever. It fairly sang in the air. For fully five minutes Vivian stood motionless, loath to believe that Virginia had gone. She did not want to be alone! Something inside of her cried out against it. But she _was_ alone--she, Vivian Winters, alone with a dying cow boy on a limitless Wyoming plain. Since the relentless knowledge pushed itself upon her, she might as well accept it. _She was alone!_ And there was the cow boy! Virginia had said that he might come to! For her own sake she hoped he didn't. He was awful enough as he was--blood-smeared and dirty--but at least he did not realize the situation, and that was a scant comfort. If he came to, he might be insane. Blows on the head often made persons so. Given insanity and a gun, what would be the demonstration? A low groan from the quaking-asp thicket brought Vivian to herself. Imagination had no place here. This man was hurt, and she was strong and well. There was a spring of water near by, and she had extra handkerchiefs in her pocket. It was plainly up to her! The stillness was less persistent after she had gone to the spring for water. She forgot all about it as she knelt beside the wounded man and washed the blood from his pain-distorted face. He opened his eyes as he felt the cold cloths, and Vivian saw that they were good, blue eyes. They, together with the absence of blood and dirt, told her that her patient was young--only a boy, in fact! The cut on his head was ugly! Something fluttered inside of her as she parted his hair to place a clean handkerchief upon it, and for a moment she was ill and faint. The cow boy's "Thank you, miss," brought her to herself. Perhaps he was coming to! It was not so awful as she had thought. But he again fell asleep, cleaner and more comfortable than before. The buckskin whinnied her thanks, and put her nose against Vivian's arm as she went to the spring for more water. For the first time in her life Vivian felt the comradeship, the dumb understanding of a horse. Then Siwash became glorified. He was something more than a ragged, decrepit old pony. He was a companion, and Vivian stopped to pat him before she hurried back to her patient. Upon her return from her third journey after water, she found the cow boy's eyes again open. This time he had raised himself on his elbow and was looking at her. He had come to, and it was not horrible at all. Her only feeling was one of alarm lest his sitting up should cause his wound to bleed again, and she hurried to him. "You're feeling better, aren't you?" she faltered. "But you'd better lie down. You've got a pretty bad cut on your head." The boy smiled in a puzzled way. "I don't seem to remember much," he said, "except the header. My horse fell when I wa'n't expectin' it, and I went on a rock. 'Twas the only one on the prairie, I guess, but it got me for sure. What are you doin' here, miss? I don't seem to remember you." Vivian explained as simply as possible. She and her friend had been resting when his horse brought him to the quaking-asps. One of them had gone for help, and the other had stayed. She was the other. "You're not from these parts, I take it," said the boy, still puzzled. "You don't speak like us folks." "No," Vivian told him, "I'm from the East. I came out here six weeks ago to visit my friend." Her patient looked surprised and raised himself again on his elbow in spite of Vivian's restraining hand. "So much of a tenderfoot as that?" he said, gazing at her. "They ain't usually such good sports as you are, miss. Yes, thank you, I'll have some more water. It's right good, I tell you!" Then he fell asleep again, and left Vivian to the companionship of Siwash and the buckskin. Her patient comfortable, she fed them the remaining cookies, wondering as she did so where the awful sense of loneliness had gone. She should welcome Virginia--already it was time for her--but the knowledge that she must stay another hour would not present such terrors to her. It was Siwash who first caught the sound of returning hoofs--Siwash and the relieved buckskin. They neighed and told Vivian, who ran from the thicket to see if they were right. Yes, there was Virginia, with Pedro still in the lead, and two men on horseback behind her. She had luckily met them a mile this side of Michner's, and hurried them back with her. The cow boy had again raised himself, as they rode up to him and dismounted. He was better, for he could look sheepish! This being thrown from one's horse was a foolish thing! They would stay with him, the men said. They knew him well. He was called "Scrapes" at Michner's because he was always getting into trouble. This last was the worst yet. They would camp there that night, and in the morning he could ride home, they felt sure. They were grateful to the girls. Scrapes was a likeable chap, and no one wanted him hurt. But Scrapes himself was the most grateful. He staggered to his feet as Vivian went up to tell him good-by and shook hands with her, and then with Virginia. But his eyes were for Vivian. "You're the best tenderfoot I ever knew, miss," he said. "You was sure some good sport to take care o' me. Would you take my quirt? It's bran new, and I made it all myself. Get it off my horn, Jim. Yes, I want you to have it. Good-by!" "Scrapes is right," said Virginia, as they left the thicket and started homeward. "I said a while ago that you were getting to be one, Vivian, but now I know you've got there--for sure!" CHAPTER XIX CARVER STANDISH III FITS IN Carver Standish III hated the world, himself, and everybody else--at least, he thought he did. In fact, he had been so sure of it all day that no one had attempted any argument on the subject. Jack, unable to maneuver a fishing-trip and secretly glad of an escape, had ridden over to Mary with some much-needed mending; Donald had been glad to ride on the range on an errand for his father; Mr. Keith was in town; the whereabouts of Malcolm could easily be guessed. Carver, in white trousers and a crimson Gordon sweater, was idly roaming about the ranch in search of any diversion which might present itself, and which did not require any too much exertion. For two weeks and more things had not been going well with him. His stay in Wyoming was not closing so happily as it had begun--all due, he admitted to himself, to a missed opportunity. For had he seized the chance when it was given him on the morning after that disastrous night on the mountain, and taken the laugh he had so richly deserved, by now the incident, like Vivian's affair with Mr. Crusoe, would be forgotten. Instead, he had accepted ill-gotten commendation, and received with it the well-disguised scorn of Virginia. This last was the worst of all. He wandered down to the corral. If there were a horse around he might change his clothes and ride. Dave was there, repairing some harnesses. There were no horses down, he said, except old Ned. They were all on the range. Carver might ride Ned, or take him to round up the others. For a moment Carver thought of asking Dave to do the service for him, but the determined set of the old Scotchman's jaw warned him in time. Dave was averse to taking orders from a tenderfoot. It was too much like work, Carver concluded, to round up a decent horse, and to ride Ned would not alleviate his present mood. He would walk. Old Dave, intent on his harnesses, did not see Carver jump the farther boundary of the corral. Had he done so, he would have shouted a warning not to stray too far on foot across the range. The cattle were being driven farther down toward the ranch, and they were often averse to solitary persons on foot. Carver, all unperceived, climbed the foot-hills, his hands deep in his pockets, his eyes on the ground. It was all a bad mess, he thought, and how to get out of it, he didn't know. Of one thing he was certain: the West was not the place for him. The dreams in which he had lived only three weeks ago--dreams of opening a branch of his father's business in the West when he should have finished college--had vanished. He had now decided he was born to remain a New Englander. There were things about the West which he didn't like--blunt, unpolished, new things. Of course these ranchers didn't mind crudities. They could fraternize with ordinary cow-punchers. Even Donald could do that. But _he_ had been reared differently. He struck his toe against a rock, which he kicked savagely out of his way. No, the Standishes were New Englanders, and there they would remain! He reached the brow of the first foot-hills, crossed an open space, and climbed others to the open range above. When he again reached a level he stopped in surprise. Never had he seen so many cattle. There were literally hundreds of them. Where had they all come from? He stood still and stared at them, and they with one accord stopped browsing and stared at him. They were unaccustomed to persons strolling on foot across their preserves. For an instant Carver Standish felt a strange sense of fear. There was something portentous in the way a big red and white bull in the foreground was staring at him. Then he saw Donald on horseback off to the right, and waved his hand. But Donald, spying the white trousers and the red sweater in the same instant, did not stop to wave. Instead, he struck MacDuff with his spur, skirted the cattle nearest him, and rode madly down toward Carver and those ahead. "He's crazy," he said to himself, "coming up here in that rig and afoot. Old Rex will never stand it for a moment." He was right. Old Rex had not the slightest inention of standing it. He ate no more, but with lowered head gazed at this curiously clad intruder, who was hesitating, not knowing whether to advance or to turn back. Old Rex decided for him. He did the advancing. One shake of his heavy head, crowned with long, sharp horns, one cloud of dust as he pawed the ground, and one tremendous bellow warned Carver Standish III to do no tarrying in that locality. A shout from Donald following Old Rex's roar determined Carver's direction. He fled toward MacDuff at a speed which would have won any twenty-five yard cup in New England! Old Rex followed. The other cattle, curiously enough and much to Donald's relief, let their champion fight it out alone. Donald, every moment drawing nearer, freed his left foot from the stirrup. Carver must somehow be made to jump behind the saddle, and jump quick! There was not an instant to lose. Old Rex was gaining, and Carver was growing tired. It was too hot up there for a red sweater. With the bull a scant thirty feet away Donald pulled in MacDuff, and yelled to Carver to jump, which he did, aided by the stirrup, Donald's arm, and the last bit of ancestral nerve he possessed. When Old Rex, baffled and defeated, saw his foe being championed by one whom he full well knew, it took but a yell from Donald and a mighty crack of his quirt to send him back among the herd. There seemed little enough to say as MacDuff bore his double load down over the hills to the lower range, where white trousers and red sweaters might be countenanced. But something had returned to Carver, something which for two weeks had been on a vacation. As they neared the home foot-hills, he slid from MacDuff. "If you're not in a hurry, Don," he said, "let's rest here a minute. MacDuff is tired, I know, and there are some things I want to get straightened out before we go down home." * * * * * The next afternoon while Jack searched the ranch for his scattered possessions and tried in vain to stow them all away in his trunk, while three crestfallen girls packed at the Hunter ranch, Carver, fresh from an interview with Mr. Keith, sat down to write his father. The letter, received four days later in place of its author by the Standish family, brought surprise and consternation in its wake. "I simply can't understand it," said Mrs. Carver Standish II, on the verge of hysterical tears. "I've never known him to do such a thing before. There's Ruth Sherman's house-party coming off, and the St. Clair wedding, and the tennis tournament, and our trip to the Adirondacks--and everything! Whatever shall I tell people who inquire? There's something wrong with him, Carver! I never did want him to go to that place, anyway. You'd better wire!" "I can't see but that it's plain enough," said his father. "He simply prefers threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party or a wedding or a tennis tournament or the Adirondacks. Let him alone. Maybe a little work won't hurt him." "Hurt him!" cried a certain gray-haired old gentleman, slapping his knees. "Hurt him! It'll be the best thing that ever happened to him, in _my_ opinion! Work, and being with that little girl out there!" "And I did so want Mrs. Van Arsdale to see him!" continued his mother. "I'd planned all sorts of things for September. Read the letter again, Carver." Mr. Carver Standish II read the letter. It was brief and to the point. "'DEAR DAD: "'I'm not coming home till school opens. I'm going to stay out here and help thresh. Mr. Keith is short on hands, and he says I'll do. I wanted to help for nothing, they've all been so good to me--but he says I mustn't. You needn't send me any money, because I'm going to be earning two dollars a day, and maybe three if I'm any good. Please don't let Mother object. It won't do any good anyhow, because I've already signed a contract to stay. Mr. Keith didn't want to draw it up, but I insisted. He does it with the other men, and I'm no better than the rest. "'I've got a great scheme about bringing the business West when I'm through college. It sure is some country out here! Love to Grandfather. "'CARVER.'" That Carver Standish III preferred threshing on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party was the subject of conversation at every social affair for a week and more. Poor Mrs. Carver Standish II found explanations most difficult. "Carver's so in love with the country and riding and all that he just won't come back," she said. But Carver's grandfather, the old Colonel, found no such difficulty. "My grandson," he said, his fine head thrown back, and his blue eyes glowing with pride, "my grandson is discovering the dignity of labor on a Wyoming ranch!" CHAPTER XX COMRADES Wyoming, to be appreciated, should be explored on horseback and not viewed from the observation platform of a limited train. Barren stretches of sagebrush and cactus, and grim, ugly buttes guard too well the secret that golden wheat-fields lie beyond them; the rugged, far-away mountains never tell that their canyon-cut sides are clothed with timber and carpeted with a thousand flowers; and tired, dusty travelers, quite unaware of these things, find themselves actually longing for Nebraska to break the monotony! The half-dozen weary persons who on the afternoon of September 6th sat on the observation platform of the Puget Sound Limited, together with the scores who peered from its windows in vain search of something besides sagebrush, were no exception to the rule. To a man, they were all giving fervent thanks that Fate had cast their lots in California or New England or, at the worst, Iowa. The assurances of the brakeman, who was loquacious beyond his kind, that once past Elk Creek they would strike a better country brought some much-needed cheerfulness; and Elk Creek itself afforded such amusement and entertainment that they really began to have a better impression of Wyoming. Apparently, there were civilized persons even in so desolate an environment as this! The sources of their entertainment, for they were several, stood on the little station platform at Elk Creek. The central figure was a tall, middle-aged man, whose hands were filled with trunk checks and tickets, and to whom three very excited girls were saying good-by all at the same time. Three boys, two in khaki and one in traveling clothes, were shaking hands heartily; a fresh-faced young woman with marigolds at her waist stood a little apart from the others and talked earnestly with a tall young man; and a hatless, brown-haired girl in a riding suit seemed to be everywhere at once. "Oh, I can't bear to think it's all over!" the interested travelers heard her say, as she embraced the three girls in turn. "It's been absolutely the most perfect six weeks I've ever, ever known. Don't lose your quirt, Vivian! And don't leave Allan's knife around, Mary. It isn't fair to tempt even a porter. You'll write from every large place, won't you, Priscilla?" In spite of an amused and impatient conductor, the last-named girl turned back for a last hug. Her hat was askew, her brown hair disheveled, and her brown eyes full of tears, which were coursing freely down her cheeks. "Oh, Virginia," she cried, "you're the biggest peach I ever knew! Remember, you're going to think of me every night at seven o'clock. It'll be nine for me in Boston, but I'll not forget. And it's only three weeks before I see you again. That's a comfort!" She hurried toward the waiting train, at the steps of which a boy in khaki stood ready to help her. "Good-by, Carver," she cried, shaking hands for at least the fourth time. "I'm going to see your grandfather the very first thing and tell him what a good sport you are!" A mad rush for the observation platform ensued--the three girls, the boy, and the young woman reaching it just in time to wave good-by to those left behind. The brown-eyed girl swept the faces of her fellow travelers at one glance, nodded to the interested brakeman with a surprised and pleased smile, and then, just as the train began to move, hurried to the railing. "Oh, Virginia!" she cried to the girl in the riding-suit. "What do you think! I've got the very same brakeman! Doesn't that make the ending just perfect?" * * * * * Two hours later a boy and a girl on horseback forded Elk Creek, rode up the Valley, and to the summit of the highest foot-hill. "I'm glad we rode up here," said Virginia. "I'm missing them already, and to be up here with you helps a lot! Do you remember a year ago, Don? 'Twas in this very spot that we planned and planned, and the day was just like this, too--all clear and golden. It just seems as though every year is lovelier than the last, and this one has been the very loveliest of all my life." "I guess," said Donald thoughtfully, leaning forward in his saddle to pat MacDuff, "I guess it's been the best of my life, too, counting this summer and all. Last year at school was great, with college always ahead--sort of a dream almost true, you know. And then to have Jack and Carver here, and all the girls with you, finished everything up just right. But the best part of the year to me, Virginia," he finished hesitatingly, "was June when you came back, and I found you weren't a young lady after all. I was some glad, I tell you!" Virginia's gray eyes looked at the mountains, swept the golden prairie stretches, and lingered for a long moment on the cottonwoods which bordered Elk Creek before they came back to Donald's blue ones. "I'm glad, too," she said simply. Pedro and MacDuff sniffed the September air and gloried in it. They were impatient for a wild run across the brow of the hills, and wondered why their riders chose to look so long at the mountains on such an afternoon as this. If they sat so silently much longer, there would be no time to make the mesa, to gallop across its wide surface, and at last, perhaps, to have supper among the sagebrush with Robert Bruce. They felt somewhat encouraged when Virginia began to speak. "I've been trying to decide the very loveliest thing of all the year," she said. "I mean from September to June. I don't know whether 'twas the Vigilantes or Miss Wallace or Grandmother Webster, but I'm almost sure 'twas Grandmother Webster learning to love Father. The others were joys for me, but that was one for all of us. Of course we know the loveliest thing of this summer. Everything's been perfect, but Aunt Nan and Malcolm the most perfect of all. Yesterday, when Grandmother Webster's letter came, I just cried for joy, it was so lovely! "I--I couldn't help comparing it with the one she wrote Mother about Father," she continued, a little break in her voice. "I found it--afterward--in Mother's things. She didn't understand at all then. I guess it takes some people a long time to understand things. But I'm going to try to forget that because Grandmother Webster knows now just how splendid Father is. Besides," she finished thoughtfully, "it's going to be very hard for Grandmother to give Aunt Nan up. I guess we can't even imagine how hard it's going to be." "Of course we can't I think it's fine of her to take it the way she does. What relation will that make you and me?" he finished practically. "Priscilla and I figured it all out. You're no relation at all--just my uncle's brother. Makes you sound about forty-five, doesn't it?" "It doesn't sound exactly young. When do you suppose it will happen?" "Aunt Nan doesn't know. Malcolm says Christmas, but she says no, she must have a year with Grandmother. So I think it will be in June--just after school is out. Webster is lovely then--all filled with daisies and buttercups and wild roses. And you'll come on, Don--of course you will. And Priscilla will be there, and Mary and Vivian and Carver and Jack and maybe Dorothy! I want you to see Dorothy. Oh, won't it be the happiest time? I'm getting excited already!" "The horses want to go," said Donald. "I'll race you to the edge of the mesa. Come on!" Five minutes later they looked at each other, red-cheeked and radiant. "In together, just as usual," cried Donald. "There's never much difference!" "My hair makes me think of Priscilla," said Virginia, brushing back some loose locks and re-tying her ribbon. "Wasn't she funny this afternoon when she said good-by, her hat on one side and her hair all falling down, and her eyes full of tears? I can't help saying all over and over how lovely it's been. And now another year's beginning, and in two weeks more you and I will go away to school again. I'm wondering," she finished thoughtfully, "I'm wondering if next June, when we ride up here, you'll say that I'm not a young lady after all." "You don't feel you're going to be--too grown-up, do you?" There was anxiety in Donald's tone. "No, not in the way you mean," Virginia promised him. "Not ever like Imogene or Katrina Van Rensaelar. But I _am_ growing up! I feel it coming! It's just as though I'd met my older self and shaken hands with her before she went away again, for, you see, she hasn't come to stay for keeps yet. I think she came the first time when Jim went away, and then again at Easter time when Miss King talked to us at Vespers, and then this summer when Aunt Nan told me about Malcolm. That time she stayed longest of all." "I hope she won't be a lot different from you," said Donald. "I shouldn't want to have to get acquainted all over again." "You won't," Virginia assured him. "Only she knows a lot more than I know, and she's told me a great many things already. That night on the mountain she came and stayed with me while Vivian and Carver were asleep. I learned so many things that night, Don. I'm just sure she taught them to me--she and the night and the stillness." Her voice softened. "Somehow, away up there on the mountain, life seemed such a big, wonderful thing--all full of dreams and opportunities and surprises and--and comrades, all going along the same trail. Don't you like to think of life as a trail--like the kind that leads to Lone Mountain, I mean--all full of dangers and surprises and beautiful things?" "Yes," he said simply. His eyes as he watched her filled with pride in their comradeship--his and hers. "And, oh, that makes me think!" she cried excitedly. "I've forgotten to tell you about the poem Miss Wallace sent me yesterday. You see, I'm collecting lovely ones, and she's such a help in sending them to me. I learned this one to say to you. Of course she didn't know, but it's just like we were the Christmas before I went away to school when you were home for the holidays. Don't you remember how we went for Christmas greens up Bear Canyon in that big snow-storm and didn't get home until long after dark, and how Jim and William were just starting to hunt for us? Listen! I know you'll like it. It's called 'Comrades.' "'You need not say one word to me as up the hill we go (Night-time, white-time, all in the whispering snow), You need not say one word to me, although the whispering trees Seem strange and old as pagan priests in swaying mysteries. "'You need not think one thought of me as up the trail we go (Hill-trail, still-trail, all in the hiding snow), You need not think one thought of me, although a hare runs by, And off behind the tumbled cairn we hear a red fox cry. "'Oh, good and rare it is to feel as through the night we go (Wild-wise, child-wise, all in the secret snow) That we are free of heart and foot as hare and fox are free, And yet that I am glad of you, and you are glad of me!'" "Don't you like it, Don?" she finished eagerly. "I do. I like it because I think it shows the finest kind of friendship--the kind that makes you free to do just what seems right and best to _you_, and yet makes you glad of your friends. Miss Wallace calls it the friendship which doesn't _demand_, and it's her ideal, too. I'm sure she was thinking of that when she sent me the poem. And then I like it most of all because it makes me think of that Christmas, and the good time we had. Don't you like it?" she repeated. In her eagerness she was all unconscious that she had given him no time to reply. "Yes," he said. "I should say I do like it. I guess I'll copy it, if you don't mind. And, Virginia," he added, hesitating, "you don't know what our comradeship means to me. You see, when a fellow goes away to college the way I'm going, it helps him to be--to be on the square in everything, if he has a comrade like--like you've always been." But there was no hesitation--only gladness in Virginia's frank gray eyes as she looked at him. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she cried, her face flooded with happiness. "That's the very kind of a comrade I want to be, Don! I like to feel just as it says in the poem: "'That we are free of heart and foot as hare and fox are free, And yet that I am glad of you, and you are glad of me!'" THE END * * * * * * POPULAR COPYRIGHT NOVELS AT MODERATE PRICES Ask Your Dealer for a Complete List of A. L. Burt Company's Popular Copyright Fiction Adventures of Jimmie Dale, The. By Frank L. Packard. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle. Affinities, and Other Stories. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. After House, The. By Mary Roberts Rinehart. 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11337	----	COWMEN AND RUSTLERS A Story of the Wyoming Cattle Ranges BY EDWARD S. ELLIS AUTHOR OF "LOG CABIN SERIES," "BOONE AND KENTON SERIES," ETC. WITH FOUR FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY W.M. CARY MCMIV CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. A MERRY GROUP II. A WARNING FROM THE WOODS III. THE FLIGHT OVER THE ICE IV. THE REPORT OF GUNS V. LOOKING SOUTHWARD VI. COWMEN AND RUSTLERS VII. THE WARNING VIII. GOOD-BY IX. A SUMMONS AND A REPLY X. A HOT PURSUIT XI. A STRANGE DIVERSION XII. THE BACK TRAIL XIII. A CONSULTATION XIV. UNWELCOME CALLERS XV. THE "DOG INDIANS" XVI. AN UNPLEASANT VISIT XVII. A DELICATE SITUATION XVIII. A MISCALCULATION XIX. THE BURNED RANCH XX. THE TRUCE XXI. A MESSENGER IN HASTE XXII. IMPORTANT TIDINGS XXIII. AT BAY XXIV. THE PRIMITIVE FORT XXV. THE FLAG or TRUCE XXVI. THE UNDERGROUND MISSIVE XXVII. ON PAROLE XXVIII. THE FINAL SUMMONS XXIX. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE XXX. THE MISSING ONE XXXI. WHY IT WAS DONE XXXII. THE HOSTAGE XXXIII. THE PRISONER XXXIV. OUT IN THE NIGHT XXXV. CONCLUSION LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. "FIRED TWO MORE BARRELS" "COMING STRAIGHT TOWARD HIM" "A MASS OF BLAZING EMBERS" "CHALLENGED ON THE EDGE OF THE CAMP" CHAPTER I. A MERRY GROUP. The Whitney household, in the western part of Maine, was filled with sunshine, merriment and delight, on a certain winter evening a few years ago. There was the quiet, thoughtful mother, now past her prime, but with many traces of the beauty and refinement that made her the belle of the little country town until Hugh Whitney, the strong-bearded soldier, who had entered the war as private and emerged therefrom with several wounds and with the eagles of a colonel on his shoulder, carried her away from all admirers and made her his bride. Hugh had been absent a couple of weeks in Montana and Wyoming, whither he was drawn by a yearning of many years' standing to engage in the cattle business. He had received some tuition as a cowboy on the Llano Estacada, and the taste there acquired of the free, wild life, supplemented, doubtless, by his experience during the war, was held in restraint for a time only by his marriage. The absence of the father was the only element lacking to make the household one of the happiest in that section of Maine; but the letter just received from him was so cheerful and affectionate that it added to the enjoyment of the family. The two principal factors in this jollity were the twins and only children, Fred and Jennie, seventeen on their last birthday, each the picture of health, bounding spirits, love and devotion to their parents and to one another. They had been the life of the sleighing-parties and social gatherings, where the beauty of the budding Jennie attracted as much admiration as did that of her mother a score of years before, but the girl was too young to care for any of the ardent swains who were ready to wrangle for the privilege of a smile or encouraging word. Like a good and true daughter she had no secrets from her mother, and when that excellent parent said, with a meaning smile, "Wait a few years, Jennie," the girl willingly promised to do as she wished in that as in every other respect. Fred was home for the Christmas holidays, and brought with him Monteith Sterry, one year his senior. Sterry lived in Boston, where he and Fred Whitney were classmates and warm friends. Young Whitney had spent several Sundays with Sterry, and the latter finally accepted the invitation to visit him at his home down in Maine. These two young men, materially aided by Jennie, speedily turned the house topsy-turvy. There was no resisting their overrunning spirits, though now and then the mother ventured on a mild protest, but the smile which always accompanied the gentle reproof betrayed the truth, that she was as happy as they in their merriment, with which she would not have interfered for the world. That night the full, round moon shone from an unclouded sky, and the air was crisp and clear. There was not much snow on the ground, and the ice on the little river at the rear of the house was as smooth as a polished window-pane. For nearly two score miles this current, which eventually found its way into the Penobscot, wound through the leafless woods, past an occasional opening, where, perhaps, the humble cabin of some backwoodsman stood. It was an ideal skating rink, and the particular overflow of spirits on that evening was due to the agreement that it was to be devoted to the exhilarating amusement. "We will leave the house at 8 o'clock," said Fred at the supper table, "and skate to the mouth of Wild Man's Creek and back." "How far is that?" inquired Monteith Sterry. "About ten miles." Pretty Jennie's face took on a contemptuous expression. "Not a bit more; we shall be only fairly started when we must turn back." "Well, where do you want to go, sister?" "We shouldn't think of stopping until we reach Wolf Glen." "And may I inquire the distance to that spot?" asked Sterry again. "Barely five miles beyond Wild Man's Creek," said she. Those were not the young men to take a "dare" from a girl like her. It will be admitted that thirty miles is a pretty good spurt for a skater, but the conditions could not have been more favourable. "It's agreed, then," remarked Sterry, "that we will go to Wolf Glen, and then, and then--" "And then what?" demanded Jennie, turning toward him. "Why not keep on to Boston and call on my folks?" "If you will furnish the ice we will do so." "I couldn't guarantee ice all the way, but we can travel by other means between the points, using our skates as the chance offers." "Or do as that explorer who is to set out in search of the north pole--have a combination skate and boat, so when fairly going we can keep straight on." "I will consent to that arrangement on one condition," interposed the mother, so seriously that all eyes were turned wonderingly upon her. "What is that?" "That you return before the morrow." The countenances became grave, and turning to Sterry, on her right, Jennie asked, in a low voice: "Is it safe to promise that?" "Hardly. Let us leave the scheme until we have time in which fully to consider it." "You will start, as I understand, at eight," remarked the mother, speaking now in earnest. "You can readily reach Wolf Glen within a couple of hours. There you will rest a while and return as you choose. So I will expect you at midnight." "Unless something happens to prevent." The words of Monteith Sterry were uttered jestingly, but they caused a pang to the affectionate parent as she asked: "What could happen, Monteith?" Fred took it upon himself to reply promptly: "Nothing at all." "Is the ice firm and strong?" "It will bear a locomotive; I never saw it finer; the winter has not been so severe as some we have known, but it has got there all the same; Maine can furnish the Union with all the ice she will want next summer." "There may be air-holes." "None that we cannot see; they are few and do not amount to anything." Here Sterry spoke with mock gravity. "The name, Wolf Glen, is ominous." "We have wolves and bears and other big game in this part of the State, but not nearly as many as formerly. It hardly pays to hunt them." "I hope we shall meet a few bears or wolves," said Jennie, with her light laugh. "And why?" demanded the shocked mother. "I would like a race with them; wouldn't it be fun!" "Yes," replied Sterry, "provided we could outskate them." "I never knew that wild animals skate." "They can travel fast when they take it into their heads to turn hunter. I suppose many of the bears are hibernating, but the wolves--if there are any waiting for us--will be wide awake and may give us the roughest kind of sport." Fred Whitney knew his mother better than did his friend and understood the expression on her face. So did Jennie, and the couple had such sport of their Boston visitor that the cloud quickly vanished and Monteith felt a trifle humiliated at his exhibition of what might be considered timidity. Nevertheless he quietly slipped his loaded revolver in the outer pocket of his heavy coat just before starting and when no one was watching him. Precisely at eight o'clock the three friends, warmly and conveniently clad, with their keen-edged skates securely fastened, glided gracefully up-stream, the mother standing on the porch of her home and watching the figures as they vanished in the moonlight. She was smiling, but in her heart was a misgiving such as she had not felt before, when her children were starting off for an evening's enjoyment. The minute they were beyond sight she sighed, and, turning about, resumed her seat by the table in the centre of the sitting-room, where, as the lamplight fell upon her pale face, she strove to drive away the disquieting thoughts that would not leave her. It was a pleasing sight as the three young people, the picture of life, health and joyous spirits, side by side, laughing, jesting, and with never a thought of danger, moved out to the middle of the river and then sped toward its source, with the easy, beautiful movement which in the accomplished skater is the ideal of grace. The motion seemingly was attended with no effort, and could be maintained for hours with little fatigue. The small river, to which allusion has been made, was one hundred yards in width at the point where they passed out upon its surface. This width naturally decreased as they ascended, but the decrease was so gradual that at Wolf Glen, fifteen miles away, the breadth was fully three-fourths of the width opposite the Whitney home. Occasionally, too, the channel widened to double or triple its usual extent, but those places were few in number, and did not continue long. They marked a shallowing of the current and suggested in appearance a lake. There were other spots where this tributary itself received others. Sometimes the open space would show on the right, and further on another on the left indicated where a creek debouched into the stream, in its search for the ocean, the great depository of most of the rivers of the globe. The trees, denuded of vegetation, projected their bare limbs into the crystalline air, and here and there, where they leaned over the banks, were thrown in relief against the moonlit sky beyond. The moon itself was nearly in the zenith, and the reflected gleam from the glassy surface made the light almost like that of day. Along the shore, however, the shadows were so gloomy and threatening that Monteith Sterry more than once gave a slight shudder and reached his mittened hand down to his side to make sure his weapon was in place. The course was sinuous from the beginning, winding in and out so continuously that the length of the stream must have been double that of the straight line extending over the same course. Some of these turnings were abrupt, and there were long, sweeping curves with a view extending several hundred yards. They were spinning around one of these, when Sterry uttered an exclamation: "I'm disappointed!" "Why?" inquired Jennie, at his elbow. "I had just wrought myself up to the fancy that we were pioneers, the first people of our race to enter this primeval wilderness, when lo!" He extended his arm up-stream and to the right, where a star-like twinkle showed that a dwelling stood, or some parties had kindled a camp-fire. "Quance, an old fisherman and hunter, lives, there," explained Fred, "as I believe he has done for fifty years." "Would you like to make a call on him?" asked Jennie. "I have no desire to do so; I enjoy this sport better than to sit by the fire and listen to the most entertaining hunter. Isn't that he?" The cabin was several rods from the shore, the space in front being clear of trees and affording an unobstructed view of the little log structure, with its single door and window in front, and the stone chimney from which the smoke was ascending. Half-way between the cabin and the stream, and in the path connecting the two, stood a man with folded arms looking at them. He was so motionless that he suggested a stump, but the bright moonlight left no doubt of his identity. "Holloa, Quance!" shouted Fred, slightly slackening his speed and curving in toward shore. The old man made no reply. Then Jennie's musical voice rang out on the frosty air, but still the hunter gave no sign that he knew he had been addressed. He did not move an arm nor stir. "I wonder whether he hasn't frozen stiff in that position," remarked Sterry. "He may have been caught in the first snap several weeks ago and has been acting ever since as his own monument." At the moment of shooting out of sight around the curve the three glanced back. The old fellow was there, just as they saw him at first. They even fancied he had not so much as turned his head while they were passing, but was still gazing at the bank opposite him, or, what was more likely, peering sideways without shifting his head to any extent. The occurrence, however, was too slight to cause a second thought. They were now fairly under way, as may be said, being more than a mile from their starting-point. They were proceeding swiftly but easily, ready to decrease or increase their speed at a moment's notice. Sometimes they were nigh enough to touch each other's hands, and again they separated, one going far to the right, the other to the left, while the third kept near the middle of the stream. Then two would swerve toward shore, or perhaps it was all three, and again it was Jennie who kept the farthest from land, or perhaps a fancy led her to skim so close that some of the overhanging limbs brushed her face. "Look out; there's an air-hole!" called the brother, at the moment the three reunited after one of these excursions. "What of it!" was her demand, and instead of shooting to the right or left, she kept straight on toward the open space. "Don't try to jump it!" cautioned Sterry, suspecting her purpose; "it's too wide." "No doubt it is for you." The daring words were on her lips, when she rose slightly in the air and skimmed as gracefully as a bird across the space of clear water. She came down seemingly without jar, with the bright blades of steel ringing over the crystal surface, and without having fallen a foot to the rear of her companions. "That was foolish," said her brother, reprovingly; "suppose the ice had given away when you struck it again?" "What's the use of supposing what could not take place?" "The air-hole might have been wider than you suppose." "How could that be when it was in plain sight? If it had been wider, why I would have jumped further, or turned aside like my two gallant escorts. Stick to me and I'll take care of you." There was no dashing the spirits of the girl, and Sterry broke into laughter, wondering how it would be with her if actual danger did present itself. Occasionally the happy ones indulged in snatches of song and fancy skating, gliding around each other in bewildering and graceful curves. The three were experts, as are nearly all people in that section of the Union. Any one watching their exhibitions of skill and knowing the anxiety of the mother at home would have wondered why she should feel any misgiving concerning them. True, there were wild animals in the forests, and at this season of the year, when pressed by hunger, they would attack persons if opportunity presented; but could the fleetest outspeed any one of those three, if he or she chose to put forth the utmost strength and skill possessed? "Look!" It was Jennie who uttered the exclamation, and there was good cause for it. She was slightly in advance, and was rounding another of the turns of the stream, when she caught sight of a huge black bear, who, instead of staying in some hollow tree or cave, sucking his paw the winter through, was lumbering over the ice in the same direction with themselves. He was near the middle of the frozen current, so that it was prudent for them to turn to the right or left, and was proceeding at an easy pace, as if he was out for a midnight stroll, while he thought over matters. Though one of the stupidest of animals, he was quick to hear the noise behind him and looked back to learn what it meant. CHAPTER II. A WARNING FROM THE WOODS. Monteith Sterry began drawing the mitten from his right hand with the intention of using his revolver on the bear, when he checked himself with the thought: "Better to wait until I need it; the most of this excursion is still before us." The lumbering brute came to a stop, with his huge head turned, and surveyed the approaching skaters. Had they attempted to flee, or had they come to a halt, probably he would have started after them. As it was he swung half-way round, so that his side was exposed. He offered a fine target for Sterry's weapon, but the young man still refrained from using it. "It isn't well to go too near him," remarked Fred Whitney, seizing the arm of his sister and drawing her toward the shore on the left. "I don't mean to," replied the bright-witted girl, "but if we turn away from him too soon he will be able to head us off; he mustn't suspect what we intend to do." "There's sense in that," remarked Sterry, "but don't wait too long." The three were skating close together, with their eyes on the big creature, who was watching them sharply. "Now!" called Fred, in a low, quick voice. He had not loosened his grip of his sister's arm, so that when he made the turn she was forced to follow him. The moment was well chosen, and the three swung to one side as if all were controlled by the single impulse. Bruin must have been astonished; for, while waiting for his supper to drop into his arms, he saw it leaving him. With an angry growl he began moving toward the laughing party. The tinge of anxiety which Fred Whitney felt lasted but a moment. He saw that they could skate faster than the bear could travel; and, had it been otherwise, no cause for fear would have existed, for, with the power to turn like a flash, it would have been the easiest thing in the world to elude the efforts of the animal to seize them. They expected pursuit, and it looked for a minute as if they were not to be disappointed. The animal headed in their direction with no inconsiderable speed, but, with more intelligence than his kind generally display, he abruptly stopped, turned aside, and disappeared in the wood before it could be said the race had really begun. Jennie was the most disappointed of the three, for she had counted upon an adventure worth the telling, and here it was nipped in the bud. She expressed her regret. "There's no helping it," said Monteith, "for I can think of no inducement that will bring him back; but we have a good many miles before us, and it isn't likely that he's the only bear in this part of Maine." "There's some consolation in that," she replied, leading the way back toward the middle of the course; "if we see another, don't be so abrupt with him." The stream now broadened to nearly three times its ordinary extent, so that it looked as if they were gliding over the bosom of some lake lagoon instead of a small river. At the widest portion, and from the furthest point on the right, twinkled a second light, so far back among the trees that the structure from whence it came was out of sight. They gave it little attention and kept on. Sterry took out his watch. The moonlight was so strong that he saw the figures plainly. It lacked a few minutes of nine. "And yonder is the mouth of Wild Man's Creek," said Fred; "we have made pretty good speed." "Nothing to boast of," replied Jennie; "if it were not for fear of distressing mother, I would insist that we go ten or fifteen miles further before turning back." Since plenty of time was at command, they continued their easy pace, passing over several long and comparatively straight stretches of frozen water, around sharp bends, beyond another expansion of the stream, in front of a couple of natural openings, and finally, while it lacked considerable of ten o'clock, they rounded to in front of a mass of gray towering rocks on the right bank of the stream, and, skating close into shore, sat down on a bowlder which obtruded several feet above the ice. They were at the extremity of their excursion. These collective rocks bore the name of Wolf Glen, the legend being that at some time in the past a horde of wolves made their headquarters there, and, when the winters were unusually severe, held the surrounding country in what might be called a reign of terror. They had not yet wholly disappeared, but little fear of them was felt. The friends could not be called tired, though, after skating fifteen miles, the rest on the stone was grateful. They sat for half an hour chatting, laughing, and as merry as when they started from home. The sky was still unclouded, but the moon had passed beyond the zenith. A wall of shadow was thrown out from one of the banks, except for occasional short distances, where the course of the stream was directly toward or from the orb. When Sterry again glanced at his watch it was a few minutes past ten. They had rested longer than any one suspected. "Mother won't look for us before midnight," remarked Fred, "and we can easily make it in that time." "She was so anxious," said the sister, who, despite her light-heartedness, was more thoughtful than her brother, "that I would like to please her by getting back sooner than she expects." "We have only to keep up this pace to do it," said Monteith, "for we have been resting fully a half hour--" He paused abruptly. From some point in the wintry wilderness came a dismal, resounding wail, apparently a mile distant. "What is that?" asked Monteith, less accustomed to the Maine woods than his companions. "It is the cry of a wolf," replied Fred; "I have heard it many times when hunting alone or with father." "It isn't the most cheerful voice of the night," commented the young Bostonian, who, as yet never dreamed of connecting it with any peril to themselves. And then he sang: Yes, the war whoop of the Indian may produce a pleasant thrill When mellowed by the distance that one feels increasing still; And the shrilling of the whistle from the engine's brazen snout May have minor tones of music, though I never found it out. The verse was hardly finished when the howl was repeated. "It is hard to tell from what point it comes," observed Fred, "but I think it is on the right shore as we go back." "Do you imagine it is far from the river?" inquired Monteith. "I think not, but I may be mistaken." "I am quite sure Fred is right," said his sister; "and, more than that, that particular wolf isn't a great way off. I wonder whether he has scented our trail?" Before any comment could be made upon this remark, a second, third, fourth, and fully a half-dozen additional howls rang through the forest arches. They came from the left shore, and apparently were about as far off as the cry first heard. "They are answers," said Fred, in a low voice, in which his companions detected a slight tremor. It was at this moment that the first fear thrilled all three. The cries might mean nothing, but more likely they meant a good deal. The wolf is one of the fiercest of American wild animals when suffering from hunger, though a coward at other times, and a horde of them are capable of attacking the most formidable denizens of the woods. The fact that they were between the skaters and home, and at no great distance from the course they must follow to reach there, was cause for fear. It was almost certain that in some way the keen-scented creatures had learned there was game afoot that night for them, and they were signalling to each other to gather for the feast. Fred and Monteith were not specially frightened on their own account, for, if the worst should come, they could take to the trees and wait for help. They might make a sturdy fight, and perhaps, with anything like a show, could get away from them without taking to such a refuge. But it was the presence of Jennie that caused the most misgiving. True, she was as swift and skilful a skater as either, but that of itself was not likely to save her. But she was the coolest of all, now that the danger assumed a reality. The lightness and gayety that had marked the three from the moment of leaving home had gone. They were thoughtful, the very opposite in their mood to that of a few minutes before. "I wish I had brought my pistol," said Fred. "I have mine," observed Monteith; "a good Smith & Wesson, and each of the five chambers is loaded." "Thank fortune for that; have you any extra cartridges?" "Not one." "Your pistol may be the means of saving us." "Why do you speak that way?" asked Jennie; "I never knew you were scared so easily." "I am sorry you are with us, sister; my alarm is on your account." "I do not see why I am not as safe as either of you; neither can skate faster than I." "If we are to escape by that means, your chances are as good as ours; but those creatures have a fearful advantage over us, because we must run the gauntlet." "We are not so certain of that; if we hasten, we may pass the danger-point before they discover us." For the first time since leaving home the three did their best. Separated from each other by just enough space to give play to the limbs, they sped down the icy river with the fleetness of the hurricane, their movements almost the perfect counterpart of each other. First on the right foot, they shot well toward the shore on that side, then bending gracefully to the left, the weight was thrown on that limb, the impetus being imparted to the body without any apparent effort, after the manner of a master of the skater's art. These, sweeping forward, were many rods in length, the polished steel frequently giving out a metallic ring as it struck the flinty ice. Now and then, too, a resounding creak sped past, and might have alarmed them had they not understood its nature. It indicated no weakness of the frozen surface, but was caused by the settling of the crystal floor as the water flowed beneath. For a few minutes these were the only noises that broke the impressive stillness. The three had begun to hope that the ominous sounds would be heard no more, and that the wolves were too far from the river to discover them until beyond reach. If they could once place themselves below the animals they need not fear, for they could readily distance them. Should the speed of the pursuers become dangerous, a sharp turn or change in the course would throw them off and give the fugitives an advantage that would last for a long time. But they dreaded the appearance of a whole pack of the brutes in front, thus shutting off their line of flight homeward. True, in that case they could turn about and flee up stream, but the risk of encountering others attracted by the cries would be great, and perhaps leave their only recourse to a flight into the woods. The thoughts of each turned to the nearest hunter's cabin, although it was several miles distant, and probably beyond reach. It was strange that, having emitted so many signals, the wolves should become suddenly quiescent. No one spoke, but as they glided swiftly forward they peered along the gleaming surface in search of that which they dreaded to see. They approached one of those long, sweeping bends to which allusion has been made. Jennie had already proven that neither of her companions could outspeed her. They were doing their utmost, but she easily held her own with less effort than they showed. In truth, she was slightly in advance as they began following the curve of the river, her head, like each of the others, bent forward, to see whither they were going. "They are there!" It was she who uttered the exclamation which sent a thrill through both. They asked for no explanation, for none was needed, and an instant later they were at her side, she slightly slackening her pace. The sight, while alarming, was not all that Fred and Monteith anticipated. Three or four gaunt animals were trotting along the ice near the left shore, but no others were visible. "Keep in the middle while I take a turn that way," said Monteith, sheering in the direction named. Brother and sister did not read the meaning of this course, nor could they detect its wisdom. But they obeyed without question. Young Sterry hoped by making what might look like an attack upon the famishing beasts to scare them off for a few minutes, during which the three, and especially Jennie, could reach a point below them. With the brutes thus thrown in the rear, it might be said the danger would be over. Now, as every one knows, the wolf is a sneak, and generally will run from a child if it presents a bold front; but the animal becomes very dangerous when pressed by hunger. Monteith Sterry's reception was altogether different from what he anticipated. When the half-dozen wolves saw him speeding toward them they stopped their trotting, and, like the bear, looked around, as not understanding what it meant. "Confound them! Why don't they take to the woods?" he muttered. He had removed the mitten from his right hand, which grasped his revolver. "This isn't according to Hoyle." He shied a little to the right, with a view of preventing a collision with the creatures, and the moment he was close enough, let fly with one chamber at the nearest. Accidentally he nipped the wolf, which emitted a yelping bark, leaped several feet in the air, then limped into the woods, as he had learned enough of the interesting stranger. That was just what the youth had hoped to do, and the success of his scheme would have been perfect had the others imitated their wounded companion, but they did not. Without paying any attention to Sterry they broke into a gallop toward the middle of the river, their course such as to place them either in advance of Fred and Jennie Whitney or to bring all together. Greatly alarmed for his friends, Monteith did an unnecessary thing by shouting (for the couple could not fail to see their danger), and fired two more barrels of his pistol. Neither shot took effect, nor did the wolves give them any heed, but they and the skaters converged with perilous swiftness. Forgetful of his own danger, Monteith shouted again: "Look out! Why don't you change your course?" Neither replied, but it was absurd for the panic-stricken youth to suppose they did not understand the situation and were shaping their movements accordingly. Having observed the wolves as soon as Sterry, they never lost sight of them for a second. Every action was watched, and the curious proceeding noted the instant made. Fred and Jennie continued gliding straight forward, as if they saw them not, and a collision appeared inevitable. At the moment when Monteith's heart stood still, the couple turned almost at right angles to the left--that is, in exactly the opposite direction from the course of the wolves--and in a second they were fifty feet nearer that shore than the brutes. Then followed another quick turn, and they were gliding with arrowy speed straight down stream. They had simply passed around the animals, who, detecting the trick, made their limbs rigid and slid over the ice, with their claws scratching it, until able to check their speed to allow them to turn and resume the pursuit. Sterry was on the point of uttering a shout of exultation and admiration at the clever manoeuvre, when Jennie cried out; and well might she do so, for fifty yards beyond, and directly in their path, the ice seemed suddenly to have become alive with the frightful creatures, who streamed from the woods on both sides, ravenous, fierce and unrestrainable in their eagerness to share in the expected feast. CHAPTER III. THE FLIGHT OVER THE ICE. The same minute that Monteith Sterry saw the new peril which threatened them all he darted out beside the brother and sister, who had slackened their pace at sight of the wolves in front. "What shall we do?" asked Fred; "we cannot push on; let's go up stream." "You cannot do that," replied Jennie, "for they are gathering behind us." A glance in that direction showed that she spoke the truth. It looked as if a few minutes would bring as many there as in advance. "We shall have to take to the woods," said Fred, "and there's little hope there." "It won't do," added the sister, who seemed to be thinking faster than either of her companions. "The instant we start for the shore they will be at our heels. Make as if we were going to run in close to the right bank, so as to draw them after us; then turn and dash through them." The manoeuvre was a repetition of the one she and her brother had executed a few minutes before, and was their only hope. "I will take the lead with my pistol," said Monteith, "while you keep as close to me as you can." Every second was beyond value. The wolves were not the creatures to remain idle while a conference was under way. At sight of the three figures near the middle of the course they rent the air with howls, and came trotting toward them with that light, springy movement shown by a gaunt hound, to whom the gait is as easy as a walk. Monteith Sterry shot forward on his right foot, his revolver, with its two precious charges, tightly gripped in his naked hand. This was to be called into play only in the last extremity. The killing of a couple of wolves from such a horde could produce no effect upon the rest, unless perhaps to furnish some of them a lunch, for one of the curious traits of the _lupus_ species is that they are cannibals, so to speak. His hope was that the flash and report of the weapon would frighten the animals into opening a path for a moment, through which the skaters could dart into the clear space below. Having started, Monteith did not glance behind him. Fred and his sister must look out for themselves. He had his hands more than full. With a swift, sweeping curve he shot toward the bank, the brutes immediately converging to head him off. The slight, familiar scraping on the ice told him that Fred and Jennie were at his heels. He kept on with slackening speed until close to the shore, and it would not do to go any further. An overhanging limb brushed his face. But his eye was on the wolves further out in the stream. The place was one of the few ones where the course was such that no shadow was along either bank. The moment most of the creatures were drawn well over toward the right shore, Sterry did as his friends did awhile before, skimming abruptly to the left and almost back over his own trail, and then darting around the pack. The line was that of a semicircle, whose extreme rim on the left was several rods beyond the last of the wolves swarming to the right. "Now!" called Sterry at the moment of turning with all the speed at his command. Critical as was the moment, he flung one glance behind him. Fred and Jennie were almost nigh enough to touch him with outstretched hand. No need of shouting any commands to them, for they understood what he was doing, or rather trying to do. Young Sterry, as I have said, had cleared the horde of wolves, making the turn so quickly that they slid a rod or more over the ice before able to check themselves and change their own course. The stratagem seemed as successful as the other, but it was too soon to congratulate themselves. At the moment when everything promised well, the most enormous wolf he had ever seen bounded from under the trees on the left bank and galloped directly for him. He was so far in advance that the only way of dodging him was by another sharp turn in his course. To do this, however, would bring him so near the other brutes that they were almost certain to leap upon every one of the party. "Use your revolver!" called Fred from the rear. Monteith had already decided that this was an exigency demanding one of the remaining charges, and he partly raised the weapon in front of him. Meanwhile, the huge wolf had stopped on seeing that the procession was coming in a straight line for him. The youth moderated his speed still more, that he might perfect his aim. He was in the act of levelling his pistol, when the animal advanced quickly a couple of steps and made a tremendous leap at his throat. The act was unexpected, but at the instant of his leaving the ice Monteith let fly with one chamber at him. The success was better than he had a right to expect, for the leaden pellet bored its way through the skull of the wolf, who, with a rasping yelp, made a sidelong plunge, as if diving off a bank into the water, and, striking on the side of his head, rolled over on his back, with his legs vaguely kicking at the moon, and as powerless to do harm as a log of wood. Brief as was the halt, it had given the leading brutes of the main body time to come up. They were fearfully near, when the scent of blood and the sight of their fallen comrade suggested to the foremost that a meal was at their disposal. They flew at the huge fellow and rended him to shreds and fragments in a twinkling. The only way of escape was still in front, and, with the utmost energy, power, and skill at his command, Monteith Sterry darted ahead. His crouching body, the head well in advance, somewhat after the manner of a racing bicyclist on the home-stretch, his compressed lips, his flashing eyes, with every muscle tense, were proof that he knew it had now become a struggle of life and death. If he allowed one of those wolves to approach nigh enough to leap upon him, he would be borne to the earth like a flash and share the fate of the victim of his pistol. They were near, for he could hear that multitudinous pattering on the ice, when the din of their cries permitted it, and they were running fast. But, he reasoned, if they were so close to him they must be still closer to the brother and sister, whose peril, therefore, was correspondingly greater. He looked around. He was farther from the horde than he supposed, but Fred and Jennie were not directly behind him, as he had thought. At the moment an awful thrill shot through him; he caught a glimpse of Fred close in shore and going like the wind. The couple were still preserved from the fangs of the wolves, but only heaven knew how long it would last. A short distance ahead an opening showed where a creek put in from the woods and hills. Monteith gave it only a glance when he skimmed past at the same furious pace as before. It looked as if there was hope at last, for the brutes first seen were all at the rear. If new danger came, it would be from others that ran out on the ice in front. "It seems to me that all the wolves in Maine are on this little river," was his thought, "but there may be a few left that will try to get into our path." A wild cry came from his friends and he glanced toward them. Not only that, but believing his help was needed, he sheered over to them as quickly as he could. The course of the river had changed, so that a ribbon of shadow extended along that bank, partially obscuring the form of Fred Whitney, who seemed to cling to it as if therein lay his safety. The brutes were now so far to the rear that there was little to be feared from them, though they still kept up the pursuit, and while able to follow in a straight line were doing so with more speed than would be expected. It struck Sterry that his friend was not skating with his utmost skill. He was alarmed. "What's the matter, Fred?" he called, drawing quickly near him. "O, Jennie! Jennie! What will become of her?" Fred Whitney, it was now apparent, was alone. Forgetful of the savage brutes, Monteith Sterry slackened his pace, and in a scared voice demanded: "What has become of her? Where is she?" "She darted into the mouth of that creek." "Why didn't you follow?" "I could not; it was done in a flash; she called to me to keep on and said something else which I could not catch." "But," continued the wondering Monteith, "how could she do it when she was at your side?" "She fell a little to the rear and made a lightning turn. I attempted to follow, but it seemed half the pack were in my path, and it was certain death. I was frantic for the moment, and even now do not understand what it all meant." "What a woeful mistake!" wailed Monteith; "the chances are a thousand to one that she is lost." "I think," said the brother, half beside himself, "that it may have been a good thing, but--" A peculiar cry behind them caused Monteith to turn his head. The wolves had gained so fast during the last few minutes that one of them was in the act of springing on Fred Whitney. "Stoop, quick!" shouted his companion. Fred bent low in the nick of time, and the gaunt, lank body shot over his head, landing on the ice in front. Before he could gather himself a bullet from the revolver was driven into his vitals and he rolled over and over, snapping and yelping in his death-throes. The skaters swerved aside enough to avoid him, and the next instant were skimming over the ice at their utmost speed. It was not a moment too soon, for the halt was well-nigh fatal; but they could travel faster than the animals, and steadily drew away from them until, ere long, they were safe, so far as those creatures were concerned. They continued the pursuit, however, being a number of rods to the rear and in plain sight of the fugitives, who looked back, while speeding forward with undiminished swiftness. But the couple could not continue their flight, knowing nothing of the missing one. The wolves were between them and her, and Monteith Sterry had fired the last shot in his revolver. "How far back does that tributary reach?" he asked. "I never learned, but probably a good way." "Its breadth is not half of this." "No; nothing like it." "What has become of her?" "Alas! alas! What shall I answer?" "But, Fred, she is not without hope; she can skate faster than either of us, and I am sure none of them was in front of her on the creek or she would not have made the turn she did." "If the creek extends for several miles, that is with enough width to give her room, she will outspeed them; but how is she to get back?" "What need that she should? When they are thrown behind she can take off her skates and continue homeward through the woods, or she may find her way back to the river and rejoin us." "God grant that you are right; but some of the wolves may appear in front of her, and then--" "Don't speak of it! We would have heard their cries if any of them had overtaken her." No situation could be more trying than that of the two youths, who felt that every rod toward home took them that distance farther from the beloved one whose fate was involved in awful uncertainty. "This won't do," added Monteith, after they had skated some distance farther; "we are now so far from the animals that they cannot trouble us again; we are deserting her in the most cowardly manner." "But what shall we do? What _can_ we do?" "You know something of this part of the country; let's take off our skates and cut across the creek; she may have taken refuge in the limb of a tree and is awaiting us." "Isn't some one coming up stream?" asked Fred, peering forward, where the straight stretch was so extensive that the vision permitted them to see unusually far. "It may be another wolf." "No; it is a person. Perhaps Quance has been drawn from his home by the racket. He is a great hunter. I hope it is he, for he can give us help in hunting for Jennie--" Monteith suddenly gripped the arm of his friend. "It is not a man! It is a woman!" "Who can it be? Not Jennie, surely--" "Hurry along! You are no skaters at all!" It was she! That was her voice, and it was her slight, girlish figure skimming like a swallow toward them. Within the following minute Fred Whitney clasped his beloved sister in his arms, both shedding tears of joy and gratitude. Jennie had had a marvellous experience, indeed. Controlled by an intuition or instinct which often surpasses reason, she was led to dart aside into the smaller stream at the critical moment when the fierce wolves were so near that escape seemed impossible. She had fallen slightly to the rear, and a single terrified glance showed her a beast in the act of leaping at her. Her dart to the left was only the effort to elude him for that instant, and she was not aware of the mouth of the creek until she had entered it. Then, seeing that it was altogether too late to rejoin her brother, she had no course left but to continue the flight which, until then, she had not intended. The words which she called to Fred, that were not understood by him, were to the effect that she would try to rejoin him farther down the stream, with whose many turnings she was more familiar than he. She ascended the tributary with all the wonderful skill at her command. Not only the brute that was on the point of leaping at her, but three others, turned as soon as they could poise themselves and went after her at their utmost bent. But her change of direction was a most fortunate action. As in the case of the abrupt darting aside, when on the surface of the larger stream, it placed her considerably in advance of the nearest pursuers. Add to this her power of outspeeding them when the chance was equal, and it will be seen that her only danger was from the front. The creek was so narrow that if any of the wolves appeared before her she would be lost, for there was not room to manoeuvre as on the larger stream. But she met none. The first signals had drawn them to the river, and if there were any near, they and she were mutually unaware of it. As her brother had said, she was more acquainted with this section than he. She knew at what points the river and its tributary curved so as to bring them near each other. Reaching that place, she buried the heels of her skate-runners in the ice, sending the particles about her in a misty shower, and quickly came to a halt. Then, standing motionless, she listened. In the distance sounded the howling of the animals so repeatedly disappointed of their prey, but none was nigh enough to cause her misgiving. "I hope no harm has come to Fred or Monteith," she murmured. "Both can skate fast enough to leave the wolves behind; they would have done so at once if they had not been bothered by having me with them. Now they ought to be able to take care of themselves." She sat down on the bank and removed her skates. The slight layer of snow on the leaves caused no inconvenience, for she was well shod, and the walk was not far. Her fear was that some of the wolves might sneak up unseen. Often she stopped and listened, but when half the distance was passed, without any alarm from that source, she believed nothing was to be feared. A little farther and she reached the main stream, the distance passed being so much less than was necessary for her escorts that she knew that she was in advance of them, even if they had continued their flight without interruption. Her club skates were securely refastened, and then she listened again. The cries of the brutes were few and distant and could not cause alarm. Hark! A familiar sound reached her. She recognized it as made by skates gliding over the ice. Rising to her feet, she remarked, with a smile: "I think I will give them a surprise." And she did. The meeting was a happy one, and before the stroke of midnight all three were at home, where they found the mother anxiously awaiting their return and greatly relieved to learn that despite their stirring experience no harm had befallen any member of the little party. CHAPTER IV. THE REPORT OF GUNS. And now comes a change of scene and incident. Hugh Whitney returned to his Maine home a few weeks after the stirring adventures of his children and Monteith Sterry with the wolves. He was so pleased with the western country that he made his decision to remove thither. He met with no difficulty in selling at a fair price his little property in the Pine-Tree State, and with a portion of the proceeds he bought a ranch near the headwaters of Powder River, to which place he removed, with his family, in the spring of 1890, directly after the incidents related in the preceding chapters. One of the pleasures of this radical change of residence and occupation was that it was pleasing to his son Fred and his twin sister Jennie, now about nineteen years of age. Whether the wife shared in the desire to make her home in that new country, or whether she expressed the wish to do so because she saw it would gratify her husband, cannot be said with certainty. There was no doubt, however, about the eagerness with which the brother and sister took part in the removal. Young, ardent, and of sturdy frame, with all the natural yearning of imaginative youth for adventure, the prospect was an inviting one to them. Their father's glowing accounts of the magnificent scenery, its vast resources and limitless possibilities, caused a yearning on their part probably deeper than his own. It is rare that such expectations are fully realized in this life. It cannot be said that those of the brother and sister found more than a partial fulfilment, but, though the fateful day came when they regretted the change beyond the power of language to express, yet it was many months before it dawned upon them. Hugh Whitney's herd of cattle numbered several thousand, and, on the day when we take up the eventful history of the family, they were grazing on the open ranges along the spurs of the Big Horn Mountains. The two cowmen engaged by Whitney to assist him in the duty of looking after his property were Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber. They were veterans in the business, brave and true and tried. Under their tuition, and that of his father, Fred Whitney became a skilful horseman and rancher. He learned to lasso and bring down an obdurate steer, to give valuable help in the round-ups, to assist in branding the registered trademark of his father on the haunches of his animals. This brand consisted of a cross, with two stars above, one below, the initial letter of his given name on the left, and that of his surname on the right. When this was burned into the flesh of the yearlings, it identified his property, no matter where wandering, and the honest rancher would no more disturb it than he would enter another's home and rob him of his clothing. The first year was an enjoyable one to Jennie. Her father presented her with an excellent animal, of which she became very fond. A good horsewoman when in Maine, in Wyoming she acquired a skill which compelled the admiration of the cowmen themselves. "She's struck her callin'," remarked Budd Hankinson one day, while watching her speeding like a courser across the open country. "What is that?" asked the father, who was proud of his children, and especially of the pretty daughter. "Why, riding hosses like a streak of lightnin'," was the somewhat indefinite response. "What particular profession can she fill by dashing over the country in that style?" continued the parent with a smile. "Why, showing other persons how it is done. I've no doubt, colonel, that she could make good wages in breaking broncos and teaching young women like her how to ride in the right style; I advise you to think about it." "I will do so," replied the parent, with so much gravity that the cowman never suspected his sincerity, but felt the satisfaction of believing he had given his employer a valuable "pointer." Another pleasure which followed the removal of the Whitneys to Wyoming was that their friend Monteith Sterry followed them within a few months. He had shown some signs of running down in health while attending the high school in Boston, despite the fact that he was one of the best athletes in the institution; but he readily persuaded his wealthy father that a few months' experience in the bracing northwest would do him more good than anything and everything else in the world. That he might have some pretext other than the one which could not wholly deceive the Whitneys, he engaged to serve the Live Stock Association, which was beginning to have trouble with the rustlers. Matters were not only going wrong, but were rapidly getting worse in Wyoming, and they were glad to secure the services of such a daring and honest youth, who seemed rather to welcome the fact that he could perform his duties faithfully only at personal risk to himself. It need not be explained how it came about that young Sterry found it necessary to give a great deal of his attention to that section of Wyoming in which the Whitneys lived. There appeared to be more need of it there than in any of the other neighborhoods where the outlook was really threatening. The natural consequence was that he became a frequent visitor at the home of his former friend, though he found other acquaintances engaged in the cattle business who were glad to have him take shelter under their roofs. Sometimes he engaged in hunting with them, and several times Fred Whitney and Jennie joined him. There was a spice of peril in these excursions which rendered them fascinating to all three. The particular day to which we refer was a mild afternoon in May, 1892. Jennie was helping her mother with her household duties in their home, where they had lived since coming from their native State. The building was one of the long, low wooden structures common in that section, to which the fashions of the older civilization have not yet penetrated. It possessed all the comforts they required, though it took some time for the brother and sister to accustom themselves to the odd style of architecture. Jennie, as usual, was in high spirits. She had been out for a ride during the forenoon, and was now trying to make up for it by taking the burden of most of the work upon her comely shoulders. In the middle of one of her snatches of song she abruptly paused with the question: "Did you hear that, mother?" "No; to what do you refer?" "The sound of rifle-firing; something is wrong on the range." The two paused and listened, looking in each other's pale countenances as they did so. "It _is_ rifle-firing!" said Mrs. Whitney in a scared voice; "what can it mean?" "Trouble with the rustlers," replied Jennie, hurrying through the open door to the outside that she might hear the better. Her mother followed, and the two stood side by side, listening and peering across the wide stretch of undulating plain in the direction of the mountains, whose wooded crests were outlined against the clear spring sky. There could be no mistaking the alarming sounds. They were made by rifles, fired sometimes in quick succession, often mingling with each other, and then showing comparatively long intervals between the discharges of the weapons. "Father said the rustlers were becoming bolder," remarked Jennie, "and there was sure to be trouble with them before long." "It has come," was the comment of the parent, "and who shall tell the result?" "It cannot last long, mother." "A few minutes is a good while at such a time. A score of shots have already been fired, and some of them must have done execution." "Father, Fred and our two men are unerring shots." "And so are they," responded the mother, referring to the rustlers, who have made so much trouble for the cattlemen of Wyoming. CHAPTER V. LOOKING SOUTHWARD. Mrs. Whitney and her daughter Jennie stood at the door of their ranch listening, with rapidly beating hearts, to the sounds of rifle-firing from the direction of the cattle-range where the beloved husband and son were looking after their property. Three shots came in quick succession; then, after the interval of a full minute, two more followed, and then all was still. Mother and daughter maintained their listening attitude a while longer, but nothing more reached their ears. "It is over," said the parent in an undertone. Aye, the conflict was over. One party was beaten off, but which? And how many brave men, the finest horsemen and rifle-shots in the world, lay on the green sward, staring, with eyes that saw not, at the blue sky, or were being borne away by their comrades on the backs of their tough ponies? A brief space and the story would be told. Jennie Whitney shaded her eyes with her hand and gazed to the southward for the first sight of returning friends, whose coming could not be long delayed. The mother was straining her vision in the same direction, watching for that which she longed and yet dreaded to see. But years had compelled her to use glasses, and her eyes were not the equal of those bright orbs of Jennie. She would be the first to detect the approaching horsemen. A good field-glass was in the house, but neither thought of it; their attention was too deeply absorbed. "It is time they appeared," remarked Mrs. Whitney, her heart sinking under the dreadful fear of the possible reason why they remained invisible. Suppose there was none to appear! But those keen eyes of the maiden have detected something, and she starts and peers more intently than before. Far to the southward, in the direction of the mountain spurs, and on the very boundary of her vision, a black speck seems to be quivering and flickering, so indistinct, so impalpable, that none but the experienced eye can guess its nature. But the eye which is studying it is an experienced one. Many a time it has gazed across the rolling prairie, and identified the loved father and brother before another could discover a person at all. "Some one is coming," she says to her mother. "Some one!" is the alarmed response; "are there no more?" "There may be, but this one is in advance." "But why should he be in advance of the rest?" is the query, born of the fear in the heart of the parent. "It is not mine to answer for the present; he may be better mounted and is coming for--for--" "For what?" "Help." "Help! What help can we give them?" "We have a gun in the house, and there is plenty of ammunition." "That means they have suffered--have been defeated. Look closely, Jennie; do you see no others?" She has been searching for them from the first. The approaching horseman is now fully defined against the dark-green of the mountains, and the country for half a mile is in clear view. Over this broad expanse Jennie Whitney's eyes rove, and her heart seems to stand still as she answers: "He is alone; I see no others." "Then he brings evil tidings! Our people have been defeated; more than one has fallen." The approaching horseman was riding furiously. His fleet animal was on a dead run, his neck outstretched, mane and tail streaming as he thundered through the hurricane created by his own tremendous speed. The man who sat in the saddle was a perfect equestrian, as are all the cowmen and rustlers of the West. He leaned forward, as if he would help his horse to reach his goal at the earliest instant. His broad-brimmed hat fitted so well that it kept its place on his head without any fastening; but his own long, dark locks fluttered over his brawny shoulders, while the trusty Winchester was held in a firm grasp across the saddle in front, where it could be used on the second needed. Jennie Whitney was studying him closely, for he must be father, brother, or one of the two hired men. She was praying that he was a relative, but it was not so. The mother could now distinguish the horseman plainly, though not as much so as her daughter. "I think it is father," she said, speaking her hope rather than her conviction. "No; it is not he," replied the daughter. "Then it is Fred." "No; you are mistaken; it is Budd." "Alas and alas! why should it be he, and neither my husband nor son?" wailed the parent. Jennie was right. The man was the veteran cowboy, Budd Hankinson, who had whirled the lasso on the arid plains of Arizona, the Llano Estacado of Texas and among the mountain ranges of Montana; who had fought Apaches in the southwest, Comanches in the south and Sioux in the north, and had undergone hardships, sufferings, wounds and privations before which many a younger man than he had succumbed. No more skilful and no braver ranchman lived. Budd had a way of snatching off his hat and swinging it about his head at sight of the ladies. It was his jocular salutation to them, and meant that all was well. But he did not do so now. He must have seen the anxious mother and daughter almost as soon as they discerned him. Jennie watched for the greeting which did not come. "Something is amiss," was her conclusion. The hoofs of the flying horse beat the hard ground with a regular rhythm, and he thundered forward like one who knew he was bringing decisive tidings which would make the hearts of the listeners stand still. The black eyes of the cowman were seen gleaming under his hat-rim as he looked steadily at the couple, against whom his horse would dash himself the next minute, like a thunderbolt, unless checked. No fear, however, of anything like that. He rounded to in front of the women, and halted with a suddenness that would have flung a less skilful rider over his head, but which hardly caused Budd Hankinson a jar. He read the questioning eyes, and before the words could shape themselves on the pallid lips he called out: "The mischief is to pay!" "What is it, Budd?" asked Jennie, she and her mother stepping close to his box-stirrup. "We have had a fight with the rustlers--one of the worst I ever seed--there was eight of 'em." "Was anybody--hurt?" faltered the mother. "Wal, I reckon; three of them rustlers won't rustle again very soon, onless that bus'ness is carried on below, where they've gone; two others have got holes through their bodies about the size of my hat." "But--but were any of our people injured?" continued the parent, while Jennie tried to still the throbbing of her heart until the answer came. "Wal, yes," replied Budd, removing his hat and passing his handkerchief across his forehead, as though the matter was of slight account; "I'm sorry to say some of us got it in the neck." "Who--who--how was it? Don't trifle!" "Wal, you see Zip Peters rode over from Capt. Whiting's to tell us about the rustlers, and he hadn't much more'n arriv, when along come the others behind him with one of our branded steers. I made them give him up, and then the fight was on. Zip got a piece of lead through the body and the arm, and went out of the saddle without time to say good-by. My hip was grazed twice, but it didn't amount to nothin'; I'm as good as ever. Grizzly lost a piece of his ear, but he bored the rustler through that done it, so that account was squared." "Then father and Fred were not hurt?" gasped Jennie, clasping her hands and gazing inquiringly into the face of the messenger. "Wal," he replied, with the same exasperating coolness he had shown after his first exclamation, "I wish I could say that, but it ain't quite so good." "What--what of my husband?" demanded Mrs. Whitney, stepping so close that she laid her hand on the knee of the sturdy horseman; "tell me quick; and what of Fred, my son?" "Fred fought like a house afire; he killed one of the rustlers, but his horse was shot and Fred got it through the arm, which ended his power to do much fighting, but he laid down behind his hoss and kept it up like the trump he is." "Then he isn't badly injured?" "Bless your heart! of course not; he will be all right in a few days; his arm wants a little nursing, that's all. In the midst of the rumpus who should ride up but Mont Sterry, as he had heard the firing, and the way he sailed in was beautiful to behold. It reminded me of the times down in Arizona when Geronimo made it so lively. He hadn't much chance to show what he could do, for the rustlers found they had bitten off more than they could chaw, and they skyugled after he had dropped one." The wife and mother drew a sigh of relief, but the daughter was far from satisfied. A dreadful fear in her heart had not yet been quelled. Her quick perceptions noticed that Budd had said nothing more about her father than to mention the fact that he had been wounded. The mother, in her distress and anxiety, caught at a hope as an assurance which the daughter could not feel. At the same time Jennie saw that, despite the apparent nonchalance of the messenger and his assumed gayety, he was stirred by some deep emotion. "He is keeping back something, because he fears to tell it," was her correct conclusion. CHAPTER VI. COWMEN AND RUSTLERS. Jennie Whitney saw something else, which almost made her heart stop beating. To the southward, whence Budd Hankinson had ridden, several horsemen were in sight, coming from the direction of the cattle-ranges. They were approaching at a walk, something they would not do unless serious cause existed. The messenger had been sent ahead to break the news to the sad and anxious hearts. "Budd," she said, "you have not told us about father." "Why, yes, my dear," interposed her mother, as if to shut out all evil tidings; "nothing has happened to him." "Wal, I'm sorry to say that he has been hurt worse than Fred," was the alarming response, accompanied by a deep sigh. "How bad? How much worse? Tell us, tell us," insisted the wife. "Thar's no use of denyin' that he got it bad; fact is he couldn't have been hit harder." The distressed fellow was so worked up that he turned his head and looked over his shoulder, as if to avoid those yearning eyes fixed upon him. That aimless glance revealed the approaching horsemen and nerved him with new courage. "Now, Mrs. Whitney and Jennie, you must be brave. Bear it as he would bear the news about you and Fred if he was--alive!" A shriek accompanied the words of the cowman, and Jennie caught her mother in time to save her from falling. Her own heart was breaking, but she did her utmost, poor thing, to cheer the one to whom the sunlight of happiness could never come again. "There, mother, try to bear it. We have Fred left to us, and I am with you. God will not desert us." Hugh Whitney had never spoken after that first interchange of volleys with the rustlers. He died bravely at the post of duty and was tenderly borne homeward, where he was given a decent burial, his grave bedewed not only by the tears of the stricken widow and children, but by those of the stern, hardy cowmen to whom he had been an employer as kind and indulgent as he was brave. A few paragraphs are necessary to explain the incidents that follow. Wherever cattlemen have organized outfits and located ranches cattle-thieves have followed, and fierce fighting has resulted. These men are known as "rustlers." The late troubles caused cattle and horse-thieves to unite against the legitimate owners, and the name now includes both classes of evil-doers. The troubles in Wyoming were the results of the efforts of the Wyoming State Live Stock Association to put a check upon rustlers who are tempted to steal by the vast profits afforded. At the time the Association was formed the rustlers were few in number, and confined their acts to branding the mavericks or unbranded yearlings with their own brands. They did not act in concert, and since the laws of the State require every brand to be registered, in order to establish ownership, the rustlers had as much right to their own brands as the legitimate cowmen. As long as the mavericks were not openly branded there was no means of stopping them. It happens quite often that the round-up fails to gather in all the cattle. The mavericks are allowed to go to the outfit with whose cattle they have run, and that outfit puts its own brand on them. The rustlers grew more daring as their numbers increased, and, instead of confining their operations to the mavericks, began altering brands. Not only that, but they were often bold enough to leave the old brand and burn a new one and forge a bill of sale. The rustlers were generally the owners of small ranches, or cowboys who had a few head of cattle on the range or running with some rancher's stock. The Association made a rule that no cow outfit should employ a cowman that had been guilty of branding a maverick, or of helping the rustlers, or of working with or for them. A blacklist was kept of such cowmen, with the result that a good many were unable to get employment from the Association outfits and were compelled to become rustlers themselves. The association of rustlers became desperate because of the serious check given them by the Live Stock Association, which placed its inspectors at all the cattle-markets, Omaha, Chicago, St. Louis, Kansas City and St. Paul. Every shipment of cattle was closely inspected, and if it came from a rustler he was obliged to prove his title to each steer, or they were confiscated and the proceeds sent to the owner of the brand. Sometimes a legal proof of ownership would not be accepted, for the owners were determined to stamp out the rustling business. Deprived by this means of a market for their hoof cattle, the rustlers were compelled to butcher their cattle or drive to Montana. The latter recourse was not only difficult and dangerous, but there was no certainty of a market when accomplished, as the Live Stock Association kept a vigilant watch on all Wyoming cattle. The other scheme was unsatisfactory, but it was all that was left to the rustlers. They employed a number of butchers at Buffalo to do their killing for them, but even then they were not sure of always getting their meat marketed. In the summer of 1891 the rustlers ran waggons openly on all the three great round-ups, and worked the round-up just as if they were a regular Association outfit. They also gathered in all the mavericks, and no one dared interfere. It should be added that no more dangerous set of men can be found anywhere than the Wyoming rustlers. No living being excels them in horsemanship. The bucking pony is as a child in their hands. There is not one among them who cannot rope, throw, tie and brand a steer single-handed. They include the best riders and the best shots in the cattle business. They do not know what fear is, and in the year named became strong enough to elect one of their own number sheriff. CHAPTER VII. THE WARNING. The full moon was shining on the second night succeeding the conflict which Budd Hankinson described between the rustlers and the cowmen of Whitney's ranch. The man that had fallen was laid away in a grave back of the house, and mother, son and daughter mourned him with a sorrow that was soothed by the consciousness that he had been a good husband and father in every sense of the word. On this night, before the hour was late, three persons were seated in the balmy air on the outside of the dwelling, talking together in low tones. They were Fred Whitney, whose bandaged arm rested in a sling, Monteith Sterry, and Jennie Whitney. The memory of the recent affliction suffered in the death of the father naturally subdued the voices and tinged the words with a seriousness that would not have been felt at other times. Young Sterry, as already stated, had accepted an engagement with the Live Stock Association, which required him to investigate the operations of the rustlers over a large portion of Wyoming and Montana, and to report at regular intervals to his superior officers. This was perilous business, but Sterry set about the work with a vigour, directness and intelligence that were felt over an extent of territory numbering hundreds of square miles, and made him a marked man by the rustlers, who are always quick to identify their friends and enemies. It seemed to make little difference, however, to him, who loved the excitement. He was a capital pistol and rifle-shot, a fine horseman, and as devoid of fear as the men against whom he directed his movements. Unconsciously Monteith Sterry brought a grievous peril upon his friends, who held him in so high regard. Hated intensely by the rustlers, they were not long in learning that he spent a great deal of his time at the Whitneys. They came to be regarded, therefore, as aiders and abettors of his. This enmity was emphasized by the attack of which an account has been given. "I think, Fred," said his sister, oppressed by the shadow that had fallen across the threshold, "we ought to sell out and leave this country." "Why?" he gently asked. "Because not only of what happened yesterday, but of the certainty that such attacks will be repeated." "What reason have you to fear their repetition?" asked Monteith. "Matters are growing worse between the cowmen and the rustlers; I have heard our men talk, and you have said so yourself." "I cannot deny it," replied their visitor, thoughtfully smoking his cigar. He would have been pleased had her brother, now the head of the little household, decided to make his home once more in the East, for then he would take up the study of his profession of law and be placed where he could often meet them. "It would be cowardly to sell out and abandon the country through fear of those men," said the brother, to whom the proposition was not pleasant. "But suppose you should be their next victim?" suggested Jennie, with a shudder. "I don't think I shall be a victim," he quietly responded; "this wound won't bother me long, and with Budd and Grizzly to help, we can laugh at all the rustlers in the country." "It is hardly a matter of courage," ventured Sterry, "for no one knowing you or your sister would question your bravery, but it is rather the peace of mind of your mother and her. It will be a long time, if ever, before your parent recovers from the shock of yesterday. No matter how confident and plucky you may be, Fred, you know it is no guarantee against a bullet from one of those scamps at five hundred or a thousand yards. I shudder to think of what might happen." Fred turned and looked full in the handsome face of the fellow beside him. "It strikes me that you are showing little faith in your own words. Why do you remain where you are a marked man when there is no need of it, and where your personal danger is certainly as great as mine?" This _argumentum ad hominem_ was so unexpected that Sterry was embarrassed for the moment, but found voice to reply: "I have no mother and sister dependent on me, as you have." "But you have brothers, sisters, father and mother, and therefore the more to mourn if you should fall. The fact is, Mont, I feel that it is a duty you owe to them to give up the dangerous calling you have adopted. You not only do not need it, but are squandering time that ought to be given to the study of your profession, and you have become so feared and hated by the rustlers that they will go to any length to 'remove' you." "The more cause, therefore, why I should stay," responded the other. "A poor argument--" The discussion was interrupted by the sound of a horse's hoofs. Some one was riding toward them on a gallop, and speedily loomed to view in the bright moonlight. The three instinctively ceased speaking and gazed curiously at the horseman, who reined up in front of where they were sitting. Hospitality is limitless in the West, and, before the stranger had halted, Fred Whitney rose from his chair and walked forward to welcome him. The man was in the costume of a cowboy, with rifle, revolver and all the paraphernalia of the craft. "Is your name Whitney?" asked the horseman, speaking first. "It is; what can I do for you?" "Do you know Mont Sterry?" "He is a particular friend of mine," replied Whitney, refraining from adding that he was the young man sitting a few paces away with his sister and hearing every word said. "Well, there's a letter for him; if I knew where to find him I would deliver it myself. Will you hand it to him the next time you meet him?" As he spoke he leaned forward from his saddle and handed a sealed envelope to Fred Whitney, who remarked, as he accepted it: "I will do as you wish; I expect to see him soon; won't you dismount and stay over night with us?" "No; I have business elsewhere," was the curt answer, as the fellow wheeled and spurred off on a gallop. Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber, the two hired men, were absent, looking after the cattle, for the rustler is a night hawk who often gets in the best part of his work between the set and rise of sun. Mrs. Whitney was sitting in the gloom, alone in her sorrow. Jennie wished to stay with her, but the mother gently refused, saying she preferred to have none with her. No light was burning in the building, and that night the weather was unusually mild. Mont Sterry accepted the paper from the hand of his friend and remarked, with a smile: "I suspect what it is. When the rustlers don't like a man they have a frank way of telling him so, supplemented by a little good advice, I fancy I have been honoured in a similar way." He deliberately tore open the envelope, while Jennie and her brother looked curiously at him. The moonlight, although strong, was not sufficiently so to show the words, which were written in lead-pencil. Fred Whitney, therefore, struck a match and held it in front of the paper, while the recipient read in a low voice, loud enough, however, to be heard in the impressive hush: "MONT STERRY: If you stay in the Powder River country twenty-four hours longer you are a dead man. Over fifty of us rustlers have sworn to shoot you on sight, whether it is at Fort McKinley, Buffalo, or on the streets of Cheyenne. I have persuaded the majority to hold off for the time named, but not one of them will do so an hour longer, nor will I ask them to do so. We are bound to make an honest living, and it is weak for me to give you this warning, but I do it, repeating that if you are within reach twenty-four hours from the night on which this is handed to Whitney I will join them in hunting you down, wherever you may be. "LARCH CADMUS." CHAPTER VIII. GOOD-BYE. Monteith Sterry read the "warning" through in a voice without the slightest tremor. Then he quietly smoked his cigar and looked off in the moonlight, as though thinking of something of a different nature. It was natural that Jennie Whitney should be more impressed by the occurrence, with the memory of the recent tragedy crushing her to the earth. She exclaimed: "Larch Cadmus! Why, Fred, he has visited our house several times; he was here last week." "Yes," replied her brother; "he has often sat at our table; and, by the way, he is a great admirer of yours." "Nonsense!" was the response; "why do you say that?" "It may be nonsense, but it is true, nevertheless. Your mother noticed it; and, that there might be no mistake, Larch had the impudence to tell me so himself." "I never liked him; he is a bad man," said Jennie, much to the relief of Sterry, who felt a little uncomfortable. "I did not know he belonged to the rustlers." "He was a cowboy until last fall. He had a quarrel with Col. Ringgold and went off with the others, and has been on the blacklist ever since." "Why didn't he bring the message himself," continued the sister, "instead of sending it?" "He did," was the significant reply of the brother. "What! That surely was not he?" "It was. I knew his voice the moment he spoke; those whiskers were false; he didn't want to be recognized, and I thought it as well to humor his fancy, but I could not be mistaken." "Now that I recall it, his voice _did_ resemble Cadmus'," said the sister, more thoughtfully. "Of course, and I can tell you something more; he was among the rustlers with whom we had the fight yesterday. He did his best to kill me, and came pretty near succeeding. It wasn't he, however, who put the bullet through my arm, for I dropped that fellow." "You frighten me!" was all that Jennie Whitney could say. Sterry still smoked in silence. He was thinking hard, but it was his turn to be startled by the next remark. "Larch Cadmus hates you, Mont, not so much because you are the enemy of all rustlers, but more because he believes my sister holds you in higher esteem than she does him." Sterry was clever enough to parry this compliment with considerable skill. "For the same reason he is jealous of every gentleman whom Miss Whitney has ever met, for it would be a sorry tribute to any man's worth if he did not stand higher in her regard than Larch Cadmus." "Well spoken!" said the young lady, relieved from what threatened to become an embarrassing situation for her. Had her brother chosen he might have expressed what was in his mind, but he had the good taste to refrain. None knew better than he the deep, tender affection existing between his friend and his sister, though it had not yet reached the point of avowal and confession. "Well, Mont, what are you going to do about it?" asked Whitney. By way of reply, the latter twisted the "warning" into the form of a lamplighter. Then he applied a match to one corner, and held the paper until it had burned to the last fragment. "That's my opinion of Mr. Larch Cadmus and his gang, and I shall pay the same attention to them." "You are not wise," ventured Jennie, who, with the awful memory of the preceding day upon her, could not but shudder at the peril to her friend, who had never been quite so near to her as during the last few hours, when he showed so much tender sympathy for her and her mother and brother in the depth of their desolation and woe. "I thank you," he said, with the same manly frankness he had always shown; "I have no desire to appear as a boaster or to make light of danger, but one of the truest adages is that it is not the barking dog that does the biting." "Don't make the mistake of supposing it is not so in this case," said Whitney, "and none should know it better than you." "I do not underestimate the courage of those fellows; they will shrink at nothing, but there is no more excuse for my running away upon receiving such a warning than there would be for all the inhabitants of Wyoming to leave the State at such a command." "The case is not parallel," was the comment of Fred Whitney. "Bear in mind that if I stay, as I intend to do, I do not mean to sit down and wait for those rustlers to pick me off. I count on having something to say and do in the matter; but, friends, I must bid you good-night." "What do you mean?" asked the astonished Fred Whitney. "I must leave," replied Sterry, rising to his feet; "I have already staid too long." CHAPTER IX. A SUMMONS AND A REPLY. Brother and sister were astounded. The hour was late, and they had been urging their guest to remain several days with them. He had not consented, nor had he refused, from which they were confident he would stay. And now he announced his intention of departing at once, riding out into the night--whither? They protested, but he replied so earnestly that an urgent necessity existed that they refrained. He gave no hint of the reason for his strange action, and they could not ask it. His fleet mare, which had been allowed to graze on the succulent grass at the rear of the building with the other horses, was brought forward and saddled and bridled, and he quickly vaulted upon her back. "Remember me to your mother; it is not worth while to disturb her; I hope soon to be with you again." He leaned over and pressed the hand of Fred Whitney, and then, raising his hat with his left hand, extended the right to Jennie. Fred made an excuse to move away a few paces, for he understood the situation. "Good-by," Sterry said in a voice just low enough to reach the dear one, as he pressed the delicate hand which rested so trustingly in his own. "Good-by," she answered. "I am sorry you are going." "So am I, but it is better that I should leave. As I said, I trust soon to see you again. Do you know why I hope Fred will decide to return to the East with you and your mother?" "I suppose because we shall all be safer there;" and then she added, forgetting her sorrow for the moment, "that is if we do not go skating to Wolf Glen." "It is not necessary to remove as far as Maine, but father insists that I am wasting time here, when I ought to be home studying my profession." "And he is right, Monteith." "But," he replied in a low voice, "before I go back I want to make sure that you will do the same. There, good-by again." He replaced his hat, wheeled and dashed across the prairie without another word. Jennie stood gazing in the direction taken by him for some time after he had disappeared in the gloom of the night. Then she turned to speak to her brother, but he had passed within the house. She resumed her seat, knowing he would soon return. Fifteen minutes and more went by and she was still alone. Sh! Was she mistaken, or was that the faint sound of a horse's hoofs in the distance? She turned her head and listened. The murmur of voices, as her brother and mother talked in low tones, did not disturb her, and the almost inaudible lowing of the cattle on the distant ranges was but a part of silence itself. Hardly a breath of air was stirring, but all knew the eccentric way in which sound is sometimes carried by it. Suddenly the reports of rifle-firing were heard, faint but distinct, and lasting several minutes. Then other and different noises reached her, still faint but clear. Her power of hearing, like her vision, was exceptionally strong. It was that which enabled her to tell that the last sounds were not made by a single animal, but by several going at a high rate of speed. These, with the reports of rifles, made her certain that the rustlers had attacked Sterry. Meanwhile the young man found matters exceedingly lively. The reception of the "warning" through the hands of Fred Whitney was proof that his enemies knew he was frequently at his house. Their messenger had gone thither to deliver it. Young Whitney had slain one of their number, and though the law-breakers themselves had suffered the most, they felt bitter resentment toward the family. If Sterry remained with them they would have trouble. He was satisfied that Larch Cadmus recognized him, as he sat in front of the rancher's house, and would not forget to tell it to his comrades, who would speedily make the place a visit. He believed they were likely to do it before the rise of the morrow's sun. If the Whitneys were attacked, his presence would add to the defensive strength, but such an attack would not be made if he was not there. Desperate and defiant as the rustlers had been, it would be an injustice to represent them as capable of such wantonness. He felt, therefore, that it was his duty to leave the ranch without delay, thus removing an element of grave danger. It would have been hardly wise to make this explanation to them, though he believed Fred suspected it. Turning his back, therefore, upon the dearest spot in all the West to him, he set his mare Queenie on an easy, swift gallop, heading southward toward the ranges where the cattle of the Whitneys were grazing. Sterry, in one sense, was without a home as long as he remained in Wyoming or Montana, while in another sense he was the owner of numberless dwelling-places or "headquarters." He may be likened to a commercial traveller in a vast and sparsely-settled region, where he is well known and welcomed by the inhabitants. The ranchmen who knew him--and there were few who did not--were his friends, for he was working in their interests. At whichever cabin he drew rein he was certain of a hospitable reception. With no clearly defined idea of where he would spend the remaining hours of the night, he turned the nose of Queenie toward the ranges, among the mountain spurs. Grizzly Weber and Budd Hankinson would stay near the cattle for an indefinite time, and he was debating whether to join them or to ride on to the ranch of Dick Hawkridge, a number of miles to the northeast, when his meditations were broken in upon in the most startling manner. During those perilous times, the lonely horseman, in a dangerous region, relies much on his intelligent steed for warning. While Monteith Sterry could do a great deal of thinking in the saddle, he was too alert to drop into a brown study that would divert his thoughts from his surroundings. He was no more than a mile from the Whitney ranch when his mare pricked up her ears, gave an almost inaudible whinny, and slightly slackened her pace. That meant that she scented danger, and her rider was on the _qui vive_. He tightened the rein and drew her to a full stop. She turned her head to the right and looked steadily in that direction, with her pretty ears thrown forward. This meant that whatever impended was coming from that point of the compass. But the keen eyes of Mont Sterry could not penetrate the moonlight sufficiently far to detect anything. He was out of the saddle in a twinkling, and tried a trick learned from the old hunters. He pressed one ear against the ground, which, as all know, is a much better conductor of sound than the air. This told the story he anticipated. The faint but distinct clamping of horses' hoofs was heard. The number was indefinite, but, somewhat to his surprise, none of them was running or loping; all were moving on a walk. The noise was so clear that when he rose to his feet and looked off to the right he expected to see the animals and their riders, and he was not disappointed. On the outer margin of the field of vision the outlines of several horsemen assumed shape. They were approaching, and one of their steeds emitted a whinny, as a salutation to the motionless Queenie, who had shifted her pose so as to face that point of the compass. "Sh!" whispered Sterry to her. But there was no call for the warning; she was too well trained to betray her master, and remained mute. But it was inevitable that if the young man could discern the figures of the approaching horsemen, they must also see him. He leaped into the saddle and turned away. He knew instinctively they were rustlers, and he was almost equally certain they were hunting for him. There were at least three; and, well aware of their character, he was only prudent in shying off, with the intention of avoiding them altogether. But they were not the men to be bluffed in that fashion. They were "out" for the inspector, and did not intend that such an opportunity should slip by unchallenged. "Hello, pard!" called one of the trio, "where from and where going?" This was a pointed demand, to which Mont Sterry made an equally pointed response. "That is my own business; I will attend to it, and you may attend to yours." All this time he was keeping watch of their movements. Their horses were still walking, but they were now coming straight toward him. At a touch of the rein Queenie headed directly away, and her gait was about the same. She acted as though she shared the thoughts of her master, who shrank from sending her off on a flying run, as would have been more prudent for him to do. A brave man dislikes to flee, even when his better judgment tells him it is the only wise thing to do. The night was so still that Sterry plainly heard the words of the men when talking to each other in an ordinary conversational tone. "I believe that's him," said one of them, eagerly. "It sounded like his voice, but he wouldn't leave the Whitneys at this time of night when she's there." "He's too free with his tongue, anyway; we'll make him show up." "Say, you! hold on a minute. Do you know anything about Mont Sterry? We're looking for him." "I am Mont Sterry," was the defiant response. "What do you propose to do about it?" CHAPTER X. A HOT PURSUIT. It may be said Mont Sterry answered his own question at the moment of asking it, for, bringing his Winchester to his shoulder, he let fly at the rustlers, and then with a word and touch of the spur sent Queenie bounding away with arrowy swiftness. Unquestionably it was a daring act on his part, but there was wisdom in it. He knew those men were seeking his life, and would shoot him, as they had threatened to do, on sight. When they met, it would be a question simply as to which got the drop on the other. They were preparing to make a rush at him, and while he had no fear of a contest of speed between Queenie and any animal that "wore horse-hair," they were altogether too near at the beginning of the contest, and the chance of using their rifles was too much against him. The crack of the Winchester accompanying his sharp reply, with the whistle of the bullet about their heads, gave them a momentary shock, which delayed the pursuit for a few precious seconds. This was the object of the fugitive, for, while that brief interval was thrown away by them, he improved it to the utmost. At such crises a few rods count immensely, and they were made to count on the side of Mont Sterry. They were insufficient, however, to take him beyond peril. Men like those horsemen are quick to recover from a surprise, and it would have seemed that Sterry was hardly started in his flight when they were speeding after him. He heard their maledictions and knew that the struggle for life was on. Comparatively brief as had been the time spent in the West by Sterry, he had not neglected his education along the lines indispensable to those following his manner of living. At the moment of giving Queenie rein he flung himself forward on her neck, hugging it close and uttering an involuntary prayer that the bullets might pass harmlessly by him and his horse. There were enough of the missiles to kill several men, but the chance for aiming was so poor that even such fine marksmen as the rustlers had little chance. The mare was only dimly discernible, and she, like their own horses, was going at full speed. Had the sun been shining the result must have been widely different. The encounter with these men was so unexpected and the several changes of direction by Queenie so sudden and unavoidable that Sterry was not given a chance to take his bearings. The one object was to get as far from them as possible in the quickest time in which it could be done. When that distance became a safe one it would be soon enough to give attention to the points of the compass. Nobly did Queenie do her duty. She had carried her master out of many a peril, and she could be counted on to do it as long as the ability remained with her. Sterry's anxiety was really more on her account than on his own. He knew there was little danger of himself being struck by the bullets of the rustlers, who, as I have shown, had no possible chance of taking any sort of aim, but she was a conspicuous target, which it would seem they ought to hit with little difficulty. Often must a person in the situation of Sterry leave everything to his horse. He did not seek to guide Queenie, but sat, or rather lay, in the saddle and on her neck, as she skimmed like a swallow over the undulating prairie. Strange imaginings were in the brain of the young man during those few minutes. He listened to each shot of the Winchesters, and then, instead of feeling any apprehension for himself, waited for the dreaded evidence that his horse had been struck. The skilful railway engineer, sitting in his cab, with his hand on the throttle, can discover, on the instant, the slightest disarrangement in the mass of intricate mechanism over which he holds control. His highly trained senses enable him to feel it like a flash. So it was that Mont Sterry would have detected any injury to his horse as quickly as she herself. No matter if but the abrasion of the skin, the puncture of the flesh, or the nipping of an ear, she would betray it involuntarily. If she were wounded and should fall, the situation of her rider would be well-nigh hopeless. He could only throw himself behind her body and have it out with his enemies. Such a defence has been successfully made many a time by white men against Indians; but Sterry would not be fighting Crows nor Sioux, but those of his own race and blood, as brave and skilful as he. "Thank God!" he murmured, after each shot, as the splendid play of the machinery under him continued without a break or tremor; "she was not hit that time. She is running at her best." Once his heart stood still, for she seemed to quiver through her body, as if involuntarily shrinking from the prick of a sword. In his alarm, Sterry rose to an upright posture in the saddle, and leaning to the right and left, and looking forward and behind him, searched for the wound. He hardly expected to see it, for it would have been beyond his sight in any one of a dozen different portions of the body. But if in one of the limbs, it would quickly show in the gait of the animal. "No," he murmured, "there is no change of pace; it could not have been much, and it may be she was not hit at all." The rustlers fired two shots at this moment, when the horseman was more of a target than his animal, but he gave no heed to that; it was she for whom he felt concern. A glance backward brought a thrill of hope. The distance between him and his pursuers had perceptibly increased. Queenie was showing her heels to those who dared dispute with her the supremacy of fleetness. She would soon leave them out of sight, unless it should prove she was disabled by some of the shots. All would have gone well but for the appearance of a new danger of which he did not dream. Suddenly Queenie emitted her faint, familiar whinny, and swerved to the left. She had scented a new peril. In the gloom almost directly ahead loomed the figures of other horsemen bearing down upon the fugitive. They might be friends, and they might be enemies, but it would not do to take chances. Without an instant's hesitation Sterry wheeled to the left and spoke to his horse: "Now, Queenie, do your best." The mare responded with the same gameness she always showed; but the situation had suddenly become so grave that Monteith Sterry assuredly would have been overwhelmed and cut off but for one of the most extraordinary occurrences that ever came to any person in the extremity of danger. CHAPTER XI. A STRANGE DIVERSION. It was the wonderful sagacity of the little mare which intervened at this crisis in the fate of her rider. She was no more than fairly stretched away on a dead run from the new peril when she shot into an arroya or depression in the prairie. Such a depression suggests the dry bed of a stream through which the water may not have flowed for years. It is sometimes a few feet only in width, and again it may be a number of rods. The rich, alluvial soil often causes a luxuriant growth of grass, cottonwood or bush, which affords the best of grazing and refuge for any one when hard pressed by the enemy. The arroya into which Queenie plunged had gently sloping sides, and was perhaps fifty feet wide. The bottom was covered not only with grass, but with the thin undergrowth to which allusion has been made, and which was so frail in character that it offered no impediment to the passage of a running horse. Sterry's expectation was that his mare would shoot across the depression and up the other bank with the least possible delay; but of her own accord, and without suggestion from him, she turned abruptly to the left and dropped to a walk. He was astounded, and was on the point of speaking impatiently to her as he jerked the bridle-rein, when the occurrence already referred to took place, and made the action of the animal seem like an inspiration or instinct approaching the height of reason. At the moment she made the sharp turn to the left, another horseman galloped up the opposite slope and off upon the prairie. By an amazing coincidence it happened that he was in the arroya, and in the act of crossing in the same direction with the fugitive, when the furious plunge of the mare sent his own bounding up the farther bank. Sterry caught the situation like a flash. Before Queenie had gone more than a half-dozen rods he brought her to a standstill. They resembled an equestrian statue, so motionless were they for a full minute. The converging parties of pursuers could plainly see the second horseman speeding away from the other side, and inevitably concluded that he was the inspector whom they wanted. They were after him hot-footed on the instant. This man was Ira Inman, a well-known rustler, and the intimate friend of Larch Cadmus. When he saw himself pursued by a half-dozen of his friends he reined up, and calmly but wonderingly awaited their arrival, which took place within the next few seconds. "Up with your hands! Quick about it, too! You're the man we want!" "Wal," replied the leader, surveying them with a grin, and paying no heed to their fierce commands, "now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?" If there ever were a set of dumbfounded men, they were the rustlers who closed about the leader and recognized him in the moonlight. The remarks that followed his identification were as ludicrous as they were vigourous. The majority believed he had played a trick on them in pretending to be Mont Sterry, whom all were so anxious to bring down; but there were one or two who were not satisfied. They knew the voice of the inspector, which in no way resembled the gruff tones of Inman. Then, their leader was not given to practical jokes. "What set you to hunting me so hard?" he asked, after the first flurry was over. "We're looking for Mont Sterry." "Wal, what made you take me for him? Do I look like him in the moonlight?" "But you said you were, and fired at us," explained one. "Fired at you? Said I was that chap? What in the mischief are you driving at?" One, who suspected the truth, now interposed. "We did meet Sterry and hailed him; you must have heard our guns; he dashed into the arroya; we saw you gallop out on t'other side, and took you for him." "Ah, I understand it all now," replied Inman; "I had ridden down there on my way back from a little scout, when a horseman dashed into the slope behind me like a thunderbolt. My horse was so scared that he went up the other side on the jump, and before I could turn around to find out what it all meant, you lunkheads came down on me with the request to oblige you by throwing up my hands, which I will see you hanged before I'll do." "But where is he? What has become of him?" asked several, looking around, as thought they expected to see the young man ride forward and surrender himself. "Wal, calling to mind the kind of horse he rides, I should say he is about a half-mile off by this time, laughing to find out how cleverly he has fooled you chaps." "It looks as if you was in the same boat, Inman," retorted one of the chagrined party. "I wasn't chasing Sterry." "He seemed to be chasing you, for you came out of the arroya ahead of him." "If he was chasing me," replied the leader, who felt that the laugh was on his companions, "he would have followed me out; but I don't see anything of him;" and he, too, stared around, as though not sure the man would not do the improbable thing named. "It was a blamed cute trick, any way you look at it," remarked one of the party. "It was queer that you should have been there, Inman, just at the minute needed. But for that, we would have had him, sure." "Wal, you can make up your mind that we have him as good as catched already. He can't get out of the country without some of the boys running against him, and the first rustler that catches sight of Mr. Sterry will drop him in his tracks." "If he gets the chance to do it," was the wise comment of another. "That fellow is quick on the shoot and isn't afraid of any of us." "He ain't the first one that's made that mistake, only to find himself rounded up at last. Larch Cadmus' idea of 24 hours' notice don't go down with this crowd, eh?" And the crowd unanimously responded in the negative. CHAPTER XII. THE BACK TRAIL. Mont Sterry had wisdom enough to turn to the fullest account the remarkable advantage gained through the sagacity of his mare. His pursuers, in their haste to head him off, had dashed across the arroya at a point only a short distance above where he entered and their leader emerged from it. They were sure to discover the truth in a short time. Waiting, therefore, only until they had passed beyond, he rode his horse a few rods along the depression, and then left it on the same side by which he had ridden into it. Unconsciously he fell into an error of which he was not dreaming. In the short distance passed, the arroya made a sweeping curve, and he had repeatedly changed his own course since leaving the Whitney ranch. Thus it was almost inevitable that he should get the points of the compass mixed, and that he should follow a route widely different from the one intended. Had he paused long enough to note the position of the full moon in the heavens, or the towering Big Horn Mountains, he would have gained an approximate idea of where he was; but, despite his experience in the West, he galloped forward at an easy canter, with never a suspicion of the blunder he was making. He was on the alert for rustlers, and kept glancing to the right and left, and to the front and rear. As has been shown, he had little fear of being overtaken in a chase where he was given an equal chance with his pursuers, but his narrow escape rendered him more apprehensive than usual. "I thought of staying with Weber and Hankinson to-night," he mused, "but I think it hardly prudent. The rustlers may pay them a visit, and my presence will only make matters worse; and yet those fellows don't want to start up a band of regulators who will shoot them down without mercy, and that's just what will take place if they carry their outrages too far." "My death won't bring the regulators into existence," he grimly reflected, "for one man, more or less, doesn't count; but there is much bitter feeling in the country." Once he thought he caught the sounds of horses' feet on the prairie, and checked his mare to listen, but she gave no evidence of suspicion--a thing she was sure to do, if the cause existed. Sterry was so well satisfied by this fact that he did not dismount to test the matter as before. He rode on, however, and held her down to a walk. His eventless course had continued some minutes before a thought came to him of the direction he was following, with the possibility that he was wrong. "I wonder if we are on the right track, Queenie?" he said, addressing his animal, as was his custom when they were alone. "It would be strange if we didn't drift away from our bearings. Hello! that can't be Dick Hawkridge's ranch; we haven't gone far enough for that; but what the mischief can it be, unless a fire that some one has started in the open?" The starlike twinkle of a point of light suddenly shone out directly in advance. It puzzled him by appearing only for a moment, when it vanished as quickly as it entered his field of vision. This fact suggested that it was within some dwelling and had been extinguished, or was shut from sight by being moved past a window or open door to another point in the interior. "We are so near, Queenie, we may as well go farther," he added, not unmindful of his danger from those who were making such a hot search for him. He kept his horse on a walk, maintaining a keen watch between the dainty ears that were already pricked up as if she knew something was likely to happen quite soon. Advancing in this deliberate fashion, the outline of one of those long, low wooden structures so common in the West was gradually defied in the moonlight, and he knew he was approaching the home of some ranchman. But whose? was the question that perplexed him. He recalled that some of his travelling had been done at a high rate of speed, but the distance between the Whitney and Hawkridge ranches was fully a dozen miles, and he was sure that that space had not been covered by him since bidding his friends good-by earlier in the evening, especially as he had not followed a direct course. "Can it be?" he exclaimed, with a sudden suspicion. "Yes, by gracious! What a blunder!" The exclamation was caused by the sight of a young man, with one arm in a sling, who came forward to welcome him. He had returned to the Whitney home, which he supposed was miles away, and this was his old friend Fred, who came smilingly forward and said, as he recognized him: "I am glad, indeed, to see you, Mont; we heard the sound of the firing and feared that something had happened to you." "Nothing at all, thank you, and nothing to Queenie--but that reminds me," he added, slipping out of the saddle; "she acted once as though she had been hit, though it wasn't bad enough to show itself in her gait." The two made a hasty examination but discovered nothing; proof that, as her owner said, the wound, if any, was too slight to trouble her. "Fred, what do you think of my coming back to you in this fashion?" abruptly asked Sterry, with a laugh, looking around in his friend's face. "The most sensible thing you could have done; it redeems your foolishness in leaving us as you did." "But my return was involuntary." "How was that?" "I thought I was miles distant, and had no idea of my location until I caught the outlines of your house; I assure you I contemplated no such performance as this." "Well, you're here, so what's the use of talking unless you mean to mount your mare and try it again." "Hardly that; I have too much mercy on her." The couple walked past the dwelling to the rude but roomy shelter at the rear where the horses were sometimes placed when not in use, or when the severity of the weather made the protection necessary. There the saddle, bridle and trappings were removed from the mare, and she was made comfortable. Then the two returned to their seats at the front of the building, to smoke and chat a few minutes before retiring for the night. CHAPTER XIII. A CONSULTATION. That mysterious warm-air current known as the Chinook wind steals through the depressions of the Rocky Mountains, at certain seasons of the year, from the mild surface of the Pacific, and tempers the severity of the winters in some portions of Montana, Wyoming, and the great West to a degree that renders them milder than many places farther south. It was early in the month of May, when even in the Middle States it is not often comfortable to remain seated out of doors after the close of day, but Sterry and Whitney found it pleasant to occupy their chairs in front of the building, with no other protection then their own warm garments. Whitney's wound was doing so well that he expressed himself ashamed to wear his arm in a sling. He freed it from the support, moved it readily about, and declared that after the next morning he would no longer shirk duty. In one sense, Monteith Sterry was disappointed. He hoped they would be joined by Jennie, from whom he parted earlier in the evening, but he reflected that the hour was late, and she probably felt that her duty was with her sorrowing mother. "She belongs there," he concluded, "and I respect her for doing her duty." But she heard the murmur of voices after they had talked a few minutes, and appeared at the outer door, where she greeted her friend and listened with an intensity of interest that may be imagined to his account of his brush with the rustlers. Although she had become accustomed to danger during her life in the West, there could be no mistaking her solicitude for him. She said little, however, and, excusing herself, bade the two good-night. "I tell you," said her brother, when she was gone, "if you stay, or rather attempt to stay, in this section, Mont, it is suicide--nothing more nor less." "Well, I know times are likely to be warm, but, hang it, I can't bear the thought of being run out of Wyoming. It's a mighty big State, and there ought to be room enough for me." "You persist in treating it lightly, but it is no trifling matter; you have been warned; were shot at, when we had our flurry with the rustlers; and, even while attempting to ride across the country, had the narrowest escape of your life--an escape so curious that it couldn't be repeated in a hundred years." "It's the unexpected that happens." "Not so often as the expected. Mont, what made you leave us so abruptly to-night?" "O, I can hardly tell," replied the other, carelessly flinging one leg over the other and puffing at his cigar, as though the matter was of no importance. "I know; you believed that if you stayed here you would increase the peril to us." "You've hit it exactly; that was it." "What sort of friends do you take us to be?" "That isn't it; rather, what sort of friend would I be, thus knowingly to place you and your mother and sister in danger? If those rustlers knew where I am, a dozen would be here before sunrise." "What of it? We are ready for them." "That's a poor answer to my statement; you had enough of that woeful business yesterday; they hold me in such hatred that they would burn down your place, if they could reach me in no other way." "And yet you propose to stay in Wyoming and have it out with them?" "I haven't said that," remarked Sterry, more thoughtfully; "I may soon leave for a more civilized section, much as I hate to play the seeming coward; but what you said about my parents, brothers and sisters at home, gave me something to think over while riding across the prairie to-night." "I shall hate to lose your company, for it is like old times to talk over our school days, but I would not be a friend to allow my selfishness to stand in the way of your good." Sterry smoked a moment in silence, and then flung away his cigar and turned abruptly on his companion. "Fred, if you could have prevented what took place yesterday by sacrificing every dollar of the property you have in Wyoming, you would have done it." "Yes, God knows I would have done it a thousand times over; mother will never recover from the blow." "And yet you may be the next to fall during this frightful state of affairs. If the situation of your mother and sister is so sad because of the loss of the head of the household, what will it be if you should be taken?" "I appreciate your kindness, Mont, but you put the case too strongly; in one sense we all stand in danger of sudden death every day. I might live to threescore and ten in Wyoming, and be killed in a railroad accident or some other way the first day I left it. There is no particular enmity between the rustlers and me; that brush yesterday was one of those sudden outbursts that was not premeditated by them." "It didn't look that way to me." "You were not there when it opened. They were driving a lot of mavericks toward their ranch down the river, when Budd Hankinson saw a steer among them with our brand. You know it--a sort of cross with father's initials. Without asking for its return, Budd called them a gang of thieves, cut out the steer and drove him toward our range. If he had gone at the thing in the right way there would have been no trouble, but his ugly words made them mad, and the next thing we were all shooting at each other." "You inflicted more harm than they, and they won't forget it." "I don't want them to forget it," said Fred, bitterly, "but they won't carry their enmity to the extent of making an unprovoked attack on me or any of my people." "Possibly not, but you don't want to bank on the theory." "You must not forget," continued the practical Whitney, "that all we have in the world is invested in this business, and it would be a sacrifice for us to sell out and move eastward, where I would be without any business." "You could soon make one for yourself." "Well," said Whitney, thoughtfully, "I will promise to turn it over in my mind; the associations, however, that will always cling to this place, and particularly my sympathy for mother and Jennie, will be the strongest influences actuating me, provided I decide to change." Mont Sterry experienced a thrill of delight, for he knew that when a man talks in that fashion he is on the point of yielding. He determined to urge the matter upon Jennie, and there was just enough hope in his heart that the prospect of being on the same side of the Mississippi with him would have some slight weight. "I am glad to hear you speak thus, for it is certain there will be serious trouble with the rustlers." "All which emphasizes what I said earlier in the evening about your duty to make a change of location." The proposition, now that there was reason to believe that Fred Whitney had come over to his way of thinking, struck Sterry more favourably than before. In fact he reflected, with a shudder, what a dismal, unattractive section this would be, after the removal of his friends. "I shall not forget your words; what you said has great influence with me, and you need not be surprised if I bid adieu to Wyoming within a week or a few days." "It can't be too soon for your own safety, much as we shall regret to lose your company." CHAPTER XIV. UNWELCOME CALLERS. Although Budd Hankinson and Grizzly Weber were removed from the scene of the events described, the night was not to pass without their becoming actors in some stirring incidents. Ordinarily they would have spent the hours of darkness at the ranch of their employer, for the immense herds of cattle, as a rule, required no looking after. The ranges over which they grazed were so extensive that they were left to themselves, sometimes wandering for many miles from the home of their owner. They might not be seen for days and weeks. Their brands and the universal respect in which such proof of proprietorship was held prevented, as a rule, serious loss to the owners. But the date will be recognized by the reader as one of a peculiarly delicate nature, when men were obliged to look more closely after their rights than usual. The couple, therefore, rode behind the cattle to the foothills, along which they were expected to graze for an indefinite time. Hustlers were abroad, and the occurrences of the previous day had inflamed the feeling between them and the cowmen. It was not unlikely that, having been beaten off, some of them might take the means of revenging themselves by stealing a portion of the herd. Budd and Weber dismounted after reaching the foothills, and, without removing the saddles from their horses, turned them loose to graze for themselves. No fear of their wandering beyond recall. A signal would bring them back the moment needed. The hardy ranchers seated themselves with their backs against a broad, flat rock, which rose several feet above their heads. The bits were slipped from the mouths of their horses, so as to allow them to crop the succulent grass more freely, while the men gave them no attention, even when they gradually wandered beyond sight in the gloom. "Times are getting lively in these parts," remarked Weber, as he filled his brierwood and lit it; "this thing can't go on forever; the rustlers or cowmen have got to come out on top, and I'm shot if one can tell just now which it will be." "There can only be one ending," quietly replied his companion, whose pipe, being already lit, was puffed with the deliberate enjoyment of a veteran; "the rustlers may stir things up, and I s'pose they've got to get worse before they get better, but what's the use? It's like a mob or a riot; the scamps have things their own way at first, but they knuckle under in the end." "I guess you're right; that was bad business yesterday; I shouldn't wonder if it ended in the young folks moving East again with their mother, whose heart is broke by the death of her husband." "The younker is too plucky a chap to light out 'cause the governor has been sent under; he's had better luck than most tenderfeet who come out here and start in the cattle bus'ness; he done well last year, and if the rustlers let him alone, he'll do a good deal better this year; he may move, but he ain't agoin' to let them chaps hurry him, you can make up your mind to that." The couple smoked a minute or two in silence. Then Weber, without removing his pipe from between his lips, uttered the words: "Budd, something's going to happen powerful soon." Hankinson, also keeping his pipe between his lips, turned his head and looked wonderingly at his friend. He did not speak, but the action told his curiosity; he did not understand the words. "I mean what I say," added Weber, shaking his head; "I know it." "What do you mean? Something happens every night and every day." "That isn't what I'm driving at; something's going to happen afore daylight; you and me ain't through with this work." Hankinson was still dissatisfied. He took his pipe from his mouth, and, looking sideways at his friend, asked: "Can't you come down to facts and let a fellow know what you're driving at?" "I don't exactly know myself, but I feel it in my left leg." At this strange remark the other laughed heartily and silently. He had little patience with superstition. He knew his friend held peculiar whims in that respect. Weber expected something in the nature of scoffing and was prepared for it. He spoke doggedly: "It has never deceived me. Six years ago, when we was trying to round up Geronimo and his Apache imps, ten of us camped in the Moggollon Mountains. Hot! Well, you never knowed anything like it. All day long the metal of our guns would blister our naked hands; we didn't get a drop of water from sunup till sundown; we was close on to the trail of the varmints, and we kept at it by moonlight till our horses gave out and we tumbled out among the rocks so used up that we could hardly stand. Our lieutenant was a bright young chap from South Car'lina that had come out of West Point only that summer, but he was true blue and warn't afeared of anything. We all liked him. I had seen him fight when a dozen of the Apaches thought they had us foul, and I was proud of him. He belonged to a good family, though that didn't make him any better than anyone else, but he treated us white. "So when we went into camp, I goes to him and I says, says I, 'Lieutenant, there's going to be trouble.' He looked up at me in his pleasant way and asks, 'What makes you think so, Grizzly?' The others was listening, but I didn't mind that, and out with it. ''Cause,' says I, 'my left leg tells me so.' "'And how does your leg tell you?' he asked again, with just a faint smile that wasn't anything like the snickers and guffaws of the other chaps. 'Whenever a twitch begins at the knee and runs down to my ankle,' says I, 'that is in the left leg, and then keeps darting back and forth and up and down, just as though some one was pricking it with a needle, do you know what it says?' "'I'm sure I don't, but I'd like to know.' "'Injins! Varmints! They're nigh you; look out!' "Wal, instead of j'ining the others in laughing at me, he says; just as earnest-like as if it was the colonel that had spoke, 'If that's the case, Grizzly, why we'll look out; you have been in this business afore I was born and I am glad you told me. I didn't s'pose any of 'em was within miles of us, but it's easy to be mistaken.' "Wal, to make a long story short we didn't any of us go to sleep; the boys laughed at what I said, but the way the lieutenant acted showed 'em he believed me, and that was enough. The Apaches come down on us that night and wiped out two of the boys. If the lieutenant hadn't showed his good sense by believing what I told him, there wouldn't have been one of us left." Budd Hankinson then crossed his legs, extended on the ground as they were, shoved his sombrero back on his head, with his Winchester resting against the rock behind him, and smoked his pipe after the manner of a man who is pondering a puzzling question. The latter assumed much the same position, but, having said sufficient, was not disposed to speak until after the other had given his opinion. "Grizzly, when your leg warns you like that, does it speak plain enough to tell you the sort of danger that's coming? Does it say what hour; where the trouble is to come from, and who them that make the trouble will be?" "No!" replied the other, contemptuously; "how could a fellow's leg do that?" "How could it do anything 'cept help tote him around when he wanted it to?" "I've just explained, that twitching is a warning--that's all. I 'spose the leg thinks that's enough; so it is." "There ain't any Apaches or Comanches in this part of the world." "But there's rustlers, and where's the ch'ice?" "Wal, Grizzly, all I've got to say is let 'em come; it ain't the first time we've seen 'em, and we're ginerally ready for 'em. We was yesterday, and I reckon we'll get there, all the same, to-night or to-morrow morning." Grizzly Weber felt it his duty to be more explicit. "The night I was telling you about down in Arizona wasn't the only time my leg signaled to me. While it allers means that something is going to come, it doesn't always mean it'll amount to much. It has happened that only a slight flurry follored. That may be the case to-night." "What's to be done? Are we to set here on the ground and wait for it? I was going to take turns with you watching, but I guess we hadn't better go to sleep yet." "You can sleep till near morning if you like, and when I want to lay down I'll wake you, but afore you do that I'll take a look around." Weber rose to his feet, yawned, stretched his long, muscular arms, looked about him and listened. The moonlight enabled him to see only a comparatively short distance in any direction. Near-by were the forms of several cattle stretched upon the ground and sleeping. One or two were still chewing their cuds, but the scene was suggestive of rest and quiet, the reverse of what he told his friend was coming. The horses had drifted too far off to be visible, but it was certain they were within signal distance. Rocks, stunted undergrowth, bushes, and the rich, luxuriant grass met the eye everywhere. Thousands of cattle were scattered over an area of many acres, and, unless molested by dishonest persons, would be within ready reach when the time for the round-up arrived. Neither eye nor ear could detect anything of the peril which the rancher believed impended with the same faith that he believed the sun would rise on the following morning. That faith could not be shaken by the profound quiet. Without speaking again to his friend he strolled toward the north, that is parallel with the spur along whose slope the cattle were grazing. As he moved forward they were continually in sight. Most of them were lying on the ground, but a few were on their feet, browsing and acquiring the luscious plumpness which has made that section one of the most famous grazing regions of the Union. They paid no attention to the rancher while making his way around, among and past them. They were too accustomed to the sight of the sturdy cattleman to be disturbed by him. An eighth of a mile from the rock where he had left his comrade, Weber once more paused. Nothing as yet had come to confirm that peculiar warning described, but his faith knew no weakening on that account. From a long way came the sound of rifle-firing, sometimes rapid, and sometimes consisting of dropping shots. "They're at it somewhere," muttered the rancher; "it doesn't come from the ranch, so I guess the folks are all right." The reports were too far off for him to feel any interest in them; that which was foretold by the twitching of his limb must come much closer to answer the demands of the occasion. Weber resumed his walk around and among the prostrate animals. He was on the alert, glancing to the right and left, and speculating as to the nature of the "trouble" that could not be far off. Through the impressive stillness he caught a subdued sound which caused him again to stop in his walk and listen. His keen vision could discover nothing, nor was he certain of the nature of the disturbance. He knelt down and pressed his ear to the ground. That told the story; several hundred of the herd were in motion and moving away from him. They would not do this of their own accord, and the rancher translated its meaning at once; they were being driven off. He broke into a loping trot toward the threatened point, holding his Winchester ready for instant use. As he was likely to need his horse, he placed his fingers between his lips and emitted the whistle by which he was accustomed to summon the faithful beast. Then he sent out a different call. That was for the listening ears of Budd Hankinson, who would be sure to hasten to his comrade. But Weber did not wait for man or animal. They could come as fast as they chose. The case was too urgent to admit of delay. He believed the moving cattle were hardly a furlong distant, but they were not only going at a rapid pace, but were moving directly away from where the rancher had halted. He could run as swiftly and as long as an Indian, but the course was difficult, and he believed the cattle were going so fast that he was gaining little if anything on them. When he had run a short way he stopped and glanced impatiently back in the gloom. "Why doesn't Cap hurry?" he muttered, referring to his horse; "he must have heard my call, and he never lets it pass him. Budd, too, don't want to break his neck trying to overtake me." His impatience made him unjust. Neither man nor beast had had time to come up, even though each had set out at their best speed the moment they heard the signal. They would be on hand in due course, unless prevented. Weber called them again, with a sharp, peremptory signal, which could not fail to apprise both of the urgency of the case. Then, afraid of losing any advantage, he pushed after the fleeing cattle. The figures of the sleeping animals around him grew fewer in number. By and by none was to be seen. He had passed the outer boundary of those that were left, and was now tramping over the section from which they had been stampeded or driven by the rustlers. He dropped to the ground again. But it was only to use the earth as a medium of hearing. The multitudinous trampings became distinct once more. The cattle were running, proof that the thieves were pressing them hard and were in fear of pursuit. Leaping up again, the rancher peered backward in the moonlight. Something took shape, and he identified the figure of a man approaching. The Winchester was grasped and half aimed, so as to be ready for instant use. But it was his friend, who was coming on the run. Budd Hankinson had heard the call, and obeyed it with surprising promptness. "What's up?" he asked, as he halted, breathing not a whit faster because of his unusual exertion. "They're running off some of the cattle; where's the hosses?" "Hanged if I know! I called to Dick the minute I started, but he didn't show up; I don't know were he is." "I whistled for Cap at the same time I did for you; he ought to be here first. I wonder if they've stolen him?" added Weber, affrightedly. "No, they wouldn't have come that close; they didn't have the chance; but it gets me." With that he sent out the signal once more. Budd did the same, and then they broke into their swift, loping trot after the fleeing animals, both in an ugly mood. They were at great disadvantage without their own horses when it was clear the rustlers were mounted. But, though on foot, the ranchers could travel faster than the gait to which the cattle had been forced. They increased their speed, and it was quickly evident they were gaining on the rogues. It was not long before they discerned the dark bodies galloping off in alarm. Almost at the same moment the ranchers saw the outlines of two horsemen riding from right to left, and goading the cattle to an injuriously high pace. Grizzly Weber, who was slightly in advance, turned his head and said, in excitement: "Budd, they're not rustlers; they're Injins!" CHAPTER XV. THE "DOG INDIANS." Weber was right in his declaration that the parties who were stampeding a part of the herd were Indians. They were two in number, both superbly mounted, and dashing back and forth with great swiftness, as they urged the animals to a frantic flight. They knew the danger of pursuit and the value of time. The rancher, who shouted to his companion, was a few paces in advance at the exciting moment he made the discovery. The sight so angered him that he stopped abruptly and brought his rifle to his shoulder, with the intention of shooting the marauder from his horse. This would have been done the next instant but for the exclamation of Grizzly Weber. Despite the noise and confusion, the Indian heard him and saw his danger. Before the rancher could sight his weapon the thief seemed to plunge headlong over the further side of his steed; but instead of doing so he resorted to the common trick of his people, all of whom are unsurpassable horsemen. He flung himself so far over that nothing of his body remained visible. The horse himself became the shield between him and the white man. The redskin was in the saddle, but he would have been just as expert had he been riding bareback. Weber muttered his disappointment, but held his rifle ready to fire the instant he caught sight of any part of the fellow's person. At any rate, a recourse was open to him; he could shoot the horse, and thus place his enemy on the same footing with himself. He decided to do so. The hurly-burly was bewildering. The cattle were bellowing in affright, galloping frenziedly before the two horsemen, dashing back and forth among them at the rear like two lunatics, and goading them to desperate haste. At the instant the Indian whom Grizzly Weber selected as his man eluded his fatal aim, his horse was running diagonally. This could not be continued without the abandonment of the herd. He must wheel, to come back behind the fleeing cattle. The rancher waited for that moment, prepared to fire the instant any tangible part of the body of the rogue was revealed by the moonlight. But an astonishing exploit prevented the shot. The savage wheeled, just as was anticipated, but, in the act of doing so, threw himself for a second time over the side of his horse, so as to interpose his body. He did it with such inimitable dexterity that the rancher was baffled. All this took place in a twinkling, as may be said; but, brief as was the time, it caused Weber to lose valuable ground. The horse was growing dimmer in the gloom, and, unless checked, would quickly be beyond reach of the Winchester still levelled at him. Nothing was easier than to drive a bullet through his brain and then have it out with the Indian. Possibly the single bullet would end the career of both. Budd Hankinson called out something, but Grizzly Weber did not catch it. With grim resolution he sighted as best he could in the moonlight at the galloping steed, and then with a shiver lowered his weapon undischarged, awed by the sudden discovery of the deed he had come within a hair of committing. The erratic motions of the Indian and his horse entangled both with the flying cattle. All at once the nimble steed became so crowded on every side that his only escape from being gored to death was by a tremendous bound which he made over the back of a terrified steer who lowered his head for the purpose of driving his horns into his body. He made the leap with amazing skill and grace. As he went up in the air, with the Indian clinging to his side, the astonishing leap was executed with perfect ease, precision and perfectness, his figure rising above the mass of struggling animals and standing out for a moment in clear relief. That one glimpse of the outlines of the splendid horse, together with the brilliancy of the performance itself, told Grizzly Weber that the steed was his own Cap. The owner had by a hair escaped sending a bullet through the brain of the animal whom he loved as his own brother. Grizzly was stupefied for an instant. Then, knowing that Cap had been duped by some conjuration, he sent out the familiar signal with a sharp distinctness that rose above the din and racket, which, to ordinary ears, would have been overwhelming. The result was remarkable, and approached the ridiculous. Cap heard the call, and instantly turned to obey it. The Indian on his back strove furiously to prevent and to keep him at his work. Cap fought savagely, flinging his head aloft, rearing, plunging, and refusing to follow the direction toward which the redskin twisted his head by sheer strength. It was a strife between rider and steed, and the latter made no progress in either direction while keeping up the fight, which was as fierce as it was brief. The Indian could not force the horse to obey him, and the efforts of Cap to reach his master were defeated by the wrenching at the bit. It looked as if the horse had been seized with the frenzy that possessed every one, and was fighting and struggling aimlessly and accomplishing nothing. But Grizzly Weber was not the one to stand idly by and allow this extraordinary contest to go on. Nothing intervened between him and the daring marauder, and he dashed toward him. The redskin's audacity, nimbleness and self-possession excited the admiration of Grizzly Weber, angered though he was at the trick played on him. The rider knew the risk of keeping up the fight with the obdurate beast, for the master was sure to arrive on the spot within a few seconds. Before the rancher could reach him he went from the saddle as if shot out of a gun. Freed from his incubus, Cap emitted a joyful whinny and trotted toward his master. "You rascal!" exclaimed the delighted rancher, vaulting upon his back in a twinkling. "Now we'll settle with the chap that tried to part you and me." All this consumed but a few moments. The Indian could not have gone far. He would not dash among the cattle, who, now that they were stampeded, were as dangerous as so many wild beasts. He had hardly time to conceal himself, and Grizzly was certain that he had him. All the same, however, the cowman made a miscalculation. When he wheeled Cap about to run down the daring redskin he was nowhere to be seen. There were no trees near, but there were boulders, rocks and depressions, with the rich grass everywhere, and the dusky thief was as safe as if beyond the Assinaboine, in British territory. "I'm glad of it," thought Weber, a moment later; "a redskin that can show such a performance as that desarves to save his scalp." In the dizzying flurry Grizzly had no time to think of his companion, who had enough to attend to his own matters. He now looked around for him, but he, too, was invisible. "I wonder whether he got his horse back, for Dick must have been stole, the same as was Cap." And, grateful for having regained possession of his horse, he patted the silken neck of the noble animal. Grizzly's years of experience with cattle apprised him of a gratifying truth. The course of the stampeded herd was changing. Instead of fleeing away from the main body they were veering around, so that, if the change of course continued, they would return to the neighbourhood from which they started. Panic-smitten cattle are not apt to do a thing of that kind of their own accord. Some cause, and a strong one, too, must have effected this diversion in the line of flight. All at once, above the din, sounded the penetrating voice of a man, who was striving with herculean energy to change the course of the wild animals. One sound of that voice was sufficient to identify it as Budd Hankinson's. He must have played his cards well to have done all this in so brief a space of time. And such had been the case beyond a doubt. Budd suspected from the first what did not enter Grizzly's mind until it flashed upon him as described. The fact that neither of their horses appeared when summoned convinced Budd that they had been stolen. True, even in that case they would have obeyed the signal, had they been near enough, and had the circumstances allowed them to identify it; but, although not far off, the noise immediately around them shut out the call of Grizzly from their ears, until he repeated it, as has been told. Hankinson anticipated his friend in this act. In his case, the thief in the saddle of Dick gave it up at once. He leaped off, and whisked out of sight. It was then Budd called to Grizzly that the thieves had their horses; but the other did not catch his words, and, therefore, gave them no further heed. The instant Budd's feet were in the stirrups he set his horse bounding along the side of the herd, with the purpose of checking the stampede by changing its course. Grizzly understood matters and set off after him, leaving to the sagacious Cap to thread his way to the other side of the running cattle. In the course of a few minutes the ranchers opened communication and pushed their work with a vigor which brought good results. The cattle were tired. They had been on their feet most of the day while grazing, were growing fat, and naturally were indisposed to severe exertion. Their pace dropped to a walk, and sooner than would have been supposed, the fright passed off. The herders kept them moving until close to the main herd, where they were allowed to rest. Budd and Grizzly dismounted once more, turning their horses loose, and seated themselves on the ground. The night, as will be remembered, was mild, and they did not need their blankets to make them comfortable. "Wal," was the smiling remark of Grizzly, as he began refilling his pipe, "my leg didn't deceive me this time." "No, I'll own up it played square; but, Grizzly, if we've got to fight the red varmints as well as rustlers, there will be some lively fun in Wyoming and Montana before the thing is over." "The Injins won't take a hand in this. You know who them two thieves were, don't you?" "A couple of 'dog Injins,' of course." "There isn't anybody else that's got anything to do with this; it's sort of queer--that is, it has struck me so two or three times--that the Injins have tramps among 'em the same as white folks. They call 'em 'dog Injins,' I s'pose, 'cause they don't claim any particular tribe, but tramp back and forth over the country, slipping off their reservations whenever they get a chance." "Yes, there are plenty of 'em," assented Budd; "we've met 'em before; you'll find 'em as far north as the Saskatchewan and as low down as the Rio Grande. But I say, Grizzly, they were two slick ones; I never seen finer work." "Nor me either; if they had been satisfied with taking our hosses we'd never seen 'em agin. Gracious!" added the rancher, "for myself, I'd rather lost half the herd than Cap." "It seems to me," said Budd, after smoking a moment in silence, "that although them 'dog Injins' was pretty smart in getting out of the way when we come down on 'em, they weren't smart in trying to run off the cattle. They must have known we'd find it out at daylight and would be after 'em hot-footed." Grizzly had been puzzling over the same phase of the question. The 'dog Indian' is a vagabond, who, belonging to some particular tribe, as of necessity must be the case, affiliates with none, but goes whithersoever his will leads him, provided he is not prevented. Sometimes they remain on the reservation for weeks and months, as orderly, industrious and well-behaved as the best of the red men. Then they disappear, and may not turn up for a long time. In truth, they are as likely not to turn up at all, but to lead their wandering, useless lives just as the vagrants do in civilized communities. Surely the couple who had played their parts in the incidents of the night must have known that nothing could be gained by stampeding a part of Whitney's herd. The cattle were branded, and could not be disposed of for that reason. Besides, a couple of Indians in charge of several hundred cattle would be objects of suspicion themselves, and certain to be called to account. They could make no common cause with the rustlers, for the latter would have naught to do with them. More than likely Grizzly Weber hit the truth when he said: "It was a piece of pure deviltry on their part. When they got into the saddles they felt safe. Instead of making off with the hosses, they thought they would stir up a little fun by stampeding the cattle. After injuring 'em by rapid driving for a good many miles they would have paid no more attention to 'em, and let us find 'em as best we could." "Yes," assented Budd, "they bit off more'n they could chaw, and so lost the hosses. But, Grizzly, have you noticed there's been several guns shot off around the country to-night?" "Yas," replied the other, indifferently; "I've heard 'em several times, but I haven't obsarved any coming from the house; it must be that some of the boys are having fun to-night instead of sleeping like lambs, as they ought to do." "And there'll be more of it to-morrow, but that's what we've got to expect at all times. I'm going to sleep; call me when you want me." Budd spread the blanket, which he had taken from the back of his horse, on the ground and lay down. Hardly five minutes passed when he was wrapped in sound slumber. To prevent himself from becoming unconscious, Grizzly rose and walked slowly around and among the herd. He had no thought of anything further occurring, for the 'dog Indians' would be certain to keep away from that neighbourhood after what had occurred. He did not feel easy, however, concerning his friends at the ranch. He knew trouble was at hand, and he would have been glad if the mother and daughter were removed beyond danger. The sounds of rifle-firing and the bright glow in the horizon, made by a burning building, confirmed his misgivings as to what a few days or hours were sure to bring forth. CHAPTER XVI. AN UNPLEASANT VISIT. IT will be recalled that during these incidents Monteith Sterry and Fred Whitney were sitting at the front of the long, low building, which was the home of the latter, discussing the incidents of the last day or two, as well as the matter of Whitney removing, with his family, to the East, in order to prevent any addition to the affliction they had just suffered. Besides this, Whitney had turned on his young friend, and impressed upon him that he, too, was incurring unjustifiable risk by remaining in Wyoming during the inflamed state of public feeling. There was much less excuse in the case of Sterry than of his host. He ought to be at home prosecuting the study of his profession, as his parents wished him to do. His health was fully restored, and it cannot be denied that he was wasting his precious days. He was fond of his father, mother, brothers and sisters, and it would grieve them beyond expression if he should uselessly sacrifice himself. "Yes," he replied, "I cannot deny the truth of what you say, Fred. I ought to leave this part of the country." "Of course; you're not needed; your future has been mapped for you, and it is hard to make up lost time." "We found that out at the high school," returned Mont, with a light laugh; "but the pearl of great price, in a worldly sense, is good health, and I have been repaid in securing it." "And having secured it, it remains--Mont," added his companion abruptly, but without the slightest change of tone, "don't stop to ask me why, but step quickly through the door and into the house, and keep out of sight for a few minutes." "I understand," said Sterry, obeying without an instant's hesitation. The prompt, unquestioning compliance with the request of Fred Whitney showed that Monteith Sterry understood the reason that it was made of him. The truth was, that during the last few minutes the young men were talking in front of the house, each descried something suspicious on the broad plain. They instinctively lowered their voices, and though neither made reference to it, both gave more attention to it than to their own words. They heard nothing of the tramp of horses, but saw the shadowy figures of several men hovering on what may be termed the line of invisibility. Sometimes they were distinguished quite clearly, and then seemed to vanish; but the youths could not be mistaken. A number of persons were out there, not mounted, but on foot, and moving about, without approaching any closer, for the space of several minutes. It looked as if they were reconnoitering the house from a distance and debating the best manner of procedure. The suspicions of the friends were the same. They were rustlers looking for the inspector. Mont Sterry would have preferred to stay where he was and have it out with them, but the circumstances were so peculiar that he could not refuse to do as his comrade requested. The cause of Whitney's wish was the abrupt increasing distinctness of the figures, proof that they had reached a decision and were approaching the house. They speedily came into plain sight, four men, in the garb of cowmen, and they were rustlers beyond question. Conscious that they were seen, they now advanced directly, as if coming from a distance, though the fact that they were on foot showed that such was not the case. With feelings which it would be hard to describe, Fred Whitney recognized the first as Larch Cadmus, wearing the same whiskers as before. Had he been thoughtful enough to disguise his voice the young man would not have suspected his identity. The moon had worked around into that quarter of the heavens that its light shone on the figure of Fred, who rose to his feet, as was his custom, and advanced a few paces to meet the newcomers. "Good evening!" he said. "How happens it that you are afoot at this time of night?" "Our horses ain't fur off," replied Cadmus; "the rest of the boys didn't think it worth while to trouble you." "What do you mean by troubling me?" asked Fred, though he understood the meaning. "We're on an unpleasant errand," continued Cadmus, acting as the spokesman of the party, the others remaining in the background and maintaining silence. "Shall I bring chairs for you? It is so unusually mild to-night that I am sitting out doors from choice, and I do not wish to disturb my mother and sister, who retired some time ago." "No, we'll stand," was the curt response. "Whitney, as I suppose it is, are you accustomed to sit out here alone?" "Not when I can have company." "Were you alone before we came up?" "When you were here earlier in the evening, as you saw for yourself, I had my sister and a friend." "Exactly; who was that friend?" "Mont Sterry, the gentleman who is on a little tour through some parts of Wyoming and Montana to try to help make you fellows behave yourselves." "Yes; wal, we're looking for him." "Why do you come here?" "Because he spends a good deal of his time here; he seems to be interested in Miss Whitney." "Well, if he is, that is no business of yours," retorted Fred, angered by the reference to his sister. "Perhaps not, but it would be well for you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Fred Whitney; we're not in a pleasant mood to-night, for we've had trouble." "It matters not to me what trouble you've had; you have no right to name any member of my family. They are in affliction; my father was shot down by your gang yesterday, and, though we made several of you fellows bite the dust, the whole of them weren't worth his little finger." "We'll let them matters drop; I told you we're looking for Mont Sterry, and we're going to have him." "And I ask you again, why do you come here after him? I don't deny that he was with me, but he left fully two hours ago." "We know that; he gave us the slip, but we believe he came back." "And I ask what reason you have for such belief; why did he bid us good-by and ride away? I know that he had not the slightest intention of returning for several days," said Fred, sticking to the technical truth. "We don't care what his intention was, he did come back." "How do you know that?" "He was sitting in that chair alongside of you less than ten minutes ago; you were smoking and talking, though you didn't speak loud enough for us to catch your words." "Where is the proof, Larch Cadmus, of what you say?" Without noticing this penetration of his disguise, the rustler turned and spoke to the nearest of his companions: "Spark Holly, how was it?" "I seen 'em both and heard 'em talking," was the prompt response of the individual appealed to. "Are your eyes better than the others'?" asked Fred. "They don't have to be," replied Cadmus, speaking for him. "While we stayed in front of the house, Spark stole round to the rear, where none of your family seen him. He got to the corner and had a good look at both of you." "Does he know Sterry?" inquired Fred, purposely raising his voice, that his friend, standing a few feet away within the house, should not miss a word. "He don't know him, but I do, and the description Spark gives fits the man we're after to a T. We want him." "But the notice you gave Sterry allowed him twenty-four hours' grace. Why do you ask for him now?" "Them was my sentiments, but when I joined the party under Inman, a little while ago, he told me the boys had reconsidered that matter, and decided that after what Sterry has done, and tried to do, I hadn't any right to make the promise." "That may be their decision, but it cannot affect yours; you are bound by the pledge you made in writing to him." Larch Cadmus, like his companions, was growing impatient. He said: "I haven't come here to argue the matter with you; I've come after my man, and am going to have him." "And I repeat what I said: he left more than two hours ago, and you have no business to come here." "Do you mean to tell me he isn't in the house?" demanded Cadmus, with rising temper. "I refuse to answer, but I do say that neither you nor any of your gang shall enter my home, where are my mother and sister, their hearts stricken by your murderous doings of yesterday, except over my dead body." "We don't like to disturb the ladies," said Cadmus, "but we mean business; we have promised the boys to bring back that fellow; but I'll make a proposition." "What is it?" "If you will say that Mont Sterry is not in there, we'll go away without disturbing any one; we'll take your word." "I recognize no right of yours to question me," was the scornful reply of Fred Whitney. "Boys," said Cadmus, turning again to his companions, "that's only another way of owning up that the coward is hiding here, afraid to meet us; he's our game." CHAPTER XVII. A DELICATE SITUATION. Few men possessed more courage than Fred Whitney, and he was thoroughly aroused. Sitting in front of his own home during the evening, it naturally happened that he was without any weapon at immediate command. His Winchester and revolvers, his inseparable companions, during those stirring times, whenever away from home, were inside. It need not be said that every one of the rustlers had his "guns" in his possession, so he was a single, defenceless man against four armed ones. Nevertheless, he strode forward in front of the open door, determined to make good his threat. "You talk of cowards," he said; "you are four, and each has his pistols and rifle; I have none and one arm is wounded, but I defy you!" "Come, come," said the leader, "this will do you no good; we're bound to have that man, and if he won't come out we must go after him. If you stand in the way we'll pitch you aside. We don't want to hurt you." "Advance at your peril--" "Fred, move a little to the left--that will do. I've got a bead on him now." It was the voice of Mont Sterry, a few feet away, in the darkness of the room. The muzzle of his rifle, however, projected just enough to reflect the moonlight, and it was leveled at the breast of Larch Cadmus. "One step," added Sterry, "and you're a dead man." "Larch Cadmus," said Fred, thrilled by the occurrence, "for we recognize you despite those whiskers, I never knew Mont Sterry to break his word!" Language cannot do justice to the situation. At the very moment the miscreant was about to advance to hurl Whitney from his path he was confronted by the muzzle of a loaded rifle, held by a man who was in deadly earnest, and who realized he was at bay. The startled ruffian recoiled a step and stared into the darkened room, as if he failed to grasp the situation. "Not a step in any direction," said Sterry, warningly; "if you attempt to retreat, advance, or move aside, I'll fire." It would be a rash thing for any one to deny that the young inspector had secured the "drop" on Larch Cadmus. But the man was accustomed to violence, and it took him but a minute to rally. "Pretty well done, I'll own," he said, with a forced laugh; "but what good is it going to do you? There are three more of us here and a half-dozen hardly a hundred yards away." "And what good will they do you?" "Spark," said Cadmus, "slip back to the boys and give 'em the tip; we'll see about this thing." "The moment Spark or either of the other two stirs I'll let the moonlight through _you!_ I'm going to keep my gun pointed right at you, Mr. Cadmus. If those fellows think I'm worth more than you, they have a chance to prove it, for only one of them has to take the first step to leave, when I'll press this trigger just a little harder than now. More than that, if one of them shouts, whistles, or makes any kind of a signal, I'll do as I threaten. If any man doesn't think so, let him make the trial." "Well, I'll be hanged!" muttered Larch Cadmus; "this _is_ a go!" Judging from the new turn of affairs, it looked as if a single individual had the "drop" on four others. It struck Larch Cadmus that this was a good occasion for something in the nature of a compromise. "See here, Sterry," he said, assuming an affected jocularity which deceived no one, "I'll own you've played it on me mighty fine. But you can't stand there all night with your Winchester p'inted at me, and bime-by I'll git tired; can't we fix the matter up some way?" "Fred," said Sterry, with the same coolness shown from the first, "slip through the door; you know where your gun is; stoop a little, so I won't have to shift my aim; when that is done we'll talk about compromise." Fred Whitney, as quick as his companion to "catch on," did instantly what was requested. He dodged into the darkened apartment, with which, of course, he was so familiar that he needed the help of no light to find his weapon. Had Larch Cadmus been as subtle as his master, perhaps he might have prevented this by ordering one of his men to cover Whitney with his gun, though it is more than probable that Sterry still would have forced the leading rustler to his own terms. But there was one among the four with the cunning of a fox; he was Spark Holly, who had located the inspector when in front of the house. At the moment Cadmus was brought up all standing, as may be said, Holly stood so far to one side that he was not in the young man's field of vision. He, like his two companions, could have slipped off at any moment without danger to himself, but it would have been at the cost of their leader's life; nor could they shift their position and raise a weapon to fire into the room, where there was a prospect of hitting the daring youth at bay, without precipitating that catastrophe. The instant, however, Fred Whitney turned his back on the rustlers, Holly saw his opportunity. He vanished. The others, more sluggish than he, held their places, dazed, wondering, stupefied, and of no more account than so many logs of wood. Shrewd enough to do this clever thing, Spark Holly was too cautious to spoil it by allowing his movement to be observed. Had he darted over the plain in front of the house, Mont Sterry would have seen the fleeing figure, understood what it meant, and, carrying out his threat, shot down Larch Cadmus. Holly lost no time in dodging behind the structure, moving with the stealth of an Indian in the stillness of the night. Then he made a circuit so wide that, as he gradually described a half-circle and came round to the point whence he had first advanced to the dwelling, he was so far off that the keenest vision from the interior could not catch a glimpse of him. Certain of this, he ran only a short distance, when he came up with the half-dozen mounted rustlers of whom Cadmus had spoken, and who were wondering at the unaccountable delay. The messenger quickly made everything plain, and they straightway proceeded to take a hand in the business. CHAPTER XVIII. A MISCALCULATION. Larch Cadmus was well fitted to act the leader of so desperate a company of men. He was chagrined beyond measure at the manner in which the tables had been turned on him, but, like all such persons, when caught fairly, he knew how to accept the situation philosophically. None understood better than he that the individual who held that Winchester levelled would press the trigger on the first provocation. He was the one that had sent the warning, and the other was the one that had received it. The twenty-four hours' truce had been ended by the words and action of Cadmus himself, and his chief wonder, now that Fred Whitney was with him, was that Monteith Sterry should show any mercy to his persecutor; had the situations been reversed, the course also would have been different. But the ruffian was on the alert. He noticed the guarded movement of Spark Holly at the moment Whitney entered his home, and he needed no one to tell him what it meant. He had slipped off to bring help and it would not take him long to do it, though Cadmus might well feel uneasy over what would take place when Sterry should learn the trick played on him. It may be that a person's senses are keener in situations of grave peril than at other times, for, calculating as clearly as he could the period it would take his comrade to reach the horsemen, only a short way back on the prairie, Cadmus heard sounds which indicated their approach, though they must remain invisible for several minutes. "Wal," said he, in his off-hand manner, directly after Whitney had whisked into the house, "now that you're together, how long do you mean to keep this thing up?" "We're through," was the response. "What do you mean?" asked the surprised fellow. "You can go away as soon as you please. Mont Sterry doesn't care anything more about you, but I'll keep you covered as long as you are in sight, and if you or any of your men try any deception you'll take the consequences." With a moment's hesitation, doubtless caused by distrust of his master, Cadmus began edging to one side. A few steps were enough to take him out of range of that dreaded weapon, and then his demeanour changed. "That was a good trick of yours, Mont Sterry, but it won't do you a bit of good." "Why not?" "Here come the rest of the boys, and if you think you can hold them up, why try it." At that moment the horsemen assumed form in the gloom and approached the house in a diagonal direction. Encouraged by their presence, Larch Cadmus once more moved toward the open door and resumed the position of leader. "Now, my fine fellow, we summon you to surrender," he called in his brusquest voice and manner. The reply was striking. A young man stepped from the door and advanced to meet the horsemen. There was an instant when Cadmus believed his victim had come forth to give himself up as commanded, but one glance showed that it was Fred Whitney. He calmly awaited the coming of the mounted men, saluted them, and said: "You have come for Mont Sterry, and Cadmus there assures me that if I give him my word that he is not in my house he will accept the statement; do you agree to it?" "How's that, Larch?" asked Ira Inman, turning toward him. "Them was my words, but--" "Well, then, I have to say that Mont Sterry is not in my house; the only persons there are my mother and sister." "But I seen him, and he got the drop on me--how's that?" "Yes," replied Whitney, enjoying his triumph, "he was there a few minutes ago, and he _did_ get the drop on you and the rest of your fellows; but I took his place; he went out of the back door, mounted his mare, and if there's any of you that think you can overhaul him, you can't start a moment too soon." No man who heard these words doubted their truth. They told such a straightforward tale that they could not be questioned. They would have been zanies had they believed that, with the back door at command and the certain approach of his enemies, Sterry had waited for them to attack him. True, he and his friend would have held a strong position, in which they could have made it warm for the others, but the ultimate advantage must have been on the side of the assailants. The laugh was on Cadmus, and those were the men who, in their chagrin, vented their feelings upon him. The worst of it was, he was as angry as they; but he might well ask how he could have helped himself, and whether any one of them would have done any better. The foxy Holly, at a whispered word from Inman, darted around the end of the building and entered the stables. A brief examination showed that no animals, all being known to him, except those belonging to Whitney, were there. Had any doubt remained, it was removed by his sense of hearing. Without the intervention of the dwelling to obstruct the sound, he caught the faint, rhythmic beating of the earth, barely audible and gradually growing fainter in the distance. It was just such a sound as is made by a horse going at a leisurely, sweeping gallop, and that was the explanation he gave it. Mont Sterry was safe beyond pursuit, for there was no horse in the company that could overtake him. Spark Holly returned to the party in front and made his report. It may be said the report was accepted and placed on file for future reference. It was characteristic of those men, too, that they did not delay their own actions, now that their business may be said to have been finished. "Well," said Inman, "that isn't the first time that fellow gave us the slip to-night. The way he did it before was mighty clever, but I don't see that he deserves any credit for fooling Cadmus, for any one would have known enough to do that. But remember that Mr. Mont Sterry is still in Wyoming, and we are not through with him yet." "And there ain't any twenty-four hours' truce," added Cadmus. "After what has taken place, there's little fear of Sterry making any mistake on that point," said Whitney, who was so pleased over the outcome of matters that he could speak in gentler terms than he would have used had the circumstances been different. It would seem strange that these men, who but a brief time before were so hostile to the single person now in their power, should converse without the least offensive action; but most, if not all, of the doings of the men concerned in the late troubles in that section were in hot blood, and would not have occurred had time been taken for thought and consideration. Inman and his brother rustlers wheeled about and rode off in the direction whence they came. Their movements indicated that they had no intention of following Sterry, since the course taken by him was almost directly the opposite; but Whitney was not fully satisfied. He remained in front of his home, listening in the stillness of the night to the sounds made by the hoofs of the galloping horses. Gradually they grew fainter, until, had there been any air stirring, or had the tension of hearing been less, he would have heard nothing; but, when the noises were hovering close to inaudibility, they continued thus. They neither increased nor diminished, but remaining the same, steadily shifted the direction whence they came. Instead of keeping to the westward, as they had been for a long time, they worked around to the north and east. Then the decrease in distinctness of sound was so rapid that it was quickly lost. The truth was evident: the rustlers had started in pursuit of Sterry, though why they should have taken so much pains to conceal the fact from Fred Whitney was more than he could understand. "They may overtake him," thought the young man as he turned to enter the house, "but it will not be right away." A light foot-fall sounded in the darkness of the room. "Is that you, Jennie?" he asked in a guarded undertone. "Yes, brother; have they gone?" "Some time ago. Is mother asleep?" "She was asleep before they came, utterly worn out. I am glad she knows nothing of the cause of their visit. And what of Monteith?" "He is many miles away, and still riding hard." "Will they pursue him?" "Let them do so if they wish, they will have a fine time overtaking him," was the light reply of the brother, who, leaning over in the gloom, affectionately kissed his sister good-night. CHAPTER XIX. THE BURNED RANCH. Meanwhile Monteith Sterry was making the best of his opportunity. It was no great exploit for him to slip out of the back door, when he found his enemies gathering in front; but, had he not been convinced that the movement was in the interests of his friends, as well as himself, he would not have made it. His flight was at a moderate pace for several hundred yards, by which time he considered himself safe from pursuit and gave his mare free rein. Her speed was rapid, but she was capable of maintaining it for hours without fatigue. Sterry's intention was to make his way to the ranch of his friend, Dick Hawkridge, which lay to the westward. He began veering in that direction, so that it may be said that while Inman and his band were riding toward him, he was approaching them. Two causes, however, prevented a meeting of the parties. Sterry was much further out than the rustlers, and in the darkness they could see nothing, if indeed they could hear anything of each other. Then he had not ridden far when he was checked by an unexpected sight. A bright red glow appeared to the northward in the sky. It was too vivid, distinct and near for him to mistake its nature. It was a burning building, the flames showing so strongly that, aware as he was of the deceptive nature of such a light, he knew it was no more than a mile away. He turned the head of his mare in that direction. "Things seem to be stirring to-night," was his thought as he galloped forward, with his gaze fixed on the burning structure. "That may be an accident, but such accidents are not common in this part of the world." His supposition was that it was the work of the rustlers, but he was mistaken. The building was similar to that occupied by the Whitneys, though somewhat smaller, and burned so fast that when he reached the spot it was a mass of blazing embers, with hardly a semblance of the original structure remaining. The sight was interesting of itself, but the attention of Sterry was riveted by the figure of a man lying motionless on the ground, only a few paces in front of where the door had been. His nerveless right hand still grasped the Winchester with which he had evidently made a sturdy fight when stricken down. Sterry did not dismount, but, sitting in the saddle, looked on the sorrowful sight as revealed by the glow of the burning building. He was saddened that such things should be. Little time, however, was given him for gloomy reverie, when Queenie sniffed the air and turned her head a little to one side. Looking in that direction, the rider saw the figure of a horseman assume shape in the glow as his animal advanced at a slow step. He must have detected Sterry before the latter saw him, and was studying him with close attention, his rifle supported across his saddle in front, ready for instant use. Reading his suspicion, the young man called out: "Come on, partner! You and I cannot be enemies at such a time as this." The salutation reassured the other, who increased his pace. Before he reached Sterry the latter half-regretted his action, for he recognized the man as Duke Vesey, one of the most notorious of rustlers and a bitter personal enemy. But a certain chivalry rules among such people, and after the greeting of Sterry to Vesey there was little danger of the latter taking unfair advantage of it. "This is bad business," remarked the younger, pointing to the figure on the ground. A hard look crossed the face of the rustler and his thin lips compressed as he shook his head. "Yes, that's what's left of Jack Perkins; he was my pard." "How did it happen?" "How did it happen! A pretty question for you to ask. He was killed by the stockmen less than an hour ago." "But they didn't ride hither and shoot him down, I am sure." "I don't know what you can be sure of," said Vesey, ominously. "Jack and I were riding along peaceable like, when we heard horsemen behind us. We didn't pay any attention to them till we got home and Jack slipped off his horse. I concluded to stay in the saddle until the fellows came up and I had a talk with them. They were Capt. Asbury and his stockmen, and the first thing they called out was an order for us to throw up our hands. "Well," continued Vesey, grimly, "we aren't in that kind of business, and the next thing the guns were popping all around us. Jack had nerve. I wish the poor fellow had stayed in the saddle; but his horse scooted off, and he stood right there where he fell, without a leaf to shelter him, and pumped the lead into those stockmen, who were mean enough to shoot the brave fellow in his tracks without giving him a chance for life." "You told me they ordered him to surrender before the firing began." "So they did, that they might shoot him down the easier. I had a hot chase with them, and it was a pretty close call for me; but they didn't keep up the hunt for long. You would think," added Vesey, bitterly, "that they would have been satisfied with dropping poor Jack, without burning down our home; but that is the style of the stockmen." Here was a representative of each of the factions, or associations, so hostile to each other. The rustler knew Monteith Sterry, and must have felt a consuming resentment toward him. His words and manner indicated, too, that he was not averse to a quarrel. He had fought the stockmen more than once, and, with the memory of the recent collision and the advantages on the other side, he welcomed the chance of a conflict on anything like equal terms. Monteith did not stand in any personal fear of the famous rustler, and was fully armed and on the alert. Without seeming to do so, he kept a watch on the man, but he disliked the thought of a personal encounter with him. The scene, the surroundings, and his own nature, revolted, and he resolved to submit to all that it was possible to bear before falling back on the last resort. "No doubt," said Sterry, "there has been injustice on both sides, and stockmen as well as rustlers have done things for which there is no justification; I hope the trouble will soon end." "It will end as soon as we get justice." "Yes," Sterry could not help retorting, "for if justice were done to you rustlers none would be left. However," he hastened to add, "there is no reason why you and I should quarrel, Vesey; I had no share in the death of your friend; and if the case is as you represent it, he was more sinned against than sinning." "Of course you had no share in that simply because you wasn't here, but you have been concerned in other affairs like this where some of the rustlers have gone down." "It is quite possible I have," coolly replied Sterry, "inasmuch as when a man is attacked it is his duty to defend himself. I have not yet been convinced that I ought to stand up and allow others to do as they please when weapons were in my hands." "You have no business in Wyoming anyway," said Vesey, angrily; "you have been sent here by the Association to do its underhand work." "Duke Vesey," said Sterry, "you are a man of too much education to talk in that way. If you and I quarrel, it will be your fault, but don't fancy that I hold you in any fear. Good-night." CHAPTER XX. THE TRUCE. It was a dignified proceeding on the part of Monteith Sterry, and the rustler possessed enough gentlemanly instinct to appreciate the feelings of the young man, who had attested his courage too often for any one to question it. But at the moment of wheeling his mare to ride off both caught the sound of approaching horsemen, and Sterry checked his animal. "Who are they?" he asked, glancing at the rustler. "How should I know? They may be some of your folks." "They are as likely to be yours. I don't think, Duke, it is wise for us to stay here where we offer such inviting targets, for whoever the party may be, one of us is sure to be an enemy." Monteith Sterry moved away from the area of illumination as he spoke, Vesey keeping close to his side. "Is it understood, Duke," asked the younger, "there's a truce between you and me?" "Of course; if you know anything about Duke Vesey, you know he's square. If they happen to be some of our boys, I won't take any advantage of you, nor let them, if I can help it." "And if they are Capt. Asbury and others, I will reciprocate." Enough was said. Enemies though the men were, no bosom friends could have been more in unison for the time. Ready to shoot each other on sight less than an hour before, and as they were liable to be within the following hour, they were equally ready to risk their lives, if necessary, to carry out the pledge just exchanged. They had to ride but a short way when the gloom became deep enough to protect them against the sight of the horsemen who were approaching from the opposite direction. Six men rode into view, halting on the spot vacated by the couple just before, the one at the head being recognized in the glow of the burning ruins as Capt. Asbury, with whom the affray had taken place a short time previous. Sterry knew each, as did his companion. "All the party do not seem to be there," remarked Sterry. "They are not," replied Vesey; "three are missing." "I wonder if anything can have happened to them?" "Accidents are liable to take place in this part of the world--" "Hands up!" was the startling command that broke upon the couple at that moment, from a point directly behind them. The truth was, Sterry and Vesey had been seen by the horsemen as they stole away in the gloom. Capt. Asbury, suspecting they were rustlers, sent three of his men out beyond them on foot, and they did their part so well that they came up without alarming either of their horses, who ordinarily would have detected them. "I've been trapped!" muttered Vesey, savagely, glancing at the figures, standing but a short way off in the moonlight, with their Winchesters levelled. "Never mind," said Sterry, quickly, "up with your hands, as I do, or we'll both catch it; I'll stand by you." The rustler was wise enough to obey, with only a momentary hesitation. Had he not done so, he would never have had a second chance, for the stockmen were very much in earnest. The footmen came forward with their weapons at a level, for they were too prudent to give their prisoners a chance. "How are you, Hendricks?" asked Sterry, with a laugh, as the trio joined them. The man addressed peered closely in his face, suspecting, and yet not convinced of his identity until after a minute or two. "Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed; "is that you, Mont?" "I have a suspicion that it is," was the reply of Sterry, laughing quite heartily as he lowered his hands. "Who is your friend?" he asked, moving around to gain a better view of the rustler. "Ah, that's the man we're looking for," added Hendricks a moment later; "he's Duke Vesey, the partner of the late Jack Perkins." "You are right," Sterry hastened to say, "but he is under the protection of a flag of truce." "A flag of truce!" repeated the other; "where is it?" "I gave him my pledge to shield him against you folks, as he agreed to do if your party had proven to be his friends." "Well, that's a queer state of affairs," laughed the other, not forgetting to keep guard of the prisoner, who was permitted to lower his hands. The other stockmen were equally alert, now that there was but one man to watch, so that Vesey was really as helpless as though deprived of all his weapons. "I do not see what is so queer about it," replied Sterry, warmly; "we heard you coming and moved off out of sight. Before doing so Vesey pledged himself to stand by me against any of his friends, if it became necessary, and I promised to do the same for him. The issue shows that it is my privilege to keep my promise--that's all." It was plain that Hendricks felt himself in a quandary. He had been sent out to capture the two men under the supposition that they were rustlers. It was proved that one of them was the very individual whom Capt. Asbury was anxious to secure. To release him after taking him prisoner would place his captor in anything but a pleasant situation with his leader. Suspecting his dilemma, Sterry said: "You can readily arrange it by taking me in as prisoner and allowing Vesey to go." "That is all well enough, but it will put me in a hole that I don't intend to be put in. Capt. Asbury is the boss of this business; you two can ride up to him and make your report; that will place the responsibility where it belongs." This seemed reasonable, but Sterry felt uneasy. He knew the violent temper of Capt. Asbury, and feared he would refuse to acknowledge the agreement as binding upon him. On the other hand, Sterry was determined to stand by his pledge to the last. "I can't consent to that," he said. "You've got to," replied Hendricks; "it is idle to suppose that any such bargain as you may choose to make can be binding on others who were not present when it was made, and therefore were not parties to it." "That is one way of putting it, but the promise is binding on me, and as true as I am a living man I will fight to the death against you and the whole party before this person shall suffer because of his faith in my word." "Very well, then, fight it is; he has got to surrender to Capt. Asbury and await what he is willing to do with him." "Duke," said Sterry, turning to the rustler, "it's two of us against three, and you and I have been there before." But on the verge of the explosion the rustler came to the rescue. "There's no need of any row, Sterry; I'll surrender and take my chances." And to settle the dispute he struck his horse into a gallop, and before the surprise was over rode up to the group, who were gazing wonderingly off in the gloom, whence came the sound of voices. Sterry and the footmen were but a brief space behind them. While the astonished captain and his companions were looking around for an explanation, Mont Sterry made it in as brief and pointed words as were at his command. Capt. Asbury fixed his gray eyes upon the handsome countenance of the young man during the few minutes he was speaking, and Sterry saw, despite the forceful terms in which he stated the agreement, that the leading stockman was angry. "I've no objection," he remarked, striving to control his voice, which was tremulous with anger, "if you choose to play the woman, but I don't see what I've got to do with it." "Vesey surrendered under my promise that he should be protected; had he not believed that promise he would not have surrendered." "But would have been shot down where he sat in the saddle. Had he been beyond reach and come in under such a pledge, the case would have been altogether different; but as it is--" The fateful words were interrupted by a rush and dash. Attention had been diverted for the moment from the prisoner to the one who was pleading for him and to him who held his fate in his hands. The observant Vesey saw the inevitable trend of events, and, taking advantage of the chance, was off like a thunderbolt. The parting glimpse showed him leaning forward on his horse, who was plunging at utmost speed straight away in the gloom. A half dozen shots were sent after him and something like pursuit was attempted, but brief as was the start gained it was sufficient, and he was soon beyond all danger. CHAPTER XXI. A MESSENGER IN HASTE. The daring escape of the prisoner did not tend to improve the temper of Capt. Asbury, and he indulged in a number of emphatic expressions, during which Monteith Sterry was dignified enough to hold his peace. But the leader of the stockmen quickly recovered his self-poise and accepted the matter as one of the peculiar incidents liable to take place at any time. His version of the difficulty with the rustlers differed from that given by Vesey. They rode up to the house, not knowing who dwelt there, and were received with a shot, which, fortunately, did no damage. Duke Vesey was at the rear, near the structure in which the horses were stabled, when he hurriedly mounted and dashed off, just as he had recently done. He did not make a fight like his companion, who, as was represented, stood his ground. He was repeatedly summoned to surrender, but paid no heed to it, and it became a choice whether to shoot him down or allow him to empty the saddles. While Sterry could not feel so well disposed toward Vesey after hearing this account, he did not regret the part he had acted, and he was also suspicious that Capt. Asbury had tinged his version with a little romance. The incident itself was of small moment, but the consequences were likely to be far-reaching and important. One of the rustlers had fallen and his companion had escaped. His story of the fight would place the blame wholly upon the stockmen and inflame the feeling between the rustlers and ranchmen, already at a dangerous intensity. Capt. Asbury was out with his men for the purpose of arresting several of the most notorious of the offenders against the law. Those rustlers were sufficiently powerful to make trouble. If they were given time to organize they could sweep the captain and his little party from the earth. There was reason to believe they would do that very thing, now that Duke Vesey was at liberty to spread his account of the last outrage. Capt. Asbury held a brief consultation with his men, all, including Sterry, taking part. The consensus of opinion was that they ought to effect a junction with some of the larger parties of stockmen known to be abroad, or withdraw to some safe point like Buffalo, Riverside, or the nearest military station. Ira Inman, Larch Cadmus and the others were on the "war-path," and at no great distance. Morning would probably find them in sight, if the stockmen should stay where they were. Capt. Asbury decided to ride to the westward, in the hope of effecting a junction with friends or of reaching a point where they would be secure against their assailants. The night was well advanced, but their horses had done comparatively little travelling and were capable of a good deal more. The captain took the lead, holding only occasional converse with his men as he swung along at an easy pace; but he, like the rest, was on the lookout for danger, which was liable to approach from any point of the compass. A marked change showed itself in the temperature. The weather, as will be remembered, had been unusually mild earlier in the evening, but it now became sharp and chilly, as though the breath from the snowy mountain crests was wafted down upon them. In a valley-like depression, an hour later, where there was an abundance of grass, beside a flowing stream of water, the party went into camp, with a couple of their number on guard, just as they would have done if in a hostile country--which in point of fact was the case. The night passed, however, without any disturbance, and all were astir before sunrise. The men were provided with several days' rations, while the succulent grass afforded the animals all the food they needed, so there was no trouble on that score. Capt. Asbury and Monteith Sterry mounted their horses and rode to the crest of the nearest elevation, which was fully 100 feet in height and commanded a wide sweep of country. The morning was clear and bright, and the first glance they cast to the northward revealed a stirring sight. A horseman was less than a half-mile away, and riding at headlong speed, as if in the extremity of mortal fright. "What can it mean?" asked the puzzled leader; "no one is pursuing him, and I see no cause for his panic." "I suspect," replied Sterry, thoughtfully, "that he is a messenger bringing important tidings to you." CHAPTER XXII. IMPORTANT TIDINGS. It seemed strange that the messenger, if such he was, should know the right course to follow in order to reach the camp of Capt. Asbury, for he was riding directly toward it, and that, too, at the highest speed of which his horse was capable. But Monteith Sterry had noted a fact which escaped the captain, though he was an observant man. The horseman was not approaching the camp at the moment the couple reached the crest of the elevation and began scrutinizing the surrounding country; he was going at right angles to it, but (as it afterward proved) he carried a glass, with which, at that moment, he was also scanning the horizon for something he was very anxious to find. Fortunately he caught sight of the couple, and though he could not be assured of their identity at so great a distance, the suspicion of the truth as to Capt. Asbury caused him to put his animal to his best speed. In a brief time he rode up. While some rods away he recognized the captain and saluted him. A little nearer approach and he identified Sterry, who was astonished beyond measure to discover that he was his old friend, Dick Hawkridge, toward whose ranch he had ridden on the preceding evening. "You're out early, Dick," was the salutation of Sterry, as his old friend reined up beside him and extended his hand. "And are riding hard," added Capt. Asbury, who liked the young man. "I ride hard," replied Hawkridge, gravely, "because there is need of it; I was looking for you." "And why looking for me?" inquired the captain. "Because you and your men are in great peril." "Ah. What might be its nature?" "From the rustlers." "I was trying to persuade myself that it was they who were in peril from us, but you put it differently." "It might be as you wish if you had twenty-five or fifty men; but with less than a dozen, and more than twice that number looking for you, discretion is the better part of valor." "Tell me, Hawkridge, how all this interesting information came to you," continued Capt. Asbury. "My ranch is not far to the northward, my cattle are ranging among the foothills of the Big Horn Mountains, and all my hands are with them. I sat up late last night, going over my accounts and trying to get them into shape, and it was past midnight when two rustlers rode up. I supposed they meant to stay all night and invited them in. I have never had any trouble with them, and they had two purposes in calling. One was to give me a little advice, and the other to secure information." "Their advice, I suppose, was that you cast in your fortunes with them, and take up the business of branding mavericks and altering other brands." "Hardly that, but it was that I should keep out of the trouble, for there are going to be ugly times. Now you know that, however much I may wish to let things proceed smoothly, I will never identify myself with the law-breakers. I gave my callers to understand that, and I think they respect my position. "It seems to me," added Hawkridge, thoughtfully, "that there have been some woeful mistakes made. The Cattle Association have organized an expedition to rid Johnson, Natroma and Converse Counties of cattle-thieves, as they call them. They have imported twenty-five picked men from Texas, every one of whom is a fighter and dead shot, with Capt. Smith, an ex-U.S. marshal, as their leader. One of the party may be taken as a type of the rest. He is Scott Davis, once a guard on the Deadwood coach, and he carries a gun with twenty notches on the stock, each representing the death of a road-agent or other outlaw. "The expedition left Cheyenne some days ago and is somewhere in this section. Strong as it is, it is doomed to defeat, for I don't care how brave and skilful those fellows are, they are no more so than the rustlers, who far outnumber them. "However, it isn't that which concerns you and me just now, though it may do so later. The rustlers have learned that you are out with a small party, and they are after you." Capt. Asbury was a brave man, and he did not start on hearing this announcement, for he had been expecting it from the first; but he was prudent as well as daring, and he knew his young friend did not underestimate the danger of himself and companions. "Have they learned anything about last night's doings?" asked Sterry. "That's what started me off after you in such a hurry. My callers stayed more than two hours, and were about leaving when who should ride up but Duke Vesey, with his story of the killing of his comrade, Jack Perkins, by you and your men." "I suppose he called it a murder," remarked Capt. Asbury, sarcastically. "Yes, the worst kind, too. I knew he was drawing a long bow, but he will tell it to others, and it will spread like wildfire. He was looking for Ira Inman, Larch Cadmus and his party. There are more of them than you and others are aware of, riding up and down the country, ripe for any mischief. From what I know, Inman and a dozen of the most desperate rustlers are in the neighborhood, and as the two fellows who were at my ranch volunteered to help Vesey find them they will do it pretty soon, if they have not already done so. Vesey declared it as his belief that you would be discovered not far from his burned home, so as soon as they left I mounted my best horse and started to give you warning." "I appreciate your kindness, Hawkridge; how did you know the right direction?" "I knew the course to Vesey's ranch, and was speeding that way when I caught sight of you and Sterry on the top of this hill. I took a squint through my glass, was pretty sure who it was, and then came like mad. I didn't suspect it was you though, Mont, until I almost ran against you." "Did Vesey say anything about me?" asked Sterry, with a meaning glance at the captain. "He said you had acted like a white man in some dispute, but he didn't give the particulars and I didn't question him. He is intensely bitter against the captain and his party, and declares that not one of them shall get out of the country alive; and, captain, Duke Vesey is a man of his word." "Then I suppose I may consider myself disposed of," replied Asbury, with a laugh. "Not as bad as that, but it depends upon yourself." "What do you advise?" "Start southward at once with your men; if you meet the Texans and their friends, join them if you choose; it will make their strength so much the greater, and they need it all. If you fail to meet them, keep on till you cross the Platte and strike Fort Fetterman. In other words, captain, you have no business to be where you are." CHAPTER XXIII. AT BAY. Capt. Asbury drew a cigar from his pocket and lit it, first offering one to each of his companions. He puffed in silence for a minute or two, evidently absorbed in thought. He was a veteran of the civil war, and had learned to be cool in dangerous crises. "Hawkridge," he remarked, removing his cigar, "you are right in the main, although not wholly so." "I await correction." "Doubtless it is all true what you say about the festive rustlers roaming up and down the land seeking whom they may devour, but you forget that, leaving out the quarter of a hundred from the Lone Star State, there are also other bands of stockmen abroad. Now, if we could effect a junction with one or two of those companies, why, you'll admit, the aspect of affairs will be changed." "Unquestionably; but consider how slight the chance--" "On the contrary, I think the prospect is good. Now, if you'll be kind enough to level your glass to the eastward, possibly you will observe something interesting." Both young men quickly turned their heads in the direction indicated, and there, sure enough, was descried a body of horsemen, probably a mile distant, approaching on a gallop. Hawkridge levelled his glass. While thus engaged, Capt. Asbury signalled to his men to mount and be ready to move on a moment's call. It was well to be ready for any emergency. Dick Hawkridge studied the horsemen closely for some minutes without speaking. Then, with his eye still at the glass, he repeated slowly, as if to himself: "There are thirteen of them, and the spotted horse at the head I am sure belongs to Ira Inman; the whole party are rustlers." He lowered the binocular and looked at the captain, adding: "I suspected it; their party is but a little stronger than yours, for Mont and I will stand with you, but it seems to me it would be foolish to risk a fight in the open." "I am willing to retreat, but I don't intend to be run out of Wyoming by all the rustlers between Sheridan and Cheyenne. I am willing, however," he added, with a smile, "to make a strategical movement to the rear until we strike some place where there's a show for defence; do you know of any such place?" "My house is well fitted for that, and is not far off." "All right; lead on." By this time the rest of the party had ridden to the top of the hill, where the situation was quickly made clear to them. They looked off at the party of rustlers, and several expressed the wish that the captain would stay and fight them; but he replied that they were quite certain to get enough of fighting before they were many days older, and he followed Hawkridge. At sight of the flight, the rustlers uttered tantalizing shouts and discharged their Winchesters in the air. At the same time they increased the speed of their animals; but, as they were no better mounted than the stockmen, there was little chance of overtaking them. The surface was undulating, the ground being well covered with verdure even thus early in the spring. Sometimes pursuers and fugitives were out of sight of each other for a minute or two, but not long enough to affect the situation. The course was northwest, and Hawkridge was hopeful that they would reach his ranch in an hour or a little more. And this they probably would have done had they not been interrupted, or rather checked, by the unexpected appearance of a third company of horsemen, almost directly in front of the stockmen. "It may be they are friends," said Capt. Asbury, instantly bringing his horse down to a walk, as did the others. But the hope was delusive. A brief scrutiny of the strangers through the glass by Dick Hawkridge left no doubt that they, too, were rustlers, probably engaged on the same errand as Inman and his men. This, of course, overthrew the plan of taking refuge at the ranch of Hawkridge, with a view of defending themselves, for to push on insured a collision with the party in front. They seemed to be about as numerous as Inman's company, and as the latter were sure to arrive before anything could be accomplished by the most spirited attack on the rustlers, it would have been folly to incur such a risk. The most obvious course was to turn to the left, with no special object except to reach some place that could be used as a means of defence. In a country with such a varied surface it ought not to take long to find a refuge. Dick Hawkridge, when leading the way to his home, acted as guide, and now that the change was made he continued to do so because of his familiarity with the country. Beside him rode his friend, Mont Sterry, with Capt. Asbury and the rest following in loose order. It was an interesting question as to how Inman and the others would act upon meeting, and the stockmen watched for the junction. At the moment the abrupt turn was made in the course of the fugitives the two parties of rustlers did not see each other, a precipitous ridge preventing. They must have been puzzled, therefore, to understand the cause of the sudden change in the line of flight. The mystery, however, was speedily cleared up, and the rustlers greeted each other with ringing cheers, adding a few derisive shouts to the fleeing stockmen. They were seen to mingle for a short time only, while they discussed the situation. Then the company, increased to more than a score, galloped after the cattlemen. A fight was inevitable, for the flight and pursuit could not continue indefinitely. Brave and confident, the rustlers were ardent for the opportunity, while Capt. Asbury and his men were equally eager to come upon some place which would do something toward equalizing the strength of the combatants. It was humiliating thus to flee before the very men whom he had set out to arrest, but what veteran has not been obliged to do humiliating things in the course of his career? "This flight can't continue much longer," quietly remarked Monteith Sterry to Hawkridge, at his side. "Why not?" "The men are dissatisfied and are unwilling to keep it up. We have let those fellows approach so near that their bullets come uncomfortably close. "Capt. Asbury is growing impatient; I shouldn't wonder if he gives the order to stop and have it out with them. It will be warm work if we do, but over that next ridge I think we shall gain sight of a good place for making a stand." Something in the appearance of the surroundings was familiar to Sterry, but he could not identify them. Just then two of the rustlers fired their guns, and the pinge of one of the bullets was plainly heard. Sterry looked around and saw Capt. Asbury compress his lips and shake his head; he did not like the way things were going. A crisis was at hand. The top of the ridge being attained, all saw a large structure below, and not far off. "Do you recognize it?" asked Hawkridge, with a smile. "No--why, yes; is it possible?" "You ought to know it, for, if I am not mistaken, you are considerably interested in one member of the family." "I never supposed we were so near Fred Whitney's home," was the amazed comment of Sterry, who was in doubt whether, under the circumstances, he ought to be pleased or not. "There's where we'll make a stand," called out Capt. Asbury, "and let the music begin." CHAPTER XXIV. THE PRIMITIVE FORT. "Move a little lively, boys," added the captain, spurring his horse to a faster gait; "there'll be some shooting, and they're closer than they ought to be." By a providential coincidence, the whole party of rustlers halted before ascending the ridge, which would give them a view of the building in which the stockmen were about to make a stand. They probably saw the impossibility of overtaking the fugitives by a direct pursuit, and paused to decide upon some different course of action. This was proven by what they did a few minutes later, for they separated into two divisions, one turning to the right and the other to the left. They seemed to think that the course of their enemies must change soon, in which case there was a chance of heading them off and bringing them between two fires. The rustlers were more familiar with the country than the stockmen, and, had the chase continued, it is likely it would have resulted as they expected. But, strangely enough, these people forgot the Whitney home, upon which it may be said the horsemen stumbled the next moment. Down the ridge rode the dozen or more, Hawkridge, Sterry and Capt. Asbury at the head, with the others almost upon their heels. In the brisk morning air the frightened Jennie Whitney hastened to the door and gazed wonderingly upon the party. She recognized the handsome youth, who doffed his hat, a courtesy instantly imitated by Hawkridge, the captain, and then the rest of the men, as they halted in front of the door, where stood the pale and startled mother, at a loss to understand the meaning of the strange sight. "Good-morning!" called Sterry. "Where's Fred?" "He's on the range with the men, looking after the cattle." "And are you and your mother alone?" "We are the only ones in the house. What is the meaning of all this?" she asked, looking with astonishment at the horsemen. "We are pursued by a company of rustlers," replied Hawkridge; "they are directly behind us; I started to lead our friends to my ranch, but they headed us off, and we were compelled to apply here for shelter." "You are welcome," Mrs. Whitney hastened to say; "dismount and come in as soon as you can." Sterry, Hawkridge and Capt. Asbury thanked her simultaneously. Time was beyond value. They expected every instant to hear the crack of the rifles and the shouts of their enemies on the crest of the ridge, and could not comprehend why they were delayed. They dashed to the structure at the rear and a short distance from the dwelling, into which they ran their horses, slipped off their trappings, and hurried back to the house. Every one was inside and not a shot fired, nor was a rustler seen. It was beyond explanation. But the stockmen were wise enough to turn to the best account the grace thus given to them. They stationed themselves at the front and rear doors and windows with loaded weapons, on the alert to wing the first rustler who showed himself. Sterry found time to exchange a few words with Jennie and her mother. "It is too bad," he said, "to put you to this trouble and danger; but the rustlers outnumber us more than two to one, and it was the only hope that offered itself." "And glad am I that it _did_ present itself. O, if my poor husband had been here when they attacked him!" "When do you expect the return of Fred?" "Not before night, and the hands may not come with him. He does not dream of anything like this." "Nor did we, a little while ago. Had any other refuge presented itself we would have seized it; but I never suspected we were near your home until we came over the ridge and saw it but a few rods away." "But, where are they?" asked the wondering Jennie. "That's something I don't understand, for they were near enough for their bullets to whistle about our ears." "They have seen where you took shelter and are afraid to attack you." "That may be; but why don't they show themselves?" At this moment Capt. Asbury approached. Repeating his regrets that they should place their friends in such danger, he said: "As there is no saying how long we shall have to stay here, we ought to learn the nature of our defences. Our horses are in the stables, where, if the rustlers choose, they can get them, and they will be pretty sure to choose to do it. They can steal to the rear of the sheds and take them out without risk. Now, Mrs. Whitney, we have enough rations with us to last, in a pinch, for three or four days; how are you fixed?" "We have but a small quantity of food in the house--none worth mentioning." "No matter how slight, it is worth mentioning. Under the circumstances, I think we can say we are provisioned for the whole time of the siege, which must be over in less than a week." "But how will it end?" asked the lady. The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Take no thought of the morrow; but what worries me is the question of water--how about that?" A hurried examination disclosed that there was not quite two pailfuls in the house. Even that was more than usual. The small stream from which the supply was obtained was beyond the stables in which the horses were sheltered. Water from that source was out of the question while the siege continued. Several of the men had a small quantity in their canteens, but, inasmuch as no such contingency as this was anticipated, little preparation had been made. Still Capt. Asbury expressed himself gratified at the result of his investigation. The weather was so cool that a moderate amount of the precious fluid would prevent suffering, and he decided that, dispensing with what ordinarily was used for cooking purposes, they could get along quite well for three days, and possibly longer. The lower part of the flat building consisted of two parts, used respectively for the kitchen and the dining and sitting-room. There were four apartments above--one for the parents, one each for the son and daughter, and one for visitors. These, of course, would be held sacred for the members of the family, while the others found sleep, as opportunity presented, below stairs. There were windows on all sides of the house; and the structure, while not strong, was, of course, bullet-proof. Before all this was ascertained the rustlers showed themselves. But instead of appearing on the ridge, over which the cattlemen had ridden, half of them showed themselves on the other side, having circled around back of the stables. A moment later the rest were observed on top of the ridge. Thus, with the exception of the broad level plain stretching in the direction of the Big Horn Mountains, it may be said that the ranch was surrounded by the rustlers, who held the stockmen at bay. What would be the result? None could foresee. Hawkridge drew Sterry aside and said, in a guarded undertone: "There is only one thing to be feared." "What is that?" "It is easy for them to burn this building." "Do you think they will do that, when they know a couple of women are inside?" "It doesn't follow that there is any necessity of their being burned, nor indeed of any of us suffering from fire. When you touch off a barn the rats get out, and that's what we shall have to do." "But they will give us a chance, first." "Yes, a chance to surrender, and we might have done that without putting ourselves to all this trouble." "And suppose we _do_ surrender, after making the best fight we can--what are likely to be the terms offered?" "They will treat the majority, including myself, as prisoners of war; but Capt. Asbury, and probably you, will be excepted--he because of the killing of Perkins last night, and you because you have disregarded the warning to leave the country when ordered to do so." "All of which is mighty interesting to the captain and myself," remarked Sterry, with little evidence of fear; "but we will hope for better things." CHAPTER XXV. THE FLAG OF TRUCE. In one important respect the combatants showed commendable discretion. Although there had been considerable firing on the part of the rustlers, none of the cattlemen were hurt. It is not unlikely that the bullets were intended to frighten them, since such excellent marksmen otherwise could not have discharged their weapons without execution. Capt. Asbury and his men had not returned a shot. When their enemies appeared on more than one side of the building it would have been easy to pick off several without risk to those sheltered within the house, but he gave orders that nothing of that sort should be done. The bitterness between the parties was already intense. There were hot-heads on both sides eager to open the lamentable conflict, but were it done, there was no saying where it would end. It was wise, therefore, that the leaders forbore from active hostilities at this early stage of the business. From the front of the structure the plain stretched in the direction of the Big Horn Mountains. It was across this that Jennie Whitney descried, two days before, the return of her friends with the body of her father. She now ascended to the second story and peered long and frequently in the same direction, in the hope of catching sight of her brother. Meanwhile Capt. Asbury disposed of the members of his party as best he could. They needed no instructions from him to avoid in every way possible annoying the ladies, who were considerate and kind. About midday, excitement was caused among the besieged by the appearance of a flag of truce. A man rode over the ridge, down which the cattlemen had come in such haste, holding a white handkerchief fluttering over his head. His horse walked slowly and the rider kept his gaze on the front of the house, as though in doubt of the reception awaiting him. A hundred feet away he came to a halt, still flourishing the peace signal above his hat. Capt. Asbury was the first to discover the messenger and hurriedly arranged for the interview. "Inasmuch as that fellow is neither Inman, Cadmus, nor anyone of the leaders, it is not the thing for me to meet him." "You have recognized him?" was the inquiring remark of Hawkridge, glancing with a smile at the officer. "No. Who is he?" "Duke Vesey, who does not feel particularly amiable toward you." "I will meet him," volunteered Monteith Sterry. The captain shook his head. "While that fellow is friendly to you, perhaps, others of the company are very resentful; it isn't best to tempt them. Hawkridge, you are the best one to act." "Very well; I will do so." The horseman had come to a stop and was gazing fixedly at the building, as if waiting for a response to his advance. Jennie Whitney descended the stairs at this moment. "I think I see Fred coming," she said, with some agitation; "will they do him any harm?" "No," replied Sterry, "they have nothing against him." "But the other day--" she ventured, doubtfully. "Was a scrimmage, likely to take place at any time; that is ended, but they will probably hold him prisoner." During this brief conversation a brisk search was going on among the three men for a white pocket-handkerchief. None of them possessed such an article, the hue in each case being different. Hawkridge appealed to Miss Whitney, and she produced a linen handkerchief of snowy whiteness. "Just the thing," he said, drawing back the door sufficiently to allow him to pass out. "I don't think I will be detained long. It is understood," he added, turning to the captain, "that we don't consider the question of surrender under any terms." "It will be better to report, and then decide what to do." Hawkridge bowed and passed out. He waved the spotless linen in front of his face as he walked toward the horseman, and both smiled when they recognized each other. "Well, Duke, what is it?" asked the footman, as though he were asking an ordinary question of a friend. "I reckon you can guess. Since the two companies came together Ira Inman is at the head of the army. Some of the boys are wild to begin shooting, and they'll do it pretty soon. Before that, Inman decided to offer you folks a chance to give in. That's my business." "You simply demand our surrender, as I understand it?" "You've guessed it the first time," replied Vesey, with a nod of his head. "What terms do you offer?" "You'll be treated as prisoners of war; but," added the rustler, "it is hardly right to say that. It's Inman's idea to hold you as hostages for the right treatment of any of our boys that may fall into the hands of the stockmen." "That is quite different. Let me ask, Duke, whether this treatment is guaranteed to all of our folks?" "I wish I could say it was, Dick, but I can't; Inman makes two exceptions--Capt. Asbury and Mont Sterry. That Sterry showed himself so much of a man and was so square toward me when I was caught that I would do anything I could for him. I appealed to Inman to let up on him, but he won't; some of the boys are so mad they will shoot him on sight." "And Capt. Asbury?" Vesey's face became hard. "He ought to be hanged because of the way he acted last night." "But what is proposed to do with him and Sterry?" "Give them a fair trial." Hawkridge shook his head with a meaning smile. "It won't work, Duke; there isn't a man in our company who would consent to anything of the kind. There could be but one issue to such a trial, and it would be nothing less than the betrayal of our leader or a comrade by us." "Inman declares he will burn down the house if you refuse his terms." "Let him try it as soon as he pleases; you can tell him for Capt. Asbury that his terms are rejected." CHAPTER XXVI. THE UNDERGROUND MISSIVE. Dick Hawkridge, standing on the ground, looked up in the bronzed face of Duke Vesey, sitting in the saddle. At every window on the lower floor were faces watching the two men that had thus met under a flag of truce. From the ridge on the right, and the undulating ground to the left, peered the rustlers, intensely interested in the actions of the couple, whose words were spoken in tones too low to reach the ears of any on either side. No actors ever had a more attentive audience than they. When Hawkridge announced to Vesey that his proffer was rejected (for it was useless to report first to Capt. Asbury, as he had been told to do), the horseman said: "Dick, you would have been a cur to accept such terms, though I would do anything to even matters with that Asbury; but I want to get a message to Mont Sterry." "You can trust me to carry it." "It is for him alone; I have it in writing. Well, good-by." He leaned over from the saddle and extended his hand. As Hawkridge took it he felt something in his palm. "I understand," he said; "it shall be delivered." No one watching the couple, as nearly all were doing, suspected this little by-play. They saluted, and Vesey spurred his pony to a gallop, passing up the ridge and joining his friends to report, while Hawkridge was admitted through the door, which was immediately closed and secured behind him. To the captain and the others who crowded around he quickly told what had passed. "Your order was to let you know the terms before giving an answer," he added, addressing the leader, "but you see it wasn't necessary." A buzz of commendation left no doubt of the wisdom of his course. "But what about his threat to burn the building?" asked Sterry, addressing no one in particular. "He will do it, or at least will try it," replied Hawkridge, "for he doesn't intend any one shall have time to interfere, as may be the case if he delays too long." "To set fire to the house," remarked the captain, who had given much thought to the question, "they must first reach it, and that manoeuvre will prove a costly one to them. I suspect that some other firing will take place about that time--eh, boys?" The response revealed the feelings of the men, who were chafing under their restraint. "But, surely," continued Sterry, "they do not mean to burn the building while Mrs. Whitney and her daughter are within?" "As was said some time ago," replied Hawkridge, "that makes little difference, since it is not to be supposed that even we will stay inside during the conflagration. The firing is meant to drive us out, and it will do it." "But there must be considerable shooting, and the ladies will be in danger." "I think Inman will order us to send them out, so as to prevent harm to them." "If they were Sioux or Crows they might launch burning arrows and fire-balls; but they can't do that, and will have to run some risk in getting the flames under way." "There are signs of a storm, and if the night proves dark it will be much in their favor and against us." "Suppose they fire the stables," suggested one of the men. "They are too far off to place us in danger, unless a strong wind should blow directly this way." "Well, boys," said Capt. Asbury, hopefully, "the thing isn't through yet. I think Inman will give us another message before opening the ball, so you may rest easy until he makes his next move." Meanwhile Hawkridge had managed to deliver the little twist of paper, placed in his hand by Vesey. Inasmuch as the matter had been managed with so much care, he deemed it right that no one should see the transfer to his friend. Sterry was surprised and glanced down at the object, but, quick to catch on, closed his palm again and took part in the conversation. It was some minutes before he gained a chance to examine the contents unobserved. When he did so, they proved so important that he called Hawkridge and the captain aside and showed the letter to them. Each read it in turn, the contents being as follows: "FRIEND STERRY: You acted square with me, and I will do the same with you. Inman doesn't expect you folks to accept his terms, for if you do it will be good-by to yourself and Capt. Asbury. It would suit me very well to see him go, as he will if we get a chance at him, but I can't bear the idea of anything bad happening to you after the way you stood by me last night when that Asbury meant to shoot me. "So my advice is this: Get out of where you are and leave as fast as you know how. Queer advice, you'll think, but I'll show you how you can follow it. A friend of mine, whom we can both trust, and I, will be on watch to-night at the stables. It looks as if it is going to be as dark as a wolf's mouth. "It won't do to move before 10 o'clock. When everything is ready I will light a cigarette and flirt the match around my head once, as if to put it out. That will mean that the way is open. Steal out of the back door and dodge to the stables; your mare will be ready, and when another chance opens you can make a break. No one can overtake you, and I don't think it will be suspected who you are. "If you succeed, I hope you will have sense enough to stay out of Wyoming, at least until this flurry is over. If you are detected while trying to reach the stables you can dart back, for I don't think anyone will shoot at you, since we have orders not to do that until after you folks begin the rumpus. "Inman means to set fire to the house to-night. He won't be able to hold back the boys much longer. When ready, he will send word and ask the two ladies to come out to him, where he will hold them beyond reach of fire and bullet. He expects there will be the hottest kind of shooting, and it will be a bad thing for you folks. Capt. Asbury may as well make his will, for I'm not the only one that will lay for him. "Don't forget my directions. It will not be before 10 o'clock, and may be a little later. Don't let any one see this, and don't drop a hint to Asbury. It is meant for your good, and you will act like a sensible man. "D.V." CHAPTER XXVII. ON PAROLE. A new matter of interest claimed the immediate attention of the defenders within the home of ranchman Whitney. It will be remembered that the sister had reported the approach of a horseman, whom she believed to be her brother. The rider was now in plain sight, and a brief scrutiny through the glass by Hawkridge removed all doubt; she was right. He was coming at an easy, swinging gallop, straight toward his home. He must have seen the rustlers while yet a considerable way off, for he quickened the pace of his animal, stirred by a natural anxiety for his loved ones and by a curiosity to know the meaning of the strange condition of affairs. Had he understood matters fully, while yet at a distance, he would have avoided a mistake which occasioned him and his friends intense regret, and which proved irreparable. He did not cease his advance until within a hundred yards, when the cattlemen, who were watching his every movement, saw him bring his horse to a sudden halt. At the same moment a couple of rustlers moved into view, their guns held so as to cover him. He sat motionless until they came up, one on either side, when he was seen to be conversing earnestly with them. "They have made him prisoner," remarked Hawkridge, "just as I was sure they would." "Will they do him harm?" asked Mrs. Whitney, who, with Jennie, had descended the stairs and stood with the group near the front door. "No," was Hawkridge's reassuring reply; "he must see the uselessness of resistance, and we are not fighting Indians who learned warfare from the late lamented Sitting Bull." It was noticed that Fred Whitney, despite the wound of a couple of days before, no longer wore his arm in a sling. As he had said, he was ashamed to do so. Brave as was the young man, he had judgment. He knew that he was at the mercy of a score of rustlers, and quickly learned the situation. Capt. Asbury, Monteith Sterry, Dick Hawkridge and a number of cattlemen were besieged in his home. While he was holding earnest converse with his captors one of them turned and addressed Inman, who was out of sight of the besieged, because of the intervening ridge. His reply caused Whitney to dismount and walk in that direction, he, too, passing out of the field of vision. He was invisible for perhaps ten minutes, when he was seen coming over the ridge toward his own door, but without his Winchester or revolvers. A moment later he was admitted. He kissed his mother and sister and grasped the hands of his friends, who crowded around to congratulate him and hear what he had to say. "They told me everything," he replied, looking into the glowing faces, and smiling at the anxiety depicted on several. "I have made a woeful mistake, boys." "How's that?" asked several in the same breath. "Hankinson and Weber have moved several miles further into the mountains, so nothing will be seen of them for several days, and perhaps not for a week. The trouble with the rustlers makes it necessary that we should keep closer watch than usual upon the stock, and it is understood that they are not to leave the cattle until they get word from me. So, as I said, they are out of the question." "Is that the mistake you refer to?" asked Sterry. "I wish it was; but a couple of hours ago, Hankinson, who had ridden a considerable distance beyond the grazing grounds, came in with the report that a large body of men were camped in a valley a mile or so further on. There must be fifty at least." Capt. Asbury emitted a low whistle. "Rustlers again! By and by we'll have all there are in Wyoming swarming about this house." "No; Budd visited them, and found they were cattlemen on the hunt for rustlers. Had he known of Inman's party out here he would have given them a pointer, but of course he doesn't dream of anything of the kind. Now, the mistake I made is this: When I saw the horsemen gathered about the buildings and ridge, I ought to have wheeled and ridden as hard as I could to the stockmen. They would have been here before night and wound up this business in a jiffy. But I kept on and rode right into the trap set for me, and can do nothing." No one could question the justice of Whitney's self-condemnation, but there was no help for it. "How is it you were allowed to join us?" asked Capt. Asbury. "I am here under parole; you see they took my horse, rifle and pistols from me. I would not have been allowed to come to you except upon my pledge to return within fifteen minutes." "And what will they do with you, my boy?" asked his mother, alarmed by the information. "Nothing, so long as I remain a model prisoner; but how are you fixed for defence?" He was quickly made acquainted with the situation of affairs. "Ah," he added, with a sigh, "if there was some way of getting word to the stockmen; but I see none." "They will not be likely to give you a chance?" Fred shook his head. "I'm afraid I overdid the thing. I asked them to be allowed to go back to my cattlemen, but they would not listen to it. They acted as if they were suspicious, and told me I must stay with them until the trouble ended, which they assured me would be soon." Sterry glanced significantly at Asbury and Hawkridge. He recalled that singular message from Duke Vesey. If all went well, it might contain a shadow of hope. It was deemed best, however, to make no reference to it, even for the benefit of Whitney, who was questioned until he described as exactly as he could the location of the cattlemen. The grace had expired. No one thought of advising Whitney to disregard his parole, and no urging could have induced him to do it. He affectionately kissed and embraced mother and sister, warmly shook the hands of his friends again, assured them of his hope that all would come out right, and then, passing through the door, was seen to walk up the ridge and pass over the summit, to take his place among his captors, there to await their pleasure. "Sterry," said Asbury, drawing him and Hawkridge aside, "you were saying awhile ago that nothing could induce you to accept the offer of Vesey to slip out in the darkness of the night." "No; as he presented it, such a flight would have been a piece of cowardice altogether different from my flight last night. It would have weakened your defensive force and helped no one but me." "Now, however, it wears a different aspect." "Yes, it looks providential, and promises to open the way for the escape of all. I hardly think," added Sterry, with a smile, "that with all of Vesey's gratitude to me he would do what he intends if he foresaw the probable consequences, for it means nothing less than the overthrow of Inman's plans." "And the baffling of his charitable intentions concerning myself," grimly added the captain. "It seems to me we forgot one phase of the business," remarked Hawkridge, "and that is the fact that the chances of failure are a hundredfold greater than those of success." His companions looked questioningly at him. "Perhaps it will not be difficult for Vesey to secure the placing of himself and friend at the stables, as he promises to do, but it seems unlikely that, with a dark night and the temptation for some of us to try to get away, they will be the only couple that will be on the lookout at that time. But, supposing they are," added Hawkridge, "Sterry will have to mount his horse and ride off. There will be some of the rustlers beyond him, and how can he pass them unchallenged?" "If it proves too risky to try on horseback I can do it on foot," replied Sterry; "in the darkness I will be taken for one of them, and, if questioned, can throw them off their guard. The tramp to where the stockmen are in camp I judge to be little if any more than five miles, and it won't take me long to travel that after getting clear of these people." "I have a strong belief that the whole scheme is doomed to failure," said Hawkridge, and Capt. Asbury agreed with him. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE FINAL SUMMONS. Now came hours of wearisome waiting, especially to the besieged, who found in their close quarters little freedom of movement. Some of the men stretched out on the lower floor and slept; others talked and engaged in games of chance, while a desultory watch was maintained, through the doors and windows, upon the rustlers, several of whom were continually in sight. Before the afternoon had half passed all doubt of the coming darkness was removed. The sky became heavily clouded, the air was raw and chilly, and no moon was visible. Several distant rifle-shots were heard an hour later, but no one could conjecture or discover the explanation. Probably they signified nothing. Fred Whitney showed himself on top of the ridge once, and waved his hand in salutation to his friends. This was done to reassure his mother and sister, who were anxious, despite what he had said to them. Many longing glances were cast across the broad plain in the direction of the mountains. Like shipwrecked mariners scanning the horizon for the rescuing sail, the besieged were hopeful that some good fortune would bring the strong body of stockmen that way; but the vision was rewarded by no such welcome sight. Capt. Asbury received a shock just before night closed in. So many hours had passed without the exchange of a shot that both parties exposed themselves freely. Had they chosen, a good many might have been picked off; but the general understanding that the hour had not yet come for action, threatened, at times, to change the impending tragedy into a most ordinary situation. Capt. Asbury was sitting by one of the front windows, smoking his briarwood, and looking nowhere in particular, when he saw a man kneeling on top of the ridge and carefully sighting his gun at him. Before the fellow could secure an aim the officer moved quickly back out of sight, and he vanished. "I have no doubt it was Duke Vesey," he thought; "what a pity I did not shoot him last night." He judged it not worth while to tell any of the rest of the incident, but he took care not to tempt the fellow again by a second exposure to his aim. But for this prompt action on the part of the leader, a frightful conflict must have been precipitated. The shooting of the captain would cause retaliation on the part of the stockmen, and it would instantly become a question as to which could do the most execution. The occurrence was startling enough of itself, but Capt. Asbury quickly recovered, only to find himself troubled by another matter, which was more serious. It was the doubt whether the intended crime of Vesey was solely of his own responsibility. Was it not likely that he had received permission from Inman to end the suspense by shooting the captain of the stockmen? The captain knew that he was as much detested by the leading rustlers as by Vesey. Probably the men were growing too impatient to be restrained much longer. The suspicion appeared more reasonable from the fact that, the leader once "removed," there would remain but the single exception to those guaranteed honorable treatment. Surrender, therefore, would be more probable. No single shot could do so much to aid the rustlers as that which came near being made. "This strained situation can't last much longer; I believe it will be settled before the rise of to-morrow's sun." Monteith Sterry secured more than one chance of a few words with Jennie. The sense of danger naturally draws persons closer together, though the incentive was hardly needed in their case. "Monteith," said she, as they sat apart by themselves, with the shadow of the coming night gradually closing around, "what is to be the end of all this?" "I will tell you what I think," he replied, and thereupon read in a guarded voice the letter received from Duke Vesey, after which they burned it, that it might not fall into hands that could injure the sender. "You can see that we are going to be favoured with a very dark night, and Vesey is so anxious to befriend me that I am sure he will find the way, though Hawkridge and the captain are less confident." "But suppose they recognize you?" "They can't do that in the darkness, and my rustling friend will not draw me into a peril that is greater than that of staying here." "I feel as do Mr. Hawkridge and Capt. Asbury," she said, unable to share his ardour. "Then do you wish me to stay here?" "I think it is safer." "And go up in flame and smoke?" "Won't you be willing to share the risk with me?" she asked, entering into his half-jocose vein. "But the rustlers will save you that risk; they will give you a good point of observation, from which you can have a fine view of the scene." "Suppose mother and I refuse to leave?" "I am certain you will not do that," said Sterry, gravely, "for you will be in great danger under any circumstances." "But if we remain they may not try to fire the house." He shook his head. "Dismiss all idea of that; do not fancy, because hours have passed without the exchange of a shot, that there is any friendship between the parties. By and by a gun will be fired; somebody will be hurt, and then they will be at it like so many tigers. No, Jennie," he added, "when the warning comes for you and your mother to withdraw you must do so, not only for your own sake, but for ours." "And how yours?" "We--that is, the men--can fight much better when your presence causes them no anxiety." "But, tell me, do not Capt. Asbury and the rest feel hopeful of beating off the rustlers?" "Of course they will make a brave fight, and there is a chance of their success, but I shudder when I think of what the cost will be to both sides. How much better if all this can be averted." "True, indeed! And if I could be assured that you would succeed in reaching the camp of the cattlemen, I would bid you Godspeed." "I certainly will never reach it by staying here, and I think if my chances were doubly less they ought to be taken for the sake of the good that will come to all." At this juncture, Capt. Asbury, sitting near the window, called out: "Here's a visitor!" In the gloom he was not clearly visible, even though he was seen to advance, and heard to knock on the door. But when the latter was opened, Fred Whitney stepped inside. Here the gathering darkness was more pronounced, for it was not deemed prudent to have a light. "Inman has sent me with his ultimatum," said the messenger; "he says he has given you abundant time to think over the matter, and wants your decision." "What are his terms?" asked Capt. Asbury. "The same as before." "He promises to treat all of us as prisoners of war, with the exception of Sterry and myself. We are guaranteed a trial, which is another way of saying we shall be shot. I will allow my men to vote on the question," added the leader. The indignant protests, however, compelled the officer to recall his harsh remark. "Of course I knew that would be your reply," Fred hastened to say; "and it is what Inman and Cadmus expect. I have been sent to bring my mother and sister out of the house, for the rustlers intend to attack you before morning. That means, too, that they intend to burn it." The three defenders who were in the secret saw the danger in which this placed Sterry's intended flight. If the attack were made before 10 o'clock, there could be no possible opportunity for his getting away. Some means, therefore, must be found for deferring the assault until after that hour, if it could be accomplished without arousing the suspicions of the rustlers. CHAPTER XXIX. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE. "Do you know," inquired Sterry, "how soon it is contemplated making the attack?" "I have not heard Inman or Cadmus say, but from the talk of the men I judge it will be quite soon." "Probably within a couple of hours?" "Sooner than that--by 9 o'clock at the latest." It was the mother who now spoke: "Suppose Jennie and I decline to leave the house?" "That has been considered," replied the son, "and I am sorry to say it will make no difference. The rustlers are in an uglier mood than before--wrathful because they have been kept idle so long. They can claim that they have given you ample notice, and if you refuse to come out they cannot be held blamable for the consequences." This would never do, and Hawkridge interposed: "If the attack cannot be prevented, Fred, it must be delayed." "On what grounds?" "Any that you can think of; they must not disturb us until near midnight." "But I shall have to give a reason; I am as anxious as you to do my utmost, but I do not see how I can do anything." The quick wit of Jennie came to the rescue. "Tell Capt. Inman and Larch Cadmus for me that we have a number of articles we wish to save from destruction; ask them in the name of mother and myself to give us time in which to gather them together." Fred was silent for a moment. "At least it will do no harm to try it, even though I do not believe it will be of any use." "Ask them to make it between 11 and 12; we will then have time to collect all we want--in fact a good deal more time than is necessary." "I do not see the need of this," replied the brother, who, it need not be repeated, had no knowledge of what was in the minds of the few; "I think I can say that if I do not return in the course of ten or fifteen minutes, you may consider your prayer granted." Bidding them good-by once more, he passed out of the door and disappeared in the darkness, which had now fully descended and shut from sight the impatient rustlers. It was a peculiar situation in which the defenders, including the mother and sister, dreaded the return of the head of the household, but the front of the dwelling was watched with an intensity of interest it would be hard to describe. "By gracious! there he is!" exclaimed Dick Hawkridge, hardly ten minutes after Fred's departure; "it's no use." A shadowy figure was observed moving across the dark space in front, but while they were waiting for him to enter the door, which was unfastened to admit him, he passed on and vanished in the gloom without checking his motion or speaking. "That wasn't Fred," whispered Jennie; "I know his walk too well." "It makes no difference," replied Sterry, "you can depend that he will soon put in an appearance." But the slow minutes dragged along and nothing was seen of him. By and by a faint hope began to form that the urgent request of the ladies had been conceded, for they insisted that they could see no reason why it should not be. A full hour passed, and, when it was after 9 o'clock, all doubt was removed. The attack would not be made until close upon midnight. Monteith Sterry would be given the chance, provided Duke Vesey showed the way for him. The crisis was so near that it was deemed best to let all know what was in contemplation. Capt. Asbury, therefore, explained it to the men, as the daughter had explained to the mother. "Those fellows can't be trusted," the leader added; "they may seek to give the impression that the delay has been granted, while preparing to assail us when least expected. The night is dark, as you see, and favourable to their plans. Keep the closest watch possible on all sides of the house, for to set fire to it they must approach near enough to touch the building." "Suppose we catch sight of some one stealing up?" asked one of the cattlemen. "Challenge him, and if he does not give a satisfactory response, fire." "What will be a satisfactory response?" "The voice of Fred Whitney, and I may say of Duke Vesey, or the announcement that the individual is the bearer of a message for us. In the latter case, of course, he will approach from the front. When you shoot, too, boys, you mustn't throw away any shots, for this isn't going to be child's play." "We understand that," was the significant response of a couple of the stockmen. It was now growing so late that Sterry placed himself near the rear door to watch for the expected signal from Vesey, feeling, as the minutes passed, a nervousness greater than at any time before. Since no light burned in the house, the only means of determining the hour was by striking a match and holding it in front of a watch. Hope became high when 10 o'clock was at hand. Sterry half expected, in case everything promised well, that Vesey would manage to give something in the nature of a preliminary signal, but the closest scrutiny showed nothing of the kind. Capt. Asbury, who maintained his place near one of the front windows, close to the door, suddenly called: "Come here a moment, Sterry." The young man stepped hastily across the room. "You have everything clear in your mind?" was the question which struck the young man as slightly inopportune. "Yes; as clear as I can have; why do you ask?" "I wanted to be certain, for your task is a delicate one; we will hold the door ajar a little while after you go, so that if anything happens, such as their recognizing you, you will be able to dash back. You know it won't do for you to be identified." "I understand," replied Sterry, who felt that he ought to be at his post. He hastily stepped back, and as he did so was surprised to find the door drawn open several inches. "What does that mean?" he asked of the several gathered around in the darkness, whose faces he could not see. "Why," replied Hawkridge, "what does it mean, indeed? I thought you passed out just now." "You see I did not. Why do you make such a remark?" "Some one went out," was the amazing declaration. CHAPTER XXX. THE MISSING ONE. Monteith Sterry was astounded by the declaration of Dick Hawkridge that some one had passed through the rear door while he was talking with Capt. Asbury. "Who was it?" demanded he. "I told you we thought it was you," replied his friend. "But you know it wasn't," he replied, impatiently. "Then I have no idea who it was." "Some one has taken advantage of the moment I spent with the captain--I wonder if he had anything to do with it," he added, growing unjustly suspicious in his resentment. He strode across the room; and, knowing where the leader was, demanded: "What is the meaning of this, Capt. Asbury?" "The meaning of what?" "While I was talking a few seconds with you some person slipped out of the back door; do you know anything of it?" "It is beyond my comprehension," replied the leader in a voice which removed all distrust of him. And forgetful, in his excitement, of his duty at the front, he stepped hastily to the rear, where most of the men had crowded, despite the orders for them to maintain a strict watch. "I heard you and the captain speaking," said Hawkridge, in explanation, "but your voices were so low that I would not have identified them anywhere. Supposing you to be where you really were, I stepped to the rear window here and peered out in the gloom where I knew the stable to be--" "Did you see anything?" interrupted Sterry. "Not a sign of the signal. While I was straining my eyes to pierce the darkness the door was drawn inward slightly, and a figure moved quickly across the space toward the stables." "You could not identify it?" "Of course not, for you see how dark it is, and there was no light; in fact, I hardly saw it before it vanished." "It is as I supposed," added Sterry, angrily. "Some one fancied he had a better chance by slipping off than in remaining here, and has looked after his own safety. I wish I knew who it was." "We can soon find out," remarked Capt. Asbury; "our men are not too numerous for me to forget their names and voices." He raised his tones and summoned them. "I don't believe they will attempt to fire the house as long as the ladies are with us," he exclaimed; "some one of our party has been cowardly enough to sneak off. As I call your names, answer." He proved the truth of what he said. He had eight companions, not counting Hawkridge and Sterry. With little hesitation, for his memory was instantly prompted by others, he pronounced each name, and to every one came the prompt, unmistakable response of the owner. "One of those rustlers has managed to get in here undiscovered," was the next theory of Sterry, whose temper did not improve at the unaccountable turn of affairs. "I don't see why Inman and the rest delay their attack, when we are only children in their hands; they can do with us as they please--" All started, for at that moment a sharp rap sounded on the door. Before opening it, Capt. Asbury called out: "Who's there?" "It is I--Fred Whitney--let me in, quick!" He was admitted without an instant's delay, while all crowded around in the darkness. "Well, you can imagine what I have come for. I made known the request of mother and Jennie, but Inman and Cadmus would not think of granting it at first. I told Cadmus that it was your special request, Jennie, adding a little ornamentation of my own, such as that you knew that when he learned how much it could please you, he could not refuse. I hope I did right, did I not, sister?" In the slight laugh which followed this question, the reply of the young lady was not heard, and her brother continued: "Well, I put it so strong that Cadmus fell in with me and persuaded Inman to do the same. They agreed to wait until 10 o'clock, but no longer; so you see I did not accomplish all that I hoped, but it was better than nothing. If I am not mistaken it is past 10 now." "Not more than a few minutes." "Well, at any rate, the time is up, and they have sent me to notify you that they will wait no longer. I suppose that you, mother and Jennie, have got together all that you can take away. As I have to escort you back, I will carry the things, unless you smuggle in some of the bedsteads." "Then it is the intention to attack as soon as the ladies are fairly out of the way?" was the inquiring remark of Capt. Asbury. "You may depend that it won't be delayed ten minutes." "Do you know whether they will begin by shooting or trying to set fire to the building?" "They haven't given me their confidence, but I don't see why they should expect to accomplish as much with their guns as they could have done during the day time. They will set fire to the place, no doubt." "It may be well to impress upon those people that we are guarding every side, and the first rustler of whom we catch a glimpse will be riddled." "They are prepared for that, of course; be careful, friends, and don't expose yourselves more than you are obliged to, for there will be no let-up after the ball opens. I wish I could stay with you and help you out. I have been on the watch, ever since it grew dark, to steal off and make a run to the stockmen's camp, but I couldn't gain the first chance." "I am afraid it is too late, anyway," said the captain, "for they are so far away that it will be over before they could arrive." "Well, mother," said Fred, fearing that he was staying too long, "you and Jennie are ready, so let's go. Confound it! we must have a light for a few minutes; I know where there's a candle." He ignited a match and quickly found a candle. This was lit and held above his head, so that he could look into the faces around him. "There is no danger of their taking advantage of this until I leave," he explained, "and you can blow it out before that. I see you are there, mother; call Jennie down and let her join us." "Jennie is not in the house!" was the reply, which fairly took away the breath of all. CHAPTER XXXI. WHY IT WAS DONE. The yellow reflection of the candle lit up a group of wondering faces that were turned upon the mother, who stood in the middle of the room. Her countenance was pale, for she had passed through a great deal during the last half-hour, to say nothing of that which preceded it. Before any one could frame the questions in his mind, she explains: "I am not sure I have done right, but Jennie's departure was with my consent. She and I talked it over and discussed it in all its bearings, so far as we could see them, and she finally persuaded me that it was the right thing for her to do." She paused, as if expecting some comment, but even Fred was silent; and still standing, with the candle held aloft, he kept his wondering gaze upon his parent. "In the first place, Jennie convinced me that Monteith would only go to his own death by venturing out; at any rate, it would so result if he did not receive the signal from Mr. Vesey." As she paused the amazed Sterry asked: "But why did she think I would venture unless I got the sign from Vesey?" "Because you told her so. You were so confident, when she expressed her misgivings, that you said you would wait a few minutes after 10 o'clock and then try it, even if no signal appeared." "You are correct; I _did_ tell her that." "I consented to her plan on condition that if Mr. Vesey signalled you should go and she should stay; if he did not do so, she was to venture alone." "Why didn't she consult with me?" asked Sterry; "I could have given her some suggestions." "Ah, what a question, Mont!" said Fred Whitney, with a smile, as he comprehended the plan; "we know what suggestions you would have given her." "True enough; she never would have made the attempt," he responded. "And," said Mrs. Whitney, "your friend has not called to you." "Which reminds me," exclaimed Sterry, stepping to the rear window and peering out. But everything in the direction of the stables was as dark and silent as the tomb. "So you see that if you had followed the directions of Mr. Vesey," continued Mrs. Whitney, "no messenger would have left this place for the camp of the stockmen." "I recall how closely she questioned me as to my idea of the course to take to reach the spot. I wanted to gain her confidence and told her everything, never suspecting that she entertained any such wild scheme." "For which you cannot be blamed," remarked her brother; "but I don't understand how she expected to slip off unobserved." "Nor do I," added Sterry, with a meaning glance at Capt. Asbury. "I assure you I am innocent of complicity in the matter, for I would have opposed as strongly as any of you." "It was that single difficulty which puzzled her," said the mother, "but Providence opened the way. While she stood trembling, with her cloak wrapped about her, Capt. Asbury called Monteith. I whispered to her 'Now!' and drew back the door. She stepped through, and was gone before any one, excepting myself, suspected anything." "But what reason can she have for believing Vesey will favour her plan?" asked Sterry, feeling an admiration for the daring young woman. "He will be as much amazed as any one." "The rustlers have notified us to leave the building, but have not said that they have a preference of one door over the other. If she finds herself confronted by strangers, she can easily explain who she is and say that her mother will soon join her. Can there be any objection to such a course, or is she likely to suffer on that account?" Who could reply unfavourably to this question? The rustlers would simply conduct her to a place of safety, there to await the coming of her parent. Failure could bring no embarrassment to Jennie Whitney. "The great difficulty, after all," remarked Capt. Asbury, "as it occurs to me, is that if your estimable daughter presents herself before Mr. Duke Vesey, he will refuse his help. What reason can she give that will induce him to aid her to pass beyond the camp?" "I can think of none, but Jennie is hopeful that if she can see him alone he will permit her to do as she wishes." "Does she contemplate walking the half-dozen miles or so to the camp of the cattlemen?" asked Sterry, in dismay. "O, no; she expects to ride Mr. Sterry's mare." "But--but--" stammered Monteith. "She thought of all that," smiled the mother; "she took her saddle with her." "Well, I'll be hanged if this isn't a little ahead of anything of which I ever heard or read!" was the only comment Monteith Sterry could make, as the full scheme unrolled before him. "Jennie may fail," continued the proud parent, "but if she does, her situation and that of all of us will be no worse than before. If she fails, then you, too, Mr. Sterry, would have failed and lost your life without helping us." "I am not prepared to admit that, but my part in the business seems to have passed beyond discussion." Mrs. Whitney was about to continue her words when she ceased and faintly asked for a glass of water. Fred set down the candle and sprang to her help ahead of anyone, holding the glass, which was instantly brought, to her lips. The poor woman had undergone great trials, as will be admitted, during the past few days. The excitement had sustained her until now something in the nature of a reaction came. Helping her to a chair, Fred affectionately fanned her, and did what he could to make her rally. He was thus engaged when a second knock startled all. Capt. Asbury wheeled and demanded: "Who's there?" "Duke Vesey, under a flag of truce." No name could have astonished the cattlemen more. This was the man whom Sterry had expected to meet, and in whose care it was supposed Jennie Whitney had placed herself. Instead of that, he was asking admittance. "Your flag will be respected," said Capt. Asbury, drawing back the bolts of the door, which was next swung inward a few inches. The rustler stepped within, saying: "I have been sent by Capt. Inman to inquire the meaning of the absence of Fred Whitney, who was sent here a considerable time ago." "_That_ is the cause of the delay," replied the captain, pointing to where the young rancher was doing his utmost to revive his mother. The captain thought himself justified in turning the incident to account. "She may not live more than half an hour. I suppose, under the circumstances, you folks won't vote to hang her son on his return, though it would be in keeping with your style of business." "No; we leave that work to such as shoot down men before their homes, as was done last night. I didn't expect anything like this," he added more gently; "I will go back and report. I was told to bring the ladies, and as I can't take the elder just now, I suppose it's best to leave both till I learn what Capt. Inman wishes." Monteith Sterry caught a significant glance of Vesey, while speaking, but was utterly unable to interpret it. He, however, removed to that side of the room, so as to place himself near him. Still the rustler made no other sign. Too many eyes were upon him. One of Capt. Asbury's most noticeable points was his ability to "catch on" to a situation like the present. He saw the look given by the visitor, and translated it as meaning that he wished to make some communication to the other. "Sterry," said the captain in his most rasping manner, "this is the fellow you were so tender on last night, and I suppose he will reciprocate when he gets a chance to draw a bead on you. I will leave to you the happiness of escorting him through the door, for the pleasure would quite overwhelm me." "I am willing to act the gentleman at any time," replied Sterry, quickly seizing the opportunity of bringing himself near enough to hear what Vesey said without any one else noting it. As he was passing out the rustler remarked, in a quick undertone: "I did my best, old fellow, but it won't work; they suspect something, and wouldn't let me go near the stable after dark. Sorry, but it's no use." "But I thank you all the same," guardedly responded Sterry. CHAPTER XXXII. THE HOSTAGE. Despite the alarm caused by the sudden illness of Mrs. Whitney, it was quickly apparent that nothing serious was the matter with her. She had succumbed temporarily to the intense strain to which she had been subjected, and, under the considerate attention shown her, speedily rallied, declaring herself, within five minutes after the departure of Vesey, as well as ever. "No one can rejoice more than I," observed Capt. Asbury; "and, since it is so trifling, you will not misunderstand me when I say that your illness seems to have been providential." Fred and the rest looked inquiringly at the leader. "The man who was here has gone back with the report of what he saw, and I think my words will cause him to represent the case--well," added the captain, with a smile, "as it appeared at that moment. That will secure further delay." "But what can it all amount to?" asked Fred in turn; "they may give you a half-hour or so, but that does not count." "If your estimable mother could manage to--ah--look desperately ill when the messenger returns, why, it might help matters." But the good woman shook her head. Appreciating the gravity of the situation, she could not be a party to such a deception, even though beneficent results might follow. "He saw me as I was, and thus he must see me when he comes again. My conscience would not permit it otherwise." "You are right, Mrs. Whitney, and I beg your pardon," replied the captain. Meanwhile, Monteith Sterry was thinking hard. Begging the indulgence of the others, he drew Capt. Asbury aside. "I have decided upon an attempt," said he abruptly, "which you must not forbid, even though your judgment may condemn it." "What is it?" "I am going to try to get away." "How?" was the surprised question; "what chance have you of succeeding, when every side of the house is watched?" "Vesey told me, just as he was leaving, that he was not allowed to take his place as guard at the stables, which explains why he failed to give me the signal." "He is unaware of what Miss Whitney has done?" "I do not know of a surety, for he made no reference to it, but you heard his remark, which indicates that he is ignorant." "Sterry," said the captain impressively, "the only friend you have among the rustlers is that same Vesey, and I place less faith in him than you do; yet you propose this wild scheme, without even the doubtful help of that man, and still expect me to approve it." "You put it truthfully; I will only say that in the darkness I hope to be taken for one of them." "And if you are?" "I will work my way beyond the lines, and then make for the camp of the stockmen." "On foot or horseback?" "I can hardly expect to obtain a horse, but let me once gain the chance, and I will show some sprinting." "You ignore the services of Miss Whitney?" "It was a brave and characteristic deed, but a woman acts from intuition rather than reason. There is not a shadow of hope that she will accomplish anything." "In my judgment, the prospect is as favourable for her as for you." "Well," replied Sterry, "I rather expected you to talk that way, so your condemnation is discounted. I intend to pass out of the rear door within the next three minutes; I wish you to hold it, ready to open in the event of my deciding on a hasty return. If such return does not follow in the course of a quarter of an hour, you may conclude that I won't be back." "I have already concluded that," was the significant comment. The candle diffused enough illumination to show the anxious faces turned toward the couple as they walked back from the corner to which they had withdrawn for their brief consultation. In the fewest words possible the captain explained the decision of the young man. He frankly stated that he did not believe there was any hope of success, but Sterry was firm in his resolution, and he would not interpose his authority. Fred Whitney was about to protest, but the expression of his friend's face showed that it would be useless, and he forebore. Mont peered through the window, near the rear door, and, so far as he could judge, everything was favourable. Then he faced about, smiled, and without a word waved his friends good-by. The door was drawn inward just enough to permit the passage of his body, and the next instant he had vanished. Capt. Asbury sprang to the window and looked after him, but quick as he was, the time was sufficient for the youth to disappear as completely as though he were a dozen miles distant. "If I may be allowed," said the captain, in his most suave manner, "I would suggest, Mr. Whitney, that you assist your mother to her apartment up stairs. She is in need of rest, and can obtain it there much better than here." The good woman glanced suspiciously at the man, half doubting the disinterestedness of his counsel, but he looked so grave and solicitous that she was sure she did him injustice. While she was hesitating, Fred added: "It is good advice, mother; you can lie down, and when it is necessary I will call you. Come, please." She could not decline, and the stalwart son, who seemed to have forgotten all about his wounded arm, almost carried her up the short stairs and to her room. He was so familiar with the interior that he needed no light, and deposited her as gently as an infant on the bed, kissed her an affectionate good-night, and promised to listen and come to her on hearing the slightest movement in her apartment. "How does she seem to be?" asked Capt. Asbury, as Fred came down the stairs. "As well as ever; but the little rest will be grateful. She has had enough to try the strongest person within the last few days." "True indeed. I presume Vesey will soon be back with some ugly message from Inman and Cadmus, but we have delayed matters so long that I'm hopeful of keeping it up a while longer. Suppose, when this enterprising rustler shows himself, you allow me to do the talking, Fred. There is a good deal, you know, in the way you put things." "I understand," replied the other, with a smile. "It will come, perhaps, more appropriately from you than me." It was apparent from the manner of the captain that he felt considerable hope of success through the efforts of Miss Whitney or Sterry, or both. Time was the great factor. It would seem that three or four hours ought to bring the cattlemen, if either of the messengers succeeded in getting through the lines. While there was little doubt of the ability of the besieged being able to stand off their assailants for a much longer time, yet there was every reason to strain to the utmost the fortunate delay already secured. A conflict was certain to result in a number of deaths to each side. Not only that, but it would intensify the bitterness already prevailing through many portions of Wyoming and Montana between the cowmen and rustlers, and postpone and increase the difficulty of the adjustment of the quarrel. A full half-hour passed, during which the captain kept his place at the rear door, ready to admit Sterry should he make a dash for it. He did not appear, and when the fastenings of the structure were returned to their place the leader's heart was more hopeful than ever. He had just made a remark to that effect when a knocking was heard again on the front door, accompanied by Duke Vesey's announcement that it was himself who claimed admission. The captain drew back the fastenings and the rustler stepped inside, his face showing great agitation. "This is a fine state of things," he said, addressing young Whitney, Hawkridge and the captain. "To what do you refer?" asked Whitney. "You sent Mont Sterry out awhile ago, and the rustlers have caught him; he's in their hands and will be shot at daybreak. Capt. Inman sent me to you with that message, and to say that the fight will open in a few minutes. You can't play your tricks any longer on us." It was apparent that Duke Vesey was in a rage over the mishap that had befallen his friend. Capt. Asbury quietly placed himself between the fellow and the door by which he had entered. "What is the meaning of that?" demanded the rustler, turning his head; "I'm here under a flag of truce." "Where is it? You haven't shown any, and you can't. I shall hold you as a hostage for the safety of Mont Sterry; whatever harm is visited upon _him_ shall descend upon _your_ head!" CHAPTER XXXIII. THE PRISONER. It may be said that Monteith Sterry's main hope for the success of his perilous scheme lay in its boldness. It was not to be supposed that the rustlers, surrounding the besieged on every hand, would forget the probability of just such an attempt as he made. The stockmen could not expect to slip away one by one, or in a body; nor was there anything to tempt such an effort, even if it offered a fair prospect of success; for, of necessity, they would have to depart on foot, and with the coming of daylight their situation would be worse than now, with a strong shelter above and around them. But it was known among the defenders that two of their number were doomed, if they fell into the hands of the rustlers. It was probable, therefore, that one or both of these individuals would try to get away. Whether or not the leaders held any distrust of Vesey cannot be known; but his little scheme for befriending Monteith Sterry was nipped in the bud by his being retained at the front of the building, where, as has been shown, he acted as the bearer of messages between Inman and Capt. Asbury. There were men closely watching the building from the moment darkness closed over the scene. Had Sterry attempted to steal along the side of the house and then dodge away, he would have been detected and halted at once. On the contrary, he moved with his usual gait in a diagonal direction toward the stables. His object was to learn the likeliest method of leaving the place. He had perhaps walked fifty feet, when some one advanced from the gloom and called, in an undertone: "Halloo, who is that?" "It's I, Smith; who are you?" The name, of course, was a venture, but it was not uncommon, as the reader knows, and more likely to be right than any other. The best of it was, it seemed to satisfy the other, who, without announcing his own, asked: "What are you doing?" "I've been looking around to see what I could learn." "Anything new?" "No, not as far as I can discover; they seem to have a light burning in there, but are waiting for us." "I wonder they didn't give you a shot; Vesey says they are desperate, and he brought back word that they would shoot the first of us seen prowling about the place. I wonder you didn't catch it." "I took good care. When do you suppose the fight will open?" "Pretty soon; I s'pose you are as tired of this dallying as the rest of us." "Well, it strikes me as best to wait until sure everything is ready." Sterry was anxious to end this pointless conversation, for the stranger had approached quite near and peered into his face, as though not free from suspicion. The darkness was deep, but on the other side of the ridge a small fire was burning, from fragments brought from the stables. Of this the adventurer meant to keep clear at all hazards. More than one rustler knew him intimately, and it might be that he to whom he was talking was an old acquaintance and enemy. How Sterry longed for the presence of Vesey! In a natural manner he sauntered up the ridge, as if his intention was to return to the camp-fire, that being the course most likely to dissipate any misgiving on the part of the other. The latter made no response, and Sterry kept on, thinking: "I'm rid of him, any way, and ought to have less trouble with others that may wish to ask questions." But, glancing over his shoulder, he was startled to observe that the man, instead of moving off, as he had supposed, was standing motionless in the gloom, as if studying him. "By gracious!" concluded the youth, "he must have noticed my voice, for, not knowing Smith, how could I imitate it?" The situation would have made any one uneasy, but he did not hasten nor retard his footsteps until he reached the top of the ridge, and was able to observe the camp-fire clearly. It was small, as has been said, but five or six figures were lolling about it, smoking, talking, and passing the dismal hours as inclination prompted. Other forms were moving hither and thither, some of them quite close to where Sterry had halted, though none paid him any attention. The young man was looking for an opening by which he could make his way beyond the lines without attracting attention. The best prospect seemed to be the stretch of prairie extending from the front of the house toward the Big Horn Mountains. "No one appears to be on the lookout there--" At that instant each arm was tightly gripped, and the man with whom he had exchanged words but a few minutes before said: "Mr. Smith, please go with us to the fire; my friend here is Smith, and he is the only one in our party with that name; maybe you are his double." It was useless to resist, and Sterry replied: "You know there are several Smiths in this country, and I ought to have the privilege of wearing the name without objection." "We'll soon see," replied the first captor. Within the next minute Sterry was marched in front of the camp-fire, where the full glare fell upon his countenance. Then a howl of exultation went up, for more than half of the rustlers in the group recognized him. CHAPTER XXXIV. OUT IN THE NIGHT. Enough has been already told for the reader to understand the scheme which Jennie Whitney, with the help of her mother, attempted to carry out for the benefit of the besieged cattlemen. With her cloak around her shoulders and her saddle supported on one arm, she passed quickly from the rear of her home to the stables, only a short distance away. She had been on the alert for the signal of Duke Vesey, and, seeing it not, was prepared to encounter some one else. In this she was not disappointed, for at the moment of catching sight of the dark mass where the horses were sheltered the figure of a man loomed into view as though he had risen from the ground. She stopped short, and observed, dimly, the forms of two others just behind him. "Halloo!" exclaimed the nearest, "how is this?" With peculiar emotions the young lady recognized the voice of Larch Cadmus. She hoped this was a favourable omen, and was quick to turn it to account. "Larch, is that you?" she asked, peering forward as if uncertain of his identity. "I declare, it is Miss Jennie!" he exclaimed, coming forward; "how is it you are alone?" "Mother did not wish to come with me," replied the daughter, trying to avoid the necessity of direct deceit. "She will probably leave the house pretty soon." The fellow was plainly embarrassed, despite the protecting gloom which concealed his features. Jennie knew him to be one of her most ardent admirers, though she had never liked him. Her hopes were now based upon making use of his regard for her. "You have come out, Jennie, I suppose," said he, offering his hand, which she accepted, "so as not to be in the house when the--ah, trouble begins." "O, I know it will be dreadful; I want to go as far away as I can--do you blame me, Larch?" "Not at all--not at all; and I hope, Jennie, you don't blame me for all that your folks have suffered." "Why, Larch, why should I blame you?" asked the young lady, coming fearfully near a fiction in making the query, for she knew many good reasons for censuring him in her heart. "But how soon do you intend--that is, how soon do the rest of your folks intend to attack the cowmen?" "We--that is, they--expected to do so long ago, but there have been all sorts of delays; it will come pretty soon now." "Where are you to place mother and me?" "Over the ridge, yonder; you will be out of danger; you need fear nothing; why should you, for your mother will be with you and your brother will be with us, so that he can take no part in the fight." He made no reference to Mont Sterry, and she was too wise to let fall a hint of her anxiety concerning him. "But, Larch, suppose, when you set fire to the house, as I heard your folks intended, our people rush out and attack you?" "Do they intend to do that?" he asked. "I am sure I don't know; but you can see, if they do, the shooting will be going on all around mother and me." "You can pass farther out on the plain or take shelter in the stable, among the horses." "But that may be too late," interposed Jennie, in well-feigned alarm. "You can take refuge here now." "I can't bear to stay in the stable, for the horses will become terrified when the shooting begins; they may break loose and prove more dangerous than the flying bullets." There was sense in this objection, and the rustler saw it. He was anxious to propitiate the young woman, whom he admired so ardently. "Well, my dear, what would you like to do?" "Now, Larch, you won't laugh at me if I tell you," she replied, in her most coquettish manner. "Laugh at you!" he protested; "this is no time for laughing; it was a shame that those people should turn your house into a fort, when it could do them no good. Tell me what you want and it shall be done, if it is in my power." "Thanks! You are very kind, and I shall never forget this favour; I want to mount one of the best horses in the stable and ride out so far that I am sure to be beyond reach of danger." The proposition staggered the rustler--so much so that it did not occur to him, just then, that the daughter appeared a great deal more anxious to look after her own safety than her mother's. "You have a horse in the stable, haven't you?" "Yes, Jack is there, and he is a splendid fellow; he is the one I want." "But the saddle?" "I have it with me; here it is; you and I will adjust it together." And the impulsive miss placed the saddle in his grasp before he knew it. She certainly was rushing things. It must be admitted, too, that she showed fine discretion. There was but one way of handling Mr. Larch Cadmus, and she was using that way. He turned about and walked to the door of the stable. "Jack is in the second stall," she said, pausing at the entrance, "and his bridle is on the hook near his head." The gloom was impenetrable, but a couple of matches gave Cadmus all the light needed, and a minute later he brought forth the fine animal, who whinnied with pleasure at recognizing his mistress, despite the gloom. Jennie gave what help she could in saddling and bridling him, the other two men standing a little way off in silence. She kept up an incessant chatter, repeating her thanks to Cadmus for his kindness, and binding him more completely captive every minute. But the rustler was inclined to be thoughtful, for before the animal was ready he began to feel misgivings as to the prudence of what he was doing. There was something odd, too, about the young lady mounting her pony, riding alone out on the plain, and leaving her mother behind. Then, too, she had emerged from the rear instead of the front of the house, as he judged from her line of approach. Could there be any ulterior purpose in all this? If she would only cease her chatting for a minute or two he might figure out the problem, but the trouble was, nothing could stop her. In fact he didn't wish her to stop, for that voice was the most musical one to which he could listen, and he would have been glad had it sounded for hours in his ears. He managed to drift dangerously near the truth. "Can it be that she intends to ride away for help?" he reflected. "It has that look; but no, it is hardly that, for there isn't any help within reach that I know of. She might find it in the course of a day or two, but this affair will be over before daylight--I beg pardon, what was it you said, Jennie?" "Why, Larch, I'm tempted to pull your ears; you are a fine gallant; here I have been standing full ten seconds, waiting for you to help me on the horse, and you have paid me no attention." "It _was_ rude, my dear; I hope you will pardon me," he replied, stepping quickly forward, "but I am very absent-minded to-night." "I will pardon you, of course, for you have been so good and nice that it would be ungrateful for me to be impatient." He took the Cinderella-like foot in his broad palm and cleverly assisted her in the saddle. While he helped to adjust the reins, her tongue rattled on harder than ever. "How far, Larch, will it be necessary for me to ride so as to be sure--mind you, sure--of being out of the way when this awful business opens?" "Well, I should say a hundred yards or so will be enough--" "Mercy! do you think so? I ought to go two or three times as far as that; you won't object, will you? and when the shooting _does_ begin, I can hurry Jack farther off." "Do as you think best; but it seems to me, Jennie, that you are forgetting your mother--" "O, no; when Fred brings her out--maybe he has done so now--tell her the direction I have gone and she will understand. Which is the best course for me to take? I guess it don't make any difference, so I will go this way." Through all this apparently aimless chatter, Miss Jennie Whitney was using her wits. She knew a long ride was before her, and everything would be ruined if she lost her way. There was no moon or stars to give guidance, and she therefore carefully took her bearings while the chance was hers. "I suppose it's all the same which course you follow, but I fear I am doing wrong in allowing you to ride off--" "Now, don't spoil everything by regretting the handsome way in which you have indulged my whim; I think I will ride over the ridge to the left--" "Hold on, Jennie, until I can speak to Inman; he may object--" "You can speak to him after I am gone; good-night, Larch, and many thanks again for your kindness." She rode off with her intelligent Jack on a walk until she was clear of the camp, when she touched him into an easy gallop. Larch Cadmus stood looking into the gloom where she had vanished, almost before he comprehended her intention. "Well, she's a puzzle!" he exclaimed to his two companions, who came forward; "I don't know what to make of her. What do you suppose she meant by that, boys?" "It's easy enough to see," replied one of them, with a laugh; "she's gone off after help." "Do you think so?" asked the startled Cadmus; "where can she get it?" "She may bring back their hands." "There are only two of them," said Larch, much relieved, "and they won't amount to anything in the rumpus. You don't imagine that she knows of any larger force anywhere in the neighbourhood?" "She can't know of any, for there ain't any," was the clincher of the rustler; "or, if there is, she can't get it here in time to do Asbury and the rest any good." Cadmus was relieved by the words of his friend. Enough misgivings, however, remained to make him say: "There are so many moving about that her departure don't seem to be noticed; I'll take it as a favour if you don't mention it to any one, for now that she is gone I am sure I never should have allowed it." The couple gave the promise, though their belief was that nothing serious would follow. Leaving the two to keep watch at the stables, Cadmus sauntered to where Inman was seated near the camp-fire, smoking a pipe. A little inquiry disclosed that neither the leader nor any of his companions had noticed the departure of the young lady. It was some time after this that Duke Vesey brought the report of Mrs. Whitney's illness as an explanation of her son's delay in returning to the camp of the rustlers. Exasperated, and suspecting a pretense, Inman consented to a brief postponement of the attack. The next startling occurrence was the capture of Monteith Sterry while trying to steal through the lines. As we have shown, he was identified the instant he was brought into the reflection of the firelight, and such precautions were taken that escape by him was out of the question. When their impatience could stand it no longer, Vesey was sent to Capt. Asbury with the message which he delivered. Instead of his returning with a reply, Fred Whitney came back, bringing the announcement that Vesey had entered the house without claiming the protection of a truce, and after telling what he was directed to tell about Monteith Sterry, Capt. Asbury had directed Whitney to notify Capt. Inman that he would retain Vesey as a hostage, guaranteeing that whatever harm was visited upon Sterry should descend upon the head of Vesey. This message, as may be supposed, caused consternation for some minutes in the camp of the rustlers. The feeling was quickly succeeded by exasperation. Had Inman and Cadmus been given the opportunity, no doubt they could have made a good argument to prove that, inasmuch as Vesey had passed back and forth several times after his first announcement of a flag of truce, and its acceptance by the besieged cowmen, it was not required by the law of nations that he should proclaim the fact while continuing to act as messenger between the hostiles. On the other hand, the truth remained that he had entered the house of the rancher with weapons in his hands and without any claim of immunity from harm. The question was such a nice one, capable of so many finely-drawn theories, that it is useless to discuss it here. Whatever decision we might reach, we could not feel assured we were right. The hard fact confronted the rustlers that one of their principal men was in the power of the cowmen and was held as a hostage for the safety of the detested Monteith Sterry, who had been warned that he would be shot on sight by any rustler who gained the chance. The unexpected phase of the situation caused a long and angry discussion between Capt. Ira Inman and his leaders, to which, as may be supposed, Fred Whitney and Monteith Sterry paid close attention. CHAPTER XXXV. CONCLUSION. "Now, Jack, do your best, for everything depends on you." Jennie Whitney looked around in the darkness and saw the glimmer of the rustlers' camp-fire, fully two hundred yards to the rear, with the shadowy figures moving to and fro. "They may change their minds," she added, recalling the words of Larch Cadmus, "and decide to bring me back. Let them do it if they can!" The intelligent pony acted as if he understood what was expected of him. With a light whinny at the pleasure he felt because of the opportunity of stretching out his beautiful limbs he broke into a swift canter, heading straight for the point where his rider believed the friendly camp was to be found. She held the reins loose, knowing the danger of attempting to guide him where it was impossible to keep the points of the compass in mind. The way was smooth and even, although there is always danger in going at such speed in the night. She deemed the stake warranted it, however, and did not check the rapid pace. Night on every hand and not a shining star overhead. If she could find the party of stockmen in time, so as to bring them back to her home, their strength would overawe the rustlers, and the whole difficulty could be arranged without the conflict which she looked upon with unspeakable dread. "It will save him, too," she added, hesitating to pronounce the name that was in her heart, which would have throbbed more painfully had she known that in a brief while he would be helpless in the power of the men eager for his life. "I am glad he did not venture out of the house, when his friend could have done him no good. What will he think of me on learning what I have done? He will say that I am rash and foolish, and perhaps I am; will he suspect that it was to save him that I undertook this errand, which, after all, is attended with no risk to me worth mentioning?" These were pleasant musings, but the task before her was too serious and made too close demands on her mental and physical energies for her to indulge in them. The delightful reverie could be deferred to a more convenient season. Jennie Whitney had lived long enough in the West to understand that in times like the present it is safer to depend on the instinct of one's heart than upon one's reason. It seemed now and then that Jack was following the wrong direction, but she was wise in not interfering. The gloom was so deep that she could see barely a few paces beyond the pointed ears in front, but when the ground showed an abrupt rise she recalled the location and knew he had followed the exact course she desired. She pulled slightly on the reins and he dropped to a walk. At the same moment something dark moved aside, the pony diverting his own steps to avoid it. She experienced a slight shock of fright, but recognized the object as one of the cattle probably belonging to their own herd. Others showed dimly here and there as the horse carefully picked his way forward. "Halloo, who's that?" called a gruff voice from the darkness, the hail proving more startling than the first surprise. "It is I, Jennie Whitney," replied the young lady, "and I am searching for help." "Well, I'll be hanged! What's up, Miss Jennie?" It was Budd Hankinson who came forward on foot, his figure appearing of gigantic proportions in the gloom. He was more alarmed than she, as he had warrant for being, knowing, as he did, that some extraordinary cause must have brought the girl to this place alone at that hour of the night. She quickly told her story, explaining that Fred was held a prisoner by the rustlers, else he would have hastened back to secure the assistance for which she was looking. "You're a brave girl," said the honest fellow, as he laid his hand on the reins of the pony; "there are mighty few that would have done what you've done to-night." "Never mind about that, Budd, but tell me what to do." "Why, you mustn't do anything; I'll do the rest." "No, you may help me, but what is it to be?" "Luck's running your way, Jennie; the stockmen have moved their camp since Fred left this morning." "Mercy! I thought I had only two or three miles farther to go." "Their camp isn't more'n half a mile off, right over the swell yonder; we'll be there in a jiffy." "And you will go with me?" "Wal, I reckon; what sort of a chap do you take me for?" "Where is Weber?" "Three miles to the south, which is in t'other direction; we won't have time to look him up, and it wouldn't do any good if we did. We made a change of grazing grounds, as I s'pose Fred told you, but some of the cattle strayed off here and I was looking 'em up when I heard your pony." "Where's your horse?" "Not far; wait here and I'll be right back." He was gone but a few minutes, when he returned in the saddle. "It won't do to go too fast," he explained, moving forward with his animal on a walk, "but we can keep beside each other." Riding thus carefully, he questioned her about the stirring incidents at the house, and she gave him the particulars. The sagacious fellow had seen before this how matters stood between her and Monteith Sterry, and he knew her anxiety, but his good taste prevented any reference to it further than to say: "I hope Mont will be too wise to try to slip out of the house, for if he does he's sure to be grabbed up by them, and they won't give him a chance for his life." "Do you think he will make the attempt, Budd?" "No, now that he knows you have started, for you've got a mighty sight better chance to succeed than he could have. Of course he has too much sense for anything of the kind." It was well that neither of them suspected the truth. "There they are!" They had reached the top of the elevation, and saw before them the twinkling lights of several camp-fires. The stockmen, fully understanding the nature of the work they had undertaken, conducted themselves like a force invading a hostile country. Regular sentinels were stationed, to prevent the insidious approach of an enemy. The couple rode down the hill, and, as they expected, were challenged on the edge of the camp. Inasmuch as Budd had visited the men during the day and formed numerous acquaintances, he had little difficulty in making himself known. All, excepting the guards, had retired for the night, but the visitor was conducted to the place where Maj. Sitgraves was asleep, Jennie remaining on the outskirts with one of the sentinels, who treated her with all courtesy. Maj. Sitgraves was a brave man, who had only to hear the story brought to him by the honest cowboy to understand the urgency of the case. It was now near midnight, and the attack at the ranch was liable to be made at any moment. The stockmen could not reach the scene of danger too soon. Almost instantly the camp was astir. It looked as if the men had received orders to attack a force of Indians, whose location was just made known to them, and, in point of fact, the situation was somewhat similar, for a brisk fight appeared inevitable. Three rustlers whom the major was particularly anxious to arrest were Ira Inman, Larch Cadmus and Duke Vesey, and he especially wanted the first two. They were with the party not far off, and, aside from the call for help of the imperilled stockmen, the prospect of capturing those fellows was sufficient warrant for a prompt movement. Within half an hour after Jennie Whitney's meeting with Budd Hankinson the party of half a hundred were galloping westward, she riding at the head, with Maj. Sitgraves and Budd, who acted as guide to the expedition. Hope arose with every rod advanced, for if fighting had begun the reports of the guns would be heard, but the listening ears failed to catch the first hostile sound from the Whitney ranch. By and by a point was reached which would have shown them the flash of the guns, but the gloom remained impenetrable. The twinkling camp-fire, at the base of the ridge, gave just the guidance needed, and, with Budd Hankinson's intimate knowledge of the country, enabled the force to tell exactly where they were. Maj. Sitgraves decided to defer his attack until daylight, unless the safety of the beleaguered cattlemen should force him to assault sooner. In the darkness, with the open country around, and the excellent animals at the command of the rustlers, most of them would escape upon learning the strength of the assailants. At the earliest dawn the stockmen could be so placed that, as the commander believed, nearly if not quite all of the law-breakers would be corralled. Accordingly, a halt was made while yet a considerable way off, and Budd Hankinson went forward on foot to reconnoitre. Upon his report must depend the action of the stockmen. The fellow was gone more than three-quarters of an hour, and when he came back he brought astounding news. Not a solitary rustler was to be found anywhere near the ranch. Hardly able to credit the fact, Budd picked his way to the building, knocked, and was admitted. There the amazing truth was made known. Capt. Ira Inman and all his men had been gone for an hour, and were probably miles distant at that moment. The detention of Duke Vesey as a hostage for the safety of Monteith Sterry proved the key to the whole situation. When Inman learned how he had been outwitted he was enraged to the point of ordering an attack at once, with the resolve to give mercy to no one. He even threatened to visit his fury upon Fred Whitney, who had shown such punctilious regard for his parole, for it would seem that under the circumstances he would have been warranted in staying behind with his friends. But before taking so rash a step, the cooler judgment of the leader came to his rescue--He placed a high value on Duke Vesey, who had been associated with him in several dangerous enterprises, and he knew that any harm done to Sterry would recoil on him, just as the grim Capt. Asbury had threatened. After prolonged discussion with Cadmus and others, it was decided to offer to exchange Sterry for Vesey. The proposition was accepted, and the exchange faithfully made, though considerable more delay was involved. But while it was under way Inman learned of Jennie Whitney's flight toward the Big Horn Mountains. Keener of wit than Larch Cadmus, he suspected the truth at once, though he knew nothing of the proximity of the stockmen. Before making the attack and attempt to burn the building he sent out two of his best mounted men in the direction taken by her, to investigate. They did so with such skill that neither Budd Hankinson nor any of the stockmen suspected them. They returned with news of the approach of a body too powerful for them to think of combating. They therefore fled in the darkness, the promptness of the leaders probably hastened by the knowledge that they were the parties for whom the stockmen were looking. And so ended the campaign. The situation had been critical for a long time, and there were moments, time and again, when the most trifling incident intervened to avert a fearful conflict between men of the same race and blood; but all had now passed, and it may be said that not so much as a hostile shot had been exchanged. The main events of the troubles in Wyoming between the cowmen and rustlers are too well remembered to require recital at our hands. The expedition referred to in another place left Cheyenne in April for Nolan's Ranch, a hundred or more miles distant. Within the following month, the Sixth U.S. Cavalry brought all of them back to Cheyenne as prisoners of war, thus saving them from extermination at the hands of the indignant rustlers, who had them hemmed in on all sides. Fred Whitney sold out his ranch, near the headwaters of Powder River, and moved eastward. He was not actuated by fear, for it will be conceded that he proved his courage, but he desired to take his loved mother and sister away from the sorrowful memories that must always cling to the place. It will not surprise the reader to learn, further, that Monteith Sterry found it quite convenient to make his home in the same neighborhood with the Whitneys, and it was but a short time after this removal eastward that a most pleasing incident occurred in the lives of the young man and Miss Whitney, of the nature of which we are sure the reader does not need to be told. 
16623	----	* * * * * LETTERS OF A WOMAN HOMESTEADER BY _Elinore Pruitt Stewart_ [Illustration] BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge 1913 AND 1914, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY CO. 1914, BY ELINORE PRUITT STEWART ALL RIGHTS RESERVED _Published May 1914_ PUBLISHERS' NOTE The writer of the following letters is a young woman who lost her husband in a railroad accident and went to Denver to seek support for herself and her two-year-old daughter, Jerrine. Turning her hand to the nearest work, she went out by the day as house-cleaner and laundress. Later, seeking to better herself, she accepted employment as a housekeeper for a well-to-do Scotch cattle-man, Mr. Stewart, who had taken up a quarter-section in Wyoming. The letters, written through several years to a former employer in Denver, tell the story of her new life in the new country. They are genuine letters, and are printed as written, except for occasional omissions and the alteration of some of the names. 4 PARK ST. CONTENTS I. THE ARRIVAL AT BURNT FORK 3 II. FILING A CLAIM 7 III. A BUSY, HAPPY SUMMER 15 IV. A CHARMING ADVENTURE AND ZEBULON PIKE 23 V. SEDALIA AND REGALIA 45 VI. A THANKSGIVING-DAY WEDDING 54 VII. ZEBULON PIKE VISITS HIS OLD HOME 60 VIII. A HAPPY CHRISTMAS 64 IX. A CONFESSION 77 X. THE STORY OF CORA BELLE 81 XI. ZEBBIE'S STORY 100 XII. A CONTENTED COUPLE 117 XIII. PROVING UP 133 XIV. THE NEW HOUSE 137 XV. THE "STOCKING-LEG" DINNER 143 XVI. THE HORSE-THIEVES 157 XVII. AT GAVOTTE'S CAMP 180 XVIII. THE HOMESTEADER'S MARRIAGE AND A LITTLE FUNERAL 184 XIX. THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE 193 XX. THE JOYS OF HOMESTEADING 213 XXI. A LETTER OF JERRINE'S 218 XXII. THE EFFICIENT MRS. O'SHAUGHNESSY 220 XXIII. HOW IT HAPPENED 225 XXIV. A LITTLE ROMANCE 230 XXV. AMONG THE MORMONS 256 XXVI. SUCCESS 279 * * * * * LETTERS OF A WOMAN HOMESTEADER I THE ARRIVAL AT BURNT FORK BURNT FORK, WYOMING, _April 18, 1909._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Are you thinking I am lost, like the Babes in the Wood? Well, I am not and I'm sure the robins would have the time of their lives getting leaves to cover me out here. I am 'way up close to the Forest Reserve of Utah, within half a mile of the line, sixty miles from the railroad. I was twenty-four hours on the train and two days on the stage, and oh, those two days! The snow was just beginning to melt and the mud was about the worst I ever heard of. The first stage we tackled was just about as rickety as it could very well be and I had to sit with the driver, who was a Mormon and so handsome that I was not a bit offended when he insisted on making love all the way, especially after he told me that he was a widower Mormon. But, of course, as I had no chaperone I looked very fierce (not that that was very difficult with the wind and mud as allies) and told him my actual opinion of Mormons in general and particular. Meantime my new employer, Mr. Stewart, sat upon a stack of baggage and was dreadfully concerned about something he calls his "Tookie," but I am unable to tell you what that is. The road, being so muddy, was full of ruts and the stage acted as if it had the hiccoughs and made us all talk as though we were affected in the same way. Once Mr. Stewart asked me if I did not think it a "gey duir trip." I told him he could call it gay if he wanted to, but it didn't seem very hilarious to me. Every time the stage struck a rock or a rut Mr. Stewart would "hoot," until I began to wish we would come to a hollow tree or a hole in the ground so he could go in with the rest of the owls. At last we "arriv," and everything is just lovely for me. I have a very, very comfortable situation and Mr. Stewart is absolutely no trouble, for as soon as he has his meals he retires to his room and plays on his bagpipe, only he calls it his "bugpeep." It is "The Campbells are Coming," without variations, at intervals all day long and from seven till eleven at night. Sometimes I wish they would make haste and get here. There is a saddle horse especially for me and a little shotgun with which I am to kill sage chickens. We are between two trout streams, so you can think of me as being happy when the snow is through melting and the water gets clear. We have the finest flock of Plymouth Rocks and get so many nice eggs. It sure seems fine to have all the cream I want after my town experiences. Jerrine is making good use of all the good things we are having. She rides the pony to water every day. I have not filed on my land yet because the snow is fifteen feet deep on it, and I think I would rather see what I am getting, so will wait until summer. They have just three seasons here, winter and July and August. We are to plant our garden the last of May. When it is so I can get around I will see about land and find out all I can and tell you. I think this letter is about to reach thirty-secondly, so I will send you my sincerest love and quit tiring you. Please write me when you have time. Sincerely yours, ELINORE RUPERT. II FILING A CLAIM _May 24, 1909._ DEAR, DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Well, I have filed on my land and am now a bloated landowner. I waited a long time to even _see_ land in the reserve, and the snow is yet too deep, so I thought that as they have but three months of summer and spring together and as I wanted the land for a ranch anyway, perhaps I had better stay in the valley. So I have filed adjoining Mr. Stewart and I am well pleased. I have a grove of twelve swamp pines on my place, and I am going to build my house there. I thought it would be very romantic to live on the peaks amid the whispering pines, but I reckon it would be powerfully uncomfortable also, and I guess my twelve can whisper enough for me; and a dandy thing is, I have all the nice snow-water I want; a small stream runs right through the center of my land and I am quite near wood. A neighbor and his daughter were going to Green River, the county-seat, and said I might go along, so I did, as I could file there as well as at the land office; and oh, that trip! I had more fun to the square inch than Mark Twain or Samantha Allen _ever_ provoked. It took us a whole week to go and come. We camped out, of course, for in the whole sixty miles there was but one house, and going in that direction there is not a tree to be seen, nothing but sage, sand, and sheep. About noon the first day out we came near a sheep-wagon, and stalking along ahead of us was a lanky fellow, a herder, going home for dinner. Suddenly it seemed to me I should starve if I had to wait until we got where we had planned to stop for dinner, so I called out to the man, "Little Bo-Peep, have you anything to eat? If you have, we'd like to find it." And he answered, "As soon as I am able it shall be on the table, if you'll but trouble to get behind it." Shades of Shakespeare! Songs of David, the Shepherd Poet! What do you think of us? Well, we got behind it, and a more delicious "it" I never tasted. Such coffee! And out of _such_ a pot! I promised Bo-Peep that I would send him a crook with pink ribbons on it, but I suspect he thinks I am a crook without the ribbons. The sagebrush is so short in some places that it is not large enough to make a fire, so we had to drive until quite late before we camped that night. After driving all day over what seemed a level desert of sand, we came about sundown to a beautiful cañon, down which we had to drive for a couple of miles before we could cross. In the cañon the shadows had already fallen, but when we looked up we could see the last shafts of sunlight on the tops of the great bare buttes. Suddenly a great wolf started from somewhere and galloped along the edge of the cañon, outlined black and clear by the setting sun. His curiosity overcame him at last, so he sat down and waited to see what manner of beast we were. I reckon he was disappointed for he howled most dismally. I thought of Jack London's "The Wolf." After we quitted the cañon I saw the most beautiful sight. It seemed as if we were driving through a golden haze. The violet shadows were creeping up between the hills, while away back of us the snow-capped peaks were catching the sun's last rays. On every side of us stretched the poor, hopeless desert, the sage, grim and determined to live in spite of starvation, and the great, bare, desolate buttes. The beautiful colors turned to amber and rose, and then to the general tone, dull gray. Then we stopped to camp, and such a scurrying around to gather brush for the fire and to get supper! Everything tasted so good! Jerrine ate like a man. Then we raised the wagon tongue and spread the wagon sheet over it and made a bedroom for us women. We made our beds on the warm, soft sand and went to bed. It was too beautiful a night to sleep, so I put my head out to look and to think. I saw the moon come up and hang for a while over the mountain as if it were discouraged with the prospect, and the big white stars flirted shamelessly with the hills. I saw a coyote come trotting along and I felt sorry for him, having to hunt food in so barren a place, but when presently I heard the whirr of wings I felt sorry for the sage chickens he had disturbed. At length a cloud came up and I went to sleep, and next morning was covered several inches with snow. It didn't hurt us a bit, but while I was struggling with stubborn corsets and shoes I communed with myself, after the manner of prodigals, and said: "How much better that I were down in Denver, even at Mrs. Coney's, digging with a skewer into the corners seeking dirt which _might_ be there, yea, even eating codfish, than that I should perish on this desert--of imagination." So I turned the current of my imagination and fancied that I was at home before the fireplace, and that the backlog was about to roll down. My fancy was in such good working trim that before I knew it I kicked the wagon wheel, and I certainly got as warm as the most "sot" Scientist that ever read Mrs. Eddy could possibly wish. After two more such days I "arrived." When I went up to the office where I was to file, the door was open and the most taciturn old man sat before a desk. I hesitated at the door, but he never let on. I coughed, yet no sign but a deeper scowl. I stepped in and modestly kicked over a chair. He whirled around like I had shot him. "Well?" he interrogated. I said, "I am powerful glad of it. I was afraid you were sick, you looked in such pain." He looked at me a minute, then grinned and said he thought I was a book-agent. Fancy me, a fat, comfortable widow, trying to sell books! Well, I filed and came home. If you will believe me, the Scot was glad to see me and didn't herald the Campbells for two hours after I got home. I'll tell you, it is mighty seldom any one's so much appreciated. No, we have no rural delivery. It is two miles to the office, but I go whenever I like. It is really the jolliest kind of fun to gallop down. We are sixty miles from the railroad, but when we want anything we send by the mail-carrier for it, only there is nothing to get. I know this is an inexcusably long letter, but it is snowing so hard and you know how I like to talk. I am sure Jerrine will enjoy the cards and we will be glad to get them. Many things that are a comfort to us out here came from dear Mrs. ----. Baby has the rabbit you gave her last Easter a year ago. In Denver I was afraid my baby would grow up devoid of imagination. Like all the kindergartners, she depended upon others to amuse her. I was very sorry about it, for my castles in Spain have been real homes to me. But there is no fear. She has a block of wood she found in the blacksmith shop which she calls her "dear baby." A spoke out of a wagon wheel is "little Margaret," and a barrel-stave is "bad little Johnny." Well, I must quit writing before you vote me a nuisance. With lots of love to you, Your sincere friend, ELINORE RUPERT. III A BUSY, HAPPY SUMMER _September 11, 1909._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- This has been for me the busiest, happiest summer I can remember. I have worked very hard, but it has been work that I really enjoy. Help of any kind is very hard to get here, and Mr. Stewart had been too confident of getting men, so that haying caught him with too few men to put up the hay. He had no man to run the mower and he couldn't run both the mower and the stacker, so you can fancy what a place he was in. I don't know that I ever told you, but my parents died within a year of each other and left six of us to shift for ourselves. Our people offered to take one here and there among them until we should all have a place, but we refused to be raised on the halves and so arranged to stay at Grandmother's and keep together. Well, we had no money to hire men to do our work, so had to learn to do it ourselves. Consequently I learned to do many things which girls more fortunately situated don't even know have to be done. Among the things I learned to do was the way to run a mowing-machine. It cost me many bitter tears because I got sunburned, and my hands were hard, rough, and stained with machine oil, and I used to wonder how any Prince Charming could overlook all that in any girl he came to. For all I had ever read of the Prince had to do with his "reverently kissing her lily-white hand," or doing some other fool trick with a hand as white as a snowflake. Well, when my Prince showed up he didn't lose much time in letting me know that "Barkis was willing," and I wrapped my hands in my old checked apron and took him up before he could catch his breath. Then there was no more mowing, and I almost forgot that I knew how until Mr. Stewart got into such a panic. If he put a man to mow, it kept them all idle at the stacker, and he just couldn't get enough men. I was afraid to tell him I could mow for fear he would forbid me to do so. But one morning, when he was chasing a last hope of help, I went down to the barn, took out the horses, and went to mowing. I had enough cut before he got back to show him I knew how, and as he came back manless he was delighted as well as surprised. I was glad because I really like to mow, and besides that, I am adding feathers to my cap in a surprising way. When you see me again you will think I am wearing a feather duster, but it is only that I have been said to have almost as much sense as a "mon," and that is an honor I never aspired to, even in my wildest dreams. I have done most of my cooking at night, have milked seven cows every day, and have done all the hay-cutting, so you see I have been working. But I have found time to put up thirty pints of jelly and the same amount of jam for myself. I used wild fruits, gooseberries, currants, raspberries, and cherries. I have almost two gallons of the cherry butter, and I think it is delicious. I wish I could get some of it to you, I am sure you would like it. We began haying July 5 and finished September 8. After working so hard and so steadily I decided on a day off, so yesterday I saddled the pony, took a few things I needed, and Jerrine and I fared forth. Baby can ride behind quite well. We got away by sunup and a glorious day we had. We followed a stream higher up into the mountains and the air was so keen and clear at first we had on our coats. There was a tang of sage and of pine in the air, and our horse was midside deep in rabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smell like goldenrod. The blue distance promised many alluring adventures, so we went along singing and simply gulping in summer. Occasionally a bunch of sage chickens would fly up out of the sagebrush, or a jack rabbit would leap out. Once we saw a bunch of antelope gallop over a hill, but we were out just to be out, and game didn't tempt us. I started, though, to have just as good a time as possible, so I had a fish-hook in my knapsack. Presently, about noon, we came to a little dell where the grass was as soft and as green as a lawn. The creek kept right up against the hills on one side and there were groves of quaking asp and cottonwoods that made shade, and service-bushes and birches that shut off the ugly hills on the other side. We dismounted and prepared to noon. We caught a few grasshoppers and I cut a birch pole for a rod. The trout are so beautiful now, their sides are so silvery, with dashes of old rose and orange, their speckles are so black, while their backs look as if they had been sprinkled with gold-dust. They bite so well that it doesn't require any especial skill or tackle to catch plenty for a meal in a few minutes. In a little while I went back to where I had left my pony browsing, with eight beauties. We made a fire first, then I dressed my trout while it was burning down to a nice bed of coals. I had brought a frying-pan and a bottle of lard, salt, and buttered bread. We gathered a few service-berries, our trout were soon browned, and with water, clear, and as cold as ice, we had a feast. The quaking aspens are beginning to turn yellow, but no leaves have fallen. Their shadows dimpled and twinkled over the grass like happy children. The sound of the dashing, roaring water kept inviting me to cast for trout, but I didn't want to carry them so far, so we rested until the sun was getting low and then started for home, with the song of the locusts in our ears warning us that the melancholy days are almost here. We would come up over the top of a hill into the glory of a beautiful sunset with its gorgeous colors, then down into the little valley already purpling with mysterious twilight. So on, until, just at dark, we rode into our corral and a mighty tired, sleepy little girl was powerfully glad to get home. After I had mailed my other letter I was afraid that you would think me plumb bold about the little Bo-Peep, and was a heap sorrier than you can think. If you only knew the hardships these poor men endure. They go two together and sometimes it is months before they see another soul, and rarely ever a woman. I wouldn't act so free in town, but these men see people so seldom that they are awkward and embarrassed. I like to put them at ease, and it is to be done only by being kind of hail-fellow-well-met with them. So far not one has ever misunderstood me and I have been treated with every courtesy and kindness, so I am powerfully glad you understand. They really enjoy doing these little things like fixing our dinner, and if my poor company can add to any one's pleasure I am too glad. Sincerely yours, ELINORE RUPERT. Mr. Stewart is going to put up my house for me in pay for my extra work. I am ashamed of my long letters to you, but I am such a murderer of language that I have to use it all to tell anything. Please don't entirely forget me. Your letters mean so much to me and I will try to answer more promptly. IV A CHARMING ADVENTURE AND ZEBULON PIKE _September 28, 1909._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Your second card just reached me and I am plumb glad because, although I answered your other, I was wishing I could write you, for I have had the most charming adventure. It is the custom here for as many women as care to to go in a party over into Utah to Ashland (which is over a hundred miles away) after fruit. They usually go in September, and it takes a week to make the trip. They take wagons and camp out and of course have a good time, but, the greater part of the way, there isn't even the semblance of a road and it is merely a semblance anywhere. They came over to invite me to join them. I was of two minds--I wanted to go, but it seemed a little risky and a big chance for discomfort, since we would have to cross the Uinta Mountains, and a snowstorm likely any time. But I didn't like to refuse outright, so we left it to Mr. Stewart. His "Ye're nae gang" sounded powerful final, so the ladies departed in awed silence and I assumed a martyr-like air and acted like a very much abused woman, although he did only what I wanted him to do. At last, in sheer desperation he told me the "bairn canna stand the treep," and that was why he was so determined. I knew why, of course, but I continued to look abused lest he gets it into his head that he can boss me. After he had been reduced to the proper plane of humility and had explained and begged my pardon and had told me to consult only my own pleasure about going and coming and using his horses, only not to "expoose" the bairn, why, I forgave him and we were friends once more. Next day all the men left for the roundup, to be gone a week. I knew I never could stand myself a whole week. In a little while the ladies came past on their way to Ashland. They were all laughing and were so happy that I really began to wish I was one of the number, but they went their way and I kept wanting to go _somewhere_. I got reckless and determined to do something real bad. So I went down to the barn and saddled Robin Adair, placed a pack on "Jeems McGregor," then Jerrine and I left for a camping-out expedition. It was nine o'clock when we started and we rode hard until about four, when I turned Robin loose, saddle and all, for I knew he would go home and some one would see him and put him into the pasture. We had gotten to where we couldn't ride anyway, so I put Jerrine on the pack and led "Jeems" for about two hours longer; then, as I had come to a good place to camp, we stopped. While we had at least two good hours of daylight, it gets so cold here in the evening that fire is very necessary. We had been climbing higher into the mountains all day and had reached a level tableland where the grass was luxuriant and there was plenty of wood and water. I unpacked "Jeems" and staked him out, built a roaring fire, and made our bed in an angle of a sheer wall of rock where we would be protected against the wind. Then I put some potatoes into the embers, as Baby and I are both fond of roasted potatoes. I started to a little spring to get water for my coffee when I saw a couple of jack rabbits playing, so I went back for my little shotgun. I shot one of the rabbits, so I felt very like Leather-stocking because I had killed but one when I might have gotten two. It was fat and young, and it was but the work of a moment to dress it and hang it up on a tree. Then I fried some slices of bacon, made myself a cup of coffee, and Jerrine and I sat on the ground and ate. Everything smelled and tasted so good! This air is so tonic that one gets delightfully hungry. Afterward we watered and restaked "Jeems," I rolled some logs on to the fire, and then we sat and enjoyed the prospect. The moon was so new that its light was very dim, but the stars were bright. Presently a long, quivering wail arose and was answered from a dozen hills. It seemed just the sound one ought to hear in such a place. When the howls ceased for a moment we could hear the subdued roar of the creek and the crooning of the wind in the pines. So we rather enjoyed the coyote chorus and were not afraid, because they don't attack people. Presently we crept under our Navajos and, being tired, were soon asleep. I was awakened by a pebble striking my cheek. Something prowling on the bluff above us had dislodged it and it struck me. By my Waterbury it was four o'clock, so I arose and spitted my rabbit. The logs had left a big bed of coals, but some ends were still burning and had burned in such a manner that the heat would go both under and over my rabbit. So I put plenty of bacon grease over him and hung him up to roast. Then I went back to bed. I didn't want to start early because the air is too keen for comfort early in the morning. The sun was just gilding the hilltops when we arose. Everything, even the barrenness, was beautiful. We have had frosts, and the quaking aspens were a trembling field of gold as far up the stream as we could see. We were 'way up above them and could look far across the valley. We could see the silvery gold of the willows, the russet and bronze of the currants, and patches of cheerful green showed where the pines were. The splendor was relieved by a background of sober gray-green hills, but even on them gay streaks and patches of yellow showed where rabbit-brush grew. We washed our faces at the spring,--the grasses that grew around the edge and dipped into the water were loaded with ice,--our rabbit was done to a turn, so I made some delicious coffee, Jerrine got herself a can of water, and we breakfasted. Shortly afterwards we started again. We didn't know where we were going, but we were on our way. That day was more toilsome than the last, but a very happy one. The meadowlarks kept singing like they were glad to see us. But we were still climbing and soon got beyond the larks and sage chickens and up into the timber, where there are lots of grouse. We stopped to noon by a little lake, where I got two small squirrels and a string of trout. We had some trout for dinner and salted the rest with the squirrels in an empty can for future use. I was anxious to get a grouse and kept close watch, but was never quick enough. Our progress was now slower and more difficult, because in places we could scarcely get through the forest. Fallen trees were everywhere and we had to avoid the branches, which was powerful hard to do. Besides, it was quite dusky among the trees long before night, but it was all so grand and awe-inspiring. Occasionally there was an opening through which we could see the snowy peaks, seemingly just beyond us, toward which we were headed. But when you get among such grandeur you get to feel how little you are and how foolish is human endeavor, except that which reunites us with the mighty force called God. I was plumb uncomfortable, because all my own efforts have always been just to make the best of everything and to take things as they come. At last we came to an open side of the mountain where the trees were scattered. We were facing south and east, and the mountain we were on sheered away in a dangerous slant. Beyond us still greater wooded mountains blocked the way, and in the cañon between night had already fallen. I began to get scary. I could only think of bears and catamounts, so, as it was five o'clock, we decided to camp. The trees were immense. The lower branches came clear to the ground and grew so dense that any tree afforded a splendid shelter from the weather, but I was nervous and wanted one that would protect us against any possible attack. At last we found one growing in a crevice of what seemed to be a sheer wall of rock. Nothing could reach us on two sides, and in front two large trees had fallen so that I could make a log heap which would give us warmth and make us safe. So with rising spirits I unpacked and prepared for the night. I soon had a roaring fire up against the logs and, cutting away a few branches, let the heat into as snug a bedroom as any one could wish. The pine needles made as soft a carpet as the wealthiest could afford. Springs abound in the mountains, so water was plenty. I staked "Jeems" quite near so that the firelight would frighten away any wild thing that tried to harm him. Grass was very plentiful, so when he was made "comfy" I made our bed and fried our trout. The branches had torn off the bag in which I had my bread, so it was lost in the forest, but who needs bread when they have good, mealy potatoes? In a short time we were eating like Lent was just over. We lost all the glory of the sunset except what we got by reflection, being on the side of the mountain we were, with the dense woods between. Big sullen clouds kept drifting over and a wind got lost in the trees that kept them rocking and groaning in a horrid way. But we were just as cozy as we could be and rest was as good as anything. I wish you could once sleep on the kind of bed we enjoyed that night. It was both soft and firm, with the clean, spicy smell of the pine. The heat from our big fire came in and we were warm as toast. It was so good to stretch out and rest. I kept thinking how superior I was since I dared to take such an outing when so many poor women down in Denver were bent on making their twenty cents per hour in order that they could spare a quarter to go to the "show." I went to sleep with a powerfully self-satisfied feeling, but I awoke to realize that pride goeth before a fall. I could hardly remember where I was when I awoke, and I could almost hear the silence. Not a tree moaned, not a branch seemed to stir. I arose and my head came in violent contact with a snag that was not there when I went to bed. I thought either I must have grown taller or the tree shorter during the night. As soon as I peered out, the mystery was explained. Such a snowstorm I never saw! The snow had pressed the branches down lower, hence my bumped head. Our fire was burning merrily and the heat kept the snow from in front. I scrambled out and poked up the fire; then, as it was only five o'clock, I went back to bed. And then I began to think how many kinds of idiot I was. Here I was thirty or forty miles from home, in the mountains where no one goes in the winter and where I knew the snow got to be ten or fifteen feet deep. But I could never see the good of moping, so I got up and got breakfast while Baby put her shoes on. We had our squirrels and more baked potatoes and I had delicious black coffee. After I had eaten I felt more hopeful. I knew Mr. Stewart would hunt for me if he knew I was lost. It was true, he wouldn't know which way to start, but I determined to rig up "Jeems" and turn him loose, for I knew he would go home and that he would leave a trail so that I could be found. I hated to do so, for I knew I should always have to be powerfully humble afterwards. Anyway it was still snowing, great, heavy flakes; they looked as large as dollars. I didn't want to start "Jeems" until the snow stopped because I wanted him to leave a clear trail. I had sixteen loads for my gun and I reasoned that I could likely kill enough food to last twice that many days by being careful what I shot at. It just kept snowing, so at last I decided to take a little hunt and provide for the day. I left Jerrine happy with the towel rolled into a baby, and went along the brow of the mountain for almost a mile, but the snow fell so thickly that I couldn't see far. Then I happened to look down into the cañon that lay east of us and saw smoke. I looked toward it a long time, but could make out nothing but smoke, but presently I heard a dog bark and I knew I was near a camp of some kind. I resolved to join them, so went back to break my own camp. At last everything was ready and Jerrine and I both mounted. Of all the times! If you think there is much comfort, or even security, in riding a pack-horse in a snowstorm over mountains where there is no road, you are plumb wrong. Every once in a while a tree would unload its snow down our backs. "Jeems" kept stumbling and threatening to break our necks. At last we got down the mountain-side, where new danger confronted us,--we might lose sight of the smoke or ride into a bog. But at last, after what seemed hours, we came into a "clearing" with a small log house and, what is rare in Wyoming, a fireplace. Three or four hounds set up their deep baying, and I knew by the chimney and the hounds that it was the home of a Southerner. A little old man came bustling out, chewing his tobacco so fast, and almost frantic about his suspenders, which it seemed he couldn't get adjusted. As I rode up, he said, "Whither, friend?" I said "Hither." Then he asked, "Air you spying around for one of them dinged game wardens arter that deer I killed yisteddy?" I told him I had never even seen a game warden and that I didn't know he had killed a deer. "Wall," he said, "air you spying around arter that gold mine I diskivered over on the west side of Baldy?" But after a while I convinced him that I was no more nor less than a foolish woman lost in the snow. Then he said, "Light, stranger, and look at your saddle." So I "lit" and looked, and then I asked him what part of the South he was from. He answered, "Yell County, by gum! The best place in the United States, or in the world, either." That was my introduction to Zebulon Pike Parker. Only two "Johnny Rebs" could have enjoyed each other's company as Zebulon Pike and myself did. He was so small and so old, but so cheerful and so sprightly, and a real Southerner! He had a big, open fireplace with backlogs and andirons. How I enjoyed it all! How we feasted on some of the deer killed "yisteddy," and real corn-pone baked in a skillet down on the hearth. He was so full of happy recollections and had a few that were not so happy! He is, in some way, a kinsman of Pike of Pike's Peak fame, and he came west "jist arter the wah" on some expedition and "jist stayed." He told me about his home life back in Yell County, and I feel that I know all the "young uns." There was George Henry, his only brother; and there were Phoebe and "Mothie," whose real name is Martha; and poor little Mary Ann, whose death was described so feelingly that no one could keep back the tears. Lastly there was little Mandy, the baby and his favorite, but who, I am afraid, was a selfish little beast since she had to have her prunellas when all the rest of the "young uns" had to wear shoes that old Uncle Buck made out of rawhide. But then "her eyes were blue as morning-glories and her hair was jist like corn-silk, so yaller and fluffy." Bless his simple, honest heart! His own eyes are blue and kind, and his poor, thin little shoulders are so round that they almost meet in front. How he loved to talk of his boyhood days! I can almost see his father and George Henry as they marched away to the "wah" together, and the poor little mother's despair as she waited day after day for some word, that never came. Poor little Mary Ann was drowned in the bayou, where she was trying to get water-lilies. She had wanted a white dress all her life and so, when she was dead, they took down the white cross-bar curtains and Mother made the little shroud by the light of a tallow dip. But, being made by hand, it took all the next day, too, so that they buried her by moonlight down back of the orchard under the big elm where the children had always had their swing. And they lined and covered her grave with big, fragrant water-lilies. As they lowered the poor little home-made coffin into the grave the mockingbirds began to sing and they sang all that dewy, moonlight night. Then little Mandy's wedding to Judge Carter's son Jim was described. She wore a "cream-colored poplin with a red rose throwed up in it," and the lace that was on Grandma's wedding dress. There were bowers of sweet Southern roses and honeysuckle and wistaria. Don't you know she was a dainty bride? At last it came out that he had not heard from home since he left it. "Don't you ever write?" I asked. "No, I am not an eddicated man, although I started to school. Yes'm, I started along of the rest, but they told me it was a Yankee teacher and I was 'fraid, so when I got most to the schoolhouse I hid in the bushes with my spelling-book, so that is all the learning I ever got. But my mother was an eddicated woman, yes'm, she could both read and write. I have the Bible she give me yit. Yes'm, you jist wait and I'll show you." After some rummaging in a box he came back with a small leather-bound Bible with print so small it was hard to read. After turning to the record of births and deaths he handed it to me, his wrinkled old face shining with pride as he said, "There, my mother wrote that with her own hand." I took the book and after a little deciphered that "Zebulon Pike Parker was born Feb. 10, 1830," written in the stiff, difficult style of long ago and written with pokeberry ink. He said his mother used to read about some "old feller that was jist covered with biles," so I read Job to him, and he was full of surprise they didn't "git some cherry bark and some sasparilly and bile it good and gin it to him." He had a side room to his cabin, which was his bedroom; so that night he spread down a buffalo robe and two bearskins before the fire for Jerrine and me. After making sure there were no moths in them, I spread blankets over them and put a sleepy, happy little girl to bed, for he had insisted on making molasses candy for her because they happened to be born on the same day of the month. And then he played the fiddle until almost one o'clock. He played all the simple, sweet, old-time pieces, in rather a squeaky, jerky way, I am afraid, but the music suited the time and the place. Next morning he called me early and when I went out I saw such a beautiful sunrise, well worth the effort of coming to see. I had thought his cabin in a cañon, but the snow had deceived me, for a few steps from the door the mountains seemed to drop down suddenly for several hundred feet and the first of the snow peaks seemed to lie right at our feet. Around its base is a great swamp, in which the swamp pines grow very thickly and from which a vapor was rising that got about halfway up the snow peak all around. Fancy to yourself a big jewel-box of dark green velvet lined with silver chiffon, the snow peak lying like an immense opal in its center and over all the amber light of a new day. That is what it looked most like. Well, we next went to the corral, where I was surprised to find about thirty head of sheep. Some of them looked like they should have been sold ten years before. "Don't you ever sell any of your sheep?" I asked. "No'm. There was a feller come here once and wanted to buy some of my wethers, but I wouldn't sell any because I didn't need any money." Then he went from animal to animal, caressing each and talking to them, calling them each by name. He milked his one cow, fed his two little mules, and then we went back to the house to cook breakfast. We had delicious venison steak, smoking hot, and hoe-cakes and the "bestest" coffee, and honey. After breakfast we set out for home. Our pack transferred to one of the little mules, we rode "Jeems," and Mr. Parker rode the other mule. He took us another way, down cañon after cañon, so that we were able to ride all the time and could make better speed. We came down out of the snow and camped within twelve miles of home in an old, deserted ranch house. We had grouse and sage chicken for supper. I was so anxious to get home that I could hardly sleep, but at last I did and was only awakened by the odor of coffee, and barely had time to wash before Zebulon Pike called breakfast. Afterwards we fixed "Jeems's" pack so that I could still ride, for Zebulon Pike was very anxious to get back to his "critters." Poor, lonely, childlike little man! He tried to tell me how glad he had been to entertain me. "Why," he said, "I was plumb glad to see you and right sorry to have you go. Why, I would jist as soon talk to you as to a nigger. Yes'm, I would. It has been almost as good as talking to old Aunt Dilsey." If a Yankee had said the same to me I would have demanded instant apology, but I know how the Southern heart longs for the dear, kindly old "niggers," so I came on homeward, thankful for the first time that I can't talk correctly. I got home at twelve and found, to my joy, that none of the men had returned, so I am safe from their superiority for a while, at least. With many apologies for this outrageous letter, I am Your ex-Washlady, ELINORE RUPERT. V SEDALIA AND REGALIA _November 22, 1909._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- I was dreadfully afraid that my last letter was too much for you and now I feel plumb guilty. I really don't know how to write you, for I have to write so much to say so little, and now that my last letter made you sick I almost wish so many things didn't happen to me, for I always want to tell you. Many things have happened since I last wrote, and Zebulon Pike is not done for by any means, but I guess I will tell you my newest experience. I am making a wedding dress. Don't grin; it isn't mine,--worse luck! But I must begin at the beginning. Just after I wrote you before, there came a terrific storm which made me appreciate indoor coziness, but as only Baby and I were at home I expected to be very lonely. The snow was just whirling when I saw some one pass the window. I opened the door and in came the dumpiest little woman and two daughters. She asked me if I was "Mis' Rupit." I told her that she had almost guessed it, and then she introduced herself. She said she was "Mis' Lane," that she had heard there was a new stranger in the country, so she had brought her twin girls, Sedalia and Regalia, to be neighborly. While they were taking off their many coats and wraps it came out that they were from Linwood, thirty miles away. I was powerful glad I had a pot roast and some baked beans. After we had put the horses in the barn we had dinner and I heard the story of the girls' odd names. The mother is one of those "comfy," fat little women who remain happy and bubbling with fun in spite of hard knocks. I had already fallen in love with Regalia, she is so jolly and unaffected, so fat and so plain. Sedalia has a veneer of most uncomfortable refinement. She was shocked because Gale ate all the roast she wanted, and if I had been very sensitive I would have been in tears, because I ate a helping more than Gale did. But about the names. It seemed that "Mis' Lane" married quite young, was an orphan, and had no one to tell her things she should have known. She lived in Missouri, but about a year after her marriage the young couple started overland for the West. It was in November, and one night when they had reached the plains a real blue blizzard struck them. "Mis' Lane" had been in pain all day and soon she knew what was the matter. They were alone and it was a day's travel back to the last house. The team had given out and the wind and sleet were seeing which could do the most meanness. At last the poor man got a fire started and a wagon sheet stretched in such a manner that it kept off the sleet. He fixed a bed under the poor shelter and did all he could to keep the fire from blowing away, and there, a few hours later, a little girl baby was born. They melted sleet in the frying-pan to get water to wash it. "Mis' Lane" kept feeling no better fast, and about the time they got the poor baby dressed a second little one came. That she told me herself is proof she didn't die, I guess, but it is right hard to believe she didn't. Luckily the fire lasted until the babies were dressed and the mother began to feel better, for there was no wood. Soon the wind stopped and the snow fell steadily. It was warmer, and the whole family snuggled up under the wagon sheet and slept. Mr. Lane is a powerful good husband. He waited two whole days for his wife to gain strength before he resumed the journey, and on the third morning he actually carried her to the wagon. Just think of it! Could more be asked of any man? Every turn of the wheels made poor "Mis' Lane" more homesick. Like Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch, she had a taste for geographical names, and "Mis' Lane" is very loyal, so she wanted to call the little first-born "Missouri." Mr. Lane said she might, but that if she did he would call the other one "Arkansas." Sometimes homesickness would almost master her. She would hug up the little red baby and murmur "Missouri," and then daddy would growl playfully to "Arkansas." It went on that way for a long time and at last she remembered that Sedalia was in Missouri, so she felt glad and really named the older baby "Sedalia." But she could think of nothing to match the name and was in constant fear the father would name the other baby "Little Rock." For three years poor Gale was just "t'other one." Then the Lanes went to Green River where some lodge was having a parade. They were watching the drill when a "bystander that was standing by" said something about the "fine regalia." Instantly "Mis' Lane" thought of her unnamed child; so since that time Gale has had a name. There could be no two people more unlike than the sisters. Sedalia is really handsome, and she is thin. But she is vain, selfish, shallow, and conceited. Gale is not even pretty, but she is clean and she is honest. She does many little things that are not exactly polite, but she is good and true. They both went to the barn with me to milk. Gale tucked up her skirts and helped me. She said, "I just love a stable, with its hay and comfortable, contented cattle. I never go into one without thinking of the little baby Christ. I almost expect to see a little red baby in the straw every time I peek into a manger." Sedalia answered, "Well, for Heaven's sake, get out of the stable to preach. Who wants to stand among these smelly cows all day?" They stayed with us almost a week, and one day when Gale and I were milking she asked me to invite her to stay with me a month. She said to ask her mother, and left her mother and myself much together. But Sedalia stuck to her mother like a plaster and I just could not stand Sedalia a whole month. However, I was spared all embarrassment, for "Mis' Lane" asked me if I could not find work enough to keep Gale busy for a month or two. She went on to explain that Sedalia was expecting to be married and that Gale was so "common" she would really spoil the match. I was surprised and indignant, especially as Sedalia sat and listened so brazenly, so I said I thought Sedalia would need all the help she could get to get married and that I should be glad to have Gale visit me as long as she liked. So Gale stayed on with me. One afternoon she had gone to the post-office when I saw Mr. Patterson ride up. He went into the bunk-house to wait until the men should come. Now, from something Gale had said I fancied that Bob Patterson must be the right man. I am afraid I am not very delicate about that kind of meddling, and while I had been given to understand that Patterson was the man Sedalia expected to marry, I didn't think any man would choose her if he could get Gale, so I called him. We had a long chat and he told me frankly he wanted Gale, but that she didn't care for him, and that they kept throwing "that danged Sedalia" at him. Then he begged my pardon for saying "danged," but I told him I approved of the word when applied to Sedalia, and broke the news to him that Gale was staying with me. He fairly beamed. So that night I left Gale to wash dishes and Bob to help her while I held Mr. Stewart a prisoner in the stable and questioned him regarding Patterson's prospects and habits. I found both all that need be, and told Mr. Stewart about my talk with Patterson, and he said, "Wooman, some day ye'll gang ploom daft." But he admitted he was glad it was the "bonny lassie, instead of the bony one." When we went to the house Mr. Stewart said, "Weel, when are you douchy bairns gangin' to the kirk?" They left it to me, so I set Thanksgiving Day, and as there is no "kirk to gang to," we are going to have a justice of the peace and they are to be married here. We are going to have the dandiest dinner that I can cook, and Mr. Stewart went to town next day for the wedding dress, the gayest plaid outside of Caledonia. But Gale has lots of sense and is going to wear it. I have it almost finished, and while it doesn't look just like a Worth model, still it looks plumb good for me to have made. The boys are going up after Zebulon Pike, and Mr. Stewart is going after "Mis' Lane." Joy waves are radiating from this ranch and about Thanksgiving morning one will strike you. With lots of love and happy wishes, Your ex-Washlady, ELINORE RUPERT. VI A THANKSGIVING-DAY WEDDING DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- ... I think every one enjoyed our Thanksgiving programme except poor Gale. She was grieved, I verily believe, because Mr. Patterson is not Mormon and could not take Sedalia and herself also. I suppose it seemed odd to her to be unable to give way to Sedalia as she had always done. I had cooked and cooked. Gale and Zebulon Pike both helped all they could. The wedding was to be at twelve o'clock, so at ten I hustled Gale into my room to dress. I had to lock the door to keep her in, and I divided my time between the last touches to my dinner and the finishing touches to Gale's toilet and receiving the people. The Lane party had not come yet, and I was scared to death lest Sedalia had had a tantrum and that Mr. Stewart would not get back in time. At last I left the people to take care of themselves, for I had too much on my mind to bother with them. Just after eleven Mr. Stewart, Mis' Lane, Sedalia, and Pa Lane "arriv" and came at once into the kitchen to warm. In a little while poor, frightened Gale came creeping in, looking guilty. But she looked lovely, too, in spite of her plaid dress. She wore her hair in a coronet braid, which added dignity and height, as well as being simple and becoming. Her mother brought her a wreath for her hair, of lilies of the valley and tiny pink rosebuds. It might seem a little out of place to one who didn't see it, but the effect was really charming. Sedalia didn't know that Mr. Stewart had given Gale her dress, so, just to be nasty, she said, as soon as she saw Gale, "Dear me, when are you going to dress, Gale? You will hardly have time to get out of that horse-blanket you are wearing and get into something decent." You see, she thought it was one of my dresses fixed over for Gale. Presently Sedalia asked me if I was invited to the "function." She had some kind of rash on her face and Zebulon Pike noticed the rash and heard the word "function," so he thought that was the name of some disease and asked Mr. Stewart if the "function" was "catching." Mr. Stewart had heard Sedalia, but knew "Zebbie" had not heard all that was said and how he got the idea he had, so he answered, "Yes, if ye once get the fever." So Zebulon Pike privately warned every one against getting the "function" from Sedalia. There are plenty of people here who don't know exactly what a function is, myself among them. So people edged away from Sedalia, and some asked her if she had seen the doctor and what he thought of her case. Poor girl, I'm afraid she didn't have a very enjoyable time. At last the "jestice" of the peace came, and I hope they live happy ever afterward. That night a dance was given to celebrate the event and we began to have dinner immediately after the wedding so as to get through in time to start, for dances are never given in the home here, but in "the hall." Every settlement has one and the invitations are merely written announcements posted everywhere. We have what Sedalia calls "homogenous" crowds. I wouldn't attempt to say what she means, but as everybody goes no doubt she is right. Our dinner was a success, but that is not to be wondered at. Every woman for miles around contributed. Of course we had to borrow dishes, but we couldn't think of seating every one; so we set one table for twenty-four and had three other long tables, on one of which we placed all the meats, pickles, and sauces, on another the vegetables, soup, and coffee, and on the third the pie, cakes, ice-cream, and other desserts. We had two big, long shelves, one above the other, on which were the dishes. The people helped themselves to dishes and neighbors took turns at serving from the tables, so people got what they wanted and hunted themselves a place to sit while they ate. Two of the cowboys from this ranch waited upon the table at which were the wedding party and some of their friends. Boys from other ranches helped serve and carried coffee, cake, and ice-cream. The tablecloths were tolerably good linen and we had ironed them wet so they looked nice. We had white lace-paper on the shelves and we used drawn-work paper napkins. As I said, we borrowed dishes, or, that is, every woman who called herself our neighbor brought whatever she thought we would need. So after every one had eaten I suggested that they sort out their dishes and wash them, and in that way I was saved all that work. We had everything done and were off to the dance by five o'clock. We went in sleds and sleighs, the snow was so deep, but it was all so jolly. Zebbie, Mr. Stewart, Jerrine, and I went in the bobsled. We jogged along at a comfortable pace lest the "beasties" should suffer, and every now and then a merry party would fly past us scattering snow in our faces and yelling like Comanches. We had a lovely moon then and the snow was so beautiful! We were driving northward, and to the south and back of us were the great somber, pine-clad Uintah Mountains, while ahead and on every side were the bare buttes, looking like old men of the mountains,--so old they had lost all their hair, beard, and teeth. VII ZEBULON PIKE VISITS HIS OLD HOME _December 28, 1909._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Our Thanksgiving affair was the most enjoyable happening I can remember for a long time. Zebulon Pike came, but I had as a bait for him two fat letters from home. As soon as I came back from his place I wrote to Mrs. Carter and trusted to luck for my letter to reach her. I told her all I could about her brother and how seldom he left his mountain home. I asked her to write him all she could in one letter, as the trips between our place and his were so few and far between. So when she received my letter she wrote all she could think of, and then sent her letter and mine to Mothie and Phoebe, who are widows living in the old home. They each took turns writing, so their letters are a complete record of the years "Zebbie" has been gone. The letters were addressed to me along with a cordial letter from Mrs. Carter asking me to see that he got them and to use my judgment in the delivering. I couldn't go myself, but I wanted to read the letters to him and to write the answers; so I selected one piece of news I felt would bring him to hear the rest without his knowing how much there was for him. Well, the boys brought him, and a more delighted little man I am sure never lived. I read the letters over and over, and answers were hurried off. He was dreadfully homesick, but couldn't figure on how he could leave the "critters," or how he could trust himself on a train. Mr. Stewart became interested, and he is a very resourceful man, so an old Frenchman was found who had no home and wanted a place to stay so he could trap. He was installed at Zebulon Pike's with full instructions as to each "critter's" peculiarities and needs. Then one of the boys, who was going home for Christmas to Memphis, was induced to wait for Mr. Parker and to see him safe to Little Rock. His money was banked for him, and Mr. Stewart saw that he was properly clothed and made comfortable for the trip. Then he sent a telegram to Judge Carter, who met Zebulon Pike at Little Rock, and they had a family reunion in Yell County. I have had some charming letters from there, but that only proves what I have always said, that I am the luckiest woman in finding really lovely people and having really happy experiences. Good things are constantly happening to me. I wish I could tell you about my happy Christmas, but one of my New Year's resolutions was to stop loading you down with two-thousand-word letters. From something you wrote I think I must have written boastingly to you at some time. I have certainly not intended to, and you must please forgive me and remember how ignorant I am and how hard it is for me to express myself properly. I felt after I had written to Mr. Parker's people that I had taken a liberty, but luckily it was not thought of in that way by them. If you only knew how far short I fall of my own hopes you would know I could _never_ boast. Why, it keeps me busy making over mistakes just like some one using old clothes. I get myself all ready to enjoy a success and find that I have to fit a failure. But one consolation is that I generally have plenty of material to cut generously, and many of my failures have proved to be real blessings. I do hope this New Year may bring to you the desire of your heart and all that those who love you best most wish for you. With lots and lots of love from baby and myself. Your ex-washlady, ELINORE RUPERT. VIII A HAPPY CHRISTMAS DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- My happy Christmas resulted from the ex-sheriff of this county being snowbound here. It seems that persons who come from a lower altitude to this country frequently become bewildered, especially if in poor health, leave the train at any stop and wander off into the hills, sometimes dying before they are found. The ex-sheriff cited a case, that of a young German who was returning from the Philippines, where he had been discharged after the war. He was the only child of his widowed mother, who has a ranch a few miles from here. No one knew he was coming home. One day the cook belonging to the camp of a construction gang went hunting and came back running, wild with horror. He had found the body of a man. The coroner and the sheriff were notified, and next morning went out for the body, but the wolves had almost destroyed it. High up in a willow, under which the poor man had lain down to die, they saw a small bundle tied in a red bandanna and fast to a branch. They found a letter addressed to whoever should find it, saying that the body was that of Benny Louderer and giving them directions how to spare his poor old mother the awful knowledge of how he died. Also there was a letter to his mother asking her not to grieve for him and to keep their days faithfully. "Their days," I afterward learned, were anniversaries which they had always kept, to which was added "Benny's day." Poor boy! When he realized that death was near his every thought was for the mother. Well, they followed his wishes, and the casket containing the bare, gnawed bones was sealed and never opened. And to this day poor Mrs. Louderer thinks her boy died of some fever while yet aboard the transport. The manner of his death has been kept so secret that I am the only one who has heard it. I was so sorry for the poor mother that I resolved to visit her the first opportunity I had. I am at liberty to go where I please when there is no one to cook for. So, when the men left, a few days later, I took Jerrine and rode over to the Louderer ranch. I had never seen Mrs. Louderer and it happened to be "Benny's day" that I blundered in upon. I found her to be a dear old German woman living all alone, the people who do the work on the ranch living in another house two miles away. She had been weeping for hours when I got there, but in accordance with her custom on the many anniversaries, she had a real feast prepared, although no one had been bidden. She says that God always sends her guests, but that was the first time she had had a little girl. She had a little daughter once herself, little Gretchen, but all that was left was a sweet memory and a pitifully small mound on the ranch, quite near the house, where Benny and Gretchen are at rest beside "der fader, Herr Louderer." She is such a dear old lady! She made us so welcome and she is so entertaining. All the remainder of the day we listened to stories of her children, looked at her pictures, and Jerrine had a lovely time with a wonderful wooden doll that they had brought with them from Germany. Mrs. Louderer forgot to weep in recalling her childhood days and showing us her treasures. And then our feast,--for it was verily a feast. We had goose and it was _so_ delicious. I couldn't tell you half the good things any more than I could have eaten some of all of them. We sat talking until far into the night, and she asked me how I was going to spend Christmas. I told her, "Probably in being homesick." She said that would never do and suggested that we spend it together. She said it was one of their special days and that the only happiness left her was in making some one else happy; so she had thought of cooking some nice things and going to as many sheep camps as she could, taking with her the good things to the poor exiles, the sheep-herders. I liked the plan and was glad to agree, but I never dreamed I should have so lovely a time. When the queer old wooden clock announced two we went to bed. I left quite early the next morning with my head full of Christmas plans. You may not know, but cattle-men and sheep-men cordially hate each other. Mr. Stewart is a cattle-man, and so I didn't mention my Christmas plans to him. I saved all the butter I could spare for the sheep-herders; they never have any. That and some jars of gooseberry jelly was all I could give them. I cooked plenty for the people here, and two days before Christmas I had a chance to go down to Mrs. Louderer's in a buggy, so we went. We found her up to her ears in cooking, and such sights and smells I could never describe. She was so glad I came early, for she needed help. I never worked so hard in my life or had a pleasanter time. Mrs. Louderer had sent a man out several days before to find out how many camps there were and where they were located. There were twelve camps and that means twenty-four men. We roasted six geese, boiled three small hams and three hens. We had besides several meat-loaves and links of sausage. We had twelve large loaves of the _best_ rye bread; a small tub of doughnuts; twelve coffee-cakes, more to be called fruit-cakes, and also a quantity of little cakes with seeds, nuts, and fruit in them,--so pretty to look at and _so_ good to taste. These had a thick coat of icing, some brown, some pink, some white. I had thirteen pounds of butter and six pint jars of jelly, so we melted the jelly and poured it into twelve glasses. The plan was, to start real early Christmas Eve morning, make our circuit of camps, and wind up the day at Frau O'Shaughnessy's to spend the night. Yes, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is Irish,--as Irish as the pigs in Dublin. Before it was day the man came to feed and to get our horses ready. We were up betimes and had breakfast. The last speck was wiped from the shining stove, the kitchen floor was scrubbed, and the last small thing put in order. The man had four horses harnessed and hitched to the sled, on which was placed a wagon-box filled with straw, hot rocks, and blankets. Our twelve apostles--that is what we called our twelve boxes--were lifted in and tied firmly into place. Then we clambered in and away we went. Mrs. Louderer drove, and Tam O'Shanter and Paul Revere were snails compared to us. We didn't follow any road either, but went sweeping along across country. No one else in the world could have done it unless they were drunk. We went careening along hill-sides without even slacking the trot. Occasionally we struck a particularly stubborn bunch of sagebrush and even the sled-runners would jump up into the air. We didn't stop to light, but hit the earth several feet in advance of where we left it. Luck was with us, though. I hardly expected to get through with my head unbroken, but not even a glass was cracked. It would have done your heart good to see the sheep-men. They were all delighted, and when you consider that they live solely on canned corn and tomatoes, beans, salt pork, and coffee, you can fancy what they thought of their treat. They have mutton when it is fit to eat, but that is certainly not in winter. One man at each camp does the cooking and the other herds. It doesn't make any difference if the cook never cooked before, and most of them never did. At one camp, where we stopped for dinner, they had a most interesting collection of fossils. After delivering our last "apostle," we turned our faces toward Frau O'Shaughnessy's, and got there just in time for supper. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is a widow, too, and has quite an interesting story. She is a dumpy little woman whose small nose seems to be smelling the stars, it is so tip-tilted. She has the merriest blue eyes and the quickest wit. It is really worth a severe bumping just to be welcomed by her. It was so warm and cozy in her low little cabin. She had her table set for supper, but she laid plates for us and put before us a beautifully roasted chicken. Thrifty Mrs. Louderer thought it should have been saved until next day, so she said to Frau O'Shaughnessy, "We hate to eat your hen, best you save her till tomorrow." But Mrs. O'Shaughnessy answered, "Oh, 't is no mather, 't is an ould hin she was annyway." So we enjoyed the "ould hin," which was brown, juicy, and tender. When we had finished supper and were drinking our "tay," Mrs. O'Shaughnessy told our fortunes with the tea-leaves. She told mine first and said I would die an old maid. I said it was rather late for that, but she cheerfully replied, "Oh, well, better late than niver." She predicted for Mrs. Louderer that she should shortly catch a beau. "'T is the next man you see that will come coortin' you." Before we left the table some one knocked and a young man, a sheep-herder, entered. He belonged to a camp a few miles away and is out from Boston in search of health. He had been into town and his horse was lamed so he could not make it into camp, and he wanted to stay overnight. He was a stranger to us all, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made him at home and fixed such a tempting supper for him that I am sure he was glad of the chance to stay. He was very decidedly English, and powerfully proud of it. He asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy if she was Irish and she said, "No, ye haythen, it's Chinese Oi am. Can't yez tell it be me Cockney accint?" Mr. Boutwell looked very much surprised. I don't know which was the funnier, the way he looked or what she said. We had a late breakfast Christmas morning, but before we were through Mr. Stewart came. We had planned to spend the day with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, but he didn't approve of our going into the sheep district, so when he found where we had gone he came after us. Mrs. Louderer and he are old acquaintances and he bosses her around like he tries to boss me. Before we left, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's married daughter came, so we knew she would not be lonely. It was almost one o'clock when we got home, but all hands helped and I had plenty cooked anyway, so we soon had a good dinner on the table. Mr. Stewart had prepared a Christmas box for Jerrine and me. He doesn't approve of white waists in the winter. I had worn one at the wedding and he felt personally aggrieved. For me in the box were two dresses, that is, the material to make them. One is a brown and red checked, and the other green with a white fleck in, both outing flannel. For Jerrine there was a pair of shoes and stockings, both stockings full of candy and nuts. He is very bluff in manner, but he is really the kindest person. Mrs. Louderer stayed until New Year's day. My Christmas was really a very happy one. Your friend, ELINORE RUPERT. ... An interesting day on this ranch is the day the cattle are named. If Mr. Stewart had children he would as soon think of leaving them unnamed as to let a "beastie" go without a name. On the day they vaccinated he came into the kitchen and told me he would need me to help him name the "critters." So he and I "assembled" in a safe place and took turns naming the calves. As fast as a calf was vaccinated it was run out of the chute and he or I called out a name for it and it was booked that way. The first two he named were the "Duke of Monmouth" and the "Duke of Montrose." I called my first "Oliver Cromwell" and "John Fox." The poor "mon" had to have revenge, so the next ugly, scrawny little beast he called the "Poop of Roome." And it was a heifer calf, too. This morning I had the startling news that the "Poop" had eaten too much alfalfa and was all "swellit oop," and, moreover, he had "stealit it." I don't know which is the more astonishing, that the Pope has stolen alfalfa, or that he has eaten it. We have a swell lot of names, but I am not sure I could tell you which is "Bloody Mary," or which is "Elizabeth," or, indeed, which is which of any of them. E.R. IX A CONFESSION _April 5, 1910._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I find upon re-reading your letter that I did not answer it at all when I wrote you. You must think me very indifferent, but I really don't mean to be. My house joins on to Mr. Stewart's house. It was built that way so that I could "hold down" my land and job at the same time. I see the wisdom of it now, though at first I did not want it that way. My boundary lines run within two feet of Mr. Stewart's house, so it was quite easy to build on. I think the Pattersons' ranch is about twenty-five miles from us. I am glad to tell you they are doing splendidly. Gale is just as thrifty as she can be and Bobby is steady and making money fast. Their baby is the dearest little thing. I have heard that Sedalia is to marry a Mormon bishop, but I doubt it. She puts on very disgusting airs about "our Bobby," and she patronizes Gale most shamefully; but Gale, bless her unconscious heart, is so happy in her husband and son that she doesn't know Sedalia is insulting. My dear old grandmother whom I loved so much has gone home to God. I used to write long letters to her. I should like a few addresses of old persons who are lonely as she was, who would like letters such as I write. You know I can't be brief. I have tried and cannot. If you know of any persons who would not tire of my long accounts and would care to have them, you will be doing me a favor to let me know. I have not treated you quite frankly about something you had a right to know about. I am ashamed and I regret very much that I have not told you. I so dread the possibility of losing your friendship that I will _never_ tell you unless you promise me beforehand to forgive me. I know that is unfair, but it is the only way I can see out of a difficulty that my foolish reticence has led me into. Few people, perhaps, consider me reticent, but in some cases I am afraid I am even deceitful. Won't you make it easy to "'fess" so I may be happy again? Truly your friend, ELINORE RUPERT. _June 16, 1910._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- Your card just to hand. I wrote you some time ago telling you I had a confession to make and have had no letter since, so thought perhaps you were scared I had done something too bad to forgive. I am suffering just now from eye-strain and can't see to write long at a time, but I reckon I had better confess and get it done with. The thing I have done is to marry Mr. Stewart. It was such an inconsistent thing to do that I was ashamed to tell you. And, too, I was afraid you would think I didn't need your friendship and might desert me. Another of my friends thinks that way. I hope my eyes will be better soon and then I will write you a long letter. Your old friend with a new name, ELINORE STEWART. X THE STORY OF CORA BELLE _August 15, 1910._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- ... Grandma Edmonson's birthday is the 30th of May, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy suggested that we give her a party. I had never seen Grandma, but because of something that happened in her family years ago which a few narrow-heads whom it didn't concern in the least cannot forgive or forget, I had heard much of her. The family consists of Grandma, Grandpa, and little Cora Belle, who is the sweetest little bud that ever bloomed upon the twigs of folly. The Edmonsons had only one child, a daughter, who was to have married a man whom her parents objected to solely because he was a sheep-man, while their sympathies were with the cattle-men, although they owned only a small bunch. To gain their consent the young man closed out his interest in sheep, at a loss, filed on a splendid piece of land near them, and built a little home for the girl he loved. Before they could get to town to be married Grandpa was stricken with rheumatism. Grandma was already almost past going on with it, so they postponed the marriage, and as that winter was particularly severe, the young man took charge of the Edmonson stock and kept them from starving. As soon as he was able he went for the license. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and a neighbor were hunting some cattle that had wandered away and found the poor fellow shot in the back. He was not yet dead and told them it was urgently necessary for them to hurry him to the Edmonsons' and to get some one to perform the marriage ceremony as quickly as possible, for he could not live long. They told him such haste meant quicker death because he would bleed more; but he insisted, so they got a wagon and hurried all they could. But they could not outrun death. When he knew he could not live to reach home, he asked them to witness all he said. Everything he possessed he left to the girl he was to have married, and said he was the father of the little child that was to come. He begged them to befriend the poor girl he had to leave in such a condition, and to take the marriage license as evidence that he had tried to do right. The wagon was stopped so the jolting would not make death any harder, and there in the shadow of the great twin buttes he died. They took the body to the little home he had made, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went to the Edmonsons' to do what she could there. Poor Cora Jane didn't know how terrible a thing wounded pride is. She told her parents her misdeeds. They couldn't see that they were in any way to blame. They seemed to care nothing for her terrible sorrow nor for her weakened condition. All they could think of was that the child they had almost worshiped had disgraced them; so they told her to go. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy took her to the home that had been prepared for her, where the poor body lay. Some way they got through those dark days, and then began the waiting for the little one to come. Poor Cora Jane said she would die then, and that she wanted to die, but she wanted the baby to know it was loved,--she wanted to leave something that should speak of that love when the child should come to understanding. So Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said they would make all its little clothes with every care, and they should tell of the love. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is the daintiest needleworker I have ever seen; she was taught by the nuns at St. Catherine's in the "ould country." She was all patience with poor, unskilled Cora Jane, and the little outfit that was finally finished was dainty enough for a fairy. Little Cora Belle is so proud of it. At last the time came and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went after the parents. Long before, they had repented and were only too glad to go. The poor mother lived one day and night after the baby came. She laid the tiny thing in her mother's arms and told them to call her Cora Belle. She told them she gave them a pure little daughter in place of the sinful one they had lost. That was almost twelve years ago, and the Edmonsons have lived in the new house all this time. The deed to the place was made out to Cora Belle, and her grandfather is her guardian.... If you traveled due north from my home, after about nine hours' ride you would come into an open space in the butte lands, and away between two buttes you would see the glimmer of blue water. As you drew nearer you would be able to see the fringe of willows around the lake, and presently a low, red-roofed house with corrals and stables. You would see long lines of "buck" fence, a flock of sheep near by, and cattle scattered about feeding. This is Cora Belle's home. On the long, low porch you would see two old folks rocking. The man is small, and has rheumatism in his legs and feet so badly that he can barely hobble. The old lady is large and fat, and is also afflicted with rheumatism, but has it in her arms and shoulders. They are both cheerful and hopeful, and you would get a cordial welcome.... When you saw Cora Belle you would see a stout, square-built little figure with long flaxen braids, a pair of beautiful brown eyes and the longest and whitest lashes you ever saw, a straight nose, a short upper lip, a broad, full forehead,--the whole face, neither pretty nor ugly, plentifully sown with the brownest freckles. She is very truly the head of the family, doing all the housework and looking after the stock, winter and summer, entirely by herself. Three years ago she took things into her own hands, and since that time has managed altogether. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, however, tells her what to do. The sheep, forty in number, are the result of her individual efforts. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy told her there was more money in raising lambs than in raising chickens, so she quit the chickens as a business and went to some of the big sheep-men and got permission to take the "dogie" lambs, which they are glad to give away. She had plenty of cows, so she milked cows and fed lambs all day long all last year. This year she has forty head of nice sheep worth four dollars each, and she doesn't have to feed them the year round as she would chickens, and the wolves are no worse to kill sheep than they are to kill chickens. When shearing-time came she went to a sheep-man and told him she would help cook for his men one week if he would have her sheep sheared with his. She said her work was worth three dollars, that is what one man would get a day shearing, and he could easily shear her sheep in one day. That is how she got her sheep sheared. The man had her wool hauled to town with his, sold it for her, and it brought sixty dollars. She took her money to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. She wanted some supplies ordered before she went home, because, as she gravely said, "the rheumatiz would get all the money she had left when she got home,"--meaning that her grandparents would spend what remained for medicine. The poor old grandparents read all the time of wonderful cures that different dopes accomplish, and they spend every nickel they can get their hands on for nostrums. They try everything they read of, and have to buy it by the case,--horrid patent stuff! They have rolls of testimonials and believe every word, so they keep on trying and hoping. When there is any money they each order whatever medicine they want to try. If Mrs. Edmonson's doesn't seem to help her, Grandpa takes it and she takes his,--that is their idea of economy. They would spend hours telling you about their different remedies and would offer you spoonful after spoonful of vile-looking liquid, and be mildly grieved when you refused to take it. Grandma's hands are so bent and twisted that she can't sew, so dear old Grandpa tries to do it. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy told me that she helped out when she could. Three years ago she made them all a complete outfit, but the "rheumatiz" has been getting all the spare money since then, so there has been nothing to sew. A peddler sold them a piece of gingham which they made up for Cora Belle. It was broad pink and white stripes, and they wanted some style to "Cory's" clothes, so they cut a gored skirt. But they had no pattern and made the gores by folding a width of the goods biasly and cutting it that way. It was put together with no regard to matching the stripes, and a bias seam came in the center behind, but they put no stay in the seam and the result was the most outrageous affair imaginable. Well, we had a large room almost empty and Mr. Stewart liked the idea of a party, so Mrs. Louderer, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and myself planned for the event. It was to be a sewing-bee, a few good neighbors invited, and all to sew for Grandma.... So Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went to Grandma's and got all the material she had to make up. I had saved some sugar-bags and some flour-bags. I knew Cora Belle needed underwear, so I made her some little petticoats of the larger bags and some drawers of the smaller. I had a small piece of white lawn that I had no use for, and of that I made a dear little sunbonnet with a narrow edging of lace around, and also made a gingham bonnet for her. Two days before the time, came Mrs. Louderer, laden with bundles, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, also laden. We had all been thinking of Cora Belle. Mr. Stewart had sent by mail for her a pair of sandals for everyday wear and a nice pair of shoes, also some stockings. Mrs. Louderer brought cloth for three dresses of heavy Dutch calico, and gingham for three aprons. She made them herself and she sews so carefully. She had bought patterns and the little dresses were stylishly made, as well as well made. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy brought a piece of crossbar with a tiny forget-me-not polka dot, and also had goods and embroidery for a suit of underwear. My own poor efforts were already completed when the rest came, so I was free to help them. Late in the afternoon of the 29th a funny something showed up. Fancy a squeaky, rickety old wagon without a vestige of paint. The tires had come off and had been "set" at home; that is done by heating the tires red-hot and having the rims of the wheels covered with several layers of burlap, or other old rags, well wet; then the red-hot tire is put on and water hurriedly poured on to shrink the iron and to keep the burlap from blazing. Well, whoever had set Cora Belle's tires had forgotten to cut away the surplus burlap, so all the ragtags were merrily waving in the breeze. Cora Belle's team would bring a smile to the soberest face alive. Sheba is a tall, lanky old mare. Once she was bay in color, but the years have added gray hair until now she is roan. Being so long-legged she strides along at an amazing pace which her mate, Balaam, a little donkey, finds it hard to keep up with. Balaam, like Sheba, is full of years. Once his glossy brown coat was the pride of some Mexican's heart, but time has added to his color also, and now he is blue. His eyes are sunken and dim, his ears no longer stand up in true donkey style, but droop dejectedly. He has to trot his best to keep up with Sheba's slowest stride. About every three miles he balks, but little Cora Belle doesn't call it balking, she says Balaam has stopped to rest, and they sit and wait till he is ready to trot along again. That is the kind of layout which drew up before our door that evening. Cora Belle was driving and she wore her wonderful pink dress which hung down in a peak behind, fully six inches longer than anywhere else. The poor child had no shoes. The winter had tried the last pair to their utmost endurance and the "rheumatiz" had long since got the last dollar, so she came with her chubby little sunburned legs bare. Her poor little scarred feet were clean, her toe-nails full of nicks almost into the quick, broken against rocks when she had been herding her sheep. In the back of the wagon, flat on the bottom, sat Grandma and Grandpa, such bundles of coats and blankets I can't describe. After a great deal of trouble we got them unloaded and into the house. Then Mrs. Louderer entertained them while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I prepared supper and got a bath ready for Cora Belle. We had a T-bone steak, mashed potatoes, hominy, hot biscuits and butter, and stewed prunes. Their long ride had made them hungry and I know they enjoyed their meal. After supper Cora Belle and I washed the dishes while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy laid out the little clothes. Cora Belle's clothes were to be a surprise. The postmistress here also keeps a small store and has ribbon, and when she heard of our plans from Mr. Stewart she sent up a couple of pairs of hair-ribbon for Cora Belle. Soon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy called us, and Cora Belle and I went into the bedroom where she was. I wish you could have seen that child! Poor little neglected thing, she began to cry. She said, "They ain't for me, I know they ain't. Why, it ain't my birthday, it's Granny's." Nevertheless, she had her arms full of them and was clutching them so tightly with her work-worn little hands that we couldn't get them. She sobbed so deeply that Grandma heard her and became alarmed. She hobbled to the door and pounded with her poor twisted hands, calling all the while, "Cory, Cory Belle, what ails you?" She got so excited that I opened the door, but Cora Belle told her to go away. She said, "They ain't for you, Granny, and they ain't for me either." ... People here observe Decoration Day faithfully, and Cora Belle had brought half a wagon-load of iris, which grows wild here. Next morning we were all up early, but Cora Belle's flowers had wilted and she had to gather more, but we all hurried and helped. She said as she was going to see her mother she wanted to wear her prettiest dress, so Gale and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy helped her to get ready. The cemetery is only about two miles away, so we were all down quite early. We were obliged to hurry because others were coming to help sew. Cora Belle went at once to the graves where her parents lie side by side, and began talking to her mother just as though she saw her. "You didn't know me, did you, Mother, with my pretty new things? But I am your little girl, Mamma. I am your little Cora Belle." After she had talked and had turned every way like a proud little bird, she went to work. And, oh, how fast she worked! Both graves were first completely covered with pine boughs. It looked like sod, so closely were the little twigs laid. Next she broke the stems off the iris and scattered the blossoms over, and the effect was very beautiful. Then we hurried home and everybody got busy. The men took Grandpa off to another part of the ranch where they were fanning oats to plant, and kept him all day. That was good for him because then he could be with the men all day and he so seldom has a chance to be with men. Several ladies came and they all made themselves at home and worked like beavers, and we all had a fine time.... Sedalia was present and almost caused a riot. She says she likes unusual words because they lend distinction to conversation. Well, they do--sometimes. There was another lady present whose children are very gifted musically, but who have the bad name of taking what they want without asking. The mother can neither read nor write, and she is very sensitive about the bad name her children have. While we were all busy some one made a remark about how smart these children were. Sedalia thought that a good time to get in a big word, so she said, "Yes, I have always said Lula was a progeny." Mrs. Hall didn't know what she meant and thought that she was casting reflections on her child's honesty, so with her face scarlet and her eyes blazing she said, "Sedalia Lane, I won't allow you nor nobody else to say my child is a progeny. You can take that back or I will slap you peaked." Sedalia took it back in a hurry, so I guess little Lula Hall is not a progeny. Every one left about four except Gale, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, Mrs. Louderer, and the Edmonsons. They had farthest to go, so they stayed over night again. We worked until ten o'clock that night over Grandma's clothes, but everything was thoroughly finished. Every button was on, every thread-end knotted and clipped, and some tired workers lay down to rest, as did a very happy child and a very thankful old lady. Every one got away by ten o'clock the next morning. The last I saw of little Cora Belle was when they had reached the top of a long slope and Balaam had "stopped to rest." The breeze from the south was playfully fluttering the rags on the wheels. Presently I heard a long "hee-haw, hee-haw," and I knew Balaam had rested and had started. I have been a very busy woman since I began this letter to you several days ago. A dear little child has joined the angels. I dressed him and helped to make his casket. There is no minister in this whole country and I could not bear the little broken lily-bud to be just carted away and buried, so I arranged the funeral and conducted the services. I know I am unworthy and in no way fitted for such a mission, but I did my poor best, and if no one else is comforted, I am. I know the message of God's love and care has been told once, anyway, to people who have learned to believe more strongly in hell than in heaven. Dear friend, I do hope that this New Year will bring you and yours fuller joys than you have ever known. If I had all the good gifts in my hands you should certainly be blessed. Your sincere friend, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XI ZEBBIE'S STORY _September 1, 1910._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- It was just a few days after the birthday party and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was with me again. We were down at the barn looking at some new pigs, when we heard the big corral gates swing shut, so we hastened out to see who it could be so late in the day. It was Zebbie. He had come on the stage to Burnt Fork and the driver had brought him on here.... There was so much to tell, and he whispered he had something to tell me privately, but that he was too tired then; so after supper I hustled him off to bed.... Next morning ... the men went off to their work and Zebbie and I were left to tell secrets. When he was sure we were alone he took from his trunk a long, flat box. Inside was the most wonderful shirt I have ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a shirt-waist. It was of homespun linen. The bosom was ruffled and tucked, all done by hand,--such tiny stitches, such patience and skill. Then he handed me an old daguerreotype. I unfastened the little golden hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember. It was dim, yet clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow twilight of long ago. The sweet, elusive smile,--I couldn't tell where it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were smiling. All that was visible of her dress was the Dutch collar, just like what is being worn now. It was pinned with an ugly old brooch which Zebbie said was a "breast-pin" he had given her. Under the glass on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper. The writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it said: "Pauline Gorley, age 22, 1860." Next he showed me a note written by Pauline, simply worded, but it held a world of meaning for Zebbie. It said, "I spun and wove this cloth at Adeline's, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which I made. It is for the wedding, else to be buried in. Yours, Pauline." The shirt, the picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in Mothie's care. And now I will tell you the story. Long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a feud. Unfortunately the Gorleys were on one side and the Parkers on the other. That it all happened before either Zebbie or Pauline was born made no difference. A Gorley must hate a Parker always, as also a Parker must hate a Gorley. Pauline was the only girl, and she had a regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the slightest pretext to shoot a Parker. So they grew up, and Zebbie often met Pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of non-partisans. He remembers her so perfectly and describes her so plainly that I can picture her easily. She had brown eyes and hair. She used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her "nigger" boy Cæsar on behind to open and shut plantation gates. She wore a pink calico sunbonnet, and Zebbie says "she was just like the pink hollyhocks that grew by mother's window." Isn't that a sweet picture? Her mother and father were both dead, and she and her brothers lived on their plantation. Zebbie had never dared speak to her until one day he had driven over with his mother and sisters to a dinner given on a neighboring plantation. He was standing outside near the wall, when some one dropped a spray of apple blossoms down upon him from an upper window. He looked up and Pauline was leaning out smiling at him. After that he made it a point to frequent places where he might expect her, and things went so well that presently Cæsar was left at home lest he should tell the brothers. She was a loyal little soul and would not desert, although he urged her to, even promising to go away, "plumb away, clean to Scott County if she would go." She told him that her brothers would go even as far as that to kill him, so that they must wait and hope. Finally Zebbie got tired of waiting, and one day he boldly rode up to the Gorley home and formally asked for Pauline's hand. The bullet he got for his presumption kept him from going to the war with his father and brother when they marched away. Some time later George Gorley was shot and killed from ambush, and although Zebbie had not yet left his bed the Gorleys believed he did it, and one night Pauline came through a heavy rainstorm, with only Cæsar, to warn Zebbie and to beg him, for her sake, to get away as fast as he could that night. She pleaded that she could not live if he were killed and could never marry him if he killed her brothers, so she persuaded him to go while they were all innocent. Well, he did as she wished and they never saw each other again. He never went home again until last Thanksgiving, and dear little Pauline had been dead for years. She herself had taken her little gifts for Zebbie to Mothie to keep for him. Some years later she died and was buried in the dress she mentioned. It was woven at Adeline Carter's, one of the bitterest enemies of the Gorleys, but the sacrifice of her pride did her no good because she was long at rest before Zebbie knew. He had been greatly grieved because no stone marked her grave, only a tangle of rose-briers. So he bought a stone, and in the night before Decoration Day he and two of Uncle Buck's grandsons went to the Gorley burying-ground and raised it to the memory of sweet Pauline. Some of the Gorleys still live there, so he came home at once, fearing if they should find out who placed the stone above their sister they would take vengeance on his poor, frail body. After he had finished telling me his story, I felt just as I used to when Grandmother opened the "big chist" to air her wedding clothes and the dress each of her babies wore when baptized. It seemed almost like smelling the lavender and rose-leaves, and it was with reverent fingers that I folded the shirt, the work of love, yellow with age, and laid it in the box.... Well, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy returned, and early one morning we started with a wagon and a bulging mess-box for Zebbie's home. We were going a new and longer route in order to take the wagon. Dandelions spread a carpet of gold. Larkspur grew waist-high with its long spikes of blue. The service-bushes and the wild cherries were a mass of white beauty. Meadowlarks and robins and bluebirds twittered and sang from every branch, it almost seemed. A sky of tenderest blue bent over us and fleecy little clouds drifted lazily across.... Soon we came to the pineries, where we traveled up deep gorges and cañons. The sun shot arrows of gold through the pines down upon us and we gathered our arms full of columbines. The little black squirrels barked and chattered saucily as we passed along, and we were all children together. We forgot all about feuds and partings, death and hard times. All we remembered was that God is good and the world is wide and beautiful. We plodded along all day. Next morning there was a blue haze that Zebbie said meant there would be a high wind, so we hurried to reach his home that evening. The sun was hanging like a great red ball in the smoky haze when we entered the long cañon in which is Zebbie's cabin. Already it was dusky in the cañons below, but not a breath of air stirred. A more delighted man than Zebbie I never saw when we finally drove up to his low, comfortable cabin. Smoke was slowly rising from the chimney, and Gavotte, the man in charge, rushed out and the hounds set up a joyful barking. Gavotte is a Frenchman, and he was all smiles and gesticulations as he said, "Welcome, welcome! To-day I am rejoice you have come. Yesterday I am despair if you have come because I am scrub, but to-day, behold, I am delight." I have heard of clean people, but Gavotte is the cleanest man I ever saw. The cabin floor was so white I hated to step upon it. The windows shone, and at each there was a calico curtain, blue-and-white check, unironed but newly washed. In one window was an old brown pitcher, cracked and nicked, filled with thistles. I never thought them pretty before, but the pearly pink and the silvery green were so pretty and looked so clean that they had a new beauty. Above the fireplace was a great black eagle which Gavotte had killed, the wings outspread and a bunch of arrows in the claws. In one corner near the fire was a washstand, and behind it hung the fishing-tackle. Above one door was a gun-rack, on which lay the rifle and shotgun, and over the other door was a pair of deer-antlers. In the center of the room stood the square home-made table, every inch scrubbed. In the side room, which is the bedroom, was a wide bunk made of pine plank that had also been scrubbed, then filled with fresh, sweet pine boughs, and over them was spread a piece of canvas that had once been a wagon sheet, but Gavotte had washed it and boiled and pounded it until it was clean and sweet. That served for a sheet. Zebbie was beside himself with joy. The hounds sprang upon him and expressed their joy unmistakably. He went at once to the corrals to see the "critters," and every one of them was safely penned for the night. "Old Sime," an old ram (goodness knows _how_ old!), promptly butted him over, but he just beamed with pleasure. "Sime knows me, dinged if he don't!" was his happy exclamation. We went into the cabin and left him fondling the "critters." Gavotte did himself proud getting supper. We had trout and the most delicious biscuit. Each of us had a crisp, tender head of lettuce with a spoonful of potato salad in the center. We had preserves made from canned peaches, and the firmest yellow butter. Soon it was quite dark and we had a tiny brass lamp which gave but a feeble light, but it was quite cool so we had a blazing fire which made it light enough. When supper was over, Zebbie called us out and asked us if we could hear anything. We could hear the most peculiar, long-drawn, sighing wail that steadily grew louder and nearer. I was really frightened, but he said it was the forerunner of the windstorm that would soon strike us. He said it was wind coming down Crag Cañon, and in just a few minutes it struck us like a cold wave and rushed, sighing, on down the cañon. We could hear it after it had passed us, and it was perfectly still around the cabin. Soon we heard the deep roaring of the coming storm, and Zebbie called the hounds in and secured the door. The sparks began to fly up the chimney. Jerrine lay on a bearskin before the fire, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I sat on the old blue "settle" at one side. Gavotte lay on the other side of the fire on the floor, his hands under his head. Zebbie got out his beloved old fiddle, tuned up, and began playing. Outside the storm was raging, growing worse all the time. Zebbie played and played. The worse the tumult, the harder the storm, the harder he played. I remember I was holding my breath, expecting the house to be blown away every moment, and Zebbie was playing what he called "Bonaparte's Retreat." It all seemed to flash before me--I could see those poor, suffering soldiers staggering along in the snow, sacrifices to one man's unholy ambition. I verily believe we were all bewitched. I shouldn't have been surprised to have seen witches and gnomes come tumbling down the chimney or flying in at the door, riding on the crest of the storm. I glanced at Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. She sat with her chin in her hand, gazing with unseeing eyes into the fire. Zebbie seemed possessed; he couldn't tire. It seemed like hours had passed and the tumult had not diminished. I felt like shrieking, but I gathered Jerrine up into my arms and carried her in to bed. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came with us. She touched my elbow and said, "Child, don't look toward the window, the banshees are out to-night." We knelt together beside the bed and said our beads; then, without undressing save pulling off our shoes, we crawled under our blankets and lay on the sweet, clean pine. We were both perfectly worn out, but we could not sleep. There seemed to be hundreds of different noises of the storm, for there are so many cañons, so many crooks and turns, and the great forest too. The wind was shrieking, howling, and roaring all at once. A deep boom announced the fall of some giant of the forest. I finally dozed off even in that terrible din, but Zebbie was not so frenzied as he had been. He was playing "Annie Laurie," and that song has always been a favorite of mine. The storm began gradually to die away and "Annie Laurie" sounded so beautiful. I was thinking of Pauline and, I know, to Zebbie, Annie Laurie and Pauline Gorley are one and the same. I knew no more until I heard Zebbie call out, "Ho, you sleepy-heads, it's day." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy turned over and said she was still sleepy. My former visit had taught me what beauty the early morning would spread before me, so I dressed hastily and went outdoors. Zebbie called me to go for a little walk. The amber light of the new day was chasing the violet and amethyst shadows down the cañons. It was all more beautiful than I can tell you. On one side the cañon-walls were almost straight up. It looked as if we might step off into a very world of mountains. Soon Old Baldy wore a crown of gleaming gold. The sun was up. We walked on and soon came to a brook. We were washing our faces in its icy waters when we heard twigs breaking, so we stood perfectly still. From out the undergrowth of birch and willows came a deer with two fawns. They stopped to drink, and nibbled the bushes. But soon they scented strangers, and, looking about with their beautiful, startled eyes, they saw us and away they went like the wind. We saw many great trees uptorn by the storm. High up on the cliffs Zebbie showed me where the eagles built every year.... We turned homeward and sat down upon the trunk of a fallen pine to rest and take another look at the magnificent view. Zebbie was silent, but presently he threw a handful of pebbles down the cañon wall. "I am not sorry Pauline is dead. I have never shed a tear. I know you think that is odd, but I have never wanted to mourn. I am glad that it is as it is. I am happy and at peace because I know she is mine. The little breeze is Pauline's own voice; she had a little caressing way just like the gentlest breeze when it stirs your hair. There is something in everything that brings back Pauline: the beauty of the morning, the song of a bird or the flash of its wings. The flowers look like she did. So I have not lost her, she is mine more than ever. I have always felt so, but was never quite sure until I went back and saw where they laid her. I know people think I am crazy, but I don't care for that. I shall not hate to die. When you get to be as old as I am, child, everything will have a new meaning to you." At last we slowly walked back to the cabin, and at breakfast Zebbie told of the damage the storm had done. He was so common-place that no one ever would have guessed his strange fancy.... I shall never forget Zebbie as I last saw him. It was the morning we started home. After we left the bench that Zebbie lives on, our road wound down into a deeper cañon. Zebbie had followed us to where a turn in the cañon should hide us from view. I looked back and saw him standing on the cliffs, high above us, the early morning sun turning his snowy hair to gold, the breeze-fingers of Pauline tossing the scanty locks. I shall always remember him so, a living monument to a dead past. ELINORE STEWART. XII A CONTENTED COUPLE _October 6, 1911._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- ... I once "heared" Sedalia Lane telling some of her experiences, and she said she "surreptitiously stole along." One day, when I thought the coast was clear, I was surreptitiously examining the contents of the tool-chest with a view toward securing to myself such hammers, saws, and what else I might need in doing some carpentry work I had planned. The tool-chest is kept in the granary; both it and the granary are usually kept locked. Now the "gude mon" has an idea that a "wooman" needs no tools, and the use and misuse of his tools have led to numbers of inter-household wars. I was gloating over my opportunity, and also making the best of it, when a medley of burring Scotch voices brought me to a quick realization that discretion is the better part of valor. So I went into seclusion behind a tall oat-bin. It seemed that two neighbors whom I had never seen were preparing to go to town, and had come to get some tools and to see if the Stewart would lend them each a team. Now Mr. Stewart must be very righteous, because he certainly regardeth his beast, although he doesn't always love his neighbor as himself. He was willing, however, for friends Tam Campbell and Archie McEttrick to use his teams, but he himself would take a lighter rig and go along, so as to see that his horses were properly cared for, and to help out in case of need. They made their plans, set the day, and went their ways. As soon as I could, I made myself scarce about the granary and very busy about the house, and, like Josiah Allen, I was in a very "happyfied" state of mind. There is nothing Mr. Stewart likes better than to catch me unprepared for something. I had been wanting to go to town, and he had said I might go with him next time he went, if I was ready when he was. I knew I would not hear one word about the proposed trip, but that only added to the fun. I had plenty of time to make all preparations; so the day before they were to start found me with all in readiness. It was quite early in the spring and the evenings were quite chilly. We had just finished supper, when we heard a great rumbling, and I knew neighbors Campbell and McEttrick had arrived on their way to town; so I began to prepare supper for them. I hadn't expected a woman, and was surprised when I saw the largest, most ungainly person I have ever met come shambling toward me. She was Aggie McEttrick. She is tall and raw-boned, she walks with her toes turned out, she has a most peculiar lurching gait like a camel's. She has skin the color of a new saddle, and the oddest straggly straw-colored hair. She never wears corsets and never makes her waists long enough, so there is always a streak of gray undershirt visible about her waist. Her skirts are never long enough either, and she knits her own stockings. Those inclined can always get a good glimpse of blue-and-white striped hose. She said, "I guess you are the Missus." And that was every word she said until I had supper on the table. The men were busy with their teams, and she sat with her feet in my oven, eyeing my every movement. I told her we had just had our supper, but she waited until I had theirs ready before she announced that neither she nor Archie ate hot biscuits or steak, that they didn't take tea for supper, preferred coffee, and that neither of them could eat peaches or honey. So all of my supper was ruled off except the butter and cream. She went down to their wagons and brought up what she wanted, so Tam Campbell was the only one who ate my honey and biscuit. Tam is just a Scot with an amazingly close fist, and he is very absent-minded. I had met Annie, his wife, and their six children. She told me of his absent-mindedness. Her remedy for his trouble when it came to household needs was to repeat the article two or three times in the list. People out like we are buy a year's supply at a time. So a list of needed things is made up and sent into town. Tam always managed to forget a great many things. Well, bedtime came. I offered to show them to their room, but Aggie said, "We'll nae sleep in your bed. We'll jest bide in the kitchen." I could not persuade her to change her mind. Tam slept at the barn in order to see after the "beasties," should they need attention during the night. As I was preparing for bed, Aggie thrust her head into my room and announced that she would be up at three o'clock. I am not an early bird, so I thought I would let Aggie get her own breakfast, and I told her she would find everything in the pantry. As long as I was awake I could hear Archie and Aggie talking, but I could not imagine what about. I didn't know their habits so well as I came to later. Next morning the rumbling of their wagons awakened me, but I turned over and slept until after six. There are always so many things to do before leaving that it was nine o'clock before we got started. We had only gotten about two miles, when Mr. Stewart remembered he had not locked the granary, so back we trotted. We nooned only a few miles from home. We knew we could not catch the wagons before camping-time unless we drove very hard, so Mr. Stewart said we would go by the Edmonsons' and spend the night there. I enjoy even the memory of that drive through the short spring afternoon,--the warm red sand of the desert; the Wind River Mountains wrapped in the blue veil of distance; the sparse gray-green sage, ugly in itself, but making complete a beautiful picture; the occasional glimpse we had of shy, beautiful wild creatures. So much happiness can be crowded into so short a time. I was glad, though, when Cora Belle's home became a part of our beautiful picture. It is situated among great red buttes, and there is a blue lake back of the house. Around the lake is a fringe of willows. Their house is a low, rambling affair, with a long, low porch and a red clay roof. Before the house is a cotton-wood tree, its gnarled, storm-twisted branches making it seem to have the "rheumatiz." There is a hop-vine at one end of the porch. It had not come out when we were there, but the dead vine clung hopelessly to its supports. Little Cora Belle just bubbled with delight, and her grandparents were scarcely better than she. Spring house-cleaning was just finished, and they have company so seldom that they made us feel that we were doing them a favor by stopping. Poor old "Pa" hobbled out to help put the team away, and when they came back, Cora Belle asked me out to help prepare supper, so I left Mr. Stewart with "Granny" and "Pa" to listen to their recitals and to taste their many medicines. Cora Belle is really an excellent housekeeper. Her cooking would surprise many people. Her bread was delicious, and I am sure I never tasted anything better than the roasted leg of lamb she gave us for supper. I am ashamed to tell you how much I ate of her carrot jam. From where I sat I had a splendid view of the sunset across the lake. Speaking of things singly, Wyoming has nothing beautiful to offer. Taken altogether, it is grandly beautiful, and at sunrise and sunset the "heavens declare His glory." Cora Belle is so animated and so straightforward, so entirely clean in all her thoughts and actions, that she commands love and respect at one and the same time. After supper her grandfather asked her to sing and play for us. Goodness only knows where they got the funny little old organ that Cora Belle thinks so much of. It has spots all over it of medicine that has been spilled at different times, and it has, as Cora Belle said, lost its voice in spots; but that doesn't set back Cora Belle at all, she plays away just as if it was all right. Some of the keys keep up a mournful whining and groaning, entirely outside of the tune. Cora Belle says they play themselves. After several "pieces" had been endured, "Pa" said, "Play my piece, Cory Belle"; so we had "Bingen on the Rhine" played and sung from A to izzard. Dear old "Pa," his pain-twisted old face just beamed with pride. I doubt if heaven will have for him any sweeter music than his "baby's" voice. Granny's squeaky, trembly old voice trailed in after Cora Belle's, always a word or two behind. "Tell my friends and companions when they meet and _scrouge_ around"; that is the way they sang it, but no one would have cared for that, if they had noticed with what happy eagerness the two sang together. The grandparents would like to have sat up all night singing and telling of things that happened in bygone days, but poor tired little Cora Belle began to nod, so we retired. As we were preparing for bed it suddenly occurred to Mr. Stewart that I had not been surprised when going to town was mentioned, so he said, "Wooman, how did it happen that you were ready when I was to gae to the toone?" "Oh," I said, "I knew you were going." "Who tell it ye?" "A little bird." "'T was some fool wooman, mayhap." I didn't feel it necessary to enlighten him, and I think he is still wondering how I knew. Next morning we were off early, but we didn't come up with the wagons until almost camping-time. The great heavily-loaded wagons were creaking along over the heavy sands. The McEttricks were behind, Aggie's big frame swaying and lurching with every jolt of the wagon. They never travel without their German socks. They are great thick things to wear on the outside of their shoes. As we came up behind them, we could see Aggie's big socks dangling and bobbing beside Archie's from where they were tied on the back part of the wagon. We could hear them talking and see them gesticulating. When we came nearer, we found they were quarreling, and they kept at it as long as I was awake that night. After the men had disposed of their loads, they and Mr. Stewart were going out of town to where a new coal-mine was being opened. I intended to go on the train to Rock Springs to do some shopping. Aggie said she was going also. I suggested that we get a room together, as we would have to wait several hours for the train, but she was suspicious of my motives. She is greatly afraid of being "done," so she told me to get my own room and pay for it. We got into town about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the train left at midnight. I had gone to my room, and Jerrine and myself were enjoying a good rest after our fatiguing drive, when my door was thrown open and a very angry Aggie strode in. They asked us fifty cents each for our rooms. Aggie paid hers under protest and afterward got to wondering how long she was entitled to its use. She had gone back to the clerk about it, and he had told her for that night only. She argued that she should have her room for a quarter, as she would only use it until midnight. When that failed, she asked for her money back, but the clerk was out of patience and refused her that. Aggie was angry all through. She vowed she was being robbed. After she had berated me soundly for submitting so tamely, she flounced back to her own room, declaring she would get even with the robbers. I had to hurry like everything that night to get myself and Jerrine ready for the train, so I could spare no time for Aggie. She was not at the depot, and Jerrine and I had to go on to Rock Springs without her. It is only a couple of hours from Green River to Rock Springs, so I had a good nap and a late breakfast. I did my shopping and was back at Green River at two that afternoon. The first person I saw was Aggie. She sat in the depot, glowering at everybody. She had a basket of eggs and a pail of butter, which she had been trying to sell. She was waiting for the night train, the only one she could get to Rock Springs. I asked her had she overslept. "No, I didna," she replied. Then, she proceeded to tell me that, as she had paid for a whole night's use of a room, she had stayed to get its use. That it had made her plans miscarry didn't seem to count. After all our business was attended to, we started for home. The wagons were half a day ahead of us. When we came in sight, we could see Aggie fanning the air with her long arms, and we knew they were quarreling. I remarked that I could not understand how persons who hated each other so could live together. Clyde told me I had much to learn, and said that really he knew of no other couple who were actually so devoted. He said to prove it I should ask Aggie into the buggy with me and he would get in with Archie, and afterwards we would compare notes. He drove up alongside of them, and Aggie seemed glad to make the exchange. As we had the buggy, we drove ahead of the wagons. It seems that Archie and Aggie are each jealous of the other. Archie is as ugly a little monkey as it would be possible to imagine. She bemeaned him until at last I asked her why she didn't leave him, and added that I would not stand such crankiness for one moment. Then she poured out the vials of her wrath upon my head, only I don't think they were vials but barrels. About sundown we made it to where we intended to camp and found that Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had established a sheep-camp there, and was out with her herd herself, having only Manny, a Mexican boy she had brought up herself, for a herder. She welcomed us cordially and began supper for our entire bunch. Soon the wagons came, and all was confusion for a few minutes getting the horses put away for the night. Aggie went to her wagon as soon as it stopped and made secure her butter and eggs against a possible raid by Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. Having asked too high a price for them, she had failed to sell them and was taking them back. After supper we were sitting around the fire, Tam going over his account and lamenting that because of his absent-mindedness he had bought a whole hundred pounds of sugar more than he had intended, Aggie and Archie silent for once, pouting I suspect. Clyde smiled across the camp-fire at me and said, "Gin ye had sic a lass as I hae, ye might blither." "Gin ye had sic a mon as mine--" I began, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Gin ye had sic a mon as I hae." Then we all three laughed, for we had each heard the same thing, and we knew the McEttricks wouldn't fight each other. They suspected us of laughing at them, for Archie said to Aggie, "Aggie, lass, is it sport they are making of our love?" "'T is daft they be, Archie, lad; we'll nae mind their blither." She arose and shambled across to Archie and hunkered her big self down beside him. We went to bed and left them peaceable for once. I am really ashamed of the way I have treated you, but I know you will forgive me. I am not strong yet, and my eyes are still bothering me, but I hope to be all right soon now, and I promise you a better letter next time. Jerrine is very proud of her necklace. I think they are so nice for children. I can remember how proud I was of mine when I was a child. Please give your brother our thanks, and tell him his little gift made my little girl very happy. I am afraid this letter will seem rather jumbled. I still want the address of your friend in Salem or any other. I shall find time to write, and I am not going to let my baby prevent me from having many enjoyable outings. We call our boy Henry Clyde for his father. He is a dear little thing, but he is a lusty yeller for baby's rights. With much love, JERRINE AND HER MAMMA. XIII PROVING UP _October 14, 1911._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I think you must be expecting an answer to your letter by now, so I will try to answer as many of your questions as I remember. Your letter has been mislaid. We have been very much rushed all this week. We had the thresher crew two days. I was busy cooking for them two days before they came, and have been busy ever since cleaning up after them. Clyde has taken the thresher on up the valley to thresh for the neighbors, and all the men have gone along, so the children and I are alone. No, I shall not lose my land, although it will be over two years before I can get a deed to it. The five years in which I am required to "prove up" will have passed by then. I couldn't have held my homestead if Clyde had also been proving up, but he had accomplished that years ago and has his deed, so I am allowed my homestead. Also I have not yet used my desert right, so I am still entitled to one hundred and sixty acres more. I shall file on that much some day when I have sufficient money of my own earning. The law requires a cash payment of twenty-five cents per acre at the filing, and one dollar more per acre when final proof is made. I should not have married if Clyde had not promised I should meet all my land difficulties unaided. I wanted the fun and the experience. For that reason I want to earn every cent that goes into my own land and improvements myself. Sometimes I almost have a brain-storm wondering how I am going to do it, but I know I shall succeed; other women have succeeded. I know of several who are now where they can laugh at past trials. Do you know?--I am a firm believer in laughter. I am real superstitious about it. I think if Bad Luck came along, he would take to his heels if some one laughed right loudly. I think Jerrine must be born for the law. She always threshes out questions that arise, to her own satisfaction, if to no one else's. She prayed for a long time for her brother; also she prayed for some puppies. The puppies came, but we didn't let her know they were here until they were able to walk. One morning she saw them following their mother, so she danced for joy. When her little brother came she was plainly disappointed. "Mamma," she said, "did God really make the baby?" "Yes, dear." "Then He hasn't treated us fairly, and I should like to know why. The puppies could walk when He finished them; the calves can, too. The pigs can, and the colt, and even the chickens. What is the use of giving us a half-finished baby? He has no hair, and no teeth; he can't walk or talk, nor do anything else but squall and sleep." After many days she got the question settled. She began right where she left off. "I know, Mamma, why God gave us such a half-finished baby; so he could learn our ways, and no one else's, since he must live with us, and so we could learn to love him. Every time I stand beside his buggy he laughs and then I love him, but I don't love Stella nor Marvin because they laugh. So that is why." Perhaps that is the reason. Zebbie's kinsfolk have come and taken him back to Yell County. I should not be surprised if he never returned. The Lanes and the Pattersons leave shortly for Idaho, where "our Bobbie" has made some large investments. I hope to hear from you soon and that you are enjoying every minute. With much love, Your friend, ELINORE STEWART. XIV THE NEW HOUSE _December 1, 1911._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I feel just like visiting to-night, so I am going to "play like" you have come. It is so good to have you to chat with. Please be seated in this low rocker; it is a present to me from the Pattersons and I am very proud of it. I am just back from the Patterson ranch, and they have a dear little boy who came the 20th of November and they call him Robert Lane. I am sure this room must look familiar to you, for there is so much in it that was once yours. I have two rooms, each fifteen by fifteen, but this one on the south is my "really" room and in it are my treasures. My house faces east and is built up against a side-hill, or should I say hillside? Anyway, they had to excavate quite a lot. I had them dump the dirt right before the house and terrace it smoothly. I have sown my terrace to California poppies, and around my porch, which is six feet wide and thirty long, I have planted wild cucumbers. Every log in my house is as straight as a pine can grow. Each room has a window and a door on the east side, and the south room has two windows on the south with space between for my heater, which is one of those with a grate front so I can see the fire burn. It is almost as good as a fireplace. The logs are unhewed outside because I like the rough finish, but inside the walls are perfectly square and smooth. The cracks in the walls are snugly filled with "daubing" and then the walls are covered with heavy gray building-paper, which makes the room very warm, and I really like the appearance. I had two rolls of wall-paper with a bold rose pattern. By being very careful I was able to cut out enough of the roses, which are divided in their choice of color as to whether they should be red, yellow, or pink, to make a border about eighteen inches from the ceiling. They brighten up the wall and the gray paper is fine to hang pictures upon. Those you have sent us make our room very attractive. The woodwork is stained a walnut brown, oil finish, and the floor is stained and oiled just like it. In the corners by the stove and before the windows we take our comfort. From some broken bamboo fishing-rods I made frames for two screens. These I painted black with some paint that was left from the buggy, and Gavotte fixed the screens so they will stay balanced, and put in casters for me. I had a piece of blue curtain calico and with brass-headed tacks I put it on the frame of Jerrine's screen, then I mixed some paste and let her decorate it to suit herself on the side that should be next her corner. She used the cards you sent her. Some of the people have a suspiciously tottering appearance, perhaps not so very artistic, but they all mean something to a little girl whose small fingers worked patiently to attain satisfactory results. She has a set of shelves on which her treasures of china are arranged. On the floor is a rug made of two goatskins dyed black, a present from Gavotte, who heard her admiring Zebbie's bearskin. She has a tiny red rocking-chair which she has outgrown, but her rather dilapidated family of dolls use it for an automobile. For a seat for herself she has a small hassock that you gave me, and behind the blue screen is a world apart. My screen is made just like Jerrine's except that the cover is cream material with sprays of wild roses over it. In my corner I have a cot made up like a couch. One of my pillows is covered with some checked gingham that "Dawsie" cross-stitched for me. I have a cabinet bookcase made from an old walnut bedstead that was a relic of the Mountain Meadow Massacre. Gavotte made it for me. In it I have my few books, some odds and ends of china, all gifts, and a few fossil curios. For a floor-covering I have a braided rug of blue and white, made from old sheets and Jerrine's old dresses. In the center of my room is a square table made of pine and stained brown. Over it is a table-cover that you gave me. Against the wall near my bed is my "dresser." It is a box with shelves and is covered with the same material as my screen. Above it I have a mirror, but it makes ugly faces at me every time I look into it. Upon the wall near by is a match-holder that you gave me. It is the heads of two fisher-folk. The man has lost his nose, but the old lady still thrusts out her tongue. The material on my screen and "dresser" I bought for curtains, then decided to use some white crossbar I had. But I wish I had not, for every time I look at them I think of poor little Mary Ann Parker. I am going to make you a cup of tea and wonder if you will see anything familiar about the teapot. You should, I think, for it is another of your many gifts to me. Now I feel that you have a fairly good idea of what my house looks like, on the inside anyway. The magazines and Jerrine's cards and Mother Goose book came long ago, and Jerrine and I were both made happy. I wish I could do nice things for you, but all I can do is to love you. Your sincere friend, ELINORE RUPERT. XV THE "STOCKING-LEG" DINNER _February, 1912._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- ... This time I want to tell you about a "stocking-leg" dinner which I attended not long ago. It doesn't sound very respectable, but it was one of the happiest events I ever remember. Mrs. Louderer was here visiting us, and one afternoon we were all in the kitchen when Gavotte came skimming along on the first pair of snowshoes I ever saw. We have had lots of snow this winter, and many of the hollows and gullies are packed full. Gavotte had no difficulty in coming, and he had come for the mail and to invite us to a feast of "ze hose." I could not think what kind of a dinner it could be, and I did not believe that Mr. Stewart would go, but after Gavotte had explained how much easier it was now than at any other time because the hard-packed snow made it possible to go with bobsleds, I knew he would go. I can't say I really wanted to go, but Mrs. Louderer took it for granted that it would be delightful, so she and Mr. Stewart did the planning. Next morning Gavotte met Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and invited her. Then, taking the mail, he went on ahead to blaze a trail we should follow with the sleds. We were to start two days later. They planned we could easily make the trip in a day, as, with the gulches filled with snow, short cuts were possible, and we could travel at a good pace, as we would have a strong team. To me it seemed dangerous, but dinner-parties have not been so plenty that I could miss one. So, when the day came on which we were to start, we were up betimes and had a mess-box packed and Mr. Stewart had a big pile of rocks hot. We all wore our warmest clothes, and the rest carried out hot rocks and blankets while I put the kitchen in such order that the men left to feed the stock would have no trouble in getting their meals. Mr. Stewart carried out the mess-box, and presently we were off. We had a wagon-box on bobsleds, and the box was filled with hay and hot rocks with blankets on top and more to cover us. Mr. Stewart had two big bags of grain in front, feed for the horses, and he sat on them. It was a beautiful day and we jogged along merrily. We had lots of fun, and as we went a new way, there was much that was new to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and myself, and it was all new to the rest. Gavotte had told us where we should noon, and we reached the place shortly after twelve. Mr. Stewart went to lift out the mess-box,--but he had forgotten to put it in! Oh, dear! We were a disappointed lot. I don't think I was ever so hungry, but there was nothing for it but to grin and bear it. It did me some good, though, to remember how a man misses his dinner. The horses had to be fed, so we walked about while they were eating. We went up a cañon that had high cliffs on one side, and came to a place where, high up on the rock wall, in great black letters, was this legend: "Dick fell off of this here clift and died." I should think there would be no question that any one who fell from that place on to the boulders below _would_ die. Soon we started again, and if not quite so jolly as we were before, at least we looked forward to our supper with a keen relish and the horses were urged faster than they otherwise would have been. The beautiful snow is rather depressing, however, when there is snow everywhere. The afternoon passed swiftly and the horses were becoming jaded. At four o'clock it was almost dark. We had been going up a deep cañon and came upon an appalling sight. There had been a snow-slide and the cañon was half-filled with snow, rock, and broken trees. The whole way was blocked, and what to do we didn't know, for the horses could hardly be gotten along and we could not pass the snow-slide. We were twenty-five miles from home, night was almost upon us, and we were almost starved. But we were afraid to stay in that cañon lest more snow should slide and bury us, so sadly we turned back to find as comfortable a place as we could to spend the night. The prospects were very discouraging, and I am afraid we were all near tears, when suddenly there came upon the cold air a clear blast from a horn. Mrs. Louderer cried, "Ach, der reveille!" Once I heard a lecturer tell of climbing the Matterhorn and the calls we heard brought his story to mind. No music could have been so beautiful. It soon became apparent that we were being signaled; so we drove in the direction of the sound and found ourselves going up a wide cañon. We had passed the mouth of it shortly before we had come to the slide. Even the tired horses took new courage, and every few moments a sweet, clear call put new heart into us. Soon we saw a light. We had to drive very slowly and in places barely crept. The bugler changed his notes and we knew he was wondering if we were coming, so Mr. Stewart helloed. At once we had an answer, and after that we were steadily guided by the horn. Many times we could not see the light, but we drove in the right direction because we could hear the horn. At last, when it was quite dark and the horses could go no farther, we drew up before the fire that had been our beacon light. It was a bonfire built out upon a point of rock at the end of the cañon. Back from it among the pines was a 'dobe house. A dried-up mummy of a man advanced from the fire to meet us, explaining that he had seen us through his field-glasses and, knowing about the snow-slide, had ventured to attract us to his poor place. Carlota Juanita was within, prepared for the _señoras_, if they would but walk in. If they would! More dead than alive, we scrambled out, cold-stiffened and hungry. Carlota Juanita threw open the low, wide door and we stumbled into comfort. She hastened to help us off with our wraps, piled more wood on the open fire, and busied herself to make us welcome and comfortable. Poor Carlota Juanita! Perhaps you think she was some slender, limpid-eyed, olive-cheeked beauty. She was fat and forty, but not fair. She had the biggest wad of hair that I ever saw, and her face was so fat that her eyes looked beady. She wore an old heelless pair of slippers or sandals that would hardly stay on, and at every step they made the most exasperating sliding noise, but she was all kindness and made us feel very welcome. The floor was of dirt, and they had the largest fireplace I have ever seen, with the widest, cleanest hearth, which was where they did their cooking. All their furniture was home-made, and on a low bench near the door were three water-jars which, I am sure, were handmade. Away back in a corner they had a small altar, on which was a little statue of Mary and the Child. Before it, suspended by a wire from the rafters, was a cow's horn in which a piece of punk was burning, just as the incense is kept burning in churches. Supper was already prepared and was simmering and smoking on the hearth. As soon as the men came in, Carlota Juanita put it on the table, which was bare of cloth. I can't say that I really like Mexican bread, but they certainly know how to cook meat. They had a most wonderful pot-roast with potatoes and corn dumplings that were delicious. The roast had been slashed in places and small bits of garlic, pepper, bacon, and, I think, parsley, inserted. After it and the potatoes and the dumplings were done, Carlota had poured in a can of tomatoes. You may not think that was good, but I can assure you it was and that we did ample justice to it. After we had eaten until we were hardly able to swallow, Carlota Juanita served a queer Mexican pie. It was made of dried buffalo-berries, stewed and made very sweet. A layer of batter had been poured into a deep baking-dish, then the berries, and then more batter. Then it was baked and served hot with plenty of hard sauce; and it was powerful good, too. She had very peculiar coffee with goat's milk in it. I took mine without the milk, but I couldn't make up my mind that I liked the coffee. We sat around the fire drinking it, when Manuel Pedro Felipe told us it was some he had brought from Mexico. I didn't know they raised it there, but he told us many interesting things about it. He and Carlota Juanita both spoke fairly good English. They had lived for many years in their present home and had some sheep, a few goats, a cow or two, a few pigs, and chickens and turkeys. They had a small patch of land that Carlota Juanita tilled and on which was raised the squaw corn that hung in bunches from the rafters. Down where we live we can't get sweet corn to mature, but here, so much higher up, they have a sheltered little nook where they are able to raise many things. Upon a long shelf above the fire was an ugly old stone image, the bottom broken off and some plaster applied to make it set level. The ugly thing they had brought with them from some old ruined temple in Mexico. We were all so very tired that soon Carlota Juanita brought out an armful of the thickest, brightest rugs and spread them over the floor for us to sleep upon. The men retired to a lean-to room, where they slept, but not before Manuel Pedro Felipe and Carlota had knelt before their altar for their devotions. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and myself and Jerrine, knowing the rosary, surprised them by kneeling with them. It is good to meet with kindred faith away off in the mountains. It seems there could not possibly be a mistake when people so far away from creeds and doctrines hold to the faith of their childhood and find the practice a pleasure after so many years. The men bade us good-night, and we lost no time in settling ourselves to rest. Luckily we had plenty of blankets. Away in the night I was awakened by a noise that frightened me. All was still, but instantly there flashed through my mind tales of murdered travelers, and I was almost paralyzed with fear when again I heard that stealthy, sliding noise, just like Carlota Juanita's old slippers. The fire had burned down, but just then the moon came from behind a cloud and shone through the window upon Carlota Juanita, who was asleep with her mouth open. I could also see a pine bough which was scraping against the wall outside, which was perhaps making the noise. I turned over and saw the punk burning, which cast a dim light over the serene face of the Blessed Virgin, so all fear vanished and I slept as long as they would let me in the morning. After a breakfast of _tortillas_, cheese, and rancid butter, and some more of the coffee, we started again for the stocking-leg dinner. Carlota Juanita stood in the door, waving to us as long as we could see her, and Manuel P.F. sat with Mr. Stewart to guide us around the snow-slide. Under one arm he carried the horn with which he had called us to him. It came from some long-horned cow in Mexico, was beautifully polished, and had a fancy rim of silver. I should like to own it, but I could not make it produce a sound. When we were safe on our way our guide left us, and our spirits ran high again. The horses were feeling good also, so it was a merry, laughing party that drew up before Zebbie's two hours later. Long before I had lent Gavotte a set of the Leather-Stocking Tales, which he had read aloud to Zebbie. Together they had planned a Leather-Stocking dinner, at which should be served as many of the viands mentioned in the Tales as possible. We stayed two days and it was one long feast. We had venison served in half a dozen different ways. We had antelope; we had porcupine, or hedgehog, as Pathfinder called it; and also we had beaver-tail, which he found toothsome, but which I did _not_. We had grouse and sage hen. They broke the ice and snared a lot of trout. In their cellar they had a barrel of trout prepared exactly like mackerel, and they were more delicious than mackerel because they were finer-grained. I had been a little disappointed in Zebbie after his return from home. It seemed to me that Pauline had spoiled him. I guess I was jealous. This time he was the same little old Zebbie I had first seen. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy our visit, and I am sure we each had the time of our lives. We made it home without mishap the same day we started, all of us sure life held something new and enjoyable after all. If nothing happens there are some more good times in store for me this summer. Gavotte once worked under Professor Marsden when he was out here getting fossils for the Smithsonian Institution, and he is very interesting to listen to. He has invited us to go with him out to the Bad-Land hills in the summer to search for fossils. The hills are only a few miles from here and I look forward to a splendid time. XVI THE HORSE-THIEVES [No date.] DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- ... I am so afraid that you will get an overdose of culture from your visit to the Hub and am sending you an antidote of our sage, sand, and sunshine. Mrs. Louderer had come over to see our boy. Together we had prepared supper and were waiting for Clyde, who had gone to the post-office. Soon he came, and after the usual friendly wrangling between him and Mrs. Louderer we had supper. Then they began their inevitable game of cribbage, while I sat near the fire with Baby on my lap. Clyde was telling us of a raid on a ranch about seventy-five miles away, in which the thieves had driven off thirty head of fine horses. There were only two of the thieves, and the sheriff with a large posse was pursuing them and forcing every man they came across into the chase, and a regular man-hunt was on. It was interesting only because one of the thieves was a noted outlaw then out on parole and known to be desperate. We were in no way alarmed; the trouble was all in the next county, and somehow that always seems so far away. We knew if the men ever came together there would be a pitched battle, with bloodshed and death, but there seemed little chance that the sheriff would ever overtake the men. I remember I was feeling sorry for the poor fellows with a price on their heads,--the little pink man on my lap had softened my heart wonderfully. Jerrine was enjoying the pictures in a paper illustrating early days on the range, wild scenes of roping and branding. I had remarked that I didn't believe there were any more such times, when Mrs Louderer replied, "Dot yust shows how much it iss you do not know. You shall come to mine house and when away you come it shall be wiser as when you left." I had kept at home very closely all summer, and a little trip seemed the most desirable thing I could think of, particularly as the baby would be in no way endangered. But long ago I learned that the quickest way to get what I want is not to want it, outwardly, at least. So I assumed an indifference that was not very real. The result was that next morning every one was in a hurry to get me started,--Clyde greasing the little old wagon that looks like a twin to Cora Belle's, and Mrs. Louderer, who thinks no baby can be properly brought up without goose-grease, busy greasing the baby "so as he shall not some cold take yet." Mrs. Louderer had ridden over, so her saddle was laid in the wagon and her pony, Bismarck, was hitched in with Chub, the laziest horse in all Wyoming. I knew Clyde could manage very well while I should be gone, and there wasn't a worry to interfere with the pleasure of my outing. We jogged along right merrily, Mrs. Louderer devoting her entire attention to trying to make Chub pull even with Bismarck, Jerrine and myself enjoying the ever-changing views. I wish I could lay it all before you. Summer was departing with reluctant feet, unafraid of Winter's messengers, the chill winds. That day was especially beautiful. The gleaming snow peaks and heavy forest south and at our back; west, north, and east, long, broken lines of the distant mountains with their blue haze. Pilot Butte to the north, one hundred miles away, stood out clear and distinct as though we could drive there in an hour or two. The dull, neutral-colored "Bad Land" hills nearer us are interesting only because we know they are full of the fossil remains of strange creatures long since extinct. For a distance our way lay up Henry's Fork valley; prosperous little ranches dotted the view, ripening grain rustled pleasantly in the warm morning sunshine, and closely cut alfalfa fields made bright spots of emerald against the dun landscape. The quaking aspens were just beginning to turn yellow; everywhere purple asters were a blaze of glory except where the rabbit-bush grew in clumps, waving its feathery plumes of gold. Over it all the sky was so deeply blue, with little, airy, white clouds drifting lazily along. Every breeze brought scents of cedar, pine, and sage. At this point the road wound along the base of cedar hills; some magpies were holding a noisy caucus among the trees, a pair of bluebirds twittered excitedly upon a fence, and high overhead a great black eagle soared. All was so peaceful that horse-thieves and desperate men seemed too remote to think about. Presently we crossed the creek and headed our course due north toward the desert and the buttes. I saw that we were not going right to reach Mrs. Louderer's ranch, so I asked where we were supposed to be going. "We iss going to the mouth of Dry Creek by, where it goes Black's Fork into. Dere mine punchers holdts five huntert steers. We shall de camp visit and you shall come back wiser as when you went." Well, we both came away wiser. I had thought we were going only to the Louderer ranch, so I put up no lunch, and there was nothing for the horses either. But it was too beautiful a time to let such things annoy us. Anyway, we expected to reach camp just after noon, so a little delay about dinner didn't seem so bad. We had entered the desert by noon; the warm, red sands fell away from the wheels with soft, hissing sounds. Occasionally a little horned toad sped panting along before us, suddenly darting aside to watch with bright, cunning eyes as we passed. Some one had placed a buffalo's skull beside a big bunch of sage and on the sage a splendid pair of elk's antlers. We saw many such scattered over the sands, grim reminders of a past forever gone. About three o'clock we reached our destination, but no camp was there. We were more disappointed than I can tell you, but Mrs. Louderer merely went down to the river, a few yards away, and cut an armful of willow sticks wherewith to coax Chub to a little brisker pace, and then we took the trail of the departed mess-wagon. Shortly, we topped a low range of hills, and beyond, in a cuplike valley, was the herd of sleek beauties feeding contentedly on the lush green grass. I suppose it sounds odd to hear desert and river in the same breath, but within a few feet of the river the desert begins, where nothing grows but sage and greasewood. In oasis-like spots will be found plenty of grass where the soil is nearer the surface and where sub-irrigation keeps the roots watered. In one of these spots the herd was being held. When the grass became short they would be moved to another such place. It required, altogether, fifteen men to take care of the herd, because many of the cattle had been bought in different places, some in Utah, and these were always trying to run away and work back toward home, so they required constant herding. Soon we caught the glimmer of white canvas, and knew it was the cover of the mess-wagon, so we headed that way. The camp was quite near the river so as to be handy to water and to have the willows for wood. Not a soul was at camp. The fire was out, and even the ashes had blown away. The mess-box was locked and Mrs. Louderer's loud calls brought only echoes from the high rock walls across the river. However, there was nothing to do but to make the best of it, so we tethered the horses and went down to the river to relieve ourselves of the dust that seemed determined to unite with the dust that we were made of. Mrs. Louderer declared she was "so mat as nodings and would fire dot Herman so soon as she could see him alreaty." Presently we saw the most grotesque figure approaching camp. It was Herman, the fat cook, on Hunks, a gaunt, ugly old horse, whose days of usefulness under the saddle were past and who had degenerated into a workhorse. The disgrace of it seemed to be driving him into a decline, but he stumbled along bravely under his heavy load. A string of a dozen sage chickens swung on one side, and across the saddle in front of Herman lay a young antelope. A volley of German abuse was hurled at poor Herman, wound up in as plain American as Mrs. Louderer could speak: "And who iss going to pay de game warden de fine of dot antelope what you haf shot? And how iss it that we haf come de camp by und so starved as we iss hungry, and no cook und no food? Iss dat for why you iss paid?" Herman was some Dutch himself, however. "How iss it," he demanded, "dat you haf not so much sense as you haf tongue? How haf you lived so long as always in de West und don't know enough to hunt a bean-hole when you reach your own camp. Hey?" Mrs. Louderer was very properly subdued and I delighted when he removed the stones from where the fire had been, exposing a pit from which, with a pair of pot-hooks, he lifted pots and ovens of the most delicious meat, beans, and potatoes. From the mess-box he brought bread and apricot pie. From a near-by spring he brought us a bright, new pail full of clear, sparkling water, but Mrs. Louderer insisted upon tea and in a short time he had it ready for us. The tarpaulin was spread on the ground for us to eat from, and soon we were showing an astonished cook just how much food two women and a child could get away with. I ate a good deal of ashes with my roast beef and we all ate more or less sand, but fastidiousness about food is a good thing to get rid of when you come West to camp. When the regular supper-time arrived the punchers began to gather in, and the "boss," who had been to town about some business, came in and brought back the news of the man-hunt. The punchers sat about the fire, eating hungrily from their tin plates and eagerly listening to the recital. Two of the boys were tenderfeet: one from Tennessee called "Daisy Belle," because he whistled that tune so much and because he had nose-bleed so much,--couldn't even ride a broncho but his nose would bleed for hours afterwards; and the other, "N'Yawk," so called from his native State. N'Yawk was a great boaster; said he wasn't afraid of no durned outlaw,--said his father had waded in bloody gore up to his neck and that he was a chip off the old block,--rather hoped the chase would come our way so he could try his marksmanship. The air began to grow chill and the sky was becoming overcast. Preparations for the night busied everybody. Fresh ponies were being saddled for the night relief, the hard-ridden, tired ones that had been used that day being turned loose to graze. Some poles were set up and a tarpaulin arranged for Mrs. Louderer and me to sleep under. Mrs. Louderer and Jerrine lay down on some blankets and I unrolled some more, which I was glad to notice were clean, for Baby and myself. I can't remember ever being more tired and sleepy, but I couldn't go to sleep. I could hear the boss giving orders in quick, decisive tones. I could hear the punchers discussing the raid, finally each of them telling exploits of his favorite heroes of outlawry. I could hear Herman, busy among his pots and pans. Then he mounted the tongue of the mess-wagon and called out, "We haf for breakfast cackle-berries, first vot iss come iss served, und those vot iss sleep late gets nodings." I had never before heard of cackle-berries and asked sleepy Mrs. Louderer what they were. "Vait until morning and you shall see," was all the information that I received. Soon a gentle, drizzling rain began, and the punchers hurriedly made their beds, as they did so twitting N'Yawk about making his between our tent and the fire. "You're dead right, pard," I heard one of them say, "to make your bed there, fer if them outlaws comes this way they'll think you air one of the women and they won't shoot you. Just us _men_ air in danger." "Confound your fool tongues, how they goin' to know there's any women here? I tell you, fellers, my old man waded in bloody gore up to his neck and I'm just like him." They kept up this friendly parleying until I dozed off to sleep, but I couldn't stay asleep. I don't think I was afraid, but I certainly was nervous. The river was making a sad, moaning sound; the rain fell gently, like tears. All nature seemed to be mourning about something, happened or going to happen. Down by the river an owl hooted dismally. Half a mile away the night-herders were riding round and round the herd. One of them was singing,--faint but distinct came his song: "Bury me not on the lone prairie." Over and over again he sang it. After a short interval of silence he began again. This time it was, "I'm thinking of my dear old mother, ten thousand miles away." Two punchers stirred uneasily and began talking. "Blast that Tex," I heard one of them say, "he certainly has it bad to-night. What the deuce makes him sing so much? I feel like bawling like a kid; I wish he'd shut up." "He's homesick; I guess we all are too, but they ain't no use staying awake and letting it soak in. Shake the water off the tarp, you air lettin' water catch on your side an' it's running into my ear." That is the last I heard for a long time. I must have slept. I remember that the baby stirred and I spoke to him. It seemed to me that something struck against the guy-rope that held our tarpaulin taut, but I wasn't sure. I was in that dozy state, half asleep, when nothing is quite clear. It seemed as though I had been listening to the tramp of feet for hours and that a whole army must be filing past, when I was brought suddenly into keen consciousness by a loud voice demanding, "Hello! Whose outfit is this?" "This is the 7 Up,--Louderer's," the boss called back; "what's wanted?" "Is that you, Mat? This is Ward's posse. We been after Meeks and Murdock all night. It's so durned dark we can't see, but we got to keep going; their horses are about played. We changed at Hadley's, but we ain't had a bite to eat and we got to search your camp." "Sure thing," the boss answered, "roll off and take a look. Hi, there, you Herm, get out of there and fix these fellers something to eat." We were surrounded. I could hear the clanking of spurs and the sound of the wet, tired horses shaking themselves and rattling the saddles on every side. "Who's in the wickiup?" I heard the sheriff ask. "Some women and kids,--Mrs. Louderer and a friend." In an incredibly short time Herman had a fire coaxed into a blaze and Mat Watson and the sheriff went from bed to bed with a lantern. They searched the mess-wagon, even, although Herman had been sleeping there. The sheriff unceremoniously flung out the wood and kindling the cook had stored there. He threw back the flap of our tent and flashed the lantern about. He could see plainly enough that there were but the four of us, but I wondered how they saw outside where the rain made it worse, the lantern was so dirty. "Yes," I heard the sheriff say, "we've been pushing them hard. They're headed north, evidently intend to hit the railroad but they'll never make it. Every ford on the river is guarded except right along here, and there's five parties ranging on the other side. My party's split,--a bunch has gone on to the bridge. If they find anything they're to fire a volley. Same with us. I knew they couldn't cross the river nowhere but at the bridge or here." The men had gathered about the fire and were gulping hot coffee and cold beef and bread. The rain ran off their slickers in little rivulets. I was sorry the fire was not better, because some of the men had on only ordinary coats, and the drizzling rain seemed determined that the fire should not blaze high. Before they had finished eating we heard a shot, followed by a regular medley of dull booms. The men were in their saddles and gone in less time than it takes to tell it. The firing had ceased save for a few sharp reports from the revolvers, like a coyote's spiteful snapping. The pounding of the horse's hoofs grew fainter, and soon all was still. I kept my ears strained for the slightest sound. The cook and the boss, the only men up, hurried back to bed. Watson had risen so hurriedly that he had not been careful about his "tarp" and water had run into his bed. But that wouldn't disconcert anybody but a tenderfoot. I kept waiting in tense silence to hear them come back with dead or wounded, but there was not a sound. The rain had stopped. Mrs. Louderer struck a match and said it was three o'clock. Soon she was asleep. Through a rift in the clouds a star peeped out. I could smell the wet sage and the sand. A little breeze came by, bringing Tex's song once more:-- "Oh, it matters not, so I've been told, How the body lies when the heart grows cold." Oh, dear! the world seemed so full of sadness. I kissed my baby's little downy head and went to sleep. It seems that cowboys are rather sleepy-headed in the morning and it is a part of the cook's job to get them up. The next I knew, Herman had a tin pan on which he was beating a vigorous tattoo, all the time hollering, "We haf cackle-berries und antelope steak for breakfast." The baby was startled by the noise, so I attended to him and then dressed myself for breakfast. I went down to the little spring to wash my face. The morning was lowering and gray, but a wind had sprung up and the clouds were parting. There are times when anticipation is a great deal better than realization. Never having seen a cackle-berry, my imagination pictured them as some very luscious wild fruit, and I was so afraid none would be left that I couldn't wait until the men should eat and be gone. So I surprised them by joining the very earliest about the fire. Herman began serving breakfast. I held out my tin plate and received some of the steak, an egg, and two delicious biscuits. We had our coffee in big enameled cups, without sugar or cream, but it was piping hot and _so_ good. I had finished my egg and steak and so I told Herman I was ready for my cackle-berries. "Listen to her now, will you?" he asked. And then indignantly, "How many cackle-berries does you want? You haf had so many as I haf cooked for you." "Why, Herman, I haven't had a single berry," I said. Then such a roar of laughter. Herman gazed at me in astonishment, and Mr. Watson gently explained to me that eggs and cackle-berries were one and the same. N'Yawk was not yet up, so Herman walked over to his bed, kicked him a few times, and told him he would scald him if he didn't turn out. It was quite light by then. N'Yawk joined us in a few minutes. "What the deuce was you fellers kicking up such a rumpus fer last night?" he asked. "You blamed blockhead, don't you know?" the boss answered. "Why, the sheriff searched this camp last night. They had a battle down at the bridge afterwards and either they are all killed or else no one is hurt. They would have been here otherwise. Ward took a shot at them once yesterday, but I guess he didn't hit; the men got away, anyway. And durn your sleepy head! you just lay there and snored. Well, I'll be danged!" Words failed him, his wonder and disgust were so great. N'Yawk turned to get his breakfast. His light shirt was blood-stained in the back,--seemed to be soaked. "What's the matter with your shirt, it's soaked with blood?" some one asked. "Then that durned Daisy Belle has been crawling in with me, that's all," he said. "Blame his bleeding snoot. I'll punch it and give it something to bleed for." Then Mr. Watson said, "Daisy ain't been in all night. He took Jesse's place when he went to town after supper." That started an inquiry and search which speedily showed that some one with a bleeding wound had gotten in with N'Yawk. It also developed that Mr. Watson's splendid horse and saddle were gone, the rope that the horse had been picketed with lying just as it had been cut from his neck. Now all was bustle and excitement. It was plainly evident that one of the outlaws had lain hidden on N'Yawk's bed while the sheriff was there, and that afterwards he had saddled the horse and made his escape. His own horse was found in the willows, the saddle cut loose and the bridle off, but the poor, jaded thing had never moved. By sunup the search-party returned, all too worn-out with twenty-four hours in the saddle to continue the hunt. They were even too worn-out to eat, but flung themselves down for a few hours' rest. The chase was hopeless anyway, for the search-party had gone north in the night. The wounded outlaw had doubtless heard the sheriff talking and, the coast being clear to the southward, had got the fresh horse and was by that time probably safe in the heavy forests and mountains of Utah. His getting in with N'Yawk had been a daring ruse, but a successful one. Where his partner was, no one could guess. But by that time all the camp excepting Herman and Mrs. Louderer were so panicky that we couldn't have made a rational suggestion. N'Yawk, white around his mouth, approached Mrs. Louderer. "I want to quit," he said. "Well," she said, calmly sipping her coffee, "you haf done it." "I'm sick," he stammered. "I know you iss," she said, "I haf before now seen men get sick when they iss scared to death." "My old daddy--" he began. "Yes, I know, he waded the creek vone time und you has had cold feet effer since." Poor fellow, I felt sorry for him. I had cold feet myself just then, and I was powerfully anxious to warm them by my own fire where a pair of calm blue eyes would reassure me. I didn't get to see the branding that was to have taken place on the range that day. The boss insisted on taking the trail of his valued horse. He was very angry. He thought there was a traitor among the posse. Who started the firing at the bridge no one knew, and Watson said openly that it was done to get the sheriff away from camp. My own home looked mighty good to me when we drove up that evening. I don't want any more wild life on the range,--not for a while, anyway. Your ex-Washlady, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XVII AT GAVOTTE'S CAMP _November 16, 1912._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- At last I can write you as I want to. I am afraid you think I am going to wait until the "bairns" are grown up before writing to my friends, but indeed I shall not. I fully intend to "gather roses while I may." Since God has given me two blessings, children and friends, I shall enjoy them both as I go along. I must tell you why I have not written as I should have done. All summer long my eyes were so strained and painful that I had to let all reading and writing go. And I have suffered terribly with my back. But now I am able to be about again, do most of my own work, and my eyes are much better. So now I shall not treat you so badly again. If you could only know how kind every one is to me, you would know that even ill health has its compensations out here. Dear Mrs. Louderer, with her goose-grease, her bread, and her delicious "kuchens." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, with her cheery ways, her tireless friendship, and willing, capable hands. Gavotte even, with his tidbits of game and fish. Dear little Cora Belle came often to see me, sometimes bringing me a little of Grandpa's latest cure, which I received on faith, for, of course, I could not really swallow any of it. Zebbie's nephew, Parker Carter, came out, spent the summer with him, and they have now gone back to Yell County, leaving Gavotte in charge again. Gavotte had a most interesting and prosperous summer. He was commissioned by a wealthy Easterner to procure some fossils. I had had such a confined summer that Clyde took me out to Gavotte's camp as soon as I was able to sit up and be driven. We found him away over in the bad lands camped in a fine little grove. He is a charming man to visit at any time, and we found him in a particularly happy mood. He had just begun to quarry a gigantic find; he had piles of specimens; he had packed and shipped some rare specimens of fossil plants, but his "beeg find" came later and he was jubilant. To dig fossils successfully requires great care and knowledge, but it is a work in which Gavotte excels. He is a splendid cook. I almost believe he could make a Johnny Reb like codfish, and that night we had a delicious supper and all the time listening to a learned discourse about prehistoric things. I enjoyed the meal and I enjoyed the talk, but I could not sleep peacefully for being chased in my dreams by pterodactyls, dinosaurs, and iguanodons, besides a great many horrible creatures whose names I have forgotten. Of course, when the ground begins to freeze and snow comes, fossil-mining is done for until summer comes, so Gavotte tends the critters and traps this winter. I shall not get to go to the mountains this winter. The babies are too small, but there is always some happy and interesting thing happening, and I shall have two pleasures each time, my own enjoyment, and getting to tell you of them. XVIII THE HOMESTEADER'S MARRIAGE AND A LITTLE FUNERAL _December 2, 1912._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Every time I get a new letter from you I get a new inspiration, and I am always glad to hear from you. I have often wished I might tell you all about my Clyde, but have not because of two things. One is I could not even begin without telling you what a good man he is, and I didn't want you to think I could do nothing but brag. The other reason is the haste I married in. I am ashamed of that. I am afraid you will think me a Becky Sharp of a person. But although I married in haste, I have no cause to repent. That is very fortunate because I have never had one bit of leisure to repent in. So I am lucky all around. The engagement was powerfully short because both agreed that the trend of events and ranch work seemed to require that we be married first and do our "sparking" afterward. You see, we had to chink in the wedding between times, that is, between planting the oats and other work that must be done early or not at all. In Wyoming ranchers can scarcely take time even to be married in the springtime. That having been settled, the license was sent for by mail, and as soon as it came Mr. Stewart saddled Chub and went down to the house of Mr. Pearson, the justice of the peace and a friend of long standing. I had never met any of the family and naturally rather dreaded to have them come, but Mr. Stewart was firm in wanting to be married at home, so he told Mr. Pearson he wanted him and his family to come up the following Wednesday and serve papers on the "wooman i' the hoose." They were astonished, of course, but being such good friends they promised him all the assistance they could render. They are quite the dearest, most interesting family! I have since learned to love them as my own. Well, there was no time to make wedding clothes, so I had to "do up" what I did have. Isn't it queer how sometimes, do what you can, work will keep getting in the way until you can't get anything done? That is how it was with me those few days before the wedding; so much so that when Wednesday dawned everything was topsy-turvy and I had a very strong desire to run away. But I always did hate a "piker," so I stood pat. Well, I had most of the dinner cooked, but it kept me hustling to get the house into anything like decent order before the old dog barked, and I knew my moments of liberty were limited. It was blowing a perfect hurricane and snowing like midwinter. I had bought a beautiful pair of shoes to wear on that day, but my vanity had squeezed my feet a little, so while I was so busy at work I had kept on a worn old pair, intending to put on the new ones later; but when the Pearsons drove up all I thought about was getting them into the house where there was fire, so I forgot all about the old shoes and the apron I wore. I had only been here six weeks then, and was a stranger. That is why I had no one to help me and was so confused and hurried. As soon as the newcomers were warm, Mr. Stewart told me I had better come over by him and stand up. It was a large room I had to cross, and how I did it before all those strange eyes I never knew. All I can remember very distinctly is hearing Mr. Stewart saying, "I will," and myself chiming in that I would, too. Happening to glance down, I saw that I had forgotten to take off my apron or my old shoes, but just then Mr. Pearson pronounced us man and wife, and as I had dinner to serve right away I had no time to worry over my odd toilet. Anyway the shoes were comfortable and the apron white, so I suppose it could have been worse; and I don't think it has ever made any difference with the Pearsons, for I number them all among my most esteemed friends. It is customary here for newlyweds to give a dance and supper at the hall, but as I was a stranger I preferred not to, and so it was a long time before I became acquainted with all my neighbors. I had not thought I should ever marry again. Jerrine was always such a dear little pal, and I wanted to just knock about foot-loose and free to see life as a gypsy sees it. I had planned to see the Cliff-Dwellers' home; to live right there until I caught the spirit of the surroundings enough to live over their lives in imagination anyway. I had planned to see the old missions and to go to Alaska; to hunt in Canada. I even dreamed of Honolulu. Life stretched out before me one long, happy jaunt. I aimed to see all the world I could, but to travel unknown bypaths to do it. But first I wanted to try homesteading. But for my having the grippe, I should never have come to Wyoming. Mrs. Seroise, who was a nurse at the institution for nurses in Denver while I was housekeeper there, had worked one summer at Saratoga, Wyoming. It was she who told me of the pine forests. I had never seen a pine until I came to Colorado; so the idea of a home among the pines fascinated me. At that time I was hoping to pass the Civil-Service examination, with no very definite idea as to what I would do, but just to be improving my time and opportunity. I never went to a public school a day in my life. In my childhood days there was no such thing in the Indian Territory part of Oklahoma where we lived, so I have had to try hard to keep learning. Before the time came for the examination I was so discouraged because of the grippe that nothing but the mountains, the pines, and the clean, fresh air seemed worth while; so it all came about just as I have written you. So you see I was very deceitful. Do you remember, I wrote you of a little baby boy dying? That was my own little Jamie, our first little son. For a long time my heart was crushed. He was such a sweet, beautiful boy. I wanted him so much. He died of erysipelas. I held him in my arms till the last agony was over. Then I dressed the beautiful little body for the grave. Clyde is a carpenter; so I wanted him to make the little coffin. He did it every bit, and I lined and padded it, trimmed and covered it. Not that we couldn't afford to buy one or that our neighbors were not all that was kind and willing; but because it was a sad pleasure to do everything for our little first-born ourselves. As there had been no physician to help, so there was no minister to comfort, and I could not bear to let our baby leave the world without leaving any message to a community that sadly needed it. His little message to us had been love, so I selected a chapter from John and we had a funeral service, at which all our neighbors for thirty miles around were present. So you see, our union is sealed by love and welded by a great sorrow. Little Jamie was the first little Stewart. God has given me two more precious little sons. The old sorrow is not so keen now. I can bear to tell you about it, but I never could before. When you think of me, you must think of me as one who is truly happy. It is true, I want a great many things I haven't got, but I don't want them enough to be discontented and not enjoy the many blessings that are mine. I have my home among the blue mountains, my healthy, well-formed children, my clean, honest husband, my kind, gentle milk cows, my garden which I make myself. I have loads and loads of flowers which I tend myself. There are lots of chickens, turkeys, and pigs which are my own special care. I have some slow old gentle horses and an old wagon. I can load up the kiddies and go where I please any time. I have the best, kindest neighbors and I have my dear absent friends. Do you wonder I am so happy? When I think of it all, I wonder how I can crowd all my joy into one short life. I don't want you to think for one moment that you are bothering me when I write you. It is a real pleasure to do so. You're always so good to let me tell you everything. I am only afraid of trying your patience too far. Even in this long letter I can't tell you all I want to; so I shall write you again soon. Jerrine will write too. Just now she has very sore fingers. She has been picking gooseberries, and they have been pretty severe on her brown little paws. With much love to you, I am "Honest and truly" yours, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XIX THE ADVENTURE OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE _January 6, 1913._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- I have put off writing you and thanking you for your thought for us until now so that I could tell you of our very happy Christmas and our deer hunt all at once. To begin with, Mr. Stewart and Junior have gone to Boulder to spend the winter. Clyde wanted his mother to have a chance to enjoy our boy, so, as he had to go, he took Junior with him. Then those of my dear neighbors nearest my heart decided to prevent a lonely Christmas for me, so on December 21st came Mrs. Louderer, laden with an immense plum pudding and a big "_wurst_," and a little later came Mrs. O'Shaughnessy on her frisky pony, Chief, her scarlet sweater making a bright bit of color against our snow-wrapped horizon. Her face and ways are just as bright and cheery as can be. When she saw Mrs. Louderer's pudding and sausage she said she had brought nothing because she had come to get something to eat herself, "and," she continued, "it is a private opinion of mine that my neighbors are so glad to see me that they are glad to feed me." Now wouldn't that little speech have made her welcome anywhere? Well, we were hilariously planning what Mrs. O'Shaughnessy called a "widdy" Christmas and getting supper, when a great stamping-off of snow proclaimed a newcomer. It was Gavotte, and we were powerfully glad to see him because the hired man was going to a dance and we knew Gavotte would contrive some unusual amusement. He had heard that Clyde was going to have a deer-drive, and didn't know that he had gone, so he had come down to join the hunt just for the fun, and was very much disappointed to find there was going to be no hunt. After supper, however, his good humor returned and he told us story after story of big hunts he had had in Canada. He worked up his own enthusiasm as well as ours, and at last proposed that we have a drive of our own for a Christmas "joy." He said he would take a station and do the shooting if one of us would do the driving. So right now I reckon I had better tell you how it is done. There are many little parks in the mountains where the deer can feed, although now most places are so deep in snow that they can't walk in it. For that reason they have trails to water and to the different feeding-grounds, and they can't get through the snow except along these paths. You see how easy it would be for a man hidden on the trail to get one of the beautiful creatures if some one coming from another direction startled them so that they came along that particular path. So they made their plans. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy elected herself driver. Two miles away is a huge mountain called Phillipeco, and deer were said to be plentiful up there. At one time there had been a sawmill on the mountain, and there were a number of deserted cabins in which we could make ourselves comfortable. So it was planned that we go up the next morning, stay all night, have the hunt the following morning, and then come home with our game. Well, we were all astir early the next morning and soon grain, bedding, and chuck-box were in the wagon. Then Mrs. Louderer, the _kinder_, and myself piled in; Mrs. O'Shaughnessy bestrode Chief, Gavotte stalked on ahead to pick our way, and we were off. It was a long, tedious climb, and I wished over and over that I had stayed at home; but it was altogether on Baby's account. I was so afraid that he would suffer, but he kept warm as toast. The day was beautiful, and the views many times repaid us for any hardship we had suffered. It was three o'clock before we reached the old mill camp. Soon we had a roaring fire, and Gavotte made the horses comfortable in one of the cabins. They were bedded in soft, dry sawdust, and were quite as well off as if they had been in their own stalls. Then some rough planks were laid on blocks, and we had our first meal since breakfast. We called it supper, and we had potatoes roasted in the embers, Mrs. Louderer's _wurst_, which she had been calmly carrying around on her arm like a hoop and which was delicious with the bread that Gavotte toasted on long sticks; we had steaming coffee, and we were all happy; even Baby clapped his hands and crowed at the unusual sight of an open fire. After supper Gavotte took a little stroll and returned with a couple of grouse for our breakfast. After dark we sat around the fire eating peanuts and listening to Gavotte and Mrs. Louderer telling stories of their different great forests. But soon Gavotte took his big sleeping-bag and retired to another cabin, warning us that we must be up early. Our improvised beds were the most comfortable things; I love the flicker of an open fire, the smell of the pines, the pure, sweet air, and I went to sleep thinking how blest I was to be able to enjoy the things I love most. It seemed only a short time until some one knocked on our door and we were all wide awake in a minute. The fire had burned down and only a soft, indistinct glow from the embers lighted the room, while through a hole in the roof I could see a star glimmering frostily. It was Gavotte at the door and he called through a crack saying he had been hearing queer noises for an hour and he was going to investigate. He had called us so that we need not be alarmed should we hear the noise and not find him. We scrambled into our clothes quickly and ran outdoors to listen. I can never describe to you the weird beauty of a moonlight night among the pines when the snow is sparkling and gleaming, the deep silence unbroken even by the snapping of a twig. We stood shivering and straining our ears and were about to go back to bed when we heard faintly a long-drawn wail as if all the suffering and sorrow on earth were bound up in that one sound. We couldn't tell which way it came from; it seemed to vibrate through the air and chill our hearts. I had heard that panthers cried that way, but Gavotte said it was not a panther. He said the engine and saws had been moved from where we were to another spring across the cañon a mile away, where timber for sawing was more plentiful, but he supposed every one had left the mill when the water froze so they couldn't saw. He added that some one must have remained and was, perhaps, in need of help, and if we were not afraid he would leave us and go see what was wrong. We went in, made up the fire, and sat in silence, wondering what we should see or hear next. Once or twice that agonized cry came shivering through the cold moonlight. After an age, we heard Gavotte crunching through the snow, whistling cheerily to reassure us. He had crossed the cañon to the new mill camp, where he had found two women, loggers' wives, and some children. One of the women, he said, was "so ver' seek," 't was she who was wailing so, and it was the kind of "seek" where we could be of every help and comfort. Mrs. Louderer stayed and took care of the children while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I followed after Gavotte, panting and stumbling, through the snow. Gavotte said he suspected they were short of "needfuls," so he had filled his pockets with coffee and sugar, took in a bottle some of the milk I brought for Baby, and his own flask of whiskey, without which he never travels. At last, after what seemed to me hours of scrambling through the snow, through deepest gloom where pines were thickest, and out again into patches of white moonlight, we reached the ugly clearing where the new camp stood. Gavotte escorted us to the door and then returned to our camp. Entering, we saw the poor, little soon-to-be mother huddled on her poor bed, while an older woman stood near warning her that the oil would soon be all gone and they would be in darkness. She told us that the sick one had been in pain all the day before and much of the night, and that she herself was worn completely out. So Mrs. O'Shaughnessy sent her to bed and we took charge. Secretly, I felt it all to be a big nuisance to be dragged out from my warm, comfortable bed to traipse through the snow at that time of the night. But the moment poor little Molly spoke I was glad I was living, because she was a poor little Southern girl whose husband is a Mormon. He had been sent on a mission to Alabama, and the poor girl had fallen in love with his handsome face and knew nothing of Mormonism, so she had run away with him. She thought it would be so grand to live in the glorious West with so splendid a man as she believed her husband to be. But now she believed she was going to die and she was glad of it because she could not return to her "folks," and she said she knew her husband was dead because he and the other woman's husband, both of whom had intended to stay there all winter and cut logs, had gone two weeks before to get their summer's wages and buy supplies. Neither man had come back and there was not a horse or any other way to get out of the mountains to hunt them, so they believed the men to be frozen somewhere on the road. Rather a dismal prospect, wasn't it? Molly was just longing for some little familiar thing, so I was glad I have not yet gotten rid of my Southern way of talking. No Westerner can ever understand a Southerner's need of sympathy, and, however kind their hearts, they are unable to give it. Only a Southerner can understand how dear are our peculiar words and phrases, and poor little Molly took new courage when she found I knew what she meant when she said she was just "honin'" after a friendly voice. Well, soon we had the water hot and had filled some bottles and placed them around our patient, and after a couple of hours the tiny little stranger came into the world. It had been necessary to have a great fire in order to have light, so as soon as we got Baby dressed I opened the door a little to cool the room and Molly saw the morning star twinkling merrily. "Oh," she said, "that is what I will call my little girlie,--Star, dear little Star." It is strange, isn't it? how our spirits will revive after some great ordeal. Molly had been sure she was going to die and saw nothing to live for; now that she had had a cup of hot milk and held her red little baby close, she was just as happy and hopeful as if she had never left her best friends and home to follow the uncertain fortunes of young Will Crosby. So she and I talked of ash-hoppers, smoke-houses, cotton-patches, goobers, poke-greens, and shoats, until she fell asleep. Soon day was abroad, and so we went outdoors for a fresh breath. The other woman came out just then to ask after Molly. She invited us into her cabin, and, oh, the little Mormons were everywhere; poor, half-clad little things! Some sour-dough biscuit and a can of condensed milk was everything they had to eat. The mother explained to us that their "men" had gone to get things for them, but had not come back, so she guessed they had got drunk and were likely in jail. She told it in a very unconcerned manner. Poor thing! Years of such experience had taught her that blessed are they who expect nothing, for they shall not be disappointed. She said that if Molly had not been sick she would have walked down out of the mountains and got help. Just then two shots rang out in quick succession, and soon Gavotte came staggering along with a deer across his shoulders. That he left for the family. From our camp he had brought some bacon and butter for Molly, and, poor though it may seem, it was a treat for her. Leaving the woman to dress the venison with her oldest boy's aid, we put out across the cañon for our own breakfast. Beside our much-beaten trail hung the second venison, and when we reached our camp and had our own delicious breakfast of grouse, bread, butter, and coffee, Gavotte took Chub and went for our venison. In a short time we were rolling homeward. Of course it didn't take us nearly so long to get home because it was downhill and the road was clearly marked, so in a couple of hours we were home. Gavotte knew the two loggers were in Green River and were then at work storing ice for the railroad, but he had not known that their wives were left as they were. The men actually had got drunk, lost their money, and were then trying to replace it. After we debated a bit we decided we could not enjoy Christmas with those people in want up there in the cold. Then we got busy. It is sixty miles to town, although our nearest point to the railroad is but forty, so you see it was impossible to get to town to get anything. You should have seen us! Every old garment that had ever been left by men who have worked here was hauled out, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's deft fingers soon had a pile of garments cut. We kept the machine humming until far into the night, as long as we could keep our eyes open. All next day we sewed as hard as we could, and Gavotte cooked as hard as he could. We had intended to have a tree for Jerrine, so we had a box of candles and a box of Christmas snow. Gavotte asked for all the bright paper we could find. We had lots of it, and I think you would be surprised at the possibilities of a little waste paper. He made gorgeous birds, butterflies, and flowers out of paper that once wrapped parcels. Then he asked us for some silk thread, but I had none, so he told us to comb our hair and give him the combings. We did, and with a drop of mucilage he would fasten a hair to a bird's back and then hold it up by the hair. At a few feet's distance it looked exactly as though the bird was flying. I was glad I had a big stone jar full of _fondant_, because we had a lot of fun shaping and coloring candies. We offered a prize for the best representation of a "nigger," and we had two dozen chocolate-covered things that might have been anything from a monkey to a mouse. Mrs. Louderer cut up her big plum pudding and put it into a dozen small bags. These Gavotte carefully covered with green paper. Then we tore up the holly wreath that Aunt Mary sent me, and put a sprig in the top of each green bag of pudding. I never had so much fun in my life as I had preparing for that Christmas. At ten o'clock, the morning of the 24th, we were again on our way up the mountain-side. We took shovels so we could clear a road if need be. We had dinner at the old camp, and then Gavotte hunted us a way out to the new, and we smuggled our things into Molly's cabin so the children should have a real surprise. Poor, hopeless little things! Theirs was, indeed, a dull outlook. Gavotte busied himself in preparing one of the empty cabins for us and in making the horses comfortable. He cut some pine boughs to do that with, and so they paid no attention when he cut a small tree. In the mean time we had cleared everything from Molly's cabin but her bed; we wanted her to see the fun. The children were sent to the spring to water the horses and they were all allowed to ride, so that took them out of the way while Gavotte nailed the tree into a box he had filled with dirt to hold it steady. There were four women of us, and Gavotte, so it was only the work of a few moments to get the tree ready, and it was the most beautiful one I ever saw. Your largest bell, dear Mrs. Coney, dangled from the topmost branch. Gavotte had attached a long, stout wire to your Santa Claus, so he was able to make him dance frantically without seeming to do so. The hairs that held the birds and butterflies could not be seen, and the effect was beautiful. We had a bucket of apples rubbed bright, and these we fastened to the tree just as they grew on their own branches. The puddings looked pretty, too, and we had done up the parcels that held the clothes as attractively as we could. We saved the candy and the peanuts to put in their little stockings. As soon as it was dark we lighted the candles and then their mother called the children. Oh, if you could have seen them! It was the very first Christmas tree they had ever seen and they didn't know what to do. The very first present Gavotte handed out was a pair of trousers for eight-years-old Brig, but he just stood and stared at the tree until his brother next in size, with an eye to the main chance, got behind him and pushed him forward, all the time exclaiming, "Go on, can't you! They ain't doin' nothin' to you, they's just doin' somethin' for you." Still Brig would not put out his hand. He just shook his tousled sandy head and said he wanted a bird. So the fun kept up for an hour. Santa had for Molly a package of oatmeal, a pound of butter, a Mason jar of cream, and a dozen eggs, so that she could have suitable food to eat until something could be done. After the presents had all been distributed we put the phonograph on a box and had a dandy concert. We played "There were Shepherds," "Ave Maria," and "Sweet Christmas Bells." Only we older people cared for those, so then we had "Arrah Wanna," "Silver Bells," "Rainbow," "Red Wing," and such songs. How delighted they were! Our concert lasted two hours, and by that time the little fellows were so sleepy that the excitement no longer affected them and they were put to bed, but they hung up their stockings first, and even Molly hung hers up too. We filled them with peanuts and candy, putting the lion's share of "niggers" into Molly's stocking. Next morning the happiness broke out in new spots. The children were all clean and warm, though I am afraid I can't brag on the fit of all the clothes. But the pride of the wearers did away with the necessity of a fit. The mother was radiantly thankful for a warm petticoat; that it was made of a blanket too small for a bed didn't bother her, and the stripes were around the bottom anyway. Molly openly rejoiced in her new gown, and that it was made of ugly gray outing flannel she didn't know nor care. Baby Star Crosby looked perfectly sweet in her little new clothes, and her little gown had blue sleeves and they thought a white skirt only added to its beauty. And so it was about everything. We all got so much out of so little. I will never again allow even the smallest thing to go to waste. We were every one just as happy as we could be, almost as delighted as Molly was over her "niggers," and there was very little given that had not been thrown away or was not just odds and ends. There was never anything more true than that it is more blessed to give than to receive. We certainly had a delicious dinner too, and we let Molly have all she wanted that we dared allow her to eat. The roast venison was so good that we were tempted to let her taste it, but we thought better of that. As soon as dinner was over we packed our belongings and betook ourselves homeward. It was just dusk when we reached home. Away off on a bare hill a wolf barked. A big owl hooted lonesomely among the pines, and soon a pack of yelping coyotes went scampering across the frozen waste. It was not the Christmas I had in mind when I sent the card, but it was a _dandy_ one, just the same. With best wishes for you for a happy, _happy_ New Year, Sincerely your friend, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XX THE JOYS OF HOMESTEADING _January 23, 1913._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I am afraid all my friends think I am very forgetful and that you think I am ungrateful as well, but I am going to plead not guilty. Right after Christmas Mr. Stewart came down with _la grippe_ and was so miserable that it kept me busy trying to relieve him. Out here where we can get no physician we have to dope ourselves, so that I had to be housekeeper, nurse, doctor, and general overseer. That explains my long silence. And now I want to thank you for your kind thought in prolonging our Christmas. The magazines were much appreciated. They relieved some weary night-watches, and the box did Jerrine more good than the medicine I was having to give her for _la grippe_. She was content to stay in bed and enjoy the contents of her box. When I read of the hard times among the Denver poor, I feel like urging them every one to get out and file on land. I am very enthusiastic about women homesteading. It really requires less strength and labor to raise plenty to satisfy a large family than it does to go out to wash, with the added satisfaction of knowing that their job will not be lost to them if they care to keep it. Even if improving the place does go slowly, it is that much done to stay done. Whatever is raised is the homesteader's own, and there is no house-rent to pay. This year Jerrine cut and dropped enough potatoes to raise a ton of fine potatoes. She wanted to try, so we let her, and you will remember that she is but six years old. We had a man to break the ground and cover the potatoes for her and the man irrigated them once. That was all that was done until digging time, when they were ploughed out and Jerrine picked them up. Any woman strong enough to go out by the day could have done every bit of the work and put in two or three times that much, and it would have been so much more pleasant than to work so hard in the city and then be on starvation rations in the winter. To me, homesteading is the solution of all poverty's problems, but I realize that temperament has much to do with success in any undertaking, and persons afraid of coyotes and work and loneliness had better let ranching alone. At the same time, any woman who can stand her own company, can see the beauty of the sunset, loves growing things, and is willing to put in as much time at careful labor as she does over the washtub, will certainly succeed; will have independence, plenty to eat all the time, and a home of her own in the end. Experimenting need cost the homesteader no more than the work, because by applying to the Department of Agriculture at Washington he can get enough of any seed and as many kinds as he wants to make a thorough trial, and it doesn't even cost postage. Also one can always get bulletins from there and from the Experiment Station of one's own State concerning any problem or as many problems as may come up. I would not, for anything, allow Mr. Stewart to do anything toward improving my place, for I want the fun and the experience myself. And I want to be able to speak from experience when I tell others what they can do. Theories are very beautiful, but facts are what must be had, and what I intend to give some time. Here I am boring you to death with things that cannot interest you! You'd think I wanted you to homestead, wouldn't you? But I am only thinking of the troops of tired, worried women, sometimes even cold and hungry, scared to death of losing their places to work, who could have plenty to eat, who could have good fires by gathering the wood, and comfortable homes of their own, if they but had the courage and determination to get them. I must stop right now before you get so tired you will not answer. With much love to you from Jerrine and myself, I am Yours affectionately, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XXI A LETTER OF JERRINE'S _February 26, 1913._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I think you will excuse my mama for not writing to thank you for black Beauty when I tell you why. I wanted to thank you myself, and I wanted to hear it read first so I could very trully thank. Mama always said horses do not talk, but now she knows they do since she read the Dear little book. I have known it along time. My own pony told me the story is very true. Many times I have see men treat horses very badly, but our Clyde dont, and wont let a workman stay if He hurts stock. I am very glad. Mr Edding came past one day with a load of hay. he had too much load to pull up hill and there was much ice and snow but he think he can make them go up so he fighted and sweared but they could not get up. Mama tried to lend him some horse to help but he was angry and was termined to make his own pull it but at last he had to take off some hay I wish he may read my Black Beauty. Our Clyde is still away. We were going to visit Stella. Mama was driving, the horses raned away. We goed very fast as the wind. I almost fall out Mama hanged on to the lines. if she let go we may all be kill. At last she raned them into a fence. they stop and a man ran to help so we are well but mama hands and arms are still so sore she cant write you yet. My brother Calvin is very sweet. God had to give him to us because he squealed so much he sturbed the angels. We are not angels so he Dont sturb us. I thank you for my good little book. and I love you for it too. very speakfully, JERRINE RUPERT. XXII THE EFFICIENT MRS. O'SHAUGHNESSY _May 5, 1913._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Your letter of April 25 certainly was a surprise, but a very welcome one. We are so rushed with spring work that we don't even go to the office for the mail, and I owe you letters and thanks. I keep promising myself the pleasure of writing you and keep putting it off until I can have more leisure, but that time never gets here. I am so glad when I can bring a little of this big, clean, beautiful outdoors into your apartment for you to enjoy, and I can think of nothing that would give me more happiness than to bring the West and its people to others who could not otherwise enjoy them. If I could only take them from whatever is worrying them and give them this bracing mountain air, glimpses of the scenery, a smell of the pines and the sage,--if I could only make them feel the free, ready sympathy and hospitality of these frontier people, I am sure their worries would diminish and my happiness would be complete. Little Star Crosby is growing to be the sweetest little kid. Her mother tells me that she is going "back yan" when she gets a "little mo' richer." I am afraid you give me too much credit for being of help to poor little Molly. It wasn't that I am so helpful, but that "fools rush in where angels fear to tread." It was Mrs. O'Shaughnessy who was the real help. She is a woman of great courage and decision and of splendid sense and judgment. A few days ago a man she had working for her got his finger-nail mashed off and neglected to care for it. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy examined it and found that gangrene had set in. She didn't tell him, but made various preparations and then told him she had heard that if there was danger of blood-poisoning it would show if the finger was placed on wood and the patient looked toward the sun. She said the person who looked at the finger could then see if there was any poison. So the man placed his finger on the chopping-block and before he could bat his eye she had chopped off the black, swollen finger. It was so sudden and unexpected that there seemed to be no pain. Then Mrs. O'Shaughnessy showed him the green streak already starting up his arm. The man seemed dazed and she was afraid of shock, so she gave him a dose of morphine and whiskey. Then with a quick stroke of a razor she laid open the green streak and immersed the whole arm in a strong solution of bichloride of mercury for twenty minutes. She then dressed the wound with absorbent cotton saturated with olive oil and carbolic acid, bundled her patient into a buggy, and drove forty-five miles that night to get him to a doctor. The doctor told us that only her quick action and knowledge of what to do saved the man's life. I was surprised that you have had a letter from Jerrine. I knew she was writing to you that day, but I was feeling very stiff and sore from the runaway and had lain down. She kept asking me how to spell words until I told her I was too tired and wanted to sleep. While I was asleep the man came for the mail, so she sent her letter. I have your address on the back of the writing-pad, so she knew she had it right, but I suspect that was all she had right. She has written you many letters but I have never allowed her to send them because she misspells, but that time she stole a march on me. The books you sent her, "Black Beauty" and "Alice in Wonderland," have given her more pleasure than anything she has ever had. She just loves them and is saving them, she says, for her own little girls. She is very confident that the stork will one day visit her and leave her a "very many" little girls. They are to be of assorted sizes. She says she can't see why I order all my babies little and red and squally,--says she thinks God had just as soon let me have larger ones, especially as I get so many from him. One day before long I will get busy and write you of a visit I shall make to a Mormon bishop's household. Polygamy is still practiced. Very truly your friend, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XXIII HOW IT HAPPENED _June 12, 1913._ Dear Mrs. Coney,-- Your letter of the 8th to hand, and in order to catch you before you leave I'll answer at once and not wait for time. I always think I shall do better with more time, but with three "bairns," garden, chickens, cows, and housework I don't seem to find much time for anything. Now for the first question. My maiden name was Pruitt, so when I am putting on airs I sign Elinore Pruitt Stewart. I don't think I have ever written anything that Clyde would object to, so he can still stay on the pedestal Scotch custom puts him upon and remain "the Stewart." Indeed, I don't think you are too inquisitive, and I am glad to tell you how I happened to meet the "gude mon." It all happened because I had a stitch in my side. When I was housekeeper at the Nursery, I also had to attend to the furnace, and, strange but true, the furnace was built across the large basement from where the coal was thrown in, so I had to tote the coal over, and my _modus operandi_ was to fill a tub with coal and then drag it across to the hungry furnace. Well, one day I felt the catch and got no better fast. After Dr. F---- punched and prodded, she said, "Why, you have the grippe." Rev. Father Corrigan had been preparing me to take the Civil-Service examination, and that afternoon a lesson was due, so I went over to let him see how little I knew. I was in pain and was so blue that I could hardly speak without weeping, so I told the Reverend Father how tired I was of the rattle and bang, of the glare and the soot, the smells and the hurry. I told him what I longed for was the sweet, free open, and that I would like to homestead. That was Saturday evening. He advised me to go straight uptown and put an "ad" in the paper, so as to get it into the Sunday paper. I did so, and because I wanted as much rest and quiet as possible I took Jerrine and went uptown and got a nice quiet room. On the following Wednesday I received a letter from Clyde, who was in Boulder visiting his mother. He was leaving for Wyoming the following Saturday and wanted an interview, if his proposition suited me. I was so glad of his offer, but at the same time I couldn't know what kind of person he was; so, to lessen any risk, I asked him to come to the Sunshine Mission, where Miss Ryan was going to help me "size him up." He didn't know that part of it, of course, but he stood inspection admirably. I was under the impression he had a son, but he hadn't, and he and his mother were the very last of their race. I am as proud and happy to-day as I was the day I became his wife. I wish you knew him, but I suspect I had better not brag too much, lest you think me not quite sincere. He expected to visit you while he was in Boulder. He went to the Stock Show, but was with a party, so he planned to go again. But before he could, the man he left here, and whom I dismissed for drunkenness, went to Boulder and told him I was alone, so the foolish thing hurried home to keep me from too hard work. So that is why he was disappointed. Junior can talk quite well, and even Calvin jabbers. The children are all well, and Jerrine writes a little every day to you. I have been preparing a set of indoor outings for invalids. Your telling me your invalid friends enjoyed the letters suggested the idea. I thought to write of little outings I take might amuse them, but wanted to write just as I took the little trips, while the impressions were fresh; that is why I have not sent them before now. Is it too late? Shall I send them to you? Now this is really not a letter; it is just a reply. I must say good-night; it is twelve o'clock, and I am so sleepy. I do hope you will have a very happy summer, and that you will share your happiness with me in occasional letters. With much love, ELINORE STEWART. In writing I forgot to say that the Reverend Father thought it a good plan to get a position as housekeeper for some rancher who would advise me about land and water rights. By keeping house, he pointed out, I could have a home and a living and at the same time see what kind of a homestead I could get. XXIV A LITTLE ROMANCE _October 8, 1913._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- I have had such a happy little peep into another's romance that I think I should be cheating you if I didn't tell you. Help in this country is extremely hard to get; so when I received a letter from one Aurelia Timmons, saying she wanted a job,--three dollars a week and _not_ to be called "Relie,"--my joy could hardly be described. I could hardly wait until morning to start for Bridger Bench, where Aurelia held forth. I was up before the lark next morning. It is more miles to the Bridger Bench country than the "gude mon" wants his horses driven in a day; so permission was only given after I promised to curb my impatience and stay overnight with Mrs. Louderer. Under ordinary circumstances that would have been a pleasure, but I knew at least a dozen women who would any of them seize on to Aurelia and wrest her from me, so it was only after it seemed I would not get to go at all that I promised. At length the wagon was greased, some oats put in, a substantial lunch and the kiddies loaded in, and I started on my way. Perhaps it was the prospect of getting help that gilded everything with a new beauty. The great mountains were so majestic, and the day so young that I knew the night wind was still murmuring among the pines far up on the mountain-sides. The larks were trying to outdo each other and the robins were so saucy that I could almost have flicked them with the willow I was using as a whip. The rabbit-bush made golden patches everywhere, while purple asters and great pink thistles lent their charm. Going in that direction, our way lay between a mountain stream and the foothills. There are many ranches along the stream, and as we were out so early, we could see the blue smoke curling from each house we passed. We knew that venison steak, hot biscuit, and odorous coffee would soon grace their tables. We had not had the venison, for the "gude mon" holds to the letter of the law which protects deer here, but we begrudged no one anything; we were having exactly what we wanted. We jogged along happily, if slowly, for I must explain to you that Chub is quite the laziest horse in the State, and Bill, his partner, is so old he stands like a bulldog. He is splay-footed and sway-backed, but he is a beloved member of our family, so I vented my spite on Chub, and the willow descended periodically across his black back, I guess as much from force of habit as anything else. But his hide is thick and his memory short, so we broke no record that day. We drove on through the fresh beauty of the morning, and when the sun was straight overhead we came to the last good water we could expect before we reached Mrs. Louderer's; so we stopped for lunch. In Wyoming quantity has a great deal more to do with satisfaction than does quality; after half a day's drive you won't care so much what it is you're going to eat as you will that there is enough of it. That is a lesson I learned long ago; so our picnic was real. There were no ants in the pie, but that is accounted for by there being no pie. Our road had crossed the creek, and we were resting in the shade of a quaking-asp grove, high up on the sides of the Bad Land hills. For miles far below lay the valley through which we had come. Farther on, the mountains with their dense forests were all wrapped in the blue haze of the melancholy days. Soon we quitted our enchanted grove whose quivering, golden leaves kept whispering secrets to us. About three o'clock we came down out of the hills on to the bench on which the Louderer ranch is situated. Perhaps I should explain that this country is a series of huge terraces, each terrace called a bench. I had just turned into the lane that leads to the house when a horseman came cantering toward me. "Hello!" he saluted, as he drew up beside the wagon. "Goin' up to the house? Better not. Mrs. Louderer is not at home, and there's no one there but Greasy Pete. He's on a tear; been drunk two days, I'm tellin' you. He's _full_ of mischief. 'T ain't safe around old Greasy. I advise you to go some'eres else." "Well," I asked, "where _can_ I go?" "Danged if I know," he replied, "'lessen it 's to Kate Higbee's. She lives about six or seven miles west. She ain't been here long, but I guess you can't miss her place. Just jog along due west till you get to Red Gulch ravine, then turn north for a couple of miles. You'll see her cabin up against a cedar ridge. Well, so 'long!" He dug his spurs into his cayuse's side and rode on. Tears of vexation so blinded me that I could scarcely see to turn the team, but ominous sounds and wild yells kept coming from the house, so I made what haste I could to get away from such an unpleasant neighborhood. Soon my spirits began to rise. Kate Higbee, I reflected, was likely to prove to be an interesting person. All Westerners are likable, with the possible exception of Greasy Pete. I rather looked forward to my visit. But my guide had failed to mention the buttes; so, although I jogged as west as I knew how, I found I had to wind around a butte about ever so often. I crossed a ravine with equal frequency, and all looked alike. It is not surprising that soon I could not guess where I was. We could turn back and retrace our tracks, but actual danger lay there; so it seemed wiser to push on, as there was, perhaps, no greater danger than discomfort ahead. The sun hung like a big red ball ready to drop into the hazy distance when we came clear of the buttes and down on to a broad plateau, on which grass grew plentifully. That encouraged me because the horses need not suffer, and if I could make the scanty remnant of our lunch do for the children's supper and breakfast, we could camp in comfort, for we had blankets. But we must find water. I stood up in the wagon and, shading my eyes against the sun's level light, was looking out in the most promising directions when I noticed that the plateau's farther side was bounded by a cedar ridge, and, better yet, a smoke was slowly rising, column-like, against the dun prospect. That, I reasoned, must be my destination. Even the horses livened their paces, and in a little while we were there. But no house greeted our eyes,--just a big camp-fire. A lean old man sat on a log-end and surveyed us indifferently. On the ground lay a large canvas-covered pack, apparently unopened. An old saddle lay up against a cedar-trunk. Two old horses grazed near. I was powerfully disappointed. You know misery loves company; so I ventured to say, "Good-evening." He didn't stir, but he grunted, "Hello." I knew then that he was not a fossil, and hope began to stir in my heart. Soon he asked, "Are you goin' somewheres or jist travelin'?" I told him I had started somewhere, but reckoned I must be traveling, as I had not gotten there. Then he said, "My name is Hiram K. Hull. Whose woman are you?" I confessed to belonging to the house of Stewart. "Which Stewart?" he persisted,--"C.R., S.W., or H.C.?" Again I owned up truthfully. "Well," he continued, "what does he mean by letting you gad about in such onconsequential style?" _Sometimes_ a woman gets too angry to talk. Don't you believe that? No? Well, they do, I assure you, for I was then. He seemed grown to the log. As he had made no move to help me, without answering him I clambered out of the wagon and began to take the horses loose. "Ho!" he said; "are you goin' to camp here?" "Yes, I am," I snapped. "Have you any objections?" "Oh, no, none that won't keep," he assured me. It has always been a theory of mine that when we become sorry for ourselves we make our misfortunes harder to bear, because we lose courage and can't think without bias; so I cast about me for something to be glad about, and the comfort that at least we were safer with a simpleton than near a drunken Mexican came to me; so I began to view the situation with a little more tolerance. After attending to the horses I began to make the children comfortable. My unwilling host sat silently on his log, drawing long and hard at his stubby old pipe. How very little there was left of our lunch! Just for meanness I asked him to share with us, and, if you'll believe me, he did. He gravely ate bread-rims and scraps of meat until there was not one bit left for even the baby's breakfast. Then he drew the back of his hand across his mouth and remarked, "I should think when you go off on a ja'nt like this you'd have a well-filled mess-box." Again speech failed me. Among some dwarf willows not far away a spring bubbled. I took the kiddies there to prepare them for rest. When I returned to the fire, what a transformation! The pack was unrolled and blankets were spread, the fire had been drawn aside, disclosing a bean-hole, out of which Hiram K. was lifting an oven. He took off the lid. Two of the plumpest, brownest ducks that ever tempted any one were fairly swimming in gravy. Two loaves of what he called punk, with a box of crackers, lay on a newspaper. He mimicked me exactly when he asked me to take supper with him, and I tried hard to imitate him in promptitude when I accepted. The babies had some of the crackers wet with hot water and a little of the gravy. We soon had the rest looking scarce. The big white stars were beginning to twinkle before we were through, but the camp-fire was bright, and we all felt better-natured. Men are not alone in having a way to their heart through their stomach. I made our bed beneath the wagon, and Hiram K. fixed his canvas around, so we should be sheltered. I felt so much better and thought so much better of him that I could laugh and chat gayly. "Now, tell me," he asked, as he fastened the canvas to a wheel, "didn't you think I was an old devil at first?" "Yes, I did," I answered. "Well," he said, "I am; so you guessed right." After I put the children to bed, we sat by the fire and talked awhile. I told him how I happened to be gadding about in "such onconsequential" style, and he told me stories of when the country was new and fit to live in. "Why," he said, in a burst of enthusiasm, "time was once when you went to bed you were not sure whether you'd get up alive and with your scalp on or not, the Injins were that thick. And then there was white men a durned sight worse; they were likely to plug you full of lead just to see you kick. But now," he continued mournfully, "a bear or an antelope, maybe an elk, is about all the excitement we can expect. Them good old days are gone." I am mighty glad of it; a drunken Pete is bad enough for me. I was tired, so soon I went to bed. I could hear him as he cut cedar boughs for his own fireside bed, and as he rattled around among his pots and pans. Did you ever eat pork and beans heated in a frying-pan on a camp-fire for breakfast? Then if you have not, there is one delight left you. But you must be away out in Wyoming, with the morning sun just gilding the distant peaks, and your pork and beans must be out of a can, heated in a disreputable old frying-pan, served with coffee _boiled_ in a battered old pail and drunk from a tomato-can. You'll _never_ want iced melons, powdered sugar, and fruit, or sixty-nine varieties of breakfast food, if once you sit Trilby-wise on Wyoming sand and eat the kind of breakfast we had that day. After breakfast Hiram K. Hull hitched our horses to the wagon, got his own horses ready, and then said, "'T ain't more 'n half a mile straight out between them two hills to the stage-road, but I guess I had better go and show you exactly, or you will be millin' around here all day, tryin' to find it." In a very few minutes we were on the road, and our odd host turned to go. "S'long!" he called. "Tell Stewart you seen old Hikum. Him and me's shared tarps many's the nights. We used to be punchers together,--old Clyde and me. Tell him old Hikum ain't forgot him." So saying, he rode away into the golden morning, and we drove onward, too. We stopped for lunch only a few minutes that day, and we reached the Bridger community about two that afternoon. The much sought Aurelia had accepted the position of lifetime housekeeper for a sheep-herder who had no house to keep, so I had to cast about for whatever comfort I could. The roadhouse is presided over by a very able body of the clan of Ferguson. I had never met her, but formalities count for very little in the West. She was in her kitchen, having more trouble, she said, than a hen whose ducklings were in swimming. I asked her if she could accommodate the children and myself. "Yes," she said, "I can give you a bed and grub, but I ain't got no time to ask you nothing. I ain't got no time to inquire who you are nor where you come from. There's one room left. You can have that, but you'll have to look out for yourself and young 'uns." I felt equal to that; so I went out to have the horses cared for and to unload the kiddies. Leaning against the wagon was a man who made annual rounds of all the homes in our community each summer; his sole object was to see what kind of flowers we succeeded with. Every woman in our neighborhood knows Bishey Bennet, but I don't think many would have recognized him that afternoon. I had never seen him dressed in anything but blue denim overalls and overshirt to match, but to-day he proudly displayed what he said was his dove-colored suit. The style must have been one of years ago, for I cannot remember seeing trousers quite so skimpy. He wore top-boots, but as a concession to fashion he wore the boot-tops under the trouser-legs, and as the trousers were about as narrow as a sheath skirt, they kept slipping up and gave the appearance of being at least six inches too short. Although Bishey is tall and thin, his coat was two sizes too small, his shirt was of soft tan material, and he wore a blue tie. But whatever may have been amiss with his costume was easily forgotten when one saw his radiant face. He grasped my hand and wrung it as if it was a chicken's neck. "What in the world is the matter with you?" I asked, as I rubbed my abused paw. "Just you come here and I'll tell you," he answered. There was no one to hear but the kiddies, but I went around the corner of the house with him. He put his hand up to his mouth and whispered that "Miss Em'ly" was coming, would be there on the afternoon stage. I had never heard of "Miss Em'ly," and said so. "Well, just you go in and set on the sofy and soon's I see your horses took care of I'll come in and tell you." I went into my own room, and after I rustled some water I made myself and the kiddies a little more presentable. Then we went into the sitting-room and sat on the "sofy." Presently Bishey sauntered in, trying to look unconcerned and at ease, but he was so fidgety he couldn't sit down. But he told his story, and a dear one it is. It seems that back in New York State he and Miss Em'ly were "young uns" together. When they were older they planned to marry, but neither wanted to settle down to the humdrumness that they had always known. Both dreamed of the golden West; so Bishey had gone to blaze the trail, and "Miss Em'ly" was to follow. First one duty and then another had held her, until twenty-five years had slipped by and they had not seen each other, but now she was coming, that very day. They would be married that evening, and I at once appointed myself matron of honor and was plumb glad there was no other candidate. I at once took the decorations in hand. Bishey, Jerrine, and myself went out and gathered armfuls of asters and goldenrod-like rabbit-brush. From the dump-pile we sorted cans and pails that would hold water, and we made the sitting-room a perfect bower of purple and gold beauty. I put on my last clean shirt-waist and the children's last clean dresses. Then, as there seemed nothing more to do, Bishey suggested that we walk up the road and meet the stage; but the day had been warm, and I remembered my own appearance when I had come over that same road the first time. I knew that journey was trying on any one's appearance at any time of the year, and after twenty-five years to be thrust into view covered with alkali dust and with one's hat on awry would be too much for feminine patience; so I pointed out to Bishey that he'd better clear out and let Miss Em'ly rest a bit before he showed up. At last he reluctantly agreed. I went out to the kitchen to find what could be expected in the way of hot water for Miss Em'ly when she should come. I found I could have all I wanted if I heated it myself. Mrs. Ferguson could not be bothered about it, because a water company had met there to vote on new canals, the sheep-men were holding a convention, there was a more than usual run of transients besides the regular boarders, and supper was ordered for the whole push. All the help she had was a girl she just knew didn't have sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. Under those circumstances I was mighty glad to help. I put water on to heat and then forgot Miss Em'ly, I was enjoying helping so much, until I heard a door slam and saw the stage drive away toward the barn. I hastened to the room I knew was reserved for Miss Em'ly. I rapped on the door, but it was only opened a tiny crack. I whispered through that I was a neighbor-friend of Mr. Bennet's, that I had lots of hot water for her and had come to help her if I might. Then she opened the door, and I entered. I found a very travel-stained little woman, down whose dust-covered cheeks tears had left their sign. Her prettiness was the kind that wins at once and keeps you ever after. She was a strange mixture of stiff reticence and childish trust. She was in _such_ a flutter, and she said she was ashamed to own it, but she was so hungry she could hardly wait. After helping her all I could, I ran out to see about the wedding supper that was to be served before the wedding. I found that no special supper had been prepared. It seemed to me a shame to thrust them down among the water company, the convention, the regulars, and the transients, and I mentally invited myself to the wedding supper and began to plan how we could have a little privacy. The carpenters were at work on a long room off the kitchen that was to be used as storeroom and pantry. They had gone for the day, and their saw-horses and benches were still in the room. It was only the work of a moment to sweep the sawdust away. There was only one window, but it was large and in the west. It took a little time to wash that, but it paid to do it. When a few asters and sprays of rabbit-brush were placed in a broken jar on the window-sill, there was a picture worth seeing. Some planks were laid on the saw-horses, some papers over them, and a clean white cloth over all. I sorted the dishes myself; the prettiest the house afforded graced our table. I rubbed the glassware until it shone almost as bright as Bishey's smile. Bishey had come when he could stay away no longer; he and Miss Em'ly had had their first little talk, so they came out to where I was laying the table. They were both beaming. Miss Em'ly took hold at once to help. "Bishey," she commanded, "do you go at once to where my boxes are open, the one marked 7; bring me a blue jar you'll find in one corner." He went to do her bidding, and I to see about the kiddies. When I came back with them, there was a small willow basket in the center of our improvised table, heaped high with pears, apples, and grapes all a little the worse for their long journey from New York State to Wyoming, but still things of beauty and a joy as long as they lasted to Wyoming eyes and appetites. We had a perfectly roasted leg of lamb; we had mint sauce, a pyramid of flaky mashed potatoes, a big dish of new peas, a plate of sponge-cake I will be long in forgetting; and the blue jar was full of grape marmalade. Our iced tea was exactly right; the pieces of ice clinked pleasantly against our glasses. We took our time, and we were all happy. We could all see the beautiful sunset, its last rays lingering on Miss Em'ly's abundant auburn hair to make happy the bride the sun shines on. We saw the wonderful colors--orange, rose, and violet--creep up and fade into darker shades, until at last mellow dusk filled the room. Then I took the kiddies to my room to be put to bed while I should wait until time for the ceremony. Soon the babies were sleeping, and Jerrine and I went into the sitting-room. They were sitting on the "sofy." She was telling him that the apples had come from the tree they had played under, the pears from the tree they had set out, the grapes from the vine over the well. She told him of things packed in her boxes, everything a part of the past they both knew. He in turn told her of his struggles, his successes, and some of what he called his failures. She was a most encouraging little person, and she'd say to him, "You did well, Bishey. I'll say _that_ for you: you did well!" Then he told her about the flowers he had planted for her. I understood then why he acted so queerly about my flowers. It happens that I am partial to old-time favorites, and I grow as many of them as I can get to succeed in this altitude; so I have zinnias, marigolds, hollyhocks, and many other dear old flowers that my mother loved. Many of them had been the favorites of Miss Em'ly's childhood, but Bishey hadn't remembered the names; so he had visited us all, and when he found a flower he remembered, he asked the name and how we grew it, then he tried it, until at last he had about all. Miss Em'ly wiped the tears from her eyes as she remarked, "Bishey, you did well; yes, you did _real_ well." I thought to myself how well we could _all_ do if we were so encouraged. At last the white-haired old justice of the peace came, and said the words that made Emily Wheeler the wife of Abisha Bennet. A powerfully noisy but truly friendly crowd wished them well. One polite fellow asked her where she was from. She told him from New York _State_. "Why," he asked, "do New Yorkers always say _State_?" "Why, because," she answered,--and her eyes were big with surprise,--"_no_ one would want to say they were from New York _City_." It had been a trying day for us, so soon Jerrine and I slipped out to our room. Ours was the first room off the sitting-room, and a long hallway led past our door; a bench sat against the wall, and it seemed a favorite roosting-place for people with long discussions. First some fellows were discussing the wedding. One thought Bishey "cracked" because he had shipped out an old cooking-stove, one of the first manufactured, all the way from where he came from, instead of buying a new one nearer home. They recalled instance after instance in which he had acted queerly, but to me his behavior was no longer a mystery. I know the stove belonged somewhere in the past and that his every act connected past and future. After they had talked themselves tired, two old fellows took possession of the bench and added a long discussion on how to grow corn to the general din. Even sweet corn cannot be successfully grown at this altitude, yet those old men argued pro and con till I know their throats must have ached. In the sitting-room they all talked at once of ditches, water-contracts, and sheep. I was _so_ sleepy. I heard a tired clock away off somewhere strike two. Some sheep-men had the bench and were discussing the relative values of different dips. I reckon my ego must have gotten tangled with some one's else about then, for I found myself sitting up in bed foolishly saying,-- "Two old herders, unshaved and hairy, Whose old tongues are _never_ weary, Just outside my chamber-door Prate of sheep dips for _ever_ more." Next morning it was Bishey's cheerful voice that started my day. I had hoped to be up in time to see them off, but I wasn't. I heard him call out to Mrs. Bishey, "Miss Em'ly, I've got the boxes all loaded. We can start _home_ in ten minutes." I heard her clear voice reply, "You've done well, Bishey. I'll be ready by then." I was hurriedly dressing, hoping yet to see her, when I heard Bishey call out to bluff old Colonel Winters, who had arrived in the night and had not known of the wedding, "Hello! Winters, have you met Miss Em'ly? Come over here and meet her. I'm a married man now. I married Miss Em'ly last night." The colonel couldn't have known how apt was his reply when he said, "I'm glad for you, Bishey. You've done well." I peeked between the curtains, and saw Bishey's wagon piled high with boxes, with Miss Em'ly, self-possessed and happy, greeting the colonel. Soon I heard the rattle of wheels, and the dear old happy pair were on their way to the cabin home they had waited twenty-five years for. Bless the kind old hearts of them! I'm sure they've both "done well." XXV AMONG THE MORMONS _November, 1913._ MY DEAR FRIEND,-- I have wanted to write you for a long time, but have been so busy. I have had some visitors and have been on a visit; I think you would like to hear about it all, so I will tell you. I don't think you would have admired my appearance the morning this adventure began: I was in the midst of fall house-cleaning which included some papering. I am no expert at the very best, and papering a wall has difficulties peculiar to itself. I was up on a barrel trying to get a long, sloppy strip of paper to stick to the ceiling instead of to me, when in my visitors trooped, and so surprised me that I stepped off the barrel and into a candy-bucket of paste. At the same time the paper came off the ceiling and fell over mine and Mrs. Louderer's head. It was right aggravating, I can tell you, but my visitors were Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Mrs. Louderer, and no one could stay discouraged with that pair around. After we had scraped as much paste as we could off ourselves they explained that they had come to take me somewhere. That sounded good to me, but I could not see how I could get off. However, Mrs. Louderer said she had come to keep house and to take care of the children while I should go with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy to E----. We should have two days' travel by sled and a few hours on a train, then another journey by sled. I wanted to go powerfully, but the paste-smeared room seemed to forbid. As Mrs. Louderer would stay with the children, Mr. Stewart thought the trip would be good for me. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knew I wanted to visit Bishop D----, a shining light among the Latter-Day Saints, so she promised we should stay overnight at his house. That settled it; so in the cold, blue light of the early morning, Mr. Beeler, a new neighbor, had driven my friends over in Mrs. Louderer's big sled, to which was hitched a pair of her great horses and his own team. He is a widower and was going out to the road for supplies, so it seemed a splendid time to make my long-planned visit to the Bishop. Deep snow came earlier this year than usual, and the sledding and weather both promised to be good. It was with many happy anticipations that I snuggled down among the blankets and bearskins that morning. Mr. Beeler is pleasant company, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is so jolly and bright, and I could leave home without a single misgiving with Mrs. Louderer in charge. The evening sky was blazing crimson and gold, and the mountains behind us were growing purple when we entered the little settlement where the Bishop lives. We drove briskly through the scattered, straggling little village, past the store and the meeting-house, and drew up before the dwelling of the Bishop. The houses of the village were for the most part small cabins of two or three rooms, but the Bishop's was more pretentious. It was a frame building and boasted paint and shutters. A tithing-office stood near, and back of the house we could see a large granary and long stacks of hay. A bunch of cattle was destroying one stack, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy remarked that the tallow from those cattle should be used when the olive oil gave out at their anointings, because it was the Bishop's cattle eating consecrated hay. We knocked on the door, but got no answer. Mr. Beeler went around to the back, but no one answered, so we concluded we would have to try elsewhere for shelter. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy comforted me by remarking, "Well, there ain't a penny's worth of difference in a Mormon bishop and any other Mormon, and D---- is not the only polygamist by a long shot." We had just turned out of the gate when a lanky, tow-headed boy about fourteen years of age rode up. We explained our presence there, and the boy explained to us that the Bishop and Aunt Debbie were away. The next best house up the road was his "Maw's," he said; so, as Mr. Beeler expected to stay with a friend of his, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I determined to see if "Maw" could accommodate us for the night. Mr. Beeler offered to help the boy get the cattle out, but he said, "No, Paw said it would not matter if they got into the hay, but that he had to knock off some poles on another part of the stockyard so that some horses could get in to eat." "But," I asked, "isn't that consecrated hay?--isn't it tithing?" "Yes," he said, "but that won't hurt a bit, only that old John Ladd always pays his tithe with foxtail hay and it almost ruins Paw's horses' mouths." I asked him if his father's stock was supposed to get the hay. "No, I guess not," he said, "but they are always getting in accidental like." We left him to fix the fence so the horses could get in "accidental like," and drove the short distance to "the next best house." We were met at the door by a pleasant-faced little woman who hurried us to the fire. We told her our plight. "Why, certainly you must stay with me," she said. "I am glad the Bishop and Deb are away. They keep all the company, and I so seldom have any one come; you see Debbie has no children and can do so much better for any one stopping there than I can, but I like company, too, and I am glad of a chance to keep you. You two can have Maudie's bed. Maud is my oldest girl and she has gone to Ogden to visit, so we have plenty of room." By now it was quite dark. She lighted a lamp and bustled about, preparing supper. We sat by the stove and, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "noticed." Two little boys were getting in wood for the night. They appeared to be about eight years old; they were twins and were the youngest of the family. Two girls, about ten and twelve years old, were assisting our hostess; then the boy Orson, whom we met at the gate, and Maud, the daughter who was away, made up the family. They seemed a happy, contented family, if one judged by appearance alone. After supper the children gathered around the table to prepare next day's lessons. They were bright little folks, but they mingled a great deal of talk with their studies and some of what they talked was family history. "Mamma," said Kittie, the largest of the little girls, "if Aunt Deb does buy a new coat and you get her old one, then can I have yours?" "I don't know," her mother replied; "I should have to make it over if you did take it. Maybe we can have a new one." "No, we can't have a new one, I know, for Aunt Deb said so, but she is going to give me her brown dress and you her gray one; she said so the day I helped her iron. We'll have those to make over." For the first time I noticed the discontented lines on our hostess's face, and it suddenly occurred to me that we were in the house of the Bishop's second wife. Before I knew I was coming on this journey I thought of a dozen questions I wanted to ask the Bishop, but I could never ask that care-worn little woman anything concerning their peculiar belief. However, I was spared the trouble, for soon the children retired and the conversation drifted around to Mormonism and polygamy; and our hostess seemed to want to talk, so I just listened, for Mrs. O'Shaughnessy rather likes to "argufy"; but she had no argument that night, only her questions started our hostess's story. She had been married to the Bishop not long before the manifesto, and he had been married several years then to Debbie. But Debbie had no children, and all the money the Bishop had to start with had been his first wife's; so when it became necessary for him to discard a wife it was a pretty hard question for him because a little child was coming to the second wife and he had nothing to provide for her with except what his first wife's money paid for. The first wife said she would consent to him starting the second, if she filed on land and paid her back a small sum every year until it was all paid back. So he took the poor "second," after formally renouncing her, and helped her to file on the land she now lives on. He built her a small cabin, and so she started her career as a "second." I suppose the "first" thought she would be rid of the second, who had never really been welcome, although the Bishop could never have married a "second" without her consent. "I would _never_ consent," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Oh, yes, you would if you had been raised a Mormon," said our hostess. "You see, we were all of us children of polygamous parents. We have been used to plural marriages all our lives. We believe that such experience fits us for our after-life, as we are only preparing for life beyond while here." "Do you expect to go to heaven, and do you think the man who married you and then discarded you will go to heaven too?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Of course I do," she replied. "Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "I am afraid if it had been mysilf I'd have been after raising a little hell here intirely." Our hostess was not offended, and there followed a long recital of earlier-day hard times that you would scarcely believe any one could live through. It seems the first wife in such families is boss, and while they do not live in the same homes, still she can very materially affect the other's comfort. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had married again. She said, "No." "Then," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "whose children are these?" "My own," she replied. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was relentless. "Who is their father?" she asked. I was right sorry for the poor little woman as she stammered, "I--I don't know." Then she went on, "Of course I _do_ know, and I don't believe you are spying to try to stir up trouble for my husband. Bishop D---- is their father, as he is still my husband, although he had to cast me off to save himself and me. I love him and I see no wrong in him. All the Gentiles have against him is he is a little too smart for them. 'T was their foolish law that made him wrong the children and me, and _not_ his wishes." "But," Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "it places your children in such a plight; they can't inherit, they can't even claim his name, they have no status legally." "Oh, but the Bishop will see to that," the little woman answered. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy asked her if she had still to work as hard as she used to. "No, I don't believe I do," she said, "for since Mr. D---- has been Bishop, things come easier. He built this house with his own money, so Deb has nothing to do with it." I asked her if she thought she was as happy as "second" as she would be if she was the _only_ wife. "Oh, I don't know," she said, "perhaps not. Deb and me don't always agree. She is jealous of the children and because I am younger, and I get to feeling bad when I think she is perfectly safe as a wife and has no cares. She has everything she wants, and I have to take what I can get, and my children have to wait upon her. But it will all come right somewhere, sometime," she ended cheerfully, as she wiped her eyes with her apron. I felt so sorry for her and so ashamed to have seen into her sorrow that I was really glad next morning when I heard Mr. Beeler's cheerful voice calling, "All aboard!" We had just finished breakfast, and few would ever guess that Mrs. D---- knew a trial; she was so cheerful and so cordial as she bade us good-bye and urged us to stop with her every time we passed through. About noon that day we reached the railroad. The snow had delayed the train farther north, so for once we were glad to have to wait for a train, as it gave us time to get a bite to eat and to wash up a bit. It was not long, however, till we were comfortably seated in the train. I think a train ride might not be so enjoyable to most, but to us it was a delight; I even enjoyed looking at the Negro porter, although I suspect he expected to be called Mister. I found very soon after coming West that I must not say "Uncle" or "Aunty" as I used to at home. It was not long until they called the name of the town at which we wanted to stop. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had a few acquaintances there, but we went to a hotel. We were both tired, so as soon as we had supper we went to bed. The house we stopped at was warmer and more comfortable than the average hotel in the West, but the partitions were very thin, so when a couple of "punchers," otherwise cowboys, took the room next to ours, we could hear every word they said. It appears that one was English and the other a tenderfoot. The tenderfoot was in love with a girl who had filed on a homestead near the ranch on which he was employed, but who was then a waitress in the hotel we were at. She had not seemed kind to the tenderfoot and he was telling his friend about it. The Englishman was trying to instruct him as to how to proceed. "You need to be _very_ circumspect, Johnny, where females are concerned, but you mustn't be too danged timid either." "I don't know what the devil to say to her; I can barely nod my head when she asks me will I take tea or coffee; and to-night she mixed it because I nodded yes when she said, 'tea or coffee,' and it was the dangdest mess I ever tried to get outside of." "Well," the friend counseled, "you just get her into a corner some'eres and say to 'er, 'Dearest 'Attie, I hoffer you my 'and hand my 'eart.'" "But I _can't_," wailed Johnny. "I could never get her into a corner anyway." "If you can't, you're not hold enough to marry then. What the 'ell would you do with a woman in the 'ouse if you couldn't corner 'er? I tell 'e, women 'ave to 'ave a master, and no man better tackle that job until 'e can be sure 'e can make 'er walk the chalk-line." "But I don't want her to walk any line; I just want her to speak to me." "Dang me if I don't believe you are locoed. Why, she's got 'e throwed hand 'og-tied now. What d'e want to make it any worse for?" They talked for a long time and the Englishman continued to have trouble with his _h_'s; but at last Johnny was encouraged to "corner 'er" next morning before they left for their ranch. We expected to be astir early anyway, and our curiosity impelled us to see the outcome of the friend's counsel, so we were almost the first in the dining-room next morning. A rather pretty girl was busy arranging the tables, and soon a boyish-looking fellow, wearing great bat-wing chaps, came in and stood warming himself at the stove. I knew at once it was Johnny, and I saw "'Attie" blush. The very indifference with which she treated him argued well for his cause, but of course he didn't know that. So when she passed by him and her skirt caught on his big spurs they both stooped at once to unfasten it; their heads hit together with such a bump that the ice was broken, although he seemed to think it was her skull. I am sure there ought to be a thaw after all his apologies. After breakfast Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went out to see her friend Cormac O'Toole. He was the only person in town we could hope to get a team from with which to continue our journey. This is a hard country on horses at best, and at this time of the year particularly so; few will let their teams go out at any price, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had hopes, and she is so persuasive that I felt no one could resist her. There was a drummer at breakfast who kept "cussing" the country. He had tried to get a conveyance and had failed; so the cold, the snow, the people, and everything else disgusted him. Soon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy returned, and as the drummer was trying to get out to E----, and that was our destination also, she made her way toward him, intending to invite him to ride with us. She wore over her best clothes an old coat that had once belonged to some one of her men friends. It had once been bearskin, but was now more _bare_ skin, so her appearance was against her; she looked like something with the mange. So Mr. Drummer did not wait to hear what she was going to say but at once exclaimed, "No, madam, I cannot let you ride out with me. I can't get a rig myself in this beastly place." Then he turned to a man standing near and remarked, "These Western women are so bold they don't hesitate to _demand_ favors." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's eyes fairly snapped, but she said nothing. I think she took a malicious delight in witnessing the drummer's chagrin when a few moments later our comfortable sleigh and good strong team appeared. We were going to drive ourselves, but we had to drive to the depot for our suit-cases; but when we got there the ticket-office was not open, so the agent was probably having his beauty sleep. There was a fire in the big stove, and we joined the bunch of men in the depot. Among them we noticed a thin, consumptive-looking fellow, evidently a stranger. Very soon some men began talking of some transaction in which a Bishop B---- was concerned. It seemed they didn't admire the Bishop very much; they kept talking of his peculiarities and transgressions, and mentioned his treatment of his wives. His "second," they said, was blind because of cataracts, and, although abundantly able, he left her in darkness. She had never seen her two last children. Some one spoke up and said, "I thought polygamy was no longer practiced." Then the man explained that they no longer contracted plural marriages, but that many kept _all_ their wives and B---- still had both of his. He went on to say that although such practice is contrary to law, it was almost impossible to make a case against them, for the women would not swear against their husbands. B---- had been arrested once, but his second swore that she didn't know who her children's father was, and it cost the sheriff his office the next election. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy spoke to an acquaintance of hers and mentioned where we were going. In a short while we got our suit-cases and we were off, but as we drove past the freight depot, the stranger we had noticed came down the steps and asked us to let him ride out with us. I really felt afraid of him, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy thinks herself a match for any mere man, so she drew up and the man climbed in. He took the lines and we snuggled down under the robes and listened to the runners, shrill screeching over the frozen surface. We had dinner with a new settler, and about two o'clock that afternoon we overtook a fellow who was plodding along the road. His name was B----, he said, and he pointed out to us his broad fields and herds. He had been overseeing some feeders he had, and his horse had escaped, so he was walking home, as it was only a couple of miles. He talked a great deal in that two-mile trip; too much for his own good, it developed. For the first time since B---- climbed into our sleigh, the stranger spoke. "Can you tell me where Mrs. Belle B---- lives?" he asked. "Why, yes," our passenger replied. "She is a member of our little flock. She is slightly related to me, as you perhaps noticed the name, and I will show you to her house." "Just how is she related to you?" the stranger asked. "That," the man replied, "is a matter of protection. I have _given_ her the protection of my name." "Then she is your wife, is she not?" the stranger asked. "You must be a stranger in this country," the man evaded. "What is your name?" But the stranger didn't seem to hear, and just then we came opposite the residence of the Bishop, and the man we had picked up in the road said, "That is my home, won't you get out and warm? My wife will be glad to get acquainted with you ladies." We declined, as it was only a short distance to the house of the man Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had come to see, so he stayed in the sleigh to show the stranger to the house of Mrs. Belle B----. I can't say much for it as a house, and I was glad I didn't have to go in. The stranger and B---- got out and entered the house, and we drove away. Next morning, as we returned through the little village, it was all excitement. Bishop B---- had been shot the night before, just as he had left the house of Mrs. Belle B----, for what reason or by whom no one knew; and if the Bishop knew he had not told, for he either would not or could not talk. They were going to start with him that day to the hospital, but they had no hopes of his living. When we came to Mrs. Belle's house, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy got out of the sleigh and went into the house. I could hear her soothing voice, and I was mighty glad the poor, forlorn woman had such a comforter. * * * * * I was so _very_ glad to get home. How good it all looked to me! "Poop o' Roome" has a calf, and as we drove up to the corral Clyde was trying to get it into the stall with the rest. It is "Poop's" first calf, and she is very proud of it, and objected to its being put away from her, so she bunted at Clyde, and as he dodged her, the calf ran between his feet and he sat down suddenly in the snow. I laughed at him, but I am powerfully glad he is no follower of old Joseph Smith. Mrs. Louderer was enjoying herself immensely, she loves children so much. She and Clyde hired the "Tackler"--so called because he will tackle _any_ kind of a job, whether he knows anything about it or not--to paper the room. He thinks he is a great judge of the fitness of things and of beauty. The paper has a stripe of roses, so Tackler reversed every other strip so that some of my roses are standing on their heads. Roses don't all grow one way, he claims, and so his method "makes 'em look more nachul like." A little thing like wall-paper put on upside down don't bother me; but what _would_ I do if I were a "second"? Your loving friend, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XXVI SUCCESS _November, 1913._ DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- This is Sunday and I suppose I ought not to be writing, but I must write to you and I may not have another chance soon. Both your letters have reached me, and now that our questions are settled we can proceed to proceed. Now, this is the letter I have been wanting to write you for a long time, but could not because until now I had not actually proven all I wanted to prove. Perhaps it will not interest you, but if you see a woman who wants to homestead and is a little afraid she will starve, you can tell her what I am telling you. I never did like to theorize, and so this year I set out to prove that a woman could ranch if she wanted to. We like to grow potatoes on new ground, that is, newly cleared land on which no crop has been grown. Few weeds grow on new land, so it makes less work. So I selected my potato-patch, and the man ploughed it, although I could have done that if Clyde would have let me. I cut the potatoes, Jerrine helped, and we dropped them in the rows. The man covered them, and that ends the man's part. By that time the garden ground was ready, so I planted the garden. I had almost an acre in vegetables. I irrigated and I cultivated it myself. We had all the vegetables we could possibly use, and now Jerrine and I have put in our cellar full, and this is what we have: one large bin of potatoes (more than two tons), half a ton of carrots, a large bin of beets, one of turnips, one of onions, one of parsnips, and on the other side of the cellar we have more than one hundred heads of cabbage. I have experimented and found a kind of squash that can be raised here, and that the ripe ones keep well and make good pies; also that the young tender ones make splendid pickles, quite equal to cucumbers. I was glad to stumble on to that, because pickles are hard to manufacture when you have nothing to work with. Now I have plenty. They told me when I came that I could not even raise common beans, but I tried and succeeded. And also I raised lots of green tomatoes, and, as we like them preserved, I made them all up that way. Experimenting along another line, I found that I could make catchup, as delicious as that of tomatoes, of gooseberries. I made it exactly the same as I do the tomatoes and I am delighted. Gooseberries were very fine and very plentiful this year, so I put up a great many. I milked ten cows twice a day all summer; have sold enough butter to pay for a year's supply of flour and gasoline. We use a gasoline lamp. I have raised enough chickens to completely renew my flock, and all we wanted to eat, and have some fryers to go into the winter with. I have enough turkeys for all of our birthdays and holidays. I raised a great many flowers and I worked several days in the field. In all I have told about I have had no help but Jerrine. Clyde's mother spends each summer with us, and she helped me with the cooking and the babies. Many of my neighbors did better than I did, although I know many town people would doubt my doing so much, but I did it. I have tried every kind of work this ranch affords, and I can do any of it. Of course I _am_ extra strong, but those who try know that strength and knowledge come with doing. I just love to experiment, to work, and to prove out things, so that ranch life and "roughing it" just suit me. THE END * * * * * 
28572	----	LETTERS ON AN ELK HUNT BY A WOMAN HOMESTEADER _Elinore Pruitt Stewart_ UNIVERSITY OF NEBRASKA PRESS Lincoln and London Copyright, 1915, by Elinore Pruitt Stewart All rights reserved Copyright © renewed 1943 by H C Stewart First Bison Book Printing 1979 Most recent printing indicated by first digit below 7 8 9 10 Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Stewart, Elinore Pruitt, 1878-- Letters on an elk hunt 1 Stewart, Elinore Pruitt, 1878-- 2 Frontier and pioneer life--Wyoming 3 Elk hunting--Wyoming 4 Pioneers--Wyoming--Biography 5 Wyoming--Biography I Title F761 S82 1979 978 7'03'0924 79-13840 ISBN 0-8032-4112-7 ISBN 0-8032-9112-4 pbk Published by arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company Manufactured in the United States of America [Illustration: _Photograph courtesy of Clyde Stewart_] CONTENTS I. CONNIE WILLIS 1 II. THE START 13 III. EDEN VALLEY 24 IV. CRAZY OLAF AND OTHERS 34 V. DANYUL AND HIS MOTHER 57 VI. ELIZABETH'S ROMANCE 81 VII. THE HUNT 95 VIII. THE SEVENTH MAN 109 IX. AN INDIAN CAMP 118 X. THE TOOTH-HUNTERS 124 XI. BUDDY AND BABY GIRL 130 XII. A STAMPEDE 143 XIII. NEARING HOME 156 XIV. THE MEMORY-BED 160 LETTERS ON AN ELK HUNT By a Woman Homesteader I CONNIE WILLIS BURNT FORK, WYO., July 8, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- Your letter of the 4th just to hand. How glad your letters make me; how glad I am to have you to tell little things to. I intended to write you as soon as I came back from Green River, to tell you of a girl I saw there; but there was a heap to do and I kept putting it off. I have described the desert so often that I am afraid I will tire you, so I will leave that out and tell you that we arrived in town rather late. The help at the hotel were having their supper in the regular dining-room, as all the guests were out. They cheerfully left their own meal to place ours on the table. One of them interested me especially. She was a small person; I couldn't decide whether she was a child or a woman. I kept thinking her homely, and then when she spoke I forgot everything but the music of her voice,--it was so restful, so rich and mellow in tone, and she seemed so small for such a splendid voice. Somehow I kept expecting her to squeak like a mouse, but every word she spoke charmed me. Before the meal was over it came out that she was the dish-washer. All the rest of the help had finished their work for the day, but she, of course, had to wash what dishes we had been using. The rest went their ways; and as our own tardiness had belated her, I offered to help her to carry out the dishes. It was the work of only a moment to dry them, so I did that. She was so small that she had to stand on a box in order to be comfortable while she washed the cups and plates. "The sink and drain-board were made for real folks. I have to use this box to stand on, or else the water runs back down my sleeves," she told me. My room was upstairs; she helped me up with the children. She said her name was Connie Willis, that she was the only one of her "ma's first man's" children; but ma married again after pa died and there were a lot of the second batch. When the mother died she left a baby only a few hours old. As Connie was older than the other children she took charge of the household and of the tiny little baby. I just wish you could have seen her face light up when she spoke of little Lennie. "Lennie is eight years old now, and she is just as smart as the smartest and as pretty as a doll. All the Ford children are pretty, and smart, too. I am the only homely child ma had. It would do you good just to look at any of the rest, 'specially Lennie." It certainly did me good to listen to Connie,--her brave patience was so inspiring. As long as I was in town she came every day when her work was finished to talk to me about Lennie. For herself she had no ambition. Her clothes were clean, but they were odds and ends that had served their day for other possessors; her shoes were not mates, and one was larger than the other. She said: "I thought it was a streak of luck when I found the cook always wore out her right shoe first and the dining-room girl the left, because, you see, I could have their old ones and that would save two dollars toward what I am saving up for. But it wasn't so very lucky after all except for the fun, because the cook wears low heels and has a much larger foot than the dining-room girl, who wears high heels. But I chopped the long heel off with the cleaver, and these shoes have saved me enough to buy Lennie a pair of patent-leather slippers to wear on the Fourth of July." I thought that a foolish ambition, but succeeding conversations made me ashamed of the thought. I asked her if Lennie's father couldn't take care of her. "Oh," she said, "Pa Ford is a good man. He has a good heart, but there's so many of them that it is all he can do to rustle what must be had. Why," she told me in a burst of confidence, "I've been saving up for a tombstone for ma for twelve years, but I have to help pa once in a while, and I sometimes think I never will get enough money saved. It is kind of hard on three dollars a week, and then I'm kind of extravagant at times. I have wanted a doll, a beautiful one, all my days. Last Christmas I got it--for Lennie. And then I like to carry out other folks' wishes sometimes. That is what I am fixing to do now. Ma always wanted to see me dressed up real pretty just once, but we were always too poor, and now I'm too old. But I can fix Lennie, and this Fourth of July I am going to put all the beauty on her that ma would have liked to see on me. They always celebrate that day at Manila, Utah, where pa lives. I'll go out and take the things. Then if ma is where she can see, she'll see _one_ of her girls dressed for once." "But aren't you mistaken when you say you have been saving for your mother's tombstone for twelve years? She's only been dead eight." "Why no, I'm not. You see, at first it wasn't a tombstone but a marble-top dresser. Ma had always wanted one so badly; for she always thought that housekeeping would be so much easier if she had just one pretty thing to keep house toward. If I had not been so selfish, she could have had the dresser before she died. I had fifteen dollars,--enough to buy it,--but when I came to look in the catalogue to choose one I found that for fifteen dollars more I could get a whole set. I thought how proud ma would be of a new bedstead and wash-stand, so I set in to earn that much more. But before I could get that saved up ma just got tired of living, waiting, and doing without. She never caused any trouble while she lived, and she died the same way. "They sent for me to come home from the place where I was at work. I had just got home, and I was standing by the bed holding ma's hand, when she smiled up at me; she handed me Lennie and then turned over and sighed so contented. That was all there was to it. She was done with hard times. "Pa Ford wanted to buy her coffin on credit,--to go in debt for it,--but I hated for ma to have to go on that way even after she was dead; so I persuaded him to use what money he had to buy the coffin, and I put in all I had, too. So the coffin she lies in is her own. We don't owe for _that_. Then I stayed at home and kept house and cared for Lennie until she was four years old. I have been washing dishes in this hotel ever since." That is Connie's story. After she told me, I went to the landlady and suggested that we help a little with Lennie's finery; but she told me to "keep out." "I doubt if Connie would accept any help from us, and if she did, every cent we put in would take that much from her pleasure. There have not been many happy days in her life, but the Fourth of July will be one if we keep out." So I kept out. I was delighted when Mrs. Pearson invited me to accompany her to Manila to witness the bucking contest on the Fourth. Manila is a pretty little town, situated in Lucerne Valley. All the houses in town are the homes of ranchers, whose farms may be seen from any doorstep in Manila. The valley lies between a high wall of red sandstone and the "hogback,"--that is what the foothills are called. The wall of sandstone is many miles in length. The valley presents a beautiful picture as you go eastward; at this time of the year the alfalfa is so green. Each farm joins another. Each has a cabin in which the rancher lives while they irrigate and make hay. When that is finished they move into their houses in "town." Beyond the hogback rise huge mountains, rugged cañons, and noisy mountain streams; great forests of pine help to make up the picture. Looking toward the east we could see where mighty Green River cuts its way through walls of granite. The road lies close up against the sandstone and cedar hills and along the canal that carries the water to all the farms in the valley. I enjoyed every moment. It was all so beautiful,--the red rock, the green fields, the warm brown sand of the road and bare places, the mighty mountains, the rugged cedars and sage-brush spicing the warm air, the blue distance and the fleecy clouds. Oh, I wish I could paint it for you! In the foreground there should be some cows being driven home by a barefooted boy with a gun on his shoulder and a limp brown rabbit in his hand. But I shall have to leave that to your imagination and move on to the Fourth. On that day every one turns out; even from the very farthest outlying ranches they come, and every one dressed in his best. No matter what privation is suffered all the rest of the time, on this day every one is dressed to kill. Every one has a little money with which to buy gaudy boxes of candy; every girl has a chew of gum. Among the children friendship is proved by invitations to share lemons. They cordially invite each other to "come get a suck o' my lemon." I just _love_ to watch them. Old and young are alike; whatever may trouble them at other times is forgotten, and every one dances, eats candy, sucks lemons, laughs, and makes merry on the Fourth. I didn't care much for their contests. I was busy watching the faces. Soon I saw one I knew. Connie was making her way toward me. I wondered how I could ever have thought her plain. Pride lighted every feature. She led by the hand the most beautiful child I have ever seen. She is a few weeks younger than Jerrine[1] but much smaller. She had such an elusive beauty that I cannot describe it. One not acquainted with her story might have thought her dress out of taste out among the sand dunes and sage-brush in the hot sun, but I knew, and I felt the thrill of sheer blue silk, dainty patent-leather slippers, and big blue hat just loaded with pink rose-buds. [Footnote 1: The author's daughter, aged eight.] "This is my Lennie," said Connie proudly. I saw all the Ford family before I left,--the weak-faced, discouraged-looking father and the really beautiful girls. Connie was neat in a pretty little dress, cheap but becoming, and her shoes were mates. Lennie was the center of family pride. She represented all their longings. Before I left, Connie whispered to me that she would very soon have money enough to pay for her mother's tombstone. "Then I will have had everything I ever wanted. I guess I won't have anything else to live for then; I guess I will have to get to wanting something for Lennie." On our way home even the mosquito bites didn't annoy me; I was too full of Connie's happiness. All my happiness lacked was your presence. If I had had you beside me to share the joy and beauty, I could have asked for nothing more. I kept saying, "How Mrs. Coney would enjoy this!" All I can do is to kind of hash it over for you. I hope you like hash. With much love to you, ELINORE. II THE START IN CAMP ON THE DESERT, August 24, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- At last we are off. I am powerfully glad. I shall have to enjoy this trip for us both. You see how greedy I am for new experiences! I have never been on a prolonged hunt before, so I am looking forward to a heap of fun. I hardly know what to do about writing, but shall try to write every two days. I want you to have as much of this trip as I can put on paper, so we will begin at the start. To begin with we were all to meet at Green River, to start the twentieth; but a professor coming from somewhere in the East delayed us a day, and also some of the party changed their plans; that reduced our number but not our enthusiasm. A few days before we left the ranch I telephoned Mrs. Louderer and tried to persuade her to go along, but she replied, "For why should I go? Vat? Iss it to freeze? I can sleep out on some rocks here and with a stick I can beat the sage-bush, which will give me the smell you will smell of the outside. And for the game I can have a beef kill which iss better to eat as elk." I love Mrs. Louderer dearly, but she is absolutely devoid of imagination, and her matter-of-factness is mighty trying sometimes. However, she sent me a bottle of goose-grease to ward off colds from the "kinder." I tried Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, but she was plumb aggravating and non-committal, and it seemed when we got to Green River that I would be the only woman in the party. Besides, all the others were strangers to me except young Mr. Haynes, who was organizing the hunt. Really the prospect didn't seem so joyous. The afternoon before we were to start I went with Mr. Stewart and Mr. Haynes to meet the train. We were expecting the professor. But the only passenger who got off was a slight, gray-eyed girl. She looked about her uncertainly for a moment and then went into the depot while we returned to the hotel. Just as I started up the steps my eyes were gladdened by the sight of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy in her buckboard trotting merrily up the street. She waved her hand to us and drove up. Clyde took her team to the livery barn and she came up to my room with me. "It's going with you I am," she began. "Ye'll need somebody to keep yez straight and to sew up the holes ye'll be shooting into each other." After she had "tidied up a bit" we went down to supper. We were all seated at one table, and there was yet an empty place; but soon the girl we had seen get off the train came and seated herself in it. "Can any of you tell me how to get to Kendall, Wyoming?" she asked. I didn't know nor did Clyde, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knew, so she answered. "Kendall is in the forest reserve up north. It is two hundred miles from here and half of the distance is across desert, but they have an automobile route as far as Pinedale; you could get that far on the auto stage. After that I suppose you could get some one to take you on." "Thank you," said the girl. "My name is Elizabeth Hull. I am alone in the world, and I am not expected at Kendall, so I am obliged to ask and to take care of myself." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy at once mentioned her own name and introduced the rest of us. After supper Miss Hull and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had a long talk. I was not much surprised when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came in to tell me that she was going to take the girl along. "Because," she said, "Kendall is on our way and it's glad I am to help a lone girl. Did you notice the freckles of her? Sure her forbears hailed from Killarney." So early next morning we were astir. We had outfitted in Green River, so the wagons were already loaded. I had rather dreaded the professor. I had pictured to myself a very dignified, bespectacled person, and I mentally stood in awe of his great learning. Imagine my surprise when a boyish, laughing young man introduced himself as Professor Glenholdt. He was so jolly, so unaffected, and so altogether likable, that my fear vanished and I enjoyed the prospect of his company. Mr. Haynes and his friend Mr. Struble on their wagon led the way, then we followed, and after us came Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and Miss Hull brought up the rear, with the professor riding horseback beside first one wagon and then another. So we set out. There was a great jangling and banging, for our tin camp-stoves kept the noise going. Neither the children nor I can ride under cover on a wagon, we get so sick; so there we were, perched high up on great rolls of bedding and a tent. I reckon we looked funny to the "onlookers looking on" as we clattered down the street; but we were off and that meant a heap. All the morning our way lay up the beautiful river, past the great red cliffs and through tiny green parks, but just before noon the road wound itself up on to the mesa, which is really the beginning of the desert. We crowded into the shadow of the wagons to eat our midday meal; but we could not stop long, because it was twenty-eight miles to where we could get water for the horses when we should camp that night. So we wasted no time. Shortly after noon we could see white clouds of alkali dust ahead. By and by we came up with the dust-raisers. The children and I had got into the buckboard with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Miss Hull, so as to ride easier and be able to gossip, and we had driven ahead of the wagons, so as to avoid the stinging dust. The sun was just scorching when we overtook the funniest layout I have seen since Cora Belle[2] drove up to our door the first time. In a wobbly old buckboard sat a young couple completely engrossed by each other. That he was a Westerner we knew by his cowboy hat and boots; that she was an Easterner, by her not knowing how to dress for the ride across the desert. She wore a foolish little chiffon hat which the alkali dust had ruined, and all the rest of her clothes matched. But over them the enterprising young man had raised one of those big old sunshades that had lettering on them. It kept wobbling about in the socket he had improvised; one minute we could see "Tea"; then a rut in the road would swing "Coffee" around. Their sunshade kept revolving about that way, and sometimes their heads revolved a little bit, too. We could hear a word occasionally and knew they were having a great deal of fun at our expense; but we were amused ourselves, so we didn't care. They would drive along slowly until we almost reached them; then they would whip up and raise such a dust that we were almost choked. [Footnote 2: The story of Cora Belle is told in _Letters of a Woman Homesteader_.] Mrs. O'Shaughnessy determined to drive ahead; so she trotted up alongside, but she could not get ahead. The young people were giggling. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy doesn't like to be the joke all the time. Suddenly she leaned over toward them and said: "Will ye tell me something?" Oh, yes, they would. "Then," she said, "which of you are Tea and which Coffee?" Their answer was to drive up faster and stir up a powerful lot of dust. They kept pretty well ahead after that, but at sundown we came up with them at the well where we were to camp. This well had been sunk by the county for the convenience of travelers, and we were mighty thankful to find it. It came out that our young couple were bride and groom. They had never seen each other until the night before, having met through a matrimonial paper. They had met in Green River and were married that morning, and the young husband was taking her away up to Pinedale to his ranch. They must have been ideally happy, for they had forgotten their mess-box, and had only a light lunch. They had only their lap-robe for bedding. They were in a predicament; but the girl's chief concern was lest "Honey-bug" should let the wolves get her. Though it is scorching hot on the desert by day, the nights are keenly cool, and I was wondering how they would manage with only their lap-robe, when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who cannot hold malice, made a round of the camp, getting a blanket here and a coat there, until she had enough to make them comfortable. Then she invited them to take their meals with us until they could get to where they could help themselves. I think we all enjoyed camp that night, for we were all tired. We were in a shallow little cañon,--not a tree, not even a bush except sage-brush. Luckily, there was plenty of that, so we had roaring fires. We sat around the fire talking as the blue shadows faded into gray dusk and the big stars came out. The newly-weds were, as the bride put it, "so full of happiness they had nothing to put it in." Certainly their spirits overflowed. They were eager to talk of themselves and we didn't mind listening. They are Mr. and Mrs. Tom Burney. She is the oldest of a large family of children and has had to "work out ever since she was big enough to get a job." The people she had worked for rather frowned upon any matrimonial ventures, and as no provision was made for "help" entertaining company, she had never had a "beau." One day she got hold of a matrimonial paper and saw Mr. Burney's ad. She answered and they corresponded for several months. We were just in time to "catch it," as Mr. Haynes--who is a confirmed bachelor--disgustedly remarked. Personally, I am glad; I like them much better than I thought I should when they were raising so much dust so unnecessarily. I must close this letter, as I see the men are about ready to start. The children are standing the trip well, except that Robert is a little sun-blistered. Did I tell you we left Junior with his grandmother? Even though I have the other three, my heart is hungry for my "big boy," who is only a baby, too. He is such a precious little man. I wish you could see him! With a heart very full of love for you, E. R. S. III EDEN VALLEY IN CAMP, August 28. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- We are almost across the desert, and I am really becoming interested. The difficulties some folks work under are enough to make many of us ashamed. In the very center of the desert is a little settlement called Eden Valley. Imagination must have had a heap to do with its name, but one thing is certain: the serpent will find the crawling rather bad if he attempts to enter _this_ Eden, for the sand is hot; the alkali and the cactus are there, so it must be a serpentless Eden. The settlers have made a long canal and bring their water many miles. They say the soil is splendid, and they don't have much stone; but it is such a flat place! I wonder how they get the water to run when they irrigate. We saw many deserted homes. Hope's skeletons they are, with their yawning doors and windows like eyeless sockets. Some of the houses, which looked as if they were deserted, held families. We camped near one such. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I went up to the house to buy some eggs. A hopeless-looking woman came to the door. The hot winds and the alkali dust had tanned her skin and bleached her hair; both were a gray-brown. Her eyes were blue, but were so tired-looking that I could hardly see for the tears. "No," she said, "we ain't got no eggs. We ain't got no chickens. You see this ground is sandy, and last year the wind blowed awful hard and all the grain blowed out, so we didn't have no chance to raise chickens. We had no feed and no money to buy feed, so we had to kill our chickens to save their lives. We et 'em. They would have starved anyway." Then we tried for some vegetables. "Well," she said, "they ain't much to look at; maybe you'll not want 'em. Our garden ain't much this year. Pa has had to work out all the time. The kids and me put in some seed--all we had--with a hoe. We ain't got no horse; our team died last winter. We didn't have much feed and it was shore a hard winter. We hated to see old Nick and Fanny die. They were just like ones of the family. We drove 'em clean from Missouri, too. But they died, and what hurt me most was, pa 'lowed it would be a turrible waste not to skin 'em. I begged him not to. Land knows the pore old things was entitled to their hides, they got so little else; but pa said it didn't make no difference to them whether they had any hide or not, and that the skins would sell for enough to get the kids some shoes. And they did. A Jew junk man came through and give pa three dollars for the two hides, and that paid for a pair each for Johnny and Eller. "Pa hated as bad as we did to lose our faithful old friends, and all the winter long we grieved, the kids and me. Every time the coyotes yelped we knew they were gathering to gnaw poor old Nick and Fan's bones. And pa, to keep from crying himself when the kids and me would be sobbin', would scold us. 'My goodness,' he would say, 'the horses are dead and they don't know nothin' about cold and hunger. They don't know nothin' about sore shoulders and hard pulls now, so why don't you shut up and let them and me rest in peace?' But that was only pa's way of hidin' the tears. "When spring came the kids and me gathered all the bones and hair we could find of our good old team, and buried 'em where you see that green spot. That's grass. We scooped all the trash out of the mangers, and spread it over the grave, and the timothy and the redtop seed in the trash came up and growed. I'd liked to have put some flowers there, but we had no seed." She wiped her face on her apron, and gathered an armful of cabbage; it had not headed but was the best she had. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy seemed possessed; she bought stuff she knew she would have to throw away, but she didn't offer one word of sympathy. I felt plumb out of patience with her, for usually she can say the most comforting things. "Why don't you leave this place? Why not go away somewhere else, where it will not be so hard to start?" I asked. "Oh, 'cause pa's heart is just set on making a go of it here, and we would be just as pore anywhere else. We have tried a heap of times to start a home, and we've worked hard, but we were never so pore before. We have been here three years and we can prove up soon; then maybe we can go away and work somewhere, enough to get a team anyway. Pa has already worked out his water-right,--he's got water for all his land paid for, if we only had a team to plough with. But we'll get it. Pa's been workin' all summer in the hay, and he ought to have a little stake saved. Then the sheep-men will be bringin' in their herds soon's frost comes and pa 'lows to get a job herdin'. Anyway, we got to stick. We ain't got no way to get away and all we got is right here. Every last dollar we had has went into improvin' this place. If pore old hard-worked pa can stand it, the kids and me can. We ain't seen pa for two months, not sence hayin' began, but we work all we can to shorten the days; and we sure do miss pore old Nick and Fan." We gathered up as much of the vegetables as we could carry. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy paid, and we started homeward, promising to send for the rest of the beets and potatoes. On the way we met two children, and knew them at once for "Johnny and Eller." They had pails, and were carrying water from the stream and pouring it on the green spot that covered Nick and Fan. We promised them each a dime if they would bring the vegetables we had left. Their little faces shone, and we had to hurry all we could to get supper ready before they came; for we were determined they should eat supper with us. We told the men before the little tykes came. So Mr. Struble let Johnny shoot his gun and both youngsters rode Chub and Antifat to water. They were bright little folks and their outlook upon life is not so flat and colorless as their mother's is. A day holds a world of chance for them. They were saving their money, they told us, "to buy some house plants for ma." Johnny had a dollar which a sheep-man had given him for taking care of a sore-footed dog. Ella had a dime which a man had given her for filling his water-bag. They both hoped to pull wool off dead sheep and make some more money that way. They had quite made up their minds about what they wanted to get: it must be house plants for ma; but still they both wished they could get some little thing for pa. They were not pert or forward in any way, but they answered readily and we all drew them out, even the newly-weds. After supper the men took their guns and went out to shoot sage-hens. Johnny went with Mr. Haynes and Mr. Struble. Miss Hull walked back with Ella, and we sent Mrs. Sanders a few cans of fruit. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I washed the dishes. We were talking of the Sanders family. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was disgusted with me because I wept. "You think it is a soft heart you have, but it is only your head that is soft. Of course they are having a hard time. What of it? The very root of independence is hard times. That's the way America was founded; that is why it stands so firmly. Hard times is what makes sound characters. And them kids are getting a new hold on character that was very near run to seed in the parents. Johnny will be tax-assessor yet, I'll bet you, and you just watch that Eller. It won't surprise me a bit to see her county superintendent of schools. The parents most likely never would make anything; but having just only a pa and a ma and getting the very hard licks them kids are getting now, is what is going to make them something more than a pa and a ma." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is very wise, but sometimes she seems absolutely heartless. The men didn't bring back much game; each had left a share with Mrs. Sanders. Next morning we were astir early. We pulled out of camp just as the first level rays of the sun shot across the desolate, flat country. We crossed the flat little stream with its soft sandy banks. A willow here and there along the bank and the blue, distant mountains and some lonesome buttes were all there was to break the monotony. Yet we saw some prosperous-looking places with many haystacks. I looked back once toward the Sanders cabin. The blue smoke was just beginning to curl upward from the stove pipe. The green spot looked vividly green against the dim prospect. Poor pa and poor ma! Even if they could be _nothing_ more, I wish at least that they need not have given up Nick and Fan! Mr. Haynes told us at breakfast that we would camp only one more night on the desert. I am so glad of that. The newly-weds will leave us in two more days. I'm rather sorry; they are much nicer than I thought they would be. They have invited us to stay with them on our way back. Well, I must stop. I wish I could put some of this clean morning air inside your apartments. With much love, E. R. S. IV CRAZY OLAF AND OTHERS IN CAMP, August 31, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- We are across the desert, and camped for a few days' fishing on a shady, bowery little stream. We have had two frosty nights and there are trembling golden groves on every hand. Four men joined us at Newfork, and the bachelors have gone on; but Mr. Stewart wanted to rest the "beasties" and we all wanted to fish, so we camped for a day or two. The twenty-eighth was the warmest day we have had, the most disagreeable in every way. Not a breath of air stirred except an occasional whirlwind, which was hot and threw sand and dust over us. We could see the heat glimmering, and not a tree nor a green spot. The mountains looked no nearer. I am afraid we _all_ rather wished we were at home. Water was getting very scarce, so the men wanted to reach by noon a long, low valley they knew of; for sometimes water could be found in a buried river-bed there, and they hoped to find enough for the horses. But a little after noon we came to the spot, and only dry, glistening sand met our eyes. The men emptied the water-bags for the horses; they all had a little water. We had to be saving, so none of us washed our dust-grimed faces. We were sitting in the scant shadow of the wagons eating our dinner when we were startled to see a tall, bare-headed man come racing down the draw. His clothes and shoes were in tatters; there were great blisters on his arms and shoulders where the sun had burned him; his eyes were swollen and red, and his lips were cracked and bloody. His hair was so white and so dusty that altogether he was a pitiful-looking object. He greeted us pleasantly, and said that his name was Olaf Swanson and that he was a sheep-herder; that he had seen us and had come to ask for a little smoking. By that he meant tobacco. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was eyeing him very closely. She asked him when he had eaten. That morning, he said. She asked him _what_ he had eaten; he told her cactus balls and a little rabbit. I saw her exchange glances with Professor Glenholdt, and she left her dinner to get out her war-bag. She called Olaf aside and gently dressed his blisters with listerine; after she had helped him to clean his mouth she said to him, "Now, Olaf, sit by me and eat; show me how much you can eat. Then tell me what you mean by saying you are a sheep-herder; don't you think we know there will be no sheep on the desert before there is snow to make water for them?" "I am what I say I am," he said. "I am not herding now because sorrow has drove me to dig wells. It is sorrow for horses. Have you not seen their bones every mile or so along this road? Them's markers. Every pile of bones marks where man's most faithful friend has laid down at last: most of 'em died in the harness and for want of water. "I killed a horse once. I was trying to have a good time. I had been out with sheep for months and hadn't seen any one but my pardner. We planned to have a rippin' good time when we took the sheep in off the summer range and drew our pay. You don't know how people-hungry a man gets livin' out. So my pardner and me layed out to have one spree. We had a neat little bunch of money, but when we got to town we felt lost as sheep. We didn't know nobody but the bartender. We kept taking a drink now and then just so as to have him to talk to. Finally, he told us there was going to be a dance that night, so we asked around and found we could get tickets for two dollars each. Sam said he'd like to go. We bought tickets. "Somehow or another they knew us for sheep-herders, and every once in a while somebody would _baa-baa_ at us. We had a couple of dances, but after that we couldn't get a pardner. After midnight things begun to get pretty noisy. Sam and me was settin' wonderin' if we were havin' a good time, when a fellow stepped on Sam's foot and said _baa_. I rose up and was goin' to smash him, but Sam collared me and said, 'Let's get away from here, Olaf, before trouble breaks out.' It sounded as if every man in the house and some of the women were _baa_-ing. "We were pretty near the door when a man put his hand to his nose and _baa_-ed. I knocked him down, and before you could bat your eye everybody was fightin'. We couldn't get out, so we backed into a corner; and every man my fist hit rested on the floor till somebody helped him away. A fellow hit me on the head with a chair and I didn't know how I finished or got out. "The first thing I remember after that was feeling the greasewood thorns tearing my flesh and my clothes next day. We were away out on the desert not far from North Pilot butte. Poor Sam couldn't speak. I got him off poor old Pinto, and took off the saddle for a pillow for him. I hung the saddle-blanket on a greasewood so as to shade his face; then I got on my own poor horse, poor old Billy, and started to hunt help. I rode and rode. I was tryin' to find some outfit. When Billy lagged I beat him on. You see, I was thinking of Sam. After a while the horse staggered,--stepped into a badger hole, I thought. But he kept staggerin'. I fell off on one side just as he pitched forward. He tried and tried to get up. I stayed till he died; then I kept walking. I don't know what became of Sam; I don't know what became of me; but I do know I am going to dig wells all over this desert until every thirsty horse can have water." All the time he had been eating just pickles; when he finished his story he ate faster. By now we all knew he was demented. The men tried to coax him to go on with us so that they could turn him over to the authorities, but he said he must be digging. At last it was decided to send some one back for him. Mr. Struble was unwilling to leave him, but the man would not be persuaded. Suddenly he gathered up his "smoking" and some food and ran back up the draw. We had to go on, of course. All that afternoon our road lay along the buried river. I don't mean dry river. Sand had blown into the river until the water was buried. Water was only a few feet down, and the banks were clearly defined. Sometimes we came to a small, dirty puddle, but it was so alkaline that nothing could drink it. The story we had heard had saddened us all, and we were sorry for our horses. Poor little Elizabeth Hull wept. She said the West was so big and bare, and she was so alone and so sad, she just _had_ to cry. About sundown we came to a ranch and were made welcome by one Timothy Hobbs, owner of the place. The dwelling and the stables were a collection of low brown houses, made of logs and daubed with mud. Fields of shocked grain made a very prosperous-looking background. A belled cow led a bunch of sleek cattle home over the sand dunes. A well in the yard afforded plenty of clear, cold water, which was raised by a windmill. The cattle came and drank at the trough, the bell making a pleasant sound in the twilight. The men told Mr. Hobbs about the man we saw. "Oh, yes," he said, "that is Crazy Olaf. He has been that way for twenty years. Spends his time digging wells, but he never gets any water, and the sand caves in almost as fast as he can get it out." Then he launched upon a recital of how he got sweet water by piping past the alkali strata. I kept hoping he would tell how Olaf was kept and who was responsible for him, but he never told. He invited us to prepare our supper in his kitchen, and as it was late and wood was scarce, we were glad to accept. He bustled about helping us, adding such dainties as fresh milk, butter, and eggs to our menu. He is a rather stout little man, with merry gray eyes and brown hair beginning to gray. He wore a red shirt and blue overalls, and he wiped his butcher's knife impartially on the legs of his overalls or his towel,--just whichever was handiest as he hurried about cutting our bacon and opening cans for us. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and he got on famously. After supper, while she and Elizabeth washed the dishes, she asked him why he didn't get married and have some one to look after him and his cabin. "I don't have time," he answered. "I came West eighteen years ago to make a start and a home for Jennie and me, but I can't find time to go back and get her. In the summer I have to hustle to make the hay and grain, and I have to stay and feed the stock all the rest of the time." "You write her once in a while, don't you?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Yes," he said, "I wrote her two years ago come April; then I was so busy I didn't go to town till I went for my year's supplies. I went to the post office, and sure enough there was a letter for me,--been waitin' for me for six months. You see the postmaster knows me and never would send a letter back. I set down there right in the office and answered it. I told her how it was, told her I was coming after her soon as I could find time. You see, she refuses to come to me 'cause I am so far from the railroad, and she is afraid of Indians and wild animals." "Have you got your answer?" asked Elizabeth. "No," he said, "I ain't had time yet to go, but I kind of wish somebody would think to bring the mail. Not many people pass here, only when the open season takes hunters to the mountains. When you people come back will you stop and ask for the mail for me?" We promised. In the purple and amber light of a new day we were about, and soon were on the road. By nightfall we had bidden the desert a glad farewell, and had camped on a large stream among trees. How glad we were to see so much water and such big cottonwoods! Mr. and Mrs. Burney were within a day's drive of home, so they left us. This camp is at Newfork, and our party has four new members: a doctor, a moving-picture man, and two geological fellows. They have gone on, but we will join them soon. Just across the creek from us is the cabin of a new settler. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I slept together last night,--only we couldn't sleep for the continual, whining cry of a sick baby at the cabin. So after a while we rose and dressed and crossed over to see if we could be of any help. We found a woefully distressed young couple. Their first child, about a year old, was very sick. They didn't know what to do for it; and she was afraid to stay alone while he went for help. They were powerfully glad to see us, and the young father left at once to get Grandma Mortimer, a neighborhood godsend such as most Western communities have one of. We busied ourselves relieving the young mother as much as we could. She wouldn't leave the baby and lie down. The child is teething and had convulsions. We put it into a hot bath and held the convulsions in check until Mrs. Mortimer came. She bustled in and took hold in a way to insure confidence. She had not been there long before she had both parents in bed, "saving themselves for to-morrow," and was gently rubbing the hot little body of the baby. She kept giving it warm tea she had made of herbs, until soon the threatening jerks were over, the peevish whining ceased, and the child slept peacefully on Grandma's lap. I watched her, fascinated. There was never a bit of faltering, no indecision; everything she did seemed exactly what she ought to do. "How did you learn it all?" I asked her. "How can you know just what to do, and then have the courage to do it? I should be afraid of doing the wrong thing." "Why," she said, "that is easy. Just do the very best you can and trust God for the rest. After all, it is God who saves the baby, not us and not our efforts; but we can help. He lets us do that. Lots of times the good we do goes beyond any medicine. Never be afraid to _help_ your best. I have been doing that for forty years and I am going to keep it up till I die." Then she told us story after story--told us how her different ambitions had "boosted" her along, had made her swim when she just wanted to float. "I was married when I was sixteen, and of course, my first ambition was to own a home for Dave. My man was poor. He had a horse, and his folks gave him another. My father gave me a heifer, and mother fitted me out with a bed. That was counted a pretty good start then, but we would have married even if we hadn't had one thing. Being young we were over-hopeful. We both took to work like a duck to water. Some years it looked as if we were going to see every dream come true. Another time and we would be poorer than at first. One year the hail destroyed everything; another time the flood carried away all we had. "When little Dave was eleven years old, he had learned to plough. Every one of us was working to our limit that year. I ploughed and hoed, both, and big Dave really hardly took time to sleep. You see, his idea was that we must do better by our children than we had been done by, and Fanny, our eldest, was thirteen. Big Dave thought all girls married at sixteen because his mother did, and so did I; so that spring he said, 'In just three years Fanny will be leaving us and we _must_ do right by her. I wanted powerfully bad that _you_ should have a blue silk wedding dress, mother, but of course it couldn't be had, and you looked as pretty as a rose in your pink lawn. But I've always wanted you to have a blue silk. As you can't have it, let us get it for Fanny; and of course we must have everything else according.' And so we worked mighty hard. "Little Dave begged to be allowed to plough. Every other boy in the neighborhood did,--some of them younger than he,--but somehow I didn't want him to. One of our neighbors had been sick a lot that year and his crops were about ruined. It was laying-by time and we had finished laying by our crops--all but about half a day's ploughing in the corn. That morning at breakfast, big Dave said he would take the horses and go over to Henry Boles's and plough that day to help out,--said he could finish ours any time, and it didn't matter much if it didn't get ploughed. He told the children to lay off that day and go fishing and berrying. So he went to harness his team, and little Dave went to help him. Fanny and I went to milk, and all the time I could hear little Dave begging his father to let him finish the ploughing. His father said he could if I said so. "I will never forget his eager little face as he began on me. He had a heap of freckles; I remember noticing them that morning; he was barefooted, and I remember that one toe was skinned. Big Dave was lighting his pipe, and till to-day I remember how he looked as he held the match to his pipe, drew a puff of smoke, and said, 'Say yes, mother.' So I said yes, and little Dave ran to open the gate for his father. "As big Dave rode through the gate, our boy caught him by the leg and said, 'I just _love_ you, daddy.' Big Dave bent down and kissed him, and said, 'You're a _man_, son.' How proud that made the little fellow! Parents should praise their children more; the little things work hard for a few words of praise, and many of them never get their pay. "Well, the little fellow would have no help to harness his mule; so Fanny and I went to the house, and Fanny said, 'We ought to cook an extra good dinner to celebrate Davie's first ploughing. I'll go down in the pasture and gather some blackberries if you will make a cobbler.' "She was gone all morning. About ten o'clock, I took a pail of fresh water down to the field. I knew Davie would be thirsty, and I was uneasy about him, but he was all right. He pushed his ragged old hat back and wiped the sweat from his brow just as his father would have done. I petted him a little, but he was so mannish he didn't want me to pet him any more. After he drank, he took up his lines again, and said, 'Just watch me, mother; see how I can plough.' I told him that we were going to have chicken and dumplings for dinner, and that he must sit in his father's place and help us to berry-cobbler. As he had only a few more rows to plough, I went back, telling myself how foolish I had been to be afraid. "Twelve o'clock came, but not Davie. I sent Fanny to the spring for the buttermilk and waited a while, thinking little Dave had not finished as soon as he had expected. I went to the field. Little Dave lay on his face in the furrow. I gathered him up in my arms; he was yet alive; he put one weak little arm around my neck, and said, 'Oh, mammy, I'm hurt. The mule kicked me in the stomach.' "I don't know how I got to the house with him; I stumbled over clods and weeds, through the hot sunshine. I sank down on the porch in the shade, with the precious little form clasped tightly to me. He smiled, and tried to speak, but the blood gurgled up into his throat and my little boy was gone. "I would have died of grief if I hadn't had to work so hard. Big Dave got too warm at work that day, and when Fanny went for him and told him about little Dave, he ran all the way home; he was crazy with grief and forgot the horses. The trouble and the heat and the overwork brought on a fever. I had no time for tears for three months, and by that time my heart was hardened against my Maker. I got deeper in the rut of work, but I had given up my ambition for a home of my own; all I wanted to do was to work so hard that I could not think of the little grave on which the leaves were falling. I wanted, too, to save enough money to mark the precious spot, and then I wanted to leave. But first one thing and then another took every dollar we made for three years. "One morning big Dave looked so worn out and pale that I said, 'I am going to get out of here; I am not going to stay here and bury _you_, Dave. Sunrise to-morrow will see us on the road West. We have worked for eighteen years as hard as we knew how, and have given up my boy besides; and now we can't even afford to mark his grave decently. It is time we left.' "Big Dave went back to bed, and I went out and sold what we had. It was so little that it didn't take long to sell it. That was years ago. We came West. The country was really wild then; there was a great deal of lawlessness. We didn't get settled down for several years; we hired to a man who had a contract to put up hay for the government, and we worked for him for a long time. "Indians were thick as fleas on a dog then; some were camped near us once, and among them was a Mexican woman who could jabber a little English. Once, when I was feeling particularly resentful and sorrowful, I told her about my little Dave; and it was her jabbered words that showed me the way to peace. I wept for hours, but peace had come and has stayed. Ambition came again, but a different kind: I wanted the same peace to come to all hearts that came so late to mine, and I wanted to help bring it. I took the only course I knew. I have gone to others' help every time there has been a chance. After Fanny married and Dave died, I had an ambition to save up four hundred dollars with which to buy an entrance into an old ladies' home. Just before I got the full amount saved up, I found that young Eddie Carwell wanted to enter the ministry and needed help to go to college. I had just enough; so I gave it to him. Another time I had almost enough, when Charlie Rucker got into trouble over some mortgage business; so I used what I had that time to help him. Now I've given up the old ladies' home idea and am saving up for the blue silk dress Dave would have liked me to have. I guess I'll die some day and I want it to be buried in. I like to think I'm going to my two Daves then; and it won't be hard,--especially if I have the blue silk on." Just then a sleepy little bird twittered outside, and the baby stirred a little. The first faint light of dawn was just creeping up the valley. I rose and said I must get back to camp. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I had both wept with Mrs. Mortimer over little Dave. We have all given up our first-born little man-child; so we felt near each other. We told Mrs. Mortimer that we had passed under the rod also. I kissed her toilworn old hands, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy dropped a kiss on her old gray head as we passed out into the rose-and-gold morning. We felt that we were leaving a sanctified presence, and we are both of us better and humbler women because we met a woman who has buried her sorrow beneath faith and endeavor. This doesn't seem much like a letter, does it? When I started on this trip, I resolved that you should have just as much of the trip as I could give you. I didn't know we would be so long getting to the hunting-ground, and I felt you would _like_ to know of the people we meet. Perhaps my next letter will not be so tame. The hunting season opens to-morrow, but we are several days' travel from the elk yet. Elizabeth behaves queerly. She doesn't want to go on, stay here, or go back. I am perfectly mystified. So far she has not told us a thing, and we don't know to whom she is going or anything about it. She is a likable little lady, and I sincerely hope she knows what she is doing. It is bedtime and I must stop writing. We go on to-morrow. With affectionate regards, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. V DANYUL AND HIS MOTHER IN CAMP ON THE GROS VENTRE, September 6, 1914. MY DEAR FRIEND,-- I have neglected you for almost a week, but when you read this letter and learn why, I feel sure you will forgive me. To begin with, we bade Mrs. Mortimer good-bye, and started out to find better fishing than the pretty little stream we were on afforded us. Our way lay up Green River and we were getting nearer our final camp-ground all the time, but we were in no hurry to begin hunting, so we were just loitering along. There were a great many little lakes along the valley, and thousands of duck. Mr. Stewart was driving, but as he wanted to shoot ducks, I took the lines and drove along. There is so much that is beautiful, and I was trying so hard to see it all, that I took the wrong road; but none of us noticed it at first, and then we didn't think it worth while to turn back. The road we were on had lain along the foothills, but when I first thought I had missed the right road we were coming down into a grassy valley. Mr. Stewart came across a marshy stretch of meadow and climbed up on the wagon. The ground was more level, and on every side were marshes and pools; the willows grew higher here so that we couldn't see far ahead. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was behind, and she called out, "Say, I believe we are off the road." Elizabeth said she had noticed a road winding off on our right; so we agreed that I must have taken the wrong one, but as we couldn't turn in the willows, we had to go on. Soon we reached higher, drier ground and passed through a yellow grove of quaking asp. A man came along with an axe on his shoulder, and Mr. Stewart asked him about the road. "Yes," he said, "you are off the main road, but on a better. You'll cross the same stream you were going to camp on, right at my ranch. It is just a little way across here and it's almost sundown, so I will show you the way." He strode along ahead. We drove through an avenue of great dark pines and across a log bridge that spanned a noisy, brawling stream. The man opened a set of bars and we drove into a big clean corral. Comfortable sheds and stables lined one side, and big stacks of hay were conveniently placed. He began to help unharness the teams, saying that they might just as well run in his meadow, as he was through haying; then the horses would be safe while we fished. He insisted on our stopping in his cabin, which we found to be a comfortable two-room affair with a veranda the whole length. The _biggest_ pines overshadowed the house; just behind it was a garden, in which some late vegetables were still growing. The air was rather frosty and some worried hens were trying hard to cover some chirping half-feathered chicks. It was such a homey place that we felt welcome and perfectly comfortable at once. The inside of the house will not be hard to describe. It was clean as could be, but with a typical bachelor's cleanliness: there was no dirt, but a great deal of disorder. Across the head of the iron bed was hung a miscellany of socks, neckties, and suspenders. A discouraging assortment of boots, shoes, and leggings protruded from beneath the bed. Some calendars ornamented the wall, and upon a table stood a smoky lamp and some tobacco and a smelly pipe. On a rack over the door lay a rifle. Pretty soon our host came bustling in and exclaimed, "The kitchen is more pleasant than this room and there's a fire there, too." Then, catching sight of his lamp, he picked it up hurriedly and said, "Jest as shore as I leave anything undone, that shore somebody comes and sees how slouchy I am. Come on into the kitchen where you can warm, and I'll clean this lamp. One of the cows was sick this morning; I hurried over things so as to doctor her, and I forgot the lamp. I smoke and the lamp smokes to keep me company." The kitchen would have delighted the heart of any one. Two great windows, one in the east and one in the south, gave plenty of sunlight. A shining new range and a fine assortment of vessels--which were not all yet in their place--were in one corner. There was a slow ticking clock up on a high shelf; near the door stood a homemade wash-stand with a tin basin, and above it hung a long narrow mirror. On the back of the door was a towel-rack. The floor was made of white pine and was spotlessly clean. In the center of the room stood the table, with a cover of red oilcloth. Some chairs were placed about the table, but our host quickly hauled them out for us. He opened his storeroom and told us to "dish in dirty-face," and help ourselves to anything we wanted, because we were to be his "somebody come" for that night; then he hurried out to help with the teams again. He was so friendly and so likeable that we didn't feel a bit backward about "dishin' in," and it was not long before we had a smoking supper on the table. While we were at supper he said, "I wonder, now, if any of you women can make aprons and bonnets. I don't mean them dinky little things like they make now, but rale wearin' things like they used to make." I was afraid of another advertisement romance and didn't reply, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Indade we can, none better." Then he answered, "I want a blue chambray bonnet and a bunch of aprons made for my mother. She is on the way here from Pennsylvania. I ain't seen her for fifteen years. I left home longer 'n that ago, but I remember everything,--just how everything looked,--and I'd like to have things inside the house as nearly like home as I can, anyway." I didn't know how long we could stop there, so I still made no promises, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy could easily answer every question for a dozen women. "Have you the cloth?" she asked. Yes, he said; he had had it for a long time, but he had not had it sewn because he had not been sure mother _could_ come. "What's your name?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. He hesitated a moment, then said, "Daniel Holt." I wondered why he hesitated, but forgot all about it when Clyde said we would stop there for a few days, if we wanted to help Mr. Holt. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's mind was already made up. Elizabeth said she would be glad to help, and I was not long in deciding when Daniel said, "I'll take it as a rale friendly favor if you women could help, because mother ain't had what could rightly be called a home since I left home. She's crippled, too, and I want to do all I can. I know she'd just like to have some aprons and a sunbonnet." His eyes had such a pathetic, appealing look that I was ashamed, and we at once began planning our work. Daniel helped with the dishes and as soon as they were done brought out his cloth. He had a heap of it,--a bolt of checked gingham, enough blue chambray for half a dozen bonnets, and a great many remnants which he said he had bought from peddlers from time to time. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy selected what she said we would begin on, and dampened it so as to shrink it by morning. We then spread our beds and made ready for an early start next day. Next morning we ate breakfast by the light of the lamp that smoked for the sake of companionship, and then started to cut out our work. Daniel and Mr. Stewart went fishing, and we packed their lunch so as to have them out of the way all day. I undertook the making of the bonnet, because I knew how, and because I can remember the kind my mother wore; I reckoned Daniel's mother would have worn about the same style. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth can both cross-stitch, so they went out to Daniel's granary and ripped up some grain-bags, in order to get the thread with which they were sewed, to work one apron in cross-stitch. But when we were ready to sew we were dismayed, for there was no machine. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, however, was of the opinion that _some one_ in the country must have a sewing machine, so she saddled a horse and went out, she said, to "beat the brush." She was hardly out of sight before a man rode up and said there had been a telephone message saying that Mrs. Holt had arrived in Rock Springs, and was on her way as far as Newfork in an automobile. That threw Elizabeth and myself into a panic. We posted the messenger off on a hunt for Daniel. Elizabeth soon got over her flurry and went at her cross-stitching. I hardly knew what to do, but acting from force of habit, I reckon, I began cleaning. A powerfully good way to reason out things sometimes is to work; and just then I had to work. I began on the storeroom, which was well lighted and which was also used as a pantry. As soon as I began straightening up I began to wonder where the mother would sleep. By arranging things in the storeroom a little differently, I was able to make room for a bed and a trunk. I decided on putting Daniel there; so then I began work in earnest. Elizabeth laid down her work and helped me. We tacked white cheesecloth over the wall, and although the floor was clean, we scrubbed it to freshen it. We polished the window until it sparkled. We were right in the middle of our work when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came, and Daniel with her. They were all excitement, but Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is a real general and soon marshaled her forces. Daniel had to go to Newfork after his mother; that would take three days. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy pointed out to him the need of a few pieces of furniture; so he took a wagon and team, which he got a neighbor to drive, while he took another team and a buggy for his mother. Newfork is a day's drive beyond Pinedale, and the necessary furniture could be had in Pinedale; so the neighbor went along and brought back a new bed, a rocker, and some rugs. But of course he had to stay overnight. I was for keeping right on house-cleaning; but as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had arranged for us all to come and sew that afternoon at a near-by house, we took our sewing and clambered into the buckboard and set out. We found Mrs. Bonham a pleasant little woman whose husband had earned her pretty new machine by chewing tobacco. I reckon you think that is a mighty funny method of earning anything, but some tobacco has tags which are redeemable, and the machine was one of the premiums. Mrs. Bonham just beamed with pride as she rolled out her machine. "I never had a machine before," she explained. "I just went to the neighbors' when I had to sew. So of course I wanted a machine awfully bad. So Frank jest chawed and chawed, and I saved every tag till we got enough, and last year we got the machine. Frank is chawin' out a clock now; but that won't take him so long as the machine did." Well, the "chawed-out" machine did splendidly, and we turned out some good work that afternoon. I completed the blue bonnet which was to be used as "best," and made a "splint" bonnet. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth did well on their aprons. We took turns about at the machine and not a minute was wasted. Mrs. Bonham showed us some crochet lace which she said she hoped to sell; and right at once Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's fertile mind begin to hatch plans. She would make Mrs. Holt a "Sunday apron," she said, and she bought the lace to trim it with. I thought Mrs. Holt must be an old-fashioned lady who liked pillow-shams. Mrs. Bonham had a pretty pair she was willing to sell. On one was worked, "Good Morning"; on the other, "Good Night"; it was done with red cotton. The shams had a dainty edge of homemade lace. Elizabeth would not be outdone; she purchased a star quilt pieced in red and white. At sundown we went home. We were all tired, but as soon as supper was over we went to work again. We took down the bed and set it up in Dan's new quarters, and we made such headway on what had been his bedroom that we knew we could finish in a little while next day. The next morning, as soon as we had breakfasted, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth went back to sew, taking with them a lot of white cheesecloth for lining for the bedroom we were preparing for Mrs. Holt. Mr. Stewart had had fine luck fishing, but he said he felt plumb left out with so much bustling about and he not helping. He is very handy with a saw and hammer, and he contrived what we called a "chist of drawers," for Daniel's room. The "chist" had only one drawer; into that we put all the gloves, ties, handkerchiefs, and suspenders, and on the shelves below we put his shoes and boots. Then I made a blue curtain for the "chist" and one for the window, and the room looked plumb nice, I can tell you. I liked the "chist" so well that I asked Mr. Stewart to make something of the kind for Mrs. Holt's room. He said there wouldn't be time, but he went to work on it. Promptly at noon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth came with the lining for the room. We worked like beavers, and had the room sweet and ready by mid-afternoon, when the man came from Pinedale with the new furniture. In just a little while we had the room in perfect order: the bed nicely made with soft, new blankets for sheets; the pretty star quilt on, and the nice, clean pillows protected by the shams. They could buy no rugs, but a weaver of rag carpets in Pinedale had some pieces of carpet which Daniel sent back to us. They were really better and greatly more in keeping. We were very proud of the pretty white and red room when we were through. Only the kitchen was left, but we decided we could clean that early next day; so we sat down to sew and to plan the next day's dinner. We could hear Mr. Stewart out in the barn hammering and sawing on the "chist." While we were debating whether to have fried chicken or trout for dinner, two little girls, both on one horse, rode up. They entered shyly, and after carefully explaining to us that they had heard that a wagon-load of women were buying everything they could see, had run Mr. Holt off, and were living in his house, they told us they had come to sell us some blueing. When they got two dollars' worth sold, the blueing company would send them a big doll; so, please, would we buy a lot? We didn't think we could use any blueing, but we hated to disappoint the little things. We talked along, and presently they told us of their mother's flowers. Daniel had told us his mother _always_ had a red flower in her kitchen window. When the little girls assured us their mother had a red geranium in bloom, Mrs. O'Shaughnessy set out to get it; and about dark she returned with a beautiful plant just beginning to bloom. We were all as happy as children; we had all worked very hard, too. Mr. Stewart said we deserved no sympathy because we cleaned a perfectly clean house; but, anyway, we felt much better for having gone over it. The "chist" was finished early next morning. It would have looked better, perhaps, if it had had a little paint, but as we had no paint and were short of time, we persuaded ourselves it looked beautiful with only its clean, pretty curtain. We didn't make many changes in the kitchen. All we did was to take down the mirror and turn it lengthways above the mantel-shelf over the fireplace. We put the new rocker in the bright, sunny corner, where it would be easier for dim old eyes to see to read or sew. We set the geranium on the broad clean sill of the window, and I think you would have agreed with us that it was a cozy, cheerful home to come to after fifteen years of lonely homelessness. We couldn't get the dinner question settled, so we "dished in dirty-face"; each cooked what she thought best. Like Samantha Ann Allen, we had "everything good and plenty of it." Elizabeth took a real interest and worked well. She is the _dearest_ girl and would be a precious daughter to some mother. She has not yet told us anything about herself. All we know is, she taught school somewhere in the East. She was a little surprised at the way we took possession of a stranger's home, but she enjoyed it as much as we. "It is so nice to be doing something for some one again, something real homey and family-like," she remarked as she laid the table for dinner. We had dinner almost ready when we heard the wheels crossing the mossy log bridge. We raced to let down the bars. Beside Daniel sat a dear dumpy little woman, her head very much bundled up with a lot of old black veils. Daniel drove through the corral, into the yard, and right up to the door. He helped her out _so_ gently. She kept admonishing him, "Careful, Danyul, careful." He handed out her crutch and helped her into the kitchen, where she sank, panting, into the rocker. "It is my leg," she explained; "it has been that way ever since Danyul was a baby." Then she pleaded, "Careful, careful," to Elizabeth, who was tenderly unwrapping her. "I wouldn't have anything happen to this brown alapacky for anything; it is my very best, and I've had it ever since before I went to the pore farm; but I wanted to look nice for Danyul, comin' to his home for the first time an' all." We had the happiest dinner party I ever remember. It would be powerfully hard for me to say which was happier, "Danyul" or his mother. They just beamed upon each other. She was proud of her boy and his pleasant home. "Danyul says he's got a little red heifer for me and he's got ten cows of his own. Now ain't that fine? It is a pity we can't have a few apple trees,--a little orchard. We'd live like kings, we would that." We explained to her how we got our fruit by parcel post, and Danyul said he would order his winter supply of apples at once. As soon as dinner was over, Danyul had to mend a fence so as to keep his cattle in their own pasture. Mr. Stewart went to help and we women were left alone. We improved the time well. Mrs. Holt would not lie down and rest, as we tried to persuade her to, but hobbled about, admiring everything. She was delighted with the big, clean cellar and its orderly bins, in which Danyul was beginning to store his vegetables. She was as pleased as a child with her room, and almost wept when we told her which were "welcoming presents" from us. She was particularly delighted with her red flower, and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy will be happy for days remembering it was she who gave it. I shall be happy longer than that remembering how tickled she was with her bonnets. She wanted to wipe the dishes, so she and I did up the dishes while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth put some finishing stitches in on their aprons. She sat on the highest seat we could find, and as she deftly handled the dishes she told us this:-- "I should think you would wonder why Danyul ain't got me out of the porehouse before now. I've been there more 'n ten years, but Danyul didn't know it till a month ago. Charlotte Nash wrote him. Neither Danyul nor me are any master-hand at writin', and then I didn't want him to know anyhow. When Danyul got into trouble, I signed over the little farm his pa left us, to pay the lawyer person to defend him. Danyul had enough trouble, so he went to the penitentiary without finding out I was homeless. I should think you would be put out to know Danyul has been to the pen, but he has. He always said to me that he never done what he was accused of, so I am not going to tell you what it was. Danyul was always a good boy, honest and good to me and a hard worker. I ain't got no call to doubt him when he says he's innocent. "Well, I fought his case the best I could, but he got ten years. Then the lawyer person claimed the home an' all, so I went out to work, but bein' crippled I found it hard. When Danyul had been gone four years I had saved enough to buy my brown alapacky and go to see him. He looked pale and sad,--afraid even to speak to his own mother. I went back to work as broke up as Danyul, and that winter I come down with such a long spell of sickness that they sent me to the pore farm. I always wrote to Danyul on his birthday and I couldn't bear to let him know where I was. "Soon's his time was out, he come here; he couldn't bear the scorn that he'd get at home, so he come out to this big, free West, and took the chance it offers. Once he wrote and asked me if I would like to live West. He said if I did, after he got a start I must sell out and come to him. Bless his heart, all that time I was going to my meals just when I was told to and eatin' just what I was helped to, going to bed and getting up at some one else's word! Oh, it was bitter, but I didn't want Danyul to taste it; so, when I didn't come, he thought I didn't want to give up the old home, and didn't say no more about it. Charlotte was on the pore farm too, until her cousin died and she got left a home and enough to live on. Sometimes she would come out to the farm and take me back with her for a little visit. She was good that way. I never would tell her about Danyul; but this summer I was helpin' her dry apples and somehow she jist coaxed the secret out. She wrote to Danyul, and he wrote to me, and here I am. Danyul and me are so happy that we are goin' to send a ticket back to the farm for Maggie Harper. She ain't got no home and will be glad to help me and get a rale home." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Elizabeth debated what more was needed to make the kitchen a bit more homey. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said a red cushion for the rocker, and Elizabeth said a white cat to lie on the hearth. Mrs. Holt said, "Yes, I _do_ need 'em both,--only it must be an old stray tabby cat. This house is going to be the shelter of the homeless." Well, I can't tell you any more about the Holts because we left next morning. Danyul came across the bridge to bid us good-bye. He said he could never thank us enough, but it is we who should be and are thankful. We got a little glow of happiness from their great blaze. We are all so glad to know that everything is secure and bright for the Holts in the future. That stop is the cause of my missing two letters to you, but this letter is as long as half a dozen letters should be. You know I never could get along with few words. I'll try to do better next time. But I can't imagine how I shall get the letters mailed. We are miles and miles and miles away in the mountains; it is two days' ride to a post-office, so maybe I will not get letters to you as often as I planned. Sincerely yours, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. VI ELIZABETH'S ROMANCE CAMP CLOUDCREST, September 12, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I find I can't write to you as often as I at first intended; but I've a chance to-day, so I will not let it pass unused. We are in the last camp, right on the hunting ground, in the "midst of the fray." We have said good-bye to dear Elizabeth, and I must tell you about her because she really comes first. To begin with, the morning we left the Holts, Elizabeth suggested that we three women ride in the buckboard, so I seated myself on a roll of bedding in the back part. At first none of us talked; we just absorbed the wonderful green-gold beauty of the morning. The sky was clear blue, with a few fleecy clouds drifting lazily past. The mountains on one side were crested; great crags and piles of rock crowned them as far as we could see; timber grew only about halfway up. The trunks of the quaking aspens shone silvery in the early sunlight, and their leaves were shimmering gold. And the stately pines kept whispering and murmuring; it almost seemed as if they were chiding the quaking aspens for being frivolous. On the other side of the road lay the river, bordered by willows and grassy flats. There were many small lakes, and the ducks and geese were noisily enjoying themselves among the rushes and water-grasses. Beyond the river rose the forest-covered mountains, hill upon hill. Elizabeth dressed with especial care that morning, and very pretty she looked in her neat shepherd's plaid suit and natty little white canvas hat. Very soon she said, "I hope neither of you will misunderstand me when I tell you that if my hopes are realized I will not ride with you much longer. I never saw such a country as the West,--it is so big and so beautiful,--and I never saw such people. You are just like your country; you have fed me, cared for me, and befriended me, a stranger, and never asked me a word." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Tut, tut, 'tis nothing at all we've done. 'Tis a comfort you've been, hasn't she, Mrs. Stewart?" I could heartily agree; and Elizabeth went on, "The way I have been received and the way we all treated Mrs. Holt will be the greatest help to me in becoming what I hope to become, a real Westerner. I might have lived a long time in the West and not have understood many things if I had not fallen into your hands. Years ago, before I was through school, I was to have been married; but I lost my mother just then and was left the care of my paralytic father. If I had married then, I should have had to take father from his familiar surroundings, because Wallace came West in the forestry service. I felt that it wouldn't be right. Poor father couldn't speak, but his eyes told me how grateful he was to stay. We had our little home and father had his pension, and I was able to get a small school near us. I could take care of father and teach also. We were very comfortably situated, and in time became really happy. Although I seldom heard from Wallace, his letters were well worth waiting for, and I knew he was doing well. "Eighteen months ago father died,--gently went to sleep. I waited six months and then wrote to Wallace, but received no reply. I have written him three times and have had no word. I could bear it no longer and have come to see what has become of him. If he is dead, may I stay on with one of you and perhaps get a school? I want to live here always." "But, darlint," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "supposin' it's married your man is?" "Wallace may have changed his mind about me, but he would not marry without telling me. If he is alive he is honorable." Then I asked, "Why didn't you ask about him at Pinedale or any of these places we have passed? If he is stationed in the Bridges reserve they would be sure to know of him at any of these little places." "I just didn't have the courage to. I should never have told you what I have, only I think I owe it to you, and it was easier because of the Holts. I am so glad we met them." So we drove along, talking together; we each assured the girl of our entire willingness to have her as a member of the family. After a while I got on to the wagon with Mr. Stewart and told him Elizabeth's story so that he could inquire about the man. Soon we came to the crossing on Green River. Just beyond the ford we could see the game-warden's cabin, with the stars and stripes fluttering gayly in the fresh morning breeze. We drove into the roaring, dashing water, and we held our breath until we emerged on the other side. Mr. Sorenson is a very capable and conscientious game-warden and a very genial gentleman. He rode down to meet us, to inspect our license and to tell us about our privileges and our duties as good woodsmen. He also issues licenses in case hunters have neglected to secure them before coming. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy had refused to get a license when we did. She said she was not going to hunt; she told us we could give her a small piece of "ilk" and that would do; so we were rather surprised when she purchased two licenses, one a special, which would entitle her to a bull elk. As we were starting Mr. Stewart asked the game-warden, "Can you tell me if Wallace White is still stationed here?" "Oh, yes," Mr. Sorenson said, "Wallace's place is only a few miles up the river and can be plainly seen from the road." We drove on. Happiness had taken a new clutch upon my heart. I looked back, expecting to see Elizabeth all smiles, but if you will believe me the foolish girl was sobbing as if her heart was broken. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy drew her head down upon her shoulder and was trying to quiet her. The road along there was _very_ rough. Staying on the wagon occupied all my attention for a while. Several miles were passed when we came in sight of a beautiful cabin, half hidden in a grove of pines beyond the river. Mr. Stewart said we might as well "noon" as soon as we came to a good place, and then he would ride across and see Mr. White. Just as we rounded the hill a horseman came toward us. A splendid fellow he was, manly strength and grace showing in every line. The road was narrow against the hillside and he had to ride quite close, so I saw his handsome face plainly. As soon as he saw Elizabeth he sprang from his saddle and said, "'Liz'beth, 'Liz'beth, what you doin' here?" She held her hands to him and said, "Oh, just riding with friends." Then to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy she said, "_This_ is my Wallace." Mr. Stewart is the queerest man: instead of letting me enjoy the tableau, he solemnly drove on, saying he would not want any one gawking at him if he were the happy man. Anyway, he couldn't urge Chub fast enough to prevent my seeing and hearing what I've told you. Besides that, I saw that Elizabeth's hat was on awry, her hair in disorder, and her eyes red. It was disappointing after she had been so careful to look nicely. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy came trotting along and we stopped for dinner. We had just got the coffee boiling when the lovers came up, Elizabeth in the saddle, "learning to ride," and he walking beside her holding her hand. How happy they were! The rest of us were mighty near as foolish as they. They were going to start immediately after dinner, on horseback, for the county seat, to be married. After we had eaten, Elizabeth selected a few things from her trunk, and Mr. Stewart and Mr. White drove the buckboard across the river to leave the trunk in its new home. While they were gone we helped Elizabeth to dress. All the while Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was admonishing her to name her first "girul" Mary Ellen; "or," she said, "if yer first girul happens to be a b'y, it's Sheridan ye'll be callin' him, which was me name before I was married to me man, God rest his soul." Dear Elizabeth, she was glad to get away, I suspect! She and her Wallace made a fine couple as they rode away in the golden September afternoon. I believe she is _one_ happy bride that the sun shone on, if the omen has failed _everywhere_ else. Well, we felt powerfully reduced in numbers, but about three o'clock that afternoon we came upon Mr. Struble and Mr. Haynes waiting beside the road for us. They had come to pilot us into camp, for there would be no road soon. Such a way as we came over! Such jolting and sliding! I begged to get off and walk; but as the whole way was carpeted by strawberry vines and there were late berries to tempt me to loiter, I had to stay on the wagon. I had no idea a wagon could be got across such places. Mr. Struble drove for Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, and I could hear her imploring all the saints to preserve us from instant death. I kept shutting my eyes, trying not to see the terrifying places, and opening them again to see the beauty spread everywhere, until Mr. Stewart said, "It must make you nervous to ride over mountain roads. Don't bat your eyes so fast and you'll see more." So then I stiffened my back and kept my eyes open, and I _did_ see more. It had been decided to go as far as we could with the wagons and then set camp; from there the hunters would ride horseback as far up as they could and then climb. It was almost sundown when we reached camp. All the hunters were in, and such a yowling as they set up! "Look who's here! See who's come!" they yelled. They went to work setting up tents and unloading wagons with a hearty good-will. We are camped just on the edge of the pines. Back of us rises a big pine-clad mountain; our tents are set under some big trees, on a small plateau, and right below us is a valley in which grass grows knee high and little streams come from every way. Trout scurry up stream whenever we go near. We call the valley Paradise Valley because it is the horses' paradise. And as in the early morning we can often see clouds rolling along the valley, we call our camp Cloudcrest. We have a beautiful place: it is well sheltered; there is plenty of wood, water, and feed; and, looking eastward down the valley, snow-covered, crag-topped mountains delight the eye. The air is so bracing that we all feel equal to _anything_. Mr. Struble has already killed a fine "spike" elk for camp eating. We camped in a bunch, and we have camp stoves so that in case of rain or snow we can stay indoors. Just now we have a huge camp fire around which we sit in the evening, telling stories, singing, and eating nuts of the piñon pine. Then too the whole country is filled with those tiny little strawberries. We have to gather all day to get as much as we can eat, but they are delicious. Yesterday we had pie made of wild currants; there are a powerful lot of them here. There is also a little blueberry that the men say is the Rocky Mountain huckleberry. The grouse are feeding on them. Altogether this is one of the most delightful places imaginable. The men are not very anxious to begin hunting. A little delay means cooler weather for the meat. It is cool up here, but going back across the desert it will be warm for a while yet. Still, when they see elk every day it is a great temptation to try a shot. One of the students told me Professor Glenholdt was here to get the tip-end bone of the tail of a brontosaurus. I don't know what that is, but if it is a fossil he won't get it, for the soil is too deep. The students are jolly, likable fellows, but they can talk of nothing but strata and formation. I heard one of them say he would be glad when some one killed a bear, as he had heard they were fine eating, having strata of fat alternating with strata of lean. Mr. Haynes is a quiet fellow, just interested in hunting. Mr. Struble is the big man of the party; he is tall and strong and we find him very pleasant company. Then there is Dr. Teschall; he is a quiet fellow with an unexpected smile. He is so reserved that I felt that he was kind of out of place among the rest until I caught his cordial smile. He is so slight that I don't see how he will stand the hard climbing, not to mention carrying the heavy gun. They are using the largest caliber sporting guns,--murderous-looking things. That is, all except Mr. Harkrudder, the picture man. He looks to be about forty years old, but whoops and laughs like he was about ten. I don't need to tell you of the "good mon," do I? He is just the kind, quiet good mon that he has always been since I have known him. A young lady from a neighboring camp came over and said she had called to see our _tout ensemble_. Well, I've given you it, they, us, or we. We didn't need a guide, as Mr. Haynes and Mr. Struble are old-timers. We were to have had a cook, but when we reached Pinedale, where we were to have picked him up, he told Mr. Haynes he was "too tam seek in de bel," so we had to come without him; but that is really no inconvenience, since we are all very good cooks and are all willing to help. I don't think I shall be able to tell you of any great exploits I make with the gun. I fired one that Mr. Stewart carries, and it almost kicked my shoulder off. I am mystified about Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's license. I know she would not shoot one of those big guns for a dozen elk; besides that, she is very tender-hearted and will never harm anything herself, although she likes to join our hunts. I think you must be tired of this letter, so I am going to say good-night, my friend. E. R. S. VII THE HUNT CAMP CLOUDCREST, October 6, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- It seems so odd to be writing you and getting no answers. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy just now asked me what I have against you that I write you so much. I haven't one thing. I told her I owed you more love than I could ever pay in a lifetime, and she said writing such _long_ letters is a mighty poor way to show it. I have been neglecting you shamefully, I think. One of the main reasons I came on this hunt was to take the trip for _you_, and to tell you things that you would most enjoy. So I will spend this snowy day in writing to you. On the night of September 30, there was the most awful thunderstorm I ever witnessed,--flash after flash of the most blinding lightning, followed by deafening peals of thunder; and as it echoed from mountain to mountain the uproar was terrifying. I have always loved a storm; the beat of hail and rain, and the roar of wind always appeal to me; but there was neither wind nor rain,--just flash and roar. Before the echo died away among the hills another booming report would seem to shiver the atmosphere and set all our tinware jangling. We are camped so near the great pines that I will confess I was powerfully afraid. Had the lightning struck one of the big pines there would not have been one of us left. I could hear Mrs. O'Shaughnessy murmuring her prayers when there was a lull. We had gone to bed, but I couldn't remain there; so I sat on the wagon-seat with Jerrine beside me. Something struck the guy ropes of the tent, and I was so frightened I was too weak to cry out. I thought the big tree must have fallen. In the lulls of the storm I could hear the men's voices, high and excited. They, too, were up. It seemed to me that the storm lasted for hours; but at last it moved off up the valley, the flashes grew to be a mere glimmer, and the thunder mere rumbling. The pines began to moan, and soon a little breeze whistled by. So we lay down again. Next morning the horses could not be found; the storm had frightened them, and they had tried to go home. The men had to find them, and as it took most of the day, we had to put off our hunt. We were up and about next morning in the first faint gray light. While the men fed grain to the horses and saddled them, we prepared a hasty breakfast. We were off before it was more than light enough for us to see the trail. Dawn in the mountains--how I wish I could describe it to you! If I could only make you feel the keen, bracing air, the exhilarating climb; if I could only paint its beauties, what a picture you should have! Here the colors are very different from those of the desert. I suppose the forest makes it so. The shadows are mellow, like the colors in an old picture--greenish amber light and a blue-gray sky. Far ahead of us we could see the red rim rock of a mountain above timber line. The first rays of the sun turned the jagged peaks into golden points of a crown. In Oklahoma, at that hour of the day, the woods would be alive with song-birds, even at this season; but here there are no song-birds, and only the snapping of twigs, as our horses climbed the frosty trail, broke the silence. We had been cautioned not to talk, but neither Mrs. O'Shaughnessy nor I wanted to. Afterwards, when we compared notes, we found that we both had the same thought: we both felt ashamed to be out to deal death to one of the Maker's beautiful creatures, and we were planning how we might avoid it. The sun was well up when we reached the little park where we picketed our horses. Then came a long, hard climb. It is hard climbing at the best, and when there is a big gun to carry, it is _very_ hard. Then too, we had to keep up with the men, and we didn't find that easy to do. At last we reached the top and sat down on some boulders to rest a few minutes before we started down to the hunting ground, which lay in a cuplike valley far below us. We could hear the roar of the Gros Ventre as it tumbled grumblingly over its rocky bed. To our right rose mile after mile of red cliffs. As the last of the quaking asp leaves have fallen, there were no golden groves. In their places stood silvery patches against the red background of the cliffs. High overhead a triangle of wild geese harrowed the blue sky. I was plumb out of breath, but men who are most gallant elsewhere are absolutely heartless on a hunt. I was scarcely through panting before we began to descend. We received instructions as to how we should move so as to keep out of range of each other's guns; then Mr. Haynes and myself started one way, and Mr. Struble and Mrs. O'Shaughnessy the other. We were to meet where the valley terminated in a broad pass. We felt sure we could get a chance at what elk there might be in the valley. We were following fresh tracks, and a little of the hunter's enthusiasm seized me. We had not followed them far when three cows and a "spike" came running out of the pines a little ahead of us. Instantly Mr. Haynes's gun flew to his shoulder and a deafening report jarred our ears. He ran forward, but I stood still, fascinated by what I saw. Our side of the valley was bounded by a rim of rock. Over the rim was a sheer wall of rock for two hundred feet, to where the Gros Ventre was angrily roaring below; on the other side of the stream rose the red cliffs with their jagged crags. At the report of the gun two huge blocks of stone almost as large as a house detached themselves and fell. At the same instant one of the quaking asp groves began to move slowly. I couldn't believe my eyes. I shut them a moment, but when I looked the grove was moving faster. It slid swiftly, and I could plainly hear the rattle of stones falling against stones, until with a muffled roar the whole hillside fell into the stream. Mr. Haynes came running back. "What is the matter? Are you hurt? Why didn't you shoot?" he asked. I waved my hand weakly toward where the great mound of tangled trees and earth blocked the water. "Why," he said, "that is only a landslide, not an earthquake. You are as white as a ghost. Come on up here and see my fine elk." I sat on a log watching him dress his elk. We have found it best not to remove the skin, but the elk have to be quartered so as to load them on to a horse. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and Mr. Struble came out of the woods just then. They had seen a big bunch of elk headed by a splendid bull, but got no shot, and the elk went out of the pass. They had heard our shot, and came across to see what luck. "What iver is the matter with ye?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. Mr. Haynes told her. They had heard the noise, but had thought it thunder. Mr. Haynes told me that if I would "chirk up" he would give me his elk teeth. Though I don't admire them, they are considered valuable; however, his elk was a cow, and they don't have as nice teeth as do bulls. We had lunch, and the men covered the elk with pine boughs to keep the camp robbers from pecking it full of holes. Next day the men would come with the horses and pack it in to camp. We all felt refreshed; so we started on the trail of those that got away. For a while walking was easy and we made pretty good time; then we had a rocky hill to get over. We had to use care when we got into the timber; there were marshy places which tried us sorely, and windfall so thick that we could hardly get through. We were obliged to pick our way carefully to avoid noise, and we were all together, not having come to a place where it seemed better to separate. We had about resolved to go to our horses when we heard a volley of shots. "That is somebody bunch-shooting," said Mr. Struble. "They are in Brewster Lake Park, by the sound. That means that the elk will pass here in a short time and we may get a shot. The elk will be here long before the men, since the men have no horses; so let's hurry and get placed along the only place they can get out. We'll get our limit." We hastily secreted ourselves along the narrow gorge through which the elk must pass. We were all on one side, and Mr. Haynes said to me, "Rest your gun on that rock and aim at the first rib back of the shoulder. If you shoot haphazard you may cripple an elk and let it get away to die in misery. So make sure when you fire." It didn't seem a minute before we heard the beat of their hoofs and a queer panting noise that I can't describe. First came a beautiful thing with his head held high; his great antlers seemed to lie half his length on his back; his eyes were startled, and his shining black mane seemed to bristle. I heard the report of guns, and he tumbled in a confused heap. He tried to rise, but others coming leaped over him and knocked him down. Some more shots, and those behind turned and went back the way they had come. Mr. Haynes shouted to me, "Shoot, shoot; why _don't_ you shoot!" So I fired my Krag, but next I found myself picking myself up and wondering who had struck me and for what. I was so dizzy I could scarcely move, but I got down to where the others were excitedly admiring the two dead elk that they said were the victims of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's gun. She was as excited and delighted as if she had never declared she would not kill anything. "Sure, it's many a meal they'll make for little hungry mouths," she said. She was rubbing her shoulder ruefully. "I don't want to fire any more big guns. I thought old Goliar had hit me a biff with a blackthorn shilaley," she remarked. Mr. Haynes turned to me and said, "You are a dandy hunter! you didn't shoot at all until after the elk were gone, and the way you held your gun it is a wonder it didn't knock your head off, instead of just smashing your jaw." The men worked as fast as they could at the elk, and we helped as much as we could, but it was dark before we reached camp. Supper was ready, but I went to bed at once. They all thought it was because I was so disappointed, but it was because I was so stiff and sore I could hardly move, and so tired I couldn't sleep. Next morning my jaw and neck were so swollen that I hated any one to see me, and my head ached for two days. It has been snowing for a long time, but Clyde says he will take me hunting when it stops. I don't want to go but reckon I will have to, because I don't want to come so far and buy a license to kill an elk and go back empty-handed, and partly to get a rest from Mr. Murry's everlasting accordion. Mr. Murry is an old-time acquaintance of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's. He has a ranch down on the river somewhere. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy has not seen him for years,--didn't know he lived up here. He had seen the game-warden from whom she had procured her license, and so hunted up our camp. He is an odd-looking individual, with sad eyes and a drooping mouth which gives his face a most hopeless, reproachful expression. His nose, however, seems to upset the original plan, for it is long and thin and bent slightly to one side. His neck is long and his Adam's apple seems uncertain as to where it belongs. At supper Jerrine watched it as if fascinated until I sent her from the table and went out to speak to her about gazing. "Why, mamma," she said, "I had to look; he has swallowed something that won't go either up or down, and I'm 'fraid he'll choke." Although I can't brag about Mr. Murry's appearance, I can about his taste, for he admires Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. It seems that in years gone by he has made attempts to marry her. As he got up from supper the first night he was with us, he said, "Mary Ellen, I have a real treat and surprise for you. Just wait a few minutes, an' I'll bet you'll be happy." We took our accustomed places around the fire, while Mr. Murry hobbled his cayuse and took an odd-looking bundle from his saddle. He seated himself and took from the bundle--an accordion! He set it upon his knee and began pulling and pushing on it. He did what Mr. Struble said was doling a doleful tune. Every one took it good-naturedly, but he kept doling the doleful until little by little the circle thinned. Our tent is as comfortable as can be. Now that it is snowing, we sit around the stoves, and we should have fine times if Professor Glenholdt could have a chance to talk; but we have to listen to "Run, Nigger, Run" and "The Old Gray Hoss Come A-tearin' Out The Wilderness." I'll sing them to you when I come to Denver. With much love to you, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. VIII THE SEVENTH MAN CLOUDCREST, October 10, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- I wonder what you would do if you were here. But I reckon I had better not anticipate, and so I will begin at the beginning. On the morning of the eighth we held a council. The physician and the two students had gone. All had their limit of elk except Mr. Haynes and myself. Our licenses also entitled each of us to a deer, a mountain sheep, and a bear. We had plenty of food, but it had snowed about a foot and I was beginning to want to get out while the going was good. Two other outfits had gone out. The doctor and the students hired them to haul out their game. So we decided to stay on a week longer. That morning Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I melted snow and washed the clothes. It was delightful to have nice soft water, and we enjoyed our work; it was almost noon before we thought to begin dinner. I suppose you would say lunch, but with us it is dinner. None of the men had gone out that day. Mr. Harkrudder was busy with his films and didn't come with the rest when dinner was ready. When he did come, he was excited; he laid a picture on the table and said, "Do any of you recognize this?" It looked like a flash-light of our camping ground. It was a little blurry, but some of the objects were quite clear. Our tent was a white blotch except for the outlines; the wagons showed plainly. I didn't think much of it as a picture, so I paid scant attention. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy gave it close scrutiny; presently she said, "Oh, yis, I see what it is. It's a puzzle picture and ye find the man. Here he is, hidin' beyont the pine next the tent." "Exactly," said Harkrudder, "but I had not expected just this. I am working out some ideas of my own in photography, and this picture is one of the experiments I tried the night of the storm. The result doesn't prove my experiment either way. Where were you, Stewart, during the storm?" "Where should I be? I bided i' the bed," the Stewart said. "Well," said Harkrudder, "I know where each of the other fellows was, and none of them was in this direction. Now who is the seventh man?" I looked again, and, sure enough, there was a man in a crouching position outlined against the tent wall. We were all excited, for it was ten minutes past one when Harkrudder was out, and we couldn't think why any one would be prowling about our camp at that time of the night. As Mr. Stewart and I had planned a long, beautiful ride, we set out after dinner, leaving the rest yet at the table eating and conjecturing about the "stranger within our picture." I had hoped we would come to ground level enough for a sharp, invigorating canter, but our way was too rough. It was a joy to be out in the great, silent forest. The snow made riding a little venturesome because the horses slipped a great deal, but Chub is dependable even though he is lazy. Clyde bestrode Mr. Haynes's Old Blue. We were headed for the cascades on Clear Creek, to see the wonderful ice-caverns that the flying spray is forming. We had almost reached the cascades and were crossing a little bowl-like valley, when an elk calf leaped out of the snow and ran a few yards. It paused and finally came irresolutely back toward us. A few steps farther we saw great, red splotches on the snow and the body of a cow elk. Around it were the tracks of the faithful little calf. It would stay by its mother until starvation or wild animals put an end to its suffering. The cow was shot in half a dozen places, none of them in a fatal spot; it had bled to death. "That," said Mr. Stewart angrily, "comes o' bunch shooting. The authorities should revoke the license of a man found guilty of bunch shooting." We rode on in silence, each a little saddened by what we had seen. But this was not all. We had begun to descend the mountain side to Clear Creek when we came upon the beaten trail of a herd of elk. We followed it as offering perhaps the safest descent. It didn't take us far. Around the spur of the mountain the herd had stampeded; tracks were everywhere. Lying in the trail were a spike and an old bull with a broken antler. Chub shied, but Old Blue doesn't scare, so Mr. Stewart rode up quite close. Around the heads were tell-tale tracks. We didn't dismount, but we knew that the two upper teeth or tushes were missing and that the hated tooth-hunter was at work. The tracks in the snow showed there had been two men. An adult elk averages five hundred pounds of splendid meat; here before us, therefore, lay a thousand pounds of food thrown to waste just to enable a contemptible tooth-hunter to obtain four teeth. Tooth-hunting is against the law, but this is a case where you must catch before hanging. Well, we saw the cascades, and after resting a little, we started homeward through the heavy woods, where we were compelled to go more slowly. We had dismounted, and were gathering some piñon cones from a fallen tree, when, almost without a sound, a band of elk came trailing down a little draw where a spring trickled. We watched them file along, evidently making for lower ground on which to bed. Chub snorted, and a large cow stopped and looked curiously in our direction. Those behind passed leisurely around her. We knew she had no calf, because she was light in color: cows suckling calves are of a darker shade. A loud report seemed to rend the forest, and the beauty dropped. The rest disappeared so suddenly that if the fine specimen that lay before me had not been proof, it would almost have seemed a dream. I had shot the cow elk my license called for. We took off the head and removed the entrails, then covered our game with pine boughs, to which we tied a red bandanna so as to make it easy to find next day, when the men would come back with a saw to divide it down the back and pack it in. There is an imposing row of game hanging in the pines back of our tent. Supper was ready when we got in. Mr. Haynes had been out also and was very joyful; he got his elk this afternoon. We can start home day after to-morrow. It will take the men all to-morrow to get in the game. I shall be glad to start. I am getting homesick, and I have not had a letter or even a card since I have been here. We are hungry for war news, and besides, it is snowing again. Our clothes didn't get dry either; they are frozen to the bush we hung them on. Perhaps they will be snowed under by morning. I can't complain, though, for it is warm and pleasant in our tent. The little camp-stove is glowing. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is showing Jerrine how to make pigs of potatoes. Calvin and Robert are asleep. The men have all gone to the bachelors' tent to form their plans, all save Mr. Murry, who is "serenading" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. He is playing "Nelly Gray," and somehow I don't want to laugh at him as I usually do; I can only feel sorry for him. I can hardly write because my heart is yearning for my little Junior boy at home on the ranch with his grandmother. Dear little Mother Stewart, I feel very tender toward her. Junior is the pride of her heart. She would not allow us to bring him on this trip, so she is at the ranch taking care of my brown-eyed boy. Every one is so good, so kind, and I can do so little to repay. It makes me feel very unworthy. You'll think I have the blues, but I haven't. I just feel humble and chastened. When Mr. Murry pauses I can hear the soft spat, spat of the falling snow on the tent. I will be powerfully glad when we set our faces homeward. Good-night, dear friend. Angels guard you. ELINORE STEWART. IX AN INDIAN CAMP CLOUDCREST, October 13, 1914. DEAR, DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- This is the very last letter you will receive dated from this camp. We are leaving a few days earlier than we intended and I am pretty badly on the fence. I want to laugh, and really I can hardly keep back the tears. We are leaving sooner than we meant, for rather a good reason. We haven't one bite to eat except elk meat. After the men had brought into camp the elk we killed the other afternoon, they began to plan a sheep hunt. As sheep do not stay in the woods, the men had to go miles away and above timber line. They decided to take a pack horse and stay all night. I didn't want Mr. Stewart to go because the climbing is very dangerous. No accidents have happened this year, but last season a man fell from the crags and was killed; so I tried to keep the "good mon" at home. But he would not be persuaded. The love of chase has entered his blood, and it looks to me as if it had chased reason plumb out of his head. I know exactly how Samantha felt when Josiah _would_ go to the "pleasure exertion." The bald spot on the Stewart's head doesn't seem to remind him of years gone by; he is as joyous as a boy. It was finally decided to take Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the children and myself to a neighboring camp about two miles away, as we didn't like to risk being frightened by a possible intruder. Sorenson, the game-warden, was in camp to inspect our game on the 12th, and he told us he was on the trail of tooth-hunters and had routed them out on the night of the storm; but what they could have been doing in our camp was as much a mystery to him as to us. Well, when we were ready to go, Mr. Murry and the Stewart escorted us. It was a cloudy afternoon and often great flakes of snow fell gently, softly. The snow was already about eighteen inches deep, and it made sheep hunting slippery and dangerous work. On our way we came upon an Indian camp. They were all huddled about a tiny fire; scattered about were their wikiups made of sticks and pine boughs. The Indians were sullen and angry. The game-warden had ordered them back to Fort Washakie, where they belonged. Their squaws had jerked their elk. You may not know what jerked means, so I will explain: it means dried, cured. They had all they were allowed, but for some reason they didn't want to go. Sorenson suspects them of being in with the tooth-hunters and he is narrowing the circle. At the camp where we were to stay, we found Mrs. Kavanaugh laid up with a sore throat, but she made us welcome. It would be a mighty funny camper who wouldn't. As soon as the men from the Kavanaugh camp heard our men's plans, they were eager to go along. So it ended in us three women being left alone. We said we were not afraid and we tried not to feel so, but after dark we all felt a little timorous. Mrs. Kavanaugh was afraid of the Indians, but I was afraid they would bring Clyde back dead from a fall. We were camped in an old cabin built by the ranger. The Kavanaughs were short of groceries. We cooked our big elk steaks on sticks before an open fire, and we roasted potatoes in the ashes. When our fear wore away, we had a fine time. After a while we lay down on fragrant beds of pine. We awoke late. The fire was dead upon the hearth and outside the snow was piling up. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made a rousing fire and managed to jolly us until we had a really happy breakfast hour. About three in the afternoon all the men came trooping in, cold, wet, and hungry. After filling them with venison, hot potatoes, and coffee, we started to our own camp. The men were rather depressed because they had come back empty-handed. The Indians were gone and the snow lay thick over the place where their fire had been; they had left in the night. When we came to camp, Mr. Struble started to build a fire; but no matches were to be had. Next, the men went to feed grain to their tired horses, but the oats were gone. Mr. Murry sought in vain for his beloved accordion. Mr. Harkrudder was furious when he found his grinding machine was gone. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy made a dash for the grub-box. It was empty. We were dumbfounded. Each of us kept searching and researching and knowing all the while we would find nothing. Mr. Struble is a most cheerful individual, and, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy says, "is a mighty good fellow even if he _is_ Dutch." "The Indians have stolen us out," he said, "but after all they have left us our tents and harness, all our meat, and the road home; so what matter if we _are_ a little inconvenienced as to grub? Haynes may cry for sugar, but that won't hurt the rest any. I'll saddle and ride over to Scotty's and get enough to last us out." We knew the Kavanaughs could not help us any, but we grew cheerful in anticipating help from Scotty, who was from Green River and was camped a few miles away. We wanted Mr. Struble to wait until morning, but he said no, it would make breakfast late; so he rode off in the dark. At two o'clock this morning he came in almost frozen, with two small cans of milk and two yeast cakes. As soon as it was light enough to see, the men were at work loading the game and breaking camp. As they are ready now to take down this tent, I will have to finish this letter somewhere else. X THE TOOTH-HUNTERS AT SORENSON'S CABIN ON GREEN RIVER. Well, we're here, warmed and fed and in much better trim bodily and mentally. We had mishap after mishap coming. First the Hutton horse, being a bronco, had to act up when he was hitched up. We had almost more game than we could haul, but at last we got started, after the bronco had reared and pitched as much as he wanted to. There are a great many springs,--one every few feet in these mountains,--and the snow hid the pitfalls and made the ground soft, so that the wheels cut in and pulling was hard. Then, too, our horses had had nothing to eat for two days, the snow being so deep they couldn't get at the grass, hobbled as they were. We had got perhaps a mile from camp when the leading wagon, with four horses driven by Mr. Haynes, suddenly stopped. The wheels had sunk into the soft banks of a small, ditch-like spring branch. Mr. Stewart had to stay on our wagon to hold the bronco, but all the rest, even Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, gathered around and tried to help. They hitched on a snap team, but not a trace tightened. They didn't want to unload the game in the snow. The men lifted and pried on the wheels. Still the horses wouldn't budge. Mr. Haynes is no disciple of Job, but he tried manfully to restrain himself. Turning to Glenholdt, who was offering advice, he said, "You get out. I know what the trouble is: these horses used to belong to a freighter and are used to being cussed. It's the greatest nuisance in the world for a man to go out where there's a bunch of women. If these women weren't along I'd make these horses get out of there." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "Don't lay your poor driving to the women. If you drive by cussin', then _cuss_. We will stop up our ears." She threw her apron over her head. I held my fingers in Jerrine's ears, and she stopped my ears, else I might be able to tell you what he said. It was something violent, I know. I could tell by the expression of his face. He had only been doing it a second when those horses walked right out with the wagon as nicely as you please. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said to Mr. Haynes, "It's a poor cusser you are. Sure, it's no wonder you hesitated to begin. If Danny O'Shaughnessy couldn't have sworn better, I'd have had to hilp him." We got along pretty well after that. Mr. Haynes kept some distance ahead; but occasionally a bit of "cussin'" came back to us and we knew he was using freighter tactics. The game-warden lives in a tiny little cabin. The door is so low that I had to stoop to get in. It was quite dark when we got here last night, but Mrs. Sorenson acted as if she was _glad_ to see us. I didn't think we could all get in. A row of bunks is built along one side of the cabin. A long tarpaulin covers the bed, and we all got upon this and sat while our hostess prepared our supper. If one of us had stirred we would have been in her way; so there we sat as thick as thieves. When supper was ready six got off their perch and ate; when they were through, six more were made happy. Mr. Sorenson had caught the tooth-hunters. On the wall hung their deadly guns, with silencers on them to muffle the report. He showed us the teeth he had found in their possession. The warden and his deputy had searched the men and their effects and found no teeth. He had no evidence against them except their unlawful guns, but he knew he had the right men. At last he found their contract to furnish two hundred pair of teeth. It is a trick of such hunters to thrust a knife into the meat of the game they have, and so to make pockets in which they hide the teeth; but these fellows had no such pockets. They jeered at the warden and threatened to kill him, but he kept searching, and presently found the teeth in a pail of lard. He told us all about it as we sat, an eager crowd, on his bed. A warden takes his life in his hands when he goes after such fellows, but Sorenson is not afraid to do it. The cabin walls are covered with pen-and-ink drawings, the work of the warden's gifted children,--Vina, the pretty eighteen-year-old daughter, and Laurence, the sixteen-year-old son. They never had a lesson in drawing in their lives, but their pictures portray Western life exactly. The snow is not so deep here as it was at camp, but it is too deep for the horses to get grass. The men were able to get a little grain from the warden; so we will pull out in the morning and try to make it to where we can get groceries. We are quite close to where Elizabeth lives, but we should have to cross the river, and it was dark before we passed her home. I should like to see her but won't get a chance to. Mrs. Sorenson says she is very happy. In all this round of exposure the kiddies are as well as can be. Cold, camping, and elk meat agree with them. We are in a tent for the night, and it is so cold the ink is freezing, but the kiddies are snuggled under their blankets as warm as toast. We are to start early in the morning. Good-night, dear friend. I am glad I can take this trip _for_ you. You'd freeze. ELINORE STEWART. XI BUDDY AND BABY GIRL IN CAMP, October 16, 1914. DEAR MRS. CONEY,-- The day we left the game-warden's was damp and lowering. It didn't seem it could have one good thing to its credit, but there were several things to be thankful for. One of them was that you were safe at home in your warm, dry apartment. We had hardly passed the great Block buttes when the biggest, wettest flakes of snow began to pelt into our faces. I really like a storm, and the kiddies would have enjoyed the snow; but we had to keep the wagon-sheet tied down to keep the bedding dry, and the kiddies get sick under cover. All the pleasure I might have had was taken away by the fact that we were making a forced drive. We _had_ to go. The game-warden had no more than enough food for his family, and no horse feed. Also, the snow was almost as deep there as it had been higher up, so the horses could not graze. We made it to Cora that day. Here at last was plenty of hay and grain; we restocked our mess-boxes and felt better toward the world. Next day we came on here to Newfork, where we are resting our teams before we start across the desert, which begins just across the creek we are camped on. We have added two to our party. I know you will be interested to know how it happened, and I can picture the astonishment of our neighbors when we reach home, for our newcomers are to be members of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's family. We had all been sorry we could not visit Elizabeth or "Danyul" and his mother. We felt almost as if we were sneaking past them, but we consoled ourselves with promises to see the Burneys and Grandma Mortimer. Yesterday the children and I were riding with Mrs. O'Shaughnessy in the buckboard. We were trotting merrily along the lane that leads to Newfork, thankful in our hearts to be out of the snow,--for there is no snow here. Just ahead of us two little boys were riding along on their ponies. There was a wire fence on both sides of the lane, and almost at the end of the lane an old cow had her head between the wires and was nibbling the tall dead grass. The larger of the two boys said, "That's old Pendry's cow, and she shan't eat a blade of grass off Dad's meadow." He rode up to the cow and began beating her with his quirt. That frightened the cow, and as she jerked her head up, the top wire caught her across the top of her neck; she jerked and lunged to free herself, and was cruelly cut by the barbs on the wire. Then he began beating his pony. The small boy said, "You're a coward an' a fool, Billy Polk. The cow wasn't hurtin' nothin', an' you're just tryin' to show off, beatin' that pony." Said the other boy, "Shut up, you beggar, or I'll beat you; an' I'll take them breeches you got on off you, an' you can go without any--they're mine. My ma give 'em to you." The little fellow's face was scarlet--as much of it as we could see for the freckles--and his eyes were blazing as he replied, "You ain't man enough. I dare you to strike me or to tech my clothes." Both boys were riding bareback. The small boy slid off his pony's back; the other rode up to him and raised his quirt, but the little one seized him by the leg, and in a jiffy they were in the road fighting like cats. I asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy to drive on, but she said, "If you are in a hurry you can try walkin'; I'm goin' to referee this scrap." It looked for a minute as if the small boy would get a severe beating, but by some trick he hurled the other headlong into the green, slimy water that edged the road; then, seizing the quirt and the opportunity at the same time, he belabored Billy without mercy as that individual climbed up the slippery embankment, blubbering and whipped. Still sobbing, he climbed upon his patient pony, which stood waiting, and galloped off down the lane. The other pony followed and the little conqueror was left afoot. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was beaming with delight. "Sure, 'twas a fine fight, a sight worth coming all this way to see. Ah! but you're the b'y. 'Tis a dollar I'd be givin' ye, only me purse is in me stockin'--" "Oh," the boy said quickly, "don't let that stop you. I'll look off another way." I don't know if she would have given him the money, for just then some men came into the lane with some cattle and we had to start. The boy got up on the back end of the buckboard and we drove on. We could hear our wagons rumbling along and knew they would soon catch up. "Where is your home, b'y?" asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Oh, just wherever Aunt Hettie has work," he said. "She is at Mr. Tom's now, so I'm there, too,--me and Baby Girl." "Where are your folks?" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy went on. "Ma's dead, an pa's gone to Alasky. I don't know where my brothers are. Baby Girl an' me are with Aunt Het, an' that's all there are of us." He grinned cheerfully in spite of the fact that one eye was fast closing and he bore numerous bumps and scratches on his face and head. Just then one of the men with the cattle galloped up and shouted, "Hello!" It was Mr. Burney! "Where'd you get that kid? I guess I'll have to get the sheriff after you for kidnapping Bud. And what have you been doing to him, anyway?" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy entered delightedly into a recital of the "mixup," and it turned out that Mr. Tom and Mr. Burney were one. It was like meeting an old friend; he seemed as pleased as we and insisted on our going up to his ranch; he said "the missus" would feel slighted if we passed her by. So we turned into another lane, and presently drew up before the ranch house. "The missus" came dancing out to meet us, and right welcome she made us feel. Mr. Burney went back to bring the rest, but they were already setting up the tents and had supper almost ready. However, we stayed and had supper with the Burneys. They are powerfully happy and talked eagerly of themselves and their prospects. "It's just grand to have a home of your own and some one to do for. I just _love_ to mend for Tommy, but I always hated to mend before," said the missus. "You bet," Mr. Burney answered, "it is sure fine to know there's somebody at home with a pretty pink dress on, waitin' for a fellow when he comes in from a long day in the saddle." And so they kept up their thoughtless chatter; but every word was as a stab to poor Aunt Hettie. She had Baby Girl on her lap and was giving the children their supper, but I noticed that she ate nothing. It was easy to see that she was not strong. Baby Girl is four years old and is the fattest little thing. She has very dark blue eyes with long, black lashes, and the shortest, most turned-up little nose. She is so plump and rosy that even the faded old blue denim dress could not hide her loveliness. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy could not keep her eyes off the children. "What is the little girl's name?" she asked. "Caroline Agnes Lucia Lavina Ida Eunice," was the astonishing reply. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy gasped. "My _goodness_," she exclaimed; "is that _all_?" "Oh, no," Aunt Hettie went on placidly; "you see, her mother couldn't call her all the names, so she just used the first letters. They spell Callie; so that is what she called her. But I don't like the name. I call her Baby Girl." I asked her how she ever came to name her that way, and she said, "My sister wanted a girl, but there were six boys before this little one came. Each time she hoped it would be a girl, and accordingly selected a name for a girl. So there were six names saved up, and as there wasn't much else to give her, my sister gave them _all_ to the baby." After supper the Burneys rode down to camp with us. We had the same camping ground that we had when we came up. The cabin across the creek, where we met Grandma Mortimer, is silent and deserted; the young couple have moved away with their baby. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy kept talking about the fight, and Mr. Burney gave us the history of the children. "Their mother," he began, "has been dead about eighteen months. She really died with a broken heart. Baby Girl was only a few weeks old when the father went to Alaska, and I guess he's dead. He was to 'a' been back in three years, and no one has ever heard a word from him. His name was Bolton; he was a good fellow, only he went bughouse over the gold fields and just fretted till he got away--sold everything for a grub stake--left his wife and seven kids almost homeless. But they managed some way till the mother died. With her last breath she asked that the two youngest be kept together; she knew the oldest ones would have to be separated. She never did give up looking for Bolton and she wanted him to have the babies. "Her sister Hettie has worked around here for years; her and Rob Langley have been going to marry ever since I can remember, but always there has something cropped up. And now that Hettie has got to take care of the kids I guess they won't never marry; she won't burden him with them. It is hard for her to support them, too. Work is scarce, and she can't get it, lots of times, because of the kids." The Burneys soon went home and the rest of us went to bed,--all except Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, who was so cranky and snappy that we left her by the fire. It seemed hours after when I awoke. She was still sitting by the fire; she was absently marking in the ashes with a stick. I happened to be the first one up next morning and as I stirred up the fire I saw "Baby" written in the ashes. We had breakfasted and the men had gone their ways when Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said to me,-- "It is a blessed old soul Mrs. Mortimer is. Do you mind any good lesson that she taught us in the cabin beyont?" I did not remember. "She said, 'The pangs of motherhood make us mothers not only of our own, but of every child that needs mothering,--especially if our own little children need us no longer. Fill their little places with ones who do need us.' Them's her very words, and it's sweet truth it is. Both my Katie and Sheridan have been grown and gone these many years and my heart has ached for childher, and there's none but Cora Belle. I am goin' to get them childher this day. What do you think about it?" I thought so well of it that in about two minutes we were harnessing the horses and were off to lay the plan before Hettie in record-breaking time. Poor Hettie: she wept quietly while the advantages of the scheme were being pointed out. She said, "I love the children, dearly, but I am not sure I can always feed and clothe them; that has worried me a lot. I am almost sure Bolton is dead. I'll miss the little things, but I am glad to know they are well provided for. You can take them." "Now," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "you go on an' marry your man if he is a decent sort. Do it right away before something else happens. It is an illigant wedding present I'll be sendin' you. You must come to see the childher often. What's the b'y's name?" "We never did name him; you see we had kind of run out of boys' names. We just called him Buddy." "I can find a name for him," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Is there a Joseph in the family?" Hettie said no. "Well, then, he is named Joseph Bolton O'Shaughnessy, and I'll have them both baptized as soon as we get to Green River." So in the morning we start with two new members. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is very happy. I am so glad myself that I can hardly express myself. We are _all_ happy except Mr. Murry; he has at last given up hopes, and gone. Mr. Haynes growls a little about having to travel along with a rolling nursery, but he is just bluffing. I am longing to see Junior. We have not heard one word since we left them, and I am so homesick for mother and my boy. And _you_, best of friends, when shall I see your beloved face? To-morrow night we shall camp at Ten Trees and we shall be one day nearer home. With much love, ELINORE RUPERT STEWART. XII A STAMPEDE IN CAMP ON THE DESERT, October 19. MY DEAR, DEAR FRIEND,-- It is with a chastened, humble heart that I begin this letter; I have stood face to face with tragedy and romance, and to me one is as touching as the other, but you will know better when I tell you what I mean. We _all_ bustled about to get started from Newfork. Now that we had started, all were homesick. Just ahead of us was a drove of two thousand steers being driven to the railroad to be shipped. I advise you to keep ahead of such drives when you take such a trip, because the trampling of so many feet makes a road almost impassable. What had been snow in the mountains had been rain on the desert, and we found the going decidedly bad. A rise of a hill would give us, now and then, a glimpse of a slow-moving, dark-colored mass of heaving forms, and the desert breezes brought to our ears the mournful lowing of the poor creatures. Sometimes, too, we could hear a snatch of the cowboys' songs. It was all very beautiful and I would have enjoyed it hugely except that my desire to be home far outran the wagon and I felt like a prisoner with clogs. We nooned at the cabin of Timothy Hobbs, but no one was at home; he at last had gone "back East" for Jennie. About mid-afternoon the boss of the cow outfit came up on a splendid horse. He was a pleasant fellow and he made a handsome picture, with his big hat, his great chaps and his jangling spurs, as he rode along beside our wagons, talking. He told us that a crazy duffer had gone about over the desert for years digging wells, but at last he struck water. A few miles ahead was a well flowing like an artesian well. There would be plenty of water for every one, even the cattle. Next morning we could start ahead of the herds and so the roads would be a little better. It was quite early when we made camp in the same long draw where we saw Olaf. There was a great change. Where had been dry, burning sand was now a clear little stream that formed shallow pools where the sand had blown away, so that harder soil could form a bottom less greedy than the sand. Off to our left the uneasy herd was being held in a wide, flat valley. They were grazing on the dry, sparse herbage of the desert. Quite near the well the mess-wagon had stopped and the cook was already preparing supper. Beyond, a few yards away, a freighter's long outfit was stopped in the road. Did you ever see the kind of freight outfit that is used to bring the great loads across the desert? Then I'll tell you about the one we camped near. Freight wagons are not made precisely like others; they are very much larger and stronger. Several of these are coupled together; then as many teams as is necessary are hitched on--making a long, unbroken string of wagons. The horses are arranged in the same manner as the wagons. Great chains are used to pull the wagons, and when a camp is made the whole affair is stopped in the middle of the road and the harness is dropped right where the horse that bore it stood. Many freighters have what they call a coaster hitched to the last wagon. The coaster is almost like other wagons, but it is a home on wheels; it is built and furnished as sheep wagons are. This freighter had one, and as we drove past I was surprised to see the form of a woman and a small boy. We camped quite near them. For an hour we were very busy preparing supper and arranging for the night. As we sat at supper I thought I had never known so quiet and peaceful an hour. The sun hung like a great, red ball in the hazy west. Purple shadows were already gathering. A gentle wind rippled past across the dun sands and through the gray-green sage. The chain parts of the hobbles and halters made a clinking sound as the horses fed about. Presently we heard a rumbling just like distant thunder. The cowboys sprang into their saddles; we heard a shot, and then we knew the terrible truth,--the steers had stampeded. For me, the next few minutes were an eternity of frightful confusion. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and I found ourselves with the children upon our largest wagon; that was absolutely all the protection to be had. It would have gone down like a house of cards if that heaving sea of destruction had turned our way. I was scared witless. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy knelt among the children praying with white lips. I stood up watching the terrible scene. The men hastily set the horses free. There was no time to mount them and ride to safety with so many little children, and as there was nothing to tie them to but the wagons; we _had_ to let them go so as to have the wagons left for shelter. _This_ is why cowboys are such well-loved figures of romance and in mentioning them romance is fact. "Greater love hath _no_ man than this: that he lay down his life for his brother." They knew nothing about us only that we were defenseless. They rode boldly on their stanch little horses flanking the frenzied steers, shooting a leader here and there as they got a chance. If an animal stumbled it went down to its death, for hundreds of pounding hoofs would trample it to pulp. So it would have been with the boys if their horses had stepped into a badger hole or anything of the kind had happened. So the tide was turned, or the steers kept of themselves, I don't know which, on up the valley instead of coming up our draw. The danger was past. Presently the cowboys came straggling back. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy ran to meet them. So when two on one horse came with a third riding close beside, helping to hold an injured man on, we knew some one was hurt. Mrs. O'Shaughnessy was, as usual, ready and able to help. But the freighter's daughter was as quick and had a mattress ready beside the coaster by the time the cowboys came up with the wounded man. Gently the men helped their comrade to the mattress and gently Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the girl began their work. I quieted the children and put them to bed. The men were busy rounding up the horses. The cowboys kept talking together in low tones and coming and going in twos and threes. They acted so queerly that I wondered if some one else was not hurt. I asked the boss if any more of his men were hurt. He said no, none of _his_ men were. I knew none of our men or the freighter were harmed, so I dismissed fear and went to Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "Poor boy," she said, "he has a broken thigh and he's hurt inside. His belly is knocked into a cocked-hat. We will pull him through. A man has already gone back to Newfork to get an automobile. They will take him to Rock Springs to the hospital in the morning." Mrs. O'Shaughnessy and the girl were doing all that could be done; they sent me back to care for the children. To keep warm I crawled under the blankets, but not to sleep. It didn't seem to me that I could _ever_ sleep again. I could hear the men talking in subdued tones. The boss was dispatching men to different places. Presently I saw some men take a lantern and move off toward the valley. I could see the light twinkling in and out among the sage-brush. They stopped. I could see forms pass before the light. I wondered what could be the matter. The horses were all safe; even Boy, Mr. Haynes's dog, was safe, shivering and whining on his master's blankets. I could plainly hear the hiccoughs of the wounded man: the click-cluck, click-cluck, kept on with maddening persistence, but at last his nurses forced enough hot water down him to cause vomiting. The blood-clots came and the poor fellow fell asleep. A lantern was hung upon the wagon and the two women went into the coaster to make some coffee. It was three o'clock in the morning when the men of our outfit came back. They put on their heavy coats and were seeing to their horses. I asked Clyde what was the matter. "Hush," he said; "lie still. It is Olaf." "But I want to help," I said. "You can't help. It's--all over," he replied as he started again to where the lantern was gleaming like a star fallen among the sage. I tucked the children in a little more snugly, then went over to the coaster. "Won't you come to bed and rest?" I asked Mrs. O'Shaughnessy. "No, I'll not. Are me children covered and warm?" "Yes," I answered. "What are them fellys pow-wowing about down in the sage?" "Olaf is dead," I said. "Who says God is not merciful? Now all the poor felly's troubles are done with. 'Twas him that caused the stampede, mayhap. God send him peace. I am glad. He will never be hungry nor cold any more." "Yes," said the girl; speaking slowly. "I am glad, too. He almost lived in this draw. We saw him every trip and he _did_ suffer. Dad left a little for him to eat and whatever he could to wear every trip. The sheep-herders helped him, too. But he suffered. All the home he had was an old, thrown-away sheep wagon down beyond the last ridge toward the valley. I've seen him every two weeks for ten years. It's a wonder he has not been killed before." "I wonder," said Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, "if he has any family. Where will they bury him?" "He has no people. If they will listen to Dad, they will lay him here on the desert. He would want it so." After breakfast Mrs. O'Shaughnessy lay down for a little rest. When the wounded man awoke the girl gave him a little coffee. "You're awful good to me," he said. "I'd like to have you around all the time." The girl smiled gravely. "Ain't you got nobody to take care of you?" "No. What is your name?" "Amy Winters. Now you must hush. Talkin' might make you worse." "I'm not so tur'ble bad off. Where do you live?" "In the coaster, somewhere on the road between Pinedale and Rock Springs. Dad is a freighter." "Huh! Do you like to live that way?" "No; I want a house and a garden awful bad, but Dad can't do nothin' but freight and we've got Jessie to raise. We ain't got no ma." "Do women _have_ to change their names when they marry?" "I don't know. Reckon they do, though. Why?" "'Cause my name is Tod Winters. I know where there is a dandy little place up on the Gros Ventre where a cabin would look mighty good to me if there was some one to keep it for me--" "Oh, say," she interrupted, "that is a awful pretty handkerchief you've got around your neck." Just then the automobile came up frightening our horses. I heard no more, but the "awful pretty handkerchief" was missing when the hero left for the hospital. They used some lumber from a load the freighter had and walled up a grave for Olaf. They had no tools but axes and a shovel we had along. By noon Olaf was buried. Glenholdt set a slab of sandstone at the head. With his knife he had dug out these words--"Olaf. The friend of horses." We camped last night at Ten Trees. To-night we are at Eden Valley. The mystery of Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's sudden change about the license is explained. She unloaded an elk at the Sanders cabin. "'Twas two I aimed to bring you, but me own family has increased by twins whilst I've been gone, so one ilk will have to do you." So now, dear friend, I am a little nearer you. In one more week I shall be home. Sincerely, _thankfully_ yours, E. R. S. XIII NEARING HOME AT THE WELL IN THE DESERT, October 21. DEAR FRIEND,-- We shall reach Green River City to-night. We will rest the teams one day, then start home. It will take us two days from Green River to reach home, so this is the last letter on the road. When we made camp here last night we saw some one coming on horseback along the cañon rim on the opposite side. The form seemed familiar and the horse looked like one I had seen, but I dared not believe my eyes. Clyde, who was helping to draw water from the eighty-foot well without a pulley, thought I was bereft as I ran from the camp toward the advancing rider. But although I thought what I saw must be a mirage, still I knew Mrs. Louderer on Bismarck. Out of breath from my run, I grasped her fat ankle and panted till I could speak. "Haf they run you out of camp, you iss so bad?" she asked me by way of greeting. Then, more kindly, "Your boy iss all right, the mutter also. I am come, though, to find you. It iss time you are home with the _kinder_. Haf you any goose-grease left?" I had, all she had given me. At camp, joy knew no bounds. Never was one more welcome than our beloved neighbor. Her astonishment knew no bounds either, when her big blue eyes rested upon Mrs. O'Shaughnessy's "twins." "Frau O'Shaughnessy," she said severely, "what have you here? You iss robbed an orphan asylum. How haf you come by these?" Mrs. O'Shaughnessy is so full of life and good spirits and so delighted to talk about her "childher" that she gave a very animated recital of how she became a happy mother. In turn Mrs. Louderer told how she grew more and more alarmed by our long absence, but decided not to alarm the neighbors, so she had "made a search party out of mineself," and had fared forth to learn our fate. We had a merry supper; even Haynes became cheerful, and there was no lagging next morning when we started for home. When people go on elk hunts they are very likely to return in tatters, so I am going to leave it to your imagination to picture our appearance when we drove up to the rear of the hotel about sundown. Our friend Mrs. Hutton came running to meet us. I was ashamed to go into her house, but she leaned up against the house and laughed until tears came. "_What_ chased you?" she gasped. "You must have been run through some of those barbed wire things that they are putting up to stop the German army." Mrs. Hutton is a little lady who bolsters up self-respect and makes light of trying situations, so she "shooed" us in and I sneaked into my room and waited until Clyde could run down to the store and purchase me a dress. I feel quite clean and respectable now, sitting up here in my room writing this to you. I will soon be at home now. Until then good-bye. E. R. S. XIV THE MEMORY-BED October 25. DEAR, DEAR FRIEND,-- Can you guess how happy I am? Be it _ever_ so humble there is no place like home. It is so good to sit in my creaky old rocker, to hold Junior, to feel his dear weight; to look at my brave little mother. I do not like the "in-law." She is _mother_ to me. Under the east window of our dining-room we have a flower-bed. We call it our memory-bed because Clyde's first wife had it made and kept pansies growing there. We poured the water of my little lost boy's last bath onto the memory-bed. I keep pansies growing in one side of the bed in memory of her who loved them. In the other end I plant sweet alyssum in memory of my baby. A few pansies and a tuft of sweet alyssum smiled a welcome, though all the rest of my flowers were dead. We have a hop-vine at the window and it has protected the flowers in the memory-bed. How happy I have been, looking over the place! Some young calves have come while we were gone; a whole squirming nest full of little pigs. My chickens have outgrown my knowledge. There is no snow here at all. Our experiences on our trip seem almost unreal, but the wagon-load of meat to be attended to is a reminder of realities. I have had a fine trip; I have experienced about all the human emotions. I had not expected to encounter so many people or to get the little inside glimpses that I've had, but wherever there are human beings there are the little histories. I have come home realizing anew how happy I am, how much I have been spared, and how many of life's blessings are mine. Poor Mrs. Louderer, childless and alone, openly envying Mrs. O'Shaughnessy her babies! In my bedroom there is a row of four little brown heads asleep on their pillows. Four precious kiddies all my own. And not the least of my blessings, _you_ to tell my happiness to. Has my trip interested you, dear friend? I _hope_ you liked it. It will lose a little of its charm for me if you find it uninteresting. I will write you again soon. Your happy friend, E. R. S. THE END TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Minor changes have been made to correct obvious typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
61767	----	WINGED ARROW'S MEDICINE _OR_ THE MASSACRE AT FORT PHIL KEARNEY BY HARRY CASTLEMON _Author of "The First Capture" "Gun Boat Series," etc., etc._ _ILLUSTRATED_ BY W. H. FRY AKRON, OHIO _THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY_ NEW YORK CHICAGO [Illustration: "STEADY, THERE!" HE SHOUTED. "RIGHT FRONT INTO LINE! REVOLVERS! GIVE THEM THE BEST YOU'VE GOT!"] COPYRIGHT, 1901 BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. PAGE THE SECOND LIEUTENANT 9 CHAPTER II. AN INVITATION 21 CHAPTER III. WINGED ARROW 34 CHAPTER IV. THE MEDICINE 47 CHAPTER V. THE REPRIMAND 59 CHAPTER VI. THE BUNDLE OF SAGE BRUSH 71 CHAPTER VII. "GOOD-BY, CYRUS" 86 CHAPTER VIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE SIOUX 101 CHAPTER IX. THE MEDICINE WORKS WONDERS 116 CHAPTER X. GUY IS ASTONISHED 133 CHAPTER XI. IN THE SIGNAL TOWER 150 CHAPTER XII. WHAT GUY SAW 167 CHAPTER XIII. COLONEL CARRINGTON IS DEPRESSED 181 CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SIOUX CAMP 200 CHAPTER XV. WHAT WINGED ARROW SAW 214 CHAPTER XVI. AFTER THE MASSACRE 228 CHAPTER XVII. RE-ENFORCEMENTS ARRIVE 242 CHAPTER XVIII. A PRISONER AT LAST 259 CHAPTER XIX. CONCLUSION 274 CHAPTER I. THE SECOND LIEUTENANT Guy Preston was a young and beardless boy fresh from "The Point." He was now attached to the --th cavalry and was one of three hundred men who had been ordered to that faraway country to assist in building the fort, which was named after the lamented hero, Phil Kearney. He had left the fort a short time before, and was out after prairie chickens, being armed with a double-barreled shotgun. The brace of birds which was tied to the pommel of his saddle proved that he was something of an adept at shooting on the wing. He was dressed in the uniform of the cavalry service, with a pair of straps on his shoulders that were decidedly the worse for wear, and his horse, a Kentucky thoroughbred, which, although seemingly impatient to exhibit the mettle that was in him, was obedient to the rein and stopped or went ahead when his owner commanded him. "There do not seem to be many chickens here, Tom, and so I think we will go back to the Fort," said Guy, raising himself in his stirrups and casting impatient glances on all sides of him. "We were told to stay within sight of the fortifications, but that last prairie chicken was too much for me. It made me disobey orders. There does not seem to be any Sioux here either, and I don't see why they cannot let us alone. We could see plenty of fun in hunting if that miserable Red Cloud was out of the way." Guy Preston was not the only one who wished that same thing of Red Cloud. His regiment had been stationed, in the first place, at Fort Robinson in Nebraska, which was the central point from which operations against the hostiles were organized. And what had caused this Red Cloud to go on the warpath? It was simply because the United States government had determined to open a road to Montana by way of Powder River. The way the road was laid out made it necessary that it should pass through the favorite hunting ground of the Sioux Indians, and some of them were fiercely opposed to it. The authorities made treaties with the hereditary chiefs by whom the right of way was granted, but the dissatisfaction that arose on account of it was so great that it led to an open rupture. Red Cloud was not an hereditary chief; that is, he was not a chief of any sort. He belonged to "the rank and file" of the band, but he was ambitious to become something better. The uneasiness among the Indians gave him a glorious chance. He denounced the treaties and their makers, and declared war to the knife against every white man who came over that road or ventured into that country. There are always some discontented ones among the Indians, men who cannot rest easy unless they are on the warpath, and crowds of these warriors flocked to his standard. The Sioux nation was the most powerful of any tribe on this continent. They were rich in everything that goes to make up an Indian's idea of wealth,--ponies, furs, and weapons; and, more than all, the countless numbers of buffalo that roamed through the Powder River country made them independent of the whites. They numbered 20,000 in all, and could put 3,000 warriors in the field. The hereditary chiefs very soon found themselves deserted and powerless when Red Cloud raised his standard, and in some instances were only too glad to preserve their control over their bands by acknowledging the new chief as their master. Finding himself at the head of so strong a force, Red Cloud took to the warpath at once, and a long, tedious war ensued, during which he made a great reputation. Avoiding any serious engagement, he so harassed all trains and expeditions sent against him that the few troops then in his country could scarcely be said to hold even the ground they actually stood upon. Several forts were established, but they protected only what was inside their palisades. A load of wood for fuel could not be cut outside without a conflict, and it finally culminated in the terrible tragedy which it is the purpose of this story to reveal,--for this is a true tale, and we tell it just as it happened. At last the commanding officer at Fort Robinson became out of all patience and determined to bring the Sioux to close quarters; so he sent Colonel Carrington on a long campaign with a force strong enough to follow the Sioux wherever they went, destroying their villages and reducing them to submission. The Colonel was also instructed to build a strong post upon the Powder or Tongue rivers and operate against them from there. The Fort was built at last and named after one of the bravest generals who gave up his life during our Civil War; but it was only after long months of toil and hardship. Red Cloud's warriors followed him all the way, stealing such stock as strayed away from the camp and cutting off small bodies of men that were sent out any distance from the main body. Guy Preston was there and saw how the hostiles operated, and we will venture the assertion that more than once he thought of home, and, if the truth must be told, he did not blame the Indians for fighting. The lands which they were forced to give up were their home, and they were about to surrender their only means of subsistence. The buffalo comprised all they had. It furnished them with food and raiment, coverings for their beds and the tepees in which they lived. The whites did not kill what they wanted for use, but wantonly slaughtered thousands simply to make a "record." All the scum of civilization fled to the frontier, and Bills and Dicks whose reputations were not of the best swaggered about the streets of canvas cities during the winter and roamed the plains during the summer to shoot buffalo. These people did not know or did not care what the buffalo meant to the Indian. It meant that when they were gone, the Indian would starve to death. No matter what treaties our government made with the Indians, it had no effect upon the reckless whites. They encouraged the slaughter of the game. Future historians will have to record that all our Western Indian wars were brought about by the acts of irresponsible and disreputable characters who usurped all the best hunting lands and attacked every band of Indians they saw, whether friendly or hostile, Sioux or Pawnees. Red Cloud was a man of great foresight, although born in a humble position. He saw that the government could not or would not keep their treaties and forbid these adventurers from trespassing on their hunting grounds, and forthwith, relying upon his assumed popularity, which came to him the moment he declared war on the whites, he called a convention of all the Sioux and allied tribes. When that convention met he rehearsed their wrongs and it was decided that they would do what any brave people would do under the same circumstances--fight the whites as long as possible. As I said, a long war was the result; so when Colonel Carrington entrenched himself behind the stockade of Fort Phil Kearney, he shut himself off from the civilized world. He was there, and the Indians resolved that he should stay there. Even his most experienced and bravest scouts could not get through to take dispatches to his superiors. They found Indians all around them, and they were seen and driven back. The wily chief located his village at no great distance away, and established a code of signals by which he could be informed at any time just what the soldiers were doing in the Fort. Every wood train that went out was attacked, and a strong force was necessary for their protection. In spite of all the precautions they could use, between fifteen and twenty soldiers were killed during the months of November and December. But Red Cloud was by no means satisfied with what he had done. He wanted to get rid of the whites entirely, but he had not taken measures to do it; so he called another convention to meet in his village some time in December. Then he broached his program. After repeating that the buffalo would all be killed, which was the worst thing that could happen to a plain Indian, he said: "We must take this Fort. If we once whip these soldiers and burn their palisade, the government will not send out any more." All the other chiefs believed that, and they decided upon a stratagem which will appear as our story progresses. Guy Preston, as well as all the younger officers in the Fort, was not very well pleased to be shut up inside those log walls with no chance to make themselves famous by fighting the Indians, and, worse than all, he could look over the stockade at almost any time of the day and see the prairie chickens flitting about as if there were not a hostile Sioux within a hundred miles of them. "What is the reason the Colonel will not let one of us go out and knock over a few of them for dinner?" he said to a sentry one day while he stood by his side watching them. "I don't see a single Sioux in sight." "No, sir," replied the sentry. "But they are there, sure enough. Every little tuft of grass hides one." "But why don't they show themselves?" "They do when they can make anything by it. Have you forgotten Mike and Tony?" The sentry called the names of two plainsmen,--experienced scouts they were too,--who had attempted to leave the Fort only a few nights before with some papers that the Colonel wished particularly to send to his superior officer. They had been gone about three hours, but when they returned they looked as though they had been through three or four wars. They barely escaped and that was all; and Tony carried with him the mark of an arrow which came near ending his career then and there. "But this is daytime," said Guy. "I don't see what harm there can be in riding around over the prairie in plain sight of the post. I believe I will ask the Colonel to let me try it on." "Very good, sir," replied the sentry. "But he won't let you go." The Lieutenant did not catch all this reply, but hurried away to find the commanding officer. He sent in his name by the Orderly and presently entered the room to which young officers of his rank seldom went unless to receive orders or listen to a reprimand. The Colonel was in his shirt sleeves and pacing back and forth, and now and then he took one of his hands out of his pockets to run it impatiently through his hair. He seemed to have forgotten that he was a soldier and commander of the Fort besides, for he was so impatient at being shut up without remedy that he could scarcely control himself. He stopped and turned toward Mr. Preston with something like a frown upon his face. "Well, what is it now?" he inquired. "Do you know where the Indians are?" "No, sir, and I don't believe there is one within two miles of the Fort," answered the Lieutenant. The Colonel walked to his table, picked up his eyeglasses and put them on. He wanted to look at the officer who could give such an opinion as this. "I should like permission to ride out on the prairie a little way and shoot some of those prairie chickens which are so thick out there," said Mr. Preston. "I saw some within twenty yards of the post." The Colonel stared hard at Mr. Preston and then drew up the nearest chair and sat down. At first he opened his mouth as if to give a very emphatic reply to this strange request, but on second thought he shouted:-- "Orderly, tell the Adjutant I want to see him." CHAPTER II. AN INVITATION Guy Preston was sorely perplexed by this order. He was not aware that he had done anything to be reported to the Adjutant, and besides that officer was not a member of his company. He had not been invited to sit down as was generally the case with officers who came there to see the Colonel on business, but stood twirling his cap in his hand; and every time he raised his eyes to the Colonel's face he saw that the officer was still regarding him behind his eyeglasses as if he meant to look him through. "Are you aware that the Sioux are very hostile, and have you any idea what they will do if they capture you?" said the Colonel, breaking the silence at last. "But they will not capture me, sir," answered Guy. "I shall go on horseback, and the Indian pony does not live which can beat Tom." "I don't suppose that a bullet or an arrow could stretch your Tom out dead while you were running away from them?" said the Colonel. "Yes, sir, I suppose they can do that, but they would not take me alive, all the same." Guy finished the sentence by putting his hand into his hip pocket and drawing forth a Derringer which he showed to the Colonel. "Humph!" said the officer. "You would shoot yourself before you would be taken prisoner? Well, I don't know but that is the right thing to do." At this moment the First Lieutenant who acted as Adjutant came into the room. He listened with surprise when his officer made him acquainted with the request that Guy Preston had brought in to him, adding:-- "You have your report for this quarter all made out?" The Adjutant replied that he had. "Well, I shall want you to make out an entry in your 'Remarks' in regard to Lieutenant Preston," said the Colonel. "You will simply say: 'Requested permission to go out in the face of the Sioux for the purpose of shooting some sage hens. Granted. He was shot down and killed by the Sioux in plain view of the Fort.' You may go," he continued, walking up and taking Preston by the hand. "I never expect to see you again." "Th--thank you, sir," replied the Lieutenant, who was confounded by the way his request was granted. "I will surely be back in the course of an hour or two." When Guy had left the room, the Colonel's face relaxed, and filling up his pipe he settled himself for a smoke. "I do not think he will go," said the Adjutant with a laugh. "I know I would not stir a peg after I had received such a permission as that." "Keep an eye on him," said the Colonel, "and if you see him mount his horse, just step up and tell him not to go out of sight of the Fort. I do not blame these boys for getting impatient, I want to do something myself, but I don't know what it is." "Halloo, Preston, where are you going now?" exclaimed one of his roommates, as he entered his apartment and began to overhaul his hunting rig. "A shotgun! You are not going outside!" "The Colonel told me to go," answered Preston. "He called them sage hens, but I believe they are prairie chickens." "And you are going outside to shoot them, and the Sioux all around you?" cried the young officer, throwing down his book and raising himself to a sitting posture on his bunk. "Guy, you are crazy." "I guess that is what the Colonel seemed to think; but he told me to go, and said he never expected to meet me again. He is going to bluff me, but he will find that I am not that sort." Guy then went on to tell Perkins how the request was received and the way it was granted, to all of which he listened in amazement. As soon as he began to get it through his head, he implored his roommate to let the permission go by default; the Colonel did not expect him to go; he knew how perilous the undertaking was, and he hoped, by drawing it in its true colors, to make Preston see it also; but Preston did not see it in that way. "He did not go at it right," said he. "He took the very course to make me go out there. If he is going to find out how brave I am, he will certainly find it out." "You are a fool," declared Perkins hotly. "I never expect to see you again either. When I shake you by the hand at the gate it will be the last time until I see you brought in for good." Guy Preston began to see at last that he was about to do something at which many a better man and braver than he ever dared be would hesitate. It might be that "every little tuft of grass concealed a Sioux warrior," and an arrow or a bullet sped when he was not looking for it would put an end to his redoubtable thoroughbred and leave him at the mercy of the Indians who had beleaguered the Fort; but he had his loaded Derringer in his pocket, and he was sure that with it he could escape the barbarities they would inflict upon him. He took his double barrel out of its case, and bade Perkins good-by; but that worthy did not notice him at all. He got up and accompanied Preston to the stables, saw him saddle his horse and lead him to the gate. He found the Adjutant there waiting to pass the orders the Colonel had last given him, and he seemed more surprised than ever to learn that the young officer was still bent on going outside; but he said, as if he were giving ordinary instructions to one who had a simple duty to perform:-- "Do you see those hills about a mile and a half off? Well, keep inside of them. If you go over them, we shall give you up. Look out for an ambuscade." "Now will you bid me good-by, Perkins?" said Guy, extending his hand. "Oh, you need not be so particular about giving it a brotherly clasp. I will see you again in two or three hours, and I shall have a lot of prairie chickens to show you. Good-by everybody." "I am really surprised at the Colonel," said Perkins, as he stood by the Adjutant's side and watched his comrade as he galloped away. "He should have refused him point-blank." "The Colonel is sorry enough for it now when it is too late," said the officer. "He supposed, of course, when the boy found out how much danger there was in his undertaking that he would give it up; but I knew he was taking the wrong course. Good-by Preston. By gracious, he has one prairie chicken already!" Yes; the very first chicken that his horse frightened up was filled full of No. 8 shot, and Preston had something for his dinner. The Adjutant could not wait to see any more. He had business to attend to somewhere inside, so he went off and Perkins sat there on the ground for an hour and kept watch of his companion as he wandered to and fro on the prairie in search of another chicken. At last one got up before him, but the shooter seemed to have lost his skill. The double barrel spoke twice in quick succession, but the chicken kept on and in a moment more flew over the ridge out of sight. At least that was what Perkins thought he had done, the distance being so great that he could not see the chicken at all; but he judged from Guy's actions that that was the way he had gone. After waiting long enough to reload his gun, he put spurs to his horse and presently he too was out of sight. "Good-by Guy Preston," said Perkins, with a sigh; "you are the best fellow that ever lived, and now the Sioux have got you sure. You should have had better sense than to disobey the Adjutant's orders." Perkins was in a very gloomy frame of mind as he took his way through the gate and finally brought up before the Adjutant's door. A voice from the inside bade him enter, and the Lieutenant knew as soon as he looked at him that he had some news to communicate. "Guy Preston has gone, sir," said he. "Over the ridge?" replied the officer, starting up in his chair. "Yes, sir. The second chicken he shot at went that way, or at least I thought so, and Guy followed after him." The Adjutant said no more. Guy was a favorite with all the officers and men, and the idea of him losing his life through a disobedience of orders was distressing. He shoved a sheet of paper which he had been examining to one side, got up and walked to a window and looked out at the sentry who stood in front of the gate; and Perkins, taking this as a gentle hint that conversation was no longer desirable, put on his hat and retreated through the door. Guy Preston was a persevering hunter, and when he reached the top of the swell he saw the chicken just settling in the grass about one hundred yards away. This time there was no mistake about it. The game "lay well to cover," and when the horse was almost ready to step upon him he arose and sought safety in flight; but he laid too long. When the shotgun spoke again he came down, and Guy had another chicken. For half an hour longer he rode about behind the swell, and finally he aroused himself and began to look around him. He was surprised to see that he had broken orders by at least a mile or more. "Come on, Tom, and we will go back in a hurry," said he, pulling the horse's head around. "There were more chickens out here when I looked over the palisade at them, and where are they now? Get up, Tom, and we'll--" Something happened just then to call Guy back to earth, and made him think a little more of the Sioux than he did a few moments previous. It was the sight of a solitary warrior sitting on his horse about half a mile away, and what struck Guy as something strange was, he did not seem at all afraid of being observed by anybody. Guy drew up his horse and looked at him. He could see that the Indian brave was dressed in war costume, but the distance was so great, not having a glass with him, that he could not make out whether he was a chieftain or not. The warrior seemed to be equally interested in him, for after looking at Guy for a minute or two, he put his horse in motion and came down the swell toward him. "I don't believe I care for a closer acquaintance," said the young officer, gathering up the reins and leaning forward in the saddle, still keeping his eyes fixed upon the approaching savage. "If you want a race, come on. It is lucky for you that I haven't my Winchester in my hands. I would take that war bonnet of yours into the Fort with me as a trophy." But somehow Guy did not put his horse into rapid motion as he had expected to do. The Indian, when he saw that Guy was getting ready to flee, stopped his own horse, and, as if to assure him that his intentions were pacific, held his rifle above his head at arm's length. This done he swung himself to the ground and laid the weapon at full length in the grass. Then he unbuckled his belt, which he also showed to Guy, and laid it beside the rifle. The next belt he took off was the one containing his knife, which he also placed with the others, and having completely disarmed himself, he placed one hand upon his horse's withers, gracefully leaped into the saddle, and once more rode toward Guy. "I believe he wants to communicate," thought Guy, not knowing whether or not to accept his invitation. "Sioux, thy name is treachery; and that fellow's motions show me that he is as active as a cat. There," he added, seeing that the savage stopped his horse and sat regarding Guy intently, "he is waiting to see what I am going to do. I believe I will try him on." Guy Preston's actions must by this time have satisfied the reader that he was a boy who could not easily be frightened. His coming out on the prairie to shoot chickens must have convinced one of that fact. Without hesitating a moment he proceeded to disarm himself the same as the savage had done, but all he had to do was to lay down his shotgun and take off the belt containing his cartridges. His loaded Derringer he kept in his hip pocket. "Now come on," said he, as he again mounted his horse. "He may have some weapons about him, but if he has I have my Derringer." CHAPTER III. WINGED ARROW Guy often said that he did not see why it was that he and the savage should advance to meet each other in that cool and collected manner. If the Indian had friends who were concealed behind the swells and he was simply trying to get him further away from the Fort so that they could surround and capture him, he saw no signs to indicate it. He never looked behind him at all. He came on as though he had no suspicion, and Guy, not to be outdone by his savage confederate, came on in the same way. He had a great curiosity to see a real live Indian in his war paint, but as he drew nearer he discovered that there were no signs of paint about this Indian. It was a whiter face than people of his tribe usually boast of, and Guy thought that he was smiling in a good-natured sort of way. A few steps more and he was aware of it; and furthermore he discovered that his savage friend, if that was the name to be applied to him, was a boy but little older than himself. As soon as he approached within speaking distance he raised his hand to his bonnet with a military flourish and said, in perfect English:-- "How do you do, sir?" Guy raised his hand to his cap, but he could not say anything in reply. The idea of being spoken to in such a manner was enough to upset him completely. He had been wondering how he would communicate with the savage and running over in his mind the various signs he had learned from the guides, signs which he could use whenever he met an Indian who did not understand his language; but to be addressed in finished English was rather more than he had bargained for. The Indian evidently enjoyed his perplexity, for after looking at him a moment or two he inquired:-- "Do you not think you are running a great risk in coming out here to shoot those little birds, while there are Sioux all around you ready to take your scalp?" "Who are you?" said Guy, getting the better of his astonishment at last. "I am Winged Arrow, at your service," replied the Indian. "Yes; but I don't know any more about you than I did before," returned Guy. "You are not an Indian?" "A full-blooded one," was the response; and the savage proved that he had been among the soldiers just long enough to learn their ways, for he lifted his right leg and placed it across the horn of his saddle. "Perhaps my English bothers you." "Well, yes; I confess that that has something to do with it," said Guy, growing more at his ease. "Where have you been to learn so much?" "I have been at Carlisle. I was a student there for eight years." "Oh," said Guy, his astonishment being immensely relieved. "But you did not stay there long enough to wash the red out of you." "It would take more than eight years to do that. I learned the white man's ways, but I could not forget that I was an Indian. What do you fellows want out here anyway? The prairie is broad, and why could you not build a road somewhere else?" Having got over his astonishment, Guy turned to make a note of the savage and his accoutrements. This was the first Indian he had ever seen close at hand, but as far as he had read or seen at a distance his trappings were all of the savage order. His moccasins, leggings, and hunting shirt, as well as the gaudily ornamented bonnet which he wore upon his head, were all of some squaw's handiwork. There was only one thing about him that looked any way civilized,--his hair was cut short in regular school-boy fashion. His face would have been a study if Guy had had the opportunity to give it a good looking-over. It was a noble face, and one that could hardly be expected to be found among men or boys of his tribe. How such a face as that should become distorted by passion was something Guy could not understand. The Indian certainly had no weapons about him. If he had, they kept company with Guy's Derringer--safely out of sight. From the Indian,--or Winged Arrow, he called himself,--Guy turned his attention to his horse; for a horse was something he greatly admired. It was a small horse of sorrel color, but there was a look about him which drew his attention and which he greatly delighted in. The animal stood peaceable enough, but his head was erect, his eyes flashed continually as he glanced around the horizon, and he snuffed as often as he turned toward the Fort, as if he felt the presence of an enemy there. Guy was satisfied at last to turn his attention to Winged Arrow and hear what else he had to say. "This land belongs to Congress," began Guy. "I beg your pardon, sir, but Congress never had a right or never will have a right to own one foot of this ground," said the Indian, speaking with some animation. "It belongs to us, and we are bound to defend it." "Did we not make a treaty with some of your big men to have the right of way through this country?" said Guy. "But why did you not take the sense of the nation on it? Red Cloud is a 'big man,' and he is decidedly opposed to it. You have taken one reservation after another from us and the Indian has nothing left. We propose to do as any brave people would do--fight for this country as long as there is a man left. This home is all we have, and we will not give it up until we are whipped. This is the sixth time you have made us promises, and not one of them has been fulfilled." Guy Preston could not say anything in reply, for he knew that Winged Arrow told him the truth. The Indian then went on to tell of some of those treaties and the way the white man had broken faith with them; and he repeated them as though he were reading from a book. He had the words of Spotted Tail, a chief of the Brule Indians, almost by heart. He said that word came from the Great Father that the white men wanted to "borrow" the right of way from the Indians, and that the promises so made would last fifty years; but it was not true. The next treaty they made was with General Sherman, and they were told that the promises would last for twenty-five years; but it also was not true. The General said that the Indian should have all the land from the White River to the Missouri, cattle, oxen, and wagons to haul logs with, and that they should have $15 as an annuity; but it was false. The white man never came with the goods in his hand to let the Indian see how much he was going to get for the land he was told to give up, for then their hearts would be glad; but they got the land and forgot all their promises. Winged Arrow's heart was in the matter and for an hour he kept talking, while Guy could only sit still and listen. "But it seems to me that you are making a big mistake," said he at last, when he saw a chance to crowd a word in edgewise. "What do you want to kill the soldiers for? They are not to blame because somebody has broken faith with you." "I know that very well," said the Indian, straightening himself up on his horse and raising his hand above his head. "But don't you know that the soldiers are the bulwarks of civilization? The settlers would not come here if it were not for the soldiers. The most of us know that we are going to be whipped in the long run." "You do know it? Then what have you those clothes on for?" "Because I am bound to go down with the rest. I would not give a cent to live here on this prairie unless we could live as we were before." Guy did not know what reply to make to this. He thought it would be a long time before Winged Arrow and others like him could live as they used to do before the whites came in. There was the buffalo. There was a time when the land all around them was fairly black with the countless throngs, but they had all been slaughtered by the hands of the buffalo hunters, either for their hides or just to make a "record," and no power on earth could bring those throngs back again. Winged Arrow should have seen that, so Guy reasoned with himself, and he did not hesitate to tell him so. "The buffalo are gone, or rather are going as fast as they can, and you have to give up hunting them and follow the white man's road hereafter," said he earnestly. "That will never be," said Winged Arrow; and his voice fell almost to a whisper. "There was a time when we thought we could kill all the white men and then the buffalo would increase; but those of us who have been to the nation's capital know that the thing is just impossible. When the buffalo goes the Indian will go. We are doomed." Guy Preston had been pretty well aware of that fact for a long time, but this was the first intimation he had ever had of it from an Indian. Winged Arrow seemed to realize it, and his voice grew husky and faint whenever he spoke of it. "Ah! Those were happy days," said he, looking out over the prairie, as if in the distance he could see the vision he was conjuring up. "Of course I don't remember it, for I was not born then; but I have heard my father tell of it, and I can almost see the things as they happened then. The people obeyed the chief, hunted the buffalo, and were happy." "Yes"; said Guy. "You were happy when you were on the warpath. You Indians were always fighting." "Of course. That was fate. The weaker had to give way to the stronger, and that is just what we are doing now. The Indian believes that there are two spirits that rule mortal man, the Good spirit and the Bad. The Good spirit is all the time working for us. He brings us everything that makes man happy. He brings us good weather, plenty of game, and success over our enemies. The Bad spirit is just the reverse. He brings sickness, drives away the game, and makes us miserable in every way he knows how. He has for a time taken advantage of the Good spirit, and that is just what he is doing for us now. Some day the Good spirit will turn around and get the advantage of HIM, but that will be long after my day." "What do you think will happen then?" asked Guy, who was much interested in what the Indian said to him. "When that happens you will see a glorious day for the Sioux Indians," said Winged Arrow, growing animated. "The whites will be driven away from this country forever, I don't know just how it will be done, but it will surely happen; the buffalo will come back, and the Sioux will be monarch of all he surveys." "I will not live to see that day," said Guy. "Neither will I; but it is going to take place as sure as the world stands. But I didn't come out here to teach you my religion. You are Methodist or Episcopalian, and probably you will die that way. I came out to warn you." "To warn me?" echoed Guy. "What about?" "That there is going to be a massacre here in a few days, and I want you to keep out of it." "You just bet that I will keep out of it, if I can; but if I should be ordered to be in it--then what?" "Why, then, there is no help for you. I shall do the same; but you may rest assured that I shall not shoot close to any palefaces. I saw a good many whites while I was gone, and I can't bear to think of seeing them come to their death." "Come to their death? Is it going to happen out here on the plains?" For the first time Winged Arrow straightened around on his horse and looked behind him. There was something so stealthy in his movements that Guy almost involuntarily slipped his right hand to his hip pocket and laid hold of his Derringer. CHAPTER IV. THE MEDICINE Guy Preston turned and looked in the same direction in which the Indian was gazing, but could not see anything to confirm his suspicions. The prairie, as far as he could see it, did not appear as though there was a person on it, but Guy knew better than that. He knew that there was a Sioux warrior within easy reach of him, perhaps at that very minute a rifle was aimed at him or his horse, and that nothing saved him but the presence of Winged Arrow. His face grew a shade paler and his hand trembled as he clutched his Derringer, but his determination was there all the same. "If I go you will have to go first," said he to himself. "On that I am resolved." "I see you are armed," said the Indian, turning quickly about and seeing Guy with his right hand behind him. "That shows that I have more faith in you than you have in me. Well, I don't know that I blame you. You fellows with your books and your speakers have somehow got hold of the idea that an Indian has no gratitude, but I have proved the contrary by coming out here to warn you." "You are a queer sort of an Indian anyhow," said Guy, taking his hand from his hip pocket. "You ought to be a white man." "I am white in some respects; but with all the lessons I learned at Carlisle, they did not make me forget that I was to the manner born. This country is mine, and those who think as I do will, when we lose it, see the last of Winged Arrow." "Did you know that this massacre was coming before you came here?" said Guy, who wanted to learn as much as he could about the savages on the plains and in the school. "If you did, I don't see why your teachers did not warn the authorities." For a reply Winged Arrow took hold of a little bag which he carried in front of him, lifted the cover and thrust his hand into it. Presently he brought out a folded paper, and after he was certain that he had what he wanted, he passed it over to Guy. "That was the letter I received inviting me to come home," said he. "What do you make out of it?" Guy took the letter, but he could not see any writing on it. On the extreme left was an arrow furnished with wings, and a little further to the right was a hand with the forefinger extended as if beckoning to the arrow to hasten his coming. On the right, and a little below this beckoning hand, was an Indian tepee with a buffalo grazing beside it. Although the drawing was evidently done by an unpracticed hand, it was so plain that anybody could tell what it was. With the aid of a few colored pencils, which the drawer had begged or borrowed from the officers of the Fort, he had made the characters of different tints, so that they resembled nature in a wonderful degree. Some distance lower down and plainly a different picture was a bow and a quiver of arrows which another hand was extending toward Winged Arrow, and further back of it was a riderless horse with his mane and tail flying in the wind. "My father drew all that, and it is just as plain to me as daylight," said the Indian, who was closely watching the young officer's face. "There is something red descending from that hand," said Guy. "What is it intended to represent?" "That tells about the massacre that is coming, and he wants me here to take part in it," replied Winged Arrow. "And are you going to do it?" "I shall probably be in it, but the bullet from my rifle will not kill any paleface," said the savage. "That much Indian has been washed out of me. I can't do it." "Bully for you," said Guy, riding his horse up closer to Winged Arrow and thrusting out his hand to him. "I bet you--" "You must not shake hands with me," exclaimed the Indian, drawing back. "There are too many on the watch." "Do you pretend to say that there are some Indians watching me now?" exclaimed Guy. "Certainly there are. You have been within reach of two ever since you came over that ridge." "Then I must go back," said the young officer, who cast anxious glances on all sides of him. "What is the reason they didn't shoot me down or make a prisoner of me? Say! What's your name? You must have had some cognomen besides your Indian name to designate you by when at school." "My name is John Turner, and the boys called me Winged Arrow because I was so fleet in running foot races. I called myself after the janitor of the school. He was always good to Indians, believed that we have been abused, and said if he were President he would not have permitted things to go on in this way. If he were here now we would do our best to capture him, and after we got him we would send him out of the country." "But what was your object in selecting ME to warn ME of the massacre? There are plenty of others who, just like myself, do not believe in this business." "And any one of them would have done just as well. From the day on which you left Fort Robinson in Nebraska--" "Have you followed us all the way from there?" asked Guy, in surprise. The Indian nodded his head. "Why, I should have thought you would have attacked us before this time." "There were too many of you. An Indian does not like to be killed any better than a white man. Ever since you left that fort I have been watching you--you see I could always tell you by the horse you rode--and I decided that if I could catch you out alone I would tell you of the massacre that is surely coming." "When is it coming off?" "It will be when we get some of you where you cannot defend yourselves. We will kill fifty or a hundred of you soldiers, and then we will do what we please with the Fort." "Well, by George! When you attempt that, I hope you will get whipped for your pains." Guy was angry now, and he said just what he thought. "American soldiers are not the men to give way before a handful of savages," he continued. "A handful of savages! How many do you suppose there are watching you night and day?" asked Winged Arrow; and his eyes flashed and he clenched his hands nervously together. "Well, I suppose you have a great many; but it will take more men than you can raise to whip us out. I presume you have a thousand." "Say three thousand and you will hit it. And there are more coming in every day. Now I will tell you what is a fact: You have never seen an Indian war yet." "I know that. I have never seen any." "After you have seen one you will never want to see another. A battlefield is something awful to look at." "I have seen the soldiers that you Indians killed and mutilated since we have been here, and I guess I know something about them. When you have killed a man, why don't you let him alone?" "If I tell you, you would not believe it,--because it is a part of our religious ceremony. The little scrimmages you saw are nothing to the scene presented by a regular battlefield. Are you going now? Well, I will trouble you for that letter." Guy had unconsciously held fast to the letter which Winged Arrow had given him, intending to keep it as a souvenir of his meeting with the young savage; but he was so angry at some things that had been said that he had forgotten all about it. He accordingly returned the letter saying as he did so:-- "I wish you would let me keep that document to remind me of you. If I tell what I have seen and heard out here the officers will all laugh at me and say I dreamed it all. I want it too to bear in mind that the first Indian I ever talked with warned me to look out for that massacre which you say is surely coming." "Well, take it along," said the Indian, after thinking a moment. "It is of no use to me, and it may be the means of saving your life." "What do you mean by that?" "You will excuse me if I do not say any more. Perhaps you will see that an Indian has some gratitude after all." Guy Preston wanted very much to hear more about that letter saving his life, but Winged Arrow put his horse in motion and rode toward the top of the swell behind which the Fort lay. Guy wanted to tell him that he had better go back, but the savage rode on with his eyes fastened upon the horn of his saddle, apparently very much occupied with his own thoughts. Finally he stopped and looked inquiringly at Guy. "Are you not going to pick up your shotgun?" he asked. "Yes; when I come to it," said Guy. "You would not make a good hand to live on the plains," replied Winged Arrow, with a grin; "here it is." The young officer looked, and there were his gun and birds just as he left them. He did not forget to thank Winged Arrow for calling his attention to them, and said, as he jumped off and secured his gun:-- "I am afraid to have you go any further toward the Fort. We have some guns trained on this ridge. I know they are accurate, for I helped to train them myself." "I will stop when I have gone far enough," said Winged Arrow. "Do you see that little tuft of grass up there on the hill? There is an Indian in there." "By George! And I rode within twenty feet of that tuft of grass when I came down," stammered Guy, "What had I better do?" "Keep right ahead and say nothing about it. He will not disturb you. Now I guess I have gone far enough, and I will say good-by. Remember what I have told you about that massacre. Keep that letter about your uniform wherever you go. I must not shake hands with you." Guy Preston was just as eager now to get over on the other side of the ridge as his horse was to carry him there. Tom snorted loudly as the tainted air fell upon his nostrils, and even showed a desire to go toward the Fort at the top of his speed, but the strong curb held him. Guy had heard one of the guides say that his horse could smell an Indian further than he could see him, and that when camping alone he always felt perfectly easy until his steed began to show signs of alarm, and at that moment he thought it best to seek safety in flight; and Guy did not dispute the story. He said good-by with some uneasiness, gathered his reins firmly in his hands and cast anxious glances toward the tuft of grass, but nothing in the shape of a savage could he see. Finally the flag came in sight and a few seconds afterward the log palisades, and then Guy felt safe. He loosened up on the curb, and in an instant the horse responded to it. The young officer told himself that he had never traveled so swiftly on horseback before. He approached the gate at a rapid run, returned the sentry's salute of welcome, and presently dismounted in front of the Colonel's quarters. He drew a long breath of relief, for he was safe for the time being. CHAPTER V. THE REPRIMAND "What luck have you had?" said Perkins, who had stood by the sentry when Guy dashed by and now came up to see how much game he had secured during his wild ride. "Say! the officer of the guard is just waiting to give you fits. You know the orders are that you must not gallop into the Fort unless there is something after you. Why, where have you been?" he added, now for the first time noticing how white the young officer's face was. "Did you see any Sioux?" "Perk, I never was so glad to get inside of a stockade before," replied Guy, handing his gun to his friend, removing his cap and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Yes, sir; I have seen a Sioux Indian and I was closer to him than I cared to be." "Did he shoot at you?" "No, but he said something to me." "What did he say?" "He told me to look out for the massacre that is coming in a few days." "Aw! Get out!" exclaimed Perkins. "It is very likely that a Sioux would tell you that, isn't it now? Go and dream something else." At this moment an Orderly stepped up and, after saluting, informed Guy that the officer of the day wanted to see him right away. Guy handed his reins to Perkins and started to obey. "Wait until I receive my reprimand and then I will tell you all about it," said he. "I am telling you the truth. I met him just on the other side of that hill." Guy followed the Orderly to the quarters of the officer of the day and found that gentleman there alone. His face wore a fierce frown as he turned about in his chair and confronted the young officer. "I have got back, sir," said Guy, raising his hand to his cap. "So I perceive," responded Captain Kendall. "You have disobeyed orders twice since you have been gone." "I know it, sir, and I am willing to take the scolding which I deserve for the first one, but if you knew all the circumstances you would not reprimand me for the second. I couldn't help it, sir. My horse got away from me." The young officer's air, taken in connection with his pale face, made his superior think there was something back of it, so he crossed his legs, settled down in his chair and requested him to go on, and state what the horse had seen to frighten him. Guy hardly knew how to begin, for he was satisfied that he could not make the officer believe it. "I followed two of those birds, but the second one got away from me and flew over the ridge, sir," said Guy. "We are well aware of that fact," said the officer of the day. "That was the time when you should have faced about and returned to the Fort." "I know it, sir, and I confess to my weakness there; but what kept me so long was an interview I had with a Sioux warrior on the other side of the ridge." The officer of the day began to prick up his ears when he heard this. He straightened up a little in his chair and simply nodded his head as if to tell Guy that he could go on. And Guy went on. He related the whole of his interview with Winged Arrow without interruption from the officer, and when he got through he showed him the letter which the young savage had given him. He explained the crimson drops which were represented as falling from the hand that was beckoning to Winged Arrow to come home. "That tells of the massacre that is to come, sir," said he. "They have shot twenty of our men since we have been here at the Fort, but Winged Arrow says this represents more than that." "Why, they must be going to kill us all off," said the officer. "It certainly looks that way, sir, and he says if I see one battlefield I will never want to see another." "And he gave it to you to save your life?" continued the Captain. "That is what he told me, sir. He told me to keep it about my uniform wherever I went." "Perhaps the Colonel had better see this," said the Captain, after a moment's pause. "But I shall have to come down on you hard to pay you for going over the other side of the ridge." "I know it, sir. I ought to have come back then." "Well, the next time the Colonel trusts you, be sure and obey all orders to the very letter. Now we will go and see what he has to say about it." Guy felt better than he did when he came into that room a little while ago. Captain Kendall was noted for "coming down hard" on both officers and men who did not obey the law, and so far Guy was all right; but how was he going to fare when he saw the Colonel? He followed the officer as he walked toward the office, and looked all around to see if he could find Perkins or some of his roommates who would see him on the way there. He saw Perkins, still holding fast to his horse, and when the officer of the day was not looking toward him, he pulled off his hat and took hold of his hair as if to show Guy that he was now about to get a reprimand for going over the ridge. The officer sent in his name by the Orderly and found the Colonel pacing back and forth as he had seen him on a previous occasion. He faced about, took one hand from behind him, and pointed it at Guy. "What do you mean, sir, by coming into the Fort as if all the Sioux were close at your heels?" said he. "Colonel, if you will permit me, I should be glad to explain that thing," said Captain Kendall; "here is a letter that tells all about it." "Sit down, Captain, and that boy can stand there until I get ready to talk to him," said the Colonel. "Where did you find this letter, sir?" Captain Kendall made answer for him, and it was not long before the frown on his face vanished and a troubled expression came to take its place. "The next time we send out a party for wood is when the massacre is going to take place," said he, when the Captain had explained everything. "We must be on the lookout for that. Have you told this boy what you think of him for going over the other side of the ridge?" "Yes, sir. I have told him all about it." "Then you may go." Guy Preston was in no hurry to go just then, for there was Winged Arrow's letter which the Colonel did not show any signs of returning to him. He sat with his eyes fastened upon it, and then Guy looked at the officer of the day. The latter gave him a wink as if to say that it was all right, the Orderly opened the door for him, and Guy went out. Perkins still kept charge of the horse, and Guy went toward him. It was against the law for an officer to hire or appoint an enlisted man to act as his groom, and so every officer had to take charge of his horse himself. But the thing was done in spite of orders and is done yet. Most men are not backward in regard to earning a quarter for rubbing down a horse in time for dress parade, and many a coin which the officers earn slips into their pockets. They do this when there is no officer about. The minute the officer of the day or guard appears upon the scene, they grab the brush and the officer finds them at work grooming their horses. Perkins would have stayed there until he was gray headed, for Guy had told him just enough of his adventures to want to make him hear more, and he knew that he would have to come there after his horse. He had gathered the rest of his roommates about him, and they were all impatient for Guy's appearance. "Here he comes now," exclaimed Arthur Brigham, one of the four who were fresh from "The Point." "Now we will make him confess that he is making that story all up out of his own head." "You will not make me go back on a single word that I have said," said Guy, taking his reins and gun from Perkins's hand. "Come in with me until I rub down my horse and I will tell you all about it." "But, Guy, did you really see an Indian and converse with him?" asked another. "I did, as sure as you're a foot high. He was a splendid-looking fellow, and talked English better than I did." "Oh, get out," said Arthur. "What chance had he to learn English?" "He says he has been to school for eight years. He knows all the treaties by heart." "Oh, well, that accounts for it. How was he dressed?" While Guy was leading his horse toward the stable, he was plied with such questions as these, and he hardly knew it when the soldier who now and then acted as his groom, took the reins from his hand, led the horse to his place, and removed the saddle and bridle from him. Guy leaned upon his gun while all the rest of the boys, except Perkins, crowded about him to hear some more of his story. Perkins remained near the door to keep an eye on the parade ground. He did not intend to let the officer of the day catch a soldier grooming Guy's horse. "Begin at the beginning and tell us all about it," said Arthur. "You say he was a smart chap?" "The smartest I ever saw wrapped up in the hide of an Indian," said Guy; "he saluted me as if he had been in the army all his life, and the language with which he addressed me fairly took my breath away. I didn't know what to say to him in reply." "Look out, boys," said Perkins in a whisper; "here comes Kendall." The boys vanished as if by magic. Guy peeled off his coat, took the brush from the hands of the soldier, and, striking up a whistle, proceeded to rub down his horse; the others went, some to examine their bridles and some to give their nags a good looking-over, and not another word was said. Captain Kendall came in and walked the whole length of the stable without any remark and then went out; but the moment he disappeared the soldier took the brush, and the young officers gathered about Guy again. Not a word was said about the joke they had played upon Captain Kendall. Such scenes were an every-day occurrence. "What was in that letter he gave you?" asked Perkins. "That letter won't do me much good," replied Guy, with a discontented look; "the Colonel's got it and I guess he means to keep it." "Not if it is going to save your life," said one of his roommates. "But how is it going to do that? I must first fall into the hands of the Sioux, and I don't want to do that, I bet you. I have not forgotten those men that they killed." "I will tell you what let's do," said Perkins. "Let's go and see Cyrus. He will know whether or not there is anything to it." This the boys decided to do; and when the soldier had finished grooming the horse, they came out and turned their steps toward the guide's headquarters. CHAPTER VI. THE BUNDLE OF SAGE BRUSH "By the way," said Lieutenant Perkins, before they had gone many steps on their road, "who is this young fellow, Winged Arrow, or whatever you call him, anyway? Was he richly dressed?" "I don't see what his clothes had to do with that," said Arthur. "Of course he was richly dressed, if it took the last cent he had. An Indian will put all he has on his back, even if his stomach goes empty." "This fellow didn't, I tell you," said Guy. "The most I could see of his uniform was buckskin; and it was fixed up in a way that must have taken some squaw a year or more to turn it out so neatly. I saw his pants, or a portion of them that was not covered up by his leggings, and they were the costliest kind of broadcloth; much better than those we wear,--we mounted Lieutenants who draw $1500 a year." "I wonder if his father is rich," said Perkins. "There!" exclaimed Guy. "I knew there was something I had forgotten. I never thought to ask him who his father was." "You made a mistake there," said Arthur. "He must be a man of some note in the tribe, or his son would not be allowed to meet an enemy on the lines. You say that there were Sioux watching you all the time?" "Yes, and he showed me the hiding place of one of them; but you might as well look for a needle in a haystack as to try to make him out. My horse smelled him, however, and that was the reason he ran away with me." The boys had by this time reached the guide's headquarters, and there they found the man of whom they were in search sitting on an empty cracker box, smoking his pipe. We ought rather to have said "the boy," for Cyrus was about their own age. No one knew what his other name was, whether Cyrus was his given or surname, and, as he did not volunteer the information, no one cared to ask him. He had been born on the plains, for no one could have learned so much unless he had been; and the boys had told one another confidentially that there was a story back of it. He was talkative enough whenever he was approached on any other subject, but the moment they tried to pry into his parentage Cyrus closed his mouth and would say nothing more. He was very friendly with all the young officers, accepted the cigars and tobacco which they offered him, and gave them "points" when they went out on a scout after Indians; but who his father was was a question he would not answer. He was taller than any boy in the party, and the muscles on his arms were something to wonder at. "Halloo!" said he, knocking the ashes from his pipe and filling up for a fresh smoke, "Guy got a reprimand. I can see it plainly enough. Why didn't you obey the Adjutant's orders, and come in when your game flew off over the ridge?" "Well, there is once that you are mistaken," said Guy. "I told the officer of the day just why I did not come back, and he said that the next time the Colonel trusted me I was to do just as I was told." "Kendall is the officer of the day, is he not?" replied Cyrus. "That is the first time I ever knew of him letting a young officer off so easily. You must have seen something over there." "Yes, I did; and I want to know if you ever heard of, or have seen something, I don't care what it was, which was given to a white man that would save his life if he were to fall into the hands of the Sioux?" "I certainly have," replied Cyrus. "What was it?" asked all the boys at once. "Have you found such a thing?" "No; but I had something given to me. It was a letter which Winged Arrow's father had written to him to come home." "Where is the letter?" "The Colonel's got it and I don't know whether he means to give it up or not. I tell you it put him on nettles too. It tells of a massacre that is to come off very shortly. The Colonel says that the next time we go out after a load of wood we have got to look out." "I know pretty nearly all the Sioux that there are in that camp, but I never heard of Winged Arrow before," said Cyrus. "What sort of a looking chap was he? Tell me all about the history of that letter, and then I will tell you some more." Once more Guy began and told his story, and Cyrus seemed to take it all as a matter of course, for he never expressed surprise at anything the young officer told him. When Guy had finished his tale, Cyrus lighted his pipe and sat with his elbows on his knees, looking thoughtfully at the floor. "So it seems that we young officers have got some friends in the camp of the Sioux all unbeknown to us," said Guy, after waiting for Cyrus to say something. "They don't want us all killed off." "Well, that stands to reason," said Cyrus. "This Winged Arrow has been under instruction of white people all the time for eight years, as you say, and he doesn't want to see any of your kind hurt. That letter will save the life of anybody who falls into the hands of the Sioux." "Do you know that to be a fact?" asked Arthur, who, like all the rest of the party, was greatly astonished. "Yes, sir; I know it is so," said Cyrus, emphatically. "Mine was saved once by a simple bunch of sage brush which I had in one of my pockets." "Oh, go on and tell us all about it," chorused the boys, looking around for some place to sit down. "I don't see what there could have been in a lot of sage brush to save your life." "It is not a long story, so you need not get ready for an all night's entertainment," returned Cyrus. "You know I have always been kind of friendly toward the Indians; whether Sioux or Pawnee, it made no sort of difference to me, for I live a good deal like them myself. About two years ago we had some war on with the Sioux, about some land, of course, and I was off scouting by myself to see what I could find. I was not attached to any post then. One day I was within hearing of a tremendous fight that came off between our fellows and the Sioux, but I did not go near the battlefield until it was all over. The next day I went up and found that our men had been victorious. The dead and wounded Indians were buried where they had fallen, and our own people had disappeared. They had been carried away by our fellows so that the reds could not dig them up and mutilate them. "I was just about mounting my horse to go on again, when I heard a groan coming from a thicket close at my side, mingled with the cries in the Sioux tongue of 'Water! Water!' I tell you I did not feel safe in going up to find out what the matter was, for the Indians, even though they are wounded unto death, have a way of keeping a weapon in their hands ready to be the death of any one who comes near them; but finally I made out to see the man, and there was not anything in the shape of a revolver or knife near him. He was shot through both hips, but had managed to drag himself out of sight there in the thicket where he had lain undisturbed by our forces when they were burying the dead. When I came up to him he held out his hands piteously and begged for water. He saw that I was supplied, for he had his eyes on my canteen, and although somebody might call me a fool for doing it, I took it off and gave it to him. He was a human being and somehow I could not bear to knock him in the head. He seemed greatly surprised at that, and grateful too; and after a little while I began a conversation with him. He told me that he had been shot out there on the plains, but had dragged himself to those bushes without a weapon of any kind, and that nothing remained for him but to lie there and die. Of course I could not do anything for him, for he was shot in such a way that he could not sit upright on a horse. I left him the little grub I had and promised that if I could find any one to send after him, I would do it; but that was all in my one eye. I supposed when I left him it would be the last of him. "Just as I was about to get on my horse and ride away from him, he thrust his hand into his medicine sack and drew out something wrapped up in buckskin, which he held toward me. I said nothing, but took it, and when I was a little way off I unrolled the thing, and found that I had a handful of sage grass. My first impulse was to drop it, for I did not believe that it would be of any use to me; but in time I happened to remember that such things HAD served prisoners in some way or another and saved their lives." "Why, how would it do that?" said Arthur. "I do not know," replied Cyrus, "whether it is a sign from one Indian to another, or some medicine which they think will protect anybody who has it,--it is beyond me quite. It did not protect this Indian; for if it had, the white man's bullet that shot him through the hips would have been turned away and never hit him at all. Well, I took it, put it in one of my pockets, and started on the trail of our forces, intending to overtake them as soon as I could, when the first thing I knew I ran plump into a squad of about twenty warriors; or, rather, they ran into me, for they came over a hill and surrounded me before I could think twice. 'Well' said I, 'You are gone up this time. It is no use trying to get away, but some of these savages will go before you do.' So I cut loose with my rifle--" "Do you mean to say that you shot while the Indians were all around you?" exclaimed Guy in astonishment. "Certainly," replied Cyrus. "I supposed that if I was caught alive, there could be only one case for me, and that was to be tortured, so I determined to do what damage I could before I went. I got two of the warriors, and I did not make any mistake about it either, and then somebody shot my horse through the head and I came to the ground. Before I could say 'General Jackson' I was disarmed and my hands tied behind my back. I was done for at last." The boys waited impatiently for Cyrus to go on with his story, but he leaned his elbows on his knees and took a few long pulls at his pipe. At length Guy began to grow indignant. "Well, it seems as though the Indians left a great deal of you, if they did burn you to death," said he. "Didn't they leave enough of you to finish your tale?" Cyrus laughed heartily. "I was just going over in my mind the way things happened there during the next few minutes," said he, when he had sobered down. "They all began shouting at once, and I knew by the noise they made that we were safe from our boys, and that I had nobody to rescue me. Some began shouting out one thing and some another, but I knew from what they said that they were in favor of disposing of me at once, because they did not think it safe to take me to their village. They put a lariat around my neck, jumped on their horses and started for a little grove of willows about five miles off; and although I was a pretty fair runner, I was completely whipped by the time we got there. I tried my level best to make them listen to me, but I might as well have shouted against the roar of Niagara. When we got to the willows I could not say a word. They untied my hands and while some proceeded to cut the fuel with which they were about to torture me, the others peeled off my clothes; and they went into every pocket to see what I had that was worth stealing. Presently one of them took up my pants which had my pipe, tobacco, and money in them, and the first thing he drew out was that roll of buckskin which contained the sage brush that the wounded Indian had given me. The grunt he gave when he unrolled it was enough to bring all the Indians about him. The shouting instantly ceased. They examined the sage brush, turned it on all sides to see if there was anything more with it, and at last looked at me. "'Have you fellows got so that you can listen to a white man at last?' said I, 'I know where I got that, and who gave it to me. If you will go with me I will show him to you.' "They could understand me well enough when they were not shouting so as to drown my words. One of them, who spoke a little better English than the rest, ordered me to tell my story; but I told him that I could speak his own language better than he could, and so spoke to him in his own dialect. When I got through they wanted to hold a consultation and they drew off several feet, this time leaving me untied. When they came back they allowed me to put on my clothes and told me to lead them to their wounded comrade. If I had been a tenderfoot then I should have been in a fix, for the prairie on all sides looked the same; but there were certain little landmarks which I remembered, and in process of time I brought them to the bush which concealed the man of whom I was in search. One would have thought from the anxiety they showed to meet the man, that there would have been a big jubilee over finding him; but they did not act so at all. They simply exchanged a few words with him and then came back to me. My horse, weapons, and every thing I had lost by them was restored, all except my sage brush, which I wanted more than I did anything else. Then they told me I could go; and I lost no time in getting out of there. That letter of yours, Lieutenant, might do the same thing for any one who happened to have it about him; and for that reason I would like to see it. Don't you think the Colonel would give it up if you asked him?" Cyrus, who had allowed his pipe to go out while he was talking, struck a match on the floor and turned toward Guy for an answer. CHAPTER VII. "GOOD-BY CYRUS" "And do you really believe that that bit of sage brush, which anyone could have picked up on the prairie, was the means of saving your life?" inquired Guy, when Cyrus ceased speaking. "Or it may have been the water and food you gave him," said Arthur. "Almost anybody would have been grateful for that." "No, it was the sage brush," said Cyrus earnestly. "The Indians carried it with them when they went to the wounded man and showed it to him before they told me that I could go. He exchanged a few words with them in tones so low that I could not overhear them, and after that they came to their decision regarding me. I say it was the sage brush and nothing else." "Guy," said one of his roommates, "you must get that letter. Cyrus wants to see it." "It is not that so much as I want it to help me in something I am going to do to-night," said Cyrus. "I don't want you boys to say anything about it, but I am going to try to get those dispatches to Fort Robinson as soon as it becomes dark." The young officers were really surprised now. Here was a boy who was about to take the same chances that two of their most trusted scouts had attempted only a short time before, and he knew that he was going to fall into the hands of the Sioux before he got through. For a minute or two no one spoke. They looked at Cyrus and then at one another, and finally shook their heads as if the matter was too deep for them to understand. "I am going to try it to-night," said Cyrus, and for the first time in their lives the boys saw him put on a determined look, which revealed more of the boy's character than they had ever dreamed of. Cyrus had pluck in him; there were no two ways about that. "If I fail, as a good many better men than I have, who have tried it, it will be the last you will ever see of me." "But, Cyrus, how do you know that the letter will prove an advantage to you?" asked Guy. "You seem to be depending upon something that none of us ever supposed that a Sioux had; I mean gratitude." "Oh, I know the way your speakers and writers of books have ventilated their opinions on that subject, but I will tell you that gratitude is a thing that Indians have as well as white men," said Cyrus, getting upon his feet and pacing the floor. "You call an Indian a savage, and say that everybody who falls into his hands is booked for Davy's locker sure enough; but some of them have hearts. If the Colonel would let me, I would not be afraid to take Guy's letter and go into the Sioux camp this very minute." "Well, you have more faith in them than I have," said Guy, astonished by the proposition, "You go into the Sioux camp to-night and we will never hear any more stories from YOU; you can bet on that." "Somebody has to take the risk, and since the Colonel has been to me, I can't well refuse. We shall all be massacred if we stay here, and if some one has got to die in order to save the rest, it might as well be myself as anybody. Guy, will you get the letter for me?" "Certainly," said the officer, who had never heard Cyrus speak in such a tone of voice before. "It is my letter and I must have it." "Don't say anything to him about what I have told you," said Cyrus. "I am disobeying orders by telling you, and you must keep my secret." After the boys had all promised to be careful, Guy Preston came out and turned toward the Colonel's quarters. He heard the invitation in the commandant's voice, "Tell him to come in," and Guy entered and found the officer pacing up and down his narrow room as he had seen him twice before. Indeed he did not appear to have anything else to do. He wanted to find some way of getting out of the predicament he was in, and he hoped by walking the floor that something would occur to him. "Sit down, Mr. Preston," said he. "Thank you, sir, but I don't want to stop long," was the reply. "I gave you a letter which Winged Arrow gave to me, and you have not returned it. The young savage wanted me to keep that letter in my uniform wherever I went, thinking it might be of service to me if I were captured." "Why, you don't expect to fall into the power of the Sioux, do you?" said the Colonel with a smile. "No, sir, I don't expect to, but there is no telling what may happen." "I thought I would send that in making out my report," said the officer. "If you don't mind, that is what I will do with it." Guy was astonished and greatly alarmed when he heard this. Aside from the protection which the letter might afford him, there was Cyrus who was particularly anxious to have it, in view of the perilous undertaking which the passing of the hours was rapidly bringing toward him. Cyrus was a favorite with all the officers and men, and he must have the letter if there were any way to bring it about. He did not believe in such things, but Cyrus did, and he thought that the mention of his name would help matters a little. "I have been talking to Cyrus about it, and he wants to see it," said he, at a venture. "Oh, Cyrus," exclaimed the Colonel, rising to his feet and going to his desk, "That puts a different look on the affair. I suppose that when he is done with the letter that you will bring it back." "Yes, sir; when he IS DONE with it," replied Guy, extending his hand for the document. The Colonel evidently did not notice the emphasis he placed upon the verb, for if he had he would have asked him to explain. He handed out the letter, and, after thanking him for it, Guy put on his cap and left the room. "I said when he was DONE with it I would return it," said he to himself, as he ran across the parade ground, "that will be after the letter has served his purpose. I hope it will assist him in getting out of the hands of those rascally Sioux, if he is unfortunate enough to fall into them; but I don't know. I would rather see our regiment drawn up with sabers in their hands than to believe in this thing." Cyrus was in the quarters alone. The young officers having thought of various duties they had yet to perform, had gone away to attend to them. He received the letter with a smile and gave it a good looking-over. "It WAS drawn by an Indian," he remarked, as he folded up the letter and placed it in his pocket. "Now when you are all through with that, you must give it back to the Colonel," said Guy, "I have promised him that. But it seems to me that you are relying on a poor prop." "You probably get your notions of Indians from some books that you have read," replied Cyrus. "I never have heard of a war yet in which some prisoner, either white man or savage, did not owe his life to some such thing as this. You never see anything about it in print, because the majority of people they capture are not high enough up to believe in such foolish ideas. They don't believe that because a thing is senseless and can't speak, that it will be of any benefit to them; but you ask some men, who have been out here on the prairie all their lives and have associated with Indians more than they have with the whites, what they think of these things. They will tell you that there is more faith to be put in them than in a regiment of soldiers." Guy was amazed to hear Cyrus talk in this way. He grew animated and talked like some one who had been through all the books at school, and, furthermore, his words carried weight with them. Guy was encouraged. He hoped that Cyrus would get through in safety with his dispatches, or, failing that, the letter would take him through the hostile ranks of the Sioux and bring him unharmed back to them. "You talk as though you were not going through," said he, not knowing what else to say. "Well, those two men who tried it the other night were well up in all that relates to the Indians and the prairie on which they live, and if they did not get through there is a small chance for me. Now I want to lie down and take a little sleep, and when the Orderly comes he will know where to find me." "I may not see you again and so I will bid you good-by," said Guy, who felt that he was parting from an older brother. He thrust out his hand, and Cyrus took it and clasped it warmly. Not another word was said. The officer put on his hat and left the quarters. "Don't I wish that I had half the pluck that that man has?" said he to himself. "If that were all, he would hoodwink the savages in some way; but they are too many for him. Good-by Cyrus. I will never see you again." It was a long night to Guy Preston and his two companions who were with him--two of them were on duty and they did not see much of them--and when the next day came it was harder than ever, for they were obliged to pretend ignorance of Cyrus's whereabouts. When he got up Guy passed the time until breakfast in attending to such duties as were before him, and then he drew a bee line for the guide's headquarters. He wanted to see if anybody there knew anything of Cyrus. "You tell where Cyrus is," said Tony, who was taking his after-breakfast smoke. "When I went to bed he lay right there; but when I got up this morning his bunk was empty." "It is my opinion that he has gone off with the dispatches that we failed to get through with the night we tried it," said Mike, who was Tony's partner on that unsuccessful expedition. "Good land! He can't get through," exclaimed Tony. "I tell you, Lieutenant, the Sioux are thicker than blackberries in a New England pasture out there. Whichever way we turned we saw something to drive us back. The Kurn knows mighty well that we would have gone on if we had seen the ghost of a chance to get through, because all the men here are in the same fix that we are; but what are you going to do when every tuft of grass you look at turns out to be an enemy?" "Could you see the Sioux?" asked Guy. "No; but our horses smelled them, and that was enough for us. Whenever they stopped and looked before them with cocked ears and snorted, we went back and tried some other way; but it was the same all around the camp. But I am mighty sorry to lose Cyrus. He was the best fellow in camp." "Certain. If he isn't captured, the Sioux will drive him back. There's one thing that I have got against him," said the other scout. "He has left his horse behind him. If I had had anything to do with his going away, I should have told him to be sure and take that pony." Until very recently Guy did not believe that a white man's horse could scent an Indian further than he could see him, but he did believe it now. His experience with his excited horse the morning before had confirmed the story. "A white man's horse won't go up to an Indian that is lying in the grass," continued the scout. "He will turn out and go some other way; and an Indian's pony acts just the same way with a white man. The horses enter into the spirit of the matter and hate a foe as heartily as their riders do." Guy had heard all he wanted to hear about Cyrus's disappearance, and returned to his room to get ready for guard mount, for he was to go on duty then. Not one of his roommates could tell him a single thing he had not learned already. No one knew when Cyrus went away, and the only thing for them to do was to wait patiently for two or three days, or until they could hear from Cyrus direct. Guy was glad to have some duties to perform, because they kept him on the move and he did not have as much time to think as he did when left to himself. At twelve o'clock his relief came on and, after eating his dinner, Guy went into his room and laid down to get a wink of sleep to prepare him for the mid-watch which came on at six o'clock; but it seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was aroused by the long roll and the hurrying of feet outside his quarters. To get up, pull on his boots, seize his coat with one hand and his sword with the other was done in less time than we take to write it, and Guy rushed out to find his company rapidly falling in on the parade ground. Perkins came up at the same instant, and met Guy with some encouraging words. "The massacre has come and in much less time than Winged Arrow thought it would," said he. "Now where is your letter?" Guy did not have time to answer, for the sharp voice of the Colonel was heard ordering them to their stations. When Guy got up on the palisade and took his position in readiness to defend the gun which was pointed toward a distant swell, he had opportunity to look about him. "All ready with that gun?" asked the officer in command. "All ready, sir," replied the Captain of the piece, squinting along the gun to make sure that it covered the hill. "I can knock the last one of that group if I can get orders to fire now, sir." Guy looked toward the swell and saw a party of half a dozen warriors there, all of whom were mounted save one. He had just time to note this fact when he saw the dismounted man start down the swell toward the Fort, while the others of the group disappeared behind the hill. The man was plainly a prisoner and had been liberated. Guy's heart seemed to beat loudly as he drew nearer to the officer who commanded the gun and said, in a scarcely audible whisper:-- "Is that Cyrus, sir?" The man who had a glass removed it from his eyes long enough to stare blankly at Guy, and then, as if getting something through his head, he leveled the glass once more and said, while he caught a momentary glimpse of the figure:-- "By George! I believe you are right." CHAPTER VIII. IN THE HANDS OF THE SIOUX The excuse that Cyrus made, that he wanted to lie down and get a wink of sleep before the Colonel's Orderly came to find him, was merely a pretense to get rid of the officer, and nothing else. When Guy went out he lay down on his bunk, but he did not stay there more than five minutes. No one came in to bother him, and Cyrus, thinking that as good a time to reach the Colonel's quarters without attracting the attention of anybody, got up and, by keeping close to the palisades and behind the out-buildings, drew up at last before one of the windows of the commanding officer's room. It really was not a window at all, but an opening left in the logs and covered with a piece of muslin so as to admit the light. He listened, but could hear nothing but the steady tramp of the Colonel as he paced back and forth in his room. Then he raised his hand and with his knuckles gave a peculiar rap on the casement. A moment afterward the corner of the piece of muslin was drawn aside and the Colonel's face appeared. "I am here," said Cyrus. "I want those dispatches that you have ready for me." "Come in," said the commanding officer, and with a few moves he drew the tacks which confined the window and made a hole large enough for Cyrus to squeeze his broad shoulders through. "Have you a needle and thread?" asked Cyrus. "Yes, everything is all handy. You sit down here in my bedroom, and if any of the officers come in to see me they will be none the wiser for it." Cyrus seated himself in one of the spots which the Colonel pointed out to him--it was not a chair, however, but an empty box which had once contained canned beef--and pulled off his buckskin jacket, while the Colonel went into the next room and presently returned with the dispatches for which the boy was about to run so much risk. It was a very small package, but there was a great deal written on it. It conveyed to the Commanding General the information that the Colonel had succeeded in building Fort Phil Kearney, but instead of using it as a basis for movements against the hostile Indians, the Sioux had shut him up in it, hoping that when their ammunition and provisions gave out, they could make a raid and destroy every man there was in the Fort. His condition was perilous in the extreme. Every wagon train that he sent out for fuel was protected by a large force, and if the Sioux were smart enough to cut off one of those forces, or get between them and the Fort, thus dividing his men, the annihilation of all of them would be a matter of hours and not of days. He begged earnestly for re-enforcements of five hundred men, and he could do nothing until such force arrived. "I wish the General could be here for about five minutes and see just how we are situated," said the Colonel, as he placed the dispatch on the table by the side of Cyrus. "He would learn better than to send out such a small body of troops as mine to confront the whole tribe of Sioux Indians. Cyrus, I hope you will get through with that dispatch." "Kurn, if any living man can accomplish it, I can," said the scout. "Now, have you got the other dispatch ready?" "Yes, but I don't place any faith in that. If you are caught the savages will strip you--" "And this dispatch will be the only one they will find. Our fellows fooled the rebels more than once by carrying concealed papers--" "But rebels and Indians are two different things. To be honest, I do not think that you will be able to get through; but if you do, talk to that General as you would to a father. You can tell him more in regard to our situation here than I could write in a week." "I will do my best, Kurn, but you must not place any dependence on me. Tony and his partner have tried it and failed, and that leaves but a small chance for me." Cyrus, having pulled a knife from his pocket, was busy with his buckskin shirt which he had drawn off, cutting away the inside lining to make a receptacle for the dispatches about which the Colonel was so anxious. It was close up under his arm, so that when the shirt was on and Cyrus stood at his ease, no one would have supposed that there was anything hidden away there. The opening for them being made, Cyrus folded the dispatches into a smaller compass than they were before, and having placed them therein proceeded with his needle and thread to sew up the opening again, just as it was before. This being done, he was ready for the second dispatch, which was really a "bogus dispatch" and was intended solely for the Indians to read. The Colonel knew that there were some savages in that party who could read English, and he knew, too, that this bogus dispatch, if the other could be concealed, would have an alarming effect upon them. It was the idea of Cyrus, and the Colonel had reluctantly agreed to it. It was very different from the dispatch that had been concealed in the scout's hunting shirt, and said that the General's letter had been received, that the re-enforcement of one thousand men would be amply sufficient to break up the Sioux camp, and that when they arrived he would be ready to assume the offensive. "I don't suppose Red Cloud will believe that, even if it is read to him," said the Colonel. "The General's letter has been received. Pshaw! There is not a man living who can get through those lines and reach me with a dispatch from him." "So long as they don't know that, we don't care what they believe," said Cyrus, pulling off his moccasin and stowing the dispatch away inside of it. "If it will only throw his camp into confusion that is all we ask for. Well, Kurn, good-by. Remember, I will do my best." "Good-by, Cyrus," replied the Colonel, extending his hand. "You have been faithful and just to me while you were here, and I shall depend upon you." "Don't do that, Kurn; don't do that," said Cyrus, earnestly. "I will do my best, and that is all anybody can do." Cyrus pressed the Colonel's hand for a moment, then turned toward the window and in another instant was gone. He made his way to his quarters without seeing anybody, threw himself upon his bunk, and in a little while was fast asleep. His comrades came in and aroused him when it was time to go to supper, but Cyrus did not want any. He kept his bunk until his roommates were all in bed and fast asleep, and the sentries on duty had proclaimed "Twelve o'clock and all's well!" when he began to bestir himself. His first duty was to satisfy himself that all the scouts were in dreamland, and when this had been done he took his rifle, put on his hat, and noiselessly left his quarters. The next thing was to pass the sentries; but a man who could pass within five feet of a slumbering Sioux was not to be deterred by passing a white sentry on his post. To climb the logs and drop down on the other side was an event that was easy enough for Cyrus to accomplish, and in a few minutes the tramp of the sentries was left out of hearing. Why was it that the Colonel was so anxious to have him leave the Fort without being seen by anybody? To tell the truth, everybody in the Fort was becoming discouraged. Three weeks had now elapsed since the erection of the palisades, and during that time the Sioux had completely surrounded them and shut them in as tight as though they had "been bottled up." A person was at liberty to go anywhere within a mile of the Fort, because certain guns which had been accurately trained covered every foot of the space; but over the hills it was as much as a man's life was worth to venture. Guy Preston was the only one, when searching for his birds, who had disobeyed that order; but it was a miracle that he had been allowed to come back. The signal tower, which stood at the distance of half a mile from the Fort, was manned every morning by four men who went out there to keep watch of the Indians; but every time that group was ready to go out, it took a Company of men to protect them. That was before Red Cloud had made his new order, that the only way to get rid of the whites was to kill all the men and burn the palisades, and this order was in force at the time Cyrus left the post. By drawing his warriors off in the daytime, Red Cloud was tempting the Colonel to send out a train for fuel, and when that was done the massacre was to begin. The Colonel was determined to get dispatches through by some means, but he did not want to let the men know that another person had tried it and failed. It would not be long, he thought, before the men would think that it was utterly impossible to get through the Sioux lines, and so would give it up, stay there, and be massacred. He knew better than any other man did the danger that they were in, and it was no wonder that he felt downhearted. The Fort being left out of sight and hearing, Cyrus threw himself on all fours and made his way toward Piney Creek, a little stream on the banks of which the post was located. He intended to get as far as possible below the encircling bands of Sioux before daylight, then arise to his feet and go toward his destination as fast as he could. This was a new way of leaving the lines behind him, the other scouts preferring to strike out over the prairie and try their chances in that way; but it seems that the Sioux were alive to this movement also. The stream was not large or deep enough for him to descend its current, otherwise he would have sought a log somewhere and attempted to swim by them; but as it was he was compelled to wade sometimes in the water and at other times to flounder through bushes so thick that the darkness could almost be felt, and he did not cover more than a mile an hour. Every few feet he would stop and listen until his acute senses told him that the way was clear, and then he would struggle on again. But Red Cloud, the head chief of the Ogallala Sioux who were making war because they were determined that the road should not pass through their country, was an old campaigner and not to be beaten by any such trick as this. He withdrew his warriors in the daytime so as to tempt the Colonel to send out a train to get fuel, but knowing that the train could not come out at night, he sent his men in closer, being equally determined that no scout should get out to carry the news of their condition to other quarters. Consequently Cyrus had not progressed more than a mile or two when he heard a smothered exclamation in front of him, and before he could sink down where he was and get his weapon into a condition for use, he found himself in the clutches of a Sioux warrior, upon whom he had almost stepped. Of course Cyrus resisted, but it was all in vain. Another Sioux joined in the fracas, another and another came up to assist, and in less time than it takes to tell it, the scout was thrown prostrate on the ground, his weapon twisted out of his grasp, and his hands bound behind his back. It was all done quietly, and one standing at a distance of twenty feet away would not have known that there was anything going on. Why did Cyrus not take out his letter when the Sioux caught him? Because his hands were bound, and he knew that those who had him prisoner were not the ones who had any authority in the band. In spite of what he had said to the contrary, Cyrus was not a little alarmed when he found himself powerless in the hands of the Sioux; but it was useless to resist the savages, lest he should feel the prod of a knife in his flesh, and when they put a rope around his neck and started off with him, Cyrus went along with them as quietly as if he had formed one of the party. It was four miles to Red Cloud's village, and Cyrus could not see anything on the way to remind him where he was. The Indians knew the course, and when they brought him into their town he was surprised at what he saw there. He had never seen so large a multitude of savages as was gathered there under Red Cloud. There were several camp fires scattered about among the lodges, none of which were wholly extinguished, and, aided by the light that they threw out, Cyrus could see nothing but tepees on all sides of him. He was conducted at once to a lodge a little apart from the others; one brave threw up a flap of it which served as a door and Cyrus was thrust in. It was all dark in there, and Cyrus hesitated about stepping around for fear that he should tread upon some of the inmates, when one of his captors came in and seized him by the shoulder. "Sit down," said he fiercely. Here was one Indian who could talk English, and the hope arose in the captive's breast that perhaps he could learn something from him. "Where shall I sit down?" said he. "Are there any persons here asleep?" The answer was not given in words, although Cyrus wished it had been. The Indian seized him by the neck and in a moment more he was laid out prostrate on the ground. "Sit down where you are," said the savage, more fiercely than before. Cyrus did not say anything more just then, but straightened up as soon as he could and looked around to see what the Indian was going to do. By the aid of a camp fire whose light streamed in through the flap of the door that was now open, he could observe the movements of his enemy quite distinctly. He saw him pull his blankets about his shoulders and take a seat beside the door with his rifle across his knees. Cyrus drew a short breath of relief for he had nothing more to fear from him until daylight. That tepee was to be his prison, and the savage was to be his watcher as long as the darkness continued. CHAPTER IX. THE MEDICINE WORKS WONDERS Cyrus was a captive now. There was no mistake about that. The only thing he could do was to lie down and wait as patiently as he could until daylight came. The rope with which he was bound was very painful to him, but Cyrus knew it would be worse than useless to ask his sentry to loosen it. The savages knew too much for that. They had had some bitter experience with the trappers of the mountains in granting them the free use of their hands, and they did not mean to be caught that way any more. It must have been about two o'clock when Cyrus was captured, and he thought he had never known the time to pass so slowly as did the hours that intervened before the first gray streaks of dawn were seen in the east; for they told him that something was to be done with him very speedily. During those hours he was often compelled to change his position on account of his bonds, but the savage never once changed his. If he had been a marble man he could not have sat more motionless; but all the time his eyes were fastened upon his captive as if he meant that not a sign from him should escape his notice. Finally the flap of the door was drawn further aside, and an Indian's face appeared. He wanted to see whom they had captured, but he said not a word to Cyrus or his watcher. Presently other faces appeared, until Cyrus thought that the whole camp of the Sioux was astir. Daylight came on apace, and then Cyrus began to take some note of the things in the lodge in which he was confined, and found to his surprise that he was in no danger of stepping on slumbering inmates. With the exception of himself and the sentinel who was keeping watch over him, the tepee was as empty as it was when it was put up. It was probably intended as a sort of prison for anybody who might be captured by the Sioux, but up to this time Cyrus had the satisfaction of knowing that he was the only one who had seen the inside of it. "And if I could have my way I am the last one who will see how it looks," said Cyrus to himself. "No doubt they expected to capture a good many more. Somehow I don't feel as safe by having Guy Preston's letter about me as I did by having that scrap of sage brush that the Indian gave me. Well, if it doesn't effect my release it surely would not effect Guy's, if he were here in my place." It must have been nine o'clock before anyone came near him again, and all the while he was in agony through his bonds which seemed to hurt him more the longer he was tied up with them. But they could not make him forget his stomach, which was clamoring loudly for something nourishing. He had not eaten anything since dinner the day before, and even a hard-tack he thought would prove very acceptable. While he was thinking about it, two Indians came to the door of the tepee, and they came in a hurry as though they were after something. They exchanged a few words with his sentry--they were spoken so low that Cyrus did not fully comprehend them--and then one of them seized Cyrus by the collar and dragged him to his feet. The first thing he did was to untie the prisoner's bonds; and when Cyrus felt his arms at liberty he stretched them out with an exclamation which testified to the delight he felt. "If I just had you two here alone, how quick I would end you up," said he, to himself. "I will bet you could not catch me in a fair race. They are going to take my clothes also," he added, when one of the Indians proceeded to take off his hunting shirt. "Does that mean that I am to get ready for the stake?" It certainly looked that way, but Cyrus never uttered a word out loud. He submitted to the disrobing as quietly as he could, and even assisted them when something about his clothes bothered them; and in two minutes more he was stripped clean. But he noticed two things, filled as he was with other matters, and standing in fear of the torture which seemed to be not far distant: the savages, when they came into possession of his various articles of wardrobe, were careful to look into all the pockets. Not one escaped their vigilance. His pipe, his knife, and tobacco, and various other trinkets, which men have about them, were quickly taken by his captors, until finally a grunt from one of them announced the finding of Winged Arrow's letter,--the one he had received from his father. The grunt speedily brought his sentry to his feet, and he leaned over the shoulders of the others and stared hard at the drawings. Not a word was said to Cyrus as to how he came by the papers, but they exchanged several incoherent expressions, which no doubt were perfectly understood among themselves, but which were Greek to the captive. At last they seemed to have come to an agreement regarding something, for one of them started off at a keen run, while the other went on examining his clothes. When he pulled off one of the moccasins the bogus dispatch dropped out. "Now you have something that will do your heart good," muttered Cyrus. "Why don't you run off with that? They have left my clothes here on the ground--" But Cyrus was a little too hasty in coming to this conclusion. The finding of the bogus dispatch, of course, created another series of grunts, which ended a good deal as the first one did. The other captor seized the paper and disappeared with it, but before he went he gathered up the clothes and carried them away also. That was too much for Cyrus, and he sat down on the ground and thought about it, while the sentry returned to his seat by the door. Half an hour passed, during which Cyrus's mind was in a state of confusion. This treatment was very different from any he had received while a prisoner in the hands of the Indians, and he had been one four times when nothing but the stake seemed to be waiting for him. Twice was he rescued by soldiers; a third time he was saved by an old squaw who somehow got it into her head that Cyrus resembled her son who had been killed by the whites; and the fourth time that bunch of sage brush brought about his release. Now it was that letter of Winged Arrow; and he confessed that his chances were slim indeed. It is true that he was very young in years to be the hero of all these adventures, but those among the mountain men with whom he was best acquainted declared that he had been in skirmishes enough to fill out three or four books. Like the Medicine Man among the different tribes, who runs all sorts of risks to make his followers believe that he has found the proper "thing" at last which will turn all the white man's bullets away from him, Cyrus took every risk in time of war that anybody could take and live. He was foremost in all the Indian fights and was one of Colonel Carrington's favorite scouts. When everyone else failed he called upon Cyrus, and Cyrus had never been found wanting. All men who live among the Indians soon fall into their ways, and every one of them believed that Cyrus had discovered some "medicine" that brought him safely out of any danger he might get into. At the end of half an hour, another faint step was heard outside the tepee, the flap was thrown further open and this time Winged Arrow appeared. Cyrus recognized him on the instant from the description that Guy Preston had given him, and the first thought that passed through his mind was that he had never seen a finer-looking Indian. His face wore a scowl which did not in any way add to his appearance, and he did not pay any attention to his keeper at all. In his hands he carried all of Cyrus's clothing which he threw toward the prisoner with the muttered exclamation:-- "I suppose these things belong to you. Put them on." Cyrus was fully as surprised as Guy Preston to hear himself addressed in perfect English by an Indian in his war clothing, but he lost no time in obeying instructions. When he came to his hunting shirt he carelessly grasped it under the right arm, and a thrill shot through him when he felt the dispatch there as he had left it. The bogus dispatch, the one that was intended for the Indians to read, was gone. "Now you look more like yourself," said Winged Arrow, as he turned about and beckoned to some one behind him, "I guess something to eat would not do you any harm, would it?" An Indian girl came into the tepee and laid Cyrus's breakfast before him on the ground, and quickly went out again. Winged Arrow calmly seated himself on the ground. Cyrus did the same, and while he was busy with the viands which Winged Arrow had provided for him, he kept one eye fixed upon the young Indian as if he hoped to see something in his face which would give him a faint glimpse of what the future had in store for him; but Winged Arrow's features were as unmoved as if he had no secret to communicate. The provisions did not trouble him much, for it was not as hearty a breakfast as some he had eaten at the Fort, although the grub there was getting scarce since the Sioux had shut them in from all the world--a joint of beef which had once been warmed, but was now cold, a chunk of Indian bread which had doubtless been cut out of some "parfleche" repository and a cup of cold water formed the substance of his breakfast. But it was better than nothing, and finally it had all disappeared except the bones. "Now I am ready for anything you have to propose," said Cyrus. "What do you fellows intend to do with me?" "You belong to me and so I am going to set you free," said Winged Arrow, as if he were talking of something that did not interest Cyrus in the least. "It was the worst thing I ever heard of, getting you free, for our people have all something against you." "I don't see how they make that out," replied Cyrus, feeling in his pockets for his pipe. "You can't point to a single thing that ever I did that injured you in the least. I have let more than one chance go by that I have had of sending your people to the Happy Hunting Grounds, and have let them get off scot-free when I might have had a scalp to take with me as well as not." "But something is always happening to take you away from us," said Winged Arrow, "and what do you suppose it was that saved your life this time?" "Was it that letter that you gave to Guy Preston?" The young savage took the letter out of his bosom and gave it to Cyrus, who took it and stowed it away in one of his pockets. "Now that letter can answer one more purpose," said Winged Arrow. "Any man who is captured after that will lose his life." "How do you make that out?" "I promised my father," began Winged Arrow. "By the way, who is your father?" said Cyrus. "He must be a man of considerable standing in the tribe or else you would not be permitted to meet a man between the lines, or to hold a chat with me now." "He is a Medicine Man," replied the young Indian. "If there is a fight here you will see him in the foremost ranks. He has a medicine which he believes will render him impervious to the white man's bullets. You do not believe in such things, do you?" "Yes, I do," said Cyrus, earnestly. "One of your people gave me such medicine, which afterward saved my life." "What was it?" asked Winged Arrow, becoming interested. "A handful of sage brush wrapped up in a piece of buckskin. I don't see why you fellows can't have some medicine of that kind as well as some others. What did you promise your father?" "That I would join him and help fight for the lands which the whites are trying to cheat us out of, provided he would give me the choice of saving two white men who might chance to fall into our hands. I had an eye on that black horse which that Lieutenant rides--What did you say his name was?" "Guy Preston; and he is just the best white fellow that ever lived." "I am not saying anything about that. I had an eye on him ever since you left Fort Robinson, and yesterday I chanced to meet him outside the lines. I told him that the letter would save his life, but now he has gone and given it up to you. I kept my promise, although I had a hard time of it. If that letter comes into our camp on another man, it will save his life too; but that is all." "Don't you think you are in big business to help the Indians to clean out the whites?" said Cyrus, who did not know what else to say. "You must have seen Guy Preston down there at the Fort, and he told you all I had to say on that point," replied Winged Arrow with a scowl. "Of course I shall help the Indians clean out the whites. This is our country; no one else has any claim upon it, and we are bound to wipe them out or die with weapons in our hands. Say," said the Indian, almost in a whisper, "I read your bogus dispatch, but the other is safe where it belongs." "What other?" asked Cyrus, startled in spite of himself. "The one you have got in your hunting shirt. I put my hand on it, but did not dare take it out. If I had, and had read it to Red Cloud, that letter would not have saved you." "What did that bogus dispatch do?" inquired Cyrus, drawing a long breath of relief. The savages had had the genuine dispatch in their hands and it had been saved to him through Winged Arrow, who had so much at stake. He had never heard anything like it before, and his admiration for the young Indian was almost unbounded. He believed now more firmly than he had before that there were some traits in the savage character with which the white men were entirely unacquainted. "It did not do much," replied Winged Arrow. "Red Cloud sent off a band of scouts to see if the dispatch told the truth, but he did not believe that any living man could have gotten through our cloud of warriors with news to the Fort. I repeat that I did not dare take out that other dispatch, for that told the truth; and you would have been tied out to the stake now." "Well, I am glad it is no worse," said Cyrus. "You may fall into the hands of some of our people some day----" "Well, when I do it will be when I am dead," returned Winged Arrow emphatically. "You can't help me then. But here come the braves to take you back to the Fort. Give Guy my kindest regards and tell him to keep that letter about his own person. It will save one more and that is all." A party of warriors rode up at this moment, one of them carrying Cyrus's Winchester which he gave into his hands. He stopped for a moment to shake hands with Winged Arrow, but the latter stood with his hands behind him, which Cyrus took as a sign that no hand shaking was to be allowed; so he touched his hat to the young savage, and, following the motions of one of the Indians, started off toward the Fort. Not a thing was said to him during their long walk until they arrived at the top of the swell, from which they could see the palisades. One glance was enough to show him that the vigilant soldiers were on the watch. He saw a commotion in the Fort, occasioned by the men hurrying to their quarters, which was a gentle hint to the savages that they had come close enough. "There are your friends," said one who had evidently talked English to him the night before, "Go home." Cyrus renewed his efforts at hand shaking, but the Indians turned their horses and retreated behind the hill. CHAPTER X. GUY IS ASTONISHED "Yes, sir," said the officer who had the glass, taking one look at the Sioux who speedily retreated out of sight behind the swell, and a longer look at the liberated captive who came toward the Fort at rapid strides, swinging his cap around his head as he came; "that is Cyrus, if I ever saw him. He fell into the hands of the savages, and for some reason best known to themselves they have turned him loose." If it were certain that it is possible for a boy to become amazed and delighted at the same instant, Guy Preston experienced both those emotions. While Guy was wondering how this state of affairs could be brought about, the officer of the guard suddenly appeared upon the platform and was saluted by the officer in command of the gun. "The Colonel says you have a better view of that man, whoever he is, than he has, and he begs to know what you make of him," said Captain Kendall. "Is it Cyrus?" "Yes, sir, it is Cyrus," replied the Second Lieutenant. "Take the glass and look for yourself." Captain Kendall's observation was not a long one. He leveled the glass for a minute, and then handed it back. "Guy," said he, forgetting that he was an officer and speaking to his subordinate, "your letter has worked wonders." "Do you really think my letter had anything to do with that?" inquired Guy, so excited that he could hardly stand still. "Know it? Of course it did. It was the only thing he had in his possession that kept him clear of being staked out." The officer of the guard went back to the Colonel who had sent him to make inquiries, and Guy leaned upon the palisades and watched Cyrus as he came toward the Fort. As soon as he found out that he had attracted the attention of the soldiers, Cyrus put on his cap, took one look behind him to see what had become of the Sioux, and broke into a run. He had strange things to communicate and he was in haste to unbosom himself. The officer of the day admitted him at the gate, shook hands with him, and then, in obedience to some request that Cyrus made of him, conducted him to the Colonel. A few moments afterward the order came for the soldiers to march down to the parade ground and break ranks, and this left Guy at liberty to finish his nap from which he had been so violently aroused; but Guy had no intention of doing anything of the kind. When he broke ranks he hurried away to hunt his roommates, and found that they were on the same mission as he was. "I say," whispered Perkins, "I believe your letter had something to do with Cyrus being among us safe and sound." "So do I," said Guy. "Now how was it brought about? Has anybody seen Cyrus to speak to him since he came back?" Nobody had, and we will take the liberty of going with him when he was led to where the Colonel stood. To say that Colonel Carrington was delighted to see him once more would be putting it very mildly. The commanding officer had almost as much affection for him as he would have had if Cyrus had been a younger brother, and it showed itself in the heartiness with which he grasped the scout's hand. "Well, Cyrus, you ran plump into their hands, did you not?" said he. "Just as fair as a man could," returned Cyrus. "If they had been waiting for me down by the creek in the bushes, they could not have bounced me quicker. It is impossible for a man to get through those lines without being caught." Then in a lower tone he added: "I have got your dispatch all right." "Did they read the bogus one?" asked the Colonel. "They did, but it did not disturb Red Cloud any. You said in that dispatch, 'Your letter of a certain date has been received.' That gave you away, for the savages knew that no man could go through their lines with news for you from the other side of the world. They simply sent out scouts to see if your expedition was coming, and that was all they did do." "Do you think they are going to attack us to-day?" "No, sir. They are going to wait for that train that is to bring you fuel, and then you are going to catch it." "And that will come to-morrow," said the Colonel, walking up and down. "Our wood is nearly out and we must have some. Captain Brown, break ranks and let the men go to their quarters. Cyrus, come with me." The Colonel went off toward his room followed by his scout, and when they were once inside of it, the commanding officer threw off his hat and paced back and forth as if he did not know what to do with himself, while Cyrus took a seat on the nearest cracker box pulled out his knife, and proceeded to bring the real dispatch to light,--for be it known that the frontiersmen who were employed by the government as scouts did not hold themselves subject to military law the same as soldiers did. A captain or even the Major would have thought twice before taking off his coat in the Colonel's quarters without being asked, but Cyrus did not wait for any invitation. "There is your dispatch, Kurn," said Cyrus, as he brought out the document. "And I will tell you what is a fact: The time for you to send it will be after the massacre occurs." "But my goodness! I cannot think of that thing without shuddering," exclaimed the Colonel. "Must I send men, who have been with me so long through thick and thin, out to be massacred by those thievish Sioux? I won't do it, and that's all there is about it." "Then we will starve and freeze to death for the want of a little pluck on your part," said Cyrus. "We've got to have wood." "How did that Winged Arrow manage to get you off on this letter?" said the Colonel, who wanted time to think the matter over. "I don't know. He was probably around when my clothes were examined, and Red Cloud told him that he could do as he pleased. That letter will save just one more person; and after that it is of no account." After a little time the Colonel cooled down so that Cyrus could begin and tell him his story from beginning to end. He never once interrupted him until he got through, and then he dismissed Cyrus with the remark that he would send for him after a while. There were a good many points to think over and he wanted a little time to himself. But there was one thing about it, he said: If anybody was going out there to fall a victim to those Sioux, he would be one of the party. "Of course we shall all be sorry for that," said Cyrus. "The massacre has not taken place yet. They may make the attack in such a way that they will be nicely whipped." When Cyrus went out on the parade ground, he was besieged by officers who had been awaiting his appearance and who wanted to know all about the matter. Of course Guy Preston and his chums were there, but they were obliged to keep in the background until their superior officers had heard all there was to tell. When Cyrus had finished with them he started toward his quarters and the boys followed him; but all they learned in addition to what he had already told was in regard to what he thought of Winged Arrow. "It is just as Guy said yesterday," said he, kicking off his moccasins and throwing himself down upon his bunk, "Winged Arrow has no business to be a Sioux. He knows too much to be associated with that race of people; but the more he learns about the way those folks of his are being swindled by the government, the more he determines to stick to them." "Did you see Red Cloud while you were a prisoner among them?" asked Perkins. "I did not see anybody," replied Cyrus. "They kept themselves to themselves, and all they had to do was to bring me out and release me. I tell you, boys, we are going to see some fun right here, and the Colonel says it will begin to-morrow." "The massacre?" asked all the boys at once. "Yes, sir. We must have some wood, and about the time that the train and its escort get ready to march out, you will hear the war whoop." "Well, let it come," said Perkins. "They will find that American soldiers are not the men to run just because they hear a whoop. We enlisted to fight, and now we are going to see what sort of a beginning we can make at it." The other boys did not say anything, but the expression on their faces said that they were ready for anything the Sioux had to spring upon them. Cyrus's move toward his bunk was a hint that he had not got all the sleep he should have had, and after asking a few more unimportant questions, they left the quarters, Guy going toward his room to finish his nap and the others to attend to various duties about the Fort. But slumber was a thing that Guy could not court just then. He was too busily thinking. He heard everything that passed outside his room, and when the Orderly softly entered and told him that "supper was on," he got up without having closed his eyes. The watch from six o'clock until midnight was a long and tedious one to Guy, though he, of course, had the officer of the day to talk to. Guy was thinking of what Winged Arrow told him--that if he ever saw one Indian battlefield he never would want to see another--and every chance he got he asked Mr. Kendall about it. "You could not have been in the war of the Rebellion, for that happened when you were a child," said Mr. Kendall; "but I saw seven of them, and I tell you they were all I wanted to see. The men were not mutilated, of course, but there was no need of that. I don't want to talk about it." "But did they never make an attack on our folks on a dark night like this, sir?" asked Guy. "Oh, yes; the darker the better. But you need not fear an Indian's coming near us on a night like this. It is so dark that I can not even see a star; and if you were in their camp now you would find them all in their tepees fast asleep. When the moon rises or the day is just breaking, you will want to keep a bright lookout for them. That is the time they make the assault." "Why is that, sir? When it is dark you can't see how many of them there are." "I know that; but every one you kill will go to the Happy Hunting Grounds in a way that he won't like. He goes there in just the condition that he leaves this life. If it is dark, he will have to grope around through all Eternity in darkness, no hunting for him and no scalping forays to show how much of a man he was in the days gone by. But if he is killed in broad daylight in the full possession of all his faculties, he will be just that way in the Happy Hunting Grounds. He will be full of strength and vigor, and that is the kind of life he can live forever. He never grows old. Go out that way and see what is the matter with those horses. They act as though they were alarmed about something." "The Indian carries his religion with him even to death," said Guy to himself, as he went out to the horses with his heart in his mouth to find out what had disturbed them. "And I suppose that every man he scalps is there to be his slave. I would look pretty being the slave of a sneaking Sioux warrior, would I not?" Although Guy did not like the idea of being so far from camp to find out what was the matter with the horses, he did his duty faithfully, and by questioning some of the sentries who were there to watch them, found out that there was nothing the trouble, only some of the horses were uneasy, and by continually lying down and getting up had communicated their restlessness to others. With this report he returned to Captain Kendall, who was perfectly satisfied with it. The hours flew away and at last his relief came on; and Guy, feeling the need of sleep, went to his room and tumbled into his bunk without removing his clothes. He went to breakfast, and when he entered the room he saw in an instant that something had happened to throw a gloom over the officers, some of whom were pale and all devoted themselves to the beans and hard-tack without paying attention to anybody else. There was not any of that joking and laughing, not any of the "sells" which some of the young officers were so prone to give out during the meal hour, but each one seemed to be occupied with his own thoughts. There was something about them that affected Guy more than he liked, and he too became somewhat gloomy. "What's up?" said he in a whisper, nudging Perkins, as he took a seat beside him. "Anybody killed?" "No, but there will be some that way before the day is over," said Perkins, in the same cautious whisper. There were ranking captains there at the table and the youngsters had to be careful what they said in their hearing. "Where's your letter?" "By George! Do you have to go out?" said Guy, in dismay. "There is a train about to go out for fuel and our Company is ordered to be in readiness to aid them if they get into trouble," said Perkins. "Forty men are to go with the train, and if they get more than they can attend to, we have to go out." "I may want that letter myself," answered Guy, drawing a long breath when he thought of the number of Sioux that could be brought against them. "Cyrus has it, and I did not think to ask him for it yesterday." "Oh, you are all right. You won't have to go." "Why, how is that? Did you not say the whole Company--" "Yes, but that does not include you. You are to command the signal tower and keep watch of us." Guy's first impulse was to settle back in his chair and give vent to his satisfaction by drawing another long breath of relief; and his next was a fit of anger that he should be selected to command the signal tower out of reach of danger, while his whole Company, Perkins included, should be ordered to hold themselves ready to march to their aid if the Sioux proved too strong for them. "It is the meanest thing I ever heard of," exclaimed Guy, speaking in his ordinary tone of voice before he thought, "I will see the Colonel and have him put somebody else in the signal tower." "No, I guess I would not bother the Colonel if I were in your place" said Captain Kendall, with a smile. "The Colonel does not want to be troubled by anybody. You will get the sharp edge of the old man's tongue, if you speak to him." "But just see here, Captain," began Guy. "I heard all about it when you were asleep," continued the Captain. "You can thank your lucky stars that you are not going out there to be killed by the Sioux Indians." The tone in which the Captain uttered these words made it clear to the young officer's comprehension that he did not want any more such talk around that table, and none of the other officers liked it either. The Colonel was supreme there, and an order once issued by him was to be taken as final. He devoted himself to his food, but he kept up a terrific thinking all the while. Of course, there was an even chance that the Sioux would be whipped if they made their attack upon the soldiers, and that was another thing that worried Guy. If they were whipped he wanted a hand in it; but he could not assist them any, if he were confined in that tower to pass signals. "Do you think you can get that letter?" asked Perkins, when he had given the officers a little time to forget Guy's interruption. "If it is to save one more prisoner, it may stand me well in hand." "I will try it as soon as I get through breakfast," said Guy. "I don't know why he should want to keep it now. I wish Captain Kendall had not said what he had. I would have had the Colonel change that order sure." "Well, you had better take his advice and thank your lucky stars that you are well out of the scrape." "Will you change places with me?" asked Guy, a bright idea striking him, "you go to that signal tower--" "Not by a great sight, I won't," said Perkins hastily. "If the other boys are going to fight, I am going to fight too. You will see me coming back covered with glory and three or four scalps in my hand." Guy did not want much breakfast. He got through with what he had on his plate, asked to be excused, and left the table. CHAPTER XI IN THE SIGNAL TOWER "Yes, I heard all about it while you were asleep, as Captain Kendall told you. The men have not yet been informed of the part they have to perform, but I know that they are all ready." Thus spoke Cyrus the scout when Guy Preston came rushing into his quarters to tell him what Colonel Carrington was going to do with the troops under his command. As he uttered the words, he leaned his cracker box against the jamb of a window and looked at Guy as if to ask him what he thought about it. "If he is my Colonel I say that he was guilty of doing a mean thing," said Guy, spitefully. "There I was fast asleep, and he never told me a thing about it." "Of course he didn't. A Colonel, whose right it is to command a thousand men, does not generally look to a Second Lieutenant for advice. We must have wood, and that is the only way to get it." "I don't expect him to look to me for advice; but when he is going to send my whole regiment away from me, it is high time he was telling me of it." Cyrus laughed, but made no reply. "He knew all the time that I wanted a hand in the first fight the regiment got into, because he has often heard me say so; and then to go and send them off into the presence of the Sioux--I think he should have said something to me about it." "You do your duty faithfully as Second Lieutenant, and when the time comes for you to get in a fight, you'll go. The Colonel will not keep you back. You will be safe up there in the signal tower--" "And suppose the Sioux get whipped?" "It is your regiment and you will share in the glory; but if the Sioux are too many for them, and the last one of them gets wiped out, why you will be safe." "I see that I can't get any sympathy from you," said Guy in a doleful tone; whereat Cyrus laughed louder than ever. "I thought when I came here and told you of it, you would feel for me; but you are as bad as the rest. What have you done with that letter I gave you?" "Do you mean Winged Arrow's letter? The Colonel's got it." "Honor bright?" said Guy, who wondered if Cyrus were not fooling him. "He does not want that letter now." "He has got it anyway. Look here, Guy, I will tell you something else, if you will not speak about it. I am going to try it again." "Are you going out in the face of the Sioux after the narrow escape you had?" exclaimed Guy, almost paralyzed by the information. "That letter is going to save one more prisoner, but it may not save you a second time." "I am going to try it; or, rather, I am going to see if I can't get through their numbers without being caught. Such things have been done, and I don't see why they cannot be done again." "But what are you going to do this time? If the Sioux were on the watch before, they will be doubly so now." "Not much after that fight comes off. That will throw the Sioux crazy, and that will be the time to try it, if at all." "No matter whether we whip them or not?" "That won't make any difference. If they fail, they will have their mourning to go through with, and by the time they get through with that I shall have passed through and be well on my way to Fort Robinson." "Well, Cyrus, I bade you good-by once before when I never thought to see you again, but I guess you are gone now," said Guy, advancing and extending his hand, "and you had better bid me good-by too." "Oh, you will be safe in that signal tower," said Cyrus, who did not see the use of so much feeling on Guy's part. "If the Sioux wanted to capture that tower, they could have taken it long ago. Good-by, but remember that I will see you again." "Then Perkins cannot have the letter if you want it," said Guy. "I think he had better not. The Colonel thinks I ought to have it, and he will give it to me before I start." Guy went to his room and there he found his roommates sitting around doing nothing. They had their weapons close at hand, but made no move to put them on until they got orders. "Well, boys, there will not be so many of us here to-night," said Guy, breaking in upon the silence. "Some of us will leave this room for the last time." "You will be all right and tight," said Arthur, "and if we whip the Sioux you will wish you had been along." "Do any of you want to change places with me?" asked Guy, for he was not at all pleased with the arrangement. "I will ask the Colonel----" "You need not ask him anything on my account," said Arthur quickly. "I would not go up in that signal tower for all the money there is in the world. Our boys are going to fight, and I am going to fight too. There. That lets you out. Good-by." "The Colonel desires to see you, sir," said an Orderly, stepping up and saluting. Guy jumped up, put on his weapons, and turned to take leave of his roommates, all of whom came forward to shake him by the hand, but he did not see a sign of wavering on the part of any of them. Their faces were white, but there was a determined look about their features which showed that they fully comprehended the danger of their situation and were ready to take the consequences. "Good morning, Mr. Preston," said the Colonel, when he entered the quarters and found him alone there with Colonel Fetterman. "I have put you in command of the signal tower to-day." "So I have understood, sir," said Guy. "But don't you think----" "I have thought the matter all over and I have resolved upon my course," replied the commanding officer, turning almost fiercely upon Guy. "I want to see if you understand the signals." "Yes, sir; I know them by heart," returned Guy, who saw that it would be of no use to ask the Colonel to change that order. "Very well. You are to keep a close watch on the party that goes out to protect the wagons, and you will be careful to make the same signals to them that I shall make to you." "Very good, sir. I understand." "Then my business with you is done. I see that the squad is getting ready," said the Colonel, as the blast of a bugle echoed through the Fort. "You will find three men out there, with rations, and you will stand watch while you are there. That's all." Guy made all haste to get out of the room, for he did not want to be within reach of the Colonel's frown any longer than he could help, and furthermore he was anxious to see what preparations had been made for the party that was to go after the wood. The whole Fort was in commotion, but everything was done in regular order. Those of the soldiers who had nothing to do were standing in little groups and watching their comrades whom they never expected to see again; forty men were filing through the gate, mounted on their horses and forming on the parade ground under command of Captain Kendall; three men, who were evidently waiting for somebody, were there on foot with their haversacks slung over their shoulders; and the yells outside the stockade announced that the teamsters were busily hitching up their mules. Guy saw all this at a glance, and then bent his steps toward the three men who were standing there waiting for orders. "Here's your party, Mr. Preston," said the Adjutant. "You will go out and relieve the men in the signal tower. I suppose the Colonel gave you orders before you left?" "Yes, sir, what little he had to give," answered Guy. "I have never been in the tower before, but I think I know what is required of me." The Adjutant bowed and went away, and Guy, whose men were standing at parade rest, had nothing to do but to wait until the escort was ready to march. It was quickly done, and when he saw the Captain mount his horse and turn to salute the Colonel, Guy ordered his men through the gate to catch one of the wagons on which he intended to get a ride out to the signal tower. When the Captain went by with his Company, he returned Guy's salute and responded, "Thank you," to his expressions of good luck and a safe return to the Fort with the wagon train. "I am afraid, sir, that it won't be such good luck with him after all," said one of his men as the Captain rode on. "It does not seem as though there were any Sioux around here, does it, sir?" "No," replied Guy. "If that Red Cloud were only out of the way, what a fine country this would be to live in. Such splendid hunting as there is to be had here I never saw before. You can see prairie chickens every day from the Fort." There was no danger to be feared until they got to the signal tower, but none of the men seemed to enjoy the trip, because they knew that the Sioux were watching them from every hilltop within range of their vision. The Captain again saluted when they reached the tower, and Guy and his men jumped off the wagon to be admitted by the Second Lieutenant who was in command there. "Halloo, Guy," said he, and he was glad to see that his relief had come. "Now you can have the fun of sitting here for twenty-four hours, with nothing but the swells to look at. Say," he added in a lower tone, "Who was that officer who went out hunting day before yesterday? I see he had a Sioux to show him the way back. If I didn't see you here safe and sound I should think it was you. His horse resembled yours." "Well, sir, it was I, and no mistake," said Guy. "That Sioux came to warn me to keep out of the way of an approaching massacre which I think is going to happen now in less than two hours." "Aw! Get out," exclaimed the Second Lieutenant, throwing back his head and laughing immoderately. "That Sioux was a friend of yours, was he not?" "I have not time to explain matters to you now, for you had better go inside the Fort as soon as you can. He gave me a letter--" "Aw! Get out," said the Lieutenant again. "You have been listening to some of Cyrus's stories, and he has made you believe that you have some sort of medicine that will protect you from their bullets. Come on, all my men, and we will go to the Fort while you are thinking about it. It may be that we will find some Sioux who will give us a letter--" Guy and his men were all inside the tower by this time, and they closed the heavy door and bolted it, thus shutting off what else the officer was going to say in regard to that letter. They heard his laugh ringing on the outside, and through the loopholes saw him march away toward the Fort. "Did that Sioux really give you a letter, sir?" asked one of his men, as they climbed the rude stairway to reach the top. "Who was that letter directed to?" "I have not time to go into all the particulars now," said Guy, as he leaned on the walls on the top of the tower and looked after the wagon train and its escort. "You will hear all about it when you get back to the Fort. Is that flag all ready? Lay aside your guns, but have them handy, and keep a close watch on that train." As Guy had never been in the tower before, he looked around him with no little curiosity. The ridge leading from the Fort to where good timber was to be found was in plain sight, and every move the wagon train made could be distinctly seen. The Fort stood considerably lower than this tower, but there were several mountain howitzers in the Fort which had been trained on this ridge. The gunners, however, could not shell the ravines on each side of it with any accuracy, and Guy saw at once, with a soldier's eye, that about a mile beyond them was a splendid place for an ambush. His heart fell when he noticed it, but he did not say anything to his men about it. "The Sioux have got the better of us or I shall miss my guess," said Guy, hauling his binoculars from its case and settling himself on a log which had been cut off sufficient to serve for a seat. "If they make their attack from one of those ravines, we cannot see it until we are right on to it, and they will clean us out as sure as shooting." Having observed the train and seen that it was all right so far, Guy began an examination of the tower to see what chances he had for making a successful resistance in case he were assaulted. He was more than satisfied with it. The tower was built of green logs which could not be set on fire by the hostiles at any reasonable distance, and was well supplied with loopholes, so that a company of determined men could hold their own until assistance could reach them from the Fort. While he was thus engaged one of his men called his attention to a faint sound which he heard coming from the further end of the ridge. "It sounded to me like a war whoop, sir," said he. "It could not be that. Yes, sir, that is what it is." In an instant Guy Preston was on his feet with his glass pointed toward the wagon train, and saw something that he hoped he never would see again--a hundred Indians, all well mounted and armed, were making a charge on the wagon train's escort. Where they came from was a mystery, but they were there, and the faint yells which struck his ears now and then showed that they were out there for no good purpose. "Where's that flag," he exclaimed, "give it to me, quick!" In less time than it takes to tell it, Guy had grasped the emblem and was waving to the watching sentries on the palisades what was going on a mile from them, but which was shut out from their view by the ridge:-- "About one hundred Indians going to attack the train." Then he threw the flag down and waited with all the fortitude he could command for some response to the signal. A moment afterward it came. One of the mountain howitzers belched forth its contents, the shell whizzed by so close to them that it seemed as if they could touch it, and exploded in the air right in line for the Sioux, but a good way above them. Another and another followed, but their firing was entirely too wild to do any damage. Guy was on nettles. "They will never hit the Indians at that rate," he exclaimed. "Why don't they shoot lower?" All the shells which came from the howitzers followed the same course, and then Guy, forgetting that he was an inferior and in no condition to offer advice, seized the flag again and signaled once more to the Fort. "You are firing entirely too high. Shoot closer to the ground." Whatever the commanding officer thought of his advice Guy never knew, but he thought it a good plan to follow these instructions. The next shell came lower and the next one lower yet, and then Guy raised the flag once more. "That is all right. You stand a chance of hitting them now." "Oh, don't I wish that I was down there with my Winchester!" said Guy, so excited that he could scarcely stand still. "By the way, do any of you see Winged Arrow?" "Don't know him, sir," said all the men at once. "That is so; you did not see him, did you? This fellow wears a buckskin shirt and rides a small sorrel horse----" "Every fellow down there is stripped to the waist," said one. "And they all ride small sorrel horses," said another. "Well, I guess he is there," said Guy under his breath. "I hope he will come off scot-free. But he said that the Sioux could raise three thousand men. This doesn't look like it." "There is something going on in the Fort, sir," said one of the men after a little pause. "It looks to me as if they were going to send out re-enforcements." These words brought Guy back to earth again. If the Colonel was about to send men to help the escort, he must send his own Company. The young officer went off into a state of excitement again. CHAPTER XII. WHAT GUY SAW Guy Preston turned with his glass to his eyes again. There was something going on in the Fort--it was so far away that he could not hear the words of command, but he knew that horses were going in and that the men were running about as if they were getting ready for something. Presently the column appeared--a hundred men, who seemed to be intent on going to the rescue, for they had hardly time to clear the gate before they broke into a trot and then into a gallop. A little nearer and Guy recognized the faces of his old Company, Perkins, Arthur Brigham, all his roommates, as well as several of the rank and file. Colonel Fetterman was in command, and though Guy thought he looked rather white, he heard the order "gallop" which rang in his ears the same as of old. Did they know that they were going to their death? If they did there was not one of the hundred men who seemed to realize it. "Oh, Oh!" shouted Guy, prancing about in his excitement until he came near missing his steps and going back through the trapdoor with more haste than he had come up a few minutes before. "All my Company are there, every one of them, and I am to stay here cooped up like a rat in a trap! Why did not the Colonel remember this? They will come back flushed with victory and I will have had no hand in it!" "Do you see any men in company D there, sir?" asked the Sergeant, who stood close at Guy's elbow. "Look for yourself," replied the young officer, handing his glass over to the man. "I don't know all the men in Company D." The Sergeant took the glass, and one look was enough to satisfy him. He gave it back without saying a word. "I guess you are in the same boat with me," said Guy, once more leveling the glass to take a nearer view of the approaching re-enforcements. "They will get all the glory of this fight. I see Captain Brown and three or four 'old timers' who are going out with them, and we are bound to whip; but it seems hard to me to stay here and do nothing!" As the horsemen tore by, Guy Preston raised his cap and swung it lustily around his head, and there were a dozen men, among whom were Perkins and Arthur, who returned the salute. A moment afterward the support was gone, and Guy, with a long breath which seemed to say that there was no help for it, settled down to watch them and keep a close view of their movements. Nor were they obliged to wait long. The Indians seemed surprised at the approach of so large a re-enforcement to support the train, and at once became confused and started to retreat; and that was enough for the supporting column. Guy saw Colonel Fetterman turn in his saddle and swing his sword above his head, and in an instant more a yell came to his ears and his men turned down the ridge. "Bully for our side of the house!" yelled Guy Preston, once more swinging his cap around his head. "It shows what you can do, Mr. Sioux, when you get some men to oppose you." "They are retreating, sir?" asked the Sergeant. "Of course they are. They cannot stand against anything like their own number." While Guy stood with the flag in his hand, and wondering whether or not he ought to signal Colonel Fetterman's movement to the Fort, something surprising happened down there at the foot of the ridge. Where there were a dozen Indians before, there were two dozen now and more still coming. They were coming from one of those ravines that ran back from the left of the Fort. These two dozen Indians were promptly joined by two dozen more, and before Guy could think twice, the plain was fairly covered with them. "My goodness! What is the meaning of that?" said he. "They have run into an ambuscade, sir," said the Sergeant. The young officer was so astonished at what he saw, that he never once thought of the flag he held in his hand. It was done so quickly that it appeared like a dream. While he looked more Indians came out. They made their appearance in a large body too, and, dividing right and left as they approached the column, soon surrounded it entirely, and nothing but frantic and yelling Sioux could be seen from the tower. "My goodness!" he repeated, his face turning as white as the flag he held in his hand. "I must signal that, but I don't know what to say." His men, one and all, offered some advice, but the signal Guy sent was something like this:-- "Large bodies of Indians in the ravine at the foot of the hill. They have attacked the re-enforcements." Almost immediately there came an answer from the Fort:-- "Signal for them not to leave the ridge." "What good will it do to signal to them now?" cried Guy, stamping about on the tower and making no effort at all to brush the tears from his eyes. "I can't see the column at all,--nothing but Indians!" But Guy was a good soldier, and he made all haste to signal the post commander's orders to Colonel Fetterman: "Don't leave the ridge," "Don't leave the ridge," but that was all the good it did. None of Colonel Fetterman's men saw the signal, or if they did, they were too busy to reply to it. Guy watched them for a minute or two through eyes which were blinded with tears, but could not see that the Indians were retreating in any way. On the contrary, he seemed to grow almost frantic when he saw the white men falling back. The Indians were gaining ground at every step. "This beats me," said he, leaning one hand on the Sergeant's shoulder and burying his face on the top of it, "We are whipped! The massacre's come!" "They might send some re-enforcements from the Fort, sir," suggested the Sergeant, who was also crying like a schoolboy. "They have another hundred men that they can spare for Colonel Fetterman." "That's so," said Guy, as he caught up the flag again; and he lost no time in sending the state of affairs to the commanding officer. "The troops are retreating. Fetterman needs re-enforcements. They cannot come too soon." "There, now, I have done my duty," moaned Guy, seating himself on the block of wood again, "I must stay right here now and see our men whipped." But Guy did not sit there long. The noise of the fight came plainly to his ears, and every exultant yell of a Sioux, that now and then rose loud and clear above the tumult, was almost as bad as torture to himself. Again and again he signaled to the Fort, "Our men are being overpowered. Fetterman needs re-enforcements," but no response came. They could see the men standing idly by leaning on their guns, but no attempt was made to send support to them. "I almost wish that Colonel Carrington were out there," said Guy, for the sense of responsibility that rested upon him was almost too great for him to bear. "Have I done what I could, Sergeant? I would go myself, if he would let me!" The men all joined in with the Sergeant in assuring him that no officer, situated as he was up there in the picket tower, could have done more than Guy did to stop the massacre, and he was forced to be satisfied with this. He sat there and watched, but was powerless to do anything. Now and then signals came from the Fort, "How goes the battle now?" and Guy's answer was always the same: "The Indians are whipping our men completely out. Fetterman needs re-enforcements"; but that was the last of it. In much less than half an hour it was all over. Then he sprang up and caught the flag again: "All killed. Field covered by more than one thousand Sioux." Guy felt while sending this signal, as if he had signed his own death warrant. He tossed the flag upon the floor, seated himself on his block of wood again and covered his face with his hands. Perkins, Arthur Brigham--O Lord, they were all gone! He thought of the many acts of kindness which the boys had lavished upon him, and his feelings were too great for utterance. Sobs which he could not repress shook his frame all over. "There is something else that wants signaling too," said the Sergeant. "The wood train is coming." Guy jumped to his feet, and looked out over the field again. There was nothing but Sioux in sight, and they were running as if anxious to get away from the leaden hail that was rained upon them. Guy seized the flag and this went to the Fort:-- "Wood train coming, having beaten off assailants." As Guy turned to look at the wagon train, he saw to his immense relief the long line of ladened wagons at the foot of the ridge. As it passed the battlefield Guy, repeating the signal made from the Fort, warned it not to attack, and it did not. A frightened lot of teamsters and soldiers went by him after a while, but where was Guy's salute this time? He did not make any, but stood leaning on the top of the tower and silently regarded them as they went by. "It is all over," he said, mournfully. "I said this morning that there would not be so many of us left in our room to-night, and this proves it. I am alone and have not even a squad of men to command." Leaving one of his men to watch the Fort so as to be ready to answer any signals that might come, Guy turned his attention to the battlefield; and now that the smoke had cleared away they saw the Sioux in pursuit of plunder--clothes, arms, and valuables, anything that could add to their wealth. Occasionally a faint yell would come up to their ears, faint and far off, but still plainly audible:-- "Come down here, you pickets. We have whipped some of you, and are able to whip the rest." Having now a respectable force at his command, Colonel Carrington sent one hundred and ten men to the battlefield with orders not to leave the ridge unless they felt strong enough to attack. The howitzers went with them, and the wagons by this time being emptied of their fuel, went along also to bring in the dead; for it was rightly supposed that the Sioux did not leave any wounded behind them. Guy saw them pass by, and set himself to observe their movements. There were but few Indians left upon the field and these fled upon the approach of the troops, and so opportunity was had to find out the cause of the defeat. It was just as Winged Arrow had told Guy: If he saw one battlefield, he never would want to see another. The dead were all stripped, and the positions of most of them led to the belief that they were killed while trying to escape. The horses' heads pointed toward the Fort. The soldiers lying near the base of the ridge appeared to have met their death as they were fleeing from the field, having seen that their re-enforcements would amount to just nothing at all. There were some few, but not very many, mutilations among the bodies, and so the soldiers recognized every one of the slain. Guy did not learn this until late that evening, when all the bodies were brought in by wagons, and then he saw his roommates cold in death. Every one of them wore a happy smile upon his face, as if he knew his fate and was ready to give up his life in the service of his country. "There is somebody coming out from the Fort, sir," said the Sergeant, breaking in upon Guy's reverie. Two horsemen were coming at a rapid lope, and Guy's glass showed him that they were the Lieutenant whom he had relieved in command of the tower and an after rider, who was probably a cavalryman, to hold his horse. Guy went down to the door to receive them, and when he opened it Amos Billings, that was the Lieutenant's name, must have been surprised at his greeting, although he himself was not far from shedding tears over the thing he could not prevent. "The commanding officer said I had better come and let you hear something of that massacre," said Amos. "I tell you, Guy, it is awful!" "Oh, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Guy, throwing his arms around Amos's neck and burying his tear-stained face on his shoulder. "What are they going to do to me?" "To you?" repeated the Lieutenant. "Why, nothing. Guy, don't take on this way. You were ordered up here in the tower and you stayed here. Did you not answer all the signals?" "Yes; and I made some I ought not to have made. Fetterman never asked for help. I saw that the Sioux were too many for him, and so I asked for re-enforcements." "Well, what of that? I guess he needed them bad enough. Now let us sit down here on the steps and I will tell you as much as I know about it." CHAPTER XIII. COLONEL CARRINGTON IS DEPRESSED "I would like a chance to kick that Winged Arrow, or whatever else he calls himself," said Colonel Carrington, as he returned Captain Kendall's salute and saw him mount his horse and lead his forty men through the gate to escort the teamsters to their post of duty. "He had no business to give Guy Preston that letter. He has thrown the whole garrison into a panic. Every man believes that a massacre is coming, and, to tell the honest truth, I really begin to believe it myself." "Well," said Colonel Fetterman, as he walked with the commanding officer to a prominent place on the palisades from which they could keep watch of the train and its escort, "I don't see but that the latter has done some good after all. It has returned your best scout to you when everybody thought he was a doomed man." "That's so," replied the Colonel, after thinking the matter over. "Perhaps in that respect it has been of some use after all; and I am going to try it again." Colonel Fetterman was somewhat surprised, but said nothing in answer to this proposition. The commanding officer had things his own way out there on the prairie, and it was not for him to offer any amendments until he was asked to give them. "If the Sioux pitch into us, as I really believe they will, they will hold a big jubilee in their camp to-night, no matter whether they whip us or not. That will be the time for me to get a letter through; don't you think so?" "Yes, sir, that will be the time, if any," said Colonel Fetterman, thinking of what Cyrus would have to go through with before he could get the letter safe into the hands of their superior officer who could grant the re-enforcements for which they asked. "Are you going to try the letter on again?" "I am, and Cyrus is waiting to see how the fight comes out before he makes the start. Now we must keep that train in sight as long as we can," said the Colonel, pulling his binoculars from its case. "The trouble is that we cannot see them after they get into a fight." "We shall have to depend upon the picket tower after they have disappeared from our view," said Colonel Fetterman. "My command has been informed and is all ready to start." "I hope I shall not have to send you out," said the Colonel honestly. "They are all good men in that escort, and I think they ought to come through." The commanding officer seated himself and awaited the issue of events with his feelings worked up to the highest point at which they could go and not drive him wholly frantic. He knew that some of his men were going to their death, but he had expected that. Not one wagon train had ever gone out from that Fort after fuel but it had always come back and reported that the Sioux had fired into them, and that so many were dead and so many wounded. But there was one thing that he always thought of with satisfaction: the train always brought their dead and wounded back with them. They left none of them for the Indians to maltreat after they had gone. The two officers saw the train when it reached the signal tower, and the men who had been on watch there for twenty-four hours were relieved by Lieutenant Preston and his squad. Five minutes more and the wagons were out of sight. "There now," said the Colonel. "Half an hour more will tell the story." "Yes, and I might as well get ready to move when I get your orders," said Colonel Fetterman. "You are bound to give them and I know it." "Let us hope not, Colonel; let us hope not. It seems as though I ought to have more men than I can muster to send out there. It is like sending a boy to mill." The officers relapsed into silence and sat with their glasses to their eyes watching the signal tower. It came in a good deal less than half an hour. It seemed to them that the wagon train had scarcely got out of sight before the white flag, with a star in the middle of it, began to wave frantically from the top of the picket tower: "About one hundred Indians going to attack the train." "All ready with that gun down there?" shouted the Colonel, jumping to his feet. "All ready, sir," was the response. "Fire!" was the next order; and a five-second shell flew over the tower and away to the further end of the ridge. "All ready with that other gun? Fire!" The guns on that side of the Fort were fired in quick succession, and when the smoke cleared away the flag was seen flying again from the top of the tower: "You are firing entirely too high. Shoot closer to the ground." "Depress those guns a couple of points and fire away," said the Colonel. "That boy is keeping a close watch of the way the shells are going. I wish he had a gun up there so that he could try his own hand at it." The guns spoke again, and this time the answer that came back was encouraging. "That is all right. You stand a chance of hitting them now." "One would think that boy was a commanding officer," said the Colonel. "I hope we have the right range of them now." This is all that was said in regard to Guy Preston's orders which came all unasked. He saw that the shells were flying all too wild, and did not hesitate to say so. Guy would have felt a great deal better if he had known just what was thought of it. "Shall I go now sir?" asked Colonel Fetterman. "Yes, I guess you had better," said Colonel Carrington sadly. "A hundred Indians is most too many for those forty men to handle. Remember, George, I depend entirely upon you. I will bid you good-by now. I will see you start from here." The two officers shook one another by the hand, and that was the last time they ever met. Colonel Carrington did not want to go down to see him off. Fetterman was a brave man and an Indian fighter, but somehow the Colonel did not feel right about letting him go. Fetterman became all activity at once. He sprang down from the platform upon which he was standing, shouting: "Fall in, my men!" and disappeared in his room. When he came out he had his sword and revolver, and mounting his horse, which was ready for him by this time, he rode up and down in front of his men, who were rapidly forming in line, and urged them all to make haste. "There are a hundred Indians out there and we are going for them," he shouted, swinging his sword around his head. "They will stand just long enough to see us getting ready for a charge, and then they will run. You are not afraid of a hundred Indians, are you?" "Not by a great sight, sir," said the Sergeant, who was riding down the other side of the line pushing the men into their places. "Get in there, men, and be lively about it. Lead on, sir. We are ready to face five hundred, if you say so." "All ready, sir," said Colonel Fetterman, riding up to the palisades where he had left his commanding officer. "Go on," was the response. He raised his hand and waved it in the air, but could say no more. Colonel Fetterman wheeled his horse, gave the commands, "Fours right. Forward march!" and rode through the gate and turned toward the picket tower; and Colonel Carrington could only settle back in his camp chair and wait to see what events were going to bring forth. "Something tells me that I will never see those men again," said he, turning to Major Powell, who at that moment stepped upon the platform and took a stand beside his Colonel. "I have shaken hands with Colonel Fetterman for the last time." "Oh, Colonel, I would not talk in that way," said the Major. "Fetterman is an old Indian fighter, and it will take more than one hundred Sioux to clean him out." "But a hundred warriors are not all they can bring into a fight," said the Colonel. "If Cyrus tells the truth, there must be a larger village than we are aware of situated behind those swells." "Well, suppose there are a thousand of them; Fetterman can easily beat them off until he can come within range of the Fort. He has taken Captain Brown, Tony, and Mike, and three or four old Indian fighters with him, and they are bound to come out with flying colors." The Colonel said no more, but watched the re-enforcements. He saw them break into a trot and then into a gallop, and very shortly they disappeared over the swells. "I am a little afraid of an ambush down where they are," said the Colonel, after a few moments pause. "If Fetterman runs into it, we are gone." "But Fetterman will not run into it. He has too much at stake for that." Major Powell's words were intended to be encouraging, and in almost any other case they would have been so; but this time they did not have any effect upon the Colonel. He was disheartened before he sent him off to face that unknown danger, and now that he was out of sight and almost within sight of it, he felt more distress than ever he did before. "Why don't they signal to me?" he exclaimed, when he had watched the top of the tower in vain for a sign of the white flag. "I want to know what is going on there." "Probably there has nothing happened yet," said the Major. "If the Indians are retreating----" The Major suddenly paused, for at that moment the flag came into view from the top of the tower. He paused to read the signal it conveyed and as he spelled it slowly out that there were large bodies of Indians who were assaulting the re-enforcements, the Colonel jumped to his feet and seized the flag that lay near him. "I think you said that Fetterman would not run into an ambush, if there was one formed for him," said he angrily. "He is in it now." Then went up the signal from the Fort: "Tell them not to leave the ridge," but it was a signal that came too late to be of any use. Colonel Fetterman and all his men were so busy at that time charging down upon the enemy, that no one thought of looking for signals in their rear. But Guy saw and understood and did his best to turn the column to a place of safety, but the waving of his flag was time and strength wasted. With a yell, which Guy had often helped raise when the troops were drilling on the parade ground, and which the men now gave in order to let the Sioux know they were coming to save the wagon train, they charged down the ridge and into the ambush. It was too late to do anything then, and Colonel Carrington leaned back in his camp chair and looked at Powell. Not another word was said by either of them, and pretty soon there came another signal from the tower: "Fetterman needs re-enforcements." "It will take the last hundred men I have, and the Fort with every one in it will be at their mercy," said the Colonel. "You will have to go with them. Go down and call the men together----" "Colonel, with your permission I will protest against sending them any help," said the Major. "The Colonel may be retreating, but he is retreating toward the ridge where he knows he will be comparatively safe. I tell you that man can't be whipped." "Well, we will wait and see," said the Colonel. "I hope he has men enough with him to resist them, but I am afraid. I think I should have sent more." "And if you had, you would certainly have left the Fort at the mercy of the thievish Sioux. You have done the best you could. Leave Fetterman alone. He is going to come out all right." If Major Powell believed this, he was certainly doomed to be disappointed. Colonel Fetterman was whipped almost at the start, and there was no one to lend him a helping hand. In response to the signals "How goes the battle?" the reply was the same as it had always been, "He needs re-enforcements," and then Colonel Carrington got up and paced the platform in agony. The help was repeatedly called for and several times the Colonel was on the point of exerting his authority as post commander and sending the re-enforcements that Colonel Fetterman so much needed; but each time the calm voice of Major Powell was raised in protest, and the commander thought it best to wait a little longer and see how the fight was coming out. "It seems to me that Fetterman has been allowed all the time he wanted to get back to the ridge and hold the Sioux at bay," he often said. "Do you not think so, Major?" It was almost half an hour since the signal had been made that the Sioux were attacking the re-enforcements, and something should have been done in that time; but the next signal that was made fairly took his breath away: "All killed. Field covered with more than a thousand Sioux." "Oh, heavens and earth!" groaned Colonel Carrington. "I wish I had died before I had seen that signal." Major Powell turned away to hide the tears that streamed from his eyes, and could not say a word in reply. He had protested against the sending out of help, and he would do it again under the same circumstances; but at what cost? Fully a third of the men that composed the garrison had been sacrificed, and surely that was better than to send out another hundred to share the same fate. Colonel Carrington buried his face in his hands, and it did not seem to him that he could ever look up again; while Major Powell, after subduing the first violence of his grief, raised his eyes to watch the tower again and saw another signal waving to them. "The wagon train is coming, having beaten off its assailants," said he. "If we can save that much, we will do well." This aroused the Colonel, who caught up the flag and signaled to them not to attack, but to make all haste into the Fort. "If they get back safe it will give me a hundred and ten men to send out to that battlefield," said he, after thinking a moment. "You will have to go with them. Don't leave the ridge until you see that you are sufficiently strong to hold them at bay." "But you want me to go to the battlefield," said the Major. "But don't go into that ambush whatever you do. Steer clear of that. Bring the bodies of all the men you can find with you." Then the Colonel relapsed into his melancholy mood again, and Major Powell knew that he had to do everything that was necessary for getting the relief party under way, and he lost no time in doing it either. While he was thus engaged, the gate flew open and the wagon train, well loaded with fuel, came in with a rush. A more frightened set than the teamsters were it would have been hard to find, and even the old soldiers, who had passed through more than one Indian fight, were heard to draw a long breath of relief as they came into line. "Oh, Major, it was just awful!" said the Lieutenant, who was the first to salute him. "Fetterman has gone up," said Captain Kendall; and there were traces of tears on his face that he was not ashamed of. "I never saw so many Sioux before. Where's the Colonel?" "Up there on the platform," said the Major. "Go up and report to him. And, mind you, don't say anything to him that will make him feel worse than he does now, for he is completely prostrated." "But I shall have to tell him the truth, or I might as well stay away from him," protested the Captain. "It was nothing that he could help, but we are just a hundred men short." The Major, who did not want to hear any more about the fight until he saw the battlefield, waved his hand toward the Colonel, and the Captain dismounted and went to report the disaster of which the post commander knew almost as much as he did. "It is not necessary for you to say anything, Captain," said he. "The signals from the tower have kept me posted. Are they all gone? Is there not one left?" "Not one, Colonel," said Captain Kendall. "From where I stood on the ridge, I could not see anything but Sioux." "They were retreating?" said the Colonel. "Toward the ridge where they would be safe; but they didn't any of them live to get there. They were wiped out completely." "You lost some men, I suppose." "We lost seven, and were glad to get off with that. Shall I break ranks, sir?" "Yes; and then come up and talk to me. I feel as though I were going crazy. I have sent out some men to go to that battlefield. Do you think they can go there without another fight?" "Perhaps so, sir. We killed any number of them, and perhaps they have got all they want of fighting." The Captain went down and said something to his men before he broke ranks, and it made them feel a great deal better for what they had done; but there was one thing that they never could blot from their minds. There was that battlefield, a mile long and half a mile wide, of which they had a plain view as they passed along the ridge, covered by the bodies of men whom they would never shake by the hand again, and the memory of it would disturb their sleep for many a night afterward. While this was going on and the Colonel sat listening to his speech, Amos Billings, the officer who Guy Preston had relieved in command of the tower, came up to the commander and saluted him. "What is it, Billings?" said he. "I can't ask you to sit down, for there is no place." "I don't want to stop, sir," he replied. "There are our boys alone in that tower--" "And you want to go out and inform them that they are not forgotten by the garrison, do you? Well, go on. Take a cavalryman with you to hold your horse. Tell Guy that I would have answered his signal for re-enforcements, but Major Powell told me that I ought not to. Guy did his duty up to the handle." This was what Billings wanted to tell Guy, while they were sitting there on the steps that led to the top of the tower. CHAPTER XIV. IN THE SIOUX CAMP At a late hour in the evening, or rather at an early hour in the morning of the day that preceded the battle of Fort Phil Kearney, all was silent and still in Red Cloud's camp, which was located a few miles from the stockade. The Indians had kept up their dancing and shouting until almost ready to drop with fatigue, pluming themselves on victories won in bygone days, and panting for new scalps to be added to those already gained, by the utter annihilation of the soldiers of the Fort. At last they went into their tepees to dream of the triumph which Red Cloud promised them should be theirs before many suns had passed away. The wiping away of the Fort and the utter cleaning out of all the power of the whites, was looked upon as a certain thing by the Sioux, and all they waited for was an opportunity to use the power which they were thought to possess. And why should not the whites be cleaned out? They had come into that country without an invitation, were spreading themselves all through it, and now they proposed to build a road through their best hunting ground, which meant the thinning out of the buffalo--their only means of subsistence. All they asked of the whites was to go away and let them alone; but it seemed that the more land the whites had, the more they wanted. No place was safe for the Indian. His limits were growing smaller and smaller every day, and very soon he would find that he had no land he could call his own. Something must be done if they thought to lay their bones among their fathers', and the only way to do it was to declare battle and go upon the warpath. This was what the Sioux tribe and some of the Cheyennes had proposed to do. When Indians are settled in their winter camp, and so far away from enemies of every description that there is no danger of being assaulted by them, it is the noisiest place that can be found on earth. Their days are passed in loitering around the fire, but the evenings are given over to pleasure. It is then that the dancers and story-tellers are in their element, and the noise of the tom-tom drowns all other sounds, except the whooping and yelling. It had been so in this camp until the day that the renegade chiefs, as Red Cloud called them, had signed a lease for that road; but the moment that happened, the winter camp had been changed into a war camp, and all the men in it were bent upon obtaining scalps and plunder. Then the social dancers and story-tellers were out of place, and no performance of any kind was indulged in except the scalp dance. The scalps were old, they had done duty over and over again, but that did not hinder them from being brought out whenever a warrior deemed it necessary. It happened so on this night, and the braves, having grown weary of telling what they meant to do when the soldiers came out to fight them, had passed into their lodges and gone to sleep. The only two who did not care for slumber were a couple of youthful braves who sat on the ground outside of a tepee, talking over events which might occur at any moment; and what seemed strange, these Indians talked in whispers and in the ENGLISH language and seemed to understand one another very readily. They had been so long unused to the Sioux language that they conversed in a foreign tongue as eagerly as white boys. It will be enough to say that one of them was Winged Arrow, and the other was a classmate of his, who had been to Carlisle with him. It was plain that, although they were Indians born and bred, they did not at all like the way that things were going. Obeying their fathers, they promptly left school and came home to join in the Indian outbreak, which they were assured was to be the final struggle to retain their lands and game as their fathers bequeathed it to them; and now that they were here to help "clean out" the whites and restore everything to the Indians as it was years ago, the only thing they saw toward accomplishing that object was the destruction of a little Fort, garrisoned by three hundred men, which alone stood in their way. Of course it was easy enough to capture the Fort, but what should be the next move on their part? Indians don't like to be killed any better than white men, and that something would happen before that Fort was taken was easy enough to be seen. It will be observed too, that in their brief conversation which took place before they went to their tepees, the Indians did not address each other by the names that the tribes had given them. One was John Turner and the other was Reuben Robinson--the names by which they had been known at Carlisle. One was named after the janitor, as we have said, and the other was called after the gardener, a white man who thought the Indians were just about perfect. The boys called each other Jack and Rube, and to have heard them talk, any one who could not see them would have thought they were white boys sure enough. "Say, Rube, you know that this thing don't look right to me," said John Turner (Winged Arrow), who sat with his elbows resting on his knees and his eyes fastened on the ground, "Here we have come all these miles to help the Indians in a hopeless war. I don't care a cent whether I come out of it or not." "That is just the way I think, Jack," replied Rube. "We have lived among the white people for almost eight years, and yet we must turn around and kill them. I tell you I shall think of the old gardener every time I pull on them. That Lieutenant of yours is all right, because you gave him that letter. I wish I could find somebody to assist in the same way." "I had to take my chances. I was roaming around just to see what the soldiers were doing, and I ran onto this fellow when I least expected it. He is a brave boy too, and I hope he will stay in the Fort." So it seemed that Reuben had some "medicine" which he wanted to give to a soldier, under the impression that it would save the soldier's life should he chance to be wounded and fall into the hands of the Sioux. The boys had made this up between them while they were on the cars coming to their home. Each one had the letter their fathers had sent them, and they resolved that those letters should be their "medicine"--that if either of them were found upon a dead soldier he would be safe from mutilation; and if upon a wounded man, he should be taken and treated in their rude way until he was well, and then be released and free to return to his friends. It was as little as they could do to pay the white men for all the kindness they had received at their hands while attending school. This was proposed to John Turner's father, then a prominent Medicine Man in the tribe, and after some hesitation he agreed to it. "You are bound to whip the whites anyway," said John, in arguing the case with him. "Oh, yes, we are bound to whip them," said the Medicine Man. "Well, then, what difference will it make by saving one or two lives? Let the letters save two lives, one a civilian and the other a soldier, and when that is done we will turn upon the whites and stay by you as long as one of them is left alive." The Medicine Man finally agreed to this and it was so published in the village; and although some of the warriors looked daggers at them and said that any white man who fell into their hands should be punished to the full extent of Indian law, we have seen that Winged Arrow's letter once served its purpose. "Those people must have wood pretty soon or they will freeze and starve to death," said Reuben. "Are you going out when the time comes?" "I must. I must make the Indians believe that I am with them heart and soul. But there is one thing about it, Rube: I shall think that every soldier has some medicine about him, and not any of them will fall by my bullets." "That is the way I shall do also. I really wish that this matter could be settled without a war. But every time we get a reservation fixed out to suit us, you will see some white man that wants some of it. Why can't they go away and let us alone?" "That is not the white man's way of doing business. He wants to raise cattle, or he wants to dig for gold, or he wants some place to put his family, and the first thing we know he has the whole country. If Red Cloud should fail in his movement, and it looks to me now as though he were going to, it will be all up with us. You and I belong to a doomed race. The Indian will not survive the buffalo, and when he goes it is good-by to us." "I am afraid that is so," said Reuben, getting upon his feet, "and I cannot find it in my heart to fight those white people either. All we have we owe to them. I remember what hard work I had to write a composition in English. Do you remember it?" "I believe I do, and with what labor I tried to put my words in English, so that some one would not laugh at me. I shall always remember John Turner for that. He stood by me and helped me whenever I failed, and that is one thing that makes me as good an English scholar as I am to-day." Reuben had evidently no more to say on the subject. Following an Indian's way, he turned and left John without uttering another word and went into his tepee, while John sat there on the ground occupied with his own thoughts. The hours flew by and yet he sat there without moving, and when at last the streaks of dawn appeared in the East he saw three Indians silently leave their lodges and take their way out over the prairie. These were the lookouts who had been appointed the night before to go and watch the soldiers and see that none of them left the Fort. On the summit of the nearest swell one of them sat down, drew his blanket over his head and the other two kept on out of sight. "Those poor fellows do not know that every move they make is known here in camp," said Winged Arrow, slowly rising to an upright position. "As long as they stay there inside their stockade, they are all right; but the moment they organize a train to come out and get wood, that will be the last of some of them." Winged Arrow, as we shall continue to call him, did not forget one practice he had learned among the whites, and that was to wash his hands and face. He always felt better for that, and he could not imagine why the Indians neglected it. This done, a pocket comb which he drew from some receptacle about him was brought into play, and before the Medicine Man appeared at his door, Winged Arrow was ready for anything that was to be done. One who had seen the Medicine Man as he appeared before Winged Arrow at that moment would have wondered at his claiming that man for his father. Winged Arrow was an ideal Indian. His frank and open face, always destitute of paint, was one which could not be seen without a desire to take two looks at it, and he was tall and as athletic as if he had been to a training school all his life; but the man who opened the door of his tepee and stepped out was exactly his reverse in these respects. He was tall, as the majority of Indians were, but he was bent almost half over, as if he were suffering from that Indian complaint, rheumatism, and his face, that had been daubed with paint the night before, was fearful to look upon. But for all that, he seemed to think a good deal of Winged Arrow, and his commands went far and were studiously obeyed by all the members of the tribe. Giving Winged Arrow his letter as medicine was proof of his popularity with the tribe. A grunt by way of greeting was all that passed between them. The Medicine Man kept on his way, and Winged Arrow went into the tepee to get his breakfast. The Indians are very different from white men in regard to their meals, each one breaking his fast whenever he feels the craving of his appetite. A pot, generally filled with meat and water, is placed on one side of the tepee, accompanied, if the man of the house be tolerably well off in the world, by a package of parfleche, which contains the Indian bread. If the bread is not there, the meat will do as well. A pile of ashes in the middle of the lodge tells where the meat is put to boil, and whenever an Indian is hungry he rakes together the buffalo chips, starts a blaze and puts on the pot; and when he gets too hungry to stand it any longer, he attacks the meat and eats until he is satisfied. Winged Arrow had all this to do himself, for it was too early for the women to be astir. As he sat waiting for his breakfast to be cooked, his thoughts wandered away to the school at Carlisle, and he wondered how many teachers there would have been willing to join him in his repast. "There is not one," soliloquized the young savage. "Every one of them would turn up his nose at such a breakfast as this. And yet I am here to fight just for keeping my people in this position. Oh, why did not the whites stay in their own country?" The smoke of the fire began to penetrate the tepee, until it was so thick as to be unbearable to any but an Indian. Winged Arrow waited until the meat was done and then, drawing his knife, proceeded to make as good a breakfast as he could out of boiled beef. CHAPTER XV. WHAT WINGED ARROW SAW Winged Arrow had not been at his breakfast long before he was startled by a noise and confusion in the camp outside. Any little bustle is enough to excite a feeling of alarm in an Indian, and coming as it did upon the quiet that reigned among the lodges, Winged Arrow was on his feet and out of his tepee in an instant. He turned toward the man on the highest point of the swell who had sat there with his blanket around him, and saw that he was on his feet and waving that blanket furiously aloft to attract the attention of the people in the village. He was repeating the signals that the other Indians had made to him--that there was something going on in the Fort. There could be but one explanation of his signals: The soldiers were starting a wagon train and were coming out to get wood. As he was about to turn into his tepee again, he met Reuben hurrying up. "Do you see that?" said he. "Yes, I see it," replied Winged Arrow. "Now remember that every soldier in that squad has some medicine with him that our bullets cannot penetrate. When you come back, you don't want to say to yourself: 'There is one fellow that I have wiped out.'" The boys went into their tepee only to re-appear again almost immediately. A spectator would have had to look more than once before recognizing them. They were stripped from the waist up, had bonnets on their heads, and nothing in their hands but their rifles. Neither of them carried a knife, for they did not believe in mutilating bodies that fell into their hands. Each carried a belt of cartridges which was slung around his waist. While they were going to get their horses, they heard a whoop at the lower end of the village, and the next moment Red Cloud dashed by, mounted on a snow-white pony, stripped to the waist, as all his men were, and hideously painted, "making the picture the very incarnation of exultant war." "Come, come," he cried in his native tongue, "Come to the ambush and then to victory." Red Cloud was right in his element now. He was war all over. He slung his rifle, his only weapon, around his head with frantic gestures and yelled so loudly that he drowned every other shout that was sent up by his triumphant warriors; for the Sioux looked upon their victory as certain. He was a man who would have been picked out of all that throng as a leader. He was not an hereditary chieftain, as we have explained, but his chance had come for raising the war cry over those chiefs who had signed the lease for that road. It just suited the turbulent element of his tribe, and those who did not believe in his way could just step aside and leave them the glory. But that did not suit the old chiefs who were anxious to retain their authority, and they soon found that they must acknowledge Red Cloud as their master, or be left alone with nobody to obey their orders. And thus it happened that some chiefs, some even who were friendly to the whites, joined his standard and were as fierce for battle as Red Cloud. It did not take Red Cloud's yells long to raise the fighting men of his tribe, and when he saw so many men at his disposal, he turned and led the way across the open prairie toward the Fort. There were a thousand of them all armed to the teeth. All were silent and not a shout was uttered, however much they might have felt inclined to let the soldiers know that they were coming. Some were engaged in tying feathers and ribbons in their horses' manes and tails; others put on their bonnets; and still others were busy in anointing themselves with oil and grease to make them more agile in their movements. The women gathered upon the outskirts of the village and sent up wails over the prospective death of husbands and lovers, who were going forth to battle. On reaching the ravine out of sight of the Fort, the very place where Colonel Carrington was afraid that an ambush might be formed for his troops, the most of the warriors rushed into it, while the others were sent off to annoy the cutters who were by this time at work upon the wood pile. The rest stayed in the ravine, out of sight, to be ready to assault the re-enforcements when they came up. This was the time when Guy Preston sent his first signal to the Fort and it resulted in Colonel Fetterman and his hundred men coming out to help the wood cutters. We may say before we go further, that Colonel Carrington did not believe that there was so large a village as his scouts had reported to him. Red Cloud had been so sly about his movements, making his attacks with smaller bodies of men on purpose to draw the soldiers out, and the Colonel thought that with a hundred men, all experienced Indian fighters, he would be able to hold his own with them; and that was just where he made his mistake. When the braves drew up in the ravine, Winged Arrow and Reuben were with them. They clutched their rifles with a firm hold, as if they were impatient to be in action, and all the while Winged Arrow was wondering if that fellow to whom he gave his letter were there as an escort to the wood cutters, or had he taken the young savage's advice and remained in the Fort. Red Cloud's orders to the warriors who went to attack the wood cutters were not to make a good fight, but to hang around and worry the cutters so that they could not do their work. Winged Arrow heard them yelling as they galloped up and down in obedience to these orders, and he knew, too, when the troops charged them, and when they were retreating. It kept on in this way for half an hour; then the Indian who had been sent to maintain a close watch on the Fort and tell them when to look for the re-enforcements, came down the hill in great haste, swinging his blanket around his head as he came. The re-enforcements had come, a whole cloud of them were flocking out of the Fort, and soon they would be close onto them. Now all was excitement in the ravine, and the braves leaned forward and grasped their weapons, but not a yell was uttered. Colonel Fetterman and his troops came on; the savages heard their charging shout, and the body of warriors who for the last half hour had kept up a bogus attack on the wood cutters, evidently surprised at so large a force coming out, retreated into the ambuscade. That was what the Sioux were waiting for. "Come to victory!" shouted Red Cloud. What happened next Winged Arrow could not have told; it was the first fight he had ever been in, and it was his resolve that he would never be in another. The Sioux divided right and left as they went out; he heard the rattle of firearms and saw the smoke fill the air, and all the while he was circling around close at the heels of a big warrior who was shouting as if he were going wild, and his rifle spoke as often as he could push in the cartridges. He did not know where the bullets went and he did not care. He aimed high, and was certain that he did not hit anybody. At the end of half an hour it was all over. A succession of whoops and yells from one section of the battlefield told him that the fighting was done, and he drew rein upon his wearied horse and waited until the smoke had cleared away, so he could see what the warriors had done. Of the men who came out with Colonel Fetterman, not one remained. The field, as far as he could see it from the smoke that settled over it, was covered with men in blue uniforms and horses which were killed while doing their utmost to take their riders to a place of safety. Winged Arrow took no part in searching for plunder which commenced immediately. He rode over the field, taking care that his horse did not step upon any of the dead men, looking in vain for Guy Preston, for of course he did not know that Guy, securely sheltered by the picket tower, had seen almost as much of the fight as he had himself. At last the wood cutters train came up the hill bound for the Fort. Red Cloud was entirely satisfied with what he had done, or the braves did not want to face the leaden bullets in the soldiers' rifles, for they did not make any serious attempt to capture the wagons. He lost a few men in charges he made upon it, and then allowed it to go on in peace. Winged Arrow saw before he had surveyed the whole battlefield that the Sioux had not escaped unharmed. Although the braves moved at a headlong gallop, trusting to their speed to escape any balls that might be sent after them, some of them went into that fight for the last time. Here and there, scattered about among the blue coats, was a Sioux warrior, with all his war paint yet upon him, whose medicine had not been strong enough to keep off some soldier's bullets, and he was taken up and carried to the village, in order to save the scalp upon his head. If that were removed, his relatives would not go to the trouble of burying him. "Do you find that fellow here?" asked Reuben, riding up at this moment. "No; he is in the Fort," said Winged Arrow. "I think that letter did him some good." The two friends stayed by each other while the plundering was going on, and their hearts grew sick when they saw the mutilations which some of the warriors practiced upon the dead bodies of the soldiers. At length the lookout (for the Indians always have them when they are engaged in a massacre), told them that still another squad of re-enforcements was leaving the Fort, a large squad it was too, fully equal to the one they had whipped, and in an instant all was confusion again. The Indians were getting ready to retreat, and as soon as Major Powell's troops appeared above the summit of the swell upon which stood the picket tower, they took a few shots at him by way of farewell, and speedily went out of sight. Not a single prisoner had been taken by the Indians. To quote from one of the chiefs, who afterward told the story to one of our soldiers, "the Sioux were too mad." They killed every one they came to, hoping that the whites would get weary of trying to open the road and that they would abandon the Fort in disgust. And this was the way that John Turner and Reuben Robinson behaved in every fight in which they were engaged. They always made two of the attacking party, and whooped and yelled as loud as anybody, and always took their chances of death with the others; but every bullet they fired went wild, and they never had to say when they returned to camp, "There was one fellow that I wiped out." They could not forget the kindness and favors they had experienced at the hands of the whites. While the troops under Major Powell had passed the picket tower and were hesitating whether or not to go down to the battlefield and run the risk of bringing off the dead, Guy and Amos were seated on the steps, while the latter's arm was thrown around him protectingly, and Amos was relating the story of the massacre. "You have seen more of it than I did, for you were up here where you had a good view," said Amos. "But the Colonel thought I had better come and tell you that the Fort was keeping watch over you." "I am grateful to know that," said Guy between his sobs. "I did the best I could." "Of course you did, and the Colonel appreciates it; but the only thing you are sorry for is that you asked for help when nobody told you to. Don't let that worry you. The Colonel will not say a word to you about it." "If you please, sir," said the soldier, who had been left on the top of the tower to watch Major Powell's movements, "The Major has left the ridge." Guy and Amos jumped to their feet and went up to the top, and a signal to that effect was at once sent to the Fort. No answer came in response to it, and the young officers became aware that it was all right. For two hours they turned their glasses first toward the swells to see that the Sioux did not come back to assault them, and then toward the soldiers who were tenderly gathering up the dead, but nothing occurred that was worthy of note. All the soldiers obtained were a hundred dead bodies, but not a single thing in the way of arms or ammunition. Everything had gone with the retreating Sioux. They came along on their way to the Fort after a while, and seeing that Guy was watching them with interest, Major Powell sent an officer to communicate with him. "All are gone," said he, returning Guy's salute. "Did you see it?" "I saw some of it," said Guy with a shudder. "I don't want to speak of it. I suppose I am the only officer left in our Company." "It looks that way to me. You don't want to go to sleep at all to-night, for the Sioux may be down on you." When the officer moved away, Amos decided that he would go back to the Fort also, and thus Guy was left alone with his three soldiers for company. He sat down on his block with his head resting on his hands, and in that way he remained almost all night. CHAPTER XVI. AFTER THE MASSACRE The night that followed the massacre was passed by those who took part in it in a very different manner. The dead had all been brought in and were laid out in three several rooms until the time of their burial, covered by all the flags that the Fort could raise, and sentries were keeping guard over them. Colonel Carrington had been in once to see them, but the sight was almost too much for him. He left hastily bathed in tears, and everybody who had business with him that night took note of the fact that he was a very different man from what he had seemed to be before he ordered out the re-enforcements. He continually said to Major Powell, who stayed with him almost all night:-- "I don't care one cent what the authorities say to me. If some of them had been here, they would have done just the same as I did. But sending out all these men who have obeyed my every order for so long a time is what grieves me. I wish I had been out there with them." In the Sioux camp there was a big pow-wow held by those who had been in the massacre, if we except Winged Arrow and his friend. They sat a little apart from the others and watched the scalp dance, but took no part in it. Their feelings went out to the mourners who were gathered in their lodges and were sending up loud wails of grief over the sons and brothers whose medicine had not been strong enough to protect them from the bullets of the doomed soldiers. Winged Arrow and Reuben said not a word to each other, and when they grew tired of watching the scalp dance, they went to bed; but slumber was something that would not come at call. All night long the yells and whoops of the triumphant Indians rang in their ears, but they were not thinking of them. "All this amounts to nothing," was what Winged Arrow kept saying to himself. "They are making a big noise over the death of one hundred soldiers, but they do not take into consideration the thirty-six millions that are to come after them. Where they kill one now, ten will spring up to take their place. As soon as this gets to Washington, the enemy will send re-enforcements here that the Sioux never dreamed of. We are doomed; I can see that plainly enough." To go back to the Fort again--there was Cyrus, the scout, lying on his bunk, sadly shaken up by this day's work. He glanced at the empty cracker boxes on which Tony and Mike had sat the evening before. They were laid out with the others, and to-morrow would see them covered by the earth over which they had often trod full of health and strength. How long would it be before such would be his fate? But Cyrus did not stop to think of that. His companions had fallen by the Sioux, and there was nothing for him to do but to avenge them. From that day Cyrus resolved that no Sioux should cross his trail and live to tell of it. No matter what treaties the government entered into with them, there would be always one who did not sign it. "Cyrus, the Colonel wants to see you," said an Orderly, breaking in on his meditations. "That's me," said Cyrus, getting up and putting on his moccasins, which he had thrown off on lying down. "If anybody asks you to-morrow where Cyrus is, tell him that you don't know. I will either get those dispatches through, or I will be in the same boat with Tony and Mike." "Are you going to try them again?" asked the Orderly. "Yes, sir. And I am going through with them. Do you understand?" Cyrus followed the Orderly, who led the way to the Colonel's quarters and found him in his shirt sleeves pacing up and down his narrow room. He could not be easy unless he was in motion, and even then he would stop occasionally, take his hands from his pockets and rumple up his hair as though he did not know what he was doing with himself. Major Powell was there, seated on a camp chair, with his head resting on his hands. The Major could not get over the massacre. Every time he tried to talk about it, he was obliged to stop, for his sobs broke his utterance. "Sit down, Cyrus," said the Colonel in a husky voice. "Are you all ready to start now?" "As ready as I ever shall be, Kurn," replied Cyrus. "But I don't want to sit down." "Then there are your dispatches. I don't need to tell you----" "You don't need to tell me anything, Kurn. I know just what you want to say. Those dispatches shall go through, or you will never see Cyrus again. Tony and Mike are killed, and I don't see that there is anything left for me." "Be careful that you don't get yourself into trouble, while you are avenging them," said the Major, lifting his head for a moment from his hands. "We cannot afford to spare you." "I shall take good care of myself, Major. Whenever you hear that I am gone, you may know that two Indians have gone with me." Cyrus took the papers that the Colonel handed him and proceeded to look them over. The first one he came to was Winged Arrow's letter. This one he laid on the table. The next one was the "bogus dispatch," and this one he placed by the side of the first. The third was the dispatch which the Colonel was so anxious to have go through, and that he put into his pocket. "Cyrus, you mean to see the commanding officer of Fort Robinson before you see us again, don't you?" said the Colonel, who had watched the scout's movements. "You don't mean to fall into the hands of the Sioux again." "No, sir, I don't. I will leave that first paper here and I will trouble you to place it in the hands of the owner when he comes. This war is not yet over." The post commander seated himself in the nearest chair, while the Major raised his head and looked hard at Cyrus. "Do you think we are going to have another massacre?" was the question that arose to the lips of both of them. "I don't know about that; but you know that the Sioux won't be satisfied with one killing. If Guy happens to fall into their hands, he will need something to bring him out. Good-by, I may not see you again, but you may bet your bottom dollar that I will get through, if I am alive." The scout seized the Colonel's hand, and the length of time he held fast to it was all the evidence that anybody needed to show him the consideration in which he held him. The Colonel told him that he was his only hope, but Cyrus shook his head and did not say anything in reply. The Major could not say anything. He arose and shook him hastily by the hand, and then seated himself on his chair as before, and rested his head on his extended palms. Another moment and the scout was gone. "This will kill me and I know it," said the Colonel, resuming his walk about the room. "I don't wish any harm to befall those superior in power to myself, but I wish that General could be down here for about five minutes and feel the responsibility that rests upon me. He would send some help without any asking." That was a long night to the two officers commanding the Fort, for neither of them thought of going to bed. The Colonel paced the room, and the Major sat with his head resting on his hands. It was longer still to the lonely watcher on the picket tower, who kept close view of the prairie surrounding him, lest the Sioux should slip up and try to add to the number of victims by taking a sly shot at him or his men when they did not think there was any one around. He had appealed to his men time and time again to know if he did his full duty when posted there to pass the signals, but their assurance that his conduct could not be blamed and that any other officer placed in the same position would do the same, did not fully satisfy him. He had been up there while a hundred men were massacred almost within reach of him, and had not done a thing to prevent it. The two young officers, for whom he cherished an affection of which some brothers might have been proud were gone and why should he be left? "Why did not one of them change places with me?" he kept constantly repeating to himself. "I would have gone readily, and now I would have been beyond the reach of the Colonel's reprimand or his frown. But there are the folks at home. What would they have said about it?" Daylight came at last, and once more Guy leveled his binoculars on the prairie, but no signs of the Sioux could be seen. Then he looked at the Fort, and saw preparations for guard mount going on, and that a Company was ready to keep guard over them while his relief was coming out to the tower. It came at last and a sorry-looking lot of men they were. They had seen the bodies laid out in the store rooms, and they could not get over it. In reply to Guy's hurried questioning, the Lieutenant said:-- "You would have thought, if you could have seen the smiles that were on Perkins's and Brigham's faces, that they had furloughs to go home and see the friends from whom they have been so long separated. They didn't act scared a bit. But I tell you, it is just awful. Captain Brown and a few old timers must have killed themselves, for they were not mutilated in the least. The other officers were all scalped." "Did the Colonel have anything to say about my signaling?" asked Guy. It was all he could do to ask this question, but he managed to get it out at last. "Not a word. You did the best you could, and that is all anybody can do. You have nothing to do but to look out for the Sioux, I suppose?" "And keep a watch on the Fort for signals," added Guy. "I hope your stay up here will be more pleasant than mine has been. Fall in, men, and we will go down to the Fort." The Adjutant and the officer of the day met him when he came in and reported, and after saying "Very good, sir," continued in a solemn tone:-- "You saw more of that fight than we did. It is awful, is it not? The Colonel wants to see you." "He wants to know why I made some signals, I suppose," said Guy. "What signals?" "Why, I told him that Fetterman needed help, when that signal was not made to me at all." "Oh, that is all right. The Colonel will not say anything about that. You saw what a fix he was in." Guy found the Colonel as we have seen him before, and the Major still sitting in his camp chair. They had been out to breakfast to drink a cup of coffee, and that was all. "Sit down, Preston," said the Colonel, waving his hand toward a chair. "You saw it all, did you not?" "The smoke would not let me see a great deal of it, sir," said Guy. "I want to say that I have got back and that I repeated every one of your signals that I saw." "And some you did not see," put in the Colonel. "However, that was all right. I am not going to find any fault with you for that. Sit down. Now begin at the beginning and tell me all that you saw." It did not take Guy long to do that, for, as he dwelt upon it, the scenes of the massacre came so vividly to his mind that he did not want to speak of them at all. The officers listened, the Colonel now and then making some marks on a piece of paper which he drew toward him. He took Guy's recital down as a part of the report he was going to make out for his superior officer. When Guy was through they asked him some questions in regard to the massacre which he did not see on account of the smoke, and then told him that he could go. Guy went, feeling a great deal better than he did while he was making those signals from the tower. He went in alone to view the officers and men who had fallen in the massacre of the day before, and what he saw there is beyond our power to describe. Perkins and Brigham were not scalped, and the smiles he saw on their faces reminded him of the one Arthur wore when he told Guy that he was not to ask the Colonel for anything on his part,--he was bound to go with his Company and take part in the fight, and the first fight he got into was the last. Guy did not look any further. Tears blinded his eyes and he came out and went into the mess room. But he could not stay there long either. The vacant chairs called to mind those who were gone, and he finally turned into his own room, where he tumbled into bed with his face toward the wall. "They are all gone, and there's no telling how soon I may be in their place," he moaned. Filled with such thoughts as these he soon fell asleep. CHAPTER XVII. RE-ENFORCEMENTS ARRIVE For a week after the massacre, Guy Preston and all the other officers and men of the Fort acted as if they were in a dream. The orders were given in a low tone of voice, the men responded to them with a silent touch of their caps, for every one seemed to think that it would not be long before they would be laid out awaiting burial, or be doomed to a worse fate in the Sioux camp. Guy was there during the burial of the men--he was one of twenty soldiers who fired the shots over their graves--and then he braced up, dashed the tears from his eyes, and tried to do his duty as he did before. He had ten men who had been detailed for various other duties when the Company was ordered out, and he was the sole officer in command of them. Guy was not long in missing his old friend Cyrus, whose fate no one knew. Did he get through in safety with his dispatches, or was he captured by the Sioux who had taken revenge upon him for the braves they had lost during the massacre? One morning, just after Guy had come off duty during the night, the Colonel sent for him, but it was not to reprimand him. He saw that as soon as he got into his room. The Colonel had a paper in his hand which he handed to Guy. "There is your medicine," said he. "Cyrus wanted me to give it to you under the impression that you might some day fall into the power of those thievish rascals outside." "Why--why did not Cyrus take it with him, sir?" stammered Guy. "No; he said the war was not yet over, and you might some day need it. You do not intend to be a prisoner in the hands of those fellows, do you?" "No, sir," said Guy hastily. "They kill everybody who falls a captive to them. And what is the reason Cyrus would not take it with him, sir? I am afraid he----" "Well, go on," said the Colonel, after waiting a moment or two for Guy to say what he was afraid of, "Do you think he has been captured?" "I think he would have been safer, if he had taken this letter with him, sir," replied the young officer. "Yes; but you know it has saved one civilian and the next must be a soldier." "That is so, sir. I will put it right there among the little money I have left, and I hope it may do me some good, if I chance to fall into their power. Don't you think it is about time to hear from Cyrus, sir?" "I do; but if he has met with the usual luck that some of our scouts do, it may be another week before we get news of him." The Colonel picked up some papers which were lying near him on the desk, thus intimating that their interview was at an end; but there was one more question that Guy wanted to have answered before he left. "Do you think he has got through in safety, sir?" said he. "That is hard to tell," replied the Colonel slowly. "Cyrus is a brave man, and if he fails I don't know what we shall do. That's all, Guy." "Cyrus has failed," said Guy to himself, as he put on his cap and left the room, "I could see that by the way the Colonel looked. By George! I wonder what will be the next move the Sioux will make? Well, if worse comes to worst I will have to go. I wish I could see my mother once before my time comes." Guy stopped after he passed the Orderly and dashed some tears from his eyes. He was the commander of a Company now, and it would look very unseemly for him to be found that way by any of his men. He took his way to his room, that room which he occupied all by himself now, and then the tears came forth afresh, until Guy began to be ashamed of his conduct. He rolled over and tried to catch the slumber he so much needed, but when the Orderly came to call him to dinner he was wide awake. But the Colonel was wrong in his predictions. Three days passed and then a horseman was seen rapidly approaching the Fort. The sentry called the corporal of the guard, and that officer did not stay beside him for more than a moment when he shouted:-- "There comes Cyrus!" Guy was off duty then, and he lost no time in climbing up beside the sentry. The horseman was still so far away that they could not see his face, but the way he waved his hat around his head and used it to urge his horse to greater speed proclaimed who the newcomer was. The Colonel was out by that time, and Guy turned to him with a face that was beaming over with pleasure. "It is Cyrus, sure enough, sir!" he exclaimed, "Re-enforcements are not far off." In a quarter of an hour the horseman, mounted on a nag that was almost tired out, dashed through all the men assembled at the gate, and presently was shaking hands with everybody that could get around him. It was the scout sure enough, and judging by the grin that was on his face he was glad to get back. "Halloo, Guy," he shouted. "I haven't time to speak to you all now, only to grasp your hands and say that I am overjoyed to see you all above ground. Help is coming. Where's the Colonel?" So Cyrus got through, after all. The story he told after he had reported to the Colonel did not amount to much in passing through his hands. He had not seen a hostile Indian from the time he left Fort Phil Kearney until his journey was safely accomplished. The pow-wow the Sioux held on the night of the massacre "threw them all crazy," as Cyrus had predicted, and there was not one to dispute his attempt to reach Fort Robinson. "The General was awful uneasy about us, because he did not hear anything," said the scout, in conclusion, "and he was on the point of sending three hundred men to see about it; and I tell you he packed them off in a hurry as soon as I got there." "Bully for the three hundred men," said Guy. "Are they coming now behind you?" "Yes, sir. They are coming as fast as they can. We have got men enough now to get that village out of there and make them take to the hills where they belong. Well, Guy, the Sioux have not scalped you yet. Have you been out after any more sage hens?" "No, sir, and I don't think I shall go any more until we get the Sioux out of there. Cyrus, you must have had a terrible time of it." "Oh, nothing to speak of. I went out on purpose to get to Fort Robinson, and I went. I wonder if you have anything to eat in the house? We have been in such haste to get here that we did not stop to cook any breakfast." Guy took Cyrus under his charge and conducted him into the mess room, intending to hear more of his story when he got him by himself; but before he could ask him to go on with it, a cheering arose out by the gate and Cyrus was left to finish his breakfast alone. There they were, three hundred infantrymen, who were moving with weary steps as if it was all they could do to drag one foot after the other--for they had made a forced march since they left Fort Robinson--but the way the garrison greeted them showed them that their trouble was over. Colonel Smith was there, vigorously shaking hands with Colonel Carrington, and when the two were through welcoming each other, they went into the commander's headquarters. The troops assembled on the parade ground, and when they had broken ranks, Guy speedily hunted up the Second Lieutenants, one of whom he found to his astonishment to be an old schoolmate of his. They had been at West Point together, had graduated at the same time, one being ordered to the Cavalry and the other to the Infantry. It took some little time for Guy to recognize Fred Bolton in this muddy, travel-stained boy, but when he saw the smile that beamed upon his face, and his extended hand, the old schoolboy came back to him, and catching Fred around the waist he fairly raised him from the ground. "Fred, old boy, how are you?" he exclaimed, as he swung him around once or twice before he put him on the ground again. "Say," replied Fred, gently untangling himself from Guy's detaining hands. "Have you an apple about you?" "An apple?" echoed Guy, not understanding the question. "Or peanuts; anything that will do to eat. I am so hungry that I can smell the bacon in the storehouse clear out here." "Why, come in," said Guy. "The Sioux have kept us on pretty short rations, but I guess I can give you bacon enough to satisfy you." Guy was introduced to the other Second Lieutenants as they were going to the mess room, and the first thing the boys asked him about was the massacre. "Did they whoop and yell as the storybooks tell about?" said one of the newcomers. "Tell us all about it, please. We have never seen an Indian fight and we want to know what is in store for us." "Don't ask me about it," said Guy. "But you must have seen some of it, and we should like to know how it looked," insisted Fred. "What is the reason you were not in it? Was not your Company ordered out?" Guy saw that there was no chance for him to plead ignorance, and while the boys were waiting for their bacon and hard-tack he went into the particulars of the fight, getting through with them as soon as he possibly could. The Second Lieutenants must have seen how badly he felt about it, and did not ask him any more questions; but when he came to tell of Winged Arrow's medicine, they looked incredulous. They were too polite to interrupt him, but exchanged significant glances with one another as if to ask what their companions thought about it. "I don't ask you to believe my word, but here is the evidence," said Guy, producing his pocketbook. "That letter has saved the life of one scout, and if I fall into their hands while I have that letter about me, I shall expect that it will save my own." Of course there was much to talk about and a good deal of time taken to tell it, for the supports were not expected to go on duty that day. They were given time to rest after their long, fatiguing march, and they made the most of it. At dress parade the men appeared in fine order, and then they received notice of what they were to do on the following day. Their force was strong enough now to assume the offensive, and to-morrow morning a battalion of three hundred men would start out to break up that Sioux village and, as Cyrus had said, "drive them into the hills where they belonged." Colonel Smith was to be in charge of the troops, with Major Powell second in command. There was one thing that made Guy grow an inch taller when the order was read: his small company of men were not to be left out after all. There were a hundred cavalry to go with the troops, to serve as eyes for them, and Guy and his company were to make part of them. "I hope the Colonel will lead us across that battlefield," said Fred, as they returned to their quarters. "Oh, he will," said Guy. "But we will not see anything--nothing but the spot where brave men offered up their lives to try and 'pacify' those Sioux. We will see the signal tower too. I hope that when you go there to take charge of it, you will see a better time than I did." "Well, wait until a history of this thing gets to Washington, and we will see help coming out here enough to annihilate those Sioux. The General was sorely put out about it, and he sent a dispatch that will make those fellows open their eyes." Morning came at length, and with it came the men who were to compose the expedition, forming on the parade ground in view of all the officers. There was one thing about it that Guy always disliked to see, and that was their ammunition and provision train. Before the troops could go into a fight with the Indians, they would be obliged to take care of that train, because when that was lost, everything they had was lost. The hostiles would make an attack upon that train first, paying no attention to the other men, and if they could stampede that, their-success was assured. The Indians did not believe in taking any train with them. All the ammunition and food they needed during their raids were carried on their horses, and if they were worsted in the fight they got out of the way with wonderful celerity and their ammunition and food went with them. Fred and the other newcomers who had arrived with the re-enforcements the day before gazed with interest at the picket tower, saw that the soldiers who had come to relieve them took the place of the men who had stayed there all night, and then went on to the battlefield. As Guy had said they found nothing there, not even a bayonet with which the soldiers had endeavored to defend themselves, for the Sioux had searched the field thoroughly and everything had disappeared. "Here's where Captain Brown and three others defended themselves," said Major Powell, drawing Colonel Smith's attention to a place in the rocks where the grass was all trampled down and empty cartridge shells were scattered all about. "They must have made sure play for some of those fiends who came at them. Captain Brown killed himself right here." It was a gloomy place, the battlefield that but a short time before had resounded with the war cry of the fierce Sioux and the rattle of carbines from the soldiers, and Guy was glad when they left it behind. Something kept telling him that he was going to see trouble before he came back, but he banished all such thoughts and had no place for them. His work lay in the expedition before him, and to that he gave the whole of his attention. In a short time the memory of the scene through which he had passed left him, and he was ready to join in with what the others had to propose, so long as it did not attract the attention of their commanding officer, Major Powell. So it is with soldiers the world over. A disastrous battle, during which so many of their old friends, perhaps their own tentmates, have gone to their long home, will depress their spirits for a time, and they welcome anything, no matter how trivial it is, that will draw their thoughts away to other matters and make them soldiers as they were before. In due time they reached the site whereon the Sioux village had stood while they were engaged in the massacre, and where everything denoted that they had abandoned it with the utmost haste. Plunder of every sort which goes to make up the wealth of the Indian was scattered about, and beside the lodge poles, for the tents were gone, were the remains of half a dozen Indian ponies that had been sacrificed to go with their owners to the Happy Hunting Grounds. "I don't understand the meaning of that," said Fred Bolton. "Did they kill their ponies on purpose?" "Certainly," said Guy. "The Indian ponies have spirits as well as their masters; and when one is killed and his scalp not removed----" "Do their scalps have anything to do with it?" "Of course they do. If you scalp an Indian, his body becomes so much carrion which is not worthy of a burial; but if his friends can save the Indian without letting him fall into our hands, he is given all the rites that an Indian can think of. These ponies will go with him to the spirit land, and if we had time to hunt up the places where the owners are buried, we would find there their rifles, matches, scalping knives, and every other thing they need to go right to work." Guy had many things to tell the newcomers, and during the two weeks that the expedition was out he had plenty of time around his camp fire at night to tell them all he knew about the hostile Indians. What he did not know the guides took up, and if the new men did not learn something about the Sioux before they got through, it was their own fault. They generally told some funny stories, but a wink from Guy told how much of them they had better believe. CHAPTER XVIII. A PRISONER AT LAST "So this is scouting for Indians, is it?" exclaimed Fred, when the bugle blew one morning and Guy began buckling on his sword. "We have been out two weeks, and during that time we have not seen one single Indian, nor the sign of one. I thought they would be all around us. That is the way they act in storybooks." "We are not dealing with storybooks now, but with solid flesh-and-blood Sioux," said Guy, who was making all haste to answer the bugle call. "We have seen signs enough, even if we have not seen Indians. We have followed their trail for a week, and that is as much as I want to see." "But why don't we follow them up and whip them? All we have to do is to go back there in the 'bad lands,' and there we would find them." Before we go any further we should like to inquire if you have any idea of how these "bad lands" look. We have often heard that hostile Indians find refuge there when badly pressed by the troops, but how do they appear and in what shape are they? You have often seen a clay field after a long and hot drought in summer, how it is seamed over with innumerable cracks, perfectly perpendicular, leaving miniature chasms between. This, magnified by a thousand, are the "bad lands" of the Northwest. They are immense patches of clay soil, baked by the long and intense drought of that climate into chasms four or five feet wide and perhaps twenty feet deep, absolutely impassable for wagons, quagmires in the early spring, and a labyrinth of deep gullies in summer. The hostiles know every one of these ravines, where it leads to and the springs of water that are to be found on the banks of it, and the troops that are sent after them do not. Once fairly inside the "bad lands," the Indians disappear and leave no trace behind. "We do not want to be whipped badly enough to go into those 'bad lands,'" said Guy, with a laugh. "The moment Colonel Smith saw where the trail led to, he said that we were not strong enough to go in there after them, and when he said that, he hit me right on top of the head. I don't want to go in there either. I am perfectly willing to go back to the Fort, without seeing any of them. You don't know how an ambush looks. I have seen one of them from a distance, and I don't want to see another." "Well, good-by, if you call that going," said Fred, as Guy swung himself upon his horse. "Keep your eyes open, and don't let any Sioux come down on us." Guy fell in beside his Company, waved his hand as a farewell signal to Fred, and rode out with the cavalrymen to act as eyes for the infantry, who were guarding the train. These marched along pretty nearly as they pleased, giving no thought to danger, for they knew that the cavalry, who skirted their flanks at a distance of three or four miles, would see the Sioux long before they could and easily warn them, so that they could get into line of battle. Presently the bugle sounded again, and that was a call for Fred. In a few minutes the entire expedition was under way, bound for the Fort, without having seen a warrior since they had been out. "They are all in the 'bad lands,'" said Colonel Smith, who felt somewhat crestfallen over his bad luck. "I really wish that I had about four times as many men as I have with me. I would follow them into their retreats and drive them out." That was the way that more than one man felt in regard to the disappearing Sioux, and many a soldier clutched his piece with a firmer grip and cast his eyes toward the hills on which he had last seen the cavalry, in the hope that they would come over the swells in haste with the report that the Sioux were not far behind them. That would give him a chance to knock over one or two to pay them for the number they had killed during the massacre at the Fort. That was something the soldiers could not get out of their minds. They had already made it up among them that "Remember Fort Phil Kearney" should be their battle cry the next time they went into action. And the opportunity came for them much sooner than they had expected. They had marched until pretty near twelve o'clock and the commanders were holding a consultation about what they had better do for dinner, whether to halt the column at the top of the nearest swell and have dinner there, or go on until four o'clock and then have dinner and supper together, when suddenly, and without the least warning, they heard the rattle of carbines behind the nearest hill on the right. A squad of cavalry, numbering perhaps twenty men or more, had discovered the Sioux. They had seen the squad more than half an hour before, and they were going along as if everything were all right. "Indians! Indians!" burst from a score of throats. "Remember Fort Phil Kearney!" chimed in some others. "That is Guy's squad, as sure as you live," exclaimed Fred, and his face turned a little pale as he drew his sword from its scabbard. "I guess Guy knows how it is to see an ambush close by." "Major Powell, take two hundred men and hurry to help that cavalry," shouted Colonel Smith. "The others are to guard the wagons. Lieutenant Bowen, we will keep right ahead at the rate we were going. Close up, everybody." These orders were obeyed almost as soon as they were issued. By the time the one hundred men had closed up about the wagons, Major Powell had brought his men together, and moving at double quick they ran toward the hill which separated them from the view of the hostiles. Fred's company was with Major Powell, and although the color had not come back to his face, he did his duty as though they were going out for drill. "Close up, men. Don't lag behind," was the way in which he urged them to keep up their formation, although before he was half way to the swell he was "winded," and would have been glad to sit down for a rest. There were other things besides the rattle of carbines to which the men had to listen. Before they had gone many steps a whole chorus of loud and fiendish yells came plainly to their ears, and caused the hearts of some of the soldiers to beat a trifle faster. A moment afterward the remnant of the squad of cavalry they had come out to help suddenly appeared at the top of the hill. Fred took one look at it and the fears which he had before experienced came back to him with redoubled force. "Only six men left," said he to himself. "They numbered twenty at first. What has become of the balance?" A few steps more and the whole matter was revealed to him. Of course there were orders to be obeyed, such as "Aim! Right oblique, fire!" and their bullets whistled over fifteen or more Sioux who, lying flat upon their horses' backs, were rapidly leaving the field; but in spite of them all, Fred had time to look about him and to see, if he could, what had become of his friend, Guy Preston. "By gracious!" exclaimed one man. "They have some prisoners with them." "Where, where?" stammered Fred. "Don't you see those feet hanging out over the side of that horse that is just going over the hill?" replied the soldier. "There's another and another. My fingers are all thumbs, and I don't see why I cannot load my gun. Shoot those men. They are taking some captives away with them." The soldiers were keenly alive to the fate of their prisoners, and more than one bullet was aimed for the warriors who had them on their horses; but they all flew wild, and before the men could load their guns again the last of the Sioux had disappeared. It was merely a bold dash. The Sioux had intended to wipe out a squad of cavalry and had succeeded. The other squads of cavalry were sent off as fast as they came, until there were nearly a hundred in pursuit of the Sioux; but all to no avail. They got a few shots at them, and that was all. Meanwhile the infantry had broken ranks and spread themselves over this new battlefield of the Sioux--to succor the wounded, if there were any, and to bury the dead. The first proved unnecessary because there was not a wounded man on the field; the Indians had made sure work of them. Fred was hunting for Guy. He was not among those who retreated to the top of the swell, so he must be among the dead or else-- "It is awful to think of," murmured Fred, who was almost afraid to go any further, for fear that his prediction might come out true. "I declare, there is his horse. Shot through the head. But where is Guy?" Tom, the horse which Guy had told the Colonel could beat any Indian pony that ever lived, had met his end at last, but his rider was gone. His saddlebags were there, but everything in the way of weapons had disappeared. Guy had been carried away by the Sioux, when they retreated. While Fred stood wondering what was to be his fate, one of the soldiers who had been at the Fort at the time of the massacre stepped up and touched his cap to him. "Did you know Cyrus, sir?" said he. "Cyrus?" repeated Fred. "What was his other name?" "He hasn't any that I know of, sir," replied the soldier. "I just wanted to tell you that he is among the dead." Fred accompanied the soldier to the spot where Cyrus lay, but he took one look at him before he turned away. He did not want to see any more of a battlefield, and he would have been glad, if he had never seen it at all. Cyrus lay as he had fallen from his horse, with a scowl of hatred upon his features, and the mark upon his shirt just above his heart told how he had given up his life. "Why don't we fall in and go away from here?" said Fred impatiently. "I wish I were back at the Fort." "This isn't anything to what the old battlefield was, sir. With Mr. Preston gone and Cyrus done up for good, it seems as though we have lost everything worth living for." And where was Guy Preston during all this time? He fell in with his men in response to the call and rode away on the right to keep watch for the Sioux. Their squad of twenty men was led by a First Lieutenant, a bold fighter, but rather inexperienced, so far as Indian tactics were concerned. But Cyrus was with him, and if the Lieutenant followed his advice, it was likely that he would keep out of trouble. Until twelve o'clock they saw nothing but the prairie on each side of them; they thought that they were alone, but Cyrus thought he knew a little better than that. "You can't always tell about these thievish rascals that we are after," said he, as he rode forward with the officer. "Now there is a place that is the best kind for an ambush. When you come to a deep gully like that, you want to do one of two things: either keep out of the way of it entirely, or go a mile or two above the opening and cross there." "Why, if there were any Sioux in there, they would get out," said the Lieutenant. "Of course, and that is what you want. If the Indians were in there, they would be right in the mouth of the gully; and they are too sharp to let you get behind them. They would dig out." This advice was all right, if the Lieutenant had seen fit to follow it; but he chose to do as he pleased about keeping away from the ravines. Three or four of them were passed in this way and still he saw no Sioux; and finally he began to think that Cyrus was talking merely because he had nothing else to do. Of course this made Cyrus very angry, and he fell back until he could speak to Guy. "That Lieutenant knows more than anybody else on the job," said he, "but you will see some fun before long." "I suppose that he thinks the hostiles are all in the 'bad lands,'" replied Guy. "They would not come out just to follow us up, would they?" "The only safe Indian is a dead Indian. Of course they would come out even for the sake of shooting at us. There! What did I tell you? We are gone up." While Cyrus was talking in this way the squad happened to cross one of those ravines that opened into the prairie along which they were traveling, and seemed to be deserted like the rest; but in an instant it became alive with Sioux. They did not yell when they made their charge as they almost always did, for they did not want the men who were behind the swells to know anything about their attack until they were through with it, but came out silently and swiftly and opened fire upon the soldiers before they knew it. It seemed as if half the men and horses went down at the first volley. The Lieutenant was greatly surprised, but he was still untouched, and prepared to do his duty as any soldier should. "Steady, there!" he shouted. "Right front into line! Revolvers! Give them the best you've got!" The next moment the officer raised his hands above his head and fell from his horse, but the rest of the soldiers heard his command and obeyed it. When Guy was fairly turned toward the Indians he was thunderstruck, for there seemed to be no end to them. He had just time to draw his revolver and fire twice, when he felt himself pitched headlong on the prairie. Tom would never get frightened and run away with him again. Guy was stunned, so forcibly had he struck the ground, and before he could get his wits about him or make a move to draw that loaded Derringer he carried in his hip pocket, he felt himself seized by the collar and lifted bodily from the ground. To be sure he struggled and made an effort to get hold of his saber which hung from his wrist, but of what use was it while he was taken at every disadvantage? Ere he was aware of it, he had been thrown across a mustang in front of a stalwart rider, his feet swaying from one side of the horse and his head bobbing up and down on the other, and was being carried rapidly away. He was helpless. The warrior held him by the throat with one hand and with the other hand he lifted his rifle and shook it at the soldiers, while he raised a shout of defiance at them. The soldiers saw Guy as he was carried away in this manner, and more than one bullet sped toward the brave that had captured him; but in their excitement the soldiers all shot wild. Guy was a prisoner now, and his medicine that had been given to him by Winged Arrow was the only thing that could avail him. Was that medicine strong enough to help him? CHAPTER XIX. CONCLUSION It seemed to Guy Preston that the rider who held him in position on his mustang would break his body in two before his horse had taken many more of his frantic leaps. You will remember that the only place he touched the horse was on the small of his back, with his head dangling on one side of it and his feet on the other; but it seemed to be all one to the warrior, who shook his rifle and shouted at the soldiers as if he were in high glee. He struggled to the best of his ability, and when at last it seemed to him that he would grow wild over the agony he was in, everything grew blank to him, and from that time he was as helpless as a dead boy. He knew nothing of the efforts the cavalry had made to rescue him; and when his captor wanted to stop to breathe his horse, he threw the boy to the ground as if he had been a bag of corn. The motion seemed to revive Guy. He struck on his feet, made three or four efforts to recover himself, and then sank down, regardless of his fate. The warriors had all stopped to rest their horses, for they believed that the pursuit was over. The spot where they paused was in one of the ravines that led to the "bad lands," and while one or two of their number remained on the hills to note the movements of their pursuers, the others gathered around their prisoners and went into ecstasies over them. "Hoopla!" said one who seemed to have a little smattering of English. "Nice time the squaws have to-night. Take um scalp and burn um." These words aroused Guy and he sat up on the ground. He thought of Winged Arrow's medicine, and put his hand into his pocket to see if he could find it; but the Indians, believing that he was looking for a weapon, rushed upon him and stretched him again upon the earth, while one drew his scalping knife and yelled as if he were going to use it. He seized Guy by the hair and passed his knife around it, and when he arose to his feet he had a handful of it, which he shook in the boy's face. Guy's heart seemed to stop beating. Were his captors going to scalp him alive? He put his hand to his head and found, greatly to his relief, that although his hair was gone, his skin was there as usual. A roar of laughter was the result, and when it was ended one of the braves said:-- "Brave boy. To-night stake him out on ground. Then take scalp sure enough." It was something to know that they were going to take him to the village before they began torturing him, and Guy at once became more at his ease and began to look around among his captors to see if Winged Arrow was there. He did not see him, and he concluded that he would let his letter go until he could see him or find some means to send it to him. What was the reason he had not asked him his name in Indian when he met him there on the plains? That would have reached him sure, and he resolved to try it in English. Perhaps the Indians knew enough of that tongue to recognize it. The Sioux were sitting down in a circle and some of them were getting out their pipes to indulge in a smoke. "Do any of you know English?" he asked at a venture. "Oh, yes, me know it," said one of the Indians, tapping his breast with his hand. "Me know English a heap." "Then perhaps you know Winged Arrow," said Guy. "He is my friend." Guy did not see what there was in this to excite the laughter of the Indians, but it raised it sure enough, and his captors began passing some remarks about him in their native tongue which made them laugh louder than ever. Guy gave it up in despair, and settled back on the ground again. The Indians either could not or would not understand what he was trying to get at, and it was useless to try them further. His mind was so busy with his own affairs that he had not thought to see if there were other prisoners in the party, but now he found that there were two--one a member of his own company, who had evidently been worse treated than Guy was, for he lay upon the ground as motionless as if he were dead. Guy got up and went to him. He could not bear to see one of his own kind used as bad as he was without saying something to him. "Oh, sir, we are gone up now," said the soldier, in a faint voice. "My back is broken." "I guess I know about how you feel, for my back is feeling the same way," replied Guy. "Brace up, and never say die. When we get to their village, I will see what I can do toward effecting our release." "Oh, if you could do that, you would win my everlasting gratitude. I can't bear to be tied up and burned, just because I happen to wear the blue. Have you a drink of water about you, sir?" Water was something that Guy did not have, and he began to feel as though he would like a drink himself. He approached the Indians, who were now sitting on the ground engaged in the formality of smoking, and holding his right hand as if he were grasping a cup, carried it to his mouth and turned it up as if drinking from it. He knew this much of the signs that Cyrus had taught him. One of the Sioux immediately said something in his own tongue and pointed down the gully, and then went on with his smoking. "There is not any water here," said Guy, returning to the soldier. "We must wait until we reach the village. Now brace up, and don't let these people see that you are afraid of them. If you do they will torment you in every way that they can think of." When Guy went to speak a word of encouragement to the other prisoner, he cast his eyes around among the horses that were standing a little distance away, and saw that there were five of them that belonged to the government. There were thirty of the Indian ponies, and twenty-eight savages sitting in that circle on that ground; and by counting the two who had been sent out as look-outs, it proved to his satisfaction that the Sioux made that attack upon the cavalry and came off without losing a man. No wonder that they felt jolly over it. Guy spoke such words to the other captive as he thought would serve to encourage him in the ordeal which he knew was coming, and by that time the lookouts came in from the hills and the Indians all got up in readiness to resume their march to the village. But before they went they determined to examine the pockets of their captives and see what they could find that was worth stealing. In obedience to a sign from one of his captors, Guy got up and the Indian thrust his brawny arm into his pants. His pocketbook was the first thing he pulled out. The small amount of money that Guy had was looked at and thrown aside, the Indian not knowing what the bills were. The next thing was Winged Arrow's medicine; and when the savage unfolded that and looked at it, he uttered a grunt which brought all his companions to his side. Guy's heart beat against his ribs with a sound like a trip hammer, for he knew that something was going to happen now. First one Indian examined it and then another, all uttered grunts indicative of surprise or indignation, he couldn't tell which, and another savage, the same one who had gone through the motions of scalping him before and was ready to do it again, for he held his knife in his hand, quietly put it in his belt and made no move toward Guy. The Indians now became excited and wanted to get to their village as soon as possible. The talking and laughing suddenly ceased. The horses were brought up and at a sign Guy and one prisoner mounted; and when it came to the captive who was too weak to help himself, he was not jerked and hauled around as he was before, but an Indian lifted him in his arms and put him on the horse as tenderly as if he had been an infant. There was something in Winged Arrow's medicine after all, and when he saw how prompt the savages were to obey it, it made the chills creep all over him. "No one need ever tell me again that the Sioux are nothing but savages, and have no hearts at all in them," muttered Guy, as he fell in with the others and rode down the ravine. "But that paper is not through yet. If it pass Red Cloud and the other big chiefs at the village, I shall really begin to believe there is SOMETHING in Indian medicine." The ride now was a very intricate one, and Guy marveled greatly when he saw the Indian who was leading turn first into one gully and then into another, and never seem to be at a loss which way to go. If a body of troops ever got in there with Indians all around them, their destruction was certain. The next thing was the village which came into view. A sudden turning of one of the gullies, when everything seemed to be deserted, and there were the tepees scattered along both banks of a little stream which came murmuring down from the hills. That was too much for one of Guy's companions in trouble. He dismounted from his horse, stretched himself out at full length beside that stream and drank as if he had not seen any water for a month. Guy's fear and anxiety increased now, for he longed to see Winged Arrow, to tell him what had been done with his medicine and to ask him if there were the least grounds for hope for any prisoner besides himself. Somehow he could not get it out of his mind that his men had seen the prairie for the last time, but that was too dreadful to think of. The Indians along the stream took but little notice of the party as they rode through the village, with the exception of one who gazed at them as if there were something on his mind. This one fell in behind and walked along with them until they came to a lodge which he entered without ceremony. It was Reuben who was hunting for Winged Arrow. There was something about Guy's shoulder straps which attracted his attention, and he wanted to see his friend before it was too late. The lodge he entered was the one Winged Arrow occupied, and he found that person just getting ready to go out. "He has come," said Reuben. "So I have heard, and I am going to see about it," said Winged Arrow. "I wonder if he has that letter with him." Reuben shook his head. He did not know what had passed between the Indians and their captives on the way up. "It will be hard enough for me to help him, even if he has it with him," continued Winged Arrow. "But if he has forgotten it, it is all up with him." The young braves hastily left the lodge and followed along after the party until they came up with them standing in front of the chief's tepee. One glance at the boy who wore the shoulder straps and Winged Arrow saw that he was the same one he had once met on the prairie. Guy saw and recognized him at the same moment, and something like a smile of confidence lit up his face. "I am sorry to see you here," said Winged Arrow; and his face assumed a gloomy expression. "And I am sorry to be here," said Guy. "Now we will see if your medicine amounts to anything. There are three prisoners here----" Winged Arrow turned his head away and raised his hand, as if motioning for Guy to stop. "If I can get you out safe, you must be satisfied," said he. "I had hard work to get that other man free, and I don't know whether I shall make it with you or not." Guy lost all his confidence from hearing Winged Arrow talk this way, and he began to think that his own escape, which had seemed so bright when Winged Arrow first came there, was not so sure after all. He watched his friend go into the chief's tepee, and from what he had read he knew that no one had a right to do that, and in about five minutes he came out again; but his face was still gloomy. "Get off that horse and come with me," was what he said to Guy. The boy lost no time in obeying him. He saw that his first object must be to get out of sight of the Sioux, and he soon saw the necessity for that, for savage glances were cast upon him as he passed along, and he remained close at Winged Arrow's heels, while he led the way toward his father's lodge. Once inside, he breathed more freely, although he was ushered right into the midst of the Medicine Man's family. He did not have time to see who was there, but followed his guide to a remote corner of the tepee and seated himself on a pile of blankets pointed out to him. "Now whatever happens, don't open your head," said Winged Arrow. "Don't say one word to me. If you go out of here without me, you are gone." The Death Angel never came so close to Guy Preston as he did then. He felt in his hip pocket for the loaded Derringer he had taken pains to keep about him, but remembered that it had fallen out during that wild ride after he was captured, and now nothing remained for him but that letter. He noticed that Winged Arrow did not go any further than the entrance of the lodge. He took his rifle with the air of one who would use it if he found it necessary, and seated himself just inside the flap door and watched everybody that came in or went out. It looked as though Winged Arrow was going to fight to retain possession of him. He listened, but could hear no signs of what had been done with the captives outside. They had been taken away, and Guy told himself that he had seen them for the last time. It was pretty nearly night when these events happened, and if the hours were long to Guy they must have been doubly so to Winged Arrow, who never changed his position after he seated himself. The Sioux came in and cooked their meals as they wanted them, but nobody offered Guy a morsel. In fact he did not want anything, for he was so completely wrapped up in thoughts of escape. At length the door was raised and a bundle of something was thrust into Winged Arrow's hands. He took it immediately and came over to Guy. "Put these on," said he, in a hurried whisper. "Be quick." Just then someone outside set up a rapid beating on the tom-tom, and Guy thought that it was the signal for something of which he did not like to think; but it was a notice that the social dances, which were now in vogue, were about to commence. The fate of the captives had not yet been decided upon. With nervous haste Guy unfolded the bundle and found an Indian blanket, a pair of leggings, and moccasins. He looked at Winged Arrow and saw that he was standing erect and had enveloped himself in another blanket, so that nothing but his face could be seen. Guy was quick to follow his motions, and when the change had been effected no one could have told which of the two was the Indian and which the white boy. The other Sioux sitting around in the tepee made no remark regarding the change, and, feeling greatly encouraged, Guy walked over to his friend and followed him outside into the darkness. "Keep still," was what Winged Arrow whispered to him. "Do just as I do." The tepees were all deserted by the Indians, their owners having gone to the further end of the village to engage in the dance, and no one saw them as they passed. A little further on and somebody with a horse loomed through the darkness. He kept on ahead of them, not a word was exchanged between the two, and it was evident that he was in the plot, if that was what Winged Arrow's movement proved to be. For two hours they walked, and then the prairie came into view. Then the horseman stopped and Winged Arrow and Guy went up beside him. "There, sir, you are free," said the young Indian. "Don't stop to talk, but get on and do your best. Don't you be caught again." It did not seem to Guy Preston that he could leave his friend without making some acknowledgment. He did not "stop to talk," but he thrust out his hand which Winged Arrow took and shook warmly. "Which way?" said he. "That way," replied the Indian, pointing straight over the prairie. It occurred to Guy to ask Winged Arrow what he and his friend were going to do when it became known among the Sioux that one of their captives had slipped through their hands, but before he could form the question he was standing there alone. The Indians had vanished in the darkness. To jump upon his horse and start him in the direction he had been told to go was done in less time than we have taken to tell it. Have you ever seen the prairie? If so you can have some idea of what Guy had to go through. It was the same thing over and over again. Every little hill he mounted when daylight came revealed nothing but a lonely waste with not a living thing in sight. And so it was during the whole of that day until the light faded away and darkness began to settle down on the plain. Then Guy thought he saw a horseman on a distant swell. He stopped and looked at him, but the horseman, if such it were, did not move. "Is it a Sioux or a white man?" said Guy to himself. "I can't be worse off than I am now, and so I will go and see who it is." For the first time he put his horse in a lope, keeping his eye on the object and waiting to see what he was going to do. At length another object appeared by the side of the first, and something that hung down by his horse attracted the attention of Guy, and led him to swing his blanket around his head. It was a cavalry saber, and showed Guy that he was among friends. We cannot stop to tell how Guy Preston was received by the men who had long ago made up their minds that they had seen the last of him. The expedition had stopped to bury their dead and had just gone into camp. Guy said that the two prisoners who were captured at the same time he was were in the hands of the Sioux yet, and he could not tell what was to become of them, and neither did he know what would be done with Winged Arrow and his friend for assisting one captive to escape. When he reached the Fort, Colonel Carrington listened in surprise to the story of his release, and declared his belief that there was something in Winged Arrow's medicine after all. He moved back to Nebraska in the early spring, after Fort Phil Kearney had been demolished. His superiors blamed him for Colonel Fetterman's defeat. They did him an injustice, for it was Red Cloud's ability and strength that won the day. THE END RALPH MARLOWE A Tale of the Buckeye State By DR. JAMES BALL NAYLOR Author of "THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET" "There is an atmosphere about the story of RALPH MARLOWE--the picturesque atmosphere of quiet, rustic southeastern Ohio, and there is an equal measure of delicious humor and delicate pathos about it also. _Get this novel and read it--The time will be well spent._" --_North American, Philadelphia._ "Dr. Naylor has constructed a very readable story. He has been remarkably successful in transferring to the canvas of fiction Ohio farmers and village folk, and the story is worthy to take its place beside the best of those written in recent years which take as their particular task the picturing of life in rural districts." _American Monthly Reviews of Reviews._ Handsomely bound in bright red cloth, gold lettered, emblematic cover design in white and gold, 12 mo. $1.50 THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio _THE BRADEN BOOKS_ FAR PAST THE FRONTIER _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN The sub-title "Two Boy Pioneers" indicates the nature of this story--that it has to do with the days when the Ohio Valley and the Northwest country were sparsely settled. Such a topic is an unfailing fund of interest to boys, especially when involving a couple of stalwart young men who leave the East to make their fortunes and to incur untold dangers. "Strong, vigorous, healthy, manly."--_Seattle Times._ CONNECTICUT BOYS IN THE WESTERN RESERVE _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN The author once more sends his heroes toward the setting sun. "In all the glowing enthusiasm of youth, the youngsters seek their fortunes in the great, fertile wilderness of northern Ohio, and eventually achieve fair success, though their progress is hindered and sometimes halted by adventures innumerable. It is a lively, wholesome tale, never dull, and absorbing in interest for boys who love the fabled life of the frontier."--_Chicago Tribune._ THE TRAIL _of_ THE SENECA _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN In which we follow the romantic careers of John Jerome and Return Kingdom a little farther. These two self-reliant boys are living peaceably in their cabin on the Cuyahoga when an Indian warrior is found dead in the woods nearby. The Seneca accuses John of witchcraft. This means death at the stake if he is captured. They decide that the Seneca's charge is made to shield himself, and set out to prove it. Mad Anthony, then on the Ohio, comes to their aid, but all their efforts prove futile and the lone cabin is found in ashes on their return. CAPTIVES THREE _By_ JAMES A. BRADEN A tale of frontier life, and how three children--two boys and a girl--attempt to reach the settlements in a canoe, but are captured by the Indians. A common enough occurrence in the days of our great-grandfathers has been woven into a thrilling story. BOUND IN CLOTH, each handsomely illustrated, cloth, postpaid +$1.00+ _The Saalfield Publishing Co._ AKRON, OHIO _FICTION FOR GIRLS_ BETTY, The SCRIBE _By_ LILIAN TURNER _Drawings by_ KATHARINE HAYWARD GREENLAND Betty is a brilliant, talented, impulsive seventeen-year-old girl, who is suddenly required to fill her mother's place at the head of a household, with a literary, impractical father to manage. Betty writes, too, and every time she mounts her Pegasus disaster follows for home duties are neglected. Learning of one of these lapses, her elder sister comes home. Betty storms and refuses to share the honors until she remembers that this means long hours free to devote to her beloved pen. She finally moves to the city to begin her career in earnest, and then--well, then comes the story. "Miss Turner is Miss Alcott's true successor. The same healthy, spirited tone is visible which boys and girls recognized in LITTLE MEN and LITTLE WOMEN."--_The Bookman._ CLOTH, 12mo, illustrated, 50 cts. Elizabeth Hobart at Exeter Hall _By_ JEAN K. BAIRD _Illustrated by_ R. G. VOSBURGH +A spirited story of every-day boarding-school life that girls like to read. Full of good times and girlish fun.+ Elizabeth enters the school and loses no time in becoming one of the leading spirits. She entertains at a midnight spread, which is recklessly conducted under the very nose of the preceptress, who is "scalped" in order to be harmless, for every one knows she would never venture out minus her front hair; she champions an ostracized student; and leads in a daring plan to put to rout the Seniors' program for class day. CLOTH, 12mo, illustrated, 50 cts. Books sent postpaid on receipt of price. _The Saalfield Publishing Co._, AKRON, OHIO _The_ BILLY WHISKERS SERIES BY FRANCES TREGO MONTGOMERY Billy Whiskers--frolicsome, mischief-making, adventure-loving Billy Whiskers--is the friend of every boy and girl the country over, and the things that happen to this wonderful goat and his numerous animal friends make the best sort of reading for them. As one reviewer aptly puts it, these stories are "just full of fun and good times," for Mrs. Montgomery, the author of them, has the happy faculty of knowing what the small boy and his sister like in the way of fiction. TITLES BILLY WHISKERS BILLY WHISKERS' KIDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR. BILLY WHISKERS' TRAVELS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE CIRCUS BILLY WHISKERS AT THE FAIR BILLY WHISKERS' FRIENDS BILLY WHISKERS, JR. AND HIS CHUMS BILLY WHISKERS' GRANDCHILDREN BILLY WHISKERS' VACATION BILLY WHISKERS KIDNAPPED BILLY WHISKERS' TWINS BILLY WHISKERS IN AN AEROPLANE BILLY WHISKERS IN TOWN BILLY WHISKERS IN PANAMA Each Volume a Quarto, Bound in Boards, Cover and Six Full Page Drawings in Colors, Postpaid Price +$1.00+ +The Saalfield Publishing Co.+, Akron, Ohio _MARY A. BYRNE'S BOOKS_ THE FAIRY CHASER "Telling of two boys who go into the vegetable and flower-raising business instead of humdrum commercial pursuits. The characters and situations are realistic." --_PHILADELPHIA TELEGRAPH_ LITTLE DAME TROT One of the most pleasing of juveniles, made pathetic by the strength with which the author pictures the central figure, a little girl made miserable by her mother's strict adherence to a pet "method" of training. THE LITTLE WOMAN IN THE SPOUT "This pleasing story may have been developed from real life, from real children, so true a picture does it portray of girlish life and sports." --_GRAND RAPIDS HERALD_ ROY AND ROSYROCKS A glowing Christmas tale, fresh and natural in situations, that will interest both boys and girls. It tells how two poor children anticipate the joys of the holiday, and how heartily they enter into doing their part, to make the day merry for themselves and others. +Each of the above bound in Cloth illustrated, 12mo,+ +$.60+ PEGGY-ALONE The chronicles of the Happy-Go-Luckys, a crowd of girls who did not depend upon riches for good times. This club was very stretchible as to membership, so they elected Peggy-Alone from pity of her loneliness. Freed from governess, nurse and solicitous mother, she has the jolliest summer of her life. +CLOTH, 12mo, illustrated by Anna B. Craig,+ +$.50+ _BOOKS SENT PREPAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE_ _The Saalfield Publishing Co._ AKRON, OHIO 
34928	----	THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Home Again BOOKS BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Rainbow Lodge The Ranch Girls' Pot of Gold The Ranch Girls at Boarding School The Ranch Girls in Europe The Ranch Girls at Home Again The Ranch Girls and their Great Adventure The Ranch Girls and their Heart's Desire The Ranch Girls and the Silver Arrow The Ranch Girls and the Mystery of the Three Roads STORIES ABOUT CAMP FIRE GIRLS The Camp Fire Girls at Sunrise Hill The Camp Fire Girls Amid the Snows The Camp Fire Girls in the Outside World The Camp Fire Girls Across the Sea The Camp Fire Girls' Careers The Camp Fire Girls in After Years The Camp Fire Girls on the Edge of the Desert The Camp Fire Girls at the End of the Trail The Camp Fire Girls Behind the Lines The Camp Fire Girls on the Field of Honor The Camp Fire Girls in Glorious France The Camp Fire Girls in Merrie England The Camp Fire Girls at Half Moon Lake The Camp Fire Girls by the Blue Lagoon THE GIRL SCOUTS SERIES The Girl Scouts of the Eagle's Wing The Girl Scouts in Beechwood Forest The Girl Scouts of the Round Table The Girl Scouts in Mystery Valley The Girl Scouts and the Open Road [Illustration: "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, RALPH MERRITT?" SHE DEMANDED] THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls at Home Again BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK ILLUSTRATED BY RALPH P. COLEMAN THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PHILADELPHIA Copyright, 1915, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. PRINTED IN U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. THE RACE 9 II. AN UNANSWERED QUESTION 21 III. THE ENGINEER OF THE RAINBOW MINE 30 IV. OLIVE COMES HOME 40 V. THEIR RIDE TOGETHER 51 VI. THAT SAME AFTERNOON 66 VII. "COURAGE MAKES THE MAN" 79 VIII. THE MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE 91 IX. A DILEMMA AND A VISITOR 100 X. CROSS PURPOSES 110 XI. A DINNER PARTY 121 XII. TWO CONVERSATIONS 134 XIII. A VISIT TO RAINBOW MINE 146 XIV. THE EXPLOSION 155 XV. AN UNFORTUNATE DISCUSSION 165 XVI. A DESERT STORM 187 XVII. OLIVE'S REMORSE 200 XVIII. JACK SURRENDERS AT LAST 210 XIX. RAINBOW CASTLE 221 XX. A PARTY AT THE NEW HOUSE 230 XXI. MAIDS AND MEN 240 XXII. OLD FRIENDS AND SOMETHING MORE 254 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, RALPH MERRITT?" SHE DEMANDED _Frontispiece_ PAGE "SHE HAD HEARD THAT MASTERFUL TONE BEFORE" 84 "THE STARS HAD DISAPPEARED AND BEYOND THE UNIVERSAL GRAYNESS THERE WAS NOW A FAINT ROSE LIGHT" 211 "YOU WOULD HAVE MARRIED ME ANYHOW" 241 The Ranch Girls at Home Again CHAPTER I THE RACE AN hour before sunset a number of persons were standing in a small group facing the western horizon. But although the prairie was covered with a crop of young grass, a pale green mirror to reflect the colors of the sun, they were not looking at the landscape but toward two figures on horseback, a girl and a boy who were riding across country as rapidly as their horses could carry them. "Will Jack Ralston ever learn to be less reckless about her riding, Jim?" Ruth Colter inquired. "Since we returned from Europe it seems to me that she has grown more attached to the Rainbow ranch than ever before. Yet at about the time we were married, dear, do you know I had a fancy that Jack and Frank Kent were going to care for each other seriously. Of course, I was mistaken since he has never been to see her in almost a year." Then with both hands held out invitingly, Ruth received a small pink and white bundle which Jim deposited in them with infinite care. For the bundle consisted of an absurdly tiny person measuring its early existence by weeks instead of months or years. And its face, though as delicately shell pink as the blanket enveloping it, yet bore a ridiculous resemblance to the tall man's in whose arms it had lately been borne. A moment later and Jim Colter strode forward with a blond girl at his side. For by this time the two riders were almost within hailing distance, the girl's horse scarcely a neck in advance of her companion's. "Carlos don't like Jack," Frieda Ralston remarked unexpectedly to her guardian, "so I do wish that she would not keep on doing things to irritate him. He perfectly hates to think that a girl can beat him at any outdoor sport and yet he rarely gets ahead of Jack. Indians are so strange and silent that sometimes I feel afraid he may try and revenge himself upon her for some fancied wrong. See, he is furious now at her having won their race!" "Well, I expect Miss Ralston will be able to manage him;" Jim returned. "Nevertheless, the boy has not turned out as I had hoped; he is lazy and proud and extremely ungrateful. Sometimes I have half an idea of turning him off the ranch, and I came very near doing it the other day, only Jack pleaded for him. Because he is Olive's friend she seems sentimental about keeping him on here, at least, until Olive joins us. Bravo, Jack! Be careful, you hoyden, don't you know you are a grown woman!" he cried. And with his tone divided between admiration and anger, Jim caught at the flying figure of a girl as she landed lightly on the ground at his feet. She had jumped from her pony while it was still going at full speed and then run along beside it until she was able to stop without losing her balance. "I wish you would not behave like a circus rider, Jack," Frieda scolded. For at eighteen Frieda Ralston had become a far more dignified and reposeful character than her older sister, who was now past twenty. Nevertheless Jack only made a slight grimace, calling back over her shoulder carelessly, "Carlos, see to my horse, will you, when it gets to the stable?" And then in a kinder tone, "Oh, never mind, I had forgotten; some one else can look after him. Of course you will be interested to hear the news from Olive--Miss Van Mater," she corrected herself. "I am going to tell the family at once." Then she walked on between Jim and Frieda, with an arm laid lightly across her sister's shoulder. And without replying Carlos followed the little party. He was a beautiful slender Indian boy of about fifteen or sixteen, with skin the color of bronze, with straight dark hair and moody, unsatisfied black eyes--the same Indian boy who had formerly helped Olive to return to the ranch after her enforced capture by old Laska, and had afterwards sought refuge there himself. As a small lad, in spite of his pride and difficult disposition, the Ranch girls and Ruth had been fond of him, but since their return from Europe they had found Carlos a problem. He was unwilling to work like the other men, either on the ranch or at the mine, and was equally determined not to go to school except when forced into it. Indeed, so far as possible, the boy had insisted upon living in the midst of civilization like one of his chieftain ancestors. Oftentimes he chose to sit idly in the sun doing nothing, save perhaps to clean his gun or else gaze for hours at the sky overhead. Then again he might without warning disappear on a hunting expedition, taking any horse from the stables that he wished for his purpose, and usually returning with game or furs, which he sometimes bestowed on Jean or Frieda or Ruth, but never on Jack. At the present moment his manner was absurdly dignified and haughty, since he particularly objected to being treated at any time as though he were a servant, and considered Jack's request in that light. However, as no one was paying the slightest attention to him, it was self-evident that he was longing to hear Jacqueline Ralston's news. "Have you heaps of letters, Jack? Do please hurry and give them to us." Jean Bruce called out, walking away from the two young men with whom she had been recently talking. One of them was Ralph Merritt, the engineer in charge of the Rainbow mine, and the other a visitor from one of the neighboring ranches. For as Jack had always insisted, wherever Jean was to be found there also was a masculine admirer, even in a wilderness. Over her shoulder Jack carried a small leather mail bag, which she now opened; but before drawing forth her letters she leaned over and glanced anxiously into the face of the small baby snuggled in Ruth's arms. "Nothing has happened to Jimmikins since I have been away? He has not cut a tooth or anything, has he, Ruth?" she queried. And as the others laughed, the baby being at the present hour only about seven weeks old, Jack drew forth more than a dozen letters and began passing them around to the different members of her family. "Here, Jean, of course there are more for you than for any of the rest of us, and in so many handwritings that it looks as if you kept a correspondence school for young men. And, Frieda, I am sorry I had to discover this was from Tom. But the youth does send you so many boxes of candy, I can't help recognizing the address. Ruth, won't you ask everybody please to wait here a moment for I have something really important to tell you." Then Jack's radiant face grew graver. "I have at last had a long letter from Olive," she explained. "And a week after her grandmother's death the will was read." The girl glanced about her. Ralph Merrit and their visitor had walked off several yards, so that only the few persons interested were standing near. "Of course old Madame Van Mater has made the curious will that we might have expected. For it seems that she has given Olive one more year to make up her mind whether or not she will marry Donald Harmon. If she does, of course they will then inherit the greater portion of the estate with only a few legacies to be paid outside. But if she does not decide to marry him--and here is the strange thing--at the end of the year another will is to be read, which will divide the property differently. And no one knows just how, for this second will is sealed and in the possession of her executors. So Olive may finally be left penniless or she may receive everything, or else Donald may suffer the same fate. It is a queer and interesting state of things, isn't it?" Jack concluded. "Yes, and pretty well calculated to make everybody that had anything to do with the old lady uncomfortable for another twelve months longer anyhow," Jim Colter replied frowning. "Funny how the old woman arranged to make her relatives and friends as miserable after her death as she had before it. It is pretty hard on both Olive and Donald. In the end I have an idea that the money will go to some charity." In reply Jean slowly shook her head, turning over the envelopes in her hand with pretended interest, but with her thoughts plainly not centered upon them. "Olive is very foolish," she remarked at length. "Really I can't see why she does not make up her mind to do as her grandmother wished. Don is a charming fellow and it is ridiculous not to appreciate the value of so much money. Why the longer I live the more important it seems to me!" Too displeased with Jean's unexpected burst of worldliness to discuss the question with her, Jim marched a few steps away. Ruth was distressed, but being a woman she was not so unmindful of what lay behind the girl's apparently careless speech, while Frieda became immediately influenced by her cousin's point of view, just as she always had been since they were small girls. So it was Jack who was the one person in the group to take Jean's statement lightly, for she merely laughed, saying: "Oh, of course we know that Jean is the really worldly person in our family, so we must watch and see how she lives up to her sentiments! Still you have not yet heard my most important piece of news. Olive has also written that she is completely worn out with all the business and worry of these last weeks and so she is coming to us at once. She asks if she may bring Miss Winthrop along with her for a visit?" Jack paused for a moment, looking inquiringly about at the faces of the others. "Of course she may," she ended. "It will be a pleasure to have Miss Winthrop, and besides I don't see how we possibly could refuse." Frieda held up two white hands protestingly. She was not an industrious person and so devoted a great deal of her valuable time to her toilet instead of to more serious labors. "Oh, dear," she began, "it will be just like going back to Primrose Hall again to have Miss Winthrop staying in our house. Goodness, how she will disapprove of me for having no ambition to improve myself as Olive does. I shall have to lead a changed life!" "Thank Providence, then. Do ask Miss Winthrop to come on the next train," Jim chuckled, returning at this instant, while Ruth shook her head thoughtfully. "Naturally it will be an opportunity for all of us to have a woman like Miss Winthrop for our guest," she declared, in a slightly worried tone. "But has it ever occurred to any one of you where we are to put her? The poor old Lodge is so crowded now with babies and girls and Jim Colter that we have not a single spare room. Oh, of course Olive can be tucked in anywhere, but----" "Jim, do take your son and let us walk over and look at our new house," Jack at once suggested. "Surely there will be enough bedrooms finished by the time Olive and Miss Winthrop arrive, for some of the family, so that we may give ours to our guests. Funny how we cling to the dear old Rainbow Lodge in spite of our new grandeur." Then Jack moved on ahead, leading the way through the grove of cottonwood trees almost up to the old house. She turned to the left and about an eighth of a mile farther along came to a slight elevation, recently planted with shrubs and evergreens. There, facing the little party, was a splendid pile of stone and wood that was evidently growing into an old-time colonial house. For of course now that the girls were older and wealthier, and Jim and Ruth married, Rainbow Lodge was no longer suited to their needs. And as the Rainbow Mine still continued to yield a handsome income, the new house had occupied a great deal of the family's time and attention since their return from Europe. For it had been both Jim's and Jack's desire to build a wonderful colonial mansion here in their own beautiful Western country, where in times past men and women had been content with rude cabins. Since a colonial house meant to Jim Colter the beauty and dignity of the old Virginia homes that he remembered in his boyhood and since Jacqueline had long cherished a photograph of the place owned by her Southern grandfather who had been killed in the Confederate army, the new house was to be as nearly as possible a replica of the latter. In the interest of discussing what the workmen had accomplished since their last visit to the new building, no one noticed that the Indian boy, Carlos, who had followed the others up to this time, listening intently to every word of their conversation, had stalked silently away as soon as Olive's name ceased to be mentioned. His face wore a more pleasing expression, and unlike his usual habit he afterwards joined old Aunt Ellen in the kitchen, who was still the ranch girls' cook and devoted friend. To her he at once imparted the information concerning the expected visitors; then he retired to his own tent in the yard. For Carlos had absolutely refused to live in the ranch house with the other employees about the estate and had erected for himself an Indian tepee at some distance. CHAPTER II AN UNANSWERED QUESTION ON a pile of boards in a great unfinished room Frieda Ralston stood facing--the unknown future. In the family it was sometimes said that though on occasions the younger Miss Ralston could assume the airs of a social queen, at very many other times she was more of a baby than ever. For of course Frieda had not yet been touched by any of life's hard realities, and since her sister's recovery from her accident her way had been fairly plain sailing. For did she not have health, youth, plenty of money and an adoring family? What else was there to wish for? Thus far she had never taken any of her mild love affairs with the least seriousness and had no idea of "settling down," as she expressed it, for at least ten years to come. So what was there for Frieda to do but each day to grow fairer and more charming, like a lovely wax doll that had come to life and taken upon itself the airs and graces of a really grown-up person. Because Jack objected, Frieda some time ago had given up her former fashion of wearing her heavy yellow hair in a Psyche knot, and in these months at the ranch when no strangers were about had returned to her old childish custom of two long braids. On dress occasions, however, her coiffure, copied after a Paris model, could again be made bewilderingly lovely. On this particular occasion Frieda had unfortunately neglected to attire herself for the rôle which she was about to play, as she happened to be wearing an old blue and white middy blouse and a short duck skirt with one long plait hanging over each shoulder. "I wonder," she began at this moment, though no one chanced to be looking toward her, "which one of us will finally fall heir to this grand new house we are building? I have just been thinking, houses are not like clothes, meant for one person and to last through one or two seasons: they may last through many generations and no telling what changes in a family." "Hear! Hear!" cried Jean, straightway whirling around to regard her cousin with astonishment and then striking an attitude of mock admiration. "Listen, everybody, please, Frieda is making a speech! She wants to know which of us shall become the royal family of Rainbow Castle. It is an interesting question, dear; I never should have thought it of you!" Frieda hesitated, but the next instant went on quite seriously. "Of course it won't be you though, Jean, because of all of us, Ruth, Olive, Jim, and Jack and me, why I think you love the Rainbow ranch the least. You will never want to stay on in the West once you are married; that visit you made the Princess Colonna in Rome has completely spoiled you." And now it was Jean's turn to endure the family laughter, and though she made no reply, she showed more annoyance than the accusation merited. Still surprisingly thoughtful, Frieda continued: "I suppose that either Jim or Jack and their children ought to inherit the new house, for of course I am the youngest and have done nothing toward making the ranch a success as Jim and Jack have. Ruth, you and Jim would want Jack to have the place after she marries and has children, wouldn't you? And yet not long ago, do you know, I believed that in spite of loving the ranch best, Jack would be the first one of us to leave it for good. I don't think so now," she added hastily, catching an expression on her sister's face that she could not altogether understand. But by this time Jack had marched across the room and was gently but firmly pulling Frieda down from her exalted position. "I suppose hearing the news of old Madame Van Mater's will has gone to your head, Frieda darling," Jack protested. "But really no one of us wants to hear you arranging our futures and talking about our descendants, as if fifty years might suddenly pass away before tea time. Of course 'Rainbow Castle,' as Jean calls our new home, shall belong to the one of us who wishes it and needs it the most. But which of us that may be--well, in the words of Mr. William Shakespeare, 'that is the question.'" Jack now turned to her cousin, Jean, who was standing before one of the unfinished windows looking out at the beautiful view. For the prospect from the new house was far lovelier than any outlook from Rainbow Lodge, since it stood on a higher incline and showed a wider sweep of the prairies. "Jean," Jack asked, "I wonder if you happen to know where Ralph Merrit is? There is something Jim and I want particularly to talk over with him. I happened to notice he was with you last. Did he say whether he was going to have dinner with us tonight or with the men at the Ranch House?" The other girl shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "Really, Jack, I don't see why I should be expected to know Ralph Merrit's plans because I was talking to him for ten minutes. But what is all this mystery about anyway? What is going on down at the mine? Ralph looks either as if he were working himself to death or as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. To tell you the truth, I believe he did ask me to tell you that he was going away for several days perhaps. He preferred to talk over matters with you on his return. But do come on home, Ruth," Jean finished crossly, "it is much too cold for the baby to be outdoors now the sun is down. And Jim and Jack always prefer to have their business secrets alone. I suppose we have no right to be interested. But of course there can't be any serious trouble at the Rainbow Mine while Ralph is managing things." Then Ruth, Jean, the baby and Frieda walked on ahead, leaving Jim and Jack to follow slowly behind. For in spite of the accusation in Jean's speech, her cousin had made no denial. With her hand inside his, after the fashion she had as a little girl when anything about the big ranch troubled her, Jack gazed earnestly up into her old friend and guardian's strong and gentle countenance. "I am right not to speak of this trouble Ralph Merrit is having with the men at Rainbow Mine, don't you think so, Jim?" she queried. "You see I don't understand the situation anyhow, and it all may come to nothing in the end. So any discussion does not seem to me fair to Ralph. Surely the men are only grumbling! Why next to you I feel that we owe our fortune to the splendid way Ralph Merrit has managed the mine. And you know you have always liked him better than any other young man we have ever known, better even than Frank Kent." Jim cleared his throat. "Have I said that I had changed my mind about Merrit?" he demanded. "You are right, Jack; you just lie low and say nothing even to the men who may come to you with their complaints. In my opinion the trouble is this: The fellows at work on Rainbow Mine are most of them middle-aged men, kind of down-and-out miners and a hard lot, who have either given up the hope of discovering gold for themselves or postponed searching for it for a while so as to first make a good living out of us. Well, you see, compared to them Ralph Merrit is a kid. And of course his being a real mining engineer graduated out of a college and placed as the boss over them makes the older men kind of sore. Then, besides paying our miners their regular wages we have been giving them a percentage also of the amount of gold that is taken out of the mine each month. There is still enough pay dirt for us to live pretty comfortable, but the men say we ought to be getting a whole lot more. Merrit isn't certain yet, he wants to make some more investigations. The gold that is a whole lot deeper down under the earth may prove either too dangerous or too expensive to get out. So at bottom I believe that is what the real grievance is, they want Ralph to hurry up. It is nothing to them to have us sink, say a hundred thousand dollars, in new mining machinery and maybe get nothing back. So they have been spreading ugly stories, say Merrit does not know his job and that he is too busy speculating and trying to earn a fortune that way for himself to care what becomes of the mine." After this speech Jack kept silent for several moments and they were almost at the Lodge before she replied: "Look here, Jim, don't be angry with me if I say something. Of course I know Ralph is doing the best he can for us at the mine. But about that other story--really you ought to try and find out if it is true. John Raines, one of the miners, said he wanted to tell me something; do let him tell you instead. Because, Jim dear, if once you believe in a person you know you believe in him forever, and yet maybe Ralph may have gotten into mischief. You see I should not wish to be prying into his private affairs, but it is as plain as the nose on your face to everybody but you that Ralph is in love with Jean and always has been for that matter, though I must confess he has been paying her a good deal less attention lately. And as for Jean, well I don't believe she will marry any one who cannot give her wealth and position; yet just the same it would be wiser to know the truth about Ralph. Couldn't you ask him to tell you? I believe he would. Oh dear me, I do hope we won't have a strike at the mine or any other kind of trouble." "You sound pretty sensible, partner," Jim agreed, "maybe I had better look into things a little more. It never hurts any fellow to keep his eyes open. But let me tell you that I have never heard of a gold mine yet, whether it was a good one or a poor one, that did not keep on piling up trouble." CHAPTER III THE ENGINEER OF THE RAINBOW MINE READERS of the Ranch Girls' Series probably remember that the first meeting between the members of the Rainbow Ranch family and Ralph Merrit occurred several years before, while they were making a caravan journey to the Yellowstone Park. And Jean Bruce had been Ralph's original acquaintance. How many times since had they not laughed at the vision of the girl idly washing her hair in an outdoor stream with no thought of a stranger in many miles. Then there was the story of their first luncheon together with only Frieda as chaperon and Ruth and Olive's return, the storm, and Jim and Jack's disaster by the deserted mine. Within less than a week Ralph Merrit had appeared like an old and tried friend. And from the hour of his arrival to advise and assist Jim Colter in regard to the Rainbow Mine he had seemed almost like one of the family. Only twice had he left his work for any length of time--once to visit his mother and sister in Chicago, and the second time to say farewell to the Ranch girls when they sailed for Europe. His friends understood that a large part of his generous salary went each month to the support of his people, and that in his present position Ralph was not making his fortune so quickly in the West as he had hoped. But was that the reason why he had been taking so many short trips away from the ranch in the past few months and why he had recently changed so decidedly in his appearance and manner? Though Jean may have had her own special reasons for observing these changes most, no one else was wholly blind. Could it be possible that Ralph Merrit's difficulties were graver than they suspected? There is a possibility that Jack Ralston's and even Jim's faith might have been shaken had they been able to follow the young man's proceedings on the afternoon of their conversation about him. He and the neighbor, who had simply been a visitor at the ranch for afternoon tea, walked along without much conversation until they came to within the neighborhood of Rainbow Creek--that portion of the creek where important mining machinery had been set up and near which a shaft had been sunk, forming a narrow entrance into the Rainbow Mine. As the hour for work had passed some time before, the place was now deserted and Ralph Merrit showed no interest in lingering in its vicinity. Yet the discovery of the surprising wealth contained in the Rainbow Mine had never ceased being a subject of interest, of speculation and oftentimes of acute envy to many of the ranch owners in that end of Wyoming, and the young man, Hugo Manning, who was Ralph's present companion, had only recently purchased a cattle ranch about ten miles away. He had come from the western part of New York State and this was his first sight of a gold mine. Plainly Ralph was at first simply bored by the stupid questions that his neighbor asked of him. Then unexpectedly the young engineer's expression changed and his face flushed angrily. "I hear that your famous Rainbow gold mine is panning out," the young man had remarked carelessly. "They tell me around here that you have already taken out all the gold that lies near enough to the surface to be of value. They insist that it is going to cost you more to buy new machinery and try out new methods of mining than the gold is worth. Better advise your friends to sell out while selling is good and before their mine loses its reputation." Ralph made a queer noise in his throat that was half anger, and yet he did not positively deny the suggestion. "Oh, they say that, do they?" he exclaimed. "It's funny how much sooner strangers find out about your affairs than you do yourself! I don't believe Mr. Colter or Miss Ralston have yet had to complain of any lack of money. When that time comes then we shall decide what is best to do." And Ralph started to move along, but his companion waited, hesitating for half a moment. "I say, Merrit," he continued, "if the Rainbow Mine owners should make up their minds that they want to get out, I wish you would let me hear the news first. Isn't it possible that they might be willing to take a lump sum down and not run the risk of losing what they have already got by investing in new machinery? I believe it mostly belongs just to the two Ralston girls. But a company of men, say in New York City, might look at the proposition differently. They could afford to sink a few hundred thousands easier." Ralph nodded dryly and this time walked on so resolutely that his companion was obliged to hurry in order to keep alongside and to hear the answer to his request. All the reply he received was: "Thank you; it is kind of surprising to meet a fellow who knows people who are willing to lose money." But when at the edge of the ranch the two men finally separated, Ralph Merrit went on alone to the nearest railroad station. It was several miles away and few persons from the Rainbow Ranch ever attempted walking so great a distance. But Ralph had not ordered a horse for one reason because he did not wish to have a boy accompany him to bring the animal home again and also because he preferred not having any one know just where he was going. That there was discussion and ill feeling concerning him among the men at work on the Rainbow Mine he understood, although Ralph was not yet aware how unkind the criticism was, nor just what was being said. By midnight he had finally arrived at his destination, Laramie, the largest city in Wyoming. He had then gone directly to a small, out-of-the-way hotel. But after his arrival, instead of getting immediately into bed as any tired, healthy fellow should, the young man dropped into a chair before his open window, sitting there most of the night. Now and then he dozed a few moments from sheer exhaustion, but the greater part of the time he stared out into the lighted streets below him, moody and restless and totally unlike the Ralph Merrit of former days. If one trait of character had previously distinguished Ralph from the Ranch girls' other young men friends, it had been his practical common sense. Unlike Frank Kent and Donald Harmon, Ralph Merrit was a self-made boy, who had earned his own way through college and had afterwards suffered many disappointments and disillusions on coming West to seek his fortune. Upon taking charge of the Rainbow Mine and making the success of it, which he certainly had, for a time Ralph felt happy and satisfied. He was doing work which many an older man might have envied him. Then why had he recently become so disheartened and dissatisfied? It was true that the Rainbow Mine was not yielding so much gold as it formerly had and that he was beginning to feel fearful that the veins near the surface, which had held valuable ore, were now nearly worked out. Yet Ralph did not even try to pretend to himself that his nervousness and discontent were due to conditions at Rainbow Mine. No, his anxiety and despondency were entirely personal. For in the past six months Ralph had been overtaken by an ambition that makes for more unhappiness and destroys the careers of more young men than almost any other vice. He had developed an overpowering desire to make a large fortune quickly, not by hard work or economy or any of the ordinary, slow methods for gaining wealth, but by some single, brilliant stroke of good luck that should make him a rich man at once. Yet this represented such a curious change in Ralph Merrit's former nature, in his good sense and sound judgment, that surely some outside influence must have been at work to render him so unlike himself. What that influence really was Ralph Merrit alone knew perfectly well. Now it is idle to deny that while under most circumstances a refined girl is an ennobling influence in a young fellow's life, now and then there may be exceptions to this fact as to all others. At the very beginning of their acquaintance Ralph Merrit had understood that he was falling hopelessly in love with Jean Bruce. But in the two years of her absence at school and in Europe he had fought the matter out with himself and decided that he had mastered his impossible fancy. During her short visits at the ranch they had remained especial friends as at the start, but nothing more. Now, however, since Jean's return to live at the Rainbow Lodge, Ralph had not only felt a return of his first affection, but an emotion that was very much stronger and more serious. And he felt this in spite of recognizing that Jean herself had greatly changed. No longer was she the fascinating unspoiled girl of his early acquaintance; she was a far more worldly-minded and ambitious Jean than he could have imagined. She was also far prettier and more alluring from her experiences and opportunities, and there was no doubt but that she was constantly yearning for the companionship of distinguished people, for more society, broader social opportunities of every kind. During the past year at the ranch she had not been altogether contented. Their former life now seemed too simple and uneventful to her, she no longer had Jack's intense interest in outdoor amusements. Yet to Ruth's and her cousin's suggestions that she make a visit in the east to her friends, Margaret and Cecil Belknap, Jean would not listen. Of course she was happy at home, and whatever her family might say to the contrary they would be absurdly lonely without her. Moreover, did they believe that she would miss Olive's home-coming? But any other influence that may have been at work in the back of the girl's heart or mind she did not mention. And assuredly Ralph Merrit did not dream that his presence on the ranch could be in any possible sense an added influence. For whatever Ralph's present weaknesses, he did not put the blame upon a woman. Jean had given him no false encouragement, had shown him no special favor. The fault was his, that moved by what he believed her attitude toward wealth, he had used the wrong method for obtaining it. He had not even given Jean the chance to say that his struggle was unwise or unnecessary, since he had been paying her far less attention recently. At ten o'clock the next morning Ralph learned from his stock broker that instead of being nearer the fortune he so much desired, he was several thousand dollars farther away. And this loss represented almost the last dollar he had in the world. CHAPTER IV OLIVE COMES HOME SOON after dinner Ruth and Jim Colter and of course the small son had retired to their rooms in Rainbow Lodge, leaving Jack, Jean and Frieda to amuse themselves in the living room until bedtime. A week had passed since their visit to their new house and tonight Frieda and Jack were busily studying over their original plans and discussing various alterations which they felt were absolutely necessary, while Jean, without seeming to regard them, was playing idly upon the piano. It was not cold, and one of the front windows was partly raised with the blind drawn down; but a small fire was burning in the old fireplace, since the Rainbow Lodge living room was never exactly the same delightful abode without it. Except for a few handsome, additional pieces of furniture and some odd pictures and china which the girls had brought home from abroad, there was no material change in the beloved room. For Ruth and the girls had the good taste to know that its primitive character with its decorations of bright Indian rugs and simple furnishings was far more suitable and beautiful than any alteration their money could bring. So the newer and more splendid furnishings which they had purchased in New York and in Europe had been safely stored away for the finishing of their new house. And this evening in their former familiar surroundings Jack, Jean and Frieda looked not unlike they had on that first evening years ago when Jack had returned from her original meeting with Frank Kent and before either Ruth or Olive had ever been seen at the Rainbow Lodge. "But, Frieda dear, it will be far too expensive to make such a change as you suggest," Jack protested. "You know that we agreed to have the four big bedrooms and two baths on one side of the house and just one upstairs sitting room. Now if we try to arrange a private sitting room off from your room, it will either make your bedroom too small or else rob the rest of us. And another big bay window would cost hundreds of dollars more." "Well, why not?" Frieda returned petulantly. "Here we have all been living quietly at the ranch for nearly a year and spending no outside money except on the house. It is only because you are suddenly growing stingy, Jack. I heard you tell Ruth that we had better not order as many new oriental rugs as we planned to have. Mr. Parker says that he can add the extra space to my apartment without spoiling the effect of the house in the least. Do let me have him do it, Jack darling, please? You know you and Jean and Olive will often be talking about things in our big sitting room that you won't wish me to hear and I do want a tiny den all to myself." Because Jack did not agree at once to her sister's pleading the girl at the piano ceased playing for an instant to glance at her cousin, and, surprised by her expression, did not look immediately away. Jack was frowning and was a little pale. But she had been out all day riding over the ranch and talking to the men at the mine, and naturally might be expected to be tired. She had gone to her own room and undressed almost immediately after dinner, and as there was no possibility of any visitors arriving unexpectedly at the ranch, she was now wearing a lovely old Chinese blue silk kimono and had her gold brown hair in a loose knot on top of her head. Leaning over she suddenly kissed Frieda, who sat on the other side of their small table puzzling over the drawings for their new place. "It isn't fair to say that I am stingy, baby," Jack declared, "when you know that our house is costing thousands of dollars more than we first expected. People say that is just what all houses do, yet just the same we have to set a limit somewhere. And of course I don't want you or Jean to worry, but there is a possibility that we may not get as much money out of Rainbow Mine in the future as we have for the past few years. And you know we have not a large fortune stowed away in bank. Besides, we have gotten into the habit of living pretty expensively and spending an awful lot of money thinking that our mine would hold out forever. Today Jim told me that frequently there were gold mines that ceased to yield almost altogether when certain veins had been worked out. I don't think he meant that this was going to happen to ours--only that our income might be cut down." As Jack finished speaking Jean Bruce got up from her piano stool and came across the room to face her cousin. "It's funny, Jack, that you let Jim give you all this information about affairs at the mine, instead of Ralph Merrit. It seems to me that Ralph must know more than Jim. And as he is head engineer you know you ought to get your information from him," she protested. Rather wearily Jack leaned back in her chair; yet she answered without any show of temper. "I thought you knew, Jean, that Ralph has not yet come back to the ranch. Five or six days ago he wrote Jim not to expect him for some little time as he had important business to look after. So you see I could not very well discuss business with him while he is away." With a little shrug Jean turned to stare into the fire. "Yes, but you could have waited until Ralph's return and then have had the conversation with him. Besides, it isn't only Jim who has been telling you that the gold in our mine will give out unless some new method for mining it is employed. No, it is the other miners who have been grumbling to both of you. I wonder if they can be dissatisfied with Ralph's management? But, Frieda, for goodness sake don't be a baby and don't worry Jack about spending more money on our new house than we can afford. Dear me, I wonder how we shall behave if suddenly we should become poor as church mice again. It would be my duty then, I suppose, Jack, to let you get rid of supporting such an expensive cousin by some means or other." Already won over by her sister's argument, since Jack's judgment was almost always hers in the end, Frieda had left her chair and was sitting on the arm of her sister's, pulling softly at the loose coils of her hair and trying to rearrange them. She and Jack both stared at Jean in surprise and consternation. What was the matter with her? Why should she talk in this absurd fashion? Had they ever felt or shown any difference between her and themselves in the right to everything they possessed? Something was making Jean unlike herself tonight. Seeing the hurt and surprise in the other two faces Jean at once changed the subject. "Jack, have you heard anything more about when Miss Winthrop and Olive are planning to come for their visit to us?" she demanded. "Just think, we have not seen Olive since our return from England! Won't it be splendid for you to have her with you again, Jack dear? Frieda and I are so dreadfully spoiled and lazy, we never do anything to help you about the ranch and only complain if things go wrong and we haven't more money to spend. I do wish somebody would show me how to be useful. I haven't even the beds to make now we have another girl to help Aunt Ellen." Jack shook her head. "I am sorry you are bored. I wish I could think of something to interest you. You seemed to like the ranch when we first came back and the work at the mine. The only word I have heard from Olive since her other letter was a short note in answer to my telegram that begged her to come at once. She said that she and Miss Winthrop had a lot of business matters to look after, but meant to run away as soon as possible. What in the world was that?" And Jack, who seemed unusually tired and nervous tonight, startled the other two girls by jumping up unexpectedly. Jean had also heard the noise and turned in the direction from which it came. "It is only that tiresome boy, Carlos," she explained. "I mean to tell Jim that I don't like his sneaking up here and peering into our window in that spooky fashion. Carlos can move more like a spirit than a human being anyway! But what has become of him recently, for now I think of it I have not seen him before for several days?" "He has been away from the ranch most of the time," Frieda answered sleepily, "for I wanted him to do an errand for me the other day and could not find him. But Aunt Ellen says he has come to her for food several times and then has gone off with as much as she would give him. Somehow I'm fond of Carlos--he was such a queer, handsome little boy when he first came to us. I hope Olive will understand him better than the rest of us do. But dear me, what does he mean by coming in at the front door without knocking?" And Frieda also jumped up hurriedly. "I hope he is not bringing us bad news!" Not only had the front door opened, which had not yet been locked for the night, but the door of the living room was mysteriously unclosing just half an inch at a time. The three girls were seriously annoyed and Jack spoke sharply: "Carlos, what do you mean by entering our room without asking permission? Unless you have something important to say I should prefer your waiting to speak to us until tomorrow." A soft voice, which was not that of the Indian boy, replied: "But I can't wait till morning or not another moment, Jack dearest, when I have traveled across a whole continent to see you. And please forgive Carlos for my sake, because he and I have been planning this surprise together ever since I left Primrose Hall." Afterwards Olive Van Mater could only get a few steps further inside the old Lodge living room, because Frieda, Jean and Jack at once flung themselves upon her. And the tears were gathering fast in the girl's big star-like black eyes as she tried her best to explain the mystery of her arrival and to embrace her three friends at the same instant. "You see, Miss Winthrop found that she could not leave home for some time yet and I was so tired and so nearly dead to see you that she would not let me wait until she could come. So I thought that I would rather surprise you than anything else I could imagine. I wrote Carlos when to expect me and to have a horse and carriage at the train. But the poor lad has been at the station apparently for several days, fearing he might make some mistake and that I should arrive without his knowing. But you brought me home safely after all, didn't you, Carlos?" And Olive disengaged her hand for a moment from the girls' hold to extend it to the Indian boy. "Goodness, how you have grown, I haven't had a good look at you until this moment," she ended admiringly. And surely Carlos made a handsome picture. In honor of Olive's home-coming he wore a soft shirt of some yellow material and a pair of clean khaki trousers with a bright sash knotted about his waist and a crimson tie at his throat. All the surliness had disappeared from his expression, his skin was like polished bronze and his eyes like shining coals, as he took his old friend's hand and for a moment pressed it reverently to his lips. Then Jack removed Olive's traveling hat and long broadcloth coat, with every movement of her hands a caress. "But please, Carlos and Olive," she demanded, "I don't pretend to be able to hear outdoor sounds as you can; yet I have fairly well trained ears of my own. Would you mind telling me how you managed to drive a rickety old hired carriage up to the very door of Rainbow Lodge with us in the living room and yet never a sound heard we?" Olive laughed. "That is our secret, but if you must know, we did no such thing. Half a mile away I sent the driver back to the station and Carlos and I ran on tiptoes under the stars all the way home." The girl ended her sentence with a slight catch in her breath. "Then please to remember that we are both Indians, or at least I am almost one. And now won't somebody go and find Ruth and Jim, for I just must see the baby this minute even if he cries his eyes out the rest of the night." CHAPTER V THEIR RIDE TOGETHER OLIVE and Jack had scarcely been alone for more than a half hour at a time since Olive's arrival almost a week before. But before ten o'clock this morning they had both started off on horseback with their lunch boxes packed, leaving word at home that they were not to be expected back until sundown. First of all they yearned for a long, uninterrupted gallop together over the sweet-smelling, wild, rose-strewn prairies. For not since the very first year of Olive's life at Rainbow Ranch had they enjoyed this formerly well-loved entertainment. Soon after then had come Jack's accident, and until this year she had not been in entirely good health during any of their days at the ranch. And the beauty of this special windswept, sunlit day was nature's gift to the two friends' reunion. Jack rode a little ahead on her own horse, Romeo, which she had bought immediately after their return from abroad and christened "Romeo" in a kind of joking recollection of their visit in Rome. Of course, he was the fastest riding horse on Rainbow Ranch, but not a beautiful animal, since he had been chosen for speed and endurance rather than appearance. And in truth he was only a rough Western pony with sagacity and knowledge of the country, dignified by the name of horse simply because of his slightly greater size and length of limb. Following close behind, her pretty nose almost able to touch the other animal's rough coat, came Olive's smaller mare, which Jean had named "Juliet" by reason of following Jack's horse about whenever they were permitted to graze in the open fields. Juliet had been no one's special property, since she had been born on the place and no one had chosen her for personal use. So shortly after Olive's return the other three girls had escorted her to the stables and there solemnly presented her with "Juliet," avowing that no one else should have the privilege of using the mare except with Olive's consent. The two friends rode for more than an hour after leaving the neighborhood of the Lodge without speaking, except now and then to call attention to some particularly beautiful effect in the landscape. First they galloped to the farthest outskirts of the great thousand-acre ranch, which was still as carefully and scientifically managed as during the time when the Rainbow Mine was an undiscovered quantity and when the girls and Jim's living depended entirely upon its success. There were groups of cattle scattered here and there wherever the alfalfa grass was ripe for eating, and mares with young colts were allowed free pasture. But by and by when a far-off rim of hills could be seen, with their summits glistening with caps of snow and the sky above them so scattered with fleece-like clouds that snow and cloud seemed to touch and melt into each other, Jack slowed down for a moment, waiting for her friend to come up alongside her. "Is it because I am a Western girl and all this means childhood and home to me that the country seems more beautiful and inspiring than anything we saw in Europe, Olive dear?" Jack asked. And Olive looked into the other girl's face searchingly for an instant before replying. She had been wondering for a good many months why Frank Kent had never come to America to see Jack when on leaving England she had believed that he and Jacqueline were almost on the point of being engaged. Several times recently she had actually written and asked Jack why on earth Frank had not made his promised visit to Rainbow Lodge. Without really answering, Jack had always arranged to evade her questioning. "Frank was too busy, he was thinking of running for Parliament, he preferred waiting until Olive was also able to be at home, so that they might be there together once again." None of these replies had made a very profound impression upon the questioner. So today Olive had planned in her own mind to get at the real truth. Jack would not dare to refuse to answer her direct inquiry if once she had the courage to demand it of her. Positively she must know whether Frank's apparent indifference was due to a change in his own feeling or to an unreasonable request on Jack's part for postponing her decision. Now at Jack's question, studying her friend's face, Olive feared that this last idea must be the true one. Love of her old home, the grip which the western country and atmosphere always had on the girl's character and affections--these must have been waging a winning battle against her former affection for Frank Kent. Must she ask Jack if this were true? No, Olive decided that she had best refrain until later in the day. For Jack was not at the present moment in the mood for confidences. She was just gloriously alive and filled with the physical beauty and splendor of the morning. Later on, when there had been opportunity for more conversation, Olive would make her query. For there were dozens of intimate personal things which she and her best beloved friend must get at the heart of before this ride of theirs together was over. So now Olive only laughed, and leaning over lightly stroked the neck of the other horse. "It is only because you are such a pagan, Jack, that Europe seems too crowded for you," she answered. "Besides you know how dearly you finally learned to love the English country, although it was the direct opposite of all this! Doesn't its wonderful greenness, the splendid old trees and the flowers and cultivated beauty of the fields make up to you for the great wide spaces and the colors in your prairies?" Slowly Jack shook her head, in reply, at the same instant taking off her soft brown felt hat and hanging it on the pommel of her saddle. "I don't know," she answered, drawing in a deep, quiet breath. The past year of outdoor work and amusement on the ranch had brought back to Jacqueline Ralston the glow and brilliant, healthy color of her childhood. Her complexion was several shades darker than it had been the summer before, her cheeks more vividly rose and her hair lighter from exposure to the sun. Then Jack had again grown dreadfully indifferent to clothes since their return home, much to Jean's and Frieda's disgust and to Jim Colter's secret amusement. For quite forgetting their fortune and the fact that she was now almost ready to cast her first vote in Wyoming, Jack had returned to wearing the old brown corduroys or faded khakis of her youth, together with almost any soft hat which she happened to find convenient for her outdoor jaunts. And only when the other girls insisted, or Ruth pleaded, or guests were expected to dinner at the Lodge, would Jack return to wearing the pretty toilets which she had brought home from Europe. For not one single dress had she given time or thought to purchasing since then, although Jean and Frieda frequently amused themselves by sending east for hats and gowns. So today, although Jack was actually the older and in times past had looked it, Olive would have been considered her senior. For one reason she was still weary from the shock and strain of her grandmother's death and from the business difficulties resulting from her strange will. Then there was a last and final interview with Donald Harmon which even yet the girl did not like to recall. She was sorry not to be able to return his affection. Moreover, Olive's new riding-habit was of black cloth, which Miss Winthrop had ordered from a well-known New York tailor, adding to her appearance of age and dignity. Yet in spite of the elegance and decorum of her own riding attire, Olive did not feel the objection to her friend's as Jean and Frieda undoubtedly would have. For Jack's costume was eminently characteristic. Moreover, the old corduroy skirt and leather leggings and slouch hat were not unbecoming now that her coat was open showing the curve of her strong white throat. It was equally characteristic of Jack when they finally reached the clump of trees where they were to have luncheon to jump first from her horse and then lift Olive as carefully down as though she had been her masculine escort. Afterwards it was she who led the horses to water, fed them and then tied them. Coming back, she flung herself down on the ground by her friend and taking one of the girl's hands in hers kissed it, saying carelessly: "Olive, child, did you hear any one or anything while I was away? I thought we were going to have a perfectly peaceful and uninterrupted day, but I have an idea that while I was looking after the horses I heard some one stirring about not so very far off. Still I may have been mistaken or it may have been a deer or a wildcat. This woods gets so much denser as one goes further into it. This is near the same place where I managed to break my poor little pony's legs several years ago. It was when we were making that horrid visit at the Norton's before it was finally decided that you were to come and live with us. I never have been able to think of having to shoot 'Hotspur' without its giving me the shivers." And Jack now took a small pistol out of a leather holster fastened about her waist. "I never go on a long ride with either of the girls without carrying this," she remarked carelessly, "but I don't believe I am ever going to like hunting again as I did when I was younger. That was one of the lessons I learned when I was ill so long--a greater respect for life, anybody's or anything's." Then the girl's voice grew suddenly hushed. "Didn't you hear a slight noise then?" she whispered. After a moment of enforced silence Olive shook her head. "No, or at least nothing of importance," she replied. "Of course these woods must have wild game in them, since it is the only place with running water nearer than Rainbow Creek. But it is odd your having this impression now. Several times I meant to tell you and forgot--that while we were riding I kept having the idea that some one was following after us. Half a dozen times I looked around thinking that it might possibly be either Jean or Frieda. But I saw no one, so of course it must have been only a fancy." "Well it certainly was neither Jean nor Frieda," Jack replied laughingly. "They have both grown too lazy for such a journey as we are taking. But come along, because if we are ever to get to your old Indian village and back again this afternoon, we must hurry." For this had been the supposed object of Jack's and Olive's free day together. Soon after her arrival at the Lodge Olive had suggested that she would very much like to go back to the little Indian village where she had lived as a child with old Laska, and see if the woman and her son were yet alive. She desired also to pay a visit to her former teacher and first friend, who was still at work among the Indian children at the little Indian reservation school. Before the two girls had finally arrived at their destination, it was Olive who discovered the ghost stealthily pursuing them. And it was he whom Jack must have heard in the woods. Olive at once turned apologetically to her friend. "Don't be cross, Jack, and don't scold if I tell you something," she began unexpectedly. "But just now I saw at some distance behind us a brown shadow on a brown horse. So I'm afraid it is Carlos who has been trailing after us. But really it is my fault for having told him where we intended going. Probably he won't trouble us if we don't wish to notice him." Frowning, Jacqueline returned: "I'm sorry to confess it to you, Olive dear, but really, Carlos is getting to be rather a nuisance to Jim and me. I do hope you may be able to influence him to settle down to some kind of work or study--to anything he likes. Neither Jim nor I care so much what except that his idleness is a bad influence among the men on the place. There is no use in my trying to do anything with him, for he has taken such a violent dislike to me. Frieda says that I am too much of a boss and it has offended the boy's dignity. But I shan't scold today since Carlos is only following us because he does not entirely trust me to look after you and adores you so that he does not wish you out of his sight." Just as though four or five years had not passed with its crowded and ever changing experiences, walking up to old Indian Laska's dirty hut alone Olive Van Mater found the Indian woman still sitting in her same open doorway, smoking the apparently identical pipe and clothed in the same old nondescript rags of former days with a brilliant Indian blanket across her shoulders. But at the sight of her beautifully dressed visitor the Indian woman showed not the slightest sign of recognition. Nor did she do anything further than nod and grunt several times in succession when Olive assured her that she had once been the girl "Olilie," who had lived with her from the time she was a baby. Possibly Laska could neither understand nor believe what this charming American girl was trying to explain to her, but certain it was that she never once invited Olive inside her former home, nor showed the slightest interest in her, except to smile at the handful of small change that was bestowed upon her in parting. For of course Olive had long since ceased to feel any bitterness against the old woman, whose ignorance and greed had not been nearly so responsible for her past unhappiness as her own grandmother's careless neglect of her. Olive's interview with her first teacher was such a great pleasure and satisfaction to them both, that except for Jack's insistence that it was already past time to go back to the ranch and that Olive and her old friend could now meet each other frequently, the two girls would never have started for home until nearly sundown. And as it was they were an hour later than they should have been in leaving. They were not able to ride as rapidly as in the morning because neither of the horses was so fresh. So that by and by, just as both girls had wished, they fell into the first long, confidential talk they had enjoyed in nearly a year. And there was so much to say! Olive had to repeat the strange terms of her grandmother's will and her own positive intention not to marry Donald Harmon, no matter what the second will might insist upon--even if it left her penniless. Then Jack confided the present trouble at the Rainbow Mine. For during Ralph's continued and unexplained absence the miners had grown uglier, threatening that unless a new engineer was secured at once they would go upon a strike. Moreover, they would see that no other men be allowed to take their places. Already they insisted that there was not enough gold in the former veins to make Rainbow Mine worth working. A new manager and new machinery must be procured at once. Just how to quell the disturbance and set things right neither Jim Colter nor Jacqueline could decide at present. Of course they were awaiting with impatience Ralph Merrit's return in order to have a talk with him. But afterwards what should they do? Would Ralph be forced by the miners into advising them to buy more machinery before he knew just what should be done? This might sink all their capital and make them poor again. "Really it is Jean and Frieda about whom I am worrying the most if we do lose our money," Jack frankly acknowledged. "For Ruth and Jim and I can be happy living as we used to do. But then of course the building of our new house must be completed, since the contract is already given for finishing it." So the two friends talked on, and it was small wonder that the sun was sinking as, followed by the ever watchful Carlos, they finally rode up to the Lodge. But Olive had not yet satisfied herself in regard to the state of affairs now existing between Jack and Frank Kent. In answer to a point-blank question Jack had simply replied that she and Frank had not been engaged to be married. Also that she had too much upon her mind at present to ask him to make them a visit. However, now that Olive had arrived, perhaps Frank would wish to come in a short time. CHAPTER VI THAT SAME AFTERNOON SINCE a short time after lunch Jean Bruce had been alone at the Rainbow Lodge, except for the presence of Aunt Ellen and the housemaid. For at about two o'clock Jim and Ruth, Frieda and the baby had driven off to pay a long visit to some old-time friends. For Ruth had not entirely recovered her strength since the baby's birth and therefore Jim was unwilling to have her far away from him. But Jean was not lonely, or at least not for the first few hours. She had letters to write--one to her New York friend, Margaret Belknap, and another to her adored Princess, who had never wavered in her interest and affection for the American girl since Jean's visit to her in Rome. Then, at about four o'clock, Jean strolled over to look at their new house, which seemed to have been making tremendous strides in the last few days, now that the outside had been entirely completed. She had one or two suggestions that she wished to make to the architect about her own room and this was the best hour for having a talk with him, as she happened to know that he had been spending most of the day with his men. The architect did not superintend their house building more than two or three times a week. Determined to have their new home as beautiful and as harmonious as possible, the girls, Jim and Ruth had decided upon employing the most distinguished architect in that part of the country. Theodore Parker was a Wyoming man with his central office in Laramie, and yet his work on public buildings and his creation of certain types of houses for western millionaires had given him a reputation throughout the country. So it was scarcely possible to expect him to devote a large portion of his valuable time even to the construction of "Rainbow Castle." For Jean's laughing title for their new home had somehow clung to it. The place would probably be almost, if not quite, as beautiful as many a palace, Jean thought, as she slowly approached the front entrance. This was to have a flight of broad, low stone steps leading up to it, while the base of the house would be banked with low, close-growing evergreen shrubs. For the outdoor work on their estate the girls had not consulted a landscape gardener, but they had studied many books and pictures of beautiful gardens and had then developed certain ideas of their own. In order to keep the view of the rolling prairies to the distant line of hills several miles beyond, the slope before the house was to be left unchanged. Here and there were flower beds in the carefully planted and tended blue grass lawn, which with constant watering and top soil might be persuaded to grow. But on either side and toward the back of the modified colonial mansion were to be the real gardens. Although the flowers had not yet been planted, bushes had been set out that were later to form green and blossoming aisles. In the preceding autumn a dozen or more large evergreen trees had been transplanted from the nearby forests, and zealously tended all through the winter, so that already they showed signs of growth. Jean's interview with Mr. Parker was entirely satisfactory and the girl would have liked to linger and talk at greater length with the big, purposeful man, who seemed to bring to one of the noblest of all the professions the spirit of the artist, and the executive ability of the business man. But Mr. Parker was plainly too busy to give her more than a few minutes of his attention, although in their conversation they did wander from her errand far enough to permit their discussing a few of their impressions of Europe. And, oddly enough, the architect who had studied in Paris and traveled a great deal, had never been to Italy, the mother of much that is most beautiful in modern architecture. A man of about thirty-five or six, Jean imagined he must be as she returned to the Lodge, and assuredly extremely good-looking, with his iron-gray hair, dark eyes and smooth face. One could hardly help wondering why he had never married. At home once more, Jean suddenly had a sensation of feeling deserted and forlorn. What could she do to amuse herself? Although she insisted upon denying it to her family, certainly there were occasions lately when their former life did seem dull and uninteresting to her. Yet perhaps Jack was right in thinking that this was due to her paying no special regard to the things that were happening on the ranch itself. Should she take a walk now, or go down to Rainbow Mine to see if anything was going on? Ralph Merrit was still away, certainly for an unaccountably great length of time! And undoubtedly there was some kind of trouble brewing among the workers in the mine, though what it was Jean had not the remotest idea. Yet Jack and Jim had been plainly annoyed and concerned over some disturbance, otherwise so many consultations between them and their workmen would have been unnecessary. But at the present moment Jean did not find the subject of the mine of sufficient interest to persuade her to walk down to it in an effort to make her own investigations. Things would clear up soon enough without her troubling. For there had to be friction every once and a while where so many people were employed. Yawning several times, Jean finally dropped into a hammock that had been swung for Ruth on the porch at Rainbow Lodge. She was holding a magazine in her hand and reading it fitfully. Probably Jean would have assured you that she was wearing the oldest and simplest dress in her entire wardrobe and that she really had not made any kind of toilet for the afternoon. Yet with Jean Bruce pretty clothes and a graceful and pleasing fashion of wearing them were second nature. It is true her pale pink cashmere frock was not new and was made in a straight piece with no trimming save a round lace collar and a girdle of broad pink silk ribbon. Yet Jean had wound a ribbon of the same color about her dark brown hair, until her usual pallor seemed to be warmed by its glow. For a half moment she must have fallen asleep, for she was awakened by thinking she heard some one coming toward the Lodge. The next moment Ralph Merrit stood beside her. He looked entirely unlike himself; his clothes were untidy; he seemed not to have slept for a number of nights; his face was worn and drawn. Jean was startled into sudden pity and interest. For Ralph had always seemed so capable and so efficient and if things worried him, he had always kept them to himself. Now as Jean struggled to her feet he only said: "How do you do, Jean. Will you tell me, please, whether Mr. Colter is at home or whether I may be apt to find him anywhere about the ranch?" But Jean's eyes questioned, although her lips as yet said nothing, and the young man flushed. "I must beg your pardon for my appearance," he began awkwardly, "but I have been doing some rather hard traveling and I have not yet been to my own quarters to fix up. I had no idea of running across you." Ralph stared hard for a moment at the dainty girl slowly rising out of the hammock and then at himself. She was like the inside of a sea shell in her pink costume with her white skin and the pretty detached air she so often wore. Ralph laughed uncomfortably and not very mirthfully. "Won't you wait a minute, please?" Jean asked quietly. "Jim is not here and won't be for some little time perhaps. But I have an idea that you are hungry as well as tired and I have been longing for some one to drink afternoon tea with me." And before her companion could reply the girl disappeared. Ralph Merrit fingered his hat uncertainly. He did not wish to remain and yet it would seem singularly ungracious to have Jean return and find him vanished. And since he had a confession to make, why not begin with her to whom it would be hardest to say it? Ralph dropped into a chair on one side of a small rustic table and Jean and the tea party had both arrived before he lifted his eyes again. Under the influence of the tea, strawberries and cream and Aunt Ellen's hot scones, with Jean making herself as charming as she knew how to be, Ralph could not help forgetting for a few moments the things that were weighing upon him, while he enjoyed the gifts that the fates provided. And Jean was truly kind, for she was shocked as well as a little bit frightened by Ralph's appearance. Naturally she was not unaware that he had once cared for her, even though he had not recently revealed it in any open fashion. And of course Jean felt that she had always regarded Ralph with the sincerest friendship. She was hoping now that he would tell her what was worrying him as a sign that their old friendship was yet alive, when Ralph spoke. "Jean, I might as well tell you now as a little later," he began, "it can't be delayed for any length of time at best. I am going to have to say good-bye to you all pretty soon." Jean's hand shook a little, so that she first set down her teacup. "You mean that you are having to go home for a visit. I hope nothing has happened to your mother or sister; I was afraid you were feeling troubled," the girl answered. With the old decision that she remembered the young man shook his head. "No, it is not that," he returned, "but simply that I am going to resign my position as engineer of Rainbow Mine. Fact of the matter is, I am not making good. The men don't like me, don't want to work under me, and things are in a muddle anyhow. My staying on would only embarrass Jim and Miss Ralston." (Ralph only called Jack by her grown-up title when he was considering her as his employer.) "So you are going to quit just because things at the mine are no longer plain sailing. Is it because you have had a better position offered you? Then of course I am sure, even though it makes everything much harder for them, Jack and Jim would neither of them wish to stand in your way," Jean answered with intentional cruelty. And the young man understood her. "That is not fair, Jean; you know those are not my reasons," he declared. "I am leaving to _save_ Jim and Jack the trouble, not to make things more difficult. If I clear out the men will quiet down and perhaps they will get hold of some other engineer who will understand the present situation better. The truth is our old gold supply is giving out and we have got to find a different method of getting at the gold deeper down. I have been away studying how this might be done for the past ten days, but I have not yet made up my mind." "Then stay on until you can decide, Ralph," Jean replied quietly, "or at least until you are certain that you don't know what to do. Surely you must know the situation at the Rainbow Mine better than any one else. I have been guessing that both Jim and Jack were worried, but you know they won't go back on you until the very last minute and not then unless you say the word. So I don't think I would let the other miners frighten me away. It seems to me that a man will never be able to manage other men if he turns and runs at the first approach of a storm. I should never have believed this of you, Ralph, of all people!" With a little, quickly suppressed sound that was almost a groan Ralph suddenly dropped his head. "But a man isn't fit to govern other men if he can't govern himself, Jean," he answered. Even the color of her pink gown did not now hide the pallor of the girl's cheeks. "What are you talking about, Ralph Merrit?" she demanded a little unsteadily. "You behave as though you had robbed a bank or taken more than your share of gold out of the mine. I wish you would not be so absurd--I do hate uncomfortable people." The man got up. "I am sorry, Jean, and I did not mean to trouble you with my personal confession," he went on, "though I thought it only fair that I should tell Jim Colter. No, I have not been robbing anyone except myself and my own family, though the men may be saying even that of me soon," he added bitterly. "But the truth is that I have been speculating until I have lost every red cent that I have earned and I don't think a man who has been as big a fool as I have has the right to try and hold down a job the size of mine." "You have been speculating!" The girl repeated the words almost foolishly, as though not understanding at first what they meant. Then she flushed angrily. "Ralph, what a perfect goose you have been! For goodness sake tell me what ever induced a sensible, level-headed fellow like we all believed you were to do such a stupid thing?" Jean demanded. But this was the one question which of all the questions in the world Ralph Merrit could never answer Jean truthfully. "Hush, never mind!" Jean interrupted hurriedly, for she could see what her companion had evidently not yet observed and that was that another man was at this moment approaching the house. His face had looked ugly and forbidding, but at the sight of Jean he raised his hat. The girl recognized him as John Raines, a man of about fifty years of age and a kind of leader and spokesman among the other miners. "Beg your pardon, Miss," he began stiffly, "but having just heard that Mr. Merrit has returned to the ranch, I want to ask him if he will come and have a little talk with some of us men. We've been waiting for this talk for a considerable time." Ralph stepped down from the porch at once. "Certainly, I will come along with you now," he answered quietly. And then turning to Jean and with a gesture asking that she excuse him, the young man followed the older one. And Jean could not but notice how slender and boyish and, yes, how spent he looked as he walked behind the big, heavy miner, with arms and chest so powerful that he seemed able actually to have crushed the slighter man like a great bear, had he so desired. What could the miners be wishing with Ralph that they must see him at once, now when they knew that Jim Colter was not on the ranch? Without trying to answer the question herself and only lingering long enough to fasten a dark coat over her light frock Jean hurried after the two figures, taking care, however, that neither of them became conscious of her presence. CHAPTER VI "COURAGE MAKES THE MAN" THERE were as many as twenty men waiting to talk to Ralph Merrit within the vicinity of the Rainbow Mine. And they chanced to be standing close together near one of the big rocks that rose like a miniature fortress beside Rainbow Creek. After Ralph had entered the group, Jean managed without being observed to slip behind this rock where she was in safe hiding. But just why she had followed the two men and what her motive was for concealing herself she did not try to explain to herself. Simply she had yielded to an impulse of fear, of curiosity and perhaps to some other instinct that was partly protective. One young fellow among so many older, rougher and more lawless characters! What might not happen to him? And yet Jean Bruce had not her cousin Jacqueline's physical bravery nor determination of purpose, and moreover she had an openly expressed dislike of mixing herself up in the things which she did not consider essentially feminine. However, she had no idea now of letting anyone guess her nearness, not even Ralph Merrit himself. Sitting down on the ground in a kind of scooped-out cave in a rock she could occasionally manage to get a glimpse of the miners, although at present while they were talking quietly she could only rarely catch a word or so of what they were saying, and not a sound from Ralph, who seemed the calmest and most self-controlled of them all. After a while she realized that John Raines, the man who had been sent to summon her companion, must now have been chosen as spokesman for the lot and was evidently making his voice sufficiently loud for them all to hear distinctly. And this of course included the unknown listener. "See here, Mr. Merrit," John Raines began quietly, "us men have been talking things over among ourselves for some time past and we have done come to the pretty positive conclusion that we don't like the way you're running things at Rainbow Mine. And we thought it might be fairer to you, all told, just to mention this little fact and to let you quit without any kind of rumpus or trouble for nobody." Jean could not see Ralph Merrit's face or even his figure, he was so closely surrounded, but because he too was speaking so that his entire audience might hear, Jean understood every word. "What's the trouble with me, Raines, as a boss?" he asked with such self-control and apparent lack of anger that Jean was both amazed and pleased. Then there was a kind of low muttering among the other men and finally their spokesman went on: "I guess you know most of our complaints pretty well by this time--we've been tellin' 'em to you long enough and hard enough. If this is a profit-sharing business, as you and Jim Colter and Miss Ralston said it was goin' to be, then you ain't gettin' gold enough out of the Rainbow Mine to suit us." "But we are getting all we can, aren't we? You men aren't loafing with the work?" Ralph interrupted. John Raines scowled. "That's senseless talk! You know what the trouble is; we have already gotten out most all the gold there is near the surface of the earth around here. Now what we have got to do to make it pay big again is to get more machinery and try different ways of working. And we want a boss to tell Miss Ralston and Jim Colter to get busy buying the new machinery and then to show us how to run it. We are not going to waste any more time around here on a few dollars pay a day." From her hiding place Jean did her best to hear Ralph. Here of course was the time and place for him to make the same confession to the miners that he had recently made to her. For he did intend to do just what the men had demanded of him, resign his work and give way for a better man. Nevertheless, he evidently intended delaying a bit longer before making the confession. "But I have explained to you men before this why I have not done what you ask," he went on, still in a reasonable tone of voice. "I told you that I did not feel certain that it was the _best_ thing to do. We are by no means sure that there is enough gold below the present mine to make it worth while to go deeper. You men know what a lot of money the machinery for certain kinds of gold digging takes. It would probably eat up pretty much all the capital that the owners of the Rainbow Mine have. And I don't want to tell them to buy this machinery until I am a lot surer that the gold is down there waiting to be hauled out." John Raines glanced about at the faces surrounding him. It was easy enough to take his tone from their expressions. "Then there is no use wasting any more of our time and yours in talk, Merrit," the older man announced in a rougher manner than he had before employed. "Your sentiments was pretty well known to us before you spouted them forth. And that's just the point! You don't know what ought to be done about things and we do. And we want a man to boss us that knows same as we. Now, young man, you just get out pleasant and the quicker the better." All over her body, to the very tips of her ears, Jean felt herself tingling with sudden, overpowering anger. Why had Ralph Merrit not said what he intended saying before now? To resign at this moment in the face of this other man's insolence, which represented the same feeling in his companions, was to behave like a small boy at school who had been stood up in a corner and soundly thrashed by his schoolmaster and then made to apologize for his pains. Jean felt that she would never care to look Ralph in the face again. But he was speaking now for the third time. [Illustration: "SHE HAD HEARD THAT MASTERFUL TONE BEFORE"] "Have Miss Ralston and Mr. Colter told you that they wanted me to quit?" he inquired. "It seems like they would have mentioned the matter to me first. I have usually taken my orders from them and not from the men _under_ me." There was quite a different ring in Ralph Merrit's voice during this speech that made the girl behind the rock unexpectedly put up her cold hands to cool her hot cheeks. She had heard that masterful tone before, but not in some time. "No, they ain't said nothing yet," Raines admitted. "But it don't matter; you got to quit just the same. You can't run a gold mine by yourself with all your 'book larnin,' and it's either you or us that gets out." "Then it'll be you," Ralph replied in such a matter-of-fact and undisturbed fashion that Jean could hardly believe she had heard him aright, or else she must have been dreaming less than an hour before. "Look here, fellows, don't be fools," Ralph went on, still showing no loss of temper. "The hour Mr. Colter and Miss Ralston tell me they want me to give up my job at the Rainbow Mine, that hour I go. And the minute I am really convinced that another man is able to do my work better than I can, that man gets my position, if I can persuade the Rainbow Mine owners to try him. But I've got to study things out here a little longer, I've got to make some new experiments and maybe kind of feel my way slowly toward deciding what had best be done. I have been away for the past ten days studying conditions at other mines and trying to find out some of the latest ideas in mining machinery." But the other men were making no pretense of listening and were muttering and talking among themselves as a direct and intentional insult to the speaker. Ralph waited in silence, and Jean had an intuition that the end of the discussion was about to take place. The noises that the miners were making were ugly, vicious sounds entirely unfamiliar to the girl's ears and she had no conception of what they might portend. She had a sudden fear that they might mean some bodily injury to the younger man. Then would she have the courage to rush out to his defense as Jack undoubtedly would have, no matter what overtook her? But she was mistaken in the form of her present uneasiness. "You can talk that way here, if it makes you feel better, young fellow," one of the other miners announced contemptuously, "but it ain't goin' to make a mite of difference in the way things has to go. We give you thirty-six hours' notice to get clear of Rainbow Mine, and if you don't, why you can stay around here and play by yourself as long as you like provided your bosses are willing to give up the gold-mining business. Because if you stay, we git out and that means there is not another miner going to be allowed down a shaft in this here mine." "You mean," said Ralph, "that you are going to strike and make the other men boycott us. I don't believe your union will stand for it. You haven't got a kick coming to you about your hours of work, or your pay, or any of the conditions about the mine. And just because you don't think I've got brains enough for my job is no reason why you should strike. I want you to know, you fellows," and here Ralph's voice was no longer in the least conciliatory, but as firm and decisive as a judge's sentence, "I am a union man myself, but you must understand once and for all that if the Rainbow Mine owners agree to stand by me I am going to keep on with the job of bossing this mine. And I am going to keep on digging out the gold we can get with our old tools until there's a way of knowing what ought to be done next. But I think in the future it is going to suit me better to have another lot of men to work with me and I think I'll be able to get hold of them. You may go to your quarters now. I'll let you hear in the morning what Miss Ralston and Mr. Colter want to do." And to Jean Bruce's immense amazement, though some of the men laughed rudely and others muttered threats and curses, the entire number after some delay and further discussion among themselves, walked off, leaving Ralph Merrit entirely alone. Notwithstanding, the miners were evidently unanimous in their intention. Jean snuggled closer than before in her rocky alcove, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of their discovering her and so creating further ill feeling. Then after they had gone, and the last man of them was entirely out of sight, she still did not move. For Ralph Merrit had never stirred from his position and she did not know whether she even wished him to learn of her eavesdropping. Ralph did not move and Jean was growing bored with her cramped position, now that events were no longer sufficiently exciting to make her forget herself. Besides, did she not really wish to let Ralph know just how she felt about him? Curiously he did not turn around until she was within a few feet of him. Yet when he did, Jean laughed and clapped her hands childishly at the change in his expression since their interview on the veranda. "Why, Jean, where have you come from? You did not see anybody, did you, on your way from the house? This is not a place where you should be." Jean nodded. "Yes, I did see everybody and heard everything. Please forgive me for being a horrid spy," she confessed, "but I was hiding behind that rock the whole blessed time. And oh, Ralph, I am so pleased and proud of you! Of course Jack and Jim will stand by you to the bitter end--I should dare them not to; but then nobody need ever accuse Jim and Jack of not enjoying a good, clean fight." Jean put her hand through the young man's arm. "Do come on back to the Lodge with me. It is almost time for the others to be coming home. You must rest a while first and have dinner and then tell them what you intend to do." A little dazed by the girl's unexpected appearance and by her sudden flow of words, and still deeply engrossed on what had just taken place, Ralph Merrit allowed himself to be led along for a few steps in silence. "You must think I am a good deal of a turncoat, Jean, and don't know my own mind for half an hour," he said finally. "Maybe I haven't the right after all to get you people into trouble." Jean gave the young man's arm a vehement shake. "You haven't got the right to be anything but--a man, Ralph Merrit!" she announced. "Goodness, you don't know how ashamed I was of you and for you a while ago! I suppose it is because I am such a coward myself, because I am so afraid of rough things and rough places, that I love courage more than anything else in the world." "Do you, Jean?" Ralph murmured almost to himself. "Well, I have been a coward in more ways than one in these past six months." CHAPTER VIII THE MIDNIGHT CONFERENCE FOR hours after dinner the family at the Rainbow Lodge sat in their big living room talking over matters with Ralph Merrit. Better than he had been able to explain to Jean he now made the present situation clear to his listeners. And by his frankness in acknowledging that he had not yet been able to make up his mind as to what was best to be done for the future of Rainbow Mine he restored Jim's and Jack's full confidence. The discussion was absorbing; only Frieda, after an hour or so of what seemed to her a repetition of the same conversation, grew sleepy and now and then dozed for a few moments with her yellow head nodding uncomfortably. Why stay awake longer when she understood the state of things perfectly? Ralph had said that they would probably have much less money out of the Rainbow Mine for a time. Later, if he saw his way clear by spending their capital and buying new machinery, they might become a great deal wealthier. And while naturally the first of this information was discouraging, the second idea had kept Frieda quite wide awake until ten o'clock. Earlier in the evening she had felt frightened at the thought of the miners striking and the trouble that they might be going to have on the ranch for the next few days; but Jim and Jack did not appear alarmed, so after a time her nervousness was partly allayed. They both had declared that Ralph must not for a moment consider surrendering to the men; for apparently they intended not only to dismiss him but thereafter to run the Rainbow Mine with no consideration for its owners. It might take a few days for Ralph to get together another group of capable miners, but the delay was the only annoyance. For no one appeared to believe that the old men would make trouble. They were merely trying to bluff and threaten Ralph. Jean, having seen with her own eyes the bitterness and dissatisfaction among the workers, was not so completely convinced. Nevertheless she said nothing of her own doubt, not regarding her opinion in the matter as of special value. Moreover, she enjoyed seeing Ralph Merrit so sure of himself once more and so determined to swing things to a successful issue. It recalled the days when he had first been summoned to help them with his judgment as to whether or not Rainbow Mine contained sufficient gold to make it of importance. And what a change in their lives their wealth had created for them! At least Jean had previously believed this to be true, but studying the faces in the little group about her tonight she was not so sure of the others. Assuredly Ruth and Jim, who were sitting on a sofa with Ruth's hand slipped quietly and quite unconsciously inside Jim's, were not dependent for their happiness on the possession of a great deal of money. And there was Jack leaning both elbows on a small table nearby with her face in her hands, listening intently to every word Ralph was saying. Had she ever seen her cousin more animated or more interested? Well, she had always known that the mere spending of money had never given Jack the same degree of pleasure that it had her. It was "making things happen" that Jack cared most for, and now that difficulties were presenting themselves in regard to the Rainbow Mine, actually Jack seemed almost to be enjoying the prospect. Frieda was nodding, so that even she could not be very deeply concerned at the prospect of poverty, and Olive could certainly not be accused of being mercenary, since she was calmly turning her back on a large fortune rather than fulfil the conditions of her grandmother's will. Jean smiled and sighed almost in the same breath. She could not pretend to any such highmindedness, she was afraid that she was the kind of girl whom she had heard people describe as "loving luxury like a cat." Certainly she did care more than she should for beautiful clothes, handsome houses, travel, society and everything that money alone could buy. And yet, after all, the wealth of Rainbow Mine was not hers: it belonged to Jack and Frieda, though they had always shared their income with her as though she had been their sister instead of their cousin. Whether their gold mine had now ceased to be of value or whether deeper down under the earth it should hold a larger fortune, was it not still her place to make her own future? With a start Jean came to herself. The clock had just struck midnight and Ralph had risen. "As soon as things straighten out, Mr. Colter, I am going to ask you to let me send for two or three of the big mining experts. For of course you would want their opinion as well as mine. I will tell the men your decision in the morning. Thank all of you for your faith in me and good-night." But Ralph's movement must have awakened Frieda, for she sat up suddenly and yawned. "Who is it you are going to send for to come to the ranch?" she demanded unexpectedly. "Oh, I do hope some one who isn't a hundred years old. Why can't you ever ask a young man's advice, Ralph Merrit--you are young yourself?" And then as everybody laughed, Jack pinched her sister's inviting pink cheek. "What a foolish baby you are, Frieda Ralston," she declared, "I hardly think that Ralph's mining experts will be of the slightest interest to you." After Jim and Ralph had gone out in the hall together and were talking quietly Jean slipped out after them. "Don't you think, Jim," she asked, "that Ralph had better not go down to his old quarters to sleep tonight? You know his room is in the same house with half a dozen of the miners and of course nothing will happen, but I don't believe the men are exactly devoted to him and--" Jean put her hand coaxingly on the young man's coat sleeve. "Sleep on the divan in the living room tonight, won't you? We haven't a spare room, but I assure you it is most comfortable." Jim nodded. "That isn't a bad idea, Ralph." But the younger man shook his head, although his eyes thanked the girl for her interest. "No, Jim," he said, "you and Jean are both awfully kind, but the one thing that the fellows I disagreed with today must not think is that I am in the least afraid of them. Oh, I realize I am up against a pretty tough proposition--they are not the kind to back down easily and are accustomed to getting their own way, but your faith and belief in me----" Ralph stopped, his voice a little husky. "Good-night, Jean, and thank you." Then he turned to Jim Colter. "I wonder if you would mind walking a short distance with me. There is something else I must tell you that I could not mention in there tonight." And as the two men disappeared Jean had a sudden feeling of thankfulness. How curiously things turned out. If she had not chanced to be on the porch at Rainbow Lodge that afternoon she might never have heard Ralph Merrit's confession. If the men had not summoned him for their talk just when they did, Ralph would have gone away from Rainbow Mine feeling that he had made a failure of his life and of his work. And Jean's pretty brown eyes filled with tears. They had all been fond of Ralph for several years and would have been sorry to have him vanish out of their lives. She was glad too that he had recovered from the idea that he once had of caring for her more than the other girls. Or at least Jean believed that she was glad, for it is a very rare woman who can honestly rejoice at the loss of a lover, even though he continues to be her friend. Out in the dark together Jim Colter put his great arm across the younger man's shoulder. "Yes, I know it is more serious, boy, than we pretended in there, but I'm with you to the uttermost and things will turn out all right. It may not hurt my girls to have less money for a while, though of course it would come pretty hard on them now to be poor, after we have taught them such extravagant tastes. But in any case, old fellow, the fault will not be yours and you must not take the result too seriously." Ralph had not spoken, but he now braced himself and drew a slow breath. "Look here, Jim, I didn't say all I ought to have said in there with your wife and the girls--somehow I couldn't. For I let you say you would stand by me and have faith in me when all the time I knew I wasn't worth it." Then Ralph made the same confession to his man friend and employer as he had to Jean earlier in the day. He told him that he had been speculating steadily for the past six months. To Jim's question as to why he felt he had to grow rich in such a hurry, again Ralph made no reply. When the older man put out his hand to say good-night, Ralph Merrit held it for a moment longer than usual. "Jim," he asked, "may I make a promise to you? This has been one of the biggest days in my life. I came home this afternoon pretty well down-and-out, intending to give up my work and pretty much everything I want to attain in the world. Then--well, wonderful, unexpected things began to happen. Now I hope I am a man again. So I want to promise, not so much you as myself, that I am going to cut this speculating business out absolutely and that I am going to keep on being a man if I can manage it, no matter what happens." There was something in Ralph's words and in his manner that made Jim's blue eyes shine and gave the extra warmth and heartiness to the farewell clasp of his hand. Moreover, he had suddenly recalled a confidence that Jack had made to him in regard to Ralph Merrit's feeling for Jean. And if ever there was a man who knew how to offer sympathy and understanding to a discouraged lover, that man was Jim Colter. CHAPTER IX A DILEMMA AND A VISITOR "GREAT SCOTT," muttered Jim Colter at the breakfast table some days later, "if there was only another man around this place to take care of you women, I would not let Ralph Merrit carry so much of this burden alone. It's getting past a one-man's game to manage our present affairs." In return Jack shook her fist at him with what was not all a pretense of indignation. "Ruth, you may not object to hearing your husband speak of you as a burden," she protested, "but I can't say I ever like hearing that I am not able to look after myself. Oh, yes, I know what the family thinks of my vanity! But seriously, Jim, there isn't any danger, no matter what goes on down at the mine, of anybody's annoying us. You need not worry over leaving us alone. I am quite sure we don't need 'another man.' The ranch is too full of them already!" And Jack shrugged her shoulders in the face of her guardian. But from her place at the head of the table behind a big silver coffee urn, Ruth looked at the girl in the seat next her who had just finished speaking. "I am sorry to hear you say that, Jack," she began quietly, "because pretty soon we are going to have what you and Jim are pleased to call 'another man' as our guest at the Rainbow Lodge and one whom of all others I most wish to see." Jack was puzzled, but Olive Van Mater, with a swift glance at the older woman, felt the blood leaving her face and her hands turning cold. Her lids drooped swiftly over her dark eyes and immediately she devoted herself to eating her breakfast, though all the while she was studying Jack's expression. At this moment a diversion was created by the entrance of a very fluffy, blue-eyed person in a pale blue breakfast toilet, who after kissing Ruth slipped into a place next her sister. "Sorry I'm late," she said, without any suggestion of real contrition, "but since Jim makes us stay in the house so much lately there isn't any reason for getting up." "Thank you, Frieda darling, for the pleasure you take in our society," Jean murmured, setting down her coffee cup in mock indignation. "I am sure that each and every member of your family feels grateful to you for your flattering suggestion. But since we are of no interest to you, perhaps you would like to hear that Ruth has just said we are to have an unexpected visitor--a man!" Frieda first helped herself to the entire pile of griddle cakes. "I suppose everyone else has nearly finished," she remarked by way of explanation. And then: "Oh, I suppose the visitor is one of those tiresome men who is coming to help Ralph about the mine. I do wish things would quiet down, because as soon as our new house is finished Jean and I are dying to have a houseparty. Ralph said himself that his mining engineers were too old to be any fun--the youngest one is past thirty!" "Yet I am still able to get about at that age, Frieda Ralston," Jim Colter protested. At this instant Jack shook her head. "We are being very impolite to Ruth by talking so much," she declared. "Ruth was going to tell us about a new visitor and of course we are desperately anxious to hear. Who is he, Ruth, a stranger or an old friend? And where are you going to find a place for any one else at Rainbow Lodge?" Purposely Ruth waited a moment in the silence that followed. "I'll give you three guesses," she said finally. "Peter Drummond and Jessica! Wouldn't it be splendid if they came to us on their wedding trip?" Jack answered immediately. "No," Ruth answered. "Tom, the chocolate-drop boy!" Jean exclaimed, laughing at Frieda's sudden blush. But Olive Van Mater had put down her knife and fork and was looking quietly at Ruth. "May I have a turn at guessing, please?" she asked in her usual gentle fashion. "Isn't our visitor to be Frank Kent?" And then as Ruth nodded with a smile of pleasure every pair of eyes at the table immediately turned upon Jacqueline Ralston. And Jack's cheeks grew suddenly a deeper pink, like the heart of a pink rose, for she was too surprised for the present to be self-conscious. "You must be mistaken, Ruth dear," she insisted. "Frank hasn't written me; I haven't said that he could come." And then seeing what her words suggested, she went on in greater confusion, "I thought he was to wait until our house was finished or until later in the summer or until some time," she ended lamely. "I don't understand." "Perhaps Frank will explain to you, dear," Ruth replied carelessly. And then turning toward the other girls: "You see Frank has been writing me about his visit for several weeks. But he and I both wanted his coming to be a surprise. He has said that he could not endure waiting longer to see his dearest friends. So a week ago when he arrived in New York he telegraphed me to know when he could come to the Rainbow Ranch and of course I said 'at once.' I rather think he may be here some time this afternoon. You won't have to worry now, Jim, about taking care of your wife and family, for Frank will----" But Frieda was clapping her hands together with much more pleasure than that slightly selfish young person usually showed. "Oh, I am so glad, Jack. We do like Frank better than any one we know, don't we? And if you don't, I am sure Olive does," she persisted. Jim got up from his place. "I don't like this fashion you have, Mrs. Colter, of corresponding with gentlemen and not informing your husband, but just the same I am delighted that Kent is coming to us. It's amazing what a fine fellow he is for an Englishman, and certainly we owe him a lot. When a man marries at another's house--and such a wedding--it's hard work getting even with him!" Out to the door Ruth followed her husband. "I am dreadfully uneasy about this trouble at the mine. I did not dare show how much I am worried before the girls. But you must tell me just what the conditions are, Jim. You know we don't believe in marriages where the woman is shut out from facts," Ruth insisted. For half a moment the man hesitated. Then he kissed the little woman who had to stand on her tip-toes to be on a level with his chin. "I don't tell you the facts, Ruthie dear, because I don't know them," he answered. "How can I tell what a lot of crazy, obstinate men are going to do? But evidently the miners who deserted us have managed to intimidate the other mine workers in this neighborhood. Ralph has not been able to get hold of any men who want to work for us, and things at the mine have been idle for some time, as you know. So far, all we have been able to do is to have the cowboys do picket duty down at the mine so as to keep the other fellows from wrecking our machinery or blowing us up. There, don't turn white as a sheet, Ruth! I don't believe that the old miners are that anxious to injure us; yet we have to be on the look-out. Merrit has got to be away all day today hunting for men, so I must be on the job. Sorry I can't meet Kent, but you'll see that he is looked after all right and I'll be with you at dinner tonight. I'll bring Merrit with me if I can persuade him--he is apt to be pretty well fagged." The greater part of the day the four girls spent together in the garden near the Lodge. It was a lovely June day, with the air full of the scents of innumerable wild flowers. And everything within the immediate neighborhood of the Lodge was as peaceful and undisturbed as though the mine were a hundred miles away. Jean and Jack at least half a dozen times confessed to the desire to walk over to the mine and see what was taking place; but since Jim had given strict orders against it they did not quite dare. A part of the time they spent helping Frieda gather great bunches of violets from her old violet beds, which had never been allowed to die out, until the Lodge was finally filled with them and the big living room was fair and fragrant enough for any festival. Then, when other amusements failed, there was always the new house to be investigated. It was now so nearly completed that when things quieted down at the mine again, if they were still to have a sufficient income to meet expenses, the moving into the new home was to take place. While the other three girls were rummaging about making suggestions Jack managed to slip quietly away. She went directly to Ruth, who was in the nursery with her little son. And as Jack was never used to evasions or to trying to get her own way by indirect methods, she asked immediately: "Ruth dear, may Olive and I drive to the station and meet Frank Kent this afternoon? I have a special reason for wishing to be there. You see, dear, I don't want Frank to think that I am not delighted to see him or that I have put off his coming to us because I had forgotten him. You knew he had been wanting to come for a long time, didn't you?" Ruth nodded. "I had guessed it, Jack, though I did not know positively until Frank's letter to me. Nor do I know now why you put off his visit. I am not asking you to tell me," she added quickly. For, observing the sudden look of reserve on the girl's face, she appreciated that it must be respected. "Frank merely said that he wanted to see us so much, and I did not see how his coming could fail to give pleasure. You don't mind, do you, dear?" Ruth concluded, wondering if this might be the moment for confidence. Although still keeping her clear, almost transparently honest gray eyes on her friend, Jack flushed. "Yes dear, I do want Frank, now that Olive is here," she replied. "I meant to write him and ask him just as soon as things were quiet at the mine again. Now may we go to meet him?" Ruth looked worried. "I have been wondering what we ought to do about going to the station all morning," she returned. "Of course some of the family must meet Frank or he will feel deeply wounded, but I can't leave the baby and yet there seems no man about the place to go with you girls. Jim has taken possession of everybody." Jack kissed Ruth on the hair and then bent over and looked at the baby with a new expression of wonder and reverence. She had always been much more afraid of the "little Jimmikins" than the other girls. "Don't trouble over things a minute, Ruth. You know the danger that Jim is fearful of for us is what may happen here on the ranch. But we shall be leaving the ranch as soon as we drive through the gate. Moreover, we can take Carlos with us for an escort; he is only a boy, but he will do perfectly well. And if we don't take him, it won't make much difference since he would be more than likely to follow us. As far as I can see he trails constantly after Olive like a faithful dog. It would annoy me, but I don't believe she has even noticed how much he does it. I wonder what the boy's exact reason is? Nevertheless, as it gives Carlos a regular occupation, I suppose we should be grateful." CHAPTER X CROSS PURPOSES OLIVE was not so unconscious of the Indian boy's attitude toward her as Jack believed. Indeed she could not well be. And now as the three of them drove together to the station she was pondering on whether or not she should confide her experience to Jack. But Jack was not sympathetic toward Carlos, for with her intense and forceful nature it was hard for her to understand the boy's idleness and dreaming. Therefore to tell her what had recently occurred would doubtless make her prejudice the deeper. For she was almost sure to regard the boy's behavior as impertinence and to wish to send him at once away from the ranch. Yet though Olive herself was annoyed, she did not wish matters to go so far as that. For she had a peculiar appreciation and pity for the Indian boy's difficulties which no one else could so readily have. Had she not been raised among the Indian people and did she not comprehend their shy, proud natures? For white people to realize that the Indian, even in the midst of his overthrow and degradation, still considers himself their superior is an almost impossible conception. Nevertheless Olive knew this to be true. The white man's religion is to the Indian less full of visions and of dreams. An educated Indian writes: "When we plant our plumes where the shrines are, our first prayer is for good thoughts--that our children may be wise and strong, and that the God of the sky may be glad of us. I have listened to the mission talk many days, and nothing in the words of the missionary is more white than the thought which we plant with the prayer plumes on our shrines." Neither does the Indian, though of course there are exceptions in his race as in all other things, have the respect that we feel he should have for the advantages of our education. What more does it teach him of the woods and the fields, of the beauty and imagery of nature, of all that he cares to know? Of a boy who had been to a government school an Indian says: "He comes back to his people and knows that if he lives there it must be as his father lived--except that now he has more cultivated tastes to satisfy, and no further means or methods of earning the price of them. To plant the corn, herd the sheep, hunt the rabbits, take care of his share of his own village--these are the life-work of the Indian. The schools teach him to do that no better than his fathers did it before him. He is taught to read and write, and he asks 'for what?' "The cities of the mesa have no books, and have never felt the need of them. Why should he read of the American life he lives apart from?" Therefore Olive understood that though the boy Carlos might not be able to express himself in this fashion, in his heart of hearts this was exactly the way that he felt. Why should he study what Jim Colter and the girls wished him to learn? Books and figures had no possible interest for him or relation to the life which he meant to lead. His world was the outdoor one, among the animals and birds, under the new moons of each succeeding month, and lifting up his eyes and his heart to the sun when he wished to be glad. To work like the other men did about the ranch, digging under the earth or plowing in the fields! This was not for the son and the grandson of many chieftains! It was not merely laziness on Carlos' part that kept him from making himself useful, but the feeling that any such labor as he might be expected to do was beneath his dignity. Therefore the boy could never really get into his mind the idea that the white people were his masters, although in a vague way he knew that they felt themselves to be. It was this thought that was always the foundation of Carlos' sullenness and lack of gratitude. So Olive realized that the Indian boy's letter to her, which she had found at her door one day hidden among a bunch of prairie roses, had not been written in any spirit of presumption or audacity. Had she not at one time seemed to be an Indian like himself? Had she not lived among them, eaten their food and spoken their speech? And was it not for her sake that Carlos had left his own tribe and taken upon himself many of the ways of the white man? The boy had cared for his "Princess Olilie" always, but in years past he had been a boy and felt as one. Now he was a man! All this and more Carlos had put into his note. Olive remembered it at the present moment almost word for word, for it had touched and hurt her at the same time. Although Carlos was too young to mean all that he had said, she knew that with his queer nature he must suffer from her reply. For he had written: MY LADY OF THE LONE TRAIL: Are you not weary of the life and the ways of the white women and men? Are you not tired of having your soul shut up between four walls of wood with no vision for your eyes by day and no night wind to touch your cheek as you lay asleep? You and I have grown older now; there is no one in any Indian tribe to hurt us. Have I not stayed quietly here waiting and watching for you, learning many things which I have hated, that we might not fail to understand each other? For my love for you is as the Tu-wa-ni-ne-ma, the sand of the desert. Therefore will you not come away with me back to the wonderful, free outdoor world, where we lived together for a little while when both of us were children. Under a tree in a dim forest I shall build for you such a nest as only a man shall build for his mate. Then in the day time I shall plant corn while you weave the beautiful Indian blanket, which the Indian Laska taught you to make. And in the night we shall listen to the little night bird of the desert, the Hoetska. But both day and night we shall be alone and away from these people who do not understand me as you do and who will never love you as I do. Whenever you will come with me, I shall have two horses waiting. Olive stole a glimpse at Jacqueline's face. For a quarter of an hour they had been sitting beside each other, and yet neither one of them had uttered a word. But certainly she should not tell Jack of Carlos' unhappy and impossible letter. For Jack might be amused, she might be angry, and certainly she would be resentful. No, Olive decided that she must keep the boy's secret inviolate. Some day she would have a chance to see him alone. Then she might be able to explain how far she herself had traveled from the old Indian days--how she could never again love the things that the boy did, nor endure the life which he wished to lead. Besides, Carlos was only a boy, while she was almost a woman--at least a good many years his senior! Perhaps she might even tell Carlos that it would be best for him to go away from Rainbow Ranch, back to his own people where he could live with Indian boys and girls of his own age. There was the Indian village not far off to which she herself might return after a few years. For one of these days the Indians were to have a teacher who _could_ understand their point of view as well as that of the white people. Perhaps Carlos might by that time be married to a girl of his own race and be able to help her with her chosen work. But she must not speak of this idea to Jacqueline either, for the suggestion always made her friend unhappy. It was odd how utterly devoted she and Jack were and how intimate; yet they did not often speak of the deepest desires of their hearts to each other. Not once had Jack voluntarily mentioned Frank Kent's name since their return from the visit to Lord and Lady Kent the year before. Was Jack in love with Frank? Olive could not make up her mind. Because if she were, what was standing in the way of their engagement? Of course Jack could never have dreamed of her foolish, impossible affection for Frank, who had never been anything except her good friend. Olive was quite certain that she had never by any sign betrayed herself. She believed that she had entirely recovered from her former feeling, and was hoping with all her heart that Jack and Frank would now find out that they truly loved each other. But what was making Jacqueline so unusually quiet? Olive's slender hand slipped into her friend's larger and firmer one, and Jack's fingers closed over it lovingly. They were now almost at the depot and Frank Kent's train would be due in another quarter of an hour. If only Jack would not look so pale and reserved--she was not nearly so pretty as usual! Her face was white and her eyes had dark shadows under them. Jean and Frieda had insisted that Jack wear a new silk suit that had recently been made for her, but it was not half so becoming as her old brown corduroys or faded khaki; neither was her cream-colored straw hat with its single brown rose so picturesque as the ranch hat in which Frank had first seen her. Olive sighed, and the sigh attracted the other girl's attention. "I have been a dreadfully stupid companion, Olive dear. Forgive me," Jack murmured penitently. And then: "How pretty you are looking! Frank will be so glad to see you, I know!" At this moment Carlos stopped the carriage and pair of horses before the station platform, where both girls got out without time for further speech. Yet all this while Jacqueline had been thinking: "If Olive still cares for Frank after this year of absence I am sure that her feeling will never change. So if this be true I shall tell Frank that I do not care for him enough to marry him. Olive has had too unhappy a life for me to add to her unhappiness. Surely when Frank believes that I do not love him, he will find out what Olive means to him and how immeasurably she is my superior, in beauty, brains, sweetness and everything that counts. Then he will know that he has liked her best all along!" Nevertheless and in spite of all her excellent reasoning as the whistle blew announcing the approaching train, Jack caught her breath. She hoped that Frank would not be angry with her for having refused to let him come to Rainbow Ranch for almost a year. Could she dare to pretend that she had forgotten the conversation which they had had in that last ride together between the hawthorn hedges of an English lane? When Frank Kent came down the steps of the train with his grave, handsome face flushed with eagerness--and something else--it was Olive Van Mater whom he found waiting for him alone on the platform. With all his old delightful friendliness and charm of manner he greeted her, dropping his luggage to hold both her hands close for a moment. Yet Olive to save her life could not at once be equally friendly and natural. For what in heaven's name had become of Jacqueline Ralston at this critical moment? As the train drew in, she had been standing close by her side. Here she was approaching them at last, holding out her hand stiffly, with a frozen smile on her face. "Awfully glad to see you, Frank; you are looking very fit after a trip across the continent. Sorry not to be here when your train got in, but I had to attend to something about the horses. Give me your check and let me see after your trunk. Everybody at the ranch is well and tremendously anxious to see you." Frank smiled. Holding on to his trunk check he followed the girl a few yards to the spot where his trunk had been thrown out. Olive waited alone to watch his bags. "Hope you will be more enthusiastic over seeing me yourself, dear, when I have a chance to talk to you," Frank remarked in the quiet fashion that always had its effect on the girl's ardent nature. "You are glad, aren't you?" And while Jack nodded, not entirely trusting herself to speak, Frank laughed, saying: "Here comes a porter. I'll have him carry my stuff to the carriage. It is like you, Miss America, to wish to start out by taking care of me. But if I am an Englishman and too much accustomed to being waited upon, at least I won't endure that!" CHAPTER XI A DINNER PARTY DINNER at Rainbow Lodge on the evening of Frank Kent's arrival was sufficiently gay and delightful to make up for many preceding weeks of quietness. For not only was Frank's appearance an unexpected pleasure to the entire family, but a few hours before sundown Ralph Merrit had returned home with an old friend of his, whom quite by accident he had met in a nearby town and persuaded to come with him for a short visit at the ranch. Henry Tilford Russell was to be a new experience to the four girls, since never in their wandering either at home or abroad had they met any other young man in the least like him. Before bringing his guest up to the Lodge for dinner Ralph had managed to escape from him for a few moments in order to see Ruth privately and to explain to her a few of his friend's peculiarities, so that no member of the family need be unnecessarily surprised. For one thing, the stranger was inordinately shy, disliking girls more than anything in the whole world. In fact Ralph was at last obliged to confess that had his friend guessed how many maidens he would be obliged to face at dinner, gladly would he have preferred starvation to joining them. But since Russell had asked no uncomfortable questions, Ralph had not felt in duty bound to forewarn him. Then, as his guest was about thirty years old, according to Frieda Ralston's calculations he was much too elderly anyhow for the Ranch girls' consideration. Yet notwithstanding all these drawbacks Ralph Merrit had been exceedingly anxious to bring his friend to the Rainbow Ranch. For in spite of the young man's shyness and social awkwardness, he was exceptionally brilliant, and was regarded almost a genius in his chosen line of work. Henry Tilford Russell was the assistant professor of ancient languages in the University of Chicago and Ralph had known him there in his own student days. However, he had recently suffered a breakdown from overwork and was now in the West on a trip for his health. But the fact about his former friend over which Ralph Merrit was particularly enthusiastic and desired to have Ruth impart to the girls, was that of his own free will Professor Russell had chosen the life of a student. His father was a wealthy and prominent Chicago lawyer, at one time the American Ambassador to Greece, so had the son desired he might have followed the idle existence of most other rich young men. In the midst of seeing that the baby was safely stored away in his silk-lined crib and that the table was set for extra guests, and that Aunt Ellen prepare a specially good dinner, Ruth had no time for extended conversation with the girls. She did manage to mention to Jean and Frieda that Ralph had brought home a stranger to whom they were to try to be agreeable. But this bit of information was almost swallowed up in the more important news that Ralph had at last succeeded in getting hold of a new set of men and that work on Rainbow Mine was to begin again within the next day or so. Then, soon after, Frank appeared, and everything else was forgotten in the welcome to him. Just as though he had been her older brother and Frieda a little girl, Frank kissed her, insisting that she had grown, although at eighteen Frieda certainly considered herself quite past the growing stage. Introduced to the new baby, Frank did not seem in the least nervous or abashed as most men are by such very tiny persons. Indeed, he apparently had overcome all his old reserve and shyness and without this was simple and charming, as persons of high birth and breeding are most apt to be. Fifteen minutes before dinner Ruth had positively to force the four girls to dress. Then, as Jim was getting ready at the same time, she had a few moments alone with Frank Kent. "You know what I have come for, don't you, Mrs. Colter--Ruth?" Frank began with the directness that the woman had always admired in him. Ruth made no pretense of not understanding. "It would be hard for all of us, and I don't see how Jim would be able to get along on the ranch without Jack," she replied. "For you see he and Jack really are like 'partners,' their old name for each other. But if it is for Jack's happiness you know how we should all feel. But, Frank, I feel I must warn you that Jack won't be easy to win, and it is because I care for you so much that I hope you will not be discouraged. She is not just like most girls, and----" Frank nodded. "I have understood that all along," he interrupted. "Still there is one thing, Ruth, that you do not know. Last summer I persuaded Jack to confess that she did care for me. Yet she insisted that there was something, she could not explain to me what it was, that stood in our way--some barrier that had to be broken down before she could consent to marry me. What it was I don't know and that is one of the things I have come half way across the world to find out. Can you guess of any possible obstacle to Jack's feeling for me?" In a puzzled fashion Ruth Colter drew her delicate brows together. Frank's remark had startled and surprised her. "No, not unless it is her affection for us and the ranch," she replied. Before another confidence could be exchanged, Jim had stamped into the living room, looking bigger and more splendid than ever, suggesting the strong wind from his own beloved prairies. A few moments later Ralph Merrit and his guest followed, and afterwards Olive, Jean and Jack. Perhaps because she remembered that Frank had always liked her best in white, Jack wore a plain white silk dress cut square in the neck and with no trimming but the girdle and little ruffle of lace. It was a dress which she had owned for over a year, and Frieda was annoyed with her for wearing it on the evening of Frank's arrival. Notwithstanding, as there was no time to change after her sister's protest, Frieda finally conceded as Jack left the room that she did look fairly well. For the truth was that no one of the older girl's more elaborate toilets could have suited her half so well. Jack was pale and not altogether sure whether she was the more happy or unhappy over Frank's presence, yet somehow her unusual pallor was not unattractive, with her burnished brown and gold hair and the healthy scarlet of her lips. Then in some indefinable fashion Jack's expression had recently grown gentler, indeed tonight her manner held a certain timidity, giving her one of the charms that she sometimes lacked. Both Olive and Jean were also simply dressed, since their dinner party was an impromptu one and entirely informal. Olive had on a lavender muslin with a bunch of Frieda's violets at her waist, while Jean was dressed in a pale yellow voile frock with primroses embroidered upon it. Ralph Merrit frowned and then tried to smile as Jean came forward to shake hands, congratulate him and meet his guest, "What right had a poor fellow even to dream of a girl so fitted by beauty and grace to every high position? Suppose by some miracle Jean should in time learn to care for him, what would he have to offer her? Here was Frank Kent (and Ralph was perfectly aware of Frank's intention), and if Jack cared for him she would have all the things of this world that Jean so frankly loved, wealth, a high social position and one day an old English title." But while Ralph Merrit was continuing to pursue this wholly futile train of thought, Jean was every now and then glancing toward him demurely from under her heavy shaded brown eyes with a look which he perfectly understood. "What in the world is the matter with your friend, Mr. Russell?" the look said plain as any words. For Jean was doing her level best to talk to the stranger and in return for her efforts he would not even turn towards her. On first being introduced to Jacqueline the Professor had turned crimson to the tips of his large ears, though in a measure he had been prepared for one girl, since Ralph had mentioned a "Miss Ralston" in connection with the ownership of the Rainbow Mine. Later the meeting with Olive had added resentment to his confusion. Why had Merrit not warned him of what he would have to endure? Jean was an impossible third. Why, no such misfortune as meeting with three girls had overtaken him since he reached the great womanless West! For though the West did have its tiresome quota of females, so far he had managed to escape speaking to any of them except on strictly business matters. Well, he was in for it now, and would have to endure the evening as best he could; yet already he had made up his mind to escape as soon as daylight came in the morning. Jean's well-meant efforts to make herself agreeable to Ralph's friend were entirely wasted; yet after dinner was announced the young Professor found himself more at ease. For fortunately he had been placed on Mrs. Colter's left and next him was an empty chair--evidently for some member of the family not at home he thought with a suppressed sigh of relief. Overhearing Frank Kent ask some question of interest in regard to the mine, Professor Russell forgot his embarrassment sufficiently to add several questions and comments of his own. And it happened to be during one of his own speeches that an unexpected movement near him made him glance toward the empty chair. "Great Scott! Was this a big wax doll about to take her place next him?" Yet, though the doll was struggling with the chair and evidently trying to draw it out from under the table, it never occurred to Henry Tilford Russell to render her the slightest assistance, in spite of the fact that she was smiling at him appealingly out of the very largest and bluest eyes he had ever seen. The lateness of Frieda Ralston's entrance did not appear to have surprised her family, who were entirely accustomed to it; however, the magnificence of her dinner toilet plainly did. For whatever had inspired Frieda to dress up as she had? It was small wonder that she was late. Even in the midst of her duties as hostess Ruth Colter's gray eyes widened and it was on the tip of her tongue to scold Frieda for her foolishness. Yet, recovering herself in time and recalling the presence of their guests, she said nothing. With a faint suggestion of reproach Jack shook her head at her sister, while Jean and Olive openly smiled at each other. So the situation would have passed off without any unpleasantness if it had not been for Jim Colter. When would Ruth teach Jim that he was not to tease the Ranch girls before strangers just as if they were tiny children? With real astonishment and some mock admiration Jim stared at the latest comer, at the same time giving a characteristic chuckle and low whistle. Then, in spite of the fact that Jack, who was sitting near, gave his foot a warning pressure, he exclaimed: "What in heaven's name, Baby, does all that finery mean? You aren't going to a ball later on this evening, are you, and forgotten to mention it?" Then, with everybody at the table staring at her, Frieda felt her lips beginning to tremble and her eyes fill with tears, as at last she slipped into her place. Why should her appearance create so much comment? She had dressed up because she wished to and for no other special reason. Often in the past year when things at the Lodge had been dull for a long time she had amused herself in trying on her pretty clothes. No one had ever objected before, but now, just because there were strangers, or at least one stranger, present, she had to be made the object of family criticism and ridicule. If only they were alone Frieda felt that she would like to tell Jim and everybody just how hateful they were. For of course there had been no thought in her mind of Ralph's guest when she had put on her blue _crêpe de chîne_ dress with its low neck and elbow sleeves and floating chiffon draperies. The costume had been a present from her sister, Jack, who always could save more of her income than she or Jean. She had only wished to find out whether it was becoming to her and that was why she had also taken so much time and care in fixing her hair. Certainly she knew that Ralph's guest would be as old as the hills--Ralph had plainly stated that he would be. Frieda gave a little start, which she promptly repressed so that no one should notice it, when she heard a pleasant voice whispering unexpectedly close to her ear: "Don't mind their teasing you; I think you look--just jolly." And in reply Frieda smiled tremulously upon the newcomer. He was old, just as she had expected--his hair was already beginning to grow thin upon the top of his head. He was slender and delicate looking and of only medium height, yet his eyes were certainly the brownest and almost the kindest that she had ever seen, in spite of the fact that they had a kind of absent, far-away expression even while they seemed to be fastened upon her. "Thank you," Frieda returned a second later, having by this time regained both her lost dignity and self-possession. But this time the younger Miss Ralston found their latest visitor displaying a curious eccentricity. Now he was plainly laughing at her. Naturally Frieda could not have dreamed that Professor Russell, whom Ruth had finally concluded to introduce to her, considered her a little girl of about fourteen. Otherwise, not for anything in the world, would he have made the speech which he first addressed to her. The truth was that this old-young Professor was extremely fond of children and only objected to girls after they had grown up. Then because he was so shy himself he had a keen sympathy for embarrassment in other people. So it was to these two causes that Frieda owed his friendliness. Nevertheless, as she was entirely unconscious of this fact, Frieda continued to talk to him very calmly and comfortably during the entire meal. He did appear surprised over an occasional remark of hers, but as he hardly ever answered, Frieda guessed that this might be his method of revealing his appreciation of her attentions. Actually the two of them were out on the porch with every one else vanished from sight for the moment before Professor Russell entirely awoke to the fact that, though his companion was still extremely young, she could not exactly be regarded as a baby. CHAPTER XII TWO CONVERSATIONS "JACK, you have not played fair with me; what is it that has happened?" Frank Kent asked quietly. It was an hour since dinner time at the Lodge and Frank had so insisted upon Jack's taking a walk with him that without rudeness she had not been able to refuse. It was an enchanting June night, warmer than usual in that part of the western country, and with a moon that shines perhaps nowhere on this earth with exactly the same wide radiance. Jack and Frank had walked down the tall aisles of cottonwood trees near the house and were now standing a few yards on the farther side of them in a clear and revealing light. At Frank's words the girl flinched as he had known that she would. For just that reason he had chosen them, since nothing could hurt Jacqueline so much or make her come so immediately to her own defence as any suggestion that she had not played fair. Other girls might not suffer so greatly from this accusation; but honesty, candor and a kind of straightforwardness, which some persons are pleased to think as masculine traits, had always been Jack's leading characteristics. Now, however, though her companion waited impatiently for her reproach or her denial, for a moment he heard neither. "I am so sorry, Frank, that you feel in that way about me," Jack began finally. Then, almost in a whisper: "I have not intended to be unfair to you. I--I had not promised you anything." Jack was not looking into Frank's face as she spoke, but at the silvery whiteness of the ground beneath her feet. "But nothing has happened, if you mean that I have become either angry or disappointed in you," she added timidly. Difficult as the girl had anticipated this conversation might be, it was more trying than she had expected. What could she say? How could she truthfully present the situation to Frank, as it appeared to her, without putting Olive in an impossible position? Because in spite of Olive's denial through the message to Jean at the close of the last Ranch Girls' book, Jacqueline was still firmly convinced that her friend felt so great an affection for Frank Kent that it was influencing her whole life. Did it not explain why she absolutely refused to consider Donald Harmon's proposal of marriage, in spite of Don's devotion and her grandmother's expressed desire? Moreover, even if Olive did not like Donald sufficiently well to consider marrying him, why should she insist that she intended devoting her future to teaching the Indian children? To Jack Ralston such a career suggested pure martyrdom. Olive might do anything else in the world that she liked, even if her grandmother left her no inheritance. For there was Miss Winthrop, who regarded Olive almost as a daughter and who would do everything possible for her. She might have almost any happiness and yet Olive actually talked as if she meant to do what she had so long said she intended as soon as she was a few years older and the proper arrangements could be made. Jack bit her lips until they positively hurt. Actually she felt a shiver of repugnance at the idea of going away with Frank to every happiness if her going involved leaving her dearest friend to such a fate. Could she ever really be happy with this thought in the back of her mind? No, Jack decided once again that she was far stronger than Olive and better able to look after herself and to bear, if need be, both loss and loneliness. Besides, had she not had many joys in the past and Olive for many years so few? Surely if Olive still cared for Frank, as she believed, in a little while there need be no further doubt of it. In that event it must be her duty to tell Frank that she did not love him and would never consent to leave the ranch for his sake. After that Frank would undoubtedly turn at once to Olive, who had always been his friend and upon whose sympathy he could surely count. Olive, too, was so much prettier, her nature so much gentler and sweeter, she would make a far better wife. Frank might be angry with her at first, Jack acknowledged to herself at this moment, but he would be more than grateful in the end. Jack laid her hand pleadingly on the young man's coat sleeve. "Frank," she asked more wistfully than she herself realized, "won't you promise not to talk about your feeling for me for a time? Won't you just stay on here with us at the Rainbow Ranch as you used to do and let us have a happy time together? I am worried about such a number of things. Perhaps the money in Rainbow Mine is going to give out and we may have no further income from it. Then there is this strike of our miners. Jim and I don't say a great deal about it to the others, but we are so afraid the old men may resort to violence when we try to get things to running smoothly again and that Ralph or some one else may be seriously hurt. Don't you see that I just can't think about anything else now?" "No, Jack dear, I can't honestly see why your having all these worries and annoyances can affect your knowing whether or not you return my love. It is not as though I had never spoken of it--you have had a whole year to decide. But if you wish me to wait longer, of course I shall do as you ask. Only please don't let it be too long." Then before the girl could reply she and her companion had both started, and instinctively Jack clutched at the young man's arm. The next moment she gave a relieved laugh. "I don't see why I should jump in that fashion just because we heard a slight noise behind us," she apologized. "I suppose other people have just the same right that we have to be outdoors enjoying the moonlight." Jack then turned around, looking back into the grove of cottonwood trees. "Jean, Olive, Frieda," she called lightly, but when no one responded, thinking no more of the incident she moved on a few steps. "Come on, Frank, let us have a real walk, it is too lovely to go back to the Lodge so soon. I want to ask you such a lot of questions and about your mother and father and Kent Place," she pleaded. Frank's attention was not to be so easily diverted. For several moments he continued staring at the spot where undoubtedly he had heard the noise of light footsteps only a few seconds before. The sound had come from the neighborhood of the trees nearest them; but why did no figure emerge into the light or move off again in the opposite direction? The night was so bright and the air so clear that no one could have escaped without being either seen or heard. But Frank was too interested in the prospect of a longer time in the moonlight alone with Jacqueline to waste a great deal more thought upon a possible intruder. Once again he glanced back, but as no one was in sight, he and Jack were soon deep in an intimate and happy conversation. Notwithstanding, neither the girl nor the man were mistaken in their original impression that some one had been in their neighborhood during at least a part of their conversation. For when they were both safely out of sight a slender figure stole from behind one of the largest cottonwood trees and ran off with the fleetness and noiselessness of a wild creature. There was an ugly expression on the face--one of resentment and suspicion and yet of so great unhappiness that the other emotions might have been forgiven. For the Indian boy, Carlos, fifteen minutes before had just concluded a conversation with the only person in the world for whom he felt any real affection. And foolish and mistaken as his dream had been, it hurt no less to find it shattered. A few minutes after dinner, when all the family were together on the veranda at Rainbow Lodge, Olive had several times noticed Carlos hovering about in their vicinity, now on a pretence of bringing a message to Jim Colter which might as easily have waited until morning, then asking some perfectly unnecessary question of her. And finally with the persistence and stoicism of his race he had planted himself like a slender and upright column against a side of the house, deliberately to wait until he could have his way. There was not the slightest use of pretending that Olive did not understand what his intention was. Carlos wished to talk with her, wished to have an immediate answer to the letter which he had lately written her. Moreover, she feared that unless she gave in to him he might show some trace of his feeling before the assembled company. Quietly Olive slipped over to Ruth Colter. "Ruth," she whispered, when no one was paying any especial attention to either of them, "I have something rather important that I must say to Carlos. He is here now waiting. Do you think it would make any difference if I go and talk to him for a few moments? We won't go any distance from the house, just to some place where no one may be disturbed by us." And Ruth agreed to the girl's request without considering it seriously. To the older woman Carlos was only a child, sometimes rather a difficult one it was true, but at any rate only an idle, mischievous boy, whom the Ranch girls in their usual impulsive generosity had befriended and in a measure adopted. But that Carlos should think of himself as a man and actually have the impertinence to consider himself in love with Olive, Ruth simply could not have believed had she been told the truth at this moment. So Olive, pretending to go to her own room for a scarf, had afterwards stolen out of a side door and come close up to where the Indian boy was standing. "Carlos," she said kindly, "I would rather you did not linger about the veranda because you wish to speak to me. If you will come away with me for a little distance we can talk. I received your letter and you want to know what I think of it?" Without a word the boy nodded, but he followed the girl for a few yards until they were standing ankle deep in the shimmering green foliage of Frieda's violet beds which were not far from the Lodge. And although in the path a few feet away there was a small bench where the girls often rested after their work among the flowers, Olive would not consent to sitting down. Slowly and patiently as she could, she explained to Carlos the utter impossibility of his feeling for her. In the first place, he was a boy while she was a number of years his senior. Then he was completely mistaken in his idea that because she had been raised among Indian people she cared for their life or habits. Not for anything on earth would she return to their simple and primitive existence. Because Olive was essentially gentle and because her sympathy and understanding of the Indian boy's nature was a matter of experience as well as kindness of heart, she did try to take the sting away from the present situation so far as she could; yet she felt obliged to be firm, for there must be no repetition of Carlos' foolish letter to her. He must appreciate that she was fond of him because he had once befriended her in a difficulty, and that she was grateful and would always be interested in his welfare. But to care for him in any other fashion was absolutely out of the question. Never again must he even dare to refer to the subject. Notwithstanding her resolute attitude and the arguments which she had used so forcibly, at the end of their conversation Olive did not feel sure that Carlos was as entirely convinced of the absurdity of his desire as he should have been. For she had spared him the one course open to her that might have brought him to his senses--sheer ridicule. Therefore when Olive was back in her own room alone and undressing for the night, since she had not felt in the mood for rejoining her friends, she wondered if she had been altogether wise. Certainly she had not liked Carlos' manner, and two remarks of his near the conclusion of their talk had left her very angry. "It is Miss Ralston who has turned you against me," he had muttered sullenly. "She don't like me, she don't understand. She thinks I am no more than a servant about her place. If it had not been for her you might have stayed always in the wilderness with me when both of us were children. Then you would never have known of your people nor learned to love the stupid white man's world. Miss Ralston is my enemy; therefore I hate her." And with these words Carlos had drawn up his lean, boyish frame with the majesty of a deposed king. Olive's sudden wrath had humbled him for the moment at least; yet just before she turned to go he had said again with equal passion, although his manner was quieter and more subdued. "Then if it is not Miss Ralston who has come between us, there is some one you care for. I wonder if it can be the far-away guest and friend, who arrived this afternoon by the iron trail of the prairies?" When Olive did not answer but walked quietly back to the Lodge, Carlos stood for a time like a bronze statue, silent and unmoving; then swift as a shadow he threaded his way between the cottonwood trees, actually observing Jack and Frank from the beginning to the end of their conversation, although hearing little of what they said. CHAPTER XIII A VISIT TO RAINBOW MINE TWO days later, as things were once more in working order at the Rainbow Mine, Ralph Merrit suggested that Jim Colter bring Ruth and the girls and Frank Kent down to see how things were going. And soon after luncheon the little party started. A trip to the mine was actually like an expedition to a foreign place, so long a time had passed since the family had been allowed in its vicinity, and so of course everybody was in especially fine spirits. It was well to have Rainbow Mine running again and a relief to find that the striking miners had yielded to circumstances so much more readily and peaceably than their first threats suggested. They had influenced the mine workers near at home to have nothing to do with Ralph Merrit's management; nevertheless since the arrival of his new force the atmosphere about Rainbow Ranch had remained serene and untroubled, so that evidently the strikers were not to be heard from. True, a single ugly letter had mysteriously appeared at daylight this morning left before the door of the new foreman, but except for mentioning it to Ralph, the man had paid no further attention to it. And Ralph, in the interest and excitement of getting things into working order at the mine, had given it less consideration than it deserved. For the annoyance was not so much in the threat of trouble that the letter contained, as in the puzzle of its being found at the quarters built for the Rainbow Mine workers, which were not far from the old Ranch house. No outsider had been seen anywhere about the great ranch either on the preceding day or night. Jim and Frank and Jack walked on ahead in order that they might have a few moments' conversation with the new miners; for no one had yet gone down the shaft into the mine. Before lunch they had been going over the machinery and seeing that the elevators for the men and for the ore were in good working order. Now Ralph Merrit was insisting that he be lowered first into the mining pit and that his new men with their hammers and chisels and other mining paraphernalia follow after him. However, observing that Ruth and the other girls were coming nearer he went forward to speak to them. Not since the evening when he and his friend had taken dinner at the Rainbow Lodge had he seen any one of them. "We are awfully pleased, Ralph, that affairs are straightening out so comfortably," Ruth began. "I think we owe you a vote of thanks." She had not known what had been making Ralph Merrit so unlike himself for the past few months, since neither Jim nor Jean had seen fit to confide Ralph's weakness to any one else; but she did recognize the change for the better in him today. She had never before thought of Ralph as specially handsome, yet he looked so fine and capable; his expression was so full of energy and ability that instinctively Ruth held out her hand. "Go in and win, Ralph," she added, half laughing and half serious. "I don't just know what it is that you are fighting for, except to make more money for the girls who don't deserve it. But whatever it is I am going to put my money on you, even though betting is against my Puritan traditions; for you'll win in the end. Why, Ralph, you look like the famous statue of 'The Minute Man' near Boston, except that you have not his gun or knapsack. You're just as typical an American fighter and just as ready for action." Crimsoning like a small boy at unexpected praise, Ralph crushed Ruth's hand in reply until she had to repress a cry of pain. "I'm not worth the powder to blow me up if you really knew the truth about me, Mrs. Colter; but just the same any kind of fellow likes a compliment now and then, and I don't remember when I have had one," he returned. A movement of Jean's graceful shoulders and a single glance from her demure dark eyes made the young man swing half-way around to face her. "You are not disputing that statement, are you?" he demanded. "Why shouldn't a fellow like a compliment as well as a girl?" Jean slipped off the big pink straw hat she had been wearing and with the velvet ribbon about it, swung it on her arm like a basket. "Oh, I am not disputing _that_ part of your statement if you please, sir," she answered. "I am only regretting that you have forgotten all the other compliments which you have received in the past. For when I remember how many I have bestowed upon you lately, it is discouraging to think what a failure I have been in trying to make myself agreeable." Just why recently, indeed ever since their conversation together that afternoon on the veranda at the Lodge and later here in the shadow of one of the great rocks, Jean Bruce had been trying to make herself particularly agreeable to Ralph Merrit and to win back his former attention and friendship, the girl herself did not know. On her return from Europe, after a few months at home, she had certainly discouraged Ralph's devotion, feeling instinctively that his affection for her had now become more serious than in the past when he had looked upon her as only a half-grown girl. For Jean did not wish to be unkind or unfair, and assuredly Ralph had none of the things to offer her which she desired. Perhaps because of this she had talked more of wealth and of worldly ambitions than she might otherwise have done. And Ralph had either understood her intention or else had recovered from his former affection, for in the past few months, during his foolish and futile struggle for money through speculations, he had entirely ceased making love to her or treating her in any way differently from the other girls. At heart Jean was essentially a coquette, one of those girls and women who, having once gained a man's admiration, cannot bear to find themselves losing it. And surely Jack and Frieda and Olive had often accused her of this vice. Now, knowing that Ralph cared at present more for the successful working of the Rainbow Mine than for anything else, Jean pointed with apparently the deepest concern toward the group of new men. "Tell us about the new miners, won't you please, Ralph," she asked, "their names and where some of them came from--anything you know? They are a splendid-looking lot of fellows!" But at this moment Frieda interrupted the conversation to ask a question. "Who is that thin man over there all by himself in the blue overalls and old hat? Why isn't he with the others who are being introduced to Jim and Frank and Jack? I wonder if Jim knows him?" Then, quite unaccountably, Ralph Merrit appeared extremely uncomfortable. "See here, Frieda, I might as well tell you, for you would be sure to find out anyhow if I didn't. That fellow isn't one of the new miners. He is Russell, the friend I brought up to the Lodge with me to dinner the other night. You see----" But Frieda's eyes were widening and in truth the other three women seemed almost equally surprised. "But I thought Professor Russell had gone away from Rainbow Ranch," Frieda protested, "why he told us good-by the night he left and said that he would have to be off so early the next morning that he could not see any of us again." Ralph nodded. "I know," he conceded in some embarrassment. "And you're still to think he has gone if you please. Don't any one of you go near enough to Russell to speak to him or he will probably die of confusion before your eyes. I am afraid I forgot he was around and he is under the impression that he is safely disguised. You see the truth of the matter is this. When Russell got me away from the Lodge the other night there is nothing he did not say to me for having taken him unprepared to a place where he had to meet four girls. He declared it nearly killed him and he had every intention of sneaking away from the Ranch house the next morning on foot rather than suffer the chance of meeting any one of you again. He is an awful ass, but just the same he is a tremendously clever fellow and I was awfully anxious to show him the mine and he wanted to see it almost as much. So I persuaded him that he could just stay on at the Ranch house with me for a few days, letting you believe he had disappeared until he saw how things down here looked and worked. I assured him no one of you ever came near the men's quarters, but now he is hanging around the mine waiting for me as I promised to take him down into the pit as soon as we start work. Don't scare him to death beforehand." Ruth and Jean and Olive laughed, and Olive said sympathetically: "Poor fellow, I can feel for him. I used to feel so shy that nearly all strangers made me wretched. But I don't see just why he should be so specially severe upon girls?" "Because he is a goose," Frieda returned so sententiously that every one else laughed. So plainly was she offended at her own failure to charm their strange guest a night or so before. It was time for Ralph to say good-by. Arrangements at the pit shaft had been made so that the first elevator could be lowered into it. He then waved his hand in farewell to his friends, as he and the new foreman of the mine and the odd-looking figure of Henry Russell climbed on to the elevator. "I shall go away before they come up again, so that foolish fellow won't even have to look at me," Frieda remarked scornfully, as without any hitch or delay the car slowly disappeared into the bowels of the earth. CHAPTER XIV THE EXPLOSION THE new crowd of miners were anxiously waiting about the mouth of the pit shaft, which led down into the deepest excavation that had yet been dug in the neighborhood of the Rainbow Creek. There were other openings, but because this was the largest, Ralph Merrit had desired that his workmen begin their labor here. For by extending and deepening the passages in the lower part of this shaft he hoped to make important discoveries of new veins of ore. And once convinced that a quantity of new gold was actually to be found under this ground the young engineer had no idea of giving up before he had devised some intelligent and not too expensive method of bringing more wealth to the surface of the earth. Not many feet from the company of men Jack Ralston and Frank Kent were standing together talking of some detail in connection with the work, while Jim Colter was hanging over the pit opening in company with the men who had charge of the lowering and raising of the mine elevator. Evidently Ralph Merrit and his two companions had made a safe landing below, for shortly after their disappearance there was a signal, and slowly the lift traveled up into the daylight again, now ready to take on another lot of passengers. "Steady, no crowding," Jim Colter called out as the next relay stepped hastily forward. "Merrit will want to start things going in the tunnel before you descend." One man had already gotten aboard, while another had one foot extended toward the platform, when suddenly from underneath them there came a tearing, splitting noise and then a muffled roar like the instantaneous explosion of a thousand guns. The passengers in the elevator fell on their knees and all around the opening of the pit there was powder and blackness and a fall of stones like a swift rain of meteors. By accident Ruth Colter's back happened to be turned away from the scene at the mine, so that the first sound she remembered hearing was her husband's hoarse shout of horror and then as she turned the sight of his great form lying prostrate on the ground with Jack and Frank trying to drag him away from danger. But when Ruth would have rushed toward him, Olive and Frieda held her fast, and the next instant a wave of weakness and darkness so overwhelmed her that she had no strength to move. When she opened her eyes she could see Jean's face, white as a sheet, dancing before her and hear her saying: "Jim isn't hurt, dear; only stunned by his fall. See, he is on his feet again giving orders. And Jack and Frank must be all right, they were not so near. But what could have happened, what caused the explosion? It's the men down inside the mine who must be horribly hurt. Ralph----" But Jean shook with such nervous terror that Frieda's arm encircled her, and the next moment the four women moved nearer the place of the disaster. They were just in time, for at the moment of their approach, although Jim Colter's face was so black that you could hardly distinguish him, with his forehead bleeding from an ugly wound and his clothes torn and burnt, he was giving orders like the general of an army and like trained soldiers the miners were obeying him. "I'll take four of you men who will volunteer to go down inside the mine with me. I don't know what has happened, but we are pretty apt to find things serious. It sounded like a dynamite explosion and there may be another. Fortunately for us the elevator is above ground and we can lower it. Some of you see that stretchers are brought here. Jack, keep your head and get hold of a doctor at once. I hope we may need him," the man added grimly, as he swung his great length aboard the small car, his companions crowding close against him. Unmindful of the awed silence that had followed the noise of the explosion, unmindful of the two score of rough strange men, Ruth breaking away from the girls now ran forward crying: "Jim, you can't go down into the mine first. I can't let you. There is the baby and me, you must think of us and of the girls. You may be horribly hurt." She was near enough now so that she could look straight into her husband's blue eyes and something in Jim's expression calmed her instantly. Then for the time he too seemed conscious of the presence of no one else. "Don't be frightened, Ruth, I shall be all right, dear, and back again with you in ten minutes perhaps. But in any case, girl, don't you see I have got to go down before the others? This is our mine and two of the men down there are almost boys." Some quiet order Jim then gave and slowly for the second time the lift sank down toward the dark abyss under the earth. For Ruth had made no other sound or protest, only keeping tight hold on Frieda's and Jean's hands. Olive had gone with Jack and Frank Kent in the direction of the Rainbow Lodge. To the watchers at the pit opening after the elevator had landed the second time there was a moment when they believed that they could hear voices below. Then the waiting seemed interminable. In point of fact only a few moments more had passed before the signal indicated that the car must be drawn up again. And this time it was Jean Bruce who covered her eyes with her hands. There was a grinding of the cables and then an unmistakable groan, so it was not only the faces of the women that blanched whiter. Many of these miners were middle-aged men who had been in mining disasters where many hundreds of lives were at stake. Now, since no further disturbance had followed the first brief explosion, they realized that only the three men who had first gone down into the pit had been injured. Yet it was nerve-racking not to be able to foretell whether these three men would be brought up alive or dead. Jim Colter and one of his helpers were standing upright in the car and Jim held in his arms a limp, crumpled figure, unconscious, his blue overalls charred and blackened, his absurd old hat quite gone. Indeed, the grave and learned professor of ancient languages looked like a broken slip of a boy in the big man's keeping. There on the floor of the car another figure was resting. The face was upturned to the light and though the eyes were closed the expression of the mouth showed that the man had not fainted but was suffering great pain. Frieda touched Jean Bruce on the arm. "It is not Ralph, but the new foreman who seems to be very badly hurt," she whispered. "Look, the other men are carrying him off. I can't tell about Ralph's friend, Mr. Russell. But where is Ralph? Why hasn't he come up with the others?" And this last question of Frieda's was being echoed in the minds of the waiting woman and girl. Why had Jim brought up two of the wounded men and left the third, their oldest friend, still in the depth of Rainbow Mine? It was impossible not to believe that Jim had done this because these men were not too badly injured to be helped. For he had now placed his burden on the ground and was examining the young man with the skill and care of a surgeon, while some one else bathed the face. A stretcher had been secured for the foreman who was now being taken to his own quarters to await the coming of a surgeon. "Jim," Ruth Colter put her hand on her husband's shoulder and her face was almost as white and strained as it had been during her last speech with him, "the elevator is going down again and you are not going with it. Tell us, please, what has happened to Ralph?" Without waiting to hear her guardian's answer Frieda suddenly burst into tears. Of course she had been dreadfully unnerved by the recent accident and now this uncertainty about their friend, besides the sight of their new acquaintance stretched out there at her feet as though he were dead when the last time she had seen him he had been eating his dinner, was more than she could bear. "Ralph? Great Scott, I am a brute, Ruth, Jean, Frieda!" Jim Colter exclaimed. "Why didn't I tell you at once? Ralph isn't badly hurt at all; he is bruised and burnt and shaken up, but nothing more, so far as I could tell. So of course he insisted that we bring up the two other fellows first. It's a plain miracle that there's anything left of the three of them. So far as I could understand somebody had fixed a bomb down at the end of the pit shaft, but the thing was clumsily made and only half went off. Ralph said they were blown about a good deal and the atmosphere was pretty thick, but unless the new foreman has been injured internally there was no great harm done. I think this young man has nothing more serious the matter with him than a broken leg. And I expect we shall be able to mend that for him at Rainbow Lodge." At these words Henry Russell opened his eyes, but whether because of Jim's suggestion or the pain he was enduring, or whether because the sight of the girls, he groaned aloud and then closed his lips again. "I don't think he wants to be taken to the Lodge," Frieda suggested mournfully. "You see he wants us to think he has gone away." Then possibly because Ruth's and Jim's nerves had both been strained almost past endurance for the past half hour they laughed aloud at Frieda's speech. Jean had slipped away and it was her white and yet happy face that Ralph Merrit saw first as he came back into the world of daylight again. There, though he was staggering and nearly blind and covered with blood and grime from the shock he had just received, he found Jean's hands before any others and held them close for a moment while she murmured: "I am so glad, so glad; it is because you have some big work to do in the world that you have been saved, I am sure, Ralph." A moment later Ralph was quietly accepting the congratulations of his workmen, while he tried to explain to them just how the explosion had taken place. That the bomb had been placed down the shaft by one of the former miners there could be no shadow of doubt. CHAPTER XV AN UNFORTUNATE DISCUSSION "BUT why won't either Jean or Frieda come with us?" Olive asked a week after the unfortunate accident at the Rainbow Mine. With a surprise that she did not pretend to hide Jack Ralston turned to look at her friend. "I thought I had explained to you, dear," she protested, "that Jean said she felt it her duty to write a long letter of sympathy to the Princess Colonna. You see she only heard yesterday of the death of the old Prince and though she does not feel that the Princess will be exactly inconsolable (he was so much older and they thought so differently about many things), yet of course Jean has to say that she is dreadfully sorry and is there anything she can do and all that. It would not surprise me in the least if the Princess came west and made us a visit. I told Jean to invite her. She was born in this part of the country and I rather think she will be glad to get away from Rome while she is in heavy mourning. It is a pity she did not have a son, isn't it? The title will have to go to her husband's nephew, Giovanni Colonna. You remember he and Jean were such good friends." But although the two girls were walking along side by side toward the stables back of the Rainbow Lodge, it was plain that Olive Van Mater was not listening with any real interest to what her companion was saying. "Then why won't Frieda ride with us?" she expostulated. "I am sure it has been ages since we four girls had a long ride together and it is a wonderfully beautiful morning. What has become of Frieda lately anyhow--I almost never see her except at meal times?" With a laugh Jack Ralston laid her arm lightly across her friend's shoulder. "Poor Olive, to have only my poor society! But, dear, we have not had but one other ride together, the one that we took to the Indian village soon after your arrival. Does it bore you so dreadfully to have only me as a companion? You must not come with me then, simply because I asked you. I can get one of the boys to ride over the ranch with me; perhaps Carlos would be willing to do that much! I don't know what has happened to Frieda, but the child is making a perfect martyr of herself. That poor young Professor seems not to wish anyone to do things for him except Frieda or Ruth. You know he perfectly hates the sight of the rest of us. And as Ruth is so busy with Jimmikins and the house she can't nurse him a great deal. So he just lies in his room, which is Frieda's by the way, and moans and groans until Frieda comes to amuse him. What do you think I beheld our baby doing the other day? Reading him some dreadful article on Egyptian Hieroglyphics from a learned magazine. She hadn't the faintest idea what it was all about and she looked like a big yellow butterfly imprisoned in a dark place. I am sure I am awfully sorry the erudite young professor had to break his right leg in the depth of Rainbow Mine and that we have him on our hands for six weeks or more--almost as sorry as he is I expect. Still I am not going to have Frieda sacrificing herself to him much longer. I mean to tell her tomorrow that it is quite unnecessary. He is a dreadfully spoiled person." "But wouldn't Frank have enjoyed this long ride with you this morning, Jack?" Olive repeated, still refusing to take any interest in what Jack was saying, but instead clinging obstinately to her own train of thought. "I am sure Jim would have let Frank off from the trip with him if he had known that you had to take this long ride to hunt up the lost mares and colts." Jack nodded, but her expression was hurt and puzzled. "Of course Jim would have let Frank come with me or would have come himself if he had known of the trouble. But both Jim and Frank were away before I heard of the loss. Besides, it does not make any difference, for I am sure I have ridden over Rainbow Ranch looking up our lost horses and cattle ever since I was fourteen or fifteen years old. But if you think the ride may be too long for you, please don't come, Olive. I shan't be in the least hurt if you don't feel like it. Kiss me good-by and go back to the Lodge. Ruth will be overjoyed at your return and I'll be perfectly all right with Carlos." But although Jack Ralston spoke so cheerfully and in such good temper she was not truthful in pretending that Olive's present attitude was not hurting her feelings. The truth is that she felt that Olive had not been exactly the same toward her since Frank Kent's arrival. And if Jack had needed any further proof to add to her past conviction this was sufficient. Always before, Olive had loved her better than any one else, even more than she did her friend, Miss Winthrop. And Jack was certain that she had done nothing to make Olive angry or to wound her--she herself was so utterly unchanged in her own affection. What a hopeless, horrid puzzle it all was and of all persons was not Jacqueline Ralston the most inadequate for straightening it out? She had no methods but those of frankness. If only she dared ask Olive how she actually felt. But Olive would hardly have been able to explain to her, because in these last few weeks the girl had not understood herself. Before Frank Kent's coming to the Rainbow Lodge she had been sure of having entirely recovered from her past fancy for him. Had she not fought it all out in those final weeks in England when she had realized the extent of Frank's devotion to Jack and the impossibility of her own position? And now--well, whatever turn events might take, Olive felt the fault would be largely Jacqueline's. For why did Jack fail to return Frank's affection? Why did she continue to treat him with such disregard and yet keep him lingering on at the ranch? Really Olive wondered if her own emotion was not now one more of sympathy for Frank and impatience with Jack. Surely Frank was too fine a fellow from every point of view to be trifled with. And no one would ever have suspected Jack of being a girl of such a character. Olive again looked closely into her friend's face and what she saw there for the moment disarmed her. Of course she was more angry with Jack than she had ever dreamed it possible that she could be and yet she had not meant to wound her over this small question of their having another ride together to search for lost stock. Perhaps this very morning Jack might be in a humor to confide in her the cause of her mysterious conduct. She must have some vital reason, it was so unlike her to be cruel or not to know her own mind. "Of course I won't go back to the Lodge," Olive finally protested. "For I do wish the ride immensely; it was only that I thought it might be a pleasure for the others too." And to this half-hearted apology the other girl made no reply. A few moments later, having arrived at the beautiful new stables built within the past year at the Rainbow Ranch, Jack and Olive found their two horses already saddled. And a little while after, finding the Indian boy, Carlos, at his own tent door, the three of them mounted and rode away. Now riding with Jacqueline Ralston over their great thousand-acre Wyoming ranch to seek for cattle or horses that had gone astray was apt to be fairly strenuous, and no one unaccustomed to riding should ever have thought of attempting it. Yet Olive had done the same thing dozens of times in the years when she had first came to live at Rainbow Ranch, and on starting out this morning had no idea of growing tired before her friend did. The first part of their trip was easy enough, for although Jack cantered along fairly rapidly she made no detours, only keeping a careful lookout in all possible directions. For she had no thought of finding the lost mares and their young colts anywhere within the immediate neighborhood of that part of the ranch which was apt to be ridden over oftener than the more distant fields. And Carlos had been asked to make the few necessary excursions whenever a rise in the landscape or a group of trees or rocks made a possible hiding place. But a short time before midday the three riders came to a distant part of Rainbow Creek, where the character of the ranch land changed and where there were frequent hummocks and sand hills and great boulders split into natural caves and canyons. This part of the creek had no connection with the Rainbow Mine but was sometimes used in an emergency as a drinking place for the stock, although the stock was not supposed to wander here without guidance, as there were many ravines and dangerous places where especially the young cattle or colts were apt to be injured. Here the riding under Jacqueline's guidance became more difficult and fatiguing. For not only did she leave the ordinary beaten trail, but she made her horse pick his way along what appeared an utterly impossible track over rocks, in the deep loose sand, now following a partly dry creek bed and occasionally splashing through water so deep that it reached almost to her riding boots. For another hour Olive followed, not realizing her own exhaustion, but wondering why her breath should be coming in such short gasps and why her back should ache in such an unaccountable fashion. Curiously enough it was Carlos who first discovered Olive's predicament. For the past ten minutes he had been riding as close by her side as was possible under the conditions, not speaking a single word, but examining her closely with his small, burning black eyes. And when Olive, without being conscious of it, turned a shade whiter, even then he did not speak to her but instead rode silently forward until he was opposite Jack. "All women have not the strength of men!" he began sullenly. The girl stared at him in amazement, not guessing what he meant. Then Carlos grew angry and his words came faster than usual. "If you think more of lost animals than of her whom you call friend, it is well that you should go on until she falls. Have I not often heard and now see with my own eyes that there are squaws who care nothing for their own sex." Half rising in her saddle Jacqueline Ralston lifted her riding whip, and almost before realizing what she was doing she had struck the Indian boy sharply across his lean shoulders. "You are not to speak of American women as squaws, Carlos. How often have Mr. Colter and I told you that you were never to do it? And, moreover, you are to understand that I will not endure your impertinence. What has happened to put you in so evil a mood?" Jack asked more quietly now, sorry for her own loss of temper. For she realized in a small measure just how keenly an Indian feels the degradation of a blow from an enemy, unless he is able to return it with increased vengeance. And Jack had no illusion about Carlos' attitude toward her. He had turned a kind of ashy white under his bronze skin and his body had quivered once and then become perfectly tense, not from the force of the blow, which had not cut deeply, but from his own passion. However, before either the boy or Jack could speak again, Olive had ridden up between them, grieved and frightened over her friend's action and wondering what could have occurred between them in so short a time. "Jack dear, what has Carlos done or said?" she demanded quickly. "It was not fair of you to strike him, knowing that he could make no defense." Instantly Jacqueline Ralston felt her face flushing with a swift rushing of hot blood to her cheeks until her temples pounded and her eyes flashed. Never before in their entire acquaintance had she remembered being really angry with Olive. Yet had she not borne a good deal already that day and for several weeks beforehand in Olive's indifference and critical air toward her? Now in this trouble she had just had with Carlos, Olive was immediately taking the Indian boy's part without even asking her for an explanation. Nevertheless a second glance at her friend's face made her instantly control her own emotion, appreciating at the same time what Carlos' impertinent speech to her had meant. "You are tired, Olive. I am so sorry," she replied at once, instead of answering the other girl's question. "I did not realize how hard we had been riding, or that you are out of practice after a year in New York while the rest of us were here at the ranch. We'll have luncheon and rest and then maybe you'll feel better." Jack nodded curtly to Carlos to assist Olive in dismounting while she slid off her own horse without help. Then she put her arm about the other girl, leaving the boy to lead the three horses. In a little while she and Olive had found a flat rock shadowed by a cliff from the sun. Here Olive sat down while Jack opened up their luncheon boxes and made the necessary preparations. But all the time she was reflecting upon what she had best do or say to the Indian boy. She was sorry that she had struck him, although still extremely angry at his manner and speech to her. If Carlos had felt worried over Olive's exhaustion it would have been simple enough to have told her in a more polite fashion. The truth was that she and Jim were both getting extremely tired of the Indian boy's presence on Rainbow Ranch. She would talk over this incident today with her guardian and ask him if he felt that she owed Carlos an apology. If he did she would make whatever reparation she could and after that they would try and find another home for him. But at present she was still too annoyed to wish to have the boy near her. "You can find water for our horses and tie them somewhere not far away, Carlos," Jack ordered, leaving Olive and walking a few yards across the sand to where the boy stood, still sullen and resentful in his manner. "Then ride on for another half hour and see if you can find any of the lost mares or colts. When you return we will have lunch saved for you." And so Jack Ralston temporarily dismissed the difficulty confronting her. For in any case it was disagreeable to have Carlos staring at them while she and Olive ate, and she did not wish him as a companion at their luncheon. Carlos' society could hardly have increased the discomfort of their meal. For Olive was either too weary or too vexed to wish to talk, and Jack in too strange a tumult of feeling. Then suddenly, as the two girls were sitting there together in the warm, caressing sunshine, hardly more than a few feet apart and yet sundered by leagues of misunderstanding, it seemed to Jacqueline that she could no longer endure all that she was suffering for her friend, unless Olive made some sign that her sacrifice was worth while. For Jack made no effort to hide from herself, however much she concealed it from other people, that each day of her life she was learning to care more and more for Frank Kent, for his love and his complete understanding and sympathy with her temperament. She knew that she had many faults, but she also knew that Frank was aware of them and forgave them. However, there was one fault that she did not have and it was not fair that she should bear the ignominy of it. She would no longer hurt and confuse the man she cared for by her apparent inability to make up her mind. Jack's full red lips closed more tightly than was usual to them as she lifted her head, showing the firm line of her throat and chin. Then she took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and glancing with her wide open, heavily fringed gray eyes directly into the eyes of her friend. Olive was more rested, was less pale, but was evidently still as much estranged from her. And though the conviction had come upon her suddenly, Jack felt convinced that this was the appointed moment when she must wrest the truth from the other girl. She hated herself for her own stupidity in not finding out by more subtle means and scarcely knew now what she intended to do or say. It was as if she stood on the bank of an icy stream with the shore of truth on the other side, a shore which by some method she must reach. Therefore, with Jacqueline Ralston's disposition, there appeared but one means. Boldly she must plunge in, no matter what the result. "Olive dear," Jack began abruptly, not looking at her friend, but at a small smoke-colored cloud over in the western sky, "I know you are angry with me about Carlos and I am sorry. He was impertinent, but I don't suppose you would think that justifies what I did. But it is not about what happened just now that I want to talk. You have not felt like you once did for me for several weeks--not since Frank Kent came to the Lodge. Would you mind telling me why?" To Jack's directness of thought and speech her friend by this time should have grown accustomed. And indeed until now Olive had always loved and admired Jack for it. But today she was tired and her head ached and this unexpected question had taken her completely by surprise. The girl's dark cheeks flushed richly and her ordinarily gentle expression changed. "Jack, you are absurd!" she answered irritably. "What right have you anyhow to consider that my feeling for you has any connection with Frank Kent? What does Frank mean to me?" Now if only Jack had been content with this answer or had possessed some of Jean Bruce's tact and resourcefulness! She had neither. So her gray eyes darkened and her face grew white and unhappy. "Forgive me, Olive," she murmured, humbly enough for proud, high-tempered Jack, "but that is what I, oh, so much want you to tell me. For sometimes I have thought that perhaps you do like Frank just a little bit more than an ordinary friend. And if it is true, dear, don't you feel that we have been close enough to each other to have you make me your confidant?" It was very gently put, after all, and therefore Olive should not have been so wounded or so angry. However, and perhaps because there was so much of truth in the other girl's suggestion, Olive was both hurt and embittered. "You have not the shadow of a right, Jacqueline Ralston, to say a thing like that to me," she returned with the passion and protest of a too sensitive nature. "How dare you sit there and calmly suggest to me that I am in love with Frank Kent when you know perfectly well that he cares for no one in this world but you. Do you suppose that I have no pride and no self-respect?" And then, dropping her head in her hands, Olive began crying, hardly understanding her own tears, so much were they a combination of pain and of petulance. For the questions she had just put to Jack were the very ones that she had so often asked herself. And if she had found no answer to them, how could any one else? But Jack did not attempt making a reply. For a moment she was silent, feeling miserably conscious of the failure she had just made. For had she not merely succeeded in mortifying her friend without arriving one bit nearer the truth which she sought? But by and by Jack laid her hand caressingly on the other girl's dark hair. "Don't cry, Olive please," she begged. "You know what a stupid person I am and how often Jean and Frieda think I do and say the wrong thing. Here comes Carlos and when he has eaten his lunch you must let him take you back to the Lodge. You are too tired to ride any farther and I can manage very well by myself, or else you can send one of the stable boys this way to find me." Without making a reply Olive continued to sob, only now a little more quietly, and in the meanwhile allowing Jack to make all the arrangements for her return home. It was unfortunate perhaps that she also paid so little attention to the Indian boy, who was sitting within a few yards of her, pretending to eat. In reality he was either keeping his eyes fixed moodily upon her, or else turning them upon Jacqueline Ralston with such an intensity of dislike that had she been aware of it, she must have been vaguely disturbed. A little later Olive and Carlos started home together. In farewell Olive simply nodded her head to Jack, showing no other sign of forgiveness or affection; but she had only ridden for a comparatively short distance when she was as bitterly sorry and as ashamed of herself as Jack had previously been, and at the moment would have liked to turn back. She realized that she had been both unreasonable and unkind. What could have been the matter with her? Surely her fatigue must have had something to do with it, for people were rarely sensible when over-tired. Jack had not intended breaking down the barrier of her reserve for no reason but idle curiosity. Then suddenly Olive's hands tightened on her bridle reins and her black eyes softened. How unutterably blind she had been for so long! For was not Jack's recent question to her the keynote of the whole puzzling situation? Jack certainly must fear that she cared more for Frank than she should. Would this not perfectly explain her attitude toward him since the beginning of his love-making? Olive quickly recalled the final weeks of their visit in England, then Jack's repeated efforts to thrust her into Frank's society and so to evade him herself! Then since Jack Ralston's return to the ranch had she not resolutely refused to let Frank Kent come to see her until Olive was also at the Lodge? Sudden and relieving tears rolled down the girl's hot cheeks, which she did not for the moment attempt wiping away. How like her quixotic Jack to refuse to accept her own happiness at the price of her friend's! And how near she, Olive, had come to permitting Jack to sacrifice all three of them to her mistaken sense of loyalty and love! Well, tonight Olive intended straightening everything out by answering the inquiry to which she had refused to reply to before. For in the light of her present revelation had she not at last felt a weight lifting itself from her own heart and a clear vision come to her mind? Let her measure her affection for Frank Kent by that which she felt for Jacqueline. Why she loved Jack a hundred times better than she ever could Frank! Jack had been her first friend: all that she was she really owed to her. If only she did not have to wait an hour longer before making three persons happier than they had been in many weeks! Half-way around Olive turned her pony's head. But no, she was too tired to go back to Jack and besides they could have no intimate conversation under the present circumstances. Moreover, it had been growing much warmer in this last half hour, in spite of the fact that every once and a while there were unexpected gusts of wind blowing the sand into her own eyes and her mare's. The truth was that she should never have consented to leaving Jack. She should have insisted on her going home at the same time with them. Ruth and Jim Colter would both be annoyed at the idea of Jack's riding about the ranch alone, and any one of the men whom she might send back to look for her would probably be several hours in searching and perhaps never discover her at all. For the first time in half an hour Olive Van Mater glanced across at the boy, Carlos. He had not spoken a dozen words to her in the course of their trip, so how could she dream that all this while he had been turning over and over in his mind the bitterness of Jack's insult? Then not only was his animosity a personal one, but on coming back from the needless errand upon which he had been driven away, had he not found his one time Princess in tears and such sorrow that she had not yet ceased from grieving? Her trouble could have but one source. Perhaps Miss Ralston had even dared wound her in the same way that she had him! And then Carlos had clenched his teeth, continuing more rigid and doggedly quiet than before. For of course he should soon be revenged for both of them! The only thing was to wait until his opportunity came. "Carlos," Olive said unexpectedly. "I am almost back at the Lodge now and will have no difficulty in going the rest of the way alone. But I wish you would go and find Miss Ralston. Tell her please to come home at once, that I want to speak to her about something most important. And I think you had better hurry, for I am a little bit afraid that a storm is coming up." Possibly Olive had expected a demur. If so she was mistaken, for without replying the boy wheeled his horse and started back in the direction from which they had just come. CHAPTER XVI A DESERT STORM PERHAPS no one except an Indian could have found Jack so swiftly, and yet Carlos was engaged in the search for her over an hour. For the girl had gone some distance beyond the place of their last meeting and still had found no trace of their lost stock. She was vexed for a moment at Carlos' reappearance, but gave no sign. Indeed she managed to say "Thank you" when he briefly explained that he had taken Olive near enough home to have her make the rest of the journey without an escort and then that she had sent him back to continue the hunt. Not a suggestion did he give of Olive's real message for Jack to return home immediately. A girl with Jacqueline Ralston's knowledge and experience of western life should have required no such message had she taken her usual normal interest in her surroundings. For there was a sufficient forewarning of what was approaching for her to have understood. Nevertheless, for once in her life Jack was almost completely oblivious of the landscape and of the conditions of the sky and atmosphere. For her conversation with Olive had made her more unhappy and puzzled than she had previously been, since she had surely succeeded only in making the tangle harder for any one of them to unravel. Now and then, as she continued her ride beyond the end of the Rainbow Creek and into the broader sweep of their prairie lands, the girl almost forgot the original object of her day's excursion, only feeling that more than anything she desired to be outdoors and alone. So that instead of leading the way as she had done in the morning she now allowed the boy Carlos to take his own trail, following without much thought close behind. By far the larger portion of the broad area of the Ralston ranch was cultivated land, to the extent that the fields beyond the Lodge were most of them planted with alfalfa grass and other grains according to their fertility. Occasionally there were barren spaces of land where the sands from the desert had settled too deeply for any growing thing, and as these were at the outermost edges of the ranch Jim Colter had left them undisturbed, waiting for a time when there should be less work nearer home. Therefore when Jack suddenly discovered her horse ploughing heavily through one of these sandy stretches she realized that they were farther away from Rainbow Lodge than she had appreciated. And certainly it was now time to turn back. She was afraid that she could hardly manage to arrive at home before dinner time and that would mean a scolding from Jim, who would hardly consider the rescue of a few lost mares and colts a sufficient excuse for making the rest of them uncomfortable and uneasy. Jack smiled a little ruefully, checking her horse and allowing him a few moments of rest. She had not even that good excuse to take home with her, for she had not seen a trace of the stray stock and had really scarcely looked for them since luncheon. But then Carlos must have been more attentive--she was really surprised at the boy's apparent interest since he rejoined her. He had taken the entire initiative. Even now he was some distance ahead and going too fast for his horse's strength in such difficult ground. "Carlos, Carlos," the girl called as loudly as possible. Then she patted Romeo's neck with swift penitence. Ordinarily she was quick to remember the comfort of her own mount, but today she had been most extraordinarily selfish. However, it was odd that in spite of his long day's travel her horse did not seem to wish to stand still even for a moment. He kept pawing the earth, sniffing and turning half way round in his eagerness to start for home. The mystery needed only a little time for solving. All afternoon in a subconscious fashion Jack had realized that the air was unpleasantly hot and stifling and that the sun had not been shining since luncheon. The little cloud which she had first noticed in the west, a queer funnel-shaped cloud, had been constantly growing larger. Of course it meant a storm, but it was still far enough away not to be immediately alarming. However, they must get home as soon as possible, and Carlos evidently had not heard her cry. Twice again Jack shouted his name, but as he did not turn his head she touched her pony lightly with her riding whip and rode after him. She regretted now that she had allowed the boy to get so far ahead of her, for her own few minutes' delay had naturally increased the distance between them. Yet Jack did not feel that it would be fair for her to turn back without informing her companion. It seemed almost cruel to force her jaded horse at such a pace through the loose sands; yet how else could she ever hope to catch up with her escort? Carlos did not usually show such poor judgment with his own steed. Then finally it occurred to the girl that the Indian boy was refusing deliberately to answer her as a punishment for their trouble earlier in the day. If this were true she was foolish to waste any more time and energy in pursuit of him. She could get back home alone long before bedtime by allowing her horse to walk for a part of the way. Then if the storm should overtake her, she would not be far enough from the Lodge to have it make any serious difference. As for her scolding, well, Jack felt that she would have to accept that as philosophically as possible under the circumstances. For Jim would have a double grievance, since he did not like any one of them to ride for any distance with only Carlos as a companion. Shrugging her shoulders, too tired really to be angry again that day, Jack called once more. This time, to her surprise, Carlos actually rose in his saddle, pointing with evident excitement toward some indeterminate objects at a little distance off. Jack could not see what they were, although she guessed at once. After all, their hard day's work had not been in vain! Carlos had assuredly discovered the lost stock. True they must have wandered beyond the confines of the Rainbow ranch, since Jack was familiar enough with their own boundary line to know that Carlos was even at this instant passing beyond the wire fence which circumscribed it. Their stock oftentimes got outside the ranch by mysterious methods of their own. Therefore if Carlos believed that he saw the mares they had been searching for the entire day, it would be foolish to turn back without them. It was unfortunate that the heavy cloud in the west seemed to be driving toward them with so much greater speed in these last fifteen minutes. Still if it should reach their vicinity before they could get the lost mares and colts into some kind of shelter the animals must perish. For the mares would never desert their young and the colts could never endure the force of the wind and the great blankets of sand that would probably sweep over and cover them. Jack was not mistaken in one point of view. She knew, as only a Westerner could, that the storm approaching was not rain, but wind, and that it might mean a sand storm in the desert. A saner judgment however would have suggested that Jacqueline Ralston start back home at once, leaving Carlos to follow her. But she appreciated the tremendous difficulty that the boy would have in rounding up the frightened animals alone and forcing them into some place of refuge. Really, it never occurred to Jack not to help. She had been so accustomed to just such work on the ranch from the time she was a small girl. So on she rode now, straight after the Indian boy, perhaps for an eighth of a mile or more beyond their boundary, yet still the loose thick sands which were whirling and eddying in gusts at her horse's feet. And always Carlos kept as far as possible ahead. Jack finally came to a position where she found out the mistake which she believed both she and the Indian boy had innocently made. The dark objects ahead of them had been only a group of close growing sage bushes that they had mistaken for the lost stock. Crying out once more to the boy to turn back, Jack now made no pretense of waiting to discover whether or not he heeded her. For the wind was blowing more fiercely, bringing with it the heat of a sirocco, and the sand was pouring into her eyes and ears, almost blinding and choking her. Beyond her there were small sand hills and ravines where a few moments before the earth had lain smooth as a carpet. Jack perfectly understood that the full fury of the storm had not yet reached her vicinity. Her effort must be to get beyond the sand plains, back if possible to the neighborhood of Rainbow Creek, where behind one of its great rocks she might find partial shelter. But her heart was pounding uncomfortably and her fair skin felt as though it were being pricked by innumerable needles. Moreover, Jack was frightened. She knew just what a sandstorm meant on the western prairies. She was not far from the edge of a portion of barren lands that formed a kind of miniature desert, and the worst of the situation was that she herself was very tired and that through her own selfish forgetfulness her horse was even more so. Every foot of the way the girl strove to encourage the exhausted animal. Yet it was impossible to make real headway in such a soil while buffeted by such a gale. Then Jacqueline Ralston heard a strange noise and, as she had heard it once before in her life, she must have recognized it had not her other senses also added their warning. The roar and rush behind her were seldom equalled by any other kind of tempest. For half an instant rising in her saddle the girl glanced back. Carlos was not far off now and spurring his horse remorselessly. For beyond the boy at no great distance and driving rapidly forward was an immense dark yellow cloud. The peculiarity of this cloud was not merely in its color, size and shape, but that instead of being overhead it almost touched the surface of the land. The girl slid off her horse. "Down, down," she said quietly, pulling hard on her bridle. And then as her horse's knees touched the ground before him, Jack flung herself face downward, clutching at the loose earth for endurance and strength. The cloud would be upon them in another moment with terrible destructive force. For not alone did it represent the fury of the wind, but was formed of a mountain of sand driven before it. A sound, which the girl guessed must have come from Carlos, suggested that he was following her example. Yet she dared not look back to see. Now the sand storm was upon them. The thunder and terror of it are past understanding. One chance only Jack believed they had for their lives. If the sand cloud was sufficiently high above the earth not to touch them they would be safe. Otherwise they would be driven before it like chips of straw. But of any actual, conscious sensation which she suffered as the cloud passed over her, Jack was not aware. She knew that she was praying the instant before, but at the time itself she only clung the closer and sank deeper down into the earth, which is the final refuge of us all. The moment following, however, the girl felt as if she had been bruised and beaten by a thousand furies. Her body ached with fatigue, her tongue felt scorched and swollen and her eyes smarted with intense pain. There was no further danger; storms of this character come with one terrible driving blast of wind and then go straight on in their course. Jack blinked and stirred sufficiently to turn over and see that her horse was safe. As well as its master a western broncho understands how to meet strange weather conditions that would bring destruction to any other animal. With a sigh of thankfulness the girl then stretched herself more comfortably along the ground, resting one elbow in the sand and leaning her head upon it. For Carlos and his pony were equally safe and evidently not so frightened as she was, for the boy was already staggering toward her dragging his horse by the bridle. The girl was not yet able to speak. Yet she watched Carlos with indifference and entirely without suspicion as he came to within a few feet of her and reaching downward pulled her horse on to his feet again. The horse staggered and Jack had half an inclination to ask the boy to wait a little while before forcing him to stand. However she did not seem to have strength enough even to make this protest. Nor did she speak at first when she saw Carlos leading the two horses away from the place where she was resting. What on earth did the boy have in mind to do? It was useless to try to brush the sand from the horse's coats and there was no water near enough to give them each a drink. Jack frowned, then she not only sat up but rose quickly on her feet. For Carlos had mounted his own pony and without a word to her was riding away, taking her horse with him. The girl called, but again the Indian boy was afflicted with the curious deafness that had affected him all afternoon. Then Jack ran after him, stumbling and crying as she ran. But she was far too exhausted to make much headway and still Carlos would not glance around. He was not even going in the direction of the Rainbow Ranch. Just how long her futile chase actually continued Jacqueline Ralston did not realize. So long as she could manage to keep the boy in sight she followed him, floundering in the sands and uncertain of her direction. However, when he was so far away that she could no longer see him, Jack sat down again. What annoying freak had possessed Carlos to ride off with her horse without offering any explanation? Well, he would doubtless return within a short time, so there was nothing to do except wait. CHAPTER XVII OLIVE'S REMORSE BACK at the Lodge Olive undressed and lay down upon the bed for a short rest. Afterwards, when she felt that Jack must surely have received her message she rose and put on the lavender frock that was the other girl's especial favorite. Olive was by this time no longer tired, but in better spirits than she had been for several weeks. For in less than an hour, perhaps, things would be entirely cleared up between herself and her best friend. "Dear old Jack, was there ever anyone else in the world quite so generous or so absurd? Did Jack really think that she had the privilege of bestowing her lover upon her friend, simply because she was under the impression that the friend desired him? What would Frank have had to say in the matter?" Then Olive blushed. Possibly after all she had been more absurd in allowing herself even for an hour or a day to think that she cared for a man as far beyond her reach as the moon. Let her be honest with herself at least! Had she not actually shed tears in secret? And this when from the very beginning of their acquaintance, Frank Kent had always been her only loyal and devoted friend and nothing else. Well, matters would soon be sensibly adjusted. In the living room Olive found Ruth and Jean sewing, but in reality devoting by far the greater portion of their time to admiring the baby, who from inside his crib was placidly surveying the world with the dignity of a philosopher. "Where is Jack, Olive?" Ruth inquired at once, frowning and glancing toward an open window. "It is so hot I am afraid we are going to have a storm and I have been reproaching myself all day for letting you girls start out on such a wild goose chase this morning. Why on earth did Jack not send the men after the stock?" Jean looked up from her work. "Oh, don't worry about Jack, she has been doing this kind of thing ever since she could walk or ride and she began both at about the same time. I believe Jack did send one of the cowboys off in one direction while she and Olive and Carlos took the other. But you know most of the men have gone with Jim and Frank to a round-up a good many miles off. I wonder if they will be back in time for dinner?" During this speech the door of the living room had slowly opened and Frieda in a white muslin frock with a big book under her arm had quietly entered. Her cheeks were flushed and her expression so uncommonly serious, that remembering Jack's story of her younger sister's devotion to the Professor, Olive smiled. However, Frieda's first remark was an odd one. "I am sorry if you have left Jack and Carlos together, Olive," she began, puckering her white brow. "I don't believe any one in this family realizes how Carlos hates Jack. I think if he could he would like to do her an injury. You see she tries to boss him and he perfectly loathes having any one dare interfere with him. Then Carlos is so lazy and Jack has no use for any one who is lazy, except me. I wish she would come home. If I had not promised Mr. Russell to go on reading to him I should go out and look for her." Frieda walked over to the front window and the next moment Ruth had joined her. They both stood staring ahead of them hoping for a sight of the familiar brown figure on horseback. For Jack usually rode up to the house with such a splendid rush toward the end that even under ordinary circumstances a vision of her was worth while. "Don't be tiresome, Baby, and frighten Ruth," Jean expostulated. Olive said nothing, but slipped out of the room and hall into the garden. It would not be worth while to trouble the others with the story of the difficulty between Jack and Carlos that morning. Nevertheless it was not pleasant to recall the expression on the Indian boy's face during their ride home, nor his long silence. Of course he rarely spoke to other persons, but ordinarily he engaged in long confidences with her, talking of the birds, wild flowers, any outside thing which he saw and loved. Surely in ten or fifteen minutes more the two wayfarers must return. In the meantime Olive would not go back to join the others as it would not be wise to communicate her own nervousness to them. So for the next quarter of an hour she walked up and down outside the Lodge, making several trips to the stables to see if the stable men had any suggestions to make and to inquire what they thought concerning the possibility of a storm. For there was little use in trying to argue the truth away. The atmospheric conditions were strange and depressing. Unless the wind changed, driving the single black cloud in an opposite direction, something out of the common was sure to occur. If only Frank Kent or Jim Colter or even the cowboys belonging to the ranch were at home, in order that they might go out and look up the wanderers! Finally Olive sent the two men who took care of the private stables to reconnoiter. Then on her way back to the Lodge she found Jean hurrying in the direction of the Ranch house. "I want to find Ralph Merrit and ask his advice as soon as possible," Jean explained. "It is so late now he is sure to have quit work at the mine. Ruth is convinced that we are going to have a cyclone and is nearly frantic over Jack and Jim and Frank, all away from home. Yet I hate having Ralph start out alone--he does not understand what the weather out here means so well as the rest of us, even if he has been here a good many years now. But I must confess I wish that Frieda had not made that uncomfortable speech about Carlos' disliking Jack so much. I am afraid it is true. Oh, Olive, what a pity it is that you happened to leave them!" This was the only word of reproach that any member of the Rainbow ranch family made to Olive Van Mater during all the excitement and distress that came afterwards. And of course Jean did not mean her words to carry a sting--they were only an obvious exclamation. Nevertheless Olive did not require outside censure to make her suffer as keen remorse as was possible to her sensitive and devoted nature. For she knew herself to be far more responsible for the day's catastrophe than any one would ever dream. Only the edge of the sand storm swept the neighborhood of the Rainbow Lodge. Half a mile from the house it veered in its unaccountable way, carrying its destructive force straight across the adjoining ranch, wrecking half a dozen valuable buildings and killing a large number of cattle. Yet it came sufficiently near the Lodge for everybody inside the house to understand what was happening, even if Jim Colter and Frank Kent and a dozen of the cowboys had not ridden home furiously only five or ten minutes before, having raced the wind storm across the prairies and come off victorious. Both looked fairly worn out, as they came clanking into the living room, still in their riding clothes and boots and covered with a fine coating of yellow sand. "Jehoshaphat, but it is good to be indoors!" Jim exclaimed at once, putting his arm about his wife and gazing around him. "It is a good thing Frank isn't a tenderfoot, even if he is an Englishman. For if that sand storm had struck us--well, I am not going to put on airs. I have been a ranchman now for a good many years, but I never feel very hopeful that anybody such a gale hits is going to come out alive." Then perhaps in answer to the thought in the mind of every person in the room Jim ended abruptly: "Where's Jack? Hasn't she manners enough to say 'howdy' to two fellows who have nearly ridden themselves to death?" Following his speech, Jim was not immediately aware of the peculiar strained silence in the room, although Frank knew instantly that something had occurred in which Jack had a part. Under the western tan of the past few weeks his face whitened. But he set his teeth and straightened his broad shoulders. For his was a strength of will and of character worthy to match with Jack and capable of longer endurance. For a moment no one seemed to dare to answer Jim's question. And then it was not Ruth or any one of the three Ranch girls who replied, but Henry Russell, who had hobbled into the living room on his crutches, forgetting his terror and dislike of girls in his effort to offer his friendly sympathy, and incidentally, though he himself was not aware of it, to keep the lovely blond doll of his first acquaintance from making herself more miserable than necessary. "I, I am afraid Mrs. Colter and--and the others are feeling a little uneasy about Miss Ralston," he murmured. "She went out this morning with the Indian boy, Carlos, to ride over the ranch and she has not come in just yet. I have told them that she certainly must have taken refuge with a neighbor or else that the storm has not come within her vicinity. They tell me that these western siroccos are very freakish." But neither Jim Colter nor Frank had heard anything except the first part of their visitor's speech. Afterwards Jim paid no attention to any one in the room except to lean over and kiss Ruth. "We will find her in a little while, don't worry. Jack is always getting into scrapes and being grown up seems to make little difference," he remarked grimly as he marched off. But Olive clung desperately to Frank Kent's arm as he tried to follow him. "Please let me speak to you a minute alone before you go," she pleaded. Then when they were out in the yard and away from the others she put her hand on Frank's arm and looked at him with an earnestness which he did not in the least understand. "When you find Jack will you please give her this message from me," she asked. "Tell her that she has been making a dreadful mistake all along and that there is nothing in the world that will make me so happy as to hear of her engagement to you. Please tell her this when you first find her, don't wait until you are at home again." With a rather unusual show of emotion Frank pressed both of Olive's hands in his. "You believe that Jack really cares for me?" he demanded. And then as Olive bowed her head without replying he mounted a fresh horse, riding away in the direction that Olive had indicated. CHAPTER XVIII JACK SURRENDERS AT LAST IT was almost dawn when Frank Kent believed that he heard a faint answer to his last shouting. He was several miles from the outskirts of the Rainbow Ranch and in a neighborhood where he might least expect to find the girl he sought. But every acre of the ranch had been thoroughly gone over during the night, and still the men under Jim Colter's leadership were continuing the search along the track swept by the storm, but without finding a trace of Jack or the Indian boy or of the two horses which they were known to have been riding. [Illustration: "THE STARS HAD DISAPPEARED AND BEYOND THE UNIVERSAL GRAYNESS THERE WAS NOW A FAINT ROSE LIGHT"] So, independently of the others, Frank had recently decided to try a new neighborhood, not because he had any faith in its being the right one, but because he felt that he must work alone. It was unendurable to continue longer hearing the other men declare that there was little chance of finding Jack or Carlos alive. For had they not been within the track of the sand storm they must certainly have returned home before this. Now Frank plunged on in the direction of the recent sound, although he had heard nothing a second time in reply to his continued calling. Deep in his heart he was devoutly grateful that the dawn was finally breaking. The stars had disappeared, and beyond the universal grayness there was now a faint rose light. A moment before a western lark had risen before his aching eyes, poising, fluttering and then sailing straight overhead, singing its song of praise at the approach of the sun. So Frank in a measure could behold the objects ahead of him, though among them he saw nothing to suggest Jacqueline Ralston. He was riding over flat country with little before him but sand and low scrub plants. And there were no signs of a horse's hoofs having lately struggled through it. Finally, however, Frank got down off his own horse and, stooping low, examined some faint tracings in the sands. He had not been trained to making observations of this sort and even with the best of scouts it is difficult to find footprints, in so fine and shifting a soil. Nevertheless when Frank straightened up again his face was less haggard and discouraged. For he had found a suggestion of a girl's riding boot printed in the sand and now and then in curious circles there were other such impressions. With her head resting on a sand dune as though it were nature's pillow Frank at length came upon the girl. And even when within a few feet of Jack it was impossible to tell whether she was asleep or had fainted--or whether her silence and rigidity meant something worse. Yet the girl's expression was too worn and exhausted for the last great mystery; it had not the ineffable peace that comes after nature's final surrender. Even before he could touch her Frank had recognized this. Quietly he began bathing her face with water poured upon his handkerchief from the water flask which he had carried all night in his pocket. Jack's own little water jug told its own story, since it was lying empty at her side, drained to the last drop. Then, when the girl's heavy lids fluttered slightly, Frank poured water between her scorched lips. Her first sign of consciousness was when she put up her hands to try and cling to his flask that she might have more. Yet the man drew it away, telling her to keep quiet and close her eyes for a few moments longer. Afterwards he allowed her another drink of water and then a few drops of beef tea from a smaller bottle, which Ruth Colter had given him. Finally, with Frank's arm about her, Jack managed to sit up. "I am so glad it was you who found me, Frank," she said a moment later. "All night I have thought you would come." She did not even try to walk or to explain what had happened, but let Frank lift her up on his horse, where she leaned against him in utter weakness and dependence, while the horse started slowly toward home. The ride needs must be a long and fatiguing one even though aid reach them before their arrival at the Lodge. And Jack's pulse was still too faint to have her suffer further exhaustion. But after a while Frank leaned over, pressing his lips against the girl's heavy gold brown hair which had become unloosened from her long wandering and hung in two curled braids down her back. "Are you glad I found you because you care for me, Jack?" he whispered, feeling that it was not altogether fair of him to ask such a question at such a time, and yet too impatient to wait. The girl answered, "Yes" quite simply. A little later she added like a child: "Besides I knew you wouldn't scold, Frank. And of course I have been foolish and headstrong. I don't seem to know how to grow up. You'll ask Ruth and Jim not to make me explain to them until I have rested." Frank smiled, but felt a curious lump in his throat--this new humility and dependence were so unlike Jack. Unconsciously the arm that had been holding her up closed more firmly about the girl's figure. "Jack, Jack," he murmured, leaning low down until his lips were not far from her ear. "I have waited so long, I can wait no longer. You have just said that you cared for me, and for the second time I have believed you. Then you mean, you must mean that you are willing to be my wife." For just an instant the girl's body quivered as though with a weakness beyond her power of control. The next moment she was shaking her head quietly and firmly, and although her companion could not see her face he heard her whisper, "No," with a measure of her old decision. "Very well then," Frank returned just as firmly, "you shall never be troubled by my asking you that question again. As soon as possible I shall go home to England." Once more the girl's shoulders trembled as if she had been struck an unexpected blow, but she made no reply. Frank realized that he was not playing fair and that she should not be troubled further. For five or ten minutes more they rode on in complete silence, while Jack felt herself growing weaker and weaker. She was ashamed to be such a burden and yet only her own will power and Frank's arm were sustaining her. A little later and Jack had again to be put down on the ground in a half fainting condition. By this time they had passed beyond the stretches of sandy desert and were in one of the outlying meadows of the Rainbow Ranch, not far from a branch of their creek. As Jack was almost unconscious Frank was able to bathe her face more comfortably, pushing back the tangled hair out of her eyes, that she might look more like the girl he loved. Then he shut his lips close together and his chin became squarer and his jaw firmer than ever Jacqueline's had been in her most obstinate days. "I have just told a lie," he said to himself and yet rather grimly. "For of course I shall go on asking Jack to marry me until she finally consents. If she did not care for me that would be another matter and I should be a cad to annoy her. But there can't be any other barrier real or fancied that is big enough to come between us permanently." Then, as Jack opened her eyes for the second time, and sat straight up as though vexed with her own weakness, Frank had a sudden recollection of Olive's strange message to him when he had first started on his search. "Tell her it has all been a dreadful mistake and that there is nothing in the whole world that will make me so happy as her engagement to you." "What could Olive's words mean? Who had made a mistake? Had Jack been under some cruelly false impression?" Frank was utterly mystified. Yet he held out his hand. "Come, dear, we will walk for a few minutes," he said gently, "and I will lead the horse. You will feel less stiff and tired with a little exercise. See, the daylight has come. How beautiful and fragrant the world is!" Some change in Frank's voice, or in his manner--the girl did not know or care to think what the change might mean--made her take the hand held out so quietly toward her and hold it close in her own cold fingers. How exquisitely she could always be at peace with Frank, how perfectly he understood things without having them explained to him! After all, he was not going to be angry with her because of her unreasonable and unkind behavior. She had felt his anger a little more than she was willing to endure in her present state of exhaustion. So Jack looked overhead with more of her accustomed sparkle and animation than she had yet showed. The sky was a radiant rose color, so deeply pink that it cast its reflection on the ground at her feet. They were near a group of trees and the birds were beginning to waken one another with mild reproaches and then sudden bursts of eloquent song. "Frank," Jack began pensively enough, "I never saw a more wonderful dawn. But do you happen to have anything in your pocket more substantial than beef tea? I have not had anything to eat since yesterday at noon and I think perhaps I am dying of hunger." With a laugh her companion let go her hand, drawing a package from his pocket. "Ruth gave me this at midnight along with the beef tea, but I have not been interested enough to see what was in it," he explained. Greedily Jack tore open the bundle and had devoured a large chicken sandwich before good manners even suggested her sharing the luncheon with its owner. Afterwards Frank also confessed to being hungry, and so they walked on toward the Lodge like happy, runaway children, almost safe at home again. Yet while he talked and laughed and ate Frank Kent was not forgetting Olive's words nor her final injunction to him. "Please tell her what I say when you first find her. Don't wait too long," she had begged. "Jack, dear," Frank began casually in the midst of something else they had been discussing, "there is something I want to ask your forgiveness for before another five minutes have passed. Because I don't think I can hold out much longer. Back there on horseback when you were nearly dead with fatigue I was angry with you and told you that I never meant to ask you to marry me again. That was the most untruthful speech a man ever made! Because if you are too tired to listen I may have to wait until you have rested a little while, but not any longer. You know you care for me, dear. You are not the kind of a girl who would deceive a man by your words or your manner after all these years of friendship! There is some mystery that is keeping you from showing me your real feelings. I can't guess what it is. Yet Olive must think so too, for she told me to tell you that you had been making a dreadful mistake about something or other, heaven only knows what! And that our engagement would make her happier than anything in the world." Jacqueline Ralston stood ankle deep in the rose-touched meadow grass with her straight-forward, honest gray eyes looking into the blue eyes of her companion. "Did Olive tell you to say that to me? Did she really and truly seem to mean it?" she asked wonderingly. Frank Kent nodded, not trusting himself to speak, nor wishing to lose an instant's vision of the girl's face, or an inflection of her voice. Jack had been pale before; but now her face had flushed with such a look of exquisite gentleness and surrender, that in spite of all she had recently endured she had never been so beautiful. Then it was like her to say with self-evident sincerity: "Of course you are right, Frank dear, I could not hide how much I cared for you even though I have done my best. It will be hard for me to leave the ranch and the people I love, but it would be harder to stay on here--without you!" CHAPTER XIX RAINBOW CASTLE SOME weeks had passed, and it was now early fall at the ranch. But another change had taken place besides that of the seasons, for Jim and Ruth and the Ranch girls had moved away from the old Lodge into their splendid new home. To everybody's satisfaction, however, the Lodge was not deserted; for Ralph Merrit had changed into it from his old quarters, and his friend, Henry Tilford Russell, was still with him--not that the young professor had become an invalid owing to his accident at the Rainbow Mine, for his broken leg was completely healed. But as he had come west for his general health somehow the Rainbow Ranch seemed to hold more curative properties than any other place. And Ralph was delighted to have his society. The youthful professor of ancient languages appeared to have recovered in a measure from his previous prejudice against girls, or at least he was able to find the companionship of the four Ranch girls endurable. The move to the big house had been somewhat hastened for several reasons, the most important being that Jacqueline Ralston and Frank Kent were to be married during the first part of October. Frank would not consent to returning to England without Jack. He insisted that she was far too uncertain a quantity to be left alone in her beloved western lands, since her prairies were his most dangerous rival. Moreover, as he had promised his father to stand for a Liberal seat in Parliament that same winter, Jack was needed at Kent House to aid him in winning his election. Now it seemed that all of the intimate friends that the girls had acquired in their two years away from home, had suddenly decided to pay visits to the Rainbow Ranch. Among them were the Princess Colonna and her nephew, Giovanni, who, because of the death of her husband without heir, had inherited the Prince's ancient title. Miss Katherine Winthrop had finally arrived, and her presence seemed to compensate Olive for the loss of a good deal of Jack's companionship; yet when the two friends were able to be together without any one else, they were as intimate and as devoted as at any time in their lives. And though Jack never referred to the subject of their unfortunate conversation, she could find no trace in Olive of unhappiness or regret. It is true that Miss Winthrop and the girl, who was like a peculiarly devoted and sympathetic daughter, spent numbers of afternoons in the nearby Indian village discussing Olive's desire to become a teacher to the Indians when she was old enough and sufficiently well trained for the task. For the older woman was wise enough not to oppose the girl's present fancy as Jack had done, only insisting that she wait until she felt sure of her own fitness. But although Olive had frequent talks with old Laska, who never could entirely connect the charming young American lady with the child she had persecuted, there was a new member of the village community with whom Olive would have no conversation. And this was her once devoted friend and admirer, the Indian boy, Carlos. After Jacqueline Ralston's home-coming, when she had the opportunity to explain her unaccountable disappearance, it was Jim Colter who at once armed himself with a short whip and demanded that the business of punishing Carlos be left entirely to him. Yet, notwithstanding her long night of wandering about in the sand, too weary and too stupefied to find her way home or to believe that the boy would not eventually return with her horse, Jack immediately became Carlos' defender, finally persuading her guardian to punish the boy no further than by not permitting him again to set foot on Rainbow Ranch. She also confessed her own share in the day's difficulties, taking a part of the blame upon herself by insisting that if she had not struck the boy he would never have attempted so ugly and dangerous a revenge. Jim and Frank, though at last agreeing to Jack's wish, did have one interview with Carlos. But though they came away leaving the boy frightened and submissive, he never was brought to confess just what he had intended in riding off with Jack's horse. Perhaps during the long afternoon he had vainly been trying to think of some form of vengeance and then at the last moment the idea of stealing Jack's horse and deserting her had come like a sudden inspiration. Or perhaps the boy had meant to return--no one ever knew. He had gone on with the two horses to the nearest Indian village and never again left it for any other home. For the effort to civilize Carlos had been a vain one and he cheerfully reverted to the habits and companionship of his own race. Nevertheless, he did not go unpunished, although no one ever knew in what his punishment consisted. But the refusal of Olive's further friendship was a sorrow which the Indian lad endured in silence to the end of his days. For he never married and was that very rare figure among his people--an old bachelor, looked after by old women and the squaws of other men. And this when half a dozen Indian maidens would gladly have mated with Carlos. For he was unusually handsome and was always admired and reverenced by his own nation. At the time they moved into the new house Ruth and Jim and the girls were feeling particularly happy and prosperous, because, not long after the announcement of Jack's and Frank's engagement, Ralph Merrit had made discoveries of fresh supplies of gold in Rainbow Mine. Also, he had devised the long-sought-for method by which the gold could be extracted without too great danger and expense. He had not trusted entirely to his own judgment and experience, for three of the greatest mining experts in the West had been sent for, who were open in their praises of Ralph's idea and plan, predicting a big future for him and offering him opportunities with them should he ever care to leave the Rainbow Mine. But this new "pot of gold at the end of the rainbow," Ralph had straightway announced was to be his particular wedding gift to Jack and Frank. Certainly he had no idea of deserting his old friends, now that he was again able to prove his usefulness. So he was working on in apparent contentment when the Princess and the young Prince appeared. Then once more his dream faded and it was hard for Ralph not to think of his work as mere drudgery in which the labor was almost all his and the large rewards for others. For like lightning out of a clear sky, soon after the Princess Colonna's installation in their new home, even before Ruth or the girls had become accustomed to her presence, with entire formality she asked Jim Colter's consent to Jean Bruce's marriage to her nephew, Giovanni, the young Prince Colonna. When Jim was only barely able to express his surprise and consternation at such a suggestion, she explained to him a complete understanding of his feelings, that this method of procedure in a question of marriage was the custom in Italy, her nephew's country. Therefore the young Prince would never dream of speaking to Jean without first obtaining her guardian's approval. Nevertheless, Mr. Colter must not believe that there was any lack of affection on the Prince Colonna's part, for he had never ceased thinking and talking of Jean from that first hour of their meeting in the Pincio Gardens in Rome. In reply to the Princess, Jim could only flush and stammer, saying that he would prefer first talking the matter over with Mrs. Colter before giving his answer. For the truth was that Jim really wished to shout aloud his refusal to consider such a proposition even for five minutes. Jean to marry a wretched little Italian youth, no taller than she was herself, when she might have almost any clean, hard working American fellow! It was bad enough for his adored Jack to be going away with an _Englishman_, but then Frank Kent was different! Nevertheless, Jim understood that the reply which he really wished to make was not altogether fair and certainly not courteous to their guests. Ruth must at once find some way of clearing up the situation. So soon as her husband had explained the matter to her Ruth was under the impression that she did see a way. With the Princess' and the Prince Colonna's consent she herself would first speak to Jean, letting them hear later whether Miss Bruce was willing to listen to the Prince's suit. Of course this was the best way out! Jim sighed with relief at his wife's suggestion, for neither he nor Ruth had the faintest idea that Jean would do anything but refuse even for a moment to consider the Prince or his offer. Ruth believed that she had always understood Jean better than any one of the four Ranch girls. Without comment the girl heard of the young nobleman's proposal, and instead of declining, she asked to be allowed to consider it. In the meantime the Prince and his aunt were to remain at the Rainbow Ranch in order that Jean and the young man might learn to know each other better. They were frequently together and very soon the state of affairs was no secret to any member of the family, or to their closest friends. And although a number of persons were puzzled, no one said a word to Jean. Could it be possible that she was going to marry solely for position? No one believed that she could have come to care so deeply for the young Italian prince in so brief a time. CHAPTER XX A PARTY AT THE NEW HOUSE THE society people in that part of Wyoming within the radius of the Rainbow Ranch were deeply interested and some of them a good deal excited over the fact that an American-Italian Princess and an Italian Prince were being entertained in their midst. For some time previous to the coming of their guests Ruth and the girls had planned giving a large evening party. Originally the idea had been to make it a kind of house-warming as well as a formal announcement of Jack's engagement. But as Jack begged not to be made specially conspicuous in regard to the invitations, they were finally issued by Mr. and Mrs. Colter asking that their friends do them the honor of meeting Miss Katherine Winthrop, the Princess Colonna and her nephew, the Prince Giovanni Colonna, on a certain September evening. According to the desires of the Ranch girls the entertainment was to be both a reception and dance, for the new home was large enough for both. For while the older guests were talking to one another in the music room and library, the big living room could be used for dancing. It was about six o'clock on the afternoon before the ball when the four girls in dressing gowns of various shades slipped through the wide colonial hall and entered the big parlor. Frieda dropped into a chair set close against the wall and sighed deeply. Her yellow hair had been washed only a few hours before and was now in a big loose knot on top of her head, though it kept breaking forth into delicious curls about her white forehead and neck. In answer to the sigh Jack sat down on the floor at her younger sister's feet. "Isn't everything all right, Baby? Isn't the room as lovely as you expected?" she asked anxiously. For although Jack had always been unusually tender and devoted to Frieda, she was even more in these days, with the thought of leaving her so close at hand. Again Frieda sighed, but this time she explained herself. "It is more than all right. It is more beautiful than I ever expected any place belonging to us could be. Not that I did not love the dear old Lodge, but this house is, well--different. Isn't it dreadful that you are going away so soon, Jack, dearest, after all our work and planning? It will never seem just like home without you." With a sudden movement Jean crossed the room, placing her fingers lightly upon Frieda's lips. "We have promised Jack not to say anything like that, Frieda dear," she protested, "at least not tonight. We must all have the happiest evening of our lives, one that none of us shall forget." The younger girl glanced up at her cousin wistfully with a question on her lips, but instead of asking it she clapped her hands softly together. "See that lovely light coming through our stained-glass window! Isn't it like a rainbow! Oh, I hope it means good luck just as it always has in the past! And somehow it makes this room more beautiful. I did not dream anything could!" Naturally Frieda was prejudiced and an enthusiast, and yet she had ample reason for her point of view. For a moment there was an unusual silence as the four girls looked around them. Consciously or unconsciously they realized that these next few weeks were to mark important changes in their lives. For after they had slipped by things could never be exactly the same. Jack would be married and that would represent the first important break, and after that--well, they were not little girls any longer, for even Frieda had lately shown unmistakable signs of being grown-up. The walls of the long room were hung with western smilax and since the party was to be a typical American one, the girls had been wildly extravagant and used American Beauty roses for the decoration. Now the air was fragrant with their rich and penetrating perfume. The old colonial mantel was banked with them, and garlands of green swinging from one white column to another had big baskets filled with roses suspended between the posts. The room itself was fifty feet long and three-fourths as broad. All the woodwork and the walls were a warm gray. The greater part of the furniture had of course been removed and a white tarpaulin covered the hardwood floor, but in the bay window there were palms and vases of roses and an old-fashioned colonial sofa, besides several chairs. Also there were occasional chairs along the walls for the older persons who might care to watch the dancing. The music was to be concealed in the hall behind a bank of evergreens just beneath the wide mahogany stairs. "Well, if there is anything more that can be done to make this place more attractive, I am sure I don't know what it is," Jean insisted at last. "And I am especially glad that we asked Mr. Parker to come tonight. Because of course he may have built more expensive houses than ours, yet I am quite sure he has never made one more attractive. Besides, he is awfully nice. Gracious, girls, who is that knocking? Ruth thinks we are being nice and obedient and lying down until seven." But Olive had walked over to the closed door and opened it half-way. "Don't be alarmed," she laughed back. "It is only the flowers Frank is sending us for tonight. Let's open them now and see what choice he has made. Ruth told him about our dresses, so that he could not make any serious mistake." Almost concealed by four great boxes reaching as high as her head, Olive came back to where Jack was sitting and placed them in a great pile before her. "You give them to us, Jack dear, since they are from Frank," she urged. The first was marked with Frieda's name, but as she took the top off the box and lifted out a card her cheeks turned suddenly crimson. "These are not from Frank after all," Frieda remarked with a pretense of unconcern, "Mr. Russell says that I was so kind about reading to him when his leg was broken that he asked Frank as a special favor to let him send me my bouquet for tonight." Her fingers fumbled nervously at the tissue paper and her eyes were downcast, since she did not specially care to have any one staring at her at this moment. She could imagine Jack's puzzled and slightly worried expression and Jean's and Olive's teasing looks. For the absurd friendship that had developed between the solemn young Professor and Frieda was one of the ill-concealed jokes in the family. "What do you suppose that a man who dabbles in Egyptology for an amusement would send as a bouquet to a baby?" Jean inquired mockingly. "Possibly a lotus flower, for there are learned persons who declare that Cleopatra was a bewildering blond lady," and Jean pulled at Frieda's yellow curls. The next moment along with the other girls she gave a cry of admiration. Who would ever have suspected the Professor of such exquisite taste? For in some way he had managed to make his bouquet suggest the girl to whom it was offered. For it was formed of hundreds of tiny forget-me-nots set close together and encircled with small white star-like flowers. Jean's roses were the deep pink color that she always loved and Olive's were a wonderful golden yellow. But Jack hesitated a moment before opening her box, which was the largest of the four and curiously heavy. Half guessing how she felt Olive laid her hand lovingly on her friend's. "Take your flowers up to your own room and look at them first by yourself if you would rather," she suggested. However, Jean and Frieda both raised a storm of protest. And Jack laughed. "It isn't that I am such a bashful person that I don't want you to see even the flowers Frank has given me--I would not be so absurd," she confessed. "But I have an idea that perhaps Frank has put something more than flowers in my box. And I don't think I shall ever, ever be able to wear them. Oh, children, what made me fall in love with an Englishman and one who may inherit a title? Certainly I shall never be able to live up to it!" Doing her best to hide her nervousness Jack buried her hot cheeks in a great bunch of white jasmine flowers; but Frieda's fingers were pointing inexorably to a white velvet jewel case which still remained in the flower box half buried in evergreens. With a smile Jack picked it up, touching the spring. On the satin shone a miniature crown of diamonds and pearls and an exquisite necklace of the same jewels. "Gracious," Frieda gasped, "I didn't know Frank Kent was a millionaire! Why he always has declared that he was a great deal poorer than lots of American fellows! I wonder if he has been deceiving you all this time, Jack, to keep you from marrying him for his money." "Goose!" Jack laughed; but Frieda's absurdity relieved the situation. "Don't you know that these jewels are heirlooms in the Kent family, that they always belong to the wife of the eldest son? I told Frank to wait until our wedding day; but he seemed to wish me to wear them tonight. I don't believe I possibly can, they are too lovely--and somehow they don't seem to suit me." Olive placed the tiara on Jack's gold-brown head. The girl's gray eyes were shining softly, her head was tilted back the least bit and a rich color flooded her cheeks and lips. "I don't think Frank need be exactly ashamed of you, Lady Kent," Jean murmured with teasing affectation. And then: "You funny Jack! Is there any other girl in America who would not care more than you do for Frank's splendid position and all the rest of it? Not for a single instant do I believe that you gave it a thought! Dear me, I wish your own sweet cousin were so high-minded!" "Girls," said a reproachful voice suddenly, "is this the way you keep your sacred promise to me to rest until dinner time? Go back to your rooms instantly," Ruth Colter scolded. Yet she was hardly an impressive figure with her hair rolled up in a tight knot and a light shawl thrown over her kimono. "I heard such a terrible chattering in here that I was afraid a collection of magpies had gotten in an open window and thought they had come upon an enchanted garden." Here Ruth ceased talking suddenly, having caught sight of the beautiful ornament on Jack's hair. "Gracious, dear, what a wonderful possession! Do let me see it more closely," she asked. "But take it off first and then come here and kiss me. A diamond tiara is hardly appropriate with a dressing gown and I can't bear to see you looking so regal and so far away from the rest of us." And with a break in her voice, Ruth put her arm around Jack and then led the small procession forth from the room. CHAPTER XXI MAIDS AND MEN "I WOULD give a great deal to have my people see you tonight, Jack," Frank Kent whispered several hours later. [Illustration: "YOU WOULD HAVE MARRIED ME ANYHOW"] True to her promise Jacqueline had dressed before the others and come down for a few moments alone with Frank. And it was small wonder that the young man was proud of her. She had on a pure white tulle dress made over silk and no ornament except the string of pearls and diamonds about her throat. For she had persuaded Frank to let her wait until after their marriage before wearing the more conspicuous jewels. Somehow she felt that the tiara would look out of taste and inappropriate among her old friends and neighbors. The bouquet of jasmine flowers with their darkly shining green leaves were resting in her lap. "Your people will see enough of me, Frank, before very long," she answered. "How glad I am that they already know me and that they do not object very seriously to our marriage! Of course they must have preferred your caring for one of your own countrywomen, but----" "You would have married me anyhow, wouldn't you, dear, even if they _had_ objected?" Frank asked and then laughed at himself. "That's a dreadfully unfilial speech, but I expect every man likes to feel that the girl he cares for would have stuck to him through every kind of obstacle--poverty, obscurity, the world's misunderstanding. Not that I have much doubt of you, Jack. You are giving up more than most people realize in turning your back on the dear old ranch and your beloved family. But we'll come back as often as possible and have them come to us, and after a while Ruth must let Frieda be with you for a year or so. She is my little sister, and honestly I don't quite like her intimacy with this fellow, Russell--he is much too cranky and old." Frank had taken Jack's hand and was touching it to his lips when she made a quick though silent signal. She and Frank were sitting in the bay window almost hidden by evergreens and at this moment Ruth and Jim, the other three girls and their guests were entering the ball room. Olive wore a yellow crêpe dress and carried the yellow roses. Jean was in deep pink, her costume of shimmering satin and lace, and had one of Frank's flowers in her dark brown hair. Her bouquet was not the same that it had been two hours before, when she had first removed it from its wrappings; for now encircled by Frank's roses were a dozen purple orchids. "Do you think, Frank, that Jean intends--" Jack whispered softly, inclining her head toward her cousin to indicate what she meant to say. Then when her companion made no reply, fearing to be overheard, she continued. "It is Jean I am most worried about. How can she make up her mind to marry a foreigner instead of an American? Just look at the Prince and then at Jim or Ralph Merrit. He is so little and so dark and so kind of different. Even that scar on his face from a duel he once fought makes me have almost a dislike for him, though I know it is foolish of me." "But Jean isn't really going to marry him!" Frank protested. This time Jack nodded uneasily. "I am afraid so; indeed she almost told me that she intended to accept him; and I suppose she means to do it this evening. I wish I could have said something to influence her, but I did not dare. Besides, it would have done no good. You know Jean might have said that I too was marrying a foreigner and had no right to say anything to her. Only the difference is that Jean does not love Giovanni--and then an Englishman isn't the same and--" Frank was now smiling over Jack's effort at an apology and explanation. She had slipped her hand into his and was holding it fast. At this moment a splendidly handsome figure marched across the floor with surprising swiftness and now stood looking down upon the girl and man with an expression that was a combination of wrath, sympathy and devotion. "Jacqueline Ralston," Jim began so unexpectedly that to save her life Jack could not restrain a guilty start, "have I not told you and Frank Kent at least a dozen times that I would not have any stealing off by yourselves or any spooning until you were safely away from the Rainbow Ranch? It is bad enough, Kent, when I think of your taking my 'partner' from me and leaving me to look after this great place without her. But I tell you I can't stand _looking_ at you doing it." And Jim gave a mournful sigh that was part pretense and part reality. Its effect was to make Jack at once jump to her feet and throw her arms about him, regardless of his immaculate shirt. Then she ran for protection to Ruth. Happiness had made Ruth grow a year younger each month, her husband had stoutly declared, and though this statement was not strictly true, she did look very little older than the four Ranch girls as she stood waiting to receive their guests tonight. For the girls and Jim had insisted that she discard her nun-like fondness for gray and drab colors at least for this one evening and wear white. So Ruth's costume of heavy white corded silk with silver trimming was both youthful and becoming. On one side of the hostess stood Miss Katherine Winthrop, looking singularly handsome and imposing in a gray satin evening gown trimmed with duchess lace and with a bunch of Frieda's violets at her waist. Olive was next in line, and then Jean, while on Ruth's other side the Princess Colonna was made more radiantly fair by a wonderful black gown and a diamond star in her hair. Jack stood beside her, and then Frieda. The Princess seemed far more at ease and better able to appreciate and make herself popular with the hundred or more visitors than Miss Winthrop. For the Princess appeared almost to have forgotten, for the time at least, the years spent in the formal society of Rome and to be remembering only her own early girlhood in this same western country. A large number of the guests were traveled and cultured persons, the owners of large ranches and estates; but Jim had asked that all of their old acquaintances be invited regardless of wealth and position, so that there were many interesting figures who appeared as "western types" to Miss Winthrop, but whom the Princess immediately understood and enjoyed. Indeed during the evening Jim Colter, who had never liked the Princess Colonna nor felt entirely comfortable in her presence, confided to Ralph Merrit that maybe a Princess could after all be a real live woman, though he hoped to the Lord that Jean Bruce was not going to undertake the job. Ralph had little comfort to offer either to Jim or to himself in return for this confidence. For everybody in the ball room who had heard the gossip concerning Jean and the young Prince had no doubt of its ultimate outcome. And naturally they marveled over two of the Rainbow Ranch girls making such distinguished marriages. Perhaps Jean was not altogether displeased with this gossip, for she certainly danced with the young Prince most of the earlier part of the evening. The exact number of her dances Ralph Merrit could have told, although he was not conscious of having counted them. For except for dancing once with each one of the four Ranch girls and once with Ruth, he had spent the rest of the evening watching the dancers from a safe corner. For some reason or other he seemed not to feel sufficient energy for anything else. It was a few moments after eleven o'clock that same evening when the Princess Colonna, feeling a hand laid lightly on her arm and turning, discovered Jean Bruce alone. The girl seemed to have grown suddenly tired and pale. Fortunately the older woman's companion suggested at this moment that she might like him to get her an ice, so that she and Jean were uninterrupted for a moment. "I wonder if you could come somewhere with me for a little while, where we could talk without any one else seeing us?" Jean pleaded. "I know you will think it strange of me, Princess, but all of a sudden it seemed to me that you were the only person in the world whom I could ask a certain question. And I must ask it of you before another hour has passed." Jean spoke quietly and with entire self-possession; yet there was no doubting the girl's earnestness or her necessity. Instantly the Princess slipped her arm through Jean's with the affectionate intimacy which she had always felt for her and the woman and girl together left the room. Providentially for their opportunity to be alone, the greater number of guests were now in the supper room. So without much effort Jean found two chairs at the end of a long veranda which had been enclosed for the evening's use and made into a kind of conservatory. There they appeared to be quite free from interruption. The older woman sat in the shadow, but could see the girl's face plainly. And though she could hardly guess what question Jean might wish to ask her, she was not altogether uncertain of the subject uppermost in the girl's thoughts, so thoroughly had her nephew taken her into his confidence. "Princess," Jean began, but she was not looking at her friend. Her eyes were seeing nothing, she was so deeply engrossed. "I wonder if you will tell me if you were happy in your married life? Oh, yes, I know that sounds like an impertinence; but I do not believe that you will think of it in that light. You understand I would ask you for no such reason. The Prince was a great deal older than you, but then you were very good friends and you had a splendid title and people everywhere looked up to you and were proud to meet you. I remember how dreadfully impressed we girls were when we first saw you on board the steamship. It did not seem to us then that a Princess could be like other people. And none of us ever dreamed of knowing you as an intimate friend. Those days when I was visiting you in Rome it seemed so wonderful to me that you, an American woman and a western girl like me, could be a leader in European society!" Jean drew a long breath. "Of course it never occurred to me then that any such chance could ever come to me. It sounds like a fairy tale and yet my own family don't understand how I can care so much for position and a title and all that it must mean." "I _understand_," the Princess finally replied when Jean had given her opportunity to speak, "but there is one thing or at least one person whom you have not mentioned, my nephew, Giovanni. Do you care for him, Jean?" In answer the girl, whose clear pallor was one of her noticeable characteristics, flushed hotly. "I like him very much, he is most kind, he----" "You mean that Giovanni is entirely devoted to you and that you regard him as a friend. I see," the Princess finished softly. "And you think that after you marry him you will learn to care more for him because you would most enjoy his title and all it could do for you. I wonder just what Giovanni would receive in exchange for all he has to give?" For a moment the older woman took the girl's cold fingers in her own. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, dear, or to seem unkind. But you have asked me to talk to you tonight because you believe that better than any one else I can understand and appreciate your ambition and your emotions. And you are entirely right. I know just what you are thinking, just what you have been saying to yourself over and over ever since I asked your guardian to permit you to marry my nephew. I know because I have passed through almost exactly the same experience. So I am going to talk frankly about my marriage to you tonight, Jean, though I never have and probably never will again to any one else as long as I live. You see, I, too, was a Western girl, only I was a great deal poorer in the beginning of my life than you have ever been. And then my father and mother were plainer people. But one day when I was about twelve years old my father began making a great fortune, and when I was fourteen, as is the way in this western country, he was many times a millionaire. In those days the West was not what it is now, so as my mother was ambitious for me and believed I was going to be a pretty woman I was sent East to school. Later on I went to Paris and studied there, and then to Italy, so that I might learn several languages. Now and then I used to see my father and mother, but not often. They did not enjoy Europe and I seemed to have so much to learn there was little time to stay at home. One or two wonderful summers I spent here in the West with them, loving this country and its people almost as your cousin Jack does. But by and by, when I was traveling in Italy with some rich American friends, I met the Prince Colonna. He asked me to marry him and I--well, I thought about things pretty much as you are doing, dear. I wanted to be a Princess; I thought it the most romantic, wonderful fate possible for a plain American girl with nothing but some prettiness and her money to exchange for fairyland. True, my Prince was old, but I liked him and I thought we would be better friends after we married. I believe we were. But, dear, I was not happy. I have missed the most wonderful thing that can come into one's life, for by and by I found that the people with titles were nothing but ordinary human beings. The people who count most, or at least who count most to me, are the people who do things for themselves, who have made their own way and their own positions, like so many of our big American men. Often I was very lonely and sad and often sorry for a decision I made years ago when I was even younger than you are tonight." The Princess let go Jean's hand which she had been holding. "Isn't there any one here in your own country, Jean, whom you like better than you do Giovanni, whom you would a great deal rather marry if he had the same position to offer?" she inquired. For a moment the girl made no answer. Then she said faintly: "Yes, Princess, there is, though I have never confessed it to anybody in the world except you, and scarcely to myself. For you see it is not only the other man's lack of money and position that comes between us, but Ralph does not even care for me. Some time ago he did, I think, but I was not very kind to him then, and now for months and months he has been nothing more to me than a friend. So I can see that his feelings have changed entirely. I thought if I went away with Giovanni I too would forget. It is hard to be right here on the ranch and have to pretend and pretend all the time that I feel toward him just as I used to when I was a little girl." "Jean," the older woman's voice had quite changed and was now both cold and stern, "I wonder what kind of a partnership you think marriage is? Do you think that when men go into business together that one brings everything to the firm and the other nothing? For that is what you wish to do with Giovanni. You must play fair, child. Why do you consider that an Italian is different from other men? Giovanni is young; he is not unattractive. Unless you loved him, you would soon learn to hate each other. For his sake if not for yours I could never approve of your marriage." But before Jean could reply the Princess had laid a restraining touch upon her. "Some one is coming toward us--a stranger, I think. We had best talk of this another time." CHAPTER XXII OLD FRIENDS AND SOMETHING MORE JEAN did not recognize the newcomer at once. Then she held out her hand, trying to speak naturally. "Mr. Parker, I am so glad to see you. I was afraid you were not coming back at all. Princess, Mr. Parker built our new house. Mr. Parker, this is our friend and guest, the Princess Colonna." The tall man bowed politely. "I was told to bring you and the Princess Colonna back to the ball room if you would consent to come," he returned. From out of the shadow the slender, blond woman rose quietly, taking a few steps forward. "I shall be most happy to go back with you, Mr. Parker," she replied. And then standing within a few feet of her new acquaintance she stared at him curiously. "Theodore Parker, it isn't fair of you after all these years to have me recognize you when you have forgotten me. It makes me think that I must look a great deal the older!" But with a laugh the woman held out both hands, and now standing in the light that fell from a yellow shaded lantern the Princess' face and figure were in plain view. "Beatrice, the Princess Colonna! Why of course I have known your name always. How stupid of me not to have thought! But I could never have dreamed of meeting you out here in Wyoming. The Prince, your husband?" "He is dead," the woman answered. And then turning to Jean: "It is odd, dear, but Mr. Parker and I have known each other a very long time. It gives me great happiness to see him again and makes me think of that girl I have been telling you about. Won't you come back to Mrs. Colter with us?" But Jean shook her head and the man and woman moved away, leaving her alone. It was in this same place that Ralph Merrit, also trying to steal away from the guests, found her ten minutes later. Left to herself, Jean had been crying softly, although she could not exactly have explained the cause. Life was such a jumble--one wanted so much and had so little! Then often the very thing that had seemed fair and desirable turned to bitterness and regret! Well, to one thing she had at least made up her mind--she would not marry Giovanni. Yet she had promised to give him an answer within the hour. Hearing Ralph's step she started nervously. And then with the familiarity of old acquaintance she frowned upon him. "I thought you were the Prince Colonna," she began crossly. Ralph stiffened. "I am sorry that I am not. I had no idea of disturbing you. But I'll go and find your Prince if you like." "He is not my Prince; don't be stupid, Ralph, and do please sit down. I don't see why you feel it so necessary to avoid me recently." "Don't you?" Ralph answered. Then for several moments he said nothing more. However, though he did not appear to be looking, he had a clear enough vision of Jean's face, her dark eyes swimming in unshed tears, her heavy lids and the pallor of her cheeks. "Jean," Ralph swung himself around swiftly and Jean saw the firmness of his lips, the decisive outline of his jaw and his high, almost noble forehead, "if there is any one in this world, I don't care who or what he is, who has done anything or said anything to make you unhappy, why if I can, won't you let me help to straighten things out. You said just now that the Prince Colonna was not your Prince. Perhaps you were only angry at my tactless way of expressing things, but if there is any trouble between you--" the young man hesitated. "But there isn't--not the slightest," Jean replied with the familiar shrug of her shoulders and that demure expression about the corners of her mouth and in her brown eyes that her old friend remembered so well. "The truth is, Ralph, that I am tired of your and of other people's pretending that you believe the Prince Colonna and I are engaged to each other. Because we are not, and never will be." This was as unreasonable and inconsistent a speech as any girl could well manage to make. "Thank the Lord!" Ralph replied, so unconsciously and so sincerely that, as he was not looking toward her at the moment, the girl allowed herself to smile. "I don't see why you should be so glad, Ralph?" she murmured. "Oh, don't you?" Ralph answered between his teeth. "Then to the best of my ability I'll tell you, Jean Bruce. I love you, I always have loved you from the hour I saw you drying your hair by that brook in the wilderness, say a thousand years ago! So now if you are not going to marry this Italian youth, why it gives me a longer chance to keep on working and working until I have something to offer you that you wish, money, position." Swiftly the girl rose, laying her fingers gently against the young man's lips. "Don't say those last words to me again, Ralph. I feel tonight that I never, never wish to hear them again. You have the thing already I want most in the world if you are willing to give it to me. Why haven't you understood in these last few months? I couldn't exactly propose to you, could I, dear?" Jean questioned demurely. Ten minutes afterwards Jean, with a rose-colored shawl wrapped about her shoulders, arm in arm with Ralph, was walking about outdoors, forgetful of the autumn coldness, of the guests who were asking for her, of everything in the whole world except her own happiness. Finally she was surprised by seeing two other figures approaching them who were equally oblivious. With a low laugh Jean drew herself and her companion into the shadow. "Jack and Frank!" she whispered. Then, as the other girl and man were nearly opposite them, "I thought you both promised Jim not to do this sort of thing, at least not tonight, Jack Ralston," Jean began unexpectedly. "Yet I am glad to have found you alone, because I want to tell you first that I am very happy. I don't want other people to know it just yet, but I too am going to be married." There was a note in Jacqueline Ralston's voice as she replied that to save her life she could not conceal. "I am very glad for your sake, Jean darling," Jack answered. "You know how much I shall hope for your and Giovanni's happiness." "Giovanni's?" Jean's manner now suggested unutterable reproach. Ralph Merrit stepped forward and stood close beside Jean. "Hasn't any member of my beloved family sense enough to guess that I have always cared for Ralph, or at least I have always cared for him in the past six months," Jean protested. "It is only that I have had to do desperate deeds to make him care for me." But the girl's next words were smothered in Jack's embrace, while Frank was giving Ralph's hand such a squeeze that though it was considerably hardened from labor, it was difficult for him not to wince. Then the four young people were so interested in one another that they paid no attention to two other persons who were seen coming toward them, until they finally discovered one of them to be Frieda. She was looking more ethereal than ever in a long pale blue silk coat with a chiffon scarf about her blond head, and was accompanied by the Professor. "Whatever are you doing out here? It seems very rude to our guests," Frieda murmured reproachfully. "I am sure Jim and Ruth will think it very rude of you." "But, Frieda, baby," Jack protested, "aren't you and Professor Russell also out here, as you call it? I can't see that we are much more to blame than you." Frieda gazed upward at the serious young man, who returned her glance with such solemn gravity that Jack felt a shiver of apprehension, while Jean stared at the new-comers closely, as if trying to solve a puzzle. "Oh, no, it is not the same with us," Frieda answered serenely. "You see Ralph and Jean are not engaged at all, and you and Frank have been engaged such a long time, Jack, so you ought to be used to it by now. But Henry and I, why we just become engaged half an hour ago, so of course we like to be out in the moonlight together," Frieda ended conclusively. * * * * * Five years have passed away and Jacqueline Ralston is now "Lady Kent" with a small son of her own to inherit the title, while Frank is a well-known Liberal member of Parliament. But they still make frequent trips back to the old Rainbow Ranch, which Jack, in spite of her affection for her new home, has never ceased to love better than any other place on earth. And these home-comings of Lord and Lady Kent and the small "James Colter Kent" are usually the signal for a foregathering of all the four Ranch girls with their husbands and families under the great sheltering roof of "Rainbow Castle." For no one of the girls now lives continuously at the Ranch, which is still left to Jim's devoted management. As much as possible of their time Jean and Ralph and their small daughter, Jacqueline, spend with them--partly in order that Ralph may continue to supervise the working of the Rainbow Mine which has not yet failed in its output of gold. Ralph Merrit has recently become one of the best known mining experts in the United States, so that his advice is constantly being asked both in this country and abroad. And wherever he travels Jean and her little girl accompany him, for Jean has become one of the most devoted and absorbed of wives. After the entirely surprising announcement of Frieda Ralston's engagement to Professor Russell on the night of their ball at the ranch, Jack, Ruth and Jim Colter seriously opposed her marriage. In the first place, Frieda was too young to know her own mind; Professor Russell was more than ten years her senior and they had not a single taste in common. So by and by Frieda was brought to consent to having her engagement postponed. Afterwards she spent one whole year in England with Jack, seeing as much of society and young men as her sister could arrange for her. Nevertheless, to everybody's surprise, Frieda stuck to her original choice and two years after her engagement became Mrs. Russell. She is exceedingly happy. So far Frieda has no children, but lives with her husband's parents, and as he is an only child, they continue to spoil and adore her. Also the grave young professor, who has never outgrown his first impression of Frieda as a glorified doll, still treats her as if the least harshness would utterly destroy her. Olive Van Mater is unmarried and already insists upon calling herself an old maid. She is not devoting her life to teaching the Indians, although she has partly fulfilled her old dream. At the close of the year, when her grandmother's final will was read, to the immense surprise of every one, Olive inherited one-half her large fortune, the other half being divided among the Harmon family. For the will announced that if any girl was able to show such self-will and such disregard of wealth as Olive had shown, should she fail in the interim to marry Donald, that therefore she alone deserved her grandmother's inheritance. As this money was far more than Olive wanted or needed, she was thus enabled to found an agricultural school among the Indians, which was to teach them to combine their old knowledge with the new discoveries of science and so to make life happier, if possible, for a misunderstood race. Yet Olive was to marry in the end an artist whom she finally met while visiting Jack and Frank at Kent House. The young man was poor and unknown then, but his first success was won with a painting of the head of his beautiful wife and daughter. Possibly Jim and Ruth might have been lonely now and then at the old ranch, except for the fact that in the course of time they had four daughters of their own besides Jimmikins and each one bore the name of one of the former Ranch girls. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 26, "contenance" changed to "countenance" (and gentle countenance) Page 31, "one" added to text (no one else was) Page 73, "frienship" changed to "friendship" (old friendship was) Page 80, "you'r" changed to "you're" (way you're running) Page 82, "he" added to text (he had recently) Page 106, "to day" changed to "today" (today hunting for) Page 166, "dreadully" changed to "dreadfully" (you so dreadfully) Page 181, "petulence" changed to "petulance" (and of petulance) 
37271	----	THE RANCH GIRLS SERIES The Ranch Girls and Their Heart's Desire BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK ILLUSTRATED BY WILSON V. CHAMBERS THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY PHILADELPHIA Copyright, 1920, by THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO. [Illustration: BEFORE LEAVING, SHE EXPLAINED TO THE OLD HALF-INDIAN WOMAN THAT SHE WOULD NOT RETURN UNTIL DINNER TIME] CONTENTS I. THE BRANCH OF THE TREE 9 II. THE YOUNGER SET 20 III. OLD PASTIMES 32 IV. A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE 47 V. JEAN, OLIVE AND FRIEDA 58 VI. JEAN AND RALPH MERRITT 75 VII. THE TEA PARTY 91 VIII. AN INTERVIEW 104 IX. A YEAR LATER 117 X. A MAIDEN SPEECH 129 XI. THE PROPOSALS 140 XII. A DECISION 152 XIII. THE CAMPAIGN 169 XIV. IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT 178 XV. CONSEQUENCES 192 XVI. THE ELECTION 204 XVII. THE HEART'S DESIRE 217 ILLUSTRATIONS BEFORE LEAVING SHE EXPLAINED THAT SHE WOULD NOT RETURN BEFORE DINNER TIME _Frontispiece_ WITH A SINGLE SWIFT MOTION SHE LIFTED LITTLE PEACE INTO THE SADDLE 72 JACK REINED IN HER HORSE AND SAT STILL, SILHOUETTED AGAINST THE SKY 149 NOT A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS BUT OF EVIL-SMELLING WEEDS AND TIED WITH A RAG INSTEAD OF A RIBBON 186 The Ranch Girls and Their Heart's Desire CHAPTER I THE BRANCH OF THE TREE Across a wide prairie a man and woman were riding side by side at an hour approaching twilight on a September afternoon. Moving slowly they appeared to be studying the landscape. Toward the west the sky was banked with gold and rose and purple clouds, while the earth revealed the same colors in the yellow sand of the desert spaces, the wide fields of purple clover, and the second blooming of the prairie roses. "Strange to have you living at the old Rainbow ranch again, Jack, and yet under the circumstances perhaps the most natural thing in the world! Long ago when I was a young fellow I learned that when human beings are hurt they follow the instincts of the homing birds who seek the nest. You have always loved the old ranch better than any place in the world, more than the other girls ever loved it, so with the news of your husband's death I knew you would return from England and bring your son with you, Lady Kent, once Jacqueline Ralston of the Rainbow ranch. Somehow I never have learned to think of you, Jack, by your title of Lady Kent." "No, Jim, and why should you?" the girl answered. "I never learned to think of myself in that fashion. I am going to confide something to you, Jim Colter. I always have confided my secrets to you since I was a little girl. I never learned during the years of my married life in England to feel that I was anything but a stranger there. Yet for my husband's sake I did my best to like England and try to make English people like me. I was never specially successful. I presume I am hopelessly an American and, what may be worse, hopelessly western. At present I feel that I wish to spend all the rest of my life in Wyoming. But one is not often allowed to do what one wishes. This morning I received letters from England, all of them asking when I intended to return and settle down as Dowager Lady Kent at Kent House, to bring up little Jimmie in a manner becoming a future British Lord. The worst of it is I don't want to go back and I don't want to bring up my son as an aristocrat. My husband was an Englishman, but I am an American and have never believed in titles. Frank had no title when I married him. I want little Jimmie to be half an American anyhow and wholly a democrat. What must I do, Jim Colter, stay here on the ranch with my own people and lead the life I love, or go to England and spend half my time amid the conventional society existence I loathe, and the other half playing Lady Bountiful to the poor people of a small village?" Jacqueline Ralston, who _was_ Lady Kent, regardless of her own protest, now reined in her horse, and rising in her saddle let her glance sweep the wide horizon. In the wide, gray eyes, in the low, level brow, in the full, generous lips and abundant vitality one might have recognized the pioneer spirit, infrequent in human beings, but more infrequent in women than in men. Yet this Jacqueline Ralston Kent, one of the original four "Ranch Girls of the Rainbow Lodge," possessed. All her life she had loved personal freedom, wide spaces, a simple, every-day, outdoor existence without formality. She felt a natural intimacy with the people who attracted her without consideration for their social position. Yet in so contrary a fashion does fate deal with us that Jack had spent the greater part of her married life under exactly opposite conditions. "For my part I don't dare advise you, Jack, I so want you to stay on at the Rainbow lodge, more than I wish anything else in the world at present. With Ruth gone, I don't see how I shall ever get on with my four new little Rainbow ranch girls without you to help mother them. Yet I had pretty much the same experience once before! Odd how circumstances repeat themselves! You must first do what you think best for Jimmie. What does the boy himself wish to do, stay here at the ranch and learn to be a ranchman under my training, or go back to Kent House?" Laughing Jack shook her head, crowned with gold brown hair; she was without a hat, after her old custom. "You know the answer to that question as well as I do, Jim. Jimmie adores the ranch. He is named for you, and you have done everything in your power to make him love it. Then I must have implanted my own affection for the freedom of our western life in my little son. Jimmie insists that he wants nothing better in the future than to stay on here and run the ranch and the mine when you and I have grown too old to be troubled with such responsibilities. He is only eight years old at present and so we need not feel laid on the shelf at once." "No, but I am not young as I was, Jack, hair is turning pretty gray these days," Jim Colter answered. "I have never mentioned this to the boy, but I have wanted the same thing he does. I would like Jimmie to live here and perhaps marry one of my four girls and keep the old ranch in the family through another generation or so. Sentiment of course, yet so far Jimmie is the only son on the horizon! Here I am with four daughters, Jean and Ralph Merritt with two, Olive and Captain MacDonnell with no children, and Frieda's and Professor Russell's little girl so frail that it is hard to count on any future for her." At this Jack's expression clouded. A moment later she again arose in her saddle, this time pointing toward the eastern portion of the Rainbow ranch. To the west and north lay the gold mine discovered years before, though no longer yielding a supply of gold as in its early days. The mine had never interested either Jacqueline Ralston or Jim Colter as it had the other members of the family. They had been horse and cattle raisers before a mine was ever dreamed of, and it was the rearing of the livestock for which Jim and Jack cared intensely to this day. Riding through the ranch, every half hour or so they had passed a herd of cattle browsing amid the purple alfalfa grass, seen the sleek brown cows standing with their young calves close beside them. Less often they had run across a small drove of horses and young colts, as horses were no longer so good an investment as in the old days. Yet the present Rainbow ranch owners would prefer to have lost money than be without them, the horses having always received Jack's especial affection and attention as a girl and upon her occasional visits home to the ranch after her English marriage. "Can that be a herd of horses or cattle stampeding there toward the east, Jim? We are too far off to see distinctly; suppose we ride in that direction," Jack said unexpectedly. Wasting no time in words Jim Colter nodded. The following moment both horses, their noses pointing eastward, were galloping across the open prairie fields and away from the road. Experienced ranchmen, he and his companion appreciated that the cloud of dust and the grouping of dark bodies advancing toward them with unusual rapidity represented trouble of some kind. At this time of the year it seemed scarcely possible that a wolf had stolen from the pack and frightened one of the herds. Yet there was no accounting for the tricks of nature. Moreover, frequently a number of horses or cattle suffered from group fear, the one transmitting the fright to the other without apparent reason. Half a mile away the drove of young horses, which Jim Colter had finally located with his field glasses, turned and swerved south. Almost as swiftly the two riders moved off in the same direction, hoping they might be able to divide the frightened animals and drive them apart. A quarter of a mile farther along, riding at no great distance from each other, Jim Colter heard an exclamation from his companion, so sudden, so terrified and so unexpected that he reined his own horse sharply until for an instant it stood trembling on its hind legs, its slender nose snuffing the soft air. "Tell me, Jim, is that Jimmie's pony ahead of us? The saddle is on the pony, but no one is riding. Jimmie can't have ridden over here alone? He can't be anywhere near-by?" Yet even as the question was being asked, the man and woman saw and, seeing, understood. The pony which Jack had spied with the bridle dangling over its head was moving from place to place nibbling at the most luxurious patches of clover. Beyond, and closer to the trampling herd of panic-stricken animals, lay a small figure, outstretched on the ground and probably until this moment asleep. Whether he now heard the oncoming horses or the cries of his mother and guardian, in any case, awakening, he jumped to his feet and the same instant turned, beheld, and understood his own danger. In a few moments, seconds perhaps, the frightened animals would be upon him, trampling, snorting, unconscious of his presence in their frenzy. As the boy ran across the field toward his pony, he had the consciousness that the two persons for whom he cared most in the world were coming toward him to save him from harm. Yet he also appreciated this would not be possible, as they could not reach him in time. But Jimmie Kent was not to make the whole effort alone. As he ran he called his pony's name. "Whitestar! Whitestar!" The boy's tones remained firm and commanding. Whitestar had observed her own danger. The pony's head went up, showing the mark upon her pretty nose which had given her the name. A single time she pawed the earth in front of her, appearing about to rush _away_ without her master, and then she cantered toward the boy. The oncoming drove of terrified animals was now only a few yards away. "Don't lose courage, Jack, he is your son, remember! He will win out," Jim Colter shouted, his own horse scarcely appearing to touch the earth as it ran. "Drive straight toward them, Jimmie, don't try to cross their path," Jim called, his voice sounding unfamiliar to his own ears. Yet either the boy heard or recognized his one chance. Without hesitation the little figure lying close to his saddle was riding straight toward the center of the drove of twenty or thirty frightened animals. The leader, a few feet in advance of the others, apparently ran in a direct line with the boy. Her eyes never turning for an instant from the little figure, now not thirty yards away, Jack understood what must take place. Should the leader come on without swerving Jimmie would be unseated, his pony struck down and the other horses would pass over them both. But, should Jimmie possess the courage or, greater than courage, the strength of will to force the horse in advance of the drove to swerve either toward the right or left, the others would follow. A moment later and Jack's arms were about her son. "You've turned the trick, Jimmie," Jim Colter was saying roughly. "But it is the front yard of the Rainbow lodge for you for the next week. How dared you ride over the ranch alone when I have told you it was forbidden? Now you and your mother get home as soon as you can and send whatever men you come across in this direction. I suppose the horses will have tired themselves out after a few more miles of running, but it is just as well to see they are quieted down." So Jim Colter rode away in one direction and Jimmie and his mother in the other toward the Rainbow lodge. CHAPTER II THE YOUNGER SET The front yard of the Rainbow lodge appeared an extremely small playground for a boy accustomed to covering many miles of the broad ranch and the adjoining country in the course of each day. Yet as Jim Colter's word was law on the Rainbow ranch Jimmie Kent had no thought of breaking parole. He glanced up at the double rows of tall cottonwood trees which led from the lodge to the gate. Almost impossibly difficult trees to climb because of their tall, smooth trunks and the branches so high overhead! A warm September day and Rainbow creek not half a mile away! Jimmie taxed his imagination until he could well-nigh feel himself swimming about in the cool freshness of the little stream, deeper than usual at the present time because of the abundant September rains. When one's swim ended, not far away were his mother, his Aunt Jean and her husband Ralph Merritt, a clever mining engineer. The family was to meet this afternoon to discuss the possibility of sinking a new shaft into the old Rainbow mine with the hope of striking a new lode. Moreover, Jim Colter (and Jimmie and the big man were so intimate as to use each other's first names) was attending to the branding of a herd of calves at one of the ranch houses. Any one, or all, of these entertainments might have been his, except for an unfortunate impulse to investigate the Rainbow ranch alone a few afternoons before. A week of the front yard of the lodge appeared an interminable time to Jimmie Kent, yet even a week would pass in time. And one had better be half a prisoner at the old ranch than free in any other part of the world. Six weeks before having arrived at the ranch after a long journey from England, at present this was Jimmie Kent's earnest conviction. Was there anywhere else in the world such a wide sweep of country, such plains and prairies and desert sands covered with sage brush and cacti? In the prairies there were wolves and deer and bear. Since his arrival at the ranch Jimmie believed he had heard one night the call of a wolf, the leader of the pack, and coyotes he had seen with his own eyes, sniffing about the edge of the woods not far from Rainbow creek. Jim Colter had suggested that the buffalo were not all destroyed, but might be found roaming in certain western portions of the state, now inhabited only by wandering Indian tribes. He had hinted at mountain lions as not wholly a figment of a boy's dreams, but as realities, creatures Jim Colter had beheld with his own eyes long years before, when the west was the west indeed. Yet here he was, Jimmie Kent, late of Kent House, Kent county, England, suddenly transformed into an American boy, but shut up within an acre of ground for a week and, moreover, face to face with the tragic possibility that within a month or more he might be forced to return to England. He had nothing against England except that it was too small for a boy's energies and hopelessly devoid of wild animals outside the London Zoo. India of course was a possession of the British Empire, and South Africa, but Jimmie felt that probably for a number of years he might not be permitted to explore these regions. So why the present discussion? If he and his mother both desired to remain at the Rainbow ranch at least for a number of years, they ought to be able to decide for themselves. Nevertheless his mother had explained that she must continue to think the situation over and to ask the advice of her family. To-night the grown-up members of the family were even to dine together for this purpose. Discovering a cottonwood tree not far from the gate, Jimmie now climbed up and seated himself upon one of the lower branches. Here he was enabled to have a wide outlook. Behind him was the Rainbow lodge where he and his mother were living at the present time. So often Jimmie Kent had been told its history! Here his mother with her sister, Frieda Ralston, and her cousin Jean Bruce, had lived when the three of them were little girls and under the guardianship of Jim Colter, the manager of their father's ranch after his death. Later the fourth ranch girl had found refuge with them, escaping from an Indian woman in whose charge she had been for so many years that her early childhood was enshrouded in mystery. From his present viewpoint Jimmie Kent was able to observe two figures not at a great distance away. They were Captain MacDonnell and his wife, who had been Olive to the other ranch girls until the discovery of her parentage. Captain MacDonnell, injured in the great war, later had developed his talent as an artist. Jimmie possessed the ordinary small boy's attitude toward pictures, nevertheless he had something to say in favor of Captain MacDonnell's, since _his_ reputation had been acquired through his painting of western scenes. At the present moment he was sketching a mustang pony, which one of the ranch boys was leading back and forth in an effort to persuade the pony to remain within the range of the artist's vision. Jimmie would have enjoyed changing places with the other boy. In spite of Captain Bryan MacDonnell's lameness he had an especial understanding and love of the outdoors, to such an extent that he and his wife were spending a year or more at the Rainbow ranch, living in a tent, regardless of the fact that at the great house built after the discovery of the Rainbow mine there was room for any number of guests. Jimmie now glanced over toward the splendid mansion which had been christened "Rainbow Castle" by Frieda Ralston years before. His Aunt Frieda and her distinguished if eccentric husband, Professor Henry Tilford Russell and their one little girl were at present visitors at Rainbow Castle, having arrived only a day or so before. Jimmie was no more interested in relatives as relatives than most small boys. Yet had his preference been asked he would have said freely that he liked best his Aunt Jean and his uncle Ralph Merritt, possibly because a famous engineer who had been not only the engineer of the Rainbow mine but of several other mines would appeal to any masculine imagination. Then possessing no sons of her own and greatly desiring one, his Aunt Jean was particularly kind to him. At this moment Jimmie became especially grateful to fate for his exalted position in the tree top. Advancing toward him he beheld his seven girl cousins. "Eight cousins!" Some one was always muttering this tiresome exclamation, as if there was any special point in it. Personally Jimmie considered the one drawback to his residence in the United States was the possession of such an affliction. Not that he disliked the seven girls; two or three of them were fairly agreeable. One could not dislike the little girl, who was scarcely more than a baby, and whose name was Peace, she was so pretty and so gentle. She had been called Peace though named for her mother, because no one wished to repeat the name Frieda during the war. The seven cousins and two nurses were now entering the yard of the Rainbow lodge and Jimmie Kent wondered if he preferred not to be discovered. He guessed their errand: they intended gathering violets from the violet beds on either side of the house, planted years before by Frieda Ralston in an effort to increase the family fortunes, and now famous throughout the neighborhood. In advance were the four daughters of Jim Colter, whom he described as the four new Rainbow Ranch girls and whose names were also Jacqueline, Jean, Olive, and Frieda, although called Lina, Jeannette, Olivia, and Eda, to distinguish them from the original "Ranch Girls of the Rainbow Lodge." The three visitors with the maids were following. An instant Jimmie considered whether it might not be a good idea to allow Jeannette Colter to observe his present elevation. She was the one of the seven girls he most disliked. A few months his elder, she boasted that she could ride and run and climb equally well with the new English boy visitor. She could learn to shoot equally well if her father offered her an equal opportunity. The truth was that if Jimmie considered he disliked Jeannette, she cordially hated him. Before Jimmie's coming she had been her father's constant companion, riding with him about the ranch as Jacqueline Ralston had done in the years past. But three times of late had her father left her at home with her sisters, saying that he wanted to ride alone with Jimmie in order better to make his acquaintance. Now Jimmie felt a reasonable pride in the fact that Jeannette would not be able to occupy such a position as his present one without assistance. "Hello," he called down. The other girls waved and returned his greeting, but Jeannette Colter laughed. "Up a tree, aren't you, in more ways than one, Jimmie Kent! I am sorry you cannot leave the front yard for a week," which was not kind or truthful in Jeannette, who was especially pleased by Jimmie's captivity since it restored her to her father's uninterrupted companionship. At the close of the day, having finished his solitary dinner--his mother was dining at the big house--Jimmie came out on the veranda of the lodge and went to bed in the big porch hammock where he often spent the night. Several hours later, half awakened by the return of his mother and Jim Colter from the family dinner party, but too drowsy to speak, nevertheless Jimmie overheard his mother announce in a tone of relief: "Well, Jim, thank goodness I have been able to make up my mind at last! Indecision, you know, always has annoyed me more than anything else in the world. So it is to be the Rainbow ranch and my own country for as many years as I can arrange it. And may they be as many years as you need me, Jim." His friend's reply made Jimmie Kent smile and settle himself more comfortably in his hammock bed. The reply gave one a pleasant sense of permanency. "Then if you never leave the United States until I cease to need you, Jack, you won't go away until I am removed to broader fields than the Rainbow ranch. But do you think you will be happy, that is the main thing? What will you do with yourself? These are restless days for most women and you have more energy than any woman I have ever known. Want a career, Jacqueline Ralston Kent? Are you staying in your own country because you wish to be a famous woman some day and the United States offers the best opportunity?" "Suppose we sit down a while, Jim," Jack answered. "You are not sleepy, are you? It is too lovely a night!" Walking over to the hammock, Jack pulled up a warm covering over her son and as he smiled up at her, whispered, "We won't disturb you, will we, Jimmie?" and Jimmie only shook his head, not wishing to speak, yet enjoying the distant sound of the two voices he loved best. A moment later Jim Colter and Jack were sitting together upon one of the front steps of the Rainbow lodge as they had sat together so many times in years past, always preferring to be in some spot where there were no walls closed about them but where there was a wide view of sky and land. "Don't laugh, Jim, but I don't know, yet laugh a little if you like, as it may be good for me. Yes, I have sometimes thought since Frank's death that I should like a career of my own, besides just being Jimmie's mother, proud as I am of that honor. Inside the secret corners of my mind the thought has influenced me a little in my desire to remain at home." "But what is the great career to be?" Jim Colter answered smiling, and yet with a sufficient interest in his tone to take away any lack of sympathy that might have been conveyed by his amusement. "You aren't going to turn poet, or painter, or actress, Jack, after displaying no fondness for the arts in all these years?" "No, Jim Colter, and no talents either," Jack returned. "I appreciate your veiled sarcasm. No, the good fairies who bestow the artistic gifts were not present at my birthday. What do you think I might be able to do, Jim? Tell me." There was a short silence and then the man answered: "Help me manage the Rainbow ranch, Jack, or a larger ranch if you like." Jack shook her head. "No, Jim, you have managed the ranch successfully without me and though I may bore you by interfering now and then, to help you when you do not need help will not be the thing I am after. Would you hate it if I should take an interest in politics? It is an exciting world these days and after all Wyoming was the first state to give the vote to women! I wonder if I am still an American citizen. In marrying an Englishman I know I became a British subject while my husband was alive, but now he is dead and I have returned to my own country, the point is, what am I, Jim? A woman without a country?" "Jack, I don't know. However, I should dislike your entering political life, but suppose you are old enough to decide for yourself." Jim Colter laughed. "You always did decide for yourself in the end, Jack, even when you were pretty young. But you will marry again some day! Suppose we ask an old friend of yours, Peter Stevens, whether at present you are an American citizen or a British subject? Stevens has become one of the distinguished young lawyers in the state, or in the west for that matter. But look out for him, Jack, he is an old bachelor and a woman hater. Now it must be nearly midnight. Good-night." CHAPTER III OLD PASTIMES One Saturday afternoon several days later Jacqueline Kent, escaping from her family, rode alone down to the great ranch house a mile or more from the Rainbow lodge. She had not had an opportunity to visit the ranch house since her arrival at her former home. Yet as a young girl she always had enjoyed slipping off to the big ranch house unaccompanied by the other Ranch Girls and usually without Jim Colter's knowledge or consent. In the ranch house lived the ranchmen, or the cowboys who looked after the livestock on the great place. To-day as Jack rode up to the house only three or four of the ranchmen were visible and they were standing on the rough log porch smoking and talking to one another. But the four sombreros were immediately lifted, and one of the men came forward. "Glad to see you, Lady Kent. Is there any order you wish to give, or any message? Sorry the greater number of the fellows are not here at present. This is Saturday afternoon, you see, and a half holiday. They are off entertaining themselves, but we'll have the laugh on them when we tell them that we have had a visit from you." The Wyoming cowboy spoke with a courtesy and self-possession Jack had often seen lacking among more distinguished persons. However, perhaps "distinguished" is not the proper adjective, since her present companion possessed, stored inside his kit, among the personal treasures in his rough, pine-wood chamber a Distinguished Service Medal presented him by the United States Government and a Croix de Guerre, the gift of a grateful France. Jack shook her head. "No, I haven't a message or an order. I merely wanted to see the old ranch house and be introduced to the men. But don't call me Lady Kent. I am Mrs. Kent; now that I have returned to my own country a title strikes me as an absurdity. It is hard enough to remember, these days, that I am not Jacqueline Ralston; the ranch is so like it used to be when I was a young girl. I am sorry not to find the other men, as I rode over this afternoon knowing it was Saturday and hoping I might meet them. May I be introduced to the three men who are here, if they don't mind?" Jack spoke with a mixture of shyness and friendliness entirely natural to her, but in the present circumstances, perhaps unusual. The man to whom she was speaking was John Simmons, one of the assistant managers of the Rainbow ranch to whom Jim Colter had introduced her shortly after her arrival at her old home. At a summons from him, the three other men rushed forward as if only awaiting the opportunity, and leaning from her horse, holding the bridle in her left hand, Jack shook hands cordially with her new acquaintances. "More sport this, ma'am, than lassoing a wild colt!" one of the cowboys drawled, as Jack smiled upon him. His three companions, after first shouting with laughter, proceeded to frown upon the young fellow. He was only a boy not yet twenty-one, from the Kentucky mountains, who nevertheless had served with the American Expeditionary Forces in France for eighteen months. "But are the men practicing lassoing this afternoon? If they are, please do take me to see what is going on. Is there to be a contest?" Jack inquired. "I used to know something about the business myself, long ago when I was a girl. I have even tried using the lasso, although I was never a great success according to Jim Colter, who did his best to teach me." "If you'll wait until we get our horses," John Simmons replied. A few moments later Jack and her four masculine companions were galloping toward one of the farther boundaries of the Rainbow ranch. After half an hour's steady riding they came upon from twenty to thirty young ranchmen gathered about an open stretch of country. A third of the men were employees of the Rainbow ranch, the others were from neighboring places. The men were grouped together, some of them on horseback, others at present afoot. Not far away were a dozen western ponies still unbroken either for riding or driving, but captured and brought to this particular spot. Firmly tethered to stakes, they were now pawing the earth, tossing their pretty heads in the air and kicking and bucking if any one approached. If the men were astonished by the appearance of Jacqueline Kent upon the scene, they were sufficiently polite to make no mention of the fact. If they exchanged glances of surprise or whispered comments, Jack was too little self-conscious and too interested in the spectacle before her and what was about to take place to consider her own position. Apart from the group, facing a broad, flat prairie field were two of the ranchmen, a few yards separating them. Over their right arms hung their long lariats, coils of rope with a slip noose at the end. A pony unloosed at a given signal would make a plunge for liberty. Then the two men with the lassos would be after him. The pony has a fair start in open field, and the race for freedom lies before him. In her eager interest, scarcely realizing what she was doing, Jack made her way to the front line of the group of spectators, the men giving way to her partly from amusement and partly from courtesy. The larger number of them had no personal acquaintance with her, yet she was well enough known by reputation. One of the owners of the famous Rainbow ranch, herself a Ranch girl until her marriage to an Englishman, the fact that since her husband's death Jacqueline Ralston Kent had returned home with the avowed intention of resuming her American citizenship was already become a subject for gossip, for approval or disapproval among her neighbors. Staring at her secretly when the chance offered, there was in all probability the usual difference of opinion concerning her among the onlookers. But with one fact they would all have agreed: Lady Kent, or Mrs. Kent, as she was said to prefer being called, looked younger than any one who had heard her history could have thought possible. In truth, this afternoon, in her usual informal fashion, Jack was wearing an old corduroy riding habit which she had left behind her at the Rainbow lodge several years before upon the occasion of her previous visit home. It was of dust color, plainly made with a long, close fitting coat and divided skirt. Her riding boots and gloves, however, were of the softest and most beautiful English manufacture; her hat of brown felt, with a broad brim. This afternoon Jack's cheeks were a deep rose color, her eyes were glowing, her full red lips were parted from excitement and pleasure as she watched. Away toward the outermost bounds rushed the little untamed colt, his pursuers close on his track. Then a long rope swung through the air, coil on coil unloosed, rose beautiful as bubbles afloat, with the noose ready to capture and bring the pony to a standstill. The first man is unsuccessful and the bystanders raise a shout of derision. This changes to applause when the second man slips his noose easily over the pony and gently draws it until the four protesting feet are held fast. Then the pony is brought back, again tied to its stake and a second contest begins anew. There was no cruelty in this sport, only a test of courage and skill, since sooner or later the wild ponies must be captured and tamed and taught to do their portion of the world's work. Had she forgotten how exhilarating, how thrilling the lassoing was? Jack felt her heart pounding, her blood coursing more swiftly in her veins as she half stood in her saddle waving her applause at each victory. "I suppose I should not dare attempt to find if I have altogether lost my skill?" she asked of her companion, the assistant manager of the Rainbow ranch, who had managed to keep near her all afternoon. "Would it bore the men dreadfully to have me take part, do you think? Of course I ought not to be willing to disgrace myself before so many people." As a matter of fact, Jack was talking to herself, arguing with her own desire, as well as asking the advice of her companion. "I don't know. Do you realize that if one is out of practice roping is a fairly dangerous sport, Mrs. Kent? I don't think I would undertake it," John Simmons protested. But Jack found an unexpected ally. Without her being aware of it, the young Kentuckian whom she had met for the first time at the ranch house a short while before, had remained as faithful an escort as the assistant manager of the ranch, and a more devoted one, since John Simmons regarded the protection of Mrs. Kent under the present circumstances as his duty, while with Billy Preston there was no question of duty but of pleasure. "You don't mean you've got the nerve to git into the present game, Mrs. Kent?" he queried, his manner perfectly respectful, in spite of the oddity of his speech. "I've been ridin' all my days, was pretty nigh born on a horse, anyhow used to hang on when I couldn't 'a' been more'n two or three years old, 'cause there wasn't no other way of gittin' up or down our hills in them days. But this here lassoing game, I'm not on to _it_ yet. Seems like it would be kind of worth while to see you go after one of them colts and rope her and lead her in same as one of the men. I can't come to believe a woman could ever manage it." "Maybe I could not," Jack answered, but both her interest and vanity were stimulated. It was a curious fact that she had so little personal vanity in most things, and yet like a boy had a boy's ambition if not a boy's vanity with regard to outdoor pastimes. Disappearing a moment, Billy Preston rode up again soon after with one of the other ranchmen, who happened to be in charge of the afternoon's contest. "If you would like to try your hand, Mrs. Kent, and are not afraid of getting into trouble, why of course there is no objection. Any one of the fellows will be glad of the chance to ride beside you and give you the first throw." Jack laughed, hesitated and weakened. As a matter of fact, she should have known better than to make an exhibition of herself before a group of strange young men; her instinct, her experience, her judgment, should have taught her better. They did whisper their protest, it was Jack's fault that she did not heed them, this being her particular failure in life that she could not see that things which were not intrinsically wrong in themselves were oftentimes wrong when done at the wrong time and in the wrong place. "You don't think I would be too great a bore? Then may I borrow some one's horse? My own is not accustomed to the lassoing." A short time after, actually unconscious of the unconventionality of her behavior, Jacqueline Kent with the lariat swung over her arm, before an audience of perhaps thirty or more amused and absorbed spectators, was awaiting the moment to ride forward. The soft prairie winds blew against her face, bringing their familiar fragrances, the circle of mountains far away on the dim horizons had their summits crowned with snow. About her, whinnying and neighing, their slender nostrils quivering with interest in the sport, were the western horses she had loved almost as she loved people from the time she was little more than a baby. As for her audience, Jack really gave it scarcely any thought so keyed was she to the business in hand. Had she altogether forgotten her past prowess? A moment before she had not been entirely truthful, for she had possessed an unusual skill in every phase of western riding as a young girl, and especially skilful in what she was about to undertake. Yet at present the rope hung slack on her arm with an odd feeling of unfamiliarity. An instant later Jack flung it in the air, saw it coil and uncoil, heard the singing noise it made, and then drew it back into place, feeling an added confidence. The following instant she was after the pony, her companion riding a few feet behind her, but making no effort with his own lasso. Jack had asked for no quarter, yet was to be afforded every chance. Once her rope rose, sailed forward and then dropped slack to the ground, the pony cantering on ahead undisturbed, and uncaptured. In her accustomed fashion laughing at her own failure, Jack settled more firmly to her task, spurring her horse ahead. A second time her rope shot forward and now the pony crumpled and went down upon its forelegs, Jack drawing the lasso and holding it until her companion took the rope from her hand. Then she turned to ride back to her former place. Now Jack felt herself blushing warmly and for the first time became aware of her conspicuous position. Her audience was laughing and shouting their surprised applause, hats were being waved in the air. There in front of the others and on foot, Jack beheld Jim Colter, and only a few times in her life could she recall having seen his face reveal such an expression of disapproval. "Making an exhibition of yourself, Jack?" he asked after she had dismounted and stood beside him. Then he turned to one of his own ranchmen. "Will you bring Mrs. Kent's horse back to the Rainbow lodge? She will drive home with me." Led away as if she were a disgraced school-girl, Jack suffered a number of conflicting emotions--anger, rebellion, embarrassment, and repentance and some amusement. Surely the time had arrived when her former guardian should recognize that she was a woman and not a child. Then Jack appreciated that she should have recognized the fact herself and not made an exhibition of herself as Jim had just said. "You won't tell the family what I have done, will you, please, Jim?" Jack asked when they were a safe distance away. "I know I have behaved badly and I suppose it does no good to say that I never appreciated the fact until I had the first look at your face. I hate to have you angry, Jim." "You will be the talk of the countryside, Jacqueline Kent, and who knows where else?" Jim Colter answered. "It's incredible that you did not realize this. In less than an hour it will be on every tongue that Lady Kent has returned to Wyoming to seek the society of the cowboys and ranchmen and to engage in their rough sports, and please remember it also will be reported that she seeks their companionship with no other women present. Fine beginning, Jack." "You are pretty hateful, Jim. I thought you used to tell me not to mind idle gossip." "I did, Jack, but not when the gossip was justified by your behavior. As for my keeping your recent act a secret from the rest of the family, it is not possible. Frieda and Professor Russell, Olive and Captain MacDonnell, and your former acquaintance, Peter Stevens, are in the motor car waiting for you, unfortunately so near as to be aware of your proceedings. We motored over to Laramie this afternoon and asked Stevens if he knew what steps you should take in order to resume your American citizenship. He was not altogether sure and explained he thought it would be wiser to look the question up. As he was free for the evening Frieda invited him to motor to the ranch with us and meet you again. Finding you had gone down to the ranch house, we went in search of you. Ching Lee, who is the present cook at the ranch house, informed me you had ridden over here with Simmons, which was in itself sufficiently unconventional, Jack, without the unexpected addition I saw when I left the motor and came to look for you." "Good gracious, Frieda will never let me hear the last of this!" Jack exclaimed. "It is rather too much to have an old acquaintance like Peter Stevens, who never liked or approved of me even in my youth, as another witness to my discomfiture. Perhaps you would prefer I return to England after all, Jim! Can't you forgive me before I join the others; I'll have sufficient disapproval to endure then without yours. I wonder if I dare face Frieda. I'll never make a mistake like this again." But for once Jim Colter refused to yield to Jack's pleading, being more deeply disturbed by her action because of its consequent reaction upon her than he had been in some time past. Beautiful, young and daring, with unusual wealth, perhaps it might be wiser if Jack should marry again, hard as it would be for him to give her up a second time. CHAPTER IV A FORMER ACQUAINTANCE "I was never so ashamed of any one in my life." Jack flushed, but, ignoring her sister's speech, extended her hand to the young man who was seated in the motor car beside her. "I am afraid you don't remember me," she began, "it has been a long time, and we never knew each other intimately in the past. But it is kind of you to have driven over to the ranch." Then getting into the car, Jack sat down in the vacant place which had been saved for her between her sister and their visitor. "Just the same, I believe I should have known you," Peter Stevens returned, looking at her with what Jack considered was certainly not an expression of admiration. "Do you think, Mrs. Kent, a fellow is apt to forget a girl who could ride and hunt and shoot better than nearly any young man in Wyoming? I was a bookworm in those days and have remained one, but that did not prevent my jealousy of you." "Please don't refer to my dreadful outdoor accomplishments," Jack murmured, "not after I have gotten myself into such disfavor with my family." The little glance, half of appeal, half of humor which she at this instant bestowed upon her companion made the muscles of his face suddenly relax and his blue eyes less cold, so that Jack caught at least a fleeting likeness to the boy she had once known. As a matter of fact, Peter Stevens, who was still in the early twenties, had appeared so much older than she had dreamed possible that Jack would not have recognized him without first having been told his name. Then his face hardened again. "Well, most of us grow up, Mrs. Kent, but perhaps you are one of the persons who do not. I am told you prefer not to use your title in the United States." To Jack's mind, as there was plainly no answer to this speech with its scarcely courteous reference to her recent impulsive action, she turned toward her sister. Frieda Ralston had developed into the type of matron one might have expected from her spoiled girlhood and--more important--her childish and self-satisfied temperament. She dearly loved her older sister; except for her husband and baby, she loved no one so well; but she also loved the opportunity to assume an attitude of offended dignity which usually had succeeded in making the members of her family do as she wished. Moreover her sister's recent escapade had seriously shocked and annoyed her, not for her own sake, but for her sister's. She had wished Jack to make a charming impression among their neighbors and old friends. No one, as she believed, could be handsomer or more delightful than her sister, Lady Kent, and Frieda declined to lay aside the title. Yet here was Jack, after having probably disgraced herself by her latest performance, meeting one of the most prominent of the younger men in Wyoming, dressed in an old, discarded riding habit, dusty, her hair blown about her face, looking at least ten years younger than she actually was; in fact, as if she had never left the ranch, never been married or seen anything of the outside world. As a matter of fact, Frieda now and then felt slightly resentful of the suggestion, occasionally made by strangers, that she was the older of the two sisters. But this Frieda thought must be because she was getting just the tiniest bit stouter than she would have preferred to be. However, she did not care seriously. This afternoon, as Jack tried to catch her sister's eye, she thought that Frieda looked prettier than usual, in her beautifully made blue cloth tailor suit and the little blue feather hat which made her eyes appear even bluer and the fairness of her skin more conspicuous. She also considered that Frieda was partly justified in her anger, but that she must not be allowed to display her temper or to lecture her older sister before a stranger. The next instant, leaning over, Jack whispered a few words to Olive MacDonnell, who with her husband, Captain MacDonnell, was occupying the seat in front of her own. Professor Henry Tilford Russell, Frieda's husband, was next to Jim Colter, who was driving the car. What Jack whispered was: "You'll stand by me, Olive, you and Bryan; as usual, I seem to have gotten into more troubled waters than I realized." And Olive had nodded with the sympathy and understanding which Jack had always been able to count upon from the days of their earliest acquaintance when Olive had taken refuge at the Rainbow lodge and Jacqueline Ralston had sheltered and protected her. The following moment Jack stretched out her arms toward Frieda's little girl, who was sitting in her mother's lap. "Let me hold the baby, please, Frieda dear, you must both be tired." Then as Peace climbed over into her aunt's lap, Jack pressed her cheek for an instant against the little girl's head. She and Peace had a deep affection and understanding of each other. But then the child was captivating to everybody. Inheriting Frieda's exquisite blonde coloring, Peace had a spirituality her mother never possessed. She was several years old, but so frail that she seemed younger in spite of her wise, old-fashioned conversation. "Tired?" she murmured. Jack shook her head. "There is nothing the matter." It often troubled her and Frieda, the little girl's curious knowledge of what was going on in the minds of the people about her without an exchange of words. Frieda now glanced at her sister and her own little girl and her expression altered. She loved seeing them together and had no feeling of jealousy. Indeed she used to hope that some of Jack's vigor, the extraordinary and beautiful vitality which made her different from other persons might be transferred to her own little girl. "We will leave you at the lodge, Jack, to dress for dinner, if you will come up to the big house later;" Frieda remarked with a change of tone. "Mr. Stevens has been kind enough to say he will remain all night and motor back to Laramie in the morning." Was it natural vanity on Jacqueline Ralston's part or an effort to reinstate herself in the good graces of her family that she bathed and dressed with unusual care, brushing every particle of dust from her long, heavy, gold brown hair which waved from her temples to the low coil which she wore at the back of her neck? Jack's evening dress was black chiffon without an ornament or jewel and was the first change she had made from her mourning. To any one less physically perfect than Jacqueline Kent, the severity of the dress might have been trying. But her skin was clear, her color, without being vivid, gave a sufficient flush to her cheeks, her lips were a deep red, her eyes gray and wide and with a singular sincerity. Moreover, Jack's outdoor tastes, into whatever indiscretions they might lead her, had kept her figure erect, beautifully modeled and well poised, and a beautiful figure is far more rare than a beautiful face. Walking up with Jimmie as her escort to the big house, Jack confessed to herself that she felt slightly bored. Unexpectedly she had grown a little tired, or if not tired, not in the mood to endure any more family criticism at the present time, and would much have preferred spending the evening alone with her son. She had confessed her offence to Jimmie, wishing him to hear from her what she had done. But Jimmie, not appreciating the social error she had committed, had appeared immensely proud, even jealous of her prowess, insisting that she should begin to give him lessons in the art of lassoing early the following morning. Personally Jack wondered just to what extent her family had been unnecessarily critical in their attitude. Would her neighbors judge her action so harshly that it would interfere with their friendliness toward her? It was always hard for Jack to live in an atmosphere of unfriendliness. So far as her former acquaintance was concerned she had no vestige of doubt. Peter Stevens had been absurdly shocked and offended by her exhibition of what had seemed to him unwomanliness. But personally Jack did not care a great deal for his opinion, she had not liked him particularly, and it had occurred to her that it might be just as well if he were shocked occasionally. He looked prim and too much an old bachelor for so comparatively young a man. However, what really startled Peter Stevens was Jacqueline Kent's appearance, when he came into the drawing room a few moments before dinner and found her standing alone before a small fire. He controlled with difficulty an exclamation of surprise, having not thought her even handsome earlier in the afternoon. And he had disapproved of her action more keenly than he believed himself to have revealed. Now as Jack began talking to him he appreciated not only her beauty, but the fact that she had become a charming woman of the world and probably had seen more of life than he had seen in spite of his success in his profession and his political ambitions. "You are a Republican, aren't you?" Jack asked, and then added: "I believe you have been elected a member of the State Legislature in Wyoming and the people are talking about you for one of our United States Congressmen. Politics seem to me a great career, perhaps the greatest of all careers, these days, so may I congratulate you?" Peter Stevens smiled, pleased of course, as any one might have been. "Perhaps it is a bit premature to talk of my running for Congress, Mrs. Kent, but if I do may I count on your support?" Laughing, Jack shook her head. "No, at least I can make no promises. You see, I don't know whether I am a Republican or a Democrat, or what my politics may be until I have been in my own country sufficiently long to study conditions. Maybe my vote will go to a woman candidate, if there happens to be one in my district." "You don't intend by any chance to be my opponent?" Smiling over the impossible aspect of his suggestion but in an unusually pleasant frame of mind, Peter Stevens pushed a large chair over toward the fire so that Jack might sit down. An instant later he drew his own chair up beside her. "Oh, perhaps I may be your opponent some day, who knows?" Jack returned, accepting the challenge good-naturedly. "But first it might be as well for me to learn whether I am an American citizen. May an American woman who has married a foreigner after the death of her husband assume her former nationality if she so desires?" "You do desire it, wish to give up your title and all it means in England, and even in the United States for that matter? You will be much admired in any case, I am sure, Mrs. Kent, but after all, Lady Kent has a more romantic sound! You feel sure you will not regret your decision? I have not yet had an opportunity to look up the question you have just asked me and I don't want to answer you without being positive as to the exact law in the matter. My impression is, however, that the choice lies with you; that a woman may resume her former citizenship in the United States if she so wishes and returns to her own country to live." At this instant Frieda and Professor Russell entered the drawing-room, and a little later, when the rest of the family had joined them, dinner was announced. Afterwards, although sitting beside each other at dinner, as the conversation was general Peter Stevens had no opportunity for any further personal conversation with Jacqueline Kent. He was by no means convinced that he liked her. He found most girls and women tiresome after a short acquaintance. However, the girl he had formerly known had at least developed into what appeared to be two conflicting personalities. CHAPTER V JEAN, OLIVE AND FRIEDA One afternoon about ten days later Jean Bruce, who was Mrs. Ralph Merritt; Olive, who was Mrs. Bryan MacDonnell; and Frieda Ralston, the wife of the eminent scientist, Professor Henry Tilford Russell, were sitting with their sewing under one of the big trees not far from the big house, built after the discovery of the gold mine on the Rainbow ranch and christened the "Rainbow Castle." Jack, as was often the case when they were thus quietly engaged, was not with them, but was riding somewhere over the ranch with her son, Jimmie, and Jeannette, one of the four new Ranch girls, to some spot where Jim Colter was apt to be found, in order that he might ride back home with them. The other little girls were playing at no great distance away, except little Peace, who was sitting in a small chair watching them. "I do think Jack might have remained at home with us," Frieda remarked petulantly. "Here I have traveled all the way from Chicago, closed my home for a year, partly of course because the doctors thought it best for Peace to be in the west and outdoors as much as possible, and because Henry needed a change, but also because Jack was to be with us at the old ranch and I had not seen her since Frank's death. And yet nearly every afternoon off she goes riding like a whirlwind and deserting the rest of us as if she cared nothing for our society. Jack has changed a great deal I think, or else is more like she was as a girl than as a married woman, now her husband's influence is removed. I particularly wished her at home this afternoon because, as it is such a perfect afternoon, some of the neighbors are sure to call. After Jack's unfortunate performance the other afternoon I am convinced people are talking about her, so I would like her to make a pleasant personal impression upon some of the best people." Leaning back in a big wicker chair, Jean Merritt put down her embroidery for a moment. "Oh, Jack will make a pleasant impression upon some people and not upon others, as she used to do as a girl and has probably done all her life. Of whatever else one may accuse Jack, no one can say that she has not a forceful personality, so that people either like or dislike her. I often think of the contrast between Jack and me, now we are women, although I presume it was just as conspicuous when we were girls. I create no such affection and no such antagonism as Jack does, but a kind of mild liking or mild admiration as the case may be." Jean laughed, adding: "I don't know whether I am glad or sorry, whether I envy Jack or feel she should envy me. One thing I am sure of, I should never have turned my back upon the title and position Jack could have continued to hold in England for the simplicity of the old life here at the Rainbow ranch, at least not for any great length of time. I believe I was always a little envious of Jack's opportunities, the very things for which she cared so little. I would like to have been Lady Kent, to have entertained in Kent House, to have been a leader in English society. People talk of Ralph as a successful engineer, but I wonder if they realize this means we have never had a home, and I have simply dragged myself and the children after him wherever he has been employed. Then, Ralph never has made the money most persons believe he has; as a matter of fact, he is a much more successful engineer than he is a business man. Not that I am intending to complain," Jean said, hastily resuming her work, "but of course one cannot help thinking of how strange life is and how often it gives things to the people who don't wish for them and withholds from those who do. I have wanted to be a prominent society woman all my life and Jack has always had an aversion to such an existence, therefore the opportunity has been hers, not mine." "Jean, please do not speak in such a pessimistic fashion," Olive interrupted. "The truth is that you have the social gift and Jack, charming and brilliant as she is, has not. Of course I think this is because she does not care to possess it. Jack loved her husband more than the character of life she was obliged to live on his account," Olive continued in the tone which always created a calmer atmosphere in any family discussion. "As for Jack's riding off and leaving us at home, you must try and understand, Frieda dear, that Jack is possessed of infinitely greater energy than the rest of us, and that all her days when she has been troubled she has not kept still and brooded as most girls and women do. At present, in spite of what she has been through, she remains cheerful and agreeable whenever she is with us, and when she is unhappy tries to wear herself out with physical exercise. I wonder if any one of us would be as courageous in her present circumstances? As for what Jack did the other afternoon, Frieda, of course you know I agree with you that it was indiscreet of her, but suppose we do not mention the fact any more." Frieda's red lips closed in a finer line than one might have expected of her dimpled countenance. "One is obliged to continue to mention one's attitude on such matters to Jack, else she forgets and does again exactly what she likes regardless of consequences," Frieda replied with primness. "But of course, Olive, I appreciate that you have never found any fault in Jack for as long as you have known each other. I wonder sometimes how your husband feels, except that he has pretty much the same point of view. But I have not been disagreeable to Jack over her latest escapade except because of its possible effect upon her. I am sure you understand this, Jean, if Olive does not. Jack is planning to live in this neighborhood for a number of years, until Jimmie should be taken home to England, therefore it is most important that she should have a good reputation among our neighbors and friends. I am sure I love Jack better than either of you can, as she is my own sister. Even she realizes that it is for her sake that I have been so annoyed." "Certainly, Frieda," Jean Merritt returned soothingly, having always had more influence upon the youngest of the original four Ranch girls than the others even in their girlhood, "Olive does understand your attitude and has said she agreed with you. But I also agree with Olive that we must not scold Jack any more for this particular offence. I have never seen Jim Colter so displeased with Jack before. After all, it was nothing more than an indiscretion, which my wretch of a husband refuses to take seriously and declares was rather sporting of Jack. He insists Jack is one of the few persons in the world who dares to do what she wishes when there is no harm in it and therefore other people must come round to her way of thinking in the end. Now, if there is gossip, Frieda, don't you think it might be wiser to have Jack's family take the position that she has done nothing so extraordinary? Goodness, is that one of our formidable neighbors approaching? Shall we go indoors to enjoy her visit? I agree with you, Frieda, I wish Jack _had_ stayed at home this afternoon. If she could have made a friend of Mrs. Senator Marshall half the battle in this neighborhood would have been won. At least we shall be able to find if what we have been fearing has come true. If I remember the lady at all well, if she has been told of Jack's indiscretion, we are sure to learn of it." Before Jean had finished speaking she had arisen, laid her work aside and was moving graciously forward to greet a woman who was driving up the avenue toward the house. She was driving a new electric machine beautifully upholstered in a bright blue. Mrs. Marshall was herself dressed in a costume of almost the same color, and was rather stout with a mass of sandy colored hair turning gray, and a florid complexion. She was the second wife of a United States senator. "No, I should of course prefer to remain out of doors. You do look too comfortable and delightful," she began in a manner which was perhaps a little too cordial to be perfectly sincere. Then when she had shaken hands with Frieda and Olive, she murmured: "So Lady Kent is not at home. I am so sorry. You will understand if I say my visit is made especially to her, as I hear she intends remaining among us for the present. But there, I had forgotten. I was not to say Lady Kent, so my stepson informed me. Strange for an American woman voluntarily to resign a title! I am so little of the time in Wyoming and so much of the time in Washington perhaps I fail to understand Mrs. Kent's more western point of view. But as we are to be in Wyoming for some time now, in fact until my husband is renominated and I presume re-elected to the Senate, he was anxious I should meet Mrs. Kent, whom I believe he knew as a girl." "You are very kind," Frieda murmured. "I am sure my sister will be disappointed at not seeing you and will look forward to the pleasure a little later. Indeed, I hope she may return before you leave." But whatever Frieda's tone and manner, she was not so convinced that her sister Jack would enjoy the acquaintance of their present visitor. Mrs. Marshall was as unlike Jack as one could well imagine two persons being. She had the reputation for being both a gossip and a snob and yet a woman of whom for these very reasons a number of persons were afraid. Personally Frieda felt a little afraid herself and preferred that she should be their friend rather than enemy. "Your sister seems to spend a great deal of her time on horseback since her arrival in the neighborhood," Mrs. Marshall remarked in a casual fashion. Nevertheless both Frieda and Olive experienced slight sensations of discomfort, wishing that Jean Merritt, who was better able to answer their guest, had not disappeared at this moment to ask one of the maids to serve tea. "Yes, my sister has been devoted to horseback riding all her life," Frieda answered a little too warmly. "She rode always as a girl and never gave up riding after marrying and living in England." "Yet she must have ridden in a very different fashion. One can scarcely imagine an English lady riding with a lot of cowboys and ranchmen and engaging in a lassoing contest with no other women present. My husband and I were much amused when we heard the story. Mrs. Kent is known to be such a western enthusiast there is a report that she may be intending to enter a wild west show. However, I believe the commonest report of the story is that Mrs. Kent is thinking of joining the movies. Well, it is the most popular thing one can do these days!" And the older woman laughed as if she only half believed her own suggestions. Nevertheless, she could hardly have failed to realize that neither of her companions were enjoying her remarks. Frieda had flushed until her big blue eyes were half full of tears which she was doing her best to restrain. Her voice shook during her reply, yet she also endeavored to summon a smile. "One is so glad to find something or some one to talk about in a small community, isn't one?" she returned. "I should have supposed you would have lost interest in gossip yourself, Mrs. Marshall, living so much of your time in a city like Washington," Frieda added. "Of course you must know personally that my sister is not interested in any of the picturesque suggestions you seem to have had brought to your attention. As a matter of fact, she has not yet entirely given up wearing mourning. She has a rather large fortune and later must find some way of interesting herself, although at present she appears content merely with her own family. Yet I am sure after a time people must realize what her coming into a community like this one may mean." Then realizing that she was not making the situation any better, and that their visitor was annoyed by the suggestion she had intended to convey, that her sister, Mrs. Kent, might become a more important person in the neighborhood than Mrs. Marshall herself, Frieda grew suddenly silent. After all, why was Jack not at home to explain her own eccentricity? Now as Olive entered the conversation Frieda experienced a sensation of relief. Olive's manner was so gentle and quiet one was seldom antagonized by it. "We are _so_ glad of what you have just told us, Mrs. Marshall," she began. "I confess we have been interested to know whether Mrs. Kent's action the other afternoon was of sufficient importance to interest her neighbors and what story had been told concerning it. Mrs. Marshall, I am sure, will be glad to hear what actually took place and tell other people the exact truth. You are quite right; Mrs. Kent did ride over with several of our ranchmen to watch a lassoing contest among the cowboys. She used to take a deep interest in all western sports as a girl and never has lost her interest apparently. Then I confess, to our regret, Mrs. Kent did try to discover if she had forgotten her old-time skill with a lasso. We were frightened, as she might so easily have been injured. But nothing of the kind occurred and there is no more to the story. Mrs. Kent will be sorry to disappoint her neighbors if they have imagined a more interesting set of circumstances." Returning at this instant, followed by a maid with tea, the conversation altered. A short time after, without any further reference to Jacqueline Kent except to repeat that she was sorry to have missed her, the visitor withdrew. However, the three former Ranch girls did not immediately go indoors. It was still not five o'clock in the afternoon of a beautiful late September day. Beyond the broad fields of wheat and oats were golden and ripe for harvesting. Nearby the new little Ranch girls were still at play, spinning around in a gay circle at the game of "drop the hand-kerchief," little Peace in her chair looking on. "It is just as I feared, Jack is going to be the talk of the neighborhood before any one has even seen her or been introduced to her. I presume the cowboys discuss her skill around their camp fires at night as well as our richer neighbors; Mrs. Marshall probably spared us as much of the gossip as possible," Frieda declared irritably. But at this instant glancing up, she saw the figure of a woman on horseback outlined against the blue horizon and at the same instant Jack waved to her and came cantering in their direction. No one, except an extremely stupid or self-absorbed person, ever beheld Jacqueline Kent on horseback without a distinct sensation of pleasure. Frieda, in spite of the many times she had seen her in such a position, was not proof against the fascination. "How wonderfully Jack rides! No wonder she loves it," she exclaimed. "I am glad she is at home at last!" A few moments after, having cleared the gate of the farther field without descending to open it, Jack rode swiftly up the avenue. The eyes of Frieda, Olive and Jean remained fastened upon her. Having added to the disapproval of her family by being seen in an old and discarded riding habit upon the afternoon of her unfortunate adventure, Jack had since appeared only in an extremely new and smart riding costume made for her by her London tailor shortly before sailing for the United States. It was of black cloth with a close fitting coat and riding trousers. This afternoon she also wore black riding boots of soft leather and a little derby hat. Her hair in the yellow afternoon light was much the same color as the ripened wheat. So intent was the small audience upon watching Jack's return and so intent were the new little Ranch girls upon their game, that no one saw a small figure rise suddenly from her chair, clap her hands together and then dart across the little space of grass toward the rapidly galloping horse. A moment later, and she was directly in the horse's path, not three feet away. There the baby stood stock still, her little white frock fluttering in the wind, her yellow curls flying, her face upturned, frightened now and quite still. The horse seemed to rear so high above her head that she caught no vision of the loved figure she had run forward to greet. Her mother saw her, and Olive and Jean, and they were not many yards away, and also the other children, who suddenly had quit their play and remained standing in a long line, still holding one another's hands, breathless, intent, terrified, unable in the surprise and terror of the moment to offer aid. "Baby!" Frieda called and darted forward, yet knowing instinctively she could not be in time. Olive and Jean would have run after her except for a swift call from Jack. They saw Jack hold her bridle easily in one hand, and then lean over from her saddle until her arm could sweep the ground, when with a single swift motion she lifted little Peace into the saddle, as she drew her horse to a standstill. "Don't frighten Peace, please, Frieda," she said, as she gave the little girl safe and smiling and pleased with her adventure into Frieda's outstretched arms. [Illustration: WITH A SINGLE SWIFT MOTION SHE LIFTED LITTLE PEACE INTO THE SADDLE] "And to think, Jack dear," Frieda murmured, still tearful half an hour afterwards although Peace was safe in bed, "that I sometimes have criticized you for keeping on with your riding when you might be doing such stupid indoor things as Jean and Olive and I enjoy. Had you been one of us, why, Peace might have been killed or worse this afternoon. I never saw any one do anything so quickly or so skilfully, Jack, as you lifted little Peace out of danger. Why, I--I had forgotten that you used to be able long ago to lean from your horse and pick up anything you wished from the ground. One would not have supposed that such an accomplishment could be so valuable as actually to save my baby's life. Say you forgive me for being so hateful about that other thing for the past ten days." Jack's arm was about her sister as they walked up and down before the house waiting for Professor Russell's return from the small hut situated about a mile away where he spent the greater part of each day engaged in scientific investigations. "But, Frieda dear, I was to blame and I am sorry," Jack replied. "Jim has not forgiven me yet. I was to blame this afternoon too, for I should not have ridden up to the house so swiftly when I knew the children were playing near. But I grew suddenly lonely for you and Olive and Jean and left Jimmie and Jeannette with Jim and rode quickly home to find you. Here comes your husband, I'll leave you and go home to the lodge. No, I don't want any one to come with me and I won't see you again this evening. Good-night." CHAPTER VI JEAN AND RALPH MERRITT The marriage between Jean Bruce, the cousin of Frieda and Jacqueline Ralston and one of the four original Ranch girls, and Ralph Merritt, the young engineer of the Rainbow mine, had only taken place after a long and frequently interrupted friendship, since between them there were many differences of opinion, of taste and of ideals. Frankly as a young girl Jean always had cared greatly for wealth, for social position and for fashionable people, a viewpoint which had not altered with the years, as Jean freely announced. True that her husband had made a reputation for himself as an expert mining engineer and at different times in a small way had shared in the profits of the enterprises which his skill and ability had made valuable to the owners. Yet never at any time had Ralph Merritt acquired a large fortune for himself and his family. Notwithstanding his many fine traits of character he suffered from one weakness. In his effort to gratify and please his wife now and then he had speculated with Jean's private fortune and with his own, and although never confessing the fact, his speculations more often than not had been unsuccessful. In returning to the old Rainbow ranch to spend a few months, Jean and Ralph had been glad to say that the opportunity to be reunited for a short time with their old friends and former associations was not to be resisted. However, there was another motive, if they preferred not to speak of it. At the time of Jacqueline Kent's homecoming from England to the ranch after the death of her husband, Jean and Ralph were passing through a period of financial stress so that the visit to the big house with their two little girls would be a relief as well as a pleasure. There was a chance ahead, in which Ralph Merritt thoroughly believed, sure to put him on his feet again. Like most other patriotic Americans, at the outbreak of the war in Europe he had volunteered for service overseas and been captain in a mining corps in France. Returning home, if he were rich in experience, he was poor in worldly goods. There was nothing unusual in this, but unfortunately Jean and Ralph were not willing to begin over again by living simply and economically until Ralph could make new business connections. And the fault was actually more Jean's than her husband's, although she was not aware of the fact. Nevertheless, among the four Ranch girls, Jean, who loved money more than any one of them, was the only one without it. Naturally the war and the high taxes it entailed had decreased the value of the English estate which Jacqueline Ralston Kent had inherited from her husband, yet the estate was still large enough for Jack and her son to be entirely comfortable apart from her own private fortune, due to her share of the output of the Rainbow mine, which had been wisely and conservatively invested. Moreover, Jack's own tastes were simple and she wished to bring up her son in a simple fashion. Captain MacDonnell possessed only a small estate of his own, but Olive had inherited wealth from the grandmother who had appeared so mysteriously in her life during the year spent by "The Ranch Girls at Boarding School." Moreover, Captain MacDonnell and Olive apparently cared only for each other, for Captain MacDonnell's art, and the effort to forget his injury in the war in his new work and life. The truth was that a large part of her fortune Olive had devoted to the establishment and upkeep of an Indian school not far from the neighborhood of the Rainbow ranch. She and her husband preferred to live out of doors in a tent in the western country whenever the weather made it possible, partly because of Captain MacDonnell's health and also that he might constantly study the western types and scenes which he was painting to the exclusion of all other subjects. Frieda and her husband, Professor Henry Tilford Russell, were not rich; in fact, Professor Russell, having resigned his professorship at the University of Chicago, was at present making no income. Yet his parents were wealthy and adored Frieda and her little girl, and moreover, Professor Russell was at this time engaging in scientific experiments which might bring him fame and fortune or else achieve no result of importance. An expert chemist who had made several valuable discoveries during the war, Professor Russell believed that he had earned a year's holiday at the ranch and the opportunity to indulge in one or two of his private hobbies. So Jim Colter had offered him one of his small unused ranch houses in a comparatively isolated spot where the Professor could conduct his experiments with danger only to himself. Frieda worried over this possibility, but in the main allowed her Professor husband to have his way, having found out that without his work he was restless and miserable. There was a new Frieda in her relation to her husband following their disagreement and reconciliation told in "The Ranch Girls and Their Great Adventure," and the birth of their little girl. Now Frieda seemed to care only for her husband and child, and had become an almost too punctilious married woman and housekeeper in that she wished everyone else to conform to her ideas. Money problems therefore did not at this time trouble Frieda, whose interest was concentrated in her little girl's health and in her husband's success, not for any possible wealth it might bring them, but that he might enjoy the honors Frieda felt so sure he deserved. In the meantime she had her own income and knew that at any moment Henry's mother and father were more than anxious to supply any of their wishes or needs. So it was a little cruel that Jean, who cared so much for money, was the only one of the Ranch girls to endure not alone the pinch of a present poverty but a painful uncertainty with regard to the future. In fact, during the weeks of the reunion of the Rainbow Ranch Girls, Jean Merritt had been under a good deal more of a strain than the others dreamed, for, except for her few general remarks to Olive and Frieda, she had made no mention of her anxieties. Ralph Merritt had accompanied his wife and little girls to the ranch and remained with them a few days. Afterwards he had gone away, announcing that he had important business which must be looked into, but that he might come back at any time. There was nothing exceptional in this, as Ralph's interests had always required that he move about from place to place, seeing a number of men who oftentimes wished him to look at a mine before agreeing to undertake the engineering work in connection with it. At present among the interests that called Ralph away was the discovery of a gold mine concerning which his advice was desired. Ralph Merritt was a decided favorite with Jim Colter, the former manager of the Rainbow ranch and one of its present owners. Among the husbands of the four Ranch girls he always had liked Ralph best. But even he had not suspected that Ralph was in any difficulty, since the younger man had said nothing which might cause one to suspect the fact. One day, about a week after the visit from Mrs. Marshall, a note arrived asking that the former Ranch girls drive over to her home and have tea with her and a few of their neighbors. At first Jack insisted upon declining the invitation, saying that she had not been out of mourning for any length of time and felt a hesitancy in meeting strangers. But Frieda protested, declaring her sister must accept or appear unfriendly. Mrs. Marshall had stated that her other guests would be neighbors, some of whom Jack had known as a girl, and the others she should learn to know as she contemplated living at the ranch. So Jack had yielded as she ordinarily did to Frieda in all small matters, in a way trusting Frieda's judgment rather than her own, besides not wishing to appear selfish. Without the subject being mentioned between them again, Jack understood that her sister wished her to counteract if possible a former unfortunate impression. But Jean Merritt's refusal of the invitation was more unexpected and more determined, as usually Jean welcomed every social opportunity. However, she had a much better excuse to offer than Jack. She announced that she had received a letter from her husband saying that he might be expected to reach the ranch some time during the afternoon chosen by Mrs. Marshall, for her tea party and so there was no question but that Jean must not be argued into leaving home if she preferred to remain rather than run the risk of not being able to greet her husband upon his arrival. Apparently in her usual state of mind, Jean helped the other girls to dress, talking to Frieda about a number of casual subjects and walking half way toward the lodge to meet Jack, who came up to the big house a little earlier than the hour for starting. Senator and Mrs. Marshall's summer home was only a few miles away in the direction of the city of Laramie. After the others had gone and Jean was alone in her own room, her nervousness began to reveal itself first in a number of small ways. Restlessly she walked up and down her large and beautiful bedroom, which had been especially designed for her as a girl when Rainbow Castle was built after the discovery of the gold mine and before the marriage of any one of the four Ranch girls. The room was upholstered in rose, Jean's favorite color, with cretonne hangings of rose and white and a low couch by the window filled with cushions of the same material. The rooms set apart for Frieda, Olive and Jack in the big house were kept as nearly as possible as they had been arranged in the old days and Frieda was at present occupying her own apartment. But Jack had never loved the new place as she had the Rainbow lodge of the days before their fortune, and moreover preferred her own private establishment. Olive and Captain MacDonnell chose to enjoy more freedom and seclusion in their tent than had they lived with the rest of the family. This afternoon Jean for a time made no pretense of sitting down. When the motor had disappeared down the avenue of cottonwood trees she continued to walk up and down, now and then glancing out her open window. Ralph had written that no one was to attempt making an effort to meet him, as he was uncertain upon what train he would arrive. He would either find some one to drive him over to the house or else telephone. Jean had not dressed since lunch, yet her costume chanced to be a pretty brown skirt and a cream voile blouse, open at the throat and rather unusually becoming. However, in the midst of her restless movement, stopping for an instant, she gazed at herself in the mirror with distinct disfavor. "I am afraid I am losing the small claim I once had to good looks," she announced to herself with a frown of disapproval. "Certainly I am the least good looking of the four of us! I wonder if Jack is the beauty these days or Olive? Frieda is pretty, but she has not the air or the distinction of Jack, or Olive's rare coloring. Oh, well, I suppose I ought not to mind except for Ralph's sake! Yet if Ralph only brings home the good news I expect him to bring, I know I shall become a more attractive person! Sometimes I am afraid I have made things harder than I intended, yet Ralph knew my weakness before we married. He understood that I cared more for worldly things than I suppose one should. Oh, at the time we were engaged perhaps I did seem to care less for them and to think only of our life together, but one can't always live up to the best in one. Now I do intend to be more loving and considerate." Rapidly Jean began changing her simple costume for an afternoon dress, a rose-colored crêpe de chine, by no means new, but one which her husband especially liked. And as Jean dressed, in spite of the fact that pallor was usual with her, a warm, cream-colored pallor extraordinarily attractive with her dark-brown hair and eyes, this afternoon her cheeks flushed to a deep rose. At the same time her eyes turned from the mirror to the window, hoping she might see her husband driving toward the house. Her ears also were listening for the sound of a telephone which might announce the fact that Ralph was at the station waiting to be sent for. She had decided not to drive over to meet him herself, as she would prefer to hear the news he must bring when they were alone. It could not be possible that the news would be bad news! Jean put this idea away from her at once. This could not be! Ralph had been so sure of the new gold mine in which he had lately invested almost everything they possessed. Perhaps he should not have made the investment before examining the mine himself, yet he had not been able to wait. The owners had insisted that he must take the same chance along with them or they would find some one else to make the investment. If the new mine was what they hoped and believed, large fortunes would accrue to them all; if not Ralph Merritt must share the fortunes of war. The afternoon passed, yet Jean continued to await in vain the appearance of her husband or the sound of the telephone. Not once did it ring during the long hours. Four o'clock and then five and still no Ralph. "After all, it would have been wiser to have gone with the others to Mrs. Marshall's tea, as it would have been far more interesting, and she would have felt less nervous than waiting alone," Jean concluded. Then by and by, woman like, Jean began feeling aggrieved. If Ralph were unable to return home as he had anticipated why had he not telegraphed? Surely he must appreciate her anxiety! Picking up a magazine, Jean dropped down upon the couch by the window, attempting to read. At first she found it impossible to concentrate her attention, but later became fairly interested. A quarter of an hour after, her door opening abruptly, Jean looked up with a quick exclamation. "Ralph!" "What's the trouble, Jean?" Ralph Merritt demanded with an irritation in his voice and manner most unusual with him, "I have been trying to telephone the house for the past two hours and finally gave up and have walked over from the station--three or four miles, isn't it? It felt like ten. Seems as if some one might have been interested enough to answer the telephone, especially as I wrote you I'd try to get the house in case I could not find any one to drive me." "But, Ralph, the telephone has not rung, I have been listening and expecting to hear it all afternoon. The connection must be broken. Yet what does it matter, now you are at home? What is the news?" "Matter is that I am dead tired," Ralph Merritt answered, flinging himself down upon the couch Jean had just vacated. His shoes were covered with dust, his face and hands were soiled, his clothes rumpled. In a flash Jean thought of the Ralph who had returned to the ranch in this same condition a number of years before and of their interview together on the porch of the Rainbow lodge. Ralph had promised her then never to speculate again, never to risk his hard earned money in a gamble, which is all that speculation is. Then Jean put the memory quickly away from her, as there could be no reason to recall it upon this occasion. She was standing looking down upon her husband. "Tell me quickly, Ralph, things are all right; they must be," she argued, her voice hoarse, her eyes having a peculiar hard brightness unlike their usual velvety softness. "Think I would not already have told you, Jean, if they were?" Ralph Merritt answered. "Suppose I would have spoken first of being tired, although I am tired straight through, if things had worked out as we hoped? The new mine is not worth the money it has required to buy the machinery. It is my fault. I should have known better and taken more time to consider and investigate. I was suffering from the same trouble that's taken hold of a good many young American fellows these days, trying to get rich in too great a hurry. I am sorry, chiefly for your sake, Jean dear, and the little girls, but more for you because the little girls won't mind seriously. I'll be able to make a living all right, but for a while I'm afraid not a big one, and these are hard times to make money go very far. I have an offer to go into New Mexico and look over another mine, and if it's any good I am to have the job of engineer." Ralph was now sitting up, his look of fatigue and discouragement a little less apparent as he continued to talk. He was a splendid looking young fellow, a typical American with a fine, clear-cut face, a strong nose and a sensitive mouth. The eyes he turned toward Jean were wistful at this moment. But Jean was white with disappointment and anger. "The old story with you, Ralph, always something in the future, nothing for the present. I trust you are not expecting the little girls and me to go with you on your wild goose chase into New Mexico. I suppose when I tell Jim Colter and Jack that we have not a cent to live upon, they will allow us to remain at the ranch for a time anyhow. If I were only as clever as Jack perhaps I might be able to support the family without your help. I have little faith left in you." CHAPTER VII THE TEA PARTY "Jack, you will try to make yourself as agreeable as possible." Jacqueline Kent laughed: "Frieda dear, don't I always try? And is it fair of you to blame me when I am unsuccessful? But I know you want me to be as staid and well behaved this afternoon as if I were the Dowager Lady Kent, in order to conquer the reputation I seem already to have acquired in the neighorhood. Do they think me a kind of wild west show? Well, I will make my best effort." The motor in which Olive, Frieda and Jack were driving had by this time entered the grounds of the summer home of Senator and Mrs. Marshall. The house was a big frame building with a wide porch filled with attractive porch furniture and shaded by striped awnings of brown and yellow. The afternoon was a warm and lovely one and apparently the guests were preferring to remain out of doors, as several of them were wandering about in the yard before the house and a number were seated upon the veranda. As the motor from the Rainbow ranch stopped, Senator Marshall himself, accompanied by Peter Stevens, came forward to greet the newcomers. He spoke cordially of his pleasure in seeing them to Frieda and Olive, but his attention was attracted by Jacqueline Ralston Kent, whom he had known as a young girl. Senator Marshall was a middle-aged man of distinguished appearance, over six feet tall, with white hair, bright blue eyes and an aquiline nose. Ordinarily his expression was one of good-humored tolerance. Yet Senator Marshall had the reputation for being a dangerous enemy and a man of strong will whom no one dared oppose upon a matter of importance. Notwithstanding the fact that his wife was feared by her neighbors as a woman whose authority no one was allowed to dispute, it was said that, although her husband gave way to her in all small issues, in larger ones she was compelled to do as he wished. To-day Jack was wearing an afternoon dress of black tulle over black silk, and a large black hat, which made her skin appear exceptionally clear and fair and her hair a deeper gold brown. "It was kind of you to come to see us the other afternoon, Mrs. Marshall, and I am sorry to have missed you," Jack said a little shyly a few moments later, when Senator Marshall had taken her to speak to his wife, leaving Peter Stevens to follow with Frieda and Olive. It was a misfortune from which Jacqueline Ralston had suffered as a girl and which she never had entirely conquered, that she was apt to feel less at ease with women than with men, as if they understood her less well and criticized her more severely. Now as Mrs. Marshall returned her greeting, although perfectly polite and cordial, Jack had an instinctive impression that the older woman saw something in her which she did not like, or else had heard something previously which had prejudiced her. "I am glad to meet you at last, Mrs. Kent. Considering the fact that you have been in the neighborhood so short a time I seem already to have _heard_ a great deal of you." If there was no double meaning in the words which were simple in themselves, nevertheless Jack flushed slightly. "But I am not a stranger in this neighborhood, Mrs. Marshall. I knew your husband a long time ago when my father was alive and I was a little girl trying to help manage our ranch. I don't think I forgave you for many years, Senator Marshall, because you were one of the lawyers on the other side when we had a difficulty over the boundary line of our ranch." "No, you were quite right not to forgive me, but remember you won the case and I lost, so that should make it easier for you to forgive and forget. I am sure I shall never have the bad taste or the poor judgment to take sides against you a second time upon any subject." Smiling, Jack glanced around her. Seated upon the porch were half a dozen or more persons whose faces were dimly familiar, some of whom she had not seen in a number of years, others fairly intimate friends, and a few complete strangers. Leading her about the circle, Mrs. Marshall introduced her to the persons whom she had never met and Jack herself paused to shake hands and talk to the others. There was something in her manner which the older woman observed with a sensation of envy, never having seen anyone before apparently so sincere and straightforward as Jacqueline Kent. An hour later Jack found herself at one end of the long veranda surrounded by a group of half a dozen persons including her host. "It is growing late, I am afraid we shall soon have to say farewell," Jack suggested, looking about to discover Frieda and Olive. She had done her best to make herself appear as agreeable as possible according to her sister's direction, but already she was a little tired and anxious to be back at the ranch, seldom really enjoying conventional society as she believed she should. "But you must not think of leaving us, Mrs. Kent, until you have seen my son," Senator Marshall insisted. "He was forced to go to Laramie this afternoon upon some business for me, but I promised to keep you until his return. I suppose you don't realize that the girls in the neighborhood are already beginning to be a little jealous of you, now that you have the reputation of being the best horsewoman in the state. I am glad you are not a young man instead of a young woman, or you might become Stevens' or my political rival some day. Do I hear correctly that you mean to resume your American nationality as soon as you can go through the necessary formalities?" Jack nodded. "Yes, Mr. Stevens has been helping me, telling me what I must do. Yet I think it is not gallant of you, Senator, to suggest a woman has no chance in politics in Wyoming, the first state in the Union to allow women the vote." Senator Marshall leaned back in his chair, eyeing Jack with a smile. "So you are thinking of playing Lady Nancy Astor in the United States? Who knows but the idea is a good one. If the British Parliament accepted an American woman married to a British peer, I don't see why an American woman married to an Englishman, resuming her former allegiance to her own country because she loves it best, would not make a first-class member of Congress, perhaps defeat you, Stevens." "Why not you, Senator, if Mrs. Kent is elected to office from Wyoming? For that matter, I do not see why she should not have the highest honor in the gift of the state." As the two men were joking with one another, Jack rose and at the same instant saw a young man of about twenty-one coming hurriedly across the porch in their direction. She held out her hand at once, recognizing him as John Marshall, Senator Marshall's son, although never having met him at any time. "I am so glad you have not run away, Mrs. Kent, I want to ask you a great favor. I hear you can beat any ranchman in Wyoming swinging a lasso. Try it with me some day, won't you? It is great sport, but I've yet to see a girl outside the circus or a wild west show who is any good at it." Absurd under the circumstances, yet Jack blushed furiously and then laughed: "Am I never, never to cease to hear of my ridiculous exploit? You see, Mr. Marshall, I thought I was safe from observation that day, or perhaps it is more than probable I did not think what I was doing at all. And since that ten minutes of simply having a good time and trying to find out if I had forgotten what I learned as a girl, I have heard of little else. But you are mistaken in thinking I have any great skill with a lasso. I have forgotten the little skill I once possessed." "But you will let me see you attempt it again? It is the greatest sport in the world, beats tennis or baseball, or even polo. The girls in this part of the country are either afraid or else insist lassoing isn't ladylike or proper, some funny nonsense! A good many of them say it was shocking of you and that no well-bred girl would ever have been alone with a lot of cowboys watching their contest, let alone taking part. But I----" "See here, don't you think you have said enough, John?" Senator Marshall protested. But Jack only laughed and held out her hand. "I deserve nearly anything that may be said of me, but I thought I had come home to live in the west where one did not have to be conventional. Apologize for me, won't you? Yes, I'll ride with you with pleasure if you don't mind my bringing Jimmie and several little girls along to act as our escort. You see, I ordinarily ride with them every afternoon. I do wish we could try the lassoing, but I am afraid I don't dare." "Still, you will some day. I've an idea you would dare anything that you thought the right thing to do," John Marshall added so enthusiastically and making so little effort to conceal his admiration for Jacqueline Kent, who was several years his senior, that the group of older people about them laughed. A few moments later, thrusting his father and Peter Stevens aside, he insisted upon seeing Jack to the motor and handed her in with amusing and most unnecessary gallantry, as she was more than able to look after herself. Ten minutes later, leaning back in the car with her eyes closed, Jack demanded: "Were you pleased with me this afternoon, Frieda Ralston Russell? Goodness knows, I am tired enough with the struggle to be agreeable! I wonder why society wears me out and I can be outdoors and busy all day without fatigue." "You got on pretty well, Jack, only I was not with you all of the time and don't know everything you said. I do hope you said nothing indiscreet; but I am afraid Senator Marshall and his son liked you better than Mrs. Marshall did, and that is a pity." Jack yawned. "Olive, was there ever so much worldly wisdom possessed by any one person as by Mrs. Henry Tilford Russell? I am sorry if you think Mrs. Marshall did not like me, but she cannot be blamed for the fact and neither can I. As for the son, John Marshall, he is a nice boy, nicer than his father. I don't know why, but I never altogether trust Senator Marshall. However, I am talking nonsense; one talks so much nonsense at a tea party it is hard to stop immediately after. I hope Ralph is safely at home by this time. I was sorry Jean was not with us. It is so wonderful for the four Rainbow Ranch girls to be living together at the old ranch after all these years and all our experiences that I don't like our being parted except when it is unavoidable." "Don't talk as if we were patriarchs, Jack, and as if John Marshall were a small boy and you were old enough to be his mother," Frieda protested. "You are only a few years older than he is, after all! But it is nice to be together and I trust Ralph's arrival will cheer Jean up. She has tried not to show it, but Jean and I always have understood each other and I have seen lately that she is more worried over something than she wants anyone to know." "Well, please give my love to Ralph if he has returned and say I shall look forward to seeing him in the morning. No, I won't come to the house. Jimmie and I want to have dinner together and an evening alone," Jack answered. About ten o'clock she was sitting out on the porch of the Rainbow lodge feasting her eyes on the golden glory of the October moon floating in a heaven of the deepest blue, when she heard some one walking toward the house. Jack was rarely afraid of the conventional things which most women fear, yet the steps seemed furtive and uncertain, so that she got up hastily. A moment later the figure of a young fellow appeared wearing the costume of a cowboy. The moonlight shone full upon his face, yet Jack did not at once recognize him. "'Pears as if ye didn't know me, yet I ain't surprised," he drawled. "I ain't seen you but the once when we rid over to the lassoing from the ranch house. My name's Billy Preston, come from the Kentucky mountains. The boys sent me up here to make you a little present. I was going to leave it on your front porch and sneak away again, expectin' to find you indoors or mebbe not at home." "Why a present for me? What is it? No one ever gives me a present any more, and who is it from?" Jack demanded as eagerly as a little girl. The young mountaineer thrust something toward her, rather a large bundle it appeared in the moonlight. "It's a new lasso, made of the finest horsehair in the market and sent you by the fellers who saw you ride that time. They say with a little more practice you'll learn what you set out to do. Anyhow, the fellers want me to say they are with you in anything you may be thinkin' about undertakin' out in these here parts. And say, you needn't be afraid, no matter what happens. We are all your friends; we like a woman who don't put on side and who kin ride straight and think straight and act straight. You know, I was brought up in the Kentucky mountains, and besides I fit two years in France. So I kin shoot, as we used to say down south, I kin shoot a fly off a telegraph pole, so if ever you should need any one to look after you, why, count on me." "Good gracious, thank you and thank everybody!" Jack murmured. "I am delighted to own the new lasso, although I'm afraid I shall never learn to use it properly. But if the Rainbow ranchmen wish me to know they are glad I am at home again, I don't know how to thank them enough. Please say I love every inch of this old ranch in the greatest country in the world. But I'm not thinking of any special undertaking except to live here and help a little with the care of the ranch as I once did as a girl. Just the same, I am deeply grateful for the honor you have paid me and the protection I feel sure every one of you would offer me if I should ever need it. I don't know what I should say to express my gratitude, but you'll see that the men understand." Billy Preston nodded. "Don't you worry, Miss--Mam," he added quickly. Yet he must be forgiven his mistake for Jack looked so like a young girl standing there on the old porch in her soft black dress in the yellow radiance of the moon. "I'll see they know you're pleased, but you ain't to disremember the rest of what I said. One ain't ever able to guess how things may turn out in this world or what troubles folks may git into." CHAPTER VIII AN INTERVIEW Immediately following breakfast the next morning Jack and Jimmie went out to the tennis court near the Rainbow lodge, which they had recently been trying to get into condition. There they began batting balls back and forth across the net. Not old enough to play a good game of tennis for the present, nevertheless Jimmie Kent was determined to make as good a beginning as possible and to learn whatever his mother might be able to teach him. He was very like Jack rather than his English relatives, a straightforward, determined little fellow, self-willed and frank, with a vigorous body and an ardent love of outdoor sports. "You've missed that ball and it was such an easy one!" he called out in an annoyed tone, and then saw his mother run across the court waving her racquet. "Excuse me for the present, Jimmie, but here comes Frieda from the big house and it is so early for her to be out that I am afraid there is something the matter." Frieda Russell was walking a little more rapidly than usual and seemed to be slightly out of breath when her sister joined her and slipped an arm through hers. "Nothing has happened, Frieda? Peace is all right, and Professor Russell and the others?" The younger woman nodded and yet her face remained grave and there was a suggestion of a frown between her large clear blue eyes. "Yes and no, Jack. Oh, I know you hate any one to speak in so non-committal a fashion and yet one can not always be so direct and so certain about things as you are. Everybody is well at the big house, physically well I mean, and yet there is something I felt I wanted to discuss with you this morning before any one else sees you. I particularly want to talk to you alone, so suppose we sit down in the hammock on the front porch and you can see and tell me if any one draws near." A moment later, Frieda spread out her plaid blue gingham skirt with as much care as if it had been of silk and took off her big blue shade hat, holding it in her lap. She had always been extremely careful of her costume and her physical appearance as a young girl and now devoted even more attention to them, with the result that she had an air of daintiness which was very pleasing and that her skin remained as fair and soft as a baby's. "You are rather a comfort, you know. Jack, when one is in a difficulty, not that I always rely upon your judgment, but I do like to talk things over with you and get your point of view," she began. "The truth is I am worried about Jean and Ralph. Ralph returned to the ranch late yesterday afternoon and saw Jean while we were away. I did not see either of them until later when they came in to dinner together and then I have never seen Ralph or Jean look as they did. Even Henry noticed it, and you know he notices very little that has to do with human beings. He actually inquired if they were feeling ill, which was most unfortunate, since they both said 'no,' and then tried to behave as if there was nothing the matter. They were neither of them successful. I know Jim saw there was some trouble, but Jim is so wonderful, he never has interfered in any way with us since we married. We must first give him our confidence, and even then he is very careful. "Of course I do not understand whether the trouble is between Jean and Ralph or whether it is due to some outside cause. But I must say, Jack dear, that though she has confided nothing to me, I did think Jean's manner toward her husband a strange one. And yet perhaps I am a little suspicious or just over anxious because--well, because," Frieda hesitated a fraction of a second and then went on, "because Henry and I had that misunderstanding after we were married which made us both so dreadfully unhappy and except for an accident might have wrecked our lives. It's a funny thing, isn't it, Jack, when one marries one thinks one's problems are over. I suppose that is because one is very young, and then naturally one finds out that if the old problems are over, there is an entirely new set. Even you and Frank used to have little differences now and then! And yet here you are still little more than a girl, and a widow, with a wholly different life to live until you marry again. Don't shake your head. One never knows. You always insisted, Jack, that you would not marry when you were a girl, and yet you were married before any one of us. "But I am wandering from my subject. You see, about Jean and Ralph, I don't know what to do, or whether any one of us has the right to attempt to secure their confidence unless they first offer it to us. At breakfast this morning Ralph Merritt announced that he was leaving the ranch again to-day and might be gone for some time. He was going to some frightfully hot place in New Mexico to see about a lately discovered gold mine, but Jean and the children would not go with him. And Jean made no protest of any kind. She did not even try to persuade Ralph to stay on at the Rainbow ranch for a few days until he had a chance to rest and they could be together for a little while. I never saw Jean behave so queerly or look so strangely. She was white and cold and severe, although she does look so unhappy, almost as if she were ill. You know she has always cared for me more than for you or Olive, and yet when I put my arm around her this morning and asked if she felt badly, she almost pushed me away and said that I would soon grow too tired of her to care whether she were well or ill. Of course she will probably talk to me later on, yet it is funny. One might not think it, yet Jean is really more reserved than the rest of us. "But what I am worrying over is, that by the time Jean makes up her mind to confide in any member of her family, Ralph will have gone. And if he goes, somehow I have a strange presentiment that it may be a long while before we see him again. Do you suppose you could speak to him? Ralph said this morning that he was coming to the lodge to have a talk with you as he really has never seen you alone since your arrival in this country. You and Ralph are pretty good friends! I don't know why it is, Jack, but boys and men talk to you more freely than they do to most girls or women, so will you undertake to find out what is the difficulty between Jean and Ralph before Ralph goes away? Try to learn if the trouble is some outside thing in which we could be useful. I know Jim Colter wants to offer to help Ralph, if he needs help, he admires and likes him so much, but I don't think Jim dares, Ralph looks in such an uncomfortable mood." Without even an exclamation to interrupt her sister's story, Jacqueline Kent had listened intently, her gray eyes a little clouded, her sympathetic face responding to every suggestion. "Yet, Frieda, you feel I ought to question Ralph when Jim, who is his dear friend, is unwilling? I am afraid not, Frieda dear. You realize I have seen so little of Ralph and Jean since their marriage, as I have been living in England and they have been in the United States except while Ralph was in service in France. Secretly I confess I am a little afraid of Ralph, more than I am of either your husband or Olive's, Ralph is so quiet and apparently so self-sufficient. If he has made up his mind to a certain action I cannot believe that any one save Jean _could_ influence him." "Yes, but Jean won't _try_ to influence him this time, at least this is my impression," Frieda added hastily, "and Ralph feels sorry for you at present, Jack dear, and admires the way you are facing things. He said so last night at dinner, said quite plainly that he admired you more than any one of the former Ranch girls, which was not especially polite of him, although I did not mind, even if Henry was there and might feel he had made a mistake in marrying me instead of you, not that he could have married you, as you were engaged already. But I must get back home now, or else Ralph may arrive and perhaps believe I have been gossiping about him." Hastily Frieda jumped up. "Good gracious, Jack, isn't that Ralph on his way here this instant? It is either Ralph or some one like him! Let me slip into the house and stay there until you persuade Ralph to go for a walk, then I'll run home. I hope Jean will be too much engaged to miss me, I did not mention to any one I was coming over to the lodge. Good-by, dear; anyhow, you can do your best to follow my advice." Scarcely a moment after Frieda had disappeared Jacqueline Kent went quickly forward to greet Ralph Merritt, who was walking slowly across one of the fields in the direction of the Rainbow lodge. At once Jack believed that even had Frieda not forewarned her, she must nevertheless have observed the trouble in Ralph's face. "I have come to say good-by and hello at the same time, Jack," he announced. "Sorry not to see more of you, but I'm off for New Mexico this afternoon, I don't know for how long a time." Perhaps there are occasions in this life when frankness may not be desirable. But the spiritual frankness of Jacqueline Kent, which did not consist of saying unkind things to people under such a guise, but of going directly to the heart of what she felt and believed and of expecting the same thing of other human beings, nearly always served. She did not hesitate at this instant. "Ralph, I believe you are in some kind of difficulty. I think I have guessed partly by your expression and also because you would not leave the ranch so abruptly and with the suggestion that you may not return for many months without an important reason. I wonder if the trouble is a money one, Ralph, because if it is, you must let me help you. You know I have a fairly large estate and it is costing Jimmie and me almost nothing to live here at the lodge, and Jean,--Jean has been like my sister since the days when we spent our girlhood here as the 'Ranch Girls of the Rainbow Lodge.'" Ralph shook his head. "You're a trump, Jack, but that is out of the question. Suppose we walk down to the Rainbow mine. I had not intended talking to any one, but perhaps it is best I should, and somehow, Jack, it is not so hard to confess one's mistakes to you as to most persons. I can't take your money because I have already lost most of Jean's and all of my own. Jean hates poverty and has lost faith in me besides. I don't altogether blame her, yet it has been hard for a good many of us to get started in the old fashion since the war ended, and these days the Government has so many regulations about mining gold that only where the output is large does the work pay. What I want to ask you, Jack, is to look after Jean and the little girls while I am away. I'll come back when I have made money, not before." The man and girl had come to the neighborhood of the old Rainbow mine and stood near the edge of one of the disused pits. "Yes, I understand, Ralph. Moreover, you have decided that it will not be worth while to attempt any more work in the Rainbow mine, at least not unless a new lode is discovered. Now I wonder, Ralph, if it has ever occurred to you how much Olive and Frieda and Jean and I owe to your former skill in working the Rainbow mine in the past, how much of our fortunes are actually due to you? Does that not make a difference? Are you not more willing to let me be of assistance to you until you are able to repay me? Won't you at least promise me to talk to Jim Colter and to ask his advice before you leave?" Ralph shook his head. "No, and even if I were willing, and I am not, Jean would never consent. Many times she has told me how deeply she appreciated that fact that you and Frieda shared alike with her the output of the Rainbow mine when she was only your cousin and with no legal right to your inheritance. Having lost Jean's money, although she gave me her consent, even urged me to the investment, she has lost faith in me. What is more serious, I am even beginning to have less faith in myself. Yet I don't know why I am telling you all this, Jack, I had not intended to do more than say good-by. What hurts worse is that Jean does not care for me any more; I wonder now if she ever did care as I did. You know how important she has always counted wealth and position and I believed once I could give them to her, but lately I have failed and so Jean is disappointed. Funny thing marriage, Jack!" "Funny thing life, Ralph, one is just a part of the whole! I think you are mistaken about Jean, but I have no right to express an opinion. Only if you do consider it wiser to fight it out alone, don't worry over Jean and the little girls. Jim would look after them even if I were not here. Queer that Jim, who came to us first as a cowboy and then the manager of the Rainbow ranch, should have been even kinder than an own father! Not that I think of Jim as so much older than I am! However, 111 stand by Jean through whatever comes, Ralph! And after a time, even if she is disappointed and hurt for the present, she is sure to change. I wish I dared to tell her the mistake she is making, only I don't dare. In any case, I'll do my best." Ralph Merritt held out his hand. "Shake hands, Jack, and let us say good-by. But before I leave you I want to say to you something else, something which may surprise you. I believe you came back to this country for some good purpose, Jacqueline Kent, some purpose none of us recognizes at present and you least of all. But if the day should come when you feel that some work calls you, don't be afraid to undertake it. Life has a queer fashion of preparing people for what she wishes them to accomplish, without their knowing." Jack smiled. "I wonder what there can be ahead for me, Ralph? Yet some day I must find something, as I shall never marry again. Life on the old ranch is restful and charming, yet I suppose it won't continue to be enough. So let us wish each other good luck here in the shadow of the old mine where we discovered the 'Pot of Gold.' There must be other kinds of gold at the end of other rainbows." CHAPTER IX A YEAR LATER "It is harder to endure, Jack, because so much my own fault, all my life I must feel in a measure responsible, and I cannot feel hopeful as you insist you do, perhaps for that very reason. However, we must not talk too much of this now, to-morrow will be time enough. You must keep all the strength and self-control you possess for to-night." It was more than a year later, and Jean Merritt and Jacqueline Ralston were in Jean's beautiful bedroom in the big house on the Rainbow ranch. Jean was sitting on a low couch with her hands clasped tightly together, while Jack was moving restlessly up and down the large, fragrant room. "But I can't make a speech to-night, Jean, not after the bewildering news we have just received, although I will not believe it to be final. Why did I ever think I could? Yet surely there is a sufficient reason now for me to be excused!" "Sit down for a few moments please, Jack," Jean answered with such an evidence of self-control and of unselfishness that her companion suffered a swift emotion of shame and compunction. "Now there isn't any question but you must go on to-night with what you intended doing. Remember we all have decided that, for the time at least, it will be wiser to keep secret the information we have just received. Therefore you cannot make this your excuse for failing to speak as you planned. If you fail to speak this evening it will appear either that you are afraid to say what you think, or else that you have changed your opinion." Jack flushed. "But I _am_ afraid. Am I not the last person in the world you would ever have dreamed attempting a public speech? And here I am involved in the effort to make one to-night, simply because I began talking first to our own ranchmen and then to the men on the neighboring ranches of some of the work I thought we ought to undertake in Wyoming. When I first began I did not know I was making a speech. To-night I shall probably know it without being able to make it. Still, I don't want to talk about myself in the face of your problem, Jean. Now let us go over the news you have received and see if we both understand. Ralph has been away over a year, hasn't he, working always at the mine in New Mexico and writing regularly? The mine so far has not proved a success, but Ralph insisted that he still had faith in it and never spoke of leaving, or changing his work. Now word arrives that two weeks ago he had a serious fall into a pit which had been left uncovered, but that he seemed not badly hurt, only a little bruised and shaken and that he had continued with his duties that same day as if nothing had occurred. Then next morning, as he failed to appear, one of his men going to look for him found his tent empty. He has not been seen since. Yet no one had heard him go away in the night and there was nothing to suggest that he had intended remaining away, as his clothes and private papers were left behind. Naturally the people at the mine believed we had heard some word of him, and I believe we soon shall hear. Ralph will write or come to the Rainbow ranch, I am convinced of it. What is it you really think, Jean?" Jean shook her head. "I don't know what to think. Some tragedy may have happened to Ralph, or he may simply have grown too weary and discouraged to remain where he was any longer." Getting up, Jean began walking up and down the big room with its rose-colored carpet as if her uncertainty and unhappiness must have a physical outlet. "I have never told you in so many words, Jack, although I must have said enough for you to guess that Ralph and I parted without the tenderness and faith I should have shown him even if I believed he had made mistakes, because the mistakes were made chiefly for my sake. I thought I had learned a good deal in this year of his absence, but perhaps it was not enough, so I must bear this new anxiety. Ralph would have been happier married to you, Jack, than to me; I have thought this a good many times. You care nothing for wealth and society; I have always cared too much until lately. Now after this year with all of you at the old ranch I was learning a new set of values; except for wanting Ralph I have been so happy here just as we used to be as children, even if we have a new group of younger Ranch girls. Now, unless I hear from Ralph within the next twenty-four hours I mean to go to New Mexico to find him. I should have been with him through this year, enduring the hardships he has been forced to endure, instead of living in comfort and idleness here at the ranch." "But you have not lived in idleness, Jean, whatever else you may accuse yourself of. Managing this big place, keeping house for Jim and his little girls and for Frieda and her family is hardly being idle. Jim says he has not been so at ease since Ruth died. It's funny Jim told me he thought it wiser for Professor Russell to go in search of Ralph unless we receive word immediately than that he should go, although Jim and Ralph are devoted friends. Jim says that Henry is a scientist, but a more practical man of affairs than the rest of us give him credit for being. Yet somehow I don't believe Jim is willing to leave us alone at the ranch, not only his own little girls, but you and Frieda and Olive and me. He insists on driving me over to Laramie to-night, although I do not feel he likes my speaking in public. However, when I asked his advice he merely said: 'Go ahead, Jack, do what you wish to do; your life is your own. If I am an old fogy and should prefer you to stay quietly at the lodge, I never have expected it of you since you came back and resumed your American citizenship. As long as you don't go too far I'll stand behind you.'" Jack smiled. "Of course I don't know what Jim means by 'too far,' but I suppose he will tell me in time. Now I am going away, Jean dear, and leave you to try to rest. Remember, I believe firmly that we shall hear from Ralph within the next few days, or the next few hours, who knows? But Olive and Captain MacDonnell will stay with you to-night, as Frieda and Professor Russell wish to drive over to the Woman's Club with me. At least if I am to make a speech I am glad it is to be made there. Frieda is too funny. She is torn between being rather proud of my being a sufficiently prominent person in the neighborhood for people to be willing to listen to me, and thinking it unwomanly of me to attempt to speak. Besides, I think she shares my present conviction that I am going to break down and so disgrace myself and all of us. Yet it is such a simple thing I wish to talk about, and anyone ought to be able to say what one thinks." As Jack rose, Jean placed her hands on her cousin's shoulders, her brown eyes gazing steadfastly into Jack's gray ones. "No, it is not going to be difficult for you to-night, Jack, not after you have once started with your speech. It will be difficult at first, of course, to face an audience of men and women for the first time in your life. You have said a good many times just what you will say to-night, but I know that you have never considered before that you _were_ making a speech. But it will be a success, Jack, because to you it is always a simple thing for people to be straightforward and honest and public-spirited. Now go and lie down yourself for an hour or so. I am going to see what the little girls are doing." Jack laughed. "No, I am going off for a ride alone, Jean. It is funny, but Billy Preston, one of our cowboys, told me I should not ride alone, not even over our own ranch. Already there seems to be a good deal of feeling against me because of what I have been advocating. As if I were of enough importance to be considered dangerous! But please don't speak of this to any one else; I must ride alone now and then, and I have promised Jim never to leave our ranch without an escort. It is curious that I can think better on horseback than at any other times. Other people manage the same thing by lying down, or walking through the country, or in crowded city streets. I believe some writers can only dictate when they are striding up and down their rooms. But I am off now, really this time, Jean. I'll have a light supper at the lodge, as we start about seven. In the morning I'll tell you the worst, or probably Frieda will tell you before I can see you." A moment after Jacqueline Kent was gone. After her departure Jean suffered a stronger sensation of discouragement. It was always true that Jacqueline Kent possessed a vitality so keen and a sweetness of character so inherently sincere, that one was apt to be stimulated and cheered by her companionship. Later in the same day driving toward town, Jack remained unusually quiet. She was riding in the front seat of a Ford car seated beside Jim Colter and listening with some amusement to her sister Frieda's conversation with her husband, which Frieda had not the slightest objection to having overheard. "I feel perfectly convinced that Jack is going to break down, Henry, or perhaps not even be able to begin her speech when she faces her audience. I do wish I had not come. Of course you and Jim won't mind so much because you are no real relation to Jack, so I shall feel much more embarrassed than anyone else. However, my one comfort will be that if Jack does make a complete failure to-night she will never attempt to speak in public again. I don't see why she should care so much what the other ranchmen in Wyoming do, so long as we are successful with our own ranch. But then one never has been able to count upon what Jack would think or do. We are not in the least alike." "But my dear Frieda," Professor Russell expostulated, speaking in a hushed voice intended only for Frieda's ears, "don't you think it unkind of you to suggest failure to your sister at this late hour? If you did not wish her to speak you should have remonstrated earlier." "Oh, I did talk to her; indeed I am sure I have discussed nothing else for the past week. Sometimes I have told Jack I would never forgive her, if she went on with what she had been doing, and then again I advised her to make a perfectly wonderful speech at the Woman's Club to-night, just to show the stupid people who object to her how clever and charming she is, and how right. Of course I think Jack is right about a few things now and then." In answer to Jack's gay laughter from the front seat and Jim Colter's chuckle, even to her husband's amused smile, Frieda continued undisturbed. "Frieda dear, you are a tonic and I won't dare fail if you feel as you do about me," Jack called back over her shoulder. "You are more refreshing than Jim, who tells me I am sure to succeed in convincing my audience to-night, when deep down inside of him he is sure I will not. Yet you won't desert me if the worst happens, Frieda?" Frieda shook her blonde head. "No, Jack, I shall never turn my back upon you really, no matter what you do, even if I disapprove of it most dreadfully, perhaps not even if you should run for some public office in the state of Wyoming as if you were a man. Of course the suggestion is absurd, but I did hear some one say you might become an influence in the state of Wyoming." "Yes, that was absurd, Frieda dear," Jack returned, resting her head lightly on Jim Colter's shoulder and closing her ears to Frieda's patter in order to try to think more clearly of the task ahead of her. The subject upon which Jacqueline Kent was to speak to-night was a simple one, so simple that she had not understood why there should be any opposition to her suggestion. In the beginning it had been only a suggestion. Jacqueline Kent desired the ranchmen of Wyoming to increase the number of their livestock and to have larger herds of cattle, and droves of sheep, with a view of making the state of Wyoming the most important ranch state in the country. The world was never before in so great need of food and clothing. Yet soon her little talks with the Rainbow ranchmen and the men from the adjoining ranches became known throughout the neighborhood. Then to her surprise Jack discovered that a large number of the prominent men in Wyoming opposed her suggestion. Among these men were Senator Marshall and her former acquaintance, Peter Stevens, who was employed as an attorney to limit the supply of livestock raised in Wyoming. To-night Jack had been asked to present her view of the question before a group of men and women in the Woman's Club in Laramie. The building was a large one. Later, when Jack stepped out upon the platform she faced an audience of several hundred persons. An instant the faces swam before her and her courage failed. Then she appreciated that her first sentences could not be heard beyond the first few rows of chairs. CHAPTER X A MAIDEN SPEECH Nevertheless Jack looked very young, attractive and frightened. Her color had vanished, her wide gray eyes held an expression of appeal for patience and understanding. She was dressed in the costume she ordinarily preferred in the evening, a black tulle over black silk, cut with a square neck and with elbow sleeves, and, although of exquisite material, made in a simple fashion. Usually caring little for jewelry, to-night she was wearing a pearl and amethyst star which her husband had given her years before. As her glance now swept the audience she beheld the faces she especially wished _not_ to see, Jim Colter's, her sister Frieda's, and her neighbors, Senator and Mrs. Marshall's. Not far away and staring fixedly at her was the somewhat grim countenance of her former acquaintance, Peter Stevens. Upon Jim Colter's fine, deeply lined face--his coal black hair was now turning slightly gray--was a look with which Jack had been familiar since her girlhood. The look said more plainly than words that Jim was always there to fight her battles and whether she succeeded or failed, she could count upon him. Frieda's face was set and white and miserable, her blue eyes open to their fullest extent, announcing as plainly as her lips could have stated: "Why, why did I ever permit Jack to make such a spectacle of herself? Have I not warned her that she could never make a public speech? Yet after all, the fault is partly mine, as I should never have allowed her to undertake such a task!" It was Frieda's honest conviction that, as she had a great deal more common sense than either her sister or husband, it was not only their duty but their privilege to yield to her judgment in practical matters. The expression with which Senator Marshall regarded her, Jack believed she recognized as one of amused tolerance, not unmixed with satisfaction. He had talked seriously to her of the mistake she was making in her present ideas. He also thoroughly disapproved of women attempting public speeches under any conditions whatsoever, and of this Jack also had been kindly informed. Mrs. Marshall's attitude did not affect Jacqueline Kent in any fashion. Long before she had accepted the fact that Mrs. Marshall did not like her and resented any influence she might have gained in the neighborhood. Especially Mrs. Marshall had seemed to dislike her stepson John Marshall's boyish friendship and admiration for his neighbor. If John had come to hear her speak to-night he was not seated with his parents, for Jack's subconscious mind was registering these small and unimportant impressions even as her lips moved almost inaudibly in the address she was endeavoring to make. However, the one face which seemed to arouse Jack more completely than the others was that of her former acquaintance, Peter Stevens. In the past year Peter Stevens had become more than an acquaintance. If they were not friends he appeared to enjoy calling at the Rainbow lodge, for one could count upon seeing him there probably once a week. His expression at present was undoubtedly one of pleasure at her failure. Jack felt distinctly angry. "Louder," some one called from the back of the hall, and hearing the call, she paused and an instant remained silent. Speaking again, it was apparent that both her manner and voice had changed. The self-command which had in a measure deserted her was slowly being regained. "I am sorry, I fear a good many members of my audience have not been able to hear what I have been saying," she answered, speaking in a fashion which seemed to take the men and women who were her listeners into her confidence, making the greater number of them her advocates rather than her critics. "I suppose it is scarcely worth while confessing that I have never made a public speech before and have no idea how much one should raise one's voice. Yet the subject I want to talk about to-night is such a simple and direct one that I really and truly don't see why it should be discussed in any public fashion. I am only here because some of you felt it might be wise for me to state my opinion. Nevertheless, I am sure I agree with any of you who feel my opinion may not be valuable. "Most of you know that I came back from England more than a year ago and because I loved my own country better than my adopted one, I have resumed my American citizenship. Yet when I speak of loving my country I think I mean first of all that I love my state, the state of Wyoming, where I was born and lived as a girl, and that the parts of Wyoming I love best are her great and beautiful ranches. "On my return, to my surprise I discovered that instead of the ranches in Wyoming having increased in the last few years and the quantity of livestock become greater, they now cover less acreage and the livestock is smaller in number. I was sorry; our state is so lovely, with its broad stretches of fertile prairies, our rivers and streams, and our hills set like a rim of jewels about them. So first I began talking to the men on our own ranch, the Rainbow ranch, asking them if it would not be possible to increase the number of our cattle and sheep. Since the close of the war we have heard of nothing but of how hungry the world is, at least the European world. So I did not dream there could be any objection if I talked to other ranchmen beside our own and asked them what their plans for the future were to be. We all know that many of the men who are now working on the ranches in the United States intend owning their own places as soon as possible. Many of them are soldiers who, having returned from the war in Europe, now wish to lead an outdoor life and enjoy the freedom and the independence which the ranch life offers. And wherever and whenever I have talked to the former soldiers who have come to dwell in Wyoming they have seemed to agree with me. "The views of the people who oppose the idea of increasing the number of our ranches and the supply of our livestock I confess I am too stupid to understand. They seem to feel that Wyoming's future lies in her cities, in her mineral deposits, and even in her recent large manufactories. "They believe we will receive less for our cattle and horses if we raise a greater number. Yet say this is true, and I do not accept its truth, how will the ranchmen be injured if the cost of the increase in his expenses is covered by the greater number of his stock? And this we have found to be the case in the past years' experiment with the livestock on the Rainbow ranch." Jack paused again, but this time not because she was either frightened or embarrassed. She had given up the effort to make a speech after having undertaken it, having discovered that she was not being successful. Since then she had been talking to her audience in the same fashion that she would have spoken to any single individual who might have expressed an interest in her subject. "I wonder," she remarked clearly and distinctly, "if there is any one present who is entirely unprejudiced and is willing to state the other side of this question, to explain why the state of Wyoming should cease to be a great ranch state. Perhaps Senator Marshall or Mr. Peter Stevens will speak upon the subject." As Jack ceased there was a momentary pause followed by a ripple of laughter. The word "unprejudiced" had amused her audience. Peter Stevens was known to be employed by the interests who wished to decrease the supply of cattle in the state, while Senator Marshall's political party advocated the same point of view. However, Senator Marshall so far accepted Jacqueline Kent's challenge as to arise in his place. Bowing, he said blandly: "I never argue a point with a woman." And first his retort was greeted with a murmur of indignation and then of renewed laughter. Gazing directly into his face, Jack protested: "But, Senator Marshall, do you not consider that the day has passed for failing to argue points with women? We are voters and if points cannot be argued, at least certain questions must be made plain. To-night we are in a Woman's Club built largely with the idea of offering women the opportunity to find out some of the problems they intend to understand." A few moments later, having received no reply from Peter Stevens, who seemed to have chosen to ignore her request, closing her speech more eloquently than she had begun it, in the midst of friendly applause, Jack bowed and withdrew from the platform. A little later amid a group of friends and acquaintances unconsciously she still held the center of the stage. "You were not so bad as I expected, Jack, although I was a little disappointed in you," Frieda found time to murmur, feeling in the midst of her pessimism a great sense of relief. Not only was the speech over, but in spite of it Jack was looking extremely pretty and no less feminine than she had previously. Jim Colter simply nodded his head to reveal his satisfaction, while her brother-in-law, Professor Henry Tilford Russell, shook hands, announcing frankly: "You did yourself credit, Jack, not to _attempt_ to make a speech. It is better to talk simply upon a subject until you know more about it, and afterwards for the matter of that." But outside Jacqueline Kent's own family, many of her friends were enthusiastic. "I do not see why we should not ask you to run for an office in the gift of the state of Wyoming some day, Mrs. Kent," the President of the Woman's Club declared in a tone sufficiently loud to be heard by a large group of persons. "No one denies that an American woman, Lady Nancy Astor, is making an excellent member of the British Parliament. Why should we be so much more conservative than England? Moreover, Lady Astor is an American woman." In return Jack laughed, failing to attach any seriousness to the suggestion. "Yes, but unfortunately I have none of Lady Astor's gifts," she responded. "Nevertheless there may be some one in Wyoming who has, and perhaps it would be interesting if Wyoming, one of the first states to give the vote to women, should be represented by a woman in Washington. You would dislike the idea very much, wouldn't you, Senator Marshall?" Senator Marshall, who had come up to shake hands with Jack, nodded vehemently. "I should indeed dislike it; I still am sufficiently old-fashioned enough to believe that woman's place is the home." A voice behind his shoulder interrupted. "Nonsense, father, you are simply afraid of Mrs. Kent as your possible rival, for if ever she is elected to Congress the next step will be to defeat you for the United States Senate." The voice was John Marshall's, the senator's son and Jack's devoted friend. "Thanks, but don't make the Senator disapprove of me any more than he does at present. I must live in peace with my neighbors." A little to Jack's surprise Peter Stevens made no effort to shake hands with her or to speak to her, although she remained half an hour in the Woman's Club after her poor effort at speech-making was concluded. Peter Stevens was there also talking to other friends. She was standing alone out on the sidewalk waiting for Jim Colter to drive up with the car, Frieda and her husband having moved a few feet away to speak to some one, when Peter Stevens' voice said unexpectedly: "Good-night, Jack. I suppose it would make no difference to you to realize how intensely I disliked your speaking in public this evening." He and Jack within he past year had returned to their youthful custom of calling each other by their first names. However, Jack's answer surprised him. "Oh, I don't know; perhaps you are right. I might consider you an old fogey, Peter, to object to girls and women speaking what they believe to be true, but it is probably true that at least no one should speak in public who has no more talent than I possess. You were kind not to make me appear worse by displaying your learning and eloquence afterwards. No, I am not being sarcastic; every one says you are learned and eloquent. Yet in spite of your reputation, I have the courage to think you are mistaken about a number of matters. But here is Jim with the car, so good-night. Why, yes, of course I'll be glad to see you at the lodge; differences of opinion need not destroy friendship." CHAPTER XI THE PROPOSALS One spring day an automobile containing four men and two women drove up and stopped before the Rainbow lodge. The half dozen guests must have been expected, because within a few moments after they were ushered into the big living-room of the lodge, which had altered but little in character in many years, Jacqueline Kent, who had been Jacqueline Ralston in the old days, came downstairs to greet her visitors. The call could not have been merely a social one, else Jack would scarcely have appeared so pale and preoccupied and so unlike her usual radiant and vital self. Slowly she had descended the stairs, and entering her own living-room had shaken hands with four of the six persons whom she knew and had then been introduced to the other two. Afterwards she sat down in a chair and listened quietly, rarely doing more than introduce a sentence now and then. At the close of nearly an hour, when the visitors, declining to remain for dinner, had risen to say farewell, Jack also stood up, facing them. She stood with the mantel and the bookshelves forming her background. Upon the mantel were several of the possessions she had treasured in her childhood, Indian bowls of strange shape and antiquity, her father's pistol, the first nugget of gold she and Frank Kent, who was afterwards to be her husband, had discovered in the Rainbow mine. In the old bookshelves were the self-same books she and Olive and Jean and Frieda had read and studied in their girlhood, studied far too little until the coming of Ruth to act as their governess. Outside the big living-room windows Jack could see the long double row of tall cottonwood trees now grown through the years to mammoth proportions and away and beyond the purple fields of the blossoming alfalfa and the newly sprouting tender green spears of grain, all her own beloved and familiar background. "I am sure you realize I appreciate the honor you have done me," she said finally, speaking in hesitating fashion. "Yet I do not believe I dare give you my answer this afternoon. You have been kind enough to say that I may have two more days for considering your proposal, and within that time I shall of course let you hear. You are sure you cannot stay longer, not even for tea?" Ten minutes later, on the porch of the lodge Jack stood alone, watching the automobile containing her six callers roll down the avenue between the cottonwood trees and pass out the gate which separated the lodge grounds from the rest of the Rainbow ranch. For a short time Jack continued her watch, glancing first in one direction and then in another as if expecting some one else to approach with an evident wish to see her. The afternoon was in early May. The air blowing from the snow-capped hills closer to the western horizon brought with it the fragrances of damp wooded places, mingled with the wealth of prairie flowers over which it had more lately passed. Jacqueline Ralston Kent threw back her shoulders, lifted her head and inhaled a deep breath. "I wonder why Jim, Jean, Frieda and Olive do not come to find out what decision I have reached," she remarked aloud. "This must be some prearranged plan that I am to be left alone for a time. And yet it is unlike my younger sister, Frieda, not to continue to express her opinion and insist I agree with it whether or not it happens to be my own. Perhaps being left alone may be more effective than the usual family opposition toward bringing me around to their way of thinking. Yet the family is divided in their viewpoint, and so whatever I may do I must please some of them and displease others. If I am to be left alone I think I'll go for a ride. I wish Jimmie were here to go with me; I intend to talk my problem over with Jimmie--this and every problem we ever have to face. But of course with Jim looking after the branding of the new calves this afternoon what chance have I of Jimmie's being anywhere near?" Not long after, with her costume changed to her riding-habit, Jack went back to the stable of the lodge and finding no one there, saddled her own mare, a present from Jim Colter several years before, and rode off. Before leaving, she explained to the old half-Indian woman who looked after her small household that she would not return until dinner time. If she were late Jimmie was to eat his dinner and not wait for her. It was true that Jacqueline Kent felt she was facing this afternoon one of the greatest decisions of her life, almost as important a decision as her marriage. Perhaps in some persons' eyes a more important decision, since it was more unusual than marriage in the lives of most women. It was so strange and so unexpected that at present Jack herself was scarcely able to accept the momentous fact. Yet here it was before her staring her in the face, awaiting her judgment and shutting out the dim spring loveliness of the sky and plains. "Should she or should she not? Would she or would she not?" The refrain had a stupid sound in Jack's ears. She caught herself wondering which was grammatical and then concluded that both expressions were right in her case, since both her future and her will were involved in her present conclusion. Who would have believed that upon her return to Wyoming, her simple desire to become an American citizen again and later her interest in the prosperity and happiness of her state could involve her in such a situation? Within the last hour, was it really possible that she, Jacqueline Ralston Kent, one of the four original "Ranch Girls of the Rainbow Lodge," had been asked to accept the nomination for the United States Congress and become among the first women representatives in the country? Jack bit her lips, put her hand to her face to feel the sudden flush which had suffused it at the thought of her own unfitness for so great a responsibility. Then she gave her horse its head and started upon a swift canter; for a little while she must put away the question which so troubled her. Appreciating her own lack of knowledge and of training for the task ahead, why not decline at once and for all time ever to consider it? Yet on the other hand, had she the right to evade so wonderful an opportunity? She was young and could learn a good deal of what she should know in order to meet such a responsibility. Moreover, she did have the interest of her state at heart and some of her friends and acquaintances must have believed in her, else the nomination would never have been offered her. Besides, if she were honest, frank, and open-minded, would it not be a wonderful experience? Jack was only lately a girl, and in her heart of hearts felt it would actually be great fun to be among the early vanguard of the women who were to hold important political offices in the United States. "Yet of course, even if I conclude to accept the nomination, I won't unless Jim Colter finally gives his consent. I refuse to be regulated by Frieda. Besides, why worry? After all, there is not one chance in a hundred that I shall ever be elected!" Lightly Jack touched her horse with her riding whip; she had believed an ordinary gait would suffice to distract her thoughts for a little time, but evidently this was not sufficient. Her horse was moving quickly and evenly over the smooth road and still her thoughts had continued unchanged. He must break into a run--a run so swift and headlong, as if in a race for a goal, that all her thought should be centered upon his control. She needed to feel the strong rush of the wind in her ears, the splendid sensation of being a part of the movement which she so enjoyed. She had promised not to ride outside of the Rainbow ranch alone, an absurd promise which several of the cowboys had suggested, and which Jim Colter had insisted upon. She had made enemies within the last year by the outspoken position she had taken upon a number of questions. At present there were rumors that if she accepted the nomination to Congress she would be forced to regret it. Yet these rumors appeared to Jack as nothing save stupid gossip and sensationalism and not to be regarded. However, boring as it might be upon occasions like this afternoon, when she would like to have gotten as far away from the Rainbow ranch as her horse could take her within a two hours' ride, nevertheless she intended keeping her promise. The outermost borders of the Rainbow ranch were enclosed by a high paling fence to prevent the escape of the cattle. When she had ridden a little more than an hour Jack arrived at one of the borders of the ranch, in the same vicinity where at one time there had been a serious dispute with a neighbor over the boundary line. This was near the end of the Rainbow creek, at one time considered chiefly valuable for the watering of the stock and afterwards found to contain valuable gold deposits. Those had been strenuous and fighting days at the Rainbow ranch. First there was the effort to make a living for the family and then to achieve a certain amount of education for the four Ranch girls. Afterwards had come the adjustment of their legal rights to the ranch, in the days when the possibility that gold might be discovered made the possession too valuable to pass to four obscure young girls. How the manager of their ranch, a fellow named Jim Colter, who so far as the neighbors knew at that time had sprung from nowhere, had fought and won their battles for them! Well, those old days had passed and this afternoon Jack concluded that no such perilous times could ever return, whether or not she chose to be among the pioneers and enter the political arena. By this time she had ceased her rapid gait and had come to the bridle path which led along the far side of Rainbow creek. The path ascended among high rocks and crags, almost the only hilly portion of the entire ranch. At the top there was an especially fine view. At present Jack rode slowly, allowing her horse opportunity to rest now and then after his swift run. [Illustration: JACK REINED IN HER HORSE AND SAT STILL SILHOUETTED AGAINST THE SKY] Jack herself felt in better spirits, more exhilarated. Not having fully reached a decision, nevertheless she had managed for a brief time to banish the question to her subconscious mind, hoping it was still wrestling with the problem and might later help her with its solution. She glanced among the rocks and crags, remembering how she and the other Ranch girls had played hide and seek among them as children. Long before when Wyoming was largely inhabited by Indian tribes the Indians had lived among these rocks sheltered from their enemies. Indian treasures had been discovered buried under the earth or fallen between crevices of stone. Reaching a level space of ground, Jack reined in her horse and sat still, silhouetted against the sky. Behind her the sun was setting in purple and gold clouds. Below she caught a glimpse of another figure on horseback approaching in her direction. Putting her hand to her lips Jack called "Hello." She was under the impression that the rider was either Jim Colter or one of the Rainbow ranch cowboys, and they were all her friends. As it was growing late it might be pleasant to have an escort home. A lifting of a hat and a wave of a hand returning her greeting, Jack uttered a little exclamation of surprise. She waited until Peter Stevens had climbed up the bridle path and was beside her. "I have come to ask you, Jack, if there is any possibility of your accepting the offer which was made you to-day? Please understand that it is no secret. There has been talk of your nomination for Congress for a good many months, not weeks. I presume you realize that if you accept you will be my opponent? I also am to run for the same office, unless you would like me to withdraw. I am willing if you wish to have me do so. Yet I would give up a good many more important things in my life if I could persuade you to refuse this nomination. I know you think I am old-fashioned, narrow, dogmatic, yet with all my heart and all my intelligence I oppose the thought of our American women holding public office. And you of all women, Jack! Why, with all the experience of life you think you have had, you are little more than a girl. It must be impossible for you to realize the jealousies, the calumnies and feuds that will be aroused by your action. In this past year I have seen you fairly often; never so frequently as I desired, yet you must have learned to know whether you like or dislike me. Won't you be my wife, Jack, and go with me to Washington in that capacity and not as my political adversary? I would do a great deal to prevent your making such a mistake." More surprised than she cared to show, Jack shook her head, her face slowly flushing. "I am sure you are very kind, Peter, and I do appreciate the honor you have done me, because I do realize how great a sacrifice you are making. Yet perhaps you need not have been put to such a test, for although I cannot accept your offer, perhaps I shall not accept the other offer either. I know my own limitations for such a distinguished office as well as even you can know them. However, I make no promise. Will you ride back to the lodge to dinner with me?" Peter Stevens shook his head and an hour after Jack arrived at the Rainbow lodge alone. CHAPTER XI A DECISION Jack, however, did not reach a decision that night, although many hours she lay awake continuing to revolve the subject in her mind. The next day the opposition she again encountered was even keener than any that had gone before. Not long after breakfast Frieda made the first family appearance, bringing her little girl with her. Seeing her sister approach, Jack, who had stepped out of doors for a moment for a breath of fresh air, feeling more fatigued than she scarcely ever recalled being at this hour of the morning, gave a quickly suppressed sigh and then held out her arms to Peace. Thoroughly she and Frieda had gone over this question of her possible nomination when the matter simply had been under discussion. Frieda had then aired her views as fully as it seemed possible that any expression of opinion could be aired. Not for a single instant was Jack even to allow her mind to rest upon the idea. "A woman politician in the family!" Personally Frieda felt and announced that she could not endure the disgrace. From the first had she not warned her sister that public speech making would lead to something more disastrous? Now as Jack greeted her sister she was painfully aware that Frieda's face wore the familiar expression it was wont to wear when she had appointed herself both judge and jury in a case and allowed no counsel for the defendant. Pretending to ignore the expression, nevertheless, Jack felt a little ominous sinking of the heart. She was not prepared to allow Frieda to make this decision for her, and had so informed her, as gently and firmly as possible, in their previous talks together upon the self-same topic. And Jack did not wish to be drawn into any further argument this morning, and certainly not with her sister. All her life she had hated argument more than any one of the four Ranch girls, and in the old days used often to run away for a ride or a long walk, leaving the matter to be settled by the other three, who discussed the point to exhaustion. "Glad to see you, Frieda dear, it is nice to see you so early in the morning and with the baby, especially when I am tired, which does not happen often to me. Will you come indoors or shall we walk about among your old violet beds? They are blooming in special abundance. Perhaps it may amuse Peace to gather some and take them home to the big house. I always feel as if I were selfish having so much more enjoyment from your flower beds than the rest of the family. Remember, Frieda dear, when you planned to be a florist and to rescue the family by selling violets? It was sweet of you." "I'll stay outdoors and Peace can gather the violets if she wishes, but I did not come down to the lodge at this hour to discuss violets. I never do anything early in the morning, as you know, unless it seems to me excessively important. I know those people appeared here yesterday afternoon, Jacqueline Ralston Kent, to offer you the nomination for Congress; they want you to become a Congressman, or Congresswoman. Who ever heard of such a foolish title? Now I wish to know precisely what answer you gave them. I would have walked down to the lodge last night with Henry, except that both Henry and Jim Colter insisted I should leave you alone and give you time to think the matter over for yourself before I spoke to you again." "But you haven't anything _different_ to say, have you, Frieda, so why let us talk of it at all?" "To that I will agree only upon _one_ condition, Jacqueline Kent. You must promise me to refuse this nomination once and for all time and never so long as you live have anything to do with politics either in this country or in England." "That is rather a tall order, don't you think, Frieda?" Jack answered, purposely looking in another direction rather than toward her sister's face. Frieda always would appear to her a grown up and glorified baby, so long, when they were little girls together, had she looked upon Frieda almost more as a mother than as an older sister. "Yet unless you do promise, Jack, it can never be the same between us again. So please listen carefully before you reply. "I know at other times I have objected to small things that you wished to do and sometimes you went ahead and did them without regard to my feelings or my judgment and I never said anything much afterwards even if they did not turn out successfully. But this is a _big_ thing and a _different_ thing, and if you act against my wish I told Henry last night I should never really forgive you, even if for the sake of appearances we pretended that things were the same. I have been much embarrassed recently at your becoming a prominent person in the neighborhood; of course I wished you to be prominent socially and to become a leader, like Mrs. Senator Marshall. She would then be obliged to take second place, in spite of her husband's distinguished position. But the idea that you, my sister, could actually become interested in politics!" Frieda pronounced the word as if it were a deadly poison. "Why, it simply never dawned upon me, not for the longest time! When we went about to parties together after you had been in Wyoming a year I began to hear people say laughingly that Wyoming needed a young and charming woman to represent her in political life so that she should not fall behind the other states. So why were you not the person, as Lady Astor was in England? The cases were a little alike, you had married an Englishman and had the title of Lady Kent, but after your husband's death had preferred to return to your own country, renounce your title and resume your American citizenship. You had gone through all the necessary legal formalities to attain that end, you were clever and good-looking and your actions had proved you were a thoroughly patriotic American. The fact that you said you did not belong to any party was perhaps best of all, as women needed to be independent in politics. They were the new voters and should not be slaves to parties as so many American men were. "This is as nearly as I can remember what was said about you, Jack. There were other things, not so flattering, but I presume most persons would not like to mention them before me. However, I paid little attention at first, as I thought it was all just talk, because most people have so little to talk about really. Even when you began making speeches about the things you wish to have accomplished in the state of Wyoming (as if your opinion was of any value), why, I did not trouble specially! It all seemed so absurd! Indeed, when you spoke to me a few days ago of what might occur and declared that the nomination for the Congress of the United States might actually be given to you, though I said everything against it I could at the time, I did not really believe it. Then yesterday afternoon actually it happened! But perhaps you refused to consider the suggestion, Jack. Indeed, I feel sure after what I have said to you and knowing Jim Colter's attitude, even if he has said but little, you must have refused. If so, I am sorry to have tired you by talking so much; I am sure I hate talking at any length unless I feel it my duty." "And you do feel it your duty this time, don't you, Frieda?" Jack answered, slipping her arm through her younger sister's. "Still, having done your duty, don't you think that after all I may be allowed to use my own judgment in this decision? Suppose I happen to think that life just now is offering me a great and surprising opportunity! It is surprising for me to have been chosen for this distinction; I feel this as keenly as any one of my family or friends, knowing my deficiencies, can feel it! Now don't you think it's unfair to threaten me, Frieda, to threaten in the one way which you know hurts most, the loss of any part of your affection, if I cannot make up my mind to do what you think best for me, not what I may think best for myself? I have never in all our lives, Frieda, suggested that any act of yours could possibly make me care for you less." Frieda's voice wavered a little. "Yes, I know, Jack, but then I would never do anything so rash and so foolish as what you contemplate. To see your name in the newspapers, to know that people are everywhere discussing your private affairs, making up disagreeable stories about you if they wish, for you know you are unconventional, Jack, and sometimes do give people opportunities to misjudge you, well, I simply can't bear it. So come on, baby, let us go back home, I see we are in the way here. I apologize, Jack, for wasting your time and mine. I had some socks of Henry's I wished to darn, and I should have been much better employed, as I see you already have reached your decision. Well, Jack, I am sure something very unfortunate will come of any such decision; when you become a public character you will certainly never be the same person to me." Frieda had slipped her hand inside her little girl's and was about to move away when Jack's arms went round her and her gray eyes, filled with tears, gazed into Frieda's implacable blue ones. "Frieda, in spite of all your sweetness, don't you realize that you are rather hard sometimes? I wonder if life will ever teach you to be different?" Frieda's eyes wavered an instant. "I see nothing to be gained by discussing my weaknesses of character. So long as I satisfy my husband and child I can manage without your good opinion, especially now I know that my interest and my wishes have not the slightest effect upon you." Frieda walked resolutely away. Several minutes after her departure Jack continued standing in the same spot. Frieda had opened her eyes. She had been thinking that she was still uncertain of her decision and now knew that unconsciously her mind was made up. She intended to accept the nomination which had been offered her and to do everything in her power honestly to win the election. Returning to Wyoming where she had lived as a child and young girl, she had confided to Jim Colter that she must look for some new and absorbing task to fill her life now that her married life was over. What this interest would be she had not then conceived. What it might be in the future was still uncertain. Yet the next step lay straight ahead. Never in all their lives had she and Frieda had so serious a difference of opinion, and Frieda's words and manner had hurt more than anything that had happened since her return to the security of her former home. She could only hope that Frieda would relent, that Professor Russell would use his influence in her favor. Nevertheless, although frequently led by Frieda in small matters, on this occasion she had not been in the slightest degree affected. This was a big decision which she faced, a decision in which Frieda had but scant right to interfere. Of course she must allow for prejudice, certain suggestions which her sister had put forward had made her wince more than she cared to show. But over and against the small things was there not the one big opportunity that she might serve both her country and other women if she did not fail too completely in the work which might or might not lie ahead? Then in a boyish fashion wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, Jack laughed. "Oh, Frieda will probably forgive me if I make a success, never if I am a failure! People forgive nearly everything to success." "Jimmie," she called a little later, running around the side of the lodge where her small son was engaged in playing with a magnificent St. Bernard dog which had been a recent gift from Jim Colter, "won't you go up into the woods behind the Rainbow creek with me and spend the day? We will take our lunch and I'll take my rifle. I don't believe there are many animals left in our woods these days, but there used to be years ago and at least we can play at being pioneers." But Jack and Jimmie were not to escape so easily. Opening the gate which led from the front yard half an hour later, they came face to face with Jean Merritt and Olive MacDonnell. "Trying to run away into your beloved outdoors in the usual fashion, Jack?" Olive said, smiling. "Well, you may go after a while, but Jean and I wish to talk to you first." "Please don't," Jack murmured, slipping a hand into the hand of the two other original Rainbow ranch girls. "Frieda has already reduced me to tears by overmuch conversation this morning. One could scarcely describe the conversation as argument, as I was allowed to say nothing. Oh, I know, Olive, that you and Jean will not be so obdurate as Frieda and will allow me a point of view on the subject, but just the same, spare me, because I have made up my mind, provided Jim Colter does not positively refuse his consent. I shall not go against Jim's command, although I may against his wish. Otherwise I mean to accept the nomination, poor, uneducated, inefficient, stupid female person that I am and ever must remain." "Jack, you have _one_ member of your family who will stand by you whatever comes, as you have stood by me in the past year," Jean Merritt announced. "I have not said a great deal while the rest of the family has been doing so much talking and yet I believe I am glad of your decision. I know one is prejudiced against the idea, not so much of women in politics as of a young woman like you, Jack, who is so beautiful and charming and sincere and one who happens to be so near one's own affections. I suppose disagreeable things will be said of you, yet I know of few women so brave and so straightforward, or better able to bear calumny. And I don't see why people think that marriage always protects a woman from unhappiness; it has not protected me." Jean rarely spoke of her own sorrow and only in moments of the deepest emotion, so that Olive and Jack both flinched at the close of her little speech, and temporarily at least Jack's problem took second place. In more than a year, since Ralph Merritt's departure to act as mining engineer in a gold mine in New Mexico, no human being who had ever known him before had laid eyes upon him. In all the time since, no word had arrived of his mysterious disappearance from the mine, and no word had ever been received from him addressed either to Jean or to any one of his family or friends. Utterly and completely he had vanished. Months had been spent by Professor Russell in investigating his whereabouts, every clue had been followed, yet from the moment Ralph was known to have gone into his own tent to lie down until the present, no other news of him had been unearthed. "I still have faith that things will adjust themselves for you some day, Jean, I don't know exactly why. I appreciate I have no possible evidence to support the idea, but I have always believed and do still believe that Ralph will come back some day and be able to explain the mystery of his disappearance." Jack gave Jean's hand a tight squeeze. "Jean, it does help a lot to have you say you will stand by me. I may be brave to-day, but to-morrow I shall probably turn coward. Olive, what about you and Bryan?" Olive let go her friend's hand and did not answer for a moment. She was always quieter and more reserved in her manner than the other Rainbow ranch girls. "Bryan and I talked over your possible decision until after midnight, Jack. Bryan argued you would accept, I argued you would not. Bryan seems to have known you best. He says you are made of the right material for what you are to undertake. Yet he dreads it all for you as much as I do, the fatigue, the misunderstanding. It seems impossible to me, Jack, as you must appreciate, and yet you and I are wholly unlike. But I believe you are the most courageous woman I have ever known, just as you were the most courageous girl. One thing Bryan wanted me to say both for him and for me. He believes you will not care for the notoriety, not even for the fame, if it should come to you, but only for the opportunity. And he and I both want you to understand that we will do _everything_ in our power to help you, whatever course you may pursue. You see, dear, Bryan insists I feel toward you like the old axiom, 'My country, right or wrong, but still my country.' However, I told him the old axiom was not only stupid but wrong. One's country must be right, and so must your choice be." "Hero worship, or rather heroine worship," Jean remonstrated. "Olive had that same absurd attitude toward you as a girl, didn't she, Jack? So small wonder you think you are a sufficiently important person to be nominated for the Congress of the United States! But don't let us keep you any longer from your beloved woods. Jimmie evidently does not know the poem about the small boy: 'Who was never bad, but always good, who never wriggled, but always stood.' So good-by and a happy day." "You'll tell Jim to come in to speak to me before he goes to bed," Jack called back over her shoulder, as she and Jimmie started off together. "I must send word in the morning what my decision is and so I must see Jim first." After a day in the woods Jack was undressing for bed, having decided that it was too late to expect Jim Colter, so she must try to get hold of him before he left home next morning, when she heard a familiar whistle. "I'll be down in a minute, Jim," she called, thrusting her head out the open window. "Will you come in? The door is open." "No, I'll wait out here," came the answer back. "Don't dress, I shall only stay a moment. Some business detained me." A little later, with her hair in two gold braids and holding a violet dressing gown close about her, Jack faced the real test of the long day. "May I, or may I not, Jim?" she demanded. Jim Colter shook his head. "You are a full grown woman, Jacqueline Kent, not a child, not even a very young girl. Not that I remember having reached decisions for you even in those days." "Which means I was always obstinate, Jim." "Always a bit obstinate, Jack." "But I am not obstinate to-night, Jim Colter, and I won't if you say no." Jim shook his iron-gray head. "I shall not say no, Jack; you must decide as you think best." "And if I go wrong you'll help me meet the consequences, even though you would rather I chose the other way?" "So help me, yes, Jack Kent." "All right, Jim, unless you forbid me, I have decided. If I am elected, and in ninety-nine chances in a hundred I won't be, do you suppose I will have to spend the greater part of my time away from the old ranch?" CHAPTER XIII THE CAMPAIGN A few weeks later, had Jacqueline Kent been altogether outspoken, there were many hours when she would have confessed her regret at not having obeyed her sister Frieda's command. One could hardly describe Frieda's attitude otherwise. Certainly Jack had not been able to imagine the degree of excitement and controversy aroused by the simple fact that a comparatively unknown young woman had been nominated for membership in the Congress of the United States. If it were in her power and the power of the men and women voters supporting her she intended to be elected. Nevertheless, Jack had not understood either the amount or the character of work that would be required of her personally to accomplish this result. In the past electioneering had appeared as a fairly amusing pastime. Living in England, she had often seen Englishwomen engaged in it. They had not at that time been electioneering for themselves, but for their husbands or brothers, fathers or friends. Their method had been to drive about from one village to another talking to the village people and asking their support, or else stopping to argue or plead with the passers-by along the country roads. At big political meetings, which men and women attended together, speeches were made and questions put to the speakers. In the past Jack had frequently accompanied her husband to these gatherings, where she had been greatly entertained. Then she had been a spectator with no personal rôle to fill. Now the situation was wholly changed. A curious fact, but in the United States, supposedly less conservative a country than England, the nomination of a woman for a high public office was creating a greater storm of protest and of indignation than had been aroused in England by the same act. True, Jack was not the first woman chosen for this same office in a western state. But the fact that the number should increase, many persons in Wyoming declared to be alarming. Now when Jack went to political gatherings, she found herself not only a center of attention and of controversy, but more often than not was compelled to make a speech. Never regarding herself as a good speaker, and always frightened, she never learned to enjoy the opportunity. Moreover, as Frieda had warned her and as she had not fully appreciated, there was hardly an issue of the daily papers in which some information or misinformation concerning her personal history did not appear. At first Jack refused to allow her photograph to be reproduced, insisting that people might wish to know what she thought and why she thought it, but certainly could have no interest in her appearance. Yet this was so absurd a position, as her friends and acquaintances agreed, that Jack was obliged to surrender. Afterwards she was forced to see photographs of herself, or at least what claimed to be photographs, in papers and magazines throughout the entire country, so that if ever she had possessed any personal vanity Jack considered that it would have been hopelessly lost. Now and then she used to carry the newspapers containing her pictures to members of her family, asking them if it were really true that she looked as the pictures indicated? Sometimes the family cruelly said the likeness was perfect and at others they were as annoyed as Jack herself. But she really did not enjoy the political meetings as she had expected, or the notoriety, or the personal enmity oftentimes directed toward her. Since the afternoon of her meeting with Peter Stevens by the Rainbow creek he had declined to do more than bow to her in public. The reason Jack did not fully comprehend. She had not intended to be frivolous or ungrateful concerning his proposal. She had not believed for a moment that he really cared for her. Peter was a confirmed old bachelor and always freely expressed himself as disapproving of her from the afternoon of their first re-meeting after many years. At the time she had been engaged in an escapade which had annoyed Peter Stevens almost as much as her present one. Peter had not resigned as her political opponent. The only remark he had made to Jack which was at all friendly was to say to her one day when they were passing each other on the street in Laramie, that the greatest kindness he could pay her was to defeat her in the present election. Yet notwithstanding all the worry and the work, Jack did not agree with him. She did not intend to be defeated. She meant to win, else why the struggle and the fatigue and, more often than she confessed, the heartache? Frieda had never forgiven her. This Jack had not at first believed possible, yet as the days passed Frieda did not relent. Instead she appeared more annoyed and more unyielding, continuing to insist Jack was disgracing not alone herself but her family by running for a political office as if she were a man. In fact, had it not been for her little girl, Jack feared that Frieda would have declined speaking to her. But Peace continued to adore her and Frieda would do nothing to frighten or grieve the child. The year or more spent at the ranch for the sake of the little girl's health had not been successful. Peace seemed to grow more ethereal, more fairylike with each passing day. She was like a spring flower, so fragile and delicate one feared the first harsh wind would destroy her. Yet if she were at all seriously ill, it was Jack she wanted, Jack who seemed able to give a part of her vitality to the child, when Frieda was oftentimes too frightened to be helpful. Therefore during the spring and summer of Jack's political campaign, if Frieda was not entirely estranged from her sister, it was only because Peace was occasionally ill and needed her. Moreover, Jack had to endure Jim Colter's regret. Little as Jack had known what experiences she would be forced to pass through in a political campaign, Jim apparently had known even less. Now, although he was not given to looking backward when no good could come of it, more than once he had been driven to confess to Jack that he wished to heaven he had opposed her acceptance of the political nomination with every bit of influence he possessed. Jack could see that it was agony to Jim to hear her name and character discussed as it had to be discussed were she to win enough popularity to elect her to office. Not that he talked to her upon the subject during the few evenings when they were at home and saw each other a short time alone. "You need a rest from the plagued thing, Jack, and so do I. To think that I actually agreed to allow one of my little Rainbow ranch girls to enter a campaign for office in Washington, D. C!" If Jim Colter had been speaking of a much worse place his tone could not have been drearier. However, what worried Jack even more was that Jim insisted upon accompanying her wherever and whenever she was forced to attend any kind of political meeting. For this purpose he was neglecting his own work on the two ranches, and growing older and more haggard, chiefly, Jack thought, through boredom and the effort to hold his temper. He did not always manage to keep his temper, however; on several occasions, although Jim never reported the fact, he came to blows over remarks he overheard. When Jack asked questions he simply declined to answer, and as Jim Colter was the one person in the world of whom Jacqueline Kent was afraid, she did not dare press the matter. Naturally Jack made enemies, as every human being does who enters political life, and she was unusually frank and outspoken with regard both to her principles and ideas. But there was one enemy she made whom both she and Jim Colter especially disliked and distrusted. He was a young man who had been employed as a private secretary by Senator Marshall and was helping to manage Peter Stevens' election to Congress. Senator Marshall had made a friendly call upon Jacqueline Kent at the time of her nomination, protesting in a fatherly fashion against her permitting herself to be put up as a candidate. Afterwards he declared he had the right to oppose her election in favor of Peter Stevens. This right Jack never disputed. Mrs. Marshall led the opposition against Jacqueline Kent among the conservative women in Wyoming. In fact, among her own family and her more intimate friends and acquaintances Jack possessed only three staunch and always enthusiastic supporters, her own small son, Jimmie Kent, who accompanied her to most of the day-time political meetings, Billy Preston, the young Kentucky mountaineer who after soldiering in France had decided to try his fate as a cowboy in Wyoming, and John Marshall, Senator Marshall's son. Billy Preston assured Jack that he was making it his business to see that every cowboy in Wyoming voted for her. John Marshall declared that he proposed showing his father who had the greater influence in the state. He protested that his father had lost all chivalry by assisting a man when a woman was his opponent. If he would not descend to the tactics employed by Alec Robertson, his father's secretary and Peter Stevens' campaign manager, nevertheless, he was backing Mrs. Kent to win against all odds. "The boy is falling in love with Jacqueline Kent, I am afraid, my dear, as he has never showed the slightest interest in politics in his entire life until recently," Senator Marshall confided to his wife toward the latter part of the summer. "Nonsense, Mrs. Kent is older than John, and is not an especially attractive woman!" And although Senator Marshall did not agree with his wife, he pretended to accept her opinion. CHAPTER XIV IN THE THICK OF THE FIGHT "But I do think it would be wiser of you not to be present, not this afternoon. I could take a message saying you were not well." Jack laughed. "Yet the fact is I am perfectly well, John Marshall, and besides I am not a coward, or at least if I am a coward there are other things of which I am more afraid." Jacqueline Kent and her neighbor, John Marshall, were having an early luncheon on the front porch of the Rainbow Lodge upon a fairly warm day. Jack, however, appeared to be dressed for a journey. She was wearing a seal brown tailored suit and a light chiffon blouse. Her hat and gloves were lying on the railing of the veranda. "Besides," she added lightly, "I do not believe anything uncomfortable will happen. The story has been spread abroad merely because I am a woman and am supposed to be easily frightened." As luncheon was over, with a little nod for permission, John Marshall arose and began walking up and down the porch. "You may be right, of course, and yet I confess I feel nervous. It is nonsensical that so much excitement has been aroused by this campaign, makes one think perhaps we are less civilized than we thought we were! I myself believe there won't be any actual rumpus. But I would not be surprised if a few ruffians, hired for the occasion, do try to interrupt your speech by making a lot of noise. I must say I am surprised that Peter Stevens allows such tactics to be employed against an opponent, especially a girl who had been his friend." Jack shook her head. "Peter Stevens says that the kindest thing he can do for me is to defeat me, and sometimes I think perhaps he is right. So from that viewpoint he does not consider it makes any difference what methods he uses. However, I am not so sure Peter himself knows everything that is going on. He may or he may not. He does not come to the meetings of my supporters and friends and I suppose his manager, Mr. Robertson, does not tell him everything that takes place. But please do not confide to any member of my family, if you should see one of them before we leave, what you have just told to me. You probably won't see any one. They are too worn out and bored to pay attention these days to my goings out or my comings in. My sister scarcely speaks to me and the remainder of the family are busy with their own affairs. Fortunately for me, Mr. Colter is away for several days on business. But to show you I really don't think there is going to be any disturbance this afternoon, I am going to take Jimmie along with me to the meeting as usual. Poor Jimmie, he is dreadfully tired hearing me talk, and yet seems to have an instinctive feeling that he has to stay by and look after me. You have pretty much the same feeling, haven't you, and I want you to know I am extremely grateful," Jack added. "I'll go now and find Jimmie, as we ought to start in a few moments if we are to be on time." "Very well," John Marshall returned. "But if you don't mind I'll ride down to the ranch house first. I want to speak to Billy Preston. He telephoned I would find him at about lunch time." Jack frowned for an instant and then nodded agreement. She guessed that her two young men friends were to discuss the self-same news that John Marshall had just repeated to her. It seemed unnecessary, still she did not feel that she had the right to object. The word John Marshall had brought was that an effort was to be made to break up the meeting at which she was to speak during the afternoon. The meeting was to occur in a fairly large sized village not far away in which she was supposed to have but few friends. The village was one of the manufacturing towns in the state, and her friends were among the ranchmen. But Jack honestly did not believe any serious outbreak would occur. She was not always foolhardy, although this was occasionally one of her weaknesses of character; she simply thought this afternoon that an effort was being made to frighten her away. Afterwards it would be easy to say that a woman candidate to an important political office who could be so easily frightened should hardly be entrusted with the service of the state. Within half an hour, John Marshall having returned, he and Jack and Jimmie and the chauffeur were motoring toward the desired destination. "Billy Preston will be at the meeting with a few of the cowboys from the Rainbow ranch and from a few of the other ranches in this neighborhood, so if there _is_ trouble there will be some people on _our_ side," John Marshall insisted with boyish satisfaction when the car had taken them several miles from the lodge. "What?" Jack clutched her companion's sleeve for an instant, her voice and manner for the first time revealing alarm. "You don't mean you and Billy Preston have actually made arrangements for a difficulty. I did not think there could be one simply because an effort might be made to make me stop talking. I can do that readily enough and I intend to stop if any trouble begins. Now I think I had better give up after all and go back home. John, you were foolish." "You can't go back now, it is too late," the young man argued. "The crowd will already have started to the meeting and if you don't turn up and they are disappointed it may lose you heaps of votes. And it is going to be pretty close if you do win. Everybody says it depends upon your personality and good sense and your magnetism. You have got to win people over and to make them forget the prejudice against you. You have got to show them that you have been studying this whole question of government and really know a thing or two. Funny to be calling yourself an 'Independent' and belonging to no old-time political party. I don't know whether the idea is a good one or a bad one. But don't be worried about Billy Preston and his little party. There won't be more than a dozen in all and Billy has promised they won't make as much noise as a whisper if things go well and the game is a straight one." Shaking her head, Jack glanced nervously at Jimmie. "But suppose they don't go well? I shan't even begin to make a speech, John Marshall, until you promise me on your word of honor that you will see Billy Preston and tell him from me that he and my other friends are to say nothing and do nothing, whatever takes place. If there is any difficulty Jimmie and I will quietly come out and climb into our car and start back to the ranch. And if my speech is no better than they usually are, I cannot feel that the audience will be deeply disappointed." "Very well, I promise," the young man answered. The frame building where she was to speak, a rough one-story shack, sometimes employed for revivals, was larger than any hall in which Jacqueline Kent had ever attempted talking before. As she stepped up on the platform she found that her audience was also larger than the ones to which she had tried to grow accustomed in these last few months. But the people were quietly seated and there appeared no unusual excitement or confusion. Gratefully Jack observed that the larger number were women. The men were at the back toward the rear of the hall. There were to be no other speakers during the afternoon, so as soon as she had been introduced Jack began her speech. From the beginning she was fearful that she was going to interest this audience even less than she believed she interested most audiences. And in her heart of hearts Jack was always puzzled why anyone should be influenced by what she had to say. [Illustration: NOT A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS, BUT OF UGLY, EVIL-SMELLING WEEDS AND TIED WITH A RAG INSTEAD OF A RIBBON] Her causes were to increase the size and number of the ranches in Wyoming, increase the number of the livestock, and bring the producers of food and the consumers closer together. She frankly stated at all times that she was not interested in politics. She simply wanted the chance to make human beings happier by giving them the kind of government they desired and ought to have. "I am afraid you will have some difficulty in hearing me," Jack stated, "but that need not trouble you as much as it does me, because after all you will not have lost a great deal. There are a good many reasons why it is harder for a woman to be a candidate for an office than a man, and I suppose having to make speeches is one of the hardest." "Louder!" some one shouted at the back of the building. Jack tried again. "Louder!" the voice repeated. "How do you think you are going to make yourself heard in Washington if you can't be heard here?" The joke was at her expense and Jack laughed good-naturedly. "Ain't going to make any difference, she ain't never going to get there," another man shouted. "Perhaps not, but I am going _to try_," Jack answered, still with entire good nature. But she flinched unconsciously at this instant and stepped backward. A large bouquet had been thrown directly at her, not a bouquet of flowers, but of ugly, evil-smelling weeds and tied with a rag instead of a ribbon. As it fell several feet away from her, Jack soon continued her speech as if she had not noticed what had occurred. "Shame! Put him out!" some one interrupted. "Please don't. It is not important," Jack replied. Yet if her manner failed to reveal the fact, she was nervous. By turning her head she could see Jimmie seated upon the platform beside the principal of the public school, who had just introduced her to the audience. Jimmie had jumped up indignantly when the bunch of weeds fell beside her, but had been persuaded to sit down again. The persons in the rear of the building were undoubtedly becoming noisier. Jack flushed so hotly that the tears came into her eyes and her cheeks were flaming. Never had she been treated with anything like this discourtesy before. Evidently she was not to be allowed to make a speech, scarcely to begin one. Swiftly Jack thought of Jim Colter, of his anger and disgust should he behold her in such a plight. She had not expected this nor anything like it. There was scuffling now in the rear of the building, as well as shouting among her audience. Jack suffered a feminine desire to weep over the unkindness and the humiliation of her present situation, yet she was not in the least afraid. At no time in her life was Jack ever a physical coward. The uproar continued, growing greater. Women were crying out in terror. Yet Jack Kent stood her ground. Quietly, as if nothing were happening and in spite of her humiliation, knowing that no one could hear, she went on with her speech. Jimmie had come and was now standing beside her, holding tightly to her hand. "It's a shame! She is so young and pretty and is not half the coward any man is who doesn't give her a fair show!" a woman shouted in a voice which chanced to be heard. The next moment Jack felt a hand placed on her elbow. "Please come away. It is as I feared; they don't mean to hear you," John Marshall urged. Jack shook her head. "No, I'll stay till I finish." It was an autumn afternoon and unexpectedly a storm had broken. Outside were flashes of lightning and the rain beating against the small windows. In the building some one suddenly switched off the electric lights, and before they were switched on again there was an uproar that was deafening. "For Jimmie's sake you must get away," John Marshall insisted. "Very well, for Jimmie's sake I do give up," Jack returned, "but for goodness' sake don't think either of us is afraid." Drawing back from her companions Jack again went to the edge of the platform. "You won't listen to me this afternoon, and I don't want to make anybody uncomfortable or frightened by going on with my speech in the midst of so much noise, nevertheless I am coming back some other afternoon to try again, so good-by to my friends, and I trust my enemies may have better manners next time." There was a little burst of applause from the spectators who could hear, and immediately after Jack, Jimmie and John Marshall slipped away. The car was waiting at the back of the building with the starter already in action. Before Jack was able to realize exactly what was taking place she was several miles on the journey home toward the Rainbow ranch. "Do you suppose things quieted down as soon as I disappeared?" Jack inquired. "You were right, I should not have gone. I wish I were not one of the most hard-headed people in the world. After all, I don't suppose women do belong in political life. I hope there may not be any serious trouble over me." "But you were awfully game, Mrs. Kent," John Marshall replied, "and I'm not so sure women don't belong in politics to keep things like this afternoon's proceedings from happening." It was not six o'clock when Jack and her companions arrived safely at the Rainbow lodge. John Marshall had too much good sense to come in, in answer to Jack's invitation. Personally, as soon as she got indoors Jack felt she never had been so tired in her life. After undressing and putting on a house dress she lay down in the hammock and remained there, eating her dinner on a small table with Jimmie seated beside her. When Jimmie had gone to bed, still she did not stir. At about eight o'clock, however, she arose and picked up a white crêpe shawl, winding it about her, as it was growing cooler. She intended walking over to the big house before she finally went to bed. No member of her family had been near her all day and it was strange that she had seen and heard nothing of Olive or Jean. Frieda never came down to the Rainbow lodge any more unless she were obliged to come. Yet the family must know of her intended speech that afternoon, although they discussed her affairs as little as possible. At least she could hope they would never hear of the scene that afternoon in which she had been obliged to appear as a central figure. Especially she hoped Jim Colter would never hear. In fact, Jack wanted to see her family before trying to sleep that night. She believed she was still both too excited and too tired to sleep for several hours. Moreover, she wanted to find out if Jim had returned home and if not when he might be expected. She must see Billy Preston the first thing in the morning and beg him to use his influence with the other cowboys never to mention to Jim what had occurred during the afternoon. CHAPTER XV CONSEQUENCES Jack found the veranda of the big house deserted, which was most unusual at this hour of the evening. Only a dim light was burning in the drawing-room. But the front door was open and she walked in without knocking or calling. Undoubtedly there was a subdued atmosphere about the place. Not yet half-past eight, so surely not all the family could be in bed. At this hour one could at least count upon finding the two oldest of the four new Rainbow ranch girls, Lina and Jeannette. Lina was extremely studious and given to doing a great deal of reading at odd hours. She bore no resemblance to the oldest of the four original Ranch girls, but was like her mother. Ordinarily one could find her in the library at this time, when she could count upon being fairly undisturbed. Jack went from the drawing-room to the library on the left side of the house. If not Lina, Professor Russell might be discovered there. He and Jim Colter's oldest daughter had developed a shy friendship from the fact that they often remained together in the big room reading for hours without speaking or disturbing each other. But to-night there was not even a dim light in the library. At the foot of the stairs Jack waited, puzzled and frowning for an instant. Then she called softly, "Jean, Jean, what has become of everybody? Certainly you cannot all be asleep!" As no answer followed, Jack started up the stairs. After having gone a few steps she called a second time. Instead of Jean, however, Frieda appeared. "Please don't make any noise," she admonished, "Peace is ill." Jack ran up swiftly to where her sister was standing. "How long has she been ill and why haven't you let me know?" With a slight gesture of nervous irritability the younger of the two sisters drew away. "Since yesterday, but not seriously so until to-day." "Then why didn't you let me hear this morning? No member of my family has been near me all day. Do the others know?" Frieda nodded. "Yes, but I thought it best not to disturb _you_ with the news. You are fond of Peace, I suppose, even if you do prefer a public career to the affection of your family. I knew, of course, that you were going somewhere this afternoon to address an audience and I thought you would wish not to have anything interfere even mentally with your speech." "I see," Jack answered, with her usual gentleness and good temper. She was wounded, but Frieda's attitude toward her had been like this for some time, and to-night, when she appreciated that her sister was especially troubled, was scarcely the moment to refer to their differences. "Of course I should have preferred to know. Is Peace very ill?" Frieda shook her head. "No, not at present, but I am uneasy and we have sent for a nurse." "Won't you let some of the other little girls come down to the lodge and stay with me?" A second time Frieda shook her head. "No, they have gone to Olive. Jean has gone with them. You know Olive and Captain MacDonnell have an extra sleeping tent and I thought it best you should not be annoyed by them either." This time Jack was unable wholly to restrain herself. "Why should I have been annoyed, Frieda? I am not so impossible a person, am I? And the work I have been trying to do lately, even if you do disapprove of it, has not turned me into an ogre. But I won't worry you to-night, although I do believe, Frieda, you really intend to be unkind. Has Jim come back? I have not seen him for several days and if he is at home and not busy I thought perhaps he would walk back to the lodge with me." Never in her life from the time she was a small girl had Frieda accepted reproof in an humble spirit, except under a few and very exceptional circumstances. The truth was that she had been spoiled all her days, first because she was the youngest of the four Rainbow ranch girls, her mother having died when she was little more than a baby, and later by her husband, who was a good deal her senior. Now in spite of her sister's long self-restraint, Frieda showed resentment. "It is your own fault and your own choice, Jack, that you no longer seem one of us as you did in the past. You can't have everything, you know, be a public character and a----" "And a human being? I think you are mistaken, dear. I am very far from being a 'public character' as you express it, and I don't like the expression. Yet it seems to me that the celebrated women I have read about or known have been rather more human than most people, and not in the least anxious to be discarded by their families because they have found other things to occupy them outside of domestic life. I'll see you in the morning. Is Jim in his room, or has he gone with Jean and the little girls?" Frieda frowned. "Jim has not come back and that is another thing that is worrying us, although not a great deal. He wrote to say that he would return home this afternoon before dinner and we waited dinner for him an hour. But no word and no Jim. I suppose it is foolish to be uneasy, but Jim so rarely breaks his word even in the smallest matters, and he might have telephoned. It would not be pleasant to have Jim disappear as Ralph Merritt has, would it? It is funny, but now we are grown up, we seem to depend upon Jim as our guardian as much as we ever did. I don't see how we could get on without him." Frieda ended her remarks without any special significance; nevertheless, her last few words continued to repeat themselves in Jacqueline Kent's mind during her walk back to the lodge. The storm of the afternoon had passed over and it was turning a good deal colder. Jack was not ordinarily impressionable and yet it seemed to her that to-night the sky possessed a peculiar hard brilliance, as if the mood of the outside world and the persons she loved were both harsh and unsympathetic. Even Jean and Olive had not been near her in twenty-four hours, and if they should pretend they were trying to spare her, she knew that in former times they would not have wished to keep her shut out either from their happiness or sorrow. Jim Colter would be different. Never at any moment in her life could Jack recall that he had been either harsh or unsympathetic, although stern he might be and had been when he thought it necessary. How infinitely kind he had been concerning this latest adventure of hers, regardless of his own disapproval. About her difficulty of the afternoon he must never hear if she could keep the news from him. Yet of course if he had to know, Jack felt she would prefer to describe the situation herself, making as light of it as possible. All of her family and friends would be angry should they learn of it, even if some of them believed she deserved what she had received. But Jim would take the matter far more to heart. How stupid of Frieda to talk of their ever having to get on without Jim Colter's guardianship! In any case it could not mean so much to Frieda, who had her devoted if eccentric husband always at her service. Besides, Frieda and Jim had never been devoted friends. Jim had cared for Frieda, of course, as her guardian and for Jean and Olive, but the other Rainbow ranch girls had never shared his interests and tastes as she had done. Jack drew her shawl more closely about her and started to run toward home. She was feeling uncommonly forlorn and depressed. Yet surely the day had been a sufficiently trying one to depress almost any human being! The following morning Jacqueline was in the act of dressing when she heard Jean's voice calling her from below. "Jack, hurry, will you, and come up to the big house. Peace is ever so much worse and the news has just reached us that Jim was hurt yesterday afternoon. No one understands exactly what has happened. Billy Preston telephoned, saying he was with Jim and would remain with him. We are not to go to him for the present. I answered the telephone myself and tried my best to find out how badly Jim was hurt. Billy says he was not run over and had not had a fall, only there had been some kind of an accident. He would not say what kind and I guessed by his voice that he was not telling all the truth." "I'll be with you in half a moment if you'll wait for me, Jean," responded Jack. A little later she joined Jean. "I wonder if you can tell me the name of the town where Jim was hurt yesterday?" she asked. "Surely Billy Preston told you as much as that! I must go to him of course." The name of the town was what she had expected to be told. It was the village where she had attempted making a speech the afternoon before and been interrupted. Jim must have known of her plans and also learned of what might take place. How like him to have gone quietly to her protection without letting her hear of his presence! Yet in what way had he been hurt and how serious was his injury? Whatever other consequences she might hope to escape, for Jim's hurt she was entirely responsible. Whatever Frieda might say of her selfish interest in her own future, of her desire for a career outside her own home and family, she would never be able to deny that Jim Colter had suffered because of her. "Will you see that a car is ready for me immediately, please, Jean. I won't come back to the lodge. Jim will want me if anyone and I have the first right to go to him, because I am responsible." Jean was scarcely listening. "You won't be able to leave just now, Jack. After all Frieda's antagonism toward you she has been begging to have you come to her since dawn. You seem to be the only person she wants." Jean nodded. "There is only one hope. The doctor means to try a transfusion of blood. I don't know from whom. We have all offered." "Oh, Jean," Jack's voice shook, "I am the one person who will be best. I am stronger than any one else and Peace has always responded to my vitality. Yet if I am chosen I can't go to Jim." "The choice is pretty hard, Jack. If you can not go Olive and Captain MacDonnell and I will. And some one will come back with the news as soon as possible. Yet you may not be the one." However, as Jean Merritt looked at her cousin she had little doubt. In spite of the fatigue and chagrin of the day before, even of her anxious night, Jack walked with the swinging grace of perfect health and poise. At this moment of dreadful double anxiety, harder upon her than any one save Frieda, she was for the time when the need was greatest, perfectly self-controlled. No one had ever seen Jack break down until the moment for action had passed. "It is because I have been so unkind to you, Jack darling, _this_ is my punishment," Frieda confessed brokenly, meeting her sister outside Peace's door. "But I have wanted to make up more times than you can dream, only I am so dreadfully spoiled and do so hate to give in, and I have despised your running for a public office chiefly I suppose because I realized it would separate us. Peace won't know you." Two hours later Frieda and Jack were in Frieda's bedroom, Jack undressed and in a loose white wrapper, her hair braided in two heavy braids. "Now you must not be a goose, Frieda, dear," she expostulated. "I am not in the least danger from the blood transfusion, as the doctor has just told you. I may be laid up for a little while afterwards, perhaps not long. And there are many chances that Peace will get better at once. You know how glad I am of the opportunity to help. What is the use of being a healthy person if one cannot be useful." "But, Jack, you may be more exhausted than you dream. You may be forced to give up your political work for several weeks. And Henry said only yesterday that these were the most important weeks of all, if you are to be elected. At the very last people will probably have made up their minds one way or the other." "Oh, well, perhaps the question of my election is not so important to me as you may think, Frieda. In any case it does not count the tiniest little bit in comparison with either you or Peace, now that you actually need me. When I accepted the nomination for Congress I did not know that anybody needed me especially except Jimmie. I thought perhaps I was freer than most women." Jack was talking to distract Frieda, who had not been told of Jim Colter's injury and so did not realize the extent of the sacrifice her sister was making. CHAPTER XVI THE ELECTION "When do you think we will hear, Jack?" "Toward late evening, Jim. At least I was told that at about eight o'clock a fairly good guess could be made. But suppose we don't talk of it. Let me read to you." Jim Colter, who was lying on a couch in a large sunny, empty room moved a little impatiently. "If you lose the election, Jack, it will be because of the demands we have all made upon you in these last weeks. You had nothing much to go upon but your personality, your chance of pleasing people and convincing them of your sincerity, and here you have been shut up at the Rainbow ranch for weeks. It has not been in the least necessary for you to take care of me, any one of the girls could have looked after me equally well. You are not a born nurse, Jack, as the saying goes. So when you recovered and I was safe at home you should have gone on with your election campaign." "Really, Jim, 'ingratitude, more fierce than traitors' arms, quite vanquished him,' or her, in this case. If I'm not a 'born nurse' you don't dare say that of late I have not become a cultivated one. Moreover, if the other girls could have taken equally good care of you, please remember that they have been doing their share, they and every member of this household! Do you suppose a man can continue in perfect health for as many years as you have and then in case of illness not require a regiment of nurses to look after him? But confess, if I am not a good nurse, you can growl more successfully at me than at any one else." "Am I growling, Jack? Perhaps I do pretty often, but at present it is because I regret so deeply that you have to devote yourself first to Frieda and Peace and afterwards to me, when you have needed all your time and energy for your political work. If you are defeated I shall always feel responsible." "Vain of you, don't you think?" Jack answered. "Besides, Jim Colter, you are well enough now for us to talk of something that I have been thinking of for a long time. Never have you confessed to me or to any one else, so far as I know, how in the world you happened to be so seriously hurt. In the first place, what brought you to town on that especial afternoon when you were supposed to be miles away attending to some business connected with the ranch? Then arriving there, how did you manage to get into the midst of a rough-and-tumble fight? Billy Preston did tell me this much. But I presume you must have ordered him to keep quiet, else he would not have been so non-committal." Jim Colter stared at the opposite wall rather than toward the figure of the girl sitting near him, or through either of the two large windows with wide outlooks over the Rainbow ranch. It was mid-afternoon of an early autumn day with a faint haze in the air, unusual in the prairie country. "I don't believe I feel equal to talking, Jack, not just at present, or for any length of time," he answered a trifle uneasily. "Perhaps I'd better try to sleep." "Very well," Jacqueline Kent agreed, smiling and at the same time with a serious expression in her eyes. "But, Jim, when you wake you might as well decide to tell me the truth. Don't you suppose I have guessed the greater part of it?" There was a silence for some time in the big room, Jim Colter closing his eyes, Jack staring out the window at the familiar scenes she loved. By and by, when he did not believe she was aware of what he was doing, Jim opened his eyes and stared at his companion's profile. Jack looked more fatigued than he often remembered to have seen her; she had less color, less her old suggestion of vitality. There were circles under her eyes, little hollows in her cheeks. Yet she did not look ill and one could scarcely marvel at the change in her after the past trying months, first the strain of her effort at electioneering on her own behalf, and more recently the tax which he and Frieda's little girl had put upon her. If she were elected to Congress would she ever be the old-time Jack again? Jim Colter had to suppress a sigh of dissatisfaction over the thought, which may have sounded more like a groan. To think of Jack with her youth and charm shut up within the Legislative halls in Washington was not only an absurdity, but something far worse! Well, of course if caught by a wave of enthusiasm and desire for change, Jack should be elected to the United States Congress he must arrange to spend part of the year with her. The two older of the new little Ranch girls must go to school and Jean Merritt would look after the others. The Rainbow ranch and his own adjoining ranch would have to be turned over to one of his assistants, since Jack would need him more than any other person or any other thing. Then Jim Colter closed his eyes. Would she actually need him more, or was it because he cared more for her need than for any possible human demand that could be made upon him? Always he had been tremendously fond of Jack, unhesitatingly more fond of her than of the other three Ranch girls in her gallant but wilful girlhood. Now, since his own loss and hers, and since Jack's return to the Rainbow ranch, surely there was no point in denying to himself that the affection which held him to her was stronger than ever, stronger than any other emotion in his life. "Jim, you are not asleep, you are only pretending," Jack said suddenly. "Now tell me, didn't you go over to the village on the day you were hurt because you heard I was to make a speech and there might be trouble? And didn't you arrive so late you felt it best not to tell me to go home, because I had already started to speak? And after the rumpus began and Jimmie and I were safely on the way home didn't you try to find out who was responsible for the discourtesy to me? Afterwards what happened, Jim? "Jack, I suppose I forgot a good many things I should have remembered, first and foremost that I did not wish you made conspicuous and that I was older than I used to be, and that I ought by this time to have learned to control my temper." "Yes, but Billy Preston declares that when he arrived you seemed to have half a dozen persons against you and that you were managing pretty well. It was disgraceful of you, Jim; you who have been preaching for as many years as I can remember that there was to be no fighting on the Rainbow ranch for any cause whatsoever and that no excuse would be accepted by you as a justifiable one. What influence do you suppose your sermons will now have among the cowboys? As for making me conspicuous, it seems rather a funny thing that neither you nor I recognized that running for a public office is apt to make one conspicuous. One can hardly vote for a person one has never heard of." Jim sighed. "Yes, you are right, Jack, but it is too late now to discuss this side of the situation. If you are elected it won't be any better; sure to be worse, in fact. I suppose you realize that if you live in Washington the greater part of the year, you'll have to bear with my society most of the time." Jacqueline Kent bit her lip for an instant and then shook her head. "Good of you to suggest it, Jim, but out of the question of course. Jimmie and I'll have to manage somehow, trusting members of the family will visit us now and then to see how we are getting on. But as for you, you are too much needed here at the ranch, besides having to look after the new little ranch girls. I could never accept the sacrifice." "Yes? But I don't see how you are going to prevent it, Jack," Jim answered abruptly and in a tone Jack had never contradicted in her life. Always Jim Colter had been the one person whose will was stronger than her own, even in the important matters in which she always felt she had the better right to judge. "Oh, well, we won't quarrel on the subject yet, Jim, because of course there are ninety-nine chances to one that I won't be elected. I must go now and dress for dinner. Here comes Professor Russell to sit with you. I'll come back later if I hear the returns to-night." A little after eight o'clock on this same evening, a group of Jacqueline Kent's friends, her own family, and Jacqueline herself, were standing talking together in the drawing-room of the big house; occasionally one or two of them disappeared to come back with the latest news of the election returns. Earlier in the afternoon the reports from the neighborhood districts had given a majority to the feminine candidate. Later, when the counting began to take place in the cities, there appeared a change in the results, with Peter Stevens leading. Then Jacqueline Kent's victory seemed assured by a sudden spurt in the figures giving her an important lead throughout the western portion of the state. "Do you think we will know to-night without doubt?" Frieda Russell inquired of John Marshall, who had driven over and had dinner with his friends at the Rainbow ranch. "One cannot be positive in any election until the next day, Mrs. Russell," he assured Frieda, "but I think between ten o'clock and midnight we can be pretty positive, at least that is the view my father takes, and he has been in politics nearly as long as I can remember. He told me to tell 'Jack' as he calls her, that he congratulates her whatever occurs, whether she is defeated or elected." "Well, I don't know what to hope," Frieda murmured. "For months I have been praying Jack would _not_ win, and now to-night I feel I may hate it if she is not elected. You know I shall also feel responsible in a way since so many of Jack's friends insist that her taking no part in the campaign during the last weeks has made such a difference." "Oh, that could not be helped! And sometimes I think, though I have done my best to help Mrs. Kent win, that she is too young and that an older and perhaps a different kind of woman might be more suitable. See, even after all she has been through, she looks like a young girl to-night. I don't believe she cares very much." Frieda glanced toward her sister, who was standing before the drawing-room fire laughing and talking to several friends and appearing less perturbed than she herself felt. Jack was paler than usual and there were circles under her eyes which Frieda knew were uncommon, notwithstanding her eyes and lips were both smiling. She wore a white serge dress trimmed with silver braid, her hair was slightly parted on one side and coiled low on her neck. "One cannot always tell how Jack feels, she is braver than most persons. Frankly, I don't know any more than you do how much she is interested in winning. I do think she scarcely realized what it meant when she was originally nominated. It isn't like Jack to turn back once she has started, although I believe she did find the publicity harder to bear than she anticipated. You see, an older person, or one who had had more experience in political life, would have understood, but Jack has lived in England for the past years. On her return home it appeared a wonderful experience to play some part in American politics, as the women are beginning to do in England. I don't think Jack realized she might not be fitted for a political career when other people began urging her forward." John Marshall laughed. "No, I don't feel she is unsuited to a great career, but it was of her personally I was thinking. If you'll excuse me for a few moments I will go to the telephone again. It is growing late and my father has promised to telephone me from headquarters at a little before ten o'clock. Even if he has been working for Peter Stevens because he wants a man to be elected rather than a woman, we can count on his figures being accurate." John Marshall disappeared. A quarter of an hour passed and he did not return. In the meantime three or four other persons went away to join him. The clock on the mantel was striking half-past ten when Jack herself heard the noise of a horse galloping toward the house. It was she who walked quietly to an already open window and stretched forth her hand to receive the telegram. "This telegram comes from Cheyenne, I suppose it will be official and we shall know the best or the worst," she announced. Then opening it she read aloud: "Victory conceded to Peter Stevens. Better luck next time." Afterwards, in the brief silence which followed, Frieda Russell burst into tears. "But, Frieda," Jack expostulated, slipping an arm about her sister and smiling as she faced the group of people gazing directly at her, "I thought you wanted me to be defeated. You have never wished for anything else." She turned to the others. "I can only say that I am deeply grateful for everybody's kindness, yet the voters of Wyoming probably have acted wisely. All women may not need longer preparation before holding public office, but I am afraid I do. Now if you will pardon me, I confess I am tired and would like to say good-night." Running swiftly upstairs, Jacqueline Kent paused for an instant outside her former guardian's door. She had been staying in the big house during his illness. "Is that you, Jack?" a voice asked instantly. "Well, what is the news?" "I was defeated, Jim. Peter Stevens is the next Congressman from Wyoming." "Well, Jack, I'd hate to tell you how glad I am. Are you very deeply disappointed?" "No, Jim, I am not. I believe I feel relieved. But please don't tell other people. Good-night." CHAPTER XVII THE HEART'S DESIRE "Mrs. Kent, there is some one down at the ranch house inquiring either for you or for Jim Colter. He will not give his name. Since you do not wish Mr. Colter to be disturbed I thought it best to bring the message to you. The man looks as if he had been ill for some time and his clothes are pretty shabby, but otherwise he seems all right." The man who was speaking was one of the new ranchmen on the Rainbow ranch whom Jacqueline Kent had lately employed. As Jim Colter had not recovered from his injury so rapidly as might have been expected, Jack had taken upon herself the entire management of the Rainbow ranch and was assisting with the management of the adjoining place, which belonged to Jim Colter. "Yes, thank you, I am glad you came to me; I'll ride down to the ranch house as soon as I can get away. I have some things that must be attended to first. You'll see that the man is properly cared for until I can get there." "Yes." Smiling after he had turned his back, the ranchman rode away. It suddenly had struck him that Mrs. Kent looked absurdly young for the responsibilities of her present position, but that they did not seem to trouble her in the least, in fact she appeared to enjoy them. Moreover, she was extremely popular with all he employees on the place, who would do a good deal to win her thanks. This morning Jack's costume was an extremely businesslike one, a dark brown corduroy riding habit with a short skirt and trousers and a fairly long coat. It was a cold morning in early December. She had not yet put on her hat and gloves, as she was waiting to consult with a neighboring ranchman in regard to the purchase of a thousand head of cattle. Jimmie had gone off to school an hour earlier with the four little new ranch girls and Jean's two daughters. These daily excursions to school were an annoyance to Jimmie and he would have preferred to have walked or ridden his pony instead of being driven in the family motor car with so many girls. However, as the school was five or six miles from the Rainbow ranch, this appeared one of the crosses he was forced to endure. Half an hour later, following a talk with her neighbor, Jacqueline Kent was on her way to the ranch house. A busy day lay ahead of her. First of all she had agreed to buy the cattle for the Rainbow ranch at the price offered, subject to Jim Colter's approval. But as Jim rarely interfered with her recent control of the ranch she did not expect him to object to her latest venture. In the afternoon, escorted by Billy Preston, whom she had promoted to being one of her chief assistants, she intended riding over to look at the cattle. In the meantime, beside her housekeeping, which was already finished for the day, she had to look at some fencing that needed repairing, consult with a veterinary surgeon concerning an injury to one of the finest mares on the ranch, and hear reports from several ranchmen who had charge of details of the work upon the place. Nevertheless, Jack felt extremely fit and not in the least perturbed by the number of her duties, as this was the character of outdoor life she had always loved and been trained to since her childhood. The question of the man who was waiting to see her at the ranch house did not particularly absorb her attention. Frequently of late men had wished to see her either to ask for employment on the Rainbow ranch or to discuss projects for new agricultural schemes to raise grains in greater abundance by a more scientific development of the soil. Moreover, there were always persons who insisted that the Rainbow gold mine could be made to yield a fresh output of gold by the application of new methods in mining. But at least Jack had nothing to do with the Rainbow mine, always referring any such enthusiasts to her scientific brother-in-law, Professor Russell, now that Jim Colter was taking a temporary rest from the affairs of the place, the first he had ever taken for as long as Jack had known him. Billy Preston was standing on the front porch of the ranch house in spite of the coldness of the day and as Jack rode up he came forward to help her dismount. "The fellow waiting to see you is rather a queer looking beggar, so I thought I'd hang round till you'd had a talk with him," Billy grinned boyishly. "We don't want another of the Rainbow ranch managers knocked out in a fight at present." "But I was knocked out in a fight, a big one, Billy Preston, by failing to be elected, and you have all been awfully good not to reproach me after taking such a lot of trouble in my behalf." "Oh, but we cowboys are glad you lost, though as long as we thought you wanted to win the boys on the Rainbow ranch and a good many other ranches were for you to the last man. No one of us really liked the idea of your either being elected or being licked. But now it can't be helped, it's kind of pleasanter to think of you just trying to run the old ranch." "Trying, Billy? But I thought I _was_ running it," Jack returned, "although I suppose you realize the men are still doing the work and trying to humor me at the same time. Well, it is kind of you and it is fun. Now show me my man and stand outside, Billy, to see nothing happens. But please remember you are an assistant ranch manager these days and hide that dreadful Kentucky mountain pistol." Inside the ranch house living-room, a crude enough place but bright and comfortable, there was a fire burning in the fireplace and a man sitting slumped before it in such a position that Jack upon entering the room could not see his face. He heard her, however, and got up and stumbled forward with both hands outstretched. "Ralph Merritt, but we thought you were lost forever, thought you were--" Jack hesitated and stopped an instant. "Why, we have sought for you all over the United States in every possible place and in every possible fashion! But you have been ill. Do sit down, you can't know how glad I am to see you. Don't try to talk to me, let us go first to Jean. It is cruel to keep her in ignorance another moment." Ralph Merritt shook his head. "No, Jack, I want to talk to _you_ first. I am glad it is you rather than Jim Colter. Then you can tell me what I should do next. I have been ill and in a strange way and so perhaps I need advice more than one usually does. I will sit down, if you don't mind and you'll be seated." It was one of Jacqueline Kent's good qualities that she did not talk when talking was unnecessary. Now she dropped into the nearest chair, opened her coat and took off her hat and gloves. "Try and tell me from the beginning if you can remember, Ralph. We have heard nothing of you or from you since the news that you appeared to have been slightly hurt at the mine in New Mexico and then disappeared." Ralph Merritt nodded. "I will try to tell as much as I can remember although it is remarkably little. I remember the fall at the mine and also that I did not seem to have been much hurt, only bruised and shaken up a bit and that my head ached a good deal from a blow I had received. I recall going into my own tent a little after dusk and lying down because my head ached. Then, you may not believe me, yet the truth is, I know of nothing else that has taken place in my life for over a year, nothing until a few months ago." "Yes, go on," Jack answered. "The blow on your head occasioned a loss of memory?" "A complete loss of memory. How I ever got my living in the meantime, whether I worked or whether I was cared for through other people's kindness I am not sure, except that I did work on a farm for a time and probably worked on others. I know this from some one who befriended me and partly guessed what my trouble was. Through this friend I was taken to a hospital and an operation performed and my memory partially restored. I now remember perfectly everything that took place before my injury, but nothing in the interval between then and now." "But that is not important, Ralph dear; perhaps it is better not to be able to recall what must have been days of suffering. The wonderful thing is now that you are alive and at home again, and with Jean and the little girls well and waiting for you." Ralph Merritt shook his head. "I am afraid returning in the plight I am in at present will not be a pleasant surprise for Jean. Remember I told you, Jack, that I would not come back until I had earned money enough to make Jean happier. I told her the same story. And I haven't the money, in fact I haven't even the chance of making it until I am stronger. So I want you to tell Jean for me that I am alive and care for her and the little girls as much as I ever did, and have not yet given up hope of accomplishing what she has a right to expect of me. Then if you'll tell me about the family I'll be off again. I'll write Jean, but I thought it might be best that you speak to her and explain what has occurred first." "I will do no such thing, Ralph Merritt," Jack returned more sharply than she was in the habit of speaking. "You'll see and talk to Jean yourself in a quarter of an hour. Don't you think Jean has had a long enough period of agony and suspense? The desire of her heart is to know you are alive. She asks for nothing else, has asked for nothing else all along. I do wish men were not so stupid. You always believe the wrong things girls and women say. Jean did care for wealth and position, most people do, but that is no reason to think that she did not always care more for you than anything or anybody else. I'll ride up to the big house this instant and try to prepare Jean a little for seeing you. But right away you are to follow me. If you are strong enough to ride horseback Billy Preston will saddle a horse and ride up with you." Jack was already up and half way to the door. "Don't be long. Jean already has been waiting a long time, and I shall tell her nothing except that you are here." "All right, Jack," Ralph Merritt answered and squared his shoulders, appearing fifty per cent more like his former self than before Jack had spoken. At eight o'clock that night Jacqueline Kent was walking up and down the front porch of the Rainbow lodge alone. There was a light snow falling outside and she had slipped on a fur coat, but her head was uncovered. At a little distance away she heard a familiar whistle. "Do hurry, Jim, I can't wait any longer," she called out. "You promised to come over immediately after dinner." "Yes, and I'm here," Jim returned, "dinner has not been over ten minutes at the big house, and please remember I am a semi-invalid and cannot walk with white hot speed. I can only report, 'all is well.' Jean and Ralph both appear extraordinarily happy and Ralph Merritt does not look so ill, not half so badly off as I do. I won't have the honor of being the family invalid taken from me. He and Jean expressed themselves as being disappointed at your not coming up to dinner, but I told them you wanted them to have the dinner to themselves, which they managed to have along with Professor Russell and Frieda and six small girls clamoring for attention beside your humble servant. You might have asked me to dine with you." "Why, I never thought of it, but then you would have if you had wished to anyhow. Besides, you should of course have been at home to welcome Ralph. I trust you told him right away that we were going to start work on the old Rainbow mine so Ralph can stay here at home and have something to do at the same time. I have decided on this; there must be gold enough in the old mine to pay expenses and to give Ralph a good salary, and otherwise it does not matter. Oh, Jim, please do come in out of the snow. I want to tell you also that I am going to buy a thousand new head of cattle for the Rainbow ranch. It is all right, isn't it?" "It is _not_, Jack. Rainbow ranch has all the cattle it can take care of at present. We have stocked up as far as we ought to go unless we can buy more land for grazing and raising grain, and I don't see any prospect of that in this immediate neighborhood." "But I have almost made a bargain for the cattle, Jim." "How far has the bargain gone?" "Oh, the agreement was not positive until I had consulted with you, but I thought I was being allowed to run the Rainbow ranch. Of course if you interfere with what I think best, why it is not managing the ranch at all." "But I never agreed to allow you to run the ranch into debt, Jack, and that is _what would_ happen if you have to pay for feed for a thousand new head of cattle this winter." In silence the man and girl continued to walk up and down the porch of the Rainbow lodge. "Want me to give up trying to manage the ranch, Jim? Now you are better, I suppose I am only a nuisance." "I want you to keep on if the work interests you and if you are willing to listen to my advice now and then. You have some ideas for running things that are considerably better than mine, but I have had a good deal longer experience." "All right, Jim, I am sorry," and Jack slipped her hand through her companion's arm. "Good gracious, what a hard-headed person I am and always have been, Jim Colter. I wonder if that is why life seems to find it necessary to give me so many knocks?" "Has it given you more than most people, Jack? Are you more disappointed over that wretched election than you have been willing to confess? If you like, go ahead and buy your cattle then. I only don't want you to lose money, because the ranch belongs to you girls and I suppose I always shall feel more or less responsible. If it were mine----" "I have no desire to lose the family money," said Jack, "and I am properly penitent. I even no longer _desire_ one thousand new cattle purchased for the Rainbow ranch." "But what do you desire then, Jacqueline Kent? Suppose just for an experiment you tell me your greatest desire. We were speaking on the subject at dinner to-night. Jean of course felt that she had received hers in Ralph's return. Frieda announced that she was in a fair way to be fully satisfied now Peace was growing strong and well and Professor Russell had succeeded in his latest scientific experiment, and also I am obliged to state that Frieda added the negative fact that she was particularly pleased that you had failed in your recent political enterprise." Jack laughed. "How exactly like Frieda! It is the things she has that she is grateful for and the mistakes I am not permitted to make because of her excellent advice. But don't worry over me, Jim, at present my greatest desire is to walk up and down the lodge porch with you and see the sky and the prairie beneath the stars and feel the damp sweetness of the wind with the little eddies of snow. What is your heart's desire, Jim Colter?" "To be always with you, Jack, I suppose," Jim Colter answered as unexpectedly to himself as to the girl beside him. His voice did not hold the light raillery of hers. "Queer ambition, isn't it, for a man old enough to be your father, who has been your father after a poor fashion! I don't know, Jack, I have not meant to tell you this, but I always have told you pretty much everything that was in my mind, and after I say this I want you to forget it. I care for you differently from the old days, Jack. Of course I appreciate the differences between us more than any living human being can appreciate them, the distance from the earth to the stars is small in comparison. And I want you to care for me always, Jack, in the old friendly, daughterly fashion." "But I don't feel like a daughter to you, Jim, and never have, certainly not as a little girl, so why should I begin now? I simply like you better than any one else in the world except Jimmie, now you have made me think of it, and we understand each other better. I suppose I would have taken this for granted if you had not spoken. What do you suppose we ought to do about it, Jim?" "Nothing, Jack." "But suppose I should want to do something? And suppose what I wanted to do should become my heart's desire? Would you withhold it from me, Jim?" "Yes, if I thought it would do you harm." "But suppose it would not do me harm, but bring me great happiness, what then?" Jim Colter made no reply. Jack smiled. "Ah, Jim, you never can make me believe that you will refuse to travel with me to the Land of the Heart's Desire, since it is a journey one can rarely take alone." * * * * * THE "RANCH GIRLS" SERIES BY MARGARET VANDERCOOK THE RANCH GIRLS AT RAINBOW LODGE THE RANCH GIRLS' POT OF GOLD THE RANCH GIRLS AT BOARDING SCHOOL THE RANCH GIRLS IN EUROPE THE RANCH GIRLS AT HOME AGAIN THE RANCH GIRLS AND THEIR GREAT ADVENTURE THE RANCH GIRLS AND THEIR HEART'S DESIRE 
20223	----	Two Boys in Wyoming A TALE OF ADVENTURE BY EDWARD S. ELLIS AUTHOR OF "DEERFOOT SERIES," "LOG CABIN SERIES," ETC. PHILADELPHIA HENRY T. COATES & CO. 1898 _Northwest Series, No. 3_ [Illustration: "They had come a goodly distance since morning."] CONTENTS. I. Jack and Fred II. Riding Northward III. On Guard IV. Visitors of the Night V. "Now for the Ranch" VI. At the Ranch VII. The First Game VIII. Look Before You Leap IX. Night in the Mountains X. The Signal-Fires XI. A King of the Forest XII. The Tug of War XIII. A Strange Occurrence XIV. Missing XV. Tozer XVI. Watching and Watched XVII. Into and Out of the Canyon XVIII. The Quest of the Cowman XIX. Into the Cavern XX. A Climb for Liberty XXI. How It All Ended List of Illustrations "They had come a goodly distance since morning." "On the projecting ledge stood a noble buck." "He was sweeping down upon them like a cyclone." "He was looking in the direction of the break in the canyon." TWO BOYS IN WYOMING. CHAPTER I. JACK AND FRED. You should have seen those youths, for it gives me pleasure to say that two manlier, more plucky and upright boys it would be hard to find anywhere in this broad land of ours. I have set out to tell you about their remarkable adventures in the grandest section of the West, and, before doing so, it is necessary for you to know something concerning the lads themselves. Jack Dudley was in his seventeenth year. His father was a prosperous merchant, who intended his only son for the legal profession. Jack was bright and studious, and a leader in his class at the Orphion Academy; and this leadership was not confined to his studies, for he was a fine athlete and an ardent lover of outdoor sports. If you witnessed the game between the eleven of the Orphion Academy and the Oakdale Football Club, which decided the championship by a single point in favor of the former, you were thrilled by the sight of the half-back, who, at a critical point in the contest, burst through the group which thronged about him, and, with a clear field in front, made a superb run of fifty yards, never pausing until he stooped behind the goal-posts and made a touchdown. Then, amid the cheers of the delighted thousands, he walked back on the field, and while one of the players lay down on the ground, with the spheroid delicately poised before his face, the same youth who made the touchdown smote the ball mightily with his sturdy right foot and sent it sailing between the goal-posts as accurately as an arrow launched from a bow. That exploit, as I have said, won the championship for the Orphions, and the boy who did it was Jack Dudley. In the latter half of the game, almost precisely the same opening presented itself again for the great half-back, but he had no more than fairly started when he met an obstruction in his path. The gritty opponent tackled him like a tiger, and down they went, rolling over in the dirt, with a fierce violence that made more than one timid spectator fear that both were seriously injured. As if that were not enough, the converging players pounced upon them. There was a mass of struggling, writhing youths, with Jack underneath, and all piling on top of him. The last arrival, seeing little chance for effective work, took a running leap, and, landing on the apex of the pyramid, whirling about while in the air so as to alight on his back, kicked up his feet and strove to made himself as heavy as he could. The only object this young man seemed to have was to batter down the score of players and flatten out Jack Dudley, far below at the bottom; but when, with the help of the referee, the mass was disentangled, and Jack, with his mop-like hair, his soiled uniform, and his grimy face, struggled to his feet and pantingly waited for the signal from his captain, he was just as good as ever. It takes a great deal to hurt a rugged youth, who has no bad habits and is in sturdy training. The active lad who had downed Jack when going at full speed, and nipped in the bud his brilliant attempt, was Fred Greenwood, only a few months younger. He was full-back for the Oakdales and their best player. Furthermore, he was the closest friend of Jack Dudley. In the game it was war to the knife between them, but in the very crisis of the terrific struggle neither had a harsh thought or a spark of jealousy of the other. Fred led the cheering of the opposing eleven when Jack kicked such a beautiful goal, but gritted his teeth and muttered: "You did well, my fine fellow, but just try it again--that's all!" And Jack _did_ try it again, as I have explained, and, tackling him low, Fred downed him. While the two were apparently suffocating under the mountain, Fred spat out a mouthful of dirt and said: "I got you that time, Jack." "It has that look, but----" Jack meant to finish his sentence, but at that moment the mountain on top sagged forward and jammed his head so deeply into the earth that his voice was too muffled to be clear. Besides, it was not really important that the sentence should be rounded out, since other matters engaged his attention. The two friends went through the game without a scratch, except that Jack's face was skinned along the right cheek, one eye was blackened, both legs were bruised, and half his body was black and blue, and it was hard work for him to walk for a week afterward. The condition of Fred, and indeed of nearly every member of the two elevens, was much the same. But what of it? Does a football-player mind a little thing like that? Rather is he not proud of his scars and bruises, which attest his skill and devotion to his own club? And then Jack had the proud exultation of knowing that it was he who really won the championship for his side. As for Fred, it is true he was disappointed over the loss of the deciding game, but it was by an exceedingly narrow margin; and he and his fellow-players, as they had their hair cut so as to make them resemble civilized beings, said, with flashing eyes and a significant shake of the head: "Wait till next year, and things will be different." Fred Greenwood was the son of a physician of large practice, whose expectation was that his son would follow the same profession, though the plans of the parents were in a somewhat hazy shape, owing to the youth of the boy. As I have already said, he and Jack Dudley had been comrades or chums almost from infancy. They were strong, active, clear-brained lads, who had not yet learned to smoke cigarettes or cigars, and gave no cause to fear that they would ever do so. It is not necessary to state that neither knew the taste of beer or alcoholic drinks, nor did they wish to learn. They understood too well the baleful effects of such indulgences to be in danger of ruining their bodies and souls, as too many other youths are doing at this very time. Doctor Greenwood had been the family physician of the Dudleys for many years. The heads of the families were college mates at Harvard, and continued their intimacy after the marriage of each, so that it was quite natural that their sons should become fond of each other. The fathers were sensible men, and so long as their boys' fondness for athletic sports did not interfere with their studies the gentlemen encouraged them, and, when possible, were present at the contests between the representatives of the schools. When Jack Dudley was presented with a shotgun and allowed to make an excursion down the Jersey coast Fred was his companion, and the two had rare sport in shooting duck and wild fowl. They became quite expert for boys, and before the hunting season set in did considerable fishing in the surrounding waters, and both learned to be skilful swimmers and boatmen. Mr. Dudley was wealthier than his professional friend, though the large practice of the physician placed him in comfortable circumstances. In one of his many business transactions Mr. Dudley found that he had to choose between losing a considerable sum of money and accepting a half-ownership in a ranch in the new State of Wyoming. There seemed little choice between the two horns of the dilemma, for he saw no prospect of ever getting any money out of the Western land, but he accepted the ownership, the other half of which was divided among three gentlemen, one of whom lived in Cheyenne, and the others in Chicago. It is perhaps worth noting that although the fathers of Jack and Fred were great admirers of athletics, and, as I have said, encouraged the devotion to them shown by their sons, yet neither was inclined that way in his youth. "I never expected to own a foot of ground west of the Mississippi," remarked Mr. Dudley, when making a call upon the doctor, "and here, before I fairly knew it, I have become a half-owner in a ranch away out in Wyoming." "Eventually it may prove worth something," suggested Doctor Greenwood, "for that section has enormous capabilities, and a tide of emigration has been moving that way for years." "It will take a long time to fill up that country with people. Meanwhile I'll sell out cheap, doctor, if you feel like investing." The physician laughed and thought the joke was on his friend. He said he would think the matter over, which was another way of saying he would do nothing more than think of it. Jack and Fred were present at this interview, and listened with keen attention to the discussion of the Western purchase. By and by Fred gave his chum a significant look, and, excusing themselves to their parents, they passed out of the room and up stairs to the sleeping-quarters of Fred. The door was carefully closed behind them, and, drawing their chairs close together, they talked in low tones, as if some dreadful penalty would follow a discovery of what was passing between them. Had any one been able to see the two attractive countenances, he would not have had to be told that the same thought was in the mind of each. "I tell you, Jack," said Fred, with impressive solemnity, "it would be a shame; it will never do; we must not allow it." "Allow what?" "Why you heard your father say that he never expected to go out to Wyoming to look at that ranch he has bought." "I could have told you that much, without waiting for him to say it. It will be just like him to give it away for a song." "And who knows but that it contains valuable gold or silver mines? I have heard of treasures being bought in that way." "That may be," was the thoughtful response of Jack, "though I believe most of Wyoming--that is the valleys and plains--is a grazing country." "I don't know much about the country, but I have read enough to learn that the greatest discoveries of gold and silver have been in places where no one expected to find them. What I am getting at, Jack, is that your father should make up his mind not to part with his interest in the ranch till he knows all about it." "How is he to learn, when he won't go near it? Of course he can write to the people out there, but likely they will not tell him the truth." "He must send some one whom he can trust, and let him investigate." "That does seem to be a sensible plan," remarked Jack, as if the thought had not been in his mind from the first. "A sensible plan!" repeated the enthusiastic Fred, "it is the _only_ plan; nothing else can make it sure that he is not being swindled out of a big fortune." Jack was silent a moment, while he looked steadily into the brown eyes of his chum, who half-smilingly met the scrutiny. Then the whole scheme burst forth. "And whom can your father trust before _us_? He must see that the best thing he can do is to send us out there to make a full investigation. We won't charge him anything like what he would have to pay other folks." "Of course not; only our travelling expenses and supplies." "What do you mean by supplies?" "Say a Winchester rifle and a revolver apiece, with the proper ammunition; what sort of supplies did you think I meant?" "I thought it was food, while we were out hunting." Jack turned up his nose. "If we can't keep ourselves supplied with food, when we are in a country that has the finest game in the world, we deserve to starve." "My sentiments exactly;" and as if the coincidence required something in the nature of a compact, the boys shook hands over it. "What a splendid treat it would be for us to spend some weeks out in Wyoming!" exclaimed Jack Dudley, his eyes sparkling and his cheeks glowing; "it looks as if it were providential that father got hold of that ranch." "There can't be any doubt about it; but how much more providential it will be if we are sent to learn all that should be learned about it! I wonder if that can be brought about?" Enough has been told for the reader to understand the plot formed by these two youths. There could be no question of the grand treat it would prove to both, provided their parents could be persuaded to take the same view of the matter; _there_ was the rub. Jack crossed his legs and thoughtfully scratched his head. Unconsciously Fred did the same. "It's a tougher problem than we ever attacked in Euclid," remarked the younger. Then a bright thought struck him. "Don't I look a little pale, Jack?" "You look as if a month's vacation in the autumn would be acceptable; but the fact is, Fred, I never saw you look better than you do this minute." Fred sighed. "I am afraid I can't work that on father. He's too good a doctor for me to worry him about my health." "How about _me_?" Fred shook his head. "You look as strong as an oak knot, and you are, too; no, we can't make them think we are in need of a month in Wyoming. We shall have to try another tack. Now, there is no doubt that if we spend the month of September putting in extra work on our studies, we can stand the following month in laying off. We shall come back with new vigor and appetite, and soon catch up with our class." "There isn't a particle of doubt about that, but it still remains that we must convince our fathers that it will be a wise course to send us away from home. We can't do it by looking pale and weak, for we can't look pale and weak. We must fix on something else or it's no go." "Why not fall back on what we first talked about?" "What's that?" "Make your father think it will be a prudent thing for him to send you out there to look after his property." "Suppose I should convince him on that point, how about _you_?" "You will need some one to look after you, and I'm just the fellow." "We are both satisfied in our own minds; in fact we were from the first; but our fathers are very hard-headed men." Now, a couple of boys may be very shrewd, but it often happens that their parents are a good deal shrewder, a fact which my young readers will do well to remember. Unsuspected by Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood, their parents read on the instant the momentous problem which assumed form in the brains of their sons. When the younger signalled to his chum to follow him out of the room, the two gentlemen understood what it meant as clearly as if they overheard all the conversation that followed. Waiting until they were beyond hearing, Doctor Greenwood looked at his friend and remarked, with a smile: "They are hit hard." "No doubt of it; their hearts are set on making a visit to the ranch, and it would be singular if it were otherwise. We can feel for them, for we were once boys." "Yes, John, and it's longer ago than we like to recall. What do you think of it?" "You know we have always agreed that many parents injure their children by undue indulgence." "True, and we have been indulgent to ours, but not improperly so. A great deal depends upon the children themselves. Jack and Fred are obedient, studious, and have good principles. If we should say 'No' to this scheme of theirs they would be disappointed, almost beyond what we can understand, but neither would protest or sulk. They would study just as hard as ever. It is that which appeals to us. If they were sullen and dissatisfied we wouldn't care; but, John, you and I have each been blessed with model sons, and they are entitled to privileges which it would not be safe to grant to other boys. I confess I feel like sending both out to Wyoming for an outing." "Of course it would spoil the enjoyment of Jack unless he could take Fred with him, but what excuse shall we make, Doc?" How reluctant a father is to appear weak and too conciliatory toward his child! These two men had virtually decided to grant the fervent wish of their sons, but it must be done in a common-sense way. They could not say "Boys, since you have set your hearts on this we grant it," but they must fix upon some scheme that would made it seem a necessity that they should go thither. And now observe how ludicrously similar their thoughts were to those that were agitating their offspring up stairs. "I have been thinking," observed the physician, "of suggesting to them that they are in need of an extension of their vacation; but what a farce it would be! School opens next Monday, and they are the types of rugged health, strength and activity. If I undertook to make such a proposition I couldn't keep my face straight, and I am sure both would burst out laughing." "I know _I_ should, if I were present." "Parents must not make dunces of themselves before their children," was the philosophical remark of the physician; "some other plan must be adopted." Mr. Dudley leaned forward in his chair and slapped the shoulder of the physician, his face aglow. "I have it, Doc!" "Let me hear it, for I admit that I am cornered." "I will take the ground that, since I have become part owner of this large tract of land, my first duty is to learn the truth about it. I can write to parties out there, but they are all strangers to me, and there is no saying how much reliance can be placed on their reports. What is necessary is an agent who will make an intelligent and honest report; and surely we can trust our own sons to do that." "But, John," remarked the doctor, with his pleasant smile, "there are scores of people right here at home who will do that for you. Suppose Jack reminds you of the fact?" "If he hasn't any more sense than to make such a suggestion, then, by gracious! I'll punish him by sending some one else." "Little fear of Jack saying anything of that nature. Even if he undertook to do so, Fred would place his hand over his mouth. But, John, let's understand the matter before we say anything to them. Your plan of sending out Jack to inspect the property is a good one. It sounds business-like, and must strike them that way; so that difficulty is removed. You and I don't know anything about the region, nor the best time for hunting game, but it is fair to believe that the month of October will be suitable. Suppose we keep them in school throughout September, and then give them a month's leave of absence, to examine and report upon your property. If all goes well, they are to appear here, ready to resume their studies on the first Monday in November." "I can suggest no improvement upon that. No doubt the young rascals are up-stairs, plotting how to bring us round to their way of thinking. Suppose you call them down, Doc. Shall you or I unfold our brilliant scheme?" "You, by all means, since the property is yours." The physician opened the door of his office and called "Fred!" There was instant response, "Yes, sir." "I would like to see you and Jack for a few minutes in the office." "Yes, sir; we are coming." And a minute later they arrived, handsome, glowing and expectant. "Mr. Dudley has something to say to you, Jack." Both boys turned their faces expectantly toward the gentleman named, who crossed his legs, cleared his throat and looked very grave. "My son, Doctor Greenwood and I have been discussing that property of mine in the new State of Wyoming. We have agreed that I ought to learn something about it before selling my interest in the same. To secure such reliable information it is necessary to send some one thither whom we know to be truthful and honest. The doctor thinks, and I agree with him, that the right one to go is you, Jack--that is, if you have no objections." The parent paused for a reply, and Jack, as if the matter was too important to be disposed of hastily, answered: "I don't think of any objections just now, father." "Very well; I am glad to hear it. If any occur to you, you will let me know, so that I can engage some one else." "I'll let you know at once, if I think of any." "Very well. Our plan is that you and Fred shall resume your studies next Monday, and keep right at them to the close of the month. On the first of October you will start for Wyoming----" "Alone?" "I am surprised, my son, that you should interrupt me with that question. Do you suppose I would allow you to spend a month in that wild region without a companion to look after you? No, sir! Fred goes with you. I entrust you to his care, and expect him to bring you back in time to resume your studies on the first Monday in November. It is very kind in the doctor to consent to the arrangement. I hope you appreciate it, sir." "I thank him very much," said Jack, looking toward the physician, who just then drew his hand across his mouth to suppress the smile that was tugging at the corners. "Of course," continued Mr. Dudley, still with the manner of a philosopher, "in visiting such a section, inhabited by large and fierce game, you must take every precaution. I shall furnish each of you with a repeating Winchester, a revolver, and such other articles as may be necessary. We will now excuse you, with the understanding that if any objections occur to either, you will let us know at once, so that you may continue your studies, while I engage other parties to attend to this business." "I'll think it over," replied Jack, tremulous with delight. And then he and his chum withdrew and went up-stairs again to the room of Fred Greenwood, who hastily closed the door. The next instant they were hugging each other, and dancing about as if their senses had forsaken them; and indeed it may be said that for a brief while such was the fact. "Fred," said the happy Jack, when there was a lull in the excitement, "we must fix upon a name for ourselves." "I thought our parents attended to that a good many years ago." "You know what I mean; we need some title that will distinguish us from all other young gentlemen of our acquaintance. How does 'W. R.' strike you?" "'W. R.'? What does that mean?" "The 'Wyoming Rangers;' that sounds rather high-toned." Fred shook his head. "We are not going West to reduce the aboriginal population; I hope we shall have no trouble with the red men. When we get among the people who have always lived there, such a title will make us ridiculous, for it smacks of conceit; it assumes too much." "Suppose _you_ suggest something?" "Let's call ourselves the 'V. W. W.'; that surely will be appropriate." "What do those letters mean?" "The 'Verdant Wanderers of Wyoming;' that is precisely what we shall be." Jack Dudley laughed, and at first protested, but finally agreed to accept the title as fitting and appropriate, and it was so ordered. CHAPTER II. RIDING NORTHWARD. And so it came about that on a sharp, crisp day early in the month of October, two sturdy youths left the Union Pacific train at Fort Steele, which is situated in a broad depression between two divisions of the Wind River Mountains, themselves forming a part of the vast Rocky Mountain chain, which, under different names, stretches along the western portion of the two continents from the Arctic Ocean on the north to the extreme southern end of South America. Like the sensible youths they were, Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood had made the fullest preparation possible for the experience which was destined to prove tenfold more eventful than either anticipated. Mr. Dudley, in accordance with his promise, had presented each with a fine repeating Winchester rifle, an excellent revolver, an abundant supply of cartridges, and various knick-knacks which the hunter is sure to find are more in the nature of necessities than luxuries. They had tough corduroy suits, a material which, as everyone knows, wears like leather, though it is unpopular in the West because of its unpleasant odor when wet. From the knees downward the lower part of the legs were protected by strong leathern leggings, and the shoes were made for wear rather than display. The coats were rather short and gathered at the waists by a belt, while beneath the garment it was intended to wear the cartridge-belt. The revolver rested in a sheath, instead of being thrust into a trouser's-pocket at the hip, while their hats suggested the sombrero pattern, so popular among cowboys and cattlemen. The brim was broad and stiff, so that it was not liable to bother their vision when the wind was blowing, and it could be depended upon to protect the eyes and face from the sun and rain. Their whole outfit, in short, was strong, comfortable and serviceable. The two were generously furnished with money, while Mr. Dudley arranged with a banker at Laramie City to furnish the boys with whatever funds they might need through accident or robbery. They were going into a region where there were many lawless characters, and everything was done to provide against all possible contingencies. Their extra clothing and articles were contained in a couple of valises, which were put off the train upon the lonely platform at Fort Steele. But while this marked the farthest distance they could travel by rail, a long ride still confronted them before reaching the ranch, which was almost half-way between the railroad and the Big Horn Mountains to the northeast. Several streams had to be crossed, the country in many places was rough, and there was no stage line to help them. All this, however, had been discounted before the boys left the city of Chicago, and what they encountered was only what was expected, and only that for which they were prepared. Word having been sent in advance of their expected arrival, the first act of the youths was to look around for the man or men who were to meet and conduct them to the ranch. A few people were moving about the long, low platform, several in the uniform of United States infantry and cavalry, while a couple of Indians in blankets, untidy and sullen, surveyed them with scowls. Few passengers were in the habit of leaving the train at this point, so that some curiosity on the part of the loungers was natural. Perhaps the agent at the station suspected them of being runaways whose heads had been turned by stories of wild adventure, and who had set out to annihilate the aborigines of the West; but if such a fancy came to the man, it must have vanished when he noticed their intelligent appearance and the completeness of their outfit. Boys who start on such whimsical careers are never rightly prepared, and have no conception of the absurdity of their schemes until it is forced upon them by sad and woeful experience. "Are you looking for any one?" asked the agent; respectfully. "Yes, sir," replied Jack Dudley; "we are on our way to a ranch which lies to the eastward of Camp Brown, not far from Wind River." "May I ask your errand thither?" "My father is part owner of the ranch, and we wish to visit it for a few weeks." "Ah, you are the young men that Hank Hazletine was asking about yesterday. He has charge of Bowman's ranch." "That's the place. What has become of Mr. Hazletine?" "I think he is over at the fort, and will soon be here. He brought a couple of horses for you to ride. Ah, here he comes now." The boys saw the man at the same moment. He was walking rapidly from the direction of the fort, and looking curiously at the youths, who surveyed him with interest as he approached. He was full-bearded, tall, and as straight as an arrow, dressed in cowboy costume, and the picture of rugged strength and activity. His manner was that of a man who, having made a mistake as to the hour of the arrival of the train, was doing his best to make up for lost time. Stepping upon the long, low platform, he walked toward the lads, his Winchester in his left hand, while he extended his right in salutation. "Howdy?" he said, heartily, as he took the hand of Fred Greenwood, who advanced several paces to meet him. "I reckon you're the younkers I'm waiting for." "If you are Hank Hazletine, you are the man." "That's the name I gin'rally go by; which one of you is Jack Dudley?" "I am," replied that young gentleman. "Then t'other one is Fred Greenwood, eh?" he asked, turning toward the younger. "You have our names right." "Glad to know it; I got your letter and looked for you yesterday; have been loafing 'round here since then." "We were not sure of the exact time of our arrival and missed it by twenty-four hours," said Jack; "I hope it caused you no inconvenience." "Not at all--not at all. Wal, I s'pose you're ready to start for the ranch, younkers?" "We are at your disposal; we have quite a long ride before us." "We have; it'll take us two or three days to git there, if all goes well." "Suppose all doesn't go well?" remarked Fred. "We shall be longer on the road; and if it goes too bad we'll never git there; but I ain't looking for anything like that. Where's your baggage?" Jack pointed to the two plump valises lying on the platform, near the little building. "That and what we have on us and in our hands make up our worldly possessions." "That's good," said Hazletine. "I was afeard you might bring a load of trunks, which we'd had a purty time getting to the ranch; but there won't be any trouble in managing them; I'll be right back." He turned away, and soon reappeared, mounted on a fine, wiry pony, and leading on either side a tough little animal, saddled and bridled and ready for the boys. "There ain't any better animals in Wyoming or Colorado," he explained; "they can travel fast and fur a long time. We'll strap on that stuff and be off." There was no trouble in securing the baggage to the rear of the saddles, when Jack and Fred swung themselves upon the backs of the ponies, adjusted their Winchesters across the saddles in front, following the suggestions of Hazletine, and announced themselves ready to set out on the long ride northward. The animals struck into an easy canter, and a few minutes later all signs of civilization were left behind them. The boys were in buoyant spirits. There was just enough coolness in the air to make the exercise invigorating. Here and there a few snowy flecks dotted the blue sky, but the sun shone with undimmed splendor, the warmth slightly increasing as the orb climbed the heavens. To the northward the undulating plain was unbroken by hill or stream, so far as the eye could note, while to the eastward the prospect was similar, though they knew that the North Platte curved over in that direction, and, after winding around the upper end of the Laramie Mountains, joined the main stream far over in Nebraska. To the westward the prospect was romantic and awe-inspiring. The Wind River range towered far up in the sky in rugged grandeur, following a course almost parallel with their own, though gradually trending more to the left, in the direction of Yellowstone Park. The snow-crowned peaks looked like vast banks of clouds in the sky, while the craggy portions below the frost-line were mellowed by the distance and softly tinted in the clear, crystalline atmosphere. The mountains formed a grand background to the picture which more closely environed them. As the three galloped easily forward they kept nearly abreast, with the ranchman between them. He was in a pleasant mood, and seemed to have formed a fancy for the youths, who felt a natural admiration for the big, muscular veteran of the plains and mountains. "Yes," said he, in answer to their inquiries; "I've spent all my life as a cattleman, cowboy, hunter or trapper. I left the States with my parents, when a small younker, with an emigrant train fur Californy. Over in Utah, when crawling through the mountains, and believing the worst of the bus'ness was over, the Injins come down on us one rainy night and wiped out nearly all. My father, mother and an older brother was killed, and I don't understand how I got off with my scalp, but I did, with half a dozen others." "Did you go on to California?" "No; I've never been in that country, which I s'pose you'll think strange; but I was on my way there, when I met the great scout Kit Carson and several hunters. They took me along with 'em, and the next twenty years of my life was spent in New Mexico, Arizona and Texas. Since then I've ranged from the Panhandle to Montana, most of the time in the cattle bus'ness." "At what are you engaged just now?" inquired Jack. "The same--that is, the cattle bus'ness. You may know that after thousands of the critters have spent the summer in Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, they drive 'em north into Wyoming, Montana and the Dakotas, to git their finishing touches. The grazing is so much better than in the south that in a few months they're ready for the market, and are either killed and their carcasses shipped to the East, or they are took there by train in as fine condition as anybody could ask. You obsarve that the grass under our feet is powerful good." The boys replied that it seemed to be. "Wal, there's hundreds of thousands of acres better than this; there's thirty thousand of 'em in Bowman's ranch, where we're going, and it's the best kind of grazing land." "I believe it extends to the Wind River Mountains," said Jack. "It takes in a part of the foot-hills; there are plenty of streams there, and some of the finest grass in the world." Jack Dudley did not forget the real object of the coming of himself and companion to this section, and he could not gather the information too soon. "How does Bowman's ranch compare with others in Central Wyoming?" "You may ride over the whole State without finding a better. If you doubt it, look at the country for yourself." "We don't doubt anything you tell us," said Fred Greenwood. "I suppose you know that Mr. Dudley, the father of my friend, owns half the ranch?" "I've heerd that." "He didn't intend to buy it, but matters so shaped themselves that he couldn't help doing so. Before selling it, he sent us to take a look at it and find out whether it is all that was claimed. We have come to do that, but, at the same time, are eager to have some hunting among the mountains." "You won't have any trouble about that. As I was saying, we're close to the mountains, and when you're ready I'll go with you, and promise that you'll have something to talk about as long as you live." The eyes of the boys sparkled as they looked across at each other, and Jack said: "Nothing could delight us more. We need a veteran like yourself, and are happy to know you can serve us." "How many months can you stay in Wyoming?" "How many months?" laughed Jack. "We are under promise to be back at school in New York on the first of November." "Whew! I wish the time was longer." "So do we; but we had a hard enough task to get the month, so we must make the best use of it." "Wal, we can crowd a good 'eal into two or three weeks, and I won't let you go to sleep in the daytime--I'll promise you that." Hazletine produced a brierwood pipe and pressed some tobacco in the bowl. Although the motion of their ponies caused quite a brisk breeze, he lighted a match and communicated the flame to the tobacco without checking the speed of his animal. Then he glanced admiringly to the right and left, at his companions. "You're a couple of as fine-looking younkers as I've seed in a long time; but you're almost as tall as me, and it seems to me you orter be through with school." "We expect to stay in school another year and then spend four in college, after which several years will be needed to get ready for some profession." "Great Jiminy!" exclaimed the astonished ranchman; "you must be powerful dumb, or else there's more to larn than I ever dreamed of." "Well," said Jack, with a laugh at the simplicity of the fellow, "there are plenty of boys a great deal smarter then we, but the smartest of them can spend their whole lives in study and not learn a hundredth part of what is to be learned." Hank puffed his pipe slowly and looked seriously at the youth for a minute without speaking. Then he said, as if partly speaking to himself: "I s'pose that's so; a chap can go on larning forever, and then die without knowing half of it. I never had much chance at eddycation, but managed to pick up 'nough to read and write a letter and to do a little figgering, but that's all." "That is what you may call your book education; but how much more you know of the rivers, the mountains, the climate, the soil, the game, the Indians, and everything relating to the western half of our country! In that respect we are but as babes compared with you." "I s'pose that's so, too," replied the hunter, evidently impressed by the fact that these youths were destined, if their lives were spared, to become excellent scholars. He was so thoughtful that they did not interrupt his meditations, and for a considerable while the three rode in silence. It need not be said that Jack and Fred kept their wits about them and took note of everything in their field of vision. The season had been an unusually favorable one for Wyoming, the rains having been all that was required to make the grass succulent, nourishing and abundant. They could have turned their ponies loose at any point, after leaving the railway behind them, and the animals would have been able to crop their fill. It was the same over hundreds of square miles, a fact which readily explains why many portions of Wyoming rank as the best grazing country in the world. It was not yet noon when they rode down a slight declivity to a stream several rods in width. The water was so clear that the bottom could be plainly seen from their saddles, the depth being no more than two or three feet. The ponies paused to drink, and, as they emerged on the other side and started up the gentle slope, Hazletine suggested that for a time at least they should be held down to a walk. One anxiety began to impress itself upon the minds of Jack and Fred. They were not only hungrier than they had been for months, but that hunger was increasing at an alarming rate. Neither had brought any lunch with them, and they wondered how food was to be obtained. Jack almost fainted at the awful suspicion that perhaps their friend intended to break them in by making the two or three days' journey to the ranch without eating anything at all! "I suppose it would be no trouble for _him_," was the lugubrious thought of the youth, "but it will be the death of us!" Happily this dread proved unfounded. The sun had hardly crossed the meridian when both lads were thrilled by the declaration of Hazletine: "Wal, if you younkers are as hungry as me, we'll have a bite." They were in the middle of the undulating plain, with no wood or water in sight; but that was a small matter. In a twinkling all three were out of their saddles, and the guide unstrapped a large bundle from its fastening to the saddle of his pony. This, being unwrapped, disclosed a goodly portion of cooked and tender steak and plenty of well-baked brown bread. Furthermore, there were a couple of bottles of milk--enough for two meals at least. These having been placed on the grass, the bits were removed from the mouths of their horses, who were allowed to graze while their masters were partaking of one of the most enjoyable meals they had ever eaten. "If I'd expected to be alone," explained Hazletine, "I wouldn't have brought this stuff with me, but we may not see a maverick or any game all the way home. I wouldn't mind it, but I don't s'pose you are used to it." "I should say not," replied Jack, as well as he could, while his mouth was filled with bread, meat and milk; "I'm hungry enough to eat a mule." "And I feel as if I could chew his saddle," added Fred, laboring under the same difficulty in speaking clearly. "If our appetites keep up at this rate, there will be a shrinkage among the cattle in Wyoming before we go home." "What do you mean by a maverick?" asked Jack of their guide. "It's an unbranded cow or calf that don't b'long to nobody, and consequently it don't make no difference whether nobody or somebody brands or kills it." The rhetoric of this sentence may not have been faultless, but its meaning was clear to the boys. They ate until they wished no more, and were vastly relieved to note that something was left for another meal. "That'll see us through till morning," said Jack, "but how about to-morrow and the next day?" "If we don't see anything to kill, we must wait till we git to the ranch." Fred groaned. "You'll have to tie me in the saddle, for I shan't be able to sit up." The smile on the face of the guide raised the hope that he was not in earnest in making this dreadful announcement, but neither Jack nor Fred were quite easy in mind. The halt was less than an hour, when the three were in the saddle again. Hazletine, instead of pressing directly toward the ranch that was their destination, bore to the left, thus approaching the Wind River range. "There's a little settlement off to the right," he said, "of the name of Sweetwater; we could reach it by night, but it takes us a good many miles out of our path, and there's nothing to be gained by losing the time." "Are you following a straight course to the ranch?" "Pretty near; but I'm edging to the left, toward the foot-hills, 'cause there's better camping-ground over there." This was satisfactory, and the youths were not the ones to question a decision of so experienced a guide and mountaineer. Besides, they had hope that one reason for the slight change of course was that it increased the chance of obtaining game. For the present, the question of food supply was the most absorbing one that demanded attention. Other matters could wait, but a sturdy, growing lad finds his appetite something whose cravings can be soothed only by the one method that nature intended. CHAPTER III. ON GUARD. The beautiful weather continued unchanged throughout the afternoon. As the sun declined in the sky there was a perceptible coolness in the air, but the exercise of riding removed all necessity for using their blankets. Although the party had been edging toward the foot-hills for hours, it seemed to the boys that they were as far off as ever. They had covered many miles, but those who have travelled in the West know the deceptive character of the crystalline atmosphere, so far as distances are concerned. However, as twilight began closing in they reached a small grove of trees, which was the destination of the guide from the first. It was there he meant to camp for the night, and he could not have selected a better place had he spent a week in looking for it. The grove covered less than an acre, the trees standing well apart, and wholly free from brush and undergrowth. Thus even the horses could pass back and forth freely. Over this shaded space the dark-green grass grew luxuriantly, with a soft juiciness of texture which made it the ideal food for cattle and horses. In the middle of the grove bubbled a spring of clear cold water, whose winding course could be traced far out on the plain by the fringe of deeper green which accompanied it. Saddles and bridles were removed, and the ponies turned free to crop the grass until they were filled, when they would lie down for the night. The blankets were spread on the ground near the spring, and then, at the suggestion of Hazletine, all three joined in gathering dried branches and limbs with which to start a fire. It was now cool enough to make the warmth welcome, while the flame would add to the cheerfulness of the occasion. Jack and Fred had never ridden so far at one stretch, and when they reclined on their blankets to watch Hank start the fire they were thoroughly tired out; but it seemed to them their hunger was more ravenous than ever. Each forbore to speak of it, but the deliberation of their friend in preparing the meal was almost intolerable. The first night spent by the boys in camping out in the wilds of Wyoming was one that can never be forgotten. When the meal was finished and the last vestige of food eaten, the three stretched out where they could feel the grateful warmth of the fire that had been kindled against the trunk of a large oak. Hank had again lighted his pipe, and deeply interested Jack and Fred by his reminiscences of a life that had been filled to overflowing with strange experience and adventure. They listened, unconscious of the passage of the hours, until he abruptly asked: "What time is it?" Each youth looked at his watch, and, to his astonishment, saw that it was nearly half-past ten. They had supposed that it was fully two hours earlier. "One of the rules that must always be follered," said the guide, "when hunting or away from home, is that all the party mustn't sleep at the same time." "Then one has to stand watch?" "It looks that way. Now, we'll divide the time atween us, each taking a part, so that it won't come heavy on any one." "That will suit us," Fred hastened to say, while Jack nodded his head. "All right. You, Jack, will keep watch till twelve--that is midnight; then you'll rouse t'other younker, and he'll stand guard till two; then he'll give me a kick, and I'll run things till daylight." "What are we likely to see?" asked Jack, who naturally desired to learn all the points concerning his new duties. "How should I know?" asked Hank, with a grin. "There may be wild animals, sich as grizzlies, cinnamon or black bears; there may be wolves, or dog Injins looking for a chance to steal our ponies." "Why do you call them 'dog Indians?'" "A dog Injin is a tramp 'mong the other tribes; he don't live much with any of 'em, but sneaks round the country, looking for a chance to steal something, and it don't matter what it is." "Suppose I catch sight of one of the animals you name, or a dog Indian--what shall I do?" "Shoot him quicker'n lightning." This was a startling order, but the guide was in earnest. "Are you afeard to do it?" he asked, half contemptuously. "No; I'll shoot the instant it is necessary, but I don't fancy the idea of picking off an Indian without warning." "If you give him warning you won't pick him off. If you're so squeamish, you might argufy the matter with him." "Leave that to me; I'm on duty now; go to sleep." Without another word the guide wrapped his blanket about him and stretched out in front of the fire, with his feet toward it. Judging from his heavy breathing, it was barely five minutes before he became unconscious. "It strikes me this is rushing things," remarked Jack to Fred, as the two sat beside each other. "Last night the 'V. W. W.' were in the sleeper of the Union Pacific; to-night they are looking out for a chance to shoot Indians." "I don't believe there's any likelihood of finding it. I suspect that Hank is having some sport at our expense. If there was any danger he would stay awake himself, instead of trusting two tenderfeet like us." "It may be, but we are in a wild country, where danger is likely to come at any time, and we may have our hands full. It seems to me that it would have been better to let the fire go out, and not attract attention." "He's running this affair; he wouldn't have had so much wood gathered if he didn't mean to keep the blaze going." With this Fred rose to his feet and flung an armful of wood on the flames, which brightened up until their reflection was thrown against the branches overhead and well out toward the edge of the grove. A faint whinny proved that the horses had been disturbed by the increase in the illumination. Before lying down, Fred looked at his chum. "I wonder, Jack, whether there's any risk of your falling asleep?" "There would be if I remained seated on the ground, but I shall not do that." "It will be dangerous to walk back and forth, where the fire shows you plainly." "My plan is to move out in the grove, where the firelight will not strike me, and stand close to the trunk of one of the trees. I have heard of folks sleeping on their feet, but there's no fear of my doing it. Since I am to call you in less than two hours, Fred, you would better get sleep while you can." The younger lad bade his friend good-night and imitated the action of Hank Hazletine, wrapping his blanket around himself and lying down near the fire. He was not quite so prompt in sinking into slumber, but it was not long before Jack Dudley was the only one of the little party in command of his senses. Jack, like his companions, felt the need of sleep, but the fact that he had but a brief while to remain awake, and the consciousness that the safety of others, as well as his own, rested upon himself, made him very alert. He believed he could sit or recline on the ground and retain his wits, but, fortunately, he had too much prudence to run that risk. Sleep is so insidious a foe that we can never recall the moment when it overmasters us, nor can we fight it off when in a prone or easy posture. He adhered to the plan he had formed. Winchester in hand, he moved away from the fire until, by interposing the large trunk of a tree between himself and the light, he was invisible from that direction. He stood erect, taking care not to lean against the trunk for partial support, and concentrated his faculties into those of listening and looking. The stillness was profound. From the distant mountains to the westward came a low, soft, almost inaudible murmur, such as one hears when many miles from the calm ocean, and which has been called the voice of silence itself. In the stillness he heard the faint crackle of one of the embers as it fell apart, and, though the night wind scarcely stirred the leaves over his head, he caught the rustle. The fact that there was nothing from the direction of the ponies showed they had ceased to crop the grass and were lying down. The safety of the camp was in his hands. If he forgot his duty, it might be fatal to all. The sense of this responsibility and the newness of his position made Jack Dudley more wakeful than he could have been under any other circumstances. To these causes, also, was due a suspicious nervousness which made him see danger where it did not exist. The rustling of a falling leaf caused him to start and glance furtively to one side, and at a soft stir of the leaves under a breath of wind, or a slight movement of the sleeping ponies, he started and grasped his rifle with closer grip. All this was natural; but there came a moment, not far from midnight, when there remained no doubt that some person or animal was moving stealthily through the grove, near where he was standing. It will be remembered that his position was such that the trunk of the large oak acted as an impenetrable screen between him and the camp-fire, which was burning so vigorously that its rays penetrated to a greater or less degree beyond him. Thus he could see anything moving within the circle of illumination, while he was as invisible to the keenest-eyed warrior as if the night was without a ray of light. The first warning was through the sense of hearing. He had been deceived so many times that he suspected his fancy was playing with him again, but the faint _tip, tip_ continued until such explanation was amiss. "It is an Indian or a wild beast," was his belief. The next minute he knew that, whatever it was, its position was between him and the outer edge of the grove. Since the ponies were on the opposite side of the fire, Jack was nearer the intruder than either they or his friends, sleeping by the camp-fire. Recalling that his place was the most favorable possible, he remained as motionless as the tree-trunk behind him, and to which he stood close enough to touch by moving his foot a few inches backward. The situation being thus, it followed that if the man or beast continued its advance it must come into sight, while Jack himself was invisible. He therefore held his Winchester ready for instant use and waited. He was standing in this expectant attitude when a remarkable thing took place. The fire, having remained unreplenished for some time, had subsided to a considerable extent, when one of the embers fell apart and caused such a displacement of the burning wood that the light flared up and penetrated with its former vigor beyond the tree which sheltered the sentinel. Jack was as immovable as a statue, his weapon grasped in both hands, when this sudden brightening occurred. He was peering out among the dark trees, in the effort to identify the danger, when he saw the unmistakable figure of an Indian, hardly twenty feet away. The buck had entered the grove with the silence of a shadow, and was making his way to the camp-fire, when betrayed in this singular manner to the watcher. In the reflection of the firelight, his naturally hideous countenance was repulsive to the last degree. The features were irregular, with prominent cheek-bones, a huge nose, and a retreating chin. Ugly as nature had made him, he had intensified it himself by daubing black, red and white paint in splashes over the front of his countenance. His coarse, black hair dangled loosely about his shoulders, and a single stained eagle's feather protruded from the crown. It was gathered back of the neck by a thong of some sort, so as to prevent the hair getting in his eyes when there was such imminent need for their use. The chest was bare to the waist, and was also fantastically painted. In the girdle which encircled his waist was thrust a knife, whose handle protruded, while the leggings and moccasins were gayly ornamented and fringed. He held a formidable rifle in his right hand, in a trailing position, and was leaning well forward, with his body bent, as he drew near the camp with that stoical patience which the American race shows in the most trying crises. If necessary, he would continue this cautious advance for hours without showing haste, for it is often that his people circumvent and overthrow an enemy by their incomparable caution and care. One peculiar feature of the unexpected flaring-up of the light was that its strongest force impinged directly upon the painted face of the Indian, which was seen as plainly by Jack Dudley as if the sun were shining. The youth felt that he could not forget that countenance if he saw it a hundred years afterward. Had Jack followed the instruction of their guide he would have leveled his Winchester and shot the Indian dead in his tracks. The fellow was stealing into camp in such a manner that there could be no doubt the least crime he meant to commit was to steal. No ranchman or hunter would hesitate a moment, under the circumstances, to give him his eternal quietus. But Jack Dudley could not do such a thing. To him it was an awful act to shoot a person, even though a savage, and his conscience would never permit him to do so until there was no choice left to him. He would much prefer to frighten away this intruder than to kill him. The youth was so confident of his command of the situation that he would have felt hardly a thrill of alarm, but for the fear that the redskin belonged to a party near at hand who had sent him forward as a scout. Manifestly the right course for the sentinel was to discharge his gun, thus scaring the Indian and awaking Hazletine; but, while debating the question with himself, he became aware that the hostile was advancing. The fellow did this with such marvellous cunning that Jack perceived no movement of his legs or feet. The latter were partly shrouded in shadow, but the Indian himself suggested a statue set up among the trees. Nevertheless he was inching toward the camp-fire, and was already a couple of yards nearer Jack than when the latter first noticed him. Had he approached from the other side the youth never would have discovered his danger; but now he had his eye on the enemy, and meant to keep it there until the crisis was over. It was perhaps ten minutes later that the buck was within six feet of the youth, who, noiselessly bringing his Winchester to a level, took one step toward him and asked: _"Well, my friend, what do you want?"_ CHAPTER IV. VISITORS OF THE NIGHT. It takes a good deal to startle an American Indian, but if there ever was a frightened red man it was the one who heard himself thus addressed, and, glancing like a flash to his right, saw Jack Dudley step forward, with a Winchester rifle leveled at him. In the language of the West, the youth "had the drop" on the intruder, and he knew it. Had he attempted to raise his own weapon, or to draw his knife and assail the youth, that instant the trigger of the rifle would have been pressed and the career of the buck would have ended then and there, and he knew that, too; but the fact that the gun was not fired, and that a direct question was addressed to him, told the Indian that his master was less merciless than he would have been had their situations been reversed. The camp-fire was still burning brightly, and the reflection showed on the painted visage. Jack, having stepped forward into the circle of light, was also plainly discerned by the Indian, who, turning his black, serpent-like eyes upon him, said, without a tremor in his voice: "Me good Injin; me friend of white man; me no hurt him." "It doesn't look as if you would; but what is your business? Why do you steal into our camp like a thief of the night?" "Me hungry--want somethin' eat." This was too transparent a subterfuge to deceive one even so unaccustomed to life in these solitudes as Jack Dudley. An Indian wandering through a country so well stocked with game as this portion of the new State of Wyoming never suffers for food; and, were such a thing possible, the present means was the last that he would adopt to procure it. "If you want something to eat, why did you not come forward openly and ask for it?" The fellow did not seem fully to grasp the question, but he repeated: "Me hungry." Jack recalled that there was not a mouthful of food in camp. Had there been, he probably would have invited the visitor to walk to the fire and partake. It was fortunate for the youth that their larder was empty, for had the two started among the trees in the direction of the camp, the opportunity for which the Indian was doubtless waiting would have been secured. There would have been an interval in the brief walk when the advantage would have been shifted to him, and he would have seized it with the quickness of lightning. The manifest duty of Jack was to shout to Hank Hazletine and bring him to the spot. He would read the truth on the instant and do the right thing; but the situation, as the reader will admit, was peculiar, and the motive which prevented the youth from adopting this line of action was creditable to him. He believed that the moment the guide appeared he would shoot the intruder, and that was too frightful an issue for Jack to contemplate. He did not want this warrior's life, and would not take it except to save his own or that of his friends. Jack believed that enough had been gained in thoroughly frightening the Indian, and the thing desired now was to get rid of him with the least possible delay. He did not think he would intrude again, even if he had companions within call. "We have no food; we can give you nothing; you must go elsewhere." "Then me go;" and, as if the business was concluded, the buck turned about and began walking toward the edge of the grove. Yielding to a whim which he did not fully understand, Jack Dudley followed him with the warning words: "If you stop, or turn about, or make a move to shoot, I will kill you." It is probable that the savage contemplated some movement of the kind, but he must have known the fatal risk involved. Quick as he was, he could not whirl about and bring his gun to a level before the young man would pull the trigger of the Winchester, which was held pointed toward him. He knew that so long as he obeyed orders he would be unharmed, and he would have been a zany had he hesitated to do so. He did not hesitate, but with a deliberate step that was not lacking in a certain dignity he walked slowly between the trees, with his captor only a few paces behind and keeping pace with him. Almost on the edge of the grove Jack Dudley made an interesting discovery. A pony, smaller than the one he had ridden from Fort Steele, stood motionless in the shadow, awaiting the return of his master. He was not tethered or tied, for he was too well-trained to make that necessary. He showed his fine training further by merely pricking his ears and elevating his head upon the approach of his master and companion. A whinny or neigh might have betrayed both. The two were now so far removed from the glow of the camp-fire that they could see each other only dimly. There was no moon in the sky, though the stars were shining brightly. The Indian, from the force of circumstances, was compelled to hold his disadvantageous position, inasmuch as he had to move out from among the trees, while Jack remained within their shadows. Realizing that this was a critical moment, he stood motionless, with his weapon still at a dead level. "My gun is aimed at your heart," he said, "and I am watching every movement you make. Go in peace, and you shall not be harmed, but on your first attempt to injure me you die." The words, perhaps, were unnecessary, for it may be said that the action of the youth was more eloquent. Be that as it may, the redskin showed a commendable promptness in all that he did. He vaulted lightly upon the bare back of his pony, whose bridle consisted of but a single thong, and turned the head of the brute outward. He did not speak, for it was not required. The pony knew what was wanted; and, with his nose pointed out on the prairie, he emerged from among the trees into the open, with the warrior astride. Even in that trying moment Jack Dudley was surprised at one fact--that was the wonderful silence of the animal. It would seem that his hoofs should have given out sounds that could have been heard for a considerable distance in the stillness of the night, but it was as if he were treading on velvet. The noise was so faint that it was easy to understand how he had come to the spot without betraying himself to the intently listening sentinel. No wonder that the Indian ponies sometimes display a sagacity fully equal, in some respects, to that of their masters. The Indian showed in another direction his perception of the situation. Had he been leaving the presence of one of his own race, or of a veteran white scout, he would have thrown himself forward on the back of his animal and ridden off on a dead run, for, despite the unexpected mercy shown him, he would have expected treachery at the last minute; but he had seen his master and knew that he was a young tenderfoot, inspired by a chivalrous honor which is the exception in that section of the country. He would not shoot until good cause was given, and therefore he took care not to give such cause. As if in harmony with the spirit of his rider, the pony walked away in a direct line, until the figure of himself and master disappeared in the gloom. When he could see him no more, Jack lowered his gun, and stooping down, pressed his ear against the earth. He could hear the soft hoof-beats of the horse growing fainter and fainter, until at the end of a minute or two the impressive silence once more held reign. Then the youth arose to his feet. "I suppose Hank will tell me I did wrong," he mused, "but my conscience does not; it would be a woeful memory to carry with me that on my first night in Wyoming I took the life of a human being. Perhaps it will be as well that Hank should not know it; I will think it over." Now, while Jack Dudley had conducted himself in some respects like a veteran, yet he had shown a dangerous short-sightedness in another direction. It will be noted that he had busied himself wholly with the single intruder, and at the moment of losing sight of him the young man was a comparatively long distance from the camp-fire. Had it been that there were two or more hostiles stealing into camp, they could not have asked a better opportunity, for it was left wholly unguarded. A single warrior would have had no trouble in creeping undiscovered to a point from which he could have sent a bullet through the unconscious forms of Hank Hazletine and Fred Greenwood. This probability never occurred to Jack until he started on his return to the fire, from whose immediate vicinity he should never have allowed himself to have been tempted. Even then his strange remissness would not have impressed itself upon him but for a startling discovery. The fire was beginning to smoulder once more, but enough of its glare penetrated the wood for him to note the black, column-like trunks of the trees between it and him. With his gaze upon the central point, he saw a figure moving in the path of light and coming toward him. It looked as if stamped in ink against the yellow background, and, like the former intruder, was advancing without noise. An awful fear thrilled Jack Dudley as he abruptly halted and partly raised his Winchester. "While I have been busy with one Indian, another has entered the camp and slain Fred and Hank! He is now after me! There will be no hesitation _this_ time in my shooting!" Before he could secure anything like an aim, the other stepped behind one of the trunks on his right. Jack waited for him to reappear, ready to fire, but unwilling to do so until the truth was established. While waiting thus, a low, faint, tremulous whistle reached his ears. It was the most welcome of all sounds, and raised him from the depths of woe to blissful happiness, for it was the familiar signal of Fred Greenwood that had been employed many times in their hunting excursions nearer home. Instead of an enemy, it was his chum and dearest friend who was approaching him. Jack instantly answered the guarded hail, and the next minute the two came together. "How is it you are awake?" was the first question of Jack. "Because it is _time_ for me to awake; it was agreed that I should go on duty at a little after twelve, and it must be near one o'clock." "But what awoke you?" "Nonsense! Haven't you and I travelled together long enough to know that when you go to sleep with your mind fixed on a certain time to awake you are sure not to miss it by more than a few minutes?" "You are right; I had forgotten that. How was it you knew where to look for me?" "I didn't. I've been prowling around camp for fifteen minutes, groping here and there and signaling to you, without the first inkling of where you were. I didn't want to awake Hank, and therefore was as careful as I could be. I began to suspect you had sat down somewhere and fallen asleep." "I have had enough to keep the most drowsy person awake." And thereupon Jack gave the particulars of all that had occurred while he was acting as sentinel. It need not be said that Fred Greenwood was astonished, for the manner of their guide before lying down convinced them that no danger of any nature threatened them. "Do you think I acted right, Fred?" "Most certainly you did. Hank and the like of him out in this country talk about shooting down an Indian as if he were not a human being, but they have souls like the rest of us, and we have no more right to take the life of one of them than I have to take yours. I am sure I should have done just as you did." "I am glad to hear you say that. I wonder whether, if we stayed out here a few years, our feelings would change?" "No; for the principle of right and wrong cannot change. Do you remember what that old settler told us on the train, a couple of days ago?" "I do not recall it." "He said that at a little town in Montana they had a great moral question under debate for a long time without being able to decide it. It was whether it was wicked for the men to go out hunting for Indians on Sunday. It was all right on week days, but most of the folks seemed to think it was a violation of the sanctity of the day to indulge in the sport on the Sabbath. But, Jack, you are tired and in need of sleep. I'll take charge of matters until two o'clock." "I wonder whether anything will happen to you? It does not seem likely, for I must have given that fellow such a scare that he will not show himself again." "But you mustn't reason on the basis that he is the only red man in Wyoming. However, I shall do my best. Good-night." Thus summarily dismissed, Jack returned to the camp-fire in quest of the slumber which he needed. Fred had thrown additional wood on the blaze, and that accounted for the increase in illumination. Hank Hazletine did not seem to have stirred since lying down. He breathed heavily, and doubtless was gaining the rest which men of his habits and training know how to acquire under the most unfavorable circumstances. The youth wrapped his blanket about his figure, for he was now sensible that the air was colder than at any time since leaving the railway station. He was nervous over the recollection of his experience, though it would have been deemed of slight importance to one who had spent his life in the West. The feeling soon passed off, however, and he joined the veteran in the land of dreams. And thus the burden of responsibility was shifted to the shoulders of Fred Greenwood, the junior by a few months of Jack Dudley. No one could have been more deeply impressed with his responsibility than Fred. He knew that a hostile red man had entered the grove while two of the party were asleep, and, but for the watchfulness of the sentinel, might have slain all three. "I don't know much about Indians," reflected Fred, "but I have been told that they are a revengeful people. That fellow must be angered because he was outwitted by Jack, and it will be just like him to steal back for the purpose of revenge. It won't do for me to wink both eyes at the same time." This was a wise resolution, and the youth took every precaution against committing what was likely to be a fatal mistake. Although his sleep was broken, and he could have consumed several hours additional with enjoyment, he was never more wide-awake. The temptation was strong to sit down on the ground with his back against a tree, but he foresaw the consequences. The man who yields only for a few minutes to the creeping drowsiness is gone. Fred was more circumspect, even, than his chum. Instead of taking his position beside the trunk of one of the trees, he walked silently around in a circle, keeping the camp-fire as a centre. By this means he not only kept his senses keyed to a high point, but made his espionage nearer perfect than his friend had done. That the night was not to pass without a stirring experience to the younger lad was soon evident. As nearly as he could guess, without consulting his watch, it was about one o'clock, when he became aware that some person or animal was astir in the grove. He heard the faint footfalls on the ground, though for a time he was unable to catch so much as a shadowy glimpse of the intruder. "I believe it is that Indian, who has come back to square accounts with Jack for getting the better of him. The wisest thing for me to do is to not allow him to see me." This was wise; and, to prevent such a disaster, Fred adopted the precise tactics that had been used by his friend. He stationed himself beside a friendly trunk, which so interposed between himself and the fire that he was invisible, no matter from what direction approached. Standing thus, he peered into the surrounding gloom and listened with all the intensity of which he was capable. Suddenly he caught a glimpse of the intruder. The relief was unspeakable when he saw that it was not an Indian, but some kind of a wild animal. It was but a short distance off, and between him and the outer edge of the grove. There being no one to replenish the fire, the light had grown dimmer, but a quick, shadowy flitting told Fred the brute was moving briskly about, only a few paces from where the lad was straining his vision to learn its nature. "We might as well wind up this business," reflected Fred, as, with his hand on the trigger of his Winchester, he started abruptly in the direction of the stranger. The latter was quick to perceive him and whisked away. The lad followed, breaking into a trot despite the intervening trees. The beast continued fleeing, for nothing so disconcerts an animal as the threatening approach of a foe. It was but a few paces to the edge of the timber, when the brute leaped out into full view in the star-gleam. One glance was sufficient for the youth to recognize it as an immense wolf, which had probably been drawn to the spot by the odor of the meat that composed the dinner of the party. Fifty feet off the wolf stopped, turned partly about, and looked back at his pursuer, as if to learn whether he intended to follow him farther. Fred did not, but the opportunity was too good to be lost. The aim was inviting, and, bringing his rifle to his shoulder, he sighted as best he could and pulled the trigger. He could not have done better had the sun been shining. The bullet passed directly through the skull of the wolf, which uttered a sharp yelp, leaped several feet into the air, and, doubling up like a jack-knife, fell upon his side, where, after several convulsive struggles, he lay still. Naturally enough, the boy was elated over his success, for the shot was certainly an excellent one. "There!" he said. "Jack frightened off the Indians, and I think I have given the wild animals a good lesson. At any rate, _you_ won't bother us any more." He supposed that the report of the gun would awaken Hazletine and bring him to the spot to learn the explanation, but nothing of that nature followed. If the report disturbed him, he merely opened and closed his eyes, and continued to slumber, after the manner of one who appreciates the value of rest. In truth, it was always a matter of wonderment to the boys that their veteran guide adopted the course he followed that night. That actual danger impended was proven by the incidents already narrated, and yet he entrusted the safety of one of the boys, as well as his own life, to another, who, until then, had never been in a similar position. Why he did so would be hard to explain, but he never admitted that his course was a mistake. Sometimes, as is well known, a boy is taught to swim by flinging him into deep water, where he must choose between keeping afloat and drowning; and it may be the guide believed that, by tossing his young friends into the midst of danger at the very beginning of their experience as Western hunters, they would acquire the needed skill the more quickly. CHAPTER V. "NOW FOR THE RANCH." One of the singular features connected with the experience of our young friends during the first night they spent in Wyoming was that all the danger which threatened them came from one Indian and from one _lupus_. After Jack Dudley had expelled the prowling buck, the intruder took good care to remain away. Neither he nor any of his companions troubled the campers further. The presumption, therefore, was that this solitary specimen was a "dog Indian," or vagrant, wandering over the country on his own account. Such fellows, as already explained, claim no kinship with any tribe, but are, like the tramps of civilized society, agents for themselves alone. Had the season been winter, with the snow deep on the ground, the trouble from the wolves would have been more serious. Those gaunt creatures, when goaded by hunger, become exceedingly daring, and do not hesitate to attack even armed bodies of men; but it was autumn time, when the ravenous brutes, who seem always to be hungry, find the least difficulty in procuring food, and they remained true to their cowardly disposition and refrained from everything in the nature of true courage. The curious fact, as we have remarked, was that, as in the case of the Indian, only a single wolf intruded upon the little company. The animals generally travel in droves, and when one is seen it is quite safe to count upon a dozen, or a score, or even more. It is possible that the victim of Fred Greenwood's Winchester was also a sort of tramp, prospecting for his own benefit. It is more likely, however, that he was what might be considered a scout or advance agent of others. His pack was probably waiting among the foot-hills for him to return with his report. If so, the report is now considerably overdue. Fred was a model sentinel for the remaining hours that he continued on duty. He continued circling about the camp-fire, silent, stealthy, peering here and there, and listening for the first evidence of danger. Nothing of the kind was seen or heard, and he finally came back to the smouldering fire and looked at the face of his watch. Could it be possible? It lacked a few minutes of three o'clock. According to agreement, he should have called Hazletine an hour before. "I don't suppose he will object," said Fred, aloud; "I'm sure I shouldn't, if allowed to sleep an hour beyond my time----" "I ain't doing any kicking, am I?" Looking around, he saw the guide had flung aside his blanket and was sitting erect, with a quizzical expression on his face. "What made you fire your gun 'bout two hours ago?" he asked. "Did you hear me?" "How'd I know if I hadn't heard it?" was the pertinent question. "A wolf was sneaking among the trees. I followed him out to the edge of the timber and let him have it between the eyes." "Did you hurt him?" "Since he flopped over and died, I have reason to believe he _was_ hurt." "Good! That's the style--always to shoot. Never waste your ammunition. You didn't kill any Injins?" "I saw none at all." Hank looked at the unconscious figure of Jack Dudley. "Wonder how it was with him?" "He did not fire his gun at anything." Fred did not wish to tell his friend about that alarming visit earlier in the evening. That was Jack's concern. "But he may have seed something. Howsumever, we can wait till morning. Wal, younker, if you've no 'bjection you can lay down and snooze till morning. I go on duty now." There was vast comfort in this knowledge. It relieved the youth from the last remnant of anxiety, and he lost no time in abandoning himself to slumber. The man who was now acting as sentinel was a past master at the art, and there need be no misgiving while he was on duty. Thus it came about that neither Jack Dudley nor Fred Greenwood opened his eyes until the sun was shining into the grove. Each had had a refreshing night, but it cannot be said that their awakening was of the most pleasant nature. The hunger that had been twice satisfied the day before was not to be compared to that which now got hold of them. With the insatiate craving was the knowledge that there was not a scrap of meat, a crumb of bread nor a drop of milk in camp. "We can fill up on water," remarked Jack, after they had bathed faces and hands and quaffed their fill. "But what good will that do? We might bubble over, but we should be just as hungry as ever." "It seems to me that when a fellow is chock-full of anything he oughtn't to feel much hunger." "I've often thought that, but you can't fool nature that way." "If it gets any worse we can shoot the ponies and devour them." "Why both of them?" "Because it would take a whole one to satisfy me. I don't know how _you_ feel, Jack, but if we are to have appetites like this I shall go in for buying a drove of cattle and spending the few weeks we have in these parts in eating." The youths looked in each other's face and laughed. Truly they were ahungered, but could never quite lose their waggishness. "I wonder what's become of Hank," suddenly exclaimed Fred, looking beside and behind them; "the fire is nearly burned out, and he is nowhere in sight. HALLOOH!" The hail was uttered in a loud voice, and was responded to, but from a point a considerable distance out upon the prairie, in the direction of the foot-hills. The open nature of the wood permitted the boys to see quite clearly in that direction. "Yonder he comes," said Jack. "And, by gracious, he's carrying something on his shoulders. I wonder if it is that Indian you chatted with last night." "Better than that. It's _something to eat_!" Jack Dudley was right. The guide was laden with the carcass of some animal. Its bulk was proof that he possessed an accurate idea of the appetite of these young gentlemen. "How careless in him to leave us thus alone," remarked Fred, with mock reproof. "Do you wish he hadn't done so?" "Don't name it!" exclaimed Fred, with a shudder; "he knew the only way of saving our lives. It wouldn't have done for him to postpone it another hour." Hank Hazletine was never more welcome than when he entered the grove and let fall from his shoulders the carcass of a half-grown calf, plump, juicy, tender, and in the best of condition. "I don't s'pose you care much 'bout it, but I feel like having something worth while for breakfast," he remarked, proceeding to prepare the coals, for he had dressed the veal before starting on his return. "Well," said Fred, with assumed indifference, "I suspect that since you intend to partake of food yourself, we may as well join you for the sake of sociability." Men like the old hunter are adepts at preparing a meal. The smouldering fire was in good condition for broiling, and when raked apart afforded a bed of live coals, over which generous slices were suspended on green twigs, cut from the nearest trees. It took but a few minutes to prepare the meat. Hank always carried with him a box of mixed pepper and salt, whose contents were sprinkled over the toothsome food, of which the three ate their fill. "Are there any more of these animals left in the neighborhood?" asked Jack, when their appetites were fully satisfied. "S'pose you go out on the edge of the timber and larn for yourselves." The lads followed the suggestion. Looking off in the direction of the Wind River Mountains, it seemed to them that tens of thousands of cattle were browsing among the foot-hills and on the grassy plain, while many more must have been beyond sight. This was one of the choicest regions of Wyoming, so widely celebrated for its grazing facilities. It was an impressive sight, and the boys, each of whom was provided with a good spy-glass, surveyed the scene for some minutes in wondering silence. The cattle were several miles distant, and seemed to be brown, undulating hummocks of dirt, kept in constant motion by some force beneath. On the outer fringe they were more scattered, but were constantly moving, as if the pasturage was so excellent that they were continually tempted to give up that which was good for that which looked better. "Are they left wholly to themselves?" asked Fred, as the youths came back to where the guide was saddling his pony. "No. There are always two or three men looking after them. I seed Bart Coinjock, one of our own cowboys, 'tending our animals, and he told me to take my ch'ice from the lot. You mustn't forgit that we're purty close to the Wind River Injin Reservation, where the Government has several tribes under charge." This was news to the boys. Hazletine explained that a large tract of land to the northwest and close to the mountains had been set apart some years before by the United States Government for exclusive occupancy by several tribes of Indians. They owned the land, and no white man had the right to intrude upon them. In the Southwest, where the Apaches were placed on reservations, there had been the most frightful trouble, for those Indians are the worst in North America. All our readers know how many times the fierce Geronimo and a few of his hostiles broke away from their reservation, and, riding swiftly through Arizona and New Mexico, spread desolation, woe and death in their path. Not until Geronimo and his worst bucks were run down in old Mexico and transported bodily to the East was the danger to the Southwest terminated. Nothing of the kind has taken place in Wyoming, Montana, the Dakotas and other reservations further east, but there is always a certain number of malcontents on the reservations who cause trouble. They steal away unnoticed by the authorities, and engage in thieving, and, when the chances are favorable against detection, commit graver crimes. "That Injin that come into the timber last night was a sort of dog Injin that had come down from the Wind River Reservation to find out what he could steal." The boys looked at each other in astonishment. They had made no reference to the visitor in the hearing of the guide, and could not understand where he had gained his knowledge. He noticed their surprise, and smiled. "I seed the tracks of his pony, as well as his own. It was as plain to me as the words of a printed book. Why didn't you shoot the chap?" Thus appealed to, Jack told the story. Hazletine listened with an expression of amused contempt on his bearded face. "You'll git over that afore you've been here long. I think I know who he was. Tell me how he looked." Jack was able to give a good description of his visitor, and before it was finished the guide nodded his head several times. "It was him, Motoza, one of the worst scamps west of the Mississippi." "What do you suppose he was after?" "He'll steal anything he can lay his hands on. If he'd found us all asleep he'd shot every one of us. That's the kind of a feller Motoza is. You played it well on him, catching him as you did, but you'd played it a hanged sight better if you'd put a bullet through him afore you asked any questions." "What tribe does he belong to?" "That's a queer part of it. Gin'rally it's easy to tell from the dress, paint and style of an Injin what his tribe or totem is, but there's nothing of the kind 'bout Motoza to guide you. I think he's a Sioux." "I understood those red men live further to the eastward." "So they do; but Motoza has wandered from his people. He was under Sitting Bull, and went with him into British America when it got too hot on this side of the line; but Sitting Bull come back, and Motoza follered. He tries to make b'leve he's a good Injin, and sometimes he is for months at a time on the reservation. Then the devil gits into him, and he's off somewhere." While this conversation was going on the three had mounted their ponies and were galloping northward, this time trending to the right, so as to draw away from the mountains and follow an almost direct line to Bowman's ranch, their destination. The animals were so fresh and spirited that Hazletine said he was hopeful of sleeping that night in the ranch itself, as he called the low, flat building where he and several cowmen made their home when in that part of the country attending to their duties. It would take hard riding, and would lead them into the night to accomplish the long journey, but the guide saw no reason why it should not be done. If a storm came up--and they break with amazing suddenness at times in that part of the world--or if any mishap befell their ponies, a stop would have to be made for the night before reaching the ranch. Jack Dudley decided to ask a question that had been in his mind for some time. "Hank, that Indian last night was in my power, and he knew it as well as I, but I spared his life and allowed him to ride away without a hair of his head harmed. Now, don't you think he will feel some gratitude for that?" Hazletine threw back his head with uproarious laughter. He seemed to have heard the best joke of a twelvemonth. "What give you that idee?" he asked, when he succeeded in mastering his exuberant mirth. "Why, the event itself. I know that an Indian is revengeful by nature, but I have always believed that he was capable of gratitude for kindness." "You've read that in story-books, but you never seed it in life. I won't be quite as rough as that," added the guide, in the same breath; "I have seen a redskin that didn't furgit that a man had saved him from dying or being shot, but such redskins are as scarce as hen's teeth. The rule is that they take all such kindnesses as signs of cowardice, and despise the one that shows 'em. Let me tell you something that I know," continued Hazletine, seriously. "Three years ago, when I was down in Arizona, Jim Huber was the owner of the ranch where I was working. He b'leved in treating Injins kindly. I've seen him give the 'Paches water to drink when they was thirsty, meat to eat, 'bacca to smoke, and even powder and ball for their guns. He kept that up right along, and when he was warned agin it, he said an Injin was human like the rest of us, and he was willing to take his chances. The 'Paches wouldn't furgit what he'd done fur 'em. "Wal, they didn't. The fust thing we knowed, Geronimo and a dozen of his devils was off their reservation and coming down through them parts like a Kansas cyclone. It happened that me and the boys was several miles off when we heerd the news, and knowing that Huber was alone at the ranch, we rid like all mad fur the place. We got there too late to save him. The ranch was on fire, and he was mangled so we hardly knowed him. But he had died game, and killed two of the 'Paches afore he went under. The three laid aside one another, and the two Injins was the very ones that had set at his table, eat of his food, been given powder and ball, and been treated like brothers." "Are all red men as bad as that?" "I've just said they wasn't. There's lots of 'em that would make an ordinary white man ashamed of himself. But most of 'em are alike. What I'm driving at is to knock out of your head any idee that this Motoza that you let up on last night thinks any more of you for it. It's t'other way. He despises you fur a coward, and if he ever gits the chance he'll prove what I say is true." This was depressing information for the youths, but they did not think it seeming to express any doubts of the sentiments of one who was so much better informed than they. They hoped that their own experience would be of a different nature. Having set out with the intention of reaching the ranch that evening, the guide had made the necessary preparations. He rolled up enough cooked pieces of veal to avert the need of starting another fire and looking for more food. So it came about that when the boys began to consult their watches and hint of it being near meal time, he drew rein at another stream of water, where the ponies were allowed to rest and graze while their masters refreshed themselves. The animals had been pressed as much as was prudent; and Hazletine, looking at the sky and their surroundings, said they were making better progress than he had counted upon. The weather remained all that could be desired, though he assured them that a heavy rain-storm was impending, and would break within twenty-four hours--an additional incentive for pushing forward. They were hardly ever out of sight of cattle. Sometimes they were few in numbers, and then they suggested the droves of buffaloes, which, before the animals were extirpated, numbered hundreds of thousands. Once the horsemen approached so close that the cattle were frightened and a partial stampede followed. That Hazletine was among acquaintances was proved by the hails which he received from cowmen, most of whom were so distant that the wonder was how they recognized one another. The boys studied them through their spy-glasses, but, of course, all were strangers to them. When the afternoon was about half gone they came upon a stream that looked formidable. It was a hundred yards in width, with a roiled and rapid current, which, so far as the eye could determine, might be a score of feet in depth. The prospect of having to swim their ponies across was anything but pleasant, but the boys saw that a well-marked trail led down to the bank where they approached it, showing that it had been crossed and recrossed many times. "There are places in that stream, which flows into the Platte," said the guide, "where it is a hundred feet deep. It has whirlpools and eddies where the best swimmer couldn't save himself, and even a grizzly bear would drown." "I hope those places are a good way off," said Jack. "There's one of 'em right over there to the left." "How are we going to reach the other side?" asked Fred, in dismay. "Foller me." As he spoke the guide spurred his animal into the muddy water, with the boys timidly at his heels and closely watching him. At no time during the fording did the ponies sink above their knees. It was a surprise and vast relief when they rode out on the other side without having been compelled to draw up their feet during the passage. "And yet," explained their companion, "if you'd gone three yards to the right or left your critters would have had to swim for their lives, and you'd have had the worst soaking you ever knowed. Now fur the ranch!" CHAPTER VI. AT THE RANCH. The night was well advanced, and the boys, despite their fine physique, felt the effects of the prolonged ride. They had come a goodly distance since morning, the tough little ponies most of the time maintaining a sweeping canter, which placed many miles behind them. Jack and Fred were stiffened, tired and hungry, for no halt was made for supper, it being the intention of the guide to take that meal at the ranch, which he meant to reach before drawing rein. In the midst of the monotonous gallop of the animals the youths were startled by the sound of a laugh, which suddenly rang out on the still air. It was brief and hearty, such as a man emits who is highly pleased over something said by a companion. There was no moon in the sky, but the starlight was as bright as on the previous evening. Peering ahead in the gloom, nothing was to be seen that explained the singular sound. "Did you hear that?" asked Jack of Hazletine. "I s'pose you mean that laugh? Not being deaf, it would have been cur'us if the same hadn't reached my ears." "What was the meaning of it?" "It meant, I s'pose, that somebody was pleased." The lads had to be satisfied with this indefinite answer, but they did not have to wait long for the explanation. Suddenly, from the obscurity ahead, loomed the outlines of a building. It was long, low, and flat, consisting of a single story, like most of the structures in that section of the country. At the same moment that it was observed, a tiny point of light shone through the gloom, and some one called to them: "Is that you, Hank?" "I reckon," was the reply. At the same moment a tall man, rising from the stool on which he had been seated, came forward. He was smoking a pipe, and the gleam of the fire in the bowl was what had been noted before he became visible. "These are the younkers we expected," explained Hazletine, "and, if I ain't mistook, they've brought a purty healthy appetite with 'em." "I've heard of such things afore. Howdy?" The man, who was known as "Kansas Jim," his full name being James Denham, extended his hand to each boy in turn, and they dismounted. "I'll look after the animals," he explained. "Go inside, and I reckon Ira can give you some medicine fur that appetite Hank spoke about." Hazletine led the way to the small covered porch where Ira Garrison, another cattleman, rose to his feet and shook hands with the boys, expressing his pleasure at receiving a visit from them. All three of the arrivals sat down at the front, while Ira passed inside and lighted an oil-lamp. It seemed that he was not absent ten minutes when he called out that the meal was ready--a most welcome announcement to our young friends. The three were quickly seated at the pine table and feasting with keen enjoyment. While they were thus engaged, Ira Garrison sat on a stool a few paces away, smoking his pipe, and was soon joined by Kansas Jim, who brought the saddles and belongings of the ponies that he had turned loose to look after their own wants. Jack and Fred found their new acquaintances typical cowboys, dressed similarly to Hazletine, though neither wore as much beard as he. Both had long hair, pushed behind their ears, while Jim displayed a luxuriant tawny mustache and goatee, had fine blue eyes, and was thin almost to emaciation. Garrison was short and stockily built, with a powerful physique. His hair, eyes and mustache were as black as coal. He had a fine set of even white teeth, and was so full of jest and humor that it was safe to conclude it was something said by him that had caused Jim to break into laughter. The structure, as has been said, was a low, flat building, similar to the majority found in that part of the country. It was made wholly of wood, with only a single door at the front, where was a shaded porch, provided with seats, most of which were occupied at times by the cowmen through the day and late into the night. There were five men employed at the ranch in looking after the immense herd of cattle grazing over the surrounding country and acquiring the plumpness and physical condition which fitted them for the Eastern market. Hank Hazletine was in charge of the four men, and would so remain until the task was finished and the stock disposed of. Barton Coinjock and Morton Blair were absent looking after the animals, whose wanderings in quest of food sometimes took them fifteen or twenty miles from the house. Most of the time, however, the cattle obtained their grazing on the ranch, a half of which belonged to Mr. Dudley, and which extended into the foot-hills of the Wind River Mountains. It has already been made clear that little was to be apprehended from the hostility of the red men in Wyoming. Rarely is anything of the kind known north of Arizona and New Mexico, and in those Territories it seldom manifests itself since the conquest of the Apaches. There have been fierce collisions of late years between the cowmen and rustlers of the West, and at one time there was considerable bloodshed, but the quarrel seems to have been adjusted. The reader need hardly be told that in the new States, where grazing has become so important an industry, a perfect system prevails among the cattlemen. Large associations, with their enormous herds of cattle, have their own peculiar brands by which their stock is stamped with their sign of ownership. All these brands are registered, and the cattleman who uses the same, or is found in possession of cattle with the brand of another, is subject to a severe penalty. Comparatively slight friction, therefore, takes place in those sections. It is a stirring time when the wonderful horsemen are engaged for days in branding the calves that have been added to their herds during the previous months. Sometimes some of the branded cattle wander off while grazing, but if a cattleman from Central Wyoming came upon an animal hundreds of miles north in Montana, bearing his brand, he would promptly cut out the brute from another herd, whose owner would not think of making objection. It happens now and then that some of the cattle stray off before they are branded. The difficulty of their owners identifying them will be understood. Such cattle are mavericks, and whoever comes upon them loses little time in scorching his brand into their shoulders or hips, after which no one cares to dispute their ownership. The cowmen whose duty it was to look after the large herd browsing over the thousands of acres composing Bowman's ranch had two annoyances to guard against. It was their duty, as may be said, to keep the animals well in hand. But for this precaution hundreds of them would gradually drift apart until, when the time came for rounding them up, they would be gone beyond recovery. Great loss, therefore, was averted by looking after them. A more aggravating annoyance, however, brings loss to the owners of the herds. Despite the stringent law, there is always a certain number of desperate men who take perilous chances in stealing cattle and running them off beyond recovery by their owners. This practice is not so prevalent as formerly, for since the brands are registered, and the agents well known at Cheyenne, Helena, and other shipping-points, the thieves find it hard to explain their possession of the carcasses thus marked and escape the arrest and imprisonment provided as a penalty. One feature of this annoyance comes from the Indians. By far the greater majority of those on the reservations are law-abiding. Under the patient and skilful tutorship of the Government agents they are advancing in civilization, and in a knowledge of the trades and of agriculture. Rarely is there any trouble with them; but it would be strange indeed if, among these people not yet fairly emerged from barbarism, there were not a number sullen because of the change, and who cling to the traditions and practices when the Indian looked upon every white man as his enemy, whom it was his duty to kill upon the first opportunity. The watchfulness of the authorities prevents grave crimes, but no vigilance can keep the dusky thieves from stealthily raiding upon the cattle and property of their white neighbors. One of the tasks, therefore, of the cowmen of Bowman's ranch was to guard against aboriginal thieves. Since those fellows were sure to have the same trouble as white pilferers in disposing of their stolen stock, they were fond of stampeding the cattle when not under the eyes of their caretakers. About all that resulted from this amusement was extra exasperation and work on the part of the cowmen. A more serious mischief was that of killing the animals. Having satisfied themselves that they were safe from detection, three or four Indians would entertain themselves for an hour or two in shooting down cattle in pure wantonness, and then making off before they were seen. True, this brought the dusky scamps no gain, but it served as a partial outlet for their enmity of the white man, and that sufficed. That this peculiar feature of ranch life sometimes assumed grave phases was proved by several narrations made by the cowmen to the boys on their first night at the ranch. Less than a year previous, Kansas Jim shot from his horse an Indian whom he caught killing his cattle; and, not many months previous, the five cowmen, under the leadership of Hank Hazletine, had a running fight for half an afternoon with a dozen Bannocks, engaged in the same sport. At that time Barton Coinjock and Kansas Jim were severely wounded, but three of the marauders were slain, and the mischief nearly ended for a time. But Jack and Fred were tired, and, though interested in the reminiscences of the cowboys, they longed for rest. The house consisted of four rooms, one being generally reserved for visitors or to serve as a spare apartment. This contained a wooden bedstead and some simple furniture, for luxuries are not popular on cattle-ranches. Surely no bed ever felt more luxurious, however, than the blankets upon which the wearied youths flung themselves, sinking almost immediately into deep, dreamless sleep. There were no wolves or dog Indians to guard against now, and their sense of security was as strong as if in their own beds at home. The night was well past, when both lads were awakened by the sound of rain pattering upon the roof, which, although they were on the ground floor, was but a brief space above their heads. The storm foretold by Hank Hazletine had come. There are few sounds more soothing at night than the falling of rain-drops upon the shingles over one's head, but in the present instance the music was anything but welcome to Jack and Fred. It meant that there could be no hunting on the morrow, and probably not for several days. Their time in Wyoming was so limited that they begrudged an hour of enforced idleness. "But what's the use of kicking?" asked Fred, after they had fully discussed the situation; "it can't be helped." Nevertheless, they condoled with each other for some time, until, lulled by the gentle patter, they floated off once more into the land of Nod, from which they did not emerge until morning. The first doleful fact that impressed them was that it was still raining. A peep through the single front window with which their room was provided showed the dull leaden sky, with its infinite reservoir, from which the drops were descending in streams that bid fair to last for days and weeks. The air was chilly, and the wood fire burning in the adjoining room was grateful. The boys were surprised by a characteristic fact. At some time previous to their emerging from their sleeping-room Jim and Ira had departed to take their turn in looking after the cattle, while Bart and Mort, as they were called, had come in to spend the day and night at the building. When they saw the boys they greeted them pleasantly and conversed for some time. Blair showed himself a man of education, and it came out afterward that he was a college graduate, who, having been threatened with pulmonary trouble, had gone to Arizona and engaged in the cattle business. The experiment wrought a cure, and he was now one of the sturdiest of the five men, not afraid to face the more rigorous climate of the North and to expose himself to all sorts of weather. It was a surprise, indeed, to Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood, in the course of the day, when the conversation happened to drift to the subject of higher mathematics, to find this cowboy could give them instruction in the most abstruse problems they had ever attempted to solve. Thus, although they would have preferred to be away on a hunt, they found the time less monotonous than anticipated. "This will let up afore night," said Hank, much to the delight of his young visitors, "and to-morrow will be clear." "I hope it will last several days," ventured Fred. "So it will," remarked the cowman, with that air of assurance which showed he was more reliable than the Government in his forecasts of the weather. Hazletine examined the Winchester repeating-rifles of the boys with great care. He pronounced them excellent weapons, as were the Smith & Wesson revolvers with which they were furnished. "Your outfit is all right," he said, "but it remains to be seed whether you know how to handle 'em." "We cannot claim to be skilful," was the modest remark of Jack, "but we have had some experience at home, though when we hunted there it was mostly with shotguns." "The main thing, younker, is not to git rattled. Now, if you happen to see old Ephraim sailing for you, all you have to do is to make your aim sure and let him have it between the eyes, or just back of the foreleg; or, if you don't have the chance to do that, plug him in the chest, where there's a chance of reaching his heart." By "old Ephraim" the hunter referred to the grizzly bear, as the boys knew. "I have heard that it generally takes several shots to kill a grizzly." "That's 'cause the bullets are not put in the right place. You see, old Ephraim don't take any trouble to give you a better show than he has to, and you must look out fur yourself." "There are other kinds of bears in Wyoming?" "Rather--several of 'em. For instance, there's the cinnamon, which, in my 'pinion, is about as bad as Ephraim. I've fit both kinds, and the one that left that big scar down the side of my cheek and chawed a piece out of my thigh was a cinnamon, while I never got a scratch that 'mounted to anything from Ephraim." "What about the black bear?" "He's less dangerous than any of 'em. A black bear ain't much more than a big dog. Last fall I killed one with my revolver." "What other kinds of game are we likely to meet?" "Wal, it would be hard to name 'em all. There's the deer and antelope, of course, which you find in all parts of the West. Then there's the mountain lion, that is fond of living on beef." "I never saw one of the creatures." "Have you ever seen the Eastern panther?" asked Garrison. "No; though they used to be plentiful in the northern part of the State of New York." "Well, the mountain lion is the same animal. Our climate and conditions have made some changes in his appearance and habits, but there is no doubt the two are identical." "There's one kind of game that I wish we could meet," resumed Hazletine, "but they've got so scarce that I haven't seen one fur three years. That's the big-horn sheep." "He seems to be disappearing from certain sections, like the buffalo from the country," remarked Garrison. "There's plenty of 'em in the mountains of Arizona and old Mexico, and I've no doubt there's thousands of 'em in the Wind River and other parts of the Rockies, but it's mighty hard to find 'em. Then there's the black wolf." "Is he fiercer than the gray one?" "He's ten times worse. Whenever he meets the gray wolf he tears him to smithereens. You never seen a wolf of any kind that wasn't as hungry as you younkers was yesterday." "He couldn't be any hungrier," said Fred, with a laugh. "I have knowed one of them critters to foller a steamboat down the upper Missouri fur two days and nights, howling and watching fur a chance to git something to eat." "The buffaloes have disappeared." "The right name of the animal is the bison," suggested Garrison; "they have been slaughtered in pure wantonness. It is a crime, the way in which they have been extirpated." "There are a few of 'em left, deep among the mountains," said Hazletine, "where no one has happened to find 'em, but it won't be long afore they'll all be wiped out. Do you know," he added, indignantly, "that last year our boys found a herd of eighteen buffaloes some miles back in the mountains. Wal, sir, we was that tickled that we made up our minds to watch 'em and see that they wasn't interfered with. We kept track of 'em purty well till their number had growed to twenty-four. Then one afternoon a party of gentlemen hunters, as they called themselves, from the States, stumbled onto 'em. Wal, as true as I'm a settin' here, they s'rounded that herd and never stopped shooting till they killed every one of 'em!" The cowman was so angry that he smoked savagely at his pipe for a minute in silence. His friends shared his feelings, and Kansas Jim remarked: "Hank and me hunted two days fur them folks, and if we'd have got the chance to draw bead on 'em not all of 'em would have got home. Why, the rapscallions just shot the whole twenty-four, and left 'em laying on the ground. They didn't even take their hides. If there ever was such a thing as murder that was." "Yes," assented Garrison; "and although the Government is doing all it can to protect the few in Yellowstone Park, somebody is continually shooting into the herd. The bison will soon be an extinct animal." "It's too bad, but I don't see that we can help it," observed Hazletine, rousing himself; "there's plenty of other game left, and it'll last longer than any of us, but it don't make the killing of the buffaloes any better. We're likely to find a good many animals that I haven't told you 'bout and that I don't think of." "How is it, Hank, that you don't keep any dogs?" "'Cause they're no use. The hunters from the East seem to think they must have a dozen or more sniffing at their heels, but I don't like 'em. We had a big hound a couple of years ago that I took with me on a hunt. The first critter we scared up was a cinnamon bear, and that dog hadn't any more sense than to go straight for him. Wal," grinned Hank, "we haven't had any dog since that time." CHAPTER VII. THE FIRST GAME. It was an ideal day for hunting among the mountains. The sun shone from an unclouded sky, and the air had just enough crispness to make exercise enjoyable. In short, it was a perfect copy of that day which saw the V. W. W. start from Fort Steele on their long ride northward to Bowman's ranch. The other cowmen would have been glad to join in the hunt, but they could not be spared from duty. Thus it came about that, as in the first instance, Hank Hazletine was the guide and only companion of Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood on that which was destined to prove the most memorable hunt of their lives. The three had ridden briskly through a part of the foot-hills until they reached the more elevated portion, when the hunter led the way up a winding trail until, early in the afternoon, they arrived at what may be called the limit of "horse navigation," which is to say their ponies could give them no more help, since the way was too broken for them to climb further. Accordingly the three dismounted and removed all the trappings of the animals. Hazletine was so familiar with the country that he came to this favored spot without mistake or hesitation. It was a broad, irregular inclosure, in the form of a grassy plateau, where grass grew abundantly, and was walled in on nearly every side by immense rocks and boulders. A tiny stream of icy water wound along one side, disappearing at a corner among the rocks, which were so craggy and eccentric in their formation that a cavity or partial cavern was found, in which the party placed their bridles, saddles and blankets, and which was capable of giving them shelter against the most furiously driving rain-storm. "Surely we couldn't have found a better spot if we had hunted for a month," said Jack, admiringly surveying their surroundings. "This is to be our headquarters," explained Hazletine, "during the few days or the week that we spend in hunting here." "You mean that we are to spend each night in this place?" The guide nodded his head. "I don't know of any better arrangement," said Fred; "we can gather enough wood to keep a fire going, and, if rain should set in, shall have as good shelter as if in the house on the ranch." "That's it; and you mustn't furgit one thing," added Hazletine; "we fetched along just 'nough stuff fur dinner. We haven't anything left fur supper. None of the cattle git this fur into the mountains, so we can't count on them. Therefore, we've the ch'ice atween shooting game or starving to death." "That's enough to make us all do our best, but we cannot suffer so long as we have you for our companion." "But you ain't going to have me fur your companion." The boys stared at their friend in astonishment. He explained: "There ain't much show fur three persons to find game as long as they stick together. The right way is fur 'em all to part and each keep it up on his own hook. A chap isn't in half the danger of being seen by the deer or sheep, or whatever it may be he's after; and he has the chance, too, to show what stuff he's made of." "Then you intend to leave us?" "You've hit it the first time. I'll start out on my own bus'ness, meaning to be back here while the night's young." Observing significant looks passing between the boys, the man hastened to add: "Now, don't you folks make the mistake of thinking I'll get your supper fur you, fur I don't mean to do nothing of the kind. I don't intend to do any hunting, but to git away from you so as to let you have the chance. I don't say that if a big horn or a antelope or buck walks up in front of me and asks me to take a shy at him that I won't pop him over, though some folks that I know wouldn't do the same if the buck happened to be a two-legged one; but such things don't often happen; and, if you don't fetch in any game, them appetites of your'n are likely to bother you as much as they did t'other day when we was riding from the fort." "Do you wish Fred and me to part company?" Hank's eyes twinkled and a quizzical expression lit up that part of his countenance which was visible. "'Twouldn't be safe." "Why not?" "You'd each take the other fur a wild donkey and plug him afore you found out the mistake, which the same wouldn't be such a mistake after all." The boys could well afford to laugh at the pleasantry of the man who, it was evident, felt a partiality for them. He added, more seriously: "You'd have more show to shoot game if you parted, but I'd not advise you to do it till after you've hunted for some days together. It's mighty easy for younkers like you to git lost in these mountains. You must keep your bearings, so it won't be any trouble fur you to find your way back to this spot when it's dark. If you happen to catch sight of any game, try to not let it see you till you git a fair shot at it; and there ain't much good in wounding a critter in these parts, fur it's sure to git away from you." After some further instructions, Hank bade his young friends good-by and left them. He strode off in the direction of the trail over which they had come to reach this interesting spot in the mountains, and disappeared without once looking back to see what they were doing. It was odd thus to be left alone in this wild region, and the chums looked in each other's face with smiles. It certainly was a curious experience to be set down in one of the greatest mountain spurs of the West, and to be told that now they must take care of themselves. It was like being cast into deep water and ordered to choose between swimming and drowning. "It's just as well," said Jack, "or he wouldn't have done it. Surely the V. W. W. ought to be able to take care of ourselves, with our repeaters and pistols. There's nothing to be feared from wild animals, or he would have warned us." "It strikes me that the most important thing to do is to keep our bearings, for if we should happen to lose our way it would go hard with us." "We took care to bring spy-glasses, as well as everything else that we thought we were likely to need, but forgot about a compass, which may be worth all the rest." "Well, we must be careful not to stray too far until we become familiar with the country. Let's not delay our start." The plateau where their ponies were cropping the grass was several acres in extent, nearly half of it sloping abruptly; but the grass was abundant enough to furnish the animals with all they could need, no matter how long they stayed, since it had plenty of opportunity to renew itself. Side by side the boys moved across the space, the ponies not raising their heads to look at them, as they passed near. Instead of following the course taken by their guide they bore to the right, but at the same time proceeded nearly westward, which led them deeper into the mountains. Remembering the caution of their friend they studied the landmarks around them, in the hope of not losing their way when it should become time to return to camp. When fairly clear of the plateau, where they must have been at a considerable elevation above the sea, they found the way so rough that travelling became a task. There was nothing in the nature of a path or trail to follow, and they were compelled to pass around boulders and rocks, sometimes turning back and retracing their steps, and making long detours, so as to flank impassable chasms. All this tended to confuse their knowledge of the points of the compass, but they did not forget to note everything that could serve as a guide, and were confident of finding their way whenever it should become necessary to return. Most of the time Jack Dudley was in the lead, for it was not easy to walk beside each other. He was perhaps a half-dozen paces in advance of Fred, when he abruptly stopped with an exclamation of affright. "What is it?" asked his friend, hardly less startled. "Look at that!" He pointed downward, almost at his feet. Still unaware of what he meant, Fred stepped guardedly forward to his side. There was good cause, indeed, for the alarm of the elder, for he had checked himself on the edge of a ravine or canyon fully a thousand feet deep. One step further and he would have dropped into eternity. The peculiar formation of the canyon accounted for this peril. The chasm was barely a dozen feet wide, but the other side was depressed, so that it was not noticed by the youth until on the edge of the danger. The walls were of solid rock, showing the numerous strata of sandstone and other formations, worn so unevenly that it looked possible for a person to use them as stairs in climbing the sides. Pausing on the edge and peering cautiously down the dizzy steep, the youths could see a stream of water, winding its course far down at the bottom, where the roughness of its bed churned it into foam, and gave it the appearance of a white ribbon that had been strung along the course. The murmur was so soft and faint that at times they were not sure they heard it, and when it reached their ears the voice of the distant ocean was suggested. A striking feature of this phenomenon was the exceeding narrowness of the canyon. It has been stated that directly opposite to where the boys had halted it was scarcely a dozen feet wide, and there were places in sight with the width still less, though most of it was greater. The ages that it had taken this stream to erode such a bed for itself was beyond imagination. "Jack," said his companion, with that elasticity of spirits natural to one of his years, "if you had pitched down there, how in the world could I have pulled you up to the top again?" "Why would you wish to do that?" "Well, you would have been pretty well bruised and would have needed help." "Possibly; but I wonder whether there are many such pit-holes in this part of the world. It resembles the fissures in the mountains of ice which I have read that the Arctic explorers sometimes find." However, since the youths were on one side of the canyon, naturally they were seized with the belief that it was necessary immediately to place themselves on the other side. Why it was so they would have found hard to explain, but they were unanimous on the point; and, since there was but the single method of crossing the chasm, they set out to find it. "It looks narrower over there to the left," said Jack, turning in that direction. He did not have to go far when he paused, where the width was barely six feet--not enough to afford much of a leap for sturdy lads of their years. "That's easy," added Jack, measuring it with his eye. "You must remember one thing, Jack. There's something in the air of this part of the world which makes a mile look no more than a few hundred yards. Suppose that that other bank is fifty feet off!" It was an alarming thought, and Jack recoiled as if again on the edge of the brink. But he was quick to see the absurdity of the idea. "If that is so, then the canyon must be several miles deep. But we would better make sure." It was easy to do this. Hunting around until a chip from one of the boulders was found, Jack tossed it across the abyss. It fell as he expected, proving that, wonderfully deceptive as is the atmosphere of the West, it cannot mislead in instances like that which confronted them. "That makes it right. I am not afraid to make the leap; are you?" "Not a bit; but wait." Near them lay a stone, so large that it required their united strength to move it. By hard work they rolled it to the edge of the canyon and tumbled it over, carefully watching its descent. A curious thing followed. At first it shot straight downward for a hundred feet, when it impinged against a projecting point of the mountain wall, knocked the fragments in every direction, as if it were a ball fired from a thousand-pounder, and bounded against the opposite side, further down, scattering fragments again. By this time it had achieved an almost inconceivable momentum, and was shooting downward at a terrific rate. In the depths of this narrow canyon, where the sunlight never penetrated for more than a few minutes at a time, it was always twilight. At the bottom it was almost dark, so that the stream would hardly have been visible but for its yeasty foam. At some point near the base, when the flinty stone was speeding forward like a meteor, it abraded a harder portion than before. Instantly a stream of fire shot out, such as sometimes flashes from a murky cloud in the sky, and, as if it were an echo of the impact, the splash and thunderous thump were heard by the boys at the top. It was a tempting theme for the imagination, but they were too practical to linger. Having agreed that the canyon could be readily jumped, they did not hesitate. Running a few steps, Jack Dudley cleared the passage and landed on the other side, with several feet to spare. He did not take the trouble to toss his rifle in advance, but kept it in his hand. "I had a queer feeling," he said, as Fred joined him, "when I was right over the middle of the canyon, and knew, if I had made any miscalculation, I should never stop until pretty well down toward the centre of the earth." "It doesn't take long to do a deal of thinking at such time, but what bothered me was whether I was going to make as good a jump as you. I believe I beat you by two or three inches." "You wouldn't have done it if I had tried. But, Fred, since we are on this side of that split in the mountain, we have got to jump it again to get back to camp." "And we must manage to do it before dark, for it isn't safe to take chances where there is so much variance in the width." "Fact of it is," remarked Jack, expressing that which had been clear to both from the first, "there was no need of our jumping it at all. But we are here, and must make the best of it. It's time we found some game." And Jack looked sharply around, as if he expected to see a fat deer or big horn step forward and sacrifice himself for their good. But they were more fortunate than they were warranted in expecting. While surveying the rocks and heights which seemed to wall them in, Fred exclaimed: "There's our game!" He pointed to a cliff fully two hundred yards distant, and of half that height. On this projecting ledge stood a noble buck, with antlers and head raised, while he seemed to be gazing over the wild expanse of country below him. They knew he was a fine animal, though the distance made him appear diminutive. [Illustration: "On the projecting ledge stood a noble buck."] "I wonder if he sees us?" said Jack in a whisper, as if afraid of being overheard. "If he does, he knows we are too far off to harm him." The next instant the boys had unslung their glasses and leveled them at the fellow, who formed a striking picture, as he stood out in bold relief, with his spreading antlers, his fine head, and his brown, sinewy limbs. The next remark by Jack may not have been romantic, but it was characteristic: "What a fine meal he will make for us!" "Provided we can secure him. We must get a good deal nearer." "Our rifles will carry a bullet that far." "No doubt; but if we hit him he would be only slightly wounded and would make off. We must go closer." This necessity was self-evident, but the task was certain to be a difficult one. As they approached the animal they were likely to expose themselves to his keen gaze, when he would disappear on the instant. "Remember what Hank said. There is twice the chance for one that there is for two. I'll stay here, Fred, while you go on. If I see him move I'll try it, and you must do the same. Between us, we may bring him down." The plan was acted upon. It was agreed that Fred should steal as near to the buck as possible, in the hope of securing him, while Jack should hold himself in readiness to make a shot, with precious little prospect of success. If the game would maintain his position it looked as if there was a good prospect of the younger lad getting within shooting distance, for the way was so rugged, and offered so many opportunities for screening his approach, that he did not believe he would be detected if he used proper care. Meanwhile Jack took position behind the nearest boulder, where he could keep an eye on the animal and it was impossible for the latter to see him. Fred was lost to sight almost immediately. He grew so anxious as the interval decreased that he trembled, and it was hard to fight off an attack of what is called "buck fever," and which is fatal to the best hunter; but by and by his nerves settled, and he became as cool and self-possessed as Hank Hazletine himself would have been under the circumstances. It seemed improbable that the buck would wait where he was, even if not alarmed, for the time necessary to afford a good shot for his enemy. It was some whim that had led him out upon the top of the towering bluff, where he was in view of the young hunters. It is not to be supposed that his kind appreciate such a thing as beauty in a landscape or scene spread before them, and yet the action of the buck almost indicated something of that nature; for he stood motionless, minute after minute, as if absorbed, and suggesting a statue carved from the rock itself. Foot by foot Fred Greenwood stole forward, crouching behind boulders, creeping beside immense rocks which shut him from the gaze of the watchful animal, until with a rapidly beating heart he whispered: "I'm near enough to try a shot." He was making ready, when he observed a well-screened point a few rods in advance, which impressed him as the right place. Once there, he could ask no better opportunity to test his skill. Was it safe to wait a minute or two longer? Yes, he would make the attempt. With infinite care, and holding his nerves in superb control, he worked his way to the spot without alarming the buck. CHAPTER VIII. LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP. Crouching behind the friendly boulder, Fred Greenwood rested the barrel of his Winchester upon it and took careful aim at the buck, which seemed scarcely to have moved from the moment he was seen by the youths. That he maintained his pose thus long was certainly remarkable, and the fact was due to a cause suspected by neither of the boys. That the antelope has the bump of curiosity developed to a most amazing degree is well known. It is this peculiarity which has proved fatal to the animals in numberless instances. The curiosity of the _cervus_ species, while much less, sometimes manifests itself in an extraordinary fashion. Fred Greenwood managed his approach with so much skill that he was not noticed; but his comrade, further away, was seen by the vigilant animal, when Jack, becoming impatient over the delay, began the attempt to follow him. The sight of the young hunter startled the buck. He was on the point of whirling about and making off, but waited to learn something more definite. The caution of Jack rendered this difficult, and it was because of the animal's hesitation that Fred succeeded in reaching the spot from which to try a shot. The lad sighted at the front of the game and his finger was pressing the trigger, when, perhaps because of a sudden sight of Jack, the buck turned about to flee. It was at this juncture that Fred fired. The result was better than he expected. It is almost impossible to kill a deer instantly, instances being known of one running a number of rods with a bullet through his heart; but in this instance the buck, gathering his forelegs under him, as if to leap a high obstruction, bounded straight up in air and dropped back so close to the edge of the cliff that he toppled over and came tumbling downward like a log of wood. The point where he fell was some distance away and out of sight of the young hunter, who, with a delighted exclamation, rose to his feet and began scrambling toward his prize. But for his excitement Fred would have noted a singular thing. When the report of his rifle rang out in the stillness, the echo from the face of the cliff sounded as sharp and loud as the crack of his own weapon. The explanation of this speedily became manifest. Although the way was rough, the distance was so short that it took Fred only a brief time to reach the inanimate body of the buck. "Hank couldn't have beaten that shot himself! I must have driven the bullet through his heart, which I shouldn't have done if he hadn't started to flee at the instant I pulled trigger----" At that moment an Indian, rifle in hand, stepped into view from among the rocks, and with a grin on his face came toward the youth. Fred was not dreaming of anything of the kind, and looked at the red man in astonishment. "Eh! howdy, brother? That my buck," said the Indian, with his painted face still bisected by a tremendous smile. The lad flared up on the instant. "How do you make that out? I just shot him." "No; me shoot him--he mine." Fred's gorge continued to rise. "You are not speaking the truth. I fired at him a few minutes ago and saw him spring in air and fall over the cliff." "Where you hit him?" Ready to prove the truth of his own words, the youth stooped over the carcass, which was lying on its left side. A crimson orifice was seen just back of the foreleg, which showed where the tiny messenger of death had entered. "That's where I struck him! What have you to say to _that_?" "I shoot at the same time as brother. That where my bullet go in. Dere where it come out." Reflection convinced Fred of the unpleasant fact that this Indian was speaking the truth. The relative position of the lad and the dead buck had been such that it was impossible for his bullet to take the course of the one that had slain the animal. The decisive shot, therefore, was not his. "But I know mine struck him somewhere," was Fred's desperate exclamation; "could it have taken the same course as yours?" The tantalizing smile came back to the face of the red man, who shook his head. "My brother's bullet strike dere--hurt antler bad." The Indian thrust the toe of his moccasin against the buck's antlers. It was plain that one of the prongs had been chipped off, as if by the impact of a glancing bullet. Fred could no longer deny the mortifying fact that his shot had no more to do with the death of the animal than if it had been a pebble tossed up the cliff by hand. The discovery did not add to his temper, and he was in an unreasonable mood. "You hadn't any business to fire at the buck when I did! I had picked him out for my game and it was a mean act on your part. We both struck him, and I shall claim one-half of him, for I'm hungry, and it will soon be supper-time." A dangerous light shone in the black eyes of the Indian. Evidently he had no liking for the race of the young man, and his resentment was roused by his words and manner. "He mine; me take him; you thief!" It occurred to Fred Greenwood at this moment that it would be unwise as well as perilous to quarrel with this denizen of the wilderness. He was in middle life, active, powerful, wiry and unscrupulous. The youth was no match for him in a personal encounter; besides which he noticed that the fellow carried a Winchester like his own, not to mention the formidable knife at his waist. Still the lad was too proud to yield the point without protest. Besides, he was growing anxious about that supper which hung suspended in the balance. "It's only fair that you should give me a part of the body; you can't eat a tenth part of it. You must divide." "He mine--me take all--white dog have none--me kill him." "You will, eh? I shall have something to say about that." It was Jack Dudley who uttered these words as he strode into view from the direction taken a few minutes before by his comrade. The Indian had detected the approach of Jack before he spoke and before Fred knew of his coming. He raised his head like a flash, and the dark, threatening expression vanished, succeeded by the grin that was there when he first appeared to the younger lad. "Howdy, brother?" he said, extending his hand, which was taken rather gingerly by the surprised youth, who recognized him as Motoza, the vagrant Sioux, with whom he had had the singular experience some nights before, when encamped in the grove on the prairie. "Why, I didn't suspect it was _you_," added Jack, hardly knowing how to address him. Motoza would have lacked ordinary perception had he failed to see that the boys were friends. What impulse led him to do what he did it would be hard to explain, but without making any response to the remark of Jack he drew his knife, stooped over the carcass, and dextrously cut two large pieces from the haunches. Straightening up, he handed one to Jack and the other to Fred, with the words: "Take, brothers." "Thank you very much," replied Fred, accepting the "peace offering," while his friend made similar acknowledgment. "Brothers want more?" "That is plenty. We are obliged, and hope you will pardon our hasty words." With the chronic grin on his painted face Motoza stood silent, as if the business was closed between them. "That gives us our supper, Fred, and we may as well go back to camp. Good-by, Motoza." The Sioux slightly nodded, but did not speak. Each boy, carrying his food, turned his back upon him and moved away in the direction of the camp. When they had gone a slight distance, Jack looked back and saw the Indian bent over the carcass of the buck and busy with his knife in securing a meal for himself. A few minutes later the parties were out of sight of each other. At the first water they reached the lads carefully washed and dressed the venison and resumed their return to camp. "What do you make of it, Jack?" asked Fred. "I don't know enough about Indians to judge them correctly, but I think their nature must be similar to our own. Motoza formed a respect for me because of the manner in which I handled him the other night." "That is my belief; and it is not only respect, but friendship. He likes you, and will never do you harm." "What about _you_?" "I am not so clear there. He and I were quarrelling when you came up. I thought it was I who killed the buck, but he proved it was himself, and that I had no claim to him. But I had set my heart on making a supper off venison to-night, and did not like the thought of giving it up. He was ugly, and if you hadn't come up just when you did there would have been trouble, with the chances against me." "It was a mistake on your part." "I fear it was. It may be, however, that Motoza feels better disposed toward me since he has learned we are friends." "That is my belief. But it is rather curious that we should run across him again, so many miles from the spot where we last met; but, Fred, we must keep our bearings." They were in a wild section of the mountains, which they had not seen before, but by carefully noting the position of the sun in the sky and observing a towering, snow-covered peak that had been fixed upon as a landmark, they agreed as to the right direction. They were confirmed in their belief shortly after by coming to the edge of the canyon which they had leaped on their outward trip; but the width was fully twenty feet, with no diminishing, so far as they could see, to the right or left. "I hardly think it will do to make the venture here," remarked Jack, with a shake of his head. "No; for not only is it too wide, but the other side is several feet higher than this." They cautiously approached the edge and peered down into the frightful depth. There was the same foamy stream, apparently a half-mile below, clashing over the rocky bottom, and sending up the faint roar that impressed them when the canyon was first seen. It was, in short, a reproduction on a reduced scale of the magnificent Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone, which is a source of admiring wonder to thousands of tourists. Something away down in the bottom caught the attention of Fred, and, at his suggestion, they laid aside their rifles and venison and crept forward on their faces until their heads projected over the edge of the dizzying depth. "Do you see him?" asked Fred. "Yes; who would have thought of such a thing?" At many points in the yeasty foam black masses of rocks rose so high above the roaring stream that the water whirled and eddyed around them. It was mostly these obstructions that kept the current in a state of turmoil, and made it show distinctly in the twilight gloom of the canyon. On one of the dripping rocks was a man, standing so like a statue that in the indistinct light Fred Greenwood took him for some fantastic formation of stone, worn by the eroding action of the angry waters, but the suggestion of a living person was so striking that the two called their spy-glasses into use. The result was astounding. Instead of being an Indian, as they had believed at first, it was a white man. Furthermore, the instruments proved beyond question that he was their old friend, Hank Hazletine. "What in the name of wonder is he doing down there?" exclaimed the amazed Jack. "Standing on a rock," was the reply. "He finds some amusement in that, or he wouldn't do it." "He must have entered at the mouth of the canyon, which cannot be far off." "That may be so. The sides are so broken and rough that he could use them for stairs in going down or coming up." "Whew!" exclaimed Jack, with a shudder; "the thought scares me. I wouldn't undertake it for the world! Suppose, when you had picked your steps half-way down, you couldn't find a place to rest your hands or feet; or, in climbing up, you should be stopped within a yard or two of the top?" "It would be the end of the chapter for us; but Hank knows the country so well that he is in no danger of making such a mistake; but none for us." In the hope of attracting the notice of their friend the boys shouted to him, but the roar of the waters was in the ears of the hunter, who would not have heard the boom of a cannon fired on the cliffs above. He did not look up or give any heed to their hail. Fred thought of throwing down a piece of rock, but it was too dangerous. It was liable to be so deflected from its course as to kill the unsuspicious hunter, who had assumed great risk as it was. "Do you see that?" asked Jack. The question was caused by the action of Hank, who made a leap that carried him to the top of the boulder nearest him. Then he sprang to a second and a third, when, to the astonishment of the watchers, he disappeared. The reason was apparent. After his last leap he had passed under a projecting ledge, from which, of course, he would emerge whenever he chose to do so. But, though the boys watched for a considerable time, he did not appear; and, realizing that the afternoon was drawing to a close, they rose to their feet, with the purpose of pushing on to camp. But to do that they must find a place where the canyon could be crossed, and they set out on their hunt, which proved less difficult than was anticipated. Not far off a portion of the rocks on their side projected like a tongue so far over the ravine that it was barely two yards from its extremity to the other bank. Moreover, the sides of the canyon were on a level, so that a more favorable spot for crossing could not have been desired. An examination of this formation showed that twenty feet below them the canyon was as wide as at the point from which they had watched their friend. The ledge, therefore, arched over, and was in the nature of a partial bridge, whose thickness would have sustained a great many tons. They peered downward in quest of Hank, but the gorge had taken an abrupt turn since they saw him and he was not in sight. The task before them seemed so simple that the two gave it scarcely a thought, but it brought them an experience which, in some respects, was the most terrifying of their lives. While the banks were substantially on the same level, the opposite one was fringed with a species of stunted bush, two or three feet high, quite dense, and bearing a species of red berry such as is found on the fragrant wintergreen. Hazletine had cautioned the lads against eating any vegetable whatever in this section, since many are violently poisonous and have caused the death of more than one thoughtless tenderfoot. Fred Greenwood made ready for the first jump. As in the former instance, the distance was so slight that it was not necessary to toss any of their impedimenta in advance of their own passage. It was easy to jump with the Winchester in one hand and the goodly piece of meat in the other. Since Fred had beaten his friend some time before, Jack quietly resolved to turn the tables by doing his best, and he was confident of far surpassing him, especially as Fred had no suspicion of his intention. "Go ahead," said Jack; "night isn't far off, and it will be dark by the time we reach camp." Fred took only a couple of paces for a start, when he bounded across the chasm with the ease of a chamois. Jack had sauntered a rod back, as if with no special purpose in mind, when his object was to secure the impetus that would land him far in advance of his comrade. Standing thus, he complacently watched Fred, as his body rose in air, gracefully curved over, and landed at a safe distance beyond the edge of the canyon. It was while Jack Dudley was standing thus that he fancied he saw a disturbance in the bushes where Fred was about to alight. It was so slight that he did not think it meant anything; and, without noticing it further, he started on a series of quick, short steps, which were to give him the necessary momentum to win the victory over his friend. At that instant Fred landed and emitted a cry of terror and warning. "Look out, Jack! Don't jump! Stop! stop!" But, though Jack heard the cry, it was too late to heed it. He was so near the edge of the canyon that had he checked himself he would have gone spinning to death down the abyss. The leap must be made, and, gathering his muscles, he rose in the air, with his legs gathered under him, and with the certainty that the jump would far surpass the one that he had just witnessed. In that critical moment, when his body rose and seemed suspended over the gorge, Jack's attention was fixed upon the strange actions of Fred. The instant he landed he darted to one side, and with his rifle struck at something in the bushes which Jack could not see. As he did so he recoiled, and was in the act of advancing and striking again, when Jack landed upon the ground beyond. As he did so he heard a vicious, locust-like whir, whose meaning he recognized. An immense rattlesnake was in the bushes, and Fred had descended almost upon it. But for the tremendous effort of Jack he would have dropped squarely upon the velvety body, with consequences too frightful to be thought of; but his great leap carried him over it, while the attack of Fred upon the reptile, in the effort to save his companion, diverted the attention of the rattlesnake for an instant. Jack saw the flat, pitted head, the gleaming coil, the distended jaws, while the slightly elevated tail vibrated so rapidly with the warning which, once heard, can never be forgotten, that it looked hazy and mist-like. Before Fred, at imminent risk to himself, could bring down his clubbed gun with crushing force, Jack felt a sharp sting in his ankle and called out, in the extremity of terror: _"I'm bitten!"_ He was not only terrified but angered, and whirling about, he brought down his gun with spiteful violence on the writhing body. The reptile struck again, but it was already wounded to that extent that its blow was erratic, and, though it came near reaching the hand of Jack, it missed by a safe margin. CHAPTER IX. NIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS. One of the singular facts connected with the _crotalus_ species is the ease with which it is killed. The writer once ended the career of a huge specimen with a single blow of a whip-lash. The first impact of Fred Greenwood's rifle-barrel upon the hideous reptile coiled in the scrub bushes inflicted a fatal wound, though the serpent continued blindly striking for a minute or two longer, and responded viciously to the attack of the scared and angry Jack Dudley, who struck it several times after it had ceased to struggle and all danger was past. A person's first impulse, after being bitten by a snake, is to kill it, after which he looks after the wound he may have received. But Fred had heard the dreadful exclamation of his comrade and caught him by his arm as he was about to bring down his last blow upon the reptile. "O Jack, are you sure he bit you?" he asked in a tremulous voice. "Yes; I felt the sting in my left ankle, like the prick of a needle." Dropping upon the ground, he hastily unfastened and turned down his legging. There, sure enough, was a tiny red spot, with a single drop of blood oozing from it. "The rattlesnake has two fangs," said Fred; "but there is only one wound here." "It wasn't a direct blow, I suppose," said the white-faced Jack, who had good reason to be terrified over the occurrence, for the rattlesnake, although ranking below the cobra in the virulence of its venom, is the most deadly serpent in America, and the veteran hunter fears it more than the most savage of wild animals. Fred stooped down and examined the wound closely. A thrilling suspicion was becoming certainty in his mind. "When did you feel that bite?" he asked. "At the moment I landed on my feet. What a dreadful poison it is! I can feel it all through my body; and don't you see that my ankle has begun to swell?" Fred continued to study the wound, pressing his finger around it and bending close to the limb. Had the hurt been caused by the fang of a serpent he would have tried to suck out the venom. Suddenly he looked up with glowing face. "Now, Jack, my dear fellow, don't be frightened; you haven't been bitten at all." "What do you mean?" "At the moment you landed on your feet I was beating the life out of the snake, and he was giving his whole attention to me. He did not try to bite you till you turned about and began striking at him." "But what made that wound?" asked Jack. "I suspect the cause." He drew up the legging and examined the part that covered the spot in the ankle which had received the blow. "There! I knew it! That's what did it!" He had plucked out a small, needle-pointed thorn. The bushes abounded with similar prongs, one of which had been torn off and pierced the legging of Jack when he was crashing through the tops of the bushes. "Sure there isn't any mistake about that?" asked the youth, feeling as if a mountain were lifted from his shoulders. "There can't be." "Wait a minute!" With one bound the happy fellow came to his feet, and throwing his arms about his comrade, hugged him into temporary breathlessness. "Thank the Lord! Richard's himself again! The V. W. W. are born to good fortune." And joining hands, the two danced with delight. Many in the situation of Fred Greenwood would have laughed at Jack and "guyed" him over his blunder, but the incident was too dreadful and the terror of his friend too intense for Fred to wish to amuse himself at his expense. However, he could not help indulging just a trifle. Suddenly pausing in his antics he looked down at the feet of Jack. "I suppose in a few minutes your ankle will be so swelled that the buckles will fly off the legging. By this time, too, you must feel the poison in your head." By way of answer, Jack, who, like Fred, had laid aside his Winchester and venison, seized his friend and tried to lay him on his back. They had had many a wrestling bout at home and there was little difference in their skill. Fred was always ready for a test, and he responded with such vigor that before Jack suspected he received an unquestioned fall, since both shoulders and hips were on the ground at the same time, with his conqueror holding him motionless. "It was hardly fair," remarked Fred, allowing him to rise to his feet. "Why not?" asked Jack, also coming up. "The venom of the rattlesnake so weakened you that you are not yourself." "I'll show you whether I am or not!" At it they went again, and this time Jack was the victor, after which they brushed off their clothing and agreed to leave the deciding bout for a more convenient season. Night was rapidly closing in. "That exercise has added to my appetite," remarked Jack, as they gathered up their belongings and moved off. "It would have done the same for me, if the thing were possible." Mindful of the danger of going astray, they carefully studied the landmarks, so far as they could see them. Their main reliance was the lofty peak that was visible for so great a distance, but with that help they saw it growing dark, while they were in a region totally strange to them. "My gracious!" said Fred, as they came to a halt; "in the face of all that Hank told us, we have lost our way!" "It has that look," replied Jack, removing his hat and drawing his handkerchief across his moist forehead; "but I don't see that it is such a serious thing, after all. We can spend the night here as well as anywhere." "What will Hank think, when he goes to camp to meet us?" "I reckon he'll not be disappointed; besides, we can't be far from the place, and can look it up to-morrow." "I don't suppose it will hurt us to build a fire among these rocks and spend the night; but the air is pretty cool and we shall miss our blankets." "Old hunters like ourselves must become used to such things," complacently observed Jack, who began preparations at the same moment for carrying out his own proposal. It was no trouble to find enough brush and wood to serve them, and they had brought such a goodly supply of matches from the ranch in their rubber safes that they soon had a vigorous fire going, over which they broiled their venison. The meal of itself would not have been enjoyable at their home, for it was too "new," lacking a certain tenderness that forms one of its chief attractions. Besides, it was unavoidably scorched in the preparation; but the mixed pepper and salt sprinkled over it improved the flavor. But the great thing was their insatiate appetites, for it is a homely truth that there is no sauce like hunger. So it came about that they not only made a nourishing meal, but had enough left to serve them in the morning. It was fully dark when the repast was finished. The fire had been started against the face of a boulder, and only a small quantity of wood remained--not sufficient to last half through the night. With the going down of the sun the air became colder. It seemed at times as if a breath of wind from the snowy peaks reached them, and it caused an involuntary shiver. The prospect of remaining where they were through the dismal hours of darkness was anything but cheering. "Jack," suddenly said Fred in a guarded undertone, "there's some wild animal near us." "How can you know that?" "I heard him moving about." "In what direction?" "Just beyond the ridge there. Hark! Didn't you hear it?" "You are right," whispered Jack; "let's find out what it is." Gun in hand, they moved stealthily up the slight ridge near by. It was only a few feet in height. Their experience had taught them that danger was likely to break upon them at any time, and they did not mean to be caught unprepared. Neither spoke as they cautiously climbed the ridge, like a couple of Indian scouts on the alert for the first appearance of peril. But they reached the crest of the slight elevation without having heard anything more of that which had alarmed them. The next moment, however, both caught the dim outlines of a large animal moving slowly from them. Before they were certain of its identity the creature neighed, as if frightened by the stealthy approach of the youths. "It's a horse!" exclaimed Fred, who, suspecting the whole truth, moved over the ridge and called, in a coaxing voice: "Dick! Come here, Dick!" The animal stopped, looked inquiringly around, and then came forward with a pleased whinny. He was Fred's pony, and, brief as their acquaintance had been, recognized his voice. Fred stroked his nose and patted his neck, and the horse showed his pleasure at receiving the endearments. When the youths made their halt and cooked their supper they were on the edge of the grassy plateau for which they were hunting, and whose features they would have been quick to recognize were the sun shining. Soon after, Jack's pony came out of the gloom as if to claim attention, and he received it. "We are more fortunate than I dared hope," said Jack; "here we are at home, after all. I wonder whether Hank is ahead of us?" This was unlikely, since, if he had reached the spot fixed upon as their headquarters, he would have kindled a fire, whereas it was dark in every direction. The partial cavern was on the other side of the plateau, and the boys walked rapidly to it, the route being clear, now that they had located themselves. They appreciated the wisdom of Hank, who had made them help gather enough firewood to last through the night. He said (what proved to be the fact) that they were not likely to return till late, when it would be hard to collect the right kind of fuel. In a brief while a second fire was under way. It was started in front of the cavern, which was of so slight extent that it received and held much of the warmth. Seated within the opening, with their heavy blankets wrapped about them, the boys were thoroughly comfortable. They had met with enough stirring adventure and had had sufficient rough experience to make the rest highly acceptable. They naturally wondered when nine o'clock passed without bringing Hank Hazletine. "Maybe he has lost his way in the canyon," suggested Fred, giving expression to a fancy which was not serious. "You mean that he has forgotten where the stairs lead up to the top?" "I guess that's what I mean, though I never thought of it before. If that is the fact, he may have to pick his way for two or three hundred miles to the mouth of the canyon and then walk back to us." "That will delay his arrival." "Yes. He can hardly be expected before morning." "Let me see," said Jack, becoming more serious; "Hank warned us that no matter where we went into camp, we must keep one person on duty as sentinel." "Suppose we are separated, and there is only one of us in camp?" "Then, I presume, he must sit up and watch over himself. But what's the use of one of us keeping guard here?" "Why not?" "We are in this cavern-like arrangement, where no one can come upon us from the rear, while the fire will ward off danger from the front." "Suppose that danger comes in the form of an Indian; what would he care for half a dozen fires?" "But there are no unfriendly Indians in these parts." "You are thinking of Motoza. We have agreed that he is friendly, but sometimes I suspect we are making a mistake about him." The boys would have been glad to convince themselves that it was safe to dispense with guard duty, for a night of undisturbed rest was exceedingly tempting, but no one who starts out with the set purpose of deceiving himself can do so. The result of it all was that the two decided that they must stand guard between them until the sun rose. On such occasions the sentinel whose turn comes first has the preferable task, since every one will admit that it is easier to keep awake before midnight than afterward. The division was made more equitable by arranging that Jack Dudley should serve until two o'clock, and Fred Greenwood for the remainder of the morning. Before the hour of ten the younger lay down on the flinty floor, with his heavy blanket gathered around him, and sank into slumber. They had matched pennies for the first turn, else the elder would not have claimed it. Jack found his duty similar in many respects to that of his first night on the prairie, but the surroundings and circumstances were in wide contrast. In the former instance they had the companionship of the cowman and veteran hunter, while now they could not know whether he was within a half-dozen miles of them. Jack, however, did not believe that anything in the nature of danger impended, and that to a great extent he was taking upon himself an unnecessary hardship. So far as he could judge, the only possible thing to fear was wild animals. There were always some of them prowling through this region, but at that season of the year the wolves and other brutes were not pressed by hunger, and no matter how fierce the creature, he would not attempt to pass the mouth of the cavern so long as the fire was burning. Jack flung a number of sticks on the blaze and then passed outside, where he was beyond the circle of light. Standing thus, in the gloom of the night, he felt that the experience of that hour was worth the journey across the continent. There was an impressive grandeur in the solitude that he had never felt before. On every side towered the immense peaks of one of the loftiest spurs of the grandest mountain chain of America. The crests resembled piles of blackness, with the stars gleaming behind them, while he, an insignificant atom, stood with gun by his side in one of the tiny hollows, as if to guard against attack from the sleeping monsters. As is always the case, the stillness of the vast solitude seemed unlike silence, for a low, deep murmur was ever brooding in the air, varied now and then by the soft voice of some waterfall, borne across the vasty depths by an eddy in the gentle wind. Once the bark of a wolf sounded so sharp and clear that the youth started and looked to one side, expecting to see the animal steal forward from the gloom, but a moment's reflection told him the brute was a mile or more distant. Then, some time later, a mournful, wailing cry rose and fell from some remote point. He suspected that that, too, came from the throat of a wolf, but he was not sure. Just a touch of homesickness came over Jack Dudley, and he felt lonely for the first time since leaving home. As he looked up at the clear sky he wondered whether his father and mother were well and asleep; whether they were dreaming of him; whether they missed him from that loved home and longed for the day when he should return to them. "Suppose something happens that will prevent my ever seeing them?" he said to himself, while the tears filled his eyes. "I thought when I believed that rattlesnake had bitten me to-day that death was sure; and I was near it, though I was unharmed. We are in more danger here than I expected; but we are in danger every hour, no matter where we are. I hope nothing will befall Fred or me." And standing alone in the midst of that wild, rugged scene, he silently lifted his heart to the only One who could protect and save them from the hundreds of perils that beset them. His eye was fixed on the stupendous mountain beyond the plateau, at whose base wound the canyon, when he observed a growing light on its crest. The twinkling stars beyond grew dimmer, and the white blanket of snow that had lain there for centuries rapidly came out in bolder relief, until it sparkled and gleamed much as he had seen it do when the sun was shining. Then a curved yellow rim emerged from behind the mountain, its climbing of the sky so rapid that the progress was readily noted. In a brief while the whole form of the round full moon appeared clear of the peak, and its silvery rays began filling the gorges and chasms below. The scene was picturesque and beautiful beyond description. As the moon climbed higher, the lower peaks, one after the other, leaped into view, while the hollows between became blacker and more awesome from contrast. Most of these were so deep that the illumination made them appear stronger by the contrast. As the orb ascended it seemed to shrink in size and to climb more slowly; but the shifting of the wonderful panorama, progressing as it did in complete silence, was impressive to the last degree. It was as if the angels of the sky were noiselessly casting their fleecy veils of light over and into the awful depths below, and driving away the crouching monster of blackness that was thus roused from his slumber and forced to flee. Grand as was the scene, it was soothing in its effect upon the awed lad, who, leaning against the rock behind him, the stock of his rifle resting at his feet, surveyed it all with feelings that drew him nearer to heaven, and gave him a more vivid knowledge of the greatness and majesty of the Author of all that he saw and felt. Standing thus, with his emotions stirred to their profoundest depths, Jack Dudley took no note of the passage of time. Midnight came and passed, and still he held his post, wondering, admiring and worshipping, as must puny man when brought face to face with such exhibitions of Omnipotence. It was an unromantic ending to this experience that, forgetful of the consequences of what he did, he finally became sensible of the irksomeness of his standing position, and sat down, with his back to the rock, that he might enjoy it all without fatigue of body. Need it be said what followed? He had not been seated ten minutes when his senses left him and he became as unconscious as Fred Greenwood, asleep in the cavern, on the other side of the smouldering fire. The hours passed until the light of the moon paled before the rosy hues of the rising sun, and still the boys slumbered and knew naught of what was passing around them. CHAPTER X. THE SIGNAL-FIRES. Jack Dudley was awakened by the sound of laughter. Opening his eyes, he stared about him confusedly, unable for some moments to recall his situation. Fred Greenwood stood in front of him, shaking so much with mirth that he could scarcely stand. "O faithful sentinel!" he said; "how well thou hast kept thy trust!" "I don't see anything to laugh at," replied Jack, rising to his feet and rubbing his eyes; "you would have done the same if you had been in my place." "Perhaps I should, and then the laugh would have been on me. But we have cause to be thankful that, while no harm has come to us, we have had a good night's rest. I suppose you dropped into slumber almost as soon as I did." "No, I didn't," persisted the elder; "I stood here a long time, but made the mistake of sitting down for a few minutes, just before it was time to call you. I ought to have known better, and shall never do the like again." "Well, we have been fortunate and it has taught us both a lesson. Let's attend to our toilet and have breakfast." They laved their faces and hands in the cold stream of clear water running near them, combed their hair, stretched and limbered arms and legs by a series of gymnastics to which they were accustomed, and then, returning to the mouth of the cavern, found, by raking over the ashes, that enough live embers remained to broil the venison more acceptably than any meal that had been prepared since coming to the region. By that time Jack had recovered his usual good nature, and was as ready to jest as his companion over his dereliction of duty. "I don't know what time it was when I fell asleep," he said, "but it must have been past midnight. The moon had risen over that high mountain yonder, and I was admiring the wonderful picture its rays made as they shot out over the lower peaks and lit up the chasms between. I never saw anything so beautiful." "You ought to have called me to share the pleasure with you." "I have no doubt it was time to do so, but I knew you preferred to sleep rather than look upon Niagara Falls or the Yellowstone." "If so, I am not the only younker, as Hazletine says, who has such a preference. That reminds me, Jack, that it's mighty lucky we are not vegetarians." "Why?" "What should we do for our meals? So long as we stay in these mountains we must live on game. This seasoning that Hank was thoughtful enough to give us makes it palatable, but coffee, bread and a few vegetables would help a good deal." "It doesn't make much difference, so long as we are blessed, or rather tortured, with such appetites as we have had ever since we struck Wyoming." From where they sat at the mouth of the cavern they saw all three of their ponies cropping the succulent grass. It was evident that nothing could add to their enjoyment of this outing. Naturally the boys speculated over the absence of their guide. "He must have expected to spend the night with us. And, Fred, perhaps it will be just as well, when he does come, that we don't tell him how I passed the time when trying to act the sentinel." "I surely shall not, unless he questions us so closely that we cannot help letting him know the truth." "He will have a small opinion of us." "Why of '_us_?'" "Because you would have done the same as I." "That has not yet been proven." "Well, say 'myself,' if that suits better." "It is a very good amendment. I wonder whether anything can have befallen him?" "He is too much of a veteran to make such blunders as we." "That is true, and yet the most skilful hunter in the world is liable to accident. What's frightened the ponies?" One of the animals had raised his head, with the grass dripping like green water from his jaws, and was looking off to the side of the plateau as if he scented danger of some kind. He was near the further boundary, thus being considerably removed from the boys, who grasped their Winchesters and rose to their feet. "It's Hank's horse," said Jack, in an undertone; "the others do not seem to be interested in what disturbs him." "And there comes Hank himself!" was the delighted exclamation of Fred, as they saw their old friend step into view from behind the rocks and walk with his peculiar silent stride toward them. The movement of the beard under the broad sombrero showed that the guide was smiling, and doubtless he was as pleased as the boys over the meeting. He advanced with the same lengthy step and extended his hand with his hearty "Howdy?" to each in turn. "Glad to see you, younkers; you seem to have got along as well without me as if I'd been with you." "Nothing has come amiss; but, Hank, we're glad indeed to see you." "Where did you git your breakfast?" he asked, glancing at the signs of the meal of which they had partaken. "Oh, I thought it best yesterday afternoon to shoot a buck," said Fred, airily; "for the main thing for us to do in this part of the world is to look out that we don't starve to death." "You shot a buck, eh? How was it?" Thereupon the younger lad gave the particulars of the incident. Hank listened attentively, and when he learned of the part played by Motoza, the vagrant Sioux, his interest deepened. "So that scamp is in the mountains? I s'pected it; he claimed to have shot the buck and wouldn't divide till Jack took a hand. Why did you let him have any of it?" "Because he had the right. I thought it was my shot that killed the game, but the bullet only grazed one of his antlers; it was Motoza who killed the buck, and he was entitled to him. Have you been to breakfast?" "Yes," replied the veteran, whose manner showed that he was displeased with the story he had just heard. "Hank," said Jack, "why did Motoza give us any of the venison?" "I don't know," was the unexpected reply; "I'd give a good deal to know." "Do you suppose he was frightened when he found there were two instead of one to face?" "It looks that way, but I can't believe it. The Sioux is a scamp mean enough to do anything; but he has grit, and I don't believe that two young tenderfeet like you could scare him." "Perhaps he felt a respect and friendship for Jack because of what took place in the grove on the prairie," suggested Fred. The boys expected their friend to ridicule this idea, but he did not. On the contrary, he admitted that it was the most reasonable explanation that presented itself; and because of this admission, both of the lads were confirmed in their faith that the right cause had been named. "One of you stood guard last night while the other slept?" The question was so abrupt that Jack's face flushed. Fred was silent, but his comrade thought the best course was to make a clean breast of it, and he did so. Hank won the gratitude of the boys by not uttering a word of reproof or showing any displeasure. More than that, he made the astounding comment: "I'm glad you slept most of the night." The two looked at him in astonishment. "If the Sioux meant you harm, you gave him the best chance in the world. He carries as good a repeating Winchester as yours, and there was nothing to keep him from stealing up in the night and shooting you both; or, if he liked the knife better, it would have been the easiest thing in the world for him to wipe you out when your eyes was closed." This was a view of the matter that had not presented itself to the youths, for the reason, as will be remembered, that they had accepted the friendship of Motoza as a fact. "But he could have followed and picked us off when we were on our way here," suggested Jack. "Yes, he's had all the chances he wanted." "Then it's safe to set Motoza down as a friend?" But Hank shook his head. "The safest thing to do when an Indian is afore the house is to set him down as an enemy waiting for a chance to lift your scalp. That confounded Sioux is one of the cunningest imps that ever stole a white man's pony or helped to stampede a drove of cattle. Everything that he's done since we come into the mountains looks as if he was a friend to us all. I can't help saying that, but it mustn't be furgot that the whole bus'ness may be meant to close our eyes, and that he's got some deviltry in mind back of it all, that neither of you younkers has thought about." "Have _you_ thought of it?" The hunter would not reply to this direct question except to say: "We'll have to wait and see." And so Jack and Fred were left as much in doubt as before; but, it may be added, with their belief in the friendship of the Sioux unshaken. They reasoned that their guide was so accustomed to seeing the worst side of the red men that he found it hard to believe any good of them. As for themselves, they would feel no further anxiety over the enmity of Motoza, for had he not shown the best possible proof that could be asked of his good-will? Inasmuch as Hank had given them a series of surprises by his questions and remarks, Jack Dudley now turned the tables on him by saying: "Yesterday afternoon, when we looked down into that deep canyon over yonder, we shouted to you at the bottom, but suppose the noise of the water prevented your hearing us. At any rate, you gave us no attention." The hunter was astonished, as he showed by his start and inquiring look. "So you seen me, did you?" "We did, and wondered what you were doing there." Hank laughed in his silent way, as if it were all a joke, but did not offer any explanation. Evidently he had some business down there, but, like most of his kind, was not inclined to make known his secrets when the necessity did not exist. "What a tremendous climb that was! And it must have been dangerous to pick your way down the side of the canyon." "I s'pose it would have been if I'd done it, but I didn't." "Then the canyon cannot be as extended as we thought?" "That depends on how long you thought it was. As near as I can find out, it is between sixty and seventy miles." Not wishing to persist in speaking in riddles, Hank added: "Howsumever, though it's as long as I said, there's a break not fur away, where the banks ain't more than a few feet above the stream. The break isn't large, but it don't have to be. You obsarved that the stream runs into the mountains. It seems to be making a dive fur t'other side, as if it meant to make fur the Pacific, but it gives it up and comes back after a while, and finds its way into the Wind River, and so on to the Big Horn and the Missouri." "Then you came up the canyon from the break and went back again?" "I didn't say that. I come up to where you seed me, but instead of going back I climbed the side to the top." "Gracious, what a task! It must be a thousand feet." "It isn't much less, but the sides of the canyon are so rough that it's just like so many steps. I've done it often, and ain't the only one. Bart and Mort tried both ways and like the climb better, though Kansas Jim would never take it. Don't furgit one thing, younkers. When you have a job like that afore you it's a good deal easier to climb up than it is to climb down. If you should find yourself at the bottom of the canyon and hit the right spot, you'll larn that the work is easier going up than you think, but it's too resky going down for any one to try." The boys hoped their friend would tell them why he had entered the gorge, when the act at best was exhausting and accompanied by more or less peril, but he ignored their curiosity, and they did not feel warranted in questioning him. When he thought it well he would tell them, and they could afford to wait until then. The day was as perfect in its way as its predecessor. The blue sky showed only a few fleecy clouds at wide intervals, and the sun shone with a strength that made its warmth perceptible even in that elevated region. The boys began to feel impatient to be moving. A good many days yet remained to them, but they were all too few to satisfy their longing for the inspiriting life they had entered upon with so much zest. As the three stood, the backs of Jack and Fred were toward the cavern, in which the fire had been burning, while the hunter faced them. He now turned and looked off over the wild, precipitous mountains by which they were surrounded. The youths, who were observing him, saw him fix his eyes on a point to the right, at which he gazed so long and steadily that it was evident he had discovered something of more than usual interest. Following the same direction they looked keenly, but were unable to detect anything out of the ordinary. Despite his own fixity of gaze, Hank noted what they were doing, and turning abruptly toward them, asked: "Do you obsarve anything 'tic'lar?" "Nothing more than what we have seen," replied Jack. "There are the mountain peaks, most of them reaching above the snow-line; the dark masses below; the scrubby pines, with more abundant vegetation, still further down." "Do you see that crag that juts out from the side of the lower part of that peak?" asked Hank, extending his hand in the direction indicated. Thus aided, both boys looked at the exact spot. It was below the snow-line, where only a few of the rocks showed, because of the numerous pines which grew luxuriantly; but, keen as was their eyesight, they were unable to detect the first sign of moving thing or life. "Try your glasses on it," said Hank. The boys brought the instruments round in front and levelled them at the point of interest. As they did so they made a discovery. From the very centre of the clump of wood rose a thin, shadowy line of vapor, which was dissolved in the clear air before it ascended more than a few feet above the tree-tops. "So you obsarve it at last," said the hunter, after they had told what they saw. "Wal, now study it closer, and tell me if you notice anything queer 'bout the same." Wondering what he could mean, they did as he requested. A minute later Fred said: "The smoke does not ascend steadily; first it shows plainly, then there is none, and then it shows again." "Seems to keep it up, eh?" "Yes, like the puffs from the smoke-stack of a locomotive, only they are a great deal slower," explained Jack; "but the smoke soon dissolves in the clear air." "Not soon enough, though, to keep you from obsarving what we've been talking about?" "No; it is too plain to be mistaken." "Did you ever see the smoke of a camp-fire act like that?" "Never; have you?" "Many a time; that's an Injin signal-fire." This was interesting, but caused nothing in the nature of fear on the part of the boys. It was Fred who remarked: "The Indians must be signaling to some one." "Exactly." "It can't be to _us_?" "Not much; it's to another party of Injins, and that other party is calling back to 'em. See whether you can find t'other signal." The boys moved the points of their glasses back and forth and up and down, but it was not until their guide again pointed out the right spot that they located the second signal. Indeed the vapor was so fine and feathery that it was wonderful how Hank himself had been so quick to note it. The points were of about the same elevation, and separated by a distance of some two miles. Peak and valley, gorge and canyon, rock and boulder in profusion lay between. No doubt could remain that two parties of Indians were telegraphing messages back and forth, and that they were understood by each party. As yet the boys failed to see that the matter was of any special concern to them, though it was interesting to know that they were not the only ones who were hunting in that section. "I suppose," said Jack, "that the parties are from the reservation and are signaling to each other about the game." "That may be," replied Hank, after some hesitation, "but I ain't quite sure _we_ ain't the game they're signaling 'bout." "They wouldn't dare disturb us!" exclaimed Fred. "Not in the open; but don't furgit what I obsarved to you some time ago that an Injin, when he feels purty sartin of not being found out, ain't to be trusted. Now, younkers, I may be all wrong, but if I am, nothing won't be lost by acting as if I was right; whereas if I'm right and we don't act that way, the mischief will be to pay." "How shall we make sure?" "By keeping our eyes open; when we're hunting fur game, look out that some of the redskins ain't hunting fur us. I think that confounded Motoza has a finger in this pie." Without explaining further, the hunter rested the stock of his gun on the ground and leaned upon it in profound meditation. He paid no attention to his companions, but continued gazing in the direction of the first signal-fire he had noticed, and was evidently turning over some scheme in his mind. Had he been alone he would have given no further attention to the signs, which might mean nothing or a good deal, for he felt able to take care of himself, no matter in what situation he was placed; but he considered that to a large extent the safety of the two boys, who were totally without experience in these solitudes, rested upon him. He must take no chances that were avoidable. "Younkers," he suddenly said, rousing himself, "I must larn more 'bout this bus'ness; I'm off; don't go so fur from this place that you can't git back to-night; I'll be here and have some news fur you." And with this parting he strode across the plateau on his way deeper into the mountains. CHAPTER XI. A KING OF THE FOREST. The boys remained standing at the mouth of the cavern until the guide disappeared on the other side of the little plateau. Then they looked at each other and smiled. "Well, it appears that we are to have another day to ourselves," said Jack; "and we can't gain anything by waiting, so let's be off." Nothing could be more satisfactory to Fred, and the two took nearly the same course as their friend, who passed from sight but a short time before. They had no intention, however, of following him, for that would have been displeasing to the veteran, who, had he desired their company, would have asked for it. Without any definite object in mind, they took substantially the route of the previous afternoon. Sooner than they anticipated, they found themselves on the margin of the canyon that had been the scene of so stirring an experience, but the point where they reached it was deeper in the mountains. "Jack, we can't be very far from that break that Hank spoke of; let's hunt it up." "I am willing; but before we do so we'll peep over the side, to see whether he or anyone else is there." No change was to be noted in the appearance of the tiny stream at the enormous depth, but neither friend nor stranger was in sight. They did not expect to see any one, and began moving along the side of the stupendous fissure in their search for the place where Hank had entered it. From what he said it could not be far off, but they were disappointed before reaching the right point. A gradual descent of the sides was notable, and continued until the depth of the canyon was decreased one-half, while the roar became more audible. "We can't be far from the break," said Jack; "that is, if this descent continues." They found, however, a few minutes later, that it did not continue, but began to increase, until they were fully as elevated above the bottom of the gorge as at the point where they had leaped it. The width also varied continually, sometimes being only three or four feet, while in others it expanded to nearly ten times that extent. They did not pause to look over the margin again, for their aim was to reach the place referred to by their friend. At the moment when they began to wonder whether a mistake had not been made they came upon the break. Both banks sloped downward so abruptly that it would have been laborious for the two to work their way to the bottom, or from the bottom to the top, though the masses of boulders, with the tough pines growing almost the whole distance, offered secure foothold. The picture was an interesting one. At the point where the stream issued from the canyon, its width was about twenty yards. It flowed swiftly, but quickly slackened its pace, since its expansion was fully a hundred feet. This flowed for probably double that distance, when the high banks again appeared, and what may be called the regular canyon was resumed. Jack and Fred sat down to survey the curious picture. They noticed that the canyon seemed to be dotted at intervals with rocks, some of which rose to a considerable height above the current. Many were near one side or the other, while others were in the middle of the swift stream, which dashed against them with a violence that threw the spray and foam high in air. It was easy to believe that Hank Hazletine had made his way up the canyon by leaping from rock to rock, with little more result than the wetting of his shoes. "It might be done in the daytime," said Jack, "but I should not want to try it at night." "The water must be very deep in many places; and flows so fast that the strongest swimmer couldn't help himself. I should prefer to climb the wall, as Hank did." "But that would be dangerous in the darkness." "The best thing we can do is to do neither," observed Fred, with a laugh. "I have a good deal of curiosity to know what led Hank to pick his way up the canyon, but I haven't enough to lead me to follow him----" Jack Dudley suddenly gripped the arm of his friend and drew him back from the boulder on which they had been sitting. Fred nearly lost his balance, and did not know what to make of the proceeding until both checked themselves at a safe distance and cautiously peeped forth. Then the cause of Jack's excitement became apparent. From the pines on the other side of the stream, and near the middle of the depressed portion, three Indians stepped into view. The first anxiety of the youths was to learn whether Motoza was one of them; but he was not. All were strangers. They were dressed much the same as the vagrant Sioux, and, like him, their faces were painted, and their coarse black hair dangled loosely about their shoulders. They were armed with rifles; but two of the weapons seemed to be the long, old-fashioned muzzle-loaders, while the third carried a Winchester. Although they emerged from the pines in Indian file, they spread apart and walked beside one another to the edge of the broad stream, where they stopped, as if that were the end of their journey. Their gestures showed they were talking energetically, though of course not the slightest murmur reached the youths, who took care to screen themselves from view while cautiously peeping forth. Even after the warning words of their guide they felt no special alarm, for they believed the red men were from the reservation near by, and would not harm any one. If they attempted it, Jack and Fred felt they had the advantage of position, sheltered behind the rocks, far above their enemies, down upon whom they could fire with their Winchesters, should the necessity arise. It was quite certain that the three belonged to one of the hunting parties whose signal-smoke the boys had seen earlier in the day. Their action was curious. They did not look up the bank, so that the boys might have been more careless without being discovered; but it was apparent that two of them were arguing with the third, who was more excited than either of his companions. Finally he turned away and made as if to pass up the canyon, after the manner of Hank Hazletine. He leaped out upon one of the rocks, then bounded as lightly to another, and then to a third, which took him within the canyon. The others watched him without protest or action. Evidently the Indian who had started off so hurriedly was more impulsive than his companions, for after his third leap he remained standing on the rock; and, although it would have been easy for him to spring to the next leading up the canyon, he refrained from doing do. Instead, he looked around, and then deliberately rejoined his friends, who showed no surprise over his reverse movement. They spoke only a few words to one another, when they moved back in Indian file toward the growth of pines, among which they passed from sight and were seen no more. "That was a queer performance," remarked Jack; "it looked to me as if that first fellow wanted his companions to go up the canyon with him, and when they refused he started off by himself." "Only to change his mind." "There can be no doubt of that; but it strikes me as strange that there should be something up there to attract them as well as Hank." "Some day Hank will tell us about it. Do you observe, young man, that the forenoon is well along and we haven't had a sight of any game?" With no thought of the Indians whom they had just seen, the boys began retracing their steps. Inasmuch as it was on the other side of the gorge that they had gained the shot at the buck, the feeling was strong that they should pass it again and push their hunt in that direction. It did not require long to find a spot where the fissure was easily leaped. In fact, the exploit was becoming quite an everyday thing with them. "We are not far from the spot where we killed that rattler yesterday," said Fred, recognizing several landmarks. "I wonder whether there are any more near us----" At that instant Fred uttered a gasp and leaped several feet from the ground, while his companion was hardly a second behind him. Both had heard the well-remembered whir at the same moment, and bounded away several steps before pausing to look back. Remarkable as it might seem, a second specimen of the _crotalus_, fully as large as the other, lay on the flat surface of a rock only a few inches above the ground. Evidently it was sunning itself when thus disturbed by the approach of the young hunters, at sight of whom it threw itself into coil. The boys were not in danger, for the warning was sounded while they were still a number of paces distant. Feeling safe, they stood still and surveyed the hideous thing. They agreed that it was larger than the other, and seemed to be darker in color. But for the fact that the reptiles were on opposite sides of the canyon, it might be believed they were mates. The head and tail were elevated, the latter vibrating with the swift, hazy appearance at the end of the rattles which they had noted before. Jack repeated the oft-quoted expression: "The heel of the woman shall bruise the serpent's head," and added: "I suppose nine persons out of every ten, when they see any kind of a snake, are seized with an impulse to kill it." "Even though many are harmless and useful." "I think the best use you can put a rattlesnake to is to blow him into smithereens, which is what I am going to do." As he spoke, Jack brought his Winchester to a level and sighted carefully at the pitted head of the serpent. He was deliberate, and did not press the trigger until sure his aim was accurate to a hair. Fred kept his eye on that head. At the instant the sharp crack of the rifle rang out the frightful object vanished, and the long body broke into fierce writhings. Jack had clipped off the head as neatly as if with the blow of a scimitar, the bullet shattering the neck just below, and at its narrowest portion. "That's as well as I could have done myself," commented Fred, as his friend lowered his weapon and watched the struggles of his victim, which quickly ceased, for, as has been said, the _crotalus_ species is easily killed, and when one of them has been decapitated he cannot keep up appearances very long. When it became certain the reptile was dead the boys drew near for a closer inspection. They counted the rattles, which were seventeen in number, proving the reptile of extraordinary size. "We didn't think to count those of the other," said Fred, "but I am sure it was not so large as this." "No; but I wonder whether we are going to stumble over them at every step?" "This is only the second one; we may not see another for a week." "I hope we shall not; but so long as they are kind enough to give us notice of their intentions we ought to be able to avoid their bites." It looked as if their experience of the previous day was to be repeated, for within a hundred yards from the spot an animal was discovered on a rock, a considerable distance above them. Fred was the first to see it, and exclaimed: "There's another buck, Jack! It's your turn." But before Jack could bring his weapon to a level the animal saw them and was off like a flash. In fact they had no more than a glimpse of it--barely enough to see that it had no antlers, and probably was not a deer at all. "It isn't going to be as easy work as we thought," said Fred; "I shouldn't be surprised if we fail to get a shot to-day." "Well, we shall have the fun of tramping ourselves tired. It seems to me that when any sort of game shows itself it comes out in plain sight and is not scared up by us. Let's sit down a while and watch things around us." This singular proposal was acted upon. After picking their way some distance further among the rocks they chose a seat, and then looked searchingly here and there at the different elevations and prominent points, in the hope of catching sight of some game which would give them a shot before dashing off with headlong haste. "Right over that part of the mountain peak yonder," said Jack, pointing at the place, "I saw the moon rise last night. I have watched it come out of the ocean many a time, but never saw anything so beautiful before." He described as best he could the impressive scene, while Fred listened, and for the first time felt regret that he had not been awakened that he, too, might have enjoyed the view. When he had studied the mountain peak for some minutes, he raised his glass and surveyed it steadily for a while longer. "I thought so," he remarked; "turn your glass, Jack, in that direction." Jack did as requested, and saw to what his comrade referred. Perched on the highest portion was an immense gray-headed eagle. Sailing thither from the depths of space, he had paused for a while, with the grand view spread out before him, and what a view it must have been! It was easy to identify the bird with the aid of their glasses, which were kept pointed for some time at him. "I wonder whether he sees us?" said Fred. "There can be no doubt of it, for their eyes detect the smallest object on a landscape. He is probably studying us with as much interest as we are watching him." "Our rifles couldn't carry a ball half-way to him." "And what if they could? Would you wish to harm the emblem of our country?" "No; unless he attacked us, which I don't think is likely. Halloo!" Just then the immense bird spread his wings and began skimming through the air with majestic grace. More than that, he was coming in the direction of the boys. "I believe he means to make a meal off of us!" exclaimed Fred; "we would better be ready for him." "There's nothing to be frightened at. If he intends to attack us we have only to wait until he is near, when we can puncture him." If the king of birds held any such intention he changed his mind. Swooping far across the intervening space, seemingly aiming straight at them, he suddenly changed his course, and, ascending high in the sky, swept around in a wide circle and finally disappeared over the peak where first seen. The boys sat for a while in silence, gazing away in the distance, where the noble bird had vanished, half-expecting it to reappear and probably press its attack; but it had taken its flight for good and was seen no more. "I wonder whether we would have done any better if we had brought a dog with us?" said Jack, beginning to feel a trifle discouraged over their failure to secure a shot at any game. "I proposed bringing my dog, you remember, when we left home, but you thought we could do better out here. Hank and the rest of them don't seem to place much value on the animals in hunting. Did you hear that?" From some point not very far off came the report of a rifle, though whether it was the weapon of Hank Hazletine or one of the Indians that had been discharged, neither could guess. "Somebody else is in luck, and I don't see why we should not----" Before Fred could finish his sentence both heard the rustling of bushes behind them. They turned on the instant, and saw a sight which held them transfixed, for never had they expected to view anything of the kind. They had read and heard much of grizzly bears. They knew they grew to an enormous size, and are the most formidable animals found in the great West, but had they been told that there were such monsters as the one before them they could not have believed it had it been related by Hazletine himself. To Jack and Fred he seemed fully four times the size of the largest black bear they had ever seen in any zoological garden. Had his legs been longer, Fred Greenwood would have pronounced him the equal of Jumbo himself. Where this Colossus among beasts had come from it was impossible to say, but the terrifying fact was self-evident that he was advancing to attack the boys! He must have caught sight of them as they sat on the rock with their backs toward him, and, angered at the intrusion, he was sweeping down upon them like a cyclone, furious and determined to crush them out of existence. [Illustration: "He was sweeping down upon them like a cyclone."] The gait of the animal was awkward, but speedier even than the youths suspected. He swung along with a swaying motion, and his claws, striking the flinty rocks as he passed over them, rattled like iron nails. His vast mouth was open, his long red tongue lolling out, and his white teeth gleaming. As if no element of terror was to be omitted he uttered a deep, cavernous growl at every step or two, while his comparatively small black eyes seemed to glow with a savage light, altogether foreign to the species. All this was taken in at the first glance of the boys, who, petrified for one moment, realized in the next their fearful peril. "There's no time to shoot!" exclaimed Jack; "we must run!" "But he can run faster than we!" replied Fred, who stood his ground long enough to bring his Winchester to his shoulder and let fly straight at the front of the beast. That he struck the bear was certain, but it served only to add to his towering rage, and he plunged forward without halt. Jack had made no attempt to fire, but was running at headlong speed. Fred was eager to thrust another cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester from the magazine, but to do so would detain him until old Ephraim was upon him, and even then it was not likely the bullet would stay or affect his attack. Accordingly, instead of firing a second shot he whirled about and dashed after Jack, who was thus placed about a rod in advance. Although the ground was not favorable for running, it may be safely said that neither Jack Dudley nor Fred Greenwood ever gave such an exhibition of speed. They held fast to their rifles, for it looked as if the weapons were to be their final reliance. Fred glanced over his shoulder to learn how he was making out in the race. With an awful sinking he saw that the grizzly was gaining fast upon him. Still he dared not pause long enough to fire, but redoubled his energies, only to catch his foot in a running vine and plunge forward on his face. CHAPTER XII. THE TUG OF WAR. Jack Dudley, being some paces in advance of Fred Greenwood, and alarmed for him because of his greater peril, had slightly slackened his speed, for he was not the one to seek safety at the expense of his comrade. The instant he saw him fall he stopped short, and, wheeling about, fired at the grizzly, and pumping a second cartridge into the chamber of his Winchester, let fly again, both shots striking the beast, who was so close that a miss was impossible. It need not be said that Fred, having pitched forward on his hands and knees, did not remain thus. No hunter, even if a youth, gives up so long as there is a fighting chance for life. He instantly leaped to his feet, and a couple of bounds placed him beyond reach, for the moment, of his terrible enemy. The bear seemed to understand who had wounded him last, and, although closer to Fred than to his companion, he swerved to the left and headed for Jack Dudley. The latter did not stay on the order of his going, but made off at his highest speed. Brief as was the halt, it wrought a complete change of situation. Whereas Fred had been in the greatest danger, Jack was now thus placed, because the grizzly was closer to him. Not only that, but, ignoring the younger lad, he gave his whole attention to Jack. Events were going with such a rush that the boys were almost overwhelmed before they could help themselves. Fred supposed the bear was at his heels until, having run a couple of rods, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the imminent peril of Jack. Then, with a thrill of alarm, he in his turn checked his flight, and bringing his Winchester to a level drove a bullet into the immense head of the brute, which by that time had received a respectable amount of lead in his carcass. But "old Ephraim" seemed to have determined to dispose of the fugitives in the reverse order of their ages; that is to say, having changed his attentions to Jack Dudley, he did not mean to be diverted therefrom, even though the younger lad was showing disagreeable interest in him. This peculiar turn of affairs gave Fred his favorable chance; and, standing motionless, he continued his miniature bombardment as fast as he could shove the cartridges into the chamber of his weapon, aim, and fire. Surely the bullets, all of which found a lodgment somewhere in the anatomy of the monster, must have produced an effect, but they could not divert him from his main purpose. He bore down upon the apparently doomed Jack Dudley as if he would not be denied. This fact caused Fred to be thrown partly to the rear, so that the remarkable combat took the form of the grizzly pursuing one of the boys, while the other boy was pursuing the grizzly. The position of Fred, however, thus became unfavorable, for he was unable to aim at any vulnerable portion of the creature. He continued firing into his body, but the bullets produced no perceptible effect in this fight for life. Meanwhile the situation of Jack Dudley became perilous to the last degree. To stop and fire insured his certain seizure by the grizzly, who would require but a moment to tear the life from him. Jack saw him so near, indeed, that he did that which no person would do except in the last extremity. He flung away his rifle, that it might not impede his flight, and concentrated all his energies into the one effort of running. He had no time to look where he was going. He could only strive with the desperation of despair to preserve the distance between him and his pursuer, in the faint hope that something would intervene to save him. Fred was not only firing his gun as fast as he could, but he shouted to the bear, in the hope of diverting his attention from Jack, who could not keep up the unequal flight much longer. The terrified fugitive leaped over boulders, dashed around interposing rocks, and bounded across open spaces, hardly daring to look over his shoulder, for he knew from the sounds of pursuit that the animal was at his heels. It seemed every moment as if the prodigious paw of the grizzly would smite him to the earth, when no human power could save him. Suddenly the fugitive, while dashing forward in this blind, headlong fashion, found himself confronted by the canyon with which he and Fred had already had a memorable experience. It yawned at right angles to the course he was following, its width so great that it was impossible for him to leap it at that point. But he knew there must be some such place, and he continued his flight along the side of the chasm, hunting for a spot that would permit him to reach the other bank. He did not stop to think how this could benefit him, for it was to be supposed that if the grizzly could outrun he could also outleap him, and the moment the fugitive landed on the further bank the brute would do the same, without losing an inch of the advantage already gained. In fact, Jack Dudley had no time to think of anything except to run with all the vigor which nature had given him. All at once he saw a spot where the feat looked possible. There was no time for him to turn off to gain the momentum, but, measuring the interval with his eye, he gathered his muscles and leaped outward. The jump was diagonal, and made under most difficult circumstances. Who shall describe the awful thrill that shot through Jack Dudley when, at the moment of leaving the rocky edge of the rocky wall, he was sure he was about to fail in his last effort? The other margin of the canyon wall appeared to recede, and he uttered a despairing cry, certain that the next instant he would go spinning down the frightful abyss. It is at such critical times that the question of life and death is often decided by incidents so trifling that they are unnoticed. Had Jack Dudley retained his Winchester in his grasp he would have been lost. It would not have been alone the weight of the weapon, but its interference with the free use of his hands. As it was, the latter were untrammeled, and, though his feet missed a firm hold, he instinctively clutched the craggy projections, and, with a supreme effort, drew himself over the margin and beyond all danger of falling back into the canyon. And where, all this time, was old Ephraim? The remark just made concerning the effect of trifles was shown as strikingly in his case as in that of the fugitive. Despite his enormous weight and awkwardness of action, the grizzly without special exertion could have made the leap that had just been exhibited before his eyes had he been in his usual condition, but it has been shown that he had been struck by several bullets. Though most of these inflicted little more than flesh wounds, which under the circumstances were trifling, yet others did effective work. This was especially the case with those that found a lodgment in his head, which, big and tough as it was, lacked the power of turning aside a rifle-ball, as the indurated back of an alligator often does. It is to be supposed that the enraged grizzly did not comprehend the possible weakening of his colossal power through the effect of these pellets, and it is quite likely that even with such weakening he would have accomplished the leap of the canyon, but for the interference of an incident which cannot be considered in any other light than providential. Fred Greenwood's anguish was for his companion, whom it seemed impossible to help, despite the desperate effort he was making to do so. He saw the grizzly lumbering after Jack, giving no heed to the shots he sent after him, but steadily gaining upon the fugitive, whose fate hung in the passing of the seconds. Fred knew what it meant when his friend abruptly changed his course and began skirting the canyon in his frantic hunt for a narrower place. The bear was so close upon him for several paces that the terrified Fred stopped short, ceased shooting, and held his breath, expecting the great beast to strike down his comrade. The younger lad could do no more, and, staring at the two, he asked in agony that heaven would not desert his friend. Suddenly Jack Dudley rose like a bird in air. At the instant the monster was upon him he made the leap, landing on the further edge, as has been told, and quickly scrambling upon solid foundation. Had he been ten seconds later nothing could have saved him, for the grizzly showed no more hesitation than he in making the jump. At the instant Fred read the brute's intention he brought his rifle to his shoulder. Unsuspected by himself, the last cartridge in the magazine of his Winchester was in the chamber of the weapon, so that, if it failed to help, the service of the younger lad was at an end for the time, for it would be all over before he could bring into use any cartridges from his belt. To make the leap to which we have referred the grizzly changed his position. Until that moment he had been running straight away from Fred, but now, of necessity, he turned partly toward him. Recalling the words of Hank Hazletine, Fred aimed at a point just back of the foreleg, as it reached forward. The ball sped true to its aim, and entering, perhaps, the most vulnerable point of the body, did more than all the other bullets that had found a lodging-place in the grizzly, for it inflicted a mortal wound. It was this fact that destroyed the effort of the bear at the crisis of its inception. The attempt already put forth carried him well beyond the side of the canyon, but it failed to land him firmly on the other margin. His forepaws went over the top, precisely as the hands of Jack Dudley had done, and began a furious scratching of the flinty surface, while the hind feet clawed with equal fierceness the inner side of the wall. The brute was striving to save himself, and it is to be presumed would have done so but for the cause named. That last shot told the story. The shot had seriously weakened the bear, and his mighty strength was fast oozing away. His struggles grew less vigorous, though they continued up to the last moment. Jack Dudley had become aware of what was going on, and, stopping in his flight, shouted: "Shoot him, Fred, before he can climb out!" Fred attempted to do so, but discovered he had no more cartridges at command. Since the bear at best could not harm the younger, he ran forward to the side of the canyon, just behind the beast. Jack had paused, so that both were looking at the grizzly, whose huge head and massive shoulders protruded above the edge of the canyon. While they looked the head dropped from sight, followed by the forefeet, whose claws scratched over the flinty surface as they slipped backward. Knowing what had occurred, Jack and Fred ran to the edge and looked down. They were in time to see the mountainous bulk tumbling into the vast chasm. The body maintained a horizontal posture, as in life, until it struck a projecting point which sent it bounding against the other side, where the impact added to the tendency of the first blow, and the body turned over and over, like an immense log rolling down hill. Despite the gloom of the abyss the sun was shining so brightly, and was in such a favorable position, that everything was seen with distinctness. Peering downward, the awed and grateful boys saw the black mass suddenly strike the foamy waters and send the spray flying in all directions. It disappeared for a moment and then popped up like a rubber-ball, and went dancing down the current toward the break in the walls which they had visited a brief while before. Still silent and watching, they observed it dancing up and down with the violence of the stream until its motion was arrested by striking an obstruction, which held it motionless. There it stayed for the remaining minutes spent in peering into the abyss. Jack and Fred looked up and across the canyon at the same instant. They were directly opposite, and hardly twelve feet apart. The elder took off his hat and called: "Are you ready?" "Yes," said Fred, removing his head-gear. "All together!" And then they swung their hats and hurrahed with the vim which, all things considered, was justified by events. They were happy and grateful, and neither forgot to thank, with all the fervency of his nature, the One who had delivered them in safety from the very jaws of death. No matter what other dangers might come to them, there could be none narrower or more striking than that through which they had just passed. "Do you intend to stay on that side of the canyon?" asked Fred. "I don't know that there is any choice between our places, but if you feel lonely I'll come over to your help." "I thought you might want to pick up the gun you threw away." Jack looked at each of his hands in turn and laughed. "Do you know I had forgotten all about that? I don't remember having thrown it aside." "I saw you do it, and it was a lucky thing you did." The two walked beside the canyon until they came to a straight place, where Jack easily made the leap and joined his friend. Then they set out to recover the Winchester, which, as matters stood, was almost beyond value to them. "I can't recall the spot where I dropped it," remarked Jack, allowing his companion to take the lead. "I do; you and I were doing such tall running then, and for some minutes afterward, that we covered more ground than would be supposed. That's the spot, just ahead." He indicated an open space, thirty or forty feet in width, lying between a ridge of boulders, over which it was astonishing how the fugitive had managed to make such good progress. "We shall find it right there----" Fred checked his words, for at that moment they came upon the spot he had in mind and both swept their gaze over it. Their dismay may be imagined when they saw nothing of the Winchester. "You must be mistaken as to the place," said Jack. "I can't be; it was just after you had leaped down from that low boulder that you gave your right arm a swing and away the gun went." "Did you notice where it landed?" "I can put my hand on the very spot." "Do so." Fred led the way a few paces and said: "It was there, and nowhere else." Jack bent over and carefully studied the earth. "My gracious! you are right; that dent in the ground was made by the stock of my gun, and it couldn't have gone its own length further." The space was clear for several yards, and they would have discerned a small coin lying anywhere on it, but nothing suggesting a weapon was in sight. A momentary consternation took possession of them. Only one conclusion was possible: some person had taken the Winchester. "Do you suppose it was Hank, who wanted to have some fun with us?" asked Fred. Jack shook his head. "At any other time I might believe it, but Hank isn't one to look for fun when the lives of two persons are in danger. It wasn't he." "Who, then, could it be?" Again Jack shook his head. "You know there are a number of Indians hunting in this neighborhood. Some of them may have been near us, and, hearing our cries and the reports of our guns, started to find out what it meant. Coming upon my Winchester, they carried it off." This was the most reasonable explanation they could think of, but it did not lessen their disappointment at the loss of the indispensable weapon. "I won't stand it!" exclaimed Jack, whose indignation was rising; "the man who took that gun must give it back!" It was impossible to know in what direction to look for the pilferer, but the youth's long strides led him toward the break in the walls of the canyon where they had seen the three Indians earlier in the forenoon. Whether it was reasonable to expect to find them, or rather the thief, there, would be hard to say, but Jack did find the one for whom he was looking. Half the intervening distance was passed, when he turned his head and said in an excited undertone to his companion: "He's just ahead, and as sure as I live the thief is Motoza!" Before Fred, slightly at the rear, could gain sight of the Indian, Jack broke into a lope and called: "Hold on there, Motoza! You have something that belongs to me." The dusky vagrant was alone and walking at a moderate pace from the youth. Although he did not look around until hailed he must have known he was followed, but he stopped short and wheeled about with a wondering expression on his painted face. There could be no mistake by Jack Dudley, for Motoza was carrying two Winchesters, one in either hand, and a glance enabled the youth to recognize his own property. "Howdy, brother?" asked Motoza, with the old grin on his face. Jack was too angry to be tactful. He continued his rapid strides, and as he drew near reached out his hand. "Never mind how I do; give me my rifle." But with the fingers of Jack almost on the weapon, Motoza shifted his hand backward, so that the gun was held behind his body. He did not stir, but continued grinning. "What do you mean?" demanded Jack, his face flushed, and his anger greater than before; "didn't you hear me ask for my gun?" "Whooh! brother frow way gun--me pick him up--he mine." "I threw it down so as to have a better chance of getting away from the grizzly bear; I intended to pick it up again. I know you are a great thief, Motoza, but you can't steal that Winchester from me; hand it over!" And Jack extended his hand again; but the Sioux persisted in keeping the weapon behind him, though his own was in front, where the lad might have been tempted to snatch it from his grasp. The youth was fast losing his self-command. He had learned the character of this vagrant from Hazletine, and it was plain that he meant to retain the valuable weapon, while Jack was equally determined he should not. "I tell you for the last time to give me my gun! _Do you hear?_" The demand was made in a loud voice and accompanied by a threatening step toward the Indian, who showed no fear. The grin, however, had left his face, and he recoiled a step with such a tigerish expression on his ugly countenance that his assailant ought to have been warned of his danger. Motoza, the Sioux, was ready to commit murder for the sake of retaining that which did not belong to him. "Stop!" commanded Fred Greenwood, whom both seemed to have forgotten in the flurry of the moment. The younger was standing a little to the rear and to one side, but his Winchester, it will be remembered, was in his hand, and was now pointed at the dusky scamp. "Motoza, if you want to preserve that sweet countenance of yours, hand that gun to my friend before I let daylight through you!" CHAPTER XIII. A STRANGE OCCURRENCE. Once more Motoza had allowed an American youth to get the drop on him, for he could not mistake the meaning of that command, nor the deeper eloquence of the pose of Fred Greenwood with his rifle at a dead level. The Sioux must have despised himself for his forgetfulness. But he had already proven the readiness with which he accepted a situation, no matter how unwelcome. The hand that held the weapon of Jack Dudley whipped round to the front with a deft movement, which, however, was not quicker than the return of the grin to his countenance. "Motoza friend--he not want gun of brother," he remarked. "You wouldn't get it if you _did_ want it," said Jack, not to be mollified by this sudden change of front. Instead of accepting the hypocritical proffer, the youth was imprudent enough to add, as he felt his Winchester once more in his grasp: "You are the meanest thief in the country, Motoza, and this must be the last time you try your hand on us." "Off with you!" added Fred, beginning to tire with the constraint of his position; "good-by, Motoza, and I hope we shall not meet again." At the moment of obeying, the Sioux glanced at the lad who had thus turned the tables on him. The expression of his face was frightful. Ferocious hate, thirst for revenge and flaming anger shone through the coat of paint and were concentrated on the younger of the youths. Fred saw it and cared not, but Jack was so alarmed that he almost wished his comrade would fire his weapon and thus shut out the fruition of the horrible threat that gleamed through that look. It lasted, however, but an instant. Much in the same manner as in the grove, when caught at a disadvantage by Jack Dudley, the Sioux walked off and was quickly lost to view. Neither of the boys spoke for several minutes. Then Jack asked, in an awed voice: "Did you see his face when he turned toward you just before walking away?" "Yes; and I have seen handsomer ones." "You may make light of it, Fred, but I was much nearer than you, and that expression will haunt me for many a day and night to come." To the astonishment of the elder, Fred began laughing, as if he found it all very amusing. Jack, in surprise, asked the cause of his mirth. "If Motoza had only known the truth! There isn't a cartridge either in the magazine or the chamber of my rifle, which reminds me." And still laughing, the younger proceeded to fill the magazine from his belt and to put his Winchester in condition for immediate use. "We have been told many times, Jack, that the first thing to do after firing a gun is to reload, and I see how much more important it is here than at home." When Jack came to examine his weapon he found a half-dozen cartridges remaining in the magazine, and he, too, placed the weapon in the best form for use. They changed their position, returning to the spot where the crisis had taken place with the grizzly, for both felt some misgiving concerning the Sioux, who could not be far off. "Jack, what about the feelings of Motoza _now_?" "It begins to look as if Hank was right. I am sure the Indian doesn't hold much friendship for either of us. He is bad clean through." "He may have some regard for _you_, but there wasn't much tender affection in the last lingering look he gave _me_." Jack shuddered. "I never saw anything like it. If he had had the power he would have killed you with that look. I feel like urging Hank, when we next see him, to make a change of quarters." "Why?" "That we may find some section where we are not likely to meet Motoza again. I don't understand why so many Indians are off the reservation. There must be a number of them that are friends of Motoza, and they will try some other trick on us." "He has tried one or two already," replied Fred, much less impressed with the danger than his friend. "True, we have had remarkably good fortune, but it can't last. Motoza will learn to be more cunning next time." "If you feel that way, Jack, the best thing for us to do is to go home." "Your words are hardly worthy of you, Fred," replied Jack, hurt at the slur. "I ask your pardon. I know it is your friendship for me that speaks, but I cannot feel the fear that disturbs you. Suppose we drop the question till we see Hank. We will let him know everything that has taken place and rely upon him." This was a wise conclusion, but the fact remained that there was no expectation of seeing their guide until night, which was a number of hours distant, and, since the Indians were in the vicinity, there was plenty of time for a great many things to happen. It would seem, indeed, that the advantage was almost entirely on the side of Motoza, for, with his superior woodcraft, he could keep track of the movements of the boys without their discovering or suspecting his presence. Altogether, it looked as if a meeting with their guide could not take place too soon. From a point perhaps a mile away came the faint report of a rifle, followed in the same second by another report. The fact suggested more than one startling supposition, but the youths were in no mood to speculate thereon, for it will be admitted that the incidents of the forenoon were sufficient to engage their thoughts. It was a hard fact, however, that when they looked at their watches and found that it was noon, the most interesting subject that presented itself was as to how they could secure the meal which they felt was overdue. "Let's make a hunt in a different direction," said Fred. "It is best to keep away from the neighborhood of those Indians, so far as we can locate them from the shots we occasionally hear, for the game isn't likely to stay where they are." "Off yonder to the north appears to be a valley," remarked Jack, after the two had studied their surroundings for some minutes through their glasses. "I can't tell how extensive it is, for it is shut out by that mountain peak on the right, but I suppose one place is as good as another." Having agreed as to their course, they wasted no time. It was a long and severe tramp to the locality, for again the peculiar purity of the atmosphere misled them, and what they took to be one mile proved to be fully double that length. Finally the hungry lads reached a ridge from whose top they could look down in the valley that had first caught their attention, but which for the last hour had been excluded from their sight by the intervening obstacles. "Now, we can't tell whether any game is below waiting for us," said Jack, "but we can't lose anything by acting as if there is." It was a wise precaution, as speedily became apparent. As carefully as a couple of Indians they picked their way up the slope, and just before reaching the crest sank upon their knees, and, crawling a little further, peeped over the top as if they expected to discover a hostile camp within a hundred yards. The prospect caused an involuntary exclamation of pleasure from both. The valley was two or three hundred yards in width, and, after winding past, curved out of sight behind the mountain range already referred to. It was one emerald mass of rich grass, in which ten thousand cattle could have found abundant pasturage. No trees appeared anywhere except at the furthest bend in the valley, where a small grove stood near the middle, and seemed to surround a spring of water, which, flowing in the other direction, was not within sight of the young hunters. What lent additional beauty to this landscape was the singular uniformity of the valley. The slope was gentle on each side, without any abrupt declivities, and there was hardly any variation in its width. The dark-green color of the incline and bottom of the valley gave the whole scene a softness that would have charmed an artist. The young men admired the picturesque prospect, the like of which they had never before viewed, and yet it must be confessed that one feature of the landscape appealed more strongly to them than all the rest. Perhaps a half-mile away six or eight antelope were cropping the grass, unconscious of the approach of danger. They were near the small clump of trees alluded to, and may have lately drank from the water flowing therefrom. They were in a bunch, all their heads down, and had evidently taken no alarm from the occasional distant reports of guns. "I say, Jack, there's a splendid dinner!" whispered Fred, excitedly. "What good will it do us, so long as it is _there_? I should like to have it _here_." "It ought to be easy to pick off one of those creatures; Hank told us they make fine eating." "That is all true, but it is also true that the antelope is one of the most timid of creatures, and the best hunter finds it hard work to get within reach of them." "You know how curious they are? The men at the ranch told the other night about lying down in the grass in the middle of a prairie and holding up a stick with a handkerchief at the end of it. Timid as was the antelope, it would gradually draw near to find out what the thing meant, and pay for its curiosity with its life." Such incidents are quite common in the West, but neither of the boys felt it safe to rely upon the stratagem. They feared that at the first attempt the antelope would take fright and make off beyond recovery, and Fred Greenwood's proposition was adopted. "There doesn't seem to be any wind blowing, but if we try to steal down the side of the valley we are sure to frighten them off. Now, if you will stay here, Jack, I'll pick my way round to the other side, so that the herd will be between us. Then I'll do my best to get near enough for a shot; if I fail, they will run for this point and come within range of you. Between us two, one is certain to get a shot at them." "It's putting a big lot of work on you, Fred," said the chivalrous Jack. "It won't be half as hard to bear as the hunger I'll feel in the course of an hour or two if we don't get one of them." The plan was so simple that no explanation was necessary. Jack Dudley had only to remain extended on the ground where he was, with his Winchester ready, and keep an eye on the little herd, which could not observe him unless he was unusually careless. He could easily judge of Fred's success or failure by watching the animals, and it would seem that success was almost certain for one of the young hunters. The only thing to be feared was that Fred would betray himself before reaching the other side of the game that was so tempting to both. The comrades looked at their watches at the moment of separating, and found it was precisely one o'clock. Fred gave himself an hour to reach a point from which to start on his return, though it was possible that double that time would be required. Before the interval had expired Jack had his glass to his eyes, and was studying the valley below. As the antelope cropped the rich grass they occasionally took a step in the direction of the watcher; but the largest one, evidently the leader, changed his course so as to work back toward the little grove of trees, the others following. Now and then the leader raised his head and looked around, as if suspecting danger, though his fears were not confirmed. At longer intervals other members of the herd did the same, but it was evident that they neither saw nor scented anything amiss. Jack's constant fear was that Fred would betray himself through some accident. His course would bring him nearer the game and the risk was considerable; but as the minutes passed without anything of that nature taking place, his hope increased. "More than likely Fred himself will get the shot instead of me. It makes no difference, so that we don't lose our supper; for," he added, dismally, "the dinner is already gone." When another half-hour had passed, he was sure his chum was on the other side of the herd. "There must be a break pretty soon. Suppose that instead of coming toward me," added Jack, giving expression to a dread that had not occurred to him until then, "they dash off into the mountains on either side. Then we shall be doomed to starvation!" He thought that with the aid of his glass he would be able to follow Fred as he stole down the side of the valley, since the position of the spectator was much more elevated than that of the antelope. It would require sharp scrutiny even with the aid of the instrument to do this, and, look as keenly as he might, he could discover nothing that suggested anything of that nature. When three o'clock went by without any evidence of alarm among the animals browsing in the middle of the valley, Jack Dudley began to wonder what it could mean. "Fred was sure that a single hour was enough to place himself on the further side of them, and double that time has passed. He ought to be well down the slope, but I can see nothing of him." One fact, however, was apparent: the antelope were steadily though slowly working toward the ridge on which the young man lay. At the rate they were advancing it would not be long before it would be safe to try a shot. This progress could not be laid to any alarm coming from the other side. If the animals received fright they would be off with the speed of the wind, instead of inching along in the fashion they were now following. "It begins to look as if I am to secure the meal, after all," thought Jack, forgetting his slight uneasiness for his friend in his growing excitement. The following minute gave proof of the timidity of the American antelope. With all the care possible, the youth extended his gun in front of him over the slope, but the herd took the alarm on the instant, though it seemed impossible that they should have seen or heard anything. The leader raised his head, and whirling to one side, started at a swift gallop toward the other end of the valley, the rest of the animals being hardly a second behind him. The peculiar panic and stampede of the creatures gave Jack Dudley the best possible target, though the shot was a long one. He did not aim at the leader, but at a smaller animal that immediately followed him. The bullet pierced the heart of the antelope, which made a frenzied leap high in air, staggered a few paces, and dropped to the ground without a particle of life. "Hurrah!" exclaimed the delighted Jack, springing up and dashing down the side of the valley toward his prize; "I beat you, after all, Fred!" Not doubting that his comrade would speedily appear, Jack gave no further thought to him, but continued running until he reached the prize. He had learned the art so rapidly that it took but a few minutes to cut all he could need for himself and friend. Then he hurried to the little grove near by, washed and dressed the food, which seemed to be juicy and tender, and started a fire for the purpose of broiling it. He had not paused in his work up to this point, but now he stopped with the first real thrill of alarm for his friend. "Four o'clock!" he exclaimed to himself; "what can have become of him?" He walked to the edge of the trees and looked out, anxiously peering in different directions, but nothing was seen of his friend. Knowing Fred's waggish nature, Jack hoped that he was indulging in some jest, but he could not quite convince himself that such was the fact. The hunger of Fred would have prevented his postponing the meal one moment longer than was necessary. When an abundance of food was browned and crisped and ready the appetite of Jack Dudley was less than it was two hours before, the cause being his growing alarm over the unaccountable absence of Fred. "I can't understand it," he repeated for the twentieth time; "some accident must have befallen him. Can it be Motoza has had anything to do with it?" It was the first time that Jack had expressed this fear in words, but it was by no means the first time he had felt it. Rather curiously, from the moment his friend passed out of sight, several hours before, the vague misgiving began to shape itself in his mind. He fought it off and succeeded in repressing it for a time, but he could do so no longer. "Fred didn't seem to give any meaning to that awful look of the Sioux when he started to walk away, but I saw what it meant, though I never dreamed the blow would fall so soon." His heart was depressed almost beyond bearing, and the anguish was deepened by the fact that he could see no way of helping his friend. The only thing possible was to follow as nearly as he could the course taken by Fred, but there was no certainty of that. He knew he had turned to the right when he left the crest of the ridge, after which there had been no glimpse of him. "But he made for a point over yonder," reflected Jack, "and there I'll search for him." This was exceedingly indefinite, but it was better than standing idle. The antelope had long since vanished, and there was no need of care in his progress--rather otherwise, since he desired to attract the notice of his friend. Jack broke into a loping trot, emitting the familiar signal so often used by both, calling his name, and even firing his rifle in air; but there came back no response, and his fears deepened. Jack was in the mood to be unjust. "I don't understand Hank Hazletine's action. He sets out to take us on a hunt among the mountains, and then goes off and leaves us alone. Why doesn't he stay with us? If he had done that, this never could have happened. Fred and I can generally take care of ourselves, but we are not used to this plagued country, which I wish neither he nor I had ever set foot in." CHAPTER XIV. MISSING. The minute quickly arrived when Jack Dudley could no longer doubt that a great misfortune had befallen his comrade, Fred Greenwood. In the anguish of anxiety Jack's imagination pictured many mishaps that might account for the disappearance. He must have heard the report of the elder's Winchester, and, since Fred's attention was centred upon the herd of antelope, he could not fail to know that his friend had secured one of them for their evening meal. The only thing to prevent his hastening to join Jack must have been his inability to do so. There was the remote possibility that his accident had been of a nature that involved no one else--such, for instance, as sudden illness, though Jack had never known anything like that to overtake his friend. All that the youth could do was to attempt to follow the route that Fred had taken when he set out to place himself on the other side of the game. It was guesswork to trace his footsteps, but the elder youth made the effort. When he had progressed half the distance, however, he paused, convinced that his labor was utterly useless. He called to Fred, repeated their familiar signals and fired several charges in air, with no more response than at first. "He has been either killed or carried off by a party of Indians," was the conclusion that forced itself upon him. And with this conviction came the certainty that it was out of the power of Jack Dudley to do anything for his friend. He might tramp back and forth for nights and days, but with no success, for Fred Greenwood was gone--whither? Had Jack been skilled in woodcraft, possibly he might have discovered some signs along the valley that would have enlightened him, but he was untrained in the ways of red men and was not equal to the task. A dog that knew how to track a person would have been of immeasurable value, but such a canine was not to be had. One memory clung tormentingly to the searcher. It was the demoniac face of Motoza, the Sioux, when Fred Greenwood compelled him to return the Winchester of Jack. There could be but one interpretation of that expression, and it boded the worst for the missing youth. "Motoza feels no affection for me, but his hatred of Fred is so intense that he is bent on revenging himself; yet I did not think he would strike so soon." The afternoon was drawing to a close, and Jack was fully two miles from camp. If he wished to reach their rendezvous before night he had no time to waste. The problem was now in the shape that Hank Hazletine's help was indispensable. If anyone could assist Fred Greenwood, the guide was the man. "He promised to meet us this evening, and if I wait I shall lose my way." Accordingly the lad faced in the direction of the plateau and pressed forward with energy. In his haste he kept the former landmarks in view, and his previous experience had given him a certain familiarity with the region which prevented his going astray. Once more he leaped the canyon, without pausing longer than to glance into its depths as he swung over it. He saw nothing of the bulky carcass of the grizzly bear that had fallen a victim to the marksmanship of himself and friend, and just as night was shutting in he reached the edge of the small plateau where the ponies were contentedly grazing. In one respect better fortune than he anticipated awaited him. Instead of being compelled to pass the intolerable hours in waiting for the coming of the guide, he saw he had already reached the spot. A fire was burning at the mouth of the cavern, and the sinewy figure of the veteran was observed as he moved to and fro before it. Detecting the approach of Jack, he stood erect and silently watched him as he drew near. A person as agitated as Jack Dudley finds it hard to conceal his feelings. Something in the action and the expression of his white face as he came near enough to be seen distinctly gave the hunter the knowledge that matters had gone amiss with the boy. True to his word, Hank had brought no food back to camp. He had eaten his evening meal before going thither, leaving his young friends to provide for their own wants. "Where's the younker?" was his question, before Jack halted. "O Hank! I do not know what has happened; I fear we shall never see Fred again!" And, unable to restrain his grief that had been pent up so long, Jack broke down and sobbed like a child. The veteran showed a delicacy that would hardly have been expected from him. He knew it would do Jack good to yield to his sorrow for a brief while, for he would soon become cooler and more self-possessed. Accordingly the hunter remained silent until the youth mastered his emotions, when he laid his hand tenderly on his shoulder and said: "Now, set down here beside me and let me know all about it." Jack appreciated his consideration, and taking the seat to which he was invited, he told, in a choking voice, the story of the incident beside the little valley, when Fred Greenwood, in high spirits, walked away and vanished as if the earth had opened and swallowed him. Jack did not break down again, for he was resolved to be manly and brave. He would not think of his young friend as wholly lost, nor allow himself to consider the awful possibility of returning home with the message that Fred would never be seen again. Jack felt it was time for action, not for lamentation. Hazletine was grave and thoughtful, but the youth had hardly finished his narrative when he said: "You haven't told me all." "I do not think of anything I have omitted." "Your story begins with the first sight of the antelope; what happened afore that?" "A good deal; I did not think you would care to hear it." "I want every word." So it was that Jack began with their departure in the morning from camp, and made clear every occurrence down to the start for the valley where the great misfortune overtook them. He realized, while describing the meeting with Motoza, the important bearing that it had upon the disappearance of Fred Greenwood. When the story was completed the guide emitted a low whistle, followed by an exclamation of so vigorous a character that it startled Jack. Hank sprang excitedly to his feet and strode back and forth until able to control his feelings. Then with a voice and expression of scornful contempt, he asked: "What do you think of Motoza's love for you and Fred?" "I admit that you were right and we were wrong about him; I feared for Fred, not for myself, and you see he has not tried to harm _me_." "That ain't 'cause he loves you like the brother he calls hisself, but 'cause he hates Fred more'n he does you. If he hadn't had such a good chance to grab the other younker, he would have grabbed you." "Then you have no doubt that Motoza is the cause of it all?" "No more doubt than that you're a setting on that stone there." "I can't understand it; Fred is not the one to let a single Indian make him prisoner, when one is as well armed as the other." "Who said there was only one of the imps?" The abrupt question meant a good deal. It had already been proven that a number of other Indians were in the vicinity; but Jack had not thought of associating them with the vagrant Sioux in his hostility to the young hunters, although there was scarcely a doubt that Motoza had had one helper or more in his designs against Fred Greenwood. This put a new face on the matter, and Hazletine discussed the question more freely. "There must be a half-dozen varmints or so in the mountains; they've sneaked off the reservation and are hunting here without permission from the folks that have 'em in charge. It ain't likely they started out with any other idee than to have a little frolic of their own, meaning to go back when they was through; but, as I remarked afore, when an Injin sees a good chance to raise the mischief with just as good a chance of not being found out, he's pretty sartin to do it. Wal, things took such a queer shape when you younkers and Motoza seen each other that all the ugliness in him has come out, and that's what's urging him now." "It seems to me, Hank, that if he meant to punish Fred for humiliating him, the method was simple." "How?" "By shooting him from ambush; he could do it without being seen, and I can think of no way by which the guilt could be brought home to him." "You're off there. Motoza knows that you and me are in these parts, and that we're the friends of the younker; what had took place afore, with what I'd swear to, would hang Motoza, and he knows it." This declaration was not quite clear to Jack, but it sounded as if the guide was willing to so modify his testimony in court as to insure the conviction of the Sioux in case he followed the plan named by the youth. The veteran would have considered it right, under the circumstances, to do such a thing. "Since the fear of our testimony restrained him, why did he not seek to remove _us_ in the same manner, when he has had more than one opportunity?" "And there you're off again. Motoza wouldn't have had any trouble in wiping out two young tenderfeet like you, but he'd likely run agin a snag when he tried it on _me_!" The hunter shut his lips and shook his head with eloquent earnestness. "S'pose he'd done such a thing," he added, angrily; "don't you see that when the Government larned, as it would be sure to larn, that three persons had been killed near the reservation by some of the Injins, there would be the biggest kind of excitement? It would put its best officers at work, and never let up till everything was brought to light. You see that, Motoza not being the only Injin in these parts when the thing was done, the officers would have some of the other varmints to work on, and they'd got the whole story from 'em, which would mean the hanging of the Sioux." Jack saw the force of his friend's words. Even in this wild region, where one would naturally suppose he was beyond reach of the law, the man who committed a grave crime faced a serious risk. Certainly there was much less danger in "removing" one person than three. "As it is, Motoza has placed himself in a bad position, but it would have been tenfold worse had he shot you and me." Hank nodded his head, but qualified his assent: "He could have picked you off, but not _me_, and he knows that he would have had me on his trail without waiting for the officers to help." "But he must face the same thing as it is." "Don't you see that he had to make the ch'ice atween doing nothing at all or tackling the younker? The Sioux is such an imp and is so crazy for revenge that he made up his mind to chance it the least he could, and he went for the tenderfoot that he hates the most." Jack tremblingly asked the question that had been in his mind for some minutes. "Do you think he shot Fred?" The guide slowly turned his head and looked fixedly at the youth before replying: "Wouldn't you've heerd his gun?" The question sent a thrill of hope through the heart of Jack, but it was quickly succeeded by the dull torture that was there before. True, he would have heard the report of a rifle if fired anywhere near him during the afternoon, but a treacherous Sioux like Motoza was too cunning to expose himself in that manner, and would have resorted to a different method. "He could have slain poor Fred in some other way, but do you believe he has done so?" "Younker," replied the sympathetic guide, "I ain't the one to trifle with your feelings, fur you don't feel much worse than me, but I own up that I don't know anything more 'bout this bus'ness than you. I mean by that," he hastened to explain, "that I can't figger out in my mind what that varmint has done till I pick up more knowledge than you've been able to give me, and I can't do that afore to-morrow morning." This sounded reasonable, but it was trying beyond imagination, for it indicated that the long night must be spent in idleness, without the raising of a finger to help the one who perhaps was in the most imminent need of such assistance. There was no help, however, for it, and Jack accepted the decision of his friend without a murmur. The two sat at the mouth of the cavern, talking in low tones, until the night was well advanced, when Hank said, with a voice that sounded wonderfully low and tender for him: "Now go in and lay down, younker, fur there'll be plenty of work fur you to do to-morrer, and there's no saying when you'll git the chance to sleep agin." "Call me when it is my turn to go on guard." "All right; and don't show yourself till I _do_ call you." Jack walked into the cavern, first pausing to fling some wood on the fire. Mingled with his feeling of despair was a dread of being alone in the gloom. He did not believe he would sleep a wink through the night, for never were his emotions wrought to a more keenly torturing point. It was almost impossible to remain still, but he forced himself to lie down, with his heavy blanket gathered around him. It would be distressing to dwell upon the anguish and grief of the youth, as he lay wide awake, his brain alert and his blood at fever-heat. At times it all seemed so like a dream that he turned his head to make sure Fred Greenwood, his loved chum and comrade, was not lying at his side. But no, it was all a dreadful reality, and he groaned in spirit. As the minutes passed he appeared to grow more wakeful, until he was in as full possession of his faculties as when fleeing from the grizzly bear. And it was while lying thus, wondering what the hour could be, that he became aware that Hank Hazletine was standing at the mouth of the cavern, on the other side of the smouldering fire. The light was reflected so clearly from his bearded face that it was seen distinctly, while the position of Jack, muffled in his blanket, threw his own countenance in shadow, which prevented the guide seeing it clearly. Something prompted Jack to lie still and feign sleep, while he kept his gaze on the man, who was looking fixedly at him. Suddenly Hank pronounced his name in a low voice, repeating the call in a louder tone. He wished to learn whether his young friend was unconscious, and, since Jack made no reply, must have concluded he was sleeping. The guide next threw more wood on the blaze, which burned up so brightly that the reflection reached far out on the grassy plateau. Then, with a single glance at the prostrate figure, the hunter turned away, his footsteps as noiseless as if he were stepping on velvet. Jack was mystified by the proceeding, but, suspecting its meaning, he arose from his hard couch and passed outside. The moon had not yet risen, but the bright stars were in the sky, and shining with the brilliancy that he had noticed and admired on the previous evening. He looked around for Hazletine, and, not seeing him, imitated his action by pronouncing his name, but, as he suspected, he was not within hearing. "He has gone off to make some investigations between now and morning. I am glad of it, for he may learn something which he desires to know, and which he would never find out by staying here. I wish I could have gone with him, but no doubt he will do better alone." It was demonstrated, therefore, that the guide had violated the very rule which he had impressed more than once upon his young friends, for he had left Jack Dudley sound asleep, as he believed, without any one standing sentinel over him. But it was because the circumstances were so exceptional and extraordinary that it justified such suspension of the rules. Jack did not hesitate to make himself as comfortable as the situation would permit. He folded his blanket on the ground, and sat with his back against the very rock where he had fallen asleep the night before. "No danger of my doing it again," he reflected; "and it wouldn't make any difference if I did, since Hank believes I am dreaming." Jack supposed he threw the wood on the flame to keep away the possible danger from wild animals that might be prowling in the neighborhood; though, because of the reasons named, there was little to be apprehended from them. The youth was so alive to the situation that he heard a cough from one of the ponies lying on the ground near the further side of the plateau, and beyond sight. Twice the watcher fancied he detected a shadowy figure stealing here and there in the gloom, and he grasped his rifle, ready for instant use; but it must have been a mistake on his part, for nothing materialized, and, curious as it may seem, he finally sank into a fitful slumber, which lasted a long time without interruption. CHAPTER XV. TOZER. Meanwhile Hank Hazletine was busy. He had formed several theories to account for the disappearance of the youth, of whom he had grown extremely fond, brief as was their acquaintance, but the data upon which he based these theories were so vague and meagre that he could do nothing until more definite knowledge was obtained. When first talking with Jack Dudley, the hunter expected to retain his place near the cavern until morning, for it would seem that there was little hope of doing anything until the sun shone, but reflection convinced him that there was a possibility of accomplishing something during the long interval that must intervene. Still it is not probable he would have made the attempt had not something invited it. Standing in the gloom on the outside of the cavern, he saw a point of light against the side of the nearest mountain peak, less than half a mile distant. It could not be a star, for his familiarity with the country told him the background must prevent an orb showing at that height above the horizon. It came from a fire burning at the place, and that fire had been kindled by Indians. Hank's decision was to visit the camp, in the hope of picking up some information about the missing boy. It has been shown that he was so convinced that no danger threatened Jack Dudley that he did not hesitate to leave him alone, believing him asleep. As a precaution, however, he flung additional fuel on the fire, with a view of keeping away any wild animals that might be in the vicinity. Had Jack answered to his name when called by the guide he would have been invited to accompany him for a portion at least of the way on the reconnaissance, as it might be termed--a most welcome relief. Thus, trifling as was the deception, it operated unfavorably for our young friend. The progress of the veteran through and over the rough country was a very different proceeding from that of the two boys. He seemed never to hesitate or be in doubt as to the shortest and easiest course, and his advance, therefore, was much the same as if he were striding across the grassy plateau near camp. As he went forward his shifting position frequently shut out the beacon-light, but he made no mistake at any point in his walk. It was a striking proof of his woodcraft that when he reached the canyon it was at a spot where it was so narrow that he appeared merely to lengthen his step when he placed himself on the other side. Progressing in this manner, it did not take him long to reach the immediate vicinity of the camp. The blaze had been kindled among a clump of cedars which were a continuation of a growth that extended with more or less vigor for miles among the mountains, gradually disappearing as the snow-line was reached. Hazletine recalled the particular spot so clearly that he knew precisely what to do. It was not very late in the evening, else there would have been one of the Indians on guard. As it was, the three were lolling in lazy attitudes, smoking their long-stemmed pipes and talking in a disjointed fashion. If they had eaten anything in camp, there were no evidences of it. Having reached a point from which he could survey the party without being observed, the hunter proceeded to do so. His first feeling was of disappointment, for Motoza was not one of the three bucks, who appeared to be in middle life, and were dressed and painted similarly to that individual. In fact, the trio were the ones seen by the youths earlier in the day, at the point where the break in the canyon occurred. Hazletine had set out with the belief that the vagrant Sioux was the one chiefly concerned in the disappearance of Fred Greenwood. His absence from camp confirmed that belief, while the indifferent manner of the three, and the apparent lack of subjects of discussion among them, indicated that they knew nothing of the abduction or death, as it might be, of the missing one. Had they known of it, the guide was confident it would have been betrayed by their manner, since they could have no suspicion that they were under surveillance at that time, and therefore would act their natural selves. What would have been the course of Hazletine had he seen Motoza, not doubting, as he did, the guilt of the miscreant? He would have walked directly forward to the camp and warned the Sioux that if he harmed a hair of the youth's head his life should pay therefor. Since Motoza was not in the situation thus to be warned, the hunter did the next best thing. With no attempt to veil the sound of his footsteps, he strode into the circle of light thrown out by the Indian camp-fire. The bucks looked up curiously at him, but betrayed no emotion beyond a few grunts. They did not invite him to be seated or to join them in smoking, and had they done so, neither invitation would have been accepted. Hank knew nothing of the lingo of the red men, but it was presumed they had a fair understanding of English, taking which for granted, he proceeded to carry out his self-imposed mission. He told the bucks they had no business off their reservation, although it was a matter of indifference to him. He knew there were others in the mountains, and Motoza was among them. It was concerning this scoundrel, as Hank characterized him, that he had something to say. A white youth, while hunting that afternoon not far off, with his companion, had disappeared. Hazletine had looked into the matter far enough to discover that he had been stolen by Motoza. The white man was hunting for Motoza, but in the brief time at his disposal had not been able to find him, though he was confident of doing so on the morrow. Meanwhile, the white man wanted these three, or any one of them, if they should meet the aforementioned scoundrel, to repeat what he had said about him. If any harm had befallen the missing boy, Hazletine would take it upon himself to hunt down Motoza and "execute" him himself, without waiting for the United States authorities to do it. Such a summary course would save expense and make the white man feel better. If Motoza should return the stolen boy within twenty-four hours, and it was found he was unharmed, the whole matter would be treated as a joke, and no punishment would be visited upon Motoza, provided he didn't do it again. This was the substance of Hank Hazletine's communication to the three bucks, to whom he repeated and discussed it until there was no fear of a misunderstanding, after which the visitor strode out of camp, without so much as bidding the trio good-night. His whole manner was that of contempt, for, had it been otherwise, he would not have dared to turn his back upon them, when they could have shot him down with impunity. The cowman had accomplished something, though less than he hoped. While he failed to gain definite knowledge of the missing youth, he had brought a message which was certain to be delivered to the right party before the next set of sun. But Hank knew the men with whom he was dealing, and could not feel assured that any ultimate good would result until nearer the end. "I wish I knowed whether them imps know anything about that younker; they don't act as if they did, and yet they may be as deep in the bus'ness as Motoza." The last remark suggested a possibility which the cowman shrank from considering. It was that the Sioux was wholly innocent, and that all the mischief had been done through unsuspected parties. It has been shown that other Indians, not yet encountered, were in the vicinity, and it was not absolutely certain that they were not the criminals. The thought, however, opened the illimitable fields of speculation, and the hunter was wise in determining to hold to his original belief until assured it was an error. Before he was half-way back to camp the moon appeared above the mountain peak behind him, and the rugged scenery was lit up by the rays that streamed on every side. He paused where he could observe the gleam of his own camp-fire at the mouth of the cavern, while, by turning his head, he saw the twinkle of the one he had left behind. All between lay as silent as the tomb. "I bluffed it pretty heavy," he reflected, "and I guess it'll work with them bucks; I ain't so sartin of Motoza, fur if he has had anything to do with the taking off of that younker he's covered up his tracks pretty well and it'll be hard work to run him down, but _I'll do it_!" he savagely exclaimed, as he resumed his strides toward his own camp. As he drew near he caught sight of the unconscious figure of Jack Dudley, sitting with his back against the rock. The moon revealed him clearly, and the cowman approached him with noiseless step. "Poor fellow! he come out here to watch, thinking he couldn't sleep, and now he's good for nothing till sunup." Hank leaned over and tenderly adjusted the blanket around the figure of the handsome youth, as his mother might have done had she been present. Then passing within the cavern, he lay down and slept until the night was ended. The presence of the lad on the outside of the cavern showed that he knew of the departure of the guide. Hank, therefore, explained his reason for leaving him, and told him all that had occurred. "The first thing to do, younker, is to find Motoza; that's what I'm going to do. You can't stand it to be alone with yourself, so you can come with me, though I hain't no idee that you'll be able to give any help." "I hope I shall; though, if you think there is more chance of success in making the hunt alone, I'll do the same." Hank was silent a moment, as if considering the matter, but he quickly added: "Come along. But how about breakfast?" "I haven't the least appetite." "I thought so by your looks," he said, sympathizingly. "I'm blamed sorry fur you, and hope your appetite will soon come back to you." "It will as soon as we find Fred," said Jack, with a faint smile; "but what about yourself?" "It's all the same; if we had meat here I'd cook and eat it; but I'm willing to go a day or two, if I haven't the time to take any meals." "That's strange!" broke in Jack; "yonder comes a white man; he must be one of your acquaintances, though I never saw him before." Hazletine turned round in surprise. A tall white man, dressed as a cowboy, with long dangling yellow hair and a thin mustache and goatee, and with rifle slung over his shoulder, had appeared on the further side of the plateau, and was approaching the couple at a deliberate pace. "Wal, I'm hanged!" exclaimed Hazletine; "if there isn't Bill Tozer! He's the last man I expected to meet in these parts." These words did not bring Jack Dudley much enlightenment, but he felt no special curiosity concerning the individual, and silently waited till he came up. The youth judged from the manner of the guide, however, that he was not overly pleased with the new arrival, whose countenance was not attractive. Nevertheless, the two shook hands with seeming cordiality, and the new-comer looked inquiringly at Jack. "This is a friend of mine, Bill, that I took out on a hunt t'other day with another younker; Jack Dudley, Bill Tozer." "Glad to know you," said the man heartily; "I see you're a tenderfoot." "Yes," replied Jack; "less than two weeks ago I had never set foot in Wyoming." "Wal, now that's funny; you'll like the country after you get used to it." "Would to heaven I had never seen it!" was the bitter exclamation of the youth, hardly able to keep back his tears. "Sorry to hear that, my young friend; but cheer up; it'll come out all right." It struck Jack that this was a singular remark for the man to make, for it sounded as if he knew the cause of Jack's emotion; but before the boy could seek enlightenment the man made a more extraordinary remark: "You'll excuse us for a few minutes, my young friend; I've some words to say in private to Hank." "Certainly," replied Jack, turning on his heel and walking beyond earshot. He gave the men no further attention, for he did not suspect the new-comer had anything to impart of interest to him. The boy felt more like resenting this interference with the momentous business he and the guide had on hand. But Jack was mistaken. Hardly was he a hundred feet from the couple when Hazletine asked: "What's up, Bill?" "One of them young tenderfeet is missing, eh?" "How did you find that out?" "I reached the camp of Bok-kar-oo last night within a half-hour after you'd gone; he and two other bucks are out on a hunt, which they haven't any business to be, but that's nothing to us. Bok-kar-oo told me what you had told him; it's queer business, isn't it?" "I should say it was. That Motoza has had a hand in it, and I've set out to find him and settle the account." "Why are you so sure about Motoza?" "'Cause I _know_ him!" said Hank, savagely; "and I've knowed him fur a good many years; there isn't a worse Injin in Wyoming." Instead of commenting on this remark, Tozer stood silent a moment, and then made a flirt with his head as a request for Hank to step aside with him. The cowman obeyed, and they seated themselves still further from Jack Dudley. "What makes you so afeard he'll hear us?" asked Hazletine, impatiently, noting the suspicious glances which the man cast in the direction of the youth. "For the reason that I don't want him to hear us; I've something to say about him and his friend." "His father owns half of Bowman's ranch." Bill Tozer started with an angry exclamation. "Is that so?" he asked in amazement. "I thought it was the other fellow's father." "How should you know anything about it anyway?" demanded Hazletine, who made no attempt to conceal his dislike of the man. "I'd like to know where you picked up so much knowledge 'bout these two younkers." "There's no need of getting huffy about it, Hank; it seemed to me that I was to be on your heels for the last few days, for I stopped at the ranch and had a talk with the fellows only a short time after you left with the tenderfeet for this hunt. I understood Kansas Jim to say that it was the father of the Greenwood boy that owned half the ranch." "If Jim told you that, which I don't believe he done, he told you what ain't so." "But the father of the other boy--the one that's missing--he's rich too, ain't he?" "I don't know nothing 'bout it; what are you driving at? Bill, you know that my 'pinion of you is 'bout the same as it is of that tramp Motoza, so, if you've got anything to say to me, out with it! I hain't any time to fool away." "I _have_ something to say, Hank, and it's about them young tenderfeet: I've seen Motoza." "When?" "This morning." "Did you give him my message?" "Every word of it, as I received it from Bok-kar-oo; I made it as strong as I could." "You couldn't make it any too strong; how did he take it?" "It didn't seem to worry him much; he says he don't know anything about the missing boy and your threats don't scare him. But, Hank," added Tozer, lowering his voice almost to a whisper and glancing furtively around, "I suspect Motoza was lying." "I _know_ he was, fur he doesn't know how to tell the truth." "If he's treated right, I believe he'll produce the missing youngster." Hank Hazletine was keener mentally than most of his friends suspected. He had more acumen than even Bill Tozer suspected. A great light flashed upon the cowman, and the questions and answers which fell from his lips during the next few minutes were intended to hide his real purpose. "What do you mean by treating Motoza right? If he was treated right he'd be kicking the air this very minute." "I agree with you," said Tozer, laughing; "but Motoza doesn't, and he's the one who asks to be treated right, as he considers it." "I've said that if he produces the younker, and we find he hain't been harmed, why we'll call it a joke and drop the whole thing." Tozer gazed at a distant mountain peak and thoughtfully chewed tobacco for a minute. He was approaching delicate ground and needed all his _finesse_. "That's fair on your part, and is more than he ought to expect, but I've a suspicion it isn't what he means." "Do you know what he means, Bill?" "No; he hasn't told me a word, but I think I can guess it." "Wal, then, guess." "Remember it's only a guess, and I may be away off." Hazletine nodded his head. "I'm listening." "I suspect Motoza has the tenderfoot in hiding somewhere, where there's no chance of his getting away or of any of his friends finding him." "What does the scamp mean by doing that?" "He must have had an idea that the father of the Greenwood boy has enough money to pay a good sum to recover him unharmed." "That's a new scheme! I've heard of such things in the East, but never knowed 'em to be tried in this part of the country." "Bear in mind," Tozer hastened to add, "that it's all guesswork on my part." "You've said that afore, but it's powerful good guessing, Bill. It's my 'pinion you ain't a thousand miles from the truth, but you can see this makes a mighty different thing of the bus'ness." "How so?" "The younker's father lives in New York; he's got to be reached, and the question laid afore him. How much money will Motoza ask to produce the younker?" "Certainly not much--something like five thousand dollars, I should say." "That is rather a healthy pile for you or me, but I don't 'spose it's more than a trifle for them folks in the East." "Of course not; they'll raise it at once, and be glad to do so." "But it'll take two weeks at least." "Not necessarily; you can telegraph from Fort Steele, and two or three days ought to wind up the whole business." "But you can't telegraph the money." "Yes, you can; nothing is easier." Hazletine was silent a minute or two. "It sounds easy 'nough, the way you put it, but it won't be so powerful easy after all. I s'pose the Sioux will want the money afore he turns over the younker?" "Of course; that's business." "How can we know he'll give up the younker after he gits the money?" "In a matter of this kind, a point must be reached where one party has to trust the other, and Motoza wouldn't dare play you false." "He wouldn't, eh? Just give him the chance." "Then we won't let him. I'll guarantee that he shall keep his part of the agreement in spirit and letter." It was on Hazletine's tongue to ask who should guarantee the honesty of Bill Tozer, but for reasons of his own he kept back the question. "Wal, now, to git down to bus'ness, as you say; s'pose Doctor Greenwood sends word that he won't or can't raise the money you ask--what then?" Tozer shrugged his shoulders suggestively. "Don't forget that I am guessing all the way through. I should say, however, that Doctor Greenwood would never see his boy again." "I'm afraid he never will, as the matter now stands." "That depends on the parent. If he is not rich, the father of that young man over yonder is, and he would let him have the money." "No doubt he'd do that very thing; but s'pose the thing is all fixed and carried out as you've been saying--does Motoza fancy there won't be some accounts to be squared with him afterwards?" "You know what a cunning fellow he is. He wouldn't go through with the job until he was guaranteed against any punishment for his part in it." "The father of the younker would give the pledge, and he'd keep it, too, if he's anything like his son. But what 'bout Hank Hazletine?" "He would have to make the same promise--that is, I presume he would. It might be, however, that Motoza would feel able to take care of himself, so far as you are concerned. But we are talking blindly." "Is there any other way to talk?" "You say you were just about starting out to hunt up Motoza. You won't be able to find him, for he'll keep out of your sight. Leave that part of the business to me." "What'll you do?" "I'll explain the situation to him, and then come back and have another talk with you." "All right; you can't do it any too soon." CHAPTER XVI. WATCHING AND WATCHED. Bill Tozer rose to his feet. The interview was over, and little remained to be said between the two. "Then, Hank, you'll leave matters with me till I see you again?" "When will that be?" The man stood a moment in thought. "In order that there shall be no mistake, let us agree that I shall call here to-morrow morning--twenty-four hours from now. How does that strike you?" "That will do." "I can make it less time than that, if you wish it." "That suits; it's a go; good-by." "Good-by," and the visitor turned on his heel and strode across the plateau, disappearing on the further margin, where he had first shown himself. Hank Hazletine stood looking after him as long as he was in sight. When at last he vanished, an expression of scornful contempt darkened the bearded face of the cowman, and he muttered: "Bill Tozer, you think you're smart, but _I understand you_!" In the interview which has just been recorded the visitor believed he had outwitted the guide at every step, and yet exactly the reverse was the fact. Hank Hazletine had pretended a stupidity which was not real. He noted the contradictions in the declarations of Tozer the instant they were made, but gave no evidence of it, his object being to draw out the miscreant, in which purpose he succeeded perfectly. The whole truth was manifest to the guide. Fred Greenwood had been abducted not by Motoza alone, but by him and Bill Tozer. Beyond a doubt the daring scheme was the invention of the white man, who found a willing partner in the vagrant Sioux, who burned with enmity toward the youth. It was Tozer who made the mistake of supposing that the father of Fred was half-owner of the ranch, and, therefore, presumably a rich man. Tozer had formed the plan of the abduction while at Bowman's ranch, and showed by his promptness that he had not allowed the grass to grow under his feet. These meditations occupied but a few minutes, when the cowman walked toward Jack, who, seeing him approaching, advanced to meet him. Hazletine felt that the change of conditions made it necessary to talk more freely than heretofore with the boy. "Hank, it seems to me we are throwing away time," said the youth, a trifle impatiently. "I'm not so sure of that, younker. I've news fur you." The guide had a good memory, and he repeated, almost word for word, all that had been said by Tozer and himself. Jack was astounded. His first emotion was of profound gratitude and delight, for the interview seemed to establish that Fred Greenwood was alive, and consequently within reach of recovery. "He's not dead!" exclaimed the happy lad; "thank Heaven for that! I shall soon see him! It seems too good to be true." "It isn't best to be sartin of anything in this world," remarked his friend, with a gravity of expression that ought to have chilled the ardor of Jack, but it did not. The tidings were too exhilarating for that. "Now, younker," added the man, "we've got more time on our hands than we know what to do with. Come over by the fire and set down fur a while. How's that appetite of yours?" "I am beginning to feel hungry." "I thought so," observed Hank, with a smile. "But there's no hurry. I can wait a little while." "You'll have to." "Now tell me who this man Tozer is?" "Wal, he's a reg'lar Motoza, except in blood. I run across him five years ago in Arizona, where he had been in the stage-robbin' bus'ness. Things got so hot he had to git out. I didn't hear anything more of him till I was driving cattle in Montana, when I discovered he was one of the worst rustlers in that part of the world. I'm sartin he has done a good many things fur which he ought to hang, but he's more cunning in his way than the Sioux, and has kept out of the penitentiary when anyone else would have been doing a life-term. Bill is a great gambler, and has made and lost fortunes, but he is always out of money and figgering how to git it ag'in. There isn't anything too mean fur him to do fur money. He doesn't care any more fur the feelings of others than Geronimo." "It looks as if the plan of abducting Fred and holding him for ransom is his." "There ain't no doubt of it; he come to the ranch soon after we'd gone and larned all 'bout you tenderfeet from the boys themselves. The thought come to him at once that one of the chances of his lifetime was his. It's queer he made the mistake of believing that it was the father of the other younker as owned part of the ranch, but he got matters twisted in some way. You can see that if it hadn't been fur that blunder of his, it would be _you_ that your friend and me would be looking fur." "I wish it were," was the honest exclamation of Jack Dudley; "but how was it he came to form his partnership with Motoza?" "You've heard it said the devil takes care of his own; Bill and Motoza are old friends and have been in more than one shady job. I can't know, but I think Bill must have larned or suspicioned that the Sioux warn't fur off and he set out to hunt him up. Anyway they managed to come together, and the job was fixed up atween 'em. Howsumever," said the guide, "there ain't no use of talking and guessing over what _has been_, but we must face what _is_. Now, if Doctor Greenwood has word by telegraph that he must pay five thousand dollars to git his younker back agin, what'll he think?" "He will think that this has been a pretty expensive outing for Fred," replied Jack, whose buoyancy of spirits prompted his trivial answer. "Will he pay the money?" "Yes, and twice as much more, if it is necessary; but won't he be startled and puzzled to know the meaning of it all! He will come right out here himself and bring some of the best detectives in the country." "And if he does that, he'll never see his boy alive." Jack looked at Hazletine in alarm and amazement. The cowman saw phases of this extraordinary business that had not presented themselves to the youth, and he now proceeded to impress them upon him. In the first place, the cunning Tozer would make sure of protecting himself and Motoza, though the last was purely a matter of policy and self interest, since he was always ready to sacrifice a comrade. In arranging the ransom or exchange, Tozer would take no chances. The friends of Fred Greenwood would have to remain out of sight and in the background. It would be impossible for any of them to try to checkmate him without his quickly learning it, whereupon he would abandon the job and turn over the boy to the savage will of the Sioux. "And you know what _that_ means," added the cowman, impressively. "I should tell you something else, too. It's my belief that if the money is give to Tozer, and the Sioux is ordered to surrender the younker, he hates him that bad that he'll try to bring about his death and run the chances of hanging for it. Where two such wretches as him and Tozer are in a job there's bound to be crooked work, and I won't never believe you're going to shake the hand of t'other younker till I see it done with my own eyes." The emphasis of this declaration sent a thrill of alarm through the frame of Jack Dudley, though it could not wholly destroy the exhilaration caused by the knowledge that Fred Greenwood was alive. It was proof of the kindliness of Hank Hazletine that he made no mention of a strong suspicion that had been in his mind from the first. This was that when Tozer met Motoza he learned that the Sioux had already slain his prisoner, for Hank knew of the furious hate the fellow held toward the youth. Consequently, Tozer had arranged to carry out his original scheme, and was now seeking to gain a large sum of money, knowing that it was out of his power ever to fulfill his part of the bargain. Hazletine, we repeat, strongly believed that this ghastly phase of the business was true, but, inasmuch as there was no certainty of it, he was too considerate to bring additional grief to the heart of Jack Dudley. But the cowman had formed a resolution which he carefully held back from his companion. An interval of twenty-four hours must pass before the second interview with Tozer, during which, as the latter was given to understand, the negotiation would be left wholly with him. Hank and Jack were to remain quiescent, at least until after the next meeting. But the cowman nursed a very different determination. He intended to employ all the time and the utmost ability he possessed in defeating the atrocious plot of the miscreants. It will be seen that the easiest plan for him was quietly to help forward the negotiations, but his nature forbade such meek submissiveness on his part. This course, however, was perilous to the missing boy; for, if Tozer or Motoza saw himself in danger of losing the prize, he would make short work of the prisoner. It was clear that all the skill and woodcraft of which the cowman was master would be needed in the delicate task he had assigned to himself. "Younker," he said, when the conversation had continued a while longer, "after thinking over this bus'ness, I've made up my mind it's better we should keep apart fur the day." "Follow your own judgment. I shall try to be back this evening." "To-morrer morning will be time 'nough. I had my supper last night not fur from here, and if the wild animals haven't visited the spot since, we shall find 'nough to make a square meal." This was acceptable news, and the result all that could be desired. Hank had cooked a considerable quantity of venison at a romantic place among the rocks, his first intention being to carry enough of it to headquarters to supply his young friends with what they needed. Afterward he changed his mind and decided that it was time they learned to provide for themselves. Upon making his way to the spot he found everything as it had been left the previous evening, and thus much more readily than Jack had dared to expect he secured the needed food. "Right here we part," said Hank at the conclusion of the meal. "How am I to spend the time?" "As your fancy strikes you. As I told you, it will be soon 'nough fur you to git back to camp to-morrer morning, but you must keep your eyes open. It may be that Tozer, having larned that your father is the man he meant to bleed, will try to make a prisoner of you." Jack Dudley's eyes flashed. "Let him try it! I should like to be in Fred's company." "Mebbe you wouldn't be so well suited as you think, but look out fur snares in your path--that's all I've got to say. I'm off." It was characteristic of the cowman to take his departure in this abrupt manner, his intention being to undertake without delay the difficult task he had set out for himself, but five minutes later he gave over his purpose, and, to the surprise of Jack Dudley, came back to him. In doing this, Hazletine was wise. His purpose, as already intimated, was to discover if possible Motoza and Tozer, but especially the former. There was little doubt that the Sioux would communicate with his prisoner during the day, or, if Fred Greenwood was not among the living, his unrelenting enemy was likely to give some evidence of where his taking off had occurred. Hazletine's belief, therefore, was that by shadowing the Sioux he had a good chance of securing the information that would overturn all the calculations of the abductors. But this task was tenfold more delicate than would seem at first, for not only had the cowman to learn the whereabouts of the Sioux, but he must do it undetected and dog the fellow without discovery on his part. When it is remembered that Motoza would be on the alert against this, one is almost ready to declare the cowman had attempted an impossible thing. When he left his young friend, however, it was with the firm purpose of doing, or rather trying to push through this purpose. Within a hundred yards of the point where he left Jack the guide had a glimpse of what may be called the shadow of a movement. Something flickered among the rocks a short distance ahead and then vanished before he could identify it. But he knew what it meant. Some one was watching him. If the watcher was not Motoza or Tozer, he was an ally of theirs. He was holding the cowman under surveillance, ready to report or shoot on the first proof of his real purpose. The truth flashed upon Hank, and pausing in his walk, without any evidence of what he had discovered, he began a hasty examination of his pockets after the manner of a man who suddenly misses some prized article that he believed to be in his garments. The little farce was cleverly acted. Each receptacle was examined several times, some of the pockets being turned wrong side out, while the face of the cowman, or rather his eyes, betrayed his excitement. Then he looked at the ground in front and at the rear, apparently to learn whether he had dropped the missing treasure. Failing to find it, he uttered an angry exclamation and walked hurriedly back to his companion. No one observing the performance would have doubted its meaning. "I'm going to stay a while with you," he remarked, seating himself upon the ground and lighting his pipe. "It was a sudden change of mind," replied Jack, glad to have his company. "Yes; a redskin helped me to make it," and he explained the nature of his discovery. Inasmuch as the guide had turned back because of the same, it was easy to understand what his original intention was; for had it not existed, why should the cowman care if he was kept under surveillance? He would not be betraying himself any more during an innocent walk and hunt through the mountains than by sitting on the ground and smoking his pipe. The result to a certain extent was a disappointment to Jack himself, for he had quietly resolved upon a venture in the same line. Of necessity he would be governed almost entirely by guesswork, but it was his determination to spend the day, and if possible the night, in trying to gather some trace of his missing friend. And while it must be said that his prospect of success was exceedingly meagre, it should be borne in mind that he would possess one great advantage over the veteran while similarly engaged--neither Tozer nor Motoza would fear anything from what he did, and would give him no attention. He therefore would be left comparatively free to do what he chose. Despite the warnings of Hank, Jack was confident nothing was to be feared from the enmity of the two miscreants while the negotiations were in progress. They were not the men to destroy the hen that was expected to lay the golden egg. For hours Hazletine and Jack lolled in this primitive camp, the cowman smoking his pipe most of the time, while the two discussed over and over again the various phases of the momentous business that engaged their thoughts and to which they yearned to devote their utmost energies. The guide longed to be off, and as the sun descended the heavens it was one of the hardest tasks of his life to restrain his impatience, but he had been trained in a school where patience is one of the greatest of all the virtues. Suddenly he rose to his feet, stretched his arms and yawned. "I'd like to borrer that spy-glass of yours fur a few minutes." "You are welcome," replied Jack, slipping the string over his head and passing the instrument to him. The cowman sauntered off, taking the same direction as before. His first wish was to learn whether he was still under surveillance. So far as he could determine the watcher had grown weary and withdrawn, though there could be no certainty that he was not in the neighborhood. Jack Dudley, without leaving camp, was able to keep an eye on the movements of his friend. He saw him make his way to a jutting rock, partly screened by a growth of cedar. Concealing himself as well as he could, he raised the glass to his eyes and spent several minutes in studying the wild country spread below him. He was looking in the direction of the break in the canyon, beyond which, as will be remembered, was the plateau where the ponies had been left to crop the grass while their masters were engaged elsewhere. [Illustration: "He was looking in the direction of the break in the canyon."] Jack did not attempt to survey the same field, but kept his gaze upon Hazletine. He could see that he directed his attention toward a particular point, as if he had either discovered something or expected to do so. The study continued only a few minutes, when he came back and handed the glass to the youth, with the remark: "I'm going to try it agin. I won't expect to see you till to-morrer morning." The lad bade him good-by, and he took his departure; but instead of descending the mountain toward the point that had interested him, he followed the opposite course, as if he intended to push through to the other side of the Wind River range. This was so transparent a subterfuge that it did not deceive Jack. "He has discovered something," was his conclusion; "he doesn't choose to tell me, and it makes little difference. I wonder whether he believes I intend to idle my time till night and then go back to headquarters and wait for him? If he thinks so, he makes a mistake." Waiting until sure his friend was beyond sight, Jack carefully picked his way to the rock from which Hank had made the observation that decided his line of action. The better to screen himself the youth lay down on his face, as when peering over the ridge into the valley where the antelope were grazing, and held the glass to his eyes. Thus looking out, he saw the plateau in the distance, seemingly but a few rods in extent. Only one of the ponies was visible, and he resembled a small dog, standing with head down, in the middle of the grassy plot. Beyond and between were foot-hills, peaks of varying heights, gorges, ravines and hollows, with rocks, boulders and stunted trees scattered in profusion. The picturesqueness of the scene was deepened by a thin, blue column of vapor in the distance, ascending from an invisible camp-fire. The smoke rose steadily, so it was not to be supposed that it was meant for a signal, like those already described. The most attractive point was the break in the canyon, already described. This was in plain sight, with the expanse of swiftly-flowing water, which soon disappeared between the walls on the opposite side. Suddenly Jack started. Two Indians were visible, though they were in view for only a few minutes. They came from the base of the incline where the boys had seen three of them the day before, and passed out of sight before the interested observer could decide whether Motoza, the Sioux, was one of them. "I believe Hank has gone down there," was the conclusion of Jack, "and I shall do the same." CHAPTER XVII. INTO AND OUT OF THE CANYON. Jack Dudley's enforced idleness had become intolerable. He could stay no longer in the place from which Hank Hazletine had departed a half-hour before. It was a waste of time to speculate over the intentions of the veteran, and the youth made no attempt to do so. He had set out to see whether he could act even an insignificant part in the recovery of his loved comrade. It has been said that the boy had the advantage over the man in that it was not to be supposed any importance would be attached to his actions. At the same time he was liable to "put his foot in it" in more ways than one. Somehow or other the conviction clung to Jack Dudley that the key to the situation was in the neighborhood of the canyon. There must be hundreds of places among the mountains where a prisoner could be hidden from human eyes, but Hazletine's interest centred in that wild gorge, and Jack was certain he had gone thither. Then there was the fact of the cowman's visit two days before, concerning which he would have said nothing but for his discovery by the boys. Why Hank should have picked his way up that dangerous place was known only to himself. Jack could form no theory to explain it. But he did not forget the dispute of the three Indians in front of the break and the start which one of them made to follow the footsteps of the white man. There must be some attraction in the canyon for them all. Jack's dread was that Hazletine, despite his undoubted skill, would frighten Tozer and Motoza by his efforts to defeat their purpose, and drive them into slaying Fred and making off before they could be punished. But the cowman had his own views, and it was too late to dissuade him. Keeping in mind the warning of his friend to use all possible circumspection in his actions, Jack was so guarded that a full hour had passed when he once more reached the break in the canyon, which had already afforded them more than one interesting experience. So far as he could judge, he was the only living person within miles. The two Indians that had flitted across his field of vision were gone, and it was impossible to say what had become of Hazletine. Determined, however, to run no unnecessary risk, Jack remained among the trees and rocks on the upper side of the break, where he could not be seen unless some one almost stepped upon him. Not satisfied with his first position, he shifted further to the right, and lay down to wait and watch. A gradual obscuring of the sky caused him to look at his watch. Could it be possible? The autumn afternoon was almost gone. Night was at hand, whereas he had supposed several hours of daylight remained. Thus valuable time had slipped past and nothing had been done for Fred Greenwood. From where Jack lay he had a perfect view of the upper gate, as it may be called, of the canyon. The gorge has already been described as narrow at the point where the foamy waters dashed through and expanded into the broad pool, after which they flowed a short way and reunited, to make their next plunge between the mountain walls on their journey to the sea thousands of miles distant. Looking across this break, the boy could penetrate with his eye for a dozen yards into the upper canyon. He saw the dripping rocks upon which the angry buck sprang, only to pause and turn back to join his companions below. A curious thing happened. Jack was looking in the direction named, when, with startling suddenness, an Indian shot into sight on the furthest rock, beyond which the canyon made a sweeping curve that shut off further view. His appearance was like the upleaping of a Jack-in-the-box at the touch of the spring, but the explanation was evident: he was making his way down the gorge from above, when his leap from one rock to another brought him thus abruptly into view. This was interesting of itself, but a still more interesting discovery came with the second glance at him. He was Motoza, the Sioux! It looked as if Hank Hazletine, with all his subtlety and woodcraft, had failed to do that which came of itself to Jack Dudley. The actions of the Sioux showed he was unusually careful about being seen as he emerged from the canyon into fuller view, for, after leaping to the rock which stood at the door of the gorge, he stood a minute, then leaned forward and peered around the sides as far as he could without losing his balance. He next stood erect and looked keenly across the pool, and apparently at the very spot where the boy lay hiding. "What a face!" muttered Jack; "I never saw one so ugly, with those daubs of paint; and his eyes shine just like that rattlesnake's we killed. It can't be he sees me," added the youth in alarm, as he cowered still lower; "one would think he could look through a stone." But nothing less than the Roentgen ray would have revealed the young man, who was stealthily watching the ferocious buck. The latter must have decided that the coast was clear, for with another bound he landed upon a rock quite a way from the opening of the canyon, and a second leap placed him on the shore where three of his race had been standing when discovered by Jack and Fred. Motoza did not linger, but moved with a very rapid stride across the open space, where he was in full view of anyone in the vicinity. "If I were sure you had done any harm to Fred," muttered Jack, never removing his eyes from the repellant countenance, "I believe I could treat you as we did the grizzly bear without a sting of conscience. The idea of your harming a hair of the head of Fred Greenwood, who showed you tenfold more mercy than you deserved--my gracious! he must have seen me." This involuntary exclamation was caused by the fact that the Sioux was following a bee-line for the spot where Jack lay. Believing a meeting inevitable, the youth placed his hand on his revolver, the preferable weapon in the event of coming to close quarters. But at the last moment Motoza turned to the left and passed among the rocks within a couple of paces of the youth, who held his breath until he was gone. For some reasons Jack Dudley would have welcomed a meeting with this miscreant, for he held him in no fear. For one moment he meditated "holding him up," with the threat of death unless he produced Fred Greenwood; but fortunately the youth had time in which to see the wild absurdity of the thing, which could have done no possible good and probably would have brought great harm. So it was that Motoza passed out of sight and the youth was once more left alone. But Jack's thoughts had taken a new turn. Hazletine had expressed the belief that in the interval between the first and second meeting with Tozer either he or Motoza would hold communication with their prisoner; consequently, if the Sioux could be kept under surveillance without exciting his suspicion, he was likely to give some involuntary and useful information. "I wonder where Hank is; can it be that he, too, is watching in the neighborhood and has seen Motoza come out as I saw him? If so, the next fellow to pass in review before me will be my esteemed friend." When, however, a half-hour had gone by without anything being seen of the cowman, Jack was warranted in believing that he was the only one who was aware of the coming and going of the red man. Following out Hazletine's theory, it would seem that the prison of Fred Greenwood, instead of being among the mountains, was within the gorge. This was a startling conclusion, but the more Jack reflected upon it the more strongly did he believe it. "At any rate, I mean to find out whether it is so." But on the verge of setting out he hesitated. There was more than one reason why he should do so. In the first place, it was exceedingly dangerous to attempt to make his way up the canyon even by daylight, and the sun had already disappeared. He was totally unfamiliar with the windings and would be in constant danger of drowning. Moreover, he was liable, in the event of Fred being held a prisoner in the gorge, to place himself with him, or to defeat the negotiations for restoring him to liberty. And yet, in the face of these and other obstacles, the youth decided to make the foolhardy attempt. First of all he fastened his Winchester to his back, both he and his comrade having made provision for doing that before leaving Bowman's ranch. Then he thrust his revolver more firmly into its resting-place. This left his hands free, in case a sudden emergency should call for their use, and gave him an opportunity of saving the more important weapon. Then, night being fully come, he stepped into the open space which marked the bank at the break of the canyon. The stars were shining, but it would be a long time before the moon rose. A quick glance to the right and left revealed nothing to cause alarm, and Jack pressed on until he stood on the spot where the Sioux had landed when making his last leap. There was enough star-gleam to show the black mass of stone, like a crouching monster gathering to spring upon him. It will not be forgotten that the youth was an exceptionally fine athlete, and, pausing but a moment, he easily made the leap that carried him to the rock. In fact the task was easy, and he would not have hesitated to follow in the footsteps of the white man and Indian, could he have had the twilight of mid-day to assist him. The next bound placed him within the walls of the canyon, where he paused with the question whether it would do to venture further. The rushing waters were on all sides of him, and the cool spray was dashed in his face and over his clothing. It was to be supposed that where this furious current was compressed into such a narrow compass its depth was considerable, and within its grasp the most powerful swimmer would be helpless. Peering into the gloom, the youth saw the top of the next rock which was used as a stepping-stone by other visitors. If he were mistaken it would be bad for him, but, with only a few minutes' pause, he gathered his muscles and proved he was right. He was now fairly within the canyon and still standing on solid support, while there had been no trouble to maintain his foothold from the moment he made the first leap. His success thus far gave him renewed courage. "What one person has done another can do," was his thought. "Fred and I agreed that there is a good deal of risk in this, but if I had a little more light nothing could be easier. These rocks seem to be placed at the right intervals, and so long as I can locate them I'll go ahead." The belief of Jack was that somewhere in the side of the canyon was a cave in which his comrade was held captive. The sight that the two boys had obtained of Hank Hazletine, when he disappeared so suddenly from sight, lent strength to the theory. If the youth was right, the time of his attempt to ascend the gorge, with the exception of the darkness, could not have been more favorable, for Motoza was absent, and it was hardly to be supposed that his place had been taken by Tozer or anyone else. What a happy meeting it would be if the elder could find the younger! The natural reasoning was that, if one boy was able to ascend the canyon to where the other was imprisoned, the latter ought to be able to leave his prison when the gaoler was absent. Jack's explanation was probably the right one--either that Fred did not know how readily the thing could be done, or Jack was soon to find himself unable to complete his journey. Spurred on by the hope of doing so much for the one he loved, Jack paused only long enough to locate the next rock, when he again leaped with the easy strength and grace that were natural to him. His success did not render him careless. He was almost in utter darkness, and was surprised that the way proved so easy. By leaning forward and peering into the gloom he could generally distinguish the most shadowy outlines of the nearest part of the support, which, had it been slightly further removed, would have been altogether beyond his reach. It was unreasonable to expect the favorable conditions to continue, and they did not. The time came very soon when, after one of his leaps, the youth paused to collect himself, and was unable to distinguish the next rock projecting above the roaring current. The canyon just there was wider than usual, and he stooped over and gazed to the right and left in turn, hoping to discover the indispensable support. "It must be somewhere near," he reflected, "else Hank and the rest of them could have ascended no further; perhaps they did not do so." He gazed up the walls of darkness, but saw nothing that could help solve the question. If there was a cave near at hand its presence was betrayed by no friendly light. Although the tumult of the current was almost deafening, he shouted the name of Fred and listened for the response which came not. It was not difficult for Jack Dudley to form the explanation of why he failed to discern the next support. Hitherto his leaps had been comparatively trifling. It would have been no trouble to make them several feet longer. This was a spot where such a jump was necessary, and therefore he could not discern the rock which would have been visible with the help of the sun or moon. What should he do? Turn back or keep on? It was a most serious question, and he debated it a long time before forming a conclusion. It is remarkable how readily, at times, we can convince ourselves of the truth of that which we wish to believe. By and by Jack Dudley was sure he made out the dim outlines of the lower point of a huge rock, just where it ought to have been. "I can't be mistaken, so here goes!" And go he did, with a vengeance. It was the finest leap yet made, but, unfortunately, the support upon which he so confidently counted had no existence. Instead of landing on solid stone, he dropped into the raging torrent and went spinning down stream like a cork in a whirlpool. He kept his presence of mind, and did not exhaust his strength by trying to stem the current. His great peril was in being hurled against some of the rocks and killed or having a limb broken. Throwing out his arms just in time he averted this calamity, and feeling himself scraping swiftly past one of the masses of stone that had served him as a support, he desperately gripped it and drew himself out of the water. He was uninjured, but became immediately conscious of a great misfortune. In the flurry his Winchester had become displaced and was irrecoverably gone. It was with an exclamation of relief that he found his revolver in place at his hip. "This expedition of mine, considered strictly _as_ an expedition, is a failure," he grimly muttered, thankful for his own escape, and still convinced that it was not as bad as it might have been with his friend. "It won't do to try it again, and it remains for me to get out of the canyon altogether." He had landed upon the extreme upper end of the most immense rock of all that had been used to help in the ascent. He remembered it well. The upper portion was depressed and sloping, being three or four feet above the current. Thus it happened that the point to which he was clinging allowed him to be deluged with spray, and he strove to climb to the higher part. He was thus engaged, conscious of a number of severe bruises, when an object whisked past his shoulder, taking a direction up the gorge. He felt it graze his face, and detected something that can only be described as a deepening of the dense gloom as it shot over his head. It came and vanished like the flitting of a bird's wing. The youth for the moment was amazed beyond expression, and was at a loss to explain what it could be. Then the truth flashed upon him. Some one else was also going up the canyon, and had leaped from the rock to which Jack was clinging, on his way to the next one. He strove to pierce the darkness, but the effort was useless. "I would give a good deal to know who he was; I couldn't make out whether it was a white man or an Indian. It may have been Motoza, Tozer, Hank, or a stranger; but whoever he was, he has no use for me." Half suspecting a third party might put in an appearance, Jack waited on the rock for some minutes, but nothing of the kind occurred, and he prepared to continue his retreat. The water was almost icy cold, the temperature being perceptibly lower between the walls of the canyon and the clear air outside. With his saturated garments, the youth was chilled and anxious to reach a point where he could start a fire and obtain warmth for his body. He had given over the expectation of seeing any more persons in the gorge and wished to look after his own comfort. To this haste was to be attributed the second accident that overtook the young man. He had no difficulty in locating the place to land, but he put too much vigor in the effort, so that when he struck the slippery rock his momentum carried him forward, and despite his resistance he took another plunge into the raging current before he could check himself. The place was preferable to the previous one, for it was almost at the mouth of the canyon. He was guiding himself as best he could, and on the alert to grasp something to check his swift progress, when he debouched into the broad, open pool or miniature lake at the break in the banks, where the current became so sluggish that he swam with ease. "This is growing monotonous," he muttered, as, after a few strokes, his feet touched bottom and he walked out on dry land. "My rifle is gone, but luckily I have kept my revolver for emergencies----" He got no further with the remark, for his hand had gone back to his hip with the result of discovering that the smaller weapon had been lost during his last bath. But it was impossible wholly to lose his good spirits. "Whew! but that puts me in a fine condition to hunt grizzly bears and meet bad Indians; I'm not so anxious to see Motoza as I was." His teeth were chattering, and to start his blood in circulation he began climbing the sloping bank, at the top of which, as will be remembered, he had remained hidden with Fred Greenwood when looking down upon the three Indians. It was a laborious task, and he was panting when he reached the summit, where he paused for a few minutes' rest. The prudent course was to return as speedily as he could to the cavern by the plateau and start a fire. His blanket had been left there, and would be of great use in his present condition. "I wonder, now, if somebody has been there and stolen them?" he muttered, resuming his homeward tramp; "this thing ought not to stop, and it seems to me Hank takes big chances in leaving the blankets and ponies where some of these Indians can steal them." Jack had still to leap the canyon in order to reach his destination, but the task had become an easy one and caused him no anxiety. All was going well, when his first shock of alarm came with the discovery that a wild animal was following him. His first thought was that it was one of the Indians, but a glimpse, on the edge of a slight clearing, showed that it was a quadruped. Jack paused and looked intently at the creature. He could see it only dimly, but sufficiently so to identify it as a wolf of unusually large size. He suspected it was of the black species, one of those savage brutes to be dreaded tenfold more than the ordinary grey kind. "I wonder whether he knows I haven't got a firearm about me? Ah, old fellow, if I had my Winchester it wouldn't take me long to settle you." It was no jesting matter, and Jack kept close watch of him while threading his way to camp, as their headquarters were called. Several times, when he turned quickly, he was startled to observe that the animal had stolen quite close to him, as if to leap upon his shoulders; but he showed his cowardly nature by darting back, only to return the moment the youth turned his face away. The question with Jack was whether he should stop and kindle a fire, or wait until he reached the cavern. He preferred to do the latter, but it looked unsafe to defer the precaution. The distance, however, was short, and he hurried on until he clambered over to the plateau and was greeted by a whinny from his pony, Dick, who was quick to recognize him. Instead of keeping up the pursuit, or attacking one of the horses, the wolf seemed to conclude it best to turn his attention elsewhere. He slunk off, and was seen no more. CHAPTER XVIII. THE QUEST OF THE COWMAN. It was Hank Hazletine, the cowman, who leaped over the head of Jack Dudley when he was crouching on the rock in the canyon, and it happened in this way: It has been intimated that when the veteran left the boy at the temporary camp on the mountain side his intention was to learn the whereabouts of Motoza, the Sioux, hoping thereby to gain knowledge of the missing Fred Greenwood. This was a task of extreme difficulty, inasmuch as it was certain the vagrant red man would be on his guard against such strategy. The Indian whom Hank saw with the aid of the spy-glass was not he whom he wished to trace, but, suspecting he was in the vicinity, the cowman made his way thither by a roundabout course. He was on the alert for the fellow, or for his ally, Bill Tozer. Should either or both of them discover Hank, he might well assume that it was an accident. It could hardly be expected of him that he would remain at the cavern for twenty-four hours, awaiting the time for Tozer to meet him. His most natural course would be to engage in hunting with his youthful companion, and he could reasonably claim to be thus engaged if a meeting took place. Should events prove that the plotters were too watchful to be caught off their guard, then the second phase of the business was to be considered; but it remained to be seen whether such was the fact. The ransom was to be agreed to when it was apparent that no other course could save the lad. Advancing with the care and stealth of a trained Indian scout, Hazletine remained but a short time near the break in the canyon, for suspecting, as did Jack Dudley, that it was in that neighborhood the key to the situation was to be found, he was exposing himself to discovery. He climbed the same ascent, leaped the canyon, and ensconced himself on the further side. His intention was to peer over the edge into the depths below, instead of taking the course followed later by his young friend. He was acting on this idea, when he came within a hair of spoiling everything by committing the very blunder against which he had sought with so much pains to guard. At his height above the torrent, as will be remembered, no one was disturbed by the roar of the waters far below. Because of his susceptibility to sounds, he heard an exclamation uttered by some one near him. The point whence it came was a clump of rocks hardly fifty feet distant, and he fancied he recognized the voice as Bill Tozer's. To his relief he could see no one, and it was safe, therefore, to assume that no one as yet saw him. The ground was favorable, and by using the utmost care he secured a position from which he discovered Tozer and Motoza in conversation. The white man was sitting on a boulder, while the Sioux was standing in front of him, gesticulating as if angry over something that had been proposed or said. Tozer was smoking a pipe, and seemed cool and collected, though the exclamation which had betrayed him indicated that it had not been thus from the beginning. It was an important discovery for Hazletine to make, but it was attended by two exasperating facts: the interview was nearly over, and the words that remained to be spoken were uttered in such moderate tones that he could not hear a syllable. If the couple had been obliging enough to raise their voices, it is probable that the knowledge sought by the eavesdropper would have soon been at his command. But nothing of that nature took place. Within five minutes after the arrival of the cowman, prepared to act his part as spy, Motoza turned about and walked away in the direction of the canyon, while Tozer took a course which, if continued, would lead him to the plateau. "I don't think he'll go there, fur he's no reason to look fur me in that place afore to-morrer morning." But the white man was not the important factor in the problem. Hank waited for some minutes after he had passed from sight, and then set out to regain sight of Motoza, which task proved more difficult than he expected. The fellow had vanished, and it was impossible to tell whither he had gone. The rocky surface left no trail which even an Apache could follow, and it only remained for the cowman to fall back upon what may be called general principles. The experience of the cowman was another illustration of how much depends in this world on what is called chance. Jack Dudley, without any preliminary training in woodcraft, discovered Motoza as he emerged from the canyon, while the veteran of the West, skilled in all the ways of his venturesome life, spent hours in looking for the Sioux without obtaining the first glimpse of him. That he missed him by a margin that could not have been narrower was a fact; but "a miss is as good as a mile," and the autumn afternoon drew to a close without the first glimmer of success on his part. He had gone so far, even, as to visit a distant camp-fire, whose smoke still faintly showed against the clear sky, but failed to see a living person. He was on the point of giving over his quest, when the unexpected happened. Within a few hundred yards of the break in the canyon he caught sight of Motoza and Tozer holding another consultation. They had evidently just met, and the configuration of the ground enabled Hazletine to steal near enough to catch some of the words spoken by the couple. The two were standing face to face, and their actions were peculiar. Motoza was in the act of handing his Winchester rifle to Tozer, who, accepting the weapon, turned it over and examined it with interest. Since he could not speak the Sioux he used the English language, of which, as will be remembered, Motoza possessed a fair knowledge. "You're lucky," he said; "the gun is worth more than yours. So you made a trade with the young man?" "Yes--me trade," replied the Sioux, his painted face relaxing with the grin that had become almost chronic. "I don't s'pose he made any objection--that is, he gave you his gun without making a kick?" The Sioux nodded his head and still grinned, Tozer joining him in the last expression of his feelings. "How about his revolver?" "He gib me that," said the scamp, drawing forth the handsome weapon, where Hazletine had not observed it, thrust into the girdle about his waist. There was no mistaking the meaning of these words and proceedings. All doubt was removed as to the abduction of Fred Greenwood. Motoza was the agent in the outrage, though whether Tozer had taken an active part in the same was yet uncertain. He scanned the smaller firearm, and then, instead of returning it to the Sioux, deliberately shoved it into his hip-pocket. "I think I'll take charge of that, Motoza." The buck was about to make angry objection, when the white man explained: "When I meet Hank to-morrow he'll want some proof that I can turn over the youngster to him. He won't believe I can do so till he sees that proof. I'll show him this revolver, and he'll know it belongs to the youngster. That will be all the proof he'll ask. The rest will come easy; and, Motoza, you and I will be rich." There was an emphasis in this declaration that was convincing to the dusky partner in crime. He nodded his head and made no further protest. Evidently he was under the influence of his white ally. At this juncture the couple turned their backs upon the eavesdropper, who had stolen to within a few paces of them. They continued talking, but the change of position prevented his hearing what was said. It was peculiarly exasperating, for, though he had gained considerable information, he still lacked the most important news of all. He had heard no intimation of where the prisoner was held. Could he but learn that, he would have lost no time in attempting his rescue. It must be said, furthermore, that had such knowledge come to him he would not have hesitated to draw bead on the two miscreants in turn, and shoot them down in their tracks. He was thoroughly enraged, and they deserved the fate. A few minutes after the change of position the couple walked away, side by side, still conversing. Certain discovery would have followed any attempt on the part of the cowman to keep at their heels or nigh enough to overhear their words, so he held his place and saw them pass from sight. He had noted the direction, however, and observed that it led from the canyon and deeper into the mountains. This was puzzling. It seemed to Hank that one or both would make their way to the prison of the youth, for it was unlikely that he would be left alone through the night. Having no thought of being under surveillance, Motoza and Tozer would take a direct course to the place of confinement, which now seemed to be deeper in the mountains, and at some point of which the cowman had no suspicion. It was of the highest importance that the couple should not be allowed to pass beyond sight, and the cowman began a cautious search for them. But once more he was doomed to disappointment. In the gathering twilight it was impossible to regain sight of them, and, convinced of the uselessness of the attempt, he gave it up. "It begins to look as if Tozer holds the winning hand," he angrily muttered; "there ain't no question that the two have the younker safe, and I've no idee where to hunt fur him--but hold on!" The conviction, or rather suspicion, that the prison of the youth was within the canyon returned to the hunter with redoubled force. Why had he not searched there before? If it was a mistake, no harm could follow; if it was not a mistake--well, he should see. Wondering at himself because of his oversight, he abandoned all attempt to regain sight of the couple and headed for the break in the canyon. He arrived only a brief while after Jack Dudley attempted and failed to follow up the gorge, and except for the mishap of the youth the two would have met within the following few minutes. It has already been shown how narrowly they missed doing so. The familiarity of the cowman with the canyon averted the mistake made by his young friend. He ascended it with scarcely any hesitation, although in the dense gloom his vision was almost useless. It was because of that that he well-nigh stepped upon the crouching figure without suspecting it. Reaching the stone where Jack had been overwhelmed by failure, the cowman paused for a minute and peered round in the gloom. Not until he had glanced upward and studied the projecting crags over his head as outlined against the starlit sky was he absolutely sure of his location. That glance made everything clear. The next rock upon which it was necessary to leap was within easy reach, and had Jack Dudley known its location he would have fallen into no trouble. It lay to the left, close to the side of the canyon, and really carried one no further up the gorge; but from its surface he readily bounded to one beyond, and continued his leap-frog performance until he had ascended another hundred yards. He was now close to the point he had in mind. It was there that he had been picking his way when the wondering boys, looking down from the top, saw him. Hazletine would have explained his action to them but for a certain feeling of shame which was not unnatural. There had been rumors for years among the cattlemen of Southwestern Wyoming of a cavern in the canyon which was studded with gold. Many searches had been made for it, but without success. Hank Hazletine was among those who engaged in the hunt, but neither he nor his friends succeeded in finding the place. The veteran was not quite ready to abandon hope, and when he found himself in the section once more, on the hunt in which he acted as guide for the boys, he determined to make a decisive exploration without letting any one know his secret. It was on this expedition that he succeeded in finding the cavern, but his trained eye immediately told him the marvellous legend was a myth. It was a romantic and picturesque spot, but there was not a grain of auriferous metal or ore in sight. Hoping that a second cavern was in the vicinity, he extended his search. When he emerged from the gorge, at the point where the break occurred, it was with the certainty that the whole thing was a fable. With a grim smile he dismissed the matter and resolved not to think of it again. He felt that he had acted foolishly, and his reluctance to tell his story to his young friends, therefore, was only natural. But once more the cowman was on his way to the mysterious cavern, drawn by the hope, rather than the belief, that it was there he would find Fred Greenwood a prisoner and awaiting the completion of the bargain for his release by his abductors. Determined to make no mistake, he halted under the projecting ledge and spent several minutes in peering around in the gloom. It looked as if he was right; but the darkness was too profound for him to make sure, and even the scrutiny of the ribbon of sky that showed above the narrow opening a thousand feet above his head failed to remove the last vestige of doubt. Like the boys, Hank carried a rubber safe of matches. Producing this, he struck one of the tiny bits on the corrugated bottom of the little black box, and, shading the flame with his fingers from the moist wind caused by the dashing waters, he glanced at his immediate surroundings. He had strapped his Winchester to his back, and his arms were free. A thrill of pleasure went through him, for the first scrutiny showed he was right. Directly over his head projected a thin ledge within ready reach. It was what might be termed the doorstep to the cavern. He had come to the exact spot for which he was searching. Flinging the extinguished match into the waters at his side, he reached upward, and without difficulty drew himself upon the ledge. He was now in front of the cavern which he had visited by daylight, and whose interior was impressed so vividly on his memory that he knew every foot of it. "Is the younker in there?" was the question he asked himself after regaining his feet. To test the matter, he called his name. The fierce torrent roared below and around him, but he was sure his words must have penetrated into the dismal recesses. He repeated the call several times without response. "It may be the younker is asleep, or, if he hears me, he may take me fur Motoza; and yet that couldn't be, for our voices don't sound alike." Once more he produced his rubber safe and struck a match, holding the twinkling flame above his head as he slowly moved forward into the cavern. Before the light expired he had another, for he intended to make his search thorough. The opening in the side of the canyon had a width of ten or twelve feet, was of the same height, and extended back for more than double the distance. Side, floor and roof were of irregular formation, and the craggy stones rough and wet. Had there been any gleaming stalactites or stalagmites in sight, the cause of the legend attaching to the place would have been understood, but there was nothing of that nature. The cavern was simply a rent in the side of the canyon wall, created by some convulsion of nature, and all that was visible was damp limestone. By the time the visitor had burned three matches his examination of the place was completed and he had made the discovery that he was the only occupant. Fred Greenwood was not there, nor did the cavern show signs of having been visited by person or animal. But hold! When Hank threw down the last expiring match, he caught a glimpse of something white on the flinty floor. He had not thought of looking for anything, and it was the accidental following of the match with his gaze that revealed the object. Instantly another match was sending out its feeble rays, and he stooped down and picked up that which had arrested his attention. It was a piece of paper, apparently the blank leaf of a letter. There was no writing or mark on it to indicate its ownership, but had it been the visiting-card of Fred Greenwood, Hank Hazletine could not have been more positive that it belonged to the young man. It was impossible that Motoza should carry writing-paper with him. The cowman never did so, consequently he could not have dropped it on his late visit. It was equally improbable that Bill Tozer had anything to do with it. He knew that both of the boys had paper and pencils with them, for he had seen them figuring over some problems they were discussing, and with a thrill of conviction he remembered that the paper they used was of precisely the same pattern as the piece he held in his hand. "The younker has been here, but what the mischief has become of him?" and the mystified cowman looked right and left, on the floor and at the roof, as if he suspected the youth was hiding in one of those places. An explanation suggested itself. After taking the lad to the cavern, his captor from some cause had changed his mind and transferred him to another place of confinement. No; there was another theory which would explain the mystery: it was that Motoza, yielding to his implacable enmity of the youth, had placed him beyond all reach of his friends. The spirit of revenge with an American Indian is tenfold stronger than cupidity. It was not improbable that the miscreant, having committed the unspeakable crime, was concealing it from Tozer, his ally in the dreadful business. The work of the cowman was finished for the time. He carefully let himself down from the ledge to the rock immediately beneath, and began working his way through the canyon to the opening at the break. His familiarity stood him in as good stead as before, and he reached the place without mishap. Climbing the steep slope to the higher ground, he sat down for a few minutes' thought. It was well into the night, and it was useless to attempt to do anything more. He was as firmly resolved, however, as before not to be outwitted by the ruffians with whom he was dealing. He would consent to no attempt to pay them a ransom until he knew beyond peradventure that their part of the contract would be fulfilled. "If they try any crooked work," he muttered, with deadly earnestness, "both of 'em have got to settle with Hank Hazletine." He gave no thought to Jack Dudley, for he took it for granted that he had been able to look out for himself during the day. Following the route so well known to him, he reached the plateau within an hour after the arrival of the youth, who had started a fire and was doing his best to dry his clothing and gain some warmth for his chilled body. It need not be said that the cowman was interested in the story told by the youth, and was astonished beyond measure to learn that both had taken the same route, one actually passing the other without either suspecting it. On his part, Hazletine related all that he had passed through, and explained the reason of his ascent of the canyon some time before, when he was observed by the wondering lads. Meanwhile, where was Fred Greenwood? CHAPTER XIX. INTO THE CAVERN. Hank Hazletine and Jack Dudley having failed to find the missing Fred Greenwood, let us try our hand at the task. Going back to that afternoon when the elder youth from his concealment on the crest of the ridge fired down into the little herd of antelope grazing in the valley in front of him, and secured a supper for the two, it will be remembered that Fred had started along the side of the valley, with a view of placing himself beyond the game and rendering the success of himself and friend certain. He never dreamed of danger to himself. His attention was fixed upon the pretty animals, and, hungry as he was, he felt a sympathy for them, knowing that in all probability one of the number would be sacrificed. Nevertheless, he put forth the utmost pains to prevent their taking alarm, and there is hardly a doubt that he would have succeeded in his purpose but for the catastrophe which overtook him when half the distance had been passed. Suddenly, while he was stealing forward in a crouching posture, a low, threatening voice reached his ear. Only the single word, "_Stop!_" was uttered, but it could not have startled the youth more than the whir of a rattlesnake under his feet. Before he could straighten up he turned his head like a flash. Not a rod distant, kneeling upon one knee, was Motoza, the Sioux, with his Winchester aimed at him! Believing that he would press the trigger of his weapon the next moment, Fred Greenwood was transfixed. He could only look at his enemy and await the end. He was without the power to raise a finger in his own defence. "Drop gun!" commanded his master. The words showed the lad that he had a few minutes at least to live, but the "drop" was on him and he promptly obeyed. "Drop little gun!" added the Sioux, who never wavered in keeping his rifle pointed at the chest of the young man. Fred withdrew his revolver and flung it at his feet. He was now without a single firearm. An infant could not have been more helpless. As yet he had not spoken a word. He recalled the warning of Jack Dudley, and knew the ferocious hatred this vagrant redskin held toward him. To appeal for mercy would delight the miscreant and not aid the prisoner. He tried another tack. "What do you want with me, Motoza?" The question pleased the Sioux, who, partly lowering his rifle, still held it ready for instant use. His ugly countenance was broken by the old grin. "Huh! You call Motoza tief, eh?" "That's what I called you, and that's what you are!" "Huh! Me kill you!" "_You_ can do that easily enough, but you'll never live to brag about it. If the officers don't hang you, Hank Hazletine will make daylight shine through your hide! He is only waiting for an excuse." "White man dog--me not afraid--me kill _him_!" said the Sioux, with a dangerous glitter in his snake-like eyes. "You can't do it too soon. But what are you waiting for?" Motoza had not counted upon such defiance; but if it lessened his contempt it did not diminish his hate nor weaken his purpose. "You go; me follow; me point rifle if you run; if you call, me shoot!" "Which way do you wish me to travel?" The Sioux pointed toward the bend in the valley for which Fred was making when checked in this peremptory manner. To obey was to take him further from his comrade, but he obeyed. As he moved off, Motoza picked up the two weapons from the ground, thrusting the revolver into the girdle at his waist, while he carried the Winchester in his other hand. Fred heard him a few paces in the rear, as well as the repetition of his threats to fire on the least attempt of the prisoner to regain his freedom or to attract the attention of his friends. The youth never doubted that he would carry out this threat, and he would have been a zany to draw the explosion of wrath. He walked forward and did his best to obey the orders of his enemy in spirit and letter. The young man thought intently. The shock of the belief that instant death impended was somewhat softened by the knowledge that the crisis was deferred for a time at least, though it was impossible to guess for how long. What was the ultimate intention of the Sioux? It seemed probable to Fred that he was afraid to slay him at the spot of capture, since the body would be sure of discovery by his friends, with a good chance of learning the identity of the assassin. What more likely, therefore, than that he was conducting him to some remote place, where his body would never be found? It was not natural that an active, sturdy youth like Fred Greenwood should submit to be led thus meekly to slaughter, but in what possible way could he help himself? If he wheeled about to assail the buck he was without a single weapon, while the Sioux was doubly armed. A glance over his shoulder showed his enemy almost within arm's reach. Not the least trying feature of this extraordinary proceeding was that Fred had to hear the report of Jack Dudley's rifle, followed by his shouts, which plainly reached the ears of the one who dared make no reply. He could only continue walking until the bend in the valley was passed, when a change of direction took place. It was no longer necessary to conceal themselves from observation, for there was no one to be feared. From the facts that afterward came to light there is little doubt that Tozer and Motoza had held a conference previous to the capture and fixed upon a definite line of procedure, for otherwise it is not conceivable that the Sioux would have spared the life of his captive. With numerous turnings, and with the sounds of Jack Dudley's shouts and firing faintly reaching his ears, young Greenwood continued marching in front of his captor long after the sun had set and night closed in. He had lost all idea of the points of the compass, but the fact that the tramp continued and that no harm was done him inspired the prisoner with a degree of hope that was altogether lacking at the opening of his strange adventure. Suddenly a roaring noise struck him, and a short distance further he reached the break in the canyon with which he had become familiar. This enabled him to locate himself, and he looked around to learn the further wishes of his master. From the moment of starting Fred had been on the alert for a chance to make a break for liberty, but none occurred. The Sioux was too vigilant to tempt him. The long immunity from harm had given the lad a certain self-assurance. As yet he had formed no suspicion of the real purpose of the Sioux, but, somehow or other, he believed his own death was not likely to be attempted for a number of hours to come. "Well, Motoza, here we are! What's the next step?" The Indian raised one of the hands grasping a Winchester and pointed toward the canyon. "Go dere--jump on rock!" "My gracious! I can't do that!" "Den me kill!" As if angered beyond restraint, he made a leap toward the startled youth, who recoiled a step, and, esteeming a death by drowning preferable to the one which threatened him, made haste to reply: "All right; I'll try it." But it was necessary that the miscreant should give some instructions to his prisoner. These were simple. He was to leap upon the rock nearest to shore, and then, by the same means, ascend the canyon until ordered to stop. From what has already been related concerning Jack Dudley's experience, it will be seen that the task was difficult and dangerous. There was no choice, however. He had gained a general knowledge of the canyon and felt almost certain he would be overtaken by accident; but in many respects his experience was so similar to that which was afterward undergone by his comrade that the particulars need not be dwelt upon. He found the work less laborious than he expected. The Sioux by gesture indicated the rocks, when they were not clear to the boy, who found no trouble in making the leaps. In every case he had hardly landed when the buck dropped lightly at his side. A desperate scheme was half-formed more than once while this singular progress was going on. It was purposely to miss his footing and allow himself to be carried away by the tumultuous torrent. He was restrained by two good reasons. Motoza was likely to seize him before he was swept beyond reach, and if he did not he would inevitably drown. Accordingly, Fred kept at it until finally they reached the ledge up which Hank Hazletine climbed twenty-four hours later. By this time a suspicion of the partial truth had penetrated the mind of Fred. There must be some cavity in the rocks where his captor meant to hold him for awhile as prisoner. The plan of securing a large ransom in payment for his freedom was not dreamt of by the youth. No one would think of looking in this place for him, and he would be secure for an indefinite period. Motoza had learned several things from his association with those of Caucasian blood, one of which was that a rubber match-safe is preferable to rubbing two dry sticks together when in need of fire, or using the old-fashioned steel and flint. He managed with some trouble to make Fred understand he was to climb up the ledge, and he followed so deftly that the prisoner was given no chance to try to prevent him. A minute after they stood side by side, Motoza struck a match, and his captive had a glimpse of the cavern which has already been described. Here, then, was the end of the journey. This was to be the prison of Fred Greenwood until when? When was he to be released, or was he not to be released at all? Passing well back in the gloom the two sat down, so far removed from the roar and tumult of the torrent that they could talk without difficulty. Fred was still apprehensive of some sudden violence from the Sioux, and, though in the gloom he could see nothing of him, he was ready to make the best struggle possible. "Am I to stay here, Motoza?" he asked, raising his voice to a high pitch. Instead of replying directly, the Indian asked: "Huh! you fader hab heap money, eh?" This simple question revealed the whole plot and confirmed the statement already made that the scheme for holding Fred Greenwood for ransom by his relatives was arranged before his abduction took place. It was a great discovery for Fred Greenwood to make. On the instant nearly all his fears vanished and his heart glowed with hope. This being remembered, he can hardly be blamed for drawing matters with rather a long bow. "Yes," he made haste to say, "my father has money; a hundred times more than I have," all which was true without involving more than a moderate sum. "He gib heap money fur _you_, eh?" "Of course; I come high." "He gib thousand--gib ten thousand--hundred thousand--million dollar--eh?" "Well, that's a pretty good sum; I'm afraid my father wouldn't think I am worth as much as that; but there's no doubt, Motoza, he will pay you a good price; is it your plan to sell me to him?" The Sioux made no answer to this, though Fred repeated the question. The sullen silence of the Indian brought back the misgivings of the captive. He could not doubt that he had been abducted with a view of being ransomed, but it was impossible to credit Motoza with the whole scheme. He must have allies, and, knowing nothing of Bill Tozer, Fred suspected that a half-dozen vagrant Indians, more or less, were engaged in it, though it seemed singular that no one else had shown himself thus far. Although the prisoner had been in better spirits than would be suspected, his situation was uncomfortable and he lost hope with the passage of the hours. Motoza refused to hold any further conversation, and was evidently brooding over something of an unpleasant nature. By and by he lit his pipe and silently puffed. He was sitting on the flinty floor, with his back against the side of the cavern and his legs thrust out in front of him. Now and then, when he drew a little harder on the pipe, the glow in the bowl revealed the tip of his nose, a part of the painted forehead, and the glittering black eyes. It was a gruesome picture, for, even when he was invisible, it seemed to Fred he could see the gleam of those eyes fixed upon him. "Now, I know he hates me beyond expression," mused the youth, "and nothing would delight him more than to torture me to death. If he agrees to give me my liberty, it will be just like him to kill me as soon as he gets the money which father will gladly pay for my safety." It will be seen that the trend of Fred's thoughts was similar to those of Hank Hazletine, when considering the same matter. Whatever project might be in the minds of others, the youth would be in danger so long as he was in the power of the wretch whom he had unpardonably insulted. Naturally, Fred had asked himself more than once whether it was possible for him to make his escape from the cavern. It was out of the question so long as the Sioux was his companion, but if he should leave him alone, even for a short time, the youth was resolved to make the attempt. These and similar thoughts were chasing one another through his brain when he fell asleep. He was very tired from his long tramp and did not open his eyes until the faint light of morning penetrated his prison. He had not forgotten to wind his watch, and when he looked at it he saw to his astonishment that it was nearly eight o'clock. He had slept for more than ten hours. The next cause of his surprise was to find he was alone. Motoza had left while he was asleep, though how long previous it was impossible to guess. But the hunger which Fred Greenwood had felt on more than one previous occasion was as naught compared to the ravenous appetite that now had possession of him. It was a long time since he had eaten, and it looked as if it would be a long time before he ate again. There was absolutely nothing in the cavern beside himself. He felt in his pockets in the weak hope of finding a forgotten fish-hook that could be used, though he possessed nothing in the nature of bait; but, inasmuch as he had not brought a hook with him, it would not do to say he succeeded in his search, though he displaced the piece of writing-paper afterward found by his friend. Forcing all thought of food from him for the time, he asked why, now that his gaoler was absent, he should not pick his way down the canyon and make a break for liberty. At the same time he could not forget that one of the most improbable acts of the Sioux would be to give him any chance at all to escape. It was more than likely that Motoza had laid the temptation in his way, that it might serve him as a pretext for shooting his prisoner. Fred resolved, therefore, to be careful in all that he did. The necessity of drinking and bathing his face was his excuse for walking out to the border of the ledge and letting himself down to the rock underneath. There he dipped up what water he needed in the palms of his hands, and while doing so scanned every part of the canyon in his field of vision. He noted the narrow strip of sky far aloft, the tumbling waters above and below where he stood, the black boulders protruding their heads above the torrent which flung itself fiercely against them, the craggy walls of the canyon, but nowhere did he catch sight of the Sioux who had brought him hither. None the less, Fred felt so certain his black eyes were watching him from some hidden point that he did not yield to the temptation to leap to the nearest boulder and start on his flight for liberty. Instead, he grasped the margin of the ledge and drew himself up to his former place. There, however, he paused with folded arms and surveyed the strange scene more leisurely than before. He was anxious to discover the Sioux if anywhere in sight, but the fellow did not show himself. The roar of the canyon had been in his ears so long that it seemed like silence, and it had lulled him to sleep hours before. He was still suffering from hunger and longed for the return of his captor, for he thought he would bring food with him. Providentially the lad had stood in this position but a short time when he looked aloft toward the sky. At the moment of doing so he uttered an exclamation of affright and leaped back into the mouth of the cavern. The next instant a boulder that must have weighed a ton crashed upon the ledge where he had been standing, splintered off a number of pieces, and plunged into the torrent below. Fred did not try to make himself believe that the falling of this mass of stone was an accident. Motoza or one of his allies had been on the watch above for the appearance of the youth, and when the boulder had been adjusted as well as possible it was tumbled over into the canyon. Had Fred remained on the spot a few moments longer he would have been crushed like an insect under the wheel of a steam-engine. It was a startling occurrence, and in his weakened condition made him so faint that he withdrew still further into the cavern and sat down, trembling like a leaf. His hunger had vanished and hope almost departed. "It will not do for me to leave the cavern in the daytime, for he is waiting for me to do so. I can't do it at night without some one to guide me. He means to keep me here until I die of starvation." Fred had come really to believe this. He knew enough of Indian nature to understand that the race rarely inflict instant death upon an enemy when it is in their power to subject him to torture or slay in some horrible fashion. Motoza had not slain him before because he was unwilling that the one whom he hated so intensely should receive such mercy. It would be a hundredfold sweeter to the Sioux to see his prisoner dying by inches. "If he has a plan for making father pay a ransom for me it will take a number of days to bring the thing to an end. During all that time I am to be left without a morsel of food; he would deprive me of water, too, if he could." It was a shocking conclusion to form, but the usually clear-headed boy became convinced he was right. "Poor Jack must be worried almost to death," he murmured, sitting on the stones and giving rein to his fancies; "he will know that something has gone wrong with me, but he can never know what it was. Hank will lay it to Motoza, for he has said there is nothing too wicked for him to do, but the cowman has no way of finding what has become of me, and he can't make Motoza tell him. He and Jack may hunt for weeks without suspecting where I am." In this declaration Fred Greenwood, as is known, was not quite correct, though the search of his friends was fruitless. CHAPTER XX. A CLIMB FOR LIBERTY. A youth in the situation of Fred Greenwood cannot reason clearly, even though he be right in his main conclusions. He had settled into the belief that Motoza, the Sioux, had determined to subject him to a lingering death through starvation; and yet if it were he--as undoubtedly it was--who rolled the boulder into the canyon, it indicated a wish to put the most sudden end possible to his existence. It would be painful to attempt to describe the experience of the lad in the cavern at the side of the canyon. As is often the case, his hunger diminished and was succeeded by a dull indifference, in which the suffering of the mind outweighed that of the body. The dreadful day at last drew to an end, and his situation and condition were much the same as earlier in the forenoon. He had not seen a living person, and had given over all hope of another visit from his merciless enemy. "He means that I shall perish for want of food, and there is no help for it." But with the coming of darkness the energy of the boy's nature asserted itself. It was impossible now for the Sioux or his allies to maintain a watch upon the mouth of the cavern, where the lad was observed the moment he showed himself, and Fred determined that as soon as it was fairly dark he would make an attempt that should be crowned with success or that would end his sufferings and wretchedness. His plan was to let himself down from the ledge to the top of the nearest rock, and then try to reach the break in the canyon as he had ascended it under the guidance of his captor. It was not to be supposed that the vigilant Motoza would leave the way open for him, though his actions pointed to the belief that it was utterly impossible for the prisoner to escape by that means. Nor in truth was it possible, for in the impenetrable gloom he was certain to miss his foothold sooner or later and be flung into the torrent, with no possibility of the good fortune that attended Jack Dudley, who had a much less distance to traverse. It was yet early in the evening when Fred came once more and for the last time to the front of the cavern. With that attention to trifling matters which a person sometimes shows in the most trying crises he wound up his watch, examined his clothing to see that everything was right, adjusted his hat so that it was not likely to be displaced, and looked out in the gloom. All that he could see was when he gazed upward and observed a few stars twinkling in the thin streak of sky. "Two things are certain," he mused: "that Indian does not think it possible for me to make my way out of the canyon; and, if I should succeed, he will be on the watch for me and shoot or try to force me to return. He shall never get me back here, for I will take the risk of drowning, and then----" A thought flashed through him like an inspiration and fairly took away his breath. Why not climb the side of the canyon? He was so overcome by the question, which seemed born of heaven, that he stood dazed and bewildered. Then he became cool again and asked: "Is it possible?" He recalled that Hank Hazletine had told him he had done it during the daytime, and it must have been somewhere in this neighborhood. The task would seem easy if the sun were shining, but if it were shining Fred Greenwood would not have been permitted to make the attempt. He was convinced of another thing: the depth of the canyon had been repeatedly referred to as being a thousand feet, but there were places where it was less than half that extent, and he remembered a depression in the earth, almost directly overhead, which must have lessened the prodigious height found at other points. Nevertheless, a climb of several hundred feet up the perpendicular side of a canyon or mountain wall is severe work to the most powerful and best trained man, and its formidable nature was proved by the fact that some of the cowmen would not try it by daylight. Nothing could be clearer than that Motoza had not hesitated to leave his prisoner alone in the cavern for the reason that he was certain he could not effect his escape therefrom. The last means the youth would think of employing was that of climbing the side; therefore, as Fred reasoned, that was the very means to adopt, and the only one that could possibly succeed. "I'll try it!" was his conclusion, after a few minutes' thought. Before setting out on the unparalleled task he fervently asked the help of the only One who could extricate him from his peril. Then he summoned his strength and courage to the tremendous work. His dread now was that Motoza would put in an appearance before he was clear of the mouth of the cavern. Had the lad thought of the daring scheme earlier in the day he would have studied the stupendous stairs upon which all his hopes now rested, but it was too late to think of that. Reaching upward, he grasped one of the projecting points of rock and drew himself clear of the opening in front of the cavern. Naturally muscular and active, with all his nerves in superb control, the effort was trifling. Within less time than would be supposed he had climbed fully fifty feet without meeting with any difficulty. Then the first thrill of alarm shot through him as one foot slipped and he narrowly missed falling. He found a good place to rest, and immediately adopted a sensible precaution. Removing both shoes, he tied the strings together and slung them over his shoulder, with the fastening under his chin. This would make it rough for his stockinged feet, but it was worth it all. He was not discommoded by rifle or pistol, and could not have been better prepared for climbing. He felt as yet no fatigue, and resumed his work as soon as he was ready. If he continued to find projections such as he had found thus far, there was no reason why he should not reach the level ground above in safety. As an evidence of how fate sometimes plays fast and loose with us, it is certain that Hank Hazletine entered the cavern while his young friend was climbing the wall overhead, without either dreaming of the actual situation. Fred Greenwood, at the beginning of his climb for liberty, was subjected to a peculiar peril. He had rested but a moment, when he was seized with an extraordinary "panicky" feeling. He was sure that Motoza was standing on the ledge below, peering upward in the gloom, and holding his rifle ready to fire at him on the instant he could make his aim certain. Like all such emotions, it was opposed to common sense. According to his belief it was out of the power of the Sioux to obtain the most shadowy glimpse of him, and the youth ought to have felt as secure against being picked off as if in his home, hundreds of miles away; but the feeling for a time was uncontrollable, and, yielding to it, he began frantically climbing, never abating his efforts until he had gone fully fifty feet higher. By that time he was all a-tremble, and so weak that he was forced to pause for rest. Thus far he had been extremely fortunate in meeting with no difficulty, the projections affording abundant support for hands and feet. Moreover, he had again attained a ledge where he was able to sustain himself with comparative ease. He paused, panting, trembling and exhausted. Thrusting out his head as far as was safe, he looked downward. Nothing but impenetrable gloom met his eye. He could hear the torrent rushing against the rocks and boulders in its path, and flinging itself against the walls of the canyon, but he could distinguish nothing, and his strong sense now came to his rescue. "If he is down there he cannot see me; he will not dream I have started to climb the wall, and therefore will not follow. If he does, he must appear below me, and I will kick him loose the minute I see him. How foolish to be afraid!" In a few minutes his nerves became calmer, but he began to realize the nature of the terrifying task before him. There was no thought of retreat on his part, and he was determined to keep on, so long as the work was possible. His feet were paining him, and were certain to pain him a good deal more before he reached the top; but healthy, rugged youth has elastic muscles, and in a short time Fred was ready to resume his work. His panic was gone, and he exerted himself with the deliberate care which he should have shown from the first. As nearly as he could judge he had climbed some twenty paces, when he was startled, upon extending his hand upward, to encounter only the smooth face of the wall. Hitherto there had been more projections than he required, but now the steps appeared to vanish, leaving him without any support. Could it be he would have to abandon his effort after making so fine a start? Must he pick his way down the side of the canyon, again, to the cavern, and there meekly resume the torture of waiting for death from starvation? Failure was too terrible to be thought of, and he resumed his searching for the indispensable support. Certainly there was nothing directly above him that would serve, and he passed his right hand to one side. Ah! he caught the sharp edge, after groping for a few seconds. Leaning over, he reached out as far as possible and found the projection extended indefinitely. "It will do!" he muttered, with a thrill, and, without pausing to reflect upon the fearful risk of the thing, he swung himself along, sustained for an instant by his single hand; but the other was immediately alongside of it, and it was easy to hold himself like a pendulum swaying over the frightful abyss. But there was nothing upon which to rest his feet. He did not wish anything, and, swinging sideways, threw one leg over the ledge beside his hands, and, half-rolling over, raised himself securely for the time on his perch. "Gracious!" he exclaimed, pausing from the effort; "if I had stopped to think, I shouldn't have dared to try it. If this ledge had been smaller I shouldn't have found room for my body, and there is no way of getting back to the stone on which I was standing. I _must_ go on now, for I cannot go back." It was plain sailing for a few minutes. The flinty excrescences were as numerous as ever, and he never paused in his ascent until prudence whispered that it was wise to take another breathing spell. It was a source of infinite comfort to feel that when he thus checked himself he was not compelled to do so for lack of support. There was no way of determining how far he had climbed, and he based his calculation on hope rather than knowledge. The roar of the canyon was notably fainter, and, when he looked aloft, the ribbon of starlit sky appeared nearer than at first. There could be no doubt that he was making his ascent at the most favorable point, for the height was much less than at most of the other places, and he believed this was the portion where Hank Hazletine had climbed from the bottom to the top of the gorge. Could he have been certain of the latter, all misgiving would have vanished. Not a trace of his panic remained. If Motoza had returned to the cavern, and, discovering the flight of his prisoner, set out to follow him, there was little prospect of his success, for the fugitive had varied from a direct line, and the Sioux might pass within arm's length without being aware of the fact. There was one peril to which Fred was exposed, and it was fortunate it never entered his mind. Supposing Motoza was standing on the ledge at the bottom of the canyon and gazing upward, weapon in hand, it was quite probable that he would be able to locate the youth. This would be not because of any superiority of vision, but because of that patch of sky beyond, acting as a background for the climber. With his inky figure thrown in relief against the stars, his enemy could have picked him off as readily as if the sun were shining. This possibility, we say, did not present itself to Fred Greenwood, and, more providential than all, Motoza was not in the canyon. The slipping of one foot tore most of the sole from the stocking, and his foot had henceforth no protection against the craggy surface. "I don't mind the stocking," grimly reflected the youth, "for there is another pair in camp and plenty of them at the ranch, but how it hurts!" He would have been altogether lacking in the pluck he had displayed thus far had he been deterred by physical suffering from pushing his efforts to the utmost. He would have kept on through torture tenfold worse, and he showed himself no mercy. Few people who have not been called upon to undertake such a work can form an idea of its exhausting nature. It would be hard to think of anyone better prepared than Fred Greenwood to stand the terrific draught upon his strength; but while a long way from the top, and while there was no lack of supports for his hands and feet, and in the face of his unshakable resolve, he was compelled to doubt his success. It seemed as if the dizzy height did not diminish. When he had climbed for a long time and stopped, panting and suffering, the stars appeared to be as far away as ever. He felt as if he ought to have been out of the ravine long before, but the opening looked to be as unattainable as at the beginning. His whole experience was remarkable to that extent that it can be explained only on the ground that the intense mental strain prevented his seeing things as they were. He had subjected his muscles to such a tension that he was obliged to pause every few minutes and rest. One of his feet was scarified and bleeding, and the other only a little better. When he looked upward his heart sank, for a long distance still interposed between him and the ground above. "I must have picked the place where the canyon is deepest," was his despairing conclusion; "I feel hardly able to hang on, and would not dare do what I did further below." He now yielded to a curious whim. Instead of continually gazing at the sky, that he might measure the distance remaining to be traversed, he resolved not to look at it at all until he had climbed a long way. He hoped by doing this to discover such a marked decrease in the space that it would reanimate him for the remaining work. Accordingly he closed his eyes, and, depending on the sense of feeling alone, which in truth was his reliance from the first, he toiled steadily upward. Sometimes he had to grope with his hands for a minute or two before daring to leave the support on which his feet rested, but one of his causes for astonishment and thankfulness was that such aids seemed never to be lacking. He continued this blind progress until his wearied muscles refused to obey further. He must rest or he would drop to the bottom from exhaustion. He hooked his right arm over the point of a rock, sat upon a favoring projection below, and decided to wait until his strength was fully restored. He could not resist the temptation to look up and learn how much yet remained to do. Could he believe his senses? He was within a dozen feet of the top! He gasped with amazement, grew faint, and then was thrilled with hope. He even broke into a cheer, for the knowledge was like nectar to the traveller perishing of thirst in the desert--it was life itself. All pain, all suffering, all fatigue were forgotten in the blissful knowledge. He bent to his work with redoubled vigor. If the supports continued, his stupendous task was virtually ended. And they did continue. Not once did the eagerly-feeling hands fail to grasp a projection of some form which could be made to serve his purpose. Up, up he went, until the clear, cool air fanned his temples, when, with a last effort, he drew himself from the canyon, and, plunging forward on his face, fainted dead away. He lay in a semi-conscious condition for nearly an hour. Then, when his senses slowly returned, he raised himself to a sitting position and looked around. It was too early for the moon, and the gloom prevented his seeing more than a few paces in any direction. But how the pain racked him! It seemed as if every bone was aching and every muscle sore. The feet had been wholly worn from each stocking, and his own feet were torn and bleeding. He had preserved his shoes, but when he came to put them on he groaned with anguish. His feet were so swollen that it was torture to cover them, and he could not tie the strings; but they must be protected, and he did not rise until they were thus armored. He was without any weapons, but the torment of his wounds drove that fact from his mind. All that he wanted now was to get away from the spot where he could not help believing he was still in danger of recapture. But when he stood erect and the agony shot through his frame, he asked himself whether it was possible to travel to the plateau without help; and yet the effort must be made. He had a general knowledge of his situation, and, bracing himself for the effort, he began the work. It was torture from the first, but after taking a few steps his system partly accommodated itself to the requirement and he progressed better than he anticipated. He was still on the wrong side of the canyon, which it was necessary to leave before rejoining his friends. He was wise enough to distrust his own capacity after the fearful strain, and did not make the attempt until he found a place where the width was hardly one-half of the extent leaped by him and Jack Dudley. As it was, the jump, into which he put all his vigor, landed him just clear of the edge, a fact which did much to lessen the sharp suffering caused by alighting on his feet. He yearned to sit down and rest, but was restrained by the certainty that it would make his anguish more intense when he resumed his tramp toward camp. Furthermore, as he believed himself nearing safety, his impatience deepened and kept him at work when he should have ceased. As he painfully trudged along, his thoughts reverted to his climb up the side of the canyon and he shuddered; for, now that it was over, he could not comprehend how he dared ever make the effort. Not for the world would he repeat it, even by daylight. "Heaven brought me safely through," was his grateful thought. But as he drew near the plateau his musings turned thither. He had counted upon finding Jack Dudley and the guide there; but they might be miles away, and he would not see them for days. He knew he needed attention from his friends and could not sustain himself much longer. If he should be unable to find them---- But all these gloomy forebodings were scattered a few minutes later by the glimmer of the camp-fire on the other side of the plateau. One of his friends at least must be there, and providentially it proved that both were present. CHAPTER XXI. HOW IT ALL ENDED. At last the clothing of Jack Dudley was dried, and he felt thoroughly comfortable in body. While he was employed in the pleasant task, Hank Hazletine went away in quest of food. It took time and hard work to find it, but his remarkable skill as a hunter enabled him to do so, and when he returned he brought enough venison to serve for the evening and morning meal. No professor of the culinary art could have prepared the meat more excellently than he over the bed of live coals. The odor was so appetizing that the youth was in misery because of his impatience, but the guide would not let him touch a mouthful until the food was done "to the queen's taste." Then they had their feast. And yet the two were oppressed by thoughts of the absent one. The attempts of his friends during the day to help or to get trace of Fred Greenwood had been brought to naught, and it looked as if they would have to consent to the humiliating terms of Tozer and Motoza, with strong probability that the missing youth was never again to be seen alive. "I think, Hank," said Jack, when the cowman had lit his pipe, "that we should run no more risks." "How can we help it?" "When you meet Tozer to-morrow morning by appointment, tell him the price he asks will be paid, but everything must be square and above board." The guide looked at his companion a moment in silence. Then he said: "If you'll turn the matter over in your mind, younker, you'll see that this bus'ness can't be put through without giving the scamps the chance to swindle us the worst sort of way. They won't give up the boy on our promise to pay 'em the money and no questions asked, for they don't b'leve we'll do it; so we've got to give 'em the money and trust to their honor to keep their part. Trust to their _honor_," repeated Hank, with all the scorn he could throw into voice and manner; "as if they knowed what it means." "I know from what you have said that Tozer and Motoza are cunning, but----" In order to receive all the warmth possible, Jack Dudley was sitting within the cavern and facing outward, while his companion faced him, with his back toward the plateau and mountains beyond. Jack suddenly broke off his remark, for in the gloom behind the cowman he saw something move. That something quickly took the form of a white-faced, exhausted youth trudging painfully forward and ready to sink to the ground with weakness. "Heavens! can it be?" gasped Jack, half-rising to his feet and staring across the camp-fire. The next moment, and while Hazletine was looking in the same direction, as astounded as the youth, the elder made one bound and was at the side of Fred Greenwood, whom he caught in his arms as he sagged downward in a state of utter collapse. In the course of the following hour everything was made clear. Under the tender ministrations of Jack Dudley and Hank Hazletine the returned wanderer recovered to a great degree his strength, and to the fullest degree his naturally buoyant spirits. The faint odor of the broiling meat which lingered in the air awoke his ravenous appetite, but knowing how long he had been without food, the cowman would not permit him to eat more than a tithe of what he craved. After a time he gave him more, until his appetite was fairly well satisfied. "Jack," said Fred, with something of his old waggishness, as he looked across the fire into the face of his comrade, "let's go home." "You forget that we have a month's vacation, and it is hardly half gone. We can stay another week and then be sure of being back to school in time. You lamented more than I because we could not have a longer play-spell. Your sentiments have changed." The younger lad pointed to his feet. "There's the reason. If I were like you I shouldn't think of leaving this delightful country until the last day; but I shall need all the vacation to get on my feet again. Do you comprehend?" "Yes; your demonstration is logical. True, you have lost your rifle and pistol, the same as myself, but we could get others at the ranch, and no doubt meet with plenty more enjoyable adventures, but not as you are. I shall be very willing to start home with you to-morrow morning. What do you think of it, Hank?" "I'm blamed sorry this bus'ness has to wind up as it does, but there's no help fur it, and we'll leave fur the ranch after breakfast." "Will you keep your appointment with Tozer?" "I've been thinking of that; yes, I'll meet him." There was a peculiar intonation in these words that caused both boys to look into that bearded face, but they could not be sure of his meaning. It was Fred who spoke: "Hank, there is one matter as to which I cannot feel certain; I want your opinion of it." "Wal, I'm listening." "After Motoza forced me into the cavern at the side of the canyon he went off and has not returned yet, unless he did so after I left. Now, why didn't he go back?" "Why should he go back? He felt sartin there was no way fur you to git out, and if I'd been told that your only chance was to climb the wall I'd 'greed with him, though you struck the spot where I done it myself." "He must have known I hadn't a mouthful of food?" "He couldn't help knowing it." "The question in my mind is this: what he said to me, as well as what you have told, proves that he understood the whole scheme of my being ransomed. Tozer must have known where I was; he knew that to bring the ransom business to a head would require several days, even with the use of the telegraph; they expected me to stay in the cavern all the time. How long would they have left me there without bringing me anything to eat?" "They'd never brought you anything." "Then when the time came to surrender me to my friends I should have been dead." The cowman nodded his head. "There ain't no doubt of that." "And they couldn't have carried out their part of the agreement." "Which the same they knowed." "But it seems unreasonable. It would have placed both in peril, from which I cannot see how it was possible for them to escape. If they gave me up after receiving the money they would be safe against punishment. Why, then, should they place themselves in such great danger when they had nothing to gain and all to lose by doing so? That is what I can't understand, and I am sure my brain has become clearer." It was the same view of the question that had puzzled Jack Dudley, and the two boys listened with interest to the explanation of the veteran. "Tozer of himself would turn you over sound in limb and body; but, since it was the Sioux who done all the work, as you have showed us, Bill had to make a sort of compromise with the villain, and that compromise was that you should be left with Motoza till the hour come fur you to be produced. That was the price Bill had to pay Motoza fur what he done. It wasn't Tozer, but the Sioux, that was fixing things so as to starve you to death." The cowman spoke with a deliberation and seriousness that left no doubt he believed every word uttered, and the boys were convinced he was right. "Bill is as mean as they make 'em," added Hazletine, "but he'd rather grab a pile of money than kill a chap he don't like. It's t'other way with the Sioux. He likes money well 'nough, fur he knows it'll buy firewater, but the sweetest enjoyment he can have is to revenge himself on a person he hates, and from what I've heard he hates you as hard as he knows how." "There is no doubt of that," said Jack; "I shall never forget the expression of his face when Fred made him give up my rifle." Fred was thoughtful a moment, and then asked: "Hank, what do you mean to do about Tozer?" "Wal, until I larned your story I was fixed to shoot him on sight." "But what of the agreement you would have to make before he gave me up?" "I'd kept that the same as the other folks, but it wouldn't be long afore I'd git a chance to pick a quarrel with him over other matters, and then it would be him or me; and," added the cowman, with a grim smile, "I don't think it would be me." "Do you still hold to that resolve?" "I can't say that I do. I don't see that Bill meant any hurt except to make some money out of you, and he couldn't help taking chances on that. If he could have had his way he'd turned you over to us as well as when you left; so I think I'll wait to see what his next trick is to be afore I draw a bead on him. I'll take another plan--I'll give him the laugh." "Give him the laugh!" repeated the wondering Jack Dudley; "what do you mean by that?" "I'll meet him here to-morrer morning, and, after we've talked a while, let him see you or know how things stand, and then I'll just laugh at him till I drop to the ground and roll over on my back. Won't he feel cheap?" The conceit was so odd that both boys smiled. "That certainly is a curious way to punish a man for doing a wrong. It seems to me that, since he had so much to do with abducting Fred, he ought to be arrested, tried, and punished. He should be made to suffer for his crime." Hank showed his hard sense by replying: "I don't deny that, but there's no way of punishing him. He hasn't done a thing fur which you could make the court say he's guilty. The younker there that spent more time than he liked in the canyon has never even seed Bill Tozer. What reason, then, has he fur saying Bill had anything to do with the bus'ness?" "Didn't he admit as much to you?" "Not a word! He give himself away in his talk, but whenever he said anything 'bout things he reminded me it was all guesswork." "Could not Motoza be made to swear against him?" "He might, and he might not. If he did, why, Bill would swear t'other way, and make it look as if he was trying to play the friend for the younker. It would be like some folks, after the thing was over, proposing to buy Bill a gold medal fur showing himself such a good and noble man. No; my plan is best. When I give him the laugh he'll feel worse than if he was sent up fur ten years." "It looks as if there is no other way of punishing him," remarked Fred; "but the case is different with Motoza." "Wal, _rather_!" It would be impossible to convey a true idea of the manner of Hank Hazletine when he uttered these words. He nodded his head, clinched his free hand, and his eyes seemed to flash fire. "Do you mean to kill him, Hank?" "O, no," was the scornful response; "I'm going to take his hand and tell him how much I love him. I'll wipe the paint off one cheek, so as to make room fur a brotherly kiss. I'll send him to your folks, that you may have him for a playmate. He'll be so sweet and nice among the little younkers. _That's_ what I'll do with dear Motoza!" It was impossible not to read the terrible purpose that lay behind all this. The boys made no mistake. Jack Dudley shuddered, but was silent. He knew the miscreant richly merited the threatened retribution, and yet he wished it were not impending. Surely, if anyone was justified in calling down vengeance upon the head of the vagrant Sioux it was his victim--he who had felt his hatred, and whose physical sufferings must remind him of the same for weeks to come. But Fred Greenwood was in a gracious and forgiving mood. His heart throbbed when he recalled what he had so recently passed through, but he could not lose sight of the blessed fact that he _had_ passed through it all. He was with his beloved comrade again, not much the worse for his experience. In truth he was a little homesick, and was stirred with sweet delight at the thought that, if all went well, he should be with his parents within the coming week. And yet he was oppressed by the thought that one of the results of his short visit to Wyoming was to be the death of a human being. He was sure he could never shake off the remembrance, and should he ever wish to return in the future to renew his hunt under more favorable conditions, the memory would haunt him. It mattered not that the wretch deserved to be executed for the crime, in the commission of which he had been interrupted before he could complete it. He was a savage, a heathen, a barbarian, who was following the light as he understood it. Why, therefore, should not mercy be shown to him? There are many things which Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood have done during their youthful lives that are creditable to them, but there is none which gives the two greater pleasure than the remembrance of the moral victory gained in their argument with Hank Hazletine. Fred opened the plea, and his comrade quickly rallied to his help. Their aim was to convince their guide that it was wrong for him to carry out his purpose regarding the Sioux. That the fellow should be punished was not to be questioned, but it should be done in a legitimate way and by the constituted authorities. Hazletine insisted that the conditions were such that Motoza would never be thus punished, at least not to the extent he ought to be; therefore, it was the duty of Hazletine to attend to the matter himself. The argument lasted for two hours. The boys were able, bright and ingenious, but they had _truth_ on their side, and by and by the grim cowman showed signs of weakening. What knocked the props from under him was the fact which he was compelled to admit that the Sioux was only following the teachings he had received from infancy; that he lacked the light and knowledge with which Hazletine had been favored; that it was the duty of the white people to educate, civilize and Christianize the red men, who have been treated with cruel injustice from the very discovery of our country. It cannot be said that the guide yielded with good grace, but yield he did, and the victory was secured. He pledged the boys not to offer any harm to Motoza for his last crime, and indeed would never harm him, unless it should become necessary in self defence. "But I s'pose you hain't any 'bjection to my giving the laugh to Bill?" he said, with ludicrous dismay; "there ain't nothing wrong in _that_, is there?" "Nothing at all," replied the pleased Fred; "we shall enjoy it as much as you." "Which the same being the case, it's time you went to sleep; I'll keep watch and call you when I git ready." Bidding their friend good-night, the boys wrapped themselves in their blankets and speedily sank into slumber. The kind-hearted guide did not disturb either, and when they opened their eyes the sun was in the sky. Fred Greenwood was in a bad shape with his swollen and lacerated feet, but his naturally rugged frame recovered rapidly from the trying strain to which it had been subjected. He proved that his appetite was as vigorous as ever, and was eager to reach the ranch with the least possible delay. Hank promised him no time should be wasted. A lookout was kept for Bill Tozer, the boys remaining in the cavern, where they could not be seen. There was the possibility, of course, that the man had learned of the escape of the young prisoner, but all doubt was removed when, at the appointed time, he appeared on the edge of the plateau and strode confidently to the point where Hazletine, just outside the cavern, awaited his coming. The two shook hands and immediately got down to business. The scamp felt that he commanded the situation and he was disposed to push matters. "I've been thinking over what you said yesterday," remarked the guide, "and have made up my mind that I can't do it." "You can't, eh? It's the only thing you _can_ do; Motoza insists that the price shall be ten thousand dollars, but I'll stick by the original agreement and call it half that sum." "Let me see," said the cowman, thoughtfully; "you promise to give us back the younker safe and sound, provided his friends hand you five thousand dollars?" "That's it; you understand the whole business. You know, of course, Hank, that I'm only acting as the friend----" "Don't git over any more of that stuff, Bill. Are we to give you the money afore you produce the younker?" "Certainly; that's the only way to do business." "S'pose you bring him, and then I'll ask his folks if they want to make you a present of five thousand dollars--how'll _that_ work?" Tozer broke into laughter. "You ought to be ashamed to talk such nonsense. The only way by which you can see your young friend again is to hand us the money, give a pledge not to ask any questions or try to punish Motoza or me----" The jaw of the man suddenly dropped and he ceased speaking, for at that moment he saw Jack Dudley and his limping companion walk out from the cavern and smilingly approach. The whole truth flashed upon him. He was outwitted as he had never been outwitted before in all his life. Without speaking a syllable, he wheeled around and started at a rapid stride across the plateau toward the point where he had first appeared, with feelings which it is impossible to imagine. And didn't Hank Hazletine "give him the laugh?" He bent over with mirth, staggering backward until he had to place his hand against the side of the cavern to save himself from falling. It really seemed as if his uproarious mirth must have penetrated a mile in every direction, and it did not cease until some minutes after the discomfited victim had disappeared. Jack and Fred laughed, too, until their sides ached; and who shall deny that there was not full cause for their merriment? An hour later, the ponies, saddled and bridled, were threading their way out of the foot-hills for the ranch, which was reached without further incident. There the boys remained several days until Fred had recovered to a large extent from his hurts, when they rode to the station at Fort Steele, where they shook hands with the honest Hank Hazletine and bade him good-by. And thus it came about that on the first Monday in the following November Jack Dudley and Fred Greenwood were in their respective seats at school, as eager and ambitious to press their studies as they had been to visit Bowman's ranch, in Southwestern Wyoming, in which ranch, by the way, they advised Mr. Dudley to retain his half-ownership. "It's worth all it cost you, father," said Jack, "and perhaps one of these days you will want the V. W. W. to go out and take another look at it." "Perhaps," was the dubious reply of the parent. 
37803	----	ROCKY MOUNTAIN BOYS or Camping in the Big Game Country By St. George Rathborne Chicago M. A. Donohue & Co. Made in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER I--COMRADES OF THE TRAIL CHAPTER II--IN POSSESSION OF THE DUGOUT CHAPTER III--THE FIRST GOOD LUCK CHAPTER IV--THE WOLF PACK CHAPTER V--A FIRST TASTE OF VENISON CHAPTER VI--FELIX TAKES HIS TURN CHAPTER VII--UNAVOIDABLE DELAY CHAPTER VIII--PLENTY OF TROUBLE CHAPTER IX--ADRIFT IN THE SNOW FOREST CHAPTER X--TURNING THE TABLES CHAPTER XI--THE BUCK'S HEAD CHAPTER XII--BURNING OUT A HONEY THIEF CHAPTER XIII--HUNTING THE BIGHORN CHAPTER XIV--A WAKEFUL NIGHT CHAPTER XV--OUT FOR A GRIZZLY CHAPTER XVI--THE TERROR OF THE ROCKIES CHAPTER XVII--WHEN MUSIC WAS PLAYED OUT CHAPTER XVIII--A HARD CUSTOMER CHAPTER XIX--BREAKING CAMP--CONCLUSION ROCKY MOUNTAIN BOYS CHAPTER I COMRADES OF THE TRAIL "We must be pretty nearly there now, Tom, I take it!" "I reckon we'll sight the dugout inside of half an hour or so, Felix; if the description, and the little chart old Sol Ten Eyck gave me, are correct." "Well, I'll sure be glad when we arrive, because this pack is getting heavier, it seems to me, every hour now. One thing certain, Chum Tom, we'll go out of this part of the country a heap lighter than we're coming in; with all this good grub swallowed up after two months roughing it. Been three days on the trail now, since Frazer turned us loose out of his big bull-boat." They were two pretty well-grown boys, the one tall and slender; while the other, whom he called Tom, seemed stockily built, with the ruddy hue of perfect health on his sun and wind tanned cheeks. Tom was really Tom Tucker, and the taller young hunter, Felix Edmondson. Besides repeating rifles of a modern make, and such ordinary accompaniments as ditty bags and hunting knives, the lads were carrying heavy packs on their backs, to each of which were also strapped a pair of snow-shoes, proving that they anticipated staying around the foothills of the great Rocky Mountains, for some time at least, and were prepared for getting around when several feet of snow covered the ground. They were in a region not a great distance from the border of that Wonderland which Uncle Sam has transferred into a grand playground, known far and wide as the Yellowstone Park. In fact, a range of the Rocky Mountains towered almost above them as they looked up, standing out against the blue afternoon sky like a rock-ribbed barrier. Around them lay the great forest that in many places grows at the base of the giant uplifts that are well called the back-bone of the continent. It was a wild region, seldom pressed by the foot of man; save when some Indian or trapper chose to pursue his calling--the "primeval wilderness," Felix was fond of calling it, in his humorous way. Felix was a city-bred boy who had ambitions to take up his father's profession later in life, and shine as a surgeon. But not being very strong, it was under this parent's wise advice that he was now knocking off for a year from his studies, and getting in the great Outdoors all he possibly could, in order to build himself up, so as to have a good foundation for the hard work that lay before him. And he was succeeding wonderfully, since there is nothing better under the sun to change a weakly boy into a sturdy man than this free life of the Wild West. If proof of this statement were needed, it could be demonstrated in the life of Theodore Roosevelt himself, who took the same course of treatment. As for Tom Tucker, he had always lived pretty much in the open ever since his father bought that Wyoming cattle range with its herds. Between times Tom had attended school, so that he was far from being ignorant; the fact of his great love of reading also put him in touch with what was going on in the world, whether in the line of scientific discoveries, exploration, or the constant change in the map of nations. The two lads were really cousins, and it was while Felix was paying a long promised lengthy visit to the home of the other that this trip to the foothills of the Rockies was discussed and decided on. Just at present the one great ambition in the life of the city lad was to bag a genuine grizzly bear. He had done considerable hunting of smaller game, having spent two seasons in the woods, one up in Maine, and the other in Canada. While he had more than one deer to his credit, besides wildcats, and even a wolf, Felix had conceived a desire to come face to face with the most dreaded wild animal of the American wilds, the grizzly. So they had organized this expedition, being taken in a bull-boat as far on the way as was possible; and after that manfully shouldering their heavy packs. Under such conditions they did not cover many miles a day, which accounted for their being so long on the road. But as Tom Tucker had said, they were now pretty near the end of their trail, and he fervently hoped that ere darkness descended they would have reached the goal of all their ambitious progress. An old trapper with whom Tom had spent part of a season in another part of the big game country, had a dugout up here, in which he used to hibernate winter after winter, sometimes with a tried and true companion, often absolutely alone; content to live his simple life under the shadow of the mighty Rockies, and take his toll of the fur-bearing animals that frequented this favored region. Tom had a rude map of the country, as well as directions, how to find the dugout when he got there. And here the two boys anticipated putting in about two months of the late fall and early winter, doing a little trapping, just for fun, and considerable hunting besides. Naturally they expected having a glorious time, as what boy, with a love for the woods and the chase, would not? The leaves had long since turned a russet brown, and any day now they might expect the first snow of the season to fall. It was a time when the bracing air was filled with a tonic which Felix needed more than anything else in the wide world; and as his lungs filled with its life-giving qualities, the boy from the Far East was never tired of telling how different he was feeling from the conditions of a few months back. As they struggled onward, hoping at almost any minute now to sight their goal, the two boys exchanged remarks concerning the matters that were naturally uppermost in their minds. "You said that Old Sol hadn't been up here for several seasons now, didn't you, Tom?" the taller lad was asking. "Why, yes," the other replied, "you see, the old fellow isn't as strong as he used to be, and does his hunting nearer his sister's home. Fact is, she won't let him come up here any more; and there are a lot of youngsters in her family, too, that Sol has become interested in. So he's satisfied to keep around there, if only they let him take a week now and then in the woods, with a comrade. That's how I came to know him, and often we spent some mighty fine days together. He taught me about all I know of trapping, and lots besides about the habits of big game animals. I'm itching to make use of some of the things that Old Sol handed down to me." "And the traps he said he had catched up here, do you reckon, now, they'll be in decent condition, or rusted all to pieces?" Felix continued. "Well," Tom observed, "he said he had rubbed them all over with bear's grease, and rolled them up in a leather cover, before he hid them away; so he expected they'd keep in fair shape many years. We'll have to take our chances on that. It wasn't the hope of making anything at trapping that fetched us away up here, you know. That's only a little side issue, you might say, just to see if we've learned anything about the game." "One thing sure, Tom, this region doesn't seem to be overrun with settlers, seeing that we haven't met a solitary soul these three days; while game seems fairly plentiful, because we sighted seven black-tailed deer on the way, and had a peep at some bighorn sheep yesterday away up on the mountain." "I've seen no sign of any one around but they told us below that once in a while some Indian was known to be in this part of the country, doing his winter's trapping. And you remember, they said that if we happened to run across an old Shoshone chief, who now goes by the name of Charley Crow, and who sometimes acts as guide for Eastern sportsmen, we ought to cultivate his acquaintance, because he has the reputation of being the straightest redskin in the whole State of Wyoming." "I remember that they said he was really a halfbreed," remarked Felix; "but his wife is a full blood. Perhaps we may happen to run across the old fellow while we're up here. I'd like to meet him, wouldn't you, Tom?" "Well, I don't know," replied the other, with a shrug of his broad shoulders, on which the big pack seemed to rest so easily in comparison with the way that of Felix gave him trouble; "I must say, that so far I've never run across an Injun I'd care much to cultivate. They're not what they used to be. The white man's whisky has changed them terribly. In the old days they never worked, only hunted; and went to war; while the squaws did all the drudgery in camp. And now, as a rule, they are just satisfied to loaf their lives away, fed by the bounty of the White Father at Washington--gambling and drinking, and doing a little stealing, when everything else fails them." "But on the reservations many of them farm, and I understand with success, too," remonstrated Felix. "Oh, sure, that must be a fact," admitted Tom, readily enough, "though I've never seen it; but others have told me that many of the braves have taken to farming, and are doing well. I was only speaking of the Injuns who wouldn't change their way of living. But Felix, take a look at that monster tree over there. Seems to me that answers the description Old Sol gives of the big one overhanging his hidden dugout." Felix heaved a sigh of relief, as with one hand he mopped his forehead, using a red bandana handkerchief which he wore knotted around his neck in true cowboy fashion; for despite the coolness of the day, the labor had heated him up considerably. "I hope so, Tom," he remarked, trying to act as though after all it was not such a vital matter whether or not they came upon the shack that day or the next; but all the same his eyes eagerly sought the vicinity of the big tree, and he was trying to make out something vaguely resembling the shape of a rough dugout near its base. They kept on advancing, and Tom suddenly gave utterance to an exclamation of intense satisfaction. "We've arrived, all right, Felix!" he declared, positively. "It must lie in that tangle under the shadow of the tree. And say, this just suits me all to the good. Look around, and think of spending a whole two months in such a grand stretch of country. Here are the woods around us, where we must surely find lots of deer and other game; and there stands the range of mountains, where you're going to bag that grizzly you want so bad, not to speak of big-horns, such as can be found in no other section of the known world, I'm told. For one I'll feel like dancing a jig if it turns out that we've come on Old Sol's shack at last." "Well, it'd take a whole lot to tempt me to do that same," chuckled Felix; "and anyhow, I'm not going to begin till we make sure. When I throw this pack down for the last time I'll be pretty happy, though, Tom, believe me." "It has been pretty hard on you, Felix, for a fact," observed the other, "for the reason that you've not been used to carrying heavy packs on your back, like I am. Look at my shoulders and see what I could stand. I wanted you to let me take more of it in my load, you remember." "Oh! just as if you hadn't picked out all the heaviest things already," declared Felix, indignantly, "why, I'm dead sure your bundle weighs a third again as much as mine does, right now. I'd be ashamed to let you tote it all, Tom, however willing you were. But do you see anything that looks like that blessed old dugout?" Hardly had he asked this question than the other started on a run. "That's what I do, Felix, right through that screen of bushes that serves to hide it from any one who didn't have a tip it was there. Make up your mind we're at the end of our long tramp, and in another hour you'll smell smoke, perhaps the tempting odor of coffee cooking. Hurrah! what did I tell you, old boy?" There could no longer be any doubt, for as they broke their way through the vines and brush that had not been disturbed for several years, they looked upon a sort of half cabin, and the rest dugout. The rise of the ground had allowed Old Sol to construct an ideal winter hiding-place, with the great mountains to protect him from the worst of the chilling northwest winds and storms. Down went both packs instantly. Tom began to caper around, to show his delight, and Felix actually followed suit; but more to get some of the "kinks" out of his weary leg muscles, for that last day's tramp had sorely tried the city boy. "Here it is, just as he described it to me!" exclaimed Tom, staring hard at the singular little shelter where the trapper had spent many a happy season, content to gather his share of the pelts of the wild animals that wore valuable fur; and secure enough meat for his own consumption from the elk, black-tailed deer, or it might be, some antelope that lingered late in the Fall in the grassy valleys of the foothills. "I suppose we might as well take a look in," remarked Felix, presently. "That's right," replied the other, readily enough. "You see, such a thing as locks are unknown in this country. Notice that the door has a bar on the outside that simply holds it shut when the owner is away, so that wild animals will not have a chance to sneak in, and steal his grub. Well, all we have to do is just to give this bar a turn--whew! she moves hard, as if stuck there--then push open the door, and enter!" Tom Tucker was carrying out his words to the letter, but just as he started to push the door back the two boys heard an ominous savage growl that came from within the cabin. Immediately Tom, being a boy of quick action, drew the door shut again, and at the same time swung the stout bar into place; after which he turned around to look at his amazed companion. CHAPTER II IN POSSESSION OF THE DUGOUT "Wow! would you hear that, now?" exclaimed Tom. "Pleasant sort of welcome to a pair of tired, footsore pilgrims, I should say." "By George! there's some sort of animal that thinks it owns the shebang, and has made its den in the dugout!" remarked Felix, in a tone of astonishment. "Just what's happened," continued his chum, stepping back, rifle in hand, in order to look around; "but what's bothering me, is to know how the beast got in, when both door and window blind were closed tight. Why, to be sure, it was the easiest thing going, to drop down that chimney! Old Sol forgot to fix that against a smart bobcat!" "A bobcat!" echoed Felix, "do you think that's all it was? Sounded to me heavier than any cat's growl I ever heard. You must have whoppers up here in Wyoming, when you find them at all, Tom." "Why, what did you think it could be?" asked the other, quickly. "My first idea was that it might turn out to be a panther," said Felix, "or one of those bad fighters that they call Indian devils; but then, you ought to be the best judge. No matter what it is, we want that shack, don't we, Tom?" "And we're going to have it, right away, Felix, as soon as we can dislodge that critter. I was in hopes he'd crawl up out of the chimney, and give us a crack at him; but it looks like he was too smart to try such a dodge, with two handy guns waiting to bowl him over." "Suppose I pound on the door, and give him notice that he'd better be making his way out as fast as he can," proposed the taller lad. "Let me do that, while you stand here, ready to give him a bullet the instant his head shows above the top of the chimney; that's made of slabs, you notice, and mud baked so hard that it's more like cement now. The light ain't all it might be; but by stepping over here, you ought to get him against that brighter background. All ready, are you, Felix?" "Go ahead; and it's just like you, Tom, waiting to give me the first chance at everything. Knock him up, and tell him to vamose the ranch," with which Felix raised his Marlin repeater to his shoulder, and stood at attention. With the butt of his rifle Tom gave several sharp pounds on the door of the dugout cabin. In response, the hairy occupant simply growled some more. Again did Tom tap his summons, and the growling continued. "That's what I call real sassy," chuckled Tom. "He says he won't budge an inch, if we have got a quit claim deed from Old Sol to this shack! And he wants to know what we're going to do about it, either." "I don't suppose it would be the right thing to do to open the door, and rush the beast," remarked Felix. "They're a bad lot, and scratches from their claws are apt to give a fellow blood poisoning, unless he's got the stuff to counteract it. How are we going to dislodge that cat, Tom?" "You watch my smoke," went on Tom, "and in this case that ain't just a figure of speech, either, let me remark." "Smoke! Oh! I'm on to your game, old fellow; and let me say it's the best thing we could do. Want any help?" Felix remarked, deeply interested. "Not me," sang out the other, who had laid his gun aside, and seemed to be looking around for certain dead twigs, and such things as would be apt to take fire readily; "I'll get a little blaze started, and then give this green weed a chance to smoulder. It'll put up the rankest smell you ever did whiff, and when I toss the same in through the door, take my word for it that cat will soon make a run up the chimney." He busied himself for another minute, and then struck a match. As a little fire started Tom stepped back and gathered an armful of a certain weed that had not yet been killed by the frost. This he threw upon the flame, when immediately a dark smoke began to rise. As Felix got a scent of it he gave a snort. "You're sure right, when you said that beat anything I ever ran up against," he declared, vigorously; "whew! it must be the stink-weed of the Indians. Nothing else could throw off that awful smell." "Just what it is; and now take care, for I'm going to open the door a little to toss the stuff inside," replied Tom. "I see our finish, if that weed ever gets to smoking inside the dugout," sighed Felix, rather disconsolately, as he held his fingers to his nose, and tried to deep his rifle in position at the same time. "Oh! we'll soon chase that out with coffee and such things," returned the cheerful Tom; "besides, you've got to stand lots of things when you can't help it. Here goes, Felix. Now, Old Claws, will you be good?" He gathered up the smouldering weeds, and opening the door with one hand, suddenly tossed his burden within, slamming the barrier shut again, and turning the bar. They plainly heard some heavy object come with a crash against the door, as if the cat had sprung savagely, hoping to land on its enemy, as it undoubtedly considered the one who was bothering with its peaceful occupation of the apparently abandoned shack. Snatching up his gun, Tom sprang back to where he too could get a dim view of the top of the short chimney, not more than ten feet away. "You first, remember, Felix; I'm only going to break in if you fail to get him," he said, hastily. They plainly heard the cat jumping around within the place, as though it resented the odor of smoke, and such smoke too! Felix certainly could sympathize with the animal. "He's coming!" warned Tom, suddenly. A distinct scratching sound came to the ears of Felix. He understood what must be the cause of this; the inmate of the dugout was about to vacate. Defying all other arguments, the cat had to succumb to that of smoke from the stink-weed. Felix kept his eyes fixed on the top of that stumpy chimney, and his gunstock was already fast against his shoulder. "There," exclaimed Tom, as something pushed up into view, and the form of a big bobcat was seen emerging. It had just about all appeared in view, when the report of the Marlin sounded sharply through the neighboring woods, where perhaps a gun had not been fired for several years, so far as they knew. "Back!" cried Tom, dragging at the arm of his comrade, as the monster cat came whirling down toward them, in such a mixed-up mess that it was impossible to say whether the animal were in its death throes, or making a savage leap at its tormentors, though in either case it was the safe policy to sheer off. When the cat landed on the ground they both saw that it had received its death wound, and hence there was no need of a second shot from either of their guns. "That settles him for good," remarked Tom, when, with a last spasmodic movement, the savage looking beast stiffened out. "Nice to have such a warm welcome, eh, when you get to your future snug home? Now to kick that weed out of doors in a big hurry, Felix." "Go slow," warned the other. "What for? Do you think there might be another inside? Not much. If one had to vacate, the other would have been on his heels. This was an old hermit cat, without any family, I guess; and a buster, too. Here goes, then." With that he flung open the door. No growling greeted them, which was a pretty good indication that the shack had yielded up its entire quota of cats. Tom jumped in and in a trice had tossed out the smouldering weeds; which Felix trampled under foot, until they ceased to give out any smoke or smell. "Pretty rank in here, what with the cat and the weed; hard to tell which is the worse," declared Tom; "but we'll remedy that right quick." Both boys bustled about, getting wood for a fire; and Tom selected as much fragrant burning fragments as his knowledge of the forest trees allowed. They carried this into the dugout, the shutter of which had been opened to admit of fresh air. The big fireplace seemed to fairly yawn, and ask for a supply of fuel, and in a very short time they had the fire going briskly. First of all, they did everything possible to get rid of the awful odors. The two big packs were brought inside and opened, so that the coffee could be reached, and once Tom had sprinkled a few pinches of the powdered grain on the hearth, and set a burning brand alongside, to cause it to catch fire, a different scent filled the place. "Is that any better?" he asked, laughingly. "A thousand per cent," replied Felix. "But say, I'm as hungry as a bear; and we can't get supper any too soon to suit me." "Same here," chirped Tom; with which remark he started in to make immediate preparations for the meal. Expecting to depend for the most part on the game they would find, for their subsistence while in the wilderness, they had carried only certain things along, in the shape of bacon, salt pork, coffee, tea, some sugar, flour, rice, hominy, and about a quart of onions for an occasional relish. That, with their blankets, some extra clothes, and ammunition, made up the heavy packs which the boys had been carrying on their backs for three full days now--the snow-shoes counted for little, as they were light weight. While Tom made the coffee, Felix busied himself in cooking some of the bacon. Until they had managed to knock over a deer, or supplied themselves with meat in some other fashion, they must make a raid daily on their scanty stock of food. "But tomorrow we'll both get busy, and see what we can bag," remarked Tom, when the other mentioned this depressing fact. There were a few crackers left, as well as some cheese, upon which they had subsisted at "noonings" on the way, not wishing to bother lighting a fire, and spending time in cooking anything, when in such haste to get located in their quarters. Altogether they had a good satisfying meal, and Felix declared after it was over that he felt many times better. "I'm going to smoke one pipe, just to give a flavor to the old shack where Sol burned many a pound of the weed in his day," remarked Tom, settling back comfortably, with a block of wood to support him. "And what's in the wind then?" asked his cousin. "I might try my hand at taking our first pelt," chuckled the other. "Oh! yes, to be sure, I'd about forgotten that he's got a fur worth keeping. And Tom, every time we look at it, won't we just remember what a welcome he gave us on our arrival. To be sure it was only in growls; but then, that's the only language a poor old cat's got. But when you say you mean to try your hand, you're only joking, because I wager you took off many a pelt when out with Old Sol Ten Eyck." "Of course, and I hope I haven't forgotten the lessons he taught me; for there never was a better trapper known than Sol in his prime. He's brought in the skins of every kind of animal in the country, from a black fox, down to muskrat hides, when you couldn't hardly give these last away. But nowadays, with the big demand for all kinds of furs, and a shortening supply, the muskies are fetching a price that makes it pay a fellow to gather them." "That's what I understood from a big fur dealer," Felix went on to remark. "What's going to happen when all the seals and foxes and mink and otter are gone, nobody knows. He said that people would either have to quit wearing any kind of furs; or else be satisfied with muskrat, or something that never will be extinct." "Look at the wolf, for instance," said Tom. "Time was, when it hardly paid to skin one on the ranch, when we shot them. How is it now? Why, they've found that those skins make the finest kinds of warm coats for men driving in automobiles; and the consequence is the price keeps going up right along. Mr. Wolf has a rough road ahead of him in the next ten years. But nobody will cry if he's wiped out, because he's a bad lot, and sure death to young calves in the herd." Felix was not addicted to the smoking habit, which probably was a good thing, as he lacked the robust figure of his western cousin. But Tom did certainly seem to suck a great deal of consolation from that little pipe of his, and the other boy had no objection to the fumes, indeed, the fragrant odor of the tonca bean, which was mixed with Tom's tobacco rather pleased his senses. After he had finished that one pipe, Tom arose, and picking up his knife, said he would step out to attend to the dead cat. "If I can't get the right light, why, I might hang the old boy up from the limb of a tree until morning," he said; "only that's likely to fetch others of the breed yowling around tonight. But I'll see." A full moon had arisen after sunset, and while the trees kept much of her light from reaching the ground, still it was far from dark. Tom, however, was particular with respect to how he took off any pelt, and decided that it had better wait until morning. He stood outside there quite a little while, until Felix came to the door to ascertain what he was doing. "Not taking time to bother with the hide tonight, then?" he asked, as he discovered the dead cat swinging about six feet from the ground, having been fastened there with a stout cord. "Changed my mind, and concluded it would make a better job in daylight," answered the other. "But I was standing here, listening to something that ought to make you feel happy." "What was that?" asked Felix, his curiosity of course aroused. "I heard a 'woof woof' over there that told me a bear was passing by, and had got a whiff of human presence here," Tom went on to say, chuckling in his usual way. "And do you think it could be a grizzly?" demanded Felix, thrilled with the very thought of such a thing. "Oh! well, I never shot a grizzly, myself, and in fact only hunted for the breed once; so my ear isn't educated enough to tell the difference between the sounds made by a cinnamon, and his black cousin; but then, a bear means game, one way or the other; and that suits us both. Besides, bear steak ain't so _very_ bad, even if it is tough generally. We'll look up that gentleman tomorrow, Felix, just as sure as anything." CHAPTER III THE FIRST GOOD LUCK One side of the cabin had a couple of rude but serviceable bunks built in the wall. Here the boys arranged their blankets; and thus prepared to put in their first night in camp with a roof over their heads. They already saw where they would have numerous things to do in order to feel comfortable when the snows of early winter struck them; but there would be plenty of time for all that, as the days glided on. After all, the night proved to be a quiet one, in spite of Tom's expressed fear that the swinging body of the cat might attract others of its species, who, gathering around, might think to hold a regular "wake" over the remains. In fact, neither of them heard anything from the time they lay down until dawn came, and with it a desire for breakfast. Feeling considerably refreshed, the two comrades set about accomplishing some of the numerous duties that had been laid out for the day. Breakfast disposed of, they started to fix up the interior of the dugout shack, so as to make it seem more comfortable. Dozens of little things needed to be done. The roof showed signs of wear in several places, and had to be patched against the time when the cold winds would whistle and moan around the corners the livelong night, trying to get a nip at their toes and fingers. During the morning, then, they were constantly busy, and before noon came around the camp looked a thousand per cent more cheerful. "Begins to seem like somebody lived here, eh?" remarked Tom, as he looked about him with a satisfied air; he was rather "fussy" about how he did things, never being content to have them just "passable;" the best was none too good for him, Tom always declared; meaning that if anything was worth doing at all, it was worth doing well. Tom had taken off the skin of the wildcat which was making a den of the dugout at the time of their arrival. This he had stretched in the proper fashion, over a thin piece of board, many of which they found in a corner of the place, having evidently served Old Sol for years in the same way. Strange to say, Tom, knowing the secrets of trappers had not cut the skin underneath at all but turned it inside-out; this is called "casing," and the skin is dried with the flesh side out. Besides wildcat, a few other animals are also treated this way, notably 'possum, muskrat, mink and otter. As for beaver, raccoon, marten, fox, lynx, wolf, coyote and skunk, these may be slit underneath, and when stretched on the board, the hair is allowed to be on the outer side. They are never cured near a fire or in the sun; the shade, where the wind can get at them being much more preferable, if "prime" or first-class pelts are desired; and of course that is the aim of every trapper. Of course, one of the first things both boys had done on this morning was to take a look for signs of the bear Tom had heard passing in the night. The experienced Western lad had no difficulty in finding the tracks, and he showed his chum how the animal, after standing at a certain point, evidently sniffing in the direction of the smoke that came from their chimney, had made an abrupt turn, and headed once more for the neighboring defiles of the mountains, evidently not caring to remain in the vicinity of man, whom his instinct told him must always be the mortal enemy of his species. "He was a bully big grizzly, too, all right, Felix!" announced Tom, pointing to the tremendous size of the footprints, with the marks of terrible claws showing; for a bear, like a dog, lacks the peculiar ability of the cat tribe to draw back its claws entirely except when needed. Felix looked rather longingly toward the great rocky uplifts that seemed so very close by, although he well knew it was quite likely to prove a little undertaking, reaching any of the gulches and canyons that pierced the massive barrier. "Not today, but soon, I hope," he remarked, turning with a smile toward Tom. "That's right," remarked the other, "all in good time. We must first of all manage the eating end; or before we know it we won't have any meat in the cabin. Then we want to look up Old Sol's cache, where he's got some of his traps hid away. I'd just like to set a few of the same, to see if the luck holds good. And when, after a while, the spirit moves us, why, we'll start out to get that grizzly you've been dreaming about so long." So Felix put the thought out of his head, and determined to abide his time. As he so often said, when some companion tried to make undue speed, "Rome wasn't built in a day," and the more haste the less speed to the end. "How about that cache?" asked Felix, along about the noon hour, as they sat and rested up a bit after working faithfully all morning at many tasks. "That's a fact!" exclaimed Tom, jumping up again in a hurry; "I'd let that slip my mind. And I'm a whole lot curious to know how the steel contraptions have stood the three years that have gone by since Old Sol was up here." "Didn't you say he wanted you to try and lug the traps back, when we started for home again?" inquired the other boy. "He said he had an enduring affection for the traps, and that if we could manage to carry a few, he'd think it just prime. I suppose an old fellow does kind of get attached to anything he's handled so long. P'raps some of the traps have histories, too. And since we expect to make a sledge, and pull all our stuff over the snow to where we agreed to meet Frazer on Christmas day, why, chances are, we can take the whole caboodle out of the mountains. I know it would tickle the old man a lot, and he's been mighty kind to me, let me tell you, Felix." "Oh! we can do that easy enough," returned Felix, always ready to oblige; "when we leave here there'll be plenty of snow; and with our shoes we can make good time, picking out a day that's suited to the work." Tom went over to the lower bunk. Getting down on his hands and knees he reached underneath, and presently drew forth what seemed to be a rudely made box. This he had some difficulty in opening, and when the top was finally pried off they found that the traps had been wrapped, each one, in an old, poor quality skin, that seemed to be in a pretty good state of preservation. Of course Old Sol had expected to be up there again on the following Fall, when he put his traps away like this; and never dreamed that three years would slip by before the cache was opened. But he had carefully greased them with bear's fat, and as a whole they were looking very decent. Altogether they made quite an assortment when Tom laid them out. The boy handled them almost with reverence. He knew that, as he had said before, each one must have a history. Many a story could they tell, if those grim-looking jaws could only speak--stories of captured wild animals galore, and of more than one fierce fight before the prisoner finally gave up the ghost. "Tomorrow, perhaps, we can get several of these placed," Tom remarked, as, having hung the traps up from pegs in the wall, he started preparations looking to having some warm lunch, for the day was quite cold. "If I go out for a little turn this afternoon, as you said, why, I'll keep my eyes about me for likely places. Sol, in his many stories about his life up here, gave me more than a few hints about the favorite places he had for certain animals. I rather guess this place must have been his pet camp, and he used several in his day." Felix was not quite recovered from his fatigue, and hence it had been agreed between them that perhaps he would be wise to stay in camp, and let Tom take the first look for meat. Tom was as tough as a pine-knot. He had been used to roughing it all his life, and hardly knew such a thing as getting real tired. Besides, as he had known Old Sol personally, the chances were he would be able to find a deer more quickly than his cousin might. With that rough chart to guide him, and the stories of the old trapper still fresh in his mind, Tom believed he had a pretty comprehensive idea concerning the lay of the land, even before he had taken one step towards exploring the vicinity. "The woods ought to be good enough for me," he had said; "and I hope to bring back a load of juicy venison; but if I don't strike up with my deer, why, we'll just have to fall back on that piece of ham that's left over." "I hope not," remarked Felix, with a shrug; "I'm just tired of ham and bacon for a steady diet, and ache to have a piece of venison between my teeth. So here's wishing you the best luck ever, Tom, which is saying a good word for myself, too." When Tom shouldered his gun, and took one last look at the now cozy interior of the cabin, he smiled back at his chum. "Let me tell you, Felix," he remarked, "it looks good to me already; and I just know we're going to have the best sort of time up here, if only we manage to keep the wolf from the door." "I'll do all I can to assist," laughingly responded Felix, little dreaming how shortly circumstances, just then utterly unseen, would bring these words of his companion forcibly before his mind. "If you feel like it, Felix, you might be cutting up that big limb that was torn off the tree in some storm; we can't have too big a pile of fire wood, against the coming of winter, you know; and once we get a string of traps to look after, the less time we have to spend in chopping wood, the better." And with these words, followed by a cheery wave of his chum's hand, Tom strode off for his first side hunt. They really were in need of fresh meat. Some five days had passed since leaving home, and with three to feed part of the time, this had made a little hole in the stock of provisions brought along with them. Tom had done a great deal of hunting, and was familiar with most of the tricks resorted to by those who are most successful in getting game. Of course he took occasion to notice the direction of the wind before leaving the cabin. It would be the height of folly to try and stalk a deer with the breeze blowing his scent directly to the delicate nostrils of his intended quarry, for the wary animal must detect his presence long before he could hope to get within gunshot, and as a consequence would be off "like a streak of greased lightning," as Tom himself put it. As he went along, the boy kept his eyes about him, observing numerous things of a nature to interest a hunter and trapper. The sigh of the wind through the tree-tops was sweetest music in the ears of Tom Tucker; many a night had it lulled him to sleep when in the woods; or stealing softly over the grassy prairie, where the cattle grazed, it had carried with it the chirp of crickets and katydids and all the other familiar sounds of a summer night on the range. Never a leaf came floating to the ground near him but that his quick eye sought it out instinctively. If some little squirrel rustled the leaves, his ear was on the alert, even as his eager finger touched the trigger of his gun, ready for a shot at a bounding black-tail deer. So Tom went on for perhaps an hour. He was not more than half a mile away from the camp at most, since he had considered it good policy to make a half circle, covering as much ground as possible in this, his first tramp. So far he had seen nothing worth shooting at, though signs of deer had caught his watchful eye numerous times; and he felt sure they used these grounds for feeding purposes, as there were patches of green grass every little while. And then, all of a sudden, there was a loud rustle of the leaves that sent a thrill through the young hunter. He saw a deer leap over a fallen tree with all the ease in the world, and start to bound away, taking great springs. Instinct rather than anything else caused Tom to throw his rifle to his shoulder; and then he fired, just as the buck turned slightly in order to avoid some obstruction, which Tom had already known would make him veer. With a crash the deer went down. Throwing another cartridge into the firing chamber of his gun, Tom started full speed toward the spot, ready to finish his quarry, if such a thing proved necessary; for he had known deer to get up again, full of fight, after being thrown to the ground by a shot. But that first well-placed ball had accomplished its work. The buck was dead by the time Tom reached the spot, pleased with his success, which he looked upon as a splendid sign of future luck. As the afternoon was well along, and he would have half a mile to "tote" his burden, the boy lost no time in setting to work removing the skin of the animal, and then cutting the deer up, so as to secure the choice portions, including of course the two haunches. Outside of the hams and perhaps the shoulders there is not a great deal about a deer worth taking; so in due time Tom had packed all he wanted in the hide, which he made up into a compact bundle, and threw over his shoulder. Thus loaded, and in a happy frame of mind, he started in the direction of camp. Never once during his hour's tramp had Tom been compelled to guess where the dugout lay. The woods were as an open book to him, so accustomed was he to unconsciously noting many little things around him--the moss on the trees; the way the forest monarchs inclined away from the prevailing storms that came from the west in this region, sweeping down the sides of the mountains; with these and many other signs to tell him, a hunter can read locations as easily as you or I might a printed page in a book. Tom had been moving along a short time in this way when suddenly he stopped to listen. The report of a gun had been borne to his ears, and from the direction of the camp, though the breeze was not favorable for carrying sounds. "Hello!" he started to remark; when to his surprise a second shot followed the first, and quickly came a third. By this time Tom was excited. He fancied that this might be a signal calling for help, as is well known among woodsmen, and cattle rustlers. Thoughts of the rough characters said to be somewhere in this vicinity, after being run out of Yellowstone Park by the soldiers guarding the preserves, flashed into his mind. And so Tom, hastily throwing his pack up over a limb, where it would be safe for a while at least, and carefully noting the spot, so he could find the meat again, started on a wild run for the location of Old Sol's hideout. CHAPTER IV THE WOLF PACK When Felix found himself alone he set about doing a number of things which he had in mind, meaning to tackle the wood problem when it got later in the afternoon. Time passes quickly when any one is busily employed, and so the hour slipped by almost before he knew it. From some distance away there suddenly came the report of a rifle. Felix listened eagerly, but no second shot sounded. This seemed to tell him that none was needed. "I reckon Tom got what he wanted that time," he said to himself, as he went on doing what had engaged his attention; "when he lets go, something generally drops. Makes my mouth water, just to think of having a saddle of venison hanging up here for a starter. And then it'll be my turn next to make a try. Yes, Tom was right; and it sure does look like we were going to have the time of our lives up here in this Rocky Mountain foothills country." He remembered after a bit that there was only a scant amount of wood handy, and that Tom had hinted about laying in a further supply. "Guess I'll just get a bucket of water, and then take to the axe for a spell," he remarked to himself, for, like a good many other people, Felix was quite food of talking to himself when alone. Among other things they had found an old but serviceable galvanized bucket, which Old Sol had carefully greased, and put away for future use. It had taken Felix not a little time to get it in fairly decent shape again; but it would hold water, and that was a fortunate thing. Under such conditions campers have no right to be overly particular about the looks of things; and a little rust never hurt any one yet, Felix stoutly declared. So, taking the bucket, he set out for the spring, which happened to be about two hundred feet away from the dugout. No doubt Sol Ten Eyck was fully aware of the existence of that same fine spring when he started to locate his trapping cabin here in the wilderness; in fact it had everything to do with his selecting that particular locality for putting up his dugout-shack. He had told Tom that that spring must be connected with some of those in the National Park; because, no matter how cold the winter was, it never froze up. What water came from it might get as hard as anything in the zero temperature; but as for the spring itself, it continued to cheerily bubble forth all through the wintry weather, defying Jack Frost to seal its mouth. Felix was thinking of his chum as he made his way toward the spring. Doubtless he pictured Tom as busily engaged preparing the carcass of the deer for transportation to the camp; and he could in imagination almost see the pleasure his cousin was taking in his work. "There never was a better chum than Tom," Felix was saying to himself, as he dipped his bucket carefully into the water; and then, noticing that in approaching too closely he had caused the water to become slightly "roiled," he poured this away, and stooping there, waited a few minutes until it should settle again. A sound caught his hearing that caused him to quickly look up, and then turn his head. What he saw gave the boy a thrill such as he had seldom experienced before. One, two, three savage looking animals were standing there, staring at him in a hungry way, just as though they considered themselves in good luck to come upon a dinner so easily. They had all the appearance of dogs, but although Felix could not own up to any considerable experience with wolves, he knew in a flash that that was what these visitors must be. And they looked dangerous, too. A single wolf is a cowardly beast, and will almost always slink away from a human being; but when in company, or running with a pack, he becomes an entirely different sort of animal. At such times, especially when sharp pressed by hunger, in the middle of the winter, he will break into the sheep-fold of a farmer, and even pull down a running horse that has been exhausted by a long flight. Felix had read many a wild story of wolf hunts in Russia; and knew with what fierceness the animals on the Siberian steppes often chase travelers in native vehicles, frequently devouring men and horses. So he did not underestimate the wolves that so suddenly appeared before him as he stooped over the spring, bucket in hand. It flashed upon him that save for his hunting knife he was wholly unarmed just then; for his trusty Marlin had of course been left in the cabin; and what use would a five inch blade be against a trio of active, vigorous and reckless wolves, bent upon securing a dinner? He stood up, and took a step toward the cabin. Ominous growls greeted the act, as though they would warn Felix that they did not mean to allow him to gain the shelter of his fort. Felix had another thrill about that time. The first had meant only excitement; but this went further, and whispered of alarm as well. How they bared their white fangs, and raised the long hair on their bony shoulders, to show that they were primed for fight. The boy realized that unless he proved himself quick-witted the chances of his ever getting to where he could snatch up his good rifle, and give them what they deserved, would be pretty slim. At such a time as this the brain works as if on fire. It seemed to Felix as though a score of things flashed through his mind at the same instant. He wondered if he could frighten the animals by dashing at them, waving his arms, and letting out a few wild whoops, for sometimes wolves are sent into a panic by the sound of the human voice. But if the expedient failed, why, it would bring him all the sooner to grips with the three hairy scamps that seemed to invite a trail of strength, and resourcefulness. How about the bucket--could he knock upon the bottom with his knuckles at the same time, and add to the din, so as to produce a temporary fear in their hearts? The cabin was only two hundred feet away, and Felix just knew he could fairly fly over this distance, given half a chance; but if they recovered soon enough to leap after him, was he not likely to have them on his back before he could get inside and slam the door shut? But something _must_ be done! He could see them edging a little closer all the while, as though unable to hold themselves wholly in check. And they were spreading out more in the shape of a fan, too, as if they knew the best way to trap him. Whatever was to be done, he must lose no more time about it, or the attack would follow, and then it would be too late to devise any scheme looking to creating a diversion. It seemed as though just at that instant Felix remembered something that promised to open up a possible avenue of escape. When he was sitting there, resting for a few minutes, he had picked up the newspaper that had been wrapped around some of their smoked meat. Despite its greasy condition Felix had become interested in an article on some subject of surgery that happened to catch his eye. This he had partly read through; and then, wishing to complete a certain task with which he was engaged, he had doubled the paper up, and unconcernedly thrust it into a rear pocket; little dreaming how in doing this he might have been actually saving his own life. So do trifles sometimes turn out to be of the greatest moment. This paper, with its greasy surface, would make a fierce flame, if only for a brief time; and he always carried a bountiful supply of matches along with him; for Tom had advised this, as a precaution, in case he ever became lost, when each one would be worth a priceless sum. No sooner had the idea flashed into the mind of Felix than he put his hand around, in hopes of feeling the doubled paper. His heart was in his throat when at first he failed to touch anything, then he remembered that it was in the other hip pocket he had thrust the paper. So he drew it out, rustling in a manner that elicited a fresh chorus of snarls and growls from the three guards, who stood between him and the shack where safety for him lay. Crunching the paper up, Felix next sought for a match. He had a little safe in one pocket of his trousers; but so clear was his mind at this critical stage of the game that he instantly remembered placing several matches loosely in the side pocket of his coat, where he could get at them more easily when starting a fire for supper. So ugly did the wolves act about this time that he was almost afraid they were determined not to wait any longer, but proceed to open hostilities. And so he continued to talk, and call out at them the while, in hopes of averting the crisis until he had started things moving himself. Straight ahead of him lay the dugout. Once he began running he must make record time, and keep in a direct line for the door. How fortunate that he had left this wide open when starting after that bucket of water! All he would have to do would be to fly through that friendly aperture, snatch hold of the door, and fling it back of him. Then his next move would be to make one leap for the corner where the Marlin stood; once he felt its convincing metal in his hands, and after that he would not care a snap of his fingers for all the timber wolves that existed within a radius of ten miles. All these preliminaries Felix seemed to settle, just like a great general would his plan of campaign; only he had to do it out of hand. The impatient and hungry wolves would not wait his pleasure; they wanted things to be moving along. Felix had let the empty bucket drop to the ground when his brilliant scheme came flashing into his mind, so that both his hands were free to conduct the work he had arranged. First of all was the striking of the match, and this he would have to accomplish along one leg of his trousers, as Tom always did. The act was greeted by more nasty and irritating snarls, as the three wolves moved still closer, hardly able to hold back longer. When the flame of the match was communicated to the greasy newspaper, of course it flashed up splendidly. This was his chance, and delay now would be apt to injure his prospects of being able to reach the shelter of the cabin. So Felix began to wave his flaming torch, made up of the twisted newspaper, and at the same time sprang straight at the three wolves. He knew that such a move would add to their temporary panicky state of feeling and give him a chance to cover some ground. And as he started to jump at them, he also called out at the top of his voice, and waved both arms, as though he might be an animated human windmill in action, bearing down upon them. CHAPTER V A FIRST TASTE OF VENISON "Get out! Get out, you rascals!" That was about the burden of what Felix yelled, as he dashed at the three timber wolves; although, when put to it afterwards he could never be sure of what he said, only that he endeavored to make his whole appearance as fierce looking as possible. It seemed to be a success, too, for the animals turned tail, and bolted. Wolves, as indeed about every other wild animal in the woods or in the mountains, inherit a peculiar dread of fire, though of course the only acquaintance most of them have with its terrifying qualities is when a forest or a prairie fire threatens their lives. Even before the white man came to these shores of America, the Indians knew how to use flint and steel in order to kindle their fires; and besides, now and then, doubtless conflagrations may have occurred through fire coming down from the clouds, and the lightning striking some dead tree in the woods. Thus the fear of flames is born in these predatory animals; and as even in the broad daylight the wolves saw the greasy newspaper flash up into a little pyramid of fire, they just "scooted for all they were worth," as Felix afterwards declared, when telling the story of his little adventure. He did not even waste a second in glancing over his shoulder as he ran, in order to ascertain how far this fear carried them. Chances were, they would quickly get over the condition of panic, especially when seeing their expected dinner making off in that vigorous fashion. And Felix knew that once this occurred, they would be racing after him as fast as they could run. As the boy had always been fond of baseball, and kindred games, while at school, doubtless he could look back to many an occasion when he put in what he considered his "best licks" in endeavoring to stretch out a two-base hit into a three-bagger; or possibly trying to steal home, when the ball was being sent back to the pitcher, and his club needed a run the worst kind, to win. But Felix always claimed that had he been able to cover ground on those occasions as rapidly as he did when those three wolves were after him, he might have easily counted a home-run on that two-base hit; or be sitting on the home plate by the time the pitcher was ready to throw to catch him. He fairly flew, every muscle and nerve being "on the job," as he called it. The yawning open door was just in front of him; but by now he could positively hear a terrible scratching sound in his rear, which must be produced by the scrambling of his lupine foes over the intervening ground. They had recovered from their temporary scare, and were after him at full speed, bent on pulling him down as they would a wounded deer. But he reached the dugout, and shot through that opening like a flash. At the instant of doing so he reached out, and catching hold of the door, gave it a desperate fling. He heard it strike something, which could only be the head of the foremost wolf. And turning as quickly as possible, Felix threw his weight against the door, which was even then commencing to move inward, under the rush of enemies without. But there was enough of vigor and alarm in the boy to crush the door fast; after which he secured it with the bar. He was safe, then, and had cheated the hungry beasts out of their expected dinner. Felix seemed to experience a sudden change in the state of his feelings. He had been alarmed before; now he was angry at those three bold beasts. And turning around, he picked up the Marlin with which he expected to get his ferocious grizzly; and which had been chosen particularly on account of its hard shooting qualities, as well as its faithfulness in a pinch, the mechanism never failing to work, as some guns have a weakness for doing. Once he had the hammer drawn back, and Felix walked deliberately over to the door, which he meant to swing open. He might have taken to the window just as well, but somehow he felt so fortified by this accession of the repeating gun that he scorned such "baby" action. Taking down the bar, he allowed the door to open just a few inches. That gave him the chance he wanted to see the gleaming eyes and the red mouth of a wolf not two feet away. With the shot he saw the animal roll over in convulsions; while the other two lost no time in making hasty tracks away from that dangerous locality. And here was where Felix showed that he knew what he was doing when he selected the door instead of the smaller opening that served as a window, since it actually had a pane of glass, and a movable sash--he was enabled to immediately step outside, gun in hand, and take a couple of shots at the fleeing wolves. With each report one of the scampering beasts rolled over. It was as fine shooting as Felix had ever done in all his life, and he had always been accounted a rather clever hand with either rifle or bird gun. "All down in that alley; set 'em up again!" he exclaimed, thrilled with the remarkable success that had followed his work. Not one of the ferocious beasts got up again, to try and limp away; so that the young Nimrod was not compelled to use more than a single cartridge apiece. But when, presently, he went to the spring for that bucket of water, Felix, you may be sure, carried the rifle along with him; and the three cartridges that had been ejected were replaced by fresh ones. There were no more wolves hovering around in that immediate neighborhood, apparently, and he was not disturbed any further. So Felix set about chopping his wood in the most unconcerned way possible, after examining the bodies of his prizes, and dragging them into a row under the big tree. A short time later he heard Tom's "cooie," and answered it. Of course the other had ceased his wild run as soon as he caught the regular sound of the descending axe; but when he came up presently, fairly panting for breath, his face displayed more than ordinary curiosity. "What was it, Felix?" he asked. "Do you mean, why did I fire those three shots?" asked the other, meaning to tantalize his chum a little; for he could see how Tom was burning up with eagerness to know the cause of the firing. "Yes, yes, of course. It's generally the signal that a fellow needs help," said Tom, eagerly. "Well, my time for needing help had about passed when I let drive with the Marlin gun," Felix went on, in a mysterious way that the other could make nothing out of. "But if you could have dropped in here about a minute before that time, I tell you now, you'd have been the most welcome sight my eyes could have looked on." "But why? Open up, Felix, and tell me what happened. You shot something, didn't you?" Tom went on to demand. "I shot three times, and there were just that number of the scamps, Tom." Whereupon Tom glanced around, and in consequence quickly discovered the several forms of the defunct beasts lying in a grim row under the big tree. "Well, I'll be hanged if it wasn't a whole pack of wolves; and what fierce looking fellows, too!" he exclaimed, as he hurried over to examine them. "Huh!" grunted Felix; "I reckon each one looked about as tall as a house to me, when they stood there, and showed me by their bared fangs, and savage growls, that they didn't mean to let me make a dash from the spring to the shack without tackling me." "The spring! D'ye mean to say they waylaid you there? But how lucky it was that you didn't forget to have your gun along!" ejaculated Tom. "That's where the joke comes in," remarked the other, drily; "because it never once occurred to me that a fellow ought to go to get a bucket of water, with his gun under one arm. It was in the cabin at the time, more's the pity." Tom plumped down on the ground, and mopped his face with his bandana; his run had apparently heated him up considerably. "Spin the yarn, Felix; don't keep me guessing so hard. However in the wide world did you keep them off till you grabbed up the gun?" he urged. "Couldn't have done it at all, I give you my word, because they were just bent on tackling me off-hand; but it chanced that I had an old newspaper in my pocket." "A newspaper!" echoed Tom; "what under the sun did that have to do with it! How could a paper interest wolves? Come on, tell me what you did, Felix?" "Struck a match, and made a bully old torch. Then I just jumped for 'em, and hollered to beat the band!" replied the other, with a grin. Tom's face was a study as he listened, and he too smiled broadly. "A great stunt, my boy, it sure was," he went on to say. "And so that scared 'em off enough for you to get inside, where your gun was, did it?" "But only by a close shave," replied Felix. "One of the critters came slap up against the door even when I was banging it shut; and they all tried to outpush me." "Then I suppose you just opened the little window, and gave the sassy beasts one, two, three, eh, Felix?" "Just what I did, only it was the door I opened a little, Tom. After I'd bowled one over, the others put for shelter, just as I expected; and so I was able to just step outside, and plunk the runners as neat as you please. I'm some proud of those two shots; they were as good as anything I ever did at my best." "Well, you have done yourself proud, let me tell you that; but in my mind the best part of the whole business was where you thought up that clever dodge of using that newspaper for a torch. It was a stroke of genius," said Tom, earnestly, and there could be no doubt that he meant it. "But I heard you shoot; did you get any fresh meat? Excuse me for asking; but I'm that hungry for a bite of venison I'll have to forget my manners, Tom?" "Oh! I downed a young black-tail buck, and was toting the meat to camp when I heard you shoot three times. Of course I just thought you'd visitors here in the shape of that Abe Cozzins and Perley Kline we've been hearing so much about, as guides who've been doing all sorts of tough things, been fired from the Park, and are suspected of shooting game on the Government reservation. You just bet I did some tall sprinting for a while; then when I heard you start chopping, I knew you must be all right; but by that time I was too much worked up to turn around and go back for the venison I hung on a limb. I'll do that as soon as I get my breath once more." Felix swung his axe merrily, while the other watched him. "You couldn't have better exercise than that for broadening your chest and hardening your muscles don't you know it, Felix," Tom asked, presently. "Sure I do, and that's a sly hint I'm to be the steady wood chopper while we're up in camp at the foot of the Rockies," replied the other, laughingly; "but I really like the handling of an axe first-rate; and with more practice I think I'll be able to bring it down exactly where I want, every time, just like those loggers up in Maine do." "Well, I must say you're in an awful big hurry to load up with pelts," Tom continued, with a whimsical grimace in the direction of the three wolves. "Here you hardly get in camp before you begin by knocking over a big cat that crawls out of our chimney; and before a single day goes by you've lain out a heap of fine wolf hides for me to stretch and dry. At that rate I see myself keeping busy right along and we'll have a load to take back on our sledge that'll make Frazer's eyes stick out of his head. I kind of think he laughed in his sleeve at the idea of two boys catching any of these fur bearing animals. He'll have another guess coming. But I ought to be hiking out after that venison. I'd hate to have any critter make way with it, after going to all the trouble I did, eh, Felix?" "And then, we need it in our business so bad, too," remarked the other, drily; "so I think you'd better be getting it, Tom." Accordingly, Tom started off again to retrace his steps, promising to be back in half an hour or less. With the pleasing prospect of fresh meat for supper, Felix worked with additional vim, as he swung the light axe they had carried with them through the three days they had been on the trail up here. Now and then he would steal a glance toward the row of grim trophies that had fallen to his skill as a marksman; yet from certain words that dropped from his lips it was evident that Felix gave much of the credit to his faithful gun. "Just point it straight, and it'll do the rest every time," he chuckled, with a fond look at the rifle snuggled down close to where he was working, so that he could snatch it up at a second's warning, if necessary. After a time the cheery whistle of his chum was heard near by, and then Tom appeared, staggering under his load, but making light of it when Felix protested that he should not have tried to carry so much. "Plenty of meat for a week or two, because it'll keep sweet and nice in this mountain air, and particularly at this time of year," Felix had said, as he helped unload the pack-horse and sized up the cuts. "Don't examine 'em too close," remonstrated the Nimrod; "I never was a good hand at butchering; though I had ought to be, because I've been raised among cattle, and have cut up many a steer. But it answers our purpose." "Well, if you call that poor work, you'll take a fit when you see what I do," remarked the other, shaking his head in despair. As the afternoon was now getting along, they determined that they might as well start things moving, looking toward supper. Both of them were fairly wild to get the first taste of meat on the trip. At home, and cooked in the civilized fashion, with possibly only a poor appetite spurring one on, venison is apt to seem dry eating; but take it out in the woods with the proper surroundings, and hunger that is clamorous in its demands; with the game cooked after the hunter's fashion, and there is nothing more delightful. Just so the coffee tastes like nectar out of a rusty old tin cup, while at home much of the pleasure is lost if there happens to be a crack in the delicate china cup in which the fragrant juice of the Java bean is served. The conditions and surroundings have a great deal to do with the enjoyment of a thing; and venison was never intended to be eaten over a snow-white table cloth, and flanked by cut glass and china and silverware. While Felix commenced to get supper Tom gave his attention to taking off the gray "jackets," as he called them, of the wolves. "Some day, not a great ways off," he remarked, "they'll be keeping a chauffeur or a gentleman in a car snug and warm, and that's a better use for them, than just covering three pesky calf-killers. I'm always tickled all to death to see a wolf knocked over, I despise the breed so; they're so sneaky and so cruel." "Well, they looked that way to me, let me tell you," remarked Felix from within the shack, where he was busily employed; "especially when they drew back their lips and showed me what long fangs they had, all of 'em. But all's well that ends well; and we've got a nice bunch of wolf pelts to start on." After awhile the tantalizing odor of coffee began to steal out to Tom; and then this was supplemented by the delightful smell of frying meat; for they had fetched along a good-sized frying pan, without which Tom never would go camping. He had just washed up, after completing his job, so far as the first part of it went, when Felix announced that supper was ready. "I reckon you'd better take a look around tomorrow," Tom remarked, as they sat there by the fire, enjoying a bountiful meal that made both boys as contented as kings. "I had my inning today; and besides, I've got lots of work to do, what with getting these wolf pelts fastened on stretchers; and setting a few traps in places not a great ways from the shack. And after the time you had, I give you fair warning that I'll never be caught out, with my gun at home. If you'd had time, of course, you could have climbed a tree; but those hungry chaps didn't mean to let you try such a dodge. Chances were they'd have nabbed you in three shakes of a lamb's tail." "But we've got enough meat for awhile, haven't we?" asked Felix. "Better lay in a stock while the chance offers," replied the other, wisely. "If we want to keep it I know how the Indians jerk their venison, and it ain't half way bad, cooked in a stew, or eaten as it's dried. Pemmican they call it, and some of the lot they carry is about as black as your hat, from the smoke it was dried in. An Indian brave can run for days with only a handful of that stuff along to nibble at when he feels faint. It's a life saver, all right." "Perhaps, then, I will take a look around," Felix admitted; for he was eager to try his luck with the deer, as well as have a chance to observe what the surrounding country looked like. They passed a pleasant evening, both busy doing some little thing; for there could always be found plenty that needed attention; and Tom was a great hand to want to have everything about him shipshape. And when finally, becoming tired, the two chums turned in, they did not need any rocking to put them to sleep. CHAPTER VI FELIX TAKES HIS TURN So another day found the campers under the shadow of the great Rockies. They were up early, for it had been about nine o'clock when they turned in on the preceding night; and there was plenty waiting to be done. "Suppose you let the pelts go until later in the day, Tom," remarked Felix as they ate breakfast at the rough table, which Old Sol had built for his use when he used to spend so many months every winter up here, in this favorite nook. "What for?" asked the other, well knowing that Felix would never make this odd proposition without having some good reason for it. "Well," said his chum, slowly, "I'd like to go with you for a little while, and see how you set the traps you think of putting out. Then, later on in the day, perhaps after we've had a bite of lunch, I might try a tramp in another quarter from where you went, just to see what the country looks like." "Just as you say," replied Tom, readily enough. "I didn't stop to think that perhaps you'd like to see the operation. And I guess it's just as well that you pick up some information about how to do the job; because some days perhaps you'll want to run the line of traps yourself; and then you'll have to know how to set them, as well as keep your scent from staying around, and warning timid animals away." In about half an hour they started forth, each carrying a few traps. Tom had been cudgeling his brains to remember all that Old Sol had told him about his favorite places for setting his mink traps. There was a little ravine close by, through which a stream of water ran; and along the banks of this the wary animals abound. Perhaps Tom may not have gone about his task in exactly the same way an experienced trapper would; for it takes years of work to learn all there is to know in connection with the cunning little fur-bearing animals that look on man as their most implacable foe, as indeed he has been ever since the world began. Some people have a knack for doing this sort of thing, while others never seem able to learn anything about the game. Tom was one of the former. He had spent enough time with Old Sol to learn a great many points that were worth knowing. The rest could only come through personal experience in the field. These mink traps were set in front of certain openings in the banks which, from the signs, were "used" by the mink in traveling about, a peculiar habit they have of doing at certain times of the year. Then a couple of fox traps were left at spots which Tom understood were likely to bring about results. Great care had to be exercised in setting these traps, so as to conceal the human scent, which would come to the acute sense of smell of the sly fox, and completely baffle the designs of the would-be trappers. After that some muskrats traps were placed in a little marsh where the rodents lived in great numbers. They are possibly the easiest animal to trap there is; and as the price of their skins has been going steadily up from next to nothing, until now they bring as high as sixty-five cents apiece, it pays a trapper to devote his entire time to taking the rats; which, truth to tell, are really no relation to the ordinary house rats, but are called musquash by the Indians, and are really very tasty as food. It was when the boys were starting back to the dugout, after locating the last of their muskrat traps in the marsh, that Tom made a discovery. "Looky here!" he exclaimed, pointing to one side; "what's been going on, d'ye suppose? Part of a deer, and it hasn't been killed more'n a week. Why, the foxes haven't made way with it all. Queer those hungry wolves didn't scent it; but then they don't eat carrion as a rule, like the coyotes. They're daintier in their choice of food." "Whatever do you suppose killed this deer?" asked Felix, as they turned that way. "We'll soon find out," replied his chum; "but the chances are ten to one it was a bullet from a rifle." He bent over to examine the few remains, and presently looked up with a smile. "What did I tell you, Felix?" he demanded, holding some small object before his chum's eyes. It was a bullet, somewhat flattened from having struck the heavier bones, when it pierced the body of the deer. "And only a week back, you say, Tom?" remarked Felix, a frown appearing on his face. "Then some party has been around here a short time ago? I had begun to believe we were going to have it all to ourselves; but I suppose that would be too good luck. Any idea what sort of a man the hunter was?" "Injun," replied Tom, laconically, as he pointed to the mark of a moccasin in the soft soil near by; and which Felix noticed "toed-in;" for an Indian always walks that way; as Nature intended man should, before he began to wear stiff boots, and started to use his feet the wrong way, by "toeing-out." "Whew! then all I hope is, that it turns out to be that good old halfbreed we heard so much about, Charley Crow they call him, because his other name is too much for a fellow's tongue. I wouldn't mind him so much; and if he's starting to put in a season trapping in this neighborhood, why, we might make friends with him, you know." "As for me," declared Tom, with a disconsolate look on his sun-burned face; "you know, I don't take much stock in any Injun or half-breed. I only hope we have the good fortune not to run across this fellow, or any of his kind, all the time we stick it out up here. But then I'm prejudiced, I own up. Charley may be all they say about him. We'll let it go at that. If he doesn't bother us, be sure I'll not go ten steps out of my way to look him up." All the same, it made them a little serious as they walked back to the camp. If there were others hunting and trapping in that section, such a thing always opened the door for all sorts of new troubles. Supposing there should turn out to be a whole hunting party of Shoshones or Flatfoot Indians off their reservation, and engaged in a grand hunt; they would make things look pretty "sick," as Tom expressed it, around there, in short order. But then, fortunately perhaps, boys are not much given to forebodings; and presently both Tom and his chum were feeling themselves again. Doubtless the recollection of that deer would return to them more than a few times to arouse these same doubts and speculations. And every time Tom felt that smashed bit of lead in his pocket, he would allow himself to indulge in guesses that could hardly lead to anywhere in particular. It was now getting on toward noon, and Felix announced that he would not bother making a start until some time afterwards. There was no need of hurry, and inside of a couple of hours, he thought he ought to cover as much ground as he wanted to get over for that time. "I'd better be making a start with those wolf pelts," said Tom; "because there's no telling what we may have on our hands by tomorrow, if only a third of those nine traps bring us returns. Makes me think I'm out again with Old Sol. How much I'd like to have him along, right now, he's such a bully old chap; and with a lot of queer things to tell about his experiences." Although Felix did not bother to say so, truth to tell, he was entirely satisfied with the way things ran just then; there could not be a better comrade than Tom Tucker, and according to his mind, two was always a better number than three. He watched Tom get busy with one of the pelts, and affix it to the large stretching board; after he had done considerable scraping, so as to get the skin as free from flesh as possible. "They're prime skins, and that's what," the worker declared. "And if you'd shot this fellow on purpose so as not to injure his hide, you couldn't have done better." "That must be the one that was trying to butt in at the door when I opened it just a mite," declared Felix. "I gave him his right down his throat; for he had his mouth open, and I could see the rows of shining white teeth; besides his red tongue hanging out." "Of course that's it," remarked Tom. "I remember now that the others are shot in the side, and both of them just back of the foreleg. Great work, that, my boy; and when it comes to shooting I'll have to take a back seat, I reckon." "Lay it to the gun," chuckled Felix; "all you have to do is to stick that shooting-iron out, and shut your eyes as you pull trigger. It does all the rest." "Yes, and goes out to retrieve your game besides," added Tom, with a laugh. "The gun's all right, and I've used it enough to know what it can do; but there's a whole lot in the fellow behind the gun, as they say in the navy." "By the way, Tom, you'd better tell me if you think there's any chance of my getting lost in these same old woods. I don't know half as much as you do about finding my way about; and I used to have the greatest weakness for losing my bearings you ever saw, some time back. Yes, I studied up all the known ways for telling the direction, if I lost my compass and could point out north as well as the next fellow; but the trouble with me was, I couldn't say whether camp meant north, south, east or west, most of the time. Of course, here I'd have the mountains to guide me; and besides, I've got a bully little compass somewhere around; so I don't think I'll worry about it. And even if I did stray off, it could only be for a night. After several stabs at it, I'd be sure to arrive at the proper direction." "I don't believe you would lose yourself around here if you tried, Felix," asserted Tom, positively. "You're only saying that to josh me. But I'm not going to let it bother me any. If you don't turn up, why, I'll be on your trail in the morning." Tom said this jokingly, never dreaming that he might have a chance to put his words into practice so soon. He, himself, had never been lost in all his life. Like the homing pigeon, Tom seemed to have some sort of instinct that, under all circumstances, allowed him to face toward home when he wanted to turn that way. And he could not understand how anyone could make such mountains out of mole-hills. Why, all they had to do was to use their eyes, and what sense lay in their head, in order to figure out just how to head to get back to their starting point. And yet you could drop Felix down into the heart of a strange city, even great London, and he would presently be able to find his way around, so that in a week's time the streets would be as familiar to him as those of his native town; while probably Tom Tucker would have to be escorted to his hotel by the police every time he sauntered forth. He was used to one thing, and Felix another. When two hours had passed Tom, seeing that his companion had not made any sign of going forth began to ask questions. "Give up the idea of that little hunt for today, Felix?" "Oh! no," was the reply, as the other got up and stretched himself, for he had been busying himself with some small job that allowed of sitting. "Better be moving, then, or you'll be caught by darkness away from camp; and then you'll have to try bunking alone for once," suggested the other. "That's so," Felix went on, beginning to buckle on his ammunition belt, and put a few things in the pockets of his coat, the sight of which made Tom elevate his eyebrows. "Don't mean to take any chances, eh?" he remarked. "Oh! well, there's no telling, and you yourself always say its best to be prepared. I expect to be back inside of two hours at the most, however," and Felix picked up his gun, showing that he was now ready to start. "And I expect to have a lot of things done by the time you do come back," remarked Tom. "If you're lucky enough to get your deer, perhaps you'd better only bring home the saddle, and leave the rest for tomorrow." "You're saying that because you know I'm not built along the same husky lines you are," declared Felix; "but lots of times these thin fellows can show plenty of grit and carrying power. So-long, Tom." "And Felix," called out the other, as an after thought, "if you happen to run up against any of those fellows like Abe Cozzins and Perley Kline,--you remember Frazer telling us about their stamp, don't you?--better give 'em a wide berth. We know they're being looked for by the Government men, and p'raps they know it too, so they may feel ugly toward every one. If we were together I wouldn't think much of it; but you haven't rubbed up against that sort of border scoundrel as much as I have. Be careful, won't you?" "I guess I will, Tom; and don't worry about me." With that Felix was gone, his gun over his shoulder, and not a sign of his recent weariness to be seen about his quick, springy step, Tom noticed, with satisfaction. The time passed rapidly to the boy who was so busy in camp. In fact, he hardly noticed its passage, and when he heard a distant shot, soon followed by a second, he was astonished to find that two hours had really gone. "That sounded as though he'd struck something worth while," Tom was saying to himself, with a smile, once more turning his attention to whatever it was at which he chanced to be working at the time. "But unless he hurries in his work, it'll come on dark before he gets back. At this time of year night just seems to be in the tallest kind of a hurry to get a move on the daylight." And indeed, as the dusk deepened, and he saw nothing of his chum, Tom went to the open door many times, wondering whether after all Felix might not have wandered so far afield that his own laughing prediction was being fulfilled, and that in truth he was temporarily lost. But Tom, having prepared supper for two, waited a long time before he would sit down alone to eat his portion. As Felix was still absent the Western boy began to feel more or less worried. He had thought there could be little or no danger in those woods at the base of the Rockies; but now, with the absence of his chum, he began to see all sorts of evil things that might have come upon Felix, rather unused to these vast ranges of wilderness, so different from those he was accustomed to roaming in the Far East. Later grew the hour, and Tom realized that the matter was getting a bit serious. He even went out, and fired his gun three times in rapid succession; and then listened eagerly; but there was no air stirring to carry sounds, and only the melancholy hooting of an owl up among the cliffs far away answered him. CHAPTER VII UNAVOIDABLE DELAY There was a reason, and a good one, too, for Felix failing to show up that afternoon or evening, which will become apparent to the reader after a short time. When he strode away from the camp under the big tree, it was as cheerfully as ever he had felt in all his life; nor was he dreaming of the possibilities of anything odd, or out of the usual rut, overtaking him. But many times it is the unexpected that swoops down upon us; just as storms once in a while surprise the oldest weather prophets, coming from a point they have never considered. Felix wanted very much to duplicate the performance of his chum. He had made up his mind to three things, which he hoped his trip to the Rockies would bring forth. One of these, as has been said before, was to be able to shoot a ferocious grizzly bear, alone and unaided. Then he yearned to bring down one of those sturdy jumpers of the steeps, a Rocky Mountain sheep, or bighorn, stories concerning which he had read so many times; and last of all, he hoped to get the head of a seven-pronged buck, something that in all his hunting before he had never been able to secure for his collection. He strode away, and in less than half an hour had begun to work things to suit the conditions of the hunt. The wind had changed materially from the preceding day, and was now coming out of the northwest. This allowed Felix a chance to head in a northerly direction, which was just what he wanted; because it gave him the option of covering ground which Tom had not touched in his little hunt. Now he was moving cautiously along, eyes and ears on the alert; for his chum had warned him that in all probability the first thing he would know concerning the presence of a deer would be when he heard it jump hurriedly to its feet in some thicket, and then catch a glimpse of its brown side as it leaped wildly away. And Felix, being a clever snap-shot with his favorite gun, was on the watch ready to do himself credit. Of course, even the best of hunters may make a poor shot at times, since when a deer plunges madly through woods and brush there is no certainty for aim; but he believed that if the chances gave him half a show he would make a success of his little excursion. A more cautious or experienced lad than Felix would of course have taken more pains to note the lay of the land, and its other features, calculated to prove of more or less value to him later on in case he got his bearings mixed. But he was buoyant and indifferent; besides, it happened that he had lately discovered certain tracks that held his interest, to the exclusion of all such minor things as the possibility of his getting lost. These hoof prints had certainly been made by a deer of unusual size, a fact he viewed with exultation, since it told him that undoubtedly here was the very buck for which he had long been looking, and whose antlered head he began to hope was to grace the wall of his den at home. And as he moved along he registered a silent vow that he would let nothing come in the way to interfere with the success of his undertaking, should he only have the good fortune to come up with his quarry. Felix could not tell exactly how old the tracks were. He saw by several signs, however, that they had been made since early morning, since in places they had broken down the partly frozen earth. He was trusting partly to luck that the deer might not be miles away from him just then. If he had followed the usual custom of his kind he had lain down during the middle of the day, when the sun was warm, and might be feeding by this time. An hour passed away, and Felix was just as eagerly tramping along with his eyes fixed upon those tracks as when he first started. If there was one trait young Edmondson possessed that cropped out frequently, it was his stubbornness, once his mind was made up; no matter what difficulties loomed up ahead, that were calculated to dismay the ordinary fellow, he would not be deterred. By now he had covered fully twice the distance from the camp that he had intended to do; for instead of sweeping around, and making a half circle, he was keeping almost straight on, even though the trail zigzagged at times. Even Felix, without the extended experience in tracking which his companion possessed, could tell that he was gaining on the deer, which had stopped to browse from time to time, when some tempting bit of green grass was come upon in small glades under the heavy timber growth. This kept his excitement at fever height. What mattered it if he did not get back to camp that night; he had made ample preparations for spending a short period alone under the trees; and in fact was not wholly averse to trying how it felt to be making a bivouac in that Wyoming wilderness, quite by himself; for Felix was always seeking new and novel sensations, and he could not remember ever camping in solitary state in all his life. At any rate Felix gave promise of some day making a splendid trailer; since the prime requisite to success along this line is stick-at-it-iveness, such as marks the wolf following the deer through day and night, until finally he wearies his intended quarry, and brings it to bay. The tracks now looked much fresher than when he started to follow them. He began to hope that he might come suddenly upon his game in some quiet nook; and hence his eager finger toyed nervously with the trigger, as he kept pushing ahead. And just as he had anticipated many a time, the first thing he heard was a loud snort. Then up jumped a buck of such splendid proportions that Felix was thrilled doubly by the apparition. Nevertheless, he did not lose his head, as many boys would have done under similar circumstances; but as the big beast leaped away, the Marlin repeater was flung up to the young hunter's shoulder, and its sharp report instantly followed. With a crash the deer went down in a heap; but after a wild scramble, seemed able to get upon its feet again, proving that the first shot had failed to effect a fatal wound. Felix naturally expected to see the animal go off with frantic bounds, and was prepared to send several shots after him, in the hope of bringing him down with a lucky bullet; but he did not calculate what a painful wound might accomplish in arousing the combative spirit and fury in an old buck. To his intense amazement and consternation, the animal, while "bounding" all right, headed directly toward him, instead of away. This surprising fact must have disconcerted the young Nimrod a trifle, at least, as it has many a veteran marksman under similar conditions; at least it caused him to aim badly; so that although he pulled trigger and the gun spoke, the advancing animal did not seem to swerve from the direct course he had taken in starting, and which if pursued, would bring him swooping down upon the boy. Now Felix had heard Tom tell about the far from amiable qualities shown by these same hermit bucks, when aroused, and enraged by wounds; and how dangerous a charge on the part of one might prove. He even noted that the antlers were much larger than the coveted seven-prongs upon which he had set his mind and hopes; and indeed just at that moment they must have appeared to his excited imagination about five feet long, and each prong threatening to do him a tremendous amount of harm if it came in contact with his person. Felix rejoiced in the fact that he was in the neighborhood of a good-sized tree, behind which he could take immediate shelter, for the charging animal was so close upon him that he had no chance to shoot for a third time. And it was with considerable activity and eagerness that the young Nimrod gave a leap to one side, and placed the tree-trunk between; but he clung with a desperate clutch to his rifle, knowing instinctively that sooner or later this was the only thing that could rid him of the implacable foe that his shots had aroused to such fury. And then began a merry chase around that tree, with the wounded buck trying all he knew how to reach the fleeing hunter with those terrible antlers, which Felix had coveted so much; it began to look just then as though he might make their acquaintance in a fashion he had never dreamed possible. Of course the boy had only part of the distance to cover that the deer required, in order to pass around the large trunk; but he was compelled to do this so many times, and kept going at such constant whirlwind speed that presently it began to cause Felix to puff a little; while to his alarm the raging beast seemed capable of keeping the chase up indefinitely, despite the wound in his shoulder, which Felix noted was bleeding considerably. This fact warned Felix that he had better get busy, and think up some new line of tactics, if he hoped to come out of the scrape with flying colors, for he certainly could not gallop, or even slide, around that tree as he had been doing now for ten minutes, much longer. The buck was desperately in earnest, and several times, came near impaling the boy with his antlers; so that Felix found himself kept busy between rushes in avoiding these dangerous attacks. His attention being taken up just then with trying to work the mechanism of his rifle, in the hope of being able to put another bit of lead into the anatomy of his pursuer, possibly he failed to note just where he was stepping, for suddenly Felix tripped over some object, and fell just in the path of the swooping buck! The rifle was twisted from his hands as he tried to save himself, and dropped far beyond his reach. As he tried to squirm out of the way of the charging buck, he felt a thrill of horror when the antlers of the beast were thrust under him, just missing his flesh, as it were, by an inch. Before he could think twice, he was raised in the air by a sudden upward movement of the deer's head; and then went sailing swiftly through space, with his arms and legs flying in four separate directions. Just how high he really did go Felix never knew, though he often pondered over the matter with considerable amusement, and wished some ambitious photographer might have been present with his little snap-shot camera to take the picture, for his edification in future days. At any rate, he felt his progress checked by the branches of the tree under which he happened to be at the time; and with an involuntary movement, for thinking was positively out of the question at that moment, he instantly threw out both hands, his one idea being to clutch something that would prevent his falling back upon those cruel looking antlers of the wounded buck. Fortune was kind enough to allow Felix to fasten to a friendly limb, and hold on tenaciously so that after a little struggle he found himself astride the same, and looking down in mingled astonishment and satisfaction on the chagrined buck below. The furious animal seemed surprised that the object of his sudden hatred should decline to drop back again, to be gored and trampled upon, in order to satisfy the rampant spirit of revenge that was now wholly dominating the buck's actions. He gave positive evidence of his humor by leaping upward again and again as if in hopes of reaching the panting lad, who sat there just out of range; though once the sweeping antlers managed to touch the dangling foot of the hunter, causing Felix to experience an involuntary thrill of apprehension, as he snatched his leg hastily away. Then by slow degrees the ludicrous nature of his predicament dawned upon Felix, and leaning back he laughed long and heartily; this only after he had anxiously felt of his ribs and limbs, to make positive that nothing beyond a few minor contusions and bruises had resulted from this heaving act of the animal in causing him to take an unexpected aerial flight. After that he amused himself in addressing the animal, snorting and prancing below, calling him many sarcastic names that might have wounded the buck's self respect, could he but have understood. But the stubborn deer seemed bent upon only one thing, which was to visit his wrath upon the object of his hatred, or at least keep him treed, if it took him all night. When another hour had passed without the beast showing the slightest inclination of quitting his post, Felix gave over his playful mood, and began to survey the situation in a more serious light. Why, the stubborn old chap was apt to keep up his vigil all night; and even then some. While the boy might be able to maintain his position among the branches of the tree that length of time without great difficulty, Felix considered the possibility of having to remain there inactive during a chilly night, with anything but pleasure. Thoughts of a cozy campfire taunted him, and urged him on to devise some method of outwitting the old buck. What could he do to frighten the beast away? Apparently Mr. Buck was not one to be easily scared; and unless heroic measures were adopted, the chances of his occupying that elevated position until at least dawn, seemed excellent. Felix cudgeled his brains, endeavoring to recall anything he had ever heard or read covering this strange ground. Of course his first thought and expectation lay in the direction of his rifle; for if so be he could only get this valuable asset in his grasp, it would soon be goodbye to his tormentor. Then he remembered that there was also another method of frightening the buck away, if only he could apply it. This consisted of taking some powder from several of the cartridges belonging to his gun, which still reposed in his belt, moistening it until it had the consistency of paste; then allowing it to partly dry; but while still in a soft condition thrusting a number of pins into the ball, with the points sticking out like the quills on the back of the "fretful porcupine." Watching his opportunity, he would have to make a skillful cast, after first applying a lighted match to this boyish idea of a "spit-devil," and fasten it to the back of the jumping deer. Rendered frantic by the pain, and fright, the animal would of course dash madly away, and leave the prisoner of the tree a chance to descend at his leisure. This latter scheme was very alluring in the eyes of Felix, in that it would relieve him of his persistent enemy; but at the same time he remembered that he wanted that same buck's antlers, and more than ever now, since they had given him the strangest free ride of all his experience; and letting him get away was not at all to his taste. Then again, not being an experienced bull fighter, expert in tossing the ribbon-bedecked burrs that fasten to the sides of a bull in the ring, and make him ready for the sacrifice of the matador's sword, Felix doubted his ability to land his projectile upon the back of the buck at just the right second, and make it stick there long enough to frighten the valiant old fellow. On the whole, he concluded to attempt the other plan, which had to do with the recovery of his precious rifle. To accomplish this it was first necessary to produce some cord, and a hook; and then do some fishing for the weapon; all the while the buck must be watching his labors, with a possibility of defeating his efforts just when success seemed assured. Fortunately Felix had the cord, all right; and in that wonderful little ditty bag, which Tom had taught him to always carry, there turned out to be a solitary fish-hook; though what use Felix had intended putting it to, was a problem which he could hardly have answered, had the question been asked. He also hung a little weight upon the cord, to properly balance it, and allow of better angling. Everything being ready, Felix crawled out on a limb where he would be just above the coveted rifle. The watchful buck noted his movements with no doubt considerable curiosity; and even followed below, shaking his antlered head from time to time, as if to warn the treed hunter what he must expect if he should slip from his hold, and fall to the ground, an accident Felix did not mean to have happen if he knew it. The boy saw that if he commenced work now, the deer might frustrate all his efforts by entangling the line in his horns, and jerking it from his hands; so he settled down, as if to locate there permanently on that new limb. Presently, as if reassured by his actions that there was nothing to be feared from the hunter, the deer began to move restlessly around, stopping now and then to look up questioningly; it seemed as though the beast had an idea he might thus coax his enemy to descend; for his manner was as plain an invitation as anything Felix had ever seen; but the boy failed to take advantage of it, continuing his labor of allowing the line to drop nearer and nearer the gun. It was quite an exciting moment for the boy when the hook finally landed. CHAPTER VIII PLENTY OF TROUBLE Felix found it a more difficult task, getting that hook fastened in the trigger guard of the rifle, than ever he had dreamed could be possible. A dozen times he thought he had accomplished the feat, only to have the cord twirl, and the tricky hook double upon itself; so that his "bite" turned out to be a mere "nibble," altogether unsatisfactory in results. But Felix would never give over, and kept at his task with a grim determination that was, in fact, born of desperation; since he could think of no other way whereby a cold night in that tree might be avoided. Finally success came to crown his efforts, and he actually felt the "pull" of the rifle's weight, when he tightened the cord. The suspicious buck, attracted by the movement of the ascending rifle, started to advance in that direction, as if bent upon investigating this new feature of the game; so that Felix, in sudden fear lest his little trick might be spoiled just when it promised a golden success, had to make a quick ascension. When his angry four-footed foe made a vicious leap forward and upward, as if bent upon sending the swinging gun a dozen yards away, the boy's heart seemed to be almost in his mouth with the suspense; but as the old saying has it, "a miss is as good as a mile," and the buck failed to strike the object of his sudden new animosity, though coming perilously near it. When his eager fingers clutched the precious Marlin, Felix felt like giving vent to a shout of joy. He knew now that the game lay safely in his hands; and had the old buck been as wise as he was savage, he would have lost not a second in trotting away from that dangerous vicinity; but unaware of his new peril he only started a new series of furious jumps in the air, in the futile endeavor to strike the dangling legs of his tantalizing human foe. At another time Felix might have allowed himself to feel a little compunction about taking the life of such a valiant old fellow; but his sides still ached from the rough experience he had passed through, and it was absolutely necessary that he clear the way to his descent from that tree. So he quietly waited until he had a chance to get in a death shot, and glancing along the matted top of his rifle barrel, he pulled the trigger. Then the report sounded, the gallant buck went over in a heap; there was no wild leap into the air as so frequently happens when a deer receives its fatal hurt; but the buck just seemed to crumple up, and drop dejectedly in his tracks, as if to prove that he had kept up the fight to the bitter end. Then Felix came down from the tree that he had never climbed; which queer feat few people could duplicate, in even a varied experience. He already knew that, as night was now at hand, he would have to make camp there in the wilderness; so that at least it was some consolation to know that he need not starve, with all that fresh meat ready at his hand; since he had in the buck, tough eating though he might prove, sufficient food for any length of time. Felix immediately set about making ready for the night, after bleeding the dead deer--fuel was hastily gathered, and a rude temporary shelter erected, after the way he had seen it done by Adirondack guides, and called a "lean-to." This was fashioned out of boughs that he found handy, and which would at least keep off most of the cold, penetrating north wind, as well as snow, should this last fall during the night. In front of this shelter he built his fire; and once its cheery presence came to bolster up his courage, Felix felt no anxiety concerning his experience. In the words of the immortal wandering Indian, he could say when rescued: "Injun no lost--wigwam lost--Injun _here_!" for he felt that it would prove an easy task on the morrow to take the back trail, loaded with the spoils of the chase, and by noon no doubt, bring up close to the camp under the big tree. Proudly he severed the head of the buck, with those grand antlers which would some fine day hang in his den at home. This he managed to hang from the limb of the tree, hoping thus to preserve it from any animal that might be attracted to the spot by the scent of fresh blood. Afterwards he meant to come with Tom, and manage in some fashion to "tote" that head back to camp, where with the aid of the Western boy he would no doubt be able to preserve it for mounting. After that he began to cut away some of the choice portions of the meat, and when the job was completed, he hung the balance that he cared to keep from the limb of the tree, encased in the hide of the old buck. Felix was feeling pretty hungry by now. Soon several generous slices of meat had been secured upon the points of splinters of wood the other ends of which he thrust into the ground, and inclined at such an angle that presently the venison began to sizzle under the influence of the red coals, and at last send out a very appetizing odor, calculated to make the hungry boy even more ravenous. The meat proved pretty tough, partly on account of the age of the animal; and also because of its not having been allowed to hang a certain length of time, as is always preferable in climates where the game will not easily spoil. When, however, a fellow has the real woods appetite, these minor things are ignored; and Felix munched away for half an hour in perfect content, until in the end he realized that he had had enough. After that there was nothing to be done but get ready to spend the night as comfortably as the circumstances allowed; indeed, after thinking it over, and what a lucky escape he had had from staying in that tree all night, hungry and cold, the boy felt that he had nothing to complain about. He had taken pains to gather an ample supply of firewood, and also made sure that the magazine of his gun was fully charged; so that when he got good and ready, he felt quite safe to lie down and sleep; knowing that in all probability he was sure to be up and down many times during that night, since camping entirely alone was in the line of a new experience for Felix. Nothing of any note occurred during the hours he spent there under his temporary shelter of an arbor; although he fancied that several times when he awoke, and got up to put more fuel on the fire, a sly bobcat must be prowling around, eager to steal some of the meat but deterred by the blaze; the presence of a human being possibly had also something to do with its lack of courage; for when day came nothing was missing. Breakfast, which was an exact repetition of supper, being disposed of, Felix began to figure on what course he should take in order to make a bee-line for the camp. He consulted his little compass, and sent several glances around him at the big mountains, that strangely enough seemed to encompass him about much more than he had dreamed possible, and gave him a puzzle to solve. So he decided upon his course, although with a lingering doubt that he might once more be about to enjoy an old experience in his career--that of losing himself. Half an hour later, with a pack upon his back containing all he could carry of the choice portions of the gallant buck, Felix started forth. He cast one backward look, filled with regret, at the antlered head of his prize, still secured to the limb of the tree; at least he hoped to return at some time in the near future and secure those horns for a trophy, even though it were not possible to preserve the head entire. Felix walked for half an hour, trying to keep as near to the course he had laid out as seemed possible. Really it was not such an easy proposition as he had at first calculated. Why was it he had so poor a sense of direction, he could not say? But he felt sure, that unless he improved very much in this respect, he could never hope to make a good woodsman like Tom was, for instance. Somehow, by this time, the boy began to lose a little of his former confidence. Things did not seem at all familiar, and he began to feel sure that he could not have come this way. Once more he consulted his compass, and tried to figure out which direction stood for home. He laughed at himself for feeling so uncertain. What a silly sensation this must be to a proud boy, to realize that he is actually all at sea in the woods, and cannot say for a certainty which way he ought to go. Felix laid out a new course, and made a fresh start. He was not at all discouraged as yet, and only looked on the thing in the light of a joke; just as he had his sailing through the air, to hang to the limb of the tree, after the buck had given him a rise in the world. Once he heard a shot ahead. This caused him to wonder whether it could be Tom, or some one else; and he soon decided that if his chum were anywhere near by he would be more apt to give the well known signal of three shots in order to let the wanderer know of his presence; when Felix would be expected to answer in kind. Tom had warned him several times to keep an eye out for certain vicious characters, said to be in hiding away up in this part of Wyoming--men who had once been honest guides, but drifted into bad ways; and having been known to kill game in the Yellowstone Park reservation, were being sought after by the authorities, who meant to make an example of them to deter others from doing likewise. He had understood that such men might not be averse to robbing and abusing a young chap who happened to cross their path; and so Felix, with this troublesome thought struggling in his brain, walked on in silence, looking cautiously to the right and to the left, as if he feared that he might suddenly run upon some kind of danger. Was that a groan he heard; or did some wild animal give vent to a sound? It seemed to come from the bushes over to his left; and as he stood stock-still, and listened, he once more heard the strange and doleful sound, which seemed to be half way between a groan and a grunt. Immediately Felix lowered his burden softly to the ground, and clutching his rifle in readiness for instant use, he walked slowly in that direction, scanning every foot as he thus advanced. Then he discovered a slight movement, as the sound again came to his ears; and realized that some one was sitting upon the ground, holding fast to his arm, as if in great distress and pain. The sight of red blood trickling between the bronzed fingers of the party told Felix that he had come upon the scene just in time to be very useful along his chosen line. Undoubtedly the dark-faced stranger had been badly injured by the accidental discharge of his own gun; which would account for the single shot Felix had heard. Without question the man was an Indian, perhaps a halfbreed; though he dressed pretty much as did any white man who spent much of his time in the wilderness; wearing corduroy trousers; and a blue flannel shirt, covered by a faded heavy jacket; while a greasy slouch hat lay upon the ground, where it had evidently fallen at the time he hurriedly dropped his gun. Felix hastened forward to reach the side of the suffering man, whose raven black locks he now saw were being touched with the frost of years. The prospect of a job along his favorite line caused the lad to quicken his steps; for all the professional instincts of his nature were aroused. The Indian seemed to maintain the usual stoicism of his race; though the pain and the weakness at times caused him to shut his teeth hard, in the effort to stifle the groan that tried to well forth. Any one could easily see that in this quarter at least the boy was quite at home, even though there might be a few things connected with woodcraft wherein he could blunder. He immediately took hold, examined the ugly gunshot wound that was bleeding so freely, in the fleshy part of the left arm, made a rude but effective tourniquet by twisting a stout stick in his handkerchief, which he had carefully knotted, so that the protuberance rested exactly on the artery; and in this fashion stopped the cut from bleeding. Then he bound it up as best he could, showing considerable skill in so doing. The old Indian did not utter a single word while all this was going on. He had shown considerable disappointment upon first seeing that the newcomer was only a mere lad; but presently his black eyes began to glitter with satisfaction, when he saw the business-like way in which Felix took hold of his job, and the astonishingly clever way in which he accomplished that which the other had in vain tried to do by working the wrong way. "There, my friend," said Felix, as he finished his job, "I guess you'll hold out now, until you get home. Listen, and I'll tell you just what must be done after that," and then he proceeded to explain in simple language what should follow his "first aid to the injured work;" to all of which the other listened gravely, with an occasional nod of his head, to indicate that he understood. "How far away do you live?" asked the young hunter, finally, wondering whether he had not better volunteer to accompany the wounded man home; though he understood that an Indian's pride would be terribly hurt by such a happening. For the first time the other spoke, and he proved to have an excellent command of English, quite surprising the boy. It told that he was accustomed to associating with the whites, and that in all probability he had served as guide to many a party of bighorn hunters from the East, as Felix suspected. "Not far away--can get to cabin all right now. Charley Crow never forget this. Never before pull gun through bushes by muzzle--much fool this time, serve right if head 'stead of arm get bullet. Worst of all is shame of telling my people, who will say Charley Crow getting too old go on hunt any more; better stay home and dry venison. But I go now on back trail; no need any that you come 'long. Tell me name of Little Doctor, so I may let my people know what friend they have. Some day mabbe my turn--you wait. Now shake hands, and say goodbye. Charley Crow him get to cabin all right, you never be 'fraid." So Felix gladly told him who he was, and how, with a chum, he had come to spend some weeks hunting, and doing a little trapping, in the foot-hills of the Rockies. In speaking of Tom Tucker he happened to mention the name of Old Sol; and immediately the brown face of the old halfbreed lighted up. "Known Old Sol right well. Here one year, we come this way, and always good friend Charley Crow. Much glad meet him Tom. Some day mabbe drop in see same. If need help, come to cabin under shadow of yonder peak, and my boys they glad do you good turn, because me, Charley Crow, still head of house! Goodbye!" He drew himself up proudly, regardless of the pain his wound must be causing him; and the lad could see that despite his evident age, the well-known halfbreed was as straight as any pine that ever grew in the Northland. Then he stalked away, leaving Felix to look after himself, and wonder if Fate had any further adventures in store for him during his little outing. He did not doubt in the least but that so vigorous a man could easily reach the home cabin which, in company with his family, he must be occupying for a winter's campaign among the fur-bearing animals that frequented the district. At the same time it did begin to look as though there might be a storm in prospect, as the heavens had clouded over, and an occasional snow-flake drifted down lazily, as though they might be reckoned ambassadors sent to herald the coming of the first real snow fall of the season. So Felix once more lifted his pack to his back, and again started in the direction he believed the camp to be. When it was too late he bitterly regretted that he had not also swallowed his pride, and asked Charley Crow the right trail that would take him to the cabin of Old Sol. He had no positive sense of certainty as to whether his course were the right one; and for all he knew, with the mountains apparently turned around in his mind, he might even now be heading in the wrong direction. The lad presently began to realize that his load was beginning to tell, for he had really attempted to carry off too much of the venison in the desire to stock the camp for some time to come. Twice he found it convenient to halt, and rest up a bit; when he once more took up the tramp with a shade of reluctance, and half a notion to divide the spoils. It was while he was resting the second time that he caught a strange sound that gave him quite a thrill. The baying could only proceed from a pack of hounds chasing a fleeing deer! Felix was troubled a little, and for a very good reason. In talking about those lawless guides who had been expelled from Yellowstone Park by the Government authorities, Tom Tucker had incidentally informed him that one of their favorite tricks was to keep several deer dogs, with which they were accustomed to having regular old fashioned chases, such as used to be frequent in the Adirondacks in his native State before the anti-hounding law was passed and enforced, making it a crime to use dogs for such a purpose. He hoped that the chase would lead away from him, as he certainly did not want to make the acquaintance of these rough men, against whom Tom Tucker had warned him more than a few times. Listening carefully as the snapping and baying sounded constantly louder, Felix presently concluded that the animals were certainly heading his way, and approaching rapidly. He gritted his teeth with a grim determination to defend himself if beset by the hound pack; and picked up his rifle from the ground, where he had laid it when resting. At least he was not kept long in suspense. Inside of three minutes he discovered something moving rapidly through the bushes, and almost immediately saw that it was a noble buck, with its tongue lolling from its mouth, and giving other evidences of having been chased hither and thither for hours by the hounds, that doubtless had been educated, just like a rabbit dog Felix owned, to bring the tired animal back to where the hunters waited. Somehow the sight of that tortured buck gave Felix a wave of disgust. He seemed to feel an immediate hope that it would escape from the game butchers who used so unfair a mode for securing their quarry. Yes, Felix, in the heat of his anger, even went so far as to mentally express a hope that one of the owners of the pack--who must be near by, because he had plainly heard a shout, as of exultation over the possible ending of the chase--would fall into the clutches of the keepers of the great Government game reservation, said to be on the lookout for them as transgressors of the law. To his astonishment the pursued buck suddenly changed its course a little, and headed almost directly toward the spot where Felix was standing, watching the affair with considerable interest. It actually seemed to the excited boy as though the despairing deer had turned toward him, in a last frantic hope that he might be merciful, and stretch out a hand to give the help that was elsewhere denied; though in all probability the deer never noticed his motionless figure standing there, as it sprang past, and vanished in the thick scrub beyond. The pack of hounds was now in full sight, racing eagerly along, yapping, and giving tongue after the manner of their kind when they are close on the fleeing quarry. They looked about as fierce and ugly as so many wolves might have been, since the old instinct had been aroused in them by the chase. For the time being they had gone back once more to the state of the primal beast in pursuit of the prey so necessary to continued existence, as a survival of the fittest. Felix shuddered as he saw their foam-flecked mouths, from which the red tongues lolled. There were just three of the dogs, all told, and Felix drew back the hammer of his Marlin, not liking the looks of the aroused beasts, and suspecting that in their present condition they might not hesitate to attack a boy, under the impression that as the trail led almost directly toward him, he must have spirited away their intended prey, which they had chased so long. In that event there was just one thing Felix could do, which was to defend himself against the pack, no matter at what cost. CHAPTER IX ADRIFT IN THE SNOW FOREST Felix did not have much time to settle this question, for immediately the hounds swerved upon the trail, they must have caught sight of him, for there came an even more savage and vengeful tone to their baying; and leaving the scent, they plunged helter-skelter straight toward the standing figure of the young hunter. Perhaps the pack of meat at his feet aroused their instincts for food; Felix never knew. One look would be sufficient to tell what they meant to do. To Felix it became patent that, since running would not avail him in the least, he must either climb up a tree in a big hurry, or else defend himself; unless he meant to allow those savage beasts to drag him down, and mangle him shockingly, before their owners could reach the scene. The prospect was not to his liking, but he had made up his mind as to what his course should be; so he threw up his gun, with the full intention of settling one, or all of the dogs, unless something intervened. He heard a loud shout as he did so, from some little distance away; but it was impossible to tell whether the call was intended as a warning to him not to fire on the ferocious pack; or an endeavor to recall the hounds; but no matter, it was a wasted effort, since Felix could not hold back his fire, his very life being in peril. Remembering the serious consequences that had followed his hasty shot at the big buck, Felix was a little more careful when pressing the trigger of his repeating rifle. In return he had the satisfaction of seeing the leading hound roll over immediately after he fired. Calmly the boy threw out the empty cartridge, and sent another into the firing chamber. Had he been a volunteer upon parade, and firing at an inanimate target, he could not have gone through the manoeuvre with more precision and exactness. Consequently, the gun, being made by the most skillful workmen, did its duty faithfully, as it always will when properly handled; and in about two winks of an eye Felix stood there, ready to repeat his performance, in case the necessity awaited. Neither of the other two dogs had taken the least warning from the fate that had overtaken their companion. If anything, they tried to increase their speed in chasing toward the boy who stood there as though defying them to come on, though of course this was hardly the thought animating the actions of Felix. "All right; you will have it, then!" he muttered, as his eye glanced along the matted barrel; and then his forefinger ever so slightly touched the willing trigger, at which there was a second sharp report. Dog Number Two proceeded to whirl around, leaping up in the air, and in many ways showing he had received a dose that was likely to put him forever out of the running. Felix put him immediately away from his mind. There was one more, and all the danger now centered in that remaining beast. By this time the leaping dog was fearfully close to him, and coming with unabated speed that proved him a stayer, after such a long chase. He presented a really terrifying aspect, with the foam dribbling from his open jaws; the hair on his short neck standing on end like bristles; and his eyes seeming to be bloodshot through the heat and excitement of the long pursuit. Still, Felix did not seem to be rattled even a little bit, a fact that caused him to feel considerable wonder, as well as satisfaction, later on, when reviewing all the circumstances connected with the momentous occasion. He had his gun up to his shoulder with pretty much the confidence of a veteran Nimrod, meeting the charge of an old rogue elephant, or a wounded tiger, in the East Indian jungles. When the dog was not more than twenty feet away, he pressed the trigger. His confidence was well placed, it seemed, for his ball must have entered the brain of the third and last hound; which whirled half way around, to fall in a heap; staggered to his feet, took several tottering steps forward, still strong in his overmastering impulse, even in death, and then once more dropped, never to rise again. The lad had hardly dared hope to meet with such remarkable success in such an adventure, yet there were the three hounds lying on the ground--Felix had doubtless saved the poor hunted buck from destruction; but at what cost to himself? Loud curses could be heard, drawing rapidly closer; and it was evident that the owners of the pack would presently burst upon the scene, filled with fury at the fate of their hounds. Most young fellows might have deemed discretion the better part of valor, and abandoning the meat, made themselves scarce as soon as possible; taking to their heels, with but one thought in view, and that to leave the immediate neighborhood as speedily as possible. That might have been the wisest plan, too, considering all things; but somehow Felix Edmondson was too proud to give in to this impulse. He was still flushed with the success of his battle; and also with indignation toward those who would resort to such unsportsmanlike methods for securing game. Besides, would he not have been torn to pieces by the fierce animals, only for his ability to handle that faithful rifle? So Felix simply took a look at his gun, to make sure that it was ready for use, slipping in several more cartridges where they would give a good account of themselves, and awaited the coming of the fuming owners of the defunct pack. They proved to be two in number, and at sight of them Felix realized that his worst fears were about to be realized, in that he was face to face with a pair of the most notorious characters in the whole region--the descriptions tallied exactly, even to the single eye of Abe Cozzins; and the flaming red beard of Perley Kline. In times past these men had served as guides, and possibly skillful ones too, because they were born woodsmen; but the love of liquor had dulled their sense of honesty, and after a time they began to gain a reputation for being light fingered, valuables disappearing mysteriously from camps where they had charge. By degrees, then, they lost all chance for securing regular employment, since gentlemen coming from the East for big game shooting, liked to feel that they could depend fully on the guide, in whose hands they entrusted their fortunes, even their lives, at times. Consequently Cozzins and Kline, being unemployed most of the time, began to hunt game illegally within the confines of Yellowstone Park; which, coming to the attention of the authorities, always keen to punish anything of this sort, the men were really being looked for, far and wide, and in a measure found themselves in the place of the hunted. It was this unwholesome looking couple who now strode angrily up to young Edmondson, with fury blazing in their eyes. Felix held his rifle in such a manner that, had they shown a disposition to attack him, he could have defended himself, and treated them to a dose of the same medicine he had handed out to their dogs. "Hold hard, there!" he remarked, sharply; "you've come close enough. Now say what you want from there!" The two rough men, while evidently astonished to find themselves spoken to in this strain, understanding that the young fellow who could stand there and deliberately knock over three savage hounds in succession was not one to be easily daunted, pulled up, and divided their scowling glances between the hunter and the dead dogs, for the last animal had ceased to make a movement by now. "Say, what d'ye mean ashootin' our dawgs thataways?" spluttered the fellow who had only one eye, though that was now glaring with a fierceness equal to half a dozen ordinary optics; he also punctuated his words with a variety of forcible exclamations, which there is no necessity for repeating, though doubtless Abe Cozzins imagined they added vim and picturesqueness to his query, and might help awe the boy. "I was minding my own business when they started to attack me, with murder in their eyes. If I hadn't shot I'd have been torn to pieces. Everybody has a right to defend himself. If I hadn't happened to have a repeating rifle of the best make to fall back on, and knew how to use it, there'd have been murder done; and you'd have to stand the blame. I'm sorry, now, I had to kill the poor brutes, for they hardly knew what they were doing. I reckon the whole blame lies with their owners." Bold words these, from a young fellow not yet fully grown, and addressed to two of the wildest, most reckless spirits in all Wyoming; perhaps those men could not remember having been taken so to task for many a day; and in surprise they exchanged dubious glances, and then looked hastily and uneasily around, as though half expecting that Felix must be backed up by half a dozen comrades. Seeing no signs of such an enemy, however, they became themselves again, though far too tricky to throw off the mask wholly, while that lad stood by his gun, and seemed ready to try conclusions with them. Felix should have known that they were just as furious as ever under the surface; but then he was not experienced in such matters, and judged other people more or less by his own feelings. He saw them talking together in low tones; after which they allowed their dark faces to take on a more affable look, as they once more turned toward him. "Say, younker," commenced Abe Cozzins, in a whining voice, "we ain't got no grudge aginst yuh for what yuh done. Them dawgs was some valuable tuh us, sure, but if so be they pestered yuh, thar was on'y one thing yuh could do; an' we reckons yuh done thet good an' hard. The pesky critters broke away from us, an' we was atryin' tuh git holt o' 'em agin, when this hyar thing happened. They's no reason we should hold hard feelin's aginst yuh fur defendin' yerself aginst 'em; anybody'd a done the same. But it comes mighty hard on two pore guides outen a job; fur yuh see, we was atakin' of them dawgs tuh Colonel Walpole over at ther reservation, who'd promised tuh buy 'em off us, tuh run down fellows as gits too gay ashootin' up the game in ther Park." Abe put on a piteous face while telling this hastily constructed yarn; and altogether he did succeed in disarming the suspicions of Felix, even though the boy might still consider that the two men were hard characters. Felix felt sorry at once. "If that's so I don't mind chipping in, and giving you something to help out. Perhaps it wasn't your fault, then, that the dogs were loose; and I've heard of Colonel Walpole, too. Here's ten dollars on account; and if you choose to leave me an address, I might send you another bill when I get back home." Felix spoke from the depths of a frank and honest heart. He felt that he had unwittingly been the cause of depriving these men of something they doubtless valued highly; and so far as he could within reason make amends, Felix was willing to settle the claim, unjust though it might be. The two men exchanged looks, and actually grinned, as though with pleasure; after which Cozzins advanced with extended hand, at the same time talking volubly, evidently with the intention of taking the boy off his guard, though Felix did not suspect such a thing. "Say, that's purty white in yuh, stranger. 'Taint many fellers as'd do sech a nice job as thet, arter the dawgs'd broke loose on 'em. Me an' my pal is much obliged, and yuh bet we'll never furgit sech kindness. 'Taint often we sees a tenner these hard times. Now, if so be we kin do anything in return, why--take thet, ye young cub!" and of a sudden, catching Felix off his guard, he struck him a vicious blow in the face, and at the same instant snatched the rifle out of his hands. The boy staggered back, and would have fallen, only for the support of a tree. For half a dozen seconds he stood there, staring at the brutal ruffian, now laughing, and examining the captured repeating rifle; while the blood trickled down his cheek, where the heavy and hard knuckles of the man had bruised and broken the skin. Then, as if realizing the dastardly and cowardly nature of the attack upon him, even while he was in the act of generously compensating them for having killed their dogs, Felix became wild with anger. Uttering a scream he started to leap at Cozzins, reckless as to the consequences, and only desirous of returning that foul blow. The man swung the rifle up so as to cover the advancing lad; though it may be deemed doubtful whether he would have fired under any provocation, since they were already two against one; and then there was always a possibility that the boy might be connected with those grim guardians of the Park, whose advent on the scene Abe and his comrade dreaded more than they would be willing to confess. Perley Kline, however, sprang in between, throwing aside the barrel of the gun, and giving Felix a push that sent him headlong to the grim ground, his head striking with such force that for a brief time he actually lost all consciousness of what was going on. He felt hands searching his person, and knew that the rascals were actually turning to downright robbery in their extremity; though truth to tell, possibly this was not the first time they had had their hands in the pockets of others who happened to be asleep. Then they seemed to consult in low tones, after which each of them gave the lad a contemptuous kick, as if to vent their spleen further, in order to cancel the debt they thought he owed them on account of the slaughter of their trained dogs. As Felix lay there in a half conscious condition, smarting from his wounds, he realized that they had gone off, after stripping him of everything of value he possessed, and even taking the pack of venison he had "toted" over such a weary distance, up to that time. Felix, still full of grit, attempted to follow them, after staggering to his feet; but really he found himself so weak from his injuries that his head began to fairly swim, and he had to drop down on a friendly log before going twenty paces. He heard a derisive laugh that made him groan with disgust over his inability to do anything; then the sound of footsteps grew fainter, and he knew that he had been left alone in the heart of the wilderness, with no weapon for self defense, or to be used in an effort to procure the means of continued existence, in case he could not find the camp. This, however, sank into insignificance beside the ignominy of those kicks; and his proud young soul writhed under the memory of the insult; while he mentally registered a vow to make those two ruffians pay dearly for the experience, sooner or later, as the chance arose. By slow degrees he began to get back his strength, and could think seriously concerning his next step. At first he burned with the desire to try and follow after those scoundrels, and in some way manage to recover all they had taken from him; but second thought convinced him that such a task was far beyond his capacity in his present helpless condition; even supposing he could follow successfully, which was extremely doubtful, how could he hold two armed men up, and make them disgorge? No, it would surely be better for him to conserve his powers in every way possible, and try to effect a junction with his chum; when they could talk it over, and decide what ought to be done in order to turn the tables on Cozzins and Kline. The fact that he was now without food seemed to give Felix more cause for concern than anything else. The thieves had confiscated the contents of the little knapsack he had carried with him, or rather ditty bag; all he found of any value was a lone match that seemed to have escaped the hasty search of the men; and in his eyes this assumed an importance all out of proportion to its size. Felix believed that if only he could follow his back trail, and reach the tree where his desperate encounter with the wounded buck had taken place, he would find plenty of meat to last him many days; and with that last precious match he could start a fire that he would not allow to go out; so that here he might camp until such time as Tom came hunting for him. This, then, was the sensible programme that finally took possession of the boy; although it was with considerable disappointment he gave up all idea of following after the two men, seeking revenge because of their cowardly conduct. Every time Felix put a hand up to his bruised cheek he gritted his teeth, and in imagination saw the rogues brought to account through his instrumentality; and it was surprising how much satisfaction such a pleasing prospect gave him. Quitting the vicinity of the three dead dogs that had been left where they lay by their late masters, he started to follow his back trail, with all the skill he was capable of calling to his assistance. This was, of course, something he had never dreamed of doing half an hour previously; but all the same, he was glad to see he had somehow managed to leave such a plain series of tracks, burdened with the meat pack as he had been, that there promised to be little trouble in following the trail, if only the snow held off. That began to worry him now; what if a bitterly cold storm should break while he was wandering about in the wilderness, with only a single match between himself and freezing to death? The idea proved so very unpleasant that it urged him to make better time in following his back trail; and yet when he remembered how long he had been walking since starting forth after breakfast; and that it must take him at least the same length of time to again cover the ground, Felix began to fear he was in for the worst experience of all. However, the lad was full of grit, and could not be made to easily lie down when trouble threatened; he would meet it face to face. When almost an hour had passed, and he reckoned that he was possibly half way back to the tree that had been a haven of refuge to him in that fight with the wounded buck, he took heart of grace, and hope began to rise stronger in his breast; but only for a brief space of time. Then he took notice of the fact that the lazy flakes were beginning to descend more thickly and it began to look as though the air would soon be filled with the feathered harbingers of coming winter, until he could not see ten feet away. The remembrance of that single match gave him a strange sense of comfort, small item that it might be reckoned. What did cause him to fret, though, was the possibility of the ground soon being so covered with the snow that he could no longer find his own late trail, and must give over the hope of reaching supplies under the big tree. Five minutes later and he realized that this condition really faced him, since he was now utterly unable to discern the faintest trace of his footprints; while around him stretched the vast woods, each quarter looking the same in the rapidly descending snow. He had taken his bearings after a fashion, and continued to stumble along for a little while, in the hope that he might by good luck run across the tree in which he had fastened the antlered head of the buck. Finally Felix realized the hopelessness of his hunt, and determined to make a camp, where he could hold out the best way possible against cold and hunger. Imagine his utter dismay when he discovered that in some strange manner his little ditty bag, containing that one precious match, must have been detached by some officious branch, when he was making his way along. At least, it had utterly disappeared, and he was now facing a condition rendered doubly bad on account of the increasing cold which deemed to come with the snow. CHAPTER X TURNING THE TABLES The discovery that he had now no possible means for fighting the cold, that was sure to increase as the day wore on and night approached, gave Felix a rude shock. He faced a situation that might prove very serious indeed; and it was little wonder that he instituted an eager search of all his pockets, in the faint hope that he might in some way manage to find just one fugitive match that had escaped the spoilers, and in the end prove, his salvation. Only keen disappointment rewarded his efforts; and after going three times over every pocket, he was forced to give it up with a grunt of disgust. All thought of trying to find the tree in which the venison hung now passed from his mind; and he devoted his efforts to searching for some friendly hollow, where he could make a shelter in some rude fashion against the night that would come after a while, for it must by now be about the middle of the short day. What would he not have been willing to pay for a little box of safety matches, that sell for a penny in town? But he might as well wish for the moon; as one was as easy to secure as the other, just then. So he pushed on, staggering through the increasing snow fall. When he was indifferent to such a thing, he had noted several splendid places where he might have found decent shelter, and built up a refuge against the storm; but now that the need had arisen, Fate seemed to take an especial delight in baffling him, for, look as he would, he did not come across anything that appealed to his fancy. Rendered desperate at length, when he found his strength giving out on account of his unusual exertions during the two days, and the rough treatment he had received both from the wounded buck and the angry desperadoes, Felix finally made up his mind that he could wait no longer for what he wanted, but must make a virtue of necessity, and take what offered. So, coming across a tree that had fallen during some violent wind storm, he saw that when the roots had been torn up quite a large patch of earth had come along with them. The hollow back of this barrier would prove a very good refuge against the storm, for it happened to face in the best possible way. Here in this hole, then, he must burrow, doing the best he knew how to hide from the wind that blew the snow with such violence. Felix set about carrying out this idea without further loss of time. Of course it was but an apology of a den after all; though much better than remaining out where the cold wind had a sweep at him. Here he settled down to pass the balance of that dreary afternoon, which he remembered must be followed by a night he was not soon apt to forget. Bitter regrets swept over him from time to time, as he lay there huddled in a heap. Never again would he be caught so easily by soft words, when he ought to know these were only a mask to hide treacherous work. And then, after taking himself to task in this manner, most severely, Felix would recollect that even an experienced woodsman may make a mistake occasionally. Look at old Charley Crow, for instance, a man born and brought up in the wilderness, and accustomed to handling a gun from childhood; yet had he not been incautious enough to draw his rifle toward him, _muzzle first_, through some bushes, with the result that the weapon had been discharged, sending the bullet through the arm of the old halfbreed? Yes, some others besides greenhorns in the woods, make mistakes occasionally. Slowly that afternoon dragged on, and then came night, which Felix knew was apt to be the longest and most disagreeable of all his life, thus far. Little sleep came to the lost lad. In fact, he hardly dared lose himself, for fear lest he actually freeze to death; for although the temperature did not actually fall very low at any time, to his excited imagination this humble little storm was in the nature of such a blizzard as those which Tom had told him visited the Far Northwest every Winter, carrying death to many cattle that were caught without shelter. Every hour at least, Felix would crawl out of his shelter, to ascertain what the signs of promise might be with regard to the weather; and on such occasions he thought it the part of wisdom to exercise his limbs energetically; so as to keep his blood in circulation; and hence, upon creeping into his hole again, very like a fox, as he would grimly remark to himself, he was hardly in a condition to settle down. He could not tell what time it was for several reasons; in the first place he had no watch, for the ruffians had carried off his little dollar nickel contraption in conjunction with all his other effects; and even had this not been the case, without a match, how could he have seen the face in order to note the position of the hands? A woodsman would have known of several ways by means of which to tell about the time of night; but Felix was hardly up to such tricks, especially on a stormy night like this, when neither moon nor stars were visible. But one thing cheered him after a while; and this was the fact that the snow had ceased to fall when about three inches lay on the ground. Then, after all, things might not be quite so bad as he had begun to picture them, and he would not be snowed-in, destitute of food, and all means for securing warmth; why, there might even be a chance for finding the camp on the following day, if only he could keep his wits about him, and figure correctly as to his present position, so as to locate the direction where the cabin lay. When Felix had crawled out of his poor shelter for the seventh time, as he figured it, he began to look hopefully toward the quarter where according to his calculations the east must surely lie. Nor was he deceived, for he discovered to his great joy a very faint but positive sign that the sky was brightening, and this told that dawn must be near. As soon as it was fairly light, he left his shelter, which after his boyish fashion he had named Camp Shiver, and struck out in what he believed to be the proper direction. It was not very encouraging, however, starting on a long tramp hungry and cold; but Felix still had plenty of grit, and shutting his teeth hard, resolved to let nothing dismay him. Two hours later, and he found himself obliged to confess that his knowledge of woodcraft seemed at fault, when brought face to face with the difficulties to be encountered in a snow forest. He was really hopelessly bewildered, and could not give the slightest guess as to whether he should head north, south, east or west, in order to reach camp. The mountains loomed upon two sides, now, as though he had wandered somehow into a sort of pocket. He tried shouting now and then, though it seemed next to foolish to hope that any one could hear him, unless indeed it might prove to be the rough men with whom he had had his recent unhappy experience; so presently he stopped that. The cold no longer brought anxiety, for his exertions kept him from feeling this; but he was mighty hungry, and had visions of all the glorious dishes he and Tom had ever eaten in company in the past; somehow they seemed to arise before him, and make him groan with the empty feeling within. About this time Felix chanced to notice that he was almost under the shadow of a peculiar peak, which he remembered noticing before; and all at once it dawned on him that this was the very mountain Charley Crow had pointed to, when he declared that his cabin nestled at its base; and that if the Little Doctor chose to drop in there at any time, he would receive a royal Indian welcome. The very idea filled Felix with unutterable joy. Oh! if only he could run across that Indian cabin now, how readily would he throw aside all his pride, and accept whatever food they could give him; perhaps even securing a guide in addition who would take him back to the camp. And so, filled with a new ambition, he pushed ahead, his hopes revived once more. Through the branches of the trees, to which none of the snow had clung on account of the wind accompanying the storm, he could catch glimpses of the spur that extended out from the main mountain chain; and such progress did he make that in about an hour he fancied he smelled smoke in the air. After that it was not a difficult thing to follow the direction in which this came to him on the wind; until in the end he gave a shout, upon discovering a rude log cabin nestling under an over-hanging shelf of rock. It must certainly be the temporary home of Charley Crow and his family; and with renewed hopes Felix started forward on a half run, so eager was he to make sure that his eyes had not deceived him. Now he could see human beings moving about, and a couple of yellow mongrel curs started out with loud barks to meet him; but somehow he did not feel that they were dangerous, like those savage hounds that had been running the deer; and while only grasping a stout cudgel in his hand, Felix continued to advance. A couple of young Indians hurried after the dogs, calling roughly to them to behave; and Felix knew that he had found friends. He lost no time in explaining that he was nearly famished; whereat the two exchanged glances, and ranging alongside, took him by the arms, and assisted him to the cabin; for somehow, such was the effect of the change from despair to great joy, that a singular weakness seemed to grip the lad. He spoke the name of Charley Crow, and as if understanding what he wished to convey, they led him into the comfortable cabin, where the boy found himself face to face with the old halfbreed whom he had so gladly assisted in the woods. Charley Crow had his wounded arm done up in bandages, and was sitting in a rudely made but comfortable chair. At sight of Felix a broad smile of welcome came upon the bronzed face of the old guide. He held out his well hand, and greeted Felix warmly; indeed, there need be not the least fear but that every wish of the lost hunter would hardly be expressed before it was sure to be granted, if it lay in the power of these people. Upon learning that food was the first thing he wanted, Charley Crow spoke to his sons, and to his wife, who seemed to be a full blooded Shoshone squaw. Eager to do something to show their gratitude toward the Little Doctor, of whom they had heard so much since the home coming of the wounded man, the two well-grown sons darted from the cabin, doubtless to get food from a _cache_ in the open, where meat would keep fresh all winter, once it was frozen. Felix soon related what dire misfortune had befallen him some time after parting from the old guide; and the anger of Charley Crow was aroused toward the pair of precious scoundrels who had dared to do this thing. "They pass night not half mile away from here," he declared, "for my son Jo, he see same when he come in from his line of traps. He speak with these men, not wishing to make foes out of same; but when they ask him to stay at their fire, Jo, he no stop, for he know how they bad case. I promise you, my friend, all be return to you before this day it pass. But listen, that not all. Revenge you shall have for such kicks they give you. Not two mile away I know where is a camp of men from Park, who hunt for these Abe and Kline, I understand. When I learn about them I say to my sons, this is not business for us; let Mr. Harbison and his men find them. Now it is my affair. Make mind easy, for all will be well." Felix was delighted with this assurance, for he disliked the idea of having to pass the remainder of his vacation in the region of the Rockies without that fine repeating rifle, which he looked to obtain him other trophies of the chase, in the shape of a grizzly bear; and possibly a bighorn, strange acrobat of the mountain ledges. He was speedily placed before a bountiful breakfast, though since he had eaten nothing since that last meal under the big tree where the buck had fallen, he was at a loss to know what name to give his repast. Mrs. Crow, it seemed, had learned how to cook after the white woman's way, for everything tasted just splendid to the boy, and after he had finished he declared he felt like a new fellow. When about this time he saw the two sons of Charley Crow enter the cabin for a last conference before starting out, he begged to be allowed to accompany them. Old Charley looked dubious at first, and then noting the eager flush on his face, and apparently sympathizing with the feeling that prompted Felix to wish to see with his own eyes the discomfiture of the two rascals who had robbed and mistreated him, he finally nodded his head in the affirmative. So, armed with the rather antiquated rifle of the old man, and fortified by his late good meal, Felix felt like a different person from the forlorn lad who had hovered in the hollow beneath the upturned roots of the fallen tree, and counted the long minutes of the preceding night, as they crept past. They speedily passed over the two miles separating the Indian cabin from the place where Charley Crow had known the Government officers, who were out looking for offenders against the laws, to have their temporary camp. Luckily they found Mr. Harbison, who was in charge of the expedition, and both his deputies there. Felix soon told his story, and was pleased to see the decided interest the others showed in his recital. They had long been trying to get on the trail of the two men, against whom they had warrants for several lawless acts. A dozen or two questions followed, and the answers of Felix managed to put the officers in complete possession of the facts; especially after they heard what one of the sons of Charley Crow had to tell. Speedily the party set out to find the spot where the two thieves had spent the night, according to the story of the young Indian. Of course it could hardly be expected that Abe and his partner would be found still there, since they may have been heading for some distant point at the time, possibly intending to sell the fine repeating rifle that had come into their hands, and which they could claim they found in the woods; but with three inches of new snow covering the ground, there should be little trouble in following their trail. It turned out just so; and upon making a close examination it was decided by the wardens, as well as the Indians, that the men had been gone just an hour; it appearing that they were in no hurry, since they had plenty of venison, thanks to Felix. This was but a small start, and could be easily overcome, especially since those in the advance had not the slightest warning to the effect that they were being pursued, and hence would not be apt to make any especial effort looking to speed. If Felix began to feel his limbs grow weary he would not have admitted the fact for worlds; but shut his teeth hard, and conjured up the scene he soon expected to feast his eyes upon, with those two ruffians who had kicked an almost senseless boy, in custody, perhaps their hands in irons; since he had noticed Mr. Harbison drop a couple of pair of wrist irons in the pocket of his coat ere starting out. It was a pleasing picture, and with every twinge he felt from his wounds Felix kept saying to himself that it was a long lane that had no turning; and that he was perfectly justified in wanting to have the brutes caught. They pushed on steadily, six in all, and every one armed. From time to time Mr. Harbison informed Felix they were steadily overtaking the fugitives, and that in all probability they would be apt to come upon them while they were taking a bite around noon. Often, in time to come, would the boy recall the picture, and once again see each eager face of Indian and white man, as they pushed along through the aisles of that snow forest, bent upon the mission of justice. He felt a constant sense of exhilaration, knowing that with every passing minute they must really be shortening the distance separating them from those whom they sought. And as he pushed on, filled with much of his old time determination, Felix kept a bright lookout ahead, endeavoring to discover the first sign of smoke in the air, or moving figures, that could only be those of the two bad men they sought. So the time went by until, from the position of the sun, Felix knew that it could not be far from the noon hour. And at any moment now he hoped and expected to hear the welcome announcement that they had overtaken the men they followed. CHAPTER XI THE BUCK'S HEAD An exclamation from one of the sons of Charley Crow announced that their quarry had been sighted ahead; and shortly afterward, even Felix could discover the smoke of a fire through the vista of tree trunks beyond; proving that, just as Mr. Harbison had said, the two men had halted to cook some more of their easily acquired venison, and take things easy. In single file the party advanced; and so earnestly were the pair of scoundrels at the fire employed getting their lunch ready, that they failed to note the presence of the others until the six lined up close by, and Mr. Harbison called upon them to throw up their hands and surrender. Both of them looked very ugly; and given half a chance they might have made it very interesting for the posse; but with six rifles covering them, they saw it would be the height of foolishness to resist. Besides, they had reason to know and fear the man in charge of the force; so, with a forced laugh, they held up their hands, and announced that they would not try to run away, or resist. Mr. Harbison took no chances with such men. He speedily snapped the irons upon their wrists, which act brought out a chorus of hard words; for they had not expected being treated so severely, not having recognized Felix as yet, as his hat was drawn down well over his face, and he was wearing an extra old coat belonging to Charley Crow. So that the men fancied at first they were being arrested on account of some misdemeanor connected with their work in the reservation known as Yellowstone Park. When, upon the request of the head of the posse, Felix stepped up, and identified the pair of rascals as the men who had set upon, beaten, and robbed him of his rifle, as well as everything else of value he had with him, they began to show signs of positive uneasiness, realizing that they were in a pretty bad fix. It was indeed a great pleasure for the lad to once again fondle his own gun; and his first act was to carefully wipe it all over, as though he thought it may have suffered more or less contamination through contact with such a dirty specimen of humanity as the one-eyed Abe Cozzins. The officers announced their intention of starting immediately south with the prisoners, as it would take them several days to reach the town they expected to use as a place for locking the men up in. Felix made arrangements to give his deposition when he came out with his chum, about Christmas; although Mr. Harbison admitted that he hardly needed anything more in order to send them to the penitentiary for a term of years. Somehow Felix, now that he had recovered his possessions, did not feel so vindictive as he had expected he would; and had the fellows shown a proper spirit of humility the boy would have only too gladly allowed the matter to drop, so far as he was concerned. But they chose to take just the opposite course, cursing him roundly, and making savage threats of all kinds as to what they would do if they got free; which was just the way to arouse all his resentment, and cause him to give his promise to appear against them later on. Felix was very glad when they finally went away, leaving him with the two sons of old Charley Crow. Learning that they were not more than five miles away from the little shack where Old Sol had often held forth during the trapping season, the boy was seized with an overwhelming desire to get back home, and rest up; and when the others heard this, one of them, the strapping big fellow called Jo by his father, said he would see him safely there. It was really quite a tug for Felix, and only his grim determination carried him through, for his lower limbs began to feel as though each of them weighed a ton; so that he found considerable difficulty in dragging them along; but as familiar scenes began to crop up, the nearer he came to the cabin, as a consequence he finally found himself in sight of home. Never did a ship-wrecked mariner greet port with more enthusiasm than Felix did the little old dugout under the big tree. Of course Tom was away, undoubtedly wildly scouring the woods in search of his missing chum; but then he would come back after a certain time to see whether the lost one had returned; so all that Felix had to do was to make himself comfortable and wait. Jo said he would like to stay with him, and meet Tom. Any one who had known Old Sol was worth cultivating, in the eyes of the Indian boy, who had looked upon the veteran trapper as a veritable wonder. They had a fine fire that warmed the interior of the cabin, and Felix was drowsing before this, while Jo examined the wonderful repeating rifle; when the door was flung violently open, and there stood Tom, his eyes staring as though he could hardly believe what they showed him. Returning almost in despair because he could get no trace of his missing chum, he had discovered from the smoke that some one was occupying the dugout; after that it took him just five seconds to reach the door, and open the same. In another instant Tom had thrown his arms around his cousin, and was hugging him just as though he might be a long-lost brother, instead of just his every-day chum; meanwhile muttering all sorts of things, and laughing hysterically, in the effort to master his pent-up emotion. Felix was almost as deeply affected, and it was then and there that he learned just how dear Tom had become to him during the comparatively short time they had been comrades. From beginning to end Tom made him tell the whole story, not omitting a single detail; and for an hour Felix held his audience spell-bound by a recital of the many queer things that had come his way, since that hour when he said goodbye with such a light heart, and started off after venison. It was all like a story from a book to Tom. And of course it pleased him to hear how the conventional end had been reached, with the two rascals captured, the stolen goods restored to their real owner, and the criminals bundled off to jail in irons. Why, Tom could not hear enough of the details, but kept asking questions, and even turning to the Indian boy to find out what his chum could not tell. "We'll get that buck's head the first thing tomorrow--that is, if you feel decent enough for the tramp," he declared, after he had had Felix minutely describe the place of the strange encounter, and where he had passed his first night. Of course the other declared that he would be all right, and eager for business at the old stand; but the actual truth was, that for several days he felt the effects of his series of adventures; and the mark upon his cheek was still faintly visible two months later. All the same, with Jo accompanying them they did go to the tree and secure the prized head, as well as what venison was left--some animal had been feasting on the latter; but there was still enough left to carry a lot away with them, and every mouthful of that meat which Felix masticated gave him more or less satisfaction, since he felt that he had well earned all that was coming to him in this respect. Of course the traps had been neglected during all this confusion; and so Tom said he would take a run along the entire line that afternoon, in order that if any prizes had been captured, the skins might not be spoiled by too long an emersion in the water. Jo started back home after they had had lunch. Both boys noticed with some amusement that the boy's last fond look was in the direction of the wonderful coffeepot, from whence had come that rich, smooth, fragrant nectar that had so tickled his palate; doubtless they would see more of Jo while they lingered among the foothills of the Rockies; but they would always have their latchstring out for any one who was connected with old Charley Crow. As we already know, Tom had not felt any undue anxiety concerning his chum until the hour grew late on that first night. Then he had thought to step out, and fire his gun several times; but as Felix had not heard the reports, it seemed that he must have been further away than anyone suspected; or that the wind was wrong. In the morning Tom had started out in the direction he supposed Felix might be; hoping to come across signs of his friend. But the woods were wide, and apparently he could not at any time have come near the place where the other had had his adventures. Returning at nightfall, Tom had hoped he would find the other at the dugout, and a keen disappointment awaited him. That night was a restless one for him. The second day had been a repetition of the first; and late in the afternoon, dispirited and weary, Tom had drawn near the vicinity of the shack, when he was electrified to see smoke oozing from the chimney. One thing the incident had surely accomplished, and this was to acquaint the boys with the fact, if they had not realized it before, that they were unusually fond of each other. In many ways they were unlike; but it seemed that what one lacked the other could supply; and in this respect they made an ideal team for campmates. The right kind of a cheerful, willing and genial comrade, who will wear well in camp, is hard indeed to find. It appears that, no matter what a fellow may seem like at home, when he lands in the wilderness, the veneer is bound to drop off, and the true elements that go to make up his real nature are quickly apparent. After securing the buck's head Felix was content to remain in camp for a short time; ostensibly with the idea of "curing" it, so that it might ornament his room at home; but to tell the plain, unvarnished truth, the boy was still very sore, and until this in a measure wore off, the prospects of a long jaunt through the woods and into the mountains failed to appeal to him very much. This feeling began to gradually grow less positive as a couple of days passed, and finally there was no longer any excuse to hug the fire-side, because the buck's head had been prepared after a fashion that Tom said he had never seen beaten. So Felix fell back into the rut, just as though there had been no break, sometimes accompanying his chum in the round of the traps, or doing that duty alone; and again going out to look for fresh game, with generally the best of success. Doubtless, as the boy tramped through the snowy woods he sometimes found himself starting when he fancied he heard the coarse voices of the two unfaithful guides; or it might be a smile, as of amusement, would creep over his face when it happened that some particular tree awakened memories of the one into which he had been so neatly tossed by the wounded buck. These experiences all go to make up life; and one learns more quickly from having passed through such actual performances than by mere reading; or even listening to what others may have accomplished, pleasant though this may seem. Felix believed he was a much better woodsman for having met and boldly faced the difficulties that had been spread like a net for his unwary feet on that occasion. His eye seemed more positive; his nerves firmer; and when he handled his rifle, it was with an assurance born of experience, so that his aim was apt to be more accurate than before; while a confidence had been aroused in his soul that he would not have exchanged for anything he knew of. So the youngster, upon being tossed into the water by an apparently cruel elder brother, and told to swim, upon striking out in desperation finds that by moving arms and legs he is able to keep afloat, and even make a little clumsy progress; and into his soul springs a pride that is never surpassed in later life, even when he wins battles in the business arena. Perhaps the birdling experiences something of the same sensation upon being actually pushed from the nest by the wise mother, and discovering that by using its wings it can fly a short distance; it is an exhilaration never surpassed. The buck's antlered head certainly did look mighty fine when fastened up on the wall of the shack; and Tom vowed that if Old Sol could only be there in spirit, he must feel pretty proud to see the walls of his well beloved dugout decorated in such a manner. Of course, with his Marlin, Felix had also recovered all his other little traps from the ugly pair, while they were in the hands of the game wardens from the Park; so that he again had his little watch, his compass and his knife, together with what money they had taken from him, and which had tempted the cupidity of the thieving guides. Realizing what he lacked in using a compass, he now set about studying things, under the guidance of his chum, in connection with the woods, that would prove useful to him in all time to come. It was for some time a source of wonder to Tom Tucker why Old Charley Crow and his family, although within so short a distance of the dugout, had never set a line of traps in that neighborhood. One day, when young Jo was visiting them, drawn by memories of that seductive coffeepot, they plied him with questions, and thus learned that old Sol had the last year he was up here, through the use of certain medicines, of which he knew the value, been able to save the life of Mrs. Crow; and in gratitude none of the family would ever encroach on his preserves. They knew that the old trapper had been absent for several years, and that game was very abundant over in that direction; but a sort of "dead line" had been established, across which none would wander with the intention of doing business. Lacking information to the contrary, they expected that Sol might show up at any time; and all of them were very jealous of having him suspect that they had "poached" on his territory. When they heard this the boys felt drawn more than ever toward the honorable Crow family; and Felix privately declared that when he got back home, the first thing he meant to do was to dispatch a case of rifles just like his, though of a less expensive pattern, to make those good fellows supremely happy. And so out of evil good many times springs; and as long as they stayed there at the foot of the great Rockies, Felix and his chum were likely to enjoy friendly intercourse with the dusky family in the cabin not many miles away. CHAPTER XII BURNING OUT A HONEY THIEF But it seemed that Felix was not destined to absorb all the adventures that happened to be adrift up there in that neck of the woods adjoining the mountain chain. And the next one had to fall to the lot of Tom. It was such an admixture of peril and humor, that whenever either of the chums happened to glance up at the wall of the cabin, where the wretched looking pelt of a black bear was stretched, almost invariably a grin would have to follow. This is the way it came about: Just a few days after Felix had been in that queer mix-up with the wounded buck, and the two guides, Tom was on his way back from a little line of traps, when the notion came to him to step aside from his beaten path, and explore a dense patch of timber into which neither of them had happened thus far to stroll. There was no telling what he might not discover, for it certainly looked dark and forbidding enough to shelter almost anything. As his catch of furs that day chanced to be limited to a couple of muskrats, and a single mink, Tom was just in the humor for striking at something out of the common. He hung the pelts from the limb of a tree, and in plain sight, so that he might not have any particular difficulty about recovering the same; and with his rifle in readiness, plunged into the tangled growth, which was thicker than anything Tom had noticed around them. Progress was rather slow, for he had to pass around many obstacles, so dense was the vegetation in this low lying spot adjoining the marshy tract where he found the muskrat colony. There was a sense of pleasure, however, in peering around, not knowing at what minute a fleet doe might jump up before him. To his surprise, and also a little to his chagrin, the tempting place did not appear to harbor any sort of game whatever. But then Tom was enough of a sportsman to know that such often proves the case; the likely spots turn out good for nothing; while, when least expected, luck often springs upon the unwary. Only one thing caught his attention in making his way along, that seemed worth a second thought. Stooping down in the heart of the dense growth, Tom picked something up, which he proceeded to examine with increasing interest. It seemed to be a piece of comb from the honey store of a wild colony of bees, such as are found in nearly every section of the country south of a certain belt, beyond which the winters are too severe for the busy little insects. Now, Tom had at some time in the past been in the company of a man who had once made a living, far away in New England, gathering wild honey, spruce gum, and many other products of the Maine pine woods. The subject had interested the boy exceedingly, and he had asked many questions relating to it, that brought him quite a store of information. Just the sight and smell of this old piece of comb aroused within him an eager desire to discover just where it came from. If only he could bring home a pail of delicious honey, what would Felix say? Why, his mouth began to water at the very thought of such a delightful accession to their larder. Think of dripping sweetness flowing over the fine flapjacks Felix liked to make, and in which he really excelled! That was too much for Tom. He just couldn't stand it any longer, but resolved that since game refused to spring up before his rifle, he would forget all about hunting; save that somewhere in this thicket growth there evidently lay a bee tree, fairly groaning with richness; and which he was resolved to find, if it lay in his power to do so. He looked up, but could see no sign near him indicating that bees had a hive in any tree; in fact there was none of a suitable size right there. Tom shrewdly guessed the truth. He knew that black bears have a sweet tooth; and will go miles to rob a bee tree. The stings of thousands of the little insects do not appear to bother Bruin a particle; perhaps he is immune to the poison they inject; or else most of them fail to reach his skin, on account of the thick hair. Apparently, then, some thief of a bear was periodically robbing this secret storehouse of its sweets, and had dragged this comb away with him on a recent visit. The comb, while somewhat discolored, had not been drained of its nectar more than a few days, Tom thought. That would seem to indicate that the hive could not be very far away. If he could only find it, with an axe he might soon fell the tree in which it was secreted, and then take toll of the preserves. Every tree around came under his observation, and was only allowed to pass after he had surveyed its entire trunk, and become convinced that it had no hollow part in which a colony of busy workers might find a home for the winter's sleep. And now that he was upon the subject of bear, he remembered that only a couple of days back he had himself seen signs of such an animal in the woods, and wondered how it came that a black, usually hibernating at this time of year, chanced to be moving around. This explained it. Bruin had made a late discovery, and his appetite for sweet things would not allow him to shut himself up until "the last horn blew." And perhaps, if he could find the bee tree, he might also get track of the bear, since it would be difficult to divorce the animal from so dainty a morsel, once he had found how to get at the hive. So Tom kept up his search, all the time hoping to make a pleasing discovery that would make his chum's eye dance, and add a pleasing variety to their meals. He had spent half an hour in this vain hunt when he came upon a tree that seemed to offer possibilities; for it had a big cavity, and there was more or less of a chance that some of its larger limbs were also hollow. It is this kind that appears to be the favorite lodgment of the bees after swarming from some other hive that is overcrowded; a place where they can grow indefinitely, and lay up an increasing store with each successive summer. A ton of honey has sometimes been gathered from a single bee tree; much of it too old and discolored to be of much good but showing that the little workers never know when they have enough for their winter use. Tom became so impressed with the possibilities of this particular tree that he determined to climb up its trunk and investigate at close range. Of course, in order to ascend, he was compelled to lay his rifle on the ground, as he would surely need both hands to draw himself upward. Perhaps at the time Tom may have remembered the strange experience of his chum, Felix, while held unarmed in a tree, by the wounded buck; but if so, Tom did not dream of allowing such an idea to deter him in the least. Who could imagine any trouble springing from such an apparently innocent amusement as climbing a tree to see if any of its limbs being hollow might shelter a swarm of bees, with their golden brown store of honey? And besides, a rifle is not often used to shoot such small game, Tom remembered with a chuckle. Once among the branches, he had little difficulty in climbing aloft; and was soon going about his business of examining the various limbs that seemed to promise a hope of containing the treasure house he sought. He must have passed the hole in the trunk while climbing up the other side, for otherwise such keen eyes as Tom Tucker possessed would surely have noticed certain scratches calculated to arouse his suspicions. One by one the limbs were looked over, and dismissed from the list of possibilities, until there remained only a small opening in the main trunk, about twenty feet above his head. Without much hope of finding what he sought there, Tom climbed laboriously upward to this point, just about to give over the quest; he could not discover any signs that would indicate the presence of a swarm; and yet, as he placed his ear to this last opening, it seemed to him that he could catch a faint buzzing sound from within that excited new hopes. He examined the trunk up and down, but there was certainly no chance of finding the anticipated hive further aloft; and if in the tree at all, it apparently must be down further. The cavity beside him seemed to extend some distance downward; indeed, Tom was now of the opinion that it must connect with the larger opening he remembered having seen when on the ground, and which had slipped his attention when climbing. On his way back he must certainly take a look in there; meanwhile he would like to know positively that the bees were not snugly ensconced in the upper trunk near this minor gash; and as an idea flashed into his mind, without a second thought he set about carrying it into practice. Taking a piece of oiled rag from the pocket of his khaki canvas hunting coat, which he was wearing at the time over his sweater and vest, he ignited it with a match, and immediately dropped this into the opening; holding back to see whether even a solitary bee made its appearance, since that would tell the story. And Tom immediately became aware of the fact that there was certainly _something_ going on inside that tree trunk. At first the boy found himself thinking that he stirred up the biggest bees' nest ever heard of; for from what at first seemed to be a simple buzzing, there grew a rumbling that kept on increasing, until it was simply astounding; and Tom hardly knew what to make of it all, as he hung there to the side of the tree trunk, looking downward. The next thing he saw was smoke puffing out of where he knew the big opening lay. "Hello!" he exclaimed, with mingled astonishment and amusement; "I did more than I expected, I reckon, and set the old buster afire inside. Say, she must have been as dry as tinder, to catch like that. Perhaps it's the fire making all that racket--no it ain't, either, for I never heard a burning tree make a noise like that. Sounds like growls, too--by George, it _is_ growls, and I just bet you I've struck the snuggery of Mr. Bear first pop!" The idea was so surprising that Tom just clung there, and stared with wide-open eyes at the opening below, from whence welled those strange sounds; together with various little wisps of smoke that seemed to be getting stronger as they ascended. By and by the boy sniffed at this smoke, and as he did so he gave vent to another exclamation as if to voice his wonder, while something like a broad grin decorated his face. "Burning hair, as sure as you live!" he exclaimed. "Bless me, if I don't think the old critter must be on fire; that oiled rag lit on his back, and took hold!" Even as Tom gave vent to this startling opinion something appeared at the opening below; something that speedily resolved itself into a smouldering black bear, that looked both scared and angry as he backed out of his den, snapping at various parts of his fat body, where the fire had touched most severely. If Tom had been able to restrain his loud and scornful laughter, in all probability Bruin would have scrambled down from the tree, and ambled off; or else rolled in the snow to cool his scorched body; but the sight seemed so very comical that the boy burst into a shout. He was immediately sorry for doing so. The singed bear twisted his head when in the act of lowering himself stern first, and caught sight of his human enemy above. Somehow the sight of the boy seemed to completely alter the animal's plans; and instead of showing fear, he now gave evidence of extreme anger, just as though he might be able to figure out some connection between the presence of that biped in his tree, and the suffering he was even then undergoing. He showed his teeth in a vicious growl. "Go on down, old man!" called out Tom, waving his hand; "the walking's fine. Besides, there's nothing for you up here. I'm not hankering for company, I tell you. So just skip out, please--do you hear, you beggar?" and Tom ended with a shout; for, to his consternation, the singed bear had commenced to ascend the tree again, evidently with the intention of trying conclusions with this enemy who had hurt him so grievously. Tom did not exactly like the looks of things just about then. There, he was, above the ground some forty feet, with an enraged bear climbing in his direction, and evidently bent on mischief. It was too great a distance to be covered in a jump, since the ground was frozen and hard, so that a broken ankle might be the result. To ascend further would mean that he must soon be chased to the very pinnacle of the tree, with Bruin close after, bent on clutching him with his sharp claws, and teaching him a lesson in politeness. Whatever he expected to do must be started quickly, for the animal was getting closer all the time. If he only had a good long pole; or even a stout club, Tom believed he might poke the brute so furiously that he would conclude to give over his attempt to close with the boy who had laughed so heartlessly over his misfortunes, though Tom was doing so no longer, it might be noticed. But he might just as well wish for his rifle, lying there so temptingly on the ground; it would be impossible to twist off a branch large enough, and reduce it to the proper consistency in time to meet the bear's attack. Tom, as the bear came close, began to move out on a limb, wondering whether the animal would really follow after him. That doubt was speedily removed, for Bruin never so much as hesitated, though he came with extreme caution, feeling his way, step by step, suspicious lest he were being led into a trap. It seemed to Tom, however, that if any one appeared to be in a trap, that individual must be himself. With each foot that he crept out on that bending limb, he felt that his chances for escaping those cruel claws in an encounter with their angry owner grew less and less. Suppose the limb should break under their combined weight, it would be a serious thing to go tumbling down fully forty feet, in company with the fat, hairy monster; possibly to be clasped in his embrace after landing. Of course, if he could only be sure of alighting on Bruin when the collision came, it would not seem so bad; but that was only one chance in ten; and on the other hand the miserable beast might drop squarely upon him, which would be completing the tragedy. One thing Tom noticed was, that the further out on the limb he crawled the more it sagged, so that he was even now close to the outcropping branches below; and the daring thought flashed through his brain that possibly he might suddenly let go his hold above, and by a show of dexterity, succeed in securing a new grip as he fell! That would be leaving Bruin in the lurch nicely; for not daring to trust his cumbersome body to do likewise he would have to hedge back to the trunk, an operation taking time; and then descend in the ordinary way. Meanwhile Tom could be slipping down the balance of the tree with the speed, that, in his boyish vernacular, he called "greased lightning," and when the bear arrived later on, he would find himself up against a snag in that always dependable rifle. There was really no other course left open to him, and hence Tom felt bound to take the chances, such as they were. He was naturally agile, and his muscles accustomed to hardy exercise; so that after all, it was not such a tremendously difficult task, slipping dextrously down the outside of that limb, and clutching hold of the next one as he reached it. Tom half expected to see the bear go plunging downward, as the limb, relieved of the boy weight, must have been violently agitated; but apparently the animal knew just how to crouch there, and hold on. A single look upward showed Tom this, and also that the bear was already commencing to edge cautiously backward, moving one foot gingerly at a time, just as Tom had seen a domestic cat do when after a sparrow in a tree. Undoubtedly that must have been the strangest way in which Tom Tucker ever came down a tree; just as the ascension of Felix had shattered all records. While his movements were certainly pretty rapid, he managed to carry himself so dextrously that, save for a number of small scratches, mostly along his wrists that did not count for anything, he presently reached the ground, none the worse for his remarkable experience. By this time Bruin had succeeded in backing along the limb, and reaching the body of the tree, down which he commenced to pass, with an eye to business. Hence, Tom knew that he had no time to waste, if he meant to hold the advantage that his slide had given him. Three bounds took him over to where his rifle lay, and snatching this weapon up, he was quickly back again at the base of the tree. After that it was just a picnic--that is, for Tom; what the bear thought no one ever bothered trying to find out. The boy even felt a little compassion for the poor beast that was so rudely disturbed in the very beginning of his long winter nap, by having his house take fire; and upon crawling hastily forth, had the double aggravation of finding himself laughed at by a cruel two-legged foe; and when he sought to punish such liberties it would be to have a queer stick poked at his head, and hear a terrible bang that ended his earthly career. But to tell the truth it was bear steaks that animated Tom now; for he realized that as a piece of marketable fur that sadly singed hide of Bruin would not pay for the trouble of taking it off. He believed that the bear was both fat and rather young, and these considerations outweighed any compunction he might feel, as the animal kept coming closer to him. Several times the bear stopped to look down at the human enemy waiting so confidently for him below; and it would seem as though some intuition must have warned Bruin that he could expect nothing less than trouble from that source; but to descend seemed to be the only thing left him, since his late den was now burning in a way that promised the complete destruction of the tree in due time. And so the beast again started downward, growling ferociously; but now more in the expectation that such fierceness might frighten the hunter away from his post, than because of a genuine desire to come into contact with him. However, Tom did not mean to take any unnecessary chances; he had never fought a "singed" bear, and hence could not say just how vindictive such an animal might turn out to be. So when Bruin was just about down Tom thrust out his gun until the muzzle almost touched the beast's small head, close to his ear; when he pulled trigger, and there was one less live bear in that neck of the woods. Later on, Tom, following the trail of the marauding bear, did manage to discover the bee tree, and upon felling it, secured a bucket full of good honey; though he afterwards declared that he had never before heard of such a thing being done in the winter season. Bruin had gotten at all he could easily reach, and had then taken up his quarters in the near vicinity; possibly in the hope and expectation that when spring came around, and the dormant bees awoke to new activity, he would be on hand to start a fresh campaign, in the hope of another rich feast. He had not calculated upon the coming of Tom Tucker; and the discovery of that empty comb which he must have tossed contemptuously aside after draining its sweet store; so that its finding started the hunter on the track that ended in Bruin's downfall. It was with considerable pleasure that Tom set about the task of denuding the honey thief of his singed pelt. He meant to simply keep this as a reminder of the strange adventure that had waylaid him on his return from the little marsh where the Northern muskrats abounded. But the meat was the main thing after all; and none of it must go to feed some prowling bobcat or panther. With the assistance of his chum Tom managed to get every pound worth saving to the cabin, and that which could not be immediately used was frozen in a secure spot, from which it could not be stolen. Whenever their stock became low, all that was necessary, was to go out with the axe, and chop a few pounds off, as though it were fuel for the fire. That account also went down in the log of Felix; for it gave him even more amusement than his own story of the buck that had tossed him into the tree; he often wished he had a picture of Tom in that tree, with the bear reaching out for him; and the boy finally sliding down the outside branches with desperate haste. When Tom brought in that pail of wild honey, and declared they could really get all they wanted during their stay in the mountains, Felix fairly danced with glee. It just seemed to fill a long-felt want; and how delicious it did taste upon the next lot of flapjacks, which, of course, had to follow at the succeeding meal. They ate so heartily, Tom declared that if this kept on, the larder would be cleaned out before half the time they had set for their stay in the camp were exhausted. But to all this kind of talk Felix turned a deaf ear; for when such a magnificent appetite had come to him, building up his energies splendidly, it just _had_ to be catered to, regardless, even though the two big Crow boys were hired to make the long trip to civilization on snow-shoes, perhaps, and "tote" back a fresh supply of stuff on a sledge. One can accomplish almost anything when the pocketbook is well lined, especially with where substantials in the woods are concerned; and those hardy Indian lads would think little of such a trip through the snow of the valleys; indeed, it must seem something along the order of a picnic for them, since doubtless they had more than once done the same thing, without the inducement of a fat reward, such as Felix would be sure to promise them. It seemed as though adventures were flocking their way thick and fast; and the boys could not help wondering what the nature of the next one would be like, as they sat in their cozy dugout at night time, and took their ease before a roaring fire that made things look so cheery. All this while Felix had not forgotten the two principal things he had in mind when laying out this trip to the Rocky Mountain region. A grizzly was the height of his ambition, and unless he could manage to get such a prize to his credit, all alone and unaided, he would feel very much disappointed indeed. And then there was that bighorn business--he had heard so much about these strange sheep of the rocky heights that he often expressed a wish to try and secure such a splendid trophy. Could he see a pair of those curved horns decorating his den at home, the boy felt that it would please him more than words could tell. And Tom, understanding what all this eagerness meant to his comrade, was making preparations looking to a start along those lines; he had his eye out for signs of the monster that had passed near the cabin on the first night of their occupancy, and whose den he believed must be among the rocky canyons of the mountains, not half a mile away from the edge of the valley where the dugout lay. CHAPTER XIII HUNTING THE BIGHORN "I've fixed things so that today the traps can take care of themselves," remarked Tom, one morning, as they sat there at the rude table eating their breakfast of oatmeal, and coffee, and some biscuits Felix had managed to make, using a pan for his oven, and with pretty fair success, too, Tom had declared, after making away with his tenth one, covered with honey. Felix looked quickly up at his chum. He could read between the lines, and understood that Tom would not have said this unless he had something to propose. "And what were you thinking of doing, then?" he asked, seeing that the other was waiting to be questioned. "Well, I happened to notice yesterday that a little flock of bighorn sheep seemed to be feeding in a certain patch away up the face of the mountain, where there must be some grass that has been protected so far from the freeze; and I was wondering whether you would feel like taking a shy at the same, always providing we can climb up to a place within gunshot?" Felix jumped up, as he was really through eating; his eyes danced with eagerness, just as Tom anticipated they would. "Let's start right now," he remarked; whereat the other laughed at him. "Not a bit of need for hurry," he said; "and I want to make certain preparations for the jaunt. It isn't any easy thing, climbing the mountains, and especially at this time of year. We may be away all night, for all we know, and must dress warm enough for anything like that. Besides, we want to make up something to eat; these left-over biscuits and some dried venison will just fill the bill. And then there's that rope we brought along, because you said we might need it; I'll wrap it around my middle, because in mountain climbing a rope is sometimes worth its weight ten times over in gold. Fact is, no mountain guide over in the Alps would think of starting out for a climb, without at least one rope along." "I guess you're right," replied Felix; "and I'll begin to get things moving now. Looks like we might have a decent day, too; which I'm right glad to see. I'd hate to be caught up there in a snow storm, with a howling wind blowing." And stepping to the door he looked up to where the frowning rocky heights could be seen through the partly bare branches of the trees of the valley. Tom would not allow his impatient companion to hurry him in the least. He declared that there was plenty of time; and he did not want to forget something which they ought to carry, the absence of which might work a hardship later on. But about the time the sun was an hour high showing through the gap to the east, the two lads left the old dugout, and headed toward the west, where the main ridge arose like a monstrous barrier, shutting them out from everything lying beyond, since to cross its snowy peaks was a task utterly beyond their ability, even had they ever dreamed of such an undertaking. Later on, when they were really in one of the canyons, Felix began to comprehend something of the magnitude and grandeur of the massive Rockies. At a distance they had excited his curiosity and interest; but once he found himself in their midst, it was a feeling of awe that gradually took possession of his soul. Still, the ambition of a hunter was strong within the Eastern lad; and when his companion pointed out to him a certain green spot nearly half way to the top of the nearest ridge and told him to notice the moving white specks upon it, he realized that these must be the famous big-horns feeding. "However do you expect we're going to get up there?" asked Felix, aghast at the prospect of climbing at such a height, which looked something formidable to him just then. "Perhaps we can't do it," replied the other; "but we're going to make a jab at the job all the same; and I reckon I know about the best way. I haven't been studying the make-up of these mountains, day after day, for nothing." "I'd just depend on it, you've got your plan all laid out," laughed Felix. "I never knew you to start into anything without doing that." "Oh! yes you have," answered the other, chuckling. "When I invaded the den of my friend, the black bear, and started to smoke him out without even knowing that it was his house, why, I guess I didn't have any plan made up beforehand. Any old thing just had to answer; but after all, I came out of that scrape better than I deserved, after being so breezy as to invite the gentleman to come out and get acquainted." They started in to climb. Tom, as he said, had figured it pretty well all out, and in this way better progress was made than Felix would have thought possible. Sometimes it turned out to be easy enough; and then again, they would either have to go around some obstruction, or else make a difficult ascent of a small cliff. When noon came they had ascended a pretty good distance, and Felix saw that the green patch was much closer. Indeed, he could easily make out the bighorns now, and even counted them several times. "Seven all told, in sight, Tom?" he remarked. "And I wonder if they'll still be there when we get within range, if we ever manage it?" "If not, we must lie over until tomorrow, and take chances that way," replied the other. "For after going to all this trouble, we must try and get a sheep, just for the horns; because the mutton of a big fellow will dent your teeth." "Have you got our route all mapped out above here?" asked Felix. "Yes; and from now on we must be careful not to let them glimpse us even once," returned the Western boy. "I haven't hunted sheep before, but I know something of them, and they're mighty suspicious animals." "I notice that we've got the wind in our faces," continued the other. "Oh! sure, we couldn't have done the first thing any other way," Tom declared, as they once more started off. An hour later, and Felix was allowed to creep to the edge of a little ridge of rock in order to take an observation. He found they had made such splendid progress that it almost seemed as though he might try to bring down that fellow sporting the massive horns, but then Tom had warned him that distances were deceiving up in that clear mountain air, and if so, after all he would be apt to make a mess of it should he try. So once more, then, they had to go creeping along, always keeping out of sight of the wary game, yet forever ascending. And still, when Felix looked up at the top of the mountain they were climbing, it seemed about as far off heavenward as ever, in his eyes. Later on Tom began to work around more. He believed that they were now about as close to the bighorn sheep as they could possibly get; and besides, as the afternoon was waning, the animals might at any time take a notion to quit their feeding ground, for some other locality, where they were in the habit of passing the night; and unless the boys got busy shortly, they would have to wait until another day before securing the coveted chance for a shot. Leaving Felix lying in a little hollow, getting his breath after the last fierce climb, Tom crept forward. The other saw him gradually raise his head, and appear to take a peep over the rocks. Then drawing back, he turned and made a motion that meant he wanted his chum to come alongside. Trembling with eagerness, Felix did so. And no sooner had he raised his eyes to a level with the line of rock, so that he could look over, than he saw a sight calculated to pay him for all the trouble he had been to, in order to gain this position. There were the sheep within the easiest possible gun range, so that it would seem as though even a greenhorn could not miss his aim, if he but took ordinary precautions. "Oh!" It was but the faintest sound, and seemed forced from Felix by the closeness of the game; but Tom nudged him in the ribs, as though to indicate that even such a whisper must not be indulged in. There was really no need of saying a word, because, as they climbed, the boys had made all the necessary arrangements. Felix, therefore, knew absolutely that he was to try and take care of the buck carrying those massive horns which he envied; while Tom, on his part, having his mind bent more on securing some mutton that could be eaten without first being chopped into atoms, meant to pick out a yearling, or one still younger, provided the flock contained any such. Nor was that all, for they had arranged a silent code between them, looking to the critical moment when they would want to shoot. Tom was to give the signal for this, after he had learned that his comrade was all ready for business. And on his part Felix must keep a bead on that big buck. Perhaps the leader of the flock had some reason to feel suspicious. He had ceased browsing on the grass that grew in the little plateau sheltered thus far from the cold, and getting all the warmth of the sunshine; they could see him standing there as though he might be cut out of solid rock, apparently sniffing the air as if in some incredible manner he had caught a whiff of danger, even though the wind blew almost directly from him toward the spot where the boys lay. Tom kicked the ankle of his chum twice. That meant he was ready to give the word to fire and Felix must be ready to press the trigger of his Marlin when he heard the one word that was to be whispered, so the Eastern boy nudged an answer with his elbow. "Now!" There was a double discharge, Tom firing just after his companion; for in his generosity he did not want to precede him, even by the fraction of a second, lest this serve to make the patriarch of the flock move, and disturb Felix in aiming. The big buck with the wonderful horns made a leap into the air, and then rolled down the slope, falling from the end of the shelf. They could see his desperate efforts to cling to the rock at the brink with his forefeet; but powerful as he may have been, that deadly ball had sapped his strength with its shock; and ten seconds later he vanished from the sight of the hunters. Of course the balance of the flock had bounded off in wild alarm, not waiting to see what the fate of their leader might be; all but one, which lay there on the green spot, perfectly still. Tom evidently had not suffered in his aim because of allowing his chum the first chance to pull trigger. As usual he had made a centre shot; and if only they could find a way to get across to where the young bighorn lay, there was a prospect of some pretty fine eating ahead. "I got him, didn't I, Tom?" cried Felix, greatly pleased over the result of his shot. "But where d'ye suppose the beggar dropped to, and will we ever be able to get to him? I'd just hate awfully to lose those horns, now that I've knocked him galley-west. What had we better do, Tom?" "I'll tell you," replied the other, calmly; for it took considerable to excite Tom--an angry bear climbing up a tree after him had been known to do the trick all right, though. "First of all, before we try and go down after those horns you want, let's see if we can get over to where the sheep were grazing. For my part, I've got my mouth set for some mutton, when we get home again; and I'd hate to lose what I've shot. It would be a wicked waste, that's what." They began to look around, there being no longer any necessity for concealment; and in a short time Tom announced that he believed he saw how he might cross over to the little green plateau where the bighorns had been feeding. CHAPTER XIV A WAKEFUL NIGHT It required considerable climbing, as well as taking chances, for the boys to cross over to where the dead bighorn lay on the green plateau which had long been the dining table of the flock, and where they undoubtedly felt they were safe from all the ordinary enemies of their kind. But in reckoning thus, they knew not of the long range of the modern rifle, nor the terrible expanding power of the up-to-date softnosed bullet, that mushrooms to three times its original size upon striking even the flesh of an animal. When both of the lads had successfully landed on the plateau it was beginning to grow a little dusk. The sun had long since vanished behind the great rocky ridge that stood out above them against the sky. "We'll have to put in a night up here, all right," commented Felix, as they arrived at the side of the dead sheep, over which Tom bent eagerly. "Well, since we prepared for that same thing, it won't be so hard on us," replied the Western boy; "and I'm not any disappointed in my game either. I don't believe it's a year old even, and I'm only sorry we haven't some way to make a fire up here; for a slice or two off this chap would go great. Come over this way, and let's see; I've got a dim idea I saw a few stunted trees hanging to the face of the rock, where there were gaps, and some earth had blown in from time to time. If it turns out that way, count on a supper worth while; and that'll go better than just cold biscuits and jerked venison." They had hardly rounded the shoulder of rock mentioned by Tom, than he gave vent to a shout of delight. "There they are, just as I thought;" he remarked; "and now to see what we can do about picking up enough fine wood to make a fire. Every scrap will count. Look in the crevices, and every which way, for broken branches, twigs, and anything that will burn. We've just got to have supper, and that's all there is to it, with such bully game on hand!" Presently Tom found a way to reach the stunted trees himself, and here he came upon a regular bonanza in the way of partly dead branches, which he kicked off in any way possible, until the boy below declared they had more than enough fuel to cook two suppers. By the time they had selected the nook where a fire would be best sheltered from the night wind at that elevated spot, the darkness had begun to creep around them. Below lay a black gulf, for they could no longer see the trees, or anything else that in the daytime marked the peaceful valley where they had their dugout home. "We're lucky to have all this wood," remarked Felix, "because, unless I miss my guess, it's going to be pretty snappy cold up here tonight, and we've got no blankets along." "Yes, I thought it would come in handy," returned Tom, who was already busily engaged cutting up the sheep, so as to have something to eat as soon as possible, because the climb, and the cold air of the mountain, had made both of the boys fairly ravenous. "And that's why I kept on sending down more, after you said three times we had enough. A fire eats up a heap of stuff, when you have to keep it going all night in the open air." It was not long before Felix had the blaze going, and he declared that it certainly made things look a thousand per cent better. It was a dreary place, so far up the side of the mountains; and without that cheery blaze the night must have proven one they would never remember with any degree of pleasure. After all, the mutton did taste pretty fine. Even Tom, who being the son of a cattle raiser, knew what prime beef meant, said it was very good, and well worth all the trouble they had taken to get it. "But how about those horns?" asked Felix, who could not wholly get his mind off the subject that seemed to concern him, even more than the supper did; though for that matter he ate his share, and seemed to enjoy it. "Do you think we can get down to where my fine old granddaddy buck fell?" "We must, sooner or later, and that's all there is to it," replied Tom. "What d'ye suppose we carried that rope along for if not to use it? Make your mind easy, you'll have those horns, chances are ten to one." "Unless some wild animal carries the body away in the night," remarked Felix. "No danger of that, my boy," laughed the other. "Fact is, the only beast that is able to do such a thing around here, would be a grizzly; and if he does, why, we'll just follow him to his lair, and tackle him. Then you'll have a chance to get back the bighorn head-piece, and knock over your grizzly, at the same time." Felix had to smile at this. "You know how to comfort a fellow all right, Tom," he remarked. "That would be sort of climbing up on our reverses, and making them pay a profit, wouldn't it? But I'll just try to forget all about the horns now, and enjoy the good things we have right here--heat and grub in plenty." They did pass a pleasant evening; and later on, when both of them felt like lying down on the rocks to try and get some sleep, the fire was arranged so that it might keep going for some hours. Tom expected to be up a number of times before dawn could be expected, and promised to take care that the blaze did not go entirely out at any hour. Although Tom did not mention anything about it to his chum, he was a bit anxious concerning the state of the weather. That was the one thing that had made him hesitate when thinking about pleasing Felix by a climb up to the place where the coveted bighorns might be found. What if a howling storm should swoop down upon them, while they were away from the cabin and up here in this elevated eyrie? He knew about how fierce a blizzard could rage, once it took a notion to come out of the faraway Alaska country. And should such a thing come to pass, the boys would be in for an experience before which all others must pale into insignificance. With the bitter cold, there would be snow filling the air, perhaps with a fierce wind; so that for several days they would not dare attempt to descend into their blessed valley. Could they manage to keep from freezing there, in that exposed position, where a change of the wind would find them out, and prevent any possibility of keeping a fire going, even though they secured fuel to last out, an almost impossible feat. And that was the main reason why Tom hardly slept at all during that night. He allowed his chum to get all the rest he could; nor did he envy Felix when, up and down almost every hour, he counted the minutes until they might see the first peep of dawn away off there in the eastern sky. It had clouded up, which was one reason why Tom worried, for he thought he detected symptoms of a storm in the air. But as even the longest night must come to an end, so finally Tom was heartened when he believed he could detect a little change off toward the east, which gradually grew better, until he was sure dawn meant to greet them. So he caused the fire to pick up, and by the time daylight aroused Felix, breakfast was all ready for their attention. The fact of the matter was, Tom was bent on getting out of that as quickly as possible, even though they had to leave the task of recovering those massive horns until another day. He had a pretty fair idea with regard to where they might have fallen; and it would not be necessary to climb near so high up the side of the mountain. And, too, it could be done on a clear, promising day. Felix was disappointed when he heard about the change of plans; but being a sensible fellow he quickly agreed with his chum that their first consideration must concern their safety. He, too, had been secretly fearing lest they find themselves trapped up in that high altitude by the coming of foul weather; and so he agreed to let the matter of securing his trophy go until later on. "Tell you what," remarked Tom, as they prepared to depart the same way they had come, for that seemed the only means by which a human being could leave the elevated plateau, not being able to jump, like the bighorn sheep; "tell you what, we can swing around a little, after we get down from here, and if it happens that we get sight of your sheep, we'll make a try for it." "That's good of you, Tom," replied the other, warmly; "but remember, we're not going to take any extra hazard, just to save those horns. I'd like to have them, all right, but a fellow's life is worth much more than a trophy." A few flakes of snow drifted down as they started to leave, and Tom eyed the heavens critically. "You never can tell about this snow business," he declared. "Seems like I know when it's going to give us rain, nearly every time; but this other fools me. But if we can get down to that next level I'll like it. Plenty more protection there; and some chance of getting wood too. Come along, and be mighty careful, Felix." There were one or two places where it looked so risky that Tom insisted in fastening the rope to Felix. Then one of them would go at a time, while the other braced himself for a shock, which luckily never came; afterwards the leading one would take his turn at standing still, while the other came on. All the while those tantalizing flakes drifted slowly down, just as though intent on keeping the young bighorn hunters' nerves on edge. An hour later, and Tom expressed himself as delighted, because they had managed to reach the lower level. Now, even though the storm did descend upon them, he believed they would have a chance to keep on down into the valley; for the most dangerous rocky heights had been left behind. Felix had not noticed how his chum was heading, and hence was surprised to hear Tom suddenly call out: "Here it is, all right; been no grizzly around, you see, Felix!" "My old buck, and with not a notch taken out of his grand curved horns!" cried the other, as he saw what his chum was pointing at, just ahead. Tom set to work to get the trophies. He could not make the fine job of it such as he always liked to carry out; because the flakes seemed to be getting more numerous now, and evidently the storm was becoming tired of holding back, just to accommodate them. "I can fix 'em up in apple-pie shape after we get home," he remarked; and Felix had no difficulty in forgiving him; because just then he believed that it would be a good thing to be quartered once again under the roof of the dugout, where he could find a peaceful bed, after a night on the hard, unyielding rocks. It was, of course, no child's play, clambering down all sorts of slippery places, burdened, as the boys were, with the meat of the young big-horn, and the heavy head piece of the patriarch of the flock; but save for a few minor accidents that did not amount to anything beyond some scratches, they managed to finally reach the valley. By that time, however, it was snowing heavily, and the wind seemed to be rising; for while the mountains were entirely concealed from their view, they could hear it beginning to whistle around the ledges and cliffs that had marked their line of descent. And when, later, the boys staggered up to the dugout, it was with a sense of deepest satisfaction; now let the storm howl, since they were assured of shelter, food and warmth. CHAPTER XV OUT FOR A GRIZZLY After all, the storm did not last more than a few hours. As Tom had declared, no one could ever predict what a snow storm was going to amount to. The boys, however, were just as well pleased that they managed to get safely housed before the coming of another night. And as they sat by their fire, when supper had been disposed of, Felix mentioned the fact that he could imagine how it must feel to be snow bound in a dreary place like that elevated plateau, with the prospect ahead of perhaps a week of fighting the cold wind to keep from freezing. He was busily engaged in working upon the bighorn trophy. And it gave him more satisfaction than he could tell, just to know that he had secured such a magnificent trophy unaided. Every time he glanced up at it, when upon the wall at home, he would doubtless remember that mountain climb, and the camp under the ledge of rock. "I've got something to tell you," remarked Tom, with a smile; "only before I open up I want you to promise not to try and hurry me; because, you see, I've got a lot of traps out, and they have to be attended to properly, or else I quit the business." "Oh!" replied Felix, "I give you my promise, all right. Now, what are you going to tell me? Haven't found a wolf's den, have you, with some cubs in it? Perhaps, now, you've sighted one of those rare black foxes, that they say are worth all the way from seven hundred up to several thousand dollars a pelt! That would be fine news, wouldn't it, now?" "Yes, if we needed the money, which I take it we neither of us do," replied Tom. "But this doesn't concern either a wolf's den, or the trading place of a silver fox. Can't you think of something else that has been on your mind more or less for a long time back?" "Looky here, Tom, do you mean a grizzly?" demanded Felix, his face lighting up with eagerness and expectation. The other just nodded his head. "Then you've found out where he lives, when he's at home?" Felix went on. "I think I have, anyhow, Felix." "But you haven't said a word to me about it; how long have you known?" demanded the other, reproachfully. "Let's see; we've been home here just ten hours, haven't we; well, call it about eleven, then; that would cover it," said Tom, with a chuckle. "Oh! then you made the discovery while we were coming down the mountain; is that it, Tom?" Felix asked. "Just what it is," replied his chum. "Go on, and tell me about it; what did you see, the marks of his claws; or had he thrown a lot of bones out of his old den, to make room? Which was it, Tom?" "Neither one, it happens," was the reply Tom made to this. "I just chanced to look up, when we were crawling along on our hands and knees in a particularly dangerous place, and saw something sticking out from a ledge above us, that I quickly recognized as the head of a grizzly! Perhaps the old fellow heard us passing, and came to his front door to see what the strangers looked like." "And why didn't you tell me about it, so I could look up too?" asked Felix. "Well, I had several reasons," answered the other, readily enough. "In the first place, I didn't dare sing out because, if you slipped just then, you stood a pretty good chance of being killed. And by the time we both got to where the climbing was safer, he had pulled his nose in out of sight. So I just marked that place, and thought I'd keep the news until tonight." "All right; and when you're good and ready, not before, Tom, why, we'll pay our respects to Mr. Grizzly Bear." "H'm! how about the day after tomorrow?" asked Tom. "Suits me fine; do you really mean it?" asked his chum, eagerly. "Wind and weather permitting, I think we might chance it, Felix. And I'll try and not let him know we're coming. Sort of a surprise party, you understand. I only hope the old chap's at home when we knock." Felix came over, and clapped a hand affectionately on the shoulder of his cousin. "You're the finest chum a fellow ever could have, and that goes," he said; "always thinking of doing something to make things move along for me. Once I get my grizzly, and after that I'm going to turn around, so as to try and fix things for your liking, see if I don't." "Just as if you ain't always picking out the best flapjack in the lot for me; the juiciest piece of meat; the clearest cup of coffee. I guess when they started to making chums, they lost the pattern after they had you built up, Felix. And it makes me sick to think what a gap there'll be in my life after you go back East again." "But you promised to make me a good long visit soon; and I'm going to hold you to your word. After this we've just got to see more or less of each other right along. I'm coming out here again, make your mind easy to that. Perhaps I'll take a notion to invest in a ranch near you, because, you know, my mother left me some money, more than I'll ever know what to do with." "That would be the greatest thing I know of!" cried Tom; "and I'll see that you have chances enough, mark me." And so they chatted on, as each carried his chosen work along; for Tom was busy with some of his best pelts, which did not quite look well enough to suit his eye, and he thought needed a little further manipulation before being tied up. On the following day Tom cleaned up all work possible with the traps, visiting every one that was set, and bringing home quite a bundle of fresh skins, which he of course immediately stretched after their kind, some cased, and others split open, with the fur side out. They were accumulating quite a collection of pelts by this time, and somehow both boys enjoyed the work very much. If they had had to do it for a living, possibly some of the pleasure would soon evaporate; but as long as it was just carried on as fun, it did not seem to pall upon them. And sitting there by the fire evenings, they had easily settled what they meant to do with the main part of the skins. After picking out what they wanted to keep as a reminder of their great time in the foothills of the Rockies, they agreed that the balance should be turned over to Mrs. Crow, for the benefit of herself and family. As old friends of Sol Ten Eyck, they seemed to have first claim on any surplus; and then there was something so fine about the way the old halfbreed had kept strictly away from that part of the region which he looked on as Sol's preserves, that both lads believed he deserved to be rewarded. "And," Tom Tucker had said, in conclusion, after one of these talks; "as Sol will never come up here again, I'm going to make over all he has, except the traps he values, and which we're to take home for him, to Charley Crow. He can call this shack one of his homes, and trap along the little stream where we've found the mink so plentiful." Felix, on his part, had already thought about those Marlin guns he meant to send west as soon as he got home again; and his companion applauded the idea when he learned of it. Tom worked hard that night trying to get everything in shipshape around the shack, so that they could take a day off with clear consciences; and Felix gave him a helping hand in stretching the many pelts; for with two days catch to be taken care of, and all in the faultless manner that marked Tom's work, it took considerable time to clean the slate. But in due time Tom admitted that he could not think of anything else that needed attention; so during the balance of the evening they just rested. In the morning they made a few simple preparations looking to the great event of the day. What one needs most of all, when about to start out after a grizzly, consists of a cool head, steady nerves, and a gun on which he can always depend. The harder this latter shoots the better; and if he can carry sixteen cartridges in the magazine, it will not be too many, for they are about the toughest beasts to kill on the face of the earth, barring none. And there have been hunters willing to declare that some grizzlies can carry off as much lead, and still live right along, as would wind up the earthly career of a dozen lions or tigers. So about the only thing the boys did was to look their guns over carefully, and make sure they had an abundance of ammunition along, together with such other things, like matches, hunting knives, and the like, as they were accustomed to carrying with them. The day was everything they could wish; indeed, the weather seemed to be doing its best to behave. Felix used to say that it was trying to coax him into making another lone trip, so that it could suddenly veer around, and show him the other side of the picture. But he was not at all anxious to go wandering off again; and while Tom did not joke him about the matter, he was of the opinion that the events of that previous experience had sunk deeply into the mind of his chum. Having made all preparations, therefore looking to pushing a vigorous campaign against the grizzly, if they were lucky enough to find him home, the boys shut the door of the dugout, and departed. Felix looked back toward the old shack with something like affection. "We haven't been here very long, Tom," he remarked, "but do you know, I've begun to just love that old place. And when I'm far away, perhaps at home in the East, let me tell you, many a time I'll just shut my eyes, and see it as we do now. Yes, and I'll never hear the crackle of a fire but what I'll be sure to picture the two of us sitting there, busy at our work." Tom looked pleased. "I'm right glad to hear you talk that way, partner," he remarked, earnestly, as he too glanced fondly back over his shoulder. "She's a homely little old shack, and sure not much to look at; but somehow or other she seems to suit me O. K. And when you say you'll always remember our days and nights up here in the Rocky Mountain country, you're just echoing what's in my mind. I never had a chum like you; and I never expect to again. It was a bully good idea that brought you out to visit our ranch, the luckiest day in my whole life." Tom was usually not given very much to sentiment, as his cousin knew; and hence, when he did speak his mind after this fashion, it might be set down that he meant every word of it. The subject turned to other points of the compass as they walked sturdily on in the direction of the mountain pass. With such glorious surroundings there need never be any want of things to talk about. Even the grand air that greeted them with the rising of the sun was invigorating enough to deserve frequent mention; while the impressive scenery by which they were surrounded was surely of a character to evoke admiration. In this manner, then, they presently reached the rougher country that lay along the foot of the uplifts. Having come this way before, when going upon their bighorn hunt, and also returning from the same, it was in a measure familiar to both boys; still, they saw it now under new conditions, and discovered many features in the landscape that had eluded them on the previous occasion. "Here we are at the canyon where we came out," said Felix, as they found high rocky walls beginning to shut them in on both sides. CHAPTER XVI THE TERROR OF THE ROCKIES "You must know," said Tom, as they climbed over some of the many rocky obstacles in the canyon, left there by the last flood, when some cloud-burst had perhaps filled it dozens of feet high with a raging flood, "that this grizzly bear hunting is different sport from bagging an ordinary black." "I'd always understood that," Felix answered. "You see, I've read a lot about the thing, and I'm pretty well posted on that subject. I know that the grizzly is the toughest animal in existence, barring none, and that many hunters who have shot big game in other parts of the world give him the palm, when it comes to being difficult to down." "And that's why," continued the Western boy, "men who would hardly hesitate to openly face a panther, or a pack of wolves, and meet them on the level; will even climb a tree when expecting an attack from a full grown grizzly; because it is well known that the old fellow can't climb worth a cent." "Yes, I've read even that about him," remarked Felix. "He's sure the terror of the Rockies; and the Indians used to always reckon a brave the greatest ever, when he could show the claws of a grizzly, and prove that he killed the beast in a square stand-up fight." "Whew! I should say so, Felix. Why, nothing could tempt me to try such a fool game as that. When you see what awful claws the old fellow has, and the frightful muscle back of them, you'll understand why it's never looked on as a piece of cowardice to get up in a tree, and then dare him to come on. Chances are even then, that if the tree is only a sapling, the bear'll drag it down, and get his man." "Are you trying to throw a scare into me, Tom?" laughed the other. "Oh! not at all," replied his cousin; "only I wanted you to know that as we're only a couple of boys after all, we had ought to take as much precaution as most old hunters would, when out to stalk a grizzly bear." "That means climb a tree, I take it, eh, Tom?" "Well, it would be wise; and my father would say it was the right thing to do," went on the ranch owner's son, firmly. Felix frowned, as though there was something in the proposition that somehow went against his proud soul. And seeing this, his cousin was only the more urgent in his appeal. "Remember, you promised me that you'd do anything I said in this game, Felix!" "That's right, I did, and I will, Tom; but you don't know how mean it makes me feel to think of getting up in a tree, and then daring the bear to come on; only to fill him full of lead as he accepts the challenge." "Oh! I can understand all that, my boy, and it does you credit; but after you see that monster at the foot of the tree, stretching himself, and shaking it in his mad effort to get at you, after being wounded a dozen times, you'll agree with me that anybody would be a fool to try and meet such an enemy on equal terms, when, if his rifle missed fire it would all be over with him." "But this rifle never misses fire!" declared Felix. "All the same, I suppose I'll have to do it, though under protest. But see here, Tom, weren't you telling me just the other night about seeing some of your dad's cow punchers having a bully old time throwing ropes over a grizzly that was caught on the open, and badgering the old fellow every which way, before they pumped him full of lead? How does that agree with what you're saying now? Are cowboys braver than old hunters, that they take such chances?" "Well, you must know that every one of us was mounted on a fleet pony; and that though the bear chased after us in every direction, he couldn't catch up. Then they got their ropes to flying, and he was rattled, so that before you could count fifty he had as many as four lariats holding him. When he tried to go one way he was dragged over by the other three ropes. And when they had had all the fun they wanted, they shot the old Mountain Charlie. Oh! no, a cowboy on his bronco is a different sort of a fellow from the time he's afoot. You just bet he couldn't climb up in a tree any too fast, if ever he met with a grizzly, and wounded him, when in the mountains." "Oh! well, that makes it easier for me, I suppose," said the reluctant Felix; "but all the same it galls some." "I don't see why it should," remarked Tom. "Just look back a little, and you'll see me taking a mean and cowardly advantage of that black I got, stepping up when he was sliding down that tree, and shooting him while his back was turned, so to speak." Then Felix laughed a little, as though he might be convinced. "I guess you're right, Tom," he observed. "It just occurred to me that when the wounded buck had me held up in the tree a prisoner, I was only too glad to fish up my Marlin, and give him his dose. Of course I didn't climb that tree in the beginning; he tossed me up there." "Well, I don't suppose you could induce the grizzly to try that same thing; but if he did, you'd think it all right then to plug him, would you? I rather guess it don't amount to much difference after all, Felix, whether you climb first, or get pushed up a tree. The whole fact of the matter is, that a man isn't in the same class as a big buck or a wounded grizzly, when it comes to muscle; and he's just got to fall back on guns, and trees, and such, to even things up." "Consider it settled then, Tom; I'll climb," concluded the Eastern boy; and with this his chum seemed content. They were getting deeper into the mountains all the while, and Felix could even see where they had started to climb when heading upwards on that other occasion at the time they went after bighorns. And Tom led the way over some of the same ground. It was more familiar to them now, and they did not have the same difficulty as before. Indeed, Felix remembered in many instances just where to place his foot; or to reach up and seize on a projecting knob in order to pull himself upward. He began to look curiously ahead, wondering just where it could be that Tom had sighted the head of the grizzly thrust out, as the animal surveyed the descending hunters, who were bearing fresh meat. Indeed, he really wondered why Bruin had not seen fit to follow after the scent, and make them drop their packs, or else fight for the spoils on the spot. Tom, upon being asked declared that ordinarily such might have been the programme of a grizzly, that fears nothing under the sun, in either the human or the animal kingdom; but that possibly His Majesty, as he called the beast, may have recently dined; and when one has no appetite, it seems the part of folly to go to any extraordinary exertion to secure food. "But he may be on edge today, just the same," he added, after giving this information in answer to the question of his cousin. "I hope so," replied Felix. "If I just do have to climb a tree, and ask a bear to step up and be shot, I want to see him at his worst. That's the only thing to give me an easy conscience." Tom only smiled. He had a pretty good idea some of these gallant notions would undergo a decided change in his chum before they were done with this business. Five minutes later he remarked quietly: "We're nearly there, Felix. Hold up a bit, and get your breath. Look up, and see if you can notice where that seam in the rocks has a black look." "Oh! I get that, all right, Tom; is there where you saw his head sticking out?" "That's the place; and chances are we'll find a regular trail leading up to the mouth of the den. What I'm going to look for the first thing is the tree. In hunting a grizzly that's an important part of the game; unless you happen to have a gully in front, that no bear could cross over. I've known of a good many hunters coming out here to get the hide of a grizzly; and they told my father that while the idea of doing such a thing struck them at first as cowardly, after they'd had a look at the monster they meant to tackle, the only thing that bothered them then was about the size of the tree. It seemed to them that they wanted one as tall as the redwoods in California." Felix chuckled at this, but made no further remark. He had noticed that Tom no longer talked in his natural voice, but whispered. Even this circumstance seemed to add more or less to the gravity of the occasion. It told of hovering danger, and the need of ordinary caution, if they did not want to arouse the sleeping dragon, and have him rushing wildly out to assail them, before they were good and ready to give him a warm reception. Tom kept on looking carefully around him every chance he got, as they pushed on slowly. Felix knew the wisdom of this, and that he would be doing the right thing to also get his surroundings firmly fixed in his mind, before the grand circus began. There could be no telling how much need of this there might be before the little mountain drama closed in the death of the bear. He discovered in the first place that there was an occasional tree in sight, not of any great size, but with a trunk that would baffle any ordinary animal to bend down, Felix thought. As the grizzly could not climb, a perch in one of these would place the hunters out of danger, and they could proceed to accomplish their work as they felt inclined. How the bear was to be coaxed out, and to the tree, Felix of course did not as yet know; but he was quite willing to leave this to his chum. Tom understood all about the ways of grizzlies; he had heard them discussed since childhood, and seen many of the species brought in by hunters; for since they are a serious menace to the raising of cattle, there is a price on the head of every grizzly known to have his haunt within miles of a ranch. Tom was moving about now, and appeared to be scanning the rock at his feet eagerly. Undoubtedly he was looking for the well worn trail which, he had told his chum, he expected to discover, leading upward toward that dark spot in the rocky wall, where, according to his figuring, the animal's den had its yawning mouth, although as yet they had not actually looked into it. So Felix stood there, waiting, and holding his gun in his hands, wondering what he might be expected to do should the grizzly appear unexpectedly from some other quarter, heading toward his den. And possibly because Tom had impressed the necessity of a tree so strongly on his mind Felix even made sure that there was one of these growing close at hand which he believed might be scaled in a hurry if there arose any need. He saw that his companion was now examining the ground more closely than ever; and there was that about his manner to tell that he must have made a discovery of some sort. A few seconds later the Western lad arose to his feet, and his face shone with satisfaction as he turned toward his friend. "It's here, just as I said, Felix," he whispered; "and from the signs I'm pretty sure the old fellow is right now squatted in his den. Things look all right to me, and the next thing is to coax him out. Like you, I only hope he's hungry; but no matter whether he is or not, he's just got to come, and that's all there is to it." CHAPTER XVII WHEN MUSIC WAS PLAYED OUT Like a general arranging his plan of campaign, so Tom looked around him, up at the place where the den of the monster was believed to be, and then in search of the available tree. "That's where we ought to perch," he remarked, pointing to a spot close by. "We can each have a tree, which is really better than both getting up in the same one; for while he's trying to get at me, you can pump him full of lead. I'm only going to dip in here in a case of necessity, because I want you to say you got him all by yourself." "Up a tree," muttered Felix, disconsolately; but his chum paid no attention to the half protest, being satisfied that time would vindicate his course. "Now, there are some trees up yonder, closer to the den, and they would answer in a pinch, if we had to run for it," Tom went on to remark. "I don't just get on to what you mean," remarked the other; "I thought you expected to climb up, fix a comfortable seat, and then ask him to step out, and get acquainted." "But perhaps he won't come," retorted Tom. "You never can tell about these grizzlies. Some days they're ready to just rush out, and tackle a whole army. Then again they have to be nearly dragged out, they're so full, and so lazy. But once you get 'em stirred up, they're always the fiercest ever." "Do you expect to go up there, then, and have a look in?" asked Felix. "We might have to, if he won't come when we start to shouting," answered the other. "Let us only get a peek at his nose, so you can touch him up, and I give you my word there won't be any trouble about coaxing him. You'll hear a roar that'll just about make your blood run cold, and then we've got a fight on our hands you'll never forget." "But see here, Tom," urged Felix, "suppose, now, we go up there poking around and just when we're in a fix where we can't back down, the old rascal heaves in sight down the trail. He'd have us in a lovely hole now, wouldn't he? Then I guess we'd have to make it a stand-up fight. Trees wouldn't figure in it that time, eh?" "But I'm dead sure he's in his den," declared the other. "How d'ye make that out, Tom?" "Why, see here, there's some dirt where he goes up and down. You can see that he's just worn a path with the many times he's gone in and out. Now, look close, and I can show you several prints of his big feet, with the claw marks sticking out ahead. And they all point _toward_ the den, showing that the most recent tracks are the ones he made going in! Get that, Felix?" "Sure I do; and I must say it looks just as you figure it all out, Tom; and if that's the case, our old chap is at home, all right." "Then let's move up closer," said the other. "On the whole, I reckon we'll use the trees that lie up yonder. We can see into his hole from there, which we couldn't do down here." They started to advance, slowly and cautiously, keeping a wary eye up in the quarter where danger lay. But nothing occurred to give them a start, and presently the boys had reached a point where they could see that Tom had hit the truth when he said the dark spot on the face of the cliff's base must be the entrance to the grizzly's den. "That's where he enters, is it?" said Felix, looking closely at the aperture that simply yawned darkly before them, with the rock hanging overhead. "Yes," Tom replied; "when he heard us talking, that other time, he must have walked over to this spot, where he could poke out his head, and look down." "You don't see anything of him around, do you, Tom." "Never a sign," came the answer. "Chances are, he's fast asleep inside." "And now, do we pick out our trees, and squat in them waiting, for him to show up?" "We'll see if a little music will coax the old gentleman to show his nose. Which tree do you want, Felix?" "Don't see much choice between them; but I suppose I might as well take this, because it seems to be a trifle closer to the den than the other," replied the boy from the East, indicating his selection. "But it's smaller in the bargain," complained Tom; "don't you think you'd better let me have that one?" For answer the other commenced to climb; and as there was nothing else to be done Tom followed suit. He knew that Felix had a stubborn streak in his make-up; and in fact he liked him all the better for it, because, without such spice, in Tom's mind, a fellow would be like cake without the ginger in it, flat and commonplace. "Well, here we are," commented Felix, after he had fixed himself comfortably, and raised his rifle to his shoulder several times, as though wishing to make certain that he could cover any advancing enemy without difficulty. "How does it suit you?" asked Tom, grinning. "Oh! I've sat on worse seats, one of 'em a wasps' nest," replied Felix. "All right. Now, what'll we sing?" continued the other. "Sing?" echoed Felix. "Yes, to coax our grizzly to look out. Strike up any old song you like, and if I happen to know it, I'll join in; I can do that anyhow, because our audience ain't going to be particular. Fact is, the worst noise we make, the more chance of his coming out in a bad temper." "All right, just as you say, Tom," laughed Felix, falling in with the humor of the idea. Accordingly, Felix began to sing some school song, at the top of his voice, and his chum joined in with a pretty good bass. They went clean through with a verse, and roared out the chorus in good style, although Felix was laughing so hard at the end that the effect was terrific. "If he can stand that howl, he's equal to anything," the latter remarked, as they finished; "see any signs of our friend yet, Tom?" "Sorry to say I don't," replied the other; "though that ought to have fetched him hurrying out, to see what lunatic asylum had broken loose. Hit up another verse, my boy, and give him all the variations you can." So they went through with it, yet there was not the first sign of the grizzly. "That's queer," remarked Tom, when after they had completed their duet, not a single thing occurred; only the gaping mouth of the den mocked them, with vacancy behind it. "Don't fancy the tune, perhaps?" suggested Felix, humorously. "That might be so. The old fellow might have his favorites. Can you give him a change, Felix, something more solemn like. He must have a weak spot, if only we could hit on it. Strike up 'Plunged in a Gulf of Deep Despair,' or something that thrills you the same way." Accordingly, as he liked to be obliging, and the situation appealed to his fine sense of humor, Felix did start a song that sounded very much like the "Dead March of Saul." Tom added all the touches possible; and had anybody chanced to be in the vicinity he must have thought he had struck a camp meeting. "How's that?" asked Felix, when they had finished. "Simply elegant, take it from me. Queer that we haven't thought to sing a little while we sat around the blazing fire nights," declared Tom. "Well, if we did much of that sort of thing, we'd soon go hungry, Tom." "Think so?" chuckled the other. "Every animal would take to its heels, and never come within miles of our shack again," asserted Felix. "Strikes me it don't seem to have any effect on _one_ animal I know of, and that's our big friend in the hole yonder," Tom declared. "Perhaps after all he isn't at home," his chum remarked. "I'm dead sure he is, in spite of the fact that he doesn't show up," said Tom. "Then grizzlies must be lacking in a musical education, that's all I can say," Felix observed. "Sorry our efforts to amuse don't seem to be appreciated," Tom went on to observe with a grin. "Shall we try one more? Do you know, I think something inspiring, like 'Dixie' for example, might stir him up. Suppose we give him that, and follow with the 'Star Spangled Banner.' If one of those don't bring results, why something else has got to be done, that's flat." Felix, entering into the spirit of the occasion, held his gun as though it were a guitar which he was picking; and presently, after a few extravagant motions, broke out in the invigorating strains of the well known Southern song, that in times of old, when the armies of the blue and the gray faced each other in battle array, did so much to inspire the latter to plunge into the fray. But then, this was not a Southern bear; and at any rate, the music produced no result save to amuse the singers. "Well, I must say he's a hard customer to please," laughed Tom. "Or to make mad either," remarked Felix. "Why, after hearing how we murdered that noble tune, I should think any self respecting bear would rush out, foaming at the mouth, and proceed to rub the assassins in the dust. He just goes on snoozing, and paying not the least attention. Shall we give it up, Tom?" "Well, let's try if he's got any patriotism about him. Give him one stanza of the other song. If that doesn't make him look out, then we'd better put our horns away, and quit singing. We're dead failures as a drawing card, seems to me." "You were right," observed Felix, a few minutes later, when, after they had done their level best rolling out the chorus, "And the Star Spangled Banner in triumph shall wave, o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave," not a single sign of an encore did they receive. "He don't seem to mind it in the least," remarked Tom, grimly. "Perhaps now the old fellow may be stone deaf. I should think he must be, to stand for all that stuff, and never whimper once." "But that couldn't be," declared Felix, "because he must have heard us talking that other time, when you saw him peeking over at us. I'm not so sure as you are that he's in just now." "Well, here goes to prove it," said Tom, as he made a move as though intending to leave his tree; but when Felix also started to vacate, the other called out: "No, I want you to stay just where you are, and keep tabs on the opening. If you see the first sign of anything moving, you want to give me the tip right away, so I can run back to my tree." "But what are you going to do?" asked Felix anxiously, for if there was anything dangerous to be accomplished, he did not see why Tom should not let him share in the enterprise. "Just wait and see," was all the satisfaction he received. "And don't forget you gave me your solemn word to obey. I'm the captain of the ship just now, and the crew has got to do what the skipper says." "But if you're going to take chances, I'd like to be along, Tom." "Only one of us can do the little job; the other's business is to stay there, on guard, and give the alarm if anything shows up. And I've detailed you for that part of the programme, Felix." So, unwilling though he was, the other had to sit there, rifle in hand, and try to figure out just what Tom meant to do, in order to bring the inmate of the den to his front door, in case he was at home. The ranch boy had been keeping his eyes well about him, and knew just where he could find what he wanted. First of all, he crept up to the frowning aperture, and looked in. Felix felt his heart in his throat, so to speak, with a sudden fear lest his chum take a reckless notion to enter that gaping hole; he was even on the point of calling out, and begging Tom not to incur such unnecessary chances, when he saw the other moving away again. Evidently, whatever reason Tom had for going there to the mouth of the cave, he was perfectly satisfied; for, as he caught the eye of his chum, he nodded, and made suggestive motions, as if to say that he was more than ever convinced that the animal was somewhere inside, though possibly at some distance back from the opening. Felix now watched him with deepest interest. If he had figured on how Tom meant to draw the grizzly forth, he could not have struck on the right answer to the question, for suddenly he gave an exclamation, and said as if to himself: "Now, what's he gathering wood for? It sure doesn't seem like time for our noon lunch? And what would Tom want to camp here for in front of the place? Now he's got an armful, and--why, of course, he's going to stack it up in front of that hole. That's the ticket, Tom; smoke the old rascal out?" and he ended in calling aloud to his chum. The other only turned, and nodded his head as he made his way cautiously up to where the black hole gaped silently. Here he tossed his bundle of small wood, and then went back for more. Felix had gripped his gun a little nervously while all this was going on, ready to take up his part of the game should occasion arise; but even when the brush from under the trees was thrown down, the inmate of the den did not deign to show himself, and offer any objection. Felix concluded that there must be a mistake, and that the grizzly was away from home; or else the old fellow was so gorged with a recent dinner that he just could not bother moving, because some foolish boys chose to play pranks outside of his house. Now Tom had returned with a second armful of wood, which he piled up on the other lot. Then Felix saw him stuffing a crumpled piece of newspaper under the pyramid, and he understood why Tom had put that in his pocket so carefully before leaving the shack. Everything seemed ready, and he wished Tom would hurry, and come away from his dangerous quarters, for the bear might rush out at any second. So Felix breathed a little easier when he saw the other moving off, and noticed little spirals of blue smoke beginning to weave themselves in and out of the piled up brush and wood. CHAPTER XVIII A HARD CUSTOMER "That's bound to settle it, one way or the other!" declared Tom, after he had climbed up into his tree again, and resumed his former position of squatting in a crotch, gun in hand. "You mean about his being home, or away I reckon?" remarked Felix, who was feeling fifty per cent easier in his mind, now that his chum had carried out his little programme without being rushed by the bear. "That's the idea," replied the other, keeping his eyes on the spot where the fire he had kindled was burning fairly well. "Plenty of smoke, if there is only a little flame," observed Felix. "I wanted it that way; and so I picked out some green stuff that would make a whole lot of smell, but not burn too lively, you see, Felix." "Whee! I got a whiff of it right then; and say, if our friend is at home, and can stand that smell, why, he's welcome to stay where he is the rest of the winter, for all of me. It beats anything I ever whiffed," and the Eastern boy held his fingers to his nose while speaking, to emphasize his words. Tom grinned, as if he really felt proud of that fire. A hot blaze would have caused very little smoke; and after all might not have accomplished the end they had in view. "Wait!" he said, with a chuckle; "you'll see." A few more minutes passed. Felix noticed several things, for he had come to pay considerable more attention to small matters than before meeting this cousin who had been brought up in the open, and imbibed many of the instincts that govern the actions of Indians and veteran woodsmen, among which observation stands at the head. He saw, for instance, that the breeze was blowing straight toward the face of the cliff where that hole lay; and as it came in rather strong gusts now and then, it undoubtedly served to carry pretty much all of the pungent, highly scented smoke into the yawning aperture. And Felix also knew that it would drive this odor a long way ahead into the recesses of the cave. If Bruin were at home, he could not help getting a whiff of it presently, and smoke always serves to make a bear both suspicious and angry. Where shouts of derision, and the singing of songs had failed, a more silent and powerful agency would succeed. And it did. One, two, three more minutes passed away. Then Felix heard something that gave him a thrill, and caused him to turn quickly in the direction of his comrade, perched in the adjoining tree. Tom nodded his head, and simply remarked: "What did I tell you? That fetched him; and he's waking up!" It had undoubtedly been a rumbling roar that came to the ears of the two boys. Bruin had at last become aware of the fact that there was smoke rolling into his snug retreat; and instinct warned him that smoke never came without there being some sort of fire in connection with it. Again they heard the heavy thrilling sound, and it was now more distinct than before, which told them that the grizzly must be advancing hurriedly toward the opening. Doubtless this was the only exit he had; and alarmed lest he be caught in a trap by the fire, he was now shambling along, bent upon seeking the open air before it was too late. "Ready!" called Tom. Hardly had he spoken than Felix saw the smouldering stuff at the mouth of the cliff den thrown violently aside, as a huge bulk almost filled the hole. Then there came into view the very largest grizzly Tom had ever seen, as he hastened to declare, with boyish vigor. "Wow! but ain't he just a jim dandy, though? Big as a house nearly; and say, did you ever see a madder thing in all your life. He hears me talking right now, because he's looking this way. Bet you his eyes are that full of smoke he can't see as well as he might, and he's rubbin' 'em with his paws, would you believe it? Hey! you, we made that fire! What d'ye mean upsetting it that way? Think you own the earth, don't you? Well, come on, and have it out with us. Dare you to knock the chip off my shoulder! Bah! you're nothing but a big bag of wind! Who cares for you?" Just as though the grizzly could really understand what Tom howled at him, he immediately started toward the trees where they were ensconced. "Oh! my, ain't he mad as hops, though?" jeered Tom. "Look at him shake his head, would you, Felix? He knows we did it, and he means to let us understand he won't put up with such a racket as smoking him out. Now, don't be in too big a hurry to start firing. Take my word for it, you'll have plenty of chances to fill him up with lead before he caves under. Shake the limb, and holler at him, if you want him to pay attention to you." That was just what Felix did want. He was afraid that the bear would know Tom had started the fire, and ignore the other boy. So he too commenced to taunt the old fellow, as boys know how to do so well. The result was just as Tom had predicted; for having his attention thus diverted, the bear now changed his course a little, and came directly toward the tree that bore such strange fruit in the shape of the second human enemy. What the grizzly thought, at being so rudely disturbed in his after-dinner nap by all this shouting, and the smell of smoke in his den, Felix could only guess, for by his actions alone could the animal tell. There certainly could hardly have been a madder bear than that one was. He acted as though bent upon teaching these impudent boys a much needed lesson. When they felt like playing any of their annoying tricks, they had better keep away from his particular sleeping place, if they did not want to get hurt. "Get one in before he reaches your tree!" called out Tom; who seemed to know what the tactics of the grizzly would be after this had occurred, and that possibly Felix might not be able to fire with such sure aim, once his haven of refuge were being violently shaken, as it would be. So the Eastern boy, who had all along kept his Marlin leveled at the advancing grizzly, sought to aim in a vulnerable spot; or at least what would be reckoned as such with any other wild animal than a grizzly or an African rhinoceros. When he fired he heard the most dreadful roar that ever assailed his ears. But to his surprise, the bear did not stop his advance in the slightest degree, no matter how the small bullet "mushroomed" when it came in contact with his body. Felix hastily got his gun in shape to shoot again, and this he was able to do before the animal succeeded in reaching the tree. Another roar, more wicked than the preceding one, told that this bullet had also lodged in the body of the fierce brute; but as before, it failed to have any appreciable effect on the grizzly, save to arouse his slumbering passions the more. "Hold on tight, now, Felix!" shrilled Tom, no doubt itching to use his gun, and ready to do so if he thought the situation began to look desperate for his chum. "He's going to try and shake you out of that tree like a wild plum! Get a firm grip and don't try to shoot yet awhile, till he quits!" The big animal reared up on his hind quarters, and as he did so Felix could see signs of blood about him, which told that his bullets had not missed connections, even if they did not bring him down. The beast endeavored to reach the form of the boy, whom instinct told him was responsible for his wounds; because he connected that puff of smoke, and sharp report, with the acute pain that racked him. Of course Felix was perched too far up in the tree for that, and the most the eager grizzly could do was to come within six feet of him. Then the monster hugged the tree as though about to try and ascend. Indeed, the boy above felt a spasm of fear lest this was just what he meant to attempt; and as he had seen black bears climb, he found it hard work to believe that the grizzly was deficient in this accomplishment. All at once the tree began to sway violently to and fro, with increasing speed. Having been warned in time, Felix had secured himself against being thrown out, although at one time he began to actually fear lest the savage monster below might succeed in breaking the tree off at its base; he was so big and powerful that few things of an ordinary nature would be beyond his capacity. And now that he was enraged to the very limit, doubtless he might accomplish wonders. But fortunately that did not happen, and Felix breathed a sigh of relief when, after testing his strength for a minute or two, the grizzly backed off, to look up at him out of his wicked little eyes, and growl as he dropped back upon all fours again. "Bully boy!" shouted Tom. "He wanted too, all right, but he couldn't quite spell able. Now, try him again, Felix; and watch out for one of his rushes. Quit shooting when he tries that racket, and just hold on. You can wear the old critter out; and say, that gun does send 'em in like fun. I could see him quiver all over each time you pulled trigger. But you'll get him yet, don't fear!" Just as Tom said that last word Felix fired a third time, trying to pick out a better place to send his bullet. Truth to tell he was more than anxious to finish the game old bear, which he knew must be suffering horribly already. Although he was confident that he planted his lead in the identical spot he wanted, still the only appreciable effect was to send the monster furiously at the tree again. Never did Felix expect to see such baffled fury. After finding that all his terrible strength was not sufficient to shake the clinging boy from his perch, or bear down the tree under his weight, as he had doubtless done many a stout sapling, when wishing to feast off berries growing beyond his reach, (if grizzlies do partake of such things, as their black cousins have always done,) the baffled animal actually started to gnaw at the bark of the tree, as though in this manner he believed he might weaken it sufficiently to attain his ends. "Now, watch your chance, and give him another!" cried the deeply interested Tom, who was closely observing every little phase of this strange fight, so one-sided Felix thought. As he had by this time put his hand to the plow, Felix did not mean to back out. He must have that grizzly pelt, if it took every ounce of ammunition he carried on his person. And since the beast was so badly wounded that he might eventually die anyway, he ought to be finished. But somehow Felix did not feel as though he would ever want to go through the experience again; not that he was afraid; but it seemed too much like butchery to him, with the chances always against the animal. And those feelings did him credit, too, even if they marked his decline as a big-game hunter, for as such he could not consider that his quarry had any right to live at all. This time when he fired he believed that the bear was weakening. Tom must have thought along the same lines for he immediately called out in an exultant tone; for Tom being a stockman's son, only considered the grizzly as a possible enemy of his father's herds; and on account of previous losses from a similar source he bore the grizzly tribe only the hardest of feelings. Again did the wounded beast try to vent his fury upon the inoffensive tree, biting and clawing at it in the utmost fury, as though possessed of the one insane idea that in some fashion it had conspired to keep the object of his anger beyond reach of his teeth and claws. Between spells Felix sent in a fifth, and then a sixth shot. After that he would have to reload, since he had exhausted the contents of his gun's magazine, with the grizzly still on deck, though weakening. "He's got his, I reckon!" said Tom, as the other was working with feverish haste to insert another set of six cartridges through the opening meant for this purpose, as well as to eject the empty cases after firing. "Better give him another to wind him up, though, Felix!" The seventh shot did bring the unequal combat to an end, for the gallant old grizzly rolled over, and became still. Tom immediately dropped down from his perch, and went over to where the bear lay. "Now, if we only had the old kodak along, we could take your picture, standing with one foot on the fallen game!" he remarked, as Felix joined him. "I'm glad we haven't," said the other, simply and Tom looked a bit puzzled, although by the way he nodded his head presently it was evident that he had something like an inkling of the truth. "Well, he _was_ a game old sport, all right," he declared; "and that pelt will be something worth while. Reckon I'll have to get you to help me take it off, because it's too big a job for one fellow." Of course, after a little while, Felix got over the sensation of regret in connection with the shooting of the monster. He realized that a grizzly is really of no known use in the world and must be a source of great annoyance to any stockman; so that he need not regret having slain this fellow. But one would be quite enough for him. Somehow, the sport was not all it had been cracked up to be. Possibly it was because they had been compelled to locate in those trees; but then, Felix learned afterwards that those who hunt grizzlies frequently, have so great a respect for their savage fury, as well as their ability to carry off lead, that they think it no disgrace to place themselves out of the animal's reach before opening the battle. It was late that evening before the two tired Nimrods reached home; but at any rate the last great ambition on the part of Felix had been attained; he had killed a grizzly, and all unaided. From that time on he felt that he would be satisfied to pursue the even tenor of his way, and not allow vaulting ambition to draw him into fresh fields of adventure after big game. CHAPTER XIX BREAKING CAMP--CONCLUSION After that the days just glided along, each one seeming to bring something in its train that would occupy considerable of their attention. Tom kept up his trapping, and Felix became himself deeply interested in learning more and more about the habits of the sly little bearers of the prized fur; for which there was such a growing demand in the world of civilization, that men were visiting hitherto unexplored sections of the world in search of new supplies, since the old fields showed signs of giving out. He spent some time in the partly frozen marsh, examining the homes of the muskrats; and after that had Tom tell him all he knew about the ways in which the mink lived, both at home, and when abroad searching for food. They had no trouble in getting all the venison they wanted; and once, when their larder began to decline, on account of a spell of bad weather, who should come to the dugout but Jo Crow, bearing the choice portions of a young buck, which his father had sent over to the Little Doctor, as a slight token of his gratitude for services rendered. Just as though that small debt had not been wiped out, Felix remarked, when he was so hospitably received in the Crow cabin, fed, and then assisted in recovering his stolen property. But then Tom knew that young Jo must have fond recollections of that smooth tasting Java, and he made sure to treat the boy to many cups of coffee at each meal, while he stopped over night with them. And when, after a heavy storm, they found a chance to make the first use of the snow shoes they had brought along, the boys proved that they knew how to utilize the advantages this means of locomotion gave them over the animals of the forest. Once Tom, when on his way back from his traps, was pursued by a pack of hungry wolves; but he had what he was pleased to term a "picnic" with them. He would stop and let them come within a certain distance, when several shots from his repeating rifle lessened their number considerably. After that he would start on again, all the while slipping fresh cartridges into his gun so as to have a full equipment, in case of an emergency. As the animals still kept after him, Tom repeated his former tactics, and knocked a couple more wolves over. He would have liked to keep dotting the snow with their forms, because he hated the breed violently; but by this time they scented trouble, and hauled off. So Tom even went back, and secured the pelts of the last two, adding them to the lot he was taking home. "You see," he remarked to Felix that night, as they sat around the fire, speaking of what had happened during the day, "that's a great advantage one gets by knowing how to use snow shoes. The varmints floundered through the drifts, while I just skipped over them as if I had wings. Why, I could have circled the pack at times, if I'd wanted. And they were savage with hunger, all right, too, because only for that they wouldn't have kept so hard after me." "But I'd have thought they'd stop to make a meal off those you shot at first," remarked Felix. "I see you're on to wolf habits, all right and good," chuckled Tom. "Well, a bunch of 'em did hold over, to have a sort of wake with the remains; but I guess the rest of the lot felt that it wouldn't go around. They kept after me, that's all I know. P'raps they had their minds set on a nice tender juicy Tucker for supper; but if they'd known how tough he was, they might have hauled off sooner, and two of the bunch would be alive yet," and he glanced at the skins he had stretched on the big frames meant for such purpose. "And next winter perhaps those same hides will be keeping some chauffeur warm, as he guides his car along Fifth Avenue in New York," said Felix, humorously. "That's putting 'em to good uses, anyway," remarked the wolf-killer, calmly. Only the next day Felix had a chance to see for himself what a great advantage those same snow shoes gave a hunter over his quarry. The snow was deep enough to come to his knees on the level, and besides, in many places it had drifted considerably. Then there had come a slight thaw, that caused the surface to become coated with ice. Through this the small hoofs of a deer would break with every jump; while the boys could glide along on the broad netting of their snow shoes without disturbing the crust. Thinking he would take a little turn around, Felix started out while Tom was off looking after his traps again. He did not intend going any great distance from the shack, and hardly expected finding game; but then there was never any telling when one might run across a deer, for they were fairly plentiful. And hearing a floundering noise some distance ahead, he suddenly discovered a full grown young buck making off at full speed. Under ordinary conditions it would have been the utmost folly for Felix to even dream of overtaking that alarmed deer; but he wished to test the speeding qualities of his snow shoes. The tables were turned by the presence of the deep snow, since the deer could not run as fast as ordinary, while the powers of locomotion on the part of the boy had been trebled, at least. And so he had by degrees gradually come up on the fleeing buck. The animal was snorting, and plunging desperately in the endeavor to get away; just as though he realized that the mortal enemy of his race was close behind. Breathing so rapidly that it looked like clouds of steam arising from his nostrils, he kept on in his wild run. When Felix had gained a position where he could see the exposed flank of the deer he came to a sudden halt. And no sooner had his rifle spoken than there was an end to the chase, for the buck was floundering on the snow. Those were days neither of the boys would ever forget. But the weeks were slipping past, and they began to figure on the time, now close at hand, when they must break camp, and set their faces once more towards civilization. It would be with more than a little regret too, even though both of them must rejoice to again see the dear ones who were at home; for they had certainly enjoyed this vacation period in the Rockies more than words could tell. Tom had looked over his trophies, and decided on what few they wanted to take away with them. These were, for the most part, pelts calculated to remind them of certain adventures which had befallen them in their camp life. For instance, there was that bobcat skin, which had once been sported by the animal whose vicious growl had greeted them on that first evening of their arrival at the dugout; then Felix had the pelts of the wolves he had shot, after they had given him such a lovely little scrimmage, before letting him get to the shelter of the shack with his burning torch; and the big grizzly hide, that occupied a place of honor in the collection also. Besides, there were a few choice mink skins; a fox that Tom particularly wanted, because he had tried for three weeks to trap the wary Reynard before he managed it; and some muskrat skins that Felix wanted to show his folks at home. The bighorn head adornment had been beautifully prepared; and together with the head of the big buck, must be carried on the sledge they meant to drag behind them, when they went out of the mountain country, headed south. All the remainder of the catch, together with quite a supply of store provisions they handed over to Charley Crow and his boy Jo, when at the invitation of the inmates of Old Sol's shack the two came over to see them for the last time. And how that dusky boy's eyes did dance when he saw that among the lot there chanced to be some of that glorious coffee, that had quite taken his heart by storm. Felix was not one to easily forget; and later on he did send out a bulky package to his cousin Tom, which, upon investigation was found to contain three good reliable Marlins for Charley Crow and his boys, just as hard hitting guns as the one Felix himself carried, only of much less value, because the material was along different lines. And besides, there were a dozen cans of pulverized coffee for Jo, that would be sure to make him the happiest Shoshone Indian boy on or off the reservation. They looked their last on the old shack one morning when the weather seemed to promise well for a day or two; said goodbye to every familiar object, and with one farewell glance around, as though to secure a mental photograph of the picture to do them for all time, turned their backs on the spot that had given them the very finest time of their lives. Felix knew that he had benefited greatly from his outing, and indeed he felt fully able to return home with the New Year, to resume his studies. Those happy weeks spent in camp had brought the ruddy hue of health back to his cheeks, just as his wise father had expected would be the case; his step was elastic; and his eye bright; while as for appetite, he declared he would eat them out of house and home, unless a curb were put upon it presently. As the snow was in pretty fair shape, they made good progress that day, and hoped by another to be where they could take advantage of the frozen river to finish their journey on the ice, bringing up at the ranch of Tom's father. This programme was faithfully carried out, even though it did turn bitter cold that night, so that they had to keep a fire blazing every hour, in order to ward off the fate of being frozen stiff; for their camp happened to be exposed to the breeze more than Tom would have liked, had he been given any choice. Arriving at the river, they met the man who had come from the ranch under the former agreement. He had been waiting two days, and made himself as comfortable as the conditions allowed; and it was the smoke of his fire that directed the two boys to his hideout. As he had a pair of snow shoes with him, they were able to continue their journey along the snow-covered surface of the frozen river; and in due time reach the ranch. Here the sight of their trophies, and the story of all that had befallen them during their two months' stay in the country of the Rockies interested the cowmen greatly, and for several nights they plied the boys with innumerable questions concerning the various happenings that went to make up the experience. When Felix arrived home early in January, his father was delighted with his improved appearance; and doubly proud of the spoils which the young fellow displayed, to supplement his stories of the events clustering around the camp in the big game country. And it was easily arranged that later on he should again go out to be with his cousin; indeed, as the good doctor had no need to continue his practice, since he was well supplied with this world's goods, he declared it to be his intention to give up his business, and accompany Felix, for he had always wanted to see what ranch life was like. Toward Spring a letter came from Tom in the faraway Wyoming country, saying that he had had a chance to get up to the reservation, where Charley Crow and family were finishing the winter, taking the splendid present Felix had sent with the party; and that there was great rejoicing in the Crow family. Those wonderful guns, as well as the enticing coffee from Java's distant shores, quite overwhelmed the astonished Shoshones, and they never knew when to stop sending their thanks to Felix. But as the boy remembered that occasion, when, after wandering through the snow forest, hungry, cold, and weary, he sighted the smoke of that humble cabin of Charley Crow, and what a warm welcome had awaited him there, he felt that after all he had only begun to pay back the great debt he owed these dusky people of the fur country. The End